Nothing I Hate More Than Men “bravely Destroying Western Propaganda”. I’ve Met Many Afghan Women

when mitski said

I spent all my teen-age years being obsessed with beauty, and I’m very resentful about it and I’m very angry.

I had so much intelligence and energy and drive, and instead of using that to study more, or instead of pursuing something or going out and learning about or changing the world, I directed all that fire inward, and burnt myself up.

i’m sitting next to you as you drive forty down that dimly lit street, gravel making the car rumble in the soft way that replaces the radio.

I’m watching my hands now, wringing them and watching them shake, little big movements that are more present than not. I don’t know what it’s like to have still hands, anymore.

You don’t know, i think, you don’t know about them. The pills. the way i look out the window briefly, like it hurts to look. like how it feels when you graze a cavity with ur tongue. it hurts in that good way.

I’m scared to look at you and i’m scared to look out the window and catch the moonlight on my skin for the same reason

I’m scared they’ll make me want to stay. I’m scared to come to terms with leaving you, leaving the moon, the dusty road, the gravel, the stars, the stop signs covered in scratches and graffiti covered overpass.

I can’t miss you too much. it has to be quick. I want it to be easy, and god that’s what i’m trying to do. Make it easy.

So i don’t look left across the console to meet ur deep brown eyes, almost black under the moonlight, and i don’t look right to see the little animals scurrying off into the trees at the sight of ur headlights and the sound of your engine.

I look down at my sweaty small hands instead, and i think about how many i should take. Ten, twelve, five, 8.

It’s a guessing game. It’s five minutes until we reach my home.

and then you speak.

“ won’t you say something?” you grumble. “why do you get like this?”

I’m nervous, but i stay static.

“would you even look at me? Look at me, damn it.”

And at that order, the twinge of anger you fail to hide, I move, looking right towards the window of the very important passenger seat . and i glance up. It’s a beautiful night. i want to say. the moon is so pale, it almost looks blue.

the first time i read this i peaked

Women are told our whole lives that men are cold and mean to us because they don't know how to show emotions, but that lie is shattered the moment you watch a sports match. The way male athletes cry, hug and comfort one another, etc. when their teams either lose or win indicates that they are capable of feeling and displaying emotions that are neither anger or lust. They choose to not be affectionate to us, they choose to not love and support us. It's a choice.

soo cute btw love this lookout

Taken in 2000 about a year into our relationship.

Taken in 2024 (last weekend). Didn’t quite get the pose or positioning right, but hey, we’re older and our memory ain’t what it used to be!

we barely move , only breathy laughs between us as we lay together

(we’re trying not to wake Desire)

(Desire, the monster that makes us serious)

happy international Women’s day!! (every day for me)

joins tumblr to pass time

becomes a radical feminist

you’re not a real feminist if you don’t piss off both the left and the right

2 April, 1937 Letters to Véra by Vladimir Nabokov

what the heart does best is convince you it’s only purpose is to pump blood like a metal machine housed in your soft body. until something gets to you, then you forget there’s anything else it’s meant to do besides ache, and ache, and ache.