The most hurtful insult a girl can receive
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you can only be that stupid if you were on your periods.... *ask for hi5
Doesnt above offend you
Original post by Precious Illusions
Small rocks for tits? Wtf 
As above it depends on the girl tbh, a comment about whatever they're insecure about will hurt them.
As above it depends on the girl tbh, a comment about whatever they're insecure about will hurt them.
Doesnt above offend you
(edited 9 years ago)
Original post by Jake Cotton
I'm not sure but I once told a girl that was doing my head in that she had "small rocks for tits".
Small rocks for tits? Wtf
As above it depends on the girl tbh, a comment about whatever they're insecure about will hurt them.
Original post by perspiracious
Tell us your insecurities. 
lmao no fanx
Weight. Can't go wrong there
Original post by sunshine97
The most LOWEST one is 'Your ugly'. It might seem minor, but it can never be forgotten and it can leave the deepest scar, even if she's not she will always think she's ugly. It will affect her for the rest of her life e.g. She might stop grooming herself and potentially even give up taking care of their hygiene, also how she interacts with people as she may not feel good enough for anyone or society's expectations, which can lead to anxiety when meeting people, BDD, depression, eating disorders (such as Bulimia and anorexia), self harm and maybe suicide.
Before insulting people, be careful what you say. You never know, you could insult someone about what they're really insecure about, and it can eave a deep scar.
I noticed that girl's tend to be insecure about their appearance.
Before insulting people, be careful what you say. You never know, you could insult someone about what they're really insecure about, and it can eave a deep scar.
I noticed that girl's tend to be insecure about their appearance.
I read this article earlier which highlights your point..
The crush I ended high school with was a kid who looked like he'd stepped out of a catalog. We were good friends — talked on the phone, knew each other's families, spent long evenings together after class — but when we hung out, I sometimes stopped listening and stared at his mouth instead. The closer we got, the better it felt to admire him. I got to mix the comfort of our intimacy with the constant hope that he'd lean over to kiss me. It was one of those childish instances where the word crushseems literal, where you feel the pleasure of taking your heart in your hands and making it bend before it breaks.
As our spring semester drew to a close, I sought more and more of those sweet, pressure-filled moments. One night, we sat on his porch and found our way toward evaluating each other.
"You're very handsome," I said, and held my breath.
"Thanks," he said. "You're not attractive, but people really like you. It’s great! They're drawn to your personality, not your looks."
I remember everything about this. I was looking at him; he was looking over my head; it was warm outside; the neighboring houses were dark; and he said this to me easily, sincerely, as if it were the compliment I'd been waiting for.
"Thank you," I said.
Who cares. Who cares, right? We hear little evaluations of ourselves every day we live. By 18, I'd already heard a million comments from family, friends, strangers, and middle-school rivals about the way I look and act, and I'd probably delivered a few thousand cutting remarks to others. Most of these words are said and forgotten in the same second. Some are filed away for occasional review. And some, the smallest ones, stick at the front of your brain.
This stuck.
It was the first time someone else had voiced what I'd always felt privately about my face: that I was ugly, but interesting. Ugly, but fun. I drove home that night repeating his line: "You’re not attractive, but …. " But! That "but" cranked the vice of my crush. He'd seen me for what I was, I assured myself. He appreciated whatever I had to offer. He deserved to be the object of my affection, because if no one else would ever be attracted to me, at least this boy knew me well.
We kept meeting up for our marathon conversations, where I would press on my old hopes like bruises. I really did feel I owed him gratitude. In our small town, he seemed like the best option: a good-looking boy who spoke to me honestly.
After we graduated and lost touch, though, what had felt like a compliment started to nag at me. "You’re not attractive …. " repeated in my head. I studied my face — small eyes, blunt nose, swollen cheeks — and agreed. Of all my self-criticisms, this was the only one that had been independently verified: I was ugly. It was a fact. Someone had told me so.
I polished my personality and tried to resign myself to my looks. Why shouldn't being a good conversationalist be enough? It was, until the inevitable moment came when I admired someone's gorgeous face and then remembered that they weren't admiring mine.
