#unopress

[love-me-love-my-weirdness]

people who crank it gore also deviate from the societal norm, maybe you should claim them as queer too

I'm going to answer this because there's been a lot of discourse around the post where I stated polyamorous people are queer and the vast majority of people who are saying things like anon are radfems who think that anyone who isn't LGB is just a straight white person looking for attention, which is so wrong.

So hi! I'm a lesbian, agender, BIPOC, disabled mentally and physically, AFAB and polyamorous.

I don't need to be polyamorous to be queer in your eyes or to be opressed in others. I don't need to be polyamorous to have limited marriage rights, health rights and financial rights. Yet I am.

A lot of polyamorous relationships have bi women in them. Are they so unopressed that they have to use being polyamorous as a way to "get into the queer community"?

I’m not trying to ‘claim’ any individual as being queer. I’m saying that an identity that falls under the LGBTQ+ umbrella is queer. The only person who can say that you are queer is you. It’s not a label to push onto other people and I’m not trying to push it onto other people.

I'm trying to say that the gatekeeping is ridiculous, that being polyamorous is a queer identity, that transphobia shows a lack of understanding and ignorance and that assuming only white straight men are polyamorous is completely untrue.

[dryndelicate]

Next combo: Mohair & Hijab

Just my 5 cents regarding hijabs here:

I'm an atheist, who thinks that freedom of religion, in private practice, is an important achievement, and that it includes tolerating certain styles of dress even in public or the workplace, given a consenting and unopressed wearer. That also means that any day longer, that Chamenei and his cronies are in power, is a day too many.

My fascination is always tied to the fabrics and patterns involved. The whole point of this blog is that women dressed in certain ways are far more interesting than their bare skinned counterparts. That can include covering the head with some glossy, silky, high quality scarf.

[sfsucw]

Publishing Lab Prize

The Publishing Laboratory at the University of New Orleans seeks to bring innovative publicity and broad distribution to authors. They collect submissions from March 1 to August 31, deciding on 15-20 finalists. The finalists are read by students from The Publishing Laboratory in the fall, and one is chosen for publication.

Please submit your entire manuscript via Submittable. The selected author will receive a ten thousand dollar ($10,000) advance on royalties and a contract to publish with the University of New Orleans Press. The work does not have to be regionally focused. There is no word limit. There is no restriction on subjects covered. The contest is open to all authors from around the world, regardless of publishing history.  Works of fiction (novels and short story collections) only. Submission fee: $28.00.

https://www.uno.edu/unopress/lab

[sixteenthtower]

The chad too opressed to be White Irish (Independent for decades) v.s. the virgin unopressed Northern Irish (still colonised)

i found the second funniest map in the world today

[mlmopinionsblog]

The Journey That Led Me to Book Blogging and Reviewing

The Journey That Led Me to Book Blogging and Reviewing

You know when I started this blog I couldn’t find a reason to keep writing. I would have a million ideas of what I wanted to do but I would never commit to it. At first, I thought about making it personal. Putting myself out there for all to see and emotions and what not, but that’s not me.

I’m not that girl. I hate sitting around and discussing our feelings and what not, no point in it. Which…

[celebl]

It’s gonna be 15 degrees today!!! exciting!

[julek]

for @melti-ng <3

The forest is devoid of sound, only the barely-there crackle of the firewood filling the silence. Stars are draped over the dark sky, moonshine spilling over the treetops, bathing the ground in silver light as a soft breeze carries through the air, the faint scent of jasmine and orange moving with it. 

Gentle fingers card through Geralt’s hair, his head resting on Jaskier’s lap. He looks up, the shimmering sky unfocused in the background, and he can feel a smile falling easy on his lips. It’s been a while since he’d felt truly at peace, as if suddenly the world had stopped turning and all its monsters and injustice had vanished, leaving him with only the stars as his guide, the steady thrum of Jaskier’s heartbeat as his compass. 

Jaskier traces small circles across Geralt’s sunkissed skin, shining golden against the firelight. They’d been walking the worn-out roads at an unhurried pace, enjoying the last days of spring as the sun hung high in the sky and the rivers were clear and fresh, no final destination ahead of them. It was as domestic as they could get — Jaskier’s hunger for adventure and novelty couldn’t keep him still, and the Witcher had never been one for stagnation, either. 

Their life had slowly, almost imperceptibly taken on a different rhythm. Early mornings greeted them with practiced ease, the wind tousling Jaskier’s hair and brushing sleep off his face, and late afternoons found them warm and comfortable, only a breath away. Monsters were slain and audiences were pleased, occasional banquets which found Geralt dressed in his finest clothing, disinterestedly swirling wine in a goblet while Jaskier enthralled the room with his ballads — means to an end, really, for these were the nights Geralt treasured the most, when a wicked smile would paint the bard’s lips, his hair disheveled and his cheeks bright, and he’d be the one to take him home. 

