staystaystaystaystay

I spent my Saturday night with my friend, Dan. He was avoiding a girl named Hayley who he didn't want to kiss, all the while he was too drunk to realize that I didn't want to kiss him. To distract Dan, who is truthfully a nice guy and was too inebriated to be anything more than a slight nuisance, I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. He bumped into me when he slowly realized that I had stopped dead. We were standing under a tree and I looked up. Vermont's light pollution, while still existent, is lesser than in many other places and so the stars were pretty bright and the leaves on the trees were heavy with the red, orange, and gold of fall. Dan is in my Irish Lit class and had been quoting Yeats all night. So, pointing and staring at the sky, I told Dan that we should write a poem. He stumbled through a suggestion that came to him too quickly for him to say clearly. "We--we should, like--we should alternate words." And we tried to, but. I don't know. You read it.

The leaves are
contrasted by
the color of
the underboughs

We stand gazing
up, hoping for
a clear in the
cirrus clouds

Sammi and Dan take Ryan

Sammi and Shae are cute as hell.

Sammi and Dan take Dion

***

I feel like it's been a really long week, and so I'm going to write down a story I told Hobey this Summer. This story inspired him to ask to see pictures of me as a child, "because you seem like you would be a weird kid." Anyway, this story begins at Montessori preschool. I was unaware of, I don't know what to call it, classroom etiquette, I guess, and didn't know that in a large circle, the best way to get attention was to raise my hand. Instead, three-year-old Sammi sat, a very small person in a very large circle, adamantly repeating, "Excuse me. Excuse me. I need to go to the bathroom. Excuse me. Can I go to the bathroom?" I didn't like breaking the rules and when I tried to get up and go the bathroom without asking, I was yelled at by my teacher who had somehow decided she didn't like me. I was growing more and more agitated, but no matter how loudly I talked, or, probably more accurately, how loudly I thought I was talking, no one heard me. In a surge of frustration, I decided, despite the fact that I was wearing my "big girl undies," that I was going to the bathroom. Being, I want to say, vindictive, I peed, right there on the floor.

Let me tell you, the lady who had to change my underwear was very unhappy with me. She grumbled under her breath and roughly pulled up my new underwear. I got sent home and I think that I started associating peeing on the floor with going home so from this one incident, sprung a series of unfortunate days where I peed on the floor during circle time and ran to my grandmother or mother, whoever had come to pick me up. I always tried to ask to go beforehand, but if I wasn't heard, it was no real loss to me.

Eventually, my mother asked me what was wrong. I told her that no one ever heard me when I asked to go the bathroom, so she met with the teacher and told her what had been happening. I remember hiding behind my mother's skirt, not wanting to look the lady in the eye. Then my mother explained to me that I should simply raise my hand, ask to go the bathroom; I would be allowed to go, and when I finished, I could just come back and join the circle. I nodded along. My mother and the teacher talked for a while longer, but I still didn't like the teacher's tone and I didn't like the way she talked to me. I knew she didn't like me but I felt like I hadn't done anything to deserve her rudeness and dislike. Her smile, I felt, wasn't real.

The next day, at circle time, I did as I had been told the day before: I raised my hand and was granted permission to leave the circle and go to the bathroom. Then I walked my little self to the bathroom, shut the door behind me, turned on the light with my little fingers, put my hands on my little hips and made a decision. A bit later, I flushed the toilet, washed my hands, walked my little self back to the circle, and peed on that lady's floor.

This was the series of incidents that led to my parents believing that I wasn't potty-trained until I was five. Needless to say, I didn't return to Montessori preschool.

I'm definitely a bit older in this one, but it's got my sister in it.

***

Alright, now I'm mad. Could I end with anything other than a rant? (I mean, probably, but that wouldn't be any fun.)

First, I'll present the media that I find problematic.

If you don't feel like listening to this song, I'll provide the necessary information. It is sung from the perspective of a man who thinks that the girl he is romantically chasing (which is sort of an oxymoron) is either a lesbian or a bisexual or perhaps pansexual, it's never specified which. Now you're like, "Sammi, what the hell are you complaining about???? Don't you want representation?????" The answer is yes. I want representation for all marginalized groups. The problem with the representation that females who are attracted to other females usually get is that it borders on pornographic.

Now, what does that mean? It means that anytime a girl is kissing another girl, it's because that kiss has been fetishized. The reason that kiss is appearing, that these girls have perfect, long, brown hair, that they aren't wearing pants in the middle of a field, or making out in the back of a truck, is because they exist purely for male pleasure. It's not representation when straight guys watch lesbian porn, and this is the same thing on a smaller scale.

