20 7 / 2014

gothgirlsgettingmoney:

My least favorite thing is straight men who come into lush and act like it’s a direct attack on their manhood coming up to me like “I’m in here for my girlfriend” ok thanks for confirming your heterosexuality everyone who likes soap is usually gay

(Source: gendertrashfromhell, via lucifers-kittykat)

20 7 / 2014

gabifresh:

take no shit 2014

(Source: gatissed, via rosie-lou)

20 7 / 2014

megachum:

tittily:

my favorite thing about england is that the word pulp doesnt exist 

THIS IS WHAT IM TALKIN ABOUT

megachum:

tittily:

my favorite thing about england is that the word pulp doesnt exist 

THIS IS WHAT IM TALKIN ABOUT

(via aidynb727)

20 7 / 2014

bodypositive-zone:

misssuzyvalentine:

pallet-town-julie-brown:

melleauxmood:

Her name is Taylor Townsend. She’s from Chicago and is only 18 years old. She is a professional tennis player currently playing in the second round of the French Open, one of the four Grand Slams. Not only is tennis a white dominated sport, but it’s a sport that considers it’s average players to be petite and slim.”Last year, the United States Tennis Association wanted to keep her out of the tournament (the junior US Open) because it believed her physical conditioning was lacking, even though she was the top-ranked junior girl in the world. She entered the tournament anyway and reached the quarterfinals.” Taylor is proving them all wrong, and is on the road to win the second round of her first French Open!

Love it!

GO GURL

(via curvesandconfidence)

19 7 / 2014

"I am not a woman. I am an inferno, I am a tempest. I am venom and fangs and claws. I am lightning and starlight, and I am hell in high heels."

19 7 / 2014

19 7 / 2014

girlzwithcurves:

tinyhousedarling:

Boundary Shepards Hut

aw…this is so cute I want one

19 7 / 2014

walkingwithmoonwolves:

This is for all the nights I cried myself to sleep, all the days where I decided to stay in instead of going out. This for the days where I thought I was worthless because of how I look. This is for the people who tormented me and still do. This is for all the people who told me to give up, and die because of how I looked. This is for all the guys who turned me down because they were embarrassed to date a fat girl. This is to the young me who didn’t wanna grow up because of fear it would get worse. This is me now. A girl whos faced a lot in my short life. A girl who’s spent her whole life hating herself. It’s taken me years to really see the true beauty that I am today. I am no longer scared, I am no longer fearful. People and their stares, people and their words don’t hurt me anymore. I am not ashamed of my body. No one should ever be ashamed of their body. I view myself worthy. That I deserve to live. Deserve to be fucking fierce💣💣

(via pumpkinbl00d)

19 7 / 2014

mystic-being:

THIS DOESNT MATCH MY BLOG BUT THIS IS THE REALIST SHIT IVE HEARD SINCE FRIED OREOS

(Source: mindgardens, via thespophile)

19 7 / 2014

papress:

Farming Cuba — A new model for cities and countries facing threats to food security brought on by the end of cheap oil

Following the collapse of the Soviet Union in the early 1990s, Cuba found itself solely responsible for feeding a nation that had grown dependent on imports and trade subsidies. Citizens began growing their own organic produce anywhere they could find space, on rooftops, balconies, vacant lots, and even school playgrounds. By 1998 there were more than 8,000 urban farms in Havana producing nearly half of the country’s vegetables. What began as a grassroots initiative had, in less than a decade, grown into the largest sustainable agriculture initiative ever undertaken, making Cuba the world leader in urban farming. Learn more in Farming Cuba: Urban Agriculture from the Ground Up, by Carey Clouse, available now from PAPress.

(via tinyhousedarling)

19 7 / 2014

19 7 / 2014

opulentjoy:

Opalized Wood. Super Bright pinfire colors running through natural ironstone. 120 Million Years old Wood. 49.17 Grams

opulentjoy:

Opalized Wood. Super Bright pinfire colors running through natural ironstone. 120 Million Years old Wood.

49.17 Grams

(via beautifultwistedsimplicity)

19 7 / 2014

"

I could talk about the PE teacher in my town who was asked to resign due to his harassment of female students, who was then hired as a school bus driver for a rural route with both primary and high school students. I could talk about how, from the age of seven, I refused to wear skirts or dresses, and from the time I entered high school at 10 to when I moved at 16 I always wore bike shorts or CCC shorts under my dress, because he was not particularly subtle about the way he looked at us – and those bus steps are high. I could talk about how this was common knowledge and was never denied by any authority figure we ever raised it with, but rather we were just kind of brushed off. I could talk about how, sometimes, I was the last person on my bus in the afternoon and I was never quite sure if something bad would happen to me, even though for a long time I probably couldn’t have articulated what it was that I feared.

I could talk about how I spent ten years of my childhood believing it was perfectly normal and acceptable for a seven year old child to stop wearing her favourite clothes because a grown man she relies on to get to and from school from a relatively remote location gets a thrill from looking up her skirt.

I could talk about the art teacher at my high school who used to run his hands up and down our backs, right along the spot where your bra sits. Considering most of us were fairly new to wearing bras in the first place, this was a decidedly uncomfortable experience. I could talk about how he used to get just a little too close for comfort in the supply room. Nothing overt, nothing nameable – just enough to make you drag someone else along with you if you needed a fresh piece of paper or you ran out of ink. I could talk about how the odd comment or complaint that was made was completely handwaved, that we were told to be very careful about what we were saying, that we could get someone in a lot of trouble by “starting those kinds of rumours”, and did we really want to be responsible for that?

