Social Justice Warriors[SJWs] are the new cancer of the internet. They’re a bunch of college-age, American-centric, special snowflakes, who feel the need to dictate anything and everything like self-entitled asshole’s.
Who gave you the position of being the internet police?
Who gave you the right to decide what words are acceptable or unacceptable to use?
Who gave you the right to judge someone’s comedy or content as bad and take it away?
Who gave you the right to constrict someone’s creativity(writing, art), because you think that it’s “problematic”?
To add to that, sjws are the most racist shitholes I’ve ever seen.
You complain about racism all the time, yet you’re the one’s who look at nothing but skin color. It doesn’t matter if a character is intelligent, strong-willed, kind, or helpful. If they’re white you automatically peg them as the devil. Lupita Nyong’o won an oscar for best supporting actress and ALL I saw was people being “so happy that a woman of color won the award”. Because it didn’t matter if Lupita was incredibly talented and nailed the shit out of that role, all you assholes focused on was her skin color.
You reduce everyone down to their sexuality or race or gender, without giving a crap about someone’s actual personality or character.
You lump everyone who isn’t white into a single category(POC).
I’d rather be identified by my race, and along with that it’s heritage, and culture, rather than be called 3 ambiguous letters or words. Do you know how ridiculously offensive it is to call a person someone “of color”? Like we’re somehow different from people who are white? Like we need our own tag to segregate us from white people? YOU ARE MOVING SOCIETY BACKWARDS WITH THIS KIND OF SHIT.
Racism against white people exists; not in the West, but in other parts of the world. White people are not the majority everywhere. You think the world evolves around America? You think every place is as diverse as America?
Go to Africa. Go to the Middle East. Fuck, go to parts of Asia. Open a history book maybe. SJW’s are actually trying to call Irish people POC, when they are WHITE AS SNOW because they can’t stand the fact that white people have been oppressed in history.
POC’s can be racist against other POC’s. My Arabian boss hates Asians. My black grandfather doesn’t like Mexicans.
White people are not Satan reincarnated. POC’s are not angels. Get that through your fucking head.
And stop STOP STOP speaking for other races! You’re only making yourself look stupid and like your suffering from an extreme case of white guilt.
Stop trying to pick apart every TV show/song/movie and look for thing you might deem “problematic”.
Get some air.
Stay off the internet.
Talk to actual people. Because most of you have barely any real-world experience and you will be eaten alive with your ridiculous ideologies.
And before anyone says “Well not all sjw’s are like that”, I am going off of the majority of sjws on tumblr. And if I’ve learned anything from sjw’s, it’s that it’s totally fine to judge and generalize the majority.
( The fact that I have to say that I am a black girl to avoid getting bombarded with comments like “white cishet” just shows how appalling your “movement” has become. )
I don’t think anyone can effectively argue against this person.
That last part though….
look out world, july cinnabon flavored coffee chillatta is on his way
june matzoh ball soup
I was nervous. I had never done anything like this before.
Night had settled over the city like a cold, wet blanket, bringing with it a frosty edge that would gnaw at any exposed skin. An unpleasant time of year.
Each breath was hanged in the air before me; a burst of fresh death floating up before me. It was only visible in the headlights of the passing cars. The road would cry its quiet song, with each passing car brandishing the tears of the freshly melted snow.
I didn’t want to be out here. Doing this. My heart, the thing that pumped the blood of chance, would skip a beat every time a car slowed down. I willed them to go on. I knew I was out here. I knew what it was all for.
But, god, I did not want them to stop.
A train passed overhead. Clacking and grinding pierced the silent night, and it ground upon my nerves, setting me on edge.
Another car passed on the wet road, with its distinct howl.
The bleakness was all encompassing and consuming. I didn’t want to be here. I didn’t want to do this.
But choices have to be made, and none of them are mine.
Here I am. How bitter and husk; death swelling at the lips, as I tried to kill my insides.
Headlights had started to slow down. I had known, as soon as they had turned the corner four blocks back. But now they started to slow down.
And I needed to be dead inside. From now.
From now until I can live again.
If that ever happens.
The window buzzed down; a swarm of angry bees, screaming at me, telling me to run. A cloud of death escaped his lungs into the icy night, smoke. The voice of the devil, almost pleasant on the still air, slid out from the car, inviting me over.
The car itself was nice. Black, new and very, very expensive.
I edged forward, killing and detaching myself from it all. I became the puppeteer to my own limbs, watching from some vague distance.
