Latest Posts by thatonepupkai - Page 3
Iād fuck them too. Show them things that would make them feel pure- just from the amount of unholy activity.
okay bitch go ahead summon the ancient horrors from another dimension ill kiss them
How does one act when they are called a MILF??? šš Soā¦.where are my kid(s)? I did I adopt someone?š
My āØsparkleāØ is here!!!! I donāt like itā¦. ššššš¤Ŗš¤Ŗš¤Ŗš¤Ŗ
not the orange man please lads
How it is in Tennessee currently....Not to mention the fucking humidity, my fucking ass is getting swamp tits.
LETāS GO!!!! I AM FUCKING READY!
Itās literally a week till my hysterectomy and I want it done like now.šš Iām actually happy about thisā¦a surgery Iām happy to have.
Ā«š©·BEAUTIFUL PERSON AWARD! Once you are given this award you're supposed to paste it in the asks of 8 people you adore! Absolutely no pressure but. It's sweet to know someone thinks you're beautiful inside and out <3š©·Ā»
AHHHH š©·š©·š©·š©· TY!!!!
The fact Iām still like this.š
I swear that this migraine that I currently have is out to fucking kill me. I want sweet death. Itās time to take 17 benadryl to help me and see the hat man.š
black cats. rb if you agree.
Itās literally a week till my hysterectomy and I want it done like now.šš Iām actually happy about thisā¦a surgery Iām happy to have.
Ugh, my tits are fucking sore. I need John (Wick, Price or MacTavish) to hold them for me.My boobs are so swollen and they have absolutely caused my shoulders to hurt. They would rub them gently for me and help me keep warm.
I really miss him. I feel like everything has crashed down and Iām struggling to breathe.
I just want my baby backā¦
Iām so fuckin depressed, I found my dog dead from where someone hit him. Iām so sick of everything.
*doing paperwork late at night*
Price: This is homophobic
Laswell: ā¦ we are three minutes into June and youāre already on your bullshit
Price, pointing at her: Homophobic
Laswell: I HAVE A WIFE JOHN
Price: DOES SHE KNOW SHE MARRIED A HOMOPHOBE?
Ghost, sitting in the corner: I want to go to bed
I think itās very suitable, so I drew itš
Breeding as a concept? Amazing
Mentions of breeding/getting pregnant during dirty talk? Outstanding
Real life pregnancy? No. Horrifying. Never. Hard pass. Worst thing imaginable.
Once you get this, you have to say five things you like about yourself, publicly. Then you have to send this to ten of your favourite followers ( positivity is cool~)šš
Spamming your inbox and messages because I love you and youāre the sweetest ever
I absolutely don't mind you in my inbox, babe!! I like my eyes, they're a gray that reminds many folks of storms! I like the way I am with animals. I like how I am able to feed folks and keep them happy. My thighs- they're able to make pillows for my animals I like that I have semi-maternal energy.
Ā«š©·BEAUTIFUL PERSON AWARD! Once you are given this award you're supposed to paste it in the asks of 8 people you adore! Absolutely no pressure but. It's sweet to know someone thinks you're beautiful inside and out <3š©·Ā»
I LOVE YOU BABE!!! MY HEART IS YOURS!
Keep the flame going for those we have lost to suicide.Ā
Y'all are amazing. Reblog to hug the person youāre reblogging from.
Imagine you are a photographer for a well known news company, nbc, cbc, bbc, otherwise. You were handpicked to go into a war zone by your manager, to photograph and journal an ongoing conflict in urzikstan. Nervousness abound, you get on that damn plane anyway despite desperate pleas to find someone else, someone with more experience. hell, youve not done anything impressive in your career yet. how're you supposed to survive an active warzone?
this question rattles in your head the whole plane ride, through the shuddering turbulence, the security checkpoints and busy streets. Some deal was struck with people high up, and you are to embed with a group led by Commander Farah Karim and the SAS 141.
The old heads at the office, the ones to document Iraq and Afghanistan back in the day, told you to bring three things;
caffeine pills, cigarettes and Kevlar.
