#Was hoping it was more like this. Tried to parse it myself but I know fuck all abt laws and the official language melted my brain

[deviousdiesel]

.

[moderndayfantasia]

Discovering Fantasia:

To begin the cataloguing of knowledge and research of this Fantastical World, I must inform you of how I would uncover the existence of this fascinating and impossible place!

I have a unique gift, or rather, I am in the possession of a mental physicality that allows for my mind to intercept certain information. I simply refer to them as Psychic Signals. These Signals of Unknown Origin seem to, from my understanding, slip through the barriers of our reality from places and beings totally anonymous to our limited human perception.

You see, I am aware of the separation of these realms, or as I call them, The Other Spaces. These Other Spaces used to not be divided from our own, everything was once one but now perhaps due to the will of some deity or mad power we have been separated.

The world we know is a falsehood, an artifice crafted to keep us locked away from The True Reality. Our world is a Great Iron Prison crafted by something abominable. However, I digress, for the point of this is not to induce a spiritual and metaphysical discord amidst the unattuned minds of those who read this, at least not at this moment in time.

The point I wish to return to is how I am aware of these truths while 99% of this cosmological prison we share remain unaware. It once more links back to these Signals. I have become attuned to a variety of them, some confirmed as definitively real, while others are under observation to parse noise from information. Alas, much of these Signals I receive are primarily noise due to information overload. I may be more in tune than others, but I must remind myself as well as the reader that I am but a mere human, due to this I am unable to consistently decipher the information I receive.

Sometimes I receive these signals in the form of visions and sounds, other times in the form of mental projections of historical records, on occasion I even obtain this knowledge from my dreams! Once more, not all of these Signals come from the same source (if any one Signal is truly relayed by a single source in the first place), sometimes I find myself in places so alien and grotesque I dare not remember it, other times I am in places almost identical to our world but with the difference that it is barren and empty. However, in most cases I dream of Fantasia. It preoccupies most of my waking thoughts and twists my slumber into prophecy.

My fellow man has heard my message and called me Mad, Delusional, and Fool Minded. They have tried to muddy my thoughts with medication and therapies, but I know what is true.

We are trapped and shattered, like a pane of glass shattered by a metaphysical hammer. Pieces of a whole that may never be the same. But even broken glass can be made beautiful again. Reborn in the Halls of Reverence and bathed in the Blood of a Divine Eternity, the broken may become whole, changed forever but having undergone a metamorphosis, a Great Mangling of Flesh elevating what was lost into a new stage of existence. Our world may be led by The Holy Red Hand back into Unity and Prosperity.

We must simply be patient. We must learn and prepare our eyes for the visions of truth we must receive. Soon we will be freed, we will be made whole. When that day comes, I hope the knowledge I impart upon you will give comfort and joy.

[secretagentfan]

Some attempted, painful, words of hope:

I've been thinking a lot about how I felt when reading Parable of the Sower. Octavia Butler wrote this book in 1993, and it takes place in 2024.

Before Parable of the Sower, I prided myself on finishing "good books" and putting down "bad books". Sower was the exception. It is one of the best books I've ever read, and I never finished it. I'm going to talk about it anyway. I think I need to.

I read a good chunk of it on a plane ride, where there was no escape. I was looking for books that look at religion in a nuanced way and I knew empathy was a main theme, which, fuck yeah.

I was not prepared.

Parable has your standard pre-apocalypse set-up. It's a small town in a horrible world (ours) surrounded by a wall. There are signs that the wall is going to come down, and the young protagonist picks up on these signs.

Early on she tells her friend about it, tells her that they need to prepare to learn to survive. Her friend cries to her parents, and her friend's parents then proceed to get mad at the protagonist's parents for teaching their daughter to fearmonger.

The scene that occurs after this, between main character and her pastor father, punched me in the chest. He basically tells her she's right about the wall falling-- he tells her that the adults in the town all know, and are doing their best to prepare for it. Most young people, he argues, can't handle carrying the knowledge the wall is going to fall. He says that when they discover it for the first time, all they want to do is point at the void-- just point at the big scary thing that needs correcting. But, he insists, that just breeds extremism.

Instead, he advises her to point NEXT to the void. Start learning survival stuff on her own, work it into her life and the lives of others in sneaky subtle ways. Ways that won't scare people-- but ways that they'll have when they need it.

It doesn't sit well with her, but she loves her father, and she tries.

The wall falls anyway.

When it does, it's awful. Like, whatever horrible thing you can imagine happening to people (especially women) happens and happens so much.

When my plane ride was over. I set the book down and googled. Childishly, I wanted to make sure there was a 'happy ending' before continuing. I learned there was, more or less, and that there was a sequel book too. Parable of the Talents, in which a political leader embarks on a crusade to cleanse America of non-Christian faiths. His slogan? "Make America Great Again".

Nope. No way. I thought. Too close. Oh God, how did Octavia Butler manage to get his slogan back in 1993!?

On top of that, I also learned that Parable of the Sower, and Parable of the Talents were intended to be part of trilogy, but Octavia Butler passed away before writing the third book.

So, knowing this I picked the book up again, read until I reached a spot I determined was hopeful enough and I set it down.

I wasn't ready to start a book that ended up in Trump times, and didn't have a known ending.

I told myself I wasn't quitting, just taking a mental break. I promised to come back to Parable of the Sower and Parable of the Talents when I was in a better mental place and more ready to handle the themes.

(Lol. Lmao even. )

Well guys, here we are. Trump 2024. Guess who's not in a better mental place, and guess who can't stop thinking about Parable of the Sower.

Crazy thing is, I've been thinking of it in a completely different way than I did back then. I'm honestly really grateful I read what I did, when I did. Octavia Butler was a brave and incredible woman and writer. Braver than me, for being able to sit on those complex horrific feelings and parse them down into something swallowable.

I love that scene between the protagonist and her father. I've tossed it around in my head a lot, I think about "pointing at the void" and the debate of whether that's something we should do, or not do.

I think that's something a lot of people can relate to now. It's tempting to talk about how bad things are-- but does that unite us? However, does pointing NEXT to the void really actually solve the problem?

The wall still falls, regardless. Change is coming.

I'm not looking to point at the void or point next to the void right now. Right now, I just want to be exactly where I'm at, and I'm amazed to find that what I read of Parable of the Sower gives me hope now too.

Another core theme of the book is the agony and strength that comes with being an empathetic person in destructive times.

The protagonist ends up making her own religion, Earthseed. She argues that God is Change, and we shape God. God is not kind. Change is not kind. It's partially out of our reach, but we do shape it and it is our responsibility to shape it for the better.

We decide how we act on a microlevel with each other and that means everything.

We are not living the worst of Parable of the Sower right now. The world hasn't entirely turned toward violence, yet. This is a terrifying, terrifying time, and I don't know what's going to happen.

We are not powerless though. We shape God, we shape Change, even as it shapes us.

Parable of the Sower is a book about surviving. It's a book about sitting in the discomfort and agony of being an empathetic person and continuing to fight to be kind, even when things are at their absolute worst.

We can't give into nihilism, but we can't just look away from the void either. The wall is falling. The wall has fallen. Things are bad right now, and we all just need to sit in it, and offer a hand to each other at every chance we get.

If there's one thing survival stories have taught me it's no matter how bad things get-- people can never truly get ground to dust.

The human will is an incredible thing, and when everything goes horribly, I think that's when the most basic interaction of "you are a human being and I see you, and I believe your worth" becomes the most important hope in the world to maintain. Even in the darkest most horrible corners of human history-- there is hope as long as there is kindness between people.

We need to learn to sit in discomfort, stare at the hurt and the violence and the hope and not put it down, even when we want to.

There is no third book in this series-- but we decide what it looks like.

-

“That’s all anybody can do right now. Live. Hold out. Survive. I don’t know whether good times are coming back again. But I know that won’t matter if we don’t survive these times.”

"All that you touch You Change. All that you Change Changes you. The only lasting truth Is Change.”

“The world is full of painful stories. Sometimes it seems as though there aren't any other kind and yet I found myself thinking how beautiful that glint of water was through the trees.”

[lifeafterpsychiatry]

Hey, Kat! Sorry for the essay. I'm feeling very dumb and disillusioned after a friendship went poorly. We started chatting on here and talked frequently (like a lot a lot, way more than I usually can keep up correspondence with people), so we bonded super quickly. like, daily chats for a couple of months, unheard of for me outside of my best friend for 15+ years in the early years of our friendship. But I got overwhelmed with offline stuff for a couple of weeks and got flaky and ghosty with talking. They were hurt so they blocked me and I clearly owed them an apology, so I made it. We went back and forth a little and I explained (not for the first time) that I'm bad at responding and also explained that I need time to write serious messages because I am precise about word choice and need to sort my feelings out properly beforehand. I wanted to do better for them but I was honest about the fact that timely replies are something I've struggled to do with everyone in my life for most of my life, so it wasn't going to get better in a week or just a month. But I told them they aren't obligated to stay in a friendship like that and just wait for it to get better; I wanted to respect their social needs and I acknowledge that expecting timely communication is extremely valid and normal. I wasn't in the right! The stuff they were sending me was just... a lot to parse through, both emotionally and verbally, especially because there's so much offline shit happening for me right now and they brought up feelings I had no idea they had for me. But when I took longer than a day to respond, they told me I disgusted them and then ranted about all the horrible things they hope happen in my life from here on out. Basically tried to turn the most personal, hopeful things I'd expressed to them into, idk, barbs that I guess they thought would hurt me and make me feel like a monster of a person or hopeless. Luckily that type of shit just doesn't make me feel that way and the fact that they thought it would makes it clear to me that this person thought they knew me way better than they actually did. Now I worry that I'm too open to others. Vulnerability has been a saving grace for me psychologically and I am just... so, so open to talk about damn near anything. Not as an active practice, I just am! I think sometimes people misinterpret this as a deeper connection with me than it is, though. When people open up back on stuff that I'm already very comfortable being vulnerable about, it's possible it means more to them? But like, what does that mean? Do I share less of myself? I don't want to! Being open about life and hardship has directly improved my happiness!

I'm just lost. I feel very dumb because I almost met this person offline before this happened and now I'm wondering how safe they even would be to know in that capacity. I'm at a point in my life where I'm prioritizing finding and building a found family, something I'm fucking good at, but now I'm worried that like... I can't navigate the current social landscape? Like, I'm not equipped to? I just don't get what I could have done differently in introducing myself or expressing myself so they didn't end up with impossible expectations from me. I don't blame myself (AT ALL) for being lashed out against and the two of us already talked it out (I am no longer their friend), but this isn't the first time I've opened up with someone just for them to get weird and aggro like this over something disproportionate. We talked personal lives and beliefs and aspirations, yes, but I didn't tell this person anything I wouldn't also feel comfortable saying on a live or to a new friend--which is what they were. I feel misunderstood in a way that actually bothers me for the first time in so long and kinda feel like giving up.... but the extrovert in me is dying for a wide social group.

Your "friend" sounds really mean, manipulative and emotionally immature and I'm sorry you had to deal with that kind of behavior. But the solution isn't to stop being vulnerable. Maybe you gotta test people a little by disagreeing with them on something minor or establishing a boundary to test that they're decent beyond the initial charm before you open up completely, but keep trying to connect. There are still plenty of good people in this world!

[demonfuck]

thinking about making art that is patient

being the way that i am, this maybe kind of comes naturally to me

as a teen i found it interesting to make art with no audience in mind. as in, NO audience. it will sit on a server somewhere gathering dust

and it doesn't try to make you feel guilty for its isolation. it was never your responsibility to find it and interact with it and understand it. it's patient. it makes peace with itself

i'm happy with that process making it kind of timeless. there were never any references or details that demanded that it be read this week, or this year, or within this lifetime. i've always been fascinated by outsider art, including stuff that doesn't get found until after the artist has passed away

it makes MAKING art feel less urgent to me. to be able to make something, "put it out there", and then continue making it. i feel the URGE to get wrapped up in expectation and disappointment. to say, why did i make this if no one saw it? should i continue making it? if i continue making it, will resentment seep in to the text? what good are my good ideas if no one is looking at them?

i think there's a part of me that deliberately tries to avoid the pain of disappointment and unpopularity by expecting to be discovered long after my death. to say, well, wouldn't it be exciting if someone discovered my weird art blog or my unfinished book sometime in the future? i know of lots of comics and anime that have meant the world to me, that i didn't get to participate with in real time

still. it's all too possible to go too far with this sort of thing. i appreciate when this way of thinking let me work on art one piece after the next without stopping myself and forcing myself to try something different because this wasn't Doing Numbers. but doing it like this forever would cut me off from lots of wonderful experiences within my lifetime. to be able to learn what works and what doesn't. what's too difficult to parse, what's boring, what's annoying. unintentionally anyway. i don't mind making something difficult, boring, and annoying, but i rarely want to make something impossible to parse that puts you to sleep

when i was making art for myself, for my own needs, i'm glad i made it in a way that was criticism agnostic. and while i'd like to allow myself to maybe, advertise myself more, consider an audience more, i really want to retain the lessons i've learned in making patient art

idk. i want to push myself more this year ! because there's a major keystone of motivation in the back and forth conversation between audience and creator. i work faster when i know, specifically, that someone will see and respond to my work. and criticism plays a major role in becoming more effective at achieving whatever your art was meant to achieve. comforting someone, discomforting them, sharing a lesson, imparting a warning, or just helping them lose track of time safely in a world full of demands and danger

and then there's the money game. the "make something that will fund your next something" type game. make a portfolio of things that communicates what you're about, what your capable of now, that makes people imagine what you would make in the future if you're allowed to continue creating without starving to death. this basically runs in the opposite direction of my entire spiel about patient art, but i don't think it contradicts it. potentially, anyway

generally i think i've turned myself into that portfolio. when i talk to people, i'm showing them my Self as the thing i'm capable of. my problem solving, my comfort, my patience, my passion. i practice being valuable as a person and i hope sometimes that maybe that will be the avenue which sees my life get funded. "if you like talking to me today," i imply, "you should buy me dinner so that i am around to keep talking tomorrow!" is this normal? is this moral? join my patreon

[fish-at-fish-fish-resort]

Ok, uh, here I go... it's ok it's alright it's fine just do it

Hi Mahi! It's me, Toguni, from RockShock? We, uh, worked together for a while, and you were my boss's boss for a bit? Then you kind of had that breakdown a few months ago, and there was that whole thing, and nobody in the store ever heard from you again? I'm not sure if you remember me, I don't want to assume... we were never really more than just, uh, acquaintances, maybe? We got lunch a few times together on our breaks, and when the restaurants in the food court would shut down at the end of the day we'd go there and eat all the leftover food? You, uh, got coffee from me a bunch of times, and your, uh, boyfriend would too? I still remember your usual order... his would change up a lot, though, the guy with the poofy hair... I'm not sure if you're still with him or what, sorry if I shouldn't be mentioning him... ugh, I'm, I'm fucking this up, I'm sorry...

Uh, I was that big tall orange guy? With the spines? And the, uh... one eyeball? Uhh... I dunno, you don't see a lot of Urchins around here it seems, especially long-spined ones... but I don't blame you if you don't remember me, we weren't really, uh, too close or anything...

