♡ e v o l v e d ♡

I'm the antithesis of the American Dream. var _gaq = _gaq || []; _gaq.push(['_setAccount', 'UA-30595190-1']); _gaq.push(['_trackPageview']); (function() { var ga = document.createElement('script'); ga.type = 'text/javascript'; ga.async = true; ga.src = ('https:' == document.location.protocol ? 'https://ssl' : 'http://www') + '.google-analytics.com/ga.js'; var s = document.getElementsByTagName('script')[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s); })();

[narputo]

I like losing followers it shows who’s too weak and not gonna survive the winter

[ev0lv-ed]

Me with romantic interest: Hi, how've you been lately? How's that project you're working on? Yeah? I'd love to see sometime, dude! How's the family? Good, good. Well, I'll talk to you later! Yeah we definitely need to hang out more often. Hopefully see you soon! :)

Me with platonic friend: YOU GORGEOUS CREATURE HOW LONG HAS IT BEEN SINCE LAST I SAW YOU? HOW I'VE MISSED YOUR LUCID DIAMOND EYES, UGH I JUST WANT TO KISS YOU AND MAKE SWEET, SWEET LOVE UNDER THE MOONLIGHT. WHY ARE YOU SO PERFECTLY SCULPTED, ARE YOU AN ANGEL MADE OF MARBLE LET'S GET MARRIED.

[ev0lv-ed]

*logs in after a long-ass time*

I lost a few of my online friends.

/sigh

[fionahaswings]

There are some people in this world that have a certain vision because they’ve been through shit. What I’ve seen has shaded my perspective and sometimes it makes me sad. But what’s wrong with being sad? Does that me not cool or something?

Fiona Apple (via fionahaswings)

[gaptoothbitch]

LOEWE FW 2013

[rimu]

[feliszerda]

[titans-towermoved]

[heartheraindrops---fall]

[itmeansmoonlight]

The Levels of Urdu; A flexible language so often taken for granted.

I absolutely love this. Urdu is such a sensual and beautiful language.

[oh-whiskers]

[thisisrapeculture]

[TW: Domestic violence, rape, suicide]

Tehmina Durrani | The Woman Behind The Revolution [x]

Tehmina Durrani is a Pakistani author and activist. For 13 years, she was married to Ghulam Mustafa Khar, the former Governor of Punjab and one of the most powerful men in the country during the 70s and 80s. She chronicled her marriage in the 1991 book, My Feudal Lord, where she describes the abuse, torture, rape and humiliation she suffered at the hands of Khar. 

She faced criticism not only for speaking out against Khar, but also for staying in the marriage for 13 years and having children with him. Reviews of the book to this day disparage her for not leaving sooner or seeking help or doing more to protect her children, despite Khar commanding tremendous power and influence. On page 156, she writes: “What could the police do? They would admonish Mustafa, but sooner or later I would be alone with him, in a worse predicament than before. My silence was not to protect Mustafa; it was to protect myself.”

In 1997, Ghulam Mustafa Khar’s son, Bilal, married a woman named Fakhra Yunus. She too suffered physical abuse at the hands of her husband and escaped after three years to return to her mother’s home. However, in April 2000, Bilal Khar tracked her down and threw acid in her face while she slept. After being released from the hospital, she returned to Bilal and reached out to Tehmina Durrani for help. Tehmina intervened and took Fakhra into her own house despite facing death threats from the Khar family.

Tehmina Durrani is now the author of several books and an activist for Pakistani women and rights of the poor. Her efforts to help Fakhra were detailed in a 2001 Time Magazine article entitled “The Evil That Men Do” which also contained this iconic graphic photograph of the two of them. Fakhra Younus committed suicide on March 17, 2012 at the age of 33. Bilal Khar was acquitted of all charges.

[ev0lv-ed]

Parents: omg you still here you never do anything good why don't you try and be useful.

School: you're dumb and have no future, sorry.

Mirror: Eew please that's horrible, look for a plastic surgeon.

Cellphone: why in the hell do you check for new texts? Who the fuck would ever contact you?

Facebook: friends requests? New messages? Wait you really expect to have notifications? Lol

Friends: why you always depressed its not even funny to spend time with you.

