Rise Up, Oh Heart, For There is Another Battle to Win

history-jokes:

just-shower-thoughts:

In a few generations, kids will be frustratedly trying to remember today’s date for a U.S. history test.

January 26, 2015 - we’re creating and living through history

shadesofmauve:

carriepika:

icantevensleep:

The problem with being introverted is that there is no polite way to say “I love you, but I’m tired of being with you right now.”

This post makes me so sad because I remember when my husband felt he couldn’t say this to me. Because society had pounded it into his head so thoroughly that it ‘wasn’t polite to ask for alone time’ that he felt he wasn’t allowed to. And he was SO MISERABLE. I, being an extrovert myself, had no idea. It wasn’t until, after lots of trial and error and lots of fighting and crying that we finally figured it out.

Saying ‘I love you, but I’m tired of being around people right now. I need time to recharge.’ is NOT IMPOLITE. If someone you say it to thinks it is? Then they need to learn what being introverted means. You can try to help them understand that you need to recharge your batteries. If they refuse to accept it… well, then, you’re never going to work anyways. Because you should NEVER sacrifice your mental health just to keep from hurting someone else’s feelings.

You can ask for alone time politely. There’s nothing wrong with it. It’s not being mean. It’s not being rude. Explain that you need time to recharge. That you just need to be alone with yourself for a while. It’s so important. And the people who truly love you in return will learn and adapt as much as you do.

Also, the various little coping mechanisms and patience-snaps that creep in when someone is pushed past what they can handle are usually MORE apt to cause pain, confusion, or anger than being straight up honest about needing some time and space.

(My sweety and I have similar issues as outlined above; believe me, it’s FAR nicer for both of us when he says ‘I need some quiet’ than when he tries to grit his teeth and bear it!)

The same goes for anyone dealing with chronic pain, incidentally. For your own health and happiness and that of everyone around you, learn to tell people when you need to bow out before it hits a crisis point. You’re not being rude by knowing your own limits, but you might be rude when you’re really hurting or super overwhelmed.

If the other party can’t handle that, remind yourself that it is their problem, not yours.

megphail:

c0ffeekitten:

herpowerisherown:

hush-lullabye:

So a Greek mythology headcanon where Aphrodite can appear either male or female, and she looks like a really fucking sexy guy to gay dudes because that’s who they find attractive
And some Greek bro is out with his buddies when she shows up and he’s all “Wow look at how ripped this dude is no homo” and his buddies are all “What the fuck man that’s a beautiful lady” and that’s how he finds out he’s hella gay

OMG you just opened a door to some amazing head canons
How do you see Aphrodite if you’re ace, aro, Demi, pan, bi???

I bet if you’re bi/ pan, she shifts between genders.

If you’re ace, instead of looking super hot, she looks pretty ordinary, but still aesthetically pleasing, and she has a very kind face and a sweet voice and intelligent eyes. So, romantically appealing.

If you’re demi then she starts off at regular pretty level, but gets steadily hotter as you fall for her.

If you’re aro-ace, she’s invisible (and it pisses her off SO MUCH but she can’t do anything about it).

As an aro ace I strongly approve of this unique opportunity to piss off a Greek god without being murdered or getting turned into a tree or some shit

prosthetical:

goldenheartedrose:

autisticwolfesbrainisautistic:

napoldeinlove:

vikingqueen:

chastityandperversity:

shadowstep-of-bast:

carpeumbra:

No you don’t understand how frustrated I am that we always depicted the Apostles as old men, especially when it comes to during-Jesus-alive stuff.

They were probably late teens to early 20s, given the time and the description and some Biblical passages.

They were not ancient old men with long beards and wrinkles at the Last Supper.

They were young adult rebels with a cause.

where my punk-rock apostles at

I can’t remember where, but the bible says that Jesus was the only one who was old enough to pay the temple tax required by Jewish law, none of the disciples had hit that age. A quick google tells me that Jewish men pay it from the age of 20 - all of the disciples were teenagers.

