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Aqua Utopia｜海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
Discoholic 🪩
Sweet Seals For You, Always
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2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
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trying on a metaphor
we're not kids anymore.
h
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@cheekbonesandpistachios
i’m going to post this again because people are saying it does help! this is JUST some tips that i find help me, i am not a therapist! if you have some more advice to add that i may have missed, pls by all means add a comment to the post. do not message me, thank you <3
reading a paper on quality of life among 45-to-70-year-olds with Down syndrome:
“Individuals expressed a desire to be allowed to go to bed when they wanted to.”
Imagine.
I lived in a room and board that failed the burrito test. (”If you’re not allowed to get up in the middle of the night to microwave a burrito, you live in an institution.”) No one stopped me from going to bed, but they did tell me I had to have my lights out by 10, and that I had to be out of the house by 10 the next morning. When I complained to my outpatient program that I needed more help than I was getting, they threatened me with board and care, where my cell phone would be taken away and I would lose contact with the outside world. My case manager sounded so damn smug, like he had caught me out, when he said, “if you’re really as helpless as you say, then you need to be in a board and care.” Like my only options were struggling to do things I couldn’t do, or surrendering my life to an institution.
When I tried to talk about these things with other people, they always rationalized it away. (I told my dad once that my caseworker was reading my e-mails as I wrote them, demonstrating extreme disrespect for my privacy, and he said, “Well, she’s probably making sure you don’t use the internet to goof off.” I was 22 years old.)
People tend to mock the idea that telling an adult when to go to bed, when to eat, etc., is a human rights violation, even though they would find it outrageous and absurd if anyone came into their lives to do the same thing to them.
And this is what people seem to think when they tell disabled activists we’re just not disabled enough to understand that some people really do need to be locked up and deprived of all autonomy.
Here’s the paper:
https://library.down-syndrome.org/en-us/research-practice/06/3/quality-life-ageing-down-syndrome/
This is horrible.
black women own the power of cosplay
QUEENS
people really unfollowed me for posting this like get your racist trash off my blog I don’t need your follow
These cosplayers are so fricking awesome :D
1. CutiePieSensei as Wonder Woman
2. Kay Bear as Mad Moxxie
3. Kay Bear as Jinx
4. Mother of Dogs Cosplay as Psycho
5. Ana Lídia Lopes as Harley Quinn
6. Taylor Hobbes as Sailor Moon
7. CutiePieSensei as Vi-Rah
8. CutiePieSensei as Black Panther
9. Lucky Luna as Black Cat
10. Mother of Dogs Cosplay as Sole Survivor
Cosplayers absolutely deserve credit too!
The Harley Quinn one YEEESSSSSSSSS
Omg gorgeous!!!
16 July 2020
when you remember you're technically an adult and have to make big grown-up decisions that can alter your life completely but at the same time you really don't feel like an adult and just want to lay down
im telling you if gerrymandering gets abolished you’ll see how truly progressive the south is. the north is fake woke. trust me.
when i went to go visit minnesota (i was born there but moved to georgia in third grade and lived here since then) i saw a fuck ton of righ wing shit. meanwhile ive lived in georgia and while there are right wing stuff the left FAR outweighs them. dont believe people when they say the north is more progessive cause it aint. this has been a ted talk
you can rebob this let people know that the south is progressive it just that we have gerrymandering problems that screw over the poor ESPECIALLY black poor people!!!!
My mom told me to “find a man who respects you like a sea captain respects the sea.” A man who looks at you with awe and reverence but knows you are a force of nature. I like that.
#at the risk of making a pun that’s deep as fuck
“I want to be like water. I want to slip through fingers, but hold up a ship.”
— Michelle Williams (via h-o-r-n-g-r-y)
Facebook PSA
Hey all, a little Social Media PSA if you have the Facebook App on your phone.
With the last update, Facebook began tracking something called ‘off-Facebook Activity’ which keeps up with all apps and browsing you do off of Facebook and collects that information with the purpose of targeting ads… which means they’re selling it to ad agencies. This includes access to any banking apps on your phone and your spending habits.
Not only is this a major breech of privacy that Facebook didn’t have to tell us about when they updated the app, it’s, of course, automatically turned on.
To turn it off, go into your Facebook app, pull up the menu from the main screen [the button with the three horizontal lines] scroll down to security and privacy, find ‘Off-Facebook Activity’ and hit the button that lets you manage your history to see all the apps it’s been collecting from. From there, you can clear the information it’s already collected, and there will be a button regarding ‘Future activity’ where you can turn the ‘feature’ off, at which point Facebook with give you an ‘ARE YOU SURE YOU DON’T WANT US COLLECTING YOUR INFORMATION TO SELL YOU THINGS???’ screen. Yes, yes you are sure. Because this is disgusting.
