Rise Up, Oh Heart, For There is Another Battle to Win
Month
My mom just informed me that my first word was “quote” so I’m going to make sure my last word before I die will be “unquote”
you have been blessed with a rare and epic opportunity
who-the-fuck-let-me-have-a-blog:
women who had period cramps before pain killers were invented were metal as fuck let’s give them a standing ovation
Standing ovulation
A round of menopause.
It was a difficult period of history for everyone
How many bloody more days will these jokes last
About 3-7
So I was thinking about those tongue-in-cheek posts about Hogwarts Houses that are like “So, uh, why are we dividing the kids up again?” and I started thinking what if there were actually practical differences for sorting the kids by personality? Such as catering to different learning styles in the classroom.
Like, Gryffindor classes are very hands-on and encourage kids to experiment and explore on their own.
Hufflepuff is more discussion-based and involves a lot of small-group projects that aren’t graded so much as evaluated by peers.
Ravenclaws have general topics and principles that need to be covered every year, but within that, each student is encouraged to learn in-depth about specific topics of their own interest.
Slytherins are very goal-oriented and while some competitiveness against each other is encouraged, they’re mostly rewarded for self-improvement.
Just, you know, actual qualitative differences in the Houses.
tumblr overpraises weaponized beauty. let’s make 2015 the year of weaponized ugliness. you are great regardless of whether you look great. lean into the ugly.
when she is born, they name her mary. it means “bitter.” her mother—plain, unlovely—knows what her ugliness will mean. how it will feel. knows that ugliness makes everything harder, the mirror image of how being too beautiful makes everything harder. mary’s mother is unlovely, and she is happy, basically. she went to school, and they let her, not pretty enough to earn their scorn but too pretty to earn derision.
mary’s first word—a year old, face too red, eyes somehow too far apart and too close together at the same time, nose a curious hook—is, “please,” and mary’s father says, “no.”
mary’s father loves her, and he always says no. no mary, you can’t go to school; they’ll mock you at school. no mary, you can’t have pretty dresses; they’ll only accentuate your ugliness. no mary, no mary, no mary, no.
“please,” mary says, and her father kisses her too-large forehead. runs his hand along her puffy cheeks. there isn’t any one thing, not any single marker of her ugliness, only individual parts that don’t seem to fit together right. lumps where straight lines should be, pocks along her chin, eyes that were too bright and too big and yet still not considered striking. he kisses her and holds her and says, “no.”
—
this is what you learn, when you are young and you don’t look how they want you to:
- the baker closes at four. if you are hungry, he will feed you, out of pity.
- witches are everywhere. witches understand. witches will hold your hand, and run their thumbs along your lifeline. witches will say, take this, and press a bag into your palm. take this, it will help you.
- beautiful women look at you once, and then never again. they fear you. they fear what you remind them, which is that natural beauty is unearned and hard-won beauty is unnatural. beauty is arbitrary, but beauty means everything. you are here, you are alive, you are ugly: they do not know what this means.
- beautiful men will look at you, and look, and look. they will try to understand. they will say cruel things first, because that is how men are taught to treat ugly things. then they will taper into benign amusement. eventually they will forget you are a person at all, and they will say anything. they will say their darkest secrets and not realize you can hear them.
mary learns. mary listens. mary understands. mary is not as bitter as her name.
—
they say “ugly,” but what they mean is, “stupid.” what they mean is, “useless.” what they mean is, “defeatable.”
“be good, boys,” she scolds a group of particularly loud stable boys as she gathers their empty pints. the lights are dim enough to ease the angled corners of her broad shoulders. they love her here, gentle dim mary, too ugly for marriage. such a shame. what a nice girl, our ugly duckling.
“Ugly Mary!” says jonas, the butcher’s son. “have a sit. tell us a story.”
“these tables aren’t gon’ clean themselves,” she answers, even as she sits. jonas always leaves his purse on the table. the more drunk he gets, the less attention he pays to its weight. “what kind of story?”
“a good one,” jonas insists. “make us laugh.”
