gisborneholly

[raysofcrosby]

cleaning out my room and downsizing only to find these dinosaurs 🥴

[chris-sales-belly-ring]

I remember the first time I saw a naked woman on TV. I was way too young to be watching softcore porn.

I remember feeling shame, like I knew it wasn't something I should be watching. I was so fascinated by what I saw and I couldn't look away.

I started sneaking to watch more softcore porn after that and I eventually found out about real porn. I would sneak into my dad's stash (they were VHS tapes back then, I didn't even have a computer yet!) and watch those tapes. Again, I was way too young for this stuff.

I started to associate my attraction to women with shame and guilt after that. I felt like a pervert for being sexually attracted to women. It took a lot of maturing and working through things for me to overcome hating my sexuality.

Looking back, I know that there was nothing wrong with me being excited by women's bodies. But I was just exposed to pornography which was actually very damaging.

Getting my first computer made things worse. I could now find hardcore porn on the internet and I was addicted to it before I turned 14.

It completely warped my view of my own sexuality. I started wondering why I only saw women intimate with each other in porn? Where were the lesbians outside of porn?? Where were the depictions of healthy intimate relationships between women?? I started wondering if I was capable of falling in love with a woman or if I just wanted sex.

I was in a bad place for so many years. I had so much shame and internal lesbophobia. I kept wishing and trying to pray away my same-sex attraction. I wanted to be anything but a lesbian.

When I had my first sexual encounter at 14, I knew. I didn't want to accept it, but deep down I knew that I was a lesbian. I knew that my disinterest in sex with boys wasn't because I wasn't capable of being interested in anyone.

She was my best friend and I tried ignoring my feelings for her. I rationalized my attraction to her as something that all girls experienced! I didn't think it meant anything . . .

But when I realized that moving out of state meant that I had to live without her, I was crushed. We spent nearly every waking moment with each other, especially on the weekends and during the summer.

I visited her one last time before I moved. I confessed to having a crush on her and telling her how much I was going to miss her. I don’t remember how we went from saying goodbye to . . . (well, you know).

I never wanted to share myself with a man like that. I never felt the urge physically to be with a man and I always knew I didn't want to be married to a man.

But still, I was holding on to hope that somehow I was wrong. Because I wasn't the kind of girl to be gay. No, being a lesbian was something that only applied to girls with short haircuts who liked buying clothes from the men's section. Lesbians liked playing sports and hanging with guys as friends. Lesbians came from a different background than me.

I was a kid raised in a two-parent middle class home. I grew up going to church religiously, no pun intended. Being gay couldn't be something that someone like me could be. It just couldn't be true. I had to be wrong about my sexuality.

I couldn't ignore my feelings after a while. I had to be honest with myself even if it killed me. Of course, it didn't physically kill me. But it did hurt, a lot, at times. It was hard.

I cried after I realized I was in love with a woman. I was miserable, I hated myself. Because at the point, I knew. There was no more hiding, no more trying to convince myself that I was anything other than a lesbian. It was settled. I had to work out so much shit after that.

And even though I'm out of the closet now (5 years after I stopped hiding from my sexuality), I still feel like that little girl who was ashamed of my sexuality. I still feel scared sometimes. Thinking about sex and dating stresses me out sometimes, still.

I don't even remember what point I wanted to make with this post anymore. Maybe I just needed to vent. I don't know.

[thegirlwholied]

I think it’s interesting as someone who haven’t been following the Star Wars movies as they come out if there has a been significant change in the stories since George Lucas stepped down. For example taking the prequels and sequels and comparing their shortfalls etc (of course there was many more people involved but in general the sense I get is that Lucas was very much the guy in control) but as I haven’t seen them yet I could be totally off as most of what I’m basing this on is secondhand info

so one of the things about Star Wars is it really highlights for me how, just because you love someone’s work, you may not love everything they do. I really like J.J. Abrams and I think Lawrence Kasdan’s a fantastic screenwriter; did not love Force Awakens and think the sequel trilogy’s issues are seeded there. Loved Rion Johnson’s Knives Out; didn’t love Last Jedi. George Lucas is responsible for 2 of my favorite franchises of all time. I so admire his vision. But!

one of the other things about Star Wars is how important editing and criticism is, and my take (and it’s not a unique one) is that I think he needed more of an editor. More collaboration & more criticism.

