Hi, the name is J. I'm 21, from the UK, originally from Malta. This blog is all about humour and madness, with a little bit of serious talk on the side :) Welcome to Sparta! Feel free to say hello!

My tastes change constantly but expect lots of Bioshock, Assassin's Creed, Game of Thrones and Lost Girl.

LGBTQA friendly and a lover of... woman.

 

I feel like it’s kind of sad that she had to watch that - for Arya and Sansa both, actually. It would seem that they’re bloodthirsty for revenge, you know? But they’re almost just confused as to why they feel how they’re feeling, and they’re surprised by how they’re feeling as well. It’s just that first episode when you get to see how Arya is grieving and how Sansa is grieving. They’re both very similar. A silly audience member will be like, “Oh, look, Sansa’s crying again,” when actually this scene is very interesting. It’s very interesting to hear what she has to say about it and how she deals with it. She’s not crying in pain; it’s a very different Sansa from what we’ve seen before. Same with Arya. She’s not bloodthirsty for revenge. She’s not crazy at all. She’s just like, “Why? Why do I feel the way I do?” People don’t read enough into some of the characters’ decisions, I think. They just think it’s very black and white. It’s never black and white on Game of Thrones. If you think it’s black and white, you’re watching it wrong.

Maisie Williams, being spot fucking on [x] (via maisiewilliams)

The trick, kiddo,” his mom replies slowly. “Is finding someone who complements you instead of completes you. You need to be complete on your own.

The Fight, and Fate by the farofixer  (via supmariss)

(Source: snakegrl1306)

She had stayed a virgin so she wouldn’t be called a tramp or a slut; had married so she wouldn’t be called an old maid; faked orgasms so she wouldn’t be called frigid; had children so she wouldn’t be called barren; had not been a feminist because she didn’t want to be called queer and a man-hater; never nagged or raised her voice so she wouldn’t be called a bitch… She had done all that and yet, still, this stranger had dragged her into the gutter with the names that men call women when they are angry.

Fannie Flagg | Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe (1987) 

(via thefourthwavebegins)

(Source: anuraglahiri)

Marriage equality will, in time, fundamentally destroy “traditional marriage,” and I, for one, will dance on its grave.

It’s not a terribly difficult conclusion to draw.

As same-sex couples marry, they will be forced to re-imagine many tenets of your “traditional marriage.” In doing so, they will face a series of complicated questions:

Should one of us change our last name? And if so, who?

Should we have kids? Do we want to have kids? How do we want to have kids? Whose last name do our kids take?

How about housework, work-work, childcare? How do we assign these roles equitably? How do we cultivate a partnership that honors each of our professional and personal ambitions?

As questions continually arise, heterosexual couples will take notice — and be forced to address how much “traditional marriage” is built on gender roles and perpetuates a nauseating inequality that has no place in 2014.

When I was seventeen and preparing to leave for university, my mother’s only brother saw fit to give me some advice.
“Just don’t be an idiot, kid,” he told me, “and don’t ever forget that boys and girls can never just be friends.”
I laughed and answered, “I’m not too worried. And I don’t really think all guys are like that.”

When I was eighteen and the third annual advent of the common cold was rolling through residence like a pestilent fog, a friend texted me asking if there was anything he could do to help.
I told him that if he could bring me up some vitamin water that would be great, if it wasn’t too much trouble.
That semester I learned that human skin cells replace themselves every three to five weeks. I hoped that in a month, maybe I’d stop feeling the echoes of his touch; maybe my new skin would feel cleaner.
It didn’t. But I stood by what I said. Not all guys are like that.

When I was nineteen and my roommate decided the only way to celebrate the end of midterms was to get wasted at a club, I humoured her.
Four drinks, countless leers and five hands up my skirt later, I informed her I was ready to leave.
“I get why you’re upset,” she told me on the walk home, “but you have to tolerate that sort of thing if you want to have any fun. And really, not all guys are like that.”

(Age nineteen also saw me propositioned for casual sex by no fewer than three different male friends, and while I still believe that guys and girls can indeed be just friends, I was beginning to see my uncle’s point.)

When I was twenty and a stranger that started chatting to me in my usual cafe asked if he could walk with me (since we were going the same way and all), I accepted.
Before we’d even made it three blocks he was pulling me into an alleyway and trying to put his hands up my shirt. “You were staring,” he laughed when I asked what the fuck he was doing (I wasn’t), “I’m just taking pity.”
But not all guys are like that.

I am twenty one and a few days ago a friend and I were walking down the street. A car drove by with the windows down, and a young man stuck his head out and whistled as they passed. I ignored it, carrying on with the conversation.
My friend did not. “Did you know those people?” He asked.
“Not at all,” I answered.
Later when we sat down to eat he got this thoughtful look on his face. When I asked what was wrong he said, “You know not all guys do that kind of thing, right? We’re not all like that.”
As if he were imparting some great profound truth I’d never realized before. My entire life has been turned around, because now I’ve been enlightened: not all guys are like that.

