brain-matter

Dear White Jews Who Believe They Are Oppressed,

This is a public service announcement to acknowledge that if no one can tell that you’re Jewish and you (intentionally and admittedly) get by on privilege, don’t attempt to relate to people of color with a “we’re in the same boat” attitude.  We’re not in the same boat.  

Also, know that I’m an educated black woman.  Do not ever think that it’s appropriate for you to say to me, “you’re a smart girl!”  Especially when you already know how many college degrees I have.  Your language is degrading and yet reflecting your ignorance (or triflingness) on what you think is appropriate treatment towards women of color.

Your acknowledgement of my brain matter solidifies that you didn’t expect me to be intelligent in the first place.  

What you say and what you mean are two different things.  Please be mindful before you speak.  It’s not your job to acknowledge my intelligence.  It’s your job to treat me like an adult human being–the way you would like to be treated. 

Reconsider your approach the next time you want to coo and say something so ironically degrading.  Because my reply is, “Ooooh, you’re such a smart Jew for realizing that I’m an educated black woman.  That’s why I went to school to be intelligent enough to call you out.”

In their quest to unravel the secrets of Fronterra’s history, as well as finding a way to return everyone to the home worlds, The Fracture’s scientists never sleep. 

Jitsugo is evidence that they really ought to. 

One of many test animals exposed to experimental steroids, a common desert tarantula took to the compound best, and soon began to far exceed projected growth parameters. With added bulk came added brain matter, and with that, added intelligence. It wasn’t long before the creature escaped the Fracture’s laboratories and tore off into the desert to find itself. 

Nicknamed “Jitsugo” after the utterly stunning martial fury he displayed against collection teams and Heckville’s Xenomorph Containment Unit, the titanic spider now haunts the wilds, occasionally ambushing caravans or stealing livestock. His continued freedom is responsible for no small amount of the Fracture’s damaged PR. 

Not All Men

“Not all men are rapists,” my Dad would grunt as he scrolled through his friends’ Facebook profiles and read the articles about sexual assault they’d posted.

“Not all men are abusive,” my Dad would mutter as he did research to disprove the domestic violence statistics that bothered him so much.

“Not all men are like him,” I’d mouth to myself, as Dad threw Mom across the room for having the temerity to contradict something he’d said.

After hurting her one night, he came to my room a few hours later. “You’re a sweet boy,” he told me. “I know you’d never harm a woman, no matter how much she deserved it. Not all men are like me. You don’t have a temper.”

I did have a temper, though. And I seethed.

Years later, I left for college an angry, confused young man.

I started off as a good student, but things began to decline as news from home trickled into my inbox. “Mom had to get stitches,” my sister wrote one day. “I’m off to the dentist to have a tooth capped!,” Mom wrote another time, leaving out all context about why. I knew.

I started drinking. My grades slipped. Depression spiraled, and while my rage remained internalized, I knew things were getting bad. I resented the women who turned down my advances. I’d say things about them behind their back - terrible, unforgivable things. My loneliness and isolation worsened. I sought out violent, misogynistic pornography. I hated myself for enjoying it as much as I did. I couldn’t help but wonder if that was what turned my father on, too.

At the end of the semester, I was looking forward to Christmas. I’d hoped the break from school would help ease the tension I felt. I wanted to be home with my family. I knew I’d be going back to the source of all my problems, but I didn’t care. Familiarity was preferable to being alone.

It turned out things had only gotten worse. Without me there, my father was out of control. Somehow my presence had been a kind of mediator without my knowing it. In some ways, he hadn’t wanted to disappoint me, his only son, by acting like how he truly wanted to when I had been living at home.

There were no brakes on that ride anymore.

Dad drank more than ever. Raged more than ever. And it seemed almost like second nature for him to push my mother or my sister out of his way with little regard for the force he used or where they’d end up as a result.
At Christmas dinner, we were gathered around the table. The family seemed to be in a decent enough mood after a day of Dad being on his best behavior. They were using the opportunity to enjoy the day. They were laughing and joking and celebrating. I couldn’t, though. I was overwhelmed by the stress. Stress from school. Stress from loneliness. Stress from my family. For the first time in my life, I felt like I might be losing control.

