it was my moms before i was even born

Dear Photograph,

It’s hard to imagine this photo of my mum was taken in Rome nearly 50 years ago in 1969, before I was even born.

I had no idea that I would one day live in this beautiful city and that she had visited here previously on holidays. I only recently came across this old photo of her in an old album and it’s so nice to know that although she is no longer with us, she has been so close to where I pass by every day.

- Marcello

nobody ever called my dad a “gold digger”

he’s a college drop out who married a nurse who made a lot more money than he did. she paid all the bills and he even expected her to fund all of the new businesses he would try to start–selling insurance, stocks, and getting involved in whatever pyramid scheme he had recently been convinced was “different” from the others

when my parents divorced, my mom wanted to keep the house because we have been in this house since before I was born. so she took out a mortgage and bought my dad out and he walked away with over $300k cash in hand

he ended up blowing all of it of course, got a new wife, also a nurse, and mooches off her now

but never in my life have I ever heard somebody call my dad a gold digger.

if he was a woman, people wouldn’t try to be so “empathetic” to his pathetic, terrible financial skills situation

anonymous asked:

why is peter pan your favorite?

Oh my gosh, have I never told this story???

Peter Pan has been with me since literally before I was born. My mom was seven months pregnant with me when she and my dad saw one of Cathy Rigby’s touring productions in Florida.

When I was little, I had a red audio cassette tape of the Peter Pan songs that I would listen to over and over. And then I got the Mary Martin VHS. I knew that thing backwards and forwards. And then I got the Disney VHS.

My siblings and I would dress up as the Darling siblings because we were a girl and two boys. Even to this day, our group text is labeled “The Darlings.”

I remember playing at a park once and there were these two random kids, and I asked to play with them and asked what they were playing and they said they were playing Peter Pan and it was like the stars had aligned.

I don’t know how old I was when I started to collect things. My dad’s job used to take him all over the world so he started bringing me back Peter Pan books in different languages. I have almost a hundred books in at least 15 different languages. I know I have Spanish, Hebrew, German, French, Japanese, Hungarian… I forget them all, honestly. I have a 1902 copy of The Little White Bird and a series of Barrie’s collected works from the 1920s that my brother and his girlfriend got me for Christmas just this year.

My mom also got super into eBay around the time that my dad was traveling so she would bid on cool Peter Pan items, and my collection just kept growing. I could do an entire Peter Pan Christmas tree, including the skirt and Tinker Bell on top. I have a really cool mini figurine set called “Peter Panda” where all the characters are different types of bears. I don’t even have it all with me, some of it is in storage with my parents because there’s just so much.

I ran a little Peter Pan website for a while when I was like 12 and assisted a guy who ran a much bigger website. It was The guy who ran it was only a couple years older than I was, his name was Andrew, he loved strawberries, our birthdays were days apart, it was just crazy how much we had in common. We’re still Facebook friends to this day and actually have mutual friends but have never met in person… he was at Disney World in January and our schedules just never aligned, so I just missed meeting him.

I started doing theatre when I was 7, and I’ll never forget when my dad came home with a newspaper when I was 10 and told us that someone was holding auditions for Peter Pan. I remember those auditions so vividly and the callbacks too. I kept telling my parents I was going to play John, because all of the other boys went up for Lost Boy type things but they just kept having me sing Tender Shepherd with one other boy that was shorter than me and different girls for Wendy. They didn’t want me to get my hopes up. I was right. They cast me as John, and I got to do the flying and everything. My parents played Mr. and Mrs. Darling, my brother was a Lost Boy, and my sister was one of Tiger Lily’s Indians.

When I was 10, my sister and I sent in an audition tape for the live action Peter Pan. We obviously didn’t get it but we were at the movie theatre when it opened on Christmas Day 2013! I also remember going to see Return to Neverland for my birthday the year that came out. We made a whole deal out of both of these events, went to the fancy movie theatre an hour away and all of that.

I finally saw Cathy Rigby when I was 15 and we met her after and got her autograph. She was so sweet and seemed to appreciate how big of a fan I was.

