#Jaylin Smith

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Nick Visser at HuffPost:

A fraternity member who directed monkey noises at a Black University of Mississippi student during an anti-war demonstration was kicked out of the organization on Friday after video of the encounter spread on social media. “Phi Delta Theta General Headquarters is aware of the video regarding the student protest at the University of Mississippi,” the organization wrote in a statement on Sunday. “The racist actions in the video were those of an individual and are antithetical to the values of Phi Delta Theta and the Mississippi Alpha chapter.” “The responsible individual was removed from membership on Friday, May 3.”

The confrontation took place during student demonstrations at the University of Mississippi, or Ole Miss, on Thursday. Protesters gathered to voice their opposition to the U.S.’ support of Israel during the country’s ongoing war against Hamas following the Oct. 7 attacks, part of a growing wave of demonstrations on university campuses around the country. As a small group of students chanted “Free Palestine” and “Stop the Genocide,” they were confronted by a far larger bloc of counter-protesters. Videos of the encounter showed the counter-protest group growing aggressive, surrounding and yelling at the demonstrators. In a disturbing moment, a white student is seen making monkey noises directed at a Black woman as others taunt and cheer.

Videos of the counter-protesters were shared widely on social media and prompted support and adulation from Republicans. Mississippi Gov. Tate Reeves (R) said the response “warms my heart.” Rep. Mike Collins (R-Ga.) added his own cheers as the Black student was jeered, writing: “Ole Miss taking care of business.” Jaylin Smith, 24, told CNN she was the woman in the video. The Daily Mississippian, the university’s student newspaper, reported she was called “Lizzo” and various obscenities, with some chanting “Lock her up.”

James Staples, the man who was behind the racist monkey noises at a Black woman named Jaylin Smith during protests against Israel's genocide of Gaza, got booted from Ole Miss's Phi Delta Theta fraternity.

[imagineurwrld]

"she had always hated him."

[a short fiction piece about heartbreak and tragedy: a journey through a woman's hatred for the man she loves]

By Jaylin Smith

It was quite typical of him to disappoint her, to send her heart into panic with the shock of his unexpected actions. To bring her to anguish, to tear her emotions apart bit by bit, piece by piece until nothing but hatred for him remained as it festered into something greater to replace the lightness of her heart that he had stripped from her. 

It was all he could do, all he knew how to do, and she should not have expected anything more from a man she constantly found to be the root of all her devastation. The only thing he had been consistently capable of doing was making her hate him, if not making her curse the very occurrence that brought the two of them together. 

She had always hated him, this they both knew for a fact. She hated the way his full lips had stretched to form an arrogant smile the first day she met him, and the glint of mischief that swirled through his chocolate brown eyes each time her displeasure unveiled itself in an unflattered expression. She hated the sound of his voice, sly and dripping with palpable egotism as he enthusiastically engaged with her disdain for his physical being. She hated how quickly he came up with comebacks against her petty insults, how his eyes creased with his satisfied grin whenever she failed to counter his verbal attack.

She could have gone on and on about the things she’d despised about him from day one, for the list grew the longer she knew him. She hated how he hunched over his desk and chewed on the nail of his thumb with his legs spread apart, his dark lushes fluttering against his skin with each focused blink as he stared down at a map of a newly discovered land he prepared to explore. She hated how he walked a few feet ahead of her each time they proceeded into the dangers of the outside world, his shoulders broad as he swung his sheathed weapon cheerfully within his tight grasp. She hated how he sat uncharacteristically still and patient whenever she disinfected a gash on his cheek hours after a mission, eyes glistening with the everpresent vanity that failed to dispel himself even when wounded. 

He worked so hard to keep his walls high and his facade of confidence unwavering, as if he were horrified to provide a glimpse of the vulnerabilities that lurked beneath it to the girl who hated him so. He was difficult to read in dire situations. His eyes would gloss over in the face of crisis yet his lips remained curved into a smirk as he thrusted himself forth, certainly uncertain. It was near impossible to pick apart his true insecurities, his emotions, his real identity, and that only made her hatred for him grow. 

He was nothing but a mystery to her. He always had been, and she hated him for it. She hated how he actively chose to be an insufferable individual.

She hated the way he hurt her. The manner in which her heart would ache before dropping to her toes each time he turned up at her door in the wee hours of the morning, rain pounding mercilessly around him as it soaked into his blood stained clothing. Hot red fluid would ooze from his side, his leg, or his nose as his bruised hand clutched immaturely at the leaking wound. He would muster up that same, stupid, ugly, beautiful smile despite his condition, as if to gloat at the fact that he was still alive for her to tend to. 

