1. the past few days have been bad.

    I woke up even more exhausted today and couldn’t get ready in time.

    Monday we fought. I screamed and I punched the wall and I slammed his pillow on the wall because I was so angry. I mean yeah he is contributing the lion’s share towards the house, but seeing what we should have done isn’t going to change anything now. It just made me feel guilty and that made me angry.

    Yesterday I tried so hard at work. So f****** hard. I’m trying to be more efficient and not waste time but it came around to bite me in the afternoon— I just felt really tired and I got tired and confused again. I messed it up again. It’s not the messing up it’s the doing it again and again and again and wanted to die because I’m a failure.

    This morning I woke up too early and I knew—I knew I was going to be exhausted again. I was right.

    I got dressed and I ran out the door and they were pulling away as I waved.

    Now I’m going back to sleep for a little while—it’s not quite 7—and then maybe I’ll feel better.

  2. milk-paws:

    Middle of the night WIP. Only go to bed when your eyes cross.

    (via scientificillustration)


  3. bisexual-books:


    When people say things like “are you gay or are you JUST bi?” or “she has to be AT LEAST bisexual” they are proving that they do not view bisexuality as a complete and full orientation. We’re seen as meeting a “minimum requirement.”…

  4. laclefdescoeurs:

    Les Gorges du Bout du Monde (Paysage d’Auvergne), 1830, Théodore Rousseau

    (via thedruidsteaparty)

  5. blackhistoryalbum:


    —- A group of African American college drama students in full makeup and costume during a dress rehearsal for Shakespeare’s Romeo & Juliet. Howard University, Washington DC, 1930s. Addison Scurlock (1883-1964), photographer.

    (via thegeekyblonde)

  6. aseaofquotes:

    Emily St. John Mandel, Station Eleven

    (via neoliberalismkills)


  7. spaceprincex:

    Unfollow me if you make fun of trans people’s pronouns or their identity

    (via neoliberalismkills)

  8. Mythology - Lofn

    (Source: redcigar, via satansbarbiexoxo)

  9. brynja-storm:




    this gives me life and inspires me to step up my lipstick game

    Are you actually trying to tell me that a killer shade of red lipstick ISN’T witchcraft?

    (via answersfromvanaheim)

  10. wildwesjames:

    Well I did  it….

    I caught a snake in Seattle in late October. 

    I don’t know how or why but I managed to catch a northwestern gartersnake (Thamnophis ordinoides) hiding under the first rock I flipped on the way back to the car. I thought, “Well, we’re leaving now, might as well flip one.”

    I’m very happy that I did because I have never seen one (being from the east coast) and it was awesome to see my first west coast snake!


  11. smitethepatriarchy:



    self diagnosing is so hard because everytime you’re like “maybe I am mentally ill” theres also a big part of you going “nah you’re probably just a naturally lazy/nasty/disgusting/useless person trying to find an excuse for your behavior” because of the institutionalized ableism that runs through everything

    So go to the doctor and get an actual diagnosis?

    Why don’t poor people just buy more money?

    (Source: klinkingchains, via oceanic-i-r-i-desence)


  12. "


    “Your name is Tasbeeh. Don’t let them call you by anything else.”

    My mother speaks to me in Arabic; the command sounds more forceful in her mother tongue, a Libyan dialect that is all sharp edges and hard, guttural sounds. I am seven years old and it has never occurred to me to disobey my mother. Until twelve years old, I would believe God gave her the supernatural ability to tell when I’m lying.

    “Don’t let them give you an English nickname,” my mother insists once again, “I didn’t raise amreekan.”

    My mother spits out this last word with venom. Amreekan. Americans. It sounds like a curse coming out of her mouth. Eight years in this country and she’s still not convinced she lives here. She wears her headscarf tightly around her neck, wades across the school lawn in long, floor-skimming skirts. Eight years in this country and her tongue refuses to bend and soften for the English language. It embarrasses me, her heavy Arab tongue, wrapping itself so forcefully around the clumsy syllables of English, strangling them out of their meaning.

    But she is fierce and fearless. I have never heard her apologize to anyone. She will hold up long grocery lines checking and double-checking the receipt in case they’re trying to cheat us. My humiliation is heavy enough for the both of us. My English is not. Sometimes I step away, so people don’t know we’re together but my dark hair and skin betray me as a member of her tribe.

    On my first day of school, my mother presses a kiss to my cheek.

    “Your name is Tasbeeh,” she says again, like I’ve forgotten. “Tasbeeh.”


    Roll call is the worst part of my day. After a long list of Brittanys, Jonathans, Ashleys, and Yen-but-call-me-Jens, the teacher rests on my name in silence. She squints. She has never seen this combination of letters strung together in this order before. They are incomprehensible. What is this h doing at the end? Maybe it is a typo.


    “Tasbeeh,” I mutter, with my hand half up in the air. “Tasbeeh.”

    A pause.

    “Do you go by anything else?”

    “No,” I say. “Just Tasbeeh. Tas-beeh.”

    “Tazbee. All right. Alex?”

