“This series imagines an alternate universe in which some of the most hopeless, desperate and tragic heartbreak songs of the 70's and 80's were actually novels written by Stephen King. The concept is to look at the dark side of love through the lenses of pop culture, bringing twisted aspects of his classic stories to play with the original meanings of the songs - that can be completely subverted or strangely emphasized, while paying tribute to the vintage design of the original book covers.”
“The art of conversation is the art of hearing as well as of being heard”. ― William Hazlitt, Selected Essays, 1778-1830
How to succeed in heartbreak without really trying!
First, do nothing
Become one with your couch
Eating whole stack of Oreos like leaning towers of feelings
Watch Jane Austen adaptation until your eyes become raisins
Relish in Colin Firth emerging from the lake in a white shirt
If you must do something? Drink
But keep it classy, put your cheap wine in a glass,
you aren’t a pirate!
Talk to yourself, talk to yourself in the mirror,
on public transportation, in the middle of the fountain at the mall!
Because, there are things you never got to say
And you don’t have to swallow them
Join Tinder!
Make your profile picture a model
And talk to no one!
Just keep swiping until you get carpal tunnel
That way you can reject 50 people a minute
and it feels like killing ants!
…with apps
Kiss as many people as you need to get the stamp of his lips off of your brain
Go to museums; realize other things have history too…
Play hide and go seek with your REM cycles
You’re not sure which is worse to wake up from
The nightmare about your sides splitting open
or the dreams about him holding your jar like it meant something to him
You might as well tape your eyelids to your forehead
Because at least you can lie to yourself while you are awake
Stay up until 3, or 3.30, 4
Brew tea with the bags under your eyes
Write, write until you’ve used every metaphor in your library
You start using the same one over and over
Because there’s only so many ways to describe being destroyed
But once you get there, that’s just the foundation
Next, gather up all of the chinks in your chain
And fasten them together
Make chain mails, and write that bitch into battle
Take his name, the one that still hurts to say
And use it as a war cry,
then, actually cry
Because there is nothing shameful about clearing your eyes
Do not pick yourself up
Do not be okay
Because heartbreak is not about being okay
It’s about remembering that you were okay before
It is about saying fuck okay
It is about taking all your broken pieces and building yourself a castle
Because I don’t care who you are
You’re a goddamn queen
It’s about saying, fuck this poem
No one succeed at heartbreak
I build myself a throne room out of pizza boxes
and empty lunchables
and I can’t stop crying into my Campbell Chicken Noodle Soup
But one day, I’ll cry myself a fountain of youth
Let’s go back to beginning
I’m tired of self-help tips and friendly pick me ups
I drink a bottle, and bottles and bottles,
pretending their mouths belong to someone else,
But I’m done feeling sorry for myself,
Because why apologize for loving until you burst?
My capacity to feel needs no pardon
My heart needs no mending
I’m not broken
I’m just a little more,
explosive
How to Succeed in Heartbreak by Victoria Morgan
Watch the performance here.
The only other girl at the party
is ranting about feminism.
The audience: a sea of rape jokes and snapbacks
and styrofoam cups and me.
They gawk at her mouth like it is a drain
clogged with too many opinions.
I shoot her an empathetic glance and say nothing.
This house is for wallpaper women.
What good is wallpaper that speaks?
I want to stand up, but if I do,
whose coffee table silence will these boys rest their feet on?
These boys…
I want to stand up, but if I do,
what if someone takes my spot?
I want to stand up, but if I do,
what if everyone notices I’ve been
sitting this whole time? I am ashamed
of keeping my feminism in my pocket
until it is convenient not to, like at poetry
slams or woman studies classes.
There are days I want people to like me
more than I want to change the world.
Once I forgave a predator because
I was afraid to start drama in our friend group
two weeks later he assaulted someone else.
I’m still carrying the guilt in my purse.
There are days I forget we had to invent
nail polish to change color in drugged
drinks and apps to virtually walk us home
and lipstick shaped mace and underwear designed to prevent rape.
Once a man behind me at an escalator
shoved his hand up my skirt
from behind and no one around me said anything,
so I didn’t say anything.
