youneedacat:

casualblessings:

May you find relief from the bad memories of your past that make you feel unworthy

May you find such relief that the bad memories of your past can no longer make you feel unworthy, even when you have the memories.



queer-werewolf:

autistic pride is so important because autistic children like myself are constantly treated as and made to feel like burdens to their loved ones, their family, and even society as a whole.

we literally get people saying things like “if i was autistic, i would kill myself”…



najmani:

I ship myself with academic success and contentment



wheelcher2:

honor students cheat more than anybody 



nevuhr:

c0cainementhols:

This hits me really hard.

woah



ejacutastic:

i have childhood memories that i am not 100% sure actually happened or if i dreamed them i really do not know





huffingtonpost:

This Man With Severe Cerebral Palsy Created Mind-Blowing Art Using Just A Typewriter

Last year, 22-time Emmy award-winning reporter John Stofflet posted this news video he created for KING-TV in 2004, featuring Paul Smith and his artistic talents.

See the full video to see more of Smith’s artworks and to learn more about his inspiring story go here. 



When you make an adult decision without calling your mother first.

ofgeography:

perfectxmystery:

image

when you realize your adult decision has unforeseen consequences:

image



Anonymous:
please elaborate on how you got a substitute teacher to quit within one day. I'm genuinely curious.


mamalovebone:

all right everyone sit down, shut up and listen closely because I’m about to tell y’all the tale of Ms. Mormino.

Seventh grade is a time most people don’t look back on fondly. I know I sure don’t—I tend to regard that era as nothing more than an unpleasant, acne-filled haze of fall out boy and poor attempts at pseudo-zooey deschanel fashions. But enough about me. Let’s talk about my math teacher. 

Ms. Isom. Poor old Ms. Isom. Well in her 60’s, always plagued with some illness or injury, she was hardly ever even at school. Since many of her absences were the result of short-notice incidents—“falling down the stairs” was popularly cited— it wasn’t all that uncommon to not have a substitute on hand. Being a smartass honors class, we’d gotten away with several successful evasions of administration, walking cavalierly into class  to pass the next 48 minutes doing just about nothing. Hell, for good measure, we’d sometimes even toss in a friendly “hey, Ms. Isom!” if any administrators were anywhere within earshot. So incredibly anti-establishment, you could basically call it another Project Mayhem, except instead of Brad Pitt and Ed Norton concocting homemade bombs, it was a bunch of tweenyboppers with iPhone 3’s and Justin Bieber 2009 haircuts. 

 We got pretty accustomed to our own little self-governing system that rolled around every second period, so we naturally weren’t exactly thrilled when administration caught on to our little Anarchy Act and strictly enforced the presence of a substitute every day. 

Most of our subs weren’t terrible—most were friendly, gave us participation grades, and didn’t object to the independent attitude of our class (which, mind you, only had about ten students in it) 

That is, until Ms. Mormino came along. 

Four feet, ten inches of raw, undiluted evil, Ms. Mormino walked into class with a scowl on her face and a chip on her shoulder. When the girl behind me sneezed, Ms. Mormino’s immediate response was “NO INAPPROPRIATE NOISES!” 

 Although we all suppressed our laughter, we all knew from that moment on that, try as she might with her despotism and her draconian anti-sneeze policy, Ms. Mormino didn’t stand a chance. 

 The arguable beginning of the end for Ms. Mormino’s all-too-brief reign of terror was the moment I asked for a calculator; mine was broken. Mormino asserted that I could only borrow a calculator if I loaned her something of mine; at that moment, the girl next to me chimed in, saying she, too, needed a calculator. “I have a folder I can give you,” I offered. “I have a highlighter,” added the other girl. 

 At that moment, a puberty-creaking voice from the back of the room piped up. 

Max. 

We all know certain people have certain gifts. Michelangelo saw angels in every block of marble and devoted his life to setting them free; Einstein had a mind which saw the potential of the entire universe; F. Scott Fitzgerald wove intricate tales of decadence and depravity. Max, however, had a different kind of gift: he could make anything—anything at all—into a “that’s what she said” joke. More on that later, though. 

Max pried off a Nike sneaker and held it proudly in the air, like a coveted trophy. 

"I have a shoe." 

Tottering in one-shoe-one-sock, Max dumped the sneaker on Ms. Mormino’s desk, retrieved a calculator, then tottered back to his own desk, a sort of smirk playing on his face. And, as to be expected—the rest of us quickly followed suit. 

 A small pile of shoes on her desk, Ms. Mormino grit her teeth and glared at us as we all sat back down, quietly victorious, a calculator in each of our hands. It wasn’t long, however, until we all began to silently plot our next act of minor mayhem. 

"Can I go to the bathroom?" asked Tyler, who, despite being in seventh grade, was approaching his sixteenth birthday. In a combination of verism and admiration of Tyler’s devil-may-care boldness, we unequivocally accepted him as our leader. For reasons unknown, Ms. Mormino denied his request. Tyler, much like his Fight Club namesake, heeded no rules but his own and left anyway—Ms. Mormino, furious, locked the door behind him and smugly insisted that "administration will take care of him." 

