UGH CHRISTA. I’m going to miss your incredible sass. Have SO MUCH FUN in Rome in the fall, and please continue to obsessively blog about Tegan & Sara. I’ll text ya when I’m in Philly this summer for some friendship. Also, I can’t wait to run the world with you when you return <3
Ah, the first weekend of going out. We didn’t even know each other here, yet there we were - drinking mixed drinks, taking shots, posing for pics to put on our Facebook to make it look we were having the time of our lives, and singing “Piano Man” horribly out of tune.
Photobooth was always a drunk staple. Also, I used to be really cool and wear my lanyard with my swipe around my neck….
There was a period when I had peace sign up, tongue out in every picture.
Cut off all my hair, like a boss.
I never thought I’d be friends with a ginger. Just kidding, Erin.
My dreams are lies that I have tried to ignore. My dreams fly me to a place near Baltimore.
“Ever notice how the women in Cosmopolitan magazine so often look like they’re a hair’s breath from an orgasm? This goes for the ads as well as the editorials. Have you ever wondered: hmm, isn’t it sort of weird that a women’s magazine that is itself sold to women and is simultaneously trying to sell things to women should be filled with other women staring out of the pages making the kinds of dull-witted sexyfaces you’d expect them to be making at men whose attentions they were seeking? Why are women being instructed to look at women who are ostensibly looking at invisible men? The magazine is showing you women via the male gaze. The magazine is also training you to see yourself via the male gaze, and to put more currency in how you look to the outside observer, or how you look in a mirror, as opposed to how you look at the world, as a person seeing. The message is that women don’t see; they are only seen. You want a man? You wear these clothes, stand in this posture, make this sexyface: these are the symbols of the straight female. In a heteronormative, male-driven world, this what it means to be beautiful, or at least sexually available.”—Madonna, Lady Gaga, and Breaking the Male Gaze | Fatshionista (via knospen, curvesahead) (via hatari) (via somerset) (via loveyourchaos) (via lserks)
A substantial portion of my music library is devoted to Buddy Holly and his Rockabilly contemporaries. I’m particularly partial to Mr. Holly, which has me absolutely thrilled for this upcoming tribute album (save for the Kid Rock track… confusing). Click through to onethirtybpm for more info.
I can’t believe I’m not going home. I can’t believe I’m staying in Baltimore this summer. I can’t believe I only have one year left.
I have made and/or strengthened so many friendships this year. I’m terrible with goodbyes. I want to lie in a field of sunflowers, and then time stops, everyone is laughing, and I don’t have seasonal allergies.
“BE QUIET, TIFFANY, BE QUIET! WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU? STOP IT! I HAVE NEVER IN MY LIFE YELLED AT A GIRL LIKE THIS. WHEN MY MOTHER YELLS LIKE THIS IT’S BECAUSE SHE LOVES ME. I WAS ROOTING FOR YOU, WE WERE ALL ROOTING FOR YOU. HOW DARE YOU? LEARN SOMETHING FROM THIS. WHEN YOU GO TO BED AT NIGHT, YOU LAY THERE AND YOU TAKE RESPONSIBILITY FOR YOURSELF, ‘CAUSE NOBODY’S GONNA TAKE RESPONSIBILITY FOR YOU. YOU ROLLIN’ YOUR EYES AND YOU ACTING LIKE THIS BECAUSE YOU’VE HEARD IT ALL BEFORE. YOU’VE HEARD IT ALL BEFORE, YOU DON’T KNOW WHERE THE HELL I COME FROM, YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I’VE BEEN THROUGH. BUT I’M NOT A VICTIM, I GROW FROM IT, AND I LEARN. TAKE RESPONSIBILITY FOR YOURSELF.”—
There are so many messages and emotions in this country right now. It’s interesting to see it all play out through various forms of social media.
Most are celebrating. Some are out getting drunk and covering themselves in American flags while chanting U-S-A and singing the National Anthem. I don’t really get how that’s relevant, but, sure, go for it.
I’m not going to say that I’m not glad. Osama was responsible for so much pain and so much loss. I almost feel as if the people who are telling me that I can’t be happy are the same people who were trying to tell me that Charlie Sheen’s disaster was funny. I only hope that his death can help in the healing process of all those effected by 9/11 as well as those who have suffered over the past 10 years due to his terroristic actions. I also have the soldiers and civilians in the thick of it all in my thoughts in anticipation of any retaliation from supporters of Osama in the coming weeks. We may have killed a hateful man who started it all, but we did not kill the hatred nor did we kill what he started. This seems like the end, but it is only the beginning.