    She moves on before I can correct her. She said it wrong. She said it so wrong. I have never heard my name said so ugly before, like it’s a burden. Her entire face contorts as she says it, like she is expelling a distasteful thing from her mouth. She avoids saying it for the rest of the day, but she has already baptized me with this new name. It is the name everyone knows me by, now, for the next six years I am in elementary school. “Tazbee,” a name with no grace, no meaning, no history; it belongs in no language.

    “Tazbee,” says one of the students on the playground, later. “Like Tazmanian Devil?” Everyone laughs. I laugh too. It is funny, if you think about it.


    I do not correct anyone for years. One day, in third grade, a plane flies above our school.

    “Your dad up there, Bin Laden?” The voice comes from behind. It is dripping in derision.

    “My name is Tazbee,” I say. I said it in this heavy English accent, so he may know who I am. I am American. But when I turn around they are gone.


    I go to middle school far, far away. It is a 30-minute drive from our house. It’s a beautiful set of buildings located a few blocks off the beach. I have never in my life seen so many blond people, so many colored irises. This is a school full of Ashtons and Penelopes, Patricks and Sophias. Beautiful names that belong to beautiful faces. The kind of names that promise a lifetime of social triumph.

    I am one of two headscarved girls at this new school. We are assigned the same gym class. We are the only ones in sweatpants and long-sleeved undershirts. We are both dreading roll call. When the gym teacher pauses at my name, I am already red with humiliation.

    “How do I say your name?” she asks.

    “Tazbee,” I say.

    “Can I just call you Tess?”

    I want to say yes. Call me Tess. But my mother will know, somehow. She will see it written in my eyes. God will whisper it in her ear. Her disappointment will overwhelm me.

    “No,” I say, “Please call me Tazbee.”

    I don’t hear her say it for the rest of the year.


    My history teacher calls me Tashbah for the entire year. It does not matter how often I correct her, she reverts to that misshapen sneeze of a word. It is the ugliest conglomeration of sounds I have ever heard.

    When my mother comes to parents’ night, she corrects her angrily, “Tasbeeh. Her name is Tasbeeh.” My history teacher grimaces. I want the world to swallow me up.


    My college professors don’t even bother. I will only know them for a few months of the year. They smother my name in their mouths. It is a hindrance for their tongues. They hand me papers silently. One of them mumbles it unintelligibly whenever he calls on my hand. Another just calls me “T.”

    My name is a burden. My name is a burden. My name is a burden. I am a burden.


    On the radio I hear a story about a tribe in some remote, rural place that has no name for the color blue. They do not know what the color blue is. It has no name so it does not exist. It does not exist because it has no name.


    At the start of a new semester, I walk into a math class. My teacher is blond and blue-eyed. I don’t remember his name. When he comes to mine on the roll call, he takes the requisite pause. I hold my breath.

    “How do I pronounce your name?” he asks.

    I say, “Just call me Tess.”

    “Is that how it’s pronounced?”

    I say, “No one’s ever been able to pronounce it.”

    “That’s probably because they didn’t want to try,” he said. “What is your name?”

    When I say my name, it feels like redemption. I have never said it this way before. Tasbeeh. He repeats it back to me several times until he’s got it. It is difficult for his American tongue. His has none of the strength, none of the force of my mother’s. But he gets it, eventually, and it sounds beautiful. I have never heard it sound so beautiful. I have never felt so deserving of a name. My name feels like a crown.


    “Thank you for my name, mama.”


    When the barista asks me my name, sharpie poised above the coffee cup, I tell him: “My name is Tasbeeh. It’s a tough t clinging to a soft a, which melts into a silky ssss, which loosely hugs the b, and the rest of my name is a hard whisper — eeh. Tasbeeh. My name is Tasbeeh. Hold it in your mouth until it becomes a prayer. My name is a valuable undertaking. My name requires your rapt attention. Say my name in one swift note – Tasbeeeeeeeh – sand let the h heat your throat like cinnamon. Tasbeeh. My name is an endeavor. My name is a song. Tasbeeh. It means giving glory to God. Tasbeeh. Wrap your tongue around my name, unravel it with the music of your voice, and give God what he is due.”

    — Tasbeeh Herwees, The Names They Gave Me  (via libeeya)

    (Source: rabbrakha, via rexwhildchild)


  13. edens-blog:


    J.K Rowling said that her inspiration for Hagrid came from when she was 19  in a pub in the west country and this terrifying looking guy came in with these other biker guys and the only thing he talked to J.K about was how his cabbages were getting on

    he is REAL

    (via glorytotheglowcloud)


  14. archaeologicalnews:

    Another amazing discovery has surfaced on the Amphipolis dig, Greece. The missing head of the Sphinx “guarding” the tomb’s entrance was finally discovered inside the third chamber.

    The Sphinx’s head is intact, with minimal breakage on the nose. It has a height of 0.60m and it is assigned to…

  15. skepticalwitch:




    Greek Gods by DoroxDoro on Deviantart

    Oh my GODS look at these. Fucking look at them. Unfffffff



    (via answersfromvanaheim)