@2 hours ago with 19156 notes

I think I broke Harry Potter

sarellathesphinx:

karlosmadera:

So it’s 3AM and It’s just occurred to me that the most telling scene in the entire Harry Potter franchise is the scene following the announcement of the participants of the Triwizard tournament.

When Harry’s name is pulled out of the cup, literally one of the first things he is asked is “did you ask an older boy to put your name in the cup for you?" or something to that effect, insinuating that, that was something nobody prepared for and that it was something that totally would have worked if anyone had been smart enough to figure it out.

However, in an earlier scene a student is turned into a hundred year old man when they try to artificially age themselves with a potion and put their name into the cup. Meaning someone trying to dangerously age themselves with potion they aren’t familiar with was something the teachers genuinely considered to be more likely than someone asking for fucking help from another student.

image

In other words, the wizards in Harry Potter’s world are so reliant on magic that it doesn’t occur to anyone save for people like Harry that asking for help is even an option in a given situation. This explains why wizards are so fucking ass-backwards at everything, they’re so confident that their magic is capable of doing everything for them that it has never occurred to fucking anyone that perhaps asking for help from the muggle world might be of some use.

Think about it, the wizarding world hasn’t changed in hundreds of years while in that same space of time the muggle world has figured out fucking space travel. I know it’s a cliché to say to say someone could have fucking shot Voldemort, but seriously, somebody totally fucking could have, he killed like 50 people, he was effectively a terrorist, if anyone in the wizarding world bothered to ask for help from the muggles instead of just telling them there was an invisible asshole flying around shooting death curses at everyone, they may have been able to help. 

Pretty much the only reason Voldermort thinks he’s better than muggles is because he’s able to kill them with impunity using magic, something he’s only able to do so easily because muggles don’t understand what magic is. Voldemort is basically like a fucking disease, he’s an invisible, lurking entity preying on mankind from the shadows like a cowardly piece of shit. You know what else did that? Smallpox and we stomped that to death the second we understood it. That’s the difference between muggles and wizards, when muggles don’t understand something, they figure it out.

And here’s the kicker, the only reason muggles don’t understand magic at all is because the wizarding world deliberately withholds information about it. However, even if the wizarding world kept doing that, it’d only be a matter of time until a muggle figured out what magic was and how to stop or harness it because that’s what humanity does, it pushes past what we think is impossible to see what’s on the other side. We didn’t understand the sun as a species originally and now we use it to power satellites and smartphones.

The wizarding world isn’t a realm of infinite possibilities, it’s a universe of strict limitations where boundaries are never questioned. The muggle world is where the real magic happens. That’s why during the course of the Harry Potter books, which are set between 1991 and 1998, the muggle world (our world) discovered dark matter, cloned a sheep and invented fucking MP3s while the wizarding world were literally paying some dipshit to figure out what the purpose of a rubber duck was.

image

Wow, I really shouldn’t think about this stuff when it’s like 3AM, it gets kind of dark.

(via gnomesandcrayons)

@5 hours ago with 69834 notes

I get criticized for taking roles in films like ‘Ghost Rider 2’, but if you look at my resume, dude, I’ve mixed it up as much as I can.

(Source: jamiedblackley, via eeriklehnsherr)

@6 hours ago with 15469 notes

tehhufflepuffcompanion:

aud-works:

a.k.a. how the yule ball would have gone if i had written it

(via ariverandasong)

@8 hours ago with 14950 notes

terrible-wolf:

For as much as they tell you about Stop Drop and Roll as a kid, I really expected to be on fire more times in my life.

(Source: thehobodad)

@9 hours ago with 174935 notes

(Source: , via youthfuldominance)

@11 hours ago with 24098 notes
#ummmmm #goals #cuddles 
smolderingtroyler:

heartyglobe:
@12 hours ago with 450522 notes
punchbuggydragon:

lizawithazed:

rairii:

cupcakemichi:

thelethifoldwitch:

