“Catch the heart off guard and blow it open.”— Seamus Heaney, from Selected Poems: 1966-1987; “Postscript,”
(via violentwavesofemotion)
tag urself as a student type
coffee: always frantic, has a crammed schedule, never stops consuming caffeine, will agree to go to a party even if they have a six a.m. shift the next day
bujo: organized, likes to makes lists and keep track of things, plans outfit the night before, stresses when they get a grade less than a B
oops: stopped caring in the third grade, somehow manages to get okay grades, never studies, kind of lazy, would eat Waffle House at 3 in the morning
sweatshirt: is trying as hard as they possibly can, has to study and work hard for their grades, constantly stressing, has social anxiety, tries to do every extra curricular under the sun
aesthetique: probably vegetarian or vegan, has a “mom jean” 80′s aesthetic, glorifies local cafes, wants to live in Europe, always wants to cut their hair
gothique: black clothes only, still stans my chemical romance, uses sarcasm as a defense mechanism, desperately wants some tattoos, likes the black lipstick look but too shy to do it
85th:
85th:
the only thing i knew about sex at the age of nine was that
1) it was for mommies and daddies who were married;
2) it made me, my five year old sister, and my baby brother.
i learned everything i knew about sex from the internet while secretly browsing grownup sites on my 4th generation ipod touch i earned for doing so well at a piano recital. because of the nature of, you know, men and their internet porn, i learned that my sexual role as a woman was to be slapped and pissed on and tied up. i didn’t know what healthy sex was. i didn’t know it should be mutually consensual, or that it was okay to want sex with girls. i didn’t know that sex should be good for both people. i learned that sex would hurt, and that sex was about men and men only, and that i would be forced into sex whether i liked it or not, and that it was normal to have sex with big, burly, grown men as a teenager. i learned it was normal to cry during sex. i was scared of sex for so many years because of that, and the way i was exposed to sex at a young age led to the inappropriate and traumatic sexual encounters i had (occasionally with older people) later on in my teen years.
the day i got my first period, i was ten-and-a-half. i was swimming in the river with my best friend, and when i got out to go to the bathroom, i noticed brown blood on the inside of my mint-green tankini bottom. i knew what a period was, but i hid it from my mother in shame. she found out, eventually, of course. she told me, you have a woman’s body now, and if you have sex, you could have a baby. all i heard was, you have a woman’s body.
i started shaving my vulva when i was eleven, because i saw memes on memegenerator about how disgusting “hairy pussy” was. i wanted to be sexy. i was eleven years old, and all i wanted was to be sexy. it hurt, and it itched, and it made me uncomfortable, and i’d sometimes nick my labia with the razor, but i did it anyway, because i didn’t want to have a nasty, “hairy pussy.”
eleven was the age i first started getting pinched on the EL. i was an early bloomer: i had B-cup breasts already, and my menstrual cycle was regular enough that i could keep a calendar. i started wearing a full face of makeup to school and buying shorts that rode all the way up my skinny twelve-year-old thighs. i remember the day i stopped jumping off the swings the summer after fifth grade. skinned knees weren’t sexy. smooth, flawless legs were sexy, and i was a sexy girl. i was probably the sexiest little girl in the whole world. my parents hated it. they told me i was too young, but i knew the truth. my body was older, maybe 17 or 18, so my brain must be, too.
when i was twelve, i had a secret kik account that my parents didn’t know about. i used it to message strangers. i made all sorts of friends. i wasn’t stupid. i used a fake name. never showed my face. one of my friends asked me for a bra picture. i was a cool girl, right, i was sexy, so i sent him a picture of me in front of my bedroom mirror in my little white training bra with the blue butterflies.
sexy, he said.
that was all i wanted.
i’m not typing out all this bullshit because i think it’s something special. i’m typing it out because it’s not. i’m typing it out because i see the same thing happening to my little sister. i’m typing it out because i see the same thing happening to that little millie bobbie brown, sexiest actress at thirteen. i’m typing it out because i’m sixteen years old now, a girl in the eyes of the law and a woman in the eyes of men.
mothers, talk to your daughters. tell them to jump off the swingset and skin their knees. tell them to get dirt on their dresses. tell them that they’re a woman on their 18th birthday, not at ten-and-a-half on the first day of their menstrual cycle. the world is confused. the world is sick. if your daughters don’t hear about how to treat their bodies from you, they’ll hear it from the sick, sick world, and they’ll do the things i did.
let girls be girls.
don’t force womanhood on little girls.
i encourage men to reblog this post
Happy 38th Birthday, Harry!
while rereading Order of the Phoenix I realised something.
the prophecy was in row 97 back in the department of mysteries because that’s the year it came true, thats the year Voldemort was defeated
having body hair annoys me but removing body hair also annoys me and also life, life annoys me
This happens often
- you: always.
- me, an intellectual: lily, take harry and go.
sleep is great because it’s like being dead without hurting your family
“Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!”
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Today, I got my copy of the new Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone—the Illustrated Edition by Jim Kay. All I can say is that this edition is pure magic!“
kiwi:
shout out to my incoherent bitches!! shout out to all the babes out there who dont make no fuckin sense!!!
