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OMG PETER DELUISE WAS IN THE 21 JUMP STREET MOVIE

rumpledlacey:

Like, I HAVE to see it now!! Despite adoring Johnny Depp I didn’t want to see it because you know the movie will be shit because the trailer was shit and they destroyed the original TV show which you know, was and will always remain AMAZING!!! But if Peter Deluise made an appearance I will HAVE to see it because he is just so awesome words cannot explain.

Hanson and Penhall back together…. one last time… I can’t even.

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(Source: rumbelleinwonderland)

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shutupaubrey:

the only aisle i’ll be walking down is the alcohol section of my local grocery store

lolz, my life

(via cobaingrrrl)

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How can you be 19 one day and gone the next?

How does that happen? I can’t even begin to fathom it. 

It’s not like we were best friends. In fact, we rarely saw each other in high school. We only hung out in middle school because we had a mutual friend. I kept up with her, though, like you keep up with all your acquaintances. I knew she danced. Oh, she’s going to university. That’s nice. You continue on with your life, move on to the next problem set, reply to a few texts, rinse, repeat. 

It’s so strange to think that she’s gone. It could happen to me, you know. We don’t expect it, but it could happen to any of us. 19 one day, gone the next.

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wearenottrayvonmartin:

I am not Trayvon Martin. I am a 24 year old South Asian straight cis female. I grew up in privilege, and though I’ve encountered some racism, for the most part it’s been a blessedly small part of my life. It’s one of the perks of being a “model minority”. 
I love wearing hoodies. They have been my comfort clothes for over 10 years now. I own at least 6 at any given time in a variety of colors, colors that tend to be bright and cheery: pink, purple, yellow. Not black like the one Trayvon Martin had on that fateful night.
But the problem is, if we were both in a store, it wouldn’t matter if my hoodie was black and his was pink. I am a female, and I have lighter skin, therefore he would still be the suspect - the one who was stalked, the one who was potentially the criminal. I could be stuffing my pockets with junk food and the clerks would be still be side-eyeing him, waiting for him to make a move.
My children will never have to worry about being Trayvon Martin. They will be half Indian and half white, and that lighter skin will keep them out of a lot of trouble. But their playmates, the children of my closest friends, people that are close enough to be family - they might be Trayvon. My children might be the ones lost and grieving for their brother in all but blood. And that idea terrifies me.

wearenottrayvonmartin:

I am not Trayvon Martin. I am a 24 year old South Asian straight cis female. I grew up in privilege, and though I’ve encountered some racism, for the most part it’s been a blessedly small part of my life. It’s one of the perks of being a “model minority”. 

I love wearing hoodies. They have been my comfort clothes for over 10 years now. I own at least 6 at any given time in a variety of colors, colors that tend to be bright and cheery: pink, purple, yellow. Not black like the one Trayvon Martin had on that fateful night.

But the problem is, if we were both in a store, it wouldn’t matter if my hoodie was black and his was pink. I am a female, and I have lighter skin, therefore he would still be the suspect - the one who was stalked, the one who was potentially the criminal. I could be stuffing my pockets with junk food and the clerks would be still be side-eyeing him, waiting for him to make a move.

My children will never have to worry about being Trayvon Martin. They will be half Indian and half white, and that lighter skin will keep them out of a lot of trouble. But their playmates, the children of my closest friends, people that are close enough to be family - they might be Trayvon. My children might be the ones lost and grieving for their brother in all but blood. And that idea terrifies me.

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wearenottrayvonmartin:

We are not Trayvon Martin. My boyfriend (right) and I (left) are both white, middle-class college students. We spent most of our first dates walking downtown at night, wandering the streets in hoodies, trying to find a restaurant or coffee shop. Not once did we feel threatened by anyone who was either behind or in front of us. 
While my boyfriend and I are always worried we may be assaulted on the street for something as simple as holding hands, we will never feel threatened for merely existing in a certain place at a certain time. We may hear voices behind us mutter the word “faggot”, but no one will ever assume that we’re committing a crime just because of who we are. 
Unlike Trayvon, we can change our actions to avoid confrontations. We can pretend to just be friends while we pass by a suspicious onlooker. Trayvon did not have that option, and no one should have to wish they were in someone else’s skin just to feel safe; not when they’re holding hands, walking down the street, and not when they’re walking through a neighborhood in hopes of spending time with their father.

wearenottrayvonmartin:

We are not Trayvon Martin. My boyfriend (right) and I (left) are both white, middle-class college students. We spent most of our first dates walking downtown at night, wandering the streets in hoodies, trying to find a restaurant or coffee shop. Not once did we feel threatened by anyone who was either behind or in front of us. 

While my boyfriend and I are always worried we may be assaulted on the street for something as simple as holding hands, we will never feel threatened for merely existing in a certain place at a certain time. We may hear voices behind us mutter the word “faggot”, but no one will ever assume that we’re committing a crime just because of who we are. 