They hadn’t reached the coast, not yet. The Continent’s forked roads and treacherous trails took them in every direction, deep into Kaedwen or just shy of the Korath, Geralt would always have work to do. Maybe the coast was nothing but a dream, just a purely idyllic point of reference, a stray thought that lived in the back of their minds — still, whenever they could taste the salt in the air and the deep blue wasn’t as far from sight as it’d been before, Geralt couldn’t help but smile, contentedness splaying across his chest. Even if the coast remained a gentle reminder for rainy days or winters spent apart, it was their secret to keep.

Now, as Jaskier hums under his breath and traces Geralt’s eyebrows with his fingertips in a forest in the middle of nowhere, Geralt feels at ease. The gentle rise and fall of Jaskier’s chest next to him and the worn but still soft fabric of his breeches against his cheek ground him, anchor him to the life he —finally— chose for himself.

“You’re thinking hard tonight,” Jaskier murmurs, and Geralt can hear the smile on his voice, “I can tell.”

Geralt opens his eyes and cornflower blue is all he can see. Jaskier’s thumb is slowly caressing his cheek, warmth radiating from where their skin meets. Geralt moves his hand up and catches Jaskier’s, stilling his movements and bringing it up to his mouth, kissing the tender inside of his wrist.

“Thinking ‘bout you.”

Jaskier purses his lips over a smile, the tip of his nose going up like it does whenever he feels exposed. He’s good with words, weaving them into beautiful tales of adventure and turning hardships into stories worth telling. Geralt knows it’s the way he’s been taught —long before Oxenfurt— that a young man must present himself, embellishing their intentions with hollow eloquence, showering their audience with attentive praise, if somewhat exaggerated. Geralt knows it’s the way he chooses to carry himself; has been there for seemingly endless furious rants, has heard tender, passionate love confessions directed at people unworthy of such adoration. He knows now, that just as he carries silver and steel on his back, Jaskier’s got an arsenal of his own.

Still, when it comes to Geralt, he often finds himself at a loss for words. His flourished speech seems to falter, his extensive vocabulary suddenly sparse — because it’s real. Geralt’s affection is vehement and unopressive, intense but gentle, straight out of his heart; which is why Jaskier can’t hide behind extraordinary phrasing, can’t find it in himself to deflect such raw honesty with empty words.

“Me?” he says, his voice small. 

“You.” Geralt locks their fingers together and holds their hands to his pulse, then untangles them. “Thank you.”

“What for?”

“Loving me.” He presses a kiss to each of Jaskier’s knuckles, one by one. “I know it’s… I know it must be hard. Harder, some days. Thank you for staying.”

Jaskier’s heart shrinks, constricting his chest. He inhales slowly, watching the flames paint shadows across Geralt’s face.

“Loving you is the easiest thing I’ve ever done,” he says. “You make it easy. You take me as I am, and you ask for nothing in return.”

Geralt’s brows are knitted together in a tiny frown, and he looks up at Jaskier, amber glowing in the firelight. 

“I would have loved you even if you hadn’t loved me back,” he continues, “because I can’t think of anyone I’d rather spend my life with, Geralt, I— I love you for free.”

He takes Geralt’s face in his hands, his fingers running along his jawline. The Witcher looks at him and he knows he’s trying to pick him apart, trying to find deceit or false modesty in his words.

“I do,” he says, honesty bleeding through. “Thank you for letting me.”

Geralt smiles at him, and Jaskier wants to kiss him, but the angle is awkward, so he kisses his forehead, instead.

“We’re not far from Cidaris,” he says, and Jaskier tilts his head, confused. “Let’s go to the coast.”

Jaskier laughs softly, and Geralt wonders what his eyes will look like with the blue ocean behind him, if the sun will paint his skin bronze. He wonders if they’ll find a nice cottage on a cliff where no one can find them, one with wooden floors and high windows and flowers for Roach to eat, and a desk for Jaskier to write. He wants to know. 

“Okay,” Jaskier replies. “Let’s go.”

[mvsfast]

I can't breathe

Silently the majority of the unopressed watch and see

I can't breathe

Privileged eyes they proceed

I can't breathe

Too much black content on there feed

I can't breathe

As he took his last breath

I can't breathe.

Rest in Power George Flyod.

The revolution will be televised.

[peachie-frog]

Since the Littles got one, so do the caregivers. Y’all need to actually speak up. So many caregivers just go with the flow of what their Little need and disregard things that concern them or things they don’t enjoy. You can’t be irritated that your little demands more of your attention than you can give if you never tell them that. You can’t be angry that your little pushes your buttons in ways you don’t like if you don’t tell them that. So many of you in a desire to be laid back and unopressive simply end up unhappy in your relationships as a caregiver because you haven’t put your own boundaries in place. You’re not doing yourself any favors by doing whatever they need without considering how you feel, all you’re going to do is end up resenting your little and feeling disappointed in your relationship.

[jagiaofficial]

What kind of faith that Barak has?

