advantages of being a boy:
- your boobs don’t get in the way
- no period
- your hormones don’t make you feel like a different person every week
- no childbirth
- penises are fun
- shirts always fit over your chest
- you can walk around topless in summer without being arrested for it
- you store less fat
advantages of being a girl:
- can use your bra as an extra pocket
i hate teachers who dont let u go to the bathroom because “too many people went already” like yea but none of those people were me and our bladders arent connected so just because they peed already doesnt mean i dont have to pee anymore
People wait
all week for friday,
all year for summer,
all life for happiness.
‘If the girl had been worth having she’d have waited for you?’
No, sir, the girl really worth having won’t wait for anybody.
u know what the worst thing about being a girl is… is when another girl asks u for a hair tie, but its ur last one, but u can’t say u don’t have one because she knows its on ur wrist, so u give it to her, and then she says “oh i’ll give it back!” knowing damn well she won’t, and u sit there sad because now you have to go buy another pack of hair ties that u know ur gonna lose by the end of the month
Marry your best friend. Fooling around is fun, but life gets in the way and when it gets hard, you’d wanna be married to your best friend.
No one is a slut. “Slut” is a made-up word to keep women from having as much fun as men. A person who enjoys sex is just a person and a person who is a virgin is also just a person and everyone should lay off each other’s sex lives. Retire the word “slut” please.
Kissing a girl on the forehead is one of the sweetest things in the world.
Crying isn’t pretty. I don’t care who the fuck wrote it as roses blossoming from your tired eyes, or waterfalls slowly descending from your tear ducts. Crying isn’t something that makes you feel like the words of a sonnet. No, crying isn’t fucking pretty. I saw the girl I love cry once and her mouth twisted into a snarl, like a dog about to bite. Snot ran down her nose, along the curve of her lip and onto the pillow of my bed. I had just washed my sheets that day. Her face scrunched up like she had just been punched in the stomach and her hands balled into little fists like she was waiting to punch them back. But she couldn’t. She didn’t. She just cried and I watched how her mascara started to smear down her cheeks, in long black trails that reminded me of mud dragged into the house from the bottoms of your shoes. I saw the girl I love cry so hard her shoulders shook like there was an earthquake but nobody else was under the doorframe waiting for the roof to cave in. She sobbed so hard that her breathing was ragged; a knife in between her ribcage, a blockage in her throat. She cried until she made no noise, but still her mouth moved like a fish pulled out the water and left there to hang in its oxygen hell. Her face got all red and blotchy and I could have sworn I had seen a painting that looked almost like she did, in that moment. But crying isn’t pretty. No, it’s not supposed to be. She told me her chest was hurting and her head was aching and she felt so real to me. With her hair scattered in all directions, and train tracks in black lines crawling down her face, she was so real and she was so beautiful and she was in so much pain but she looked at me and smiled anyways. No, crying is not pretty but I knew right then I would be so lucky to be the one to cry at our wedding.
Crying Isn’t Pretty (k.p.k)
champagne-paradise