Both girls are very feminine, which while this is very possible and definitely breaks the mold that lesbians (or whatever orientation those girls are implied to be) are butch, it doesn't leave room or provide representation for lesbians who are butch. While I know that two feminine girls could be perfectly happy in a relationship, I feel like this is also a reflection of the type of girls we like to see in music videos. If you guessed "the kind of girls that boys find attractive," then boy! did you hit the nail on the head.

Honestly, the fact that these groups are treated with such disrespect is infuriating. Imagine, being someone who is questioning their own sexuality and seeing either a lack of media representation or a representation that portrays the kind of relationships you think you wish to have as only promiscuous trysts, (which I support whole-heartedly if they are what someone is interested in) which can be scary and can portray a culture that isn't true. I am upset at this, and you all probably feel like I'm putting too much weight on this one music video, but if you think about how many girls, when they come out as bisexual are either asked if they want to have a threesome or asked, "Are you gay/straight now?" depending on the sex of the person they are currently seeing. Think about how many bisexual or pansexual people's families are hoping that they will settle down in a heterosexual relationship. Think about how many transgender kids are kicked out of their homes, verbally or physically abused, purposely misgendered, told they cannot participate because of an incongruity between their sex and their gender. Think about the fact that people don't even know about or believe in asexuality. Honestly, I'm mad about all of this. This issue that I've drawn attention to is a tiny, tiny facet of a ginormous problem that shouldn't, but does, occur.

If my rant and frustration isn't enough to get you to see this as an issue, let's consult the suicide rates.

"LGB youth are 4 times more likely, and questioning youth are 3 times more likely, to attempt suicide as their straight peers. Suicide attempts by LGB youth and questioning youth are 4 to 6 times more likely to result in injury, poisoning, or overdose that requires treatment from a doctor or nurse, compared to their straight peers. Nearly half of young transgender people have seriously thought about taking their lives, and one quarter report having made a suicide attempt. LGB youth who come from highly rejecting families are 8.4 times as likely to have attempted suicide as LGB peers who reported no or low levels of family rejection... Each episode of LGBT victimization, such as physical or verbal harassment or abuse, increases the likelihood of self-harming behavior by 2.5 times on average." (Source)

I don't like to think about how many kids wouldn't be inclined to take their lives if their sexuality was more accepted and represented in the media.

Here is a music video that sings about a girl who likes girls and doesn't fetishize bisexuality/homosexuality. I know that Brendon Urie is sort of naked in this music video and that it isn't a case of perfect representation, but I just wanted to show that there are instances where I can say that representation is representation and the fact that people of other orientation besides hetero exist is getting attention is something to celebrate and continue. He sings about a girl who has a girlfriend but also a boyfriend that she's using to keep up pretenses and he's the one who is naked.

This video is important. I recommend watching it.

***

Finally, here's the music I'm currently listening to, because, for some reason, I feel like the person who has made it this far cares. 

Unstuck

Snow by Louis MacNeice

The room was suddenly rich and the great bay-window was
Spawning snow and pink roses against it
Soundlessly collateral and incompatible:
World is suddener than we fancy it.

World is crazier and more of it than we think,
Incorrigibly plural. I peel and portion
A tangerine and spit the pips and feel
The drunkenness of things being various.

And the fire flames with a bubbling sound for world
Is more spiteful and gay than one supposes -
On the tongue on the eyes on the ears in the palms of one's hands -
There is more than glass between the snow and the huge roses.

***

I'm used to good days and bad days, even bad months and good months. Right now though, the days are good and bad. I took Emma and Emily to the grocery store and spent more than an hour walking up and down the isles, laughing at the most mundane, innocent things made ridiculous with our perversion and goofiness. Then when we piled ourselves back into the car, we were still laughing. By the time we got back to campus and I ate dinosaur chicken nuggets on their floor, the mood had passed. I walked back to my room and Christy, a girl on my floor who is a very avid hugger, wasn't particularly excited when I made plain my ache for human contact. From crying on Leah's shoulder, to counting how many M&M's she could catch in her mouth. Everyday feels like this weird mix of extreme goods and bads, which is exhausting. I'd like to say that it should be one or the other, but then, to be frank, all the shit could get fucked up, and I'm not really about that life. Other than that, as we approach next semester and registering for classes, there is the crippling fear that I will amount to absolutely nothing and that the salad days of long since passed. That the expectations will continue to rise and that I'm incapable of meeting them.

