#anyone whos ever had the humiliating experience of having to talk to your grandmother in the most stilted tamil and having HER switch

[tinynerdycthulu]

ok ignoring all the discourse about kamala harris this quote is like irrationally funny to me and me only probably. like to understand imagine ur australian and in order to prove that some random candidate is in touch with his australian roots to appeal to you there's an quote from some random famous guy "we spoke in flawless Australian English, "i said g'day mate' and 'thanks cunt' plus we had a scintillating discussion on vegemite" like yes sambar is a staple food but its also like the most surface level one imo. personally id go for rasam which is the blood of any southie.

the one thing ill give her is that this is very "i stopped speaking tamil as soon as i left home and now i sound like a white person whose learned three words out of a phrasebook" core and thats actually quite relatable. its funny to me personally that my grandparents are from the same city (chennai) that kamala harris' mom is from i mean its not rly suprising considering that like 6 million ppl live there but like imagine...maybe my grandma honked at shyamala gopalan on a two-wheeler in the 50s or smth.

note: this quote is from some random article in like 2020, personally i thought kamala harris was half white half black, and then assumed she was half northie so didnt care she was indian (tamil nationalism go brr) but then i found out she was a TAMIZHAR so obv i googled whether she could speak the language and then chanced upon the article which was just titled "i spoke briefly to kamala harris in tamil" or smth. anyway the original tamil isnt offensive only my australian approximation is. kamala auntie அமெரிக்காவை காப்பாற்ற.

[masarukt]

Today Was A Lot...

Financially, my spouse and I are not in a good place. At all. We are at the point where we are going to need to talk to my grandmother for aid, which...is not ever something I've ever in my life have ever wanted to do. You don't just go to your Japanese American grandmother and ask for massive amounts of critical life saving amounts of money...you have to have a very solid damn good plan. You have to have a very well put together thought process. You have to make sure that you won't fuck it up again. You have to go into this knowing that you will not get a second chance after this. If you fuck up again after this, there will be no more saves. It will be Game Over.

My spouse and I have to make sure that we have a good concrete plan...and we have to also be willing to share all of our financial hardships with both my dad and my grandma (for personal private reasons, I won't share here why my dad is also involved but he is, so just roll with it, okay?). Both of them will need to see an itemized list of ALL of our debts. They will need to see exactly what kind of financial situation we are in. They will need to see exactly how bad of a situation we are dealing with - not just with the housing situation but all around finances. Just to see what exactly is making all of this so damn hard in general. This is going to be...intense. And humiliating. And so so hard...

And on top of all of that...in order to deal with the bills and things that we have right now, right this second, we had no choice but to collect up items that we have right now...things that were worth money...and to sell them. We took them to shops that would buy the items in question...and we sold them. Pieces of ourselves...pieces of our childhood. Loved, treasured, cherished items. It may seem silly to some people, that these are just "things", but these things were precious to the both of us.

Like my oboe from when I was ending high school and going into university. My electric guitar when I was a freshman in college. My spouse's gameboy color and their games. My Final Fantasy VII game. My Pocket Pikachu.

For someone like me who has a horrible memory also? Having items like that around is very very important because they help me to remember things. And when they're gone...I tend to find that the memories tend to go along with them.

I can't speak for my spouse...but for me, I feel like I lost pieces of myself today. I feel like I lost chunks of joy from my being. And I wasn't ready to let go...I didn't want to say goodbye yet. I wasn't ready...

But unfortunately, we find ourselves in such an awful state of affairs that we have no other options left but to let go of pieces of ourselves in order for us to continue to be able to afford to keep the lights on, the water flowing and a roof over our heads.

You'll find at the top of this post is my LinkTree. In it is a bunch of links (that's what a LinkTree is meant for) for things like PayPal and Venmo and CashApp. If anyone is interested, those are ways that you can help us out...I'm a Japanese American trans non-binary disabled fiber artist. Which leads me to another link on there: my Ko-Fi shop. I make and sell things made from yarn and wool and things. I also have started making Pin Badges. Buying things from me is another way that you can help to support me.

Our living situation is horrible...we are needing to get out of this living situation that we are in. Badly. And we are needing to find a new place to live and with my spouse also trying to find a new job all at the same time...it's a mess. Everything is a mess.

Anyway, I've rambled enough...If folks have made it this far, then let me reward you with this piece of lived experience advice: seriously vet the housemates that you live with if you end up living with other housemates. I'm serious. Because that's the biggest reason for why my spouse and I are in the situation that we are in. Make sure that before you sign ANY leases with anyone...that you DEEPLY vet whoever it is that you are planning to move in with before you sign ANYTHING. You see what their living habits are. You see how clean they are. How they keep their pets. How they keep their kitchen, their bathroom, etc. If they are already living in a place and they are already established somewhere and there's a garage? INSIST upon checking it. I am not kidding. If there's a laundry room area? See how it's maintained. Heavily. Interview. Whoever. It. Is. That. You. Plan. To. Move. In. With.

That is all.

[ijustwant2write]

The Benefits of Friendship-Ivar Ragnarsson x Reader

(GIF credit to @honestsycrets)

Masterlist

Summary: requested by anonymous: ‘Hello! I’m not sure if you’ll take this idea but I figured I would give it a shot. Could you do one with Y/N and which ever Ragnarson son you would like (Bjorn, Ubbé, Sigurd, Hitvtserk, or Ivar). Can it be about Y/N’s first time with them? Y/N could either be Viking or a slave from another place mentioned in the show.’

Characters: Ivar Ragnarsson x Reader

Meanings: (Y/N)=Your name

Warnings: mentions of sex, forced marriage, humiliation

(A/N: Siv and Hilde are made up characters; also I hope this is along the lines of what you want.)

(Also A/N: IT DOES NOT MATTER WHAT AGE YOU DO CERTAIN THINS LIKE KISSING, HAVING SEX OR EVEN HAVING A RELATIONSHIP, DO WHAT MAKES YOU COMFORTABLE AND ONLY DO THINGS WHEN YOU ARE READY! DON’T LET OTHERS TELL YOU WHAT TO DO!)

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Sitting at the kitchen table, I stared at the gifts bestowed to me from my suitors, men trying to bribe me into marrying them. There was jewellery, dresses, foreign foods, and of course money, but I didn’t want any of that. Being betrothed scared me, I knew nothing of what men wanted, nor how to be a perfect wife. I never knew what it was to be loved (besides from my family), there seemed to be no men in Kattegat that were interested; those asking for my hand in marriage only did so because my family were fairly wealthy. Normally this hadn’t bothered me in the past, after a long think about men, I had decided that living freely was the best option for now, before I was trapped in a marriage I didn’t want to commit to.

Though seeing my friends fooling around with the other boys, or even beginning relationships of their own accord, made my true feelings shine through. Festivities and feasts were probably the worst. I couldn’t get away from it, they were huddled up together, kissing, flirting. Although I was happy for them, slight jealousy always shone through, forcing me to leave them before I ruined the night.

“Still having trouble choosing?” my grandmother asked as she slowly walked towards me.

“Something like that.” I mumbled, still staring at the gifts.

“They’re all very nice, wouldn’t mind some of these myself.”

“Oh, how will I ever decide?” I sarcastically stated.

“I don’t understand how you’re not married off already.”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s enough men longing for you,” I rolled my eyes at her,“and these are only a few offers.”

“Well they won’t want me when they realise I can’t be the perfect wife for them.”

“Ah, what makes a perfect wife anyway? As long as they have somewhere to stick their cock, men are happy.”

I grimaced at her statement.“Thank you grandmother.”

I had stared at these items for far too long, and I needed to get away from them. My parents didn’t want to pressure me, but they were going to want an answer at some point. How was I supposed to make a decision like that when I hardly knew them? I hardly knew anything about men in general! It was embarrassing to think I hadn’t even kissed a man, yet I was going to be married soon. All these lies I had to keep up with, answering people’s questions with made up stories just so I didn’t seem sad or unwanted. There was only so much you could make up with a lack of experience.

As usual, it was busy in the centre of Kattegat. I wove between people, smiling at those I knew. But no matter how much I tried to distract myself, my mind found itself constantly thinking about my big decision. Perhaps I should talk to some of the other girls I knew in arranged marriages, they didn’t all seem bad...

Looking over a handful of bracelets at a stall, I heard the familiar sound of scraping along the ground. I saw him approaching in my peripheral vision, as well as the crowd dispersing quickly, some hiding their faces.

“Hello Prince Ivar.” I turned to him and smiled, curtsying before him.

“(Y/N), it’s good to finally see you again. Where have you been hiding this time?” He asked, walking past me with his crutches.

I followed on.“I wasn’t hiding, I was only at home. I had important things to do.”

“Ah yes, your suitors. I have seen quite a few come and go.”

I sighed.“Yes, there are a few to choose from.”

“I’m not surprised, your family are almost as wealthy as mine, there will be many wanting to marry you.”

“And here I thought that they were marrying me because they loved me.”

He chuckled.“You always knew this day would come, we even spoke of this when we were young.”

Being a wealthy family, we were respected just as much as Ivar and his. I had grown up with the Ragnarsson’s when I was much younger, though we parted as we became young adults. There were too many responsibilities for them, and as for me, I had to act like a proper lady; they went off raiding, avenged their father, came back, argued, and here I was, waiting for someone to take interest in me. It seemed that Ivar was the only one who bothered to keep up conversation with me. At first I assumed it was to stay loyal and friendly to my family, but we somehow ended up as friends again. Ivar was blunt and honest, and I didn’t have anyone around me like that anymore. I needed that, he kept me sane.

“I know. It’s just...”

“Let me guess, you’re scared?”

“What? No-”

“All women are scared, don’t worry.”

“I suppose so. I just don’t want to choose the wrong one. What if he’s nice when I first meet him and then cruel as soon as I am bound to him?”

“Then you better make the right decision.”

I rolled my eyes.“How am I to do that when...never mind.”

“No, go on. What is it? It seems that I am to be your council today, I should give my advice.”

He came to a stop, and it was only then when I realised that we were stood outside the Great Hall. I leaned against the wall, looking away from him. It was too embarrassing, there was no way I was going to tell him my true thoughts. 

“(Y/N), you’re hiding something.”

“No I’m not! Let’s just stop talking of this, I came out here to get away from these thoughts.”

“Come, you need a drink.”

“I am not letting you get me drunk.”

“You do that yourself, I have no part in it.”

I sat with Ivar for hours, my cup overflowing with alcohol as I ranted to my friend. I didn’t know whether he was actually interested, but that didn’t stop me. I couldn’t believe how angry I was becoming over this, how much emotion I had hidden within myself. At first the hall had been quiet, only us two in there (minus my shouting as I drank more and more) until Hvitserk and Ubbe walked in, their group of friends trailing behind them, laughing loudly. Ivar and I looked over, watching as they approached. Ivar grunted, he never got on with these people, let alone his brothers. I normally would welcome them with a smile, beckon them over even, but right now, I didn’t need any couples around me.

“(Y/N)! There you are! Finally, Ivar has been missing you.” Ubbe teased, rubbing Ivar’s head. The younger brother shoved him away, avoiding eye contact with me.

“(Y/N), you’re drinking without us? We best catch up then!” Hilde and Siv giggled as they crowded me, snatching up the drinks being poured out. Ivar and I shared a glance, not sure where this night would lead.

Unfortunately, my night was filled with questions from my friends about my suitors; what they looked like, how much money they had, what gifts they had bestowed upon me. It was draining to go over the details, and they could tell that I was holding things back. However, this didn’t stop them from interrogating me, soon everyone was joining in.

“You know what I just realised?” Hilde caught everyone’s attention.“I’ve never seen (Y/N) around a man, romantically I mean.”

The others looked at each other, some nodding and others thinking it over. I glared at her, praying that this conversation wasn’t going where I thought it was.

“Have you ever been asked about courting (Y/N)? Any gifts, any gestures? Besides those wanting you for money.”

“No.” I mumbled.

“Really?! Even at feasts and festivals? Not even when everyone is pissed up drunk?” Siv exclaimed.

I lowered my head, humiliated by my ‘friends’ words.“I...it just...”

“(Y/N),” Hvitserk held back a laugh,“you have had sex, right? Please tell me someone has taken her virginity!”

I opened my mouth to retaliate when Hilde interrupted.“Why didn’t you tell us? We would have set you up with someone!”

“No wonder shes’s always frustrated! That explains a lot!”

Siv gasped.“Is that why you’re always with Ivar? Because you’re both virgins?”

Ivar growled, slamming his fist on the table.“You know very well that I have bedded women before.”

“Ivar, not getting it up doesn’t count.”

I didn’t hear Ivar’s insult back as I bolted from my chair, rushing out of the room. I thought these people of dear friends, yet here they were, disrespecting me, only judging me by who I had sex with...or who I hadn’t had sex with. It was dark now, and that mixed with the alcohol was really effecting my stability, I was stumbling over my own feet as I tried to navigate my way back home. When I finally made it there, I quickly calmed myself, not wanting to wake any of them with my sobbing. Luckily I found that none of them were awake, making it easier for me to crawl into bed, curling up into a tight ball as I silently cried myself to sleep. 

The next day I was quiet, still upset about being made fun of. When asked if I was well, I responded to my family that I was still overthinking my decision of a suitor. The lie worked, all of them soothing me, reassuring me that my mind would be made up soon. 

Daydreaming as I looked out of a window, I was brought back to reality when I saw a slow, tall figure stumble its way towards my home. My eyes squinted, confirming my guess as to who it was. Without a word being said, I grabbed my cloak, rushing outside to meet Ivar halfway. He looked pissed off (nothing unusual there), not making eye contact as I cam to a stop in front of him.

“Ivar, what are you doing here?” I asked, out of breath from running.

“I wanted to check on you.”

“Oh, thank you.”

“You seem surprised.”

“Sorry, I’m sure you have better things to be getting on with.”

“You’re my friend....come, let’s go for a walk.”

Ivar seemed skittish, nervous almost. I wanted to be careful with my words, especially since the conversation wasn’t flowing as well as it usually did. Ivar was explosive, one wrong word and he could get so angry that even the Gods would tremble. We found ourselves on a winding path in the woods, an uncomfortable silence filling the atmosphere. 

“You’re still upset over what was said?” Ivar finally said, leaning against a tree as he took a moment to rest.

I suddenly snapped back.“Yes! Of course I am! They embarrassed me, I thought they would be more sympathetic. I’ve never mentioned it before because I was scared something like this would happen-”

He raised his hand as he interrupted me.“Alright, I get it, I don’t need to hear your rambling.”

“You really know how to make someone feel better.”

“I didn’t mean for it to come out like that. Look...I understand what it’s like to be in that situation. But how could that be true?”

“Really Ivar? I don’t exactly have men throwing themselves at my feet.”

“They are fools.”

“Don’t pity me.”

“I’m not.”

I crossed my arms over my chest, slightly blushing from his comment.“What are you trying to say?”

“Why do you care so much about what they think?”

I knew he was trying to change the subject.“It’s not really about them. It’s about the man I’ll be marrying. Who wants a woman who has never had any experience? I’ve never even kissed a-”

Ivar grabbed the back of my head, harshly pulling me in to kiss him. Shocked, I stayed still against him, unsure of what to do. But as soon as he started moving his lips, my instincts kicked in. I started to get more into it, liking how it felt, especially when his other arm wrapped around my lower back, our bodies pressed together.

