The Fappening: Reaffirming Man's Ruthlessness in 2014

"The Fappening" happened.

"Finally" some Reddit users are saying. Yes, finally. Finally we have bold evidence that humans are the most inhumane of creatures.

The Fappening is rape from a distance. It is cyber-molestation, a complete expulsion of privacy and a discharge of decency.

The Fappening will be remembered as the day mankind devolved into a gang of horny and greedy degenerates who jumped at the chance to degrade a group of women, worldwide.

This is not pornography, this is a disgusting sex crime in which everyone who views the photos partakes.

I saw some of the pictures yesterday. I observed and commented and even laughed. Can you believe that? I fucking LAUGHED at a fellow human being whose most private moments were stolen from her.

WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME. THIS IS NOT OK.

I feel so strongly for these girls. This is not just their bodies. This is their minds we are ripping away from them. And I am just as guilty as the rest of you spectators.

So why did I do it?
Shock. Awe. Curiosity and the complete relief that it wasn't me.

Well guess what.

It WAS me. A few years ago, when I was barely 19, I was at a Halloween party and my phone got stolen. Now at this time, I had had a long-term boyfriend of two years, and of course, some photos had been traded between him and I. So what happened when my phone was stolen, and the photos with it? Well the person who took my phone, opened my Facebook (I was constantly logged into my account as it was an app on my cell phone) and uploaded, to MY OWN profile, nude photos of me.

What did this look like to everyone else but a slutty teenager who got drunk and posted nudes of herself online?

Needless to say I was devastated. I ripped around and deleted every photo that had been posted. Luckily (as if anything was lucky about this situation), it was two in the morning on Halloween, so it was not the prime time for Facebook. But believe me, there was enough attention given (many repulsed, and many [repulsively] aroused responses) to really get into my head.

That was MY body. Those were MY photos. And it was me at my most vulnerable, on display for every person I knew to see. It was horrendous. The following week at University and the reoccurring scrutiny that it brought to my loss of dignity made it worse. It took me a long time to get over that violation and rebuild my self-respect.

Now for me to imagine what these girls are going through, how the ENTIRE WEB-ACCESSING WORLD can see them naked without their permission, that is fucked up. That is horrible. That is rape from a distance, and every fucker out there who jerks off to these women is violating them without their permission.

And maybe you think I'm just disgruntled, maybe you think I'm overreacting, maybe you think I'm a self-righteous female, but fuck you for doubting for one second the shame that this brings to everyone abusing this defamation. Fuck. You.

You are an asshole. I am an asshole. We are all a bunch of fucking assholes armed with computers and cruelty.

Take it from someone who's been there; This violation of privacy, even on a small scale, and especially on a large one, is a brutality that deserves objection.

Sincerely Disgusted,

LF

cheese

do you know when you've had a really long day, and you stop at the grocery store to buy dinner, and you don't really want to cook so you go to the deli section and you think, I could go for some cheese tonight, so you head to the fridge carousel and you pick up some cheddar and it says it's been aged for two years and it looks pretty tender and you think, This is some nice cheese, but as you put it in your basket you see another cheese and it's gouda and it's smoked and you think, Gouda? I hadn't even thought about gouda, so then you think about gouda and you start to notice all these other kinds of cheeses and you see that the gouda is lactose free and even though you're not lactose intolerant that somehow intrigues you, and you don't know a lot about cheese so you think maybe it's because gouda comes from goats not cows and then you think How come people aren't intolerant to goat's milk? so then you look back at the cheddar and now it doesn't seem so nice even though it's been aged for two years and it's pretty tender and you thought it was nice before, so then you put the cheddar back but as soon as you let it go you think What if I don't like gouda? and so you put the gouda down and now you're standing there by that refrigerated cheese carousel without a fucking thing in your hands and you get sort of sad all of a sudden and you wonder if you're ever going to pick a cheese and even if you do will it ever be the right cheese and suddenly you start to tear up but you think, No, I'm better than crying in a grocery store, so you pick up the cheddar again because trust your first gut right? and you pay for your cheese and you walk back to your car but as you sit there in the parking lot getting ready leave you realize that maybe it's not about the fucking cheese and it's never about the fucking cheese and maybe you don't even like the fucking cheese that much anyway and so you kind of scrub your fingers into your scalp and pull your hair and hit the steering wheel once or maybe twice and your cheeks are hot and wet and it's hard to see so you rub your eyes dry and when you look up there's an elderly asian man watching you freak out a little bit in your car by yourself, and so you slowly start your car and pull out of the parking lot and as you drive away you wonder if the elderly asian man ever cries and if he ever can't decide on a cheese and if he ever thinks that he doesn't even like cheese at all either.

