Photo Set
Photo Set


(pictures: left, 7th grade Mal. Right, 8th grade Mal.)

How I Was Sexually Harassed All Through 8th Grade and Never Thought Twice About It.

The summer after 7th grade was a good one for me. I was finally a teenager (yes!), I knew it was my last year of middle school before I started the ever anticipated high school, and I was given a lot more freedom.

  It was also good for me because it’s when I “developed”. I went from barely a B cup training bra, to a high C literally overnight. I didn’t really notice much because I was still practically a kid, and it’s difficult to see your own self in that light. My mom made me get new bras, but I was so excited to shop at Victoria’s Secret like my mom always did, that I never really questioned the reason why. She let me buy all these pretty brand-new, lacy, colorful, gorgeous bras. Not only that, but she finally let me buy and wear thong panties! (Why I was so excited about that at thirteen, I’m not sure. I assume it’s because all of my girlfriends were already wearing them.)

Other than a great rack, not much more of my body had changed, so it wasn’t like I needed a whole new wardrobe or anything. Or so I thought. Then I entered the eighth grade.

EVERYONE had changed, so I was relieved to see that I wasn’t alone. However, my fellow students had changed in different ways than I had. Girls had colored their hair. Boys were no longer speaking in as a ridiculous squeaky voice. Everyone seemed a lot taller. 

At first everything was fine. We were all too busy settling in and making fun of “the baby 6th & 7th graders” to even notice each other. After a couple of weeks, though, we did. I soon realized the first thing most boys (and girls) noticed about me were my huge bazongas. It started with just staring, mainly. But then it escalated. Quickly.

Our middle school, like most, adhered to a dress code. It wasn’t too bad of one, really. Shirts that covered the shoulders. Shorts and skirts at our knees. Nothing vulgar. “Ok,” I thought, “It’s the same as last year, so I KNOW my clothes are just fine for the dress code.”

What I hadn’t thought about was how my newfound boy-hypnotizers would affect my old wardrobe. I wore mainly T-shirts, like every other girl my age, which was fine when I barely had nubbins. Now I had actual, grown-up boobs, though, which made my shirts ride up a little bit when I raised my hand, look tight around my body, and show some cleavage.

It wasn’t just T-shirts, either. My rump had also expanded significantly, so my pants slid down ever-so-slightly when I bent down at my locker, exposing the top of the new g-string thongs I was so proud of. 

Then the games started.

I call them games because that’s what they called them. The boys, that is. The girls would just whisper ‘slut.’ at me, which looking back now I can’t blame them for. I wasn’t I was exactly innocent in the “Mean Girls” years.

Anyways, the boys invented these ‘games.’ Which was apparently a blast for them, but the beginning of my major middle school woe.

The first game was called “Remind Mal of What Panties She’s Wearing All Day.” This game began when I was bending down at my locker and some boy saw what underwear I had on. For the rest of the day, I would hear,

"Lime green!"

"Hello Kitty!"

"Polka Dots!"

I just shook it off, as it really didn’t bother me too much. The games escalated, though. Boys asked me if I had breast implants because “why were my tits so huge?”

"Yeah," I would respond sarcastically, "My parents let their 13-year-old daughter get breast implants before she was even fully developed…"

They made up names, stared, and constantly talked about it. The last game they made up was the final straw. This game was called, “Ten Points If You Make This (wad of paper, button, easer, anything at their disposal) Into Mal’s Cleavage!”

The range of my emotions over these things went from embarrassed, to happy, and then to very, very annoyed. Embarrassed at first because I knew that everybody noticed, it wasn’t just me worrying. That stage passed fairly quickly, however, and I went to happiness. Happy I was ‘pretty’, that I was ‘hot’. Happy that boys were paying attention to me. The stage of happiness lasted a little longer than embarrassment, but barely. 

Then the annoyance. Even at that point I didn’t see at as ‘sexual harassment’, but moreso as the bullshit line I had been fed my whole life, “Boys will be boys!” Like this was something I just had to put up with (notice I use the word ‘annoyed’ and not ‘angry’ because I wasn’t really angry. Just annoyed at these boys throwing things at me when I was trying to study.) This was something that was just going to be a part of life for me, so I better get used to it now.

Finally, I DID get fed up, and went and told the teacher to ask the boys to stop because I was trying to get things done.

