Rape Jokes Are Okay If They’re Retro

*Trigger warning for rape apology and general mentions of rape and assault.

At least according to Tumblr blogger http://kitschyliving.tumblr.com/

I just had the “pleasant” experience of witnessing some A+ rape apology and misogyny over on their Facebook page:

https://www.facebook.com/KitschyLiving/photos/a.310573639015972.71754.310461822360487/644501695623163/?type=1&comment_id=2014163&reply_comment_id=2014225&offset=0&total_comments=11&notif_t=photo_reply

I don’t know if that link will work so I did some screen caps. It might be worth noting that for whatever reason they did not post this picture on their Tumblr. Only on their Facebook page. This is the pic that started it:

Is it the worst rape-y thing I’ve ever seen on the internet? No. But it’s still pretty disgusting in my opinion not to mention potentially triggery for viewers. What followed made it worse though.

It was immediately followed by this posting:

The reason I have gone through this effort is because I feel this kind of behavior needs to be called out. On the one hand, yes, freedom of speech. On the other hand, freedom of speech allows me to call out bullshit like this. You can think all the crappy things you want about women and I can sit here and post them for the world to see. Which I am doing. I will also, obviously, be unfollowing that blog which is a shame because I actually do enjoy kitsch. I just prefer it without rape jokes.

moxiroxii:

octoberland:

Easter is named for the goddess Eostre, not Ishtar. And Easter comes from the pagan holiday Ostara which is celebrated on or around the Spring equinox.

You’re wrong. Google it, it’s all over google. Ishtar IS Easter. It IS a pagan holiday until some guy christianized it. Look all around you, on the tv and everywhere else. What do the commercials show? People having sex and procreating babies which is exactly what the Goddess Ishtar represented. Fertility, sex, making babies. Just to give you an example a commercial shows a jar of peanut butter making out with a chocolate bunny. BOOM! They have SEX, and have a baby. Which is the peanut butter chocolate bunny.

I am not wrong. This is my freaking religion. How about you try Google? Here, I’ll help:
http://www.thedailybeast.com/articles/2013/03/29/happy-easter-which-is-not-named-after-ishtar-okay.html
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ishtar
http://www.patheos.com/blogs/panmankey/2014/04/easter-myths/
http://www.patheos.com/blogs/panmankey/2013/03/eostre-easter-ostara-eggs-and-bunnies/
http://bellejar.ca/2013/03/28/easter-is-not-named-after-ishtar-and-other-truths-i-have-to-tell-you/
"Easter: ‘Easter’ is derived from ‘Eostre,’ the pagan Anglo-Saxon goddess, and/or ‘Eostare,’ the Norse pagan festival of spring."
http://www.observer.org.sz/features/61044-the-origins-of-easter-celebration.html
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/%C4%92ostre
http://www.manygods.org.uk/articles/essays/Eostre.shtml
http://ancienthistory.about.com/od/easter/qt/EostreHare.htm
http://www.care2.com/causes/how-the-christians-stole-easter.html
If you want to get really technical you can argue that Ishtar is an Easter goddess in the sense that she is a fertility symbol but so are a lot of other goddesses. It does not change the basic fact that Easter comes from Eostre.

moxiroxii:

octoberland:

Easter is named for the goddess Eostre, not Ishtar. And Easter comes from the pagan holiday Ostara which is celebrated on or around the Spring equinox.

You’re wrong. Google it, it’s all over google. Ishtar IS Easter. It IS a pagan holiday until some guy christianized it. Look all around you, on the tv and everywhere else. What do the commercials show? People having sex and procreating babies which is exactly what the Goddess Ishtar represented. Fertility, sex, making babies. Just to give you an example a commercial shows a jar of peanut butter making out with a chocolate bunny. BOOM! They have SEX, and have a baby. Which is the peanut butter chocolate bunny.

I am not wrong. This is my freaking religion. How about you try Google? Here, I’ll help:

http://www.thedailybeast.com/articles/2013/03/29/happy-easter-which-is-not-named-after-ishtar-okay.html

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ishtar

http://www.patheos.com/blogs/panmankey/2014/04/easter-myths/

http://www.patheos.com/blogs/panmankey/2013/03/eostre-easter-ostara-eggs-and-bunnies/

http://bellejar.ca/2013/03/28/easter-is-not-named-after-ishtar-and-other-truths-i-have-to-tell-you/

"Easter: ‘Easter’ is derived from ‘Eostre,’ the pagan Anglo-Saxon goddess, and/or ‘Eostare,’ the Norse pagan festival of spring."

http://www.observer.org.sz/features/61044-the-origins-of-easter-celebration.html

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/%C4%92ostre

http://www.manygods.org.uk/articles/essays/Eostre.shtml

http://ancienthistory.about.com/od/easter/qt/EostreHare.htm

http://www.care2.com/causes/how-the-christians-stole-easter.html

If you want to get really technical you can argue that Ishtar is an Easter goddess in the sense that she is a fertility symbol but so are a lot of other goddesses. It does not change the basic fact that Easter comes from Eostre.

