On the left we have the lyrics from Robin Thicke’s Blurred Lines. On the right we rape survivors participating in Project Unbreakable, showing the various things that were said to them by their rapist.
i think this is the most powerful photoset i’ve ever seen on tumblr.
I actually really despise this. This is something the media would do. Take something out of context and call someone a “terrorist” or in this case a “rapist”. I understand that it is very easy to think this song is about rape. It isn’t. I hate when people call him or anyone else in this song a rapist. I’m not saying that this song isn’t incredibly douchtastic but I’m saying it doesn’t make him a rapist.
That is correct - raping someone makes you a rapist. But writing terrible lyrics that contribute to the sexual objectification of women makes you a generous contributor to rape culture.
I’ve raised infant/neonate animals before. A few different kinds of species even. But there have been none like the kittens I have become mum to this week.
On Tuesday the coordinator and director of the City’s SPCA called to say that there had been a litter of kittens ditched at their facility, with no mother and that they were estimated to be two weeks old.
Two weeks is nothing to a kitten. Eyes have just opened, no teeth to speak of, needing to constantly feed, sleep, be kept warm, and of course, poop. Two weeks without a mother is a death sentence to a kitten. So we took them. Two each for every vet tech at the hospital I call home.
I was assigned the runt, whom I deemed Hobbes, as he was a scrawny little orange tabby cub. The second I dubbed Ivy, as she creeps and crawls up you like no other (and the gentleman I hope to pawn her off on when she’s a bit bigger has another little kitty named Lili). Names, the first mistake.
You can tell yourself you are not getting attached to something or someone as much as you please, but when it comes down to it, your brain is an idiot and your heart does whatever the fuck it wants regardless. Especially when you are feeding that something every two hours (who needs sleep anyway), cleaning poopy bums constantly (I’ve honestly never done so much laundry in my life), and cooing and holding these little entities to you, urging them to just keep holding on, whispering that it will be so worth it when they are big, fat, healthy cats.
Hobbes made it to the second night and I lost him. Waking up to find my little man still warm but gone chipped a little piece out of me that just won’t fucking fill. I should have expected this, I mean, it was yours truly who uttered “oh man I don’t know if that guy is gonna make it” when the litter first came in that got the nugget assigned to me.
Ivy is a fighter and then some. A little monkey in a orange and white tabby body that just won’t quit. So I have kept going and so has she. I’m so proud of her that every time I check on her and call to her so she starts boogieing around, my heart feels like it’s going to explode and leak out into my guts.
You get so used to it, getting up constantly and cooing, wiping, feeding, warming, caring. Something primal and maternal that I never really knew I had that makes me not want to take her from under my sweater. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a kid person. I don’t like babies, I never have. Wait wrong. I don’t WANT babies. Kids are fine and all, just not for me. But there is literally nothing I wouldn’t do to get Ivy well. To get her eating on her own, to be the reason she will have a happy, long, comfy kitty life.
This is the closest thing to motherhood I’ve ever experienced. And while mothers out there may be like “wtf bish, you have no idea, that is a baby cat, not a human you GREW in your womb” and think I have no idea, I do.
I do because I fiercely believe in my little youngster. Because I see her full grown future, and want the very best for her. Because I am at her every mew and meep.
This morning at about five, I noticed Ivy was slightly weaker. I tried a few different things, but she is still having a rough time. Having a complete meltdown I did the only reasonable thing I knew (other than smoking and coffee)- I called my mum.
Crying isn’t something my mum is used to from me. She answered, and the shock and care in her voice kept the tears coming in waves. I explained Ivy’s condition between ridiculously dramatic sobs, then listened to her calmly and evenly tell me everything I already knew, but hadn’t allowed myself to think through rationally.
I’ve never known a fear like this, always bearing foolish pride for my “bravery” in emergency situations (would I be in gryffindor?), but something so uncontrolled and out of my hands has taken over and my optimism had been crushed. My incredible mother repaired that. My incredible mother who built me, saw my full grown future, wanted the very best for me, and who is still at my every sob when I need it.
Is Ivy through the woods? No. Am I guarded? No. Because I will continue to do my every single thing I can do for her and then some. Because I will continue to be her excellent, doting, overprotective mum. And if by some horribly devastating turn of events, she is taken from me, she (as a true friend once said) would have been too good for this world.