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"Kat Abughazaleh, a 26-year-old running for Congress in Illinois’ 9th congressional district, isn’t shy about her belief that politicians need to do things differently.

“We have a representation problem,” the first line of the “About” page on her website reads.

“As in, about half of Congress are millionaires and people born before the Moon landing. And that's part of the reason we're in this mess: Our leaders are out of touch.”

A journalist, social media influencer, and political commentator that GQ called “a lefty,” with a mission to revitalize the Democratic party, Abughazaleh built a following online before she launched her campaign in March of 2025. 

But now, she’s leveraging her platform — and campaign dollars — to help people in her community before ballots are even filled in.

“My congressional campaign is feeding people right now,” she starts in a recent TikTok video. 

“Part of the reason I decided to run was because I saw how much money gets wasted in politics, and I thought, ‘What if we spent it differently?’”

She adds that the campaign is focused on “direct action and mutual aid,” emphasizing that she wanted her run for office to be “dual-purpose,” in which she can get her message out and help people in the process. 

It’s a stark pivot from the traditional way of campaigning in the United States, which often includes pricey fundraising galas, attack ads, big billboards, and perhaps the most criticized and unpopular feature: massive donations from private businesses and interest groups. 

Abughazaleh has publicly congratulated the former incumbent of this seat — 80-year-old Rep. Jan Schakowsky, who has held the title since 1999, the year Abughazaleh was born — for her “decades of service.” 

Rep. Schakowsky will not seek reelection, but Abughazaleh called for others to run, hoping to participate in the “first competitive Democratic primary in the District since 1998.”

Abughazaleh has also shared that the average donation her campaign receives is $31. And according to GQ, 1,000 people signed up to volunteer for her campaign within a week of her initial announcement.

And while that volunteering does include marketing, canvassing, and getting the word out, it mostly adds up to actual on-the-ground volunteer work to help people in the local community.

“Our kick-off event, for instance, didn’t charge $500 a plate,” Abughazaleh shared in her TikTok. “People just had to bring a box of pads or tampons, which were donated to Chicago’s period collective. By the end of the night, we had gathered over 5,600 period products, which went to people who can’t afford them.”

Most recently, the campaign hosted a food drive for a local community fridge program.

“We asked folks to come out and donate food in exchange for a campaign yard or window sign,” Abughazaleh said. “And by the end of the day, we were able to fully stock the empty pantry and fill the fridge with frozen meals, produce, and eggs. That’s feeding people right now.”

“Don’t worry, we checked to make sure this is legal," she added. "And it is."

The campaign has also launched a High School Public Serve Grant program that encourages local youth to submit ideas for how to make the community better, and Abughazaleh’s campaign will support it with money, materials, volunteers, and her online platform...

“Something you’ll rarely see is concrete help in their communities during the campaign,” she said. “And frankly, to me, that just seems stupid. Not only do you get to help people — supposedly what you’re running to do — but it also shows what you’re about, instead of just providing lip service.” ...

“If every campaign adopted this model, then we wouldn’t be wasting money every single cycle. Every city, town, and village across America would be improved by their election process, and I think it would also get people more involved,” she said.

“We have local folks who have never voted in an election, but they joined our volunteer Discord server because they want to help, they feel like they have something to vote for.”

For those who might be inspired enough to run for office with this model, she says: Full steam ahead.

“Frankly, I would love it if other campaigns took our model. Use it, pretend it’s yours, I don’t care!” she wrapped up her TikTok. 

“Pair with organizations in your community that have been doing the work, talk with local experts, and try to spearhead any initiatives you can to show your values and help your constituents. It’s really that easy.”

-via GoodGoodGood, May 14, 2025

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It really is wild that some politicians can stand there and say "yeah we're getting rid of a program that keeps quite literally millions of people alive specifically so we can cut taxes for people who are already richer than god" as if it's a normal political stance and not so cartoonishly evil I'm legit shocked perry the platypus doesn't break through the nearest wall the minute the words leave their mouth.

