Photo Set




:(….. :’(

Whoever made this gif and posted it is mean!

(via ageekyfemmeforeveringlasses)

Source: better-than-kanye-bitchh
Photo Set



IMPORTANT : I just wanna point out that its STEVE who gets the flirting started between him and Sam at the beginning of the movie.  Sam is just moseying around the mall, going for his run, and this hot guy continually blazes past him had just has to rub it in that he’s totally outrunning him.  And then it’s Steve who stops to chat, makes a teasing little comments, offers friendly competition, and then THIS SHIT RIGHT HERE.  “Oh, that’s how it is?”  Steve, you tryin’ to fuck.  We see right through you.

As the movie progresses, it’s always Steve that seeks Sam out.  He goes to the VA to visit him (just to visit, apropos of nothing), shows up at his fucking apartment when how does Steve know where Sam lives? 

Upon my initial viewing of Cap 2 I really saw it as Sam fawning over Steve, but when I think about it, they’re definitely in mutual like but it’s really Steve that’s got a crush on Sam.  Wants him in his life.  I think the fandom has caught on to this as well because the influx of fic I’ve been reading features a lot of Steve being the aggressor towards Sam, and I like that.  I love it.  I want some more of it.

the bolded is the most important sentence in that whole thing yo

(via queerly-it-is)

Source: puppysteves

Meet G. Willow Wilson, the Muslim Woman Revolutionizing Superhero Comics


Vulture Magazine interviews Willow Wilson, a Muslim comic artist who created the female Muslim superhero Kamala Khan for Marvel. 

Kamala Khan is a 16 year old child of immigrant parents from Pakistan living in Jersey City who, like any other superhero, fights bad guys and saves the day. Equally as interesting as Kamala is her creator, Willow Wilson, who resembled the average white woman - before she converted to Islam. 

Muslim superhero comics are nothing new— Naif Al-Mutawa from Kuwait created the 99, a group of Muslim superheroes from around the world that resemble all of Allah’s 99 traits. 19 year old Deena Mohamed created the Muslim veiled superhero Qahera who fights social problems affecting women in Egypt. But what Miss Kamala Khan represents is one of the first mainstream Muslim superheroes in the United States

I am so happy to have these comics to show to my little cousins who love superheroes but get depressed cause little to none of the mainstream characters represent them. But this Miss Marvel, the 99, Nighrunner, and even Dust (I think she’s bamf) make me happy because I can show them characters who aren’t the usual 1950s cookie cutter superhero and they become interested. Which makes them want to read more comics and even start to read/write their own comics.

(via muslimwomeninhistory)

Source: aslanmedia

Should I just take the chance and move out west?
Nothing is working out over here and there is no one and nothing to look forward too.
Maybe moving out west to California wouldn’t be so bad.
It’s a fresh start.
What do you guys think?