Because I didn’t wanna make a scene.
Once an adult man made a necklace out of his hands for me and
I still wake up in hot sweats
haunted with images of the hurt
of girls he assaulted after I didn’t report,
all younger than me.
How am I to forgive myself for doing
nothing in the mouth of trauma?
Is silence not an active violence too?
Once, I told a boy I was powerful
and he told me to mind my own business.
Once, a boy accused me of practicing
misandry. “You think you can take
over the world?” And I said “No,
I just want to see it. I just need
to know it is there for someone.”
Once, my dad informed me sexism
is dead and reminded me to always
carry pepper spray in the same breath.
We accept this state of constant fear
as just another component of being a girl.
We text each other when we get home
safe and it does not occur to us that
not all of our guy friends have to do the same.
You could literally saw a woman in half
and it would still be called a magic trick.
Wouldn’t it?
That’s why you invited us here,
isn’t it? Because there is no show
without a beautiful assistant?
We are surrounded by boys who hang up
our naked posters and fantasize
about choking us and watch movies that
we get murdered in. We are the daughters
of men who warned us about the news
and the missing girls on the milk carton
and the sharp edge of the world.
They begged us to be careful. To be safe.
Then told our brothers to go out and play.
Pocket-Sized Feminism - Blythe Baird
Watch the performance here
Mom, my depression is a shapeshifter
One day it's as small as a firefly in the palm of a bear
The next it's the bear
On those days I play dead until the bear leaves me alone
I call the bad days "the Dark Days"
Mom says, "try lighting candles"
But when I see a candle, I see the flesh of a church
The flicker of a flame
Sparks of a memory younger than noon
I am standing beside her open casket
It is the moment I learn every person I ever come to know will someday die
Besides Mom, I'm not afraid of the dark, perhaps that's part of the problem
Mom says, "I thought the problem was that you can't get out of bed"
I can't, anxiety holds me a hostage inside of my house, inside of my head
Mom says, "Where did anxiety come from?"
Anxiety is the cousin visiting from out of town that depression felt obligated to invite to the party
Mom, I am the party, only I am a party I don't want to be at
Mom says, "Why don't you try going to actual parties, see your friends"
Sure I make plans, I make plans but I don't want to go
I make plans because I know I should want to go; I know sometimes I would have wanted to go
It's just not that fun having fun when you don't want to have fun, Mom
You see, Mom, each night Insomnia sweeps me up in his arms, dips me in the kitchen in the small glow of the stove-light
Insomnia has this romantic way of making the moon feel like perfect company
Mom says, "Try counting sheep"
But my mind can only count reasons to stay awake
So I go for walks, but my stuttering kneecaps clank like silver spoons held in strong arms with loose wrists
They ring in my ears like clumsy church bells, reminding me I am sleepwalking on an ocean of happiness that I cannot baptize myself in
Mom says, "Happy is a decision"
But my happy is as hollow as a pin pricked egg
My happy is a high fever that will break
Mom says I am so good at making something out of nothing and then flat out asks me if I am afraid of dying
No Mom I am afraid of living
Mom I am lonely
I think I learned that when Dad left how to turn the anger into lonely the lonely into busy
So when I say I've been super busy lately I mean I've been falling asleep watching SportsCenter on the couch
To avoid confronting the empty side of my bed
But my depression always drags me back to my bed
Until my bones are the forgotten fossils of a skeleton sunken city
My mouth a boneyard of teeth broken from biting down on themselves
The hollow auditorium of my chest swoons with echoes of a heartbeat
But I am just a careless tourist here
I will never truly know everywhere I have been
Mom still doesn't understand
Mom, can't you see
That neither can I
Explaining my depression to my mother: A conversation by Sabrina Benaim
Darius Simpson & Scout Bostley - "Lost Voices" (CUPSI 2015)
The first day I realized I was black, it was 2000, we had just learned about blacks for the first time in 2nd grade.
At recess, all the white kids chased me into the woods chanting slave. My mother said I refused to come out for three hours, said she thinks I was lost in the trees, but I just needed to be closer to my roots.
