For everyone and you feel entitled to it. Fuck off. We aren’t your mammies. If we aren’t into the vibe let us be. Never forget I was minding my business from jump tho. Black women aren’t here for you. Via: Official Black Wallstreet
Light some candles.
Get out your brooms.
Celebrate the moon.
Via: Jackie Hellville
- Stop punishing women for not being submissive.
- To be seen as human rather than an object or accessory.
- Stop being told to smile.
- Strange men no longer invading my personal space to holla on the streets.
- Stop catcalling.
- Acknowledging that I have earphones in and don’t owe you conversation.
- Economic revenge when a woman wants to disengage.
- Not being pitted against other women, because your cowardice hides your emotions.
- To be heard.
- To be valued.
- To be powerful without you tearing us down.
What would you add? Artist: Giulia J Rosa
Now I don’t align or agree with his vibe, but this quote is the reason I’m posting it because of where we’ve been. More importantly where we weren’t allowed to go, ahem:
“He came back evil. Not because of what happened overseas but from what he saw on his return. He loved the army, and even received a commendation for a letter he wrote to his captain about inequities in the treatment of colored soldiers. Perhaps his life might have veered elsewhere if the US government had opened the country to colored advancement like they opened the army. But it was one thing to allow someone to kill for you and another to let him live next door. The GI Bill fixed things pretty good for the white boys he served with, but the uniform meant different things depending who wore it. What was the point of a no-interest loan when white banks won’t let you step inside?”
Thank you for your service and being the first black US secretary of state, a dream lived. Via: Maurette B Clark
Chris Evan and Selena Gomez are not, I repeat NOT dating. This was all a creation of Mick Jagger’s insanity. I told him after showing him what the cards said that a man had been coming into my dreams. He use to enter my dreams too, but it was astral projection. I never told him it was Chris Evans, but being my twin he figured it out.
Now anybody who knows me knows I’ve never cared for him, he just doesn’t do it for me. I see where he’s gorgeous, all my friends are obsessed with him, it’s just not my scene. He’s too pale, seems very frat boyish, but most importantly he’s a GEMINI. Gemini’s ruin lives is a saying I’ll take to the grave. Are they fun? Hell yeah, I fuck with them heavy for that. I’ve had the time of my life with Gemini’s, but a relationship? Naw I’m good. They genuinely are two people in one and compartmentalize their b.s not out of maliciousness it’s just who they are. After my former bff Julien I know better. Astrologically prejudice, guilty! And I was right.
I changed my mind when he appeared in my dreams with his family for a month straight. I had the time of my life, he wasn’t sexual, but romantic and fun. More importantly he was NICE to me, considerate, thoughtful.
Chris Evans in collaboration with Mick Jagger messages me from his now deleted finsta account after following me. I asked why, their answer was the exact response Mick’s personal assistant gave. I knew it was Mick. Despite my loyalty he doesn’t trust me, because insecurities about his age trigger his paranoia. He was testing me (while eliminating threats)…again…to see if I would take the bait. Chris said he would block us both if I told people he contacted me. I just wanted help to be free. Based on my dreams and his reputation I thought Chris would be a good guy. WRONG. He was everything I initially thought prior to invading my subconscious, which stopped as soon as I made a FB status about it.
Mick then makes him and Selena Gomez a fake item in an effort to keep me. I was never going anywhere until he got crazy. Now all I want is to escape him forever he makes me miserable and is forcing a connection using financial abuse which is a form of domestic violence. He’s willing to do anything, no matter how outlandish except listen to my wants and needs, which is the only way we’ll have a future. No one wants a partner who tries to control them, adds stress to their life when they are being bullied by Hollywood racists. He doesn’t protect me nor does he have my back like he once did. Why? Because he is use to everyone doing whatever he wants since he was 18. Takes no accountability for making me miss Sara’s wedding and punishes me for not going on tour. All he cares about is winning, no matter what the cost. The cost will be me, I will never be with someone who mistreats me I don’t care what lengths I must go through to escape. Nor will I forget those who were complicit when I asked for help. I’m being guided to give him a second chance IF he starts being better to me. I do not trust him anymore, I don’t feel like I can rely on him, and seeing his pictures makes me wanna run and hide behind someone I do trust. Do I believe he’ll do the right thing? No, because he doesn’t feel like he needs to earn anything. He’s Mick fucking Jagger what he says goes. That’s not how love, true, healthy love works. Twins do help the other shed unhealthy conditioning, which is why twin flame relationships are tumultuous. Hopefully he can end his toxic patterns.
