Another gilld ches
ALSO A TIP FOR ANY OF MY LOVELY SISTERS:
IF YOU WANT A GOOD CHEESE STRETCH AFTER YOU CUT IT LET IT SIT FOR A MINUTE, THE CHEESE WILL MELT BACK TOGETHER SO THE STRETCHING WILL BE DIVINE
Anonymous asked:
You're so cute and quirky for hating trans men 😻😻 yessssss youre the best feminist ever! Contribute to those transmasc suicide rates!!!
storyweavingspider answered:
Huh. Sending this to a Black transfemme is honestly pretty funny (ignorant, goofy as hell) given we experience the highest rate of violence out of trans folks (about 4 out of 5 murdered trans women are Black, 78%) and the majority of nonviolent deaths (which suicide is technically counted as nonviolent) are still transfemmes.
I’ll admit these exact numbers vary by study and year because the deaths of trans people are notoriously hard to archive/record between deaths recorded in deadname, closeted trans folks, non-supportive family, poor local reporting, etc. but like.
I don’t hate trans men/transmascs, I hate misogynists/transmisogynists. Plenty of transmascs go through life day to day recognizing how bad shit is for their transfemme sisters AND being able to talk about the transphobia they experience, without transforming into raging misogynists who can’t let women speak about their issues and suffering without shoehorning their way in on some trans-flavored “all lives matter” headassery.
You are a buffoon and hated by the majority of your brothers the moment they learn of your existence. I hope you heal from this period of your life and become a functioning member of the larger trans community.
burn it 🔥
(he/him) 🐇
more commentary:
I kinda expected this art post to have non black people be hesitant to interact with it because they are worried they're being racist, people ignoring the message in some sense to go "hot" or people finding it funny because I used slurs I can reclaim but beyond that the other response is nice.
non black people have a habit of seeing "radical" black art and all its aesthetics and seeing if they can find it meme-able or completely miss the point because they find authentic blackness too "foreign and taboo" when it's reclaimed and not removed from the people.
but also there were a lot of people being respectfully mature about the art and feeling really uplifted by it which means a lot in a white dominated world where my culture is nothing but a joke or something to appropriate to the point where it's erased all traces of it's black origins
Anonymous asked:
Hey have you noticed the cult accusations going around? Like, do they know what a cult is?
isuggestgirlforever answered:
They simply do not know what a cult is. It’s because they can’t concieve what else this could be. Friendship? Solidarity? No, it must be an evil Cult.
terfs have been accusing trans people of being a cult forever, it was only a matter of time before the transandrobros started aping that, too
My first egg cracked in 2016. I came out as agender. changed my name to Andi and my pronouns to they/them, started wearing dresses/skirts/crop tops, and dyed my hair all sorts of funky colors. I was starting to be happier with myself in a way I'd never really been as a boy. No one. Not one single person, in real life or on the internet, ever made it seem like being a woman was an option for me. Everything pointed in the opposite direction.
I watched the election cycle that year with dread. I watched the vote totals come in at bar with some friends after my teaching gig for the night was over. We drank in silence and in misery. I cried in my truck on the way home, knowing that life was just going to get harder for people like me. I still couldn't call myself transgender. I didn't think that word was for me.
I read Tranny by Laura Jane Grace. I really identified with parts of it, but her story as a punk rocker and an addict was so dissimilar to mine that I didn't think I could be a woman, didn't think I would ever be allowed to call myself that.
I drank and smoked myself almost to the point of death over the next two years. I was working nearly 100hrs a week between bartending and teaching, and was semi-regularly driving the few blocks home from the bar slightly drunk. Not intentionally, but y'know. If something happened and my life ended? No big deal. Every relationship in my life crumbled around me. It wasn't until I hit rock FUCKING bottom that I thought to myself "what if I'm a woman?"
If anyone had told me, even once, that maybe I was a trans woman. Maybe estrogen could help. Maybe transition might make me happier. Maybe I wouldn't have been driving a 2005 F-150 with almost 200k miles on it 90mph an hour and a half to sleep with a girl who hadn't loved me in years. Maybe I wouldn't have buried myself in half a bottle of whiskey every night after work. Maybe I would've never started smoking. Maybe I'd still have any of the friends I made before the pandemic. Maybe I Wouldn't Have Been So Fucking Miserable.
So yeah. Forcefem today. Forcefem tomorrow. Forcefem every day forever until not a single girl has to go through what I did, or worse.