I did my best to put on a facade of good humor. I smiled and faked my way through dinner and most of dessert. Then my sister said something that I couldn’t laugh off. Something that stuck with me.

“I heard your ex Kayla is with Kevin Davis now. Talk about an upgrade, right?” She, and everyone else, laughed.

In any other situation, I would’ve laughed too. Kevin Davis was gorgeous. I had no residual feelings for Kayla, and I should have been happy that she’d gotten with such a good-looking guy. But all my feelings of rejection from the past few months bubbled to the surface. I started to breathe heavily. The room spun. Years of constant stress and anger and fear condensed in a wave, and everything went white.

Seconds later, when my vision returned, my mother was screaming. Dad had backed away from the table and was staring at me with fear and bewilderment. I looked at my sister. The remains of my sister. Half her head had been sheared away. Brain matter oozed onto the table and mixed with her plate of Christmas cookies.

Mom was hysterical and had rushed to my sister’s side. She was trying, with no success, to push the brain back into her daughter’s skull.

I felt hollow. Confused. The whole thing was so surreal that part of me thought I was in a nightmare. But then my father started to speak. Reality rushed in with a sickening jolt.

“You have a gift, Frank,” he told me. He spoke slowly. Methodically. I realized he was frightened. I’d never seen him like that.

“I didn’t know you had it,” he continued. I don’t. But your great grandfather did.” He paused. “Not all men can do that,” Dad whispered. “Not all men are like you.”

“Not all men.” The words swirled in my head and I thought back to every time he’d uttered those words. I felt nauseous. I flashed back to him sitting on the side of my bed, knuckles bruised from hitting my mother, saying that not all men were as horrible as he was. Yet here I was. Even worse. I closed my eyes and everything went white again. I felt a warm spray hitting my face. In the distance, there was another shriek from my mother.

I opened my eyes. My father had disappeared. The room was dripping with his blood. Steaming entrails stuck from the ceiling and, piece by piece, fell onto the table and saturated carpet.

Mom was huddled in the corner, sobbing. I got up from the table and she shrank back, muttering “get away from me” over and over and over between ragged breaths.

I surveyed the carnage. Then I left and never looked back. I’ve been on the run ever since. All day, every day, I hear my father’s voice echoing in my mind. “Not all men are like this,” and “not all men are like you.” I had believed him. Now, no matter where I go, when I see mens’ faces, I can’t help but wonder.

4

‘‘I want this to stop, I don’t want to accept this anymore.’’

David Lee Childress was 14 years old when he and his neighbour, 13-year old Jimmy Hartmangruber, killed David’s mother. David had been sexually abused by his mother since he was very young, but when he got older and refused to perform sexual acts on her, the abuse turned physical. His father mentally and physically abused him by repeatedly telling him how stupid he was, throwing chairs at him and hitting him.

When Jimmy was hanging out at David’s house on the 22nd of September 2004, David’s mother stormed into the room and started yelling at David and hitting him. When she left, Jimmy looked at David and said: ‘‘She does that a lot… You should do something about it.’’ David asked what he could do and Jimmy answered: ‘‘You could kill her, that would put a stop to it forever.’’ and so they came up with a plan.

‘‘I picked up a pipe from the alleyway next to the apartment and I thought it would be quick, relatively painless and easy to just ‘bam’, that’s it. She was sleeping when I came into the room and when I was about to do it, I was trying to build up the rage. But all the thoughts of what was going on stopped my hands and that’s when the disgust of myself and what I was going to do took over. I said to myself 'I can’t do it.’ That’s when Jimmy said: 'You’re a pussy, stop being a pussy. Get in there and do it.’ just like my father always told me. So subconsciously that might have spurred me. I went in there and she jumped out of her bed and she said: 'Where is the phone?! I’m calling the police and your father!’ so I tripped her and I started hitting her with my fists and for the first time in my life she told me: 'I love you, why are you doing this? Stop doing this.’ and I told her she was lying to try and save herself. That’s when I hit her a few more times and I was kinda queezy at the prospect of scattering brain matter. So I kind of didn’t put too much power into it. I hit her and she went unconscious, she was still breathing, though. But I was tired, so I put my belt around her neck and I said: 'Okay Jimmy, I can’t do this anymore.’ So I walked out of the room and when I came back about 5 minutes later, he had choked her to death.’’

