Samantha - 19 - Book Lover - Story Writer - University Student - Lover of Quotes and all things literary <3

Background Illustrations provided by: http://edison.rutgers.edu/

Casually picking up a woman’s magazine at the doctors office can be so disheartening these days.
Discouraging and devastating even.

It seems the more vacant you are the better.
The more superficial you are, the more you are hero worshipped.
The more time you spend shopping or sitting in the front row at fashion week, pouting or taking selfies, the more attention you attract.
The more tits and ass you show off, the more you are hailed as an “icon”.

The media it seems WANTS to see us at our weakest,our most vulnerable version of ourselves.
When we show off just how desperate we are for physical approval, then we are bestowed the highest of honors.

Even designer Stella McCartney recently stated “Strength on its own in a woman is quite aggressive and not terribly attractive all the time.”

WTF !??!?!

Speaking from an entirely personal standpoint I would just like to state for the record ( and for my niece, my goddaughter and all the other young girls who I happen to love and wish to protect from this insidious, condescending and disempowering culture) that there is nothing more beautiful than a woman who is NOT scared, who refuses to be cowed by societal expectations, who is not wasting the duration of her short , sweet life trying to uphold the ludicrously futile , impossible to achieve illusion that she is effortlessly sexy and ever youthful..

Fuck. That . Shit.

Being strong is beautiful. It is empowering. It is enduring.
Don’t believe anyone who ever tells you otherwise.
Ever.
For they are fools.
Or liars.

By Shirley Manson (via carolynthestraggeringdrunk)

sir-hathaway:

gryffinpoor:

dudemanbropants:

gryffinpoor:

thepreciousthing:

the-ordinary-nerd:

ask-or-rp-with-will-petrisous:

squad16:

finalellipsis:

bestnatesmithever:

What if it bites me and it dies?

that means you’re poisonous. jesus christ, nate, learn to read.

What if it bites itself and I die?

It’s voodoo.

What if it bites me and someone else dies?

That’s correlation, not causation.

what if we bite each other and neither of us die

that’s kinky

oh my god

this is still my favorite text post collaboration ever

sir-hathaway:

gryffinpoor:

dudemanbropants:

gryffinpoor:

thepreciousthing:

the-ordinary-nerd:

ask-or-rp-with-will-petrisous:

squad16:

finalellipsis:

bestnatesmithever:

What if it bites me and it dies?

that means you’re poisonous. jesus christ, nate, learn to read.

What if it bites itself and I die?

It’s voodoo.

What if it bites me and someone else dies?

That’s correlation, not causation.

what if we bite each other and neither of us die

that’s kinky

oh my god

this is still my favorite text post collaboration ever

Reblogged from sohapppily  475,245 notes

skelebrina:

punkbeds:

BOYS TO AVOID:
-boys that are against feminism
-boys that call girls sluts and whores
-boys that think a vagina gets loose after having a lot of sex
-white boys that use the n word
-bronies

-boys that fall asleep after sex without making sure their partner is satisfied
-boys that insult others to compliment you
-boys that insult anyone
-boys that are rude to their parents

Reblogged from w0rdception  158,101 notes
please elaborate on how you got a substitute teacher to quit within one day. I'm genuinely curious.
Anonymous

mysticmoonhigh:

mamalovebone:

all right everyone sit down, shut up and listen closely because I’m about to tell y’all the tale of Ms. Mormino.

Seventh grade is a time most people don’t look back on fondly. I know I sure don’t—I tend to regard that era as nothing more than an unpleasant, acne-filled haze of fall out boy and poor attempts at pseudo-zooey deschanel fashions. But enough about me. Let’s talk about my math teacher. 

Ms. Isom. Poor old Ms. Isom. Well in her 60’s, always plagued with some illness or injury, she was hardly ever even at school. Since many of her absences were the result of short-notice incidents—“falling down the stairs” was popularly cited— it wasn’t all that uncommon to not have a substitute on hand. Being a smartass honors class, we’d gotten away with several successful evasions of administration, walking cavalierly into class  to pass the next 48 minutes doing just about nothing. Hell, for good measure, we’d sometimes even toss in a friendly “hey, Ms. Isom!” if any administrators were anywhere within earshot. So incredibly anti-establishment, you could basically call it another Project Mayhem, except instead of Brad Pitt and Ed Norton concocting homemade bombs, it was a bunch of tweenyboppers with iPhone 3’s and Justin Bieber 2009 haircuts. 

 We got pretty accustomed to our own little self-governing system that rolled around every second period, so we naturally weren’t exactly thrilled when administration caught on to our little Anarchy Act and strictly enforced the presence of a substitute every day. 

Most of our subs weren’t terrible—most were friendly, gave us participation grades, and didn’t object to the independent attitude of our class (which, mind you, only had about ten students in it) 

That is, until Ms. Mormino came along. 

Four feet, ten inches of raw, undiluted evil, Ms. Mormino walked into class with a scowl on her face and a chip on her shoulder. When the girl behind me sneezed, Ms. Mormino’s immediate response was “NO INAPPROPRIATE NOISES!” 

 Although we all suppressed our laughter, we all knew from that moment on that, try as she might with her despotism and her draconian anti-sneeze policy, Ms. Mormino didn’t stand a chance. 

 The arguable beginning of the end for Ms. Mormino’s all-too-brief reign of terror was the moment I asked for a calculator; mine was broken. Mormino asserted that I could only borrow a calculator if I loaned her something of mine; at that moment, the girl next to me chimed in, saying she, too, needed a calculator. “I have a folder I can give you,” I offered. “I have a highlighter,” added the other girl. 

