(Source: tenxage, via militantweasel)

nebulost:

diasporicdecay:

pocketostars:

ancientrelic:

humansofnewyork:

“After this I go to work at a pizza shop. My wife and I were college professors in Bangladesh. I taught accounting. But one dollar in America becomes eighty dollars when we send it back home.”

People forget, when immigrants come to this country they start from scratch. They could have been lawyers in their home country, but in the US..it means nothing. You think a HS diploma from Bangladesh means anything in this country? My mom was a top student in the country, went to all the best school and got the best of everything…but when she got here it meant squat and she was cleaning other people’s homes and scrubbing their toilets. This is why I get pissed of when people talk smack about immigrants. They at least are doing something…..heading for a goal..making sacrifices…what are you doing with your life? 

^ My parents were college-educated teachers in their home country and came to the U.S. with nothing but empty pockets, a dash of hope, and a belief in God. They also scrubbed toilets in people’s homes to make enough to provide for their children, and that’s probably not something a lot of educated professionals would be able to do. I know I wouldn’t be able to do it. Pride would get in the way.

THIS IS TOO IMPORTANT.

mom :(

(via hexacolors)

cassicucumber:

ijustwantedadragonageurl:

perfectedflaw:

butthole-spaghetti:

gracie-geek:

crazeace:

fuzzlesan:

fuckyeahspookyshit:

Last year, I spent six months participating in what I was told was a psychological experiment. I found an ad in my local paper looking for imaginative people looking to make good money, and since it was the only ad that week that I was remotely qualified for, I gave them a call and we arranged an interview.

They told me that all I would have to do is stay in a room, alone, with sensors attached to my head to read my brain activity, and while I was there I would visualize a double of myself. They called it my “tulpa.”

It seemed easy enough, and I agreed to do it as soon as they told me how much I would be paid. The next day, I began. They brought me to a simple room and gave me a bed, then attached sensors to my head and hooked them into a little black box on the table beside me. They talked me through the process of visualizing my double again, and explained that if I got bored or restless, instead of moving around, I should visualize my double moving around, or try to interact with him, and so on. The idea was to keep him with me the entire time I was in the room.

I had trouble with it for the first few days. It was more controlled than any sort of daydreaming I’d done before. I’d imagine my double for a few minutes, then grow distracted. By the fourth day, however, I could manage to keep him “present” for the entire six hours. They told me I was doing very well.

The second week, they gave me a different room with wall-mounted speakers. They told me they wanted to see if I could still keep the tulpa with me in spite of distracting stimuli. The music was discordant, ugly, unsettling, and it made the process a little more difficult, but I managed nonetheless. The next week, they played even more unsettling music, punctuated with shrieks, feedback loops, what sounded like an old school modem dialing up and guttural voices speaking some foreign language. I just laughed it off; I was a pro by then.

After about a month, I started to get bored. To liven things up, I started interacting with my doppelganger. we’d have conversations, play rock-paper-scissors, I’d imagine him juggling or break dancing, or whatever caught my fancy. I asked the researchers if my foolishness would adversely affect their study, but they encouraged me.

So, we played and communicated, and that was fun for a while…and then it got a little strange. I was telling him about my first date one day and he corrected me. I’d said my date was wearing a yellow top, and he told me it was a green one. I thought about it for a second and realized he was right. It creeped me out, and after my shift that day I talked to the researchers about it. “You’re using the thought-form to access your subconscious,” they explained. “You knew on some level that you were wrong, and you subconscious corrected yourself.”

What had been creepy was suddenly cool. I was talking to my subconscious! It took some practice, but I found that I could question my tulpa and access all sorts of memories. I could make it quote whole pages of books I’d read once, years before, or things I was taught and immediately forgot in high school. It was awesome.

That was around the time I started “calling up” my double outside of the research center. Not often, at first, but I was so used to imagining him by now that it almost seemed odd not to see him. So, whenever I was bored, I’d visualize my double. Eventually, I started doing it almost all the time. It was amusing to take him along like an invisible friend. I imagined him when I was hanging out with friends, or visiting my mom; I even brought him along on a date once. I didn’t need to speak aloud to him, so I was able to carry out conversations with him and no one was the wiser.

