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-X3- X-tended Account


The Arrival

It was 6am. I went straight from the occupation through the dark and over the ice, back home to pick up a few essentials for a protest. Essentials for being kettled. Essentials for avoiding FIT and police brutality. This included energy-food, a warm coat, thick boots, face mask, what first aid equipment I could find, a bottle of water, and a funneled bottle made to allow women to urinate in difficult situations. Whilst essential, I don’t think the majority of even this fast-learning student movement has picked up on everything yet. I left behind any ID I didn’t need, my credit cards, and other things from our occupation. For me, this was a rushed and unprepared start.

Z and I headed back up to the campus to get on the coach. We were running late. We had to phone M to hold the coach. I asked how many there were. He said not to ask, but to find out when we got there. When we stepped on the bus it became clear the numbers were dwindling. There were apart from us, 3 students, (2 from the occupation) a lecturer, and 2 SU staff. We were handed an agenda and a sort of bust card. I realised the only thing on the agenda to really hold my attention was the leaving time, and spent the next 10 minutes scribbling corrections on the bust card and finding the number of an actual solicitor. After an uneventful journey we pulled up outside the now notorious Millbank Tower. As should probably be expected there were a few lines of police for every few steps.

Our group walked towards where the official NUS demo was being held. It was fairly quiet, and the police lines were in the other direction. The lecturer went for a walk in that direction, so after little consideration I grabbed Z and followed in the same way. We should have mentioned it to M and H, but I was worried about getting talked out of leaving, and went for it. I know the risks. I saw Millbank occupation up close. I’ve been kettled before. I went to X2 the other week. I was aware that I might not get home that night, and I was correct.

Z and I wandered across a series of roads glowing fluorescent with Met officers. Horses were scattered down side rows, waiting for the time they would be used to charge through members of the general public. Trafalgar Square had been cleaned since my last visit. ‘REVOLUTION’ was no longer scrawled over the column, but it was imprinted in the air. The SWP, EAN, and various others were busy at their stalls, handing out placards and rallying their troops with megaphones. It didn’t seem like there was much else happening just yet.

We stepped up towards the Tate, and looked over onto the scene. I pulled out my phone to message M where we were, and check my Twitter account. I started my account up again so that I could follow the tags of #dayx3 #shutdownparliament etc, and to watch the other occupations. It seemed that Arts Against Cuts organised an Italian style Uniriot and brought in the Book Bloc: brightly coloured placards decorated as famous literary works, but thick enough to be used as shields. A few moments later I read that the London art schools were all trying to meet up on Waterloo Bridge, but were being prevented by the police. This seemed to be the best place to start, so out came the internet maps, and off we headed.

Marching Round in Circles

It took us a long while to find. We passed a the market stalls of Southbank, and a beautifully painted skate park before climbing the stairs on to the bridge. Despite there being very little sign of either police or protestor, once we reached the final step, we could hear the demonstration marching towards us from a dstance. I decided that the best place for us to join in would be by the Soundsystem. ALWAYS start by the sound system. It adds a little more fun into the mix and relaxes those not used to chanting and marching. As we descended through town, we started practicing the usual ‘no ifs, no buts…’, ‘cut back-fight back’, ‘Tory scum’ and various digs at Nick Clegg. Once in town there was little disruption. We reached Whitehall, where we were told we could not enter. There were only a couple of officers stopping us, so the inevitable happened and we all ran the other way. The masks went up. There were nowhere near enough people to rule the streets like last time. The people with the megaphones appointed themselves leaders as ENA and NCAFC insisted people stay behind their banners. This assumed leadership went down very badly with the majority of other people, including their own. The numbers dispersed more and many chose to do their own thing, if purely to establish their autonomy. By the time they should have used their perceived authority for something helpful, (to tell some youth to stop harassing the officers unprovoked) they had lost respect and become a redundant nagging voice. This is the first time during the student movement that I have noticed any of the usual groups trying to co-opt other into what they want to do, to be fair, but it was enough to scatter us all over. Nobody knew what they were trying to do.

