#apparently he’s Indian actually

[jelly-o630]

I need more episodes with Kabru right the fuuuuuuuuuuuck now

You know what FINE

WHATEVER

I'LL DO IT

I'LL WATCH DELICIOUS IN DUNGEON

BUT JUST KNOW I'M ONLY DOING IT CAUSE OF BOREDOM AND PEER PRESSURE

i'm getting sick and tired of all the fanfic and analysis I have to scroll past when on this damn website

[justabunchofdragons]

also the feeling of winning a politically based argument with my dad is soooo fucking good

[deforest]

SHE'S CRAZY WITH THE HEAT — 1946 ft. The International Sweethearts of Rhythm

In 1946, William D. Alexander began the production of a series of one-reel shorts, half-hour featurettes and feature films that would serve a dual purpose. These black cast subjects would be released to theaters that welcomed African American audiences; concurrently, the music segments would be excerpted from the films and released as Soundies. Ultimately, sixteen of Alexander’s musical shorts reached the Panoram screen, spotlighting the bands of Lucky Millinder, Billy Eckstine, Henri Woode and the International Sweethearts of Rhythm. (Alexander actually produced four films with the Sweethearts, three ten-minute short subjects and one feature, although some of the performances turns up in more than one film; only three performances saw release as a Soundie.) The International Sweethearts of Rhythm grew out of a band formed in the 1930s at the Piney Woods Country Life School, an institution – in part an orphanage – for poor African American children. A member of the music department had apparently taken note of the success of Ina Ray Hutton’s Melodears and decided that an all-woman band composed of school members might lead to something special. While they performed locally, the ISR did not begin to hit its stride until it left Piney Woods and became a professional touring outfit in 1941. The band was certainly “international” in nature, and its ranks included African American, Latina, Chinese, Indian, White and Puerto Rican musicians. In 1941, Anna Mae Winburn joined the orchestra as front woman and featured vocalist. During the war years Maurice King joined the band as both arranger and band manager. Born Clarence King in 1911, King played reeds and later became a fine swing arranger. While here we recognize his composition and arrangement for the Sweethearts – he called this tune “She’s Crazy with the Heat ” – King is best known for his longtime association with Barry Gordy and Motown Records for which he served as director of artist development. He worked closely with vocal groups, teaching the singers how to voice and phrase together. “Maurice brought sophistication and class to Motown,” said session musician Johnny Trudell. By 1946, the Sweethearts was recognized as one of the finest African-American bands in jazz. They recorded for Guild and RCA Records, broadcast regularly for the Armed Forces Radio Service, and toured Europe entertaining the GIs. While much of the success was due to Maurice King’s arrangements, the band’s musicians were all strong, and a special nod must go to Viola Burnside, one of the most neglected tenor soloists of the 1940s. I chatted with my friend Roz Cron, a member of the Sweetheart’s reed section, shortly before her passing. When I thanked her for her contribution, she paused and said, “Yeah, we were one of the best, one of the very, very best.” (via Jazz on Film)

[batarina-catarina]

My son told me yesterday that he "likes Star Trek, but it needs more weird aliens and space battles". So I decided that it was Voyager time.

Highlights from his first viewing of Caretaker:

- "oh good, they have a Vulcan. That's Important."

- He thinks Chakotay is actually an alien from a species called "Indians" because so far in school we've referred to them as Indigenous or Native Americans. He knows Indians in reference to people from India, but apparently his brain decided that couldn't be it.

- when Neelix says it'll be his job to anticipate Janeway's needs: "uh, they already have a Vulcan for that" I'm now fascinated to know what all he thinks a Vulcan can do.

Anyways he likes it very much and wants to know when we'll meet the Borg because I told him about them when I first started introducing the idea of Star Trek.

[sageandred]

It's so apparent how this fandom views characters. Spider dedicated his whole personality to bullying a young Indian woman, because she rejected him after their 1 fail night where he couldn't get it up; he lead the charge of the incel rebellion; and when he finally got a girl he still angrily shamed her on stage because his fragile male heart was broken but it's excused because his mom is the wrong kind of feminist. Malakai got assaulted, which the show never acknowledges while Harper is cuddled and coddled (when her next series fate should have been never being friends with Amerie again; she can be present and happy, but they never should have rekindled their friendship). When you bring it up, people will act like it isn't important to his own character trajectory unlike Spider's. Then, Sasha, an Asian character, is deemed as the worst of all villians because she just so happened to hurt the show's most sunshine of all characters, but she isn't even that bad in the grand scheme of things nor the worst character on the show, just ignorant that could be corrected if they actually took the time to develop her this season like they made it sound, WHICH falls in line with Spider-woman hater-who apparently was made that way because his mom hates men, but oh that's right we love Spider.

[coochiequeens]

I don't like conservative "news" media like fox and this site but no one else is talking about how surrogacy gives pedos access to kids.

The fertility industry is handing designer babies over to men with zero vetting or scrutiny of their mental fitness or criminal history.

By KATY FAUST

Surrogacy is risky for children. Not just the risk of a primal wound via intentional birth mother separation. Not just the risk of identity struggles if their genetic mother is purchased from a catalog. Not just the risk of mother-hunger if they are raised in a home absent maternal love. 

Surrogacy puts children at risk for the worst kinds of abuse. 

That became glaringly obvious last month when YouTubers Shane Dawson and partner Ryan Adams announced the birth of twin boys. Dawson’s long history of sexualizing children is well-known and well-documented. Evie magazine detailed concerning incidents including Dawson pretending to masturbate while watching 11-year-old Willow Smith’s music video, referring to a 6-year-old fan as “kind of sexy,” justifying pedophilia as a mere “fetish,” typing “naked baby” in a child pornography search and remarking that the returns were “sexy,” and proclaiming, “I would rape all of you” when viewing a series of photos featuring young girls wearing his merchandise.

In one show, he instructed a 12-year-old to eat a “cocktail weenie” with the recognition that child molesters comprise a significant portion of his audience. Dawson and Adam have another 10 embryos in frozen storage should they decide they want a few more children around the house.

We hope no harm comes to the boys to whom Dawson and Adams have been granted (via surrogacy contract) parental rights. But other surrogate-born children were not so fortunate.

Contrary to what you may think, surrogacy isn’t just about helping infertile couples have babies. When we look at how surrogacy is actually practiced and promoted, we see surrogacy isn’t about babies, it’s about on-demand, designer babies shipped worldwide. And sometimes, those babies are shipped directly to child abusers.

We don’t know the raw numbers because, unlike organ donation, the medical wing of #BigFertility requires no tracking or follow-up of those who avail themselves of their services. (Apparently, there’s more concern about the survival of a kidney than a child.) And unlike adoption, which heavily vets and screens prospective parents and monitors the child post-placement, surrogate-born children are not known to social workers and often disappear across international borders.

Even when safeguards are in place, predators often go to great lengths to acquire children to abuse. In 2022, the country was horrified by the story of a suburban pedophile ring set up by two married men who raped and pimped out their adopted sons. 

That children created by a fertility industry with no mechanism (and no desire) to scrutinize intended parents for things like mental fitness, criminal records, or predatory history end up in the homes of dangerous adults should surprise no one.

Absent any kind of record-keeping or follow-up on these children, those of us who reject surrogacy on the grounds that it violates the rights of children, must piece together the risks when stories of child victimization emerge. 

These 5 Pedophiles Mail-Ordered Babies

Psychiatrist Jo Erik Brøyn held a high position in Norwegian social services responsible for child protection and was involved in several high-profile cases of child removal. He also acquired two boys through an Indian surrogate. In 2018, police discovered 20 years’ worth of child pornography in his possession — more than 20,000 images and 4,000 hours of videos — depicting child sexual abuse including “boys masturbating each other, fixed/sexualized violence against children, anal sex by men with boys or oral sex of children (including toddlers) on grown men.” He was sentenced to less than two years in prison. Some sources report that the boys have been returned to his care.

