#╳ ✯ :: ― ❝ my life is my own not an existence doled out by others. ( hc. )

[artdcnaldson]

and when tashi punishes you in front of art for letting you get out of hand in the Olympics!au what then. you expect him to stand up for you - all the things he said about caring about you and wanting you - but he just looks away. tashi says you can leave, you can leave and art will never talk to you again because if tashi demands it he'll listen. you wont even exist to him. it'll be like he never knew you.

or.

you can take a little consequences for your actions. she likes your spirit, after all. your fire and passion. you just need a little discipline.

Exactly <3 When she practically drags you back to their house after the pregnancy test comes back negative and every bit of your pathetic lies come tumbling down around you <3 When she makes you tell Art everything, and you’re not crying pretty for him anymore, they’re ugly, humiliated tears that you got caught, that you’re having to admit that you were lying to him about a baby, that you thought you could manipulate him.

You think the tears will bring Art back to your side— that he’ll defend you and tell Tashi to stop, that you’ve had enough. They’ve worked on him plenty times before, but never with Tashi there. His jaw is set tight— you know he’s angry, that he’s livid but he’s letting Tashi handle it, handle you.

So Tashi gives you two options— face some consequences for once in your spoiled, bratty life, or you can just leave. Art would never see you again, never look at you, you’ll be nothing to him. It’s not even a choice to you— not even something you’re willing to consider. So you accept whatever consequences because you’re expecting Art to be the one doling it out.

But it’s not Art’s lap you’re bent over, it’s hers. And it’s not enough to just spank you with her hand— she’s mean about it. She uses a fucking paddle, like you’re a schoolgirl who misbehaved in class. It’s hard, and you yelp and bury your face into the duvet to muffle your cries, but Tashi just pulls your head back up, tells you to keep looking at Art. It feels like punishment enough, that he’s watching, but he’s not defending you, won’t own up to anything he said.

And he’s getting off on it— on finally seeing you brought to heel. He couldn’t do it, but Tashi can. Tashi has you babbling out apologies, with your makeup streaked, your ass stinging red, probably black and blue by the next day. But you don’t pussy out, you take it all and you’d take more, because the alternative is losing your favorite plaything, the object of your obsession.

And you think that’s it. You’re going to have trouble sitting— doing much of anything— but it doesn’t seem as bad as it could have been. But you’re simply ignored at your spot on the bed as Tashi kisses her husband. You pout the longer it goes on— as their tongues press against each other and slip into their mouths, as she pins Art to the bed and strips off both of their clothes.

That’s your punishment. Thats what you’re there for. How many times had you gotten off on Art telling you that you fucked him better? That your pussy was tighter and sweeter? That he loved you? That he’d leave her? You didn’t think he’d been lying until you had to watch, but you couldn’t look away.

So you listen to Art telling Tashi all the same things he told you, watch him fuck into Tashi’s cunt the way he’d done to you time and time again. Watch him cum, panting and moaning against her lips.

“I love you,” he pants, and she smiles, scratching at his scalp.

Your bottom lip wobbles and you feel hot tears on your lashline, and you’re worried you’ll have to just tap out and leave and give him up because it hurts.

He pulls out, and you watch his cum slip from her pussy, dripping down and onto the sheets. Tashi meets your gaze, nods expectantly. “Clean up the mess my husband made.”

You exhale a weak whine, crawl between her thighs and start licking at her, hesitantly at first. Her hand is in your hair, almost soothing as your tongue explores her— licking up the mixture of her and Art’s cum. You lose yourself in it until you’re just laving at her from her drooling entrance to her clit, all just seeking the taste of more.

“Okay, that’s enough,” She tells you, pushing your mouth off. She looks down at you indiscernibly, and you just lay against her thighs and sniffle out apologies.

[lovecrumbss]

First loves take us like that. But because they rarely have any consequence (few marry the sixth-grade sweetheart), people slight them. They exist in the thin cliché of bad country tunes, thus becoming generic, sandblasted of peculiarities. Our own features in youth have not yet been sharply carved. So in some way, we don’t exist yet. Thus we mock ourselves for loving so easily and in the process choke the breath from our first darlings. Which denies their truth, I think, for my inner life took full shape around such a love. I learned to imagine around his face. Before such enchantment takes us, there are only the faces of parents, other kin. Those are doled out to us; they are us in some portion. These first beloveds are other. And we invent ourselves by choosing them.

Cherry, Mary Karr

[ashes0909]

For your writing game! It was probably supposed to be 3 random words but I can’t get it out of my head for Drarry and it be “I fear you” also I hope you are doing good and may all the writing muses go your way!

Not sure if this was what you had in mind, but my brain fixed on the idea and refused to let go. I also tried out a mixed POV fic, which isn't something I've done often, but enjoyed playing with. Hope you enjoy!

-------

I fear...

Harry/Draco; Rated T

“I fear you have become obsessed with Draco Malfoy. Again,” Hermione said, over the brim of her teacup. 

Across town, over a shot of firewhiskey, Zabini doled out nearly the very same sentiment. “Harry Potter this, Harry Potter that--You’re completely obsessed with him. Again.”

At the same time, unbeknownst to the one another, Harry and Draco slumped back in their chairs and replied, “It’s not my fault. He’s completely insufferable.”

Their friends were very much over this constant state of existence.

The next morning, Draco did his best to shake Harry Potter out from under his skin. He took the long way around Diagon Alley, so he didn’t have to see Potter’s ridiculously wonderful new Broom and Flying Lesson shop. He avoided the best street carts at his lunch hour, in the off chance that maybe, possibly, Harry would be there too. And while he did, in fact, need to replace his broom oil, he went to a far inferior shop in Hogsmeade instead. 

It wasn’t until Draco was getting ready to apparate from Hogsmeade back to his potions shop in the heart of Diagon Alley, that he came to a horrifying realization: in trying to avoid Harry Potter, he spent the entire day thinking about him.

Earlier that same afternoon, Harry had Hermione’s words echoing in his mind. Over and over, he considered how, at so many different moments in his life, he’d become fixated on Draco. Now, it was because they somehow found themselves shop owners on the same street. But the part of him that seethed heat straight into his veins knew that no matter what, he’d find some excuse to focus on Draco Malfoy.

Enough was enough.

The familiar swoop of apparation hit Draco and Harry at the same time, minds fixed on each other, one suppressing his thoughts, the other newly determined. They arrived at Draco’s potion shop with a simultaneous pop.

“Potter--?”

“Malfoy!”

