Lovely makeup
(via lesfemmes)
And so it goes...
Your awesome Tagline
Though no one would ever think of using the term honor violence (we reserve that descriptor for brown people who live somewhere else, motivated by religious something-or-other or tribal something-or-other), one-third of women murdered every year in the United States are killed by their intimate partners. In 2005 that amounted to 1,181 women, or three women every day. To put that in perspective, the UN estimates there are 5,000 honor killings every year in the entire world. 5,000 in a world of 6 billion versus nearly 1,200 in a single country of 300 million. In other words, a woman in America runs a greater risk of being killed by her husband or boyfriend than a woman in Pakistan.
A woman in America runs a greater risk of being killed by her husband or boyfriend than a woman in Pakistan.
How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love Feminists. (via popmuslim)
A woman in America runs a greater risk of being killed by her husband or boyfriend than a woman in Pakistan.
A woman in America runs a greater risk of being killed by her husband or boyfriend than a woman in Pakistan.
A woman in America runs a greater risk of being killed by her husband or boyfriend than a woman in Pakistan.
(via silverqueen)
Let me reiterate that for you all …
A woman in America runs a greater risk of being killed by her husband or boyfriend than a woman in Pakistan.
A woman in America runs a greater risk of being killed by her husband or boyfriend than a woman in Pakistan.
A woman in America runs a greater risk of being killed by her husband or boyfriend than a woman in Pakistan.
(via dank-potion)
I think you’ve missed a crutial point though, let me point it out:
A woman in America runs a greater risk of being killed by her husband or boyfriend than a woman in Pakistan.
A woman in America runs a greater risk of being killed by her husband or boyfriend than a woman in Pakistan.
A woman in America runs a greater risk of being killed by her husband or boyfriend than a woman in Pakistan.
(via themindislimitless)
perspective & perception…
(via newwavefeminism)
(via newwavefeminism)
Making my back feel good, and my body feel limber.
(Source: alexandradurbin, via fuckyeahyoga)
Zen
(via fuckyeahyoga)
Standing splits
(Source: whollyyoga)
I apologize for such graphic pictures, but I’m not sugarcoating this.
Today while I was working at the barn, I saw this dog on the way back from a ride. He stood up and walked very cautiously over to the horses, but he didn’t come very close. He didn’t bark or growl, he just stood there. I couldn’t leave him there, I had to go back and get him with my car.
I got out of my car and walked slowly up to him. He put his head down and came towards me without my calling or anything. He sat down next to me (I didn’t pet him because he clearly has bad mange) and wagged his tail. He looked at me with his pretty blue-green eyes full of hope and I think he knew he would be ok.
I called every nearby animal control number and the Houston Humane Society right down the road. I had to go through so many menu options before I finally left a message… None of them have called me back, about eight hours later.
I took matters into my own hands. I didn’t want to put him in my car because I transport my own dog, but I couldn’t just leave him. I figured there would be some way to sanitize my car so I gave in and called someone at the barn to help me get him in my car. He’s a small dog, but he has scabs all over his body and I wanted someone with gloves.
Anyways, I drove about five minutes to Houston Humane and the first thing the admissions lady told me is that they’ll hold him for three days and if no one claims him, they’ll put him down. Nope, that’s not gonna happen. I asked her where else I could take him and she gave me the number and address of BARC. I thanked her and got some gloves from her and loaded him back up in my car for the 45-minute drive to BARC.
They shuffled me around everywhere at BARC. I went through the door that said, “Entrance” and the guy made me go back through the “Exit” door. I know this doesn’t seem like much, but this puppy could hardly walk. He stumbled as if he were drunk and would occasionally just plop down. They determined he was too sick for him to be in the main building with all the other dogs, so I had to load him back up in my car and drive him to the rear entrance.
Some kind volunteers directed me to the vet building, and I waited in there for a vet tech for about 15 minutes. I sat next to him and talked to him. I told him over and over that he would be ok and I wouldn’t let anything happen to him. I told him he’s going to make an amazing pet someday and he’s in a safe place. I promised him.
The exhausted-looking vet tech came out, took my driver’s license (which they had already done at the front..) and entered me into “the system.” Then she came back over to me and the dog, whom I had named JoJo, and informed me of his fate. She said two very conflicting things and I’m still confused. First, she said that they’ll wait three days for someone to claim him, then have him evaluated by a vet and put him up for adoption if he’s not aggressive (which he clearly wasn’t). Good news, right? Then she said they’ll wait three days for someone to claim him and then euthanize him. I kept trying to clear this up with her and determine which one she meant because she wasn’t making sense, but I never got a clear answer. I’m pretty sure the answer is more towards the second option than the first.
Then I got mad. I asked her why the hell I took him there if they’re just going to kill him, just like they would’ve at Houston Humane. She shrugged and I said, “Ok well thanks,” and left with tears welling up.
