1. WisCon's Harassment Decision

    lauren-m-jankowski:

    Earlier today, WisCon posted its decision on Frenkel on their blog (found here). Basically, he is banned for four years or until he demonstrates a change in behavior and attitude. The man who tossed a book at me at my first ever con, berated me for five minutes straight, and just generally…

  2. (Source: stankonia, via be-a-riot-grrrl)

  3. (Source: lolgifs.net, via spikeghost)

  4. The 25 Most Disturbing Sex Toys

    Dear Cracked.com:

    Just because something is not your “thang” doesn’t make it “disturbing.” Human sexuality is a beautiful & complex spectrum of different desires, kinks, and curiosities. If you are not causing harm to anyone why is it “disturbing?” When you carelessly use wording like that you contribute to shaming of healthy human sexuality.

    Note: that I am well aware this was written in 2008. It still happened to cross my path and therefore I am still going to comment on it. However maybe now that years have gone by you can amend it and write a new piece on The 25 Sex Toys You Never Heard Of (or something that doesn’t have a negative connotation that vilify anyone wanting to experience a world outside of Missionary).

    Want to know what I consider a “disturbing sex toy?” A child. An Animal. A person who says no. Not a fucking vibrating tongue that you pop a few batteries into. There is a difference between the concept of disturbing and the concept of personally unappealing.

    And if the writers at your website find sex toys disturbing they should be assigned a different topic.

  5. High Res
  6. I was the sort of girl
    who thought everything was a sign

    A train delay meant I
    should take off for somewhere else —
    Philly or New York
    Pittsburgh or Cincinnati

    A wallet dropped next to a toilet
    meant
    that I’d always be broke
    (but any fool can pay the bills)

    A laptop that crashed and deleted
    everything, twice
    meant it wasn’t time
    to tell that particular story

    The fires that followed me
    through St. Louis and back
    to Chicago:
    abandoned tenements, cop cars, trash cans
    set smoldering
    meant
    I should burn my bridges
    and grin broadly

    The shoe that fell from my
    foot and down the stairs
    as I stumbled home
    from the taqueria, drunk and stoned,
    meant
    that I was obviously
    no Cinderella
    There was no prince there to
    pick it up

    The old man playing accordion below
    my bedroom window
    The herd of cranes roosting
    in the eerie dawn near Archer Avenue
    could mean
    anything

    I consulted the tarot cards three
    times a day
    They gave me the same answers
    over and over, but I
    kept asking
    “Travel,” they whispered, “and
    temptation.”
    “Signs and signals.”
    And always, the three of swords.
    “Heartache, sorrow.”
    Cupid, have mercy, on

    a superstitious hyperrealist
    such as me

    I was the sort of girl
    who stuffed my pockets full of
    good luck charms,
    odds and ends which looked
    like junk to
    other people

    Lighters with no fluid left in them
    crumpled ticket stubs
    New Jersey quarters
    caps pried from bottles of
    Yuengling, Red Stripe, Pabst
    Blue Ribbon

    I was the sort of girl
    who made wishes on
    burnt matches
    train whistles
    green shoes
    the gray-white clouds made
    by smokestacks
    the floating fuzz of the
    cottonwood trees in June

    The charms didn’t bring me much good
    luck and when my wishes came
    true I realized
    I should’ve been more
    careful what I wished for

    And now I wish —
    I wish that I still wished
    I wish that I could still
    change things with the
    sheer force of my belief

    I don’t consult the tarot cards so
    much these days, because
    I don’t want to hear
    what they have to say

    Cupid doesn’t visit me
    anymore

    I don’t see signs everywhere
    My life is easier,
    and less shiny

    Now, the junk just looks
    like junk

    But my beer bottle cap
    just told me:
    “Be your own orchestra”

    I’m only one person, no longer a girl, but I’ll
    stick that bottle cap in
    my pocket
    and try to believe
    I can be my own punk
    orchestra
    who, in lieu of bridges
    and cop cars,
    can set her words on fire
    and watch the flames
    while grinning broadly

    with way too many teeth

    Rust Belt Jessie, “Superstitious Hyperrealist”

    In which I steal a few lines from both W/IFS and Jawbreaker. Wrote this today. It probably needs some editing, but yeah, I like it.

    (via rustbeltjessie)

  7. call-me-xavy-and-grab-my-beard:

sure i’ll do motherfucker!! …
    High Res

    call-me-xavy-and-grab-my-beard:

    sure i’ll do motherfucker!! …

    (Source: this-is-xavy-vs-the-world)

  8. most of the time i don’t feel like a normal girl.

    but what is normal anyway?

    not what i am. 

    but i am learning every day  (very slowly) to be okay with that.

  9. I would like to go to this please and dress like a zombie Hello Kitty.

    I would like to go to this please and dress like a zombie Hello Kitty.