we are not ashamed

Concept: I finish school. The job I work isn’t my dream job but I enjoy doing it greatly still. It pays enough to cover everything I might need. My bills are never overdue. Money is not a thought in my head. I have a place to live. So do my dogs. It is nice and warm, I have some plants, my bookshelves are full, my sheets are always clean. There is time to read at the end of a day. I read a lot. Thinking is a good thing. I meet up with friends regularly, old and new. They love me. We make memories. I have nothing to be ashamed of. I travel a few times a year, always different places. The places I see steal my breath away. The people I meet teach me of life. They are good. There is no war. The sea calls to me and I pay visit. I am independent. I am content.

Psst, hey, Marilyn Monroe’s image as a freewheeling sexpot was a carefully constructed lie. The real Marilyn Monroe was a roiling tragedy and her life was an indictment of our society as a whole. She was orphaned after her mother had a schizophrenic breakdown, bounced around between foster homes where she was sexually abused, and married a 21-year-old at 16 to get out of being sent to an orphanage. Hugh Hefner published nude photos of her without her consent that were taken when she was 23 and desperate. She suffered severe anxiety and depression, which she coped with by drinking and using barbiturates, and was already a full-blown addict when she became famous in the mid-50s. Her career was one of exploitation, condescension and alienation, and she killed herself at 36. That Hugh Hefner, a man who was at best an unpleasant footnote in her life, felt entitled to be buried next to her is one more humiliation in a pop cultural landscape we should all be ashamed of.

When people tell stories about how their parents beat them, it’s always interesting to see their face change because they expected me to say “me too lol” but I instead say “I’m really sorry. You didn’t deserve that”
Last time a co worker who also has West Indian parents was telling me in a joking way how he remembers being beaten with a belt because lied about his report card. As he was laughing it off and saying he deserved it, I just said “wow that’s awful hun. You didn’t deserve that.” And his whole face changed. Like it hadn’t occurred to him that it’s messed up that a part of remembering his childhood is remembering how badly it hurt to be beaten so badly at such a young age.
Another time I had a friend, non West Indian parents, who talked about how she made a mess on a dress that her parents got her. It was really expensive apparently and she spilled red juice on it. She talked about how she was ordered to take the dress of and was beaten with a belt too without any clothes on. And she was laughing and said “I was a bad ass kid lol” and I said “no hun you were just a kid”. And she looked at me and immediately stopped laughing and just sat there like “yea…I was just a kid. I don’t know why they did that to me”
My mom was raised in a household where she was beaten so badly….I just don’t understand how she is so loving now growing up in a home where she got so little love. They called it discipline, but once she became a social worker she began to see that it was abuse. That she grew up terrified of her parents, although they thought it was respect that my mom felt. It was fear.
We have to get comfortable challenging what is often seen as cultural norms. We have to be a generation of people who are not ashamed to say “I would never beat my child”.


i imagine this taking place in a relatively early cycle when merle, like….was off doing merle things; iirc, taako doesn’t have THAT many deaths under his belt, so losing him was probably hard to get used to. i also headcanon that it wasn’t often that the taaco twins didn’t go down together. so. here’s this.

also do consider full-viewing; i overestimated how large the panels would look.








I’m a feminist because...

I’m a feminist because everyone should be.

Growing up, my parents would always tell me to be properly dressed around my brothers. Never mind that they were walking around in short boxer briefs, it was me who had to be presentable. I was the girl, after all.

In school, I was always taught that the way I dressed affected a boy’s education. I was taught that the slight peek of my shoulder was enough to get me sent to the head office. It was much too distracting, because after all, a boy’s education had to be more important than a girl’s. At least, that was what they were teaching me.

This is why I’m a feminist.

I’m a feminist because it is 2017, and when I talk about how unfair it is that a professional athlete gets to walk away from the accusation of raping a girl without a single ding to their career, I’m some sort of radical that needs to calm down. Because that poor girl’s life will never be the same, but said athlete’s career is perfectly intact.