That being said, it’s not the time for us to argue if we should celebrate Osama’s death. Thankfully, I personally was not affected by 9/11 nor do I know anyone currently serving in the military, but so many people have been. Especially since Osama has caused so much pain, I am not going to judge others for how they choose to take this news, and I’m certainly not going to accuse anyone of feeling the wrong emotions when I may not understand where they’re coming from. I’ll leave any and all judgment to the big Guy upstairs.
All of my days are blending into one lonely night. I keep hoping that you’re on your way over, but I’m probably losing sight. Just when I started to feel good, You called me up on the phone, Askin’ how I’ve been and what am I doin’. And I say, “Nothing much at all. In fact, I haven’t really been home.” I’ve been wandering around.
This is it. I can’t keep lying to myself. It will hurt, but I can’t keep saying that I don’t care, when I do. Fuck, I do. I hate that I care. Do you think I want to feel like this? Like the wind is constantly getting knocked out of me? Like there’s a possibility that I’ll step out of the role I usually play with you? I need to do what it takes to move on. I need to do this for me, because I can’t keep ending my night with drunken tears.
Well, this is meant to be a story about people who are so beyond need, who want and have figured out that it’s never too soon to make demands of this life, this world, this everything. It’s about how nice it must be to just decide I will not be nice, I am never sorry, I have no regrets: what is before me belongs to me.
I think for men this attitude is second nature, it’s as much in their atmosphere as snow is in an Eskimo’s. They don’t even know how much they assume.
But for a woman, to assume she has to be not nice, it puts her outside of the system, outside of what is acceptable. She can be a deeply depressive Sylvia Plath, a luxuriating decadent Delilah, a homicidal adolescent Amy Fisher, she can be anyone who decides that what she wants and needs and believes and must do is more important than being nice. She may, in fact, be as nice as can be, but as soon as she says catch me if you can I’m so free this is my life and the rest can fuck off and die - as soon as she lays down the option of my way or the highway, it’s amazing how quickly everyone finds her difficult, crazy, a nightmare: a bitch.
“If she had condoms in her house, that would just fuckin’ throw me off. That’s just tacky.”
Shitty, offensive celebrity says shitty, offensive thing. I gotta be honest, I’m so vehemently furious that this asshat and his band of prancing ninnies even exist in music that any bullshit, sexist comment this brainless fuckwit might spew is eclipsed by my horror at what people like him have done to the music industry.
I'm reading the book "BITCH: In praise of difficult women."
So we’ll “adjust” - the word Betty Friedan used over thirty years ago in The Feminine Mystique to describe how intelligent Seven Sisters types learned to accept the notion that Mop & Glo was intellectually stimulating - and if we’re from Venus and they’re from Mars, we’ll learn to speak Martian. We’ll follow The Rules: We won’t call them, we won’t ask them out, we won’t talk about ourselves, we won’t make snide comments, we’ll be good.
Well, I for one am sick of it. All my life, one person or another has been telling me to behave, saying don’t let a guy know you’re a depressed maniac on the first date, don’t just be yourself, don’t show your feelings. And the truth is, this is probably good advice, men probably don’t like overbearing, hotheaded women who give blow jobs on the first date. In all likelihood the only man who will ever like me just as I am will probably need to believe I’m somebody else at first. I probably do need to learn to behave. But I don’t like it. It seems like, all this, all these years of feminism, Mary Wollstonecraft, Charlotte Perkins Gilman, Simone de Beauvoir, Virginia Woolf, Gloria Steinam, Susan Faludi - all that smart writing all so we could learn to behave? Bra burning in Atlantic City - so we could learn to behave? Roe v. Wade - so we could learn to behave? Thelma & Louise - so we could learn to behave? The gender gap - so we could learn to behave? Madonna, Sally Ride, Joycelyn Elders, Golda Meir, Anita Hill, Bette Davis, Leni Riefenstahl - all those strong, indefatigable souls so we could learn to behave? What good really have any of those things done if we still get the feeling that we have to contain our urges and control ourselves in the interest of courtship and love? Did Germaine Greer importune us so long ago with the words “Lady, love your cunt,” and did Anita Radikovich regale us with her tales of the sexual picaresque in The Wild Girls Club so we could be told never to succumb to sexual abandon on the first date? After all this agitations, along comes The Rules to tell us that we’re not even allowed to accept a date for a Saturday night after Wednesday.