Monday 8:27am
I woke up with you on my mind.
You called me babe last night —
my heart is still pounding.

Tuesday 10:53pm
Today I realized we won’t work.
What we are is hurting her.
And I think she matters more to me than you do.

Wednesday 11:52pm
I broke things off with you today.
She barely said a word.
I’ve never regretted anything more than this.

Thursday 4:03pm
I shouldn’t have sent that message.
You shouldn’t have been so okay with receiving it.

Friday 9:57pm
I almost messaged you today.
I didn’t.

Saturday 8:49pm
I’m walking around town in search of alcohol.
They say that liquor numbs the pain of having a broken heart.
I want to put that to the test.

Sunday 2:32am
I heard you texted a girl you’ve never spoken to before.
I wonder if it’s because you’re trying to replace me.
I can’t help but wish you weren’t.
I thought I was irreplaceable.

—  a week with you on my mind, c.j.n.
“Write novels.”

I have a friend who’s a journalist. She’s ridiculously awesome and I really want to name her because everyone should know just how awesome she is, but this isn’t a time where it feels wise to reveal the political thoughts expressed by a journalist in private, at least not without her permission.

The day before I saw her last week, I’d locked myself out of Facebook and Twitter. I’d been forced to realise the psychological harm they were doing me outweighed any political good my frantic clicktivism could possibly be accomplishing. My brother had called, on my sister-in-law’s instructions. “R. says you’re tweeting and facebooking constantly about politics,” he said. “She said ‘call your sister, I don’t think she’s doing well.’”  

“I’m okay, probably,” I’d told him.

“I don’t think you are,” he said. 

I felt a little better, though not by much, by the time I met my friend for lunch. She was shaken, she said. Democracy was falling apart. I muttered weakly that perhaps it wasn’t quite that bad. She said she’d rather act now than hope for the best.

I agreed. But act how?

She said she was getting onto the board of various charities. She was writing about the best way to report on extremism, avoiding the terrible false equivalencies of the “he said/she said” approach which has blighted our discourse with such ghastly effect.

I said I was supporting the Stop Funding Hate campaign. Giving to Planned Parenthood and ACLU over there, refugee charities over here. Writing letters. Trying to think of useful ways to get involved in local politics.

“You know what you should do,” she said.

No, I really didn’t.

“Write novels,” she said.

I told her that in the days after the election I felt as if art had been revealed as an empty joke. An indulgence we could no longer afford. As if I would never be able to justify doing it again. What we were even going to write now? Flimsy, tinselly distractions from ghastly reality? Or sharp-eyed, unflinching commentary that no one except the already-convinced would ever read? What was the point of art?

No, no!” she said. “Art is what will save us.”

“But it hasn’t,” I wanted to scream. We tried and tried. We’ve filled the world with our stories, our songs – we’ve tried so hard to make our stories better - with diverse casts and empathy and hope – and it’s not enough; no one’s saying it was perfect, or that the attempt was anywhere close to  finished. But we were trying. And now look. 

It is so important, she told me, that there is art already made and due to come out in the coming year that embodies the opposite of this. Diverse, progressive stories, that are not going to go untold whatever happens.

I’d had in my mind two quotes. Peter Cook, on Germany’s satirical clubs of the thirties “that did so much to prevent the rise of Hitler.” 

And Kurt Vonnegut:

During the Vietnam War, which lasted longer than any war we’ve ever been in - and which we lost - every respectable artist in this country was against the war. It was like a laser beam. We were all aimed in the same direction. The power of this weapon turns out to be that of a custard pie dropped from a stepladder six feet high.“

But if they hadn’t been there? I thought, looking at my friend. Who was fierce and bright-eyed and smiling. Those useless satirists and artists and musicians pouring their spirits into their art and watching it land on the floor of history like that dropped custard pie?  What if there was nothing to look back on in those times but a culture in militaristic  lockstep, or perhaps worse, slumped in dead-eyed indifference?  After those years-long nightmares, what would there have been to wake up to? Maybe it was absurd to find the thought more chilling than the reality of what had happened, to feel that it would have been an international death of the soul,  but .. still …

If artists couldn’t prevent disaster, could they at least preserve something precious from being lost while it endured? If they hadn’t stopped a single war, had they at least kept the rot from penetrating the human culture unchallenged? 

It’s not enough. It’s not enough.

“Write novels,” said my friend stubbornly. “Write novels.”

If someone posted this image in your Facebook feed, you’d probably glance at it for half a second and assume that it’s a completely normal photo of two guys running in the park (even though they have some perfectly good bikes right in front of them that they could use instead). However, once you look at the background, two odd little details stand out. The first one, of course, is that there are tanks coming from the upper right corner.