An unnamed German pedophile hired a Russian surrogate for €60,000 who birthed the baby in Greece. He then flew the child back to Germany. In 2020, a regional court found him guilty of child abuse and producing and possessing child pornography. His child was a subject of 16 of those cases between the ages of 2 and 3, and the defendant was in possession of 175,000 images of child pornography. He was sentenced to five years in prison. The child was removed from his custody. 

In 2013, Mark Newton and Peter Truong were convicted of subjecting their surrogate-born son to “the worst [pedophile] rings … if not the worst ring I’ve ever heard of,” according to one investigator. After paying a Russian surrogate $8,000 to carry the child, the pair began to violate the boy as a newborn.

“The abuse began just days after his birth and over six years the couple traveled the world, offering him up for sex with at least eight men, recording the abuse and uploading the footage to an international syndicate known as the Boy Lovers Network.” Police believe the pair created the boy through surrogacy “for the sole purpose of exploitation.” The child was removed from their custody, and the men are serving decades-long sentences.

During the height of the Indian surrogacy boom, it was revealed that an Israeli sex offender had procured a little girl via surrogacy. Had #BigFertility had any kind of vetting in place or required fingerprinting or simply character references, it would likely have been discovered that the man had spent 18 months in jail for sexually abusing young children under his supervision. The discovery shocked authorities in both India and Israel, but because they couldn’t prove that abuse had yet taken place, there was no ground to remove the girl from his custody. It did however validate India’s decision to ban single men and gay couples, who composed 30-50 percent of intended parents, from the Indian surrogacy market.

In 2014, intended parents Wendy and David Farnell commissioned twin surrogate children in Thailand, then a global hotspot for surrogacy. The little girl, Pipah, was healthy, but the little boy, Gammy, had serious medical issues as well as Down Syndrome. A scandal erupted when the couple took the little girl back to Australia but abandoned Gammy to be raised by the Thai surrogate.

It was then discovered that David had been jailed in the late 1990s for sexually molesting two girls under the age of 10, and was charged, convicted, and sentenced again in 1998 on six counts of indecently dealing with a child under the age of 13. When his criminal record was revealed and investigated, a judge determined there was “a low risk of harm if Pipah stays in that home,” and she remained in the care of Wendy and David until his death in 2020. The “Baby Gammy” case was one of several scandals that prompted the Thai government to ban commercial surrogacy altogether. 

Many of the above cases are older, the results of contracts that were drawn up when surrogacy was less common. Since then, the surrogacy industry has grown exponentially with a projected 1,000 percent increase by 2032. In addition, there are entire organizations devoted to delivering custom-ordered babies to men, none of which will have to submit to background checks or fingerprinting. So expect more cases of surrogate-born child exploitation in the coming years. 

Whether or not the child ends up abused, whether it’s paid or altruistic, whether it’s traditional or gestational, and regardless of the intended parent’s household composition, surrogacy always violates the rights of the child. It is not a problem that can be solved through regulation. The only way to protect children is to ban surrogacy worldwide.

[phoenixyfriend]

HI DO YOU WANT SOME COSTUBE DRAMA THAT TURNED KINDA WHOLESOME

Pt 1: The Drama

Okay so a long-ass time ago (I think like 15 years), a British costume historian on youtube by the name of Cathy Hay decided she was going to remake 'the peacock Worth gown' and started a kickstarter for it. She made a bunch of money, but the actual work ended up being much more than she expected, so the project kept getting delayed.

In the years after, she befriended the now much more famous Bernadette Banner. They got close enough for cross-Atlantic trips to visit, etc. They were best friends and often joked that they were the same person.

Drama started riling up as people criticized Hay for not engaging meaningfully with the problematic history of the gown in question, which had been made for the wife of a British Governor of India during the 19th century, for a party celebrating British imperialism in India, and the gown's shining feature was Indian embroidery which was almost certainly underpaid, and that embroidery was the massively time-consuming bit that had been delaying her this whole time.

It was a whole thing that she sort of? Tried to address? buuuut The thing is, one of the seemingly obvious ways to manage this conflict would be to coordinate with an Indian embroiderer. In fact, a very accomplished specialist did reach out to her about collaborating on this! And she ghosted him! Maybe even blocked, I don't remember, but the thing was that he was ready and willing to do this cool project that could explore and reimagine a beautiful but morally ugly example of their shared countries' histories.

And she just… kept refusing to engage.

And then people started pointing out the weirdly predatory marketing she had for an online product/newsletter she had, and the discourse kept building as people realized overall that she was just… not as good a person as she claimed to be.

It got bad enough that Banner broke off the friendship, in large part because of that refusal to engage meaningfully with the loaded history of the Worth gown project

Pt 2: The Wholesome

So, a few days ago, Bernadette Banner released a video of her making a Regency gown. It's a very standard kind of project for her, just using old patterns and adding a touch of her own gothic tastes with historical methods to make a cool piece of clothing that explores costume history.

Halfway through, she has a call with someone she is planning to do a different video with. We don't know what the video is, but!

The thing is

The person she is having this call with

Is the Indian embroiderer, Mayankraj Singh, that Cath Hay ghosted.

And the video continues on with Banner and Singh talking about her Regency gown project and just. He ends up making an embroidered chiffon overgown with a crow motif. And it just feels very wholesome and I love to see this all coming back around.

(Okay, double-checked and apparently Hay requested a sample from Singh, and then ghosted him after she got photos of it)

In late September, another costumer, Miah Grace, released a video noting that, in 2020, Hay had requested an embroidery sample from with Mayankraj Singh, founder of the luxury fashion brand Atelier Shikaarbagh. Indian embroiderers in this shop possess skills that go back seven generations. Singh reportedly made a sample made but only sent Hay photos of it. After Hay stopped responding for many months, Singh went live on Instagram to explain what happened. Apparently, when his head embroiderer found the sample, he burned it, and scolded Singh for making it. “He said it was an inauspicious design,” Singh said, “and we do not make it anymore.” Hay later apologized to Singh, and he now considers the matter settled. - Craftsmanship Magazine

Anyway, yeah, after all of that from a few years ago, it was kind of exciting to see Banner collaborating with Singh

And she's so excited to open the package! Happy screaming!

It's so sweet.

He had his team embroider their names on the hem And she loves it

I am living for this vicarious excitement

(She does lay it on a bit thick at the end, but you know what. I'll take it.)

OH and the ending involves her attending the ball with Nami Sparrow, one of the creators of Indian background (Indian-American) that was a voice of Expertise criticizing Cathy Hay a few years ago.

Which is like. Tacit endorsement? If Singh alone wasn't enough.

Anyway yeah I lost my mind a little about this.

[doesthendnlive]

I'm so tired. Sorry for bad grammar or mistakes.

TW for rape/pedophilia/slavery/domestic violence/violence against Indigenous women and girls specifically

It makes me so angry we Sacagawea and "Pocahontas" are known our figure head Native "Women". If you want to go a litter further the fact that "La Malinche" is idolized as well in the same way. But we don't learn about their actual lives.

Why are public schools obessed with these pedophilic relationships between Native girls and old gross ass white males as "The country coming together" or a "unity between 'Indians' and whites'" or "the creation of our mestizo race" or whatever else.

Sacagewa was only 12 when her "husband" bought her, and 16 when he impregnated her. I didn't learn this until I looked it up and searched for it myself.

