Because really a few random tweets and facebook comments showing that transgender people are angry and violent toward Terfs proves everything.
You know what? People use social media as an outlet for the frustration they feel in their everyday lives. They share what they feel, what happened to them with people who listen (or not, it’s not the point), they express themselves in (sometimes) the only place they can talk about their daily lives, that person who misgendered them, that other person who asked them what they were doing in the women’s bathroom. But of course, you wouldn’t understand what it feels like to live that everyday and to be fed up. (I don’t know it either because I’m cis, but I understand, I can imagine what it’s like to be rejected, to feel rejected and to be angry towards the people who think transgender people don’t even exist, who talk about erasing them from the LGBT+ community). And guess who these people are? Trans-exclusionary radical feminists.
I want to point out that nothing excuses death threats, rape threats and insults and it’s certainly not the way to go but first of all, it is petty to choose these comments , secondly please do tell me all about transgender people not receiving death, rape threats and insults everyday of their lives, not going through the same things you poor martyrs have to endure. Except that it’s way harsher than whatever you may imagine because flash news transgender men and women are killed. And you terfs play an unvoluntary (or voluntary it depends) part in it.
In another life, he and the kid would have never met.
He thinks about that sometimes watching his boy walk from
one end of the Sanctuary to the other, maintaining order among the Saviors as
he’s been doing since he took his place at Negan’s right hand, Lucille as a
warning over his shoulder. Kid would’ve
grown up in Atlanta, or wherever the fuck his family’s from. Gone to the public
schools there and briefly resented his dad for being a police officer, tried
out for soccer or some other generic sport his thin waif of a body could
handle. One of the only things Negan knows about Carl’s mom, now, still, three
months into knowing him, is that she was the only one adamant about his hair
being cut, so it’s entirely probable he wouldn’t have the tail, either. Top in
all his classes. Whip-smart kid like him, except for that rebellious teenage
phase they all go through. Taken a girl to prom, flower in his jacket, big
smiles for the camera. Meanwhile Negan would’ve stayed up here, in Virginia,
with his wife and any children they might’ve had if the fucking—if what
happened hadn’t happened, and coached baseball to those ungrateful shits at the
high school, and never known Carl at all.
It wouldn’t have mattered to him, had the apocalypse not
happened. He wouldn’t have even known some kid named Carl Grimes existed. But
here they are, now, together, and Negan hasn’t felt lucky about anything in a
long damn time—
But how great a life would that other one have been, really,
with the fucking paycheck and the car note and Carl living over two hundred
fucking miles away?
As though sensing he’s being thought of Carl shifts in
Negan’s arms, waking. It’s the earliest hours of the morning, no one’s up yet
except Negan, who doesn’t sleep much as it is, and probably fuckin’ Fat Joseph,
who for whatever reason still lives on pre-apocalypse all-nighter-video-game
time. The sky outside the window has just started to lighten and in the soft
lilacs and lavenders Negan can just see Carl’s face as he rolls over, opening
his eye for a brief moment like he’s checking something before shutting it
again and burrowing down against Negan’s chest and into his neck. Small soft
lithe perfect thing that he is.
Negan tightens his fingers on the small of Carl’s back.
Closes his eyes. It’s rough out there, fucking impossible to live without
constantly looking over your shoulder, fucking impossible to trust anyone
anymore, but even so he’ll be damned before he’ll ever let this go.
headcanon of the day is of niall and harry at a party - any party - after an argument of some kind. something about the nature of their relationship, the uncertainty of the perimeters of it raised by one of them that makes the trip to the party in question strange - makes them both feel out out sync, like their heartbeats are out of tune.
other people happen, alcohol happens, and once they meet again it’s hard to speak. harry corners niall somewhere – finds support in walls and a sticky floor and braces the soles of his shoes for possible resistance. he won’t let niall get away without words of reassurance. can’t keep celebrating one thing or another unless he knows that niall knows. so he says, “I do love you. You know that, right? That I love you.” and niall doesn’t say it back. he probably rolls his eyes, placates with a hum of “yeah. yeah, haz, sure,” and presses lightly with wide palms over that defined chest, those familiar pecs that absorb the hitches of his breath so beautifully when they’re intimate with each other.
and harry is drunk, and harry is in love, and harry has a heart in that chest that tunes into niall better when they’re close like this, and he doesn’t protect it as well near niall as he does within the rest of the world, so he’s hopeful. runs on that hope and the alcohol and the love, and blindly believes that niall truly knows. that he’s fluent enough in harry that he gets the weight of his words, of his confession. so he presses a sloppy kiss to niall’s lips, and makes the prettiest noise when niall sighs out fond exasperation in the gap between them before drawing harry back in for another kiss. a proper one, with tongues covered in alcohol.
and then, when harry’s staggered back out among the people and is dancing with all those long limbs and that pretty face as though the world can’t possibly be better, someone comes up to an entranced niall and asks him how he is these days, if he’s seeing anyone. and niall can’t believe himself. can’t believe that he is in love with that fool over there. can’t believe that there was a time in his life when he wasn’t. and he says, “well.. there’s that,” with a nod over at the hurricane on the floor, and he’s never been happier.
i learnt how to fight when i was 9 and i still haven’t stopped swinging because the road from wolf to human is a fight a fight of unlearning of peeling back the layers of coming to terms with privilege of biting my tongue and trying not to howl at the moon
i feel SO overwhelmed I have to make up a chem test, a math quiz, i have a spanish quiz tomorrow i didn’t study for at all, i have two english papers due, a psych test and a math test this week and meanwhile I’m busy trying not to kill myself every night I don’t know how to handle this