There’s not one magical thing or person I think could’ve changed/fixed the prequels- and Lucas did apparently talk to other screenwriters who didn’t want to step on his toes (...OR could some tell he had a very set vision & there wasn’t room to bring their own? No idea, but I can imagine quite a bit) 

There is this anecdote from Lawrence Kasdan, sourced here, emphasis mine:

There were many times over the ensuing years when George [asked] me to be involved in all three [prequels]. He said, 'Hey, how would you like to write such-and-such?' I said, 'George, aren’t you supposed to start shooting in two weeks, in Australia?' He said, 'Yeah, but it’s not too late,'" Kasdan recalled.

...yeah I think a rewrite, or multiple rewrites, was needed, and no one else was in a position to insist. It’s extra interesting in the context of Rogue One & Solo, both bringing someone in ~ to different degrees of takeover ~ for final changes. 

I don’t dive too deep into the behind-the-scenes stuff but it’s clear Maria Lucas’ editing and the actors’ own improvisations and tweaks, also Carrie Fisher’s fledgling script doctoring career, played a shaping role in the original trilogy. AND Lucas only wrote/directed the first one, whereas the prequels were all his in a different way. I get why he’s defensive of them, and I get the impulse to want to continue editing his work, but I also think he’s not capable of being objective about it... because if Lucas could be objective about Star Wars, we’d have an accessible, restored version of the Star Wars movies as originally released and not just the Special Editions. (I’m very thankful my parents bought the VHS way back in 1995, aka the last release of the OG movies, as that’s pretty much the only version I’ve ever watched and I always forget the changes exist until stopping on one of the OT movies on TV. Let’s say I do not find the changes artful.) There has to be a time when you stop making tweaks & let the world have the thing you made... and, the world already loved the thing Lucas made!

I’m always intrigued by the what-might-have-been cuts of movies but I don’t think there’s a guarantee they’d be better... i.e., all the hype over the Snyder Cut, though I’m certainly intrigued to see a tonally-consistent version of Justice League. Would I have liked Lord & Miller’s Solo better? Would I have liked Treverrow’s  Rise of Skywalker better? Would I have liked a George Lucas helmed sequel trilogy? Eh. I’ll never know, anymore than I’ll know if I would have loved the Roswell TV show even more if Heath Ledger had gotten a lead role (yes, Roswell almost cast Heath Ledger, and yes, that is my #1 ‘if I could get DVDs from an alternate universe’ wishlist item, and yes, I am apparently such a movie/TV geek that the different filmmaking is one of my first AU thoughts). 

There’s that weird balance between “oversight in making sure a movie aligns with a franchise” and “artistic freedom”, and my instinct is always to side with artistic freedom, but also... when it’s part of a continuing story? I’m not suggesting studio meddling here but simply a writing team. It was a trilogy. Why were they playing pass-the-baton with the story, why didn’t a writers’ team get involved in storyboarding all three from the beginning?? The extent to which Last Jedi shut down elements from Force Awakens, and then Rise of Skywalker did the same to elements of Last Jedi, is... actually comical. And baffling. I feel they were trying to recreate the way the original trilogy was made and that’s... trying to recapture lightning. Lightning’s fickle. Maybe it will strike twice, but even if it does, don’t expect it to strike the same exact way, and trying to imitate it exactly to entice it becomes only a recreation, a lesser-replay of the original strike. 

I feel like I kind of...get why the prequels are the way they are, what Lucas was trying for & the elements that just don’t click for me, whereas with the sequels I don’t get how it was screwed up. And it was, for me:  I’ll forever be a little sad about the state of the Star Wars galaxy’s actual future vs. where Return of the Jedi left us.  

Just my take! I think there’s lessons to be learned from Star Wars Past, both good and bad; I’m enjoying the Mandalorian in Star Wars Present; and I have, always, hope for Star Wars Yet to Come. It is, anyway, all Star Wars.

[snowydaydrabbles-blog]

Can I get slashers helping out their s/o who is just too stressed by work/people to cope with the outside world?

Of course! Thanks for the request! Hope it turned out well. I haven’t done much writing since Slashersass. 

Michael

When you hit your worst days he finds you, somehow. Silent in his approach, his presence foreboding.

Michael never speaks. Never moves first. He observes, until you're ready to approach him yourself.

But you're never scared to- not really. You've seen this man so many times, and you know what he's capable of. Brutal, thoughtless slaughter; hunting down his targets with accuracy and terrifying stamina. He was still every bit the monster that acted out his wrath in Haddonfield. You never forget this.

You can accept that your relationship is strange and dangerous, but when he lets you in and holds you it matters less and less.

Life was hard, and miserable; and making a comfortable fortress out of the towering, masked man's laps and embrace made the world look a little kinder. So you stay, and so does he.

