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GET IN LOSERS WE'RE GOING HUNTING
*previously hipsterhomestucker*
my blog is currently going to be under construction for a while so yeah

downrabbitholes:

Clever doormat stencil reads Come In/Go Away depending on which side it is read. 

(Source: travelry)

Funfact

dicksp8jr:

theofficialariel:

Lisa Frank, the woman who designs this shit: 

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Is my neighbor, and a stone cold bitch. 

i need to know more

(Source: kingudamu)

naturepunk:

keep—sailing:

bigcatawareness:

cheriiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii:

cheriiiiiiiiiiiiiii:

vmagazine:

Dr Bhagavan Antle of The Institute of Greatly Endangered and Rare Species (T.I.G.E.R.S), photographs 4 varieties of Bengal tigers

Dear The Institute of Greatly Endangered and Rare Species,

Fuck you.

You are terrible.

You are inhumane shit bags.

Organizations like you that work so hard to justify the debilitating inbreeding of tigers to reproduce the rare color genes under the guise of “conservation.” You are liars, and the truth will spread.

This is Kenny. Kenny doesn’t have down’s syndrome like the internet has told you. Kenny is severely deformed due to inbreeding. We’re told this is necessary to “conserve” his species.

Kenny is not a special, extra endangered rare species anymore than any other black and orange striped tiger. He is a normal fucking tiger with a rare genetic mutation that is easier to reproduce by inbreeding. After so many generations of inbreeding, you get poor Kenny.

White tigers endure a host of health problems about which the public is largely unaware, including immune system deficiencies that cause many to live miserable and short lives, scoliosis of the spine, hip dysplasia, neurological disorders, cleft palates, and protruding, bulging eyes. Many are stillborn and many more turn out to be too deformed to display. Among the ones that look pretty, according to some tiger trainers, only one in 30 will consistently perform.

so FUCK YOU The Institute of Greatly Endangered and Rare Species, You are not doing a public service. You are trying to play god and trying to sweep your miserable failure under the rug by brandishing wildly at pretty pictures of white tigers that—omg—one day might perform in fucking Vegas. What a fucking honor for a tiger, huh? I’m sure the ones who are stuck living the rest of their short, agonizing lives in a cage really aspire to some day work with Sigfried and Roy.

Tumblr needs to know about this sort of bullshit because I so often see white tigers on my dash, and I really think that if more people knew the truth behind rare colored tiger “conservation” less people would be enamored by them, and therefore a market for them would start to taper off.

Read more at White Tigers: Conserving a lie.

And again:

Fuck you The Institute of Greatly Endangered and Rare Species.

Even your name is a great big goddamn lie.

rebagle because it’s needed.

It warms my heart when I see someone else who has a grasp on how deplorable this “organization” is. C:

That photo of “Kenny” is photoshopped as fck

Sadly, it’s not photo-shopped at all. Kenny was indeed a very real tiger - the product of repeated inbreeding. He died of cancer a few years ago, but his face remains a poignant reminder as to why breeding animals for looks over health is not an asset to true conservation efforts in any way, shape, or form. 

(Source: vmagazine)

How to scare your wife by Ellen DeGeneres

winchestersarrow:

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fluffmugger:

gofuckyourselftomhiddleston:

tomhazeldine:

Only he would do this to not insult people[x]

For fucks sake Tom, practice some fucking self preservation.

IDK, look at his eyes man

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afloweroutofstone:

sexhaver:

2007 was a simpler, more wholesome time

I would take a bullet for this kid and let him keep whatever was in my pockets at the time

d4vek4t:

releasethemurderbirds:

unimpressedcats:

I touch ur foods when u no look

i showed this to my mum and she didn’t understand why the painter didn’t just look at a cat

peeING IN MY ACTUAL PANTS

(Source: plant-friend)

no-shitting-sherlock:

cucumberbatchin:

Sometimes I get ‘readers-block’, like I can’t read anything to save my life, I’ll start 10 books and stop each after seven pages because all I’ll want is to already have read that book and not actually read it and I won’t be able to focus at all and it pains me so much.

OHMYGOD YOU PUT THAT THING I FEEL INTO WORDS

(Source: cucumberbatchin-gone)

antisociallysplendid:

lalagirgurl:

bluedragonkaiser:

dailylifeofadisneyfreak:

Waking up on November 1st is literally like walking through a door from Halloweentown to Christmastown

What’s this? What’s this? There’s décor everywhere. What’s this? There’s carols in the air. What’s this? I can’t believe my eyes it’s just November come on folks I mean I swear. What’s this?

I FREAKING READ IT IN JACKS VOICE 

I FUCKING SANG IT

kravarechs:

there are some rly gr8 fanfictions

there are some fanfictions that are ok

there are some rly bad fanfictions

and then there are those ones that just makes you image

(Source: shychiaichi)

serenebranson:

'cause every song is like gold teeth, grey goose, green moose, guava juice, giant snake, birthday cake, large fries, chocolate shake

tags:
#supe RNATURAL

drcoxsredwingsjersey:

Protip to TV writers: your show needs a musical episode. I don’t care if it wouldn’t fit with the overall tone of the show. I don’t care if you can’t think of an in-story justification for it. If you can’t write music, find someone who can. If your actors can’t sing, hire a vocal coach or just dub in somebody else singing for them. Make a fucking musical episode you piece of shit just do it

djscspookzen:

i love how owl city songs are just so nice and cute

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AND ON TWITTER LITERALLY JUST