On October 1st I dmed Chris Evans verified account, he responded to me via text two minutes later.
He pretended to help me, antagonized me and made fun of my emotional distress, some of it was Mick Jagger telling him what to say, other parts were just him being mean. Since I’ve blocked him. He’s a fraud. He literally asked me if I’ve seen his movies and to send him photos. All about him, he’s just like everybody else trash who dehumanizes others. Via: The World Of Cinemaa
Writing work related emails can be daunting, for those of you crippled by fear of sounding unprofessional here’s some help. There are ways to assert yourself and still be respectful. Hope this makes the beginning of your week easier. Are emails overwhelming for you? Via: Kaizen Executive
Brown Sugar isn’t a glorification of slavery, or the objectification of black women with connotations of slavery, it is a historical account of how the African hyphen American came to be. Emphasis on the hyphen. Black is black I thought until going to Europe, blanketing the ethnic rainbow of us all.
“They’re going to love you over there, they rarely get to see African Americans.”
“What do you mean? They have black people in Paris…” I questioned and answered, while puzzled. An amalgamation of emotions all at once.
Between reading Kindred and my Parisian experience, as if absorbing the former that year prepared me for the latter, I learned the distinction.
“Whereas some doubts have arisen whether children got by any Englishman upon a negro woman should be slave or free…’be it therefore enacted and declared by this present Grand Assembly, that all children borne in this country shall be held bond or free only according to the condition of the mother.’ With this decree, the colonists were breaking from English legal precedent, the only precepts they ever known, the ancient order that gave children of black women, the vast majority of whom were enslaved, as their property for life and for ensuing generations. It invited them to impregnate the women themselves if so inclined, the richer it would make them. It converted the black womb into a profit center and drew sharper lines around the subordinate caste, as neither mother nor child could make a claim against an upper-caste man, and no child escaping from a black womb could escape condemnation to the lowest rung. It moved the colonies toward a bipolar hierarchy of whites and nonwhites, and specifically a conjoined caste of whites at one end of the ladder and, at the other end, those deemed black, due to any physical manifestation of African ancestry.”
To be African American means being both the English slave master and the raped African woman. Brown Sugar tells the story of our creation, we are the embodiment of both, the epitome of duality. We are condemned and belittled by Africans for having tainted blood due to European lineage, whilst being told to go back to our country by hateful/ignorant whites. This is our country though, we built it.
“At the end of the day my line can be traced back to a warrior, yours to a slave master,” my African friend told me.
“My ancestry can be traced back beyond the slave master to a warrior too, the only difference is I don’t know where [or who]. Oh that’s right, you helped sell us. You’re part of the problem, why I don’t know my family history,” a venomous response.
Our argument started when I told her to read Homegoing by Yaa Gyasi, a novel that illuminates the split. She felt it was beneath her, believing herself better than me because her line was pure, no white weakness, never a slave. Except we were enslaved, as in forced, kidnapped, tortured. And if you want to talk warrior, we exemplified it. Did we not come here bound and illiterate? Are we not free from the chains that literally shackled us in a strange New World? Did we not make room for you to be in America? Beneath you? We are nothing short of miracles capable of the extraordinary. And look at the art we birthed from our blues, from music to fashion we left nothing untouched. We hyphens are the culture. I could not believe while I saw us as black, she saw me as black and lesser, because being black is to be distinctly African-American, not African. Unless you’re in America, then you’re black by force.
Everyone always tries to put black women down while stealing our aesthetic. Except our beauty was so coveted from the jump, they had to make laws to justify their lust, creating a whole new “race.” Black women aren’t just a swipe left on Tinder. ‘Brown Sugar’, which the majority of listeners believes praises Marsha Hunt and hot black women in general, is a reminder of that. It also limns the significance of black women’s influence in rock n’ roll as muses. Yes, it’s horrific, but it’s accurate and part of our narrative. The Rolling Stones aren’t singing about their ideal world, but the real one, that’s why it makes you uncomfortable. Banning the song from shows is an erasure of history specific to the AFRICAN-AMERICAN experience, our genesis. We get so little respect and do the most. My African friend only solidified my post Paris hyphen awareness.
