ok so all these guys who are like “men have it hard too!!! we’re expected to be manly and emotionless, we have feelings!!!” do realize that it’s other men who enforce those standards on guys. literally guys created those standards to be more powerful than women. so maybe instead of getting angry at girls for talking about their oppression, realize that you should be fighting with girls against unfair gender expectations and inequality 

(via mooglemagic-kupo)

at a horror movie

  • bf: are you scared?
  • me: in this economy who wouldn't be


Combinations we’d never even dreamed of:
Names too long to remember.
Dark chocolate ice cream with raspberry
cheesecake pieces and caramel bonbons,
sweet cream ice cream with bumbleberry compote
and jordan almond fudge chunks.

After rinsing our mouths with toothpaste
and slicking lip gloss over our teeth
like a film of wax, we pounded the two miles
of sweating concrete every Wednesday at eight p.m,
an army of cheap earrings and thin ankles.

We didn’t ask our mothers if we could
shave our legs, but left shreds of bloody
toilet paper like one hundred tiny flames
in the trash can for them to clean up. We wore
our t-shirts low and swinging. We ogled at the brass
chins of boys too distracted to flirt back.

We filched twenties out of our mothers’ purses
and our fathers’ worn leather wallets and blew them every
week on portions of red velvet cheesecake
supreme so big they seemed impossible.

On Sundays, we went back after swimming
in the local pool, clad in the bikinis our mothers
did not allow us to buy. We liked the way
our salted hair swung damp over one shoulder.
We liked the way this left wet spots on our t-shirts,
liked any mark we left on anything.

Workers clad in red aprons scooped ice cream
and poured caramel and bleeding
maraschino cherries over chocolates and
thick sauces, mashing them together with two
silver spoons, turning and twisting this glob
so loudly it made our teeth hurt.

All of us thirteen and shining in our new bodies.

Our hands still pink and bruised from the
chlorine clutching cardboard cups disintegrating
under the waning heat of the Midwest.
None of our mothers were dying of cancer. None
of us worried about our children perishing in motor-boat
crashes or freak accidents at bowling alleys.

The gangly workers used to go down the line
of plastic trays: sweaty gummy worms,
cookie crumbs big as pennies, red and white sprinkles,
dark and white chocolate chips, caramel sauce
glazed over from the air conditioning, and each
time they would ask us if we wanted the topping,
spoons already full and sloping.

We nodded, eyes bright and hungry.
We said yes to everything. We thought
what magnificent women we’d be.







folks you are consuming recycled memes

100% sustainable meming. Green Memes

(via supermoclel)


Men always say that as the defining compliment, don’t they? She’s a cool girl. Being the Cool Girl means I am a hot, brilliant, funny woman who adores football, poker, dirty jokes, and burping, who plays video games, drinks cheap beer, loves threesomes and anal sex, and jams hot dogs and hamburgers into her mouth like she’s hosting the world’s biggest culinary gang bang while somehow maintaining a size 2, because Cool Girls are above all hot. Hot and understanding. Cool Girls never get angry; they only smile in a chagrined, loving manner and let their men do whatever they want. Go ahead, shit on me, I don’t mind, I’m the Cool Girl.

Men actually think this girl exists. Maybe they’re fooled because so many women are willing to pretend to be this girl. For a long time Cool Girl offended me. I used to see men – friends, coworkers, strangers – giddy over these awful pretender women, and I’d want to sit these men down and calmly say: You are not dating a woman, you are dating a woman who has watched too many movies written by socially awkward men who’d like to believe that this kind of woman exists and might kiss them. I’d want to grab the poor guy by his lapels or messenger bag and say: The bitch doesn’t really love chili dogs that much – no one loves chili dogs that much! And the Cool Girls are even more pathetic: They’re not even pretending to be the woman they want to be, they’re pretending to be the woman a man wants them to be. Oh, and if you’re not a Cool Girl, I beg you not to believe that your man doesn’t want the Cool Girl. It may be a slightly different version – maybe he’s a vegetarian, so Cool Girl loves seitan and is great with dogs; or maybe he’s a hipster artist, so Cool Girl is a tattooed, bespectacled nerd who loves comics. There are variations to the window dressing, but believe me, he wants Cool Girl, who is basically the girl who likes every fucking thing he likes and doesn’t ever complain. (How do you know you’re not Cool Girl? Because he says things like: “I like strong women.” If he says that to you, he will at some point fuck someone else. Because “I like strong women” is code for “I hate strong women.”)


Gillian Flynn, Gone Girl (via puisquecestjoli)

(via spinster-in-progress)