Funhome isn't Pornography
My sister just handed my copy of Funhome back to me, saying she couldn't read it because theres, like, lesbo porn in it and "the language is colorful."
Fucking mormonism.
Sex exists and is central to all of human existence, get the fuck over it, it's ubiquitous, it's part of life and death and I refuse to clean myself or anybody else up. Get the fuck over yourselves, get the fuck over the word fuck, it's a fucking syllable, not a fucking tragedy. Get the fuck over your bodies; they are. They're nasty. They have desires and secretions and there's nothing inherently great or sacred about them, and neither is there anything deplorable or abominable. The sooner we get over the Victorian wet dream of "modesty" (I've heard that word about twelve times used in terms of clothing since I've been back home) the sooner we can get on with our lives and maybe enjoy ourselves instead of worrying about the arbitrary desires of a fabricated God that have been made up as a result of the insecurities and greed of a bunch of disgusting white men.
Perhaps the most moving and influential piece of art and literature I have read in the past year has been utterly dismissed because of two pages where two naked girls lay in a bed and one of them has an exposed breast.
And because the characters talk like real people, rather than like the starched words of my grandmother, the most inhibited and neurotic person alive.
Thank you, Joseph Smith. If there is a hell, you are the only person I hope is burning in it.