"I just wanna, I just wanna know

I just gotta, I just gotta know

I can't have it any other way"

“Poetry, in fact, is two quite distinct things,” H. L. Mencken wrote in a 1920 magazine column. “It may be either or both. One is a series of words that are intrinsically musical, in clang-tint and rhythm, as the single word cellar-door is musical. The other is a series of ideas, false in themselves, that offer a means of emotional and imaginative escape from the harsh realities of everyday.”

(I quoted this from a NY Times article about the phrase (compound noun???) "cellar door.")

"I'll be sleeping on the left side of the bed

Open doors for me and you might get some... kisses"

Honestly, the song is isn't really worth much to me other than those two lines but I posted it here because I've been working on this post for like three days and have lost control of my life. The only person who reads most of the things I write is Lexi and, other than the fact that she's probably getting sick of that, I keep writing things for no one to read.

Update: I meant things that I do not post on my blog. 

"Everything's Awesome For You!"

It was a little after eleven when I started pacing. I alternated between that and cowering under my covers, from what I don't know. A little before midnight, I was shaking. I curled up under my blanket and didn't move; I tried to focus. Everything was moving too fast, all happening at once. My head was spinning and an endless, repetitive reel of images were spinning in my head. Somehow, Tuesday night became Wednesday morning. I couldn't stop shaking and I started crying. (Because, like all my stories, I have to cry at least once; it's in my contract.) It was the kind of crying where I was choking on air and I felt like my muscles would give out from being so tense. My limbs felt heavy as I got out of bed. I opened my door and looked down at a hall of closed doors. I walked down it, searching for company anyway.

I walked through the unlocked door; Shae turned when I pushed her door open. She smiled and commented on how much homework she had to do. As I moved toward her and she saw my face, she asked if I was okay, what was wrong. (You know, the usual things you ask when losers in oversized flannels come into your room crying at quarter after twelve in the morning.) I was shaking so much that Shae asked if I was cold. She hugged me and I tried not to wake up Liezl as I explained what was wrong: everything was my fault.

I wasn't as quiet as I was hoping to be and Liezl half-sat up in bed and asked sleepily what was going on. I told her everything was okay and that she should go back to bed because she had class in the morning. She asked again what was wrong and told me to get into her bed with her. I told her no twice more before resigning and climbing, shaking, under her covers. I had my head on her chest and I shook as I explained. There had been a blood drive that day and pretty much everyone on my floor had donated. I, useless member of society that I am, passed out about five minutes in. My stomach had started hurting and then my fingers got all tingly and then the Red Cross nurses were shaking me and yelling, "Samantha!" I could barely breath as I said to Liezl, "When I passed out today, I didn't want to wake up." Liezl just rubbed my back; Shae wrapped her arms around me and put her head on my legs.

We had to write this essay for our freshman seminar. Liezl and I are taking it together. The essay was supposed to be a relation of our results from our Myers-Briggs personality test to our lives. I have taken the Myers-Briggs before and have always gotten the same result. While reading the description of an INFP, I always relate to what it says about my type, but they can never take into account how much of any one particular attribute I might exhibit and so the claims are broad and general. They have to be; they encompass a lot of people. But when I see the description of myself, I simply cannot see the positive aspects of being someone who lives only to please other people and will use any means necessary to avoid conflict out of fear of offending someone. I called my mother during the day on Tuesday. (I was crying, in case you were wondering.) I tried so hard to explain that everything was my fault. That if I were someone with a backbone who spent less time worrying about everyone else and making decisions that will harm everyone else the least and trying to make sure that the people who need a friend have that, I might be happier. I told her that it was my fault about Toby and my father and Nate and my self-destructive need to ensure everyone else's happiness, how anytime I didn't put everyone else first, I ruined everything. She didn't say, "No, Sam. You're not a fuck up." She said, "Let's focus on the positives! You're so nice, Sam. You're a great friend!"

I sobbed into Liezl's chest and told her that I didn't want to be a good friend anymore and that if I was different, the sky wouldn't have fallen, my father would be happy with who I am, my mother would support my choices, and I wouldn't spend so much time crying like a fucking loser. I told her that I was sorry and that I never meant for any of this to happen and that it was all my fault and that I was so, so sorry. Sorry for keeping her up and getting boogers on her shirt and distracting Shae from her essay and for fucking everything up.

