Hurry, boy, she's waiting there for you

no one will ever understand the deep fucking connection I have with this film

For real though

Ok guys I need to talk about this movie.

The Breakfast Club came out in 1985 and to this day is, in my opinion, one of the greatest damn movies ever to barely even have a script.

During the famous “dance” scene, Molly Ringwald, who played the “princess” Claire, was supposed to a small little dance by herself, but she was shy so all of them did some dancing together, creating one of the most famous film scene’s to date. It was improvised.

During the scene in the film where the characters sat down and told why they were there, there was NO SCRIPT. John Hughes told the cast to sit there and improvise why they thought their characters were there, creating that heart wrenching scene everyone could relate to.

EVERYONE can relate to this movie and thats the best damn thing. 

On March 24, 1984, five students entered a detention room thinking it was just another Saturday. Before the day was over, they broke the rules, bared their souls, and touched each other in a way they never dreamed possible.

EVERYONE IN THE WORLD NEEDS TO SEE THE BREAKFAST CLUB.

I CAN RELATE TO ALL OF THEM

posts about romance and dating on my dash

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*holds a baby carrot like a cigarette* I’m just….. over it, you know?

I am literally both of them at the same time

Playing with a dowel that fell on the floor lol. He just wandered in after lunch and stayed there. Hung out with us for like 3 hours. Was a very interesting day.

His little people hands!!!

*ten minute rant* i aint even mad

how terrifying, to be aging and girl. at 18 i was told by men that i was “the perfect age,” and i still thought it was a compliment. is it because at 20 i figured out how sharp those words were. i felt old at 21, felt like if grey hairs came and my spine cracked i was done for. how scary. i am reminded constantly by “realistic” ideas in fantasy novels that i should have five kids.

my life feels short. like it is squeezed into my twenties. like at 30 i become ghost, just another mother or hard worker or both, just another background character. like if i am not settled and making a difference by 27 i should just give up already. is this something men feel? like a clock is painted on their back, one hand warning: your beauty is something you are valued for and it is something you cannot get back.

and why was i only beautiful, i wonder, at 18 on a riverbank. i’m told often my childish face is a blessing. that i shouldn’t want to look older. one told me i was a trap falling: “you look young but you’re not” he said to me, “it kind of led me on”. am i not young? 

maybe i am wrong. maybe it’s just how we all feel, getting old, like time is slipping from us. maybe men do worry that they will be alone forever if they don’t settle by thirty, maybe it’s even because they think they’ll turn ugly. maybe we all squish our lives into that incredibly young decade. what do i know. i’m still learning.

I’m almost 25 and I’ve been feeling this a lot lately.

As a 48 year old lesbian, I offer my perspective on aging, and you all can take it or leave it.

Our understanding of our own aging is very much conditioned by the priorities of straight men, who in the aggregate understand beauty and femininity, indeed women in general, in literally superficial terms. Most of the ads you see for anti-aging products, for instance, focus on its *visible* symptoms: graying hair, wrinkling skin or discolored skin, sagging breasts, changes in body shape, etc. These are the symptoms of female aging that men perceive, and they are the ones that the cosmetics and the larger anti-aging industry therefore target. (Men do have their own anxieties about visibly aging, mostly related to hair loss and body shape; but they are not, for instance, generally terrified by the appearance of wrinkles, unless they work in the entertainment industry.)

But aging is not just something that happens to everyone else’s perception of you; it is something that happens in your own body, at levels deeper than anyone else (especially anyone male) is ever likely to perceive. From my POV the really important thing about aging is how you feel. Your body is where you live; it is for you. Aging is inevitable, but it can to some extent be intentional, in that you can (to some extent; all this is limited by the amount of time and money available to you and the healthfulness of the environments you have lived in and how you did in the DNA lottery) choose to do things that will help preserve the things about your body that make YOU happy to be living there–things like flexibility, strength, and the smooth functioning of your major organs. Generally, if you’re healthy, you don’t think about any of this stuff at 18 or 25; but when you are 40, you will start to take more of an interest as you come to understand how important all of this is to your own ability to enjoy life.

So that sucks, as does menopause, which is the unacknowledged referent of a lot of cultural anxieties about female aging. But the point I want to make is: one of the worst things that the phenomenon described so evocatively by the OP does to girls and young women is to make them so anxious about their own bodies that they are unable to enjoy and appreciate their youth while they have it. And that is theft. It really is. I miss youth, but even more do I regret the fact that when I was young I was so fucked up by cultural obsessions about female beauty that I was unable to fully enjoy the body that I had then. I did not appreciate its many excellent qualities, and it was a long time before I allowed myself to accept and act on its desires. At a time when I was beautiful, I thought I was fat and ugly, and that because no man would ever find me attractive, I was doomed to loneliness and isolation. After I met Mrs. Plaidder, her conviction of my beauty eventually passed into me. As a result, I enjoyed my life in general a lot more in my 30s than I did in my teens. I’ve enjoyed my 40s more too, apart from the cancer and the current catastrophe. Age does actually bring experience and knowledge and, to those able to profit from it, wisdom. You do gain, even as you lose.

Catullus, yelling in Latin verse at his lover Lesbia, asks her venomously, “cui videberis bella?” By whom will you be seen to be beautiful? It’s a question that still poisons our sense of self and our understanding of our own possibilities. By myself, asshole, she should have replied; and so may we all, at any age. 

Long post, but - my three cents. At 67 I don’t feel old and/or ugly. In fact, I really enjoy myself. I’m happy with how I look - because I got over the brainwashed way we see ourselves. As plaidadder said: “even more do I regret the fact that when I was young I was so fucked up by cultural obsessions about female beauty that I was unable to fully enjoy the body that I had then.” BTW, plaidadder - you are STILL beautiful, trust me.  The American cult of youth and they way of evaluating women’s beauty as inevitably liked to age is fucking TOXIC. I now live in South America; was complemented ( in a non-creepy way) by two guys less than half my age last week, grey hair & all. Love it here. 

You will never feel as old as you do in your late 20s to late 30s. Seriously. Western culture makes the passing of youth into a tragic death and that’s – so fucking sad. Once it has passed and you can no longer reasonably think of yourself as young, no matter how desperately you try to hang on to it – you find yourself in a whole other country, you realize that you’ve lived on one side of a mountain all your life and told there’s nothing beyond it only to discover that there is, in fact, an entire world on the other side. Don’t believe the lie. 

I’m just going to reblog all these responses because they’re so solid and right on.

When grown men say that eighteen is the perfect age for a woman, they don’t really mean “prettiest” anyway.  They mean “still really vulnerable, but technically legal.”

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This just in, an Ivy League School is a “community college” if you’re friendly to The Gayz.

The latest in the series of “science agrees with my prejudice unless it doesn’t in which case it isn’t Real Science.”

text from ex: i miss u

me: