June 2013
“Women are supposed to be the ones on the balcony, not the ones down below professing their love. We don’t think the female romantic is romantic. We think she is a predator. We think she is desperate, unstable—Fatal Attraction, the cougar, the spinster, the troublemaker. But deep emotion in this age is a radical act.”
—Masha Tupitsyn in this incredible Bitch interview on Love Dog (via marginalutilite)
awful stomach ache day #3 and i have a ballet assessment this afternoon
so fucking frustrated
not sure if i need sex, sleep, or to punch someone in the face.
all of the above
“Society, however, does not see all fat as being equal. A man can be much, much fatter than a woman and still be viewed as comfortably within the standard deviation; most department stores carry men’s pants up to a size 42, which is the rough equivalent of a women’s size 24—a size that a woman would have to visit a specialty big-girl store or “Women’s” department to find. Men are comfortable on beaches with their beach-ball bellies hanging over their swimsuit waistbands, bronzing their fat in the sun, whereas my fat women friends struggle to find swimwear that does not feature a skirt.
So me, I’m transgendered. It means that the gender I present in the world is not congruent with the sex that I was assigned at birth; in practical terms, I mostly look like a man but have a body that some would consider physiologically female. Even though I don’t identify as a man (I am a butch, which is its own gender), I am taken for a man about two-thirds of the time. And when I am taken for a man, I am not fat.
As a man, I’m a big dude, but not outside the norm for such things. I am just barely fat enough to shop at what I call The Big Fat Tall Guy Store, and can sometimes find my size in your usual boy-upholstery emporia. Major clothing labels, like Levi Strauss, make nice things in my size, and I am never forced to wear anything that appears to have been manufactured at Mendel the Tentmaker’s House o’ Fashion. (Although those things do exist for men, too. Those terrycloth shirts with the waistbands? Oy.) I can order extra salad dressing or ice cream or anything else in a restaurant and have it arrive without comment; I can eat it in public without anyone taking a bit of notice, even if I am shoving it into my mouth while walking down a crowded street and getting crumbs all over my chest in the process. I can run for a bus or train without anyone making a snide remark.
As a big guy, I’m big enough to make miscreants or troublemakers decide to take their hostility elsewhere. As a woman, I am revolting. I am not only unattractively mannish but also grossly fat. The clothes I can fit into at the local big-girl stores tend to fit around the neck and then get bigger as they go downward, which results in a festive butch-in-a-bag look—all the rage nowhere, ever. No matter how clearly I order a Coke in a restaurant I must be on a diet, and so I get a Diet Coke—usually with a lemon floating in it accusatorily, looking up at me as if to say, “This is as good as it’s going to get, lardass.” Wait staff develop selective amnesia about my side of fries or my request for butter, and G-d help me if I get caught eating (or even shopping) in public as a woman.” —S. Bear Bergman, “Part-Time Fatso” (via wretchedoftheearth)
So me, I’m transgendered. It means that the gender I present in the world is not congruent with the sex that I was assigned at birth; in practical terms, I mostly look like a man but have a body that some would consider physiologically female. Even though I don’t identify as a man (I am a butch, which is its own gender), I am taken for a man about two-thirds of the time. And when I am taken for a man, I am not fat.
As a man, I’m a big dude, but not outside the norm for such things. I am just barely fat enough to shop at what I call The Big Fat Tall Guy Store, and can sometimes find my size in your usual boy-upholstery emporia. Major clothing labels, like Levi Strauss, make nice things in my size, and I am never forced to wear anything that appears to have been manufactured at Mendel the Tentmaker’s House o’ Fashion. (Although those things do exist for men, too. Those terrycloth shirts with the waistbands? Oy.) I can order extra salad dressing or ice cream or anything else in a restaurant and have it arrive without comment; I can eat it in public without anyone taking a bit of notice, even if I am shoving it into my mouth while walking down a crowded street and getting crumbs all over my chest in the process. I can run for a bus or train without anyone making a snide remark.
As a big guy, I’m big enough to make miscreants or troublemakers decide to take their hostility elsewhere. As a woman, I am revolting. I am not only unattractively mannish but also grossly fat. The clothes I can fit into at the local big-girl stores tend to fit around the neck and then get bigger as they go downward, which results in a festive butch-in-a-bag look—all the rage nowhere, ever. No matter how clearly I order a Coke in a restaurant I must be on a diet, and so I get a Diet Coke—usually with a lemon floating in it accusatorily, looking up at me as if to say, “This is as good as it’s going to get, lardass.” Wait staff develop selective amnesia about my side of fries or my request for butter, and G-d help me if I get caught eating (or even shopping) in public as a woman.” —S. Bear Bergman, “Part-Time Fatso” (via wretchedoftheearth)
I want my eyelashes to be as black as my soul and as long as the list of people I hate.
sorry not sorry for the yolandi spam
Just got an e-mail from southbank centre saying that tomorrow night at the Peaches concert she will be performing “Peaches Christ Superstar”
omg. dead. what. this should be good.
i cannot wait to go back to bed after the gym+the dance assessment
this is really not the time to be sick
so the next three days i have dance technique assessments in which they judge a whole year of work in an hour and a half
“I find that most people worth knowing are fucked up in some way or another.”
—Jonathan Tropper (via peaceful-wanderer)
oh no wait my flat’s kitchen smell’s fucking rancid. thanks 2 flat mates who make giant messes and never clean up.
i can’t stay in there long enough to cook even something simple. not okay. 2.5 more weeks.
guys why is it called the walk of shame
and not the laid parade
woke up feeling sick. chills + sweats + a stomach ache. what a great way to start assessment week. y’know, the ones that are solely dancing and are the one grade for year-long courses.
i’m indulging in trashy television time
right now its dance moms
and in this episode the kids are going to a competition that i used to do in chicago (i don’t think of myself as ever being a competition dancer but i guess i did do them for several years) and its sooooo weird to see
also that competition was always v. intense and stressful as fuqqqq
Superman was created by two Jewish kids of Eastern European descent in the ’30s. Do you understand why Krypton had to be destroyed, do you understand what an illegal immigrant God-man who turns into the ultimate American and whose mortal enemy is a nativist industrialist and who protects and (arguably) betters his adopted home would have meant to two Jewish kids of Eastern European descent?
people totally lose sight of the fact that superman was written at a time when european-american immigrants were not part of the white hegemony. the superman narrative only makes sense in 2013 if he’s latino or middle eastern but nobody’s going to do that
I just sat right behind Yoko Ono and got to cut part of Peaches' pants off!!!!!!!!!!!!!
as part of yoko ono’s meltdown festival at southbank centre
i have tons of feelings about the experience viewing/participating in the cut piece which i’ll share later