△

I can smell the cigarettes.
I haven't smoked in days
But I can smell the cigarettes
in between your legs.

I can taste the coke cut up,
running down my throat.
I can smell the cigarettes,
even with no smoke.


I can see an image of
a woman lying bare
I can see the ink she's buried
underneath her hair

pubic becomes public when
we let ourselves believe
that smoking isn't bad for you.
that you will never leave.

if I could capture
you
and me
if I could capture
what
you see
if I could capture
the
capturing

I'd capture-keep,
the
long legs/
black hair/
smoke suspended in the air

a cat with whiskers wiser than/
the man who's broken eggs again

the shells that feed the mystery
because WHO THE FUCK COOKS EGGS AT MIDNIGHT
and I swear to god if one more person looks at me seductively
I'll rip apart the
leather jackets
jean vests
studded flannels
studded chests

because life just never seems as good/
as retrospectively.

as looking back on someone else's/
frozen memories.

and the worst-best part of everything
is when it seems so real,
that you could become one of them
if only you could feel.

Let's Just Do Ourselves A Favour and Remain Two Perfect Strangers

Back before I knew your name,

your one true north,

your compass aim,

Back before I heard your voice,

tasted your teeth,

and felt your noise,

Back before I saw your scars,

dug up your grave,

and drank your tar,

Back before the monsoon came,

I knew nothing of the rain.

Why do lions hunt their prey, in the middle of the day?

And why do strangers seem so strange, if all people are the same?

"What makes you get out of bed?"

You once asked me.

And I once said,

"My bed will be there later on, from dawn to dusk and dusk to dawn,

but a day is like a human life,

once it's begun, it starts to die."

Morbid.

Sad.

and So Naive.

Instead of names you gave me these.

You hated who I had become,

though I'd never changed the song I sung.

It's not the sweetest melody,

I'll be the first one to agree,

the tempo's rude,

the words are harsh,

the violin sparks in the dark.

Far away from crib-side yarn,

it fits more in a smoke-filled bar.

It is not a gentle harmony,

but I'll be damned, if it's not me.

And I warned you when we first became

more than strangers being strange,

that lions hunt during the day,

and I was hungry, in a way.

This City

doesn't this city just make you want to break things
doesn't this city just make you fucking hate things
doesn't this city just make you want to run
want to invest
in a knife
or a gun

don't all these people just drive you insane
and don't all these people always ask your name
just to forget
in a sec-ond
why they even came

into this world,
for shame
for shame

and wasn't it just the other fucking day
that you thought to yourself

maybe I can escape

and wasn't it just
the other fucking day
you told yourself

I can break the fuck away

but here you are in the same damn place

and here you are
losing the rodent race.

because money is tight
and morals are loose

and who gives a single fuck,
if their neck's in a noose

I mean, baby, or shithead,
all these little games,
come on baby,
my shithead
we're wasting away

bourbon, 
no-
whiskey
the devil in a drink

he pulls me straight past hades,
to deeper depths I sink

And it's the scars that you can't see
that run the fucking deepest

and who are you to say
I shouldn't fucking drink this

How dare you look at me
and say I shouldn't smoke,

I look at you-
and encourage you to choke.

Pond Scum

I'm sick of hearing, "you can't". It's starting to sound like the mantra of the majority.

"You can't live in a 10 X 10 apartment."
"You can't work two jobs."
"You can't up and move to another country."
"You can't just be a writer."

Why?