Easter is named for the goddess Eostre, not Ishtar. And Easter comes from the pagan holiday Ostara which is celebrated on or around the Spring equinox.

Easter is named for the goddess Eostre, not Ishtar. And Easter comes from the pagan holiday Ostara which is celebrated on or around the Spring equinox.

Happy Lunar Eclipse

Title: Blood Moon

Fandom: CA:TWS

Rating: T

Type: Ficlet

Characters: Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes, Natasha Romanoff, Clint Barton if you squint. Agent 13 if you squint really hard.

Summary: A little AU scene set on a rooftop during tonight’s solar eclipse. Post causeway incident. Pre-Hydra hullabaloo. In which you can pretty much ship any ship you want. For now.

Blood Moon

Steve stood on the roof of his building looking up at the sky. It was a balmy spring night. The evening breeze swept across his skin, a ghost caress in the midnight hour. All was quiet now. Most of the city slept, including his attractive blonde neighbor. The only noise was the occasional purr of an engine a few streets over as cars passed on the main thoroughfare.

He’d been told tonight’s moon was a rare sight, the first in a tetrad of lunar eclipses…a blood moon. He watched as shadow slid across the full white expanse of dead rock floating in the sky, long lost sister cast out violently eons ago, left forever to gaze down on what she could no longer have, what she could no longer be a part of. He thought of the man he’d fought earlier that day, the one that looked so much like his friend.

Bucky.

Who the hell is Bucky?

He’d say it was impossible but all he had to do was look in a mirror to know that wasn’t true. Anything was possible in this new world he’d woken to. Aliens, false gods, metal men.

They call him the Winter Soldier. He’s a ghost. You’ll never find him.

A rustle of fabric just then, and Steve turns, startled, almost. Speak of the devil, he thinks. Devil in a red dress, devil with hair like fire to match the burning in her heart.

“Can’t sleep?” she asks.

Steve shrugs. He’s leaning against the brick wall separating him from the street below. Jeans slung low and tight t-shirt hugging company manufactured muscles.

“Thought I’d take in the show,” he replies, nodding up at the red moon.

Natasha approaches slowly, leans her slight frame against the dusty and rust stained bricks. The loose threads of her sweater catch on the rough stones but she pays it no mind. Instead she looks up at the sky, thoughtful. The fingers of her right hand play with the charm dangling from the chain around her neck when she speaks next.

“We’re all looking at the same moon,” she says.

“I don’t follow,” says Steve as he looks at her.

She spares him a glance and then looks back up at the moon. “It’s something someone told me once. Right now, at this very second, the person who was hired to kill us is looking at this moon. Or maybe the person we’ve been ordered to kill.”

Steve shifts, turns to face her.

“Or maybe a past lover,” she continues, “Or a future one.” She looks at him. “And we’re all thinking the same thing.”

Steve’s brow creases as he tries to parse the meaning of her words.

“We’re thinking it looks beautiful. We’re thinking we’re safe, in this quiet moment looking at the sky.”

Natasha turns her head, scanning the cityscape, searching.

“Problem is,” She stops fingering the charm, lets her hand drop and steps away from the wall, “we’re never really safe.”

Steve crosses his arms in front of him.

“Nat, what’s going on?”

She smiles weakly. “Nothing,” She heads for the door leading to the stairwell. “I couldn’t sleep.” She pauses. “I’m worried about a friend. That’s all.”

Meanwhile…

The Soldier had his sight trained on the target, finger ready and itching. It was easier than he’d expected, so easy to track the man they called Captain, like a wounded deer leaving a blood trail through the forest. He didn’t even try to hide his tracks.

Your mission…mission…

The word bounced around his head like a bullet, painful and loud in his skull. It transformed with every pass as his mind chewed on it and spat up memories the men in the lab coats tried to make him forget.

He remembered the smell of popcorn, the taste of cotton candy in his mouth and the weight of a girl in his arms. He felt the kick of a rifle hard against his shoulder, the scent of weapons fired and the lick of flames against his skin, sharp and stinging. He remembered dancing, and a midnight kiss, and somehow, inexplicably, he remembered the man standing in the crosshairs of his weapon, remembered him the same way one recalls part of a dream but not all of it. His memories were like the shadows that slid across the moon that night: blurry and dark, eclipsed by the work of the machines that stripped him of identity, making him more efficient, more lethal.

His finger rested on the trigger, pushed and pulled the tiniest of fractions, torn between duty and the desire to know his past self, to know the truth.

The thin line of his lips tightened. His finger began to press down. He was going to do it.

He would have, if the door to the roof had not opened at that very moment.

The woman from earlier, the one that had almost bested him, approached the target. He could see them speaking, could see that it was casual, filed this information away for later. He watched as they spoke, too far away to discern their words. He saw as she looked up at the sky and he followed her gaze. The moon hung red and fat in the sky, a blood moon they called it, a hunter’s moon.