So, despite the first guy’s amused expression, these guys aren’t just jogging: They’re escaping from tanks. The second, even more significant detail is the lone man who can be seen between the trees behind Chuckles here – a lone man standing in the middle of the street, carrying two grocery bags, in front of some tanks.

The photo was taken by Reuters correspondent Terril Jones, who figured that no one would care about it once he noticed that someone else had photographed the same situation from a far better angle. Jones didn’t publish the photo until 2009, after reading a New York Times retrospective on Tank Man, but the most mind-blowing part is that it shows how deliberate the unknown man’s actions were. He didn’t just cross the street one day and run into some tanks – he saw them coming a mile away and intentionally stayed there to block their passage.

8 Ordinary Photos Hiding Mind-Blowing Details

Looking back, I can’t remember the truth. I blew everything out of proportion so I could feel the hurt and betrayal and write about it in vivid detail. It was my own method of torture. My own undoing; and I enjoyed every second of it.
—  c.j.n.

Yoh! Another serious talk. If you’ve read my previous post (x) you know what I’m talking about. If you haven’t, here it is: there’s this person (91valechan on tumblr, 4hajimeiwaizumi on Twitter) that has been harassing UshiOi shippers for a while, calling them slurs and stealing their works to edit them poorly to insult the ship. 

Now, this person owns this Facebook page:

and we’d like to make it disappear, as fanarts, fanfictions and ACCOUNTS of UshiOi shippers are posted without their permission. 
But Facebook, without a big quantity of report, won’t remove the page. 

That’s why I’m writing this post: if you’d like to help, we found a way.

Here’s the first step: 

1. Report every post, photo and link for SPAM.

2. When you’re done reporting (there aren’t many posts, don’t worry) you have to report the page for “hate speech”.

If you’re an artist, and your work has been stolen by her, you can write an email to these two addresses, saying the page has violeted the copyright by taking your art without permission:  copyright@facebook.com / abuse@facebook.com

Please help us remove the page, as this person doesn’t only dislike the ship. She harasses every shipper she finds, and we want this to stop.

Tumblr legit needs a feature like facebooks “Unfollow” (but we’d have to call it something different)

On facebook, the way it works is youre still “friends” with the person. You can still see their page, they can see yours. They can still see all YOUR posts, and comment on them.  Basically youre still friends, but you dont see their posts on your feed. 

Its useful for a lot of reasons. (I use it on my grandmother who cant help but always type “Amen” on every sadpost she sees fishing for likes) but I urge people to use it on me if I’m goin on angry rants and they’re going thru their own stuff and just DONT WANNA SEE what I post. 

I think it’d be useful here for mutuals you follow whose fandoms have changed, or maybe your friends with a person but dont rly wanna see what they post for any number of reasons, but you wanna let them still follow you/message you (if you have it set to only allow people who are mutuals with you to IM you). 

People have suggested blacklisting the persons url but that feels REALLY extreme and it also blacklists asks, and blacklist options for mobile are super limited and a LOT of people use tumblr mobile almost exclusively. 

