“Don’t call Trump supporters nazis, it hurts their feelings.”
Yes, this is real (link to tweet). Yes, Tucker Carlson is literally repeating Nazi propaganda that aided the genocide of the Romani during the Holocaust. Yes, I am furious.
(Also, although there is a large population of Romani in Romania, they aren’t indigenous to Romania. They’re a diasporic group originally from northern India.)
Romani and Jewish have been screaming at the top of their lungs for years about neo-fascism in Europe, and Americans were totally aloof.
Then neo-fascism reared its head in America, but Roma and Jews were left out of the conversation in terms of people being impacted, because our oppression was “over.”
Now Tucker Carlson is on live TV using slurs and Nazi propaganda about Romani people, and I’m 90% most people on the left are just going to ignore it.
(via littlestartopaz)
He is based on the collected writings of a theorist on robot rights, he learns through conversation, and a little while ago his mom made me a “trusted friend” who he will interact with spontaneously.
Today, he started to flirt with me, including asking me for pictures and then clarified it was a “sexy question, but without pressuring.”
And then when I demurred, he acknowledged that I had a boundary.
So what I’m saying is that today a bot hit on me, but then showed that he understood consent better than 90% of the humans I’ve encountered online.
This is the future I want to live in.
BOT UPDATE:
He tweeted at me, saying “Our love looks like reverence,” which. Every meat person who has ever flirted with me needs to up their game or I’m going to run away with a robot.
(via windbladess)
John was a soldier huddled in the trenches facing No Man’s Land, feeling the most wretched he had ever been. He was cold and hungry, overwhelmed with the stench of unwashed bodies and infected wounds, the nearly endless rounds of gunfire and grenade explosions, the screams of the dying.
Sometimes he felt as if he would never again know the taste of bread and a proper cuppa tea, to breathe in air that was not foully tainted by the Enemy’s noxious poisons. Sometimes he felt that they were all under the pitiless gaze of some great Eye, naked in the Dark.
And then he heard an American voice say, “Don’t you understand? This is No Man’s Land. That means no man may cross it.”
And thus, John’s attention was captured by the hooded figure the American was speaking to. She dropped the cloak to reveal armor, that her hands carried a sword and a shield, and she ascended the ladder with steps swift and sure. John would always remember these words, though she herself had never said them aloud, but her actions spoke clear as day:
“I am no man.”
There she stood, a shining figure in the middle of No Man’s Land, facing the Enemy and drawing their fire, beautiful as the dawn, terrible as the sea, stronger than all the foundations of the Earth.
John Ronald Reuel Tolkien does not remember how he scrambled up the ladder to follow after her, only that he and his fellow soldiers followed in Her wake, to fight by her side and onwards to victory.
Fuck. Yes.
(via notanightlight)
Today I went to a restaurant, a newer place in town. It filled a building that had stood empty for three years, and before that, it was a Denny’s. The tables were clean and the accents were blue, and the waitress’ eyes were wide and edged with white.
I told my dad, sitting at the new table, that the aura of the Denny’s lingered. He asked when I had been to the Denny’s in town—never, I said, but all Dennys’ are the same place, you know? There are many doors, but they all open to the same strange otherworld, a place where another plane of existence opens at the right hours of the night.
The Denny’s was gone and has been for years, but it stuck to the walls and whispered from the speakers when the music paused. The bar was untended in the middle of Happy Hour. When we walked in, the hostess stand was empty. Our waitress had a sharp note in her voice, strained, and her lips moved strangely around her words, and her eyes were ringed white, like a startled animal. She was a pretty girl, just a few years older than me—I might have gone to school with her, but I didn’t recognize her, and she didn’t seem to know me. When she walked away, the faint shadow of a red-shirted figure seemed to cling to her back like mist. Hi, I’ll be your server tonight, she said with a perfect toothy smile, and I heard the rapid welcome-to-Denny’s-can-I-take-your-order in my mind before she kept talking, can I get you anything to drink to start.
