Trans Girls And Women Deserve Guaranteed Access To Healthcare And Safe Shelter.

An essay Darren Seals wrote to MTV after Darren Wilson was not indicted

“I was actually outside of the Ferguson police department headquarters, standing on top of a car with Mike Brown’s mother and some friends – all the people who have protested and fought with us. We were in the middle of the street and there were a lot of cameras around, CNN and [other outlets].

We already knew what the decision would be, but at the same time it still hurt to hear it.[Darren Wilson] got married right before the decision, so that’s how we knew he wasn’t going to jail. That was the ultimate slap in the face.

And for Mike Brown’s mother to be right there in my arms crying — she literally cried in my arms — it was like I felt her soul crying. It’s a different type of crying. I’ve seen people crying, but she was really hurt. And it hurt me. It hurt all of us.

I don’t recall anyone having a longer protest, a more productive protest, a more creative protest than what we did. I don’t think people will ever really appreciate what we did until years from now. We really did the best we could.

[Mike Brown’s family] is not a family of revolutionaries — this is a family of black people who grew up in the inner city and didn’t have the best education on these topics.

It’s easy to kill black people because we’re the have-nots. We’re at the bottom of the totem pole. What people don’t understand is, we actually live in a nightmare. We actually live in a place where gunshots [are normal]. We hear gunshots everyday.

We plan to rally more and protest more, but the long-term goal: We’re trying to use all the resources we gained from this to educate people, because we all know the system will never change. Black men being killed by police and not going to jail for it – it’s been going on for years and it’s not going to stop.

Our long-term goal is to educate young black men and young black women throughout the world on how to deal with police brutality, how to deal with the police, how to deal with traffic stops and learn their rights.

We don’t educate them on those things now. They don’t teach them that in school, and a lot of their parents don’t know these things because they were never taught. So the goal is to teach people how to avoid those situations, that way another Mike Brown situation won’t occur. We’re trying to prevent the next Mike Brown before it happens, through music, through writing, speaking at schools, talking to the kids and just educating them.

People who are not from our community don’t understand that Missouri [is filled with] oppressed people. That’s why we’ve got a lot of heart to fight this battle. We’ve been taught to fight our whole lives. They will literally have to shoot us down in the streets for us to stop fighting [for this cause].

Police brutality is going on everywhere, this is nothing new, but everyone talks about what we should do, and no one actually does it. For the first time we actually did every step – we marched, we protested, we voted – we did some historical things. We did everything they said we should do. We spread awareness, we kept it positive, we kept it peaceful. For 108 days, we did everything they told us we should do and we didn’t get one day in court. We did all of that and didn’t get ONE day in court.

What’s a civil suit going to do? Give us a little money? That’s just a pacifier. Make [it safe] for a couple of days? A couple of months? Maybe a year or two, before they kill the next Mike Brown somewhere? Maybe not even in St. Louis, it might be in Chicago, Memphis, anywhere. It’s a pacifier. We don’t want a civil suit, that’s not going to do anything. After Trayvon Martin…guess what? Cary Ball died. Mike Brown died. Eric Garner died.“

Source

This dude is voting. Are you?

The Garbage:

Real simple. Here's what you do:

Go to vote.gov and check your registration, or register to vote if you haven't already. If you will be 18 by election day (Tuesday, November 5), you can register right now.

Even if you can vote by mail, know where your polling place, and your nearest ballot drop box are.

Make a plan to vote with at least two friends or family members to vote on or before November 5th. I'm not the boss of you, but voting as early as you can is always a good idea.

Save Democracy.

A tiny Stan I doodled. Mullet love

Accurate.

time with complex trauma is like. i need to do everything all at once and if i don't i'm a failure, even if there's nothing to do. three months ago feels like yesterday but i can hardly remember yesterday anyway. i'm running out of time. for what? i don't know. i need everything to slow down but my life is so stagnant. i can't go to sleep because the day can't end, but i need the day to end or i'll go insane. i'm constantly worrying about the future but it feels like i have no future. i'm running out of time. for what? i don't know. time has no meaning but every second is the end of the world.

or is this just me?

If you ever need to justify traumatizing someone by making them feel bad for you and your sad tragic past just know that this person would be way happier without you in their life and using your past trauma to bring more trauma to others lives doesn’t make you the tragic hero you think you are, it’s unoriginal and boring and they will eventually see thru you and be sickened by it and you will not be forgiven

I don’t want to date. I just want to magically end up in a long-term and emotionally-secure relationship with someone cute

The Adventures of Todd and Granny

(Alternatively: “I Saw Granny Ethel with the Devil”)

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV

Yard Work

Of the many lessons instilled in him by Granny Ethel, the one that Todd knows best, is that good, hard, honest work keeps the devil at bay.

It’s only a saying. But he takes it to heart, if only to reassure himself that his brethren don’t know or care where he’s disappeared to for the past few months.

Really, they shouldn’t care. They’re often called away and sent on wayward tasks by superiors and skilled summoners alike. Sometimes for years.

Todd wouldn’t mind living like this for a decade, or two.

The Human Todd—Theodore—though, doesn’t seem to hold the same morals.

“Ugh—why won’t the damn thing just start?” he gripes at the old push lawn mower, rusted and peeling with age, as he yanks the motor’s rip cord for the third time in a row—unsuccessful. Not even a stutter. The heel of his shoe bounces off of its faded red deck with a dull, metallic thump as he tries to kick it into submission, but hitting machinery never inspires it to suddenly, magically work.

It isn’t that it doesn’t have gas—Todd has made sure it’s well taken care of in its old age and properly filled. It isn’t that it’s missing its grass-catcher bag, either. That’s another issue to be met further down the road.

Ultimately, it’s just Theodore’s poor luck and impatience. And a dirty carburetor, perhaps.

He’ll let him struggle obliviously for a few moments more—but only a few. Granny Ethel’s lawn is overgrown with a wily mass of green-yellow grass up to his shins, in desperate need of taming. But for now, he just shakes his head and minds his business at the stone-bordered garden on the other end of the lawn, getting his claws dirty pulling stray weeds from between herbs and taking notes on which ones need pruning.

More importantly, he only allows Theodore to swear so loudly because Granny Ethel is currently absent.

Their friend Sam from the grocery store kindly drove her to her routine check-up at the local clinic earlier that afternoon, though they probably would have walked if it wasn’t in the next town over.

Being who she is, he’s still a bit surprised they didn’t.

Another kick echoes off the metal body of the lawn mower—followed quickly by a strangled yell and the sound of something heavy—someone—hitting the grass with a sharp rustle. A soft landing.

Maybe he’s lucky after all.

Todd still ignores him, and pauses briefly to admire the ruby red glare of a ladybug landing on the back of his dark hand. Even as the swishing of disturbed grass only grows closer, until a distorted human shadow blocks the bright patch of sun reflecting off of the ladybug’s fragile shell.

Theodore clears his throat.

The ladybug’s wings unfurl in a flutter and it flits away, following the wind.

Again, he clears his throat to garner attention—and Todd ignores him. But he does keep him in the fringe of his peripheral vision.

“No help at all.” He huffs out an insulted breath as he stomps away, unkempt, sweaty blond hair flouncing with each step. It must be the hardest he’s worked out in ages, to get so worked up.

But Theodore doesn’t return to the lawn mower—this time he heads toward the far corner, to the small brown shed topped with a patchy, bright yellow roof. Unpainted, unfinished. It’s something Todd will take care of at an appropriate time. Granny Ethel’s birthday, perhaps…though she hasn’t mentioned it just yet.  

The doors rattle as he gives them a shake—locked, naturally. He sets his hands on his hips and hangs his head in defeat. Bends down and almost collapses in the grass, ready to give up, but stops. Frozen, as if struck by inspiration. His head tilts dramatically as he peers toward something in the corner, resting in the shadows between the shed wall and the fence.

Todd has to admit, this interests him greatly—he turns his head to watch, but doesn’t move from his spot beside the herb garden.

Theodore straightens up and slinks toward the shadowed nook, reaching a hand out into the blackness. And when he draws it back, a scythe handle is gripped in his palm.