"Charbonneau was also known for his short temper with his wives. On August 14, 1805, Charbonneau struck Sacagawea during a domestic argument, and was told to stop by Clark. This one incident has led to Charbonneau's reputation as a "wife beater," although it was the only time during the expedition that this type of behavior was noted. Coupled with the rape incident described above, however, Charbonneau seems to have been a sometimes violent person with little regard for women Native girls . His consistent record of marrying Native girls under age 16 also makes one wonder about a possible need to exhibit power over women Native girls

Charbonneau is known to have had a total of five wives, all young Native American women girls whom he married when they were sixteen years old or younger. He may have had more wives who have been lost to the record, however. His last known wife, an Assiniboine girl, was 14 when she married him in 1837; he was more than 70 years old."

Matoaka was even younger if I remember right, the bastardization of her real life story and the fetishization of her story and Native women and girls beause apparently we're all from her people. The fact the "Pocahontas" even exists, the disregard for her actual story and scraping details out to make it more palatable.

Despite the fact the she didn't get to have palatable, she had to endure violence, forced removal, rape, and forced impregnation by her rapist(s). She didn't get to have that comfort or safety but everyone else gets to when 'learning' about her.

"La Malinche" or "Malintzin" (we literally don't know her birth name) was around 11-16 years of age when she ended up on the hands of Spaniards

What makes it worse in regards of "Malintzin" is that Hispanic Males fetishize the "Mestizo race" and the rape of Indigenous women and girls especially to create this race.

They only claim their Indigenous decent when it benefits them, while they are still actively anti Indigenous themselves and hate actual indigenous peoples/communities.

Argentina specifically, it's called chineo, criollo males are known for targeting Indigenous women and girls to rape/gangrape them. It's a old colonial practice that still happens to this day.

Im just so angry that our figure Indigenous "women" are just these little girls adultified into these grown women just to make people less uncomfortable with the power dynamic imbalance and pedophilic relationships and colonialism and colonization in general

Racist white males (Spanish, English, French, whatever flavour of white idc) love this idea of conquering Indigenous women and raping them. I heard way too many gross comments from old white males with rapey undertones to them about them being white and me being a Indigenous girl.

Or even them mocking the sexual violence we face, one of my ex white male friends mocked me for being abused when we got into a argument not related to it at all he also was more and more racist to me as time went on.

In both of the Americas Indigenous people, but especially Indigenous Women and girls aren't safe. It's scary how much violence is forced onto us and how these figure head "Women" are watered down into comfortability for the general public.

The violence we face is pretty much the same in the Americas, and its scary to know we are stuck in places that hate us despite being on our lands in the first place.

all of this but THIS PART ESPECIALLY:

[soscarlett1twas]

Dulce et Decorum est

↳ Xanthus serves in World War I. ↳ 2.4k words / also available on ao3! ↳ This fic is far from accurate to the actual Ypres Salient. I wanted to explore Xanthus' mentality as he canonically served in WWI. So, while I did some research, most of this fic is inspired by wartime poetry, particularly 'In Flanders Field' by John McCrae and both 'Dulce et Decorum est' and ‘Exposure’ by Wilfred Owen. Also! I discovered this painting while writing that's basically the exact setting of the fic. ↳ Content warning for blood, disease, guns, and (specifically trench) warfare.

It was hard to believe that, even in the midst of war, silence could envelope the world. Thick layers of it painted the Ypres Salient, as disturbing as the starless midnight it shared the hour with. Not the skuttle of a rat, not grass in a breeze. Death, it seemed, had a way of silencing. 

For all intents and purposes, it was all quiet on the Western front. 

Xanthus didn’t trust it one bit. 

How could he trust the very thing he cheated? His eyes drifted across no-man’s land, the scorched earth left by the Germans, with a tremble he hadn’t felt since his first time serving in the British army. Fog obscured the skyline. Corpses of trees barely stood, crooked and black. For as far as he could see, there was no green. Just the torn-up dirt and puddles of not-quite water. 

Xanthus’ grip tightened on the rifle. His nails were bitten to the quick. 

His gaze never left the scene. Even from the shallow view allotted to him by the firestep, shadows and whispers danced, him a beat behind their rhythm. They would disappear as soon as he glanced at them, then reappear in the peripheral gloom. Still, he chased them, eyes darting from ghost to ghost.  

War, it seemed, had a way of invoking paranoia. 

Xanthus’ trench was along the front lines, and he, given the honor of being on nightwatch during the tense time. Just two years ago, Ypres had been fought for again, and the Entente had lost. Badly. The Germans overran the old British and French trenches which had cleaved into their conquered territory, the Allies calling upon their own for assistance. Canadians, Indians, Algerians, and Moroccans now fought for a war forced upon them, the same way Belgians had to step up and defend Ypres as the Germans marched ever-forward. 

New allies were not the only introductions during the second fight for Ypres. Chlorine gas had swept through the battle and choked out countless men. 

Apparently, that wasn’t enough. 

Xanthus’ gaze flitted back down to the ground. Glass pools replicated the hell above. Swirled in them, the only color was a murky red from the slaughter of soldiers. It was an easy trick. But below, sunk to the bottom of the mixture, was a colorless poison. They had all thought it to be the same as the chlorine; when the smell was faint of mustard and men didn’t immediately drop, they even spat about how the Germans were growing weak.

It took a few hours for the effects to set in. 

Xanthus darted his sights back up to the wasteland. He had known better than to trust hope – the Americans had joined the war not long ago, and the news managed to enhearten some, but not Xanthus. This was penance for that longing for a better future. 

Even still. Xanthus Claiborne: A murderer, an unnatural; and Lawrence Claiborne, the soldier. All his duplicities should have shielded him from this horror. All it managed was to kill his dreams – war was still carnage, and for as much as he could pretend he was distanced from it, bloodbaths would still reflect his face when he bore down on murdered men.  

When the men in his regiment blistered and screamed and died, Xanthus knew that this was a new evil. 

The rifle shook in his hands. Pointed out into the graveyard of a clearing, Xanthus’ memories reminded him of just how futile the gun was. Not when the gas wiped them out. Not when it still lingered.

Xanthus’ teeth bit into his bottom lip, for a moment forgetting his fangs. 

Xanthus had survived the chlorine’s initial deployment, back in 1915. His healing worked wonders in keeping him alive, if incapacitated. The same happened with the new mustard gas. He hid the blistering well enough so as to not alert suspicions, and they dissipated within the day. Most everyone else had dropped like bullet shells. 

But this gas remained. Not just in the soldier’s bodies – it polluted all water and sunk into the dirt. The other faded, but this time, standing in the dug-out trench, the smell and chemicals never wafted away.

Even with each hollow breath he took, Xanthus could smell, could taste, the abomination. And even with his miraculous healing, it was a cancer. His eyes burned. Blisters he thought were gone popped up across his body in changing places. A cough clawed up his throat (he feared his lungs were regularly filling with fluid, then draining, then refilling – a vicious cycle which murdered the rest). 

He was nothing more than an animated corpse, and for the first time in these long centuries, he felt like it.

Xanthus’ rifle loosened in his hands. He scrunched his eyes and drew one hand up to massage his temples. Memories of medical bays fueled his mind. “The lucky one,” they all said. They weren’t all from the Great War. 

For a few more minutes, he stood, gun propped on the parapet. But marionettes could only dance around him for so long. A trickle of sweat ran from his forehead to jowl. 

He knew they were not coming. The silence echoed back. He did not trust it. 

When he jerked to the side, dangerously slinging the gun as well, he collapsed back into the trench.

A sight of mud turned to gray. The small enclave he used for nightwatch was nothing more than piled stones, but a respite nonetheless. 

Xanthus sat for a few moments, heaving. When his gun dropped and rattled to the floor, he grunted, and slammed his knuckles into the bricks. Hot pain instantly rushed from his shaking hands and he watched, in more agony than the impact, as the wounds healed over. Surfaced blood streaked, but dried in mere seconds. 

His breath was ragged. He shoved his fist into the stone, over and over again. 

