facebook does not appreciate me
it’s okay we appreciate you here
does nobody else see the ‘facebook’ pun here???
So, this half black/white kid got a tattoo of the Oreo barcode on his wrist
Why does it matter matter that this guy is mixed race!? You could of just written, “This kid”. Like his fucking skin colour matters! Cunt.
His bi-racial ethnicity is probably the point of the Oreo tattoo joke, cunt.
imagine this kid working as a cashier, and this one customer is pissing them off, so they just casually swipe their tattoo under the scanner, after every item, and later the customer is just like, I DONT REMEMBER BUYING FIFTY CASES OF OREOS. (via)
whenever someone asks me what tumblr is, i will show them this post
so i told this guy i was pansexual and he said “You like men and women therefore bi lol”
i kept saying i wasn’t bi, if i was bi i would’ve said that.
i sent him an explanation basically about gender-blind etc, and he said..
"Trannies are just weird tho" and then literally just said "I want to make babies with you :D"
i’m going to stab him repeatedly in the face and dick.
Look around your college classroom, spot the virgins.
See, this seems like a game until you skip over the girl with a short skirt and hair in front of her eyes because you heard last summer that she slept with like nineteen guys. You can’t see her hands, but they’re under the table, pulling a rosary through her fingers as she tries to wash the sin off her. She’s only ever kissed three people in her whole life and they’re all girls. She turned down the wrong guy and he told everyone she’s “a whore.” The label “slut” stuck to the bottom of her shoe and swallowed her up.
But that quiet girl who is always reading probably never touched someone else’s penis, you figure, because you don’t know that she goes home and strips down and pulls on tight black leather, you don’t know she’s got a set of whips that could make any set of knees quiver, you don’t know because she’s proud of what she does but she’s not stupid enough to let anyone know about it. She’s sexy, just not here, not where people judge.
See, the truth is: you have no idea who has lost their virginity, because it doesn’t change you. It doesn’t give you some kind of glow or superpower or stamp on your forehead. You know the feeling of waking up on your birthday and thinking “I don’t feel any older whatsoever”? That’s what maybe they’re all so afraid of you finding out: sex doesn’t change you. Sex doesn’t make you an animal, sex doesn’t suddenly make your relationship a million times more stable or intimate or romantic - it can’t fix what’s broken, although it can make the pain go away for a bit. Sex doesn’t really occur with eighty tea lights and a thick white rug. Sex is ugly and loud and frequently awkward, sex is excellent and breathtaking and when you wake up the next morning, you’re the exact same person. There’s not some magical connection with the person in bed beside you. Believe it or not, pregnancy isn’t some kind of punishment - but practice safe sex, get tested, don’t spread your germs around. They want to tell you, “Sex can ruin you” and I’ve heard that a lot as a little girl, that some boy would join me under my sheets and then dump me four days after, used, unhappy.
But I figured out that I’m not a fucking toy. Letting someone have sex with me is not letting them “use” me, because I’m not an object. My father said the issue lay in the fact “Men are insecure and need to know that they’re the best you ever had,” but I think that’s a steaming crock of absolute-wrong and if I didn’t tell the people I’m with how many others I’d slept beside, there would be literally no way for them to know my number, because I don’t rust, I don’t wear out, I don’t get bruised. I’m not a wilting fruit, I don’t go rotten.
But here’s the thing: some people connect sex and emotion. I don’t personally because I am probably secretly an ice storm in disguise, but I still respect my partner’s desires. If they’re the type to want love and sex to coincide, I let them. I don’t make fun, I don’t pull one-night-stands or friends-with-benefits, because it’s not their “reputation” I’m afraid for: it’s their heart I’m defending.
Here’s the thing: Instead of worrying about people’s “purity” and how it defines them as a person, worry instead about how you can protect other people’s emotions.
Because here’s the thing: look around your room and spot the virgins. Look harder. You can’t tell. Sex doesn’t alter people, it doesn’t make them act in a certain way nor dress in a certain manner. Sex and personality have nothing to do with each other. There’s a reason that virginity doesn’t show on someone’s face: because having sex doesn’t cause you to change.
The White Man March, a racist demonstration by a handful of white dudes in light khakis and sunglasses, went off with a whimper last month, failing to attract even a sliver of the turnout organizers hoped for. Now they’re apparently following it up by targeting a new audience: Kids hunting Easter eggs.
Anonymous asked: I am strongly contemplating suicide. I'll just stay home tomorrow and do it. I've tied up the noose and everything already.
Anon. I’m going to share something personal with you today. And with all of tumblr, too.
Do you see this photo?
This is one of the few photos I have left of my mother and I. And the only one that’s digital, too.
I was about four years old in that photo. Shortly after that photo was taken, I was placed into foster care because of my mother’s mental conditions and her inability to care for me. Which was fine, it was the right thing to do.
She was taken overseas to a very good mental health clinic in Paris, which is where we came from.
My mother had a lot of problems. Among them were her multiple personality disorder and her bipolar. She stayed in hospital for most of my life, and battled depression and her suicidal tendencies. She went through a lot, including electro-shock therapy. Nothing seemed to help. She was a very lost and very hurt woman.