"You can't leave us, Sam," Liezl said. "Shae and I would die without you." Shae nodded in agreement. "We need you. Becca and Christine and Lexi need you. Your parents need you. Mikayla needs you. Stay for us, but stay for yourself first. We love you, Sam. We need you."

Shae told me that I wasn't a burden on anyone, which was exactly the opposite of the problem. The problem isn't that I'm a burden on anyone; I work very hard not to be. The problem is that everyone else's happiness is a burden to me and because I try so hard not to be a burden on anyone else, I am a burden on myself.

I transitioned the conversation by rubbing my nose and then asking Liezl what she wanted for her birthday. I snapped out of it and reverted to myself; I made Liezl laugh and then I went back to my room. I laid in my bed until 2:30. I woke up at six. Then I laid in my bed all morning. Then I emailed my teacher, told her I was sick and couldn't come to class. Then I laid in my bed until 7:30pm, when I had to go to a meeting. Then I laid in my bed until I had to get up for class on Thursday morning.

On Thursday afternoon, I drove to Becca's house. I took her out to dinner and we did homework. She was in bed, ready to sleep, around ten. I put away the homework I was doing, pretended to be tired, and got into bed next to her. I had missed my Becca and I spent Friday shadowing her at Harwood; I saw Becca as she was in school everyday. She pushes away these people who wish to be close to her and doesn't seem to connect with a lot of people. I can't say that I blame her, that I'm any better, or that I understood why she was holding people at a distance when my relationship with her seemed so easy. I just assumed that everyone else could see her as I do.

On Friday night, I drove my sister and her roommate home. I pulled into the driveway, walked up the stairs, grunted a "hello" to my parents, and went upstairs to collapse in my bed. I got twelve hours of sleep and woke up exhausted.

The next morning, my sister and her roommate, Sam, made pancakes. After they handed me a pancake that looked as if it had been crumpled like a piece of paper before being torn into shreds, I asked if they wanted a hand. My sister said, "Your help?" Then I flipped her pancake. She just said, "Oh." A few minutes later, she asked me to come back and flip the last pancake. My parents came home from Home Depot and I drove myself back to school. I told Liezl to text or call me when she got back from dinner so that we could go out with Ellie, who was on campus for a bit and who I was itching to see. But Liezl never called me, so I proofread people's essays, which were filled with misused semicolons.

As I was leaving my house, I hugged my parents. After I initiated the hug between me and my father, he said, "Look! Sam's being nice!" I was too exhausted and drained to do anything but take his jibe and hug my mother before getting in my car and driving back down the hill. Then I felt bad; maybe I haven't been giving everyone the credit they deserve.

I really don't know. I don't know how to make anything better. I'm impotent, I feel, at effecting change, especially in myself and, honestly, I don't know what change is needed; I just know that this cannot continue. I will not live like this.

(It starts at 5:30.)

My floor has taken to calling ourselves a "cult."

Becca said it was like there was an "explosion" in the sky.

College Boys

Dear College Boys,

(I'm aware of this generalization and the hypocritical air this statement gives me in light of my recent discussion about not treating genders as hiveminds, so I'll rephrase.)

Dear College Boys Who Can't Take a Fucking Hint,

(Better?)

I'm talking to you. "Me?" Yes, you! I know that while you probably mean no harm and more than the majority of you are simply bugs on the windshield of my life, I'd like to set some ground rules and ask you a few questions.

1. Do not touch me.

You don't know me. Why are you touching me? Do not put your head on my shoulder. Do not put your arm around me. Do not rub my back. Do not reach out to touch me as we pass each other in the hall. I don't know what signal you think I have sent to you that would earn such an unwarranted expression of affection, but let me assure you that we have definitely had some sort of miscommunication.
This also applies to the girl you are dancing with. If her friend is pulling her away from you, let. her. go. Why should you do this? Because you have no right to be touching her and if her friend is pulling her away, I got some bad news for you buddy: She doesn't want to be dancing with you. She doesn't want you. While we're on the subject of dancing, I'd like to let you know that if you don't know me, there's not actually a reason to start dancing with me, but if you do start dancing with me, and this might just be personal, but please don't grope, rub, or smell me. I know that you might think that dancing gives you more rights to my or any other girl's body, but let me be the one to assure you: it doesn't.

2. You are not as good-looking as you think.

Not only that, but girls are not looking for you to complete her, whether it be for one night or any commitment longer than that. Trust me, if you think you're cute, you're probably not that cute. You're probably the guy she turns to when she's looking for someone to hook up with when she's drunk on a Saturday night and her sane, sober buddy has been lost in the crowd. Think about that and then reevaluate your life and your choices.

