Home

from whence ye came

  Message

whats up?

  me

who is mineapple?

  art

self-explanatory

  commissions open!

want me to draw something for you?

  Art Blog

just the arty bits

 

teafortrouble:

sushinfood:

People sending me hate for saying women have the right to abortions.

HA. HAHA. HAHA. HA HA HAHA.

How dare you.

I’m pissed off that a woman can’t even abort something she’s not ready for/changed her mind about/made a mistake with.

BUT SUSHI IT’S NOT A SOMETHING IT’S A B—-

You stop.

Itis not a a BABY yet. It is simply a choice. A woman’s. Choice.

Is she aborts it? It is not going to affect YOU.

If she keeps it? It is not going to affect YOU.

And what the FUCK would you do for her if she kept it? Would you give her the money, the supplies, the support she doesn’t have to help her?

No. You would just feel content in knowing another mouth to feed has been brought screaming into the already over populated world.

Babies are lovely, surely enough, but there are thousands of kids who need adopting and thousands of women who, for whatever reason (that still isn’t your business) do not want to have them.

It’s NO ONE’S BUSINESS BUT HERS.
IT IS HER BODY. IT IS HER CHOICE. HERS.

SHE IS HAVING IT. SHE CAN STOP IT.

I DO NOT FUCKING CARE HOW WRONG YOU THINK IT IS WHEN IT JUST ISN’T WRONG IN THE SLIGHTEST.

Fucking CHRIST, we live in a world where THE DEADhave more RIGHTS than a PREGNANT WOMAN and it makes me want to VOMIT.

This. For so long as I continue to value my and other women’s bodily autonomy, fucking THIS.

Individuals have in the past attempted to shame me for my support of reproductive rights by pointing out that I am a mother, and how dare I suggest that I could abort a child now that I have them?

My twins, while my first children, are the product of my third pregnancy. I was twenty-three. I was living in a home I owned. I was working, I was married. I was ready. I adore my daughters, and I am able to support them because I am in a position to do so.

My first was when I was just barely eighteen, still finishing out my high school credits, barely on my own, quite broke, and terrified. No, my life wasn’t in danger. No, it wasn’t a rape. No, there were no obvious indicators of health risk or complication. I just wasn’t fucking ready, and that is a choice to which I am entitled - to which all women, as being free-thinking, fully autonomous, sentient fucking people (things an eight-week-old fetus is NOT) - are entitled.

(in b4 ‘serial murder!’: My second was a terrifying, bloody miscarriage which sent me sobbing to the hospital at four in the morning, and was wholly more traumatic than the clean, sterile abortion I’d had prior.)