And one day, on Mother’s Day of 2008, my foster parents received a phone call at about 1am from the mental hospital my mother was staying in.
My mother had hung herself in the shower of her bathroom. Her mental illnesses, her lack of access to me and the things she’d suffered through her life had snapped her. And she was gone.
I was thirteen years old. Nobody told me until the sun had risen. I left my room, ready for school. And then I was sat down, and I was told.
And I was numb.
I felt nothing, for months. Months, and months, and months.
I was a very good student at school. I got distinctions, and straight A’s. And all of that kind of just… stopped.
The full extent of my loss didn’t hit me until years later, when I was sixteen.
And it hasn’t stopped hurting since.
I miss my mother every day. I barely got to know her, but I knew she loved me. And I ache every time I see someone walk by with their parents, or a little girl with her mother. It’s even cost me several relationships. It hurts. I can’t take it. Can’t do it.
You know the kind of woman my mother was? Kind. Smart. Thoughtful. She was a painter, and a lover of music. We lived in Australia when I was growing up, but she always loved France. In fact, it was her name. I recall my foster mother’s comment when she met her for the first time when she came back to Australia to visit me. She said how talking to my mother was like talking to your best friend. One you hadn’t seen in years. The joy in her voice, her smile.
I can’t even remember what she sounds like anymore.
Suicide? I’ve wanted to do it. Several times. It’s been tempting. Pressure builds inside your chest, and you can’t cry anymore. You feel nothing and it’s clearly just logical to end it because there’s no point living in a void anymore.
You feel like there’s no one else out there for you. You’re alone, and nobody understands.
Anon, let me tell you.
I understand. I’ve seen both sides of this coin. Nobody wins.
I know what it’s like to want to not exist. I spend half my days pretending to be mechanical because being human and alive is just too much of a burden sometimes. But I also know what it feels like to be left behind.
After the loss of my mother, I lost three more people to suicide. One was my uncle, and two others were good friends. One of them was one of my best friend.
I don’t know who you are, Anon. But I’d like to.
I’d like to know who you are so I can stop you from feeling this way. You’re not alone. And if you are? I’ll be the first to open my arms to you.
Death is not an answer, nor by any means a door to something greater.
Death is for those who have finished in this life. We are not meant to go before our time, and especially not alone.
I’m nineteen now. If my mother were still alive, she’d be thirty-eight.
It’s too young.
You’re too young.
To you, anon, and to everyone else out there who’s ever felt this way.
Stop. Breathe. Think.
Come to me, if you have to.
Go to someone. Anyone. Please.
You’re so much more than a statistic.
You’re worth so much more than tears.
You mean so much more than every person who has ever stamped you into the ground. Called you names. Failed to accept you because you don’t fit into their criteria of human. Spurned you, or ignored you.
I know this pain. And I know what happens when that pain consumes you.
Please. Don’t go.
I don’t know you. But your life means something.
I promise it means something.
I am legitimately crying…
Please, Anon. LISTEN TO THIS.
Everyone who’s contemplating suicide listen to this.
Let me tell you something about today. Today was the hottest day of the year in New Jersey, I woke up sweating despite air conditioning because it was 95 degrees. Now, i did what any logical person would do and I put on my favorite pair of shorts so i wouldn’t be sweating throughout the day.
Even in my shorts i was sweating my balls off but I went through half of my day as normal, no boys stared at my ass or tried to grope me in public yet when i went to the the cafeteria a teacher told me to go to the office because he finds my shorts inappropriate. I head down to the office to find a group of girls wearing shorts and skirts sitting in a small room in the office, we where all ordered to call our parents or to change into the clothes they had offered us from the school store. These items of clothing included sweatpants and a large heavy sweatshirt. I obviously refused to where those because it was 95 degrees and when you are sweating the key to cool down is NOT to put on more clothes. They told me I would have to stay in that room the whole day if it came down to it.
I was able to leave the office when my friend gave me a pair of yoga pants. The man who made me go down to the office brought down several other girls as I was leaving, at this point they didn’t care how long the shorts where they just sent everyone who was wearing a pair down. They warned me that if I put my shorts back on they would right me up.
I put them back on anyway because just walking down the hallway in those yoga pants made me faint, dizzy,and extremely hot. Thats the main issue, it is hot enough for people to pass out in school but to the school system they would rather a girl suffer from a heat stroke then to have a boy become turned on. My shorts don’t say “COme fuck me in the middle of class” they say,”Its warm out”
The sexualizing of innocent students is not okay
Risking students health is not okay
and tHE LACK OF FEMINISM IN THE SCHOOL SYSTEM WILL NEVER BE OKAY
Today was literally horrible
I hate our school so much
I can’t reblog this enough omg
That’s because New Jersey sucks
Lmaooooo!!!!! I’m dien though.
lmmmaaaooooo I cannot deal nor breathe
my brother and i use to talk to my mom in lyrics and it would drive her crazy lol
lmaooooo dont kill me