A white Bulgarian nationalist literally recorded a video of himself humiliating and beating up a Romani boy. Where is the outrage? Where is the massively trending hashtag? Where are the gofundme pages or the countless donations or Facebook profile picture filter?
Oh, right. Gypsies don’t get those things because most of the world views us exactly as this Bulgarian neo-nazi shithead: subhuman and not worthy of basic human dignity let alone help or respect.
I’m so tired of all of this. Please spread awareness and solidarity using Mitko’s hashtag #RomaAreEqual
Reblogging again for my trans* and genderfluid buddies and also all female cosplay friends.
yO IM !!!!!!!!
WOAH THIS POPPED UP ON MY DASH AGAIN! Everyone, this is the binder I use. Its rather comfortable, and it doesn’t feel too constricting to me. In fact, half the time i’m running around in cosplay and i forget im wearing a binder! i do remember to limit my time in the binder to at most 8 hours if not 6, take deep breaths after its off, and to do deep coughs, etc. but honestly using a sports bra was more noticable and uncomfortable than this binder. and they last, too! I recomend it to anyone who can afford it and bind safely!
I always love that Eliot is like, “Listen Nate, this is a shit idea. It’s going to go horribly wrong. We’re all going to end up in jail or dead. But if you’re really set on doing this then I’ve got your back because that’s my job.”
it just gives me warm fuzzy feelings whenever Eliot is protective of his crew, even when they’re making potentially shit decisions (which is usually just Nate tbh)
Your dog sounds amazing, you need to tell us about that door licking story Dumb dogs are the best!
We trained the dog so that when he wants out, he goes to the front door and waits.
Somehow in his little golden retriever brain, he interpreted this to mean “go to the front door, and lick it.”
If he’s at the door, but isn’t licking it, he doesn’t need out, he’s just chilling.
So, this was our routine - when he wants out, he goes to the front door, and licks it. And then we moved house, and he got very, very confused.
He knew he had to go to the front door when he wants out, but this was a new house with obviously a door that was completely new to him.
Despite our condo having only one door that leads outside, and him going out this very same door literally at least five times a day, every day, for about a year…he still has no idea where the front door is in this house. Absolutely no idea at all.
Now whenever he needs out, he will go to any random door and start licking it. And I mean any door - the bathroom door, my bedroom door, my closet, the goddamn door of a kitchen cabinet, even.
I don’t know if he’s really smart or really dumb. Because clearly, he understands conceptually what a door is. I don’t know if he thinks my closet or the kitchen cabinets lead to outside, or if he’s just hoping to find doggy Narnia, or if he’s just hopelessly given up on ever being able to find the door by himself and is just doing the best he can, but every goddamn time he wants out, he’s right there licking the glass door to the shower or something.
He doesn’t alert us he needs out any other way. So if you haven’t seen him in a while, you have to search room by room until you find him with his tongue pressed up against the linen closet because he thinks outside might be that way.
He’s the biggest, dumbest dog I have ever met in my life and I could not love him any more. He’s perfect.
I love the phrase “what the entire fuck” because it implies that there exists some scenario that warrants only a “what the partial fuck”.
Similarly “what the actual fuck,” implying “what the figurative fuck” or “what the imaginary fuck”.
“What the actual fuck” is an interesting one because “actual” has so many distinct shades of meaning.
“Entire” generally means “whole” or “complete”, but depending on the particular context, “actual” can denote any or all of “real”, “literal”, “concrete”, “truthful”, “grounded” or “factual”.
Thus, when deriving the contrastive phrase, in addition to “what the imaginary fuck” and “what the figurative fuck”, we could also reasonably arrive at “what the hypothetical fuck”, “what the fraudulent fuck”, “what the fanciful fuck” or “what the counterfactual fuck”.
Language is fun!
@blackmelange Feeling the need for a little variety.
Ooh, what about “what the everloving fuck”? “Everloving” could mean “faithful” or “devoted”, so that implies “what the faithless fuck” or “what the indifferent fuck”.
also ngl, I kind of love the idea of a ship where the guy is dark, and the girl initially wants to “save” him, but he doesn’t need or want saving from it because it’s part of him
and in fact she’s the one who needs to embrace her dark side because she represses it, and so in order for the relationship to work she needs to be honest and accept that part of herself
and the development is that they help each other accept and embrace who they are, darkness included, and they become this slightly evil power couple
inspired by @suzukiblu‘s lovely head canon about the trio getting babies
It starts with Finn. They’re on a mission, finn and poe going to an abandoned first order barracks to hunt down some information and the retreating first order left behind this baby, this tiny soft little girl, and she’s crying out of hunger and cold and fear and finn acts on instinct and bundles her under his shirt
finn has never actually seen a baby because troopers are kept isolated from baby troopers, kept in age appropriate barracks, and he is absolutely hypnotised by how tiny and fragile it is. it is so soft. look at its little soft softness.
can we keep it? can we keep it poe, please, look how beautiful and tiny she is she’s never going to be a trooper, never ever ever.
they keep it. what do you call it? you name babies after things you love right–
Rey takes one look at the little thing and says. “We’re going to call her Luke.”