1. Unself-evident faith

2. Undisputed faith

3. Unopressed faith

Patricio Calo-oy

#PrayAsOne #HallOfFaith #FaithOfBarak #TheFaithOfATimid

[angell-duust]

There are many visceral art pieces of women depicted as objects to prove a point, and while I want to appreciate those points, I’ve come to a place where I only trust women to make such a point. A man creating a sculpture of a woman as an object, to me, reflects some form of desire due to the socialization that has occurred. I think fundamentally making a point about an oppressed group through art is best done through that group, and it is the responsibility of the unopressed group to showcase the artists work rather than do it themselves.

[irefusetoputnumbersinmyname]

welcome 2019

everyone opressed is now unopressed and the unopressed are now opressed and buttons they are here aswell

[gonetothemoon]

I'd invite you but im busy being unopressed.

[bonediggercharleston]

NO! NO CHILD LEFT BEHIND! NO GAMER LEFT UNOPRESSED!

Fucking RIP Mr Boonchuy literally every week

[sfsucw]

The University on New Orleans Press is now accepting submissions for their Publishing Lab Prize. Now entering its eighth year, the UNO Press Publishing Lab is looking for full length fiction manuscripts, either short story and novella collections or novels, for this year’s prize. The selected author will receive a ten thousand dollar ($10,000) advance on royalties and a contract to publish with UNO Press. The work does not have to be regionally focused. There is no word limit. There is no limit on subjects covered. Please enter your manuscript through Submittable with a $28 submission fee. Deadline is August 31, 2022. UNO Press is based at the University of New Orleans and distributed by Hopkins Fulfillment Services. For more information on the Lab Prize, please visit uno.edu/unopress/lab

[helshades]

I feel awkward in the radical feminist community. I love women, I love homosexual women. But I find myself unable to be attracted to women sexually. I hate men, men are complete trash. Sometimes I'm dismissed right away because I'm het. If I say such a thing I immediately get the 'oh poor unopressed het girl is being discriminated against' kinda stuff. & I'm just like-that's not what I'm saying? Idk I just don't get it. I understand we face different types of oppression, but we're all women...

Some women are more equal than others, apparently?

Honestly, feminist theory doesn’t vaccinate people against being complete arseholes, and there are straight-up bullies out there attempting to pass as feminists who care for women when they only ever care about is to take their own frustrations and unresolved issues out of somebody else—and it’s always bound to be on other women, because we make more familiar, easier targets, what with being less liable to harm them back. I mean, we’re all still conscious of the patriarchy around us, and those people take special care not to disturb it.

I’ll confess to the shameful truth: I don’t hate men. In my opinion, this isn’t quite the same as ‘worshipping’ them, though, or there would be an awful lot of things to worship in life, which sounds really exhausting. Truth be told, I’m always going to be reluctant to hate anybody, especially based on a fact of nature, be it a certain set of sexual characteristics. The fact that I don’t hate men as a class doesn’t mean that I love or even like them all indiscriminately based on their having a penis to which I could be attracted, either. I’ve rarely ever met people as a class in my life, mostly as individuals. And individually, I’ve been beaten and terrorised my whole childhood and formative years by my own mother, the last in a long line of abusive women, growing up I’ve met female bullies, then women with much ambition and no empathy—and today, look at those harpies! Frankly, I think horrendousness is pretty evenly distributed in the human species, and that patriarchal societies merely allow for its expression in codified ways…

One certain thing is that you can’t be blamed for the horrible experiences you have had with men so far, and no one should tell you to keep rushing to them till you find the Right One or some other harmful fantasy; better be alone than in bad company, indeed. You don’t owe anyone to struggle against yourself in order to try to see whether this time you won’t be hurt. The other side of that coin being that you cannot change your sexual orientation and suddenly become a bisexual or a homosexual to replace potential male partners with female ones… I suppose that if conversion therapy worked, we’d know by now, wouldn’t we. At this moment, I would understand and sympathise if you you were made to feel very lonely. I know many women who would tell you that even when you don’t hate men you must rely on a keen sense of judgement and a non-negligible dose of luck to locate non-hateful people to date, let alone with whom to have a relationship. At times it feels like an insurmountable task.

I can tell you that within the so-called ‘community’ of radical feminists with whom I’ve been interacting on Tumblr, most sound like sensible, warm people with a keen sense of solidarity, overall a bunch of kind-hearted cynics with an unshakeable reserve of hope that some would hate to see me mention out loud. Good people. Perhaps not perfect, yes, too intransigent sometimes, for sure, and at times a little too materialistic, in a Marxist sort of sense, but not unwelcoming provided you don’t make yourself too much of a tit. Alas, like with all political movements, it often seems like the incoherent extremists, as egotistical and contradictory as they are, are the ones yelling the loudest and generally shunning everyone else by being so obnoxiously visible. They won’t be the death of feminism, obviously, but they may well slow us down. I wish they’d finally vacate the premises to go fund Termagantia in the middle of some desert, the rest of us could finally hear ourselves think.