Śmierć. marazm. zgnilizna.

It has been literal years but every time I see Martin’s tweets posted somewhere and his word is shared as truth while her post is not shared it sort of reiterates the fact that we trust men to speak about feminism more than we believe women who experience it. 

Adding screenshots of her post. His whole post is there without needing a link. Hers should be, too.

Me on january 18th, 2026:

You are learning addition. You blink. There is differential calculus written on the whiteboard. The longer you stare, the less it looks like numbers. The sky is a different color than when you closed your eyes.

Your final grade has not been posted yet. It has been two days. Your final grade has not been posted yet. It has been a month. Your final grade has not been posted yet. It has been a year. Your final grade has not been posted yet.

You look at the posted list of required math credits for your major. It is not written in english. It is not written in any language you know. It is not written in any language you don’t know. You close the list of required math credits before it can look back.

You cannot remember a time before your 8 AM. You leave the auditorium only to find yourself back in the auditorium. It is time for class. 

You have had the same advisor your entire college career. Every time you see him, he has more teeth. Eventually, you stop seeing your academic advisor. He still sees you.

Students that go to look through the reference section of the library return different. The unlucky ones don’t return at all.

You go to a school of 20,000 students. You see the same 10 individuals at random points on campus every day. There are 19,989 other students. You’re not sure if you want to know where they are.

People are screaming in your dorm. People are always screaming in your dorm. “Somebody must be going out partying,” your roommate says. You both know that isn’t true. 

You have a paper due in four days. You never finish it. The deadline never draws any closer. You have a paper due in four days. 

A man sitting alone on the snowy, empty quad tells you that you will die in exactly 47 minutes. You walk away. You glance back, from a distance, and see only your footprints. You walk faster.

The squirrels fear no one. You do not make eye contact with the squirrels. They grow bolder every year, graduating from stealing trash to stealing food off of your plate. You shudder to think what they will steal next. 

There is always someone in the study room. You have never seen them leave. It is always the same person. You have never seen them anywhere else.

- there is no grid system in boston. every street is a circle. you miss your turn and try to double back, but the asphalt is giving way to cobblestone. you can hear muskets just ahead.

- boston common always closes at 9pm. it locks from the inside.

- you walk out of mike’s pastry in the north end and the streets are deserted. there’s a rumbling beneath your feet. it smells like molasses.

- every time you crane your head to peek down the dark subway tunnel for the train, you can see two bright pinpricks of light in the distance. they’ve been there for 30 years, watching. you look away and try not to breathe.

- they’re always trying to fill the pot holes and the cracks in the sidewalks. it’s from the ice, they say. come morning, the holes always return. bigger. deeper.

- the next train will arrive in 5 minutes. days have passed; winter is setting in. the next train will arrive in 5 minutes.

- you arrive at logan airport and it’s empty. the intercom crackles, “this is the final boarding call.” no flight is specified. it’s time to go.

- the red line train pulls up, empty. you get on and it comes to a sudden halt in the tunnel. the lights go off. you hear the muffled sounds of ‘sweet caroline’ in the distance. it’s getting closer.

- the citgo sign looms above the brownstones. no matter how far you walk, it is always there.