Disgruntled Barmaid

Zoe. 21. Plymouth & London. Psychology, Criminology and Criminal Justice. Rarely as eloquent as I'd like to pretend to be. Queer/Pan/Bi.

Bartender. Feminist against radfems. Oi!. Secular Atheist. Student. "Slut." Lifescout. Arsenal fan. Ozil lover. KNVB. Ale Drinker. Blood mouth. Casual gamer. Sibling.

Views are my own. As a cisgender white woman, please do feel free to call me out if I say something inappropriate or unwelcome about a group to which I don't belong.

What I’ve Learned:
1. A girl can lose feelings for you over night.
2. A kiss can be just that, a kiss. Completely meaningless.
3. Love can be one sided but I still wonder if that is love at all
4. Never beg for someone to stay or to love you. You shouldn’t have to beg for someone to be a part of your life or to love you. You deserve better than that.
5. Stop breaking your ribs to make space for those who do not belong there.
6. Learning to breathe again is harder than the doctors said it would be.
7. I don’t know what hurts more at night; being alone or being in love.
8. Laying with someone in bed at night is temporary. It won’t get rid of the lonely. You will still wake up and leave in the morning with a heavy heart and no hand to hold.
9. Sometimes the sky rains gasoline instead of water and you have to be strong enough and ignore the urge to set yourself on fire.
10. I will be okay someday. Bad things happen for no reason sometimes and things end but that shouldn’t mean you should come to an end too. The ocean will always have waves; I just have to learn to swim through them for a bit longer.
11. The stretch marks I left on my mother from birth will not be another suicide letter I never finished.

—Oliver Nolau (via cybergirlfriend)

(Source: oliverwr, via rati0nalgaze)


Mine - A short film from Fordham University for Campus Movie Fest 2014. Out of over 100 films, it won Best Actress and got nominated for Best Drama.  

The story follows Lucy as she performs a spoken word poem about the sometimes subtle way abusive relationships can develop. Please watch/reblog/share. Hopefully this will speak to someone out there! 

The poem:

People make a big deal about eyes
but it was really the wrinkle in his forehead that caught me
as he fumbled to write down his number.

We fell in love like children running downhill:
wind whipping past, parading each other to our friends, 
to the sky, to the old couples we imagined as our future selves.  

When he moved in, I swore he fused with the house.
I could hear his sigh in the hum of my ceiling fan
I could taste him in my coffee
And anyone could see him in my poetry.

The grooves in his palm spoke of tragedies.
A frayed lifeline spread to the pinky-tip
I traced along those calloused patches
and kissed the scars on his knuckles

When you love hard enough, you can embrace those scars
And when you love long enough you excuse or even ignore
almost imperceptible changes in the terrain:
when he gripped me a bit tighter a bit more often
when “how are you?” became “where were you?”

In college I learned that in World War I,
soldiers rarely wrote about their misery.
They were living a new kind of nightmare,
so what good were the same old words and metaphors?

Poets died in those trenches.
I thought of them as I tiptoed 
around the landmines that littered our home.
When you live in a battlefield, 
where do you find energy to pick up a pen?

Like a numbed soldier I lived from moment to moment,
and when the moments were sweet 
(and many were) I savored them
Because nothing tastes as good as hope

Because even on the bad days
when it seemed an eyelash could set him off
when he threatened to leave the apartment or this world
still each night he would murmur into my ear
that these were the natural ups and downs of love.

But there is nothing natural about war.
He was my comrade, sinking into the trenches,
grasping at my face, my arm, my collar bone
I wanted to rescue him
If that meant bearing his blows 
and his slurred insults, I would do it
If I could’ve swallowed his sadness, I would have.

My friends considered me M.I.A., but I reported for duty every day
and would’ve marched unto death if she hadn’t made me listen.
In that moment I realized I wasn’t his comrade but a prisoner of his war
And after two years and seven months, I finally made a break for it.

Some nights I find myself clicking through old memories.
I marvel at the smiles and the closeness
and realize that these are the images
which remain with me most vividly.
When time has had its way with me,
has softened the edges of my memory,
I’m afraid I’ll only remember his charms:
the crook of his arm, the way he said “hey baby.”
I’m afraid I’ll miss these ideas of him.

But then I remember those poets
and how long they lived in those trenches
and the mornings I spent crying into my breakfast
And now when I pick up my pen
it is heavy, but it is firm.
I lean into it like a staff as I tread the ground
that hardened beneath me the moment I let you go.
The ink smudges my hands like war paint
I am bruised from battle, but I am not a casualty of his war
I am free. I am free. I am mine.

(via angryasiangirlsunited)

(Source: )

If someone wants you in their life, they’ll make room for you. You shouldn’t have to fight for a spot. Never, ever insist yourself to someone who continuously overlooks your worth.

—Unknown (via charmrose)

(Source: the-healing-nest, via rati0nalgaze)


today I burned my tongue on a piece of pizza and I think that it’s a very strong metaphor that sometimes the things you love most in life will hurt you.

(via rati0nalgaze)




#john barrowman is having none of your misogynist bullshit

i love that barrowman’s response also distances him from the contestant
"hahahaha women do laundry right john?  you with me, john?"
"don’t lump me in with you, you fucking martian”

This is what I’m talking about when I keep saying that men have to deny the endorsement. This guy wanted Barrowman’s tacit support or agreement for his sexism, as part of bonding through humour. John went nope.

(Source: kaniehtiio, via i-prefer-fandoms)