I know that sounds strange, but it was fun. Not only was he a walking repository of everything I knew and everything I had forgotten, he also seemed more in touch with me than I did at times. He had an uncanny grasp of the minutiae of body language that I didn’t even realize I was picking up on. For example, I thought the date I brought him along on was going badly, but he pointed out how she was laughing a little too hard at my jokes and leaning towards me as I spoke, and a bunch of other subtle clues I wasn’t consciously picking up on. I listened and let’s just say that the date went very well.

By the time I’d been at the research center for four months he was with me constantly. The researchers approached me one day after my shift and asked me if I’d stopped visualizing him. I denied it and they seemed pleased. I silently asked my double if he knew what prompted that, but he just shrugged it off. So did I.

I withdrew a little from the world at that point. I was having trouble relating to people. It seemed to me that they were so confused and unsure of themselves, while I had a manifestation of myself to confer with. It made socializing awkward. Nobody else seemed aware of the reasons behind their actions, why some things made them mad and others made them laugh. They didn’t know what moved them…but I did, or at least I could ask myself and get an answer

A friend confronted me one evening. He pounded at the door until I answered it and came in fuming and swearing up a storm. “You haven’t answered when I called you in fucking weeks, you dick!” he yelled. “What’s your fucking problem?”

I was about to apologize to him and probably would have offered to hit the bars with him that night, but my tulpa grew suddenly furious. “Hit him,” it said, and before I knew what I was doing, I had. I heard his nose break. He fell to the floor and came up swinging, and we beat each other up and down my apartment. I was more furious than I have ever been, and I was not merciful. I knocked him to the ground and gave him two savage kicks to the ribs, and that was when he fled, hunched over and sobbing.

The police were by a few minutes later, but I told them that he had been the instigator and since he wasn’t around to refute me, they let me off with a warning. My tulpa was grinning the entire time. We spent the night crowing about my victory and sneering over how badly I’d beaten my friend.

It wasn’t until the next morning, when I was checking out my black eye and cut lip in the mirror, that I remembered what had set me o ff. My double was the one who’d grown furious, not me. I’d been feeling guilty and a little ashamed, but he’d goaded me into a vicious fight with a concerned friend. He was present, of course, and knew my thoughts. “You don’t need him any more. You don’t need anyone else,” he told me; I felt my skin crawl.

I explained all this to the researchers who employed me, but they just laughed it off. “You can’t be scared of something that you’re imagining,” one told me. My double stood beside him and nodded his head, then smirked at me.

I tried to take their words to heart, but over the next few days I found myself growing more and more anxious around my tulpa, and it seemed that he was changing. He looked taller and more menacing. His eyes twinkled with mischief, and I saw malice in his constant smile. No job was worth losing my mind over, I decided. If he was out of control, I’d put him down. I was so used to him at that point that visualizing him was an automatic process, so I started trying my damnedest to not visualize him. It took a few days, but it started to work somewhat. I could get rid of him for hours at a time, but every time he came back, he seemed worse. His skin seemed ashen, his teeth more pointed. He hissed and gibbered and threatened and swore. The discordant music I’d been listening to for months seemed to accompany him everywhere. Even when I was at home; I’d relax and slip up, no longer concentrating on no seeing him, and there he’d be, and that howling noise with him.

I was still visiting the research center and spending my next six hours there. I needed the money, and I thought they weren’t away that I was now not actively visualizing my tulpa. I was wrong. After my shift one day, about five and a half months in, two impressive men grabbed me and restrained me, and someone in a lab coat jabbed a hypodermic needle into me.

I woke up from my stupor back in the room, strapped into the bed, music blaring, with my doppelganger standing over me, cackling. He hardly looked human any more. His features were twisted. His eyes were sunken in their sockets and filmed over like a corpse’s. He was much taller than me, but hunched over. His hands were twisted, and his fingernails were like talons. He was, in short, fucking terrifying. I tried to will him away, but I couldn’t seem to concentrate. He giggled and tapped the IV in my arm. I thrashed in my restraints as best I could, but could hardly move at all.

“They’re pumping you full of the good shit, I think. How’s the mind? All fuzzy?” He leaned closer and closer as he spoke. I gagged; his breath smelled like spoiled meat. I tried to focus, but I couldn’t banish him.

