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首先要说的还是，生日快乐 @埃芙拉尼 

于是，时间来到这一年。

最近三个月，我的非工作社交变得很少。我们的微信聊天像是来自不同星球，一来一回的时间差好像在进行什么星际旅行，大半原因在我。我在工作时间不怎么看微信，而上下班通勤也过于疲惫，所以聊天对话一点点沉进水里，等不到回复。等周末缓过精神再去打捞之时，它们已经像是古沉船一样布满青苔，难以下手。

十一假期，我躺在床上看到你发微博说每天都会去bm，配图是你和另一个女生在试衣间松弛的自拍。我翻身爬起来，点开微信打开我们的聊天记录，聊天停留在很久之前你说能理解同事住在宋家庄。10:31发的，已开始上午的忙碌，我再也没回。

我发现这是我现在生活的缩影。每天的精力都在工作上，累得不行时翻翻社交媒体，恍然意识到与朋友好久没联系，点开聊天记录发现果不其然断在我这里。

更具象征意味的是，我当时盘腿坐在床上，点开你今年给我写的生贺，开头你写“本来我打算在你生日这天买个蛋糕，然后给你发’给我一个地址我就能立刻赶到’后举着蛋糕出现的”。我看着这段文字，沉默感受情绪翻涌，然后点开微信给你发消息：“你这两天有时间吗”，“可以见一面”。发完，我觉得着实有点唐突，但又觉得，既然是你，好像也没关系。

过了两个小时，你回复我“天呐宝宝你说话”，“已经像极了我pm”。

我当时浑身卸力，似乎看到了关于自己的寓言。什么时候，我们两个这种放在剧本里都被嫌弃太过抒情、不够日常的对话，竟然变成“像极了pm”？

是我的错，怎么会不是我的错。而在所有之外，我很想问我、问你、问神明，我们过去认识的六年里，是否有任何一个瞬间，想象过也许会有这样的未来？这样的我们的未来，这样的我的未来、你的未来？

去年在你的生贺，我极尽详细地描绘生活中的冰山，而今看来也就那样，因为真正的冰山比那更为锋利坚硬，刺穿很多曾经以为不会消解的日常与意义，包括一些关系。当然，相比而言，你的工作似乎比我稍好一点，而你又在工作之外处理别人的泪水，那些泪水引出你的泪水。生活像是知道我们的阈值，于是它总是超出那阈值一点点，赌我们在崩溃后收拾自己选择忍耐，然后一点点、一点点加码，像是恶意的调笑，又像是善意地帮助我们拓宽极限。总之，我们在我生日后五个月再次相见，证明我们又挨过了小半年。

最后我们十一并没有见面，就好像过去六年并没有见面。就像尹毓恪和王南钧并没有在伯克利相会，不止如此，尹毓恪的offer已经作废，王南钧再闯选秀却连出道夜都被囫囵禁止，陈玮镔再也不会踩着音响唱歌因为他当起了幕后经纪人……我们遇见时许下的愿望、以为能见证的未来，一个都没实现。我们早该从这些蛛丝马迹中窥探现实的法则：咫尺神山，海上年年见；意思其实是见了半天，没到过一点。

我很难不把他们看成一种预言，预言你、预言我，预言你和我。

六年过去，其实回望起来，我们各自走到今天这步其实早有预兆。我遇见你时，正在上一天八小时的德语课，可我学得并不好，回家不背单词却忙着追星。而你，丰沛的情绪和泪水为遥远的人而流淌，你对《精卫》付出的感情大概比我这个写它的人都多更多。往后的一年、两年甚至于六年，我们似乎仍是那年的丝网印刷，刻板的、廉价的复制品。去年我说，我们是在错误的、浪费时间的岔路上相遇，我们并非认同于对方的正确，而是认同于对方的无用。这话其实客观，我们还重复着这种美丽但无用的不正确，从前作为一种抒情，现在承受这种后果。

今年5.14，我生日的第二天，我约人去看央美毕设展。于是5.14上午我打车去丽都广场吃饭，出租车上了北三环东侧的高架，我恍然发现这和我当时去字节实习时每个早晨的路线一致，而且2022年的我也是路过这些楼宇，在手机上打开lofter读你给我写的生贺。2023年的我也在这么做。2022年的我，读生贺读得很痛苦，读一会儿就要熄屏、看向窗外的风景，就如同我今年，读你今年所写的生贺，读一会儿就要看向窗外，在树和楼的退却中努力抓住呼吸。一样的风景，一样是你写的生贺，一样的痛苦，一样想要把头拔出来透气，时间和文字交织着穿针引线密密缝合看不见的地平线，把过去和未来缝成一个莫比乌斯环。三环三环，是哪个三环。这像是一个生活的缩影：在同样的地点、相似的时间，以不同的心境，重复一样的行为；而你是此间唯一既变化又静止的锚。