"Well, it’s your fault, you know," SHE said, “You’re breaking the dress code. You shouldn’t be wearing shirts that low-cut anyways.” Keep in mind, this was a t-shirt that was just ever-so-slightly too small for my jugs. Frustrated with this answer, I asked other teachers to just make it stop. They all had the same answer;

"It’s your fault for wearing sexy clothes."

I tried to explain that I wasn’t trying to be sexy, these were just the clothes I had. My family wasn’t exactly crazy rich. Also, I liked these clothes. I realized they weren’t any help and just tried to move on.

Then it happened. The beginning of my feminism roots before I even knew what feminism was. I was standing outside the cafeteria in a brand-new shirt I had just purchased for myself that weekend at Hot Topic. Nine years later, and I still remember this shirt. It was a slightly off-the-shoulder, red and black T-shirt that said, “I Love the 80’s”. I was so proud of it! It was sort of punk, so I felt insanely cool. Oblivious to how cleavage worked, I bought the shirt without bending over in it to see if it showed anything. Turned out, it did. Namely, a full-fledged view of my headlights in whatever bra I was wearing.

Outside the cafeteria, our vice principal, a woman, was directing the flow of students and I was waiting with a group of my friends to eat lunch, when I dropped something and bent over to pick it up.

Immediately, the boys started hooting and hollering. Embarrassed, I snapped up quickly and turned away. That’s when I saw the vice principal walking over. “Finally,” I thought, “She’s going to say something to these boys!”

No such luck. 

"Miss Craft, come with me. I’m afraid I’m going to have to write you up for violation of the dress code."

"What?! How?? My shoulders are covered and I’m wearing jeans!

My slight annoyance turned into full blown rage. Knowing not to fight with the principal, I was shouting obscenities in my mind. “How is this MY fault?? I didn’t do anything wrong! Write up these boys, not me! I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS.”

It was still my fault these boys couldn’t handle me. Not once were any of them ever told not to do this to me. I was told that boys couldn’t help themselves so I had to cover up every part of my body, and that’s not their fault.

It was an important lesson.

After middle school, I started becoming who I am today, wearing pioneer costume dresses and strangely patterned Goodwill clothes, dressing too odd for anyone to even notice my breasts. This is also when I started to really get into feminism. I realized what had happened in middle school. It wasn’t just “boys being boys” it was pure and blatant sexual harassment, and the teachers not helping were just pushing forward this stereotype.

That it was NOT my fault these boys couldn’t stop drooling. This was the first realization had that we should be teaching boys not to stare instead of telling girls how to make them not stare. Relating now to teaching boys not to rape instead of how girls should defend themselves against it. I want no other little girl to ever go through that.

(via approach-fangirls-with-caution)

Source: ma11ory

I almost died at this one




So I went to my town’s library for the first time in over a year and I found this poster. Just omg

  1. knock out the librarians 
  2. take poster
  3. run 

4. Copy and distribute to the world.

(via thewolfywithapiano)

Source: selfchromfidence






(via jackthevulture)

Source: clickzis





Don’t Think it Matters When You Throw Your Gum Onto the Ground? Stuck Hummingbird Begs to Differ

This is really important. Besides the fact that small animals can become stuck in gum larger ones often choke on it or have their mouths obstructed by it.

Humans may be able to pass gum through our systems but most small birds, reptiles, and mammals can’t. Gum looks and smells a lot like food to other animals and it can mean their demise if they try to swallow it. 

It only takes a few seconds to wrap your gum up and put it somewhere responsible, you could just save a life. 

I never would have thought gum of all things could fuck up a hummingbird. Guess it isn’t just gross- for the wrong critter it’s dangerous.

Why the hell can’t people just throw their trash in the proper receptacle?

(via jackthevulture)

Photo Set


“The closer he looks at the child, the less he sees … The more he looks at it, there’s nothing there. He fears that the more you look at him the less you see. There isn’t anything there.” - John Hughes

i always wondered what the fuck this scene was about

(via ribbonlace)

Source: davidfincherings
Photo Set



Although they do look cool under a UV light and is suitable for those who want a tattoo without the social consequences, the ingredients used for a UV tattoo aren’t 100% safe. There has been reported numerous cases of skin rashes, blisters and infection. These is some concern that they may contribute to cancer because they contain phosphorous.  (Source & More Information)

(via sixpenceee)

Source: sixpenceee

Photo Set


Silent Hills (2015)

(via vildeveihlo)

Source: elagabalus