āļøReblogs get a fat kiss on the mouth āļø
This isnāt the 141s first encounter with media, and instantly they can tell you are green as new spring. Nervous glances and body language, you still jump at the sound of gunfire and artillery. You even cover your ears when Helicopters fly low overhead and cough at the dust ups. Vest just a smidge too big, your helmet just a bit askew and gripping on that big old camera of yours like someoneās gonna try and take it away from you. Youāre cute, they think. you're definitely going to die out here, they think. how the hell are you the reporter that's gonna be embedding with them? When you first meet to shake hands and exchange names, the biggest one looms over you.
āStay out of our way and you wont get shotā
The CIA woman, Laswell has little to say outside of the regular talking points and media trained bullshit. Youāll report it anyway. Youāre grateful to her for allowing your news agency this opportunity, thus, you the opportunity, not that being here doesn't scare you to death. You sense she does have your back though, when the grunts get rowdy she keeps them off your case with stern talking toās. Part of you is feeling like your watching generation kill unfold in real life, complete with all the unsavouriness. you sneak some pics, and take some notes. As the platoon mobilizes, the rumble of old Humvee's and APCs accompanied by the chemical stench of burning gasoline, she hands you a wooden box. You shake it, hearing it rattle. She cringes at that a bit, and you understand why when you open it. cigars? āUse these only in special occasionsā she says, with a secret smile. She only allows a rather plain photo of her in front of the canvas flap of a tent you aren't allowed into.
Farah is a fascinating woman, steadfast and straightforward, she lives for the freedom of her people. Always with her people too, her right hand with one leg at least. A sharp focus, true, deep running determination. A tried and true leader. She lets you take a photo of her and her right hand at golden hour. With the man standing guard in the background, she leans against a Humvee in the foreground, the burning cherry of the cigarette between her lips reflecting in her eyes like fire, Kalashnikov propped up on her hip. She lets you fire it too, as the evening goes on. Your shoulder is bruised for the next five days. She finds great humour in this.
You only get initials from the SAS men. You were warned they would be highly secretive, not like the grunts who love to talk. you donāt even get names, just ranks and nicknames, even the nicknames are pushing your luck. They laugh at you when you jump at every blast, genuine glee as they gladly take the cigarettes you have on hand as peace offerings and relax as if the bombs were simply no biggie. To them, they probably werenāt. Just another Tuesday. "how the hell did you end up out here? don't seem up to it" the one with the mohawk asks, leaning back as if he were in a beach chair at a warm, sunny resort. the way the smoke floated up through the air in the sunshine made it almost seem like he was. "i think my managers are trying to off me or something man" you exhale, voice shaky as more heavy gunfire makes you jump.
Before it all happened, just when they got the orders they were to head straight into a city held by the enemy, it surprised you a bit when the one Sargent seemed almost angry that your vest didnāt fit properly. he demanded tape to make it fit better. Applied it his damn self too, taping the vest up gruffly and patting it to make sure there was no spaces between the vest and your body. Now they lead you around the war zone by the scruff of your Kevlar, its like leap frog. one is manhandling you behind cover as you do your job taking pictures of the bombs and guns and bodies, before another directs you a whole different way. you cant help but feel glad for it though. the guidance through this new world is welcome. in a way, you relate to dante in that moment, these men, your virgil. lead me to the centre of hell itself, you think, snapping a picture of them riding the lightning of combat as if they never knew anything but. you imagine they will.
Does anything really prepare you for the smell of war? Is it covered in their training? Chemicals, fire and copper. Stench of bodies left to rot, dissolve in dark fluids under the hot sun. shit. ammonia. dust. Followed by the hours of driving, driving, driving. Sitting, sitting, sitting. Thinking. They donāt let you look at the bodies you pass on the roads too long, yanking you back from the windows. The SAS guys talk to you in exchange for their nicotine hits, over brown pouches of food. trivial shit, stories and banter mostly. In the low light of the evening, the skies dusky pink over the mountains, you scribble in your little journal, leaning against the metal door of the humvee. the first thing you write? MRE's suck.
