Daydream Illustration

Following ideas around, stumbling, exploring.

[sosuperawesome]

Kelsey Smith on Instagram, Tumblr and Society6

[bipolaroid]

dinners ready

[lakidaa]

( ._.)./ an explanation: 

The dog has an issue where his esophagus doesn’t work right; it doesn’t get food in there right because it’s all stretched out and stuff. So what dog owners (and cat owners and I guarantee you the cat ones look goofier) do is make a highchair and feed them upright so gravity can be a hero. It’s also really cute. 

The disorder is called Megaesophagus. 

Here is a cat with the same disorder in his eatin’ sock. 

[robotjiji-deactivated20190529]

EATIN’ SOCK

[pluckychicken]

ALWAYS REBLOG THE EATIN’ SOCK

[lahermosaluna]

Sesshomaru: I don’t have nothing to protect.

Fandom: SURE.

[everydaylouie]

ditto facts

[brinkabrank-deactivated20210620]

[lucky9]

What’s your favorite Woody Allen movie? Before you answer, you should know: when I was seven years old, Woody Allen took me by the hand and led me into a dim, closet-like attic on the second floor of our house. He told me to lay on my stomach and play with my brother’s electric train set. Then he sexually assaulted me. He talked to me while he did it, whispering that I was a good girl, that this was our secret, promising that we’d go to Paris and I’d be a star in his movies. I remember staring at that toy train, focusing on it as it traveled in its circle around the attic. To this day, I find it difficult to look at toy trains. For as long as I could remember, my father had been doing things to me that I didn’t like. I didn’t like how often he would take me away from my mom, siblings and friends to be alone with him. I didn’t like it when he would stick his thumb in my mouth. I didn’t like it when I had to get in bed with him under the sheets when he was in his underwear. I didn’t like it when he would place his head in my naked lap and breathe in and breathe out. I would hide under beds or lock myself in the bathroom to avoid these encounters, but he always found me. These things happened so often, so routinely, so skillfully hidden from a mother that would have protected me had she known, that I thought it was normal. I thought this was how fathers doted on their daughters. But what he did to me in the attic felt different. I couldn’t keep the secret anymore. When I asked my mother if her dad did to her what Woody Allen did to me, I honestly did not know the answer. I also didn’t know the firestorm it would trigger. I didn’t know that my father would use his sexual relationship with my sister to cover up the abuse he inflicted on me. I didn’t know that he would accuse my mother of planting the abuse in my head and call her a liar for defending me. I didn’t know that I would be made to recount my story over and over again, to doctor after doctor, pushed to see if I’d admit I was lying as part of a legal battle I couldn’t possibly understand. At one point, my mother sat me down and told me that I wouldn’t be in trouble if I was lying – that I could take it all back. I couldn’t. It was all true. But sexual abuse claims against the powerful stall more easily. There were experts willing to attack my credibility. There were doctors willing to gaslight an abused child. After a custody hearing denied my father visitation rights, my mother declined to pursue criminal charges, despite findings of probable cause by the State of Connecticut – due to, in the words of the prosecutor, the fragility of the “child victim.” Woody Allen was never convicted of any crime. That he got away with what he did to me haunted me as I grew up. I was stricken with guilt that I had allowed him to be near other little girls. I was terrified of being touched by men. I developed an eating disorder. I began cutting myself. That torment was made worse by Hollywood. All but a precious few (my heroes) turned a blind eye. Most found it easier to accept the ambiguity, to say, “who can say what happened,” to pretend that nothing was wrong. Actors praised him at awards shows. Networks put him on TV. Critics put him in magazines. Each time I saw my abuser’s face – on a poster, on a t-shirt, on television – I could only hide my panic until I found a place to be alone and fall apart. Last week, Woody Allen was nominated for his latest Oscar. But this time, I refuse to fall apart. For so long, Woody Allen’s acceptance silenced me. It felt like a personal rebuke, like the awards and accolades were a way to tell me to shut up and go away. But the survivors of sexual abuse who have reached out to me – to support me and to share their fears of coming forward, of being called a liar, of being told their memories aren’t their memories – have given me a reason to not be silent, if only so others know that they don’t have to be silent either. Today, I consider myself lucky. I am happily married. I have the support of my amazing brothers and sisters. I have a mother who found within herself a well of fortitude that saved us from the chaos a predator brought into our home. But others are still scared, vulnerable, and struggling for the courage to tell the truth. The message that Hollywood sends matters for them. What if it had been your child, Cate Blanchett? Louis CK? Alec Baldwin? What if it had been you, Emma Stone? Or you, Scarlett Johansson? You knew me when I was a little girl, Diane Keaton. Have you forgotten me? Woody Allen is a living testament to the way our society fails the survivors of sexual assault and abuse. So imagine your seven-year-old daughter being led into an attic by Woody Allen. Imagine she spends a lifetime stricken with nausea at the mention of his name. Imagine a world that celebrates her tormenter. Are you imagining that? Now, what’s your favorite Woody Allen movie?

An open letter from Dylan Farrow (via lucky9)

[wackd-archive]

CRYSTAL-CLEAR EXTENDED STEVEN UNIVERSE INTRO

THIS IS NOT A DRILL

[audreynical2]

Who’s the creepy ass evil gem doing the slow head turn at 2:00?

[veilsofgold]

Yellow Diamond! Jasper’s boss.

[audreynical2]

AH! Thank you! I feel like I’ve missed a story or two even though I binged all the episodes.

[ourqueenfelinefatale]

You didn’t miss anything. She hasn’t officially shown up yet. Only been referenced by Jasper and Peridot.

