My family has always been private about our time spent together. It was our way of keeping one thing that was ours, with a man we shared with an entire world. But now that’s gone, and I feel stripped bare. My last day with him was his birthday, and I will be forever grateful that my brothers and I got to spend that time alone with him, sharing gifts and laughter. He was always warm, even in his darkest moments. While I’ll never, ever understand how he could be loved so deeply and not find it in his heart to stay, there’s minor comfort in knowing our grief and loss, in some small way, is shared with millions. It doesn’t help the pain, but at least it’s a burden countless others now know we carry, and so many have offered to help lighten the load. Thank you for that.
To those he touched who are sending kind words, know that one of his favorite things in the world was to make you all laugh. As for those who are sending negativity, know that some small, giggling part of him is sending a flock of pigeons to your house to poop on your car. Right after you’ve had it washed. After all, he loved to laugh too…
Dad was, is and always will be one of the kindest, most generous, gentlest souls I’ve ever known, and while there are few things I know for certain right now, one of them is that not just my world, but the entire world is forever a little darker, less colorful and less full of laughter in his absence. We’ll just have to work twice as hard to fill it back up again."
My only statement. My brothers’ are also online. Thank you for all your kindness, and goodbye for awhile guys. xo (via zeldawilliams)
Robin Williams filled my heart with laughter, my soul with tears, and like many others, I grieve his departure. Having struggled for most of my life with crippling depression, I have a small understanding of the things he faced on a daily basis.
My deepest condolences to his family and friends.
A boy sprawled next to me on the bus, elbows out, knee pointing sharp into my thigh.
He frowned at me when I uncrossed my legs, unfolded my hands
and splayed out like boys are taught to: all big, loose limbs.
I made sure to jab him in the side with my pretty little sharp purse.
At first he opened his mouth like I expected him to, but instead of speaking up he sat there, quiet, and took it for the whole bus ride.
Like a girl.
Once, a boy said my anger was cute, and he laughed,
and I remember thinking that I should sit there and take it,
because it isn’t ladylike to cause a scene and girls aren’t supposed to raise their voices.
But then he laughed again and all I saw
was my pretty little sharp nails digging into his cheek
before drawing back and making a horribly unladylike fist.
(my teacher informed me later that there is no ladylike way of making a fist.)
When we were both in the principal’s office twenty minutes later
him with a bloody mouth and cheek, me with skinned knuckles,
I tried to explain in words that I didn’t have yet
that I was tired of having my emotions not taken seriously
just because I’m a girl.
Girls are taught: be small, so boys can be big.
Don’t take up any more space than absolutely necessary.
Be small and smooth with soft edges
and hold in the howling when they touch you and it hurts:
the sandpaper scrape of their body hair that we would be shamed for having,
the greedy hands that press too hard and too often take without asking permission.
Girls are taught: be quiet and unimposing and oh so small
when they heckle you with their big voices from the window of a car,
because it’s rude to scream curse words back at them, and they’d just laugh anyway.
We’re taught to pin on smiles for the boys who jeer at us on the street
who see us as convenient bodies instead of people.
Girls are taught: hush, be hairless and small and soft,
so we sit there and take it and hold in the howling,
pretend to be obedient lapdogs instead of the wolves we are.
We pin pretty little sharp smiles on our faces instead of opening our mouths,
because if we do we get accused of silly women emotions
blowing everything out of proportion with our PMS, we get
condescending pet names and not-so-discreet eyerolls.
Once, I got told I punched like a girl.
I told him, Good. I hope my pretty little sharp rings leave scars.
— 'My Perfume Doubles As Mace,' theappleppielifestyle. (via theappleppielifestyle)
iseekum said: Would you call yourself a feminist or an equal rights activist? Is there any reason you'd choose one over the other? I got into a debate with a friend and grew curious, since you're the most vocal feminist lady I follow. Also, hi!
The whole problem with this kind of question is that to answer it, I have to accept a definition of feminism that I don’t agree with, that isn’t reality-based at all.
This is what the passive aggressive types and the anti-feminists always want, they want you to acknowledge the warped, nonsensical viewpoint they have, because it validates them, it coddles them. It’s nothing I choose to take part in, I just think it’s goofy.
There are legitimate things in the history of feminism that are shameful, but those things are not what these people are complaining about. They are complaining about a minority opinion so minute as to barely exist at all.
Men don’t like it when all men are judged by a minority of jerks, neither do women, neither do feminists.
What the vast majority of feminists want is fair treatment and equal opportunity, but that is such a universally understandable goal that huge numbers of creeps have spend untold resources trying to make it about every other possible permutation. Responding at all might be a little more than such attempts deserve, but every once in a while, you have to clean the damn catbox or the stink gets unbearable.
Edited to add: I am not saying the questioner is one of those people, I am saying that is how is often phrased.