SHES SERVING WHAT MALTA WASNT ALLOWED TO SAY YIPPEEEEEEE
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@roroco92
SHES SERVING WHAT MALTA WASNT ALLOWED TO SAY YIPPEEEEEEE
not the eurovision in roblox ad two songs before a dommy mommy
Fuck u-up
feather wings shawl commission! 🪶 🪶 🪶
i have been working on this project on-and-off since May. finally finished, and i’m so proud of how it turned out!
another beautiful pattern by Crafty Intentions!
Crochet a Rainbow Barf Cat Plush Scarf ... The Perfect Antidote to These Trying Times: 👉 https://buff.ly/2LkStxi - this one's always a popular favorite AND there's a knit option too! ❤️😻❤️
@xvolkanxv @wynter-wonderland @coolfelicity-blog @thebipolarexpress @grandbutterflycurator @makkachim @cinzia667 @unabashedbirdarcade-blog @jollynerdunknown @busrabagbasi @alonexstill @jen4850 @callieb @rockinlatinas @toosexyasianbabes @sugarschild @moneyforsocks @roryinfinity8 @mr-steven-brady @alphaofdragons @scattante @iscahmckrae @fxckuxup @soundsbloomwithyou @thesherlock666 @martaaajt @kidrauhlvs @idealuk @faithrikka @bent-bastard @team-hale-stilinski @teenwolfsterekfan @arualzepol @codychristiansbiceps-blog @lebanesefor-naya @fluent-in-lesbianism
Ray-Ban Sunglasses
Can we appreciate the number of men in heels at Eurovision 😍
Mugshot of John Wojtowicz who was sentenced to 20 years in prison for robbing a bank in order to fund his partners sex change. August 23rd 1972, New York
via reddit
the only good lgbt ally
also when they made dog day afternoon and bought the rights to his story he used the money to help fund edens surgery so he ended up able to help after all (after serving six years in prison for the heist)
other great facts:
- he based his bank robbery plan off The Godfather and Al Pacino ended up playing him and John Cazale played his accomplice - referred to himself as ‘the gay Babe Ruth’ - when he got out of jail he applied for a job as a security guard at the same bank with a T-shirt that said ‘I robbed this bank’ and put Al Pacino down as a reference - the robbery attempt was broadcast on TV and a crowd of LGBTQ activists came to cheer him on
chaotic good.
Marry me.
Rape Escape
Easy and very effective
Requires nothing but your body
Includes attack
Very useful to know, pass and share please.
Worth watching
I don’t mean to impose a personal favour on you guys, but I really would like to ask that everyone who follows me reblog this.
I don’t think I made it very clear but last month I was sexually assaulted by someone who I thought was my friend (I don’t want to talk about it don’t ask), and it’s… really fucked with my head.
Had I known this a month ago I would have been able to get away.
So, essentially, I’m really pleading with you to reblog this so everyone who follows you doesn’t get stuck in the same position I was with no way out.
I mean again I don’t want the point of this to be my sob story or whatever but if you could reblog this it would seriously mean a lot
and im asking to all of my followers who see this post in your dashboard to please press play to this video, you never know when this is gonna be
useful, PLEASE DON’T IGNORE IT.
This is one of the first moves I was taught in Krav Maga, and it is one of the most effective.
It took me about a half hour to get down with practice, but once you get it, it’s an intuitive movement.
Please pass this along, it will save lives.
Important
Please reblog this.
Please, if you see this, Reblog it.
If you see this, reblog please.
So very true
Kids that young are essentially gender neutral, and are still being taught ‘gender norms’ by adults who should know better.
I have the world’s most precious nephew. When he was 3, he asked his mom and grandma if he could be a girl. Now, my family is smart. Both his mom and his grandma asked “why?” He said it was so he could have long hair.
His mom showed him photos of famous musicians with long hair, along with Johnny Depp. His grandma showed him photos of Brad Pitt, Troy Polamalu, and Jared Leto with long hair. Then they told him “Boys can have long hair, see?” He said “oh” and went on about his life being a boy.
When he was 4, this same nephew decided again that he wanted to be a girl. This time, the reason was so he could wear skirts and paint his nails. Same reaction: his mom and grandma showed him photos of men in kilts, and men with painted nails, and said “boys can do that, too.” He said “oh”, and decided he was okay being a boy.