As a woman, having a boyfriend is a battle. If 70% of us are abused in a lifetime what is the number of men doing it? The answer is not 1 man running faster than light to complete a mission and that is what leaves me sick.
The second day I realized I was black, was in a gas station I only had 25 cents so I searched what to spend it on. The cashier floated from aisle to aisle eyes fixed on my hands. That was the first time I realized skin color was a crime.
My body has become cause to write legislation cause for ass smacks in the back of a class. My body has demanded everything except respect. I have been asked “what makes you feel unsafe” and I struggle not to yell "EVERYTHING!"
The third day I realized I was black was in an all-white cafeteria. I gathered my legs under me, made rockets of my feet and approached a girl. She told me she wasn't into my type of guy. I felt the words shoot daggers into my melanin, I’ve never wanted to disappear so bad.
As a woman I’ve learned to answer to everything except my name. Little lady is not said to mean equal but to make sure I remember my place.I battle between wanting to own my body and accepting that there is a one in four chance a man will lay claim to my skin a plot of land for the taking.
The last day I realized I was black was in an elevator in California. To the white woman that told me she knows what it feels like to be black because she grew up poor. I would tell you to think before you speak but your mind has got to be bacteria infected. and any filter through that labyrinth of nothingness might be worse than no thought at all.
There is a group of women going around the room sharing their personal definition of feminism. He is the only man in the room and all of a sudden the tone switches to destroying the patriarchy by annihilating all men.
Do you know what it means to be black, to pop lock your way in and out of hugs? It is not a problem that you want to sympathize but to tell me you know my pain, is to stab yourself in the leg because you saw me get shot. We have two different wounds, and looking at yours does nothing to heal mine.
Never will I turn away an ally but when a man speaks on my behalf that only proves my point. Movements are driven by passion, not by asserting yourself dominant by a world that already put you there. You speak to know pain you only fathom because we told you it was there. You know nothing of silence, until someone who cannot know your pain tells you how to fix it.
Every day is a crucifixion when there is no regard for lines crossed. I fight so my voice can be heard I fight for the voices you silence all in the name of what is right The problem is you assume this struggle is attached to a social class, I am black and and beautiful by nature, ain't no income that can change that. The problem with speaking up for each other is that everyone is left without a voice.
Hey just wanna say I fucking love your page !
Thank you so much! :D
How to love your introvert
1. We introverts are not always the best at breaking the ice,
so in order to get the ball rolling,
we often have to resort to tactics that
may seem obscure to your average extrovert.
This may include subtle clearings of the throat,
gentle hand gesturing, and numbers placed
carefully into routine conversations where
they normally do not belong.
2. You may be asking yourself
"How can I be sure that I'm speaking to
an actual introvert and not someone simply
masquerading as one", well,
here are a few tell-tale signs.
If the person wraps their arms around your shoulder
as they're introducing themselves to you for the first time:
Probably not an introvert.
If the person uses the words "unwind" and "nightclub"
In the same sentence: Probably not an introvert.
If the person attempts to engange in
any conversation whatsoever about the weather
and they are not from Minnesota: Probably not an introvert.
3. To set the record straight,
I do not hate people.
But I do get pretty damn tired of them sometimes.
Just pretend for a second that
my desire to socialise could be equated
to my desire to exercise.
This means that a quick jog around the block
would be a lot like
catching a cup of coffee with a friend,
bar-hopping with buddies would be like
finishing a 6-minute mile,
and my senior prom was a little bit like
running the iron-man in the middle of August.
Now you see, I don't hate talking to people
any more than they hate a little bit of exercise
but you wouldn't challenge an Olympian to a marathon after he just finished a race.
Understand that when I tell you I can't hang out tonight,
I just came back from a poetry jam,
maybe it's not because I hate you,
maybe it's because I'm tired.
4. There will be many times when you will be
uncomfortable in my silence, unsure of how I am feeling.
Understand, that just because I do not wear my heart
on my sleeve for everyone to see
does not mean that it beats any softer than yours.