Music: hey sweetheart, here you are. You okay? Shh don't worry, everything's gonna get better. You are special but not alone and never stop fighting and hoping cause someday it won't hurt anymore, just chill now, put your headphones and let me show you beauty and love and give you chills and make you feel wonderful, just listen to me..

[burning-example]

[miffens-deactivated20140630]

OH MY GOD CAITO

[jacoblasher]

[jacoblasher]

GIF OF ME. YAY <3

[newkiidsonmycock]

[underneathyourfingertips]

you go gurlfraind

[putmezove-deactivated20171012]

patriarchy has normalized the ritual in which men speak on behalf of women and call it community service. 

[victimize]

You want to travel with them. You want to see what they’re like going through airport security, on planes, in strange countries. You want to meet their families and charm them to pieces. You want to nestle into their childhood beds and look around in the dark at all their old posters. You want to see all the embarrassing photos of them with braces and socks pulled up mid-calf. You want to hear all the stories about their drunken nights under the bleachers and their best friend’s jokes. You want to read all their journals, see how they took notes in high school. Did they use pen or pencil? What color highlighter? You want to work with them, just to see them work. You want to go out with them. You want to make out with them in the bathroom. You always want to touch them; you want them to always want to touch you. You find reasons to disentangle yourself from them; it’s only going to hurt later, you can tell already. You stay up way past your bedtime for them. You look at the clock and know their schedule. You neglect other people and other things, and beat yourself up about it. But it’s like they have a hold of your hands and your voice, and you don’t mind. It’s like you’re trapped in an hourglass; you know your lungs might fill with sand, but there’s something sensual and comforting about the grains sliding down glass walls and pooling around your ankles, your knees, your waist. You like things about their appearance that the rest of the world may cringe at and call strange, less than perfect. Their broken, reshaped noses; their little teeth or the gaps in between them; the way they pull their hair; their narrow hips; their wide shoulders; the depth of their pores. You can laugh when funny things happen in bed. You usually want to be in bed with them. You think they’re smarter, better, friendlier, fitter, happier, more productive than you are. You strive to be as much as they are, as good as they are. You try to cheat and figure out what it is they’re going to teach you, if they’re going to fall from grace, if you’re going to play a part for them that you never thought you’d play before. You try and pull patterns and threads of meaning from the conversation or the way they looked at you the first time you met; what they did, what they offered. An apple stolen from the bar. Notes from a guitar. Pitchers of free beer. Pieces of bark with writing on them. You cherish snippets of them; paste them up in your memories like old faded scrapbooks clutched to chests for generations. Their skin glows black and white in your head. They star in the little short films of your life that sneak up on you when you’re not looking. Like the walk to the South End for dinner on a quiet corner. The feel of the sun beating down on you both at an outdoor concert. The way they ordered wine on your first date. The slow swing of a hammock near a lake. The back seat of their car. You can see yourself with them in the future you can’t quite see. You build apartments outfitted with all the right kitchen supplies and the perfect bed with two nightstands, each piled with books and magazines. You wait for them patiently while they chase their dreams; they wait for you patiently as you chase yours. You sit in bed eating dinner late at night, drinking tea and wine and whiskey as you tell each other all about the chasing. You create adopted dogs and cats; you have awkward conversations about money; you put up with each other’s crap. You see what they look like standing at the end of a candle-lit aisle in your grassy front yard and wonder if you’ll make it to the other end to meet them or if they’ll just end up in the scrapbook clutched to your chest or flickering on the screen in your brain.

How You Know - Talia Ralph (via framesjanco)

[lovevoltaireusapart]

Forming grammatically correct sentences is for the normal individual the prerequisite for any submission to social laws. No one is supposed to be ignorant of grammaticality; those who are belong in special institutions. The unity of language is fundamentally political. There is no mother tongue, only a power takeover by a dominant language that at times advances along a broad front, and at times swoops down on diverse centers simultaneously.

Deleuze & Guattari, “A Thousand Plateaus” p. 101 (via lovevoltaireusapart)

A message to those that are overly obsessed with Grammar, from your friends, D&G.

(via sterwood)