Brain Spillage

Spell your tumblr name with your tags. DO IT!

zoedelaluna:

repetition-is-holy:

• religion
• Ellen Page
• poetry is not a luxury
• exhibitionist
• thesisthesisthesis
• I not only have a brain - I also know a lot about them
• too hot to fuck
• I nearly vomited so I had to do something
• okay the other thing I have to say is that she does a lot of straight porn
• narwhal
• I really like puppets
• spoon theory
• hipster Tegan
• our healthcare system is shit
• look!  some nipples!
• you need to imagine that in a sing-song voice

I think these are actually really revealing.

• zOMG!
• oh bananas… how I’ve missed you!
• EQUALITY NOW!
• drawing
• eartha
• lucumi
• Ain’t I a woman?
• love
• unf!
• need. caffeine. now.
• amazing every time

• swoon
• poly
• also cats
• chloe sevigny please stop speaking words
• erotica
• yayoi kusama
• katharine hepburn
• anxiety
• transfeminism
• erykah badu

Um, that’s practically my autobiography, except in that my autobiography would probably have more cats, and would almost certainly not mention Chloe Sevigny.

(Source: demonicrosebush)

It’s Free Comic Book Day!

dcwomenkickingass:

In my house Free Comic Book Day is a pretty big day right up there behind birthdays and Christmas. It’s not so much getting free comics but a day to celebrate comics! The kids will be wearing their homemade FCBD t-shirts (Artemis from YJ and Damian of Tiny Titans) and we are also planning to bring some of their friends to recruit them to comics. Woot! 

Remember the contest at Girls Love Superheroes is still going on and just a few more pictures are needed to move to another level of prizes. So if your LCS is having a costume contest or you see girls dressed up - grab a picture and enter (ask first!). And if you there pick up a copy of Smallville Season 11 and send in your picture for that contest!

And remember the LCS pays for the comics for Free Comic Book Day so if you can try and spend some money too! It’s all good! It’s all fun!

EEE this is the first time I haven’t had to miss it for work in about five years! *happy dance*

[TW for trangst] Being trans makes you apologetic.

cocksucking-accent:

(AKA “I should be doing homework but this really needs to be said and I didn’t stick it in my proposal because it felt like whining and I couldn’t find a proper place to put it but this has got to be out there somewhere.”)

It does. It really does.

It starts the very first time you realize you aren’t “normal,” and you turn to your first person and tell then that maybe, you know, if it’d be ok… Maybe they wouldn’t mind calling you Sam instead of Samantha? Or Joan instead of Joe? Or could they just use your initials, maybe? If it’s not too much trouble? And this person (whoever they are) thinks it’s a game. And they laugh, or they snicker, or they ask you why you would do such a thing. Because Joan is a girl name, and you’re not a girl. Why would you want to be one? So you apologize and laugh it off, but inside you’re not smiling.

And it happens again a couple of years later, when you find your way to the internet and make yourself an account in a kiddy forum and say you’re a boy. Your little display picture is a male anime character or another. And you grow to really like this community, until one day someone finds you out for one way or another. Maybe you were careless and let a friend see the site over your shoulder, and they joined. Maybe you started IMing with someone from the forum and they saw your display photo on your IM system, and it’s of a girl. Maybe you decided to go to a meet-up and everyone realizes you were lying. Because of course you are not who you say you are. So you apologize and laugh it off, and say you were just roleplaying. Or it was a joint account with a friend, and they left. Or you clicked the wrong gender when signing up and didn’t realize until people thought you were that gender and you kept it going because it was funny. But of course you can’t go back to the site now.

Again when you start dressing more androgynous, and when someone genders you the way you feel inside, your friends laugh and assure these people that you are not what you look like. That you really do have a dick. Would this stranger want to see it? ‘Cause they’ll pull it out for you if they have to. Hahaha, isn’t it funny that this person thought you were a girl? And you laugh and you apologize to this other person for looking misleading, but inside you are kicking yourself.

And then you come out. Hesitantly at first. You come out to a couple of close friends, and you say you may be genderqueer, and you don’t really know where you stand, but would they mind calling you “they?” And could they just call you Alex, or Cory, or Logan, which are all gender-neutral? And they say that maybe, I mean, it’s really hard, they’ve always known you as Alice and it’s going to be so super-hard to keep those pronouns straight. Hahahaha get it? Straight? Because you’re not straight if you want to be called Alex. You’re obviously gay or bi or something because straight people don’t switch genders. And you say it’s ok and you know it will take time and you don’t correct them even when they misgender you through the years and they call you the wrong thing in front of new friends or in front of your partners. And you apologize for picking such difficult pronouns and for putting them through this and asking them to switch over.

