michaelblume:

michaelblume:

Tumblr, is it kosher to send someone an ask about why they chose to content warn on a particular thing, or is the question just automatically too intrusive (especially since in most cases it’s not really about the person you’re asking but about some follower of theirs you don’t even know)

Actually now I think of it it’s not so much the intrusiveness I’m worried about as that it seems like it could be interpreted as indirectly mocking someone for having weird triggers?

In that case, just adding a sentence saying that you’re not seems like less work and more fail-safe than trying to figure out a general rule for asking.

humansofnewyork:

“I think I was angriest when my father died. The saddest and the angriest. The saddest because he was gone, and I selfishly wanted him back. Angriest because it made me think about how we all have to die and that really made me angry.”
“Angry at what?”
“God, The Spirit, whatever it is that brought us here. I do believe in something. I don’t know what. But I don’t think we’re here because of some accidental chemical reaction. But life is like some toy, or some piece of candy, that God hands to the baby just to snatch it away. I mean, c’mon, did you really have to make us suffer to achieve salvation? Did Eve have to eat the apple? Did Jesus have to suffer on a cross so that we could be forgiven for our sins? You could have just snapped your fingers and forgiven our sins. You’re God. You could have cut out the whole middle part. But you chose to make us suffer. And that makes me angry.”

REBLOG IF I CAN WRITE TO YOU AND SIMPLY START A FRIENDSHIP

…I can’t promise I’m good at keeping up friendships, though.

songsofthepen:

floydllawtonarchive:

dragons don’t ever really leave their princesses
(and their princesses never really want them to go)

The first thing she remembers is the warmth of scales beneath her hand, a voice crooning a lullaby that she feels in her bones as much as she hears. The first thing her watery, stinging eyes behold are a loose circle of shining claws and the translucent dome of blue wings blocking out the rest of the overwhelming world. A shining blue nose, deep as sapphires, leans down and nudges her gently.

:Wake, little hatchling.: Warm, feminine, loving; it rings with will-not-be-harmed and safe-under-wings. She can’t make herself be afraid. A forked tongue gently touches her cheek and she smiles, giggles, puts a hand out to gently push it away.

There is something she ought to be worried about, but it runs from her thoughts when she tries to remember. The world has narrowed to the warm safety of the circle, the fires burning in bright yellow eyes. The dragon nudges her again before ever-so-delicately picking up a loaf of bread in her long white teeth and depositing it in her lap.

:Hatchling must eat. Lady-who-burns left food.:  She obediently begins to eat, leaning back against blue scales and smiling brightly up at her guardian. There is only one word her limited memory can assign to this giant being, and as she finishes her bread and snuggles up to a warm claw before falling asleep again she whispers it-

“Mama.”

x-x-x-x-x

When she wakes again, it’s to a much smaller version of the blue snout- this time in red- peering into her face. She jumps back; he jumps back. She tilts her head; he tilts his head and snorts, confused.

A laughing rumble comes from the mother dragon curled around them both.

:Red-hatchling, meet Human-hatchling. She is one-of-us. Play nice, do not bite-claw-harm. She has no scale-coat.: Images as much as words, like before. The red hatchling snorts again and shakes himself, small wings thumping on the ground, before squawking in a rather undignified way and jumping up.

:Come play pounce-and-pin!: He dashes away, looking over his shoulder, and Mother nudges her towards him with another amused chuckle.

Tentatively at first but then with more confidence, she chases after the red hatchling to play a rough game of tackling and wrestling. The red plays fair and does not use his talons or teeth, as Mother warned, but he is larger and stronger than her and she ends up on the ground much more often than she manages to pin him. Nevertheless, the old castle hall is filled with the sounds of human and draconic laughter as the blue watches on with happiness shining in her eyes.

x-x-x-x-x

Time passes. Her memories slowly come back, of a place where “mother” means a tall blonde woman, her smiles always forced and distant and her voice always ready to scold. Where “brother” means cruel laughter and taunts made by a man who looms tall over her, solid boots ready to crush unwary little fingers.

She stops missing them after a few days.

Her time is filled with laughter as she and the red hatchling invent games for themselves through the castle’s abandoned halls and gone-to-seed courtyards. They gorge themselves on sweet berries from bushes long gone wild, they hunt for rabbits that Mother will cook for them, they mock-duel with her holding a stick and he pretending to flame her.

She teaches him to read, from what she remembers, curled side-by-side in the dusty library. He tells her the stories Mother has told him, how when he breathes his first fire he will earn his name and become a true dragon. And at night they sit by Mother’s side and listen to her sing as they fall asleep, safe under her wings and warmed by the fire inside her.