I was fawned over by white Europeans and side-eyed by Africans who did not embrace me. How could they even tell the difference? Endeavoring to walk in their shoes I saw for the first time the glaring contrast in our complexions and features. I realized how ignorant I was, how American, how brown my skin is with it’s red undertone. This is how they knew. Like it or not hyphens, we are the coalescence of the master and their victims, an epigenetic hot mess. If black Alice in Kindred didn’t save redheaded Rupert, the slave owner, she would’t exist. He too was an ancestor. That’s why I say play Brown Sugar, it’s the story of our roots. Let it make you proud of our strength, as we reconcile being born from both the things we love and hate. Let it move you to action as we dismantle the paradigms of oppression, but don’t rob us of the truth. Via: The 60s Bazaar
Post writing that article I felt healed and want to say I forgive Genc Jakupi. I too know what it feels like to betrayed by blood. Who I am now isn’t who I was then, I’ve found my voice to speak the truth. I was so busy protecting his bond with his brother I never expressed myself. Revisiting that time period reminded me of how almost everybody was out to get me and Genc protected me, he started making changes for the betterment for me.
Another facet to Albanian culture is the eldest son is king. His brother is older, he owes him everything. He set up a life for Genc when he left a war torn country. He then turned him against someone he loved deeply enough to attempt changes. I was written up once in my life and Genc fired her. Without all the other variables he actually took care of me, which is why I stayed. We did have true love at one point. We were also telepathic. Suddenly I regret nothing. It wouldn’t be fair to color him one way, it wasn’t all he was, not to me. His brother can rot in hell. Twice in my life have I felt a chill exude from a human being and he was one of them. Only me and Ariel saw his true evil soul. When I met Genc I didn’t even believe in love anymore. At all, I credit him for that, for opening my heart chakra.
His brother was Bart Bass. Period. Genc was becoming nicer due to love, his brother didn’t like that. Thank you Genc for choosing to evolve and protecting me. May you find peace. Unless I can punch Binn in the back of his head, the top left corner, I could never even be cordial with him. He made me miserable! Have you ever been betrayed by a sibling? Via: Black Book
Blacking out wasn’t intentional, finishing the rum punch pitcher was celebratory. Having only seen one functioning relationship in the entirety of my life you’d think I’d be a cynic. Wrong! I’m a sucker for romance and was determined to find my other half. The universe incessantly guided me to find my twin flame, I waited for Genc Jakupi to return. Instead I got word he was dating actress Madalina Ghenea. Flooded with relief that he wasn’t my person, I could finally leave this plantation behind. Minus Serge Becker, the other owners and managers became snide upon the news. See the problem with me, I couldn’t be free if others were oppressed. The disparity in how I was treated versus everyone else made me cringe. I used my power to protect them, which angered my bosses. Sorry not sorry, this was a staff of colored women, almost all of them were products of systemic racism and they were being taken advantage of.
Once at a mandatory meeting we each read aloud from the policy booklet. I kid you not a hostess in her late thirties stumbled over the word “willingness.” Pausing.
“Why’d you stop?”
“I wasn’t sure if I said it right.”
The only two people who could read aloud cohesively were Kelsey, a stout girl with dope, big ass hair, and me (there was a HIGH turnover rate, don’t be offended, you wasn’t there). We had “white” schooling meaning we went to school with predominately white people, meaning we weren’t robbed a proper education, outliers. Foster care and low income neighborhoods limited their access to opportunity. Miss Lily’s in their minds was a step closer to an artistic career. And while I was stoked to be working in a mostly black restaurant where explicit music played, I couldn’t have stood out more. My voice made people forget I was black, or Caribbean, so did some of my experiences. Until Miss Lily’s I honest to God believed everyone who grew up in New York City did coke in tenth grade. Swear. The majority of us were natives.
“You grew up with white people?”
“Yeah,” I also thought diversity thrived.
“Oh that’s why. I never even seen coke. Like cocaine? In real life? Nah I’m good, I’ll stick to weed only. That’s wild. Yo, you’re crazy.” Working here was the most white people they’d been around at once. Causing such psychological segregation some believed in earnest whites were a different species altogether, referencing a YouTube video conspiracy. White people were untrustworthy, demonic, racist, reptilian aliens, dropping into the mountains from spaceships. That’s why they’re so evil. That’s why they’re called caucasian. Deadass not kidding. Growing up multicultural I was the one left to debunk their theories, reminding everyone whites are human too; the people I grew up with are family. Between you and them it’s the latter who’d have my back. Espousing trailer park views from the opposite end of the spectrum is what this was. I was bewildered, my bubble burst, no idea I was in a bubble at all, but aren’t we all until we’re not? Their sentiments were true to their experiences which varied from mine. And yet I was the most woke, due to said chasm in our upbringings. I had knowledge coupled with a sense of entitlement. Yeah, kids left my specialized middle school with drug addictions, they also took buses state to state attending protests and rallies. Activism and community were imprinted in my being. Walking in others shoes only broadens your worldview.
