welcome to my parlor

A lesson that we can’t afford not to be taught.

let’s spread this again and again and again

Don’t come at me about the Bible and homosexuality if you’re using it to justify your homophobia. I will demolish you.

Also, for some cultures including early Christianity, sodomite could very well have ment someone gravely inhospitable, as the sin of Sodom was inhospitality and not anal sex.

I wanted to talk about that too but I was running out of tweets I could put on a singular thread 😅 thank you so much for this addition!

@louithescribe

I’m reblogging this partially because it’s frickin awesome, and partially for future reference, cus yeah the evangelical community is really scary to be in as part of the LGBTQA community

People keep asking for the links on the thread, so, here’s a link to the thread.

Whoa this is one of the BEST things I’ve ever seen!! And I learned a lot from it which I can tell my LGBTQ+ friends so that they can also destroy someone with this knowledge! Thank you so much for making a stand!

This was some hella good stuff here. I knew there was corruption with Bible verses and such but wow this was supremely informative!

I’ve reblogged this before, but I always feel like someone might need to see this.

me watching The Witcher: Xena vibes! High fantasy nonsense! Wizards! Weird timelines. More wizards! Unexpectedly compelling commentary on what it means to be a “monster.”  Even MORE Wizards! BARDS! This is what I signed up for.

critics watching The Witcher: This claims to be Fantasy, yet it is not Game of Thrones? Suspicious. Also I will demand that it 100% make sense, because that has always been a hallmark of the fantasy genre.

Imagine a fae who is just so mad about the idea of lying, like, I have spent a thousand years studying the subtle arts of deceit, weaving my spells of glamour and misdirection, and you, human, can just stand there and

say things 

that aren’t true

“So yeah, I’m, uh, bright purple.”

“But you’re not! That’s not even plausible! How can you just - you are not even puce. Fine. Fine. Another one.”

“Are you sure? You seem pretty mad.”

“I assure you I am wholly and terribly sane.”

“Heh, you know that’s not the kind I meant.”

“Hssssss.”

“Haha, fine, fine. I’m … a dragon.”

“nO YOU’RE NOT THOUGH–”

This is a fucking hilarious concept.

When English isn’t taught correctly…

Check this bellend who doesnae ken that Scots, and indeed all “improper” dialects an accents ay English, arenae incompatible wi intelligence oar eloquence ay expression

(I mean, the original post insnae exactly the most poetic ay thoughts, but neither’s fuckin off tae bed wioot gien yer mate a cover, whit the fuck’s wrang wi you, were you raised in a fuckin shed)

Scottish Tumblr ™ came through

<3

Is the “fluffy one shot” pig doing whip its with those cans?  Cause that feels accurate.

@skyholdherbalist Yup! XD

@frozensnares

Then… where do I go? I’m just at home muttering

into the void of an open word document.

@valkyrien Oh but there’s more to this party than sugar and sweets~ ♥︎

Fluff Fest on RedBubble: https://www.redbubble.com/people/kitten-kin/works/36582633

Dark Side on RedBubble: https://www.redbubble.com/people/kitten-kin/works/36634358

THE PIG IS EATING PINE TREES IN THE PINING I CAN NOT DEAL.

IT GOT BETTER

Where’s the lemon buffet

Third Comic, featuring the citrus-themed juice bar~ @alltheusernameiwantistaken

Available on RedBubble at https://www.redbubble.com/people/kitten-kin/works/37192337.

This has me in stitches !!!!! LOL ah mon dieu, woo, I needed that :-) Thanks @lodessa

@damehawkeye this is SO us

so women are supposed to grin and bear the books, the comics, the movies, the plays, the tv shows, the stories, the sci-fi, the translated ancient poems, the fucking millennia of men writing about their self inserts torturing women and it being declared as High Art by other men, we’re supposed to read it in our free time, study it in classrooms, include their styles in our own writing, accept their cultural influence as natural, watch it in the cinema, write about it, talk about it, accept it, aspire it, but men can’t tolerate three seconds of female wish fulfilment of a woman snapping the wrist of a creep without feeling personally kicked in the balls.

