Musings and Whatnot

My name is Laura, I dabble in acting, singing, horrible dancing, improv and other forms of artistic medium.

hardcorehousewife:

emmaphorisms:

Females grow pubic hair

Not all labias are symmetrical

Big clitorises are not unnatural

Vaginal secretions exist outside of sexual arousal

These secretions have a smell

Some more pungent than others

The female reproductive system is not dirty

The female body can be hairy and a bit smelly and it will appear different for everyone

And that’s okay

file under: shit i was not taught in school but fuck i wish it was

(Source: emmaphorismz, via rhymingteelookatme)

To suggest that one’s belly, body hair or tattoo is ‘distasteful’ and should therefore be covered in the name of etiquette is the very worst sort of body fascism. If your children are traumatised by the sight of a fat person in a bikini, a bit of cellulite or a caesarean scar, then may I tentatively suggest that you aren’t raising them correctly. If seeing someone hairy wearing something skimpy renders you ‘unable to eat your lunch’ then I’m afraid my diagnosis of the problem is with your brain, not their body.

redsuelo:

amberrosehairline:

myvoicemyright:

Acid attack survivors in India model new clothing range for powerful photoshoot

Survivors of acid attacks in India have become the face of a new clothing range designed by a woman who had acid thrown in her face while she was asleep four years ago.Delhi-based designer Rupa and her friends Rita, Sonam, Laxmi and Chanchal modelled the clothes from her new range, Rupa Designs, for photographer Rahul Saharan.

Rupa suffered extensive injuries when her stepmother threw acid in her face while she was sleeping in 2008.

She was allegedly left without any medical aid for six hours before her uncle found her and transported her to hospital, where she underwent eleven operations and spent three months being cared for.

this is so powerful

Bless them and their beautiful spirits

(via rhymingteelookatme)

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
The arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
But I with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.