darksilenceinsuburbia:

Michael Shapcott

1. Rowan

2. The Wild Unknown

3. Una

cute-pubes:

runningmermaids:

slayboybunny:

so i was getting a bunch of gross asks in my inbox and i didnt know why and then one of my sweeter followers sent me a link to this fuckery so i thought i’d share. here’s the thing: this is not an isolated event. i get shit like this all the time. at least once a month someone directs me to some kind of thread where i am public discourse, always exploitative discussions regarding me and my body, and usually something to do with feminism. and this is the reality of many women online, fat women especially. whether im being disgustingly sexualized or mindlessly hated, i cant seem to win. all because i have the audacity to visibly exist on an online platform. 

this is a post to clarify, since so many of you seemed to have forgotten: i am a person. i’m not a topic, i’m not an erotic fabrification, my body is not your forum. my existence isn’t meant to get you off and it isn’t meant for you to express your shitty bigoted opinions. who i am, how i look, what i do has nothing to do with you. i exist for myself and myself alone. i have interests, hobbies, passions, heart breaks, and triumphs. when i am dissected in this manner, with no regards to me as a person, without acknowledging that this is a breathing, living human being you are speaking about, it is hateful ignorance. it is an act of violent disrespect and blatant objectification. it is perpetuating the complete disregard for women’s bodies and their right to autonomy. 

i am a person and i will be treated as such. i am not tolerating this or any hatespeech directed my way. i refuse to be reduced in this manner. i will continue to be the fabulous, vibrant woman of integrity i am and will do all that i can to stop anyone who decides this is an appropriate way to treat a human being. furthermore, im not blocking any names because if you feel comfortable enough to publicly speak so hatefully about someone, you can certainly reap what you sow. i hope you feel uncomfortable when the spotlight shines and there is visibility for your shitty actions.

so here’s my request: STOP engaging in this type of behavior. CALL OUT those who do. protect and, more importantly, respect women online and off. thanks for reading and have a nice day!

oh my god i want to puke. so much misogyny, slut-shaming, body-shaming, racism and even a some pedophilia at once. i really can’t believe this is real.

the pedophilia on top of it all. 10/10 hate men.

(via unlikeableprotagonist)

hollowfieddespair:

They called it the Nintendo 3DS because they made me buy it 3 times.

(via unknowingsanity)

barack-not-obama:

badgalfaashion:

underplay:

progressmarchon:

I’m sorry but I WILL FOREVER REBLOG THIS. I’m not sorry. This is amazing. 

fucking insane. mad respect

what the hell , I cant even draw a tree.

What if he screws up drawing the other eye

(Source: gaksdesigns, via kaoruwashio)

When you are 13 years old,
the heat will be turned up too high
and the stars will not be in your favor.
You will hide behind a bookcase
with your family and everything left behind.
You will pour an ocean into a diary.
When they find you, you will be nothing
but a spark above a burning bush,
still, tell them
Despite everything, I really believe people are good at heart.

When you are 14,
a voice will call you to greatness.
When the doubters call you crazy, do not listen.
They don’t know the sound
of their own God’s whisper. Use your armor,
use your sword, use your two good hands.
Do not let their doubting
drown out the sound of your own heartbeat.
You are the Maid of Untamed Patriotism.
Born to lead armies into victory and unite a nation
like a broken heart.

When you are 15, you will be punished
for learning too proudly. A man
will climb onto your school bus and insist
your sisters name you enemy.
When you do not hide,
he will point his gun at your temple
and fire three times. Three years later,
in an ocean of words, with no apologies,
you will stand before the leaders of the world
and tell them your country is burning.

When you are 16 years old,
you will invent science fiction.
The story of a man named Frankenstein
and his creation. Soon after you will learn
that little girls with big ideas are more terrifying
than monsters, but don’t worry.
You will be remembered long after
they have put down their torches.

When you are 17 years old,
you will strike out Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig
one right after the other.
Men will be afraid of the lightening
in your fingertips. A few days later
you will be fired from the major leagues
because “Girls are too delicate to play baseball”

You will turn 18 with a baby on your back
leading Lewis and Clark
across North America.

You will turn 18 
and become queen of the Nile.

You will turn 18 
and bring justice to journalism.

You are now 18, standing on the precipice,
trembling before your own greatness.

This is your call to leap.

There will always being those
who say you are too young and delicate
to make anything happen for yourself.
They don’t see the part of you that smolders.
Don’t let their doubting drown out the sound
of your own heartbeat.

You are the first drop of a hurricane.
Your bravery builds beyond you. You are needed
by all the little girls still living in secret,
writing oceans made of monsters and
throwing like lightening.

