Please spread this bc they already face enough hate as it is

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Please spread this bc they already face enough hate as it is

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why not both?
My parents live in this town and the city legally canât tear the tree down to build or anything because the tree has its own legal rights and they canât do anything about it.
I love this story because this guy in the early 1800âs had so many great childhood memories of this tree and wanted to make sure it was protected no matter what. So he deeded the ownership of the tree to itself and everyone just went with it.
Then in 1942 this intense windstorm came and knocked the tree over. And people were bummed. But someone had saved an acorn from the original tree, so they planted that and now Son of the Tree That Owns Itself is over 50 feet tall.
And since this new tree is technically the offspring of the original tree itâs considered to have legally inherited the plot of land itâs inhabiting.
Two generations of trees owning land is amazing and if you donât think this is the coolest thing get right out of my face.
Tomorrow is September 11th. If you see somebody being Islamophobic toward Muslims or non-Muslim Arabs and Sikhs, don't stand by and do nothing. Shut that shit down!
Also, Eid Al Adha is ON September 11th, so any insistence weâre celebrating 9/11 is ABSOLUTELY FALSE. Correct anyone on this if you can. I fear that there will be hate crimes because of this false assumption.
Reblog In 5 seconds for good luck
âthis worked last night lets go for round two

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Concept: we are together. you are sleeping with your body wrapped around mine. it is quiet. my mind is calm. we are happy.
frida kahlo was a disabled mexican communist feminist heart-breaker who hated the capitalist bourgeoisie (esp the american), was close friends with trotsky, had many affairs with women and men alike, dressed in masculine + feminine clothing whenever it suited her, darkened her facial hair, and painted extremely subversive pieces which touched on aota+MORE. frida kahlo was a bad ass revolutionary in almost all regards and i hope all u trendy indie white ppl know this cultural significance when u wear her face on ur bodyÂ
i was making a lot of mistakes and then my archery instructor said:
âyou make mistakes because youâre focusing on the target and not on your actionsâ
and i was like woah
thanks for giving me the best life advice iâve ever gotten
guys just think about how applicable this is to EVERYFUCKINGTHING
why are boys hot and cute like wtf take a break
half of the notes on this post are people going âum i think you meant girls and also i hate boys they are disgustingâ and the other half is boys going âthis isnt about me nobody could ever feel that way about meâ like do you maybe see a connection here?? and also could you stop??
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December. Tentative flirtations. Fluttering stomach And a smile I canât hold back. Cold hands against warm heart. First dates Sushi and Christmas parties. âWhy are you with me?â you ask. You call me an angel and say that you are not good enough. I thumb your cheeks and promise that you are. Yule. Temple. Pagan and Jewish Shy and proud. âCongratulationsâ from them. âMay I touch you?â from you. Only if you love me. You swore that you loved me.
January. Nervous. Your birthday. What do I buy you? Novelties. Jokes. My hands and feet are too cold against your skin. I use your skin to warm them. I draw on your naked flesh. Dragons and princesses and evil wizards Angels and devils and all the stories you tell me. A party. Weâre both drunk. A night that I do not remember Except we fell asleep together and woke up together And I loved you.
February. Flowers and chocolates. Roses and lilies. You like the classics and I tease you about it. Iâm sick and struggle with school. You urge me, âOne more semester.â I drop out. I am weak and not good enough. âYouâre everything I asked for.â You decide. âLetâs get a snake.â Itâs a twenty year commitment. Can you promise me twenty years together? âOf course.â And so we get a snake. And I love you. March. Living together with roommates. Third month in progress. I am depressed and you are bipolar. We struggle. âIt wonât always be easy.â It isnât. You were right. We pull through. Your hands stroke and tug my hair. We try new things. Even with your attentions I feel lonely. We get drunk and I bemoan that you see me bent over a toilet. You swear that I am beautiful even still. I start writing you love letters Because I am terrified to tell you in person How much I love you. I hide them between the pages of a journal. I say âWith all my heart.â You say âThatâs an awful lot.â
April. I bring you and our roommates into A celebration of Ostara. They mock me And I end the celebration early. We go about our night as usual And when we go to bed And I put marker to your skin You tell me that the celebration was beautiful. I feel less sad and more sad somehow. I write you love letters that I hide away. You bring me flowers And struggle with work. Your cheekbones are familiar beneath my thumbs Your hands a comfort on my skin. I help you with your frustrations But do not dare voice mine. I say âWith all my heart.â You say âAnd all my soul.â
May. For my birthday You surprise me with a camping trip that I must pay for. I understand. You show me the redwoods And the ocean. Things that I had never seen before. We camp beneath the stars and I feel magick in the air. We fancy ourselves pro campers The expert couple in the woods. I am only the second girl to meet your grandparents. Your grandfather talks and smacks his lips. Your grandmother smiles and hugs us both. One night in the redwoods And we drive eight hours home And I am so in love with you. We talk about marriage and kids And a goat farm in Oregon. We make plans for the future. Should we elope? Perhaps tomorrow. June. We try for children of our own. You ask and I am thrilled to say yes. The river is clean and still cold. We swim and I turn purple. You swath me in towels and affection. When we return with friends and it is a little warmer And I turn purple again and apologize You shake your head. I retrieve my own towel and laugh. When youâre with this particular friend Things seem to change between us. You touch me only when he is not looking Or else only at my prompting. When it is you and I and him and others I feel lonely And forgotten. Your eyes stray my way with apology. I forgive. At night I brush your cheekbones with my thumbs And when you fall asleep I cry Because my depression has coaxed me. I am not enough. I am scared.
