Shout out to the best joke I’ve ever told, WWDITS style.

(His name is Timothy)

the purest form of serotonin is when a cat looks at u and u go like “what?” and it meows at u

Message to all Americans: you BETTER NOT have brought BURGER in your SUITCASE

Kind of hilarious to me how poorly the title "Mob Psycho 100" localized to English-speaking areas. To someone whose first language is English, it scans as:

Mob (Yakuza, Mafia)

Psycho (violent person with "crazy" behaviors)

Thus: a particularly violent member of organized crime.

But in Japanese it scans as:

Mob (background characters in crowd scenes in manga or anime)

Psycho (short for psychic)

Thus: a psychic who looks/acts like someone you'd never pick out of a crowd scene in a comic.

French trans woman Marie-Pierre Pruvot, known by her stage name Bambi

Female Mimics magazine 1965

So this is a totally useless rant, but as a skinny girl, I’m getting extra, extra tired of fat-shaming.

I work for a corsetier at a Renaissance Faire. We sell corsets. Not flimsy bullshit costume corsets; like real, durable, waist-training corsets. Today a woman came in with her boyfriend, so I helped her pick out a corset and try it on. While her boyfriend—who was decidedly enthused about the whole corset thing—sat watching me lace her in, he told me, grinning, “Of all the good jobs at the Renaissance Faire, I think you have the best.”

I shrugged in agreement. “I touch butts and reach down cleavage all day; I mean…” Because we like to be a bit rakish at the Faire, and, y’know, it’s true. Tying people into corsets pretty much invariably requires getting handsy.

The couple laughed at that, and the boyfriend said, “That’s the job I would want!” But then he chuckled again and said, offhand, “Or maybe not; while we were looking at the racks, there were some pretty big sizes on there!”

Our sizes are all done in inches, and the biggest we make is a 46. And you’d better believe our large sizes sell. For a second I wasn’t sure what to say to the guy’s comment, but I answered him casually. “We get a lot of beautiful big ladies in here.” Because we do. “We make corsets for real women, not Barbie dolls,” I added. Wasn’t trying to be smart, just kind of tossed it out there because that’s the line we like to use when people ask about larger sizes, and because, again, we do.

The boyfriend went quiet at that; I didn’t think anything of it, I just kept on lacing. A moment later, he said, a little awkwardly (but sincerely enough), “Didn’t mean to be offensive.”

I quickly smiled and brushed it off, said he wasn’t, said I was just saying. (Don’t want to make the customers uncomfortable, you know?) And that was the end of it. His comment had rubbed me the wrong way, but it wasn’t a big deal. Now, I wear a 20-inch corset. I’m a few cup sizes short of being one of the Barbie dolls. Like his girlfriend, I’m one of the “hot chicks”; he doesn’t have to worry about offending me by implying that I wouldn’t be fun to poke and pull at.

Honestly though, of all the people I fit sexy technically-undergarments to in a day, fat girls are maybe my favorite people to lace up. Because they are just so damn happy that we have stuff that fits them. They are so damn happy that the corsets we make in their sizes are all the same pretty, shiny colors and cool flower/dragon/skull/etc. prints that the smaller corsets are, not ugly beige and boring “granny” colors. They are so goddamn happy that at least one (of several on the grounds) corset shop carries things that they can wear, that they actually want to wear, and that they look fucking awesome in. This is only my second season working, and we’ve fit 60+ inch waists and double-K busts. The only people we’ve ever had to tell sorry, we don’t have anything that fits them, are twelve-year-old kids.

It’s half-wonderful, half-heartbreaking how excited those women get. Women who say with sad smiles, when we ask if they want to get fitted, “Oh, no, you don’t have anything that fits me,” and then are stunned when we’re 300% confident that yes we do, and we have options. Women who can’t stop smiling and looking at themselves in the mirror after we’ve got them laced in.

I had a lady last week whose waist I measured (cinching the tape tight, as per procedure) at 41 inches—honestly not all that big. So she picked out a 41-inch corset to try on. I could tell halfway through getting her laced that it was going to be a bit big for her, so I mentioned it and said she might do better to try a smaller size. She started crying on the spot. She was so overwhelmed; she couldn’t believe someone had just told her that a 41 was too big. She told me about how hard clothes shopping was for her, how her mother would tell her she needed an XXXL instead of an XXL, how she had recently lost weight but still couldn’t wear certain colors because they didn’t fit or she wasn’t confident enough.

