two years ago i decided to only post positive things on here ie to not reblog something and make a snarky comment or flat out say “i disagree! you suck!” but but but it is difficult for me not to reblog that “this is what feminism means to me! yay! its okay to shave or not shave your legs!” and make snide comments because seriously if that is what feminism means to you, whether it is acceptable or not acceptable to wear make-up, shave or not shave your legs, to have or not have a baby, to be fat or skinny or whatever you personally and individually are you are missing the bigger pictures. yes, those choices (and choice in itself) is a part of feminism, but those are just symptoms of larger issues at the heart of feminism. feminism may bring you to a place where you don’t care who cares about the hair or lack there of on your legs but but but
i guess i am just…
i don’t know…
over this white middle class feminism 101 crap (read: what feminism means to ME ME ME)
tumblr, seriously
get a heart have a soul use your brain
or whatever intuitive systems you use to get the fuck over yourself
political as personal
but more please its not just about you
glad to see paul is still lord of the lesbians
when ali squeezes closed her eyes and screws up her face i am reminded of why i had a crush on her, my first new years in chicago, that huge bottle of whiskey we passed back and forth, and yoni’s friend saying i was cute even as i threw up repeatedly in the claw footed bath tub. five years ago and now i live around the corner from anni and rollin and beth’s old place. i now live down the street from where ali lived with ang where anni orchestrated large lavish dinner parties. i live around the corner from where that vile new year’s party was held. ali and jen have moved twice as a couple. they now live across from a gay lady bar and roll their eyes as if this wasn’t on purpose. “you never have to buy us another housewarming present again” ali says, pointing at the serving tray i gave them when they moved in together. jen has switched to water, plunging the stopped up sink and making sure the cats don’t sneak outside. ali is leaning over like a slowly sinking ship, handing me drink after drink. she tries to put whisky in my lemonade and when i say “i don’t drink spirits.” she says “here! have some beer.” i place each drink in a row on the shelf of their wood build-ins. a clean line of party cups and beer cans like girls hanging around the dance floor waiting for a date. all the furniture in jen and ali’s new place is blonde mid-century modern. i am the last to arrive. south side melissa shrugging into her jacket, moving further and further north. the tilt of her chin so familiar. i help jen pick up while ali chatters on the phone. “this is what she does when she’s drunk” jen tells me, “she calls people we haven’t seen in a year to tell them how much she misses them.” before tonight the last time i saw jen and ali they were trekking three miles home from a bar, fighting and arguing and pushing each other into the street. “how embarrassing” jen admits that she barely talks to any of the people who introduced us to one another, our mutual friends now scattered to the wind.
clark and foster, where all the girls go to bed down and die.
whenever i start feeling like this i make sure to tell the people i care about how much i care about them. i touch base with people with whom i may have lost contact. always makes me feel good to reconnect.
my alarm clock is a delicate creature. i set it for 7 and it went off at 7:30. i got up an hour later. i was having this awesome dream in which i lived in a warehouse loft turned into a theatre. erasmus and i lived with a bunch of dudes and had a large, sunny bedroom. we were happy.
i feel physically not-so-good. going to doctor asap. going to bed now now now.
