by Nina Donovan, as performed by Ashley Judd at the Women’s March on Washington (1.21.2017)
I’m a Nasty Woman. Not as nasty as a man who looks like he bathes in cheeto dust. Not as nasty a man who is a diss track to America. From Back to broken Back he’s stomped on, his words are just more white noise ruining this national anthem. I’m not as nasty as confederate flags being tattooed across my city; maybe the south actually is going to rise again Or maybe it never really fell Because we’re still drowning in vanilla coated power Slavery has just been reinterpreted into the prison system Black lives are still in shackles and graves just for being black in front of people who see melanin as animal skin Tell me of a decade that didn’t have traces of white hoods burning up our faith in humanity. I’m not as nasty as a swastika painted on a pride flag And I didn’t know that devils could be resurrected but I feel Hitler in these streets A mustache traded in for a Toupee The Nazis renamed The Cabinet Conversion therapy the new gas chamber, Shaming and electrocuting the gay out of America turning rainbows into suicide notes. I’m not as nasty as racism, or fraud, or homophobia, sexual assault, transphobia, white supremacy, white privilege, ignorance, or misogyny Not as nasty as trading girls like pokemon before their bodies have even evolved. Not as nasty as your own daughter being your favorite sex symbol Like wet dreams infused with your own genes. But yeah! I’m a nasty woman. A phunky Crusty Bitchy Loud Nasty woman. Not as nasty as the combo of Trump and Pence being served into my voting booth, But I’m nasty like the battles women fought to get me in that voting booth. Nasty like the fight to close the wage gap. Nasty like conversations trying to remind people there is such thing as a wage gap. Tell me that this is only because women usually go into lower paying fields. So why did last year’s top actresses make less than half of what the top actors did? Do you realize that the World Cup shelf of the U.S. men’s soccer team is as empty as Trump’s promises But the women’s team has scored three World Cups, In 2015, brought in 20 million more dollars in revenue than the men’s team, but is still paid 75% less? See even when women go into high paying careers, their wages are still cut with blades sharpened by testosterone. Tell me why the work of a black woman and a hispanic women is only worth 63 and 54 percent of a white man’s privileged paycheck? This is not a feminist myth; this is inequality. So we are not here to be debunked We are here to be respected. We are here to be nasty like blood stained bedsheets. In case you forgot, women don’t choose when or if they get their periods! Trust me, if could we would! We don’t like throwing away our favorite pairs of underwear! But men can choose to not have sex And they know how to live without a full head of hair, so why are tampons and pads still taxed, but Viagra and Rogaine isn’t? Is your erection really more important than protecting the messy parts of my womanhood? Is the thinning of your hair really more embarrassing than the period-staining of my jeans? I know it seems petty to complain about a few extra cents But it’s just the finishing touch on a pile of change I have yet to feel in this country. So don’t try to justify our injustices with excuses that smell like your security when you’re walking alone to the bathroom or your car or down the street. Security my eyes have yet to see Their too busy praying to my feet So you don’t mistake eye contact for wanting physical contact I’ve been zipping up my smile so you don’t think I want to unzip your jeans. I know you forget to examine the reflection of your own privilege You may be afraid of the truth But I’m not afraid to be honest I’m not afraid to be nasty Yeah I’m nasty like the struggle of women still beating equality into the world, because our rights have been beaten out of us for too long. And our fight will continue to embody our nastiness. I’m nasty like red, white, and blue bruises. Nasty like Elizabeth, Amelia, Rosa, Eleanor, Condoleezza, Sonia, Malala, Michelle. Our mothers, our sisters, us sisters are all nasty like history And our pussies ain’t for grabbing They’re for reminding you that our walls are stronger than America’s ever will be. They’re for birthing new generations of Filthy Vulgar Bossy Brave Proud Nasty women. So if you a nasty woman say hell yeah.
this goes for all of them but a lot of respect for Michael for not giving a shit. Let him say and do as he pleases, he’s finally in a good headspace, he’s making new music with his best friends, and they’re gonna own 2017. stop “unstanning” and be happy for all of them, we’re here to support their music & the tiny fraction we know about their lives.
