hocus pocus really had kids catch witches in a walking incinerator and celebrate as they watch them die. road rampage with a witch on a broom.

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@yuplifeisdandy
hocus pocus really had kids catch witches in a walking incinerator and celebrate as they watch them die. road rampage with a witch on a broom.

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Oooh my friend Priya called me āFaceTimeāfrom Baltimore. We were chatting while she had lunch time with her first born.
That was sweet.
If thereās something Iām going to do itās work with Black women who know how to get things done.
Iāve been managing a community garden that I live near āIām in my second season and as itās been challenging, Iāve found deep humility in working more with my hands in a long time.
In that Iāve had the pleasure of curating who I work with and I just want to name artist Dorian Sylvain. A brilliantly caring and generous soul.
When I asked her if she could work with me to revitalize the Bronzeville Community Garden through some beautification aka art projects, she jumped on it. Not because she had to but she really believes in the good in people. But with the budget Iāve been managing, and what I could carve out for her, it wasnāt even enough to pay herself.
She did it anyway. Her smile is as bright as it is calming. Forty years in the art world and even in daunting times when weāre all seemingly strung out a bit drier on luck, she continues to share her mastery in breathing oxygen full of color into spaces in desperate need. Spaces disinvested by lack of funding, lack of caring, missteps in managing ā¦the depriortization in a lot of Black and Brown āhoods.
Dorian came in abundance. The money shouldnāt be damnedā but she made it happen anyway. Brought on a team of four talented Black women artists. Her main assist Chazarhae Morales Williams worked on tiling the border of the gardenās newest mosaic sign and contributed to helping Dorian with some logistics. She helped paint the bed frames too.
And there is Isissia Drake and Shiree Davis who primed and painted our picnic table and garden beds as well. And Layla June West who joined us in the garden bed frames painting too.
What does it mean to get paid for what youāre worth. I didnāt do right by Dorian. My intentions are intentions, good orā
She did right by me. By us. For us.
To pay her what sheās really worth. Because she deserves it.
Itās an IOU. Itās an IOU. Itās an IOU.
Hold me on that ā I hold me on that too.
If youāre in Chicago, come check out whatās emerging at 343-347 E 51st Street, 60615.
Wherever you may be connect with these women, commission them, give them their flowers, buy their art āwhatever form they come.
They deserve it.
(Shout out to all of the amazing volunteers ācommunity members and neighborsā that have continued helping me along the way, generous in their care no matter the tasks. Thank you for priming and base-coloring the frames. Thank you for weeding the ground. For laying the mulch. For picking up trash. For hauling debris away.)
https://open.thepattern.com/deeplink/lens?billboard_id=vibe_26311
Something cathartic about this years derby winner being named āJournalismā.
...Nah.

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Credit to the original illustrator of this dog that was posted on Bluesky. I was sketching for fun, and I feel like I still got it.
you ever force water down the wrong pipe because you trying to get to that itch you feel in your throat and your ear?
itās got to be icy or hot enough to strike it right.
They shouldnāt have canceled Naomi.
Nigerians are truly spectacular.
Uzoamaka Aduba is and has been that girl.
Shondaland knows how to cast people.
I want to read a good piece about this show because thereās a good amount to dive into.
Having to be online for stuff sucks sometimes.

