Don’t shame the girls who sent pictures of themselves half-naked to their significant others as a way to express eroticism which is healthy and natural… give the people hell who think it’s okay to destroy someone’s trust and distribute those images simply for entertainment purposes.
Say it again. I don’t think they got it the first time. Too much truth.
Female privilege is getting to claim a headache to avoid sex.
Female oppression is having to claim physical illness to avoid sex because men won’t take a simple fucking “no” for an answer.
Female oppression is men being so entitled that they think being denied sex is oppressive.
everyone makes love sound like
rocks against the window at two in
the morning, like grand gestures in
front of the classroom, like public displays
of affection and eighty-two rose bouquets
and maybe that is a part of it but
when real love hits you, he will be
spreading hummus across flatbread, sleep
tangling her fingers in his hair, a slight
whispy smile on his lips like he knows
the world’s greatest secret and even though
you’re both standing in the kitchen’s
bad lighting and you’re both still
recovering from napping and you’re
only in your socks and undies,
it will feel like you’re standing next to a jet plane
during take off, it will just knock you right over
when real love hits you, she will be sitting
in front of a bad action movie, eyes on
the screen and legs tangled between yours,
her body fitting so perfectly against you that you
feel like the two of you are puzzle pieces made for
each other, the warmth of her laughter
like whiskey through your veins
and you will realize you have spent the
last five minutes just looking
at her face and maybe the two of you
illegally downloaded this film and maybe her
fingertips are covered with popcorn butter and
maybe you’ll never be able to form a good enough
way to tell her, but just even seeing her happy makes
your heart explode like a snowball against
a windowpane, you’re just completely wrecked by it
when love hits you, they will be absently licking icing
off the back of their knuckle while they make cupcakes
for their whole class and their nose will wrinkle
and you will find an inexplicable humor in how
they literally sprint from the room in order to sneeze
without breathing on the food, you will watch the way
they sneak some batter from the bowl with a hooked
finger, how their left cheek has a little smear
of flour right across where their freckles
rest like clovers and maybe they are
not the best baker in the world but
even if they burn everything they make you,
you realize you wouldn’t care, you would
honestly eat whatever it was for
rest of your life because it means being
close to them and that idea just cracks
against your ribs like how rain always sings as
it falls, so in love with the ground that it
praises the earth as it hits
and this is what love is:
the moments of looking up and finding
you’re with the world’s most perfect person,
so full of flaws and such a terrible, terrific
Sometimes, when I need answers, I like to take my questions to Google.
I have googled “How long does heartbreak last?” The result more popular than that was “How long does heartburn last?” This implies people suffer from heartburn more than they do heartbreak, which is a good thing, because heartbreak sucks way more than acid reflux ever could. Weirdly, though, a broken heart does physically hurt. It feels heavy, like someone is sitting on your chest.
There are upsides to despair. You can wear a blanket instead of a coat and your friends won’t judge you. You can smoke indoors because nobody will have the heart to tell an inconsolable girl that a smoking ban has been in place for eight years. And you find out that people are very nice and that they care about you, even if the person you care about most doesn’t. On a positive day during an outdoor — and legal — cigarette break, I told a friend that I was fine and trotted out the line, “What doesn’t kill you make you stronger”. To which she replied, deadpan: “That’s not true, that which doesn’t kill you makes you wanna die.”
The nicest thing I heard during the worst time in my life was this: “You have to suffer heartbreak so you know what to tell your daughter when she has her heart broken.” I can’t wait for that day to come. The problem with heartbreak is that nobody can help you. Not the films you watch alone, searching for a character who feels the way you do, not the glasses or bottles of whisky you keep by your bed, and certainly not Instagram. Every time you post a picture of yourself on Instagram looking fake happy, a fairy dies.
Also, scrolling through photos of girls your ex may or may not be shagging won’t help you. Remind yourself that the right filter can be fantastically flattering, and she probably doesn’t look that good in real life.