Years passed. I started dating, fell in love, made a home with a wonderful man. My boyfriend would tell me I was pretty and I’d think, Liar! It wasn't helping my relationship to be so hung up on some ancient slight.
So when my high-school crush got back in touch, going for coffee with him seemed like a good chance to heal an old wound. I fantasized that when we met, this kid would be blown away by my sudden good looks, which had developed … when? I reviewed myself in the mirror as I got ready to go. Never? I changed my shirt three times, put on eyeliner, washed it off, and considered rescheduling for a better hair day.
I didn't. We met. My hair looked like hair. It didn't matter, because he didn't notice; he was coming to chat with an old friend, not study my features. On my part, I looked across the table at the person I'd adored, and discovered someone who had once been pretty rude.
There are bits of high school buried in me: the nervousness I used to get at the lunch table, the fear of speaking in front of a group, the wish I had for approval from boys who didn't like me. I met with my old crush because I wanted to dig one of those things out, but I couldn't — it existed long before 12th grade. I always worried about the way I looked, always assured myself that I had a winning personality. I always took too long to realize that I should move on.
The evening looked a lot like the one we'd had a decade before — warm air, a seat outside, the two of us together — but the present-day man I saw felt so much less important to me than that 18-year-old boy I remembered. Checking the time on my cell phone, I remembered that there was someone waiting at home who was smart, funny, shockingly handsome, and truly kind. All the time we've been together, he's met both my confident talk and my secret teenage desperation with decency. If I'm going to hear one outsider's voice for the next 10 years, let it be that one, the one filled with love.
Original post by PrincessAlexis
I read this article earlier which highlights your point..
The crush I ended high school with was a kid who looked like he'd stepped out of a catalog. We were good friends — talked on the phone, knew each other's families, spent long evenings together after class — but when we hung out, I sometimes stopped listening and stared at his mouth instead. The closer we got, the better it felt to admire him. I got to mix the comfort of our intimacy with the constant hope that he'd lean over to kiss me. It was one of those childish instances where the word crushseems literal, where you feel the pleasure of taking your heart in your hands and making it bend before it breaks.
As our spring semester drew to a close, I sought more and more of those sweet, pressure-filled moments. One night, we sat on his porch and found our way toward evaluating each other.
"You're very handsome," I said, and held my breath.
"Thanks," he said. "You're not attractive, but people really like you. It’s great! They're drawn to your personality, not your looks."
I remember everything about this. I was looking at him; he was looking over my head; it was warm outside; the neighboring houses were dark; and he said this to me easily, sincerely, as if it were the compliment I'd been waiting for.
"Thank you," I said.
Who cares. Who cares, right? We hear little evaluations of ourselves every day we live. By 18, I'd already heard a million comments from family, friends, strangers, and middle-school rivals about the way I look and act, and I'd probably delivered a few thousand cutting remarks to others. Most of these words are said and forgotten in the same second. Some are filed away for occasional review. And some, the smallest ones, stick at the front of your brain.
This stuck.
It was the first time someone else had voiced what I'd always felt privately about my face: that I was ugly, but interesting. Ugly, but fun. I drove home that night repeating his line: "You’re not attractive, but …. " But! That "but" cranked the vice of my crush. He'd seen me for what I was, I assured myself. He appreciated whatever I had to offer. He deserved to be the object of my affection, because if no one else would ever be attracted to me, at least this boy knew me well.
We kept meeting up for our marathon conversations, where I would press on my old hopes like bruises. I really did feel I owed him gratitude. In our small town, he seemed like the best option: a good-looking boy who spoke to me honestly.
After we graduated and lost touch, though, what had felt like a compliment started to nag at me. "You’re not attractive …. " repeated in my head. I studied my face — small eyes, blunt nose, swollen cheeks — and agreed. Of all my self-criticisms, this was the only one that had been independently verified: I was ugly. It was a fact. Someone had told me so.
I polished my personality and tried to resign myself to my looks. Why shouldn't being a good conversationalist be enough? It was, until the inevitable moment came when I admired someone's gorgeous face and then remembered that they weren't admiring mine.
Years passed. I started dating, fell in love, made a home with a wonderful man. My boyfriend would tell me I was pretty and I’d think, Liar! It wasn't helping my relationship to be so hung up on some ancient slight.