It was only in those moments, however, when she noticed his smirk failing to meet his eyes. His features would instantly tighten from his pain brought about by his wreckless need to prove himself strong, and her heart would plummet further if it were even possible. She would pull him into her cabin, guiding his stumbling body to the beaten sofa he’d plopped down upon on countless occasions. The red stains were there to prove it.

In the silence of his unspoken humility, the storm crowded in and the crackle of the fire occupied the empty space that resided as she patched him up, fingertips dancing with red and her hatred for him blossoming the further her concern spread. 

When he was not taking advantage of her medical duties and suppressed regard for his safety, he found more creative ways to fuel her hatred like a roaring flame with his misdirected charm. 

Companied by his air of conceit was a desire to be loved and a remarkable talent at doing so. He would flash an intoxicating grin at a local town girl, void of the underlying mockery his smiles always held for the woman who hated him. The town girl, like many others, would swoon, taken by his natural born charisma and take his hand, leading the two off to a bed to share.

His self-proclaimed enemy had approached his home more times than she was willing to admit as a stranger with wild hair and lazy eyes stepped through his door to leave. They’d walk past her smelling of him, adorned shamelessly in an article of his clothing. He’d wear a proud look as he leaned against his doorway watching as the blood began to boil beneath her skin. She had been too blinded by her heart’s rage to notice how he’d always force his nightly visitors to leave just as he would see her walking up his pathway from the window. 

She never admitted it, but it killed her to watch. It killed her to see him giving himself so freely to other people, while he gave her nothing but reasons to turn her head away. 

She knew well that she could never recall a moment in which he brought her peace. He persisted as the reason she cried, the reason her blood boiled, and the reason she could not love another human being. He was nothing but a pain to her existence, a sickness that she could not shake, a fatal addiction that she could not quit. For those reasons, she was convinced that bringing her disappointment and anguish had been his sole purpose in life, his only reason for being. 

So she shouldn’t have been surprised then, when her eyes glazed over his limp body in horror, how it had been tossed so carelessly to the side of the dirt road atop the blood soaked soil beneath him. 

She fell to her knees, crawling ungracefully to gather his fading warmth within her gasp. She clung to him tightly, her arms and fingers doused in the red she had grown so accustomed to seeing in far less quantities. Her trembling hand reached over the torn fabric of his shirt and cautiously grazed the singed skin surrounding the hole in his chest to analyze the severity of his wound. This was one she could not fix. 

His heartbeat was dreadfully slow. It dragged on at a snail’s pace, dulling with each faint beat in his pulse. His breaths were labored, gurgled with blood.

She shouldn’t have been surprised as she gazed down into his heavy eyes as they stared blankly up at her. She could see her reflection in the pools of his sunken irises, his chestnut hair matted against his forehead, mixed with sweat and congealed blood. Her vision blurred over with fat tears as her finger traced his damp face lightly, the tears that only he could manage to bring about. Her lips parted to speak, to ask a question, to verify his signs of improbable life with a verbal address, but nothing came of her parted lips. Her breath caught in her throat and the saliva in her mouth had run dry.

There were no words. No insults, no petty remarks, no declarations of hatred to spare. Only stunned silence.

She shouldn’t have been surprised when he used his last bit of energy to curl his cracked lips into a smile, only it had been different from the hundreds of other times he had snarkily grinned at her. 

This smile was soft, gentle, tender. A glimmer of acceptance wavered within his graying orbs as his smirk attempted to soothe any sorrows he had caused, though he was actively committing the very worst of them all in that moment. Blood stained teeth displayed themselves the wider he smiled, which did nothing to ease her alarm. 

Slowly, and almost cautiously, he raised his hand. She broke her eyes away from him hesitantly to catch the movement out of the corner of her panicked glance and watched as his trembling fingers hovered above her own where they lay on his upper chest before settling down upon her skin calmly.

She could have jumped at the delicate touch and how foreign it felt coming from him. A hefty breath of air was sucked sharply into her lungs as she watched him closely, begging him to hold on for just a little while longer. 

He said nothing. 

The light faded from his eyes and his chest fell beneath their palms with his final exhale. His smile never fell. 

She wavered over him for a moment, breath still in her throat as her eyes frantically darted across his face. The world went quiet. Time had frozen over and sound was nothing but a high pitched ringing in her ears. The air was hot around her flushed cheeks and she sat there, holding him, feeling him, but he was already gone. 

