I think it’s really important to not to go on the red carpet and try and look pretty like all the other pretty ladies: wearing the dress and the high heeled shoes, getting your hair done and getting the diamonds you have to borrow for that day. That’s a competition I don’t want to take part in because other prettier girls with better hair and better shoes will win that competition. I don’t want to be in that competition. I want to walk very comfortably in a pair of boots and a Ghostbusters jumpsuit and be able to enjoy the afterparty: whenever you go to these afterparties you see these very beautiful women standing around holding their shoes in their hands, with a tension headache from their hairdo, scared that they’ve lost an earring that they’ve borrowed from Chopard, unable to breath or drink, scared of spillage and can’t go outside to have a fag because they are too chilly. I like to dress for fun. And I like to dress to bust ghosts. And that’s the only outfit that allows me to do both.
Caitlin Moran on the Ghostbuster jumpsuit [x]
Because what you are, as a teenager, is a small, silver, empty rocket. And you use loud music as fuel, and then the information in books as maps and co-ordinates, to tell you where you’re going.
If you are not a confident person, pretend to be one
OK so i know she doesn’t act, but just imagine Caitlin Moran as the Master
The world will come at you with knives anyway. You do not need to beat them to it.
Whilst male fantasies are short, powerful and to the point – a bit like ‘My Sharona’ by The Knack, say – female fantasies are some symphonic, shape-shifting thing by Alice Coltrane. In their fantasies, the women grow and shrink, shape-shift, change age, colour and location. They manifest as vapour, light and sound, they strobe through conflicting personas (nurse, robot, mother, virgin, boy, wolf) and a zodiac of positions whilst, you suspect, also imagining consistently great-looking hair.
I will do all my changing in private. In public, I am, always, the finished thing. The right thing, for the right place. A chrysalis is hung in the dark.
That’s what I’d like to do, I think. Have a long, cool, clean nail, right in the middle of my head. That would calm me. And no one would blame me - a girl with a nail in the centre of her skull. They would put me in a hospital - and, because I would be broken, and ill, I would be safe. If I broke all my bones, no one would hate me. If I was in trouble. If I was at the bottom of the stairs. If I was smashed up. If I died.
If you can’t save yourself from attack by being powerful - and I, palpably, have no power. My hands are empty - then perhaps you can save yourself from attack by being ruined, instead. Blow yourself up before the enemy gets to you.
Caitlin Moran, How to Build a Girl (via hjwhutnow)