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PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
Cosimo Galluzzi
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Sweet Seals For You, Always
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Noah Kahan
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
art blog(derogatory)
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One Nice Bug Per Day
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@catastrophickitten
Hmmmm...
I've been a lazy ass slacker and haven't updated this thing in forever. And my life is soooo much different than the last time I posted. Holy shot, a lot of changes have happened and I'm rather excited to say that I'm living a more normal type of lifestyle... But enough for now. I'll definitely be posting a longer update in the next few days.
Women are expected to perform emotional labour and men are expected to consume it without reciprocating and weāre all trained to call that love. Itās incredibly toxic, and itās not love.
And when someone finally teaches you what real love is you're incredibly amazed. ā¤ļø
GOT ME LIKE
It Was Easier to Give in Than Keep Running
By Anonymous
In first grade, a boy named Johnā a notorious troublemakerāsystematically chased every girl in our class during recess trying to kiss her on the lips. Most gave in eventually. It was easier to give in than keep running. When it was my turn, I turned and faced him, grabbed his glasses off his weasel face, and stomped on them on the hard blacktop. He ran to the principalās office and cried.
In fifth grade, I was asked to be a boyās girlfriend over email. It was the first email I ever received. He actually told me he wanted to send me an email, so I went home and made an AOL account. We went to a carnival and he won me a Garfield stuffed animal, and then he gave me a 3 Doors Down CD. A few days later, he broke up with me, and asked for Garfield and the CD back. I said no.
In sixth grade, a girl in my year gave head to an eighth grader in the back of the school bus while playing Truth or Dare.
In the summer after sixth grade, I kissed a boy for the first time at sleep away camp. He was my summer love. During the end-of-the-summer dining hall announcements, where kids usually announced lost sweatshirts and Walkmen, an older girl stepped up to the microphone, tossed her hair behind her shoulders, and proudly stated, āI lost something very precious to me last night. My virginity. If anyone finds it, please let me know.ā The dining hall erupted into laughter and cheers. She was barred from ever coming back to the camp again, and wasnāt allowed to say goodbye to anyone.
In seventh grade, I told my brother I decided when I was older wanted a Hummer. What I really meant was I wanted a Jeep, but I didnāt know a lot about cars. My mother overheard and screamed at me for āwanting a Hummer.ā
In the summer after freshman year of high school, I went to sleepaway field hockey camp with many of my close friends. One of them, named Megan, I had been friends with since kindergarten. One night when I was showering, she ripped open the curtain and snapped a photo of me on her disposable camera. I screamed. She laughed. We both laughed when I got out of the shower a few minutes later. After camp was over, her father took the camera to the convenience store to get it developed. When he gave the finished photos back to her, he said, āYour friend [Anonymous] has grown up.ā
Sophomore year of high school, one of my best friends Hilary had a party in her basement while her mom was away. We invited some of the guys in our grade and someoneās older brother bought us a handle of vodka. One of the boys who came sat next to me in Spanish class. His name was Thomas. I remember playing a simple game, where we passed the bottle of vodka around in a circle and drank. I remember being happily tipsy and having fun, to suddenly being very drunk. Thomas and I started chanting numbers in Spanish, and he leaned towards me and kissed me. We kissed in the middle of the party, with all of our friends cheering. Then we went into Hilaryās bedroom.
Hilaryās bedroom was in the basement, on the ground floor, with a large window next to her bed. When someone went outside to smoke a cigarette, they realized it was a front row seat to what was happening in the bedroom. It was dark outside, and the light on was in the bedroom. They called everyone outside to watch. I donāt remember getting undressed, but apparently we were both completely naked in Hilaryās bed. A friend of mine told me later she tried to open the door and stop what was happening, but Thomas must have locked it. They said they pounded on the door. I donāt remember hearing them pounding. I donāt remember seeing everyoneās faces outside the window. Ā I remember Thomas holding my head down, and shoving his penis into my mouth. I remember trying to resist, pulling back, but he held his hands firmly on my head, pushing my face up and down. Thatās all that I remember.
The next day, my friends and I went out to dinner at one of our favorite local restaurants. I couldnāt eat anything, and it wasnāt because I was hung over. Every time I tried to put food in my mouth, I felt like I was choking. Anytime a flash of the night before appeared in my mind, I felt like vomiting. My friends sat with me in silence. Then they told me a girl named Lindsey, who had briefly dated Thomas freshman year, had stood outside and watched the entire time. Even after everyone else stopped watching. My friends said they didnāt watch.
On Monday, Thomas and I sat next to each other in Spanish. We didnāt speak. We didnāt make eye contact. I went to the girls bathroom and threw up. I hear Lindsey and Thomas live together, now, ten years later.
Junior year of high school, my teacher for Honors Spanish was named SeƱor Gonzales. SeƱor Gonzales had all of the girls sit in the front row. SeƱor Gonzales called on any girl who was wearing a skirt to write on the chalkboard. SeƱor Gonzales asked a friend of mine, who had broken her finger playing an after school sport, if she broke her finger because āshe liked it rough.ā SeƱor Gonzales was a tenured teacher.