Sargent G, āGazā, is strikingly handsome. You canāt help but let that be your first thought, after he yanks you behind cover and knocks you off balance. āStay out of sightā he hisses. āYes. Sorryā that was your first meeting. You meet again just minutes later, ducking together behind a concrete median. The dust in the air is making you sneeze, and he pats your back wordlessly. Thatās when you hear more shots, and the sickening sound of a ceramic plate cracking, a man hollering in pain. Gaz wastes no time yelling for suppressing fire, running out into the open to drag this fallenā¦ you canāt even call him a man, just a boy really, to safety. You tail him, photographing the firemanās carry he sustains the whole way out of the hot zone. He does politely ask to see the photos you took once the man is being cared for by the corpsmen, his moans ebbing now with painkillers to ease him. Hours later and covered in dirt, exhausted, panting, downing water by the bottle he hand picks his favorite. āThis one?ā You ask, pointing to the screen on your camera. āYeah. That oneās mintā he smiles brightly. A photo of him clouded in dust, the hot sun beating down as he carries his fellow to safety. Around him, you can see where bullets strike the dirt. The other soldiers blood seeps into his own uniform.
Sargent M, āsoapā, the Scot, is the most chatty but thatās a low fucking bar to clear. you imagine he was once an extrovert and liken him to a buzzing fly, hovering with the constant request of bumming a cig. At one point during a particularly stressful, moonless night where the constant artillery fire rocks your core until you canāt stop trembling, you give up and just hand him a whole pack. he does grin at that. "bought yer-self a friend now, aye?" You lie prone, just feet apart in the arid grass, mere inches of micro terrain to protect you, and he whispers in the dark. You write by the low light of the distant fires, scribbling chicken scratch to keep up. Some call it soft balling, you call it finding the heart beating under the plate carrier. His gravelly Scottish lilt carries through the chill, you can see his breath as he talks. A man with no family ties back home and barely concealed anger at the treatment of the enemy to the civilians of urzikstan. Your blood boiled too, seeing the carnage, but it wasnāt your job to be angry, merely to witness. It wasnāt your job to criticize, make moral stances or suggestions. Your bosses probably sent you out here to be a propagandist anyway, the ethics of embedding a journalist have been in question since the early aughts. it was hard to say nothing, do nothing, but your job was to keep your fucking mouth shut and document. Document you did. Descriptions of true atrocities float into the dark and onto the page, your mind conjuring the images. A glimpse into the abyss. You take a picture of him there, lying on his side in the sand. These men donāt smile for photos, but he gives a thumbs up, your arm extended into the picture as you light his next cig of the night. Maybe youād get one to smile for your camera someday.
You meet the lieutenant in the morning. You donāt get an initial. Sargent M tells you his nickname is āghostā. The first thing he says to you is that if you try to take a picture of him, he will destroy your camera himself. You heed the warning and keep him out of your shots, much to your disappointment. Guys a fucking tank. Heās massive. He wears all black, now spattered brownish from dirt. Heās the only one who wonāt accept your cigarette peace offerings. And the mask. No one will ever believe you, a guy running around a war zone in a fucking skull mask. he would be a fucking fantastic subject. But, you stay out of his way, and do your job. then there was a skirmish. hiding from the heavy gunfire in a fucking gravel ditch, the sustained stress over the last few weeks was eating you alive. Worse, your photos and notes today were turning out shit because of the tremors in your hands, throwing gas onto the stress wildfire consuming you whole. Your stress is making the others stressed, their stress is making yours worse, and you know its your fault which makes it all the more awful. caught in a Feedback loop. āLittle army humour?ā for a second, you blank. was he talking to you? too lost in your own head to notice he was right next to you. āHuh?ā you breathe, barely the sound of bullets hitting the humvees, making you flinch. he hardly moves. āwhat do you call a soldier that survived mustard gas and pepper spray?ā you raise an eyebrow. "a seasoned veteran" āthat... was fuckin awfulā you say, so why do you laugh anyway? why do you feel a bit better? "do you get used to it?" "used to what?" You pause, thinking a bit. "I know you get used to the chaos, clearly" you gesture vaguely at him. "but when?" he shrugs. "when you need to." you decide to respect his wishes not to be photographed.