Most of the senior money night girls had slept with the owners, some had both brothers, hoping to marry up. Instead the Jakupi’s would come in the next day with a model, or actress, and make the bedded waitress serve them. How degrading. Those same girls loathed me for receiving perks, down to paid vacation, sans spreading my legs. In Albanian culture women were property, that’s how they’re taught (operative word) to view us.
Detest isn’t a strong enough word, the hatred I accrued for Miss Lily’s was ineffable. Between illegally taking from our tip pool to pay hourly workers, cultural appropriation, the racism, the sexism and unnecessary petty power struggles, waiting for what I believed was true love was why I stayed. Drinking and drugging before, during, and after my shifts was my coping mechanism. I would get shit faced (never made a mistake though impressing everyone, myself included), and that night with his brother was no different.
The last thing I remember is laughing with supermodel Jourdan Dunn. As Lupe the Mexican busboy gave a synopsis of the night, fragments of Friday came to mind.
“You was at the table with Mr. Binn, you and the blonde lady was rubbing on his legs, all over, then you tried to kiss her. She said no I don’t go that way.”
The woman I tried to kiss was Dua Lipa’s mom in front of her dad! I have no recollection of any of it and more than likely I touched his penis. No wonder Binn was acting weird, nice even. I felt bad I led him on, but at the same time there were few people I disliked more. The opposite reaction of everyone else. Turns out Genc was unanimously the meanest owner, everyone was terrified of him. When he showed up the air stiffened, phones went away, spines straightened and silence blanketed those he passed. He was fire you for blinking the wrong way mean, on the spot in front of everyone, permanently banning you from the property. Binn was the nice brother. Except he wasn’t. Duplicitous for sure, his sole purpose was to punish me for making his brother soft. All he wanted was to turn Genc against me. Eventually he succeeded. Part of it was his attraction to me, Genc wouldn’t share like he’s done in the past. With Madalina in the picture he took this drunken forgotten moment as a green light. Furious by the thought of me with his brother Genc breaks up with Madalina, who actually came to lurk me before dating him.
Numerous women came to see who captured his womanizing heart. Madalina Ghenea was breaking her neck from a booth to do so. I caught her, thinking nothing of it since I had no idea who she was, I wondered if she was black or nah, then proceeded to check my phone. As I scrolled through social media and replied to text messages I felt a presence, she was standing next to me.
“Can I help you with something?,” I ask in a perfunctory manner. To be honest she wasn’t in my section, and I was busy making afterwork plans.
“No, just looking,” she stood looking at my phone for five minutes before walking back to her booth. Only when I saw a photo of them together did I remember her.
Enter Jordan Kale Barrett.
Prior to his arrival I’d endeavored for months to get a new job. Weird things kept preventing me from leaving: the open call would start an hour later forcing me to leave for work, it would get cancelled, one time I even ran into Binn and had to about face the interview I was walking into. Bizarre. Try as I might for months the universe wouldn’t allow it. Until Jordan made the brothers angry by hanging out with me for hours, posting me to at least fifteen instagram and snapchat stories. He wanted to have his Chrome Hearts sunglasses launch there. Covetous, Binn came the next day waiting for Jordan’s return. It was under the guise of loyalty to his brother, but it was really for him, prompting a huge blow up between us. My last shift.
“I’ve had ENOUGH!” I screamed. Screamed it, stomping my feet in vexation.
“I’m going to get this place if it’s the last thing I DO!” I bellowed, fucking bellowed pointing my finger towards hell. At that moment I stopped working, ordered food and drank wine, none of it paid for. Ariel who’d clocked out closed the restaurant, as I’d refused. Within 72 hours Miss Lily’s caught a case. I won my lawsuit to their chagrin. I ran that place, I got at leasts six people fired, including the director of operations. My ruling was revered even by the haters, eight people quit in two weeks because of me. They weren’t making as much money, nor did they feel heard. Had Genc not stalked me three years after my termination I legally wouldn’t be allowed to talk about this. But he did until March of this year.
No one believed me until they did. How far did Genc go?
