fake clinics

This is a REAL pamphlet given to a young person at a crisis pregnancy center.  According to them, using a condom is “about as safe as hanging over a cliff with a frayed rope.”  

Talk about lies and misinformation.  

Crisis pregnancy centers (CPCs) pose as legitimate reproductive health centers. They have a track record of outright lying to women and work to dissuade people from exercising the right to choose. They often advertise as if they provide abortion services, drawing people in by promising free reproductive health services, including free pregnancy tests, ultrasounds, and options counseling.



Teen Wolf AU Trailer: Sleepwalking
Please, note: viewer discretion is advised

Stiles doesn’t remember waking up. It just happens to him at some point. He wanders through reality, goes to school, hangs out with Scott, but something just isn’t right. When he starts seeing things, he thinks he’s gone insane. In a mental clinic he meets a guy who doesn’t remember waking up either. Seems like they’re stuck in Bardo, the in-between state, but they can’t be dead. They have never died. Haven’t they?..

ps. For Simone, because of reasons.


GUYS HELP. There’s a group called “Expose Fake Clinics” that is attacking crisis pregnancy resource centers by discrediting them and writing pretty nasty reviews on Google and Facebook, simply because they don’t offer abortions. These resource centers offer real help to women who have nowhere to turn. Abria Pregnancy Resource center in Minnesota is their latest target. Please please please consider hopping over to Google and helping to turn the tide by leaving a five star review. It only takes a minute. 

anonymous asked:

Can you take legal action against a fake clinic? I went to a gender clinic for the first time, had to pay 60 dollars and drive for over an hour, only to walk in and see the place is plastered in Christian signs talking about healing and gays turned christian programs. apparently they also pose as a womens health clinic. i walked out. the worst part was seeing a woman sitting there with a little kid. i hate living in the south. its the worst trans/homophobia ive ever encountered

I’m not entirely sure. They’re not an actual medical facility and misrepresented themselves, which you may be able to sue against.

Are any of our followers knowledgeable about legal issues like this?

-Lou the Lobster

things aren’t the same anymore

hey, it’s Zimms bday and I decided to write what happens after they and Kent start school at Samwell. 

a trans!Pimms verse fic 

Also on AO3

It’s a week before the regular hockey season starts. Kent and Zimms have a rhythm figured out at Samwell. They have their own routines and take their own classes (with the exception of a history and a calc course, because gen eds are a pain). They’re relearning how to be a team without being on top of each other. That’s easier said than done some days.

They’ve divided up the work of being managers to suit their strengths. Kent does most of the trip and equipment organizing. Zimm records games and practices. Which means over the last month they’ve been steadily growing annoyed with some of the members of SMH.

“Tch,” they say under their breath.

Kent looks up from his clipboard. “What?”

“Marsh is doing it again,” they complain quietly.

He looks over at Carter Marsh, who’s flubbing his slap shot…again. Kent scrunches his nose.

“Yea that’s shitty,” he says. “You gonna tell Hall and Murray?”

“I don’t know. I want to, I think,” Zimms admits. “It doesn’t feel like my place.”

Kent puts his hand on their shoulder. “If you want help talking to them, I’m here. But it’s your call, babe.”

Their lip twitches enough for Kent to notice. “Thanks, Kenny. Eugh, I’ll think about it.”

“Sure, just lemme know,” he says before Hall shouts his name. “Welp, duty calls. Probably Cohen needing his blades sharpened again.”

“Have fun,” they chirp.

Kent waves them off.

They spend the rest of practice watching the team carefully. There’s a lot of room for improvement, Zimms thinks. It’s just a matter of execution.


The day before SMH’s first regular season game, Zimms brings up Marsh again.

“What if we taught him how to fix it?”

Kent takes another bite of his scrambled eggs. “What? Like coached him on the side?”

“Yea, why not?”

“We are qualified, you got me there,” Kent says with a sigh. “So what that’s the plan, Zimms?”

Zimms glances at the table where the hockey players are having team breakfast. “Let’s tell him.”

“Just like that,” he deadpans. “We’re just—going up to the proverbial cool table.”

They shrug.

“Wow,” Kent says. “New year, new us huh?”