Do not confuse the stillness of the lips
with the rhythm of apathy.
Do not confuse the sound of words rattling off, 80 beats per minute,
with the music of an actual conversation.
Just because I cannot commit the act of small talk
does not mean I don't have huge things to say.
Just because I find peace within myself
does not mean I could ever stop wanting
to love so hard, because
5. We introverts are not always the best
at breaking the ice,
so we often have to resort to tactics that
may seem obscure to your average extrovert
this may include subtle clearings of the throat,
gentle hand gesturing, and
writing an entire poem just to say
6. I love you more than quiet trips to the library.
I love you more than cancelling Friday night plans.
Baby,
Baby, I love you more than Tumblr.
But when the world is shouting
far too loudly for us to hear our own voices,
and when these words cling
far too tightly to my own chest.
I just want you to know
that I love you,
I love you,
I love you.
Kevin Yang, How To Love Your Introvert
My friend Ariel and I worked together in a restaurant
The first three weeks of our friendship the only things I said to her were "Oh my god where is the ketchup and this mop smells like oranges and ass."
Ariel walks into every room like she is late for something
Between shifts we bond over awesome things like Knitting or Ani DiFranco
And I’ve slowly acquired the following fascinating facts about her life
She rides a motorcycle
She can make herself queef on command, which she does musically!
And she once owned a bunny named Nelg with a silent G,
that she used to carry around in her sweater when she went out to bars every night.
That is very, very true.
This I learned was before the rehab.
Ariel tells me she is not the type of person who needed rehab,
But says she knows herself more because of it.
I believe her.
There is something about the people who have seen their own wild darkness.
Who have had sadness cast itself like iron before them
The ones who have taken that empty hallway of depression for a mirror.
Ariel has six fat scars like the rungs of a ladder up her forearm.
I have never asked her about them.
And I don’t want to.
I already know everything she has to say.
I have seen what spills from this body I have listened to the dull lullaby of a bathtub drain
Fantasized about how many refrains it would take to end it
I have thought about ending it,getting off this carousel.
Depression is a black sheep.
We all have one,but some of us don’t talk to it, some of us haven’t disowned it yet
Looking back I am thankful this body is an obedient machine
It will keep doing what it’s doing until it is told not to.
Looking back I’m surprised at how few scars I have.
How I actually fuckin survived myself.
My favorite thing about Ariel is her tattoos.
They’re fucking awful.
Ariel has a mermaid tattooed above each of her breast
They look like they were drawn by my five year old niece on Ambien
Depending on the day or what shirt she wears,they look more like pickles than sea creatures
I tell her I love her tattoos.
And I do.
I love that that they’re fucked up.
I love that she’s fucked up.
I love that she was fucked up and she got her shit together.
These days I don’t own a box cutter.
These days I don’t grind my teeth while I’m sleeping
And this was never meant to be a poemThis is only a reminder that you and I are never truly alone in all of this
Whatever you felt last night ,
Whatever needle was stitching its initials into your heart,
Was felt by a hundred other hearts.
Whatever growls, in the darkest corner of your memory, Is a beast that others have fed.
You are not the only one who feels ugly tonight.
You are not the only person who cannot seem to find the right words until the conversation is over,
Who doesn’t know what the fuck they’re doing on this carousel
Who cries for no reason Or never cries Or only cries when you feel like your life is finally standing still
And you don’t know what to do when nothing is going wrong.
When I told Ariel I wrote a poem about her,
She called me an asshole and asked me if I would read it to her while wearing a barrette
I accidentally mopped her coat which now smells like oranges and ass.
It isn’t about always being happy
That shit is unhealthy.
But you are only alone if you ignore all of the other people who are exactly like you.
Sierra DeMulder, Ariel
1. Stop preaching moderation. For many of us, there is no moderation. A little isn’t enough and a little only makes us crave more and feel unsatisfied. When this is a healthy thing, be it love or honesty or a career risk or heart racing intimacy or hard introspection or a delicious book or a third bowl of soup, moderation shows self-doubt and insecurity, as if we don’t deserve more of this wonderful thing because we’re not enough. When it’s not a healthy thing we crave, like fickle, conditional love or the doughnuts in the break room or 14 hours hiding in bed or tequila when you’re sad or the attention of someone disingenuous or shaming self-talk or heroin, a little “moderation” is an ugly, deep, dark way to chip away at your better self.
