I see it crimson.

officialjeffgoldblum:

when jesus says “i love all my people,” do u think he looks at the men and adds #no homo

My eye skipped and I read this as “when Jeff Goldblum says……”

No, friend. Jeff Goldblum loves us ALL.

(via lgbtlaughs)

I think I’m in love.

I think I’m in love.

(Source: memewhore, via cumberknitterfiles)

uglygirlsclub:

rarepleasethankyou:

trapezoidmouth:

daniiphae:

This is very hard for me at this moment in my life to express my heart/mind to the world, but I will say these last few months have been the worst months of my life. I was dating someone (J$tash) that abused me verbally ,emotionally and physically throughout the end duration of our relationship. Monday morning on September 15th 2014 my life was forever, changed. A person I thought and believed I could trust, whom I gave my love/time/energy to brutally punched me in my face repeatedly with his fists while I became slowly unconscious covered in blood in his brooklyn apartment bed. After he was done he told me to not tell anyone to not tell my friends, He also started to prepare legal action to protect himself in case I pressed charges against him. He cried and became unstable within his emotions and was apologetic towards his actions, but would continue to say i did this to myself.

He then boarded a flight to Japan a few hours after and has been sending me text messages claiming he will destroy me even more than he already did. He said he will ruin my life! I got brutally beaten for confronting him on infidelity which caused him to become violent in an instant.

Do not interpret this as a cry for help this is honestly a decision to speak up against domestic violence for those who cant due to the manipulative acts our abusers inflict on us to never speak up and for those who didn’t survive because of brutal domestic violence.

I will not allow myself to sit in the shadows of darkness and disrespect myself for not taking a stand.

I am speaking out for all my women!

Be brave this is what bravery looks like.


Abuser: Justin Joseph / J$tash

I’m reblogging this primarily because this story is far too common & prevalent amongst women especially now. By means of social media we do damage control & protect those who have harmed us because we are ashamed of having been a victim, Danii has more courage than I & I commend her on that regard. Please understand her message

God bless this strong woman. I witnessed my mother endure years of abuse and I vowed to always be a pillar for the stand against it. Reblog now.

:-( so proud of you, bb

(via slythwolf)

vrixie:

irisannwest:

do you ever

do you ever just have

that one class

that one freaking class

that just depresses you when you think about it because

oh god you hate it so much

The bourgeoisie

peytongrey I know you know.

(via cumberknitterfiles)

http://pepitaladinamita.tumblr.com/post/98881310758/bankuei-kaylapocalypse-seriously-guys-put

bankuei:

kaylapocalypse:

Seriously guys, put POC in your sci-fi movies, books, and tv shows. Seeing a film with none of them at all is actually kind of scary for me.

It would be like you sitting down to watch a movie about a dystopian near future and there are absolutely no men and…

beastmode1992:

 

The Great  Abbye “Pudgy” Stockton - 1917 - 2006

(via pepitaladinamita)

darklovelyandsouthasian:

darkskinnedblackbeauty:

She’s not black but she’s a dark skin Indian woman who wants to inspire other dark skin girls/women.

Lydia Marsha is a Kuala Lumpur-based model who is of Indian ancestry. She says, “I always wanted to inspire dark-skinned women out there to show them how gorgeous they actually are. I had a passion for modeling since I was young. It has always been something I want to do. I’m hoping that meeting and working with new people in this industry will help me expand my dreams and help me extend my arms to my ladies of colour. I want to inspire and be inspired. I believe that this is what I am born to do, to model, as it completes me. I aspire to be the next best thing, to walk the runways of Paris and to be a professional Indian dark-skinned model. I don’t just want to be a model, I want to be a role model.”
Submitted by Ami

darklovelyandsouthasian:

darkskinnedblackbeauty:

She’s not black but she’s a dark skin Indian woman who wants to inspire other dark skin girls/women.