David Lee Childress was sentenced to 40 years in prison.

anonymous asked:

Could you possibly do a mafia!daddy!phil × pastel!little!Dan ? ?? Cause that hc is freaking grEAT (possibly some smut?)

Prompt: dan wearing those cute velvet shorts you see on Instagram and phil can’t keep his hands off of him. (mafia!daddy!phil and whiny!little!dan?)

Oral fixation pastel Dan is all I beg you for

can i pleeease have some more little dan with oral fixation??? 

Here y’all go. Plus dirty talk, exhibitionism, and cockslut!dan. If you have trouble getting past the cut on mobile, open in your browser.

Being the son of the boss always has it perks, but when your father is the boss of the mafia, the fringe benefits are almost endless. It certainly isn’t the most relatable circumstance, but Phil Lester is acutely aware of the privilege his heritage brings. His family has never had any financial issues, and, although it may not be the most honest money, it made for a very comfortable childhood. Growing up, Phil never had to worry about being bullied in school – even though he was a fairly strange, quirky kid that would usually attract that kind of negative energy in the cesspool of teenage hormones that is high school, everyone was well aware of who his father was and what he could do, so he was left well alone. Now that he’s older, his blood keeps on giving in the form of a large house in London and connections with almost every business in a ten kilometre radius. That’s not to say Phil has had an easy life, but his problems are quite disparate from the average persons’. He may be rich with a notorious last name that opens back doors, but he does live with the constant knowledge that he may be shot dead at any moment, so he supposes it all evens out.

He works as part of the family, of course. That’s how the mob operates and, although he’s had his fair share of morality crises, he enjoys it. He’s not the eldest son, so, as long as nothing happens to Martyn, he isn’t expected to take over when his father – willingly, or otherwise – steps down, but he is still in control of some aspects of it. He supposes he’s a capo, in a way, being able to give orders to soldiers to do the bidding that’s sometimes his own, and sometimes passed down to him from his father. Most of the members he ranks above are considerably older than him, considering he’s only twenty-five, and he can tell from the hard look in their eyes when he gives orders that they’re not exactly thrilled about that. It doesn’t really matter, though, because to go against Phil is to go against the boss and, unless they’re actively looking to be killed, that’s not a very bright idea.

Phil’s seen a lot of shit since being inducted into the business at twenty. Before that, his father always kept things vague and the gory details hidden, probably more on Phil’s mothers’ wishes than his own, but the reality of what being in the mafia involves couldn’t be sugar-coated for him forever. He’s seen theft, assault, battery, and a fair share of murder. It’s not what Phil would call ideal, but it comes with the kill-or-be-killed lifestyle. He’s pretty much desensitised to the horror of it all by this point, but there is one incident that affected him above any other; it was also the chain of events that led to him meeting Dan.

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anonymous asked:

I don't know if you watch GOT, but how hard would it be to fight someone like the mountain hand-to-hand? (well, armed, like in the show). Does being big like him really makes for a better fighter?

Hand to hand is a bit different from armed, especially armored, but okay. The answer is pretty simple.

Start low.

Tall fighters, especially male fighters, have a rather serious issue that’s often overlooked: their center of gravity. It’s higher up off the ground than the average person, and a great many men (like the Mountain) do not drop low enough into their stances to compensate. The taller they are, the lower they need to go to counterbalance their size. Attack their feet, or their legs. Attack their center. Whatever you need to destabilize them. A lot of tall fighters have issues with their base. There are other flaws, but that’s often a big one.

Cutting the legs out from under of your enemy is a real tactic, or I should say: cutting them down to size.

Stab him in the foot. (Yeah, no, real combat tactic.)

Here’s a question: you ever hear the story about David versus Goliath? Probably, most people know the story of the shepherd boy who defeated the greatest, largest warrior in single combat with a sling.

The story is a parable, and a life lesson. It’s also a little more complicated than just brains over brawn. If you take anything from the story, the big one is going to be: never fight your enemy on their terms. Understand where their strengths are, where you’re strengths are, and change the rules.

