asymptotic-rage

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During Maxwell’s conversation with his father, there was an implication he was still in university, because his father mentioned going to his school to find out about his “rowdy behavior” real time. Maxwell is 29. So there are three options. The first, university just works different here. The second, Maxwell went to school later in life. The third, Maxwell is a haggard PhD student who is still getting into drunken undergrad style fistfights. I choose to believe the third.

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Game Changer episode where all challenges are based on the fact that Tao Yang is going to run at you screaming. You only sometimes know about how far away he is. Is this anything

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tao running at the contestants screaming from 10 seconds away being the chosen unit of timekeeping in this episode just delights me utterly

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“I’m having Espresso summer” “I’m having Brat summer”

I wish. I’ve been having Good Luck, Babe summer for years. I don’t know what y’all are doing but I think I’m doing something wrong

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And then Renarin told Retribution "I'd rather be a faggot than a fascist" then he immediately kissed Rlain. And the power of homosexual love shattered Retribution in the spot.

THE END

Spoilers for the Renarin book !!!!

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"tables don't do that" gonna go up there with "do you ever dream of being an ambulance"

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Doctor who it’s me your regency era situationship I’m in cgi hell. You have to remember that you’re gay

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Me: crying at the beautiful story of a father and daughter that echoes my own feelings.

My dad, next to me: where are the zombies? Kill some zombies!

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friend that doesnt drive: anyways really look the thing about origami is that its not about getting the fold right on the first try its meant to be an exercise in precision sure but also in patience the instructions are repeatable tasks that you do over and over again to polish the skill before applying it to something else. a thousand swans arent folded in a day and really its meant to bring you to reflect upon what it means to even be folding in the first pl-

friend that drives: HOLY SHIT 3.20 A GALLON? I SHOULDVE FILLED UP THERE anyway i understand the process is meant to soothe the itch of perfection that gnaws at the soul through exposure to imperfection but OH FUCK [drives over median straight into Walmart parking lot while nearby F150 lays on the horn because you stopped him from running a red light]

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The way that Abby’s dad would have done the same thing. What parent wouldn’t do anything to save their child?

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That moment when Joel tries to get up and Ellie thinks he’s going to be able to because he’s her dad and all dads are invincible.

Until they aren’t.

Every child eventually learns their parents are people.

It happens for some more dramatically than others I suppose.

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Joel keeps trying to save his daughter and gets killed for it

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I wonder what would have happened if in that moment Ellie screamed “Dad” instead of “Joel.”

Would Abby have stopped or killed him faster?

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i keep thinking about how rfk said that autistic people "will never write a poem." i keep thinking about that, about if humanity is calculated on the back of old verse. how far we measure personhood is in baseball and stanza breaks.

i keep thinking - i have over 7k poems on here alone. language can be a special interest, after all. did you know the word autism comes almost direct from the greek word autos, meaning "self"? self-ism.

maybe he is right - i haven't really played baseball. i was a ballet dancer instead. and besides - my sister once accidentally hit me in the face with an aluminum bat. i'm not sure if the injury gives me half points. am i only a person in the dugout? hand in a mitt? swinging?

does softball count? does cricket? am i a person if i throw the ball to my dog. am i a person as long as the ball is in the air, or do i stop being a person as it rolls into the bushes. i took my girlfriend to fenway recently; was i a person in the sun, with my hands up, with the game laid out at my feet in a diamond. i felt like a person, but that was back in the summer, and i often feel my most person-like then.

am i more of a person because of the sheer number of things i've written? does quality matter, or is it quantity? i used to write entire books every summer in high school - i wasn't doing well. i felt the least like-a-person back then. but then - does any person feel human in high school?

in the library, ink on my skin, i feel personhood shutter at the edges of myself. actually, writing feels blissfully like not being myself. it feels birdlike; escaping into creation so my body dissolves and i survive only by muscle memory. i am not there, i am writing.

but who can deny the falconlike focus of warsan shire, the tenderness of mary oliver, the sheer skill of amanda gorman. those are poets. they are certainly human. you could line them up with the way their words have influenced us and measure their literary shadows like wings.

perhaps it was very assumptive of me to want to be a poet rather than "a [ label ] poet." i wanted the work to fill itself in, rather than be stained by what i am. i do not write in despite of my neurodivergence, i am just neurodivergent and writing.

does the poem have to be in english or can i send it through my palms into the coat of my dog. does the poem have to make sense. does the poem have to love you back.

if i break a glass, will the poem appear naturally? or is the act of breaking the glass human-enough. the shards of my life glittering out beneath me - do i have to write the poem, or is it self-evident in the pile of glass splinters? i cannot grasp this world the way other people can. regardless, i endeavor to touch - even the mess - very gently.

i broke my toenail against my coffee table recently. i released a bug outdoors. i made coffee. i walked my dog.

i didn't write a poem about any of these things.

something else, then. existing without humanity.

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Imagine for a moment you’re one of Lou Wilson’s new neighbors. This guy moves in driving the joker-mobile. He gives you his number and when your call goes to voicemail you’re treated to a full gospel choir. One day you catch a glimpse through his window and he’s just scratching hundreds of scratch-off lottery tickets. He owns two jet skis.

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I will not be overwhelmed with grief for those who we choose not to save. Nor will I become numb to their suffering.

I can’t fix everything but I will do what I can. I’ll do something. I swear it.

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driving all night and into the morning with your head lolling in the passenger seat. i don't want to romanticize cars because henry ford is evil; but i am in love with you and therefore everything feels romantic, even gas stations. i tell you i don't like the car-obsessed infrastructure of america; the same old rant about public transportation and energy costs and how racism and bigotry work together to hasten the End Times. you nod along and make sure i eat.

the sun putting down gentle feelers onto the winter sticks of massachusetts. feeling your hand in mine while we listen to a new album, ranking each song quietly. your jaw limned with the red-green passage of streetlamps. your hands around the large order of french fries we split between us. without comment, you pass me the biggest one. somewhere in maine, we stop randomly for a walk and are overwhelmed by the beauty. i'll never be able to find that place again, and it's okay. everything with you feels new to me.

spring is coming and the car is a stick shift and needs oil often and makes a concerning clicking if i turn left. we sit and watch the ocean come in, eating takeout quietly while the wind whips up and over the rocks. facing forward and feeling-rather-than-seeing you listen; i tell you things that are real and important and are hardly-ever spoken. the engine ticks as it cools and our voices get quiet. the hour gets small and i'll be sleepy on the drive home but as long as i don't have to leave yet, i can stay for the moment. let the moment linger on.

in the backseat my dog lets out a little sigh while he stretches. the gps says 354 miles until we hit home again.

a car is not a pure thing, no charming aesthetic. and then you tilt back your head and howl along to julien baker. and i think - oh god, oh god, i'm so in love that even the drive is romantic.