I’m looking at you
In the “Cool story babe, now make me a sandwich” t-shirt
The commonly uses
“I raped you faggot”
Your straight friends
The white kid who greets his buddies with the n-word
Who’s OkCupid dating profile describes him as a “nice guy”
He’s just sick of getting friend-zoned
Because being just friends with a woman
Is so terrible
Nevermind the fact that he answers yes to the following:
Are women obligated to shave their legs?
Are racist jokes funny?
When a woman is raped, is it sometimes her fault?
I’m looking at you
guy in every women’s studies class ever
who derails dialogue
About a third of the world’s population of women
Who will be raped
In their life times
“the wage gap isn’t real”
the guy who starts “PimpWalk” in response
a demonstration aimed at ending victim blaming
of rape victims
the guy with the “no fat chicks” bumpersticker on his F150
whos confused why
he cant get pussy
to the guy who calls anal rape
to the one who uses “feminazi”
as a frequent part
of his vernacular
to every guy who has ever thought that a facebook status
about domestic violence
was a good opportunity to practice playing the
to every guy
who has ever dismissed feminism
because it didn’t involve him
to every man who has ever raped a woman
to every man who has ever beaten one
to every guy
who thinks he’s not like those ones
its just a joke
to every guy who is confused why feminists hate him
—fat-feminist (via girl-violence)
to every guy
you’re part of a problem
that won’t stop choking us
but tells us
to just breath
what do i do if i want to major in agricultural/natural resources, sustainable/environmental studies, culinary arts, photography, psychology, and foreign languages?
Why is there very little utility to women’s clothing? Why don’t we get pockets which actually open? Why do we have to put up with the ‘false pockets’ that are frequently sewn onto women’s jackets and pants to give visual interest without ruining the ‘line’ of the garment? Why, when pockets are actually present, are they so rarely large, stable, or loose enough to accommodate a phone or a wallet? And why, given this is the case, do women go on to cop so much flack for carrying handbags around with them?
Oh wait. Is this one of those double standards which we feminists are always going on about; one of those innocuous little things which everybody just accepts because it is the norm?
Women carry handbags. It is known.
But why? I have watched my male friends get ready to go out. They slip their wallet into one pocket, their keys into another, their phone into a third pocket, and some of them even still have spare pockets large enough to carry a novel for the journey. Those of my friends who wear women’s clothes, though, face an entirely different situation. If they are wearing the right jeans or jacket, they may have up to two usable pockets (not at all guaranteed). However, in most cases they won’t have any pockets at all. Utility and style rarely meet in women’s fashion, so they grab a bag.
Contrary to all the jokes, most women don’t ‘have’ to leave the house with everything they pack in their day-to-day handbag. Most of the items in a woman’s everyday handbag are in there because, if she’s going to have to carry it anyway, she might as well make it worth her while. Excuse us for making use of the one useful item we find in our wardrobes.” —Kara, “The Feminist and the Handbag” (via athenasaurus)
seeing thousand faces
some we know, some we don’t
and we accept that this is just a phase
of our lives; we won’t be here long
but it feels like forever
it feels like a dream
and i take it in turns
of reading or sleeping the hurt away
trying to remember who i was when i started
trying to figure out who i am now
i’ll leave when i can, but first
pretend not to notice that the girls at the table are pretending as well
sunday night i went to the movies with someone stupid. now he tries to walk me to my classes. when did he start thinking that we’re together or something? and how do i stop it? almost cried today; i don’t want him following me around. i want him to not talk to me or notice me or smile at me or anything.
well the heat it is heavy
and the morning is dark
we run to our busses
and wait to embark
you thought it was real
you thought you were safe
but morning it scared you,
and the dark you embraced
keep to yourself,
don’t look around
cause nobody sees you
and nothing is found
my history teacher thinks jack kerouac is pronounced “jack crock” and has no idea that he actually wrote books, INCLUDING ‘On the Road’ which is one of the most famous books written during the beat movement, WHICH IS WHAT WE FUCKING LEARNED ABOUT TODAY.
history class makes me want to beat myself up with a plate.
i’m not trembling because i’m shivering cold
i’m trembling because my emotions are overwhelming my voice
the tears come not because i’m sad or angry
but because i know there are beautiful things in the world that i can reach
and also some that i can’t
i know that i’m seventeen and my life is just starting
but sometimes i feel so old
like a sitting couch woman
who went through her whole life without a real reason
nothing pushing her, nothing driving her…
and she never wanted to.
but tonight i realized that there are no answers
only questions that lead to us figuring out why and who
and i love it
i’ll reach out my hand one day
and i don’t care if anyone grabs it.
it’ll just be enough that i loved myself enough to trust that someone else would too.
hugh, hush, sound
voices all around.
i feel a slip, i fall & trip:
back to the beginning of time.
let me go!
don’t hold me so…
i’m trying to escape.
the water’s too deep,
i’ve tried, but can’t sleep;
in the mornings, my face isn’t there.
i’ve become many things,
i clutch & i cling
to roots now too slippery to hold.
now i’m alone
and robotic as stone;
my movements i cannot control.
they tell me i chose
to live a life so morose…
still, i can’t help but think
ALL ARE LIES
like a dream,
like a shiver that runs through your spine after seeing yourself for the very first time,
the black trees whispered softy into the night.
they told each other stories from years ago when they were newborn roots growing ever upwards.
and i stopped to listen that night,
hoping to make out their hushed disconnected words suspended in the branches, unheard by everyone that looked down when they walked past
other nights i was not able to hear them,
but tonight i sat down gingerly on a
pile of brownredyellow leaves,
a soft covering on the dirt and moss
and as i gazed up i could just barely connect the sounds they made to pictures in my head.
after a few minutes i heard and understood, and as i cried something lifted me up up up
into the air
into the clouds
into the above
here is what the trees said to me (what they said to everyone who would listen)
‘this is the day you were born
this is the day you will die
tomorrow you will not live
today is the only day that exists’
and that night i died,
but the next morning was born again