Unlike Trayvon, we can change our actions to avoid confrontations. We can pretend to just be friends while we pass by a suspicious onlooker. Trayvon did not have that option, and no one should have to wish they were in someone else’s skin just to feel safe; not when they’re holding hands, walking down the street, and not when they’re walking through a neighborhood in hopes of spending time with their father.

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Written for wearenottrayvonmartin.tumblr.com

I am not Trayvon Martin.

I am an 18-year-old Indian girl. I wear hoodies and eat Skittles and drink iced tea. I grew up in a white, middle-class neighborhood in an overwhelmingly white, middle-class town. I’m sure I’ve been judged by my skin tone before, but thankfully I’ve never been hurt my those judgments.

However, I can empathize with Trayvon in a different way: I am a woman. I don’t feel safe while walking down the street, either. I often carry pepper spray while walking home, tightly clutched in my frightened fist. I’m almost always uncomfortable while walking home at night. If a man were to start following me at night, I would probably be too terrified to think straight. Like Trayvon, I would have run. 

I would like to think the attacker would be less likely to hurt me than he would Trayvon. Maybe it would be because girls are perceived as weak, or defenseless. Maybe because there are societal taboos against violence towards women. Or maybe it would be because the color of my skin errs, heartbreakingly, on the safer side of brown. 

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When I was ten years old, my family made a home video. I narrated a tiny part of it, and they kept telling me I wasn’t emphatic enough. Of course I was excited about our house, I tried to argue, just not overexcited. In the end I caved, as any ten-year-old would. I excitedly told my cousin’s camera that our house, “68A Harish Mukherjee Road, had the MOST number of sign posts on the WHOLE STREET!” No one ever gets that excited about sign posts.  

One drunken night this spring, I was at a frat house when an argument broke out between myself and one of my hallmates. It left me furious, and as I gave in and broke down into angry sobs, a guy from my dorm took it upon himself to try and comfort me. At least, that’s what he thought he was doing. “Why are you crying?,” he scoffed as he approached me. “Crying won’t do anything.” Luckily, I had the strength left to tell him to get the fuck away from me. He backed away, fearing what the aggressive, unstable drunk girl would do next.

“Are you angry? Are you getting angry at me?” “No, of course not, Dad.” “Are you sure? You have an angry expression on your face.” By this point, I’m shaking. “Do I hear anger in your voice?” I’m fighting tears now. This is the shit that drives people insane, taking their rage out on padded walls. I imagine my fist making contact with skin, then flesh, then bone. Force equals mass times acceleration, and while I have smallish hands, my anger translates into some damn fast acceleration. I can almost see it happening, feel the knuckle of my right ring finger cracking, as it tends to do when I punch with that hand. Exhaling, I unclench my fist and paint a smile on my face. “No, that’s just my face, Dad. Of course I’m not angry.” I turn away.

And this is how I’ve learned to bottle up my emotions. (Ironic, because it’s only after a bottle or two that they come out.) I hide my tears in pillows, blankets, bathroom stalls. I put my anger… I don’t really know where. I guess we’ll find out one of these days.

“Mouth is a sawed off shotgun, at any second could pop off.” I hear you, Macklemore.

My whole life, people have been telling me how to feel, how not to feel. I’m too dramatic. Too expressive. You care too much, it scares me. Don’t emotionally invest so much, you’ll burn out quickly. Why don’t you care about this? Did you swear at me? Did you use the f-word? Your father and I have done so much for you, and you Still. Don’t. Care.

I’m done being told how to feel. If I want to cry, I’m going to fucking cry. If I’m angry, I’ll be angry. I’ll stew and snap and I might yell at you. I’ll use the word “fuck” as often as I want, thank you very much. If I don’t care about something, you can’t force me to. I have a limited amount of time and energy, and what I decide to do with that is entirely my own decision. If I’m passionate about something, I’ll get into conversations and arguments and start a dialogue about it. And I’ll be just as passionate as I want.

I know I’m very emotional. My cousins used to call me Waterworks because I cry at everything- when I’m sad, when I’m happy, when I laugh too hard, when I’m embarrassed, tired, you name it. I can go on endless rants about feminism, human trafficking, you name it. I regularly cry while reading Huffington Post articles. I’m quick to anger and just as quick to joy. Maybe I’m a lit fuse. Intensity can scare people; I know that. I understand that some people will look at me, a messy ball of raw emotions, and be freaked out, intimidated, baffled. I’m so happy to say I’ve reached the point where I truly give zero fucks about those people.

I’m proud to be an emotional person. I think it’s much harder than being jaded. Being emotional requires you to open yourself up, knowing full well that you will inevitably get hurt. The pain you feel is intensified, but so is the happiness. To me, emotion is like a drug. Feeling passionate about something- true, sweeping-you-off-the-ground passion- is the best high I’ve ever experienced. I’m damn proud of my emotions, and I’m done letting people tell me to cover them up.

