As a woman, you can’t look at that face without seeing the façade, but as a girl, it would be easy to convince yourself that such perfection exists.
It was all my insecurities manifested as some sort of Dali-esque nightmare…the makings of a surrealist film that Women’s Studies majors would go to town with.
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
I’ve been happily spoiled by my mother’s lack of restrictions, and her never feeling the need to perfect my proverbial picture—allowed to grow up, and slip up on the surface (read: blue eye shadow, bikini tops over t-shirts) without feeling shamed by my choices.
These lists are fashion content at its worst: regurgitated “guidance” with roots that should be more at home sometime around 1950.
Women rethink the narrative they’re born into, laughing at Mean Girls rather than recreating their own version. They aim to bake a great, gooey pie, rather than merely perfecting one rigid, self-absorbed slice.
Because not all mother figures are blood-related, vagina wielding Betty Crockers, okay?
“What maketh a lifestyle brand?” Shakespeare never asked, but surely would have, if he were still waxing poetic today. Easy: the perfect union of blonde hair, blue eyes, and white skin.
I don’t use curse words or sexual language in a demeaning way, and to assume that a girl can’t say words like “fuck” without doing so is to submit to supremely dated gender stereotypes.