"How do you always know?" You ask, pointlessly, to the masked man stationed in the darker corners of your bedroom. "Whenever I have... just, a bad time- you always know. You always show up." Michael only peered on from the safe veil of night. You remained in bed, eyes heavy and voice strained. "Why?"

The questions that hung in your mind were countless. You'd never find your answers- and research does nothing to shed light on the Michael you've come to know in private.

So you resign, as always, to instead hang your head and scoot out from under the covers. Patting the edge of the bed, you beckon him to finally approach- and when he does, you move in. Michael Myers sits, stiff, in the comfort of your bed; you crawl into the strange comfort of your watcher and curl around his middle, with your nose nestled into his stomach and his hand guided to rest atop your head.

Michael never fights you. He obeys. You purge your stresses and worries unto his listening ears, and he listens- you know he does. The shitty, unbearable customers from work, or the rude and hurtful people that take over your days disappear. You see the news- the reports that showcase the gore and cruelty your midnight companion is capable of.

You don't think that Michael is capable of love- not real love. You're certain, however, that this unique affection that your Boogeyman has shown is reserved only for you.

Jason

His ragtag shack has always been it's own kind of comfort. Surrounded in nature, on the outskirts of Camp Crystal Lake; Jason guarded the old docks and waters that became his grave. He embraces your company those rare times you make the trip- you don't yet understand what made you worthy of his complacence and company, but you drink it in whenever you can.

Today wasn't special. It wasn't a happy, bright day where you'd arrive with snacks and books and spend the sunlight hours just taking in the day with the quiet company of the undead camp guardian.

Today was stress. It was anxiety, anger, sadness, and frustration- you didn't want to brave the storm alone. You made the drive, and found your way into his dilapidated home- he wasn't there, not yet anyway.

So you took a seat on the filthy floor and waited. You watched the sun fade away between the gaps and cracks in the walls, until finally he showed his face. Jason knew you'd came.

This man was an anomaly- some kind of supernatural manifestation of vengeance. When people welcomed themselves into his campgrounds the wrath rolled off of him in waves- you'd seen it once, and the ungodly violence that he created fascinated you. Never had it been directed at you.

Some would say you were sick to keep visiting him, if only they knew. This was your little secret. A friend.

He left his fury at the door and welcomed you in his own way. Dropping his weapon, he towered at your feet and regarded you with companionable silence until you found the strength to speak.

"I don't know what I'm doing here anymore," your eyes were downcast, and the typical smile that coloured your voice was absent. You sounded hollow, in a way that Jason surely understood. He remained silent, reacting only with the tilt of his head.

"You're always here though, and..." you managed a bitter laugh as you moved to stand, grappling onto his torn and weathered clothing to haul yourself up. "You let me hide here, with you." And it was comfortable, despite the lack of any modern luxuries or furniture. "You're... just, always here."

The physical comfort was out of bounds, but he always let you talk. It would be a strange scene to anyone that didn't know him, or the camaraderie the two of you have built; a towering wall of masked, greying muscle and you, half his size and pouring your heart into the air between you. You spoke about your job, your schooling, about the people around you and what they did to ruin your day. Those little things ate away at you, and burst forth in your rants that brimmed with the frustration of the week.

His silence was comfort, and his presence became your strange little home away from home. Jason listened, and while he couldn't speak you could see what investment he could manage in your woes. A shift in his posture, the tilt of his head, a hitch to his breath, and a blood-curdling growl.

You always left him with a hopeful smile.

Leatherface

Bubba Sawyer was a working man in his own right.

He protected his family, fought off prying eyes, and fed the ones that depended on him. Stress was nothing new to him- it was a way of life, a mechanism for survival. He understood pressure, and how easily it could break you.

It was duty, as far as he could understand it. A duty that he shouldered without complaint. He was built to handle it, even at his worst.

But you weren't. It was easy to drown in it; to dwell on what created it and let it overwhelm you. Bubba's seen the tears and the agony, and for a man who had no mind to speak, he managed his comfort you better than anyone who had the heart to try.

When the butcher found you, cradling your head and fighting off the tears welling in your eyes, he knew. You'd met your limit, and something had to give before he could see you smile again. So he moved in, working with clumsy, too-big hands to gather you in his arms and find somewhere safe to hide from the burning Texas heat. It's like you were weightless- a protected treasure, as long as you were cradled so gently to his chest. You listened to the wet rumble of each breath, and the lazy rhythm of his heartbeat. It helped, somewhat, to calm the storm that gathered in your head.