We attempted to make our way back through to Trafalgar again, seeing as the march was due to start, but we were either cut off or blocked wherever we went. I for one was not impressed with all the high speed chases around the city. A few strong willed girls attempted to get us to link arms and charge through police, but this failed due to the low numbers putting people off. Z spotted an Underground passage near by. He tried to whistle to the others so they could to run through, but as they didn’t, we went undercover as tourists. I folded my arms over my badges, and he started listing which monuments we were to walk around next. There were many groups of 2-3 cops, and some were talking about shutting off the station. After a couple wrong turns, we finally found ourselves back on the route to Trafalgar, still in disguise as regular people. The police presence had increased 10 fold and real tourists looked on astounded. As we peered down an alley I think I saw more mounted horses hidden than ever before. As we approached, the official march was just starting. In comparison it didn’t take much to be let through those lines.

It started off pretty normally, with a brief pause whilst a couple of protestors ran into Vodaphone for a quick rant about tax evasion, which seemed to actually be enjoyable to one or two of the younger staff. As the police dealt with this, the other protesters kept on walking. Whilst not breaking out of police lines per se, they were very much weakened by the Vodaphone crowd, and we didn’t mind a bit. We seemed to carry on as usual until we reached a line of police. I don’t know if it was the proposed route or not, but we were aiming for Parliament Square. Seeing as we were trapped, we started looking around at where we were. I saw in the corner of the crowd, a surprisingly large mass of black hoodies, worn by an eclectic group of individuals of varying ages, but mostly typical student age. Some were holding Ⓐ flags, some AFED black and red flags, some with green on for matching policies, and others with plain black. I had found the anarchists. I pulled a reluctant Z over to them, so I could listen into their conversation and maybe make some contacts. Given the situation, I thought they might be the best prepared to deal with it. There appeared to be two or three different groups at least; not just obvious by their flag choice. Some were all in black, others, especially the girls, had slightly more colourful masks, and one of them held a home-made shield. The most noticeable group were using the Wombles style: Head to toe with helmets and subtle armor, and very well prepared. Z had earlier armed himself with a SWP ‘F**K FEES’ sign, just in case, but his eyes drifted to the placards next to us. The handles were reinforced to the thickness of sports bats. We couldn’t help but jokingly remark upon them out loud. To our surprise, one of them turned to us and smiled through his mask. He offered Z a replacement placard, which he was very happy with, and I took the SWPpy sign. One of the older men was signaling to the others to weave through the crowd and check it out. We followed closer to the front. The will was there and the crowd eventually pushed through the police, and those with helmets led the way.

Put the Kettle On

Upon entering the square there was plenty confusion. We entered through a thin opening, which was split by a very high spiked fence. On one side was a church and on the other the rest of the square. As we were penned in, people panicked to ensure they were on the right side, and many risked jumping over the spikes more than once, myself included. I helped today’s black bloc push a special kind of placard through the fence, and into the square. In return I got help getting myself over the top. Z found his place in the world and started scaling lampposts and traffic lights to scout the scene. We were closed in now. Well, technically single passer-bys could pass for the moment, but we weren’t ready to miss out on the demo just yet. People on phones who were trying to find their friends kept using him as a landmark, and others attempted to take photographs, but were blocked by his sign. One even tried telling him how to stand until another guy behind him exclaimed “You can’t make them pose!”

Our posse divided a little into separate groups closer to the square as a loose line of police in riot gear cleared the church area. I stayed by the gate as Z climbed on to our old friend, Peel. The anarchists were working out which areas were poorly guarded, and having an obvious trouble deciding where to go. I saw a comrade from Leeds for a second, then phoned Z. He told me where was blocked and where had space or thin lines, and I passed on the information. Much like BBC news presumed, I asked if they were WAG, but they said mostly Brighton, and he passed me my first authentic Schnews and an associated sticker. He told me he liked to make the news AND make the news. As I was relaying information, some of the guys in Womble gear started grabbing fences and making a large arrow shape. A group of police stormed in and were glaring at them, so I hopped over and whispered to them that they were being watched. They reassured me that it was okay, because that they were just making a toilet. They covered it in green material, stood it up on the grass, and used spray paint to explain the facility’s use.