“Guess so,” they say, standing up with their food without waiting for Kent.

They take a seat next to Johnson, across from Alex Berger and Carter Marsh. Kent sits down next to them.

“Hey guys,” Johnson says cheerfully before frowning. “Or, uh, peeps I guess.”

“Sup,” Kent says at the same time that Zimms says, “Your slapshot is pathetic.”

They keep talking despite Kent’s unamused glare. “You’re losing a lot of power when you shoot. You’re overexerting yourself, which is an inefficient use of your energy, and decreases your accuracy.”

Marsh and Berger gape at them for a moment.

“Yea, what they said,” Kent says through a bite of toast.

“Why the fuck do you care, Zimmermann?” Marsh asks. “You get paid to film tape, that’s it.”

Zimms makes eye contact with Kent.

“May I?” Kent asks with a smirk.

They nod.

“Well first, lots of schools have managers who help with practices when the coaches are short staffed,” he says before taking a long chug of their orange juice. “Second, fuck you, NHL or not we can still skate circles around your flabby ass.”

“Kent,” Zimms says.

Kent rolls his eyes. “Your ass is probably appropriately sized.”

“Kent,” they say again.

“That is the last I will say about the sorry state of this team’s thighs.” He then fake coughs, “conditioning clinic.”  

Johnson hums. “They’ve got a point, Marsh. You’re a lousy shot.”

Bergey sneers. “Whose side are you on, Johnson?”

Johnson shrugs innocently.

“Fine, I’ll bite,” Marsh says. “What do I do?”

“Rink, tomorrow, five am,” Zimms says.

“Practice isn’t until nine,” he protests.

“People rent the rink out before that,” Kent says, “duh.”

Marsh quietly fumes for the rest of breakfast. None of the other players complain about Kent and Zimms sitting with them. Johnson and Kent keep the conversation flowing as smoothly as possible. It’s a good day, Zimms thinks. They don’t get the same feeling of dread in their gut that happens anytime they come up with a new hockey plan. This is different, they realize.

Kent shoots them a reassuring smile on their way out of the dining hall.

It’s exciting, Zimms realizes.


Marsh’s slap shot isn’t perfect after just two hours. However, it is passable, and much better, fundamentally speaking. He even scores in the second period. Murray calls Zimms over after the game.

“Berger mentioned what you did for Marsh. Thanks,” he says. “You helped him a lot.”

“Eugh, you’re welcome,” Zimms says. “It was my pleasure.”

Murray smiles softly. “We could use your help at practice. You and Kent, if you’re interested.”

“Thanks, I’ll have to think about it.”

“Of course. Take all the time you need.”

Kent’s waiting for them in front of the coaches’ office. He looks good in his Samwell warm ups. It’s really surreal to think that.

“Hey,” he says. “What did Murray want?”

“He wants us to help out with practice,” they explain.

Kent hums. “Cool, are we gonna do it?”

Zimms shrugs. “Sometimes would be nice.”

“I’m good with that,”

“Hey guys,” Johnson shouts behind them. “Wait up.”

“Dude,” Kent says incredulously. “Weren’t you going to that par-kegster or whatever? It’s your first one.”

Johnson shrugs. “Nah, natty light is extremely overrated. I thought I could hang out with you guys.”

“I’m good with that, what about you babe?” Kent asks.

“Of course,” they say.

“C’mon, Johnny,” Kent says as he slings an arm around Johnson. “Can I call you Johnny?”

“I like it,” Johnson says.

Zimms smirks, intertwining their hands with Kent. For the first time since they got to Samwell, it really felt like they’d found their place.


Sometimes I find crisis pregnancy center posters at my school, and when I’m feeling particularly feisty, sometimes I write back signs of my own.

I can’t think of something more disgusting than a fake clinic that preys on vulnerable individuals like crisis pregnancy centers do. And what better way to fight back then to provide actual resources to help those in that vulnerable position?

