I’ve had first dates where: I’ve ranted about Katy Perry until the dude put me in a cab, alone; I’ve put too much meat in my mouth and had to spit it into a napkin at the dinner table; and one where the guy was racist against “Asians”.
joined Tinder after a friend who thinks my love life is sad and pathetic urged me to get involved, or back in the game…
The only thing I truly hate about living in New York City is the constant and unabashed cat calling that goes on.
Sure, we have the odd Hannah Horvath butting her head against the glass ceiling, but we haven’t yet been truly asked to accept women as fully active, autonomous, erratic beings within the cinematic sphere.
The sense of pride that comes with achievement is, believe it or not, more exhilarating than picking dry skin off your toes and stalking your ex-boyfriend’s Facebook.
Take this advice from a self-confessed wallower: tears don’t bring anything back, and you end up missing what’s in front of you if you spend all your time lamenting what you’ve left behind.
The first time I saw my yiayia skinning a rabbit, I was a child, and young enough that I don’t remember how old I was when it happened.
There are still so many tiny ways that “being a woman” is used to make you feel inferior, scared, or bad about yourself on a daily basis.
My hips widened, naturally, to let a baby through. My body began retaining fat where previously there has been none — specifically, on my tummy, butt, hips and thighs, also presumably for said phantom baby.
The stories I’ve shared are my own, but they’re really all of ours; stories about our first period, losing our virginity, seeking affirmation through sexual attention, dealing with HPV and finally coming to accept that vagina and woman are inextricably linked, but that the definition of both is broader and more complex than the other.