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Home Belief You learn the most about people when they’re thrown out of gear… when they’re under pressure.

BeliefDifficultiesIndividualityLife ExperiencesPerseverancePersonal Development

You learn the most about people when they’re thrown out of gear… when they’re under pressure.

Polly, February 6, 2013

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Tags : Jack Gibson

There should never be any restriction on truth.

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Drugs are not part of my life. Unfortunately they are part of my world.

Polly

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Your mate doesn’t live by bread alone; he or she needs to be “buttered up” from time to time.

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Success comes in cans, failure in can’ts.

Success comes in cans, failure in can’ts.

To believe your own thought, to believe that what is true for you in your private heart is true for all men – that is genius.

To believe your own thought, to believe that what is true for you in your private heart is true for all men – that is genius.

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.

Treat objections as requests for further information.

Treat objections as requests for further information.

Don’t part with your illusions.When they are gone, you may still exist, but you have ceased to live

Don’t part with your illusions.When they are gone, you may still exist, but you have ceased to live

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