Morrissey (Autobiography, p.200)
Will always reblog this it’s very very important
my father needs to hear this…..
I prefer the title for the VS campaign.
funny how there’s NO skinny girls in the “real beauty campaign” considering beauty isn’t limited to a certain size hahaha
Exactly why I don’t support it. Or girls that weight even just a bit more. They all weigh THE SAME.
I hate whenever the Dove Real Beauty commercials come on. Skinny women are just as “real” as thick women. Get outta here.
If Victoria’s Secret were to put “Real Beauty” as their campaign name, they would get so much crap just like Hollister did. Kinda bizzare that this is okay because these women are on the larger side, which means they can get away with practically everything… pretty unfair.
lets just be clear, if you spend the time baking a cake/cookies/brownies, you can eat as many of them as you want and the calories don’t count. you made those calories. you’re their god.
disclaimer: this does not apply to children you have made
I was eleven when I first heard the words “Real women have curves”.
And so, at eleven, it was also the first time I realized that, unfortunately, I am not real.
But the thing was, I wanted to be real.
So I forced myself to eat more to the point my stomach ached. I’d wear baggy clothes to hide how thin I was. And when I’d go out to buy new ones, I’d always walk quickly because I was ashamed, because after all, everyone should “say no to size zero”.
It didn’t work. It never worked.
When I took off my clothes in the girls’ locker room everyone else would laugh and point at my obvious ribs and small breasts. And I’d see pictures of Marilyn Monroe being compared to pictures of girls who looked like me all over the internet, all the comments telling me that I was a shame to the human race.
Because who would ever find me beautiful, who would ever find me worth the chase, who would ever love me, a girl with no curves, a girl that just isn’t real?
So as I grew older, I kept at it. I kept stuffing myself with food I never wanted to see again for the rest of my life. I kept hiding my figure with fabric and padding and oversized jackets. I kept crying and crying and pushing away the men who told me they loved me. They possibly couldn’t love me. Because I am not real.
And then the day came I looked in the mirror with a blade in my hands. Because I decided I was just not worth the stupidly small space I was taking up.
But I didn’t do it. I didn’t do it because it was in that moment I realized that yes, I am real.
I may wear size zero clothing, I may barely fill out an A-cup, I may have a “distasteful flat ass”, I may have ribs that stick out like mountains, but by god I laugh, I smile, I cry, I feel, I envy, I lust, I love, I hate, and I am real and I am a woman.
Never again will I look in a magazine and tear out my hair instead of the pages I should’ve burned long ago. Never again will I bind the definition of my being with a tape measure wrapped around my waist. Never again will I judge how much love I can allow myself to drown in by how much I fill out a bra.
Because I am not a number. I am not the men who whistle and shout at me with disdain. I am not a do or don’t in an article, on a billboard.
I am me, and it’s time I start loving that.
Yesterday my friend and I were walking out of Forever 21 and the wind blew my skirt up a little. I had shorts on underneath (for this very reason) but two guys in a parked car saw it happen and yelled at me to lift it more, I yelled back, “fuck you!” and they laughed. So I took my pocket knife out of my bag and said, “I will slash your fucking tires” and they did not laugh