#I know it ain't much I know it ain't cool

[annasellheim]

So this was on the @writing-prompt-s site- so I'm treating it as a writing prompt. (I can't fucking draw right now due to a busted shoulder, so I'm doing a bunch of them because I'm alone, hurt, and sad, and they're fun).

Anyway, the story:

I sat down next to him. I looked at my former student, now an adult. A brilliant engineer. I remembered him. I had really liked this kid. The man in front of me was impressive as hell too. It didn't surprise me at all.

"I'm really, really sorry this hurt you. That I hurt you. What I was trying to do was show you some techniques. My goal was that, later, after you learned them, you could deviate from them and make your own thing.

We have a set of guidelines of things we need to teach. It's a mandatory curriculum, with national guidelines, just like math or science or whatever. But it varies from state to state. And who the hell knows what they do in private school. And the curriculum isn't focused on self expression as much as teaching you how to use fine motor skills and..."

Shit, stop it Anna. You don't need to keep justifying yourself.

I try to remember when he had moved away during the school year. I wonder if I hadn't gotten to the point in the spring semester where I gave my students more lee way, to experiment and deviate from the techniques I showed them. To let them decorate their dishes any way they wanted. To make trees and flowers for different seasons. I wondered if he had been part of one of my first classes, before I figured out how to create a really solid curriculum.

Regardless, I could have been clearer about it. I was new to teaching when I had him as a student, I know that much. I was overwhelmed, and honestly, barely keeping it together for the first, like, 4 years I taught. And there were 20-30 students in my classes. It took me a a while to figure out what works and what doesn't in the classroom.

The most important thing was this man in front of me. He was way quieter and more hesitant than the kid I remembered. I hope I didn't do that to him, but I'm was probably reading too much into it.

I took a sip of my coffee.

"You know what's cool tho? The shit you've been doing at work-"

He looked surprised and snorted.

"What?"

"You swore."

It was my turn to laugh. "Yeah, to be fair I'm not in classroom mode right now.

Anyway, the stuff you've been doing at work, it all sounds like it takes a ton of creativity to accomplish."

"I never thought of it that way..."

"Well, you've been on the forefront of a bunch of stuff because you think outside the box. I'm glad I didn't rob you of that."

We sat next to each other on the bench. He was thinking it over. I was trying to not dwell on the fact that he brought this up, that he had carried this pain with him for 20 years.

"Do you still make art?"

"No, not since elementary school, since my last-"

"Your last required art class. Got it."

I gave him a side eyed glance.

"You know you can get back into it at any time, right?"

He was taken aback, he obviously had never considered it.

I smiled. I've had this conversation before, many many times.

"It's not like a sport or something. You can start at literally any point in your life, you don't need to be young and in peak physical condition. Art ain't basketball.

The cool thing too is that you can choose what you want to make, you're an adult. Nothing in art is required for you to learn. You can pick any class you want, or no class at all."

I gave him my business card.

"If you shoot me an email, I can give you some books to read for you to get started. Not to teach techniques, but exercises that help get you back to the point where you just make stuff. I think a LOT of people stop making art for all kinds of reasons, not just because of a novice teacher. There's been a bunch of stuff that's come out recently to try to help adults make art again. y'know, to recapture the joy of it."

We said our goodbyes. I really hope he thinks it over and reaches out.

Once a little boy went to school. One morning The teacher said: “Today we are going to make a picture.” “Good!” thought the little boy. He liked to make all kinds; Lions and tigers, Chickens and cows, Trains and boats; And he took out his box of crayons And began to draw.

But the teacher said, “Wait!” “It is not time to begin!” And she waited until everyone looked ready. “Now,” said the teacher, “We are going to make flowers.” “Good!” thought the little boy, He liked to make beautiful ones With his pink and orange and blue crayons. But the teacher said “Wait!” “And I will show you how.” And it was red, with a green stem. “There,” said the teacher, “Now you may begin.”

The little boy looked at his teacher’s flower Then he looked at his own flower. He liked his flower better than the teacher’s But he did not say this. He just turned his paper over, And made a flower like the teacher’s. It was red, with a green stem.

On another day The teacher said: “Today we are going to make something with clay.” “Good!” thought the little boy; He liked clay. He could make all kinds of things with clay: Snakes and snowmen, Elephants and mice, Cars and trucks And he began to pull and pinch His ball of clay.