This reminds me of something I observed in college while I was doing my honors thesis on women in modern horror films. I watched a LOT of horror during that time as part of my research, and sometimes that was done with my family around.

And my dad and brothers? Were deeply disturbed by the movie Jennifer’s Body. I was flabbergasted. It’s not scary! It’s not even that gory. But they were horrified by it. These men who grew up on 70s slashers were legitimately shook by 90 minutes of Megan Fox eating a few teenage boys, mostly off-screen.

Similarly, my all-male reading panel for my thesis? Were so disturbed by my synopsis of the film Teeth that they couldn’t even talk about it. One of them said he couldn’t look at his wife for a week after reading it.

Again, grown-ass men who study and teach media for a living. Who definitely watch and enjoy horror movies. One of whom was a huge Tarantino buff. We watched and read worse in his intro to mass media class! But one movie about a girl whose vag could bite was enough to haunt him.

Then of course you have things like the Gone Girl backlash–men yelling that Amy Dunne is evil and women clamoring to assure everyone that they know she is not someone to emulate–the backlash against Carol Danvers, and, more recently, the griping from MRAs against the upcoming film Hustlers, which is about strippers scamming their Wall Street clients.

My conclusion? Most men–at least most straight, cisgender men, who are both my sample population and most of the ones whining that Carol is a “villain”–are perfectly fine with, and desensitized to, media where men do violence to women (horror movies), or men do violence to men (horror and action movies). They’re even sort of fine when women do violence to women (“ooooo cat fight!”).

But they get intensely uncomfortable when women are depicted doing any kind of violence to men, especially in films that tilt the balance of power to the other side of the m/f gender binary beyond a single moment or scene.

So woman as flesh-eating monster with men as her preferred cuisine? Woman who responds to unwanted sexual contact by biting it off? Woman who frames her cheating husband for murder? Woman whose response to harassment–behavior that many of the loudest whiners know is both creepy and reflective of their own thoughts/actions–is to break something?

Too scary. Unacceptable. Disturbing. These men hate being presented with the idea, even in fiction, that their position of power is socially constructed, that it could easily be flipped the other way. It terrifies them.

In feeling that terror, they experience a tiny modicum of what living, existing, moving, being perceived as a woman in the world is like.

And they flinch every time.

Here have a newspaper comic from 1993

— Anne Jamison (via pen-in-hand)

a goth mom posted this on facebook in an argument about public breastfeeding and I just felt very impressed

@shitpostsampler PLEASE I AM BEGGING YOU I know it’s not a text post but still

Okay which one of you is going to write the Ineffable Husbands college professor AU with the extremely sweet and over-sharing professor fawning over their spouse and the standoff-ish secretive professor who reveals absolutely nothing about their private life who turned out to be married?

Everyone at Nutter University loves Dr. Crowley. He's so popular that they've had to beg him to teach two lecture hall courses each term to keep up with the sheer number of students who want to take his class. His fellow biology professors can be quite grouchy about it, pointing out the high percentage of male-attracted students who sign up for his class. He just lets it slide off him like water off a duck's back.

The most he's ever said about it is "Oh, please, Dagon. I never shut up about Ezra. The students know I'm taken."

This is 100% true. Part of Dr. Crowley's popularity stems from the fact that he seems physically incapable of saying the words "my husband" fewer than three times in each lecture. His students have no idea who this mysterious "husband" is, but they know that he loves Shakespeare, sushi, Beethoven, and tulips. They've even started trying to draw police-sketch-artist-style pictures to figure out what "Mr. Crowley" must look like, although Dr. Crowley mostly just describes him physically as "adorable". Rumor has it that there are photos in Dr. Crowley's office, but he always holds office hours in the greenhouse, so no one is sure.

