#fuck beauty standards that tells people of every age and gender how they should look

[mugeesworld]

Women

Little disclaimer: I've never got good grades in English. So this might not make sense/suck. Before you read this I would like you to know. This is not me shitting on men. This is not me shitting on every other gender. This is simply me telling what my definition/view on women is. If you take the time to read this I hope you enjoy. Ty.

This is literally just me blabbing about how women a beautiful and the shitty beauty standard.

A plural noun for: woman

Woman

Pronounced as: wom-an/ woomen

an adult female human being.

Synonymous/Similar: lady, adult female, female

If you couldn't tell by reading it, the few words above me is what is considered the definition to describe a woman/women.

It's not wrong. I would be crazy to say that the dictionary it's self is wrong, but that being said...

The few words labeled above to describe a woman to me are simply not enough. As it is correct, no words can truly describe what a woman is. For a woman is described differently by different people. Every persons perspective on what a women is, is different. Even by the smallest of detail.

But obviously I can't read minds and come up with a conclusion of the "true" definition myself.

But what I can do is share how I see the beautiful beings we call women. Not only as one, but as someone that also finds them attractive and appreciates them.

Women are elegant, gorgeous, even god like beings. Coming in all different forms. Ranging from different skin colors, to different body types. Those being their most obvious features at a first glance but really taking the time to savior and take in their elegance you can see that every single one has something truly special about them.

Every single one.

That being said every single woman is beautiful. The true definition of beauty it's self. Something so breathtaking and gorgeous that it is hard to hold eye contact or stare cause they are just radiating beems of light and beauty. But still staring at cause you can't bring yourself to look away. Scared that you will never see true beauty such as ones self ever again.

I can't imagine looking at a woman and thinking in my head that she is ugly. Out of jealousy or hate? Maybe. But I know that's not being honest with myself. To look at a woman and say such a thing is nothing but utter nonsense. Cause every single one is beautiful. No just for their looks. Not just cause they have a "curvy" figure. But because they are truly beautiful inside and out.

They might say hurtful things. But that's just a act. That's a self defense mechanism cause someone told them other wise. Someone lied to them so they say and act in such hurtful ways.

Beautiful women come in all shapes and sizes. From short and skinny, tall and muscular, or medium hight and plus size. Even though they have visible difference in their appearance they all share at least one thing in common. They are all beautiful women. Damn right they are. They should be proud to be also.

Cause the word woman it's self has been used as a insult for ages.

"Stop acting like a girl"

"You scream like a girl"

"It's not very woman like to-"

Etc

It's ok to act like a girl. It's ok to scream like a girl. That being said it's ok to not "act like a girl"

Cause the average girl has been stereotyped to be weak, small, frail, shy, vulnerable. It's ok to be those things but it's not ok to try and be those things. To force yourself to follow said stereotypes. Cause that's not you. You don't have to be all those things for validation.

And if you've been told that you need to then im here to tell you that you fucking don't. You're perfect. No matter what. No matter your looks or personality. You don't have to change to fit these ridiculous stereotypes. I can not preach that enough.

Who gives a fuck if you don't have a "beach body" or the perfect Kim Kardashian figure. EVERY BODY IS A BEACH BODY. Kim is pretty don't get me wrong but so are you. You know why? You should by now by I'll tell you again. Because you are you. You are different. You are special. For the love of fucking god. I feel like a lawyer try to state my case to the jury. Your honor my client is the most gorgeous person ever that's all I gotta say!

These fucking standards to be short and skinny and curvy are utter bullshit. Do you know who made those standards??? Do you? Fat old men. Trust me. Why in the hell should you care what a old man that's gonna die soon anyways think about your body.

And let me tell you something. This things we have that's called being "attractive" is bull crap. Cause all over the world. Their are different standards that are set. That you have to be this or you have to be that to be considered beauty.

Beauty to me is something that makes a person special. What makes them different? Are they trying to fit this standard or are they truly being themselves and having that special feature show. Cause if they do have that special thing showing its easy to walk up to any person and point out what Makes them special and different from the rest. It's like a game to me. Instead of just people watching. Look at a person and see if you can see something special about them.

Beauty is accomplished by being yourself. Around the world people go through crazy, sometimes torturous methods to be "beautiful"

To crushing your feet to be as small as a child's.

To have rings around your neck

To have a big gauge in your lip

I seen one yesterday that they make children starting at very very young ages eat insane amounts of food to make them gain weight. Forcing they to indulge in crazy portions. So they can find a husband when they are older. Cause being fat is the "beauty standard" for them.

If you think that's wrong then what makes it ok to flip that around and not eat. To torture your body by not giving it the nutritionts it needs to live. What Makes that so bad but what we are doing ok???

I could go on and on (this isn't me hating on cultures at all. This is me explaining that "beauty" is a mere goal that is set. I understand completely that it's tradition for some tribes and cultures. It's non of my business and ik not hating. Once again just a example.)

If you don't get it yet the beauty standard is a myth. It's something that is set to torture and brain wash you into thinking you have to be a certain way to be perceived as beautiful.

So why are you doing this to yourself? Why don't you make your own perception of beauty. I do. I explained mine. That everyone is beautiful in their own way that makes them who they are.

So why don't you just be you? Please tell me.

I know what I've said can be controversial but it's my opinion and I hope you can respect it. Actually. I don't care if you respect it or agree with it. Cause it's my definition. It's my true thoughts.

What's your definition of women and beauty?

I hope you enjoyed reading this if you got this far. And I hope if you don't already, understand that you deserved to be loved. You deserve to be cherished. You are beauty. You are you. No matter what. So please don't change that. Not for anyone. You're valid. In every way possible. And if you haven't heard it today yet then.... I love you and I'm glad such a beautiful person such as your self breaths the same air as me. So thank you. Thank you for being you and walking the same earth as I do. You rock.

I'm very embarrassed to post this. But. I'll leave you with this:

[agumonger]

cont'd on the plastic surgery thing

the main reason why i got braces at all was because my teeth used to give me trouble chewing sometimes, and my palate was too closed to make room for my wisdom teeth. also my displaced fang was kind of uncomfortable (it was all up there cramped over my gums sorta????)

so yeah for health reasons sure go ahead but like

iirc there's like lots of guys trying to make their jaw look more square. some even go as far as to remove ribs to make their torso more triangular or something??? in fact i'm p sure a fairly popular cosplayer has done it. and there's loads of dudes getting hair implants and of course those are expensive as fuck. and soooo many of them could get away with just accepting their baldness. in many cases they even look better? and accepting it is so liberating honestly - or at least, it was for me

then, almost invariably, the most prominent plastic surgery on women is like, fuller lips, softer jaw, feline eyes... and it's like, first of all, you know people will most likely tell, right? like when you're 50-60 it creates this weird uncanny look that's all stretchy, instead of letting middle aged women be middle aged normally, we normalize that they try their best to look 20 at 55

and we don't ask that of men, sure, but we do ask them to be all superman-like too. and hell, lots of male infuencers practically do it too, and i see it more and more with every generation, and keep in mind it's not even women telling them to do it, other men do. it's gender expectations all over again, it's all the same shit. this mewing bullshit is also related, the clenching of jaws, the nose bridges, the "beta male chin" shut upppppp

and again, the money. the way that this creates a closer relationship between "beauty" and social status. spend money on laser hair removal. spend money on botox. spend money on implants! spend money on raising your external canthus (it'll most likely look all stretched out and unnatural! great!!!). all the same all the same all the same

and all this is literally bullshit i'm sorry. and yes this is coming from a person who has finally learned to see beauty in lots of different features and body types and how it's always, somehow, there, and glows from within. it has to do maybe with becoming an artist and learning to love all kinds of different faces and bodies (pretentious moment right here innit)

it's like. so sad that we're so ready to go under the knife all crawling before a super narrow and highly unobtainable standard of beauty

i'm not saying that no one should do it (even in cases when their health is not at risk, and they just want an aesthetic change), i'm just saying that we've let it go too far at this point and that, yes, we should be more mindful with it and yes, we should still remember what the full blown normalization of plastic surgery at large means for beauty standards, for health, both physical and mental, for societal expectations... that should remain in the conversation and we've been omitting it a bit too much lately

[memes-in-a-half-shell]

So this has been on my mind a lot lately. How would the boys react to their S/O being upset about their body/basically having body dismorphia? I struggle with this a lot and despite others saying I'm skinny or I have a healthy weight I still think I look heavier than what I really am. I just wonder how the boys would react to this.

nfdjndfkjsnsjknfas anon, are you ME?! :'D Body dismorphia is something I experience a lot as well and I just-

fuck mirrors

But YEAH 👏 I have a feeling that at first the guys would be confused when their S/O feels that way, but once it's talked about they kinda get it and can somehow relate to such feeling.

