"Tough shit."

I flew back from Mexico this morning. I was traveling alone, and seated next to a middle-aged man in an exit row. We made the usual polite conversation as we taxied for takeoff — he travelled for business, I was on vacation. Before I turned back to my book, he said, “I like your skirt.”

And then reached out and touched my leg, a few inches above my knee.

It was the start of a three-hour flight, and although I was angered and uncomfortable with him invading my space and touching me like that, I didn’t want to start a discussion that I couldn’t remove myself from. I put my headphones on and studiously ignored him for the rest of the trip.

He didn’t say or do anything else that was inappropriate, but because of that first touch, I had to spend 3 hours paying attention to him; 3 hours I would have preferred to focus on catching up on the latest episodes of Reign and Revenge, or daydreaming, or doing anything other than bracing myself for a wayward hand when he got up to use the rest-room, or trying not to touch his arm on the seat-rest.

You probably know, the internal debate that goes on about something like this. When speaking up risks escalating the situation, or even just sounding whiny and priggish (HELLO GENDERED INSULTS). But after we landed, I waited until we were disembarking, and I said — very politely — that I’d found the way he touched me to be inappropriate. Could he please think more carefully in future about invading a woman’s space like that.

His response?

"Tough shit."

Seriously. He said, it was an accident, he’d been pointing at my skirt and made contact by mistake, but yeah, tough shit.

This guy who has three young daughters as his background on his phone couldn’t have cared less about my discomfort or personal space. 

So I lost it. 

I can’t remember exactly what I said to him, but it was along the lines of him not getting to dismiss my experience — he’d been inappropriate, and if it had been a mistake, then he should just apologize. I got pretty loud, people stared, he looked embarrassed, and then it was our row’s turn to leave the plane. It probably won’t make a difference to him — someone who can look you in the eye and be such an ass isn’t going to learn or grow from the experience, but yeah. I’m glad I spoke up, if only because I was fucking pissed, and it was good to vent that anger at the person who deserved it.

But thinking back, in a way, his response was pretty apt. Welcome to the world in which certain asshole men feel entitled to your body and your space, and when you voice an opinion about that, say simply, “tough shit.”


steverogersorbust:

The Twenty Demonic Faces of Christopher Evans: a masterpost

There are more, to be sure. Probably upwards of 100. Google Search had me in hot flashes. But these are the ones that I sift through when I light my candles and pray to every heavenly entity I can think of to JUST DELIVER ME ALREADY!!!! So here you go. Bite a knuckle and enjoy.

Read More

Service journalism.


Men write universal stories. Women write stories for girls. Men write Literature. Women write chick lit. Even in a world where women do publish in heavier numbers than men do, they are underscored, underseen, and undervalued. Twilight is and will remain a crucial part of YA’s history — YA’s female-driven history — despite or in spite of the fact it doesn’t garner the same praises that those held up as idols within the community do. Men like John Green become symbols of YA’s forward progress and Seriousness as a category, whereas Stephenie Meyer gets to be a punchline.

drake-ramoray:

I wanna thank the universe for this gifset

(via itsjacksonpearce)


hypable:

Melody Grace is a USA Today Bestseller of new adult titles, but readers don’t know that Melody Grace is a really a young adult author by a different name.
Melody Grace is young adult author Abby McDonald. She spoke with Hypable about why she chose a pen name and what she’s working on next.
Tell us about your journey to becoming a writer.
I’ve loved books and reading ever since I was a child. I was always the girl with too-big glasses and her nose buried in a book: from Enid Blyton to Sweet Valley High, I loved it all. I even sneaked my older sister’s Sweet Dreams and Harlequin romance novels too, and that’s where I discovered my love for romance. I always thought I needed to be an adult to have something to write about myself, but I started working on my first novel in college and knew I’d found my true love. By the time I graduated, I wanted to take a shot at making writing my career, so I moved back home after college, took a whole bunch of part-time jobs to support myself, and worked on my writing. I won my first book deal aged 22, and have been so fortunate to have been able to continue writing and creating stories ever since.
Where’s your favourite place to write?
I moved to LA from England four years ago, and I love to work in different coffee shops around town. I stake out a couch, grab a vanilla latte, and eavesdrop like crazy. Sometimes, I even spot a celebrity too – that never gets old!
Read the full interview at Hypable.com

hypable:

Melody Grace is a USA Today Bestseller of new adult titles, but readers don’t know that Melody Grace is a really a young adult author by a different name.

Melody Grace is young adult author Abby McDonald. She spoke with Hypable about why she chose a pen name and what she’s working on next.

