#I wish I could still tell you

[soyochii]

Quick doodles before I evaporate.

[colorguardsweetheartblurrsgirl]

I'll always Rememeber...

Dont Regret Your Final Chance:

(Live Not to Regret Hello & Goodbye)

~BB 3/2023~

A Poem Dedicated to Auntie J passed away March 4, 2023 Edmonton, Ontario, Canada.

I know you've heard it once,

Maybe a thousand times before.

If not from me than others lips.

And if from me I'll reiterate once more,

A thousand times on every breath,

Till you get why its baid of Great Importance,

To have many poems spoken and read.

For these are words I live by,

And Find with Thanks and Sadness .

Time and Again,

On every second

Upon each day

And every maddening minute.

Even the all to garish grueling mileseconds...

Someone with lose just met or since long passed

Screams upon the heavens now,

Filling the sky with Their regrets and howls...

That sought, unable to be relinquished....

At least by the ones they wish to speak it.

Here, I meet with painful regencies,

I either find what are words said last

Even I desire.

Could be said a final air to their last breaths.

"All I wants," and "Wish I coulds"...

And those that aren't enough.

That's when I crave most,

To go back in time for just one minute

To say the words I wished had come!

I want to say, for a final time.

Words I said and never said upon my very lips.

A final time,

That's all I ask.

Knowing this hope is a waist.

Who am I, and my desire?

To those thousands who came to beg,

For a final time each and every day!

Never ending pleas to speak,

A habit....

A need...

Since Cain's Envy wrang Furry, bearing down precious Abel till deads willed command;

And Joseph's Colors fed the Jealousy of his Brothers pias victories!

Even long after time has come to pass,

It's just a hope we mortal bare.

We all but kreen in sore agony.

These Silly and Fickle things.

This too shall pass.

It is again a harbored plee.

A hope that's pains from burdened remains,

Lasting ready to damn.

Breaking and torturous,

Ordering us upon our knees,

We weep, oh sorrowed bleed.

It's for you!

Them!

Someone that once was out there!

To tell "you" with purpose one last time,

"A FINAL TIME!"

The single moment we all but pleed.

No matter where we had left.

Where is our bookmark, to pullout & hold?

Our highlights & Notes?

Our Mark's to Author; dare change this?

It's too cruel.

Leave it happy.

Bittersweet.

Give them a conclussion.

A victorious satisfying resound...

Where's our resoluting closure?

If you were a villain,

Or a hero,

To my life;

In my life or others,

I only Wish...

For those that bitter memories remained

To have spoken and told you...

Your worth in truth, yes bad, But good.

And made fitting the good.

So you knew not all, we care and hold....

Not all is bad.

Regaurdless I still am full of One Emotion...

A branch of a tree.

A grain of sand.

A seed to sow.

A spool to spin.

Yarn to thread.

A blanket to wrap.

A dress to wear.

A shirt to love.

Yes that's all alone.

A single tidbit.

Remaking remarks since you left.

A lone strong morsel.

One single seed.

Just one...

Alone.

Itself.

No one else.

Nothing less.

No more.

It carries such weight.

What is alone, and holds a valley and ocean,

Still bares mountains and valleys alone, in your place?

What's One...

One...

A tree...

Its harvest...

Its roots...

A seed.

One single seed alone, that's to large for man.

That is Love, that grows and fosters gardens, forests, valleys and oceans.

Far more enduring then any plants from before.

The love, a seed, I hold for you ever since the last.

The Love I spoke the last we saw.

The love You may believe.

The love you may jest and deny.

Or fail to think to be Genuine of heart.

Or true and fare.

But love the same I bare for you.

That forever I declare the quell will last.

Even if you no longer care.

What is this love?

Does it give hate?

Hold disdaine?

Does it mock?

Or look down upon?

Bemused, it thought better of you.

No!

For love is strong!

Mightier then all!

Stronger then storms!

But it bares not wrongs!

The love is words,

Not the ones you think,

Or may have put on my lips.

I dare not ever cast to tickle an inkling.

And claim shame if I did.

I wouldn't think to say, if it matters all the same.

For you deserved my respect and love.

I will never speak I'll of that.

No matter what time should pass.

What are these words if not pias and ill?

What is this love wracked with guilt and loss?

Not hate, nor vile, only longing that linguires,.

I wish to speak, every one, but no ear-

No yours aren't hear to listen.

You know, they were spoken before

The last we Saw, with the same love and care.

No matter the pain or suffering,

You did to me,

And Others I fear,

I dare not claim deniability!

These words of love, I praise to those,

The memories oh dearest as ones young,

Spoken only to a few...

Owned-

No casted on the windful spirits,

Lyrics heartsoaking felts of the voice.

Owned by many and few, in whispers and howls...

Granted in blessings and laughs...

In tears and praise!

We all own it, so I'll remind you their meaning.

A devotion to you....

To loved ones;

Strangers

And those who still dont Quiet Understand.

As years go by I will regale both the Good deeds and Bad.

The Ugly and Blessed.

The Beauty & all Ill Tread.

Retell the tales with adventure, horror, tragedy & fear.

Great champions pain, hardship, and tears...

Even I who look to others well,

Not harboring curses or urge of dances on graves;

It's not for me to call the wrath of dead slumbering in their caves.

Remember I am human... and young.

Still learning no matter how old I become.

I say with regret, not all retellings will be...

Well... the best.

Some I fear...

Could hold a hint of my raised nosed heartaches that maim and rear.

Hear me out, It's all in goodwill, no jest!

I promsie I mean it well and fare.

See I'll end it...

My retellings and tales, all in tears and a laughter.

Despite what you think, I never held the crossbow, arrows or a crossed ire your way!

I could never hate you!

Far from it you see.

You may have disapointed,

But like a Shepherd & Son,

I held my arms out, n' always forgave my dear one!

It's not for me to Shepherd a Heroines tale!

For what are we in life?

If ones a hero, they must be the others villain!

But for me, I see it both ways and neither the same.

We are all people, babies stumbling over each toe.

Wobbling feet stepping one,

Then the other,

And tumbling cartwheels ahead.

Getting up,

And Starting all over again.

No one holds immaculate perfection.

Your only human, as am I the same.

Were making cartwheels and learning,

How one foot can carry the other.

I don't want the future to hate you.

Despisals not even a thought!

Those who were yet to know you, Can't cast the stone.

For even if the bad is said;

I will steal the stones from their hands;

And spit to my feet what comes from that of my own lips.

For those stones I hold turned to ashes & sand,

Each time others put them in my hands!

I do not bare what they witnessed & seed.

Or cast stone epithets to law as they retain the anger they own.

I understand both sides and it burdens so.

I can see the pain!

The jealousy!

The angor!

The fear!

I understand the loneliness you must have held,

With no mere comforters of callers coming near,

No one who could listen or hear.

If only empaths & opaque powers were real,

They'd see the one cowarding, crying out;

In oh so much heartache & misery.

Suffering pain.

Oh child of forgotten hearts,

Were you:

Afraid,

Alone,

Crying inside?

I pray you knew in your last days you are loved.

And have always been.

For we cared.

We care....

I care...

I loved you A LOT!

I knew you never meant to bring this hurt.

Or sow the pain that strangled,

Planted and festered stern weeds they brought.

It was imploding for your pain was so...

Great!

Even oceans can't see how vast!

It was only by destroying or hurting,

That you knew to motivate and carry on.

It's why I'll end on a pleasant note

Even when I retell the bad.

I'll leave it with this made clear as a newly creamed diamond before its cared.

I do not hate,

Despise,

Cry Vengence or retrubution;

For I DO NOT Hold it against you.

These are not my stones nor there's.

This is not 'The Futures', claims as heir,

To the Rotten spoils-the sinful riches of their forefathers 'The Past's'!

I devoured the good.

I saw the hurt.

I could sense the pain.

I knew your want for the love you craved.

Regaurdless to those-Our final memories

Even if they may leave a sour noted taste...

Dont worry I carry dear,

Something all too closely preciously deer.

A promise for me,

I made oh so little.

That you should listen and keep close.

I made a vow as a girl.

A girl whose eyes bore witness of what comes to pass.

A keepsake I learned as one to see death,

And great this friend well, when ones to young to fear the fella.

I stand a stranger, a friend, to a friend like a sister.

Watching a little girl oh so young,

Get sick,

Then Heal,

And in winter wake once to say "Farwell!"

But Summer greet her precious "Hello" to that good night.

Leaving us with the rain, the monsoons of Fall.

That winter came the shivering grey to cold.

We forgot we'd missed a Spring & June.

A lessened learned, by a keepsake she gave.

"Give me when next we play!"

I now only greet her in my dreams.

She taught me well, a lesson I know by heart!

A novel, My first twelve years knew not to quell.

I know thanks to her;

Greetings know a great many tragedies,

Just how easily the tips of fingers slip in the grasp

And a simple regailed farewell could be the last.

How a thought to tell them tomorrow,

Is not a gaurentee,

And one can vanish by summers eve.

I've seen it all disappear when the dawn comes night,

And Dusk turns day.

You see, again,

There are no gaurentees,

In the words we speak to our fellow man.

We have no right to command the heavens.

Daring our demand for one instance from their last breath.

Things I learned as a young girl I take with me.

I teach others each and every day.

I cast in my heart as a teen,

Young women,

And now grown Adult-

Whose still a little girl,

Curiously walking within a vast great world.

No matter where we go.

Like a wise one once said,

"Never end the night in angor or fights.

"DO NOT GO TO BED ANGRY!"

Or with Angor, Pias, and Hate in your eyes.

If morning comes the heart with sorrow weeps!"

One cannot start a Good new day with furry to their core.

You do not ask a song bird to fly and sing,

If they should have a broken wing.

To that I say think not ill of the dead.

They've suffered and it's long past-

Or dare marry the buried with viles of malice, anger, and curses ridding under your breath.

Do not let them slip while alive,

And leave with anger in your eyes!

Treat every greeting like the first,

Even if it's to your harkened enemy.

And no matter how it goes,

Treat your goodbye like their last,

As if you are saying "Hello," when they meant the most.

For no matter the time,

Days, weeks , months or years

This truth never changes or passes the rear.

Till once again you face them again,

You cant forget, "again's" may never dawn for You

Or

Them!

So I speak as a thousand

A million,

And trillions before!

Speak with love,

And nothing more.

I speak with full heart,

As one whose Loved and Lost before.

As a child who bore sadness,

Who cradled A boy, while a child under ten

When her mother pulled him from a wreck

Her medical training skyrocketed by tens.

A boy you know,

In a way we all have.

Innocent and frail.

With whispers of fame to follow.

A potential young lad,

At his charming years, a heartthrob and cad.

Fighting to near death

His head cracked open and eskew,

Seeing things no human or six year old,

Ever should face or do.

Me and a best friend holding a kid...

A few years on us, dying, in our laps.

Having to tell someone, and calm those older

Realizing an argument was their last moments!

Yells, and screams... of sibling type things.

Then they crashed...!

And it all rained down fast!

A girl who heard his brothers girl cry,

His elder, the driver, whailing for more time,

Time he may no longer have to speak...

To his baby brother.

"I'M SORRY!!!"

"I MEAN IT!!!"

"I FORGET YOUR JUST A KID!"

"PLEASE MAKE FUN OF ME AGAIN!"

Two kids witnessing, forsaken in distress.

Harken in, you never know if it's the last.

Insanity at a wreck, inconsolable in fret.

I witnessed teenagers, giving lessons...

As a young kid, feeling brain juice leaking in the lap.

Forgive me a moment, while I talk of one other

I speak with intent, to another well owed....

For he gave me the time, his final breath sewed...

He lived...

He is...

Remembered both near, there, in that small town..

A highway marker off I-5 late July or june

Forever red stained, the honors of...

A hero reclaimed!

Whose last breath he owned!

I speak as a girl named for her grandfather

A namesake; if only its meant for a woman.

Who with his last breath

Aware he would die

Similarly crashed his car

And insured no more bore injured, death or cried.

His wife would survive

So my Nana would be there

To see their Youngest Have a child come winter!

For this, For Him, For the child not much older...

I owe them to pass on this lesson.

A lesson they taught before I took breath,

A lesson learned when my school years were near.

A lesson they and others since.

Ensured I knew well and never...

FORGET!!!

Imagine my words,

Think upon the image,

What lesson could a girl learn,

Especially of two tragic accidents?

A child myself, holding onto another.

Listening all around to:

Wails & Moans,

Screams...

Holy pleads, 'O god please saves...'

And a boys struggle, battle, breaths fighting final or for another!

What could be learned in chaos?

Hearing screams of begging to speak?

What lesson in others screaming for something

For the chance to say "They Loved him,"

Again?

And I, my lesson before I held a breath...

What lesson does my grandfather teach,

When I regale this plead to my fellow man.

I born on the sacrifice of a Grandfather...

A man....

A father to his wife and daughters...

What lessons he teach?

They teach?

A youg girl teach....

Me?!

Before I...

Should understand?

Before I...

Came to know by my first breaths,

Before I...

Held words upon my lips.

Before I...

Crossed the threshold of school?

Being the lifeline,

The one Born on Tradgedy

To see a fellow friend cross into death...

