I laminated a paper towel
why does this have 31 thousand notes
You made it useless but also prevented it from the end it was predestined for.
Can a sister get a ‘HELL FUCKIN YEAH!’ For my buddy Scott, who protected a woman from her abusive ex! Scott was in the hospital for 8 days! The Asshat attacked him with a box cutter. Nose cut 3/4”, stabbed in the arm (16 stitches), the slash across his chest went through to his left lung puncturing it (30 staples)… He is much better now, but he has a lot of nerve damage across his chest and forearm where he was stabbed. He’s got a long way to go. Let’s see how many reblogs/RTs we can get for this BAMF!
My new headcanon:
The boat that Ariel and Flounder found was the King and Queen of Arendelle’s boat.
Things Lexei thinks of 1/?
This would actually make complete sense because if the King and Queen were headed to Germany for Eugene and Rapunzel’s wedding, they’d have to pass near Denmark, which is where The Little Mermaid is supposed to occur.
…. So that’s what happened…
Still to this day my favorite comic
Okay let me tell you this story my teacher told me in like 6th grade that I still somehow remember to this day. And by somehow, I mean it was fucking hilarious and I’ll never stop laughing.
In college she was a teacher’s aid for an anatomy class or something or another. On the day they were suppose to examine an actually corpse one of the past students came in with an empty body bag. To put it simply, he pretended to be the dead body they were going to examine that day.
She knew this shit was going to be hilarious so she played along and pretended everything was going according to the plan. When the instructor came in and didn’t even check to make sure everything was in order. Nope, came in around the same time as the students and began the lesson straight away.
About 5 minutes a low moan came from the body bag, like something you’d hear out of a zombie movie.
Some of the closer students tilts their head and frown, but they doesn’t say anything. The instructor doesn’t even notice.
A little bit afterwards he moans loader. A few more people hear it this time around. They are understandably a bit worried, and a bit scared. This time the Instructor does notice, but he rolls his eyes.
For the next 10 minutes there is no noise from the body bag. The students have calmed by this point and the Instructor is winding down his lecture and about ready to move on to the practical.
Right as the Instructor moves over to the table the body bag is sitting on, the dude sits straight up in the bag and makes the stupidest zombie moans known to mankind.
Everyone straight up flips their shit. One of the girls ends up puking because she’s so scared and the rest of the students are running out the classroom, knocking over furniture, and screaming in terror.
When I was seventeen and preparing to leave for university, my mother’s only brother saw fit to give me some advice.
When I was eighteen and the third annual advent of the common cold was rolling through residence like a pestilent fog, a friend texted me asking if there was anything he could do to help.
When I was nineteen and my roommate decided the only way to celebrate the end of midterms was to get wasted at a club, I humoured her.
(Age nineteen also saw me propositioned for casual sex by no fewer than three different male friends, and while I still believe that guys and girls can indeed be just friends, I was beginning to see my uncle’s point.)
When I was twenty and a stranger that started chatting to me in my usual cafe asked if he could walk with me (since we were going the same way and all), I accepted.
I am twenty one and a few days ago a friend and I were walking down the street. A car drove by with the windows down, and a young man stuck his head out and whistled as they passed. I ignored it, carrying on with the conversation.
No. Not all guys are. But enough are. Enough that I am uncomfortable when a man sits next to me on the bus. Enough that I will cross to the other side of the street if I see a pack of guys coming my way. Enough that even fleeting eye contact with a male stranger makes my insides crawl with unease. Enough that I cannot feel safe alone in a room with some of my male friends, even ones I’ve known for years. Enough that when I go out past dark for chips or milk or toilet paper, I carry a knife, I wear a coat that obscures my figure, I mimic a man’s gait. Enough that three years later I keep the story of that day to myself, when the only thing that saved me from being raped was a right hook to the jaw and a threat to scream in a crowded dorm, because I know what the response will be.
I live my life with the everburning anxiety that someone is going to put their hands on me regardless of my feelings on the matter, and I’m not going to be able to stop them. I live with the knowledge that statistically one in three women have experienced a sexual assault, but even a number like that can’t be trusted when we are harassed into silence. I live with the learned instinct, the ingrained compulsion to keep my mouth shut to jeers and catcalls, to swallow my anger at lewd suggestions and crude gestures, to put up my walls against insults and threats. I live in an environment that necessitates armouring myself against it just to get through a day peacefully, and I now view that as normal. I have adapted to extreme circumstances and am told to treat it as baseline. I carry this fear close to my heart, rooted into my bones, and I do so to keep myself unharmed.
So you can tell me that not all guys are like that, and you’d even be right, but that isn’t the issue anymore. My problem is not that I’m unaware of the fact that some guys are perfectly civil, decent, kind—my problem is simply this:
In a world where this cynical overcaution is the only thing that ensures my safety, I’m no longer willing to take the risk.
r.d. (via vonmoire)