Val was adopted. Her dad, lovely though he was, wasn’t really her dad. She didn’t know who really was though, and her dad was kind, even if she refused to call him “dad”.
She’d never known why he’d fought so hard adopt her. She was the weird kid at the foster home, the one weird stuff happened around, the one who’d managed to warn Gemma that there was an adder by her foot, and managed to tease the adder away. 
(She made things vanish too, though she didn’t know where they went. She could get them to come back, sometimes.)
But Dudley had fought for her, said that yes, the other children were perfectly lovely but Valerian Makepeace was something else, something, he said, pointing to her empty file, no other parents had seemed prepared to accept.
Val was a child Dudley Dursley fought to adopt, and adopt her he did. When things went missing he was never angry. When odd things happened he never demanded to know what had occurred. When the snake crawled up his leg and only Val could get it off he just nodded and said, “just like Harry you are.”
She didn’t really know who Harry was. 
But when, that summer, the year she turned 11, an owl landed on her windowsill, holding a letter in its beak, Dudley smiled. “Just like Harry you are,” he said again.
He explained about magic - or what little he could. Explained how his cousin - no, he wasn’t in contact with Harry much anymore, just that odd moving Christmas card each year - could do magic. Explained how there was a place in London, Diagonally, where she could get the things on the list, if she wanted to go.
Val wanted to go.
Dudley sent a letter to his cousin. The address (Godric’s Hollow, what a funny name, Val thought) neatly written and the letter quickly responded to. A barn owl (named Wendelin, apparently) came with a letter saying to go to a particular corner in London, where Harry would meet them.
Meet them he did, him and his whole family, and extended family, red head after red head, and Harry standing dark haired among them all, two dark haired boys, bickering beside him.
"Val are you?" he said, bending a bit so his eyes, dancing and green, were at her height. "It’s alright, I didn’t know what was going on when I was told. You’re a witch. Have you ever done strange things before?"
Val nodded because she had, though she’d always hesitated to call them magic.
"It’s alright. Would you like me to show you how to do something else strange?"
Val nodded because this was an adult not just, as dad did, accepting the strangeness, but asking for it. When she tapped the bricks, lifted by Dudley so she could reach the top one, she didn’t expect anything to happen.
But they moved.
Behind her the army of redheads cheered, and as her dad lifted her down and touched a kiss to her hair she smiled, properly, widely, as she handed the wand back.
She knew what she was now.
(Image Source)
(Idea of Dudley having a muggle-born Slytherin daughter from ninnieamee)

I want a seven book series with 8 movie adaptations STAT

punchbuggydragon:

lizawithazed:

rairii:

cupcakemichi:

thelethifoldwitch:

Val was adopted. Her dad, lovely though he was, wasn’t really her dad. She didn’t know who really was though, and her dad was kind, even if she refused to call him “dad”.

She’d never known why he’d fought so hard adopt her. She was the weird kid at the foster home, the one weird stuff happened around, the one who’d managed to warn Gemma that there was an adder by her foot, and managed to tease the adder away. 

(She made things vanish too, though she didn’t know where they went. She could get them to come back, sometimes.)

But Dudley had fought for her, said that yes, the other children were perfectly lovely but Valerian Makepeace was something else, something, he said, pointing to her empty file, no other parents had seemed prepared to accept.

Val was a child Dudley Dursley fought to adopt, and adopt her he did. When things went missing he was never angry. When odd things happened he never demanded to know what had occurred. When the snake crawled up his leg and only Val could get it off he just nodded and said, “just like Harry you are.”

She didn’t really know who Harry was. 

But when, that summer, the year she turned 11, an owl landed on her windowsill, holding a letter in its beak, Dudley smiled. “Just like Harry you are,” he said again.

He explained about magic - or what little he could. Explained how his cousin - no, he wasn’t in contact with Harry much anymore, just that odd moving Christmas card each year - could do magic. Explained how there was a place in London, Diagonally, where she could get the things on the list, if she wanted to go.

Val wanted to go.

Dudley sent a letter to his cousin. The address (Godric’s Hollow, what a funny name, Val thought) neatly written and the letter quickly responded to. A barn owl (named Wendelin, apparently) came with a letter saying to go to a particular corner in London, where Harry would meet them.

Meet them he did, him and his whole family, and extended family, red head after red head, and Harry standing dark haired among them all, two dark haired boys, bickering beside him.

"Val are you?" he said, bending a bit so his eyes, dancing and green, were at her height. "It’s alright, I didn’t know what was going on when I was told. You’re a witch. Have you ever done strange things before?"

Val nodded because she had, though she’d always hesitated to call them magic.

"It’s alright. Would you like me to show you how to do something else strange?"

