damn son vaginas get itchy too and u don’t see us shoving our hands down our pants it’s called self control go find some
DAMN SON VAGINAS GET ITCHY TOO AND U DON’T SEE US SHOVING OUR HANDS DOWN OUR PANTS IT’S CALLED SELF CONTROL G O F I N D S O M E
Monica Sjoo, The Great Cosmic Mother: Rediscovering the Religion of the Earth (via ynannarising)
I was talking about why Chef Gordon Ramsay was so angry all the time, and explained that he originally wanted to be a professional soccer player but suffered a really bad knee injury and couldn’t play anymore, so he poured himself into cooking and culinary arts to help with his anger issues, but his abusive alcoholic father disapproved of his cooking and died before ever tasting any of it and I realized that Gordon Ramsay has the most anime backstory ever.
Dead Poets Society [1989 dir. peter weir]
"We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. To quote from Whitman, "O me! O life!… of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless… of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life?” Answer. That you are here - that life exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. That the powerful play and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?”
"My response to the “I am not a feminist” internet phenomenon….
First of all, it’s clear you don’t know what feminism is. But I’m not going to explain it to you. You can google it. To quote an old friend, “I’m not the feminist babysitter.”
But here is what I think you should know.
You’re insulting every woman who was forcibly restrained in a jail cell with a feeding tube down her throat for your right to vote, less than 100 years ago.
You’re degrading every woman who has accessed a rape crisis center, which wouldn’t exist without the feminist movement.
You’re undermining every woman who fought to make marital rape a crime (it was legal until 1993).
You’re spitting on the legacy of every woman who fought for women to be allowed to own property (1848). For the abolition of slavery and the rise of the labor union. For the right to divorce. For women to be allowed to have access to birth control (Comstock laws). For middle and upper class women to be allowed to work outside the home (poor women have always worked outside the home). To make domestic violence a crime in the US (It is very much legal in many parts of the world). To make workplace sexual harassment a crime.
In short, you know not what you speak of. You reap the rewards of these women’s sacrifices every day of your life. When you grin with your cutsey sign about how you’re not a feminist, you ignorantly spit on the sacred struggle of the past 200 years. You bite the hand that has fed you freedom, safety, and a voice.
In short, kiss my ass, you ignorant little jerks.”
Libby Anne (via lauvra)
“Challenge accepted!” —SPN fandom.
omg this is still going
IT’S A RULE TO REBLOG EVERY TIME IT SHOWS UP ON YOUR DASH.
Yeah, why not. Dean in gym shorts is bound to Make Some Things Ok
To the people who wash their hands of us, of the voices with bruised knees and hearts banging in our chest too loudly to let us sleep, to those who walk with blinders on because it can’t be as bad as we say it is, to those who don’t believe,
Would you want your daughters grow up in this society?
Why is it that unless someone you love is staring down the barrel of a gun, you finally start to worry that it might be loaded? How is it possible that you have been surrounded by a constant chatter of voices saying “This world is cruel, and we have been broken,” but for some reason, you pride yourself on assuming we are wrong - god forbid someone be a “feminist,” not one of those, not those bitches
here is my feminist agenda, and it is a little girl on the streets of her city, and here are her rapists telling the police, “she looked older, she looked fifteen.” Here is more comments on what she was wearing than the smell of gasoline on their fingers, than the wounds they left on her and in her soul, here is my manifesto: I will not let there be any more stories about little girls.
I will not let there be stories about teenagers who are swallowing selfhatred and nothing else, I will not watch them be called sluts for dressing in shorts, I will not hear stories of girls who are burning themselves into nothing because their teachers refuse to use the correct pronouns, I will not let any person who defines themselves as a girl become a side note, a sex toy, a background dancer. I will protect their bodies and their souls and I will not let you buy them anymore, I will not let you lead them into the hellhole I walked out of. I will keep shouting the same thing, over and over: “Don’t listen to anything they tell you, it is who you are that makes you beautiful - and not anything they could sell you,” I will not let you infantalize them by assuming they “simply cannot” learn about sex without becoming “impure.” You will no longer put teens in their underwear across the front pages, I will not let you sexualize them any longer, they will be in movies for dialogue instead of silent romantic action.
Here is my goddamn manifesto: young women should not think that sexual assault “just happens” and is something everyone should expect. Their bosses should not be like the beefy 6-foot Tyler who asked me “Are you a slut? I bet you’re a slut,” in the middle of the office, their coworkers should not call them up at four in the morning and whisper dirty drunken things over the phone like my friend’s did. Young women should not believe that silence is the best option because it means they make no enemies and get to keep their job. You don’t believe it can be as bad as we say because are not under the assumption that every day, one item will be stolen from you. You would be horrified if that happened. Yet a million things are taken from women and it is constantly happening - every time a politician calls a college girl a “slut” for wanting birth control, every time we’re told our body has some mystical way of “shutting down that sort of thing” as pregnancy control, every time a lady gets turned down as C.E.O
You want my feminist rant? You want the bodies I have counted among the broken ones, our backs heavy with every slur you throw at us, our arms carrying your babies and your mistakes and your expectations and your fucking society that you made this way
you want my mani-fucking-festo? My riot act? The reason for all this anger I have? It’s because my best friend drank from the wrong glass. See, some asshole was trying to roofie a girl at a party my best friend happened to attend - he got drugged instead. And when he woke up, it was in somebody’s bed. And you wanna know something? They told him he should feel lucky because he got laid, at least. He remembers nothing from that night. Not one single thing.
And my best friend? My best friend will never see justice for this, because rape is a joke. It doesn’t really happen unless the girl is asking for it. Rape is seen as the attack in the alley. Rape is not close, it’s not home, it’s not a broken bone that never sets for you. Rape is not a sore subject to you because your friend has not wept bitterly about her abortion she was forced into after her boyfriend raped her without a condom. Your friends are largely safe, and the ones that haven’t been have kept silent. You don’t have a sister so you never feared for her life just because she went out into the city late at night.
But you might have a daughter. Tell me you’d laugh about feminism then, tell me you’d really think it’s such a fucking joke when you realize you haven’t been fighting the way the world works. And now she’s going to grow up with the same war wounds you have ignored in everyone else, the same silenced battle cry, the same downcast eyes and shrinking spine and splinters in more places than you could ever pick out and it won’t happen at sixteen years old it won’t happen at eleven
it happens before she is born. You will be in the toy aisle of the store and you will look around you to the guns and army men and violence of boys and suddenly notice the soft pink wilting flowers that you are supposed to buy for your girl
and when that happens, when you realize that the world you have laughed at has now become her battle: do still you want us to be too quiet to disturb your sleep when that happens? Or do you want to hear our feet, stamping in the distance, fire in our hands and scales too thick to pierce through, mouths full of teeth and the bones of bullies we have chewed through, hand in hand and ready for her, ready to fight for her right to breathe the same air that you did - ready to make sure she still has some sort of a fighting chance even though you never stood up when we asked for help because you just made a “dirty feminist” joke and went to bed assuming we all shared your laughter
but I don’t care if you are the scum of the earth.
She cannot control her father.
Whomever she is, I swear to god
I’ll protect her.
A boy asked me if I was one of “those” feminists who believed in rape culture and when I agreed instantly, he chuckled and asked “What, are you afraid I’m gonna rape you?” /// r.i.d (via inkskinned)