#demanding photos with us

[theghostofashton]

.

[angeldreamsoffanfic]

based loosely around this song from måneskin - enjoy lovies!

-

“AND THE WINNER IS… CORRODED COFFIN!”

Steve Harrington can’t help but holler as the band is announced, his hand being squeezed tightly by Robin Buckley- who lets out her own squeal that could pierce a person’s ears. The two roommates clink their champagne glasses together, hearing their cellphones buzz from wherever they had set them for the moment.

“Fuck, just- shit I’m not supposed to curse up here, huh?” Eddie’s voice is low as he stood on the stage, surrounded by the entire band. The expletives are mainly blipped out for the television version; but Steve couldn’t help but laugh as the audience laughed in real time.

“He’s such a doofus,” Robin fondly teased, eyes bright as she crowded Steve closer. Steve let his eyes dart down to watch Robin curl her legs up under herself, as she dips herself to rest against Steve’s side.

Gareth, Jeff, and Grant all look fondly towards Eddie— all with different varying stages of just pure exasperation written across their faces.

“Anyway-” Eddie drags the word out, holding up his spare hand as the other cradles the award to his hip. The crowd simmers and Eddie shook his head for a second, before dropping his hand to curl back around the microphone. “We thank everyone for this, this’ll be our fourth year in the making of winning this thing, and that’s not a thing we take for granted.”

Gareth stepped up next, and Eddie stepped away with a fond smile on his face. Steve couldn’t help but furrow his brow as both he and Robin leaned forward. That hadn’t been the start of the speech that Eddie had read him just a few days prior over FaceTime.

“Dingus? What’s going on?” Robin asked softly, her nails digging tiny half moons into the palm of Steve’s hand.

“I have no fucking idea, Robs-”

“We have so many people to thank, but we want to focus specifically on the people who helped make this happen.” Gareth’s voice is soft, and Steve knows in the back of his mind that this clip will inevitably make it onto one of the TikToks that Robin insisted (forced) he watch.

“We, however, want to really extend a thank you to our record label.” Jeff spoke up next, his eyes almost glinting as he took his space in front of the microphone.

“Supersonic Records has been a ride to work with and we’re thankful for the opportunity.” Grant droned, voice monotone as he bent his head to speak into the microphone.

He then stepped back, and Eddie was back in the place at the microphone. The rest of the band flanked him, with Grant easily pulling the award out of his hands.

“Which… is why we fucking quit.” Eddie has the microphone in his hands, and Steve let out a small punched out noise at the firmness that is bleeding heavy over Eddie’s words. “Fuck our contract, fuck you Supersonic Records.”

“If I can’t be with my boyfriend in front of this fucking world, there isn’t a point anymore.” Their isn’t time to bleep out Eddie’s curse word, and Eddie bares his teeth as he holds the microphone close to his lips. “Yeah, that’s right folks- not only do I have a boyfriend, Supersonic wanted to hide it from all of you.”

“And we’re done being their pawns,” Gareth is grinning as he leaned into Eddie’s space, and both Jeff and Grant let out loud whoops as the audience cheers loudly along.

Eddie leers then, all teeth and gums as he stared straight into the camera. Steve felt something sink and burn low in his gut, even as Robin let out a squeal from right next to him.

Eddie has the microphone pressed against his lips, and Steve swore if he was any closer- static would be the only thing that came over the amplifiers. His brown doe-eyes are rimmed in a careful swipe of black liner, and he drops his left lid into a quick wink.

The camera zoomed in, just as Eddie made sure to point right toward it.

“Steve Harrington, I bought a plane ticket… and I am coming home to fuck the shit out of you.”

The show manages to bleep the swear in time.

Somewhere deeper in the apartment Steve and Robin are in, he can hear their phones go crazier.

Steve can’t find it in himself to be annoyed either.

[peachy-doodles]

for the drawing requests... Larry n Kabu dancing together..... Heehee....

did this as a cool down sketch after those owed art pieces i did... tysm... thinking abt them dancing together is rly funny. short ass kabu can barely reach. they need to put this man in some heels fr.

[therabbitthatpostthings]

I think one of the main reasons I don't want to be famous is the lack of privacy. Like people suddenly feel entitled to your life. The explosion of influencers and online public figures has really warped our sense of respect and boundaries. I don't need to know my favourite internet person's daily routine or their what their private instagram full of people they've known since elementary school follow.

