white boys who respond to criticism of racism and sexism by ominously saying that there are ‘bigger problems’ scare me. like what is this big secret problem and why won’t anyone tell me about it? are we going to be eaten alive by mutant sharks? are oranges secretly poisoning us? who knows. the white boys, apparently.
The literature: Donna Tartt’s THE SECRET HISTORY
The libation: I hesitate to recommend wine, dear reader, solely on the basis of the consequences of Henry & Co’s bacchanal, but with proper supervision, mulled wine IS the best possible pairing for this wintry novel. Insulate yourself from the neverending winter that took such a toll on Richard with a mug or three this evening, wrapped in a cozy blanket in a warm room (ideally one with an intact roof).
Pour a bottle of red wine (err on the fruity side) into a small saucepan along with 4oz bourbon, 5 star anise pods, 5 cinnamon sticks, 2 tsp sugar, and a good length of orange peel studded with cloves. Stir together over low heat until the sugar is dissolved and the wine is warm through (but don’t let it boil!). Strain and serve in your hand-warmingest mug, garnished with a cinnamon stick. Maybe keep a sober friend around, just to make sure you don’t disappear off into the woods.
Photo © GSO
"It’s very difficult to keep the line between the past and the present"
Big Edie | Little Edie
Albert and David Maysles | 1975
Albert and David Maysles | Cinematography
Vegan Pancake Round Up
I love this Dinogeddon Character Maker - http://www.dolldivine.com/dinogeddon-character-maker.php
merry valentines i hope ur smoother than aliens
these aliens just get lesser and lesser suave
A boy sprawled next to me on the bus, elbows out, knee pointing sharp into my thigh.
He frowned at me when I uncrossed my legs, unfolded my hands
and splayed out like boys are taught to: all big, loose limbs.
I made sure to jab him in the side with my pretty little sharp purse.
At first he opened his mouth like I expected him to, but instead of speaking up he sat there, quiet, and took it for the whole bus ride.
Like a girl.
Once, a boy said my anger was cute, and he laughed,
and I remember thinking that I should sit there and take it,
because it isn’t ladylike to cause a scene and girls aren’t supposed to raise their voices.
But then he laughed again and all I saw
was my pretty little sharp nails digging into his cheek
before drawing back and making a horribly unladylike fist.
(my teacher informed me later that there is no ladylike way of making a fist.)
When we were both in the principal’s office twenty minutes later
him with a bloody mouth and cheek, me with skinned knuckles,
I tried to explain in words that I didn’t have yet
that I was tired of having my emotions not taken seriously
just because I’m a girl.
Girls are taught: be small, so boys can be big.
Don’t take up any more space than absolutely necessary.
Be small and smooth with soft edges
and hold in the howling when they touch you and it hurts:
the sandpaper scrape of their body hair that we would be shamed for having,
the greedy hands that press too hard and too often take without asking permission.
Girls are taught: be quiet and unimposing and oh so small
when they heckle you with their big voices from the window of a car,
because it’s rude to scream curse words back at them, and they’d just laugh anyway.
We’re taught to pin on smiles for the boys who jeer at us on the street
who see us as convenient bodies instead of people.
Girls are taught: hush, be hairless and small and soft,
so we sit there and take it and hold in the howling,
pretend to be obedient lapdogs instead of the wolves we are.
We pin pretty little sharp smiles on our faces instead of opening our mouths,
because if we do we get accused of silly women emotions
blowing everything out of proportion with our PMS, we get
condescending pet names and not-so-discreet eyerolls.
Once, I got told I punched like a girl.
I told him, Good. I hope my pretty little sharp rings leave scars.
- 'My Perfume Doubles As Mace,' theappleppielifestyle. (via queenofeden)