"Because, because you can't! It's not that easy."

No, it's not. But I don't want to do these things because they're easy. I want to do them because they're worth it. Because the higher the pressure the more liberty you feel once it's released. Because overcoming the challenge is half the fun. Because proving you wrong is inspiration enough to get out of bed, to run instead of walk, to jump when told to sit. Because in a world where the survival of the fittest has become a mere concept, the only true form of freedom is recklessness.

No, I don't want your advice, no, I don't need to slow down, and no, I didn't ask you what you're doing this weekend, because let me guess; you're going to check out that new gimmick restaurant where they lock up your cell phones because you and your friends are a internet-nymphos that can't restrain yourselves from getting off on hashtags in the middle of dinner.

"But why would you want to leave Canada? You don't realize how lucky you are."

Do you want to know, do you really, really want to know why I hate it here?

Because of people like you.

Because you bore the fucking shit out of me. Because you watch reality TV and shop at Victoria Secret. Because you're in a perpetual state of waiting for the weekend. And when it comes, you tip well, and absolve yourself of a 600 calorie coffee with the singular Hail Mary, "It's Friday!".

And as I watch you sacrifice your body to the gods of the Weekend, smearing the innards of an imported danish over your face like war paint, I can tell who you really are. Because, don't forget, I've seen you on Monday.

I've seen you Monday morning when I'm not important enough to even make eye contact with, when you bitch and moan because your 6 figure salary still makes you get up before nine. And for all of the smiles and gratuity that the weekend brings, that's who you really are.
A fucking Monday.

So instead of sticking around and sniveling about my surroundings, I want to escape. To experience, examine and explore. I've taken enough from Canada, for a long, long time.

I see that you're already comfortable here. You've settled in, calm and complacent. Not looking to leave, to move, to run like a river. No. You are happy being still. You are happy being stagnant.

And maybe it's the fact that I can't sit without shaking my legs, maybe it's because I've moved more times than years I've been alive, but I feel more at home in the crash of the wave than the calm of a lake. And you told me that you're scared of the ocean, but while still water is easier to swim in, it's the one that gets pond scum.


never yours,
LF

HIDDEN | SEARCHING

365 Days of Creativity

one hundred and eighteen

HIDDEN | SEARCHING

There's a poem hidden on my tongue

but I just can't find it,

my mouth is numb.

I've been sipping on winter for way too long,

this city is colder than your bubbler bong;

but I like the way it's one way streets all seem to lead from you to me,

and I like how you take them at full throttle

playing marco polo with the bottom of the bottle-

-As if you don't find it every night;

like the last few drops aren't your lullaby.

And it's an alibi that lulls you out of lucidity,

because your favourite superpower is anonymity.

And you don't mind if I show up when I'm fucking high,

because I'm a god damn child who can't handle life.

I'm the peak of the mountain all covered in white,

I'm the age old dragon,

I'm the youthful sprite

I'm the bowl that you smoke when you come down slowly,

I'm the pipe that you toke when you got no rollies.

I'm your vice, I'm your habit, I'm your bad addiction

I'm your fight, I'm your project, I'm your real life fiction.

I'm the cut on your tongue that you won't let heal,

I'm the poem in your mouth that you cannot feel.

Now I'm the lover of your discontent,

I'm the jar in your cupboard that's labelled 'rent'.

It's the 26th and the jar's still empty,

but we've got a two-six and your pouring hand's heavy.

Using whisky and water as lubrication-

it numbs and smooths through our expectations.

And I don't know when we made the agreement to feed our fucks and starve our feelings,

But my belly feels full like the waxing moon, 

and my chest holds as much as a fractured spoon.

Naked and hungry-

we share your bed

-searching for the words, in each other's heads.

Now and Then

Do you ever wake up and feel like anything is possible?

As if anything you decide to do that day is the right thing. The perfect thing. You can make no wrong choices. You could get hit by a car and it would be the best thing to ever happen to you, because it happened today.

You decide to wander around the city where you've live. Where you've lived for years, but now, today, you see the place as a newcomer. A tourist in your own town. Every building beckons, and what better one to visit first than the bookstore?

