So, you kids know about Lord Fanny, right?  The Brazillian shaman trans woman?  She’s one of my favorite superheroes. 

fuckyeahillustrativeart:

Massimo Carnevale

therapsida:

neutered:

arachnidsgrip:

This story begins serendipitously enough. A few years ago, an employee in the poultry industry described to Dr Clinton some peculiar chickens on nearby farms. These rare chickens were bilateral gynandromorphs; half male and half female. Like my eclectus, these birds were neatly divided down the middle between their male and female sides, almost as if two individuals of opposite sexes had been stitched together.

These “half-siders,” as poultry farmers and aviculturists often refer to bilateral gynandromorphs, are rare, but have been seen in a number of avian families, ranging from finches to pigeons to parrots.

source: scientopia.org

always reblog bilateral gynandromorph birds

i think birds are the most “complex” living things this shows up in??

So fucking cool agh

*_* the best gender symbol i’ve seen

theshipthatflew:

boxfansandsleepingbags:”I am so inspired by Claude Cahun. She was a revolutionary during a time where most Surrealist artists were men and most of their images were focused, mainly, on women as sexual symbols. Brave for an early twentieth century female artist (or any era, really), Claude Cahun, illustrated, very much, the idea that a woman has many layers and a lot of her art focused on sexual ambiguity. Something that was certainly not mainstream in the early 1900s. She is someone I would’ve loved to have a sit down with.”

emchy:

cherrispryteaintsobrite:

sadlyunpredictable:

Swingset - Andrea Gibson

“Are you a boy or a girl?” he asks, staring up at me in all three feet of his pudding face grandeur, and I say “Dylan, you’ve been in this class for three years and you still don’t know if I’m a boy or a girl?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Well, at this point, I don’t really think it matters, do you?”

“Uhhhm, no. Can I have a push on the swing?” And this happens every day. It’s a tidal wave of kindergarten curiosity rushing straight for the rocks of me, whatever I am.

And the class, when we discuss the Milky Way galaxy, the orbit of the Sun around the Earth… or whatever. Jupiter, Saturn, Mars, and kids, do you know that some of the stars we see when we look up in the sky are so far away, they’ve already burned out? What do you think of that? Timmy? “Umm… my mom says that even though you got hairs that grow from your legs, and the hairs on your head grow short and poky, and that you smell really bad, like my dad, that you’re a girl.”

“Thank you, Timmy.”

And so it goes. On the playground, she peers up at me from behind her pink power puff sunglasses and then asks, “Do you have a boyfriend?”

And I say no, and she says “Oh… do you have a girlfriend?” And I say “No, but if by some miracle, twenty years from now, I ever finally do, then I’ll definitely bring her by to meet you. How’s that?”

“Okay. Can I have a push on the swing?”

And that’s the thing. They don’t care. They don’t care. Us, on the other hand… My father sitting across the table at Christmas dinner, gritting his teeth over his still-full plate, his appetite raped away by the intrusion of my haircut, “What were you thinking? You used to be such a pretty girl!” Frat boys, drunken, screaming, leaning out of the windows of their daddys’ SUVs, “Hey! Are you a faggot or a dyke?” And I wonder what would happen if I met up with them in the middle of the night.

Then of course there’s always the somehow not-quite-bright enough fluorescent light of the public restroom, “Sir! Sir, do you realize this is the ladies’ room?”

“Yes, ma’am, I do, it’s just that I didn’t feel comfortable sticking this tampon up my penis in the men’s room.”

But the best, the best is always the mother at the market, sticking up her nose while pushing aside her daughter’s wide eyes, whispering “Don’t stare, it’s rude.”

And I want to say, “Listen, lady, the only rude thing I see is your paranoid parental hand pushing aside the best education on self that little girl’s ever gonna get, living with your Maybelline lipstick after hips and pedi kiwi, vanilla-smelling beauty; so why don’t you take your pinks and blues, your boy-girl rules and shove them in that car with your fucking issue of Cosmo, because tomorrow, I start my day with twenty-eight minds who know a hell of a lot more than you. And if I show up in a pink frilly dress, those kids won’t love me any more, or less.”

 “Hey, are you a boy or a — never mind, can I have a push on the swing?” And some day, y’all, when we grow up, it’s all gonna be that simple.

love this. 

she read this at QOM when she featured. it was electric.

snuffboxisdead:

Me: Did you see that tattoo I reblogged on tumblr this morning? 
Nym (beloved cis partner dude): Oh yeah, “die cis scum”!
Me: Well I thought it was awesome, and I’m gonna make a cake today with that written on it so I can post it. Any reason to make cake, pretty much.
Nym: nice.
Me: Now, obviously I don’t think all cis people should be killed or anything…
Nym: Well, yeah.
Me: …I just wanted to mention it because a lot of people were butthurt about that tattoo, so…
Nym: Oh, cry me a fucking river!
Me: Oh, I love you. 

(PS: sorry the photos aren’t the best, I was like *snap snap DEVOUR.*)