But the teacher said, “Wait!” “It is not time to begin!” And she waited until everyone looked ready. “Now,” said the teacher, “We are going to make a dish.” “Good!” thought the little boy, He liked to make dishes. And he began to make some That were all shapes and sizes.

But the teacher said “Wait!” “And I will show you how.” And she showed everyone how to make One deep dish. “There,” said the teacher, “Now you may begin.”

The little boy looked at the teacher’s dish; Then he looked at his own. He liked his better than the teacher’s But he did not say this. He just rolled his clay into a big ball again And made a dish like the teacher’s. It was a deep dish.

And pretty soon The little boy learned to wait, And to watch And to make things just like the teacher. And pretty soon He didn’t make things of his own anymore.

Then it happened That the little boy and his family Moved to another house, In another city, And the little boy Had to go to another school.

The teacher said: “Today we are going to make a picture.” “Good!” thought the little boy. And he waited for the teacher To tell what to do. But the teacher didn’t say anything. She just walked around the room.

When she came to the little boy She asked, “Don’t you want to make a picture?” “Yes,” said the little boy. “What are we going to make?” “I don’t know until you make it,” said the teacher. “How shall I make it?” asked the little boy. “Why, anyway you like,” said the teacher. “And any color?” asked the little boy. “Any color,” said the teacher. And he began to make a red flower with a green stem.

~Helen Buckley, The Little Boy

[neptilius]

TRACK 001

MISUNDERSTOOD; lucky daye

synopsis: listen to the song to grasp the concept

cw; angst, fem reader, arguing, i wrote this like…months ago and im just now posting this?!!

The city lights blurred as she stared out the rain-streaked window of the diner. Tracing the rim of the coffee cup with a restless finger, heart heavy. The fight replayed in her mind—his words, her words, the silence that followed, louder than the shouting.

Across from her, Jack slouched in the booth, his jaw tight, eyes fixed on his untouched plate of fries. He looked like he wanted to say something, but every time he opened his mouth, the words tangled in his throat.

“I don’t know how much more of this I can take,” Y/n said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. She wasn’t looking at him, but she could feel the weight of his gaze.

Jack leaned forward, his hands clasped tightly together. “You think I don’t care, but I do. I’m trying, Y/n. I just—” He stopped, exhaling sharply. “I don’t know how to say what you need to hear.”

“Then don’t say anything,” You snapped, finally meeting his eyes. Her anger flared, not because she hated him, but because she loved him too much, and it hurt. “You always leave me to guess how you feel. You shut me out, Jack. Do you know how exhausting that is?”

His hands flexed, like he wanted to reach for her but thought better of it. “And you think I don’t feel that? That I don’t feel like I’m walking on eggshells every time I try to be what you want?”

The words stung. Y/n looked away again, her throat tightening. This wasn’t what she wanted. She didn’t want to fight. She wanted to understand him, to be let in.

But Jack had walls she couldn’t climb.

“I don’t need you to be perfect,” she said, softer this time. “I just need you to let me in. But every time I try, it’s like you’re slipping through my fingers.”

We ain't gotta be awkward together, girl

Maybe we're better misunderstood

I been tryna be clear in my feelings, girl

Maybe we're better misunderstood

I been overthinkin', we ain't really even gotta name this

We'd be so much better misunderstood

He sighed, dragging a hand through his curls. “You think I don’t feel misunderstood, too? You think I don’t hate myself for the way I push you away?”

The vulnerability in his voice caught her off guard, but before she could respond, he was standing, tossing a few bills on the table.

“I need air,” he muttered, heading for the door.

Y/n watched him go, her chest aching. She wanted to run after him, to tell him she understood, that they could figure it out. But she stayed rooted in her seat, afraid that if she followed, he’d just push her further away.

Outside, Jack leaned against the diner’s brick wall, the cool night air biting at his skin. He pulled out his phone, scrolling through half-written messages to her. None of them felt like enough.

The neon sign buzzed above him, casting an unsteady glow. He thought about going back inside, about trying again. But what could he say that he hadn’t already failed to express?

Inside, Y/n watched the raindrops race down the window, each one a reminder of how fleeting connection could be.

They were both hurting, both desperate to be seen and understood. But love, it seemed, was a language they hadn’t yet learned how to speak together.

[wilderflowergirlie]

little remus lupin and come over (by noah kahan) PHYSICALLY hurts me.

[jeeaark]

Will GGold bring Emps a doggy bag from his adventures saving Lae’zel?

Well-

I may have had more inspiration for this question than was needed

Don't ask how Greygold got they acquired clown brains.