Everyday should start with a trip to the bookstore, you think.

The small shop is full of staff recommendations and ratings from the internet. Every cover tempts you. They all seem so fucking interesting. You want to pick them up and eat them whole. Digest them all at once. This reminds you that you'll never have enough time to read everything, but instead of bleak, this prospect seems romantic. It means that every book you do get to read is much sweeter. And it's cool, because you get to join the book's club. The story becomes the common denominator between you and a bunch of strangers who've also read it.

There's a woman working at the book store. She talks to you about Thailand and this yoga retreat she just returned from. It sounds beautiful. She's beautiful. So beautiful in fact, you think she may be the most beautiful person you've ever seen. That's nice.

You leave the book store with nothing, as it's too overwhelming to try and pick a book, and it was enough just to look at them.

On the street you notice everyone seems as perfect as the woman did. Flawless. Whole. With their experiences carried on their shoulders, bursting through their eyes and spun into the palms of their hands. Everyone has a million little moments, memories and ideas all caught up in their hair and tucked into their pockets.

And they bring all of these moments into every interaction they have. Everyone who meets you sees you slightly differently. Because when they speak to you, they don't see you simply as you are in this moment. That's how an infant would see you. No, an adult sees you compared to the last person they spoke to, you become tinged with the taste of someone they know who has your same name. They see you with a hint of hatred because your eyes look like their ex-girlfriend's, or they adore you immediately because you said hello the way their father does. Do you understand? When you meet someone, you're meeting their entire life. All of their experiences bundled up and traveling around on two legs. Every interaction unwittingly influenced by all of their predetermined notions and assumptions.

So. Here, you've realized this overwhelming awesome fact. Which you don't really know how to explain, but when you try you find yourself saying things like; "It's like we can't ever really know anyone, you know?" or "When was the last time you cried?" or "I hope I see her again." but in the end you don't mind if you don't. See her, I mean. You don't mind that you'll never see the woman again.  Like maybe she and you were only supposed to have that moment in the bookstore. Just a flash of personality in each others day. A random face that will show up in a dream two years from now. And when you wake up you'll wonder if she dreamt of you too.

That would be ok. That would be good. Because if nothing else, it's nice to be dreamt about now and then. Yes, you think, that would be enough.

Hereditary Debt

365 Days of Creativity

day one hundred and seventeen

It's funny, they say that scent is the strongest sense tied to memory, but it's the seeing of other people that most reminds me of you. How different you were from everyone else. And -very rarely- I see a similarity. Like today, I met a man that had your mouth, crooked and broken. Gone too hungry too many times to ever leave leftovers on its plate again.

When we kissed I could taste the coffee on his tongue, and knew that he took it like you had, with too much sugar because that was free. A coffee shop favor, sweet charity.

"Dance with me?" He asked.

But I couldn't, because he wouldn't move like you had, and if we did dance, he would stop reminding me of you.

So we talked for a while, and I watched his mouth. It moved like yours. Parting just a bit. Not much to say, and not saying much when it did. I remember, I used to love you like this.

"A soft spoken monster", you called yourself. But you were my Arcadia. The heaven I never thought I could get into.

I still wear your shirt, not sure if I can actually feel you, or am just imagining your skin woven through the fabric.

The tag on it reads;

50% Cotton
30% Polyester
15% Nostalgia
4% Regret
and 1% ....

What is that last one percent? What is the thing that completes the shirt (and by shirt I mean me)?

People always want to touch the pretty things they see, and debt comes hereditarily to me.

Back then, I knew you were yours. Not mine, not theirs, and only fleetingly would I have the chance to take your poverty away.

I scraped off your barnacles while I could. You, so distant, barely noticed when your leeches became mine; your greedy black monkey, now attached to my spine.

I grew heavy with weight, but had a new, impossible, impervious 1%. I had found it in your lips, your mouth, your kiss.

So, the morning you told me, 'I have to go.'
I made too-sweet coffee and said, 'I know.'

