Rather taken with someone who discusses Palestine/Israel at the breakfast table.
You're staring down the barrel of my queue.
Expect impressionist details and a focus on females. It's a bit of a jumble although somewhat orderly. Perhaps it's all sometimes a little bit NSFW. Maybe.
Draw your own conclusions
"Eating disorder? You’re not even thin!"
I should not be ashamed of not looking like I have an eating disorder
I am not spending literally 90% of my paycheck on recovery for some facetious bint - who told me how to cheat at weigh-ins during our first meeting - to decide that I don’t fulfill her incredibly narrow view of EDs.
The Best Offer (La Migliore Offerta), 2013, Director: Giuseppe Tornatore
Plaster Statuette of a Female Torso by Vincent Van Gogh
Fleur de lis by Robert Reid | Branches with Almond Blossom by Vincent van Gogh | Amalia de Llano y Dotres, Countess of Vilches by Federico de Madrazo |The anticipated letterby Harry George Theaker|We Both Must Fade (Mrs. Fithian) by Lilly Martin Spencer
Pablo Picasso (1881‑1973)
Jeune femme en chemise
Oil on canvas
72,7 x 60 cm
This waif-like girl is among Picasso’s cast of people from the margins of society. A melancholic mood is conveyed with veils of paint. The chemise accentuates, rather than disguises, the slenderness of the girl’s body that the painter shows as sexually desirable. She is fragile, perhaps sickly. Her delicate pink flesh evokes the skin-colour that Picasso’s friend Guillaume Apollinaire identified among street performers: ’that purplish pink one finds on the cheeks of certain fresh young girls close to death’.
How to Be an Anorexic Feminist
Your body is an argument. You are an argument. You prove the need for feminism the way Walter White proves the need for universal healthcare. So stand there, please, with your body unmasked and dirty, your mouth tasting of tin. Slip between the words “commodification” and “objectification,” note the variations of your body sprinkled throughout articles about The Media and The Problems Affecting Young Girls Today and How to Talk to Your Daughter about Food. See the slight alterations—the skin a little too smooth, the skeleton all sloping hills and valleys.
Brush your teeth for the seventh time this morning, desperately trying to rid yourself of that taste, then gargle mouthwash until your cheeks ache. Open a pomegranate and scrape the arials into a bowl sticky with the juice of yesterday’s blackberries. Squeeze honey onto your tongue and press your tongue to the roof of your mouth. Take baths instead of showers so you can faint without falling.
When the young girls at work ask how you stay so thin, lie. Tell them you have a fast metabolism, tell them about your love of breadsticks (and don’t admit that all you do is stare). Tell them that you like to be active but avoid the gym. Register their disappointment. Wonder what you said wrong.
(Or don’t. You already know their conclusions: They think they’ll never measure up. That they’re not lucky like you.)
Better still, tell the truth—but make it a lesson. Describe the dirt on the inside of your skin, the intermittent racing of your heart, the sleeplessness that comes with being underfed. Tell them that bread makes your throat close, not because you’re allergic, but because your body rejects it. Explain that you can’t shove him off, because your arms are too weak.
You are a cautionary tale with no end.
Date men who love your body until they see it in the light, who complain that your pelvic bones hurt them. Who, in a misguided attempt to lighten the mood, suggest that your ribcage is actually an alien poised to leap out of your body and eat your face. Float alongside these men, lace your fingers with theirs, listen to them wish that you were just a little softer, not all over, just…here. And here.
Notice their protectiveness, the pride they take in having someone so “petite”—but don’t ignore the way their eyes avoid the prominent veins in your hands. You look better draped in loose clothing, your oversized head popping out of hoodies and thin t-shirts. You are not beautiful yourself, but if you assemble yourself just the right way, carry your body just the right way, you become beautiful.
You are a delicate mechanism; you creak and shudder. You sit on the middle shelf where anyone can reach, and hope they handle you with care. You’re on display, yes, but collecting dust. It doesn’t take long for everyone to forget.
You prove the need for feminism, but you also set it back. When you stand in front of the fridge, stare, and walk away empty-handed; when you stumble out of the gym, kneel over the empty bleachers, and vomit up fruit and frozen yogurt; when you swallow your hatred for girls you perceive as smaller; when you look at fat bodies and push away your food. You are a reason, an argument, and a detriment.
You are seventeen, twenty, twenty-seven. You are too old to take seriously, stuck in suspended adolescence, sliding into jeans you’ve had since you were twelve. Everyone around you fucks up, deals with it, moves on. They buy furniture and cars and reed oil diffusers in crisp citrus scents while you spread low-calorie cheese on crackers and watch the absolute worst of Netflix.
You have a series of small, quiet failures, then an explosive one. You have two drinks on an empty stomach and stumble to the bathroom, where you vomit for what feels like hours. A few weeks later you receive a gently-worded letter saying that you should probably take time off from the program, you know, for your health.
When people ask why you’re not in classes you make vague references to “health and personal issues.” They start writing their theses and dissertations and update their facebook statuses with pithy thoughts about gender and politics while you cry over pancakes and punch your thighs and stomach every time you feel hungry.
You are the source material nobody’s reading. The opposite of praxis. An illustrative example. But don’t offer yourself up; that makes people uncomfortable. Just stand and wait. Let them come to you.
Or don’t. Because you don’t owe your body to anyone; because all you ever do is wait. Because you are interesting, and articulate, and clever. Because you don’t have to be interesting or articulate to matter. Because you don’t have to be small. Because intelligence is not a virtue, and there is no moral component to food, and you are no one’s cautionary tale. Because while there is no beauty in sickness, there’s no shame either, and the rage that builds inside your empty, scraped-out body deserves a voice.
You don’t set feminism back; it owes you.