Like yeah, the person that sits in their dark house, with no lights and never opens the blinds is a little creepy but, the person standing at their window, yelling at them to open them, is terrifying.

"If you have done nothing to wrong, then there's nothing to hide."

And what authority do you have to look?

[fred-the-dinosaur-draws]

Last spring fever one.

[blujayonthewing]

god I wish bag of holding was real so FUCKING bad

[pluto-attacks]

I think there was an important guest missing from their wedding. This is my flower-girl Singha agenda.

[xenosagaepisodeone]

randomly remembered how on deviantart in the aughts using images as references was treated as an actual cardinal sin. if a pose in something you had drawn by hand was 1:1 with an existing photo or another piece of art, it was considered the same as stealing. there were artists who sincerely insisted that references could only be used for practice and that if you wanted to draw something for the purpose of posting online you would need to have studied anatomy and color theory to the point where you could just Produce that thing from your mind with maybe the help of some general reference photos at best as reminders of what that thing looked like. insane amount of rigor to demand from a userbase of largely casual hobbyists. no wonder ms paint emo furry art is the only thing people remember fondly from that era.

[trashycosmos]

not to be super morbid but like if you have family you're close to and they're older/sick get them to make a will of some sort. a physical and signed will. even if it's the most basic of things. if it's a subject you can broach ahead of time that's even better. i had to watch my mother sob uncontrollably yesterday bc we couldn't get my grandma's ashes. the man she was married to told us he just had to run to get them and then sent his brother as the fucking messenger to tell us he wouldn't give them to us. like we didn't even fucking want them all or anything aside from that. we got urns to split amongst my mom, him, my sister, and myself. 8 hours and 3 days. 8 hours of driving and three days of hoping we could finally be done with everything. for nothing. to leave empty handed. to be treated like my grandmother, her mother, was somehow less important to us. like her unexpected death didn't turn our world's upside down either. yeah we weren't there when she passed but we live 400 miles away and her heart literally fucking burst out of nowhere the morning before her birthday. shredded apart while she was on the operating table that same day. how the fuck are you supposed to predict that? like we wouldn't have wanted a chance to say a last goodbye and i love you? to be there for her final moments. i have never seethed with rage and sorrow like this before. the restraint i had to exercise yesterday was unbearable. i hope none of you ever experience this. like your relative is being held hostage from you. like your grief is treated less than or the relationship you had was.

[therealbeachfox]

Twenty years ago, February 15th, 2004, I got married for the first time.

It was twenty years earlier than I ever expected to.

To celebrate/comemorate the date, I'm sitting down to write out everything I remember as I remember it. No checking all the pictures I took or all the times I've written about this before. I'm not going to turn to my husband (of twenty years, how the f'ing hell) to remember a detail for me.

This is not a 100% accurate recounting of that first wild weekend in San Francisco. But it -is- a 100% accurate recounting of how I remember it today, twenty years after the fact.

Join me below, if you would.

2004 was an election year, and much like conservatives are whipping up anti-trans hysteria and anti-trans bills and propositions to drive out the vote today, in 2004 it was all anti-gay stuff. Specifically, preventing the evil scourge of same-sex marriage from destroying everything good and decent in the world.

Enter Gavin Newstrom. At the time, he was the newly elected mayor of San Francisco. Despite living next door to the city all my life, I hadn’t even heard of the man until Valentines Day 2004 when he announced that gay marriage was legal in San Francisco and started marrying people at city hall.

It was a political stunt. It was very obviously a political stunt. That shit was illegal, after all. But it was a very sweet political stunt. I still remember the front page photo of two ancient women hugging each other forehead to forehead and crying happy tears.

But it was only going to last for as long as it took for the California legal system to come in and make them knock it off.

The next day, we’re on the phone with an acquaintance, and she casually mentions that she’s surprised the two of us aren’t up at San Francisco getting married with everyone else.

“Everyone else?” Goes I, “I thought they would’ve shut that down already?”

“Oh no!” goes she, “The courts aren’t open until Tuesday. Presidents Day on Monday and all. They’re doing them all weekend long!”