But then when it's about their S/O, now that they know about that feeling?? Oh hell no! Baby does not deserve to be upset!!!!

It is a time for caring, shifting thoughts, and helping in any ways they can! If you're working on losing weight and you're almost there but it's still a struggle, they'll workout with you. If you're trans and you're just not HAVING it with your body today, they'll be comprehensive and patient (I think Donnie would be the best suited to help find a good binder, or any apparel that could help you feel closer to your gender). If it's about having an 'out of body' feeling, they'll be present. Always <3

You're perfect the way you are and they'll always be supportive. If you need space, they'll give it to you. But ultimately they know that focusing on something positive is a perfect balm against those monstrous thoughts.

[piracytheorist]

So I went down some t*rf tags the other day to find which blogs I should block, as you do, and of course in order to avoid accidentally blocking people who were mocking the ideology or sarcastically agreeing with it, I actually read the posts there and scrolled down some of the blogs.

And with some of the things I saw... it made me understand how they reel people in. In some of the stuff they said, I understood them. I understood their struggle, and their anger, and I got how their feelings could make them burst out the way they do in their blogs. Also the fact that many of the blogs I scrolled down and blocked were by women between the ages of 15 and 19 didn’t help. That’s the exact age where you do the most reckless, the most emotional, and the least experienced thinking. It’s when you think of something and immediately think you’re right, because you’re not developed enough, neither mentally, nor emotionally, nor from the aspect of life experiences, to know better and reflect on how well developed your thoughts are.

And to see them act the same way older t**fs do, like in the ages of 26+... it’s fucking scary. It genuinely feels like a cult, where teen women, frustrated with the misogyny they experience, come to a website to vent out their feelings about that and find passionate adult women agreeing with and supporting them and saying that they’re in the right to hate men and trans women... it solidifies their at then immature thoughts.

Like, give me one (1) cis woman who during her mid- or late teens didn’t hate men, even for just a few months, in reaction to being treated as lesser just for having a female body. Just one. I specifically did. I was, for a couple of years actually, believing the bullshit going around that “Girls are more mature than boys”, that “Girls love truly, boys only want sex”, that “Women are statistically smarter than men” etc etc. But then you grow up, you reflect on those thoughts and you go like “Damn older people are right when they say that teenagers do stupid stuff sometimes”.

And that’s the thing with being a teenager; it’s the time to do mistakes, it’s the time to screw up, to vent out your frustrations, and when you grow older and have more life experience, look back at how you used to think and say “Wow, cringe. Good thing I grew out of that.” Absolutely not saying that everything teenagers do is stupid, if anything, most people start discovering themselves at that age. But that’s it; it’s a start. And on that road you’ll make mistakes, you’ll reflect, you’ll change your mind, you’ll learn, you’ll grow. The things that you start connecting with as a teenager which you keep on in your adult life also change, in the way that you look at them deeper, you understand them differently... it’s like with favourite films. Any movie you love as a teenager and as an adult, you’ll have a different mindset on the two occasions. Even if it brings you back to those times, you still have developed and you see it in a different way. Both ways may be positive, or fundamentally similar, but they’re still different, maybe one is the evolution of the first; it’s still not 100% the same. Because you grew up. It’s kinda sad, in a way.

So the issue I have with indoctrinating young women into the t**f ideology from so early on, is that it’s an ideology based on hate. By saying that women are only those who experience misogyny, you’re basically normalizing misogyny and abuse, and averting the blame. You’re saying that it’s expected from men to be misogynistic, and that women should band together against the oppression... instead of looking into why men are misogynistic and looking how you can inspire change in that. It’s victim blaming, basically.

By saying that “trans women are not women because they don’t grow up experiencing the effects of misogyny and patriarchy on themselves” (in a way that’s bullshit but as a cis woman I can’t expand on that, read trans women’s stories instead), you’re putting the responsibility of erasing misogyny on trans women. And again, you’re normalizing the abuse, and you’re defining your gender by the abuse you went through.

Like, fuck no. I was bullied for more than half my school life. It has impacted me greatly, many of the emotional scars I carry them still, my character has been affected by the abuse I went through, but by fuck no does it define me. I choose to try to be kinder. I choose to see abuse as wrong. I choose to be an educator so that I can help bullying stop being a thing in the schools I’ll be teaching. And not because I feel ashamed, or that I pity children who are being bullied, but because I want to make this world a better place, because I believe in teaching the younger generation into not perpetuating any kind of hateful ideology.

That’s not what t**fs do. They just say they hate men and perpetuate the idea of female supremacy... as if women, even women who are privileged in every way other than having a female body, can never do wrong.

Like on one hand, they deify JKR who said that “I am not a victim, I do not pity myself and I’m growing out of my trauma strong” in a very, very victim-shaming way, and on the other hand they define their femininity on the fact that they’re victimized by the patriarchy. Make it make sense.

And in general, it is still an ideology based on hate. When you take a group of people that are struggling both on the inside (either through gender dysphoria or through the pressure of not feeling free to express themselves) and on the outside (either because they’re bullied if they act “out of the gender norm” or because of transphobia if they come out), and you hate on them, when you put the entire responsibility of erasing unrealistic expectations on beauty and appearance for women on that specific small group that’s in a fundamentally disadvantageous position... bro I don’t know what you call it, I call it targeting. You have your frustrations with the patriarchy and sexist men, and because those people won’t listen to you - mostly because they’re privileged and assisted in that by the system they create - and you take it out on a group of people that’s just trying to live their lives in a way that doesn’t hurt anyone.

Like, I saw someone being upset by people comparing t**fs to nazis because she’s Jewish and I’m like... how the heck can you not see the similarities? How can you grow up Jewish and not see that it’s wrong to target an entire group of people, massively hate on them, say that they “have an agenda” just because they want to be themselves and aren’t hurting anyone? How can you not see that cherry-picking the unkind or misled ones and defining the entire group by those few people is wrong?

In fact, how can you not see that “trans women are perpetuating Hollywood’s beauty standards for women” has the exact same basis as “immigrants of colour are stealing white people’s jobs”?

And you may say, “Lillpon, you’re doing the same with t**fs right now. You’re going out there and blocking them after having said you hate blocking people” and I’ll say, I am not hating on them. As I said, I’m scared by seeing how many of them are teenagers, but at the same time, it’s telling. It’s a cult-like mentality, it finds people who are frustrated with how they are treated, who feel wronged, who feel they’re in an unjust world, and it takes those feelings and targets it to one specific group or characteristic. For t**rfs, that’s the XY chromosome set. For neo-nazis, that’s non-Caucasian races. The whole “finding young people who are alone, who see that the world is unjust, who feel no-one listening to them and indoctrinating them to an ideology of hate” is point-blank exactly how neo-nazi groups work. Here is a very interesting TED talk on the matter by a former neo-nazi, if you’re interested.

Also, I never said I hate blocking people, or that I think it’s wrong. I just don’t think it’s something to be proud of, and in fact I’m not proud for blocking those people, I even feel a little guilty as I understand how many of them are just victims of indoctrination.

You’ll say, “But Lillpon, a lot of neo-nazis are spoiled, privileged white men! How can you know how privileged t**fs are??” And to that, I’ll turn communist and whisper in your ear, “The privileged are few. They’re the minority. And they depend on the lower classes fighting against each other so that people forget that it’s the privileged who make all the laws and standards that hurt all the lower classes.” To that extent, you can never, never know who truly hides behind the blogs and twitter accounts with “r*dfem lesbian” on their bio. There are many occasions, especially on twitter, where accounts that claimed to be queer poc were found out to be run by straight white men.

... So, who can guarantee that everyone running a blog with “r*dfem lesbian” on their bio is actually a cis, lesbian woman? And again, on its basis, it’s the same.

Neo-nazism is putting the blame on people of colour; that not only causes a rift between neo-nazis and poc, but also between neo-nazis and white people who oppose them. It’s in fact a pawn so that the white people in power - the people who are responsible for the problems poc and lower class white people face - can avoid having everyone against them. They give poc and less-racist lower class white people a scapegoat.

T**f ideology is putting the blame on people born in male bodies - absolutely no matter what their character is. Again, that causes rifts between t**fs and cis men, t**fs and trans people, and t**fs and cis women who support trans rights. Instead of focusing on seeing how we can stop cis men from being sexist - which of course will inconvenience the men in power who rose so high because misogyny is holding women back - we’re fighting against each other. It’s again, a pawn, a scapegoat, to distract us from blaming the one who’s truly to blame.

If anything, if you’re a t**f, the fact that what you do is helping the white men in power - because absolutely nothing you or your friends can do can affect them in a negative way - should be a reason by itself to not be a t**f. But what do I know.

