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November 21 2017

Reposted frompyrrhon pyrrhon viadenian denian
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““Die mad about it” is my favorite shade ever. Now stop making women justify wanting birth control coverage because of all the other health care benefits the Pill has.”

Reposted fromHeydrichMuller HeydrichMuller viadenian denian
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Reposted fromsentientshrubbery sentientshrubbery viadenian denian


Me: Alright, brain, we have two tasks to do. One of them is more time sensitive, but working on the other will be more fun. Which should I start on?

My brain: Do fucking nothing for 72 hours

Me: Understandable, have a nice day

Reposted fromSkydelan Skydelan viadenian denian

October 20 2017


“Your name is Tasbeeh. Don’t let them call you by anything else.”

My mother speaks to me in Arabic; the command sounds more forceful in her mother tongue, a Libyan dialect that is all sharp edges and hard, guttural sounds. I am seven years old and it has never occurred to me to disobey my mother. Until twelve years old, I would believe God gave her the supernatural ability to tell when I’m lying.

“Don’t let them give you an English nickname,” my mother insists once again, “I didn’t raise amreekan.”

My mother spits out this last word with venom. Amreekan. Americans. It sounds like a curse coming out of her mouth. Eight years in this country and she’s still not convinced she lives here. She wears her headscarf tightly around her neck, wades across the school lawn in long, floor-skimming skirts. Eight years in this country and her tongue refuses to bend and soften for the English language. It embarrasses me, her heavy Arab tongue, wrapping itself so forcefully around the clumsy syllables of English, strangling them out of their meaning.

But she is fierce and fearless. I have never heard her apologize to anyone. She will hold up long grocery lines checking and double-checking the receipt in case they’re trying to cheat us. My humiliation is heavy enough for the both of us. My English is not. Sometimes I step away, so people don’t know we’re together but my dark hair and skin betray me as a member of her tribe.

On my first day of school, my mother presses a kiss to my cheek.

“Your name is Tasbeeh,” she says again, like I’ve forgotten. “Tasbeeh.”


Roll call is the worst part of my day. After a long list of Brittanys, Jonathans, Ashleys, and Yen-but-call-me-Jens, the teacher rests on my name in silence. She squints. She has never seen this combination of letters strung together in this order before. They are incomprehensible. What is this h doing at the end? Maybe it is a typo.


“Tasbeeh,” I mutter, with my hand half up in the air. “Tasbeeh.”

A pause.

“Do you go by anything else?”

“No,” I say. “Just Tasbeeh. Tas-beeh.”

“Tazbee. All right. Alex?”

She moves on before I can correct her. She said it wrong. She said it so wrong. I have never heard my name said so ugly before, like it’s a burden. Her entire face contorts as she says it, like she is expelling a distasteful thing from her mouth. She avoids saying it for the rest of the day, but she has already baptized me with this new name. It is the name everyone knows me by, now, for the next six years I am in elementary school. “Tazbee,” a name with no grace, no meaning, no history; it belongs in no language.

“Tazbee,” says one of the students on the playground, later. “Like Tazmanian Devil?” Everyone laughs. I laugh too. It is funny, if you think about it.


I do not correct anyone for years. One day, in third grade, a plane flies above our school.

“Your dad up there, Bin Laden?” The voice comes from behind. It is dripping in derision.

“My name is Tazbee,” I say. I said it in this heavy English accent, so he may know who I am. I am American. But when I turn around they are gone.


I go to middle school far, far away. It is a 30-minute drive from our house. It’s a beautiful set of buildings located a few blocks off the beach. I have never in my life seen so many blond people, so many colored irises. This is a school full of Ashtons and Penelopes, Patricks and Sophias. Beautiful names that belong to beautiful faces. The kind of names that promise a lifetime of social triumph.

I am one of two headscarved girls at this new school. We are assigned the same gym class. We are the only ones in sweatpants and long-sleeved undershirts. We are both dreading roll call. When the gym teacher pauses at my name, I am already red with humiliation.

“How do I say your name?” she asks.

“Tazbee,” I say.

“Can I just call you Tess?”

I want to say yes. Call me Tess. But my mother will know, somehow. She will see it written in my eyes. God will whisper it in her ear. Her disappointment will overwhelm me.

“No,” I say, “Please call me Tazbee.”