Dr. Fell is less popular with the general student body, but no student who has taken his Introduction to Literary Criticism class has managed to leave without becoming a little attached to him. He's an absolute expert in his subject--passionate and utterly devoted to it. He seems so obsessed with literature that his students have come to the conclusion that he doesn't really have a social life. He never discusses his personal life or alludes to romantic partners, even when covering Shakespeare's sonnets. There are no photos in his office at all.

His students feel a little sorry for him, assuming he must be lonely. His students have taken to suggesting things he should do in his free time or places where he might meet people. They really do love him.

Then two students headed back from a late night astrology lab see him snogging Dr. Crowley in the back of Dr. Crowley's car.

Suddenly, Dr. Crowley's students are quite chilly towards him. They seem bothered by his sweet stories instead of charmed by them. The lecture hall gets a little less crowded each time. It's sad, really, and Dr. Crowley starts worrying about how he's offended so many students at once.

Dr. Fell's office hours are suddenly going by without a single appointment. Students stop telling him about wonderful new restaurants and seem just as interested as he is in skimming over Jane Austen. It's very disconcerting, and he decides to cheer himself up by going to sit in on Crowley's horticultural bio lab one day.

"Hello, Alicia!" Dr. Fell says cheerfully, "I didn't know you were taking Dr. Crowley's class."

"I'm in Astronomy 208, too," she replies, with surprising frostiness.

"Erm, that's nice? I don't know much about stars, but AJ--that is, Dr. Crowley--enjoys reading about them."

Alicia looks like she's about to say something scathing when Dr. Crowley walks in. He lights up like the sun the moment he sees Dr. Fell.

"Hello, angel!" Dr. Crowley exclaims, "To what do I owe the visit? We're past ferns, you know."

Dr. Fell grins back, "I don't have another class until five and thought I'd like to see you before I get home tonight."

"Well, I suppose I can waive the audit fee just this once," Dr. Crowley teases.

"And you might get odd looks at the bank, trying to deposit a check from your own account."

"Wait, DR. FELL is your husband?" Alicia practically shrieks.

"Where have you been?" Dr. Crowley asks, "I talk about him all the time."

"Oh do you, my dear?" Dr. Fell blushes.

"Let me guess, you've never mentioned me once."

Temples are built for gods. Knowing this a farmer builds a small temple to see what kind of god turns up.

Arepo built a temple in his field, a humble thing, some stones stacked up to make a cairn, and two days later a god moved in.

“Hope you’re a harvest god,” Arepo said, and set up an altar and burnt two stalks of wheat. “It’d be nice, you know.” He looked down at the ash smeared on the stone, the rocks all laid askew, and coughed and scratched his head. “I know it’s not much,” he said, his straw hat in his hands. “But - I’ll do what I can. It’d be nice to think there’s a god looking after me.”

The next day he left a pair of figs, the day after that he spent ten minutes of his morning seated by the temple in prayer. On the third day, the god spoke up.

“You should go to a temple in the city,” the god said. Its voice was like the rustling of the wheat, like the squeaks of fieldmice running through the grass. “A real temple. A good one. Get some real gods to bless you. I’m no one much myself, but I might be able to put in a good word?” It plucked a leaf from a tree and sighed. “I mean, not to be rude. I like this temple. It’s cozy enough. The worship’s been nice. But you can’t honestly believe that any of this is going to bring you anything.”

“This is more than I was expecting when I built it,” Arepo said, laying down his scythe and lowering himself to the ground. “Tell me, what sort of god are you anyway?”

“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth. I’m a god of a dozen different nothings, scraps that lead to rot, momentary glimpses. A change in the air, and then it’s gone.”

The god heaved another sigh. “There’s no point in worship in that, not like War, or the Harvest, or the Storm. Save your prayers for the things beyond your control, good farmer. You’re so tiny in the world. So vulnerable. Best to pray to a greater thing than me.”

Arepo plucked a stalk of wheat and flattened it between his teeth. “I like this sort of worship fine,” he said. “So if you don’t mind, I think I’ll continue.”

