bunnyemily:

mahou-mofo:

"Please stop selling shirts carelessly" wtf are they supposed to interview the people buying them like what does this dude want

"She smiled and laughed long enough to make you go away"

a few weeks ago my cousin was wearing a nirvana shirt and she was telling me about how she felt uncomfortable because even though she does fucking listen to nirvana, people had come up to her and made comments and questioned her about it before
like ???????
Zoom Info
bunnyemily:

mahou-mofo:

"Please stop selling shirts carelessly" wtf are they supposed to interview the people buying them like what does this dude want

"She smiled and laughed long enough to make you go away"

a few weeks ago my cousin was wearing a nirvana shirt and she was telling me about how she felt uncomfortable because even though she does fucking listen to nirvana, people had come up to her and made comments and questioned her about it before
like ???????
Zoom Info

bunnyemily:

mahou-mofo:

"Please stop selling shirts carelessly" wtf are they supposed to interview the people buying them like what does this dude want

"She smiled and laughed long enough to make you go away"

a few weeks ago my cousin was wearing a nirvana shirt and she was telling me about how she felt uncomfortable because even though she does fucking listen to nirvana, people had come up to her and made comments and questioned her about it before

like ???????

(via beelzebubcore)

You’re always in a rush, or else you’re too exhausted to have a proper conversation. Soon enough, the long hours, the traveling, the broken sleep have all crept into your being and become part of you, so everyone can see it, in your posture, your gaze, the way you move and talk.

Kazuo Ishiguro, Never Let Me Go (via feellng)

(via liamdryden)

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.