⚠️ PLAY TO WIN ⚠️

Janaina Medeiros
Cosmic Funnies

shark vs the universe
YOU ARE THE REASON

JBB: An Artblog!

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PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her

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taylor price

titsay

#extradirty
One Nice Bug Per Day

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oozey mess

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Kiana Khansmith
Claire Keane
sheepfilms
RMH
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@lithropanic
⚠️ PLAY TO WIN ⚠️
Siren song 🌊
#cw. Warning: Scary pictures. Hello beautiful people, I hope y'all have had a great day. These are your queer siblings in Kenya once again looking for your support. The voiceless lgbtiqa refugees in Kenya going through torture and lives lost. We condemn these acts, laws and bills against lgbtiqa
Our houses were being set on a blaze and now looking for where to sleep. Are voices are not heard because Kenya does not allow gay marriage but instead the communities in Kenya keep fighting us and now they burnt down our homesteads. Our people were caught in the fire and are nursing wounds as y'all can see in the pictures below. For those that may want to donate, please donate below as we are looking forward to getting money so that we can enclose our community with a fence and limit such attacks. We are sure with one love plus solidarity we shall have peace for all queers everywhere.
Let's collect $3000 and we put up a terrific ironsheet fence. Very sure it will helpus a lot.
We also struggle to get food as we are not allowed to work in any company or organisation due to our gender but instead the support we get from y'all keeps us satisfied with food and medicine. Please continue with that heart.
Gofundme
Let's be one, let's transform lives of all queers
Hi, my name is Megan (she/her), and I'm fundraising on behalf of Ace (name … Megan Selander needs your support for Support LGBTQIA refugees
That feel when your boss and his boyfriend don't know how to entertain guests, so you ask your best friend/coworker what is wrong with them
totally in the mood to get fucked by a ghost tonight
'you wouldn't pirate a-' i would steal anything from any company. anything in the world. i dont even want it i just hate you
When I was young, I never really understood my parents insistence to only use olive oil imported from Palestine. It took a long time and a great distance in a process that was neither cheap nor convenient. The oil came in old beat-up containers that did not look appealing to me at all. In my head, if they wanted to support distant family back home, they could just send them money and save us and them a big hassle. We could just use the nice looking olive oil containers from the nearby store. Yet, this was never an option in our household. The only olive oil we used at home was from Palestine.
As I grew up and started a student part-time job, I worked with olive oil a little. I knew all about olive oil imported from Spain, Italy, and other countries. I knew which ones were better and more expensive. I also learned to tell, based on the pungent taste, which ones were extra virgin. I was tempted to use my employee discount to bring home one of the fancy bottles and use at our kitchen. I could not get myself to do it, and I did not exactly know why. I felt like it would be disrespectful to my parents even if it didn’t make sense to me. It did not feel right. It was not an option.
After living in Palestine for a year during the olive picking season, something changed. The olive picking season in Palestine is holy.
Palestinians relate to the weather based on how it would benefit or harm the olives. There is well-known unspoken rule about treating olive trees with respect. There is a day off from work just to pick olives. On public transportation, it is not unusual to hear someone on the phone telling their friend to stop by for their share of this year’s olive oil stored in what used to be a Coca-Cola or a liquor bottle. A driver will stop in the middle of the way to give his brother- in- law a jar of olives that are so close to one another that they start to crush showing their insides.
In Nablus, the owner of the Nabulsi soap factory takes pride in how picky he is about getting his olive oil. He insists on filling a cup to let me smell how authentic it is and smirks as he sees my diasporic facial expressions transform in appreciation of its strong smell running through all of my brain cells.
I started noticing how olive oil is an essential part of so many dishes. “Palestinians drink more olive oil than water” I would jokingly say and they would laugh in agreement. Olive oil is truly an everyday ritual.
They fantasize about its color when it’s fresh and remind me that it starts to change as it reacts with oxygen over time. They dip their bread into olive oil, just like that and without any additions, and enjoy it more than the sweetest of all foods. I can guarantee that every lunch invitation (عزومة) I received during the olive-picking season was a chance for my hosts to share their olive oil using Msakhan (a traditional Palestinian dish).