Peter Pan has literally always been there for me. Any time I’m sick or sad, the Peter Pan DVD is the first one open. I’ve previously discussed my feelings on the story itself… I find Wendy and her plight so relatable, especially as I get older. She’s the real hero of the story. The fear of growing up that gives way to the acceptance of it, and ultimately the embracing of the beauty of growing up… it’s a beautiful message, and one that sometimes gets lost, but I love it so much.

A healthy alternative stimming suggestion for anyone who needs pain as part of their stim (especially during an overload)

Stretching. It’s super healthy and it still gets you the pain element without causing injury.

If you’re looking for something that’s discreet, one that my mom’s done since way before I was even born (since she was a kid, I think) is to bend her fingers back like she’s doing a finger version of a stretching exercise. She can bend them back really far now, pretty close to all the way.

I, in turn, would often sit and touch my feet together, make my knees touch the ground, then bend down to touch my face to my feet, which to most people would pull on their hamstrings but I did it so often I could actually put my foot partially behind my head. I can still stretch all the way down, tbh (I’m 26 now).

anonymous asked:

📖 and 🌷!!!

📖: tell a story !

okay so this is a story my parents always tell about me to my relatives and i never have any memory of this happening but it’s hilarious lmao

so when i was little, maybe 2 or 3??, we went to this church that my parents had gone to before i was even born that my grandpa also used to go to but he moved so we still went there. there’s this man that goes there and i absolutely positively despised him. my mom hated him, my grandpa hated him, literally everyone hates him except for my dad ( 🙄) so i was always annoyed by him. he was ALWAYS bothering me!! so one day im in the parking lot and we park next to him. and so i’m buckled into my car seat waiting to get out and he rolls up to my window lookin stupid as always. so i guess 3 year old me was NOT havin it that day because i (reportedly) turned to him and said to his face “What do you want cracker?” and HE WENT REEEDDDDDDD BITCH HE WAS PRESSED CAPITAL P. so he turns to my dad and says “Did you hear what she just said to me???” and hes busting his ass laughing while this creepy ass white man is fuming out of his ears lmao #fuckwhitepeople2005

🌷: fave blogs

🤢 this is gay but @imjungkooksgf @freesomebody @narutouncle @bitamins @neurochemicalconjobs @1bread @pompomearrings @rebootera @ponyeffect @imyourgirlbyses @fistland @suffering2k17 @sereenafanblog and @iwice

i was reading Ted Bundy’s wiki page last night bc i always end up reading creepy shit at night and i never knew how active he was in Washington??? and the PNW in general but he apparently killed a woman at Evergreen State College which is like. 15 minutes away from my house.

i mean all that happened way before i was born but it’s still really unsettling to think about. i was talking to my mom about this earlier today and she told me that my granny believes she ran into Bundy once and even saw his volkswagen beetle. i guess he tried to give her a ride and everything but her instincts told her to gtfo

hhgngh its scary to think about (;へ:) 

“Mama,” Michi said one day, stepping down in front of his home to sit next to his mother as she folded a basket of laundry, keeping a watchful eye on Michi’s baby sister as the child crawled around the soft short grass.

“Yes, dear?”

“Daddy told me that Izzy was named after his mom.”

“That’s true.”

“He also said that…that I was named after your dad.”

Keep reading

french-malagasy-central african

Hi! I’m a a malagasy/central african girl. My dad is central african a physically typical tall black man, and my mom is malagasy. She is very light skin and has long curly hair who goes under her back. I’m almost 20 and live in France (3h from Paris) and was born and raised there. French is my first and only language. I was raised in a mostly white community and I never had POC friends before second year of high school. 

Beauty standards: During my childhood, in my town (2000 inhabitants), I’m pretty sure we were the only black family. But even though most people were white, I never wanted to be one. Maybe because I’m light skin (my mother’s side). I used to think absolute beauty was to be mixed and have curly black hair. I also remember wasting time in the bathroom looking at the mirror trying to see how would I’d look if I had thinner lips (Not really proud of that).

