How to get me to say bye real quick:
“Mexicans don’t experience racism, y'all don’t struggle.”
“It’s not that hard to get your papers.”
“I’m not trying to offend you but MY grandparents immigrated LEGALLY from [insert European country here] why can’t you guys do that?”
“So what do Latinas do ;)”
“You’re one of the good ones, you look white.”
BYE. Soy de Jalisco, menso.
“I love authentic Mexican food—Taco Bell is my favorite!”
“Mexicans don’t deserve any rights if they can’t even get their papers.”
“Gentrification isn’t real.”
“Make America Great Again.”
C: White people are so fucking stupid. Their racism has made them blind to the white Europeans here on expired visas. I met one lady who left France five years ago and has never been approached by INS. They ignore a border more open then Mexico that has hundreds if not thousands of white folk waltzing into the US with ease. I’m not even gonna bother saying which border either cause I doubt they even realize this themselves.
Here are gorgeous fulldome views above different telescopes of ESO’s La Silla Observatory
in northern Chile. The red and green hues are produced by airglow, waves of alternating air pressure which are caused by various processes in the upper atmosphere. The Large and Small Magellanic Clouds are also visible while Milky Way cuts across the sky.
Is there anything more French than a patisserie? Violet macarons, pistachio cakes, lemon tarts and raspberry mille-feuille are laid out in meticulous rows, ready to give us pure pleasure. Because unlike New York’s frozen yogurt bars and sandwich chains, patisseries don’t pretend to be healthy—they’re about good, old-fashioned European indulgence.
My inner White Girl™ is strong today. Caught myself humming an Icelandic indie song while setting up my watercolours with my hair up in a half top knot bun wearing yoga pants and a loose workout shirt after just finishing my daily yoga practice. Christ.
every year on hallowe'en, scotty has a ghost tour of engineering, and it’s awful and so over the top - scotty’s dressed as a stereotypical jack the ripper with an oversized cape and too big hat and there’s blood trailing behind him where “the monster got him” (even though everyone can see him dropping fake blood under his cape.) the engineers pretend to be dead or undead, and the whole thing ends with keenser in a sheet suspended from a pipe and wailing while scotty screams dramatically. (until one year things actually start getting really out of hand with keenser levitating and things been thrown around. when scotty finally has the nerve to go back down to engineering, he finds out he has an engineer who’s telekinetic and just wanted to help. his tours get a lot scarier from then on.)
European witchling here. That idea of witches living together sounds nice :0c You'd always have someone to talk to, to cuddle or just to hang out with. Also having at least 1 or 2 kitchen witches is always handy. And many many familiars.
It’s always handy, and yes!! It’d be so nice. :) imagine our cute lil garden??
There is nothing south of Atlanta. Anyone who says otherwise is lying. Anyone from there is a ghost.
There are copper colored stains on the wheels of cars. On the shoes of men. On the hands of children. The earth is hazard orange. It is red. The blood of slaves. The blood of Cherokee, Creek, Oconee. It was not red before the Europeans got here.
Savannah is a myth. The river is green with ghost ships, the Irish lost at sea. Savannah is a myth, only the dead can see it.
Tree frogs croak. It’ll be dark soon. Best not be outside in the dark. The trees shift closer in the dark, you’re alone. You can’t see. Your headlights do nothing. I-20 swallows you whole.
There are towns that look the same. Sound the same. Worship the same. Where are you? Didn’t you just pass a Baptist church? Did it have a graveyard, confederate flags flapping in the warm breeze? The South will rise again, rotting flesh and cloudy eyes, gray and bitter. The air is foul, the water poisoned, you pass another church. Baptism will not save you.
You can’t breathe. The air is thick and hot. When it’s not yellow with pollen it’s heavy with rain. Voices gasp over the radio, pleading for relief. The storm breaks, the sun returns. You can’t breathe.
It’s raining on one side of the street, dry on the other. It’s white on one street, black on the other. Invisible lines run deep, it’s hard to erase veins without bleeding them dry. Hurt lingers, fetid and rotting, insincere apologies fall upon inconsolable ears.
It’s so hot. You just want it to stop. Your sweat turns to tears, the road grows hotter. Cars become graves and houses mausoleums. You drink and you drink, but you’re always thirsty. You flood your yard and still the grass is yellow and dry. There is a baby crying in the parking lot.
Back roads. There’s a back way to everywhere. Careful, back roads have no shoulders. You go off road, you stay there. The yards you pass have generations of rusted cars. Yours is there. Hadn’t you asked a man for directions?
Narrowed eyes watch you from beneath ancient ballcaps. These men have always been old. They watch you and lean over to whisper in the devil’s ear. A confederate flag waves from the back of a pickup. You drive faster, but never seem to escape. The eyes are always watching you. Your heart always beats a little faster, your ears always listening. A man that claims Southern Pride is a man that will claim Standing His Ground. Always listen, because the eyes are always watching.
The mountains are blue. Mist hangs over them, curling around you as you travel north. Time slows, and then reverses. You pass a plantation house, then two, then ten and can hear the lamentation of thousands. When you press bare feet into the grass, they bleed. The mountains are blue, but their water is red.
The kudzu takes and does not give. The kudzu appears overnight. No one talks about it. No one can stop it. A forest is sacrificed, then a neighborhood. Ever does it hunger.