3 per ear lobe (though I only ever wear the first in each ear these days) and my nose (nostril, left side).
40. What do you do before you go to bed?
I get my pajamas on, then often go on my computer for a bit. Then I plug in my phone and/or computer if they’re dying, brush my teeth, pee, say goodnight to my roomie. Then I turn off my light, get in bed, set my alarm(s) for the morning and go to bed.
13. Ever get so drunk you don’t remember the entire night? No. Have I ever forgotten portions of a night? Yes. But never the entire thing, and any sort of blacking out is pretty rare. I like to go out with my friends, go to the bars, go to parties, but I try hard not to overdo it. And if I do drink a bit too much one night? Well, what can I do? Try to be a little more careful in the future.
29. Have you ever loved someone? Have I ever loved someone romantically/been in love with someone? not yet. I look forward to feeling that someday, but I’m not rushing, I’m not complaining.
34. If you could go to any place right now where would you go? I’d love to go to New York City, because I haven’t been there recently enough for my liking, and also to an ocean beach, because ocean beaches are my happy place and I’d love to go once more before summer concludes.
35. Are you missing someone? I miss my parents in little ways often. Not in a homesick, ache sort of way, but because they’re wonderful people and I enjoy spending time with them.
And I miss my closest friends from high school, who all live a few states away.
35. Do you have a tattoo? Yes, it’s on the left side of the middle of my back. It’s a turquoise wave with the line “it’s always ourselves we find in the sea” from an E.E. Cummings poem underneath it in slightly darker ink.
38. Are you hiding something from someone? Hmm. Well, I’m sort of hiding the details of my love/sex life from some of my friends because they have proved judgmental/gossipy on things of that matter and I don’t think it’s their business.
My mother is also so eager to know about things of that nature and I refuse to tell her about them. I feel bad not including her when she’s so accepting and loving, but it just makes me uncomfortable. Both because I’m fairly private about such things and because I feel weird telling my family about boys with whom things are casual.
& I know it’s scary to socialize with all these new people, but put yourself out there. I was so socially awkward & nervous when I was a freshman, but I forced myself to be social & try to forge friendships, and the people I met the first week of college are, to this day, some of my closest friends.
It’s intimidating, and all so new now, but, if your experience is anything like mine, it’s the beginning of everything.
Real women do not have curves. Real women do not look like just one thing.
Real women have curves, and not. They are tall, and not. They are brown-skinned, and olive-skinned, and not. They have small breasts, and big ones, and no breasts whatsoever.
Real women start their lives as baby girls. And as baby boys. And as babies of indeterminate biological sex whose bodies terrify their doctors and families into making all kinds of very sudden decisions.
Real women have big hands and small hands and long elegant fingers and short stubby fingers and manicures and broken nails with dirt under them.
Real women have armpit hair and leg hair and pubic hair and facial hair and chest hair and sexy moustaches and full, luxuriant beards. Real women have none of these things, spontaneously or as the result of intentional change. Real women are bald as eggs, by chance and by choice and by chemo. Real women have hair so long they can sit on it. Real women wear wigs and weaves and extensions and kufi and do-rags and hairnets and hijab and headscarves and hats and yarmulkes and textured rubber swim caps with the plastic flowers on the sides.
Real women wear high heels and skirts. Or not.
Real women are feminine and smell good and they are masculine and smell good and they are androgynous and smell good, except when they don’t smell so good, but that can be changed if desired because real women change stuff when they want to.
Real women have ovaries. Unless they don’t, and sometimes they don’t because they were born that way and sometimes they don’t because they had to have their ovaries removed. Real women have uteruses, unless they don’t, see above. Real women have vaginas and clitorises and XX sex chromosomes and high estrogen levels, they ovulate and menstruate and can get pregnant and have babies. Except sometimes not, for a rather spectacular array of reasons both spontaneous and induced.
Real women are fat. And thin. And both, and neither, and otherwise. Doesn’t make them any less real.
“And lastly from that period I remember riding in a taxi one afternoon between very tall buildings under a mauve and rosy sky; I began to bawl because I had everything I wanted and knew I would never be so happy again.”—F. Scott Fitzgerald (via romanholidays)