My first love
was some insignificant boy
when it should have been
myself.

Michelle K., First Love. (via michellekpoems)
Hemos llegado a Granada!  (en Alhambra)

Hemos llegado a Granada! (en Alhambra)

chilled:

*throws lamp at you* you need to lighten the fuck up

(Source: oh-good-life)

Me at family gatherings

(Source: leoonemoretime)

nippletowns:

when someone suprises you with a picture and you actually look good

image

(Source: dveon)

A picture I didn’t sneak so well of this girl’s bag on the metro: “Well, the #patriarchy isn’t going to fuck itself” 🙌🙌🙌 PREACH

A picture I didn’t sneak so well of this girl’s bag on the metro: “Well, the #patriarchy isn’t going to fuck itself” 🙌🙌🙌 PREACH

It’s not what it looks like… #semanasanta #spain ready for the creepy processions in Granada over the next few days!

It’s not what it looks like… #semanasanta #spain ready for the creepy processions in Granada over the next few days!

[willow smith — i am me]

(Source: chronicallyannoyed)

reine-de-sirene:

guy:

image

my stripper chicken dances perfectly with this song

it really does

This brightened my day

grandma: DO YOU WANT AN APPLE
me: no thanks grandma
grandma: HERES YOUR APPLE

(Source: lonewolfed)

You’re drunk in a bathtub
with a red cup full of Birthday Cake flavored vodka
wearing a headdress
made of neon Dollar Store chicken feathers.
You’re half naked in a grassy field
with drugstore lipstick smeared under your eyes
dropping acid
and wearing moccasins from Urban Outfitters.
You can’t wait for Coachella
so you can finally smoke a peace pipe in a tepee
and find your Spirit Animal.
You think Native American culture is so beautiful
and clumsily show it with your
hashtags on tumblr and Instagram.
But when actual Indigenous people tell you that
Gypsy, Squaw and Red Injun are all racist slurs
Headdresses are sacred
and war paint on your white face is insulting
You say
“I’m just appreciating your beautiful culture!
I’m 1/16th Cherokee.”
Ignoring the fact that running around
naked in the woods on shrooms
will not connect you with any tribe
and that your great great great great grandmother
along with the rest of the Cherokee people
never wore headdresses.

"1/16th Cherokee" by sumblr (via calamityjaneporter)

(Source: ursulamisandress)

When I was seventeen and preparing to leave for university, my mother’s only brother saw fit to give me some advice.
“Just don’t be an idiot, kid,” he told me, “and don’t ever forget that boys and girls can never just be friends.”
I laughed and answered, “I’m not too worried. And I don’t really think all guys are like that.”

When I was eighteen and the third annual advent of the common cold was rolling through residence like a pestilent fog, a friend texted me asking if there was anything he could do to help.
I told him that if he could bring me up some vitamin water that would be great, if it wasn’t too much trouble.
That semester I learned that human skin cells replace themselves every three to five weeks. I hoped that in a month, maybe I’d stop feeling the echoes of his touch; maybe my new skin would feel cleaner.
It didn’t. But I stood by what I said. Not all guys are like that.

When I was nineteen and my roommate decided the only way to celebrate the end of midterms was to get wasted at a club, I humoured her.
Four drinks, countless leers and five hands up my skirt later, I informed her I was ready to leave.
“I get why you’re upset,” she told me on the walk home, “but you have to tolerate that sort of thing if you want to have any fun. And really, not all guys are like that.”

(Age nineteen also saw me propositioned for casual sex by no fewer than three different male friends, and while I still believe that guys and girls can indeed be just friends, I was beginning to see my uncle’s point.)

When I was twenty and a stranger that started chatting to me in my usual cafe asked if he could walk with me (since we were going the same way and all), I accepted.
Before we’d even made it three blocks he was pulling me into an alleyway and trying to put his hands up my shirt. “You were staring,” he laughed when I asked what the fuck he was doing (I wasn’t), “I’m just taking pity.”
But not all guys are like that.

I am twenty one and a few days ago a friend and I were walking down the street. A car drove by with the windows down, and a young man stuck his head out and whistled as they passed. I ignored it, carrying on with the conversation.
My friend did not. “Did you know those people?” He asked.
“Not at all,” I answered.
Later when we sat down to eat he got this thoughtful look on his face. When I asked what was wrong he said, “You know not all guys do that kind of thing, right? We’re not all like that.”
As if he were imparting some great profound truth I’d never realized before. My entire life has been turned around, because now I’ve been enlightened: not all guys are like that.

No. Not all guys are. But enough are. Enough that I am uncomfortable when a man sits next to me on the bus. Enough that I will cross to the other side of the street if I see a pack of guys coming my way. Enough that even fleeting eye contact with a male stranger makes my insides crawl with unease. Enough that I cannot feel safe alone in a room with some of my male friends, even ones I’ve known for years. Enough that when I go out past dark for chips or milk or toilet paper, I carry a knife, I wear a coat that obscures my figure, I mimic a man’s gait. Enough that three years later I keep the story of that day to myself, when the only thing that saved me from being raped was a right hook to the jaw and a threat to scream in a crowded dorm, because I know what the response will be.

I live my life with the everburning anxiety that someone is going to put their hands on me regardless of my feelings on the matter, and I’m not going to be able to stop them. I live with the knowledge that statistically one in three women have experienced a sexual assault, but even a number like that can’t be trusted when we are harassed into silence. I live with the learned instinct, the ingrained compulsion to keep my mouth shut to jeers and catcalls, to swallow my anger at lewd suggestions and crude gestures, to put up my walls against insults and threats. I live in an environment that necessitates armouring myself against it just to get through a day peacefully, and I now view that as normal. I have adapted to extreme circumstances and am told to treat it as baseline. I carry this fear close to my heart, rooted into my bones, and I do so to keep myself unharmed.

So you can tell me that not all guys are like that, and you’d even be right, but that isn’t the issue anymore. My problem is not that I’m unaware of the fact that some guys are perfectly civil, decent, kind—my problem is simply this:

In a world where this cynical overcaution is the only thing that ensures my safety, I’m no longer willing to take the risk.

r.d.  (via princessmilkovich)

(Source: elferinge)

(Source: lollytrash)