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irish coworker: *is back from a month in italy*

me: the weather must have been great, you're looking so tanned!

irish coworker: *stares down at his arms, which are a shade of eggshell white i associate with tasteful wedding table settings* i suppose i am!

welsh coworker: *enters room* wow, youre looking so tanned!

ghanaian coworker: *looks around like hes on the truman show*

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the most annoying people are people who don't understand storytelling. they be like "oooo how convenient that this thing happened to the main character in the very beginning". yeah no shit. that's why the story begins here

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Ok so, I just remembered how people in the comments of a tiktok video were being assholes, and I want to rant now :3

The video showed two wheelchair users at a train(?), who had just arrived to their stop to find nobody was there with a ramp so they could leave the train. One of them blocked the door so it wouldn't close, and this lasted for 15 minutes. The train was stopped for said 15 minutes. There was a button by the door, that said that it'd contact the driver when pressed. It didn't. People offered to go find the driver, and they came back with the news that there were no people in the platform to put the ramp. In the end, passengers had to go out, and place the ramp themselves, before the train could carry on. The wheelchair users had warned they were coming, and asked to have the ramp put there so they could get down. The platform turned out to have workers, they all just ran away because they'd never encountered the situation in which they needed to do this simple task.

Because of the workers' negligence, the train was forced to stop for 15 minutes.

Everyone's comments?

"Why did they block the doors and stop the train? So selfish" Selfish were workers who refused to do their job.

"What if someone had needed to get to their stop urgently? They shouldn't have stopped the train" It wasn't the disabled people's fault, it was the workers who were negligent.

"Why didn't they just wheel themselves down those steps?" They shouldn't have to risk their (expensive) chairs just because people didn't do what they were paid to do.

"If I had been in that train I would've been pissed, how dare you stop it" And you probably wouldn't have even thought about fixing the problem yourself, would you?

"Entitled assholes" Ok I'll leave you stranded in a train with everyone who could help you get down outright refusing to. Let's see who's an entitled asshole now.

If someone fights for accessibility, as much as it might be a bother for you, you do not have the right to be mad at them. If someone fights for accessibility, it is exclusively the fault of a world catered exclusively for able-bodied people.

So next time you think, "hey the consequences of these disabled people fighting for their rights bother me", instead of blaming them for this, help them solve the issue. This way, next time they will not have to fight at all.

Able bodied people, go out and fight for a fucking accessible world if you're not an asshole.

[ Able-bodied people are encouraged to reblog this post, but try not to derail ]

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ideologically i disagree with outside cats but i cannot deny the allure of being able to just meet a little guy anytime anywhere

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"whoa there pal! looks like your favorite web service is getting hit with enshittification. you should try this NEW PLATFORM, that is only mildly alike in function, has no stable source of funding, and is being ran by some people in their home office as a hobby. this will be a long-term solution for you that you can build a community on, i promise!" <- sentiment i see a lot on here lately. like. lol

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discord is broken? tumblr is a cesspit? twitter is evil? join us on bleeble! talkr is free ^w^. all your friends are moving over to deadjournal. harassmeonline is open source and the devs only killed three people. nobodytalksforum has great moderators. poob's starting up an sms app. use poob. give poob your phone number. talk to me on poob. go to poob. dive into poob. poob has me for you. poob has me for you.

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I hate targeted ads but I also hate the untargeted gambling & ozempic ads (I dont like gambling and if I lost 10 pounds I'd die of malnutrition) maybe the truth lies somewhere inbetween... all ads are bad

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Some Buffy The Vampire Slayer + Reductress headlines in honor of my new obsession

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"tumblr's the only social media without algorithms!" "you can still be anonymous on tumblr!" "tumblr's so nice because you don't have to show your face!" WRONG tumblr is special because you can have 3000 followers and still get an average of seven likes a post. i'm doing stand up comedy at a packed venue and one person is laughing

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my arch nemesis cynthia is, of course, at the bank, because we both were sent like clockwork to pick up the checks of our husbands. she is wearing a lovely long green gown, which i know was on behalf of me, because, as my husband will tell you, our house abhors green and glamour. already the tellers look at each other under their little hats, for they love our tirades, i’m sure, although not more than i hate them. 