 At that moment, a puberty-creaking voice from the back of the room piped up. 

Max. 

We all know certain people have certain gifts. Michelangelo saw angels in every block of marble and devoted his life to setting them free; Einstein had a mind which saw the potential of the entire universe; F. Scott Fitzgerald wove intricate tales of decadence and depravity. Max, however, had a different kind of gift: he could make anything—anything at all—into a “that’s what she said” joke. More on that later, though. 

Max pried off a Nike sneaker and held it proudly in the air, like a coveted trophy. 

"I have a shoe." 

Tottering in one-shoe-one-sock, Max dumped the sneaker on Ms. Mormino’s desk, retrieved a calculator, then tottered back to his own desk, a sort of smirk playing on his face. And, as to be expected—the rest of us quickly followed suit. 

 A small pile of shoes on her desk, Ms. Mormino grit her teeth and glared at us as we all sat back down, quietly victorious, a calculator in each of our hands. It wasn’t long, however, until we all began to silently plot our next act of minor mayhem. 

"Can I go to the bathroom?" asked Tyler, who, despite being in seventh grade, was approaching his sixteenth birthday. In a combination of verism and admiration of Tyler’s devil-may-care boldness, we unequivocally accepted him as our leader. For reasons unknown, Ms. Mormino denied his request. Tyler, much like his Fight Club namesake, heeded no rules but his own and left anyway—Ms. Mormino, furious, locked the door behind him and smugly insisted that "administration will take care of him." 

Tyler, however, was not one to be caught, and stayed close by, appearing in the window of the door whenever Ms. Mormino wasn’t looking. Waving, smiling, laughing, making faces and obscene gestures, Tyler had us all in stitches, but cleverly avoided Ms. Mormino’s sight—when she asked us what was so funny, we all refused to give Tyler away. 

A girl asked to go to the bathroom, stating she “really really really” needed to go. Ms. Mormino, again, denied her request. Ms. Mormino, however, seemed to be uninformed about the side door—leading right outside, always locked from the outside but always open from the inside. 

"Well, I’ll go myself," the girl responded, and took off, hurdling three desks and darting out the door. Right behind her, two other students took off, pursuing freedom. The door slammed behind all three students, and they were gone. 

 Six of us were left. Among us, importantly, was Chris. 

Chris was thirteen, but looked half his age; scrawny, wiry, he probably measured in at about four-foot-three, but no taller. “Late Bloomer” are words that come to mind. 

Despite his diminutive size, Chris possessed the gall of someone like Tyler.

"I have to use the bathroom," said Chris, standing. 

 ”Do you think I’m going to allow you to go to the bathroom?” snapped Ms. Mormino. 

 ”It’s an emergency!” Chris pleaded. 

"Sit down," Ms. Mormino growled. 

Meanwhile, the entire class borders on hysteria. We have tears in our eyes, almost suffocating from choking back laughter. 

"It’s an emergency," repeated Chris, but it sounded more like a warning.

"Sit."

Silence. Silence, Silence and more silence, until we all began to notice a dark stain on Chris’s khakis. The stain grew. And grew. And grew.

 Fists at his sides, stoicism in his face, and a cold, proud, triumphant glint in his eye, Chris locked eye contact with Ms. Mormino. 

And pissed right in his pants. 

The entire class erupted into a laugh only comparable to the detonation of a bomb. 

We laughed so hard for the next five, ten, fifteen minutes straight that Ms. Mormino gave up. Surrendering, putting her head on her desk, she waited until the hysteria finally subsided. 

Finally looking up, defeated, pathetic, Ms. Mormino glared at us all and wailed: 

 ”This is too much, this is too hard, too hard, Jesus Christ, this is too much for me!” 

 A lone voice sounded from the back of the room. Guess whose it was.

"That’s what she said."

Ms. Mormino officially retired from teaching that afternoon.

FUCKING READ IT IT’S WORTH IT

Reblogged from unexpectedhomo  90,633 notes

swordfemme:

theblueboxonbakerstreet:

the-fandoms-are-cool:

jellobatch:

psicologicamenteblog:

Source: An inside look at ADHD.

Follow Francesca Mura on Pinterest

Me 100% of the time. Luckily Ito help for my ADD when I was a child

fun facts!

  • ADD and ADHD are the same disorder, Attention Deficit Disorder was officially renamed Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder in 1994. Many people use ADD to refer to Type One presented here, and ADHD to refer to Type Two, but they are the same core disorder.
  • In many cases where ADHD carries into adulthood, it’s a genetic issue [My grandfather, mother, siblings, and I have all been diagnosed with ADHD], though this does not always occur.

hello yes this is me

more fun facts!

  • there are a lot of talks about how ADHD is overdiagnosed, and that may be true for boys, but for girls ADHD is severely underdiagnosed.
  • older studies mostly looked at hyperactive boys and that’s the perception we have of ADHD. because of this many girls will go undiagnosed until adulthood.
  • most girls/women who have ADHD are inattentive type. they tend to be introverted, disorganized and daydreamers. 
  • girls will internalize these as personal failings and teenage girls have a much higher rate of suicide and self harm because of it
  • ADHD is often comorbid with anxiety and depression, both of which are caused by the failings from having ADHD
  • depression can present itself differently in people with ADHD. it’s more of a discouragement from constantly failing, but it can be just as debilitating.
  • read this article from the atlantic: It’s Different for Girls with ADHD

themoreyouknow.jpg

yes yes i like this very much!!! i have severe combination adhd and this is a really great thing!!!