Straight up my hours for July suck ass because summer is the slowest time of the year at my current job. I was laid off a month ago and am continuing to job search. In the meantime, I have multiple appointments this month + a lot of transportation fees. I believe I’ll need about $600 to make it through the month.
My venmo is @lesbiandykely
Comment and I can DM my Paypal
$10/600, Thank you!
$15/600, Thank you!
It’s a third of the way through the month, please help me out!
$45/600, Thank you!
$50/600, Thank you!
It’s about halfway through the month and I’m honestly starting to panic a little. Please help me out!
If you DM me your paypal i can send you some money
This is an astonishingly good song, and there’s a case to be made that it’s what got 21 Savage arrested by ICE. The audio for this song came out on Youtube on 20 December 2018. On 29 January 2019, he performed it on Jimmy Fallon with an additional third verse of his that isn’t present on the original version (this verse is included in the new music video above). This verse ended with the lyrics:
Lights was off, the gas was off, so we had to boil up the water Went through some things, but I couldn’t imagine my kids stuck at the border Flint still need water, n[—-]s was innocent, couldn’t get lawyers
Six days later, ICE arrested 21 Savage because he was brought over to the US from the UK as an adolescent and has since been living here on an overstayed visa. The agency seemed particularly vindictive when discussing the arrest, with an ICE spokesperson telling CNN that “His whole persona is false,” an oddly personal dig for an ostensibly neutral law enforcement agency. Bizarrely, ICE has since denied ever giving them that statement.
21′s legal team’s statement noted that ICE is refusing to release him on bond even though they have the authority to, they “routinely [grant] bond to individuals in [his] circumstances,” and he poses no flight risk. It also notes:
There continues to be no legal reason to detain Mr. Abraham-Joseph [21′s real name] for a civil law violation that occurred when he was a minor, especially when people in his exact situation are routinely released by ICE. Many have speculated as to possible ulterior motives for his arrest and detention, including that he released music five days prior to his arrest by ICE, which included new lyrics condemning the behavior of immigration officials for their detention of children at the border. We are unaware of why ICE apparently targeted Mr. Abraham-Joseph, but we will do everything possible to legally seek his release and pursue his available relief in immigration court.
It’s easily plausible that ICE knew 21 was here on an overstayed visa ever since he applied for a U visa in 2017 and simply decided his case was low-priority enough that it wasn’t worth pursuing, but then decided to act on it when he criticized US immigration policy in front of a national audience. Alternatively, they may have begun investigating him after the line. Either way, 21 Savage is arguably a political prisoner.
December 15 2018 - Cops in Paris are shown specifically targeting peaceful citizens filming riot police. I know this footage looks almost comically dystopian but it is real. [video]
clipping.’s “Splendor & Misery” is an afrofuturist album about a slave revolt on a space ship, where one slave takes control of the ship. On “Interlude 02 (Numbers),” a voice reads out a series of letters in the NATO phonetic alphabet, part of which is: DLQFEIQIFUWRWCOXEIU. In a separate song on the album, “Air ‘Em Out,” he has a one-off line where he says “The keyword is Kemmer, that’s what your ass need.”
Directly, Kemmer is a term from Ursula K. Le Guin’s sci-fi novel “The Left Hand of Darkness”: the fictional race of Gethens only have sexual anatomy once a month during the period of Kemmer. So the joke on the surface is that he’s telling you that you need Kemmer- to grow some balls. But there’s a second meaning. It turns out that
“DLQFEIQIFUWRWCOXEIU” is a Vigenère cipher, and using “Kemmer” as the keyword to decipher it gives you “TheTargetIsAmyClark.” Amy Clark Barber was a slave who ran away to Ohio by steamboat in the 1832 and spent five years with her husband freeing other slaves by wagon.
In an interview, Daveed Diggs, the group’s rapper, mentioned the use of code in slave spirituals:
So much about coded slave spirituals were about leaving behind where they’re at. They’re actually coded messages about how to get north, but the philosophy behind them was about transcending place. They were about home actually being in the unknown. A lot of this stuff for me is tied to the idea that things are remembered generationally in the body. So we have these spirituals and work and story songs appear as interludes to indicate that.