Ivar pushed me away gently.“There, now you’ve kissed a man.”

I knew that my next words were bold, but I was going to say it anyway.“You know that I’ve not done anything else as well right?”

“(Y/N), you can’t possibly want to bed a cripple-”

“Don’t use your legs as an excuse! Do you want to fuck me or not?”

His mouth gaped open.“I-Right here?”

“Yes. Ivar I trust you-”

“But what if I can’t....”

Insecurity swept over me.“Do you...do you want to?”

I saw that he was thinking about it, before a darker look washed over his face.“Get on your knees.”

“What?” his sentence made me breathless, but I liked how he said it.

“Just do as I say, I’m going to show you how to properly please a man.”

[kiraleestudios]

Tea Time Tribulation pt. II

The following is inspired by the stories @shortpirateking and @miki-13. Please follow them, they’re really awesome people.

The two walked down the stairs of the castle. The Ornamentlist led the way while Ofelia followed short behind him. Each step they took, Ofelia would glance in another direction, trying to shut off her mind. It should be easy, she did it so often, but at several points of the small journey she would either stumble or nearly trip. Each time, the Ornamentlist would turn around and make a remark on how clumsy she is and she should watch where she’s going.

“Foolish girl!” he’d sneer, “You’d better pay more attention when you bless your guests with your presence”.

The smell of tea and flowers filled Ofelia’s nose. It reminded her grandmother’s passion of experimenting on an altar incense scents that would stink up that house for days, and that made her more determined to get this over with. They came to stop at the skeksis’ workshop, the flamboyant skeksis paused in front of the heavy door and turned to Ofelia.

“Here we are!” He sang “I normally don’t have tea in my workspace, I don’t want a single stain on my creations, but I just had to make the exception due to how special this one is”. He then placed his hand on the doorknob.

It’s going to be ok, Ofelia thought to herself Just put on this little show for him and you’ll be safe again.

He opened the door and step back to allow Ofelia to go in first. She gave herself a small gulp to back down the fear that’s been eating at her and step onto the red carpeted room. She only took a simple glance of the room, when she felt every nerve in her body froze. She didn’t know who to except, but she hoped it would be anyone but them.

In the center of the room was a table that housed two guests. Guests that Ofelia never wanted to see again. Her stomach did a flip as she saw the Gourmand and Scroll Keeper sitting at the table and staring at her. Their aging eyes glared at her no differently than the last time she saw them.

She saw their yearning for a precious little thing to worship them, to obey them, to allow them to do anything for them.

Ofelia’s throat was dry, she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the aristocrats at table. She covered her mouth in dismay, barely aware of her actions or the Ornamentalist closing the door behind her and giggling at the girl’s shock. Her mind began to fill with questions.

How did she not see the signs? What even was this? Was this some sort of matchmaking session? Some kind of joke? Did they all plan this after she abandoned the ceremony? After she humiliated them.

She felt the rest of the hair on her body stand up as the Ornamentalist’s hands land on her shoulders and felt his mouth move to her right ear, his excited breathing filled her ears and flowed down her neck.

“Oh darling!” she heard the Ornamentalist squeal gleefully, “You must be surprised! This is such an honor for you”!

“Yo-you… you sai-”

“Oh yes!” the Gourmand exclaimed, tea and frosting dribbled down his chins “We hardly ever see your pretty face and we just wanted to see you”!

So that was it. All of this so they can enable their desires.

“Well don’t be stupid now!” the Scroll Keeper exclaimed “Come sit with us”!

“W-What…but I-” Ofelia couldn’t even talk. Even if she could that didn’t stop the Scroll Keeper who held out a hand to stop her.

“Uh-uh, That wasn’t a question.” The Scroll Keeper snared, his fingers tapping impatiently on the table “Sit”.

She looked to the floor, her arms clanged to her stomach as she felt like she was going to vomit. Fear gorged upon her, and her mind started to buzz with the urge to run away. It felt like she was a lamb inside of a fox’s den, she knew any move she made she would soon regret. She knew if she didn’t behave herself, she’ll be in more danger.

Ofelia forced herself to walked toward the table and kept her eyes on the floor until she settled on a chair that faced her in front of the tea utensils, abnormal sweets, and her guests. Although their eyes continued to glare down at her, least it was better than being next to them.

“How marvelous!” the Ornamentalist shriked. 

He took his set in the middle of the other two skeksis, his excitement grew as everything went according to plan.

[donnerpartyofone]

#4

In 2018, with the help of some concerned and informed people in my life, I discovered that I’m probably pretty autistic. The driving factors were not what you might expect (I didn’t, anyway)--chiefly, a kind of persistent clumsiness, disorientation, organizational difficulty, trouble learning certain practical tasks--but it helped explain a lot of things about me that one might otherwise consider “quirks”. I had always taken for granted, for instance, that I have a lot of trouble recognizing faces, including ubiquitously famous actors, or members of my own family. I have also been accused from time to time of taking things “too literally” (to which I usually reply something like, “But this is literally what’s going on in reality, how does literalness make it dismissible?” I really don’t get it). Also, most typically, I have never liked being touched. “You’re just like Dave Letterman!” my dad chortles, an interpretation I don’t mind. I think it might also be pretty autistic of me to be so averse to family. I don’t have the slightest inclination toward maternity, which one could guess from the previous passages, but it’s more than neurosis. I know intellectually that people care about their families; the same way most people burst with pleasure at the sight of a baby, any baby, they also respond automatically to the very idea of blood relatives. As a kid, I was always baffled by the obsession other kids seemed to have with their cousins, or how in love they could be with their grandparents. In my world, you obsess over people to whom you have something to say; people who share your taste in art, your politics, your philosophies, your passions and phobias. I don’t understand relationships that are based on blood alone, on being trapped in the same place and time by virtue of pure circumstances.

Today, as my friends are all having babies one after another, I find myself strangely fascinated by them. Some of these people have struggled all their lives to find a sense of belonging or purpose, and having children has given them a sense of meaning beyond anything they previously hoped for. As someone who continuously struggles to find a sense of purpose, which I base exclusively on my intellectual and artistic pursuits, I’m amazed by the idea that I could potentially put all my existential confusion behind me if I were willing or able to become a mother. I can estimate how profound it must feel to create life, and then to become responsible for turning that life into something good. But, I remain unable to attach meaning to the idea of something being “a part of me” on a purely biological basis. I have insurmountable trouble thinking of my biological predecessors as being “where I come from” on the identity level. I can’t imagine being so sentimental about being an organism in a colony of like-organisms, not the way I am about people who have brought me experience and taught me to think.

So, even if I were without the mother-related trauma heretofore detailed, I still think there is something about who I am as a person, that would have made me recoil from my grandmother. My mother’s mother was the platonic ideal grandmother, a plump, pleasant old lady with a syrupy southern drawl who seemed to have stepped out of a cookie commercial. Excessively generous with money, food and affection, she presented as a person any family would welcome in their household. However, I always detected something oppressive about her. I was raised to be guiltily dutiful toward her, so as a child, I thought my suspicion and repulsion was just a problem with me. It must make me an asshole, that I don’t want her to hug me with her entire body for such a long time that I can’t figure out what’s going on anymore and I’m suffocating from the heat. I must be a dick, that I don’t want someone chasing me around, staring at me, posing me and jostling me like a baby, which I haven’t been for years. Maybe it was my problem, that I didn’t want her to burst into the bathroom and shriek with glee at the sight of me on the toilet trying to take a single solitary piss. Maybe I was just being a jerky teenager when I froze in horror while my grandmother sat next to me at the dinner table, gazing smolderingly into my eyes like a lover and caressing my hair non-verbally when I was perfectly capable of having a respectful adult conversation.

As I grew up a little more, I began to pick up on the fact that she drove both of my parents nuts. All of this motherly pageantry was incredibly manipulative, and really a way of controlling people. The creepy coddling I received as her granddaughter was really something she did to everyone. She was bright, incredibly shrewd really, a person whose hard work and frugality produced a self-made millionaire, though this didn’t reflect in her humble home. She was a dyed in the wool republican who was capable of watching the Daily Show with appropriate delight. Actually, she had a weird sadistic sense of humor; I always thought she got a little too much joy out of seeing little boys get smacked in the nuts by speeding baseballs on America’s Funniest Home Videos. That probably bothered me because of how she unforgettably screamed with laughter at my flinching when she took me to get my ears pierced. Everything indicated that, regardless of her age and conservatism, she wasn’t a vulnerable, senile old biddy, but a keenly intelligent woman very much in touch with the real world. This made it endlessly disturbing to me that she so insisted that everyone around her act like a little baby, adults and children alike, so she could rule us all as the ultimate mommy. Her aversion to grownup conversations and self-reliance was a way of forcing everyone into a Rockwellian time capsule in which everything was predictable and hygienic, in which mother knows best. Literally any admission of imperfection could trigger an outburst that would enslave everyone to the process of cheering her up. I recently heard a story about a Christmas visit during which she and her husband were lavishing attention on my brother as if I wasn’t even there. Concerned that I might be lonely, my father suggested that they include me in this play session. At this recommendation, my grandmother burst into hysterical tears, and my parents had to spend the rest of the night apologizing for accusing her of being neglectful.

Eventually, I learned little by little that she was more than just a prototypically clingy old lady with a keen talent for doling out guilt. It was a little weirder than that, and ultimately, a lot darker. First, there were the things I had heard about my mother’s life as her daughter. I remember a story my mother told about a birthday party that her mother threw for her when she was little, sometime in grade school I think. Her mother said that she had hired a gypsy woman to tell everyone’s fortunes, which was extremely exciting. A little carnival tent was set up in the back yard, and all the kids lined up to hear about their futures. When my mother’s turn came up, she walked in, only to find her mother in there in a turban talking with a corny accent, as if her own child wouldn’t know who she was--let alone any of her friends. My mother told this story to explain how embarrassing her mother was, but what I picked up from this was less a funny story about how parents traditionally humiliate their kids, and more like evidence that my grandmother’s identity is completely rooted in her position as an apex matriarch, well beyond anyone else’s intelligence or control.

The way she infantilized me was not an ordinary byproduct of having a grandchild, but something she did to everyone in her life, historically, up to and including my adult parents. She certainly continued to do it to me as an adult, and she insisted on a childish sort of positivity that I could barely muster. I thought, if she wants us to have a relationship, I should talk about my life, which sometimes includes complaints--or simply categorizing things as just-ok, or business as usual. Of course, she found this extremely irritating for some reason, and would pressure me to change my story with declarations like “YOU DON’T HAVE TO BE SO MISERABLE!” One Christmas when I was really in a bind, I called to thank her for the holiday check she had sent me, saying that it gave me much-needed help in making my rent at that time. “Oh...well, I thought you would do something nice with it,” she said in a strange tone that let me know she was sort of angry with me for some reason. I had to sort of bend the truth into a story about some special treat I supposedly got myself in order to get her to cut it out.

A better example of what was really going on with her also had to do with Christmas. You know Christmas: If you’re a little kid, you get up at about four in the morning, you beeline for the tree and try to peak into the openings in the wrapping paper, you wake up your parents either by force or by the shockwaves coming off of your person, you all open presents together in a sleep-deprived daze, and you’re basically all back in bed by 10am. Well, this might happen with my mother, but once my grandmother was awake, a ritual began. First, she would get out her camera, and follow my mother back into the bedroom. There, my mother would get back into bed, and pretend to be asleep. Then my grandmother would take a picture of my mother “waking up.” Then, another picture of her theatrically delighted expression when she “remembers” that it’s Christmas. Then a picture of my mother entering the living room and exploding with joy when she sees the tree for “the first time”. Then pictures of the presents being opened, then etc...this whole completely artificial passion play of my grandmother’s little family having the perfect Christmas.

Much, much later, I would find out what all this debasement was probably really about. It had to do with my great aunt. I knew that this woman, who I have rarely ever met in my life, and her daughter both suffer from brutalizing clinical depression. The daughter actually has an electronic device in her brain that acts like a pacemaker for depressive episodes. I had never even heard of something like that before, but it made perfect sense to me that this person and I would be in the same gene pool. Naturally, though, my grandmother would not have found such a dour defect so sympathetic. My grandmother and her sister seemed to have some kind of amorphous feud going on. My grandmother complained relentlessly that her sister refused to spend enough time with her, and I usually thought about how unfair she was being to a woman who has had cancer multiple times, whose energy is leached away by depression, and whose daughter is also routinely sick and almost uncontrollably suicidal. Apparently there was a history of slights and passive aggressions between the two women, though none of it topped the thing I ultimately learned about their family. At some point in their lives, my long suffering great aunt admitted to her sister that she had been raped by their father. I never knew the man, but he was supposed to have been sort of a son of a bitch, and there were other reasons that this made all the sense in the world to me. I remembered a story about how, after he died, his daughters found years’ worth of private writing that he had produced. It sounded like they were really raunchy violent western stories, which my parents were naturally interested in seeing, until they discovered that my grandmother had burned it all. “It was PORNOGRAPHY!” she declared. It’s a little hard to tell whether she was simply appalled by this rather un-Rockwellian artistic deviance, or if she was especially bothered because she knew him to be real life predator. In any case, it would have been impossible to know, because when her sister confessed that their father had violated her, my grandmother basically gave her the finger. Or rather, she gave that whole upsetting topic the finger, and then insisted that her poor destroyed sister continue to be her faithful companion as if none of it had ever happened. “It’s so painful!” my grandmother cried when her sister refused her most recent invite to brunch, and it took everything in me not to say, “Yeah, well, can you think of any reasons by yourself why she might not be fucking dying to hang out with you all the time?”

So it became clear to me why my grandmother might be so controlling and belittling, why she might try to force everyone into a performance of endless childhood, why she might expel from her life anything that smacks of imperfection. It still remained very difficult for me to just suck it up and be what she wanted me to be, not so much because I’m especially proud of my personality--a personality that in every way would repel her if I were to reveal my private world of crime, horror movies, pornography, fetishism, occultism, anti-capitalist sentiment, and of course, suicidal ideation. I also had trouble being the granddaughter she needed because of this autism of mine; it doesn’t make any sense to me to dissimulate, I’ll never become a smooth enough liar to pretend to be somebody’s innocent little baby, even if it would benefit me to do so. Making things up makes no more sense to me, than it does for someone to say “I love you” without meaning “I’m impressed with your personality, your intelligence, your culture, your morality, your humor, your...” It doesn’t make sense to me for someone to say, “I don’t care who you are, I love you because you’re my baby.” I made my best efforts in her last years, but nothing will stop me from feeling guilty toward her for the rest of my life. The way that she died fucked me up so badly that I’m only beginning to realize it now.

[so-shiny-so-chrome]

Witness: Weirdness_Unlimited

Creator name (AO3): Weirdness_Unlimited

Creator name (Tumblr): Burn-your-face-upon-the-chrome

Link to creator works: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Weirdness_Unlimited/works

Q: Why the Mad Max Fandom?

A: In the Mad Max universe, anything that is completely absurd and outrageous is represented as the norm. Leather fetish gear? Oh, that's just the security guard uniform at Bartertown. Those guys over there are wearing black and white face paint? No, you're not at an ICP concert, those are War Boys, also run. Whoa, there are acrobats being flung through the air on poles attached to moving vehicles! No worries, that's just any Tuesday in Gas Town. I love this fandom because pretty much any nonsense my skull meat can come up with, as long as the mechanics of it work, I can throw it into my fics and not a single person will bat an eye. As a matter of fact, the weirder, the better. 