That’s the first. After that, Finn comes back from a mission holding the hands of two little boys, twins. Both are wearing mini versions of Stormtrooper armour. “Say hello to Millennium and Falcon.”
After that Rey comes back with no fewer than five Force-sensitive kids who had almost become troopers. “They’re not going to the Academy,” she says, “because we’re not going to start when they’re little, not anymore. Kids get to be kids.”
They make the mistake of letting these kids name themselves (after things you love, Finn suggests, after people you admire) . Thus, the Resistance ends up with: Finn I, Finn II, Finn III, Dameron’s X Wing, and ReytheJedi.
tell me about troopers and food! I have All The Feelings: regimented meal times, told what and when and where to eat, have to finish in a certain amount of time or they don’t eat; not eating is grounds for reconditioning; you eat what is in front of you, everything controlled and bland and perfectly nutritionally balanced
Ok yeah, tell me about troopers absolutely forgetting to eat because no-one is directing them to, tell me about troopers who are weird and cranky when they don’t have EXACTLY the recommended level of calories or nutritional intake, who don’t know why they’re mad and irritable.
Or troopers who like, just eat whatever out of a can and assume it’s all fine. Can of preserved fruit, can of bean paste, can of condensed milk. Just the assumption that rations are interchangeable
TROOPERS WHO ARE SO SURPRISED WHEN THEY EAT SOMETHING OUT OF DATE AND THEIR BODy IS JUST LIKE…naaa fuck right off
troopers dealing with the aftermath of coming off all those strange pills the order had them on: you know that they were so full of medication they rattled; uppers, downers, things to delay puberty, things to sort out muscle growth
God, the concept of food poisoning and allergies must be totally foreign
Even things like the common cold get blasted right the hell out of you with every antiviral they can get their hands on because otherwise massive communal barracks would be a nightmare
So really the only experience with illness they have is ‘you get better right away or you DIE’. The ‘get lots of rest and fluids’ approach to the common cold must scare the crap outta them
Oh God the baby troopers would think they were going to be decommissioned. The older ones might understand the new way of things but imagine little ones hiding the fact they were ill. Scared because they can’t stop sneezing.
Hiding their friends from resistance medical because sickly children in the order are culled
There’s like, a bad batch of rations, and half the resistance spends a night puking, and all the troopers thinking is ‘oh god, this must be one of the plagues I’d heard about’
And reviving care from non-medical professionals must also be so ????? This isn’t your job why are you doing it?
Because everyone in a unit has very set jobs, and it doesn’t mean that everyone else doesn’t care, but you wouldn’t trust a sharpshooter to do an engineers job because they 'were concerned about the wall’ so why would you trust Not A Medical Professional to bring you tea and soup?
But yes! Bad rations, mass food poisoning and
the troopers are like WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON and the Resistance fighters are like…dudes, its okay, just some bad food and the troopers are convinced they’ve been poisoned because that is what the first order does with rebellious squads, sometimes; they wipe them out with tainted food, make it look like an accident
the first order thinks they are being subtle but they aren’t and the troopers know and they are so VERY SCARED when people start vomiting because is this a trap IS THIS ALL A TRAP.
Especially because there’s the 'we thought that you were different and you BETRAYED US’ panic,
but they get better. they get better: that’s the magical thing the troopers find about freedom; they are allowed to get sick and heal. (the resistance fighters are just….struck dumb. you poor poor babies and they are guilty for weeks and poe personally does lessons on What To Do When You Get the Sniffle to reassure these scared scared killing machines.
stormtrooper headcanons (part 1 of ???) courtesy of conversations with @dimir-charmer
Ok, so talk to me about stormtroopers who think that seeing other people’s faces is super intimate and don’t want anyone to see their faces because it feels to special and risky
talk to me about troopers who are deeply ashamed of their inability to read facial expressions or make ‘normal’ ones
so here’s the thing: stormtroopers with their helmets on since they were babies aren’t going to have the faintest sodding clue how to read facial expressions. they know, instinctively, that one is happy and one is sad but nuances are often lost on them. thus: body language. every trooper is spot-on brilliant at assessing the smallest flicker in body language because they have to be, because it is the primary means of unspoken communication
and the faces! the faces finn makes! they are open and exuberant and here is a boy who never had to hide his expressions and does not know how to
everything a trooper thinks is on their face (yes, even phasma.)
Also lets talk about poker(or the space equivalent thereof) games b/ween former troopers and resistance members, because they’d both be able to read each other?? So easily??
Like, the troopers would pull literal faces at their hands, and the outsider would be like ‘oh easy money’ and bluff and the trooper would laugh bc ??? She fluttered her fingers?? Who does she take them for??