My first egg cracked in 2016. I came out as agender. changed my name to Andi and my pronouns to they/them, started wearing dresses/skirts/crop tops, and dyed my hair all sorts of funky colors. I was starting to be happier with myself in a way I'd never really been as a boy. No one. Not one single person, in real life or on the internet, ever made it seem like being a woman was an option for me. Everything pointed in the opposite direction.
I watched the election cycle that year with dread. I watched the vote totals come in at bar with some friends after my teaching gig for the night was over. We drank in silence and in misery. I cried in my truck on the way home, knowing that life was just going to get harder for people like me. I still couldn't call myself transgender. I didn't think that word was for me.
I read Tranny by Laura Jane Grace. I really identified with parts of it, but her story as a punk rocker and an addict was so dissimilar to mine that I didn't think I could be a woman, didn't think I would ever be allowed to call myself that.
I drank and smoked myself almost to the point of death over the next two years. I was working nearly 100hrs a week between bartending and teaching, and was semi-regularly driving the few blocks home from the bar slightly drunk. Not intentionally, but y'know. If something happened and my life ended? No big deal. Every relationship in my life crumbled around me. It wasn't until I hit rock FUCKING bottom that I thought to myself "what if I'm a woman?"
If anyone had told me, even once, that maybe I was a trans woman. Maybe estrogen could help. Maybe transition might make me happier. Maybe I wouldn't have been driving a 2005 F-150 with almost 200k miles on it 90mph an hour and a half to sleep with a girl who hadn't loved me in years. Maybe I wouldn't have buried myself in half a bottle of whiskey every night after work. Maybe I would've never started smoking. Maybe I'd still have any of the friends I made before the pandemic. Maybe I Wouldn't Have Been So Fucking Miserable.
So yeah. Forcefem today. Forcefem tomorrow. Forcefem every day forever until not a single girl has to go through what I did, or worse.
My first egg cracked in 2016. I came out as agender. changed my name to Andi and my pronouns to they/them, started wearing dresses/skirts/crop tops, and dyed my hair all sorts of funky colors. I was starting to be happier with myself in a way I'd never really been as a boy. No one. Not one single person, in real life or on the internet, ever made it seem like being a woman was an option for me. Everything pointed in the opposite direction.
I watched the election cycle that year with dread. I watched the vote totals come in at bar with some friends after my teaching gig for the night was over. We drank in silence and in misery. I cried in my truck on the way home, knowing that life was just going to get harder for people like me. I still couldn't call myself transgender. I didn't think that word was for me.
I read Tranny by Laura Jane Grace. I really identified with parts of it, but her story as a punk rocker and an addict was so dissimilar to mine that I didn't think I could be a woman, didn't think I would ever be allowed to call myself that.
I drank and smoked myself almost to the point of death over the next two years. I was working nearly 100hrs a week between bartending and teaching, and was semi-regularly driving the few blocks home from the bar slightly drunk. Not intentionally, but y'know. If something happened and my life ended? No big deal. Every relationship in my life crumbled around me. It wasn't until I hit rock FUCKING bottom that I thought to myself "what if I'm a woman?"
If anyone had told me, even once, that maybe I was a trans woman. Maybe estrogen could help. Maybe transition might make me happier. Maybe I wouldn't have been driving a 2005 F-150 with almost 200k miles on it 90mph an hour and a half to sleep with a girl who hadn't loved me in years. Maybe I wouldn't have buried myself in half a bottle of whiskey every night after work. Maybe I would've never started smoking. Maybe I'd still have any of the friends I made before the pandemic. Maybe I Wouldn't Have Been So Fucking Miserable.
So yeah. Forcefem today. Forcefem tomorrow. Forcefem every day forever until not a single girl has to go through what I did, or worse.
My first egg cracked in 2016. I came out as agender. changed my name to Andi and my pronouns to they/them, started wearing dresses/skirts/crop tops, and dyed my hair all sorts of funky colors. I was starting to be happier with myself in a way I'd never really been as a boy. No one. Not one single person, in real life or on the internet, ever made it seem like being a woman was an option for me. Everything pointed in the opposite direction.
I watched the election cycle that year with dread. I watched the vote totals come in at bar with some friends after my teaching gig for the night was over. We drank in silence and in misery. I cried in my truck on the way home, knowing that life was just going to get harder for people like me. I still couldn't call myself transgender. I didn't think that word was for me.
I read Tranny by Laura Jane Grace. I really identified with parts of it, but her story as a punk rocker and an addict was so dissimilar to mine that I didn't think I could be a woman, didn't think I would ever be allowed to call myself that.
