One could spend the rest of one’s life digging through the astonishing archive that is This remarkable resource — free full-issue scans of hundreds of public domain comic books from the 1930s-1950s — gives comics fans a raw glimpse of the ‘Golden Age,’ an age…


Why do I run marathons?

I run because fuck.

  • Fuck the heart attacks that killed my father and his father before they were 55
  • Fuck the cerebral palsy and physical problems I was born with
  • Fuck everyone who ever made fun of the way I walked before and after the surgery and years of…

Fuck yes, Will.



Orchid Mantis

it’s sooo pretty .

i love these little guys, they are like magical girl mantissssssessssess

It’s like the carnivorous ballerina of the insect kingdom. pewpuupalace:


Orchid Mantis

it’s sooo pretty .

i love these little guys, they are like magical girl mantissssssessssess

It’s like the carnivorous ballerina of the insect kingdom. pewpuupalace:


Orchid Mantis

it’s sooo pretty .

i love these little guys, they are like magical girl mantissssssessssess

It’s like the carnivorous ballerina of the insect kingdom.



Orchid Mantis

it’s sooo pretty .

i love these little guys, they are like magical girl mantissssssessssess

It’s like the carnivorous ballerina of the insect kingdom.

(via matociquala)


Photo of the Day: King Penguin Chicks

Photography by Amanda Stadther (Richfield, TN); Gold Harbor, South Georgia Island)

Look at them! Ohmygoodness, look at them!

I’ve watched this four times, and I tear up every time. It’s a robotic arm jacked directly into a woman’s brain. Just amazing.


This is Cowboy.

Cowboy was a 15-year old pit bull with cancer dumped at the shelter. Pit bulls have a difficult time making it out of the shelter alive. Old pit bulls with cancer? Have little to no chance.

Enter Angel City Pit Bulls, who made sure an older gentleman like Cowboy got to spend his final days in a warm, soft bed surrounded by family and love and home cooked meals.

That’s why on March 9th, I’m running in the LA Marathon (my first marathon!) as part of Angel City Pit Bulls’ team. I’m running to raise money for Angel City so they can continue to rescue, to adopt, to spay/neuter, and to educate the public about pit bulls.

And so that older dogs will get the same chance as Cowboy for a kind and loving place to call home for those final days.

I know times are tough and there are a lot of people asking you for money. No amount is too small. Five bucks! It’s a cup of fancy coffee, but it can make a difference. You can click the link above to get to my donation page, or if you don’t want to scroll back up, click here.

If you could reblog and get this in front of more people, I know that together we can help a lot of dogs.

Thank you for reading, and thank you for your support. I and the old pit bull that I live with appreciate it.

Big Love,

aka the slackmistress

Daisy is one of my favorite dogs. Nina is one of my favorite people.

This is a wonderful short documentary about a woman who translated thousands of (mostly terrible) Western films for the Romanian black market in the 1980s, and what her voice meant to the people who heard it.

When you are hurting, there will always be people who find a way to make it about themselves. If you break your wrist, they’ll complain about a sprained ankle. If you are sad, they’re sadder. If you’re asking for help, they’ll demand more attention.

Here is a fact: I was in a hospital and sobbing into my palms when a woman approached me and asked why I was making so much noise and I managed to stutter that my best friend shot himself in the head and now he was 100% certified dead and she made this little grunt and had the nerve to tell me, “Well now you made me sad.”

When you get angry, there are going to be people who ask you to shut up and sit down, and they’re not going to do it nicely. Theirs are the faces that turn bright red before you have a chance to finish your sentence. They won’t ask you to explain yourself. They’ll be mad that you’re mad and that will be their whole reason alone.

Here is a fact: I was in an alleyway a few weeks ago, stroking my friend’s back as she vomited fourteen tequila shots. “I hate men,” she wheezed as her sides heaved, “I hate all of them.”

