fucking assho

kentucky, usa

Louisiana-based photographer Frank Relle captures the nighttime magic of New Orleans in his ongoing series New Orleans Nightscapes. He uses long exposures to capture the feeling of the powerful, haunting beauty throughout his hometown.

I hope Trump emotionally abuses Elon Musk regularly at least

school project, some drawings for my pretend game about a housefly girl called musca and her adventures in some creepy&wet place

From The New Anecdota Americana, 1944

oh Vi.....

commissions are open/my k0fi goal/p4ypal

Panel redraws I did for @hsprzine

Be good for daddy or else

Be good for daddy or else

🔕 don't ship,,help me from death 🥹

Do you want to save a human from death?

Do you want to become one of the happiest people?

Do you want to become an angel walking on earth?

i,m ahmed im from Palestine /gaza... From a person trying to satisfy his hunger and thirst with a little to a person with a compassionate and tender heart. Imagine waking up to find yourself sleeping in the streets of a ruin. 💔💔 This is my situation and the situation of my family. The war has destroyed all my dreams and ambitions and broken everything inside me. 🥺💔 Help me so that I can stand on my feet and sleep in a safe place. Help me, even with a little, so that I can eat the least amount of food, as I sit for hours without a single bite. 🥹💔 The war has left me without food or shelter. 😔💔 I can barely wear the most worthless things. The least you can do for me can be a lot. 🥹💔 I am waiting for your compassionate heart to give me a little something's ... please save me 🥹can you donate and share 🥹

https://gofund.me/303270ae

Cerulean Nights by Sophie E. Eikli, originally published in the first edition of Beloved Zine. Image ID in image description.

Minnie Bruce Pratt with her partner, Leslie Feinberg, in the late '90s.

photo & caption by Mariette Pathy Allen [website] [instagram]

—Leslie Feinberg, Stone Butch Blues

minnie bruce pratt, from sinister wisdom issue 122: How Can A Woman Who Is With A Trans Man Call Herself A Lesbian? spring 2024

[ There are all kinds of moments in learning how to live together. I do the laundry in the basement, one old beat-up slot machine of a washer, and can’t understand why she doesn’t take a turn with that.

“Don’t think I’m a man because I have fabric dyslexia,” she says, and at first it’s a joke but then it isn’t. And finally it’s not exactly a fight but a strain, an exasperation, and she says: “You are talking to me as if you think I don’t have a clitoris.”

Meaning that I think she is a man, that she is a he who doesn’t think laundry is his work. Then she tells me about trying to do laundry for another femme lover, and turning everything pink because she didn’t know about reading the labels. She didn’t know about reading the labels because her mother didn’t teach her, and her mother didn’t teach her, because her mother thought something was wrong with her.

That’s a whole long story that I learn over time, about what her mother and her father did to her that meant she left home one way or another very early, and without knowing much about laundry, for instance. There are a lot of other stories that I don’t learn at once, that I only learn over time. There are a lot of stories that I never hear, that she never tells me.

Years later, fifteen year later, after she’s gotten very sick, and we are stuck in traffic in Jersey City, we were hot and very tired on the way back from walking at the Green Swamp. Wanting to be home and she was impatient with me about something, I can’t even remember what now.

A sharpness in her voice, something that hurts my feelings. I tell her I’m suddenly reminded of the man I was married to, my pain at that memory, please don’t.

Suddenly the chasm. She is devastated with horror and full of distrust. How could I say that, after all these years?

I kept saying no, no, not you, my memory, the memory of someone else’s anger. She is the one who said to me at the very beginning: “Tell me what makes you feel loved.”

Then, twenty-two years after we first met, in the days before she dies, she begins to tell me of old hurts coming back. Or was it that she was trying to know if she could trust me to the end?

She brings back that moment in the car: I was driving, she was sick and sitting beside me. And then I understood she was telling me she thought or she feared that all along I’ve experienced her as a man.

All of our love life together, that was what I saw her as?

Never. Never. Never. I told her: Never.

Including sex, when she was fucking me? That moment—not that either, ever. Never. I sat on the couch by her, and talked into her eyes. I said: “Remember when you first got sick, how I was getting reminded of my Pa sick at home so much, recovering from drinking binges? And I told you it’s not you, it’s just my memory from the past?”

I kept talking, I didn’t know if she could hear me, she was so sick. The pain in my heart—twenty-two years and she doubted that I loved her for her complete self. I wrote a whole book about loving her because of her everything. And yet—

And I know, yes, I know, reader, that writing this now will never, never bring her back to answer my questions. I know that and yet I keep writing because I want her to answer, I want her to answer. ]