[ncllysnge]

All I really 𝖜𝖆𝖓𝖙 is to be 𝖜𝖔𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖗𝖋𝖚𝖑

Name: Nelly Singe

Gender: Cis Woman

Age: Thirty-four

Sexuality: Heterosexual

Height: 5′3

Home District: Captiol

Status: Tribute escort

Character Inspo: Electra Heart & The Valley of the Dolls Gals

tw: drug abuse, grooming, sexual exploitation of minors, death

Caesar Flickerman wasn’t the only beloved icon in Panem. 

Raised from Panem’s first Hunger Games host, Caesar, and his considerably younger sister Calpurnia, were first child stars, home brewed, always singing and dancing on television. Caesar began his route into presenting, and Calpurnia began into her own stardom. When she began to grow older, her body taking more form, her sex appeal growing more apparent.

Both the Flickerman children were television personalities, while Caesar kept it down a straight and narrow path, Calpurnia was one that excited people. She was glamor, she was sex, she was everything good and bad. Big blue eyes and long eyelashes. A delish hourglass figure everyone wanted a piece of. Everything she wore was a spectacle. Didn’t matter if she was only sixteen.

Expectations were great. She loved the glory, to see her name in bright lights. She was born to be adored, and by golly, she was adored more than most. But with adoration cam great criticism. Moments she wasn’t on a show, or at a party, she was working to keep her form perfect and tight. 

At twenty-four, she married an old Game Maker, of much status and money. Not that she was worried about the later, the former was certainly a bonus. And not even eighteen months after that, the beautiful little gift Nelly Singe was born. Another name to be shown in lights.

And pregnancy was beautiful. Calpurnia made it a fashion statement to show your baby bump off. People thought she was more glowing than ever before. But after it? Well... her body didn’t bounce back quite the same. There was a depression that hit unlike any other. She went out and yet... the critics seemed that much more intense. Her body didn’t look as appealing anymore. She didn’t feel as appealing anymore.

Calpurnia began grasping at straws for her validation and adoration again. Surgeries to make her beautiful once again, give her implants and markings to make her stand out again. She took morphling to help with the depression after childbirth. She’d hang around parties until the sun came up. The world which built her up, which put her worth in her body, suddenly tore her down.

By the time Nelly was three, her mother was washed up, completely botched, and frequently too high to leave the house. Calpurnia was no longer a Flickerman, but a Singe, and the Flickerman estate wanted nothing to do with her. Nelly only met her uncle once as a baby, and then much later in her career, but things were much different then.

Growing up, much of Nelly’s early memories were with her mother, sprawled on her chest, watching television. The woman far too dazed, but mumbling about the beautiful people on tv. Nelly grew up thinking it was the most beautiful place on earth--- the tv.

As she got older, her mother started to shape her daughter into the person she wanted to be. There were concerns Nelly wouldn’t be as beautiful as she had been. There were preemptive shaping gear Nelly wore as a child to make sure her waist would be smaller, hips would open up more. Though, as puberty took place, that didn’t seem to be needed as much, considering she became just as gifted as her mother.

It didn’t matter much, though. She had the Singe name. Everyone in the Capitol knew she was Calpurnia’s daughter. No one wanted to put that legacy on the television. So Calpurnia trained her daughter harder. More manners, more politeness. More appeal. She studied fashion night and day, money from her father was used to make sure she dressed just as well as her peers.

Nelly never took the words to be unkind. Her mother explained that was simply the way of the world. When beauty bestows you, you have to wield it, and people hold you to a higher standard.

The big break came at sixteen, the age her mother’s career really took off. Nelly was excited. A television presenter wanted her on his show. A real up and comer, he was. He wanted to make the best of her. She was just far too naive to understand what that meant. She believed him when he said he loved her. For her mind, her soul, and her body. Nelly was just glad that someone looked at her and saw her for the beauty she thought she was meant to be. 

Nelly was on the tv finally. Wore sparkly dresses and helped on the game shows. And she’d stay after shoots to keep the director company. Because that’s what love is, right? Calpurnia told her as much. If he keeps her around so much, it must be love.

But a spotlight isn’t meant to last forever. Calpurnia had a hard time with her daughter’s stardom. After a particular episode involving plenty of absinthe and morphling, Calpurnia stumbled onto set demanding for her time on camera. She had fit herself into one of her most iconic dressed from her late teens. She still fit! And it was her time to shine.

They were both escorted off state. The director called the following morning to tell Nelly her roll had been replaced. She cried for two weeks. Her love had crushed her.

It was six months later when her father passed away. He was seventy when Nelly was born, and really only cared of his job in the Games. Nelly hardly knew the man. It was far more sad to have her heart stomped out by her lover than to find out her father had died in his sleep at eighty-nine. 

But a blessing came of it. Nelly was his legacy, and it granted her a position into the Games. She thought maybe she’d work along side her uncle. This man she adored and looked up to but never knew. Instead, she was told she’d be an escort. Not her first choice but she wasn’t picky either. And then, the news came that she’d be given District Twelve. Clearly, the respect and legacy of her father didn’t get her far enough.

Her mother told her not to fuck this up. It was all a ladder. Wear the best clothes, teach the tributes the best she could. If she brought a victor back, maybe she’d be given a better district, and would become an icon. Maybe they both would.

That’s not exactly what happened.

Every year, Nelly showed up to the grimy District Twelve in her full Capitol top of the line clothing, saying the names of the tributes, escorting them to the Capitol, making sure they knew how to behave like the Capitol expected. She guided them, trained them to be the best versions of themselves. And then, she watched them die. Most of the time, in very humiliating fashions.

And then there was Griffin. He had potential. Nelly was a few years younger than him, but she watched his games. Thought he was a brilliant mind, and quite comical. Only to come and find out he was a drunk. It was a fast disappointment, expecting him to be so great and he was far from it. But Nelly took care of someone who was detached from reality her whole life. Griffin was no different.

Every year, she holds out hope that this will be the one her tributes will win, this will be the year Griffin pulls himself out of his haze and mentors the children like she know he can. She knows that if she just tries a little harder, if she nurtures them more, gives them more warmth, more advice, more of her time and her attention, then it can happen. It has to happen.

It takes sixteen years. But it finally does. And nothing is going to strip that away from her.

One month after the victory of Fava and Hudson, both of her victors, her mother had overdosed on morphling. In truth, Nelly never knew her mother used morphling. Knew about the drinking, sure, but never that. Her mother went out of her way to make sure Nelly never knew what morphling was like. Perhaps it’s the one selfless act she did.

Nelly knew her mother to be an icon. She was a star and others just forgot. No one went the funeral. Nelly was just sent her ashes in a tin while she was on the Victory Tour with Fava and Hudson. She’s not entirely sure what to do with it. It’s still in her suitcase. But she’s telling herself it’s there to remind her what she always has to do. She has to strive to be the star her mother should have been.

But if she leaves Twelve to escort another District, where will that leave those she’s grown so close to?

[aparecium-hq]

Welcome to Aparecium, Cat! You have been accepted for Matilda Nott. This is Beth speaking and obviously I have some bias toward Matilda, but both Kat and I think your take on her adds so much that should be very fun to play out on the dash. Check out the new member checklist, and jump right in.

Character Basics

Birthday (Age):  May 3rd 2004 (23)

Gender (Pronouns): Female (she/her)

Sexuality: Bisexual

Blood Status: Pureblood

Hogwarts House/School: Slytherin

Occupation: Aspiring singer

Faceclaim: Barbie Ferreira

Any requested changes? Nope

Biography:

When Matilda was born her grandparents had gifted her a beautiful, ornate, silver rattle. It had been decorated with intricate silver flowers embedded with diamonds, a gold snake twisting up the handle with eyes of emeralds which peered at the newborn who looked back, completely perplexed. The long silver handle was far too thin for her tiny hands to grip properly, and the rattle head too heavy for her to lift, let alone shake. Matilda’s mother had quickly ripped it away from her when they found the baby with the rattle end in her mouth, trying to chew on it and covering it in dribble. From that moment on the rattle lived in one of the Nott mansion’s many hallway display cases, out of reach from Matilda for whom it was useless for anyway, and on display.

Matilda always tried to please her parents, she just often found herself confused at what they were expecting from her. Their standards were impossibly high that she often wondered if they were setting her up for failure. As a child they expected perfect manners, her face to always have a polite smile and for her clothes to stay pressed and neat. While Matilda said her please and thank yous, smiled graciously at guests, and made sure to never spill her food down her front ,by the end of the day her hair had always fallen out of its tight braids and her skirt had become wrinkled. While Theodore and Juniper’s friends thought of Matilda as the perfect daughter that they all wished they had, Matilda often saw her mother purse her lips and look scoldingly at Matilda while brushing the creases out of her dresses. She was good enough not to be punished, but not perfect.

