“As women, we are taught to be tiny. To have small bodies, to never be imposing. The ideal of our gender are thin and childlike, hairless and dainty. We are defined by our bodies; defined by our control over them. We are taught to obsess over our physicality and to be repulsed by our desires and intelligences. We are taught to walk scared late at night. We cradle our keys between our perfectly manicured fingers, walking gracefully like a baby antelope in a herd of lions. That our virginity defines our character. That I am a frigid bitch if I do not fuck him, and a dirty slut if I do.”—The Truth About Growing Up A Woman, Michelle K. (via thatkindofwoman)
hey instead of bullying straight/white/cis people because “they havent been oppressed” how about we dONT PICK ON ANYBODY AT ALL??????H OW ABOUT WE????FUCKING PRACTICE WHAT WE PREACH AND BE NICE TO INDIVIDUALS WHO HAVENT DONE ANYTHING TO HURT US BESIDES EXIST??????????
jeez i would love to order that thing online, but i don’t know what size to order it in because women’s clothing sizes are determined by the alignments of the planets in relation to the fuck you galaxy
(A gay couple has just met up in the restaurant and kissed each other upon arrival. Another customer has seen this and is obviously angry.)
Angry Customer:“Damn f**s.”
Gay Man:“Excuse me?”
Angry Customer:“You heard me, you little s***. Let’s not make this into some little pride protest, okay? I have to accept that you’re going to live your lifestyle, and you have to accept that I’ve got freedom of speech.”
Gay Man:*quietly* “Is it too much to ask for a little human decency?”
Angry Customer:“Human? Listen up, what you’re doing is not human. I think I have the right to determine what I think is human.”
(The manager shows up. He’s a quiet Italian man who I assume is conservative due to the Christian imagery and portrait of Reagan he keeps around the restaurant.)
Angry Customer:*to the owner* “Hey, can you move either them or us to another table?”
(Instead of responding to the angry customer, the owner instead speaks to his wife.)
Owner:“I’m sorry ma’am, but we have a strict ‘no pets’ policy in my restaurant.”
Wife:“Uh, I, uh, what? I don’t have a—”
Owner:“Well, according to your talking monkey over here, I can determine who’s a human and who’s not. You bring an animal into my restaurant; I gotta assume it’s your pet.”
(The angry customer storms out. When I left, the owner was giving his description, and copies of security camera footage, to the biggest crowd of police I’ve seen. Apparently it’s a bad idea to not pay your bill at a restaurant that gives free coffee to cops.)
‘Fat’ is usually the first insult a girl throws at another girl when she wants to hurt her.
I mean, is ‘fat’ really the worst thing a human being can be? Is ‘fat’ worse than ‘vindictive’, ‘jealous’, ‘shallow’, ‘vain’, ‘boring’ or ‘cruel’? Not to me; but then, you might retort, what do I know about the pressure to be skinny? I’m not in the business of being judged on my looks, what with being a writer and earning my living by using my brain…
I went to the British Book Awards that evening. After the award ceremony I bumped into a woman I hadn’t seen for nearly three years. The first thing she said to me? ‘You’ve lost a lot of weight since the last time I saw you!’
‘Well,’ I said, slightly nonplussed, ‘the last time you saw me I’d just had a baby.’
What I felt like saying was, ‘I’ve produced my third child and my sixth novel since I last saw you. Aren’t either of those things more important, more interesting, than my size?’ But no – my waist looked smaller! Forget the kid and the book: finally, something to celebrate!
I’ve got two daughters who will have to make their way in this skinny-obsessed world, and it worries me, because I don’t want them to be empty-headed, self-obsessed, emaciated clones; I’d rather they were independent, interesting, idealistic, kind, opinionated, original, funny – a thousand things, before ‘thin’. And frankly, I’d rather they didn’t give a gust of stinking chihuahua flatulence whether the woman standing next to them has fleshier knees than they do. Let my girls be Hermiones, rather than Pansy Parkinsons.