Monterey Bay Aquarium
oozey mess
d e v o n
will byers stan first human second
wallacepolsom
Sade Olutola
Discoholic đȘ©
NASA
Three Goblin Art
titsay
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
I'd rather be in outer space đž
KIROKAZE
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let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
Aqua Utopiaïœæ”·ăźćșă§èšæ¶ă玥ă
Jules of Nature
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seen from Philippines
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@a--mo
Know Child Left Behide
I donât agree with everything bush did as president of our country, but their is good he created and Moore didnât include that, what about the know child left behide Act, or the Amber Alirt, those have helped and saved lives.
âŠthe membrane between fiction and nonfiction is thin as infantâs skin. I think our identitiesâthe ones we live in the real worldâare really made partly from stories that we build up around ourselvesânecessary fictionsâso that we can bear the weight of our own lives.
Lidia Yuknavitch, in an interview on The Rumpus (2015)
"Iâm so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers."
L.M. Montgomery, Anne of Green Gables (via wordsnquotes)
John Cale, Lou Reed, Patti Smith and David Byrne
The rape culture continues because you let it
When I went to trial against my ex boyfriend, I lost on a technicality. Not because he didnât admit to: being physically and psychologically abusive to me, harassing me, stalking me, or violating police orders not to talk to me. He did admit to those things- to the police- in his statement after he was arrested. No, the reason I lost was because, when I was forced to hand over all contact Iâd had between us, I failed to share a conversation we had had on gchat with the police. One in which I explicitly stated that I felt he had sometimes coerced me into sex; he denied this repeatedly, stating we had an âinsanely goodâ sex life. I didnât hand this conversation over because I thought that the law wanted examples of his abuse, his harassment.  I was wrong. The law wanted me to point out, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he had done wrong by me and I had never taken any agency to counter him.
And so I lost. I went home for Christmas and I tried not to think about it. I tried to stop labelling what happened to me, I tried to stop reading blogs that illuminated my struggle, I tried to put it behind me. Every now and then, though, Iâd come across something that reminded me. An ad for Mallorca- and Iâm transported to a vacation we took together where he had sex with me without a condom (which I didnât know about) and then ejaculated inside me without my consent. When I asked him why, he smiled- I was stuck on an island that did not offer the morning after pill over the counter, and he knew that. At the time, I knew that felt wrong. Now I know that was something called reproductive abuse. But I move on, ignoring other memories that come to the surface. âGrey sexâ only makes me think of this time, when I was 19 years old, and he cajoled me into making a sex video with him, even though I protested (although not strongly) against it. At one point, he switched me into a position that exposed my body more to the camera. âNo,â I said softly. âCome on,â he said. âNo,â I said more forcefully. âItâs my birthday video,â he muttered. I relented. He would play that video sometimes when we had sex with the volume turned up high. I could just about hear myself saying âno, no, no.â Rainy mornings with a drier chill remind me of a nebulous number of times, how many I canât tell you because I donât remember them, where we were lying in his bed. He poked at me, calling me fat- his favorite abuse was appearance-based- and asked me to have sex with him. No, Iâd ask. No, Iâd plead. More âyouâre fatâ would come at me until I said yes. Then, on top of me:
"Why arenât you enjoying this? God dammnit, why arenât you enjoying this?" All of these instances are examples of what the law would not hold up as rape. I sometimes even doubt myself labelling them as such; I feel guilty, lesser than someone who has been forcefully assaulted against their will. This isnât rape. What happened to me wasnât rape. What happened to me wasnât abuse, I say. In the middle of the night, I wake up and feel the overwhelming urge to email him, asking him for forgiveness for taking him to trial. It was my fault- if I had shared that gchat conversation, it would have never gone to trial, and he would just have been arrested, released, and he would have maybe been scared enough to never contact me again. It was my fault. It was my fault that, one day when walking down the street, he raised his hand high above my head, and brought it inches away from my face. I cowered; he laughed. âWhy the fuck would you do that?â I asked. He smiled, always. âBecause you were raising your voice on the street. Why do you have to be so loud?â I tell myself it wasnât that big of a deal that he pulled me by my hair, by my pixie cut, and told me I was a little girl. Women suffer worse, people suffer worse. Itâs my fault that I obsess about it. And when he choked me in a bush until I either passed out or blacked out from panic- well, I shouldnât obsess about that either. I wasnât killed. I wasnât even that harmed- just a scraped up knee. I slept the night in a guest room in his house, and his flatmates told me theyâd look after me and make sure he didnât come home. He did, he yelled at me, and the next morning I fell asleep in his bed again while I heard him tell his flatmate, âI think I was just waiting for an excuse to break up with her for a long time.â I tell myself itâs my fault these things happened because I went back to him. I went back to him so many times; I went back to him every second. Not because I loved him, not because I wanted him, but because I didnât know if I had the strength to exist without him. And so you tell me: the rape culture exists because I let it. Because my words are not enough. Because shame is not enough. I used the law. I tried to get him the mental help he needed. I still lost. My words to him made me lose. So what are my words now?
Thank you for your bravery in sharing this Paige. Iâm disgusted that anyone could behave this way.
You know youâre getting old when your idea of getting âloadedâ consists of you drinking two beers, eating two fried chicken breasts, then going bed as the sun sets and waking at midnight with the worst indigestionâŠ
you shouldnt let poets lie 2 u
Thanks #XboxOne #E3 press conference for revealing to us exactly zero games featuring a female protagonist for the next generation.
â Feminist Frequency (@femfreq)
June 10, 2013
Above is a tweet I made this afternoon in reaction to the fact that none of the games...
Grumpy Cow
what do you call a grumpy cow.
loser!
WANT!
Daft Punk takes over Legoland!! AROUND THE WORLD AROUND THE WORLD AROUND THE WORLD AROUND THE WORLD AROUND THE WORLD AROUND THE WORLD
It is a glory
Long hair on a woman is the equivalent of a penis on a man.
Long hair don't care about penis size
âJudgmentsâ I took this last year, but in retrospect, I think itâs my strongest piece from high school.
Working on this project really made me examine my own opinions, preconceptions and prejudices about âsluttyâ women and women who choose to cover all of their skin alike. I used to assume that all women who wore Hijabs were being oppressed, slut-shame, and look down on and judge any woman who didnât express her sexuality in a way that I found appropriate.
Iâd like to think Iâm more open now.
WAH THIS IS SO PERFECT SDKJFHDKSLADFJH
This is all of my favorite things. Feminism, photography, hand lettering, cultural critique. Bravo.
Blood laden and mating, mosquitoes infestate my living space. I pressed my fingertips together to watch my heart beat thump pump a pyramid of the heart pump thump a triangle a pinnacle of pulsating of thump thump things to do on your dayoff
Ode to Doing the Dew in the Morning Light
Ah, the morning dew--how it glistens green on a can on the fridge shelf. How it signifies a broken gasket, an inefficiency of energy, lost in freon mist through the night. How it bubbles at the wide mouth when popped-- cracked--open. How it fizzes in the gullet and slides seamlessly down the esophagus. How it settles coolly yet warm in a pouch of stomach acids to make super-acid-dew-stew. How it commingles with blood and spreads its influence to the brain. How it twists perception, how it clouds errything yellow-green. How it makes hatred for the lower class. How it stays with us through our youth. Oh, morning dew, you are my cruel lover.
"The photographer fiddled with his hot white lights. 'Show us how happy it makes you to write a poem.'
I stared through the frieze of rubber-plant leaves in Jay Cee's window to the blue sky beyond. A few stagey cloud puffs were traveling from right to left. I fixed my eyes on the largest cloud, as if, when it passed out of sight, I might have the good luck to pass with it." - My girl Plathiepoo.
Even if my hands holding your hair is a hallucination, I choose to believe it. More than ever I've murdered you in my mind. I don't believe that, it's just, though, an extension of sexual frustration-- I'm sure we all have. Some will tear sheets of paper, I fold leaves over upon themselves after I've collected them dead from the ground.
The other night I had a dream I was walking through Michael Jackson's Neverland themed mega-market. It was almost like the Publix Greenwise down my street: they have exotic, organic foods except Michael's grocery store also had zoo animals on display and for a few dollars you could have the employees catch and prepare them for you. I walked down the sea mammal aisle. There were huge, glass tanks filled with dark green water and scattered beams of sunlight poured from above to reflect off of the sea life that swam in them. There was a humpback whale in one tank. I pressed my ear to the glass to hear its song, someone standing next to me was paying to poach and grill it. It was too late for that whale so I turned down another aisle to see if I could procure a four-wheeler and maybe bust through another tank that held some walruses; I could only find a jet ski and it was nowhere near water. I was frustrated. I woke up laying in a wet spot of drool.