July. You leave me with my tears Alone in our bed To go to him. He is struggling And so I understand and do not protest. My familyâs annual trip comes And I beg that you come And you do and I love you for it. I love you for it. I write you love letters and hide them away. Itâs just us and family Just our hands intertwined And sneaking kisses when no one is looking. Youâre old-fashioned and so am I. My mothers worry that you arenât affectionate to me And I laugh. They do not know you as I do. All of my doubts And my loneliness Disappear. A week of play is followed by a week of work And play again. The redwoods again This time with that friend And that which you promised me seems to be forgotten As he grows impatient with us And urges you to be impatient with me. You wander the beach with him Forgetting that you also wander with me. Forgetting me by the shore. And I am scared. I am not enough. August. It is midnight and I cannot stop sobbing. You wake and understand immediately what is happening Or at least that I am crying and you do not know why. How do I tell you that I am afraid? For every love letter that I had written you, Too cowardly to tell you with my voice how I love you, I voiced to you twenty times that I was not enough. I sobbed because I knew that you were starting to believe it. You no longer dreamed with me of our goat farm No longer said we could keep chickens but that I would have to handle them No longer wanted children No longer met my eyes with apology when you forgot me. Your fingers caress my shoulders every passing Until the day they stop. We talk. You urge me to find myself To figure out who I am. I begin to. I begin to understand myself and reveal to you who I am. I write you a love letter One that I do not hide in a journal for the future But that I give to you like a secret. I start to feel human. I come home from shopping. âWe need to talk.â I fall to my knees when you say the words because I know. âI donât think we can be together. Iâm not happy. I donât know who I am anymore.â August. I find myself empty. My home was a person And that person could no longer look at me. My best friend was gone as surely as if he had died. I struggle and weep Homeless and without someone to hold me and promise the future. You behave as though you had only lost an accessory And a broken one at that. It helps me understand. I decide that I can be happy without you. I decide that I need to find myself This time without your help. I start to heal Sleeping on the couch and searching for my own place. It only takes you five days to bring another girl home And you have sex with her in the bed that had been ours And you regret it. I apologized to you that night. Why did I apologize? I realize now that I had spent our whole relationship apologizing. I had spent our whole relationship telling you that I wasnât good enough. I had spent our whole relationship letting you consume me. And when I was just a husk you did with me what one should with husks. And I was thrown away And I am still rebuilding myself. I love you But not the way I did. No longer are you the love of an âAlwaysâ But you are now the love of a âOnce.â I gave you the love letters and a final note Where I let go. I let go. And it still hurts But I let go.
Watch: The most wonderful moment of joy came when he entered a Nazi guard bungalow.
We are the last generation who can hear from these survivors directly. Do not take that lightly. Do not waste that opportunity. Do not forget your freedom isnât infinitely guarenteed. And do not, do not, let it happen again.
*Color*face
Since Tumblr cannot tell racism apart from sharing culture, I would like to point something out.Â
This is yellowface:
This is not:
This is blackface:
This is not:
*color*face is the intentional mockery of a race by imitating an epitomized and perceived stereotype,typically for comedy purposes. *color*face is not a person sharing in a culture or doing something you assume was âinventedâ by another race. *color*face is not an actor who happens to play a character of a different race. *color*face is not someone with a tan. *color*face is not someone cosplaying as a nonhuman.
So to recap,
Blackface:
not blackface:
Yellowface:
not yellowface:
There ya go
-Yuki
Keep this one moving, itâs a lesson a large portion of this website needs drilled into their heads.
This new procedure is making it a little bit easier to deal with cancer treatment
Cancer patients who are undergoing chemo no longer have to suffer hair loss. A new cooling treatment, called the Dignicap, is placed on the head during chemo and protects the hair follicle by reducing blood flow. The process can be expensive, sometimes up to $600, but so far itâs been very effective and has helped cancer patients feel a little more comfortable throughout their treatment.
(via @seekernetwork)
Having seen many patients in my last couple weeks of heme mourn the loss of their hair, I can say that itâs not just about vanity. Hair for a cancer patient means that they are not yet defined by their disease. Itâs a vestige of who they were before their diagnosis. If my hospital wasnât so fucking broke, I would totally get these for all my patients.
Some Disney comics I made for a mini zine years back but didnât post all of them online anywheres! Here you go.
Emmy is a goddamn national treasure. I am surprised at all times that Nick Cage isnât hunting for her, I really am
The mulan one!

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this movie ruined my life
what made this movie so remarkable is that It was one of very few at the time that did not glorify how smart someone is, and instead taught how how many hundreds of times better kindness is. And that, in my opinion, is a very underrated thing.Â
Something that I think goes over a lot of peopleâs heads at this scene is why Jenny reacts the way she does. Her mom died when she was a kid and her father sexually abused her so the police took her away to live with her grandmother. So when when she grew up, she had a lot of problems going on that were a result of her bad childhood.
She doesnât say, âI donât wanna marry you.â She says, âYou donât wanna marry me.â A lot of people misinterpret this and call her cold and heartless for it but sheâs not refusing Forrest because she doesnât love him, itâs because she doesnât love herself.
Break Through From Your Mold By Zenos Frudakis located in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA.