"Books are no more threatened by Kindle than stairs by elevators." Stephen Fry
"Y. That perfect letter. The wishbone, fork in the road, empty wineglass. The question we ask over and over." - Marjorie Celona, Y (via cavum)
"When did you find it most difficult to love God?"
“Why during childhood?”
“Because I always wondered why things happened to me.”
“How long did you wonder why?”
“Until I found God, then I knew why.”
“Because people aren’t bad, they’re sick. And sick people do bad things." - Humans of New York
it is two weeks after i have been graciously informed
that my cuban hips are too curved and that i should
be aware that fat is disgusting in this day and age,
that i should be careful and start watching my weight.
i am standing on the street because
there are four men waiting at the stoplight
with me and even though it’s raining
and my feet are soaking wet, i am clutching
my umbrella and staying off the sidewalk, i
am staring straight ahead while they talk about me
in the language of my father
one looks at me and turns to his friends and
says in spanish that bones are for dogs.
“woof, woof.” he holds up his hands
like little paws and cackles while he leers
at me. “woof woof.”
two things: 1. my thighs touch only at the very top
as if they are kissing. my hips are round but
the front of the bones peek out just a little so
you can catch a shadow of where they’d be
if i actually worked out. my ribs are broken in
many places and when i was born, they set
themselves too far apart so now no matter how
gentle the curve of my tummy, those sharp teeth
are always showing. i am not skinny, i am average.
2. i’d rather make friends with a dog
than men like this. how come so many people think
i give a fuck if they find me attractive? guess what,
buddy? you’re not the hottest cat on the block
and i’m not gonna be impressed by your dick.
believe it or not, women aren’t walking around
waiting for your approval. if i wanted to sleep with
someone, it wouldn’t be difficult. it’s cute y’all think
you’re the one in charge when you’re so thirsty
for a woman’s attention that your ego is hurt
when she doesn’t give it.
bones are for dogs and curves are disgusting. both
i have heard and both just amuse me. it’s cute that
you think i want to impress you. it’s cute that you think
there aren’t sixty others just like you, but better. it’s
cute you think you’re gonna determine what i look like.
honey bun, nobody’s swooning to be with you and
nobody gives a shit. i’m not gonna change to please
a stranger on the street. any change i do make
is as a reward to myself because i’m fucking awesome
and i care for my health.
“curves are disgusting” sounds more like maybe
i can hear your poor ego crying just because i chose
to take up more space, because i didn’t sit down and
agree to be less, to speak less, to say nothing, because
when you were a little boy some girl pushed you down
and you scraped your knee and now you’re scared
of big girls because you know we make you bleed and it sounds good to me if i’m too much woman for you to handle
so thank you kindly,
i am cake and grenades in equal measures and i’d rather
eat ice cream alone than listen to the kind of shit that drips from
your slimy lips
“bones are for dogs,” how about these bones were
made inside of a wolf so go ahead and call me a bitch
i’ll fucking wreck you, i’m alpha, i’m power, i’m
teeth, i’m gonna walk this city with my wet shoes and
messy hair and smeared lipstick and i will still look like
a conquering dragon, i will still turn heads, i will still be
proud and i will still feel excellent, i’m gonna eat
what i like and i’m gonna feel beautiful doing it, i’m
not even going to bother dressing up and i’ll
still get laid, i’m not gonna even remember you
at the end of the day, i’m gonna fuck other
guys while you cry wet sloppy tears before falling asleep
a wolf does not concern herself with the opinions
I feel like lately I’ve just been so uninspired. For the past few years I’ve become obsessed with how I present myself on social networks. I’ve always compared myself to other girls: how to look more like that, how to dress more like this, how to filter so I look like them. It’s an endless cycle of how-to-look when I should be focusing on how-to-be. How to be happy. How to be fulfilled. How to be inspired. We spend hours on perfecting a selfie, detagging unflattering photos, shapeshifting our profiles in the hopes that other people will look and think, “Wow, she’s so cool and put-together, she’s perfect.” In reality, nobody is. Nobody looks that flawless, nobody feels that confident all the time, and nobody cares about your life nearly as much as you think they do. Creating an edited version of yourself just to make others envy you is, plain and simple, a waste of time and energy that could be put into really nurturing yourself. Getting wine drunk and laughing with your friends, grabbing a coffee with an old fling (and NOT tweeting about it), reading literature that inspires you…there are so many things we forget we once loved because we’re so focused on keeping up with social media.
Think about how many hours a day you spend on Facebook/Twitter/Instagram/etc. Now total that per week. Now total that per month. Now total that per year. If we’re being honest with ourselves, some of us (myself included) could’ve spent all that time on a month-long vacation. A month-long vacation.
I guess what I’m trying to get at is that I’ve been so stressed out about how unproductive, insecure, and unfulfilled I’ve been when the first step to fixing these things is acknowledging one of the primary issues. In this case, my incessant need to go on Facebook and Instagram and subconsciously compare myself to everybody on my timeline. Starting now, I’m making a conscious effort to look at social media as less of an aesthetic museum and more of an archive of experiences. I’m going to spend less time lazying around, creeping profiles and more time cultivating the interests that make me happy.
