(Source: ephemeralol)

You were my cup of tea,
I drink coffee now.

(via ispysj)

(Source: eric-khach)

(Source: weheartit.com)



Artist Collaborates with 2-Year-Old Daughter and Creates Works of Art

Oh my god this is fucking amazing


  • Carta a Diego Rivera desde el hospital

Sr. mío Don Diego:
Escribo esto desde el cuarto de un hospital y en la antesala del quirófano. Intentan apresurame pero yo estoy resuelta a terminar ésta carta, no quiero dejar nada a medias y menos ahora que sé lo que planean, quieren herirme el orgullo cortándome una pata… Cuando me dijeron que habrían de amputarme la pierna no me afectó como todos creían, NO, yo ya era una mujer incompleta cuando le perdí, otra vez, por enésima vez quizás y aún así sobreviví.

No me aterra el dolor y lo sabes, es casi una condición inmanente a mi ser, aunque sí te confieso que sufrí, y sufrí mucho, la vez, todas las veces que me pusiste el cuerno…nó sólo con mi hermana sino con otras tantas mujeres…¿Cómo cayeron en tus enredos? Tú piensas que me encabroné por lo de Cristina pero hoy he de confesarte que no fue por ella, fue por ti y por mi, primero por mi porque nunca he podido entender ¿qué buscabas, qué buscas, qué te dan y qué te dieron ellas que yo no te di? Por que no nos hagamos pendejos Diego, yo todo lo humanamente posible te lo di y lo sabemos, ahora bien, cómo carajos le haces para conquistar a tanta mujer si estás tan feo hijo de la chingada…

Bueno el motivo de esta carta no es para reprocharte más de lo que ya nos hemos reprochado en esta y quién sabe cuántas pinches vidas más, es sólo que van a cortarme una pierna (al fin se salió con la suya la condenada)… Te dije que yo ya me hacía incompleta de tiempo atrás, pero ¿qué puta necesidad de que la gente lo supiera? Y ahora ya ves, mi fragmentación estará a la vista de todos, de ti… Por eso antes que te vayan con el chisme te lo digo yo “personalmente”, disculpa que no me pare en tu casa para decírtelo de frente pero en éstas instancias y condiciones ya no me han dejado salir de la habitación ni para ir al baño. No pretendo causarte lástima, a ti ni a nadie, tampoco quiero que te sientas culpable de nada, te escribo para decirte que te libero de mí, vamos, te “amputo” de mi, sé feliz y no me busques jamás. No quiero volver a saber de ti ni que tú sepas de mí, si de algo quiero tener el gusto antes de morir es de no volver a ver tu horrible y bastarda cara de malnacido rondar por mi jardín.
Es todo, ya puedo ir tranquila a que me mochen en paz.
Se despide quien le ama con vehemente locura,
Su Frida.
(Carta vista en este blog)

(Source: insaniescreed)


Literature meme [4/4] tropes

↳ three act

The three-act structure is a model used in writing, including screenwriting, and in evaluating modern storytelling that divides a fictional narrative into three parts, often called the Setup, the Confrontation and the Resolution. (x)

(Source: katerinvaca)



Today, I bought this book (for my sister, lets clarify that now ‘cause the only way I’m going anywhere near sperm is if I fall into a vat of it):














Sign Language Interpreter at Planned Parenthood Shares Heartbreaking Story of Having to Interpret Abortion

I was eighteen when I took a job as a sign language interpreter at Planned Parenthood. I was raised Roman Catholic, but I was Catholic in the same way that Olive Garden is an authentic Italian restaurant: just because you throw some fancy words on the menu doesn’t make it genuine.

For me, abortion was not a choice that I would make personally, but the way I saw it, who was I to judge another woman for having one? I didn’t know her life. I didn’t know her circumstances, and I had prided myself my whole life on not judging people without knowing their full story.

A deaf friend referred me to the job opening at a Boston clinic, and it paid well. I averaged about $100 an hour for my services! That’s all it was to me, a job to make money for my upcoming college tuition. I didn’t work often, maybe one or two days a week, and traveled around to the Boston-area clinics when needed. For the most part, I interpreted for women seeking counseling, getting prescriptions for birth control, or just getting general information about sexual health. It all seemed innocent enough.

Deep down, however, I must have known I was doing something wrong. I told people I worked for a “family services counseling center.” I figured that wasn’t completely a lie. The trouble was, most people took that to mean that I was going into the world and doing good: interpreting for families living in poverty, or families who were trying to keep themselves together. Despite the fact that Planned Parenthood offered all kinds of services, in the back of my mind I knew that at the root of it they really were just an abortion clinic.

The worst day of my life—and an anniversary I never forget when it comes every year—is Thursday, November 1, 2012. I was called in to interpret for a “medical procedure.” I arrived early, and chatted with the receptionist as I did every day. I grabbed a cup of coffee and waited for the client to arrive. While I waited, I went over her file. I’ll call her Kate. She was twenty-three and had been deaf since birth. Kate estimated that she was about eighteen weeks pregnant.

At 10:30 sharp, we entered the operating room. That’s when my stomach started to turn. Previously, when I’d read “medical procedure,” it had been for ultrasounds. But this was different – we were in an OR. The lights were too bright for the size of the room. There were cold-looking metal objects on a table. I was in an abortion.

I tried to remain calm. I interpreted back and forth, but when the murder began, I lost it. As I watched the doctor pull this life out, limb by limb, I couldn’t help but let the tears start to fall. What I had thought would be just lumps of blood clots were body parts. Arms, a torso, legs, and a head. I felt as if I was suffocating. As soon as it was over, I ran from the room. I collapsed in the hallway and sobbed uncontrollably. To this day, I haven’t cried like that since. A security guard rushed me into his office. I realize now that it was probably not to console me, but because I was scaring the patients.

I quit my job that afternoon. I went into the manager’s office and signed my papers. Abortion was not a strong enough word for what I had witnessed. Murder wasn’t even good enough a word. To me, murder implied that the person might have been capable of fighting back. No, this was a slaughter.

I don’t think I will ever fully recover from what I saw that day. A human life, a BABY, had been ripped from its mother’s body, piece by piece. It is the first thing I see when I wake up in the morning, and the last thing I think of before I go to bed. I still have nightmares about it sometimes. Whenever I see a child around two, I imagine that that is how old the aborted baby would be now. I can’t help but wonder who that baby would have become. Maybe she would have been an artist. Maybe he would have dreamed of being a firefighter. Maybe she would have gone on to become a doctor who saved lives; maybe he would have become a teacher.

With counseling, I have come to accept that God forgives me for the act that I was a part of, but I am still working on forgiving myself. The only thing that consoles me on the nights that it keeps me up is knowing that that baby is now in Heaven, enjoying Eternal Life. After what this world put it through, I think that’s a good place to be.


As an art student, you’re hit over the head repeatedly with Renaissance art, so I’ve gotten a little tired of it, but something I’m not tired of is the seemingly impossible naturalistic detail attained from stone and a chisel back then.

(Source: vasilisablue)