christinefriar:

So it’s strange to feel culturally compelled to participate in something despite knowing, through decades of experience, that it doesn’t work for your body. There’s a weird “Ha ha! Guess I’m not a real woman!” defense mechanism that I was tempted to fall into — that Liz Lemony ‘what is air?’ tude that seems to be socially acceptable even though it’s just half-a-step up from whatever shitty gender barrier it’s defying (and, more often than not, tacitly reinforcing it through acknowledgement), but what’s the step after? Where do you go after feeling fine about, “Welp, I guess this signifier of womanhood isn’t one I can participate in”?

I don’t feel shitty about anything that happened today, I just wish it didn’t seem like I was staring down the barrel of the next 60 years of my life. Thinking of how many more conversations I need to have before I die about why I dress the way I do, or why I can’t participate in certain trends.

I don’t know. It doesn’t even feel tiresome so much as it’s just like, where’s the trap door? Where are the three words that will make me avoid outlining this conversation again?

It may be as simple as, “I don’t want to.”

This is fantastic and puts into words exactly how I feel about earrings. Will. Never. Do. 

nevver:

Fortune cookie

pam-anderson:

Pamela at the 8th Annual Celebrity Tennis Classic Benefit For Make A Wish Foundation, 1992 

summer outfit inspiration 

For women who are tied to the moon, love alone is not enough. We insist each day wrap it’s knuckles through our heart strings and pull. The lows. The joy. The poetry. We dance at the edge of a cliff, you have fallen off. So it goes. You will climb up again.

You rare girl, once again, you have a body that belongs to no lover, to no father, belongs to no one but you. Wear your sorrow like the lines on your palm. Like a shawl to keep you warm at night. Don’t mourn the love that is lost to you now. It is a book of poems whose meters worked their way into your pulse. Even if it has slipped from your hands, it will stay in your body.

You loved a man who treated you like absinthe, half poison and half god. He tried to sweeten you, to water you down. So you left. And now you have your heart all to yourself again. A heart like a stone cottage. Heart like a lover’s diary. Hope like an ocean.

Nigel Van Wieck