“Do what you will,” said the god, and withdrew deeper into the stones. “But don’t say I never warned you otherwise.”

Arepo would say a prayer before the morning’s work, and he and the god contemplated the trees in silence. Days passed like that, and weeks, and then the Storm rolled in, black and bold and blustering. It flooded Arepo’s fields, shook the tiles from his roof, smote his olive tree and set it to cinder. The next day, Arepo and his sons walked among the wheat, salvaging what they could. The little temple had been strewn across the field, and so when the work was done for the day, Arepo gathered the stones and pieced them back together.

“Useless work,” the god whispered, but came creeping back inside the temple regardless. “There wasn’t a thing I could do to spare you this.”

“We’ll be fine,” Arepo said. “The storm’s blown over. We’ll rebuild. Don’t have much of an offering for today,” he said, and laid down some ruined wheat, “but I think I’ll shore up this thing’s foundations tomorrow, how about that?” 

The god rattled around in the temple and sighed.

A year passed, and then another. The temple had layered walls of stones, a roof of woven twigs. Arepo’s neighbors chuckled as they passed it. Some of their children left fruit and flowers. And then the Harvest failed, the gods withdrew their bounty. In Arepo’s field the wheat sprouted thin and brittle. People wailed and tore their robes, slaughtered lambs and spilled their blood, looked upon the ground with haunted eyes and went to bed hungry. Arepo came and sat by the temple, the flowers wilted now, the fruit shriveled nubs, Arepo’s ribs showing through his chest, his hands still shaking, and murmured out a prayer. 

“There is nothing here for you,” said the god, hudding in the dark. “There is nothing I can do. There is nothing to be done.” It shivered, and spat out its words. “What is this temple but another burden to you?”

“We -” Arepo said, and his voice wavered. “So it’s a lean year,” he said. “We’ve gone through this before, we’ll get through this again. So we’re hungry,” he said. “We’ve still got each other, don’t we? And a lot of people prayed to other gods, but it didn’t protect them from this. No,” he said, and shook his head, and laid down some shriveled weeds on the altar. “No, I think I like our arrangement fine.”

“There will come worse,” said the god, from the hollows of the stone. “And there will be nothing I can do to save you.”

The years passed. Arepo rested a wrinkled hand upon the temple of stone and some days spent an hour there, lost in contemplation with the god.

And one fateful day, from across the wine-dark seas, came War.

Arepo came stumbling to his temple now, his hand pressed against his gut, anointing the holy site with his blood. Behind him, his wheat fields burned, and the bones burned black in them. He came crawling on his knees to a temple of hewed stone, and the god rushed out to meet him.

“I could not save them,” said the god, its voice a low wail. “I am sorry. I am sorry. I am so so sorry.” The leaves fell burning from the trees, a soft slow rain of ash. “I have done nothing! All these years, and I have done nothing for you!”

“Shush,” Arepo said, tasting his own blood, his vision blurring. He propped himself up against the temple, forehead pressed against the stone in prayer. “Tell me,” he mumbled. “Tell me again. What sort of god are you?”

“I -” said the god, and reached out, cradling Arepo’s head, and closed its eyes and spoke.

“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said, and conjured up the image of them. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth.” Arepo’s lips parted in a smile.

“I am the god of a dozen different nothings,” it said. “The petals in bloom that lead to rot, the momentary glimpses. A change in the air -” Its voice broke, and it wept. “Before it’s gone.”

“Beautiful,” Arepo said, his blood staining the stones, seeping into the earth. “All of them. They were all so beautiful.”

And as the fields burned and the smoke blotted out the sun, as men were trodden in the press and bloody War raged on, as the heavens let loose their wrath upon the earth, Arepo the sower lay down in his humble temple, his head sheltered by the stones, and returned home to his god.

Sora found the temple with the bones within it, the roof falling in upon them.

“Oh, poor god,” she said, “With no-one to bury your last priest.” Then she paused, because she was from far away. “Or is this how the dead are honored here?” The god roused from its contemplation.

