I used to be one of those people who loved to argue for the sake of being “right” and making myself feel better about myself… until I realized that it was a really shitty state of mind and realized that other people have unique struggles that I’ll never be able to understand completely.

So if I had trouble with realizing that, being a Latina, I can only imagine how much more disconnected a white neck beard can be from ever sympathizing with a group of people who are physically different from himself.

So yeah, my participation in every #blackout is going to make so many neckbeards mad, but it’s their choice to keep following me. 🐷

Zine submission callout! (fundraising for a new radical youth art/drop in space in Surrey, BC)

The high school system is designed to work well for a certain type of student, but many of us feel trapped in the classroom. We’re bored, we’re talked down to, we’re not learning about the things we care about.
There has to be a better way to learn.
We’re compiling a zine about people’s experiences in high school. Send us your poems, stories, drawings, cartoons, doodles, rants, whatever you can think of! Some ideas for inspiration: survival tactics, awesome teachers/librarians/mentors, pranks, chilling spots, favorite items, etc. Also curious about high school alternatives, free skools, homeschool/deschool/unschoolin’, and dream schools (what does that look like to you?)
Surrey, (in so-called British Columbia, Canada) where the youth space will be, is the traditional territories of the Katzie, Kwantlen, SEMYOME (Semiahmoo), and Tswwassen peoples. We recognize that the land was stolen through a process of colonialism that continues today, and we strive to create relationships of solidarity with the various nations whose land we’re on. 
Send to
Submission deadline extended (again) to March 10th!

no but how amazing is it that we’re all living in our own stories, our own universes, and every time we interact with someone else it’s a crossover with their story which is just as real to them as ours is to us


The Dark Side of Haninozuka “Honey-senpai” Mitsukuni 


in freshman year, you try to be cool by cutting back your vocabulary and using the word “gay” with a strange heavy weight. you think about girls when you go to sleep: how their lips would taste, their laughter, how you fall in love with everyone you meet. you are so used to hearing “gay” as an insult that you use it absently, even though it defines who you are, almost like you know you are harboring a demon. in two years, the world will change and everyone who has said awful things about you and your friends will suddenly strut around school with rainbow ally pins.

in junior year you wear a skirt that falls above your knees. halfway through lunch you call your mom crying. you feel like a monster. the word “slut” has tattooed itself across the inside of your thigh. your math teacher had pulled you aside, had expressed concern for “this kind of behavior”. you wear baggy clothes for the rest of the year, never try to step out dressed in risky, never try to be pretty. later when you see girls who wear the clothes you wish you could, you hiss the same word that you heard. in four years, the world will change and you will learn what it means to slut-shame.

we are not immobile icebergs, my loves. we make mistakes. we say the things that we hear the adults around us say. we were young, once, we didn’t know about so much. we were spat on and we said “this is how it is,” we didn’t know that it could be different. my father still tells me that gay people are trying to overthrow everything even though i came out years ago. it took me forever to unlearn everything i had been taught. we are not icebergs, we’re just little flowers and we’re growing.

we are little flowers, and we hear that young women write songs about the people they let into their hearts. i sat back and watched them rake her across the coals as if being honest was some kind of weakness. i saw her live and watched her cry when she heard our voices. i saw her live later and heard her say, “yeah, i write songs about love, what about it?”

cut your hair, let it grow out. sing along to taylor swift no matter how often people say you’re too old for it. learn to forgive yourself the mistakes being young made. write songs about love, write poems about real people. be honest, be genuine, don’t worry about how many boys you kiss. none of us were perfect.

be a better person today than you were in freshman year. be a better person than you were a month ago. be a better person than you were five seconds ago. we are not icebergs. we are just little flowers, my love. you might mess up: but oh goodness, you’ll grow.

—  the fact that what we did 8 years ago is now unacceptable makes me incredibly happy: it means that we’ve made progress. we’re getting somewhere. it’s changing. // r.i.d

“How terrible it is to love something death can touch.”


I wanted to draw them goofing off, and it got away from me. Born of an image I remember seeing of them on the couch together (need to find it, gotta scour the tag) and the ‘tussling’ mentioned in this ficlet by chantillxlacey that I really enjoyed.