3. The texting has to stop.

If I have to block your number, there is a problem. Do not text and ask if I want to watch a movie in your room at midnight. (I'm not coming.) Do not send me good morning texts. That's some hard-core dating shit, and you and I are, at best, acquaintances. Chill the fuck out.

Question time:

First of all, what makes you think that I want you? In all honesty, do you think I shave my legs for you? Because if so, please refer to rule #2.

Secondly, I'm just bewildered. So entirely lost and confused. I wear sweatpants less often than I put on a bra and I love sweatpants. I am a mess; if you came into my room (Let it be known that this is certainly not an invitation to enter my room. Please don't do that.) I would be wearing the exact same thing I wore to breakfast and class and lunch: sweats, a t-shirt, and a sweatshirt. What you see is what you get and I truthfully don't know what you think I have to offer, but I promise it's not an emotional or physical commitment, no matter how short. I'm not hot; I don't dress cutely. Leave me alone. (That's not to say that girls who are hot or that do dress themselves like they own something other than cotton sweatpants or girls who are both hot and amazing dressers are asking for your company, because like I said, I'm not shaving for you and neither are they. But! If they are shaving for you, it still doesn't give you a right to invade their space, as clearly stated in rule #1.) Leave us all alone.

Finally, please look at yourself and the people around you. Please ask yourself why you feel that you have the right to anyone's body. Ask yourself why you continue to pester girls after they've either made their uninterested intentions clear or have done nothing to return your sentiment. Think about this and then be better, because I've had it.

lol

A Reflection on Your Mental Health

Shae really liked this poem and Lexi said that it was bearable, so I copied and pasted it from a word document and posted it here. On Friday, I got the letter that I wrote to myself last May and I don't really know what to make of it. Anyway, here's a thing.


In my memory
you were sitting
in a black, rolling desk chair
I had my knees
pressed to the front of the seat
But in truth
I probably wasn’t
that close

It was cold out
but warm in the room

You were looking up at me
I like to imagine
that you had
your hands on my hips
or
your fingers looped in my belt loops
but
you probably didn’t

The conversation
had become
burning embers
The sun
had been setting
since noon
and had just reached
the crest of the horizon
It was a burning orange-yellow
which sounds cliché
but only because it was

I don’t remember
breathing
for fear that I might startle you
into looking away
as you often did

I watched your eyes
and thought,
Wow.

The sun
set in a way that a beam
shone through the window
and onto my face
I felt warm
despite my goose bumps

You looked at the sun
shining on my face and
through the space between us
and
just said,

“Wow.”

"Push your lack of chest out

Look at my hair

Girl, I love the way you love yourself

your obsession with rocks and brown

and fucking the whole town's

a reflection on your mental health"

'CAUSE THAT'S JUST WHO I AM THIS WEEK

I think "I hate everything" is a good way to put it.

I simultaneously want to be social and never see another person again.

Everything's all hollow and cliche and I want nothing and everything to do with it.

Other than that, I need a hug, but if anyone touched me right now I think I'd punch them.

I'd like to run headfirst into a brick wall.

I was fine about two days ago. Seriously fine. Just yesterday. Ask Lexi. Lexi, was I or was I not totally fine a couple of hours ago? I talked to her just a minute ago. I was fine then.

I want to listen to music but all the music is the wrong music. It's not a good time for loud music or angry music. Sad music really isn't the way to go. But definitely not silence. That's a bad idea.

I wish my sleep shirt had pockets.

***

This summer, Hobey and I were discussing/arguing. I said, "Genders aren't a hive mind. A girl isn't a girl isn't a girl. I'm a girl. I'm sitting right here. I'm not anyone else and I'm not the way you're describing girls. Blanket statements about genders aren't ever true. You can't put all girls into the category of vapid, the same way I can't put you in the same category as all the Luke Russels of the world." (Luke is Becca's older brother whom Hobey and I share an extreme dislike for.)

"Yeah, but Sammi, you're not like other girls."

... And that's when I lost it and while Hobey was still sort of confused as to why I pinched his calf really hard when he said this, I really don't have the capability to explain it better than the following rant did.

"'You should date a girl who reads. Date a girl who spends her money on books instead of clothes, who has problems with closet space because she has too many books. Date a girl who has a list of books she wants to read, who has had a library card since she was twelve.' 

