We are practicing to be brides, to be girls who will grow up to be given away. My legs would rather be running, itch to go outdoors. My legs are dreaming, adventurous legs. They cannot walk down the aisle without protest. They go too fast. They go too slow. They make everything slow down. The girl walking behind me steps on the red dress; it tears. It moves from my flesh like wind moving against the running legs. I am truly lucky now to have this tear. I hope they will make me sit, but they say No we would not think of taking you out of the show. They know how much every girl wants to be in a wedding. The tear must be mended. The red dress like a woman’s heart must break silently and in secret.
When you grow up as a girl, the world tells you the things that you are supposed to be: emotional, loving, beautiful, wanted. And then when you are those things, the world tells you they are inferior: illogical, weak, vain, empty. The world teaches you that the way you exist in it is disgusting — you watch boys cringe backward in your dorm room when you talk about your period, blue water pretending to be blood in a maxi pad commercial. It is little things, and it is constant. In a food court in a mall, after you go to the gynecologist for the first time, you and your friend talk about how much it hurts, and over her shoulder you watch two boys your age turn to look at you and wrinkle their noses: the reality of your life is impolite to talk about. The world says that you don’t have a right to the space you occupy, any place with men in it is not yours, you and your body exist only as far as what men want to do with it. At fifteen, you find fifteen-year-old boys you have never met somehow believe you should bend your body to their will. At almost thirty, you find fifteen-year-old boys you have never met still somehow believe you should bend your body to their will. They are children. They are children.
Honestly, galz, do me this one favor. Please promise me that you will never believe anyone that ever calls you a dumb girl or anything that’s like it. Because even if you are dumb, that’s why we have books. And that’s why we have each other. But you cannot let someone reduce something as beautiful and complex and as wonderful as a human being to just two words. Unless those words are “human being”, in which case, that’s just fucking honest.
Read the whole thing, which is just great.
When our breasts arrived
as a kind of currency, we’d tug
our camisoles low, use
our newfangled bodies to haggle
with the ice cream man. The winner
was the girl who received her chocolate cone
for free, who sucked on candy cigarettes
the same way she wore a training bra.
That summer my pockets grew forests
of hand-tied maraschino cherry stems:
tampered evidence that I might one day be worthy
of kissing. In exchange for rides
on the handlebars of their bikes,
we’d let the boys bite
the beads off our candy
necklaces until the chokers
resembled punched out teeth.
From their slobber, blue and violet
stained my throat where the sweetness
had once been, so I suppose,
Your Honor, I was preparing
For as long as I can remember, there’s been this sub-breed of girls and women who seem to think that not having female friends is a noteworthy, noble way to live. “Guys don’t cause drama,” they say. “Girls are catty/ jealous of me/ the devil,” they say. To those girls, I have a response: the problem is you, not every other woman in the universe.
We’re talking a very specific group of women, here. The ones who glorify their friendships with men — who are more than capable of exhibiting the same negative traits as any other human — while simultaneously demonizing women, as though we all took a pact at birth to be one unified, reprehensible force. I’m speaking of women with this attitude, specifically: not shy women, not introverted women, but the women who paint every other gal with the Petty Bitch Paintbrush and call it a day without getting to know them as individuals. (Hint: it turns people off to hear that you aren’t open to being friends with people “of their kind.” That isn’t the kind of sentiment that makes people feel all warm and tingly, and it’s probably the one thing preventing you from having female friends.)
So, ladies who think men are the antidote to ~dRaMa~ fueled vagina holders — the attitude that all women are evil, conniving, and not worth your time is just, statistically, silly. You can’t get along with roughly 50% of the population? That sounds like a You problem.
If You Don’t Have Girl Friends, I Feel Sorry For You, unhappie)(via
I used to be this girl! For years, I was this girl. It’s okay, though. There is hope.
I think a lot of women go through this phase; I went through it in middle school and part of high school; fortunately I got my head out of my ass and realized that the girls around me were people, complicated and funny and interesting and kind, just like all the boys I’d sworn were the only friends I’d ever have.
So don’t worry if you used to do this - you can always stop! But remember: disliking other girls in a lump doesn’t make you cool. It makes you a dick.
A lot of girls do this because we’re told constantly that being a female is inferior. By criticizing other females, we elevate ourselves to some new category of being almost-male. I used to do this too :(
All of this. (except that not all vagina-holders are women. other than that all of this.)