It’s dusty. Rusted and bent at the edges, probably dull—and complete with another hand grip protruding from the main rod like a functional tool. Made of old wood; reliable wood. Hand-carved. Theodore wheezes out a laugh of disbelief and quickly turns. Todd can’t turn around fast enough and catches the brunt of the victorious grin wrinkling his face. Knowing, and so triumphant. The absolute epitome of foolish Pride.

He doesn’t even know what he’s holding, certainly. Not with those pristine, clean hands that have only been pricked by a splinter today.

Todd rises to his feet, to his full height. There’s no need to heed ceilings—not outdoors. When he takes the first step, Theodore’s smile crumbles. He clutches the scythe to his chest and takes a step back, shoulders tense. He holds the eye contact just to spook him. Just a bit.

But he doesn’t walk to him. He reaches the lawn mower and kneels to pass a hand over its motor, clearing it of whatever issue remains.

Ah. Like he thought. It’s the carburetor.  

He takes the rip cord in one hand and gives it a brisk yank—the motor stutters. Again, he pulls it, and the machine roars to life. Obedient, like a well-tamed beast.

Theodore’s strangled yelp of outrage satisfies the primal human vengeance he’s come to know as “pettiness.”

As the lawn mower idles, Theodore sets the scythe carelessly aside, dropped against the shed, and trudges through the tall grass toward it. He seizes it by the handle bar without sparing Todd a second glance even as he towers over him, still kneeling, thanks to the height of his spiraling horns.

Still, he doesn’t seem to know just how to operate the machine he snatched away. He pushes it forward, too rough—and jumps back with a start, cursing as the fresh-cut grass clippings pepper his navy-blue slacks in a rush of green.

But the beast has already been released, and as his fingers slip from the handlebar, it creeps its way forward without prompt and with surprising speed.

Straight into Granny Ethel’s beloved and flourishing lantanas.

Then right over them.

Both, speechless and stock still, stare at the vermillion whirl of shredded petals spit out in the lawn mower’s wake. Even as it bumps into the fence and tries to continue on, unaware—until it topples over and chokes itself out, blades whirring to a halt beneath its casing.

Just in time, too. In the distance, but not too far away, a car door slams shut. Swift and familiar, shuffling footsteps fast approach. The wooden side gate creaks open.

“We’re back at last, dears! I’m sure you’ve been working hard. Why don’t we take a break? I saw the most charming bakery on the way home and couldn’t help but—”

Something crashes against the cobblestone walkway. Soft—covered in a plastic bag. Bread. No, cinnamon buns. Todd can smell the sugary vanilla sweetness through the package. But he can’t quite turn to face Granny Ethel as a red hot glare fills his eyes, aimed only at Theodore.

But—no. It isn’t entirely the man’s fault.

It’s his, too, for playing a jealous, petty little game. Because he could have stopped the lawn mower and didn’t.

Sometimes, standing idly by is the worst sin of all.

Todd’s heart caves in as Granny Ethel breathes in and exhales, speechless, and presses her hands to her mouth when he turns to face her.

“Oh, my… The lantanas.”

Her eyes dart to the ruined mess of flowers and she takes a tiny step forward, over the fallen bag of sweet bread. Drops her hands from her mouth and holds them out in front of her as she ambles forward—and stops, a safe distance away from the destruction.

“Oh, my dudes, yikes,” Sam breathes, hissing in through his teeth and rubbing a brown hand across his frowning, pursed lips. “I, uh—I’ll go in and mix up some juice or something. You’ll need it.” He picks up the fallen bag of buns on the way.

Todd’s shoulders hunch as he very nearly curls in on himself in shame, wrapping his shawl tight around himself—because the heat never bothered him and it’s his it’s special and it was a gift from her and, somewhere deep down, he vows to never disappoint her, to hurt her, in such a way again. Ever.

Theodore, flushed deep red from neck to ears ever since his grandmother walked in, shuffles half-heartedly in front of the straight line of shredded lantanas, at least self-aware enough to realize he’d made a grave error. His hands knead roughly together, pale skin turning whiter from the pressure. Sweating, still, but not only from the summer heat.