We didn’t know because social media wasn’t a thing yet. I only knew as much about it as I’d read on CNN, and most of the blogs I was following were more focused on what bullshit President George W Bush was up to that day.

"Well shit", me and my man go, "do you wanna?" I mean, it’s a political stunt, it wont really mean anything, but we’re not going to get another chance like this for at least 20 years. Why not?

The next day, Sunday, we get up early. We drive north to the southern-most BART station. We load onto Bay Area Rapid Transit, and rattle back and forth all the way to the San Francisco City Hall stop.

We had slightly miscalculated.

Apparently, demand for marriages was far outstripping the staff they had on hand to process them. Who knew. Everyone who’d gotten turned away Saturday had been given tickets with times to show up Sunday to get their marriages done. My babe and I, we could either wait to see if there was a space that opened up, or come back the next day, Monday.

“Isn’t City Hall closed on Monday?” I asked. “It’s a holiday”

“Oh sure,” they reply, “but people are allowed to volunteer their time to come in and work on stuff anyways. And we have a lot of people who want to volunteer their time to have the marriage licensing offices open tomorrow.”

“Oh cool,” we go, “Backup.”

“Make sure you’re here if you do,” they say, “because the California Supreme Court is back in session Tuesday, and will be reviewing the motion that got filed to shut us down.”

And all this shit is super not-legal, so they’ll totally be shutting us down goes unsaid.

00000

We don’t get in Saturday. We wind up hanging out most of the day, though.

It’s… incredible. I can say, without hyperbole, that I have never experienced so much concentrated joy and happiness and celebration of others’ joy and happiness in all my life before or since. My face literally ached from grinning. Every other minute, a new couple was coming out of City Hall, waving their paperwork to the crowd and cheering and leaping and skipping. Two glorious Latina women in full Mariachi band outfits came out, one in the arms of another. A pair of Jewish boys with their families and Rabbi. One couple managed to get a Just Married convertible arranged complete with tin-cans tied to the bumper to drive off in. More than once I was giving some rice to throw at whoever was coming out next.

At some point in the mid-afternoon, there was a sudden wave of extra cheering from the several hundred of us gathered at the steps, even though no one was coming out. There was a group going up the steps to head inside, with some generic black-haired shiny guy at the front. My not-yet-husband nudged me, “That’s Newsom.” He said, because he knew I was hopeless about matching names and people.

Ooooooh, I go. That explains it. Then I joined in the cheers. He waved and ducked inside.

So dusk is starting to fall. It’s February, so it’s only six or so, but it’s getting dark.

“Should we just try getting in line for tomorrow -now-?” we ask.

“Yeah, I’m afraid that’s not going to be possible.” One of the volunteers tells us. “We’re not allowed to have people hang out overnight like this unless there are facilities for them and security. We’d need Porta-Poties for a thousand people and police patrols and the whole lot, and no one had time to get all that organized. Your best bet is to get home, sleep, and then catch the first BART train up at 5am and keep your fingers crossed.

Monday is the last day to do this, after all.

00000

So we go home. We crash out early. We wake up at 4:00. We drive an hour to hit the BART station. We get the first train up. We arrive at City Hall at 6:30AM.

The line stretches around the entirety of San Francisco City Hall. You could toss a can of Coke from the end of the line to the people who’re up to be first through the doors and not have to worry about cracking it open after.

“Uh.” We go. “What the fuck is -this-?”

So.

Remember why they weren’t going to be able to have people hang out overnight?

Turns out, enough SF cops were willing to volunteer unpaid time to do patrols to cover security. And some anonymous person delivered over a dozen Porta-Poties that’d gotten dropped off around 8 the night before.

It’s 6:30 am, there are almost a thousand people in front of us in line to get this literal once in a lifetime marriage, the last chance we expect to have for at least 15 more years (it was 2004, gay rights were getting shoved back on every front. It was not looking good. We were just happy we lived in California were we at least weren’t likely to loose job protections any time soon.).

Then it starts to rain.

We had not dressed for rain.

00000

Here is how the next six hours go.

We’re in line. Once the doors open at 7am, it will creep forward at a slow crawl. It’s around 7 when someone shows up with garbage bags for everyone. Cut holes for the head and arms and you’ve got a makeshift raincoat! So you’ve got hundreds of gays and lesbians decked out in the nicest shit they could get on short notice wearing trashbags over it.

