I have Instagram Also Goodreads And Twitter Too And a Sideblog And no life
Hi, I'm Sarah.
Nova Scotian, 21, pansexual feminist geek, terribly boring person.

I reblog all sorts of random shit, including but not limited to Friends, Supernatural, Adventure Time, Disney, Pokemon and cats.
I don't even know man, follow me or whatever.
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The Disney Renaissance

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I hate people generally, but I like people individually.

- introverts (via janesblueheaven)
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Men’s rights activists don’t organize marches; they don’t build shelters or raise funds for abused men; they don’t organize prostate cancer-awareness events or campaign against prison rape. What they actually do, when they’re not simply carping in comments online, is target and harass women—from feminist writers and professors to activists—in an attempt to silence them.

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At this point, I’m basically just running around looking for more signs.

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On Periods: Let’s put this shit to bed right now: Women don’t lose their minds when they have period-related irritability. It doesn’t lower their ability to reason; it lowers their patience and, hence, tolerance for bullshit. If an issue comes up a lot during “that time of the month,” that doesn’t mean she only cares about it once a month; it means she’s bothered by it all the time and lacks the capacity, once a month, to shove it down and bury it beneath six gulps of willful silence.

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When will they learn

This shit ain’t funny at all. I don’t know why these white dudes think it’s okay to walk up to people, blatantly insult them, then think nothing should happen. Then people look at the Black folks in the vids like THEY’RE wrong.

my brother told me about some white dudes who have a youtube channel and apparently tried to ‘prank’ black people by saying the word “neighbour” really fast so it would sound like “nigger” and it worked a couple of times but then one of them said it to a group of black guys and they beat him up and white boy was like “IT’S A PRANK! IT’S A PRANK I SAID NEIGHBOUR” and the black dude was like really? and beat him up anyways

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this is my favourite vine ever and I will never get tired of it

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So Nintendo decided to release alternative outfits for the Zero Suit Samus in new Smash Bros. Their official statement on it goes:

Thanks to the determination of her female designer, these Zero Suit outfits got completed in time. From the ending of Metroid: Zero Mission, here’s Samus in shorts!

You can use the same outfit variations in both the 3DS and Wii U versions.

"Thanks to the determination of her female designer", huh? What a bizzarely specific statement.
Reads more like “See, SEE? Women not only love skimpy outfits on female characters, they personally put them in games! She was DETERMINED to do it, even!”

I’m feeling like "a woman designed it, so it can not be detrimental to womankind in any way!" is some secret lost square in the Female Armor Rhetoric Bingo

As for anyone who’d gladly claim that those are canon costumes from her earlier games: YES, THEY ARE. You know what exactly they are in canon? LEISURE OUTFITS. Samus wears them after her mission is over. She’s supposed to chill in those shorts, not fight.

Just the same, Zero Suit is basically underwear to her armor and Zero Mission’s whole point was to play Samus at her most vulnerable.

Again, how does any costume other than power armor make sense in the context of brutal tournament that is Smash Bros games?

And no, I don’t take “this series is all about fanservice” for an answer.
The designers used up all the Pointless Fanservice Points when they gave her shoes so impossible they barely resemble stripper boots.

PS: Those heels look as idiotic as when they were first released.

PPS: Her anatomy and the poses she takes, especially in the first picture, are as much (if not more) broken as ever.

Guess the developers still like Samus promotion pics being a major candidate for an eschergirls post.


I love when companies pretend that female developers have total autonomy over projects - it’s not like they answer to managers and executives who hired them to do a specific task.

It’s not like video games is an industry where employment is highly competitive or that employment in game is renown for being highly demanding at the best of times.

Surely it couldn’t be that these female designers were instructed by male managers and that the company expects their female designers to do this kind of work or find work elsewhere!

- wincenworks

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I could talk about the PE teacher in my town who was asked to resign due to his harassment of female students, who was then hired as a school bus driver for a rural route with both primary and high school students. I could talk about how, from the age of seven, I refused to wear skirts or dresses, and from the time I entered high school at 10 to when I moved at 16 I always wore bike shorts or CCC shorts under my dress, because he was not particularly subtle about the way he looked at us – and those bus steps are high. I could talk about how this was common knowledge and was never denied by any authority figure we ever raised it with, but rather we were just kind of brushed off. I could talk about how, sometimes, I was the last person on my bus in the afternoon and I was never quite sure if something bad would happen to me, even though for a long time I probably couldn’t have articulated what it was that I feared.

