“And - as a woman reconciled in her own body - I feel I can argue with anyone’s god about my right to end a pregnancy. My first conception - wanted, so badly - ended in a miscarriage three days before my wedding. A kind nurse removed my wedding manicure with nail-polish remover, in order to fit a finger-thermometer for the subsequent D&C operation. I wept as I went into the operating theatre, and wept as I came out. In that instance, my body had decided that this baby was not to be and had ended it. This time, it is my mind that has decided that this baby was not to be. I don’t believe one’s decision is more valid than the other. They both know me. They are both equally capable of deciding what is right.”—Caitlin Moran, How To Be a Woman (via treesoup)
Once upon a time, a girl with long nails and a really bad outfit sat on a sofa, trying to look sexy, but actually looking like she’d just remembered an unpaid parking fine. She might be slightly cross eyed due to how tight her bra is.
A man comes in - a man who walks rather oddly, as if he is carrying an invisible garden chair in front of him. This is because he’s got a uselessly large penis, which is erect, and appears to be scanning the room for the most sexually disinterested thing in it. Having rejected the window, and a vase, the cock finally homes in on the girl on the sofa.
As she disinterestedly licks her lips, the man leans over and - inexplicably - weighs her left breast in her hand. This appears to be the crossing of some kind of sexual Rubicon because, 30 seconds later, she’s being fucked at an uncomfortable angle, then bummed whilst looking quite pained. There’s usually a bit of arse-slapping here, or some hair pulling there - whatever can ring in the variety in a straightforward two - camera shoot in less than 5 minutes.
It all ends with him coming all over her face, messily - as if he’s haphazardly icing a bun in one of the challenges on The Generation Game.
“The next thing’s going to be a sitcom I’m writing with my sister Caz about our childhood. In the end I want to spend my 60s writing bonkbusters like Jilly Cooper. And I want to have my hair at least a foot wider before I get to my 50s.”—Caitlin Moran answers: ‘So, what next?’ (via ziggythevampireslayer)
“I cannot understand anti-abortion arguments that centre on the sanctity of life. As a species, we’ve fairly comprehensively demonstrated that we don’t believe in the sanctity of life. The shrugging acceptance of war, famine, epidemic, pain and lifelong, grinding poverty show us that, whatever we tell ourselves, we’ve made only the most feeble of efforts to really treat human life as sacred. I don’t understand, then, why, in the midst of all this, pregnant women-women trying to make rational decisions about their futures and,usually, that of their families,too-should be subject to more pressure about preserving life than, say, Vladimir Putin,the World Bank, or the Catholic Church.”—Caitlin Moran, “How to be a Woman”. (via montereycunt)
“The problem with battling yourself is that even if you win, you lose. At some point - scarred and exhausted - you either accept that you must become a woman - that you are a woman - or you die. This is the brutal root truth of adolescence - that it is often a long, painful campaign of attrition. Those self-harming girls, with the latticework of razor-cuts on their arms and thighs, are just reminding themselves that their body is a battlefield. If you don’t have the stomach for razors, a tattoo will do; or even just the lightning snap of the earring gun in Claire’s Accessories. There. There you are. You have dropped a marker-pin on your body, to reclaim yourself, to remind you where you are: inside yourself. Somewhere. Somewhere in there.”—How To Be A Woman - Caitlin Moran (via autumns-advancing)
“But, of course, on being freed, people who’ve been psychologically crushed don’t immediately start doing glorious, confident, ostentatious things. Instead, they sit around for a while, going “What the fuck was that?”, and trying to work out why it happened, trying — often — to see if it was their fault.
They have to work out what their relationship is with their former aggressors, and come up with new command structures — or work out if they want new command structures at all. There’s a need to share out experiences, a need to work out what a) ‘normal’ is and b) if you want to be it. And, above all, it takes time to work out what you really believe in — what you think for yourself.
If everything you have been taught is the history, mores and reasoning of your victors, it takes a long, long time to work out the bits you want to keep, which bits you want to throw away: which bits are poisonous to you, and which bits are salvageable.
In short, there is a long period of gently patting yourself, going “Am I OK? Am I all right?”, often followed by a long, long thoughtful silence before any action gets under way.”— Caitlin Moran, How To Be A Woman (via freaksareforconclusions)
“As I have said, in the same way that you can tell if some sexism is happening to you by asking the question ‘is this polite or not’, you can tell whether some misogynistic societal pressure is being exerted on women by calmly enquiring ‘and are the men doing this, as well?’
If they aren’t chances are you’re dealing with what we strident feminists refer to as ‘some total fucking bullshit’”—Caitlin Moran (via tawdryquirk)
““I, personally, have a cunt. Sometimes it’s ‘flaps’ or ‘twat’, but, most of the time, it’s my cunt. Cunt is a proper,old, historic, strong word. I like that my fire escape also doubles up as the most potent swearword in the English language. Yeah. That’s how powerful it is, guys. If I tell you what I’ve got down there, old ladies and clerics might faint. I like how shocked people are when you say ‘cunt’. It’s like I have a nuclear bomb in my pants, or a mad tiger, or a gun.” - Caitlin Moran”—I started reading Moran “part memoir, part rant” novel, ‘How to be a Woman’ yesterday after watching a Moran interview featured on the #feminist feed. I adore the Brit slang (minge!), her humor and views on feminism (and I’m only a quarter of the way into it.). (via montereycunt)
“On discovering the happy news about his heir, the Earl of Grantham rushed around Downton insisting that everyone come and see Matthew in the drawing room at once. Really, he appeared one whisky away from ringing the bells in Downton chapel and shouting “SEX WILL BE HAD! SEX WILL BE HAD!” to the entire cast.”—Caitlin Moran, in The Times (via letmeeatpears)
“Anyway. Matthew’s trousers. In a war full of unspeakable atrocities, the Hun’s most beastly move has been an attack on Cousin Matthew’s — possibly literal, given his poshness — crown jewels. When he returned from the front in Episode Five, it was in a wheelchair — “An impotent cripple, smelling of sick,” as he called himself, clearly on a bit of a Downton downer. For a few amazing moments it seemed as if Downton might have gone the whole hog and written in a character who’d had his nads blown off in the heat of battle — only the second drama to attempt this since the BBC’s groundbreaking testicle-exploding Lilies in 2007.
And, indeed, a scene in last Sunday’s episode seemed to confirm this: the Earl of Downton watching solemnly as a car departed down the driveway, his sombre expression suggesting that the vehicle contained Matthew’s balls on a tray, being taken off for a decent burial. But — to infinite rejoicing — we found that this was not the case. Not the case at all. Matthew was, in fact, trousioso intacta, as I’m sure the Latin would have it. The contents of his orangery were all present and correct — it was merely the “sexual reflex” that was missing.”—