Tell us about your journey to becoming a writer.

I’ve loved books and reading ever since I was a child. I was always the girl with too-big glasses and her nose buried in a book: from Enid Blyton to Sweet Valley High, I loved it all. I even sneaked my older sister’s Sweet Dreams and Harlequin romance novels too, and that’s where I discovered my love for romance. I always thought I needed to be an adult to have something to write about myself, but I started working on my first novel in college and knew I’d found my true love. By the time I graduated, I wanted to take a shot at making writing my career, so I moved back home after college, took a whole bunch of part-time jobs to support myself, and worked on my writing. I won my first book deal aged 22, and have been so fortunate to have been able to continue writing and creating stories ever since.

Where’s your favourite place to write?

I moved to LA from England four years ago, and I love to work in different coffee shops around town. I stake out a couch, grab a vanilla latte, and eavesdrop like crazy. Sometimes, I even spot a celebrity too – that never gets old!

Read the full interview at Hypable.com


dear-monday:

Repeat after me: I am a goddess. My spirit is towering, my soul is mighty, my breasts are magnificent and my shoes are super fucking cute.

(via purplle-hobbit)




ink-splotch:

There comes a point where Susan, who was the older girl, is lost to Narnia because she becomes interested in lipstick. She’s become irreligious basically because she found sex. I have a big problem with that.” - JK Rowling

Can we talk about Susan’s fabulous adventures after Narnia? The ones where she wears nylons and elegant blouses when she wants to, and short skirts and bright lipstick when she wants to, and hiking boots and tough jeans and big men’s plaid shirts when she feels like backpacking out into the mountains and remembering what it was to be lost in a world full of terrific beauty— I know her siblings say she stops talking about it, that Susan walks away from the memories of Narnia, but I don’t think she ever really forgot.

I want to read about Susan finishing out boarding school as a grown queen reigning from a teenaged girl’s body. School bullies and peer pressure from children and teachers who treat you like you’re less than sentient wouldn’t have the same impact. C’mon, Susan of the Horn, Susan who bested the DLF at archery, and rode a lion, and won wars, sitting in a school uniform with her eyebrows rising higher and higher as some old goon at the front of the room slams his fist on the lectern. 

Susan living through WW2, huddling with her siblings, a young adult (again), a fighting queen and champion marksman kept from the action, until she finally storms out against screaming parents’ wishes and volunteers as a nurse on the front. She keeps a knife or two hidden under her clothes because when it comes down to it, they called her Gentle, but sometimes loving means fighting for what you care for. 

She’ll apply to a women’s college on the East Coast, because she fell in love with America when her parents took her there before the war. She goes in majoring in Literature (her ability to decipher High Diction in historical texts is uncanny), but checks out every book she can on history, philosophy, political science. She sneaks into the boys’ school across town and borrows their books too. She was once responsible for a kingdom, roads and taxes and widows and crops and war. She grew from child to woman with that mantle of duty wrapped around her shoulders. Now, tossed here on this mundane land, forever forbidden from her true kingdom, Susan finds that she can give up Narnia but she cannot give up that responsibility. She looks around and thinks I could do this better.

I want Susan sneaking out to drink at pubs with the girls, her friends giggling at the boys checking them out from across the way, until Susan walks over (with her nylons, with her lipstick, with her sovereignty written out in whatever language she damn well pleases) and beats them all at pool. Susan studying for tests and bemoaning Aristotle and trading a boy with freckles all over his nose shooting lessons so that he will teach her calculus. Susan kissing boys and writing home to Lucy and kissing girls and helping smuggle birth control to the ladies in her dorm because Susan Pevensie is a queen and she understands the right of a woman to rule over her own body. 

Susan losing them all to a train crash, Edmund and Peter and Lucy, Jill and Eustace, and Lucy and Lucy and Lucy, who Susan’s always felt the most responsible for. Because this is a girl who breathes responsibility, the little mother to her three siblings until a wardrobe whisked them away and she became High Queen to a whole land, ruled it for more than a decade, then came back centuries later as a legend. What it must do to you, to be a legend in the body of a young girl, to have that weight on your shoulders and have a lion tell you that you have to let it go. What is must do to you, to be left alone to decide whether to bury your family in separate ceremonies, or all at once, the same way they died, all at once and without you. What it must do to you, to stand there in black, with your nylons, and your lipstick, and feel responsible for these people who you will never be able to explain yourself to and who you can never save. 

