Heroin in Denver
This is a video about a girl I grew up with. She died last year, but I only just found this. I don’t think any of our other friends have seen it, and I don’t want them to relive it. So I’m going to post it here. Her story deserves to be told.
Dwales on We Heart It - http://weheartit.com/entry/53805753/via/yourpsychopony
(Source: larmoyante)
If anyone tries the “well criminals don’t follow laws” gun apologist bullshit on me, I will end you. Reports are saying the shooter obtained the gun legally. Almost all of the mass shootings this year were carried out by automatic rifles, many of which were obtained legally by the shooter, or illegally BUT from someone who had gotten it legally. If we didn’t sell these guns at all, there would be a lot fewer of them out there. Guns don’t magically appear. If there were fewer guns in America, fewer people would be able to get their hands on them. Criminals can’t get guns if there are no guns to get. In Japan, there are as few as two gun-related homicides per year. TWO. In the United States, there are more than 10,000 every year. Sixty percent of all homicides in the US take place with guns.
And don’t confront me with your Second Amendment bullshit either. What well-regulated militia was this morning’s shooter a part of? Which well-regulated militia did the Clackamas shooter belong to? Right. The right to bear arms is not the same thing as “the right to own as many high-powered hunting-grade weaponry as I want.” We need an assault weapons ban. Period.
I debated whether or not to share this story.
TW: HARASSMENT, VERBAL ASSAULT, and general asshattery stemming from being a woman in the wrong fucking place, which is apparently anywhere but your own living room.
And then I debated whether or not to put it on Tumblr…but I decided it was important. Because in my own way, I can (unfortunately) point out exactly what is wrong with men when they don’t realize how hard it is to be a woman. How we do not have equal opportunities and freedoms in everyday life. How most men, even good caring men, have no clue what we go through on a daily basis just trying to live our lives.
So here goes.
I often ride the Metro when I commute from North Hollywood to Long Beach in order to save money. I bring a book, pointedly wear a ring on my ring finger to imply I’m married (I’m not) and keep to myself.
Without fail, I am aggressively approached by men on at least half of these commutes. The most common approach is to walk up to where I am sitting with body language that practically screams LEAVE ME ALONE and sit down next to me or as close to me as possible, when the train is not crowded and there are many empty rows. Sometimes an overly friendly arm is draped over the railing behind me, or they attempt to lean in close to talk to me as if we are old friends. Without fail, the man or boy in question will lean to close and ask me
What are you reading?
Is that a good book?
What’s that book about?
This serves the double purpose of getting my attention and trapping me in a conversation. If I stop reading the book I enjoy to talk to you, random stranger, you hit on me or just stay way too close to me. If I tell you to leave me alone, you get mad at me. Because I somehow, as a woman, owe you conversation.Tonight when I boarded the train in Long Beach at 10:30pm, it started up right away. I was not on the train more than three minutes before three boys who looked eighteen sat in the row behind me and leaned over the seats into my personal space, close enough to breathe on me. The one with his arm draped over onto the back of my seat asked me—surprise— “what are you reading?” I went through my usual routine. I told them loudly and firmly that I wanted to be left alone to read my book. They got angry. I was told “Why are you going to be like that? I just wanted to talk!” His friends start laughing at me and they don’t move, telling me come on! and why are you gonna be like that? until I tell them to leave me the fuck alone, stand up, and move to the front of the car near the three other people on the train, a couple and a business man in a suit. They spend the next two stops shouting at me from the back of the car, alternating between trying to sound flirtatious and making fun of me, shouting “I bet she’s reading Stephanie Meyer! I bet she’s reading Twilight or some shit! You reading Twilight or some shit?”
They exit the train at the next stop, and I’m relieved. The train is going out of service at the next station, so we all exit to board a new train to Los Angeles. As we board, the business man steps aside to let me go through the door first and asks me if those guys were bothering me. I say yes, that it happens all the time, and he tells he’ll beat them up for me if they come back. He is a nice person who talks to me like I’m a human being instead of a walking pair of tits, and I make a mental note: This is how a real man talks to a woman on a train.
The business man and the couple exit our new Blue Line train an exit or so later, and I think my night is ending on a good note. A seemingly normal man enters the train with his bicycle. At this point I am three rows from the front of the car, another man was sitting near the back of the car, and the rest of the car is empty. Bicycle Man walks halfway down the row, and settles into the seat directly opposite me. Perfect, I think. Twice in one night.
It’s not the first time I’ve been bothered multiple times. As such, I’m still amped from the teenagers on the first train. So when this man leans across the aisle into my personal space and asks me, yes, what are you reading, I assertively but calmly tell him to please leave me alone, I am reading. The man stands up, moving to the front and muttering angrily over his shoulder that it isn’t his fault I’m pretty.
Yes. Exactly that. I am the bad person in this situation because somehow this is all my fault. I started this by being attractive. I am making a mental note to bitch about this to my friends later. I go so far as to write it down so I know I’m remembering it properly.
