girls are stronger than tigers.

"You do care," said Dumbledore. "You care so much you feel as though you will bleed to death with the pain of it.”

(Source: stannisbarathcon, via ronanczernys)

Sometimes I just want to get a fake orange spray tan and bleach my hair blonde and wear hollister and a&f and american eagle and uggs exclusively and wear frosted lipglosses and make ducklips faces and care about jersey shore and gossip girl, because apparently “nice” dudes hate when girls that because it’s “fake”, it’s “slutty”, it’s overdone/tasteless/”dumb” but screw you. Everything is fake. All persona is persona including what you’ve been conditioned to perceive as a “neutral”/”inoffensive” appearance.

Because i don’t want your “respect”, and I certainly don’t need your advice on how to “respect” a body. I don’t need your fake concern about skin cancer and burns on my scalp when my body doesn’t even feel like mine sometimes, or when breast cancer becomes selling sex to teenage boys who wouldn’t tell you about the lump in your breast they felt while they were feeling you up. Your concern for my body will always be mediocre until it is mine to create/destroy/create, and even then it wouldn’t even matter because you do not inhabit this flesh, or these organs, or this mucus/snot/bile/blood/spit/fluid/fluid/fluid, so stop trying to crawl into my bed of skin, and stop trying to own my ugliness. You can’t have it. Too bad, so sad.

I don’t want you to wait before I leave the room to talk about how gross I am. I want my skin to be greasy and leave big orange stains on every man who touches me and who I choose to touch. I want my hair to make you puke. I want my clothes to remind you of how capitalism lives in tube tops and booty shorts just as well as it does in jeans and a t-shirt or whatever else makes you feel like the girl you want is real “authentic”, real “down-to-earth” or whatever. I want to remind you that every picture is posed. No expression can be pure when you can see the camera and the camera can see you. I want you to know that I spent three hours straightening my hair and putting on my eyeliner over and over again, and removing it over and over again so there’s light grey rings under my eyes, and when I reapplied my lipgloss for the 20th time tonight in the backseat of my best friend’s car it hit a pothole so it’s smudging against my lipliner, and I’m still not “sexy” to your pretentious John Lennon art school ass. My labor is MINE, and it’s ugly because God loves ugly. I wasn’t put on this earth to turn you on. I want to scream and party and grind to terrible club music because I want to scare the life out of you. I want you to go home and post a facebook update about how “our generation is doomed” and get twenty likes from all your pretentious John Lennon art school friends and all your fedora-wearing self-entitled pasty sarcastic bros and all your edgewatch xvx police officers and all your “nice guy” indie rock microbrew date rapists who all secretly wish they could make a man want to remove himself from this earth just by getting a spraytan.

I don’t want you to want to be turned on by me, BRO. I want you to have to look at me. I want to be the bright orange flesh you don’t want to see but you also can’t ignore. I want you to be very, very scared of what is going to come out of my mouth. I want you to cringe at the sound of my voice because it is both too feminine and too loud. Your disgust makes me even louder, even more powerful. And it’s so funny to me, so funny to me, because you know and I know we are both just pretending we aren’t aware that deep down you so badly wish you could be a monster, too.

angry journal entries

(Source: lejune)

Most of what makes a book ‘good’ is that we are reading it at the right moment for us.

—Alain de Botton (via observando)

(via s-is-for-hope)