Growing up, I started straightening my hair almost every day and was so envious of girls who had straight hair and could wake up in the morning not brushing their hair and still look good. My hair was and still is a big deal for me. On my mother’s side they mostly have straight hair so she’d always do our hair with simple hairstyles for straight haired people. We never knew exactly what to do with my hair : they weren’t too nappy nor straight enough to choose a suited hairstyle due to being mixed. And to this day she still does my hair.

Also every time I was in the same room of another black girl nobody could figure out who is who.

Culture: My parents divorced when I was little, and my mom made her best to impose her culture even before he left. So to be honest, I never felt central african. I don’t know their language nor could I recognise it. We only visit family from my mother’s side and went to Madagascar about four times for one time 10 months and the other times two months. Lucky for us, french is widely spoken there.I don’t speak malagasy. My mom said that when we were little we didn’t want to (which I think was really stupid). I only know some expression and words.

Our name sound very weird for non-malagasy. Like I have to repeat my name at least twice when I introduce myself. and I don’t even count the number of people who have mispronounced my name. 

At home we use a bunch of malagasy tools, I’m glad they exist, and other african styled objects.

Food : Malagasy food is based on rice. Every meal we eat has rice, we use rice flour. I knew it was “odd” when I went to a friend house and they would just eat vegetables. Or worse : pasta and vegatbles. At home, it was vegetable+rice (and meat) and other meals were for special occasion and pasta is always spaghetti bolognese or with carbonara sauce. Also goose is for family gathering and very special occasions.

Home/Family life/Friendships: Home was my favourite place to be because there I could be who I was without being judged. Where things made sense. Like I said earlier my friend were almost all white so I never in the “black community”. Moreover, they would always lowkey make fun of my culture so depending with who I was with I would always sort of repress my culture. My best friend told that I wasn’t like the other black people (she’s upper class white) and I didn’t realise how problematic what she said was. 

And my mom always says that french people are very racist so I must always on my best behaviour.

Speaking of behaviour, I’m very introverted, hate being late and pretty good at maths. My friend asked once if I did this to unfit the stereotype but I guess that’s just me?

Identity issues: I always felt french as share french pop culture references and media with most people here but of course I’ll always be seen as an foreigner in France. But at home I don’t really have any idea how do they do things. Like I discovered when I was ten that here they put their kitchen towel  in sort of wood bracelet like it was normal and necessary.

And  of  course the fact that we have no clue of what our dad culture is. We would always sort of hide the fact we’re central african like it was shameful.

religion : We’re christians protestants. The only big difference it made was when I went to a catholic church  it was always soo boring, but at the temple people were singing and debating it was way more fun. My mom had never wanted to pressure us into religion so we had the choice to be what we wanted to. But I’m still religious.

Things I’d like to see less of:

When people want to be as correct as possible so they write the most non stereotypical boring POC. 

 Things I’d like to see more of:

Author who focused their POC character on their personality because gender/race/sexuality isn’t one

/god/ it’s such a small thing to get annoyed about, but when I was first transitioning and looking for a more neutral name my mom like,,, she was “"okay”“ with me changing my name, but she named me after her grandfather (who died before I was born so it’s like. My only connection to the guy) so she practically guilt-tripped me into keeping the first letter of my birth name
But now she can go ahead and decide that the name of a fuckin 90s sitcom character is perfect for me even though it doesn’t ascribe to her own ”“rule”“

When your big/little sibling comes into the room while you’re drawing
Diabolik Lovers OC Challenge- Day Twelve

Challenge Twelve: Tell us a little bit about your family, (parents, siblings, extended family.)

Tsukiko: “There’s not much to it… I’m an only child, even though my father, Asahi Kanai, grew up with seven other siblings. My mother, Rubylyn Kanai, had grown up with three other s-siblings… And there’s me. No biological brothers or sisters at all. I barely know any of my cousins since they never really come to our home very often. But, I know that my mom’s sister is suffering from… Never mind. I never really got to meet my grandfathers. They were both dead before I was born. My grandmothers on the other hand… One of them now is at the Philippines and one of them is at my old home.”

