Hysteria.

I do not want to live my life with manufactured beach waves in my hair.

I want to braid and pile it on top of my head the way my Scandinavian great-grandmother did while she worked.

I do not want to sell skincare, work-outs, or expensive oils to my friends.

I want to gather with them under the full moon and howl.

I do not want to have a “perfect home for entertaining”.

I want a sanctuary for my own soul.

I do not want to buy designer clothes for my children that they will wear three times before outgrowing or destroying.

I want to stop filling landfills with more bullshit.

I do not want to spend my free time redecorating my home, my body, or my face.

I want my free time to be a mystery — even to me.

I do not want to dress the part.

I want to be myself completely.
.
I do not want to fight aging.

I want to grow old.

I do not want to smile unless that warmth comes up organically from below.

I do not want to celebrate a body transformation

unless it is the miracle of gestation, or remission from disease.

I do not want the way I look to stir admiration or envy,

I want the looks I give to be honest and penetrating.

I do not want to meal plan or prep

unless it is for a feast, funeral, or party.

I do not want to pretend that polite conversations are stimulating,

and I do not want to pretend that non-stimulating sex is anything other than demeaning.

I want my lungs to remain full of the wild wind I was born with,

and I refuse to surrender any of that power to those who may find me frightening.

 

— Whitney Roberts Logan

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