fuzzysocksandtacobell

What if
all women were bigger and stronger than you
and thought they were smarter

What if
women were the ones who started wars

What if
too many of your friends had been raped by women wielding giant dildos
and no K-Y Jelly

What if
the state trooper
who pulled you over on the New Jersey Turnpike
was a woman
and carried a gun

What if
the ability to menstruate
was the prerequisite for most high-paying jobs

What if
your attractiveness to women depended
on the size of your penis

What if
every time women saw you
they’d hoot and make jerking motions with their hands

What if
women were always making jokes
about how ugly penises are
and how bad sperm tastes

What if
you had to explain what’s wrong with your car
to big sweaty women with greasy hands
who stared at your crotch
in a garage where you are surrounded
by posters of naked men with hard-ons

What if
men’s magazines featured cover photos
of 14-year-old boys
with socks
tucked into the front of their jeans
and articles like:
“How to tell if your wife is unfaithful”
or
“What your doctor won’t tell you about your prostate”
or
“The truth about impotence”

What if
the doctor who examined your prostate
was a woman
and called you “Honey”

What if
you had to inhale your boss’s stale cigar breath
as she insisted that sleeping with her
was part of the job

What if
you couldn’t get away because
the company dress code required
you wear shoes
designed to keep you from running

And what if
after all that
women still wanted you
to love them.

For the Men Who Still Don’t Get It, written 20 years ago by Carol Diehl. 

She wrote a post about the history of this poem that is worth reading.

(via archangvl)

inkskinned

HOW TO GET OVER A BOY
in six simple steps:

i. remind yourself of every time he kissed you
when you were too sad for it. think of how
you tried to explain the hollowness you could hear
inside of your limbs but he just asked if that meant
no more sex. remind yourself of every time you
went dark for no reason but he still couldn’t tell
you were suffering. remind yourself of the times you
swallowed down your darkness just because you didn’t
want to bother him.

ii. write your name out with his last name attached. realize
you would have given up who you are for him. realize it
takes you away from yourself. realize your initials don’t
look right anymore. realize that in the end, you kept who you are.
realize you didn’t give him everything. you don’t have
to start over from nothing. write out your relationship
in red pen. circle the problems. highlight them. write
bad poetry and call your blog something dramatic and enigmatic
like “red blood, black ink,” maybe you’ll find out that what you
have to say people want to read maybe you’ll find better support
for your art than he ever gave maybe you’ll find that
creation makes you happy in some small way. write him
out of your veins.

iii. cry, drink whiskey, cry, eat ice cream. i know your insides
feel ugly, but trust me, dress nicely. wear thigh highs out to get
coffee, wink at truck drivers, get nasty. paint your lips red.
wear your hair out of your face. feel beautiful for
four minutes. at the five minute mark, you can go back home
and lay down until your heart stops hurting. don’t cry, you’ve got
on good makeup. drink milk, your liver is going to thank you.
call your mom. go shopping. pick out a whole new wardrobe
he’s never seen. get something in every colour. i recommend
marshall’s, they have lacy bras for like a dollar. buy eight. drink
vodka. go out and party. show off your g-string. feel
wanted again.

iv. keep your eyes closed when you are trying to sleep. do not reach for him. get a dog or a cat or a lizard if you can’t be alone. find out that animals love with less conditions and more honesty.
count stars. count cars. count raindrops. replay bioshock, go out
and buy it if you don’t have it. replay portal, it’s phenomenal and
you know it. replay the things you said and realize you
really aren’t the one to blame for all of this. replay his last
good voicemail and then erase it. take a deep breath and select every text. delete all of them. do not read them first, you will
feel each word like knives. if you do make the mistake
of reliving what he said, try reading it aloud in a mocking
tone. i find childish mimicry is often quite soothing. when
he posts things on facebook, close your eyes, close the tab,
close the laptop. go for a walk even though it’s too cold. maybe
get a second cat. there’s always room for a second cat.

v. whenever you are sad, wash your hands. my mother says
being clean is the most powerful pick-me-up in the whole
universe. go shower until your fingertips wrinkle up.
get new sheets with a higher thread count than you really need. renovate your apartment, it will make you feel like your insides are shifting around too. renovate you. cut off your hair, dye it, get a tattoo, pierce your ears or septum or where the sun don’t shine. go punk rock for however long you want to be punk rock, realize you’re not quite confrontational enough for a mosh pit but you like their music, go indie, go k-pop, go crazy. why the fuck not. whenever you are sad, find ten new songs. whenever you are sad, text a friend and ask how they’re doing.
whenever you see a couple in public, do
not think of him. think of mopping. wash your insides. be clean,
but totally have sex in a public restroom. whenever you are sad,
paint your nails and then take a shower. watch the colour flake
off, sigh, repaint them. change your outfit. whenever you are
sad, call your mother or your sister or someone else you love.
if you have no one, call my mother, she’s super nice but she’ll
totally make you clean the house until you feel better although to
be honest, it will actually make you feel better.

vi. breathe. breathe. breathe. you’ll get there eventually.

"How to get over him.” /// r.i.d | inkskinned (via inkskinned)
fuzzysocksandtacobell

blendablelion:

harroldstyle:

IM SO PISSED OFF THAT WE DONT HAVE BALLS ANY MORE
I WANT TO WEAR A HUGE DRESS AND BE COURTED AND DANCE AROUND AND HAVE MY GOWN SWEEP THE FLOOR AND BE ALL ELEGANT AND GRACEFUL WITH GLOVES AND SHIT

BUT NO WE HAVE DUMB HOUSE PARTIES WITH CHEAP BEER AND RED CUPS AND HORNY TEENAGE BOYS WHO PUT THEIR HANDS UP MY SHIRT 

for a second there i thought you were talking about testicles omg

fourfinick

fourfinick:

My head snaps around at the hiss, but it takes awhile to believe he’s real. How could he have gotten here? I take in the claw marks from some wild animal, the back paw he holds slightly above the ground, the prominent bones in his face. He’s come on foot, then, all the way from 13. Maybe they kicked him out or maybe he just bones in his face. He’s come on foot, then, all the way from 13. Maybe they kicked him out or maybe he just couldn’t stand it there without her, so he came looking.

"It was the waste of a trip. She’s not here," I tell him. Buttercup hisses again. "She’s not here. You can hiss all you like. You won’t find Prim." At her name, he perks up. Raises his flattened ears. Begins to meow hopefully.

"Get out!" He dodges the pillow I throw at him. "Go away! There’s nothing left for you here!" I start to shake, furious with him. "She’s not coming back! She’s never ever coming back here again!" I grab another pillow and get to my feet to improve my aim. Out of nowhere, the tears begin to pour down my cheeks.

"She’s dead." I clutch my middle to dull the pain. Sink down on my heels, rocking the pillow, crying. "She’s dead, you stupid cat. She’s dead."