Posted 23 hours ago

bloodysigils:

do you ever cry because you’ve somehow managed to gain a truly fucking amazing person as your friend? and just think about how fucking blessed you are for their existence and how in some previous life you must have done something fucking amazing to deserve them in this life? DO YOU?

Posted 1 day ago
Posted 1 day ago

You don’t know forever alone until you don’t matter in your own band

Posted 1 day ago
iworkfornickfury:

dearjacquelinee:

sometimes i think i miss high school and then..this is pretty accurate

one time i was in class in middle school and i was eating a beef jerky slim jim and the teacher said “stop eating that unless you have enough to share” so i pulled out a box of 200 slim jims (from costco of course) and the teacher fucking confiscated it.

iworkfornickfury:

dearjacquelinee:

sometimes i think i miss high school and then..this is pretty accurate

one time i was in class in middle school and i was eating a beef jerky slim jim and the teacher said “stop eating that unless you have enough to share” so i pulled out a box of 200 slim jims (from costco of course) and the teacher fucking confiscated it.

(Source: ramblers-ghost)

Posted 1 day ago
If you were half as funny as you think you are, you’d be twice as funny as you are now.
Cassandra Clare, City of Bones (via kushandwizdom)
Posted 1 day ago
The conversation between your fingers and someone else’s skin. This is the most important discussion you can ever have.
Iain S. Thomas  (via barecontact)

(Source: quotethat)

Posted 1 day ago
I can’t accept that. I can’t accept that there was only one black woman in the entire film, who delivered one line and who we never saw again. I can’t accept that the bad guys were Asian and that although in China, Lucy’s roommate says, “I mean, who speaks Chinese? I don’t speak Chinese!” I can’t accept that in Hercules, which I also saw this weekend, there were no people of color except for Dwayne Johnson himself and his mixed-race wife, whose skin was almost alabaster. I can’t accept that she got maybe two lines and was then murdered. I can’t accept that the “primitive tribe” in Hercules consisted of dark-haired men painted heavily, blackish green, to give their skin (head-to-toe) a darker appearance, so the audience could easily differentiate between good and bad guys by the white vs. dark skin. I can’t accept that during the previews, Exodus: Gods and Kings, a story about Moses leading the Israelite slaves out of Egypt, where not a single person of color is represented, casts Sigourney Weaver and Joel Edgerton to play Egyptians. I can’t accept that in the preview for Kingsman: The Secret Service, which takes place in London, features a cast of white boys and not a single person of Indian descent, which make up the largest non-white ethnic group in London. I can’t accept that in stories about the end of the world and the apocalypse, that somehow only white people survive. I can’t accept that while my daily life is filled with black and brown women, they are completely absent, erased, when I look at a TV or movie screen.
Posted 1 day ago
Fucking white people
every person ever at least once regardless of skin color, heritage, or religion (via spicy-vagina-tacos)
Posted 1 day ago

Rape culture is when I was six, and
my brother punched my two front teeth out.
Instead of reprimanding him, my mother
said “Stefanie, what did you do to provoke him?”
When my only defense was my
mother whispering in my ear, “Honey, ignore him.
Don’t rile him up. He just wants a reaction.”
As if it was my sole purpose, the reason
six-year-old me existed,
was to not rile up my brother.
It’s starts when we’re six, and ends
when we grow up assuming the natural state of a man
is a predator, and I must walk on eggshells, as to
not “rile him up.” Right, mom?

Rape culture is when through casual dinner conversation,
my father says that women who get raped are asking for it.
He says, “I see them on the streets of New York City,
with their short skirts and heavy makeup. Asking for it.”
When I used to be my father’s hero but
will he think I was asking for it? (will he think)
Will he think I deserved it?
Will he hold me accountable or will he hold me,
even though the touch of a man - especially my father’s -
burns as if I were holding the sun in the palm of my hand.

Rape culture is you were so ashamed, you thought it would
be easier for your parents to find you dead,
than to say, “Hey mom and dad,”
It wasn’t my fault. I didn’t ask for it.
I never asked for this attention, I never asked
to be a target, to be weak because I was born with
two X chromosomes, to walk in fear, to always look behind me,
in front of me, next to me, I never asked to be the prey.
I never wanted to spend my life being something
someone feasts upon, a meal for the eternally starved.
I do not want to hear about the way I taste anymore.
I will not let you eat me alive.

Rape culture is I shouldn’t defend my friend when
an overaggressive frat boy has his hand on her ass,
because standing up for her body “makes me a target.”
Women are afraid to speak up, because
they fear their own lives - but I’d rather take the hit
than live in a culture of silence.
I am told that I will always be the victim, pre-determined
by the DNA in my weaker, softer body.
I have birthing hips, not a fighter’s stance.
I am genetically pre-dispositioned to lose every time.