It's thanks to them, I'm covered in shroud by their lessons.

I hope you take, as I'm screaming it loud and clear.

You'll never know just when you'll again say

"I love you" With sincerity,

Or will it, should it come to pass.

Before again it is to late to speak.

You are lost at the remains of a "Goodbye,"

You cant take back.

When a warm "Hello!",

Is what you wished remained the last.

I part these words,

My grandfather gave his wife,

Both actions and words atoned in verse:

"I love you my dear!"

And with that I end, my solemn request.

But bare me a moment,

To say a final passage of thought.

I'll explain once more,

I can not advocate enough the meaning

The emphasis

And desire of these words.

"Do not go to bed with anger on your heart!

Do not let your goodbye hold Malice & Rage!"

The Gaurentee you have,

Is THIS moment and JUST THIS!

When you part each other, remember...

There is never a gaurentee.

Tell them you love them!

You May not agree.

You may hold distaste.

But fill your heart with the good.

Let go of the emotions holding you down.

Smile and wave.

Give a hug;

Strong handshake.

Pat on the back!

High five,

And nod with joy.

Tell them I love you! No matter what!"

"No matter, this, don't forget "I love you Man!"

This I swear...

Make sure they know it.

And end with this.

Imagine for once should you never get the chance

What would be your wish?

For this is how I live my life,

It's the reason I encourage others....

End with love; greeting a new day!

Fill it with hope, show them you're there.

Tell those you care for,

Those who mean something & anything.

Who left you something good,

No matter how small.

What they mean, should they part.

Tell them now, whether burdened by rage & hate.

Take a moment to freeze, calm;

Leave them with a heartfelt

"Regaurdless, I love you-

No matter where we're at!

Dont forget that I mean it!"

DON'T SWEAR!!!

Or act a cat.

Remember, You never know when...

It is the final chance!

"I LOVE YOU I SWEAR!

I'll never forget Both the Good & the Bad!"

In remembrance of Auntie J.... RIP and God Bless, I pray God gave you peace, wrappped you in loveing embrace and you find pure happiness....she Passed away on Thursday March 4, 2023

I'll always Rememeber... thank You Aunt J for the love you shared and teh artistic works you did make that I'll always treasure. I wish I I have told you so you could hear I meant it despite everything thst "I love you, and always will and till we see each other again I hope you have just amazing fun adventures!" These words I always meant and I dont know she always believed them. But it's TRUE. And I'll forever miss her and regret how many years passed since she last let me tell herr them.... (Bare with me update as to the bad news noted above and my recent absences on the site)...

So Hey guys, sorry... Been away... got a bad fever a week ago, just after recieving news of a sudden unexpected Family Death. I wanted to post this that day, saying it may be a bit before I could post. But between getting sick days before my 104 year old grandma came to stay with us. I kinda got wrapped up in stuff and stayed away from socials for a while....

So instead of the poem I intended.. I will tell you a bit about my Aunt J since I dont knwo when I'll be able to talk with her or express these feeljngs. (who I think about anytime I go to a famed chain US fabric store, because it literally is her name...)😉🤣😂 My Aunt J (technically cousin, but called her aunt cause older then my mom & aunt) sadly passed away on Thursday March 3... And no joke two days before mom and I spoke of her out of no where and the day before she passed my dad literally washed a blanket her mother knitted for their wedding and was going to call in a week or two and say he was watching her Hockey Team play the Seattle Kracken while sitting wrapped up on/in it. (They both are mega sports enthusiasts).... none of us knew she was sick or had even a hint of this so it came to a surprise to all of us how randomly we brought her up and in the same week we found out she had been sick and died. So when the news came on Thursday after all this I was in a state of shock and sadness...

Although family relations with her have been iffy...😬😬😬 Uh... that's a understatement (😒😒😒😔😔 to say the least, no joke!), I always looked to her optimistically purely with love, I saw a hurt lonely person who just didnt know how to express or ask for support or love.😊😁

My fondest memory would be going to Edmonton, Canada (where she lived) at her house full like a shop of the largest collect of Antique Porcelain dolls I swear I've ever seen, and also ceramic dolls.

Apparently I loved it as a kid.🤣😂😅😅😅😅 Bbbuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuutttt...

😅😅😅

As a teen,😬😬😬 it was cool... ish... till.... well...😅😅😅 That visit she had me spend the several nights in the room that was her mothers where her mom passed away!!! 😬😬😬 and with all the dolls and not to fond of horror movies any sound I head and the fact that I saw a few large spiders one of those nights on the ceiling had me SCREAMING.!!! 😅😅😅

She, unsurprisingly, never had us over after that, I was a 15 year old... and not so surprising it took me a few years to ever trust being in a family members house and having my own room on vacations after that...😅😅😅

I dont blame her. It was nothing against her just I saw one too many horror movies that scared me then.... I really always felt super apologetic for that. And having my folks in the basement which was larger space and room is also what set me off then... cause only help I had would be walking the giant steep old house flight of steps like walking into a dungeon to tell my folks like a child I was scared to had a gaint spider or two hav ik ng fights above my head on the ceiling... also didnt help hav in ng the "I cant tell anyone I'm scared, I'm no baby....but that thing scares me!" teen phase also going st that time.😒🤣😂

What can Iij say...?🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️💁‍♀️💁‍♀️😂🤣😅

Homegirl, doesn't like spiders at least back then, I've grown more accustomed to them despite my somewhat extreme allergies to many bite.

I intended to write a poem with this. Still may, but recently been hard at work (staying up dawn to dusk when my grandma Mimi decides she wants to get up and watch tv... love her, shes funny and only laughs when I tell her its night [psst... unlike others in teh family she knows I let her get away with it, cause I dont want to overstep as youngest of 1st gen of grandkids... oh and shes very lively still]😉😍🤩 I love her shes hilarious. Even when I worry for her she makes everyone smile.😍😁😁...