Everyone is so happy.

Everyone is so nervous/scared/frantic that we wont be able to get through the doors before they close for the day.

People online start making delivery orders.

Coffee and bagels are ordered in bulk and delivered to City Hall for whoever needs it. We get pizza. We get roses. Random people come by who just want to give hugs to people in line because they’re just so happy for us. The tour busses make detours to go past the lines. Chinese tourists lean out with their cameras and shout GOOD LUCK while car horns honk.

A single sad man holding a Bible tries to talk people out of doing this, tells us all we’re sinning and to please don’t. He gives up after an hour. A nun replaces him with a small sign about how this is against God’s will. She leaves after it disintegrates in the rain.

The day before, when it was sunny, there had been a lot of protestors. Including a large Muslim group with their signs about how “Not even DOGS do such things!” Which… Yes they do.

A lot of snide words are said (by me) about how the fact that we’re willing to come out in the rain to do this while they’re not willing to come out in the rain to protest it proves who actually gives an actual shit about the topic.

Time passes. I measure it based on which side of City Hall we’re on. The doors face East. We start on Northside. Coffee and trashbags are delivered when we’re on the North Side. Pizza first starts showing up when we’re on Westside, which is also where I see Bible Man and Nun. Roses are delivered on Southside. And so forth.

00000

We have Line Neighbors.

Ahead of us are a gay couple a decade or two older than us. They’ve been together for eight years. The older one is a school teacher. He has his coat collar up and turns away from any news cameras that come near while we reposition ourselves between the lenses and him. He’s worried about the parents of one of his students seeing him on the news and getting him fired. The younger one will step away to get interviewed on his own later on. They drove down for the weekend once they heard what was going on. They’d started around the same time we did, coming from the Northeast, and are parked in a nearby garage.

The most perky energetic joyful woman I’ve ever met shows up right after we turned the corner to Southside to tackle the younger of the two into a hug. She’s their local friend who’d just gotten their message about what they’re doing and she will NOT be missing this. She is -so- happy for them. Her friends cry on her shoulders at her unconditional joy.

Behind us are a lesbian couple who’d been up in San Francisco to celebrate their 12th anniversary together. “We met here Valentines Day weekend! We live down in San Diego, now, but we like to come up for the weekend because it’s our first love city.”

“Then they announced -this-,” the other one says, “and we can’t leave until we get married. I called work Sunday and told them I calling in sick until Wednesday.”

“I told them why,” her partner says, “I don’t care if they want to give me trouble for it. This is worth it. Fuck them.”

My husband-to-be and I look at each other. We’ve been together for not even two years at this point. Less than two years. Is it right for us to be here? We’re potentially taking a spot from another couple that’d been together longer, who needed it more, who deserved it more.”

“Don’t you fucking dare.” Says the 40-something gay couple in front of us.

“This is as much for you as it is for us!” says the lesbian couple who’ve been together for over a decade behind us.

“You kids are too cute together,” says the gay couple’s friend. “you -have- to. Someday -you’re- going to be the old gay couple that’s been together for years and years, and you deserve to have been married by then.”

We stay in line.

It’s while we’re on the Southside of City Hall, just about to turn the corner to Eastside at long last that we pick up our own companions. A white woman who reminds me an awful lot of my aunt with a four year old black boy riding on her shoulders. “Can we say we’re with you? His uncles are already inside and they’re not letting anyone in who isn’t with a couple right there.” “Of course!” we say.

The kid is so very confused about what all the big deal is, but there’s free pizza and the busses keep driving by and honking, so he’s having a great time.

We pass by a statue of Lincoln with ‘Marriage for All!’ and "Gay Rights are Human Rights!" flags tucked in the crooks of his arms and hanging off his hat.

It’s about noon, noon-thirty when we finally make it through the doors and out of the rain.

They’ve promised that anyone who’s inside when the doors shut will get married. We made it. We’re safe.

We still have a -long- way to go.

00000

They’re trying to fit as many people into City Hall as possible. Partially to get people out of the rain, mostly to get as many people indoors as possible. The line now stretches down into the basement and up side stairs and through hallways I’m not entirely sure the public should ever be given access to. We crawl along slowly but surely.

