02.Oct.14 2 hours ago
02.Oct.14 2 hours ago
02.Oct.14 2 hours ago
01.Oct.14 2 hours ago
,,

I am 20 years old and I hate myself. My hair, my face, the curve of my stomach, the way my voice comes out wavering and my poems come out maudlin, the way my parents talk to me in a slightly higher register than they talk to my sister, as if I’m a government worker that snapped and if pushed hard enough, might blow up the hostages I’ve got tied up in my basement. I cover up this hatred with a kind of aggressive self-acceptance. I dye my hair a fluorescent shade of yellow, cutting it into a mullet more inspired by photos of 1980s teen mothers than by any current beauty trend. I dress in neon spandex that hugs in all the wrong places. My mother and I have a massive fight when I choose to wear a banana-printed belly shirt and pink leggings to the Vatican and religious tourists gawk and turn away. I’m living in a dormitory that was, not too long ago, an old-age home for low-income townspeople, and I don’t like thinking about where they might be now. My roommate has moved to New York to explore farm-to-fork cooking and lesbianism. So I’m alone, in a ground-floor, one-bedroom, a fact I relish until one night a female rugby player rips my screen door off the hinges and barges into the dorm to attack her philandering girlfriend. I’ve bought a VHS player and a pair of knitting needles and spend most nights on the sofa making half a scarf for a boy I like who had a manic break and dropped out. I’ve made two short films, both of which my father deemed interesting but beside the point. And I’m so paralyzed as a writer that I started translating poems from languages I don’t speak, some kind of surrealist exercise meant to inspire me, but also prevent me from thinking the perverse looping thoughts that come unbidden. I am hideous. I’m going to be living in a mental hospital by the time I’m 29. I will never amount to anything.

Lena Dunham, Not That Kind of Girl (via lookingfor-abigail)
01.Oct.14 2 hours ago
01.Oct.14 3 hours ago