I’m a feminist because my aunt says things like, “Oh, those feminists, they just need to shave their armpits and get over it.” Because somehow the grooming of my body hair has everything to do with the rights I’m fighting for.

I’m a feminist because people still think you must have a vagina to be considered a woman.

I’m a feminist because I am 20 years old, and when I tell people I’m not sure I want to have kids, they look at me like I just defied all womankind.

I’m a feminist because when mothers choose to work rather than stay at home with their children, they aren’t doing “enough.”

I’m a feminist because when fathers choose to stay at home with their children rather than work, they somehow aren’t as “manly.”

I’m a feminist because parents still won’t let their sons play with Barbies.

I’m a feminist because young boys are taught that crying is bad. Showing emotion is bad, better to bottle it up and never feel. If you cry, you’re a girl, and no one wants to be a girl.

I’m a feminist because when my family talks about the Women’s March that happened yesterday, they say things like, “What’s protesting going to change?” and “They’re honestly just wasting their time. Nobody’s going to listen to them.” Never mind that the country we are living in found its freedom through protesting—No Taxation Without Representation. But I suppose that’s okay. It was men protesting then.

I’m a feminist because when my aunt saw a picture of a man marching with women yesterday, she snorted and said, “What’s he doing there? Doesn’t he have something better to do?” Her seven year old son was sitting next to her.

I’m a feminist because a highly qualified politician lost the presidential election to a less than mediocre businessman who based his campaign on misogyny, racism, bigotry, and slander. Because this country would rather see an over privileged, racist, homophobic, white man, whose years of experience sums up to zero, in office rather than a woman whose qualifications are more than his will ever be. Because I somehow have to have years of experience before I can even get my first job, but Donald Trump can get sworn into office without a single day of political experience.

I’m a feminist because the President of the United States speaks vilely of women and all minorities, and I’m the terrible one for disliking him.

I’m a feminist because I get made fun of for being a feminist.

I’m a feminist because I want the next generation of girls to live in a better world than mine.

I’m a feminist for these reasons and so many others.

I’m a feminist because everyone should be.

i love molly weasley

i love how she’s characterised. i love how when we first see her, she seems to be just a kid’s book mother character but then she slowly develops into a fully realised human. i love how we see her at her weakest and her strongest, facing up to a boggart that takes the shape of her dead family and killing the woman who threatened her daughter. i love how she’s a formidable dueller and a master of domestic magic. i love how she can keep her household together through two wars and throw a wedding party at the world’s darkest moments.

i love that we see her flaws. she treats hermione awfully after that rita skeeter article, and we see her ashamed when she realises that’s false. we also see her treat harry like a child, for good or ill, and think that harry should be hidden from his own secrets. she’s abrasive and quick to judge, and spiteful when she wants to be, but none of that detracts from her courage and heart.

i love molly weasley.


we’ve been having discussions in the discord and my poor heart just can’t take it anymore.



how dare


When I was asked about him just a few weeks ago I thought he could make a comeback. I thought you all would remember this glorious, suave, composed beast of an ego. He was already snubbed for A Date With Markiplier, but now?

Now, he’s replaced again, and so quick everyone is to forget.

Look into that smiling face, those sweet eyes, that FLAMBOYANT HAIR and tell me you forgot it all. That you forgot him. How dare. Chef Iplier is a precious, legitimate bean with his very own skit and he deserves all the love. Do not be fooled by Mark’s decisions! Much as he’s apparently forgotten, this cooking bean still exists! And he will forever in our hearts.


Last known sighting of the bean. Do not be fooled by the ending of his skit. Do not be fooled by Mark’s “harmless” joke. Chef Iplier lives, and he watches as he is replaced, and you can bet he mourns. Give him the respect he deserves. The true culinary ego of Mark’s repertoire. The very best chef there is.

Long live Chef Iplier.