*oh would you look at that, I'm here too haha...let me just interrupt this one on one interview even though I already had mine, during which jiminie hyung called me sexy SEVERAL TIMES and he called rapmon sexy just once but that's irrelevant because he shouldn't be calling anyone sexy but me so yeah...*
Tomorrow is the anniversary of the Pulse nightclub shooting that claimed the lives of 49 Black and Latinx LGBTQ+ people and their allies and wounded 58 others. As the first anniversary, I know tomorrow is gonna sting for a lot of people and the community at large. So tomorrow at 12p Eastern, join me (wherever you are/whatever you’re doing) in 49 seconds of silence. It’s important to honor our dead and reflect on what they meant to us. #Pulse
The most dramatic moment during my Camp Counseling career at an all girls camp was when a girl got a letter from a friend saying that Zac Efron had died and one of her bunkmates ran out of the cabin and shouted “ZAC EFRON IS DEAD!!!!!” and the camp immediately fell into chaos girls were crying in the middle of camp and running around spreading the news everyone was yelling and the counselors had to look up wether or not Zac Efron was dead (this is a wireless camp so the girls couldn’t access the internet and check for themselves) and then get out a megaphone and be like “ZAC EFRON IS NOT DEAD PLEASE REMAIN CALM” outside of all the cabins it was insanity.
I love how tentatively Viktor approached Yuuri during the Sochi banquet. Look at how many shots it took for this boy to get to Yuuri.
I find this to be especially precious given how Viktor already got rejected by Yuuri earlier that evening.
For all of his being a celebrity, Viktor does not strike me as the kind of person who can easily brush off another person’s dislike of him. Hell, he made a career out of pleasing everyone, and while I don’t think he would cry over another person’s opinion of him, neither does he seem like someone who could just easily dismiss it or not be hurt. I mean look at this face:
His reservations about approaching the fascinating Japanese boy were therefore perfectly understandable. We can even clearly see that he kept his distance for a bit at first.
But like a moth to a flame,
this precious boy
can’t seem to help himself.
And for a while it doesn’t seem like Yuuri even noticed him there?
For all those who fought bravely this day 19 years ago, to those that lived, may they live well and happy, and for those that died, may they rest in peace.
This day is not just to remember those who died, but to remember what they died for.
Love, loyalty, friendships and family stands above all, and to attain happiness there’s a need for sacrifice.
Sometimes, the good die young so the others can live longer. The ones who die for us, live through us.
They will always be in our hearts forever.
I raise my wand to Severus Snape, Fred Weasley, Remus Lupin, Nymphadora Tonks, Colin Creevey, Lavender Brown and the Fallen Fifty.
my grandmother, that is. a woman who loved to play shop with me, to feed me her twist on new york style cheesecake, who loved to gift me with dolls from poland and the odd teddy bear or two. i remember her warmth, the slightly shrill voice, the woolen clothes and those brown loafers that she loved so much.
but i also remember how i’d catch a version of her that i wasn’t used to - a woman who looked much older, with ghost-white knuckles, and a hardened face that was far too solemn for someone who gave and gave and gave - for someone who deserved so much more than what she was given. i remember how that version of grandma would speak, too. in a hushed voice, speaking in the mousiest of whispers, as if she were a teenager again, trying not to make a peep as she hid with her whole family under the floorboards of a family friend’s home.
i also remember the tears. how they’d just… appear, from nowhere. sometimes they’d just start falling from her face mid-sentence, other times it was when she was looking forlornly out of the large window in the living room that i’d drawn on as a toddler. they were not the same tears she shed as a teenager, after watching her mother be taken away by men who embodied and reveled in pure evil. they were cracks in the wall that my grandmother had built.
then there were those days where i’d catch her looking at her arm, and the faded numbers that had overstayed their welcome there. it was like black paint on a white canvas only that canvas was a person and that paint had not been spilled accidentally, but tattooed into the arm of a young girl who had lost everything but her humanity - something the man who gave her the tattoo never had.
but worst of all, i remember how she’d frantically run about the kitchen to make me a meal when she learned i hadn’t eaten for a day. i asked her why.
“because, bubula, i know what hunger feels like.” she replied. i didnt quite understand the depth of that back then.
like how i didn’t understand the tremor in her hand when we walked past a group of teenage boys who made a hitler joke. how i didnt understand why she had to pull over on the side of the road to sob when she heard that a fellow holocaust survivor had died on the radio.
my grandmother was a fighter and a survivor and she was a woman who was strong as steel and as sweet as honey-dew. she was a woman who gave and gave and gave, a woman who deserved all the stars in the sky and pearls in the sea.
my grandmother was ripped from the arms of her family, she thrown into the deepest pit of hell, and she survived the flames. because my grandmother was a survivor of the holocaust.