If you’re in enough denial, this is clearly from an argument between Bodhi and Luke over where he put his favourite pair of sweatpants, after which they start arguing over who’s turn it was to do the laundry.
as a nonbinary person I shall only be posting my left titty which is my boy titty, and not the right one which is the horrid unclean girl titty, this is as tumblr has decreed
How I think I’m writing: Using eye contact, or lack thereof, to display emotions such as intimacy, shock, denial, or nervousness.
How I’m actually writing: She looked at me, and I looked away. I tried to look back, but she was already looking at the sky. “Look,” she sighs, looking back at me for a split second. “I don’t know how to say this.” We looked at each other and time stopped, but then she looked her lookers at something else to look at, looking tired.
“In today’s unanimous decision, the Tennessee Supreme Court explained that, under state law, a life sentence is a determinate sentence of 60 years,” the court wrote. “However, the sixty-year sentence can be reduced by up to 15 percent, or 9 years, by earning various sentence credits (good behavior. & getting involved in prison based education programs while incarcerated) Therefore, the Supreme Court concluded that a defendant serving a life sentence for a first-degree murder committed on or after July 1, 1995, may be eligible for release after serving at least 51 years of the sentence.“
For those of you who haven’t yet caught up to this story:
Cyntoia Brown was a 16 yr old girl, who at the time of the incident was living in a room at a Nashville InTown Suites with Allen (the man who propositioned her for sex) because her pimp and boyfriend Garion McGlothen, nick-named “Kut Throat,” insisted that she needed to earn money.
After Allen took her to his house, he showed Cyntoia multiple guns, including shotguns and rifles. Later in bed, as she described in court, he grabbed her violently by the genitals, his demeanor became threatening and, fearing for her life, she took a gun out of her purse and shot him.
Call Governor Bill Haslam (615)-741-2001. she has a Clemency hearing May 23rd. DEMAND JUSTICE!!
#StayWoke
The parole board split on whether Cyntoia should be granted clemency. /BillHaslam can still grant her clemency before he leaves in January. You can reach him at: phone #: (615) 741-2001; e-mail: bill.haslam@tn.gov
You ever write up a post you decide will be too controversial or embarrassing but leave it in your drafts to sleep on and then forget about it? How about real personal stuff you weren’t sure you wanted to share at the time? Heavy-ass receipts on bad shit you’re leaving there only just in case you’re forced to use them?
Well if any of your drafts get flagged by the new system, a mod can apparently see them in with all your other flagged posts, and if they un-flag them, it publishes them automatically as a brand new post. MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!!
This was my submission for Jewish Perseverance Week a couple of years ago and it feels like time to bring it back.
My family are Sefardic and even though our tradition is to just light one menorah per family, this little thing always manages to put in an appearance anyway.
A few years ago, I was walking home from work when I was stopped by a rabbi and his wife. I was confused because we don’t have many Jews here and, for safety reasons, nobody is too open about it if they are. “Excuse me, are you Jewish?”
I shrugged. My mother’s family were Jewish but my last real contact with Judaism died with my grandparents. What was left of my Jewish identity was comprised of a few linguistic and cultural quirks, antisemitic neighbours who hated us, and the very occasional contact with observant family who live in other countries.
I settled on “I’m a little bit Jewish?” He said it’s like being a little bit pregnant – you can’t be. I reluctantly told him a little about my family.
It wasn’t that I didn’t want to talk to a stranger. It was that I was uncomfortable being around proper Jews again having severed my ties so completely. I was frustrated at being viewed with suspicion and excluded from the small slivers of Jewish life which exist here. I’d spent years ignoring my heritage because I wasn’t frum enough for the few Orthodox people I’d met along the way and I wasn’t Ashkenazi enough to feel particularly comfortable with the Reform people I knew. I wasn’t a “proper Jew”.
It felt like I was missing out on a huge aspect of my cultural inheritance and I’d even started to let Christian friends take me to church in an attempt to patch that hole. I quietly resented them for believing that they had “saved” this Jew who needed Christ, but at least they seemed to want me around. That phase didn’t last for long. Nothing about that felt right.
And then, as I was trudging back to my parents’ house after a truly awful day, a rabbi and his wife appeared. I was genuinely shocked by their inclusivity. Suddenly proper Jews were insisting that I still had a place. They seemed mildly amused by my assumption that I didn’t count and even invited me to dinner as though I was one of them.
They asked if I would take a menorah home and showed me the blessings written on the box. I told them I’d forgotten how to read Hebrew but they still weren’t deterred. They gave me literature in English, in Hebrew, in transliterated Hebrew. They even offered to find me some in French for the rest of the family. Whatever I needed to know, they explained. They didn’t judge me and they didn’t even patronise me. I’d expected to be admonished but it felt more like being welcomed home. I left with a hanukiyah, a forest’s worth of paper and a bemused expression.
I let my mother light the candles and was surprised to hear Hebrew flow so naturally for the first time in probably a decade. We left the menorah out well beyond Hanukkah. I think we were just enjoying having something Jewish around.
Slowly, little things started to happen at the family home. Candles came out one Friday night… and then the next one… and the next… Nobody really acknowledged it, it just became a thing that we did. Bread was replaced with matza on Pesach.
“It’s Yom Kippur tomorrow, do you still want me to cook or…?” “Shana tova, do you want to help make baklava?”
By next Chanukah, the family menorah was brought down from the loft and unwrapped from its dust cover. Somebody played Ocho Kandelikas and it was the first time I’d heard Ladino since my grandmother died. Somehow, somewhere along the way, we’d stopped being “a little bit Jewish”. We’d found our place.
I love Hanukah. I don’t care for people telling me it’s a “minor holiday” when it marks the end of my family’s weird, extended rumschpringe. Not only that, but it reminds me of what our community should be. I’d experienced so much elitism, suspicion and exclusion from fellow Jews that I didn’t even think I was Jewish. I’d experienced so much antisemitism from goyim that I wasn’t sure I even wanted to be.
And then I experienced an act of kindness from a couple on the street and my life changed.
This time five years ago, a Jewish couple gave me a hanukiyah. The exchange lasted less than 10 minutes but in that time they returned to me my family, my people, my culture, my history, my faith. And if I go to synagogue and lose my place in the siddur 10 times, that’s ok now. If I still occasionally say kaddish when I mean kiddush, I’ll laugh about it and the world won’t end.
My wish for all of you is that you can feel as assured of your place and as welcomed by your people as I do now, regardless of your knowledge, background, or level of observance. I hope you get to enjoy the culture you inherit and know that you belong.
Rebellions are built on hope 