有时觉得，我们第一年没见面，就好像我们第六年仍没见面。当然，第六年仍没见面存在许多现实的巧合，比如我恰巧进了一个忙得昏天黑地的组，比如我恰巧没有在十一前约你时间，比如你的生日恰巧在十一后……在这些巧合之外，也存在一些必然，而这些必然我认为草蛇灰线了六年。

我昨天突然异想天开翻起我在b站的创作中心，翻阅收到的评论时，看到你在今年8.16没头没尾地在我17年剪的网瘾cp视频下面回复了一句“如果我能回到十七岁，我也会做这些事的”，时间0:55。我第一反应是疑惑这是什么特别的日子吗，第二反应是疑惑我怎么知道是你？明明你的用户名与当年似乎并不相同，且并不包含表明是你的暗号，但我仍直觉确定是你。我点开那个视频，我记得你当时在下面留了让我印象深刻的言，我滑动屏幕，果不其然看见那个用户名在2017年回复“希望他们的感情也可以有厚重的回音和广阔的未来，像地一样安稳，不像天一样遥远”。

确实是你。

可惜他俩的吊桥友情在17年还没过完的时候就玩掰了，此事由你18年转述给我，我当时连一句“大都好物不坚牢，彩云易散琉璃脆”都说不出来，只回了一串省略号和“啥”，震惊且无语。他们的感情既没有回音也没有未来，因他们而相遇的我们却还在每隔半年做一次总结。

相比起你今年给我所写的生贺，那么深情、丰富，甚至与时俱进还带更新……我这篇生贺有点过于潦草随意、不知所云，可怕的是，这已经是我现在的极限。给你写第一篇生贺的时候，我想不到今天，我想不到我们会你来我往六年之久，更想不到我会写出这些此等支离破碎、全不感性又全然感性的字字句句。有时我觉得每年这个时间像是对我的一场阅兵，检阅我当时的生活、精神状况，与文字、幽微的情绪是否仍亲密地贴近，同去年相比我是否有了更多能够向你表达的对关系与生命的认识。很遗憾，今年我一败涂地，拿不出任何值得称道的东西，可能往年年年都是如此，只是今年实在狼狈不堪到了极点。

今年的结尾将是这六年里我写的最烂的一个结尾，和我现在的生活一样烂。我觉得最近我有种希望世界毁灭的心境，工作不让我活，我也不让我活，破罐子破摔面对与我有关系的人，比如不回消息、拒绝见面、写一篇很烂的生贺。我假装大方地展示我的生活如此单调忙碌且失败，同时又隐秘地希望他们能原谅我甚至拯救我，其实很离谱，我生活之烂并不应该传导给我的朋友。

这篇生贺里我没有提及一次“爱”或者“喜欢”，但也许，你能读到里面气息微弱的“需要你”。

需要你，需要你作为虚空的象征，也需要你作为脚踏的大地。从前我不懂剖挖自己的时间和心血交由他人处置能有什么收益，直到我知道我能让你“冲过去”。在我的生活混乱得横冲直撞到如同停滞的今日，在我的“有用”被工作拷打、被生活悬置的今日，无用的我仍可以让你冲过去，冲到无用中去，冲到六年前已经注定的虚度中去，冲到今日所铺就的未来的荒废中去。我为什么还能让你冲过去？可是我喜欢我能让你冲过去。

我站在一塌糊涂的烂泥里，怕我再不是你的神迹，更怕你还当我是神迹。无所谓，其实神迹从来都不是我，而是能够冲过去的你。

写到这里，今年我对你没有期盼或祝福，只有一个愿望：希望未来这一年，我仍能让你冲过去，冲去任何边界，冲去所有世界。

TBC

成都：易锦程

重庆：李渝江

一段没有左右关系也没有上下关系的文字（。）

  早上起床是最考验感情的环节。

  锦程一贯睡得浅，李渝江一动他就醒，树獭熊一样翻翻身往重庆人的怀里蹭去，语言系统与听力系统却没同步醒来，和他说啥子都是软趴趴地揉揉眼睛：……安？偏偏李渝江是个有起床气的，喊了三次发现怀里人醒了但并不打算起，就开始冒火：嚯哟，你晓不晓得你是我哥哈？见天教育我的时候好拽的嘛二五八万，早上起床跟小娃儿一样——易锦程——日妈起了起了！搞快点！给老子爬起！——

  易锦程起来，迷迷糊糊“嗯”了一声，好脾气地翻身下床，蹬着一双漂亮修长的腿穿衣穿裤，复又睡眼迷离看着自己暴脾气的恋人和弟弟，那意思是：你个哈儿咋个就不晓得自个挡到门了喃？快给老子爬开。李渝江硬是叫这一瞥搞得色欲熏心，全身血气都往脑袋上涌，小步挪开不忘遮住早上不安分的关键部位，还顾左右而言他：我今早要吃面。