It’s after we’ve gone through the low-ceiling basement hallways past offices and storage and back up another set of staircases and are going through a back hallway of low-ranked functionary offices that someone comes along handing out the paperwork. “It’s an hour or so until you hit the office, but take the time to fill these out so you don’t have to do it there!”

We spend our time filling out the paperwork against walls, against backs, on stone floors, on books.

We enter one of the public areas, filled with displays and photos of City Hall Demonstrations of years past.

I take pictures of the big black and white photo of the Abraham Lincoln statue holding banners and signs against segregation and for civil rights.

The four year old boy we helped get inside runs past us around this time, chased by a blond haired girl about his own age, both perused by an exhausted looking teenager helplessly begging them to stop running.

Everyone is wet and exhausted and vibrating with anticipation and the building-wide aura of happiness that infuses everything.

The line goes into the marriage office. A dozen people are at the desk, shoulder to shoulder, far more than it was built to have working it at once.

A Sister of Perpetual Indulgence is directing people to city officials the moment they open up. She’s done up in her nun getup with all her makeup on and her beard is fluffed and be-glittered and on point. “Oh, I was here yesterday getting married myself, but today I’m acting as your guide. Number 4 sweeties, and -Congradulatiooooons!-“

The guy behind the counter has been there since six. It’s now 1:30. He’s still giddy with joy. He counts our money. He takes our paperwork, reviews it, stamps it, sends off the parts he needs to, and hands the rest back to us. “Alright, go to the Rotunda, they’ll direct you to someone who’ll do the ceremony. Then, if you want the certificate, they’ll direct you to -that- line.” “Can’t you just mail it to us?” “Normally, yeah, but the moment the courts shut us down, we’re not going to be allowed to.”

We take our paperwork and join the line to the Rotunda.

If you’ve seen James Bond: A View to a Kill, you’ve seen the San Francisco City Hall Rotunda. There are literally a dozen spots set up along the balconies that overlook the open area where marriage officials and witnesses are gathered and are just processing people through as fast as they can.

That’s for the people who didn’t bring their own wedding officials.

There’s a Catholic-adjacent couple there who seem to have brought their entire families -and- the priest on the main steps. They’re doing the whole damn thing. There’s at least one more Rabbi at work, I can’t remember what else. Just that there was a -lot-.

We get directed to the second story, northside. The San Francisco City Treasurer is one of our two witnesses. Our marriage officient is some other elected official I cannot remember for the life of me (and I'm only writing down what I can actively remember, so I can't turn to my husband next to me and ask, but he'll have remembered because that's what he does.)

I have a wilting lily flower tucked into my shirt pocket. My pants have water stains up to the knees. My hair is still wet from the rain, I am blubbering, and I can’t get the ring on my husband’s finger. The picture is a treat, I tell you.

There really isn’t a word for the mix of emotions I had at that time. Complete disbelief that this was reality and was happening. Relief that we’d made it. Awe at how many dozens of people had personally cheered for us along the way and the hundreds to thousands who’d cheered for us generally.

Then we're married.

Then we get in line to get our license.

It’s another hour. This time, the line goes through the higher stories. Then snakes around and goes past the doorway to the mayor’s office.

Mayor Newsom is not in today. And will be having trouble getting into his office on Tuesday because of the absolute barricade of letters and flowers and folded up notes and stuffed animals and City Hall maps with black marked “THANK YOU!”s that have been piled up against it.

We make it to the marriage records office.

I take a picture of my now husband standing in front of a case of the marriage records for 1902-1912. Numerous kids are curled up in corners sleeping. My own memory is spotty. I just know we got the papers, and then we’re done with lines. We get out, we head to the front entrance, and we walk out onto the City Hall steps.

It's almost 3PM.

00000

There are cheers, there’s rice thrown at us, there are hundreds of people celebrating us with unconditional love and joy and I had never before felt the goodness that exists in humanity to such an extent. It’s no longer raining, just a light sprinkle, but there are still no protestors. There’s barely even any news vans.

We make our way through the gauntlet, we get hands shaked, people with signs reading ”Congratulations!” jump up and down for us. We hit the sidewalks, and we begin to limp our way back to the BART station.

