Guys I’ve been doing a lot of reading on Tumblr and I’ve stumbled onto a faction of the radfem-dykequeer-genderfat movement that a lot of people might not be aware of. It’s called the anti-PIV crowd and no, PIV isn’t some new STD.
Apparently human beings, including you, have been having sex wrong since shortly after the dawn of time. We mistakenly believe that we’re supposed to engage in what’s known as PIV sex, that is, Penis-In-Vagina sex. Guess what? PIV sex is rape. Every time you’ve had sex you’ve either been raped, or you’re a rapist.
The sex that most people are doing now is actually just an invention of the patriarchy. It’s rape. Men invented PIV sex because it’s degrading to women and it’s suited to only pleasure them. That’s why most women never achieve orgasm during intercourse without additional clitoral stimulation. That’s why women have been oppressed since the beginning of recorded history. Every society and every culture is built upon the underlying act of rape.
In real sex – meaning the original sex that we were biological programmed for – the man is supposed to place his balls into the woman’s pussy, and then her pussy flexes and crushes the balls. The uterus then sucks sperm out of the crushed scrotum like a soup dumpling. When a man’s testicles are being crushed, the pain of being castrated by a woman causes the penis to go erect. This is because men subconsciously desire emasculation by women. The pleasure men are supposed to derive from sex is entirely psychological – they aren’t supposed to get off from physical stimulation of the penis. When the penis gets hard with the balls inside the pussy, it rubs up against and stimulates the clitoris, and this is how a woman reaches orgasm. When the woman begins to cum, her pussy constricts further, which provides the requisite strength to completely crush the balls and get to the sperm.
After the balls were crushed, the man would jump back in excruciating pain, which would cause the pussy to rip his scrotum and dick off of his body. The pussy would then suck the dick and balls up into the uterus, and this would provide food for the developing baby. The reason that babies are born completely incompetent nowadays is a direct result of the fetus not having the dick and balls of the father to eat while in the womb. The gestation period is shortened, and the baby comes out underdeveloped.
Now, I know what you’re thinking – sure balls are soft, but how could a pussy be strong enough to not only crush balls but also rip a dick off of someone’s body? Even with kegeling every day, isn’t that a little unrealistic? No, it’s not.
See women’s vaginas used to be a lot tighter, but when men formalized rape through widespread PIV sex, vaginas were systematically loosened through selective breeding. The original pussy was too powerful for a man to put his penis in it, and when men took control of the world, they stopped mating with women whose pussies were too tight.
In Paleolithic times, men were subservient and women had all of the power. Food was gathered, everyone was on a vegan diet, and men stayed at home to be shamed by the female children. Cave women were empowered in ways that the modern woman could only dream about. There was only one thing missing – shopping.
Women grew jealous of the animals, what with their elaborate fur coats and fancy paws. So, the women bred physically strong men for the purposes of hunting animals for their coats and shoes. This plan backfired however, as the physically strong men rebelled against the women leaders, and invented rape. Despite the power of female intuition and gossip, which at the time were secrets not shared with men, they could not compete with the overpowered slave men, and the power was wrested from their hands and pussies.
For forty thousand years now, humans have been engaging in formalized rape. If you consider yourself a feminist – stop letting men rape you, I don’t care how cute he is. And if you’re a man who considers himself a feminist, why not try to show your partner that you care by trying out real sex for a change? Obviously, for the reasons stated above, her pussy won’t be strong enough to crush your balls, but maybe you could smash them with a hammer and rip your dick off with pliers?
We get it. There’s a cartoon you like. You don’t have to identify through the lens of the fucking cartoon. I liked the wire but I didn’t start carrying around a plastic gun and quoting Omar every 15 fucking seconds.
The worst is every time anyone says anything anti brony they are like “I don’t get why people hate bronies for liking something you don’t like.”
We don’t hate that, we hate YOU. People who like House don’t carry a cane around and diagnose people.
Christ, the fact that I know the word “Clopping” is enough.
2. Stoner gear
Marijuana clothing, and no I’m not referring to clothing made of hemp, I’m talking about clothing with the marijuana leaf all over it.
People glorifying social anxiety. It’s really not funny or cute.
It’s great to accept it, it’s great to be yourself, but stop trying to be something you aren’t because uncool is now cool.
Wearing a ‘Ramones’ top without ever having heard a Ramones song.
I went up to a girl in college and asked her how long she’s liked the Ramones and asked her what her favourite song was. She told me I was stupid as ‘Ramones’ is a brand, Not a band.
