Pretty by Katie Makkai

“When I was just a little girl, I asked my mother, “What will I be? Will I be pretty? Will I be pretty? WILL I BE PRETTY?! What comes next? Oh right, will I be rich?” Which is almost pretty depending on where you shop. And the pretty question infects from conception, passing blood and breath into cells. The word hangs from our mothers’ hearts in a shrill fluorescent floodlight of worry.

“Will I be wanted? Worthy? Pretty?” But puberty left me this funhouse mirror dryad: teeth set at science fiction angles, crooked nose, face donkey-long and pockmarked where the hormones went finger-painting. My poor mother. 

“How could this happen? You’ll have porcelain skin as soon as we can see a dermatologist. You sucked your thumb. That’s why your teeth look like that! You were hit in the face with a Frisbee when you were 6. Otherwise your nose would have been just fine!

“Don’t worry. We’ll get it all fixed!” She would say, grasping my face, twisting it this way and that, as if it were a cabbage she might buy. 

But this is not about her. Not her fault. She, too, was raised to believe the greatest asset she could bestow upon her awkward little girl was a marketable facade. By 16, I was pickled with ointments, medications, peroxides. Teeth corralled into steel prongs. Laying in a hospital bed, face packed with gauze, cushioning the brand new nose the surgeon had carved.

Belly gorged on 2 pints of my own blood I had swallowed under anesthesia, and every convulsive twist of my gut like my body screaming at me from the inside out, “What did you let them do to you!”

All the while this never-ending chorus droning on and on, like the IV needle dripping liquid beauty into my blood. “Will I be pretty? Will I be pretty? Like my mother, unwrapping the gift wrap to reveal the bouquet of daughter her $10,000 bought her? Pretty? Pretty.”

And now, I have not seen my own face for 10 years. I have not seen my own face in 10 years, but this is not about me. 

This is about the self-mutilating circus we have painted ourselves clowns in. About women who will prowl 30 stores in 6 malls to find the right cocktail dress, but haven’t a clue where to find fulfillment or how to wear joy, wandering through life shackled to a shopping bag, beneath the tyranny of those two pretty syllables.

About men wallowing on bar stools, drearily practicing attraction and everyone who will drift home tonight, crest-fallen because not enough strangers found you suitably fuckable. 

This, this is about my own some-day daughter. When you approach me, already stung, stained with insecurity, begging, “Mom, will I be pretty? Will I be pretty?” I will wipe that question from your mouth like cheap lipstick and answer, “No! The word pretty is unworthy of everything you will be, and no child of mine will be contained in five letters.

“You will be pretty intelligent, pretty creative, pretty amazing. But you, will never be merely ‘pretty’.”

iwillquietlyresist:

tessaviolet:

riannafinch:

westartedwiththepie:

riannafinch:

“Love your body the way your mother loved your baby feet.”

I wish I could show this to every girl, ever.

reblogging this again because it is the best advice I have ever heard

aw, good!

I almost started crying in Starbucks.

This is beautiful. Jesus, I’m sobbing. 

i know girls who are trying to fit into the social norm 
like squeezing into last year’s prom dress 
i know girls who are low rise, mac eyeshadow, and binge drinking 
i know girls that wonder if they’re disaster and sexy enough to fit in 
i know girls who are fleeing bombs from the mosques of their skin 
playing russian roulette with death; it’s never easy to accept 
that our bodies are fallible and flawed 
but when do we draw the line? 
when the knife hits the skin? 
isn’t it the same thing as purging, 
because we’re so obsessed with death, 
some women just have more guts than others 
the funny thing is women like us don’t shoot 
we swallow pills, still wanting to be beautiful at the morgue, 
still proceeding to put on make-up, 
still hoping that the mortician finds us fuckable and attractive 
we might as well be buried with our shoes, 
and handbags and scarves, girls 
we flirt with death everytime we etch a new tally mark 
into our skin 
i know how to split my wrists like a battlefield too 
but the time has come for us to 
reclaim our bodies 
our bodies deserve more than to be war-torn and collateral, 
offering this fuckdom as a pathetic means to say, 
“i only know how to exist when i’m wanted” 
girls like us are hardly ever wanted you know 
we’re used up and sad and drunk and 
perpetually waiting by the phone for someone to pick up 
and tell us that we did good 
You did good. 
( i know i am because i said am, my body is home) 
so try this 
take your hands over your bumpy lovebody naked 
and remember the first time you touched someone 
with the sole purpose of learning all of them 
touched them because the light was pretty on them 
and the dust in the sunlight danced the way your heart did 
touch yourself with a purpose 
your body is the most beautiful royal 
fathers and uncles are not claiming your knife anymore 
are not your razor, no 
put the sharpness back 
lay your hands flat and feel the surface of scarred skin 
i once touched a tree with charred limbs 
the stump was still breathing 
but the tops were just ashy remains, 
i wonder what it’s like to come back from that 
sometimes i feel a forest fire erupting from my wrists 
and the smoke signals sent out are the most beautiful things 
i’ve ever seen 
love your body the way your mother loved your baby feet 
and brother, arm wrapping shoulders, and remember, 
this is important: 
you are worth more than who you fuck 
you are worth more than a waistline 
you are worth more than any naked body could proclaim 
in the shadows, more than a man’s whim 
or your father’s mistake 
you are no less valuable as a size 16, than a size 4 
you are no less valuable as a 32A than a 36C, 
your sexiness is defined by concentric circles within your wood; 
wisdom 
you are a goddamn tree stump with leaves sprouting out: 
reborn

Tina Fey speaks at the Center for Reproductive Rights Inaugural Gala.

tierracita:

I-Pad docking station called ‘Venus of Cupertino” created by London-based designer,Scott Eaton.

I really love this for some reason. 

“I want to nominate a man who’s cool on the outside but who burns for America on the inside. I want – I want a man who believes with no doubt that we can build a new American dream economy, driven by innovation and creativity, by education and, yes, by cooperation. And by the way, after last night, I want a man who had the good sense to marry Michelle Obama.” — Former President Bill Clinton’s Remarks at the 2012 Democratic National Convention

mythickisbeautiful:

athickgirlscloset:

ghdos:

beckyloves:

mariahhhf:

GIVE ME THIS RIGHT NOW

WHY DONT I OWN THIS?!

If they were just leggings, these would be dope as fuck.

i love that she gives Nicki Minaj a run for her money in this! love her lol

SUBMISSION THEME: “DAT ASS”

One of things I love about a THICK woman is the view from behind!
Do you have a nice view? We want to see what you’re workin’ with!

Submission: http://mythickisbeautiful.com/submit

modelgeek:

modelgeek:

the crazy stupid random shit i do.. knowing im supposed to be finishing a paper

lmfbo omg i forgot about this one…im lame

Oh MAN I love her :D

immrrager:

modelgeek:

leaked.

(via imgTumble)

#Damn #Damn Straight #Fuck Yeah #Get it #Unreal #Staring into the Sun #Badasses #Lady Badasses #Gorgeous #Beautiful #Have Mercy #Be Still My Heart #Heartbreaker #Unbreak My Heart #Is This the Real Life #Here Are My Panties Do With Them What You Will #I’ll Be in My Bunk