dailyme:

Undated photo released Friday, June 25, 2010 of Oscar, the cat with a pair of prosthetic paws, courtesy of neuro-orthopaedic surgeon Noel Fitzpatrick at Fitzpatrick Referrals in Surrey, England. Oscar was given a pair of new artificial feet last November in a single surgical procedure by the surgeon after his rear paws were amputated by a combine harvester as he basked in the sunshine. The revolutionary design of the feet uses custom-made implants to “peg” the ankle to the foot and mimics the way in which deer antler bone grows through skin. The work of the surgeon is featured in an upcoming BBC TV series in the UK. (AP Photo/Jim Incledon/PA)

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One of my cats was killed by a combine harvester, I think.  Also, those wittle feet are adorable.

imnickyip:

uppereastside:

Alexis Mabille 2011

I like the sun-kissed makeup for this line.  And the sandals.

tylercoates:

I’m about fifty pages into Faggots, and I wanted to post a bit from a page-long monologue that I read this afternoon but realized I couldn’t just POST it without providing some context in which I explain that I don’t necessarily agree or disagree with the sentiment (because things aren’t that easy) but that it’s something to think about, especially since we’re on the cusp of the gay pride parade in Chicago. This is spoken by a character named Jack Humpstone (even faggots have their Gossip Girl-style names?), nicknamed Laverne:

“No!” he said again. “We don’t have anything together. And, as an elite, a minority privileged to count among its large, if indistinct membership, many of the world’s greatest minds and talents and potentialities - though in undershirts and jeans on the dance floors of Balalaika and Capriccio at five in the morning very few of us are exactly capable of thought - as this true elite we should have more of our collective acts, and scenes, together. We have the ultimate in freedom - we have absolutely no responsibilities! - and we’re abusing it. My sister-in-law does not speak to me, not because I’m a faggot, to which news she is now adjusted, as am I, but because she says I’m a coward, I’m not in there pitching to make this world a better place, I’m running away, I’m not relating to anyone successfully, I’m not proving to the world or to myself that I know what to do with this freedom…while she is chained to a mobile home in Mobile, Alabama. If I could do that, then I’d be listened to, respected, not scorned, mocked, feared as something unfit to teach children. But when I look around me, all I see is fucking. All we do is fuck. With dildos and gallows and in the bushes and on the streets. My sister-in-law doesn’t fuck on the streets.”

Now, I don’t want to be the kind of person who is like, “the pride parade is too sexual!” because it’s ultimately a public embrace of sexuality. And, sure, it’s become a political event in which our representatives show up and the people who want our business have floats and even our local news reporters tell us that they’re proud of us so we’ll feel sort of warm and fuzzy when we watch them in the mornings and late afternoons, but it’s still an overtly sexual event, and that’s what the people who hate us see. I don’t want to suggest we should clean it up for those people, because fuck those people, they are idiot assholes.

But, you know, it’s difficult to think about how that behavior can be so self-destructive, yet we still participate in it and flaunt it with the idea that if we throw out condoms to the crowd it’s all OK, and we want people to think we’re responsible adults who should have the same rights as any other bigoted American idiot. It makes me THINK and leaves me CONFUSED about what I feel!

Sorry for getting all Boys in the Band around here, but I don’t think that any of this sort of thinking is self-loathing at all, which is judgment some gays are so quick to spout out. (It’s sort of how we also make fun of closet cases, as if we forgot how difficult it was to come out ourselves. Do you remember? It was tough!) And I’ll definitely be out on Sunday, probably drinking beer on the street, definitely cheering and yelling things at people marching down the street, because I am proud and don’t feel ashamed for who I am. But, ya know, I think about this stuff sometimes and it concerns me, that’s all.

It’s late and I can’t think of what else to add to this.  I think about it all the time, though.  I agree with everything you kindofsaid.  It’s hard to figure out how to be proud of being gay when “gay” is in fact a sexuality, so though I am not a sexual person in practice (much to my dismay), the culture viewed from the outside AND in is one built on sex.  I just never know what to think.  Being gay IS hard, for sure.

liquidnight:

The bird turned, head tipped, suspiciously, on one side,
and it stared at him with bright eyes.
“Say ‘Nevermore,’” said Shadow.
“Fuck you,” said the raven.

—-Neil Gaiman, American Gods

[photo by Peter Stackpole, 1939, from the LIFE magazine Photo Archive]

Love this picture (although I would assume that bird is dead), and love that book.

Always interesting: Photojojo Store

capucha:

Thank you for 6 years of indescribable happiness. Happy birthday, my love. <3

Happy Birthday Capucine!