Here is the poem to Benjamin Tallmadge from Nathan Hale expressing his deep rooted love friendship for him written in 1774:

“Friend Tallmadge,

Although a first attempt prov’d vain,

I’m still resolv’d my end t’obtain.

My temper’s such that I rare give out,

In what I ‘tempt for one bad bout.

Were this the case, you’d never see

Lines form’d to feet and rhyme for me.

But being sadly mortifiy’d

At thoughts of laying it aside;

Revived a little by your letter,

With hopes of speeding better,

At length I venture forth once more,

But fearing soon to run ashore.

My thoughts had once convey’d you home,

In safety to your wonted dome;

But gladly went a second time,

Attended by your muse and rhyme.

That you are there, the single proof,

You bring, to me, is quite enough.

But here, I think you’re wrong, to blame,

your gen’rous muse and and call her lame.

For when I arrived no mark was found,

[inelligable for me], sprain or wound.”

Below is the last page of the poem is above (last photo).

gorillaz-imagines  asked:

Could you write up headcanons for Murdoc and Noodle when Noodle was growing up? So like Phase 1 to now, I guess, haha. Love your writing!

(Aw, thank you so much! 💕)

• If Noodle had a nightmare, she would come to Murdoc’s room and sleep in a little tent that he pitched in the corner. It had fairy lights in it and taxidermy rabbits (he didn’t have stuffed animals), and he would play quietly on his bass until she fell asleep again. This was throughout Phases 1 and 2.

• He’s SUCH a dad about her dress sense in Phase 4. She’ll skip downstairs in her hot pants and crop tops and he’s like “you aRE NOT GOING OUT WEARING THAT!!!” Of course, he doesn’t have much credibility, seeing as he lazes around the house in a neon pink banana hammock.

• He (not so) begrudgingly lets her paint his toenails for him. It’s a sign of trust, really, because his feet make Shrek’s look nice. She gives amazing pedicures though, so he can’t complain.

• She tried to teach him how to dance during Phase 2, because “your thrusting scares the kids. I don’t care if it’s your signature move.” He’s still terrible, mind you, but he can at least add the Running Man to his repertoire.

• When Russel was out for the day and 2D was busy during Phase 1, Murdoc was Official Dad. He was known to walk around the Kong Kitchen in a pink pinafore, cutting onions with his axe to make savoury scones with Noodle, who didn’t do much of the work and instead bossed him around inelligibly while she drank strawberry milk.

• During Phase 3, he kept a picture of her from when she first arrived in the band in his wallet. When the beach got too hot, the music was too loud, and the alcohol made him too sad, he would take it out and just stare at it until he fell asleep.

Bad News:

Found out my books are $550 this quarter the other day, giving me $420 to live off including my train tickets.
Coffee maker spilled half its contents on my dresser and floor this morning. Knew it was gonna be a greeeeeaaat day.
Find out in my first class that the deadline for the graduation application is December 1st and costs $50 when I’m already short on funds.
Got an email saying some of my tests need to be proctored, the proctor charge is $30 per test.
Got another email saying “There’s been a change in your financial aid” meaning I am losing my State Need Grant for these next two quarters.
Found out I am inelligable for the Work-Study program.
Still don’t have my textbooks. Took a 0 on the first assignment because of this.
Found out that we need to do a Credit hour audit because a lot of us are not on track to graduate with enough credits, potentually delaying our graduation.
Cried on the phone to Financial aid, made her cry as well when I gave her my goshdarn Tragic Backstory™ because frick.
Aaaaand my “hearing aid” (technically a listening device but it does the job) battery quit 30 minutes into my second class.

Good news:

I have spare batteries.
I got a classmate to send me pics of the Student Manual so I can do my next assignment.
Found a $100 cheaper e-book version of one of my textbooks.
Found out that my credits are perfectly fine, in fact, I’ll graduate with like 20 over the requirement.
Called my Tribe to see if they had scholarships or loans, they directed me to a few scholarships specifically for Native American women.
Decided I’m going to sell a few old textbooks kicking around online as soon as I can.
Found out they sent me the proctoring email in error.
Decided to revamp my commissions to cover cost of living next quarter.

We are not people.

It’s as simple as that.

Because the moment, yes, all women, start telling the world our stories of mistreatment, is the same moment another tag starts to trend. Two of them, actually. #Yesallmen, and #Yesallpeople.

Because the moment you start arguing for women’s rights, or say you’re a feminist, is the moment the angry mob descends. “Why are you a feminist?!” They cry, “Don’t you care about anyone else?!”

“Yes, I do.” I reply, “What makes you think I don’t?”

“You should call yourself an egalitarian then!” They shout, “Because if you’re a feminist, it means you don’t care about anyone but yourself! You’re making up all this stuff! Women have the right to vote! They don’t need any more equal rights because they alredy have them! You should call yourself a human rights activist, not a feminist!”

#Yesallpeople, because anti-feminists, even female ones, don’t want to contribute to the proof of our existance, and the fact that, YES, ALL women have been mistreated by men. All women have, at some point in their life, been shamed, or abused, or reduced to an object, by a man.

