I may have had a slip up and now I can’t feel parts of my shoulders but I can’t stop and I don’t know what to do.
I may have had a slip up and now I can’t feel parts of my shoulders but I can’t stop and I don’t know what to do.
Fuck slut shaming.
It’s not slut shaming, it’s called self respect. You just don’t show your breasts all the time, they’re privates. Shut the fuck up.
why should anyone’s nipples be such a big deal though? it’s a bit weird to say that it’s okay for men to be shirtless and not women… I respect myself quite a bit and sometimes I’ve posed topless. it doesn’t make me a bad person and if someone loses respect over me showing a body part that literally everyone has, they’re regressive.
The reason breasts are considered “privates” is because misogynist culture oversexualizes the female breast despite it not being a sexual organ. The fact the males can go around shirtless in most public places (even if they are large enough to have breast-like pecs themselves) and females can’t is sexism, end of story.
Self respect isn’t about rather or not you show your breasts, it’s about being comfortable with your choices. If you want to pose topless, that’s okay. If you don’t, that’s okay too. What’s not okay is doing what the girls in the top picture are doing and saying you’re better than someone else because you choose one way and they chose another.
Telling women that they should be ashamed for choosing something that doesn’t hurt them or others (and by hurt them, I mean like choosing to do drugs or something like that), you are contributing to the patriarchy and oppression.
bolded for emphasis
The smell of disinfectant is going to get to be a daily nuisance.
“Run until your feet hurt
Run so far you forgot where you start
Run until your heart aches like a song never to be sung
I don’t know how this feeling got so strong”
You know, because of the heavily psychological themes in Silent Hill, the idea that it looks different to each individual…nothing has scared me more in the ENTIRE series than that ONE line from Vincent.
That was the moment I went, “oh, SHIT.”
It calls to mind so many different ideas.
What does Silent Hill look like to him?
What does Silent Hill ACTUALLY look like?
What are we actually fighting?
What if we’re killing PEOPLE?
What if the monsters aren’t real, and we’re going around slaughtering real people? Maybe even other people trapped in Silent Hill just like us? What if they attack us because WE look like the monsters to them?
What if we’re the real monster.
that feeling when you told someone about a book or a movie or an artist or a show and they tried to keep putting it off and putting it off and when they finally indulge in it they fucking love it and you’re like
Apparently I’ve been getting angrier over the last couple of weeks (note: I just recently started using Last.fm again)
In my opinion… Hands down, the most essential point to this movie.. It gives me goosebumps.. Then again I’m pretty romantic.
Seeing yourself give this smile to someone is the best feeling in the world.
I have always thought that Heaven is a place for people who had had a good life, but that is not true. God is merciful and way too good to make it so. The Heaven is just a place for people who could not be really happy while living on Earth. I was once told that people who commit suicide are taken back on Earth to repeat life from the very beginning because if they did not like it once, it did not mean they would not like it the next time. But those who did not fit in on Earth at all, ended up here. Everyone comes to Heaven in their own way.
- Etgar Keret, The Bus Driver Who Wanted to Be God and Other Stories (via jooourdan)
I like watching this when I’m upset. It always makes me feel at least a little better.
I just love it with all my heart.
her dainty lips struggled
for a crook as the
spray-painted signs tried their best
to ache the hearts of those
who never found their way back
“you don’t belong here”
she chanted to herself in order
to save herself from the boy
and the feeling she thought
she had forgotten
perhaps there was a way
for them to untangle the lips
she lost herself next to him as a star
diminishing beyond the black hole
and reaching out she lost his light
i’m just gonna leave this here as a reminder that “hitting bottom” doesn’t mean “staying on bottom for the rest of your life and dying as a piece of crap”
I will never, ever, not reblog this.
*huggles RDJ* Anyone on here who loves him, someone posted an amazing story about him when he was younger. I wish knew where the link was so I could share it. Instead, it’s just cut and pasted below. If I find the link, I’ll replace it with that.
I will also say that I have read this several times now and it still makes me cry.
“True story: His Name is Robert Downey Jr.” by Dana Reinhardt
I’m willing to go out on a limb here and guess that most stories of kindness do not begin with drug addicted celebrity bad boys.
His name is Robert Downey Jr.
You’ve probably heard of him. You may or may not be a fan, but I am, and I was in the early 90’s when this story takes place.
It was at a garden party for the ACLU of Southern California. My stepmother was the executive director, which is why I was in attendance without having to pay the $150 fee. It’s not that I don’t support the ACLU, it’s that I was barely twenty and had no money to speak of.
I was escorting my grandmother. There isn’t enough room in this essay to explain to you everything she was, I would need volumes, so for the sake of brevity I will tell you that she was beautiful even in her eighties, vain as the day is long, and whip smart, though her particular sort of intelligence did not encompass recognizing young celebrities.
I pointed out Robert Downey Jr. to her when he arrived, in a gorgeous cream-colored linen suit, with Sarah Jessica Parker on his arm. My grandmother shrugged, far more interested in piling her paper plate with various unidentifiable cheeses cut into cubes. He wasn’t Carey Grant or Gregory Peck. What did she care?
