misha writes. duh.

There’s nothing left to be in this world but famous. Wait. Fame means nothing anymore. It’s turned into no more than “hits” “likes” and “followers.” There’s nothing left to be in this world but to be seen. Wait. All we see are curated lives. It’s turned into no more than “profiles” “instagram photos” and “anonymous comments.” Pictures taken five times until the pose doesn’t feel like a pose. Quotes posted and possessed as if ones own words. Reblogging as a false sense of creation. The quirkiness of life inflated, and then smashed down to 140 characters. Facebook status updates to keep “friends” up to the minute on a life of assumed adventure. There’s nothing left to be in this world but projections of self. There’s nothing left to be in this digital world.

THIS.

potentialitea:

you give me mountains and I’ll ask for the sea.

(Source: foxmouth)

I never understood Runners. Especially on treadmills. The repetitive motion. The going nowhere. The hitting an arbitrary set of miles to fulfill an arbitrary need for exercise. For the past two months, I have become that which I do not understand. At first, I thought I was taking an active role in making myself healthier. I bought running shoes. Nike + so I could monitor the miles I’ve ran, and the days of the week spent doing it. Put a “running mix” in my iPod. All of this to ignore the simple truth of my life in its current state — the repetitive motion, the going nowhere, and the hitting of arbitrary goals to fulfill an arbitrary need to be “successful.” I am running in place. A lot. And my knee hurts. A lot. And I keep running. A lot. Because if I stop…

It’s like that for most men, most of the time. We’re starving, and all women are various types of food. Only instead of food, it’s sex. And we’re trying to conduct our everyday business around the fact that we’re trying to renew our driver’s license with a talking pair of boobs. So, from about age 13 on, around 90 percent of our energy and discipline is devoted to overcoming this, to behave like civilized human beings and not like stray dogs in a meat market. One where instead of eating the meat, they want to hump it.

Right now I’m reading a book from mega-selling fantasy author George R. R. Martin. The following is a passage where he is writing from the point of view of a woman — always a tough thing for men to do. The girl is on her way to a key confrontation, and the narrator describes it thusly:

“When she went to the stables, she wore faded sandsilk pants and woven grass sandals. Her small breasts moved freely beneath a painted Dothraki vest …”

That’s written from the woman’s point of view. Yes, when a male writes a female, he assumes that she spends every moment thinking about the size of her breasts and what they are doing. “Janet walked her boobs across the city square. ‘I can see them staring at my boobs,’ she thought, boobily.” He assumes that women are thinking of themselves the same way we think of them.

Do you see what I’m getting at? Go look outside. See those cars driving by? Every car being driven by a man was designed and built and bought and sold with you in mind. The only reason why small, fuel-efficient or electric cars don’t dominate the roads is because we want to look cool in our cars, to impress you.

Go look at a city skyline. All those skyscrapers? We built those to impress you, too. All those sports you see on TV? All of those guys learned to play purely because in school, playing sports gets you laid. All the music you hear on the radio? All of those guys learned to sing and play guitar because as a teenager, they figured out that absolutely nothing gets women out of their pants faster. It’s the same reason all of the actors got into acting.

All those wars we fight? Sure, at the upper levels, in the halls of political power, they have some complicated reasons for wanting some piece of land or access to some resource. But on the ground? Well, let me ask you this — historically, when an army takes over a city, what happens to the women there?

It’s all about you. All of it. All of civilization.

THIS.

Of course, not everyone strips: there are no truly explicit scenes of gay male sex, fewer lingering shots of male bodies, and the leading actresses stay mostly buttoned up. Artistically, “Game of Thrones” is in a different class from “House of Lies,” “Californication,” and “Entourage.” But it’s still part of another colorful patriarchal subculture, the one called Los Angeles.

THIS.

(Source: jnp-horantheworld)

so-treu:

inspirationcocoa:

I’m reblogging this photo because I just read this article about how people should subscribe to HBO so GIrls will stay on the air and we will have more shows about women written by women and here is my response: 

I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately and it seems like every time they say, “yay for women-helmed shows!” They mean white women. I don’t see Jez or really anyone talking about how we should all support Scandal because it’s written by a Black woman, starring a Black woman and based on a real political strategist who is also a Black woman. That’s f*cking groundbreaking.

And it is. 

you mean black women are WOMEN??????????????????

Cosign on all of the above.

THIS.

(Source: silentstatic)