Tips for Getting to the clinic from an escort. Save yourself lots of hassle
  • If you have a companion, make sure they are level headed, or at least know that the protestors will say things to attempt to anger them and make them lash out.  They want to anger you or your companion to violence so they can call the police and stop you from getting the abortion
  • Be prepared to pay for parking, be it a meter, parking garage, or parking lot.  Not every clinic has a designated parking lot
  • BE AWARE OF CRISIS PREGNANCY CENTERS aka FAKE CLINICS that will try to lure you in and make you miss your appointment. They will offer your “free help” or “free ultrasounds”.  This is all a tool to get you to miss your appointment.  They usually don’t have an ultrasound tech on site and will make you wait for one to arrive, usually long after the doctors at the abortion clinic have taken patients back.  Also, CPC typically have no doctors or nurses on staff.  They are typically religious organization that will ask you question that a doctors office never would.
  • Bring headphones.  Put them in as you walk to the clinic. 
  • Escorts are there to assist you and walk with you to the clinic.  They will typically ask your permission to walk with you. They may wear vest that say “clinic escort” or “clinic volunteer”.  Escorts are there to create space and help you get through the protestors.
  • If a protestor gets too close or won’t leave you alone after you asking them too, please call your local police office and tell them about the harassment.  This can be done anonymously.
Fanfiction - The Flood (College AU)

As some of you already know I’ve decided to go on writing the Cassiopeia sequel, which by now most people know as College AU. I’m not sure how it’ll work, but Jamie and Claire are still talking to me in this universe - so I’ll go on writing it as long as they want. This story started with Cassiopeia and is preceded by The Captain and Anamnesis. I hope you enjoy it! See you on the other side! <3

The Flood

“So how did it go?” Jamie asked eagerly, as Claire joined him in the refectory for an early dinner. He had left her at the hospital with a soft kiss of good luck, as she headed to discuss his – mostly fake, mind – clinical history with Doctor Potter.

“He gave me a hard time with your differential diagnosis, but I stood my ground.” She bent to kiss him with fervour and sat with her tray next to him. “It’s an A for us, Captain.”

“Well done!” He cheered and kissed her again. “I was that bit worried, ye ken. When I left ye, ye look like ye had been struck by a sledgehammer.”

“I was a little disconcerted by our talk, I’ll admit to it.” She gave him a look under her lashes. “You are full of surprises, Jamie.”

“You never asked before.” He smiled and shrugged, munching his peas. She hawked.

“Why did you decide to…” She gave him an embarrassed look. “You know – wait. Clearly it wasn’t a problem of lack of possible suitors.”

“I dinna felt that strongly about them.” He gave her a shy smile. “Women can be very frightening, ye ken. Like you, when someone in line before ye orders the last piece of blueberry pie ye were coveting.”

“Oh, shut up!” Claire gave him a narrow look. “I really was asking a question, you know.”

“It wasn’t so much that I decided.” He said slowly. “More that I’ve never met a lass that made me want to give her that last piece of myself. To be so vulnerable…so exposed. I’ve never dated anyone that I trusted with my soul.”

“That’s very romantic.” She said with amusement, but honesty resounded in her voice too. “Most men think sex is just mechanics and chemical reactions happening in the body, mostly in the nether regions.”

“I flatter myself to think I’m not most men.” Jamie gave her a one-sided smile. “When a man lays with a woman…almost always he can overpower her. He has the physical strength to command her if he wants to. And so a woman relinquishing her body requires trust – that the man won’t abuse that power. When a man takes a woman he loves, he bares his soul as well as his body – and without any shields between them she can break him entirely, just there and then, if she isna worthy of such trust.”

“Did your father teach you that?” Claire asked.

“Aye.” Jamie nodded. “In a way. He also taught me that a moment of bodily pleasure can echo in eternity. My father encouraged me to envision myself with that particular woman in twenty years afore deciding if I really wanted to bed her – if I couldna see it or if the sight was too daunting, I had my answer and should keep my cock well hidden inside my pants.”

“And how do you see yourself with me in twenty years?” Claire asked playfully, but fear gripped her belly. Jamie’s big and warm right hand enfolded hers and his left touched her cheek with tenderness and – yes – want.

“Just like this.” He nuzzled her nose with his own, his lips brushing the tip at the end. “Maybe with a bairn or two sitting next to us. You – perhaps wearing a fancy suit - but the same face I have loved since the day I first saw it. And at night we’ll go home and I’ll whisper you silly things in the darkness of our bed, while I love your body. I see my entire life with ye, Claire – and I can’t wait for it.”

