by zizi

anonymous asked:

c'est malheureux qu'on puisse pas tenir plus longtemps à ne pas s'épiler les aisselles aussi.. pourquoi est-ce que les mecs ont le droit d'avoir autant de poils qu'ils désirent et nous on est obligées à avoir juste des cheveux et des sourcils ?

!!!!!!!!!!!!
(Qui es-tu ???)
À propos de moi : mon deuxième frère, Gaspard, se met toujours, tout le temps, les bras derrière la tête (je ne sais pas si tu vois la pose que ça fait mais c'est un peu la pose cliché de quand on est détendu/qu'on ne fait rien/qu'on n'a rien à faire) et Gaspard est comme moi : poilu. Et ça fait que je me sens AGRESSÉE car je vois ses poils et je n'arrête pas de penser que LUI à le droit de faire ça SANS QUE ÇA CHOQUE PERSONNE mais MOI je ne peux pas seulement parce que lui a un zizi et moi pas ???????
(En fait, je m'épile/me rase extrêmement peu de manière générale mais je suis outrée par tout ça)
Et aussi, une fois, j'étais devant une vitrine et je regarde l'affiche avec le mannequin homme et il avait des poils de jambes genre normal et j'ai pas pu m'empêcher de penser que si ça avait été une femme, elle n'aurait même pas été AUTORISÉE à poser !!!

Et genre, même pour les sourcils, tu peux te faire épiler pour avoir une forme optimale mais !!!!!
Ça me rend folle !!!

Ou même les mecs qui ne verront probablement jamais un minou naturel de leur vie ????? Mais WALLAH c'est normal ça ??

Perguntaram pra mim: “Por que eu não tenho namorado? Algo em mim repele os homens? Sou uma mulher embargada? Há uma placa de ‘proibido estacionar’ em minhas costas? Me diga!”. Olha, eu não sei por que não tem namorado. Honestamente. Poxa, come batata frita, torta de limão, churrasco e trufa de leite condensado. Ok, a alcunha de magricela, cabo de vassoura ou Olívia Palito nunca lhe serviram, talvez. Urros sobre sua suposta suculência não têm advindo de prédios em construção, quiçá. Quem sabe não fica bem de “tomara-que-caia”, tropica no salto agulha, não combina numa minissaia. Mas desbanca a miss Venezuela num vestido primaveril, pisando numa rasteirinha prateada, com o cabelo preso naquele lápis cor-de-rosa, soprando a franja pra cima no calor. Não vai me acreditar, mas tu é bonita. Tu passa longe de uma Fernanda Young, uma Lya Luft, uma Sandra Werneck. Mas tu é inteligente à sua maneira. Assiste novela, mas não comenta a vida dos personagens. Gosta da Clarice, da Cecília, da Martha. Curte o Tom, a Adriana, o Nando, a Zizi, o Cazuza. Trabalha, suspira, trabalha, checa as unhas, trabalha, sonha, trabalha, belisca uma água-e-sal, trabalha e um colega te olha. E te acha bonita idem. E também se intriga com tua solteirice. Tem princípios iguais os da mãe. Mas se acha careta, às vezes. Não cede, mesmo só. Adora sexo, embora não faça com a mesma frequência do desejo. Se faz não vibra na mesma frequência que o parceiro. Sente raiva por ser secretamente boba, romântica e demodê. Se derrete mais rápido que o sorvete napolitano na xícara de sopão quando a mocinha diz “você me fez acordar com um sorrisão no meu rosto”. Chora na frente de ninguém, ai de ti se mais alguém souber. E você não vê a hora de um príncipe encantado por ti libertar esse riso largo atrofiado, mas sabidamente bonito. Tem suas esquisitices. Dorme de edredon e ventilador. Coleciona esmaltes. Cerra as pernas quando sentada e fica coçando o joelho com uma das mãos enquanto a outra segura a cabeça pelo queixo. Ensaia dança do ventre pro espelho do banheiro. Faz duas vezes antes de pensar e tem uns “nhe-nhe-nhê” de mulherzinha. Mas qual não tem? É até bem charmoso. Nada tão relevante quanto sua forma meiga e carinhosa de perguntar “tu tá bem?”. Nada mais importante que teu ímpeto de cuidar dos outros. Nada que mude minha convicção de que tu é bonita. O que te falta? Falta tu mesma se convencer do que te falo com certeza. Tu merece alguém que abra os olhos diariamente e pense: “cara, eu tô com ela, eu sou o namorado dela!”. Que goste da tua boca, do teu ombro, do teu cabelo bagunçado, do teu calcanhar, da tua cintura, das tuas mãos, do cheiro da tua pele, das sardas do teu rosto. E isso vai acontecer naturalmente ao você se dar conta de que tu é bonita, no âmago e na lata. Eu acho, teu ginecologista também, o colega de trabalho assina embaixo. Um dia serás o amor da vida de alguém, do jeitinho que tu é. Falta tu. Acorde hoje e repita: “eu sou bonita”.
—  Gabito Nunes.

anonymous asked:

DA:I Companions and advisers react to an Inquisitor who has a pet parrot? One that likes to perch on the Inky's shoulder and repeats swearwords that it hears from other people.

