dumbesttweets:

No. No, it is not. 

dumbesttweets:

No. No, it is not. 

Reblogged from Dumbest Tweets. Ever.
Or the train. Or the Office. Basically everywhere. 

Or the train. Or the Office. Basically everywhere. 

professional-professional said: Would you like it in the vag or ass when I rape you?

a-man-n-progress:

rennskye:

misandry-mermaid:

At least now that I disabled Anonymous asks, your own face is attached to your pitiful hatemail.

image

And if you recognize this ugly mug, shoot me a name!

Thanks.

ETA: He’s been tracked down.

HIS NAME IS BRANDON BAYARD AND HE LIVES IN SUPERIOR, WISCONSIN.

Reblog the shit out of this so it shows up on every background search done by every guy trying to hire him ever.

REBLOGGING THIS ALWAYS, FUCK THIS PIECE OF SHIT

Reblogged from gabifresh

Bullets and Ballots

newyorker:

image

Ferguson is sixty-seven per cent black, but fifty of its fifty-three police officers are white. In Comment, Jelani Cobb reflects on disenfranchisement, disillusionment, and the protests following Michael Brown’s death.

Illustration by Tom Bachtell.

Reblogged from The New Yorker

Black Sunday

sonofbaldwin:

It’s so ironic how black queer people are the bedrock, the cradle, the spirit, the flash, the noise, and the music of the Black Church and yet, their silence and invisibility is demanded by the selfsame institution.

The Black Church, without black queer people, would merely be a house of morbidity, shed skins of snakes, and organs all played in the wrong key.

Reblogged from Son of Baldwin
Reblogged from My own New York.
traaashhhhkat:

some chill positivity from a 1998 Sesame Street book about the letter F

traaashhhhkat:

some chill positivity from a 1998 Sesame Street book about the letter F

Reblogged from märƒmεℓℓow

Chill.

My parents have been married for over 30 years and I have been raised in their love. My mother told me my father used to send her a handwritten love letter every day when they were young in Somalia and sometimes twice a day when he missed her something bad. Love is having babies and fleeing a country in war together. It is being scared and being brave anyway. It is missing each other and always being friends. My parent’s love taught me that you need more than beautiful words for love to survive. Love is hard work, it is a commitment every day, it is doing what is necessary to make sure the other person is ok. My father somehow took care of a family of 12+ on a taxi cab driver’s salary and studied by a lamp’s light every night. My mother raised 10 children in a country hostile to their very existence with nothing but pure wit and strength. So I learned early on that love must manifest in actions. My favorite memory of them is how my mother would wait to eat until my father came home every day and them sitting together just laughing, talking, and loving. One time, my father took my mother’s hand and looked at us sitting around the table and told us, ‘you know, I love this woman. She is my best friend.’ And the way my mother still looks at my father, I know he’s not the only one who feels that way.

Yasmin Mohamed Yonis, in an interview for the Black Love Project (via ethiopienne)

As I struggle with rebuilding a relationship, this is what I long for.