I love this blog so much for basically being an enormous library of interior background references but MAN. There is something Vile and Poetic about that saying being painted on the wall of one of the bleakest-looking school hallways I've seen in a long time. It's like that poem about the stars being painted over in landlord white. Incredible.
Does anyone have a screenshot of a deviantart piece that’s titled something like “yeah you tell him!” And it’s like the lower half of a realistic woman in a bikini tinted green with a plunger cover her upper half. I think she was photoshopped into a frame of Winnie the Pooh and she was covering piglet.
i dont, sorry
in the whole greenland conversation i feel like there's not nearly enough acknowledgement of the fact that greenland is already suffering under imperial rule. seeing wayyyyy too much tacit validation of denmark's possession of greenland on socials today. look into reproductive abuse against greenland inuit women by the danish state. US acquisition of greenland would be bad but the status quo is not good. this is not a matter of sovereignty, i only wish it were a matter of sovereignty, it's just a bunch of imperial powers playing RISK with indigenous people's lives again
“The tests cover attachment, personality traits, cognitive abilities and psychopathology, and take about 15-20 hours. It is almost impossible to pass them, says Nellemann; even he and his colleagues have failed to do so. Questions can include “What is glass made of?” and “What is the name of the big staircase in Rome?”
[Kiera] was nervous going to the doctor, because she says she had previously been given the ultimatum either to have an abortion or face the baby being taken away after the birth. She agreed to undergo another parenting competency test in an attempt to cooperate. But in the session, the psychologist brought up her previous abortions and asked her to show her parenting skills by playing, singing and talking with a doll, checking whether she made eye contact. “The problem is, I didn’t grow up with a doll,” she says, adding that her real baby, Zammi, was busy kicking in her stomach. “They made me draw and they were criticising it, that I didn’t draw a face. I drew a mum and baby.”
On Friday morning, I walk through Keira’s open front door as rain falls in torrents outside, to find her sitting in her living room under soft fairy lights and the silently flickering television, arranging flowers. Every week she takes a different arrangement to Zammi so that she will associate them with her mother’s visits. This ceremonial act of devotion is part of how Keira survives.
While she is there, she thinks only of Zammi. Her own feelings can wait till she gets home. It is always hard. Before she gets out of the car, she puts into words the pressure she is under. “It feels like somebody holding your throat. And they decide how much you can breathe.”
The Murder Victims Killer would come to be known for their calling card; a dead body left at the scene of each murder.

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