Can y’all just appreciate this photo of my brother and sister that I took at Target for a second? Lookin fierce as fuck!
Reblog because best friend is back in town!
1. You were messing around behind his back, too, and you don’t want to be hypocritical.
2. You were messing around behind his back a while ago, and you don’t want to be hypocritical.
3. You plan on messing around behind his back in the future, and you don’t want to be hypocritical.
4. You have his ATM PIN, and you just need enough time to steal his card before cashing yourself out and dumping him.
5. You’re married, you’re the breadwinner, and you didn’t sign a prenup. Take him back until you find the right lawyer. Then divorce his ass.
6. I can’t think of any other reason. What other reason could there possibly be!
I’m so fucking sick of you. All the god damn time, and everywhere, too. In a way that makes it so I can’t look away, which is really unfair, because I don’t want to see you anymore. You, everywhere. I would like for you to go away. To shut up. To accept your dismal, irrelevant existence, and to stop rubbing it in my face. I would like to look at someone different. Someone who doesn’t look like you. Someone without that dopey look on his face, expecting me to accept you and all your flaws because you have grown to believe that it is my duty to do so. Newsflash: it’s not. I don’t have to love you. I don’t even have to like you. I certainly don’t respect you, and I don’t think you’re special. You’re scum, really, for all the terrible things you have done, and there you are, wagging your tail and expecting me to tell you that it’s okay. But it’s not, and that’s the problem, isn’t it? You’re everywhere, and you’ve done all these atrocious things, but you think I should think you’re beautiful? That hurting other people was hard for you? That being like this is a burden, when everyone else out here – and we all agree on this one – you’re the worst. You’re the absolute worst, and we all fantasize about what life would be like without you. How happy we would be without you. You think you’re so important, but what you don’t know is that we’re all waiting in the cuts, plotting your downfall. All of us! Every last one of us! We’re all so fucking sick of you! And your control issues, your need for power, your aptitude at oppressing everyone around you. You’re joyless, really. You’ve built an empire of pain, but we are here to occupy your throne. Or, to destroy it. No one should be like you. May my children never be like you. May they avoid the pain of being a white man. As you plaster yourself on billboards and in T.V. shows and tell everyone else that you are the standard of beautiful. But you’re so fucking ugly. To me, and to everyone else. Nobody even likes you! Nobody wants you here! Why did you even come here in the first place? You’re not welcome here anymore. Please leave. Please don’t talk to me. Please stop touching me. Get the fuck away from me, and, yes, I would like to see you cry as you walk out the door. Piece. Of. Shit.
I was always afraid growing up. Because that’s the way that the world taught me to be: afraid. Of so many things, but, most specifically, dark alley ways, men offering me money and fame, being alone late at night, strangers and success. Success being something worth fearing because successful women have done dirty things in order to attain their success, such as walking down dark alley ways, canoodling with men who offered them money and fame, being alone late at night and hanging out with strangers. While I understand the social functionality of warning young girls against making eye contact with random men on public transportation, for all my twenty seven years of taking public transportation, and walking down public streets, and generally being an adult, I have to admit that their advice was unwarranted. Sure, some of these strangers have pulled up to me in their car in the streets of Richmond, telling me I should get in if I want some free cocaine. And some of these strangers have approached me in bars, trying to put a hand up my skirt with promises of a sexual pleasure I didn’t want. But, for the most part, the strange men I have met have mostly been innocuous, and when they haven’t been innocuous – well, I know that this is a naughty thing to say, but I’ve been fine on my own. I know that they don’t want the rest of the women to know this, because a woman doing fine on her own in society is somehow such a huge threat, but it’s true. And I wish I would have known way earlier how fine I truly could be on my own. Maybe then I wouldn’t have turned away from so many opportunities, so many invitations, so many new experiences. Maybe if society hadn’t whispered in my ear, “He’s going to drug you and rape you!” I would have walked down a different path. If every man that I encountered hadn’t already been painted as a leering villain who was going to beat me and cheat on me. Sometimes men get a bad rap, but I’ve also noticed that only certain men get a bad rap. You know what I’m talking about. The black ones. The brown ones. Those were the ones I was supposed to be afraid of, the ones lurking in dark corners with bad deeds on their lips. But, let me tell you! I have been in those dark corners, and I have looked for bad people, and more often than not there was no one there. There was no one plotting against me, or against women in general. In fact, by the time I was done looking for that bad man that my mother had warned me against I realized, plain and simple: the most frightening thing lurking in this dark corner is me. I am the beast that they fear, and there’s something empowering in that. There is so much humanity in the people that I have been taught to fear, but what should surprise you more than that is the animalism that I see in the people who claim to be the opposite of all that. Ah, yes, our white saviors, valiant with their pockets full of money and their college degrees. He’s the bad man, but my mother didn’t warn me about him at all. I think that on some level slaves fear their masters, but I am not a slave. I am not afraid of money, or status, or power, and the inherent connection between those things and the color of a man’s skin. I think my mother was wrong, and when I tell her that, she is dismayed, but it is better that way. It is better for me to know who the enemy is, and it’s better that I know that the enemy has told me to fear a certain person who is, in fact, the most human of us all. But I am the beast that my enemy fears, and I wait in the cuts, with this knife in my hand. I am the bad man, or that’s what the enemy says. And I don’t care who knows, because I have this knife in my hand, and this grin on my face, and being a bad man is so much fun, especially when you’re a woman.