What a big fighter has going for them is the intimidation factor, and mind games in combat are a huge deal. It’s not so much about physical prowess as much as what your enemy believes about your physical prowess. Or you believe about your opponent’s. What you believe will affect how you fight, how hard you fight, and how well you fight. Go into a fight believing you’re at a disadvantage or will lose and you’ll lose.

Assessing your enemy’s strengths for their weaknesses is the winning strategy. If never addressed, big fighters will have a lot of flaws because their opponents often cede them the field in their minds. This is especially true when in training, and training is the foundation of skill. When people treat you like you’re invincible, you’ll start to believe you are. And that’s how you get an over reliance on a natural advantage with no compensation for the flaws it brings.

The problem is that many people treat size and body types like they’re all or nothing. For every advantage one has, there’s a disadvantage to go with it. A fighter with a heavy reliance on what nature has given them (size, strength, what have you) often neglects more crucial skills if never addressed. You can have big fighters with exceptional levels of skill, but those are the ones who’ve realized they can’t brute force their way through every problem. When they don’t, their technique is sloppy.

Now, really, really, really big people often have to work doubly hard to develop their coordination because fighting with a big, lanky body is difficult.

The trick when you have (or feel like you have) the disadvantage is not to meet the enemy on their terms. The best fighters figure out how to exploit their opponent’s strengths in order to expose their weaknesses and fight with an advantage. The bad fighters are the ones who choose to fight at a disadvantage, who don’t prepare to face their enemy, and try to use the same tactics over and over. The smart ones change up, they are proactive, and understand the battlefield flows.

Ultimately, that’s what makes for the “best” fighter.

Fear is the biggest strength for someone who is massive in size, not their strength and not their bulk. When you are frightened, you become reactive, you cease to actively think, and fail to problem solve. The moment you are defeated in your mind, that is the moment you lose. It doesn’t matter how many steps it takes in the real world after the fact, cede the field in your mind and it’s over. Intimidation can win that fight before the battle ever begins, and the biggest kid on the playground is as natural as intimidation gets.

The Mountain isn’t great because of his skill, but the fact that he makes everyone around him afraid. His personal ruthlessness and cruelty back up that size, and strengthens his ability to intimidate. When facing the Mountain, you’re faced with fear over the (very real) consequences of what he’ll do to you.

He’s valuable because he’s frightening, not because he’s good at fighting. The good at fighting is the bonus that makes him more frightening.

Understanding the affect the mind has on combat is like 70% to victory. Understanding the assumptions made and why we make them is important to writing scenes with characters like this. If you put stock in the Mountain’s size, rather than the Mountain’s reputation then you miss where his strengths actually lie and why people are afraid of him.

The Mountain’s reputation is as a ruthless killing machine who delights in rape, murder, and pillage. Torture is his specialty. He does not abide by the code of chivalry or rules of knightly honor. He’s a sadist. For him, there’s no such thing as just warfare. He thirsts for blood and battle. He’s protected by one of the most powerful houses in the GOT universe, and he earns his pay as their enforcer.

His size is just a plus. He could be just as terrifying at 5″4, and then you’d have the joy of underestimating him before he put a knife through your eye. If he was small, he’d be even more terrifying because there’d be more bodies. His size doesn’t change who he is under the hood, it’s just one more attribute he’s utilizing to its fullest potential.

Stereotypes about tall and short people are just that. Stereotypes.

Every body type has its drawbacks, and their natural advantages can be made to work against them. Tall fighters are more gangly, their center of gravity is further away from the earth, their weight puts additional stress on their joints (especially their knees), and if they never work at addressing their issues they can be slower to start. You can also have overweight/heavy weight martial artists like Sammo Hung, where there’s virtually no difference between them and a martial artist half their size. Skill can close the gap. Understanding of your own strengths and weaknesses also helps. Knowledge is power. Training yourself out of society’s instilled biases is hard, but necessary. This is especially true if you perceive yourself to be the underdog.

Not automatically assuming bigger equals better is the first step. The second is realizing that the best warriors are not decided by outside metrics, but rather through an inward understanding of how to utilize their strengths and address their weaknesses.

On that note, I’ll leave you with a compilation of Cynthia Rothrock’s fight scenes. Cythnia Rothrock is a Hong Kong action star, a winner of world championships in the 80s, she has a wide variety of black belt level training in multiple martial arts, and is one of the most famous westerners to make it in the Hong Kong action scene.

