Capuchin Crypt, Santa Maria della Concezione dei Cappucini
Under the church of Santa Maria della Cocezione in Rome,lies the fascinatingly morbid Capuchin Crypt, a small space consisting of 7 tiny chapels, entirely decorated by the bones of 4000 Capuchin friars, who died between 1528 and 1870.
(photos taken from atlasobscura)
Jessica Rey presents the history of the evolution of the swimsuit including the origins of its design, how it has changed overtime and the post-feminist association of the bikini symbolizing female empowerment. She refers to neuro-scientific studies revealing how male brains react to images of scantily clad women versus images of women deemed modest and what the implications of the results are for women in society.
(Note: As the OP, I disagree with Rey’s approach to putting the onus on women to alter ourselves rather than to alter the male perception of women – brain wiring has plenty to do with socialization and if we worked against the culture that fuels men’s objectification of women, women’s clothing choices would matter far less in terms of how men perceive us and determine how to interact with us).
you ever look at a kink and think “nah” then a few years later look at the same kink and go “actually yes”
if I ever see a girl in public who is clearly going for something really bold with her look (crazy hair, makeup, outfit) and looks like she’s maybe uncomfortable or nervous about rocking it, I make sure to go up to her and tell her she looks fierce. It took a lot of courage to go out like that and somebody ought to notice.
changes lives. be sure to do that at least once a day.
you’re the type of person this world needs
please watch avril lavigne’s new video it is so much worse than you are imagining as you are reading this, it is so much worse than anyone could have ever guessed it would be
Anon. I’m going to share something personal with you today. And with all of tumblr, too.
Do you see this photo?
This is one of the few photos I have left of my mother and I. And the only one that’s digital, too.
I was about four years old in that photo. Shortly after that photo was taken, I was placed into foster care because of my mother’s mental conditions and her inability to care for me. Which was fine, it was the right thing to do.
She was taken overseas to a very good mental health clinic in Paris, which is where we came from.
My mother had a lot of problems. Among them were her multiple personality disorder and her bipolar. She stayed in hospital for most of my life, and battled depression and her suicidal tendencies. She went through a lot, including electro-shock therapy. Nothing seemed to help. She was a very lost and very hurt woman.
And one day, on Mother’s Day of 2008, my foster parents received a phone call at about 1am from the mental hospital my mother was staying in.
My mother had hung herself in the shower of her bathroom. Her mental illnesses, her lack of access to me and the things she’d suffered through her life had snapped her. And she was gone.
I was thirteen years old. Nobody told me until the sun had risen. I left my room, ready for school. And then I was sat down, and I was told.
And I was numb.
I felt nothing, for months. Months, and months, and months.
I was a very good student at school. I got distinctions, and straight A’s. And all of that kind of just… stopped.
The full extent of my loss didn’t hit me until years later, when I was sixteen.
And it hasn’t stopped hurting since.
I miss my mother every day. I barely got to know her, but I knew she loved me. And I ache every time I see someone walk by with their parents, or a little girl with her mother. It’s even cost me several relationships. It hurts. I can’t take it. Can’t do it.
You know the kind of woman my mother was? Kind. Smart. Thoughtful. She was a painter, and a lover of music. We lived in Australia when I was growing up, but she always loved France. In fact, it was her name. I recall my foster mother’s comment when she met her for the first time when she came back to Australia to visit me. She said how talking to my mother was like talking to your best friend. One you hadn’t seen in years. The joy in her voice, her smile.
I can’t even remember what she sounds like anymore.
Suicide? I’ve wanted to do it. Several times. It’s been tempting. Pressure builds inside your chest, and you can’t cry anymore. You feel nothing and it’s clearly just logical to end it because there’s no point living in a void anymore.
You feel like there’s no one else out there for you. You’re alone, and nobody understands.
Anon, let me tell you.
I understand. I’ve seen both sides of this coin. Nobody wins.
I know what it’s like to want to not exist. I spend half my days pretending to be mechanical because being human and alive is just too much of a burden sometimes. But I also know what it feels like to be left behind.
After the loss of my mother, I lost three more people to suicide. One was my uncle, and two others were good friends. One of them was one of my best friend.
I don’t know who you are, Anon. But I’d like to.
I’d like to know who you are so I can stop you from feeling this way. You’re not alone. And if you are? I’ll be the first to open my arms to you.
Death is not an answer, nor by any means a door to something greater.
Death is for those who have finished in this life. We are not meant to go before our time, and especially not alone.
I’m nineteen now. If my mother were still alive, she’d be thirty-eight.
It’s too young.
You’re too young.
To you, anon, and to everyone else out there who’s ever felt this way.
Stop. Breathe. Think.
Come to me, if you have to.
Go to someone. Anyone. Please.
You’re so much more than a statistic.
You’re worth so much more than tears.
You mean so much more than every person who has ever stamped you into the ground. Called you names. Failed to accept you because you don’t fit into their criteria of human. Spurned you, or ignored you.
I know this pain. And I know what happens when that pain consumes you.
Please. Don’t go.
I don’t know you. But your life means something.
I promise it means something.
A baby has sent their story in to Momma, and wanted to share it. Momma is very proud of you for having the courage to share your story.
"What has it got in its nasty little pocketses??"
Spring/Summer 2014 campaign
Nolan Funk by Mert and Marcus
If you think that the entire point of paganism is to exclude Christian practice, then I don’t think you get to imply that they’re following a fad.
If you seriously think that christopagans are the worst things in the pagan tag, I’d like to remind you that there’s anti-Semites and white supremacists too, but looks like you forgot about them.
Along with Which deck and why.
collections that are raw as fuck ➝ zuhair murad pre-fall 2014