I'm hard at work, got things cleared up and alot of house projects almost done so I've been working hard on the comic and story lately. Should she. A updated post soon. Also Kinda got sick several times in February which is the reason I've been so MIA lately. Ontop of getting sick right after thsi news and just before my 104 year old grandma came. Shoulda seen me zoom in ng around trying to disinfect everyo ik ng in the day before she came.😅😅😅 SUper Blurr.😅😂🤣

Been trying to get better to pump stuff out. Got alot of upcoming work, so stay tuned and thanks again for your patience. Bellow is the only blanet I knew the current location of. It was my baby blanket, and despite families look to her as a villainess antagonistic lady I appreciate her good qualities and only wanted to support that side and hope she would improve and better. I only ever wished the best for her cause I loved her despite how she acted. And always appreciated these things she made out of love. As their reminders to teh good I saw jn her. This is the baby blanet she made me. Sadly wish you could ahve seen it when it was nicer and pristine last ten years the nice satine really detiated but it wasnt a color I really saw anywhere else it was really pretty. If I ever find a photo that shows heo it usee to look with the satin I will. I tried to show the double side this blanet had to just to appreciate her craftmanship when she could make such. Enjoy

[Uh if you read all this, funny while correcting I ddi write a poem.... just to lazy to take out say ik ng I didnt... its not what U intended would ahve been more based on the quilts and blankets if I wrote the kne I originally thought of when J intended this post... but It works all teh same)

[markscherz]

Bad Newts: Amphibians are in Serious Trouble

My colleagues and I have just had a paper published in Nature, based on our efforts to assess almost all amphibian species for the IUCN Red Lists. The major takeaway messages:

It is a bad time to be an amphibian

Two fifths of all amphibians are threatened with extinction.

Salamanders are the most threatened group; three fifths of all salamanders are threatened with extinction!

Climate change is a major driver of amphibian declines globally

Habitat loss, especially due to agriculture, is a problem for the vast majority of amphibians

Chytrid pandemics have caused and continue to cause catastrophic declines of both salamanders and frogs

Protected areas and careful management are working as strategies! They are actively improving the outlook of some species

As many as 222 amphibian species may have gone extinct in recent times; of those, 185 are suspected extinct but not yet confirmed.

Our paper is Open Access, you can read it here!

Photo of Atelopus hoogmoedi by Jaime Culebras, used with permission

[bamsara]

being an adult means we can buy or make as much self-indulgent shit (as we can afford) and unironically have trinkets of our fave things cause our teen years was bullied for liking things and hiding/denying we were ever neurodivergent to the point of suicide. sucks for anyone that thinks its weird cringe but I'm going to try and allow myself to love myself in little ways now

[dollypopup]

I can't stop thinking about Colin on his travels. Colin, alone, on a journey to 17 different cities, across several countries. Colin on his own.

Colin who writes letter after letter, to his family, to his friends, and barely gets a response back. How long before he understands that they didn't get lost in the mail? How long until he realizes that, just like when he was a boy, no one has the time for him? The space for him? How many letters unanswered before he lets it finally take root and fester in his mind?

He could have died on that tour.

Would they even notice? Would they see when the letters slow until they cease? Would they wonder why? His mum, surely (maybe, possibly, but she has enough on her hands, besides, and he's never been a concern, in need of her assistance, before), but anyone else? Anthony on his honeymoon, Eloise a stormcloud personified, Benedict taking on the familial responsibilities, Fran preparing for the marriage mart and in Bath, regardless. Daphne, his closest sister, a mum running her own estate.

Greg and Hyacinth who enjoy his stories, but are children.

Pen who ignores him. No explanation, no goodbye.

Colin who has no one in his corner. Colin who travels city to city, putting on personas. Will they like me? What about now? Colin who has hardly anything to read from the people he loves. Who do not think of him.

And yet he thinks of them. Brings them back gifts, writes his recollections for them until it hits him that, oh, they don't care. They don't care what he's doing, how he's doing. They didn't want to hear it before, when he was there with them, and they do not want to hear it now, either. Did they even open those envelopes? Did they see them come through the post, just as proof he's alive, and shrug off the contents? Did they look? Once, Colin sends an empty page. No one notices. Easier, then, to send just the outsides. People only ever care about the outsides. Pretty and prim in neat packages, uncaring of what lies beneath. Sea sick on the rocking boats, staring up at stars on the continent, Colin grows aware, but not bitter. Sad, but resigned.

He loves his family, he loves Pen, loves them to grace, loves them to it's okay. It was him, he determines. Too chatty, his letters too long, uninteresting, his passions dull or droll, or else, worse, he's displeased them in some way. Colin who takes refuge in stranger's arms and homes, who dreams and tries to sate his curiosity. Colin who pretends, because anyone, anyone but him would be received better, he's sure of it. Colin who must talk too much, surely, and with no one to listen. Colin who learns to hush.

Yes. Remarkable- as in, I have many remarks about it.

How many times did he go to excitedly write of what he did that week, and stopped himself, knowing it was a waste? How many times did he write and throw into the fire a letter asking Why don't you see me? Why don't you care?

If he didn't make it, how long would it take for anyone to notice? A month? Two? A year? Would they wave it off as his frivolity, denounce him as a flake and fume about the funds? Would they wonder where it was he had lost himself off at?

He cannot fall into that, so, he writes in his journal, instead. Of the ache of it, of how he longs for connection, for understanding, for someone to take him seriously. He keeps it with him, this log of his discontent, of his folly and felicity, of his pitfalls and pains.

If he didn't make it, would they realize all that's left of him is what he sent them, not even a body to bury? Did he look over the side of a bow of a boat and look at the churn of the ocean and think of how many bones it held? Did he tip his face to the sun? How many new scars did he earn? Who did he befriend?

Who did he become?

Somewhere along the line, Colin learned. He learned the real him wasn't wanted.

Somewhere along the line, somewhere between Patmos and Paris, Colin left Colin behind.

And, somewhere along the line, Colin laid face to face with loneliness in his bed, and it wrapped its arms around him.

[grmpgm]

come on, danny, let’s go party! 💗

[svtskneecaps]

lukewarm take of the evening: y'all care too much about being ""outdated"". fellas this smp moves inhumanly fast. it is ok to CHILL holy shit CHILL. y'all are like "(posts BANGER ART) super late guys sorry" friend i am hitting you with a blanket i am snapping you with my metaphorical towel WHAT DO YOU MEAN SORRY. "(posts BANGER FIC) rip this is outdated now" WHO CARES???? I LOVE YOU, OK. ohhhh woe is us as the fandom at large for having MORE HAPPY PILLS ARC CONTENT oh no how outdated!! how could you be writing speculative fiction about how forever felt during happy pills :( slash SARCASM!! WHAT DO YOU MEAN!!!! THERE ARE SO MANY BANGER ARCS, WHAT, YOU THINK WE'RE COMPLAINING????? FOR GETTING MORE OF THE CONTENT WE LOVED????? oh no we're past the period where everyone thought green gay ninjas were like Dead Dead, my work is now outdated and noncanon :( WDYM. GIMME. A BANGER IS A BANGER IDC IF IT TAKES THREE MONTHS. you think rome was built in a day?? fuck you, baltimore, GIMME. my ass has been cooking a goddamn backflipo family fic since july when it was ALREADY outdated do you think i fear god??? "oh no, you're making an edit of slime's (attempted) egg murdering spree?? how could you, that was months ago it's irrelevant" SAID NO ONE EVER.

save your wrists kidlings ok carpal tunnel is no joke. CHILL!!!!! CHILL!!!!!!!! TAKE YOUR TIME SHEEEEEESH OK LOVE YOU <3

[nightskyli]

What bums me out is Dev's story isn't set to end on a downer note for him. This isn't meant to be the last episode. But it very well might be if the show doesn't get renewed. That is what leaves me with a sour feeling when it comes to the finale.