Senior year of high school, I got my first real boyfriend. His name was Colin. He was on the lacrosse team with Thomas. He told me that sophomore year, Thomas told everyone on the team what happened that night at Hilaryās. Everyone cheered. Colin said that, even then, he had a crush on me. Even then, he wanted to punch Thomas.
Colin and I lost our virginities to each other. Colin said if I got pregnant, he would make me have the baby. He didnāt believe in abortion. Colin said if I got pregnant, he would make me have a C-section. Colin said that if I didnāt have a C-section, my vagina would be too loose for him to ever enjoy having sex with me again. Colin said that he wouldnāt let our child breastfeed. He said his mother gave him formula, and that he turned out just fine. I didnāt get pregnant.
Junior year of college, I lived in Denmark for the spring semester and studied at the University of Copenhagen. Copenhagen is one of the safest cities in the world. Guns are illegal there. Pepper spray is illegal there. One night, my friends and I went to a concert at a crowded club in a part of the city I didnāt know very well. I brought a tiny purse with money, my apartment key, and my international cell phone. For some reason it made sense at the time to put my purse inside my friendās purse. Maybe I didnāt feel like carrying it. We were both drinking. My friend left the concert to go home with her boyfriend. One by one, everyone I was there with left the concert, until I was suddenly alone and I realized I didnāt have my purse, or any money for a cab ride home.
I started walking in the direction that felt right. I walked for a long time. I had no idea where I was, and didnāt recognize the area. It was almost 4 am. I was on a residential street when a cab pulled up next to me. I asked the driver if he could drive me to an intersection down the street from my apartment.
I donāt have any money, I said.
I really need your help, I said.
I will do it for free, he said.
Sit in the front, he said.
I sat in the front. We drove in silence for some time, until he pulled over on the side of a dark street.
I donāt want to do it for free anymore, he said.
He locked the car doors and reached across the center console and slipped his hand up my skirt. He grabbed my vagina. Hard. I pushed his hand away and unlocked the door. I ran down the street and realized he had taken me a block away from the intersection I wanted. I walked to my apartment and threw rocks at my roommateās window until she let me inside. She yelled at me for waking her up. I escaped. Nothing happened. I was fine.
The summer after I graduated college I helped Hilary find an internship. She was an art major and wanted something for her resume besides waitressing. We found a posting on Craigslist to be a studio assistant for a painter in the Bronx. It was listed as an unpaid internship. The toll for the George Washington Bridge was twelve dollars, plus gas, but she got the internship anyway. She wanted the experience.
The artist was a 38-year-old Canadian painter named Bradley. Hilary was 22.There was another intern there, an art student from Manhattan named Stella. Ā Bradley needed assistants to help him make bubble wrap paintings. Stella and Hilary would take a syringe and fill the tiny bubbles with different color paints until it formed a mosaic. Bradley always had Hilary stay after Stella left to clean the paintbrushes and syringes. He told Hilary she was beautiful. More beautiful than his wife, who he only married for citizenship. He told Hilary they had a loveless marriage. He told Hilary he wanted to have her beautiful children. They began an affair. He told Hilary has wife knew and didnāt care. He told Hilary he was going to leave his wife soon.
Everyday Hilary drove to the Bronx, cleaned Bradleyās paintbrushes, and had sex on the studio floor. Everyday she went home with no money, and everyday she paid the toll at the George Washington Bridge. She needed the internship for her resume, she said. It was too late to find a new job, she said.
I could go on. I could tell you a lot more. About the whistles on the sidewalk, the kids who sat at the bottom of the stairs in high school to look up our skirts, my friend who was a prostitute in South Carolina, the men whoāve cornered me in parking lots and bars calling me a tease, the unwanted grabbing on the subway, the many times my father has called me fat, the time I traveled to the Philippines and discovered Western men pay preteen locals to spend the week in their hotel, the messages on OKCupid asking to āfart in my mouth.ā About how I wasnāt sure if I had been raped because I was drunk and kissed Thomas back. How he raped my mouth and not my vagina, so that must not be rape. How easy it was for me to escape the dark street in Copenhagen, and how that made it not matter since āit couldāve been worse.ā
Men have no idea what it takes to be a woman. To grin and bear it and persevere. The constant state of war, navigating the relentless obstacle course of testosterone and misogyny, where they think we are property to be owned and plowed. But weāre not. We are people, just like them. Equals, in fact, or at least thatās the core of what feminism is still trying to achieve. The job is not over. Weāve made great progress. There are female CEOs, though not very many. There are females writing for the New York Times and winning Pulitzer prizes, though not very many. Ā There are female politicians, though not very many. But these advances are only on paper. The job wonāt be over until equality permeates the air we breathe, the streets we walk and the homes we live in.