Sometimes other humans come to search the castle. She and Brother hide while Mother scornfully tosses them aside. One day Mother gently herds a terrified horse into one of the large inner courtyards, and once he has adjusted to his new neighbors she teaches herself to ride the rather placid gelding.

She teaches herself to sew, eventually, and makes herself clothes from the cloth brought each month by the strange woman who is the only other human Mother will tolerate. One day she begins to gather the scales Brother and Mother shed and sews them into tough cloth for armor; the interlocking patterns of blue and red entertain her for hours, and the extra protection gives Brother more leeway with his growing claws when they wrestle.

The first time she uses the scales to deflect her brother’s full-force blows successfully, Mother’s pride can be felt from across the room.

x-x-x-x-x

Brother earns the name :Heart-of-Burning-Star: when he breathes his first flame; she sings along with Mother to honor him, her heart bursting with pride.

Mother takes her flying, perched securely on her shoulders and Brother frolicking alongside, to see the mountains and the marshlands and the ocean and the forests. She teaches them how to tell hungry predators from those who are well-fed, how to sneak up on unsuspecting prey, how best to avoid the sword striking for their hearts. At night she tells them of magic, of the world’s mysteries, of how a dragon can change their shape if their need is great.

When at last she bids them farewell they let her go with sorrow but not despair; she has taught them well how to fend for themselves, and the girl will not be alone. Brother will never leave her while she has no wings of her own.

Before she leaves, she touches her nose to the girl’s forehead. :Adopted-child. You will not breathe flame, but you are grown, with a dragon’s heart; I name you Lover-of-Life. Honor and love and wind for your wings, my hatchling-now-grown.:

Their lives continue as they always have among the ruins of the castle; supplying for themselves, and needing no luxuries but the warmth of their sibling by their sides.

x-x-x-x-x

Though Brother fights valiantly when the men come again, he is smaller than Mother and not quite as wise; he is young, and proud, and easily drawn out of his defenses by their taunts. She screams as fireproofed ropes encircle his proud limbs and he is dragged to earth, easy prey for their blades.

One of the men catches hold of her as she tries to run to his side.

“Easy, easy fair maid!” She flinches from the sound of words spoken to ears, not to heart. How can they speak truly to one another when their words are so flat and depthless?

“We shall rescue you from this beast which holds you captive here. Only look away a moment and it shall trouble you no more.”

Rescue? Rescue? From what?!

She cannot form the words on her lips to make them understand, and none of them hear when she reaches for their hearts. She screams and cries, fighting with all the muscle she gained wrestling a young dragon, as they drag her away from her brother. It is still not enough to stop them. Her brother lies still on the ground with dirty men laughing over his helpless body. She cannot take the indignity to the noblest, best friend she has ever known, and fights all the fiercer.

Eventually they force some bitter drink down her resisting throat, and it makes her sight grow dark. She screams for Brother one last time as she drops down into unconsciousness, and she hears him call back with desperation,

:Will come find you! Sister-of-my-heart…:

He keens as the men drag her away, before the sound abruptly chokes to nothing. Her tears burn as they fall.

x-x-x-x-x

The world has changed to something she doesn’t understand.

She is surrounded by humans, women clucking at her in concerned tones, men speaking over her head as if she doesn’t exist, little children stopping to point and stare and whisper. The world is a mass of noises she only barely comprehends, missing the touch of heart on heart that made all emotions seem real.

They take away her scale armor; she later finds and rescues it from the dung of the stable midden, crying as she cleans each scale and remembers what she has lost. The too-soft fabrics tie her up and trip her. Her bed seems cold, no matter how many hot bricks they add, with no warm heartbeat beside her. They make her sit all day, surrounded by chattering women, and she fidgets with the need to roam, to stalk, to ride, to fly. She thinks with longing of her quiet castle and Brother’s uncomplicated love.

At night she creeps out the window- the chiseled stone is hatchling’s play to climb- to run through the gardens and smell air that isn’t perfumed to cover the human stink. Even that brings her little joy; the gardens are all carefully cultivated patches of life with sterility in between, and there are no rabbits to chase or berries to pick. All too soon, though, her guards come grumbling to seize her arms and drag her in, back to where even the cleanest dirt is not tolerated against her skin and her own scent is washed away under the gagging stink of dying flowers.

She wilts, day by day, her eyes losing their sparkle and her bright gold hair losing its shine. Food tastes like ash in her mouth, her sleep is fitful. Her not-mother pretends to fret over her when people are looking, her not-brother makes snide comments about her appearance. She barely hears them anymore. Mother would not recognize her now; there is no love of life in her heart.