Lydia Marsha is a Kuala Lumpur-based model who is of Indian ancestry. She says, “I always wanted to inspire dark-skinned women out there to show them how gorgeous they actually are. I had a passion for modeling since I was young. It has always been something I want to do. I’m hoping that meeting and working with new people in this industry will help me expand my dreams and help me extend my arms to my ladies of colour. I want to inspire and be inspired. I believe that this is what I am born to do, to model, as it completes me. I aspire to be the next best thing, to walk the runways of Paris and to be a professional Indian dark-skinned model. I don’t just want to be a model, I want to be a role model.”

Submitted by Ami

(via aturinfortheworse)

lady-eve:

I just realized that the lack of acceptance for asexuals is literally the dumbest thing.
Like, you can’t handle the thought of two dudes kissing? Okay you’re dumb and terrible whatever.
But you can’t handle the idea… Of someone… Not kissing anyone? What are you worried about? They’re gonna eat too much mac n cheese?? Draw too many dinosaurs??? Tell me

(via sexgenderbody)

Sometimes he’ll tell me about his college days, about an Afghanistan I have never known and very few people would believe ever existed.

"In the College of Engineering, there was this lecture hall, with seats for 1,000 students," his says as eyes begin to get bigger. "At the end of the lecture, the seats would move. The whole auditorium would shift as you spun along the diameter. The engineering of the building itself was very interesting." He continues to describe the construction details, then sighs. "I wonder if it’s still around?"

There is a pause. For 25 years I have tried to fill that silence, but I have never quite figured out what to say. I guess silence goes best there. He is the next one to speak. “You see, even your old-aged father was once part of something important.”

When he says things like that I want to scream. I don’t want to believe that the years can beat away at you like that. I don’t want to know that if enough time passes, you begin to question what was real or who you are. I am unconcerned with what the world thinks of him, but it is devastating to know that he at times thinks less of himself.

We are the same, but we are separated. People don’t see him in me. I wish they would. I walk in with a doctor’s white coat or a suit or my Berkeley sweatshirt and jeans. High heels or sneakers, it doesn’t matter, people always seem impressed with me. “Pediatrician, eh?” they say. “Well, good for you.”

I wonder what people see when they look at him. They don’t see what I see in his smile. Perhaps they see a brown man with a thick accent; perhaps they think, another immigrant cabdriver. Or perhaps it is much worse: Maybe he is a profile-matched terrorist, aligned with some axis of evil. “Another Abd-ool f——-g foreigner,” I once heard someone say.

Sometimes the worst things are not what people say to your face or what they say at all, it is the things that are assumed. I am in line at the grocery store, studying at a cafe, on a plane flying somewhere.

"Her English is excellent; she must have grown up here," I hear a lady whisper. "But why on earth does she wear that thing on her head?"

"Oh, that’s not her fault," someone replies. "Her father probably forces her to wear that."

I am still searching for a quick, biting response to comments like that. The trouble is that things I’d like to say aren’t quick. So I say nothing. I want to take their hands and pull them home with me. Come, meet my father. Don’t look at the wrinkles; don’t look at the scars; don’t mind the hearing aid, or the thick accent. Don’t look at the world’s effect on him; look at his effect on the world. Come into my childhood and hear the lullabies, the warm hand on your shoulder on the worst of days, the silly jokes on mundane afternoons. Come meet the woman he has loved and respected his whole life; witness the confidence he has nurtured in his three daughters. Stay the night; hear his footsteps come in at midnight after a long day’s work. That sound in the middle of the night is his head bowing in prayer although he is exhausted. Granted, the wealth is gone and the legacy unknown, but look at what the bombs did not destroy. Now tell me, am I really oppressed? The question makes me want to laugh. Now tell me, is he really the oppressor? The question makes me want to cry.

At times, I want to throw it all away: the education, the opportunities, the potential. I want to slip into the passenger seat of his cab and say: This is who I am. If he is going to be labeled, then give me those labels too. If you are going to look down on him, than you might as well peer down on me as well. Close this gap. Erase this line. There is no differentiation here. Of all the things I am, of all the things I could ever be, I will never be prouder than to say that I am of him.

I am this cabdriver’s daughter.