Anyways! The point, uh, is that I'd like to reconnect with you maybe? I always thought you were real cool, and, uh, I don't really have any friends... not implying you have to be my friend, of course, I was just wondering if you'd be interested in maybe hanging out? Sometime? If you feel like it? And, uh, see where it goes? Ugh, I'm soooo fumbling this, I'm sorry.

Well, uh, I know it's been a few months, and I just... wasn't sure if you wanted called? You kind of blew up there, and I was waiting for you to call, and you never did, and then I kind of, uhhh... lost my job... and don't have one anymore... so I'm just free, all-all the t-time... and stuff...

So, uh... I've been afraid to ask and stuff, you know me... I'm something of a nervous nettle... are you, uh, good? I have been worrying about you, I've just been... scared... to ask...

And, uh, would you like to, you know, reconnect, and... stuff? Coffee, maybe? Or, uhh... Oh Cod oh fuck what are you doing he's gonna be annoyed you stupid-- no, no, you don't know that, you just gotta... gotta breathe... it's fine, it's all fine, calm yourself, Toguni, calm yourself... deep breaths, in and out... in... and out... you're fine... it's all fine... you're fine. C'mon. Sent.

whoa whoa whoa thats a lot hold on hold on let me parse through that first!!

youre the guy that asked me for the job in the first place back in the day right? i sent u to my boss n all. i think i remember.

aaaaas for the whole. thing. yeah sorry i didnt like show up again i was scared everyone hated me and wants me dead so i decided to avoid the store entirely...... sorry,,, also sorry abt the breakdown i had mid-shift i really tried to keep it in but yknow. cant do much about it. either way im doing a bit better now since then though.

and hanging out!!! we can do that! i was thinking of going downtown sometime this week i need to buy some things, you can join me if you want?

ah, and i know i usually answer these with a pic buttttttttt im wayy too low energy rn to make myself look okay hope thats fineeeee i mean youll see me again when we hang!!

[chorusfm]

Sinai Vessel Break Up

Sinai Vessel are calling it a day. 15 years is a longer span of time than I know how to talk about. It contains the whole of my adult life and nearly half of my life besides. Good grief. My time outside and within Sinai Vessel can be parsed, but they’re two strands in a cord. And the Sinai Vessel strand is a series of events that is always connected to — if not directly responsible for — every relationship and memory I hold dear. To say I’m thankful for it is to say I’m thankful to have lived at all. And I am thankful. But it has not been easy. Somewhere along the way, Sinai Vessel became a means for me to dress for the job I wanted. I never got that job. I saw friends and peers get the call. I put my nose to the grindstone. I worked my ass off, I enjoyed some true victories. And I spent a long time questioning what was wrong with me or the things I made. My math was wrong, I know. As a loved one put it, it’s insane to be frustrated with myself for not winning the lottery. But still I was, I am. And I’ve tried for a long time to untangle making music from the sick cycle of hope, but I can’t. At least not under this name or banner. It’s too storied, too complicated, it’s gone on too long. There are so many selves that have been involved in this thing. I’ve spent years dreaming of the accidental fire that would reduce it all to zero, but that too is a lottery fantasy. Sometimes you’ve gotta burn it down yourself. If I only once had a hundred people listen to me sing in a given room, only once had as many bend their ear towards something I’d made, I’d be in a privileged quotient of humanity that’s smaller than I could comprehend. I’ve had that many times over. I got to make things I’m proud of with people I adore. And I have felt seen far more often than any one person deserves. Moreover, I learned how to see myself. Goodnight, Sinai Vessel. It’s time to step beyond your fences. I hope that in relieving myself of this pursuit I can be a kinder friend, a better collaborator, a gentler companion to both myself and others. You have taught me everything and I’m taking it all with me. Thank y’all for listening — then, now, whenever you hear from me down the road. It counts now more than it ever has. --- Please consider becoming a member so we can keep bringing you stories like this one. ◎ https://chorus.fm/news/sinai-vessel-break-up/

[memorymessage]

kat with the Correct Take, as usual.

i started truly exploring my gender identity right before the "anti-SJW" movement became extremely mainstream. even before that, and ever since childhood, i have been drawn to masculine representation—i roleplayed male characters online, i cosplayed male characters in real life. when i learned cosplay tricks to look more masculine—like when i learned the first instance of low-budget binding with ace bandages—i started using those techniques out of cosplay in my every day life.

i didn't know what being transgender was until i was 16—already many years into cosplaying and roleplaying—when i stumbled upon and read a story about someone's gender discovery and transition. when i read it—i sobbed. i couldn't properly explain why i was sobbing. i kept telling myself 'this isn't you, this isn't you,' but it was striking a place so deep within my soul, i almost didn't know what to do with myself. i couldn't parse why i was responding the way i was to this discovery of what it meant to be transgender.

in short, i felt like the gender dysphoria i had felt for many years had finally been given a name and pointed to on the map that was my brain.

over that year, i began to learn more about gender expression by researching online. i learned that gender could be a spectrum, and i started to reflect that with my understanding and representation of myself. however, i also witnessed the rise of transphobia and edgy commentary that mocked trans people alongside this learning and research period.

i felt so scared to be the target of this mockery, that when a new online friend of mine discovered my private social media, i immediately deleted that social media—hoping they never saw any pictures of me or read any of my journals before i could delete it—and told them that i was trans man and anything that they saw on that blog was old and not relevant anymore.

this friend had never given me any cause to believe they would mock me for being non-binary or gender fluid, but the culture of the time had locked me in such a tight, self-conscious fear of being mocked, i felt like i needed to pick a binary immediately, or face the ridicule.

now, i don't want to mislead: i very predominantly identified with trans masc, far moreso than non-binary or gender fluid. i was probably always going to end up identifying as a trans man, whether it happened quickly or slowly. But there were definitely parts of me that still wanted to express femininity... and i repressed all of it out of fear of being perceived as invalid as a man.

those repressed parts of myself ended up tearing out at the seams multiple times throughout my life, in various different ways—all of which caused me great distress, born of that fear of being invalidated in what i thought i worked so hard for. sometimes i would dress up entirely feminine, put hair extensions in on my justin bieber haircut, and tell myself 'i'm just doing what drag queens do. i'm still a man.' which would be fine and completely valid, but, in retrospect, i knew it wasn't entirely true. it wouldn't have caused me such emotional distress if it was, and i wouldn't have hid those moments of "dress up" away like a dark, dirty secret, either.

i was very much comfortable and happy outwardly living as a trans man, and lived as so for nearly 10 years, but the fact that any sort of desire for feminine expression within myself caused such a deep psychological upset that i infinitely tried to keep hidden was belying an unaddressed issue. one that i had tried to bury, and bury, and bury.

i feel the need to disclose that gender norms had always been a problem for me—i have been misgendered since i was a kid, even when i was still identifying as cis, whether for things within my control (hairstyle, clothes) or things out of my control (my voice. it's literally only ever been my voice. i don't sound like a cis girl or a cis boy. it's a very androgynous voice.) because of these instances, i have rejected things about myself, and learned to associate them as being negative.

with that said, i will now introduce the fact that i never truly committed to the idea of hrt within those 10 years. the things that i wanted while living as a trans man (masculine body and face shape), came with things i didn't want due to being ridiculed for it in the past (deep voice, body hair, acne). but to say that was the only reason i couldn't commit to it probably wouldn't be true. then again, it's also worthless to speculate on, because i cannot separate the parts of that decision that were influenced by childhood ridicule, and the parts that were due to not fully identifying as a man.

so, maybe this was always going to happen.

i don't consider myself a detransitioner, though i deeply relate with the plight of those that are (the non transphobic ones, at least. very rarely do detransitioners become transphobic, though.)

