This book doesn’t hate men, but it knows they’re flawed—it knows that our world, and its system of privileges, is wholly warped…that it continues to need fixing
Assorted grumblings about the terrible 2-0's.
Exhaustion and indulgence do not make other people “bad,” so why must I color them that way for myself? This is what’s at my core these days, the question I can’t fully kick.
Hasty exchanges at the nail salon over who to go to prom with? Bitchy girl talk overlooking the sea? THIS WAS LIVING, I told myself.
Anorexia recovery brought me down a few pegs, knocked me off my shitty, angry horse and helped me to see other people with a lot more sympathy, and love, than I did before.
“You haven’t read ALL the important books on writing, so you’re probably missing a few crucial insights that all other writers are sitting on like golden fucking eggs.” And other dumb stuff I tell myself, after the jump.
Sometimes you’re waiting for the subway when you feel eyes scooping into the back of your head like they’re looking for ice cream, or some vague sign that you’d be down to disrobe in their presence.
The tunes I’ve been listening to non-stop since September rolled around.
When I read her shit I’m trying not to cry—or already crying—half the time, and I DO NOT CARE if that’s dramatic or silly or strange, it just is. And I love it. I love feeling it. It motivates me. It makes me HAPPY, even if what she’s saying, in some ways, makes me sad.
The onslaught of so-called news now delivered during fashion week regarding each show, celeb sighting, and inevitable blogger collaboration entirely drowns itself out, rendering all of it tired, dull, and a waste of my time.