“all right,” says mary, and leans forward. she wraps her fingers around jonas’ purse and holds it up in front of him. “this is my dowry,” she says.
he laughs, head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut. the stable boys laugh too. everybody laughs. a dowry, for ugly mary. a dowry! mary palms the purse and leaves an empty one in its place. a witch gave it to her, once. a witch gave it to her and said this will come back to you, no matter how far away you send it.
mary has given jonas the butcher’s son this purse five times. he has always brought it back, confused, asking for his own. “i seem to have stolen this from someone,” he laughed, nervous. “only—don’t tell, mary, eh? i’ll leave it here, and no harm done, eh?”
mary had tutted at him every time. “watch those sticky fingers, jonas,” she’d said. “they’ll get the better of you one day. but it’ll be our secret.”
“last drink’s on the house,” mary says, and whisks their glasses away.
—
a beautiful woman would walk into any room and have all eyes on her long legs, her round mouth, her startling eyes. a beautiful woman would have them on their knees saying yes. a beautiful woman would say, “i want—” and they would say, “we’ll give it.”
everyone wants to please a beautiful woman.
mary’s first trip to the palace is with a hood over her head. don’t make them look too long at you, edna had said, her hands on her hips. edna loves mary, too. edna loves mary and edna always tells mary no.
she’s here to make a delivery, some chickens for a party, and their usual boy has a broken leg. so mary brings the shipment. mary has her witch’s purse in her pocket, a snack from the baker in her mouth.
“oh, well aren’t you a bit of a divine accident,” says the royal chef, frowning. “angels were scraping the bottom of the barrel for you, eh? parents couldn’t quite get pregnant ‘till you? asked a witch for help?”
mary flashes a smile. first they will be cruel. two days ago, she had knocked out a tooth specifically for this event, and her mouth is swollen. “where should i leave them?” she asks.
“six of them straight to the kitchens, but leave one with me,” the chef says. he is still looking at her. “i’m hungry too, eh? ha!” he winks at her. then they will taper into benign amusement. when mary moves to obey, he catches her arm. “what’s your name, ugly girl?”
“mary,” she answers. her breath whistles through the gap where her tooth used to be. she smiles again, and watches his eyes soften. good.
“ugly mary,” he muses. “i like you, girl. come again, with the next shipment.”
“yes sir,” she says, and smiles.
—
the chef cooks laxative herbs into the food of nobles who mistreat him. he tells her this thoughtlessly, sprinkling a leaf onto the top of a perfectly roasted turkey. his serving boy takes silver from the storage and sells it. their errands boy has been sleeping with the queen’s lady-in-waiting, and the queen’s lady-in-waiting told him that the queen is sleeping with the king’s brother.
there are fights, at night, loud and long in the war room. mary gives her magic purse to the errands boy and he comes to her, days later, in a panic.
“i don’t know where i got it,” he babbles, “but it’s got a note in it, what says there’s some kind of plot, some kind of secret plan, i—it wasn’t me but if they find me with it—”
mary smiles. “shhh,” she soothes. “it’ll be our secret.”
—
“it’ll be our secret,” mary promises the chef, the purse full of belladonna in her hands. i didn’t mean to, he’d blubbered. i didn’t know, i thought it was sage, i thought it was—
“it’ll be our secret,” mary says to the serving boy, taking the purse from him. the queen’s diamonds are in it. her favorite. she’s gone to war for less. i don’t know where it came from, he’d wept. i must have grabbed it by mistake.
“it’ll be our secret,” mary assures the queen’s lady-in-waiting. the purse is heavy with a vial filled with liquid. enough to terminate—oh god—a pregnancy, the girl had whispered, horrified. i must have taken it from her bathroom, thinking it was mine, i…if she knows…
our secret, mary promises, smiling, smiling. they thank her. they give the purse back, and give it back, and give it back.
—
mary eats well. her mother sells the diamonds mary gave her—“a gift,” she says, smiling, smiling—and their roof is thatched, their clothing mended. they buy a cow.
mary holds onto the vial. she knows better than to waste opportunities on frivolous purchases.
“are you proud of me, father?” mary asks, and her father says, “yes.”
—
“so you’re ugly mary,” says the queen, looking at her.
mary nods. smiles. mary is not as bitter as her name.
the king laughs, loud and booming. the king is not a beautiful man, but beneath the glitter of his crown it’s hard to see. he hides his ugliness, with thick capes and gold crowns; mary knows better.
