hey y'all, my name is Flux and I got commissions open! Do you want cool art of your fursona? What about a “family photo” of your system members? What about art for your album cover? I can do that for you! On a budget? That’s alright, we can work it out. DM me! Okay with NSFW. Also, not generally used to things like mechs and the like, but I’m always willing to try.
ALTtumblr ate my other post because of course it fucking did- My name is Flux, and I fucked up my knee. I fell off the small electric scooter I use to get around the desert city I live in, and now I'm on orders to stay off my leg. This is a problem, as I have no car and now I can't go sell plasma to make up for lost income. If you could, please reblog this or donate a few dollars to my ko-fi? I'd greatly appreciate it.
i am so tired of ppl not watching the video and rbing with their ignorant opinions going on abt “dress for your body type” and shit like…. that’s not the point. the point is that almost everything deemed trendy and attractive is awarded these qualities BECAUSE they are worn by tall, skinny and usually white bodies.
if y’all had bothered to watch the video, you would’ve seen the comparison between gigi hadid wearing denim shorts and a regular ass shirt and a normal fat woman wearing the exact same fit, and how drastic the reception was for the latter. it’s the exact same outfit, nothing revolutionary or new, i can’t even call it fashion—denim shorts and a t-shirt. yet the fat woman was mocked relentlessly online and said she looked like a racist, while miss hadid was praised for being a trendsetter and a fashion icon.
and not for nothing but y’all have to shut the fuck up abt dressing for body types. it’s bullshit. women should be able to wear whatever the fuck we desire without needing others’ approval for whether or not our bodies are attractive enough for you to let us get out of the house or post pictures online. the most important thing is that YOU like what you’re wearing and YOU feel confident and comfortable in your outfits and your expression of yourself. wear a long skirt “even if” you’re short. wear 6 inch heels “even if” you’re 6 feet tall. wear crop tops and hot shorts and backless dresses “even if” you’re fat. cover up and take off whatever you want as long as you like what you’re wearing.
Anonymous asked:
explain what your pussy smells like
salems-demon answered:
Like fire and brimstone
Hang on let me check
"The trannies should be able to piss in whatever toilet they want and change their bodies however they want. Why is it my business if some chick has a dick or a guy has a pie? I'm not a trannie or a fag so I don't care, just give 'em the medicine they need."
"This is an LGBT safe space. Of COURSE I fully support individuals who identify as transgender and their right to self-determination! I just think that transitioning is a very serious choice and should be heavily regulated. And there could be a lot of harm in exposing cis children to such topics, so we should be really careful about when it is appropriate to mention trans issues or have too much trans visibility."
One of the above statements is Problematic and the other is slightly annoying. If we disagree on which is which then working together for a better future is going to get really fucking difficult.
I think this is something young people in particular are confused about. My dad has always had a slightly off color sense of humor, he always feels the need to privately ask me “boy turned girl or girl turned boy?” if I mention a friend and stress said friend’s pronouns, and yet when we had repair work done in the house and the worker was listening to a podcast discussing the evils of transgender people and how to cleanse society, he went out of his way to contact the owner of the business to discuss his disappointment with that worker’s conduct and stress the negative effect that could have had if there had been trans kids in our home.
Our allies will never be perfect. They will never use the perfect language or have the perfect politics. But we have to appreciate those allies and meet them where they are, especially if they are willing to learn.
Pigeons are doves. They are rock doves, and I wonder if we began to call them that if people would hesitate to hate them, as doves have that history as messengers of peace. It is true that in my neighborhood nobody hates the mourning doves, dusky and elegant with wings that squeak as if they flap on rusty hinges. They roost on the wires like little Audrey Hepburns, while the pigeons troll the ground, tough and fat, some of them look like they should be smoking cigarettes. They look poor and banged up, like they could kick the mourning doves’ asses but are wise to the divide-and-conquer tactics we use on one another, so they coo wearily at the mourning doves and waddle forth in search of scavenged delights. What you may not know is when you call a pigeon “a rat with wings” you have given it a compliment. The only thing a rat lacks is a pair of wings to lift it, so you have named the pigeon perfectly. When you say to me, “I hate pigeons,” I want to ask you who else you hate. It makes me suspicious.
