Latest Posts by englishjanitorfish-blog - Page 5

How LGBT in Russia are treated

In Russia, there are groups that purposely find “outed” LGBT people and groom them, make them think that they are more people who accept and love them.

They are not.

These people track down the person they have targeted and beat them.

They attack and brutally savage these people.

LGBT are often beaten to death during this. Some are shot execution-style.

Nobody stands up. Not even authority. The groups that do this get away with it. Barely ever are they charged.

These people commit MURDER and get away with it.

The POLICE are involved in these groups. People who are there to protect you and help you are threatening you with injury and death.

I unfortunately know of these fucking hateful and disgusting acts because my brother was murdered by one of these bastards.

Beaten to death and left in public, in a humiliating pose which makes me sick to this day.

I was five when I heard he died. Imagine that, you’re told your sibling is dead, and you’ll never see them again. At five.

Imagine your brother being the only support you had, because you also liked boys, and didnt understand it. And hes gone. You also have to worry about that happening to you.

Imagine thinking nobody in your country likes you, they want you to die.

Yeah, thats LGBT Russians.

Vladimir Putin, you horrible, bastard of a man. Get your country together and solve this bullshit.

*everything* that’s considered romantic has been conditioned by society, it’s performative, like the emotion can be genuine but romantic *gestures* are a societal construct, chocolates, flowers, rings, there’s no inherent act of romance, the purest form of what is conceptualized as “romance” can probably be boiled down to emotion + intent, and the manifestation of that combo’s gonna be different for everyone

an action evoked from a feeling of adoration and the need to express it can be constrained by what society provides, but once it’s made irrelevant the meaning becomes tailored to those experiencing it; someone giving fancy chocolates to their s.o. because it’s ‘the thing to do’ can’t measure up to someone giving the chocolates because they know their s.o. thinks the boxes are nice and really likes hazelnut fillings, same gesture, but former lacks ‘inherent’ romance because romance isn’t ‘inherent’, the later has a standard approach but it goes beyond what’s considered ‘romantic’

Sometimes the customer is wrong for unrelated reasons.

Due to the well of my friends’ “def not an axe murderer” date recommendations drying up, I have turned to that most sacred of modern relationship institutions: online dating. As a very busy person trying to get it in with other very busy people, I prize honestly and directness above all else when it comes to profile creation. I include full body shots in my photos, try to minimize the use of MySpace angles in selfies, and write at the very top of the summary/caption/profile that I am fat. Not “curvy,” not “thick,” not “lots to love”–I’m f*cking fat. I’m not ashamed of it, but I also known that weight is a dealbreaker for lots of people. I don’t want to waste anyone’s time.

About a year ago I met “Evan” via Tinder. We exchanged friendly messages for a few hours one night and agreed to meet up for drinks the following evening. I waited for a full hour past the designated time, and just as I was getting up to leave, the texts started rolling in.

“I can see you sweating from here.” “How long does it take you to roll out of bed every morning?” “Is there an earthquake or are you just getting up for more pretzels?”

Really idiotic, juvenile shit. Four separate numbers, commenting on things like my clothes, which clued me in that the senders were nearby. This went on for 15 minutes before I finally saw Evan, trying to hide in at a corner table and giggling with a group of buddies. I made eye contact, saw that he saw me, and then walked out. The texts kept up until I blocked the numbers a few hours later.

I ran into Evan about 3 weeks later. We got on the same elevator, and he tried really hard at being super interested in the emergency phone instructions. I just confronted him, and he admitted it was just some “game” that him and his friends play. He knew I was fat before agreeing to meet up; they all did, because that’s what they do. Match up with fat women, then either ghost them or “troll” them at the meet-up. It was also kinda obvious he’d never seen any consequences from this bullshit, as he was sweating pretty hard and looked more humiliated than I felt. I just said whatever and walked out, expecting to never see him again.

About a month ago, some local foodie wrote a great review of the restaurant I own, and we’ve been slammed ever since. In the past, I stayed mostly in the kitchen, but I’ve been doing more and more front-of-house stuff lately, and Valentine’s Day I was working a bit of a split between the two.

I saw Evan just as he was pushing in his date’s chair. My name isn’t on the restaurant, and he didn’t see me. I checked the section up at the hostess stand and saw that one of my favorite old-timers, Nan, was going to be his waitress. I went to the bar till, took out $400, put it in her hands, and said, “This is going to be your only table for the rest of the night. You are going to make this the worst date he has ever been on.”