Addon: found the picture I mentioned, by artsyfeathersartsyblog. And before I forget, credit to heilos for the eye headcanon used for human-quise!Lewis.

Here, where the walls don’t stop bleeding, is where they find your poetry. They don’t understand the flesh you have glued back to your bones. Some nights you wonder if it counts as falling in love if you only stumble into it. The city inside of your stomach tells you everything is on fire. You write about the smoke to get rid of it. When you try to scrub yourself clean, the soap only ends up in your eyes. It burns for days, like always. It is never an easy burden being able to see everything so clearly. When your worst nightmare asks if this is still about him, you say, ‘Baby, you aren’t even close to being in these pages anymore. If I had a chance to create another world, do you really think you’d be in it?’ When the monsters get lonely, you finally learn to stop holding their hands. You finally learn that yours were made for more than this.
—  Y.Z, What we learned the hard way

I know what I’m risking. My life for theirs.

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And so here it is.
Missing someone
so much,
you almost break off your hands
just to find new ones
that haven’t held them before.
And it’s almost unlivable,
but somehow you live it,
and you make it to the other side.
The one they talk about in movies.
Where you get out of bed and don’t wait
for the sound of someone else
waking up next to you.
Where you open your voice like
a sky,
and there is no rain.
Just spring. Just blooming.
And you leave your airplane heart
on the runway
and you grow a new one
that knows how to take off
without crashing.
And it’s almost a miracle,
the way you untangle yourself
from this heartache like it’s ivy
growing across your skin.
And you’ll love again,
and you’ll forget the names you
wrote on the walls of your heart.
The words written in your own blood.
The ones that used to be everything
and are now just ghost songs
you forgot how to sing.
—  Y,Z, what we learned the hard way

What if we measured movies in view counts instead of theater earnings?

I’m not watching the Oscars but I was just thinking about the giant apparatus that we’ve built around movies (studios, theaters, advertising, marketing, even the Oscars, etc) and wondered if there was something that could be learned from looking at movies the same way we view online video.

So I took the Box Office Mojo numbers from 2014 and divided them by the average movie ticket price for last year ($8.17) and came up with some viewcounts for both totals and openings.

What could we learn about Hollywood from this? What could we learn about YouTube?

  • Golden
  • Farewell Fighter
  • The Way We Learn


Available now:




Reblog if you like! :)


In my short time I’ve realized that there is so much more to life
Than getting older, and getting mine
This is my ready, set, let-go attempt at finding who I am and I’ll be brief
So listen closely

I’ve learned not to talk through movies, when I still don’t know the lines
I’ve learned who not to ask advice from when I can’t make up my mind
When times get tough I’ve learned that breathing is the best thing I can do
And I’ve learned letting go of friends is something I won’t get used to

I’ve learned a fair amount about the world of women and of love
I’ve learned that money doesn’t always mean deserving one or both of the above
I’ve learned it’s hard to be alone when you’re alive
But somehow I have learned that we won’t be alone when we all reach the other side

Something in my heart is telling me I’ve learned to love who I’ve become
I know my learning isn’t done

But Ohhh, I’m afraid I will never quite understand, the way I wish I could
Know everything I would ever need just in case I ever lose my way

I’ve learned not to lie to people who know me better than my word
and I believe I’ve learned to filter out the voices in my head (but I’m still not sure)
I’ve learned that failure’s not an option, it’s frowned upon and rude
And giving up before the bell is something I’ve learned not to do

I’ve learned how to keep my head above the water line in desperate times
I’ve learned to swim when someone lonely ties an anchor to my legs in-spite
I’ve learned to fight, The difference between wrong and right, how to sleep at night
I still don’t have that cartridge but I’m learning how to live in black and white

But Ohhh, I’m afraid I will never quite understand, the way I wish I could
Know everything I would ever need just in case I ever lose my way

Golden, we are golden because we’re alive
We are nothing without our goodbyes
Illuminate our own way from inside
We shine so bright, we shine so