And in chemistry class I was talking to my friend, Jack, about a gay pride festival I went to. My teacher, stupid nosy bitch, decides she wants to join in on the conversation. She asks me what I’m talking about so I turned around and her reaction was to make a noise of utter disgust. She asked me to go to the main office and get a different shirt. But being the rebel that I am, I told her very politely “no, if you don’t like it you don’t have to look at it. It’s my shirt, not yours, and there’s nothing wrong with it.” She told me again that I needed to change my shirt. I said again that I wasn’t and she told me she would have to send me to my administrator for direct disrespect. So I put on a big smile and packed my stuff up while she wrote the discipline report up.
But the thing that made me so happy that I didn’t give in and change was that as I was walking out the door a girl in my class stood up and started to walk with me. My teacher was kinda pissed and told her that she would get a write up if she didn’t sit down. And this girl, she is my fucking hero. She says: “Write me up then. It’s one more story that I can go home and tell my mothers. And I’m sure my girlfriend would love to hear it, too.” Then she smiled and walked out. I just felt the need to share what happened today with my lovely followers.
“Coco was created by a little girl who was shipwrecked on a deserted island after a plane crash. Creator Craig McCracken describes Coco as having the head of a palm tree, as the child ate coconuts. The beak is a deflated raft as that was the means of transportation onto the deserted island, with the body of an airplane marking the plane she was on and the human feet that were sunburned as the only thing that child saw.”
“I want you to tell me about every person you’ve ever been in love with. Tell me why you loved them, then tell me why they loved you. Tell me about a day in your life you didn’t think you’d live through. Tell me what the word “home” means to you and tell me in a way that I’ll know your mother’s name just by the way you describe your bed room when you were 8. See, I wanna know the first time you felt the weight of hate and if that day still trembles beneath your bones. Do you prefer to play in puddles of rain or bounce in the bellies of snow? And if you were to build a snowman, would you rip two branches from a tree to build your snowman arms? Or would you leave the snowman armless for the sake of being harmless to the tree? And if you would, would you notice how that tree weeps for you because your snowman has no arms to hug you every time you kiss him on the cheek? Do you kiss your friends on the cheek? Do you sleep beside them when they’re sad, even if it makes your lover mad? Do you think that anger is a sincere emotion or just the timid motion of a fragile heart trying to beat away its pain? See, I wanna know what you think of your first name. And if you often lie awake at night and imagine your mother’s joy when she spoke it for the very first time. I want you tell me all the ways you’ve been unkind. Tell me all the ways you’ve been cruel. See, I wanna know more than what you do for a living. I wanna know how much of your life you spend just giving. And if you love yourself enough to also receive sometimes. I wanna know if you bleed sometimes through other people’s wounds.”—Andrea Gibson (via loveyourchaos)