The game is rigged. There is no perfection.

The idea that a relationship is a “failure” simply because it ends is a pessimist’s construct anyway.

I insisted that shoes and accessories were just “my thing,” because my friends didn’t realize that I couldn’t shop for clothes at a regular store and I was too mortified to explain it to them.

I used to hate myself; eventually, I didn’t anymore. I used to be shy; eventually, I made my living by talking too much.

Challenging myself to absorb more and more hate is a masochistic form of vanity—the vestigial allure of a rugged individualism that I don’t even believe in. No one wants to need defenses that strong. It always hurts, somewhere.

(Desexualization is just another form of sexualization. Telling fat women they’re sexless is still putting women in their sexual place.)

Sometimes people on the defensive rebound into compassion. Sometimes smart, good people are just a little behind.

Art isn’t indiscriminate shit-flinging. It’s pure communication, crafted with intention and care.

It steers humanity toward conservatism and walls and the narrow interests of men, and it keeps us adrift in waters where women’s safety and humanity are secondary to men’s pleasure and convenience.