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I’m going to see GOTG tomorrow afternoon! But until then I think I’ll stay off the tumblrs, just to avoid spoilers…. aaaand also maybe to get a bunch of work done today.

So, have a fab Friday, and if you see me posting on here, fuckin yell at me, okay?

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j-groffy:

treat other ladies like leslie knope treats ann perkins 

(via katiebishop)

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(Source: lockes, via peakcapitolism)

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Anonymously message me (3) things you want to know about me.

(Source: shitf4ced, via troglobite)

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sirdef:

Deadpool 029

(via marvel-comic)

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shorm:

globalsoftpirka:

dcwomenkickingass:

His crime is now canon

deantrippe:

When no one was looking, Lex Luthor took forty cakes. He took 40 cakes. That’s as many as four tens. And that’s terrible.
From Superman #709, written by Chris Roberson.


OH MY GOD THEY MADE IT CANON

And that’s terrible.

shorm:

globalsoftpirka:

dcwomenkickingass:

His crime is now canon

image

deantrippe:

When no one was looking, Lex Luthor
took forty cakes. He took 40 cakes.
That’s as many as four tens.
And that’s terrible.

From Superman #709, written by Chris Roberson.

OH MY GOD THEY MADE IT CANON

And that’s terrible.

(via quantumwobbles)

Tags: i'm so happy
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alilfallofrain:

raggedyanndy:

thispleasesmorbo:

spellboundsama:

THAT IS GORGEOUS

heterochromia is one of the coolest aesthetics the human body can muster

a very groovy mutation

Thank you, Charles Xavier.

(Source: poyzn, via wings-andgrace)

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Orphan Black Poster by Me

Orphan Black Poster by Me

(via idrilka)

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broadway-aradia:

i really want to carry a torch in a cave just like one time

AND THEN TOUCH AN UNLIT TORCH TO THE LIT TORCH AND *BWAM* TWO TORCHES! TORCH BUDDIES! ‘SPLORIN’ THE CAVE! SPELUNKING!

(Source: seven-lilies, via elegantlyrugged)

