December 2011
79 posts
In a strange roundabout karmic sort of way, I know I’m at the height of my elaborate scheme of fakeness when the word “real” is used to describe me.
Better when all the clothes were on.
“In the instances when POC say shit like ‘Oh I can’t stand white folk’ or ‘Damn white people’, they aren’t saying ‘Oh I think they are inferior, I want to humiliate them, abuse them, enslave them and wipe out their people!’, they’re saying ‘Damn, after a couple hundred years of white people thinking I’m inferior, humiliating me, abusing me, enslaving me, and trying to wipe out my people, I don’t wanna deal with them.’ The context is completely different.”
—Briana (via absinthedisco)
On the word classy.
As women, we are often told to “have some class.” This word has always irked me because it basically means, “Wow, look at how good she is at being a lady the right way, the socially acceptable way,” which is a weird fucking thing to say.
Classy means having or behaving like a higher-class member of society, amirite? Who inhabits this higher class, usually? Straight, cisgendered, white ladies with lots of money. And the stereotypical high-class lady isn’t making money, she’s marrying into wealth and usually this means making herself seem demure and pretty (in a white lady way, because, well, you know), existing solely to stroke Rich White Dude’s ego enough that he wants to put a ring on it.
And I guess I over-think things a lot, but this is the idea that pops into my head everytime I hear the word classy and I kind of wouldn’t want anyone I love to aspire to be that.
Can we stop with the euphemisms? Let’s come right out and say it: “We are judging you, individual lady, by rich white lady standards, because rich white people are all that is good and holy in the world and we should all aspire to be like them and wow, guess who came up with this standard, I’ll give you one guess trollololololol!”
(Or something like that.)
Love, perhaps, is nothing but the convenience of timing and geography. Who comes closest first, who comes closest last is all but a great black comedy. In the great space of coincidence, it really is not about the race but about strings of fate that mock us.
It’s not that I’m upset that I don’t have a man to marry or a man who wants to marry me. I’m not worried about it. What I’m unhappy about has nothing to do with us but the fact that he does not deserve any of that happiness that fell around him and he grabbed it like an opportunistic bastard.
How many minutes of an hour of a day will pass before I stop feeling sorry for the remnants of our relationship that didn’t materialise? How many minutes of an hour of a day can pass before time stops being unbearable?