I don’t hear her say it for the rest of the year.


My history teacher calls me Tashbah for the entire year. It does not matter how often I correct her, she reverts to that misshapen sneeze of a word. It is the ugliest conglomeration of sounds I have ever heard.

When my mother comes to parents’ night, she corrects her angrily, “Tasbeeh. Her name is Tasbeeh.” My history teacher grimaces. I want the world to swallow me up.


My college professors don’t even bother. I will only know them for a few months of the year. They smother my name in their mouths. It is a hindrance for their tongues. They hand me papers silently. One of them mumbles it unintelligibly whenever he calls on my hand. Another just calls me “T.”

My name is a burden. My name is a burden. My name is a burden. I am a burden.


On the radio I hear a story about a tribe in some remote, rural place that has no name for the color blue. They do not know what the color blue is. It has no name so it does not exist. It does not exist because it has no name.


At the start of a new semester, I walk into a math class. My teacher is blond and blue-eyed. I don’t remember his name. When he comes to mine on the roll call, he takes the requisite pause. I hold my breath.

“How do I pronounce your name?” he asks.

I say, “Just call me Tess.”

“Is that how it’s pronounced?”

I say, “No one’s ever been able to pronounce it.”

“That’s probably because they didn’t want to try,” he said. “What is your name?”

When I say my name, it feels like redemption. I have never said it this way before. Tasbeeh. He repeats it back to me several times until he’s got it. It is difficult for his American tongue. His has none of the strength, none of the force of my mother’s. But he gets it, eventually, and it sounds beautiful. I have never heard it sound so beautiful. I have never felt so deserving of a name. My name feels like a crown.


“Thank you for my name, mama.”


When the barista asks me my name, sharpie poised above the coffee cup, I tell him: “My name is Tasbeeh. It’s a tough t clinging to a soft a, which melts into a silky ssss, which loosely hugs the b, and the rest of my name is a hard whisper — eeh. Tasbeeh. My name is Tasbeeh. Hold it in your mouth until it becomes a prayer. My name is a valuable undertaking. My name requires your rapt attention. Say my name in one swift note – Tasbeeeeeeeh – sand let the h heat your throat like cinnamon. Tasbeeh. My name is an endeavor. My name is a song. Tasbeeh. It means giving glory to God. Tasbeeh. Wrap your tongue around my name, unravel it with the music of your voice, and give God what he is due.”

Tasbeeh Herwees, The Names They Gave Me  (via rabbrakha)


(via lexa-el-amin)

Reposted fromitslikerufus itslikerufus viadenian denian
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This is why Mr. Fry will always have a seat at my table.


I was having a conversation about religion with this guy and he asked me what I would do if I got into heaven and had to sit next to God. I told him I wouldn’t take the seat.

It’s scary how smug that fucker looks. “You’ll never shake my faith in a thug gangster god.”
Reposted fromMerelyGifted MerelyGifted viadenian denian
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Never talk to me or my 42 trees again

it amuses me to see people being surprised/impressed/amused by this setup, because it’s extremely common on the plains. if you don’t plant a windbreak, your heating and cooling bills are huge, and storms do things like throw the lawnmower through the living room window, take the roof off, or cake the entire north side of the house with six inches of solid ice.

evergreens remain bendy even in the coldest weather, so – wait, no, not the coldest. i remember when i was a kid it got down to like -45 and the norway pines around my house were cracking like gunshots as the sap froze.

maples, incidentally, make that noise around -20f, and i hear it at least once every winter here in southern minnesota. but i only ever heard norway pines make it that one time.

so anyway that’s why we plant pine trees around our houses. because otherwise the wind would freaking kill us.

This is informative and perfectly sensible under the circumstances but I also cannot resist the temptation to compare it to planting stuff all around the boundary of your lot in The Sims

Reposted fromKaiju-Squidling Kaiju-Squidling viadenian denian
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Bones (S08E06) - The Patriot in Purgatory

Reposted fromanthonyesnark anthonyesnark viadenian denian
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I slammed the reblog button

Reposted fromrandommanrunning randommanrunning viadenian denian
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The United Nations proposed a law condemning nations who sentence people in the LGBT community, among other minorities, to death. 

And the U.S. voted against it.

They refused to condemn countries who SENTENCE THE LGBT COMMUNITY TO DEATH!