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In USA Today: š
Bless me for always having good plantain on deck.
in the message by ta-nehisi coates.
random thoughts
Around this time, last year, I was covering for ā¦a religious publication, of all things. They wanted me to go cover Freddie Grayās funeral. Only moments of driving out of the overflow parking lot did news break about the uproar at Mondawmin. To be honest, I was pissed. Like, in an instant, frustration just bubbled up inside of me. I was just covering a funeral. I was just at a funeral. Behind that camera, a part of me was mourning. Amidst the bit of pushing and shoving among photogs, there was a silence. No -not silence, but that sound, like when the heart monitor can no longer find a pulse. A white noise. Itād come in and out as I caught myself -my mind taking seconds to make temporary escapes from the reality of which I surrounded myself. My mind drifted in between moments of my eyes racing to scope all that was occurring to send messages to my brain to send commands to my finger to push that shutter -to capture moments.Ā
I didnāt go to Mondawmin, that day. Publication didnāt pay me to. I thought about it. But, frankly, I concluded I had no business being there. I had no weapons, no badge, no pepper spray, but I felt that being there would also be a sense of trespassing, an invasion of space, a barrier to, for many, home. Mondawmin is no stranger to me. Many trips there marked on my timeline. It was the best place to buy some of momās now-older church fashions, it was the place we came for shoes. Hell, I got my high school senior prom dress from one of the shops. But this time, last year, it wasnāt my place, and rightfully so.
In between assignments, I covered other days, whileĀ āoff the clock.ā I had friends and former colleagues of bigger, well-known markets covering non-stopā¦showing up at rallies and waiting hours before a peep of protest would ensue, staking out at City Hall, with bosses feeling assured they wouldnāt miss a thing.Ā But, I guess, with a camera in hand, a notepad not too far from your grasp, you were never really āoff the clock.ā You had to be present; and many were more than others.
ā¦natural feeling of reflection has taken its course. Maybe Iāll speak more on this, some day.
Iāll say, however, in those moments of white noise I was talking about earlier, which Iāve always had when covering anything, Iām always pondering thatĀ āwhat if I wasnāt a journalist?ā situation. I would drift off to imagining myself in those situations as being part of one of the parties involved.
ā¦A sister in mourning, the daughter whose motherās been duped by a whack contractor, the mother whose daughterās body was just foundā¦
I always realize the same thing: that could be me. Journos -reporters, photogs, producers, tds, whateverā¦weāre the same flesh and blood. We, too, donāt have the luxury or power to escape misfortune if we wanted to.
And then I think⦠journos need support groups. If youāre one, no matter the level, I hope you have someone, or people, you trust to confide in about your day. People to listen to you and allow you to take the load off, or at least, allow you to internalize all that youāve seen.
This time, last year, I got into some weird journo-civilian mind debacleā¦and thought, maybe itās because Iāve been out of that newsroom life. Maybe, I should step back in. I donāt know.Ā
bringing this back. what a reflection.
A conversation about struggle, stigma, and lessons learned.
Minaa B: When I began to write, I decided to open up about my past struggles with depression, my suicide attempts, addiction to cutting (self-harm) and extreme anxiety. The responses were warming and my articles were well received. I continued to explore these avenues because I realized there arenāt that many folks that look like me in the psychotherapy field and in the writing field. But as I did, thatās when the fatigue came full force. How do I learn how to balance the hurt and the healing?
Zeba Blay:Ā Community really is so important, and even though I know the narrative of the āstrong, independent black womanā is a lie that weāve been sold, I still find myself so unable to even attempt to build that community. I isolate myself because I feel as though my illness is a burden and, yeah, on some level, isnāt black.I tell myself that if Iām going through it, especially on social media or in the workplace, Iām being weak, or worse ā āunprofessional.ā Especially in navigating white spaces as a black woman, at least for me, I need to feel like I have it together, because not appearing to have it together is kind of a matter of survival.Ā
Ashley Reese: Absolutely. Iāve been scouted for a job opportunity recently by a white media company, and I canāt help but wonder if Iāll come across as too black and brash for them. I mean, I think that some of these corporations are starting to realize that having outspoken black online figures writing for them brings numbers and an audience. Hell, Teen Vogue hired a black woman to be the EIC, and theyāre producing content about nail polish and Deray getting arrested. And thatās brilliant.Ā But I know these companies still want to be ācareful.ā Black enough so that they can tout diversity, but not too black in a way thatāll make them feel uncomfortable or seriously question their whiteness.
Angelica Jade Bastien:Ā Like Zeba, I often wonder when I have been open in the past, Do people think Iām crazy? Do people see me beyond my mental illness? Are my friends in real life alarmed when they come across my online persona?Even though I know the narrative of the āstrong, independent black womanā is an impossible fantasy, there is a part of me that struggles asking for help and is afraid of seeming too needy when it comes to my illness. This is why social media especially Twitter and Tumblr felt so necessary for me to vent in the past. But as my profile has risen and Iāve become full-time freelance, I realize how important the ways I present myself online are to my livelihood. While being open on social media opens us to creating a great sense of community, it also leaves us vulnerable to harsh criticism and misunderstanding from people who have never had to wrestle with mental illness.Ā
Bringing this back.

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IM GONNA DIEššš
Not a sacrificial hippo ššš
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this shit will forever be funny. tumblllrrrrrrrRRRRRGHHHHH š®āšØš¤Ŗš¤£
Matt Wuerker
and who all do you think is at fault ???