Not the fact this happened in particular but more the idea the ending for Dev's character may really be right where he started.

[thirdeyeblue]

“Nine would have treated Martha better than Ten did”

I need to talk about this argument that never seems to stop circulating.

Note: Not a venomous/anti post. There’s more than enough of that across fandom spaces as is, and this is supposed to be a place for ✨sweet, blissful escapism✨

When making this argument, people seem to envision a scenario in which Nine never met Rose.

While I can appreciate a good hypothetical, recognizing Rose's significance to the Doctor (Nine and Ten) is essential to understanding why things with Martha played out the way they did in the first place.

In the third series, the Doctor is grieving. This grief is deliberately threaded into nearly every script, whether spoken aloud or not (and these are just a few examples):

He's burning in Rose’s wake the entire time Martha travels with him, which is why it’s so frequently called upon: It’s 100% deliberate in framing his grief. He grieved as Nine too, of course— having been fresh on the heels of the Time War — but then he met Rose, which changed everything.

Back then, he was still a rude, traumatized pain in the ass, but we watch Rose soften more of those jagged edges with every episode as they grow closer; as he lets his guard down and forms a deep connection with her.

He falls in love (against his better judgment) and it's game over.

And yes: provided S1E1 had been titled 'Martha', one can realistically assume things might have unfolded similarly to how they did with Rose. However, it wouldn’t have been that way just because the Doctor was Nine and “Nine was different” — it would be because he wasn’t already in love with someone else. The same can't be said for the start of S3.

Think of it like this: if Rose AND Martha had been in that cellar — if Nine had taken both of them along with him in S1 — we’d eventually be looking at the most melodramatic love triangle ever, what with him living in close quarters with two brilliant, gorgeous, compassionate young women... But Doctor Who is plenty “soap opera” as is with just one woman in the TARDIS.

(I certainly wouldn’t object to reading that fic, though)

Now, regarding the unrequited elephant in the room…

His inability to be romantic with Martha isn’t because he thinks her lesser, nor is it for lack of compatibility. It isn't because Rose is any better than her. It certainly isn’t just because he’s Ten.

It’s really only for one reason, which can't be denied — and now I’m a broken record:

He is still in love with Rose.

(cut from a tenrosedaily gif)

Nine is Ten, and Ten is only such a mess in S3 because he’s just lost the love of his life. Martha merely got caught in the crosshairs of a volatile Time Lord in mourning, and yes — it sucks. Absolutely.

But it also feels dismissive to chalk Ten and Martha’s relationship up to little more than some sort of mindless dance of pining, jealousy, and toxicity.

Ten trusted Martha with his life over and over again — and hers, with him. He constantly praised her brilliance, happily carting her around time and space with no intention of letting her go. In the BBC’s extended universe of novels/comics/cartoons/etc, there’s so much depth to their relationship: love and trust and trauma and sacrifice. They had their own special bond as mates, their own complexities — so it’s a bummer that it's forever overshadowed by the other things.

I’m not denying that there was a lot of stuff that sucked/was for sure toxic about Ten's S3 behavior, but so many of the things I've seen him catching flak for can be directly attributed to being A Clueless Fucking Alien Idiot (not a trait that’s unique to Ten) — as well as his flat-out obliviousness to Martha’s feelings.

So yes, I agree: if Rose never existed, he would have treated Martha differently as Nine. He also would have treated her differently as Ten. Certainly.

But Rose did exist, and when discussing canon, it matters.

“He tells me that he absolutely, 100% loves Rose... He tells me how my daughter; my wonderful, beautiful, clever little girl saved him from himself before… And he says that’s all because of me! I made her into the Rose Tyler that saved him.”

-Jackie Tyler, Flight Into Hull!

Martha got the short end of the stick in S3. She came round at the wrong place and time, but that doesn't mean it was all bad. It doesn't mean the Doctor didn’t adore her. It certainly doesn't mean the time they spent together was wasted or worthless. They were brilliant!

Sure, he could be a twat, but let it be known that he was a twat with Rose as well, both as Nine and Ten. I’m sure Tentoo can be plenty infuriating, too. So while I'll defend Ten (and Tentoo) into the ground forever and ever and ever, I'll concede that he's fucked up.

The Doctor is a certified Pain In The Ass. It’s one of the things I love so much about this character — dynamics.

But never forget that Martha was goddamn tough as nails and overcame every bit of it. She moved on with her life, and the Doctor moved on with his. One can only pray that, when they inevitably drag her back onto the show (which feels inevitable if I'm honest), we see at once that she's been living her best life for all these years.

[whetstonefires]

Do you have any opinions on Scholomance?

I do! I like it a lot. I really enjoyed all three books, blitzed through them easily and was much more excited to see how the plots unfolded than I'm used to these days, as a jaded adult, and I also really appreciated them as works of craft.

Especially the first one, I spent the whole time being all 'wow!' at how simple it was. So easy to read, but no waste. You really need to know what you're doing, to get that kind of pared-down elegance of form to work and still fit so much content in.

Like these are dense, there's a fantastic stylistic minimalism that allows El's character all the space it needs to breathe by making absolutely every other thing and person in the whole novel also do character work for her, which is exactly where the first person voice shines.

Also great use of character perspective to make the pacing feel really natural, so the fact that the first book takes three weeks, the second book takes one year, and the third book is like. Five or so incredibly stressful days spread out over the course of a few weeks? Doesn't feel imbalanced.

I actually got distracted from the story a few times by noticing the strength of Novik's technique. 😂 This is a me problem, in itself it's the opposite of distracting. Very low-profile.

I think the Scholomance is a great example of how far you can go in specfic when you aren't cringing from the label 'derivative,' because the Scholomance books feel very fresh ad clean specifically because nothing in them is concerned with standing out as 'original,' whatever that's supposed to mean, only with being well-executed and suitable to its task.

Hm, maybe that's where Liesel was born, the intersection of the efficient narrative style and the vast proportion of the story that concerns the maximization of utility and the instrumentalization of persons by themselves and others, and the forces that incentivize these behaviors. Or maybe she's just the narrative counterweight to Orion 'Head Empty' Lake lmao. How's that for a principle of balance, Galadriel?

I really did enjoy how beautifully it was laid out, over and over, in dozens of shades of humanity, how no matter where you go in an exploitative system almost everyone is being driven by the same survival instincts.

