scruffleputter

[scruffleputter]

I was at an LGBT+ event last night and a very nice lesbian saw me standing alone and came up to talk to me and she was telling me about her wife so I said, “You’re so lucky. I can’t wait to have a wife.”

She then proceeded to tell me about how her wife is the most annoying person in the world.

Anyway I can’t wait to have a wife.

[scruffleputter]

okay but also

remember that not wanting your partner to change goes both ways

some people require the type of intimacy sex provides to feel loved and wanted

some people will never be happy without it

some people will never be happy /with/ it

the bottom line here is talk to your damn partner

be honest

be forthcoming

you never know what might work

and just as importantly

you never know what might not

...

don’t waste your time; don’t waste theirs

there is someone for you out there

I just read this super sad post about this girl who’s asexual and married and everyone is basically telling her that she doesn’t deserve her husband/she’s just a prude/she should just do it anyway. So I want to tell you all right now that if people tell you this, or if they tell you you’ll never have a relationship, it is BULLSHIT. My husband is asexual and I’m not. He’s sex repulsed, we don’t have sex, we never have. And it doesn’t matter to me. You know what does? He does. His mental health and wellbeing matter to me. Because he is my best friend and he’s one of the smartest, kindest, funniest people I’ve ever met. And he’s had people tel him that he’s broken and it makes me SO ANGRY because they are WRONG. Being different doesnt mean you’re broken. If you don’t like sex/don’t want it/etc. Do not let anyone tell you that you’re inferior because you’re not. Do not let anyone convice you that you’ll never have a relationship because they’re wrong(if you want one). You are not broken, and it will be okay.

[scruffleputter]

Art by: Gaku Carving Instagram: @artwoonz

[scruffleputter]

No, YOU’RE crying

[scruffleputter]

Haaaahahaha yeah no I wasn't

ten weeks left of grad school

my body is ready

[scruffleputter]

When the scene isn’t turning out like it’s supposed to but at least you’re writing

[scruffleputter]

               He left the hospital in the dead of night.

               It was against medical advice, to be certain. The long streak of seared flesh along his ribs was severe enough to warrant a day or two of oversight. It hurt like a son of a bitch, too. Just getting out of bed had felt like a herculean feat, and the trip to the Uber was excruciating. It was the only way, though – the only way to sneak out without Brendan, and by extension everyone else, knowing. They meant well, but more than anything, more than the pain and the nausea and the splitting headache, the notion of a friendly face dug deep.

               Job sank into the back seat of the car with a long, pained hiss. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. He saw dark feathers and unliving eyes, heard an otherworldly scream, and his heavy eyelids fluttered back open.  

               “You okay, man?” The young driver looked concerned, glancing up in the rear-view before turning to face his passenger. “You sure you’re good to leave?”

               Job blinked, jumping a bit as his tired gaze met his driver’s. Pedro – that was the name from the app. “Long, uh… long night. I’m…” He paused, his thoughts drifting to another place, another time. A world buried in the twisted roots of an ancient tree. “…I’m fine. It’ll heal. I just need some sleep.”

               Pedro stared for a moment before turning back to the road. He shook his head, threw his car into gear, and pulled away from the hospital.

               It was a short trip, or at least it felt that way. Short, or maybe all too long, and he wasn’t sure he knew the difference, anymore. It was subjective, anyway. Fake. One more opinion in a sea of meaningless experience. What was it for? To protect life? Ignorant, chaotic life – not blissful, no, for he’d seen too much cruelty to believe in that tripe. People were wicked and spiteful, content to lash out at the first sign of contention, like bickering animals fighting over more than enough food.

               The car stopped, and he leaned forward with a low groan as he fumbled for his seat belt. He shut his eyes for a moment, but the sound of a door slamming jarred him awake. His door opened, and he looked up to see a pale hand extended downward. It took him a moment to realize his driver was helping him up.

               He took the hand with a muttered platitude. He took a weary step as he stood, but wobbled a bit, and he felt his arm being slung over a shoulder.

               “You’re a real dumbass, man. I should take you back.”

               Job felt himself smile, just for a moment. “You’re really earning that twelve bucks.”

               “Yeah, yeah. You live here, or you squatting? ‘Cus there’s some way nicer places to crash, if you need one.”

               His free arm pointed across the street, down a side alley littered with broken wood and bags of garbage. “I’m renovating, see? Gentrification in action.”

               Pedro smirked but said nothing. With some time and effort, he managed to get Job down the alley, past the piles of mess and up to a recently replaced door.

               Job winced as his arm was released. He leaned against the wall, fiddling in his ripped jacket’s pocket for his keys. The lock was new, and it took a minute for him to thread the key into the deadbolt. The door gave way, revealing more piles of garbage, some half-demolished walls, and a recently installed bar counter. A few hastily constructed stools lined the front, a nearby pile of boxes waiting to become new seating.

               Pedro peeked his head inside for a moment, paused, and invited himself in. “Wow. I thought you were full of shit. You startin’ a speakeasy, man? This bar looks great.”

               Job limped inside, leaning himself against the counter. “I… yeah, I guess. I like to… make things. Figured I could have a shit bar in a shit alleyway, or build one of the neighborhood’s nicer secrets.”

               His driver nodded approvingly. He looked around for a moment before the awkward silence caught up to him. He checked his phone, a motion that seemed more like his first step out the door than one that held purpose of its own. “Well, uh. I should go. You alright from here?”

               Job shrugged. “I guess. I, um… thanks. Have a good rest of your night.”

               Pedro just smirked. With a gentle pat on Job’s shoulder, he made his way out the door.

               A low groan left Job. He stepped gingerly along the length of the counter, pushing stools out of the way as he moved. A bottle of top-shelf vodka sat perched at one end, and he snatched it as he stumbled toward the stairs.

