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Seventeen Cats on a Red Brick Road


(Source: dan-egans, via paininthearsenic)

If you’re going to call someone ‘insane' or a 'psycho' as a means to deride them, to dismiss them, to treat them as less than human, maybe first you should sit down with me so I can explain to you what you are saying.

I can tell you what it was like to be helped into an ambulance as blood soaked through my jeans from a wound I didn’t even feel.

I can tell you about the girl who shook in my arms crying her way through flashbacks, and more importantly about her activism, her volunteer work, her strength in supporting her friends.

I can tell you about medications making me manic, making me numb, making me nauseous, giving me headaches, blinding me in daylight, making me forget the day of the week twice in an hour, making me lose whole days, making me gain and lose alarming amounts of weight, making me unable to come, making me sleep two hours a night or sixteen, making me miserable, and making me discover for the first time what the feeling of contentment is like.

I can tell you about one of the most giving and caring people I know eating a head of lettuce and two crackers in a week, having full-body shakes and crying in loud hiccups over a half-cup of Ensure.

I can tell you about the queer activist who scrapes together the money for anti-anxiety pills because there is work and the work needs to be done.

I can tell you about the schoolmate who weathered cruel jokes about her suicide attempts without blinking, who lost her shit quietly in her room in the dead of night and aced art and chemistry and mathematics by day, who watched over me like a mother bear when I was scared and alone.

I can tell you about showing up to ED group with my face and neck crosshatched with box-cutter slashes and feeling like a freak not because of that but because I wasn’t an affluent middle-aged blonde woman.

I can tell you about holding vigil, waiting to know whether a tough-as-nails girl was strong enough to survive opening both radial arteries.

I can tell you exactly how it felt to have three bags of cold saline drain into my arm through an eighteen gauge needle while I watched my heart rate hover around fifty BPM after I overdosed on painkillers and antipsychotics.

I can tell you all of these things knowing that the people in these stories are real humans, good people. Strong people, deserving of love and admiration. Not scapegoats or monkeys in a cage. Not walking diagnoses. Not monsters under the bed. Not punchlines.


he has a point

(Source: groovy-rnutations, via hulklinging)


My dad’s pretty dang rad.

(this was a protest against the pipelines, in my hometown. 1000 people came out. I love my hometown.)

(Source: hulklinging)


bisexuals are confused. i am also confused. we are a small speck of dust in an infinite universe. what is the meaning of of existence? 

(Source: officialfern, via littlesupernova)




I’ve seen this photograph very frequently on tumblr and Facebook, always with the simple caption, “Ghost Heart”. What exactly is a ghost heart?

More than 3,200 people are on the waiting list for a heart transplant in the United States. Some won’t survive the wait. Last year, 340 died before a new heart was found.

The solution: Take a pig heart, soak it in an ingredient commonly found in shampoo and wash away the cells until you’re left with a protein scaffold that is to a heart what two-by-four framing is to a house.

Then inject that ghost heart, as it’s called, with hundreds of millions of blood or bone-marrow stem cells from a person who needs a heart transplant, place it in a bioreactor - a box with artificial lungs and tubes that pump oxygen and blood into it - and wait as the ghost heart begins to mature into a new, beating human heart.

Doris Taylor, director of regenerative medicine research at the Texas Heart Institute at St. Luke’s Episcopal Hospital in Houston, has been working on this— first using rat hearts, then pig hearts and human hearts - for years.

The process is called decellularization and it is a tissue engineering technique designed to strip out the cells from a donor organ, leaving nothing but connective tissue that used to hold the cells in place. 

This scaffold of connective tissue - called a “ghost organ” for its pale and almost translucent appearance - can then be reseeded with a patient’s own cells, with the goal of regenerating an organ that can be transplanted into the patient without fear of tissue rejection.

This ghost heart is ready to be injected with a transplant recipient’s stem cells so a new heart - one that won’t be rejected - can be grown.


This is fucking amazing

i’m convinced that medical science is modern day alchemy.

(via twinfools)

“ So many students have said, trans students have said; now I can have a point of reference when I talk about who I am. My friends are like, ‘Oh, like Sophia from ‘Orange is the New Black?’’ and they’re like, ‘yeah,’ and then they just move on and it’s not an issue,” she said. “I got a letter from a young, from a trans youth’s mother who said that he transitioned because of me and because of seeing me on the show it gave him the courage to talk to his parents about who he was and they’re supportive and loving and now he’s started his transition. It’s insane. It’s really beautiful. ”


Coffee porn.     (Cinemagraphs and gifs from this cool article.)

(via dagontreadswater)

Oh, you’re gonna be wounded

Oh, you’re gonna be my wound

Fighting Chance Productions’ Spring Awakening in Vancouver, BC.

billy kaplan + depression

(Source: kaplanstiel, via hulklinging)

“ I’m crying but my dick is still hard. ”

—    Moritz Stiefel


"average person has sexual fantasies about their teachers" factoid actualy just a statistical error. average person has 0 sexual fantasies about their teachers. georg zirschnitz, who lives in 1901 germany and fantasizes about his piano teacher over 10,000 times each day, is an outlier adn should not have been counted 




Just watch it.


[link to the indiegogo]

I just paid $50 for a coffee mug and I am proud.

(via feeshed)



A rare addition of an act two reprise of “Mama Who Bore Me” in the Royal Conservatoire of Scotland’s production of Spring Awakening in Glasgow, Scotland


Ow, my heart.

men in bars: wow I sure hope this girl doesn't reject me
women in bars: wow I sure hope that guy looking at me isn't a literal murderer