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If you are against BLM, you are unwelcome on my page.

If you support AllLivesMatter or BlueLivesMatter, you are not my friend.

If you think the riots are unjustified and irrational, unfollow me right now.

I am not black, but I support the black community all the way. I cannot possibly understand your pain or your suffering, but I'm with you. Now and forever.

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The FCC: Why would you want to save the internet?

ME:

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ta da!

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damn son vaginas get itchy too and u don’t see us shoving our hands down our pants it’s called self control go find some

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My Kitty playing in a paper bag, attacking a stick.

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I know there’s a lot of tension after Tumblr’s new policy annouced for December 17th, but reblog this if you aren’t leaving Tumblr so that other blogs can know they aren’t going to be completely alone!

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You should really write a book about your life. In the meantime, tell us all a story, please?

I AM EXTREMELY STRONG: a story about furniture

the summer that i was about thirteen or fourteen, my mother decided to buy a la-z-boy for my stepdad, skip, for their anniversary. she did this because my mother loves giving presents and my stepdad loves sitting down.

she needed someone to help transport the chair from the furniture store back to our house. my brother was, at the time, at Sports Camp For Young Boys Who Want Girls To Kiss Them, and skip was obviously out of the question, so her only option was me.

me at 13, a self-portrait:

pigeon-toed

desperately physically unfit

favorite snack was mozzarella cheese. no garnish. just…… balls of mozzarella cheese

in my “i only listen to blink-182 and my favorite color is linkin park after dark nailpolish,” phase

SO OFF WE WENT.

the chair was in a big furniture warehouse, like a schewels or something. my mother, a woman who never goes into a situation without a to-do list and a plan of action, knew immediately what she wanted. 

it was a broad recliner, taupe-ish, with a retractable foot rest. it was the everest of chairs. once you sat in this chair, you were never getting up. you would have to be brought your meals. your loved ones would bid you adieu, sadly, waving from the living room. “we’re going on a family vacation,” they would tell you, and you would say, “there is nothing left for me but the warm embrace of this chair, and death.”

“mollyhall, help us move this,” my mother said.

“us?” i asked. “as in, the three of us? we are moving this chair?”

i looked at the Everest Chair. i looked at my mother. i looked at skinny mcdimples. i gestured at my own noodle arms, and at skinny mcdimples’ everything. 

“uh,” i said, pointedly.

“we can DO IT,” my mother insisted.

“uh,” repeated skinny mcdimples, this time with urgency.

“LISTEN,” said my mother, drawing herself up to her full height of a whopping 5’5”, her voice dropping about 6 octaves to decibels typically only heard in whalesong.

“WE CAN LIFT THIS FUCKING CHAIR.

I AM.

EXTREMELY.

STRONG.”

THAT’S MY SECRET. I AM ALWAYS FUCKIN’ PUMPED ABOUT FURNITURE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

skinny mcdimples and i quickly snapped into action, because nobody wants to fuck with a 5’5” hulk woman with a love of leisure seating. my mother lifted the whole front of the Everest Chair, running high on adrenaline and self-righteous fury, while skinny mcdimples and i struggled desperately with the back half, shooting one another frequent, panicked looks.

by the time we got it out to the car, poor skinny mcdimples and i were sweating bullets, hands slipping all over the suede, sending up desperate pleas to the lord jesus to keep the Everest Chair from crushing our bodies the way it had crushed our spirits.

my mother lifted the Everest Chair with one hand and tossed it into the bed of the truck.

“see?” she asked. “i told you. piece of cake.”

“piece of cake,” skinny mcdimples and i agreed, in between bouts of vomiting from exertion and crying.

i think about skinny mcdimples sometimes.  how is he doing? is he still working at the furniture store, or did the trauma of the Everest Chair send him into a downward spiral that led to a career 180? did he realize that if he can lift the Everest Chair, he can lift everything? is he a pro wrestler now? did he marry? does he ever think of me, thirteen, chubby as hell, clinging desperately to the back of the Everest Chair and hissing, “i’m gonna die, we’re all gonna die here,” under my breath?

SKINNY MCDIMPLES, WHAT BECAME OF YOU?

we pulled out of the parking lot. i was too physically exhausted to do anything but curl up in the passenger seat and—

thump.

thumpthump.

thumpthump. thUMP. THUMP.

“what is that? is something knocking?”

KNOCK KNOCK.

WHO’S THERE?

HUBRIS.

IT’S YOUR OWN

GODDAMN

HUBRIS,

MOM.

we pulled over.

i bet you thought you’d seen the last of me.

the Everest Chair sat rocking in the truck bed, knocking against the back window every time a breeze rolled by.

“you can sit on it to hold it down,” said my mom. she had a wildness in her eyes.

a sweet, jolly-looking old man in a pickup truck not dissimilar to our own pulled into the parking lot where we were throwing down with the Everest Chair. he leaned out of the driver’s window, his santa eyes sparkling. “do you ladies need help?” he asked. “i have some bungees in the back if you need ‘em.”

there it was!!! our chance for salvation!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

my mother’s face darkened. her lips went white. she seemed to expand outward, like the size of her rage with this chair and her tragically useless daughter could not be contained by the human body. her voice sound like the way the sky looks just before it dumps so much water on your house that you have to immediately start bailing water out of the windows with buckets when she said—said, not shouted, because her rage had gone far past shouting:

“WE DON’T NEED ANY FUCKING HELP.”

yes, we did!!!!!!!

we did desperately need help!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

“wait,” i whispered fruitlessly as Santa Man drove hastily off. my mother turned back to the Everest Chair. she tossed a tarp over it, and stretched a single bungee across its girth.

one bungee cord and a tarp?

ONE BUNGEE CORD?

AND A TARP?

“there,” she said. “piece of cake.”

“look, i don’t want to be the one to bring this up,” i said cautiously as we got back into the truck’s cab, the Everest Chair still thumping merrily. we both ignored it so steadily we made the tell-tale heart guy jealous. knocking? what knocking? HAHA, EVERYTHING IS FINE. AFTER ALL, WE USED ONE BUNGEE CORD. AND A TARP.

“bring what up?” my mother asked.

i swallowed. “um….how are we going to get it inside the house?”

****

6 HOURS LATER, AT THEIR ANNIVERSARY DINNER:

“i love my new chair!!!!! did you have it delivered?”

“mollyhall and i did it ourselves,” my mother said, taking a cool sip of wine. “it was a piece of cake.”

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Hilarious Dog Snapchats That Are Impossible Not To Laugh At

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*drops mic*

*comes back to make sure I didn’t damage the mic*

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scene before movie climax:

protagonist: So who’s with me?

*5 seconds of silence*

the stoic one: *looks up* im in

4 people one after the other: me to

*after everyone else has joined we see The Edgy One standing in the back*

*2 more seconds of silence*

The Edgy One: *chortles* we’re all gonna die… what the hell, im in

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Reblog if you didn’t write My Immortal

We’re going to find the author by process of elimination.

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