She spilled every single thing she brought out to the table, all over him. I was waiting for him to blow up on Nan, but he bottled it up, obviously trying to make a good impression on his date. She seemed like a perfectly lovely lady; I told Nan to make sure everything was good for her and terrible for Evan.

She poured ice water on his d*ck. She smacked the back of his head with the edge of a tray. Spilled soup on his shirt. Dropped every fork he asked for. I personally oversalted his food, used the shit liquor for his drinks, used flour instead of sugar on his dessert. To be honest, I don’t know why he didn’t just walk out. He must have really wanted to f*ck this woman.

Finally, he cracked. Demanded Nan find the manager and bring her out. I was only too happy to emerge from the kitchen with my chef’s coat and say what, I’m not ashamed to admit, I’d been planning out all night.

“I would have said hi earlier, but I didn’t want the earthquake to disturb your dinner.”

I will savor the look on Evan’s face for the rest of my life.

He was a little too flummoxed to explain, so I pulled a chair up to the table and introduced myself to his date, Amanda. Told her how I met Evan. Showed her some fun old messages. Then I told gave her a voucher for a free meal on her next visit and told Evan to get the f*ck out and never come back.

He deleted his Tinder profile.

I like how when your taliking with your friends about insecurities and you just wanna:

“You bitches got nothing to my despair”

It’s not me. It’s just my heart racing faster by the second to the sound of your voice, my name sailing calmly on your tongue; no big deal. It’s not me. It’s just my mind occupied with the soft curvature of your smile, the desperation of wanting to taste your lips; no big deal. It’s not me. It’s just my bones trembling to the thoughts of your fingertips on my skin, exploring places I never knew existed; no big deal. It’s not me. It’s just my longing, my yearning, my love for you. But this is not a big deal to you.

Dear Men Writers

Lesser known facts when writing women:

High heeled shoes don’t become flats if you break the heels off.

The posts of earrings aren’t sharp.

Nail polish takes a long time to dry and smudges when wet.

You can’t hold in a period like pee.

Inserting a tampon is not arousing or sexual in any way, ever.

Feel free to add your own.

everytime I hear about children of the corn I think about the guy I met at comic con who actually lived in the town they filmed that movie at, and on the farm where they filmed in the corn. he was a teenager at the time and him and his friends would get drunk on moonshine and rustle the corn and let the air out of the tires of the production team’s trailers and shit. and now there’s Wikipedia pages about how the children of the corn set was haunted and they thought they angered god but it was really just drunk hillbillies

Lago di Como. Italy

tony thornburg

Sometimes I’m disappointed in my family because we’re pretty boring or sometimes not because once my grandma once bit a bullie’s chest off and got them expelled

I ran home and drew this on my lunchbreak because I felt like my world would explode if I didn’t. Thanks, Carrie Fisher, for teaching me that girls like us can be princesses, generals, or whatever we want to be. #RIPCarrie

7 Tips for Being Braver

1. Remind yourself that feel scared is very normal! Peace and bravery exist alongside fear. So don’t be afraid of your feelings of fear.

2. Make the decision to act despite your feelings. Don’t allow them to control you, or hold you back in life.

3. Accept your limitations; they are areas of growth. You’ll get there step by step. So be patient while you change.

4. Set aside the opinions and the judgments of others. Go after what you want, and who you want to be in life.

5. Learn all you can about the scary situation. That will help you to prepare, and develop to skills you’ll need.

6. Remind yourself of the all times when you’ve stepped out in the past, and have taken a real risk – and that paid off in the end. Allow that to inspire you, and to reinforce your courage.

7. It’s ok to ask for help, and support, from other people. So ask for help if you needed; we all need encouragement.

reblogging because i like fish

What The FLuffy fudge?!

fucks sake

What episode is this?!

It’s the only solution! 👰

I am not afraid of storms for I am learning how to sail my ship.

Louisa May Alcott

tiny little cinnamon roll!

who wrote this book ?

when u catch urself thinking wistfully about dating and being in love and being c*ddled and how nice that would be

nicknames/mottos (a more truthful version): countries

She out here calmly collecting their asses one by one with ease.

writing-prompt-s:

Valhalla does not discriminate against the kind of fight you lost. Did you lose the battle with cancer? Maybe you died in a fist fight. Even facing addiction. After taking a deep drink from his flagon, Odin slams his cup down and asks for the glorious tale of your demise!

