"Wait…fit people have rolls too??!"

Yes, yes they do

god bless this post asdfghjkl

Thank you for posting this u.u

I feel like the fitspo community needs more of this plz

(via frobulous)





gay pride parade

lesbian gluttony parade

bisexual greed parade

trans wrath parade

questioning envy parade

ally sloth parade

asexual lust parade 

I’m totally up to throw a trans wrath parade

W E  S H A L L  D E S T R O Y  A L L  W H O  M I S G E N D E R   U S

Heh. “Ally sloth.”

When you are hurting, there will always be people who find a way to make it about themselves. If you break your wrist, they’ll complain about a sprained ankle. If you are sad, they’re sadder. If you’re asking for help, they’ll demand more attention.

Here is a fact: I was in a hospital and sobbing into my palms when a woman approached me and asked why I was making so much noise and I managed to stutter that my best friend shot himself in the head and now he was 100% certified dead and she made this little grunt and had the nerve to tell me, “Well now you made me sad.”

When you get angry, there are going to be people who ask you to shut up and sit down, and they’re not going to do it nicely. Theirs are the faces that turn bright red before you have a chance to finish your sentence. They won’t ask you to explain yourself. They’ll be mad that you’re mad and that will be their whole reason alone.

Here is a fact: I was in an alleyway a few weeks ago, stroking my friend’s back as she vomited fourteen tequila shots. “I hate men,” she wheezed as her sides heaved, “I hate all of them.”

I braided her hair so it wouldn’t get caught in the mess. I didn’t correct her and reply that she does in fact love her father and her little brother too, that there are strangers she has yet to meet that will be better for her than any of her shitty ex-boyfriends, that half of our group of friends identifies as male - I could hear each of her bruises in those words and I didn’t ask her to soften the blow when she was trying to buff them out of her skin. She doesn’t hate all men. She never did.

She had the misfortune to be overheard by a drunk guy in an ill-fitting suit, a boy trying to look like a man and leering down my dress as he stormed towards us. “Fuck you, lady,” he said, “Fuck you. Not all men are evil, you know.”

“Thanks,” I told him dryly, pulling on her hand, trying to get her inside again, “See you.”

He followed us. Wouldn’t stop shouting. How dare she get mad. How dare she was hurting. “It’s hard for me too!” he yowled after us. “With fuckers like you, how’s a guy supposed to live?”

Here’s a fact: my father is Cuban and my genes repeat his. Once one of my teachers looked at my heritage and said, “Your skin doesn’t look dirty enough to be a Mexican.”

When my cheeks grew pink and my tongue dried up, someone else in the classroom stood up. “You can’t say that,” he said, “That’s fucking racist. We could report you for that.”

Our teacher turned vicious. “You wanna fail this class? Go ahead. Report me. I was joking. It’s my word against yours. I hate kids like you. You think you’ve got all the power - you don’t. I do.”

Later that kid and I became close friends and we skipped class to do anything else and the two of us were lying on our backs staring up at the sky and as we talked about that moment, he sighed, “I hate white people.” His girlfriend is white and so is his mom. I reached out until my fingers were resting in the warmth of his palm.

He spoke up each time our teacher said something shitty. He failed the class. I stayed silent. I got the A but I wish that I didn’t.

Here is a fact: I think gender is a social construct and people that want to tell others what defines it just haven’t done their homework. I personally happen to have the luck of the draw and am the same gender as my sex, which basically just means society leaves me alone about this one particular thing.

Until I met Alex, who said he hated cis people. My throat closed up. I’m not good at confrontation. I avoided him because I didn’t want to bother him.

One day I was going on a walk and I found him behind our school, bleeding out of the side of his mouth. The only thing I really know is how to patch people up. He winced when the antibacterial cream went across his new wounds. “I hate cis people,” he said weakly.

I looked at him and pushed his hair back from his head. “I understand why you do.”

Here is a fact: anger is a secondary emotion. Anger is how people stop themselves from hurting. Anger is how people stop themselves by empathizing.

It is easy for the drunken man to be mad at my friend. If he says “Hey, fuck you, lady,” he doesn’t have to worry about what’s so wrong about men.

It’s easy for my teacher to fail the kids who speak up. If we’re just smart-ass students, it’s not his fault we fuck up.

It’s easy for me to hate Alex for labeling me as dangerous when I’ve never hurt someone a day in my life. But I’m safe in my skin and his life is at risk just by going to the bathroom. I understand why he says things like that. I finally do.

There’s a difference between the spread of hatred and the frustration of people who are hurting. The thing is, when you are broken, there will always be someone who says “I’m worse, stop talking.” There will always be people who are mad you’re trying to steal the attention. There will always be people who get mad at the same time as you do - they hate being challenged. It changes the rules.

I say I hate all Mondays but my sister was born on one and she’s the greatest joy I have ever known. I say I hate brown but it’s really just the word and how it turns your mouth down - the colour is my hair and my eyes and my favorite sweater. I say I hate pineapple but I still try it again every Easter, just to see if it stings less this year. It’s okay to be sad when you hear someone generalize a group you’re in. But instead of assuming they’re evil and filled with hatred, maybe ask them why they think that way - who knows, you might just end up with a new and kind friend.

By telling the oppressed that their anger is unjustified, you allow the oppression to continue. I know it’s hard to stay calm. I know it’s scary. But you’re coming from the safe place and they aren’t. Just please … Try to be more understanding. /// r.i.d (via inkskinned)

(via frobulous)

Happens to be


It kind of bothers me when people say “Heather is a person who happens to be gay” or “Heather’s girlfriend happens to be trans.”

Like I know what you’re trying to say - that it’s not the important thing about me or my relationship.

It’s just that I can’t help but hear that as “as opposed to…

How I Get Treated After Weight Loss.


It’s taken me such a long time to put pen to paper about this. It’s hard to write an article about getting treated differently after losing weight for several reasons.

It’s confrontational to our own mindsets about overweight people, it’s hard to talk about it without sounding arrogant, and…

(Source: xhelensarahx, via theremina)

“Being a ‘public figure’ whose life was recorded and transmitted to others used to be the tax on having a certain amount of power. If having a public Twitter account now qualifies you, as they suggest, we’re counting a lot of people just trying to talk to their friends and maybe make some new ones. For journalists, these people require an ethical axis beyond public-private—one that acknowledges the high personal stakes these conversations involve for their participants and not, say, Hamilton Nolan, who wrote the Gawker post flippantly dismissing the entire debate. That Gawker would sooner make the vacuously provocative claim that these people are using Twitter wrong than listen to them explain how they’d like Twitter to be used is a sad echo of the argument that got us here in the first place: those women were asking for it with their attention-seeking behavior.”

Kat Stoeffel

an excerpt from “Twitter, Rape, and Privacy on Social Media” (x)

This arose from a discussion about what sexual assault survivors were wearing when they were attacked in an effort to continue to debunk rape apologists. It was a very moving discussion originated by a Black woman on Twitter who is also a survivor. Well of course, the mainstream feminist movement could just let them have their moment… or report on it responsibly. They had to insert themselves… and did it in a disgusting manner. When they were called out on it, they first responded by saying “well, the tweets are public so we have every legal right….” to which i ask the question do we really need to legislate basic decency? After that it turned into painting the woman who lead the discussion as an angry Black woman attacking the nice, helpful white ladies.

meanwhile, her picture was plastered across BF without her consent… and of course it made its rounds on Facebook and everywhere else… even her younger brother sent her a text message showing how she was plastered on the site.

(via christel-thoughts)

I was a part of this discussion and one of the survivors who spoke out though my tweet in particular wasn’t used in the story. The original conversation was difficult and cathartic. But the mainstream media and many White feminists decided to abuse and exploit this situation. BuzzFeed and Poynter have engaged in irreparable damage and clearly abuse power. This claim that “if I can see it, it is mine” in online journalism—especially when it is almost always top down abuse of power and especially so when the target is not only a woman of colour but a Black woman—is unbearable. Hard to get into detail for those who don’t use Twitter and aren’t seeing it unfold in real time. Not interested in listing names as to not cause those harmed even more harm. But it is active violence now. I hope the Black woman who started the conversation seeks an attorney at this point. Mainstream media’s answer to "don’t exploit sensitive tweets on sexual assault" is "well don’t share then!" Sounds familiar? Rape culture.

(via gradientlair)

(via gradientlair)

Dr. V, Caleb Hannan, and Grantland


Post-going-viral foreword: I’d love to link to blog/longform pieces by trans women about the Grantland article (here, at the top, above my words). I am searching, but plz send links to @handler on Twitter, or email michael/at\grendel/dot\net or contact via Tumblr. Thanks. -mh

Dear Caleb Hannan & the editors of Grantland:

I’m not a habitual reader of Grantland, because I’m not much into the work-a-day issues and discussions of the sports world. I do love long-form journalism about specific people, and culture, and pop culture issues, and the works that I’ve read on Grantland have been satisfying enough that I kept on wondering why I wasn’t making it part of my regular reading rounds. The other week, I stumbled across Chuck Klosterman’s article about Royce White and mental health, and I shared it with my SO, and she shared it with her family, and we had a deep and connecting discussion about it which I am still appreciating.

Despite my lack of regular connection to Grantland, I am compelled to write in to you about Caleb Hannan’s article about Dr. V, which I read today, mostly in openmouthed disgust, and with increasing horror as it built to its conclusion.

There’s no question that the design, origin, and performance of a new golf club of mysterious provenance, from outside the historical establishment of equipment design, is a compelling and interesting story on many levels. There’s no question that the behavior and history of an erratic and inconsistent inventor, whose claimed superlative credentials persistently cannot be verified, is also compelling and relevant to the narrative.

There’s also no question that the way that Dr. V’s existence as a trans woman was researched, outed, and used in the narrative of the story was monstrous, stereotypical, transphobic, hurtful, and wrong.

Read More

I’ve noticed a funny thing about Melissa McCarthy. Well, besides the obvious, that she’s funny. But I’ve noticed that when Jennifer Lawrence talks about her weight, she talks about how much food she eats, and how she’s never going to diet to be thin. And when Melissa McCarthy is quoted about her weight, this is what she says:

“I don’t really know why I’m not thinner than I am.”

“I want to be healthy.”

“I just don’t lose weight easily.”

“Sometimes I wish I were just magically a size 6 and I never had to give it a single thought.”

Because Melissa McCarthy actually is a fat woman, she isn’t allowed to make brash statements about body acceptance. She has to apologize for her body. Every single one of those quotes might as well have just said, “Sorry I’m fat and you have to look at me, everyone.” But it’s all she’s allowed to say, in the confines of our culture. If Melissa McCarthy had said, “If anybody even tries to whisper the word ‘diet,’ I’m like, ‘You can go f– yourself,” the response will most assuredly not be, “How brave! How strong! What a good role model!” The response will be, “What a bad example, encouraging people to be unhealthy! We have an obesity epidemic! Open your eyes, fat is not healthy, sexy, or acceptable! How very dare she!”


Let me preface this by saying I haven’t had a serious pointe class for about three years. But tonight, I found myself with a little victory. Some background: a little over a year and a half ago, after dealing with some serious arrhythmia problems, I started to go into heart failure. Around that time I had pretty bad edema in my legs. I had open heart surgery that fixed my heart and saved my life, but the edema never seemed to go away. With that extra edema, my pointe shoes no longer fit me. Which was fine, since I was content to take my classes on flat anyway. But once in a while I’d try my old pointes on just to see if they’d fit. They never did. 

A few days ago I noticed that my edema was all but gone. What had been 3+ pitting edema that had plagued me as a tell tale sign of my former heart problems was now… gone! So I had to try. I had to see if I could get my old pointe shoes on. These are nothing technical, but what they represent is so important to me. I’ve been working hard over the past year and a half to get my life back together, and this is a sign that maybe, just maybe, I will be able to recover from this 100%. 

(via nudiemuse)

Dear everyone: Believe me, I'm fully aware that my existence ruins your day






Today on the bus, there was a person in the double-seat immediately behind the column of single seats, with their bag on the other seat. When I got on the bus, they glared at me disapprovingly, and continued to do so the whole time I walked down the aisle to the last of the single seats (which was the last one free). I’ve long-since learned that if I sit in a double-seat, no matter how much I scooch over how full the bus gets, odds are that that seat next to me will remain empty, so I just avoid the waste by trying to get a single seat when I can. I’d only had time to sit down, put my headphones on, and settle in to read my book when the glaring person, who was now immediately behind me, pointedly got up and moved to an identical pair of seats on the other side of the aisle and a few feet forward.

Just last week, I was at the movies at a showing that had very nearly sold out. The person who wound up seated next to me, after sitting there giving me periodic glares and scowls (I was doing my best to squish as far over as possible and was not touching them whatsoever except for the two times they randomly elbowed me while rifling through their bag), decided that they’d rather get up, file all the way back out of the full row, and go sit in an empty seat away from the rest of their family.

Or the person last night on the subway who was sitting in the aisle seat of a double and had the window seat person leave, shifted over and gathered up their bags automatically while buried in their book, then glanced up, saw me, gave me the most blatantly horrified look they could muster, then scrambled to fill the empty seat with bags and other items before I could get the idea that it was available to sit in.