Not all of them! Matthew 17:24-27 addresses the issue of the temple tax, in which Jesus tells Peter to get a four-drachma piece from a fish’s mouth to account “for my tax and yours”. In addition, Peter is the only person directly mentioned to have a mother-in-law; Jesus heals her in according to three accounts (Matthew 8:14-17, Mark 1:29-31, and Luke 4:38).

So! The “Disciples were ancient old men with long beards and wrinkles" factoid is actually just statistical error. The average disciple was under 20. Simon Peter, who lived with his mother-in-law and his fishing boat and payed the temple tax was an outlier adn should not have been counted.

…did someone really make a Spiders Goerg reference?

Well this made my morning.

ilikethispost.jpg

zeloswildeer:

blushyarmin:

lordofthescience:

royaltyspeaking:

How to tell if it was a gunshot or fireworks: gunshots don’t echo, fireworks do. 

thaNK YOU SO MUCH

the fact that anyone might commonly need to know this terrifies me

clearly you’re not from america

pretty-boy-jon:

ooswinssouffle:

appropriately-inappropriate:

rukafais:

graveyardhorse:

korrakun:

my favorite college experience is when i had a 7am class and the kid next to me literally poured a monster energy drink into his coffee said “i’m going to die” and drank the whole thing

i knew a guy who brewed his instant coffee with monster instead of water. three cups in two hours. i think he ascended to the astral realm

the survivability of the human race never ceases to amaze me

TABI ANECDOTE

My final year I lived with engineering masters students. One night, I’m finishing up my final paper, I’m juuuust backing up my final copy, and my housemate’s cat knocks a vase over onto my laptop.

Which wouldn’t be a problem except my cable had been chewed on (thanks Kobe), so the wiring was exposed. Circuits short out, I fling myself back to avoid electrocution and by the time we get the situation handled, my laptop AND my external hard drive have been fried by the surge.

I mean, fried. Like, they-are-vaguely-smoking fried.

I start to cry, because there goes fifty percent of my final grade.

Ahmad just goes “it’s okay, we will fix”. I’m like “how the fuck do you propose that?” And he’s like “I have spare laptop.” “THIS IS DUE IN THE AM!”

And he looks me dead in the eye and goes, “I said I will help. Go get the laptop.”

So off I go. By the time I make it downstairs, there’s this chemical /reek/ in the kitchen. I go in and there he is, methodically crushing caffeine pills with the bottom of a glass on a ceramic plate, periodically dusting the powder into a cooking pot. Meanwhile, his coffee pot is chugging away on the counter.

As I watch, he takes the coffee pot, empties it into the cooking pot, lets THAT come to a boil and dumps in some of his Turkish coffee, AND the remaining caffeine pill powder, which by now is starting to look uncomfortably like coke.

He lets that steep, and by now the coffee/burning smell is so strong it’s woken up all six of the other housemates, who have all come downstairs and are vacillating between staring at my laptop and at this concoction with undisguised horror.

He pours this sludge into a mug, stirs in about four /tablespoons/ of sugar and slides it my way.

I figure that I’m probably dead either way regardless, so I suck it back, filtering the grounds through my teeth as I go.

I’ve had three sips when it hits, and I feel my heart trip on a beat. I must have gone white cause he nods, all pleased, and points me at his laptop.

Long story short, I got an week’s extension, didn’t sleep for five days, had a conversation with my BLINDS in SPANISH, and got a B+, with a note that it was an “engaging read and well-written, when intelligible”.

To this day, coffee any stronger than a pale off-beige makes my chest hurt.

I honestly thought he was going to drink the coffee and perform was magic on the laptop but.. nope. even better. Honest to god, I really want to know how that conversation with the blinds went. 

Bruh. BRUH.