Anyway it’s terrible and complicated and lots of money changes hands back and forth and back and forth while they learn to control tells they never had to worry about before
hahahaha but OH WAIT it gets even more complicated because troopers have all sorts of Very Strict Rules about what belongs to them and what doesn’t – think about it, most things in the Order are communal and having personal property is a major thing and also absolutely sacred (you do not ever, ever steal from other troopers, you just DO NOT) so they take gambling Very Seriously. There are basically two layers: the sort that occurs within units, wherein random things like sanitation hours are bet (you know – time, favours, things that aren’t physical things) and the other sort, the sort that occurs /between/ units, where troopers gamble for Actual Things (cigarettes, sweet rations, etc, etc). Gambling for Actual Things within a unit is grounds for absolute disaster because troopers are very protective of their Things. Gambling for Actual Things is something you do not do with someone you want to stay friends with…….this causes issues for the Resistance pilots who do not have the same complicated idea of A) These Things are mine and Do Not Touch Them, b) unit is everything, unit is FAMILY, c) trading favours in lieu of actual currency (e.g. ‘I bet you three hours of gun cleaning’ – fineeee, I bet ten credits – THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU I THOUGHT WE WERE FRIENDS)
HARRIET TUBMAN ESCAPED FROM SLAVERY AND THEN WENT BACK TO GET OTHERS. LIKE, I KNOW YOU KNOW WHO HARRIET TUBMAN IS AND THAT SHE DID THAT, BUT I JUST WANT YOU TO TAKE THAT IN FOR A SECOND.
HARRIET TUBMAN WAS HELD CAPTIVE AND BOUND TO UNPAID, BACK-BREAKING LABOR SINCE BIRTH UNDER PENALTY OF TORTURE OR DEATH. SHE MANAGED TO ESCAPE THAT LIFE, AND SHE TURNED THE FUCK AROUND AND WENT THE FUCK BACK TO GET EVERYONE ELSE WHO WAS STILL TRAPPED IN IT. AND THEN SHE DID IT AGAIN EIGHTEEN MORE TIMES.
WHEN ABRAHAM LINCOLN WAS UNSURE WHETHER OR NOT HE WAS PREPARED TO MAKE A STAND AGAINST SLAVERY, HARRIET TUBMAN BASICALLY SAID HE SHOULD STOP BEING SUCH A DIAPER BABY AND THAT GUYS WHO ARE TOO SCARED TO END SLAVERY DON’T DESERVE TO WIN WARS.
NOT ONLY DID SHE SECRET OVER 300 SLAVES TO FREEDOM ON THE UNDERGROUND RAILROAD, BUT SHE ACTED AS A SPY FOR THE UNION ARMY DURING THE CIVIL WAR, AND BECAME THE FIRST WOMAN TO LEAD AN ARMED ASSAULT IN THE CIVIL WAR. THAT RAID BROUGHT FREEDOM TO OVER 700 SLAVES IN ONE GO.
SO I JUST WANT YOU TO STEW ON THAT FOR LIKE A MINUTE. ACTING IN THE SHADOWS, SHE WALKED INTO HELL ON EARTH 19 TIMES TO SAVE HER FELLOW HUMAN BEINGS FROM THE TORMENT SHE ENDURED, AND THE SECOND SHE WAS GIVEN EVEN A MODICUM OF POWER, SHE MANAGED TO FREE SEVEN HUNDRED SLAVES IN ONE DAY.
I GUARANTEE, HOWEVER IMPRESSED YOU ALREADY ARE WITH HARRIET TUBMAN, YOU ARE FALLING LIKE AT LEAST 40% SHORT OF HOW IMPRESSED YOU SHOULD BE WITH HARRIET TUBMAN. SHE IS ONE OF THE BEST EXAMPLES OF BADASSERY IN THE ENTIRETY OF AMERICAN HISTORY.
OKAY LISTEN IN ADDITION TO MAKING BOTH CAPTAIN AMERICA AND MOSES FROM THE OLD TESTAMENT LOOK LIKE A PAIR OF GODDAMN UNDERACHIEVERS SHE DID ALL THISWITH CHRONIC PAIN FROM A TRAUMATIC HEAD INJURY.
WHEN SHE WAS FUCKING TWELVE YEARS OLD SHE TRIED TO INTERVENE IN THE BEATING OF ANOTHER SLAVE AND GOT HER HEAD CRACKED OPEN FROM IT. A CHILD. A CHILD BORN INTO SLAVERY. AND SHE WENT UP AGAINST A PISSED OFF WHITE MAN WHO LITERALLY OWNED HER TO TRY AND HELP, LIKE, SHIT, I DON’T WANT TO GO TOE-TO-TOE WITH PISSED OFF WHITE MEN AND I’M WHITE AND IT’S THE 21st CENTURY. SO OKAY THEN HERE’S THIS WOMAN, FIVE FOOT NOTHING, DISABLED, HAD NARCOLEPSY AND HEADACHES AND VISIONS, DECIDED THOSE VISIONS WERE FROM GOD, AND PERSONALLY DELIVERED A THOUSAND HUMAN BEINGS FROM ONE OF THE CRUELEST FORMS OF ENSLAVEMENT IN HISTORY. OH, AND AFTER ALL THAT SHE LIVED UNTIL SHE WAS FUCKING NINETY.
