when i wake up in the holidays i’m just like what year is this is it monday or next week


priest: turn to page 420 in the holy bible
me: lol 420 praise it


when theres hair on your food but its too long/short to be yours

Dressing Food animated GIF


mutuals who dont reblog your selfie but expects you to reblog theirs



there are really attractive people and then there are people who ruin your life with their attractiveness


Makeup… in a vending machine!!! 2014 is here folks, and my oh my is it something. Jet packs, you’re on deck. 😧🙌💕🆒 (at Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport (MSP))


Makeup… in a vending machine!!! 2014 is here folks, and my oh my is it something. Jet packs, you’re on deck. 😧🙌💕🆒 (at Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport (MSP))



Even here right beside you, I barely recognize you… You’re like a photograph I’m watching fade away.

(Source: the-soul-provider, via blythebrooklyn)


I am watching you get sick.
The whites of your eyes are becoming
yellow yolks; cheeks hang like grocery bags.

You make diets of day planners;
No time to eat with a stuffed calendar.

Meals are powdered hot chocolate packets.
Breakfast is tap water.
NyQuil for a midnight snack.

To invite happiness inside him,
Vincent Van Gogh drank paint of yellow hues.
You do mad things for happiness, too.

Vomit for an after school sport.
Your teeth blister. Bathe in sea salt
to dehydrate water weight.

Eating disorders are very in.
Like kale, like Michael Kors,
like old Hollywood glamour-

and don’t you dare bring up Marilyn Monroe.
Recent studies show her frame was only
one third of what you think.

Shrivel your stomach until it takes
a single granola bar to feel full.

With pale pupils and unplugged irises,
the only language you communicate in is

You are a human recycling bin.
Blame your hometown, your mother,
anything but your skin.

If you are not recovering, you are dying.

There was another girl in our grade
who got sick about the same time you did,
but she went to the hospital real quick
because she was already thin to begin with.

You were not thin to begin with.

You were fat, and now you’re evaporating,
so everybody is congratulating you on
getting “healthy.”

You are not an illness, but an inspiration.
Your father still carries your before-and-after
photo in his wallet.

Your disease is a smashing sensation.

Friend, I am so sorry.
You too, are sick.

Your messiah Kate Moss insists
“Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels.”

…Girl, she’s never had Nutella.
Do not trust her, her two-faced
dental care, or her fur pelt.

Anorexics develop hair all over to thaw
their glacial bodies, called lanugo.
The cold will not let you go.

Veins bulging like a pop up book,
I am watching you get sick.

Mistake tracing paper for your skin.
I am watching you get sick.

When the blackouts start and your pulse gets
slippery, wallpaper your interior with laxatives.
I am watching you get sick.

Read so much, your body trusts it is
full on authors, not high on hunger.
I am watching you get sick.

One day, you will learn.
The natural pigments will return-
no more yellow skin, no blue fingernails,

no red scratch in your throat
matching the nick on your middle finger.

Make amends with the kitchen.
Your face will glow like a television.
You will get full again. Be able to finish a meal.

One day, I hope I’ll be able to finish this poem and say-

I am watching you heal.
I am watching you get better.

—SHE DOESN’T NEED TO SEE THE MENU by Blythe Baird  (via blythebrooklyn)

(via blythebrooklyn)


We are the finaglers. The exceptions.
The girls who haven’t run the mile in
four years, who layer deep V-necks
with excuses. Eyelashes bat wiffle
balls at male gym teachers.

We are the girls taught to survive
by using our bodies as Swiss army
knives. Calculated scrunched nose
giggles and friendly forearm lingers.

We convince ourselves there is
protection in being polite. No,
you go first.
Girls have to be nice.
Male kindness is so alien to us,
we assume it is seduction.

We are the unmarked tardies,
waved detentions, honorable
mentions in lush floral dresses.
We know the answer, but
do not raise our hands.

We are the asses smacked by
boys who made welcome mats
of our yoga pants. We are easily
startled. Men bark rabid love at
us from the street.

Once, my friend and I got
catcalled on Michigan Avenue,
and she said “Fuck you” while
I said “Thank you” like I was trained to.
I wonder if those men have daughters.

We shrug off assault.
Gentle love is propaganda,
just another starry-eyed idea
We had to try.

We are crossed legs, folded up
in bus seats to make room for
sprawling men. We are accessories.
We are fruit cocktails, free dinners,
minimalist salads, covered tabs.

But we would trade it all for respect.
Give me the bad days not blamed on
my gender. Give me the full dollar.
Give me a city where my body
is not public property.

Give me no makeup.
My sister once asked me why boys
look fine without makeup and girls don’t-
it is because no one ever accused them
of not looking good without it.

Give me a God I can relate to,
commandments from a voice
both soft and powerful. Give me
one accomplishment of Mary’s
that did not involve her vagina.

Give me a childhood that pushes
me to change the world, rather than
change myself. Give me decisions.
Give me a wordless wardrobe.
Give me an opinion-less dress.

We are the girls petrified of boys at
business schools, learning from men
who manifested success
by refusing to take no
for an answer.

GIRL CODE 101 By Blythe Baird (via blythebrooklyn)

(via blythebrooklyn)


The day Paige taught me,
a measly freshman, how to
shoplift was the beginning
of What Your Parents Warned
You About. The nail filing kit
with the tiny scissors was a
tool box. Learn how to cut
the security tag out in the
dressing room, where they
can’t film you, and if they do,
sue. When your parents ask,
blame your extreme couponing
habit. Quit your part-time
job at the tutoring center.
Tutor future crooks instead.
When you miss a tag and
the alarms sound as you
saunter out of Forever
Twenty-One, keep walking.
Stay calm. “We are white
girls,” she reminds you.
Plus, they only stop
the ones who run.

—KLEPTO by Blythe Baird (via blythebrooklyn)

(via blythebrooklyn)