I was standing in the bathroom with my 8-year-old niece and she saw me adjusting my top and said, completely serious and curious,
“Why do you want to look good?”
it took me aback for a moment.
“Sometimes because I want to. Sometimes because I feel like I should.”
“That’s silly. See, I have sap all over my hands?” she showed me her hands, “and see I don’t even care! Because it doesn’t matter. Sap happens.”
Another ‘set’ of images from Labyrinth, this time showing my favourite scene - the climatic Jareth/Sarah confrontation.
when you’re trying to enjoy a picnic and theres a bee flying around your head
Cracks me up
Ladies and gentlemen, Dickon Plantagenet explains the most troubling aspect of fifteenth-century male fashion struggles.
He’s now moaning about ‘crown hair’
I really just need to stop giving a fuck about what my academic colleagues think of me and friend him.
I don’t want to be a feminist anymore. Like a five-year-old, I want to close my eyes, stick my fingers in my ears, stomp my feet on the floor and scream “No! No, you cannot make me, I won’t, leave me alone!” I am, simply put, too tired. So very, very tired.
I am tired of fighting with my friends. I am tired of arguing that someone groping and slapping my butt isn’t “what I have to expect”, just because I’m at a bar, and the one attacking my butt has a drink in the other hand. I am tired of hearing “boys will be boys” and “when you’re dressed like that …” and “that’s just what guys do”. I am tired of trying to drown those sentiments in loud, repetitive no’s, screamed over and over again, till my throat is sore and my voice weak – just to hear them repeated, as soon as exhaustion threatens to silence me.
I am tired of being afraid. I am tired of seeing someone writing something offensive, sexist, racist, ageist, ableist, somewhere online. I am tired of seeing those writings getting likes and lol’s, and SO TRUE’s. I am tired of being consumed by confusion and anger, typing, typing, typing and typing a seemingly endless response, including research, links and statistics, and then hesitate clicking “submit”. I am tired of knowing that I hesitate because I am afraid of the flood of responses that will come. I am tired of knowing that I will be bombarded with lighten up’s, stop whining’s and get a sense of humor’s for so long, that I will start to wonder if I am indeed wound up too tight, a nagger and humorless. I am tired of the fact that I’m afraid of being called a cunt, even though I don’t find genitalia insulting or demeaning.