HAPPY PRIDE MONTH FOR THE PEELING WALLPAPER ON MY DOOR!!! they are literally so sweet omg im jealous of a fucking door wtf
Ironically this is a door in my homophobic household lol, so this pride month, find random stuff in a homophobe’s house and make it queer!
being so fr when I say that transmisogyny has put feminism back like 50 years
what i thought we had distanced ourselves from was the reduction of women to vaginas and wombs and the ability to bear children. i thought we had progressed past ‘dresses are for women and pants are for men.’ i thought we progressed past the idea that someone is less of a woman if she does not adhere strictly to beauty standards. i thought we progressed past the idea that naturally being comfortable adhering to highly feminine standards is vulgar. but i (sarcastically) guess no one could have predicted that trans-exclusive feminism would be the downfall of all the progress we’ve made
"Stop saying 15 year olds with weird interests are cringe, they're 15" this is true however you should also stop saying adults with weird interests are cringe because who gives a shit
To wit:
I want to share some wisdom from my high school art teacher.
In my AP Art class, there was a girl who was just starting to experiment with mixed media. At this point she was still playing around, trying to decide what direction she wanted to go with her portfolio. So one critique day, she brought in an abstract canvas with some rhinestone highlights and painted and real peacock feathers. She loved sparkles and peacock feathers so she thought she’d try introducing them a *little*. And after everyone had given some input, the teacher gave her his advice, VERY roughly paraphrased here:
“So here’s the thing… I do not like this style. These are just elements that do not speak to me personally, but I see that you like them, and you’re doing interesting things with them.
“My biggest critique is, I only merely *dislike* this piece. I want you to make me HATE it. Go crazy with the things that you like. Don’t hold back trying to make it palatable to people like me. Because I am NEVER going to like it. And if the audience does not like it, it should drive them crazy seeing how much YOU love it.”
Her portfolio was chock full of neon colors and glitter and rhinestones and splashes of peacock feathers and it was a delight. Our teacher despised every piece lol, but she got great marks and I think even won some awards. And more importantly, she was happy and proud of the results. Because she didn’t limit herself by trying to appeal to people who were never going to enjoy what she enjoyed.
Takeaway here: be as cringe as you want. Don’t limit yourself based on other ppl’s tastes. They’re not you, and you are incredible 💕
oh hey i just got on Tumblr In The Morning and all the people i thought were dead just dont post in the evening, wouldnt you know it
You, a supervillain, answer a knock at your door, only to find your superhero nemesis shivering, bleeding, scared, and slightly dazed (as if drugged). They appear to have been assaulted. The hero mumbles “…didn’t know where else to go…” before collapsing into your arms.
You stumble under their weight, which is still significantly hefty even when missing their armor and gadgets. The rare, uncostumed glimpse if their skin reveals fresh bruises streaked with grime and the hero’s own signature dark green blood. The blood is already washing away in the heavy rain.
All your instincts tell you this is a trap. You want to throw the hero down and set your townhouse to self destruct. But then you see the hero’s broken wrist. Despite your (unfortunately well-tested) prowess with physical battle, you’re still squeamish about broken bones. This one churns your stomach. It halts your coniving plan to dump the hero.
Their wrist hangs too limp. The joint is bent at an angle too sharp. From professional experience, you know this can’t be faked. Not without contortionist expertise. Not without flexibility powers that your hero doesnt have.
Even if this isn’t a trap, it might still be a ploy though.
You glance out at the street. Your second nemesis, the HOA, will have opinions about a disruptive epic confrontation in your front lawn. Not to mention it’ll blow your cover worse than it apparently is.
Whatever this is, whatever it turns into, it’s probably safer to bring it inside.
Your hero is easy to manuver inside, which is lucky for you. You are not strong. But you’re still disturbed. You’re used to your hero’s infuriating stubbornness. They’re supposed to thrash noblely against your chains, resist being lead to their ultimate doom. Their head is supposed to be held high.
Instead, their head rests on your shoulder, and they wait for you to kick the front door closed before resuming your shuffle together.
Once they’re settled on the couch, you step back to study them.
The hero sprawled in your living room is wearing clothes that might pass as civilain attire if it weren’t for the Truth of Fellowship logo stamped on their tshirt and sweat pants. Though the dirt, blood, rips, and rain water make the logo functionally illegible.
You study the dirt patterns closer. An acrid musk hits your nose. It’s not dirt, it’s soot. Fire? An explosion?
The hero shifts, and you glance up. Their glassy gaze is fixed on you. Their pupils are blown out to different sizes.
You straighten as they try to focus, and you raise one eyebrow.
“Do you know where you are?” you ask simply because you cannot fathom your hero being this stupid on purpose.
They shift and force a shallow breath. “Safe house,” they muster.
The last time you had to fight this hard to keep your expression nuetral was when Sue Pranski, head of the dreaded HOA, tried to suggest that your Dracula’s castle-themed Little Free Library was a violation of code.
“Safe. House.” you repeat. Your stupid hero just nods, so you press, “And why do you think this house is safe, exactly?”
“Vanessa Berry.”
Chilled fear blasts your gut. That name.
You’ve had a lot of names over the years. The media tracked your escapades as you grew into your public villain persona. The Disruptor. The Menace. The Butcher. And your current moniker, the one that strikes fear into every good citzen of Vola City (and some of the bad ones too), Mister Flick.
You’ve also had many civilian identities that you burned through just as fast to thwart the authorities. James. Octavian. Saul. Benedict.
But that name, Vanessa. Vanessa Berry. That’s not just a past cover. That name wrenches your heart. It clenches your teeth. It’s dead to you. It’s your best-kept secret.
It was your name when you used to be a hero.
Vanessa.
It was your first name.
It takes a second for the shock to wear off. When it does, you turn your back on the hero and storm through the first level of your townhouse. You grab bandages, disinfectant, a knife, a raincoat. Anything you can think of to get this hero fit for walking so you can push them back out your front door.
Of all the–that name is–where did they–
Your brain catches up with your emotions, and you stop. You need more information.
You look over your shoulder at the hero. They are watching your frenzy more than a little cross-eyed, and you clearly see that they have a concussion. Great.
“How do you know that name?” Your words are sharp, fragile, and light between your teeth, like broken glass.
“I thought–” You’ve never seen the hero so nakedly confused before. “I thought she lived here.”
“You thought wrong.”
“Do you at least know her?”
Even concussed, they can’t fathom that they made a miscalculation. Safe house indeed.
“Why?” You hiss instead of answering. Of all the cruel things you deserve, this is not one of them. “Why would you show up on my doorstep? Why do you know that name?”
“Because I thought she lived here.”
“And just who do you think I am?”
You mean it in grandiose terms. In “we’re not so different, you and I” terms. In “a scorpion cannot change it’s nature” terms. In “you’ve walked right into my trap, and by trap I mean townhouse” terms. In “I’m going to redecorate my front lawn with your skeleton like it’s Halloween, HOA penalty fees be damned” terms. You even have the knife ready to go.
You ask ‘who do you think I am?’ in a rhetorical sense. But the hero takes you literally.
“I don’t know.”
lgbtq people are like "look at my babygirl!!!" and the babygirl is a middle-aged man who has gone through the horrors of life
themostslayingslayful
themostslayingslayful
anybody know how to post a video TO tumblr that was not downloaded FROM tumblr?
im saur sad its not working and its actually a useful video for once and not a silly one