I now have a deeper understanding of the psychology behind the burning of olive trees by Israeli soldiers and why farmers moan at the scene as if they lost a loved one.
Wherever you are, if it’s accessible to you, make sure your olive oil is Palestinian. Your ancestors would want that.
- Dima Seelawi
bigger text: dima seelawi
We offer an award-winning, first press, extra virgin olive oil that is aromatic and flavourful. The olive trees are rain-fed and handpicked
Just because someone sticks a flag into something doesn’t make it theirs, you feel me?
MOMTAZ in WE ARE LADY PARTS S1
Hassan Ragab: Recycled Plastic Art Nouveau Facade Chairs (2023)
Merry Christmas 💙🧡
Richard Siken @richardsiken Grief is a man in sad pajamas that you keep locked in a room because he's proof you used to love something. Set him free. Let him leave (or stay) if he has to. You have other proof. Setting him free is not a betrayal of your love. Healing: not a betrayal. Don't romanticize it.
✨Death Parde God Hell✨ @lithropanic i do feel the same way, as if someone was living, suddenly but seemingly indefinitely, in my home. i'm tip toeing but also i want him to feel like he's safe here too. i'm waiting. that doesn't have to create a hostile environment.
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i've lived in hostile environments, particularly ones with unexpected cohabitants. the softness of the fight is always so confusing, because we are taught to be accommodating, to be understanding. i didn't want to live here, why should i not be understanding of a person who would leave their previous circumstances to come into my life, because they thought it was better?
that's different, however, from grief. grief is not an unexpected boyfriend or girlfriend or a parent or sibling, it's not a friend that your partner will cheat on you with after months of giving them both grace.
grief is: i am not a mother, but i am caring for a man in sad pajamas. i do his laundry (or sometimes, i don't); i feed him (or sometimes, i don't); and i make sure he is housed, because that is paramount, and the most so many of us can expect.
i am not a mother, but i am in charge of this entity. i can accept and love him or shove him out and treat him like a tumor. or i can just give him space, try not to exacerbate anything, and hope that he feels safe enough in my home to do what he needs do.
i've been grieving for my family since i was 7 years old. i think that might be the expectation of a child of divorce, but it's more than that. i knew from a very very young age that raising myself was going to be my job. learning wrong from right, learning how to regulate, learning how to love and hate and interact appropriately--those are fine lessons to learn on your own, but they're hard when you know that every single example you have ever been given by the people you are expected to love is something that can never serve you.
my family is an ill-tended garden that i ran away from, all milkweed and bramble and choked-out flowers. i could have made it my job to cultivate it, maybe appraised myself as its savior, but my family let me know that (as the adopted and youngest sibling) i wasn't allowed to know anything. i wasn't allowed to say anything or have any power. i wasn't enough of them to help save them, but instead they were my springboard (by choice) and it was my job to get far away. i never thought that was fair. i still don't. i was a doll that they used and tossed when i asked too many questions; i was a sympathetic ear, a reaffirming plush toy telling them they deserved better, or should be better. a tchotchke on the shelf that they could glare daggers into and feel good for not being so overt about it in person.
i like to think i am powerful (and i have made myself so, as much as i can), but i don't think there is anything i could have ever possibly done to be fully allowed or accepted into any of these families i had. a decoration, a charity, an honor roll bumper sticker; that's all i was.
i've been grieving my mother since she had a heart attack, shortly after my father abandoned the family and i had to go live with my grandparents, because we were in foreclosure and homeless and i'm sure there are so many logistics i will never know about. she didn't die then. but i had to grieve for her.
i've been grieving my brothers since the time they brought me home from elementary school and i deduced from the outlandishness of them taking me and the giddiness of their behavior (strange; they didn't like me that much) that the family bought a puppy. they were mad when i guessed it on the car ride there. they were disappointed i'd ruined the surprise, like i'd done that time i snuck into my mother's closet and found our christmas presents. always ruining things. couldn't i be a good little sister and give them the joy of being older brothers just this once?