I’m at the BART station, we’re waiting for our train back south, and I’m sitting on the ground leaning against a pillar and in danger of falling asleep when a nondescript young man stops in front of me and shuffles his feet nervously. “Hey. I just- I saw you guys, down at City Hall, and I just… I’m so happy for you. I’m so proud of what you could do. I’m- I’m just really glad, glad you could get to do this.”

He shakes my hand, clasps it with both of his and shakes it. I thank him and he smiles and then hurries away as fast as he can without running.

Our train arrives and the trip south passes in a semilucid blur.

We get back to our car and climb in.

It’s 4:30 and we are starving.

There’s a Carls Jr near the station that we stop off at and have our first official meal as a married couple. We sit by the window and watch people walking past and pick out others who are returning from San Francisco. We're all easy to pick out, what with the combination of giddiness and water damage.

We get home about 6-7. We take the dog out for a good long walk after being left alone for two days in a row. We shower. We bundle ourselves up. We bury ourselves in blankets and curl up and just sort of sit adrift in the surrealness of what we’d just done.

We wake up the next day, Tuesday, to read that the California State Supreme Court has rejected the petition to shut down the San Francisco weddings because the paperwork had a misplaced comma that made the meaning of one phrase unclear.

The State Supreme Court would proceed to play similar bureaucratic tricks to drag the process out for nearly a full month before they have nothing left and finally shut down Mayor Newsom’s marriages.

My parents had been out of state at the time at a convention. They were flying into SFO about the same moment we were walking out of City Hall. I apologized to them later for not waiting and my mom all but shook me by the shoulders. “No! No one knew that they’d go on for so long! You did what you needed to do! I’ll just be there for the next one!”

00000

It was just a piece of paper. Legally, it didn’t even hold any weight thirty days later. My philosophy at the time was “marriage really isn’t that important, aside from the legal benefits. It’s just confirming what you already have.”

But maybe it’s just societal weight, or ingrained culture, or something, but it was different after. The way I described it at the time, and I’ve never really come up with a better metaphor is, “It’s like we were both holding onto each other in the middle of the ocean in the middle of a storm. We were keeping each other above water, we were each other’s support. But then we got this piece of paper. And it was like the ground rose up to meet our feet. We were still in an ocean, still in the middle of a storm, but there was a solid foundation beneath our feet. We still supported each other, but there was this other thing that was also keeping our heads above the water.

It was different. It was better. It made things more solid and real.

I am forever grateful for all the forces and all the people who came together to make it possible. It’s been twenty years and we’re still together and still married.

We did a domestic partnership a year later to get the legal paperwork. We’d done a private ceremony with proper rings (not just ones grabbed out of the husband’s collection hours before) before then. And in 2008, we did a legal marriage again.

Rushed. In a hurry. Because there was Proposition 13 to be voted on which would make them all illegal again if it passed.

It did, but we were already married at that point, and they couldn’t negate it that time.

Another few years after that, the Supreme Court finally threw up their hands and said "Fine! It's been legal in places and nothing's caught on fire or been devoured by locusts. It's legal everywhere. Shut up about it!"

And that was that.

00000

When I was in highschool, in the late 90s, I didn’t expect to see legal gay marriage until I was in my 50s. I just couldn’t see how the American public as it was would ever be okay with it.

I never expected to be getting married within five years. I never expected it to be legal nationwide before I’d barely started by 30s. I never thought I’d be in my 40s and it’d be such a non-issue that the conservative rabble rousers would’ve had to move onto other wedge issues altogether.

I never thought that I could introduce another man as my husband and absolutely no one involved would so much as blink.

I never thought I’d live in this world.

And it’s twenty years later today. I wonder how our line buddies are doing. Those babies who were running around the wide open rooms playing tag will have graduated college by now. The kids whose parents the one line-buddy was worried would see him are probably married too now. Some of them to others of the same gender.

I don’t have some greater message to make with all this. Other then, culture can shift suddenly in ways you can’t predict. For good or ill. Mainly this is just me remembering the craziest fucking 36 hours of my life twenty years after the fact and sharing them with all of you.

The future we’re resigned to doesn’t have to be the one we live in. Society can shift faster than you think. The unimaginable of twenty years ago is the baseline reality of today.