You don’t need to grow up to find greatness.
You are stronger than the world has ever believed you to be.
The world laid out before you to set on fire.
All you have to do
is burn.

toastyhat:

howtonotsuckatgamedesign:

evora-eriu-mclaggen:

x There. I was too weak to color it. Guess I just wanted to share it too much…

DAAAAAAMMMMMMMNNN!

this is mindblowing oh my goodness

toastyhat:

howtonotsuckatgamedesign:

evora-eriu-mclaggen:

x There. I was too weak to color it. Guess I just wanted to share it too much…

DAAAAAAMMMMMMMNNN!

this is mindblowing oh my goodness

(via iguanamouth)

cerulas:

Sorry, I wanted a post with all of these in it! 

(via ohnoproblems)

brightwalldarkroom:

Brianna Ashby on Fried Green Tomatoes (1991):
“My mother died on June 17, 2000, the morning of my high school graduation. I was standing barefoot in my best friend’s kitchen as my grandmother tried to lie to me over the phone, her voice twice it’s normal pitch and entirely lacking it’s customary softness and sparkle. Her forced nonchalance made my knees buckle, and the lump in my throat had me gasping for air even before she could finally bring herself to say the word, that word. And then, the lightning strike. White light, white heat. Blindness. The next thing I remember I was shifting anxiously in my plastic folding chair, waiting for my name to come over the microphone, cursing the cap and gown I could have sworn were made of lead. I’m still surprised I heard my name at all. 
I received a standing ovation when I crossed the stage to claim my diploma—the audience having been led through a moment of silence in my mother’s honor just a few minutes prior—but I was so focused on simply trying to keep my atoms from scattering themselves in all directions that I had no idea. The whiteness blanketed everything; I saw, but I couldn’t see. My world came to a grinding halt, even as things continued to move around me as they always had, their rhythms unchanged. How could everything be so completely different and yet entirely the same? I was a floe of ice drifting aimlessly on a shifting sea.
A heart can be broken, but it will keep beating just the same.
For years I laid awake at night, imagining the world with my mother still in it. I had prosaic dreams where she’d call me on the phone to ask a simple question, or I’d walk by our kitchen and see her standing over the stove. With little effort at all I could vividly conjure up her image, picturing the way her nose wrinkled when she laughed, or the way she looked when she was perched on the couch, engrossed in a book. The stunning ease with which I could reproduce it all made it difficult to accept that it was nothing more than a composite of moments already spent. The realization that I would never again see the face of someone I loved so fiercely nearly defied comprehension. When someone is so deeply alive in your heart, how can they possibly be dead?”
—
This is an excerpt from the current issue of Bright Wall/Dark Room magazine. To read the rest of this essay, purchase a copy of the issue for $2, or subscribe online now. 

brightwalldarkroom:

Brianna Ashby on Fried Green Tomatoes (1991):

My mother died on June 17, 2000, the morning of my high school graduation. I was standing barefoot in my best friend’s kitchen as my grandmother tried to lie to me over the phone, her voice twice it’s normal pitch and entirely lacking it’s customary softness and sparkle. Her forced nonchalance made my knees buckle, and the lump in my throat had me gasping for air even before she could finally bring herself to say the word, that word. And then, the lightning strike. White light, white heat. Blindness. The next thing I remember I was shifting anxiously in my plastic folding chair, waiting for my name to come over the microphone, cursing the cap and gown I could have sworn were made of lead. I’m still surprised I heard my name at all.

I received a standing ovation when I crossed the stage to claim my diploma—the audience having been led through a moment of silence in my mother’s honor just a few minutes prior—but I was so focused on simply trying to keep my atoms from scattering themselves in all directions that I had no idea. The whiteness blanketed everything; I saw, but I couldn’t see. My world came to a grinding halt, even as things continued to move around me as they always had, their rhythms unchanged. How could everything be so completely different and yet entirely the same? I was a floe of ice drifting aimlessly on a shifting sea.

A heart can be broken, but it will keep beating just the same.

For years I laid awake at night, imagining the world with my mother still in it. I had prosaic dreams where she’d call me on the phone to ask a simple question, or I’d walk by our kitchen and see her standing over the stove. With little effort at all I could vividly conjure up her image, picturing the way her nose wrinkled when she laughed, or the way she looked when she was perched on the couch, engrossed in a book. The stunning ease with which I could reproduce it all made it difficult to accept that it was nothing more than a composite of moments already spent. The realization that I would never again see the face of someone I loved so fiercely nearly defied comprehension. When someone is so deeply alive in your heart, how can they possibly be dead?”

This is an excerpt from the current issue of Bright Wall/Dark Room magazine. To read the rest of this essay, purchase a copy of the issue for $2, or subscribe online now. 

Death threats drive Anita Sarkeesian from her home

(Source: clockworkgate, via mooncalfe)

By far
the finest tumblr
theme ever
created
by a crazy man
in Russia