[audreynical2]

Ok, cool!  LOL

[daydreamillustration]

The female version of Dionysus. Or as I call her Pizza goddess!

[trainingforstarfleet]

One of the kids in my high school class was born on April Fool’s and his dad missed his birth because when his mom called to say she was in labour he laughed and hung up on her

[menstruation-sensation]

[tort-time]

A fine example of tortoise ingenuity! No one will ever know it’s you!  #Turtpocalypse Covert Ops Division. 

[superpringle]

We are super excited for the new Avengers film. 

[bonafide-bullshark-deactivated2]

[feral-succubus]

so basically when you have your period and your lower back hurts it is because your hips are contracting and spreading apart, only slightly, to make room for the release of the blood and linings of your uterus. so basically your body is going through a small and mild labor to push out the dead insides of your uterus. so basically I have gone through labor and basically I don’t want children. 

[iamaslumberbatch]

why aren’t we taught this shit

[hottermelon]

[fenrispenris-blog]

…..this wasn’t obvious to anyone? What did you think your body was doing? Did you think the lining of your uterus just fell out of your vagina? And the cramps were what, for fun?

[aztechnology]

Considering how practically non-existent sexual education is and the fact some people with uteruses have so little knowledge available and actively shared about their body they don’t know where they pee from or that having large labias is normal, it’s probably safe to say, no, it wasn’t obvious. Nobody thinks you’re hot shit for pissing on people for not knowing something we’re rarely taught in-depth.

[liketheflowr]

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

[gigieatsvegan-deactivated201612]

[hannibalism]

[sosuperawesome]

Nicole Gustafsson aka nimasprout on Tumblr

On Etsy

[carazelaya]

So I woke up this morning in a pool of my own blood.

Wait, let me back up.

Hi, my name is Cara and I’m a 21 year old woman. Every 28 days, give or take, I have a period. And it fucking sucks. Today, was one of those where I take from the 28 day cycle. I wasn’t due for another period for at least a week, but considering that my period is pretty much permanently irregular, I get to wake up a lot of mornings in a pool of my own blood. Hmm. Lovely.

I then proceed to dump my sheets, my underwear, and my pajamas in my laundry room in a tub filled with cold water, with the hopes that this time I haven’t ruined them permanently.

What next? Well, a shower of course! To wipe off the smell of rotting blood from my body! Squeaky clean and towel fresh I have about a two minute window before the volcano of blood begins to erupt again from my vagina.

What will it be today? A piece of chlorinated toilet paper cardboard with a string that I get to shove up my hole wherein the blood will sit and rot until the next time I can shove another piece of chlorinated cardboard up the same hole? Or, a plastic lined toilet paper diaper attached to my underwear that causes rug burn to my vaginal area when I walk? Well the later requires less coordination, and it is early, so I guess I’ll be sitting in a period diaper today. The best ever.

Of course, I could always just get birth control, and lessen this whole shit. But 1) I can’t afford it 2) I can’t ask my dad to pay for it because, guess what? Just like the men who run my government, my father correlates birth control with sexual promiscuity! Thus, sitting on my rotting blood, undergoing severe cramps that have on more than one occasion caused me to black out, it is! (Not that birth control is such a walk in the park either, our bodies have to learn to deal with the hormones and other chemicals and consequences that birth control entails.)

Then, I get to go to class, where I have to pretend that I am not a leaky faucet of blood and tissue. I get to sit in Calculus, and if heaven forbid, I need an additional pad, I have to be discrete about it, so as not to offend the men’s gentle sensibilities to the fact that I am the one dropping tissues and blood from my body through my vagina.  

I once asked a male to take me to the pharmacy so that I could pick up (GASP) pads, or as we like to call it “feminine products” (again, so as not to offend the gentlemen’s overly sensitive natures) and had him equate me talking about my period to him talking about his erections.

ARE

YOU

FUCKING

KIDDING

ME

No.

This is nothing like your fucking erection’s. I don’t derive any enjoyment from this. I can’t mentally control any ounce of this entire process. I can’t masturbate my problem away. My period does not end in orgasm.

It stays. For at least five days in my case. Draining blood out of my body. Causing me severe cramps, making me irritable -not because I’m uncomfortable (which mind you, would be reason enough) - but because my hormones are all over the place, bloating me up to two sizes larger than I normally am, I have to actively fight not to smell like a fish market, and on top of that, you want me to be hush-hush about this? Because it’s icky for you?

And this is not an attack on that one man, this is an attack on ALL MEN who on top of sitting on their throne of gender privilege want me to stay quiet and be content about the fact that five days out of every month I get to undergo this happiest of joys.

And then, these very same men have the audacity to get annoyed because we don’t want to listen to their bullshit complaining about traffic? Or whatever other meaningless story they happen to tell us while our bodies are actively fighting against us? Then we get to be the butt of their tired-ass jokes? Sorry, I am most certainly not sorry.

I repeat NO. I say women come out of the period closet and say, “You know what, this happens to me. Every. Fucking. Month. And it’s terrible. LET ME TELL YOU ABOUT MY MORNING.” Because the truth is, if I live in a country where Viagra is covered by medical insurance, but birth control isn’t, I can no longer keep denying that I live in a country that is actively waging a war on women. And if I live in a country that is actively waging war on my sex, the least I am going to do is break patriarchal social propriety to inform anyone and everyone of the shit biological process I was BLESSED enough to be born into.

Hello, my name is Cara, I’m a 21 year old woman, and today I’m on my period. Let me fucking tell you about it.

[cancerously]

hello yes this is a good post