For a few seconds, there was nothing. Then suddenly, there was. A cry. A coarse, blood-curdling scream that ripped from her chest and filled the stagnant air with her torment.                                                                                  . 

Anguish was what he had always brought her, even in his final moments. And as her head sank to the crook of his neck, she knew that she would forever hate him for the way that he had made her feel, and the pain that he caused her.

[cmweller]

Challenge #04052-K034: Test That Theorem

A kid who used their strength and size to bully other kids was sent to Lord Kormwind, Kosh to his friends, to try to teach him, the parents were at their wits end and needed help. He refused to listen to them anymore as his parents, weakened after having gotten sick, could no longer get him to stop hanging out with .... less than pleasant crowds. -- Anon Guest

Whitekeep never kept anyone in chains. It was one of the founding principals of the king's family. Broken chains were even part of his family crest. That was why Jaylin Smith was so sure of hirself. Even as the realm's guards forcibly escorted hir into the very castle at the heart of the realm.

The king wasn't going to imprison hir. Thrice-Sworn or not, no matter all the rumours about him, the king would never hurt a child. He was famous for that.

Jaylin had hir age in hir favour. What was the king going to do that no other grownup could? Ze'd learned that strength and power gave hir everything ze could want. Bigger and stronger than every other child in hir village. Ze could plausibly be punished by anyone bigger and stronger, but that would only prove hir right.

[Check the source for the rest of the story]

[worldburnrp]

Congratulations, JAYLIN & DONNY! Your characters have been accepted into WorldBurn. To proceed, please check out and complete our checklist and send in your character blog as soon as you can. Welcome!

Jaylin with Soledad Yildiz (Hande Ercel, Longe singer/Stripper, Civilian)

Donny with John Smith (William Popp, Hitman/Mercenary, the Syndicate)

[judesbelligoal]

https://www.tumblr.com/judesbelligoal/758364919386275840/httpswwwtumblrcomjudesbelligoal7583411509638

that simpeto guy is not jaylin smith lmao it’s just someone with the same name. he has a highlight of his actual girlfriend. it baffles me when yall dont put in the tiniest effort to confirm what yall saying

Oh 😯

[conandaily2022]

Jaylin R. Smith biography: 13 things about University of Mississippi alum

Jaylin R. Smith is an American woman born in Greenwood, Mississippi, United States. She went to Greenwood High School in Greenwood. Who is Jaylin R. Smith? Smith is an alumna of Mississippi Valley State University in Itta Bena, Mississippi, USA and the University of Mississippi in Oxford, Mississippi. Here are 13 more things about her: From August 2018 to May 2022, she attended Mississippi…

[internutter]

Challenge #04052-K034: Test That Theorem

A kid who used their strength and size to bully other kids was sent to Lord Kormwind, Kosh to his friends, to try to teach him, the parents were at their wits end and needed help. He refused to listen to them anymore as his parents, weakened after having gotten sick, could no longer get him to stop hanging out with .... less than pleasant crowds. -- Anon Guest

Whitekeep never kept anyone in chains. It was one of the founding principals of the king's family. Broken chains were even part of his family crest. That was why Jaylin Smith was so sure of hirself. Even as the realm's guards forcibly escorted hir into the very castle at the heart of the realm.

The king wasn't going to imprison hir. Thrice-Sworn or not, no matter all the rumours about him, the king would never hurt a child. He was famous for that.

Jaylin had hir age in hir favour. What was the king going to do that no other grownup could? Ze'd learned that strength and power gave hir everything ze could want. Bigger and stronger than every other child in hir village. Ze could plausibly be punished by anyone bigger and stronger, but that would only prove hir right.

[Check the source for the rest of the story]

[jrueships]

some more <3

Jabari smith jr: Sawyer

Alperen Şengün: Danny, Cats Don't Dance

Lu Dort: Morticia Addams

Shai Gilgeous-Alexander: Gomez Addams, the Addams family

Jalen Williams: Wednesday Addams

Jaylin Williams: Enid Sinclair, Wednesday

Some players and some characters i think they'd relate to without explaining why:

Kyle Lowry : Shaolin Fantastic

DeMar DeRozan: Ezekiel Figuero, The Get Down

Keldon Johnson : Brett Hand, Inside Job

Sauce Gardner : Vince LaSalle, Recess

Desmond Bane : Charlie, Smiling Friends

Jaren Jackson Jr. : Pim

Paul George: Dorian Gray

Kawhi Leonard: Basil Hallward, The Picture of Dorian Gray

Kris Dunn : Asuka Langley Soryu , neon genesis evangelion

[the-svagegiant]

