i am going to punch this girl. if she says new or-leans like that one more time, i will scream. and probably explain to her exactly what happens to privileged, ignorant girls when they walk the streets of new orleans. also, if you can’t hold your liquor, you shouldn’t get to drink. another sidenote, if you’re allergic to liquor, you probably shouldn’t be drinking either.
March 2011
76 posts
“If women would just settle, they’d see how unhappy they really are with things like goals and standards and preferences. Yes, men are calling all the shots, but women are drinking them. And it’s drinking that leads women through the beaded curtain into the rainbow party of so much questionable behavior, behavior like having professional goals and still wanting your pussy ate.”
—The Hairpin, Fuck Yeah
February 2011
154 posts
Molly Lambert: Six Rules For Writing Fiction →
mollylambert.tumblr.com
from The Guardian’s rules for writing fiction series
Try to think of others’ good luck as encouragement to yourself.
- Richard Ford
Interesting verbs are seldom very interesting.
- Jonathan Franzen
You can never read your own book with the innocent anticipation that comes with that first…
“You are never really a liberal if you treat women differently. If you hold them to different more difficult standards than you hold men to, than you hold yourself to. You are something else. You are an emosogynist. It is nothing to be proud of. This is what is so horrible and insidious about Bill Clinton and John Edwards. It’s why I hate Bill Maher so much. If you deny women the same personhood you give yourself, you are not a liberal. You are not a revolutionary. You are not an outlaw or a gangster or anything cool. You are just a misogynist in a sweater and fuck you, seriously, for real.”
—
Molly Lambert wrote a completely awesome essay about being a left-wing misogynist over at This Recording and now you get to read it! (via standardreview)
fuck yes. this article is wonderful, including the pictures, analogies, and links!
Play
“The writer of it is, we understand, a female; this is an aggravation of that which is the prevailing fault of the novel; but if our authoress can forget the gentleness of her sex, it is no reason why we should; and we shall therefore dismiss the novel without further comment.”
—
Review of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, by a man.
So, I am really into Frankenstein, and Mary Shelley lately? Chalk it up to Sady’s Inexplicable Fascinations, Part 20,143. And, of course, plenty has been written about Frankenstein as a feminist text, and about Frankenstein as autobiography. But read the above quote. Then read this:
Shall I respect man when he condemns me? Let him live with me in the interchange of kindness, and instead of injury I would bestow every benefit upon him with tears of gratitude at his acceptance. But that cannot be; the human senses are insurmountable barriers to our union. Yet mine shall not be the submission of abject slavery. I will revenge my injuries; if I cannot inspire love, I will cause fear.
This is, of course, the Monster. But if you can’t read this statement as sort of a pre-emptive response to the one before it, I don’t know. Mary Shelley’s mom (Woolstonecraft!) died as the result of her birth: The Monster is a parent-killer, and a child-killer. Mary Shelley lost more than one of her children: The Monster is a dead birth (he refers to himself, at one point, as “an abortion”). Percy Bysshe Shelley, her baby-daddy and later husband, was a highly irresponsible father: The Monster is the creature rejected by its parent, and that creature’s rage. But, first and foremost, I think, the Monster is a girl. There are all sorts of idealized, sweet, angel-in-the-house types floating around this novel: The saintly (dead) Mrs. Frankenstein, the saintly (soon-to-be-dead) sister/wife Elizabeth, the saintly (also gonna die) servant Justine. But then there’s this creature. This thing that stands outside of “man,” longs to be accepted by “man,” knows there is something wrong with its shape or its nature and only, really, wants one person in the world to love it. All the house-angels die off or run away; the Monster kills most of them, directly or indirectly. And at the end of it, there’s this creature, refusing “the submission of slavery,” which had gentleness at one point but forgot it, standing out in the cold, permanently alone.
(via sadydoyle)
Can’t sleep. Want to chat. Text me?
i have an addiction. sorry guys. it’s called hipster aladdin. i might die.
The hedgehog's dilemma →
heterochromatic.tumblr.com
The hedgehog’s dilemma, or sometimes the porcupine dilemma, is an analogy about the challenges of human intimacy. It describes a situation in which a group of hedgehogs all seek to become close to one another in order to share their heat during cold weather. However, once accomplished, they cannot avoid hurting one another with their sharp quills. They must step away from one another. Though they all share the intention of a close reciprocal relationship, this may not occur for reasons which they cannot avoid. both Arthur Schopenhauer and Sigmund Freud have used this situation to describe what they feel is the state an individual will find themselves in relation to others. The hedgehog’s dilemma suggests that despite goodwill, human intimacy cannot occur without substantial mutual harm, and what results is cautious behavior and weak relationships. With the hedgehog’s dilemma one is recommended to use moderation in affairs with others both because of self-interest, as well as out of consideration for others. The hedgehog’s dilemma is used to justify or explain introversion and isolationism.
sometimes i think i have the opposite problem. maybe they’ll call it the clam dilemma. and i’ll giggle for days. or, you know, the anemone dilemma. it would also make me giggle, but for adorable reasons rather than sexual.
Dear Planned Parenthood,: I Rely on Planned Parenthood Gynecologists →
dearplannedparenthood.tumblr.com
Planned Parenthood’s nurses and doctors have made it possible for me to get regular care with dignity, respect, kindness, and comfort.
When I was about eighteen, I had my first gynecological exam. It was terrifying — the doctor was an old man who was incredibly rough. I starting bleeding and…
holy shit. I can’t even imagine being so violated by a doctor, nor my emotional or physical response to an already intrusive act. Thank god for PP treating people with respect, care, and compassion!
if i could guarantee that my children would grow up reading them, my whole body would be covered in the best books. text tats FTW!
