you know you’re in love when you start picturing them everywhere with you: hugging you from behind as you push a cart down an aisle at the grocery store, singing along to your favorite song with you from the passenger’s seat of your car, sitting on your couch reading a book when you come home. that’s how you know.
I love that we’ve all had this shared journey of falling in love with pink and realizing that it’s ok to like pink
So like… holy fuck…
I know this post wasn’t meant for cis men like me who are perfectly happy with their gender, but like… just this year, I’ve been letting myself like the color pink. Like, picking pink clothes/armor/whatever in character customization, changing my blog background to pink, or even buying a pink tee shirt for the first time ever… and I just… I’ve always liked pink? The color is nice and friendly and causes my brain to make the happy chems?? And really, truly, legitimately, allowing myself to say fuck it and enjoy pink has just been so instrumental, so important, in finally dragging myself out of my lingering depression this year, and I just… this post??? This is so fucking validating. Is that dumb? Is my semi-self-imposed prohibition of pink really worth feeling this way about? I don’t know. Other people have been actually oppressed and hurt, but I just…
I’ve always liked beautiful things? Graceful, elegant things? I have no interest in wearing a dress, mind (though more power to the guys who do), but like… my favorite dressy shirt is flower print, I like intricate, flowery filigree… I’ve always hated the idea that being graceful and delicate was unmanly. I’ve always disagreed with it, even if I held on to it anyway. Tossing that idea away over the last year has really, really just…
I think this post was by and for lesbians, but like… if I may say so… getting over my make-believe hatred of pink, letting myself be soft and delicate and emotional, and letting myself dress in a floral print shirt and a pink bowtie with a three-piece suit… that really is self care for me.
Like, holy shit… I just… I dunno where I’m going with this, but… yeah.
The patriarchy hurts men, too. It tells them that they can’t be sensitive, can’t feel emotions, can’t like pink. The whole damn system is bad for everyone and needs torn down.
i just had an experience i dont think anyone else on earth has ever had before where i saw a tumblr ad and thought “wow that seems interesting i want to check that out” (it was an ad for a new method of learning to speak welsh) and for the first time in human history i actually intentionally clicked on an ad on tumblr to see more information about a product and the fucking link it had embedded was broken and didnt work
you: oh cool I’m interested, where does this link go?
The Grim Reaper is no longer able to claim lives directly. Instead, when your time is up a mark appears on your body and it is the duty of every other person to kill you on sight.
I am not a careless person. I cover my tracks, monitor what I say, look before I cross the street. At least, I do now.
When I was 20 years old, I walked home reading a book. I was so engrossed that I failed to notice the heavy metal vehicle moving at my frail, human body at 40 mph.
It swerved, I stopped, no one was hurt, no one died. They never do.
It was only when I took the cookies out of the oven that I noticed the mark on my arm. I knew what it meant. It was my duty to report to the authorities to be murdered. If I didn’t, anyone who saw it would kill me on sight.
I didn’t want to die. I was only twenty years old! I hadn’t even finished college, much less gotten to all my grand plans and ambitions (never mind that I didn’t have any. I had time to plan out the rest of my life later. So I thought.)
I burned my arm on the cookie sheet. The scar covered the black mark somewhat, and I put a bandaid over it. The people at work didn’t question it.
After some time, the burn healed. The mark remained black over the scar, bigger now. I tried carving it out with a knife. It was winter now, and long sleeves were the norm - no one would notice my injury. The mark remained, the bloody lower layers of my skin black as death’s robes.
From then on I wore long sleeves. When I went to the doctor I covered it with paint and hoped they wouldn’t notice. They didn’t. I was lucky.
The mark grew.
I was in trouble when it reached my wrist. As soon as it covered my hand I would be discovered. I ran.
Soon I will be nothing but a shadow in the night. Perhaps some of the stories they tell of night creatures originate from people like me. Those who escaped, their marks covering them, even the whites of their eyes turned deepest black. In a way, we are no longer human. Isolated, undying, immortal, betrayers of nature’s most fundamental law: all things must come to an end.
If I outlive humanity, will I ever die?
When the sun goes nova, will I still exist?
When the universe ends, will I endure?
Or is death simply a shortcut to that end? When the last star has gone out and matter has been erased, will Death greet me with a weary sigh, saying “where have you been? We’ve been waiting for you for an eternity.”
At that point, will I even remember who is waiting for me?
im not INTERESTED anymore in seeing men’s perception of what female leisure time looks like, how we lounge around hairless and small and beautiful on our beds and couches in oversized shirts and lace underwear, unaware and unassuming and all the more beautiful for not Trying to be beautiful, i’m TIRED of it. even our most basic freedom of privacy, time alone with the self, has been butchered and ripped from us by the gaze of male photographers and artists
