Women pay more for products. Men pay more for clothing.
Do men really pay more for clothes?
Yea, seriously. Shirts, sneakers, jeans, socks…etc. Ask your male friends how much they pay for a pair of descent jeans. It’ll blow your mind.
At least their pants have fucking pockets tho
“Men pay more for clothing.”
(Target)
Are you sure?
Are you
(Walmart)
ABSOLUTELY SURE??
BECAUSE I’M NOT ENTIRELY CONVINCED
LIKE AT ALL
THAT MEN HAVE IT HARDER
(Victoria’s Secret)
OH AND SHOULD I BRING UP PANTIES WHILE I’M AT IT? I am a firm believer of the “fuck you, I’ll wear briefs that don’t give me a wedgie, I don’t care if they’re not sexy” policy, but a lot of women are expected to wear panties and thongs because GASP WOMEN MUST BE BEAUTIFUL AT ALL TIMES. Here’s a screenshot of some Victoria’s secret panties!
Wow. It’s almost as if there’s a pattern here.
Women are expected to buy more clothing, and literally all of it is more expensive, so screw all of you.
*HAMMERS THE REBLOG BUTTON*
!!!!! TAHHAAHABK THANK YOU
Are we expected to buy more? Probably, but we still don’t NEED to buy lots of stuff. Like, having long-lasting high-guality clothes of your own style and not always following the fashion isn’t very expensive. And it’s easier too. And you are seriously comparing Victorias Secret to some mens basic clothing? I’ve never bought any of that stuff and I’m still doing fine.
It’s not like the companies are taking money just because we are women and we need to be punished. So instead of just complaining go find the reasons why the products cost more and demand for change. I won’t, as I’ll be just fine buying non-genderspecific products.
Hi, thank you! The things are for my faun costume and for Soraka cosplay, but I’m lazy so I wonder how long it will take from me to get those costumes ready.
always “10 yrs old white boy who wont stop screaming and wont sit still” disorder
fake disorder that is designed so medicine factories could milk money out of white moms
liek im such randum xDDD lol tacos rawr!!!!!”11
Wait then what is it
anyone regardless race or gender can have adhd. also, its not only about hyperactivity. it is a combination of different symptoms and everyone with adhd tends have different combination fo symptoms. here are some example symptoms ones:
difficulties in impulse control
difficulties in keeping things organized
lack of motivation
difficulties in time management
difficulties in
starting and completing tasks
memory issues
difficulties in focusing
difficulties in relationships
easily getting distracted
anger management issues
Being someone with adhd, this makes me really happy that at least someone is paying attention to us. It’s as important as asthma and autism and more people need to know that. I don’t know if people know what it is /fully/ and that makes me angry. Adhd makes me struggle everyday, I especially struggle with anger, distractions, lack of motivation and keeping things organized. I’m labeled as a “slob” all the time by my dad and when I was in 2nd grade in just 4 days the inside of my desk would be chaotic. Adhd does hurt relationships, I don’t know about the relationships with people you love because I haven’t had one but I’m constantly loosing friends because of it. It’s not even because I’m such a cunt. People need to know about adhd, it’s important and it is bad. My life has been horrible thanks to it and also, it’s blamed on me every time I forget to take my meds. I don’t forget on purpose, I remember to take it but I get distracted by other things to much I forget. It’s not something slight, this is serious. I’m sorry about the long rant but I just wanted to put in my input as an individual with adhd. Thank you if you read this all.
unfortunately people are still not really paying attention. this posts exists only because i have adhd too and i got tired of adhd related myths and people never mentioning adhd in any post that is about different kind of mental disorders
(also i read your whole comment)
I have three separate diagnosis instead of one adhd diagnose. Although my childhood was quite hell, lately I’ve been succeeding in my life, so I apparently I don’t have serious problems. It still affects my life, here’s an example:
Yesterday I had to play an 8 hours long board game tho I had told the others I wasn’t able to do that. First three ours went quite okay, even tho I was the slowest player. But at some point, I started to forget what I had or had not already done, which is typical of me when I try to focus on something for too long. At some I got frustrated and stood up knocking down my chair without a single thought. I walked out of the house being not able to handle the situation or myself, but luckily calmed down fast enough to return the game before my next turn. (The others had finished my previous turn.) Later I was being picked on my habit of thinking aloud, which annoyed me because without doing that I would have constantly forgotten what I was planning to do. I half-shouted back at them, they took it fine and we kept playing on me not caring anymore.
