You know the prints that are on the cigarette packs, like this one; Sometimes, I wonder if they haven’t used photographs from the Holocaust. You know, for the whole world to still remember the SHAME.
Stranger: Of all the people in the whole world that you have ever known, or not. Of all the strangers in the whole universe that you have ever crossed paths with, or not. Lets say, hypothetically, that you happen to be next to a cliff and there, there is your “Woman,” your wife amongst the crowd hanging and whining on like a little bitch for her dear life. Who would you choose; Hashem, or any of them.
Me: How cute. I choose Hashem-ask me again.
Look at this finger and come here, smell it it’s clean, now let me tell you a secret; Messing with me wasn’t an option-never was, never will.
Hashem loves me—whatever you say.
How to ward off the robber; buy yourself many pairs of long sleeved turtleneck shirts. It’s a pleasure. Enjoy. End.
I’ve always been wondering as to why is it that I was the little girl who nobody would try to sell me photo shots from the photo booths in the carnivals. Now, I know why, it is because I had no expressions. Suffering in silence.
I’ve always been perplexed as to why is it that in some places people would steal from each other’s and others work, style, and ideas like it’s a normal thing, just like breathing. And then I lightened up, it got to me; these places will do shit like that all day long without giving it a second thought. A learned behavior that has become a second nature. It is because these communities/societies whatever you want to call these-punks-like to live the wannabe outlaws lifestyle where nobody and nothing else matters but themselves. They like to spit and smear on anything and everything they touch or come into contact by and wrap up with brat smirks while representing nothing less, nor short than their despicable, ugly, and worthless “individual” faces-hide your tattoos.
Who says; unless stated otherwise, that it is okay to cover and/or use, a credited, someone else’s work to connect with/under your own—who says; unless stated otherwise, that they even like your work.
[Genesis 2:22 KJV “And the rib, which the LORD God had taken from man, made he a woman, and brought her unto the man.”]
Do call me; “He,” again for which we, women, were all he to begin with. See, it’s just that I was born different. Bestowed with unimaginable hardships to begin with, overcome, and become and as also maybe to serve as a side living example, perhaps as a side little rememberance of that very sacred creation for all of you creeping little creatures to witness and see with your own mere physicality and mortality how I was, am, and will always be very much real. And now yes. Do call me; “She,” again for which we, women, were all he to begin with.
Never was I, nor will I ever beat on your level.