This war was an assault on all senses, Xanthus thought as he brutalized himself. Sure, the smell and the taste and the sight, but by God, it was the hearing that came first. How ironic that now it was peaceful, now there was quietude, after the dread took its strongest. 

Where was it when Xanthus stood, more attuned than anyone, to the rattle of gunfire and men screaming? Rushing across no-man’s land left him able to hear out to the German trenches and everything between. He simply had to suffer it. And where was it when he laid at night, a being without need of sleep, but desperate for it so he could drown out the tanks and the roaring aviation? When he heard the few friends he made hearts stop pumping? 

Where was it when Xanthus turned his rifle on an ear, and shot the organ clean off? 

And where was it when it, after he blamed it on battle, regrew in four months?

Xanthus’ thrusts into the wall slowed, his hand going limp and running down the bricks, until it rested beside him. 

It didn’t matter. He could not get hurt, not in a meaningful way. He could already feel the wounds closing, the battery insignificant. 

He threw his head against the stone wall carelessly. 

The flesh stitched itself back together in the passing minutes. Meanwhile, Xanthus fueled his disquiet with memory. 

Lawrence had known war. But it was never this, never all-encompassing; there was, after all, a world beyond England and Scotland during the Second Bishop’s War. Xanthus, it seemed, did not – or at least, not the stratagem of modern warfare. He had followed the stepping stones, ignorant until they dropped, himself caught in the freefall. 

A cough ground up his throat, and bile rose with it. 

He had witnessed humanity’s descent – ascent? – into this madness. Hell, he was older than the country his fellow soldiers lauded as their savior. And yet he was here, with them. Suffering, dying in the great quiet, knived by the mental games their very species played. 

Because the gas was a game. Its purpose was the tricks, deployed with shells that broke into a giggling hiss. 

War could not kill Xanthus. But it could do everything else.

When his fist curled, the nails bent into his palm. Briefly, he panicked without the familiar weight of a gun. He snatched it off the ground and brought it to his chest.

He had never expected to truly be hurt, to be affected. But in their efforts to decimate each other, they managed to even wound immortality. A vampire reduced to human fears, because of humans, without the possible human release. 

In some small way, Xanthus felt human. Artificially – their misery, their desires, fitting for a finite life. He knew it was a false mirage. But still, he reached for his gun in comfort, as if his teeth weren’t markers of a much more vicious retribution. 

He hated it. 

He fucking hated it. 

Finally, he and his kind were welcomed back into ‘personhood’ – not because they were deemed more acceptable or humanity grew collective empathy, but because even humans stooped to their level: fodder. 

The vast silence was cut with bitter laughter. 

Subconsciously, Xanthus curled into himself as the laughter turned to coughing. He forced himself to swallow down the mucus. The rifle sat between his legs, pointed upwards, with his hands clenched to it. 

As his fit died down, he rested his forehead on the warm metal. 

And the silence was back, as deafening as ever. 

Except for the heartbeat. 

Xanthus didn’t move his head, but slit an eye open to watch the opposing side of the trench. The beat was coming from inside it – not an enemy – but there was no due for a guard switch. 

A man stumbled around the corner. His pulse was faint, barely a whisper – more powerful was the sound of liquid sloshing in his lungs. Sucker-like sores grew along his arms and chest. His wool coat was unbuttoned and rolled up to the elbows, and he wore no hat. 

He paid Xanthus no mind as he crept forward, walking like it was his first day out of the womb. With too hard of a sway, he collapsed against the wall opposite of Xanthus and sunk to the floor. His eyes remained, though bleary, attached to the sky. 

Closer, the rush of blood echoed. Xanthus’ tongue flicked across a fang. 

It had been so long. He’d staved off desiccating with enemy soldiers or, when in a ward, blood saved for transfusions. He hadn’t properly feeded since his conscription. As if answering his thoughts, the hunger struck, a well in his stomach. 

The man’s chest heaved, face still upwards. 

He would die anyway. 

Xanthus shifted off the firestep slowly so as to not start him. His movements drawled with a predator’s muscle-memory, though more ridge with the discipline of a soldier. 

He drew to the man. It was only when he towered over him, rubies starch in the darkness, that the man looked at him. 

“Hello,” he muttered. It would’ve been unintelligible to anyone else. 

What happened next was methodical. The vampire slid down to his level and applied weight to the others hands, constricting him. His knee buckled on the other’s leg. He leaned forward, and with a swift motion, released his arms (only now did he drop the gun), hands jerking to maneuver his neck as he bared fangs. They sank into the skin with ease. 

It was bitter, he instantly noticed. The blood pumped lazily, carrying with it the poison which seeped into his skin. Despite his own cyclical conditions, Xanthus pressed on, refusing to let his only meal waste away. 

Naturally, the man resisted. He was weak. His burned arms tried to push the vampire’s away, off his neck, though managed nary a scratch. His legs bobbed. His neck strained. Still, it was futile to Xanthus. 

The man continued to mutter to himself. Xanthus pressed on. 

Even as the blood replenished him, it was sickening – he was starved and drank like it, but it was a drunken haze brought on by spoiled wine. Xanthus doubted he’d ever willingly eat mustard again. 

Just as he was about to break for air, the man’s fingers threaded into Xanthus’ hair. For some odd reason, it eased him out of the spur, as his fangs gently retracted. Both of their breaths heaved off-sync. Xanthus was still so close, the heat he expelled onto the man ricocheted back to him. 

The vampire tilted his head slightly, glancing up through mangey threads of hair. Playing on the man’s face, in the depths of night, was the hint of a smile.

His lips still moved, though silently now; Xanthus still recognized their shape. A common soldier’s prayer, said by those dying or over the beds of those who were. 

He didn’t understand it, not until the man looked down at him. With a bleeding neck and a shattered voice, he made a sound below silence, the illusion of words more than anything – “Thank you, sweet angel.”

His fingers stayed soft in his hair. 

“You have come to save me. I am welcomed into His kingdom.” A wiry grin now broke across his face, peeling the skin taut. He was missing a front tooth.

He thought Xanthus was saving him. That he was an angel, ready to take him to Heaven. To his God. Away from hell on earth. 

For a heartbeat, Xanthus could not move. He suddenly felt carved out, nothing but bones and skin. 

There were memories of another dying soldier-boy, the wound-up toy which had marched itself right into the tinderbox. For glory. For God. 

And he remembered his death. Another soul believing they were being saved, only to be taken advantage of by a vampire. 

And it was that thought which frightened him the most. 

If you could believe it, the soldier’s heartbeat slowed even more. Yet in his eyes, the dullness now shone without dust – not reflecting the monotonous shattering of a psyche, but heavy with the need of sleep. He was so close to it. 

Xanthus could become Audric. To ‘save’ as many as he could from this war, only to force them into a future more brutal than anyone could dream. 

So instead, Xanthus gave him what he wanted – what they both wanted. He could not tell which side of him it belonged to, if there was anything truly mortal or supernatural about mercy. 

A soft lullaby drifted from his lips, a soothing command. And the man closed his eyes and mouth, relaxing into Xanthus, like a child in his mothers arms.

The blood stayed warm, even as a body turned to a corpse. And Xanthus, who could do nothing but remain, drank. 

[hotvintagepoll]

Propaganda

Ruby Myers (Typist Girl, Cinema Queen)— I just recently saw a documentary about her and thought that besides being really pretty, she had a very interesting life. She was born in the early 1900s in India to a Baghdadi Jewish family, and became the first woman to act in an Indian silent film. In the 1930s she started her own film production house, Rubi Pics, way before most female producers in Hollywood broke through. More info can be found in this Golden Globes webpage on her life [link]

Ginger Rogers (Swing Time, Top Hat)—Look I’ll level with you, I’ve never seen her in a musical and I know that she’s an amazing dancer and she’ll be even hotter when I finally watch Top Hat but I’m not submitting her as a dancer I’m submitting her as an ACTRESS. Her comic timing is impeccable!!!!! She’s full to bursting with life and in every role she seems to be having FUN, you can practically feel the twinkle in her eye. With her natural warmth it’s like she’s letting you in on the joke, y’all get to have this fun together! Making me laugh is hot!!! [If you'd like to see Ginger dance, videos below the cut]

This is round 2 of the tournament. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. Please reblog with further support of your beloved hot sexy vintage woman.