Hey all, ive been super inactive here and probably wont get more active, but I am starting to use twitter more! So recommend good twitter accounts and follow me on there if u want! I’m Physics_Gay @NOT_VERIF1ED
The old church stood stark against
the dark desert sky, the vast horizon seeming to fold into a singularity at the
tip of the steeple. Running into the west
wall was a powerline that came from infinity, lighting a small, naked
bulb. A lone figure approached. He stopped long enough for the dust at his
feet to settle, looking pensively at the clouds that were equal parts water and
dry earth. Dust hung in the air, like
willows over water or canyon walls over travelers. Dust hung everywhere in the moonlight. He took an empty bottle from his pocket and a
cloud of vague grey dancing free of the coat. He brought the bottle to his lips and took a
long, parched drink, inhaling the hot, sandy air inside. Then he spat into it, the moonlight dancing
off the saliva for a moment. He trudged
forward, the wind howling out of canyons to the north carrying the rustle of vulture’s
feathers and their sharp calls. The door
slammed shut. Only the rope tied to the rusted, sandy bell creaked. Despite the broken windows, no wind dared
dance through the rafters, and no rats scampered behind the musty
baseboards. Even the dust, king of this
land, would not come near the altar, and hurried back towards the door as his
feet raised the thin layer on the back pews.
Only the moon touched on the yellowed linen and tarnished silver
cross.
He took off his hat and coat,
leaving them at the edge of the ring of dust, then hesitated. He gazed out the west window, towards where
the sun had set an hour ago, and where the last town sat choking in its own
dust. For a moment, he missed the people
there; the families in the late summer sun, and the shopkeeper who sold the
town boys licorice. A piece of a broken
mirror glinted white, and a drop of red blood fell from the hand he had cut
with it, his own body breaking him from the memory. Those memories belonged in the bottle anyways-
memories and partial souls always went together.
The lightbulb buzzed. He stepped out, his heart matching the echo
of his boots on the boards. He set the
bottle down on the uneven embroidery with his bleeding hand, then set the
mirror shard down beside it. A rivulet
of blood trickled down the brown glass, spread into the linen, and then
faded. The rope creaked. A second drop fell, into the bottle this
time, mixing with the silvery spit in the bottom. The light buzzed. A third drop fell, landing on the base of a
candlestick, where it flowed into the tarnish pattern. The lightbulb buzzed,
throwing huge shadows on the doors. The
rope creaked. The bulb burst and the
shadows rushed forward. The bell rang,
and the candle clattered to the floor.
The room shook in the silence of
the aftermath. She came in from the
door, dust rolling away from her feet, pews creaking as they stretched away. Everything ran from her presence. Each step brought her closer, but she seemed
further and further away. Space oozed as
time ran in circles. Her ragged dress
traced black lines on the floor, filling the air with a clean smoke and the
scent of very dry wood burning. Suddenly,
she was in front of him, floating past and lifting the filthy bottle, upending
it and letting its contents drip agonizingly slowly into her mouth. She turned towards him then, her sallow face
framing her eye sockets, long since pecked clean by crows, where the moonlight
burned cold and clean from immeasurably deep blackness. She raised a skeletal hand, clutching a pearl
handled hunting knife. Space hung folded
over it, like an old dress on the balcony.
In its polished blade, his reflection was her face. She plunged the knife into his chest.
I stood up and pulled the knife
from my chest. On the altar lay a bowl
of water. I stood over it, gazing at my
own sallow face and yellow, moonlit eyes.
The reflection hovered somewhere in between the surface of the water and
the air above it, where ripples couldn’t disturb it. I took a drink and stepped back out the way
she had come in.
The night breeze blew cool around
me, the clouds blown to the side to allow crisp starlight through. No dust moved beneath my feet.
![kropotkindersurprise:
“December 15 2018 - Cops in Paris are shown specifically targeting peaceful citizens filming riot police. I know this footage looks almost comically dystopian but it is real. [video]
”](https://64.media.tumblr.com/e7da0b7b9c3ae65e73bcbb276ebc70db/tumblr_pml2q6Mfmk1tsf68ao1_400.gifv)