Q: What do you think are some defining aspects of your work? Do you have a style? Recurrent themes?

A: Life is gross, humans do gross things, and the environment around you could not care less about any of your moral dilemmas. I suppose you can say my style is a lack of it. I like things straight forward and I know this characteristic often weakens any aesthetic appeal to my writing. “To Love Reptiles” reads from Slit's perspective the same way a radio manual does but with a lot more cursing. I try not to make it too complicated to digest. I'd like for people to be able to fill in any blanks with their own interpretation of the situation and then move on to the next. 

Themes though, I go heavy on themes. The main theme is interpersonal relationships, coping with failure within them, and personal growth. Other themes include coping with mental illness, codependency, hunger, greed, warfare, trauma, etc.  

Q: Which of your works was the most fun to create? The most difficult? Which is your most popular? Most successful? Your favourite overall?

A: The most fun work of my own, by far, has been “To Love Reptiles.” It has also been the most popular, most successful, and my most favourite. The most difficult has been an original work with no working title. I can't give away much about this original piece but it has to do with local myths and survival in the wilderness. I quit working on the rough manuscript when my grandmother passed away several years ago. I'll be picking it up again soon. It may turn up on AO3 in the next three or four years.

Q: How do you like your wasteland? Gritty? Hopeful? Campy? Soft? Why?/

A: Gritty but hopeful, I think. The wasteland is nasty but humans need hope, right?

Q: Walk us through your creative process from idea to finished product. What's your prefered environment for creating? How do you get through rough patches?

A: Alright, so that's an interesting question with a pretty messy answer but I'll try to make it brisk.   Step 1: I start with a summary of the story as a whole with a point A (the beginning) and a point B (the end). Step 2: I break that summary down and and fill it out with events that can ferry the characters from the start of the story to the finish on a drawn timeline to keep things in chronological order. I also have note cards. I break this down further into named chapters. This can take a while. Step 3: I summarize each of those chapters to figure out if this story needs more than one installment. It depends out how the series of events land and how many minor arcs are included with the main arc/objective. Sprinkle some drama in there, scrap some unnecessary things, narrow an installment down to thirty (30) chapters at maximum. Step 4: I summarize individual scenes within the chapters and hack out important dialog. This takes weeks. There's typically between four and ten scenes per chapter. Also more note cards. Step 5: I try to flesh out one scene per day. (key word: Try) 

 I get the most writing done in the morning over coffee and before work. I usually sit at the breakfast table with my phone and spit out about 500-ish words before my husband wakes up. I'll write intermittently throughout the day. Lately I haven't been writing much because of holiday junk and winter being kind of a bummer. 

 If I'm in a rough patch, I can break though it by sitting in a room with no internet access and forcing myself to scratch out a scene or two in a notepad. Usually these notepad scribbles are so awful that they get torn out and chucked in the waste bin but the next day I'm keen to do the job right. 

Q: What (if any) music do you listen to for help getting those creative juices flowing?

A: Ambient sound, white noise, or nothing. I do listen to music and there's a lot of songs I associate with stories, fics, characters. Tove Lo is a big one for Dune. Most of the time I find that music with lyrics or a high tempo is distracting if I'm in the act of writing something but it can be a source of inspiration separately. 

Q: How do you keep track of all the details as you're writing? How do you keep details consistent in your works? How do you fact-check your writing?

A: I have a little memo pad with numbered facts that do not change at any point through the story. These are kinda the cardinal rules. I can't tell you the rules because they contain spoilers. After the “RULES” there are miscellaneous details that I'd like to remember in case they come up later. Things like birthmarks, scar placement, mannerisms, things I've hinted at without exposition that will need to be revealed later.

I fact check by googling stuff and falling down research holes for several hours until I forget what I was doing. EVENTUALLY I'll come back to writing and realize that's why there are things in my search history that probably have me on some kind of government watch list.

Q: What motivates your writing?

A: My motivation. Real talk? For AAL it's to get to a particular scene in the planned third installment. Scene thirteen in chapter seven. I know that answers exactly nothing and is weirdly specific but... yes. Other works of mine, I'm motivated by the idea that some of my ideas might entertain someone out there, even if it's just one someone then I've succeeded.

Q: What is your biggest challenge as a creator?

A: Time management. I have a lot of hobbies and finding time for individual projects is... Hard. I made a boredom jar that lets me pick an unfinished task/project/piece at random to do whenever I'm bored so that I can stop myself from starting anything new when my apartment is already full of unfinished junk.

Q: How have you grown as a creator through your participation in the Mad Max Fandom? How has your work changed? Have you learned anything about yourself?

A: Yes. My organizational skills have improved by miles and my attention span is better focused. Grammatically my work has undergone general improvement.  

Learned anything about myself? Hmm, I learned that my opinion of what is canon and what makes good fan fiction are two completely different things. If you ask me anything specific about the Mad Max franchise you will probably get both opinions. As an example: Does Maxosa make for good fan fiction? Heck Yeah! Will canon Max Rockatansky or Furiosa ever be mentally and emotionally healed enough to actually be in a relationship? Probably not and that's okay. I can happily read Max and Furi getting cuddly and domestic and enjoy the heck out of another writer's interpretation of these two overcoming the hurdles of their respective traumas. I can do this knowing full well that Max and Furiosa probably never canonically saw each other again after the closing scene of Fury Road. I'm okay with this because that's the magic of fandom and why I love it.

Q: Which character do you relate to the most, and how does that affect your approach to that character? Is someone else your favourite to portray? How has your understanding of these characters grown through portraying them?

A: I relate to Max the most, and I think the reason I haven't yet published anything written from his perspective is because he'd be the most difficult to write without touching on my own fears and inadequacies too much. Max is not interested in being involved with the dramas of anyone else's life. He's already seen too much turmoil and had a hand in it too many times to actively seek people and their inherent problems, however, when presented with zero alternative he'll do what needs to be done and suffer though forming new attachments to very mortal people who may drop dead at any minute. He isn't comfortable with the process of forming attachments and he'd rather avoid it. He doesn't want another ghost. At least that's my interpretation of him. 

 Slit, remarkably, is my favorite to write for in spite of the fact that I don't relate to him in any way and my interpretation of his portrayal in the film is, simply put, a blunt edged euphemism for abusive relationships. He's just... a guilty pleasure to examine and write. I blame my fondness on the stunning character design and Josh Helman's energy on screen. The character says and does ridiculous things and it's just hilarious to watch Slit dig his own grave and humiliate himself. Case and point: I've got his boot! My understanding of Slit has grown through writing about him. He's probably (canonically) deeply insecure and his way of thinking very toxic and self focused. There's gotta be trauma there (I took massive creative license in that area) and a whole host of personal issues that explain his behavior, but will never excuse it. Does that make good fan fiction??? Parts of it do, the rest has to be that very human ability to grow and improve, although I don't think he'd have that opportunity in canon or accept any form of assistance... If he'd lived. 

Q: Do you ever self-insert, even accidentally?

A: I think you kind of have to self-insert to a point. Writing tends to involve exaggerating your own experiences and the imagined interactions in your own head in order to make the experiences of the characters relatable. I'd rather not examine every individual facet of the issue but yes, I think Dune is an unintentional self-insert to cope with health problems before I was consciously aware of what I was coping with and since that realization, lately, she's a lot harder to write. 

Q: Do you have any favourite relationships to portray? What interests you about them?Honestly? Close platonic friendship. Emotional intimacy is interesting. I draw a lot of inspiration for friendship in fiction from Mulder and Scully in early seasons of The X-files.

Q: How does your work for the fandom change how you look at the source material?

A: I see more minor details and the context of silent interactions. Some of these details are unsettling, some of them are so subtle and subliminal that they're easily missed when you watch the films, especially Fury Road. Oddly enough, I'm a lot more- Ah whats the word? Not quite critical of but unnerved by my own observations of Capable's relationship with Nux. I'm not sure why. It could be that I'm misinterpreting the actress's tone or George Miller vision/direction, but I watch the movie now and find that the way Capable looks at and talks about Nux so intensely makes me uneasy. The previous is just an example among many that I've spat out so far, it's not important.

Q: Do you prefer to create in one defined chronology or do your works stand alone? Why or why not?

A: Everything I write within the Mad Max fandom with the exception of collaborative works will probably be linked together and consistent with one another because that means less to remember and fewer mix-ups.

Q: To break or not to break canon? Why?

A: If you have to, break it. I'll read it. I like my fandom unlimited, baby. In my own works I try to keep with canon somewhat but I resurrect a lot of characters who almost certainly died because if I didn't, it would really only leave seven (I think) named characters with dialog who did not die in Fury Road. (The surviving women of the Many Mothers weren't named.)

Q: Share some headcanons:

A: 1) Max has intestinal parasites. He ate a live (two headed) lizard in the first thirty seconds of Fury Road. You really really really should not do that. 

 2) Furiosa didn't want to kill Ace. She could have just blown his head off instead of punching him in the face with a pistol. She didn't shoot him. 

 3) Ace did not go under the wheels. Foxy Grandpa lives. 

 4) Miss Giddy is also alive somewhere 

 5) Actually, most people in the wasteland probably have intestinal parasites. 

Q: If you work with OCs walk us through your process for creating them. Who are some of your favourites?

A: My original characters tend to create themselves. I don't know how they do it, they kinda just decide for themselves for better or worse what they'll look like and how they'll behave. Dune was an accident and the “About a Lizard” series wasn't supposed to happen at all. It was supposed to be a one-shot word dump of what Slit's final moments might have looked like. Slit was supposed to die in a fleeting but intense two seconds of delusions about Valkyries and Valhalla... And then be eaten by a scavenger cannibal. The whole thing kind of just happened on the fly. Ardith, Phil/Crank, Featherknife, Bones, and the kids were also accidental. I had no idea where I was going with the encounter with Crow Fishermen. They just popped into existence of their own will and the rest is history. The only original characters that have been planned and designed well beforehand have been villains. This probably says something about me as a writer though I'm not sure what. 

Q: When creating a new character for the AAL series, how do you approach their first interactions with your main characters?

A: The first thing I ask is “What does this scene need” and sometimes it needs a new character for villainy or friendly acquaintance reasons or for a skill-set the main characters do not posses. New characters have a habit of changing a chapter or making it much longer than intended. First interactions with Slit probably won't surprise anyone. He phases through distrust to dislike to begrudged cooperation and from there he's either on his way back to dislike or entering the tolerance phase. Beyond the tolerance phase is... The Complicated Zone. The Complicated Zone is where Nux and Dune are situated. Dune has two basic instincts with people: Should I shoot you? Or should I befriend you? Bizarrely, being friendly is the weirder option in the wastes. Shooting is almost always a consideration if she's taken by surprise.

Q: If you create original works, how do those compare to your fan works?

A: My original works are probably darker and deal more with modern problems. I turn to fan fiction for fun and to indirectly work through things.

Q: Who are some works by other creators inside and outside of the fandom that have influenced your work?

A: A lot of the fandom, too many names to name but one stands out and I can't remember their name or the title of their work. It was about Ace growing up and there was a dingo and a young Miss Giddy. If anyone knows what I'm talking about, please help. I've been looking for this fic for ages.

Q: Is there a specific author(s) that inspired your work when you began writing TLR?

A: I don't think any specific author inspired me while I began TLR but The Dark Half by Stephen King is one of my favorites and I recall re-reading it shortly before getting deep into fan writing. I may even have unconsciously plagiarized a few lines off that book. In my latest attempt to re-read that novel I'm feeling like there's a lot of Thad Beaumont in my portrayal of Slit.

Q: What advice can you give someone who is struggling to make their own works more interesting, compelling, cohesive, etc.? 

A: Don't be afraid to write things that are too soft or too dark or too this or too that. Sometimes readers crave that stuff that makes us feel warm and safe and sometimes we're also here for things that make us wonder how the @!#$% the characters will ever recover or IF they will ever recover. The real world is full of all sorts of feelings, situations, serendipitous coincidences. Take us down whatever funky road you got! You're the driver, you decide. Your fic is your world. Write WILD things sometimes because it's fun. 

Q: Have you visited or do you plan to visit Australia, Wasteland Weekend, or other Mad Max place?

A: I would love to take a trip to Australia one day to paint scenery in oils but that predates my time in MM fandom. I really want to go to Wasteland Weekend in the next two years but finances, necessities, costumes, etc need to be sorted out first.

Q: Tell us about a current WIP or planned project.

A: Well, I'm buying up model car kits to make little Mad Max cars for nerd purposes.

Thank you @burn-your-face-upon-the-chrome

[angeltriestoblog]

On-brand stories from my childhood

I remember this tweet going around a few months ago, soliciting people’s most on-brand stories from their childhood, things they’ve done or words they’ve said as a kid that sum up who they are at present. I wanted to participate so bad when I first saw it on my timeline, but I knew that being the eccentric, one-of-a-kind kid I was, it would take me a long period of reminiscing (and more tweets in a thread than anyone would bother to read) to put down everything worth noting. So, here it is: 10 of the weirdest, Most Angel experiences from my youth, for the lack of a way to put it, accompanied by photos of baby me because let’s face it, they make everything better.

ONE: When I was about four, my parents took me to a building very near our house to have my IQ checked. They had an inkling that I was a gifted child, and wanted to confirm it with a professional. So, I was escorted into an office, and subjected to interrogation to assess my competence in several areas of giftedness - much to my dismay, since all I wanted was to get that interview over and done with so I could read books in the library next door. There was this one part where the person in charge of me was trying to test my kinesthetic abilities by getting me to follow this aerobics routine that she was making me do. “Step step one, step step two,” she was saying while stomping to the right and stomping right back in place. I told her I didn’t want to do it, because I didn’t want to look like a fool.

TWO: I had this knack for correcting teachers. As a kid, I was hyperfixated on learning all the countries in the world and their respective capitals, with the help of this flash cards set that I got from Toy Kingdom. So when there was this time that my Filipino teacher had said that there were only two countries in the world with names that started with the letter Q, five year old Angel was very quick to correct her. “Miss Melissa, there’s only one country that starts with the letter Q! It’s Qatar!” I told her. She replied, “No! Quebec is a country, too!” This argument persisted for a bit until she made us do a seatwork, which gave her the opportunity to leave us to go to the computer room for a bit (since cellphones weren’t given Internet capability back in 2006). She returned and told me, “Angel, tama ka nga. Di pala bansa yung Quebec, hehe.”

THREE: It’s become common knowledge to everyone in my life that I wrote books growing up, but my body of work extended way beyond my very inventive fiction (alternatively called, me putting my own twist on the fairytales I read growing up) and creative non-fiction (me telling everyone how my day, half true-to-life, accurate detail and half-imagination). I remember going through the family laptop one day, and coming across the corporate profile of my uncle’s company, where my dad was working at the time as the technical assistant to the president. Being the child I was who wanted to emulate everything her father was doing, I wanted to make a copy of my own too but I was unfortunately unemployed. Thankfully, I took matters into my own hands and made up a company of my own, which I aptly named Pamper and Pretty. Excuse the fatal grammar error, but I was six and was yet to be familiarized with what parallelism in writing actually was. I drafted a whole corporate profile, complete with the list of my employees along with their corresponding duties and responsibilities, as well as a list of all our products and services.

