Untitled

vampmissedith:

hadleys-heels:

that-insane-shipper-girl:

rawrrsakura:

abiggerblackerdick-in-the-tardis:

gallifreyanathearts:

gingerten:

…run over by a cloud….?

"Smothered by everything"
Is that supposed to be deep, or do I actually try to eat the universe?

Crushed by the internet. Sounds about right

Penetrated… by my family…
Well that couldn’t be more fucked up. 

Buried alive by living?
What the actual fuck.

Crushed by my failures… sounds surprisingly probable.

Fellated by every member of Limp Bizkit.


Fellated by Juggalos…

vampmissedith:

hadleys-heels:

that-insane-shipper-girl:

rawrrsakura:

abiggerblackerdick-in-the-tardis:

gallifreyanathearts:

gingerten:

…run over by a cloud….?

"Smothered by everything"

Is that supposed to be deep, or do I actually try to eat the universe?

Crushed by the internet. Sounds about right

Penetrated… by my family…

Well that couldn’t be more fucked up. 

Buried alive by living?

What the actual fuck.

Crushed by my failures… sounds surprisingly probable.

Fellated by every member of Limp Bizkit.

Fellated by Juggalos…

(Source: harryfloorcorn)

— 1 month ago with 127587 notes

qeti:

all the oitnb doodles i did so far!

2nd set here. buy a print of all 16 here

— 1 month ago with 44452 notes

jtotheizzoe:

astrotastic:

Jesus Christ you guys.

If you wish to make waffles from scratch, you must first invent the universe.

(Source: hellascience)

— 1 month ago with 234841 notes
descentintotyranny:

A SWAT team blew a hole in my 2-year-old son — Alecia Phonesavanh
June 24 2014
After our house burned down in Wisconsin a few months ago, my husband and I packed our four young kids and all our belongings into a gold minivan and drove to my sister-in-law’s place, just outside of Atlanta. On the back windshield, we pasted six stick figures: a dad, a mom, three young girls, and one baby boy.
That minivan was sitting in the front driveway of my sister-in-law’s place the night a SWAT team broke in, looking for a small amount of drugs they thought my husband’s nephew had. Some of my kids’ toys were in the front yard, but the officers claimed they had no way of knowing children might be present. Our whole family was sleeping in the same room, one bed for us, one for the girls, and a crib.
After the SWAT team broke down the door, they threw a flashbang grenade inside. It landed in my son’s crib.
Flashbang grenades were created for soldiers to use during battle. When they explode, the noise is so loud and the flash is so bright that anyone close by is temporarily blinded and deafened. It’s been three weeks since the flashbang exploded next to my sleeping baby, and he’s still covered in burns.
There’s still a hole in his chest that exposes his ribs. At least that’s what I’ve been told; I’m afraid to look.
My husband’s nephew, the one they were looking for, wasn’t there. He doesn’t even live in that house. After breaking down the door, throwing my husband to the ground, and screaming at my children, the officers – armed with M16s – filed through the house like they were playing war. They searched for drugs and never found any.
I heard my baby wailing and asked one of the officers to let me hold him. He screamed at me to sit down and shut up and blocked my view, so I couldn’t see my son. I could see a singed crib. And I could see a pool of blood. The officers yelled at me to calm down and told me my son was fine, that he’d just lost a tooth. It was only hours later when they finally let us drive to the hospital that we found out Bou Bou was in the intensive burn unit and that he’d been placed into a medically induced coma.
For the last three weeks, my husband and I have been sleeping at the hospital. We tell our son that we love him and we’ll never leave him behind. His car seat is still in the minivan, right where it’s always been, and we whisper to him that soon we’ll be taking him home with us.