And you know what annoys me the most? People keep telling me that it’s not adhd, that I am faking and that I could do something about it, even when I’m telling them it’s actually not adhd what I have. The might or might not be right, but one thing I know for sure: having an adhd diagnose would for some reason make it easier for people to understand. And that sucks.
1:
you begin to clean your room, and maybe even the whole house
2:
you clean your whole closet and even sort your clothes depending on the season they're fit for
3:
you learn new recipes and spend more time in the kitchen
4:
you suddenly spend more time while walking your dog
Most people consider mushrooms to be the small, ugly cousins of the plant kingdom, but theirs is surprisingly beautiful and wonderful world waiting to be explored. These beautiful mushrooms, captured by enthusiastic nature photographers, are a far cry from the ones you find in the woods or your local grocery store.
Most mushrooms, as we know them, are actually just the reproductive structure of the fungus they belong to – their fungal networks expand far further underground, and some fungi don’t even sprout the sort of mushrooms that we’re used to seeing. In fact, depending on your definition of “organism,” the largest living organism in the world is a fungus – there’s a honey mushroom colony in Oregon that occupies about 2,000 acres of land! ( Bored Panda )
Gather round children, whilst I tell you a little story.
So I was watching Fullmetal Alchemist with my roommate, when I got thirsty and decided what the hell, Ima get myself a Coke. So I went down to the vending machine on our floor and swiped my card and pressed the button to vend the Coke. Well, TWO cokes popped out.
Weird right?
I looked around, wondering if I was on one of those punk’d shows, and grabbed both bottles. Suddenly, a loud thrumming came from the machine, and lo and behold, 6 MORE COKES CAME OUT.
After checking my debit card statement, I found that I was only charged for ONE coke. Feeling giddy but slightly guilty, I nabbed all 8 bottles of coke and went back to my room. After telling my roommate what happened, she decided to go back to the coke machine with me and see if only the Cokes are affected.
She bought two Sprites, and what the fuck do ya know, she got those damn Sprites, AS WELL AS 11 FREE COKES.
This of course jammed the machine, and before I knew it, I was on my knees with my arm up the Coke machine, practically birthing these little fuckers. I even read off their names on their bottles as I handed them to my roommate. We also found a random Cherry Coke had popped out as well.
Behold our finished family. 19 cokes, 2 Sprites, and a Cherry Coke, all the result of a very overworked and confused Coke machine.
all right everyone sit down, shut up and listen closely because I’m about to tell y’all the tale of Ms. Mormino.
Seventh grade is a time most people don’t look back on fondly. I know I sure don’t—I tend to regard that era as nothing more than an unpleasant, acne-filled haze of fall out boy and poor attempts at pseudo-zooey deschanel fashions. But enough about me. Let’s talk about my math teacher.
Ms. Isom. Poor old Ms. Isom. Well in her 60’s, always plagued with some illness or injury, she was hardly ever even at school. Since many of her absences were the result of short-notice incidents—“falling down the stairs” was popularly cited— it wasn’t all that uncommon to not have a substitute on hand. Being a smartass honors class, we’d gotten away with several successful evasions of administration, walking cavalierly into class to pass the next 48 minutes doing just about nothing. Hell, for good measure, we’d sometimes even toss in a friendly “hey, Ms. Isom!” if any administrators were anywhere within earshot. So incredibly anti-establishment, you could basically call it another Project Mayhem, except instead of Brad Pitt and Ed Norton concocting homemade bombs, it was a bunch of tweenyboppers with iPhone 3’s and Justin Bieber 2009 haircuts.
We got pretty accustomed to our own little self-governing system that rolled around every second period, so we naturally weren’t exactly thrilled when administration caught on to our little Anarchy Act and strictly enforced the presence of a substitute every day.
Most of our subs weren’t terrible—most were friendly, gave us participation grades, and didn’t object to the independent attitude of our class (which, mind you, only had about ten students in it)
That is, until Ms. Mormino came along.
Four feet, ten inches of raw, undiluted evil, Ms. Mormino walked into class with a scowl on her face and a chip on her shoulder. When the girl behind me sneezed, Ms. Mormino’s immediate response was “NO INAPPROPRIATE NOISES!”