I could talk about how I spent ten years of my childhood believing it was perfectly normal and acceptable for a seven year old child to stop wearing her favourite clothes because a grown man she relies on to get to and from school from a relatively remote location gets a thrill from looking up her skirt.

I could talk about the art teacher at my high school who used to run his hands up and down our backs, right along the spot where your bra sits. Considering most of us were fairly new to wearing bras in the first place, this was a decidedly uncomfortable experience. I could talk about how he used to get just a little too close for comfort in the supply room. Nothing overt, nothing nameable – just enough to make you drag someone else along with you if you needed a fresh piece of paper or you ran out of ink. I could talk about how the odd comment or complaint that was made was completely handwaved, that we were told to be very careful about what we were saying, that we could get someone in a lot of trouble by “starting those kinds of rumours”, and did we really want to be responsible for that?

I could talk about the first time I was made to feel ashamed of my body, at twelve or thirteen, getting into a water fight with my stepfather and uncle in the height of summer. I could talk about my grandmother completely flipping out, talking about how disgusting it was, how grown men should be ashamed of the way they were behaving with a girl. I could talk about how she then spent the next few hours trying to convince me I was being somehow victimised, while I was mostly confused about what had taken place – it took me a long time to work it out. I could talk about the unvoiced but ever-present fear for months afterwards that my grandma would bring it up again, that she would bring it up in the wrong place or to the wrong people and that my uncle, a schoolteacher, would suffer for it.

I could talk about how that destroyed what had been a fantastic relationship with my uncle, and how, ten years later, he still won’t hug me at Christmas.

I could talk about being called a frigid bitch and a slut in the same breath in high school. I could talk about multiple instances of sitting in a big group of friends, hearing someone trying to get into someone else’s pants, starting off sweet enough but quickly descending into emotional manipulation and thinly veiled abuse. I could talk about the time I went off with someone willingly enough and being followed by someone I considered a friend, someone who would not leave no matter how many times I said “no”, who only went away when the person I was with said that he “didn’t feel like sharing”.

I could talk about the family friend who always made me feel a little bit off for no discernible reason. The one who if I was left alone in the room with him, I would always find an excuse to leave. The one time I expressed this, I was told I was being a drama queen, and that I needed to grow up and stop being so precious, that one day I was going to have to deal with people I didn’t like and I might as well get used to it. I could talk about how he never did anything untoward, never gave me any specific reason to feel unsafe – but years after I last saw him, when he was found guilty of four historical sexual assault charges, one of rape and three of indecent assault on girls under twelve, I was, for reasons I still don’t entirely understand, completely unsurprised.

I could talk about my boyfriend justifying his rape of me with “you could have fought me off if you really wanted you, you slut”. I could talk about how, when I tried to tell people, I was told I was being a nasty, spiteful, vindictive bitch. I could talk about how selfish it was of me to say such things, that he’d overcome such a hard life and was going to go on and make something of himself, who the hell was I to try and stand in his way?

I could talk about how my response to being raped was to sleep with anyone and everyone because I rationalised that if I never said no, then no one could force me. I could talk about how I have been told time and time again, by people who should know better, that this is a sign that I wasn’t really raped at all.

I could talk about how, when I finally worked up the courage to make a formal complaint of sexual harassment against my boss, I was asked why I had let it continue for so long, and what I had done to make him think his behaviour would be welcomed.

I could talk about how when a much later boss got me completely wasted at my leaving party, to the point where I couldn’t walk, and fucked me in a back alley, he waited until I was sober the next morning to tell me that he had a pregnant wife, because he heard through the grapevine that I was very strict about not sleeping with married people or straight women, and he thought I should “learn my place” and realise that I’m “not such a high and mighty bitch with a moral high ground after all”.

I could talk about these things, but I very rarely do. Since I was seven years old, I have been told that my body is not my own, that my consent is not my own, that my feelings of discomfort are not my own. I have taught myself to suppress my gut instinct upon meeting people. I have been taught to smile, to be polite, to suck it up if I feel unsafe. When I complain, I have been told I’m being irrational, oversensitive, and selfish. The underlying message is, how dare I try and ascertain any kind of control over my own body?

I should talk about it. But I don’t actually know whether I can.

- An anonymous guest post on The Lady Garden. This is the reality for so many women. #YesAllWomen (via takealookatyourlife)