The GOP has a plan to stop Wendy Davis: blatant voter suppression.
Women don’t like having their bodies policed, and are supporting Davis like no Democrat has been backed before. But Republicans aren’t fighting back on the issues — they’ve pushed through a Voter ID law that blocks the votes of countless Texas women.
Starting this November, Texans must show a photo ID with their up-to-date legal name instead of IDs like a birth certificate. That’s not a problem for single or married men — but it leaves a third of Texas women scrambling in a state with just 81 DMVs in its 254 counties.
The only way the GOP can keep Texas is by rigging the game. Women have the power to turn this state blue for the first time in two decades, but we need to help secure their rights first. Please, join us in calling on the Texas legislature to get rid of this unconstitutional Voter ID lawand stop trying to strip women of their votes.
DANGER! DANGER FOR TEXAS WOMEN!
ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS
Signal boosting the fuck out of this.
“There comes a point where Susan, who was the older girl, is lost to Narnia because she becomes interested in lipstick. She’s become irreligious basically because she found sex. I have a big problem with that.” - JK Rowling
Can we talk about Susan’s fabulous adventures after Narnia? The ones where she wears nylons and elegant blouses when she wants to, and short skirts and bright lipstick when she wants to, and hiking boots and tough jeans and big men’s plaid shirts when she feels like backpacking out into the mountains and remembering what it was to be lost in a world full of terrific beauty— I know her siblings say she stops talking about it, that Susan walks away from the memories of Narnia, but I don’t think she ever really forgot.
I want to read about Susan finishing out boarding school as a grown queen reigning from a teenaged girl’s body. School bullies and peer pressure from children and teachers who treat you like you’re less than sentient wouldn’t have the same impact. C’mon, Susan of the Horn, Susan who bested the DLF at archery, and rode a lion, and won wars, sitting in a school uniform with her eyebrows rising higher and higher as some old goon at the front of the room slams his fist on the lectern.
Susan living through WW2, huddling with her siblings, a young adult (again), a fighting queen and champion marksman kept from the action, until she finally storms out against screaming parents’ wishes and volunteers as a nurse on the front. She keeps a knife or two hidden under her clothes because when it comes down to it, they called her Gentle, but sometimes loving means fighting for what you care for.
She’ll apply to a women’s college on the East Coast, because she fell in love with America when her parents took her there before the war. She goes in majoring in Literature (her ability to decipher High Diction in historical texts is uncanny), but checks out every book she can on history, philosophy, political science. She sneaks into the boys’ school across town and borrows their books too. She was once responsible for a kingdom, roads and taxes and widows and crops and war. She grew from child to woman with that mantle of duty wrapped around her shoulders. Now, tossed here on this mundane land, forever forbidden from her true kingdom, Susan finds that she can give up Narnia but she cannot give up that responsibility. She looks around and thinks I could do this better.
I want Susan sneaking out to drink at pubs with the girls, her friends giggling at the boys checking them out from across the way, until Susan walks over (with her nylons, with her lipstick, with her sovereignty written out in whatever language she damn well pleases) and beats them all at pool. Susan studying for tests and bemoaning Aristotle and trading a boy with freckles all over his nose shooting lessons so that he will teach her calculus. Susan kissing boys and writing home to Lucy and kissing girls and helping smuggle birth control to the ladies in her dorm because Susan Pevensie is a queen and she understands the right of a woman to rule over her own body.
Susan losing them all to a train crash, Edmund and Peter and Lucy, Jill and Eustace, and Lucy and Lucy and Lucy, who Susan’s always felt the most responsible for. Because this is a girl who breathes responsibility, the little mother to her three siblings until a wardrobe whisked them away and she became High Queen to a whole land, ruled it for more than a decade, then came back centuries later as a legend. What it must do to you, to be a legend in the body of a young girl, to have that weight on your shoulders and have a lion tell you that you have to let it go. What is must do to you, to be left alone to decide whether to bury your family in separate ceremonies, or all at once, the same way they died, all at once and without you. What it must do to you, to stand there in black, with your nylons, and your lipstick, and feel responsible for these people who you will never be able to explain yourself to and who you can never save.
Maybe she dreams sometimes they made it back to Narnia after all. Peter is a king again. Lucy walks with Aslan and all the dryads dance. Maybe Susan dreams that she went with them— the train jerks, a bright light, a roar calling you home.
Maybe she doesn’t.
Susan grows older and grows up. Sometimes she hears Lucy’s horrified voice in her head, “Nylons? Lipstick, Susan? Who wants to grow up?” and Susan thinks, “Well you never did, Luce.” Susan finishes her degree, stays in America (England looks too much like Narnia, too much like her siblings, and too little, all at once). She starts writing for the local paper under the pseudonym Frank Tumnus, because she wants to write about politics and social policy and be listened to, because the name would have made Edmund laugh.
She writes as Susan Pevensie, too, about nylons and lipstick, how to give a winning smiles and throw parties, because she knows there is a kind of power there and she respects it. She won wars with war sometimes, in Narnia, but sometimes she stopped them before they began.