Draco had to do a double take, afraid that his single-focus had brought him to Harry’s shop instead of his own. But no, instead Harry stood surrounded by cauldrons and vials, looking like he was about to charge off into battle.

So, he looked breathtaking. 

Harry had gathered his courage but now, in front of Draco, catching sight of his famously pale hair and deceivingly soft features, the words froze in his throat.

Brazen, bold, fearless -- he was a Gryffindor and he could get through this.

“What are you doing here?” Draco asked, breathless.

“Let’s get a drink,” Harry garbled the words, too fast and voice low, but they were out there, in the open. Fear officially conquered. 

Draco hadn’t expected a lot from his evening, but there was an unsettling certainty in the pit of his stomach that no matter what, his night’s thoughts would orbit around this man. Mine as well go out to dinner with him. What’s the worst that could happen? What was there to fear? A part of him screamed: everything. But he was ambitious enough to grab onto this opportunity with both hands. 

That didn’t mean he had any intention in making it easy for Harry. He did like to see him squirm, after all.

Harry watched as Draco narrowed his eyes, and the expression shouldn't twist behind Harry's groin, but it did. Want mixed with fear, soaked with obsession. But he could tell by Draco’s smirk, he was just as into the idea. “Come on,” Harry pushed. “Say yes, or you're buying.”

Draco barked out a laugh. “That makes no sense at all. You make no sense at all.” Draco pushed past him and walked towards the exit of his potions shop, holding open the door. “You coming?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “You’re going to be insufferable, aren’t you?” he asked with a smile, sliding past the door and onto Diagon Alley’s evening streets. He knew Draco would fall in step at his side.

“I have it on good authority, I can be quite insufferable when it comes to you.”

Harry knocked their shoulders together. It felt like he was on a broomstick, rushing towards the snitch. “I fear you and I have that in common.”

fin

[kikanawj]

Hey, uh, a little RP moment between sessions has me realizing a whole other side to my character Yūji.

She recently grew wings and needs her clothes modified to work with her new appendages. So an few NPCs helped her sew her existing jumpsuit, but also gifted her a backless dress. Which led to me realizing that Yūji has never owned a piece of clothing that was pretty, that was made to just be aesthetically pleasing, that wasn't entirely utilitarian.

Yūji also went through the ages of 12 to 18 without any sort of stable companions. Her backstory is that she's been traveling between post-post apocalyptic human villages/settlements and doling out some violent change when she saw it as necessary. And before that she and her sister were born into being captive workers in a large underground mine.

So yeah, this is a moment where Yūji gets to be and feel pretty. Like, for the first time in her life.

And I'm having feelings about it.

[cowboyjen68]

Hello and happy Lesbian day!

I've just discovered your blog, and I'm so happy i did!

My country is Quite homophobic, so are my relatieves and even many of my peers. Sometimes i feel very lonely, especially considering that i've never met another lesbian in the wild (and i've been around for 20+ years!), not even to mention butches

However, you give me hope and the thought of growing up to be as inspirational (at least in the looks) for younger generations as you are warms my heart. Thank you for sharing your life and being who you are!

Even though being gnc and a lesbian can be hard sometimes, i am really happy with the way i am and i wish everyone felt that way about themselves too

I am glad you found me as well!!

The Western World makes in hard enough to be a lesbian, expecially a visible on, ie butch or gnc or a maculine woman. To exist in places where it is truly dangerous and punishment is doled out by both society and the government is almost beyond my comprehension since I have not experienced that to any degree.

I think often of my friends who exist in other counties like Iran, and how much effort they put into being as unnoticed as possible. I hope for them to someday to have a place where they can thrive and be surrounded by the support and love of other lesbian, bi women and even some family members who reject the teachings of their own culture when it comes to gay people.

Even in my part of the world, I pushed back hard against the idea that I was a lesbian or that my masculinity was permanent, an innate and intregal part of me. I tried to think of being "butch" as a passing phase, a lingering aspect of Tomboyhood that would fade as I matured. I questioned my interests, my actions, my clothing and my connection with other women. Was I broken? Was I supposed to be a boy and something got crossed or messed up? Why could i not just like what girls are supposed to like?

Then I listened to other girls, and women, and realized that many of them were playing a game. Pretending to love what our society said they were supposed to in order to garner the support and rewards that come with conforming. It just so happened that my very phyical presence was not ever going to fit in. It was not as simple as putting on a dress, because THAT made things even more obvious.

Once I learned the word butch and met lesbians of all ages who talked about how great it was to be one, to hear other women say they "look for the butch in the room as a safe person" I started to think of myself as unique but not "not like other girls".

I want to be that beacon in the world to others, expecially other lesbians and butches who don't see us in "the wild". Who otherwise feel isolated, alone and like a fringe element of society because they see no others who can relate to their experiences.

I often write with 14 year old me in mine. What did I need to see?? What truths about being a lesbian would have been benefitial for me to love who I am earlier?

I am doing my best and my promise is to be as honest and open as possible, even when things are hard to hear or not the anwer people want.

I am so glad you love and embrace yourself in a place where you have to be your own cheerleader, for now. I wish for you to find support from others in your life someday and I have every hope that it will happen.

(photo me in a dress, trying to NOT look butch---FAIL. And WHY did I think puffy shoulder were a good idea??) Circa 1984

[kaliido-s]

Headcanon on kaiju u say?

Something to share on the Queen??🎤

I wanted to answer this earlier but tumblr crapped out and deleted my thing but whatever I’m doing it again Moth time

- Mothra considers it their responsibility to look after the earth’s wellbeing. She’s less of an Alpha or Queen and more of a Guardian/Caretaker. Her goal is to keep the planet alive, healthy and balanced, and to make sure the natural order of things is upheld and respected. This is why they began to work with Godzilla in the first place, since Mothra isn’t strong enough on her own to deal with some problems.

- Mothra has persisted throughout millions of years through reincarnation, and is technically the oldest living organism alive.

- She’s either the only one of her kind to ever exist, or a surviving member of a longlost species, I haven’t really decided what I like more lol. Whether these other lepidopterans were benevolent or not, Mothra was the only one with a strong motivation to take care of the planet.

- Godzilla is Mothra’s one true friend, and his companionship means a lot to her. Mothra had never made any meaningful connections before Godzilla, and is a lot more close with him than others. She’d be beside themselves if something happened to him that she could’ve prevented.

- While forgiving, Mothra is not hesitant to dole out divine punishment

- They’re particularly disgusted and repulsed by Titans like Ghidorah, who have no respect for the planet’s natural order, and disrupt it for their own selfish motivations

- She is Asexual Panromatic, and uses she/they pronouns

- Her size seen in KOTM is actually smaller than her regular size, a side effect of her having to rush her metamorphosis.

