The Englishman was feeling very amorously toward me last night, and he paid for me to get a cab ride home, which no one has ever done for me before. He asked me to articulate the difference between radical feminism and feminism, which is one of my favorite things to explain. He wanted me to come back to his place with him, an invitation I declined twice, not because I didn’t want to have sex with him, but because I’m bleeding from between my legs. (The first time I have sex with a person is not going to be the time I let them inhale the most intimate smell of my body.) I also informed him that I prefer having freshly shaved legs when I have intercourse with a veritable stranger, and I didn’t have time to perform that act pre-date. He said, “Well, I shaved,” and then gave me a look that suggested he wasn’t referring to his face.
So my day is set,
I’ll smoke something
and walk around.
— Joshua Beckman
I’ve been under so much stress at work this week, and all I could think was, I better not get a big fucking zit because of this. Of course that thought only worked to increase my level of anxiety. I have a date tomorrow night, which I have been very much looking forward to, with a 48-year-old Englishman. Canceling because of acne would’ve meant a really depressing night at home. That’s what I would have done, though: canceled if the mark became too much to b(e)ar/e. My insecurity is such that it cannot take any additional hits in the days preceding a date with a man.
It’s a terrible burden, this insecurity.
If you need Plan B, here’s a printable $10 off coupon.
It doesn’t expire either! It’s a continual offer
reblogging this again because this shit is 50$
I’m grateful for Plan B. It has saved me from having to get, like, 6 abortions.
I think it’d be really cool to have a lot more confidence in myself.
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