Umeko: “Family? Well, I grew up with my little brother, who’s name is Layton. Is it okay if I add something else? My birth name is Anastasia, so that would make sense, right? My father is dead as of now, but his name is Xzavier Petra. My mother’s name was Irena Ambrosia. A bit of a weird name in my opinion. I have a few others cousins, aunts, uncles, but I really can’t name them right now. Layton and I had to live with our mother’s parents when our parents died. It wasn’t exactly fun, but it wasn’t boring either. They were sweet. I just wish that I could have been the same way to them.” *Scoffs* “At least they taught Layton how to smile again. Well, I think I’m done here.”

My Boo (Sammy Wilkinson Imagine)

Sammy and I had been best friends since we were little. Both our moms were best friends before us and when we were born, I guess it was just natural chemistry between us two. We grew up together; did everything together. Even when he left Omaha to move to LA with the Jacks and Nate, he still spoke with me every night before I went to bed and he reminded me daily of how much he loved me–as a friend of course. Sammy has been by my side since day one and I could not ask for a better best friend that him. He was always there for me, even when I was having relationship problems Sammy was more than willing to help me out. There was a slight problem, though: I was madly in love with him.

I found that I had feelings for Sammy when he gave me my first kiss. Yes it was him. Weird, right? Your best friend giving you your first kiss? You’d expect things to get super awkward and weird but Sammy went on with his life. Me on the other hand, I was stuck. Stuck on him. After that kiss, I could only think about his lips and how soft they were–how sweetly they treated my own. We were young and I didn’t have any experience kissing boys so when I told him, he offered to teach me how. It’s sort of a funny story but nonetheless true. He left a few years later and I never got over him. Now Sammy was coming back and I was super excited.

He was coming for a visit and he was going to stay with me at my apartment for the night. I was going to pick him up at the airport. I got there pretty early and bought myself some Starbucks then went to wait at the terminal for his arrival. It was pretty late at night so I was super tired and just wanted to get home to sleep. I stood there waiting for him for almost an hour when I suddenly saw the now blonde haired boy with a backpack on bis back. He immediately smiled as soon as he saw me and hurried off the escalators. We ran into each other’s arms at the sight of one another and held each other for a long time, gushing about how great it was to finally see each other again and how much we missed each other. After a good ten minutes, we went for his suitcase and headed home.

At my place, he made himself comfortable on the couch as I prepared him some food. He was a hungry boy. After I had finished cooking, I got him a water and sat on the sofa right next to him. I gave him the plate of food which earned a large smile from him.

“Babe, you didn’t have to do this for me?” Sammy chuckled.

“But I did,” I replied. “You deserve it. You work so hard and you’ve finally gotten a break. A break where I’ll take care of you. Now eat.”

He obeyed me and ate his food, then we cuddled and talked about life and how it’s been in the past months. After that we watched tv until I grew immensely tired and got up off the sofa. Sammy gave me a questioning stare.

“I need to sleep,” I stated and kissed his cheek. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I started walking towards my room when I was suddenly yanked back. Sammy was grasping my wrist firmly.

“Y/N wait…” He started. He motioned for me to sit down, which I did cautiously.

“Is something wrong, Sam?” I asked.

“No… Nothing’s wrong. It’s just-I really want to get something out of my chest.”

“What is it Sam?” I asked.

“I really missed you… And being away from you for so long just made me realize how much you mean to me… I feel something more than a friendship going on here y/n. Don’t you?”

I froze at his words and stared at him blankly, waiting for him to tell me that he was joking. But he was dead serious. Sam was telling me the truth. I just wanted to confirm it.

“Sam are you saying-”

“That I love you? Yeah… But as more than just a friend,” he cut me off.

“Wow,” I gasped and turned away. He grabbed my chin and made me look him in the eyes before closing the space between us and giving me a gentle kiss. I kissed him back sweetly but our kiss ended too soon. Sam pulled away and asked:

“Y/N do you maybe want to… Be my girlfriend?”

I was shocked to say the least. Sammy was the love of my life but also my best friend. I couldn’t let my–well our–feelings ruin such a great friendship. If things didn’t work out, where would that put us? That could really jeopardize our connection. I couldn’t say yes no matter how much I wanted to. It wasn’t worth losing the lifelong friendship if things didn’t work out.

