M / home contact more credit
" There’s no point to a guy yelling, “Hey sexy baby” at me out of the passenger window of a car as it speeds past. Even if I was into creepy misogynists and wanted to give him my number, I couldn’t. The car didn’t even slow down. But that’s okay, because he wasn’t actually hitting on me. The point wasn’t to proposition me or chat me up. The only point was to remind me, and all women, that our bodies are his to stare at, assess, comment on, even touch. “Hey sexy baby” is the first part of a sentence that finishes, “this is your daily message from the patriarchy, reminding you that your body is public property”. "


1. Your skin may never be perfect, and that’s okay.

2. Life is too short not to have the underwear, the coffee, and the haircut you want.

3. Everyone (including your family, your coworkers, and your best friend) will talk about you behind your back, and you’ll talk about them too. It doesn’t mean you don’t love each other.

4. It’s okay to spend money on things that make you happy.

5. Sometimes without fault or reason, relationships deteriorate. It will happen when you’re six, it will happen when you’re sixty. That’s life.


Please don’t tell girls “The boy who’s picking on you actually just likes you”

Even if it’s true, you shouldn’t teach girls to respect that sort of affection.

And you should definitely not teach boys that expressing their attraction to women through violence and disrespect is ok.

(Source: charlesoberonn, via exoticwild)

Wow I loved being totally used. Are you even my friend. 😑

" The summer our breasts filled our blouses,
boys whistled to us from the windows and
doorways of our homes. They hadn’t noticed
us before, not when we had cooties and
bruised knees and lollipop-stained mouths
and bodies that looked almost identical to
theirs. We had, overnight, become mythical
creatures with hips and thighs and softer
chests that need padding. We had become
the foreign, carnal things their mothers and
best friends would warn them about for
years to come. As women, we would soon
discover that it seems as if we’re bleeding
all the time, that there is a reason why we’re
suffering from anemia. If it’s not for the moon,
if it’s not for him, it’s for ourselves. We are
told that our pleasure is not our own. We are
not given easily-attainable orgasms. We have
to memorize words like faster and harder.
We are bred as liars. We thumb our breasts,
pretend to be wet, suck in our cheeks. We have
perfected the pout. We know to be afraid of the
dark, of strange men who don’t smile, but bite.
We know how to carry our pain. We know
that saying “no” is not a safe word. We know
how to feel nothing out of something. We
know how to stitch together our dresses when
they’ve finished with us. We know when to
smile. We know to always have cab fare in our
shoes. We know how to leave, how to do it
quietly. We know not to come back. But we
also know when to stay, know that that can
save a life—his or ours. Never both.