Cassandra: She was irritated by the bird because all it did for the days while the Herald was unconscious was squawk incessantly at anyone who it didn’t recognize and perch on the Herald, trying in vain to wake their beloved. Still, she doesn’t comment, because when the Herald is finally out and about, so is the bird, who brings them comfort. The parrot ends up growing on her, slowly but surely, though the first few times it perches on her, she freezes and is unsure of what to do.

Iron Bull: The parrot loves his horns as perches. “Alright, you little shit factory,” he says, amused, “you can sit up there all you like, long as you don’t mistake my head for a latrine.” The bird often bluntly asks for food if he’s eating nuts, and he argues with them before grumbling and giving in, much to the bird’s delight.

Blackwall: He’s never gotten up close to one before, and he’s not sure how to react. He just stares until the parrot starts talking to him, and he blinks in surprise. He enjoys talking to the parrot, especially after his secret is revealed, because it’s not in the least concerned about it and will still talk to him readily, even if it seems nonsensical at times.

Sera: She loves the parrot. She loves playing with it and talking to it and trying to teach it words. The parrot decides they like her, and if the bird isn’t perched on the Herald and cuddling, the parrot’s perched on her or Bull or a few of the other party members. She spoils it.

Varric: He tries telling the parrot stories to see what will happen, and finds that the bird likes it, sometimes repeating phrases back at him– or just over and over again at random times, sometimes annoying Cassandra. Varric greatly approves.

Cole: “They know the words and what words mean more than people think. Side-stepping, dancing, the humans will call me pretty and ooh and ahh and give me treats, it’s all as easy as talking. They are happy because you love them and care for them and give them attention.” He smiles. “It is good.” The bird likes him because of how calm he can be, and he always seems to know where they want scritches.

Dorian: He’s seen a few magisters with them, often neglected and sad once the owners tire of the novelty, so it pleases him to see the happy, well-kept and stimulated bird, who he enjoys having conversations with. He’ll bounce his theories and theorems off of the bird, who’s just happy to talk with him. “You are quite beautiful,” he says wryly one day, “but not as much as me.” This offends the bird, and it shocks him when it says ‘fuck you.’ “Did you learn that, by chance, from Sera?” he asks dryly. “No matter. There’s no need to ruffle your feathers over the matter. We can both be pretty.”

Solas: Parrots fascinate him, he discovers. He tries holding conversations with the bird to see how far its intelligence goes, and is pleased. He almost considers talking with the bird about his internal problems, but quickly decides against it, despite how nice it would be to have an outlet– don’t need a bird outing a wolf.

Vivienne: Like Dorian, she’s seen nobles who get the birds, get bored of them, and neglect them. While she’s not all that into keeping pets, she can at least admire how well the bird is kept– a parrot is a living creature, and deserves respect. Her nose wrinkles when she sees anyone in the party trying to teach it swear words, and she hopes it never repeats these words at any nobles. “Don’t repeat that, Darling.” she says dryly to the parrot as Sera tries to teach it new words.

Josephine: She thinks it’s adorable, up until it starts cursing at Roderick and Marquis DuRellion. Then she spends time looking for the best animal trainer to somehow get the bird to stop saying those inappropriate words. Sometimes the bird hums a tune, though, and it makes her calm down a little.

Leliana: If no one’s looking or in earshot, she’ll consider busting out the lute and singing a song to the bird, just to watch it dance and revel in the sound of music. Birds listen and enjoy music much like humans do, and she finds a little solace in interacting with the parrot. She compliments the Herald on their companion and their care of the parrot.

Cullen: He’s honestly surprised it survived all of this nonsense, and while he initially voices a bit of concern about the bird’s safety, the bird pitches such a fit when separated from their owner for extended periods of time that he lets it go. At one point, when he’s having a particularly bad headache from lyrium withdrawal, the parrot finds him and sits on his shoulder, puffing up and cuddling against his head, gently trying to kiss his head and groom his hair. The company is welcome.

BONUS- MOD SARAH COMMENTS ABOUT PARROTS:

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Seriously check it out! It’s really good! :D

Zarazu/Zolori/Zizi/Balkalar/Ba’puu @ridersoftheapocalypse

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I won’t walk like an Egyptian
Don’t talk like I be pimpin’
There’s in-groups and there’s out-groups
And I believe in making distinctions
I’m just smiling and offer you greetings
Hopefully with no pretense
My aim’s to honor your physical
And leave room for all of your secrets
We should all play a big Scrabble game
And make every word a confession:
“A-N-X-I-O-U-S.”