Val nodded because this was an adult not just, as dad did, accepting the strangeness, but asking for it. When she tapped the bricks, lifted by Dudley so she could reach the top one, she didn’t expect anything to happen.

But they moved.

Behind her the army of redheads cheered, and as her dad lifted her down and touched a kiss to her hair she smiled, properly, widely, as she handed the wand back.

She knew what she was now.

(Image Source)

(Idea of Dudley having a muggle-born Slytherin daughter from ninnieamee)

I want a seven book series with 8 movie adaptations STAT

(via gnomesandcrayons)

@13 hours ago with 30586 notes

bisexualdemondean:

I like my women how I like my men. 

.

.

That’s it.

That’s the joke. 

I am bisexual.

(via pathologicalmonsters)

@3 hours ago with 23459 notes

haveitjoeway:

what I want to do for halloween:

image

what I’ll end up doing on halloween:

image

(via terrible-wolf)

@5 hours ago with 43749 notes
thecoalitionmag:

"you know that this is a disease for reach white girls, right?": on eating disorders amongst girls of colour 
by bayan atari
Recovery, though necessary and rewarding, can be incredibly lonely. Outside of a clinical environment, making sure you eat all your meals, dealing with the post-food anxiety when you can’t overcompensate for eating, and coping with stress without the crutch of eating disordered behaviors to hold onto, are not exactly experiences to which everyone around you will be able to relate. The experience of having an eating disorder in the first place is an alienating one, and actually trying to heal is even lonelier. Lonelier still is suffering from an eating disorder, in recovery or not, when you don’t fit the typical image of a sufferer: the middle-to-upper-class white teenage cis girl, willowy and pale, the picture of white suburban sickness.
And while that white suburban sickness is painful to those who fit in that box, those of us who don’t are often left to suffer in complete isolation. Take women of color, for example. A lot of us are so insulated, living on our tiny planets where every wall is a mirror, but no mirror shows our reflection. Instead, we get that image again — that white suburban image. “You know that this is a disease for rich white girls, right?” Those are my mother’s words. Those might be countless other mothers’ words, for all I know. They are definitely the thoughts of many; indeed, mental illness is portrayed as a white ailment, particularly eating disorders. How many women of color were in that Renfrew documentary, Thin? How many depressed fictional characters are women of color? Not to downplay the film’s merit, but Girl, Interrupted is more like White Girl, Interrupted. In stories of mental illness, people of color are often background fixtures, or completely absent.
Flashback to sixteen year-old me, four weeks into my first stint in residential eating disorder treatment, phone to my ear, listening to it ringing and praying for an answer. At that moment, I was the only person of color in the adolescent ward. Every once in a while, another brown girl would check in, try her luck with her insurance and her inner demons, and disappear as suddenly as she arrived — usually due to her insurance company deciding that she is “too healthy” for treatment.
I loved all the other girls around me, of course; we were like sisters, almost. There were only a few parts of my story that absolutely no one else could relate to, and they were all inextricably linked to my cultural background. My family dynamic was something that played into my eating disorder quite heavily, but no one could understand it. I talked about my family in group therapy, and everyone (therapists included) simply questioned why I didn’t just leave. “You can go when you’re eighteen,” they said. “You just have to make it two more years.”
But, as a friend and I discussed years later, that’s just not the way it works in a lot of cultures — including mine. In the treatment environment, I stuck out like a sore thumb with my “ethnic” features (playing a guessing game as to my ethnicity was a favorite pastime among my friends in treatment, though I don’t even think that they even noticed; “Pakistinian” was my favorite guess, and by “my favorite” I mean “the most infuriating”) and in the fact that I came from a background with which no one could even begin to comprehend. I had to walk on eggshells when discussing my family’s borderline fundamentalism when it comes to religion, lest everyone around me go home with the idea that Islam was the harmful presence in my household, and not the harmful behavior that my parents exhibited while wrongfully claiming Islam as their justification.
I would call another girl “beautiful” and she would, with good intentions and an unfortunate lack of understanding, respond by calling me “exotic”. Therapists saw me as a cultural experiment — “my first middle eastern patient”/”my first muslim patient” was how a few therapists sometimes referred to me. I came to the conclusion that it my mother was right, that this must be a white girl’s disease, and that I was among a handful of aberrant brown girls who had somehow developed it in a sick twist of fate. It didn’t occur to me that stigma keeps so many people of color silent about their issues, or that I had a fortunate combination of financial privilege and a general physician who had somehow convinced my parents to put me in treatment.