And of course, how could I forget my professional resume?

FOUR: I even looked far into the future and prepared a spiel for when we’d be looking for new employees, as well as a list of rules and regulations to follow if ever anyone would pass our grueling hiring process. My favorite is rule #26, which goes “Drug pushers are not allowed in the store.”

FIVE: While we’re on the topic of business, I guess it’s worth boasting that I was able to sit in a meeting my mom had back in the day with the rest of the members of the Systems and Methods division, and I was asked to take the minutes for a change. I’m aware I’m making absolutely no sense, but after much inferring, I guess it revolves mainly around IT, monitoring procedures and AARs.

SIX: I was a proponent for self-help at a very young age too, creating a list of five rules to live by, which I referred to as my “straight line project”. For which reason, I have absolutely no clue. One part reads: “Always watch out for a kid bullying some one so you can save the person being fought, then do the same thing that the bully kid did to your friend like for example when they are fighting in a swimming pool that the bully is trying to push your friend, you should save your friend and push the bully kid to the pool.” I advised. Turns out I had an attitude and a knack for retributive justice from the very start.

SEVEN: I also found a couple of letters I addressed to Santa as the Christmas season approached, where I requested everything from “world peace” to the entire Diary of A Wimpy Kid series. Talk about being a versatile queen! My favorite of the bunch was the last one I made, where I included directions and a sketch to get to our new house, because we had moved residences earlier that year. I just didn’t want Santa to get lost, and sneak in my old house only to find out that I was no longer there.

(Fortunately, my mom was able to print out all those files I had saved to the family computer before I promptly infected it with a virus that wiped out its entire memory. The lengths seven year old Angel would go just to download Young Guns by Wham! from Limewire.)

EIGHT: I was elected as class president multiple times in grade school, which you would think would mold me into becoming an active student leader. But, my term was constantly shrouded in controversy. I was always tasked to write down the list of noisy students on the blackboard, I’m not exactly sure if this qualifies as public humiliation but I wasn’t concerned with that at the time and did everything I could to fulfill my duty. A classmate of mine was singing a High School Musical song at the top of her lungs, and I asked her to stop. Usually, that does the trick and sends the noisemaker back to their seat but she ran out of the room and brought her mom upstairs because she got upset.

NINE: I also rode on a classmate’s bag, which resulted in her mom going upstairs (I have no idea why their moms spent the entire day in the waiting room on the first floor too, man) and scolding me, saying that her daughter’s bag is not a pony. I was also accused of calling my classmate stupid because she was only Top 7 out of all the students in class, while I was Top 1, which was false by the way since “stupid” was considered a curse word in our household until I was 10. Perhaps the best scuffle I got myself into was because I had checked my classmate’s homework with red crayon and put several drawings of hearts and stars, as well as reassuring comments along the lines of “Great job!” and “Congratulations!” around his perfect score. His father literally had me sent to the principal’s office. Parents then had way too much time on their hands, I swear to God.

TEN: If we don’t take into consideration the whole fiasco that involved my Teletubbies stuffed toy*, my first brush with “love” happened when I was in kindergarten. I had a crush on one of my classmates named Kevin, who is the scrawny little boy that you see beside me in the pictures below. I don’t remember anything else about him, not even his surname, and I haven’t heard of nor seen him since our pre-school graduation ceremony. All I have to remember him by are these photos, and a video that my mom took of both of us where he was seen flapping his arms around and making weird facial expressions, while I would squirm out of kilig in response. Weird. The worst part of it all? I didn’t even like him because he was cute or funny or nice to me: it’s just because he was named after my favorite Backstreet Boy.

(*In case anyone's curious, up until I was about three years old, my parents and I lived in Malabon with my maternal grandmother, who was tasked with taking care of me while my mom and dad were both at work. She was fond of watching Filipino teleseryes while taking care of me: they often had their fair share of kissing scenes, but I was practically a baby at the time who wasn’t capable of processing or remembering the things she was seeing on TV. Or so they thought. My mom said she had walked on two year old me making out with my cousin’s Teletubbies stuffed toy one time. She then promptly asked my lola if they could keep me as far away from the television as possible once Pangako Sa’Yo came on. Can’t blame her for that, honestly.)

That’s all I can think of right now, but I know there’s plenty more where that came from. Hope everyone is having a fruitful Holy Week celebration. Wishing you nothing but love and light, always always always.

Angel

[recentanimenews]

FEATURE: Swipe Right On These Top Rent-a-Girlfriend Dates

  **SPOILERS FOR RENT-A-GIRLFRIEND AHEAD** 

  The first season of Rent-a-Girlfriend is coming to a close, and while our protagonist Kazuya Kinoshita began the series as a sad, lone wolf, he may be ending the season with more suitors than he could have ever imagined. After Kazuya gets dumped by his girlfriend Mami, the heartbroken college-student stumbles across "a gem of an app that heals your soul." And how does it heal your soul??? By setting you up with a rental girlfriend. Questioning the service at first, Kazuya ends up booking Chizuru Mizuhara, launching what will become the most complicated case of fake dating ever seen! Let's take a look at some of the most memorable Kanojo, Okarishimasu dates. 

Episode 1 "Rent-a-Girlfriend"

  It's the date that started it all ... well technically, it's the second date to the date that started it all. After hitting the "agree" button on an app that's "Perfect for if you're worried or stressed about your love life," Kazuya's first date with Chizuru Mizuhara went as well as it possibly could. In fact, it went so well Kazuya really believed Chizuru in the role of his girlfriend. But then Kazuya read the reviews, learning Chizuru sticks to a routine on dates, and so he decides to "give her a piece of his mind," but then ... A TWIST!

  What's funny about this date is it was Chizuru who decided to give Kazuya a piece of her mind because he was unappreciative of how much effort she put into making the date feel personal. After a call from the hospital regarding his grandmother, one thing leads to another and Chizuru is now Kazuya's official girlfriend in the eyes of his family. What was supposed to be a date for Kazuya to get back at Chizuru for toying with his emotions ended up being a roller coaster of one lie after another. This date was all over the place, but in a good way, and really set the tone for how complicated (and spicy) things would become.

    Episode 6 "Girlfriend and Girlfriend"

  Make it double! By this point in the series, Kazuya has had a few scares when it comes to his secret getting out, but getting suckered into going on a double date with his friend Kuri and his new "girlfriend" Ruka, puts his own "relationship" in the most compromising position yet! Kazuya and Chizuru have been able to fool everyone so far, but something about their "romance" just doesn't seem right to Ruka, and this becomes very clear when she confronts Chizuru about being a rental girlfriend. This is an edge-of-your-seat date because now, Chizuru and Kazuya go into hyperdrive trying to prove to Ruka — who adds to the suspense by hiding a secret of her own — that their relationship is real. The comedy is packed on as Kazuya is so unprepared for how much Chizuru is dedicated to protecting their secret and the credibility of her job. 

    Episode 10 "Friend's Girlfriend"

  Kazuya isn't the only one who gets to experience Chizuru's charm. In Episode 10, Kazuya asks Chizuru if she would be okay going on a date with Kuri. Chizuru warns Kazuya of the consequences, letting him know the truth behind their relationship would be revealed. What made this date special is it showed just how much Kazuya values his friendships.

  Throughout the entire series, Kazuya has been hiding the secret of his and Chizuru's relationship, but after Ruka awkwardly broke up with Kuri — revealing his rental girlfriend situation — Kazuya couldn't help but want to make Kuri feel better. Kazuya saw how down in the dumps Kuri was after Ruka and understood better than anyone how pathetic and embarrassed Kuri felt. Because Kazuya recognized how someone can get absorbed in their emotions, he didn't want Kuri to harbor resentful feelings and develop a "done with love," mindset. After seeing Kazuya's commitment to his friends and how prepared he is to endure all the awkward comments should the secret get out, Chizuru agrees to go along with the plan. What was even more heartwarming to see was how Chizuru worked to ease Kuri's negative feelings, acting as a temporary emotional bandage. It was going on rides, holding hands, having someone laugh at his jokes, and being able to talk out his feelings that made Kuri forget all about the humiliation he had endured. Soon after this "date," Kuri was able to bounce right back to his lady-loving ways.

    Episode 11 "Truth and Girlfriend" 

One word ... SUMI! In Episode 11 we meet rental girlfriend Sumi Sakurasawa, and honestly, everything about her and this date is adorable. Sumi is a sweet introvert who is PAINFULLY shy, and in the hope of gaining self-confidence, Chizuru asks Kazuya to go out on a date with her. For someone like Sumi who has bad social anxiety, meeting people on a normal basis can be tough, and meeting people who you hope will accept you is even more difficult. Nonetheless, Sumi tries her absolute hardest to play the role of Kazuya's girlfriend. She goes bowling, even though she's not great. She clings onto Kazuya when Mami's making her move, even though she feels insecure. She works up the courage to hold his hand and offers to share her ice cream. 

  What made this date special, was how meaningful it is for Sumi. For Sumi, it was a big step forward for her self-confidence, and it's thanks in part to how Kazuya acted with her. Sumi admires Chizuru, and part of the advice Chizuru gave her is that by working this job she will discover clients who will love her for who she is. Kazuya was the first client Sumi went out with where it felt like finding someone who appreciated her in spite of her nerves was not outside the realm of possibility. 

    What are some of your favorite dates from Rent-a-Girlfriend? Let us know in the comments!

      Pro hero Veronica Valencia is an anime-loving hot sauce enthusiast! You can follow more of her work as a host, writer, and producer on Twitter and Instagram.

  Do you love writing? Do you love anime? If you have an idea for a features story, pitch it to Crunchyroll Features!

  By: news+feed@crunchyroll.com

[solivar]

WIP: Ghost Stories On Route 66

aka the one where  Hanzo Shimada is an expatriate student of the Fine Arts, attending college in what he assumes to be a reasonably sedate corner of the American southwest. Jesse McCree is an occasionally leather-clad NPS ranger whose duties extend somewhat further than shooing lost tourists back onto the clearly marked hiking trails. Something weird is going on in the desert south of Santa Fe and their lives unexpectedly come together in the middle of it.

The bit in which Hanzo has a frank and meaningful conversation with Tekhartha Zenyatta.

The UMN annex was four hoverbus transfers and one short stretch on the rapid pedestrian transit speedwalk which, this time at least, did not result in any form of grievous bodily harm, not even a bit of unscheduled nipple-surfing across the raked-stone-and-succulent-beds lawn at his point of exit. Given that his last trip out to the annex had resulted a) missing the exit, b) attempting to return to the exit by the expedient method of hopping over the lane separator, and c) being sent to the hospital via ambulance because having one foot going one direction and one foot going the other direction and each moving at roughly twice the average human walking speed was a recipe for tragedy, he considered this at least an unqualified success. In his own defence, the last time he traveled out to the annex was also his first, carrying Zenyatta’s forgotten lunch since he was the one who didn’t have any scheduled classes or studio time or anything resembling work that day, and had not expected what he found upon arrival. In the world of his childhood, buildings called “annexes” were either ancient, crumbling cinderblock-and-sheet-metal edifices that would probably exist until an earthquake strong enough to topple them came along  or else post-Crisis modular prefabs of recycled and poorly insulated plastics meant to be replaced by more permanent construction but which never seemed to rate high enough on anyone’s priority queue to quite get there.

This annex, by way of cruel and distracting contrast, was a Pueblo Deco Revival architectural masterwork purpose designed and built as a showcase piece for the style, as well as to house the off-campus professional enrichment classrooms and offices for the chosen few among the faculty. His research, conducted while he was spending six weeks with his left leg in a full immobilization brace, suggested that being assigned space there was generally the result of a member of the faculty either dying or moving on and the survivors engaging in the sort of academic heft/staff seniority knife fights only spoken of in shellshocked whispers by TAs and adjuncts who’d had the misfortune of witnessing them first hand. That Tekhartha Zenyatta, known by all for his thoroughgoing gentleness and fundamentally mild nature, occupied a prime chunk of that real estate suggested that his publish-or-perish game was thoroughly on point or he knew where a substantial number of bodies were buried and probably both. His office was a second-floor corner, not quite as desirable as some spaces, significantly more desirable than others, gifted with more than adequate storage and sitting space as well as enormous windows in two of the four walls and a view of the city and the mountains beyond that could genuinely be described as a vista.

Zenyatta was sitting at his desk, silhouetted against said vista, when Hanzo arrived, having missed him in the classroom by a double handful of minutes, and knocked on the frame of the open door. He looked up and never was the praying mantis resemblance more acute than when the westering sun caught the shaved curve of his skull and the highlights in his hazel eyes as he blinked a slow and vaguely astonished blink at the apparition that appeared before him. Hanzo held up a thermos. “I have soup.”

Zenyatta smiled and his eyes glinted with unconcealed humor. “And this time emergency services were not involved in the delivery. Come in, my friend.”

Hanzo stepped inside and closed the door behind him. By the time he turned around, Zenyatta had retrieved two bowls from the depths of his desk and shut down the holoscreens of its internal workstation. Hanzo sat, and poured, the soup still warm enough to steam, and a for a moment the sat together in companionable silence and drank.

“Ah.” Zenyatta finally said. “Grandmother Sumiko’s miso soup recipe. Never tell your brother this, but I am of the opinion that no one in the household makes it better than you.”

“You flatter me.” Hanzo replied, but couldn’t help the smile that grew across his face. “And I would never break my brother’s heart that way, I assure you.”

A warm chuckle. “I hope you do not mind me saying it, but you also have the look about you of a man who wishes to unburden himself without having to spend the next two hours talking his excitable, wildly overprotective little brother out of shipping him back to Japan tied up in a crate marked live cargo, do not taunt.”

“You...are not even a little bit wrong about that,” Hanzo admitted, and set his bowl down. “I -- “

He opened his mouth to speak, and for a long, long, horrifyingly long moment, absolutely nothing came out. Zenyatta’s pale silver brows, always startling against his dark skin, rose questioningly as he finished drinking his soup and set the bowl aside. Hanzo closed his mouth, breathed deeply, exhaled, breathed deeply again, and found words absolutely failing to emerge from his word-making hole despite the ardent desire burning beneath is breastbone to expel the tale of every weird-ass thing that had happened to him over the last four days, unpleasant, pleasant, and enjoyment-neutral. His throat worked fruitlessly with the effort to produce them, his brain chased itself in fully coherent narrative circles, but the only thing to emerge from his throat was a thin, wheezy whine not entirely unlike the pitiful utterance of a woodwind whose reed was so hopelessly saturated with saliva it was utterly incapable of effective vibration. With a wordless moan of despair, he collapsed against Zenyatta’s desk and buried his head in his arms.

“I have the sense,” Zenyatta said, gently, “that this is not something you have done very often. Or perhaps at all. Ever.”

Hanzo found he could not raise his head from his arms and so he lifted a hand in a complex gesture he hoped Zenyatta would interpret as agreement.

“Would it, perhaps, be easier for you if I asked questions?” Again, oh so very gentle.

“...Maybe?” From the depths of his defensive stronghold, Hanzo managed to force out a response.

“Very well.” Zenyatta’s tone became, if anything, even more serene. “I understand that you intended to visit Shiprock. Was it all that you expected it to be?”