And it's funny I guess, in a sort of sad way, that scent is the strongest sense tied to memory. Because try as I might, every. damn. night.
I really, can't think what you smelled like.

Creator of Words

365 Days of Creativity

day one hundred and sixteen

/ I keep putting my hand back into the flame

wondering if I'll ever catch fire/

So who are you?

She asks of me

She asks of me,

the mirrors three

three angles three angels three angler-fish

three curly cue lights on curly cue fish

So who are you?

I ask of her

I ask of her

the murderer

the killer the soldier the warrior true

the one who abolishes anything new

So who are we?

We ask of each other

We ask of each other

our blood and bone brothers

So how can I stop her?

 HE asks the three

the three different words

three versions of me

With fire!

With water!

With forgotten name!

Whispers the feather, onto the stain.

Whispers the heart, onto the brain;

"Stop her you must not,

for she is we.

She is the dear spine,

that ties you to me,

but spinal chords snapped,

she is the one

who tears us apart,

who rends us undone."

Then how can we keep her?

Whispers the flesh

Whispers the young one

Seven years fresh

"To keep her held straight,

you must lay her down.

Gently, alone,

weave her a crown.

Hands, this is your task,

tie it up soon.

Ribbons of flesh,

Weaved under the moon.

Muscles and sinew,

lend us yourselves,

lend us your strength,

your wicker-ous cells."

The spine yes she needs us!

Kneads us all day,

growing us weary,

Making us slaves!

"We cannot undo her,

or selves, fall apart.

We cannot taboo her,

or curse our own."

-heart

But body!

HE cries

She's not even of us!

"Wrong!"

-the heart lies-

"We changed once she loved us!

Souls are not separate, dependent beings,

they barter and wager,

trade parts between.

Like alloys of metal, once fused;

no refusal.

The fusion of love is a permanent rule."

Don't listen-

-brain starts

but heart beats too strong

HE cannot hear brain,

o-ver bloody throng

"Keep her we must,

and keep her we shall"

The pumping red boa

tells the other halves

And HE nods, for though she had left him un-spun

Left him a hero, lost and unsung,

this muse, this music,

his life's inspiration,

she left him a bone,

called 'pure desperation'

"Come back, come back,

my sweet Jezabel.

I'll light you a fire,

remind you of hell.

I'll stick in my hand, and let it catch flame.

I'll bat away bats,

keep darkness at bay.

Scorching my arm

and burning my wrist,

I'll keep you unharmed,

I'll make you my BITCH

No, no! I misspoke,

please don't run away.

I simply mean,

I will make you pay

STAY! I meant stay,

oh my tongue's all a twist!

My mind has been muted,

my thoughts, all a mist.

He struggles with matches

to bring her back.

No wood does he have,

but his cabin shack.

With hair from the witches,

he sparks up a pyre.

Throwing in notebooks,

beckoning, HIGHER!

The pages do fry,

their muse-master spire,

and he burns up their words,

A Love Affair Fire.

His product, his project,

his whole sense of being,

belittled and quitted,

un-requited it seemed.

But just as the last works

melted away,

a piece of ash rises,

like salt from a bay,

and yea here what have HE?

What have we?

HE says

"It's her,"

says the heart

"she's no longer dead."

And red-orange; heat mottled,

a minuscule bird,

a flame-feathered angel,

Creator of Words,

wakes up and blinks her, e-ternal eye.

"Come," coos the Phoenix "It is time to write."

12 Years a Slave; This is Not a Review

After drying my two-hour ravaged eyes, my first thought out of the theatre was, wow, I can't wait to review this movie, but now, sitting at my computer, I don't think I can.

I'm thinking where to start. I sit, almost too hot in my room, drinking to cool myself, wrapping myself in a blanket once that gets too chilly. I'm eating, not knowing if it's because I'm sincerely hungry, or merely bored. The ticket from a seven dollar movie that I saw on cheap night sits crumpled on my desk. A movie that featured people who never saw seven dollars in their entire lives.

I was going to review the movie, but I don't think I can. I don't think I can do justice to the harsh truths told. To the emotional blows delivered by both the story and the humans involved. I cannot spark-note an entirely new perspective.