“oh, is that your knitting?” my arch nemesis cynthia peers her eyes at my hands. “is it some kind of… sock?” everyone knows she and i used to be close before we were married and our husbands, smartly so, have introduced us to the idea of true vengeance.

“it is a scarf,” i say. i want to tell her that when the time comes and the world gets cold it will go over my mouth and i will breathe warm air and it will fill my lungs and i will be able to run around with my love even in the dark night. “it is not,” i say, “over surprising that you should be caught unawares of a scarf,” i say, “as i’m sure enjoying winter festivities are too beneath the handsome qualities your husband prefers.” pompous ass.

the tellers pass each other eyes for now it has started and they are delighted.

my arch nemesis cynthia thrusts out her hand. a white bottle. “rat poison,” she says. “i would expect the whole town knows about your little problem.” stage whisper. “such a shame, my dear.” then she rustles her long green skirts - which i know she wore on behalf of me - and she shimmies herself out of the room like royalty. oh, she floats everywhere she goes, beautiful black hair behind her. the bottle in my palm is cold. i will devise how to get her back starting first thing tomorrow.

the week, as always, is a long week, for there is much to make and do and knit and be. my husband comes home and i love him for who he is; for he never comes home without checking the state of the house up and down. he is the kind who loves his home so completely and sets each room like a stage for a great band to come playing. i am too ashamed to tell him why so many of the rats go missing, only make him a stew the next morning to celebrate. his favorite, although not mine, i’m afraid. plenty left over.

my arch nemesis today - of course - in a green the color of rotting. a bruise is uncarefully covered on her cheekbone, so striking against all of her dainty. her husband would say it was for her ungraceful nature, and i know mine would agree. i strike first, already delighted by my master plan, shoving over our best picnic basket tied with a bow. “i made you and yours a stew,” i say, “for beneath all that you carry” all that horrible wealth of your husband  “it seems you’re getting rather skinny.” i can’t resist one last comment. “i am worried you’re about to waste to nothing.”

She plucks it out of my hand. “yes, if it weren’t for you and your husband’s dwindling wealth,” her sarcasm is biting, “i’m sure i will be nothing in, oh, 5 weeks time.” she arches a brow. “so long from now.”

“i am counting the days,” i tell her. her lips purse. the tellers behind me make a choked titter. perhaps, by their estimation, i have won this round quite completely. i go home to my husband smiling. he asks where i have been and i tell him i’ve been at the bank, but he checks anyway because i like to get up to tricks and he doesn’t like to fall for it. it is a good game we play. at night, when he is asleep, i am so in love that i must convince myself to pull the covers over my nose and practice breathing. how silly to wake him up for a young girl’s feelings. 

the first week of five: she gives me a solid, ugly ring that requires three knuckles to hold. “i feel so badly for your status, and i must remember to practice charity,” she says. “it such a small thing, but do be careful amongst all that thin pine furnishing of your house, which dents so easily.” my husband appears at the bank’s front door. just checking. so lovely to be picked up by him. at night, in a rage, i try it - beneath the table bends easily. i scuff out the scratch with walnut before my husband can see. i pull the covers over my face in bed and breathe.

the second week: i wear her ugly ring and give her more stew, this time hearty with meat. her dress is a meadow. my heart each time it sees her collapses on itself. she hands me clothes for my husband, since his wealth continues to go missing, and the charity of her heart is so loving. i am so ashamed i bury them far by the old tree, where all my shames go hiding. again, the covers. it, by now, helps me sleep. i have gotten so good at it that i can simply shimmy my shoulders to be perfectly toasty and buried.