Finally we were blocked in for good, with well-meaning protesters being sent from one side of the kettle only to be told to go back again for an exit. Those who had attended demos before knew that if they wanted to get out en masse and continue to protest then they would have to escape now whilst energies were high. Some had been in and out of various pockets of the crowd to throw things. They were breaking up big concrete blocks into little stones, but their use was, for now, decided against. The foldable placard now showed its true form in the shape of an arrow and with inner handles. As we walked towards the mosh-pit-like kettle crowd, “some fucking pacifist” convinced them to drop the metal tubes. Good. I wouldn’t want it on my conscience anyway. As the crowd made a path, we made our formation behind the plough. The rest of the people seemed happy to be behind us, and the push almost – ALMOST worked, but the police somehow managed to start ripping down the walls of the plough, and this resulted in one side pulling back. The police used this to their advantage and we span round with the placard unfolding. I came out from it after the second charge only to find myself on the front line. Me and Z kept hands held to stay together. I am not the most balanced physically, and the pushing was very fast. It was like being in a wave machine, only if you fell it would hurt. Seeing as I was on the first row it was pushing me towards the police shields. This I could deal with, but when they raised their batons I started trying to move back into the crowd to let someone else better prepared be at the front. It was a huge struggle to get back. I turned towards the crowd, and was largely successful in swimming through despite the surges, but the batons came down on the back of my legs anyway. Luckily, thanks to the thick boots, nothing bruised. Others were less lucky. As we got to the middle, one of the guys we met before was walking through with a bag of xmas baubles which had been glued back together. He offered some to us. We automatically declined, but then asked out of curiosity what they were. When he told us they were just paint we changed out minds and had a go at coconut shy. Obviously from looking at photos, some of us hit our targets. We realised that the pushing wasn’t working so retreated for a break to the square. We looked on as dozens of people ran out of the area we had previously been in. This is when the horses charged them. Again, we were lucky.

Cabin Fever

It was getting cold and so Z and I started huddling around fires. There were about 4 sound systems on the go at once, each playing different music to different crowds. I heard the familiar samba drums; possibly Rhythms of Resistance, and pulled Z over to the spot. It was amazing and energetic as usual, and we started dancing. It was a mad dance. It wasn’t just because the beat of the drums were vibrating through us, but because we needed brain buzz. We needed to keep up the heat. We needed something – anything. The music finally started a more repetitive beat, and the dancers, who by now had become many, erupted into “No Ifs, No Buts, No Education Cuts”, which I swear, in that moment, was harmonised. There were other songs, with some adding background whoops and whistles. When they stopped they got one of the loudest cheers I’ve heard at any concert. We were sorely disappointed not to get an encore.

The scene was chaotic but beautiful. I was sitting on a wall talking to a lady who was a school teacher. That clown I keep seeing was there again. There were fires all around, a giant NO in red paint on the ground, and graffiti was everywhere. There was the usual Ⓐ signs, REVOLUTION, and anti-fees quotes at this stage, and Nelson Mandela was holding up signs against the fees. Robert Peel and Winston Churchill on the other hand, had signs rather directly referencing who they were in our eyes. We were lost in this strange place for a while, unsure what to do. I received a phone call from H, asking where I was, and if M was with me. He had apparently wandered off too. I explained that we were kettled, and that whilst it was early on, we probably would not be able to get the coach and that I would stay at my mum’s place or something. I texted M to see if he was kettled too. At the time, he said he wasn’t, but after a while it became clear that he was. I let him know he was welcome to stay with us if he could find us after. The parliamentary debate started. We watched for a while. It was a bit dull honestly, trying to shout loud enough for them to hear us, and we couldn’t get good viewing from outside, obviously. There was everything you might expect, plus a few fireworks. Oh, it was until I turned around, wondering why it was so dark, only to see smoke raging from an apocalyptic fire looming over the other side of our pen. I was alarmed for a second, but everybody carried on as they were, so I shrugged and looked back up at Big Ben. We left shortly. I became aware of the sheer amount of tents lined up by people expecting to be kettled, as well as a tea-tent set up by some lovely people, most likely GBC.

As we stumbled over the grass we saw now that most statues were on fire. I turned to the side. A guy was talking to his friends, querying who these people were; if he was just being stupid, or if nobody knew. We had a conversation discussing how if in fact nobody knew, as none present did, it would be foolish to vandalise their image, because if Mandela was there, then perhaps others would have saved lives or something like that too. We discussed names, and ideologies, and discovered that we had a few friends in common at his uni. He suggested maybe staying at an occupation if we were stuck. We walked over to a new fire and sat along a wall. It was freezing. The guy, (A) walked away as I started chatting to an older man to the side of me about what he was doing here. On the other side, Z was tearing up a banner in order to keep the fire going, and someone was trying to make toast. Some girls wandered by, and offered us rosemary to make the fire smell nice. This made most of us smile and we accepted. It was lovely. Z had been talking to some other people, apparently from Hull. We were fairly certain by now that we would miss the coach, but it seemed that their SU would be sending them a coach to LSE at a later time. Hull being close, this seemed perfect. Then the message came to us: The bill had passed.