She paces her chambers like a beast in a too-small cage, claws removed and fangs filed to nubs, and stares out the window with dull, lifeless eyes.

x-x-x-x-x

She is wakened from fitful sleep by a calloused hand pressing over her mouth. Only a moment’s panic crosses her mind before her heart begins to sing; she’d know that amber-eyed gaze anywhere!

:Sister-mine!: She throws her arms around her brother and weeps, silently, reaching out for the only being who feels real in this land of perfumed, empty words.

:Thought you were dead, saw you fall! Saw so much blood…: He shudders, and she feels scars across his back, only recently healed.

:Wing-torn, lost much blood, but not yet dead. Men grew bored, left. Was able to stop bleeding, heal. Searched for heart-sister, found you, could not reach you. Reached for magic to be human. Climbed wall.: He huffed and stroked her hair. :Humans not guard well from other humans.:

She lets out a broken, teary laugh and wipes her face with her sleeve. :Looking for me-escaping, not you-entering. Won’t be easy to leave.:  

He grins, all teeth and dragon’s fire.

:Easy not fun.:  

x-x-x-x-x

They sneak their way upwards, towards the castle walls. He can only hold this form until daylight, as young as he is, and it’s fast approaching dawn; the plan is for her to ride on his shoulders away from the castle as dawn takes back his human form.

They’re caught halfway up, by a knight sneaking back from a maid’s room; she takes him down with a swift slash of a stolen knife, but not before his yell alerts the castle.

The warriors bring them to bay on the parapets just as light crests the horizon; her brother is forced to leap from the walls as he loses human form and hovers just out of bow-shot, desperately calling her.

She cannot reach him…. But she refuses to be taken again.

Her eyes locked on her brother and her scale armor turning gold in the morning light, she leaps from the wall. She ignores the screams of the humans, listening instead to the despairing heart-call of her brother who cannot reach her in time.

Her mind flashes back to a lesson of Mother’s; “a dragon may change shape if their need is great.”

Mother had named her a dragon at heart.

Her roar splits the air as her armor grows, turning into golden scales the color of morning sun, and her wings cut the air like butter.

The golden dragon joins her brother in the sky, crying out her joy as they circle one another, and as the humans gape they turn to the mountains with their wings nearly touching as they fly.

From that day forth, the armor coat became her dragon-skin; when she wore it, she would be the golden dragon her heart knew her to be, and when she removed it (as she did only rarely) she would be the human woman she was born.

The armor’s scales all stayed golden, even after she removed it; all except two, that is. They rested directly over her heart, one a gorgeous sapphire-blue and the other a deep, fierce red; for no matter how much you change your shape, you keep your true family close to your heart.  

for-science-sake:

The Sea Angel (Gymnosomata) Is a group of sea slug that grow no larger than 5cm. These obscure little creatures are found in a wide range of habitats from polar to tropical regions of the sea. 

So pretty *.*

yxoque:

Becoming numb to callous indiference. That doesn’t sound worthwhile.

Nothin but turning my back on humanity.

queenshulamit:

neednothavehappenedtobetrue:

I don’t usually talk about filicide because other people do it better and my blog is relatively unserious

but her name was Nancy and she was twelve and her mother got a court order. her mother got permission from the law to kill her. 

last weekend Weeds and Zoe and I were in a bookstore and we found this book called- The Program? something like that. It was YA dystopia, you know.

 in the horrible, dystopian future, anyone who exhibited signs of depression was sent to The Program, from which they- never returned? returned fundamentally changed? I forget. they lost their memories and had to take drugs, in the Program. 

I just remember passing the book around so all three of us can read the summary on the back, and the sequel where the kids had to face The Treatment

“it’s us! we’re the dystopia!” one of us said. you know, because a dystopia is when what already happens starts happening to “normal” teenagers. 

“I always wanted to be a dystopia” I said,

but like, it was a joke and I don’t really.

a while back I read a book called Unwind and the premise was you could get a court order to kill your kids. more YA dystopia.

at one point an accident leaves the Female Lead a paraplegic and she is delighted because “there are laws against Unwinding the disabled!” so now she was safe.

and there goes my suspension of disbelief. the same society that made it legal for parents to kill their kids decided “oh, but we can’t kill disabled kids, that would be unethical” bullshit.  

we’re the dystopia.

her name was Nancy and she was twelve and now she is dead. a court order. 

when I told my parents about how many disabled people are murdered by their parents (so many, too many) when I explained about the Day of Mourning, my parents were pretty typical about it. 

my dad joked “yeah, we certainly thought about it with you” 

I was a little disabled girl. incidentally, when I was twelve, I wanted to die, but I could walk and talk so I got therapy.