Let’s play “spot the college student who just earned a degree”, because I read this and laughed so hard I literally sobbed.  For ten minutes.  Uncontrollably.  My chest is killing me.

jovialjane:

neoliberalismkills:

I’m pregnant, I can’t work, I’m dysphoric and depressed and my partner just moved away and I need an abortion and I have no other way of getting money right now, I need to collect $400 ($300 procedure, $100 sonogram) paypal is eattherichh@gmail.com please help if you can

please please help this sweet, amazing person.

mattyxmurdockk:

What I love about Wilson Fisk is that when Vanessa initially rejects him, and then later says she doesn’t know if she wants to see him again, he respects that and is like alright if you’re not interested I’ll just get on with my business and he doesn’t push her into anything so I guess the takeaway is if a man who bashes peoples heads off with car doors treats a woman better that you do, you need to rethink some things in your life

floralandfemme:

I’m really tired of only seeing posts for trauma survivors who have managed to stay kind. not all of us can. not all of us can do that and still cope.

shoutout to my fellow trauma survivors who expect the worst, who are unfriendly, who have learned not to be vulnerable because people have used vulnerability to hurt you, who are quick to bare teeth, who are jaded and exhausted, who learned to compartmentalize and shut to things away and not feel, who are called bitter and disappoint people who expect us to be model survivors.

we are no less valuable or human than anyone else.

kauvera:

supernatural-aka-tearsandgay:

wiener-cest:

demeaniac:

STOP SCROLLING

straighten your back, mate

NOW GO ON

woah thanks i really needed that today

tumblr user demeaniac doing little favors for tumblr one post at a time

FUCK THIS POST HAS SHOWED UP LIKE 10 TIMES TODAY AND I HAVE BEEN HUNCHED OVER EVERY FUCKING TIME

PLEASE KEEP THIS GOING it is the best reminder for me ever and I always need it omg

get-your-ass-in-the-impala:

smurflewis:

gaysfinest:

Don’t tell your daughter that when a boy is mean or rude to her it’s because he has a crush on her. Don’t teach her that abuse is a sign of love.

My mom always taught me yell or fight back. Boys would be mean and I would yell back. I would get my ass pinched and I would smack them as hard as I could.

Who alway got in trouble? Me.

They would call my mother and she always came in and lectures my teachers and threatened to sue for making her miss work and treating me poorly.

She always taught my brothers to respect women. The only fights my brothers ever got in was defending women from someone else.

The school tried to call my father once instead of my mother on us. He came in in his full preacher outfit (being a preacher and all) and gave them an entire sermon on what would Jesus day of he was called in. They decided dealing with my mom was better.

I think my favorite story of this is when some kid snapped my bra and I turned around, didn’t even think about it, and punched that little motherfucker right in the nose.

So naturally, I end up in the principal’s office, refusing to apologize. 

“He shouldn’t have put his hands on me and I wouldn’t have hit him!” That’s the only thing I was saying.

These people had the unfortunate luck of catching my dad at home, instead of my mom. So he comes fucking sauntering in there, like he’s Clint fucking Eastwood in some western movie and looks at me. 

“Melissa, did you punch him?” 

“Yes.” I said. 

“Why?” 

“Because he snapped my bra strap.” 

And he turns his squinty eyed glare to the principal and says, “You’re telling me my daughter is in trouble because that squirrely looking kid put his hands on her and she chose to defend herself? That’s what you are saying to me.” 

“Well, sir-” The man kind of stuttered because my dad is kind of intimidating in the quiet sort of way that kind of whispers in the back of your mind that this person could be dangerous. “Melissa did make it physical.” 

“No. That kid put his hands on my daughter. Are you saying my daughter cannot defend herself when some boy decides to put hands on her? Is that what you are teaching my girl?” 

I didn’t get suspended that day.  

^^YOU.  YES.  I LOVE YOU.  LET’S TELL THESE STORIES.

Let me tell you a little story about the time I learned what boys could do.  Let me tell you about when I was in fourth grade and a boy cornered my skinny underdeveloped ass at recess, day after day, and grabbed my thigh to cop a feel while he threatened to break it, under the eye of the teacher.  Let me tell you about how I was too damaged-confused-inept to know that sex and violence could go hand in hand, but went home and cried anyway because I knew a threat when I felt it.  Let me tell you about how my mother hugged me tight and promised that I was worth something, and then sat me down and said ‘Baby bear, you do what you have to do,’ said ‘Baby bear, if he puts his hands on you and you feel scared, you make him take his hands off.’  Let me tell you about how one day I reached my limit and punched him in the face, shaking so hard my teeth chattered.  Let me tell you about how the teacher, the woman who had seen what he did every day, shouted at me for attacking him and marched me down to the principal’s office while the boy went to the nurse.  Let me tell you about how I got detention and a sentence to the prison of the school counselor for ‘anger management issues’ while the boy wandered around without a single bruise.  Let me tell you about how I got a handwritten death threat in my backpack, in the boy’s handwriting, and how the principal and the teachers did nothing while my parents fought for me and I raged and checked window locks and signed up for martial arts.  Let me tell you about how my child-self, abused physically and emotionally by her extended family, blamed herself for everything, everything, everything, and how the counselor taught me that it was my fault, taught me to torture myself with guilt over using violence.