I hated the whole Harlem Shake fad. I remember my office organized one and it was one of the cringiest things I’ve ever seen.
Obesity. America did it first and now other countries like Mexico and Australia are just trying to copy us. Get your own fads!
Faux pockets on women’s clothing.
When I was in highschool it was a fad among the “gangster” and “cool” girls to wear little Dora the Explorer, Spongebob, and other cartoon backpacks. Totally unnecessary, and it couldnt even fit any books..
Romanticising mental illnesses, anorexia, abusive relationships. What the fuck teenage angsty tumblr people? Suicide is not beautiful. Pictures of wrists with half healed cuts with a vintage filter are not pretty.
Back in middle school many of my classmates were drinking the ink from gel pens.
Let me repeat that. They were drinking the ink from gel pens.
Want to gauge them a little bit? Sure. But the second that I can stick a banana through your earhole, you’re a fucking moron.
Detox diet that involves drinking lemon juice, olive oil, milk of magnesia and whatnot. The moms are still falling for it in my town. Please, your healthy liver does the job just fine…
Bitsrips – but I think it’s over now.
Wearing fake glasses.
We get it, you like Japanese culture. Just stop fuckin’ cosplaying to your classes. Stop saying “desu” after sentences with emphasis on the “u” (it’s silent you dumbass).
Probably the worst encounter I’ve had was when some moron insisted that she was supporting Japanese culture because she had a Samsung phone and then kept insisting that Samsung was Japanese.
Planking. The only plank I ever enjoyed was in Ed Edd & Eddy.
I guess a lot of you will be too young to remember it, but in the late 90s visors were popular. The visor fad took 3 forms, listed here in order of increasing stupidity and irritation factor:
2) Visor worn backwards
3) Visor worn upside down and backwards. WTF was up with that. Can a former upside down + backwards visor wearer please reply with justifications for this.
Stickers on hat bills.
The pseudo-intellectual fad. No, you’re not smarter than everybody else because you lack the discipline to set a bed time for yourself. You’re not a scientist because you repost quotes from Bill Nye and Degrasse. You’re not an engineer because you’ve taken all of two semesters of undergraduate courses in college.
The tumblr girl fad. Everything about it is pretty awful IMO. Body positive pansexual doctor who nutella self-harm crap. I really have a hating towards those type of people and I’m sure most are okay people but still, doesn’t change the fact that they’re one of them.
They are extremely annoying. I’ve met them, and they’re the “quirky, so random, penguin of doom” types. One of them even wore a bowtie all the time.
Even though My Little Pony is said to have the worst fanbase of all time, the extent of seeing bronies in public, for me, has been one person wearing a pony shirt. Of course, that’s just my experience, but all in all Whovians seem more vocal. I’ve attempted to watch both shows and I simply can’t understand the obsession with them. However whereas MLP had decent animation and some sort of childish charm I cannot find any likeable qualities in Doctor Who… Terrible acting, pretentiousness and awful storylines are the most noticeable traits, and while some people do watch shows simply because they’re trainwrecks it truly astounds me that people watch Doctor Who completely seriously without an ounce of irony.
There is probably something I’m missing, something that draws so many fans in, but I attempted to watch some of the recommended, famous, beloved episodes and there was nothing above average and many things below. It was boring.
The sudden fascination/obsession with bacon. it’s always been great, why is it such a huge thing now?
24. Please shave
Scrappy beards. They never look clean. Groomed facial hair is fine, but when it’s just run amok, I sense crumbs and dried saliva. And strongly worded manifestos.
25. Beard couture
Beard Culture, guys who carry an assortment of oils combs and gadgets to maintain a little bit of hair on their face are ridiculous.
I guess they need something to go with their cool cigarettes and pleather jackets that they bought for SXSW.
The anti-vaccine thing. I refuse to call it a ‘movement’ with the hope it passes quickly. The hospitals I work in are warning people to wear masks and be alert about whooping cough and measles. I thought measles was nearly eradicated in the US until this year. As soon as someone says vaccines cause autism or whatever bullshit they lose 80% of their credibility. Those vaccine were created for a very good reason.
‘I’ve never met an ass to rival yours,’ he says. And that remark makes me feel better than if I’d just won the National Book Award. The National Ass Award – that’s what I want. The Transatlantic Ass Award of 1971.
Erica Jong, Fear of Flying
My thoughts are so far away from God. He might as well not have made me. And the feeling I egg up writing here lasts approximately a half hour and seems a sham. I don’t want any of this artificial superficial feeling stimulated by the choir. Today I have proved myself a glutton – for Scotch oatmeal cookies and erotic thought. There is nothing left to say of me.