I braided her hair so it wouldn’t get caught in the mess. I didn’t correct her and reply that she does in fact love her father and her little brother too, that there are strangers she has yet to meet that will be better for her than any of her shitty ex-boyfriends, that half of our group of friends identifies as male - I could hear each of her bruises in those words and I didn’t ask her to soften the blow when she was trying to buff them out of her skin. She doesn’t hate all men. She never did.

She had the misfortune to be overheard by a drunk guy in an ill-fitting suit, a boy trying to look like a man and leering down my dress as he stormed towards us. “Fuck you, lady,” he said, “Fuck you. Not all men are evil, you know.”

“Thanks,” I told him dryly, pulling on her hand, trying to get her inside again, “See you.”

He followed us. Wouldn’t stop shouting. How dare she get mad. How dare she was hurting. “It’s hard for me too!” he yowled after us. “With fuckers like you, how’s a guy supposed to live?”

Here’s a fact: my father is Cuban and my genes repeat his. Once one of my teachers looked at my heritage and said, “Your skin doesn’t look dirty enough to be a Mexican.”

When my cheeks grew pink and my tongue dried up, someone else in the classroom stood up. “You can’t say that,” he said, “That’s fucking racist. We could report you for that.”

Our teacher turned vicious. “You wanna fail this class? Go ahead. Report me. I was joking. It’s my word against yours. I hate kids like you. You think you’ve got all the power - you don’t. I do.”

Later that kid and I became close friends and we skipped class to do anything else and the two of us were lying on our backs staring up at the sky and as we talked about that moment, he sighed, “I hate white people.” His girlfriend is white and so is his mom. I reached out until my fingers were resting in the warmth of his palm.

He spoke up each time our teacher said something shitty. He failed the class. I stayed silent. I got the A but I wish that I didn’t.

Here is a fact: I think gender is a social construct and people that want to tell others what defines it just haven’t done their homework. I personally happen to have the luck of the draw and am the same gender as my sex, which basically just means society leaves me alone about this one particular thing.

Until I met Alex, who said he hated cis people. My throat closed up. I’m not good at confrontation. I avoided him because I didn’t want to bother him.

One day I was going on a walk and I found him behind our school, bleeding out of the side of his mouth. The only thing I really know is how to patch people up. He winced when the antibacterial cream went across his new wounds. “I hate cis people,” he said weakly.

I looked at him and pushed his hair back from his head. “I understand why you do.”

Here is a fact: anger is a secondary emotion. Anger is how people stop themselves from hurting. Anger is how people stop themselves by empathizing.

It is easy for the drunken man to be mad at my friend. If he says “Hey, fuck you, lady,” he doesn’t have to worry about what’s so wrong about men.

It’s easy for my teacher to fail the kids who speak up. If we’re just smart-ass students, it’s not his fault we fuck up.

It’s easy for me to hate Alex for labeling me as dangerous when I’ve never hurt someone a day in my life. But I’m safe in my skin and his life is at risk just by going to the bathroom. I understand why he says things like that. I finally do.

There’s a difference between the spread of hatred and the frustration of people who are hurting. The thing is, when you are broken, there will always be someone who says “I’m worse, stop talking.” There will always be people who are mad you’re trying to steal the attention. There will always be people who get mad at the same time as you do - they hate being challenged. It changes the rules.

I say I hate all Mondays but my sister was born on one and she’s the greatest joy I have ever known. I say I hate brown but it’s really just the word and how it turns your mouth down - the colour is my hair and my eyes and my favorite sweater. I say I hate pineapple but I still try it again every Easter, just to see if it stings less this year. It’s okay to be sad when you hear someone generalize a group you’re in. But instead of assuming they’re evil and filled with hatred, maybe ask them why they think that way - who knows, you might just end up with a new and kind friend.

By telling the oppressed that their anger is unjustified, you allow the oppression to continue. I know it’s hard to stay calm. I know it’s scary. But you’re coming from the safe place and they aren’t. Just please … Try to be more understanding. /// r.i.d (via inkskinned)


(via miriamforster)

Don’t forget the fear. Anger is easier than fear.

(via delilahsdawson)

(via lagilman)