A boy sprawled next to me on the bus, elbows out, knee pointing sharp into my thigh.
He frowned at me when I uncrossed my legs, unfolded my hands
and splayed out like boys are taught to: all big, loose limbs.
I made sure to jab him in the side with my pretty little sharp purse.
At first he opened his mouth like I expected him to, but instead of speaking up he sat there, quiet, and took it for the whole bus ride.
Like a girl.
Once, a boy said my anger was cute, and he laughed,
and I remember thinking that I should sit there and take it,
because it isn’t ladylike to cause a scene and girls aren’t supposed to raise their voices.
But then he laughed again and all I saw
was my pretty little sharp nails digging into his cheek
before drawing back and making a horribly unladylike fist.
(my teacher informed me later that there is no ladylike way of making a fist.)
When we were both in the principal’s office twenty minutes later
him with a bloody mouth and cheek, me with skinned knuckles,
I tried to explain in words that I didn’t have yet
that I was tired of having my emotions not taken seriously
just because I’m a girl.
Girls are taught: be small, so boys can be big.
Don’t take up any more space than absolutely necessary.
Be small and smooth with soft edges
and hold in the howling when they touch you and it hurts:
the sandpaper scrape of their body hair that we would be shamed for having,
the greedy hands that press too hard and too often take without asking permission.
Girls are taught: be quiet and unimposing and oh so small
when they heckle you with their big voices from the window of a car,
because it’s rude to scream curse words back at them, and they’d just laugh anyway.
We’re taught to pin on smiles for the boys who jeer at us on the street
who see us as convenient bodies instead of people.
Girls are taught: hush, be hairless and small and soft,
so we sit there and take it and hold in the howling,
pretend to be obedient lapdogs instead of the wolves we are.
We pin pretty little sharp smiles on our faces instead of opening our mouths,
because if we do we get accused of silly women emotions
blowing everything out of proportion with our PMS, we get
condescending pet names and not-so-discreet eyerolls.
Once, I got told I punched like a girl.
I told him, Good. I hope my pretty little sharp rings leave scars.
”—'My Perfume Doubles As Mace,' theappleppielifestyle. (via queenofeden)
I feel so bad for Andrew Hussie. He wrote all this stuff about Trolls having things called nooks and bone bulges and seed flaps and jizzing into buckets and mixing it all together into an “incestuous slurry” and bascially trying to make their sexual habits sound as unattractive as possible in what I assume was an attempt to get us to not make boatloads of Homestuck porn and instead we were just like
Work stress mostly. I’m in charge of an event and the director is on my case when she told me to redo a big chunk of work. There are also things I have to do for the event that I /really/ don’t wanna do.
“This is not what the door’s for—slamming
you up against, opening
your legs with my knee. And it isn’t
leaving, the thing I keep doing
with my shoes still on, or in the car
in the driveway in broad
daylight after waving
goodbye to your neighbors
again. But my body’s a bad
dog, all dumb tongue
and hunger, down
on all fours again, tied up
outside again, coming
when called but then always refusing
to stay. I know what I’m trying
to say, but it isn’t
talking, the thing that I do with my mouth
to your ear, even though
we got the orifices right. To leave
I would have to put clothes on,
and they’d have to fit better
than all of this skin. To leave
I would have to know where to begin:
like this, pressed up
against the half-open window? Like
this, with my foot on the gas? If seeing
is believing then why isn’t touching
knowing for sure? I just want my nerves
to do the work for me, I don’t want
to have to decide. There’s blood in my hands
for fight and blood in my legs
for flight and nowhere
a sign. Believe me, I’ll leave if you just
let me touch you again for the last
last time.”—Ali Shapiro, I Keep Trying to Leave but the Sex Just Gets Better and Better (via grammatolatry)
A programmer is going out for a stroll one evening. His wife asks him to swing by the store and pick up a gallon of milk, and if they had eggs, to get a dozen. He returned with twelve gallons of milk and said “They had eggs.”
Humanity needed a little help recovering after The Breach was finally sealed. They’re not alone on the road to recovery, though for some recovery has the same meaning as rest.
Welp. It’s a sign of how invested in a fandom I am when I write ficlets and drabbles for it. Post movie, will probably wound your feels. Safe for work and short anyway. Inspired by this post by oelm. (Sorry, won’t let me tag you in the post, gonna tag you in the tags instead)
Fact: All pansexuals are actually superheroes. But only pansexuals with an asexual partner/sidekick are really effective because without them we get too caught up flirting with the villain to get any butt-kicking done.