  刷牙洗脸解决问题，浇了阳台上正红艳的小米辣，打开手机浏览一趟早间新闻，再往厨房望去，一代川菜大师易锦程乖乖地煮面做菜，围裙系出一截流丽腰线。直肠子重庆人挠挠头，想过去帮他打打下手、把衣袖卷上一卷，甚至在他额头上印个早安吻说辛苦了，还是作罢了，觉得矫情。几千年的羁绊与默契使得他们之间不需要这个。

  面熟了，端上桌，汤色诱人葱花青绿，笋子肉沫点缀其上，甫一入口，清鲜与丰腴两种口感暗暗争锋、厮磨不倦。李渝江抱着碗吃得头都不抬。易锦程伸手摸了摸重庆小伙硬直的发，道：饿死鬼投胎嗦？哪个要和你抢。李渝江心情大好，一时嘴甜起来，哥哥蓉蓉乖乖叫个不停：你煮的面好好吃噢？早上你下面给我吃，晚上我下面——。

  宝器，闭嘴！

  易锦程恼羞成怒地打断，又狠狠咬了一大口面似是泄愤一般。“好烦哦，……不晓得别个要吃饭啊……”

  李渝江也就识趣地见好就收，没有再说下去。他嘴角弯得简直落不下，吸溜一大口黄亮筋道的面条，再启筷，忽然看到碗底静静躺着一枚熟得恰到好处的荷包蛋。

written by Roxane Gay

p.s. 这是我第一次在lof上放非自己写/翻译的东西，但是我实在想放上来。

因为这篇写得太真实了，不是那种很stereotyped女权论调，但是是很温柔、而温柔中又挣扎的笔调。

我相信很多姑娘都想过女权这个问题，但最终很可能觉得女权没必要，或者觉得自己担不来女权这个名号。这个作者也是如此。

Take two没什么学术难度，放心读。Take one里还稍微学术地辨别了一下所谓good feminism其实是对异性恋男权主义的另一种延伸，所以大家不用觉得bad feminism是真的bad。

总之，希望尽自己绵薄之力让大家多一些关于女权的exposure。

（以下内容皆为转载。lof客户端引用模式下英文阅读体验太差了……我就不标记引用了。）

I am failing as a woman. I am failing as a feminist. To freely accept the feminist label  would  not  be  fair  to  good  feminists.  If  I  am,  indeed,  a  feminist,  I  am  a rather bad one. I am a mess of contradictions. There are many ways in which I am  doing  feminism  wrong,  at  least  according  to  the  way  my  perceptions  of feminism have been warped by being a woman.

I want to be independent, but I want to be taken care of and have someone to come home to. I have a job I’m pretty good at. I am in charge of things. I am on committees.  People  respect  me  and  take  my  counsel.  I  want  to  be  strong  and professional,  but  I  resent  how  hard  I  have  to  work  to  be  taken  seriously,  to receive a fraction of the consideration I might otherwise receive. Sometimes I feel an overwhelming need to cry at work, so I close my office door and lose it.I want to be in charge and respected and in control, but I want to surrender, completely, in certain aspects of my life. Who wants to grow up? When I drive to work, I listen to thuggish rap at a very loud volume even though the lyrics are degrading to women and offend me to my core. The classic Ying Yang Twins song “Salt Shaker”? It’s amazing. “Bitch you gotta shake it till your camel starts to hurt.”

Poetry.

(I am mortified by my music choices.)

I care what people think.

Pink is my favorite color. I used to say my favorite color was black to be cool, but it is pink—all shades of pink. If I have an accessory, it is probably pink. I read Vogue, and I’m not doing it ironically, though it might seem that way. I once live-tweeted the September issue. I demonstrate little outward evidence of this, but I have a very indulgent fantasy where I have a closet full of pretty shoes and purses and matching outfits. I love dresses. For years I pretended I hated them, but I don’t. Maxi dresses are one of the finest clothing items to become popular in recent memory. I have opinions on maxi dresses! I shave my legs! Again, this mortifies me. If I take issue with the unrealistic standards of beautywomen are held to, I shouldn’t have a secret fondness for fashion and smooth calves, right? 

I know nothing about cars. When I take my car to the mechanic, they are speaking a foreign language. A mechanic asks what’s wrong with my car, and I stutter things like, “Well, there’s a sound I try to drown out with my radio.” The windshield  wiper  fluid  for  the  rear  window  of  my  car  no  longer  sprays  the window. It just sprays the air. I don’t know how to deal with this. It feels like an expensive problem. I still call my father with questions about cars and am not terribly interested in changing any of my car-related ignorance. I don’t want to be good at cars. Good feminists, I assume, are independent enough to address vehicular crises on their own; they are independent enough to care.

