Well ok Kesha, maybe it’s because you’re an auto tuned peice of shit who shouldn’t be famous, you have no Buisness being in the music industry, it’s not even your music you fuck, someone else wrote it for you to record and them to auto tune yourself. And it’s not at all good . It’s not positive either. So complain some more.
I don’t know if you know this, tumblr user koolkidseatgreens, but Ke$ha is a certified genius. She has an IQ over 140 and an SAT score of 1500. When she was younger she would go to the library and do research for fun. Ke$ha is a both feminist and an advocate for equal marriage/rights for people of any sexuality, being a queer woman herself.
Ke$ha is a smart, professional woman, and just because she sings songs about wanting to let loose and have fun every once in a while doesn’t make her a piece of shit.
Ke$ha’s songs are meant to point out the sexism in our media. She treats men the same way many men in the music industry treat women, and she is hated on for it. Relentlessly. She sings on multiple occasions about taking charge in a sexual relationship, of how she only uses men for their body parts. She sexualizes men to make them uncomfortable. She sexualizes men for a reaction, so that people can both see why women are so uncomfortable with their sexualization and also to point out the inequality between the sexes both in the media and in the world at large.
She is judged so harshly for singing about things that make many men famous.
If you listen to Ke$ha’s deconstructed album you will see that she actually has some talent, which may be hard to hear because she does in fact use a fair amount of autotune. This is because of her genre and because of the kind of music she chooses to create as an artist. Ke$ha may not write her songs, but this doesn’t meant she isn’t a good artist or a good person. This doesn’t mean she deserves your harsh words. Some singers are good at writing, but that’s hardly a requirement. Last time I checked whether or not you can sing has nothing to do with whether or not you’re a poet.
You should not be calling anyone a piece of shit, my friend, especially someone you’ve never sat down and had a conversation (or even taken the time to wonder about her feelings!), but if anyone deserves that kind of language it’s not Ke$ha.
You may think that by shaming women for expressing their sexuality and having fun every once in a while, that you are somehow abolishing sexism. That in weeding out the less ‘deserving’ women you are gaining our sex more respect. This is not the case, and the fact that you and many others feel such a strong need to shame this woman who has done nothing wrong, especially not to you, shows that we still have a very far away to go.
Um I’m just going to add, Ke$ha actually does write her own songs. For example, here’s her first album’s tracklist:
She has also written for other artists, probably most famously “‘Till The World Ends” by Britney Spears, which is part of why she’s on the remix of it. She wrote for years and was even the female voice on Flo Rida’s “Right Round” but refused to be credited because she didn’t want her first single to not be her own work. She spent years, starting at the age of 15, writing music before she came out with her album because she wanted to make sure it was all her own and all what she wanted to do.
You can even get all her unreleased music which, combined with her actual albums, is 10.3 hours according to my iTunes playlist. Some artists have been around for twice as long as her and haven’t written that many songs.
Not only have critics proclaimed she could be a country star if she ever leaves the pop music business (which is showcased on her unreleased track “Goodbye”), but she’s actually the daughter of a very talented country songwriter. Her music is actually fairly well praised by the music critics community and if you listened to any of her songs that her record won’t let her release as singles—“Last Goodbye”, “The Harold Song”, “Only Wanna Dance With You”, any of her ballads—she can write multiple styles of songs. She’s just stuck in a box of what she can release and then shallow minded people call her dumb for having fun.
That’s a big fuck you for hating Ke$ha.
THIS. ALL OF THIS. ALL OF IT. EVERYWHERE. ALWAYS.
this guy right here needs a bigger fandom
his little self was charming
he’s cute as a dozen of kittens
dat acting skills though
btw he’s actually hot
and let’s all admit that his joffrey was legen-freaking-dary
just look at this evil little asshole
but he’s the way he is because of this amazing actor
and kneel for the king Jack Gleeson
HE’S LIKE A GIANT PUPPY WHEN HE’S NOT JOFFREY IT’S ADORABLE
oh my god
As a person from California, this is 100% accurate
As a person from Michigan, this is 100% accurate
As a person from England I was so confused because I forgot you use the Fahrenheit system
50 degrees in England
100 degrees in England
I don’t know why I found the skeletons so funny, it’s almost like they’re dancing really sarcastically?
Drabble responses as I attempt to get back in my writing groove.
She stares at the door for a long time, waits until the clock hits 11:47 exactly for the telltale creak of the too-old floorboards, his heavy and measured steps echoing just outside in the hall. She watches as his shadowed feet appear beneath her door, his body hesitating, the buzz that pulls him to her and her to him practically a physical thing between them, stretching out hazy and thick and taut.
(It gets tighter each day – regardless of his cold stares or tense shoulders – her heart squeezing painfully each and every step he takes away from her.)
He lingers there, in front of her door, and her fingers twitch with the urge to open it – let him know that she knows he does this every night. She can hear the dull thud of his forehead falling against the wood, the scrape of his hook as his arm presses against the barrier between them. But instead she sits on the edge of her bed as her heart beats out a manic rhythm against her rib cage, the glass of whiskey burning a hole through her as she pulls at it with measured sips. 11:49 and he moves on, the creak of the stairs signaling his retreat as he finds his way into the diner – using his hook to fiddle with the lock until the old door swings open and he can raid the pie supply.
(Her footsteps are infinitely quieter and he has a horrible weakness for apple pie – his low moan as his forks slides between his lips downright sinful in the dark quiet of the abandoned diner.)
One night it changes, the door to his room swinging open with such force that it slams against the wall with a loud bang. She puts her glass of whiskey to the side on top of her book and swings her legs over the edge of the bed, eyes darting to the clock and registering the light glow that tells her it’s only 10:48. His footsteps are anxious outside of her door and this time she gives into the pull, her hands clammy as she opens the door.
He is disheveled, fingers anchored in his hair, and when his wild eyes land on her he heaves out a desperate sounding breath mixed with a low whimper that settles in her stomach and makes her sick. He takes a half-step forward and seems to remember himself, the brief flash of agony on his face enough to steal her breath and curl her hands into fists at her side.
“Are you alright?”
He gnaws on his lip and forces a shaky grin, already retreating back to his room. His eyes dart anywhere but to her and the thing that pulls them together begins to fray at the middle – too tight, far too tight.
“Aye, just a dream.” And then he is gone, the sailboat (Granny’s does not lack in irony, that is for sure) swinging innocuously on his door.
(She blinks back tears when he shows up again at 11:47, his ragged breath falling through the door, the scrape of his hook noticeably absent. He stays until midnight this time, and she makes sure to make extra noise as she gets ready for bed – a whispered come back to me with every clumsy movement.)