10 years of denying feminine expression and being ashamed of the part of myself that still desired it. even as a kid, preteen, and early teen, rejecting various forms of feminine expression (for entirely different reasons.) discovering femininity has felt like just that: a discovery. not a return, not a detransition—but an entirely new transition.

it didn't burst out from the seams like before—it happened slowly, as i learned to truly, truly believe that it was okay to be myself—whatever that self may be on any given day. it wasn't an explosion of repressed feelings like the instances of dressing up in secret and telling myself 'it's just like doing drag. i'm still a man.' instead, i let myself wear whatever i wanted to wear—skirts, make up, etc.—anywhere i wanted to go, and i didn't let it frighten me into believing it would invalidate my gender identity.

i did still identify as a man, and a skirt and eyeshadow weren't going to change that.

it was the first time in my life i had ever felt that way and really believed it.

so, where did my gender identity change in this rediscovery of femininity? when did i stop considering myself a trans man?

i think throughout this process of learning that gender identity and gender expression do not have to be strict binaries has led me to a personal understanding (this is applicable to my personal understanding only) that they are not really 'spectrums', either. it's not like a sequential light waveform, or a straight line going from left to right, where you can point to your identity somewhere in that midsection. i believe it to be more abstract than that.

but, there is also a practical and less theoretic aspect—i have been going through medical issues that are tied to female anatomy, and it has—weirdly, ironically, unhappily, and yet strangely respectably—brought me to deeper understanding and appreciation for the struggle that AFAB bodies must sometimes endure. obviously, this is not inherently tied to femininity, but, specifically for my experience, it was and has been.

instead of hating my biological body for its struggles, it has curiously brought me closer to that body.

throughout all this, my main takeaway has been: i will never be done learning about myself, my gender, and my self expression. this could quite literally all change again several months from now—i could start feeling more masculine again and decide to start testosterone by the end of the year, and if that happens, i won't be afraid.

it seems like all throughout my life, expressing my gender, or sexuality, has always been (consciously or unconsciously) tied to fear and shame.

i no longer want that for myself. i'm ready to learn and accept wherever my mind and heart may take me.

and i also resent anyone that says 'detransitioning means you were never trans'.

i'm a trans woman now, thank you. (also, i'm like half-joking, but, like, half-not when saying that. i really do feel like a trans woman sometimes. many times... a lot of times.)

[magicalblerdpenn]

My birthday is in 17 days and I have complicated feelings about it. And I know that I should be reflecting on this offline, in like a journal somewhere, and I will. However, I'm hoping that parsing some things out here will help somehow too.

The last time I was truly happy to have a birthday was when I turned 31, because my older sister came to visit and celebrate it with me. This helped put my past and future birthdays in a new light. Before my 31st birthday, I hadn't been happy to have a birthday since I was in middle or elementary school.

I think birthdays are more lowkey when you're a kid. There's no pressure to reach certain milestones by a certain age and you can celebrate it with family and or classmates. And you're guaranteed some good presents from at least one person. Just don't get in trouble on or before your birthday (I did this once when I brought home an F) and you're golden.

Since I developed depression in high school, my brain pretty much tries to make me miserable every year as I get close to my birthday. I did some online research and apparently birthday depression can be a thing for some people. Yet every year, I manage to make the most of my birthday even if it isn't ideal.

It helps that I ask myself what I want to do or have on my birthday. By doing so, it helps me look forward to celebrating it. I still have to reframe my perspective as far as goals I haven't reached and the loneliness that stings a bit. However, I want to at least be glad that I got to experience another year of life, in all its joy and sorrow.

[taylorgraymoore]

December 8, 2023

The second half of the day was an attrition of small disappointments. Silly things, nothing that much worth commenting on. The quotidian sort of misery that you don’t even really notice, but which gets you down when you’re given something to contrast it with.

Okay, I’ll comment on it:

Public transit was extremely overcrowded. This was mildly annoying but basically alright, because I did manage to read standing and there was something kind of invigorating about it in the absence of any of the rest of it. I hadn’t gotten to work yet, it didn’t feel so bad; I managed to read, still. It was fine. 

A: Work was blah, but it was fine. It wears on a person after too many hours of it, and there are always too many hours of it. Even if you can get small happinesses out of it, there is too much general wear for them to compete. I won’t get into it—even you understand, or you don’t. I also tried starting to describe it several times, and then simply hit delete: I don’t really want to parse though it. Etc. Etc.

B: I forgot to get a zucchini while buying groceries up at Stong’s earlier. I like having zucchini for breakfast, and I was hoping to have some tomorrow. So I thought that I would go to PriceMart (supermarket at the same parking lot as work, I get my lunch there often enough) on one of my breaks and pick up one. I go there, can’t find a zucchini. So I go to customer service, ask to be shown where the zucchini is, and I find out they don’t have any zucchini. So I haven’t gone there for nothing, I buy some chicken breast, which I also need, and then stow in in the freezer at work.

C: Burrowing Owl has come in—this is a really nice Okanagan wine that only comes in once a year, at the beginning of December, in limited numbers. The price of the Merlot isn’t so bad, so I buy a bottle. It makes me a little happy—I’m a wine nerd, so sue me. I know I’ll lay it down and enjoy it in a few months, one of those small things, blah blah blah. I put it in a little brown paper bag with the receipt stapled on it and set it aside behind our customer service desk, per the rules we have going, and then resume my slow war of attrition. 

(Also, there was free pizza. There to celebrate us getting 100% from the mystery shopper twice in a row. Free food year, but that kind of stodgy stuff usually ends up making me feel miserable when I have too much—and I did have too much. Pizza is good, and it was butter chicken too.)

D: So, a few more hours of this and I’m feeling very blah, and I’ve remembered the SkyTrain is still closing early due to the new station they’re building and so, because this shift is so late, I will have to call an Uber to get home. Probably because I’m so focused on this fact, which is not especially pleasant—although, talking to two of my co-workers outside the door while I’m waiting for said ride and they’re having cigarettes before departing, it’s not so awful to get to skip a long transit ride—I forget the wine and the chicken. I remember the wine as I’m in the Uber zipping past the airport, and it’s more intensely depressing than is probably reasonable. Wine is intensely symbolic to me, and I was looking forward to putting it away when I got home. The fact that I know I’m being silly somehow makes this worse. Then I also remember the chicken.

Damn it. Damn it. God damn it. 

Now I’m sitting here writing, to sort of put it in perspective for myself. Or at least make something out of it. I’ll finish this and then go read. 

Welcome back to regular life.

[miraclerizuin]

I asked what Japan story you wanted to hear and you overwhelmingly voted for the time I technically committed a crime.  I hear you, I acknowledge you.

Anyway.  The couch.

It was a terrible couch. The worst couch. But when I first saw it, surrounded by the chaos of S's half-packed apartment, I loved it simply because it was a couch.

My own apartment was unfurnished. I had hoped that meant it would be in a new building, but the sign on the exterior said Showa 40 - nearly fifty years earlier. K-sensei, an English teacher from the nearby high school, dropped me off and I fell asleep on the dusty tatami floor with the late July sun streaming in on me through the bare windows.

K-sensei took me to S's place to get some things. S would be moving out within the week, but at the moment, she was camping somewhere up north, off the grid and unreachable. Although she had agreed to sell me the bulk of her furnishings, since she wasn't done packing for her departure, we had to guess at what to take. A moth-eaten futon, a box of cleaning products. Not the refrigerator; she still needed that as the temperatures climbed into the 90s, or, as my new colleagues insisted on saying, the 30s.

The couch.

It was a two-seater, upholstered yellow-orange over a creaky wooden frame. The back and seats were comfortably padded, and all attached into one big, hulking unit. Two seats was plenty as far as I, single and alone in a new country, was concerned. Orange was my favorite color. K-sensei expressed uncertainty that we would be able to get the thing up the stairs and through the narrow genkan of my apartment. I desperately wanted the couch, and assured him we would make it work. I thought, frequently, of a clip from the show Friends where the friends are trying to move a couch. I haven't ever really watched Friends, it's just one of those things you pick up, like it's deep in the American psyche to shout "pivot!" unhelpfully as you try to shift a stubborn piece of furniture around cruelly immovable architecture.