I think back to how easy it was for me, in first grade, to feel fearless and strong in my conviction to stomp on Johnās glasses. I felt right in reacting how I did, because Johnās behavior was wrong. But his was an elementary learning of the wide boundaries his gender would go on to afford him. For me, it would never again be so easy.
- Anonymous, age 25
HOLY FUCK.
Read this.
This is very very very important.
$$$
I love the smell of wire transfers in the morning šš
ā”sourceā”
@brosillustrated
i still canāt believe tyler said āi like stallions moreā on a yes or no question about horses
i canāt believe jason asked tyler what his favorite hand was and tyler looked so offended when jason saidĀ āstraight?ā and then answered withĀ āthree of a kindā
i canāt believe tyler, when asked about dallas, said,Ā āeveryone is good lookingāthe men and the women.ā and in the same interview said he does yoga and pilates for flexibility reasons
i canāt believe tyler had to open his mouth that wide to take a small bite out of a butterfinger
can you believe tyler decided that the best place to nap in before a game was cuddling up in between his friendās (jesse b) legs? because i canāt
ah yes, i canāt believe tyler never said ānoā to a kiss pic with his friend (derrek) but instead turned into a giggly mess with a dark blush and eye crinkles to accompany his wide dimpled smile
because i honestly cannot believe tyler said in a radio interview after being asked about scrosby, āi donāt kiss and tell so i canāt talk about sid behind closed doors eitherā to which the radio host immediately answered withĀ āi donāt know how kissing came in the conversation but weāll leave it at thatā and tyler followed that up with gigglingā¦ā¦ā¦.. iāll just try to process him going to a cowboys/patriots game and the first thing he had to say/tweet about the game was edelmenās tight uniform pants
āMoney canāt buy happiness but Iām happiest when I can buy whatever I want.ā ā Drake
Writer Liz Ruddy has something to say to people who continue to blame rape victims. In a searing poem she posted on Facebook on Tuesday, Ruddy recounts a real conversation she had with a male co-worker and the thoughts that went through her head. Itās long, but well worth the read.Ā
hey just so u know Iām here for the girls who have slept with people who they didnāt like and girls who look back on old hook ups and feel gross. girls who have slept with people because they needed the sexual validation but had bad experiences or wished that thy hadnāt gone near those people. girls who found out how bad the people were after the fact. the character of your hookups doesnāt reflect your character. youāre all wonderful and Iām here for u
Boy: letās get naked Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Me: which palette?
Wearing less and going out more
Money Cats masterpost, to have your LIFE!! filled with money.
Reblogging because Iāve said it once or twice and Iāll say it forever - These posts work.
musing
Why is it that I always end up in the same exact place? The very same man who posts on his profile that this is NSA, that we both under stand what this isā¦ that man is the exact one who ends up calling you every day because you havenāt emailed him back, wants to introduce you to his friends, and inevitably gets emotional about you. Sure, he gives me more and more money to make me stay, sends me āthinking of youā gifts, takes me to that restaurant I mentioned months ago, but in the endā¦ I canāt stay.
I canāt stay with a man who thinks this is going to go somewhere. I canāt have him under the assumption that I care too. Because I donāt. Yes, I care about his wellbeing and genuinely think heās a good person, but I donāt care as much as the person he deserves would.
This is the only time I feel guilty while doing this. Iām so good at what I do that I can make a 50 year old man whoās sworn up and down that he isnāt getting married into a lovesick teenager whoās just waiting to sweep me off my feet. What he doesnāt seem to understand is that my feet are eternally glued to the floor. He cannot sweep my off my feet; this isnāt because heās a nice personā¦ itās because no one can. I am beyond emotion at this point, I am above being seduced by your money and contacts. The $200 steak you buy me does not show me that you can support me and ātreat me the way I deserveā. It reaffirms something that I already know; I am deserving of this life and can get any man to buy me that expensive entree.
What people donāt understand is that I like my sugar daddies just fine. Theyāre wonderful people. I enjoy being friends with them. But thatās as far as it will ever go, and thatās their last mistake, believing that my genuine kindness and enthusiasm for what they have to say will translate into an emotional attachment. Those two concepts are wholly different, and men would do best to remember that.
The worst part about this is something that my mom, who knows I sugar, constantly tells meā¦ āOne day a man will lose his mind over you. These men donāt get told no; regardless of how nice he is, his money makes him believe he has a claim over you. Never let it get that far.ā I do let it get to that point, I dance the line of letting him think I am the girlfriend he wants and being just a bit out of reach. Am I orchestrating my own downfall? Maybe. But I canāt stop. This is the feeling I love, the complete control of someoneās heart. It gives me a sense of power that nothing else does, and it works every time. It is only a matter of months before theyāre caught in my trap, and then itās only a matter of days before Iām gone, leaving him to untangle himself from the web that I trapped him in.
Wow, this hit me so hard. I've been thinking about this a lot for the past few weeks.
Amen š
HAHAHA SIGNAL BOOST FOR YOU BITCHES
Priorities all out of order for these hoes
