Male fantasies, male fantasies, is everything run by male fantasies? Up on a pedestal or down on your knees, it’s all a male fantasy: that you’re strong enough to take what they dish out, or else too weak to do anything about it. Even pretending you aren’t catering to male fantasies is a male fantasy: pretending you’re unseen, pretending you have a life of your own, that you can wash your feet and comb your hair unconscious of the ever-present watcher peering through the keyhole, peering through the keyhole in your own head, if nowhere else. You are a woman with a man inside watching a woman. You are your own voyeur.
Margaret Atwood, The Robber Bride
I follow Margaret Atwood on twitter because she interacts with really funny nature accounts (she’ll rt something like @DucksIncorporated or @Birdwatchersunited and the tweet will be like, “The beautiful spring feathers of the meadowlark.”) Anyway. It’s easy to forget that she’s also a very dank writer.
(via christinefriar)
Here for MA, always.
(via atheoryofmaking)