All I can really say, is that we are lucky. We are lucky to live in this age, with these rights, with these freedoms. We are lucky to have a choice in the careers we may or may not pursue, we are lucky to be able to make love with whom we want and get mad when that is judged. We are lucky to even have the option to speak back, speak out, to speak at all.

We are so, so very lucky.

And we owe it to people like Solomon Northup to learn his story, tell his story, and do justice to his story. And that's just what '12 Years a Slave' did.

Please, go see it. You are lucky to have the chance.

-LF

The Hero of Humiliation

365 Days of Creativity

day one hundred and fifteen

Everyday I hang myself

I nail myself

I staple myself to the wall

Everyday I bleed myself

I let myself

I rub my blood out in the hall

Everyday I hate myself

berate myself

I get out of bed and mandate myself

to update myself

to curate myself

Artist the fuck up and create myself

Everyday I design myself
define myself
I put on my face and outline myself

Everyday I dissect myself

I correct myself

Take out my parts and infect myself

I change myself

rearrange myself

I paint all my organs and stain myself

Everyday I reword myself

martyr myself

Use the strings from the Beats to suture myself

I collect myself

Resurrect myself

My volition in life; to perfect myself

If I fail myself

derail myself

I'll have nothing but a cheap veil of myself;

a shattered bulb 

a melted fuse

a pack of matches burned and used.

No supernova, 

glory,

fame.

No concrete star,

with golden name.

Forgotten, faded,

dusty muse.

Mona Lisa,

cut and bruised.

My blood still smeared all down the hall,

my skin still nailed up to the wall.

My body scarred from mutilation,

mapped attempts at self-creation.

A jagged, 

torn up,

constellation,

The Hero of Humiliation.

Don't we all fear failure's kiss?

For if you shoot 

for the moon 

and miss,

you'll rot away in the abyss.

Some People Shouldn't Wear Yoga Pants

So. Lululemon is in hot water because it's founder, Chip Wilson, has said that "quite frankly, some women's bodies actually don't work for [the products]." This is outrageous. He like, totally told the truth.

Haven't we been joking for years that "some people just shouldn't wear yoga pants"?

it even has it's own FB page

Have we not always thought that yoga pants were too casual for everyday wear, all day, all the time? Are we not aware that when fabrics like those that Lululemon's are made of, do indeed "pill" when exposed to friction for long enough? Do not all clothes fade or diminish in quality like this when put under heavy use and rubbing?

Watch the outrageously tame interview here.

Women are complaining after the (very nicely worded) remarks from the founder have surfaced. They claim that LLL is discriminating against plus sized women. While I can see how LLL is not built for plus sized women, just because they're not catering to them doesn't mean they're discriminating against them, or does it?

At what point must a company serve every human that exists? Guess does not make plus sizes, and I'm sure that their jeans would thin in the thighs as well, under days and days of rubbing together. Yet we allow them to keep making clothes. Maybe because it's obvious they aren't built for fat girls. But LLL stretch, so nearly anyone can squeeze into them. And then this;

 "I'M IN, BUT YOU MAKE SHITTY CLOTHES BECAUSE NOW I'VE GOT A HOLE IN MY CROTCH. DAT NOT FAIR. LULULEMON EVIL. ME ALWAYS RIGHT."

What we have to realize is that Chip Wilson of LLL has not said that heavy (or "normal" sized blahblah) women can't wear his clothes, not even that they shouldn't. He has simply pointed out that their bodies are putting the clothes under a different condition than they were designed for, and that they need to be aware of this when they're spending 100-200 $ on a pair of fucking yoga pants.
"You can wear our stuff, but you might fuck them up a bit."-Total direct quote.

People with Hyperhidrosis (excessive body sweat) don't complain that white t-shirts stain when they wear them.

Chip Wilson was very polite and even tentative with his speech. Meaning he knew the world of women was going to freak out, and yet he told the truth anyways. What a fuckin' guy.

