This is my groove today, judge me if you want.
su-zakana; hannibal color analysis | inspiration
I Know girls who are trying to fit into the social norm
Like squeezing into last year’s prom dress
I know girls who are low rise, mac eye shadow, and binge drinking
I know girls that wonder if they’re disaster and sexy enough to fit in
I know girls who are fleeing bombs from the mosques of their skin Playing Russian roulette with death; it’s never easy to accept
that our bodies are fallible and flawed
But when do we draw the line?
When the knife hits the skin?
Isn’t it the same thing as purging
Because we’re so obsessed with death
Some women just have more guts than others
The funny thing is women like us don’t shoot
We swallow pills, still wanting to be beautiful at the morgue Still proceeding to put on make-up
Still hoping that the mortician finds us fuckable and attractive
We might as well be buried with our shoes and handbags and scarves, girls
We flirt with death every time we etch a new tally mark into our skin
I know how to split my wrists to reveal a battlefield too
But the time has come for us to reclaim our bodies
Our bodies deserve more than to be war-torn and collateral
Offering this fuckdom as a pathetic means to say,
“I only know how to exist when I am wanted.”
Girls like us are hardly ever wanted, you know
We’re used up and we’re sad and drunk and
Perpetually waiting by the phone for someone to pick up and tell us that we did good
Well, you did good.
(I know I am because I said, “I am.”
My body is home)
Take your hands over your bumpy love body naked
And remember the first time you touched someone
With the sole purpose of learning all of them
Touched them because the light was pretty on them
And the dust in the sunlight danced the way your heart did
Touch yourself with a purpose
Your body is the most beautiful royal
Fathers and uncles are not claiming your knife anymore
Are not your razor, no
Put the sharpness back
Lay your hands flat and feel the surface of scarred skin
I once touched a tree with charred limbs
The stump was still breathing
But the tops were just ashy remains
I wonder what it’s like to come back from that because
Because sometimes I feel forest fires erupting from my wrists
And the smoke signals sent out are the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen
Love your body the way your mother loved your baby feet
And brother arm wrapping shoulders, and remember
This is important
You are worth more than who you fuck
You are worth more than a waistline
You are worth more than beer bottles displayed like drunken artifacts.
You are worth more than any naked body could proclaim in the shadows,
More than a man’s whim or your father’s mistake
You are no less valuable as a size 16 than a size 4
You are no less valuable as a 32a than a 36c
Your sexiness is defined by concentric circles within your wood
It is wisdom
You are a goddamn tree stump with leaves sprouting out
I grew up in a tiny, tiny little farmer’s town in Nova Scotia, Canada. Nova Scotia is a peninsula and before the ocean practically became over fished, the primary go-to was fish. Pig, dairy and other farms were important…but not as important as fishing and the ocean. Although by the time I grew into a teen fishing was no longer the main source of income for Nova Scotians, the rich heritage and culture of a fishing community remained.
I suppose, being almost surrounded by the ocean would sorta do that.
One of the things that I grew up with (that still get me side-eyed by my American friends and family, outside of dill & ketchup chips, calling it pop, timbits and maple syrup) was Dulse.
You could find Dulse everywhere and anywhere in Nova Scotia. My aunt and my mother would swarm a local farmer’s market in the Dulse section and descend upon a giant bag of it’s deep, purplish-dried leaves like seagulls spotting a crab.
Dulse? Is seaweed. Dried from the ocean, chewier than the sole of a rubber boot that when put in your mouth was like licking a salt shaker before the dulse sucked up all the moisture in your mouth and turned slimy like it was back in the sea.
My mother and my aunt looooooved this.
I could not understand why. As a child they would coax me to try it every time they had a bag and to me, each bite of it was the most salty, disgusting experience that went on and on and on and on for-rubbery-ever amen. It was like putting the entire god damn ocean in your mouth, including all the gross parts nobody wants to think about. I would screw up my face as if I’d just licked a toad and the two of them thought it was the most hilarious thing ever—giggling and tutting at me while they shoved more pieces of dulse into their mouths and chewed away.
I never could bring myself to like Dulse.
Enter the sushi.
Ten years or so ago my husband was bound and determined to introduce me to Sushi. Something, which, surprisingly where I grew up was not the norm and was not something everybody knew about.
Long story short: I adored sushi. I loved the taste of it, especially the sushi types that employed or used some sort of nori (although I am in love with sashimi too.)
I became obsessed with trying different types. But most importantly, I became obsessed with the taste of Nori. How could I eat more of it? What could I make out of it outside of sushi? What sort of flavors and soups and salads could I nom?
I eventually found a selection of nori recipes from snack-sized pieces turned into chips to other vegan and healthy wraps, soups etc that I could incorporate the nori and its rich, dense flavor into my food.
And it struck me today as I was making some sesame nori chips for myself that I was eating seaweed. Not that I didn’t know what nori was, but my brain connected to the fact it was seaweed and that lead me back on a long, meandering trail toward Dulse. And Dulse reminded me of my mother. Of my aunt. Of the two of them heads nearly touching over a bag of it, chewing and laughing and trying to coax me into trying one knowing that I thought it was the most disgusting, thing, ever.
And as I chewed happily on my toasted piece of Nori, I thought of my mother. I thought of her, laughing, her eyes smiling at me as I ate another piece of my seaweed and saying, “I knew you’d like it someday.”
this retailer sells a halal nail polish. this allows for oxygen and water to go through the nail, which makes it acceptable to wear during prayer. spread the word.
“Being a relatively modern creation, nail polish remains obviously unaddressed by early Islamic sources. But the general consensus in the Islamic community is that praying with nail polish is impermissible because of the waterproof barrier it creates on nails, which prevents the wudu ritual from being completed five times a day.” (source)
For any Muslim followers.
DON’T ACTUALLY USE THIS FOR THE SAKE OF WATER PERMEABILITY. IT’S NOT VERY EFFECTIVE.
It’s only water vapor permeable, and it’s not at all water permeable when you apply multiple coats, a top coat, or a base coat.
You should use the Tuesday In Love water-permeable brands instead! They’re completely water permeable and come in a whole ton of colors!
Here’s a test that a sister did comparing the Inglot brand and the Tuesday In Love brand on a paper towel so you can see for yourself.
please please please spread this around, I would hate for a lot of sisters to have their prayers invalidated because of something like this.