- Because of how long Mothra has lived, and their own supernatural abilities, her appearance has changed and adapted with the times. Tweaks have been made to her design over millions of years

- Mothra has no fear of death, and accepts it as natural. She does not accept reckless killing and disregard for life however.

Also please ask me more questions about headcanons! I have a lot more time on my hands right now (sick with covid but really don’t feel sick) so I can answer stuff quicker, potentially even draw stuff

[romeythehomie]

ao3 stats tag meme

give us the links to your fic with the most hits, second most kudos, third most comments, fourth most bookmarks, fifth most words, and fic with the fewest words.

my friend mav @thebrandywine tagged me to do a fic stats ask game!! so here is da thing.......a LOT of these are since-anonymized fics from my MCU days and i don't have any real connection to most of them anymore but i ALSO don't have six non-MCU fics to pull from. some of the one-shots hold up pretty well still i just...wouldn't publish them today, i don't think. anyways! onward and upward. enjoy~

most hits: you've arrived at last, my friend, MCU, 8 chapters and 61.5k words

It’d be easy enough for him to move silently, slip out through the window, down the fire escape and away from Steve and his little Brooklyn apartment. He doesn’t have to stay, wouldn’t have to come back. Doesn’t have to but can. He thinks he wants to.

second most kudos: carrying the weight together, MCU, 3.2k oneshot

So maybe Bucky’s a little clingy, maybe the separation anxiety is worse today than it is usually. That’s fine, they can handle clingy. No big deal.

third most comments: repaint the walls and roll me up with the carpet, my only currently posted resident evil fic, 3k words

He worries about Leon: his rare seconds of downtime on missions are so often spent wondering how Leon is doing back home, if he’s been eating and sleeping and taking care of himself. He worries about him at work, where from his office he can see Leon quietly chipping away at the latest task doled onto his desk. He worries about him when he wakes up, never sure what type of day it’s going to be for him. He worries when he goes to sleep with Leon in his arms, warm and solid and calm, and when he goes to sleep alone, Leon with only Buddy for company in his sad small one-bedroom house on base.

fourth most bookmarks: i take my cue from you, MCU, 2.6k words

His head hurts. He knows that he’s hungry and exhausted and skittish, but the only thing he’s able to feel is the pounding in his skull and the way the light feels like it’s burning through his fucking corneas. Steve’s been nagging him all day, which Bucky can’t blame him for. He knows he’s being frustrating and uncooperative and harsh and a dick and Jesus, how he wishes he could just stop, but nothing in life is that easy because why would it be. It’s not like anything else is.

fifth most words: kotenok, MCU, 3.2k

There is a cat. This in and of itself is not exceptional because one thing that hasn’t changed over seventy-odd years is the existence of alley cats. He does not know how to take care of a cat but he knows he can not leave it here to bleed and yowl and be upset. He has decided to take care of her and in her own way, she takes care of him.

fewest words: tineretului, MCU, 1.2k

He falls asleep praying that a safehouse in Romania isn't the closest he ever gets.

i'm actually kind of shocked that none of these are repeats and that it coincidentally completely avoids the other three fics i have posted lol. i'm not going to tag anyone because everyone i can think of i've already seen @'ed, but thank you for the game mav!!

[theblurbwitchproject]

Lolly Willowes by Sylvia Townsend Warner

Published: January 1, 1926 Publisher: Chatto & Windus

The Author

Sylvia Townsend Warner was born in Middlesex, England, in 1893. As a child she was homeschooled after being kicked out of nursery school for mimicking her teachers. Lolly Willowes was her debut novel, published in 1926, and from this work onwards Warner focused on subverting societal norms; later heavily using the themes of rejecting the Church, a need for female empowerment, and independence in her works.* Warner eventually met Valentine Ackland, the two women falling in love and moving in together in 1930. Despite her clear literary skill, she remained a somewhat ghostly and marginal presence in the English literary landscape*. Scholarship and commentary on Townsend’s work has burgeoned over the last twenty years, and as of 2021 all her novels were in print simultaneously for the first time.

˗ˏˋ ´ˎ˗

The Story

Lolly Willowes, always so gentle and accommodating, suddenly announces that she is moving, alone, to the countryside. To her overbearing family in London, it is a disturbing and inexplicable act of defiance. But Lolly will not be swayed, and in the depths of the English countryside she gradually discovers not only freedom and independence, but also, unexpectedly, her true vocation.

˗ˏˋ ´ˎ˗

The Vibe: satirical, city life to country village, whimisical, pagan villagers, deals with the devil, nature appreciation, living authentically

The Style: comedy of manners, wry humour, feminist, social critique

Trigger Warnings: parental death

˗ˏˋ ´ˎ˗

The Review

Lolly Willowes; or The Loving Huntsman was written by Sylvia Townsend Warner and published in 1926. It is an early feminist classic that was written, as Warner said, because she “happened to find very agreeable thin lined paper in a job lot”. It’s a novel I’m genuinely surprised isn’t discussed morewidely in online reading circles, especially with the increased interest in witches and paganism that has boomed in recent years.

I’m always reticent to share reviews of classic books; what on earth could I possibly add that hasn’t been said more succinctly and more thoughtfully by any number of people before me? However, I absolutely adored this book and wanted to share my appreciation in a small way.

“One doesn’t become a witch to run around being harmful, or to run around being helpful either, a district visitor on a broomstick. It’s to escape all that - to have a life of one’s own, not an existence doled out to by others.”

First and foremost, Lolly Willowes is an examination (and rejection) of traditional Edwardian gender roles. Laura Willowes lives with her loving father at their family home in Somerset. Early in the novel in the wake of her father’s death, Laura finds her life turned upside down as she is forced to move to London to live with her brother Henry and his family. She is naturally absorbed by the household, becoming “Aunt Lolly” after a mispronunciation by her niece. I found it poignant that while living in London Laura is not able to live authentically, and is not even referred to by her actual name. She becomes “of use” to her family, but begins to become weary of the role that she is forced into. The novel is split into three sections, with the first building the examination of the need for single women to remain under the guardianship of a male family member.

During her time at her brother’s house, Laura creates small rebellions from this lifestyle in the form of “impulses of secrecy”, at one point exttravagantly buying out all the Chrysanthemums at a florist and purchasing a guide book and map of the location that the flowers were grown (somewhere in the Chiltern Hills northwest of London). While poring over her map and guide book, Laura appears to come back to herself as she imagines living enveloped in this countryside idyll. In another moment of impulse, Laura announces to her family that she will be moving to Great Mop, a small village in the Chiltern Hills. She is adamant about her choice, and going completely against social expectation, moves there alone.

