where one of those is an old woman

Mind signal boosting me? I’m a 19 year old woman from Denmark who goes by the name of Mirka. I’m autistic and mentally ill (psychosis and depression) in ways that severely disable me, so I’m unable to work or study and I live in an open institution where’s there’s people around to help me out with all the things I need help to. On @psychotistic I blog about my everyday life as one those disabled, sick people who can’t fit into and adjust to society, answer whatever questions people might have and rant about what I’m up to - including but not limited to my pretty chaotic dating life. If you’re curious about life as an institutionalized disabled person, if you’re autistic or mentally ill yourself and want more people on your dash who can relate, if you’d simply like to follow more personal blogs or if you for any other reason think you might find me interesting, then you’re more than welcome to follow me. I’m on a constant quest for validation and attention and I’d really appreciate some new followers.

anonymous asked:

What if MC were a grandma

  • She’d be the type of old woman to have those hard candies in her purse at all times. Y’know the ones where the wrappers look like strawberries? And it seems like they’re reserved for only old people because they’re nowhere to be found in stores? Those.
  • Keeps sewing supplies in a cookie tin even if she doesn’t sew.
  • She makes herself out to be waaaaaaaaay older then she is. She’s always shouting things like “Oh, my hip!” even if her hip is fine.
  • She took one of the kid’s skateboards one day and just skated off with it.
  • “Back in my day,”
  • Takes her husband/ Jaehee to bingo every week. If she misses bingo, her s/o doesn’t hear the end of it for the rest of the week.
    • It’s a competition in the house to see who knows the most answers. She and her s/o (and the grand kids on occasion) spend too much time on google, learning useless shit.
  • For her 60th birthday, everyone goes bowling and she joins an old people bowling league.
  • She learns to knit just for the irony. Everyone gets scarves, sweaters, and blankets every birthday and Christmas.
  • Always loses her umbrella and buys new ones, so she owns like 20+ umbrellas.
  • She always says shit like “these damn kids with their new age hippity hop music,” but she’s actually super up with the times and is considered “cool” by many of the local high schoolers.
  • Whenever a new family moves in near them, she’ll either bring them cookies and welcome them to the neighborhood or wait until they come to her, dress in all black, and imply that she murdered her first three husbands and participates in witchcraft. The neighborhood has very mixed feelings about her. 

Some of us go back home to find what we lost. It can be a gruesome journey for many as returning always requires remembering what we have lost; what we must find and for some, it simply means rediscovering how leaving changed them. You realize you are changed in ways you cannot be held hostage again. You have unlearned so many indoctrinations and that can be difficult for those old friends and those who helped raise you to comprehend. You are different, you are not their ideal to the ones who scream that you have forsaken tradition. You are now yours to shape, to sharpen, to tell where and when it hurts without shrinking. Although it is liberating knowing you cannot go back into your innocent bubble, when you never questioned all you are told, realize now you know your voice. Your voice cannot be buried, you have become this woman whose feet they could not cut. The truth is it is very frightening, yes, you are now more yourself but know that once you choose this path, you will feel so alone in so many ways, but you must remember your mind can no longer be held hostage.

You are free and for you, a woman, this is powerful. Never forget this.

—  Love,
Ijeoma Umebinyuo
Ex-Libfem Story

On my old blog, I was a liberal feminist. I followed many trans women and I followed many trans activists.
A day before I re-made, I read a post. By a trans woman. About being being at a woman’s rally.
I thought, “Oh, this is okay,” as I was reading it, until I got to the part of the post, where he began describing what the actual women there were chanting. “Her body her choice, my body my choice.” Or something along those lines. Normal feminism stuff.
This man, this homophobic, sexist, misogynistic man, went into depth about how uncomfortable being around those women chanting. Said that it was “cissexist” language.
He spoke about how he felt so excluded by women being angry. Angry at the misogyny they face.
This is what trans activism is about. Poor weak men feeling excluded by women wanting a space to themselves. Poor weak men wanting to silence women and the issues that are faced.


gif isn’t mine.

It was one of those Sundays where you had nothing to do and decided to watch one of the movies that was on TV, some romantic novela was on and you decided to go with it. You had missed most of it already and wondered what it felt like being kissed like this, passionate and romantic but at the same time softly and protective. A sigh escaped your lips, it was kind of ridiciulous because you were a twenty four year old woman (or man! cuz why not!) and never had been kissed before, and neither did you kiss your boyfriend Joshua before as well, because you were afraid. Afraid of the fact that you weren’t a good kisser, obviously you were not because how? If you had like zero experience. 