During her school days her parents expected Matilda to be top of every class, for her to make the right friends and for her to keep out of trouble. Matilda studied hard in the library, handed in all of her homework on time and achieved Os or Es in nearly every subject she took at O.W.L and N.E.W.T level. Her teachers generally thought favourably of her, complimenting her classwork and praising her work ethic, but with every E on her report card, Matilda was told by her parents she needed to work harder. Good enough to not get a howler, but not perfect.

Matilda was sorted into Slytherin and largely kept her friendship group within her house, the only notable exception being Saoirse Finnigan. Her parents, while not knowing the extent of the girls’ relationship, knew that Saoirse was not the kind of girl Matilda should be friends with. Every time her parents asked if she had stopped spending time with “That Hufflepuff Girl” and insisted she spend more time with her Slytherin classmates  Matilda was reminded her choice of friends was good enough for them not to make a fuss, but not perfect.

Matilda started to get bored of this in her teenage years. She knew she would never be perfect in their eyes and had many restless nights wondering if it was even worth trying anymore. There were times when she considered just telling them to go screw themselves - she’d written out speeches she wanted to yell across the dining hall. She wanted to tell them that they couldn’t control her, she was her own person and she would do whatever the fuck she wanted. These daydreams increased in frequency when she realised she was in love with Saoirse.

It had happened slowly. They’d been friends for a while already when Saoirse had asked her out on a date. It had come as a complete surprise to Matilda who had never bothered to think much about relationships - she was going to marry some handsome Slytherin boy that her parents liked, that had always been the plan. She’d agreed to the date anyway though. The excitement of this small rebellion, a few dates with the Hufflepuff girl, was enough to satiate Matilda’s need to stick it to her parents. Not that they ever knew, of course. Just picturing their faces was enough for Matilda, it would have been far too scary to actually tell them.

A few dates lead to a few more and Matilda was enjoying herself too much to think about how painful it would be when it had to end. But it did have to end. Matilda had always known that, even if she’d neglected to tell Saoirse. It was selfish and wrong, even Matilda knew that. Five years together and she neither had the courage to tell her parents they were together or tell Saoirse it would never work. It was ultimately Saoirse who had to walk away, leaving Matilda alone and heartbroken.

After graduating from Hogwarts and splitting with Saoirse, Matilda found her back living in her parents’ mansion, under their thumb once more. They had this idea that Matilda should become a classical singer. She’d had singing lessons as a child and had shown some talent for it. She’d been in the Hogwarts choir and often had solos but she was not professional material. It was a delusion of Matilda’s mother, who adored the opera, that one day they would sit proudly and watch Matilda in her favourite opera The Magic Flute. Matilda was not under the same delusion as her mother, but she did as she was told and attended auditions. What was the point in protesting? It was the first time her parents had thought she might be good at something.

It was a special kind of humiliation being rejected from every single audition and seeing her mother’s disappointed eyes every single time. When Matilda suggested she might be better suited to something more academic, her mother scoffed and reminded her of the smattering of Es on her report card. Besides, Matilda was of the age that she was expected to marry soon and at that point a full time job was out of the question. Singing might offer some flexibility.

The idea of being wed was too painful for Matilda to think about, her break up with Saoirse still feeling like a fresh wound, but after a couple of years of Matilda dragging her feet her parents chose for her. Raphael Selwyn. Handsome, smart and from good stock. She’d resisted the idea at first, but it was futile. If she wasn’t going to fulfil her parents’ wishes then why had she thrown Saoirse away? It wouldn’t be such a bad life. She’d learn to move on, learn to be happy with Raphael, learn to finally please her parents. At least now she was too busy choosing wedding dresses with her mother to embarrass herself at auditions.

Character Questionnaire

How does your character feel about their family?

Matilda’s relationship with her parents is full of complex emotions and confusion. They always treated her well enough, spoiling her with material things, showering her with love on the very few occasions she managed to reach their impossibly high expectations. She felt she had no reason to complain but their snide remarks and disapproval of even the slightest slip up on Matilda’s behalf upset her deeply. She is constantly trying to please them even though part of her knows she will never fully succeed. It doesn’t stop her trying.

During her teenage years at Hogwarts their relationship was more strained. Matilda had ‘bad influences’ around her (namely That Hufflepuf Girl that her parents disliked so much) and for a period it had made Matilda want to rebel. That’s over now. Back home with them she has become resigned to the fact that she will always live under her parents’ thumb. She has accepted that, and now that she has their relationship has improved, particularly the relationship with Matilda and Juniper, her mother.

In recent years Juniper has become quite unwell and the healers at St. Mungos are not hopeful about her recovery. Still, she has some time left and Matilda plans to make the most of it. Maybe before her mother passes they can fix the strained relationship between them and finally Matilda can earn her approval. All Juniper wants to talk about is wedding dresses.

What does your character value in a friendship?

If Matilda were asked what she values she would say she wanted friends who were kind, polite and considerate of others, just as she tries to be. In reality Matilda is drawn to people who excite her - people who force her to see the world from a new perspective. Deep down Matilda wants to be stolen away from her current life and live forever in an adventure book and this is reflected in the people she admires and wishes were her friends.

How would a stranger who has just met your character describe them?

Matilda is polite, courteous and will laugh at any joke - so long as it’s not in poor taste. She is nice to everyone, regardless of their background. She knows how to keep a mood light and friendly. When most people meet her they find her incredibly dull.

Matilda is unable to delve any deeper than small talk with strangers, keeping shallow conversation about mundane topics that couldn’t possibly offend anyone but they never excite either. It takes some time before Matilda feels comfortable talking about anything more interesting than general chit-chat and by that point most people have written her off as a boring pureblood girl with no thoughts or opinions of her own. This isn’t entirely untrue. While Matilda strays from her parents beliefs regarding magical integration she never voices these opinions and in other areas she just believes what she is told to believe. She is so lost and confused as to who she is and has been so used to hiding it from her parents and the rest of pureblood society that strangers only see the veneer she’s invented to keep her safe from her parents’ judgement.

Para Sample

Cake tasting, dress shopping, seating arrangements, flower choosing, hiring a venue. The list seemed to go on and on and on. They hadn’t even set a date yet! Surely they didn’t need to start thinking about all of this now? It seemed ludicrous to plan for an event that might not even happen… She wasn’t really supposed to think that last bit though.

Matilda sat at the large dining table in the Nott’s mansion, fingers running over different sheets of lace absent-mindedly. She was supposed to be picking her favourite lace, for what she didn’t know.

“Honestly Matilda, you’re going to ruin that lace running your greasy fingers all over it,” Juniper snapped, snatching the lace out of her fingers. “Now which one do you want?”

There was a correct answer, Matilda knew this. Her mother had already decided on a lace and it was her job to guess which one she wanted. She surveyed the selection properly for the first time.

“I like the pale purple, with the birds.”

She appeared to have made the right choice as Juniper pursed her lips and folded it up putting it in the pile with the rest of the materials they’d chosen that day. She only paused to reprimand Matilda. “It’s called lilac. Pale purple, really!”

Matilda didn’t reply, nodding sheepishly. Her mother was in a particularly foul mood today and she knew better than to argue back. There had been a problem with the house elf or something. Matilda had long since checked out of the conversation counting down the hours until she was free to go. First, decisions on silk trimmings had to be made.

After several hours of this, Matilda was finally excused. It was a blessing to have even part of her day left to herself and expected her mother would send her to the music room to practice scales for the rest of the evening. Juniper was tired though, and Matilda could tell she simply didn’t have the energy to listen to Matilda’s warbles and announce when she was flat. It was an awful thing, to be secretly a little bit glad that her mother was unwell because at least she sometimes got the evening to herself but she couldn’t stop the thought passing her mind. She immediately felt guilty.

“Would you like me to run you a bath, mother?” Juniper just shook her head insisting she was just going to sit in the drawing room with Matilda’s father Theodore for a while. Read a nice book.

“Would you like to join us?”

“Thank you, but I might meet Raphael this evening since I have the time.” This was a straight up lie, she was hoping to escape and find something a little more interesting than spending time with her new fiancée. She’d been avoiding talking to, or even thinking about him. Still, the lie gained an approving smile from Juniper and Matilda was free to spend her evening how she wished.

She rushed to put on her winter coat excited to leave her family home and escape from the constant wedding discussions. The cold chill hit her face as soon as the front door opened making her cheeks burn red, wind tossing her hair around. She made it all the way down their gravel path and onto the street before she had to make a decision - left or right? Where was it exactly she wanted to go? Where was she escaping to?

Matilda paused trying to think of anywhere she could go. She could just go sit in the Leaky Cauldron. By herself. It didn’t seem that appealing. Arrive unannounced at a friend’s house perhaps. But would any of them be happy to see her at this time? It seemed rather rude to not send an owl ahead. Quickly all her excitement drained out of her and after a moment of silence Matilda turned on her heel walking back up to the Nott mansion.

