mildly inspired by jewel and sail cool nail polish, now that you mention it :)

i love to not sleep and paint my nails. lvoe it

(Source: 2005ryden)

right now i’m feeling awesome about my name. byron hale surname (lol). nice. that’s mine. hiya

Album Art

theoth-greyjoy:

it’s okay to find the faith to saunter forward

Played 451 times.

jk bandaid’s the same color as my hair, i may survive this w/o having to explain.

#blood

i taped a cotton ball to my face for an hour and just took it off and: still bleeding. gonna look like a dork with a band-aid on my face. love it 

what if i emailed it to her. what would she do!!? im a tiny bit emotional right now.  little bit

that’s literally me & my mom though, in a slightly alternate universe where i trusted her more and she didn’t keep pretending not to know things when it’s convenient for her. thats us :(

i’m almost tearing up about that article. 

and like, that’s me, i wish my mom was even that good but like that’s almost my mom, that’s relatable, that’s someone like me being talked about respectfully, not perfectly but pretty damn decently. thats nice

mechabre:

this is so incredibly important to me holy shit

an article about an agender person’s identity ON THE FRONT PAGE OF THE WASHINGTON POST

FRONT AND CENTER!!!!!

IM JUST

AGHAFDHF!! SJFGSJS!! JSHFKA!! HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME

here’s the full article

the article mostly avoids using pronouns, and also it uses “female-born” once, but i didn’t wince once while reading it, which says something. jsyk the article is about a thin white dfab masc-ish teenager and their friends and their mom

  1. Camera: Samsung SPH-L710
  2. Aperture: f/2.6
  3. Exposure: 1/15th
  4. Focal Length: 3mm

ursulavernon:

            Frogs fall out of my mouth when I talk. Toads, too.

            It used to be a problem.

            There was an incident when I was young and cross and fed up with parental expectations. My sister, who is the Good One, has gold fall from her lips, and since I could not be her, I had to go a different way.

            So I got frogs. It happens.

            “You’ll grow into it,” the fairy godmother said. “Some curses have cloth-of-gold linings.” She considered this, and her finger drifted to her lower lip, the way it did when she was forgetting things. “Mind you, some curses just grind you down and leave you broken. Some blessings do that too, though. Hmm. What was I saying?”

            I spent a lot of time not talking. I got a slate and wrote things down. It was hard at first, but I hated to drop the frogs in the middle of the road. They got hit by cars, or dried out, miles away from their damp little homes.

            Toads were easier. Toads are tough. After awhile, I learned to feel when a word was a toad and not a frog. I could roll the word around on my tongue and get the flavor before I spoke it. Toad words were drier. Desiccated is a toad word. So is crisp and crisis and obligation. So are elegant and matchstick.

            Frog words were a bit more varied. Murky. Purple. Swinging. Jazz.

I practiced in the field behind the house, speaking words over and over, sending small creatures hopping into the evening.  I learned to speak some words as either toads or frogs. It’s all in the delivery.

            Love is a frog word, if spoken earnestly, and a toad word if spoken sarcastically. Frogs are not good at sarcasm.

            Toads are masters of it.

            I learned one day that the amphibians are going extinct all over the world, that some of them are vanishing. You go to ponds that should be full of frogs and find them silent. There are a hundred things responsible—fungus and pesticides and acid rain.

            When I heard this, I cried “What!?” so loudly that an adult African bullfrog fell from my lips and I had to catch it. It weighed as much as a small cat. I took it to the pet store and spun them a lie in writing about my cousin going off to college and leaving the frog behind.

            I brooded about frogs for weeks after that, and then eventually, I decided to do something about it.

            I cannot fix the things that kill them. It would take an army of fairy godmothers, and mine retired long ago. Now she goes on long cruises and spreads her wings out across the deck chairs.

            But I can make more.

            I had to get a field guide at first. It was a long process. Say a word and catch it, check the field marks. Most words turn to bronze frogs if I am not paying attention.

            Poison arrow frogs make my lips go numb. I can only do a few of those a day. I go through a lot of chapstick.  

            It is a holding action I am fighting, nothing more. I go to vernal pools and whisper sonnets that turn into wood frogs. I say the words squeak and squill and spring peepers skitter away into the trees. They begin singing almost the moment they emerge.

            I read long legal documents to a growing audience of Fowler’s toads, who blink their goggling eyes up at me. (I wish I could do salamanders. I would read Clive Barker novels aloud and seed the streams with efts and hellbenders. I would fly to Mexico and read love poems in another language to restore the axolotl. Alas, it’s frogs and toads and nothing more. We make do.)

            The woods behind my house are full of singing. The neighbors either learn to love it or move away.

            My sister—the one who speaks gold and diamonds—funds my travels. She speaks less than I do, but for me and my amphibian friends, she will vomit rubies and sapphires. I am grateful.

            I am practicing reading modernist revolutionary poetry aloud. My accent is atrocious. Still, a day will come when the Panamanian golden frog will tumble from my lips, and I will catch it and hold it, and whatever word I spoke, I’ll say again and again, until I stand at the center of a sea of yellow skins, and make from my curse at last a cloth of gold.

Terri Windling posted recently about the old fairy tale of frogs falling from a girl’s lips, and I started thinking about what I’d do if that happened to me, and…well…

#blood #shaving

i had some Excessive peach fuzz and i decided scissors were a good way to go about removing it (in place of like, an actual razor, which i do not possess until my next shopping trip) and i probably already knew that was a bad idea but i did not stop until i started bleeding, nice. also i got some tiny chin-bruises. this is not ideal. how do i get hair off of my face in a less cataclysmic manner

supreme-goose-overlord:

ok!! so as some of u probably know by now, i have anxiety and dermatillomania/excoriation disorder. for those of u who who are unaware, derma basically means i almost always feel this urge to pick at my skin. i started scratching about fourteen years ago, so it’s safe to say i’ve done quite a bit…