The next few weeks were terrible. Every so often, someone in a doctor’s coat would come in and inject me with something or force-feed me a pill. They kept me dizzy and unfocused, and sometimes left me hallucinating or delusional. My thought-form was still present, constantly mocking. He interacted with, or perhaps caused, my delusions. I hallucinated that my mother was there, scolding me, and then he cut her throat and her blood showered me. It was so real that I could taste it.

The doctors never spoke to me. I begged at times, screamed, hurled invectives, demanded answers. They never spoke to me. They may have talked to my tulpa, my personal monster. I’m not sure. I was so doped and confused that it may have just been more delusion, but I remember them talking with him. I grew convinced that he was the real one and that I was the thought-form. He encouraged that line of thought at times, but mocked me at others.
‘
Another thing that I pray was a delusion: he could touch me. More than that, he could hurt me. He’d poke and prod at me if he felt I wasn’t paying enough attention to him. Once, he grabbed my testicles and squeezed until I told him I loved him. Another time, he slashed my forearm with one of his talons. I still have a scar; most days I can convince myself that I injured myself, and just hallucinated that he was responsible. Most days.

Then, one day, while he was telling me a story about how he was going to gut everyone I loved, starting with my sister, he paused. A querulous look crossed his face, and he reached out and touched my head. Like mother used to when I was feverish. He stayed still for a long moment and then smiled. “All thoughts are creative,” he told me, then he walked out the door.

Three hours later, I was given an injection and passed out. I awoke unrestrained. Shaking, I made my way to the door and found it unlocked I walked out into the empty hallway and then ran. I stumbled more than once, but I made it down the stairs and out into the lot behind the building. There, I collapsed, weeping like a child. I knew I had to keep moving, but I couldn’t manage it.

I got home eventually; I don’t remember how. I locked the door and shoved a dresser against it, took a long shower, and slept for a day and a half. Nobody came for me in the night, and nobody came the next day or the one after that. I twas over. I’d spent a week locked in that room, but it had felt like a century. I’d withdrawn so much from my life beforehand that nobody had even known I was missing.

The police didn’t find anything. The research center was empty when they searched it. The paper trail fell apart. The names I’d given them were aliases. Even the money I’d received was apparently untraceable.

I recovered as much as one can. I don’t leave the house much, and I have panic attacks when I do. I cry a lot. I don’t sleep much, and my nightmares are terrible. It’s over, I tell myself. I survived. I used the concentration those bastards taught me to convince myself. It works, sometimes.

Not today, though. Three days ago, I got a phone call from my mother. There’s been a tragedy. My sister’s the latest victim in a spree of killings, the police say. The perpetrator mugs his victims, then guts them.

The funeral was this afternoon. It was as lovely a service as a funeral can be, I suppose. I was a little distracted, though. All I could hear was music coming from somewhere distant. It was discordant, unsettling stuff that sounds like feedback, shrieking, and a modem dialing up. I hear it still – a little louder now.

Oh my god…

…I…

…I’m generally not into creepypastas but holy shit…

………

Holy shit what the hell did I just read

the scary part is that this is an actual thing. you can actually have a tulpa. it is a theory that slenderman among other myths are tulpas or thoughtforms (something created by collective thoughts of one or more individuals).
it’s so terrifying to think of what your mind can create.
 

Holy tits…

WHY IS THIS BACK

liTERALLY HORRIFIED JESUS CHRIST

(via tic-tac-scented-tree)

fuckyeahwomenprotesting2:

jasjuliet:

awakeningapril:

fyeahblackhistory:

The Kandakes of Kush.

Kandake, also known as Candace, Kendake or Kentake was the title for queens and queen mothers of the ancient African Kingdom of Kush, also known as Nubia and Ethiopia.

They were known as Nubian warrior queens, queen regents, and Ruling queen mothers. They controlled what is now Ethiopia, Sudan, and parts of Egypt. They co-ruled the Meroitic with their brothers (not their husbands), a trait of matrilineal societies. They were buried with rich treasure in their own pyramids.

Reliefs dated to about 170 B.C. reveal Kandake Shanakdakheto, dressed in armor and wielding a spear in battle. She did not rule as queen regent or queen mother but as a fully independent ruler. Her husband was her consort. Reliefs found in the ruins of building projects she commissioned, Shanakdakheto is portrayed both alone as well as with her husband and son, who would inherit the throne by her passing.