“...Yes.” He very much wished, at that moment, to wax rhapsodic at length, to utter self-condemnatory words for never having visited sooner, despite having the time to do so more than once over the years, to describe how it was impossible to fully appreciate the place in all its stark beauty without standing in the cool of its shadow, and settled for croaking into the crook of his arm, “I’ll show you the pictures when we get home.”

“Hanzo, my friend, are you comfortable with this? We can stop if -- “

“No,” Hanzo muttered, lifting his head enough to catch a glimpse of Zenyatta looking down at him, naked concern on his face. “No -- I wish to continue. Please.”

“As you wish.” Zenyatta leaned slightly closer, his hands folding together atop his desk in a fashion Hanzo was inclined to call mudra-ish. “I also understand that you intended to visit the Omnic graveyard in that area, as well. May I ask why? The two goals seem entirely divergent from one another.”

“Part of my Visual Thesis.” Hanzo admitted to the surface of Zenyatta’s desk. “A...comparison and contrast between natural forms of desolation -- the desert, particularly now that winter is approaching -- and the wreckage left behind by the collapse of modern civilization, the towns abandoned during the Crisis and never reoccupied, the scars left behind by hubris and war. I thought the graveyard, and the town closest to it, which was also called Shiprock, would make a striking example.”

“I tend to agree.” A little smile touched the corners of Zenyatta’s mouth. “I would very much enjoy seeing those photographs, I think, and to visit the your thesis exhibition next spring.”

“Iwillmakecertainmyadvisorhasyouonthelist.” He could feel all the blood evacuating his extremities and heading directly to his face and so he positioned his otherwise useless hands to hide it as much as possible. “The whole experience left me feeling...melancholy. There was -- there is -- an intrinsic sadness to the whole thing, even now, thinking of how much death and destruction could have been avoided, how much more could have been done in the aftermath, the appalling waste of it all.”

And now was the weird part. Where the emphatically Not Normal stuff began. He could feel the urge to beg Zenyatta’s forgiveness for wasting his time welling up in his throat and the even stronger urge to stand up and flee even if it meant risking death or dismemberment on a snow-slicked speedwalk taking up residence in his legs, pleading with him to retreat from what was certain to be a scene of pure humiliation. You should really spare your brother’s boyfriend the necessity of calling the hospital and having you admitted for psychiatric evaluation -- that’s the sort of thing that can put a strain on even the best relationships, a little voice that seemed to partake of rationality murmured in the back of his mind, seduction spiked with reproach because, really, what kind of asshole would do that to Zenyatta? He absolutely did not have to be forced to make that sort of judgment call and --

“And then where did you go?” Zenyatta’s voice, warm and smooth as oil, poured through the cracks in his internal monologue and caused how now-slippery thoughts to skid away like an unsteady but enthusiastic two year old on a particularly lubricious skating rink.

“Cerrillos,” Hanzo blurted out, before the voice of rationality could reassert itself. “Well -- eventually. This is where things become...strange. Very, very strange. I would humbly ask that you listen first and then, if you think me thoroughly irrational afterwards, we can discuss...options?”

Zenyatta’s hands lifted away from the table and took on a second, even more mudraish posture just below his chin. “Agreed. Though I should also tell you that, having lived and worked here for a number of years my standards for strange are quite liberal.”

“My car’s GPS began malfunctioning even before I left the vicinity of the graveyard -- I believe I was technically still within Shiprock town limits.” He retrieved the second thermos and jiggled it gently; Zenyatta brought out two tea bowls this time, and he poured for them both. A few sips and he was fortified to continue. “It refused to hold the route I indicated. I had to reset it several times and it misdirected me all over the hills until I reached what used to be Route 14, where it showed me a course back to Santa Fe from the south. The car itself was sputtering for miles and it finally died completely just after I made that turn.”

“I have heard of this sort of thing before from both students and colleagues.” Zenyatta informed him, meditatively. “Global positioning devices frankly refusing to function properly in certain regions south of the city, that is. The theories I have heard in relation to why this may be tend to extremes to say the least.”

“Oh?” Hanzo asked, somewhat more warily than he liked.

A certain mischievous sparkle came into Zenyatta’s eyes. “The most reasonable suggest some form of localized, persistent geomagnetic disturbance in the Earth’s atmosphere, though how such a thing could both exist and completely defy conventional forms of detection is a debate all by itself. Some of the others...well. Roswell is only two hundred miles away, and well within the observed radius of GPS disturbances.”

“Roswell?” Hanzo asked, blankly this time.

The mischievous sparkle was now a mischievous gleam. “Aliens, my friend. Visitors from another world. One of my students is involved in the production of a journal of amateur UFOlogy and swears with a great deal of passionate conviction that the United States government has been covering up the existence of extraterrestrial life since a vehicle not of this world crashed in Roswell in the late 1940s.”

“I...believe I read about that at some point.” Hanzo leaned back in his chair. “A crashed weather balloon?”

“A crashed nuclear test observation balloon that spawned thousands of conspiracy theories, some of them more plausible than others.” He shook his head slightly. “But I agreed to listen first. Please...continue.”

“Yes. Uhm.” And now came the Really Incredibly Strange Parts and before his rational mind could start whispering helpful advice, he pushed himself all the way up into a normal sitting position, gripped the armrests of his chair and said, “I think there were coyotes. Actual real, living coyotes. At least one. When the car died, it was almost dark -- the road I was on barely existed on the GPS and from what I could see it wasn’t traveled regularly at all. My cell had no reception, not even the emergency contact signal. I knew that waiting wasn’t really an option, so I gathered my things and began walking north along Route 14. I saw their eyes from a distance at the edge of my light and for at least a few hours, I was convinced I was going to be eaten.”

A smile curled Zenyatta’s mouth, but he mercifully said nothing.

“I reached Cerrillos -- I want to say near midnight? I lost track of time while I was walking. It was cold, I was exhausted, and at first I didn’t realize I was looking at real lights, an occupied building. The ranger’s...station, I should probably say, but it was more like just a house? I think he’s lived there a long time, is what I’m saying. He took me in and I sort of passed out on his couch and the next morning he gave me breakfast and can I just say that if you and he got into a gently soothing smile contest, I am legitimately unsure who would win? He’s just so -- “ Hanzo’s hands, he realized with dawning horror, had released their grip on the armrests through no conscious direction of his own and started talking for themselves; he hastily stuffed them under his thighs. “Anyway, the next day he took me to my car to see if anything could be done for it and there was...something...more than one something...not a coyote...lurking around it. Nearby. We heard them first -- they howled, like a pack of animals communicating with one another.” He found he could recall that hideous, unearthly sound with horripilating intensity, a shudder running the length of his body as he did so, and Zenyatta’s sympathetic listening face took on a hint of genuine alarm. “Jesse -- that’s the ranger’s name, Jesse McCree -- told me to get back into our vehicle and as we were driving away there was something else, something louder and closer and I --”

The sensation that gripped him now was less a shudder than a convulsion as, for an instant, he nearly remembered what he saw -- the outline, the contour, the texture, the stomach-churning awareness that none of those things were born of any sane world, or even the one they both now occupied, and he deeply regretted everything he’d eaten thus far that day. He clamped his jaw and his eyes shut and swallowed hard and, as he did so, a pair of warm hands cradled his face. At a vast distance, he heard Zenyatta saying his name. With an almost superhuman effort, he forced his eyes to open and ground out, “I saw it. Something unnatural. It saw me, too, and it tried -- “

“It tried to devour your soul.” Zenyatta finished it for him.

“How -- ?” Hanzo croaked, not quite certain how many possible permutations of that question he actually meant, but he knew it was more than one.

“Did I know?” The kindly smile had a slightly sad tinge to it. “I sensed the change in you when you returned home last night, but I wasn’t certain how or when to approach you about it. Your spirit has always been wounded, for as long as I have known you, but this is...more. Not so deep nor so old but more immediately serious. Your soul was severed from your flesh?”

“Yes,” Hanzo croaked again, his stomach still seriously considering rebellion and his mind now beginning to get in on the uncivilized revolution action. “How -- ?”

“The ranger saved you? He must have, he was the only one close enough to do so. How...unusual.” Zenyatta’s eyes gleamed again, almost with a light of their own, golden welling up from beneath gray and green. “And he protects you still. I can see his aegis wrapped around you like a cloak of crimson and gold, holding you while you heal, hiding you from...the thing that saw you.”

“Really?” It came out sounding horribly, pathetically needy and he tried to cringe away, but Zenyatta refused to relinquish his hold.

“Yes.” The smile that curved his lips held more than a trace of impishness; Hanzo found that bizarrely comforting. “I would like to meet this ranger of yours. Other professional craftworkers are so hard to find outside the specialized academic sphere, and those assholes would never dirty their hands with actually rescuing someone.”

“I’d like to see him again too.” It was nothing more or less than utter honesty and it fell out of his mouth before he could stop it.

“Excellent. We shall have to make a day of it.” Gently. “Can you stand? Walk?”

Hanzo tested his legs and found his knees wobbly but not so much he wouldn’t risk getting out of the chair. “I think?”

“Good, because I am not certain I could carry you.” Zenyatta leaned back, resting on the edge of his desk. “I realize this has been several sorts of shock to you, my friend. I will do what I can to help ameliorate that, and assist in your recovery however I am able.”

“He gave me a medicine. A kind of tea? It’s supposed to help.” Hanzo took a deep breath, forced his racing thoughts to slow, and then to organize themselves into at least one coherent utterance. “Professional craftworkers?”

“A term of relatively modern provenance, I must admit.” Zenyatta reached out and grasped his hand gently. “I understand that you were, in essence, studying to be part of our kindred order once.”

Hanzo swallowed with some difficulty, his own grip involuntarily tightening. “Oh.”

“Yes.” He glanced out the western window at the sunset beginning to blossom in scarlet glory over the city. “We should go home -- it’s my night to cook, after all. If it is not objectionable to you, I would like to examine the medicine you were given?”

“Of course.” Hanzo replied, numbly, feeling as he did so the ache of that older wound again, for the first time in ages. “Genji. Did he...did he tell you what…”

“No.” Zenyatta’s smile softened into something close to sorrow again. “Only that you left your path for reasons of your own. We may discuss that also, if you wish.”

“No.” It came out more curtly than he wished and he squeezed Zenyatta’s hand in apology. “No -- I...do not wish to...visit that again. Not right now.” Never, whispered that silent ache, and he pushed himself slowly to his feet. “I...would like to be home before dark, if we could.”

“Of course.”

*

[rangerhanna-56-blog]

You're upset bc you got called out on saying something stupid like just man up and say ok I'm wrong I won't do it again sorry like that's all you have to do.... it really is that simple ????

Okay but have you seen my other posts where I said "I'm wrong I get it" "I get it I fucked up"Like I literally acknowledged I fucked up and people still felt the need to send a 17 year old death threats because literally you can't fucking disagree with anyone on this shit website without people attacking you. Like I'm literally being told to kill myself over a sarcastic comment I made and it literally drove me into having a psychotic episode because I literally have multiple psychological problems and I ended up carving awful fucking shit into my body with an actual knife. Like do people on here actually realize when they attack someone, that person might not actually be able to handle being threatened because of something literally so fucking small. I literally went to this person and tried to explain myself and yeah I did it in a petty way and they posted it for literally all their followers to see, but then as soon as I started getting anon hate they were like "but those aren't MY followers". Like how do you ACTUALLY know none of those people aren't your followers tho??? Like do you really think that ur followers are gonna step forward and say "yeah lol I was one of those ppl threatening that girl and saying that her and her family deserve to be killed" legit all because I compared TRUMP to fucking HITLER. Like bitch now that I've had my mental breakdown and I've calmed down a bit I can actually advocate for myself and say I'm allowed to have a differing fucking opinion than someone else and I shouldn't be fucking harassed for it. And idk wtf the whole "white liberalism" thing is when like I've done nothing to show I only care about the white race. Like yeah I'm white but that's literally just it??? Like sorry that I think that history is repeating itself bc THE SIGNS ARE ALL THERE and I have countless people agreeing with me WHO HAVE STUDIED THIS SHIT, that Trump is going to turn this country into something absolutely fucked up (he's literally having neo-nazis work for him like idk how else to fucking make this comparison any clearer???). Like are you just upset bc I compared him to hitler bc that's literally what everyone has been doing and it's annoying or are you literally trying to tell me that there are no similarities between them and that I shouldn't be worried as much as you all should be??? Like as long as you're not a Straight White CIS Christian Male, you're fucked. People are being fucking murdered because of this dude. What I'm trying to say if yeah I'm admitting I fucked up and I literally HAVE BEEN but none of you people people listen so I literally went into full panic mode and caused physical fucking harm to my body that probably requires a doctor to look at (let's be honest im not going to a fucking doctor because if they ask me why all this happened and I tell them it was tumblr discourse, they either won't understand or I'll get the biggest eye roll ever). I literally hope everyone is satisfied with themselves here. Are you happy that you got the "clueless white girl" to finally hurt herself because I hope you are. And the whole thing about me "using my mental illness to manipulate people and make them feel bad for me" is so much bullshit. Yes I had someone take a screenshot btw because I wanted to see how things were playing out. All because you got through this type of shit without support doesn't mean you're a better human being??? This was talked about as if people knew exactly what I suffer from and that it was just me using mild depression or something to excuse the dumb shit I do. And if you haven't fucking noticed yet, I literally just admitted right there that some of the shit I do is in fact dumb.If you want to get into this with me and you really want an explanation I can give it to you because that really isn't half the case. My family literally is full of people who have psychological problems (some of which I don't even know the names of). Just recently my grandfather (a retired police officer) was found hiding in his bedroom from my grandmother with a loaded fucking gun while whispering to it and he was later diagnosed with stage 3 Alzheimer's and he's convinced my grandmother is a member of the Italian mafia sent to assassinate him. I'm not telling you family stories for nothing and I'm sure you guys are gonna have a good laugh about this too because no matter what I say to explain myself I still get treated like shit. Im not even sure if I'm allowed to say this, but if even a team of Harvard Medical Graduates; professionals that people from all around the world seek for help from; can't pinpoint what psychological problems I have, then I shouldn't be given that "trying to manipulate people" shit. A fucking adult said this. If you have any experience with being mentally ill like you say you do, then you know just how fucking difficult it is to properly function and be able to say the right things and advocate for yourself. Do you know how fucking hard it is to fall asleep at night and wake up in the morning knowing that you'll probably have to rely on a caretaker for the rest of your fucking life because you can't make choices for yourself and will need to be under constant supervision so you don't fucking hang yourself one day?? I don't fucking enjoy being a literal walking disease, but thanks for implying that I would ever use it as a fucking tool to get what I want when I want it, you ignorant fuck. You didn't possibly think after screenshotting my mental breakdown that "Hey, someone probably has to have some type of chemical imbalance to type all of this out" before posting it and using it as a prop to get on some fucking high horse. I'm not some mildly depressed idiot fucking white girl who has no clue what happens outside of the cushy walls of my fucking house. I know how fucking horrible and disgusting the human race can be to each other which is part of the reason why I'm like this.I get it! You're so much more fucking smarter than me!!! I'm a stereotypical white western liberal! You caught me red handed! I literally hope that every single one of you have gotten your superiority fix for the day because I've literally had to move blogs because of this. I actually came back to this blog to clean up my mess of posts which is what I do after my episodes, and I happened to notice that one of the anons I had was surprisingly not abuse, but still something bitchy anyway. If you want anything positive to come from me answering this, then I'm just gonna say Thank You for not being like one of the other people who wished death upon me. If you guys still aren't satisfied with this, then I don't fucking know what else to say?? I've explained myself and admitted over and over that I was wrong, but nobody was satisfied until I freaked the fuck out and they got a good laugh out of causing a stupid white girl distress. I'm humiliated now and have pretty much become a laughing stock so yeah. There it is.