Hawa clutched the steering wheel hard as her panic attack started to subside, she counted backwards forcing herself not to think of what her father had said before she had pushed him and ran out of the house.
‘You’re okay.’
She slammed the glove compartment when she realized she had no Kleenex and used her sleeves instead. After a few minutes of breathing she realized she had driven an hour outside of her city without her purse, just her keys and phone.
“Great.” She sighed, wiping her nose and getting out of her car. Hawa was used to panic attacks, she had had them since she was sixteen, but it was when she would go to her room or bed room and her br-
Point is, she had never driven while having a panic attack. She got out of her car and looked around, she was the only parked car in the lot of what appeared to be business centers and shops. It was a quiet place with barely any people walking around. She checked her phone and noticed eleven missed calls from her parents, including four voice mails.
Hawa looked around the dessert parking lot before putting the voice mail on speaker phone.
“Hawa, come home right now. You are not-“
Hawa deleted the message from her mom.
The second came from her father.
“Hawa, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean -’”
She deleted that one too.
“Hawa, please can we-“
She deleted all of them.
Including the incoming call from her parents.
She could feel the anger and hurt bubble in her chest and tighten as the words her father threw at her came back to her.
‘It wasn’t his fault!’
‘Of course it was his fault! That devil is in hell where he belongs! As do you! You should have gone with him!’
Hawa sniffed and laughed bitterly when she noticed she was starting to cry again. She felt so empty.
“YOU HAD TO LEAVE ME!” she shouted into the dark cloudy sky, tears pouring down her face. “YOU HAD TO LEAVE ME WITH THEM?! I’M THE CRAZY ONE THE ONE WHO LASHES OUT AND HURT PEOPLE! YOU WERE THE ONE THAT ALWAYS CARED! YOU PROMISED!” Hawa screamed grabbing her hair and pulling it. She didn’t care if people where watching from inside the buildings, she didn’t care that someone was video tapping her freaking out and planning to upload it online. She was done.
“I HAD YOU! ONLY YOU!” she screamed, hoping her faith in Allah would jump start right about now. That she would feel something that signified someone was there for her.
But she didn’t .
“Allah help me, I had only him. Why did you take him away from me?” she cried into her hands, leaning against her car and sliding down till her but hit the gravel.
To describe the feeling when you lose the only thing, the only person, in your life that matters, along with your hope, your faith, and your trust with not only your family but yourself.
It isn’t possible.
To have a word that could mean lost, broken, gone, confused, and heartbroken all at once.
Allah forbid, there even could be a word that meant all that.
Hawa ignored incoming call. Not even looking at the ID, she didn’t care anymore.
“Are you okay?”
Hawa jumped, she squinted her eyes and looked up to see a man. He was black and looked to be in his fifties or sixties. She noticed the collar around his neck: he was a priest or a pastor of some kind.
She had the audacity to look up at the sky. ‘Not funny.’ She couldn’t help but sneer at that.
“Miss?” the man stepped forward, offering his hand. She took it mumbled a soft ‘thanks’. “I saw you parking, I didn’t mean to bother you but my daughter said she saw you crying.” He pointed to the building behind them. “My church is over there. Are you alright? Would you like to come in and talk?”
Hawa shuffled closer to her car and sniffed, “No,” she shook her head. “No thanks. I’m good.” She smiled, knowing how she looked, he probably didn’t believe her. She could only imagine how red and puffy her eyes and nose looked.
“Do you want to sit here and talk?” the man offered gently. “I’m Pastor Howards.”
Hawa bit her lip, not sure if there was a way to run out. “Hawa.” She breathed out, “I’m Muslim by the way.”
Pastor Howards smiled, “I won’t hold that against you.” He laughed; he put his hand to his heart, “If it makes you feel any better, my church partners with the local Masjid for their holidays. We do fundraising together and camps for the kids.”
Hawa looked down, smiling a bit. That was comforting.
“May I ask why you didn’t go to the Mosque or talk to your Imam if you needed to talk?”
Hawa bit her lip, crossing her arms as she did so. She looked down at her clothes; a baggy sweatshirt and harem pants and flip flops. “Not really dressed for the Masjid.” She quipped. “I wasn’t really planning on going anywhere really. I just had a panic attack and found myself here.”
“You drove while having a panic attack?” Pastor Howard asked, concern filling his voice. “Are you alright?”
“No.” Hawa answered, voice already beginning to waver. “I’m not.” She kicked some bits of grovel. “I-, I used to be a good. I mean, I’m still good- I think.” She rubbed her arms, “My parents make it hard for me to believe that, but I think it’s partially true. I just given up on myself a long time ago is all. My religion, my confidence, my trust. Pretty much everything.”
“Your faith included.”
“Right.” Hawa pressed her lips together.”I never considered myself a good Muslim, which is weird because I do what we’re told to follow in the pillars. I pray, I fast, I read the Qur’an, I’ve done Hajj, and I donate, and I abstain. But I never had the heart for it, I still don’t.” she confessed. “I do it because I have to, not because I want to.”
Paster Howards nodded slowly, “Do you believe in Allah still?”
Hawa looked up, “No, I want to say I do, but not now.”
“Why not now?”
“I used to cut.” Hawa confessed, it was a odd thing to say verbally to an actual person. She had only told two other people her whole life. “It was a thing I used to do because I would just lash out and cutting down people to the point where they would cry wasn’t good enough for me, so I cut.” She bit her lip hard, not sure how to continue.
“Here.” Pastor Howard offered her a tissue.
She blew her nose, “Thanks,” she cried softly. “I wasn’t an easy child or teenager to live around.” She continued. “I just was so angry all the time and I still don’t know why.” She rolled the tissue in her hand as Pastor Howard nodded his head.
“Did your parents ever complain?”
“Yes.” She chuckled, “We had, still have, a tumultuous relationship. I moved out three years ago and that somehow made it worse. I only had one person in my life who was constant, despite everything. My brother.”
Pastor Howard frowned, “Had?” he repeated the word softly, already knowing the answer.
“He died, three days ago. Committed suicide, with just a note to me.” Hawa cried, the anger and sadness coming on stronger now. “I’m sorry, that was it, that’s all he said to me. I’m sorry.” She cried, Pastor Howard pulled her into a hug, “He was always the one care about others, the one that made sure you talked out your feelings because he knew it was bad to hold it in, he was the one who took the crap from my dad while I would just go on the rampage. He was the calm one, the nice one. The actual good one.” She cried into his shoulder. “And now I have to deal with a father who is saying that he’s in hell now. That his only son, I shouldn’t say son.” She gulped, “He stopped calling us his kids a long time ago, he just keeps saying that Ali is in hell and that I should have gone with him. That we both should have died a long time ago.”
Pastor Howard’s face softened a bit, “I’m sorry for your loss.” His fingers hovered over her wrists, “May I?” he asked softly.
