i think the most embarrassing moment of my life that truly could have been a lot worse but my mom saved me happened when i was like 11 and i needed to save presentation slides onto a hard drive of mine, i did that and asked my mom to check my spelling/grammar and she came up to me an hour later and was like “hey blaine i think you should look through this again and delete the extra files on this. your classmates shouldn’t see it when you give your presentation” and when i checked the hard drive i found 30+ images of mspaint gay warrior cats fanart i had drawn on there
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on fathers ; things i’ve collected here, and other places on the internet
topaz winters, war story with my father // sylvia plath, the unabridged journals of sylvia plath // fatherland, eloise robinson // mary ruefle, trances of the blast // interstellar (2014) // unknown(?)/still searching // bruce springsteen - my fathers house (springsteen on broadway) // my father’s fields, dan gerber // parasite (2019) // my fathers funeral, frank ormsby
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We all cherish our mothers. Animals are the same way. But dairy rips mothers and their young apart so that the mother’s milk can be pumped for humans instead.
If we can imagine ourselves as kids being torn away from our mothers, never to see them again - that is the reality that baby cows experience every day. That is the reality of dairy.
Every time we consume dairy, we are taking away from a baby cow who his/her mother’s milk was meant for. Instead we put nuzzles on them to prevent them from drinking it, separate them from their mothers, and place them in isolated pens.
Plant based milks such as those made from almond, soy, and oat milks are just some of the many varieties of milk and other dairy products where baby cows do not have to be ripped away from their mothers.
A kinder, more equal world is possible. Make a positive difference and give plant based foods a delicious try.
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LETTERS TO MY MOTHER ABOUT FRENCH BRAIDS & OTHER ASSORTED METAPHORS, by @boysaints, published in Ang(st) Zine
[transcript: elementary school mornings, our paper-doll bodies strung out on the laundry lines / always one foot out the door / half a bagel stuffed in my mouth / converse untied & on the wrong feet / those days when you switched between three languages so fast / it gave me whiplash / when i got dressed in the dark, put my shirt on backwards / more often than not / fourth grade, you brushed my hair / divided it into two neat sections, somehow always unraveled by / the end of the day / elementary school mornings, we sang / two different melodies / as we scrambled to find another hair tie / did you do your homework, kanna? did you remember / to pack your lunch? / secret #1: i regret the arguments, mama / yelling whenever the comb’s teeth bit into my scalp, whenever the braids didn’t turn out the way i’d imagined / (i don’t remember why / i couldn’t say sorry) / now, i stand at the window / i rinse my cereal bowl / i tug on my ponytail & try not to think about growing up / about our fights / my slammed doors / the fact that you are forty steps away & i will never know / how to say goodbye / now, the summer is sharp enough / to slice through my toothpick-thin bones / the fat bodies of bumblebees hum lazily in / the back garden / now, we sit in almost-silence / your tea / my coffee / this quiet song we share / in the white spooling from your temples / in the smell of henna on a saturday morning / in our tangled hair, the generations of women staring back at us through / the bathwater / secret #2: i miss crawling into your bed after every nightmare / i miss letting you do my makeup / i miss letting you hold me, mama. / (i’m still young, but not young enough / to be coddled / i’m still young, but not young enough / to need spoonfeeding / not young enough to admit / i still need you) / mom, i miss / myself. / i think that’s the real problem, ma / that i grew up (too fast, always too fast) & i don’t know who i am / anymore / secret #3: i wish i had told you how my day went. i wish i had been honest when i had the chance. / is it too late to try again, mom? would you do my hair if / i asked nicely? / if i never complained / again? / would you let me be your baby until / i feel old enough to move on? / secret #4, #5, #6: / my mother doesn’t sit still long enough / to breathe. / my mother is a scientific marvel, practical to a fault / i’ve never known how to be / without the mathematics of her love. / the late nights / the red eyes / the endless working & calculating long after everyone else has fallen asleep / my mother & her plastic hairbrush / my mother & her watercolor tears / my mother & her endless determination / (i’m not old, but i’m old enough to realize this. i’m not old, but i’m old enough to know that there is so much in her / that she has given so much / away / old enough to admit / i still need her) / now, i dream / we’ll fold laundry together on a sunday afternoon / now, i dream / the world no longer holds a knife to my throat, my hair still / a frizzy cloud around me / now, i dream / i’ll say: i love you / i miss you / i’m ready to come back to myself. / i’ll say: i’m learning to love, mom / all your my our split ends & sharp edges / i’m learning to love, mom / i’m learning to sing along.
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