I had grown desperate. I needed camaraderie from someone who could somehow relate. And that was how I ended up on the adolescent ward’s phone that day, praying that my friend Ana would pick up. I’d met her in the ninth grade, when she herself was fresh out of residential treatment for anorexia; she was a warm, empathetic chicana girl who had been very open with me about her illness, even though I refused to admit to myself that I even had eating issues at the time. We had fallen out of touch since I was forced to transfer schools in the tenth grade, but when she picked up the phone, it was as if we had never been apart. I spilled everything to her, my voice shaky. I just wanted to know that someone else had been through the same thing, that someone else knew. And she did.
Immediately after that conversation, I felt both comforted and in awe of the universe. Each residential facility has its own list of items that incoming residents aren’t allowed to bring, and at this treatment center, cell phones were on that list — so I didn’t have any of my contacts on hand, save for those that I had scribbled into my journal the day before my admission into treatment. It makes no sense that I had written down Ana’s number, as we’d fallen out of touch; but I guess some cosmic force guided my hand in writing that number down, or maybe I just known, on some level, that I would need to talk to her eventually.
Along with cell phones, shaving razors weren’t allowed at the facility, either, at least not without supervision. For those who weren’t considered “at risk” if given a sharp object, nurses distributed razors, which would be returned to the nurse’s station within an hour or two, early in the morning on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I myself was restricted from shaving during most of my stay (six out of seven weeks, I believe), a fact that caused me immense discomfort at first. My body hair, dark and thick as it often is for women of color, had been the first marker of an adolescence that I had tried for years to shake off. At eight years old, I was wearing training bras and going through tubes of Nair as desperately as if it were a weapon I could use to stave off the pubescent beast which had overcome my body. 
 A few days after that phone conversation, I wore shorts for the first time since childhood. Years prior, I’d gotten into the habit of always covering my legs, even when they were hairless. I carried my shame all over my body, worried that if people saw my bare arms or legs, they would somehow know that I’d matured early. But on that day, I borrowed a pair of shorts from my roommate and wore them without a care in the world, leg hair and all. A few girls seemed shocked at first, but I laughed it off, and they laughed with me.
Later that day, I wrote a letter to my childhood self. I told her I was sorry for hating her so much, for hiding my growing body purely out of shame, for bullying her so viciously and for growing up to deprive her of the food she needed to be her full, energetic, clear-headed, ambitious self. I reminded her that food has nothing to do with power, nothing to do with control, and that I would change nothing for the better by hurting myself. I realized that it wasn’t too long ago that I was this little girl that I was writing to; I was still so young, and would be for quite a while. At that time, my master plan was to disappear by the age of eighteen, but for the first time in years, I reconsidered that plan. 
My eighteenth year, when it did finally come around, became the year I chose to live. Going into college, I had a relapse in the midst of a recovery I’d begun only a year prior, and once again, I needed to confide in someone. A friend who lived a few doors down from my dorm room had previously told me about her own eating disorder. She, like me, came from a Muslim family built by immigrant parents. Unlike me, she was in a stable recovery. One day, I went to her room and told her everything — she understood everything I was saying — and told her that I wanted to live in spite of that. She reminded me that power is not in the refusal of sustenance, but in the refusal to let my demons get the best of me. My sense of catharsis following that conversation was practically surreal. I promised myself I’d live up to my full potential, and with that, I defied my master plan of disappearance.
I’m nineteen years old as I write this, and disappearance is no longer in my plan. Instead, I have a long list of ambitions and accomplishments that nothing can stop me from achieving. Two weeks ago, I saw Ana, now an art student, for the first time in about a year. She showed me a video of her final project for a performance art class, in which she smashed the tiny clothes from her lowest weight, which she’d covered in plaster, all while handcuffed. Within the rubble, she found a key, unlocked her handcuffs, and broken down into a shaky fit of sobbing. She let me cry on her shoulder as I thanked her profusely for letting me see something so raw and cathartic, something that I’ve needed to see for years.
To all the people of color out there who are suffering: you are not the only one. You are not alone. I promise. We are capable of being ill, and we are also capable of healing.
(screenshot from The Silences of the Palace)

thecoalitionmag:

"you know that this is a disease for reach white girls, right?": on eating disorders amongst girls of colour

by bayan atari

Recovery, though necessary and rewarding, can be incredibly lonely. Outside of a clinical environment, making sure you eat all your meals, dealing with the post-food anxiety when you can’t overcompensate for eating, and coping with stress without the crutch of eating disordered behaviors to hold onto, are not exactly experiences to which everyone around you will be able to relate. The experience of having an eating disorder in the first place is an alienating one, and actually trying to heal is even lonelier. Lonelier still is suffering from an eating disorder, in recovery or not, when you don’t fit the typical image of a sufferer: the middle-to-upper-class white teenage cis girl, willowy and pale, the picture of white suburban sickness.

And while that white suburban sickness is painful to those who fit in that box, those of us who don’t are often left to suffer in complete isolation. Take women of color, for example. A lot of us are so insulated, living on our tiny planets where every wall is a mirror, but no mirror shows our reflection. Instead, we get that image again — that white suburban image. “You know that this is a disease for rich white girls, right?” Those are my mother’s words. Those might be countless other mothers’ words, for all I know. They are definitely the thoughts of many; indeed, mental illness is portrayed as a white ailment, particularly eating disorders. How many women of color were in that Renfrew documentary, Thin? How many depressed fictional characters are women of color? Not to downplay the film’s merit, but Girl, Interrupted is more like White Girl, Interrupted. In stories of mental illness, people of color are often background fixtures, or completely absent.

Flashback to sixteen year-old me, four weeks into my first stint in residential eating disorder treatment, phone to my ear, listening to it ringing and praying for an answer. At that moment, I was the only person of color in the adolescent ward. Every once in a while, another brown girl would check in, try her luck with her insurance and her inner demons, and disappear as suddenly as she arrived — usually due to her insurance company deciding that she is “too healthy” for treatment.

I loved all the other girls around me, of course; we were like sisters, almost. There were only a few parts of my story that absolutely no one else could relate to, and they were all inextricably linked to my cultural background. My family dynamic was something that played into my eating disorder quite heavily, but no one could understand it. I talked about my family in group therapy, and everyone (therapists included) simply questioned why I didn’t just leave. “You can go when you’re eighteen,” they said. “You just have to make it two more years.”

But, as a friend and I discussed years later, that’s just not the way it works in a lot of cultures — including mine. In the treatment environment, I stuck out like a sore thumb with my “ethnic” features (playing a guessing game as to my ethnicity was a favorite pastime among my friends in treatment, though I don’t even think that they even noticed; “Pakistinian” was my favorite guess, and by “my favorite” I mean “the most infuriating”) and in the fact that I came from a background with which no one could even begin to comprehend. I had to walk on eggshells when discussing my family’s borderline fundamentalism when it comes to religion, lest everyone around me go home with the idea that Islam was the harmful presence in my household, and not the harmful behavior that my parents exhibited while wrongfully claiming Islam as their justification.

I would call another girl “beautiful” and she would, with good intentions and an unfortunate lack of understanding, respond by calling me “exotic”. Therapists saw me as a cultural experiment — “my first middle eastern patient”/”my first muslim patient” was how a few therapists sometimes referred to me. I came to the conclusion that it my mother was right, that this must be a white girl’s disease, and that I was among a handful of aberrant brown girls who had somehow developed it in a sick twist of fate. It didn’t occur to me that stigma keeps so many people of color silent about their issues, or that I had a fortunate combination of financial privilege and a general physician who had somehow convinced my parents to put me in treatment.

I had grown desperate. I needed camaraderie from someone who could somehow relate. And that was how I ended up on the adolescent ward’s phone that day, praying that my friend Ana would pick up. I’d met her in the ninth grade, when she herself was fresh out of residential treatment for anorexia; she was a warm, empathetic chicana girl who had been very open with me about her illness, even though I refused to admit to myself that I even had eating issues at the time. We had fallen out of touch since I was forced to transfer schools in the tenth grade, but when she picked up the phone, it was as if we had never been apart. I spilled everything to her, my voice shaky. I just wanted to know that someone else had been through the same thing, that someone else knew. And she did.

Immediately after that conversation, I felt both comforted and in awe of the universe. Each residential facility has its own list of items that incoming residents aren’t allowed to bring, and at this treatment center, cell phones were on that list — so I didn’t have any of my contacts on hand, save for those that I had scribbled into my journal the day before my admission into treatment. It makes no sense that I had written down Ana’s number, as we’d fallen out of touch; but I guess some cosmic force guided my hand in writing that number down, or maybe I just known, on some level, that I would need to talk to her eventually.

