“But I am very poorly today and very stupid and hate everybody and everything.”
- Charles Darwin, in a letter dated October 1, 1861 [x]
everybody has those days, chuck
I’m not a misandrist, but I hate it when guys pretend to like comic books to get with girls. Ugh I bet they don’t even know Wonder Woman’s real name. Comics were clearly meant for women, just get back to the garage and fix my car like a good boy.
Day one of officially being a high school graduate:
today i slept in until 11 and had an orange cream popsicle for breakfast
then i wrote some gay fanfiction
ah yes this is the adult life
My loves are here: wrists, eyelids, damp toes, all scars, and my mouth
pouring praises, still asking, saying kiss me; when I’m dead kiss this poem,
it needs you to know it goes on, give it your lovely mouth, your living tongue.
You won’t allow me to go to school.
I won’t become a doctor.
One day you will be sick.
Poem written by a 15 year old Afghan girl
This poem was recorded in a NYT magazine article about female underground poetry groups in Afghanistan. An amazing article about the ways in which women are using a traditional two line poetry form to express their resistance to male oppression, their feelings about love (considered blasphemous), and their doubts about religion.
I love girly girls that wear bright colors and floral patterns and have long hair
I love androgynous girls with spiky hair that wear baggy jeans and sweaters
I love sweet innocent girls in sundresses with wide eyes and soft voices
I love hardcore girls with tattoos and piercings with attitude
I just love girls (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧
I say, ‘I am fat.’
He says ‘No, you are beautiful.’
I wonder why I cannot be both.
He kisses me
My college theater professor once told me
that despite my talent,
I would never be cast as a romantic lead.
We do plays that involve singing animals
and children with the ability to fly,
but apparently no one
has enough willing suspension of disbelief
to go with anyone loving a fat girl.
I daydream regularly
about fucking my boyfriend vigorously on his front lawn.
On the mornings I do not feel pretty,
while he is still asleep,
I sit on the floor and check the pockets of his skinny jeans for motive,
for a punchline,
for other girls’ phone numbers.
When we hold hands in public,
I wonder if he notices the looks —
like he is handling a parade balloon on a crowded sidewalk;
if he notices that my hands are now made of rope.
Dear Cosmo: Fuck you.
I will not take sex tips from you
on how to please a man you think I do not deserve.
He tells me he loves me with the lights on.
I can cup his hip bone in my hand,
feel his ribs without pressing very hard at all.
He does not believe me when I tell him he is beautiful.
Sometimes I fear the day he does will be the day he leaves.
The cute hipster girl at the coffee shop
assumes we are just friends
and flirts over the counter.
I spend the next two weeks
mentally replacing myself with her
in all of our photographs.
When I admit this to him
we spend the evening taking new photos together.
He will not let me delete a single one of them.
The phrase “Big girls need love too” can die in a fire.
Fucking me does not require an asterisk.
Loving me is not a fetish.
Finding me beautiful is not a novelty.
I am not a fucking novelty.
I say, ‘I am fat.’
He says, ‘No. You are so much more’,
and kisses me
Go to Starbucks. Order coffee for “Prisoner 24601”
When they call out your order, jump up and yell “My name is Jean Valjean!”
And if the barista replies with “AND I’M JAVERT,” you tip that motherfucker so hard
you tip them right over the edge of a bridge
you fucking didn’t