At the root of it, he didn’t really want to be a girl. He just wanted to do the same things he saw his mama doing. When he understood he didn’t have to be a girl to do those things, he shrugged it off and was cool with being a boy.
Now, if he ever adamantly decides that he is a girl, not that he wants to be a girl, myself, his mom, and his grandma will be okay with that. We just want to make sure he actually is transgender instead of deciding “oh he wants to do these things, so he is a girl.” We are extremely firm believers in making educated decisions.
I feel that a transgender four year old is more like a cat who is vegan because the cat’s owner’s misunderstood the cat eating grass to mean it is vegan.
👆👆👆👆👆👆👆👆👆👆
WOW. Watch these 3 minutes from Dallas sportscaster Dale Hansen talking about what Trump doesn’t understand about the national anthem and the right to protest. Compare this to any right-wing media whining and that’s why this is one to remember.
This is the same guy who stood up for that young transman who wanted to wrestle, but was being barred from the boys team, isn’t it?
Yes. Dale hansen is a really great person
In 1988, the late Israel Kamakawiwo'ole called a sound studio at 3am, said he had an idea, and asked if he could come record. He was so polite, the studio owner said yes even though it was late. He showed up 15 minutes later, sang and played his ukulele, and recorded ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow’ in just one take. It is now the most requested version of the song by far. Source Source 2
this is like one of those ancient folk tales abt a god diguised as a man and when the owner of the studio showed kindness he blessed the world with the most beautiful song as a sign of gratitude
Susan Sarandon shutting it down. “I have nothing good to say about Woody Allen.”
Woody Allen is a sexual predator who at best seduced his 17-year old step-daughter and at worst molested his child.
What he did is wrong and working with him means you condone his behavior and would rather side with an accused predator than the victim of a sex crime.
Disgusting.
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)
I cannot stop thinking about the last ~15 minutes of Big Little Lies, and how it was about communication between women and deliberately cutting men out. For one thing, it is almost completely silent– sound only returns at the request of the female detective, who is also the one who picked up on the inconsistencies (or rather consistencies) of their stories. For another thing, major reveals happen without any dialogue at all. We see Bonnie piecing together the danger oozing from Perry, we see Jane’s horror at discovering her rapist, and then we see Celeste and Madeline put the whole thing together. Even Renata–the woman most excluded from their group– picks up that something’s wrong.
All without a single word.
It’s silly, but it reminded me of being in sixth grade. The boys in our class noticed that the girls had a tendency to look at each other when one of them said something dumb, and pretty soon any sort of sideways-look between girls got a loud round of Mr. S they’re talking with their eyebrows again! accusations. The boys were annoyed (playfully annoyed, but annoyed nonetheless) that the girls had figured out a way to talk in class without actually talking. We told them they could do it too, but they all stubbornly insisted that wasn’t possible.
Thinking back on that, it strikes me how much of female communication is nonverbal, largely because it has to be. Women are socialized not to make a fuss, to be quiet, to not take up too much unnecessary space. This pressure (along with the emphasis on the importance of women taking care of feelings and emotions) creates a quiet sub-language, a code that is not exactly hard to break unless you insist on seeing women as other. It’s in the look women share when a man catcalls one of us on the street, when we shift to make space for a woman to sit down on the bus because there’s a guy standing just a little too close to her. This isn’t some innate ability unique to ciswomen– and again, the code is not at all hard to crack unless you are convinced that women are inherently unknowable– but rather a form of communication female-identified people developed to protect each other.
I saw way too many reviewers say that they didn’t buy Bonnie knowing Perry was dangerous without having her book backstory to inform her (where she’s apparently a child of an abusive father), or arguing that Celeste and Madeline just knowing Perry was Jane’s rapist was a bridge too far, but to me, that was the most organic moment of the series. Not because women have natural intuition about these things, but because nonverbal communication is a skill women have developed to protect themselves and each other from men like Perry and so having them communicate without ever speaking a word was incredibly powerful. Without the audience ever once hearing them, these women instantly banded together to protect one of their own– and it was one of their own who noticed. The male detective basically throws his hands up and writes them off as unknowable, but the female detective is the one who knows the code and thus she’s the one with questions.
Even the last scene was a silent, female-centric haven. The bad guy is gone but the good guys aren’t there either, relegated to mere sidekicks in a story about female friendship and love. The audience is left out of their circle too, unable to hear their conversations but able to see their compassion for one another. They’re talking without words, but we still know what they’re saying.
because this is pure noel gold