He ended his declaration by kissing her, making her purr with pleasure, her bones melting with the prospect of a lifetime together – and the implicit recognition that he wished to made love to her.

They ate peacefully for a little while, but Jamie kept throwing her charged looks. She knew he meant to ask something, probably a question that made him deeply uncomfortable.

“You…Did you…” He cleared his throat and drank thirstily from his glass of water. “When…I mean, if you wanted to tell me…” He looked at her, helplessly trying to formulate a coherent sentence.

“Are you asking me how it was for me?” Claire asked with amusement, enhanced by the sudden appearance of a rosy colour on his cheeks. “How I lost my virginity?”

“Yes.” He answered between teeth, peeking above his shoulder to watch for anyone close enough to eavesdrop. They were sitting almost alone in the refectory – it was still early for most students to appear searching for their dinner.

“Well,” She started, her fingers brushing aside a stubborn lock of brown hair. “It was alright, I guess.”

“Alright?” He repeated, his finger fidgeting with the spoon.

“Do you really want me to tell you the practicalities of it?” Claire asked, raising a brow in his direction, slightly outraged.

“No.” Jamie answered hurriedly, almost spitting his soup. “I just thought that…maybe it was more than alright.”

Claire glared at him intently, slowly chewing her roasted chicken.

“I enjoyed it.” She finally said a clipped tone. “But not because of any particular skills he had or some other mind-blowing notions. I liked it because I felt connected – I had been lonely for so long. I thought I had find something that could last; where I could belong. That’s where pleasure was for me – the first time at least.” She gave him a little smile.

“Were you together for long?” Jamie asked slowly.

“About six months.” Claire sighed. “It was complicated.”

“Was he your classmate?” He pressed with a poor attempt at nonchalance. “Back in high school maybe?”

“No.” She started to bite on her red apple. “He was friends with my uncle, obsessed with history type of guy. An assistant professor – he actually teaches here. In History department.”

Jamie’s mouth stood ajar, the small and blue vein on his temple starting to throb violently.

“Is he, by any chance, that…” He croaked. “…perky little man always wearing a suit that sometimes comes and talks to ye in the library? Always staring at your cleavage like he lost a damned coin in there?”

“He doesn’t stare at my cleavage!” Claire highlighted, giving him an amber look of reproach. “But – yes, that’s him. His name is Frank Randall.”

“Are you serious?” Jamie almost screamed. A couple of students – colleagues from Jamie’s rugby team that were approaching their table to salute him and maybe sit with them - quickly detoured to a distant table, hearing the threat of his explosion. “Do you really expect me to sit here and listen how you…you…shagged” Jamie’s lips turned into an angry line and Claire’s face puckered hearing him. “A much older man and still give him a pass to drool all over you, even when ye’re with me?”

“Well,” She hissed. “If you don’t want to sit you can get up and leave, then. You seem to have finished your dinner already. God knows you’re making a fool of yourself in here, James Fraser.”

“Maybe it’s ye that’s making me look like a fool.” He spat the words, his fingers shredding the paper napkin.

“Oh, me?” Claire gave him a harsh laugh. “I’m the one that has to deal with your fans – I can’t even go to the bloody bathroom without receiving nasty looks and whispers -“Oh, there she goes. Oh, what scandalous things did she have to do to get him? Oh, King of Men could do so much better!”” She impersonated with an affected voice, which seemed weirdly like Annalise’s. “I have to stand by and watch every blonde thing talking about your ass and the size of your balls in those rugby shorts, but suddenly you’re the one being fooled!” She shook her head, rage and disappointment making her eyes glassy with tears. “And all of this because I dared to have a past!”

Claire suddenly got up, carrying her tray. She placed it in the proper container and stormed outside, almost stepping back with the force of the wind that was starting to blow outside.

Jamie appeared behind her and held her elbow, pushing her with him to a quiet corner in the shadow of the building. Students were beginning to converge in a crowd, like kites flowing propelled by the aroma of food.  

“Why are you being like this?” She accused, her golden eyes blazing.