Why end with this? Well, exposure to female movie martial artists runs the gamut between low to non-existent and that lack of exposure to different body types is where most misunderstandings about size come from.

-Michi

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As a woman, I know you’re young, but you gotta hear it now: the most valuable part about you is your brain. Get an education; don’t let anybody tell you that your body or the size that you wear or any of that BS matters, because it doesn’t. Your brain matters, so be the smart girl in the room. Because, to be funny, you have to be smart, because you have to get the joke.
—  Sophia Bush

Because all women need to hear this from time to time.

In the five decades since graphic footage of the JFK assassination splattered its way onto our television screens, said footage has been played, enhanced, replayed, zoomed in upon, and declared “FAKE!” by everyone from Oliver Stone to your dumbass college roommate. As such, you probably think there’s no gruesome detail of that fateful day with which you’re unfamiliar, and to that we emphatically say, “No, you are wrong. Unless you have heard of it, in which case you are some kind of macabre history buff, and are still wrong, albeit in a more general sense.”

The most distressing detail of the footage – other than the exploding skull – is the outward anguish of Jackie Kennedy, who in just seconds transforms from a poised First Lady into a blood-drenched widow. What you probably haven’t heard was her insistence on staying that way.

Hours after the assassination, Jackie arrived on Air Force One for the emergency swearing-in of her husband’s vice president Lyndon Baines Johnson – still wearing her watermelon-pink suit from the motorcade, filthy with her husband’s blood and brain matter. She had repeatedly shot down her aides’ pleas to change with, “No, I’m going to leave these clothes on. I want them to see what they have done.”

6 Dark Details History Usually Leaves Out (For Good Reason)

anonymous asked:

Dear Koryos: Can you imagine a universe wherein bats have become the ancestors of some kind of Highly Intelligent Life Form (not necessarily humanlike intelligence, but something as different from today-bats as humans are different from Ancient Primate Ancestor)? I originally just was thinking about what kind of Cultural Norms such beings would have, but then I realized I couldn't really imagine anything except bat-shaped things that more or less thought like humans.

I’ve sat on this question a while because it’s such an interesting one to me. The biggest issue here is that you’d have to specify which bats you’re making your theoretical ancient ancestor, because there’s such a vast diversity of behavior within the group. A vampire bat would be different from a sac-winged bat would be different from a hoary bat would be different from a flying fox ancestor, is what I’m saying. Any social or behavioral organization paradigm that you can think of, there’s a bat that has it.

So to think about what a sapient bat would look like, we first need to assess the intelligence and behavior of possible ancestral bats. And here I’m gonna stick a readmore, because this gets looooong.

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this is not what you think it is

canonverse (set sometime during the time skip), ereri, ~1800 words. trigger warnings: bondage–but not the way you think, ballgag–but not the way you think, ropes–again not what you’re thinking. minor violence.


The ropes dug into Eren’s flesh, raced across his naked chest trapping his arms at his side and over his bare thighs. He gave a little moan around the gag in his mouth and Levi thought, finally.

“You’re awake,” Levi ascertained. “Good.”

Eren made a noise that Levi assumed was “Captain?”

Levi at least was fully clothed, but because of his height, only came to Eren’s chest, which was very awkward because his tanned chest was very smooth, but also covered in Eren’s drool. Levi wiggled his wrists again, trying to get some blood flowing. Everything was too tight.

Eren looked around the room in horror and struggled to get free. Which was pointless really, their captors had wrapped Eren and Levi together several times over and bound them tight to keep Humanity’s Strongest from simply breaking the ropes and then threw in a chain on over the mess, because why not?

