@whocourtsanymore / whocourtsanymore.tumblr.com
You're lucky you have the free time and energy for that stuff. Seriously. Now please keep it quietish please because some grownups have shit to sleep for/take uneventful breaks for/deal with. We don't care about what you find because you're 18+. Being generous with the age. I'm so old and curmudgeony. Sorry. But aint nobody got time for that.
Why is “Don’t be an asshole” so difficult to understand? Simplest thing in the world, yet you’d think it was goddamn quantum mechanics the way so many people can’t seem to wrap their brain around it.
“Don’t be an asshole.”
“But I’m a woman, and - ”
“And? So am I. That doesn’t make either of us better than any other human beings. Don’t be an asshole.”
“I’ve been picked on my entire life for being ____ -”
“So? Did you enjoy it somehow? No? You think you’re the only person that ever got picked on? Be better than that. Don’t take out what happened to you on others that had nothing to do with it. Don’t be an asshole.”
“But two years ago, someone - ”
“Is being an asshole going to change the past?”
“Well, no…”
“Then don’t be an asshole.”
“But -”
“I -”
“But what about -”
“…”
I feel that this is relevant to my blog.
#otp
Too cute
i can’t handle this video like he looks so nervous about being a father but he’s trying his best and being so gentle with the little baby i’m lsjflsjflsjgahga
A few months ago, you said I looked “objectively really hot, actually, you’re definitely the hot one of us.” I laughed and thanked you because we have the kind of relationship that allows for that kind of banter. Your phrasing amused me. I took a little bow.
You asked me why girls get upset when guys comment on their bodies, and wondered why my reaction to you was different than, say, a girl’s reaction to a random guy on the street. Why I was mildly flattered, instead of scared or angry. You honestly didn’t understand, and wanted to know.
I tried explaining, but I think I left you more confused than I found you.
I have a better explanation now.
The first time I can remember a guy staring at my boobs, I was in eighth grade. I didn’t even notice; I was still a kid and was largely oblivious to such things. My dad, however,didnotice, and started glaring at the twentysomething stranger ogling his thirteen-year-old.
I couldmaybehave passed for fifteen back then. There was no way anyone would have mistaken me for an adult. That wasn’t the issue, though. To that guy, it wasn’t about who I was or how old I was. I was a set of boobs to him, not a person, certainly not a child.
My experience is pretty common. Girls start getting unwanted attention at a young age, and it happens for the rest of our lives. Men yell things at us on the street and invade our personal space on the bus or trolley when there are plenty of other seats. They try to look up our skirts when we sit down. They don’t listen when we try to rebuff them. We see reports of yet another girl raped on her way home last weekend, another woman whose body was found in a ditch. We’re told not to go out alone at night, to take someone with us even if we’re only driving to the store or the library or the gas station. We’re told to carry our keys like weapons, to park in the lot instead of the structure because it’s better to get rained on than raped and murdered. We’re told not to walk alone even during the day. We’re told close friends might rape us if they’ve had a bit to drink because they’re men, that it’s wrong, but it happens sometimes and we should be on our guard.
Imagine hearing that from the age of five. Imagine being told from childhood that men are more likely to hurt you than women are. Imagine knowing that, though you might be smart and well-trained, men will almost always be bigger and stronger than you, and you wouldn’t be able to beat most of them in a full-on fight. I can best my brother at arm-wrestling, yeah, but that doesn’t have many practical applications.
Now imagine that one of the people you’ve been taught to regard as a threat to your body says he wants your body. If he really does, you’ll have a hard time stopping him, and people will treat you as an object lesson for others, like you’d done something wrong for “letting” him hurt you. They’ll ask why you didn’t do more to protect yourself, why you wore that dress, or walked into the parking lot at that time, or talked to that person. Why you went out after dark or flirted with someone at a party.
I’m not saying all men are awful. I’m saying that decent men should be the norm, but there are a lot of men who aren’t, and who make us feel unsafe in our normal lives. We can’t tell the difference between decent people and potential rapists by looking.
What you said to me was meant as a compliment, and I took it as such. That’s because I’ve known you since we were kids, and I know you didn’t mean any harm. We have the kind of relationship where words like yours are appropriate, and you’ve never strayed outside the bounds of what’s okay. I don’t have that kind of relationship with the car full of drunken guys I walked past on the way home from D&D last weekend.
Girls get upset when guys comment on their bodies because we’re being treated like sources of pleasure, not people. We get angry because we can’t go about our business without having to worry about sexual predation. We get scared because, when it comes down to it, if a guy tried to act on his shouts of “Hey baby, nice tits, keep it up” we probably wouldn’t be able to stop him, and some would blame us.
Girls get upset because we’d much rather be seen as people, not just bodies.
Girls get upset because we’d much rather be seen as people, not just bodies.
