Fuck you there is no title.
Junot Diaz on Men Who Write About Women
The Atlantic: It sounds like you're saying that literary "talent" doesn't inoculate a writer—especially a male writer—from making gross, false misjudgments about gender. You'd think being a great writer would give you empathy and the ability to understand people who are unlike you—whether we're talking about gender or another category. But that doesn't seem to be the case.
Junot Diaz: I think that unless you are actively, consciously working against the gravitational pull of the culture, you will predictably, thematically, create these sort of fucked-up representations. Without fail. The only way not to do them is to admit to yourself [that] you're fucked up, admit to yourself that you're not good at this shit, and to be conscious in the way that you create these characters. It's so funny what people call inspiration. I have so many young writers who're like, "Well I was inspired. This was my story." And I'm like, "OK. Sir, your inspiration for your stories is like every other male's inspiration for their stories: that the female is only in there to provide sexual service." There comes a time when this mythical inspiration is exposed for doing exactly what it's truthfully doing: to underscore and reinforce cultural structures, or I'd say, cultural asymmetry.
three haikus ii

wewereajigsaw:

i.
jesus fucking christ
another fucking haiku
i’m sick of this shit

ii.
cherry blossoms fall
at the speed of oh my god
no one fucking cares

iii.
write some poetry
about cool shit like bar fights
you goddamn wankers

I’ve never wanted to be a teacher. 

I suppose it sounded okay in the abstract, being someone who inspires and educates. But that assumes one has any knowledge, or skill at imparting it. I lack in both departments. 

So I scramble to find something like a curriculum, and I leave my classes shaking and sick at my stomach, painfully aware that these kids are receiving what is supposed to be the foundation for their academic careers from me and it is shit. I lie awake at night trying to figure out what to lecture on the next day, or the day after that, and nothing sounds right. 

I don’t know what I want to do with my life. But I’m growing more and more certain that teaching isn’t it. I don’t think writing is, either. 

My window to escape is closing rapidly, and the thought of doing this for three or four more years is… horrific. 

mal de coucou

dictionaryofobscuresorrows:

n. a phenomenon in which you have an active social life but very few close friends—people who you can trust, who you can be yourself with, who can help flush out the weird psychological toxins that tend to accumulate over time—which is a form of acute social malnutrition in which even if you devour an entire buffet of chitchat, you’ll still feel pangs of hunger.

Selfish, they said, and murderous;

You wouldn’t be so flippant if. Give the child
A face, they said. Not some faceless foetus
Not some faceless fatal flushing
Red in the hospital nappy-pads, giddy
With the general an.

You’ve had a few faces, all of them
Mine and some of them his, and
We’ve all named you, absurd, sentimental
And once, for Light’s birthday-
A goat.

You are, ghost, a joke.

A goat,
(waving a cake-encrusted knife, Light),
That’s what we’ve done with you,
Kid. We made a joke of you.

Selfish, they said, and callous;

For the sake of arguments I shouldn’t
Have to have, you have had
Names and faces you did not earn;
I have tried to care
I have tried to mourn
I have tried to imagine
How I would have felt
Were you born.

Selfish, they tell me, selfish and immature;

Yes.

I share my body for hours
Ticking off the clock, my secrets safe
From fingers, tongues,
And cocks.

You wanted it for months, your
Happy hiding cave; then years
Your feeding place, your climbing frame
Your carriage, your bodyguard.

Yes.

I was never his. And I will never be yours.

Selfish, they said, because they do not know
Who my real children are.

Listen, kid;
Your siblings outclass you
Their faces outlast yours-

-these hands have made universes.
These lips speak legions, multitudes
Upon whom greater deeds than
A parent’s imaginings can be pinned
(your corkboard skull would take years
To fill and frame, doubtless, only
The least of thoughts).
- these hands are my creation
Not the uterine tyranny
Caught in cotton hospital pads.

Selfish, they said, and murderous.

Yes, kid.

Greater for never having been:

You are a goat.
A joke.
An anecdote.

And I am murderous, and selfish, and mean
And this poem will live longer
Than the fruit of their loins.

Biro-Punctured Womb: Splatty’s Elegy - Delilah Des Anges (via jelenedra)
apiphile:

toomanyfeelings:

deltumbles:

jewelweed:

methodistcoloringbook:

silentpunk:

yoursecretary:

bah ha ha ha ha

“misguided sexual rage” haha

almost my douchey trifecta! love this.

i briefly dated someone in college who literally fit all of these categories

*snerk* 

I also dated this man, and other variations of him, several times. Sigh.

oh yes. 

apiphile:

toomanyfeelings:

deltumbles:

jewelweed:

methodistcoloringbook:

silentpunk:

yoursecretary:

bah ha ha ha ha

“misguided sexual rage” haha

almost my douchey trifecta! love this.

i briefly dated someone in college who literally fit all of these categories

*snerk* 

I also dated this man, and other variations of him, several times. Sigh.

oh yes. 

foryearsonlyfish:

who are jealous of the colored revolution,

because for you, the rainbow has never been enuf,

this is for all you hurt straight white boys, so clenched straining

struggling for potency, oh all you straight white boys

i hear how hard it is for you.

i’ve heard all about your anger, the

And yet does it not all come again to the fact that it is a man’s world? For if a man chooses to be promiscuous, he may still aesthetically turn up his nose at promiscuity. He may still demand a woman be faithful to him, to save him from his own lust. But women have lust, too. Why should they be relegated to the position of custodian of emotions, watcher of the infants, feeder of soul, body, and pride of man? Being born a woman is my awful tragedy. From the moment I was conceived I was doomed to spout breasts and ovaries rather than penis and scrotum; to have my whole circle of action, thought and feeling rigidly circumscribed by my inescapable femininity. Yes, my consuming desire to mingle with road crews, sailors and soldiers, bar room regulars - to be a part of a scene, anonomous, listening, recording - all is spoiled by the fact that I am a girl, a female always in danger of assault and battery. My consuming interest in men and their lives is often misconstrued as a desire to seduce them, or as an invitation to intimacy. Yet, God, I want to talk to everybody I can as deeply as I can. I want to be able to sleep in an open field, to travel west, to walk freely at night…
The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath (via redwagon)

I have no problems that could not be solved with a time machine and a gun.