And always remember that the people who want to get married will show up by the thousands in rain that none of those who’re against it will brave.

[kirstythejetblackgoldfish]

As a pre-birthday treat, middle sister took myself, my mum and my younger sister to a local Spanish restaurant

It was underground - I've never been to any sort of underground place before

[catdotjpeg]

Incredible. Palestinians gathered today in Nelson Mandela Square, Ramallah, in the West Bank, playing the South African anthem to pay tribute to South Africa for taking apartheid Israel to the ICJ over its violations of the Genocide Convention. It is us, as Africans, who say thank you to Palestine for being an inspiration for a just and humane world, and for being our constant ally in the struggle for liberation. This heartfelt and beautiful gesture from Palestinians comes at great personal risk, with the Israeli Occupation Forces committing constant atrocities against Palestinians in the West Bank. We salute Palestinians and stand by their side to demand an immediate ceasefire and an end to Israeli apartheid, settler colonialism and occupation. The bond between Africa and Palestine is unbreakable. It is our shared humanity — our heartfelt solidarity — that will bring an end to hateful violence. Palestine will be free!

-- African Artists Against Apartheid, photos by Alaa Daraghme, 10 Jan 2024

As the International Court of Justice prepares to consider whether Israel is committing genocidal acts in its war on Gaza, Palestinians in Ramallah have gathered for a rally celebrating South Africa, the country that first submitted the case against Israel and a nation with longstanding ties to the Palestinian cause. “This rally is actually under the banner of ‘Thank you South Africa'” Al Jazeera correspondent Hoda Abdel-Hamid reported near a crowd gathered around a statue of Nelson Mandela in Ramallah. South African flags could be seen waving in the background. “This rally started with words from the mayor of Ramallah, who said South Africa represented a ‘beacon of hope’ for the Palestinians, reminding them that deep-rooted relations between South Africa and the Palestinians go back to the days of Nelson Mandela.”

-- "Palestinians celebrate South Africa in Ramallah rally" by Linah Alsaafin and Brian Osgood, 10 Jan 2024 16:30 GMT

[chewwytwee]

Can I just say, the right to be forgotten is important, and I don’t like how entitled people feel towards other peoples creations. If your favorite YouTuber decided to delete every video and tweet they ever made and never go on the internet ever again, as a human being, they should have the right to do that, even if it makes you personally kind of upset.

[hedgehog-moss]

It's that time of year when grass starts to get scarce in the pasture and the animals start to queue up in front of the gate in the evening like "Can we have hay please?" and I'm like "No, but you can have thistles, brambles, and all those delicious weeds that you've been snubbing all summer like you were too good for them. Now that grass is gone it's time to be useful again and to remember how delicious stinging nettle can be!"

They're a bit reluctant at first but as soon as Pirlouit starts to eat what I'm offering, Pampérigouste & Pampoldine demand to know what it is that the donkey is eating and if they can have some too. Look at them chewing with their mouths wide open!

My grandpa used to chide me when I did that as a kid by saying "close your mouth, I can see the colour of your socks."

Half of my photos are very blurry because they were vigorously pulling on the plants, picking their favourites.

I ended up giving Pirlouit his own little pile of weeds so he wouldn't be in competition with the llamas (who might then spit on him) (and I'd get hit with some stray spit. No thanks)

But since Pirlouit can never be allowed to go unbothered for more than five minutes, Pandolf decided now would be a great time for a game of Pretend To Steal The Donkey's Food Then Run Like Hell. He personally finds it very funny.

It's quite tragic though when you consider that while the llamas don't particularly like thistles, Pirlouit loves them!

I took pity on him and went to deliver some thistles at the bottom of the slope, after telling Pandolf to sit and wait for me at the top (this black dot you see uphill is Pandolf, who is whining a little to let me know how hard it is to sit and be a good boy when there are so many animals to bother. For some mysterious atavistic reason, he considers it his mission in life to make herbivores run.)

After Pirlouit got his thistles, I washed my hands of the matter and went to watch the show with Morille.

[mcmansionhell]

2007-core nostalgia extravaganza

Quick PSA: someone on Facebook is apparently impersonating me using an account called "McMansion Hell 2.0" -- If you see it, please report! Thanks!