Despite what people think based on my opinion writing, I very much like men. They’re interesting to me, and I mostly wish they would be better about how they treat women so I wouldn’t have to call them out so often. And still, I put up with nonsense from unsuitable men even though I know better and can do better. I love diamonds and the excess of weddings. I consider certain domestic tasks as gendered, mostly all in my favor as I don’t care for chores—lawn care, bug killing, and trash removal, for example, are men’s work.

Sometimes, a lot of the time honestly, I totally fake “it” because it’s easier. I am a fan of orgasms, but they take time, and in many instances I don’t want to spend that time. All too often I don’t really like the guy enough to explain the calculus  of  my  desire.  Then  I  feel  guilty  because  the  sisterhood  would  not approve. I’m not even sure what the sisterhood is, but the idea of a sisterhood menaces me, quietly, reminding me of how bad a feminist I am. Good feminists don’t fear the sisterhood because they know they are comporting themselves in sisterhood-approved ways.

I  love  babies,  and  I  want  to  have  one.  I  am  willing  to  make  certain compromises  (not  sacrifices)  in  order  to  do  so—namely  maternity  leave  and slowing down at work to spend more time with my child, writing less so I can be more  present  in  my  life.  I  worry  about  dying  alone,  unmarried  and  childless, because  I  spent  so  much  time  pursuing  my  career  and  accumulating  degrees.

This kind of thinking keeps me up at night, but I pretend it doesn’t because I am supposed to be evolved. My success, such as it is, is supposed to be enough if I’m a good feminist. It is not enough. It is not even close.

Because I have so many deeply held opinions about gender equality, I feel a lot of pressure to live up to certain ideals. I am supposed to be a good feminist who  is  having  it  all,  doing  it  all.  Really,  though,  I’m  a  woman  in  her  thirtiesstruggling to accept herself and her credit score. For so long I told myself I was not this woman—utterly human and flawed. I worked overtime to be anything but this woman, and it was exhausting and unsustainable and even harder than simply embracing who I am.

Maybe I’m a bad feminist, but I am deeply committed to the issues important to the  feminist  movement.  I  have  strong  opinions  about  misogyny,  institutional sexism that consistently places women at a disadvantage, the inequity in pay, the cult  of  beauty  and  thinness,  the  repeated  attacks  on  reproductive  freedom, violence against women, and on and on. I am as committed to fighting fiercely for equality as I am committed to disrupting the notion that there is an essential feminism.

I’m the kind of feminist who is appalled by the phrase “legitimate rape” and by  political  candidates  such  as  Missouri’s  Todd  Akin,  who  in  an  interview reaffirmed his commitment to opposing abortion, almost unilaterally. He said, “If it’s a legitimate rape, the female body has ways to try to shut that whole thing down. But let’s assume that maybe that didn’t work or something: I think there should be some punishment, but the punishment ought to be of the rapist, and not attacking the child,” drawing from pseudoscience and a lax cultural attitude toward rape.

Being a feminist, however, even a bad one, has also taught me that the need for feminism and advocacy also applies to seemingly less serious issues like a Top  40  song  or  a  comedian’s  puerile  humor.  The  existence  of  these  lesser artifacts of our popular culture is made possible by the far graver issues we are facing. The ground has long been softened.

At some point, I got it into my head that a feminist was a certain kind of woman.I  bought  into  grossly  inaccurate  myths  about  who  feminists  are—militant, perfect in their politics and person, man-hating, humorless. I bought into these myths even though, intellectually, I know better. I’m not proud of this. I don’t want  to  buy  into  these  myths  anymore.  I  don’t  want  to  cavalierly  disavow feminism like far too many other women have done.

Bad  feminism  seems  like  the  only  way  I  can  both  embrace  myself  as  a feminist  and  be  myself,  and  so  I  write.  I  chatter  away  on  Twitter  about everything  that  makes  me  angry  and  all  the  small  things  that  bring  me  joy.  I write blog posts about the meals I cook as I try to take better care of myself, and with  each  new  entry,  I  realize  that  I’m  undestroying  myself  after  years  ofallowing myself to stay damaged. The more I write, the more I put myself out into the world as a bad feminist but, I hope, a good woman—I am being open about who I am and who I was and where I have faltered and who I would like to become.

No matter what issues I have with feminism, I am a feminist. I cannot and will  not  deny  the  importance  and  absolute  necessity  of  feminism.  Like  most people, I’m full of contradictions, but I also don’t want to be treated like shit for being a woman.

I am a bad feminist. I would rather be a bad feminist than no feminist at all.

最后，欢迎转载。