So when my high-school crush got back in touch, going for coffee with him seemed like a good chance to heal an old wound. I fantasized that when we met, this kid would be blown away by my sudden good looks, which had developed … when? I reviewed myself in the mirror as I got ready to go. Never? I changed my shirt three times, put on eyeliner, washed it off, and considered rescheduling for a better hair day.
I didn't. We met. My hair looked like hair. It didn't matter, because he didn't notice; he was coming to chat with an old friend, not study my features. On my part, I looked across the table at the person I'd adored, and discovered someone who had once been pretty rude.
There are bits of high school buried in me: the nervousness I used to get at the lunch table, the fear of speaking in front of a group, the wish I had for approval from boys who didn't like me. I met with my old crush because I wanted to dig one of those things out, but I couldn't — it existed long before 12th grade. I always worried about the way I looked, always assured myself that I had a winning personality. I always took too long to realize that I should move on.
The evening looked a lot like the one we'd had a decade before — warm air, a seat outside, the two of us together — but the present-day man I saw felt so much less important to me than that 18-year-old boy I remembered. Checking the time on my cell phone, I remembered that there was someone waiting at home who was smart, funny, shockingly handsome, and truly kind. All the time we've been together, he's met both my confident talk and my secret teenage desperation with decency. If I'm going to hear one outsider's voice for the next 10 years, let it be that one, the one filled with love.
The crush I ended high school with was a kid who looked like he'd stepped out of a catalog. We were good friends — talked on the phone, knew each other's families, spent long evenings together after class — but when we hung out, I sometimes stopped listening and stared at his mouth instead. The closer we got, the better it felt to admire him. I got to mix the comfort of our intimacy with the constant hope that he'd lean over to kiss me. It was one of those childish instances where the word crushseems literal, where you feel the pleasure of taking your heart in your hands and making it bend before it breaks.
As our spring semester drew to a close, I sought more and more of those sweet, pressure-filled moments. One night, we sat on his porch and found our way toward evaluating each other.
"You're very handsome," I said, and held my breath.
"Thanks," he said. "You're not attractive, but people really like you. It’s great! They're drawn to your personality, not your looks."
I remember everything about this. I was looking at him; he was looking over my head; it was warm outside; the neighboring houses were dark; and he said this to me easily, sincerely, as if it were the compliment I'd been waiting for.
"Thank you," I said.
Who cares. Who cares, right? We hear little evaluations of ourselves every day we live. By 18, I'd already heard a million comments from family, friends, strangers, and middle-school rivals about the way I look and act, and I'd probably delivered a few thousand cutting remarks to others. Most of these words are said and forgotten in the same second. Some are filed away for occasional review. And some, the smallest ones, stick at the front of your brain.
This stuck.
It was the first time someone else had voiced what I'd always felt privately about my face: that I was ugly, but interesting. Ugly, but fun. I drove home that night repeating his line: "You’re not attractive, but …. " But! That "but" cranked the vice of my crush. He'd seen me for what I was, I assured myself. He appreciated whatever I had to offer. He deserved to be the object of my affection, because if no one else would ever be attracted to me, at least this boy knew me well.
We kept meeting up for our marathon conversations, where I would press on my old hopes like bruises. I really did feel I owed him gratitude. In our small town, he seemed like the best option: a good-looking boy who spoke to me honestly.
After we graduated and lost touch, though, what had felt like a compliment started to nag at me. "You’re not attractive …. " repeated in my head. I studied my face — small eyes, blunt nose, swollen cheeks — and agreed. Of all my self-criticisms, this was the only one that had been independently verified: I was ugly. It was a fact. Someone had told me so.
I polished my personality and tried to resign myself to my looks. Why shouldn't being a good conversationalist be enough? It was, until the inevitable moment came when I admired someone's gorgeous face and then remembered that they weren't admiring mine.
Years passed. I started dating, fell in love, made a home with a wonderful man. My boyfriend would tell me I was pretty and I’d think, Liar! It wasn't helping my relationship to be so hung up on some ancient slight.