“You’re not seeing Raphael?” Theodre asked when Matilda took a seat next to her mother in the drawing room.

“No, he’s busy tonight.”

[jfg22]

The more I read into asexuality. The more I realize I’m asexual af. I’m definitely demisexual and graysexual more specifically. Also hearing my friend’s friend talk about her kinks is like whoa I have never felt more asexual because I’m not interested at all in talking about sex or kinks.

I have spent numerous time in a male strip club thinking I am in no way sexually attractive to men in that setting. Sure they are aesthetically pleasing but I wasn’t thinking I want to get to know any of them better. Yet I’ve been to a female strip club and I’m aroused but also weirded out because I respect women and I don’t know what is the level of inappropriate touching in that setting. In addition, to this I also find some transwomen and transmen beautiful af. In fact, I have made out with a transwomen and I also made out with lesbians. That being said I find certain cis-hetero men and cis-women attractive but....that doesn’t mean I necessarily mean I want to have sex with them. 

And yes I’ve had a boyfriend but I’ve no interest in having one at the moment. I have no interest in having sex with anyone right now. Not even with myself! I need some semblance of bond, attraction etc. I remember having sex with my ex boy-friend and towards the end of the relationship I wasn’t even remotely sexually aroused. I also had a lot of male hookups but I didn’t really care to have a relationship with them because they were kind of assholes.  

I always thought what is wrong with me but maybe I’m just me. Pansexual, asexual hot mess of a person. lol. I tried dating apps and I can’t say that I found myself attracted to many people. I thought maybe they’re cute but that doesn’t mean I wanted to jump the gun and have sex with random people. There was one I liked but he didn’t like me back enough because he ghosted me. The other one was semi-attractive but in the long run I can’t say that I cared to be a relationship with him either. He was just sort of vanilla and boring. I’m fairly certain I can’t be with another white guy again... unless he’s some sort of other race. For the record my ex was Polish American. I always have this hang up of oh god does he like me? Or am I fulfilling some sort of a weird Latina fetish this white guy has? Meaning does he think I’m girlfriend material or he thinks i’m good enough to fuck and that’s it. Maybe I’ve had bad experiences with white American males but you get my point. It’s just psychologically exhausting to deal with that shit. And I don’t want to deal with that again. At least I knew from my ex that he loved me for who I was at the time we were together. I remember he was my friend before I developed feelings for him. 

It should be noted that I’m generally picky as fuck. Meaning I like what I like. I find dark hair attractive and dark eyes. Generally don’t find blue or green eyes attractive in the least bit or blonde or red hair for that matter. Science says you like people genetically similar. I myself have dark hair and eyes by the way. I generally think some Asian men are hot as fuck. Maybe because I hooked up with a Filipino guy who looked like an Asian Joseph Gordon Levitt but shit when my friend said we looked similar I didn’t see it until she pointed it out. Also I spoke to him long enough to be like oh we have things in common this is cool! Again....bonding. Which also explains why my love language is quality time AND physical touching comes second. 

I had a sort of one night stand but I had already been talking to him for awhile before we hooked up. He dumped me but looking back I didn’t like him in the long run because he came back around and I thought he was needier than I was. I’m needy for the record so there can only be room for one needy-ish in a relationship! In my defense after therapy I am not as needy as before....I can’t say this with certainty for the mere fact that I haven’t been in a serious relationship in a long ass time. Like I don’t even know how long ago that was... maybe 10 years ago? smeh.

As I look back I can’t say I’m into hooking up either. Yes I had a few guys I found sexually attractive but this was only after we bonded on some level. So before you go on thinking I’m a slut or weird....know that I can count all the men I’ve slept with on one hand. Also the idea of dating 2 people at the same time is kind of repulsive to me for some reason. I’m not ruling it out or judging people who do but it’s not my style for sure.

In terms of sexual attraction things I find attractive are arbitrary. Yes I find dark hair and dark eyes attractive, but that doesn’t mean I can’t like a guy with hazel eyes. My ex had hazel eyes and light brown hair btw. Also I know I say I like tall guys but I’ve had sex with guys who are shorter and in no way doesn’t that mean I rule out anyone below 6 feet tall. As long as they are an inch taller than me I’m ok with that. And here is where it gets arbitrary as fuck. I have made out with lesbians who have dark hair and fair skin but I made out with a black trans women. Again I’m not ruling gender expression out. I definitely not interested in dating apps of any kind. I noticed I’m more productive when I’m not in a relationship.

Also I am not interested in getting married or having kids. I know women my age are either dying to get married or are married with kids. I can’t say I’m the type of person that was planning their wedding dress since I was a little girl. Definitely not ruling it out the possibility but, I’m not in a rush to get married by a certain age. In fact, I’d be happy just finding someone who isn’t an asshole and treats me right. It’s funny one of cis-hetero female friends asks me if I”m every having kids and my answer has always been the same. Maybe I haven’t met the right person, but I honestly can’t say I have my biological clock ticking telling me to have a child anytime soon. The idea of having one is daunting af. As a survivor of sexual abuse, all the racist and transphobic/homophobic shit that’s been going on my entire life I can honestly say I think it’s rather sadistic to bring a child into this world. Not to mention the fact that global warming will fuck up the planet and I’m not sure if that’s going to be reversible but rather just extend our quality of life for a few years. People are assholes. I’ve been hurt many times. I’m sure I’ve hurt people too not even meaning to. I have no desire to bring a child into this hell hole we call a planet. 

On a more positive note, I’m perfectly happy being single. When I think of the future potential relationship. I want someone to love me unconditionally. Someone kind, open minded, tolerant of my LGBTQ friends/family, (I can’t be dating no transphobes or homophobes, the only phobia permitted is germophobia!) generous to others (not just myself), thoughtful, humble, attractive by my standards. Mostly someone who will be there for me till one of us dies. Someone who sticks around even when life gets hard. Tall, dark hair, dark eyes. And I know for a fact I can get that. It’s not even the law of attraction it’s just a certainty that I know within myself that I will be with someone of a different ethnic race than mine. I’d also like to have 2 cats and a cute little puppy. Preferably one that looks like a little fuzzy brown stuffed bear. I’d like to have a cute cozy house. I don’t desire a mansion. I need someone who isn’t going to be a little pretentious fuck and is okay with not having the most expensive bullshit because in the long run that doesn’t matter. I know I am a writer and I can live off that eventually. I just need to buckle down and finish my shit which is taking longer than anticipated. I procrastinate writing several things (like this post.hehe) but also I like reading things to make me a better writer. That being said maybe I’m not as weird as I thought I’m just fantastically pansexual, asexual, unique af. Happy Pride month y’all! 

To my LGBT friends and people reading this, I love you and desire that one day we can live in a world where you no longer have to fear for your safety and people will love and respect you for who you are regardless of how you identify or who you are attracted to. I have faith that the younger generation will be more tolerant than past generations. I hope to instill that in my nieces. I remember I used to have a shirt that said “Labels are for jars and you are not a jar.” I don’t remember what happened to it but I can honestly say that always stuck with me. 

Today is my best friends birthday and 8 days ago it was my cousin’s birthday and I can honestly say that I have loved them regardless of what anyone says about them. And I will stand up proudly for them if anyone starts saying transphobic/homophobic shit. I will love them and respect them until the day I die. (Hopefully that won’t be anytime soon). I am blessed to have them both in my life and teach me to be more mindful of what is going on in the world. And an overall better human being. I take the life lessons they teach me with me for the rest of my life and hope that I can be of somewhat comfort to them in knowing that regardless of what happens to us they will never lose that love, appreciation and respect I have for them. 

[mst3kproject]

802: The Leech Woman – Part II

So now that we’ve established that The Leech Woman is a shitty movie full of shitty people saying and doing shitty things, we have to ask if there’s a point to all this.  After all, movies about terrible people backstabbing each other can still say something, even if it’s just a nihilistic statement about how horrible human beings are.  What is The Leech Woman trying to tell us?

As far as I can tell, it’s ugly women should just accept that they’ll never be loved, and go wither away somewhere so we don’t have to look at them.

At the beginning of the film, we’re supposed to feel sorry for June – she’s older than her husband, and he does not love or respect her.  We want her to get out of this terrible situation, and the movie offers her two ways of doing so: she can leave him, or she can alter herself to fit his standards.  The latter choice is one movies present to women over and over – if that guy doesn’t like you, just change everything about yourself in order to earn him!  But where the standard ‘makeover movie’ offers this as a happy ending, in The Leech Woman it destroys not only June but everyone around her.

