I really hate these y/a trilogies with obvious love triangles where in the first book the heroine focuses on one man, the second on the other (either the first man’s best friend or sworn enemy), and in the third she must decide between them. Usually the decision is made because one man is not what he seems to be, or tragically dies.
Basically I’m tired of incredible heroines being defined more by the men they become entangled with than by the ass they spend the rest of the books kicking.
One of my friends told me that she had some news that could either be fantastic or horrible coming today. We both grimaced at the date. “It has to be good news,” I said. “Everything bad that can happen has already happened on that date.”
I was right. The news was the best of all possible outcomes. I am so happy.
“Shame on all of us. Shame on us that we need to actually see the video tape of Janay Rice getting knocked unconscious to actually realize that violence against women took place in that elevator. Shame on the Ravens for treating violence against women like an exercise in public relations. Shame on the NFL for being so untrustworthy - whether we’re talking about concussions, players’ health, and now violence against women - that nobody in their right mind should believe them when they say that they haven’t seen this tape before. But most important, shame on all of us for not actually thinking about Janay Rice at this moment in particular and what it’s doing to her that this video tape is now being released and re-released. We were all very upset with good reason about celebrities having their photos hacked and their nudes out there, and what it means to click on those videos, I’m just wondering, if everybody clicking on this video tape, how does that serve the interests of Janay Rice in this very difficult time in her life?”—Dave Zirin, on The Reid Report just now
“And perhaps the body is our final frontier. It’s the one place we can’t leave. We’re there till it goes. Most women and some men spend their lives trying to alter it, hide it, prettify it, make it what it isn’t, or conceal it for what it is. But what if we didn’t do that?”—Cheryl Strayed, Dear Sugar
The added maturity that people ascribe to me when they find out I’m married is disturbing. You do need a license to get married, but there’s no test. Any douchebag idiot can get married. Many have. The fact that I signed a piece of paper a few years ago and mailed it back to the clerk doesn’t mean I’m special.
I’ve finally heard Let It Go from Frozen (I resisted as long as possible, but this song is EVERYWHERE. It’s even on NPR, which is the antithesis of a Disney musical cartoon), it’s in my head at the slightest provocation. I feel my black heart giving into itself. I have a conversation about other people’s expectations. Someone wants me to be a “good girl.” Someone says Frozen. Someone says the cold bothers them. Someone says the cold doesn’t bother them (anyway). Someone tells me to let go the deep-seated resentment resentment I feel. I walk down the frozen food aisle at the grocery store. I finally do what I want. I tell someone I’m going. I let something happen.