Some DC girls redesigns! An extension to the street wear Super heroines thing I did awhile ago. Unfortunately missed the Project Rooftop redesign contest, but these have been floating around in my head for awhile. I also get a lot of questions concerning the brushes I use for these character portraits. I use 2 brushed in my set to do them, and here they are!
I love the worlds of comics and video games, and I’ll probably be doing more like these :)
The Harley redesign is largely influenced by Kris Anka’s work!
As I’ve already told you, these are such lovely designs! Adore all of them
Real Christians are legitimately good people.
seeing people spread real Christianity makes me so happy.
She should have found some other dress cause she looks like a whale.
I hope karma is instant for you blogger. She’s pregnant with twins. Get a life and possibly a soul.
She looks amazing.
Elsa Pataky is married to Chris Hemsworth, pregnant with his second and third child, dressed in a designer dress and present at the oscars while you’re at home behind a computer screen typing rude comments about her? Yeah, I think we know whose more successful in this picture. You’re body shaming isn’t going to keep her up at night. Banging her hot husband is.
Reblogging for those amazing comments.
banging her hot husband is
best comment ever.
oh yeah how dare a woman not conceal her pregnancy for you
like actually why do you give a fuck if she wore a burlap sack or a goddamn tutu? she liked it. she felt confident enough to wear it.
Louise is seen as so strong but I saw her as unravelling and eventually she had to be punished because she had this sense of morality, which isn’t in the normal revenge film. There had to be some kind of payment to the fact she took a life, and she operates under a completely different system than in a revenge film. She always felt really fragile to me, and I find it almost ironic that we’re seen as these ball busting icons for female liberation and it just goes to show you what ordinary people can do in extreme circumstances.- Susan Sarandon
Von Follies by Dita Von Teese // Valentine’s Day 2014 (x)
it always disappointed me that Monster Girls are an anime porn thing rather than something used to explore the way society and the media dehumanises women, but oh well
shout out to all my fellow monsters
When I was seventeen and preparing to leave for university, my mother’s only brother saw fit to give me some advice.
“Just don’t be an idiot, kid,” he told me, “and don’t ever forget that boys and girls can never just be friends.”
I laughed and answered, “I’m not too worried. And I don’t really think all guys are like that.”
When I was eighteen and the third annual advent of the common cold was rolling through residence like a pestilent fog, a friend texted me asking if there was anything he could do to help.
I told him that if he could bring me up some vitamin water that would be great, if it wasn’t too much trouble.
That semester I learned that human skin cells replace themselves every three to five weeks. I hoped that in a month, maybe I’d stop feeling the echoes of his touch; maybe my new skin would feel cleaner.
It didn’t. But I stood by what I said. Not all guys are like that.
When I was nineteen and my roommate decided the only way to celebrate the end of midterms was to get wasted at a club, I humoured her.
Four drinks, countless leers and five hands up my skirt later, I informed her I was ready to leave.
“I get why you’re upset,” she told me on the walk home, “but you have to tolerate that sort of thing if you want to have any fun. And really, not all guys are like that.”
(Age nineteen also saw me propositioned for casual sex by no fewer than three different male friends, and while I still believe that guys and girls can indeed be just friends, I was beginning to see my uncle’s point.)
When I was twenty and a stranger that started chatting to me in my usual cafe asked if he could walk with me (since we were going the same way and all), I accepted.
Before we’d even made it three blocks he was pulling me into an alleyway and trying to put his hands up my shirt. “You were staring,” he laughed when I asked what the fuck he was doing (I wasn’t), “I’m just taking pity.”
But not all guys are like that.
I am twenty one and a few days ago a friend and I were walking down the street. A car drove by with the windows down, and a young man stuck his head out and whistled as they passed. I ignored it, carrying on with the conversation.
My friend did not. “Did you know those people?” He asked.
“Not at all,” I answered.
Later when we sat down to eat he got this thoughtful look on his face. When I asked what was wrong he said, “You know not all guys do that kind of thing, right? We’re not all like that.”
As if he were imparting some great profound truth I’d never realized before. My entire life has been turned around, because now I’ve been enlightened: not all guys are like that.
No. Not all guys are. But enough are. Enough that I am uncomfortable when a man sits next to me on the bus. Enough that I will cross to the other side of the street if I see a pack of guys coming my way. Enough that even fleeting eye contact with a male stranger makes my insides crawl with unease. Enough that I cannot feel safe alone in a room with some of my male friends, even ones I’ve known for years. Enough that when I go out past dark for chips or milk or toilet paper, I carry a knife, I wear a coat that obscures my figure, I mimic a man’s gait. Enough that three years later I keep the story of that day to myself, when the only thing that saved me from being raped was a right hook to the jaw and a threat to scream in a crowded dorm, because I know what the response will be.
I live my life with the everburning anxiety that someone is going to put their hands on me regardless of my feelings on the matter, and I’m not going to be able to stop them. I live with the knowledge that statistically one in three women have experienced a sexual assault, but even a number like that can’t be trusted when we are harassed into silence. I live with the learned instinct, the ingrained compulsion to keep my mouth shut to jeers and catcalls, to swallow my anger at lewd suggestions and crude gestures, to put up my walls against insults and threats. I live in an environment that necessitates armouring myself against it just to get through a day peacefully, and I now view that as normal. I have adapted to extreme circumstances and am told to treat it as baseline. I carry this fear close to my heart, rooted into my bones, and I do so to keep myself unharmed.
So you can tell me that not all guys are like that, and you’d even be right, but that isn’t the issue anymore. My problem is not that I’m unaware of the fact that some guys are perfectly civil, decent, kind—my problem is simply this:
In a world where this cynical overcaution is the only thing that ensures my safety, I’m no longer willing to take the risk.
|—||r.d. (via albinwonderland)|
'I have the loveliest first impression of Marilyn. She was a darling- sweet,quiet, and hardworking, and dedicated above and beyond the call of duty. She cared at a level that went beyond what we usually see.'
-George Chakiris (worked with Marilyn in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes)
An open letter to patriarchy - Crash Course Literature (x)
My freshmen LOVED this part today.
that’s the face of someone who just shit themselves
If you think common sense is all it takes to navigate oneself in a giant martini glass, let me tell you something: not only does Dita do this in just a g-string and nipple tassels, but does so in a glass filled with slippery, bubbled water and is able to maintain the proper flexing, grip and strength of her muscles to keep herself upright while half drunk.
I am Courtney. I have hair the color of my mothers and skin the color of my fathers. I have the Irish green eyes of my fathers grandmother and the native nose of my mothers Seminole-Creek father. My hands have written thousands of poems. My face has been scarred by acne, my ears have listened to EVERY cruel comment someone made about it. My lips have been kissed by people I think about every day.
My skin is skewed with stretchmarks and tattoos and scars.
You’re right. I am not pretty. There is so much more to me than a 6 letter word used to summarize beauty.
"Pretty" is a shallow, vague word.