“When she had come to the top of the Ridge she stopped, with difficulty holding herself upright. She felt the wind swoop down close to the earth. The moon was out hunting overhead, her pack of black and white hounds ranged over the sky. Moon and wind and clouds hunted an invisible quarry. The wind routed through the woods. Laura from the hill-top heard the various surrounding woods cry out with different voices.”

Nature itself has a huge presence in this story, from references to bodies, particularly female ones, in relation to nature and returning to their most essential forms, to the comparison between the natural world vs. cities and the expectations of living in “civilised” society. The descriptive passages about nature truly speak to Townsend’s deep love of the natural world. They are so evocative, they really make you feel the appreciation and awe that Laura felt whenever she explored the area around Great Mop. I wanted to move out to the countryside and explore just like she did.

Rudely, Laura’s nephew Titus decides that he would like to move to Great Mop too. This intrusion is too much for Laura, who tires very quickly of becoming socially and domestically relied upon once again. The book gets truly witchy (and hilarious) when she makes a pact with Satan in order to get rid of Titus through a series of worsening annoyances (Titus being chased by a swarm of wasps is a stand-out moment). This was my very favourite section of the story, especially so as her familiar, a kitten she names Vinegar, appears suddenly in her house, and she is invited to a witches Sabbath attended by other towns-people. It is during the sabbath that Laura truly comes into her own, as she decides that this form of socialising and expectation is absolutely not for her either. “’How are you enjoying your first Sabbath, Miss Willowes?’ he said. ‘Not at all,’ answered Laura, and turned her back on him.” She knows what she wants and will no longer entertain social pressure.

Laura is very much a reflection of Warner herself, who was left devastated after the death of her father. Like Laura, Warner also worked in a munitions factory during the First World War, and I feel that the transference of these major imformative moments brings and extra life to Laura that I personally found very moving. The fusion of very “real” details like this with the supernatural elements of the story give it an extra level of heart that makes the examination of gender roles all the more affecting. Warner put so much of herself into this novel.

The role of women, spinsters and widows is expertly addressed with her final discussion with Satan, who, unlike the fake representation of him at the sabbat, is not horned and oh so evil, but looks like a regular country gent. Even in this scene Satan remains an ambiguous character; is he really there to help or is he just another male figure taking control of women? The reader is able to make up their mind on that one.

“And think, Satan, what a compliment you pay her, pursuing her soul, lying in wait for it, following it through all its windings, crafty and patient and secret like a gentleman out killing tigers. Her soul - when no one else would give a look at her body even! And they are all so accustomed, so sure of her! They say: “Dear Lolly! What shall we give her for her birthday this year? Perhaps a hot-water bottle. Or what about a nice black lace scarf? Or a new workbox? Her only one is nearly worn out.” But you say: “Come here, my bird! I will give you the dangerous black night to stretch your wings in, and poisonous berries to feed on, and a nest made of bones and thorns, perched high up in danger where no one can climb to it.”

Lolly Willowes is a wonderful novel of living authentically and embracing ones own individuality and freedom. It did well in England when it was first released, but even better in France and the US (which is somewhat surprising given the subject matter; it would likely be banned pretty fast in many states if it was released in the US today). If you enjoy Jane Austen’s fantastic prose, I’m certain you will enjoy Sylvia Townsend Warner’s style just as much. If you haven’t already, please pick up this fabulous book and enjoy!

Rating: 🌕🌕🌕🌕🌕

[Goodreads]

[theprodigypenguin]

Good morning it's raining I'm gonna scream about my other new OC! :D thank you to picrew for literally just existing so I can make references of characters 😩❤️

OC #2, Sys' best friend, is Jade. He has pale, sometimes sickly looking skin (explanation for this coming), pale grey eyes, jade green hair and a splash of freckles across his nose and cheeks.

As far as Jade knows, he was born into slavery. As far back as he can remember, he'd been shackled on Marie Jois and used mainly for hard labor, entertainment, or experiments (one such example, reminiscent of the Boa sisters, is when the Celestial Dragon who controlled him forced him to eat a Devil Fruit just to see what would happen).

He's enslaved until he's brought to Sabaody by the Celestial Dragon (a very controlling and possessive monster who dragged Jade everywhere he went because he was paranoid about him escaping). This is where Sys witnesses the Celestial Dragon doling out "punishment" for something. She breaks Jade from shackles he'd worn for the majority of his life (she stole the key of course) grabbed him around the wrist and ran.

They traveled alone for a while before joining the Revolutionary Army together. Like Sys, Jade currently works under Sabo’s command.

He seems to be the exact opposite of Sys in personality and how he carries himself. He's very quiet, cautious, thoughtful, and jaded. He carries immense trauma from his past, but is unquestionably a kind person who just wants to help people, live his life, and change the world so no one else has to suffer like he did.

Unexpectedly quick witted and terribly sarcastic, has a deep, dark gallows humor that will shock people if they aren't already used to him. It surprises people when he makes jokes because he looks so serious all the time and doesn't talk a lot if he doesn't have to.

As a young child, he was forced to eat the Tetsu Tetsu no Mi: Model Blood, classified as a Paramecia. With this unusual ability, he's able to manipulate the iron particles in his own and other people's blood. Over the years, he taught himself to weaponize the ability. With a cut on his hand, he can make weapons like swords or long sticks similar to Sabo’s pipes. Utilizing Armament haki, he can transform his own blood into bullets and shoot them at targets or enemies.

However, this ability has limits, in that he can only use it so long as he has blood in his own body. If he uses it carelessly, indiscriminately, he can end up fainting or passing out from blood loss mid battle. Occasionally he'll collapse from anemia and fatigue during daily tasks (fucking sucks at taking care if himself).

In addition to weaponizing his ability, he can also use it for medical purposes by stemming the blood loss of injured comrades. Dragon has more than once suggested that Jade step back from the frontline to act as a medic rather than a soldier since it's less taxing on his body, but Jade has refused every time.

In addition to this ability, he has Armament and Observation haki, which was taught to him by Sys.

Bonus: In the future, when Ruan joins to revs, they end up in a relationship (i want them to kiss okay okay okay).