Every morning, I have to face the reality that my son is fighting for his life. It’s not clear whether he’ll live or die. All of this to find a small amount of drugs?
The only silver lining I can possibly see is that my baby Bou Bou’s story might make us angry enough that we stop accepting brutal SWAT raids as a normal way to fight the “war on drugs.” I know that this has happened to other families, here in Georgia and across the country. I know that SWAT teams are breaking into homes in the middle of the night, more often than not just to serve search warrants in drug cases. I know that too many local cops have stockpiled weapons that were made for soldiers to take to war. And as is usually the case with aggressive policing, I know that people of color and poor people are more likely to be targeted.  I know these things because of the American Civil Liberties Union’s new report, and because I’m working with them to push for restraints on the use of SWAT.
A few nights ago, my 8-year-old woke up in the middle of the night screaming, “No, don’t kill him! You’re hurting my brother! Don’t kill him.” How can I ever make that go away? I used to tell my kids that if they were ever in trouble, they should go to the police for help. Now my kids don’t want to go to sleep at night because they’re afraid the cops will kill them or their family. It’s time to remind the cops that they should be serving and protecting our neighborhoods, not waging war on the people in them.
I pray every minute that I’ll get to hear my son’s laugh again, that I’ll get to watch him eat French fries or hear him sing his favorite song from “Frozen.” I’d give anything to watch him chase after his sisters again. I want justice for my baby, and that means making sure no other family ever has to feel this horrible pain.

 Alecia Phonesavanh is the mother of Bounkham Phonesavanh, nicknamed “Baby Bou Bou.” She and her family live in Atlanta. For more information about Bou Bou, go to www.justiceforbabyboubou.com.

descentintotyranny:

A SWAT team blew a hole in my 2-year-old son — Alecia Phonesavanh

June 24 2014

After our house burned down in Wisconsin a few months ago, my husband and I packed our four young kids and all our belongings into a gold minivan and drove to my sister-in-law’s place, just outside of Atlanta. On the back windshield, we pasted six stick figures: a dad, a mom, three young girls, and one baby boy.

That minivan was sitting in the front driveway of my sister-in-law’s place the night a SWAT team broke in, looking for a small amount of drugs they thought my husband’s nephew had. Some of my kids’ toys were in the front yard, but the officers claimed they had no way of knowing children might be present. Our whole family was sleeping in the same room, one bed for us, one for the girls, and a crib.

After the SWAT team broke down the door, they threw a flashbang grenade inside. It landed in my son’s crib.

Flashbang grenades were created for soldiers to use during battle. When they explode, the noise is so loud and the flash is so bright that anyone close by is temporarily blinded and deafened. It’s been three weeks since the flashbang exploded next to my sleeping baby, and he’s still covered in burns.

There’s still a hole in his chest that exposes his ribs. At least that’s what I’ve been told; I’m afraid to look.

My husband’s nephew, the one they were looking for, wasn’t there. He doesn’t even live in that house. After breaking down the door, throwing my husband to the ground, and screaming at my children, the officers – armed with M16s – filed through the house like they were playing war. They searched for drugs and never found any.

I heard my baby wailing and asked one of the officers to let me hold him. He screamed at me to sit down and shut up and blocked my view, so I couldn’t see my son. I could see a singed crib. And I could see a pool of blood. The officers yelled at me to calm down and told me my son was fine, that he’d just lost a tooth. It was only hours later when they finally let us drive to the hospital that we found out Bou Bou was in the intensive burn unit and that he’d been placed into a medically induced coma.

For the last three weeks, my husband and I have been sleeping at the hospital. We tell our son that we love him and we’ll never leave him behind. His car seat is still in the minivan, right where it’s always been, and we whisper to him that soon we’ll be taking him home with us.

Every morning, I have to face the reality that my son is fighting for his life. It’s not clear whether he’ll live or die. All of this to find a small amount of drugs?

The only silver lining I can possibly see is that my baby Bou Bou’s story might make us angry enough that we stop accepting brutal SWAT raids as a normal way to fight the “war on drugs.” I know that this has happened to other families, here in Georgia and across the country. I know that SWAT teams are breaking into homes in the middle of the night, more often than not just to serve search warrants in drug cases. I know that too many local cops have stockpiled weapons that were made for soldiers to take to war. And as is usually the case with aggressive policing, I know that people of color and poor people are more likely to be targeted.  I know these things because of the American Civil Liberties Union’s new report, and because I’m working with them to push for restraints on the use of SWAT.

A few nights ago, my 8-year-old woke up in the middle of the night screaming, “No, don’t kill him! You’re hurting my brother! Don’t kill him.” How can I ever make that go away? I used to tell my kids that if they were ever in trouble, they should go to the police for help. Now my kids don’t want to go to sleep at night because they’re afraid the cops will kill them or their family. It’s time to remind the cops that they should be serving and protecting our neighborhoods, not waging war on the people in them.

