*does drugs but won’t eat white bread*
me when I got money: ha! broke ass bitch how the dollar menu taste? I wouldn’t know because it’s Big Macs only around here hoe!!!!
me when I’m broke: capitalism is inhumane and must be put to an end.
If you are female, expressing hatred for your own body is not just acceptable, it’s practically de rigeur. Failure to indulge in the requisite amount of self-flagellation – my thighs! my skin! my face! – isn’t just negligent, it’s unfeminine. Self-hatred is fundamental to how femininity is constructed, more fundamental than any of the more obvious external symbols (dress, make-up, shoes). What matters is not that you are beautiful, but you know your place in the beauty hierarchy (and since every woman ages, every woman’s place will eventually be somewhere at the bottom).
Young women are encouraged to bond over their dislike of excess body hair, surplus flesh and “uneven” skin. They are meant to do so in a jovial way, egged on by perky adverts informing them what “real women” do: worry about having underarms beautiful enough for a sleeveless top, celebrate curves with apologetic booty shakes and cackle ruefully over miserable Sex-and-the-City-style lunches of Ryvita and Dulcolax. It’s a gendered ritual; men get football and booze, women get control pants and detoxes. We are supposed, of course, to be grateful. Hey, you don’t have to be perfect! Just know you’re not perfect and act accordingly, with the appropriate levels of guilt and shame!
Fairy tale after fairy tale tells us that what matters is being beautiful “on the inside” but what does that really mean? It means submission, obedience and the suppression of one’s own desires. Don’t be haughty and proud. Clean the hearth. Kiss the frog. Love the beast. Suck it up when you’re replaced by a younger model. Sure, you may look fine, but you mustn’t feel fine. You mustn’t be vain. You mustn’t be angry. All fury and pain must be turned back on itself. That way you’ll be a real princess: silent, fragile and never threatening to challenge the status quo.
i’m not even confused about my sexuality i just don’t really give a shit
That boy said,
I don’t want you posting
online so much.
I only want to read poems
and held his hand
as he played me songs about
and swimming with whales
and the soft legs
that he dreamed about
while he was inside of me.
And then I left-
without a care,
with my goodbye posted online
and all strangers
because I could not stay
and have him suffocate
I don’t think I could ever date a good actor like he could tell me he loves me and I’d be like nah you said it much more convincingly to kate winslet try again