K-sensei, a man in his fifties with a difficult-to-parse affect and an unpredictable sense of humor, probably did not know about the friends and the couch on the stairs. So it was in awkward silence that we endeavored to pivot, and pivot we did.

Once I was alone again in the apartment, with my ugly couch resting on a layer of cardboard to protect the delicate tatami, a fleeting premonition came to me that one day, I would have to get the couch out of the apartment, and it would positively suck.

I chose to ignore this, because for the time being, I had a couch.

I told myself I was lucky. My rent was low, I had a big apartment. I knew others who were paying more to live in shoeboxes on the same salary.

But I had never lived on my own before. I didn't know how to take care of one room let alone three rooms, a kitchen, and a bathroom. Everyone else seemed to know what they were doing, and it was easier to carry on and pretend I knew, too.

How many of us were hiding the same confusion and struggle, all thinking the people around us had their shit together?

Dust and spiders conquered the corners, things broke and I didn't know where or how to throw them out. Mold seemed to grow overnight, covering the bathroom and an entire wall of one bedroom and, of course, the couch.

I hated that couch. It was too short to comfortably lie down on, and the padding was wearing thin on the arms so they dug into my back whenever I tried. I lost a hairpin down the gap between the cushion and the arm, then discovered there was no way to get it back, because the fabric enclosed the frame of the couch so completely. I spent several evenings in a row scrubbing mold off the bedroom wall and started to despair when I found it had spread to the couch too. The stupid, uncomfortable, uncleanable couch.

My departure was scheduled for three years to the day from my arrival, and I spent the summer trying to get rid of the things in my apartment that were too dreadful to pass onto the next occupant. A cracked suitcase, used once. Rusty silverware from the back of a drawer. And the damn couch.

M-sensei was helping me navigate the complicated recycling system. She asked what materials the couch was made of. Wood? Synthetic? Any metal? I had to admit that I didn't know. There was no way to see inside without cutting into the upholstery.

So that was what we did. Somehow we got the thing out of my apartment (pivot!) and we took it to school. I stood at a safe distance while some sort of manly men on staff attacked it with big hammers. It was very satisfying to watch. We learned that the sofa was mostly wood, cloth, and foam padding. It was held together with metal screws, which the manly men separated from the rest, as according to the holy laws of recycling, metal must be disposed of separately.

As the couch fell to pieces in the school parking lot, my hairpin clattered onto the pavement. So I got that back, at least.

This week marks 10 years since I moved to Japan and 7 years since I left. I am feeling some ways about it

Would you like to hear a story???

[drdemonprince]

I wanted to thank you for Unmasking Autism. Beyond the content, which is both extremely relatable and extremely insightful, I am overjoyed with how much listening to it has pulled me in and kept me engaged. I have struggled with reading or even listening to audio books since my diagnosis because my ability to read and process information was the biggest casualty of the intense burnout that began when my mom died in 2020 that ultimately led to my diagnosis. Reading just broke for me, and it's been gut wrenching.

This is the first book I have attempted to read or listen to that I am devouring the way I used to devour books, and it is because so much of it is relatable and articulated in a way that resonates. The way you write about your experiences is so similar to how I describe my own, even when describing traits where I present very differently. You understand and recognize the incredible nuance and intersection of autism and other parts of identity and life experience, but you present it in a way that is understandable and relatable. The infinite complexity is acknowledged and embraced without the explanation itself being needlessly complicated.

Unlike every other audio book I have tried, I rarely find myself having to rewind to try to parse something that didn't make sense on first listen, which is filling me with such joy because I have struggled so much to recover my reading ability and while audio books have been somewhat more accessible because my visual challenges aren't an obstacle, it's still been such a source of pain to struggle to understand and process books. It felt like losing something that was a huge part of my life and a major form of emotional self care.

I plan to read the text version once I finish the audio book. The way this has woken up parts of my brain that felt locked away is giving me confidence to try to break into the rest of those walled off areas again. It might sound hyperbolic, but it feels like you fixed part of my brain that I thought might be gone for good. This is the book I needed right now to feel more like myself. It needed to be this topic, something which has been central to every aspect of my life for so long and which I am still trying to understand. It needed to be written this way, with a voice that is clear and direct. It needed to be written by someone who's understanding is personal but also communal, someone who understands the intersections of identity that lead to inequity and hostility for marginalized communities.

I really needed this right now.

Thank you so much.

This is such an immensely lovely comment to receive, I've been sitting with it the last few days not knowing what to say. I'm really glad you've found a way to enjoy and reconnect with reading and that you're feeling empowered to do more.

Over the years I've had long lulls between being able to enjoy any books, video games, or even music at times, and losing an ability to access a type of joy I once considered a big part of me is very tough and deadening. But rediscovering those passions and the ability to take them in and appreciate them is like coming back alive.

(I just had that kind of deadened lull recently with gaming-- because of the medium being associated with my ex, I havent been able to enjoy it the last couple years for myself.

but then i rediscovered the passion of being swept up with a wonderful, thought provoking game on my most recent play thru of disco elysium and fuck, the dora conversation had me really tearing up. and all the conversations about ideology in the game have me feeling passionate about political psychology, a field i studied for years and then abandoned, for the first time in a long, long while.)

Sending you well wishes and hoping that anybody else who is reading this who has been unable to enjoy their passions the past few years finds a way to reignite that spark again soon, too. I think lockdown and the breakdown of regular daily rhythms combined with increased social media usage made it very, very hard for me to gear shift into enjoying challenging art for a *while*, and from what i've seen and heard many people are reporting the same. may it all come back for us.

anyway, yeah, thank you for telling me. im glad my book was able to help get you back on the road to enjoying books. i was very intentional when i was writing it about signposting everything that i was going to say and explaining things both thoroughly and clearly, trusting that the reader could understand and find pleasure in groking all the the scientific work and sociopolitical argumentation so long as it was presented to them in sensible way. i was so fortunate that my editor allowed me to really get into the weeds and parse through the nuances of many topics while also encouraging me to put things plainly and compassionately.

i dont know if my next book is quite up to snuff in this regard yet -- it's really dense, and i seem to have lost some of the ability to slowly break down complex topics sometimes lately, so your message is a necessary reminder to put in that work. if i can't explain something simply, i dont yet understand it, and that means i have some more work to do.

[amyjsoba]

Why I stopped watching Doctor Who after Ten and why I decided to get caught up

David Tennant coming back as The Doctor has given me so many feelings that it’s taken a over a week to parse them out.

These feelings first begin in the fall of 2018—4 years ago. Despite being a sci-fi nerd, I am late to Doctor Who. I know a bit about what happens from being on the internet and I decide to give it a go.

Eccleston’s Doctor is enjoyable. Series 1 is finding it’s footing. Some episodes are cheesy, some are heartfelt, and some are…not great.

Nine regenerates, and I am not prepared for my emotional reaction to Ten.

I have loved many characters over the years. I love my own characters, of course. They’re in my head and we chat all the time. I think about a character I cooked up when I was 16. He is a middle-aged, divorced, ship captain who is given the task to find a suitable planet for humanity. I loved him when I created him. I love him still.

I love my current characters an absurd amount. The librarian, the scientist, the heir. They are all in my dreams, and they are real. I hope that one day, other people will love them too.

I love other people’s characters. They leave impressions, just like people. I carry them with me wherever I go. They sink in and become part of me in ways that are different from my own characters.

Yes, I have loved many characters over the years. So many I have lost count. But I can count on one hand the number of characters I have fallen in love with.

It’s not the same thing, is it? If you’ve fallen in love with a character, you know. There’s a subtle yet striking difference.

As I watch Dr. Who, I fall in love with Ten.

It takes maybe two episodes—oh who am I kidding. By the end of the Christmas special I am in love. Head over heals, madly in love with Ten.

The big grin. The puppy eyes. The funny quips and chaotic energy. The hair. The specs. All of him. He is adorable and attractive. All my boxes are checked.

In series two he is SO HAPPY. He’s delightful to watch. Every moment DT is on screen as Ten he is brighter than the sun.

Part of that sunshine is because of Rose. Ten is so obviously in love, and Doomesday rips out my heart and then squeezes it between bloodied claws while I am forced to watch. Ten burns up a sun to say goodbye and is on the brink of confessing his love when time runs out.

God it sucks. It hurts. This fuckin’ show.

For most of series three he mopes, and then he picks up Donna in series four. Donna isn’t Rose, but Donna is his BFF and I can get on board with that. I love Donna. I’m not in love with Donna, understand, but I love her. She’s great.

And then Rose comes back and the show tries its best to give SOME kind of happy ending with Tentoo. But for me…it doesn’t satiate. Tentoo isn’t Ten. Ten has to stand there and watch the woman he loves kiss someone who is him…but not him (DT has commented on how much that sucks). Ten is still sad. And then, shortly after, he has to say goodbye to his BFF and erase her memories.

What the fuck, show. This is literally the worst. It’s so goddamn tragic I don’t know what to do with myself. I just want him to be happy for eternity.

No, just kidding, it gets worse. Because the regeneration is coming.

I do not—absolutely DO NOT—want Ten to go. There are so few episodes in each series. I need more. I haven’t spent enough time with him.

And then he looks at the camera with tears and says, “I don’t want to go.”

Are you fucking kidding me. Is this for real.

Suddenly, understanding comes. A lightbulb. This character, the Doctor, will never be happy. It’s impossible. They are tragic. Everything turns to ash around them and almost everyone they love must be cut off from them and sometimes people die.

I push on. I watch the first episode of Matt Smith, but I cannot do this. I absolutely cannot. My heart is too broken. The character I’m in love with is gone. It doesn’t matter if Matt Smith is great (I’m sure he is). Doesn’t matter that there are good episodes to look forward to (Van Gogh)—I can’t. I literally have to grieve Ten. And the more cynical part of me says, “why should I watch a show where the main character will never be happy?”

You might find that dramatic. But this is my emotional state at the end of Ten.

I don’t watch Doctor Who after that.

Three years later, I see on my Twitter feed that DT is filming Dr. Who. I see this picture 👇

Everyone, including me, thinks it’s a Ten special because what else would it be. Maybe I’ll watch it. Catherine Tate is filming, too. Can I bear watching Donna again? Knowing what happens? I love her. Not in love with her, understand, but I love her. And the ending she got broke me.

I’m apprehensive. Whatever—I still have a year or more to decide if I can handle watching the special.

And then this year…something unexpected happens. Thirteen regenerates into…DT? When I hear the news it stuns me. I watch the clip. He’s…back. Properly back. The teeth comment makes me laugh through my tears (yes there are tears). I watch it again. And again. And again.

I learn we are getting THREE specials. DT is the fourteenth Doctor. Something blooms in my chest. Something…hopeful. I’m going to see him again but so is Donna. Catherine filming for something that canonically takes place after Donna lost her memories means there’s hope for that wrong to be corrected. Even if she doesn’t continue venturing with him. I’m definitely watching the specials—and who knows, maybe after that, too.

I start watching clips of Dr. Who again. I’ve missed Ten. I laugh. I think…maybe I should get caught up. Maybe I can watch it now.

I know what happens to the companions of Eleven and Twelve and I know the writing isn’t great in later seasons but—he is coming back. I can do it.

I watch the first two episodes of Matt Smith as Eleven. I laugh (I didn’t laugh at all when I watched it 4 years ago). I probably won’t fall in love with Eleven, but I think I can love him.

This is a good show—even if it’s a bit tragic.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Trey, Ruggie: Paint the Town Red

Hell yeah, I was right about the alternating day/night groovies 😳 and Trey’s bouquet still looks like a bunch of leafy greens--

I actually found Trey’s interview really interesting, especially the final question! I really connected with trying to “refine” my imagination and trying to understand the meaning behind all kinds of art. That probably explains why I love analysis so much 🤡

Also, sorry for being late for your birthday, Trey asdgkjvakgssdvasd I WAS DISTRACTED BY THE GLORIOUS MASQUERADE

A Boy in Bloom, and his Flowering Future.

“What’s one thing you hope to do this upcoming year?”

Trey paused, considering his options. “I guess I’d try to appreciate more art? I go to museums back home, but there’s probably a bunch of work that I haven’t seen yet.”

“Art?” Ruggie’s nose scrunched up.

“Ahahah... I can see you’re not a fan of it.”

“Well, nothin’ against it, but it’s not really my thing. You can’t get paid to stare at paintings! It’s a kinda luxury that only well-off types look at for fun.” The hyena’s eyes sharpened, carefully parsing through Trey’s worth. “You well-off?”

“What? No, not me.” He held up a hand, easing his interviewer. “I’m not rich. I’m not super into art either, but I just can’t help but be drawn to it. I wonder what the art could mean, what the artist was thinking of when they were creating it.

“My imagination’s not too good, and that can be a problem for visualizing spells. I think of looking at art like I’m trying to train myself to think bigger and better.”

“... Is that even something you can train in the first place? ‘S not like your brain can grow muscles.”

“Yeah, I don’t think so.” Trey’s words trailed off into a brief, nervous laugh. “That’s the problem. I’ve tried lots of things, but I don’t get anywhere with it.”

“Aren’t ‘cha in the same club as Rook-san? You could always ask him for help.” (Ruggie made a face as he gave the suggestion.) “That weirdo can make anything sound all fancy.”

“True, that’s definitely Rook’s… strong suit. But this is something I’d like to figure out for myself. It’s not the same if someone else is there to guide me to the answer.”

“So you’ll go out of your way to help your dorm in Magift and teach’m how to cook, but you won’t take any help for yourself?”

“Pretty much.”

“Huh… You’re pretty selfless, Trey-san.” Ruggie hid a leering smile behind a hand, knowing that he wasn’t the same.

Nothin’ like me. If I can get the same result, it doesn’t matter how I got there. Begging, cheating, stealing—anything to claw toward his prize.

“Is that how you think of me? Well… If it causes less trouble for me in the long run, then sure. I just think it’s practical.”

“… You’re a real square, you know that?” Ruggie rolled his eyes. “No wonder why Riddle keeps you around—and no wonder why your imagination’s crap. You seriously gotta open your mind—”

He vaguely gestured upward.

Trey looked.

The sky was a dark tapestry woven with sparkling stars, the moon a milky jewel. It was a marvelous night straight out of a painting.

Trey held his breath, waiting for something wonderful to happen. For something to finally click into place, for him to suddenly understand.

It didn’t.

“—to the possibilities.”

“It’s the sky.”

“That’s one possibility.” Ruggie cocked a cheeky grin. “Back home, there’s a story about how the great kings of the past watch over us from up there. And all the stars? Those’re the people that’ve passed on. That’s… another possibility.”

Trey lifted a brow. Had his ears deceived him, or had there been a slight hesitation in the hyena’s voice?

“Ruggie, could it be that…”

He was cut off by an explosion of flowers thrusted at his face. Tufts of hydrangeas, young clovers and chrysanthemums, glossy leaves, all in shades of green.

Trey blinked, bewildered.

“You shouldn’t keep’m waiting,” Ruggie insisted, his head poking out from the birthday bouquet broom. He shoved it into his upperclassman’s hands. “I bet they’re lookin’ to wish you a happy birthday too.”