“dad, that’s not funny.”

“come on, Alex, it’s a little funny. you can’t take everything so seriously”

“kids are dead, dad.”

my mom said the usual bit about having empathy for the parents.

they already wrote the dystopia on this one, but for some reason they thought “nobody would do that to a disabled kid” I think they just needed a plot point so the Female Lead wouldn’t die.  

http://metro.co.uk/2014/10/26/mother-wins-right-to-terminate-daughters-life-4922319/
This is the story
Her name was Nancy
They chose death for her
They killed her
She was 12
“Justice Eleanor King at the High Court of Justice read Charlotte’s moving plea and instantly declared it was in mother and daughter’s best interests to withdraw fluids she needed to survive.”
Everyone thought they were doing something good
She is dead and she will never be alive again
You can’t take it back
She is dead forever

starlingsongs:

starlingsongs:

When trans women are mocked and made into jokes in the media, I get very upset, and I am often told “Kay, you can’t go through life getting offended every time someone makes a joke.” And I sputter and object but they don’t hear me. So I want to be clear for once, about why the jokes make me angry.

I learned to hate myself for being transgender before I knew I was transgender. I laughed at the jokes in stand up comedy routines, and prime time sitcoms, and animated comedy shows, and in the movies, and in books, and in games, laughing at trans women for existing, about “men in dresses”, about people who “got their dicks chopped off”, and I learned to think that was worthy of ridicule.

And then a day came when I felt a pang of envy at what my female classmates were wearing and I repressed it, and felt guilty, and a day where I felt incomplete because I had no breasts and I repressed it and I felt disgusting
And a day when I realized the only images of romance that made me feel anything showed two women together and I repressed it and I felt like a monster
And a day when I realized I felt sick when I looked at myself in the mirror after every shower before work and couldn’t bear to look at my own face, and I hated myself.
And then there came a day when I hated myself so much, and I thought I could never understand why, and so I just wanted it all to end. And it was just a miracle that I swerved my car back into my lane in time.

And all of it started with a joke that I heard on TV, and then kept hearing from all the voices from the ether, over and over and over, worming an idea into my mind before I was old enough to realize I was absorbing it, the idea that a man in a dress is funny, and that changing your body parts makes you a freak, and that women who have penises instead of vaginas are liars and hurt men. And they’re still making these jokes. And somewhere out there right now, just like all those years ago, there is a little girl in a t-shirt and cargo shorts with buzzed off hair watching the TV, hearing that joke and absorbing it without knowing it, who will someday have to pry herself apart to tear it out of her head, just like I did.

That is, if she doesn’t kill herself first.

I know this is a really heavy post but if you read it and you appreciated it, I’d appreciate it in return if you reblogged it. This is really important to me and I want people to read it and understand it. Thank you.

It’s never “just” a joke.

Your mind is software. Program it. Your body is a shell. Change it. Death is a disease. Cure it. Extinction is approaching. Fight it.

Peter Thiel

Is this really from Peter Thiel? Because I just started reading the Eclipse Phase rulebook and it was one of their taglines.

(via yxoque)

onemultiplecode:

interactyouth:

Some people fake orgasms during sexual encounters. I faked periods.

Like Lauren’s character on MTV’s Faking It, I am intersex. No two intersex people are alike, and my experience growing up with Swyer Syndrome is mine alone. I was assigned female at birth and raised as a girl. My chromosomal sex is XY and I don’t have ovaries, or gonads. For this reason, I don’t produce endogenous sex hormones or menstruate without hormone replacement therapy. I identify as an intersex woman.

For many girls, menstruation begins a ritualistic process of self-care, and signifies the coming-of-age moment, or rite of passage, when a girl becomes a woman. Books, film, and television support this phenomenon! The cultural significance of menstruation varies by country or household. My mom bestowed several illustrated “girl guides” upon me that used cute, flowery language to describe our moon cycles. One recommended sitting in front of a mirror spread-eagled to examine the female anatomy. These books failed to mention the possibility of alternative, atypical reproductive, hormonal, or chromosomal sex developments.

However, as a growing adolescent, sex was the mysterious rite of passage that most concerned me. There are many avenues to experience sex, but as a teenager my notion of sex was exclusively vaginal penetration.  At fourteen, I hid bootleg VHS copies of American Pie and Romy and Michele’s High School Reunion to fill in the gaps.  At fifteen, I drank way too much liquor and performed my first hand job on a boy from a far away city that I barely knew. Booze and sex were two alluring vices for a self-conscious, insecure teen and I craved the superficial validation warranted by both.  I wanted peers to see me as an adventurous, up-for-anything-chick, and I manipulated sexual proclivity as a means to this end.