Although we all suppressed our laughter, we all knew from that moment on that, try as she might with her despotism and her draconian anti-sneeze policy, Ms. Mormino didn’t stand a chance.
The arguable beginning of the end for Ms. Mormino’s all-too-brief reign of terror was the moment I asked for a calculator; mine was broken. Mormino asserted that I could only borrow a calculator if I loaned her something of mine; at that moment, the girl next to me chimed in, saying she, too, needed a calculator. “I have a folder I can give you,” I offered. “I have a highlighter,” added the other girl.
At that moment, a puberty-creaking voice from the back of the room piped up.
Max.
We all know certain people have certain gifts. Michelangelo saw angels in every block of marble and devoted his life to setting them free; Einstein had a mind which saw the potential of the entire universe; F. Scott Fitzgerald wove intricate tales of decadence and depravity. Max, however, had a different kind of gift: he could make anything—anything at all—into a “that’s what she said” joke. More on that later, though.
Max pried off a Nike sneaker and held it proudly in the air, like a coveted trophy.
“I have a shoe."
Tottering in one-shoe-one-sock, Max dumped the sneaker on Ms. Mormino’s desk, retrieved a calculator, then tottered back to his own desk, a sort of smirk playing on his face. And, as to be expected—the rest of us quickly followed suit.
A small pile of shoes on her desk, Ms. Mormino grit her teeth and glared at us as we all sat back down, quietly victorious, a calculator in each of our hands. It wasn’t long, however, until we all began to silently plot our next act of minor mayhem.
"Can I go to the bathroom?” asked Tyler, who, despite being in seventh grade, was approaching his sixteenth birthday. In a combination of verism and admiration of Tyler’s devil-may-care boldness, we unequivocally accepted him as our leader. For reasons unknown, Ms. Mormino denied his request. Tyler, much like his Fight Club namesake, heeded no rules but his own and left anyway—Ms. Mormino, furious, locked the door behind him and smugly insisted that “administration will take care of him."
Tyler, however, was not one to be caught, and stayed close by, appearing in the window of the door whenever Ms. Mormino wasn’t looking. Waving, smiling, laughing, making faces and obscene gestures, Tyler had us all in stitches, but cleverly avoided Ms. Mormino’s sight—when she asked us what was so funny, we all refused to give Tyler away.
A girl asked to go to the bathroom, stating she “really really really” needed to go. Ms. Mormino, again, denied her request. Ms. Mormino, however, seemed to be uninformed about the side door—leading right outside, always locked from the outside but always open from the inside.
"Well, I’ll go myself,” the girl responded, and took off, hurdling three desks and darting out the door. Right behind her, two other students took off, pursuing freedom. The door slammed behind all three students, and they were gone.
Six of us were left. Among us, importantly, was Chris.
Chris was thirteen, but looked half his age; scrawny, wiry, he probably measured in at about four-foot-three, but no taller. “Late Bloomer” are words that come to mind.
Despite his diminutive size, Chris possessed the gall of someone like Tyler.
“I have to use the bathroom,” said Chris, standing.
”Do you think I’m going to allow you to go to the bathroom?” snapped Ms. Mormino.
”It’s an emergency!” Chris pleaded.
“Sit down,” Ms. Mormino growled.
Meanwhile, the entire class borders on hysteria. We have tears in our eyes, almost suffocating from choking back laughter.
“It’s an emergency,” repeated Chris, but it sounded more like a warning.
“Sit.”
Silence. Silence, Silence and more silence, until we all began to notice a dark stain on Chris’s khakis. The stain grew. And grew. And grew.
Fists at his sides, stoicism in his face, and a cold, proud, triumphant glint in his eye, Chris locked eye contact with Ms. Mormino.
And pissed right in his pants.
The entire class erupted into a laugh only comparable to the detonation of a bomb.
We laughed so hard for the next five, ten, fifteen minutes straight that Ms. Mormino gave up. Surrendering, putting her head on her desk, she waited until the hysteria finally subsided.
Finally looking up, defeated, pathetic, Ms. Mormino glared at us all and wailed:
”This is too much, this is too hard, too hard, Jesus Christ, this is too much for me!”
A lone voice sounded from the back of the room. Guess whose it was.
“That’s what she said.”
Ms. Mormino officially retired from teaching that afternoon.
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