[additional propaganda submitted under the cut.]

Ruby Myers:

Ginger Rogers propaganda:

She needs no introduction! An undeniable powerhouse on the dancefloor, and no less talented an actress. I once watched a compilation of cinema's greatest dance scenes and one of her and Fred Astaire's dances was featured, and one of the talking heads said he pitied her for 'having to keep up with him' - or something to that effect. Bullshit, I cry. Ginger Rogers was his absolute equal, and underplaying her incredible skill is downright criminal. I want the 'Cheek to Cheek' sequence from Top Hat to be permanently burned into my memory.

"Backwards in high heels", as the saying goes (though the pedant in me must point out that she in fact spent her fair share of time leading or dancing side-by-side). One of the earliest twinkle-toed ladies of the silver screen, and in terms of acting/persona, her balance of wide-eyed cuteness and movie-star glamour has never quite been replicated.

we all know her beloved string of musicals with fred but ginger also has an extensive and varied non-fred filmography that she's great in! a few ginger moments that are important 2 me personally ginger singing “we’re in the money” in gold diggers of 1933, complete with a verse in pig latin bc this whole movie is kinda mocking the concept of anyone actually being in the money in 1933; ginger and una merkel singing a verse of “shuffle off to buffalo” in 42nd street, providing some statler & waldorf-esque commentary on newlyweds from the upper berth of a railway car (interesting that belly was apparently a risque word in 1933 - maybe its bc the lyric is innuendo-ing about out of wedlock pregnancies - and that panties was a term for men’s underthings!); a favorite fred & ginger number

Ginger Rogers could do everything! She could sing, dance and act. She was hilarious in comedies, moving in dramatic roles (she won an Oscar for Kitty Foyle in 1940) and absolutely gorgeous!

Listen, no shade to Fred Astaire at all, but she both kept up with him step for step and then later went on to WIN AN OSCAR FOR ACTING. (which he did not.) truly a double threat!!!

One of the best dancers in Hollywood! Her work with Fred Astaire is just incredible.

ONE LINE: "Everything Fred did, Ginger did backwards and in heels" AND THEYRE RIGHT! Rogers was a total dance badass, and a lot of movie buffs know the story, but the Never Gonna Dance number from Swing Time took almost 50 takes, and allegedly by the end of filming it her white shoes had been stained pink because her feet were bleeding. As a note, she looks crazy gorgeous in this number. Watching these two dance is insane. They match up to each other in a way my mom describes as "divine" and she's right. DANCE NUMBERS!

Let's Call The Whole Thing Off (Shall We Dance, 1937, dancing starts at 3:14, they're in ROLLERSKATES)

(Ginger Rogers is the hottest woman ever to live in this number. seeing this as a teenager altered my brain chemistry)

(also watch her feet and how she moves opposite Astaire in this one. We all know our boy Freddie had that precision demon but jesus christ Miss Rogers, let a girl live!)

Pick Yourself Up, Swing Time 1936 (Everyone's seen this one but by god you are going to see it AGAIN!)

Shall We Dance, 1937 (duet begins at 2:34)

Smoke Gets In Your Eyes, Roberta 1935 (There's just something about Ginger Rogers in a slick black dress man)

The Continental, The Gay Divorcee 1934

God she's MAGIC in this one.

Gay Divorcee's Ending Montage 1934The infamous table and chairs spin happens at about 0:49. Pay CLOSE attention to her in this bc it looks like witchcraft and I feel lightheaded whenever I watch this movie bc shes THAT awesome.

She is a miracle to watch. Sorry for the sheer amount of clips. My entire family is like madly in love with Ginger Rogers.

[bless-my-demons]

Redamancy: Chapter Twenty-Two

Series Summary: What happens when your soulmate is a vampire that struggles to maintain a diet of trying not to kill you? Common sense says run for the hills, nothing is worth your life - but my heart is whispering why not, what’s there to lose?

Warnings: cuss words and recreational cliff diving

Notes: The moment you’ve been waiting for! Just don’t kill me pls🫣 sorry this one is short, but the next chapter is twice as long so buckle up lol

Word Count: 1290

Series Masterlist

Reader

Quil has been… tricky since I found out about the wolves. Now I know why his best friends have ditched him and I can’t even tell him.

How would I even phrase it?

Hey man, so you know how your best buds kinda cut all their hair off, got insanely ripped, tattooed these tribal pieces on their arms, and seclude themselves? Well, they’re actually these supernatural protectors of the reservation and turn into huge fucking wolves.

Yeah that’d go over real well. Not to mention said wolves would rip me a fucking new one. I mean, they protect humans, but is the line drawn at exposure? Would they even vote or would Sam just slam his own gavel? Make a spectacle in front of the tribe? What would they even tell my mom?

I can’t help the direction of my thoughts, desperation for my friend - to cure the source of his pain, gnaws at me from the inside.

So I unintentionally start hanging out with him less. Not completely - no, my heart would never allow it, but less. Less means I can stop pretending so much - I lie to my mom and I live with her. I lie to Bella because two friends falling apart in the same way helps no one. I lie to Quil so the wolves can continue to exist without a spotlight. I lie to Embry and say I’m fine so he can have someone to not be fine with. More often than not it feels like the smile on my face and the words in my mouth are just lies, lies, lies.

So I have to do less. Because less is how I stay afloat.

Less is what I wish I’d feel.

•March 16th, 2006 • Quileute Indian Reservation•

Reader

“Are you sure about this?” The roaring of the water below almost drowns me out, but Bella’s shoulder is brushing mine and I can tell she heard my question in the way her own shoulders sink as we stare down at the turning water.

“Look, if you don’t want to, you don’t have to-”

“Oh I’m going to, just thought I’d offer an out.” I’m not even looking at her and I can feel the tension leak away from her.

“You’ve always been down for some crazy stuff.” She tells me, stepping away to shed her backpack, bracelets, shoes and anything else she doesn’t want to get wet.

“Believe me, I fucking know.” I whisper to myself.

Are we really about to jump from a cliff just to feel something?

I’ll do anything to feel something besides this gaping hole in my chest and apparently that starts with cliff jumping.

I turn to check on her and catch her mumbling something under her breath before she steps off and disappears from view.

I copy her actions and shed myself of my extra clothing items until I’m in just my jeans and t-shirt. A thundering rumble from deep in the trees pulls my attention for half a second from the dark water below as I wait for Bella’s head to surface. A storm, maybe? Has to be-but the snapping of twigs, that’s something inside the forest.

The wolves? We picked a day they were occupied, they’ve been chasing Victoria ever since Laraunt showed up and Bella explained to Jacob what they were after - us. And Charlie, along with some trigger-happy townspeople, have been hunting the wolves.

Which leaves us free to do things like this, stupid shit without the overbearing men in our lives watching our every move.

I take a step forward into nothing before whatever that is makes an appearance and stops us.

Time might as well be standing still.

I mean, I feel the rumple of my shirt across my stomach as I fall, but the way my heart is in my throat and my lungs squeeze-

Ice. The water is pure ice.

I’m stunned at the brutality of the water, not only in temperature, but also in the way it ebbs and rolls. I’m not entirely sure which way is up, but I catch a glimpse of a jean-clad leg drifting away into the darkness - Bella! I’m too slow, the water is zapping my warmth and my strength with it.

