werey0uh0nestwithy0urself:

aminaabramovic:

I don’t get these posts that go like “part of me wants to be a hot girl at the bar and the other part of me wants to read and sip tea in a bookstore”

like you can wear red lipstick and a leather jacket and sip tea and dance in the rain and go to the gym and curl up in bed and get turnt the fuck up and go to church

you can literally have it all sis

the world is yours

This is the most inspiring thing I have ever read

makingacake:

edrecoveryprobs:

lipstickndynamite:

One of the best mom moments in TV history. I wish more parents knew how important it is to validate their children’s feelings.

I think we all need to hear this sometimes — so if you need to hear this right now, this is our way of saying it to you
Jesus Fuck I needed this.

I could talk about the PE teacher in my town who was asked to resign due to his harassment of female students, who was then hired as a school bus driver for a rural route with both primary and high school students. I could talk about how, from the age of seven, I refused to wear skirts or dresses, and from the time I entered high school at 10 to when I moved at 16 I always wore bike shorts or CCC shorts under my dress, because he was not particularly subtle about the way he looked at us – and those bus steps are high. I could talk about how this was common knowledge and was never denied by any authority figure we ever raised it with, but rather we were just kind of brushed off. I could talk about how, sometimes, I was the last person on my bus in the afternoon and I was never quite sure if something bad would happen to me, even though for a long time I probably couldn’t have articulated what it was that I feared.

I could talk about how I spent ten years of my childhood believing it was perfectly normal and acceptable for a seven year old child to stop wearing her favourite clothes because a grown man she relies on to get to and from school from a relatively remote location gets a thrill from looking up her skirt.

I could talk about the art teacher at my high school who used to run his hands up and down our backs, right along the spot where your bra sits. Considering most of us were fairly new to wearing bras in the first place, this was a decidedly uncomfortable experience. I could talk about how he used to get just a little too close for comfort in the supply room. Nothing overt, nothing nameable – just enough to make you drag someone else along with you if you needed a fresh piece of paper or you ran out of ink. I could talk about how the odd comment or complaint that was made was completely handwaved, that we were told to be very careful about what we were saying, that we could get someone in a lot of trouble by “starting those kinds of rumours”, and did we really want to be responsible for that?

I could talk about the first time I was made to feel ashamed of my body, at twelve or thirteen, getting into a water fight with my stepfather and uncle in the height of summer. I could talk about my grandmother completely flipping out, talking about how disgusting it was, how grown men should be ashamed of the way they were behaving with a girl. I could talk about how she then spent the next few hours trying to convince me I was being somehow victimised, while I was mostly confused about what had taken place – it took me a long time to work it out. I could talk about the unvoiced but ever-present fear for months afterwards that my grandma would bring it up again, that she would bring it up in the wrong place or to the wrong people and that my uncle, a schoolteacher, would suffer for it.

I could talk about how that destroyed what had been a fantastic relationship with my uncle, and how, ten years later, he still won’t hug me at Christmas.

I could talk about being called a frigid bitch and a slut in the same breath in high school. I could talk about multiple instances of sitting in a big group of friends, hearing someone trying to get into someone else’s pants, starting off sweet enough but quickly descending into emotional manipulation and thinly veiled abuse. I could talk about the time I went off with someone willingly enough and being followed by someone I considered a friend, someone who would not leave no matter how many times I said “no”, who only went away when the person I was with said that he “didn’t feel like sharing”.

I could talk about the family friend who always made me feel a little bit off for no discernible reason. The one who if I was left alone in the room with him, I would always find an excuse to leave. The one time I expressed this, I was told I was being a drama queen, and that I needed to grow up and stop being so precious, that one day I was going to have to deal with people I didn’t like and I might as well get used to it. I could talk about how he never did anything untoward, never gave me any specific reason to feel unsafe – but years after I last saw him, when he was found guilty of four historical sexual assault charges, one of rape and three of indecent assault on girls under twelve, I was, for reasons I still don’t entirely understand, completely unsurprised.

I could talk about my boyfriend justifying his rape of me with “you could have fought me off if you really wanted you, you slut”. I could talk about how, when I tried to tell people, I was told I was being a nasty, spiteful, vindictive bitch. I could talk about how selfish it was of me to say such things, that he’d overcome such a hard life and was going to go on and make something of himself, who the hell was I to try and stand in his way?

I could talk about how my response to being raped was to sleep with anyone and everyone because I rationalised that if I never said no, then no one could force me. I could talk about how I have been told time and time again, by people who should know better, that this is a sign that I wasn’t really raped at all.