It didn't take him long to find privacy, hidden away by the long-dead grass of the homestead, settled under the shade of a resilient old tree.

Bubba didn't urge you on. He just waited, with a unique patience, for you to break.

"I just want it all to stop," you eventually croaked, curling your fingers into his weathered old apron. "I can't seem to do anything right anymore."

Your friends, your family- it felt like you were failing them. Missing this deadline, or forgetting a special date; you could see it in their faces. Hear it in their half-hearted assurances that it was all fine- really, they promise.

"I'm trying so hard, Bubba," tears began to gather again, stinging your nose and pinching your voice. The Sawyer nodded quietly, taking in the sight of you with his kind brown eyes. "But it's just too much. I need a break, too, right?"

He hugged you close and managed a garbled hum of understanding. Your words somehow always reached him.

But words weren't something he could give in turn; touch was his major communication- and was something he was happy to share. A hug, or a meek nuzzle of the cheek. He'd bury the remnants of his nose into the crown of your head and just mumble his happiness.

Today he only sat with you, with his face buried in your hair and his hands wrapped gingerly around your much tinier wrists. He hummed old tunes, and squealed out warbled attempts at old-timey songs. It wasn't much, really, but it was enough to bring life to your little laughs and help you forget your problems for now. He let you cry, and shout, and whimper, and vent- because sometimes all you needed was to purge.

He waited faithfully until you could wipe your eyes and pull your wrists free; he let you turn into him and pull yourself up for a long, thankful embrace. Bubba relished in the comfort of your arms, and the smell of your hair. He drank in the sight of your weary smile, and the sound of your worn-down voice.

"I just... want to stay here, but only for a while." You whispered. "I think- I want you to just hold me... just for a little bit, okay?"

Leatherface offered his own wide, crooked smile. He wouldn't turn you away. Not as long as you held him like you always do, and give him your fine company.

Ghostface (Billy Loomis)

Billy never mentions the elephant in the room. It's not his job to bring it up.

All he does is take you in, gladly, when daily life becomes too much. Whether it's work, high-maintenance friendships, or just one of those stupid little things that eventually gets to everyone- Billy gets it. And while he can't fix whatever hangs heavy in your mind, he can still play the distraction.

"Wanna watch a movie?" He'd ask, with a long, lazy smile. "Got Halloween, damn near every movie, too."

When all you do is offer a shrug, looking so drained and desperate to just disappear for a while- it breaks his heart. Really.

"I like your style." Billy joked idly, as he set up the night's entertainment. "Sets the mood just right for the marathon."

"Marathon?" you murmur, already looking exasperated.

"Fuck yeah," he chuckled, as his modest little TV flickered to life with the first scenes of John Carpenter's Halloween. "You know there's another one coming out, right?" Making himself cozy beside you, he gestures wildly to a haphazard pile of VHS tapes- almost as if he'd prepared for this some time ago. "I mean, we got time, sure, but that just means we got room for some reruns." Curling an arm around your shoulders, he urged you to nestle close into his side as the opening credits rolled.

"Does it have to be Halloween?" You ask belatedly, slowly resigning to press a cheek into his shoulder and just enjoy his warmth. You could feel another laugh rumble in his chest, and his grip tighten on your arm.  "Saw it pop on TV a couple days ago. Got me thinking of you." Billy was already peering down at you when you dragged your gaze up to fix him with the attitude of your rolling eyes. "What if I'm not the Michael Myers type?"

Billy almost looked offended, with a squint and a mock, accusing frown. "First of all," he started, ignoring the sudden snicker that almost lit your tired features, "Everyone likes Halloween. And secondly," he grappled onto you with his free hand, shaking your still-laughing frame with a look of dramatic pain washing over his face, "We don't accept just any shitty old slashers in this household."

You struggled to regain your composure, not realizing the whispers of a smile that lingered on your lips as you wriggled your shoulders free of his hands. "No? What if I told you that Friday the 13th is my all time favourite?"

Loomis shook his head, but didn't resist when you drooped into his chest and locked your arms around him. "You'd be banned. For life, probably." You didn't get to see the stupid happiness painting his face when he stated with absolute finality, "You're free to like that campy shit- just not here, obviously. This is a strict, Michael Myers household."

Billy never needed to mention the issues that brought you to him. He's never been good at helping people when they're down. So he distracts. With stupid jokes, and corny old movies. It's a hit or miss, whether or not it works. Today, he was happy to preach the glory of Michael Myers and give you a reason to forget your problems- at least until you left again.