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accras: childhoodruiner: Reblog for good luck 🙏 Happy Holidays...

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Reblog for good luck 🙏

Happy Holidays followers!

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17 hours ago
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lauramkaye: notallwerewolves: mirrormaskcamera: tanyaclose: Il...

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Illustration in Ladies Home Journal, June 1940

Tom Lovell

this looks like red has just this moment decided to murder grey’s husband

^ Accurate

Evie had always been such a happy girl. 

Josephine had never really understood it–the world had always seemed to her a serious place, disaster always lurking just around the corner. Perhaps it was because of the way she’d grown up, living hardscrabble with her mother and grandmother, her father having succumbed to the mustard gas in the war before she’d even made her appearance, leaving her with only her name and the color of her eyes to know him by. Perhaps it was just Evie’s sunny nature, that always looked for the best in people, that went through life with a song always on her lips.

Josephine had no sisters, and she didn’t have time for friends, but Evie had always been both to her. Both, and something more besides: something tender and precious, to be sheltered and preserved.

She’d had her misgivings, when Evie started walking out with the butcher’s son George. The old man was kind, true, but his son always seemed a little too eager with the cleavers, too pushy with the girls, too free with his hands.

Evie only saw the good in him. “He feels he has to put on a show with the other fellows, Jo,” she’d said, “but he always treats me nice. He wants to keep me like a fine lady, he says, all fancy like a jewel in a shop window. And he’ll have the shop, some day. He can keep a family. I think we can be happy together.”

It had hurt, somewhere inside behind her ribs, but Josephine had told herself she was being absurd. Of course Evie deserved it, the man and the shop and the family, all of it. 

She had looked tiny and delicate and lovely, standing up beside George in her wedding dress, her hair shining nearly silver where the light hit it. After, Josephine had watched them walk away together and told herself she was crying because she was happy.

She didn’t see Evie again for a while, but that wasn’t such a surprise; Evie was a new bride with a home to make, and besides, the old butcher’s health had started to fail. It was a surprise, then, when the knock came at her door one night after supper, and she opened it to find Evie on the other side.

Evie, but not Evie, not really; Evie with her lips turned down, no laughter in her eyes.

She said there wasn’t anything wrong. She was just a little lonely; George had to be out on business often, of an evening. 

“You can always come to me, darling,” Josephine told her, and a little light came back into Evie’s eyes.

“Good old Jo,” she said, her voice wistful. “How I have missed you.”

Life went on. Evie was tired, now. George was gone a lot, for the business, she said, and there was so much to do. “We just have to get established, Jo,” she said. “It’s been hard, with George’s father so ill, and the shop to run, but a few more years, he says, and we’ll have some space. He wants to buy me a house one day, have I told you? We’ll have room for you to come and stay, and we’ll all be so happy together.”

George’s father died, and the shop did a good business, but no more was said about buying a house.

It was several months later when it happened. Josephine was just starting her meal when the knocking started, frantic and light like the hammering of a bird on a window. When she opened the door, Evie nearly collapsed into her arms.

She looked a fright: shirt torn, face bruised and bloody. It took nearly an hour to get the story out of her, whispered between sobs that shook her thin body. Coming home early from visiting her mother. Finding George with another woman in their bed. The things he’d shouted at her, the horrible things; how she was ugly and cold, no kind of wife.

The way he’d backhanded her into the bureau. 

The precious, happy secret she’d been planning to tell him. The one that had her doubled over now, sick with fear. The baby.

Josephine shushed her, stroking her hair, letting her hide her poor face while she wept.

“Oh, darling,” she said. “My poor darling.”

When Evie had cried herself pliant, Josephine helped her into her own nightdress and put her to sleep in her own bed, with a sleeping tablet for peaceful dreams.

Then she put on her business clothes and went to pay a call.

She didn’t have many friends, but there were a lot of people who owed her favors. She had quite a line in the trading of secrets, in the opening and shutting of doors.