Lungs screaming at me to give up, a tan blur of muscles dives right past me at an incredible pace. A few seconds later, another tan and muscled arm wraps around my torso and our rapid ascent to the surface begins.

My last thought - the last image in my brain before darkness drowns me out is Bella, dragged completely limp by Jacob.

• March 16th, 2005 • Ithaca, New York •

Jasper

A choking gasp so loud it startles everyone lounging in the house-horror, disbelief, terror courses through my sister in the fraction of a second.

The next fraction I’m at her side.

“Alice-Alice!” I grip the tops of her arms as I stare into her eyes, begging her to answer me immediately, “What is it?”

Her eyes are flicking around, far away from here and searching-panic begins overtaking her and I can do nothing to stop its rampant escalation. My power retaliates, I try to grasp her slippery hysteria but it’s like smoke - filling the room rapidly, choking me, but I’m unable to grasp it-to tame it. There’s only three people not in this room that would elicit such reaction and one is immortal-

“Bella and-” but she cuts herself off before she could finish as she meets my eyes.

“Bella. And. What. Alice?” My tone is deadly and the words are clipped - I already know the answer, but it can’t be.

Instead of answering me, she spins from my grip.

“Carlisle! I need keys!” I follow her as she grabs everything she needs for a day trip, apparently.

“Alice answer me, what’s going on?” I’m desperate at this point for any information.

“I’m driving to Forks.” Her words are stern, mind set. “I have to check on them, I can’t see-”

“You can’t see them?”

“They jumped off a fucking cliff and I can’t see them!” Her breath is tearing in and out as she spins to look at me, panic and inadequacy pinging off of her.

They… jumped off a cliff?

For the first time in a very long time, I can’t breathe.

“My-my girl j-jumped?” The small voice passing through my lips doesn’t sound like me.

“I need to check on them-”

“I’m coming.” The heart in my chest has long since ceased to work, but now it feels as though it’s turning rotten and black.

“If you can’t handle it-” She starts, but I stop her again.

“If she’s gone, nothing matters anymore.”

• March 16th, 2006 • Home •

Reader

I rinsed off in the shower after Embry dropped me off, not much energy left to fully shower. Thank whatever other-worldly force looking out for me that he didn’t take me to the hospital so my mom could get involved. The woman would hover no doubt non-stop and then proceed to give me the lecture of the century, something I don’t have the capacity for at the moment.

Plopping down onto the sofa, I settle back into the soft cushions, my body absolutely tired.

Hurried knocking on the front door not-so-softly wakes me up, I must’ve drifted off after laying down.

“Embry, I’m fine - you didn’t need to check on me-”

But as the door swings open it isn’t Embry.

Panting like he had just run a marathon, hair slightly wet and eyes wide with panic, stood someone I thought I’d never see again.

Someone I thought had to be a figment of my imagination.

Jasper?

Next

Teaser

Taglist Part 1:

@aoi-targaryen @Min-jianhyung @pbbsl @timelordhunterandmysterysolver @sheerangermany @clearwater-hoe @Blackbluerose666 @ivy-plays @random-human02 @delightfulbluebirdstarlight @steh-lar-uh-nuhs @gaymazinglula @l3ejm @angelfuzzy2 @losa12308 @thekinkpopstandsforkrackheads @flyawayprincess @ropickle @catbusloki @deviat3dsn0wf0x @lovesanimals0000 @unrevived @h-naec @cutesnakemum @zudooms @itsmytimetoodream @stinkii-boii @acoolnight @anothercoffeeblogx @irishblend10 @from-now-on-im-switzerland @kyraslife2 @naolvshan @kiiwiigii @rosedpetal @kiaraandrea @foolsgoldxo @heartfilia01 @azuredgalaxies @geekysimmerthings @graciereads @ramen-girl-2424 @0hmydekiru @creeqvealley @cherriebat @whichwitchisthebitch @dragon-rider-with-a-book @secretfairytailpetscookie @psychobitchsthings

[fuckyeahhistorycrushes]

Submission: Silas Soule (1838-1865). He was an abolitionist and a member of the Immortal Ten (a militant abolitionist group) with John Brown, but originally worked on the Underground Railroad. He also helped other abolitionists escape from jail, and was actually the guy who gave the Immortal Ten their name! (Cue 'fish fear me, women love me' but its confederates instead of fish and me instead of women)

Later he joined the army, and proved his bravery at the Battle of Glorieta Pass. His commander at Glorieta Pass was called John Chivington, and he was known as the 'fighting parson' due to his religious extremism (tw: discussion of genocide from now on. I try to avoid the details, but yeah. Bad shit happens). Chivington was ordered to kill Native Americans, and he did so gladly. This culminated in the Sand Creek Massacre, considered one of the worst atrocities ever committed by the US army. Silas refused to participate in the massacre, ordered his men to not fire, and even tried to rescue some of the Native Americans. Afterwards he wrote to his previous commander detailing the massacre, and Chivington left the army in disgrace. If it wasn't for Silas, nobody might have found out about Sand Creek. Silas was shot dead one night, presumably in retaliation for speaking out against injustice. His murderers escaped punishment.

So he's a personal hero of mine. Since I first learnt about the Indian Wars in school, I've always respected his moral strength and determination to tell the truth. As far as I'm concerned, he's gorgeous as well. Apparently he was super friendly too, and had a great sense of humour! What a guy! Probably one of my longest standing crushes XD. I never shut up about him, as proved by the length of this ask, which could have been summarised as 'he's cute and also not racist'.

Oh, and a plaque was installed where he died, and people still leave flowers at his grace (he's buried in Denver, and its a dream of mine to visit his grave) <3

-

[weirdly-specific-but-ok]

star wars but I've never watched it

I'm flirting with death (the star wars fandom) and it's about to succumb. I mean, be seduced. I promise when I flirt the intended result is not succumbing (usually). Here, have this, I know you maggots have missed my summaries they're so comprehensive and well-researched. Two cups of black coffee down. LET'S GO, MAGGOTS.

It is not Star Trek, and if I mix them up, both fandoms will tear me limb from limb, but mainly Star Trek because they're less popular?

No, that was not intended to be inflammatory, it's just what I was warned when I first got kidnapped. Don't blame the student, blame the system.

LUKE, I AM YOUR FATHER.

Except that's actually a misquote, it's No, I am your father. Mad trivia game. Huge star wars fan, me (why do I sound like Crowley).

It's set in outer space.

Are daleks stormtroopers?

Yoda pulls sentences in half like Crowley pulls Aziraphale's legs apart while they're not talking, and then tries interesting positions.

Leia has space-buns and makes out with Luke.

Luke is Leia's brother.

Anakin, whom I thought was some sexy babygirl side character, is apparently Darth Vader.

I am certain some people still find him a sexy babygirl. I just hope if he has a sister, she doesn't.

Is incest hereditary? Besides the obvious, I mean.

Small and green, Yoda is.

Daleks or not, there are storm-troopers, and they wear white plastic but not in a kinky way. Mostly. I remember one video a maggot showed me of a dustbin and--anyway.

They have bad aim.

There is a Death Star, and there is also a Death Star in Star Trek, but this is the more obvious one.

It has machinery specially engineered so if you shoot at that one place, the entire spaceship explodes or shuts down, which is a convenient feature.

A baby Yoda, they made. To make merchandise in time, Disney failed. Money, they lost.

There's something called the Force which everyone irl uses to try and get their remote to fly to them while sitting on the couch watching TV. They squint and reach out their hand while doing this. It rarely works.

There are a lot of unnecessary sequels and prequels. People are not happy.

A lot of Star Wars has inspiration drawn from ancient Indian philosophy and Hindu mythology. Just fun trivia, since I'm such a huge Star Wars fan.