When Rey is ten, another scavenger tries to steal her haul. It isn’t much: a twist of some old engine, a carbonator; but it’s enough to feed her for the rest of the day, maybe the next, and pickings have been slim lately. The clutch of metal bits (barely enough to swell the lining of her bag) represents the first meal she’ll have had in two days (she is so hungry). And this man – this boy, she’ll think when she looks back; he can’t have been more than fifteen – grabs it from her. There’s no civilisation on Jakku, no sense of protect the small and weak – there’s no mercy for a girl alone. And the boy just takes it, snatches it from her grasping hands, holds it aloft, grinning wide and wild and mocking. “Finders keep –” he starts to say, quoting the oldest (and only) law of the desert. The rest of the words snag on his loose teeth and split-open lips: Rey smacks him in the jaw with her staff and every bit of strength she has. He stumbles, makes for the blaster at his side, and she panics: she hits him in the legs to bring him down, hits him in the skull until his hand falls slack and he is very, very still. Rey snatches her haul up and runs and does not look back. (She’ll think of him sprawled in the sand, skull open and red and wet, when she prowls through the frozen forest towards Kylo Ren. She’s older. She knows better. She’ll hesitate. She will not deliver that final blow.)
Jessika Pava snatches a chip from her plate in the canteen. It’s all in good humour; Rey is hanging out with the pilots in one of the rare moments she isn’t training with Luke, enjoying the noise and hubbub – oh there are so many people. It gives her a headache, light and sharp behind her eyes, but it is a good pain, a clean pain; a growing pain. Anyway. Pava snatches the chip – a misguided attempt at flirting, maybe? – and Rey reacts without thinking and stabs her in the back of the hand with a fork. There’s silence for a moment, an aching and desperate silence, and Rey can only hear the roar of blood in her ears. She stares down. Pava’s hand has slackened; the chip is on the table. The tines of the fork haven’t sunk in that far, but there is red pooling on Pava’s skin and Rey feels a great rush of nausea. Her stomach cramps, hard, and she leaps to her feet, gabbling apologies. Pava holds up her hands, says, “Hey, hey, it’s okay, it really is,” and Poe scrapes a good chunk of his dinner onto Rey’s plate and says, “We won’t ever let you go hungry,” and it’s all too much: Rey bursts into tears. (No one tries to steal her food again. Later, she leaves a basket full of apples and potatoes on Pava’s bed. It is an apology. It is a very well guided attempt at flirting.)
“What’s wrong with this water?” she gasps, holding her cupped hands out to Luke. “It’s awful!”
Luke bursts out laughing. “It’s full of salt, Rey. You can’t drink it.”
“All that water,” she says, scornful, “and not a drop to drink – are you sure that the Force is benevolent?”
“Hey, when I first saw an ocean I did the exact same thing. Only difference was that Han pretended that that was what water was meant to taste like. Pretended to drink it and then got offended when I didn’t. I didn’t want to seem like the odd one out so I drank a whole mug of it and vomited everywhere – he wasn’t laughing so hard when he was trying to air the smell of vomit out of the Falcon.”
Rey bursts out laughing, wading back towards shore. “Tell me more about him,” she says.
Okay, so we all know that Poe went around the Resistance base telling everyone about the Handsome Stormtrooper that saved his life – but what about BB-8? Imagine BB-8 coming back to base and promptly telling everyone about the good brave human who saved his Poe. This is Finn he is so lovely, he is the best of all humans, look at him, be nice to him – he’s a little bit slow – doesn’t understand droid at all but he’s a quick learner.
And imagine ALL THE DROIDS falling into line, looking after Finn, and Finn is just so nice to them because he remembers what it’s like to be treated like you’re nothing, like you don’t have a personality. And they just adopt him: Finn the best human, they designate him, and R2-D2 – battle-hardened war vet that he is – teaches him binary but teaches him the bastardised sweary binary that all the older droids speak and BB-8 is innocent and oblivious and C3-PO is scandalised because Finn is going round saying things like fuck me this is hot in this little whistle-beep.
And whenever Finn sits down he’s surrounded by happy young droids who absolutely adore him, and he is just so nice and all the droids go out of their way to do things for him.
And yes. Give me sweet lovely Finn with his droid ducklings.
so if BB-8′s “a BB unit”, does that mean there’s a BB-1 through 7?
Does this mean there were scary stories on the flight deck pre- or post-mission with Poe and Black Squadron? Imagine Poe with a light-stick beneath his chin and a glint in his eye, kneeling to speak in a spooky voice to BB-8.
