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I live in Osaka, Japan and often use the subway to go to work in the morning. One day while I was waiting for the train, I noticed a homeless man standing in the corner of the subway station muttering to himself as people passed by. He was holding out a cup and seemed to be begging for spare change.

An overweight woman passed by the homeless man and I distinctly heard him say, “Pig.”

Wow, this man is insulting people and he still expects them to give him money?

Then a tall businessman went by and the man muttered, “Human.”

Human? I can’t argue with that. Obviously, he was human.

The next day, I arrived early at the subway station and had some time to kill, so I decided to stand close to the homeless man and listen to his strange mutterings.  A thin, haggard-looking man passed in front of him and I heard the homeless guy mutter, “Cow.” Cow? The man was much too skinny to be a cow. To me, he resembled a turkey or a chicken. A minute or so later, an obese man went by and the homeless man said, “Potato.” Potato? I was under the impression that he called all fat people “Pig”.

That day at work, I couldn’t stop thinking about the homeless man and his puzzling behavior. I kept trying to find some logic or pattern in what he as muttering. Perhaps he has some kind of psychic ability. In Japan many people believe in reincarnation, so maybe he knows what these people were during a previous life. I observed the man many times and began to think my theory was right. I often heard him calling people things like “Rabbit”, “Onion”, “Sheep”, or “Tomato”.

One day, curiosity got the better of me and I decided to ask him what was going on. As I walked up to him, he looked at me and said, “Bread.” I tossed some money into his cup and asked him if he had some kind of psychic ability. The man smiled and said, “Yes, indeed. It is an ability I obtained many years ago, but it’s not what you might expect. I can’t tell the future or read minds or anything like that.”

“Then what is your ability?” I asked eagerly.

“The ability is merely to know the last thing somebody ate,” he said.

I laughed because I realized he was right. He said, “Bread.” The last thing I had eaten for breakfast that day was toast. I walked away shaking my head. Of all the psychic abilities someone could have, that one must be the most useless.







A Response to ‘Women Against Feminism.’

Imagine this:

The year is 2014. You are a white Western woman. You wake up in the morning in a comfortably sized house or flat. You have a full or part-time job that enables you to pay your rent or mortgage. You have been to school and maybe even college or university as well. You can read and write and count. You own a car or have a driver’s licence. You have enough money in your own bank account to feed and clothe yourself. You have access to the Internet. You can vote. You have a boyfriend or girlfriend of your choosing, who you can also marry if you want to, and raise a family with. You walk down the street wearing whatever you feel like wearing. You can go to bars and clubs and sleep with whomever you want.

Your world is full of freedom and possibility.

Then you pick up a newspaper or go online. You read about angry women ranting about sexism and inequality. You see phrases like ‘rape-culture’ and ‘slut-shaming.’ You furrow your brow and think to yourself: ‘What are they so angry about? There is no such thing as sexism anymore.’

Now imagine this:

The year is 2013. You are a 25 year-old Pakistani woman. A few months ago, you married the man you love. A man you choose for yourself. You are also pregnant with his child. You see your life stretching out before you, filled with hope and happiness. Suddenly, you and your husband are dragged away from each other. You are both beaten with bricks and batons. You can’t fight back. You can’t escape. No one comes to help you. Through your fading vision, you look up, and look into the eyes of one of your assailants: into the eyes of your father.

The year is 2013. You are a 23 year-old Indian woman. You are a physiotherapy student with a promising career ahead of you. You are sitting on a private bus travelling home alone on a warm December evening. You gaze out of the window as the buildings of New Dheli rush past you and feel content. Suddenly, a blunt force hits the back of your head and you fall to the floor of the bus. A group of strange men are standing over you. They bring the metal bar down on you again and again and again until all you can taste is the blood filling up your mouth. You pray that you will die soon. And you do, but not then. You are raped, beaten, and tortured over and over again. Death is slow and agonising.

The year is 2014. You are a 13 year-old girl from Niger. You no longer live there though. You are now living in the neighbouring country Nigeria, sitting alone in small room on a small bed in a small apartment high above the city of Kano. You are not allowed to leave. Your stomach is swollen from the unwanted life growing inside of it. You had no choice. The father is a man in his 40s. He is a businessman. He has bought you as his wife. You were a penniless, uneducated girl when he came for you. You don’t know of any life you could have had. Neither did your family: just one less mouth for them to feed. You still have the body of a child, and it’s straining under the pressure from the one inside of you. You feel like you’re about to be split in two. You don’t wonder if you will survive the birth. A part of you doesn’t want to.