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"So I’ve decided fandom will forever be confused about Natasha’s name. Not, uh, coincidentally, comics writers have been confused about it for even longer. The tricky bit is this: Natalia and Natasha are both forms of the Russian name Наталья. The Natalia/Natasha equivalency doesn’t exist in English, leading to all kinds of tail-chasing confusion re: which is real and which is fake. Natasha is a diminutive form of Natalia the same way Bill is for William. “Natalia” is not more authentic or more Russian, it’s just a bit more formal. And “Natasha Romanoff” is not an alias the way “Nadine Roman” or “Nancy Rushman” are. The Romanoff/Romanova issue is just a question of transliteration. The Russian surname is Рома́нов, which is written as Romanoff or Romanov depending on your history book. Traditionally, Russian ladies take feminine endings to match their grammatical gender— Ivan Belov becomes Yelena Belova, Aleksandr Belinsky becomes Aleksandra Belinskaya. But the feminine endings often get dropped in English translation, e.g. Nastia Liukin, not Nastia Liukina. It’s a matter of preference. If that’s too confusing, don’t worry, until about 1998 the comics had no idea what they were doing either. Natasha’s name has been Natasha since her very first appearance, where she and her partner Boris Turgenev were the butt of the obvious joke. Her last name wasn’t revealed until the early 1970s. Yeah, she went through a whole solo series without getting a last name. Weird, but it took dozens of issues for Hawkeye to get a first name. Romanoff: a name no one knows or knew. At the time, Natasha was being written as an aristocratic jet-setter, a glamorous countess. Since Romanov is the most famous Russian surname, and superhero stuff isn’t codenamed subtlety, I figure Gerry Conway just went with what he knew. And so Natasha Romanoff was her name through the 1970s. Instead of “Miss” or the Danvers-ian “Ms.”, Natasha used “Madame”, contributing to that Old World mystique and invoking feelings of a boudoir. By 1983 someone on staff realized that Romanova might be more technically correct. (Might being operative, here, the best way of translating the feminine endings is still debated.) Anyway, her Official Handbook to the Marvel Universe page listed her as Natasha “Romanoff” Romanova. The next big change would occur when someone, and I’m thinking it was Chris Claremont, realized she was missing a patronym. A full Russian name has three parts: the given (first) name, the patronym, and the family (last) name. For example, Grand Duchess Anastasia, the one who had that Bluth film, would be formally called Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanova, or Anastasia “Daughter of Nicholas” Romanoff. Her brother, the Tsarevich Alexei, was Alexei Nikolaevich Romanov, or Alexei “Son of Nicholas” Romanoff. Basically: everyone in Russia has a middle name, and it is their father’s. I think it was Claremont who realized Nat’s was lacking because he is a phonetic accent wizard and an expert on Piotr Nikolaievitch Rasputin da tovarisch. Also, because the first time I could find a patronym for Natasha was in a 1992 issue of X-men that he wrote. The weird thing about Alianovna is that it would mean her father’s name was Alia or Alian or something else not really common. Maybe that’s why Kurt Busiek, continuity repair man, pretended it was something else in his Heroes Return Iron Man run. Ivanovna, or daughter of Ivan, is a much more common patronym and also meshes with her backstory. But it didn’t stick. Everyone and the guidebook uses Alianovna. What did stick was Natalia. Yeah, this is the first comic I could find that uses Natalia, and you can tell by context that Busiek’s using it to emphasize formality. When talking to Tony, she calls herself Natasha, when declaring her total identity before an epic beatdown, she takes the “my name is Inigo Montoya” route. From the late nineties forward Natalia started popping up with some frequency, usually in formal or impersonal contexts. Yelena speaks of “Natalia Romanova” as the Red Room’s greatest legend, Natasha demands that the he-was-evil-all-along Ivan Petrovich address her without the diminutive. There are exceptions. I figure some writers check wikipedia, see her name listed as “Natalia” and decide they’ve done their homework. Daniel Way has Logan refer to Natalia, his surrogate daughter, completely bizarre for the quasi-familial relationship and for the nickname-happy Wolverine. Brubaker had Bucky refer to her as Natalia, at first— an odd distancing from a previously intimate relationship. Since they’ve gotten back together, though, he uses Natasha, or Nat, or ‘Tasha, or in any case, he’s dropped the formality."

Fuck Yeah, Black Widow: The Name Game  (via eppypeninc)

(via nncharlesz)

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davizlopez:

Nightcrawler commission.

davizlopez:

Nightcrawler commission.

(via comicsriot)

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thepoliticalfreakshow:

The Transgender Crucible: Rolling Stone’s Article on Trans Former Inmate CeCe McDonald [TW: Descriptions of Transmisogyny, Transphobia, & Anti-Trans Violence]
A dozen eggs, bacon, maybe some biscuits: CeCe McDonald had a modest shopping list in mind, just a few things for breakfast the next day. It was midnight, the ideal time for a supermarket run. Wearing a lavender My Little Pony T-shirt and denim cutoffs, CeCe grabbed her purse for the short walk to the 24-hour Cub Foods. She preferred shopping at night, when the darkened streets provided some relief from the stares, whispers and insults she encountered daily as a transgender woman. CeCe, 23, had grown accustomed to snickers and double takes – and was practiced in talking back to strangers who’d announce, “That’s a man!” But such encounters were tiring; some days a lady just wanted to buy her groceries in peace.
And so it was that on a warm Saturday night in June 2011, CeCe and four friends, all African-Americans in their twenties, found themselves strolling the tree-lined streets of her quiet working-class Long­fellow neighborhood in Minneapolis, toward a commercial strip. Leading the way was CeCe’s roommate Latavia Taylor and two purse-carrying gay men – CeCe’s makeshift family, whom she called “cousin” and “brothers” – with CeCe, a fashion student at a local community college, and her lanky boyfriend trailing behind. They were passing the Schooner Tavern when they heard the jeering.
"Faggots."
Gathered outside the dive bar were a handful of cigarette-smoking white people, looking like an aging biker gang in their T-shirts, jeans and bandannas, motorcycles parked nearby. Hurling the insults were 47-year-old Dean Schmitz, in a white button-down and thick silver chain, and his 40-year-old ex-girlfriend Molly Flaherty, clad in black, drink in hand. “Look at that boy dressed as a girl, tucking his dick in!” hooted Schmitz, clutching two beer bottles freshly fetched from his Blazer, as CeCe and her friends slowed to a stop. “You niggers need to go back to Africa!”
Chrishaun “CeCe” McDonald stepped in front of her friends, a familiar auto­pilot kicking in, shunting fury and fear to a distant place while her mouth went into motion. “Excuse me. We are people, and you need to respect us,” CeCe began in her lisping delivery, one acrylic-nailed finger in the air, her curtain of orange micro­braids swaying. With her caramel skin, angled jaw and square chin, friends called her “CeCe” for her resemblance to the singer Ciara; even her antagonist Flaherty would later describe CeCe as “really pretty.” “We’re just trying to walk to the store,” CeCe continued, raising her voice over the blare of Schmitz and Flaherty’s free-associating invective: “bitches with dicks,” “faggot-lovers,” “niggers,” “rapists.” The commotion was drawing more patrons out of the bar – including a six-foot-eight, 310-pound biker in leather chaps – and CeCe’s boyfriend, Larry Thomas, nervously called to Schmitz, “Enjoy your night, man – just leave us alone.” CeCe and her friends turned to go. Then Flaherty glanced at Schmitz and laughed.
"I’ll take all of you bitches on!" Flaherty hollered, and smashed CeCe in the side of her face with a glass tumbler.
Just like that, a mundane walk to the store turned into a street brawl, in a near-farcical clash of stereotypes. Pandemonium erupted as CeCe and Flaherty seized each other by the hair; the bikers swung fists and hurled beer bottles, hollering “beat that faggot ass!”; and CeCe’s friends flailed purses and cracked their studded belts as whips. When the two sides separated, panting and disoriented, Flaherty was curled up amid the broken glass screaming, mistakenly, that she’d been knifed, and CeCe stood over her, her T-shirt drenched with her own blood. Touching her cheek, CeCe felt a shock of pain as her finger entered the open wound where Flaherty’s glass had punctured her salivary gland. Purse still over her shoulder, CeCe fast-walked from the scene. She’d made it more than a half-block away when she heard her friends calling, “Watch your back!”
Transwomen and Danger: More Tales From the Front Lines 
CeCe whirled around to see Schmitz heading toward her: walking, then running, his face a twist of wild, unrestrained hatred. CeCe felt terror burst out from that remote place where she normally locked it away. She didn’t know that Schmitz’s veins were pounding with cocaine and meth. She didn’t know of his lengthy rap sheet, including convictions for assault. Nor did she know that under Schmitz’s shirt, inked across his solar plexus, was a four-inch swastika tattoo. All CeCe needed to see was the look on his face to know her worst fears were coming true: Her young life was about to end as a grim statistic, the victim of a hate crime.
"Come here, bitch!" Schmitz roared as he closed in. CeCe pedaled backward, blood dripping from her slashed face.
"Didn’t y’all get enough?" CeCe asked, defiant and afraid, while her hand fished into her large handbag for anything to protect herself. Her fingers closed on a pair of black-handled fabric scissors she used for school. She held them up high as a warning, their five-inch blades glinting in the parking-lot floodlights. Schmitz stopped an arm’s length away, raising clenched fists and shuffling his feet in a boxing stance. His eyes were terrible with rage.
"Bitch, you gonna stab me?" he shouted. They squared off for a tense moment: the furious white guy, amped up on meth, Nazi tattoo across his belly; the terrified black trans woman with a cartoon pony on her T-shirt; the scissors between them. CeCe saw Schmitz lunge toward her and braced herself for impact. Their bodies collided, then separated. He was still looking at her.
"Bitch – you stabbed me!"
"Yes, I did," CeCe announced, even as she wondered if that could possibly be true; in the adrenaline of the moment, she’d felt nothing. Scanning Schmitz over, she saw no sign of injury – though in fact he’d sustained a wound so grisly that CeCe would later recall to police that the button-down shirt Schmitz wore that night was not white but "mainly red. Like one of them Hawaiian shirts." CeCe waited until he turned to rejoin his crowd. Then she and Thomas ran arm in arm down the block toward the nearly empty Cub Foods parking lot, where they waited for police to arrive.
They didn’t see the scene unfolding behind them: how Schmitz took a few faltering steps, uttered, “I’m bleeding,” then lifted his shirt to unleash a geyser of blood. CeCe had stabbed him in the chest, burying the blade almost three and a half inches deep, slicing his heart. Blood sprayed the road as Schmitz staggered, collapsed and, amid his friends’ screams, died. When CeCe and Thomas waved down a police car minutes later, she was promptly handcuffed and arrested.
To continue reading the article, click here.
Source: Sabrina Rubin Erdely for Rolling Stone