Yes. And it’s not even just fear. It’s also all the other permutations of that.
“You’re really hot”: Eh, you’re complimenting something I have no control over. It’s like “You’re blonde!” Yes, indeed, my genes sure do code out to “blonde.”
Which is why compliments like, “whoa, that dress looks great on you!” or “you look especially nice today!” or “damn, girl, those BOOTS!” read very differently–and much more pleasantly–to me.
Women are expected to put a lot of work into how we look. We’re expected to have good taste in clothes, to know what looks good on us, to be able to put together an outfit.
Compliments that acknowledge that–that aren’t comments on my body, but comments on my choice of how to present myself–generally don’t come off as creepy (and are usually the sort of compliments I get from other women), while compliments on my body, which I have no control over, do.
Basically what it boils down to is “Your body size and shape make me want to fuck you” isn’t the compliment men think it is.
PRIDE AND PREJUDICE WAS A FEMINIST STORY LONG BEFORE ELIZABETH BENNET EVER HAD TO KILL ZOMBIES.
The idea of a single woman with no fortune, who is boss enough to reject not one, but TWO marriage proposals - even though they would both greatly increase the ease of her life by either marrying the heir to her family estate or marrying one of the richest men in England - just because SHE DOESN’T WANT TO, who is brave enough to be snarky and cheeky and takes no shit from people who is so far above her social standing just because they are rude to her and her family, who is adamant that the only person she will marry will be for love, THIS is a feminist story.
STOP ACTING LIKE GIVING HER A SWORD SUDDENLY MAKES HER A FEMINIST ICON. She’d held that title in her dainty glove for over 200 years.
THANK YOU FOR THIS!
That’s what so many people will never understand. They’ll always think you have to put a weapon into a woman’s hand to make her a “strong character” or a “feminist icon” or something like that.
It makes me sad.
Hannah Bower has been missing as of 1 PM today Jan 26. She was last known to have left work (Rocket Fizz at 14613 Ventura Blvd, Sherman Oaks) in her Green 2012 Toyota Prius (VIN JTDKN3DU6C1589353 visible on driver’s side dashboard) to make a deposit at a bank about a block away. She was supposed to return to work but never did. She is 5'3", 125 lbs, has long brown hair and wears glasses. She has no piercings but does have a tattoo (pictured) on the back of her left thigh. She lives in Northridge, Los Angeles.
Please contact the following people with any useful information: Officer Nix: (818) 374-9500 Rieko (Mom): (818) 389-0026 John (Dad): (818) 517-5737 Victor Alava: (818) 510-1641
We’re asking everyone to please share this post anywhere you can, especially if you live in the Sherman Oaks or Northridge areas or anywhere near Los Angeles. Thank you
Good lord, what a great insight on Rey.
(via inapprehension)
Seriously, I have heard so many variants, from women who’ve seen it, of “IS THIS WHAT IT WAS LIKE TO BE A TEENAGE BOY IN THE 1980s!?!?”
(via jessicalprice)
Someone brought up the topic of how could Rey have become so powerful so suddenly. "It's unrealistic; it took Luke years to become a Jedi. Then look at Rey, she became that strong that quickly?"
To which I said, "Uh yeah, it IS realistic. Girls are generally more disciplined at a younger age."
So Rey has it good both ways.
You instagram an unflattering selfie and your awesome former coworkers pick up right where you left off with them. Thanks gals.
La Petite Rey by angelsaquero
Along the same lines, I'm glad that I have about 98% of my Christmas shopping done. So I don't have to step back to the crowds where idiots look at me and their minds go straight to the Miss Universe debacle.
1) Yeah, I did hear you saying to your buddy, "And they'll do everything for you, everything! They really take care of you, man......Hey, speak of the devil." Then you and your bro wind up making your way over and you smoothly ask if I happen to know if the store sells leather jackets. Wtf? I'm shopping here, not working. Get outta here. And duh, you're surrounded by fucking leather jackets.
2) Okay, new guy. So I politely confirmed that yes, I'm Filipina. What an astute 2-second observation. What more, you think a congratulations is in order? Good job, you totally got the clue when I asked if it was really a congratulations. You really think it's a victory for my parents' country of origin to have won a beauty pageant that depends so much on the votes of its viewers? Yes I looooove that beauty pageants are such a big deal to Filipinos, please keep talking. I mean, who cares about raising girls to value themselves based on merit, accomplishment, creativity/uniqueness/nerve/talent ;), etc. to improve a third world country. And I see you are of the patriarchy, when in response to me saying that I can't believe we still have beauty pageants, you said, "Oh you're one of THOSE." I thanked the heavens when you decided to leave so quickly to the next opened register because I really didn't want to ignore your stupid face any longer when you realized I wasn't impressed you hung out where the firefighters eat. Fuck you, I'll save my own lives.
