Japanese shironuri artist Minori on the street in Harajuku with a vintage and handmade look features faux fur collar & attached tassel scarf, blue top, lace up platform boots & a small cat. Full Look & Minori’s World Documentary
When I was seventeen and preparing to leave for university, my mother’s only brother saw fit to give me some advice.
“Just don’t be an idiot, kid,” he told me, “and don’t ever forget that boys and girls can never just be friends.”
I laughed and answered, “I’m not too worried. And I don’t really think all guys are like that.”
When I was eighteen and the third annual advent of the common cold was rolling through residence like a pestilent fog, a friend texted me asking if there was anything he could do to help.
I told him that if he could bring me up some vitamin water that would be great, if it wasn’t too much trouble.
That semester I learned that human skin cells replace themselves every three to five weeks. I hoped that in a month, maybe I’d stop feeling the echoes of his touch; maybe my new skin would feel cleaner.
It didn’t. But I stood by what I said. Not all guys are like that.
When I was nineteen and my roommate decided the only way to celebrate the end of midterms was to get wasted at a club, I humoured her.
Four drinks, countless leers and five hands up my skirt later, I informed her I was ready to leave.
“I get why you’re upset,” she told me on the walk home, “but you have to tolerate that sort of thing if you want to have any fun. And really, not all guys are like that.”
(Age nineteen also saw me propositioned for casual sex by no fewer than three different male friends, and while I still believe that guys and girls can indeed be just friends, I was beginning to see my uncle’s point.)
When I was twenty and a stranger that started chatting to me in my usual cafe asked if he could walk with me (since we were going the same way and all), I accepted.
Before we’d even made it three blocks he was pulling me into an alleyway and trying to put his hands up my shirt. “You were staring,” he laughed when I asked what the fuck he was doing (I wasn’t), “I’m just taking pity.”
But not all guys are like that.
I am twenty one and a few days ago a friend and I were walking down the street. A car drove by with the windows down, and a young man stuck his head out and whistled as they passed. I ignored it, carrying on with the conversation.
My friend did not. “Did you know those people?” He asked.
“Not at all,” I answered.
Later when we sat down to eat he got this thoughtful look on his face. When I asked what was wrong he said, “You know not all guys do that kind of thing, right? We’re not all like that.”
As if he were imparting some great profound truth I’d never realized before. My entire life has been turned around, because now I’ve been enlightened: not all guys are like that.
No. Not all guys are. But enough are. Enough that I am uncomfortable when a man sits next to me on the bus. Enough that I will cross to the other side of the street if I see a pack of guys coming my way. Enough that even fleeting eye contact with a male stranger makes my insides crawl with unease. Enough that I cannot feel safe alone in a room with some of my male friends, even ones I’ve known for years. Enough that when I go out past dark for chips or milk or toilet paper, I carry a knife, I wear a coat that obscures my figure, I mimic a man’s gait. Enough that three years later I keep the story of that day to myself, when the only thing that saved me from being raped was a right hook to the jaw and a threat to scream in a crowded dorm, because I know what the response will be.
I live my life with the everburning anxiety that someone is going to put their hands on me regardless of my feelings on the matter, and I’m not going to be able to stop them. I live with the knowledge that statistically one in three women have experienced a sexual assault, but even a number like that can’t be trusted when we are harassed into silence. I live with the learned instinct, the ingrained compulsion to keep my mouth shut to jeers and catcalls, to swallow my anger at lewd suggestions and crude gestures, to put up my walls against insults and threats. I live in an environment that necessitates armouring myself against it just to get through a day peacefully, and I now view that as normal. I have adapted to extreme circumstances and am told to treat it as baseline. I carry this fear close to my heart, rooted into my bones, and I do so to keep myself unharmed.
So you can tell me that not all guys are like that, and you’d even be right, but that isn’t the issue anymore. My problem is not that I’m unaware of the fact that some guys are perfectly civil, decent, kind—my problem is simply this:
In a world where this cynical overcaution is the only thing that ensures my safety, I’m no longer willing to take the risk.
r.d. (via vonmoire)
I have never had an experience like these. I wonder what I would be like if I had.
man fuck your shower/sink fandom
I present to you
the staircase fandom
K SO THIS ONE IS LIKE A FUKEN TREE RIGHT
IF YOU DONT THINK THIS IS THE DOPEST SHIT, GET OUT OF MY FACE NOW
THIS ONES MADE OUT OF SKATEBOARDS, YA KNOW, IF YOU’RE INTO THAT
STRIPPER STIARCASE POLE O K AND TBH ITS RLLY PRETTY
I LIKE THE SPIRALY ONES
HOMO SEX U ALI TY
K THIS ONE IS A STAIRCASE, AND A SLIDE
only 13 people in the staircase fandom? I neeD AN ARMY
Beauty(?) and the Beast …genderbend XD!
I feel so stupid,because I already reblog this…but then it hit me,just …just imagine this,that this was the story,I mean as girls we are teach to be polite and nice and pretty (?) all the princess are always like this,but how about a story where the girl is like a beast and just…imagine,I dont how to explain myself,I hope somebody could help me…I am trying to say that it would be great if there was a story like this.
