Sentimental Carp
Talk fandom to me!
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Mignon Clyburn has become the first woman to lead the Federal Communications Commission. She took over as acting chair at 12:01 a.m. on Saturday...
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I don’t want to be a feminist anymore. Like a five-year-old, I want to close my eyes, stick my fingers in my ears, stomp my feet on the floor and...
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Look, if you nicely tell me that swearing makes you uncomfortable and you politely ask me not to, I will stop immediately and speak...
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literally no one thinks that a character being trans changes their personality except cis people. they keep pretending this happens...
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True love, intestinal distress, it’s a fine line.
(via unicornvamp3z)
I’m never gonna stop reblogging this. It makes me so damn happy.
YAYAYAYAYAYAAYAYAYYAy
(via unicornvamp3z)
I need feminism because today I was going to buy this t-shirt from the men’s section of a clothing store. The shop assistant tried to take it from me because “it’s a men’s t-shirt. It isn’t made for female bodies.” I said that I had tried it on and liked it, so I wanted to buy it. A group of nearby middle-aged men then started scoffing, and one said, “you don’t want to buy that shirt anyway. It gives men the wrong impression.” What wrong impression? What? Just let me buy the damn shirt without making me feel like I’m doing something wrong as a woman just because I wear men’s t-shirts. I don’t need or want your comments. (men’s t-shirts are usually cooler than women’s t-shirts anyway.)
(via jcatgrl)
I knew y’all would have a gif set of this by morning.
Truth.
[made rebloggable by request]
no but like
there’s a seraph who sleeps in the pews of the city’s churches because it’s the only place she feels comfortable stretching out her wings, feathers nearly blocking out the stained glass windows. At night, the prayers embedded in the stonework whisper to her, a litany of please and help and need, as inexorable and unceasing as the rattle of the subway beneath her.
and there’s an angel of the third sphere who plays pickup basketball with a young prophet—a young man who walks through metal detectors each morning to get to a high school where only fifty percent will graduate, but loves calculus and singing in church every Sunday. “Your jump shot’s insane, man,” the saint-to-be laughs, clapping the angel on the back, right between the wings. And the angel, who can see how the light catches on the young man’s halo, laughs too.
and there are ophanim sitting on the girders of half-built skyscrapers, unafraid of falling; passing sandwiches and thermoses of campbell’s soup between them, speaking in tongues about the traffic on I-90 and last night’s Bears game.
and Israfel sneaks away from celestial choir practice to attend concerts in the park, but he usually ends up absently sketching equations modeling the wavelengths into the grass. There’s an adjunct mathematics professor who sometimes attends, and afterwards they discuss hyperharmonic series in the gathering dusk.
angels in the public libraries, reading children’s books and touching the illustrations with just their fingertips, like beholding a sacred text.
angels moving along the cracks in the pavement and between the alleyways; going without fear into the worst neighborhoods, because they have walked in the valley of death and fear no evil—not even the mastery of it that humanity demonstrates through abject poverty, ignorance, social immobility.
angels glaring at potholes and rolling their eyes at delays (the work of the Deceiver, no doubt) and running to catch a subway that goes not even a hairsbreadth of the speed their wings could carry them.
angels looking up at the statues made in their image, grey forms on grey pedestals with granite wings, and snickering to themselves. (The artist missed a few hundred eyes, they think; mouths and limbs and grace and song and fire and flight—)
but then they gaze up at the brutalist skyscrapers with windows reflecting the flame-colored sunset and low-hanging exhaust, spindly radio towers forming a winking blue halo if you crane your neck just so. And the angels think maybe the humans caught a glimpse of the divine after all.
~*~urban angels~*~~
(via jcatgrl)
(via jcatgrl)
Most people at the con didn’t notice him, he just walked around, sweeping things.
aww :D
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“I’m Scruffy. The janitor.”
and this is a testament to how shitty we treat janitors: we just don’t even see them, we just assume they’ll pick up our stuff as quietly and nonobtrusively as possible.
I wonder how many people were rude to him, all like, “BY THE WAY YOU NEED TO FIX THE BATHROOM BETTER”
(via ninox-ios)
(via auroratorealis)
Following his release from Guantanamo Bay, Sami Al-Hajj, a (former) Guantanamo Bay detainee, dashes towards his eight year old son Mohammad and swoops him up in his arms, hugging him and planting tender kisses on his face in their first reunion after seven years.
After being imprisoned in Guantanamo Bay for seven years, during which he was repeatedly interrogated and tortured, including being physically, sexually, and psychologically abused, Al Hajj was released without any charges held against him.
Al Hajj, a journalist for the Al Jazeera network, was arrested in Pakistan in 2001 while on his way to do camerawork for the network concerning the war that had recently broken out in Afghanistan. It has been speculated by both Al Hajj’s lawyer, Clive Stafford Smith, and Reporters Without Borders that the main reason that he was incarcerated for so long was due to the US Miliary’s desire to make him an informant against Al Jazeera, as most of Al Hajj’s interrogations consisted of American interrogators questioning him about the (Al Jazeera) network.
While in Guantanamo, Al Hajj wrote a poem titled Humiliated in Shackles to his son Mohammad:
When I heard pigeons cooing in the trees,
Hot tears covered my face.When the lark chirped, my thoughts composed
A message for my son.Mohammad, I am afflicted.
In my despair, I have no one but Allah for comfort.The oppressors are playing with me,
As they move freely around the world.They ask me to spy on my countrymen,
Claiming it would be a good deed.They offer me money and land,
And freedom to go where I please.Their temptations seize
My attention like lightning in the sky.But their gift is an empty snake,
Carrying hypocrisy in its mouth like venom,They have monuments to liberty
And freedom of opinion, which is well and good.But I explained to them that
Architecture is not justice.America, you ride on the backs of orphans,
And terrorize them daily.Bush, beware.
The world recognizes an arrogant liar.To Allah I direct my grievance and my tears.
I am homesick and oppressed.Mohammad, do not forget me.
Support the cause of your father, a God-fearing man.I was humiliated in the shackles.
How can I now compose verses? How can I now write?After the shackles and the nights and the suffering and the tears,
How can I write poetry?My soul is like a roiling sea, stirred by anguish,
Violent with passion.I am a captive, but the crimes are my captors’.
I am overwhelmed with apprehension.Lord, unite me with my son Mohammad.
Lord, grant success to the righteous.And yet, there still remain many more innocent Afghan & Pakistani men imprisoned at Guantanamo.
‘Architecture is not justice.’
Jesus.
(via ninox-ios)