Whenever we a see “negative stereotype” of black women or girls on TV or online or wherever i.e. hood black women, uneducated black women, black women with multiple kids by multiple fathers, black mothers on welfare, loud black women… instead of seeing it as an assault on us black women “who aren’t like that”, why don’t we see it as an assault on black women who ARE like that. Let’s not get upset that the media are using these images to make us “good” black women look bad but that they are taking these real life struggles, these real life identities, these real lives of some black women and making them someone or rather SOMETHING to be laughed at, mocked, shamed, feel ashamed of, or discarded. We “good” black women help them in doing that by saying things like “I hate these stereotypes of black women” or “these women make us look bad”… When we do that we are centering the “good” black women while dehumanizing, objectifying, marginalizing, or downright erasing the lives and identities of the black women who lives and identities are being grossly simplified and skewed. We “good” black women are focused on how “those women”/images are making us look bad and not how “those” women’s identities and lives are being misrepresented in the name of entertainment or agenda. Yes being dehumanized and marginalized is horrible but let’s not further marginalize other black women because we falsely believe they are the source of our poor treatment. They are not. They are victims of a society that refuses to see any black woman as complex and human.
HAPPY FUCKING BIRTHDAY MICHAEL. THE BIG 2 AND THE 1. 2⃣1⃣ incase you havent catched on. YOU CAN FINALLY LEGALLY DRINK!🍺 im so proud of you and how far you have come💓 Keep doing what you’re doin🐦 hope you have a fucking amazing day and we love you so so so so so much small bean. Hope you’re day is full of smiles and hugs and you’re surrounded with the bestest vibes😘 Again Happy Birthday From The Fam We Love You💙🎂🍻 dONT PARTY TOO HARD🎂🍻 @5sos
after a very long time I finally finished my Michael drawing. I also wanted to post this extremely long story about how amazing and wonderful he is, but let’s face it. We all know this already. Michael Clifford is a fantastic human being and that is all.
Summary:He is the definition of high class smart ass, swimming in Dom Pierre Pérignon champagne and has never seen the shadow of poverty. She is underprivileged, lives in a messy dorm room on sale and struggles working as an assistant after being thrown out of college. But how will they collide when Luke makes Y/N pregnant after a drunkenly one night stand?
shaky laugh from the many glasses of wine after one of the co-workers next to
Luke encouraged him to stand up, he stabilized his long legs and leaned his arm
on top of his chair.
to make a small toast for all as we’re all gathered here tonight.” He clicked
the silverware fork against his glass of wine, waiting for everyone to quiet
down from the small talks around the many tables and took a deep breath from
want to say a huge thank you to every single one of you for showing up tonight
He was interrupted
quickly by the sound of the door opening to the banqueting room, everyone’s
attention drawn towards you who almost timidly walked inside. It wasn’t
supposed to be an entrance like this, you had at least expected everyone would
be too busy with eating whatever was served for tonight.
RIGHT, so as I know it, there’s a rather incorrect view of who Robin Hood was and what Robin Hood did. Which is nobody’s fault, because if you spend the last century (aye, century) pushing the Merry Good Bandit in kids’ media, of course perception of the man will change. Which is amazing, because now I get to tell you, with my usual extreme pleasure and joy, some stuff about Robin Hood: The Original Mythos. So strap up, get comfy, and get ready to hear today’s tale about how Robin Hood makes friends just like in the shonen animes of the 80s and early 90s: Fighting them to the death riverside.
We already discussed how Robin Hood became an outlaw because he killed half of Nottingham in a failed stealth section after getting denied some cash he won in a bet. We are going to skip the parts were he starts building his murderous mass of Merry Men, not forgetting to mention that they live in a mansion (”give to the poor” my ASS) in a forest and that Robin Hood cannot whistle so he has a big curved horn with him at all times, which, if blown 3 times, signals the “OH SHIT LADS” alarm and all bandits go help him. We are going directly to how he met and made allies with his famous friend, Little John.
OK SO, one time, Robin Hood had nothing to do. Roads were empty, the lads were still hung over from last night, no commotion was happening in Nottingham, it was a lazy Sunday. The problem with this is that Robin DOES NOT LIKE LAZY SUNDAYS and also that he’s a PSYCHOPATH-SLASH-OUTLAW, so his boredom puts us all at peril. Robin gets all up in a fuss and yells “THIS SUCKS I AM BORED I AM GOING TO LOOK FOR TROUBLE”, which he does, and what do you know, it’s not three damn steps out of his Murder Mansion when he runs into trouble, because if there’s something Robin’s really good at, aside from shooting sharpened death stick out of that catapult he calls a bow, is getting himself knee deep into shit by circumstance. Luck: E-
There’s this river, see, and the only thing that leads to the other side is a log. Robin wants to Get There, so he starts walking on the log, when he suddenly bumps into a wall. A wall of muscle and fear, I mean, because right in front of him, midways through, stood a giant of a man, 7 feet of hospital-filling brawn, which calls Robin’s archer eyes into question, because how do you NOT SEE a 7 feet tall monster truck made into a person in a thin fucking log. How does he even land his arrows. I retract my previous statement, he has Luck: EX.
