Dealing with the noise & haste.
July 2011
June 2011
Lazy.
I’m gonna wear a dress because:
A) Only one article of clothing.
B) No bra or underwear.
C) I just wanted to make it to a third letter.
Just to be the man who walked 5000 miles to fall down at your door.
Ba-dada!
Bada-dum, dada-dum, dada-dum, dada-dum da-da.
Rolling.
You know, I’m sure there is a term for people who fear being alone with guys.
Not men, not boys. Guys.
And not alone-in-an-empty-room alone ( Which is a whole different level of fear mayhap somewhat justifiable.) but on a date or, in general out in public with this person you only vaguely know.
I have this, whatever it is. I hate that I literally cringe when guys sporadically ask me on dates. I hate that I’m flattered. I hate that I can’t work up the courage to just say yes.
I hate that I think I can handle it sometimes and then pussy out like a bitch.
I want to type out these letters, “I’m sorry I’m anti-social and come off like a cock tease. I don’t think I’m better than you, I just suck.”
I hate myself for this constantly. This stupid, ignorant fear I have.
Play
“
Real women wear high heels and skirts. Or not.
Real women are feminine and smell good and they are masculine and smell good and they are androgynous and smell good, except when they don’t smell so good, but that can be changed if desired because real women change stuff when they want to.
Real women have ovaries. Unless they don’t, and sometimes they don’t because they were born that way and sometimes they don’t because they had to have their ovaries removed. Real women have uteruses, unless they don’t, see above. Real women have vaginas and clitorises and XX sex chromosomes and high estrogen levels, they ovulate and menstruate and can get pregnant and have babies. Except sometimes not, for a rather spectacular array of reasons both spontaneous and induced.
Real women are fat. And thin. And both, and neither, and otherwise. Doesn’t make them any less real.
” —Hanne Blank (via prettywidows)At first I was like,
bitches I don’t need all seven of these pencils. Or this kneaded eraser.
Now I’m like, shit. I’m missing HB through 6B. How the hell am I supposed to do anything.
College has, once again, made something I love more expensive. Dammit.
