niftyerrors:

unconventionalmoose:

badbitchdiaries:

cosmicsan:

on average menstruation starts at age 12
and ends at 52
40 years of periods
480 periods
480 periods x average length of 5 days
that’s 2400 days of bleeding
6.58 years of blood 

That’s so metal.

think of all the people you could drown in nearly 7 years worth of blood

(Source: algernoncadwallader)

Frozen Over

fantasyinminiature:

The snow started around three in the morning.

Heavy snow at night always did weird things with the light, catching and refracting the sodium-vapor glare of the street lamps to make the whole sky seem to glow amber. At first we told ourselves that it was just a similar trick of the light that made the heavily clumpe flakes look so unusual as they fell, but once it started to stick and then pile up it became clear that its unusual color was no illusion.

We stayed inside, at first out of fear of contamination from some unknown pollutant… but then simply out of fear. As the strange snow continued to fall and blow and pile up in drifts, the air inside the house filled with an unmistakable coppery tang. Even with all the windows closed, the smell found its way in.

The snow had piled itself three to four feet against the side of the house already. Nobody wanted to talk about what would happen if it melted. I don’t think any of us were sure that it would. The snow had been falling for hours when the sun came up and it showed no sign of stopping any time soon, if at all.

We watched and we waited. We didn’t know what else to do. If it had rained blood, the whole world probably would’ve fallen into panic and terror. When it started snowing blood, everybody just sort of held their breath.

An American Secret, Cynthia Carr

hystericalblackness:

I was 17 when I learned that my grandfather had been a Klansman. I didn’t want to know more then, and I didn’t want to talk about it. The news wasn’t just shameful; it was frightening. I wondered if I could find out too much, if Grandpa could become someone I wouldn’t love. […]

I was an adult by the time I saw the infamous photo taken in Marion the night of Aug. 7, 1930: two black men in bloody, tattered clothing hang from a tree, and below them stand the grinning, gloating, proud and pleased white folks. I knew from family lore that my grandfather had walked down to the square that night. I looked anxiously for his face in the photo. I didn’t find it. Still, I felt certain that he had condoned those deaths.

The shame I felt about all this pushed me into a familiar form of racism — relating to black people as “those we have wronged.” Guilt just builds another barrier. I told no one for more than 20 years. […]

That set me on a new course of telling, ultimately, quite a few people, and I couldn’t help noticing the difference between how black people and white people responded. Whites were often surprised. Some even gasped. But I have yet to meet an African-American who so much as batted an eye. And I’ve been deeply saddened by the implications of that.

So, can I just say how much it pisses me off to see narratives of the impact of lynching & Jim Crow framed around how it affects the descendants of the killers? These kinds of books are getting all this attention & critical acclaim & generating serious income for the authors. The possibility that the descendant of my great uncle’s killers might make money off his death is nauseating & yet I am quite certain they are more likely to get attention for talking about their family “shame” than any discussion of the pain their ancestors caused to my family.