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If Lance ever betrays the paladdins (and I hope to God he does if he just spends all of season 3 squawking and moaning every time Keith and Allura make eyes at each other)

Imagine him fighting against Pidge. She tries to dodge his attacks, but he moves with terrifying speed with lethal accuracy. Before she knows it, she’s shot and bleeding on the floor. He sneers down at her
“You have no idea how many times I’ve imagined this, Katie!” He spits her name out like it’s acid.
“I can’t tell you how many times I asked myself why I always stepped in to protect a snot-nosed brat like you whenever you mouthed off at the garrison”
He jams the end of his rifle into the wound on her shoulder and grins at the sound of her scream.
“Why was I putting my neck out for a scumbag who thought they were too good to give me so much as the time of day, outside the simulater?”
He stops smirking and rams the weapon deeper
“Do you have any idea what it’s like to work your ass off for something and be told every third second that you don’t deserve it?”
His eyes turn murky from the memory and he fires the gun on reflex, and blood is rapidly pooling on the floor, mixing with Lance’s tears of rage.
“AND THEN YOU FIND OUT THAT SOME GIRL GOT INTO THE GARRISON JUST TO PLAY MULAN, WITHOUT ANY TROUBLE WHATSOEVER, WHILE YOU HAD TO BE CONSTANTLY REMINDED THAT EVEN AFTER WORKING TOOTH AND NAIL, YOU ONLY MADE THE CUT BECAUSE SOME LOSER WITH A MULLET WANTED TO PLAY CONSPIRACY THEORIST?”
He pulls his mouth back into a distorted grimace and repositions the rifle so that he’s aiming for her head.
“If I had to paint the floor with anybody’s brain matter, Id prefer it to be Keith’s. But until I’ve got his freaky subhuman self in my sights, I’ll make do with you”

Data

“You’re breaking up with me?” she said, mouth half-open, brows fiercely knitted together in confusion, as she stared up at the man before her. 

She had been in the middle of dissecting a brain, her gloves covered in brain matter when he’d begun on his ‘speech’. The speech she’d listened to in silence and ever-growing bewilderment, scalpel in one hand, while she was donning a pair of goggles, partially not managing to see Sherlock through them.

She thought he was talking about a case when he’d stormed inside, the way he didn’t let her interrupt except with a tiny ‘hello to you too’ – until she’d caught wind of the words ‘feelings’ and ‘dwindling’. 

But all of it seemed rehearsed, stilted - the sort of thing one read from a novel.

She half-expected him to bring up notes, or read from a page.

Molly knew she should have stopped him earlier, but she wanted to hear whatever he was trying to be falsely sincere about. She wasn’t an idiot, she knew when he was telling the truth these days, too easily.

And then he’d finally stopped, letting out a breath like it was a heavy confession from his side, while she just nodded briefly, still perplexed.

“But - we’re not - together?” she’d said after a minute of silence.

He blinked, while she stared at him, biting her lip.

He just continued blinking furiously, like he properly didn’t know what to do, as his speech clearly hadn’t prepared him for this.

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I am sorry for
using my
brain
to convey
matters of the
                heart;          
for
using my heart
          to convey
matters
of
the soul,
                      but
         most of all,
I am sorry
that I
can only kiss you
with words.
—  Gentle thing, by M.A. Tempels © 2017
Eric Harris’ Death

Eric David Harris, after the library massacre and sparing Evan Todd’s life, he and Dylan proceeded to exit the library and head back down the halls looking for more victims to kill. The 911 tape picks up the sounds of gunshots and explosions out in the halls but no other victims are killed. Realizing most everyone had escaped by now and SWAT may be seconds from breaking down the door, he and Dylan made their way back to the library toward the bookshelves closest to the west windows. Eric sat down against the bookshelf with his back to it and placed the trigger of the shotgun between his knees for stability and the barrel in his mouth. He then pulled the trigger instantly evacuating 95% of his brain with a high energy contact blast to the roof of his mouth onto the books behind him. The blast shattered almost every bone in his face while ejecting both eyes out of their sockets; the right eye completely hanging out onto his cheek still attached to the optic nerve. Eric died instantly as soon as the bullet destroyed his brain stem which regulates breathing and consciousness. Later, as the JeffCo coroner, Nancy Bolderson and SWAT were moving his body to be placed in a body bag, his positioning shifted and the remaining blood and brain matter left in his head spilled on the carpet in front of Klebold’s blood pool.

6

As a woman, I know you’re young, but you gotta hear it now: the most valuable part about you is your brain. Get an education; don’t let anybody tell you that your body or the size that you wear or any of that BS matters, because it doesn’t. Your brain matters, so be the smart girl in the room. Because, to be funny, you have to be smart, because you have to get the joke