Flannery O’Connor, A Prayer Journal
I have lived through much, and now I think I have found what is needed for happiness. A quiet, secluded life in the country, with the possibility of being useful to people to whom it is easy to do good, and who are not accustomed to have it done to them; then work, which one hopes may be of some use; then rest, nature, books, music, love for one’s neighbor—such is my idea of happiness. And then, on top of all that, you for a mate, and children, perhaps—what more can the heart of a man desire?
Leo Tolstoy, Family Happiness
The element of tragedy which lies in the very fact of its frequency has not yet wrought itself into the coarse emotion of mankind, and perhaps our frames could hardly bear much of it. If we had a keen vision and feeling of all ordinary human life, it would be like hearing the grass grow and the squirrel’s heart beat, and we should die of that roar which lies on the other side of silence. As it is, the quickest of us walk about well wadded with stupidity.
George Elliot, Middlemarch
William Stoner entered the University of Missouri as a freshman in the year 1910, at the age of nineteen. Eight years later, during the height of World War I, he received his Doctor of Philosophy degree and accepted an instructorship at the same University, where he taught until his death in 1956. He did not rise above the rank of assistant professor, and few students remembered him with any sharpness after they had take his courses. When he died his colleagues made a memorial contribution of a medieval manuscript to the University library. This manuscript may still be found in the Rare Books Collection, bearing the inscription: “Presented to the Library of the University of Missouri, in memory of William Stoner, Department of English. By his colleagues.”
John Williams, Stoner
Am I in love? — Yes, since I am waiting. The other one never waits. Sometimes I want to play the part of the one who doesn’t wait; I try to busy myself elsewhere, to arrive late; but I always lose at this game. Whatever I do, I find myself there, with nothing to do, punctual, even ahead of time. The lover’s fatal identity is precisely this: I am the one who waits.
Roland Barthes, A Lover’s Discourse: Fragments
We left Independence in April and saw the first tombstone before we reached the Kansas River. Timmy, Susan, and Edgar ran to read it. Here lies Stinky, it read. He Stinks.
Caitlin Horrocks, “On the Oregon Trail”
It’s such a good thing, isn’t it, a person can’t look in to the future? But now here we are in the this awful town, a couple of people who drink too much, running a motel with a dirty old swimming pool in front of it. And you in love with someone else. Duane, I’ve been closer to you than to anyone on earth. I feel crucified.
Raymond Carver, “Gazebo”
Gerti looks lovely, sitting there with her breasts all blue. Well, not actually her breasts, of course, only the dress over them, but she always looks as if she doesn’t have anything on.
Irmgard Keun, After Midnight
And how he kissed me under the Moorish wall and I thought well as well him as another and then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes.
James Joyce, Ulysses
Her name is Sharon Kincaid and she comes from Eufala, Alabama. Although she has been working for me two weeks, I have not asked her for a date nor spoken of anything other than business. Yet the fact is that for two weeks I have thoughts of little else. She seems quite indifferent so far; and she is not really beautiful. She is a good-sized girl, at least five feet sex and a hundred and thirty-five pounds – as big as a majorette – and her face is a little too short and pert, like one of those Renoir girls, and her eyes a little too yellow. Yet she has the most fearful soap clean good looks. Her bottom is so beautiful that once as she crossed the room to the cooler I felt my eyes smart with tears of gratitude.
Walker Percy, The Moviegoer
Sarah’s eye wasn’t damaged – her wide, deep brown eyes remained the dominant feature in a face that would become beautiful – but for the rest of her life a fine little blue-white scar wavered down from one eyebrow into the lid, like the hesitant stroke of pencil, and Emily could never look at it without remembering how well her sister had borne pain. It reminded her too, time and again, of her own susceptibility to panic and her unfathomable dread of being alone.
Richard Yates, The Easter Parade
The last bells are sounding. The pigeons sleep. In a moonlight like milk, beneath the worn facades, the Delage is parked to a few Renaults and an old, boxlike Citroen. Yes, Dean thinks, America. They will live in a studio downtown with a small garden, a terrace perhaps, and a few good friends.
James Salter, A Sport and a Pastime
And suddenly she thought, It’s the McAuleys I have to thank for all these presents, the flowers, the chocolates, and even the coat, for Eileen never could have bought it without Mona’s help. It’s them I have to thank for my birthday, people I hardly know, people who hardly know me. And that, for some reason, made her feel like crying. “Yes,” she said, and heard a catch in her voice. “Yes, it’s my birthday.”
