I just turned 30.5 and as a half-birthday present to myself I am relieving myself of the shards of non-wisdom that I have gathered in the past ten-point-five years by throwing them your way like so many candy beans. In this scenario that I am imagining, we are drunk and I’m throwing the candy beans at you. Do with them what you will—which will be this: “Pffffft shut the fuck up, bitch, you don’t know my life” (actual transcription of the subtext of every conversation I have with my friends who are younger than me)—but do know that things will change for you at some point. Pretend I am pushing your sweaty baby-hairs off of your forehead and going “Shhhhhhhhhh.”
Probably next week Girl News will be about the different ways girls like to masturbate (so many ways) or the fashion dynamics of three-way BFF-ships (ooooh, good idea!) but for now, here.
BE REALLY, REALLY, REALLY, REALLY MAD
A girl not being and calling herself a feminist is the equivalent to a black guy going in for the Republicans when Republicans had a heavy slavery angle. (I know, the early Republicans were against slavery, but then the party twisted itself into a tight, white, racist knot, but you know what I mean anyway.) It’s fine and good to be happy and have fun and not worry too much about it, if you want, but that should just be terra firma on a hot planet of rage about how you are considered a half-citizen by most people/governments/institutions/traditions. Like, really: do your day however you want; don’t even pounce on the never-ending girl-bullshits spat out by me and you and all of your friends if you don’t want to. Just, know.
TAKE PHOTOS OF YOUR TITS
In a bra, out of a bra, from the side, from your dude’s perspective when he’s bunging you in every tit-visible position: photograph it. Not for the internet, dumbtard: for yourself.
I took a series of Polaroids, not even of my boobs but of my general décolletage, after this cute, barely legal drummer (obviously a drummer) spent most of one night gnawing it. Actually, all night in between both of us demurely leaving the room “to pee”/a.k.a. violently throw up whatever it might have been that we’d drank. The bruises gradually faded from hardcore, untouchable pits to yellow watercolors throughout the series, but when I look at them occasionally (in my parents’ basement: HA!) I am mostly so fascinated by a) the fact that I wore a Little Red Riding Hood cape with nothing under it to take some of the photos (???) and b) the general, almost offensive buoyancy of my then-boobs. You don’t see this happen as it happens, unless you document. Anyway, they just change. I’m not saying your boobs won’t be great, I’m saying they won’t be the same.
Read the rest at Vice Magazine: GIRL NEWS: WHAT GIRLS SHOULD DO IN THEIR TWENTIES - Viceland Today
“fashion dynamics of three way bff-ships” PAGING TESS AND BECKY PAGING TESS AND BECKY