not-someone-who-matters

[not-someone-who-matters]

[not-someone-who-matters]

The Ocean, Me, MS Paint, 2022

[not-someone-who-matters]

hyperfixation please stay with me long enough to complete the project. hyperfixation do not fade. hyperfixation finish what you started for the love of god

[not-someone-who-matters]

fascinating that when you tell people "you have to learn the rules to break them" when talking about drawing/painting etc everyone nods and agrees but the second you say "you have to read books if you want to write better" there's a horde of contrarians begging to be the wrongest people ever all of a sudden

[not-someone-who-matters]

i love when i go to blow my nose or smth & the little discord notif pops up that goes you're muted now, do u want to unmute? ^_^ like oh. yeah dude. lemme just unmute real quick to honk all this mucus out directly into my friends headphones. thats exactly what i want to do. thank u king how could i have missed that.

[not-someone-who-matters]

Listen, I'm a shipper. Shipping is fun. Exploring relationships between the silly characters I like is fun, and to me, that includes shipping.

HOWEVER, as an aroace person who started valuing both my friendships and my ability to be alone without feeling like shit even more as I learnt about amatonormativity, I just need to say:

Can we please stop throwing around phrases like "There's no platonic explanation for this" or "They're too close, they can't be just friends" when talking about ships we like and analyzing the reasons why we think they should have been canon?

Can we please stop acting as if romance is some sort of "end goal" and that if two characters who have some form of chemistry don't get in a canon romantic relationship, then their potential was wasted?

Can we stop assuming that characters who end up single will automatically feel alone and miserable?

Like, can we stop normalizing amatonormativity in fandoms? I know it's difficult because those phrases and thought processes are very normalized, but can we try?

Also, some people will find this controversial, but yes, this includes not screaming "Are you homophobic???" At anyone who doesn't like a popular, implied or even canon queer ship. Yes, some people who don't like the ship will be homophobic, but some of us really just want more representation of single main characters who actually stay single, as well as representation of qprs, strong platonic bonds, people who live well by themselves/in solitude and so much other stuff that we often don’t get due to the world kind of being obsessed with romance (and sex tbh, but that's not the point of this post).

[not-someone-who-matters]

does anyone have like a pet ml episode that is not one of the huge banger plot-heavy ones but just feels like your special episode you’re so fond of. i think mine is psychomedian

[not-someone-who-matters]

hello yes @ person who made In Stars And Time. you might be wondering why i called you here. uh. is the game supposed to make me cry. is this a feature

[not-someone-who-matters]

coffee shop by my house hired a new barista who is extraordinarily hot and flirts with me incessantly but she also makes the worst - and i truly mean the worst - coffee i’ve ever paid for. atrociously bad. just another of god’s little jokes

[not-someone-who-matters]

The Ghost of Christmas Past shows up and you’re like, “Ohhhhh for fuck’s sake,” but you’re in your childhood bedroom so it’s kind of on you. The ghost seems offended. She crosses her arms. She looks like you used to, with the pigtails.

“No way,” you say. “Don’t start.”

“I am the—”

“The Ghost of Christmas Past, I know, I know.” Because she looks like you, and it’s Christmas Eve, so what else. Your parents used to read you the story every year. Even when you were old enough to read on your own, it was better in your dad’s voice.

“You came home for your parents,” the ghost says, solemn. “It’s time to tell them.”

“No, like, ‘when you’re ready’?”

“You are ready,” she says, “or you wouldn’t have come back.”

Which is so stupid, because you weren’t on the moon, you were at college, and it’s only been two months of shots, you don’t even have a mustache. “Fucking leave me alone,” you say, so she does the ghost thing and takes you to a ten-years-ago Christmas. The living room. Your parents. Your fledgling self on the carpet with your stocking, the one you can’t look at anymore because when you were a baby your parents patiently hand-stitched the fucking name.

“Maybe they’ll make you a new one,” says the ghost.

“You don’t know that.” Bullshit ghost powers.

“You were happier back then. When they knew you.”

“Everyone was happier back then. It was, like, 2008.”

“There was a recession,” says the ghost.

“Shut up! Shut up!” You turn over in bed. For a second you expect to roll onto child-self-you curled up next to you. Probably crush the life out of her. You got good at that. It’s her bed, her room, pink covers, cat posters.