thepoliticalfreakshow:

The Transgender Crucible: Rolling Stone’s Article on Trans Former Inmate CeCe McDonald [TW: Descriptions of Transmisogyny, Transphobia, & Anti-Trans Violence]

A dozen eggs, bacon, maybe some biscuits: CeCe McDonald had a modest shopping list in mind, just a few things for breakfast the next day. It was midnight, the ideal time for a supermarket run. Wearing a lavender My Little Pony T-shirt and denim cutoffs, CeCe grabbed her purse for the short walk to the 24-hour Cub Foods. She preferred shopping at night, when the darkened streets provided some relief from the stares, whispers and insults she encountered daily as a transgender woman. CeCe, 23, had grown accustomed to snickers and double takes – and was practiced in talking back to strangers who’d announce, “That’s a man!” But such encounters were tiring; some days a lady just wanted to buy her groceries in peace.

And so it was that on a warm Saturday night in June 2011, CeCe and four friends, all African-Americans in their twenties, found themselves strolling the tree-lined streets of her quiet working-class Long­fellow neighborhood in Minneapolis, toward a commercial strip. Leading the way was CeCe’s roommate Latavia Taylor and two purse-carrying gay men – CeCe’s makeshift family, whom she called “cousin” and “brothers” – with CeCe, a fashion student at a local community college, and her lanky boyfriend trailing behind. They were passing the Schooner Tavern when they heard the jeering.

"Faggots."

Gathered outside the dive bar were a handful of cigarette-smoking white people, looking like an aging biker gang in their T-shirts, jeans and bandannas, motorcycles parked nearby. Hurling the insults were 47-year-old Dean Schmitz, in a white button-down and thick silver chain, and his 40-year-old ex-girlfriend Molly Flaherty, clad in black, drink in hand. “Look at that boy dressed as a girl, tucking his dick in!” hooted Schmitz, clutching two beer bottles freshly fetched from his Blazer, as CeCe and her friends slowed to a stop. “You niggers need to go back to Africa!”

Chrishaun “CeCe” McDonald stepped in front of her friends, a familiar auto­pilot kicking in, shunting fury and fear to a distant place while her mouth went into motion. “Excuse me. We are people, and you need to respect us,” CeCe began in her lisping delivery, one acrylic-nailed finger in the air, her curtain of orange micro­braids swaying. With her caramel skin, angled jaw and square chin, friends called her “CeCe” for her resemblance to the singer Ciara; even her antagonist Flaherty would later describe CeCe as “really pretty.” “We’re just trying to walk to the store,” CeCe continued, raising her voice over the blare of Schmitz and Flaherty’s free-associating invective: “bitches with dicks,” “faggot-lovers,” “niggers,” “rapists.” The commotion was drawing more patrons out of the bar – including a six-foot-eight, 310-pound biker in leather chaps – and CeCe’s boyfriend, Larry Thomas, nervously called to Schmitz, “Enjoy your night, man – just leave us alone.” CeCe and her friends turned to go. Then Flaherty glanced at Schmitz and laughed.

