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My name's Meghan, and I'm nineteen. I like feminism, Sofia Coppola, apples, and John Lennon's nose. When I grow up I want to be Winona Ryder and/or David Foster Wallace. I have a bad personality. I'm working on it?

A bad metaphor for competitive friends/competitive self/jealousy/a lot of other ghastly gooey black feelings that only make life poorer

This doesn’t have to be an arms race. One of us is not the U.S., and other is not Russia or China or India or whomever the competitor of the week is.

You know, maybe I’m just Sweden. I barely have a military. I am not worse than you if you still live as if you’re Russia. I’m not like you because I don’t want to be like you. Not because I can’t be, because I don’t have the will power or skill. It’s just not want I want. I want to be a Nordic state, boring and happy and going through my life without a ton of forethought. I don’t have to force myself to be a fore thinker like you if that is not what I am. In fact, I shouldn’t. It’s a disservice to me and the way I process and understand the world and it’s also a disservice to you.

2:56 am

2:46 am  5,447 notes

“I’ve got meanness in me. And some of you girls have meanness in you, too. And it’s not necessarily something I know we’re very proud of. Well, sometimes I’m not. When I’m vvvvv-vicious. And that usually happens because, ohh god, who knows why. But it’s funny when it happens and you just become one of these like um… You know those comic books? Sven the Berserker. Well, it’d be nice if I uh… had a better understanding of it. And I think those of you that have those crazy tempers know what I’m talking about. Now some of you are at the other end of those crazy tempers, which isn’t that fun, either, is it? Or maybe it is, isn’t it, you little mmm, mmm, mmm, you little gimp, you! [snorts like a pig] But um, the thing is, this girl I knew once named Marianne, who was the absolutely, you know, coolest. She was totally cool. And yet she didn’t have this meanness in her. She had so many other things in her. You know, nanana, but meanness wasn’t one of them. So when I was hanging around her, I didn’t need to have this meanness. Basically when my mother said, “Hey, um, oh my god, Marianne killed herself,” the only thing I could think of was, “Fuck you, mom.” Because… in truth, nobody was really the same after Marianne killed herself.”

— Tori Amos, 8 June 1996 concert, Milwaukee, Wisconsin

(Source: torispokenword)

4:09 am  35 notes


Before Sunrise/Sunset/Midnight

2:39 am  1,203 notes

Something I’ve been thinking about:

Men are always remembered for what they did

Women for what they didn’t do

She never thought of herself, she worked all day, she made sure everyone was happy and comfortable, she sacrificed herself for her family

versus

He did this this and this and had her loving support

But I do want to think, especially of myself. I don’t want to be remembered for sacrifice I want to be remembered for things I did

Not some abstract concept of what makes a good person

2:37 am  6 notes

He says I’m too volatile for him. Part of me takes that as a compliment, while the other part just wants to cry.

2:45 am  1 note

VAGINA MOTHERFUCKER!!

2:31 am  10,176 notes

This is how I lie:
(all the heavy-lifting takes place in the space of second)

First, I remember to breathe. I think of the secret pure world as I know it;
Myself, out of breath in clingy athletic clothes six miles past the reservoir
Berry blood sliding down my left thigh and it is dusk and
My soul’s moss is wild and ragged and coarse
And I breathe again, a vivid mountain thought in my lungs
"Chest cogestion relief advertisement"

Then I think of him, the vampire
And the way he fingered my floral headband in his palm as we fucked
Radiant and dull; whichever one is beautiful

And I think of my trust for him, how I trust him in that extraordinary way you trust those who have clutched your breasts and stroked your nipples—
Your luminescent former lovers, your cold-handed pediatrician, your quiet, diligent mother.

I let that trust well up inside of me and drain itself out through my vagina until I am a withered, thirsty garden of a person whose eyes glint like you, and I let the lie glide out and it is even smoother than the menstrual blood and I betray no guilty cramps, no flash of a look of pain, no sweet sweat leakage through the holes of my cable-knit sweater

I know how to lie, I know how to lie so well and the way I lie to him is even more special because I simply forget there is truth. Not the truth specific to situation, but the concept altogether.

