Holding Up Snarky Signs Doesn't Seem To Be Working.

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Hi! I'm Sara and I'm an adult. My pronouns are they/he and I'm non-binary.

DNI

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Last updated: 18-10-2023

Sometimes you have to take a step back and remember that same-sex marriage has only been legal in America for ten years.

Hazel McNab, Last Light, linocut.

intro post time!!! why havent i done this yetttttttttttttt

anygay:

🌸🌿🌷 Narnia 🌸🌿🌷 ----------------------------- Pronouns: Any (prefer no neopronouns) Age: Somewhere between 13-18 (Minor!) Sexuality: Omnisexual/Romantic Status: Taken <3 🌸🖤 Fandoms I’m in: 🖤🌸 - Arc of a Scythe - Descendants - Voltron - Torchwood 🌺🎵 Current Obsessions: 🎵🌺 - Descendants - Mal Bertha - 10th Doctor 🍃💔 Dislikes: 💔🍃 - Homophobia - Transphobes - Deforestation - Sauces on my food :( - water (like seriously how do people drink straight up water, especially if its room temperature) 🌼🎶 Fav Music: 🎶🌼 - Arctic Monkeys - Derivakat - Descendants Soundtrack (of course!)

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also, https://en.pronouns.page/@narniascloset

uh yea i think thats it

no its not

heres a link to my reblog blog i use for reblog conversations <3

Donate and save lives of 357 lgbt refugees who fled from Uganda to kakuma refugee camp located in turkana west of Kenya and have been in kakuma for 4 years of suffering and relocated to South Sudan in 2024 February up to date we really plead for your support and help us survive 🙏 for any kind of help here is our donation link and any kind of help is highly appreciated, https://gofund.me/8cabe5c3

https://gofund.me/8cabe5c3

Picrew...... again, again, again.

Why do i keep doing this.

“After learning my flight was detained 4 hours, I heard the announcement: if anyone in the vicinity of gate 4-A understands any Arabic, please come to the gate immediately. Well—one pauses these days. Gate 4-A was my own gate. I went there. An older woman in full traditional Palestinian dress, just like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing loudly. Help, said the flight service person. Talk to her. What is her problem? We told her the flight was going to be four hours late and she did this. I put my arm around her and spoke to her haltingly. Shu dow-a, shu-biduck habibti, stani stani schway, min fadlick, sho bit se-wee? The minute she heard any words she knew—however poorly used—she stopped crying. She thought our flight had been canceled entirely. She needed to be in El Paso for some major medical treatment the following day. I said no, no, we’re fine, you’ll get there, just late. Who is picking you up? Let’s call him and tell him. We called her son and I spoke with him in English. I told him I would stay with his mother until we got on the plane and would ride next to her—Southwest. She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just for the fun of it. Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while in Arabic and found out, of course, they had ten shared friends. Then I thought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian poets I know and let them chat with her. This all took up about 2 hours. She was laughing a lot by then. Telling about her life. Answering questions. She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool cookies—little powdered sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and nuts—out of her bag—and was offering them to all the women at the gate. To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It was like a sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the traveler from California, the lovely woman from Laredo—we were all covered with the same powdered sugar. And smiling. There are no better cookies. And then the airline broke out the free beverages from huge coolers—non-alcoholic—and the two little girls from our flight, one African American, one Mexican American—ran around serving us all apple juice and lemonade, and they were covered with powdered sugar, too. And I noticed my new best friend—by now we were holding hands—had a potted plant poking out of her bag, some medicinal thing with green furry leaves. Such an old country traveling tradition. Always carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere. And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and thought, this is the world I want to live in. The shared world. Not a single person in this gate—once the crying of confusion stopped—has seemed apprehensive about any other person. They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women, too. This can still happen anywhere. Not everything is lost.”

— Naomi Shihab Nye (b. 1952), “Wandering Around an Albuquerque Airport Terminal.”

I’m back to my roots (being sad about the asl brothers)