“His name was Arepo,” it said, “He was a sower.”

Sora startled, a little, because she had never before heard the voice of a god. “How can I honor him?” She asked.

“Bury him,” the god said, “Beneath my altar.”

“All right,” Sora said, and went to fetch her shovel.

“Wait,” the god said when she got back and began collecting the bones from among the broken twigs and fallen leaves. She laid them out on a roll of undyed wool, the only cloth she had. “Wait,” the god said, “I cannot do anything for you. I am not a god of anything useful.”

Sora sat back on her heels and looked at the altar to listen to the god.

“When the Storm came and destroyed his wheat, I could not save it,” the god said, “When the Harvest failed and he was hungry, I could not feed him. When War came,” the god’s voice faltered. “When War came, I could not protect him. He came bleeding from the battle to die in my arms.” Sora looked down again at the bones.

“I think you are the god of something very useful,” she said.

“What?” the god asked.

Sora carefully lifted the skull onto the cloth. “You are the god of Arepo.”

Generations passed. The village recovered from its tragedies—homes rebuilt, gardens re-planted, wounds healed. The old man who once lived on the hill and spoke to stone and rubble had long since been forgotten, but the temple stood in his name. Most believed it to be empty, as the god who resided there long ago had fallen silent. Yet, any who passed the decaying shrine felt an ache in their hearts, as though mourning for a lost friend. The cold that seeped from the temple entrance laid their spirits low, and warded off any potential visitors, save for the rare and especially oblivious children who would leave tiny clusters of pink and white flowers that they picked from the surrounding meadow.

The god sat in his peaceful home, staring out at the distant road, to pedestrians, workhorses, and carriages, raining leaves that swirled around bustling feet. How long had it been? The world had progressed without him, for he knew there was no help to be given. The world must be a cruel place, that even the useful gods have abandoned, if farms can flood, harvests can run barren, and homes can burn, he thought.

He had come to understand that humans are senseless creatures, who would pray to a god that cannot grant wishes or bless upon them good fortune. Who would maintain a temple and bring offerings with nothing in return. Who would share their company and meditate with such a fruitless deity. Who would bury a stranger without the hope for profit. What bizarre, futile kindness they had wasted on him. What wonderful, foolish, virtuous, hopeless creatures, humans were.

So he painted the sunset with yellow leaves, enticed the worms to dance in their soil, flourished the boundary between forest and field with blossoms and berries, christened the air with a biting cold before winter came, ripened the apples with crisp, red freckles to break under sinking teeth, and a dozen other nothings, in memory of the man who once praised the god’s work on his dying breath.

“Hello, God of Every Humble Beauty in the World,” called a familiar voice.

The squinting corners of the god’s eyes wept down onto curled lips. “Arepo,” he whispered, for his voice was hoarse from its hundred-year mutism.

“I am the god of devotion, of small kindnesses, of unbreakable bonds. I am the god of selfless, unconditional love, of everlasting friendships, and trust,” Arepo avowed, soothing the other with every word.

“That’s wonderful, Arepo,” he responded between tears, “I’m so happy for you—such a powerful figure will certainly need a grand temple. Will you leave to the city to gather more worshippers? You’ll be adored by all.”

“No,” Arepo smiled.

“Farther than that, to the capitol, then? Thank you for visiting here before your departure.”

“No, I will not go there, either,” Arepo shook his head and chuckled.

“Farther still? What ambitious goals, you must have. There is no doubt in my mind that you will succeed, though,” the elder god continued.

“Actually,” interrupted Arepo, “I’d like to stay here, if you’ll have me.”

The other god was struck speechless. “…. Why would you want to live here?”

“I am the god of unbreakable bonds and everlasting friendships. And you are the god of Arepo.”

Leaving kudos on AO3 like

Legolas pretty quickly gets in the habit of venting about his travelling companions in Elvish, so long as Gandalf & Aragorn aren’t in earshot they’ll never know right?

