Are eye tattoos a fairly recent fad? Because I’ve been seeing a lot of them lately, and wow, they’re revolting. Even more so than stretched earlobes, which I also find unforgivably grotesque.
But more importantly, why would you risk something as precious as your eyesight!?
Fuckin’ neanderthals. I’m so done.
Beauty privilege is very real. None of us are imagining it, and if we aren’t born genetic lottery winners, our only option is to compensate with style, grace, and charm. Of course, none of that shit comes cheap. That’s kind of the whole point. It’s all meant to be aspirational and exclusionary. We’re supposed to feel depressed by our skin, agitated by our bodies, and anxious about our invisibility. That’s the insidious subtlety of social control. The worst part is that we know in our rational minds that it’s all bullshit, and yet we’re still plagued with self-loathing when we can’t live up to unattainable beauty standards. No matter how much self-acceptance we achieve, we can still look in the mirror and instantly catalog all the things about ourselves that we don’t think measure up. It’s maddening. It makes us feel like hypocrites even though it’s not our hypocrisy.
On a related note, there are at least five people where I work that I know of who are currently reaping the consequences of a DUI charge.
Fuckin’ dipshits. Every single one of them.
Hey, gang! Just a quick reminder to do the world a favor and kill yourself if you text and drive!
Better you than someone else, you understand.
I carry a butterfly knife that I bought in Spain two years ago everywhere I go. I’ll usually walk with it in hand when I’m walking back to my car after work, or if I’m walking my dog late at night.
I imagine scenarios in which I’d have to use it all the time. I hope I never do, but I feel like I’m mentally preparing myself in a way.
It must be nice to not have to worry about arming yourself every time you need to go outside after the sun goes down.
And it’s sad because I can’t imagine a world where I’ll ever know how that feels.
Being born a woman is an awful tragedy. Yes, my consuming desire to mingle with road crews, sailors and soldiers, bar room regulars—to be a part of a scene, anonymous, listening, recording—all is spoiled by the fact that I am a girl, a female always in danger of assault and battery. My consuming interest in men and their lives is often misconstrued as a desire to seduce them, or as an invitation to intimacy. Yet, God, I want to talk to everybody I can as deeply as I can. I want to be able to sleep in an open field, to travel west, to walk freely at night.