Bonus Thought:

I think Greygold should have a momentarily skewed perspective on the power of friendship. As a treat.

[tanpoyo]

being bullied about being a strongly neurodivergent weeb that also liked furries and just anything that was seemingly deemed "weird" has set me back so much.

It almost always boiled down to " you like it cus your a creep/pervert" and not because this shit is just legit cool? Not going into the nuances of why that happened because we already know it's partial ableism+queerphobia and other nasty shit.

I know there's a whole generation of people like me who are my age that have lived my experiences. And I am so happy to see we made it out to be loving themselves like they were meant to again. I am a work in progress but seeing this makes it easier and that I am accepted somewhere.

Anyway who care is they do it for sexy reasons. It ain't for you anyway!

[vaggieslefteye]

CHARLIE MAGNE from HAZBIN HOTEL (2019): Pilot - "That's Entertainment" ↳ "So, I've been thinking: Isn't there a more humane way to hinder overpopulation here in Hell? Perhaps we can create an alternative way to change souls through... redemption?"

[tswwwit]

i have a counter argument to the 'only one person can boop bill' thing, mabel. she's the type of person to slap stickers on people, she would definitely be the type to also boop others occasionally and bill would be no exception. she probably doesn't do it to annoy bill like dipper would, but maybe as a form of a friendly gesture, kind of like those people who will lightly punch friends in the arm when they hang out.

You know what? Good point. Mabel would get away with more than most, as a fun-loving lady! Bill understands those impulses, and being a touchy person! He indulges in similar ones himself.

Though when Bill's not in the mood to be playful and gets booped anyway? The 'sister-in-law' status grants her considerable grace.

[wander-over-the-words]

"Benny is the only one who gets away with treating Ethan like a short person" btw means that if someone else laid their chin on top of Ethan's head or picked him up Ethan would fuckin *FERAL CAT HISS*

but then Benny does it and Ethan just :3

[victimized-martyr]

21, 69, and 73 for the ask game. thank you for your time.

omg so formal. You are most certainly welcome, anon.

21. Who’s the optimist and who’s the pessimist?

Kyle’s deliberately optimistic. He’s naturally inclined to see the worst in people and situations, but because of his strong will and moral values, he fights against it and chooses to find what’s good and nurture it, in the hopes of inspiring better things.

Cartman… hm.. Cartman’s perception of the world is warped, no matter where he is on his own crooked scale of “health”. So… He’s optimistic if things are going his way and he’s getting what he wants. If not, he’s pessimistic. That's not exactly how it works, but that’s how Cartman works.

69. Who’s the most likely to hurt the other’s feelings unintentionally?

Cartman, and it’s mostly from him saying something completely out of pocket (see: bigoted as shit) or hyperbolic.

73. Whose hobbies/interests change every 2-5 business days?

Cartman’s doesn’t change every 2-5 business days, but to Kyle, it seems that way. In reality, Cartman cycles between things he’s already mastered (and if he hasn’t mastered it, he will in 2-5 business days) usually in accordance w/ whatever shit he’s cookin up that week. Kyle walks in one morning to find Cartman felting, of all things, and Cartman tells him he’s been doin it since he was seven. Whether he’s fucking w/ him and makin a wiseass comment doesn’t concern Kyle, it’s what Cartman felting has to do with the body he and Butters dragged in the night before.

[ngtskynebula]

Just saw someone say they reblog AI "art" because they find it beautiful and that's it, and I'm like. ...Okay,

If you say so... 🤨

[thechosenanubis]

Jerome and Eddie would be motorbikes buddies.

[sisterdivinium]

Strolling through the tags, I sometimes come across headcanons that present themselves as analysis. This technically injures no one in the real world, but I think it is an important distinction to keep in mind, if only for clarity’s sake.

Fanlore presents a rather good definition for “headcanon” as “a fan’s personal, idiosyncratic interpretation of canon, such as habits of a character, the backstory of a character, or the nature of relationships between characters. The term comes from the fact that it is the canon that exists in a fan's head.”