I think this may be a sign that there’s something wrong with the way schools teach
It’s Supergirl: 5-year-old Queens prodigy can speak seven languages, play six instruments
BY ERICA PEARSON / DAILY NEWS STAFF WRITER
Seven languages. Six musical instruments. Two types of dance and two sports. It all adds up to one busy little Queens girl.
Five-year-old Mabou Loiseau’s parents spend $1,500 a week on tutors and lessons - and she spends seven hours a day in some type of instruction, with Sundays off.
She grew up speaking French, Creole and English, but her immigrant parents didn’t want to stop there. She’s also learning Spanish, Mandarin, Arabic and Russian.
"Russian is my most favorite. I just hear something, and if I don’t understand I say, ‘What does that mean?’ and they’ll tell me," said Mabou, whose Laurelton house is plastered with flashcards in different languages.
She can sing her ABCs in Spanish, count in Mandarin, read fairytales in Russian, and already has an ambitious list of career goals.
"I want to be a firefighter, and I want to be a doctor, and I want to be a dancer, and I want to be a princess," Mabou said with a smile, sitting shyly on her mom’s lap. "And I want to be an actor, and I want to be a musician, and I want to be a singer, and I want to be a veterinarian, and I want to be a mom."
Mabou has her own dance studio with a mirrored wall where she learns tap and ballet. Her mom recently got rid of the kitchen table to make room for a full-size drum set. She’s also learning to play the harp, clarinet, violin, guitar and piano. When she’s not taking ice-skating or swimming lessons.
"All the sacrifices in the world for her," said her mom, Esther Loiseau, a piano teacher who taught French at an American school before leaving Haiti for Queens 15 years ago. "Furniture is not important. Education is."
Loiseau, 47, said friends and neighbors were initially shocked that she was starting Mabou on such a regimen so early - instead of just letting her be a kid.
"But I make sure I leave enough time for her to play," Loiseau said. "All she knows is learning. What becomes fun for someone is what they know."
Loiseau tells the tutors to play with Mabou, speaking in their native language, for half of the lesson. They spend the other half reading, writing and practicing vocabulary.
She said a sure way to make the opinionated only child behave is to threaten to cancel one of her lessons - especially Russian.
"It’s a great experience for me, honestly. A lot of even adult people can’t understand what she does," said Rogneda Elagina, 24, Mabou’s Russian tutor. "We like to read together … we started with the alphabet and connecting letters, and now she can read real folklore."
Mabou’s dad works 16 hours a day as a parking attendant in Manhattan to pay for everything, and the Loiseaus have also started hosting other students for classes at their house.
The proud parents homeschool Mabou but found out last week that she scored in the 99th percentile on the city test for gifted and talented schools.
"Honestly, I just want to open doors for my daughter," said Loiseau. "She is really my princess."
This is great
what if every god in every religion exists
like egyptian, hindu, and greek gods alike are all chillin on some clouds
and since every deity has something to control in the mortal world they get into fights on whos turn it is to do the job since there’s more than one
“Helios it’s my turn to rise the sun”
“Ra for the last fucking time you did it last week”
Neil Gaiman’s novel, American Gods - fantastic and all about it
|—||William Upski Wimsatt (via pnko)|
It is an unusual school in an unusual location and is run by an unusual teacher.
Rajesh Kumar is a shopkeeper by profession but spends hours every morning teaching around 80 children from the poorest of the poor in India’s capital.
The 43-year-old visited the construction of the Delhi transit station a few years ago and was disturbed by the sight of many children playing at the site instead of attending school.
When he questioned the parents working at the sites they all said there were no schools in the vicinity and no one cared.
Consequently, his open-air class room was born - between pillars and beneath the tracks of the Delhi transit system, known as the Metro.
Every few minutes a train passes above, the children unperturbed by its sounds.
There are no chairs or tables and the children sit on rolls of polystyrene foam placed on the rubble.
Three rectangular patches of wall are painted black and used as a blackboard.
Anonymous donors have contributed cardigans, books, shoes and stationery for the children, as their parents cannot afford them.
One unnamed individual sends a bag full of biscuits and fruit juice for the pupils every day - another incentive for the children to turn up for their studies.
I combined only a few of the fucked up comments I found on this Facebook post. If this gets ignored, I’m gonna be pretty pissed. And no, I did not edit out the names, because these people are little shits.
I FUCKING HATE PEOPLE. WHO FUCKING KNEW THERE WAS SO MANY EXCUSES FOR RAPE?!?!? WHO TAUGHT THESE PEOPLE THIS INFORMATION?!
THIS GIRL IS MY HERO
This dog: making every other dog in the world feel like an inferior asshole.
Are you fucking shitting me
so much yes
I’ve already posted these via Instagram, but who cares?
Photos taken via iphone 5, edited via VSCOcam.
Vintage rabbit fur coat, Oscar de la Renta blazer, Charlotte Russe skort, Breckelle’s gladiator heels.
As bad as she wants to be.