These are fictionalised accounts of real events that have happened to real women living in our world today. They follow the past 250 years of women and men campaigning for women to be given equal rights to men to prevent these kinds of injustices and abuses on the grounds of gender taking place. Over the course of this time, campaigners – Feminists, both female and male – have been locked up, beaten, tortured, and even killed, in the pursuit of equality. They did this with pen and ink and print; they did this with their voices; they did this with their bodies; they did this with art and music; they did in courts of law and halls and houses of government that they fought be to allowed into.

They did this so that women would no longer been seen as property, livestock, breeding machines, sex objects, punching bags, or infantile morons. They did this not just for themselves, but also for their daughters, and their daughters, and their daughters for generations to come. They did this for women they would never meet – women who lived across countries, across vast oceans, across the entire globe, and even across time.

They did this so that women like me – a white Western woman – could attend school and university; to learn to read, write, and think critically; to gain a degree; to get a job and be paid an equal salary to a man in the same position; and to sit here with my own computer and type all of this.

Feminism is a movement for freedom, equality, choice, love, compassion, respect, solidarity, and education. We may argue, we may disagree, we may struggle to understand the choices and perspectives of others sometimes, but these core beliefs of the movement have never changed, and they never will.

That is why I am a Feminist.

If you feel that you have so far lived your life unaffected by even the mildest form of sexism – anything from feeling uncomfortable when a man catcalls you in the street, to feeling scared walking home alone at night in a secluded area – and are treated with love and respect by every man in your life, then to you I say: I’m glad for you. If you don’t think you need feminism, then that is a victory for the movement. You have fulfilled all those dreams that every suffragette being force-fed in prison and every ‘witch’ burnt at the stake dreamed you would one day.

But perhaps take a second to consider the life of the Pakistani woman who was beaten to death by her own family for marrying a man of her choosing. Or the life of the Indian woman who was raped, beaten, and murdered on a bus by a gang of men. Or the life of the little girl in Niger who was sold to a man more than twice her own age and forced to carry a baby that may kill her to deliver. Do they still need feminism?

And perhaps take a second to consider this too: Even in our liberal, Western world, why do women still only fill 24% of senior management jobs? Why are more women than men domestically abused or even killed every week at the hands of their male partner or ex-partner? Why is there still a pay gap (in the UK specifically) of 15% for women doing the same jobs and working the same hours as men?

And what about on a cultural level? Have you ever noticed how comedy panel shows usually only have one female panellist compared to 4-5 male ones? That almost every dieting product on the market is solely aimed at women? How a lot of newspapers and advertising campaigns will use a sexualised or pornographic image of a woman to sell news or products that have nothing to do with sex?

Or perhaps on a personal level: Do you choose to wear certain clothes because you want to or because you feel ‘unfeminine’ if you don’t? Do you choose to cover yourself up because you want to or because you feel ashamed or intimidated by a man looking at your body? Do you shave your legs and underarm hair because you want to or because you will look ‘ugly’ if you don’t? Did you parents dress you in pink as a baby because they liked the colour or because you were born a girl? Do you want to have children because you want to or because you are a woman?

When you look at yourself in the mirror in the morning, do you see yourself through your own eyes, or through the eyes of the men that will look at you when you walk out the door?

The fact is, like it or not, you still live a world where gender matters. Where gender controls not just the entire course of your life – but the lives of women all over the world. Every second, a child will be born female in a country where she will persecuted for this random biological occurrence for the rest of her life. So before you hold up your anti-Feminist placard proudly and smile at your own sense of empowerment, think not what Feminism can do for you, but what it can do for that one girl. She needs someone to stand up for her. That someone could be you.

[ x ]

Read this. Read all of this. Then read it again.