“He has something of ye that I will never have!” Jamie’s hands closed around her arms, gripping her. “You shared something so intimate with him… He knows ye in a way that I don’t and that makes my wame curl and boil!” He roared. “I could kill him right now for daring to touch you!”

“If you think that because I went to bed with him, he knows me in any way better than you…” She fought against tears, carelessly brushing her eyes with her sweater’s sleeve. “You haven’t been paying much attention.”

“He saw you!” He grunted. “All of you! Frank was the first man to take you. He kissed your neck, touched your breast, he…” He avoided her gaze. “Tasted you. You moaned his name in passion. Please, promise me you won’t talk to him again!”

“I’ll make no such promise!” Claire exclaimed, her cheeks flaming. “I won’t pretend I don’t know him just to soothe your damaged ego, James Fraser.” And then with her voice breaking. “You haven’t touch me like that because you wanted to wait – to be sure. I have been waiting for you, Jamie. You can erase every memory of him.”

“I need ye to promise me, Claire.” He repeated, almost pleaded. His eyes were dark blue, like bottomless oceans, too deep to allow any light.

“You are my boyfriend.” She said. “You are not my owner, damn you!”

And she yanked her arms from his grasp and headed to her dorm, all the happiness she had felt one hour ago suddenly eclipsed.


Claire was lying on her stomach in bed, listening to the rain tapping outside, water rivulets drifting down the window. She needed to study - the next day she had another quiz and she still needed to catch up on the characteristics of different heart murmurs. It was useless to try while she was on such stormy mood; her concentration failed her, leaving her even more troubled - and guilty to boot.

Her white phone vibrated – again - announcing an incoming call. She turned it and watched the flicker of light, reading “Jamie”. It was accompanied by a photo of him, which she had taken with her phone a couple of weeks before – he had been laying in the grass, with golden shadows playing in his eyes and his wide smile. It was almost achingly beautiful and she frequently fell asleep holding her phone, gazing longingly at it.

He had called five times in the last half hour. She hadn’t answer it – she was still very mad and wanted to show him his primitive behaviour wouldn’t be tolerated – or forgiven – with such easiness.

The phone eventually stopped buzzing, only to appear a message “Please, answer me”. She had just put it down when it started vibrating again. She tried to cover her head with her pillow, but eventually she grabbed it and slid the finger to answer it.

“Would you please stop calling me, I really don’t want to talk…” She hissed to the phone.

Claire.” Jamie’s voice returned from the other side of the line. His tone was contained, but she immediately identified the devastation buried underneath it. It made her entire body shook with irrational fear. “Please, Claire. I need you.”

“Where are you?” She asked, her lips feeling numb.

“Outside.” He answered in a hoarse voice and hang up the phone.

Claire opened her room’s door and rushed down the stairs, barely noticing the steps flying under her bared feet. Her entire mind and body were focused on reaching Jamie, finding him and holding him. She knew that something had happened – something terrible, capable of crushing the most solid and lively man she had ever known.

She opened the front door and for a moment only registered the storm outside – rain falling like a reenaction of the Great Flood, finally there to erase everything and make the world start all anew, sinners dying in the arms of saints so the world could be cured. Thunder rolled not far away – the air was filled with the faint smell of ozone, clinging to her nose and filling her mouth with the taste of destruction.

He was standing in the middle of the street, in the space that separated their buildings, no more than a shadow amongst shadows. When he saw her, he walked to her with uncertain steps, as if he could barely summon enough strength to cover the small distance. Claire noticed he was on his shirtsleeves and wasn’t wearing a coat – he must have rushed out of his room too.

When she finally could distinguish his features, she saw the endless drops that slid across his high cheekbones – not only rain, but tears that stream from his haunted blue eyes; salted water mixing with heavenly outpour. Her chest felt tight, a band of sorrow already lodging itself around her heart.

He stopped when only a step separated them. Claire noticed he was shaking badly, cold and strong emotion firing every nerve’s terminal.

“My father is dead.” He whispered to her in a cracked voice, as he drowned in the flood.

I’m not ready for a baby. Should I get an abortion?

Someone asked us:

I am 17 and not ready for a baby. Should I get an abortion?

This is a question only you can answer.  If you’re pregnant, the decision to get an abortion, give a baby up for adoption, or raise a child yourself can be a hard one, but you’re the only one who can make it.