We knew it would. It was no surprise. Still, a sigh fell over some people. Others were determined that this meant war, and were determined to stay on towards the end to show it isn’t over. We were told that people were being let out in the place we first entered and had tried escaping through previously, and as we were trying to stick with the Hull people, we followed them into the queue. We realised soon enough that this queue didn’t really seem to move much. A girl in a bandana warned us that there wasn’t really an exit, but as we were moving further forward we decided to wait it out. A dreadlocked guy with a scarf came by looking to test the feelings of the people in the queue. He said that the police were taking people one-by-one, getting their names and addresses and taking photos, and that he wanted to see if people were willing to surge out seeing as there were only a few officers. My eyes widened, as I have no interest in being photographed by FIT , nor being on a police database, but I sucked it up to stick with the crew, who were happy to wait. The slowness was astounding, but we appeared to be moving… or were we just becoming more compacted? A megaphone called out to tell us that there is no law about covering our face with our hands, and restless chants to get out became common. The Hull people expressed distaste in those who were rowdy; that made the police worse for other demonstrators. I expressed distaste at the way that the force treated everyone like troublemakers so as to cause divides in the movement and set demonstrators against each other. Perhaps not as tactfully as I am capable of, seeing as it was followed by a ‘meow’ and scratch from Z. I hadn’t seen the more tooled up anarchists in a long time. I heard tell of some getting through the other side and escaping or being arrested, but I have no idea.

And that’s the Sound of the Police

By now, there were a couple thousand people behind us. We realised that nobody was leaving after all, but by then we were too tight to really move. Some idiots decided it was a good idea to push from the back. This can potentially end up like falling dominoes, and seeing as the front lines were made up of people of all ages, looking to get out by whatever orders the Met threw at them, it was hugely unfair to push them against the police, knowing that they would likely be hit and that they may be the more vulnerable people. This just served to squeeze us tighter together. The people at the very back, totally oblivious, moved forward into the space, and we were locked. There was a push back from the people at front, and there were no more surges for now. Five minutes later and we were still stuck there. The crowd became restless, uncomfortable and faint. Shouts rose up again, including from the megaphone. Suddenly, “MOVE BACK!” and the police held up their shields, immediately marching straight into us. Moving back was physically impossible. It just moved us closer together, if that is possible. People’s cameras dug into my back. They didn’t stop. The girl in front was screaming in pain against a shield, and people were yelling at them to stop it. They didn’t stop. People shouted at the police “Shame on you” “Let us out” “No justice, No peace”, and they tried to push back again, almost knocking us sideways. The screaming at the front got louder. They didn’t stop. People were shocked. Something very rare happened at this point. The crowd started to try to appeal to the police’s human side. They asked if they could please stop because people were hurt. They said that the police should fucking think for themselves, because it was obvious that they couldn’t move, and it wasn’t working. They told them that they were doing it for the police’s jobs too, and for their kids’ education. They begged that if they told them where they could go or what they could do then they would do it. They could do it if they passed the message on to the back. But once again, the police didn’t stop. In fact they didn’t answer. They didn’t say a word, despite being challenged to. “Can’t you speak?” Just then, a beardy Legal Observer managed to clear a path through to the front line, and talk to them. A false rumour was made up that there was an exit at the other side, and people started finally moving from the back. We breathed a sigh of relief, and slowly waited our turn to get back to the square. Z and I had just about managed to keep together and upright through all of that.