Because I don't think I've ever seen made so cleanly clear why you just can't expect any person or small group of people, no matter their level of goodwill or status, to unmake one of these systems from the inside; how it's not a matter of people being bad but of every single person being very...small.

And then not retreating into the idea of a person who is Big coming and breaking the cruel system from the outside as some kind of panacea, because 1) that is terrible, even if it's necessary and done in the best way possible and 2) that's not a sustainable answer to anything. Getting a balance between the protagonist being able to effect change and not subscribing to the great man theory of history can be really tricky!

Also did I mention, I love El, and I love most of the cast, even the dreadful ones. How am I going around with this many feelings about Li Shanfeng who doesn't appear until the actual climax?

The romance murdered me a bit, but it took up no more space than it absolutely needed to do its job, and I respect that. Also I appreciated Orion as a love interest; Novik has a slight record at this point of a version of that style of male love interest who's like a caricature of Mr. Darcy but old, which was shaping up to be my least favorite thing about her body of work.

...Orion is kind of like if you took the human king from Spinning Silver and gave him an alignment flip come to think of it, so he's not coming out of nowhere. Lmao.

Which reminds me (re: romance character typing) I've heard Novik didn't want it to be known she was astolat, which this series has renewed my sympathies if so. Because if I were a published novelist I wouldn't want people going 'you know, that resolution was really emotionally satisfying! reminds me of that fic she wrote where optimus prime and megatron get stuck in a hole underground and hatefuck about it.'

I don't even like Transformers. That fic almost made me cry. Actually I suspect it reads better if you don't like Transformers because I'm sure it does not give a shit about canon.

Anyway, whoever pointed out that one of the things El has going on is she's Enoby (and we're going to sit down and explore what the true reason to put your middle finger up at preps is, and what are some constructive ways to channel that socioeconomic wrath, and what it means that there is no ethical consumption under capitalism) was right and I'm not entirely over that either.

Fucking love El's mom as a character. Spectacular level of parent relevance and usefulness. A+.

Aadhya and Liu are also characters who fucking delivered.

Re: minimalism though, I laughed at the start of The Golden Enclaves when I realized that none of the enclaver characters who'd gotten development in the the first two books were from London, the enclave El was theoretically shooting for when we met her.

[kittycatcorner]

shows up to give you the coffinchain challenge

Please be more careful when you cross the road You’re a perfect arrangement of rickety bones

Stray cats.

Peter had always likened the apprentices to a group of stray cats, in his mind.

At first it was out of distaste. They were a nuisance; a band of drifters slinking around the alleyways, catching their quarries unaware. The quick, sharp jab of a hypodermic needle might as well have been the efficient killing bite that a cat might deliver to the throat of its prey. They worked in the shadows, occupying all of those lonely abandoned buildings and reworking them for a new, twisted purpose. 

Then, begrudgingly, he’d found himself wrapped up in Mark Hoffman. Chasing him, hunting him, hellbent on bringing him to justice, then on killing him, then on understanding him, then…

Well, Peter didn’t know what he was doing now. 

All he knew was that sitting in his apartment, in varying states of composure, were three of Jigsaw’s disciples. 

Dr. Gordon sat on his couch, eyes trained down as his hands worked on bandaging a fresh wound on the arm of his younger accomplice. Stanheight sat quietly and allowed for the medical attention with little fight. Hoffman himself sat on the floor, back leaned against the couch close to the other two. 

Peter remained standing, trying not to buckle at the absurdity of his situation. In true stray-animal nature, he had made the mistake of allowing Hoffman into his home once, twice, thrice, and now he’d come back with friends. 

‘Don’t feed the strays’, indeed. 

Accept that he did know the other two, at this point. The polite Dr. Gordon was well-spoken and direct; Peter had found him infuriating in the beginning. He was a hard man to interrogate and an even harder man to intimidate, as level and unflinching as he was. Unlike Peter, he never seemed to let his anger get the best of him, and he seemed to know that. Dr. Gordon was a man who always seemed very aware of how much more control he had in the conversation. It was enviable. 

Then there was Adam Faulkner-Stanheight. Mouthful of a name. It was strange enough for Peter to wrap his head around the fact that the kid was alive, let alone working with Jigsaw. He was angry- had more rage in his scrawny little body than what felt possible. Stupid and impulsive, Peter had found him annoying. Just a petulant adolescent who had gotten himself into bigger trouble than he yet realized. 

They’ve come a long way since then. Both apprentices had grown on him, maybe because they reminded him of himself in their amalgamate qualities. The cold, callous bluntness of the doctor. The white-hot temper of the kid. The way he had never seen the former so gentle nor the latter so complacent until now, as they patched themselves together on his bloodied furniture. 

Peter had been reluctant to welcome them all inside. It was bad enough to shelter one serial killer, but now three? It reminded him that everything he’s been doing as of late is against what he once stood for. Fuck, it would solve a hell of a lot of his own problems if he didn't care. If he’d let them all rot, make them regret thinking that Peter would risk his own hide just because he's been friendly with them. Dr. Gordon and Stanheight had seemed to understand this too. Their expressions had been apprehensive, looking ready to flee like the animals they were. Peter wonders how long ago he would have given chase. 

Hoffman had spoken, then. 

“I didn’t-” His voice was shot and exhausted. “I didn’t know where else to go, Strahm.” 

And just like that, Peter took them in. Those words were all it took. Hoffman limped inside on a bad leg and described some sort of police-raid, premature. John Kramer and Amanda Young hadn’t even been there, so it had just been the trio, and they were forced to flee. Unable to go far on foot in their current state, Hoffman had brought his injured companions here. To Peter. 

Why did that make something strange stir within him? 

The three of them were soaked to the bone from the rain. Peter watched Hoffman sluggishly attempt to remain alert, but every so often his head would lull and come to rest against the soft thigh of Dr. Gordon. If the doctor noticed it, he didn't say a word as he continued to diligently work. He looked tired. Stanheight was putting on the best brave face he could manage, but Peter’s keen eyes caught his shoulders trembling, only eased when Gordon’s hand came to rest on one and rubbed gently. They all looked so tired. 

Unable to watch any longer, Peter finally broke the silence. 

“So why are you still doing this?” It took everything in him to not fidget idly as he spoke, brows furrowed at the three men. 

All eyes were on him quite suddenly, sharp as they regarded him. Three clever pairs of observant eyes that all screamed out ‘I know more than I’m letting on' to Peter. He held their gazes, muscled arms crossed over his chest. 

“You know what I’m talking about.” He scoffed, lip curling. “What’s the point of doing the old man's dirty work when he just lets things like this happen to you?” 

Silence.

Hoffman broke first. He laughed, eyes closing as he rested more fully against the couch. It was good-natured but ultimately dismissive. 