You’ve heard of this girl before, her name is Summer or Alaska or something else that sounds cutesy and different because she’s always trying to define herself as not being like ‘other girls’. The girl who reads doesn’t shop, watch sports, play video games or anything else that she deems to be beneath her. She buys books instead of clothes because who needs to be dressed, she is obviously lying if she says she understands Ulysses and doesn’t find a strange man sitting down beside her in a coffeeshop and buying her a drink even though she doesn’t want one to be predatory behavior. It’s okay to lie to or fail her because she confuses real life with fiction, wanting conflict right before the climax and then a sugar-coated happy ending. 

She isn’t a girl at all. She’s an idealized portrait of the already idealized trope of the manic pixie dream girl who only exists to serve as a love interest and teach broodingly soulful young men to embrace life’s many mysteries. Women do not exist to complete you or give your life meaning. It is not our job to get you to see the world with ‘renewed eyes’ and we certainly do not live just for you to project your half-baked obsessive fantasies on us and then call us foul names when we don’t fulfill them because excuse us if they’re your visions and not ours. 

And the Girl who Reads is one of the more toxic incarnations of the MPDG because it tells girls that if we like clothes, boys, being around our friends , taking pride in our appearances or anything else that doesn’t seem ‘deep or intellectual’ that we’re catty and jealous. We’re constantly trying to tell ourselves that we’re not like the other girls as if there’s something wrong with them. We all want to seem special and different and quirky so that we’ll eventually find someone whose personality quirks align with ours and create a lasting love affair. The girls who are not like us are called horrible names and treated like they’re worthless as if what they choose to do with their life is our decision. And as girls we cannot help tearing each other down; we see another girl on the street and think ‘oh she’s prettier, skinnier, smarter, more popular, more athletic’. 

With the Girl who Reads we measure a person’s worth based on how many John Green books are on their shelves or if they enjoy Bukowski. You do not have to be widely read or able to wax poetic about your favourite author for hours on end to be intelligent or interesting. But it is not the Girl who Reads who looks down on the girls who don’t and labels them as stupid, catty, vain, promiscuous or boring, it is the people who created the idea of her, they believe that because she is so deep and mysterious that her special snowflake syndrome will prevent judgments from being passed at her. Everybody wants to be different, everybody wants to be special but let me tell you something. You are exactly like those other girls; you all are made of the same atoms that make up the solar system but do not think that because you have nebulae in your bones that you are better than anyone else. 

I am sick and tired of people romanticizing this belief that if you don’t read that you’re not worth being loved. There are countless people I know who don’t like reading and who are still worth being loved the same amount as the people who do. Tumblr users say that they want to live like the Girl who Reads and be suffocated by the amount of literature they own because clearly book hoarding is the best way to go. Great for you if you want to find someone who likes the same things as you to be in a relationship with, you should want that. But if being a hollowed out shell of a manic pixie dream girl is your ideal life then you need to think more about what it means. I refuse to be a blank canvas on which you draw out all your delusions of what life and love should feel like according to you. I do not exist to counterbalance you. 

Stop looking for the Girl who Reads because you won’t find her. There are girls who read but they are not singularly formed archetypes constructed for your approval. Stop looking for someone who fits your 27 point idealized criteria of a person and find someone who’s real. Nobody ends a date by saying ‘wow I think you’re great and all but you’ve never read A Farewell to Arms so it’s not going to work out between us’. That’s just ridiculous. Date someone who makes you laugh so hard that you snort soda out of your nose and even when your shirt is soaked with carbonated bubbles they will still find you and your laugh cute when nobody else does. Date someone who understands when you’re upset with them that you are not just waiting for the plot to advance because the hero always fails at one point or another. Do not fail her, do not lie to her, because she won’t think ‘oh boy this is some conflict before the resolution’ she’ll just think you’re a jerk. Which you are. Date someone who you can love as a human and not as a fairytale. A Girl who Reads may be able to give you a world full of adventure and imagination but you know who could do that even better? A person who actually loves you . 

And pardon if I’m more than a little irked by the fact that we can’t even love each other as humans anymore, pardon if I am a ‘raging feminist harpy,’ pardon if I don’t want to be the dramatic backdrop to your trials and tribulations, pardon if I would rather people to see me as a person and not a walking, talking library. But I am 50 shades of done with the elitist belief that reading makes you worth more as a person and why is that? Because I am a girl who reads, I am a girl who writes but most importantly I am a girl."

-Source: http://volchitsa.co.vu/

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