One might argue that to change oneself in this way is necessarily to destroy oneself, but in The Leech Woman it’s quite literal.  Most obviously, one of the ingredients in the Cure for Old is a secretion from the pineal gland, which apparently must come from a live victim.  To use it, June has to kill somebody.  No other option, such as obtaining the hormone from an animal, or extracting it in some non-lethal fashion, is ever entertained.  By having the police investigate the murder of the criminal, the movie points out that even those we might see as unimportant or even deserving are human beings, and their deaths will matter to somebody.

We also see June herself destroyed in two different ways.  First of all physically, as the side-effects of the potion make her older and older every time it wears off.  Second, morally, as she becomes more and more blasé about murder.  Her asshole husband could be seen as deserving it, as could David when he rejects her.  But then later she picks up a complete stranger with every intention of killing him, and while this man is a criminal, there is nothing to indicate that was a necessary qualifier.  June would have committed the murder whether he’d tried to rob her or not.  

I must spare a few words here for The Leech Woman’s terrible makeup.  Actress Colleen Gray was thirty-eight when The Leech Woman was made (the age I am now, in fact), and as far as I can tell making her look older was accomplished simply by not having her wear any makeup. Even so, she doesn’t look like she’s out of her thirties, she just looks like she didn’t sleep very well the previous night.  Then, to make her look younger, they cake the makeup on so thickly, she looks like she’s made of plastic.  Finally, when she’s ‘really old’ I think they just smeared Elmer’s glue all over her and let it dry.  None of the three ages of June are convincing as what they’re supposed to be.

Anyway, one might suggest that the movie is saying June should have left Paul and gone to live her own life, rather than trying to make herself conform to his standards, but I don’t think it is.  The reason why not is that The Leech Woman has no concept of women as people who can exist separately from men.  It outright says as much in Malla’s speech before her own rejuvenation.

This little monologue is jaw-dropping.  She states that old age among men is a time of dignity and respect, but old women are worthless.  For one thing, this completely at odds with the type of culture the Nando are supposed to represent.  In traditional societies all over the world, old people tend to be revered regardless of gender, because having lived a long time has allowed them to learn more, remember more, and contribute more than anyone else.  The idea that an old woman has no value, that she deserves only ‘pity, contempt, and neglect’ because she is no longer attractive, is very much a modern, western one.

Second, this is what the movie tells us will happen to June if she leaves Paul.  She doesn’t seem to have any family or friends (because women don’t exist outside of their relationships with men), so she’ll just go waste away somewhere with nobody caring about her.  But since using the Cure for Old is explicitly an evil thing to do, within the world of The Leech Woman this is what June should have done!  Rather than try to get what she wants, she should have just accepted that she’s ugly and gross and nobody wants her, and gone off to crochet in a rocking chair somewhere so that pretty people can live their lives!  And this applies only to women.  The idea of using the Cure for Old on men never comes up, except when Malla says they don’t need it.  Wow, fuck you, movie.

Another idea in Malla’s speech is the reiteration that women are defined by their value to men.  She never mentions the idea of an older woman doing anything with herself – she just sits around and wishes she were still cute so she could ‘know the worship of men’.  They’re not supposed to want anything else.  June certainly doesn’t.  She doesn’t treat her rejuvenation as a chance to start her life over, she just tempts boring-ass Neil to cheat on his fiancée. She doesn’t even want to marry him herself, just to sleep with him.

Here the movie’s morals get a bit confusing.  You’d think that by the standards of the late 50’s and early 60’s Sally, who wants to marry Neil and settle down with him, would be the good girl of The Leech Woman.  Yet Sally is clearly supposed to be nagging and clingy, as if we ought to want Neil to leave her.  It’s as if the movie is trying to say that women are just terrible in general, and love and relationships are essential for them but traps for men.  The title The Leech Woman, as if she’s some kind of parasite, just seems to reinforce this.

Having given this some thought, I think where it comes from is that a woman’s attractiveness gives her power over a man, and the writers of The Leech Woman see this as a bad thing.  At the beginning of the movie, June is a powerless victim.  The first time she takes the Cure for Old, she gets a shot of power in the process – she’s allowed to choose a sacrifice, and she takes the opportunity to punish her abuser.  A few days later, David attempts to assert power over her by denying her the bag of youth pollen.  Again, she is given power over him when he falls into the quicksand, and she uses it to dispatch another person who has done her wrong.

From there on, June’s on an all-out power trip.  She can see that Neil is immediately attracted to her, and she loves it.  When she keeps him at her house by making a series of quick minor requests, like ‘pour me a drink’ or ‘take my bags upstairs’, she is testing this power, seeing how far it’ll go, and she’s very pleased with the results.  Later she plays with the criminal, stringing him along with her ‘nice old lady’ act until finally killing him. It’s an addiction of sorts – now that she’s had a taste of this, all she wants is more, more, more.  I wonder if the pollen itself isn’t supposed to represent a drug.  When Sally’s pineal juice doesn’t work and June laments that she’s killed her for nothing, that just shows that it was power, rather than Neil, that June wanted. Sally can’t stand between Neil and June when she’s dead… but if she cannot also be a source of power, her murder served no purpose.

At the end, June loses everything.  Like many real-world serial killers, she has come to think she’s untouchable, and that has made her sloppy – she fails to take back the card her victim took from her, and that leads the police to her door.  When she realizes she can’t get rid of them herself, she asks Neil to make them leave, and he can’t.  The only weapon she has left is her beauty, so she seeks to regain it, but the youth pollen only works when the pineal hormone is a man’s.  Trying to use Sally’s just makes June even older.  With absolutely nothing left, she commits suicide.

Naturally, all this also tells us that women are each other’s natural enemies.  All they want is men and those are in limited supply.  Sally and ‘Terri’ despise each other at first sight, each instantly recognizing that the other is competition.  When they cannot intimidate each other, both resort to violence.  Even at the ‘twist’ ending when Sally’s pineal gland proves to be no use to June, this might be seen as a metaphor for women tearing each other down, as Sally has her revenge from beyond the grave.  Or at least, beyond the coat closet.

I said at the beginning of last week’s review that this movie hates everybody, and it really does, doesn’t it?  It hates women, but based on the assholetude of the various male characters, it hates men, too.  It hates white people, who are avaricious and power-hungry, but it also hates black people… and I haven’t even had space to discuss that yet!  I could also spend some time on how much it evidently hates its audience. That’s right, you guessed it. Stay tuned, because next week we’re in for The Leech Woman, Part IIII!

[forestwater87]

Secret Santa 2019, Ch. 3

July 8, 2016

7:29 PM

“Ohh, goodness.” David clutched his hands close to his chest, eyes darting around them as they crossed the near-empty parking lot toward Muffin Tops. He huddled closer to Jasper’s side despite the oppressive heat. “Oh my gosh.”

“Will you fucking chill?” Gwen snapped, David’s nervousness clearly getting to her as well. “It’s not like you’re gonna be up on stage.”

“Okay, but I vote we get him up there at the first opportunity,” Jasper cut in, smiling despite the fact that he was feeling pretty weird himself. It wasn’t like he normally took his friends to strip clubs in his spare time, after all. He wasn't that kind of guy (namely, a frat bro or the President). “I bet we could talk Bon into it if the place is dead enough.”

David’s fingers dug into his sleeve, hard enough to drag blunt painful lines down his arm. “Don’t!” he cried, once again glancing around.

Jasper leaned in and kissed David’s temple, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “It’s all good,” he assured him. “And none of our campers are local this year, so you don’t have to keep worrying about parents seeing us.”

“I’m not . . .” He trailed off, seeming to realize that it wasn’t worth trying to lie. His shoulders slumped defeatedly as Jasper ushered them into Muffin Tops. “Thank you,” he murmured, slipping inside, and he knew it wasn’t just for holding the door.

“Always,” he replied, and they fell into step behind Gwen. 

Or -- took a few steps, then immediately stopped because she had faltered to a halt, looking around the dim, noisy space with a panicked look in her eyes.

He leaned in close to David’s ear and said, “Remember Davey, we’re being supportive.”

His eyes widened and he stood upright with a start, like he’d just been caught falling asleep in the middle of a camp activity. “Oh! You’re right!” He pulled away from Jasper, bouncing up to Gwen’s side. “Where should we sit, CBFL?” he chirped; his enthusiasm was a little too child-friendly for this situation, but Jasper watched, impressed, as David led her to a booth near the back of the club with the determined good-naturedness of a sheepdog, settling her in and immediately hopping up to get drinks. “Would you like anything, Jasp?”

“Beer’s fine. Literally whatever’s closest.” He took a seat across from Gwen, and for a moment they both watched David disappear into the gloom. “Doing okay, sport?” he asked; they both winced at his profound dorkiness, but he tried to shake it off. “You look nice.”