Hawa closed her eyes and nodded, feeling the cool summer air on her wrist as he pulled her sleeves up revealing the new healing scars she had cut into her skin just yesterday.
“Seven years down the drain.” She said without emotions. “He was my rock. My brother who helped me quit and live and I couldn’t save him. I didn’t even know he needed saving.” She could feel her panic attack start up again. Her breathing becoming labored and short with every breath she tried to take.
“Hawa? Hawa, you‘re safe. You need to breathe slowly. One at a time.” Pastor Howard advised holding her hand. “You’re safe.”
It took ten minutes for panic attack to subside.
It was getting better she decided.
She felt someone press a glass of cold water into her hand.
“Here you go honey.” The woman smiled gently at her, her dark brown eyes looking at her worriedly, “Are you sure you don’t want to come inside?”
“Yes Ma’am, I’m sure.” Hawa sniffed. She raised the glass slightly, “Thank you.”
Pastor Howards nodded back at the woman and kissed her on the cheek, “I’ll see you inside.”
Hawa was on the ground yet again, she sipped slowly on her water as Pastor Howard decided to join her on the ground. “Welcome to the bottom of the pit.” She huffed, rubbing her eyes.
Pastor Howard chuckled, “It’s comfy. Gives you a moment to lick your wounds, rethink, and then you get up.” He looked at her. “No one stays down forever.”
She shrugged.
“How are you feeling?”
“Mad, lonely, upset, hurt, disappointed.”
“Disappointed in your brother?”
Hawa shook her head, “In Me. I should have called him, text him, Something.” She mused, combing her fingers through her hair. “I should have talked to him.”
“He may have not wanted to talk to you.”
Hawa wiped her nose, “I know.” She looked gutted, “I think that’s the part that hurts the most, the fact he could have talked to me, but he didn’t . We’ve seen each other at our worst and best. He knows I would never judge him. I need him too much to ever do that, to hurt him like that. But he still left and now the only thing I’m thinking about is myself.” She shook her head, “Even after his death I can still be a self absorbed prick.” She muttered.
Pastor Howards shrugged, “You said he was your rock.” He rubbed his hands together. “Did he talk to you about his problems?”
Hawa shook her head, “No, not really. Talking to Ali about his problems was like pulling teeth.” She smiled fondly, “May Allah bless his soul,” she sniffed again, “One night he wouldn’t talk about the stress he was going through at work, it took three hours and a two pints of ice cream and we finally got to talking…about my horrible roommate and how I have trust issues.”
Pastor Howards let out a loud laugh, “Sounds like your brother was quite the diverter.”
Hawa’s eyes went wide and smiled back, “Yeah, definitely. He was the king of procrastination and diverting his own problems.” She went sober. “Until I guess it all caught up with him. Whatever ‘it’ was.” She rubbed her face. “He always protected me; always made me talk about whatever was bothering me. And now…” she covered her face. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Where is your family in all this?”
“Divided but together.” She answered slowly. “My dad and a few of my uncles and aunts aren’t really upset about his death. They think since he killed himself he doesn’t deserve our sympathy or love. They didn’t even want to make dua for him; they say he doesn’t deserve it. Having to hear your own brother is in hell, rotting for his sins isn’t something you can sit through quietly.”
Pastor Howards shook his head, “No,” he looked pensive, “No you can’t.” he said roughly. “What about your mother?”
“She lost a son. She’s in mourning. Along with my uncles, aunts, grandparents, and cousins. We all are. It’s just, those few, those few hateful spiteful people make it more harder for the rest of us.” She swallowed. “I told my dad if anything that Ali was in Jannah, he might not have lived up to their standard of what a son is. Who can?” she breathed out. “But he was good, inside and outside. A good brother, a good son, a good friend, and a good Muslim. My dad shouted at me saying I knew nothing, that I was going to hell with Ali for being such a burden on him. He told me, that I was a waste of space and that I would never amount to nothing because I am nothing as was Ali. That if he had his way, we would have never been born, that Ali was a waste of a life and that he was where he belonged.” She rubbed her legs, feeling the numbness spread down to her toes and stretched a bit. “I told he was going with us, my mom had to get between us to stop him from hitting me. He told me to apologize and I told him no. He doesn’t deserve my apologies, my tears, nothing. I told him I would apologize to Allah only, and if Allah is truly forgiving, truly merciful and all knowing he would know what Ali was thinking those few days. He would forgive him for feeling like there was no way out. Allah wouldn’t be spiteful and cruel to someone who was suffering quietly.” Hawa wiped away her tears forcefully, “I believe that.” Smiled tearfully. “Ali was my other half, my twin brother. I want to believe that he’s happy because…” she clenched her fists together tightly, her lips trembling as she tried to control herself. “Because he deserves it.” She croaked, breaking down again.
She found herself being hugged by Pastor Howards, “Hey, hey. This wasn’t your fault. I know you want to believe you could have stopped him but you didn’t know, all you knew is that you were someone he could trust, someone that he knew would never break him.” He pulled her away at arm’s length and forced her to look at him, “And even after everything, you’re still protecting him. He knows you love him.”
Hawa nodded half heartedly. She could hardly see anything through her bleary teary eyes as the Pastor helped her up.
“Is there someone I can call for you?”
Hawa laid back against her car, she pulled out her phone deleting all twenty-six missed calls and seven voice mail alerts. “No.” she licked her lips, “Not right now.”
He handed her a small card, “My business card. If you ever need anything, don’t hesitate.” He offered gently.
Hawa nodded, she bit her lip hesitant about hugging him bye after everything, but did so anyway. “Thank you.” she said, she pocketed the card and slowly got into her car, making sure that her breathing was under control.
Forty minutes of driving later she found herself parked outside the gates of the graveyard her brother was buried.
She sat on top of her car for a few minutes, not really ready to go near the grave stone again.
“Thought I would find you here.” a male voice broke out.
She turned to see her older cousin walk towards her. “Nabil.” She nodded. “I’m not talking to you about it.”
Nabil nodded, he clapped his hand together, “That’s fine.” He climbed on top of her car and sat next to her. “You lost your brother, as did I.” he shrugged, “I don’t want to talk about it either.”
He waited five minutes before speaking, “Are we just going to sit here?”
Hawa rubbed her stomach, feeling the churn burn through. “Yeah. If that’s alright with you.” She wasn’t ready to face Ali yet.
Nabil looked thoughtful for a moment before shrugging, “Yeah.” He tapped his fingers against his knees, “Do you want to talk?”
Hawa sucked in her cheeks, thinking over her relationship with Ali. She always did wear her heart on her sleeve, maybe it was time to take a bit off. “Do you? I mean Ali was basically your brother too.”
Nabil scratched the side of his head, he looked touched at the idea that Hawa would share her time with him. “Yeah, yeah.” He repeated, “I don’t mind talking about it.”
Hawa turned towards him, “Okay,” she smiled gently, “How are you holding up?”