You were ashamed of it, Josh respected it so far you didn’t want to, even including going further but since you’ve never even done that, it kinda was embarrassing but you simply wanted it to be special, you wanted to spare yourself for your man, the guy you once want to call your husband maybe, it was strange but you didn’t want to jump on each guy you meet immediately. The only person knowing about this was your best friend and even she made jokes about you from time to time. Your phone buzzed, it was a message from Josh, saying he’ll be home in a few minutes and you smiled immediately, it’s been a week or two since he was gone and today he would come back, finally.

Sitting wrapped up in blankets on the couch wearing your cat pyjama as you heard the door open you got up and ran into his arms. You could clearly fell his breathing in your neck, a familiar feeling you loved, the way his arms wrapped around you, his strong arms, you loved it. “I’m home.” He said wit ha slight chuckle and you joined in. “Yes. I missed you.” True words were exchanged. His forehead was against yours, knowing what he was trying you pulled back with an apologetic smile and saw how disappointed he was but you had no idea what to do about it, you were scared. “I’ve never been kissed before..” You admit shyly, feeling your cheeks heat up as you look from his eyes down to the ground. No idea whaat it was but you had the urge to tell him, even if it was the most embarrassing thing that could happen to a twenty four year old. Joshua’s hand went under your chin to pull your head up as gently as possible, smiling at you, even if it looked like he wasn’t taking you serious. 

“That’s it? That’s the reason you didn’t want to kiss me?” He asked you, grinning slightly but slowly pulled you closer. You nodded, not able to say something only feeling the heat in your cheeks grow. Josh chuckled and you only stood there, in your pj’s, hair up in a messy bun. His hand was resting on you cheek as he made you look at him. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of. I think it’s cute. I think it’s great that you actually didn’t take every guy..It should be special.” Towards the end his voice became nearly a whisper as you cold feel his breaht against your face, his lips slightly pecking yours. This touch of his, barely doing anything made you weak, his plush lips against yours as he pressed them fully onto yours. So far you never understood what others meant when they were talking about fireworks and sparks, and that warm, nuzzling feeling in your stomach when the person you loved kissed you. You had closed your eyes, not sure when but when you opened them, you could see a smiling Joshua in front of you, holding your face in both hands. 

There was a silence, not awkward but the one they always showed in movies, as if nothing bad could happen in that particular moment, just the two of you, your arms wrapped around him before you pressed your lips to his again, first slightly hesistanly but then deepened the kiss. It was better than you could imagine, even better than all those movie kisses you’ve seen and imgined doing with him but this one was everything you needed. “I love you.” You whispered against his lips, smiling brightly. “I love you to, Y/N. Now, how about those cheesy movies and a lazy Sunday?” He suggested and you only nodded.

Beards and DID

Last night I was lying in bed trying to sleep. As most of you know, it’s tough to sleep with PTSD, so almost every night I find myself scrolling Tumblr, playing candy crush, etc. I tossed and turned a bit until I gave in and opened my laptop. You know those little three minute videos that people repost on Facebook? Like the ones from Buzzfeed or Daily Inspirations and what not? Well there was an article about a girl that was diagnosed with PCOS (Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome) and her name is Harnaam Kaur.  For those that don’t know what that is, it’s a syndrome where cysts grow on your ovaries. They can cause you to lose your period, have daily cramps, gain weight, and grow hair in other places that just your armpits and legs. For most with PCOS, that means facial hair, chest hair, and sometimes back hair. Interesting, right?

So back to the article. Harnaam Kaur is a 24 year old British woman who is well known for her vibrant personality, body positivity, and her lush, brown beard. That’s right, her beard!! For a long time, she struggled with her confidence because of her facial hair, that one day, she decided to just grow it out. She’s been growing it out a while now, and her instagram has so many followers. I read her story last night and saw how happy she was in her skin. I thought, “Why can’t I be like that?” 

If you’ve been following my blog for however long, you’ll know that I’m diagnosed with Dissociative Identity Disorder. This isn’t easy for anyone I’d assume, because you struggle daily with forgetfulness, depression, brain chatter, and of course fitting in. It’s always so hard for us to fit in and find friends because I know that I’m going to get into a tussle with someone or something is going to hurt my feelings, and out comes Ghost, or Ashley. In worst cases, James will come out and there I would be, floating somewhere behind the projector in my head, watching his masculine mannerisms and hearing his deep voice. How do you think people around would look at him? People that have never even heard of my disorder? 

That’s what struck me though. Harnaam Kaur flaunts her beauty, the uniqueness of her facial hair and beautiful smile. I’m full of admiration because she dresses in beautiful blouses and floral dresses, and waltzes her way through life without giving a flying fuck. She says, “I have realized that this body is mine, I own it, I do not have any other body to live in, so I may as well love it unconditionally.” That’s the beauty of it, right? 

