teaching yourself how to write is hard, and frustrating, and an exercise in how-many-breakdowns-can-I-have-in-one-week?
I get annoyed if it’s not credited, usually.
I’ve seen that happen to my photos mostly, which bothers me less than my writing. (I would be a bit peeved if I saw my writing used without credit, yes)
On the other hand I for of like the letting go involved with sharing a work of art. I don’t really mind the over-sharing, it seems to be part of the online world, though I find interesting the way we consume images and art and ideas in this day and age. It’s different than before and it’s something that is ever-changing and worth questioning, but it’s not necessarily bad.
Otherwise, I’m quite fine with it, a book or a story belong to its readers, a work of art to its viewers.
asdgdkhasgdkhfdhg THANK YOU :D
Yeah, my boyfriend is something close to 60lbs lighter than me (or something, I haven’t weighted myself in over a year), and I can see how it could be an ED trigger for some people, I do.
I don’t, and have never suffered, from an ED so it doesn’t affect me in the same way.
I think it’s just mostly based on ideas that men should be bigger and taller than their female partners, which, when you think about it, is so completely stupid, it makes me want to bang my head on the walls with considerable force (the same way people think it’s weird when a woman is taller than her male partner. Ugh.)
I know you probably know that and can’t help the way you fell, but, just, skinniness DOES NOT denote femininity, just like being bigger, taller, stronger, muscly etc. DOES NOT make you ‘masculine’.
Femininity and masculinity are also concepts that are deeply stupid and wrong and based on outdated gender roles and ideas, and should be thrown away and spit upon and squashed until they don’t exist anymore.
And just, please, please, don’t do this to yourself, it’s not worth it. It never ever is.
(I had to transcribe this poem, because it became an immediate favorite the second that I heard it. I am over 70 pounds heavier than my boyfriend, and I have thought, felt and said all of these things before. But he is perfect, and we are perfect together.)
10 HONEST THOUGHTS ON BEING LOVED BY A SKINNY BOY
I say, ‘I am fat.’
He says ‘No, you are beautiful.’
I wonder why I cannot be both.
He kisses me
My college theater professor once told me
that despite my talent,
I would never be cast as a romantic lead.
We do plays that involve singing animals
and children with the ability to fly,
but apparently no one
has enough willing suspension of disbelief
to go with anyone loving a fat girl.
I daydream regularly
about fucking my boyfriend vigorously on his front lawn.
On the mornings I do not feel pretty,
while he is still asleep,
I sit on the floor and check the pockets of his skinny jeans for motive,
for a punchline,
for other girls’ phone numbers.
When we hold hands in public,
I wonder if he notices the looks —
like he is handling a parade balloon on a crowded sidewalk;
if he notices that my hands are now made of rope.
Dear Cosmo: Fuck you.
I will not take sex tips from you
on how to please a man you think I do not deserve.
He tells me he loves me with the lights on.
I can cup his hip bone in my hand,
feel his ribs without pressing very hard at all.
He does not believe me when I tell him he is beautiful.
Sometimes I fear the day he does will be the day he leaves.
The cute hipster girl at the coffee shop
assumes we are just friends
and flirts over the counter.
I spend the next two weeks
mentally replacing myself with her
in all of our photographs.
When I admit this to him
we spend the evening taking new photos together.
He will not let me delete a single one of them.
The phrase “Big girls need love too” can die in a fire.
Fucking me does not require an asterisk.
Loving me is not a fetish.
Finding me beautiful is not a novelty.
I am not a fucking novelty.
I say, ‘I am fat.’
He says, ‘No. You are so much more’,
and kisses me
how things change:
I used to think that it was almost sacrilegious to deface a book. To cut it up. To tear the pages, to break the spines, to cover words in black marker to make poems. To highlight things and write in the margins, etc.
Then slowly things changed. I think it started with my renewed love of buying books secondhand. I started to love the creased spines and the frayed edges. I love finding notes in pencil inside the pages. I love to see that a book has been used and read and passed on. That many hands have held it. I love to see the history of it, and so I think it’s also fair that I leave history in mine.
I like book art. I like the ones where you dig a hole in the middle of the pages to make a diorama, or hide a bottle of gin or a gun. I like the marked out poems and the torn up pages used in collages and jewelry. Little pieces of books finding themselves in other treasures.
I think that books are both precious and not. In fact, maybe the stories they contain are more precious. I don’t know. But I think they should be objects that we manipulate, that we use with time. They get damaged because we spend hours carrying them in our bags to wherever we go. Because they are our companions. The covers get turned because we lent it to a friend and they obviously had a really bad habit of turning the cover around when they read, but then again they had that look in their eyes and that smile on their lips when they gave it back that said the book lived in their head now, so it’s okay.
I only hate when books are burned with hatred. When they are banned and thrown away because what they are saying is considered wrong. When their words are being censored. That is what I hate. The silencing of books.
But I love the way a book looks when it has lived a good life, and I love that when it dies, pieces of it soul can be found all over the world in other creations, in other stories.
Jenny Holzer, Projection in Washington, D.C., 2004