[luveline]

“I really hope I can do better by you all and get it together”

You do well by everyone when you take care of yourself, for however long that takes. Not when you calm down, not when you summon the energy to post all the time, not when you answer every single person that is demanding something of you. You are an incredible writer and I love everything you write, but those stories wouldn’t exist without you. You’re what matters the most, and your mental health, life, responsibilities, future, and relationships are what matter the most. Spreading yourself too thin serves no one, and it especially doesn’t serve you. You need to rest and be tender with yourself, and be picky with who or what gets your energy, don’t even worry about Tumblr.

The people that are hateful or demanding are the same people who are talking during a movie or making a ton of noise at the library. They’re just the loudest people in the room because they lack awareness or they’re straight up desperate for attention. They know you’re sweet and kind to everyone so they pick on you because they’re weak willed. It’s not a reflection of you, simply their inability to be satisfied with themselves. You’re wonderful, and you come back whenever you feel comfortable enough to do so. Even if that means never!

You’re a delight, and I wish nothing but peace for you 💖

I will try to answer this like one line at a time but it made me cry a little bit and I'm frazzled.

Firstly, you made me feel much better. And like I know it sounds silly for me to say this but it's invaluable to me. I don't know if you're saying this because you think I want to hear it, but I (maybe shamefully???) Really really do want to hear it, and it's a unbelievable generosity in my eyes of you to take the time but also the heart maybe to have said this to me.

I really do take care of myself. I think, pathetically, that this is the thing people ask me to do most often. Genuinely and especially from my lovely friend Lu, I think I'm always being reminded to take care of myself and people might not believe me but I do— I'd argue I'm too nice to myself because I'm lazy and I eat too many biscuits after tea and I take extremely long and unnecessary showers, I'm selfish in weird ways and I really don't do things I don't wanna do (to my own detriment sometimes) but I really am taking are of myself, so if that's doing right then I glad for it.

It's really odd to see it and it really did make me cry to think these stories can't exist without me. I'm not delusional I know both the redundancies and the importance of fic and tumblr especially like it's just a website but its the small slice of community I've managed to carve out here that is important to me. Never in my life have I experienced something like this and I know how valuable it is to me even if it isn't to others, so though I know you're right that spreading myself too thin won't serve anybody, I really would regret not fostering my connections here, and also I'm dumb and I don't want people to forget about me.

As for hateful and demanding, I really do agree with you. I think it's a disservice to other people to pretend I deserve some of the shit I've been sent, and you're right that they're loud. I don't know about sweet and kind but I do know it's usually an attention thing or personal hill to die on, I really know it, and I'm gonna try my best to just not pay attention because there's bigger fish to fry, like thanking you for being an angel.

I really appreciate you and your ask. It is never lost on me the pure untouched kindness that goes into trying to make others feel better, especially when there's no skin in the game and you won't get anything out of this. You're really speaking up out of the goodness of your heart and I love and owe you for it, thank you for being so kind, for doling out some load bearing advice that I'll be resting my weight on for a while, and for the sweet compliments. I really hope I can be back more often because this shit is breaking my heart lol

[vapidfrivolity]

Mobile Nav

Hey, the name’s Azar and these are my links

Personal Rules | Muse list (a WIP atm) | Click “Keep reading” for rp excerpts.

Imo it’s important to know each other to find a good roleplay partner, so I’ll try my best to get to know you, slow as I am. I ask you to have patience, I love to roleplay, but my pace is often times a crawl for others.

The following are some rp excerpts, from newest to oldest. I don’t expect you to mirror my style, I simply get curious how someone rp’s firsthand, so I offer you a peek likewise.

-

     “Life in HOME had never been easy. Tranquility and attrition always came hand in hand. NAME’s headspace and thoughts were all organized in neat boxes, sorted and labelled to pick and discard in the midst of a nebulous space in between. The ones tossed away were never truly gone, the material worn-down in a way that meant misuse, but still held together by never-fading snaps in time and enough feelings to drown in if he wasn’t careful. PLACE was never a box; it’d be a fool’s errand to cage nearly decades chockfull of memories when he never meant to forget about them in the first place. It was a gradual thing, but the moment he woke up safe and warm with a roof over his head that wasn’t made of stalagmite, no longer afraid of the darkness that lurked in the safe walls of too-expensive material, NAME knew. He would give his life for this place.”

-

     “In PLACE, there is no stronger scent than that of freshly spilled blood. It permeates through the burning cold, and for NAME it is the single memory that rings in his mind like no other. He can taste it on his tongue, feel the tangy aftertaste on a single smack of his lips as his body relaxes preemptively for a fight. It's an instinctive reaction, one bred by the horrorterrors and nurtured later by his own will. NAME would compare it to vodka; both ignite the same spark of anticipation singing underneath his skin. It keeps him moving and alert, warding off the natural call of sleepy warmth from his uniform's bulk. It often was a welcome distraction from his most recent, assignment--the same one that had been doled out for the better part of a year now. [ … ] An assignment that was being toyed with a couple of miles from the furthest camp in his division. [ … ]

 NAME could feel the beginnings of laughter bubbling in his chest. If he were to "help" now, this would be a lovely piece of blackmail; maybe he would be snagging that one long-con mission right under COWORKER’s nose. "Let's see... Why don't I help you out a little, friend?" In a flash of steel, NAME carefully measured the strength of his shot. He didn't want to kill his unsuspecting accomplice. This guy was his ticket outside, after all.”

-

     “When NAME opens his eyes, sunlight is streaming out of the window. Gentle amber spills across his sheets in a soft glow; the more he stares at it, the more something as pure and bright loses its touch with reality in his mind. If haven were to exist in pockets and small moments, this would be one of his. Seconds tick by and he gets restless.

Radio static. Morning calm...

It’s all white noise.

He can't tell seconds apart from minutes anymore, there are no clocks in his room. Instead, he knows it’s time to get up when his hands start to tremble. His fingers twitch and curl around the sheets, dislodging the calm. The world fades back into awareness from his safe haven in bits and pieces.

Leaves rustle, his heart beats. Slow breaths, sheets crease.

He’s awake now.

Gentle breeze runs through his veins, echoing in his bones and between his fingers like crossing hollow caverns and mountain peaks. His posture sways as he sits like a baby deer and it's both frustrating and familiar. His body feels weak today again as if it can barely move without taking a gargantuan effort to articulate all of his muscles and joints the right way.

It's one of those days again.”