Maybe she dreams sometimes they made it back to Narnia after all. Peter is a king again. Lucy walks with Aslan and all the dryads dance. Maybe Susan dreams that she went with them— the train jerks, a bright light, a roar calling you home. 

Maybe she doesn’t. 

Susan grows older and grows up. Sometimes she hears Lucy’s horrified voice in her head, “Nylons? Lipstick, Susan? Who wants to grow up?”  and Susan thinks, “Well you never did, Luce.” Susan finishes her degree, stays in America (England looks too much like Narnia, too much like her siblings, and too little, all at once). She starts writing for the local paper under the pseudonym Frank Tumnus, because she wants to write about politics and social policy and be listened to, because the name would have made Edmund laugh. 

She writes as Susan Pevensie, too, about nylons and lipstick, how to give a winning smiles and throw parties, because she knows there is a kind of power there and she respects it. She won wars with war sometimes, in Narnia, but sometimes she stopped them before they began.

Peter had always looked disapprovingly on the care with which Susan applied her makeup back home in England, called it vanity. And even then, Susan would smile at him, say “I use what weapons I have at hand,” and not explain any more than that. The boy ruled at her side for more than a decade. He should know better. 

Vain is not the proper word. This is about power. But maybe Peter wouldn’t have liked the word “ambition” any more than “vanity.”

Susan is a young woman in the 50s and 60s. Frank Tumnus has quite the following now. He’s written a few books, controversial, incendiary. Susan gets wrapped up in the civil rights movement, because of course she would. It’s not her first war. All the same, she almost misses the White Witch. Greed is a cleaner villain than senseless hate. She gets on the Freedom Rider bus, mails Mr. Tumnus articles back home whenever there’s a chance, those rare occasions they’re not locked up or immediately threatened. She is older now than she ever was in Narnia. Susan dreams about Telemarines killing fauns. 

Time rolls on. Maybe she falls in love with a young activist or an old cynic. Maybe she doesn’t. Maybe Frank Tumnus, controversial in the moment, brilliant in retrospect, gets offered an honorary title from a prestigious university. She declines and publishes an editorial revealing her identity. Her paper fires her. Three others mail her job offers. 

When Vietnam rolls around, she protests in the streets. Susan understands the costs of war. She has lived through not just through the brutal wars of one life, but two. 

Maybe she has children now. Maybe she tells them stories about a magical place and a magical lion, the stories Lucy and Edmund brought home about how if you sail long enough you reach the place where the seas fall off the edge of the world. But maybe she tells them about Cinderella instead, Sleeping Beauty, Rapunzel, except Rapunzel cuts off her own hair and uses it to climb down the tower and escape. The damsel uses what tools she has at hand. 

A lion told her to walk away, and she did. He forbade her magic, he forbade her her own kingdom, so she made her own. 

Susan Pevensie did not lose faith. She found it. 

I love tumblr. This actually made me cry.

(via allofthefeelings)


Nancy Wake, who has died in London just before her 99th birthday, was a New Zealander brought up in Australia. She became a nurse, a journalist who interviewed Adolf Hitler, a wealthy French socialite, a British agent and a French resistance leader. She led 7,000 guerrilla fighters in battles against the Nazis in the northern Auvergne, just before the D-Day landings in 1944. On one occasion, she strangled an SS sentry with her bare hands. On another, she cycled 500 miles to replace lost codes. In June 1944, she led her fighters in an attack on the Gestapo headquarters at Montlucon in central France.

Ms Wake was furious the TV series [later made about her life] suggested she had had a love affair with one of her fellow fighters. She was too busy killing Nazis for amorous entanglements, she said.

Nancy recalled later in life that her parachute had snagged in a tree. The French resistance fighter who freed her said he wished all trees bore “such beautiful fruit.” Nancy retorted: “Don’t give me that French shit.”

"Resistance heroine who led 7,000 men against the Nazis," The Independent. (via madelinecoleman)

DON’T GIVE ME THAT FRENCH SHIT.

(via josephinabiden)

Ms. Wake …  had mixed feelings about previous cinematic efforts to portray her wartime exploits … “It was well-acted but in parts it was extremely stupid,” she said. “At one stage they had me cooking eggs and bacon to feed the men. For goodness’ sake, did the Allies parachute me into France to fry eggs and bacon for the men? There wasn’t an egg to be had for love nor money. Even if there had been why would I be frying it? I had men to do that sort of thing.”

(via sophiealdred)

IT GOT BETTER

(via sursumursa)

"Don’t give me that French shit."

(via bethrevis)