Howdy folks! I hope if you were born between 1995 and 2001 you're ready for some indelible pre-recession vibes because I think this entire house, including the photos have not been touched since that time.

This Wake County, NC house, built in 2007, currently boasts a price tag of 1.7 million smackaroos. Its buxom 4 bedrooms and 4.5 baths brings the total size to a completely reasonable and not at all housing-bubble-spurred 5,000 square feet.

I know everyone (at least on TikTok) thinks 2007 and goes immediately to the Tuscan theming trend that was super popular at the time (along with lots of other pseudo-euro looks, e.g. "french country" "tudor" etc). In reality, a lot of decor wasn't particularly themed at all but more "transitional" which is to say, neither contemporary nor super traditional. This can be pulled off (in fact, it's where the old-school Joanna Gaines excelled) but it's usually, well, bland. Overwhelmingly neutral. Still, these interiors stir up fond memories of the last few months before mommy was on the phone with the bank crying.

I think I've seen these red/navy/beige rugs in literally every mid-2000s time capsule house. I want to know where they came from first and how they came to be everywhere. My mom got one from Kirkland's Home back in the day. I guess the 2010s equivalent would be those fake distressed overdyed rugs.

I hate the kitchen bench trend. Literally the most uncomfortable seating imaginable for the house's most sociable room. You are not at a 19th century soda fountain!!! You are a salesforce employee in Ohio!!!

You could take every window treatment in this house and create a sampler. A field guide to dust traps.

Before I demanded privacy, my parents had a completely beige spare bedroom. Truly random stuff on the walls. An oversized Monet poster they should have kept tbh. Also putting the rug on the beige carpet here is diabolical.

FYI the term "Global Village Coffeehouse" originates with the design historian Evan Collins whose work with the Consumer Aesthetics Research Institute!!!!

This photo smells like a Yankee Candle.

Ok, now onto the last usable photo in the set:

No but WHY is the house a different COLOR??????? WHAT?????

Alright, I hope you enjoyed this special trip down memory lane! Happy (American) Labor Day Weekend! (Don't forget that labor is entitled to all it creates!)

If you like this post and want more like it, support McMansion Hell on Patreon for as little as $1/month for access to great bonus content including a discord server, extra posts, and livestreams.

Not into recurring payments? Try the tip jar! Student loans just started back up!

[sunsetsimon]

more random simon headcanons <3

☼ his favorite colors are black, blue, and grey. his personal style is very plain, black hoodies, white tee's, and black sweatpants are his go to. simon doesn't want to stand out any more than he already does with his large frame, so he opts for comfort over style.

☼ simon is very helpful around the house, constantly tidying up and fixing anything with a problem. he has no issue doing the dishes or folding the laundry, but for some reason he hates sweeping and mopping? you don't get it, it's not an intense or demanding chore, but simon claims that "it's too boring" and he'd rather trade something else with you. it becomes an agreement for him to do most things in the room, and then you come in after to finish with a quick sweep and mop.

☼ he's extremely low maintenance. he always buys the cheapest products he sees, opting for a basic body wash and 2 in 1 shampoo/conditioner. when you first started dating, he didn't even own a proper face wash, using the bar of soap from his shower. simon isn't the type to have a whole routine, but he does pay more attention to the things he purchases so he can impress you with a new scented body wash or a moisturizer you'd mentioned.

one of his favorite gifts to ever receive from you is a bottle of cologne, loving the way you're drawn to him every time he gives himself a spritz. now every christmas he asks you to get him a new one that you'd like him to wear!

☼ cannot handle spice for the life of him. we all know that foods in the UK are usually seasoned with just salt and pepper, and not commonly spicy, so he's sensitive to it. something you may consider mild will have him breaking into a sweat and chugging down a bottle of water to ease some of the burn. his cheeks get flushed red and he just shakes his head in pain, reminding himself to never trust you when you say "oh it's not that spicy!" ever again.

☼ he has the lowest screen time, averaging about 20-30 minutes a day, and that time is spent either texting/calling you, taking photos of you, looking through photos of you, or making lists for you. the only extra app he has downloaded is goodreads, and even then you were the one that downloaded it and created his account. his passcode is set as your birthday too of course.

he's a little obsessed.