samweechester-blog

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This woman confronts racism in the funniest way possible.

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animated lord of the rings minimalist posters

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S.A. Khanum 362/365 | everyone wants a bit of the sky

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I have built, deep in my heart, a chapel filled with you.

Marcel Proust, in a letter to Anatole France, from Selected Letters: 1880-1903 (via victoriajoan)

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Snowy Victorian Houses

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Postmodern Gothic excess. Minster House, London. March 2013.

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have you ever stopped a guy in the middle of sex? I stopped my bf last night and I feel really bad about it. :(

First of all, you didn’t stop him in the middle of sex. That’s literally impossible. The only possible time to stop sex is at the end. Because as soon as you stop it, that is the end. Anything after is rape. 

Now that that’s out of the way, let’s talk about what you think of as the “middle” and why cuz I think that’s gonna be the root of why you feel bad. Now I’m gonna have to make some assumptions because I obviously don’t know for sure why you’re thinking the way you do, but if you’re like most people, you thought you were stopped “in the middle” because your partner didn’t cum. 

Which is totally normal. In our culture, we’ve all been trained to view sex as a means to an end. A way of getting from point A (not having an orgasm) to point B (having an orgasm). It starts when a penis enters a vagina and ends when a cis guy cums. 

But I’m gonna tell you a secret that will make your life so so much better. That’s bullshit. Sex is not a means to an end. Sex is an end. Sex is fun. You don’t have to have an orgasm. Your partner doesn’t have to have an orgasm. It starts when both/all parties say it starts and ends when one or more people say it ends. 

And this is the hardest thing to unlearn. It’s something I still struggle with all the time. But you should never ever ever feel bad for stopping sex for any reason. Sex is supposed to be fun and defining it by an orgasm takes the focus away from the sex itself. Orgasms are nice but they’re not necessary. Not for you. Not for your partner. 

In my own experience, have I stopped a partner before they’ve cum? You bet I have and I’m likely to again. For all sorts of reasons: I get tired, I feel sick, I get a back cramp, it starts to hurt, I plain don’t want to anymore, And I used to feel bad because like you, like so many people, I thought I was stopping in the middle, I thought I was negating the point of sex. But I wasn’t. Because the point of sex isn’t an orgasm. 

TL/DR:  Sex is not defined by someone’s orgasm. The end is not when a cis guy cums. Sex is an end in and of itself. The end is when one party says it ends. Do not feel bad about ending sex. 

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The language of academia can be so fucking pretentious and elitist. You can’t write a critical paper about people that won’t even understand what you’re trying to say. Plus, the need to make something that supposed to educate and facilitate the exchange of ideas, so complex and complicated to understand is ridiculous. If someone, as a scholar cannot break down complex ideologies and theories into a form that the average person can understand then what the fuck are you doing, honestly? Academia is not about a continuous circle-jerk with your PhD buddies. It’s about exchanging ideas and reaching people, from all walks of life and background. The world is bigger than people with JSTOR memberships.

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- House Of Leaves by Mark Z. Danielewski

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YOU DIDN’T WRITE ME LOVE POEMS, SO NOW I’M WRITING THEM FOR MYSELF. CAPITAL LETTERS ON MY HEADER SO PEOPLE KNOW I’M MAKING CHANGES YOU NEVER WOULD HAVE APPROVED OF. NO MORE SMALL VOICES HERE, I’M LAUGHING LOUD NOW, I’M SINGING WHERE OTHERS CAN HEAR ME, I’M PRETENDING THAT I’M ON STAGE BECAUSE MAYBE SHAKESPEARE KNOWS A LITTLE SOMETHING.  YOU NEVER PUSHED MY HAIR BACK BEHIND MY EAR.  YOU NEVER HELD ME GENTLY TO WAKE ME. YOU ONLY KISSED ME IF IT MEANT GETTING ME NAKED. YOU DIDN’T BUY ME CHOCOLATE. YOU NEVER DREW ME FLOWERS. WE WATCHED YOUR SHOWS AND LISTENED TO YOUR MUSIC AND ATE THE FOODS THAT YOU LOVED AND I TOLERATED. YOU NEVER HELD MY HAND LIKE YOU MEANT IT. WELL NOW I’M PUTTING IN EXTRA CONDITIONER AND LATHERING UP. I’M NOT WEARING MY HAIR LIKE I USED TO. I’M SOMEBODY ELSE NOW, AND I LOOK IT. MORNINGS ARE BLISS BECAUSE I RISE AND I MEAN IT. I KISS THE MIRROR BECAUSE I’M PRETTY AND PERFECT AND I DON’T NEED TO WAIT AROUND FOR YOU TO REMEMBER TO TELL ME IT, I KNOW IT. I DRAW MY OWN FLOWERS ON EVERYTHING I OWN, I BATHE IN THEM. I MARATHON SEASONS OF TELEVISION WITHOUT WORRYING THAT YOU’LL MISS SOMETHING. I LISTEN TO MY MUSIC SO LOUD THAT THE SPEAKERS START JUMPING. I EAT FOOD THAT FEELS GOOD AND I FEEL GOOD TO BE EATING. AND MY HANDS? THESE HANDS THAT HAVE SCOURED FLOORS AND YOUR SKIN AND HAVE HELD YOU AND HELD US TOGETHER AND PUSHED MYSELF INTO THE IDEA OF WHAT YOU WANTED AND SCRATCHED AND CLAWED AND NEVER TOOK ENOUGH? THESE HANDS ARE ATHENA. THESE HANDS ARE TEMPLE DOOR. THEY ARE WOLF ON THE PROWL. THESE HANDS DON’T NEED TO APOLOGIZE FOR WHERE THEY’VE BEEN, THEY KNOW AND THEY ARE HAPPY ABOUT IT. THESE HANDS COULD BUILD CITIES AND BURN DOWN ROME. THESE HANDS GROW GARDENS AND SEW WITH STEEL. THESE HANDS KNOW FIRE. THESE HANDS WRITE ME DESTINY, PAINT ME SKY, SWADDLE ME SLEEP. THESE HANDS ARE STRONG ENOUGH TO PULL ME TO SHORE. I AM FREE. I AM FREE. NO. I DON’T NEED YOU ANYMORE.

OUT OF ATHENS // R.I.D (via inkskinned)

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this pisses me off

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No writing is wasted. Did you know that sourdough from San Francisco is leavened partly by a bacteria called lactobacillus sanfrancisensis? It is native to the soil there, and does not do well elsewhere. But any kitchen can become an ecosystem. If you bake a lot, your kitchen will become a happy home to wild yeasts, and all your bread will taste better. Even a failed loaf is not wasted. Likewise, cheese makers wash the dairy floor with whey. Tomato gardeners compost with rotten tomatoes. No writing is wasted: the words you can’t put in your book can wash the floor, live in the soil, lurk around in the air. They will make the next words better.

ERIN BOW (via garnetglitter)

Ooh. I like this metaphor.

(via drst)

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medusa, trying to turn you to stone, but you accidentally called her “melissa” when you first walked in and now you’re too embarrassed to look at her. “it’s alright” she keeps saying “i get it all the time” but you still won’t look. u don’t even remember the stone thing until later

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I in my tiredness watch for softness. I lean against walls to hold them up, imagine them crumbling as I pull away. I in my aching look elsewhere for contact. For people holding hands or trying to. For people walking towards each other. I turn away before they reach each other and later wonder if they ever did.

Search | Ramna Safeer (via inkywings)