The captain, you heard his call sign was bravo 6 on their radios that you probably weren't technically supposed to be listening to. Guys interesting. Has a developed a Pavlovian response to your presence, in which, he always ends up politely but gruffly asking for a cigar. Doesnāt do the caffeine pills like the sargents, drinks actual coffee. it tastes like a spurt of runny shit but its at least got a 90% chance of being actual coffee. This was about all you knew about the guy for a while because man dodged questions like matrix bullets. He was just as bad as Laswell. either stern silence or a media trained script recital. One time you bitterly joked that he could have been an actor in another life, he just hummed in the way that he always did. There is one thing you could get out of him though. A topic of conversation struck up as you jostled around in the back of the Humvee a few days back, bumping sweaty elbows with the smelly Sargent soap, ironic. āWho brought the Metallica CD?ā You had questioned, more out of boredom than anything else. Listening to Nothing Else Matters play over the shitty, tinny, borderline antique and deeply abused radio felt like a disservice not only to the song but to music as an artform. There was a shine in his eye as he looked back at you from his seat in the front. That was your ticket in. That was weeks ago.
āI canāt answer thatā he rumbles, breathing out smoke in the front seat. You pause between sips of your water. Still not answering all your questions, Youād gotten scant much out of him outside of trivial shit. He liked Metallica, and his favorite song was ONE. His favourite Gatorade was āthe blue oneā. which blue one? "the blue one". He did talk your ear off about the intricacies of cigars one morning over his absolute war crime to the taste buds coffee, but you were half in the bag from sleep deprivation alone and barely registered anything other than the fact that he was very much into the words he was saying. well, you understood why Mrs Laswell gave you those now. Creature comforts. They must be friends. You blow a raspberry, before slapping your thighs restlessly. You were running out of time, they had orders to head straight into a hot zone, casevac helicopters had been flying over all day. you needed distraction from the anxiety chewing up your gut. āAlright. I have a real heavy hitter now. Answer honestlyā you leaned in, mustering the most serious face you could. He simply hummed.
āWhat are your thoughts on the snare drum in st anger?ā You leaned back in victory as he finally cracked a smirk, you could see it in the way his beard quirked up. āTo answer your question.ā He says, after a breath to shove that smile back down. āI donāt think about the snare drum in st anger. Try my best to pretend that album never happenedā You hum, acting as if you just asked a real hard ball question and taking fake notes, just scribbling. āWould you say it sounds more like hitting a trash can with a metal pipe, or a child getting nailed in the face with a PVC dodgeball?ā The broken sound of a buried laugh signaled your victory, and you snapped your pic before he could strangle it back down. capturing the crinkle around his eyes, some teeth in the grin. he coughed and waved you away. āNo, please, get rid of that one.ā He pleaded. nah, you figured.
there was still time to snap some more, you think, taking a shaky breath.
The thing is that getting Palestine free is both very difficult but not as difficult as getting South Africa free. South Africa had more resources than Israel does, it could hold out so much longer and still the apartheid was ended by people working tirelessly and boycotting and pushing for divestment and sanctions. These methods will work for freeing Palestine too.
I know it doesn't feel like there have been many successes, but all the politicians are feeling the pressure. Pressure that we are able to sustain and even increase as we come up with new initiatives and convince new people to join.
One of the reasons they're resisting our pressure so strongly is because they know that when we see gains we will push harder, we will continue to push until the stones falling becomes a rock fall and Palestine's freedom is secured. They know if we get a taste of the power we can wield we'll turn that onto freeing Congo too. They know we're unhappy and have been for a long time and their very secure system starts to look a lot less secure when we start mobilising to change things.