I could talk about how, when I finally worked up the courage to make a formal complaint of sexual harassment against my boss, I was asked why I had let it continue for so long, and what I had done to make him think his behaviour would be welcomed.

I could talk about how when a much later boss got me completely wasted at my leaving party, to the point where I couldn’t walk, and fucked me in a back alley, he waited until I was sober the next morning to tell me that he had a pregnant wife, because he heard through the grapevine that I was very strict about not sleeping with married people or straight women, and he thought I should “learn my place” and realise that I’m “not such a high and mighty bitch with a moral high ground after all”.

I could talk about these things, but I very rarely do. Since I was seven years old, I have been told that my body is not my own, that my consent is not my own, that my feelings of discomfort are not my own. I have taught myself to suppress my gut instinct upon meeting people. I have been taught to smile, to be polite, to suck it up if I feel unsafe. When I complain, I have been told I’m being irrational, oversensitive, and selfish. The underlying message is, how dare I try and ascertain any kind of control over my own body?

I should talk about it. But I don’t actually know whether I can.

An anonymous guest post on The Lady Garden. This is the reality for so many women. #YesAllWomen (via takealookatyourlife)    

sovietunions:

one thing i never do is write a rough draft it’s all or nothing go big or go home

e-m-e-t-t:

Haru cannot wait for the apocalypse. 

mixtapewormhole:

atane:

thisiswhiteprivilege:

softboycollective:

TUESDAY 8/19: Ferguson PD presented a table full of fabricated evidence at this morning’s press conference - allegedly seized from protestors and stopped cars. The Colt 45 Molotov with a white bandana was the crowning glory, turns out you can’t even buy glass 40’s in Missouri. Stay classy, FPD

I seriously think white supremacist are coming in the area to frame the protesters, but it could just be the cops

Colt 45 Molotov cocktail? What’s next, a watermelon incendiary bomb? A fried chicken pipe bomb? These jokers can’t even frame folks without their racism showing.

Here’s an article talking about the ban on glass 40s in St Louis and the surrounding areas, btw.

http://www.stlmag.com/news/Big-Bottles-of-Chilled-Beer-Are-Back-in-the-City/

The people coming into Ferguson provoking violence against local protesters, be they opportunist wannabe radicals treating it like a revolutionary fantasy camp or police-planted provocateurs, are horrid and very real.

Never ever ever ever ever forget that the violence being directed at this community is being unilaterally instigated by police in an effort to enforce systematic white supremacy. Do not be distracted by the excuses authorities try to make for themselves.

So I spoke out. In a public forum, in a polite, non-accusatory manner. And for my trouble, for my efforts, for my cares, I got the biggest condescending, insulting answer from an authority figure. A day later, another authority figure took the opportunity to personally insult me.

Speaking up was one of the more courageous things I’ve done. Sitting through the condescending answers and insults was the biggest exercise in self-control I’ve ever gone through. But I know I was right. I know that I rocked the boat. I know that because I spoke out, other people, who might have never seen it as a problem, are now thinking. I know that because of the unprofessional manner of the responses I got, many people realize that I was right.

Even if you think no one is listening, you can fight the patriarchy. Chances are, it will bite back. And if you can withstand the attack, the scars from those bites are powerful evidence to show to people who think that the patriarchy is dead. Because how can something that’s dead bite back?

dragonheartedrabbit:

Going on right now in Ferguson: Police are raiding a church that has been stocked with medical supplies, food, and tear gas recovery kits for community members engaging in protests. This cannot be allowed to continue.

Stand up, speak out. 

How do you deal with anon hate?

— Anonymous

officialunitedstates:

Imagine everyone who sends you anon hate as a 12 year old superwehrolock fan who didn’t get a good breakfast and can’t find any good apps for their phone.  The neighborhood kid across the street doesn’t like them as anything more than a friend, and they are anxious about the 7th grade and what new challenges it will bring.

lelaid:

braiker:

bethrevis:

US Constitution, First Amendment: The right to assemble, to have free speech, to have freedom of the press.

Ferguson Police: Kicks out media and limits protestors to a “First Amendment Area”image

funny, i thought the WHOLE COUNTRY was a first amendment area. silly me. 

Funny that when they do this I only hear about it on tumblr, but when they try to limit guns and the second amendment it literally becomes a congressional uproar.

huffingtonpost:

PERUVIAN NURSE CARES FOR 175 CATS WITH LEUKEMIA IN ANIMAL HOSPICE

 At her job, Maria Torero cares for sick human beings. At home, she lavishes love on slowly dying cats — 175 of them at last count.

For more behind Torero’s care for the cats and more photos read the full story here.