The afternoon’s main honoree was Ron Kovic, whose story of his time in the Vietnam War that had left him confined to a wheelchair had recently been immortalized in the Oliver Stone film Born on the Fourth of July.
I mention the wheelchair because it played an unwitting role in what happened next.
We made our way to our folding chairs in the garden with our paper plates and cubed cheeses and we watched my stepmother give one of her eloquent speeches and a plea for donations, and there must have been a few other people who spoke but I can’t remember who, and then Ron Kovic took the podium, and he was mesmerizing, and when it was all over we stood up to leave, and my grandmother tripped.
We’d been sitting in the front row (nepotism has its privileges) and when she tripped she fell smack into the wheelchair ramp that provided Ron Kovic with access to the stage. I didn’t know that wheelchair ramps have sharp edges, but they do, at least this one did, and it sliced her shin right open.
The volume of blood was staggering.
I’d like to be able to tell you that I raced into action; that I quickly took control of the situation, tending to my grandmother and calling for the ambulance that was so obviously needed, but I didn’t. I sat down and put my head between my knees because I thought I was going to faint. Did I mention the blood?
Luckily, somebody did take control of the situation, and that person was Robert Downey Jr.
He ordered someone to call an ambulance. Another to bring a glass of water. Another to fetch a blanket. He took off his gorgeous linen jacket and he rolled up his sleeves and he grabbed hold of my grandmother’s leg, and then he took that jacket that I’d assumed he’d taken off only to it keep out of the way, and he tied it around her wound. I watched the cream colored linen turn scarlet with her blood.
He told her not to worry. He told her it would be alright. He knew, instinctively, how to speak to her, how to distract her, how to play to her vanity. He held onto her calf and he whistled. He told her how stunning her legs were.
She said to him, to my humiliation: “My granddaughter tells me you’re a famous actor but I’ve never heard of you.”
He stayed with her until the ambulance came and then he walked alongside the stretcher holding her hand and telling her she was breaking his heart by leaving the party so early, just as they were getting to know each other. He waved to her as they closed the doors. “Don’t forget to call me, Silvia,” he said. “We’ll do lunch.”
He was a movie star, after all.
Believe it or not, I hurried into the ambulance without saying a word. I was too embarrassed and too shy to thank him.
We all have things we wish we’d said. Moments we’d like to return to and do differently. Rarely do we get that chance to make up for those times that words failed us. But I did. Many years later.
I should mention here that when Robert Downey Jr. was in prison for being a drug addict (which strikes me as absurd and cruel, but that’s the topic for a different essay), I thought of writing to him. Of reminding him of that day when he was humanity personified. When he was the best of what we each can be. When he was the kindest of strangers.
But I didn’t.
Some fifteen years after that garden party, ten years after my grandmother had died and five since he’d been released from prison, I saw him in a restaurant.
I grew up in Los Angeles where celebrity sightings are commonplace and where I was raised to respect people’s privacy and never bother someone while they’re out having a meal, but on this day I decided to abandon the code of the native Angeleno, and my own shyness, and I approached his table.
I said to him, “I don’t have any idea if you remember this…” and I told him the story.
“I just wanted to thank you,” I said. “And I wanted to tell you that it was simply the kindest act I’ve ever witnessed.”
He stood up and he took both of my hands in his and he looked into my eyes and he said, “You have absolutely no idea how much I needed to hear that today.”
“You’re going to kill yourself, eventually. It’s going to happen, one day you’ll do it, whether you’re old or young or successful or sad. It’s inevitable. You’ll be too weak or too tired or too little of anything one day, and it’ll happen” is a thought that’s on my mind a lot.
I’m so scared and lonely all the time, and it’s all my fault. Sometimes I question how much I value being not-scared and not-alone, since all I do is whine about it instead of actually doing something. Every time I try, though (and I do mean every time), I fail, miserably. It’s not even a reassuring thought, that I’m the source of my own unhappiness all the time, that I could fix it if I knew how or tried harder or cared more. It’s like I want this, to be unhappy and suicidal and unable to be broken by anyone but myself.
Fun fact: Cheetahs only attack pray that runs
jesus that is good to know.
Yup, that’s the point you just stay still and let it do whatever the fuck it wants that doesn’t involved you getting eaten.
REALLY FUN FACT for big cats cheetahs are fucking docile as shit
my grandfather ran a cheetah sanctuary in south africa and he’d just lie with them and sleep among them and they’d rub against him and chirp at him they’re big fucking babies
Another Fun Fact: Cheetah’s are incredibly nervous animals. One of the (many) reason’s they’re going extinct is that cheetah’s are so sensitive and nervous, some of them are literally too nervous to breed. Other’s will breed, but stress themselves out so much, they’ll lose their cubs.
So zoo’s with breeding program’s had to figure out how to make Cheetah’s comfortable enough to first of all, get laid and secondly - not spazz themselves into miscarrying.
So what’d they do?
They gave the cheetah’s their very own Service Dogs!
The dogs make them feel safe, protected and secure!
Thats fucking adorable as hell