Then about a week into their journey like

Legolas: *in Elvish, for approximately the 20th time* ugh fucking hobbits, so annoying

Frodo: *also in Elvish, deadpan* yeah we’re the worst

Legolas:

~*~earlier~*~

Legolas: ugh fucking hobbits

Merry: Frodo what’d he say

Frodo: I’m not sure he speaks a weird dialect but I think he’s insulting us. I should tell him I can understand Elvish

Merry: I mean you could do that but consider

Merry: you can only tell him ONCE

Frodo: Merry. You’re absolutely right. I’ll wait.

#legolas’ hick accent vs #frodo’s ‘i learned it out of a book’ accent #FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT

Legolas: umm well your accent is horrible

Aragorn: *hollering from a distance* HIS ACCENT IS BETTER THAN YOURS LEGOLAS YOU SILVAN HICK

Frodo: :)

Frodo: Hello. My name is Frodo. I am a Hobbit. How are you?

Legolas: y’alld’ve’ff’ve

Frodo, crying: please I can’t understand what you’r saying

Ok, but Frodo didn’t just learn out of a book. He learned like… Chaucerian Elvish. So actually:

Frodo: Good morrow to thee, frend. I hope we twain shalle bee moste excellente companions.

Legolas: Wots that mate? ‘Ere, you avin’ a giggle? Fookin’ ‘obbits, I sware.

Aragorn: *laughing too hard to walk*

This is most hilarious thing I’ve read for lotr lore. It’s great haha

Children playing with Barbies in media: “This is Sally. She’s the mommy. She loves fashion, swimming, and she drives a convertible! She has a baby with Ken and sometimes they kiss.” OR “Look, I ripped Barbie’s head off! Ha ha ha! I’m a boy.”

Children playing with Barbies in real life: “This is Aurora, the fallen goddess of the sky. She has been banished from her kingdom and bound to a mortal body by her sister, who rose to power by human sacrifices. She now leads an army of cannibal water spirits who eat men. Sometimes they have orgies. They dismembered a traitor and keep her head on a Popsicle stick as a warning to others. Aurora can turn into a wolf and uses battle magic to paralyze her enemies. The king of the stuffed animals developed rabies and she had to slay him to save his people, but they do not understand that it was an act of mercy and kindness and are sending assassins after her for regicide. This is Aurora’s soulmate, Crystal, but her soul is trapped in a gemstone while an evil spirit pilots her body and attempts to murder her friends.”

….I’m weirdly proud that this post went viral because Aurora was a real character in my childhood games and I’m glad she’s been immortalized on the Internet.

I'm reminded of the warnings on Ao3, "If you found this by Googling yourself or someone you know, TURN BACK NOW, THIS IS NOT FOR YOU."

Guys who complain about the friendzone often don’t care about their female friends’ personal boundaries, forcing their female friends build more walls up. A good cartoon.

- submitted by Gene

why is he tearing down a wall with an axe

i hate it when your put in the friendzone and made to tear down a wall

Mr. Gorbachev…tear down this friendzone

how you gonna draw some shit that makes you look like Jack Nicholson in The Shining and still feel like you’re the victim

I DON’T *CHOP* UNDERSTAND *CHOP* WHY *CHOP* YOU CAN’T *CHOP* JUST *CHOP* LET ME *CHOP* BONE YOU *CHOP* ON AN INDEFINITE *CHOP* EXCLUSIVE *CHOP* BASIS *CHOP* WHEN *CHOP* I’M *CHOP* SO *CHOP* NIIIIIIIIIIIICE *CHOP*

“I’m going to wall you up now, Fortunato.”

“Ha ha, and then what? ;) ”

“For the love of God, Montresor!” -Cask of Amontifriendzone, Edgar Allan Poe

Incessantly, I heard a smacking, as of some entitled dipshit whacking, whacking on my chamber door.

Resignedly, I placed another layer, voicing a quiet, repeated prayer, “This dude thinks he’s a player, but I am not a point to score, he should fuck off and bother me no more.”

Quoth the friendzoned, “Fucking whore.”

