“I hear some of you complaining “women always say they want a nice guy.” I know lots of women — I’m even related to a few — and I can’t say I’ve ever heard any of them say that. I can’t prove it, but this sounds like one of those things stand-up comedians say about women and everyone else just repeats. I’ve also never known a woman who cries when she breaks a nail — although I’ve known a few who swear like a 15-year-old sailor in jail — and I’ve never had a woman ask me if her outfit made her look fat unless she actually wanted and subsequently appreciated my opinion. So either I’ve stumbled upon a secret trove of women who aren’t passive-aggressive sob machines, or you need to stop mistaking Dane Cook routines for peer-reviewed sociological studies.”—Lore Sjöberg, Alt Text: Taking Another Look at the Myth of the ‘Nice Guy’ (via cunicular)
If you think a woman in a tan vinyl bra and underwear, grabbing her crotch and grinding up on a dance partner is raunchy, trashy, and offensive but you don’t think her dance partner is raunchy, trashy, or offensive as he sings a song about “blurred” lines of consent and…
If I were someone who curses, I would say “Fuck you, anxiety. You and the depression you bring.”
But I am not, so I will say “I hate you, anxiety. I hate that I can’t even walk to my own kitchen without collapsing in tears because I had a panic attack about my kitchen. My own kitchen. Where my own food is. I hate that I haven’t slept, eaten, or left my bed for 24 hours now except for the failed walk to the kitchen. I hate that I feel weak, like a failure, like a worthless person who realized she has a problem and sought out help and is relapsing. I hate that I had an anxiety attack at work in front of everyone, and I hate that the thought of facing work again triggers more tears and more feelings of panic and dread. I hate that the thought of calling my counselor makes me hyperventilate. I hate that you make me hate myself. I hate you.”
In other news, the “new technology” at work has led most of us in leader-type positions to breakdowns. Clearly something is wrong.
First, you get in the shower to start your day. Then, you think about stuff. You know, like how two days ago your manager told you you don’t know how to do your job and you’re not an asset to the team. Repeat this over and over in your head, even though you don’t want to. Think about how you’re getting ready for work. Work. Where your manager is. The manager who said you’re terrible. You are awful. Obviously, this must be true and you are just the worst ever and why even bother. Hyperventilate. Wheeze. Put your hands on your knees while you gasp for breath and cry. To finish, throw up on your own feet. Then go to work.
shoutout to all the other ex-gifted & talented/honor student/straight a/senior editor/star student/99th percentile/once-creative burn-outs who have, since high school, realized they are truly miniscule fish in a giant, endless ocean, criticized themselves to the point of creative paralysis, and participated in so much self-sabotage they no longer see the point of doing anything at all because they’re just going to ruin it for themselves anyway
“For the last three decades many Americans have puzzled over a system that gives an R to a movie in which a women is carved up by a chainsaw and an NC-17 to one that shows a woman sexually pleasured. From such ratings one might conclude that sexual violence against women is OK for American teenagers to see, but that they must be 18 to see consensual sex. What message does this send to the kids the MPAA presumably means to protect?”—