I pray every minute that I’ll get to hear my son’s laugh again, that I’ll get to watch him eat French fries or hear him sing his favorite song from “Frozen.” I’d give anything to watch him chase after his sisters again. I want justice for my baby, and that means making sure no other family ever has to feel this horrible pain.

Alecia Phonesavanh is the mother of Bounkham Phonesavanh, nicknamed “Baby Bou Bou.” She and her family live in Atlanta. For more information about Bou Bou, go to www.justiceforbabyboubou.com.

(via fuckyourracism)

— 1 month ago with 37755 notes
reclaimingthenativetag:

Tonight was Native American Heritage Night at AT&T Park for the San Francisco Giants vs Padres game. There was a group of mostly white guys that were passing around a headdress. I went over to one guy and asked him to take it off, and after much convincing that is was disrespectful he agreed to take it off. Minutes later, another guy in the group has it on. Another native guy sitting next to me went over with me and as we were attempting to explain to the group of drunk guys why it wasn’t ok - especially on Native Heritage Night - security gets calls. I started crying because I was so upset that people are idiots/the genocide of our people/cultures and the guy asks/yells at me because he’s getting embarrassed and flustered “what do you want from me?” so I said “give me the headdress” and he did. Security shows up and are some sad ignorant people of color that couldn’t comprehend what was happening and demanded I give them the headdress back because the “native” friend the group came with showed up and wanted it back and called police over. At that point I was like YOU CAN ARREST ME IF YOU THINK I’M GOING TO HAND THIS FAKE ASS CRAFT STORE DISRESPECTFUL HEADDRESS BACK TO SOME DRUNKEN WHITE GUY AND SAD TOKEN. So me and my friend get ushered back to the food stands and are getting kicked out. 2 cops ripped the headdress out of my hands and refuse to tell us if/why we are being arrested and why we are being asked to leave. then one tough guy cop goes “if you’re not going willingly we’ll make you” and 2 cops grab me by my arms and twist them and pull them up behind my back so far I think they are going to pop out of socket. we walk about 40 feet and I’m squirming and yelling the whole way that they’re hurting me and then one of them grabs me by my hair and throws me on the ground. as I’m getting cuffed i see my friend (who was recording all this) laid out on the ground with 4 cops on him. they take us out of the game and let us go an hour later because they had ABSOLUTELY NO REASON TO ARREST US. I am beyond disgusted at the guys at the game, the people (including native around us who said nothing), the giants security for allowed that “headdress” inside to begin with, the police, and the San Francisco Giants organization as a whole for trying to host a heritage night without some type of cultural sensitive training. I’m not big on my tumblr game so I could appreciate any help spreading the word about this and holding the team accountable and hopefully providing evidence for the native mascot issue that is under heavy media attention and fire right now. Thanks! April

reclaimingthenativetag:

Tonight was Native American Heritage Night at AT&T Park for the San Francisco Giants vs Padres game. There was a group of mostly white guys that were passing around a headdress. I went over to one guy and asked him to take it off, and after much convincing that is was disrespectful he agreed to take it off. Minutes later, another guy in the group has it on. Another native guy sitting next to me went over with me and as we were attempting to explain to the group of drunk guys why it wasn’t ok - especially on Native Heritage Night - security gets calls. I started crying because I was so upset that people are idiots/the genocide of our people/cultures and the guy asks/yells at me because he’s getting embarrassed and flustered “what do you want from me?” so I said “give me the headdress” and he did. Security shows up and are some sad ignorant people of color that couldn’t comprehend what was happening and demanded I give them the headdress back because the “native” friend the group came with showed up and wanted it back and called police over. At that point I was like YOU CAN ARREST ME IF YOU THINK I’M GOING TO HAND THIS FAKE ASS CRAFT STORE DISRESPECTFUL HEADDRESS BACK TO SOME DRUNKEN WHITE GUY AND SAD TOKEN. So me and my friend get ushered back to the food stands and are getting kicked out. 2 cops ripped the headdress out of my hands and refuse to tell us if/why we are being arrested and why we are being asked to leave. then one tough guy cop goes “if you’re not going willingly we’ll make you” and 2 cops grab me by my arms and twist them and pull them up behind my back so far I think they are going to pop out of socket. we walk about 40 feet and I’m squirming and yelling the whole way that they’re hurting me and then one of them grabs me by my hair and throws me on the ground. as I’m getting cuffed i see my friend (who was recording all this) laid out on the ground with 4 cops on him. they take us out of the game and let us go an hour later because they had ABSOLUTELY NO REASON TO ARREST US. I am beyond disgusted at the guys at the game, the people (including native around us who said nothing), the giants security for allowed that “headdress” inside to begin with, the police, and the San Francisco Giants organization as a whole for trying to host a heritage night without some type of cultural sensitive training. I’m not big on my tumblr game so I could appreciate any help spreading the word about this and holding the team accountable and hopefully providing evidence for the native mascot issue that is under heavy media attention and fire right now. Thanks! April

