#and I wanted to share that

[ethereal-bumble-bee]

So, my high school’s student council does this thing where once a month, we go over to the local elementary school and we do an activity with the kindergarteners. Each of us has a buddy or two, and we just talk and be their friend for about thirty minutes.

The first time we began to do this was two days ago, on Thursday. The bus gets there a bit later than planned, so we’re ushered in quickly and told to just pick a buddy.

The kindergarten teacher, a sweet old lady wearing a cardigan and a floral dress, waves around and gestured to her class. “Go ahead,” she tells us.

The other students begin to pair up with the littler kids, and the teacher gestures once more to a little desk right behind her. It’s alone, not in pairs like the other kids’ desks, and it’s set a little bit away from the rest of the classroom.

It’s an infamous desk, one that every elementary school classroom I’ve ever been in has had— the ‘bad kid’ desk. The desk for kids who aren’t like the others. I’ve seen many a kid in that desk, many a sweet little boy or girl who’s set aside so none of other kids have to deal with them.

There’s a Mario plushie on top of the desk, as well as some various work papers. The teacher explains that the kid is out but will be back soon, and he also needs a buddy.

“I will warn you, though, he has plenty of energy to share,” she says with a chuckle.

That’s another infamous statement, one I’m all too familiar with. It’s code for: this kid is special needs.

No one chooses the desk, and no one chooses me. I’m left alone. Slowly, I make my way over to that little desk, sitting down gingerly on a small kiddie stool. I almost laugh at how tiny everything is here- from the whiteboard to the chairs, every item is made for those under three-foot-five.

I wait, and wait, for about ten minutes, where my eyes begin to wander around the classroom. Up on the wall, there’s an alphabet chart, with each kid’s name under their respective letter. My eye catches on the name Aiden.

It’s bubble lettered, colored in with what could be described as a haphazard hand, blue and red equal on each side. I smile, look around, watch the other kids begin crafting. They’re hard at work decorating small paper monsters with pipe cleaners and pom-poms, messy and creative.

I hear the door open. No one else notices, but my eyes turn over to see a small kid with a mop of curly, light-brown hair, skipping in alongside a paraprofessional. The teacher smiles at him, kneeling down to meet his eye.

“You’re just in time, Aiden,” she says sweetly. “We’re doing some crafts with our buddies! Yours is right over there.”

She points, and I sheepishly wave my hand. I’ve always been good with kids, but it’s still nerve-wracking. Kids are so unpredictable— what if he hates me?

Aiden glances at me, and his eyes light up. “Really? I have a buddy? That’s my buddy?” He shrieks, beaming as he jumps. My heart warms at the sight. Thank the good lord above.

He walks over, and I kneel. I don’t meet his eye. I introduce myself, extending my hand and retracting it when he doesn’t take it. “It’s so awesome to meet you,” I say. “I’m excited to be your buddy.”

“I’m Aiden!” he says, still smiling. He’s a bundle of excitement, that one. Before I can reply, he rushes over to his backpack and begins digging. I watch as he pulls out a notebook, Aiden printed on it in what I assume to be his mother’s handwriting. “See, that’s my name!”

I smile and nod. “That’s awesome,” I say. He sits, kicking his legs happily. I notice his shoes, covered in little Mickey Mouses. “Do you like Mickey?”

“No, but my mom does,” he replies sagely. “I love Mario.” He reaches to point to the plushie. “Right there.”

I laugh at the matter-of-factness of his statement. “Hey, I like Mario too.”

He smiles again. “You like Mario?”

“Sure do.”

The truth is, I haven’t played a single Mario game in over a year, but he’s so excited— and hey, I can’t say I particularly dislike Mario anyways, so might as well.

We stand up and move to the table on the left side of the room, and he tilts his head as he regards the supplies. He wants to make Mario, he decides, and I nod.

We get the supplies, picking out the color of his hair, his skin, his eyes, his overalls, and that iconic cap. We’re swimming in pipe cleaners and googly eyes when we sit, and I run over to grab some glue.

Trying to make sure this goes smoothly, I ask if he wants to glue the things himself, or if he wants to place them and let me glue. He asks me to glue, and I unscrew the cap to the bottle.

We begin to bend and place the pipe cleaners here and there until he’s happy with the piece. He’s very meticulous about it, making sure no glue gets on his hands or the blank space of the paper. He hates the feeling, he tells me, and I can’t help but agree.

Once or twice, he gets up to make a lap around the room, and I follow him as he chatters excitedly about the things he sees. He loves the color blue, and he loves his teacher, and did you know Mario has a green colored brother? I trail behind, smiling, already attached to this kid.

At one point, it gets loud. The kids are comfortable with their teenage buddies, and they’re talking and laughing and yelling, such as kindergarteners do. It’s uncomfortable for me, but I don’t want to leave Aiden, so I sit at the desk and prepare to glue—

He’s gone.

I glance over, confused, until I see him standing calmly behind a small whiteboard right behind the desk. “What’cha doing?” I ask, and he shrugs.

“There’s just a lot going on right now.”