By Anonymous
In first grade, a boy named John— a notorious troublemaker—systematically chased every girl in our class during recess trying to kiss her on the lips. Most gave in eventually. It was easier to give in than keep running. When it was my turn, I turned and faced him, grabbed his glasses off his weasel face, and stomped on them on the hard blacktop. He ran to the principal’s office and cried.
In fifth grade, I was asked to be a boy’s girlfriend over email. It was the first email I ever received. He actually told me he wanted to send me an email, so I went home and made an AOL account. We went to a carnival and he won me a Garfield stuffed animal, and then he gave me a 3 Doors Down CD. A few days later, he broke up with me, and asked for Garfield and the CD back. I said no.
In sixth grade, a girl in my year gave head to an eighth grader in the back of the school bus while playing Truth or Dare.
In the summer after sixth grade, I kissed a boy for the first time at sleep away camp. He was my summer love. During the end-of-the-summer dining hall announcements, where kids usually announced lost sweatshirts and Walkmen, an older girl stepped up to the microphone, tossed her hair behind her shoulders, and proudly stated, “I lost something very precious to me last night. My virginity. If anyone finds it, please let me know.” The dining hall erupted into laughter and cheers. She was barred from ever coming back to the camp again, and wasn’t allowed to say goodbye to anyone.
In seventh grade, I told my brother I decided when I was older wanted a Hummer. What I really meant was I wanted a Jeep, but I didn’t know a lot about cars. My mother overheard and screamed at me for “wanting a Hummer.”
In the summer after freshman year of high school, I went to sleepaway field hockey camp with many of my close friends. One of them, named Megan, I had been friends with since kindergarten. One night when I was showering, she ripped open the curtain and snapped a photo of me on her disposable camera. I screamed. She laughed. We both laughed when I got out of the shower a few minutes later. After camp was over, her father took the camera to the convenience store to get it developed. When he gave the finished photos back to her, he said, “Your friend [Anonymous] has grown up.”
Sophomore year of high school, one of my best friends Hilary had a party in her basement while her mom was away. We invited some of the guys in our grade and someone’s older brother bought us a handle of vodka. One of the boys who came sat next to me in Spanish class. His name was Thomas. I remember playing a simple game, where we passed the bottle of vodka around in a circle and drank. I remember being happily tipsy and having fun, to suddenly being very drunk. Thomas and I started chanting numbers in Spanish, and he leaned towards me and kissed me. We kissed in the middle of the party, with all of our friends cheering. Then we went into Hilary’s bedroom.
Hilary’s bedroom was in the basement, on the ground floor, with a large window next to her bed. When someone went outside to smoke a cigarette, they realized it was a front row seat to what was happening in the bedroom. It was dark outside, and the light on was in the bedroom. They called everyone outside to watch. I don’t remember getting undressed, but apparently we were both completely naked in Hilary’s bed. A friend of mine told me later she tried to open the door and stop what was happening, but Thomas must have locked it. They said they pounded on the door. I don’t remember hearing them pounding. I don’t remember seeing everyone’s faces outside the window. I remember Thomas holding my head down, and shoving his penis into my mouth. I remember trying to resist, pulling back, but he held his hands firmly on my head, pushing my face up and down. That’s all that I remember.
The next day, my friends and I went out to dinner at one of our favorite local restaurants. I couldn’t eat anything, and it wasn’t because I was hung over. Every time I tried to put food in my mouth, I felt like I was choking. Anytime a flash of the night before appeared in my mind, I felt like vomiting. My friends sat with me in silence. Then they told me a girl named Lindsey, who had briefly dated Thomas freshman year, had stood outside and watched the entire time. Even after everyone else stopped watching. My friends said they didn’t watch.
On Monday, Thomas and I sat next to each other in Spanish. We didn’t speak. We didn’t make eye contact. I went to the girls bathroom and threw up. I hear Lindsey and Thomas live together, now, ten years later.
Junior year of high school, my teacher for Honors Spanish was named Señor Gonzales. Señor Gonzales had all of the girls sit in the front row. Señor Gonzales called on any girl who was wearing a skirt to write on the chalkboard. Señor Gonzales asked a friend of mine, who had broken her finger playing an after school sport, if she broke her finger because “she liked it rough.” Señor Gonzales was a tenured teacher.
Senior year of high school, I got my first real boyfriend. His name was Colin. He was on the lacrosse team with Thomas. He told me that sophomore year, Thomas told everyone on the team what happened that night at Hilary’s. Everyone cheered. Colin said that, even then, he had a crush on me. Even then, he wanted to punch Thomas.