Just as we got to the edge of the building that caused the alley, a line of riot police jumped across the divide. Many people, ourselves included, took a chance to run out of there and into the main area. We later figured they probably would let out those in the tighter kettle, but we panicked and due to the recent activity, feared being squashed together again for some kind of sick joke. It was around this time that two things seemed to happen: Less noticeably to us from where we were stood, barriers started being used against the police, and much of the violence to people on either side occurred, but we couldn’t really see that. In the corner of my eye I could see a lot of people outside the treasury, but couldn’t quite tell what was happening. We didn’t take much notice, because we wanted to check out this apparent new exit at Whitehall, and listen in to some conversations on the way. It seemed that there were no longer going to be any exits, as this was in fact a crime scene, and we were all potential criminals. It became a bit clearer that some windows had been smashed led by quite a few rudeboys and girls at the treasury, and some had got through the door in an attempt to leave, or perhaps to piss off George Osbourne. Maybe it was neither, and they had just got angry and crazy from the situation. I can’t be bothered to hold it against them at any rate. (Personally I’ll take it as a win) I’m not a great defender of brick and cement and glass. From where we were standing, it seemed better to stay away. It was barely noticeable to us, whilst still visibly trouble.

We started looking around to see if we could find the people from Hull again, but it seemed we could not. Again, there seemed to be a long period of nothing happening. The sky was dark, we looked for fires. As we stood there, seemingly out of nowhere, a conga line appeared. The biggest one you’ve ever seen. Certainly the biggest I’ve ever seen. We rushed to join in. We burned off all excess energy trying to keep up, and in the end it went around in circles. There was a helicopter up above, with a bright spotlight, which we found ourselves in the middle of. Much like the dancing, this was just a crazed way of keeping up our spirits and dealing with our entrapment. We hadn’t eaten, some won’t have drank. Many had not been to the toilet, or even taken time to sit down. Energy burning probably wasn’t too clever. When the steam ran out we all joined hands in a circle. As BBC announced that we were apparently preparing to attack the police, we broke into the hokey-kokey. I turned to Z, and for about the 3rd time that day said “You said you wanted an experience”. Next we tried ‘Head, shoulders, knees and toes’, and broke away as Z tried to start a round of a Dog called Bingo. Again we stalked up and down our cage, and ended up back at the statues, now after many fires, and with much more decoration. Boredom creates clowns and artists. A boy was being instructed about how to spray a V for Vendetta quote onto the floor, tipping the can the right way up. “The people should not be afraid of the government; The government should be afraid of the people.”

We saw A again, next to a fire juggler, and started talking about our plans for the night, also trying to communicate with M via phone. I said how it doesn’t really matter what they do to us, we will find a way to keep our spirits soaring. We had our accommodation options, but there seemed to be a Twitter campaign to find us somewhere. My phone was now out of battery. As we talked to A, and he suggested various occupations, the spotlight appeared to be on us. I have no idea why, but it was largely focused on our chat for the best part of 15 minutes. Even when someone had climbed upon a big metal box of something at the front near parliament. It was a stormtrooper. A pink one. And it was doing a dance to dubstep. No, wait, it was… stripping! The helicopter paid no heed, but we were transfixed. There went the arms then legs, the helmet even. He seemed to have trouble with the breast plate. After the helmet, off came the shirt. We were glad that the teasing led no further; certainly in these temperatures.

Just then, we turned out head to see the latest police surge. The whole fence of our kettle swept swiftly over us, creating dust from the people who didn’t see them coming. We saw them early and had plenty of time and moved ahead well in advance of the descending line. I had a very bad feeling that the kettle was just going to get tighter, and that we would be forced to give details, so imagine my delight when one end of the kettle opened up into the street. We were skeptical, but right there and then we were just happy to leave. This was the first time the chants started chiming “We’ll be back!” But sooner than we thought. The further we advanced, we realised that this was a moving kettle. We weren’t too surprised, but it lasted a lot longer than we thought. We wondered where we were going. Just as we stood on Westminster Bridge we suddenly stopped.

Bridge Over Troubled Water

We waited, and waited, and waited. Me and Z sat down for warmth, and were for a short while joined by a drummer. We seemed, from where we were, to be slowly moving forward every now and again, but I think, looking back, that we must have been crushing people at the front. Once again there were calls of “Let us out”. Christmas carols rose up from the crowd, as well as comedic chants such as “We all live in a fascist regime” to the Beatles famous tune, and “Who’s bridge? Our bridge!”, seeing as we did of course, have the flags to claim it. We hereby occupy this bridge. Two hours later and we were still stuck on the bloody bridge. There were other demonstrators on the other side of the bridge, some of whom escaped and were scaling the wall. They beckoned us to break through, but it seemed like there wasn’t the will at the front. We could not see from where we were how thick the army of police actually was. A police boat started hovering below us, and the lights would randomly turn off and on. There was no CCTV. We listened to people talking about how this had happened before at the Tamil solidarity demo for so long that they jumped off. Just as we came towards the second hour, some of the escapees ran under the bridge, throwing bread and oranges up to us. Our saviors; Hope and belief in the community and love of our violent movement. It was shared out almost biblically around us in the area that it reached. It wasn’t long after when the lines actually started to move.