i don't think i remember many positive interactions after that that weren't intentionally cut off by my mother. she was so terrified of them being a bad influence on me. maybe she was just afraid of them talking to me, of letting me learn anything. my oldest brother recently said he thought he'd have to keep my (poorly-kept) adoption a secret until his grave. i was 26 when he said that. how fucking stupid.
i'm grieving a future i wanted but knew i was never going to have. i think i'm the kind of person who would have gotten married and had a child in a desperate attempt to keep someone near them. i sacrificed so many years to someone who so very clearly didn't actually like or appreciate me, was only using me as a youthful dalliance to assuage the pain of her own stupid life choices up until then. i have to believe that she's stupid because even now i can't handle the idea of five years of maliciousness, of holding my sobbing body at midnight on four different occasions and thinking good. i feel powerful. i reduced this good person to this stupid miserable thing and they will do anything to keep me here. i won't give them anything in return. i will regularly make them feel stupid, and useless, and childish, and ugly, and worthless, and every time they sob in my arms i will feel comfortable being even more distant, even more cruel, because it's power i never had over my own life. i can't believe that someone i loved with all my heart would think that of me. maybe it's true, the evidence is there (in years of writing and speaking about it, of sobbing in other people's arms and then begging them not to think too hard on it), but i can't find it in my heart to malign her. surely she is just the most useless fucking lesbian that has ever lived, too selfish to see beyond herself. that's so much easier.
my mom died a rotting, living corpse, still abusing my brother until the moment she died and the police accused him of murder despite the proof of her constant and vehement refusal of medical care. my brother described the extent of her unmanaged diabetes, her drug use; the glisten of bone and sinew. i saw her putrid imprint on the recliner she lived in for the last few months of her life. but i'd mourned her for years already.
she didn't have a funeral. i helped my oldest brother insist on that. she would have hated anyone waxing poetic over her body when they didn't care about her in life. we had her cremated by the county and my brother buried her under a bush on the property she grew up in but did not own.
my father stopped trying when i was 8, and eventually i stopped putting in the effort for him. he showed up at my high school graduation and i felt furious and betrayed. i met them once for a few hours for a holiday and then never again for ten years. and then, most recently, it was still me reaching out, me demanding correspondence because there had been too many years of people refusing to answer questions about my adoption. even now, i am in my car on the way to visit and at the last moment they cancelled. my excitable dog is confused that after the hubbub of getting ready for an adventure, we're just returning home. I didn't realize you could be a grand-pet of divorce too.
grief is a man in sad pajamas. he lives here, with me, and it's uncomfortable. he's not welcome but i want him to feel safe.
i've lived with this man since i was at least 7 years old. he's sat silently with my in the kitchen, watched as i self-destructed, was never a comfort but has always been there. he's family. i can't tell you whether or not i love any member of my family; they've held me so far away since i was so young that i have no idea. "love" is a word you say on habit, as mollification. but this man in his sad pajamas has never asked anything of me, has never expected anything of me.
i hope he moves out soon. i'm tired of being a human receptacle for grief i was never given the framework to properly process. i don't know that i can ever stop feeling so alone, or so commodified--so furiously resistant and terrified of connection--until he leaves.
but i understand that he'll leave when he needs to. as it is, i am living alone for the first time in my life, and i can't say it isn't a small comfort to feel him tip-toeing quietly to the kitchen for a cup of tea in the middle of the night.
maybe that's what family can be. a weird queer with their cats and dog and their lifelong manifestation of grief. what a beautiful holiday gathering!
A bunch of my Magnus Archives art
Drawn with pastel, mechanical pencil, and ink.
Will post more in future
they both arrived early but the doors were still locked :(
Jonathan Sims and Martin Blackwood
If you want, you could draw the crew of the gertrude's still around AU during pride?
🌈 Here you go, and to everyone else who suggested something similar.
Bonus wtgfs