I drank and smoked myself almost to the point of death over the next two years. I was working nearly 100hrs a week between bartending and teaching, and was semi-regularly driving the few blocks home from the bar slightly drunk. Not intentionally, but y'know. If something happened and my life ended? No big deal. Every relationship in my life crumbled around me. It wasn't until I hit rock FUCKING bottom that I thought to myself "what if I'm a woman?"
If anyone had told me, even once, that maybe I was a trans woman. Maybe estrogen could help. Maybe transition might make me happier. Maybe I wouldn't have been driving a 2005 F-150 with almost 200k miles on it 90mph an hour and a half to sleep with a girl who hadn't loved me in years. Maybe I wouldn't have buried myself in half a bottle of whiskey every night after work. Maybe I would've never started smoking. Maybe I'd still have any of the friends I made before the pandemic. Maybe I Wouldn't Have Been So Fucking Miserable.
So yeah. Forcefem today. Forcefem tomorrow. Forcefem every day forever until not a single girl has to go through what I did, or worse.
My first egg cracked in 2016. I came out as agender. changed my name to Andi and my pronouns to they/them, started wearing dresses/skirts/crop tops, and dyed my hair all sorts of funky colors. I was starting to be happier with myself in a way I'd never really been as a boy. No one. Not one single person, in real life or on the internet, ever made it seem like being a woman was an option for me. Everything pointed in the opposite direction.
I watched the election cycle that year with dread. I watched the vote totals come in at bar with some friends after my teaching gig for the night was over. We drank in silence and in misery. I cried in my truck on the way home, knowing that life was just going to get harder for people like me. I still couldn't call myself transgender. I didn't think that word was for me.
I read Tranny by Laura Jane Grace. I really identified with parts of it, but her story as a punk rocker and an addict was so dissimilar to mine that I didn't think I could be a woman, didn't think I would ever be allowed to call myself that.
I drank and smoked myself almost to the point of death over the next two years. I was working nearly 100hrs a week between bartending and teaching, and was semi-regularly driving the few blocks home from the bar slightly drunk. Not intentionally, but y'know. If something happened and my life ended? No big deal. Every relationship in my life crumbled around me. It wasn't until I hit rock FUCKING bottom that I thought to myself "what if I'm a woman?"
If anyone had told me, even once, that maybe I was a trans woman. Maybe estrogen could help. Maybe transition might make me happier. Maybe I wouldn't have been driving a 2005 F-150 with almost 200k miles on it 90mph an hour and a half to sleep with a girl who hadn't loved me in years. Maybe I wouldn't have buried myself in half a bottle of whiskey every night after work. Maybe I would've never started smoking. Maybe I'd still have any of the friends I made before the pandemic. Maybe I Wouldn't Have Been So Fucking Miserable.
So yeah. Forcefem today. Forcefem tomorrow. Forcefem every day forever until not a single girl has to go through what I did, or worse.
My first egg cracked in 2016. I came out as agender. changed my name to Andi and my pronouns to they/them, started wearing dresses/skirts/crop tops, and dyed my hair all sorts of funky colors. I was starting to be happier with myself in a way I'd never really been as a boy. No one. Not one single person, in real life or on the internet, ever made it seem like being a woman was an option for me. Everything pointed in the opposite direction.
I watched the election cycle that year with dread. I watched the vote totals come in at bar with some friends after my teaching gig for the night was over. We drank in silence and in misery. I cried in my truck on the way home, knowing that life was just going to get harder for people like me. I still couldn't call myself transgender. I didn't think that word was for me.
I read Tranny by Laura Jane Grace. I really identified with parts of it, but her story as a punk rocker and an addict was so dissimilar to mine that I didn't think I could be a woman, didn't think I would ever be allowed to call myself that.
I drank and smoked myself almost to the point of death over the next two years. I was working nearly 100hrs a week between bartending and teaching, and was semi-regularly driving the few blocks home from the bar slightly drunk. Not intentionally, but y'know. If something happened and my life ended? No big deal. Every relationship in my life crumbled around me. It wasn't until I hit rock FUCKING bottom that I thought to myself "what if I'm a woman?"
If anyone had told me, even once, that maybe I was a trans woman. Maybe estrogen could help. Maybe transition might make me happier. Maybe I wouldn't have been driving a 2005 F-150 with almost 200k miles on it 90mph an hour and a half to sleep with a girl who hadn't loved me in years. Maybe I wouldn't have buried myself in half a bottle of whiskey every night after work. Maybe I would've never started smoking. Maybe I'd still have any of the friends I made before the pandemic. Maybe I Wouldn't Have Been So Fucking Miserable.
So yeah. Forcefem today. Forcefem tomorrow. Forcefem every day forever until not a single girl has to go through what I did, or worse.