Colin and I lost our virginities to each other. Colin said if I got pregnant, he would make me have the baby. He didn’t believe in abortion. Colin said if I got pregnant, he would make me have a C-section. Colin said that if I didn’t have a C-section, my vagina would be too loose for him to ever enjoy having sex with me again. Colin said that he wouldn’t let our child breastfeed. He said his mother gave him formula, and that he turned out just fine. I didn’t get pregnant.
Junior year of college, I lived in Denmark for the spring semester and studied at the University of Copenhagen. Copenhagen is one of the safest cities in the world. Guns are illegal there. Pepper spray is illegal there. One night, my friends and I went to a concert at a crowded club in a part of the city I didn’t know very well. I brought a tiny purse with money, my apartment key, and my international cell phone. For some reason it made sense at the time to put my purse inside my friend’s purse. Maybe I didn’t feel like carrying it. We were both drinking. My friend left the concert to go home with her boyfriend. One by one, everyone I was there with left the concert, until I was suddenly alone and I realized I didn’t have my purse, or any money for a cab ride home.
I started walking in the direction that felt right. I walked for a long time. I had no idea where I was, and didn’t recognize the area. It was almost 4 am. I was on a residential street when a cab pulled up next to me. I asked the driver if he could drive me to an intersection down the street from my apartment.
I don’t have any money, I said.
I really need your help, I said.
I will do it for free, he said.
Sit in the front, he said.
I sat in the front. We drove in silence for some time, until he pulled over on the side of a dark street.
I don’t want to do it for free anymore, he said.
He locked the car doors and reached across the center console and slipped his hand up my skirt. He grabbed my vagina. Hard. I pushed his hand away and unlocked the door. I ran down the street and realized he had taken me a block away from the intersection I wanted. I walked to my apartment and threw rocks at my roommate’s window until she let me inside. She yelled at me for waking her up. I escaped. Nothing happened. I was fine.
The summer after I graduated college I helped Hilary find an internship. She was an art major and wanted something for her resume besides waitressing. We found a posting on Craigslist to be a studio assistant for a painter in the Bronx. It was listed as an unpaid internship. The toll for the George Washington Bridge was twelve dollars, plus gas, but she got the internship anyway. She wanted the experience.
The artist was a 38-year-old Canadian painter named Bradley. Hilary was 22.There was another intern there, an art student from Manhattan named Stella. Bradley needed assistants to help him make bubble wrap paintings. Stella and Hilary would take a syringe and fill the tiny bubbles with different color paints until it formed a mosaic. Bradley always had Hilary stay after Stella left to clean the paintbrushes and syringes. He told Hilary she was beautiful. More beautiful than his wife, who he only married for citizenship. He told Hilary they had a loveless marriage. He told Hilary he wanted to have her beautiful children. They began an affair. He told Hilary has wife knew and didn’t care. He told Hilary he was going to leave his wife soon.
Everyday Hilary drove to the Bronx, cleaned Bradley’s paintbrushes, and had sex on the studio floor. Everyday she went home with no money, and everyday she paid the toll at the George Washington Bridge. She needed the internship for her resume, she said. It was too late to find a new job, she said.
I could go on. I could tell you a lot more. About the whistles on the sidewalk, the kids who sat at the bottom of the stairs in high school to look up our skirts, my friend who was a prostitute in South Carolina, the men who’ve cornered me in parking lots and bars calling me a tease, the unwanted grabbing on the subway, the many times my father has called me fat, the time I traveled to the Philippines and discovered Western men pay preteen locals to spend the week in their hotel, the messages on OKCupid asking to “fart in my mouth.” About how I wasn’t sure if I had been raped because I was drunk and kissed Thomas back. How he raped my mouth and not my vagina, so that must not be rape. How easy it was for me to escape the dark street in Copenhagen, and how that made it not matter since “it could’ve been worse.”
Men have no idea what it takes to be a woman. To grin and bear it and persevere. The constant state of war, navigating the relentless obstacle course of testosterone and misogyny, where they think we are property to be owned and plowed. But we’re not. We are people, just like them. Equals, in fact, or at least that’s the core of what feminism is still trying to achieve. The job is not over. We’ve made great progress. There are female CEOs, though not very many. There are females writing for the New York Times and winning Pulitzer prizes, though not very many. There are female politicians, though not very many. But these advances are only on paper. The job won’t be over until equality permeates the air we breathe, the streets we walk and the homes we live in.
I think back to how easy it was for me, in first grade, to feel fearless and strong in my conviction to stomp on John’s glasses. I felt right in reacting how I did, because John’s behavior was wrong. But his was an elementary learning of the wide boundaries his gender would go on to afford him. For me, it would never again be so easy.
- Anonymous, age 25
So tampon/pad sellers cannot mention the words ‘menstruation’, ‘blood’, ‘uterus’, or ‘vagina’ … But everyone has to hear about 4 hour erections.
