“In the world of young professionals who like to go out, I found that it was almost impossible to find a guy who was cool with not having sex. So for the first time, my virginity became something that I hid. I felt like I needed to be ashamed of it. Maybe I was.”
This sounds utterly ridiculous, I know, but I seem to be that girl that guys realize they love after a break up (I’m also not really the ‘marriage and babies’ type). I recognize there’s this yucky part of me that craves the attention and I keep them hanging on … though I’m really unsure what I’m getting out of it (the thought of my latest ex with other girls makes me physically sick). I would really like some advice on how I can let go of the need to have power over these people, because I do love them and recognize that what I’m doing is horrible not only to them but to the new women in their lives (and makes me feel like shit).
Ever since noticing a beautifully wrinkled and mysteriously sensual older French woman at a friend’s party, and, having inquired if she was the wife of the frizzy-haired, balding older man with the huge, horn-rimmed glasses next to her, and being informed that, “Nooo, she’s his mistress. They’ve been lovers for many years,” I’d decided that loverhood was what I aspired to.
I’m a 19-year-old bisexual woman, and I hate myself for liking men. I feel like I’m not queer enough to have a say in LGBT issues or to call myself a butch or own a strap-on, and I fully realize that this is stupid. I wish I were a lesbian, because I feel kind of hated and left out in the gay blogosphere/community, and I don’t really feel any desire to plunge into heteronormative straight culture. The problem is that I keep having strong heart/vagina feelings for dudes.
When I was in my late twenties, my period basically went through its own version of puberty and acted out, going all crazy in every possible way. I recall a period that lasted for literally an entire month (just a little every day, hello again, and again!); a period that disappeared for months; an unrecognizably heavy period; a period that showed up for a day, then came back a week later; a period that spoke Catalan; and all manner of in-between-riods.
“Oh, well, uh. I’m 22 and I can’t seem to stop sleeping with middle-aged men.”
Plan ahead for Valentine’s Day, or just for the weekend. You do you!
Small Tongues, Large Other Things, and How to Go to a Bar by Yourself
“There’s a reason the Polish, Irish, French and Dutch ‘went white,’ right? It bought them a place in a power structure. But those aren’t the stories they told their grandkids and great-great grandkids. So, now instead of saying, ‘My great grandparents made a decision to come here and pass as white to get land and schools and jobs,’ people say: ‘Oh, I’m just white’ or ‘I’m American.’”
Okay, in my experience, there are two key ways to stop liking someone (if there are more, I trust that the comments will inform us!). The first — avoiding him at all costs until the feelings go away and/or you like someone new — is out for you, so this is when we go to Plan B.
His inability to find a job in the last few years makes marriage impossible, but it also makes breaking up difficult. For one thing, he’d have to find a new place to live. He currently pays half of my mortgage, which is much cheaper than the rent on any decent apartment he’d be able to find. Plus, he’s always (sort of?) joking that I’m the only thing that makes him happy. Throwing him out would devastate him, emotionally and financially.
She eyed me suspiciously — she was somewhere between 30 and 60 years old, had butt-length brown hair, and was in worn-out overalls. “Do you already have a cat at home?” she responded. “No, this will be our first!” I gave a chipper, cat-loving smile, one I hoped read ‘happy’ instead of ‘hoarder.’ “I’m sorry, then. You can’t adopt any one of these cats. You can only adopt them in pairs. Otherwise, it’s inhumane. Are you willing to do that?”
The whole problem is that I seriously sweat a lot (A LOT!) and I’m allergic to the active ingredient in most antiperspirants. So I use deodorant and don’t get smelly, but I can barely wear woven button-ups or nice blouses with sleeves because I sweat through them. I’ve heard tell of the dress shields of old but have never seen them for sale. I’ve asked my dermatologist and there’s not really a medical solution, since I happen to be madly allergic to the only effective antiperspirant known to humanity.
When we first moved in together, we decided to give up television and begin an experimental year of culture and activities, a year that would theoretically be filled with painting, harpsichord, and hiking in linen tunics.
Moms, friends, guys: How far away should we keep them from ourselves?
Also, how does one figure out what color tights/nylons/stockings/what have you to wear with what?
C told me about a group that she attends every Saturday evening. It’s a group of young women, just like me, burnt out on life, searching for meaning. They talk about their problems and they celebrate their successes. There’s a man that runs the group. He used to be a writer, and then he found that his true calling was helping women find their potential. He was an inspiration, which of course was her word.
Compared to other methods for murder, 39.5% of poisoners being female is fairly high – from 2006 to 2010, women represented 21% of arson cases, and only 7.9% of gun murders. There are still many more female arsonists and shooters because those are more popular crimes—in the sample years there were only 49 poisonings total—but it’s still notable.
Also jacuzzi jets and shoe polish stains, but let’s be honest, you’re here about the weed pipe.
I spent a ridiculous amount of time analyzing “rape culture” in “pop” culture, to the point where I pretty convincingly argued that a McDonald’s Milkshake commercial was objectifying the importance of mother’s milk.