I thought the bathroom was really dark because my eyes were adjusting to the lights being off in the hallway after being in front of my laptop, and it was really dark outside, but the door was just shut and I smacked into it. it’s been two hours and my face still hurts.
He is taking a course on Marxist ideology.
He says, “The only real solution is to smash the system and start again.”
His thumb is caressing the most bourgeois copy of the communist manifesto that I have ever seen,
He bought it at Barnes and Noble for twenty-nine U.S. American dollars and ninety-nine cents,
Its hard cover shows a dark man with a scarved face
Waving a gigantic red flag against a fictional smoky background.
The matte finish is fucking gorgeous.
He wants to be congratulated for paying Harvard sixty thousand dollars
To teach him that the system is unfair.
He pulls his iPhone from his imported Marino wool jacket, and leaves.
What people can’t possibly tell from the footage on TV
Is that the water cannon feels like getting whipped with a burning switch.
Where I come from, they fill it with sewer water and hope that they get you in the face with your mouth open
So that the hepatitis will keep you in bed for the next protest.
What you can’t tell from Harvard square,
Is that when the tear gas bursts from nowhere to everywhere all at once,
It scrapes your insides like barbed wire, sawing at your lungs.
Tear gas is such a benign term for it,
If you have never breathed it in you would think it was a nostalgic experience.
What you can’t learn at Barnes and Noble,
Is that when they rush you, survival is to run,
I am never as fast as when the police are chasing me.
I know what happens to women in the holding cells down there and yet…
We still do it.
I inherited my communist manifesto,
It has no cover—
Because my mother ripped it off when she hid it in the dust jacket of “Don Quixote”
The day before the soldiers destroyed her apartment,
Looking for subversive propaganda.
She burned the cover, could not bring herself to burn the pages,
Hoped to God the soldiers couldn’t read,
They never found it.
So she was not killed for it, but her body bore the scars of the torture chamber,
For wanting her children to have a better life than she did,
Don’t talk to me about revolution.
I know what the price of smashing the system really is, my people already tried that.
The price of uprise is paid in blood,
And not Harvard blood.
The blood that ran through the streets of Santiago,
The blood thrown alive from Argentine helicopters into the Atlantic.
It is easy to say “revolution” from the comfort of a New England library.
It is easy to offer flesh to the cause,
When it is not yours to give.
you guys ever do that thing where you make your sister watch season 1 of orphan black and in the process of seeing it all again yourself, realise how worryingly you relate to alison? and try to avoid thinking about it until you catch yourself using a glue gun and thinking, “damn, I could do some serious damage to someone with this?”
Actresses who consistently support israel like Scarlett Johansen and Natalie Portman are popular and worshipped in holywood this is not new like why is everyone surprised this israeli gal chick is playing wonderwoman. Hollywood and the West loves israel and hates Muslims. This is nothing new.
I have so many mixed feelings towards the whole no-bra look, because on the one hand it’s gorgeous and looks totally effortless and cool, and on the other, I’m still resentful of the time I tried to embrace my lack of anything significant and went to hand in an assignment in black high-waisted jeans and a white t-shirt, and realised when I got home that the indistinguishable stain on my top I somehow acquired on my way to campus that people kept looking at was actually just my nipple.
I’m on such a Jeff Buckley kick rn, which happens every couple of months even though it feels like I say it every other day. there’s just this huge sense of attachment and affection there, and I don’t know if it’s out of sentimentality but I think he’ll always be this constant. it was his music that taught me you can simultaneously think a song is ridiculous and not give a shit because the person has so much conviction that you like it for the nerve. I find myself going through interviews and articles and biographies all the time even though I know it’ll be the same dweeby affectations and flowery prose about his looks, because it’s so comforting. maybe I’m romanticising the ‘92 - ‘97 scene(s) he was in, but it’s like this weird escapism to something totally specific and increasingly familiar the more I read, which is the same stuff in rotation until I forget the earlier material and can go back to it, rinse, repeat. and I should be bored of it but I never am. which is nice, like, having this entire set of songs that never feel dated or now untouchable no matter how many memories are stuck to each one. I hadn’t valued having music it feels like coming home to before.