One of the most well known Kandakes was Amanishakheto known for defeating the Roman invasion of Nubia by Augustus and subsequently brokering a favorable peace treaty.

Conclusion

The “Kandakes/Candaces” serve as examples of women as powerful figures or clever strategists in their roles as queens, as warrior queens, or as romantic figures, they have had great appeal in times past, and will continue to do so in this present era of feminist or humanist interest in the subject.

Click here for more

References: Nubian Queens in the Nile Valley and Afro-Asiatic Cultural History - Carolyn Fluehr-Lobban, Professor of Anthropology, Museum of Fine Arts, Boston U.S.A, August 20-26, 1998

!!!!!

And they were never mentioned in my history books as a kid…sigh…awesome stuff.

they ruled for about 600 years too. This isn’t just 1 or 2 queens.

(via hexacolors)

fuckyeahwomenprotesting2:

jasjuliet:

awakeningapril:

fyeahblackhistory:

The Kandakes of Kush.

Kandake, also known as Candace, Kendake or Kentake was the title for queens and queen mothers of the ancient African Kingdom of Kush, also known as Nubia and Ethiopia.

They were known as Nubian warrior queens, queen regents, and Ruling queen mothers. They controlled what is now Ethiopia, Sudan, and parts of Egypt. They co-ruled the Meroitic with their brothers (not their husbands), a trait of matrilineal societies. They were buried with rich treasure in their own pyramids.

Reliefs dated to about 170 B.C. reveal Kandake Shanakdakheto, dressed in armor and wielding a spear in battle. She did not rule as queen regent or queen mother but as a fully independent ruler. Her husband was her consort. Reliefs found in the ruins of building projects she commissioned, Shanakdakheto is portrayed both alone as well as with her husband and son, who would inherit the throne by her passing.

One of the most well known Kandakes was Amanishakheto known for defeating the Roman invasion of Nubia by Augustus and subsequently brokering a favorable peace treaty.

Conclusion

The “Kandakes/Candaces” serve as examples of women as powerful figures or clever strategists in their roles as queens, as warrior queens, or as romantic figures, they have had great appeal in times past, and will continue to do so in this present era of feminist or humanist interest in the subject.

Click here for more

References: Nubian Queens in the Nile Valley and Afro-Asiatic Cultural History - Carolyn Fluehr-Lobban, Professor of Anthropology, Museum of Fine Arts, Boston U.S.A, August 20-26, 1998

!!!!!

And they were never mentioned in my history books as a kid…sigh…awesome stuff.

they ruled for about 600 years too. This isn’t just 1 or 2 queens.

(via hexacolors)

fuckyeahwomenprotesting2:

jasjuliet:

awakeningapril:

fyeahblackhistory:

The Kandakes of Kush.

Kandake, also known as Candace, Kendake or Kentake was the title for queens and queen mothers of the ancient African Kingdom of Kush, also known as Nubia and Ethiopia.

They were known as Nubian warrior queens, queen regents, and Ruling queen mothers. They controlled what is now Ethiopia, Sudan, and parts of Egypt. They co-ruled the Meroitic with their brothers (not their husbands), a trait of matrilineal societies. They were buried with rich treasure in their own pyramids.

Reliefs dated to about 170 B.C. reveal Kandake Shanakdakheto, dressed in armor and wielding a spear in battle. She did not rule as queen regent or queen mother but as a fully independent ruler. Her husband was her consort. Reliefs found in the ruins of building projects she commissioned, Shanakdakheto is portrayed both alone as well as with her husband and son, who would inherit the throne by her passing.

One of the most well known Kandakes was Amanishakheto known for defeating the Roman invasion of Nubia by Augustus and subsequently brokering a favorable peace treaty.

Conclusion

The “Kandakes/Candaces” serve as examples of women as powerful figures or clever strategists in their roles as queens, as warrior queens, or as romantic figures, they have had great appeal in times past, and will continue to do so in this present era of feminist or humanist interest in the subject.

Click here for more

References: Nubian Queens in the Nile Valley and Afro-Asiatic Cultural History - Carolyn Fluehr-Lobban, Professor of Anthropology, Museum of Fine Arts, Boston U.S.A, August 20-26, 1998

!!!!!

And they were never mentioned in my history books as a kid…sigh…awesome stuff.

they ruled for about 600 years too. This isn’t just 1 or 2 queens.

