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Home Inspirational Quotes The last, the worst, dull spoiler, who was he?

Inspirational Quotes

The last, the worst, dull spoiler, who was he?

Polly, January 28, 2013

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Tags : Lord George Gordon Byron

Death in the front, destruction in the rear!

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A schoolboy’s tale, the wonder of an hour.

Polly

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In the long run, the pessimist may be proved right, but the optimist has a better time on the trip.

In the long run, the pessimist may be proved right, but the optimist has a better time on the trip.

The best way to cheer yourself up is to try to cheer somebody else up.

The best way to cheer yourself up is to try to cheer somebody else up.

Remember, we all stumble, every one of us. That’s why it’s a comfort to go hand in hand.

Remember, we all stumble, every one of us. That’s why it’s a comfort to go hand in hand.

Most people achieved their greatest success one step beyond what looked like their greatest failure.

Most people achieved their greatest success one step beyond what looked like their greatest failure.

Maybe I couldn’t make it. Maybe I don’t have a pretty smile, good teeth, nice tits, long legs, a cheeky ass, a sexy voice. Maybe I don’t know how to handle men and increase my market value, so that the rewards due to the feminine will accrue to me. Then again, maybe I’m sick of the masquerade. I’m sick of pretending eternal youth. I’m sick of belying my own intelligence, my own will, my own sex. I’m sick of peering at the world through false eyelashes, so everything I see is mixed with a shadow of bought hairs; I’m sick of weighting my head with a dead mane, unable to move my neck freely, terrified of rain, of wind, of dancing too vigorously in case I sweat into my lacquered curls. I’m sick of the Powder Room. I’m sick of pretending that some fatuous male’s self-important pronouncements are the objects of my undivided attention, I’m sick of going to films and plays when someone else wants to, and sick of having no opinions of my own about either. I’m sick of being a transvestite. I refuse to be a female impersonator. I am a woman, not a castrate.

Maybe I couldn’t make it. Maybe I don’t have a pretty smile, good teeth, nice tits, long legs, a cheeky ass, a sexy voice. Maybe I don’t know how to handle men and increase my market value, so that the rewards due to the feminine will accrue to me. Then again, maybe I’m sick of the masquerade. I’m sick of pretending eternal youth. I’m sick of belying my own intelligence, my own will, my own sex. I’m sick of peering at the world through false eyelashes, so everything I see is mixed with a shadow of bought hairs; I’m sick of weighting my head with a dead mane, unable to move my neck freely, terrified of rain, of wind, of dancing too vigorously in case I sweat into my lacquered curls. I’m sick of the Powder Room. I’m sick of pretending that some fatuous male’s self-important pronouncements are the objects of my undivided attention, I’m sick of going to films and plays when someone else wants to, and sick of having no opinions of my own about either. I’m sick of being a transvestite. I refuse to be a female impersonator. I am a woman, not a castrate.

In youth we learn; in age we understand.

In youth we learn; in age we understand.

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