golgibodies:

texting someone new is always weird.

like how do they feel about all lowercase letters? do they think it looks dumb? do i have to use super proper grammar and punctuation? will they know im being sarcastic when i start abbreviating words? are they a haha or lol person? are they a strict no acronyms kind of person? how do they feel about pet names? what’s their stance on emojis? 

it’s terrifying 

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morrisseh:

it is 2014 if a man still thinks that women give a scheisse if he “prefers a natural look” i can’t even finish this sentence because that shit makes me so mad

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Anonymous: No the poem was fantastic. I hate punching myself in the face after a few seconds bc I'm required by my school to do that for hours at a time.

I can’t tell if that was sarcasm or not, but please don’t punch yourself?

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For many of these women, the reading experience begins from a place of seething rage. Take Sara Marcus’ initial impression of Jack Kerouac: “I remember putting On the Road down the first time a woman was mentioned. I was just like: ‘Fuck. You.’ I was probably 15 or 16. And over the coming years I realized that it was this canonical work, so I tried to return to it, but every time I was just like, ‘Fuck you.’” Tortorici had a similarly visceral reaction to Charles Bukowski: “I will never forget reading Bukowski’s Post Office and feeling so horrible, the way that the narrator describes the thickness of ugly women’s legs. I think it was the first time I felt like a book that I was trying to identify with rejected me. Though I did absorb it, and of course it made me hate my body or whatever.” Emily Witt turned to masculine texts to access a sexual language that was absent from books about women, but found herself turned off by their take: “many of the great classic coming-of-age novels about the female experience don’t openly discuss sex,” she says in No Regrets. “I read the ones by men instead, until I was like, ‘I cannot read another passage about masturbation. I can’t. It was like a pile of Kleenex.”

This isn’t just about the books. When young women read the hyper-masculine literary canon—what Emily Gould calls the “midcentury misogynists,” staffed with the likes of Roth, Mailer, and Miller—their discomfort is punctuated by the knowledge that their male peers are reading these books, identifying with them, and acting out their perspectives and narratives. These writers are celebrated by the society that we live in, even the one who stabbed his wife. In No Regrets, Elif Bautman talks about reading Henry Miller for the first time because she had a “serious crush” on a guy who said his were “the best books ever,” and that guy’s real-life recommendation exacerbated her distaste for the fictional. When she read Miller, “I felt so alienated by the books, and then thinking about this guy, and it was so hot and summertime … I just wanted to kill myself. … He compared women to soup.”
In No Regrets, women writers talk about what it was like to read literature’s “midcentury misogynists.” (via ehosk)
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