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"Luckily I have an ace up my sleeve!" I smirk and roll my sleeve up. A confused asexual rolls out, blinking in the sudden light.
oppressors paint famous radicals as soft pacifists because they know quiet rebellion (read: quiet acceptance of the system) won’t get us anywhere. if you manage to convince someone that their hero was peaceful and kind even in the face of oppression, you manage to squash rebellion before it can rise up.
When Van Gogh was a young man in his early twenties, he was in London studying to be a clergyman. He had no thought of being an artist at all. he sat in his cheap little room writing a letter to his younger brother in Holland, whom he loved very much. He looked out his window at a watery twilight, a thin lampost, a star, and he said in his letter something like this: “it is so beautiful I must show you how it looks.” And then on his cheap ruled note paper, he made the most beautiful, tender, little drawing of it.
When I read this letter of Van Gogh’s it comforted me very much and seemed to throw a clear light on the whole road of Art. Before, I thought that to produce a work of painting or literature, you scowled and thought long and ponderously and weighed everything solemnly and learned everything that all artists had ever done aforetime, and what their influences and schools were, and you were extremely careful about *design* and *balance* and getting *interesting planes* into your painting, and avoided, with the most astringent severity, showing the faintest *acedemical* tendency, and were strictly modern. And so on and so on.
But the moment I read Van Gogh’s letter I knew what art was, and the creative impulse. It is a feeling of love and enthusiasm for something, and in a direct, simple, passionate and true way, you try to show this beauty in things to others, by drawing it.
And Van Gogh’s little drawing on the cheap note paper was a work of art because he loved the sky and the frail lamppost against it so seriously that he made the drawing with the most exquisite conscientiousness and care."
You don’t have only one soul-mate.
If you did,
you would have married your best friend
three years ago.
She knows you
better than her right hand,
and she’ll listen to you cry
from eight states away.
You don’t have only one soul-mate,
because people wake up different parts of you—
parts you never even knew existed.
The boy when you were 15
taught you what it felt like
to get caught kissing in a closet
at the party you never should have been at
in the first place,
without his lips ever touching yours.
When you were 18,
a boy let you know what it’s like
to have your heart lodged in your throat,
because he’s moving 2,000 miles away,
And he won’t tell you when he’ll be back.
You wait until you’re 22
to get attached again,
and this time you feel it in every inch.
It’s as if you got struck by lightning—
the Lichtenberg figure crawls
up your arms and across your back,
like his hands on your skin
while you laid in bed together,
and you thought the thump of your heart
was in time with his.
You don’t have only one soul-mate;
Instead, you have soul-mates,
because your heart is huge
and you have the room.
if u can’t handle me at my hardcore feminist then u can’t have me at literally any other time bc that’s all i am 24/7
Saggy tits. Who would spend money on that lol
What? My boobs are great.
See? Perfectly fine.
I mean, yeah, they jiggle and wobble and don’t sit high up on my chest. But that’s normal.
Like what do you think I should do about it? I mean
My boobs just do normal boob things. They’re A-okay normal healthy boobs.
Moral: Boobs are really diverse. Do your boobs sag? Normal. Do they have hair? Normal. Do they have stretch marks? Normal. Do you get pimples on them? Normal. Are they different sizes? Normal. Big nipples? Normal. Puffy dark areola? Normal. Not facing dead ahead? Normal. Small? Normal. Big? Normal. Normal Normal Normal.
And they’re your boobs. If you can change any of those things and you want to, go ahead!
But don’t let people tell you that your breasts are wrong just because they’re affected by gravity.
You’re fine. They’re fine.
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