20
dwam:
THIS !
thia person. you are amazing. kepp it up.Hi. These are some pictures of my butt that I’ve posted on my blog. I just wanted to clear some stuff up about them. I have stopped posting them in the past because I was dating someone who 1) didn’t want other people seeing my butt and 2) was embarrassed that I would post them.
Here’s the most basic way I can say what I’m thinking.
Here’s what these pictures DON’T mean:
- I want to have sex with you.
- I want your attention.
- I want sexual attention.
- I have issues with self esteem.
- I have no self-respect.
- I have “daddy issues”.
- I will have sex with you no matter who you are.
- I am unintelligent and vapid.
Here’s what these pictures DO mean:
- The human body is beautiful.
- I have a butt.
- It’s a good butt.
- I’m proud of it.
- Here’s a picture of it.
- That’s it.
- Nothing else.
- Just a butt.
Here’s what these pictures say about me:
- Nothing.
Here’s what pisses me off:
- People who think that showing your body equates to a lack of self-respect or says something about your sexual activity.
- People who think that this justifies receiving fucked up and creepy anonymous messages of harassment.
- People who think that seeing a picture of my butt says anything about my personality, my mind, my soul, etc.
- People who say they back up feminism and body positiveness, but if their girlfriend, or a girl they were interested in, posted a picture of their body on the internet they would suddenly “lose respect” for them.
- People who think naked bodies = sex.
- People who say things like “Do you think you’ll ever get a boyfriend if you’re posting those pictures?”, “I thought you weren’t posting those pictures anymore, haha.”, or “Why would someone date you when they can just look at your blog for those pictures?”
- People who say those things and then ask me to send them pictures of my body. Fuck you.
Here’s what (I think) you should do:
- Stop leaving hateful anonymous messages.
- Stop using words like “slut” and “whore”.
- Stop having double standards.
- Stop assuming things about people.
- Stop being hateful.
- Be kind, be gentle, be respectful.
- Keep scrolling down your dashboard.
- Keep your shitty thoughts to yourself.
- Love yourself.
That’s basically all I wanted to say for now, I’m sure I’ll end up thinking of more things but this has been a massive post about being body positive and loving the way you look and not letting shitty people get you down.
This this this this this. This is for Kellie Rhys, and myself, and any girl ever who posted a picture that was sexy, that they liked, that they looked at and thought, “Shit I look fucking good.” It isn’t for YOU. It’s for us. So go fuck yourself with that bag of dicks.
(via doomedodysseus77)
As a Muslim, I’m sick of people asking me how I feel about 9/11. What do you want me to say, seriously?
Do you want me to say, “It was a great plan, mwahahaha!” before I fly off on a magic carpet?
I was born and raised in this country and was just as shocked as everyone else to learn there were people on this earth so vile as to commit such a horrific attack - or to even think about doing it.
But I didn’t do it. Neither did 99.999999999 percent of the roughly 1.5 billion people in the world who also call themselves Muslims. So why should I or any other Muslim apologize for what happened?
Nickleback is planning on releasing another album. Should I ask white people to apologize for that?
”
Cedar couldn’t help but notice, even with crayola-colored hair, Mishka looked like she’d been made to sit on that seat in 1949, all she needed was a poodle skirt, but the large sunglasses she had on seemed to work, too. If she wrapped a scarf around her hair, she could be an alternative Jackie O.
All along the walls and overhead, paper plates were tacked and taped to the walls, with the daily specials magic-markered onto each one. When Mishka slid her glasses onto her head, holding back some of her hair, Cedar couldn’t help but notice a couple of different guys around the counter giving her the eye.
Her smile when the woman at the counter came over was hard not to appreciate.
She ordered the cornbread french toast; Cedar decided on the homemade hash breakfast. He didn’t want to blame the men for ogling her, but he did. He felt a little curl of resentment in his belly. Fighting the urge to lay claim to her with a possessive touch, he fiddled instead with the cup of coffee set in front of him. He wiped his face, cleared his throat. God he was tired. He hadn’t pulled an all-nighter since, well, maybe police academy, or even before that. Maybe he was fifteen or sixteen, back when he’d still take a night off to run crazy with his friends, build a bonfire in a field, drink some beer pilfered from parents’ fridges, maybe smoke some wacky tobaccy.
Instead of giving in to bad manners or exhaustion, he asked, “So what’s brought you to here, Mishka? To leaving everything.”
She put only sugar in her own mug. “Why did you decide to come along, Officer?”
