"I’m not okay."

For the longest time, this was the anthem in my head. These were the words I longed to tell everyone. Maybe secretly hoping someone, somewhere, somehow, would relieve me of my misery.

There were some whom I’d let in on this anthem. Nonchalance, boredom, reactions that I have imposed on them, made me keep it a secret.

"I’m not fucking okay"

That is okay. I will pretend. I am good at pretending. I have honed my craft. People want to see what they want to see.

Inside, I was slowly dying. I gave up hope of ever seeing sunlight. Doomed to deary darkness with fellow bottomfeeders.

I am not sure what possessed me or gave me courage to break the shackles. It wasn’t the only thing that was sucking me dry, but it was then the main thing.

So I walked away, but still holding onto a lie. No-one cares anyway. They just was drama and goss, neither of which I possess.

Weeks passed and I am surprisingly lighter. Not drastically changed for the better, but just enough to keep me going.

We have an amazing ability to heal. Just maybe, some day…

I might be okay.





The thing about this is that sculptures like these in art history were for the male gaze. Photoshop a phone to it and suddenly she’s seen as vain and conceited. That’s why I’m 100% for selfie culture because apparently men can gawk at women but when we realize how beautiful we are we’re suddenly full of ourselves…


Girls don’t let anyone tell you loving yourself is vanity.

“You painted a naked woman because you enjoyed looking at her, put a mirror in her hand and you called the painting “Vanity,” thus morally condemning the woman whose nakedness you had depicted for you own pleasure.” ― John Berger, Ways of Seeing

(Source: nevver, via thebattleatsea)

“Do what you love” disguises the fact that being able to choose a career primarily for personal reward is a privilege, a sign of socioeconomic class. Even if a self-employed graphic designer had parents who could pay for art school and co-sign a lease for a slick Brooklyn apartment, she can bestow DWYL as career advice upon those covetous of her success.

If we believe that working as a Silicon Valley entrepreneur or a museum publicist or a think-tank acolyte is essential to being true to ourselves, what do we believe about the inner lives and hopes of those who clean hotel rooms and stock shelves at big-box stores? The answer is: nothing.

Do what you love, love what you do: An omnipresent mantra that’s bad for work and workers. 

other quotes from the article i really like:

"According to this way of thinking, labor is not something one does for compensation but is an act of love. If profit doesn’t happen to follow, presumably it is because the worker’s passion and determination were insufficient. Its real achievement is making workers believe their labor serves the self and not the marketplace."

"Do what you love and you’ll never work a day in your life! Before succumbing to the intoxicating warmth of that promise, it’s critical to ask, “Who, exactly, benefits from making work feel like nonwork?” “Why should workers feel as if they aren’t working when they are?” In masking the very exploitative mechanisms of labor that it fuels, DWYL is, in fact, the most perfect ideological tool of capitalism. If we acknowledged all of our work as work, we could set appropriate limits for it, demanding fair compensation and humane schedules that allow for family and leisure time."

(via mercy-misrule)

(Source: bakcwadrs, via yesdarlingido)




Josh Thomas talks about male suicide

I wonder how feminists will react to this

Probably ignore it then go back to making male tears mugs and gifs 

Actually this is a very common idea among feminists

It’s something feminists have been talking about for years it’s called toxic masculinity and it’s one of the common threads among the topic of ‘Patriarchy hurts men too’. If fact the first time I read about toxic masculinity was on a feminist blog.

If you actually read things feminists talk about instead of straw manning them you might know this but OH WELL

(via thechristmaspatch)