(via hexacolors)

steampoweredcupcake:

bitch-mcfat:

agentjasmine:

hpismyspiritanimal:

cannedmuffins:

The Most Gorgeous Book Ever Has No Words Or Pictures, Just Color

This is the RGB Colorspace Atlas by Tauba Auerbach. The 8”x8” hardcover tome is pretty much an encyclopedia of every color in the RGB index. It’s huge, it’s gorgeous, and I want one.

I KNOW WHAT THIS NEEDS

It’s like they were made for each other.

i swear to fucking hell if you fuckers start shipping a book and i pen i will forcibly shove you back into the pits of hell you came from

Sensors alight, the pen trailed itself sensually down the gradient shift from yellow to blue along ample curve of paper, dipping closer and closer to the book’s spine.

“Can you imagine it?” the pen whispered, whirring and selecting #00563F with practiced intimacy. “Just picture it. With your collection and my potential…we can color the world.”

TUMBLR STOP. 

NEVER STOP

I SHIP IT

I don’t normally reblog this shit but that picture in the comments is just so freaking adorable

oh look my otp is back

(via onetardistorulethemall)

meehighmeelo:

#this gives me so many feels #I mean just think about it #Katara and Sokka have been living the lives of adults since their mother died and their father left #Sokka’s primary concern has been being a real man and building up an army for so long #and Katara has been trying to care for her tribe and her family and maintain hope #they haven’t thought about just having fun for fun’s sake in so long #and then this kid comes along #and he completely changes the entire game #he’s Katara’s hope #the only chance Sokka has to finally kick fire bender ass #they’re ready to go fight a war #to keep living as adults #as they have for so longa #and this kid #this intensely powerful kid #stops and tells them that they have more serious business to attend to#AND IT’S JUST SILLY STUFF #IT’S JUST FUN #WHICH THEY WROTE OFF LONG AGO #it’s like when Katara said that she hadn’t gone penguin sledding since she was a kid and Aang told her that she still was a kid #he’s reminding them that they’re children #that they can have fun #he didn’t just give them hope for a world without war #he gave them fun in a world WITH one 

STAHP 

(Source: penguinsledding, via svcoulter)

roughkiss:

foxheartx:

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOH.

It was such a solid burn my mouth made a solid “O” shape. Holy crap. Holy crap.

(Source: c0cainkeys, via somerandombandgeek)

sonicimpalas:

I’m going to Disneyland at the end of the month and I thought I’d give Peter a letter with all the people that appreciate what he’s done for the children he meets every day. Reblog this and I’ll put your url in the letter. I don’t care how many notes this gets I will put everyone who likes or reblogs this in the letter. Show Pete we care about him!

(via musicsexfoodstuff)

amsterdamnedd:

it’s been ten years and i still think this is one of the best plot twists in history

(via eleanor-oswald)

angel-cake:

girlsgetbusyzine:

writeswrongs:

cumaeansibyl:

coffeeandconlangs:

Unnecessary “fillers” in our speech. I’d rather have “like” than up-talking, though (if we had to choose one, that is). Ewwww, up-talking. Then again, a combination of the two would render me homicidal maniac.

Like, did you ever notice? That, like, the speech patterns people, like, think are stupid?  Are, like, commonly associated with, like, women?

And, like, there’s this thing? Where, like, women aren’t supposed to be, like, assertive? So they, like, qualify their speech? Because, like, we’re not supposed to, like, stand by our opinions?

1) humiliate women so they don’t feel qualified to speak authoritatively about anything

2) humiliate women for speaking in such a way that reflects how you treat her

3) laugh, you are superior because you don’t use words like “like.”  It isn’t as if being a huge stupid asshole has ever made you worse than a woman who speaks with verbal tics.  

Women have unique speech patterns, and NPR even did a show about the unique patterns of just teenage girls that we create to add more depth to the English language where it is lacking in vocabulary. And our culture say those girls are stupid and uncultured. So like, omg, you can go fuck yourself, patriarchy.

(via eleanor-oswald)

fuckyeahanarchistbanners:

“Solidarity with the struggle of people of Turkey / down with the fascist government!” - Čáslav, CZ - http://www.csaf.cz/spravy.php?sprava=1751

(via antidelusions)