“Hey, BB-8. Why is BB-6 afraid of BB-7?”
An inquisitive whirr.
“’Cause BB-7 ate 9!”
“!!!!” BB-8 rolls back and forth in panic while Poe falls over laughing.
“It’s okay, buddy. I didn’t mean it literally! It’s just a joke!” (A joke??) “Yeah, a joke!” BB-8 gently zaps Poe in retribution and rolls away, the droid-equivalent of a walking off in a huff.
“Ow, hey! Come on, BB-8, it was supposed to be funny!”
BB-8 doesn’t speak to him for the rest of the day, so Poe goes on a mission around base asking any and everyone if they’ve seen any droids, and joins the squadron table at dinner looking exhausted but triumphant. BB-8 is with them.
“Hey, BB-8, look!” He holds up a round, shrieking droid with a grin. “It’s BB-7!”
BB-8 beeps in alarm and hides behind the table leg while Poe gently explains that BB-7 is not really scary at all, see?
BB cautiously rolls out to investigate for itself. Cue gentle droid booping.
They become bosom buddies and roll everywhere together, collect the whole gang and then BB rolls up to Poe pre-flight sometime a week later, like ten minutes before take off. “BB-8, buddy where were you? we gotta go!” “!!” “what is it?” BB-8 is insistent.“!” “You wanna show me something? ok buddy but make it quick, it’s almost time to leave.”
BB-8 whistles and BB-6 rolls over in a panic, whirring. BB-8 whirrs at it and it whirrs back and all three of them turn towards BB-7 rolling determinedly along. BB-6 Ducks behind BB-8 as BB-7 rolls to a stop a few feet before reaching them. A smaller beep draws Poe’s attention to his feet where BB-9 sits, rocking back and forth in contentment.
All three droids beep back the joke in binary.
Poe cries laughing and doesn’t stop until the General herself contacts him on comms to ask what him the hold up is.
Okay but consider: the droids.
The fact that they clearly, CLEARLY rehearsed this little show before showing off to Poe on the tarmac just before the flight
BB-8 is a very strict producer ok
lots of beeeeeeep!!! and whirrrr bleeep!!!s when the others got it wrong
“no it has to be THIS WAY” “this is how Poe told it!” “do it OVER.”
can we take a moment to just think about how incredibly scary magical healing is in-context?
You get your insides ripped open but your friend waves his hands and your flesh just pulls back together, agony and evisceration pulling back to a ‘kinda hurts’ level of pain and you’re physically whole, with the 100% expectation that you’ll get back up and keep fighting whatever it was that struck you down the first time.
You break your arm after falling somewhere and after you’re healed instead of looking for ‘another way around’ everybody just looks at you and goes “okay try again”.
You’ve been fighting for hours, you’re hungry, thirsty, bleeding, crying from exhaustion, and a hand-wave happens and only two of those things go away. you’re still hungry, you’re still weak from thirst, but the handwave means you have ‘no excuse’ to stop.
You act out aggressively maybe punch a wall or gnash your teeth or hit your head on something and it’s hand-waved because it’s ‘such a small injury you probably can’t even feel it anymore’ but the point was that you felt it at all?
Your pain literally means nothing because as long as you’re not bleeding you’re not injured, right? Here drink this potion and who cares about the emotional exhaustion of that butchered village, why are you so reserved in camp don’t you think it’s fun retelling that time you fell through a burning building and with a hand-wave you got back up again and ran out with those two kids and their dog?
Older warriors who get a shiver around magic-users not because of the whole ‘fireball’ thing but the ‘I don’t know what a normal pain tolerance is anymore’ effect of too much healing. Permanent paralysis and loss of sensation in limbs is pretty much a given in the later years of any fighter’s life. Did I have a stroke or did the mage just heal too hard and now this side of my face doesn’t work? No i’m not dead from the dragon’s claws but I can’t even bend my torso anymore because of how the scar tissue grew out of me like a vine.
Magical healing is great and keeps casualties down.
But man.
That stuff is scary.
shit just got creepy
Or maybe magical healing doesn’t leave scars or damage. It is magical, after all.
So after years of fighting, your skin is still perfect. Unmarred. In fact, you’re actually in better shape than regular people who don’t get magical healing when they fall out of trees or walk into doors or cut themselves while cooking dinner. You’re in such good shape that it’s unnatural.
And the really good healing magic takes away more than just the obvious injuries. You first start noticing it after about ten years when you go home and haha, you look the same age as your younger sibling, that’s funny.
Not so funny ten years later when they look older. Or forty years later, when you bury them still looking like you did at twenty. When do you retire from this gig anyway? How much damage is too much damage?
How many times do you glimpse the afterlife, or worse, how many times don’t you? What do you live through, get used to, show no outward sign of except a perfectly healthy body, too perfect for any person living a real life.