- The Craven, by Edward Allen Bro

edgar allen bro

Oh my god

holy shit

“Nice guy!” said I, “Total dildo–nice guy still if nerd or dudebro, Whether reddit sent, or whether romcoms tossed thee here ashore, Barely known yet still entitled, holding now your Tom Waits vinyl, Begging me for something primal, tell me truly, I implore Is this–is this shit for fucking real? Tell me, tell me, I implore! Quoth the friendzoned, “Fucking whore.”

“Nice guy!” said I, “Total dildo–nice guy still if nerd or dudebro, By the mores that you abuse thus, by those films we both adore, Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, by stalking me through Facebook, You have gained a twisted outlook of whom those tropes are for, Paint a rare and radiant dream girl whilst you remain a bore, Quoth the friendzoned, “Fucking whore.”

“Be that slur our sign of parting, creep or douche!” I shrieked, upstarting, “Get thee back to lonely anguish and your friend’s used comic store! Leave no white rose as a token of the lust you claim heartbroken, Leave my scathing words to soak in! Quit the name calling of ‘whore’, When you lust for every girl, but when they say nay they are whores! Quoth the friendzoned, “Fucking whore.”

And the friendzoned, never scoring, still imploring, still imploring, On some fetid old subreddit for a girl who will adore The nicer guys and not the “douchebags”, unaware that it’s a red flag To be his soulmate o'er him learning they both like the movie Thor To fuck him for being nerdy even though he is a bore, Then she says no–fucking whore.

that internal rhyme scheme is a fucking master class

re-rebageling for the improved version of what i did, because fuck yeah

I found a document from 1652 that’s just a guy talking about how women are better than men and wow he’s a little confused but he got the spirit.

Literally every man in 1652: If she breathes, she a THOT!

This one random guy: All women are queens!

This idiot who loves women a lot: you see…women are perfect…you can tell because when they fall down…God made it so they usually fall on their back…which hurts less and prevents them from damaging their beautiful faces…wow women are so smart and beautiful

This absolute dumbass who treasures women with his whole soul: you know how sometimes women…are bad? It’s actually just proof that they are way more powerful than men and they could totally kill us if they wanted to but they don’t because they’re just that nice they literally don’t need us for shit

For those wondering, the document is called “The Glory of Women” OR “A Treatise declaring the excellency and preheminence of Women above Men, which is proved both by Scripture, Law, Reason, and Authority, Divine and Humane.”

Yeah. That’s the title.

This dude absolutely LOST IN THE SAUCE on Respect Women Juice

Unexpected Delights of the Seventeenth Century

Thor found a time machine 

My brain: New story idea!! Must write now!

Me: okay… what’s the plot..?

My brain: Hmm, plot? No, no, no, none of that here, my good friend, my good sir, my good ma’am, but may I offer you an overall general Vibe, an aesthetic if you will, a vague feeling to convey, a-

me, staring down ao3: ok i’m desperate for fic about this pairing but like… how desperate

You’re not desperate until you’re staring at fanfiction.net

Fools. you’re not desperate until you’re staring down an empty word document.

And there it is.

Something I wish more people would understand…

What’s her name?

Her name is Jane Elliott. She was a former schoolteacher, now she’s anti-racism activist, feminist and LGBT activist. She’s tiny, mean, and boss as fuck.

She’s known for her “blue eyes-brown eyes experiment” where she divides a group of volunteers from the blues and the browns. The minute the people walk in, the blue-eyes know they’re not welcomed. She makes them wait in a separate room, gives them shitty chairs, bad food, and shows them less respect. And (obviously) it causes all sorts of discomfort and rage, but that’s precisely her point. It doesn’t help that most blue-eyed volunteers happen to be white as well. Sometimes they get the message, sometimes they don’t and leave, sometimes crying or screaming. And Jane Elliott says that’s exactly what minorities want to do everyday of their lives, but they simply cannot do.

Did I mention she’s boss as fuck?

I love this woman.