She chuckled self-consciously, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “You sure?” For once they didn’t have to wear their counselors’ uniforms, and Gwen had blown her hair up like a 60s soap opera star and done . . . something to her face; Jasper wasn’t sure what, but it kind of made her look like a magazine cover version of herself. (If he’d ever managed to get his face to look like that, he’d probably stare into a mirror until he died of starvation like Narcissus. He resolved to look up men’s makeup later, just for the hell of it -- even though he’d probably come across more like an overweight vampire than David Bowie.) They’d had to talk her out of calling the whole thing off when she’d emerged from her room looking dressier than Jasper and David combined, but in the flashing colors and low light of the club Gwen looked infinitely more like she belonged than Jasper did in his vintage -- which was really a nice way to say “old and kind of trashy” -- technicolor clothes and David’s impossibly wrinkle-free polo shirt and jeans.

Jasper suddenly realized how improbable the three of them looked together, like they came from different planets. A supermodel, a Mormon missionary, and a sentient pile of thrift-store rejects walk into a strip club . . .

“Gwen,” he said sincerely, “I would bet a hundred bucks you could take anyone in here home if you wanted to.”

She snorted, looking pleased despite herself. “And yet it’ll just be you two.”

He leaned back, grinning. “I know,” he agreed, catching sight of David weaving through the tables, which were finally starting to fill up. “Aren’t you lucky?”

David set their drinks down with the grace of a bartender (which he was, the rest of the year) and slid into the booth next to Jasper. “Well, Gwen,” he said, folding his hands on the table like he was going to pray, “what do you think?”

She froze with her glass halfway to her mouth, eyes wide and wary. “About what?”

“All this, of course!” He gestured around the room, where a steady stream of people were picking their way through the tables scattered like islands through the low warehouse; where women, wearing glittery scraps of nothing that caught the lights like fireflies, were ferrying drinks to and from the bar and flirting with apparent regulars. No one was onstage at the moment, but there was an expectant hum underneath the pounding music, and two poles were lit up by spotlights. “Where should we begin?”

“Begin . . . what?” Gwen glanced over at Jasper, looking like she was regretting every recent decision. He shrugged, thinking that maybe David was being too supportive now and wondering if he could possibly tone that shit down before something really stupid happened.

The sunshine drained from David’s face slightly, and he also turned to Jasper. “Gee, I don’t know.”

They were both looking at him, and he groaned. “Well, I don’t know either! Pretty sure the only place I’ve ever been like this was some . . . furry vore land in Second Life. That was a weird afternoon -- remind me to tell you about it later,” he added to Gwen, winking. “Why don’t we just ask Bon?”

David’s face brightened as Gwen’s paled. “We so don’t need to --”

“What a neat idea, Jasp! Come on!” David leapt to his feet, taking Jasper’s hand before giving Gwen an appraising look. “. . . On second thought, maybe you should wait here. With . . .” He widened his eyes, jerking his head in her direction with all the subtlety of Groucho Marx.

Jasper reminded himself to never allow his boyfriend to consider a career in espionage. “What exactly are you expecting me to do? Tackle her if she makes a break for it?”

David either didn’t hear this comment or chose to ignore it, turning away with a wave and a cheery “Be right back!” before diving back into the growing crowd. Jasper just sighed and lifted his beer, clinking it against the drink Gwen had set down on the table.

“Cheers.” When she didn’t respond, slumping back in the booth like she was going to disappear under the table, he placed his hand on her forearm. She jumped at the sudden touch, nearly knocking her glass over, and with his beer-laden arm he gingerly slid it out of her reach. “What gives, Gwengarry Gwen Ross? I thought you liked Bon.”

The dumb nickname didn’t make her smile. “I mean, I do,” she said with a miserable shrug. “But of all the people here to talk to about this? After that play disaster?”

He winced at the memory. During one of Preston’s earliest plays of the summer, Max had stolen Gwen’s phone and changed everything from her “Looking For” (all genders, “anything as long as it’s nasty”) to her photo (Neil, who was at that age where boys kind of looked like gangly, awkward young women in the right light) and had snagged the attention of one of the few eligible townies in Sleepy Peak. That debacle had ended in an extremely awkward date between Gwen and Bonquisha Harding, a woman with the body of a pro wrestler and the personality of a monster truck. They were pretty good friends now -- and the four of them got together every few weeks to watch old movies -- but he could see why it might be uncomfortable to chat with her ex about lap dances or . . . whatever.

“I mean, I told her I was straight! And now what? Like, is she gonna think I’m stalking her at work?” Her eyes widened in horror. “Oh fuck, what if she thinks I want to go out with her or something? Or what if she thinks I don’t wanna go out with her? We decided this wouldn’t work because I was straight! And if I’m not? That’s so insulting! What if --”

“Breathe, Rumpelstiltsgwen.” She glared at him -- he had to admit, it wasn’t his best work -- and he handed over her drink along with his beer. “I think you need this more than I do.” She took both drinks, finishing them in record time, and despite the situation he was impressed. “You must’ve been fun in college.”

She snorted, glancing over Jasper’s shoulder and swallowing hard. He turned to see David scurrying back to their table, dwarfed by the beautiful gold-glittery amazon at his side. “H -- hi, Bon,” she said weakly as they approached.

“Hey, sugar!” Bonquisha kissed the air next to Gwen’s cheek and settled into the booth. She was wearing a shimmering bikini-type-thing (he wasn’t very good with women’s clothing) that reminded him of Princess Leia, and sparkles were splashed across her cheekbones and shoulders like freckles made of stars. “It’s fantasy night,” she explained at his curious look, hoisting up a fake spear before turning her attention back to Gwen. “Hear you’re looking to join the other team?”

Gwen buried her face in her hands with a groan, sinking down into her chair. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Aw, come on! It’s a great place to be!” Bon spread her arms across the back of their seat and grinned at Jasper and David, a wide, expansive smile that was impossible not to return. “Right, guys?”

David looked like he wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so Jasper jumped in: “Bonnaroo, I think Gwen’s a little nervous about how to . . . you know . . .” He raised his eyebrows, not sure how to explain what exactly they were here for. “Do it. Not -- not it, but like . . . stuff. All of it. I should stop talking.”

She laughed. “Don’t worry, Gloomy,” she said to Gwen, flicking her ponytail affectionately, “we get a lotta women like that coming around here, so all the girls know it’s standard procedure. This is a good place to figure yourself out.” 

Gwen had been staring steadfastly at the table, but glanced over at Bonquisha, the corner of her mouth lifting. “Really?” she asked hopefully.

“Totally! Now, I gotta get back to work because they don’t pay me to pal around with my friends --” She winked. “-- but start by just looking, all right? You two,” she added, pointing at Jasper and David (who glanced at each other with some alarm), “you’re Gwen’s straight friends tonight, got it?”

Jasper suddenly felt like he needed a snapback and a sports jersey, maybe a shark-tooth necklace. “Guess we should get more beer,” he said to David, shrugging. “The more it tastes like horse pee, the better.”

“My man!” Bon held out her fist, and Jasper bumped it (feeling like the single whitest person on earth as he did so). “I’m due up onstage now or I’d get your drinks for ya. Tip Brandi well, she’s good people.” She put a hand on Gwen’s shoulder, her smile softening. “I’m proud of you, gloomy girl. Don’t put so much pressure on yourself, okay? Just have fun.”

As David escorted Bonquisha to the stage on his way back to the bar, Jasper studied Gwen’s face. She wasn’t on the verge of a panic attack, which was good, but she still seemed to have trouble looking away from the small tea light in the center of the table. 

He supposed this was where his role as “straight friend” came in. “Uhh . . . she’s cute,” he finally said, glancing across the room at a woman decked out like a mermaid, complete with shimmering waves of black hair and a blue-green tail . . . skirt . . . thing (he really wasn’t good with women’s clothing) and feeling like the single skeeviest person on earth. 

Which . . . was probably good, considering where they were. He was in character.

She glanced up, following his gaze to the mermaid in question. “Yeah,” she agreed. “Not really my type, though.” She covered her mouth as a sharp, nervous laugh bubbled out of her. “What the hell am I saying? I don’t have a type. I . . . god, what the fuck am I doing . . .”

“Hey,” Jasper said, leaning forward so she had to look at him instead of spiraling further. “It’s me, brah, your straight friend Jasper.” She snorted, some of the panic fading from her eyes. “And I’m telling you, as your straight friend, that we can leave any time you want. We’re here for you, Gwen.” 

“Okay.” She took a deep breath, closing her eyes. “No pressure, right?” she asked, and the look on her face was so sincere, almost plaintive.

“Not even a single psi.” He wasn’t sure he was saying that right, having slept through most of his science classes in both high school and college. But it brought a smile to Gwen’s face, so he considered it a job well done.