We had no idea what on earth was waiting for us as we were funneled through. We walked through a split tide of officers, us alone in single file whilst they, on the other hand were at least doubled up either side of us. The line went on for ages, and they informed us that we were not allowed our hats or hoods. I think the way that this pushed my hair into my face worked in my favour, because as I sorted it out, I didn’t notice the bright light cameras waiting at the end of the line at all. The police told us to have a safe walk home, but after clearing our walk of shame, the road was still lined entirely by police, blocking off roads which we may have wanted to go home by. Food shops were closed Train stations were closed. Transportation had left. Was that a joke? Apparently many protestors were taunted and insulted on the way out, so who really knows? Riot vans and police continued all the way to Waterloo station and beyond. People ironically shouted that these streets were still ours as we looked around our police state. We were lucky enough to find some people Hull from before, and follow them back to LSE. Also luckily, M happened to be at Waterloo as well, so we were together again.

Student Solidarity

It was a slow and uneventful walk to LSE. We were swapping stories and complaining about our tiredness. It was almost 1am by the time we got to LSE. The coach came for most of Hull, but there wasn’t enough space. We walked past the front desk and into the occupation. It was much smaller than ours. What’s more, it was packed. I was overwhelmed as one girl started talking about the rules and expectations, whilst welcoming us in. There were people from Manchester and Sheffield here, as well as people from Hull. A was there, which was cool. Sky news was on, and everyone was cheering the hits at the police and booing the hits by the police. Apparently the reports had said we could leave any time and that we were not kept from water and toilets. This was certainly confusing. Not only that, but people had broken out and trashed Topshop, pissed off the Royal family, and for some reason burned down a Christmas tree (It has something to do with Greek solidarity if anyone is interested) brilliant. We were so hungry, so me and Z went off for some shit food, and to check out ULU.

We followed the route we were given by the occupation-ran help-desk. Eventually we came to a building with many signs saying OCCUPIED. Was this it? We saw a guy in a poncho and some others lighting up outside. We asked where we were. This was SOAS, and it was very close, but, the guy in the poncho said, we could stay here too; we just had to climb through the window as initiation. I was helped through the other side by an occupant from within, and introduced myself. This was more like it. There was a pillar of solidarity, with hundreds of photos of people with signs saying they support the occupation, and another with letters and pictures from people showing support and giving messages. We listened to people talk about their comrade having to go to hospital for getting his arm fractured by a baton, and they spoke of their friend being pulled out of a wheelchair, and a guy from Sussex having his head smashed in. We shared stories and settled down. Everyone was knackered. The room had double its usual numbers due to a large amount of people from Bradford staying. Someone appeared to come back late, who was wondering if he could file a complaint about almost being ran over by a dangerously-driving Bentley. All noise turned to a murmer. The beanbags were not as large as ours here. I knew I was uncomfortable, but as soon as my head felt something soft it was heaven, and I had an amazing sleep.

We woke up and enjoyed the experience of their 11am meeting, (very informed and intelligent) before thanking them for their hospitality and leaving for the train home. M had already left. Now that my phone was charged I reassured my mother. I haven’t been able to stop thinking or talking about it since. Z wanted an experience, but things this big are an experience every time. What I have learned over time is that the more brutal the treatment of the people, the more they come together as a community to talk and share and laugh and create. The shittier a demo is, the more amazing its potential. We should harness all anger, all passion, and think through every consequence so that we may use it to our fullest without holding back. This is a worldwide movement. All students who are fighting are linked. No occupation is in a vaccuum. When we asked to stay at SOAS, the answer was ‘of course’, because we were students like them. They trusted everyone enough to leave out laptops, cameras and phones out. It was no worry. The tags for the protests and occupations aren’t #solidarity and #UNIty for nothing.


★ ~ Ⓐ ♀ ~ ♡☮✿♡ ~ ☭Ⓥ ~ ★


From → 09/12/10, Diary, LOLCⒶT

  1. i like it

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