The next morning, the butcher’s boy was opening the shop alone.

“Where’s George?” Josephine asked him, while he packaged up a pound of sausages. Evie had always been fond of sausages.

“He had to go away on business,” the boy replied. “And Miss Evie, she’s off to her mother’s.” 

“Well, I wish them safe travels,” Josephine said, and went home to make Evie some breakfast.

The news came later that day. There had been a robbery. Terrible business. Everyone was so grieved for the young widow.

Josephine moved in above the shop to help out. Evie needed her, after all; she had the shop to deal with, and there would be the baby soon.

When the baby came, it was a little girl. Evie was white and weary, but the light was in her eyes again as she looked at Josephine over the little bundle.

“Isn’t she beautiful, Jo?” she said. “What shall we call her?”

“I’ve always liked the name Judith,” Josephine said, thinking of a cruel man, of a bright blade.

“Judith,” Evie said. “Yes, I like that.” She reached out a hand, and Josephine took it. 

“We’ll bring her up properly,” Josephine said.

“You won’t be leaving us, then, Jo? Surely you’ll want to find a husband some day.”

“I think we’ve had enough of husbands,” Josephine said. “We shall do very well with just us three.”

Evie smiled. “I’m so selfish,” she whispered. “I know I hadn’t ought to say, but I’m so glad, Jo, for you to stay with us.”

“So am I, darling,” Josephine said, gladness rising like a fire in her heart. “So am I.”

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inkskinned: Every day I handle more money than I will ever make. Every day. At the start of my...



Every day I handle more money than I will ever make. Every day.

At the start of my employment, my boss showed me videos of people stealing, and we both had a chuckle about it. How silly they were! There was a camera overhead, and it’s not to watch the shoppers. See, we can’t actually stop shoplifters. They get away with it maybe nine out of ten times. But we, who are watched and tallied and witnessed? We are always caught.

At first it was hard to hold one hundred dollars bills. An amount I had never seen before. An amount that didn’t exist in my household. It’s normal now. Here is something that is not for me.

“What the hell, I’ll take another,” says the man, pondering our 200 dollar watches. What the hell. Total comes to 580 and not even a flinch in his face. I have been working for 11 hours today and made only 110 dollars. It will go to my rent. Today I work for free, it feels. When I get my check, I will have 35 dollars left for food and saving.

The six hundreds he hands me go into the cash register. For a moment, I imagine having money. Then I put it away, counting out his change.

I know for a fact we sell our products for double what they are worth. That I could be making commission. That they could hand me those 580 dollars and change my life and not even mark the difference in their checkbooks. He’s not the only sale they make today, but I am the reason they made it. He’s not the only one spending 600 dollars, but if I hadn’t spent two hours with him telling me about his life, he wouldn’t have spent any. I go home. I don’t own a watch.

I have watched and rewatched a video on how to make salmon four ways. My shopping list is always the same. Pasta. Rice. Tuna. If I can afford butter it was a good week. I dream of the world I will never walk in, where I can throw the best fish fillet in the cart with a shrug. I hold hundreds in my hand and look up at the camera. I put them under the cash drawer.

I go to work. I scrap together my savings. I eat my bowl of rice slowly. My manager takes a paid week off from work just for his birthday. He owns a yacht. 

I’m not worth the cost of a watch.

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3 days ago
Overland Park, KS
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Why ‘female-presenting nipples’ matter

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When I was 10, my mom made me wear a bra and it felt like a punishment for being different.

When I was 10, I took the bra off when changing for gymnastics and accidentally dropped it in the school hallway. A teacher picked it up and said, “Oh, this must belong to you” and handed it back to me in front of everyone. I quit gymnastics.

When I was 11, I thought maybe the boobs would be okay so long as they didn’t get any bigger than would fit in my hand, so I kept measuring it, but they did.

When I was 12, I started wearing two or three sports bras to smush them down, until one day a classmate said, “Are you wearing two bras?!” while laughing.