PLEASE READ THIS! very well put!


spanish and italian: So THESE words are feminine and THESE words are masculine, and you ALWAYS put an adjective AFTER the noun.
french: haha i dont fuckin know man just do whatever
english: *shooting up in the bathroom*
gaelic: the pronounciation changes depending on the gender and what letter the word starts and ends with and hahah i dont even know good fucking luck
polish: here have all of these consonants have fun
japanese: subject article noun article verb. too bad there’s three fucking alphabets lmao hope your first language isn’t western
welsh: sneeze, and chances are you’ve got it right. idfk
chinese: here’s a picture. draw it. it means something. it can be pronounced four different ways. these twenty other pictures are pronounced the same but have very different meanings. godspeed.
arabic: so here’s this one word. it actually translates to three words. also pronouns don’t really exist. the gender is all in the verb. have fun!
latin: here memorize 500 charts and then you still dont know what the fuck is happening
sign language: If you move this sign by a tenth of an inch, you’ll be signing “penis”
russian: idk man its pronounced like its spelt but good fucking luck spelling it
Greek: so basically we’re going to add 15 syllables to every word you know and assign it one of 3 genders at random. Also good luck figuring out where to put the accents you piece of shit

(Fuente: missespeon)



I have Keratoconus which is a genetic condition that causes the cornea to turn cone shaped. It makes it hard to see, because bright lights form halo effects, obscuring the vision, and making it difficult to read, and in my case, draw. The day before my birthday, I went to a specialist, who gave me three options; Cross linking eye surgery, (which is still considered experimental in the United States, and not covered by insurance) Intact lenses (also not covered by insurance) or complete cornea transplants (Which is covered by insurance, but much riskier than the other two listed). 

Although there is some hope, since the Intacts is currently going through trial runs and studies for it to be approved by most insurances, I will learn by october, if I will be an acceptible participant for the study, and receive the intacts at either a reduced price, or not pay at all.

But, worse case scenerio, I will have to pay $5000-9000 per eye.

I cannot afford that, on my walmart salary. My family is barely skating by with what we have, and we still struggle every month to make ends meet. There is absolutely no way we would be able to pay for this surgery.

And, that really scares me. 

As an artist, and a writer, I depend so much on my eyes. Keratoconus is not curable, and will only worsten, if they go untreated. I NEED this surgery, but I can’t pay for it, with the few hundred bucks I get from putting up with walmart customers.

So, I turn to you, Tumblr. This is very hard for me to do, since I was raised to believe that if someone can work for their money, they very well should, and reserve the free help to the people who truly cannot help themselves. But, if you feel like you can, and want to donate, please feel free to send that money to my Paypal, at

If you want to help in another way, please spread my Commissioning Info or feel free to commission a piece of artwork from me directly by sending me an ask here, note me at my Dev.artor Email me your information at the same Email stated for my Paypal.

Simply re-blogging this really helps as well.

Thank you for taking your time for reading this out.

I’ll share this before I close the blog because it makes me sad.


Ayer leí una noticia repugnante: un inversor, Pavel Curda, acosó a una emprendedora, Gesche Waiyi, a la que había conocido en un evento para startups (un encuentro donde personas con proyectos, mentores e inversores se juntan para conocerse y hacer contactos y negocios). “Me gustas. No me iré de Berlín sin tener sexo contigo. ¿Trato hecho?”, escribió él por email. La noticia añadía que no era la primera mujer a la que enviaba el mismo mensaje, incluía su excusa (“estaba borracho”) y un enlace a otra noticia en la que él afirma estar dispuesto a disculparse “con un gran ramo de flores”.

La de la tecnología es una industria joven en la que, nos contaron, triunfarían los valores de meritocracia, participación e inclusión, en la que las reglas de juego eran nuevas y los errores de la vieja economía no se iban a repetir. Pero resulta que no es así. Esta semana he publicado un reportaje sobre la brecha digital, social y urbana que provoca (con el ejemplo de Londres) y hace ya once meses me dediqué a entender por qué hay muchas menos mujeres (en concreto, mujeres fundadoras de startups) que trabajan, tienen roles importantes o son famosas en ella.

