• sherlockpulse:

    What do you call a woman who has a lot of sex and/or dresses to show off parts of her body and/or flirts with a looooot of men??

    Her name.

  • What it’s like to be a girl
    (for those who don’t know)
    Periods, mood swings, makeup, chick flicks, insecurity,
    pink, flowers perhaps those come
    to mind when you hear the word
    girl. But it’s also being told
    that the clothes you wear are too short, the way you act or the amount of alcohol
    you’ve had is the reason why it happened. It’s being told to learn how to defend yourself
    rather than teaching others not to
    grope you. It’s that don’t get raped is taught versus don’t rape. It’s
    putting the blame on yourself when
    it’s not your fault. It’s receiving pepper spray as a “gift” rather
    than perfume.
    It’s being told to take cat calls as compliments. It’s being seen as a sexual object with no right to having an opinion without being a “bitch”. It’s others saying “you won’t
    find a husband if you do or don’t do this. It’s learning to say no politely, but also learning to say fuck
    off when it’s necessary. It’s being seen as a sister, a wife, a mom, or a daughter instead of an independent
    individual. Ultimately
    it’s finding your voice or forever
    being the damsel
    in
    distress. - me, a girl (via sleepinqbye)
    retrouvalle:

love or hate john green, this is so fucking important.
  • lialoves:

    In actual fact, the lines are very clear. You must assume that I DON’T “want it” unless I:

    1. Tell you I want it
    2. Am sober enough to make that decision
    3. do not feel pressured to “want it”
    5. have not been forced to “want it”

    Thanks.

  • I hate how the phrase ‘have some self respect’ is used to shame women who are comfortable with their sex lives. ‘Have some self respect’? I do respect myself, that’s why I wanna have a fucking orgasm tonight, thank you very much. - (via endslutshaming)

    I make playlists of the same five songs so I have something to drown in besides my thoughts. I walk to a bar in my neighborhood and sit on the bench outside, tipsy and smoking a cigarette at 7 p.m. as I watch the employees set up for the night. Two hours later, I climb into bed and do not leave it for three days.

    When a friend offers to come to the counselor with me, I tell her I have not yet figured out how to communicate the black water inside of me without frothy waves of it spilling out. When my ex-boyfriend texts me, ‘It took them finding me hanging a noose in the basement to snap me out of it,’ I stop looking both ways before I cross the street. I thirstily lap up crash statistics and walk into bars sober, looking for the drunkest boy to drive me home. When I go home, I punch my mistakes into my cheek and tell my co-workers I slipped on the ice when they ask why I can only open my jaw halfway.

    When another friend mentions the purple bags beneath my eyes I say, ‘I’m fine. I’m just tired.’ When a teacher emails me asking why I haven’t been to class in two weeks I type, ‘None of the lecture material can teach me how to climb out of a black hole,’ then erase it and write: ‘Personal issues.’ When my boyfriend asks where I was the night before, I do not tell him about sitting in the middle of the street, waiting. I smile and say, ‘Oh, I was just downstairs doing homework.’ When my mom calls to check in on me, I burst into tears.

    It is months before I take a crack at my own insides with a hammer. I smash this, I smash that. My lungs collapse, my ribs shatter. My heart goes up in flames. When I am through, I lie beaten up on the kitchen floor, but take satisfaction in explaining to the doctor, ‘It was self-defense. I needed to tear myself apart to pick myself up again.’

    - I’m Fine, I’m Just Tired | Lora Mathis  (via soggypoetry)

    I am more than: my relationship status. My job. My age. My sexuality. My degree or lack of. My last name. My appearance. My gender. My sex. My short comings.

    I am: rusted thoughts. A bloody tongue. Every city I have breathed in. Every bedroom I have loved in. Piles of words. Twisted metaphors. My thoughts. My actions. My dreams.

    And I am not looking to be loved. I am looking to be seen.

    - I Am Not | Lora Mathis (via lora-mathis)
    I am still afraid of the dark because sometimes I can see the silhouette of your hand finding its way through the black to touch my shaking skin
    my shell quivering in fear that this time you won’t stop even if you hear me crying.
    Then as I lay in bed and watch the headlights of passing cars caress my ceiling, I am reminded of all the times you didn’t stop.
    When “please” and “no” and “stop” were just noise getting in the way of what you wanted from me.
    Oh no, but it wasn’t your fault.
    You were just a boy trying to understand the meaning behind your masculine stirrings.
    You were trying to put two and two together.
    One desire and one demand equals two hands pinning me down and a hundred tears falling in the grass disguised as morning dew.
    And one scream and one rejection equals one shove off the bed and one reminder that I am just a “hole to put it in.”
    I took your insults for death threats and the slamming of doors as declarations of war.
    I was overreacting, right?
    Because who else but a ‘cry baby’ would be too terrified to sleep next to someone who didn’t understand the meaning of “no”?
    And who else but an ‘attention-seeker’ would cut her wrists just to see if she still had control over her own pain?
    And who else but a ‘stupid bitch’ would feel unsafe in the arms of the boy who told her she was too difficult to really love?
    I flinch as I pass any stranger in the stairwell
    I shake as I turn any sharp corner
    or trip over my own feet.
    I shudder when faces get too close to mine.
    Nothing has been the same since you came inside and robbed my home of everything that made it my own.
    You thief.
    You scum.
    You pathetic excuse of a human.
    How dare you ruin the most beautiful human experience with your selfish touch
    and how dare you re-enter my home to remind me of the venom you spat on me all those years ago.
    You are a sad song I forgot existed until it’s tune crept into my eardrums.
    Bouncing off of the walls of my home and lingering for far too long,
    you are a foul stench I cannot air out.
    I am still afraid of love because sometimes I can still hear your childlike voice spilling demons, burning my insides, scorching my sense of self.
    I’ve changed the locks.
    I’ve repainted the place.
    I’ve never been more myself.
    Someone you never knew.
    So the next time you want to sneak through the window and take a few more things from me,
    I hope you walk right past me without even noticing.
    A lost burglar.
    With nowhere else to go but back to their shadows.
    Silent and empty-handed. - “I Almost Burned Myself to the Ground but I Decided to Repaint Instead” by Mindy Paul (via clumsy-catharsis)

    I hate reading this because I hate that Mindy went through this, but it’s important.  (via lora-mathis)
    Some days
    I don’t know
    who I am,
    what I’m doing,
    or where I want to be,
    but I know I want you
    here, figuring things out
    next to me. - We Could Make Being Young and Confused Romantic | Lora Mathis (via lora-mathis)
    People are just as wonderful as sunsets if you let them be. When I look at a sunset, I don’t find myself saying, “Soften the orange a bit on the right hand corner.” I don’t try to control a sunset. I watch with awe as it unfolds. -

    Carl R. Rogers 

    Everything you love is here

    (via lovequotesrus)

    (Source: oofpoetry)