How many times are you sitting in a tavern with your friends and you hear the whispers, because the people around you know. How can they not know? Your weapons shine with enchantments and your armour is better than the best money can buy and there is not a damn scar on you. You hardly seem human to them.
How long before you hardly seem human to yourself?
And you find yourself struggling to remember the places where the scars should have been, phantom pains that wake you screaming, touching all the old injuries and finding nothing there. It’s all in your head. Was it ever anywhere else?
How long before you’re fighting a lich or a vampire or some other undead monster and you wonder…
…what makes me so different?
Here we go someone who GETS IT.
Not gonna lie, this is my number one consideration when I’m constructing magical universes. If magic can heal, what effect does it have? Do you retain some of the damage? Can it only heal to a point? Does it heal EVERYTHING, right down to the aging of your cells? Does it force your body through the usual healing process, just really really fast, and leave behind knotted scars and damaged bone? Does someone else have to take on the damage so that a soldier can keep fighting (and what does that do to the soldier, when a mage walks out onto the battlefield and dies of blood loss without a blade laid on them)? Does magic stop working at ‘death’ or can you raise someone whose heart is stopped? Does magic take time to heal–if someone is bleeding out from a slit throat, could they die during the healing? What price does the healer pay for the healing? Are they weary, are they injured, are they sick? What price does the healed pay for the healing? What kind of trauma does that leave?
It’s kind of tricky when you’re a over-thinker and you are aware of it. At this point I’m so unsure about the conclusions I come up with. I mean, is it true? Or did I make it up because I have been overthinking too much? Am I right or has my overthinking fooled me?
isn’t it amazing!! six continents, seven billion people on the planet, and a whole lifetime of choices and outcomes and in this particular string of decisions, in this point in time, out of everyone i get to meet, i got lucky enough to know you
I like this one because it’s suppose to be mushy and cute but with a certain tone of voice I could very easily turn this entire sentence into a passive aggressive fuck off
Be a little weirder, be a little more you. Wear yr hair that one way nobody else likes. Shave – or skip it – if it makes you feel free. Tell the joke when it strikes you, sing with your headphones on the train, compliment a stranger – the way you’d want to be complimented if someone found they were suddenly in love with you.
The most purple thing we can do is to be wholly ourselves, even if doing that thing is a little scarier or a little harder.
Okay so you mentioned kind of missing Tolkien and I've been on a bit of a Tolkien kick lately ('lately' she says as she scuttles deeper into the horde of Tolkien marginalia beginning to resemble a small mountain) and I was wondering if you had any thoughts on dwarves. I know the Men of Gondor are more your thing, but I was struck by sudden curiosity.
I LOVE DWARVES
look, the beauty of Tolkien is that, as far as I know, he is the only creator who firmly maintained, all his life, that filling in the blanks of the world he had generated was actually an act mirroring divine creation. (He called this “subcreation”—as human beings, we are made in the image of the divine creator, and therefore, we are driven to replicate creation on a minor scale. Tolkien wholeheartedly loved fanfiction, in a way I’ve never seen in any subsequent content-creator.)
but
I love dwarves!!!!
I love dwarves particularly, because tolkien dismisses them in the context of a numnber of stereotypes, and actually this opens the door for the way fandom has taken then and run with what if dwarves are super jewish. maybe that’s because I follow @goodshipophelia and @swanjolras and @silentstep but the reclamation of very jewish dwarves is beautiful
(thorin harp-player as david springs to mind)
and honeslty to this day, my favorite idea about dwarves is @silentstep’s conception that “mountain” refers not just to the idea of a physical mountain, but everything that lives inside it, all the songs and stories and philosophies, that “mountain” is shorthand for community the way “Judah” or “people of the tribe” does in more modern Judaism
it leads to so much articulation and fictionalization of Judaism and I love that, everyone one should have a fictional articulation of their religion, it allows for so much more freedom than would otherwise be.
Also, I love the idea of thorin fictionally composing the lord of the rings alternative to song-of-songs, so. that’s something, right???
What she means:
Bernie Sanders lost hardcore in the New York primary, costing him a generous lead in the election and a chance of changing the face of the White House. Hillary's win was called far too early as over 50% of New York precincts hadn't even finished counting their votes yet. Over 150,000 voters in Brooklyn, alone, were not able to pledge votes because of voter fraud, and some polling locations opened two hours late and were turning people away even then. The affidavits were not counted or even remotely taken into account, and just like Arizona, Hillary swept the vote with numbers not even remotely congruent with Gallup polls and voter surveys. And since she's the establishment, zero scrutinizing will take place, voter fraud will continuously dominate this election, and the lemmings that vote for her will inevitably buy into the establishment time and time again.
Sometimes you need to remind yourself that you were the one who carried you through the heartache. You are the one who sits with the cold body on the shower floor, and picks it up. You are the one who feeds it, who clothes it, who tucks it into bed, and you should be proud of that. Having the strength to take care of yourself when everyone around you is trying to bleed you dry, that is the strongest thing in the universe.