“This is so stupid, this Dickens thing,” you say. “I’m not even Christian anymore.”

“Tell your parents that second,” the ghost suggests.

“Oh my fucking God I’m not telling them anything can’t you go bother Jeff Bezos.”

“I’m just doing my job,” says the ghost, and vanishes.

#

The Ghost of Christmas Present has an acne problem. As soon as you open your eyes you say, “Oh my God,” and they say, “Hi,” and you say, “You better not be the fucking Ghost of Christmas Present,” and the Ghost of Christmas Present says, “I am.”

Which you knew.

“Why me?” you say, pink comforter bunched around your waist. “I didn’t do anything. Scrooge was mean to orphans.”

The Ghost of Christmas Present shrugs. “It’s the job.”

“Are you gonna show me my parents now?”

That makes them look kind of embarrassed.

“Well, don’t,” you say. If your parents are talking in the other room, huddled up conferencing with the lights off, you can’t hear it over the heater buzz. But you can guess what they’re saying: you went to school with a shitty pixie cut and worse eyeliner, and you came back with a real haircut and a permanent frown and a bunch of new friends you play sentence Twister to avoid pronouning. “I know they’re nice people, I got it. I’m just not ready.”

“It’s just—you’re kind of waiting for them to ask?” says the Ghost of Christmas Present. They scratch their face, where they have spectral sideburns coming in. “Your dad thinks you have a head cold. ‘Cause of your voice. But your mom’s starting to get it.”

You pull the covers over your head. “Cool, awesome, didn’t ask.”

“She isn’t going to ask,” the ghost says. “She wants you to tell her.”

You stick your middle finger out from underneath the covers. When you check, the room is empty again.

#

The Ghost of Christmas Future doesn’t say anything. Just looks at you. You look back. You probably have bedhead. You fixed your daytime wardrobe but your pajamas are still lacy and purple.

“How come you’re a man?” you say.

He says, “I think you know.”

“Fucking—go away.”

“I have something to show you first.”

“Are we going to the goddamn graveyard?”

He doesn’t say anything but then you’re in the goddamn graveyard. Together. Looking at your headstone. The dates are close enough together to make you kind of sick.

“They went with the full name,” you say.

The ghost nods.

“Not even the nickname. My nice gender neutral nickname.”

The ghost shrugs. You kind of want to throw something at him but you’re just looking at it now. Chiseled in marble. Immovable. What’s that thing bigots on the internet say, about someone digging up your jawbone two hundred years from now? You always wanted to think you wouldn’t care.

The Ghost of Christmas Future’s pretty quiet. This is the part where Scrooge goes full breakdown. Tears, begging, promises.

“I’m not gonna cry on you,” you say.

“Okay.”

So neutral. “Man, what do you want me to say?”

“Nothing,” says the ghost. “I think you’re there.”

You can’t stop looking at the headstone. “God fucking damnit shit. You promise they’ll be cool?”

“Nothing’s promised,” the ghost says. He gestures at the graveyard. “Except for this.”

“Awesome.” Cryptic cliche philosophical ghost bullshit. Yada yada. Death and taxes. Not with that name on your headstone, though. Not with that name on your tax forms, either.

You turn to tell him that and then you’re blinking in bed. There’s still one glow-in-the-dark star stuck to your ceiling where the glue never wore out. You put those up like ten years ago. Maybe longer. The light in the room says it’s morning. You swing your lacy-pajama legs over the side of the bed and go to ruin Christmas.

[not-someone-who-matters]

oh my god two words in that just UNIVERSAL LANGUAGE

[not-someone-who-matters]

[not-someone-who-matters]

[not-someone-who-matters]

i thought the femboy cafes were the greatest invention ever but this chinese lesbian bar 😭>>>>>

[not-someone-who-matters]

One of the sweetest things is when you post a new work on AO3 and then one of your old works gets a comment because it means that somebody read the new thing and liked it so much that they went and checked what other stuff you wrote and they liked that enough to tell you about it and I just think that is so fucking precious!! thank you thank you thank you to the people who do that, keep doing it it's the best feeling as an author

[not-someone-who-matters]

Oh my god porn bots have moved to ao3

[not-someone-who-matters]

um can u guys stop reblogging from ppl I’ve had beef w or personally think are annoying ….