[wesingingstigmata-blog]

On the tail of the international 'Woman's March', I post this. Again, this was commissioned. Then rejected. Which is all good. But doesn't matter how many platforms reject my writing for whatever reason. This shit needs to be said.

BORN BEYOND THE REEF: Identity, Autonomy and Being Policed in Public Spaces.

This year on Saturday the 7th of January, I was told by two security guards (one male and one female), to leave the New Lynn Public Transport Centre’s waiting area on the grounds that I looked 'indecent'.

[Disclaimer: Even though its not relevant, it was a hot Auckland summer’s day and I had just come from the gym (the way I was sweating could rival a waterfall). And just in case you were wondering, I was wearing a beige cap, a beige triangle-shape sports bra that showed no cleavage whatsoever,high waisted beige underwear that went up to my ribs, a long black dress shirt tied around my waist, men's size black basketball shorts, army boots, and a big black bag on my shoulder. Anyone that knows me will know that this is a ‘tame’ version of how I can dress. But what is important to remember is that I can wear whatever I want, and I will never apologise for it.]

So before I was told to leave, I was sitting in the waiting area because it is a designated 'safe space’, as the New Lynn public transport area is notorious for being having potentially dangerous people walking around at times. I spent a lot of time around New Lynn as a high school student, so I knew this area like the back of my hand. I had always felt incredibly comfortable here. Like most days, I frequent the New Lynn Public Transport Centre before heading into the city. But unlike most days, I was confronted by these two security guards while waiting for my train. They approached me immediately after I had sat down, and this ensued:

- I was told that I ‘can’t sit in here looking like that’. - I was told how I was dressed was 'against the law'. - The security guards argued that I was 'only wearing a bra', as I was being stared at like I was a prostitute or the child of Lucifer (either of which I don't really mind but I still consider inappropriate from strangers). - I was told that unless I put my coat on, which was a men’s heavy XL suit jacket, I had to leave the area. - I was told that I am not allowed to dress this way here, after I said proudly that ‘I can wear whatever the fuck I want’. - It was also explained to me that they 'don't let shirtless men in that area so why should they let me sit there looking like that'.

And what gutted me the most was that I was told all of this by a fellow Pacific Island woman. They then called their supervisor. During most of this exchange I was shifting between being entirely confused, offended and saddened, and I met most of their argument with responses like ‘But I don’t understand?’, ‘What do you mean?’, ‘You can’t tell me to leave’, ‘There is nothing wrong with the way I dress’, ‘I can wear whatever the fuck I want’, and ‘This is bullshit’. After I argued with them for about 10 minutes I left, stating that I was going to complain. The female security guard then said to me, "Well do it, we have you on camera.” Which I was completely confused by because what had I been captured doing? Sitting in a waiting area and being hassled by security guards for no reason? This felt like some sort of weak threat. But that is exactly how I left the waiting area feeling: threatened. And as the anger slowly drained out of me, I was left with a feeling that I had known for a long time: being the other.

And here is a bonus fact: this is not the first time this has happened to me. Last year, I was told to leave Denny's Restaurant in the city because 'it was a family restaurant’ and how I looked wasn’t acceptable. I was then told to put clothes on or leave. (I was wearing a black sports bra and black high waisted baggy pants and boots).

When events like this happen to me, it always manifests into something more than what it appears. This is not a one-off moment. This is a prevailing attitude and system that I encounter daily in many different ways. This is a prevailing attitude that many of my friends and peers in different communities encounter daily in many different ways. But for the most part, I do not feel hurt or concerned for MY own safety or well-being in the way that you may think. With this event, I read more into what was not overtly stated, and I reflect on the context of the attitudes I was challenged with here. And even though my experience is valid and necessary to the global conversation, I feel more anxious about the experiences of others who do not have some of the privileges I have inherited, and who might not come out of those situations as safely as I did.

This may seem unrelated at first, but follow me here: As a mixed-race woman of the Moana living in Aotearoa, New Zealand, aka ‘Beyond the Reef’. I am already a daughter of diaspora, so I have inherited an internal conflict. I have always seen myself as a body of warnings for an environment that does not know how to translate me. And for the most part, I have spent a lot of my time as a young woman silently begging for forgiveness from anything, or anyone, that in my eyes embodied my fantasy idea of the Pacific better than I did. Which they usually did. For some reason, I was begging for forgiveness for an act I that I wasn’t completely sure I had committed, and I was craving a sense of belonging to house that I wasn’t completely sure had ever been built. But when you have already been born ‘beyond the reef’, you spend most of your childhood re-creating what you think might be inside the reef - you recreate your island, or home, within your own body. You do this because your brown skin is all the proof you have that the Moana knows you, and at that point it’s all you have got to navigate your way back. Through self-expression and accumulated identity you have taught yourself a new identity, a new tongue, which is a pretty amazing feat. Your new language makes sense to you. But the thing is, it won’t always make sense to everyone else. And most days this is proven to me.

So as I write this, I am thinking about those who identify as women of colour. I am thinking about my sisters of the Pacific. I am thinking about the overwhelming forces of tradition, religion and elders in the South Pacific. I am thinking about this undercurrent of conservatism creeping into my house. I am thinking about the gods that were present before ‘the’ God. I am thinking about the way we consume brown bodies and how media barely portrays us as whole beings. I am thinking about the movie ‘Moana’ and what truly lies for her ‘beyond the reef’. I am thinking about the fantasy of the South Pacific. I am thinking about how the world is reflected as a woman’s body. I am thinking about my sisters. I am thinking about belonging in the midst of rejection. I am thinking about how I have had to be my own elder for a long time. And I am always thinking about trying to lead by example.

The incident in the New Lynn Public Transport Centre is unacceptable and shouldn’t have to happen to anyone. There is something to be said about one person feeling they have the authority to police the physical appearance of another in a public space. It is humiliating and exposing. But there is something even deeper to be said about it being members of the same community. How we are publicly and privately engaging with each other’s bodies, but especially the bodies and lives of our daughters, sisters, friends, mothers and grandmothers? What is the present, historical and future context of our bodies? Do we share any of the same stories with our mothers anymore? Are we coming from a place of love, complexity and patience? Are we projecting a learnt shame onto one another? Who taught us this shame? Is this what lies for our daughters beyond the reef?

Whether we like to acknowledge it or not, in New Zealand we live in a nation that feeds on hyper-masculinity and champions an archaic idea of strength through ownership and control. The sexual assault cases that make the news are too consistent to be comfortable with, and the ones that don’t make the news are too horrific to even mention in everyday conversation. The spectrum of sexuality we use is limited, learnt and monitored through the media, ourselves and our own elders, and differs from community to community. The ‘code’ and ‘rules’ you must learn as a young person is overwhelming. To walk in the world hand in hand with the fear of bring raped or harassed has always been deeply disturbing. Our general culture of shame that we religiously perpetuate amongst each other through daily micro-aggressions is complex and relentless. Don’t believe me? Talk to young people. Talk to young women. Talk to older women. Talk to indigenous/pacific/immigrant/LGBTQI communities. Check our suicide states. This is us.

So here is where I shift the conversation. I don’t speak for everyone and I don’t assume I do. I speak with those that resonate with me and I don’t intend to end this as a critique on New Zealand’s relationship to it’s women, or any other community because there are plenty of well-written pieces on any of those topics. But the thing is, is that there is a responsibility I have, that we all have.

I am not worried about me. I am worried about the young women who are navigating these situations without the tenacity and thick skin I have accumulated in my journey so far. I am worried about young women who will absorb these experiences and let it hinder their growth or expression of themselves and their ever-evolving culture. So with this in mind, I leave the end of this piece as a love letter for my fellow sisters of the Moana, for those born beyond the reef, for those identifying as women of colour, for those who aren't recognised in society as women even though that is what you are, for those who are missing their homeland, for those who willingly or unwillingly fall into the ‘other’ and for those who are wanting to express themselves in multi-faceted ways without being shamed:

My sisters, I see you. And I get it. Do not apologise. You do not have muddy blood. It is known that one of the most dangerous transformations is when a woman begins to converse with the many women she holds within her form. This transition is when she begins to understand her own devastation and divinity simultaneously, and she learns to surrender to and master it. The most ‘dangerous’ woman is a woman fully aware of all the worlds within herself. A woman fully realised. And a woman fully realised, is a woman fully equipped. And my sister, you have everything you need. Some people won’t understand you, and that’s okay. You aren’t made for everyone. You are never too much. You are never lacking. You are always enough. You are the meeting grounds of the Pacific, of survivor’s guilt, and of the people of the Moana. Your body is a genealogy of resistance. Your body isn’t all of you, just an expression of you. Your body is every sign you have ever asked for. Your body is wonderful. Your body can be sexy. Your body doesn’t have to be sexy. Your body isn’t anyone else’s. Your body is complicated. Your body is your country. Your body is life, and must be respected. Your body knows your history and can see your future. Your body is the reef. Your body is loved. And YOU are loved beyond your body.

Now sis, your ancestors are speaking to you constantly whether you are fluent in your native tongue or not, because you are the your people’s most recent attempt at immortality. You have every right to be here. The dogs won’t bite harder than you will. The gods can’t scream louder than you can. Walk with pride and gratitude, and do not be afraid to challenge your environment. The world will never be prepared for you, but you must always prepare yourself for it. Knowing yourself is a life work, and there are people everywhere who are willing to help you with the load. Acknowledge those who have come before you and prepare the way for those on your heels waiting to be born. And on the days you feel alone, remind yourself how hard you have been fought for.

And never forget: You can wear whatever the FUCK you want. Because Jahra said so.

#beyondthereef #imstartingawomenscircle #andprobablyacoven#hitmeupforapplications #letsfucksomeshitup Photography: Vocable / Jocelen Janon

[eds-zebra-warrior]

2021 Ehlers Danlos Society Awareness Month (Day 5 Prompt: School and Teachers

I didn't get a diagnosis until I finished college however I did have several teachers who realized something was going on. The first one to take notice was my first grade teacher Mrs. M. She notified my mom that she believed I had learning disabilities and believed something was going on. The school continued to refuse to do any kind of testing but she stepped up and fought them. My mom even had a picture of a birthday cake I made for my dad in which I wrote “Happy Birthday Dad” on the cake totally backwards as if it were a reflection in a mirror. Mrs. M not only gave me the individualized attention I needed but also wouldn't take no for an answer from the school which made them do basic learning disability testing and put me into a specialized reading and writing class.

It wasn't until later elementary school, when I was in the 3rd-5th grade that I believe my Gym Teacher Mr. W started noticing something was going on. He never said anything so I can’t be sure he realized there was a problem however he did provide some extra help for me in gym, like when we did pull ups he was always happy to help lift part of my weight and never said anything about my inability to run, throw balls, do sit ups and pushups properly, only grading me on effort and would sometimes ask me if I needed help with certain things or would give me tips without it being too obvious to other students. He was genuinely just a happy guy though. He would whistle the lamb chops song while we ran and was pretty relaxed which is why I’m not sure he noticed but since he did conspicuously offer help to me makes me believe it at least crossed his mind that something was going on. A lot of EDS patients really struggled with gym teachers and learned to hate that class but I always had really good gym teachers who took notice to the fact that my inability do succeed in sports wasn't my fault. They always knew that I wasn't lazy and there was something more going on in my body that caused me to be clumsy, weak and different than the other kids.

In middle school, I didn't have a gym as I went to a homeschool coop which was more like a private school. When entering this school I had yet to start treatment for my Juvenile Dwarfism but in contrast to my first school where I was bullied for being tiny and clumsy, at this school I quickly became the most popular kid in the school. This made me blend in so my teachers didn't really notice much atypically that was going on. The students however were the ones that did notice but being small, I was no longer a freak but at this school I was “Pocket Sized” and my social awkwardness and clumsiness was embraced as uniquely different and original. The girls would fight over whose house I would spend the night at on the weekend and as gym was replaced by Friday field trips, the guys would fight over who got to give me a piggyback ride during the field trips. The falling is a lot less noticeable when people are either piggy backing you around all the time or you had people around you all the time so if you tripped usually someone was grabbing your arm to catch you before it was that noticeable. This is the school where I really came out of my shell and went from the shy kid to the social butterfly. So much so that the teacher would start occasionally referring to me as a butterfly before telling me to stop talking. I eventually passed up the educational capabilities of the teacher and was put into a place of teaching younger students myself which forced me to leave and return to public school, this time at a different public school in the country.

In high school I was kind of right in that sweet spot when it came to popularity. Right in the middle where I didn't have problems with anyone and was able to befriend some of the jocks and cheerleaders as well as the kids in quiz bowl and band. I had a lot of friends but not so many that it became overwhelming or stressful because here at least there weren't fights over whose house I went to, whose vehicle I rode in on the way to a field trip, which kid was going to get me as their big sister in the big sister big brother program, who got to sit by me etc. so it was more manageable and I again started falling more under the radar of the teachers.

My high school gym teacher Mrs. B again took notice of my unusual body mechanics in gym and after my first gym class which was sports based suggested I switch to another class that was actually a harder class but totally different as well, focusing on weight lifting, cardio and fitness rather than sports. She was able to teach me for the first time in my life, how to run. She also took note that where I lacked in upper body strength, I excelled in lower body strength and helped me to eventually be able to leg press 320 lbs. when I was only 92 lbs. by the time I graduated. My goal was to hit 300 lbs. which she suggested I lower that a bit but on the last day I leg pressed 300 lbs. and then told my partner to put a ten on each side, just to see if I could do it, and leg pressed 320 lbs. one time and said well, there's one. Now I can say I did it and we put the barbells up. When It came to bench pressing I barely could bench the 45 lbs. bar without any weights added at all and was the only one in the class who had to start with a mini 35 lb. bar. She taught me to do proper push ups and my body mechanics really improved with her help.

I had an English teacher in high school named Mrs. H. She reminded me of a grandmother when I was in high school and improved my reading skills more than any teacher I ever had when I was in the later years of elementary school, the reading and writing teacher pulled my mom in for a meeting, telling her that unfortunately, at this point, I just wasn’t progressing in those classes and I would be illiterate. Back then their teaching philosophy for reading was to look at the picture in a book and describe what was happening in the book which wasn't reading at all but it was also rather strict and if you did what she said and described the picture and it wasn't the same as the words she wasn't exactly mean but definitely made it clear in a very frustrated sounding voice that that was wrong. When I took the proficiency test she had essentially given up on me at that point and would read the multiple choice questions to me in the reading section and then ask me if it was A, B, C or D and if I got the wrong answer she would tell me to guess again, essentially making it look like I was doing a great job since all of the answers were right which in turn made it look like she was doing a great job to later tell my mom I would be illiterate. When I left that school I finally started learning to read in the 7th grade, reading at a first grade level.