I would like to compare this to what is said of “meaning” by Terry Eagleton in his delightful How to Read Literature:

“Meaning is a public affair. There could not be a meaning that only I was in possession of, as there could be a plot of land that only I owned. Meaning is not a matter of private property. I cannot privately decide to make the phrase ‘hermeneutical phenomenology’ mean ‘Meryl Streep’. Meaning belongs to language, and language distils the sense we collectively make of our world. It is not free-floating. … It signifies a compact between human beings in a specific place and time, embodying their shared ways of acting, feeling and perceiving. Even when people conflict over such things, they must agree to some extent on what it is they are arguing over, otherwise we could not call what they were doing conflicting …

It follows from this that a work of literature could not mean something to me alone. I might see in it something that nobody else does, but what I see must in principle be shareable with others for us to call it a meaning … [A quirky, unexplainable connection between words on a page and a reader’s eccentric imagination] could not be part of the meaning of the words. It is simply a random private association. Meaning is not objective in the sense that municipal car parks are, but it is not just subjective either. The same is true of literary works themselves.”

Of course here we’re dealing with more than just literary works, but the logic still applies.

A headcanon is fancy, an amusing way to interact with the source material when it has piqued our interest to such an extent that we cannot help writing our own ideas into it, diving into it, contributing to it. Analysis and interpretation, on the other hand, are concerned with its meaning—what we can take from the text (in that broad sense we’ve come to give the word “text”) as it is offered, as can be proved.

Also analogically useful is what Professor Eagleton says of Moby Dick’s Ishmael:

“If he is not really called Ishmael, the reader might wonder what his real name is. But if we are not given his real name, then he does not have one. It is not as though Melville is concealing it. You cannot conceal something that does not exist. All that exists of Ishmael as a character is a set of black marks on a page. It would not make sense, for example, to claim that he has a scar on his forehead but that the novel fails to mention it. If the novel does not mention it, then it does not exist.”

A headcanon is giving Ishmael—or, say, Beatrice or any of the other surname-less sister warriors a family name. An analysis could propose hypotheses as to why they do not have surnames in canon to begin with (nuns join monasteries and shed their individual identities in favour of a communal body and spirit just as in the military, when the OCS is both a religious and military organisation and its mission is seen as more important than the individual women who accomplish it; self-sacrifice of this magnitude is a requirement rather than a coincidence, as they are all to be groomed as potential halo bearers, to die in battle and be buried and erased in the secrecy of the Order, chewed up and spat out by the institution, etc.)

A headcanon is akin to fanfiction—it often breeds fanfiction (I myself headcanon Mother Superion and Jillian as lesbians when I sit down to write about them; my shipping them is also a headcanon in itself). An analysis gives way to interpretations that may well fly high, but which must always hearken back to the source material in order to assert their validity. They demand evidence where headcanons can simply be stated and taken for what they are.

Both are (fun!) ways of approaching the main fiction, but they are not equivalent or synonymous.

[liutheri]

  leaving a crime scene is harder than one might think , because you never truly leave it. more accurately , it never truly leaves you. he’s seen it all in his time — throats cut , faces smashed , entrails strewn across the sidewalk. bodies mangled so badly , they hardly seem human. after all these years , he’s learned to stomach it more easily.

  but the surviving victims? the families of the deceased? they're not so lucky. the atrocities he witnesses day in and day out are something only a small fraction of the population ever has to see , and those that do are never the same , left to mourn and remember their loved ones with a final memory often being a smear on the wall.

  missing persons cases , however , rarely end with such blatant carnage , assuming they end at all. dark eyes settle briefly on the untouched cup of coffee laid out on the table before her , now room temperature at best with how long they've been questioning one another ; he , with inquiries about her relationship to the victim , and she , with almost accusatory demands as to why she's being involved with the ongoing investigation. he's taking his own cup black tonight in preparation for a long night of paperwork.

  in short? he doesn't trust her. doesn't like her vibe. what john luther lacks in social graces , he more than makes up for in perception , and there's something about her ' mourning friend ' act that rubs him the wrong way , leaves him with an itch deep in his skull that he can't quite scratch.

@talyonis : ' i used to believe in justice. '

  he nods thoughtfully , lips parting as though he's poised to speak , but says nothing for several seconds. ❛❛ s' an easy thing to give up on , innit? ❜❜ an outside perspective might say he's being understanding , almost sympathetic. any other time , he might be. ❛❛ after losin' your best mate 'n all. and when the police work for months and turn up nothin' , well . . . ❜❜ his gaze fixes on her calmly , studying even the most miniscule of movements. ❛❛ i think , sometimes . . . people find their own justice. ❜❜

[medicinemane]

Also I'm just gonna say that being in the head of that person... especially when it's something more like depression, insomnia, social anxiety, stuff like that... I can't even tell you if it's can't or won't with me

I own my own house and I pay for it by basically managing money in the family and by helping get rid of stuff that costs money