When he looks back he sees that she’s leaving, sees her turn to speak once more, and then sees his target embrace the woman, arms wrapped tight around her, chin resting on the top of her head. He feels something, something he can’t entirely identify. He lowers his weapon and watches as they leave the roof together, the man’s hand resting lightly on the woman’s shoulder as they go. He has another sliver of a memory, of wrapping his strong arm around a slight shoulder, bony and thin, the stench of garbage permeating the air.

Sometimes I think you like getting beat up…

He doesn’t know who said it, doesn’t recognize the voice. It’s another piece of a puzzle that doesn’t seem to fit and he wonders briefly if the doctors have poked around his head one too many times, if everything in there isn’t just some scrambled, irretrievable mess now. He wonders how long before he’s the target, before they decide he’s a risk and not an asset.  He looks up at the moon again, can just see the edge of bright white sneaking past the Earth’s shadow. Tonight seems like as good a night as any to try and learn the truth.

He climbs down from his hiding spot, switches out his gear from military to civilian, and heads for the museum.

 

Boston music scene remembers Anderson Mar, who died of injuries sustained from a Fall River fire

How To Be A Good Depressive Citizen | Ferrett Steinmetz

Because God help you if you write your depressive post when you’re actually depressed, and uncertain if you’re going to make it. That worries people. You don’t want to write about yourself in a way that gets your audience concerned about you, because then you’ll just have told a bunch of people that maybe you’re not okay. And what will they do then? How will they rest until you’re in a stable place?

That’s rude. Button that shit up, depressive person.

And as a public figure, you can’t share your actual fears either. Maybe you’re melting down because you’re afraid you’re a lousy musician. But if, as a depressive, you slip up and post “I AM A SHITTY MUSICIAN AND I SUCK,” then everyone knows what you are: you’re an attention whore. You’re asking for people to suck up to you! All you want is positive feedback? What a drama queen (or king) you are!

(Even if you don’t want positive feedback, you know the positive feedback will bounce off your shields, you just wanted to stop swallowing this terror back all the time and give it a voice so it’s somewhere outside of your fucking skull for once.)

~

And then someone says, “Wow, X is having a meltdown,” and people tune in to watch the trainwreck that is you, and you get a reputation as someone unstable. People start to edge away. You fucked up, man, you just let the mask slip, and now people see the quivering Jell-O underneath – and some people are repulsed by your slippery innards, and others see a feast of despair to chow the fuck down on.

A couple of outbursts like that can change your whole life.

~

And that reputation will follow your ass around, my friend. People will question your stability. They’ll have Heard Things. They’ll wonder how you’re doing now, with the understanding that you could break at any moment, that you’re crazy deep down, that you didn’t have the maturity to mash that ugly shit down like you fucking well should have.

~

Depression is messy, and ugly, and sticky. You don’t take it out in public until it’s thoroughly sanitized, freeze-dried, and vacuum-packed – or you make yourself a reputation that you don’t want. It is okay to be depressed, even valorous, so long as you never actually demonstrate depression.

~

And there are very good reasons why maybe going off on one of your social networks during a depressive breakdown is a bad idea. Living your life via the equivalent of emotional crowdfunding is almost guaranteed to be ruined. And hauling your friends and family into the spotlight against their will to be discussed among strangers is a toxic fucking thing. And depression lies, so a lot of the things you say will be so utterly foolish and untrue that one day you’ll regret writing it down, simply because some idiot took you at face value, and some other idiot now thinks you’re an idiot for believing that guff in the first place.

So it’s not necessarily a bad thing to only discuss depression when you can hold it at a distance and analyze it.

But this need to be a Good Depressive Citizen makes the journey that much more alone, sometimes. You can have thousands of people following you on the social network of your choice, and yet here you are alone in your apartment, trying desperately to keep this despair properly tamped down. You have to clutch your knees and choke back those cries of despair, because if you share this angst with the world, then you might get a label you can never take back.

And deep down, this need to be a Good Depressive Citizen fuels the fear that you’re really not lovable, or worthy, as you can’t share this shit-fountain of diarrhetic despair welling up inside of you with the world at large. You can only share it with the pre-screened handful of friends who understand you, who have demonstrated they know how to deal properly with this malfunctioning beast that is your brain, and maybe you’re not worthy of love maybe you’re just finding people who are stupid enough to take pity on you.

Please don’t expect me to always be good and kind and loving. There are times when I will be cold and thoughtless and hard to understand.

The reward for conformity was that everyone liked you except yourself.

~Rita Mae Brown

"A villain must be a thing of power, handled with delicacy and grace. He must be wicked enough to excite our aversion, strong enough to arouse our fear, human enough to awaken some transient gleam of sympathy. We must triumph in his downfall, yet not barbarously nor with contempt, and the close of his career must be in harmony with all its previous development.” - Agnes Repplier in A Short Defense of Villains.

For the most sensitive among us the noise can be too much.

Jim Carrey on Hoffman’s death

[x]

(via itsjessmiller)

(Source: gina--linetti, via andiloveall)