Rape culture is he was probably abused as a child.
When he even has some form of a justification
and all I have are the things that provoked him,
and the scars from his touch are woven of the darkest
and toughest strings, underneath the layer of my skin.
Rape culture leaves me finding pieces of him left inside of me.
A bone of his elbow. The cap of his knee.
There is something so daunting in the way that I know it will take
me years to methodically extract him from my body.
And that twinge I will get sometimes in my arm fifteen years later?
Proof of the past.
Like a tattoo I didn’t ask for.
Somehow I am permanently inked.

Rape culture is you can’t wear that outfit anymore
without feeling dirty, without feeling like
you somehow earned it.
You will feel like you are walking on knives,
every time you wear the shoes
you smashed his nose in with.
Imaginary blood on the bottom of your heels,
thinking, maybe this will heal me.
Those shoes are your freedom,
But the remains of a life long fight.
You will always carry your heart,
your passion, your absolute will to live,
but also the shame and the guilt and the pain.
I saved myself but I still feel like I’m walking on knives.

Rape culture is “Stefanie, you weren’t really raped, you were
one of the lucky ones.”
Because my body wasn’t penetrated by a penis,
but fingers instead, that I should feel lucky.
I should get on my hands and knees and say, thank you.
Thank you for being so kind.
Rape culture is “things could have been worse.”
“It’s been a month, Stefanie. Get out of bed.”
“You’ll have to get over this eventually.”
“Don’t let it ruin your life.”
Rape culture is he told you that after he touched you,
no one would ever want you again.
And you believed him.

Rape culture is telling your daughters not to get raped,
instead of teaching your sons how to treat all women.
That sex is not a right. You are not entitled to this.
The worst possible thing you can call a woman is a
slut, a whore, a bitch.
The worst possible thing you can call a man is a
bitch, a pussy, a girl.
The worst thing you can call a girl is a girl.
The worst thing you can call a guy is a girl.
Being a woman is the ultimate rejection,
the ultimate dismissal of strength and power, the
absolute insult.
When I have a daughter,
I will tell her that she is not
an insult.

When I have a daughter, she will know how to fight.
I will look at her like the sun when she comes home
with anger in her fists.
Because we are human beings and we do not
always have to take what we are given.
They all tell her not to fight fire with fire,
but that is only because they are afraid of her flames.
I will teach her the value of the word “no” so that
when she hears it, she will not question it.
My daughter,
Don’t you dare apologize for the fierce love
you have for yourself
and the lengths you go to preserve it.

My daughter,
I am alive because of the fierce love I have
for myself, and because my father taught me
to protect that.
He taught me that sometimes, I have to do
my own bit of saving, pick myself off the
ground and wipe the dirt off my face,
because at the end of the day,
there is only me.
I am alive because my mother taught me
to love myself.
She taught me that I am an enigma - a
mystery, a paradox, an unfinished masterpiece and
I must love myself enough to see how I turn out.
I am alive because even beaten, voiceless, and back
against the wall, I knew there was an ounce of me
worth fighting for.
And for that, I thank my parents.

Instead of teaching my daughter to cover herself up,
I will show her how to be exposed.
Because no is not “convince me”.
No is not “I want it”.
You call me,
“Little lady, pretty girl, beautiful woman.”
But I am not any of these things for you.
I am exploding light,
my daughter will be exploding light,
and you,
better cover your eyes.

slk

Rape Culture (Cover Your Eyes)

This is so beautiful. Authentic. Painful. Real.

(via bgoz9288) youlostagoodonesir xinvertedrealityx ❤️❤️❤️ (via anotherwalkingscandal)

(Source: aseriesofnouns)

Posted 1 day ago

221bbarricade:

zanetehaiden:

snow-anne:

king-for-a-vagina:

benedicttcumberbatchh:

carryonmy-assbutt:

sassygayklavierspieler:

fandombarf:

alexander2539:

fandombarf:

There’s a dollar in my g string

THAT IS YOUR D STRING. G IS ALL THE WAY ON MY LEFT.

EXCUSE ME you uncultured swine. That IS my G string. LEFT TO RIGHT IT’S: C G D A ON A CELLO. And if you notice the dollar is wonderfully tucked in my G STRING.
DO NOT DOUBT MY SIX YEARS OF EXPERIENCE.

FUCKING VIOLINISTS

THEY’RE NOT CALLED VIOLINISTS THEY’RE CALLED CELLISTS

IT,WAS THE VIOLINIST THAT THOUGHT IT WAS THE WRONG STRING JESUS CHRIST

This is just one massive train wreck

String players can be a bit high-strung.

y’all need to cellout

We all need to calm down before this gets violin-t