I could talk about the first time I was made to feel ashamed of my body, at twelve or thirteen, getting into a water fight with my stepfather and uncle in the height of summer. I could talk about my grandmother completely flipping out, talking about how disgusting it was, how grown men should be ashamed of the way they were behaving with a girl. I could talk about how she then spent the next few hours trying to convince me I was being somehow victimised, while I was mostly confused about what had taken place – it took me a long time to work it out. I could talk about the unvoiced but ever-present fear for months afterwards that my grandma would bring it up again, that she would bring it up in the wrong place or to the wrong people and that my uncle, a schoolteacher, would suffer for it.

I could talk about how that destroyed what had been a fantastic relationship with my uncle, and how, ten years later, he still won’t hug me at Christmas.

I could talk about being called a frigid bitch and a slut in the same breath in high school. I could talk about multiple instances of sitting in a big group of friends, hearing someone trying to get into someone else’s pants, starting off sweet enough but quickly descending into emotional manipulation and thinly veiled abuse. I could talk about the time I went off with someone willingly enough and being followed by someone I considered a friend, someone who would not leave no matter how many times I said “no”, who only went away when the person I was with said that he “didn’t feel like sharing”.

I could talk about the family friend who always made me feel a little bit off for no discernible reason. The one who if I was left alone in the room with him, I would always find an excuse to leave. The one time I expressed this, I was told I was being a drama queen, and that I needed to grow up and stop being so precious, that one day I was going to have to deal with people I didn’t like and I might as well get used to it. I could talk about how he never did anything untoward, never gave me any specific reason to feel unsafe – but years after I last saw him, when he was found guilty of four historical sexual assault charges, one of rape and three of indecent assault on girls under twelve, I was, for reasons I still don’t entirely understand, completely unsurprised.

I could talk about my boyfriend justifying his rape of me with “you could have fought me off if you really wanted you, you slut”. I could talk about how, when I tried to tell people, I was told I was being a nasty, spiteful, vindictive bitch. I could talk about how selfish it was of me to say such things, that he’d overcome such a hard life and was going to go on and make something of himself, who the hell was I to try and stand in his way?

I could talk about how my response to being raped was to sleep with anyone and everyone because I rationalised that if I never said no, then no one could force me. I could talk about how I have been told time and time again, by people who should know better, that this is a sign that I wasn’t really raped at all.

I could talk about how, when I finally worked up the courage to make a formal complaint of sexual harassment against my boss, I was asked why I had let it continue for so long, and what I had done to make him think his behaviour would be welcomed.

I could talk about how when a much later boss got me completely wasted at my leaving party, to the point where I couldn’t walk, and fucked me in a back alley, he waited until I was sober the next morning to tell me that he had a pregnant wife, because he heard through the grapevine that I was very strict about not sleeping with married people or straight women, and he thought I should “learn my place” and realise that I’m “not such a high and mighty bitch with a moral high ground after all”.

I could talk about these things, but I very rarely do. Since I was seven years old, I have been told that my body is not my own, that my consent is not my own, that my feelings of discomfort are not my own. I have taught myself to suppress my gut instinct upon meeting people. I have been taught to smile, to be polite, to suck it up if I feel unsafe. When I complain, I have been told I’m being irrational, oversensitive, and selfish. The underlying message is, how dare I try and ascertain any kind of control over my own body?

I should talk about it. But I don’t actually know whether I can.

"

An anonymous guest post on The Lady Garden. This is the reality for so many women. #YesAllWomen (via takealookatyourlife)

(Source: youtastelike-sunlight, via livingrosencrantz)

06 7 / 2014

"

I’ve always been a fat girl, I was a fat girl, I’m a fat woman. And my Dad saw me going out to a party once, and I was wearing hot pants, purple hot pants, really ill advised. And I was about to leave the house, and my dad saw me, so he called me in and asked me to sit down.

And I thought, “Euh, I’m going to get ‘The Talk’ now, the “get home early” talk.

But he said, “Okay, you’re wearing very short shorts”, and I said, “Yeah, that’s what you do”, like ‘you’re the fool’.

And he said: “Yeah, well, wearing those shorts they way you are is going to attract a lot of attention, from a lot of men.” So that slightly dumbfounded me. And then he said, “Listen, you deserve all of that attention, because you are a beautiful princess. You are the most beautiful girl at that party and you deserve that attention. But, because you are the most beautiful girl there, you must the choose the right boy. Do not give your attention to the wrong boy.

And never, never, think yourself other than absolutely fantastic.

So I went out that night feeling like a Queen, and I didn’t talk to any boys, because they didn’t deserve me.

"

Dawn French (via james-winston)

This is how I shall parent my daughter

(via raymondradioactive)

(via pearlsnapbutton)

06 7 / 2014

stuffmomnevertoldyou:

thispopculture:

imwithkanye:

Floating On Cloud Nine. The cast of Orange Is the New Black at the New York City Gay Pride Parade.

Photos: Getty

Imagine seeing this IRL.

as if you couldn’t love OITNB any more…

(via face--the--strange)