the third week: she asks how comes my knitting. i tell her it’s nearly complete. she asks how comes my husband, whom she must know has been ill recently, and who is doing quite badly. i go home to him, shaking. even sick he is a good housekeeper, who comes home examining for dust and dinge so i do not fall behind on my chores. who checks to be sure i spoke to only him and no one more, for fear a man might snatch me. tell me, who else has a man so involved, in this day and age?

the fourth week she is envy green. i shove a whole heaping of stew at her, for now her husband has gotten it. i say it will return him to spirits, she laughs, a sudden, beautiful sound, even in the quiet of a bank. everyone stares. maybe it is the stress that is making her quite improper. i feel the same way. so much is happening and it always seems she knows. she says she heard he has left me nothing in the will, which everyone already knows. she says she doubts either of us can dig upwards from the hole we’re both in. i look at the bruise on her nose. i tell her to mind her own husband, and be careful where she goes.

the fifth week: so final. her, garishly lime green. and i in black, to pick up a check that hardly seems the effort. it will be enough to cover my husband’s funeral. she smiles at me and hands me a silver bottle. she says quietly: now that i am destitute, there is one thing for it all, and everyone would understand quite completely. it would be quiet, and quick, and complete.

it is the night of the new moon, so dark no man can see in it. i receive notice her husband has died, and i am sorry to say i find a terrible joy in it. the air has changed cold. i have left a note asking to be buried in my scarf, the last thing i have made on this earth. i go through each perfect room, but there is nothing else to take with me, for the house has always been his and his alone, and now aches to be gone of him. i would not serve as a good tender for it. having spent so many nights watched carefully, the silly girlish freedom i’d gain would surely set the house ablaze.

i follow her instructions. quick, quiet, complete.

the horrible rustling is what does it. like a million green skirts. and then it is dark, and i am in my own coffin, eerie with pine. my head hurts but i must be quick and quiet. they have listened and buried me with my scarf. i shimmy my shoulders just-so and get it over my face. bring my arms up, ugly ring heavy, and begin to hit as hard as i can, over and over, the thin wood of my husband’s favorite furniture, the cretin. it would be pine, of course - he left me no money to be buried in any nicer recourse.

the wood splits so horribly, and then it is very hard to breathe, harder than under the covers, and i have to remind myself to be patient and continue to dig upwards, while my throat closes and my heart beats so loudly and the whole thing is so heavy it is a universe. the shifting of gravedirt is loud, and loud, and i feel i will be turned into a worm, and i fear everyone has forgotten about me, or i have gotten the timing wrong, or i will really die down here in the dirt and the cold

but then her hand, and my hand, and we are both digging towards each other, and she lifts me so easily from the ground like a plucked turnip and holds me against her, us both panting and muddied. we can only stay like this for so long, here in my pauper grave, and then we are both running to the old tree where we met, and unburying a second thing; my lovely box of shame, and men’s clothes, and all of my husband’s dwindling fortune i have slowly been squirrelling away.

my love and angel cynthia, who has black hair like a curtain and a mind so fast i sometimes am in frank awe at it, who is, even now and dirty and raw: even now the only sun in my life.

like this, i a man in an almost-dawn, and us cleaned by the river, and her smiling so widely, and only a faint bruise on her, and our pasts behind us in ugly garish colors. and her delicate hand and beautiful nose and when i finally get to kiss her it feels like green feels; my favorite color, all warm and nature and sunny grace and grass and lying awake so filled with love it makes you shake.

i hold her, and she holds me, and our future is a love like a dream unburied.

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me when my disabilities disable me:

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tell me the appliance that is your best friend ever in the kitchen

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Reenactor throws a spear at a drone

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fanfic writing culture isn’t “oh dang! I wanted to write about this prompt with this character but someone else already wrote it, so now I can’t”.

fanfic writing culture is always “two cakes is better than one. the more the merrier. there can ever be enough fics of this character with this prompt!”