By my senior year of high school. I was reading at a 3rd grade level when I got Mrs. H who was the first to really be able to teach me how to read. A lot of people didn't like her class because it was so hard and the homework could get extensive but the challenge is exactly what I needed as well as her teaching style to make reading, for the first time in my life, interesting. She was always willing to work with us and help and upon grading our papers she was incredibly thorough when marking errors and explaining why they were incorrect which gave me much more understanding than simply saying “No, that's not right. Try again” I was finally able to understand and learn from my mistakes as well as feeling as if her detail was proof, explaining why I got the grade I did. She was willing to work with us one on one up at her desk and it was quite obvious that teaching English was a true passion of hers which really wore off on me. By the time I graduated and took my college entrance exam, I was shocked to learn that not only was my reading no longer at a 3rd grade level but I had tested into college level, honors English and eventually took the hardest English class the college offered, not because it was required but chose it as an elective, just for fun and acing it. She really helped me overcome my biggest barrier when it came to learning disabilities and what's more amazing is that she was able to do this in a single year.

In college, multiple professors took notice of my health issues. While in the nursing program I was often used as the example student. The one the professors would call to the front of the class for demos or in the classes with two professors they used me as a fill in to help with demonstrations because I had been in the hospital so much myself that I oftentimes already knew the content being taught and sometimes had teachers saying they wish they could test out people like me from some of the classes because I could have probably gone in the first day of class and passed the final without even taking the class because of my life experiences and medical history. I was the one everyone wanted to use to practice drawing blood on because I was such a hard stick so it was no secret that I had a lot of health issues though at the time no one knew the ultimate cause of them was Ehlers Danlos Syndrome.

The interpreting field classes on the other hand had a lot of immature teachers who reminded me of teenagers and seemed to have nothing better to do in their lives than to try to publicly humiliate me to try to get me out of the program. I was top of the class and later found out when they tried to kick me out of the program for something I didn't do and I had to take them to court. My lawyer believes the reasoning behind it was that they were intimidated by me and actually wanted me out for job assurance. My health issues were very well known as I was in this program the second time I lost the ability to walk and had multiple hospital trips for seizures, heart issues and my thyroid.

There was one incident in particular I was hospitalized because I was on thyroid medication for hypothyroid but somehow I flipped from hypothyroid to hypothyroid leading to my T3 and T4 levels being four times the normal levels which can be really dangerous and left me with the worst migraine of my life. I emailed my teacher while in the hospital telling her what happened as this happened two days before the final and I was admitted and had no idea how long they would keep me. I told her I know she said there will be no makeup and if we missed the class we would have to retake it but asked her to please have understanding and and let me make up the final since I was hospitalized. She told me what she said still stands and there are no makeups and that anyone can say they're in the hospital, not believing I was truly there so I took a picture of myself in the hospital as well as my hospital band with the date on it and sent it to her. She replied saying that she said there were no makeups, come take the final or take the class again next quarter. I told her I would check in with them first thing in the morning to see when I may be released.

The next morning they said they would probably keep me for a few more days and I emailed her that morning and updated her, again asking to make up the final since I obviously have a good reason to not be there when she again refused to let me retake the class. I got the email an hour and a half before the final on which I was again told no makeups and if I don't show up she will see me again the following quarter. I was forced to tell the staff I had to leave and was checking myself out of the hospital because I had to take the final, explaining how much the class cost and how much work I had put into it. They did not agree with this and made me sign a waiver stating that I was leaving against medical advice and by the time I got out, it was about 45 minutes before the final. I got dressed at the hospital, and haven't showered since before I went into the hospital so I put my hair up and my mom drove me to the college where I barely made it into the room in time for the exam. The medical term for what I was dealing with was called Thyrotoxicosis, Thyrotoxic Syndrome or a Thyroid storm and at my levels were life threatening the heart rate, blood pressure and temperature can shoot up and you’re at high risk for heart attacks, strokes, brain aneurysms, coma, seizures and there was a 75% chance of death if left untreated at the levels my TSH, T3 and T4 were at The nurse told me that if I was going to do this to keep a heating pack around my neck the entire time to prevent my temperature from spiking which could cause seizures and organ failure. I had to keep the hospital bracelet on so it would be easier for them to re-admit me when I finished the final and she made me promise to come right back when I was done and because the migraine was so bad, I couldn't tolerate the light and kept throwing up at the hospital from the light so wore sunglasses and she gave me a dose of Zofran right before pulling my IV to try to get me through.

As soon as I got into the glass Professor P, humiliated me in front of the entire class bringing the class into it about how ridiculous I looked in pajama pants, with a shirt that didn't match at all, sunglasses, an icepack and my hospital bracelet on telling me how I was making an ass out of myself and if I was really that sick I should have just told her and made up the test later. I told her that I emailed her multiple times, explaining the situation and she said I couldn't make it up when she then denied she ever told me that and said “You know I would have let you make it up” and continued to use that against me since the day I graduated saying all the time that I would be a bad interpreter because I was just plain weird, calling me weird in front of everyone multiple times and going back to the never in my life have I seen a student come into a final looking so ridiculous with an ice pack around their neck and sunglasses and at one time calling me a freak. She said nothing about my dedication by making it work nor did she acknowledge the financial burden associated with having to pay to take a class over and graduate late because of it when most college students don't have a lot of money. I would have never left the hospital if she wouldn't have told me multiple times that she would not allow me to make up the final. She again made fun of me when I had to go back into a wheelchair and back into therapy to learn to walk again telling everyone how I was a freak and weird (yes she used those exact words) time and time again, saying I would fake illness and was mentally ill turning my entire class against me. She got another professor in the department, Professor D on board to assist in making me a joke who ended up being worse than Mrs. P and lied about me time and time again eventually getting me kicked out of the field.

I ended up having to the college to court to get back into school and provided around 100 documents to prove I didn't do what she said I did and then changed the reason she kicked me out to something else that wasn't true in which was also backed by those documents. The Lawyer for Columbus State requested their documents to prove their case time and time again and always got the excuse of it was lost or I must have stolen it out of a cabinet that was locked in the department office area in one professor's office and in a locked filing cabinet so behind three locked drawers and their lawyer found this out by accidentally calling the professor who kept the files in his office. They pulled me into a room, locking me in it with them while both of them yelled at me trying to intimidate me to say I did it into a camera and I refused to admit I did something I didn't do and after two months of not sending them anything their lawyer said she would drop them if they did not provide any proof at all so they sent in the video of them harassing and verbally abusing me to try to get me to admit I did this and refusing to let me out of the room with me in tears and them still screaming in my face and calling me names but I never said I did anything and their lawyer asked my lawyer to see my documents of proof which proved without a reasonable doubt that I did not do what they said I did so she told them she was dropping out of their case and would not support them in court so I automatically won the case.

Their lawyer actually called me because all I was suing for was to be able to go back into the field and take the class again without having to pay for it even though it forced me to graduate late and she told me that if I really wanted to go after them I could tack on verbal abuse, harassment and unlawful detainment. I did not do this but the teachers in this program were unethical and made my life a living hell for a genetic condition I never asked for and in no way caused to myself.

Part of me wishes I would have went through with it and added to my case so that they will never work as interpreters again but I just wanted to get back in school and get my degree, not knowing then that I would be too sick to use it but being an interpreter was a dream of mine since I was in the first grade.

To fulfill my physical related credit I took a jazz dance class. I can't say much about that other than I was god awful. So bad at dancing that the professor came up to me in the fourth class and said, I know this isn't your major but I grade it as if it is and I think you should consider dropping this class because if you don't you will fail. I wanted to take Yoga but it was never available so I decided, I can't dance so why not learn. Though it was a beginners class it was short lived and I ended up having to drop it. Since that didn't work out the following quarter I took a fitness class that sounded a lot like the one I took in high school with Mrs. B. I loved her class so I decided to give this one a try and ended up loving it just as much. What I didn't expect was to have a professor who was just like her, since he knew right away something just wasn't right about me.

I really wish I could remember his name because he was an awesome professor. He noticed the first day and simply asked if there was anything he should know about. I told him no because I was still undiagnosed at the time so didn't know why I was so clumsy and so much weaker than everyone else. He really took notice, asking several times if I had any medical conditions he should know about before I did any of the exercises. I continued to tell him just Celiac Disease, hypothyroid and Scoliosis but none affected the class. Since there was an odd number of students in the class he ended up assigning partners instead of letting everyone choose their partners and made me the odd one out so he could be my partner to make sure I didn’t get injured.

During the class he modified exercises and gave me a barbell limit, telling me I was not to use any barbells over 25 lbs. When doing pull ups I was not allowed to do them alone making sure I did it in a way that protected my shoulders and using elastic straps under my knees while he supported me for proper body mechanics, I had to do sit ups on a balance ball instead of on the floor and he did some exercises on a balance board which made it more like an extremely intensive physical therapy class than a gym class.. I truly believe he knew what was going on and what was wrong with me. Rather he knew the name for it, I don't know, rather he had heard of EDS before, I will probably never be able to ask but I truly believe that he has at least seen the same symptoms before and knew the risk I was taking by entering this class and doing certain exercises.

I've had both good and bad luck with teachers throughout my life but what makes me different than other EDS patients is that I couldn't have asked for any better Physical Education teachers and professors throughout school if I tried. I was incredibly lucky in that aspect.

[ecotone99]

[RF] The Dancer that I wanted to be but never was

I like to dance but have to admit that I have no talent for dancing. When I was younger, there was an elderly woman who was giving ballet lessons. My mother thought this would be great and I was all excited as we would be dancing in a show after the class was over. Turns out that this elderly woman only taught class for 30 minutes and then would get into another room where she would talk to someone on the phone for the next half hour. During this time I would be bullied by two girls who were several years older than me. At first it was verbal. Then I was pushed around.

The final straw came they pushed me and I tripped and fell to the the floor in the living room which part of it was carpeted and then they started tickling me. They held my hands down on the ground so that I couldn't defend myself. I told them to stop it but they didn't. I even screamed for them to stop at the top of my lungs. They laughed and I realized I was on my own. I was lucky it was carpeted and I wasn't hurt. Had I fallen on another area of the room, I might have been hurt.

The woman was too involved in her phone call to notice or maybe she didn't care. I know she didn't like me and didn't like the way I danced. I never wanted to dance ballet after that and hated it for a very long time after that.

It was only until I was in my 40's that I could attend a ballet performance and not have negative feelings about it.

After about a month, I told my grandmother I didn't like ballet and when she asked me why I told her what had happened, the elderly woman took a phone call in another room and then I would be bullied for the next half hour. This had gone on for several weeks.

My grandmother came to her home half way thru the lesson. I let her into the home. The woman was on the phone. The bullies didn't have a chance to bully me that day. You can imagine the look on the woman's face when she came out of the room and my grandmother was standing there asking her why she was on a phone call every week when she should have been teaching us the next half hour and why she didn't respond when I was being held down and screamed for help. She had no answer for my grandmother.

I left with my grandmother and never went back. When my mother called and told this woman I wouldn't be back and expressed her anger over her allowing these older girls to bully me, this woman basically told her that I never would be a ballet dancer due to my poor dancing skills or something to that effect. She didn't care about the fact that I was bullied.

I heard later on that this woman had told people she danced ballet in New York. She really didn't tell them anything else and was vague about her experience.. My grandmother assumed that she had danced for a dance company in New York. The woman did know the basics of ballet and perhaps in her youth had ballet lessons and danced when she was young at school in New York (she was originally from New York) but she wasn't a professional dancer nor was she a dancer at a ballet company. We had no ballet bar and would sometimes use the wall to put our hands on for balance or use nothing at all. The house was not set up for ballet lessons. After that, I never heard of her giving ballet lessons nor did I hear of a show ever being performed by her students (if she had any left).

What made me think of this was a ballet performance that I attended. It was the Vampire's Ball. Why this would make me think of this long-long ago, I'll never know. I told a couple of people there about my experience, and told some of the ballet staff about it. They had never heard of such a story, The ballet teacher who said she danced ballet in New York. They had to admit that this was a new one. A ballet teacher misrepresenting herself without actually lying about it. It was what she didn't say that was telling.

The experience that I had happened in 1970 or 1971 when I was 8 or 9 years old. Some of the people of the ballet staff said that you would have to have a license or proof that you had ballet dancer or proof of teaching ballet to be on their staff or any ballet staff. Because of other zoning laws, you couldn't legally do what this elderly woman did back in the early 1970's. Probably today for liability reasons, you couldn't have someone teach ballet at their home.

I do know that many parents today have told me that if someone had done to their child what was done to me, that they would reported it to the police or taken legal action against the parents of my bullies as well as the teacher. The strange thing about this was these girls came from a distance and didn't go to the same schools as I did which was a good thing. My grandmother was never able to find out who they were except for the information above. If she knew, she would have been on the phone with their parents.

As I said earlier, my grandmother as well as my mother assumed that this woman had been a professional ballet dancer in her youth. Back then people took you at your word. There were no regulations or laws regarding ballet teaching.

When I was a little bit older in the upper grade of elementary school and in middle school we had square dancing. People told me that I was a terrible dancer. Since they were boys who told me that, I ignored them and laughed about it.

In high school, I took a modern dance class. I was still not convinced that I was a terrible dancer. Perhaps I just need to learn. I took the dance class to avoid PE. I'm not athletic and hated PE with a passion. Had a hard time learning steps and had to be behind someone so make sure I was in sync with everyone else. Or I would have to memorize the song and remember what they were singing and what steps I needed to take. Had to really work at it. Was okay if I danced by myself (maybe at best barely average).

We were going to learn disco dancing and I was out for a couple of days with a cold. I came back to school and they put me with some guy (adult) who was really good at it. Because I was in the dance class, he thought I should be a good dancer as well. Let's just say totally disaster and I was almost in tears over it. He was disgusted with me and then refused to dance with me due to my poor dancing the next day. I was embarrassed and humiliated over this as everyone knew and some people had a really good laugh over it.

I then was paired with someone who wasn't a good dancer. Again total disaster with both of us blaming each other for the awful dancing. Someone who was a friend told me it was comical to see us both dancing. I could laugh about it later but at the time, I was ready to either cry or scream.

After the class I had lunch. After the class I had emotions of anger and wanted to scream at this adult who had shamed and humiliated me in front of others. I wasn't angry at my classmate (as I could see the humor in it). I started laughing hysterically and then sobbing. I'm glad no one saw me because they would have thought that I had lost it or something.

Then this adult decides he's going to pick on me after that. Gets on my case for things that everyone else does. Looks at me with disgust and contempt. Well this guy wasn't at the school much longer (maybe a couple of weeks at most) as he picked on someone else, they told their parents and the parents reported it to the school. I should have done the same but I didn't think anything could be done about it. I was glad he was gone.

After that I hated disco dancing, really hated it. I could watch it but I never again would I attempt to dance it. Still haven't and this was 40 years ago.

The wardrobe malfunction. Oh yeah that was something else but I will leave that for another day. Poor dancing didn't cause that but I think every dancer has had that. Although I was covered, I had a bra that basically feel apart into little pieces while I was dancing and many people witnessed this, clapped and cheered.

I forgot to mention the makeup malfunction as well. My grandmother being athletic never cared about wearing makeup and my mom didn't care whether I wear it or not and I was never shown how to wear it. I didn't want to share this information with anyone but after my wardrobe malfunction I had to. People looked at me like I was weird or something. I wasn't surprised. I've always been looked at the one whose different. Who marches to the beat of a different drummer. I know you always have one at your school and I was it.