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(Source: djsckatzen)

tags:
#lgbtqa+
" The girls are never supposed to end up together. I watched that movie with Ellen Page and Alia Shawkat, the roller-skating movie, the one where Ellen and Alia are best friends, each other’s only comforts in their podunk town. They need each other, and they hug, and they dance, and they tell each other I Love You, and Ellen meets a skinny boy who plays in a band. It doesn’t even work out with the boy, but that’s almost tangential. The girl was never a real option.
I think that’s why it’s really difficult for girls. For me. We follow narratives and our fingertips trace the contours of the stories we love and we long to escape within the confines of our own lives. Meet your boyfriend in the pouring rain and yank down his mask and kiss him upside down. Run with your boyfriend to the front of the ferry and throw your arms out to the side and scream, “I’m king of the world!” If you are a girl in love with a boy, your possibilities are infinite.
If there is a special girl in your life, you love her as a friend. You love her as a friend, but she becomes less important to you as you grow, and you leave her behind for a boy. She might even stand next to you when you marry the boy, and she might catch the bouquet of flowers that you throw to her. You’re giving her permission to move on, move away from you. It’s a ceremony of separation.
But if you should fall in love with a girl - and loving and falling in love are two very distinct things - the first kiss is the end. You’ve all seen the movie. Or the television show. Or the after-school special, or you’ve read the book that was banned from your school’s library for containing Sexual Content. The point of your story is not to fall in love. The point of your story is to struggle. Your story begins with a lie and climaxes in a truth and ends with a kiss. In the movie of your life, forty-five minutes are devoted to you figuring out how to say that you want to kiss girls, and another half-hour is devoted to people’s objections, and maybe the last fifteen minutes is you kissing the girl. Maybe you don’t even get to kiss the girl. Maybe she tells you that she’s flattered, but she doesn’t bat for your team.
The critics swoon; it’s realistic, they say, so realistic, to depict the struggle of the modern teen, the heartbreak of irresolvable incompatibility. Isn’t that always what celebrities cite in their divorces? “Irreconciliable differences.”
And so you’re lying on the floor of your bathroom, your knees curled to your chest, or you’re on your sofa with a pint of ice cream, or you’re in bed watching your favourite sad movie on Netflix, and the collective weight of all that you consume settles on your shoulders, leans in, and whispers, “You were never meant to fall in love.”
You were never meant to fall in love. Your story ends in tears or it ends in death. Jack Twist was bludgeoned to death with a tire iron and Ennis Del Mar was left alone in his closet to dance with an empty shirt. Alby Grant found Dale Tomasson swinging by a noose in the apartment that had been their safehouse, their respite, and he sank to his knees and cradled Dale’s bare feet and he cried. The Motion Picture Association of America axed Lana Tisdel and Brandon Teena’s sex scenes, but they didn’t have a problem with the extended shot of Lana cradling Brandon’s corpse in her fragile arms and falling asleep next to his body.
Love and intimacy are ours only in death, or so it would seem.
I don’t want to die. Isn’t that a very human experience? Not wanting to die? When does anyone who looks like me get to grow old and raise grandchildren and hold her wife’s hand as the skin wrinkles, turns translucent?
Sometimes my father asks me if I’ll ever date a man. Sometimes he doesn’t ask. “You are attracted to men, and you dream about falling in love with men,” he says, as if he can will his imaginary daughter into existence merely by speaking about her. Or maybe he is just looking out for my safety.
He’s seen the movies, too.
He loves me.
He doesn’t want me to die. "

if this is heaven:

Oh, my God, this is beautiful, and now I’m nearly crying. This. ALL OF THIS OMG. 

(via somatrip)

When my best friend and I were in high school, trying desperately (and usually failing) to either not be gay or at least not hate ourselves for being gay, she once confessed to me, crying, that one of the reasons she didn’t want to be a lesbian is that lesbians aren’t happy in love, that their relationships can’t last, that she’d never seen happy lesbians in stable relationships.  This shit matters so hard y’all.

(via sirpuddleduck)

I know I already reblogged this but the added commentary is necessary and important so I’m doing it again.

(via queen-of-snarks)

To all the clueless assholes who say it doesn’t matter when lesbian characters are mistreated, abused, hurt and left alone and heartbroken, never getting to have happy relationships

And to all the asshole writers who think it doesn’t matter if they show lesbian characters being abused and suffering and not being able to have happy relationships with the women they love…or who think that it doesn’t matter if they don’t portray lesbian characters and relationships at all

IT FUCKING MATTERS

We’re sick and tired of having to make do with ‘subtext’ and ‘hints’ and teasing…and sick of the only lesbian representation we DO get always having things end horribly for them

(via thefingerfuckingfemalefury)

this is why I tend to stay from most LGBTQ+ YA novels

because they are always sad and everyone ends up depressed or without their family or friends support or somewhere tragic

I DONT WANT THAT

I want to read books where the girl has her family and friends support and she meets another girl and they are kickass lesbians/bisexuals/pansexuals  in love and it isn’t a tragedy 

I want to read books where we in the lgbtq+ community are seen happy and healthy without the whole ‘come to terms struggle’ that seems to follow us in the media

I don’t want to have to keep expecting the person like me to lose everything just because she happens to love a girl 

(via nightvaletrekkiewitch)