what if the world just walked away?

faye | 21 | florida | about me
literature; LGBT activism; gender/race activism; twin peaks; film; occasional whiny gifs because i have issues communicating about my problems; etc.

http://buffydaae.tumblr.com/post/96543800009/phantomgaga-people-on-tumblr-are-always

buffydaae:

phantomgaga:

People on tumblr are always complaining about female scandals ending said female’s career, and while that may still be true in some cases, remember that Cee-Lo Green’s rape comments made him lose his cable reality show, and following a lawsuit now has 3 years of probation.

Are…

humansofnewyork:

She said she wanted to be a pilot, and when I asked why, she spoke two words. My translator said: “She says, something like: ‘I want to be able to control myself in the air.’”"But what exactly did she say?" I asked.“‘Kuar Nhial,’ he answered. ‘It means: ‘I’ll be the leader of the air.’”(Tongping Internally Displaced Persons Site, Juba, South Sudan)

humansofnewyork:

She said she wanted to be a pilot, and when I asked why, she spoke two words. My translator said: “She says, something like: ‘I want to be able to control myself in the air.’”
"But what exactly did she say?" I asked.
“‘Kuar Nhial,’ he answered. ‘It means: ‘I’ll be the leader of the air.’”

(Tongping Internally Displaced Persons Site, Juba, South Sudan)

“Then, in a more humane tone, he asked if anyone knew the reason for the suicide. Dr. Urbino answered: “Gerontophobia,” the proper word although he thought he had just invented it. Dr. Olivella, attentive to the guests who were sitting closest to him, stopped listening to them for a moment to take part in his teacher’s conversation. He said: “It is a pity to still find a suicide that is not for love.” Dr. Urbino was not surprised to recognize his own thoughts in those of his favorite disciple.”

—   Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Love in the Time of Cholera (via talesofpassingtime)

micdotcom:

Vile photos show the crisis at the U.S.-Mexico border no one is talking about

With a spate of huge stories breaking in the past few weeks, you might not have caught the massive environmental crisis in northern Mexico that began earlier in August.

According to the Associated Press, local politicians claim that Grupo Mexico, a private mining company in Sonora with a troubling track record of hazardous waste violations in Mexico and the U.S., was slow to report a disastrous fault in its leaching ponds, which hold industrial acid used in the mining process. The spill released around 10 million gallons of acid into the Bacanuchi and Sonora Rivers.

20,000 people were without water | Follow micdotcom 

(via randomaniacfilm)

randompandemonium:

soprie:

actionables:

hmm, yoga is kind of girly #nohomo let’s rename it so it sounds manlier and make it just for the bros for the bros only

WHY DO MEN NEED TO REBRAND EVERYTHING TOUCHED BY WOMEN?
SIT DOWN AND EAT YOUR YOGURT AND SALAD AND DO YOUR YOGA

FOLLOW UP YOUR INTENSE BROGA SESSION WITH SOME BROGURT AND A BRAH-LAD

randompandemonium:

soprie:

actionables:

hmm, yoga is kind of girly #nohomo
let’s rename it so it sounds manlier and make it just for the bros
for the bros only

WHY DO MEN NEED TO REBRAND EVERYTHING TOUCHED BY WOMEN?

SIT DOWN AND EAT YOUR YOGURT AND SALAD AND DO YOUR YOGA

FOLLOW UP YOUR INTENSE BROGA SESSION WITH SOME BROGURT AND A BRAH-LAD

(via destroyingangels)

intrusiveproductions:

So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.- F. Scott Fitzgerald
We shall not cease from exploration, and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.- T. S. Eliot

intrusiveproductions:

So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.- F. Scott Fitzgerald

We shall not cease from exploration, and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.- T. S. Eliot

“Well, first she says No no no, and then she says Yes."
“But then she says No no again.”

—   The Bell Jar, Sylvia Plath

“Piece by piece, I fed my wardrobe to the night wind, and flutteringly, like a loved one’s ashes, the gray scraps were ferried off, to settle here, there, exactly where I would never know, in the dark heart of New York.”

—   The Bell Jar, Sylvia Plath

“I began to see why woman-haters could make such fools of women. Woman-haters were like gods: invulnerable and chock-full of power. They descended, and then they disappeared. You could never catch one.”

—   The Bell Jar, Sylvia Plath

“If neurotic is wanting two mutually exclusive things at one and the same time, then I’m neurotic as hell. I’ll be flying back and forth between one mutually exclusive thing and another for the rest of my days.”

—   The Bell Jar, Sylvia Plath

“I couldn’t stand the idea of a woman having to have a single pure life and a man being able to have a double life, one pure and one not.”

—   The Bell Jar, Sylvia Plath

“The trouble was, I hated the idea of serving men in any way.”

—   The Bell Jar, Sylvia Plath

“I thought how strange it had never occurred to me before that I was only purely happy until I was nine years old.”

—   The Bell Jar, Sylvia Plath

“I thought it sounded just like the sort of drug a man would invent. Here was a woman in terrible pain, obviously feeling every bit of it or she wouldn’t groan like that, and she would go straight home and start another baby, because the drug would make her forget how bad the pain had been, when, all the time, in some secret part of her, that long, blind, doorless and windowless corridor of pain was waiting to open up and shut her in again.”

—   The Bell Jar, Sylvia Plath

“I remember the day he smiled at me and said, “Do you know what a poem is, Esther?”
“No, what?” I said.
“A piece of dust.” And he looked so proud of having thought of this that I just stared at his blond hair and his blue eyes and his white teeth—he had very long, strong white teeth—and said, “I guess so.”
It was only in the middle of New York a whole year later that I finally thought of an answer to that remark.”

—   The Bell Jar, Sylvia Plath