“Sam I… As much as I want to say yes… I can’t,” I muttered out. His face became serious and questioning.

“Why not? Do-do you not feel the same way?!”

“No! No! Sam! I do, I really do! But what if things don’t work out? Then where would that leave us?” I asked. He sighed and grabbed my hand between his.

“As the same friends we are,” he tried to compromise.

“It doesn’t work like that Sammy,” I said. “We could lose our friendship and that’s a risk I’m not willing to take.”

“So you don’t feel the same way,” Sam said more to himself.

“You have no idea,” I whispered then got up. I went into my room and attempted to fall asleep. But my mind kept going back to Sammy and how he actually loved me back. Call me stupid but I’d rather be around him and keep contact with him than to lose our special bond. I was half asleep when Sammy creeped through the door and sat at the edge of my bed.

“Sammy… What are you doing here?” I yawned as I sat up.

“Please y/n… You have no idea how much you mean to me. It started when we were younger and you were mine. When I gave you your first kiss, damn that felt so good. But I thought you didn’t feel the same thing I did so I tried getting my mind off of you with other girls but now… I know we haven’t seen each other in a while but I still feel the same way… I feel like you could be my everything… My boo.”

He chuckled sadly at that last part and I felt terrible for rejecting him. I knew that I loved Sammy more than anything but was it worth risking our friendship. In that moment I came to my senses. Yes. It was worth the risk.

“Please y/n,” Sammy pleaded. I didn’t say another word. I just wrapped my arms around his neck and kissed him as hard as I could.

“You have no idea how much I love you, Sam,” I said and he just smiled.

“So is that a yes?” He asked. I nodded my head and he gave me a long, passionate kiss.

“I love you, baby,” He said.

“I love you too Sammy.”

Why do we disbudded/dehorn?

A few days ago, I made a post about the difference between horned and polled animals, and I mentioned disbudding and dehorning. Here are some of the reasons why we disbud/dehorn our goats.

Before starting, I want to again clarify the terms. Disbudding means to remove the horns before they are connected to the skull, usually before the horns even break through the skin. Dehorning means to remove the horns after they have connected to the skull and the horns have broken the surface of the skin. In 99% of the cases with the goats we chose to, we disbud them. This is done at 10-14 days after being born. On to our reasons!

1. For our safety. Goat horns can grow to be really weird looking and are surprisingly sharp at the end. My mom and I like to play ‘Count the Bruises’ when we feed the goats. While I don’t have any pictures of our bruises, I can say that they were nasty and huge. The Boer goat horns tend to curve tightly around their skull, so the risk of real injury isn’t as much as with the dairy goats. With the dairy goats, they’re horns grow odd. Alpine horns grow straight up for a while before they start to curve. Nubian horns curve out to the side. Even when they’re young, Boer goat horns are pointed. Accidents can happen and goat horns can cause injuries.

^^^ Alpine with horns

^^^^ Nubian with horns

^^^^^ Boer with typical horns

2. For the other goats and that goat’s safety. Although I have never had a goat seriously injured by another goat’s horns, I have heard stories about horns impaling other goats or causing serious wounds. Even though he wasn’t impaled, our younger buck had some pretty serious bruises on him from when he got in a fight with the older buck (he broke through the fence while we were at work and school). I have, however, seen what happens when a goat gets trapped because of their horns. One of our up and coming show goats got her horns stuck in the feeder as a baby and in her panic, choked herself to death. The same thing happened to another up and coming show goat that had already been sold. There’s nothing more sickening than to find a dead goat hanging from the feeder and then have to tell the little girl who bought her that she needs to come out and pick a new goat because hers has died. One of my duties after school was to get out and check to make sure no one was stuck in the fence line. A friend of mine had a goat get stuck in the fence over night and the neighborhood predators thought she was a tasty snack…

3. Convenience. Dairy goats are the goats that are most often disbudded/dehorned because of how close people work with them and for the reason that the milk stand’s can’t accommodate horns on a goat. Not having horns makes life easier for the goat and for us because we are around them so much. Also for market goats (4H and FFA show goats), some fairs have a maximum horn height (often less than 1 inch). This is for the safety of the non-ag people that come to visit their fairs. My fair does not have that requirement.

