Margaret Atwood, Second Words: Selected Critical Prose (1983), pg. 413.
You’ve probably heard the punchline before, but here’s the full context for the quote. (via muffinw)
“ Why do men feel threatened by women?” I asked a male friend of mine. (I love that wonderful rhetorical device, “a male friend of mine.” It’s often used by female journalists when they want to say something particularly bitchy but don’t want to be held responsible for it themselves. It also lets people know that you do have male friends, that you aren’t one of those fire-breathing mythical monsters, The Radical Feminists, who walk around with little pairs of scissors and kick men in the shins if they open doors for you. “A male friend of mine” also gives—let us admit it—a certain weight to the opinions expressed.) So this male friend of mine, who does by the way exist, conveniently entered into the following dialogue. “I mean,” I said, “men are bigger, most of the time, they can run faster, strangle better, and they have on the average a lot more money and power.” “They’re afraid women will laugh at them,” he said. “Undercut their world view.” Then I asked some women students in a quickie poetry seminar I was giving, “Why do women feel threatened by men?” “They’re afraid of being killed,” they said. ”
Moms are the clingiest.
Texts from this evening:
(11:21) Hey, what’s up Buttercup??
(11:35) I miss you. Can you come home and visit sometime??
I love the excessive question marks.
(I’m being mean, I do actually like my mom. She just happens to be a little easier to make fun of than I am, even, which means I can’t help but jump on it sometimes.)
Also, they must have just not consulted neuroscientists whenever they decided to add brain-plot, because even for the nineties, they are pretty bad.
(The thalamus is primarily involved in memory? Access the right RNA strands? Oh, dear.)
(To clarify, I am enjoying this ridiculousness immensely.)
then you are just wrong, sorry.
(What happened between seasons one and two, though?)
The amount of estrogen that is tumbling Olympically through my veins today is unacceptable. Like I want to inhale every existing vehicle for MSG and corn syrup and then hug everyone and also murder them. (So I’m a boa constricter, basically.) I got an email from a very old friend this morning and nearly wept with joy. (Not that I WOULDN’T normally be glad to hear from her. But it’s not like she was messaging me from beyond the grave… she lives upstate.)
Also I’m retaining water, which is never pleasant.
On the plus side this is not adolescence, so I understand that none of it is real and that it will stop in a day or two.
Gates McFadden riding a unicycle. [x]
Behold, for no good reason at all, UniCrusher.
I’m sorry, you do not get to have those cheekbones and this much coordination, that is not allowed.
(Why did Bev Crusher never get to do this on TNG??? Disclaimer not done with that series yet so maybe I’m wrong about that. I hope I’m wrong about that. Can you just imagine?)
Backstage at Valentino | Haute Couture, Spring 2014.
MAKE ME A BALLERINA NOW PLZ