El resultado quedó en este enlace, pero también (y mucho) en mi cabeza. Cuando David me propuso escribir el tema, toda mi reacción fue “¿Que por qué hay pocas mujeres al frente de startups? Pues porque sí”. Él insistió en que había más, en que rascara, y después de leer libros, artículos e informes y, sobre todo, entrevistar a cinco personas (cuatro de ellas mujeres), comencé a ver respuestas y a cuestionarme aspectos a los que nunca había hecho ni caso. El “síndrome de las gafas violetas” es el término con el que el feminismo describe el momento en el que alguien empieza a “ver” lo que hasta entonces era invisible. Y no, no es ninguna locura: yo hace once meses ni me planteaba por qué al hacer reportajes sobre negocios o tecnología todos las fuentes o protagonistas eran hombres. Ahora sé, y aún me queda tanto por aprender, que detrás hay razones estructurales. Terminé aquel artículo con lo que me dijo Guernica Facundo, experta en empresa y género, cuando le agradecí su tiempo y valiosas explicaciones. “Hay una generación de mujeres que habéis vivido en igualdad de acceso a oportunidades, a las que os da mucha rabia que digan que sois una parte de la población que no está tratada igual. Yo tengo 38 años, pero lo veo en mis hermanas de 21 y 22. Ellas me dicen ‘es que siempre estás con el mismo rollo’. Lo viven como que ‘a mí nadie me tiene que regalar nada, no me tienen que dar más importancia por ser chica’. Y yo les digo que sí, que eso es cierto. Pero lo que tenéis que ver es que hay oportunidades que no estáis pudiendo aprovechar no por el hecho de ser chicas, sino porque hay toda una serie de prácticas y estructuras detrás que funcionan como una máquina”.

Ahora volvamos a ayer. La noticia de la emprendedora acosada por el inversor coincidía con a) una denuncia por violación múltiple (cinco chicos a una chica que salía de trabajar en la feria de Málaga) archivada b) los tuits de una periodista contando dos casos de machismo de esa misma mañana: un chico proponiéndole un café en la biblioteca y un señor llamándola ‘preciosidá’ por la calle. Las tres – emprendedora en evento de networking, trabajadora de Málaga, periodista en la biblioteca - vivieron una situación machista. Yo no he hablado con ningúna así que no escribiré sobre ellas, pero sí he vivido otras historias y reflexionado suficiente sobre el tema para, con “gafas puestas”, explicarlo desde mi punto de vista.


Nunca he tenido miedo a ir por la calle o volver a casa sola. Jamás. Crecí en una ciudad dormitorio extremadamente segura y lo último que se me pasa por la cabeza cuando salgo es que alguien vaya a robarme y mucho menos a violarme. Tampoco cuando he vivido en el centro de Madrid o ahora, en Londres. En Amberes (Bélgica) vi el peligro una noche que pegaron y atracaron a un amigo en mi portal. Salía, por cierto, de casa de mi vecina: ella tenía claro que a esas horas no quería volver sola así que él la acompañó.

Yo no me siento vulnerable ni insegura en un espacio público, pero hay otros momentos en los que, vaya, sí. Como periodista, como trabajadora autónoma o como simple persona sociable, suelo quedar con gente “del sector” con la que tengo algo que ver. A veces no pasa nada, otras veces nacen ideas o fuentes para artículos e incluso alguna vez consigo clientes (¡dinero!) para los que escribir. También he hecho buenas amistades. No sé si es por el sector en el que me muevo o por qué, pero el caso es que esta gente son, casi siempre, hombres.

Hace varios meses, en una de estas, el tipo con el que había quedado me acompañó al portal de mi casa, me agarró por la espalda e intentó entrar. Le mandé al carajo, me subí a dormir y al día siguiente, indignada, se lo conté a mis compañeras de piso. “Chicas, ¡yo sólo quedo por tomar algo y charlar! ¡Con alguien con quien tengo algo en común y de donde pueden salir historias, trabajo o amistad! ¿Por qué interpreta que quiero ALGO?” Y entonces me dijeron: “Analía, ten cuidado, porque si quedas y además tomas copas ellos lo interpretarán de otra manera”. Así empecé a percibir que, a ojos de muchos hombres, yo era primero una chica y luego ya, si eso, una persona que se relaciona con su entorno profesional o simplemente es sociable. Al mismo tiempo, muchas amigas en sectores masculinizados (arquitectas, ingenieras, banqueras) me han contado cómo son casi invisibles: son “las chicas” y en las reuniones los clientes miran al hombre antes que a ellas. Es lo que le pasó a Gesche Waiyi: en un evento de negocios, ella es invisible como emprendedora pero visible como tía a la que proponerle sexo. El inversor vio una mujer a la que tirarse, y luego ya, si eso, a una persona con un proyecto empresarial tan válido (o no válido) como el de los hombres que había allí. ¿Sabe alguien de jóvenes emprendedores acosados por inversoras? Yo tampoco.