"I’ll take all of you bitches on!" Flaherty hollered, and smashed CeCe in the side of her face with a glass tumbler.

Just like that, a mundane walk to the store turned into a street brawl, in a near-farcical clash of stereotypes. Pandemonium erupted as CeCe and Flaherty seized each other by the hair; the bikers swung fists and hurled beer bottles, hollering “beat that faggot ass!”; and CeCe’s friends flailed purses and cracked their studded belts as whips. When the two sides separated, panting and disoriented, Flaherty was curled up amid the broken glass screaming, mistakenly, that she’d been knifed, and CeCe stood over her, her T-shirt drenched with her own blood. Touching her cheek, CeCe felt a shock of pain as her finger entered the open wound where Flaherty’s glass had punctured her salivary gland. Purse still over her shoulder, CeCe fast-walked from the scene. She’d made it more than a half-block away when she heard her friends calling, “Watch your back!”

Transwomen and Danger: More Tales From the Front Lines 

CeCe whirled around to see Schmitz heading toward her: walking, then running, his face a twist of wild, unrestrained hatred. CeCe felt terror burst out from that remote place where she normally locked it away. She didn’t know that Schmitz’s veins were pounding with cocaine and meth. She didn’t know of his lengthy rap sheet, including convictions for assault. Nor did she know that under Schmitz’s shirt, inked across his solar plexus, was a four-inch swastika tattoo. All CeCe needed to see was the look on his face to know her worst fears were coming true: Her young life was about to end as a grim statistic, the victim of a hate crime.

"Come here, bitch!" Schmitz roared as he closed in. CeCe pedaled backward, blood dripping from her slashed face.

"Didn’t y’all get enough?" CeCe asked, defiant and afraid, while her hand fished into her large handbag for anything to protect herself. Her fingers closed on a pair of black-handled fabric scissors she used for school. She held them up high as a warning, their five-inch blades glinting in the parking-lot floodlights. Schmitz stopped an arm’s length away, raising clenched fists and shuffling his feet in a boxing stance. His eyes were terrible with rage.

"Bitch, you gonna stab me?" he shouted. They squared off for a tense moment: the furious white guy, amped up on meth, Nazi tattoo across his belly; the terrified black trans woman with a cartoon pony on her T-shirt; the scissors between them. CeCe saw Schmitz lunge toward her and braced herself for impact. Their bodies collided, then separated. He was still looking at her.

"Bitch – you stabbed me!"

"Yes, I did," CeCe announced, even as she wondered if that could possibly be true; in the adrenaline of the moment, she’d felt nothing. Scanning Schmitz over, she saw no sign of injury – though in fact he’d sustained a wound so grisly that CeCe would later recall to police that the button-down shirt Schmitz wore that night was not white but "mainly red. Like one of them Hawaiian shirts." CeCe waited until he turned to rejoin his crowd. Then she and Thomas ran arm in arm down the block toward the nearly empty Cub Foods parking lot, where they waited for police to arrive.

They didn’t see the scene unfolding behind them: how Schmitz took a few faltering steps, uttered, “I’m bleeding,” then lifted his shirt to unleash a geyser of blood. CeCe had stabbed him in the chest, burying the blade almost three and a half inches deep, slicing his heart. Blood sprayed the road as Schmitz staggered, collapsed and, amid his friends’ screams, died. When CeCe and Thomas waved down a police car minutes later, she was promptly handcuffed and arrested.

To continue reading the article, click here.

Source: Sabrina Rubin Erdely for Rolling Stone

(via anarcho-queer)

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(Source: ircnpatriot, via rcmclachlan)