undead-hearts-clique:

this this this is mine don’t delete the caption u fuckers

The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed.

Carl Jung

Where psychoanalysis says, Stop, find your self again, we should say instead, Let’s go further still, we haven’t sufficiently dismantled our self.

Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus

televisedwar:

Rosemary’s Baby (1968)

Pain, begone, I will have no more of thee. 289/365

And I suppose have only made myself more unpopular: ah yes: but freer. That’s the point.

Virginia Woolf, from a diary entry

Le silence et la nuit s’installèrent en lui,
Comme dans un caveau dont la clef est perdue.

Charles Baudelaire , Châtiment de l’orgueil

mfjr:

Keith Haring in front of his mural at at Collingwood College, Melbourne, Australia, 1984

Isn’t it time to acknowledge the ugly side? I’ve grown quite weary of the spunky heroines, brave rape victims, soul-searching fashionistas that stock so many books. I particularly mourn the lack of female villains — good, potent female villains. Not ill-tempered women who scheme about landing good men and better shoes (as if we had nothing more interesting to war over), not chilly WASP mothers (emotionally distant isn’t necessarily evil), not soapy vixens (merely bitchy doesn’t qualify either). I’m talking violent, wicked women. Scary women. Don’t tell me you don’t know some. The point is, women have spent so many years girl-powering ourselves — to the point of almost parodic encouragement — we’ve left no room to acknowledge our dark side. Dark sides are important. They should be nurtured like nasty black orchids.

Gillian Flynn, speaking about her novel Sharp Objects

My past has not defined me, destroyed me, deterred me, or defeated me; it has only strengthened me.

Steve Maraboli

Sometimes you’ve got to be able to listen to yourself and be okay with no one else understanding.

Christopher Barzak

Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind,
And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.

William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night’s Dream

You know what else it costs to write about and talk about consent? I’m going to be super real with y’all. It has cost me the vast majority of my relationships with men. Not all at once, but eventually, over time, one by one. It was one sexist joke too many, it was one boundary-crossing-creep-defender over the line. It was the constant microaggressions or the combination of being privileged and defensive about it and unable or unwilling to do any better. Most grew weary of arguing about feminist issues, or about the fact that I wouldn’t let them just win those arguments, even though they usually had no idea what they were talking about. They couldn’t deal with the fact that I won’t allow anyone to say disparaging shit to and about me and mine. Or they won’t or can’t do better after I explain how to do better many many times and finally I have to peace out on them for my own safety. I have at present a tiny handful of guy friends. One I get into arguments with nearly every time we talk. I fear that relationship may go the way of most of my past relationships with subtly sexist men—away, that is to say. Which is really too fucking bad. Because the truth is, I don’t hate men—I hate male privilege. I really like men, shit, I love them actually, some of them. I miss having men friends, but not enough to let the mild misogyny slide. I have got to take care of me and mine. That’s where we clash, because I refuse to just smooth things over, to just let things go. They’re accustomed to deference and I’ve taught myself to drop that habit as best I can.

I can’t stop drinking the coffee. If I stop drinking the coffee, I stop doing the standing and the walking, and the words putting into sentence doing.

Lorelai Gilmore
str-wrs