Este post no nació ayer. Hace tres semanas tuve una reunión en mi oficina. Ahora trabajo en una empresa en la que hacemos tests de usuario – viene gente que usa nuestra app y vemos cómo se relacionan con ella y qué podemos mejorar – así que invité a un conocido a pasar, tomar café, hacer un pequeño test, hablar sobre proyectos y, ya que estábamos, ver cómo su empresa y la mía podían colaborar. Al cabo de dos días volvió a escribirme preguntando qué tal estaba. Respondí que muy liada y en un intento de ¿ser majo? me dijo algo así como que me pusiera una capa de superhéroe o “una toalla” y saliera a por todas. No sé si es la mejor manera de ligar (a mí no me lo parece), pero no nos desviemos, que la narrativa no es “chico lo intenta con chica y no se le da bien”.

Yo no respondí. Tres horas después, volvió a escribir.


(Unos días después, vino a la oficina a reunirse con mi jefe y me trajo bombones y una carta de disculpa).

No me siento vulnerable cuando vuelvo sola a casa, pero la experiencia ha hecho que cada vez que tengo una entrevista o reunión con un hombre encienda mi radar de “cuidado: podría pensar que quieres algo”. Y es un rollo. ¿Qué te hace pensar que es así? ¿Por qué no me ves como una igual? ¿Por qué soy primero una chica y luego ya, si eso, todo lo demás?

Dice Elena que muchos hombres tienen una empresa, Follar SL, y que todos sus movimientos son como inversiones con un único interés (follarte) que predomina sobre cualquiera que tú puedas tener. Es lo que tratamos de explicar cuando dicen que la trabajadora de Málaga “consintió” que la acosaran entre cinco, cuando comentan que el inversor sólo quería ligar y que si la emprendedora lo cuenta en la prensa “quiere llamar la atención” o cuando se empeñan en que proponer un café mientras estudias o llamarte preciosidad mientras paseas por la calle es “educación”. En todos los casos hay una posición de poder de un hombre que asume su derecho a acosarte, a escribirte emails para tener sexo o a incordiarte en la biblioteca y en la calle. Y no, tú no has dado vía libre. Si tuvieras interés no lo denunciarías, ni lo contarías en prensa ni te quejarías en Twitter. Tampoco yo contaría aquí que un tío me pidió un selfie si hubiera querido algo con él.

Si piensas que soy una borde, una exagerada o que voy de víctima, no has entendido nada pero puedes leer más: esta conversación explica por qué proponer un café puede ser molesto, la noticia sobre el inversor acosador analiza qué pasa en la industria tecnológica que es tan desigual y la web Me han violado describe la cultura de la violación. Algo más: Pikara es una revista escrita con perspectiva feminista y con la que puedes aprender un montón.

Que no te engañen: el feminismo no es malo. El feminismo es preguntarse por qué la sociedad es como es, buscar respuestas y hacer visible lo invisible. Si crees en la igualdad, no te queda otra que creer también en ello.

En las fotos, Naiara, Bea y Elena, con quienes hablo mucho de estos temas y me saco selfies cuando me apetece.










A lot of dudes think women dress slutty for them, but honestly if men weren’t such fucking animals I would dress 300000% more slutty then I do now. You people ruin everything.  

I wanna wear this shit outside god damn it. 

Oh my god SO TRUE. I would constantly wear thigh highs and short skirts and underbust corsets because I look so fucking good. God forbid women like their OWN bodies, too.

For real !! like 90 % of my fucking wardrobe now is just for cam cause it’s too sexy to wear in public. Fucking bullshit.  I use to wear thigh highs with garters with shorts a lot but I got sooo many comments. Fucking… people. You literally just saw the tops of my thighs. But all the dudes are like ‘Why wear that if you don’t want attention???’ cause i look fine as hell and I don’t give a shit about some fucking random broke ass dudes on the corner. 

I can’t even express how much this describes my feelings. Bitch I wear my corsets and my fishnets and my heels the size you wish your dick was because they make me feel fucking fabulous, not because I want you to tell me how much you’d like to “smash” me.

Heels the size you wish your dick was.

Omg this

This this a million times this





Arturo is a 29-year-old male polar bear currently living in Argentina’s Mendoza Zoo. He is suffering in 40C (104F) heat in an enclosure that has just 20 inches of water for him to swim in and has as a consequence been displaying worrying behavior.

Please sign this petition or at least spread the word in order to have Arturo transferred to a zoo in Canada which has better facilities for an animal that is used to polar conditions.

sign this or die

Free Him


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