![blue-dad:
“ []if you Reblog this in 69 seconds Halloween will be x2 as good if no Reblog No more dank spoopyness in Halloween Reblog to save lives[]
”](http://68.media.tumblr.com/6aeed23f8bc3c5ac645a8ba605960fb6/tumblr_nu8b7bHkLl1uw1o7yo1_400.gif)
[video]
[]if you Reblog this in 69 seconds Halloween will be x2 as good if no Reblog No more dank spoopyness in Halloween Reblog to save lives[]
(via yea-lets-do-this-shit)
Hey there! It’s been one week, almost to the hour, since I found out my chair was stolen. In that time, the Internet has been pouring support on me. The YouCaring fundraiser has hit $4,087 dollars, over a thousand dollars past the original goal. I’ve got over three hundred messages of support sitting in my inbox from all over the world.
And on Friday, I was measured for a new chair.
This has all been amazing, and I’m incredibly grateful for the kind of charity and love I’ve experienced. I am incredibly fortunate to have received it.
Let’s see if we can make it happen again.
Mackenzie McCullough is a teenager from Washington, and she’s got a huge list of diagnoses, the only one of which I can even spell is Ehler-Danlos Syndrome. The current chair she has is an absolute clunker, and she can’t make it move at all, rendering her immobile. She needs a new one, badly, but insurance can’t help.
Maybe we can. A family friend of hers reached out to me with the link to her GoFundMe, asking if I could help. I figure that this is maybe what part of this blog can become- a place to help direct all the goodwill I’ve received towards other people who need it.
Please, if you can help, do so, and if not, signal boost. Let’s give a kid back her life. #wheelsformackenzie
(via bronzedragon)
Do you think seventh years at Hogwarts have a muck-up day? On the last day of school, half the students have swapped uniforms, timetables and common room passwords with friends from other houses and are steadfastly insisting to the teachers that “of course I’m in Slytherin, what do you mean I’m a Ravenclaw, you insult me”. Meanwhile, someone’s enchanted suits of armour to act as bodyguards for random first years, who can’t even enter a classroom without a vaguely panicked pile of metal clattering along behind them and leaping on potential attackers. Sir Cadogan has been convinced to battle the Fat Lady for possession of the Gryffindor common room (the Fat Lady is a surprisingly vicious fighter) and nobody can get through the portrait hole. In the spontaneous sleepover that ensues in the Great Hall, a group of over-emotional seventh years huddle together, clutching Butterbeers they’ve smuggled in from Hogsmeade as they sing “Hogwarts Hogwarts Hoggy Warty Hogwarts” one last time.
THIS IS EVERYTHING
(via bronzedragon)
[video]
“
When you are hurting, there will always be people who find a way to make it about themselves. If you break your wrist, they’ll complain about a sprained ankle. If you are sad, they’re sadder. If you’re asking for help, they’ll demand more attention.
Here is a fact: I was in a hospital and sobbing into my palms when a woman approached me and asked why I was making so much noise and I managed to stutter that my best friend shot himself in the head and now he was 100% certified dead and she made this little grunt and had the nerve to tell me, “Well now you made me sad.”
When you get angry, there are going to be people who ask you to shut up and sit down, and they’re not going to do it nicely. Theirs are the faces that turn bright red before you have a chance to finish your sentence. They won’t ask you to explain yourself. They’ll be mad that you’re mad and that will be their whole reason alone.
Here is a fact: I was in an alleyway a few weeks ago, stroking my friend’s back as she vomited fourteen tequila shots. “I hate men,” she wheezed as her sides heaved, “I hate all of them.”
I braided her hair so it wouldn’t get caught in the mess. I didn’t correct her and reply that she does in fact love her father and her little brother too, that there are strangers she has yet to meet that will be better for her than any of her shitty ex-boyfriends, that half of our group of friends identifies as male - I could hear each of her bruises in those words and I didn’t ask her to soften the blow when she was trying to buff them out of her skin. She doesn’t hate all men. She never did.
She had the misfortune to be overheard by a drunk guy in an ill-fitting suit, a boy trying to look like a man and leering down my dress as he stormed towards us. “Fuck you, lady,” he said, “Fuck you. Not all men are evil, you know.”
“Thanks,” I told him dryly, pulling on her hand, trying to get her inside again, “See you.”
He followed us. Wouldn’t stop shouting. How dare she get mad. How dare she was hurting. “It’s hard for me too!” he yowled after us. “With fuckers like you, how’s a guy supposed to live?”
Here’s a fact: my father is Cuban and my genes repeat his. Once one of my teachers looked at my heritage and said, “Your skin doesn’t look dirty enough to be a Mexican.”
When my cheeks grew pink and my tongue dried up, someone else in the classroom stood up. “You can’t say that,” he said, “That’s fucking racist. We could report you for that.”
Our teacher turned vicious. “You wanna fail this class? Go ahead. Report me. I was joking. It’s my word against yours. I hate kids like you. You think you’ve got all the power - you don’t. I do.”
Later that kid and I became close friends and we skipped class to do anything else and the two of us were lying on our backs staring up at the sky and as we talked about that moment, he sighed, “I hate white people.” His girlfriend is white and so is his mom. I reached out until my fingers were resting in the warmth of his palm.
He spoke up each time our teacher said something shitty. He failed the class. I stayed silent. I got the A but I wish that I didn’t.