No. Not all guys are. But enough are. Enough that I am uncomfortable when a man sits next to me on the bus. Enough that I will cross to the other side of the street if I see a pack of guys coming my way. Enough that even fleeting eye contact with a male stranger makes my insides crawl with unease. Enough that I cannot feel safe alone in a room with some of my male friends, even ones I’ve known for years. Enough that when I go out past dark for chips or milk or toilet paper, I carry a knife, I wear a coat that obscures my figure, I mimic a man’s gait. Enough that three years later I keep the story of that day to myself, when the only thing that saved me from being raped was a right hook to the jaw and a threat to scream in a crowded dorm, because I know what the response will be.

I live my life with the everburning anxiety that someone is going to put their hands on me regardless of my feelings on the matter, and I’m not going to be able to stop them. I live with the knowledge that statistically one in three women have experienced a sexual assault, but even a number like that can’t be trusted when we are harassed into silence. I live with the learned instinct, the ingrained compulsion to keep my mouth shut to jeers and catcalls, to swallow my anger at lewd suggestions and crude gestures, to put up my walls against insults and threats. I live in an environment that necessitates armouring myself against it just to get through a day peacefully, and I now view that as normal. I have adapted to extreme circumstances and am told to treat it as baseline. I carry this fear close to my heart, rooted into my bones, and I do so to keep myself unharmed.

So you can tell me that not all guys are like that, and you’d even be right, but that isn’t the issue anymore. My problem is not that I’m unaware of the fact that some guys are perfectly civil, decent, kind—my problem is simply this:

In a world where this cynical overcaution is the only thing that ensures my safety, I’m no longer willing to take the risk.

r.d. (via vonmoire)

This is really important

(via tranarchistbitch)

(Source: elferinge)

When I was a student at Cambridge I remember an anthropology professor holding up a picture of a bone with 28 incisions carved in it. “This is often considered to be man’s first attempt at a calendar” she explained. She paused as we dutifully wrote this down. ‘My question to you is this – what man needs to mark 28 days? I would suggest to you that this is woman’s first attempt at a calendar.’
It was a moment that changed my life. In that second I stopped to question almost everything I had been taught about the past. How often had I overlooked women’s contributions?

Sandi Toksvig. (via crimesolving, learninglog) (via gnny) (via sovietcop) (via joan-adler)

That’s one of the great things about music. You can sing a song to 85,000 different people and they’ll sing it back for 85,000 different reasons.

Dave Grohl (via wearealivetonight)

(Source: thesixtthdegree)

If I’d had children and had a girl, the first words I would have taught her would have been “fuck off” because we weren’t brought up ever to say that to anyone, were we? And it’s quite valuable to have the courage and the confidence to say, “No, fuck off, leave me alone, thank you very much.

Dame Helen Mirren (x)

(Source: fygirlcrush)

“We’re so bad at sex and then we wonder why women aren’t like, really aggressive about sex. We think it’s cause they don’t have as much desire as we do. That’s how stupid men are, that we think ‘they’re just weird, women are like fucked up in the head cause they don’t wanna just fuck all the time. If I was a women, I’d just fuck everybody. Why don’t they wanna fuck all the time? I do’. Of course you do, cause when you fuck, you get to fuck a woman! When she fucks, she has to fuck a guy! Wildly different experiences. For a man, 100% of the time, it’s the greatest thing that ever happened in his entire life. For a woman, about 40% of the time, when she’s being fucked by a guy, she’s thinking ‘I’ll get over this in a week. It’s not the worst thing. I’m not gonna cry this time’


“Another thing that proves how bad men are at sex is that after sex, you’re looking at two very different people. The man just wants to lay there, be cool and the woman wants to cuddle…’Why is she so NEEDY?’ She’s not needy you idiot, she’s horny, because you did nothing for her. YOU DID ABSOLUTELY NOTHING. HER PUSSY IS ON FIRE BECAUSE IT’S GONE UNFUCKED COMPLETELY. Of course you’re fine, you climbed on and went “KFHGSKG” and rolled off. And she’s on you because she’s like ‘WH-at SOMETHING ELSE HAS TO HAPPEN, THIS IS BULLSHIT!!” If you fuck a woman well, she will LEAVE YOU ALONE. ‘Thanks a lot buddy, zzzzz’”

Oh, Louis CK, advocate for the female orgasm. (via wantonmasochist)

Nothing has ever been more accurate.

(via kakakakaitlin)

(Source: moscowisburning)