Facebook made this super hard to find, so I’ve written up instructions for how I got through it (on my app - I don’t know if there are other versions where it’s different):
From Facebook, go to the Menu by clicking on the three horizontal lines on the top right of the screen.
Scroll down to the bottom and select the Settings & Privacy drop-down menu.
Then select Settings (the first option under the drop-down).
This will take you to a screen showing multiple headers with lists of links under them
Scroll down to Your Facebook Information and select Off-Facebook Activity.
The next page has a short explanation of Off-Facebook Activity. Click Manage Your Off-Facebook Activity after the What You Can Do header.
This will take you to a screen with an option to Clear History (which I recommend). To actually turn off this feature, you will have to click the three dots at the top right of the screen and select the Manage Future Activity option that pops up.
This will take you to a page explaining in more detail what they’re doing. Select the Manage Future Activity at the bottom of the page.
THEN you can finally select the toggle to turn off Future Off-Facebook Activity.
If it’s glowing blue with the circle on the right side, it’s active, and if it’s gray with the circle on the left side, it’s off.
Just went and checked this out and yikes on a stick
Yuck. I just did this.
thinking about the statement “anyone can do that” and like. yeah? i get “oh, you’re so talented!” about my crochet a lot, and I’m the first one to point out
all i do is follow a pattern. anyone can do this. same with writing; anyone can do this. this isn’t some arcane art nearly lost to time and unreachable to the public at large. anyone can do what i do–maybe not in the same way, but in a way that can be learned and made nearly second nature.
this doesn’t mean that it’s worthless just because it’s a skill that can be learned. i’ve put…so much time into everything i’ve learned to do. even without the time spent learning, there is still time put into every project that i share, whether it’s something free like fic or art or something that i insist on payment for like jewelry or a hat or a custom crochet doll. anyone can learn to make this, but i did make it. you’re not paying for the exclusivity, you’re paying for the time and material i put into it.
i dunno where i’m going with this, honestly. i’ve just been thinking about “anyone can do that” and how the answer that’s given is, a lot of times, hella discouraging to anyone who’s still trying to learn to do that.
I love genuinely innocent “boys will be boys.” Just saw a guy come out of a frat house to poke a pair of jeans they’d left outside - they were frozen solid, and as soon as he confirmed that, like twenty more boys came rushing out of the house going “YOOOOOOOOOO”
I heard grunting outside my window the other night and there were four boys struggling to push this giant snowball (like 7 foot diameter) down the sidewalk.
I once lost my keys at a frat house.
My drunk ass had actually walked home without them, pounded on my apartment door, gotten let in by my rightfully-disgruntled roommate, and proceeded to pass out on the couch. Apparently I puked in the toilet before passing out. I do not remember this part.
The next morning, I schlepped back to the frat house. I stood there, right in front of the front door. This was a novel experience for me. I’d never been at a frat house in broad daylight before.
A boy, presumably, of the house, asked me what I was doing.
“I lost my keys in here last night,” I called back. “I was seeing if I could go in and look for them?”
He opened the door and gestured for me to come in.
“Go wherever you want.”
I’d never seen a frat house post-party before. Wandering up the stairs and through the halls, I was surrounded by hungover and still-drunk frat boys stumbling around in their socks and sandals and gym shorts, seeking out food and showers like moths to a porch light. A few of them threw puzzled glances my way. I’m sure they thought I was some post-bacchanalia hallucination.
I entered one room where a boy was drunkenly watching some Old Yeller-esque movie on a tiny TV in the corner of his room from his bed.
“Do you like dog movies?” he asked, voice all mumbly from grogginess and also from the fact that his face was squished against his pillow and half-buried by his blanket.
I told him I did.
He mumbled again, pleased, and asked what I was doing. I told him I was looking for my keys.
“Sorry, I haven’t seen any keys around here.”
I didn’t doubt him.
Twenty minutes had passed. I’d searched just about every bedroom and nuclear-waste-dump-site of a bathroom in that house. I’d given up on ever finding my keys and was prepared to beg my roommates’ forgiveness and get a new set copied.
As I stood there in the hallway, silently bewailing my predicament, a particularly-burly frat boy approached me.
“You need help with something?”
“I lost my keys here last night and I can’t find them, I’ve looked everywhere.”
“What do they look like? I’ll put it into the group chat.” He was already pulling out his phone.