She did end up getting her corset, and after I checked her out she asked if she could give me a hug, so we ended up standing there hugging each other for a minute. While we did, I told her, “Do not ever let anyone tell you any bullshit. You are gorgeous.” She said, “I have a new boyfriend and he keeps telling me that.” I told her he was right, and to just keep telling herself she’s gorgeous; it was okay if she didn’t always believe it, but to keep telling herself anyway. (That’s how I talked myself through shit when I had bad anxiety.)

We all know fat-shaming is bad. The stupidity, fatphobia, and misogyny of it has pissed me off since I first became aware of it. But working with clothing, especially as figure-hugging and precise as corsets, has given me a new perspective on it—how much it affects people and just how shitty it is. Like, what does it say that I had a grown, only average-big woman crying into my shoulder because she was so overjoyed not to be the uppermost extremity of what a manufacturer can clothe?

My job rocks and it’s really rewarding, but sometimes it highlights some of the ugliest shit about society. I’m so glad I work at a shop that’s not bullshit about body types and operates with more people in mind than just scrawny white chicks like me. The fat women I work with are a ton of fun to lace up, and they’re so much more than their size—they’re cool, they’re smart, they’re funny, they’re sweet, they’re great to talk to, and yes, they’re hot. I’m so damn done with them getting short-changed and shamed by petty fucks who refuse to make them nice clothes, who refuse to even try to work for them, who refuse to consider them pretty. This whole rant was useless and won’t get read, but I had to vent because it’s been driving me nuts.

So actually, screw you, random dude. Fat girls are the highlight of my job.

Unknown Inuit artist

Igloo Scene, c.1950

~

One of the most frustrating things about researching Inuit art was that in the beginning, people did not think of these sculptures as fine art, but crafts so nobody bothered to write any artist names down. Sometimes artists inscribed works with their disc numbers (numbers assigned to individual Inuit by the Canadian government in lieu of their names because white people found them too difficult to pronounce/write down). The database of these numbers are now classified because the government is embarrassed of how dehumanizing this was.This leaves it so that there is no way for scholars like me to find out who created beautiful sculptures like the one above.

_ornl <- orange cat drinking water from his bowl

I am fucking dying

just an fyi, those european countries this person is talking about are super capitalist. and while capitalism is terrible, wasteful, inefficient, exploitative, in need of dismantling, etc. even things like public healthcare and livable wages and vacation time can exist within capitalism if capitalism is properly regulated.

america just chose the route of not allowing for those things by deregulating and selling everything off to private capital. which, as a failed experiment in free market economics, should be a pretty obvious lesson to the rest of the world of what NOT to do.

Green Collar Boy voices his opinion about getting his nails trimmed.

17 Days

It bothers me a lot how so much of how tumblr has decided is the “right way” to do disabled representation is so. Alien from actual disabled experiences. Your good disabled representation has to have a lightweight, low backed, sporty manual wheelchair. Dont think about the fact that many wheelchair users can’t self propel in a manual chair, or that most people can only afford the most basic standard hospital chair. Dont you know that’s bad representation! Your cane user OC shouldn’t be putting more than 20 percent of their weight on their cane because that’s Wrong, don’t worry about how canes are the most accessible mobility aid and be plenty of people who should actually be using crutches or a rollator are using cane out of necessity and will have to use them “incorrectly” that’s bad representation. They shouldn’t be embarrassed or ashamed of their medical devices, they should always wear their ostomy bag outside of their clothes, because that’s the way I can show my viewers that I care about representation! All feeding tubes go through the nose right? That way I can show off my representation! They can all help in their own way! Just because they’re disabled doesn’t mean they can’t lift heavy boxes, or join an adventuring party, or play sports, or be a punk rocker! They can’t be suicidal: that’s bad representation! They can be angry but only ever at the obviously evil ableist cardboard cutout villain. Never at their own limitations, or at the well meaning protagonist who doesn’t even have to be told how to make the setting 100% accessible. Everything less is Bad Representation!

This is still one of the greatest things ever made.