Odell Beckham Jr. (L) and Jaylin Smith attend Nickelodeon's 2018 Kids' Choice Awards at The Forum on March 24, 2018 in Inglewood, California.(March 23, 2018 - Source: Frazer Harrison/Getty Images North America)

[imagineurwrld]

“poison”

notes from a woman afraid to love

Written by Jaylin Smith

A man’s worst crime is to love me. To break through the wall of brick that has been enforced to protect my venomous heart from itself and from others, to break through the wall that appears more formidable than it truly is. To see past the hardened exterior, past the strength and the skepticism. A man’s worst crime is to take my hand and lead me into a world free of stress, a world of happiness that will only ever be temporary.

The burden of perfection slips into the cracks of a wall built to keep it out, under management, under control. To be special is to be an image painted by a society that does not understand the inner turmoil that struggles to free itself. To be special is to be monitored, as a lioness monitors its cub before it can take so much as a step into the dirt and vine that litters the entrance of a seething jungle. What is good enough is no longer a choice but a standard to live by that rises and crashes down onto a soul, free, warm, bright, and drowns it in its tainted conceptions of what should and what should not be.

A poison festers within me, one that snaps and seeps into the veins of a person who mistakenly seeks my beauty. A warning, a plea that urges the other to turn away before it can get hurt is deafened by the euphoria of stumbling upon a love that I believed to be my own, and even my own heart grows ignorant to its own addresses as it melts pathetically.

A man’s worst crime is to love the unlovable, the sheltered, the venomous. To look into my eyes, to smile, to kiss, to hold, to sacrifice.

I am a flame that drags in a moth, a python that stalks an elk, the quicksand beneath unsuspecting feet because love is a true poison that I fail to have control over. For that I will never love again.

I am poison and I will never love again.

[imagineurwrld]

"a funny feeling"

the moment you realize that you have a crush

[written by Jaylin Smith]

Feelings come and go as quickly as the leaves fall from the trees in autumn, faster than birds fly from the intimidating rustle of trees signifying the presence of an unwelcome predator, and swifter than a human being can blink every second of every day. They are random, they are expected, they are unexpected. You think you can control them until you can’t. You think you can talk your way out of the pang in your heart each time your eyes catch a glimpse of their hair in the hallway until it begins to spiral out of control, beyond your control. You think you can stop it from blossoming before the words finally spill past your lips into a confirmation of the feelings that you have been dreading to speak into existence. It’s the vulnerability of it all, the shame, the fear, the hope, the giddiness, the regret, the disdain, that funny feeling. 

You don’t want to feel until you do. You don’t find comfort in the way your chest caves and your hands shiver at the thought of them with someone else, speaking civilly, smiling kindly, until it becomes comfortable. Until that flutter in your chest that rises the contents of your stomach to your throat becomes something you look forward to feeling. It’s a giddy feeling. It’s a frightening feeling. It’s a funny feeling.

You begin to notice things that you didn’t notice before. You begin to pay attention to their body language, to the curve in their brows, to the crease beneath their eyes each time they speak to you. You begin to seek their touch, their presence, their conversation even if it is just for a pitiful two to three seconds as you brush past each other in a crowded hallway. You begin to ponder their emotions, to believe that something inside you can spark some kind of telepathy that allows you to read their thoughts and deduce that they seek the same things from you that you do from them. You begin to overthink, to panic, to find them taking space in your dreams and waking up with a pit in your stomach that reminds you of the closeness that will only exist within your conjured realm of fantasy.

The dreams are the worst part.

They sneak up on you without warning, and there’s nothing to prepare you for the warmth that you feel ripped from your chest when you gain consciousness and revel in the fact that such a gloriously wonderful encounter could only happen within the confines of your own imagination. It hurts, it does. It hurts that your mind has the ability to tell you what you want without being aware of your own desires. It hurts to realize that what you truly, desperately want is something that will likely never come to you. And it happens again, and again, and again, until your heart can’t take the disappointment any longer. Until you force yourself to turn your head the other way when you catch a glimpse of their hair in the hallway, amid hundreds of other heads that seem to blur in their presence.

It’s such a strong feeling, once you admit that it is taking precedence over your thoughts. It’s one that grows stronger the more you open up and accept the emotion. It’s powerful, and it makes you smile. It makes you laugh. It makes you sad, because you care deeper for them than you realized before you submitted to the admittance. It’s not love. It’s not complicated or sophisticated, it’s just a funny feeling.