"How much?" He asked.
I told him it depended on what he wanted. I had it all worked out, but I couldn’t help but boosting the prices, just to discourage him.
This was all a mistake. I didn’t want to be here, and any other way would be better.
The way his smokey breath hung on the air, sucked from the toxins grasped between his slender, immaculate hands. The way his smile split across his face like an ax wound, filled with joyous malice.
"Well, why don’t you come in, out of the cold, and we can discuss prices," he slithered. In any other circumstance, I could have found him attractive. But this made him vile.
I gave up on any vestige of hope. I gave it up then and there, as I walked around and pulled open the passenger door. It was then I gave up on me. I could feel it. The base of my everything slipped. My body felt like it was drooping through its frame, and an ache gaped wide within me. A raw crevice of defeat billowed and flared, and as I sat down in the seat, his hand slipped from the gearshift, to my thigh.
My whole kept falling and falling, away from my Now. My eyes looked up at him, but I was not seeing. It was gone. I was gone.
I had to be.
As he flicked the indicator, and pulled out onto the road, my body became nothing more than a vessel, a tool.
"What’s your name?" He queried, hissing and sly, before sucking more death from the embers of cancer.
I told him. He frowned at me slightly, before focusing back on the road.
"How much for a whole night of full service?"
I told him ridiculously inflated prices. Nearly twenty times the standard.
"You wouldn’t be boosting your prices just because I drive a fancy car, would you?" He grinned at me.
Clarifying, I told him it was not. My voice was barely a whisper on the breeze of the car’s heated air.
"So you’re boosting your prices for something else?"
I didn’t even want to be here.
Silence was my response, but he was undeterred.
"So," he pursued, before whispering my name. The same, revolting grin scrawled across his face again, as his hand moved from the gearshift again.
"Are you from around here?"
I wasn’t. I had only moved to this dreary town a year ago. I had risked everything on a chance. A hope. A dream. I had finished my book, and I was going to take it to the big city, and get it published.
Things hadn’t worked out so well though.
I didn’t tell him any of this though. I just sat there, staring at the car’s emblem, inwardly cursing myself for not realizing how little money would mean to someone who drove such a car.
His gentleman mask was well fastened, and his need for small talk ensued.
"Nothing? Well… What do you do with your spare time, other than work?"
Hunt. I scoured the streets, taking my transcript to every printer in town. My funds were quickly drying up. I only had enough for one more week’s rent, and a packet of two-minute noodles.
The Winter had made it trickier to negotiate the streets, and with that, had come even harder times.
And so here I was, in a luxury super-sedan, wearing the least I could without freezing to death, with the Devil’s hands as idle playthings.
"Not chatty, I get it," he observed, in a venomous purr, "At least explain your name."
My eyes rolled like the waves upon the rocky shore.
I explained it to him. He didn’t ask any more questions.
"We’re getting close now. My place is on the next block over."
Though I’d been hoping for it, though every fiber of my body had been willing for it to happen, when the car suddenly slipped on some black ice, I knew I hadn’t really wanted to die. There was still so much I needed to do.
The car quickly spun out, into an intersection. I couldn’t see anything but lines of light, drawn by the traffic lights. The howling of the tyres across the road was louder now than ever before. We hit something, or something hit us. Mayhem rendered me a little disoriented, as every window shattered, as the roof was almost pulled off. The car slid to a rest.
With no windows, and only half a ceiling, the cold was quick to seep in and embrace me, one last time.
I exhaled slowly. My breath was hanged in the air before me, illuminated by the light of an oncoming vehicle. I looked across at the driver. He was dead, or unconscious.
I looked back up at the headlights. The ex-expensive car was resting across the road, with my door facing the oncoming traffic. The oncoming vehicle (a truck, I quickly learned) saw the black car a little too late. When it went to apply the brakes, however, they hit the same black ice we did.
The road howled and cried, and as I watched my death; hanged in the air before me. The horn of the truck wailed and pierced through the still air like sandpaper to the nerves.
I had spent my lifetime listening to music. It had compelled me, it had moved me to tears. Music had made me, and it had broke me. And in my final moments, I couldn’t help but feel, with a tinge of sadness, that the horn’s blare being the last thing I’d ever hear was the worst tragedy of all.
Of all the beauty and the wonder and the joy, this was my swansong. It Dopplered closer and closer. The truck crashed through me instantly, but it took forever to hit.
All the while, its driver held down the bugle, its siren, its victory song.