It is at this exact moment I realize Bicycle Man is not taking it well. The seemingly annoying but normal man a moment before is now talking to himself, becoming agitated. In my years of being bothered by total strangers, I have learned how to hold a book and seem to be reading while taking in everything around me. He is glaring at me, and says out loud in an angry baby talk voice “PLEASELEAVEMEALONEI’MREADING. PLEASE LEAVE ME ALOOOONE.”
Then he’s up out of his seat and things go from bad to worse. He begins pacing back and forth in front of his bike, alternating between screaming something about his mother being dead and calling me a slut, a hoe, a bitch. I am frozen in place. There is one other person in the car, and I’m not sure if trying to change seats will draw more attention to me or less. I trust my instincts and show no fear, doing my best to appear to be calmly reading my book, never once looking up to acknowledge the abuse he’s hurling at me. There are four stops left until we reach the main downtown station where there are lights and security officers. Those four stops are virtually abandoned, and I have no guarantee that leaving to wait for another train won’t motivate him to leave the train as well, leaving us potentially alone at a metro station platform just outside of Compton. I’m frozen in place, trying to plan what I’m going to do if he decides to take all this rage directly to me. I’m ready to kick him, scream, make enough noise that he panics and flees.
At this point he’s punching the walls and doors of the train, screaming at me. He stares me full in the face and screams
SUCK MY DICK, BITCH
YOU BITCH
YOU STUPID BITCH
YOU GODDAMN HO
IF I HAD A GUN I’D SHOOT YOU
I WOULD FUCKING KILL YOU BITCH
This went on for two stops. No one came to see what was happening. The man in the last row was as frozen as I was. I’m not angry he didn’t come to my defense. He was smaller, older, and frailer-looking than I was. Again, I was worried if I got up, I would be turning my back on him to walk down the aisle. In the state he was in, I had no guarantee it wouldn’t get physical, and I had more physical strength with my back to the window and feet in kicking position where I was. If he had chosen to assault me, I would only be making it easier for him by standing up and putting myself directly in his path. On and on, over and over, he screamed at me, screamed at his dead mother, screamed at me again.
The moment we reached the downtown station, I was out the door and down the stairs. I still had to catch a connecting train to North Hollywood, and made sure there was no sign of Bicycle Man before I entered the car. That’s when I finally starting shaking, and almost threw up. By the time I exited the Red Line and reached my car I could barely breathe and my heart was pounding out of my chest. Even now, in my own home, my hands are still shaking and for some reason the stress has made my back muscles feel cold and numb. From all the tension, I can only assume. I can’t eat anything, I still feel like I’m going to vomit, and I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t cried so much, so hard I still have the headache.
So when people (men) want to talk about “legitimate” forms of assault, tell girls they should be nice to strangers and give men the benefit of a doubt, tell them to consider it a compliment, tell them to ignore the bad behavior of men, I want them to be forced to feel, for even one minute, what it feels like to have so much verbal hatred and physical intimidation thrown at them for nothing more than being female and not wanting to share.
I just wanted to read my book.
It’s not my fault I’m pretty.
*hugs and clings* These incidents are real. I have literally been stalked by a guy in a truck, blocking off my route to work, trying to get me to ride with him.
It’s not our fault we have vaginas.
You are so Brave, woman.
“pretty” or not, it’s not your fault.
Lovely.I want to just separate myself from men entirely at this point. Fuck em all.
fucking read this shit
L.A. Woman Dies After Arrest That Included Kick in Groin
A South Los Angeles woman who had dropped her two children off at a police station later died after an encounter with officers in which one of them kicked her in the groin.
Alesia Thomas, a drug addict who feared she could not care for her children, reportedly resisted when officers moved to arrest her. A patrol camera caught police in a struggle with Thomas that included one officer stomping on her genitals, as well as additional force. Footage then shows Thomas breathing shallowly in the back seat of a police car. She was pronounced dead shortly after being taken to a hospital.
An initial official account did not mention the kick by a female officer. Los Angeles Police Chief Charlie Beck said in a statement that he wanted investigators to determine whether drugs or a medical condition could have played a role in Thomas’ death. Two witnesses said they thought police had treated Thomas fairly.
(Source: maarnayeri)
Tree of Life on Flickr.
“Ok aspiring fiction writers, if you’ve ever wondered how to write a successful novel, the secret is here: kill off your characters. Of the handful of books that won the prestigious Man Booker Prize in 2011, all 13 novels had the common theme of putting to death main characters…” Read more…
(Source: centipedefever)
An Occurence At Owl Creek Bridge
(1969)
Based on a story by Ambrose Bierce
Belle Gunness was one of America’s most degenerate and productive female serial killers. Standing 6 ft (1.83 m) tall and weighing in at over 200 lbs (91 kg), she was an imposing and powerful woman of Norwegian descent. It is likely that she killed both her husbands and all of her children at different times, but it is certain that she murdered most of her suitors, boyfriends, and her two daughters, Myrtle and Lucy. The motive was greed-pure and simple; life insurance policies and assets stolen or swindled from her suitors became her source of income. Most reports put her death toll at more than twenty victims over several decades, with some claiming in excess of one hundred. Inconsistencies during her post mortem examination; the corpse was reported to be two inches shorter than Belle’s six feet, paved the way for Belle Gunnes to enter American criminal folklore, a female Bluebeard.
