Jun. 5th, 2017

rakasha: (Default)
via http://ift.tt/2sGn35H:
ambelle:

susiethemoderator:

reverseracism:

evphoricdreams:

munroesdream:

goldenbue:

bellaxiao:

Black women really are on another level 👑

👏👏👏👏👏👏

There is not one thing magical about this. She shouldn’t have to do this. Are y'all serious right now???? Like y'all should go read about how the father basically just shows up to sleep with her and she ends up pregnant again because she has a condition that makes her ovulate more than necessary and in turn her body rejects birth control and almost kills her. 😒 Quit calling black women that have to go through shit like this magical. Yes, she loves all her children, but the whole situation is stressful. Imagine the toll this takes on her body, and most of her kids hella young and can barely do for themselves. Stop calling these situations magical because she’s black and has no choice but to survive how she can with her kids, while the father does nothing.

^^^

I need a trustworthy gofundme for this woman. I’m going to look into this.

I need a way to support her MONETARILY, because using hand clap emojis to somehow applaud her for being hyper fertile and a man using her and leaving her isn’t cutting it. No.

Her GoFundMe: http://ift.tt/2sG3Kt6

She is only asking for 10k and so far she is at $1,000. I am definitely donating some money.

There are some heartless comments in the notes calling her irresponsible and careless. Those people have obviously not taken the few minutes to watch this heart wrenching video.

The GoFundMe Link: http://ift.tt/2sG3Kt6

Can everyone share this. I have no money to give rn.
rakasha: (Default)
via http://ift.tt/2rVkQH7:
raceofhearts:

fabusina:

thebibliosphere:

bibliotecaria-d:

-You always have ideas. When you open a document, they disappear.

-You have a file full of ideas. It is lost. You open all your files and find hints of ideas mixed in between the lines. None of them connect. You follow them forever, deeper into the folders, until you can’t remember what you were looking for anymore. You end up reading fanfic until 4 AM.

-You’re not a torturer by profession. It’s merely a hobby. The sadism is a natural skill.

-Your fingers and wrists hurt from typing when you’re on a roll. You swear you’re not a masochist, but it hurts so good.

-Readers accuse you of causing them pain. You say you’re sorry, but you’re not. You comfort them while not-so-subtly digging for what caused them the most harm, eager to repeat the trick.

-Your friends enable you and laugh at your yelling. When you blame them, they claim they didn’t do anything. They never do anything. You no longer remember who started it, only that you’re halfway through the fic and still writing.

-You have a WIP. You swear you’re going to finish it next. It’s always next. There’s always another fic that has to be written first.

-Anonymous messages are sent to you, asking you not to acknowledge them publically. You know if you answer they’ll disappear from your inbox. Tumblr has eaten the Ask. Was it ever there in the first place?

-Someone comments on your fic. You have no idea who they are, but their username looks familiar. Every username looks familiar. You think you know them. They know you. It’s flattering, but you can’t shake the feeling that you should be alarmed by your poor memory.

-You reblog a writing prompt meme. It’s the same meme you reblogged yesterday. There are symbols instead of numbers, and you hope people will find them more interesting and send you more prompts this time.

-Promoting your own work is okay. You tell yourself this as you reblog yesterday’s fic post, tensely waiting for a rebuke that never comes.

-People laugh at something you wrote. You can’t figure out what. When you ask, nobody responds. They never laughed in the first place. You’re not sure you wrote anything.

-The fic is 50 hours long and 7000 words long; no one cares. A 10 minute speedwrite is reblogged into eternity.

-The kudos stack up. They are a solid block of names. You can’t read who left them. When you blink and look again, only 10 Guests have left kudos.

-Your inbox is full. There’s a comment on your fic. It has been edited 17 times. Six more emails come in as you read the initial comment. The numbers in your inbox climb and climb. You can’t find what’s been changed in the comment, but you can’t stop obsessively comparing each message.

-This comment is a book report. Glee and fear fill you in equal amounts.

-Someone apologizes for leaving a comment on an old fic. You can’t find who started the absurd rumor that authors don’t like comments on old fics. You plan their murder anyway.

-You eye your old username and associated fics. You pray that no one ever finds them. You resist the urge to tell people where to look.

