On Nipples

male-nipple

As a female, I find nipples funny looking, more than anything else. A bit out of place, really. That is of course because I look at them every day, and my continuous observance gradually wears out whatever sexual impression they once had on me (the first time I pondered their sight was when I learned what they meant to the other sex, and of course I don’t remember when that was—I absorbed the information unconsciously, which should give you a clue about what our society is doing to young girls); and because they are mine I am entitled to touch them—to whatever I want to do with them indeed, say to cut them off. Now if that doesn’t hurt I might seriously consider the amputation, so that people would stop censoring that part of my body if I choose to expose it. The whole point of censorship is, of course, that nipples arouse men—they are these mysterious little softies that crown their accompanying hilltops, that are always blackened out, forbidden under those strips of black duct tape on top of the other in the shape of a cross.

AS IF MEN DON’T ALREADY KNOW HOW A NIPPLE LOOKS LIKE.

Our nipples don’t have horns, they don’t talk or make poetry, they don’t turn funny colors when we change our mood. Female nipples are no mystery—they look exactly the same as their male counterparts. There is no difference in a woman showing her nipples and a man showing his nipples. Yet, women are supposed to keep our nips hidden, and it does not matter if we’re breastfeeding or raising awareness of breast cancer prevention, because women nipples are seen as sexual accessories. Female nips are more sexually objectified- well, because our bodies are more sexually objectified. Anti-nipples policies are there to accommodate men’s inability to contain their sexual arousal, which is not to say it is men’s fault because unfortunately it is the way things are that frames this mindset. Nipples are mysterious, forbidden, suggestive of imminent sex. The prohibitive censorship and laws heighten the hype, making the awkward protrusions more and more appealing.

Perhaps, if we start freeing female nipples they would cease to seen as forbidden, and with it the nonsensical rave and the objectification would vanish. And it matters. It matters because there is no gender equality without nipple equality, because nipple equality is not just about women complaining about wearing bras, but about women standing up against the sexual objectification of our bodies.

The way we see nipples is the ultimate double-standard. It is not right that women do not get to take off their shirt, say to feel more comfortable in hot weather, because of some perverts who would assume she wants attention. Women can’t even go braless without getting unwanted attention, let alone topless.

Now that it has been mentioned, let’s talk about bras. Women wear bras for many different reasons: to prevent them from sagging (a myth according to Professor Jean-Denis Rouillon in a quite interestingly counterintuitive study), to shape them into social standards of attractive boobs (huge, yet firm), to keep them from having too much fun while their owner goes for a run. Yet, the number one reason why women are unwilling to take them their bras is the attention. Bras are not good for us, mentally and physically. Studies have shown they cause back pain and muscle dependence, which in turns cause our breast to sag (also by this guy Rouillon—such a hero). Women are suffering this risk among many others because somehow it is our fault, somehow if we dress a certain way it is automatically assumed that we want the attention.

Free the nipple. Stop seeing our bodies as sexual instruments—see them as the beautiful creations that they are. Now that you have successfully finished reading my long-ass rant, here is a female nipple: thank you for appreciating its beauty.

female-nip

Image source here

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How It Feels Being a Skeptic

You’re really just sitting there doing nothing, except that your mind won’t let you alone and once it gets its way nothing stays the same. Everything starts to go wrong, and even though you’re just sitting there you see your whole world collapses as the intoxicating thoughts kick in, doubting everything there is to doubt. On the train you have anxiety every single minute thinking that you’re going inbound instead of outbound, and when you get off you start to doubt if indeed you’re supposed to go outbound in the first place, because after a year of everyday commute you still can’t trust yourself. Skeptics like you love to learn, because knowing makes you feel at peace. That is, if you really know peace, because what if your peace is an illusion from what is really self-indulgence, pleasure that is temporary and eventually dies out; what if all that you do and everything that you are is a phase and that they were right; what if you love just to make you feel better about yourself; what if that is the way he loves you? You would suddenly realize something, which you would always always regret realizing, that when you look yourself in the eye you see nothing. You don’t see who you are looking into the mirror because that is something you haven’t found, because every time you try to find it you find another reason to give up. You see all these doubts instead and nothing that you know, because perhaps that nothing is how much you really know. You’ll find out that you’re actually okay with not knowing, it’s all the lies that you’re sick of. Political propaganda, congratulations, advertisements, “Everything will be okay”s,… these things that keep telling you you must not believe, as if you don’t already have that problem. And then comes religion. You find religious disciples the most annoying creatures because they can believe, because deep down you envy that ability. They have life easy. Their life follows a pattern that they know, they have reasons for everything that happens and it’s enough that it’s true for them because reality is a relative concept. A skeptic like you can’t have it that way because you assign meaning to things and you strive to explain life your way, and it’s hard. It’s hard figuring things out on your own because you can’t trust anyone else to. It’s hard because more often than not you don’t have an answer. It sure is hard, but believe me one last time when I say that in the end you’ll have it best. Believe, skeptic though you are, that all this thinking amounts to something significant, something that doesn’t have to be an answer. A cynic like you sees the world as the mess that it is, a multifaceted reality, a dark, bottomless hole squirming with hands groping blindly for answers. You see the truth of the future, the only truth: we can see it-our future-right ahead of us, through the immaculate lucidity of our vision-a vast, radiant, impenetrable blankness. Nothing is known in its entirety; all is bound in transcendental complexities, entangled in both the good and the bad. You see the sinful in the luminescent, the benevolent in the perverse. All expectation is nonsense, as is all devotion in any truth, any zealous faith. Don’t long for simplicity or faith, for these are things meant to be shattered. We tire ourselves because reality bothers us, as it’s supposed to, and we keep on grinding our beliefs because we are strong enough to face what we see, and wise enough to know what lies beyond. We refuse to believe what’s given because we choose to transcend it, because the world is worth doubting and we are meant to amend its crooked, shadowed facets. Believe, skeptic though you are, that one day there will be a truth, concrete and simple, sweeping and transparent, that has its proud history in you.

To People Who Tell Me to Love Myself

 

Insecurity is a cycle. Remember that thing you read on Tumblr about how you have to love yourself before anyone else could? That’s bullshit, written by people who were born and raised confident, who know nothing about what self-worth is to someone who doesn’t even trust or even listen to what she herself has to say. How do you tell an insecure person—who speaks quietly, deaf inside to her own voice, whose own breath sounds too loud and whose limbs seem so redundant they might as well be someone else’s, whose own presence bothers her to the point that she is in denial all her life—how do you tell this person to love herself? She would begin to love herself if ever love began with doubt and isolation, of and from her own body, a detachment from a Self lost somewhere along the way. She would begin to love herself if only she could convince herself that love starts from the heart and not the eyes. Every time she tries the cycle repeats itself all over again.