No one ever checks a group chat, I thought, but what the hell. It was worth a shot. “Um, it’s just a ring of keys. The keychain is a pink plastic cat, though, like yea big. Like bright pink, you can’t miss it.”
He nodded, presumably typing this description faithfully into the group chat.
“Alright, I sent the message out. Good luck.”
And with that, he turned and left.
A few moments later, I heard a distant thundering. It was coming from upstairs, and it was getting louder and louder. One assumes that how I felt in that moment was how Simba felt seeing the wildebeest stampede through the ravine as a horde of large young men all thundered down the stairs, making a beeling for me.
“Someone tell the girl!” One of them shouted, faceless in the mob. “Girl! Hey, GIRL!!! We found your keys, girl!!!”
They circled around me. I hadn’t felt that small since I was maybe eleven years old. One of them split himself off from the crowd.
“Are these -” he pulled out a ring of keys from his pocket, “your keys?”
And lo, there was the distinctive bright millennial pink cat keychain dangling off the ring.
“Yes,” I whispered. “Oh my god, yes.”
“EYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!!!”
The cheer went up.
Turns out he found them in the bathroom upstairs. I thanked them again profusely. There was a scattered round of “no problems” and then, just as suddenly as they descended, they all dispersed, like ships in the night.
THIS is boys will be boys
on a camp with teenage boys recently and as i was one of the camp leaders, it was part of my duties to help wake said boys in the morning (at 6am or a similar ungodly hour).
we (the camp leaders) found the most efficient way to do so was to blast music from a tinny little speaker one of us owned.
so before the sun itself has risen, we’re walking down a corridor with 8+ rooms filled with 6 or more boys in each, blasting the one and only Let It Go from Frozen, hoping to wake a few students, preparing for hateful commentary.
instead, what we got was the thumps and shouts of boys excitedly leaping from bunk beds, stuffing on shirts and bursting into the corridor to scream the lyrics to Let It Go.
every.single.boy.did this.
as soon as the song finished, they acted like it never happened and went back to their rooms to get dressed.
you will all be pleased to learn that provided with the zero-gravity environment of scuba diving, it is not uncommon to turn around to see 3 or 4 teenage boys t-posing mid water column
Young men and boys! Please reclaim ‘boys will be boys’ by doing chaotic good things, having good clean fun, and engaging in benevolent bro culture.
fck zodiac signs i wanna know - hardcover or paperback? top bunk or bottom? podcasts or audiobooks? morning or evening showers?
god the bush fire situation is so fucking devastating as an indigenous person because not only is my home being fucking ravaged by fires and has been for months, but people only seem to care about the animals.
and don't get me wrong, care about the animals! i care about the animals! they're MY native animals, they're part of my culture and home and they're living breathing creatures.
but there's so so so many things in place already to help animals, shelters and charities and sanctuaries, and by all means help them more, but the government does not care about aboriginal australians. shit, scomo doesn't give a flying fuck about anyone who isn't a white cishet able bodied christian.
aboriginal australians are losing our homes, you say people aren't endangered but WE ARE. we make up a tiny percentage of our country, and a vast majority of us live in poverty and unsafe areas. not only are we losing our homes, we're losing our identity, our lives, our families. this land means more to us than it ever will to people crying over the koalas. the koalas mean more to us than they ever will to you.
remember who lived alongside those animals for thousands of years.
there's a million things i could say about why we need help more than the animals, but in the end white people will care more about what's small and fluffy than people of colour, especially people whose land they're living on, right?
Neil Morris Fire Relief Fund for First Nations Communities As Fires have struck the East Coast of this sacred land recently it has lead to s
(id: a picture of the sky clouded with smoke from the bushfires, the top half is black and the bottom half is red and orange, with the sun in the middle. it looks very similar to the aboriginal australian flag, and was taken minutes after sunrise on january 1st.)
If you don’t write your story, then it’s not getting written.
That means it’s not getting published. Not online, not self-published, not by an indie press, not by the Big 5.
That means it’ll never be available for purchase, and your potential biggest fan will walk right past the empty gap on the shelf and pick something else up, and love that instead.
They’ll go get someone else’s autograph on its title page and order the special edition and scream about it on the internet, all while your book is trapped
in your head
incomplete, on a hard drive or in your notebook
wishing it could be where the rest of the books are.
I don’t know what else to tell you, because there’s only one way outta this, and it’s hard. Maybe it’s already knocked you on your ass once, or twice, or fifteen times.
You have to write. Give a reader their favourite book.
okay but why is bernard attractive
