SonatinaMod

But then one night they wake up in the middle of the night because something is in their closet. And the door starts to creak open so Stitch tackles whoever (whatever) is in there. They fall back into the closet, the door slams shut… and when Lilo runs over and opens it there’s nothing but an empty closet.

Then Boo tells Lilo all about this weird thing that happened to her when she was a kid, and how no one ever believed her but she knows it was real. 

“co-quarantined with an abuser? worried about having to self-isolate from #coronavirus in a dangerous home situation? 

Please reach out – contact @ ndvh National Domestic Violence Hotline: 

CALL 1-800-799-7233

TTY 1-800-787-3224

Chat at thehotline.org” 

Intrusive Thoughts are unwanted thoughts or images that you find distressing and/or disturbing. 

more information on what intrusive thoughts are!

what intrusive thoughts are: https://moodsmith.com/intrusive-thoughts/

I’m honestly in tears. I am incredibly upset, I am shaking, I am furious. I need this post to reach as many people as possible, because I want everyone to be aware about this and we need to work together to help bring this young girl home safely. I have a lot of followers so I’m hoping this will spread quickly so more people are aware of this.

This is Kennedi High. You may have seen her circling through your dashboard. She’s 16 years old and she has gone missing, and so far everyone has pieced together through her snapchat story that something is really, really wrong. She’s acting funny, and recently her snapchat story has been updated: “I’m with this other man and he telling me I’m never going back home to see my family.” A lot of people think this may be a case of sex trafficking, and it most likely is, and I’m honestly terrified for her. 

She’s originally from Baltimore, MD, though it’s said that she may currently be in the Mountain View California region. Please spread this if you can, reblog any other posts you find about her and get this story out. I’m absolutely sickened and shaken and I just want her to be safe. This is so important to me.

Not to mention, there’s been reports of over 64,000 black girls missing across the United States, and it’s most likely due to sex trafficking. 64,000 black girls. That’s just crazy. This is terrifying and needs more media coverage, this needs to be spread everywhere. We need to protect black girls. They need our help.

• It’s annoying. • It gives an imperfect metric for how many followers you have. (I would estimate about 25% of my “followers” are porn blogs run by bots). • It makes pulling up your activity page iffy even if you use Tumblr strictly for SFW content. • It’s problematic for individuals who have struggled with sex and/or pornography addictions, especially since many of the blog names are not obviously porn names, causing you to preview the blog. • It exposes minors to illegal and harmful content.

And to many of us: • It’s disgusting. • it’s degrading to human beings, especially women. • It makes Tumblr a less classy, less reputable place.

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IF SOMEONE’S SKIN COLOR IS

THEN

Here to illustrate my point is Connie Maheswaran from Steven Universe

Lightening a skin tone in art is more complicated than just writing down the hex code for what a person’s skin color should be. I’d imagine a lot of artists don’t even realize they’re doing it when they lighten a skin tone past what is acceptable.  A good rule of thumb (that I need to follow more) is not to eyeball a character’s skin tone but make a starter palette than adjust it to the lighting as necessary. If you’re doing a piece that’s artsy fartsy, or has a three color palette or something, make sure the contrast of the skin is still intact. Dark skin shouldn’t pop as much as light skin against dark hair. 

Also, while this is a lesson that applies just as much to amateur artists as it does to professional artists, remember, a lot of artists on Tumblr are still new and learning. Depictions of characters that might seem fatphobic or racist at a first glance might be the result of someone still struggling to break past fatphobic or racist caricatures in their art that were picked up from other mainstream sources. 

The morning after I killed myself, I woke up.

I made myself breakfast in bed. I added salt and pepper to my eggs and used my toast for a cheese and bacon sandwich. I squeezed a grapefruit into a juice glass. I scraped the ashes from the frying pan and rinsed the butter off the counter. I washed the dishes and folded the towels.

The morning after I killed myself, I fell in love. Not with the boy down the street or the middle school principal. Not with the everyday jogger or the grocer who always left the avocados out of the bag. I fell in love with my mother and the way she sat on the floor of my room holding each rock from my collection in her palms until they grew dark with sweat. I fell in love with my father down at the river as he placed my note into a bottle and sent it into the current. With my brother who once believed in unicorns but who now sat in his desk at school trying desperately to believe I still existed.

The morning after I killed myself, I walked the dog. I watched the way her tail twitched when a bird flew by or how her pace quickened at the sight of a cat. I saw the empty space in her eyes when she reached a stick and turned around to greet me so we could play catch but saw nothing but sky in my place. I stood by as strangers stroked her muzzle and she wilted beneath their touch like she did once for mine.

The morning after I killed myself, I went back to the neighbors’ yard where I left my footprints in concrete as a two year old and examined how they were already fading. I picked a few daylilies and pulled a few weeds and watched the elderly woman through her window as she read the paper with the news of my death. I saw her husband spit tobacco into the kitchen sink and bring her her daily medication.

The morning after I killed myself, I watched the sun come up. Each orange tree opened like a hand and the kid down the street pointed out a single red cloud to his mother.

The morning after I killed myself, I went back to that body in the morgue and tried to talk some sense into her. I told her about the avocados and the stepping stones, the river and her parents. I told her about the sunsets and the dog and the beach.