“can’t seem to get anyone to say a single word against you,” the king says. “everyone says: you want something done, ask ugly mary.”
“if i can serve you, Majesty,” mary says, curtsying deeply, “it would be my honor.”
“no,” says the queen. the queen is beautiful, and she looks away.
“just to do the cleaning,” the king says, and smiles at her, benign. “nothing like an ugly girl to do the ugly work, eh?”
mary smiles. “indeed, your Majesty,” she says.
—
beautiful women are noticed. you never stop noticing them. they arrest you. they want you to please them, and you want it too.
ugly women are noticed. you never stop noticing them. they arrest you, and you want them to please you. it is not hard to please you. they only have to give you what you think you want.
—
“what i like about you, ugly mary,” says the king, “is that you never make a fuss. i barely realize you’re here.”
that’s not true, mary knows. but she has worked hard to learn how to make it seem as if it is. she is not unnoticed, she is simply unremarkable. surely someone who looks defeated must be defeated.
“aye, Majesty,” she says.
he trails off, fingers running across the bedspread. “what’s this?” he asks, plucking mary’s purse from the sheets. she keeps her eyes on the floor, scrubbing.
one dose before bedtime, the paper reads. the pregnancy will end with blood.
“the pregnancy will end,” the king says aloud. “the pregnancy will—the pregnancy—”
mary looks up. she waits.
the king’s eyes snap to her. “tell no one,” he says, and mary smiles.
“Majesty, it will be our secret,” she promises.
—
father are you proud of me father are you proud father
yes yes yes yes yes
—
the day of the queen’s death, and the death of the king’s brother, mary stays at the castle. she cleans, and waits. she is careful to be in the king’s chamber when he returns, puffy-eyed. drunk.
“ugly mary,” he slurs as she tucks him into bed. “she was too beautiful. she lied. her beauty lied, she—you would never lie.”
mary smiles. she takes a liberty she never has before, and brushes his hair from him face. “never, Majesty,” she promises.
“your ugly face hides a beautiful heart,” he slurs, and mary laughs.
“please don’t tell anyone, majesty,” she teases, and he says, “no mary, no. it’ll be our secret.”
—
you are here, you are alive, you are ugly: they do not know what this means.
—
at the wedding, mary does not try to look beautiful. she dresses simply. they love her for it, ugly mary with the beautiful heart.
the chef weeps, the serving boy weeps, the errands boy weeps, the lady-in-waiting weeps. ugly mary has been so kind to them. ugly mary keeps their secrets.
they stand at the altar, mary and her king, her simple king. he looks at her and smiles, so fond, so trusting, so sure. a woman like ugly mary could never betray him. a woman like ugly mary is surely so grateful. gratitude is loyalty. gratitude keeps your secrets.
mary smiles.
Okay, remember when there was a lot of criticism about the lack of PoC in Agent Carter, and remember when everyone was freaking out about how that might mean it doesn't’ get renewed?
And you see now how it’s renewed?
It’s time to own the ‘it’ll get better in season 2′ and ‘give season 2 a chance if we get one’ and every time we suggested that folks who wanted better representation in that show should wait.
Start talking about it now. Start writing to the network now, and the writers, and get the word out there.
We’re SO EXCITED about Season 2, and we can’t wait to see a lot more diversity. Where’s Jim Morita? Where’s Gabe Jones? Where are plots dealing with racial issues in the era? Where are all the women of color? It’s NEW YORK CITY, FFS. By both actual reality and comics canon, the show is about 8000% too white.
SEASON TWO IS A LOCK, SO LET’S START ASKING FOR EVERYTHING WE SAID WE WERE WAITING FOR.
Push. Push hard. Because a LOT of us told the women of color who complained about the lack of intersectionaliity to wait.
The wait is over.
Does anyone know who we should be directing our communications to? Is there a specific twitter, or e-mail that’s best for this cause? I’ll shout it into the void, if I have to, but so much the better to shout in the right direction.
http://abc.go.com/feedback here’s where you can leave feedback that will go to abc https://twitter.com/agentcartertv and this is the official twitter
My son, who is 4, and I were walking along the street today and saw a man with his left leg amputated beneath the knee. My son spun around and looked at him, then said to me, “That man lost his leg! What happened?”
I said I didn’t know exactly, but sometimes people lost arms or legs through accidents or didn’t have them for other reasons.
My son instantly said, “Gobber (from How to Train Your Dragon) lost his arm AND his leg and now he has to use tools in their places!”
I kind of collected my jaw and said, “That’s right, and that man is just like Gobber. There’s a special word we use for those kinds of tools. It’s ‘prosthetics’.”
“Prosthetics,” said my son, with satisfaction, and on we went without any further discussion about it.
But then we got on the bus, and there was a young black woman with her hair pulled back in a big floofy afro ponytail, and my son, who has seen the trailers for the new Annie movie, said, in delight, “She has hair like Annie’s!”
Representation matters.
Reblogging because, yes it does. And because this post is a great example of why representation matters not only to the people seeing themselves represented in movies books etc. but also for everyone else.
B4 u say that you don’t want that same-sex pair on tv to be a couple because platonic relationships are underrepresented
I want you to hear me out on an idea SO outrageous that it might just work
A character
Could be in a romantic/sexual relationship with a character of the same sex
AND
Be in a platonic relationship with a DIFFERENT character, also of the same sex!
GAY PEOPLE WITH FRIENDS: THE RADICAL PLAN
WOAH SLOW DOWN THERE MCPROGRESSIVEPANTS
Reblog this post if you’re comfortable with transgender people using the bathroom that best matches their gender identity.
As long as they flush.
And wash their hands
And goddamn I don’t care who you are just put the toilet seat down when you’re done
lettuceiscurrentlyinmyasshole:
It could happen to anyone. People bury a person alive to scare them or to get rid of them. In this situation, rely only on yourself.
- Do not waste oxygen. In a classic coffin there’s only enough oxygen for about an hour, maybe two. Inhale deeply, exhale very slowly. Once inhaled - do not swallow, or you will start to hyperventilate. Do not light up lighters or matches, they will waste oxygen. Using a flashlight is allowed. Screaming increases anxiety, which causes increased heartbeat and therefore - waste of oxygen. So don’t scream.
- Shake up the lid with your hands. In some cheap low-quality coffins you will be able to even make a hole (with an engagement ring or a belt buckle.)
- Cross your arms over your chest, holding onto your shoulders with your hands, and pull the shirt off upward. Tie it in a knot above your head, like so:
This will prevent you from suffocating when the dirt falls on your face.
- Kick the lid with your legs. In some cheap coffins the lid is broken or damaged already after being buried, due to the weight of the ground above it.
- As soon as the lid breaks, throw and move the dirt that falls through in the direction of your feet. When it takes up a lot of space, try pressing the ground to the sides of the coffin with your legs and feet. Move around a bit.
- Whatever you do - your main goal is to sit up: dirt will fill up the empty space and move to your advantage, so no matter what - do not stop and try breathing steadily and calmly.
- Get up. Remember: the dirt in the grave is very loose, so battling your way up will be easier than it seems. It’s the other way around during a rainy weather however, since water makes dirt heavy and sticky.
JUST TO PROVE TUMBLR HAS A SURVIVAL GUIDE FOR FUCKING EVERYTHING.
just in case guys
it could happen to anyone
WHERE WAS THIS WHEN I NEEDED IT
Wow tumblr, just wow.
*whispers* if Shakespeare could pass the bechdel test despite writing in an inherently patriarchal and routinely misogynistic society then you, modern day writers, have literally no excuse
you know what, forget a black widow movie, i don’t want a fucking black widow movie, what a want is a R Rated Black Widow Netflix series. that’s what i want
being a multifandom blog means that there will be times when you forget that you have multiple fandoms and spend 2 hours blogging about one thing
Medicating Women’s Feelings - NYTimes.com
OMG!!!!
(via lovesugartits)
I blame my baby boomer parents for my intense cheapness
when I’m in the checkout at the grocery store and watching the total go up, I start having anxiety. like I can feel my heart start to beat faster and my hands get sweaty and I get nauseated
spending money literally makes me sick
I wish this was an exaggeration but it’s not
This resonates with me so hard. Even when I HAVE money to spend and I’m not being irresponsible, I still feel like shit spending it.