[judesbelligoal]

sunisa lee is single. she was with jaylin smith but they don’t even follow each other on instagram no more and she took down their pic together

Literally knew she was into brothas lmao

[imagineurwrld]

"words of a breakup"

the argument that makes a boy realize that his relationship is ending

[written by Jaylin Smith.]

My heart stopped as the blood drained from my face and silence rang in my ears until they felt like they were going to burst. It felt as though I had been punched in the gut as all the oxygen flew from my chest with a single puff of air.

My body ached, my head throbbed, my eyes blurred over with the sea as I looked over her face. That beautiful, angelic face that I once thought could never do me any harm.

My brows drew together so tightly that it stung the skin on my forehead, but I was too distracted by my devastation to notice the physical pain then.

I watched the anger crumble from her face when the weight of what she had just said crushed in on her, the sharpness of the dagger she plunged into my abdomen sheathing back into her side from out of mine.

I was frozen, unsure of what to do or say, choking on the heartache that bubbled steadily within me. I wanted to cry, but I fought against it. Rather poorly, I’ll admit. The lump in my throat grew harder to swallow when her lips turned in a frown, one of remorse and love that always used to warm me with its presence.

She regretted it. I could tell, but it was too late. Now all I felt was the cold.

[imagineurwrld]

"muse."

[blurb written through the perspective of a stone bust: in which a sculpture admires the woman who paints it]

written by jaylin smith.

I shiver under her gaze. It is intense, hard. Her eyes glimmer with frustration, passion, curiosity, an urge to see beneath the surface of my face and into my soul. She searches for my beauty as she attempts to recreate it with nothing but her visual perception and the long stem pinched between her bony fingers. 

I see hers clearly. Her beauty, that is.

I could watch her for hours, days, just as she does me. I could write a book about each eyelash that curls upward above her dark iris, sing a song about the magical way in which the sunlight touches her golden skin as it leaks through the window and onto her crouched figure, providing the only source of light she gives herself access to when she perches herself onto that small stool and stares. 

I wonder if her back aches. If her hands cramp up and neck seizes uncomfortably in its stretched, craned state. I wonder if when she retreats to bed each night, she winces in pain as she discovers cricks in her back that she struggles desperately to stretch away. I wonder if she suffers after she stares for hours, days, weeks. If she endures uncomfortable conditions to capture me on that canvas.

I would endure uncomfortable conditions to capture her. To take her place and watch. To place her before me and study her heavenly features.

She frustrates herself as an artist. Despite her omnipotent talent, her mind conjures horrible inaccuracies that send her jumping from her seat after tossing her wet brush angrily to the side, paint splattering the hardwood floors in the process. 

She would step away for only a few seconds at a time, running her ringed hands over her face with brief, hefty puffs of air. She’ll turn around to circle back again, switching her gaze between me and the canvas. I can see her thoughts spinning, working to relieve her mind of her short-lived stress. 

She sits back down, picks up the brush, and proceeds. Time and time again.

How much turmoil must I cause her brain each day, each hour, each week? How must I atone for my impact? I have no arms to embrace her with, no muscles to flash a comforting smile. My state restricts me from providing solace and relentlessly reminds me that I am nothing but stone in her way.

I fret over the irritation I arise until she settles back into her daze, gliding her orbs of chocolate brown over the structure of my crafted face.  I get lost in her gaze and forget that there was ever anything to fret over. 

This beauty goes uncaptured, left to roam free about the world without documentation, without study, without its image hanging high up on a gallery wall for others to admire. This beauty that sacrifices her own to study mine. She is flesh, and bone. Cinnamon and vanilla. Browns, yellows, reds, and creams, and I remain the same. Stiff, blank, still and emotionless. She calls my immoveable plainness beauty and desperately aims to recreate it, yet I know that if she were sitting before herself in my position, she’d finally recognize her own unfathomable artistry, and that my own could not even begin to compare.

The curve of her thick brows, the subconscious twitch of her nose, the gentle nudge of pearly teeth sinking into plush lips glossed with saliva, a result of constantly and anxiously wetting them with her tongue. The bump in the ridge of her rounded nose and the kind sharpness of her jaw that is emphasized each moment she turns to dip her brush into a cup of turpentine and oil. 

What incandescent, unfathomable, fascinating beauty. 

Beauty that belongs in the halls of the Louvre, expertly crafted by the hands of the greatest names known to art history. 

And even within the security of the walls of the most luxurious museum, locked behind the finest security and guarded by the finest men, no institute would be able to contain the unbridled, unfiltered artistry that is she. My muse.