#Dear diary #today I went to threaten Scott’s best friend to help me #and he made me try on shirts #I know that doesn’t sound like a big deal when you write it down #but it was in front of a stranger #and the only one that fit was all colorful #you know I can’t wear colors diary #my wardrobe has to be black and gray like my soul #frowny face
I’d rather teen girls reading nothing but terribly written fanfics about their favorite OTPs that express healthy and emotionally-sound romantic relationships than “great literature” that teaches them they are prizes to be won or creatures to be controlled or destroyed.
“When I was seventeen and preparing to leave for university, my mother’s only brother saw fit to give me some advice. “Just don’t be an idiot, kid,” he told me, “and don’t ever forget that boys and girls can never just be friends.” I laughed and answered, “I’m not too worried. And I don’t really think all guys are like that.” When I was eighteen and the third annual advent of the common cold was rolling through residence like a pestilent fog, a friend texted me asking if there was anything he could do to help. I told him that if he could bring me up some vitamin water that would be great, if it wasn’t too much trouble. That semester I learned that human skin cells replace themselves every three to five weeks. I hoped that in a month, maybe I’d stop feeling the echoes of his touch; maybe my new skin would feel cleaner. It didn’t. But I stood by what I said. Not all guys are like that. When I was nineteen and my roommate decided the only way to celebrate the end of midterms was to get wasted at a club, I humoured her. Four drinks, countless leers and five hands up my skirt later, I informed her I was ready to leave. “I get why you’re upset,” she told me on the walk home, “but you have to tolerate that sort of thing if you want to have any fun. And really, not all guys are like that.” (Age nineteen also saw me propositioned for casual sex by no fewer than three different male friends, and while I still believe that guys and girls can indeed be just friends, I was beginning to see my uncle’s point.) When I was twenty and a stranger that started chatting to me in my usual cafe asked if he could walk with me (since we were going the same way and all), I accepted. Before we’d even made it three blocks he was pulling me into an alleyway and trying to put his hands up my shirt. “You were staring,” he laughed when I asked what the fuck he was doing (I wasn’t), “I’m just taking pity.” But not all guys are like that. I am twenty one and a few days ago a friend and I were walking down the street. A car drove by with the windows down, and a young man stuck his head out and whistled as they passed. I ignored it, carrying on with the conversation. My friend did not. “Did you know those people?” He asked. “Not at all,” I answered. Later when we sat down to eat he got this thoughtful look on his face. When I asked what was wrong he said, “You know not all guys do that kind of thing, right? We’re not all like that.” As if he were imparting some great profound truth I’d never realized before. My entire life has been turned around, because now I’ve been enlightened: not all guys are like that. No. Not all guys are. But enough are. Enough that I am uncomfortable when a man sits next to me on the bus. Enough that I will cross to the other side of the street if I see a pack of guys coming my way. Enough that even fleeting eye contact with a male stranger makes my insides crawl with unease. Enough that I cannot feel safe alone in a room with some of my male friends, even ones I’ve known for years. Enough that when I go out past dark for chips or milk or toilet paper, I carry a knife, I wear a coat that obscures my figure, I mimic a man’s gait. Enough that three years later I keep the story of that day to myself, when the only thing that saved me from being raped was a right hook to the jaw and a threat to scream in a crowded dorm, because I know what the response will be. I live my life with the everburning anxiety that someone is going to put their hands on me regardless of my feelings on the matter, and I’m not going to be able to stop them. I live with the knowledge that statistically one in three women have experienced a sexual assault, but even a number like that can’t be trusted when we are harassed into silence. I live with the learned instinct, the ingrained compulsion to keep my mouth shut to jeers and catcalls, to swallow my anger at lewd suggestions and crude gestures, to put up my walls against insults and threats. I live in an environment that necessitates armouring myself against it just to get through a day peacefully, and I now view that as normal. I have adapted to extreme circumstances and am told to treat it as baseline. I carry this fear close to my heart, rooted into my bones, and I do so to keep myself unharmed. So you can tell me that not all guys are like that, and you’d even be right, but that isn’t the issue anymore. My problem is not that I’m unaware of the fact that some guys are perfectly civil, decent, kind—my problem is simply this: In a world where this cynical overcaution is the only thing that ensures my safety, I’m no longer willing to take the risk.”
— r.d. (via vonmoire)
My dreads a few months ago. They changed fast.Calm down guys. It’s just a picture of new dreads and loose hair. It takes a while to lock up. It’s a process.
Your blatent cultural appropriation and disrespect now has your hair looking like a fucking rats nest with pencils and dust bunnies in it.
You got an ask telling you what the problem is, and you ignored it- classic caught white girl. “Its just a hairstyle I like!”
That shit is not doing it.
Reblogging this to explain why there are people of color upset about this hideous, hideous display:
I am a man of color who wears locs. My hair has been loc’d since 2005. It is clean, I maintain it monthly, moisturize it weekly and wash it as needed (this can be multiple times a month if I’m feeling athletic and trying to get my fitness on). It is loc’d to the root. I went through the early loc’ing phase when I was in college but AT NO POINT did it look dirty, unclean or unwashed.
DAILY I have people who try to connect the dots between my hair and my race and use that against me. I have people (COWORKERS) who’ve thought I was a drug dealer (I barely drink) and have people who classify me as a thug because of the way I wear the hair God gave me.
People (white) who come up to me and tell me how they”dreaded their hair for a few months but cut it out because it was so dirty, you know what I mean?” I wear my hair pulled back in a neat ponytail 97% of the time because I know all this hair makes white people nervous. Imagine if everytime someone saw you they assumed you were dirty, simply because they tried to do something you did (locs) and failed because their hair texture wasn’t correct, and instead of realizing that maybe it was just their situation, they’ve decided to apply that to everyone they meet.
And this nasty, unwashed young woman who feels the need to rebel against something (probably a shower) is sitting up proclaiming to the world that she has locs?
White privilege at work. Not only would I be unemployed if I had the audacity to traipse into my job looking like the inside of a drain, but I would immediately be classified as more of a thug than people already THINK I AM.
That’s why we’re upset. Black women can’t even wear their hair the way it grows out of their heads without it being a national scandal, yet this unwashed, unclean, clearly disturbed individual whose friends obviously have not informed her of the error of her ways will walk out in public and people will not only accept her, they will applaud her for being so different and unique.
Women like this are DIRECTLY affecting my life in that almost everyone I encounter has a friend or a cousin who is her and has given an entire LEGION of people a bad rap.
This is why cultural appropriation is harmful: when we do something and excel at it, are professional about it, look good doing it, it’s worthless. But throw it on a white body doing it the most lazy, bastardized, mediocre way ever and suddenly not only is it OK, it’s amazing! And so much better!
*PS It really does look horrible.
because it’s time for school again
THERES FUCKIN ICE CUBES ON YOUR NOSE STOP RIGHT NOW
omg the one that’s passed out
Aaaah, Tina I know you mean well but i’m cringing right now, you never give a dog ice without water, it gets stuck on them and like it looks cute but think about the last time your tongue got stuck to ice, that shit hurts =(
at the end of 3b the pack manages to remove the dark spirit from stiles and when the oni show up scott says ‘he’s not possessed anymore, you can leave’ the oni nod but as the start to fade away scott stops them ‘i just have one question, why did you stab my dad?’
the lead oni removes his mask and says ‘have you met the guy? he’s a dick’