The United Nations isn’t one of those gray areas. All of the laws and legislations are intentionally black and white. In this case, you either condemn killing the LGBT community for the sake of being gay/trans/etc. Or you don’t. 

There’s no middle ground. There’s no interpretation. There’s no reading into it. 

On October 3rd, 2017, the United States refused to condemn sentencing the LGBT Community to death. Which can only mean that they’re in favor of sentencing the LGBT Community to death. 

but in good news

Reposted fromrandommanrunning randommanrunning viadenian denian
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good post

great post

In Texas “he needed killin’” is still a viable defense

Sometimes, Texas makes sense to me.

Texas is one of those places that only makes sense in the extremes. Because everything there is designed in preparation for the extreme.


Best post

A quick aside about this case - one of his other children saw the rapist taking the little 5-year-old girl into an outbuilding (I want to say a barn) and ran to tell his dad.  The dad came barreling out and beat the crap out of the rapist - the little girl’s panties had already been pulled down and, when she was checked out by the doctors, there was evidence that she’d been violated.

The father then called 911 to get an ambulance there for the man - the dad did NOT want to kill anyone, and did CPR to try to save the rapist’s life.  There were recordings of the father trying to get an ambulance there faster and of him trying to get his own car to get the rapist to the hospital.  Sadly, 

This father defended his baby daughter, and THEN he turned around and tried to save the other guy’s life.

He would not have faced charges even if he hadn’t tried to save the rapist’s life, because he was legitimately in fear of his daughter’s life.  Trying to save the guy wasn’t some act to try to avoid being punished.  The man was legitimately afraid and trying to save the rapist’s life simply because the father had no intention to kill anyone.

So he never faced charges, because 1) it was an accidental death, 2) it happened when he was in legitimate fear of his daughter’s life, and 3) he made every honest effort to preserve the rapist’s life.

I see this post on my dash from time to time and I thought I should expand the story, because to me, it says a lot about the guy that he was willing to do whatever it took to protect his daughter, but was also willing to do as much as he could to avoid killing.  I think he should be recognized for his strength of character.

P.S. - his name was not released to the press in order to protect his 5-year-old daughter’s identity, which is why I refer to him as “the father” and the other guy as “the rapist.”  I’m not trying to use inflammatory language here; there was biological evidence that the dude raped the little girl, and I needed a way to differentiate between the two men when talking about them.

Reposted fromrhomaa2 rhomaa2 viadenian denian
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Sweet sweet revenge

Reposted frommyry myry viadenian denian

September 04 2017

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Pornhub comments are our only hope

better than youtube

#it’s because everyone is in the post nut state of mind

Reposted frommogmatt mogmatt viadenian denian
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Reposted fromkaiee kaiee viadenian denian
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Athena blessed her with the ability to protect herself and men beheaded her for it.

That’s actually a really intetesting intpretation of it I hadn’t thought of. Most people seem to think Athena turned Medusa into a gorgon as punishment for defiling her temple, but thinking that she did so to protect her from being abused again is interesting and I like it!

Athena’s hands were tied. Yes, she was a powerful Goddess, but she was very much a woman in a “boys club”, and the true offending party (don’t think for a moment that Athena blamed Medusa for being raped in the temple, Athena knows better) held all the cards. There was nothing that Athena could do to punish the true criminal, and she was expected to punish Medusa by everyone else. What’s a Goddess to do when she cannot punish those who need to be punished and is expected to punish not only the truly innocent party, but her most beloved follower? Use that incredible brain power she had to protect Medusa at all costs, and of course the men would see it as punishment, to be have her beauty stripped from her and sent to live in the shadows. Medusa should have been KILLED for supposedly defiling the temple, whether she truly did or not, but she was given the gift of life, and the ability to protect herself and her daughters (who she bore thanks to Poseidon). This is why Medusa’s image was used to signify woman’s shelters and safe houses.

Medusa means “guardian; protectress”, and she was.

excuse me while i write the novel 

Holy shit I never heard that she was raped. I was always taught she lured him in and thats why she was punished. Holy shit. I was seriously taught that a rape victim asked for it. By teachers. In school. Why did they think saying she lured him in and flirted with him was better than saying he raped her? That just perpetuated rape culture. I’m so upset now. This is BS.

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