Dr. Gordon frowned at Peter, one brow quirked as if he had asked them something incredibly naive. Like he expected Peter to know already. 

Stanheight didn't react. Not outwardly, anyways. He only stared, something new and strange glittering in his eyes that Peter couldn't place.

“What,” Peter grit his teeth, an edge to his voice. Less of a question and more of a prompt. 

“Nothing, nothing. Apologies, Mr. Strahm.” Gordon sighed, turning his attention back to his handiwork. He appeared to nearly be done with the worst of Stanheight’s injuries now. “It’s just… not that simple.”

“Not exactly the kinda job you can put your two weeks in for.” Hoffman corroborated, a smirk tugging at his full lips. 

Peter felt his face burn hot, and he huffed in frustration. “You fucking- Don’t play dumb. Don’t act like it’s a stupid question. I’ll throw you back out onto the fucking curb.” He jabbed a finger at Hoffman in particular, who for his part did indeed shut his mouth. “You listening? Good. What I’m saying is that John Kramer is one demented old man. What is actually stopping you?” 

This time, the quiet was punctuated by Hoffman and Gordon exchanging an uncomfortable glance. After a moment, Hoffman shrugged and ran one hand through his damp, messy hair. “I’m sure you’re familiar with the concept of, uh, checks ‘n balances.” 

Peter raised an eyebrow skeptically. Hoffman continued. 

“Information is power, etcetera. Kramer keeps basically everything on a need-to-know basis. Including, I dunno, who you’re workin’ with half the time. Hell,” He rolled his eyes, and lazily raised a hand behind his head to pat Gordon’s arm. The doctor made an annoyed noise in response, shifting away from him. “He only told me about these lovebirds when he needed help lookin’ after ‘em.” 

“I’m still mad about missing out on a trip to Mexico.” Stanheight quipped. His voice was softer than normal, but Peter supposed it was a good sign that he was speaking at all. He wasn’t used to the younger man being so quiet. 

Gordon straightened up a moment later, gently patting down the new bandages and brushing some of the hair from Stanheight’s face. “There you go.” He sighed. The warmth in his tone was so palpable that Peter had the distinct feeling it wasn’t meant for his ears. Despite being in his own apartment, he somehow felt he was intruding. “Get comfortable, alright?” 

Peter watched as Stanheight pulled himself to his feet, stopping short just a little ways away from him with an awkward shuffle. Gordon patted his thigh and spoke his next words like they took all of his energy to say. 

“Your turn.” He didn’t even bother to look at Hoffman. The detective grinned anyways, wasting no time in clamoring up into Gordon’s personal space and slinging his leg across the man’s lap. Gordon shook his head disdainfully, but carefully began rolling back Hoffman’s torn pant leg anyways. 

Peter guessed he wasn’t the only one that Hoffman lived to irritate.

“Christ, Mark.” Gordon sucked in a sharp breath, and Peter’s shoulders stiffened as he took a step forward to look. His stomach sank despite himself; from where he was standing Hoffman’s calf looked like a bloody mess. Peter’s a man who’s seen more gore in his line of work than anyone should hope to see in their lifetime, and yet here he is, staring in alarm. It was unlike him, and woefully he could only attribute his own uneasiness to the owner of the calf. 

As if he could read his mind, Hoffman looked up towards Peter. “Hey, it’s just-” He winced, hissing in pain as Gordon began to clean the wound. “It’s no big deal- no bullet inside. Just grazed me.” 

“You were shot?” Peter balked.

“Grazed,” Hoffman corrected. 

Peter pinched the bridge of his nose in a quick-rising frustration. Hoffman was impossible. 

“Don’t be an idiot.” Gordon’s voice was little more than a growl as he spoke through gritted teeth. “You took an unnecessary risk. Do you think I enjoy patching you back together? Honestly, if I didn't know any better I’d assume you were trying to get your sorry self killed.” 

Dr. Gordon’s tone left the detective bristling. “Don’t tell me how to do my job.” He scoffed. “Hell, I don’t bother you when you’re workin’ in the sickbay. Why don't you just- fuck!” 

Hoffman yelped at the unceremonious splash of disinfectant. Gordon gave him the sort of well-practiced fake smile that only a doctor could.

“My bad,” he murmured, unapologetic. 

Peter decided he’d seen enough. He turned on his heel and walked into the kitchen, telling himself that he was just stepping aside to get ice in case the doctor needed some. He knew it wasn't the truth, though; he scolded himself quietly as he leaned against the wall and ran a hand through his graying hair. 

The truth was that he couldn't keep standing there, staring at Hoffman’s leg injury. 

It’s ironic, because it feels like not too long ago that Peter would have done anything to put a bullet in Hoffman. Now the thought makes him feel… queasy. And a bit confused. 

Peter found himself comparing the apprentices to strays again.

He couldn’t get the image of roadkill splattered on the side of the highway out of his head. 

From what he knew of John Kramer and his cult, the apprentices were expendable parts. It doesn't even sound like they can trust each other half the time. One wrong move or fatal mistake would be all it took. Peter wasn't even sure how long it would take him to know something had happened. 

His thoughts were interrupted by footsteps so quiet that he knew exactly who they belonged to before turning around. Stanheight stood at the entryway of his bare-bones kitchen, watching him. He’s probably spent the least amount of time alone with him. 

“What is it?” Peter’s frown deepened.

The kid didn't answer immediately, instead coming to lean against the wall beside him. He was quiet for a moment, and then shrugged. 

“Wanted to check on you, I guess.” He answered simply. 

“Check on me? In what way do I need checking on?” Raising a brow, Peter gestured towards the living room. “Look at you three, for fuck’s sake.” 

Stanheight held his hands up defensively. “Hey, hey, I just- I get it, alright?”

Peter didn't know what that meant. He stared down at the shorter man, scowl ever-present, silently prodding him to elaborate. Stanheight’s expression was… almost sympathetic, but his eyes had that same strange look from before: the one that Peter couldn't place. 

The kid was easy to underestimate, Peter knew it from his file and from his current involvement. He wasn't about to make that mistake with him. 

“Sucks, doesn't it?” Stanheight finally said. He was muttering now, glancing once over his shoulder to ensure they were still alone. “One thing to know what they're doing and another to see them come back with blood and bits of their skin hanging off.”

Peter felt his stomach turn. “No,” he lied. “If Hoffman’s gonna be reckless and get himself killed then so be it.” 

“No matter what you or anyone else thinks, I’m not stupid.” Stanheight laughed dryly. “You don't gotta lie to me, okay? I’m on team Peter here.” 

“Are we forgetting that you’re one of ‘them’ too?” Peter steeled his gaze, unamused. 