If you’ve never been stuck in an Indian outfit so much that you needed your mom to come help you get out of it, you’re not a brown girl.
once I started crying in the washroom because my fucking nala wouldn’t untie and I really needed to piss so i grabbed the nail cutter and sawed myself out my pants and now my mom puts elastics in all my salwars I’m 19
if there’s one mannerism that I can’t stand, it’s that really forced way some people turn ordinary conversations into like, pseudo stand-up routines. I don’t know if it’s their sense of humour or what, but it makes me cringe so much. like, people who tell anecdotes as if they’re reading a really funny (when written) article, or they sort of reference these jokes about themselves that they’ve formulated but act like they’re taking the piss and being really down to earth and self-deprecating. y’know like referencing nicknames that they’ve given themselves? or they interject their own sentences with, “hey, what can I say, I…” in that put on lilt and kind of shrug-and-hands-up gesture. as if anyone asked or had a problem with it.
like, I see it a lot in people who don’t seem that confident talking in big groups or about certain ideas, and I wonder if it’s a defence of some sort. I mean, when people do the whole, “and then I […] - yeah that’s right, I [defence to do with the kind of person they are despite nobody interrupting to take an issue with it]” I kind of get that maybe they’re somehow insecure in what they’re saying so put on this jokey defiance. but there’s just something so unnatural and affected by it when it’s in regular conversation. like, I’m not an audience you’re talking at.
yeah like, books don’t do it for me. books, like, the things you hold in your hand and turn pages etc., not stories and poetry and written content. I mean, I specifically chose to study literature and have seriously considered a career teaching it. but aesthetically y’know? this whole thing about wanting floor to ceiling bookshelves and drooling over libraries, and no. they’re just so displeasing to look at for me, and something about huge masses of them in living spaces makes it really claustrophobic and kind of like this vacuum where it’s immediately darker and drearier the closer you get. I hate this whole thing of like, “I judge people who don’t have books on display” too. that’s like judging storage boxes. I’m gonna have an opinion on what you read, not the fact you read. and really, if you need it right there in front of you to prove that someone does, they’re probably not the one with an issue.
today’s been really good. I woke up early and read the first few chapters of Janet Mock’s Redefining Realness, and totally forgot about a bunch of songs I added to my iPod last night so listened to those while making breakfast. and I made the best salad ever (lettuce, cucumber, tomato, avocado, feta cheese, croutons, dressing made in ten seconds and actually really nice, and a soft boiled egg), and my new bottle of almond oil arrived in the post, and TEN NEW GLUE STICKS FOR MY GLUE GUN that I’ve been meaning to restock for ages but now they’re here and I can finally get back to using it. I organised all my drawers and storage boxes too, which I’ve been meaning to do for just under a month. (I’ve been home for a month?)
it’s kind of annoying because these past three years, my room at home was just where I slept and I didn’t bother redecorating as my tastes changed because I knew I’d be back at uni when the holidays were over. now I’m actually here, I realise how much there is in my room that I just don’t need or am completely indifferent to. my bookshelf is the worst, like, there’s three shelves, all crammed, and the only books I care about enough to keep on hand take up about 1/3 of a shelf. and the rest of the space could be used for so much. I’ll figure it out.
and I made a face mask (avocado, plain yoghurt, honey) using the food processor which I haven’t done in ages because I’m lazy and settle for mashing everything up with a fork, but oh my god, it was so smooth and creamy and I’m never going back.
i didnt know such beauty existed in the world (where did you purchase this gift???) but i am happy for you i hope it was everything you dreamed of
it was in the ice cream freezer of a Tesco express I now trust with my life. but like, it wasn’t an individual one, it was part of a box of three? tbh, it was kind of mediocre, like, it was def pistachio flavoured but I always think of pistachio ice cream as kind of light but this was really…woodsy? I’d still get it again though. oh my goodness, have you tried these? they’re so good:
I have a pistachio magnum in the freezer and I’m so excited about it. I’ve been avoiding eating it all day so I could have it at the perfect moment which is during this movie I’m about to continue with, and now that perfect moment is here and my heart is racing, and I’m trying not to well up and
I told my sister about this blazer I really wanted but didn’t get because it was £70 and I couldn’t justify it to myself at the time. and she said she really liked it too and asked if she would mind if she got it, and then felt bad and was like - because there’s a bit of give either way in between our sizes - she’ll get it for both of us, but mainly me. and then she got it like, in her size instead of in the middle, so it’s basically perfect on her and a little oversized, more of a jacket on me. and she decided she felt bad because I wanted it originally and did this whole, here, take it as a present thing, but blatantly after the return/exchange date had passed. and I still want it so badly, but in my size, and it’s just such a waste. do I sound ungrateful? like, this felt more selfish than other instances, but she does it all the time, this whole, I’m-going-to-get-you-something-you-want-but-not-really-because-I-know-better. like when I gave in to her offering to buy this top I wanted, and clearly stated I wanted it oversized and specified the size - and that there was no return policy - and she got it fitted because she “thought it would look nicer”.