Known as ‘The Night Stalker’, Richard Ramirez was born February 29, 1960 in El Paso, Texas. He is credited with the vicious murders of 14 people, mostly targeting couples where he killed the men, then raped and sodomized the women before killing them.
As a child in El Paso, Ramirez was the youngest of five children born to working class Mexican immigrants. He was described as being quiet and a loner. When he was two years old, he suffered a serious head injury and by the time he was six, he was suffering from grand mal seizures.At the age of ten, Ramirez was known to camp out overnight in local cemeteries. It is reported that his future was irreversibly impacted by a cousin who as a Special Forces Veteran from the Vietnam War, regaled him with pictures and stories about all of the Vietnamese women he had killed and tortured. His cousin is said to have taught him how to shoot, as well as how to torture a victim with a knife. He was soon doing drugs and dropped out of high school, incurring a few arrests along the way for illegal possession.
The killings started in June 1984, when Ramirez broke into the home of a 79 year-old widow where he brutally assaulted her and cut her throat to the point of near decapitation. His next attempt at murder wasn’t until March 1985, where he assaulted a woman in her garage as she got out of her car. She survived the attack and was able to give the police a description of a long-haired Hispanic man. Over the next several months, he began escalating the frequency of the attacks. Many of the survivors all gave the same description to authorities. Finally, fingerprints at the scene of one of the attacks, identified the Night Stalker as Ricardo Ramirez. His picture was placed on the front page of newspapers and was posted on the news.
The very next day, he was identified at a local Greyhound Bus station, he escaped and ran off, but was ultimately pursued by citizens who beat him to the ground and held him until police arrived.
Albert Fish was born Hamilton Fish in Washington D.C. on May 19, 1870. His parents were from a family with a long history of severe mental illness and he would prove to be no exception. He was sent away to an orphanage, where he endured severe beatings and whippings. Later, Fish said that he was the only child at the orphanage that actually enjoyed the abuse.
In 1890 he moved to New York City, where he began raping children and committing very bizarre sexual acts. He continued this practice over the next twenty years before becoming a murderer.
In 1898 he married a woman and proceeded to have six children with her. His children reportedly led fairly normal lives except for some strange occurrences. In one case, Fish asked his children to spank him with a paddle containing sharp nails. After his wife left him, Fish spent his free time writing obscene letters to widows listed in the personals section of the newspaper.
Since he worked as a painter, he was able to move across the United States at leisure. During his travels he was able to easily murder people and he later said that he had killed someone in each of the twenty-three states that he had visited during his life. Studies later showed that most of his victims were black and from poor families. It is suspected that Fish purposely targeted this demographic since racism at the time made it unlikely that anything would be done about the murders.
Modern psychologists describe Fish as a sadomasochist, a person that derives sexual pleasure from receiving and exerting pain. He frequently mutilated himself by sticking needles into himself even lighting himself on fire. More disturbing, however, is the fact that he liked to eat the flesh of his victims as well as their urine and feces.
The process of murder that Fish utilized was slow torture. He employed several types of torture devices, which he referred to as his “instruments of hell”. Each child that he kidnapped would be tied up and whipped with a belt covered in nails. His other instruments included a handsaw, meat cleaver, and various knives.
The murder that helped police to pinpoint Fish was that of Grace Budd. On May 28, 1928, Fish responded to a work ad placed by the Budd family in New York City. Despite his attraction to their eighteen-year-old son Edward, Fish decided to kidnap their ten-year-old daughter Grace instead. He convinced her parents to let him take her to a party at his home and never returned with the girl.
The Budd family heard nothing of their daughter until 1934, when Fish sent them a letter stating that he had killed Grace and ate her body after cooking it. Although the letter was anonymous, the police traced it back to his apartment building and matched the handwriting to other documents in his apartment.
Fish was finally caught and his trial began on March 11, 1935. He pleaded insanity on the basis that he had voices telling him to kill children. Numerous psychiatrists came to his defense, describing his bizarre sexual fetishes, but the prosecution contended that none of those meant that a person was insane.
The trial lasted for ten days and the jury proclaimed Fish both sane and guilty of murder. The sentencing followed with the judge giving an order for Fish’s execution. He was executed on January 16, 1936 after sitting on death row at Sing Sing prison. Some say that Fish was looking forward to electrocution as the “ultimate sexual thrill”, but this theory is disputed.
Albert Fish remains one of the most disturbing criminals in history. He admitted to committing sexual assault on hundreds of occasions and evidence has shown that he committed at least sixteen murders during his lifetime.