Ya’ll have problems
yeah as it turns out, living with financial instability can have some side effects
it’s probably nice to never get scared or anxious when you spend money.
ALLLLL of this
Dear Baby Boomer Generation:
You know, we try really hard not to hate you. Really hard. You’re my parents’ generation, you know? And I fucking love my parents.
But your generation really needs to learn to shut up and take a good, hard look at yourselves.
Today, I tried to get advice in a civil, polite and educated manner about a situation in which one is trying to juggle work and uni. I wanted to know how one could navigate the narrow criteria to qualify for youth payments from the government. And while some people were helpful, some were outright disgusting. All they could say is “KIDS THESE DAYS ARE SO SELFISH/LAZY/ETC MAYBE YOU SHOULD SPEND LESS TIME ON YOUR SOCIAL LIFE.”
Okay, firstly–if I ask you for advice and that is your response, which, by the way, I CAN DO ABSOLUTELY NOTHING WITH, how about you shut the fuck up?
Secondly, are you seriously fucking saying that every single person in my generation doesn’t work hard? You’re saying that to me? I’m a DIRECTOR at the age of 24 in an organisation with over 200 employees. I have two degrees. I work, intern, study, and volunteer, and the first thing that gets put aside when I’m busy is my social life. And you know what that results in? A FUCKING LOT OF CRYING AND PANICKING AND PSYCHOLOGIST APPOINTMENTS. I have a great resume and references, but do you know how much I paid for that in terms of my own fucking sanity?? A FEW FUCKING THOUSAND DOLLARS IN TEARS, THANK YOU.
Thirdly, let’s talk about how the average burn-out rate in my youth organisation is 7 months. 7 months, and these are kids who volunteer, as well as study at uni or school, work and pay their own rent, utilities and bills, and are under the age of 22, in most cases.
My 21 year old director messaged me today to tell me she wasn’t coming in because had a mental break and panic attack last night, and she’s only been in the role for 3 months.
My 24 year old best friend had a nervous breakdown last month because of the stress of her workload, working full time at EY and studying 1 unit of uni.
My 25 year old ex-boyfriend and I split up because he didn’t have the time or mental capacity for a long distance relationship on top of his 60 hour graduate working week in construction management and 2 units of uni.
I had a meltdown last year at 23 because I was handling full time uni, and internship and volunteering. I can’t get a job despite testing within the top 15th percentile of graduates because you’re not creating them.
I went for a meeting at one of the biggest financial management organisations in Australia the other day and was told that the 9-5 job was a lie, that you’re expected to work more, and not be paid for overtime.
Our generation works our fucking asses off. You take advantage of us all the fucking time. We’re the first generation to be less wealthy than our parents because you guys fucked off with the economic boom of the early 2000s and left us with nothing. By 24-34, we’re only 48% likely to own our own homes compared to your 61%, because of your unsustainable housing market boom. On that note, did I mention that although average wage has rise by 27%, average housing prices have risen by 121%? Yep. My parents bought my house for ~$200,000 in 1990. In 2015, it’s valued at $750,000. Also, you are now making us pay for our university degrees when you got them for free, and not only that, but according to the Governments’ changes in tax law and war on universities in the past year, it will now take us twice as long to pay off our university debts. We’re the first generation of tertiary-educated Australians in history who will start work already in debt because of our university degrees.
Your generation is the one that has been labelled as the ones with the obsession with “instant gratification, a tendency for poor planning, and a sense of materialism”. We’re the offspring of you, the most divorced generation in history.
You hate us, but we’re a generation who grew up with war, with terrorism, with fear and conflict and murder and the aftereffects of capitalist bloodshed on our screens every day. We’re watching society fall down around our ears. My International Security professor told us last year that there will be kids entering high school soon who have never seen a year of peace in their lives.
We’re the ones who have been saddled with the mistakes you’ve made. We’re the ones who are holding on to each other despite our differences and telling each other it’s okay to be who we are, whether we’re gay or straight or black or white. Who are trying to save the environment, who are trying to solve your wars and find homes for the asylum seekers you’ve created, who are trying to cure poverty and wage inequality and food distribution, who run your social impact teams, who volunteer, who study courses that are going to change the world, who give back to society, who travel, all the while building our character strengths and portfolios so that we fit into the dumb as fuck capitalist world you made - and all you can say is that we’re lazy?