Peter had always looked disapprovingly on the care with which Susan applied her makeup back home in England, called it vanity. And even then, Susan would smile at him, say “I use what weapons I have at hand,” and not explain any more than that. The boy ruled at her side for more than a decade. He should know better.
Vain is not the proper word. This is about power. But maybe Peter wouldn’t have liked the word “ambition” any more than “vanity.”
Susan is a young woman in the 50s and 60s. Frank Tumnus has quite the following now. He’s written a few books, controversial, incendiary. Susan gets wrapped up in the civil rights movement, because of course she would. It’s not her first war. All the same, she almost misses the White Witch. Greed is a cleaner villain than senseless hate. She gets on the Freedom Rider bus, mails Mr. Tumnus articles back home whenever there’s a chance, those rare occasions they’re not locked up or immediately threatened. She is older now than she ever was in Narnia. Susan dreams about Telemarines killing fauns.
Time rolls on. Maybe she falls in love with a young activist or an old cynic. Maybe she doesn’t. Maybe Frank Tumnus, controversial in the moment, brilliant in retrospect, gets offered an honorary title from a prestigious university. She declines and publishes an editorial revealing her identity. Her paper fires her. Three others mail her job offers.
When Vietnam rolls around, she protests in the streets. Susan understands the costs of war. She has lived through not just through the brutal wars of one life, but two.
Maybe she has children now. Maybe she tells them stories about a magical place and a magical lion, the stories Lucy and Edmund brought home about how if you sail long enough you reach the place where the seas fall off the edge of the world. But maybe she tells them about Cinderella instead, Sleeping Beauty, Rapunzel, except Rapunzel cuts off her own hair and uses it to climb down the tower and escape. The damsel uses what tools she has at hand.
A lion told her to walk away, and she did. He forbade her magic, he forbade her her own kingdom, so she made her own.
Susan Pevensie did not lose faith. She found it.
This got to me a bit.
THIS. HURTS ME.
So Cuteeeee <3 BJD Cats by:
Anyone who gets angry about leggings as pants has not worn leggings as pants tbh
I’m so sorry for the years I spent saying leggings weren’t pants
now I know the truth
they’re BETTER than pants
they wear like a tighter version of jersey tracksuit bottoms
Leggings as pants was literally the best thing to happen to Monster High dolls.
Once upon a time I was babysitting my 12 year-old cousin and I took her to the mall for food and window shopping. This was around the time Enchanted came out so of course the walls were lined with Giselle. Not that I particularly minded, Enchanted was a good film.
So at any rate, I was casually browsing some of the outfits they had out and pick out this pink sparkly dress meant to be Aurora’s. I said, “Hey, Destiny, why don’t you wear this for Halloween?”
I should note I was just joking because this was the age where she was rebelling against dresses but rather than to comment on that she simply replied with, “That isn’t for me.”
I thought she was talking about the fact that I was holding up a dress so I pressed on, “Aw why not? C’mooon! I’m sure it’ll look great on you! Oh we could get you a nice tiara and sparkly heels-“
But she shook her head and went, “That’s only for white girls.”
Of course it was the initial line that took me by surprise, but even moreso was the sheer matter-of-factness that was in her voice. She wasn’t even fazed by it and talked as if was telling me some fact that I must have missed in a memo.
She went on to look at the TV screen but I kept going through the outfits thinking that maybe Jasmine or Pocahontas or Mulan would work, but that wasn’t the problem.
The problem IS that she is the so-called target audience for a store in which she found nothing for her and she accepted it as a fact.
The problem IS that all of this princess stuff isn’t FOR her.
The problem IS that I went through this revelation when I was her age and I thought that it would have ended a long time ago.
The problem IS that they rejoiced in Tiana only to get three more non-POC princesses.
And the problem is that all of this will CONTINUE to be and I just don’t know if I would be able to stand watching my two year-old niece realize this herself.
Because we’re Mexican, we’re mixed, we’re African-American, but most importantly we’re not white.
So you know what? No. Fuck YOU.
Because I WAS a kid. These princess movies WERE created for me, my cousins, my niece, and damn near every other little girl I have know in my lifetime.
And we were NEVER a part of their formula.
We are NEVER going to be a part of their formula.
I’m sick of this shit. I want to see this shit change and I’m not going to sit around waiting for it to change.
I am going to raise hell and I will bust my ass through school and I will get my degree and I will get into the animation industry and I will fight my absolute hardest to help in the change because if there’s one thing I never want to see again is a kid questioning why movies refuse to acknowledge their existence.
So you sit the fuck down and you shut the fuck up and you go through hearing this shit from four different kids and then you see if you can get off your fucking ass and say that shit to me again.
Jewels I found while studying pre Middle Age art history:
Confused “Why do I have two hands?”
the elusive chimichanga beast strikes again
I. I think that’s local. I… I have to look this up.
That IS local. Okay I went and looked it up and…
Apparently a reader of an associated blog suggested chimichanga, and everybody thought it was hilarious.
Thus front page news.
MAINE, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN