Q
you look so good in niqab,let's fuck?
Anonymous
A

Use the submit button to attach your resume, portfolio, and at least 3 references. I hope you understand that I can’t get back to all applicants. Good luck!


People are scared to empty their minds
fearing that they will be engulfed by the void.
What they don’t realize is that
their own mind is the void.
Huang Po (via cosmofilius)

(via donotlovemethough)



Why me?"
“That is a very Earthling question to ask, Mr. Pilgrim. Why you? Why us for that matter? Why anything? Because this moment simply is. Have you ever seen bugs trapped in amber?”
“Yes.”
“Well, here we are, Mr. Pilgrim, trapped in the amber of this moment. There is no why.
Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughterhouse-Five (via honeyforthehomeless)

lovevoltaireusapart:

One must learn to live. I practice every day. My biggest obstacle is I don’t know who I am. I grope blindly. If anyone loves me as I am I may dare at last to look at myself. For me, that possibility is fairly remote.

Ingmar Bergman Autumn Sonata (1978)

(via fuckyeahexistentialism)


We teach females that in relationships, compromise is what women do. We raise girls to see each other as competitors, not for jobs or for accomplishments— which I think can be a good thing— but for the attention of men. We teach girls that they cannot be sexual beings in the way that boys are. If we have sons, we don’t mind knowing about our sons’ girlfriends, but our daughters boyfriends? ‘God forbid!’ But of course when the time is right, we expect those girls to bring back the perfect man to be their husband. We police girls, we praise girls for virginity, but we don’t praise boys for virginity. And it’s always made me wonder how exactly this is supposed to work out because *laughs* the loss of virginity is usually a process that involves *laughs*…
We teach girls shame. ‘Close your legs!’ ‘Cover yourself!’ We make them feel as though by being born female, they are already guilty of something. And so, girls grow up to be women who cannot say they have desire. They grow up to be women who silence themselves. They grow up to be women who cannot say what they truly think. And they grow up—and this is the worst thing we do to girls—they grow up to be women who have turned pretense into an artform.
Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, TedxEuston (x)

(via bikininiqab)


If I were to suggest that between the Earth and Mars there is a china teapot revolving about the sun in an elliptical orbit, nobody would be able to disprove my assertion provided I were careful to add that the teapot is too small to be revealed even by our most powerful telescopes. But if I were to go on to say that, since my assertion cannot be disproved, it is an intolerable presumption on the part of human reason to doubt it, I should rightly be thought to be talking nonsense. If, however, the existence of such a teapot were affirmed in ancient books, taught as the sacred truth every Sunday, and instilled into the minds of children at school, hesitation to believe in its existence would become a mark of eccentricity and entitle the doubter to the attentions of the psychiatrist in an enlightened age or of the Inquisitor in an earlier time.
Bertrand Russell  (via closedforprayer)

(via closedforprayer)



How astonishing it is that language can almost mean,
and frightening that it does not quite. Love, we say,
God, we say, Rome and Michiko, we write, and the words
Get it wrong. We say bread and it means according
to which nation. French has no word for home,
and we have no word for strict pleasure. A people
in northern India is dying out because their ancient
tongue has no words for endearment. I dream of lost
vocabularies that might express some of what
we no longer can. Maybe the Etruscan texts would
finally explain why the couples on their tombs
are smiling. And maybe not. When the thousands
of mysterious Sumerian tablets were translated,
they seemed to be business records. But what if they
are poems or psalms? My joy is the same as twelve
Ethiopian goats standing silent in the morning light.
O Lord, thou art slabs of salt and ingots of copper,
as grand as ripe barley lithe under the wind’s labor.
Her breasts are six white oxen loaded with bolts
of long-fibered Egyptian cotton. My love is a hundred
pitchers of honey. Shiploads of thuya are what
my body wants to say to your body. Giraffes are this
desire in the dark. Perhaps the spiral Minoan script
is not a language but a map. What we feel most has
no name but amber, archers, cinnamon, horses and birds.
The Forgotten Dialect of the Heart, Jack Gilbert (via twelvestepped)

(via poetryonice)


"Should I kill myself, or have a cup of coffee?"

"Should I kill myself, or have a cup of coffee?"


"Should I kill myself, or have a cup of coffee?"

"Should I kill myself, or have a cup of coffee?"


It’s just … everything. There are too many people. And I don’t fit in. I don’t know how to be. Nothing that I’m good at is the sort of thing that matters there. Being smart doesn’t matter—and being good with words. And when those things do matter, it’s only because people want something from me. Not because they want me.
Rainbow Rowell Fangirl (via buttholepoetry)

(via fukingly)


She was a compulsive pessimist, always looking for the soft brown spot in the fruit, pressing so hard she created it.

Amy Waldman, The Submission (via oofpoetry)

Hah.

(via emdashesandhyphens)

(via insomniacentra1)


Everyone’s chest
is a living room wall
with awkwardly placed photographs
hiding fist-shaped holes.
Andrea Gibson, “Class”  (via closedforprayer)

(via closedforprayer)


failingjihad:

And that’s how you prove the Pythagorean Theorem.

failingjihad:

And that’s how you prove the Pythagorean Theorem.

(via bikininiqab)