When I was 13, a boy told me he wanted to squeeze my boobs “until they popped.”

When I was 14, I got cast in a play as an older character and a classmate told me I got the role because I had boobs.

When I was 17, my mom told me to return a swimsuit because it would be too distracting for my boyfriend’s father.

When I was 21, I got properly fitted for a bra and everyone felt the need to tell me how much better my boobs looked.

When I was 26, I got pregnant and my immediate fear was that my boobs would get bigger.

When I was 28, I got shamed for trying to feed my screaming baby in public without a cover.

When I was 28, people asked me “why are you bothering to use a breastfeeding cover?”

When I was 30, people gave me weird looks that I wasn’t yelling at my kid for putting their hand on my boob.

When I was 31, I avoided going to the beach or pool because I didn’t want to have to deal with boobs in a swimsuit.

When I was 32, I got asked, again, “why don’t you get a breast reduction?”

When I was 33, I watched a 5yo girl get shamed for running around in sweltering heat without a shirt on and had to reprimand a bunch of tween boys who thought it was okay to shame her for doing something they do all the time.

When I was 34, my kid kept patting my breast and saying “Mommy’s squishy breast!!” They will never see me express any shame about tits, because I want them to have a different mindset than I had. Yes, boobs are nice! They’re squishy! They’re fun! That’s the end of that.

I’m 35 and no longer give a fuck. I don’t care anymore. As a teenager my tits were covered in stretch marks. They’ve been engorged with milk. My nipple changed shape with pregnancy. Give it another couple decades and my breasts will probably be all wrinkly. It’s sexual when I’m using it sexually. I don’t fucking care, and I won’t be ashamed anymore. 

Every time a policy or cultural hangup treats people with breasts differently, it fucks us over. 

Tumblr’s new policy makes an active choice to participate in this culture of shame. By classifying “female-presenting nipples” as explicit material, Tumblr has taken a stance that any chest or breast that differs from a male default is worthy of shame and unavoidably sexual. The idea that breasts are shameful and unavoidably sexual is exactly what fucked me up for so much of my life.

Stop shaming people for having bodies. 

I’ve been seething in rage thinking of this all day and @aibidil put into words what was reeling in my mind.

Our bodies are not porn.

hey @staff

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3 days ago
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uglyorangecouch: “The need to feel safe, in particular, is often treated as childish and absurd—but...



“The need to feel safe, in particular, is often treated as childish and absurd—but only when coming from people who have actual reason to feel vulnerable. Asking to be recognized as your true gender? It’s all in your head. Asking for accommodations for illness and disability? You’re too sensitive. Recounting experiences of dehumanization because of your race or gender? What an overreaction. But those who want to make the country “safer” by securing the borders against people they perceive as outsiders are never painted as whiners or cowards. The police officers killing unarmed folks in a moment of panic are not mocked for failing to keep their feelings in check. When someone wants a deadly weapon, their desire to feel safe becomes a rugged and real and sexy conviction. The easiest way to ignore something is to call it an emotion, yet it’s also the easiest way to defend something if you’re the kind of person whose emotions are taken seriously.”

Stop Treating Emotions Like Character Flaws Of The Powerless
(via xpityx)

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3 days ago
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noodle-dragon: the-philosophers-bone: acabosetotal: harukami: ...

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Fuck I’m at a fencing tournament and literally a minute after I reblogged this my dad told me that he talked to the point people and I’m probably going to win a medal.



I need to follow up to say I reblogged this last night, and this morning I got some of the best news of my life, like, a life dream come true news thing.

Bagel what are your powers

FUCK, I though it was just another lucky meme but LISTEN. Since a week ago I was waiting a phone call to confirm me if I got a job or not in my university. I reblogged this yesterday’s night “just for fun and because I don’t want any bagel to be mad with me”, and today’s afternoon, while I was losing my time as always, the professor I was supposed to work with called me and asked me for my personal information to start working with her.



The bagel hasn’t let me down yet!

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5 days ago
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