Brian Moore, The Temptation Of Eileen Hughes
Before her marriage she had thought that she had love within her grasp; but since the happiness which she had expected this love to bring her hadn’t come, she supposed she must have been mistaken. And Emma tried to imagine just what was meant, in life, by the words “bliss,” “passion,” and “rapture” – words that had seemed so beautiful to her in books.
Gustave Flaubert, Madame Bovary
“Honestly, you don’t understand – I haven’t heard a thing.” Nor known, nor smelt, nor tasted, he might have added; only hot-cheeked girls in hot secret rooms. The young maidens he had known at New Haven in 1914 who kissed men, saying “There!” hands at the man’s chest to push him away. Now there was this scarcely saved waif of disaster bringing him the essence of a continent.”
F. Scott Fitzgerald, Tender Is The Night
There comes that phase in life when, tired of losing, you decide to stop losing, then continue losing. Then you decide to really stop losing, and continue losing. The losing goes on and on so long you begin to watch with curiosity, wondering how low you can go.
George Saunders, “Christmas”
She had an authenticated beauty. Several photographers had asked her to model, although her breasts, marvelous for nursing and love, were a little too big for that line of work… But she had, maybe twelve or fourteen times, stood in front of the full-length mirror in their bedroom and asked him, “Is there another woman of my age in this country who is as beautiful as I?” She had been naked, overwhelmingly so, and he had thought this an invitation, but when he touched her she said, “Stop fussing with my breasts. I’m beautiful.” She was, too. He knew that after she’d left, whoever had seen her – the turnkey, for instance – would say, “If that was your wife you’re lucky. Outside the movies I have never seen anyone so beautiful.”
John Cheever, Falconer
On a dark and lonely battlefield I have never seen, my son was wounded like Apollinaire and now he is screaming soundlessly… Bird began to cry. Head in bandages, like Apollinaire: the image simplified his feelings instantly and directed them. He could feel himself turning into a sentimental jelly, yet he felt himself being sanctioned and justified: he even discovered a sweetness in his tears. Like Apollinaire, my son was wounded on a dark and lonely battlefield that I have never seen, and he has arrived with his head in bandages. I’ll have to bury him like a solider who died at war. Bird continued to cry.
Kenzaburō Ōe, A Personal Matter
What should he do at that, poor man, starting up in the night from his sleep to such nonsense, but comfort me blindly and murmur dream, small snail, only dream, bad dream, as I do to the children. I could go away like the wise cicada who abandons its shell to move to other mischief. I could leave and let my bones play cards and spank the children….Peace. How can I think of such ludicrous things – beauty and peace, the dark soul of the world – for I am the wife of the house, concerned for the rug, tidy and punctual, surrounded by blocks.
William Gass, “Order of Insects”
Not only do we want it, we need it. Freedom equates to survival for us. When we say that we want to go out for a few, whether it’s to grab a bite to eat or see a movie by ourselves, believe us. We’re not going out to cheat on you, we’re not doing anything mysterious, we just want some “me” time. Once you can understand this and respect it, we end up loving you 10 times more. Win, Win.
Deep down we’re feminists (without the title; it’s 2014 – we don’t need it). Although we like to do things on our own and occasionally fit the bill, we are not, and I repeat, we are not your mother. We don’t want to pick up after you around the house, we don’t want to micromanage your life, and we damn for sure don’t want to cook and clean for you every day of the week. We believe in equality. And although we love catering to our men, we also love a man who can pick up his fare share in the relationship.
Respect our thoughts. If you don’t agree, speak up with a rebuttal. Help us understand your POV. We like that. Respect our bodies. Respect our emotions. Nothing is sexier than a confident guy who “gets” us and realizes that although we are two separate entities on two separate paths, we are still one.
Realize that we love you more than anything, even though work and our independent lives may get in the way. Love us anyways. If you mean that much to us and if you make us feel exactly how we want to feel in a relationship, you will get the majority. If you want change, we’ll make a way. Always.
We often get coined for being the “bitch”, “emotionless” and “too strong.” But truth is, in order for us to be a “strong independent woman” we have to go through a ton of trials and tribulations to keep up there. We often put up guards because we’ve been hurt. We stand our ground on decisions because when we don’t, no one listens to us. And no matter what, we will always show confidence although we may feel especially vulnerable at that moment. Understand that we are still fragile human beings and compassion is what we really need in our deepest, emotional moments. We like our men emotional, but still manly enough to help us feel protected.