I was born in this body, and although this body and I have been through some very terrible times, I’ve been blessed with extraordinary people to share this body with. They’re not going anywhere, so I might as well love them for who they are and how they act. That includes when James sits with his legs apart and his arms back. Or when he walks into a room with his Chuck Taylors on and forgets to put on a bra. :’)

Basically, we should all be like Harnaam Kaur. No matter if you have PTSD, Depression, DID, Schizophrenia, PCOS, Dwarfism.. No matter if you’re Trans, Intersex, Gay, Lesbian.. We should all love ourselves no matter what, because this is the only body we will ever have. SO GO ON WITHA BAD SELF

I love everyone on here. You’ve all been so supportive of us. Thanks for reading this novel of a post.


@theuserboxfactory for these awesome userboxes, beeteedubb. 


All I wanted was the original pastel and graphite caricature of Fred Astaire. It was in an auction lot amongst “Fred Astaire” ephemera.

It will take me a week to sort through this stuff. Private photo album owned by an MGM photographer. Fred and Gene Kelly are in it. Cary Grant is serving drinks.

Everyone thought that Fred would marry dancer Barrie Chase, a lovely woman who seemed to bring Fred back alive after his wife died. The most famous photos of the two are the ones where Barrie is wearing those strappy Capezio dance flats. Kinda elegantly Roman looking.

I have one of them. Signed by Barrie Chase. Who wants it?

A Fred Astaire life mask?

Autographed copy of Fred’s bio Steps in Time–I’m keeping that one.

Lots of correspondence and studio photos.

Old Hollywood. In two boxes.


I don’t like most old romance comics because they reinforce the gross narrative that a woman needs to marry a man to be happy, whole, and human. I hate all those images of young women crying and obsessing over boys. 

But sometimes, when they try to consider things from the woman’s perspective, these old comics carve out little niches where they can air radically transgressive views. And when it happens it hits like a ton of bricks. 

Unfortunately — just like in the retrograde chauvinism of the Katharine Hepburn / Spencer Tracy films of the same era — these flashes of proto-feminist, pseudo-progressivism tend to be undermined, and the narrative always comes around again to reinforce male dominance and male pleasure.

(In the VERY NEXT PANEL after the one above, she “realizes” that her “self-pity” makes her “wanting in inner beauty,” so she starts changing her hair and make-up to try to get the guy to like her. The turnaround is THAT FAST.)

Still — how wonderful this strange power we have to rescue these isolated moments, plucking them from their oppressive context to examine the powerful notions clawing at the subtext.

Image from Campus Romances #1 (1949) by Walter Johnson

Also I’ve never understood this idea of Han being like this experienced ladies man? I mean right so he’s in his late twenties/early thirties and given the conditions he grows up in it can be pretty much assumed right off the bat that’s he’s not … unexperienced, but for goodness’ sake, we literally see him. Interact. With one. Woman. In the entire. Trilogy

And I don’t know about you but aside from his One Smooth Moment in the circuitry bay (gotta give credit where credit is due, man) nONE OF THOSE INTERACTIONS STRIKE ME AS REMOTELY SMOOTH/SUAVE? I mean look at this guy he’s such a NERD he deals with his massive crush on this tiny shining white goddess by calling her annoying nicknames and metaphorically poking her with a stick her and basically reverting to a twelve year old this is. This is the antithesis of experienced ladies man.

And I mean Leia’s not much better but really when is he ever suave and macho he’s like the galaxy’s BIGGEST NERD.

In an alley next to a half opened manhole stood a woman of about 5’6” in clothes that had a feel of another century. An old dusty faded red shawl with an old gray button up dress accompanied by matching gloves and scarf. She looked like she would fit in rather well in say the 1950’s but in the 2000’s she kinda just…Stuck out. Maybe she just liked old vintage things.

On closer inspection it could be seen that she wore thick black panty hoes that had holes here and there from where an tear along with one shoe, a gray flat. Now where did that other show go? And why was this woman standing so motionlessly in an alley near a manhole she could easily fall down into if not careful.

Much less this scenario gave off such a strange feeling, almost something you’d see in a horror movie or something along those lines. Now the question was, would someone over come the possibly unsettling feeling of a statue still like woman who seemed out of place who was also facing away and see what was up, or just leave that to what it was. Maybe she’d move eventually, and not be a zombie or something.

The worst thing about those articles defending Clinton from misogyny is that they’re focusing on those memes going around where someone writes in an uncool opinion for her rather than the actual misogyny which makes people think it is okay to call her ugly and a bitch and an old cunt. One of those is a lot more serious than the other. The memes are annoying jokes- but the pervasive insistence that men are allowed to call a woman all kinds of shit because they dislike her politics is indicative of a fundamental hatred a whole lot of men have for women. Why would you focus on silly jokes instead of the fact that ~leftist~ men choosing to make fun of her looks rather than her support for imperialism make that choice because at the end of the day, that’s more important to them?