If death hadn’t hugged me from within just moments earlier, the whole experience could have been more traumatic.
But I was already gone.
I had already left.
The truck crushed my vessel, and it joined me.
He would go on to live, of course. The Jaws of Life would pry him out. To get me out of the very, very expensive coffin, they would have to use sponges and a spoon.
By the time they tracked down my apartment, I’d been evicted, and most of my contents discarded. No track of my real name could be found anywhere. In the end, they had to go with what I’d given Him, including my explanation.
Many objected, but in the end, there was no alternative.
Upon my grave, it reads
| Unidentified body, known only as |
| August Milo Cereal |
| You know, the duo kind? |
| That has white flake things as well? |
| Yeah, that kind. Oh, you’re American? |
| Well, Milo is like nesquick, |
| only with more ‘health benefits’ |
| & better flavor. And there’s a cereal. |
| This joke is ruined if you’re American. |
| Sorry. |
(And my tombstone is ruined if you’re on mobile)
I like how the original title for The Fault in Our Stars is all poetic and then the Norwegians just translated it to “fuck destiny” and I think that’s beautiful
Aw man, I thought for sure this had to be bullshit but nope
It’s even better when you translate the whole google search page:
As someone who wants to study the human consciousness I found this very interesting.
Scott Routley was a “vegetable”. A car accident seriously injured both sides of his brain, and for 12 years, he was completely unresponsive.
Unable to speak or track people with his eyes, it seemed that Routley was unaware of his surroundings, and doctors assumed he was lost in limbo. They were wrong.
In 2012, Professor Adrian Owen decided to run tests on comatose patients like Scott Routley. Curious if some “vegetables” were actually conscious, Owen put Routley in an fMRI and told him to imagine walking through his home. Suddenly, the brain scan showed activity. Routley not only heard Owen, he was responding.
Next, the two worked out a code. Owen asked a series of “yes or no” questions, and if the answer was “yes,” Routley thought about walking around his house. If the answer was “no,” Routley thought about playing tennis.
These different actions showed activity different parts of the brain. Owen started off with easy questions like, “Is the sky blue?” However, they changed medical science when Owen asked, “Are you in pain?” and Routley answered, “No.” It was the first time a comatose patient with serious brain damage had let doctors know about his condition.
While Scott Routley is still trapped in his body, he finally has a way to reach out to the people around him. This finding has huge implications.
I recently got ticked off over a “Read the World” list that was still really centred on Western books.
Then I started thinking: what if there were a reading list of 100 books that reflected the actual demographics of the world population of 7.152 billion people right now?
Thus, behold my Listchallenge. Here are:
19 books from China;
17 from India;
4 from the US;
3 from Indonesia, Brazil and Pakistan;
2 from Nigeria, Bangladesh, Japan and Mexico, and
1 each from the Philippines, Vietnam, Ethiopia, Egypt, Germany, Iran, Turkey, DRC, Thailand, France, UK, Italy, Burma, South Africa, South Korea, Colombia, Spain, Ukraine, Tanzania, Kenya, Argentina, Algeria, Poland, Sudan, Uganda, Canada, Iraq, Morocco, Peru, Uzbekistan, Malaysia, Saudi Arabia, Venezuela, Nepal, Afghanistan, Yemen, North Korea, Ghana, Mozambique, Australia and Taiwan.
50 books are by men. 49 are by women.1 is a work of divine revelation.
Authors (roughly) reflect the ethnic makeup of their nations – e.g. the South African author is Black, not white; the Malaysian author is Malay, not Chinese; one of the PRC authors is non-Han Chinese; one of the American authors is non-white.
I’ve tried to represent a range of historical periods and the most acclaimed writers in each section. Writers presented are those widely available in English - this is why Ding Ling, Zhang Yueran and Akka Mahadevi weren’t featured: because it’s really hard to find their work. Also, a writer is only of a nationality if s/he’s got/had citizenship of the area at some point - i.e. Jhumpa Lahiri is American, not Indian.
Sure, I know this list is problematic – smaller countries, like those of the Caribbean and Oceania, are kind of wiped out. But I’m open to change this. So send in your suggestions for changes if you’ve got them!
And remember: if you’re gonna read the world, you might as well do it RIGHT.