[wesper-ao3feed]

Jezelf Leren Kennen

read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/syGAPBF by DreamTigress This piece exists in the space directly after Crooked Kingdom, during KoS/RoW, and serves as a prequel for my series Kanej Wansen. Exploring Inej’s reunion with her parents, her discovery of who she can be as Captain Ghafa, hunting slavers and doling out justice, and her path to reclaiming her own body and sexuality. Exploring Kaz building his empire in the Barrel, and his journey through practicing touch and examining his armor; seeing him hit despair, and clawing his way back out again. See also: Inej’s family reunion, Battling with PTSD, Things go wrong, Kaz & Inej deal with feels separately, Building an empire, Revenge takes it toll, Words are hard for everybody, Trauma sucks, Unkind voices, Jordie is mean sometimes, Captain Ghafa is a badass, Hunting slavers, Reclaiming sexuality, Ferocious killers need snuggle time, Self love is important, Evil people getting their karma. Words: 9428, Chapters: 2/12, Language: English Fandoms: Six of Crows Series - Leigh Bardugo, The Grisha Trilogy - Leigh Bardugo, Nikolai Series - Leigh Bardugo Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Categories: F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, Other Characters: Kaz Brekker, Inej Ghafa, The Crows Ensemble (Six of Crows), Original Characters, Jesper Fahey, Wylan Van Eck, marya hendricks, Pim (Six of Crows), Anika (Six of Crows), Roeder (Six of Crows), Keeg (Six of Crows), Rotty (Six of Crows), Specht (Six of Crows), Tante Heleen (Six of Crows), Pekka Rollins (Six of Crows), Nina Zenik, Nikolai Lantsov, Sturmhond, Zoya Nazyalensky, The Ghafas Relationships: Kaz Brekker/Inej Ghafa, Kaz Brekker & Inej Ghafa, Jesper Fahey/Wylan Van Eck, Jesper Fahey & Wylan Van Eck, Hanne Brum | Ilya Grimjer/Nina Zenik, Nina - Relationship Additional Tags: POV Kaz Brekker, POV Inej Ghafa, Kaz Brekker Needs a Hug, Protective Kaz Brekker, Kaz Brekker Has PTSD, Kaz Brekker Loves Inej Ghafa, BAMF Inej Ghafa, Captain Inej Ghafa, Inej Ghafa Needs a Hug, Soft Inej Ghafa, Inej Ghafa Has PTSD, Protective Inej Ghafa, Inej Ghafa Loves Kaz Brekker, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Kaz & Inej Deal with Feels, We Never Stop Fighting, Practicing Touch, Unkind Voices, Trauma Sucks, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, words are hard sometimes, Personal Growth, Introspection, Alcohol Abuse, Mortal Wounds, No Major Character Death, OC/minor character death, battles, Hunting Slavers, Dealing with Sexual Assault Trauma, Dealing with Horrible Past Trauma, Crimes and misdemeanors, Blowing Shit Up, Making Life Hell for Tante Heleen & Pekka Rollins, Adventures in Piracy, Family Reunions read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/syGAPBF

[ruminativerabbi]

There Will Yet Be Singing

Every so often, we encounter stand-up moments—opportunities to, well, stand up and show (to yourself, to your children, to the world) if you actually hold the values you claim to espouse, if you are the person you think of yourself—and wish others to think of you—as actually being. I had a moment like that last week, which I thought I’d share with my readers this week. Life doesn’t dole out these opportunities so often. But this this was my moment and, because Joan was part of the discussion and the decision, it was hers too.

Like every student of Scripture, I have my favorite Tanakh personalities. I actually identify with bits and pieces of lots of different biblical personalities and regularly have “wow, that guy in that story is just like me” moments in the course of which I suddenly see the text before me as a kind of mirror in which I suddenly—and mostly unexpectedly—find myself reflected. That is a feature of all great literature, I suppose: that ability to function both as a gateway into the author’s world and, simultaneously, as a mirror in which the reader (or, in the theater, a member of the audience) is suddenly possessed of the conviction, impossible yet fully real, that the play being watched or the book being read is actually about him or herself. Historically speaking, of course, that conviction is lunacy. Shakespeare lived and died centuries before I was born and there are no secret messages meant just for me in any of his plays. But that is not how it feels when I am seated in the theater and my level of engagement with the dialogue makes it feel preciselyas though King Lear has stepped out of time to speak directly to me. Or, far more disconcertingly, to others about me.

For me personally, the biblical personality I’ve always identified the most meaningfully with has been the prophet Jeremiah. And, yes, I understand fully well that this makes no sense at all. For one thing, his life could not have been less like mine. He had no wife and, as far as anyone knows, no children. He spent a serious portion of his adult life under arrest or in jail. His was the epitome of bravery in the face of impending doom, speaking the oracles of God aloud and in public regardless of the danger that he knew fully well inhered in doing so. He was beaten, mocked, pilloried. He was brave, but he paid a gigantic price for that bravery and was considered a traitor to his king and country by most of his fellow Jerusalemites. He was nothing at all like me.

But he was also just like me. Or rather like the version of myself I would like to think I could yet become. He was fearless. He was righteous without being self-righteous. He was the both articulate and eloquent. And he was secure in his faith, unrattled by the existence of phony prophets who insisted that their good-news messages were the true oracles of God sent to guide the people forward and that Jeremiah’s jeremiads were just the depressive ravings of a seriously depressed person blinded by his own pessimism. Despite it all, though, the man had it in him to stand up in public and speak honestly—and that is the quality I'd like to find reflected in myself, in my own preaching, in my writing. I want to be secure in my faith and unequivocally honest. And I want also to be suffused with hope—which Jeremiah also was, and at the same time (this is the big trick, at least for me) that he was both realistic and honest.

The prophet had been vouchsafed a double-screen vision of the future. There was still time for the people to avert catastrophe by embracing the core values of their faith, but otherwise destruction and devastation were on their way. And this was a make-or-break moment: the destiny of the nation was in its own hands if they had the courage to seize it. But even if the people refused to mend their ways and proved unable to avert catastrophe, there would always be a future for the Jewish people in the Land of Israel. There would be exile. But there would also be return. There would be devastation, but there would also be renewal. There would be a miserable past, but there would also be a future.

And then the opportunity presented itself to put his money where his mouth was. It was the last year the kingdom of Judah would exist. The Babylonians were already at the gates of the city. The king had put Jeremiah in jail for refusing to lie to the people about what the future was about to bring—to them, to their city, to their nation, and to their king. And then, out the blue, a cousin of Jeremiah’s named Haname’el showed up in prison with the news that a parcel of land outside the city in a place called Anatot was Jeremiah’s to purchase if he wished it. Why exactly this offer came to Jeremiah is not made clear; probably he was the closest male relative to the recently deceased owner of the field. But the point was that this was the worst real estate deal imaginable, buying land in a nation at its lowest point, facing implacable foes, its very future uncertain. But Jeremiah had it in him to look past the moment and see a bright future for the land and for its people. He closed his eyes and saw bridegrooms and brides standing beneath their chuppah, children playing in the city streets, young people out together drinking and singing. And so he bought the land, using his fellow prisoners as witnesses to the transaction. (The whole story is in the thirty-second chapter of Jeremiah for those who wish to read it. Shul-goers will recognize part of it as the haftarah  assigned to the Torah portion called Behar.)