I once met a girl who was so proud to have hit such a bird on her bicycle, I swear, I thought that it was me she hit. I felt her handlebars in my stomach and now it is your job to feel it also. The pigeons are birds, they are doves. They are the nature of the city and the ones who no one loves. When people say they hate pigeons, I want to ask them if they hate themselves, too. Does it prick the well of your loathing? Do they make you feel dirty and ashamed? Are you embarrassed about how little or how much you have, for how you have had to hustle? Being dirty is not a problem for the pigeon. You can ask it, “How do you feel about having the city coating your feathers, having the streets gunked up in the crease of your eye?” and the pigeon would say, “Not a problem.” You will now stop blaming the pigeon. It is not the pigeon’s fault. The pigeon was once a dove, and then we built our filthy empire up around it, came to hate it for simply thriving in the midst our decay, came to hate it for not dying. The pigeon is your ally. They are chameleons, gray as the concrete they troll for scraps, at night they huddle and sing like cats. Their necks are glistening, iridescent as an oil-slick rainbow, they mate for life, and they fly.
Michelle Tea, Against Memoir. [emphasis mine]
because sometimes there are invisible tests and invisible rules and you're just supposed to ... know the rule. someone you thought of as a friend asks you for book recommendations, so you give her a list of like 30 books, each with a brief blurb and why you like it. later, you find out she screenshotted the list and send it out to a group chat with the note: what an absolute freak can you believe this. you saw the responses: emojis where people are rolling over laughing. too much and obsessive and actually kind of creepy in the comments. you thought you'd been doing the right thing. she'd asked, right? an invisible rule: this is what happens when you get too excited.
you aren't supposed to laugh at your own jokes, so you don't, but then you're too serious. you're not supposed to be too loud, but then people say you're too quiet. you aren't supposed to get passionate about things, but then you're shy, boring. you aren't supposed to talk too much, but then people are mad when you're not good at replying.
you fold yourself into a prettier paper crane. since you never know what is "selfish" and what is "charity," you give yourself over, fully. you'd rather be empty and over-generous - you'd rather eat your own boundaries than have even one person believe that you're mean. since you don't know what the thing is that will make them hate you, you simply scrub yourself clean of any form of roughness. if you are perfect and smiling and funny, they can love you. if you are always there for them and never admit what's happening and never mention your past and never make them uncomfortable - you can make up for it. you can earn it.
don't fuck up. they're all testing you, always. they're tolerating you. whatever secret club happened, over a summer somewhere - during some activity you didn't get to attend - everyone else just... figured it out. like they got some kind of award or examination that allowed them to know how-to-be-normal. how to fit. and for the rest of your life, you've been playing catch-up. you've been trying to prove that - haha! you get it! that the joke they're telling, the people they are, the manual they got- yeah, you've totally read it.
if you can just divide yourself in two - the lovable one, and the one that is you - you can do this. you can walk the line. they can laugh and accept you. if you are always-balanced, never burdensome, a delight to have in class, champagne and glittering and never gawky or florescent or god-forbid cringe: you can get away with it.
you stare at your therapist, whom you can make jokes with, and who laughs at your jokes, because you are so fucking good at people-pleasing. you smile at her, and she asks you how you're doing, and you automatically say i'm good, thanks, how are you? while the answer swims somewhere in your little lizard brain:
how long have you been doing this now? mastering the art of your body and mind like you're piloting a puppet. has it worked? what do you mean that all you feel is... just exhausted. pick yourself up, the tightrope has no net. after all, you're cheating, somehow, but nobody seems to know you actually flunked the test. it's working!
aren't you happy yet?
Grabbing people by their shoulders and shaking them until they can prove to me they know what "twink" means
I was listening to a bunch of LGBT+ ppl from Louisiana as a guest for a podcast and the topic of "twink" came up and they more or less were like, "yeah nowadays cishet ppl know saying 'f*g' raises eyebrows so they just say 'twink' when they want to say 'f*g' but it's obvious what they want to say when they say the word," and like, that's basically it, right. Also they talked about lubed up jockstrap wrestling at a gay bar and how there was a cishet guy that participated because he just wanted to wrestle.