— 1 month ago with 952 notes

wocinsolidarity:

redreznikv:

Uzo Aduba accepts the Best Guest Performer in a Comedy Series award for ‘Orange is the New Black’ onstage during the 4th Annual Critics’ Choice Television Awards on June 19, 2014

SO HAPPY RN

— 1 month ago with 18279 notes
My Parents are Dead and My Sister is Disabled →

positivelypersistentteach:

therealbarbielifts:

eisforedna:

On May 28th, my sister, Edna, turned 31.

image 

Her mental age is about three years old. She loves Winnie the Pooh, Beauty & the Beast, and Sesame Street. Even though the below picture is unconvincing. 

image

Edna and “Cookie.” I think she was trying to play it cool. 

My name is Jeanie. I’m Edna’s younger sister. I’m also her guardian and caregiver. 

image

That’s me on the left. (Hey, you never know. After a year of writing a blog about online dating - Jeanie Does the Internet - I’ve come to learn that there are A LOT of fools on the internet.) 

image

ANYWAY, I’m not “doing the internet” anymore. I’m taking care of Edna full-time, after completing my MFA in Writing for Screen & Television at USC.

image

May 16, 2014. I wanted a picture. Edna wanted breakfast.

In case you’re wondering where our parents are, they’re dead. Our mom died of breast cancer when she was just 33. 

image

Us with mom before she died. (Obviously.)

As for our dad, he peaced-out around the time my mom got sick. His loss - we’re awesome. 

image

Here we are being awesome at the beach. Pushing a wheelchair in the sand? Not so awesome. 

In case you’re wondering “What’s wrong?” with my sister - as a stranger once asked me on the street  -  NOTHING. Yes, Edna has a rare form of epilepsy - Lennox-Gastaut syndrome - but I don’t know if that’s anymore “wrong” than people who don’t have manners. 

Basically, Edna was born “normal,” and started having seizures as a baby. They eventually got so bad that they cut off the oxygen to her brain, causing her to be mentally disabled. Or impaired. Or intellectually disabled. Or whatever you want to call it - except “retarded,” because in 2010, President Obama signed Rosa’s Law into effect, replacing that word with “intellectually impaired.” 

Which is cool and all, but services for the disabled and the people who care for them are SEVERELY LACKING. Also, there’s a bunch of people working in taxpayer-funded positions who are supposed to help families like us, but don’t. (Big surprise, I know.) They just fill out paperwork (whenever they feel like it) with asinine statements like this: 

image

YUP. I transport my sister down the stairs in her wheelchair, because that is not only safe, but TOTALLY PRACTICAL. Why doesn’t everyone in a wheelchair just take the stairs, for God’s sake? Stop being so lazy, PEOPLE WITHOUT WORKING LEGS! 

But, as it says above, Edna’s legs do work. Whether or not she wants them to, is another story. 

image

Edna refusing to go inside. 

These are the stairs that I have to carry her up - by myself - on a daily basis. That is, until one of my legs break and both of us are just sitting at the bottom of the stairs, helpless. 

image

For six months, I have begged - BEGGED - the State of California to help my sister, which they are required by law - The Lanterman Act specifically - to do so. But they’ve told me “these things take time” and that I “need to amend my expectations.” (That was said to me when I refused to place Edna at AN ALL-MALE CARE FACILITY. Because yes, that was an “option” that was offered to me.) 

Prior to Edna moving in with me in my one-bedroom apartment, she was living with her amazing caregiver, Gaby, back in Tucson, where we went to high school and I did my undergrad. Edna’s reppin’ the Wildcats below. 

image

But back in November, Gaby also died from breast cancer. (FUCK YOU, BREAST CANCER!) This picture was taken a month before she died. She never even told me she was sick because she didn’t want me to worry. 

