Hey there! I'm Jas. I'm fond of books and coffee and writing and art and things that are intriguing. I usually follow back - and please don't be afraid to send an ask (I really don't bite!). I wish you the best in all of your endeavours.

It’s Monday. I’m going home at 6pm and a middle aged man and a teenage boy are the only people left on the bus with me. I consider the fact that because the driver is also a man I am the only person left on the bus with the correct genetic makeup for boobs. I’m automatically scared, scared because of my own anatomy. I wonder how old I was when I realized that my own body was going to be the cause of the constant anxiety and fear I feel in situations like this. I get off at the last stop and the older man smiles at me while following me up the street. His smile drips, drips, drips and my heart is pounding, pounding, pounding. He turns off down another road, but I run the rest of the way home.

Not all men.

I’m at home on a Tuesday, beginning to plan the travels I want to go on next year. I dream of wandering the streets and meeting strangers. I just can’t wait to escape the city I’ve lived in for 17 long years. But… my mum is hesitant. She’s forever worried about the danger that being a young girl traveling alone can bring. I’ll be alone and she’s scared. Surely I’m invincible. I feel invincible. But I know, I know this danger is real and I can’t help but think to myself, if I feel unsafe in my own city, how am i going to feel in a strange place with strange men who don’t speak the same language as me? If I was my brother planning this, I would probably just be wondering if European girls are going to be hot.

Not all men.

Wednesday is a beautiful sunny day but I’ve always been told that I don’t have a “nice enough body” to wear a bikini on the beach. Ever since I was 6 years old I’ve thought that having tummy fat was ugly. That skin that doesn’t have a perfectly golden glow is undesirable. I amble to a clear patch of sand in my one piece and I can feel pairs of eyes latching onto me. Hairy men in speedos who I don’t look twice at eat into my body with their stares. I’m a piece of meat. I am a piece of meat? I am here for their amusement. Please don’t let me be eaten alive.

Not all men.

Thursday night two friends and I are walking to our god damn school dance when we hear “Jesus look at you! You sluts heading to a pole?” These words snarl out of the mouth of a respectably dressed man and we stop in horror. Shivers roll up my back in fear. It’s dark. We are alone. What. Do. We. Do??? One of us pulls the finger back. I can never be sure how quickly a sexist man can get angry so we walk quickly away. We’re angry, so so angry. But also so… deflated. I wonder if we deserve this shame.

Not all men.

Sitting on the internet, Friday night and scrolling down my Facebook newsfeed:

“Haha, good job at the game today bro. You RAPED them!”
“Damn with tits like that, you’re asking for it :P”

Another sexist comment…
Another sexist comment…
Another sexist comment…

I’m shrinking and shrinking and shrinking and I want to CRY because these boys don’t realize how small they make me feel with just pressing a few keys. I see these boys on the streets, I talk to these boys, I laugh with these boys. Dear GOD, dear GOD i hope these boys don’t think actions speak louder than words…

Not all men.

Three rules that have been drilled into me since I was young run through my mind at 1.30am on a Satur… Sunday Morning:

-Don’t ever talk to strange men
-Don’t ever be alone at night in a strange place
-Don’t ever get into a car with a stranger

I break all 3 of these laws as I pull open the taxi door. Making light conversation with the driver, he doesn’t see my sweaty hand clutching the small pocket knife I keep hidden on me at all times. He doesn’t even realize the fear I feel at his mere presence. He cannot comprehend it, he never will. How easy would this 15 minute car ride be if I was born a boy?

Not all men.

It comes to Sunday, another snoozy, sleepy, Sunday and someone has the AUDACITY to tell me not all men are rapists. I say nothing.

I’m a 17 year old girl.
When I am walking alone and it’s dark, it’s all men.
When I am in a car with a man I don’t know well, it’s all men.
When men drunkenly leer at me on the streets, it’s all men.
When a boy won’t leave me alone at a party, it’s all men.

Not all men are rapists. But for a young girl like me? Every one of them has the potential to be.

Not.
All.
Men.

(via nonjazzscatcat)

this is amazing

(via silverindies)

m-used:

oliver wood is such an underrated character in harry potter he’s so funny man all he cares about is quidditch he literally sobs everytime they win and would rather have dementors get harry than lose a match his dialogue is so amusing i love u oliver wood

negrotic:

Rihanna becoming a bad bitch wasn’t even a gradual shift

she just woke up one morning and was like nah fuck this and chopped off her hair and started singing about ridin dick

bambiloser:

The Art of Getting By (2011) dir. Gavin Wiesen
"I read a quote once when I was a kid. "We live alone, We die alone. Everything else is just an illusion.” It used to keep me up at night.”

bambiloser:

The Art of Getting By (2011) dir. Gavin Wiesen

"I read a quote once when I was a kid. "We live alone, We die alone. Everything else is just an illusion.” It used to keep me up at night.”

vivianvivisection:

straight boys think girls can’t take compliments, and that’s ridiculous cause i’ve seen so many girls compliment each other, i’ve seen conversations & friendships blossom from girls complimenting each other in line, on the street, at school waiting for the bys, pretty much anywhere.

the problem is straight boys think sexual harassment & assault are compliments.

that-decadent-voice:

confessionsofadirectioner:

On Easter, we had this tradition where an old man down the road would paint little ‘bunny’ prints along the sidewalk, as well as up to the door of every house where a child lives…and he’s done this every year, without fail, since before I was born.

Over the summer, that old man passed away, so no one in their right mind expected to see the tracks this year.  However, when I woke up- there they were!  

Turns out that his eighteen year old grandson (who happens to be known as the badass of our school) got up at three this morning and spent four hours- by himself -painting the prints; just to make sure that the neighborhood kids wouldn’t be disappointed.

My faith in our generation = restored. 

Marry him.

ladypaceofmirkwood:

I’ve figured it out: My type is tall, handsome and dorky as fuck