He tapped my phone, broke into my social media and email accounts. He knew where I was, where I was going, who I was talking to.
Which is how he knew I was moving and got one of his old employees from The Box to give me a room. Mallory converted her studio into a room specifically for me. Posting the ad on Craigslist a ton. The apartment was large, two bathrooms, a washer dryer, dishwasher and super cheap. A nutcase, the aspiring singer let it slip when she told me she worked there. She knew Serge Becker too she bragged. “Oh, so you know Genc.” This was a matter of fact. He was one of the owners there, starting out as a doorman, he’s credited for making the place popping. No, she responded quickly without looking me in the eye. Her voice changed an octave. This broad was a bad liar. Made more obvious by the fact that she briefly dated Jono Mason, his close friend and manager there. Weird I thought. Until I overheard her on the phone giving a rundown of my day, everyday. When she moved to California her bff Ace moved in and took over. Just like Binn. In the images below Genc is the Iphone 6s.
Everywhere I worked afterwards Genc sent people: Vashtie, cousins, aunts, employees, to spy on me. Two years after Miss Lily’s I worked at Follia. Nani, my co-worker, invalidates my experience until he starts doing it to her. Despite my urgings (like physically trying to stop her fingers from touching the buttons), she drunkenly rings their doorbell in the middle of the night.
“You shouldn’t have done that. They have an intercom camera,” I warned.
“Who cares? No ones even home,” she claims brimming with arrogance.
“Yeah they are,” dragging her I point to their window where Agron sits on the landline. The very next day it begins. Nani is leaving Le Bain. She orders an Uber. The driver, an Albanian man, starts talking about Miss Lily’s and suggest they go Saturday night to the Soho location. She started getting random friend requests from Albanians. When she’s wrongfully fired from Follia she starts working at Villanelle, a little known restaurant on a side street in Union Square. He sends people there too including Naomi Campbell. Keep this is mind.
We end up meeting a drug dealer who’d dealt for The Box. He revealed himself to be Genc’s enemy, in that moment I decided to have sex with him just to spite Genc. I was furious at all the lies he told. Jordan Barrett, hated me due to whatever fabrications the Jakupi’s told. Taking control of my narrative I made my social media public. Genc had stopped me from getting writing jobs, jobs in general, dates, he was a psycho. If he couldn’t have me no one could.
Once I had lackluster sex with the dealer he got worse. He started paying people not to hire me or Nani. Accommodating her nursing classes she left short staffed Villanelle; guaranteed gigs, places that begged, suddenly shunned her. I’d get callbacks for trainings and never hear from them again. I had to borrow money from my friends when he started interfering in my transition to creative director of events.
Messaging him on instagram I cursed him, elucidating the karma surely coming his way. As an olive branch he sends Naomi Campbell to Villanelle, for Nani to serve her. The next day Naomi Campbell messages me ‘Happy Birthday.’ I’d added my number to her insta rolodex when she added text me to her bio…except…I don’t remember adding my date of birth. More importantly she’d message me throughout the week intimate things. Suspicious I shared my concerns with Mike Brown, my roommate at the time, a correspondent for Full Frontal With Samantha Bee. How did she know my week was terrible? I just messaged my friends that. Genc.
The pandemic was a godsend. I was finally making money after Genc left me in financial despair. Except he then hired someone in the Department Of Labor to re-open a claim from Miss Lily’s from when I sued them. When two claims are open at once they stop paying you. He then made it look like I was committing fraud, getting them to change my answer to yes I rejected a job. The week of Valentines, every year he tortured me on V-Day embittered by his own cowardice. Suddenly I owed nearly three thousand dollars.
Now I’ve called the DOL at that point multiple times and on one call I was sent to a “higher up.” This person never gives there name, never records the conversation and tells me I’m going to be sent something, but not how it’s to be sent, ambiguous and strange. When I call back they fix the issue. Genc didn’t know this, in an attempt to get my banking information he has the hired person send something via text two days after its resolved. Notice the website and phone number discrepancies. The first picture in each is the authentic one.
Mick Jagger, who I was dating at the time, sends someone to speak to him, and finally after five years he leaves me alone. All the crying, mental and emotional distress from someone using their resources to stalk me, a woman who has never dated him, who never spoke to him, who was not his property, finally came to an end. I almost killed myself is how trapped I felt by Genc Jakupi. What kind of life was this to live when someone controlled it? He was a coward and a psycho who felt his behavior was appropriate, because I’m a black woman. A problematic, toxic white male, who used his resources to dehumanize me, I owed him nothing. Still, his brother who started it all by being a malicious liar get’s the most ire.