-The fic is finished. You are dead. You are sick of it. You’ve never been so tired in your life. You hate the world. You force yourself to post it, absolutely exhausted, and suddenly can’t sleep for refreshing your inbox.

-The words multiply. You can’t control them. They eat your brain and come out your eyes. When people try to talk to you, you speak in snatches of character dialogue and narrate unconnected events. They keep talking to you, encouraging you to say more. The words own you now.

-No one believes you when you say the story is writing itself. You stare in despair at the screen. Why won’t anyone help you?

-You’ve misspelled ‘the.’ Autocorrect is wonderful until it’s not.

-Sleep is for the weak. You dream you’re still writing.

-The fic is 50 hours long and 7000 words long; no one cares. A 10 minute speedwrite is reblogged into eternity.

Hahaha, ah it’s funny because it’s true. *eyetic* what do you mean there’s blood coming out of my nose? No, no I’m fine, go right ahead. Reblog the scone post again, I don’t mind.

-Someone apologizes for leaving a comment on an old fic. You can’t find who started the absurd rumor that authors don’t like comments on old fics. You plan their murder anyway.

GODS OWN TRUTH. Who told readers that there’s a statute of limitations on commenting? Why is apologizing for commenting so common? Who has abused these readers for sincerely expressing their appreciation and affection for fanwork?

@hedgiwithapen

@deadcatwithaflamethrower @funkzpiel
rakasha: (Default)
via http://ift.tt/2qWzIjC:
thepanthercave:

mike-peace:

artofthecatt:

oh snap

REBLOG.

FOREVER.

This is an actual Therapist Recommended method for dealing with a runaway “inner critic” and this comic is perfect ❤️
rakasha: (Default)
via http://ift.tt/2rL8r7R:
221b-hound:

allmannerofsomethings:

I Love You. Pass It On.

A message of love to pass on in a world that really needs it right now.

I have felt fractured by the recent terrorism and the anger, hatred, and fear that stems from it. I want to release a message of love. Love heals. Love brings hope. Love wins.

Reblog to share the love.

Thank you.

x

When humans show their ugly side, remember that we have this too. Love. The capacity to learn.  The willingness to reach out to each other.

I love you. Pass it on.
rakasha: (Default)
via http://ift.tt/2rtVbnw:
obianidalasuggestion:

Obi-wan and Anakin cuddling on a couch together. “I have to tell you a secret,” Obi-wan says, snuggling closer to whisper in Anakin’s ear: “I’m in love with your wife.”

“You know,” Anakin replies dryly, “I think I kind of figured that out when you married us, you ridiculous man.” He smiles and leans in to kiss his husband.

“Anakin.” Padme tells the younger man seriously as she perches on his lap. “I need to tell you something.” She leans forward. “I’m in love with your husband.”

Anakin nuzzles her ear. “Wanna know a secret?” He responds, grinning. “So am I.”
rakasha: (Default)
via http://ift.tt/2sLlBz2:
fuck-customers:

I remember one time a lady came through with a bunch of things obviously for a baby (essentials like diapers, food, etc.) I gave her her total and her face just fell, and she quietly said, “It can’t be that much, can it?” My heart just broke for this poor lady when I told her unfortunately it is, and she just sort of looked at the stuff with all her anxiety showing. 

The lady behind her kind of starts craning her head to see what was holding up the line, and I start watching her, fully prepared to speak up if she started getting snippy. But she tapped the lady on the shoulder and said, “Excuse me for asking, but do you not have enough to buy this for your child?” No judgement, no snippy tone, just a soft spoken question.

The lady looked at her with her eyes tearing up and just shook her head, obviously embarrassed but trying not to show it, and without another word the second lady turns to me and says, “It’ll be debit, please.” And proceeds to pay for the first lady’s things. (Keep in mind the total was well over a hundred; this was no small amount.)

The first lady stared at her open-mouthed for a minute before saying, “God bless you, God bless you,” over and over to this other lady, who was acting like it was no big deal and even helped the lady pack up her cart while I rang through her things. After the first lady left I said to her, “I’ve worked retail for two years and that was the nicest thing I’ve ever seen, ma'am.”

The lady just shrugged and said, “I’ve been lucky enough to be well off in my life. Not everyone is. Why shouldn’t I help them?”

I think of her whenever the opportunity to be kind to someone pops up. If only we had more people in the world like that angel. 

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