2. You will be successful if you show up to your life and live with calm confidence. If you show up, you will suffer and change and have to be honest and you will experience so much beauty around you … in you. And if you show up with calm confidence, realizing that most things don’t need your opinion, that your reaction to anything is your most useful power, and that most things that hurt us have nothing to do with who we are, you will find your freedom. You don’t need approval. You are precious, vast, and probably underestimate how brave and pure and happy your heart is, if you’d only just open it.
3. Look ‘em in the eye and hug ‘em.
4. If there is something that stirs you and makes you uncomfortable and tests you in seemingly unrelated ways, that thing that won’t let you go, you must confront it. in the words of e.roosevelt, “you must do the thing you think you cannot do.” this will define you whether you confront it or not, so be bold. you are stronger than you know.
5. Make mistakes and don’t expect perfection. Ask forgiveness and forgive easily.
6. The neglect and bullying of a child is unacceptable. Stand up for the kids in your life, on your block, all the ones at your kid’s school, the ones at the grocery store, on the street, at the park. Just one purposeful, positive, caring adult who steps up or steps in for the difficult ones, the rebels, the drop outs, the marginalized, the abused, and the overlooked can save lives, turn the odds, and off-set the shit they’ve been through.
7. Secrets rarely help. Say your truth out loud. you owe the people who love you that much.
8. Inactivity will kill you. when you lose something – a person, a dream, a chance – at some point you have to move on and that change, that forward grieving movement is the most painful, necessary thing you must do to save the rest of your life. Inactivity can kill your body, too. go outside and walk. breath deep. stretch. run or compete or adventure or lift heavy things if you can. appreciate the body you have and don’t take it for granted.
9. Trust your golden heart and give your light away. You are good, worthy of grace, and have nothing to prove.
10. “If you were to press your heart close up against somebody else’s heart eventually your hearts will start beating at the same time. And two little babies in an incubator, their hearts will beat at the same time. Love that. So if you have somebody in your life that is prone to anxiety, like myself, and if you happen to be a calm person, you could come up and hug me heart to heart and my heart hopefully would slow to yours. And I just love that idea. Or maybe yours would speed up to mine. But either way, we’ll be there together.” – Andrea Gibson
Andrea Gibson
It’s unimaginable and disgusting that this happens to children that don’t even understand what’s happening to them.
-Allie
I have to admit I don’t know how I was expecting this to end…but certainly not like that!
This week, India became the first Asian nation to reach Mars when its orbiter entered the planet’s orbit on Wednesday — and this is the picture that was seen around the world to mark this historic event. It shows a group of female scientists at the Indian Space Research Organization (ISRO) congratulating one another on the mission’s success. The picture was widely shared on Twitter where Egyptian journalist and women’s rights activist Mona El-Tahawy tweeted: “Love this pic so much. When was the last time u saw women scientists celebrate space mission?” In most mission room photos of historic space events or in films about space, women are rarely seen, making this photo both compelling and unique. Of course, ISRO, like many technical agencies, has far to go in terms of achieving gender balance in their workforce. As Rhitu Chatterjee of PRI’s The World observed in an op-ed, only 10 percent of ISRO’s engineers are female. This fact, however, Chatterjee writes, is “why this new photograph of ISRO’s women scientists is invaluable. It shatters stereotypes about space research and Indian women. It forces society to acknowledge and appreciate the accomplishments of female scientists. And for little girls and young women seeing the picture, I hope it will broaden their horizons, giving them more options for what they can pursue and achieve.” To read Chatterjee’s op-ed on The World, visit http://bit.ly/1u3fvGZ Photo credit: Manjunath Kiran/AFP/Getty Images
notyourexrotic
So proud!
I'm so in love with your blog ahhhh
Thank you so much! :D