“ Writing can teach us the dignity of speaking the truth, and it spreads out from the page into all of our life, and it should. Otherwise, there is too much of a schism between who we are as writers…
Whiskeydaisy on her truths. Some wise and good things there, I think. (Mentions of abuse but also of hope and compassion).
Also, if you like pretty and interesting and nifty things and don’t like drama or arguing or shaming, I cannot recommend any blog more than hers.
Whiskey is my dearest friend and I can credit her with helping me work on my compassion - it’s hard for me because I am not naturally a very wonderful person - but she gets credit for much of the success I have had with trying to be kind and joyful.
Beautiful, beautiful truths:
I have given nobody permission to speak for me.
I believe that people have the right to tell their own truths.
I believe it’s more important to listen than it is to preach.
I believe that real people are always more important than fictional characters.
I believe in kindness and in making mistakes, because I grow from learning how to do better.
I believe in the benefit of the doubt.
I believe in looking for my commonalities with others rather than hunting for the ways in which I’m different.
I believe in public praise and private suggestion rather than public shame and private agreement.
imagine bucky and steve taking shots of like 100 proof vodka and trying to get DRUNK and steve is totally unaffected but after the 20th shot or something bucky is drunk as fuck and he looks at steve really seriously (while swaying slightly in his chair) and steve is kind of…
so my mum told me that as a kid she would peel an apple and throw the peel over her shoulder, and the peel would take the shape of the first letter of her future spouse. naturally, i decided to do it and
“I met my wife at a Star Trek convention. She was study abroad from France and spoke little English, and I didn’t know a lick of French. So, for the first few months of our relationship, we communicated by speaking Klingon.”—
“The Winter Soldier’s facial expressions are almost childlike here, and the way he passively accepts that mouth guard tells you everything you need to know. He could probably kill everyone in the room within seconds, but instead he just lies back and lets them torture his brain to mush for the hundredth time. Before now he seemed like such an intimidating figure, but this scene shows the Winter Soldier what he really is: a little kid or a blank slate into which people insert their own goals and missions, fully-formed. “But I knew him,” he says in miserable confusion, sure that he recognises Steve’s face from somewhere. But Pierce, the voice of God, refuses to explain any further.”—
they put you on a pedestal but get angry when you do not
allow them a ladder. they assure you that your mother bore you from another planet but are resentful when you do not pay their air fair. ask you to be naturally beautiful but feel outrage when you do not shave the hair that grows on your legs like theirs, your thighs like theirs, like your skin could be human like theirs. but how could it be human like theirs? when you bleed for seven days and still have enough life left in you to insult them with a single syllable. “no.”
this blood that trickles down past knobby knees and spills across an oiled floor, leaving behind bare footprints caked in red. it would be nice to pretend that your ability to create something as amazing as fingernails with only your womb wasn’t treated like a reason to be scrubbed raw, but you’ve washed your hands a thousand times because you’ve learned that the illusion of cleanliness, of smooth skin, of inhuman characteristics that make up the word “girl” is the closest you will ever get to being treated like an actual person. and so you clean under your fingernails and imagine the things you could create if your womb filled with gasoline instead of blood, the things you would burn down with your monthly miracle. like the pedestals and the expectations and all the sharp razors edged in rust.
and soon enough the tips of your fingers are blistering pink and the water runs tepid and your mother reminds you to run to the convenience store. she wants that box of tampons you forgot about while you were despairing over the insignificance of your daily existence. and so you go to the store and hits you one more time that as the sizes go up, so does your disgust factor. these tiny white cotton cylinders that made you so embarrassed to buy at the age of twelve, and how innocent they seem in their plastic wrappings and their blue boxes. how amazing that something so delicate could hold so much weight. the price tags says $10.95. you decide the price is too much for something that makes you feel so pathetic but you buy them anyway.
”—i offered to tie the strings of my tampons together but apparently that wasn’t the same as “rapunzel, rapunzel, let down your hair.” // S.M. (via nobbiedanger)