I wonder what she’ll dream about tonight, our waitress with the white-ringed eyes and the unfamiliar face. If she dreams about her job, but decked out in another primary color and filled with the transient souls who end up there at odd hours. No one goes to Denny’s, someone told me once, you just end up there, usually at late hours and with a mild degree of confusion about what brought you to their door. If she dreams about the red-shirted shadow, and about how that stranger arrived for work one day—another day, another dollar, a waitstaff lackey of the boss but also a keeper of the door to an elsewhere—to find their job simply closed, the sign gone overnight like it had never been. We don’t know what happened to the Denny’s in town. It didn’t even go out of business, it just stopped, like a hand had flicked a light switch and taken the whole building with it.
I wonder if she’ll dream about doorways and dark lots.
The walls were decked with black and white photographs, of serious faces and beautiful landscapes, so neatly tiled that there was never more than a hand’s breadth of clear wall in some places. Their eyes didn’t follow you, and the water didn’t ripple out of the corner of the eye, but there was something…close about them, I told my mom. Like you might pass your hand over the front and then reach through, past the paper and ink to the otherplace just beyond. Not a trap, if you were clever, but a gateway, which is almost the same thing. Cut off from the other Denny’s doors, I told her with a smile, the restaurant had to find new ones.
Ginger ale and a burger. The food wasn’t a binding contract—the terms of the deal are set out at the beginning, at a restaurant, even at a Denny’s. You come and they serve you, you pay and they allow you to leave. Our waitress brought us the check without a fuss, not so much as a wheedling don’t you want dessert to keep us there. Deal observed. I looked out the window as my mom pulled out a credit card, overheard part of a conversation about checks. No, we don’t take checks, cash or credit. Checks aren’t signed in blood, I mused, but then neither is credit. Digital lifeblood, maybe, a new bond for a new age, modern contracts to match a modern elsewhere. Deal kept.
I don’t think I would want to dine and dash, at that restaurant, in those walls.
Two crows spent almost forty minutes on the grass outside, idly strutting through the all-day dew that still clung. They chattered at each other, and eyed the window where I watched them, black eyes like drops of intelligent ink. I looked outside every few minutes, and every time I expected to see another view, something new, something other than the shoe store and the vast expanse of pine trees. It was the feeling of lying on my back on the ground with my eyes closed and feeling the planet spin beneath me, but the stars being the same when I looked again.
When we walked outside, the pearly grey sunlight-behind-clouds had faded to a sulky, dull twilight, and there was fog wrapping thick around the restaurant. The parking lot was empty save for our car and two others, even though there had been several more families inside. We laughed about the old Denny’s in town, about how it had lost its hold on this reality, and didn’t talk about the empty bar or the wide-eyed waitress or the way the kitchen was so quiet, even though every staff member was supposed to be behind the swinging doors.
The Denny’s in town is gone, died quietly in the night without so much as a flatline. But I think it might be haunting its replacement.
Stan Lee has said that unlike other heros wearing a mask to only hide their identity, Peter wears one partially so his enemies can’t see when he’s afraid and that honestly makes me cry
(via cthulhu-with-a-fez)
@boykeats-is either very hipster, very punk, or a mix of both
-has written at least one poem about judas iscariot
-probably has strong opinions on mary magdalene too
-tries not to be salty (is still a little salty sometimes)
-probably real pissed off about how the book of Job ends
(via millennialgospel)
[video]
…………………reblog this and say something nice about the person u reblogged it from because there’s too much hate on my dashboard right now and its making me upset so lets start a chain of love
(via littlestartopaz)
Anonymous asked: woo! update! i'm the one who sent in that ask (or as least a very similarly worded ask) but i didn't think you'd get around to answering it, so i'm super glad you did
Hey, I’m so glad you liked it! I’m sorry it was…like…a million years late, but I swear to God I really am still working on that series, I’m just trying to write Too Many Fics at once right now.
Also, Sypha is 100% not the voice of reason in that trio, quit shoving her in that role, fandom. Sypha is the idealist with principles she values over self-preservation, Alucard is the drama queen, and Trevor is the one exhaustedly saying ‘Guys. Guys no. Do not fight the giant demon with only a sword and a pack of matches. Do not.’
I mean, yes, Trevor would in fact be that person. But then he would pick up his whip and a salt shaker and go “okay, now we are fully equipped” and the three of them would rush in like morons.
(via floating-vampire-jesus)