I still was not convinced that I was a poor dancer. I didn't really blame anyone but thought well maybe if I was in a different setting. I college I took aerobics class. This was the first time that I was on my own and no one cared whether or not I was good at dancing. I still have the same problem but I was better. I could do the workout but some steps I had difficulty with and had to really concentrate on the steps to do them correctly. No one said anything as they were focused on themselves and told me not to worry if I didn't get any step correctly. I enjoyed the aerobics as this was the first time that people didn't tell me what a terrible dancer I was or tell me that I'm doing everything wrong.

I took over aerobics and dance classes over the years. It was only in my mid 30's that I finally had to admit that I wasn't a good dancer. Never would be. Of course when you pay for aerobics and dance classes they aren't going to tell you that. I really wanted to be a good dancer.

I would see the dancers on Solid Gold or dancers on other shows and I would want to be part of them. At our school we have a dance group that you had to try out for. I never tried out for it because I would have been the laughing stock of the school. I wanted to be in that dance group in high school and if I'd been a fairly good dancer, I might have made it. In my senior year, all of the seniors who had been in the dance group were chosen in their junior year.. It was a fairly large group of seniors and a few people cried foul (some of the underclassmen). Can you imagine if I were in this group and made it, they would be doing more than crying foul. If I made it into this group, then anyone could.

The next year they had a new dance teacher and you had to audition to get into any of the dance classes. I know that I never would have made it if this was the policy when I took the dance class my junior year of high school. I wouldn't have even attempted it and would have been forced to take PE.

I totally enjoyed watching the Vampire's Ball Ballet show.

This story is a true one. Hope you enjoyed it.

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[jw231992]

Love, Simon

It seems to be a hot-topic movie going on, and I have been so excited to see this movie since I saw the trailer. Since it is still relatively new, I suggest going to see the movie before reading because I will be discussing major plot points. Consider this your spoiler warning. Without further ado, let's get into "Love, Simon."

We all know the basic premise at this point, right? Someone makes an anonymous post on a social media platform, something akin to whisper, but you can have friends on this platform, and states nobody knows they're gay. What a coincidence, so is Simon! But none of his friends or family know. This is an all-too-familiar feeling most people in the LGBTQ+ community know. Despite same-sex marriage being legal in the U.S. now (as the film takes place in Atlanta), people are still afraid to come out due to various reasons, and sometimes, someone may do anything it takes to stay in the closet, even if it means lying to your friends to avoid being outed by a third party. Simon spends most of the movie speaking in private messages to Blue, the person posting the secret "I'm gay" post, under the pseudonym, Jacques. One of Simon's classmates finds out his secret and blackmails him unless he can get a date with the new girl, Abby. Begrudgingly, he agrees, and starts an entire web of lies, all surrounding the ones he cares about the most other than his family, which are his friends. Mind you, his parents are both therapists, and are actually kind of cool (and Simon's dad is totally a daddy in my book so that's a bonus); and he has his typical brother and sister arguments with his sister because why not? The messages between Blue and Jacques get pretty corny, but what can two closeted gay guys do, right? Simon attempts to reach out, saying he wants to meet Blue, but Blue says he is not ready to come out to anyone. It eventually gets to the point that Simon finally comes out to one person, his friend Abby. She accepts him either way, but Simon did not expect her to have such a lackluster reaction to him coming out.

Unfortunately for Simon's classmate, he is shot down when he asks Abby out in front of the entire school at a homecoming game. Embarrassed, upset, humiliated and more than likely utterly heartbroken, he posts screenshots of the conversation Simon and Blue had with each other at the time of discovery and outs Simon on social media. To those who want to stay in the closet for any reason, this is essentially one of the worst things that can happen and Simon's life is thrown into disarray. His friends abandon him after they discuss the web of lies he's woven to keep him being gay a secret, and his father needs time to cope what has happened. I will tell you from experience that coming out is scary, but being forced out of the closet is way worse. Simon could have done any number of things and he chose to accept himself and say he is gay. Blue has seen the post, however and tells Simon he can't talk to him anymore and utterly blocks him from ever messaging him again.

Simon now stands with nothing but his mother and sister's support at this time. At school is no different as two bullies decide to make a show by dressing as Simon and Ethan, the only known out student at the school, and showing them essentially dry humping. The theatre teacher (who I may say is definitely one of my favorite characters) escorts them to the principals office for doing something so inappropriate. The bullies are made to apologize to both Simon and Ethan, albeit under the pretense that Simon and Ethan were going out. They may both be gay but that doesn't mean they're going out or are interested in each other, but accept the apology nonetheless. Ethan tells Simon, when they're alone that Ethan's mother struggles to tell her mother about her son dating women as Ethan's grandmother is ultra-conservative. It breaks Ethan's heart every time, simply because it's the easier way to handle things, which is another harsh reality that exists today. The school day ends with Simon telling his blackmailer off with one of the best F-bombs in a PG-13 movie and leaves. Simon makes his way home, where he runs into his dad, who tells him he still loves him, which is one of the most heartfelt scenes I've ever seen. They make up and his dad says he is gonna sign them both up for grindr, under the pretense that it's Facebook for gay people (It isn't. Don't let your dad sign you both up for it).

Simon and the theatre crew have just finished their performance of "Cabaret" and eventually, his friends come back and invite him to the fair. Simon makes a post asking for Blue to meet him at the Ferris wheel, reminiscent of the first post Blue made about being gay. Simon bought out a ton of tickets to ride the wheel until he has to leave. A good portion of the school has noticed and has formed a crowd around the Ferris wheel. However, Simon's tickets run out but his blackmailer gives him one more ticket that allows Blue, or I should say Bram, to join Simon on the Ferris wheel. They share tender kisses atop the Ferris wheel, much to the cheers of everyone in the audience. The movie ends with Simon and his friends and Bram going on an adventure for the day, bringing the story to a happy close.

This movie hit home so many times for me and I have nothing but praise for the movie itself. It's racially diverse, it's relevant, and I would see it again if I currently had the money (I am broke as fuck right now). Please, please, please, do yourself a favor and see this movie. You will not regret it.

[sarcasmncriticism-blog]

2017.

I haven’t blogged in years.  When you go through things, the very thing you’re passionate about becomes obsolete.  For the last few years, I’ve become somewhat reclusive.  My life has changed COMPLETELY from 3 years ago.  With 2017 coming to an end, I needed to write--document--the year I’ve had. So here’s a snapshot of the experiences and lessons learned during my 2017.

I attempted to start the year fresh and work on my family....that lasted 3 weeks.  I finally made the decision to cease my efforts for good in January 2017.  

I endured verbal and mental abuse.

I learned to deal with humiliation.

My apartment flooded in March.

This was the year of the SHOW for me: 2 Chris Brown shows, Bruno Mars, Jay-Z, Vic Mensa, Jagged Edge, The Internet, OT Genesis, Future, 2Chainz, Gucci Mane, Chance the Rapper, Pastor Troy, Monica, Boosie...and a plethora of others I don’t feel like remembering.  Just know I was #ConcertBae2017.

I was laid off with no valid reasoning in May, 2 days before I was supposed to close on new house. It was BS but I get it.  My boss didn’t like that I questioned her business practices.  As the only licensed person on her staff, I told her point blank I wasn’t risking my license to scam people out of money.

I got another job within 30 days and was fired 10 business days later - again with no explanation....again before closing on a new condo. (I was determined to be a homeowner this year lol)

Then I was hired 3 days later and with that job came respect and responsibility.  My salary increased, I have staff, I am in charge of a million dollar account. It’s annoying truthfully but being a lower level employee doesn’t suit me (Obviously-I’ve been fired 3 times lol)

My cousin was murdered in August.

A month later, my friend Seth (#TeamFirkForever) passed away in his sleep.

3 weeks later my grandmother passed away in her sleep.

I experienced being handcuffed for the first time by a cop determined to find narcotics in my car. He found nothing of course - but he had done the SAME thing to me the week prior as I was passing through Ellijay. Harassment! I was with 2 black men.  I don’t know if he thought we were running drugs since we were out of town or what but I definitely felt targeted - which is TERRIFYING nowadays.

I watched almost everyone get engaged or married as I started over and felt nothing but happiness for them.

I evaluated the environment my child was in and realized it was unnecessarily toxic.  More determined than ever to get a new place.

I took a trip with a childhood friend to Colorado and it was AMAZING!

I grew tired of bitter arguments and adopted a nonresponse approach (I only respond if a legitimate question is asked).

I was sued by a scammer for 1000s who caused an accident.  It was technically my fault for ‘following’ too closely even though we were at a complete stop prior to collision (they need to change that law).  Not a serious wreck. maybe $1000 worth of damage between the 2 cars (that’s being generous). Told my insurance company I had video of the man telling me about his pre-existing health issues - which he claimed I caused in the accident.  My insurance company paid him anyway.  I have a new insurance company now. :-) 

I’ve grown closer to my inner circle.

Benihana became a fav.

I dealt with the person who was supposed to care about me telling lies to family and friends in an effort to save their own face from their indiscretions.  It only worked on their family though.  Nobody believes that BS and if they do, I hope their 2018 is blessed as they continue life with no rationale.

I no longer can deal with anyone who cannot take responsibility for their actions.  

I had a close friend go through a divorce and another who faced the reality her partner was a mooch and cheater.  We became each other’s support throughout our personal devastations. The 3 of us are in a better place.

I kicked myself in the face everyday for giving up on my dreams in order to have a successful family-only to get fucked over.  I kept myself from becoming bitter as I see the very people that I helped in the music industry become more successful than myself within the field. (On the independent shit...traded it all for a husband and some kids....and it was a major fail).

THE ECLIPSE!! I felt something spiritual happening in the universe. Incredible experience.

My Macbook screen cracked (thank God for insurance).

Age is no longer a viable excuse for being an adult and conducting yourself in a completely idiotic fashion. I will distance myself from you immediately.

I stopped conversing with people who added nothing to my life.

I lost 20 pounds due to stress. Trying to gain that back.

I saved one my best friend’s life.  Scariest moment of the year for sure.

I realized, I’ve outgrown most of my family and friends.  I’m more career driven and I love working towards success.  The average person doesn’t think like that and it’s sad.  I can’t stay around those type of people because I become “boujee” in their eyes. lol 

Depression was a thing for me this year.

I’ve grown extremely impatient with people who do nothing or live mediocre lifestyles.  I can’t deal with it.  It irritates me when I can’t say “hey let’s take a flight to NY next month and hang out” or “let’s go to the cabins for the weekend” and everybody is crying broke in advance.  Stop working retail jobs in yall mid-late 20s.  Let the teenagers have them. I’m not saying this to come down on people but I’m sick of seeing #goals on the most basic things on social media and they’re still not achieved (ex: pics of like 10 friends showing their passports-YOU CAN GET A PASSPORT AND TAKE A TRIP!) This does not apply to those in transition.  This applies to those who are complacent.

I applied for my master’s but couldn’t start in January as planned. I need 2 additional business classes first.  I’ll save up and pay for those out of pocket.

I’m over people who’ve been in school for 17 years with no certifications or degrees.  They inadvertently become leeches. More doing. Less talking.

I will never settle again due to loneliness. Loneliness is a vacation compared to a toxic relationship.

I recognized how condescending I come off, but it comes from a good place. Working on my delivery in 2018.

In 2018, I will pressure those remaining in my life to progress.  I will challenge everyone to better themselves and their surroundings.  Things are tough-especially if you’re doing it alone (respect to all single mothers and fathers).  I’ve had it tough this whole year (really the last 3) but I didn’t break.  I didn’t decide to live off the government, friends, men, parents or grandparents.  I didn’t go into some hole and replay all decisions that led me to this point.  I encourage everyone to set goals and go after them.  Make short term goals to catapult you toward your longterm goal. Life derailed my plans but life is an obstacle course.  I went through so many life/personal changes and so many challenges in a city where I have only ONE cousin. DASSIT! No local support system whatsoever.  This is not to highlight the bad.  Difficulties develop character. 

Learning happens when pain is the teacher. Some of the greatest lessons come from empty pockets, hungry stomachs, and broken hearts. - Bishop Bronner.

Happy New Year!

[anuananya-blog]

SECRET SUPERSTAR

A fairy tale story so well done... Perfect casting and what superlative performances from each one of them!

One thing I really can't help doing is comparing lipstick under my burkha.... I felt so disgusted and let down after watching that movie, the way a beautiful script and story was reduced to a sleazy movie which at the end left you wondering what the director wanted, humiliate, show women in such poor light and rob them of their dignity? This movie is the exact opposite, shows how one's core values and integrity can make a seemingly helpless woman to do something extraordinary when challenged.

Anyways, the treatment of a seemingly mundane story of a middle class kid from a small town... So beautifully unfolded.....a story so well told where each character becomes a hero....a movie that makes you believe in the strength of human relationships.....

I had my awkward moments only when I had to explain to my new movie watching partner Aadi about domestic violence and female feticide.... he simply couldn't come to terms that there could be such an abusive parent.... he kept on asking me on the way back home but why would anyone not want a girl child? How can a boy and girl be diffrent... why would a girl child be burden? Why should girls marry young....even though he is in that phase where he 'hates' girls :), he was like, but truly girls are better than boys....they are more kind and studious... :)

Yes, these questions will haunt forever.... but the beauty of the movie is the strength and grit of each character.... Change is not impossible and anything is possible if you simply believe in yourself!

Aamir khan as usual is on top of his game, he plays a character with such ease and elan...you only see the character and not identify a star...I may seem to be gushing too much but I am in awe of the director who has brought every character alive and made them feel so close to your heart because they seem so real....

The boy who plays chintan and that sweet little 'puppy love' story....nostalgic....guess the premises being a small town makes the kids so innocent, the 70s kind of subtle, simple, age appropriate emotions... like I said the brilliance of the director and a beautiful screen play...the boy's mother even if it is a nondescript single scene you end up identifying with her.

I am so tempted to talk about each character but everyone already scolds me for writing too lengthy reviews ... :) Insiya, her mother, the entire family....the tuition teacher... It is all so real and all actors are top notch....the father, the little brother, the grandmother....all so perfectly cast and so well performed....

Costumes, not to forget....it is so important that one pays attention to such details....I probably can write volumes about the movie, each scene had a note worthy point...but then I want everyone to experience this brilliant piece of work....

Dreams, ambitions.... What is life without them....many a times we have to take a risk, break free and step on to an unknown world to get what we desire without knowing the perils and joys of the journey....like Insiya says in the movie, station pehle decide karte hain aur gaadi baad mein....the vehicle, the means to reach your destination can be varied but if you have the determination to reach your destination, you will cherish your journey, learn from it....life is all about learning from your experiences and interactions with people...for the willing there is a lesson in everything... one just has to keep that channel for communication open and be willing to change and accept the shortcomings.... Success becomes inevitable... I personally believe success is not the pinnacle you reach, it is the knowledge and experience you garner on your way up there and it is so important that you face hardships, fail, fall to understand the real value of your achievement and most importantly it can never be about just you.....every success story has people in background who stood by you, made subtle sacrifices, prayed and loved you unconditionally....the beauty of human life is our ability to build, maintain, respect and cherish relationships and never ever lose them for anything materialistic!!