It sucks when someone you have feelings for doesn’t share those feelings; it happens to women all the time, too. We hear “I just want to be friends” and “you’re like one of the guys” and “you’re like a sister to me” just as often. But you’ll never hear a woman complain that guys just don’t appreciate a Nice Girl because we’re taught it’s our own fucking fault when we’re rejected—we aren’t pretty enough or thin enough or sexy enough, we weren’t sexual enough or were too sexual, we put out too much or too little or too soon or not soon enough, we didn’t wear our hair the right way or our skirt the right length, we’re “too tomboyish” or “too butch” or “too feminine”, or we’re “not their type”, or we’re otherwise not good enough in various ways to entice the man to grace us with his affection.
But when we’re not interested in someone, we’re vilified. We’re the bitch that lead them on, the bitch who let them buy us dinner but didn’t want to date them, the bitch who doesn’t appreciate a nice guy, the bitch they were nice to and then got nothing in return from.
And, frankly, fuck those people. Showing interest in me, being friendly with me, getting close to me, or eating a meal with me (even if they paid for it) doesn’t obligate me to open my heart or my legs. And anyone who doesn’t appreciate my friendship sure as hell doesn’t deserve my love or my pussy.
You asked me if I wanted to get drunk and stay the night, and I said yes, and we ending up just lying there in bed, my head resting on your chest, thinking about all the parties we didn’t go to or the roads we didn’t turn down or the words we never said because we thought they sounded too foolish or romantic or silly. And eventually we came to the conclusion that there’s always gonna be the nights when we break down in the car by ourselves listening to The Smiths in a dark, empty parking lot, or the days when even opening our eyes requires more effort than dragging someone out of a burning building.
But then your hand drifted down and it rested over my heart, and we sat there like that for a while, smoking, the city outside just breathing and breathing, over and over again, all the lights out there symbolizing college girls pinching their skin in the mirror or two elderly people falling in love for what feels like the millionth time. The awkward first dates at coffee shops and the librarians who go home and watch porn for two hours every night. You told me all these extraordinary things were happening every day and that sometimes it didn’t matter what road we didn’t take or the things we never said because somewhere out there, there was another couple lying in a shabby little bed with only a few covers, touching each others’ skin and trying to feel alright again when everything was crashing down on them.
This is from the slut walk. One of the arguments is that girls ask for rape because they wear slutty clothes, short skirts, tight, low-cut tops. This girl is an example of the fact that rape victims can look like anyone, you, me, this girl. Rapists. Dont. Discriminate.
I promised a long time ago that I’d reblog this whenever I saw it on my dash. No regrets, it breaks my heart every single time.
an incredibly important message, rape is rape. no one is ever asking for it. a woman has the right to dress how ever they want - it is society that identifies risque dressing as ‘asking for it’, and in my opinion, that way of thinking needs to be diminished.
Seriously if you see this and don’t reblog it, I have NO respect for you