did nasa just forget bi and lesbians exist or did they ask them beforehand..would they that…i just..what..
its because they don’t want people getting pregnant on space missions, the article is badly written
scissoring in space is to be expected and respected
Reblog if you support wlw astronauts getting it on at 0 gravity
In space no one can hear lesbians scream
The sky was a painting tonight.
This is it. Sky pictures taken at gas stations are my aesthetic.
“When I was a kid, I used to think that Pork Chops and Karate Chops were the same thing. I thought they were both pork chops. And because my grandmother thought it was cute - and because they were my favorite, she let me keep doing it. Not really a big deal.
But one day - before I realized fat kids were not designed to climb trees, I fell out of a tree, and bruised the right side of my body. I didn’t want to tell my grandmother about it ‘cause I was scared I’d get in trouble for playing somewhere I shouldn’t have been.
A few days later the Gym teacher noticed the bruise and I got sent to the Principal’s office. From there I was sent to another small room with a really nice lady who asked me all kinds of questions about my life at home
I saw no reason to lie. As far as I was concerned life was pretty good. I told her “Whenever I’m sad, my grandmother gives me karate chops”
This lead to a full-scale investigation, and I was removed from the house for three days - until they finally decided to ask how I got the bruises.
News of this silly little story quickly spread through the school and I earned my first nickname - Porkchop.
To this day, I hate porkchops
I’m not the only kid who grew up this way: surrounded by people who used to say that rhyme, about sticks and stones.
As if broken bones hurt more than the names we got called, and we got called them all.
So we grew up thinking that no one would ever fall in love with us.
That we’d be lonely, forever.
That we’d never meet someone to make us feel like the sun was something they’d built for us in their toolshed.
So broken heartstrings bled the blues as we tried to empty ourselves so we would feel nothing. Don’t tell me that hurts less than a broken bone.
That an ingrown life is something that surgeons can cut away.
That there’s no way for it to metastasize - it does.
She was 8 years old. Our first day of grade 3 when she got called ugly.
We both had to get moved to the back of class so we would stop getting bombarded by spitballs.
But the school halls were a battleground; we found ourselves outnumbered day after retched day - We used to stay inside for recess, because outside was worse. Outside we’d have to rehearse running away or stay still like statues giving no clues that we were there, in Grade 5, they taped a sign to the front of her desk that read: ‘Beware of Dog’.
To this day, despite a loving husband she doesn’t think she’s beautiful. Because of a birthmark that takes up a little less than half her face.
Kids used to say she looks like she looks like a wrong answer that someone tried to erase but couldn’t quite get the job done.
And they’ll never understand that she’s raising two kids whose definition of beauty, begins with the word mom.
Because they see her heart before they see her skin, because she’s only ever always been amazing
He, was a broken branch grafted onto a different family tree.
Adopted - not because his parents opted for a different destiny. He was three when he became a mixed drink of one part left alone and two parts tragedy
Started therapy in 8th grade. Had a personality made up of tests and pills. Lived like the uphills were mountains and the downhills were cliffs for fifths suicidal; a tidal wave of anti-depressants, and an adolescence of being called ‘popper’
One part because of the pills, ninety-nine parts because of the cruelty.
He tried to kill himself in Grade 10 when a kid who could still go home to Mom and Dad had the audacity to tell him:
As if depression is something that can be remedied by any of the contents of a first aid kit. To this day he is a stick of TNT lit from both ends. Could describe to you in detail the way the sky bends in the moments before it’s about to fall.
And despite an army of friends who all call him an inspiration, he remains a conversation piece between people who can’t understand -
We weren’t the only kids who grew up this way. To this day, kids are still being called names.
The classics were
Seems every school has an arsenal of names getting updated every year. And if a kid breaks in a school and no one around chooses to hear do they make a sound? Are they just background noise from a soundtrack stuck on repeat, and people say things like “kids can be cruel”?
Every school was a big top circus tent: and the pecking order went from acrobats to lion tamers - from clowns to carnies. All of these miles ahead of who we were - we were freaks: lobster-clawed boys and bearded ladies.
Oddities juggling depression and loneliness, playing solitaire, spin the bottle, trying to kiss the wounded parts of ourselves and heal
But at night, while the others slept, we kept walking the tightrope, as practice - and yes, some of us fell.
But I want to tell them that all of this, is just debris, left over when we finally decide to smash all the things we thought we used to be.
Because there’s something inside you that made you keep trying despite everyone who told you to quit. You built a cast around your broken heart and you signed it yourself, you signed it:
‘Cause maybe you didn’t belong to a group or a clique. Maybe they decided to pick you last for basketball or everything. Maybe you used to bring bruises and broken teeth to Show & Tell, but never told.
Because how can you hold your ground if everyone around you is trying to bury you beneath it?
They have to be wrong. Why else would we still be here?
We grew up learning to cheer on the underdog because we see ourselves in them.
We stem from a root planted in the belief that we are not what we were called.
We are not abandoned cars stalled out and sitting empty on some highway. And if in some way we are - don’t worry. We only got out to walk and get gas.
We are graduating members from the class of “We Made It”!
Not the faded echoes of voices crying out “Words will never hurt me.”
Of course, they did.
-Shane Koyczan, “To This Day”
Everyone needs to hear/read this poem at least once in their life. It’s beyond important, and is such a fucking good representation of everything it contains
Hey, spell icup. Heh. You just got owned fricken idiot.
op had to spell icup to make this post
Neon Genesis Evangelion
zaaankoku na tenshi no you niii.. shou~neen yo shinwa ni nareeeeeeeee~~~
*BEAT DROPS*
each time I tell you those three words I mean them more and more
we dem boys
aaaooff
