I'd be the man. @feministwithabl0g - Tumblr Blog

an emotional rant.

I don’t have plans on being a mother. There’s a lot in my past I am ashamed of, and a lot of insecurity I’m still dealing with. I don’t trust people easily. I dislike my body. The last thing I want is for people to see me in that intimate way, or for my mistakes to be laid out like a deck of cards. I have a lack of trust because any time I made a mistake it was immediately shared with others, like a teacher reading a secret note out loud to the class. I am afraid. I know exactly how this is going to end.

Made this for the chris stans :)

#chris motionless #miw #motionless in white #goth #metal #metalcore #cute #fan video #fan edit #mine

masterqifrey

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The reads

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Somebody needs to quarantine these bills

devildaisies

I fucking love jock villagers in animal crossing they're just like, "what is UP bro your triceps are looking particularly radiant today. Take this DIY card. Love you bro"

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requested by multifamdom12345

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Pop culture has been inundated with catastrophe porn for decades. None of it has prepared us for our new reality.

Pop culture catastrophism didn’t prepare us for this. “Look, this isn’t a movie,” as one furious Italian mayor, broadcasting from his front room, put it last week. “You are not Will Smith in I Am Legend.” For one thing, it’s so relentlessly social. Most of our collective post-apocalyptic visions have in common the fantasy of the world becoming smaller. Our heroes—usually white, straight men with traditional nuclear families to protect—are cut off from the rest of the world; the daydream is of finally shaking off the chains of civilization and becoming the valiant protector and/or tribal warrior they were made to be. And part of that catastrophe fantasy is relief—marauding biker gangs in bondage gear might want to murder you for half a tank of diesel and a sandwich, but at least you don’t have to worry about your credit history anymore. Or your college debt. Or your neighbors.

Instead, the world feels larger, not smaller. Right now, with over a third of the world on some sort of lockdown, with the entire world going through some version of the same crisis at once, we are suddenly frantic to touch one another. It seems more important to reconnect with friends. It seems more important than ever to be sweet and silly. We all know someone who’s stuck in a house by themselves, trying not to go bonkers. We all know someone who’s stuck in a house with someone awful, trying to survive the hotboxing of an already toxic relationships. And many of us, by now, know someone who’s sick.

Shit-hits-the-fan escapism—a big part of the alt-right imaginary—never predicted this. I have lurked in countless stagnant ideological internet back-alleys where young men excitedly talk about the coming end of civilization, where men can be real men again, and women will need protectors. How inconvenient, then, that when this world-inverting crisis finally showed up, we weren’t given an enemy we could fight with our hands (wash your hands).

The end of the world has never been quite so simple a mythos for women, likely because most of us know that when social structures crack and shatter, what happens isn’t an instant reversion to muscular state-of-naturism. What happens is that women and carers of all genders quietly exhaust themselves filling in the gaps, trying to save as many people as possible from physical and mental collapse. The people on the frontline are not fighters. They are healers and carers. The very people whose work is rarely paid in proportion to its importance are the ones we really need when the dung hits the Dyson. Nurses, doctors, cleaners, drivers. Emotional and domestic labor have never been part of the grand story men have told themselves about the destiny of the species—not even when they imagine its grave.