Underneath this guise of confidence, I felt unbelievably self-conscious of my body. I was sixteen and hadn’t experienced physically noticeable outcomes of puberty. My menarche was missing, nowhere to be found. I only imagined how girls stuck a cotton sponge fastened to a piece of string floss up their vagina. I had a sparse patch of pubic hair. To my dismay, I didn’t develop an hourglass figure and kept a broad shouldered straight torso instead. My body image suffered.

That year lead to the discovery I was intersex.  Curious as to why I hadn’t menstruated, I visited a local women’s health clinic for blood work and an MRI. A week later, my parents received a perplexing phone call. The OBGYN believed there “must be something wrong” with their tests because it revealed I had one X and one Y chromosome and no egg-producing ovaries.  At first glance, I wondered if I was more male than female or if I was a hermaphrodite. A visit to a noted endocrinologist followed and, after further speculative exams, he charted Swyer Syndrome as the official diagnosis. During a time period when conception shouldn’t be a major concern, I grieved my infertility and went home with a hormonal prescription to spur puberty.

In the mirror I saw an androgynous figure requiring daily manipulation to appear ultra feminine. In gym class, I cushioned padding underneath a sports bra to disguise, what I believed, a weird and ugly flat chest. At school, I positioned a girdle around my waist to contort a curvy frame. I wore this mask of femininity to accentuate femaleness. It’s no doubt that non-intersex cisgender men and women experience similar obsessions with body image. Our image-obsessed culture defines and dictates clear gender, racial, and socio-economic boundaries. These socially constructed divisions are harmful and discourage individuals and communities from embracing physical difference.

As a high school senior, I carefully envisioned the loss of my virginity.  I loathed the idea of going to college “a virgin”, whatever that really means. Until then, I saw my body as a vehicle to appease a partner’s (read: male) desires. My first experience with penetrative sex arrived unexpectedly at a house party with a guy I barely knew. I wasn’t completely drunk, nor completely sober. From mythical stories of broken, dismembered hymens, I expected a fair amount of blood. The reality was quick, painful, and sobering. I left the scene in a state of disappointing shock. I’d gathered from books, television and movies that the “first time “ wouldn’t be pleasant. The illusion that sex gets easier and better with practice was only slightly comforting. For me, it didn’t. At least not right away.

To my detriment, I looked to male-pleasing, stereotypical depictions of sex to inform sexual behavior. His pleasure was tantamount to mine. I bled during vaginal penetration time and again. I casually explained the blood, indicating “Aunt Flow” arrived early. It seemed like a completely logical explanation to a twenty-something college co-ed. And thankfully, no line of questioning followed. Blood spotted sheets and a load of laundry mid-coitus deflated an intimate mood. I left those one-night-stands feeling empty, embarrassed, fake, and frustrated with my non-normative body.

My sexual partners couldn’t possibly know I faked my period on these occasions. Two years later, after consulting a second endocrinologist, I learned the likely cause of my bleeding. Due to low estrogen levels, my vaginal lining was very thin and susceptible to both inflammation and injury. Once my estrogen prescription doubled, the bleeding stopped. Maintaining a consistent daily hormone regime wasn’t nearly as important to me then, as it is now, to protect my sexual health.

I exercised dishonesty with those men and hid under the guise of a normative female practice, like a period, because I feared prejudice and intolerance. That fear compounded my isolation being intersex. I was twenty years old and didn’t have another intersex person to commiserate with regarding, sometimes awkward or difficult, sex experiences. Many, but certainly not all, intersex people experience trauma on their psyches and bodies at the hands of surgeons, endocrinologists, nurses, parents, caregivers, and even strangers. Initiating discourse with other intersex people characterizes the healing process.  Being a part of, versus away from, discussions pertaining to bodily integrity, relationships, healing, trauma, and advocacy is fundamental.

Today, as a member of Inter/Act, I strive to overcome institutional silence of intersex experiences by uniting voices of intersex youth across the globe. Open conversations around gender fluidity, oppression, non-normative sexualities, informed consent, and access to health care are critical to building a more inclusive, vibrant future for intersex children and adults. As humans, we are incredibly diverse and it’s my hope that XY girls, XX boys, and many other distinct intersex people will feel comfortable and confident to be who they are, without “faking it”.

To find out more about Inter/Act member Ali, check out the video she made with the Interface Project. Happy Intersex Awareness Day!

 Swyer