And under here, Hedwig”—Harry pulled open a door under the stairs—“is where I used to sleep; You never knew me then— Blimey, it’s small, I’d forgotten… .”
Harry looked around at the stacked shoes and umbrellas, remembering how he used to wake every morning looking up at the underside of the staircase, which was more often than not adorned with a spider or two. Those had been the days before he had known anything about his true identity; before he had found out how his parents had died or why such strange things often happened around him. But Harry could still remember the dreams that had dogged him, even in those days: confused dreams involving flashes of green light and once—Uncle Vernon had nearly crashed the car when Harry had recounted it—a flying motorbike..
Anna Quindlen, How Reading Changed My Life
This quote represents my childhood (and that of many other minorities) + my current ambitions very accurately.
Looks like I finally need to read The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao.
I am woman.
It is not my fault on the first night in weeks when the chill is pleasant instead of to the bone that I want to take a walk in the fresh air under the night sky.
It is not your fault that you are busy working towards your future, our future, that you couldn’t walk with me in accommodation of my childish whim.
It is not my fault the hour is late.
It is not my fault the walk is long.
It is not your responsibility to protect me from the darkness and the dangers it possesses outside your control.
What about the girls who want to feel the pleasantly chilly air on their face without a man to keep guard while they stare stupidly at the helicopters or planes masquerading as stars in the sky?
Who will tell them to suffocate safely on the train?
Who will save them from being free in the city under Lady Liberty’s gaze?
Those poor girls that just walk home when they feel like it.
Those poor, poor girls who don’t take the train so as not to worry their men.
a clean room is a clear mind
I’m not going to pretend I’m happy. There is little to be gained in such meaningless deceit. I am, however, after happiness. Perhaps it is this goal that makes me so painfully aware of my failure to achieve it. But then happiness is fairly hard to come by The difficulty for me lies in the fact that I never know where to look for it- in which virtue or mannerism, by way of which morals or beliefs. We must all discover our own path to happiness, and the path is very different indeed for each person who has the destination in mind. Some find happiness in satisfying their ambition, some in satiating certain curiosities, others in overcoming some obstacle or other, and many find happiness in love. But to each his own and the paths are as or more numerous than the people themselves. Infinite, in a word. My hand quavers on the word happiness. Even in writing, it eludes me. Sometimes I think I am happy, but then my resolve shakes as does my pen on this paper. There are those who choose a path with a different destination. Knowing or unknowing, this path may lead to war or peace or any number of things. Knowingly, it may be a sacrifice. My happiness for his, or some such. Unknowingly, it may be an unmitigated disaster. It may be a well disguised path to loneliness and misery or pain and contempt. There is a woman sitting in a wicker arm chair. Can you see her? There is a slight curve in her back and her long, graying hair is braided to one side like the young girls of twenty or so who want to look pretty and modest at the same time. Reserved, but potentially available if you prove to be a proper gentleman. In truth, this woman is already taken and has been for many years now. When her husband comes outside with the tea and biscuits and joins her in his matching wicker chair, she will open her hair for him and he will think her beautiful and the woman will be happy.
Hand jobs and blow jobs are called jobs because they’re tedious and dicks are gross. Going down on a girl is called eating out because it’s a privilege.
I took this last year, but in retrospect, I think it’s my strongest piece from high school.
Working on this project really made me examine my own opinions, preconceptions and prejudices about “slutty” women and women who choose to cover all of their skin alike. I used to assume that all women who wore Hijabs were being oppressed, slut-shame, and look down on and judge any woman who didn’t express her sexuality in a way that I found appropriate.
I’d like to think I’m more open now.
Men Experiencing Labor Pains
With their wives supporting them.
HAHAHHAHAHA TOO GOOD
I bet a kick in the balls would feel real good right about then.
“Men can handle anything”
“Women exaggerate everything”
And then they realized just how wrong they were
That was beautiful
Found this in a stall in the girls restroom at my school. Hell yes