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When it comes to current attitudes about surgery, the practice of dismissing the cultural context and rationalizing it as individual betterment "flattens the terrain of power relations." In other words, we can talk about doing it for us until our high-end lipstick flakes off, but we should also keep in mind that we probably wouldn't even be thinking about what life would be like with a new nose or perkier breasts or shapelier inner thighs if it weren't for a long-standing cultural ideal that rewards those who adhere to it with power that often doesn't speak its name, but is instantly recognizable to those who don't have it. ↗
Take it from me: love has all the lasting permanence of a rainbow- beautiful while it's there, and just as likely to have disappeared by the time you blink. ↗
Mary got pregnant from a kid named Tom Who said he was in love He said 'Don't worry about a thing, baby doll I'm the man you've been dreaming of,' But three months later He said he won't date her or return her call And she sweared 'God damn, if I find that man I'm cutting off his balls,' And then she heads for the clinic And she gets some static walking through the doors They call her a killer, and they call her a sinner And they call her a whore God forbid you ever had to walk a mile in her shoes Cause then you really might know what it's like to have to choose ↗
This," Adrian said grandly, "is Blake Lazar." "It's nice to meet you," she said. Blake smile radiantly. "May I call you Vasilisa?" "You can call me Lissa." "You can also," added Christian, "let go of her hand now. ↗
#christian-ozera #last-sacrifice #lissa-dragomir #vampire-academy #sacrifice
Survival is an ancient dream Life is nothing but an everlasting illusion Nothing is Real Don’t believe in illusion, Remember me, I am here … ↗
#believe-in-illusion #emptiness #empty #everlasting-illusion #illusion
I learned a long time ago that most of my family and friends had plastic hearts. Plastic hearts are made so they cannot be broken. Cracked maybe, but never broken. ↗
I remembered all the Christmases we’d celebrated, always with a huge tree, situated next to the staircase where I now sat. As a child, I’d sat upon that same step, huddled up against the balus- ters, studying the tree, its shape and decorations; enthralled by the magical light and shadows upon the walls around me. Dancing. Over Christmas the only light in the hallway had come from the silver candelabra burning on the hallway table. But on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day night small candles were attached to the branches of the tree, their soft light reflected in the vast chande- lier suspended high above and thrown back across the walls like stars across the universe. I remembered the smell, that mingling of pine and wax and burning logs: the smell of home, the smell of happiness. I’d sat there in my nightgown, listening to the chime of crystal; the laughter, music and voices emanating from another room, an adult world I could only imagine. And always hoping for a glimpse of Mama, as she whooshed across the marble floor, beautiful, resplendent . . . invincible. ↗