Allah blessed us with the maxi skirt trend and then shaytaan ruined it by making them all sheer with slits down the side.

(via bludgeonings)

Source: hannahsails









Just remember. There is no such thing as a fake geek girl.
There are only fake geek boys.
Science fiction was invented by a woman.


Specifically a…

Source: jackthebard
  • Question: So today right after social psych a girl in my class asked me "where are you from again" so I say I'm Eritrean and she starts flipping out, literally screaming at me about "OH MY GOD WHAT IS THAT WHERE EVEN IS THAT HOW DO YOU SAY IT OH MY GOD I CAN'T BELIEVE I DON'T EVEN KNOW A COUNTRY!" So I ask her how many countries there are in Africa, she has no clue, I clue her in, she's still really loud about "that's so FOREIGN OH MY GOD" And I just say, "There's a nice way to do this," and walk away. - toonzle
  • Answer:

    She may have been laughing while yelling but it still made me really uncomfortable and I was stuck between hitting her and running away. Fucking white people. She’s also Italian and I wanted to bring her down a notch and say her people are among those who colonized my country, but I just couldn’t stand her yelling.

    Hmm, this seems familiar. Why is it all ways the freakibg Italians?!

Source: whitepeoplesaidwhat




Father left child in the car for 8 hours. He forgot that his kid was there. No arrest was made.

Compare that to homeless Black mother doing the same thing for a much SHORTER time

It’s so obvious.


Da fuck?!

(via qbits)

Source: whatwhiteswillneverknow



Don’t fuck up Polynesian culture

Don’t fuck up Polynesian culture

Don’t fuck up Polynesian culture


They didn’t even SHOW Sami people in Frozen. If they’re gonna fuck up any poly culture in Moana, it’ll be in a totally different way.

(via korraisnottan)

Source: lizaxchan