i wish tumblr had an option where you could reply privately to anonymous messages so the sender still remains unknown but you dont have to post it publically
excuse me but bisexuality means you are only allowed to be attracted to two people in your lifetime and we know damn well about your crush on susie in the third grade so you better use your next one wisely pal
This is an amazing thing you’ve done.
What men mean when they talk about their “crazy” ex-girlfriend is often that she was someone who cried a lot, or texted too often, or had an eating disorder, or wanted too much/too little sex, or generally felt anything beyond the realm of emotionally undemanding agreement. That does not make these women crazy. That makes those women human beings, who have flaws, and emotional weak spots. However, deciding that any behavior that he does not like must be insane– well, that does make a man a jerk.
And when men do this on a regular basis, remember that, if you are a woman, you are not the exception. You are not so cool and fabulous and levelheaded that they will totally get where you are coming from when you show emotions other than “pleasant agreement.”
When men say “most women are crazy, but not you, you’re so cool” the subtext is not, “I love you, be the mother to my children.” The subtext is “do not step out of line, here.” If you get close enough to the men who say things like this, eventually, you will do something that they do not find pleasant. They will decide you are crazy, because this is something they have already decided about women in general.
He’s quoting a Rolling Stones song:
The three verses (along with the varied theme in the fourth verse) address the major topics of the 1960s: love, politics, and drugs. Each verse captures the essence of the initial optimism and eventual disillusion, followed by the resigned pragmatism in the chorus. (x)
It means that you’re not going to get what you want, but you should be satisfied if you’ve gotten all that you really need.
Which is utter bullshit and double standards I am so tired of that man.
Misha commenting on Castiel’s repetitive objectification this season in torture contexts.
I agree so much with this. In SPN, torture has taken on a sexual connotation I find dangerous and repulsive. I don’t think there is anything wrong with scenes designed to be eye-candy - like, e.g., the laundromat-scene in 9x01 - but torture is not sexy. In fact, I feel that torture is one of those plot-devices that should be used carefully and only if you feel that you will have time and opportunity to explore the repercussions of torture on the affected character.
However, in SPN, torture lines up with death in that it is easily reversible. A character dies? No problem, he’ll be brought back. A character is tortured? Never mind, he might be healed or become an angel and - hey - angels don’t feel pain anyways.
I think this is also one of the things that really pissed me off about the context in which we saw Cas angeling up again. It’s basically like Misha says here: They can do all kinds of creepy, disgusting, painful stuff with the character and present it as harmless or even sexy because it doesn’t have any impact on the character, i.e., on his mental and/or physical well-being.
I’ve never been a big fan of whump in any fandom I’ve been in, but with Cas, I’ve come to read hurt/comfort fics, simply because they tend to provide something the show usually shies away from. Maybe this is also what repells me so much about re-angeled!Cas after 9x09: the implication that they can now stop taking him seriously as a character with emotions and limitations and go back to doing with him whatever they want because it’s hard to affect him in any serious manner.
When you grow up as a girl, the world tells you the things that you are supposed to be: emotional, loving, beautiful, wanted. And then when you are those things, the world tells you they are inferior: illogical, weak, vain, empty. The world teaches you that the way you exist in it is disgusting — you watch boys cringe backward in your dorm room when you talk about your period, blue water pretending to be blood in a maxi pad commercial. It is little things, and it is constant. In a food court in a mall, after you go to the gynecologist for the first time, you and your friend talk about how much it hurts, and over her shoulder you watch two boys your age turn to look at you and wrinkle their noses: the reality of your life is impolite to talk about. The world says that you don’t have a right to the space you occupy, any place with men in it is not yours, you and your body exist only as far as what men want to do with it. At fifteen, you find fifteen-year-old boys you have never met somehow believe you should bend your body to their will. At almost thirty, you find fifteen-year-old boys you have never met still somehow believe you should bend your body to their will. They are children. They are children.
|—||Stevie Nicks (via towritebeyonceonherarms)|
#this is such an iconic shot of dean #like wow #no really wow #there’s a focus on his shoulders here #(and let’s forget for a second that i have a massive shoulder kink shhh that’s not what we’re here for rn darlings) #because dean is modern atlas #he doesn’t just have the weight of the fate of the world #he has the weight of millions of souls and their pain on those shoulders #and notice that you can see his profile #but he never turns and looks around behind him #he acknowledges the past and continues forward #he leads us into the grey uncertain forests of the future #but you trust him #you trust him with your life #and even if you lose it following him you know it’s worth it #the righteous man #light of my life #song of my soul [x]
It’s just a hospital waiting area, long lines of white hallways, chairs in smooth plastic bending endlessly, like waterfalls; flowing to the floor.
Dean tips his head back against the wall. He is waiting.
Three days after the angels fell – three days after Sam stopped waking up – Dean is running on two hours of sleep, forty cups of coffee, a weary and all-consuming nausea juddering in his gut.
He taps the soles of his shoes along the floor and waits, and waits, and waits.
A woman whose husband was dying told him it gets easier, comas. She tells him she thinks they’re lucky; they have so, so long to say goodbye.
But this woman spends her time waiting on her phone, talking to her daughters. Dean doesn’t know the number of anyone he’d like to talk to.
The doctors are lenient with him; they let him stay. All night and all day, watching the cycle of soft morning scuffed shoes, doctors on early shifts, nurses going home at 6am; how it graduates into busy clutter, then lightens again to the silence of night; to halogen winking, flashing out; floor-cleaners tipping him an easy wink.
It is night, second day, his fiftieth hour awake. He looks down at his hands.