4:19 Dec 3rd, 2012 | 598,514 notes
“I’m Really Very Fond”, Alice Walker, Her Blue Body Everything We Know (via bendylaw)9:03 Aug 20th, 2012 | 7 notes
candlestick maker11:08 Aug 1st, 2012 | 2 notes
selling all my things and setting up a candle company in the Catskills. I hope I can win Metroland’s “Best Start-Up Candle Company in Upstate NY - 2013.” please donate to my kickstarter fund.
second candle: new york city
third candle- Instagram
fourth candle: middle school
6:52 Jul 5th, 2012 | 18,371 notes
(Source: themindislimitless, via )
Book resources6:49 Jul 5th, 2012 | 28,095 notes
Natal Cleft Asphyxiation10:45 Jun 17th, 2012 | 2 notes
I typically wear soft, cushy underwear because I sport dresses on an almost daily basis. In the event I have an unwanted Marilyn Monroe moment in windy upstate New York, I don’t want my assets revealed to perfectly good strangers. Not to mention, thongs—the good kind, the kind that fit—can be too comfortable, and I forget I have them on. Paranoia ensues when I suddenly think I forgot to wear undergarments to class. However, every budding young woman knows that sometimes you need thongs for two legitimate reasons:
1) When a pair of pants, a skirt, or a dress is so form fitting that the outline of underwear ruins the illusion, you need a thong.
2) When rap artist Lil’ Jon grunts, “Can I play witcho panty line?,” you definitely need a thong.
Other than the two aforementioned occasions, I don’t see the purpose of wearing a thong on a daily basis. I wear un-sexy granny panties on the regular because the dresses I usually wear are also un-sexy. My Salvation Army frock finds are as comfortable as sweatpants, without appearing too lazy to don a respectable outfit.
However, yesterday was different. Yesterday, I wore an outfit that would have make Vladimir Nabokov shart his boxer-briefs (or Humbert Humbert, the perverted protagonist from Nabokov’s famed work of “fiction,” Lolita, who is one of many male protagonists Nabokov created to manifest his desire to sleep with little girls.). My pastel pink dress, which fell to my lower thigh, looked unabashedly girlish with a pair of virgin-white knee socks and a pair of patent red Mary Janes. On a campus full of barely-legal coeds wearing skintight yoga pants, I looked like I was about to enter preschool.
She was Lo, plain Lo, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. And you know what she did today? She decided to wear a thong two sizes too small made of lace and tulle because she had no cotton undies left that wouldn’t show through the material of the dress.
– Not An Actual Excerpt From “Lolita.”
In an effort to show up on time to class, I dashed to New American Cinema in LC 21 to watch Kramer vs. Kramer, completely unaware of the troubles this piece of lingerie would cause. As Charles Dickens once said a long time ago, “It was the best of times, and it was the worst of times:” Kramer vs. Kramer had been at the top of my “To Watch” list since I first discovered on the syllabus that Dustin Hoffman and Meryl Streep were in a movie together, but I couldn’t enjoy the their screen presence as the scratchiest fabric in the HISTORY of the textile industry was flossing my bum with the same tenacity a meth addict might floss his teeth before his first dentist appointment in 5 years. By the time I reached the point where little Billy innocently asks Dustin Hoffman if the reason Mommy left was because he was bad, I had enough. I wanted to CRY at that movie and not at the un-godly natal cleft asphyxiation that was happening under my dress.
The nosy few who have dug through the depths of my backpack know that I carry around a blade for protection. Prior to yesterday, I only used it for slicing cheese at a party when none of us could find a sharp knife. That all changed at around 7 PM, when I sliced my thong off my body to relieve the pain of it cutting off my circulation from the waist down. I inconspicuously snipped the seam where the silk and tulle met on each side and came apart in the same manner a diaper unlatches. From there I could quickly and quietly take it, shove it in my bag, and finish my movie in peace.
You might be asking why I didn’t just slip them off and avoid the entire fiasco of wielding a knife in public. I blame it on the fact that I could be a lot more discreet cutting the skivvies off than peeling it off my body as the thong was practically suctioned onto my waist; also, the seats in the lecture center are so squeaky that I would have easily called too much attention to myself.
Furthermore, I typically sit to the front of the lecture center and there was nary an angle to be found that would successfully shield me from the judgmental eyes of my classmates. I was able to watch Dustin Hoffman fight for the custody of his son. I even cried at the ending, not because of the near-lethal intimates, but because it was just so great. When we watch Easy Rider next week, I’ll make sure I wear my ugliest pair of Hanes.
Taylor Callobre, The “Good Guy” Myth (via grrrlstudies)
(Source: rangerbecket, via ): 8:22 Jun 15th, 2012 | 14,743 notes
But most of all, stop thinking that what people so loathingly refer to as the “friendzone” is some sort of purgatory women put “nice guys” into. My friendship is not a crappy consolation prize that you’re left with if I deny you a sexual relationship– and my body is not your reward for good behavior.
8:47 May 24th, 2012 | 10 notes
100. Dance Anthem of the 80s - Regina Spektor
I’ve been in love with Regina Spektor more or less since I first heard her on a mixed CD when I was sixteen (the song, for the record, was “On the Radio”). She’s quirky and whimsical and sweet (but also sometimes dark and brooding - “Apres Moi,” anyone?) and writes the most amazing lyrics and I love her piano and all the things her voice can do. But this song came at a particular time: I was a senior in high school and sure nobody would ever love me the way my first boyfriend had (you know, the one who dumped me and chucked my heart in the garbage disposal), but then this. And then a different boy who said he would. I was suddenly alive to a world of possibility, humming in the air like electricity.
These words did feel like an anthem - like a personal triumph. I was good enough to get touched all the time. I was I was I was.
What I love(d) even more, though, is her line leading into the chorus: “An addiction to hands and feet/there’s a meat market down the street/the boys and girls watch each other eat/when they really just want to watch each other sleep.” This is the crux of the whole song: we’re all addicted to each other’s bodies, intoxicated by the skin, yearning for a feeling of closeness we think we can only find between the sheets.
Handle With Care10:14 May 22nd, 2012 | 1 note
A week ago when I started packing to move out of my college apartment, it felt like I was packing up my life. Everything I put away reminded me that there were people I’d be leaving behind. Now, attempting to unpack, it’s all just stuff. The fact that I can barely walk across the 9x10 box that is my room makes me anxious and claustrophobic, and I’m realizing that I hate the idea of not being able to pack up and move - not because I want to have less to pack, but because I want to have less to unpack. I hate unpacking. The less I have, I figure, the less time it’ll take to arrange it so that it feels like home.
I’m realizing just how much I can live without. I don’t need half these clothes, the number of pens and pencils I own is more indulgent than practical, and even my books - I love my books, and I cherish the idea of one day having a grown-up library - but I don’t need all of them. I don’t need all these things.
It sounds trite, but what really makes a home is the people you live with (even the ones you don’t live with, but only around). And that means home can be anywhere, but it also means home is as splintered as you are, a million places at once.
We gather up the pieces, carving out the digital space of the internet to make our homes (via skype and facebook and e-mail and even tumblr), or making visits or moving to where they are, the people we love.
Which is why I want to have less to unpack, when I move. It’s the people, not the things.