what is the summary of the little people?
i’m sorry, i don’t know what you’re referring to.
Not today Justin
I'd rather be in outer space 🛸

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he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
sheepfilms

pixel skylines
Cosimo Galluzzi
will byers stan first human second

if i look back, i am lost
styofa doing anything

#extradirty
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year

Love Begins
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Keni
AnasAbdin
Peter Solarz

★
occasionally subtle
🪼
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seen from Chile
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@worldswife
what is the summary of the little people?
i’m sorry, i don’t know what you’re referring to.
In travel photography, as in writing, there's no shortcut to finding your own voice.
As a child, I once heard that slavery was worse for black men than black women, because black men were pained by their inability to protect the women they loved. In this retelling, black women’s pain is incidental. The systemic, relentless rape that black women endured is only meaningful because of how it hurt black men. I believed this for a time, in deference to the black elder who told me, until I realized that trauma is not a competition, that there is no better or worse; there is only pain, and a woman’s pain is equally worthy of mourning.
Brit Bennett, “Ta-Nehisi Coates and a Generation Waking Up” (via teaspoonsofhoney)
I used to joke that I peaked in fourth grade when three boys from my class were supposedly going to meet after school and fight over me. “No big deal,” I had said to my friends, who went around collecting…
Was I in a decolonized relationship when my boyfriend in college told me that he dates Asian girls because they’re just “easier to handle”? Was I in possession of a liberated sexuality as a teenager when I would sneak out of my parents’ house to spend the night hanging out with older white men who proudly showed me their tattoos of random Chinese characters? Who spent hours talking about to me about the I Ching, something I had never heard of, and trying to impress me by showing me the Chinese calligraphy they had done even though it triggered bad memories of being forced to attend Chinese school on Sundays? Who kept asking me about the branch of Buddhism my family practiced no matter how many times I explained to them that we were atheists? Did I find a decolonial love when I dated a guy who would only buy me cute things like candy and stuffed animals because he liked me better that way—cute—and when I started to show other ways that I could sometimes be—opinionated, loud, ungrateful, crude, aggressive, indelicate—he liked me less and eventually broke up with me? Did I exhibit a liberatory sexuality all the times I fake giggled or smiled through clenched teeth when a man told me that, unlike white girls or Latina girls or black girls, Asian girls are just more naturally into pleasing, and on top of that, we tended to have perky breasts and smooth skin?
How could I have loved these men who wanted a living China doll instead of a three-dimensional woman? Instead of me? And yet I did. I loved them. I felt enormous tenderness for them. I confided things to them. I became brave in their presence and because of their presence and in spite of their presence in my life. At times, I even felt seen. In the end, there was nothing liberatory or decolonized about those relationships, but still, there were moments of love that meant something to me. Still, I am not ready to consider celibacy my only option to a liberated, decolonized love.
Cancelled my lunch meeting to sit and read @gonzoghansah piece shining in the NY Times magazine. Rachel, big congrats on this! 👏👏👏👏👏 take a read: http://tinyurl.com/toniandrachel
New fiction: “Nothing changed when Raphael came to live with us, not at first.”
Boundaries of Gender: This time around, Mama Paulina would marry a woman. She was not looking for a sexual relationship, but for a wife who would provide her with sons.
"Living alone, I’ve described to friends, is akin to waking up on a Saturday and realizing it’s Saturday. That flighty jolt. That made-up sense of repartee with time. Abundance felt from sitting upright in bed; the weight of one’s duvet vanquishing, by some means, all...
We are not OK.
READ THIS, PLEASE
There’s this paragraph where the author briefly mentions weddings and that is the part where I always stop reading because my heart grows so heavy and actually hurts.
this is a placeholder for a short story included in the 2014 caine prize short story collection that pissed me off so much i felt it in my damn throat. have you ever felt annoyance in the inner lining of your throat? well i did and it's not pleasant.
At night, in bed, he would say, “I love your skin,” and then he would show me how he loved my skin, how he loved me as more than my skin. He showed me how to love him as more than his skin.
I have feared white men and I have loved them - Roxane Gay,