I get it, really. This happens several times a week. The message is impossible to miss. My very existence ruins your day. Having to be on the same vehicle as me is a trial, much less within a few feet of me. If you’re a young person, you probably tell your friends that you threw up a little in your mouth just because I got on the bus.

Every time it happens, I check to make sure I don’t have a weird smell (and by now I’ve asked almost everyone I know to check and be honest with me enough times that they’re tired of it), and as best I can tell, I don’t. I take my headphones out to check to make sure they’re not leaking sound, and they aren’t. I squeeze myself into as small a space as I can manage, but I know it’ll never be small enough.

If I could teleport to work and never impinge upon your day, you know what? I probably would. If I could just work from home and never go out in public, I would probably do that too. I know it’s the wrong answer, and I’m supposed to be all, “Fuck you and your issues,” but I’m tired, and to be honest, it gets to me knowing that everywhere I go, I make people’s lives suck just by existing, just by being me. Even if I don’t believe that your reasons are right, it still gets to me because right or wrong reasons, it still happens.

But I can’t. I have to go to work. I have to go to the grocery store. I have to go buy shampoo. I honestly probably do spend less time in public because of it, but I haven’t found a way to make that zero, to properly disappear. So maybe we can come to some kind of compromise and you could stop treating this like it’s a new issue and I should know better every single time I have the audacity to exist in public.

I don’t even know how to end this.

I don’t think a lot of people realize how much armor someone has to put on to be fat in public.  To just exist, as a fat person, in public. 

Thank you for sharing this, If.  I wish it wasn’t necessary. 

I’ll add one. I’ve had a guy try to change his seat on the plane to avoid sitting next to myself and another person my size (he had the aisle seat, so it’s not like he was in between us).

We weren’t even in his space. I had my legs as close as possible without twisting myself into a pretzel, yet this guy still has to make an issue about sitting next to us. He never said out loud that it was because of our sizes, but it was implied.

Good news is that there were no empty seats, so he couldn’t move. I then stretched out a bit more and let my thigh overflow onto his seat. Fuck people like that (not literally fuck, just fuck as in don’t care about).

I was on a plane to Portland once, and I had to wait for a flight attendant to walk by so I could ask if there were any empty seats, because I was beside an older couple, and the woman was clearly pissed, even though she was a wee thing and we didn’t come close to physically touching, but I *was* taking up an inch or three of her seat, and so I wanted to move if possible.

Well this woman couldn’t wait for the flight attendant, and instead of asking me, she SLAMMED THE ARMREST ON MY THIGH AND IT HURT. She ASSAULTED ME because I was physically incapable of not invading part of a chair she wasn’t even touching. 

I told her it wouldn’t close and to stop, and then when the flight attendant came, before the woman could get the words out of her now open mouth, I said “I was wondering if it’s possible to move me to a seat without someone who doesn’t hate fat people” clearly and loudly enough that everyone in the surrounding rows could hear. The flight attendant was a tad stunned, but the woman beside me was too shocked/embarrassed to say a word while the flight attendant went to check.

A man ended up switching seats with me, so I had an empty seat beside me, and no nasty abusive douche fuck of a woman abusing me with arm rests because she couldn’t stand the fact that she was near me for 3 whole minutes. 

I get that I was in her space she paid for (a problem I was already trying to fix, made obvious by my body language and the fact that I said I was planning to ask), but that does not excuse assaulting me.

These experiences are part of my daily life.  People get angry if they have to look at me.  They get angry if I happen to get on the same bus/train/plane as them.  They get angry if I eat somewhere that they can see me.  They get angry if I am in the same shop as they are, and they have to walk past me.  They get angry if I am ANYWHERE in public simply existing.

This is the constant, unrelenting level of hostility that fat people face every single damn day.  EVERY. SINGLE. DAMN. DAY.  And then we face it for existing online too.

We fat people are so fucking emotionally strong.  Even when we let it get us down, and bow to the pressure to hate ourselves, we still have more emotional strength in our little fingers than the average person out there.  Because we live in the face of that hate and hostility all the time, and yet we just keep on going.  We keep on turning up to work.  We keep on doing our shopping and running errands.  We keep on spending time with the people we love.  We keep on travelling.  We keep on living.  If that is not the most phenomenal emotional strength known to humanity, I don’t know what is.

We fat people are amazing.  In a world that hates us so much, we’re still here. 

We’re still standing. 

We’re still speaking. 

We’re still living.

(via xlivvielockex)