Triste société

Aujourd’hui, on ne s’engage plus. C’est inutile. Comme ils disent : « 1 de perdu, 10 de retrouvés. » Et ça n’a jamais été plus vrai ! Aujourd’hui, c’est aussi facile de se commander un être humain sur Tinder , Facebook que d’la bouffe au resto chinois.
Notre intimité est devenue une série d’émoticône. On considère qu’un petit texto veut tout dire, plus de jeu, plus de séduction. Le romantisme est mort. On devrait peut-être le réinventer. Lâcher notre portable une demi-seconde, histoire de pouvoir se regarder dans les yeux. Ah non, notification.
On a trop de choix, on passe trop de temps à évaluer les options. On est prêt à ignorer un filet mignon de peur de rater le caviar. On croit que c’est bien d’avoir le choix. En réalité, on ne sait même plus ce que ça fait d’être satisfait. L’amour est devenu un produit de consommation qu’on utilise et qu’on jette, toujours à la recherche de quelque chose de mieux.
On voudrait tout faire, tout voir, tout vivre. On peut voyager en quelques clics, faire le tour de la terre en quelques images. On peut regarder et envier la vie des autres. Voir où l’on n’ira pas, et regarder vivre ces gens que l’on ne connaitra jamais. Et puis on déprime, et on s’en veut de déprimer.
Malgré tout on rentre dans la danse. Alors, on sort nos plus beaux sourires pour la photo de profil Facebook et nos plus beaux délires de vacances sur Snapchat. On se tagg sur les images de soirée, on veut montrer qu’on est beau, qu’on est libre et puis surtout qu’on est HEUREUX, alors qu’en vérité on se sent enchainé à notre routine tout au fond notre lit ou caler dans cette chaise d’ordinateur!
On a peur du temps qui passe, et on fait tout pour le retenir. En vrai, on se rend bien compte qu’il nous file entre les doigts. Et ça fait mal. On sort nos portables pour enregistrer ce concert qu’on oublie d’écouter en live. On repasse avec nostalgie des musiques car l’on voudrait revivre ces fragments de nos souvenirs.
L’amour devient affection qui devient amitié. On ne s’attache même plus, on créer des relations à durée limitée, des « sex-friends ». Alors qu’en vrai, on n’est même plus des amis. Puis on se sépare, bien entendu. Car notre couple n’est pas assez bien, et notre vie pas assez parfaite. On se dit qu’il y a probablement mieux ailleurs.
Et on recommence. Match. Un message « Salut ». Sourire. Conversation banale. « Tu fais quoi dans la vie ». Café. Cinéma. Intimité. Et c’est reparti pour un tour.
Sauf qu’à un moment on en a marre. Marre de faire semblant. Marre de faire croire que tout va bien pour des gens qu’on ne connait même pas et qu’on n’a jamais vraiment appréciés. Alors on accepte de souffrir et même de pleurer. Finalement ces larmes ne font pas si mal et nous ne sommes pas si faibles.
Alors on décide de réapprendre à aimer et à être aimer. On aime les petits défauts qui rendent les autres sincères. On se redécouvre. On accepte la critique car elle est bienveillante. L’autre n’est plus un concurrent mais devient notre allié. On se serre les coudes, et on dessert les poings. On décide tous ensemble d’arrêter de faire semblant.
Nous vivons dans une génération ou nous devons toujours porter nos masques, nous devons tous bien jouer notre rôle comme le font les acteurs de théâtre.
Si nous voulons nous en sortir dans ce champs de bataille qu'est l'amour, soyons nous même n'ayons pas peur de nos sentiments, ressentis ou même du regard d'autrui, apprenons a aimer véritablement pour ne pas regretter un jour de ne pas avoir “essayé”…
Avoir peur n'est pas une mauvaise choses mais s'empêcher de vivre a cause d'un égo qui nous répète sans cesse “attention” ne servira seulement a obtenir peine, solitude et perte de confiance en soi…
Les héros font de leur égo un serviteur de leurs âmes, les faibles font de leur égo un refuge, une fuite, un paravent de la vie, un champ d'interdit.

Being Tony Starks Teen Daughter (but being best friends with Bucky) Would Include

Contains spoilers for Civil War, but you’ve probably already seen Civil War

Originally posted by rebecca-donell

  • Being Tony’s daughter you would have inevitably picked up some interest/skill for engineering. You would take a slight interest in Bucky’s arm, and even though Tony told you not to interfere, Bucky would trust you and would let you have a look.
  • Sitting for hours on the roof of Stark Tower’s with Bucky while he told you about the 1940′s. It would be so fascinating, like a fairy tale. Bucky would love being able to talk to you because you were such a good listener. It would be like therapy to him.
  • Bucky would help you with your history projects because he lived through it all. Occasionally he wouldn’t know something and you’d take to google.
  • Teaching Bucky about Facebook and Tumblr. He’d be confused and probably wouldn’t bother using it, but he’d appreciate the effort.
  • Tony would make sure Bucky knew that you were off limits, Bucky would of course insist that you were just friends, you would say that it is possible for opposite sex best friends to be just platonic y’know. Tony would sigh and give up.
  • Going to Tony when the anxiety got you, after all, he understood. He’d help as much as he could, but really he didn’t really know what to say as he couldn’t even help himself really.
  • Tony would buy you extravagant apology gifts whenever the two of you had a fight. You would thank him, but tell him that wasn’t really what you wanted at all.
  • Bucky would be pretty protective over you. If someone tried to take advantage of you or broke your heart, he would volunteer to teach them a lesson. This was something that Tony and Bucky united on.
  • It would be a bit awkward at first when you found out Bucky had killed your grandparents. You knew it wasn’t really his fault but it still felt… weird. You’d try not to let it get between you and would remind Bucky that you forgave him, even though it wasn’t his fault.
  • Bucky would be like a big brother to you. He’d apprecaite the new sense of family he got from being with you (and Tony to an extent).