Best Girly Movies Everrrrrrr

GUILTY PLEASURE PICTURES

the girls edition

OMG yes I have a uterus. Yes I indulge in typical womanly things from time to time (selfies, holiday lattes, Friends). And yes I have a soft spot for certain movies. It's pretty well known that I love blood and gore and seeing the bad guy win. But every now and then I visit the world of women and have a girly night where I paint my nails and drink too much wine and eat things with avocado in them. I blame my mother.

Here are my top fifteen classic girl movies that get better and also worse with every viewing.

15

27 Dresses

At least one Katherine Heigl movie was sure to end up on here. I prefer this one to the Ugly Truth because BENNY AND THE JETS. That song is yes.

It's our doom to feel like that at least once a week.

14

Gentlemen Prefer Blondes

Marilyn Monroe is the women of women. Her most iconic role as the best friend to diamonds, this movie and her performance hold up as hilarious after all this time.

13

Romy and Michele's High School Reunion

Baaaah so much teased blonde hair, so much synthetic plastic clothing, SO MUCH 90'S GOODNESS.

Seriously this is movie is our childhood. And also our future. All rolled up in a feather trimmed OHMAH-GAWD fest.

12

Breakfast at Tiffany's

Probably the best movie to get drunk to while feeling ridiculously girly and classy. Feel free to indulge in cigarettes and french baked goods as well.

Like a real gentleman.

11

Bad Teacher

Cameron Diaz not giving a fuck about her job or basically any other human in this movie is how I am most of the time. About everything. But instead of fake tits I'm saving for student loans.

Everyday.

10

(ps lol at Rose McGowan just mooping at the bottom of this poster)

Death Proof

QUENTIN TARANTINO MADE A CHICK FLICK AND THERE'S SEVERED LIMBS AND IDLE CHATTER AND THE SEXIEST FULLY-DRESSED LAP DANCE YOU WILL EVER WITNESS.

That's not a lot, really.

9

Clueless

This along with Romy & Michele are what's under the definition of the 90's Girl in the dictionary. Feather boas, flip cell phones and Brittany Murphy, what more can a girl ask for? (other than some Lisa Frank).

Look at lil Brittanyyyyy ooooooooooohhhhhhh.

8

House Bunny

Anna Faris + Emma Stone + slightly outdated university stereotypes = a really stupid movie that screams for poor girl's margaritas (mix & liquor, no blender) and Facebook creepin.

So dumb. So good. Anna Faris is a genuine babe.

7

Miss Congeniality

Every tomboy had her day of having to be a woman (9th grade grad was an eyeliner filled mess) and there is nothing that makes a girl feel good to hate being a girl like seeing Sandra Bullock get waxed and then twist her ankle in heels.

Little did we know how true this would become.

Also if ever I get forced into a talent show I am doing this;

6

You've Got Mail

UGH THIS MOVIE. It's one of the few romances that not only doesn't give me nausea, but it actually gets me. Every time. 

Something about that fucker Tom Hanks gets my heart growin' like the Grinch's. Plus independent book store vs big bad book store. Plus New York. Plus internet chatting that is so real and accurate and oh fuck this perfect film.

5

Bridget Jones

Oh Bridget. This is possibly the most lol-inducing film on this list. Seriously. And boys, if you somehow got onto this post and have made it this far, you have to love this movie. You have to. HAVE TO. It's just fucking fun for everyone. Cheesy christmas sweaters, british accents, a girl who can't cook and eats Ben & Jerry's wrapped up in a duvet;

There is not one part of this movie that I dislike. I would say Hugh Grant but he plays the douchiest douche so even that is satisfying.

My life.

4

Coyote Ugly

LeAnn Rimes, middle parted hair, and the man that I blame for all of our inexplicable swooning over the aussies. This is one bad-bitch flick with a good girl feel? I don't know how they made something so slutty so fucking wholesome and great. Although John Goodman may have something to do with it.

It's only gonna get worse, John.

And if you can stop yourself from singing along to this entire soundtrack, you don't have a uterus. Or a soul. Because real women CAN'T FIGHT THE MOONLIGHT NO.

