Frutteti e lampadari

I’m not allowed to leave the house like this. If I come downstairs without a full face of makeup on, I’m told to go back upstairs and not come down again until I look “decent.” Foundation, eyeliner, mascara, eyebrow pencil, and blush, at the very least, before I’m allowed to be seen by anyone. My mom always tells me that I “look like hell” without my makeup, that I can’t expect people to want to interact with me when I don’t even try to make my face “presentable.”

After years of hearing this from my mother every day, I started to believe her. I decided that I was truly repulsive. That I really did need to cake my face with makeup in order for people to respect me. That no one would ever think I was pretty—how could they, when under all that makeup, I was so disgusting? My self-consciousness developed into outright self-hatred. I started cutting myself, carving words like “ugly” into my thighs. I haven’t worn a bathing suit in five years, because I don’t want my friends to see my humiliating scars.

A few months ago, I left home for my first semester of college. When you’re living with roommates, you really can’t avoid being seen without makeup. The first time I interacted with my roomies barefaced, and none of them exclaimed “holy hell, you look awful!”, I was honestly surprised. It dawned on me that maybe my mom was wrong. Maybe she was a little over the line in telling a teenager that she was too repulsive to be seen by other human beings in her natural state. After a few weeks, I started to leave my dorm without makeup. I realized that I could go to class, or get lunch, or meet up with friends, or do whatever I wanted, and never have to do a thing to my face if I didn’t want to. For the first time, I was in control of my own damn appearance.

When I went home for Thanksgiving Break, I got exactly what I expected from my mom: I came downstairs in my pajamas one morning, nothing on my face, and I was met with yelling about how I can’t expect people to want to be around me when I look like that. But now, I know better. I know I don’t have to believe her. So when I went back upstairs to paint my face according to her wishes, I took these pictures first. And then I put them on the Internet, for everyone to see.

This isn’t just a selfie to me; this is my way of saying, “I’m done letting you make me hate myself.” This is me declaring, “I don’t care what you say. I’m not ugly, or disgusting, or repulsive. I’m letting people see me without your precious makeup on. And you know what? I look just fine.”

The Breakfast Club came out in 1985 and to this day is, in my opinion, one of the greatest damn movies ever to barely even have a script.

During the famous “dance” scene, Molly Ringwald, who played the “princess” Claire, was supposed to a small little dance by herself, but she was shy so all of them did some dancing together, creating one of the most famous film scene’s to date. It was improvised.

During the scene in the film where the characters sat down and told why they were there, there was NO SCRIPT. John Hughes told the cast to sit there and improvise why they thought their characters were there, creating that heart wrenching scene everyone could relate to.

EVERYONE can relate to this movie and thats the best damn thing. 

On March 24, 1984, five students entered a detention room thinking it was just another Saturday. Before the day was over, they broke the rules, bared their souls, and touched each other in a way they never dreamed possible.