hey what if someone invented a machine that allowed women to transfer their pregnancies to men and then the government passed a law that if a woman didn’t want to have a baby the biological father was required to carry it how fast do you think birth control would stop being an issue
BEST NIGHTBLOG POST EVER
“IT’S UNETHICAL TO FORCE PEOPLE TO CARRY A BABY!!!!” MEN SHOUT
“NO FUCKING SHIT!!!!” WOMEN REPLY
<3 everything about this post. When I’m done ranting about politics for the day, I go on to my personal tumblr and join the proud ranks of incoherent nightbloggers.
“In pop culture, girls who crush hopelessly on guys they can’t have are painted as just that – hopeless. Over and over again, we’re taught that girls who openly express sexual or romantic interest in guys who don’t want them are pitiable, stalkerish, desperate, crazy bitches. More often than not, they’re also portrayed as ugly – whether physically, emotionally or both – in order to further establish their undesirability as an objective fact. Both narratively and, as a consequence, in real life, men are given free reign to snub, abuse, mislead and talk down to such women: we’re raised to believe that female desire is unseemly, so that any consequent shaming is therefore deserved. There is no female-equivalent Friend Zone terminology because, in the language of our culture, a man’s romantic choices are considered sacrosanct and inviolable. If a girl has been told no, then she has only herself to blame for anything that happens next – but if a woman says no, then she must not really mean it. Or, if she does, she shouldn’t: the rejected man is a universally sympathetic figure, and everyone from moviegoers to platonic onlookers will scream at her to justgive him a chance, as though her rejection must always be unfounded rather than based on the fact that he had a chance, and blew it. And even then, give him another one! The pathos of Single Nice Guys can only be eased by pity-sex with unwilling women that blossoms into romance!”—Lamenting the Friendzone, or: The Nice Guy Approach to Perpetuating Sexist Bullshit (via hyperbolequeen)
“A psychiatrist once told me early in treatment, “Stop trying to make me like you,” and what a sobering and welcome smack in the face that statement was. Yet somehow, every day of my life is still a campaign for popularity, or better yet, a crowded funeral.”—John Waters (via panoplex)
So tell me. How far can I walk on my own at night? How many metres, exactly, can I walk unaccompanied without having to fear for my life?
How many drinks am I, an adult woman, allowed to have after work on Friday night before being dismissed as a “party girl” or “asking for it”? How high can my heels be, and how short a skirt can I wear, before being implicated in any crime against me? And, just so that I’m clear, how many metres can I walk to get myself home?
And if something happened to me, how harshly would I be judged? If I vanished on that walk to my front door, what would you have to say about me? Would I be tut-tutted at for not accepting the offer of an escort home? Would idiots take to Facebook to admonish me for supposedly leading some guy on?
Would do-gooders and commentators and Twitterati-types take my parents to task for not raising me to act sensibly? Would they lambast my friends and lovers for not taking adequate care of me? Would everyone in my life suffer because I exceeded my allocated metres of solo walking?
Would every media outlet in the country view my disappearance as an opportunity to point out that, as it happens, women have more to fear in our world than men?
Would you, quietly, at the back of your mind, think that if I’d just stayed home with my partner, like a good wife and woman, none of this would have happened to me?
Are you just looking for one big, smug fucking excuse to say that you told me so?
And just so that we’re absolutely fucking clear, how many metres am I allowed to walk on my own at night?
“I always wondered how she regards the arc of her own life. Controversial first lady to betrayed first lady to beloved first lady. Clumsy carpetbagging Senate candidate to New York treasure. Failed presidential candidate to international icon. The theme, it seemed to me, was that you play the cards you’re dealt.
Clinton stared for a few seconds. “I choose my cards,” she said firmly. “I choose them. I play them to the best of my ability. Move on to the next hand.”—Gail Collins, “Hillary’s Next Move”, The New York Times (via itsinthetrees)