Full list of books:
The Analects of Confucius
The Tao Te Ching of Lao Zi
The Art of War by Sun Zi
The Poems of Li Qingzhao
The Journey to the West by Wu Cheng En
Dream of the Red Chamber by Cao Xueqin
The Romance of the Three Kingdoms by Shi Naian
Selected Stories of Lu Xun
Rickshaw Boy by Lao She
The Dyer’s Daughter by Xiao Hong
Love in a Fallen City by Eileen Chang
Soul Mountain by Gao Xingjian
The Republic of Wine by Mo Yan
The Girl Who Played Go by Shan Sa
Red Azalea by Anchee Min
The Song of Everlasting Sorrow by Wang Anyi
Daughter of the River by Hong Ying
Wild Swans by Jung Chang
The Good Women of China by Xinran
The Ramayana of Valmiki
The Mahabharata by Vyasa
The Dhammapada of Buddha
The Kural of Tiruvalluvar
The Story of My Experiments With Truth by Mohandas K. Gandhi
Midnight’s Children by Salman Rushdie
A Suitable Boy by Vikram Seth
The Great Indian Novel by Shashi Tharoor
Five Point Someone: What Not to Do at IIT by Chetan Bhagat
A River Sutra by Gita Mehta
The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy
Breast Stories by Mahasweta Devi
Fasting, Feasting by Anita Desai
Inheritance of Loss by Kiran Desai
The Palace of Illusions by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni
Spouse: The Truth About Marriage by Shobhaa De
Moving On by Shashi Deshpande
The Poems of Emily Dickinson
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain
The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald,
Beloved by Toni Morrison
Letters from A Javanese Princess by Raden Adjeng Kartini
This Earth of Mankind by Pramoedya Ananta Toer
Saman by Ayu Utami
Dom Casmurro by Joaquim Maria Machado de Assis
Dona Flor and her Two Husbands by Jorge Amado
The Hours of the Star by Clarice Lispector
Songs of Blood and Sword by Fatima Bhutto
The Reluctant Fundamentalist by Mohsin Hamid
A Case of Exploding Mangoes by Mohammed Hanif
Wole Soyinka’s Death and the King’s Horseman
Half of a Yellow Sun by Chimamande Ngozi Adichie
Gitanjali by Rabindranath Tagore
The Good Muslim by Tahmima Anam
War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy
The Poems of Anna Akhmatova
The Pillow Book of Sei Shonagon
Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami
The Death of Artemio Cruz by Carlos Fuentes
Like Water for Chocolate by Laura Esquivel
Ilustrado by Miguel Syjuco
When Heaven and Earth Changed Places by Le Ly Hayslip
Beneath the Lion’s Gaze by Maaza Mengiste
Palace Walk by Naguib Mahfouz
The Origins of Totalitarianism by Hannah Arendt
Persepolis by Marjane Satrapi
My Name Is Red by Orhan Pamuk
DEMOCRATIC REPUBLIC OF THE CONGO
The Congo: From Leopold to Kabila: A People’s History by Georges Nzongola-Ntalaja
Letters from Thailand by Botan
Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert
Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen
The Aeneid by Virgil
Letters from Burma by Aung San Suu Kyi
Long Walk to Freedom by Nelson Mandela
Please Look After Mother by Kyung Sook Shin
Love in the Time of Cholera by Gabriel Garcia Marquez
The Life of St Teresa of Avila by Herself
The White Guard by Mikail Bulgakhov
Paradise by Abdulrazak Gurnah
Devil on the Cross by Ngugi wa’Thiongo
The Topless Tower by Silvina Ocampo
Fantasia: An Algerian Calvacade by Assia Djebar
The Poems of Wislawa Szymborska
Season of Migration to the North by Tayeb Salih
Song of Lawino and Song of Ocol by Okot p’Bitek
The Blind Assassin by Margaret Atwood
The Poems of Rabia Basri
Hope and Other Dangerous Pursuits by Laila Lalami
The Time of the Hero by Mario Vargas Llosa
The Dancer from Khiva by Bibish
Kampung Boy by Lat
Doña Inés vs. Oblivion by Ana Teresa Torres
The End of the World by Sushma Joshi
The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini
I Am Nujood, Age 10 and Divorced by Nujood Ali
Eyes of the Tailless Animals by Soon Ok Lee
Changes by Ama Ata Adoo
Neighbours: A Story of a Murder by Lília Momplé
Picnic at Hanging Rock by Joan Lindsay
Notes of a Desolate Man by Chu Ti’en-Wen
Picnic at hanging rock doesn’t really abide by the ‘reflecting ethnicity’. You’d need something by an indigenous Australian.
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