Here is a fact: I think gender is a social construct and people that want to tell others what defines it just haven’t done their homework. I personally happen to have the luck of the draw and am the same gender as my sex, which basically just means society leaves me alone about this one particular thing.
Until I met Alex, who said he hated cis people. My throat closed up. I’m not good at confrontation. I avoided him because I didn’t want to bother him.
One day I was going on a walk and I found him behind our school, bleeding out of the side of his mouth. The only thing I really know is how to patch people up. He winced when the antibacterial cream went across his new wounds. “I hate cis people,” he said weakly.
I looked at him and pushed his hair back from his head. “I understand why you do.”
Here is a fact: anger is a secondary emotion. Anger is how people stop themselves from hurting. Anger is how people stop themselves by empathizing.
It is easy for the drunken man to be mad at my friend. If he says “Hey, fuck you, lady,” he doesn’t have to worry about what’s so wrong about men.
It’s easy for my teacher to fail the kids who speak up. If we’re just smart-ass students, it’s not his fault we fuck up.
It’s easy for me to hate Alex for labeling me as dangerous when I’ve never hurt someone a day in my life. But I’m safe in my skin and his life is at risk just by going to the bathroom. I understand why he says things like that. I finally do.
There’s a difference between the spread of hatred and the frustration of people who are hurting. The thing is, when you are broken, there will always be someone who says “I’m worse, stop talking.” There will always be people who are mad you’re trying to steal the attention. There will always be people who get mad at the same time as you do - they hate being challenged. It changes the rules.
I say I hate all Mondays but my sister was born on one and she’s the greatest joy I have ever known. I say I hate brown but it’s really just the word and how it turns your mouth down - the colour is my hair and my eyes and my favorite sweater. I say I hate pineapple but I still try it again every Easter, just to see if it stings less this year. It’s okay to be sad when you hear someone generalize a group you’re in. But instead of assuming they’re evil and filled with hatred, maybe ask them why they think that way - who knows, you might just end up with a new and kind friend.
” —By telling the oppressed that their anger is unjustified, you allow the oppression to continue. I know it’s hard to stay calm. I know it’s scary. But you’re coming from the safe place and they aren’t. Just please … Try to be more understanding. /// r.i.d (via inkskinned)
EVERYBODY READ THIS. RIGHT NOW.
(via miriamforster)
Don’t forget the fear. Anger is easier than fear.
(via delilahsdawson)
(via yea-lets-do-this-shit)
10 Reasons to Watch Leverage -
(Source: dailygeekette.wordpress.com, via renew-leverage)
[video]
also that whole tale of aragorn and arwen thing where he saw her in the woods at twenty and fell instantly in love and it’s very beren and luthien? lies.
aragorn decided he was going to marry arwen when he was like, six.
and everyone thought it was just the cutest thing, baby estel with his little crush on the great immortal evenstar, and everyone would tease him about it relentlessly and he would get so mad, and pout, because how dare they doubt his word.
(arwen spent a lot of time biting back smiles and nodding very seriously when aragorn brings this up with her. no, estel, I do not know why they are laughing perhaps they have remembered a particularly funny joke.)
and then aragorn grows into this gangly teen and oh my god can you imagine being a pimply greasy teenager around fucking elves it’s a wonder he has any self-image left. His voice breaks every other word and the laundresses are beginning to wonder if something is wrong with the sheets because estel keeps washing them himself and aragorn wants to die, god, arwen is never going to marry him if he stays all elbows and skinny knees and he can’t even look her in the eye anymore without blushing, eye contact is probably something to look for in a husband–
(arwen, who never had to go through puberty because elves don’t do anything so undignified, tries to comfort him by saying she likes his blemishes. aragorn gives her a look of such utter, miserable despair that she starts laughing.)
(this is a mistake. he spends the next three weeks nursing his wounded ego and refusing to see her.)
estel is twenty when he asks for her hand. he is lean, slender and fair as a new tree, and so arwen does not feel guilt in kissing his cheek and gently refusing. he is still green, he will weather greater storms than this–and he takes it as he should, clasping her hand and swearing to ever be her loyal friend.
they write to each other–when she is in lorien, when he wanders with the rangers of the north, fights alongside gondor, travels to distant lands. it is an inconstant tie–he is rarely afforded time enough to put pen to paper; she is reserved so as not to encourage what may not be. (she signs her letters always, your friend. She likes him too well to be cruel in this.)
the years pass. his weariness and strife creeps onto the page, and she sends him tokens to fend off the darkness–leaves from lothlorien, the ribbon from her hair, snippets of poems. it is not enough it is never enough I am sorry, she writes.
his reply is gentle: you are enough. do not stop writing.
(she carries that letter tucked inside her sleeve for a long while, like a talisman–though against what evil, she does not know.)
she is in the house of her grandmother when a familiar voice calls out to her: my lady luthien!
this is when arwen looks up, sees aragorn–broad of chest and rugged, still wearing his battered mail, with one hand balanced lazily on the pommel of his sword. All the trees of caras galadhon are gold but he is shadow and silver, kingliness resting lightly on his shoulders–
and arwen thinks, oh fuck
Reminder that when Harry James Potter was given more accurate instructions and a competent potions professor he made a perfect batch of an extremely complicated potion on the first try
Which makes sense since his mother was great at potions and the Potters were literally potioneers
But hey Snape did all he could and had to keep up appearances right?
(Source: marisaauntmay, via lupinatic)