So the other morning, Joan and I had a Zoom call with our kablanit, a nice woman whom we have engaged—but without yet signing a contract—to undertake some renovations on our apartment in Jerusalem. When we first conceived the project, it was just fun. We are hoping soon to spend a lot more time in our apartment and there were repairs that needed to be made. There were some cracks in the flooring. There wasn’t enough storage space in either of the bathrooms. There wasn’t the kind of closet in which you could hang coats or winter jackets. The oven wasn’t big enough. There was no shade on the balcony, which problem we wished somehow to address without making it impossible to build a sukkah on the balcony. That kind of stuff. In the world of renovations, small potatoes. But not to us: for us, this was a way for us of staking out our future in a part of the world we love and in which we want to spend maximal, not minimal time as the years pass.

But that was last summer. Then we had the chagim. And now we have Gaza. The stories we’ve read are horrific. The story is nowhere near over. More loss is, I’m afraid, on the books. The IDF has shown remarkable forbearance to date, but who knows what tomorrow might bring? And the stories of the pogrom itself—the violence, the Shoah-style brutality, the almost unimaginable savagery of the attack—all that has made the bathroom storage space issue seem—to say the very least—strange to worry about, almost bizarre to discuss seriously. We were going to sign the contract before Rosh Hashanah, but then the contractor’s father died and she was busy with shiva and dealing with her loss. We obviously stepped back, told her to take her time, promised her we didn’t mind waiting a few weeks to settle things up.

Should we move forward as planned? Are we being ridiculous to worry about the sukkah-on-the-balconyissue at a time like this? We both dithered for a while, unsure how to proceed. But then I caught a glimpse of Jeremiah, my guy for all these years. I noticed him in a few different places, actually. He doesn’t speak—at least not to me personally—but I somehow know who it is. And then I somehow see that poor man in his jail cell pondering his own real estate decision and, somehow in my mind’s ear, I hear him singing his own words to himself: od yishama ba-makom ha-zeh…b’arei Yehudah u-v’chutzot Yerushalayim, kol sason v’kol simchah, kol chatan v’kol kallah. There will yet be heard in this place, in the cities of Judah and in the streets of Jerusalem, sounds of joy and merrymaking, the voices of bridegrooms and brides. And that was enough.

The man bought the property in Anatot. And we signed on with the contractor.

Israel is facing tough times. The enemy is savage and violent. The devastation left in the wake of the massacre will take years to repair, the psychological damage to the national psyche even longer. But I am possessed of the unshakeable faith that the state will endure, that Jewish life will never again be uprooted from the Land. And we will yet—one of these years—enjoy our Sukkot dinner in our own sukkah on our own balcony overlooking Gad Tedeschi Street, and I know that just as surely as I also know that God will yet spread out God’s own sukkah of peace over the land and over its people.

[mikeartblogyear3]

Week 8

I started this week by creating another graphite piece. I wanted to return to having portrait as the focal element and celebrate the aura of a character instead of landscape being the main point. 

But I always leave these drawings unsatisfied. There’s little continuity in them and I don’t get any desire for future pieces. I used to be able to see the images in my head, pieces that I really wanted to make, but now it’s become a place to keep myself together and the love has faded. 

I want to dive into a new space where I can feel that unknown quality, or the unease of not being comfortable in the medium. I’ve tried oil before, and I really enjoy how slow the process can be. There feels like there’s a deep well of magic in it, but I just have never been strong enough to delve into it. So I am going to attempt something and see what eventuates. 

Frustration is definitely something that comes up initially. I am so used to knowing how to control the graphite space so now that I am suddenly in this new area I’m not sure how go about linking my inner structure with it. I never expected to be suddenly comfortable with it - I know that’ll take time. What I need to focus on is the initial weaving of a relationship during this early stage. 

Because I don’t have that comfortability, I don’t have much desire to return to it. Right now I am letting it dry, but I kind of like its foggy landscape. I do want to deepen it, but I’m not sure how I’m going to go about layering that. I also think I perhaps should have started with layering and blending just black and white, but I need to get out of that space of knowing. 

I also want to step away from banging my head against a wall, which is what I feel has been the primary feeling in art lately... stagnant state of rotational art. I don’t want this. Is it possible though to have a loop going simultaneously with an another system that is exploring the outer. Like being both hunter/gatherer and caretaker. I’m not sure if it was Socrates or Aristotle that said “A builder is only a builder when they’re building a house” - Like we can be more than one thing, and be in more than one state. I confine myself to only one state of being, because I think that’s probably the main idea of living - nestled in this space of a family unit - and existing outside of that lifestyle is ‘other’ . It’s just another way, but I don’t know how to operate it, because I fixate on the feeling of being different. 

So I can probably have art as a way to spread these sections of myself out- 

the graphite space: 

The main loop space - 

- where my structural side operate  

-  what I need to feel safe? 

Where I can keep the space above ground. 

The Unknown space: 

- Just experiments, play with anything and try new things.

- I always feel an instant sense of dread when I even think about venturing into this space, so I need to figure out how to balance it out. 

--- don’t spend too long in either side (creates the crash) ??? --- 

Referring back to past ideas in blog posts - I always arrive at exhaustion and the fear of slipping in that state of a more relaxed mind. Is this just another state of my and isn’t a negative reflection of/on the other? 

Research: 

Witch craft: 

Started studying various practices of witch craft, and artists who practice witch craft. I started reading Lolly Willowes by Sylvia Townsend Warner, a story about her leaving her family unit to seek a space for herself in the country. 

These two pages near the end of the book stood out to me... 

- To have a life of one’s own, not an extension doled out to you by others 

It’s a really powerful book, most of regards Lolly being a compliant memeber of her family and an Aunt figure mostly. She tried to distance herself from that dynamic and sought the country to discover herself, but the threads were not so easily loosened and they eventually found their way to her again. 

Voo Dou has similar universal elements as surrealism/ using their craft as a way to liberate the self from slave mentality. Trying to relax and open that space and adopt more intuitive/magical powers. In Mama Lola’s ‘A Vodou Priestess in Brooklyn’ she discusses the course of her craft and the leaving one self and constructing another. 