So when my high-school crush got back in touch, going for coffee with him seemed like a good chance to heal an old wound. I fantasized that when we met, this kid would be blown away by my sudden good looks, which had developed … when? I reviewed myself in the mirror as I got ready to go. Never? I changed my shirt three times, put on eyeliner, washed it off, and considered rescheduling for a better hair day.
I didn't. We met. My hair looked like hair. It didn't matter, because he didn't notice; he was coming to chat with an old friend, not study my features. On my part, I looked across the table at the person I'd adored, and discovered someone who had once been pretty rude.
There are bits of high school buried in me: the nervousness I used to get at the lunch table, the fear of speaking in front of a group, the wish I had for approval from boys who didn't like me. I met with my old crush because I wanted to dig one of those things out, but I couldn't — it existed long before 12th grade. I always worried about the way I looked, always assured myself that I had a winning personality. I always took too long to realize that I should move on.
The evening looked a lot like the one we'd had a decade before — warm air, a seat outside, the two of us together — but the present-day man I saw felt so much less important to me than that 18-year-old boy I remembered. Checking the time on my cell phone, I remembered that there was someone waiting at home who was smart, funny, shockingly handsome, and truly kind. All the time we've been together, he's met both my confident talk and my secret teenage desperation with decency. If I'm going to hear one outsider's voice for the next 10 years, let it be that one, the one filled with love.
Wow! That's really deep, is this based on a true story?
Original post by Arkasia
They don't like it when you scream in horror at their faces and then run away in fear.
I love it!
Posted from TSR Mobile
Original post by sunshine97
Wow! That's really deep, is this based on a true story?
Yep.
It was a first person article posted on XOJane today.
The girl is a writer for them.
Just shows how one comment can stick with people for life
Article link :http://www.xojane.com/it-happened-to-me/insult-from-crush
Original post by MrsSheldonCooper
Saying something about their eyebrows
Haha they really concern you!
Original post by SiminaM
Haha they really concern you!
You know
I got called a mongrel because of my mixed race background. That was pretty low.
Posted from TSR Mobile
Posted from TSR Mobile
Original post by the bear
why do you need to insult a girl ?
treat 'em mean keep 'em keen
Original post by carasezmoo
I got called a mongrel because of my mixed race background. That was pretty low.
Posted from TSR Mobile
Posted from TSR Mobile
wow at least use the correct word.. mudblood
Original post by MrsSheldonCooper
You know
Trust me, although peole say my eyebrows look great, I am very insecure about them too as they don't have that perfect shape and symmetry plucked eyebrows do
Its not just about insecurities but how they see you, if they think you are unnattractive and think they are better than you then a comment about them being ugly will probably just make them laugh more than anything.
If they fancy you and you call them ugly that will hurt them a lot.
If they fancy you and you call them ugly that will hurt them a lot.
Original post by SiminaM
Trust me, although peole say my eyebrows look great, I am very insecure about them too as they don't have that perfect shape and symmetry plucked eyebrows do
Your eyebrows are so nice! I'd go lesbian for them!
Original post by drbluebox
Its not just about insecurities but how they see you, if they think you are unnattractive and think they are better than you then a comment about them being ugly will probably just make them laugh more than anything.
If they fancy you and you call them ugly that will hurt them a lot.
If they fancy you and you call them ugly that will hurt them a lot.
If they think you are unattractive, what would you say to counter?
Am a better looking version of you?.....
Original post by MrsSheldonCooper
Your eyebrows are so nice! I'd go lesbian for them!
It's all natural bby, no pencil and no tweezers.
I can also do that thing when I arch only one of them and I can make it flirty too with a naughty wink...
Original post by SiminaM
It's all natural bby, no pencil and no tweezers.
I can also do that thing when I arch only one of them and I can make it flirty too with a naughty wink...
I can also do that thing when I arch only one of them and I can make it flirty too with a naughty wink...
Natural is hot! Argh that's so hot can I be in a relationship with your eyebrows plz
It depends on the person. And generally the most hurtful insult would be what they're are most insecure about. However saying that a girl who feels really insecure about her looks might be relieved if a guy, who disgusts her, calls her ugly. Anyways insults are boring and immature. If we have a problem with someone, we should have a proper conversation with them and sort things out.
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