Because the newspapers will say a male politician “spoke” about the economy, but a female politician “complained” about the economy and because people like Tony Abbott will look at their watches because a woman has something to say about it, I am a feminist.
Ladies and Gentlemen, the Prime Minister of Australia kicking ass and taking names (mostly Tony Abbott’s). [x]
This past Friday night, I was talking with my best friend here at Ivy University and she mentioned that she had been hanging out with that guy from my frat and he had brought me up in conversation. Recently, he had said something vaguely complimentary and a little rude about me to Craftsmate, so I rolled my eyes and tried to change the subject.
“He says that he really wanted something with you but realizes that if you two were ever something that it probably wouldn’t last long. And he would rather be your friend and not lose you,” she blurted out.
It was the most vindicating thing I could possibly hear. Things were strange and ambiguous and he had been fluctuating between aggressive pursuit and then trying to basically Almost Famous me away to Craftsmate. I wanted to be his friend, just his friend, without the weird grey areas and the weird nonsense flirting.
Fast-forward a few hours. We’ve all had a little too much to drink and I spot that guy from my frat, rush over, throw my arms open and say a little too loudly, “I want to be your friend, too!”
“Ivy, we are friends,” he replied, laughing. He hugged me close.
I could feel that I was smiling like a moron, “that’s great. That’s really great."
We went out together Saturday night. As friends. Before we met up with some other people, he and I were having a drink and hanging around. Nearby, somebody turned and made a comment about our banter, saying we should go tour. We laughed, smiled at each other, and went to go find our friends. The evening was fabulous.
Sunday, we had dinner together. Conversation was easy and afterwards he walked me to the library in the most unassuming way possible.
Hurray. Chapter closed.
I love unmade beds. I love when people are drunk and crying and cannot be anything but honest in that moment. I love the look in people’s eyes when they realize they’re in love. I love the way people look when they first wake up and they’ve forgotten their surroundings. I love the gasp people take when their favorite character dies. I love when people close their eyes and drift to somewhere in the clouds. I fall in love with people and their honest moments all the time. I fall in love with their breakdowns and their smeared makeup and their daydreams. Honesty is just too beautiful to ever put into words.
“Silence may be as variously shaded as speech,“ – Edith Wharton.
They say I have a sweet ass, nice tits, a real pretty dress. They say I’m their future wife, or I’d look good with their dick in my mouth. They try (and probably succeed at times) to take pictures down my shirt. They ask if they can get my number, they ask where I live, why I’m not smiling, why my boyfriend lets me walk around by myself. Then they ask why I’m such a bitch, if my pussy is made of ice. They say that they never do this, as though I’ve somehow driven them to inappropriate behavior and deserve it. They say they’re just having fun, trying to pay me a compliment. Pretty frequently they get mean, slipping into a loud tourettes-like chant of bitch-whore-cunt-slut.
Before you try to tell me that it’s because I take my clothes off for a living, let me tell you that this started way before I was 18. Let me tell you that every single woman I know has at least one truly terrifying story of street harassment and a whole bunch of other stories that are merely insulting or annoying. Let me remind you that in a room of pornography fans, who have actually seen me with a dick in my mouth and who can buy a replica of my vagina in a can or box, I am treated with far more respect than I am walking down the street.
Me: Am I still pretty?
Him: You’re always the prettiest. Even if your face is janked up to fucktown right now.
When I was 18 I wanted to fuck on the floor and break shit, when I was 25 I wanted to fuck on the floor and break shit, when I was 35 I wanted to fuck on the floor and break shit, now I’m 40 and I want to fuck on the floor and break shit
Truth.
Truth: If introduced to a comfortable couch, I will naturally curl up and want to take a nap. Especially in the right lighting. I have the impulses of a house-cat.
<3