Naomi Campbell in cahoots with Genc meddles in my relationship with Mick Jagger, causing a rift between us and his children. Pretending to me know she tells people I’m a prostitute who didn’t grow up on the Upper East Side. I’ve met her once in my entire life at Miss Lily’s on a Sunday. Accompanying her was Lenny Kravitz. On Sunday’s we dined royally; devouring stacks of waffles, pancakes, bacon, jerk sausage and fried chicken. Avoiding grease on my face was of the utmost importance. Lenny Kravitz had turned his entire body towards me to watch me do so, peering through his signature shades. Gorgeous, silent and judging me I put my pinky up as I ate. Stoned, this seemed like the proper thing to do.
All the while Naomi struts back and forth erratically. My heart skips entire beats. Am I dreaming? Anyone who knew me KNEW I LIVED for her. I wanted to scream and chase after her, but fan girl-ing was against the rules. Taking my “nonchalant” attitude as an affront Naomi starts low key shading me. Hurt, I almost risk it all, telling her the protocol, after chasing her and tugging at her clothes of course, in a perfect world that was my ideal. Interacting with her at all was a joy. Until she meddled in my love-life to appease Genc. That one interaction showed me her true colors, I firmly believe from experience Naomi Campbell does horrific things. She continued texting me on and off, until I chewed her out for helping white men do dirt. She never messaged me again. The divide she caused between Mick Jagger’s naive children and myself grew. Who I am was in their face had they bothered to look. Living under the safety net of his legacy made them amenable, they aren’t good at judging character, or reading people, despite knowing them for great lengths of time. Their myopic range of experiences kept their bubble intact. However they weren’t the only ones conditioned to write black women off without the benefit of a doubt, not by a long shot. Hollywood runs rampant with racism and revolting behavior from performative activist, black and white alike. If you think your faves give a fuck about adoring fans, let me assure you. They don’t. Let me ask you something, who the fuck are you to invalidate my life with your abysmal stereotypes? Via: Blackbook Mag
Pondering my reaction to Mick Jagger’s treatment, my mostly gone anxiety and fear of excessive attention, I had an epiphany. Eureka! It wasn’t just white men, no no no, my need to shrink myself started with my stepdad. When it was just us girls, my sister and I, he instilled extreme sexism in us. We did chores as early as 8 for me, which meant 6 for my sister. It wasn’t the labor, it was why he made us do it. In his archaic mind our sole occupation in life was bagging a husband. Never once did he ask us what we wanted to be, only drilling us about the domestic mistakes made. He also told us children should be seen and not heard. Making us sit in silence for hours if we went with him after school (but if we were at Josephine’s, a no nonsense white woman who dragged him in her raspy cigarette laden voice, we were allowed freedom).
“Get the fuck out of here with that, children are made to play. Get up and play.”
“Sit down, I said sit down you sit. THEY MY KIDS ,” he railed in patois.
“IT’S MY FUCKING HOUSE I SAY WHAT GOES. GET UP AND PLAY. YOU DON’T TELL ME, OR THEM WHAT TO DO IN MY FUCKING HOUSE. YOU MUST BE OUT OF YOUR GOT DAMN MIND.” She won.
He belittled us as people every chance he got. Then he’d sate us with all the latest gadgets: Techno Dog, electronic diary’s, Lisa Frank everything, Furbies, Tamagochi’s, Giga Pets, Barbies, our porcelain doll collection, those sparkly castles that doubled as teapots, you know the ones, Spice Girl lollipops, any and everything under the sun. But I was terribly depressed, elementary school is when I was my most suicidal. Every night I prayed to God to take me in my sleep. One time I screamed it at my mom.
“I just wanna die already, I never asked to be here.” Unsure of how to react she made me sit in a corner, her feelings were hurt. That’s what she told me later.
Women are not inferior. We are people who deserve to make our own choices about our own lives. My stepdad did not treat us as humans; no amount of material items could amend the psychological trauma it caused. Look how long it’s taken me to dismantle. Playing small for me is over, I will not apologize for being a powerful fucking woman. I’m not here to make you comfortable. My purpose is to take out anyone who wants to stick to oppressive paradigms. Compassion is for the people who deserve it. Run pull up. In what ways does misogyny shape your life? Do you benefit from, or suffer from it? If the former how do you use it to aid others? Via: Feminist Jazzy