But you’re not alone either, and talking it through with someone you trust, someone you know will be supportive – a parent or family member, doctor, counselor, and/or friend – can help you sort out your feelings.

You can visit a Planned Parenthood health center to learn about and discuss your options, and our website has a lot of great information about things to consider when making decisions about abortion, adoption, and parenting

(Just be careful of “crisis pregnancy centers,” fake clinics run by anti-abortion activists who try to scare people out of having abortions.)

Even though it’s important to think carefully about your decision, which may take some time, it’s best not to wait too long.  Abortion is safer when it’s done earlier in a pregnancy, and it’s important to get pre-natal care as early as possible if you decide to continue the pregnancy.

-Kendall at Planned Parenthood

Google maps screenshot of a crisis pregnancy center (CPC) in Ventura, CA.

CPCs pose as legitimate reproductive health centers. They have a track record of outright lying to women and work to dissuade people from exercising the right to choose. They often advertise as if they provide abortion services, drawing people in by promising free reproductive health services, including free pregnancy tests, ultrasounds, and options counseling.

Google maps screenshot of a crisis pregnancy center (CPC) in Bakersfield, CA.  CPCs pose as legitimate reproductive health centers. They have a track record of outright lying to women and work to dissuade people from exercising the right to choose. They often advertise as if they provide abortion services, drawing people in by promising free reproductive health services, including free pregnancy tests, ultrasounds, and options counseling.

i’m not pro-choice i’m pro-access

because having the legal right to an abortion doesn’t mean shit if you can’t pay the $500 and up cost or you don’t have any way to get to the only abortion clinic in your state because it’s thirty miles away and you don’t have the money for a car and there’s no public transportation or if you just don’t have the time to get to an almost-inaccessible clinic because you work three jobs and you can’t afford to take a day off!!

not to mention what if the clinic is one of those fake clinics where conservatives pretend to be abortion doctors and tell you that you’re a horrible person for wanting one, or what if you don’t feel safe in a clinic because everyone assumes you’re a woman but maybe you’re non-binary or a man or really a pregnant person of any gender who doesn’t want to be pregnant!!!

or your decision is questioned because you’re autistic or bipolar or any one of a number of neurodiversities and someone thinks you couldn’t possibly be “”“"sane”“”“ enough to choose what you do with your body

a person’s ability to access care that they need is so much more important than their "choice” whether or not to have that care. because lots of people (trans* people, people of color, low-income people, low-income trans* people of color etc) have to go through pregnancies that they don’t want or can’t afford because while they have the legal right to their “choice”, they don’t have access to the money or time or safety to actually MAKE that choice.

fight for access


The Fake Abortion Clinics Of America: Misconception


Women across America who are seeking abortions are accidentally booking appointments at Crisis Pregnancy Centers — pro-life, government-funded religious centers that don’t provide abortions, but instead try to talk women out of terminating their pregnancies. VICE News investigated the misleading practices used by Crisis Pregnancy Centers to draw in women with unplanned pregnancies, and the misinformation that is spread to discourage them from pursuing abortions.

anyways I’m going to delete this probably because I’m sick about talking about my feelings online but like i ….remember back in high school and i was choosing what i wanted to do for uni so i thought… ill pick fashion and intl studies because it has the highest mark. and i can’t do art because my mom will hate me, so design is the next best thing

i remember seeing like…comme des garçons or something. maybe on tumblr. and then looking it up and thinking …wow! clothing can be like this. you can make this and put it on a runway and people accept it. i think the first time i ever saw it in class i was doubly as excited because like…they were teaching us about it and no one knew what it was and it was so cool to see it recognised in a university context maybe.. like to ppl who have known fashion for a long time its not a big deal, cause its common knowledge right? but i thought it was soooo cool. i think i was like 17

wanted to know everything about fashion that wasn’t like. pretty dresses or bikinis or something

lately I’m so sick of fashion. shopping isn’t fun these days. feels really clinical or fake or something. but i  still like clothes. i think the moment you put something on and it just feels right? thats a good feeling. clothing can be feeling….like a hug, or remembering something, smell of someone else, reminder of time passing. i think i think too much