ARTIST RESEARCH: 

Gala Bent, a minimilist surrealist painter creates these seemingly small spaces on paper that focuses our attention on their strange designs. 

I’ve been struggling to progress in a maximalist direction so perhaps I should keep going to the minimalist journey and get smaller and simpler in concept. 

By narrowing my designs to an even smaller space perhaps that’ll help with understanding a more clear direction for myself.   

[riszellira]

Reflection: For the Poor?

What happened during the first Holy Monday? Our Gospel story tells us of one of the events that happened then: Jesus had dinner with His friends

in Bethany, which was just across Mount of Olives. The occasion underlined the contrast between two disciples—Mary of Bethany and Judas Iscariot. Both of them were “friends” of Jesus and were part of His inner circle. Both had the privilege to sit at His feet. But while Mary of Bethany showed great generosity toward Jesus, Judas Iscariot suggested that it could have been better if the perfume were sold for money that could help the poor.

Many times, Jesus acted with much love and compassion for the poor. But in this situation, He rebuked Judas for his words. First, Jesus could have felt the cynical and evil plan of Judas Iscariot. Connected with this, Judas’s reasoning, for Jesus, was just the disciple’s alibi.

Sadly, the poor have been used. Their cause and interests have been used by government and by politicians aspiring for office. Their cause has also been used by Church theologians with their own slants and tweak in doctrine. Some foundations have even made the poor a pretext for their “existence” and anomalous fundraising. Many of us have also made use of the poor to assuage our troubled consciences and lavish lifestyles.

Every time Lent comes around, we do some “acts of mercy” to offer as Lenten observances, to be followed by some other “acts of mercy” by Christmas time. In between these seasons, we resume our usual wasteful, indifferent, and consumeristic lives. With this, the words of Jesus are prophetic: so the poor are “always with us.” No one has a real dead serious program to make them rise from their sorry state.

~Fr. Domie Guzman, SSP

How do you seriously take the plight of the poor? Are you one of those who feel good in giving them some dole-outs and gifts once or twice a year? What more can you do for them?

I am sorry, Lord, for neglecting my Christian duty to care for the last, the least, and the lost. Amen.

Prayer

… for a deep and profound respect for life, especially for the unborn.

… for the strength and healing of the sick.

… for the healing and peace of all families.

Finally, we pray for one another, for those who have asked our prayers and for those who need our prayers the most.

GOD BLESS!

[theliterateape]

I'm No More Anti-Woke Than I am Anti-Christian

by Don Hall

Much to my mother's chagrin, I'm not a Christian. She is both a devoted follower of Jesus Christ and a Searcher for Truth through that lens. Mom is the kind of Christian you want all of them to be—compassionate rather than empathetic, service oriented rather than parochial, studious rather than blindly accepting.

In my experience, there are three sorts of Christians: the overly enthusiastic but dimwitted, the sort my mom represents, and those who didn't get the memo that the Puritans were assholes.

The first type are easy to spot. They are constantly reminding you how blessed they are and end at least three out of four sentences with a "Praise Jesus" and a like upward. This is some serious performance whether the faith is there or not. I dated a young woman who started in on the nonstop Jesus referencing on the first date so I took her to see Videodrome. We didn't date after that.

The second are like my mother and are the reason people with no faith but in need of something uplifting in their lives wander into churches to see what's up. They are the ones who actually practice what the Prophet preached, witnessing their faith through example rather than words, and generally are the ones showing up to help with the homeless, the hungry, and the otherwise societally deprived.

The third are the Karens of the world regardless of age or skin color. They are the Gladys Kravitz's, the busybodies minding everyone else's business, looking to get those not in lockstep with their agenda punished. This is one punitive crowd. They sell the idea that their belief both makes them superior to everyone else and also in charge of doling out judgment for those who are obviously not with their program.

I am not a Christian but I am not Anti-Christian, either. I used to be a believer, changed my mind, and believe that everyone gets to make his or her own choices when regarding a deity as long as they don't try to force that belief down the throats of everyone else. I'm not a fan of the type of believer who hates homosexuals, transgender people, and thinks women should be subservient but I'm no fan of anyone like this, whether they blame it on their faith or not.

My third ex-wife loves sushi. I do not. Yes, I explained to her more than a few times, I have tried sushi a number of times (always the odd chance of getting some bad sushi so you give a shot in other places, right?) and I can conclude that I do not like sushi. That didn't make me anti-sushi. I took her to sushi places once in awhile and found things to eat—plastic plants, soy sauce, and teriyaki stuff—and never gave her any sort of flack for enjoying something I did not. If she insisted I eat sushi, we'd have had an issue.

This is the same space I occupy when it comes to religion and dogmatics. You do you. I certainly don't know even a fraction of things worth knowing in life so who the fuck am I to tell you differently. I've tried religion and, like sushi, it didn't take. My mom is pretty brilliant in this way. She doesn't press her faith upon me, doesn't shame me for not believing. She exists as a devoted Christian, she prays for me (it certainly can't hurt), and shares with me epiphanies she has from her copious study of her faith. I don't have to believe the way she does because, you know, soy sauce and teriyaki.

I am not Anti-Woke. I am anti-bully. I'm anti-Puritan. I'm anti-censoriousness and anti-race exceptionalism.

I can believe one on hand that all transgender people deserve the exact same rights and autonomy as every other citizen and on the other hand believe that a transgender woman is not a woman but a transgender woman (similar but not at all the same). This does not make me anti-woke or transphobic. It makes me pro-science and civil rights and anti-fantasy.

I can believe that African Americans whose forebears were saddled with slavery have been cheated by the American government and that centuries of bigotry have given them every right to demand (and see substantive) change and still recognize that African American immigrants in the past fifty years are in the top tier of economic wealth so the issue is about culture rather than skin color. I believe culture is a costume and can be exchanged for one that serves the wearer better.

Like Bill Burr, I believe women 87% of the time. The other 13% are psychos, sociopaths, and assholes.

It all really depends on what is meant by woke. When I hear the term used, I hear religious. I see intolerance. I am confronted with those three types of Christians. The first wear t-shirts and make a lot of noise about JK Rowling being transphobic, that white people are default racist, and that compromise is a waste of time. The second type are almost exactly like my mom—compassionate, forgiving, leading by example rather than insistence. The third type are all on Twitter and go out of their way to punish those who might disagree with their worldview by mobbing up and trying to get them fired.

Really, at the end of it, I'm anti-conformist across the board and if conformity of thought and practice is what you seek, leave me out of it, gang.