He says it in the tone that implies he’s heard it countless times from adults, the repeating drone of I know it’s a lot, but you’ve got to calm down. He seems content enough behind the whiteboard, so I subtly place my hands over my ears to block the noise and wait until he’s ready to sit again.

We’re gluing on the nose when the teacher makes an announcement— it’s time to go. My student council sponsor is waiting, watching us with amusement as we struggle to wrangle the kids. Aiden doesn’t hear it, engrossed in getting the angle of the nose just right.

I let out a breath before kneeling to look him in the eye. “Hey, buddy, I’m so sorry, but it’s time for me to go.”

His face falls, and my heart does too at the sight of it. “Wait!” he says, his lip trembling. “We’re not done with Mario! You can’t go!”

The teacher, sensing a breakdown, hurries over. “Hey, Aiden, it’s okay. She’ll be back next month, alright?”

“Yeah, I will.” I nod, giving him what I hope is a reassuring smile. “It’s been so much fun hanging out with you today. I can’t wait for next time!”

“No!” he yells, standing and making an X with his arms, another learned tactic. “She can’t leave! We’re not done!”

He’s crying now, and I almost want to cry too. He’s right, we’re not done, and I can’t stand to see this sweet, energetic kid upset. Before I know it, he’s running off into the classroom restroom, crying, needing to shut himself off to deal with the emotion.

The teacher apologizes, but I don’t think I need one. “He reminds me of a friend of mine,” I say, and she gives me a look of understanding.

I glance back at Mario. It’s pretty well-done, despite being created by a kindergartner and an artistically challenged sophomore. I smile as I see the nose, half-glued on and half falling off. Quickly, I add a dot of glue and press down, making sure it’ll stay.

We sign our names along with the names of our kids and leave. As I leave, the teacher stops me. “Thank you for being his buddy today,” she says, with a tone that implies it must’ve a chore for me. “It means a lot to him, I know.”

“It was no problem at all, ma’am,” I reply, my voice sincere and truthful.

I don’t get to say goodbye to Aiden, but I understand. My day is made, and me and my friend talk animatedly about our buddies as the bus brings us home.

“I really can’t wait to do this again,” I say— and I mean it, one hundred percent.

There’s a Mario t-shirt hanging in my closet now— bought on a whim when I saw it at Walmart. I’m planning to wear it to the next activity day, just to give Aiden another smile, make his day like he made mine.

That desk, that little Mario plushie, the scribbled name on the wall, they remind me of someone.

Someone who grew up just like him.

Not so energetic, sure, but still spoken about in whispers, spoken about as if I were some poor soul who’d been gravely injured instead of a girl with a different mind; a girl sitting at a desk far from her peers, holding a small Minecraft plushie wherever I went.

I can’t wait to see him again, this little kid— who, when I think about it, is a lot like me.

[gayestcowboy]

this shit is the only remaining good part of twitter

[uwudonoodle]

[lgbtlunaverse]

The world exists in such a baffling state of simultaneous sex-aversion and sex-hegemony. Every social platform on the internet is trying to banish sex workers to the shadow realm but I can't post a tweet without at least two bots replying P U S S Y I N B I O. People are self-censoring sex to seggs and $3× but every other ad you see is still filled with half-naked women. Rightwingers want queer people arrested for so much as existing in the same postal code as a child and are also drumming up a moral panic about how teenage boys aren't getting laid enough. I feel like I'm losing my mind.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

The math just adds up!

[demaparbat-hp]

Arsonist's Lullaby

[canonkiller]

but you can't keep holding on like this.

[perfectlyripeclementine]

calling my lover "mine" but not in the way that my toothbrush or notebook are mine, mine in the way my neighborhood is mine, and also everybody else's, "mine" like mine to tend to, mine to care for, mine to love. "mine" not like possession but devotion.

[wearenotjustnumbers2]

Yesterday marked the 100th day of genocide. Please, do not get used to this. Our people, killed, bombed, kidnapped, stripped, executed and starved is not normal. Our kids in pieces, their body parts collected in bags is not normal.

Israel has killed 23,700 human. More than 10,300 child. We'd need 177 school bus to carry the Palestinian children killed by Israel in gaza. 10,022 fatherless child. 8,352 motherless child. The wounded have their wounds rot and die waiting in front of the crossing. Maggots seen inside alive people's wounds. 5,500 pregnant woman will give birth in the upcoming weeks. 100 Days of Genocide. 100 Days of the world watching silently.

[nipuni]

the snake of eden 🥰

[jekyll-hatepage]

I will forever be obsessing over Laios imaging himself as a wolf (a dangerous animal, and one that is [albeit falsely] associated with loneliness) and Marcille imagining him as a cute dog. It shows how negatively he thinks of himself after his fight with Shuro, and how even if he worries now that he's a nuisance to people/can't fit in, NOBODY PERCEIVES HIM THIS WAY. HE'S JUST A SILLY GUY. MARCILLE ASSOCIATES HIM WITH THE DOG BECAUSE HE'S LOYAL AND LOVEABLE.

[lemongogo]

life of regret

[admiralexclipse]

[bl00dalchemist]

So i finished reading dungeon meshi