So they are at an IMPASSE because neither can cross now. “HEY THERE fella” asked Robin. “D’you mind stepping back to the other end so I can cross?”. “I most definitely do mind, as a matter of fact” replied the beefmountain, speaking in Muscle dialect, which is when you flex your pecs and biceps in just the right way to make comprehensible English words. “Why, that’s just wonderful!” declared an ecstatic Robin. “I get to shoot you now, thanks!” because, please remember, Robin Hood is a psychopath.
But before Hoodie could nock an arrow, a big BZZZZZZZT horn stopped him. “WOAH WOAH woah man, really? Bow and arrow? Under THESE circumstances? I am in a THIN LOG and you are going to give me the Porcupine Experience with a longbow from like 4 steps away? Sounds like… And don’t take this the wrong way… Like a PUSSY thing to do, my dude.”
So Robin, who is mostly a brutish outlaw but not that dumb, realizes that if he shoots the guy here, his reputation will go to hell. You can’t have that, since PR is pretty important when you are ambiguously good. Or maybe he just didn’t like getting called a pussy. Probably the latter, the thing is, Robin says “FINE MOM” and puts the bow down, head back to his side of the log bridge, outright jumps in the shrubbery, and produces this big ass stick, since oak was aplenty in that forest and, if you have had a full and colorful childhood like me, you know oak branches hurt like a fornicators of female parental figures when used as bludgeoning utensils. The huge man, whose name was John Little, headed back to his own side of the bridge and also produced a big ass stick of his own.
Now, I want to make a very important pause here: Robin headed back. His whole purpose of prodding this giant’s ribs was because he didn’t want to head back. But he did. To accomplish his purpose of not heading back, he headed back. To fulfill his mission, he failed the mission. Do you see what I am trying to say here? MYTHOLOGY. Now, John had the perfect opportunity to, y’know, cross while Robin was playing Twister with the bushes to find his stick. John, instead, went and fetched his own stick. Why? Because John sure as hell won’t pass the luxurious opportunity to beat a tiny man to death with a club. Bottomline: Everyone in 1400s England was a dangerous psychopath.
So they are READY to play American Gladiators on nature’s own tightrope, and the showdown BEGINS. And by “BEGINS” I mean “ENDS IMMEDIATELY” because it takes John “The Undertaker” Little like 4 seconds to straight up fracture Robin Hood’s skull with his 7 feet tall muscles and send him right into the river and almost the afterlife. So John’s feeling pretty good about himself when Robin resurfaces, smiling. “What the wtf are you laughing about, mate, I CRACKED YOUR SKULL open, that’s usually not very funny for the recipient” and Robin is just like slapping his knee with childlike glee, looking up at the man. “Aw man, see, you just bashed my skull in, so there’s sixty-odd VERY PISSED outlaws in that forest right there just waiting for me to give the signal to eradicate you from this world to the atomic level by sheer number of arrows that are about to hit every part of your existence.”
John’s no longer too pleased about himself.
One of the Murderous Merry Men shouted at that point. “HEY BRO SO DO WE ATOMIZE HIM NOW OR WHEN HE STARTS RUNNING”. But Robin, see, part of Robin’s romance is that he is an unpredictable swashbuckler. “NEITHER, MY FRIEND” he yells back, and faces the uncomfortable Huge Little.
“Hey man, I love men that can give me concussions. I’m Robin Hood, those are my bandits, we get drunk and then we rob people on the roads, wanna come and beat the crap out of people with me?”
And John’s like “YOU DON’T HAVE TO ASK TWICE”
So Robin, the creative psychopath, looked at him and christened John Little as Little John, reborn as a concussion-making machine, outlaw, and friend. Afterwards, it turns out John is also ridiculously good with the bow and arrow, around Robin’s level. Thus a beautiful bromance (and I kid not when I say there’s tons of subtext) is born.
The real moral of this story is to remind us of how human nature works: If someone can fracture your skull, you probably want them on your side. See: Gilgamesh and Enkidu, Robin Hood and Little John, Gawain and Lancelot, Goku and Piccolo, etc.
“We have our ups, and we have our downs, especially. But that’s okay. We live in a weird fucking world these days, and I think if we can write music that’s from our hearts for you, it doesn’t matter if they’re worldwide hits, that’s for sure. We don’t give a damn. As long as it means something to every single one of you guys, that’s all we care about”