… No. No, he couldn’t ask it and ruin the moment. Trey swallowed and shoved the question down.

“The great kings of the past, right?” Trey nodded, tipping his wizarding cap. “I’ll let them know you said hi. They’ll be happy to hear from you.”

Ruggie’s mouth wobbled before deciding to settle with a slight frown and a sigh. “There you go again, worrying about others instead of yourself.” The hyena clapped Trey on the back. “Hurry up and get going, or the party food’s gonna be stale when you get back.”

“Alright, alright, I’m off. Don’t wait up for me.”

“I won’t!! I’m gonna be busy stuffing my face.”

Trey found himself chuckling at the ease with which Ruggie responded, whisking away the last of his nerves. A cool autumn breeze ran along his neck, cutting at a sharp angle—and, following it, he came upon the sky again.

The same old thing.

But bright blue on the days when Heartslabyul held its unbirthday parties. The clouds were stretches thin then, like white taffy being pulled apart and melting deliciously upon the tongue.

Red as roses at sunset, the light popped and bleeding into the horizon as they cleared their things up, packing the decorations away for another day. Red, the color most loved by the queen. Like the strawberries Riddle adored.

The rosy pinks and peaches of dawn, the violets and blues of dusk, gold from the sun.

It’s still the sky, but it’s constantly changing, Trey realized.

So vibrant, he could almost taste them. As bright and as sweet as citrus drops. The stars, now looking like they were crafted of silvery sugar.

“… Someday, I’ll understand it.”

Why the night sky is sprinkled with sugar stars.

Calm down, take a deep breath, summon all your strength… and seek my own answers!

With that promise nestled to his chest, Trey launched into the air in a shower of sparkles. Stray petals trailed after him, glowing in the moonlight.

Painting the college in his colors.

[yennefer-x-tissaia]

Haven't read the books either, but I know Tissaia's fate and they did some questionable things this season to most characters so I'm a little concerned. Tissaia threw shade at Stregobor every chance she got about killing innocent babies born during the eclipse and yet she suggested getting rid of Ciri and anyone who protects her. It doesn't bode well.

Tissaia's last scene does seem to be the one most people are struggling to parse. Her active participation in royal and political circles seems to have thrown people who are more familiar with the books.

I guess, for me, she's essentially had it confirmed to her by Triss that Ciri is a nuclear bomb waiting to go off, bringing about the destruction of the world. And Tissaia is all about balance and order and probably doesn't want the world to explode and whatnot. Yes, she's not one to go after innocent babies based on superstition, but when one of her girls tells her the end of the world is coming, she takes action? Idk. That's how I'm going to have to justify it to myself.

Anyway, back to that final Tissaia scene. What really threw me at first was her body language!! The way she was practically lounging in that chair.

We've seen her reclining on a fucking chaise longue before, and she somehow still managed to be ramrod straight!!

(Honestly, it threw me to the point I tried to convince myself it was a shapeshifter playing her.)

Anyway, I can't really fathom what's going on her. It's Tissaia's suggestion to expand the bounty to 'anyone who protects her'. Which means she's actively choosing to put a bounty on Geralt's head.

Now, she might not know the details of Yen and Geralt's relationship, but she knows that he cares enough about her to fucking cry over her apparent death. So this is a very definite decision she's making here to target someone close to Yennefer. Her jaw is working after she says it, like she's grinding her teeth. She's conflicted.

She looks conflicted again at the end of the scene. So she's clearly not taking this step lightly. Whatever her reasons are, she feels guilt about what she's doing.

What'll be interesting to see is how she reacts when she finds out that one of Ciri's protectors is Yennefer. They'll be on opposing sides for a while and I'm hoping, then, that Tissaia's love for and trust in Yennefer will sway her away from the 'greater good' stuff and over to their side.

But, going by the things that happened in this season, who knows if anything even close to that will happen!!

[bluejayblueskies]

tying the knot

written for week one of @archivalpride for the prompts pre-canon, self-expression, affirmation, and sharing clothes jewelry!

cw for mild internalized acephobia, teasing

also on ao3! (link in source)

.

“Do you like earrings?”

Jon lowers the book he’s reading and frowns at Tim. “Sorry?”

Tim’s laptop is propped on top of Jon’s shins where they’re resting atop Tim's lap, and he’s scrolling through some website that Jon can’t quite make out. “Earrings,” he repeats, pulling up a pair and swiveling the laptop so Jon can see. “I’ve got a coupon. Buy one get one free jewelry.”

“Not like that,” Jon says, wrinkling his nose at the gaudy dinosaur dangle earrings on the screen in front of him. He tugs at one of the small silver hoops in his earlobes and says, “I don’t really change mine. I’d take them out and let the holes close up, but keeping them in is honestly less work.”

Tim hums and turns back to the screen, clicking away from the earrings and continuing to scroll. “What about rings?” He types a few things on the keyboard. “You’ve got that black one you always wear.”

“Hm?” Jon’s hand automatically goes to the thin black band on his right middle finger, twisting it absently a few times. “Oh, that’s my ace ring.”

Tim looks at the ring, forehead creased. “Those are a thing?”

“I- I mean… yeah? I guess?” Jon hesitates a moment, then takes the ring off his finger and offers it to Tim. “I got one my last year in uni. It- it’s really just for me, I don’t wear it to, er… communicate that I’m ace to other people, necessarily, though it can serve that purpose, I suppose. I just… I like it.”

Tim takes the ring and turns it over a few times in his hand. “Huh. Is this, um. Is this something that all ace people know about and… and I just missed the memo?”

“I mean, I- I don’t…” Jon trails off. He closes his book and sets it on the floor next to the couch, watching Tim fiddle with the ring. “Wait, you- you’re ace? I… I didn’t know that.”

“It’s- well, it’s not a new development,” Tim says with a small laugh, “but I never really had the word until I met you? I never minded sex, and I just thought it was normal that I never really wanted it with any particular person. I honestly thought that whole ‘look across the room and see somebody you want to take to bed’ trope was a thing that just happened in movies. Hearing you talk about being ace, even though you’re a different, uh… subtype? Than me? I don’t know, it- it made a lot of sense to me. I still had a bit of doubt, you know, since I do still like sex, but then you said that some people are sex-favorable, and… yep. Pretty sure that’s me. I did a bit of research of my own just to make sure, but I, uh, I never saw anything about ace rings, I guess.”

“Oh.” Jon watches Tim pass the ring from finger to finger, flipping it back and forth between his thumb and middle finger on his right hand. “I, er… thank you, I- I suppose. For telling me, that is.”

Tim hums. “Would have told you earlier, it just… never really came up, I suppose. Always meant to, though. You’re my best friend, and it’s not like I was afraid you’d react poorly or anything.” He flashes Jon a toothy-white smile and holds out his hand, the ring sat in the center of his palm. “The ring’s cool, though. I might get one for myself.”

Jon stares at Tim’s outstretched hand, something warm curling in the pit of his stomach. He’s not sure what, exactly, compels him to say, “Why don’t you, um. Why don’t you wear that one? At- at least until you find one that you, um. That you like.”

Tim looks surprised. “Jon, I’m not stealing your ring.”

“It’s not stealing if I give it to you,” Jon says, crossing his arms across his chest. “I want you to take it. For- for now, that is.”

Tim looks at Jon a moment more before laughing, his eyes crinkling near the corners. “Jon,” he says, closing his hand around the ring and reaching for one of Jon’s hands with the other. Jon allows his hand to be guided away from his chest, and Tim flattens his palm against Jon’s. Jon frowns at the way Tim’s hand dwarfs his by a centimeter or two, trying to ignore the way his skin tingles where it’s pressed up against Tim’s. “I really don’t think it’s going to fit.”