Oh my god, this is beautiful.

A small child enters Valhalla. The battle they lost was “hiding from an alcoholic father.” Odin sees the flinch when he slams the cup and refrains from doing it again. He hears the child’s pain; no glorious battle this, but one of fear and wretched survival.

He invites the child to sit with him, offers the choicest mead and instructs his men to bring a sword and shield, a bow and arrow, of the very best materials and appropriate size. “Here,” he says, “you will find no man who dares to harm you. But so you will know your own strength, and be happy all your days in Valhalla, I will teach you to use these weapons.”

The sad day comes when another child enters the hall. Odin does not slam his cup; he simply beams with pride as the first child approaches the newcomer, and holds out her bow and quiver, and says “nobody here will hurt you. Everyone will be so proud you did your best, and I’ll teach you to use these, so you always know how strong you are.”

————

A young man enters the hall. He hesitates when Odin asks his story, but at long last, it ekes out: skinheads after the Pride parade. His partner got into a building and called for help. The police took a little longer than perhaps they really needed to, and two of those selfsame skinheads are in the hospital now with broken bones that need setting, but six against one is no fair match. The fear in his face is obvious: here, among men large enough to break him in two, will he face an eternity of torment for the man he left behind?

Odin rumbles with anger. Curses the low worms who brought this man to his table, and regales him with tales of Loki so to show him his own welcome. “A day will come, my friend, when you seek to be reunited, and so you shall,” Odin tells him. “To request the aid of your comrades in battle is no shameful thing.”

———-

A woman in pink sits near the head of the table. She’s very nearly skin and bones, and has no hair. This will not last; health returns in Valhalla, and joy, and light, and merrymaking. But now her soul remembers the battle of her life, and it must heal.

Odin asks.

And asks again.

And the words pour out like poisoned water, things she couldn’t tell her husband or children. The pain of chemotherapy. The agony of a mastectomy, the pain still deeper of “we found a tumor in your lymph nodes. I’m so sorry.” And at last, the tortured question: what is left of her?

Odin raises his flagon high. “What is left of you, fair warrior queen, is a spirit bright as fire; a will as strong as any forged iron; a life as great as any sea. Your battle was hard-fought, and lost in the glory only such furor can bring, and now the pain and fight are behind you.“

In the months to come, she becomes a scop of the hall–no demotion, but simple choice. She tells the stories of the great healers, Agnes and Tanya, who fought alongside her and thousands of others, who turn from no battle in the belief that one day, one day, the war may be won; the warriors Jessie and Mabel and Jeri and Monique, still battling on; the queens and soldiers and great women of yore.

The day comes when she calls a familiar name, and another small, scarred woman, eyes sunken and dark, limbs frail, curly black hair shaved close to her head, looks up and sees her across the hall. Odin descends from his throne, a tall and foaming goblet in his hands, and stuns the hall entire into silence as he kneels before the newcomer and holds up the goblet between her small dark hands and bids her to drink.

“All-Father!” the feasting multitudes cry. “What brings great Odin, Spear-Shaker, Ancient One, Wand-Bearer, Teacher of Gods, to his knees for this lone waif?”

He waves them off with a hand.

“This woman, LaTeesha, Destroyer of Cancer, from whom the great tumors fly in fear, has fought that greatest battle,” he says, his voice rolling across the hall. “She has fought not another body, but her own; traded blows not with other limbs but with her own flesh; has allowed herself to be pierced with needles and scored with knives, taken poison into her very veins to defeat this enemy, and at long last it is time for her to put her weapons down. Do you think for a moment this fight is less glorious for being in silence, her deeds the less for having been aided by others who provided her weapons? She has a place in this great hall; indeed, the highest place.”

And the children perform feats of archery for the entertainment of all, and the women sing as the young man who still awaits his beloved plays a lute–which, after all, is not so different from the guitar he once used to break a man’s face in that great final fight.

Valhalla is a place of joy, of glory, of great feasting and merrymaking.

And it is a place for the soul and mind to heal.

i’m going to reblog this everyday

My cute little front ensemble plays the Gravity Falls theme. :’) (ignore the weird blur in the beginning)

This is perfect!

Climbing skeletons make one creepy halloween decoration!