"'Cause it's my birthday/And I wanna get fucked like it's the first time/Like it's the first time"
Today is my birthday. The last year of my 20's. Every birthday, I'm reminded of the beautiful short story, "Eleven" by Sandra Cisneros:
What they don't understand about birthdays and what they never tell you is that when you're eleven, you're also ten, and nine, and eight, and seven, and six, and five, and four, and three, and two, and one.
I haven't done one of these posts in a long time, but since my trip to Boston was cancelled due to TWO FEET OF SNOW they were getting, I'm home, and I need something to do. Here it goes.
I got my period in fifth grade, and just like that, my breasts were grenades waiting to be set off. I got a set of curves that I had absolutely no idea what to do with. Was it the Italian in me that grew curves? Or was it the American in me—from growing up in a culture of Coca-Cola, McDonald’s, and Lunchables?
Jessie: “Slater, haven’t you heard of the Women’s Movement?” Slater: “Sure… put on something cute and move it into the kitchen”
No switch was turned on. There was no “light-bulb-moment.” It was more like a snowball effect—feminism began piling up; year after year. It was just me, this really big snowball, and Jessie Spano.