“You haven’t even tried it on yet,” Jon counters stubbornly.

Tim holds the hand holding the ring up in defeat, his fingers still curled into a fist around it. “All right, all right,” he says, taking his hand away from Jon’s and uncurling his fingers from around the ring. Jon ignores the way his skin grows colder at the lack of contact and watches Tim slip the black ring onto the middle finger of his right hand. It goes on until the second knuckle where it sticks, and Tim holds his hand up in the air with a smirk. “See? It’s stuck. You’ve got twiggy fingers, Jon.”

“I- I do not!” Jon sputters, ignoring the evidence in front of him that clearly indicates otherwise. “Besides, I think it looks… fine.”

“Fine,” Tim echoes, amused. He slips the ring off his finger and holds it back out toward Jon. “I’m not taking your ring if it doesn’t even fit, Jon. But thanks.”

“That’s not—” Jon cuts off with a frustrated noise. He moves his legs off Tim’s and stands, leaving Tim holding the ring with a small confused furrow between his eyebrows. “Wait here. I- I’ll be back.”

“Okay?” Tim says, and Jon nods once decisively before retreating to his bedroom. He pulls a few boxes out from his closet and rifles through them, his heartbeat nestling high in his throat and his face growing steadily warmer. This is stupid, he thinks, even as he finds what he's looking for and grips it tightly in one hand, feeling the soft give of it beneath his fingers. Tim’s going to think it’s stupid.

Taking a deep breath, Jon stands and makes his way back to the living room where Tim’s still sat, worrying the ring back and forth between his fingers and watching Jon with a fond, mildly confused smile as Jon sits back on the couch beside him.

Jon sets the ball of black yarn and pair of scissors on his lap, looks at Tim, and says as confidently as he can muster, “Hold out your hand.”

Tim raises an eyebrow. “What?”

“Don’t laugh at me,” Jon says sharply, his cheeks burning as he looks at Tim expectantly. “Just- just hold out your hand.”

“I’m not laughing,” Tim says softly as he passes Jon’s ring to his left hand and holds out his right, fingers splayed wide and waiting. “Promise.”

If anything, Jon’s face gets hotter at that. He clips a short length of yarn from the ball on his lap, sets the scissors down, and says, “I- I know.” He hesitates, just a moment, before wrapping the bit of yarn around the base of Tim’s middle finger and tying a crisp double knot, cutting off the ends so they’re short and uniform. He pulls his hands back from Tim’s and settles them nervously on his lap, one hand going absently to the ball of yarn and tugging at a few of the loose strands. “Just, um. U- until you can get a real ring.”

Tim looks at him, expression unreadable, and Jon looks away, embarrassment curling hotly in his stomach. “S- sorry,” he says, worrying the hem of his shirt between his fingers. “It- it was a stupid idea.” He takes the scissors in hand and holds them out toward Tim, still staring intently at his lap. “You- you can cut it off if you want.”

Tim’s fingers brush against Jon’s as he pushes the scissors gently back toward Jon. “I haven’t even said anything yet,” he says, the amusement in his voice mixed with something else that Jon can’t quite place. (Not that he’s ever been great at parsing tone in general.) “What makes you think I don’t like it?”

Jon opens and closes his mouth a few times before making an I-don’t-know noise.

“Well, I do,” Tim says matter-of-factly. “In fact, I’m never taking it off, I’ve decided. I’m taking it with me to the grave. Till-death-do-us-part.”

Jon makes a series of sputtering noises before finally landing on, “Well, I, er. I- I’m glad.”

Tim grins at him and then takes Jon’s hand in his own and slips Jon’s ring back onto his finger. Jon’s mind goes blank of all thoughts other than Tim’s hand is touching mine and Tim is very warm and Tim just put a ring on my finger.

“See?” Tim says, squeezing Jon’s hand in his for just a moment before slipping his hand down to Jon’s wrist and holding Jon’s hand up for display. “Twiggy fingers.”

Jon cuts off his thought of Tim is sitting just close enough to kiss with a scowl and wriggles his hand out of Tim’s grip, ignoring the way that Tim’s grin only widens as he does so. “They are perfectly normal-sized fingers for a man of my stature, I’ll have you know.”

“Mm, yes, I suppose you’re right,” Tim says with a put-upon sigh. “I conceded! The rest of you is twiggy as well.”

“Tim.”

“Absolutely no meat on your bones, Jonathan. Positively scrawny.”

Jon crosses his arms across his chest and frowns. He certainly doesn’t pout, and anybody who says anything different is lying. “Timothy Stoker.”

Tim laughs, his expression softening as he reaches over and takes one of Jon’s hands in his own, squeezing gently. “Oh, full-name basis. I must be in trouble.” He turns Jon’s hand over in his and looks at Jon’s ring, rubbing a thumb over it in consideration. Jon definitely doesn’t blush when he does so. “Really, though. Thanks. It… it means a lot.”

Jon looks down at their joined hands, something fluttering and light curling within his stomach. “It- it’s just yarn,” he says quietly, brushing against the knot of yarn with the tip of his finger.

Tim shrugs. “Yeah, but that’s not the point. The point is that you gave it to me, and you listened, and you cared.”

“Oh,” Jon says softly. He swallows around the lump in his throat before offering Tim a small smile that he hopes doesn’t betray the overwhelming affection blooming deep within him. “Well, you- you’re welcome, I suppose.”

Tim hums. He looks down at their hands, flexes his fingers, and says cheerily, “The yarn is nice too, though. Very soft. Definitely has some friendship-bracelet vibes.”

“Ha ha,” Jon says dryly. He leans across Tim’s lap and retrieves the computer, resolutely not thinking about the heat he can feel radiating off Tim with the proximity. Christ, he’s practically a furnace. “You said it’s buy one get one free? I’m sure you can find something.”

Tim orders a ring in the end, a thick black tungsten band, and he tacks a pair of ostentatious cat earrings onto the order despite Jon’s protests that I’m absolutely never going to wear those, Tim and yes, I like cats, but not dangling from my ears and fine, but I’m wearing them once and that’s it. And when Tim arrives at work two weeks later with the ring on his finger, the thin piece of yarn still tied alongside it as he holds his hand up proudly for Jon to see, Jon’s heart skips a beat before picking back up double time.

Oh, Jon thinks as Tim prattles on about shipping times and little silver cats with green gemstone eyes and heart-shaped ace pins, pressing one of the aforementioned pins into Jon’s hand with a grin. Oh.

Jon holds the small metal heart in his hand and looks at the yarn on Tim’s finger and knows, with absolute certainty, that he’s falling in love with Timothy Stoker. His face gets hot and he focuses on Tim’s hands, trying not to give away the fact that his heart is practically beating out of his chest like a cartoon character.

“Jon?” Tim says, placing a hand on one of Jon’s and startling him free from his thoughts. His hand is warm, Jon thinks. I’d love to hold it. “Everything good?”

“Yes,” Jon says quickly, his eyes snapping up to Tim’s face. Tim is smiling at him warmly, and Jon feels a part of himself melt. “Yes,” he repeats, his mouth curling into a small smile to match. “Everything’s great.”

“Great,” Tim echoes, squeezing Jon’s hand once before letting go. His smile turns a bit teasing at the edges, and Jon braces himself. “Now.” He pulls the earrings out of his pocket and dangles them in front of Jon. “As I recall, you did promise at least once.”

Jon is, unfortunately, falling in love with Timothy Stoker. God help him.

“Fine,” Jon grumbles, taking the earrings out of Tim’s hand and giving him a withering look. “Just once.”

Jon does, in fact, end up wearing the earrings more than once, fiddling absentmindedly with the small cats as he walks through the supermarket and stands on the tube and sits on his couch, flipping through a book. But that’s nobody’s business but his own.