Mar 2, 2025
Related Recs
😃
by Olivia Gatwood
what I mean is that when my grandmother
called to ask why I didn’t respond to her letter,
all I heard was, Why didn’t you
text me back? Why don’t you love me?
And how can I talk about my grandmother
without also mentioning that if everyone is a teen girl, then so are the birds, their soaring
cliques, their squawking throats,
and the sea, of course, the sea,
its moody push and pull, the way we drill
into it, fill it with our trash, take and take
and take from it and still it holds us
each time we walk into it.
What is more teen girl than not being
loved but wanting it so badly
that you accept the smallest crumbs and call
yourself full; what is more teen girl than
my father’s favorite wrench, its eternal loyalty
and willingness to loosen the most stubborn of bolts;
what is more teen girl than my mother’s chewed
nail beds, than the whine of the floorboards in her
house?
What is more teen girl than my dog, Jack,
whose bark is shrill and unnecessary,
who has never once stopped a burglar
or heeled on command but sometimes
when I laugh, his tail wags
so hard it thumps against the wall, sometimes
it sounds like a heartbeat, sometimes I yell at him
for talking too much, for his messy room,
sometimes I put him in pink, striped polos
and I think he feels pretty,
I think he likes to feel pretty,
I think Jack is a teen girl.
and the mountains, oh, the mountains,
what teen girls they are, those colossal show-offs,
and the moon, glittering and distant
and dictating all of our emotions.
My lover’s tender but heavy breath while she sleeps
is a teen girl, how it holds me and keeps
me awake all at once, how I sometimes wish
to silence it, until she turns her body and
the room goes quiet and suddenly I want it back.
Imagine the teen girls gone from our world,
and how quickly we would beg for their return,
how grateful would we be then for their loud
enthusiasm
and ability to make a crop top out of anything.
Even the men who laugh their condescending laughs
when a teen girl faints at the sight of her
favorite pop star, even those men are teen girls,
the way they want so badly to be so big
and important and worshipped by someone.
Pluto, the teen girl, and her rejection
from the popular universe,
and my father, a teen girl, who insists he doesn’t
believe in horoscopes but wants me to tell
him about the best traits of a Scorpio,
I tell him, We are all just teen girls,
and my father, having raised me, recounts the time he
found the box of love notes and condom wrappers I
hid in my closet, all of the bloody sheets, the missing
socks,
the radio blaring over my pitchy sobs,
the time I was certain I would die of heartbreak and in a moment was in love with a small, new boy,
and of course there are the teen girls,
the real teen girls, huddled on the subway
after school, limbs draped over each other’s shoulders
bones knocking, an awkward wind chime
and all of the commuters, who plug in their
headphones
to mute the giggle, silence the gaggle and squeak,
not knowing where they learned to do this,
to roll their eyes and turn up the music,
not knowing where they learned this palpable rage,
not knowing the teen girls are our most distinguished
professors, who teach us to bury the burst
until we close our bedroom doors,
and then cry with blood in the neck,
foot through the door, face in the pillow,
the teen girls who teach us to scream.
Jul 2, 2024
Respectfully, I’ve got to hand it to Blake Lively’s room temperature IQ ass she really has a hamfistedly algorithmically generated way with words. Every time I see the way she expresses herself to the world I kind of admire it. Like the way she insists on not using a stylist and dressing herself while stubbornly eschewing or being blissfully unaware of any style conventions, much like a proud toddler. The way she just says whatever thoughts miraculously roll through her wasteland of a head as a tumbleweed rolls across an empty dusty Main Street in the old west.
Everyone says they want the unearned confidence of a mediocre straight white man but I want the easy confidence of a beautiful simple marble-mouthed mediocre hot woman like Blake Lively. I don’t really like her but bless her on her journey
Feb 13, 2025
📰
"the internet, or Sofia Coppola films, or Lana songs, or the multitude of fallen girl, women, tropes can cause a dissociative kind of excitement in living through your own degradation (????)"
Jan 30, 2024
Top Recs from @taterhole
My dad teases me about how when I was a little kid, my favorite thing to do when I was on the landline phone with somebody—be it a relative or one of my best friends—was to breathlessly describe the things that were in my bedroom so that they could have a mental picture of everything I loved and chose to surround myself with, and where I sat at that moment in time. Perfectly Imperfect reminds me of that so thanks for always listening and for sharing with me too 💌
Feb 23, 2025
Schedule sent my resignation email for the morning, effective immediately ✅💅
Feb 27, 2025
🖐
I’ve been thinking about how much of social media is centered around curating our self-image. When selfies first became popular, they were dismissed as vain and vapid—a critique often rooted in misogyny—but now, the way we craft our online selves feels more like creating monuments.
We try to signal our individuality, hoping to be seen and understood, but ironically, I think this widens the gap between how others perceive us and who we really are. Instead of fostering connection, it can invite projection and misinterpretation—preconceived notions, prefab labels, and stereotypes. Worse, individuality has become branded and commodified, reducing our identities to products for others to consume.
On most platforms, validation often comes from how well you can curate and present your image—selfies, aesthetic branding, and lifestyle content tend to dominate. High engagement is tied to visibility, not necessarily depth or substance. But I think spaces like PI.FYI show that there’s another way: where connection is built on shared ideas, tastes, and interests rather than surface-level content. It’s refreshing to be part of a community that values thoughts over optics.
By sharing so few images of myself, I’ve found that it gives others room to focus on my ideas and voice. When I do share an image, it feels intentional—something that contributes to the story I want to tell rather than defining it. Sharing less allows me to express who I am beyond appearance.
For women, especially, sharing less can be a radical act in a world where the default is to objectify ourselves. It resists the pressure to center appearance, focusing instead on what truly matters: our thoughts, voices, and authenticity. I’ve posted a handful of pictures of myself in 2,500 posts because I care more about showing who I am than how I look.
In trying to be seen, are we making it harder for others to truly know us? It’s a question worth considering.
Dec 27, 2024