So what do we do to our herd?

To start, we’re a mixed herd. We have both Boer goats (meat) and dairy goats (Nubian and Alpine). The man who I work with closely and owns the majority of the Boer goats started the policy for the herd of ‘If 1 has them, they all do.’. But wait, you say, didn’t I mention disbudding and dehorning our goats? We do. We disbud all of our dairy goats as they live in a differnt pasture than our Boer goats. For our Boer goats, we sell to 4H and FFA kids for their fair market goats. Those are most often wethers, but if we have girls that we don’t want to keep for breeding, they get sold too for that purpose. Even though our home fair doesn’t have a maximum horn requirement like other fairs, our goats go to various different counties and sometimes even to different states. I think the winner for our farthest traveling goat was to Montana. Therefore, all of our wethers get disbudded so they can be bought by any 4H or FFA kid. The girls we don’t disbud because we don’t know if we want to keep them until they are weaned.

If anyone has any questions, feel free to ask!

my parents wanted my gender to be a surprise but everyone thought i was going to be a boy because of some pregnancy superstitions and finally my mom believed it

so when i was born the doctors told my mom im a girl and she said “what?! are you sure?!”

my point is they shouldnt be surprised that im nonbinary now!!! smh gender confusion before i was even born!!!!

You get a rush at first. At first, it’s amazing. It’s kind of like being born again. I guess I mean in the sense that you’re something of your own, something of your flesh and bones. You’re this new thing. You feel a little more alive than you did about 30 minutes before.

There’s always this tingle in my head. And I can’t stop talking about anything. I mean I’ll talk about everything, even if I’ve got nothing to say. It’s ridiculous, but there’s a sort of appeal to the lightheaded, dizziness of it all. There’s an appeal to the freedom of having the choice, and choosing wrong. I wanted that rush that the other kids had been talking about. I listened closely to the burnouts at the beginning of freshman year, because I found that they had the most to say. They shared the thoughts that I had, but they saw the world in colors I couldn’t imagine.

I met an explosion of people. First they came at me in puny wisps of smoke and exhales. I spent months ditching classes underneath school bleachers, hiding out in the smelly bathrooms, searching for their 100 bad habits. In a sudden gasp of air I found myself clogging my lungs with their inspiration. Wisps of smoke became a blackout of fire, but they taught me not to be afraid of the smolder. At first it was beautiful. We became this strange mixture of passion and pain and untold stories. We all became the legends you only hear about in movies, with deadbeat eyes and apathetic feet carrying us nowhere in life. We were the things burning up the trees and lighting up the sky. At first we were beautiful, but fire’s not made to be beautiful.

Yeah, it was fun. I’ll admit, it was really fun. I had the time of my life making memories I can no longer recall. I was a lit cigarette igniting into this new mold of skin. Those kids came in my life when I was grey and they painted me gold. 

When it started to rain and I started to chip, I felt the weight of their world all over my shoulders. They liked to leave, I’ll give them that. They were good at that. And I was good at running. I chased them even when my legs were broken. I wanted to be just like their bad habits. Only after a while, I realized I had enough of my own.

It was a lot more fun being the newborn of the group. I was unkempt clay ready to be sculpted. They turned me into splintered bone and glassy chunks. When I was transformed, I realized I didn’t want this anymore. I wanted nothing more than to patch up the cracks in the mirror and go to sleep without shaking. But it’s midnight now and I’m writing about drugs and fire, and I guess it’s a little too late to say that.

Please don’t ever allow yourself to fall victim to careless people. I know that at first it’s exciting to watch the crumbling debris of your idolized unloved kids. At first they’re going to be flowers blooming towards the sun, and when they tell you you’re a weed you’re going to want to entwine into their thorns. They’re passionate like a car crash and they’re bright like fires. They’re enticing and funny and charming and they’ll be bursting with color. At the beginning of freshman year, I used to see them in color too. Now I only see color when I’m high.