“Gran, I…”

“Charles grew that patch for me.” Her soft poofs of cloud-white hair twist in the breeze as she closes her eyes and dips her head toward her chest, eyes closed. “Oh, they’ve been there ever since he planted them. Every single one.” She folds her hands in front of her loose, sunflower-yellow dress and shakes her head, saying no more on the subject.

“Oh my God. I’m so—Gran, I don’t… I didn’t mean to, it just… It wasn’t my fault!”

His frantic cry goes unheard by Granny Ethel as she stands with her head bowed in silence.

“There’s a silver lining, here, my dear.” When she looks up, her eyes shine behind her glasses, unshed tears catching sunlight, but her stare is hardened. And harsh.

Even with that small, tired smile, her fury is a cold-burning flame.

“You see, these particular flowers can live again. We will collect the undamaged stalks that are left and root them. Replant them. Then…” Her voice trails off into the silence of an unspoken thought. “For now, I’ll leave you two in peace to finish the yard work.”

Neither speaks a word, stuck in mortified silence, even as Granny Ethel disappears into the house.

The silence is only broken moments later when Sam makes his way back outside holding a tray filled with a glass pitched and three glasses, as well as a small pile of cookies. Peanut butter, of course.

But no sweet cinnamon buns.  

“Here’s that drink! Lavender lemonade with honey—and Granny’s special peanut cookies,” he smiles, trying his best to keep up a positive atmosphere as he sits cross-legged on the lawn with the fine silver tray in his lap. “She helped put it together, dudes, so don’t forget to thank her later.”

Theodore scoffs and grumbles out, “I’m allergic to peanuts,” but Todd knows that isn’t true. He’s seen entire containers of peanut butter disappear overnight, at times. And Granny Ethel simply wouldn’t do something that selfish, so he’s the only suspect.

But if the man is going to be that way about it, then all the more treats for him and Sam. He drains one of the glasses in a single gulp and devours two of the delicious, crispy cookies, nodding in appreciation. Because it’s what Granny Ethel would want—and he’d rather die than let her hospitality go to waste. Her happiness always comes first.

He hopes she’s not crying.

“She’s busy crocheting something in the den, by the way. Humming, and everything. Boy, am I glad she’s not mad.” Sam also eats a cookie and speaks around the crunchy bits in his mouth, providing him with just the answer he sought. “But, man, that’s some gnarly garden carnage, there.” He nods his head toward the lantanas and whistles low. “Did you apologize?”

“Why would I?” Theodore snaps, arms crossed tight as he refuses to look at the flowers and their faces, still evident in his guilt by the way he answers so quickly. When no one gives him an immediate response, he breathes a theatrical sigh and clomps toward the fallen path of ruined flowers. Hands on his hips, now, he observes the mess. “Is any of this even salvageable? None of the stems look un-shredded!”

“You should apologize,” Sam insists lightly, taking another cookie when he finishes the first. He meets Todd’s eyes and they share a knowing glance. Then, his brown eyes light up. “Oh—and by the way, Granny’s appointment went great! She’s fit as a fiddle.”

By now, Theodore is squatting amongst the flower shreds, combing through the mess for anything that looks particularly helpful and root-able. “Of course she is. Her energy knows no bounds.”

Todd can only nod. Granny Ethel’s health is nigh infallible. But—that aside, it’s time to return to work. He finishes his cookies, brushes the crumbs off his palms and carefully makes his way to the flower patch to pick out the lantana stems they can still save.  

There are few—but a few is better than none. And for the rest, they can grow from the seeds.

It will take some time to return Granny’s beloved lantana garden to its former glory, but not forever. And before they know it, this day will be nothing more than a mistake of the past.  

So, they continue their yard work until the day’s chore is done.

The remaining lantanas: neat. The lawn: trimmed. The herb garden: weeded and pruned.

When the tools have been returned to their proper place, they leave the yard behind, and Todd gives one final, sweeping glance around the space as he slides the back door shut.

Something is out of place. He can’t quite pin down what, but later, when he curls up in his small twin bed and drifts to sleep in the room he shares with Theodore, he dreams of a rusted scythe that he can’t quite remember putting away—one that he promptly forgets when he wakes.

The Bird of Luck is so kyooooooot 💗

Please and thank you, lil' cutie!