I abandon it out on the reservoir because I’ve learned the only way to live is to discard what scares you.

And the trick is to remember that,
But also not to.

5:39 pm  4 notes

“I have this idea that I don’t look like anything—everyone else looks very specific and I just kind of look like whatever. It’s not true. It’s not true! There’s a specific way that you look, and your eyes are a particular color, and your legs are some weird way or whatever, and you have to work with that. My feet are a different size than I thought they were for years, which taught me a bit about self-deception. A friend of mine was saying the other day, ‘I’ve just realized at age 32 that I’ve always been getting my shoes the wrong size.’ I was like, ‘How could you not tell?’ and he said, ‘Well, I just thought it was normal for my shoes to be slightly uncomfortable.’ I’ve had that with so many things… .

The other thing is, just as I think I have no appearance, I think I have no personality—I think that I’m totally malleable. Whatever I say is just an expression of what I feel like at a particular moment, whereas when other people say things it’s a representation of some deeply held belief essential to their identity, a belief they’ve had for a really long time and feel really confident and stable about.”

— Elif Batuman, No Regrets (n + 1, 2013)

(Source: emmaylor, via leopoldgursky)

2:20 am  67 notes

12:15 am  8,504 notes

Somewhere inside me is a merciful, forgiving person. Somewhere there is a girl who tries to understand what people are going through, who accepts that people do evil things and that desperation leads them to darker places than they ever imagined. I swear she exists, and she hurts for the repentant boy I see in front of me.

But if I saw her, I wouldn’t recognize her.

— Veronica Roth, Divergent

12:11 am  2 notes

I don’t write enough
I don’t do anything enough or all the way, anymore

12:08 am  1 note

A letter to my anger

I wish I didn’t burn like this
I wish I didn’t yell like this
I wish every word that boy says was not a punch to my solar plexus

I wish that I could sit quietly like I used to
When I stayed in the art room for recess
And drew as vibrantly as I thought I could be
Angry colors swirling because even then I felt it

Even then, even when I didn’t speak,
Even when I was so afraid of someone recognizing my desire for change
That I did not switch my hairstyle for an entire year

Even when I felt useless
When I felt alone
When I felt like an accomplice to the crime of the things my father would say
And do
Because I knew that if I was older and stronger I would say and do those things too

 But I didn’t, then.
I didn’t yell or blink bloodily after smashing my head on the garage floor
I didn’t threaten to drive off the docks into the oceans at the beach

But I felt it, I felt that drive
I felt that endless rage
And I didn’t know why.

So I was quiet.
So quiet that no one would know that they would mistake me for one of the good girls without unholy demons inside eating her out, scratching their way through her itchy, bleeding vagina

And I never spoke about that, either
I mean I never spoke about anything

But it was there
The potential, I suppose

And I don’t know if it was inherited, or when, or what
But I know that sometimes I want to rip out the throats of boys with my teeth
And I wish I didn’t

And I wish I didn’t fantasize about decapitating people who say things to me that are purposefully incendiary but in some deep, dark corner of my mind I do and I wish I didn’t

But here is the thing you need to understand
The violence isn’t real; it’s just a stand-in
Another real-life metaphor some physical representation or image
of it.

My anger.

I am not like most other girls.
You probably couldn’t make me cry.
There is something much more toxic inside my blood
Something that burns rather than flows
And the thing is
Our body can release its tears but not its fire

And I think I’m finally understanding why and who the people are that spontaneously combust

Because carrying all this muchness and passion inside of me is enough to set anything and anyone off

And it does
And it will
And it always has, for me

And that’s just part of who I  am
And fuck my desire to change.

I am angry for the right reasons.

There are reasons, there are reasons
To be this mad.

12:01 am  6 notes

"oh yes i have known hurt"

12:23 am  1 note

"Ice Water" by Cat Power

(Source: pretty-like-a-whip)

11:12 pm  16 notes

s.t.