“So, where are you from?” It was a quiet Sunday night at the bar, and the group of four were the only customers in the venue. Advertisements
Making your bed, to some, may in fact be equivalent to the end of the world. In this case, he has been crying for a good half hour. Finally, he’s had enough. He needs to be heard. “Fuck this shit. I’m no woman, I don’t know how to make beds!” he wailed, tears streaming down…
As if your socks weren’t already soaked and your underwear weren’t already pressing damp against your anal backside.
On the bus with primary school children. On pregnancy and impregnation: “you just kiss the bride!” On natural birth: “the baby comes out of your butt!” On caesarean section: “they cut you in half and get the baby out!” On peace: “there’s peace” (double V signs, palms facing inwards) On showdowns: “you’re a piece of…
“Ewww, gay is disgusting.” exclaimed Jackson during a game of Mario Cart on Wii.
In the wee hours of the morning, men and women dressed in bright neon yellow are hunched over their workstations like factory workers.
I don’t mean to rain on anyone’s parade. However, before we go about pouring water over ourselves, let’s get started with some facts.
A single, aqua coloured nail sparkled under the stage spotlight. It was not flaunted, nor was it hidden. He stood tall. He stood proud. He stood as a polished man.
http://www.hannahettinger.com/fuck-the-patriarchy-guest-post-by-clare/ Now imagine if the headlines next day read: “Teenage Girl Raped by Dads and Lads after Prom” if she wasn’t kicked out. Wait, forget the headline, stories like these might get page 12 next to the weight loss ad.
The last sip of beer is always hard. Like all good things, you don’t want it to end. So you try to prolong it. Make it last, past its prime, past its best moments. You go and have a chat with your mates, keep doing what you’re doing, and leave the beer on the side….
I cut my finger cooking Mother’s Day dinner. It was the broccoli stem (my new found mortal enemy). Blood was streaming down, and a chunk of flesh came peeling off (not quite detached, but its eagerness for its independence from my digit is shared by the Scots from the Brits.
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