We love a man who has the drive to keep up with his body, his mind, his work, oh and us Drive to match our drive (and maybe a little extra) is what really sets us on fire! Eating healthy and maintaining your body is a plus, reading/educating yourself is a must, and still saving time for adventure/travel keeps us on our toes. Gotta save time for fun.
We thoroughly enjoy our friendships and our “girl nights.” When one partner doesn’t have a close knit of friends and/or family to hang out with, it often leads to that person being jealous and clingy — two things that independent women despise. It’s okay to live separate lives sometimes. We’re partners, not conjoined twins.
Strong Independent Man
We need someone to match our greatness. To understand our logic, and to help build us back up after we’ve fallen down. We don’t need someone who constantly seeks for approval, we need a man who has a goal and is working hard to accomplish it, or (even better) already there, doing what he loves to do in life.
It’s always the little things. The unsung heroes that are not distracted by glory. The characters you disregard who have been secretly stashing vendettas all along, made all the more dangerous for their patience. They end up being your completion or your undoing.
It is the little things that give everything meaning. It is an accumulation of puzzle pieces to make a spectacular picture, the collection letters to make words to make sentences to fill pages to complete a story. Ultimately, a thousand little things make something big — and what’s more, small beings united to make something immense often lend a certain grandeur to themselves — all the more for not having done so through any intention. We must learn to love the little things.
It is the little things too that can sink ships, break dams, and crumble walls once thought to possess the ultimate fortitude. A thousand unsung heroes make for a daunting collection of neglected lyrics. A silence to shatter silence. A vast silence, suddenly making the greatest statement of all.
The small thread, unnoticed – one unlucky moment, one snag, and everything comes unraveled. It’s only a matter of time.
Nature never fails to reveal to us the power in patience and time. A quiet shrine to the omnipotence in a congregation of all that seems insignificant in solitude. A minuscule grain of sand, a billion times over and we have a beach, a sand castle, a shore upon which we can watch our footprints form and fade. Which grain of sand should be deemed unnecessary? If this one, why not that one, and every other – each no more or less important than its comrades. Which grain mattered most? None, alone – all, together. The ultimate manifestation of strength in numbers. Or, the persistence of raindrops, forming caverns. A refuge carved with patience, the greatest tool in a carpenter’s arsenal.
It’s the same way grass grows, the same way nails grow. It’s the same way clothes fade with wear, the same way books sidle from new to used (or as I like to think, loved). Little, unnoticed. For so long, with such a sustained, controlled tempo. Then seemingly out of nowhere – apparent, sudden. We’re left taken aback because when did this happen? We were right here, how could we possibly have missed it? On the one hand, a testimony to how often we fail to see, to notice, to pause and appreciate; on the other, a tribute to the little things for mastering their craft – excellence in discretion.
Yes, little is discreet and little is sneaky. Little can slip through cracks, melt into backdrops, disappear while big distracts. And we are so easily distracted, we provide ample opportunity for the small things to nestle in as stowaways in cumulating moments of our lives.
It is the little things that make and break, forge, and fracture.
And there is much to gain from being perceptive to these small moments.
When we become aware of the meaning behind a loved one’s mannerisms, we can anticipate their brewing feelings and puncture the pressure in hoarded anxieties and anger. When we choose not to dismiss the significance in forgetting small requests from friends, we undermine the accumulation of resentment. When we inscribe in the folds of our memories a passing comment from a family member, we come to own the ability to give gifts with meaning – a commitment to memory often being the most meaningful gift of all. When we add mere seconds to our interactions with the multitude of strangers we encounter, in order to smile, to wish them well, to thank them, we renew our grasp on interconnectivity and remind ourselves of a collective humanity. When we pause to appreciate the uniqueness of each day, or the melting magical moment just before the sun dips beneath the horizon, or the indication of spring by the birds chirping, or the witnessing of an act of kindness – we are actively choosing to see what is good in the world, and in so doing, adding to its goodness.
The little things are unbiased – they are what you make them. They will pile up where you toss them. They can break down walls – whether with patient persuading, earning the trust to remove barricades, or by consistent erosion, leaving rubble. It’s not too late to start seeing the little things – to start adding to them and appreciating them; to start guiding and cherishing them.
Imagine the completed puzzle – a stunning picture. Imagine being awed and mesmerized by its image, and then imagine if you were able to elicit such an appreciation of every piece along the way – how much fuller and more magnificent life becomes.