Chewbacca?

R2D2? Robot go beep beep.

Han Solo and Leia get together.

Who is Han Solo? The guy who witnessed Leia making out with her brother. Whatever gets you off, king.

Dead, Yoda might be. Not sure, I am.

Rogue 1?

Return of the... Empire? No, wait, Jedi.

Empire Strikes Back!

Jedi exist. Because uh, it was in the title. They'd better exist.

Luke's daddy cuts off his hand. Not in a sexual way. But you never know with this family.

End (Not. Disney is going to milk this cash cow till they run out of ideas because of underpaid writers, and then they'll do a remake, probably).

Welcome, you are. Comprehensive, all-inclusive, this summary is.

[bitchy-peachy]

Ramblings of "I Don't Agree With Your 'Lifestyle' But I Still Want To Be Friends"

The more I don't want to talk to a certain demographic, the more hellbent they seem to be all up in my social spaces.

Are you into humiliation? Are you that desperate to talk to someone that you pick arguments with the other side for social interaction and then have the audacity to ask, "Why can't we be friends?"

Some of Trump's people have a weird way of making friends. You seriously want someone like me, that hates your guts and now sees you as a danger to my life and the lives of others, to be your friend after you voted to hurt people like me? I've been tagged and followed by weird ass blogs that want to act like regular mutuals when they're disgusting cheese puff cultists.

Can't you stick to your fellow pure white christians and leave people like me alone?

You "disagree" with my  existence and are stupid enough to say "Me disagreeing with your entire life doesn't mean I want you dead."

Actually yes it does. You view my personal life and even ethnicity as something sexual and kinky, but yet you vote to make my existence illegal.

I'm a porn trope for insipid boring people raised in echo chambers. An exotic gothic mommy with an accent and weird beliefs that makes me "interesting". I have a lot of friends similar to me in likes and style and we've always noticed the sick fascination these fascist fucks have for us.

We're a novelty. It's sorta like what a friend told me once.

"They love our food on Taco Tuesday but on Wednesday they're calling ICE once they've got the recipe they plan on gentrifying."

These fuckers even lie about who they voted for to get into relationships with us. All the more reason to alienate your asses. You know we don't like you and still want to be there.

You don't have to be included in everything. I've seen some assholes even say that an interracial relationship isn't really interracial if there's no white person involved. You guys really showed us your thirst to be included in everything by how you called Obama, a mixed Black/White man, Black, while saying that Harris, an Indian/Black woman, wasn't really Black.

You even ignored how qualified she was to call her a DEI hire. She was way too good to be your president. I said it. TOO GOOD to be your president.

You completely disregarded the fact she was mixed because she didn't have a white parent, but 2 POC as parents. Your side used whiteness to determine her race.

Okay, I'll leave that there but I get really intense like this as a mixed woman of ambiguous features that gets confused with multiple ethnic groups frequently...

Some of you want to destroy us, view us as pornographic, entertainment and exotic beings like a freaking zoo. Everything we do is somehow done to turn you on and entertain you in your messed up mindset.

(and I'm not attacking all white people with this. I'm only attacking the willfully ignorant af ones that refuse to learn how fucked up they are. I've explained this issue many times before and they still want to fuck up so bad and impose their presence on us as if we're obligated to accept them. Apparently they are the only ones allowed to tell us they don't believe we should exist)

Maga are the type to want to go to a drag queens show to have a good laugh at a performance while... Not seeing the performers as real people with lives beyond your temporary entertainment.

My first spouse was a drag queen. Yes, it's not that big a secret. He was my spouse but worked in drag. I witnessed both sides of a coin during my 6 years of marriage to him.

As a man during the day he was respected and even feared (he was very fit and tall) but as his drag persona, she was beautiful and full of so much charisma that everyone had to simply stop to stare at her... While she was also sexually harassed and touched without permission. Her feminine appearance drew in disgusting people that didn't see her as having a right to her personal space.

Although we had our own set of problems, my ex always fought for women and protecting them because of his own experiences. He had been abused as a child as well by people that want to assault "femininity" since he had been a "pretty child".

One man even stalked my spouse and I had to pick him up from work.

I know people are probably shocked that a drag queen would marry a woman but... We are both bisexuals and found comfort in each other. It didn't matter to us that we were "odd". To us that "oddness" was normal.

The reason why I bring this up is cos the people that harassed my spouse and felt entitled to her body while in her fem appearance where people that were considered pillars of religious communities and it recent times have publicly supported Trump as a "true christian".

See what I'm getting at here. A lot of people on your side have being seeing us as undeserving of our protected physical space. Consent is seen as a dirty word and "woke" to a lot of you.

You're even having a hard time respecting consent when people tell you they don't want you in their lives for voting Trump.

"You like looking at us. Laughing at our jokes, yet if you had a chance you'd lie about us and want us dead."

You want them to entertain you but call them "groomers" and child molesters.

I've got a friend of mine that's gay and the amount of shitty braindead right wing comments he gets of, "I don't agree with your "lifestyle choices" but you're funny so I like you as a person-"

Do you fucks even listen to yourselves? I bet you think it's bad to refuse service to a christian nationalist but go outta your way to justify spitting on a potential customer for being lgbt+.

I've always played around with the idea of using my "beliefs" to completely scorn your ilk. I can say, "I don't hate you even though I disagree with your lifestyle choices," whenever religion or politics come up.

A lot of you think only your religion and beliefs are the ones to be respected. I'm a bruja in my community. Half of my family is. It's part of our culture and there's christians wanting to be friends with the "spooky bitches" that would be burned at the stake or forced into their colonizing religion if they had their way.

Last time I went to a wedding of two of my fave besties some straight guy that was invited made disgusting jokes about joining them in their honeymoon for "real sex". He was drunk, duh, but he went further by obnoxiously saying he was "living every man's dream" by being in a lesbian wedding.

He used alcohol as an excuse and even cried when getting kicked out... But a drunken man's ramblings are a sober man's truth.

Umm, lesbians are not interested in your dicks. They want other women. They're not doing this for your entertainment. This is why I say... We can never be friends with people like you that see our lives as something to get off on. You don't even see us as human and these election results further cements that along with the fact that you can't seem to respect boundaries set by others.

As soon as someone says they don't want Trumpers in their blog for literally voting to fuck up their rights to live peacefully ... A Trumper interacts starting a boohoo argument.

If they don't want you, they don't want you. You don't have to be included in everything, especially when you voted to exclude people like us . You've clearly drawn a divisive line in the sand with your vote and seem to be refusing to see how you utterly fucked up.

Even disabilities are fetishized and seen as insignificant ffs. Like "I get off on this but I think you don't deserve ACA for this disability I sexualized".

These things are what has made me realize that we don't have to accept you. In fact I find it annoying that people assume that we have to be "tolerant" when we should have been far from tolerant. Your side has been the ones that have voted for years to strip us of rights to even our money. Yes, social security, that we paid for, is getting cut cos republicans are such assholes that see the money we earned as a privilege.

It isn't just people like me that are in danger due to others voting without doing proper research. If you planned retirement, you'll have to wait till your 70s now, ACA and Obamacare are the same thing and the amount of people blindly celebrating getting rid of "Obamacare" while keeping "ACA" is sad. My neighbors fell for it and voted Trump. One of them has cancer. They're white and old, but have cancer and voted Trump. I heard the wife literally crying for awhile after another neighbor told her exactly what she voted for.

Her treatment... She voted against it. Their kids don't want them cos of how hateful they are and these people are gonna lose all medical aid and get their SS cheques cut.

All because they voted stupidly. Wanting cheaper groceries and "hurting the woke agenda" really has you getting FAFO.

But this isn't our lesson to learn. Its your lesson to learn. It frankly pisses me off that we're dragged along for the ride of your own karmic fuck up. We knew what was at stake while you didn't even bother yourself to think of the repercussions coming from your votes.