Stanheight grimaced. “I mean- kind of. Not really.”

“‘Not really?’ What’s that mean?” 

“I- like- like I’m with them but I’m not one of them. Old Johnny-boy has never and will never give a shit about me. Not exactly in the running to be his heir or whatever the others think will happen.” Stanheight huffed, rolling his eyes as he explained. “Pretty sure he wouldn't even notice if I went missing if it weren't for the pictures ‘n schedules I go and get for him.”

Peter is quiet for a moment. 

“Why stick around?” He asked softly, already knowing the answer. 

The kid just snorted in lieu of answering, and the two fell into silence once more for a couple of seconds. 

“Glad that Mark has you.” Stanheight suddenly murmured, thoughtful. 

“He does not ‘have me’.” 

“Maybe you can knock some sense into him.” 

Peter scoffed, looking elsewhere. “You’re frustrating, you know that?”

“I’ve been told.” Stanheight laughed, “I’m not kidding, though. It always freaks me out how Mark gets when he’s like…” 

Raising a brow, Peter waited for him to sort out his thoughts. 

“Like, when he gets hurt, right? He just- just runs off. Or he’ll go and get hammered on the other side of town and when we find him he’s a mess.” 

At that, Peter’s shoulders went rigid. He was aware of Mark’s habits, his unhealthy coping mechanism. He hadn't thought about who else might know, how deeply it might run. He hadn't thought about how often Mark must be alone. 

When he looked back at Stanheight, he realized the kid was staring at him intently. There was concern in his expression, but also something fierce. 

“John’s really messed him up. Worse than he was before all of this.” His voice was low, almost cautious. “All of them. Lawrence, Mark, Mandy, none of them deserve this. You know that, right?”

Peter’s mouth felt dry. “I…” 

Straightening up again, Stanheight stepped closer to Peter. Before he could see it coming, a smaller hand took his own and held it, inspecting it. “I think Mark needs you.” He said, “maybe all of us do. So you gotta take care of yourself too.” 

Something confused seemed to bloom in his chest then, an uncertain warmth that he could feel rise up to his face. He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again when he couldn't decide on anything to say. 

“Just think about it, ‘kay?” Stanheight let go of his hand again and started to leave the kitchen, pausing for just a moment to look back at him. “Oh, one more thing.” 

“What is it?” Peter’s voice was hoarse. 

Stanheight gave him a grin that didn't meet his eyes. “Welcome to the family.” 

Then he was gone, Peter’s protest to that statement dying on his lips, and Peter was left to think on everything he said. 

Hoffman needing him. Hoffman hiding himself away in dark corners to nurse his wounds. Improperly set bones and too much bandage. 

Stray cats.

Peter’s family used to have cats. His sister’s cat had been an old, white, raggedy thing that she named Alfredo. When Alfredo passed away, he had hidden under the bed and refused to come out. Peter thinks he remembers reading somewhere that pets do that on purpose, so their humans don't have to see them die, but it's been years and his animal knowledge is limited. 

Peter wondered how hard it is to socialize a stray cat. To reintroduce it to domesticity. 

He stepped out of the kitchen, lingering at the entryway, and watched the apprentices from where he stood. Gordon seemed to have finished with Hoffman’s leg, speaking to him in a quieter tone than before. To his surprise, Hoffman looked like he was listening. Stanheight was on the couch with them now, leaning his head onto Gordon’s shoulder. 

Peter found that he wished he could freeze this moment with the three of them in it. The bubble of safety that was his living room felt far away from everything Jigsaw. Maybe they were always meant to be here, on soft furniture, and not crouching amongst rusted pipes and jagged metal. 

Tamed. Domesticated. 

He sighed through his nose and walked around the couch, three sets of clever eyes on him again as he caught their attention. Now that he was there, he could see that Dr. Gordon had just begun to wrap up Hoffman’s leg and he silently motioned to ask for the gauze, kneeling down between them.

Understanding the gesture, Gordon handed it over, smiling at Peter warmly enough to raise his body temperature by a degree. 

“Strahm-” Hoffman started, bewildered, but Peter simply began wrapping his leg neatly. 

“Shut up.” He grunted. “Let me help you, stupid.”

[shannonsketches]

Idk what it is about Bulma getting laid that upsets these kids but I'm gonna start collecting comments from people who just hate Vegeta.

It's what he would want.

Granted I only have two nickels but it's weird that it happened twice.

On the same day.

[marc--chilton]

hang on i'm once again thinking about house being stupid with love. stacy moved in with him a week after meeting him. that's HUGE change. could you imagine how much he'd have to be obsessing over her to make HIS home THEIR home??? and he still wasn't over her 5+ years later after everything either.

(and like. i wonder if there was ever a moment there for wilson where he's watching house and stacy be so witty and beautiful and in love together and thinking to himself, huh. so this is what that feels like.)

[mintjeru]

is it such a sin to want to live?

open for better quality | no reposts

my shop is open!!

[angelmush]

the other day i walked around the golden lake w my love and the sun was setting hot and orange and we watched a brown duck preening through the weeds, ducking her head under the dark water. the cool lake swallowed up my tired feet to the ankles and we counted the dog walkers with their curly panting doodles and their handsome german shepherds and their whip smart little terriers and we admired the careful construction of a sand castle whose moat held determinedly against the lapping of the waves. we could feel in our chests the persistent thunderous thumping of celebratory music at the finish line of the lakeside 5k, welcoming each gasping runner across its bounds. and i felt like crying. i felt like curling into myself and crying. we walked through the swamp of the bird sanctuary afterwards and listened to the woods sing and croak and groan and then we went and got ube and yuzu gelato and devoured it suntired and sweating on the couch in our living room. and i was so overcome w a deep and true unshakeable happiness and a sort of confused grief that i wanted to sob and sob and sob.

[angel-archivist]

It's so interesting and so exceedingly frustrating how agab is being utilized now within the queer community as a way to isolate and sort nonbinary and genderqueer folks into binary boxes that determine their moral purity levels, and their authority to do and write and exist.

The way nonbinary writers are being put under accusation of fetishizing gay men while their AGAB is continually brought up in a way that feels like queer-space-approved misgendering.

The way feminist circles that are supposedly trans-inclusive will use the word AFAB in a way that implicitly but intentionally isolates nonbinary people who aren't AFAB from joining. It's for women*.

The way the language is already flawed and leaves out intersex folks from the conversations while focusing on a binary of sex that isn't truthful.

The constant obsessing over whether someone is AFAB or AMAB and whether or not that gives them the privilege to join, do, write, or be present in certain spaces really really concerns me. How are we supposed to dismantle a binary system of gender if we can't even move past forcibly assigning and focusing on people's genders assigned at birth?