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I wrote a haiku about PMS.
Feel like death today.
I’ll try not to be bitchy.
No promises, though.
Newest Post - Fuck, Shit, and Other Words Not to Fear: Why I Believe in Profanity
“I’m a nineteen-year-old woman. Yet whenever I cuss in front of my mom, my coworkers, or even certain friends, I get weird looks. They correct me, shake their heads, or mention something about being “inappropriate.” It’s caused a flurry of thoughts on the way I use my language, and really made me question: how appropriate is swearing? Generally, bigger issues send me packing, especially on a public stage. But profanity is something I would like to explore.” Read more —>
In an interview, Mitt Romney stated he would “get rid of” Planned Parenthood as part of his campaign goals.
Tell Mitt Romney — and the rest of the 2012 political candidates — that women are watching, and we won’t let this go down without a fight.
Sign the petition here.
“I’m the hero of the story, I don’t need to be saved.”
ps-imadethis:
Everything’s coming up roses! Sweet smelling resin rosebuds have wooed us over in a major way. Prada boasted delicate floral details on everything from dresses to dangly earrings. Who What Wear and I have both been drooling over the Italian fashion house’s coveted Crystal rose earring and agreed we should plant our DIY seed and grow ourselves a pair, inspired by these lovlies. And yes, you should too!
To create: Use wire cutters to snip rhinestone trim into two equal pieces (this will determine how long you wish your earrings to hang). String fishing line through the flower bead and double knot around rhinestone trim and snip. For extra hold, you may want to dab clear nail polish on your knot. Apply a small amount of krazy glue to attach the applique to the back of the chain. Make sure the flower bead, rhinestone trim and applique are all facing the same direction. Wait until glue has dried, and adhere earring backs to the back of the flower bead with glue.
Like a Lolita
All the guys on this campus, they’re all old men, with their dark sunglasses and buttoned shirts. It’s been warm, and after a long winter of clouds and snow, I want to bask in the sun. My skirt is not too short, my shirt is not too tight, my shoes are not dirty, but I step lightly in this sunshine, feeling like a Lolita. Every time the wind picks up, my hair flies wildly and I scramble to hold my dress down. My dress, with its tiny pink and white flowers, flutters teasingly. It’s teasing me, and it’s teasing them.
I wonder, when I walk by, if they notice my muscular legs or the book in my hand. Do they notice I’m reading Vonnegut? Do they know I’ve made the Dean’s List every semester so far? Do they know anything of my intelligence or my wit or my strength?
Probably not, I answer myself. They only stand, waiting for my covered-up, sensibly-dressed body to involuntarily expose itself. I wonder if God laughs when he throws a gust of wind that pushes a woman’s skirt up too far. The questions keep building, questions of what these old men, these Humbert Humberts think. And I suppose they might never be fully answered. That’s the price of being feminine.
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