And hopefully, slowly but surely I’ll start feeling fulfilled again :)
When you are hurting, there will always be people who find a way to make it about themselves. If you break your wrist, they’ll complain about a sprained ankle. If you are sad, they’re sadder. If you’re asking for help, they’ll demand more attention.
Here is a fact: I was in a hospital and sobbing into my palms when a woman approached me and asked why I was making so much noise and I managed to stutter that my best friend shot himself in the head and now he was 100% certified dead and she made this little grunt and had the nerve to tell me, “Well now you made me sad.”
When you get angry, there are going to be people who ask you to shut up and sit down, and they’re not going to do it nicely. Theirs are the faces that turn bright red before you have a chance to finish your sentence. They won’t ask you to explain yourself. They’ll be mad that you’re mad and that will be their whole reason alone.
Here is a fact: I was in an alleyway a few weeks ago, stroking my friend’s back as she vomited fourteen tequila shots. “I hate men,” she wheezed as her sides heaved, “I hate all of them.”
I braided her hair so it wouldn’t get caught in the mess. I didn’t correct her and reply that she does in fact love her father and her little brother too, that there are strangers she has yet to meet that will be better for her than any of her shitty ex-boyfriends, that half of our group of friends identifies as male - I could hear each of her bruises in those words and I didn’t ask her to soften the blow when she was trying to buff them out of her skin. She doesn’t hate all men. She never did.
She had the misfortune to be overheard by a drunk guy in an ill-fitting suit, a boy trying to look like a man and leering down my dress as he stormed towards us. “Fuck you, lady,” he said, “Fuck you. Not all men are evil, you know.”
“Thanks,” I told him dryly, pulling on her hand, trying to get her inside again, “See you.”
He followed us. Wouldn’t stop shouting. How dare she get mad. How dare she was hurting. “It’s hard for me too!” he yowled after us. “With fuckers like you, how’s a guy supposed to live?”
Here’s a fact: my father is Cuban and my genes repeat his. Once one of my teachers looked at my heritage and said, “Your skin doesn’t look dirty enough to be a Mexican.”
When my cheeks grew pink and my tongue dried up, someone else in the classroom stood up. “You can’t say that,” he said, “That’s fucking racist. We could report you for that.”
Our teacher turned vicious. “You wanna fail this class? Go ahead. Report me. I was joking. It’s my word against yours. I hate kids like you. You think you’ve got all the power - you don’t. I do.”
Later that kid and I became close friends and we skipped class to do anything else and the two of us were lying on our backs staring up at the sky and as we talked about that moment, he sighed, “I hate white people.” His girlfriend is white and so is his mom. I reached out until my fingers were resting in the warmth of his palm.
He spoke up each time our teacher said something shitty. He failed the class. I stayed silent. I got the A but I wish that I didn’t.
Here is a fact: I think gender is a difficult and personal topic and people that want to tell others what defines it just haven’t done their homework. I personally happen to have the luck of the draw and identify as female in a female body, which basically just means society leaves me alone about this one particular thing.
Until I met Alex, who said he hated cis people. My throat closed up. I’m not good at confrontation. I avoided him because I didn’t want to bother him.
One day I was going on a walk and I found him behind our school, bleeding out of the side of his mouth. The only thing I really know is how to patch people up. He winced when the antibacterial cream went across his new wounds. “I hate cis people,” he said weakly.
I looked at him and pushed his hair back from his head. “I understand why you do.”
Here is a fact: anger is a secondary emotion. Anger is how people stop themselves from hurting. Anger is how people stop themselves by empathizing.
It is easy for the drunken man to be mad at my friend. If he says “Hey, fuck you, lady,” he doesn’t have to worry about what’s so wrong about men.
It’s easy for my teacher to fail the kids who speak up. If we’re just smart-ass students, it’s not his fault we fuck up.
It’s easy for me to hate Alex for labeling me as dangerous when I’ve never hurt someone a day in my life. But I’m safe in my skin and his life is at risk just by going to the bathroom. I understand why he says things like that. I finally do.
There’s a difference between the spread of hatred and the frustration of people who are hurting. The thing is, when you are broken, there will always be someone who says “I’m worse, stop talking.” There will always be people who are mad you’re trying to steal the attention. There will always be people who get mad at the same time as you do - they hate being challenged. It changes the rules.
I say I hate all Mondays but my sister was born on one and she’s the greatest joy I have ever known. I say I hate brown but it’s really just the word and how it turns your mouth down - the colour is my hair and my eyes and my favorite sweater. I say I hate pineapple but I still try it again every Easter, just to see if it stings less this year. It’s okay to be sad when you hear someone generalize a group you’re in. But instead of assuming they’re evil and filled with hatred, maybe ask them why they think that way - who knows, you might just end up with a new and kind friend." - By telling the oppressed that their anger is unjustified, you allow the oppression to continue. I know it’s hard to stay calm. I know it’s scary. But you’re coming from the safe place and they aren’t. Just please … Try to be more understanding. /// r.i.d (via inkskinned)
"We are neither pure, nor wise, nor good; we do the best we know." - Voltaire