Along with cell phones, shaving razors weren’t allowed at the facility, either, at least not without supervision. For those who weren’t considered “at risk” if given a sharp object, nurses distributed razors, which would be returned to the nurse’s station within an hour or two, early in the morning on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I myself was restricted from shaving during most of my stay (six out of seven weeks, I believe), a fact that caused me immense discomfort at first. My body hair, dark and thick as it often is for women of color, had been the first marker of an adolescence that I had tried for years to shake off. At eight years old, I was wearing training bras and going through tubes of Nair as desperately as if it were a weapon I could use to stave off the pubescent beast which had overcome my body. 

A few days after that phone conversation, I wore shorts for the first time since childhood. Years prior, I’d gotten into the habit of always covering my legs, even when they were hairless. I carried my shame all over my body, worried that if people saw my bare arms or legs, they would somehow know that I’d matured early. But on that day, I borrowed a pair of shorts from my roommate and wore them without a care in the world, leg hair and all. A few girls seemed shocked at first, but I laughed it off, and they laughed with me.

Later that day, I wrote a letter to my childhood self. I told her I was sorry for hating her so much, for hiding my growing body purely out of shame, for bullying her so viciously and for growing up to deprive her of the food she needed to be her full, energetic, clear-headed, ambitious self. I reminded her that food has nothing to do with power, nothing to do with control, and that I would change nothing for the better by hurting myself. I realized that it wasn’t too long ago that I was this little girl that I was writing to; I was still so young, and would be for quite a while. At that time, my master plan was to disappear by the age of eighteen, but for the first time in years, I reconsidered that plan.

My eighteenth year, when it did finally come around, became the year I chose to live. Going into college, I had a relapse in the midst of a recovery I’d begun only a year prior, and once again, I needed to confide in someone. A friend who lived a few doors down from my dorm room had previously told me about her own eating disorder. She, like me, came from a Muslim family built by immigrant parents. Unlike me, she was in a stable recovery. One day, I went to her room and told her everything — she understood everything I was saying — and told her that I wanted to live in spite of that. She reminded me that power is not in the refusal of sustenance, but in the refusal to let my demons get the best of me. My sense of catharsis following that conversation was practically surreal. I promised myself I’d live up to my full potential, and with that, I defied my master plan of disappearance.

I’m nineteen years old as I write this, and disappearance is no longer in my plan. Instead, I have a long list of ambitions and accomplishments that nothing can stop me from achieving. Two weeks ago, I saw Ana, now an art student, for the first time in about a year. She showed me a video of her final project for a performance art class, in which she smashed the tiny clothes from her lowest weight, which she’d covered in plaster, all while handcuffed. Within the rubble, she found a key, unlocked her handcuffs, and broken down into a shaky fit of sobbing. She let me cry on her shoulder as I thanked her profusely for letting me see something so raw and cathartic, something that I’ve needed to see for years.

To all the people of color out there who are suffering: you are not the only one. You are not alone. I promise. We are capable of being ill, and we are also capable of healing.

(screenshot from The Silences of the Palace)

(via snapesblog)

@7 hours ago with 269 notes
sashaychantea:

misterand:

Lenny Kravitz | Andreas Neumann

sashaychantea:

misterand:

Lenny Kravitz | Andreas Neumann

(Source: facebook.com, via queerly-it-is)

@9 hours ago with 10994 notes

leprinceofsins:

Colby Keller does America (and Canada) (x)

(via captain-snark)

@10 hours ago with 6098 notes
#oops i reblogged a porn star #faveeeeeeee tho #LOOK AT HIS SHIRT #ARGH 

aj-spikey:

raising—me:

lost-in-hammerspace:

This has been a psa about Aesthetic Attraction by me

(via pathologicalmonsters)

@12 hours ago with 34175 notes

um

why do blogs like “wtfsjw” and “sjwhypocrisy” keep getting promoted on my dash? like, hello, have you fuckin seen the content of my reblogs? publicly bashing and shaming people who are trying to promote social change is not what i’m here for. i’m here for, like, the opposite of that. 

am i missing something??

@13 hours ago with 2 notes