Got rid of my mom's multiple huge storage units, about $500. Got rid of my mom's trailer, which was at least $700 in lot rent, but my grandma would tell my mom regularly she was giving like $2000 a month (see, my grandma is very solidly uppermiddle class and... my mom kinda... pissed that all away so... there's always been insulation against being evicted, but... I don't know)

There was my apartment I had because... if you've seen pictures of my mom's trailer you'll get why I couldn't live there, but that was like $1,200 a month by the time I moved out. The I paid off my mom's $10k car loan with last of my money I scrounged, that got rid of $400 a month

...but I don't work and it makes me feel like a bum. I've had a couple jobs volunteering places for periods of time (insomnia is usually what killed that), and... actually often forget I was a licensed pharmacy tech for a while except I realized I hated retail pharmacy during clinicals so I never got paid

I have some ideas about making hypoallergenic soap, or about trying to find a way to make money with my carving or woodburning, but... can I be honest... I hate asking for money for things I make

(Actually have a commission, very large commission, about 4'x2'; and it's been done for a while and the client and I just have both been busy and so I haven't gotten it out, but... point is... I liked doing it, I learned a lot... really want them to have it, I'm gonna get it to them and then tell them to pay what they want... I hate, like really hate asking for money for my work)

So... you say there's a difference between can't and won't... am I can't or won't? Like I'm asking, I can't tell you... I... I assume I'm can't honestly. No physical disabilities in my way

And I'm literally saying that I never plan to work a job or to learn how to drive cause I hate they system and I hate driving... hell... had to let both my parents move in with me cause it was too much to let them roam free blowing through money and... like I said... I get by managing money and cutting back on fluff expenses so it can go to bills and food

I have trouble getting myself to work on stuff, even stuff I really want to get to. My parents live with me, but lets be honest everyone sees that as me living with my parents

So am I can't or won't? Is there a difference cause I can't, or am I just lazy cause I won't?

interaction i have with shocking regularity is when someone’s complaining abt someone they know and theyre like “ughh they’re 21 and dont have a job and refuse to learn to drive” and then they remember who they’re talking to (me. 21 cant work cant drive) and go like

[nachtsoklein]

in like five years when they return to the whole. irene was the birthmother & effectively forced raven to give kurt up so that the timeline progressed in a way that ensured both stayed alive at the cost of kurt growing up not knowing his origins & said origins having their memories erased or heavily altered to the point they could view their own son as an enemy to dispose of for a number of years. thing. you Will catch me in a corner sniffling loudly bout it all.

[peniswizard69]

Yeah I'm in STEM

Somebody once

Told me the world is gonna roll me I ain't the sharpest tool in the shed She was looking kind of dumb with her finger and her thumb In the shape of an "L" on her forehead Well, the years start comin' and they don't stop comin' Fed to the rules and I hit the ground runnin' Didn't make sense not to live for fun Your brain gets smart but your head gets dumb So much to do, so much to see So what's wrong with taking the backstreets? You'll never know if you don't go (W-w-wacko) You'll never shine if you don't glow Hey now, you're an all star Get your game on, go play Hey now, you're a rock star Get the show on, get paid (And all that glitters is gold) Only shootin' stars break the mold It's a cool place, and they say it gets colder You're bundled up now, wait 'til you get older But the meteor men beg to differ Judging by the hole in the satellite picture The ice we skate is gettin' pretty thin The water's gettin' warm so you might as well swim My world's on fire, how 'bout yours? That's the way I like it and I'll never get bored Hey now, you're an all star Get your game on, go play Hey now, you're a rock star Get the show on, get paid (All that glitters is gold) Only shootin' stars break the mold Hey now, you're an all star Get your game on, go play Hey now, you're a rock star Get the show on, get paid (And all that glitters is gold) Only shooting stars… Somebody once asked, "Could I spare some change for gas? I need to get myself away from this place" I said, "Yep, what a concept I could use a little fuel myself and we could all use a little change" Well, the years start comin' and they don't stop comin' Fed to the rules and I hit the ground runnin' Didn't make sense not to live for fun Your brain gets smart but your head gets dumb So much to do, so much to see So what's wrong with taking the backstreets? You'll never know if you don't go (Go!) You'll never shine if you don't glow Hey now, you're an all star Get your game on, go play Hey now, you're a rock star Get the show on, get paid (And all that glitters is gols) Only shootin' stars break the mold (And all that glitters is gold) Only shootin' stars break the mold

Engineering

Math