FUCK you.
As someone with two degrees and working two demanding jobs and still not pulling in enough to live on each month, this speaks to me, even across the ocean.
Amen.
Speaking as an eighteen year old whose parents were crippled by the economic crash, I feel this. I scored 2190 on my SATs, I get As, I take massive class loads, I am getting my Associates this year, and I am considered very intelligent. I have a talent for medicine and I want to work in an ER as a doctor. I work myself into an insomnia ridden, panicky mess every single semester and it’s sure as fuck not helping to pay for my undergrad education, and it’s goddamn well not paying for med school.
-Jean vests are your best friend they keep you cool and cover your chest.
-Drink large amounts of water. Layers means heat and dehydration.
-If your binder is showing under your tank top, nobody cares. They’ll probably assume its an undershirt or none of their business.
-This wont be forever. One day you will never have to bind again and you’ll be able to swim, run, and wear what ever you want. Keep on keeping on.
Please stay safe in the summer, be careful of over heating. Know your body enough to know when you can and can’t bind.
“What’s stopping you from-”
Money.
Money is what is stopping me. It is what is stopping everyone my age.
So please stop asking that stupid fucking question when you already know the answer and help us do something about it.
All you insufferable hipsters and professional malcontents who are too cool to vote because you think it makes no difference can look up what just happened in Alberta and then officially kiss my Canadian ass. The most conservative province in the entire country just broke a 44 year record of electing conservatives and just now elected a solid socialist majority instead. This is like Texas, Mississippi, and Oklahoma all voting for Bernie Sanders. The conservatives came in at a distant third place and effectively have no power now after holding onto it for nearly half a century. The political reality of all of Canada has changed with one election. If that doesn’t motivate you to get off your lazy ass and vote, then you deserve whatever government your grandparents pick for you.
YES
Reblogging this for my new followers! My ask is always open!!
SCIENCE HAS CONFIRMED THAT DOGS LOVE US BACK BECAUSE THEY GET THE SAME RUSH OF OXYTOCIN WHEN THEY LOOK AT US THAT WE GET WHEN WE LOOK AT THEM
Are you telling me that dogs are looking up to us and think “omg what an adorable fucking cutiepie”?
a while ago I read an article about how dogs love us back, but recognize that we’re different from them, while cats see us as bigger and clumsier than them, but do not consider us different
Dogs: I am fuzzy creature and you are a different adorable creature and I love you!!!!!
Cats: I am lanky and graceful and you are a giant fucktard
oh yeah and i can’t believe it’s taken me this long to bring this up but i’m absolutely not here for people shading the “american girl today”/”my american girl” line because
- the line literally enables girls to create a doll that looks like them
- including a wide array of non-white skin tones and non-european features
- like black dolls with curly and textured hair
- or asian dolls that appear to have epicanthic folds
- and they’ve also released accessories like doll-sized wheelchairs, hearing aids, and crutches so that girls who aren’t able-bodied or are hard of hearing can have a little friend who shares their experiences
- and they’ve even begun to offer dolls without hair for little girls who have alopecia or have lost hair while battling cancer
- and basically if you don’t think that’s the tightest shit then get out of my face
Also: SERVICE DOGS.
IT’S SO CUTE IT EVEN HAS TRAINING TREATS. You go American Girl.
They also consulted the Nez Pierce when making their Kaya doll and that’s why her smile doesn’t show teeth, among other things, and they’ve released some beautiful, and accurate, modern Powwow regalia for her.
Also they’ve been offering all this stuff since I was still getting the catalog. I just turned 29, so if I’m going to guess, that means they’ve been offering these options since at least 1996ish.
it’s wild how america is basically a dystopia but we’re conditioned almost immediately upon starting school to believe that it’s not and that it’s the pinnacle of freedom
i mean, that in itself is kind of the hallmark of a dystopian nation
Dear uterus,
I’m as thrilled as you are that I’m not pregnant but let’s chill the fuck out.