Maybe he touched you when you didn’t want him to. Maybe he got in your personal space. Maybe he catcalled you and your friends as you were walking. Maybe the moment you turned him down was the moment he turned into a monster. Maybe he stared at you as you walked toward the pool in a bikini. Maybe splashed water on you so that he would be able to see through your shirt. Maybe he wouldn’t back down when you told him no. Maybe he tried to threaten you into doing something for him. Maybe he made you feel bad for being yourself. Maybe he reacted with disgust when he saw your hairy legs. Maybe he told you that you were disgusting and unclean. Maybe he sent you pictures you didn’t want to see. Maybe he told you to do things you didn’t want to do. Maybe he bragged about you to the whole school. Maybe he made up lies about you so that your friends would leave you. Maybe you were told that “boys will be boys” when you tried to tell someone. Maybe you were taught not to complain when he stared at you like that, because you should be glad for the attention. Maybe you hid the bruises he put on your arms. Maybe you fought back. Maybe you weren’t afraid to show people what he’d done to you. Maybe they beleived him over you. Maybe you started to blame yourself, too.

The point is, he did it. He did something to you. Said something to you, that made you ashamed of being your own person. Of being female. Of being alive.

People keep trying to tell me that I should stop calling myself a feminist if I support equal rights for all. They keep telling me that if I really cared, I would call myself an egalitarian, and fight for the rights of all people, not just women.

But you know what?

There’s a problem with that.

Because you tell me I don’t care because I say I am a feminist.

Because you tell me I’m a terrible person because I want women to be on completely equal footing with men.

Because you try to tell me that I need to make my cause not about women so that men will support me.

Because you try to tell me that I should be saying #Yesallpeople instead of #Yesallwomen.

Because you’re missing the point. Your ideals have blinded you to the truth.

Because we’re not people.

Because the moment women start to band together to tell their stories to the world, we’re told that we’re monsters, and that, by sharing our pain, we’re erasing the pain of others.

Because when I say that I am a feminist, people assume that I hate men.

Because when I say that I am a feminist, people assume that I hate anyone that isn’t white.

Because when I try to tell people what I have suffered, because I am a woman, they shout, “NOT ALL MEN!”

Because we’re not people. Not to them. We’re objects. We’re pretty pretty paintings to be admired, and then torn down when we’re no longer useful. We exist to bring pleasure to men.

Because we’re not people. We’re minors in school that are forced to cover their arms and legs so we don’t distract the boys. They’re not our classmates. Not according to the rules. No. Because we’re not students. We’re objects that threaten to distract everyone. Objects that need to be removed. Cover it with a white sheet, quick! Before anyone notices that it has skin! Before anyone notices that it’s human! Before anyone notices that the real students are the only ones allowed to wear shorts!

Because you know what?

There is a fundamental flaw with the mentality that we should support human rights, instead of any specific denomination.

Because in saying that, you’re assuming that every single human being on this planet cares about those other than themselves the way you do. You’re assuming that they don’t think themselves the only one on the entire planet that has rights. You’re assuming that they have the same definition of a person as you do. When you tell them that you support human rights, (and denounce feminism in the very same breath as self-centered and selfish), you’re assuming that they understand you completely.

But they don’t.

Because you’ve accidentally projected your own compassion and understanding of the human race onto them.

Because we’re not people.

Not to them.

Their concept of “people”, of “human”, is those who are like themselves. The ones that are already in power. The ones that have no problem at all with the status quo.

To them, we’re objects. Theives in the night, the color of our skin determining our likelyhood to commit a crime. Terrorists in the sky, a small fraction of our religion damning us all. Living, breathing sex toys, our gender consent all in and of itself.

Because we’re not people.

We’re not students. We’re not co-workers. We’re not allowed to feel the scorching summer sun. We’re not allowed to be human. We’re supposed to deny evolutions hundreds of thousands of millions of years, and feel ashamed of our own bodies. We’re not allowed to have hair anywhere but on our head. We’re not allowed to have bare shoulders or knees for fear that we might distract the real, hardworking students. They’re not our classmates. Because you don’t call a playboy magazine your classmate, and we’re not people.

We’re distractions. Because our schools don’t teach our children not to stare at one another. They teach them not to be stared at.

We’re walking consent. Because our society doesn’t teach its members not to rape. It teaches them not to be raped.

Because from the moment we can understand the words, “Stick and stones” are sun into oblivion. Because we don’t teach our children to be nice to one another. We teach them to hide their pain and pretend it doesn’t really hurt.

So, the next time you go to post one of your anti-feminism speeches, remember this:

Human rights campaigns only work when everyone involved sees those around them as human.

If you don’t tell them, straight up, no argument or dodging or cover-alls, who you’re fighting for, they’re going to assume that you don’t mean the objects around them.

We are not people, because you gasp in horror at the hair on my legs, while the hair on yours is nothing to blink at.

We are not people, because a boy is rejected, and you feel sorry for him even as he murders six people.

We are not people, because you makes jokes about rape, and call us idiots when we get upset.

We are not people, because our hormones make us inelligible for the presidency, while yours excuse your actions when you rape, and kill, and ruin peoples lives.

We are not people. Not to you.

It doesn’t matter who you are, or where you’re from, or where you were born, or what language you speak, or what color your skin is.

If your only reaction to the #Yesallwomen tag is “NOT ALL MEN!” then you have missed the point completely.

Because you’re making it about the abusers.

And not the victims.

So, yes, ALL women. A sentence, that, in and of itself, implies that not all men are the problem.

Not all bees will sting you, but that doesn’t mean you teach your kids that they’ll never be stung. Just because you haven’t been stung yet doesn’t mean you get to ridicule and mock and shame those who have been.

Don’t make it about you.

Because not all men are monsters.

But you know what? every woman on this earth has been hurt or degraded by one of them.

And it needs to stop.