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Mostly because I was proud of my depression. I’d read somewhere on the internet that it was a sign of extreme intelligence, and I’d started to consider depression as some type of X-ray vision, with which I could see the world clearly in ways that others could not—that is, not only the skin but also the skeleton.
when people think you’re nobody, they’ll say all types of stupid shit in front of you as if you aren’t there.
you might be able to dupe the boss, but karma is elegant, and God sees everything.
But me, as a mother? I never wanted that for my girls—to experience that type of violence, because sometimes getting hit like that made you think you didn’t deserve to fucking smile.
Better than any political science class you could ever take in college, a place like Mariposa’s really taught you how deeply patriarchy was linked to capitalism. But what good was it, really, to know about a thing, to attach a name to its invisible force, if, regardless, you were gonna constantly be stuck in it?
I strongly believe that we all should be able to choose our own ways to be ashamed.
Whose design was it to choreograph such violence between these women, who was really in charge, and why could I not stop watching?
Say something is bigger than you, like much bigger, like a lot; is it really your fault if you cannot stop it?
Look how beauty and subservience had so much more currency in this world than a bachelor’s degree in biology.