Tyler, however, was not one to be caught, and stayed close by, appearing in the window of the door whenever Ms. Mormino wasn’t looking. Waving, smiling, laughing, making faces and obscene gestures, Tyler had us all in stitches, but cleverly avoided Ms. Mormino’s sight—when she asked us what was so funny, we all refused to give Tyler away. 

A girl asked to go to the bathroom, stating she “really really really” needed to go. Ms. Mormino, again, denied her request. Ms. Mormino, however, seemed to be uninformed about the side door—leading right outside, always locked from the outside but always open from the inside. 

"Well, I’ll go myself," the girl responded, and took off, hurdling three desks and darting out the door. Right behind her, two other students took off, pursuing freedom. The door slammed behind all three students, and they were gone. 

 Six of us were left. Among us, importantly, was Chris. 

Chris was thirteen, but looked half his age; scrawny, wiry, he probably measured in at about four-foot-three, but no taller. “Late Bloomer” are words that come to mind. 

Despite his diminutive size, Chris possessed the gall of someone like Tyler.

"I have to use the bathroom," said Chris, standing. 

 ”Do you think I’m going to allow you to go to the bathroom?” snapped Ms. Mormino. 

 ”It’s an emergency!” Chris pleaded. 

"Sit down," Ms. Mormino growled. 

Meanwhile, the entire class borders on hysteria. We have tears in our eyes, almost suffocating from choking back laughter. 

"It’s an emergency," repeated Chris, but it sounded more like a warning.

"Sit."

Silence. Silence, Silence and more silence, until we all began to notice a dark stain on Chris’s khakis. The stain grew. And grew. And grew.

 Fists at his sides, stoicism in his face, and a cold, proud, triumphant glint in his eye, Chris locked eye contact with Ms. Mormino. 

And pissed right in his pants. 

The entire class erupted into a laugh only comparable to the detonation of a bomb. 

We laughed so hard for the next five, ten, fifteen minutes straight that Ms. Mormino gave up. Surrendering, putting her head on her desk, she waited until the hysteria finally subsided. 

Finally looking up, defeated, pathetic, Ms. Mormino glared at us all and wailed: 

 ”This is too much, this is too hard, too hard, Jesus Christ, this is too much for me!” 

 A lone voice sounded from the back of the room. Guess whose it was.

"That’s what she said."

Ms. Mormino officially retired from teaching that afternoon.



Who gives a shit if you don’t finish college. Who gives a shit if you marry young. Who gives a shit if you say ‘fuck the world’ and go against everything your parents want. Do what makes YOU happy. And don’t you dare give a shit about what anybody else thinks.
cr-est (via perfect)


believable-alibi:

mayra-quijotesca:

trustisforfools:

mrspiritual:

musicalpandas:

gainingconfidencexo:

havocados:

emorenita:

why aren’t these being reblogged more often?
i rather see these than “keys in hand”

Fatality

Umm so since I’m stupid could someone kindly explain each step for me like step 3 am i head butting him in the face or the chest? 

I think it depends on the height of the person, but I suppose the head is a more effective target. I hope this helps :)

Step 1: Step back the moment he reaches for you.

Step 2: Duck!

Step 3: Head butt him in the chin. It’s very important that it is the chin and not the chest because it is much more uncomfortable and disorienting to have your teeth bang together especially if it cuts his tongue (which it will if it is in the way). More than likely height won’t matter. He will be leaning forward from the missed attempt at grabbing you.

Step 4: Knee him in the balls.

Step 5: When he doubles over, jab him on his back. I believe at the base of the neck just above the shoulder blades would be best. I’m not an expert, but this seems like the best place, imo.

Step 6: Don’t lose contact. Bring your other hand over and slam your hands against the sides of his heads as hard as possible. Right on the ears is the best place; it is extremely disorienting if done correctly. Then take his head and bring it down on your knee as you bring your knee up. It’s very important that you avoid the nose because if you knee his nose it will definitely break and more than likely the bones will stab his brain killing him, so aim for his mouth instead.

Step 7: Keep your knee up and bring your foot out to kick him over. Personally, I don’t like the image because it looks like she kicked him with her toes. You do not want to do that. Instead kick him with the ball or heel of your foot and put power behind it with a push.

Step 8: He is on the ground. You could probably stop here and he would get the picture, but if you really want to…Your leg is still in the air from the kick. With all your force slam the edge of your your heel on his side. It will be more effective if you lower your body first by bending at the knee of the leg your weight is on. Done right, you can break a rib or two.

reblogging again for that^

Reblogging for the steps in the image and the explanation in the comments. I don’t so much like the explanation on the image proper, but I appreciate the thought behind it (here, have a self-defense thing, it could save you) and so I’m passing it on.

My sister posted this on her FB, and my parents said it was offensive. SO FUCK THAT, I’M REBLOGGING THIS.



nonlinear-nonsubjective:

no i dont want to be a billionaire to live a lavish lifestyle i want to be a billionaire to be financially secure and have enough money to give people things and support charities and fund kickstarters and leave hundred dollar tips



Many women, I think, resist feminism because it is an agony to be fully conscious of the brutal misogyny which permeates culture, society, and all personal relationships.
-

Andrea Dworkin, Our Blood: Prophecies and Discourses on Sexual Politics  (via sad-guts)

Woah

(via neccesaree)



toasteraffairs:

goodnight

sleep tight

don’t let the patriarchy steal your basic human rights




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