You don’t have to be grateful that it isn’t worse.
read that.
read it again, and again, and again.
somebody, somewhere, always has it worse than you. there is one person on this planet that has it the worst of all, and that person is NOT the only person allowed to be unhappy with their lot.
if things are bad for you, they are bad for you. period.
As a public service to anyone offended by the Harriet Tubman $20 bills, I am willing to accept your unwanted $20 bills, and I will ensure that they are properly disposed of. This offer is open indefinitely, and any amount of $20 bills will be accepted. Thank you.
I’m taking that creative writing class and I just. Okay. Guys. Explain me a thing. WHY have I read two stories in this past semester about rape? I mean, I guess the one was more about abuse followed by murder (see my rant here), but still, Christ. Honestly I’m going to meet with the teacher about the most recent one, which I’m supposed to critique for Thursday, and just be like, “I fucking cannot do this. I am not objective enough to say shit about this girl’s writing. This is pages upon pages of a girl who witnessed the rape of someone she considered a friend and did nothing, and I have spent way too much time on the wrong side of that equation to be objective here.“ I just. Do not understand why rape is the thing. Like, guys, it’s not like it’s edgy and cool, okay, I promise, people have been hideous to each other since fucking Ur was nothing but a twinkle in the eye of some random ape. They’re not treating it as a very deep trauma and dealing with the fallout and handling it with as much care and compassion as possible, it’s not even fucking productive, it’s just annoying, Christ, fucking STOP.
Also, I honestly don’t care if it makes me a cultural heathen, I don’t like weird abstract writing that’s intended to ‘push the boundaries of what we think of as prose.’ Like, no. It’s not a failing on my part if I want to read fantasy novels with, oh, I don’t know, plot and characters and literally anything other than obsessive navel gazing. The next time I have to read the literary equivalent of that very famous piece of modern art that’s literally just a piece of plywood painted uniformly blue, I am going to scream.
FUCKING UPDATE.
So I got out of responding to the rape story, but I still had to go to class so that I could respond to the OTHER story we read (see above re: fucking abstractist writing that I still hardcore do not like). And I was like “All right, I can live with this, I got my iPod, I got my Fall Out Boy, I got my writing, I can do this.” But I forgot that the classroom is really small and my seat is very close to the teacher, so I couldn’t, like, crank my music to the point where I couldn’t hear anyone talking and so I ended up listening to the talking. And fuck me I’m angry.
Pro tip: as a teacher at a college that specializes in taking people out of like sophomore year of high school (I dropped out and started college at 16), it is your goddamn job to express clear ethical and legal boundaries. Admitting that rape is wrong is awesome, but it is ALSO WRONG to abandon a rape victim when you have every opportunity to help them. You should not ever be talking about how well a student puts the reader into the mind of a witness and makes their decision to not help understandable.
Also, there was a lot of talking about “Well, I feel like there was some confusion about consent between the boyfriend and the girlfriend.” Let’s be clear here, folks, if I wave a knife at you and you say “Oh no, don’t stab me,” and then I stab you thirty-five times in the chest, the cops are not going to be like “Well, I feel like there was some confusion between the stabber and the stabee.” That’s not how it works. If the girlfriend says no, pushes the boyfriend away physically, and reaches out to a bystander for help, that is not ‘confusion,’ that is pretty fucking clearly not consent. Like, you know what, if you’re going to make me fucking sit through this story, you’d better at least have the stones to admit that your student turned in a story about rape and you forced the rest of the class to read it.
I’ve reached this point of universally being furious with everyone in my writing class. Even the people I like. Literally just existing in the class is enough to make me angry with you, by, like, transitive properties of loathing. And my teacher can fuck the entire way off and not make snide remarks about my writing anymore just because I don’t fucking turn in weird abstract rape stories.
FUCKING EDIT: Did I forget to mention that it’s actually literally illegal to do nothing to aid the victim of a rape? LOOK AT THIS. You can be charged as an accessory to literally whatever the perpetrator is charged with.
They started
off simple: calling her a simple-minded fool. Leia Organa was a silly
little princess throwing a tantrum over her planet being punished for
its treachery. Pretty but petty, and ever so vain, Leia Organa was just a
spoiled little twit spitting rage for not being given the power she
wanted and having a fit over being caught at a crime.
Those stories didn’t work very well.
The repeated success of such a tiny and ragtag group of rebels proved
that there were clever and cunning folk behind the Rebellion. For a
silly twit, Leia Organa slipped out of too many traps, stole too much
information and too many supplies, shot down too many Imperial forces,
and succeeded in her command again and again.
It didn’t
reflect well against the Empire that a spoiled princess kept foiling
them over and over again, even if sometimes by the thinnest of hairs.