               Each step was more painful than the last. As much as he could, he put weight on his uncharred right side, leaning heavily on the battered railing he’d been meaning to replace. It held his weight, thankfully, and soon enough he was in what passed as his bedroom, a single night stand and a lone mattress his only real furnishings.

               A bitter stream of curses announced his collapse in the bed, and for a moment, he wondered how the hell he was going to get back up. Lale had lent him more than enough for a proper bedroom set, but every cent that didn’t go toward the bar was going back to her. He’d buy a proper dresser and bed frame when his business made some money. Until then, this would do. It was more than he’d earned, more than he deserved - more than some piece of shit garbage peddler had any right asking for.

How many kids had he helped baptize? How many lies? How many lived in fear of eternal fire? Denied themselves basic respect and decency because of what he'd taught them?

Loathe thy neighbor as yourself.

               Job looked at the bottle lying next to him. It was a gift from Lale, meant to celebrate when the bar opened. He was going to share it with Eli, since for some reason that trainwreck of a kid had latched on to him and he’d been a… surprisingly good help around the bar. Why, he wasn’t sure. He had an apartment to go home to. Better things to do. Better people to see.

               Guilt twisted in his gut as he twisted the cap off the bottle. Eli deserved better. So did this vodka. It was too good for guzzling, yet as it burned its way down his throat, and the fatigue gave way to that familiar blur, he knew he wouldn’t stop.

               There was nothing to celebrate, anyway. He’d met the closest thing to god that he ever would, and he’d put a shotgun slug in its eye.

[scruffleputter]

[scruffleputter]

A dear friend of my fiancee and I took her own life early last month. I’ve been searching for the words for weeks to explain what she meant to me, but my mind just draws a blank. I’ve got nothing. I think of her and an emptiness sinks into my gut that tarnishes her memory and saps the joy out of our friendship.

This gift was meant for my fiancee, but for me, personally, it serves as a focal point - a reminder of what would have brought my friend joy, and of what I should hold on to.

I can’t express how grateful we both are. 

purrmaids! A Christmas gift for a friend, two purrmaids harassing an octopus that really just wants to take a nap. It’s painted to fit inside of a 6″x8″ photo mat.

W&N drawing ink, watercolor, and some gouache on Arches paper

[scruffleputter]

I’ve reblogged this before but I can’t contain myself

there used to be this guy who just happened to end up on every animation community I ever checked out and who had to be banned from all of them entirely because his love of Catdog was just that out of control.

[scruffleputter]

can confirm

source: asian wife

If you are a student Follow @studentlifeproblems​

[scruffleputter]

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A post shared by Canadian Climbing News (@cdnclimbingnews)

[scruffleputter]

“How do people know that you’re gay?”

[scruffleputter]

this is true love y’all (x) | follow @the-movemnt

[scruffleputter]

You don’t live in Argentina and you want to know why there’s so much trouble about one guy’s “suicide”? Okay, so as you’re on Tumblr I’m going to assume that you have read Harry Potter. So be kind and grab the fifth book.

What the hell has Harry Potter to do with Argentina? Well, you know Umbridge, that hated-by-all character? That’s our president. Cristina Fernández de Kirchner is the real life version of Umbridge. And our government is full of Cornelius Fudges. They’re exactly like in the book, they spent most of the time attacking media, they have a “you’re with us or you’re against us” mentality, they deny things that are obvious, they cover the truth with half-assed lies, they say that you’re lying when you point out the stuff they don’t want to admit, they try to control every single aspect of our lives and they claim conspiracies to overthrone them all the time.

Now, the thing is that they’re taking it further. They’re killing the people that accuse them. When the news of Nisman’s death came out, what the people first claimed was “They murdered Nisman”. Do you understand how a country has to be for the people’s first conclusion to be that?

Alberto Nisman was the prosecutor who worked for 10 years in the terrorist attack that the Asociación Mutual Isreaelí-Argentina (AMIA) suffered 19 years ago. People from Iran were acussed but to this day there is not a single person in jail for it. Nisman acussed this week the president Cristina Fernández de Kirchner to cover up the attackers in order to have better commercial relations with Iran (aka oil). Today Nisman was going to testify and bring out the more than 300 disks of evidence he had. Instead, he was found dead in his bathroom and the goverment was fast to claim it was a suicide.

You know what they said when Nisman acussed the president? That it was a complot of the opposite media groups to undermine how many people were going to the beach on holidays (as it is summer holidays here). You know what they did now? The goverment network spent the time showing how to do tortas fritas. And all we got from the president was a Facebook letter, that out-right said it had been a suicide. And we’re talking about a woman who comes out on national broadcast every time she fats (on Argentina we have “cadenas nacionales” where the president or a public servant speaks, and all national air networks MUST air them.) Such national broadcast should only be done on cases of emergencies, save that our goverment uses them for everything but emergencies.

Do you know get an idea of what we’re living here?

[scruffleputter]

“Oh, so because I’m straight I’m not allowed to have an opinion on [insert LGBT issue here]”

Listen. 

I’m an english major. I know next to nothing about science, engineering, and astronomy. Sure, I think space is cool. I’m very supportive of NASA’s efforts. I might even have an opinion on where we should send the next shuttle or how much money we should spend on space travel. 

But at the end of the day, my opinion on the matter is not valuable. I’m not going to enter into a discussion about the next shuttle launch with a bunch of trained scientists and expect them to take me seriously. 

Sometimes, your opinion is not valuable. Sometimes, you aren’t qualified to enter a discussion.

And, lets be honest, straight people’s opinions are valued in literally every other situation. Hell, straight people get more awards for lgbt “activism” than queer people themselves.

If you really can’t accept that sometimes your voice isn’t the most important in the room, you might need to get over yourself. 

[scruffleputter]