By the way, we were raised by our grandma. Edna and her were very close.

image

She’s dead, too. Surprise.

She died when I was 20 and Edna was 21. That’s when I became Edna’s legal guardian and Gaby stepped into the picture to help me out with Edna. 

So, six months ago, after Gaby died, I moved Edna to California, where I tried to get the folks over at The Frank D. Lanterman Regional Center to help me. I’ve told them I’m worried about our safety - that one of us could get hurt on the stairs -  I’ve told them I can’t afford to pay the private babysitters $15/hour because the ones social services sent me who make $9/hour were unreliable (they didn’t show up on time or at all so I could get to school and work), untrustworthy (one of them let Edna go to the bathroom in the kitchen and then took her into the bathroom because “that what I thought I was supposed to do.”) 

But the people over at the FLRC don’t return my calls, they don’t file the paperwork on time - and the first caseworker that was assigned to us actually LAUGHED AT my sister when he came to our home to evaluate her. When I reported him to his supervisor, she told me, “That’s just [insert name of said jackass].” 

He was one of the two caseworkers that contributed to the report I mentioned above, which also included this: 

image

So let me get this straight - I have to feed, bathe, dress and help Edna in the bathroom and you can’t deduce whether or not she is able to vote? What in the fuck?!

Now I realize I seem angry. And you can bet your balls I am. I’m also sad. Sad for those who don’t have family to stick up from them and who waste away God knows where, monitored by no one. Or monitored by people who physically and sexually assault them

I’m also sad for the caregivers who are SO EXHAUSTED - trying to take care of their loved ones - while also trying to take care of themselves and battling a system that is supposed to help, but does nothing of the sort. And I know a lot of people give up. They let their dreams, their marriages, their friendships slide. All while trying not to resent the very person you’re doing it all for.

image

Edna wanted to sit next to me the other day while I was writing. Clearly, she’s not impressed. 

Here’s the thing: I REFUSE TO GIVE UP. I’M NOT GIVING UP ON HER OR MYSELF. I’m going to pursue my dreams while taking care of her, AND while ensuring that the people paid to do their jobs ACTUALLY do them.

That’s where you come in. I need you to help me get my story out there. Because I know I’m not alone in this. I want to connect with families who are in similar situations and also show people who have no idea what it’s like to care for someone with a disability (or even a loved one who is sick) that it can be rewarding. Super fucking hard. Exhausting. Painful. Isolating. But, rewarding. 

I’m going to get help for my sister - and others. My hope is that by sharing our story, I can bring awareness to the lack of services and help for the disabled. 

Thank you, 

Jeanie 

Facebook:  facebook.com/eisforedna

Twitter: @EisforEdna 

This made me cry

Boosting!  Have inothernews and newsweek seen this yet?

(Source: , via angrynativefeminists)

— 1 month ago with 196383 notes
Help a new mother with basic necessities →

mommyandmakoons:

mommyandmakoons:

Hi,

I am a new mom to my one month old son born in May. I was denied FMLA maternity leave (have to be with the company for a year) at my job, and was terminated as a result. I am not guaranteed my job back after I am cleared to work again by my doctor at my 6 week postpartum exam. As a result of this, my family and I are no longer financially stable. I had $500 saved prior to having baby, but my monthly bills exceed double that amount. My fiancé works full time, but does not make much more than minimum wage.

I am also a beader. My beadwork has become my main source of income, and
am having difficulties moving inventory. I am counting on income from beadwork to cover basic everyday necessities- besides bills for housing and transportation, mainly diapers/wipes (we will be cloth diapering but are in disposables until baby gets a bit bigger to fit the cloth diapers we have for him), and food (we get state assistance, however our benefits won’t go up from my job loss until July- we are living off less than $200 for food a month.)

If anyone could spread the word about the blog for my beadwork ( littlebirdaccessories) and maybe even purchase/donate, I would totally appreciate it! Chi miigwech :)

I really need the help, guys. Every reblog is appreciated :)

(via angrynativefeminists)

— 1 month ago with 931 notes

jurnbo:

people with small boobs can sleep on their stomachs so who’s the real winner here

Fuck you

(Source: jurnbo-deactivated-7-15-2014, via jamietheignorantamerican)

— 1 month ago with 149079 notes