And
everyone who’d ever met Leia Organa could never believe them, and Leia
Organa had met many people as she negotiated and coerced more and more
allies for the Rebellion, and many people before when she pretended to
exist under the Empire’s rule. I met Leia Organa once, traders and governors and senators many others across the galaxy would say, and she’s nothing like they say she is.
Leia
Organa is pretty and a princess, but her eyes are sharp and her words
are sharper still, and she is made of kindness and cleverness and grief
and rage. She has little patience for anyone who believes the Empire’s
stories about her. Anyone who can look into her eyes and think her
shallow must be blind to miss the death and hopes and dreams of an
entire planet; there is nothing simple about any of the last children of
Alderaan and everyone knows it - as deep down as the scream that echoed
through the galaxy.
The Empire switches tactics - took them
long enough - and calls the simple-minded fool and silly little princess
a masterful illusion. She’s a lie, they say, and a liar. Leia
Organa is a beautiful temptress, a demoness feeding on the chaos of
war, a front for the Rebel cause, hungry for power and revenge and the deaths of all she can lure to
her weak, pointless, useless cause. This princess who should have died
is only a campaign strategy hiding under a pretty woman’s face.
Some
stories say that Leia Organa is dead. She died with Alderaan; her silly
support of the rebels killed her. What exists now is a sick, twisted
figurehead invention of the Rebellion to gain support - a lying lie. A ghost, a demon, an undead enchantress and seductress who weaves pretty and terrible falsehoods and deceptions.
Leia
Organa hears these rumors and instead of scoffing like she did at those
that proclaimed her a brainless twit, she laughs. Then she scoffs. And
then she goes back to work. The Empire can say what it wants, that won’t
make it true that the Rebellion isn’t gaining ground. (It hurts when people believe the stories, but Leia’s scale for pain is fairly skewed now, against the hole where her heart used to be.)
A similar
reaction goes through most of the Rebellion, those who don’t scoff with
disgust burst into laughter and laugh until they cry. Oh yeah, Red Squadron agrees, wiping actual tears off their cheeks, that’s
the princess, alright, seducing men left and right. Yep, there she is
now, standing on a box and yelling like a howleroo in General Solo’s
face again as he yells back. Hair frizzy from working all night and
wearing Skywalker’s ugly yellow jacket again, that’s the true picture of
temptation and enchantment.
Luke laughs so hard that he
falls to the floor and can’t get up for fifteen minutes. (Anyone who so
must as suggests it might be true in front of him quickly learns the true meaning of fear, but
otherwise) Luke nearly dies because he keeping cracking up and almost
hits his head on stuff, and Wedge has had to repeatedly drag him off to
Medical to check if there’s something wrong with him.
(The tests keep coming up negative but Wedge doesn’t understand how anyone can find their own
intragalatic Imperial reputation as a dangerous religious lunatic
absolutely hilarious. There’s something in the sand on Tatooine, you
mark Wedge’s words.)
Han Solo can’t believe what he’s hearing
when he hears the rumors, and doesn’t even laugh. He teases Princess
Leia about it, of course, but everybody quickly learns not to joke about
it in his presence because suddenly the smuggler’s all you wanna repeat that, buddy? And nobody wants to have their arms torn off by a Wookie.
The Empire can tell all the stories it wants, it still loses in the end.
About
twenty years later, the First Order tells stories about Leia Organa,
and it’s the same old story all over again. (A son of Skywalker has fallen, the Jedi have fallen with stragglers scattered across the stars, someone building another giant super-weapon, and the Organas are fighting back against an Empire.) Demonize and dehumanize.
The
only difference is that they acknowledge the existence of the Force
again, saying she uses it to twist minds and hearts and souls, and they
don’t call her beautiful anymore.
Leia Organa pretends to be a
kindly old woman, but she’s really a cunning old crone. She’s a bitter
old hag who can’t let go of rebellion, who wants to tear the galaxy
apart because she wants everything but her wrinkled hands can’t handle
it all. A small and sickly, but deadly and devious and dangerous and
ugly witch.
And that’s not even getting started on what they say about Luke
Leia Organa just laughs, then scoffs.
(There’s a pain in her chest, but it’s not important.) And then she gets
back to work. She remembers when she used to be beautiful, you know.
(“Used to be,” Han says with loyal disdain, then insists, “Still.”)
These little men can talk all they want to prove what big
boys they are, but she’s gone from a pretty-petty princess to a villainous temptress and fabrication to an old and terrible witch, and she’s still kicking.
Those stories didn’t work very well.
(At least, she thinks they didn’t. She hopes so. It hurts when people believe the stories, but Leia’s scale for pain is fairly skewed now, against the hole where her heart used to be. Oh, to think that she could find them both, in the dark and distant places they’ve gone to, and bring them home.)
my boyfriend said he was gonna email me this ~fantasy~ about us, so i’m expecting a dirty email and he just sent it and it starts off with five paragraphs of worldbuilding