You apologize when you throw the gender ratios off in class and if only you were a girl you could be divided by gender and both groups would have the same amount of people. But, I mean. You don’t mind being with the girls, right? You understand them! Here, ehm, Rob. We promise we still think of you as a guy. But it will be so much easier if you just do us this favor and let us put you in the girls’ group. And you apologize for putting them through this.

You apologize for holding up the line at a gay club because the bouncers are convinced that your ID is a fake. And when you get out at the end of the night and they’re still there, you ask them why they thought it was fake, since it’s brand-spanking-new and you just got it, with the right name and gender, this past month. And they ask you if you’re trans. Oh, you are? Well, that explains it. It just didn’t look right, you know. The font is too thin.

You apologize when you wear a dress and grow your hair out and wear make-up and they still call you Andrew because it’s so hard for them because you will always be “he” to them.

You apologize for going into the right bathroom.

You apologize for mentioning that not all men have deep voices.

You apologize for knowing about periods.

You apologize for having a period.

You apologize for not having a period.

You apologize for being tall.

You apologize for being short.

You apologize for passing.

You apologize for being read.

You apologize for fucking existing and taking up space that you have no right to because you’re a filthy trans person and should just let cis people go ahead and walk all over you.

You apologize for wanting the same rights everybody else has.

And then? Then you have to apologize for not speaking up, because it’s not like cis people could have guessed that you were having issues with housing, or with pronouns, or with the bathroom, or with surgery, or with anything at all. Because you should be both unnoticed and a banner child. Because you should let everybody know you are here in case you make them uncomfortable, or in case they do something that’s fucked up and that screws you over. Because it’s not like you were supposed to see that. If they had only known you were there, they wouldn’t have done it. But oh my gods stop talking you’re always talking about how hard you have it why aren’t you just thankful about the stuff we’ve given you.

So you apologize for being.

Oh. Oh ow. That pushes pretty much all of my buttons all at once.

(via mattachinereview)

July

[I wrote this one last summer as the end of a series of monthly poems that I’d written for an ex-girlfriend, but although it was inspired by our breakup, it kind of went its own way and didn’t really wind up being about that relationship at all. My muse is as near-sighted as I am, and she has poor aim.]

July
by Rachel K. Zall

This is the room
in which I did not live.
This is the room which I lived in once
but don’t anymore. This is the room
where I intended to live, but

couldn’t find the money
couldn’t bring my cats
couldn’t find a roommate
who was willing to live with me.

And that’s where my bed never was.
That’s where my bed used to be, but not
anymore. That’s where we lay
naked on a pile of blankets
promising: Next time, a bed.

Those are the curtains
I didn’t hang above us.
Those are the curtains we hung
but couldn’t keep. Those are the curtains
we planned to hang, swore we’d hang
real soon, but slept on
after arguments instead.

And this is the room
where I never touched you, never
held you with your melancholy breast pressed
breathing against my
warm palm; never said or heard
or promised that next month
things would be better.

This is the room where I loved you once
and where I love you still.
Your hair’s beneath my pillow
waiting as if it thinks you’ll come back.

This is the room
where I will never
love you
again. I promise.

Asleep

Asleep
by Rachel K. Zall

Asleep on a burning street.  The streetlights are murmuring lullabies.  The concrete crackles to grass in the voice of the fire.  And then there’s you.

You are not concrete, not grass, not a light.  You are something this street thinks it’s never seen.

The fire is asking how best to burn you, how quickly you can be removed. It tries a red flame, then a yellow flame, then back to red.  Asleep, you have no answers.  Asleep, you are stepped on but give like grass; the wind blows through you and you are not moved.

The streetlights avoid the question, simply do not sing to you. They flicker off and on and off. Uncertain, they turn to the median strip instead.

The bird that skips among the flames is building a nest of your hair, struts up and down your back.  The bird likes you best but does not understand you.  You sing in your sleep, and the streetlights burn.  They ask the bird if you think you’re a bird or a streetlight now. The bird mumbles and shrugs and plucks a hair. The streetlights smirk and turn again to adore the fire.

The moon is covered by a cloud, about to tip and spill rain.  The fire is hiding in a newspaper, the grass bends its back thirstily, and the concrete doesn’t care.  You are as still and peaceful as the ocean, no opinions.

Maybe you’re something that doesn’t have opinions, an object that can’t decide.  Maybe you don’t speak or think, the way a plastic bag drifts into a tree and just hangs, shivering like a ghost.  You’re a bag with a hole, a creature with no clear use, garbage left to disintegrate on someone else’s branch.  The trees tell the concrete to keep you.  The concrete sneers: concrete always gets the trash.

The rain comes down to see; it tickles your ear to wake you.  The fire wants to see you extinguished, but won’t say so.  The grass wants to see you grow, become something with a purpose.  The concrete doesn’t care.  And then there’s you.

Your hair waves gently in a puddle, passive as underwater seaweed.  Everything on earth is waiting for you to speak.

(Source: radiosilent.org)