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I call it an almost-abortion.

I call it that because I don’t know if it was. I’ll never know. All I know is that I took two pills; one in a state of panic in the morning, another as a relieved afterthought. I’ll never forget crying to my then-boyfriend over the phone, shaking as my stomach turned and I imagined a fetus growing inside of me. There was never a doubt in my mind that I would have gotten rid of it.

It’s unsettling to think that I was an almost-mother.

I’ve taken enough biology to know the skeleton basics of embryology. The fertilized egg is called a zygote, which then divides into a blastocyst, which subsequently implants into the wall of the uterus and becomes an embryo. None of this seems remotely real to me. I’ve studied it and been tested on it, but I can’t imagine it happening inside of my own body.

One of the ways that the morning-after pill works is preventing the fertilized egg from implanting in the uterus. I could have had the zygote inside of me. That one cell could have contained the blueprint for a miniature person, another one of the 7 billion, 98 million, 351 thousand, 888 people on this planet (at the time of publication; see http://www.census.gov/popclock/ for more recent, and terrifying, numbers).

Inside this hypothetical cell was a world of possibilities; an entire human being. He or she would have had their first day of preschool, learned to write, read chapter books, then bigger books, then the entire Harry Potter series. They would have had braces, or maybe glasses. They would go through phases where they wore all black, or only wore Abercrombie & Fitch. They would go to college; now they’re surpassing me in age. They would get their first job, get married, possibly have kids of their own. Now they’re retiring, getting those annoying letters from AARP. They have grandchildren. Maybe they live in a retirement home; hopefully not. Eventually, they die of old age. The blueprint for an entire lifetime of possibilities was within that cell, within me.

Or maybe there was nothing at all. Maybe I just released a little more estrogen into my body with those pills, a little more progesterone, and a lot of relief. Maybe I just took two pills.

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I was sitting in the Johns Hopkins library, studying for my summer Physics class. (Of course I was in the library.) Surrounded by books, paper, calculator, and frustration, I decided to screw it all and respond to my best friend’s frantic Facebook message- “CALL ME RIGHT NOW,” she said. She never used all caps.

I dialed her number like I had thousands of times before. She picked up, and, after uneasy small talk, she told me like it was a secret. Adulthood  snickered and, without hesitation, punched me in the stomach. I struggled to catch my breath.

It’s the size of a half-dollar coin, she told me. Who the hell uses a half-dollar coin anymore?The size of a big bouncy ball, she said, as if reading my thoughts. Are you keeping it? I would get an abortion so fast, no questions asked. Of course I’m keeping it, she said. I’m going to keep it and raise it. I admire her strength, even as I’m afraid for her. I’m fucking terrified.

I wouldn’t have any more attachment to that ball of cells than I would to a bouncy ball. I imagined going to a Planned Parenthood, bouncing the little ball against the floor, off the walls. Out of sight.

We’re not adults. Secret: I’m terrified of growing up. I’ve always been the youngest. I’m the youngest of my friends, until college I was among the youngest in my classes, and I’m the youngest of my cousins. I’m used to being babied. I’ve always been taken care of, whether by my parents or my friends. When you’re the youngest, someone is always looking out for you. I haven’t grown up yet, and things like this terrify me because they imply impending adulthood.

Last week, I did groceries for myself and it was pretty scary. I didn’t even buy (much) junk food, and I realized that I was buying the same tasteless organic food that my health-nut parents always buy. Doing such an adult activity didn’t feel right, though. I felt like a child playing house. At any moment, I hoped my mom would call me and tell me don’t forget the milk, can you buy some eggs too? Be safe driving home. I boarded the Hopkins shuttle in silence, groceries in tow.

We’re not adults. I can’t even legally drink yet. I don’t even know how to cook, much less how to take care of a baby. I undercooked my microwaveable Easy-Mac yesterday. She’s only 19. This can’t be happening to us.

I used to think Holden Caulfield was just a whiny bitch. I understand him so much better now, and I can really identify with what he was going through. Maybe I’m turning into a whiny bitch, but I feel like a Holden right now.

Still, curiosity manages to trump fear sometimes. Will it be a boy or a girl? Will it look more like mom or dad? Will it be beautiful? (Cue Daisy Buchanan- “That’s the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool.”) I imagine her raising a strong little girl, roughhousing with a baby boy. I imagine myself with this baby in my arms. How will it feel?

When we were kids, we would always say that we were going to be godmothers for each other’s kids. “You’re my sister, you’ll be an auntie for my kids.” I feel like I’m not ready to be an aunt yet. I’m not even done being a child.

She lived on a beautiful farmhouse in our hometown in Maryland. She had a tire swing in her front yard, or maybe a rope swing. I remember laughing and swinging together, high over the cornfields and into the sunset. “Certain things, they should stay the way they are. You ought to be able to stick them in one of those big glass cases and just leave them alone.” Preach, Holden.