bagelsand-creamcheemse - Tumblr blog

[bagelsand-creamcheemse]

sometimes i watch an old piece of gay media from the 80s/90s/ even the early 2000s before gay people were seen as a profitable audience and they always have like... rawer and more interesting portrayals of gay people and gay sexuality than any mainstream modern media

[bagelsand-creamcheemse]

THANKS HUFFPO I'LL STOP SWALLOWING WHOLE POTATOES THAT'LL FIX ME

[bagelsand-creamcheemse]

[bagelsand-creamcheemse]

chuckling indulgently.. oh go on... i suppose a LITTLE bit of monica in my life wouldn't hurt

[bagelsand-creamcheemse]

This is what hieroglyphs and figures in ancient Egyptian temples looked like before their colors faded. They were recreated using a polychromatic light display at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, following thorough research.

[bagelsand-creamcheemse]

The Tanach writing Moses as having a bad stutter from burning his mouth as a baby and needing his brother Aaron to come with him to talk to the Pharaoh and still not being questioned once as God's prophet has done more for Jewish disability rep than 95% of current media.

[bagelsand-creamcheemse]

knuckle tattoo that says i am nostalgic for a time where i wasn't even happy

[bagelsand-creamcheemse]

[bagelsand-creamcheemse]

Biologically accurate

[bagelsand-creamcheemse]

[bagelsand-creamcheemse]

you guys realize ‘reblog bait’ is a trigger tag for psychosis that can be set off by posts that say things like ‘reblog this or your dog dies’ ‘reblog this or you’ll never be happy again’ ‘reblog this to win a million dollars’ and not for posts like ‘hey rb this and put in the tags x thing’ right

[bagelsand-creamcheemse]

sitting right now

(ask me for proof ask me for proof ask me for proof ask me for proof ask me for prrof)

[bagelsand-creamcheemse]

im like if a girl didnt do their homework

[bagelsand-creamcheemse]

Any mental health treatment that communicates “you are disordered and the world is normal, so success means integrating into those norms” has as its goal social control, not healing

[bagelsand-creamcheemse]

sorry it has led to WHAT

[bagelsand-creamcheemse]

[bagelsand-creamcheemse]

Imagine you hired an obscenely drunk Union soldier in a saloon to kill your husband. He manages to accomplish the deed by removing the bullets from your husband’s gun through a sleight of hand trick before challenging him to a duel. This is somewhat impressive but what is more impressive is his strong work ethic, ingenuity, Irish accent, subtle chivalry and big brown eyes. You marry him and move onto the 15 acres of semi-arid land on the edge of the Chihuahuan Desert he stubbornly wants to farm. He wants to name your firstborn daughter after his cavalry horse in the Civil War and your firstborn son after his commanding officer. He calls you widow woman as a term of endearment. He’s a good shot, he’s a good cattleman, a great husband and a subpar father. But what else can you ask from a man who lost his entire family in the Famine and came to this country alone at the age of 14?

Imagine you are a former Union soldier. You are 22 years old. You were only 19 when you enlisted, an Irish immigrant who worked in a livery stable in Cleveland until the outbreak of the war. You fought valiantly. You survived. In lieu of wages, you accepted a parcel of land in New Mexico territory. You’ve never had anything that was truly your own. Except for, perhaps, your horse. You arrive in New Mexico for the first time in your uniform, your horse goes lame the second you step onto your parcel, it’s so dry and rocky and red and you do not think it’s arable. You have to put down your horse. She dies with her head in your lap and you cry so hard you think you’ll die with her. When you’re done giving her a wake, knowing you have no ability to bury her, you begin walking in the direction of Las Cruces. Maybe you can sell this cursed land. Maybe you can get a job. First, a toast to Lula, the mare, the closest thing to family you have had in this country.

You’re seeing double by the time a little woman with an appraising expression approaches you. She is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen, perhaps even better in double. A little older than you. Long, dark wavy hair that cascades over her shoulders, a perfect round face, a warm brown complexion and the most troubled eyes you have ever seen on a woman. What is most miraculous is that she wants to talk to you. You, drunk, sunburnt, covered in dust, the blood of your horse soaked into your pant leg. She motions to your pistol. She says she will pay you to do a job, pay you handsomely, enough to buy another horse. She says her husband is rich, he enticed her away from her family when she was very young, he holds her captive in his hacienda, he hurts her. He must be killed so that she can return to her sisters and live without fear. You will do it, you must do it. You do not care how much of the story is factual. You do not care if she intends to have the sheriff string you up after the deed is done. You do not care if she cannot pay the money she promised. You would do anything to remove the sorrow from her eyes. You kill her husband and sleep fine afterwards.

You do not buy that horse. You stay in the hacienda while she is out selling the bits and pieces of her husband’s life. You meet her sisters when they come, you help her pack away the pieces of her life so that she may start anew. You tell her of your own plans to start anew, of the patch of rocky soil that is your own. She tells you she grew up on land like that, tells you that it has always been her dream to work it. When her sisters leave for the mountains, she leaves with you.