Let me tell you a little story about the time when I realized that violence is sometimes the only answer you have.  Let me tell you about when I was eleven in a tiny town in Montana, and I’d been fighting with an older boy for months.  Let me tell you about how he made me feel like a rabbit facing a fox, or about how his two sisters, both over six years his senior, were terrified of him, or about how his parents couldn’t control him.  Let me tell you about how I admitted, shamefaced, to my parents that I just couldn’t stand to be in a room with him, and my mother sat me down again, and this time she said things like “Stay with witnesses” and “Don’t be afraid to run” and “Go for the throat, for the nose, for the balls” and “Get him on the ground” and “Be brutal.”  Let me tell you about how he caught me alone in a room and pinned me to a wall and kissed me hard, and how I slipped out under his arm and ran like the hounds of hell were nipping at my heels, straight into a room full of adults.  Let me tell you about how he caught me anyway, yanked me around and punched me in the stomach.  Let me tell you about how I answered his punch with my own, one-two-three, nose-groin-chokehold, and forced him to the ground as he gasped for air.  Let me tell you about how I shook with adrenaline this time and how his sisters thanked me and cried with relief and how I held my chin high.

Let me tell you about the eighteen-year-old who decided he was dating me when I was fourteen, hands all over me at a summer festival, and when I punched him he laughed at me for playing ‘hard to get.’  Let me tell you about the two boys in high school who harassed me for two years, who made me so worried I brought a knife to school, who only stopped when I slammed one of them into a table for touching me, pinning him by the throat as I described what I would do to him if he tried again.  Let me tell you about the boy just this year who attacked me in my own dorm room, pinned me to my roommate’s bed and forced his tongue into my mouth, his hand down my shirt and under my bra, and how I jammed my thumb so hard into his trachea he choked, and how he called his assault a ‘romantic gesture’.

Let me tell you about ‘boys will be boys.’  Let me tell you about ‘ignore them and they’ll go away.’  Let me tell you about ‘there’s never a reason for violence.’  Let me tell you about ‘You should never hurt someone, no matter what they did to you.’  Let me tell you about ‘he must have a crush on you.’  Let me tell you about ‘why didn’t you tell a teacher.’

Let me tell you.

And then you tell me.

thatteenguy:

thatstupidamerican:

huffylemon:

No apocalypse, no fire, no destruction…really nothing has changed.

Except now there’s millions of happier people

And I bought milk

saraneththebinder:

gnarlydeer:

gnarlydeer:

The government has ordered federal employees’ health insurers to offer transition-related coverage for transgender employees!!

effective january 1st 2016!!

TODAY IS AMAZING

callmebisexual:

• stop saying bisexuals can’t use the word ‘gay’ 2k15
  
• stop excluding bisexuals from the LGBT community 2k15
• stop making rude ass biphobic comments 2k15
• STOP BIPHOBIA 2k15
• STOP!!! BIPHOBIA!!! 2k15

meatyarn:

I know this seems obvious but if you other trans girls have big feet like I do (I wear a size 12-13) Payless is seriously the best option for shoes on a budget. Almost nowhere carries shoes in my size, I don’t even bother checking anymore. The only place I can get shoes is payless and I seriously only pay $10-15 for flats/wedges/running shoes. Also if you order online (better selection) and you don’t like them you can return it in any store. Changing your entire wardrobe can be so fucking expensive but payless has saved my life so I thought I’d give a sorta tip even though it’s probably obvious.