Emily, 19 Canada.
I really like fiction. I like a lot of fiction, I like quality fiction, and I like a wide variety of fiction all the time. Basically, I refuse to live in reality.
I rant about shit in my life sometimes, which isn't fiction, but sometimes it feels that way.
Why can’t there be a male hooter’s equivalent where male servers are shirtless and highly sexualized for their bodies and looks
Male Strip clubs. You’re thinking of male strip clubs.
No. Not a male strip club. A strip club is a strip club. I want a place called Cahones where waiters wear Speedos and are forced to stuff if they don’t fill out their uniform well enough. I want them to giggle for my tips. I want it to be so normalised and engrained in our culture that women bring their daughters there for lunch (because whaaaaaat the wings are good! Geeze sensitive much?) where they’ll give playful little nudges like, “Wouldn’t mind if you dad had those. Heh heh heh.” that their daughters don’t even understand but will absorb and start to assume is just the normal way grown up women talk about grown up men. I want to playfully ask my waiter if I can have extra nuts on my salad and for him to swat my arm with an Oh, you because he knows if he doesn’t his manager will yell at him. I want other men to pretend to like going there so I think they’re cool. I want to go to Cahones during my lunch break at work and when I come back and tell the other women in the office where I went they chuckle slightly and the men around us suddenly feel self conscious and they don’t know why.
So if we have to show women what the baby looks like in their womb and tell them how the process works before allowing them to get an abortion, does that mean we should teach our soldiers about the culture of the lands we’re invading, and explain to them that the people we want them to kill have families and feel pain, just like Americans?
I am the embodiment of “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned” and I need to learn to not do that. Can anyone recommend a book about forgiveness, moving on, and dealing with the past? or anything like that?
When I first got this role I just cried like a baby because I was like, “Wow, next Halloween, I’m gonna open the door and there’s gonna be a little kid dressed as the Falcon.” That’s the thing that always gets me. I feel like everybody deserves that. I feel like there should be a Latino superhero. Scarlett does great representation for all the other girls, but there should be a Wonder Woman movie. I don’t care if they make 20 bucks, if there’s a movie you’re gonna lose money on, make it Wonder Woman. You know what I mean, ’cause little girls deserve that.
In Britain, make-up might have been hard to find, but it was worn with pride and became a symbol of the will to win. ‘Put your best face forward,’ encouraged a 1942 Yadley advertisement in Churchillian tones. ‘War, Woman and Lipstick' ran a celebrated Tangee campaign. Bright red was the favourite wartime colur for lips and nails and lipstick names were often patriotic: Louis Phillippe's Patriotic Red; Fighting Red by Tussy and Grenadier - The new Military red created by Tattoo, effective with air force blue and khaki.
During wartime, a subtle change had taken place in the marketing and the perception of make-up. It was no longer about making a woman seem ‘dainty’, but making her look and feel strong. Rosie the Riveter became a wartime icon in the USA, representing the six million women working in factories for the war effort. [Rockwell] portrayed Rosie as a vast figure in work dungarees, her short sleeves revealing arms the size of prize-winning hams. Behind her hangs the stars and stripes, squashed carelessly under her feet is a copy of Adolf Hitler’s Mein Kampf, and on her mighty lap rests a lunch box and a huge riveting machine like an enormous gun. [Her] henna red curls, lipsticked mouth and painted finger nails stress her femininity, emphasising the fact that make-up too was a weapon of war [Madeleine Marsh, Compact and Cosmetics: Beauty from the Victorian Times to the Present Day]
“it’s Gale who throws himself over me to provide one more layer of protection from the bombing”
My fingers wrap around Gale’s wrist. “Do not leave my side,” I say under my breath.“I’m right here,” he answers quietly.
“No, that we can hunt.” That gets his attention. “We’d have to give everything to the kitchen. But still, we could…” I don’t have to finish because he knows.We could be aboveground. Out in the woods. We could be ourselves again.
We hunt, like in the old days. Silent, needing no words to communicate, because here in the woods we move as two parts of one being. Anticipating each other’s movements, watching each other’s backs. How long has it been? Eight months? Nine? Since we had this freedom? It’s not exactly the same, given all that’s happened and the trackers on our ankles and the fact that I have to rest so often. But it’s about as close to happiness as I think I can currently get.
I sit on the rock where Cressida filmed us, but it’s too wide without his body beside me. Several times I close my eyes and count to ten, thinking that when I open them, he will have materialized without a sound as he so often did.