This is is no longer a difference of opinion but proof to show how selfish and with fake morals you truly are.

This is why we can't be friends. This is why we don't want to be friends.

Us distancing ourselves is about as much respect as we will show cos it's obvious you hate us so much you'll hurt yourself for it.

I need to stop posting essays, lol. But I hope someone that isn't offended easily but is willing to learn can finally see the whole picture and understand why we're feeling this way. I would consider making a series to show our perspective and to educate the already present ignorant stereotypes but I couldn't be assed to do it.

I mainly write for my own selfish reasons. To vent my inner thoughts and find others like me so we can build community among our peers.

If you attack my post, I don't care. I said my piece. If you want a proper conversation because you really want to understand... I don't know if I have the patience for it but I'm sure you'll find someone else that will...

Going back to my horror marathons.

[youremyheaven]

on the topic of malefics and sensuality, i'm martian and unsurprisingly celibate. but one thing that i think is unique to martian celibacy is hating men and let me tell you... i sure do 😭 i've had a few experiences as a teen that were like okay at best but as i've gotten older i find men so disgusting and stupid and quite frankly sinister that i just cannot bring myself to even flirt with them. i think there probably is a man out there who won't make me feel this way (venusian munch man if you can hear me please save me) but in the meantime me and my misandrist martian friends (i'm like a mars magnet) are gonna be locked UP

and also, i have mrigashira moon and i think that mrigashira specifically makes you fantasize about romance/sex a lot but not wanting to actually do it. my mrig rising and venus friend feels the same way! we both spent our teen years on wattpad 24/7 😭 mrigs love escapism and fantasy!

omg BBG you spilled 💅🏼

I've noticed the man hating tendency with many Martian women lmaooo, everytime I hear it, I do feel a bit shook ngl, it's like Saturn men hating women

Venusian man save me is so realllll 😩😩😭🤣

Honorable mention for Jupiter men (esp Vishaka) they're the sweetest guys except they're kinda sexless (except Vishaka) they're romantic but not sexual??? If that makes sense??

My friend dated a Vishaka Moon man for a year and he apparently never ever touched her 😭😭😭and she thought it was because he found her unappealing lmao (dating within the Indian context means a man who doesn't touch before marriage is a good man etc so she felt too "slutty" to ask him for anything bc most men are sleazy and would've tried to pull something and him not doing so meant he was a decent guy and she was the problem 💀🤡)

I'd say Venus & Jupiter men are the ones who know how to treat women right 😌😉 (obviously how evolved they're as individuals also matter, there are sex addicted Venusians and party everyday, constant thrill chasing Jupitereans)

Lmaoo the Mrigashira fantasizing about sex and never actually wanting to do the deed is so true. My 60yr old aunt (Mrigashira Moon) has been separated from her husband for like 20 years (and she's thrived as a girlboss ever since) and she often talks about finding a handsome man etc 😌😏🤤 for her company but when my dad says "okay let's try matrimonial sites and find a guy for you 😌🫶🏼" she's like "🤮🤢🤢EWWW"

A gang of Martian misandrists is so funny 😭🤣😳😶‍🌫️💀🤣😭 I feel like Martian women are so unimpressed with me bc I seem like a deranged lover girl to them lmao,, my friend in college had Mars in Mrigashira atmakaraka and she literally acted like my mom and shooed away any man who approached me (since many of them were creepy, I was grateful for it ngl) but the WAYYY she spoke about guys always felt a bit unhinged to me like ??? it can't be normal to walk around with this much rage and angst ??? And I always tried to gauge if there was something in her past that made her this way 😔😶‍🌫️😶 but girlie never dated, never had a crush, never went near a man, was never assaulted/harassed/abused by men etc so I figured it must just be a hating Indian men thing bc who can blame her for that 😔🤡💀she did however feel like her dad was a patriarch with a misogyny issue but that's just every brown dad tbh :/// everytime I told her about a crush or about something some guy told me 🤪😜, she'd start the character assassination on him and make him sound like the worst person to have ever lived ,, and then lowkey make snide remarks that made me feel stupid for having my moment of fun😔like damn ma chill outtttt, I'm not having his babies!!!! We had a very homoerotic friendship so I feel like there's that as well 😬😶‍🌫️😬

[jurakan]

I got a weird prompting to ask for a fun fact about someone who came up with a whole system of writing and then just disappeared. Odd, I know.

Well, you came to the right place, friendo! Today You Learned about Sequoyah.

[I had hoped to do this around Thanksgiving, or for Indigenous Peoples Month, but no one asked for it then so better late than never!]

Okay, maybe you have heard of the man. But if not, here ya go: Sequoyah was a Cherokee man born in Tennessee around the year 1770. When he grew up, his day job was actually being a silversmith, trading with trappers and merchants that came through Cherokee territory. He was pretty darn good at it too, and signed off on all of his work.

Something he noticed, though, was that the Europeans who went through had a written language, and that it was helpful for recording information and talking to people far away. That’s handy, Sequoyah thought. We should have our own written language. Because at that point, Cherokee didn’t have a written language. So, apparently, this man decided to just… make one up.

I say “make one up” as if he came up with it on the spot without thought. No, that’s not what happened. In 1809, Sequoyah began to study English, Greek, and Hebrew, and developed a written system for the Cherokee language. Each symbol represents a syllable, rather than a letter like in the English writing system, leading to a total of over 80 symbols for the alphabet.

Everyone thought he was crazy, but I want to be clear: he did it. This man, a silversmith by trade, created a written language system that within twenty years of its creation became the official written language of the Cherokee Nation. 

That’s insane, guys! Where is this guy’s biopic? If you lived in a place with heavy Cherokee history, like the Carolinas, chances are you’ve heard of him–the NC Museum has a small exhibit on him in their section on Cherokee history, and we covered him in school in an article/essay/non-fiction story (I don’t know what we call those things) called “Sequoyah and the Riddle of the Talking Leaves”, but it’s nuts to me that he’s not a more famous figure in American history, considering this.

Sequoyah actually taught the language to his daughter Ayokeh first, so that he could prove that it worked and made sense. Then he spent a ton of time traveling through Cherokee territory to get people to see its usefulness and learn it. Apparently, it worked.

So the US government thought this was awesome and gave Sequoyah a mansion to live in, right? [/sarcasm] No, you can probably guess from the timeline what happened. He went to Washington D.C. to protest and argue with other Native American leaders against the Indian Removal laws the government was enacting, but wasn’t successful, leading to the Trail of Tears. His interactions with other nations led him to decide to try to create another system of writing for all indigenous Americans to use. I don’t think it ever got completed, but someone with more knowledge on the subject can probably tell you more.

He died in Mexico, on an expedition based on the rumor that some Cherokee had gone there–the reunification of the Cherokee people was a big deal to him, after all.

We think he died there, anyway.

See, we don’t actually know where his body is. Officially, he died in 1845 of a lung infection; we don’t know where his body is. The Cherokee funded an expedition to find his grave in the 20th century, but while they found a grave in Coahuila, Mexico, they aren’t sure if it’s his. In 2011, a newspaper argued that actually he wasn’t buried, his skeleton was found in 1903 in a cave in Oklahoma. 

I found this out by seeing that he’s listed on Wikipedia’s “List of People Who Disappeared” (which I do not recommend reading if you are sitting alone in a house at night).

Well, he’s still an important national figure. He’s got some recognition–his statue is in the US Capitol, he’s got a sculpture in front of the Cherokee Museum in North Carolina, and! Along with several figures from world cultures credited with inventing/teaching writing, he’s on the doors of the John Adams Building of the Library of Congress.

YMMV may vary on whether or not it’s good that he’s on there with a bunch of mythological figures.