I pretended to text on the way back to my car so the volunteers wouldn’t ask what was wrong. I got to my car and broke down crying for poor little JoJo. All I could think about was how amazing he’d be as someone’s dog and how I had promised him over and over that he’d be ok. I called Christy (the barn manager, we kept in contact the whole time so she knew what was going on) and told her the news and she got mad, too. She kept saying, “Why the hell do they call themselves a no-kill when they clearly do if the dog is the slightest bit sick? They’re not going to do ANYTHING for him?” My thoughts exactly.
I drove home crying and took a nice, hot shower. Christy had called me again while I was in the shower so I called her back and she had some good news for me. She knows a woman who brought a stray like JoJo into BARC, donated some money for his initial treatments, and then fostered him (and later ended up adopting him). Christy is actually offering to donate $250 to help him and she knows another woman who loves pitbulls and is already offering to foster him.
I’m not begging everyone to reblog this, though that would be appreciated. I’m not gonna hate you if you don’t. I won’t be mad if no one offers a little cash for his initial treatment. But it would make me and JoJo feel a lot better if you did.
We have until Thursday to figure all of this out. This dog needs a miracle, but Christy and I won’t stop until he gets his miracle.
P.S. To whoever did this to this dog - I sincerely hope you suffer equally as much as he did/does/will. I hope you find out how it feels to have someone give up on you, and that no one gives you a second chance. I know you’re out there because he has a collar and he’s neutered. It makes me sick to know that you exist.
Thank you for all you’re doing for JoJo. I truly hope there is a happy ending for this poor guy.
Fully just cried. Fuck.
(Source: extrawhippedcream, via rebeccabone)
Poverty is not simply having no money — it is isolation, vulnerability, humiliation and mistrust. It is not being able to differentiate between employers and exploiters and abusers. It is contempt for the simplistic illusion of meritocracy — the idea that what we get is what we work for. It is knowing that your mother, with her arthritic joints and her maddening insomnia and her post-traumatic stress disordered heart, goes to work until two in the morning waiting tables for less than minimum wage, or pushes a janitor’s cart and cleans the shit-filled toilets of polished professionals. It is entering a room full of people and seeing not only individual people, but violent systems and stark divisions. It is the violence of untreated mental illness exacerbated by the fact that reality, from some vantage points, really does resemble a psychotic nightmare. It is the violence of abuse and assault which is ignored or minimized by police officers, social services, and courts of law. Poverty is conflict. And for poor kids lucky enough to have the chance to “move up,” it is the conflict between remaining oppressed or collaborating with the oppressor.
(Source: docs.google.com, via newwavefeminism)
Men who want to flirt with women have to realize: Women live in a state of continual vigilance about sexual safety. It’s like having a mild case of hay fever that never goes away. It’s not debilitating. You’re not weak. You’re not afraid. You just suck it up and get on with your life. It’s nothing that’s going to stop you from making discoveries, or climbing mountains, or falling in love. Sometimes you can almost forget about it. It doesn’t mean it’s not there, subtly sucking your energy. You learn to avoid situations that make it worse and seek out conditions that make it better.
If a female stranger is wary around you, it is not because she suspects you are a rapist, or that all men are rapists. It’s because a general level of circumspection is what vigilance requires. Don’t take it personally.
If this frustrates you, try to remember that women are blamed for lapsed vigilance. If a woman does get raped, everyone rushes to see where she let her guard down. Was she drinking? Was she alone? Was she wearing a short skirt? Did she go to a strange man’s room for coffee at 4am?
A woman must be seen to be vigilant as well as be vigilant. If she is deemed insufficiently vigilant, she will be at least partly blamed for any sexual violence that befalls her. If she’s regarded as downright reckless, that “evidence” can be used to completely exonerate her rapist. If it comes down to a he said/she said dispute over whether sex was consensual, as so many rape cases do, the dispute becomes a referendum on whether the woman seems like the sort of reckless person who would have sex with a stranger.
If a woman does go back to a strange man’s hotel room at 4am, even if she only wants a coffee and conversation, she’s more or less given him the power to rape her. No jury is going to believe she went up there for anything but sex. So, don’t be surprised if a stranger reacts badly to that suggestion.
Attention, Space Cadets: Do Not Proposition Women in the Elevator
I wish I didn’t need to reblog stuff like this. I wish people *got it*. But judging from the ridiculous response to these posts, stuff like this clearly still needs to be repeated.
(via lavender-labia)
You’re either loose, (some young girls of color are just automatically marked “fast” as soon as their bodies develop) or a stuck up bitch.
Either way your sexuality, or how others want to decide what your sexuality is, is the main factor that determines how human others want to treat you…
(via newwavefeminism)(via newwavefeminism)
This wedding dress. Stylish, avant-garde and perfectly exquisite.
