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.
So. Yes. We’re all dying. We’re all crumbling into the void, one cell at a time. We are disintegrating like sugar cubes in champagne. But only women have to pretend it isn’t happening. Fifty-something men wander around with their guts flopped over their waistbands and their faces looking like a busted tramp’s mattress in an underpass. They sprout nasal hair and chasm-like wrinkles, and go ‘Ooof!’ whenever they stand up or sit down. men visibly age, every day — but women are supposed to stop the decline at around 37, 38, and live out the next 30 or 40 years in some magical bubble where their hair is still shiny and chestnut, their face unlined, their lips puffy, and their tits up on the top third of the ribcage.
But in life two things happen: amazing things, and things that are terrible but will make incredible anecdotes.
Caitlin Moran (Marie Claire, October 2014)
All my life, I’ve thought that if I couldn’t say anything boys found interesting, I might as well shut up. But now I realize there was that whole other, invisible half of the world—girls—that I could speak to instead. A whole other half equally silent and frustrated, just waiting to be given the smallest starting signal—the tiniest starter culture—and they would explode into words, and song, and action, and relieved, euphoric cries of, ‘Me too! I feel this too!’
Because I haven’t yet learned the simplest and most important thing of all: the world is difficult, and we are all breakable. So just be kind.
I am lying in bed, next to my brother, Lupin. He is six years old. He is asleep. I am fourteen. I am not asleep. I am masturbating.
For in a way that feels quite unfair, the only way I can gain any qualifications at this thing - sex - that is seen as so societally important and desirable, is by being a massive slag - which is NOT seen as societally important and desirable. This often makes me furious.
You wouldn’t denigrate a plumber with a lot of experience in fitting bathrooms!
Caitlin Moran “How to Build a Girl” (via love-a-book)
Caitlin Moran interviewing Courtney Love in 1992 = peak Gen X white feminism?
The scabs feel like I have a message on my arm. Something that needs to be read, urgently, by someone. It was only years later that I realized the person I had written that message to — the person who wasn’t listening — was me. I was the one who should have been staring at that arm, and working out what the red hieroglyphics meant.
Had I translated them, I would have realized those lines read: “Never feel this bad again. Never come back to this place, where only a knife will do. Live a gentle and kind life. Don’t do things that make you want to hurt yourself. Whatever you do, every day, remember this — then steer away from here.”
I’m learning a whole new thing: that sometimes, love isn’t observable or noisy or tangible. That sometimes, love is anonymous. Sometimes, love is silent. Sometimes, love just stands there when you’re calling it a cunt, biting its tongue and waiting.