-weird fanhuman-

Bees are hardworking (like, SO hardworking, the most hardworking, always busy, always doing something)

Bees are completely dedicated to what they do, to what matters, and what matters to them are things that benefit everyone and not just them

Bees are patient, successfully reaching goals one little flower at a time, and there are no shortcuts–every flower matters

Bees are fair and loyal to their own, everything they do is based on cooperation and reciprocity

Bees are stronger in numbers, which fosters acceptance of everyone  because every individual is useful, and encourages to value those around, to learn to be a team player, yet also carry your own weight because every individual success benefits the whole community

Bees are small but fierce, they’re not born to hurt but can be dangerous when provoked and will sting when they absolutely must

Some bees die after stinging, which means that they won’t throw damage around like no big deal–harming another person takes something away from you too, so you should always be mindful of how you treat others, and first prioritize other ways of solving issues before resorting to attack

Bees are inseparable from nature as we know it, they are vital to the survival of many other organisms, and they also perfectly fit with the widespread “flower child” Hufflepuff aesthetic

Bees don’t burrow in earth like badgers do, but they build honeycombs that also resemble Hufflepuff common room design (tunnel-like spaces, circular shapes, honey color scheme, etc.)

Bees are black and yellow like hello???

My mother also talked about periods to my brothers.

When I first got mine I had terrible cramps. Crippling cramps. I once was camping with my family and a few of my big brother’s friends when my period came. My cramps were so bad that my mom gave me a full pain killer ( I was 13 and before that she only gave me pills cut in half).

I literally laid down on my parents’ air mattress and cried in pain for an hour before the pill kicked in.

My brothers friend came in to the big tent and I was just curled up and sobbing. Now, I was quite the tomboy and was known to rough house with my brothers and their friends and made sure I wasnt seen as just “a little girl.” So my brother’s friend was confused to see me openly weeping in the fetal position (seriously, these were the worst cramps I have had in my life. My vision went white). He asked what was wrong with me.

My big brother stood up immediately and suggested a nice long hike. During this hike I am sure he had a pretty awkward conversation with his friend explaining menstrual cramps, because when they got back the pain pill had (mostly) kicked in and I was sitting up at a table when my brother’s friend sheepishly asked me if I was feeling better. I said I was better, and he said good.

When we made s'mores that night my brother and his friend kept me well supplied with chocolate.

Making sure sons know as much about periods and menstruation as daughters makes them better brothers, better sons better fathers, and better men. A man that understands a period will not lightly accuse a woman of “being on her period” if the woman is in an argument.

Someone: Are you SURE? Older adoptees present UNIQUE CHALLENGES

I’m real over it. If I become a foster mom to a 17 year old kid and I get the privilege of the option to adopt them? You better believe I am legally making that kid mine.

“They’ll be a legal adult in no time, why spend the money to adopt? They’ll be aged out of the system.”

There’s no aging out of family, Marvin.

“They might be rebellious or smoke or do drugs or steal things! What if they won’t listen to you?”

Then I guess I’ll have to step up and do some fruxking parenting, Stanley.

“You want to adopt problem children then?”

frosted balloons, and pink ribbons, and red cake for the blood that has not left the womb for nine months,

red for life and for pain and for lipstick,

and when the blood and the life leaves the womb it will be swaddled in soft femininity and it will feed on the teat of patriarchy. they will say you’re a sinner for letting her touch that toy truck, you’re a sinner for teaching her to defend herself, you’re a sinner for

letting her leave the house like that, but all she knows now is how to

gnaw on barbie’s head until it’s chewed and slimy with saliva. you don’t claim to be god but

you won’t bind her hands with pages from the bible.

and today it’s the second day of kindergarten. when a boy steals her unmellow yellow crayon it’s because he likes her,

and tomorrow she passes through the freudian phallic stage without losing her sense of identity, and when she’s thirteen her dad’s friend slides his hand onto her thigh under the table

keeps it there the entire dinner because he likes her, and she still

can’t smell lasagna without gagging. when she’s sixteen she lets her friend’s brother kiss her

because the boys at school call her pancake chest

his tongue tastes like an ashtray limp and slimy in her mouth, and after she brushes her teeth three times she lies in her bed and cries. God, she says,

God why am i here? and he says one day you will make a penis erect and you will know.

the next day a suit on the subway undresses her with his empty eyes,

so when the barista asks for 3.99, her number, and half of her soul she complies. splits it down the middle where the bone is and hands it over in exchange for

a soy milk latte.

by seventeen she is tired of lugging god’s most precious gift to

school and work and back so she gives it to a boy in a walmart parking lot, cuts off her hair for good measure and

now she knows. men keep her hair long for easy grip. so she goes home:

how was your day/itwasfine i’m going out/not in that you’re not/whynot (she knows whynot) puts on a potato sack, packs a suitcase full of underwires and razor blades and tweezers

throws it in the pond for when the fishes say mommy will i be pretty one day?

but when the time comes for her to jump she changes her mind and gets on a greyhound bus

to new york city, it is dark when she arrives but the streetlights

float above her head like small suns and keep her warm. she walks past painted ladies with civilized but asymmetrical briefcases, walks past people eating each other’s faces in the shadows, walks until she arrives at the last flat building plugging the holes in the sky she enters the elevator and presses the top floor.

by the time she gets to the 35th floor she has swallowed 35 advils, and when she reaches

Not Heaven she has swallowed her tongue. it smells like old spice and clementines. the angels say don’t worry, we eat out of our collarbones here; try the clouds, they’re made out of windex and taste just like tacos; love is when you shoot smoke into your brain and it cooks your heart.

she hates steak so she lets her nails grow to the floor and sacrifices herself to the newtonian universe

lets gravity lower her back down to earth, to the middle of eighth avenue where suits walk around her until someone calls 911.

the next thing she remembers is white ceiling tiles. the hush hush of voices next to her.

doctors (nearly all her bones were shattered upon impact only god knows how she survived) mom (unintelligible)

she learns to walk again, to talk again, to live again

paints her eyelids with kohl to be beautiful for herself, to be strong for herself. uses judo on anyone who dares lay a hand on her. eats lasagna every wednesday night and loves it.

Gryffindor: You’re blocking the view