earlier today i was thinking about the thousands of girls who post videos on youtube reviewing makeup and talking about their fav products and making tutorials and how no girl has ever once done it just to impress men like literally that whole community exists just for girls because it’s something that so many of us enjoy and yet men still think that we wear makeup for them


earlier today i was thinking about the thousands of girls who post videos on youtube reviewing makeup and talking about their fav products and making tutorials and how no girl has ever once done it just to impress men like literally that whole community exists just for girls because it’s something that so many of us enjoy and yet men still think that we wear makeup for them

Men always say that as the defining compliment: the Cool Girl. She’s a cool girl. Being the Cool Girl means that I am a hot, brilliant, funny woman who adores football, poker, dirty jokes, and burping, who plays video games, drinks cheap beer, loves threesomes and anal sex, and jams hot dogs and hamburgers into her mouth like she’s hosting the world’s biggest culinary gang bang while somehow maintaining a size 2, because Cool Girls are above all hot. Hot and understanding. Cool Girls never get angry; they only smile in a chagrined, loving manner and let their men do whatever they want. Go ahead, shit on me, I don’t mind, I’m the Cool Girl.
Men actually think this girl exists. Maybe they’re fooled because so many women are willing to pretend to be this girl. For a long time Cool Girl offended me. I used to see these men - friends, coworkers, strangers - giddy over these awful pretender women, and I’d want to sit these men down and calmly say: You are not dating a woman, you are dating a woman who has watched too many movies written by socially awkward men who’d like to believe that this kind of woman exists and might kiss them. I’d want to grab the poor guy by his lapels or messenger bag and say: The bitch doesn’t really love chili dogs that much - no one loves chili dogs that much! And the Cool Girls are even more pathetic: They’re not even pretending to be the woman they want to be, they’re pretending to be the woman a man wants them to be. Oh, and if you’re not a Cool Girl, I beg you not to believe that your man doesn’t want the Cool Girl. It may be a slightly different version - maybe he’s a vegetarian, so Cool Girl loves seitan and is great with dogs; or maybe he’s a hipster artist, so Cool Girl is a tattooed, bespectacled nerd who loves comics. There are variations to the window dressing, but believe me, he wants Cool Girl, who is basically the girl who likes every fucking thing he likes and doesn’t ever complain. (How do you know you’re not Cool Girl? Because he says things like: ‘I like strong women.’ If he says that to you, he will at some point fuck someone else. Because ‘I like strong women’ is code for ‘I hate strong women.’)
I waited patiently - years - for the pendulum to swing the other way, for men to start reading Jane Austen, learn how to knit, pretend to like cosmos, organize scrapbook parties, and make out with each other while we leer. And then we’d say, Yeah, he’s a Cool Guy.
But it never happened. Instead, women across the nation colluded in our degradation! Pretty soon Cool Girl became the standard girl. Men believed she existed - she wasn’t just a dreamgirl one in a million. Every girl was supposed to be this girl, and if you weren’t, then there was something wrong with you.

Gone Girl, Gillian Flynn. (via whoistorule)

Just because someone desires you, it does not mean that they value you.

Read it over.


Let those words resonate in your mind.

Nayyirah Waheed  (via mleting)


Life really only begs of you one question: how long do you think you can go before you’ll be struck by lightning? 

You will be struck and it will knock the ever-living-hell out of you. 

"Tragedy", they’ll call it.

Maybe they’ll send you flowers or bake you casseroles; maybe you’ll be the only one who will ever know it happened. You will be just as alone, either way.

It’s funny, nobody tells you that part.

You’ll be struck by lightning on a blue sky day.  You’ll carefully let the phone drop to the floor, back away from “I regret to inform you” like it’s holding a gun to your head. You won’t agree, pinching your arm. Wake up, goddamnit, all you’re going to want to do is wake up. Breaths. People will tell you to breathe, and you want to scream, you’re going to want to scream that you have absolutely no fucking desire to fucking breathe and you will just fucking hate them because they don’t have a single goddamn reason to not want to breathe. It will hit you then. That you do. You will feel betrayed by everything good thing that you have known because they did not goddamn prepare you for this. Despise the laughter and the good years and the lessons and the hopes and the dreams. How dare nobody tell you what was going to happen? How dare this hide itself in your future, hide itself in what you believed in? How fucking dare your life be a tragedy.

It will be the kind of day where you will look back and say, “the sky was so incredibly blue. I will never forget how blue the sky was that day”. Nothing, nothing will ever be the same.

There is this shock to losing what you said you could never live without— and you will almost feel like reaching for your knees, the skin on the inside of your wrists, your jawbone, stunned, distrusting that no part of your body is missing.

Who were you before you knew? You were. You swear that you were before it happened. Was it you? Was that you?

You were just there, a minute ago; you will swear it. Just sitting there engulfed in the worlds and naiveties you can’t even conjure for a second anymore. You were who you’d always been, weren’t you? Your blue shirt, your dreams of white gowns or hats with gold tassles, your crooked second finger and what you said you’d die without.

Tell me.

What can you not live without?

Him. It. Her. “Maybe”. Them. Us. “Someday”. 

And for gods sake, what will you ever do when it’s gone? Because you will be breathing one day and it will be taken from you, cruel world and cold hearts, and you won’t be able to grasp onto it when the dark threatens to crash over the edges of your comforter, when the quiet seeps its way around the bass of your speakers. Your life will be a trauma. You will have to live anyway. You will have to. That beautiful cruel consistency of the sun: rising day after day after day after day.

That beautiful cruelty; without fail.

Will you be the same person that you were yesterday? Are we ever the same person we woke up to? They say that some day we will know what it’s like to lose everything. But how do you survive the moment that takes it all away? When the universe quietly dismisses your screams? From that moment the devastation will simply be. The lightning struck. They will be gone. Forever will never again mean a week. Sobs will tear the beauty from what will never be. Unthinkable, thought.

One day
you will wake up at dawn,
the day after the end of your world.

Mock your fruitless heartbeat, goad the loneliness, try and ignite the embers of your past.
Congratulations; now you are a veteran of devastation. 

My aunt told me once that we know only one thing for sure besides death and taxes; with a half a sad smile, she said, “Your life will be a tragedy”. 

The devastation will be your becoming. The darkness will become a part of you: become acquainted and you will learn the opposite of loneliness. The grief will become your understanding; in the depths of despair you will find beauty. The insistency of your heartbeat will become your religion, the dusk your sigh, the sobs your bedtime stories.

Your life is now a tragedy; let yourself be gutted. Feel everything. This is your life. It will happen to you. You will survive the unthinkable. 

One day, the world will bring you to your knees. Your lungs will ceaselessly expand and contract. Sob. Scream. But you are never to stop breathing. Those breaths will be your Purple Heart.

Would we ever think to ask if this is a golden age for men essayists? Is it even credible to use the phrase “men essayists”? Why does it sound incorrect in a way that “women essayists” doesn’t? And why does a writer like me — female, feminist, familiar with the discreet and overt forms of sexism in the literary world and beyond — bristle when presented with such a query, one undoubtedly intended to celebrate rather than diminish the achievements of a category of people I admire and to which I belong?

Probably because I’m of the opinion that as long as we still have reason to wedge “women” as a qualifier before “essayist,” the age is not exactly golden. And yet it’s hard to deny there’s something afoot. Essayists who happen to be women are having a banner year.

In a spectacular New York Times op-ed, Cheryl Strayed – herself a phenomenal essayist – considers the alleged golden age of “women essayists.” 

Also see – for no discussion of the subject is complete without it – Ursula K. Le Guin’s spectacular piece on being a man

(via explore-blog)

It frightened him to think what must have gone to the making of her eyes.

Edith Wharton, The Age Of Innocence