I am looking to build a new website for www.meganfalley.com in time for the release of my forthcoming books, ‘Redhead and the Slaughter King’ (Write Bloody Publishing) and ‘Bad Girls, Honey (Poems about Lana Del Rey) in the Fall and Winter, respectively. If you are a web designer or student and would like to work with me, please shoot me an e-mail so we can talk details. Meganfalley@gmail.com
YouTube comments aren’t “just the Internet.” They’re not the product of a group of otherwise nice guys who suddenly become evil when they wear a veil of anonymity. YouTube comments are actually a nightmarish glimpse into the sexist attitudes that define the fabric of our own existence in the “real world,” a world that, like YouTube, is owned and dominated by men. The most terrifying gift that the Internet has given us is that it’s shown us how men honestly perceive the world: as a place where women exist exclusively for their sexual pleasure.
In the wake of VidCon, and as more and more women start speaking up about the harassment they face online, it’s time to start realizing that our narrative of progress is deeply flawed. Things aren’t getting better for women on the Internet; they’re deteriorating and ignoring the problem amounts to being complicit in it.
—"For women on the Internet, it doesn’t get better" by Samantha Allen (via femfreq)
Sometimes I wish I never took a women’s studies class. How, once I saw the war against us, I could not unsee it. How aware I became of the billboards and their slow twist of my arm. The lipsticks I used to collect, and love, suddenly many-hued bullets. Walking out from the midnight of a movie theatre into the shock of day, my friends laughter popping like corn, saying how great the movie was, and me, the blanket wet with phrases like, ‘the male gaze! ‘, ‘heteronormative!’ ‘complete and utter objectification of women!’
I miss the days when I could enjoy a fucking movie, or the silk of a shaven leg. I miss not having an existential crisis in the hairstylist’s chair saying, ‘no, i’m going to keep it long this summer.’ Miss the days when I wanted the men to look — when I thought ‘not like other girls’ was a compliment. I miss the days way back, further back, when I could pin a picture of a princess on my wall and feel proud—I even wished it when I was in that courtroom—when I could have still been a girl who let things go, who said the threats were not so bad, said ‘boys will be boys’ and let him tell me how pretty I’d look murdered.
But I was glad for those classes that day, in his room, when I said, ‘No’, and he said, ‘Must’, and I laced up my boots and got on a train, any train, not sure where home was but knowing damn well where it wasn’t.
-Megan Falley has been writing a poem a day, every day for the year of 2014. “Sometimes I Wish I Never Took…” was her 193rd poem of the year.
Do you know how difficult it was to find a pretty one my size? Do you know the worry I had of it getting ruined, that I only wore it on special occasions? Do you understand how a good one is supposed to fit so you don’t even feel it? Can you imagine the time it takes to sew together silk and lace and wire and hooks? Do you know how hard it was to let the woman with the measuring tape come near me? Do you know I couldn’t look her in the eye as she wrapped it over my ribcage, that I held my breath the entire time? Do you know buying something of quality for myself took twenty-four years and a third of a paycheck to do? Do you know I sat ashamed in my car, staring at the receipt, for the rest of my lunch break? Do you know I only wore it two times before that night? That I sprayed it with perfume like I saw a French woman do once in a movie? Do you know I was dizzy halfway through the first drink? Orange juice. I said “no” to a beer and you brought me orange juice. Do you know the walls seemed to stretch, then fade, that I felt my jaw turn to stone then drop to my chest? Do you know I couldn’t hear myself speak, but heard the conversation of your neighbors, two doors down, perfectly? Do you know how grateful I am, still, that I never heard the pop of each silky thread, the roar of each hook tearing from its eye? Do you know how cold I was waking up in the middle of your hardwood floor? Do you know the first thing I thought of was The Bra. Do you know I was so terrified I didn’t even try to find it? Do you know the saleswoman winked at me in the mirror, then wrapped it in thin peach tissue paper? Do you know I packed a lunch for seven months and ate it in the bathroom? Do you know it’s been twelve years, and I still never answer my phone? Do you know I laughed, not too long ago, remembering the Garfield poster at the abortion clinic? Do you know how, most days, it’s the little things that kill you?
- Rachel McKibbens, 7/9/14