3

She's the Man

A personal favourite, and how we all want to remember Amanda Bynes. So quotable, and I drop em on the daily even still. I refuse to grow up.

This is the Anchorman for women. Right down to the easy-to-imitate voice and real-life-applicable sayings like, "Rub some dirt in it." or "Ohmygod he knew." or "Bros, brothers, brethren?" or "check out the booty on that blondy" or "I gotta lifetime of knowledge." or;

2

Devil Wears Prada

Back when we used to buy DVD's and actually put them into a machine and then watch them on a screen that was meant just for that, I watched this movie almost everyday for a looooong time. It's got everything a girl needs in a film. A little drama, a lot of fashion and a homely girl fighting her way to the top for the job she wants. Quite sincerely inspiring for success, and really a stand up film in many ways.

Not too sure who Meryl Streep is but she's pretty good in this...??

Miranda Priestly is one of the sharpest female characters to grace us with her presence. Ever. Like a modern day Cruella De Vil meets Gordon Gecko.

And look at Emily Blunt being all new and fresh and playing supporting roles. PS you guys know she bagged John Krasinski, right? She really did do America right.

Of course, the queen b of them all;

1

 MEAN GIRLS, duh

Could any other film be number one? There's really nothing that needs to be said. This is the ultimate girls movie. Lindsay Lohan, Rachel McAdams, Tina Fey and Amy Poehler? Nope, nah, can't and won't be beat. 

So did my high school.

This film stereotyped many classes of people, but did it took it so far and did it so well that no one could possibly be offended. EVERYONE was torn apart in this film. Also this film is why I don't condone the term "betches". Because Tina Fey told me that we (females) can't keep calling each other derogatory terms. Normally I'm not uptight about it but betches is one that we made up for ourselves. If you haven't heard of this, it's sort of the female equivalent of "bros". Yeah, the Woo Girls who are the reason we have pumpkin spiced everything now. They made up this word that even makes them sound stupid. And that's ok for them, but I do not support the term "betches". 

...or Michael Kors.

I was always very glad we didn't do this at my high school. Why do american schools keep allowing these sort of ridiculous events that encourage hierarchies and then complain about clique-ieness and bullying. IF YOU PUNCH A HORSE IN THE ASS DON'T BE SURPRISED WHEN IT KICKS YOU.

My sentiments exactly.

So that's that, the pussy's out of the bag, so to speak. Now you know, I'm a woman and I partake in womanly things sometimes.

Ok brb gotta go rub some dirt in it.

LF

Coup De Grace

365 Days of Creativity

day one hundred and fourteen

will you live with me in poverty?

will you stay with me till broke?

will you take my hand and walk with me?

will you hate that I still smoke?

will you let me buy my cigarettes

when it’s them or food to eat

will you let me dodge my student debt?

will you help me steal and cheat?

will you let me write on anything?

even our own sex?

will you hold me down and call my name?

will you be my worst regret?

will you tie your fingers in my hair

on the nights that I can’t sleep

can you watch strange films with me?

can you stand my brazen cheek?

will you run away when I get scared?

will you stay here when I go?

will you judge my nasty vices dear?

will you laugh at all my jokes?

can I bite your neck all night

can I wear your clothes

do you mind that I can’t cook a thing?

do you mind that I can’t even sing?

do you care that I can’t stand myself?

do you think that I’m an easy fling?

Will you leave me when I do too much

or will you hold me while I shake

will you let me wear more ink than cloth?

will you hunt the demons that I’ve got?

will you help me kill my darlings true?

will you love me when my beauty’s through?

will you hold my skin while it rots off?

will you drink my blood when it’s got clots?

will you cut me open when I’m dead?

will you share for free what I have said?

will you keep my heart in a glass jar?

will you sell my teeth at a bazaar?

will you read my bones to know your fate?

will you let my innards dress your cake?

Will you take all that I’ve ever done

and show it to the midnight sun

can you leave me lying on the ice

so I never know true paradise

For I want to wander this damned place

until your body’s in decay

and when you can’t stand another day

I’ll deliver your sweet coupe de grace