I was thinking about how people use the phrase “I’m marrying my best friend” and how much I can’t relate to it. Don’t get me wrong, there is no one I’d rather spend time with than Amanda, but she certainly isn’t my best friend. When we first started dating, it was always dating. It took us months to have a movie date and when we did we spent the whole movie macking it, etc. I’ve felt about her from the beginning the way I never could about a best friend. We didn’t meet as friends. When I moved and we planned to be just friends I told her I loved her still and kissed her whenever I saw her, even though it hurt.
I think “I’m marrying my best friend” is a statement for straight people. The reaction to the phrase is supposed to be, “Oh wow, you really get along with this opposite gendered person on non-sexual levels.” To generalize, it’s easier for gay ladies to fall into the besties-who-kiss trap. I’m thinking of the first season of The Real L Word— those two similar-looking middle-aged women who were concerned mostly with installing chaneliers in their mansion— the brunette one said, “Being a lesbian is fabulous. It’s having a best friend you can also have sex with.” It made me so sad. Like these two Real Housewives of Orange County, after being ladies who lunch go home and stumble into bed because they’re such good friends? Maybe I’m being mean but I can’t be the only one who believes in compartmentalization.
I’m not marrying my best friend. I’m marrying someone who knows me inside and out, someone whom I love so much to rearranges everything I know about myself and the world. I love her in a way that best friend doesn’t even begin to cover.
“I decided then that my body wasn’t an apartment I was renting, it was the house I would always live in… It was all about understanding that changing my body would be a consequence of being a happier, more self-aware person and not the other way around.”—Julia Turshen, It’s All Good (via rosaley)
“We cross our bridges when we come to them and burn them behind us, with nothing to show for our progress except a memory of the smell of smoke, and a presumption that once our eyes watered.”—Tom Stoppard (via woolsweater)
A catcall is entirely about reminding you that you are not yours. The purity myth is entirely about reminding you that you are not yours. The fetishization of female purity in a world where catcalls are an acceptable form of communication telegraphs one thing very clearly:
“Women, stop sexualizing yourselves—that’s our job, and you’re taking all the fun out of it.”
The sexualization of women is only appealing if it’s nonconsensual. Otherwise it’s “sluttiness,” and sluttiness is agency and agency is threatening.
“At some point it becomes true that all stories
are love stories. all making, love making.
I didn’t make this rule. but it binds me
all the same. I wish there were a law
against condescending against love. against
the economy of fear that says your joy
means less joy for me as if love
were pie, or money, or fossil fuel
dug or pumped from the earth, gone
when it’s gone. it’s just not true. the heart
with its gift for magnificent expansion
is not coal. not fruit set to spoil or the dollar
cringing in its wallet. when you say darling,
the world lights up at its edges. when mouths
find mouths and minds follow or minds find
minds and mouths, hands, hips, toes, follow –
how about you call that sacred. how about you raise
your veined right hand and swear on the blood
that branches there, yes. I take this crush
to be my lawful infatuation. I will bend toward joy
until the bending’s its own pleasure. I will memorize
photographs and street maps, I will acquiesce
to the maudlin urgency of pop songs and dance,
and dance – there’s a perfection only the impossible kiss
possesses. there are notes you can only hear naked
in the dark of a room to which you will never
return. anything that moves the world toward light
is a blessing. why not take it with both hands,
lift it to your lips like a broth of stars. this
is the substance that holds our little atoms together
into bodies. this sweet paste of longing
is all that binds us to the earth.
and all we know of the gods.”—Marty McConnell, “Three of Cups” (via atomiclanterns)
Saturdays are for figuring out that apple cider vinegar smells horrible in the shower and deciding on names of our Mexican restaurants as we walk to the store to get pancake ingredients. Pancakes taste better with you.