She shook her shoulders, leaning forward and resting her chin in her hand, and examined the crowd with interest for the first time since they’d arrived. “All right,” she mumbled, mostly to herself. After a few seconds of silence she sat up straight again. “Oh,” she breathed, then tapped Jasper’s arm and gestured unsubtly toward a woman wearing fairy wings and wreathed in pink flowers. “She . . . uh, makes my chest feel kinda fizzy?” Her eyes met his, uncertainty mixed with excitement in her face. “Is that . . . ? ”

He glanced back in the fairy’s direction just as David bumped into her, balancing three beers. Despite his lack of hands, David steadied her with his elbow, his smile turning apologetic as he made sure she was okay before returning to their table. Their eyes locked and David’s smile widened. 

And . . . well, yes, the feeling in Jasper’s chest was somewhat fizzy, because it turned out he wasn’t very good at being straight after all. 

“Yeah,” he assured Gwen, unable to stifle a silly grin as he watched David approach. “Yeah, that’s definitely in the ballpark.”

Keep Reading

[cuorepietoso]

FULL NAME: Battista Tahan PRONUNCIATION: bat-TEE-sta tah-han MEANING:

Battista- Italian given name meaning “baptist”

Tahan- Hebrew origin, meaning “merciful”

NICKNAME/PREFERRED NAME(S): Battista is NOT a fan of nicknames, and generally reacts with annoyance at best when people try to give him one. In fact, he just prefers to be called “Tahan”. BIRTH DATE: 5 January 1986 AGE: 33 ZODIAC: Capricorn sun, Scorpio moon/ascending GENDER: Male PRONOUNS: he/him SEXUAL/ROMANTIC ORIENTATION: Battista is Bisexual/Biromantic with a strong preference for women. Though he has a lot of experience with women, he’s never had the opportunity to explore a sexual relationship with a man because he’s a fucking idiot, but he’s had a romantic relationship with one. NATIONALITY: Italian ETHNICITY: Mexican-Jewish CURRENT LOCATION: Verona, Italy LIVING CONDITIONS: 5th floor studio apartment. The elevator does not work. TITLE(S): Mr., (frmr.) Maresciallo Ordinario (Mar. Ord.), Capitano

tw: substance abuse mention, suicidal idealization, PTSD. general content warning.

background

BIRTH PLACE: Hospital Borga Roma HOMETOWN: Verona SOCIAL CLASS: Working– his parents were the owners and sole employees of a relatively unsuccessful stationery shop. EDUCATION LEVEL: High School, some College level courses FATHER: Vincenzo Tahan MOTHER: Shoshanna Tahan SIBLING(S): n/a CHILDREN: n/a PET(S): Pafutta, his “pet” stray cat PREVIOUS RELATIONSHIPS: Aria DiMaggio, Alessio Rossi*

occupation & income

PRIMARY SOURCE OF INCOME: Montagues SECONDARY SOURCE OF INCOME: Bartender, though he only works one night a week. TERTIARY SOURCE(S) OF INCOME: Odd jobs for his landlady, Military disability APPROXIMATE AMOUNT PER YEAR: €400k a year, most of which comes from the Montagues and is therefore off the books. CONTENT WITH THEIR JOB?: As much as he can ever let himself be content with anything, anymore, he’s content with the way he lives. He has four walls and a roof over his head, he keeps busy, and whenever he begins to feel the restless itch under his skin he can just go start a fight, and because this is the best way to find the man that killed his father. Any concerns he has about how things happen/are run pale in comparison to what he can get from it. PAST JOB(S):

Thief- Not really a job, considering. But he made a fair bit of money with his slick tongue and sticky fingers, and he enjoyed it in a sort of empty way.

Italian Army/Special Forces- Battista was always quick on the uptake but he took to life in the military like a duck to water. Strong, fast, and cunning, with the necessary people skills to shut up and speak up, whenever it was needed.

SPENDING HABITS: He buys what he needs. Most of his money is spent on alcohol, drugs, and weapons. Sometimes he buys expensive clothes that he doesn’t like to wear for lavish parties.
MOST VALUABLE POSSESSION: Beretta tanto-style folding knife, blackened steel blade, gifted to him by Alessio Rossi

skills & abilities

PHYSICAL STRENGTH: 6/10. Raw power is not and never has been his main weapon, he has neither the height or build to rely solely on physical strength. That being said, he works out every day and as part of his training can carry a man nearly twice his weight a few miles. OFFENSE: 8/10. Preference for knives in close quarters combat, and doesn’t enjoy open combat because of the risk it poses to civilians, though he’s more than capable of using guns. He fights like a devil and firmly believes in the phrase “a good defense is a better offense”. DEFENSE: 6/10. A little slow to guard his left side, but he isn’t afraid to resort to dirty tricks. He fights like he’s trying to die.  SPEED: 8/10. Battista is physically smaller than most of the people he’s ever fought so he relies on speed a lot. This ties back into his preference for knife fighting, where speed is essentially everything. INTELLIGENCE: 8/10. His greatest weapon has always been his sharp mind. Though lately he’s been prone to bouts of confusion, when he’s fighting he regains his cunning, razor edge. ACCURACY: 6/10. He’s above average with a gun but nothing to write home about. AGILITY: 7/10. Though he’s not doing backflips or anything but he can command his body to move, and quickly. His reflexes are honed and due to his hypervigilance he’s Always Ready, even when he doesn’t need to be. STAMINA: 6/10. He runs a couple of miles every morning, but generally fighting is exhausting, especially when you’re fighting someone physically stronger. He’s better off finishing a fight fast, rather than letting it drag out. TEAMWORK: 9/10. He does his best work as part of a cohesive team, it’s how he was trained. TALENTS:

(frmr.) Art- Though he’s not practiced in a little under three years, Battista used to be quite the artist, and still has an eye for beauty and detail. Sometimes his fingers itch to pick up a pencil again, but whenever he puts it to paper he finds the only things he can think of are too dark to draw.

Trauma medicine- Battista trained as a combat medic, and though he likes to joke that all he ever did was comfort dying men and tell them they would be okay, he’s quite good at keeping people alive in stressful situations.

Sticky fingers, silver tongue- Some habits are hard to shake, especially when they’re so useful. Though he doesn’t enjoy using honeyed words and a warm smile as a distraction any longer, he’s still got it in him. Coupled with his light fingers and silent step, he still makes a rather adept thief, when the situation calls for it.

SHORTCOMINGS:

Controlling- Whether he’s always been this way, or it’s a result of the life he’s lived, Battista has a hard time giving up the reigns. He’s prone to micromanaging, being occasionally overly critical, and difficult to get along with in a work setting. He has a way he likes to do things, and he expects them to be done to his rather exacting standards.

Abundance of Caution- Drawing attention is the enemy, in his eyes. Sometimes he hesitates to act because he’s unwilling to make a splash.

Gregariousness- Though few actually consider this a fault, it is one in his eyes. He’d prefer to think of himself as an island, but he’s a man that does better when he cares and is cared for in return. These relationships he develops aren’t always within the bounds of where his social circles should end.

LANGUAGE(S) SPOKEN:

Italian- Battista speaks both the Veneto dialect and Standard Italian. He prefers the Veneto dialect (since that’s what he grew up speaking), but he’s capable of code-switching

Hebrew- He spoke Hebrew at home and the military paid for him to take classes to improve/expand his knowledge.

some English- Enough to give a tourist directions and communicate to Americans where and how many the enemy were.

Arabic- This used to be his weakest language, he spoke conversationally and knew the curse words. Now that he’s friends with Ivan Rahal he knows even more curse words.

DRIVE?: He doesn’t drive– he’s never actually had a driver’s license, because when he was growing up he lived in the city and his family was too poor for a car. He never needed one in the military, though he did learn to drive and well. Now that he’s once again living in Verona (and prone to seizures), he doesn’t feel he has any business owning or operating a car. However, he can easily jump start/hotwire a car, change a tire, and fix some basic mechanical issues. RIDE A BICYCLE?: Outside of taking the metro, this is his main mode of transportation. SWIM?: He can but he would prefer not to PLAY AN INSTRUMENT?: He’s never had any musical talent, and can hardly carry a tune. PLAY CHESS?: Not well! He doesn’t have the patience for it. BRAID HAIR?: No. He never had any siblings and his mother always kept her hair short and worn loose, so he never had occasion to learn. TIE A TIE?: Yes, though he has to tie it and then put it on his neck. PICK A LOCK?: His skills at lock picking are second to none, it’s part of what made him such an excellent thief and, later on in his career, infiltration expert.

physical appearance & characteristics

FACE CLAIM: Peter Gadiot EYE COLOR: Medium Brown HAIR COLOR: Dark Brown HAIR TYPE/STYLE: slightly long, thick and curly/wavy. He runs his fingers through it to keep it out of his face. GLASSES/CONTACTS?: 25/20 vision in his right eye and 15/20 with slight loss of peripheral vision in his left. He hasn’t noticed this, so it will remain uncorrected, but it does affect his life. DOMINANT HAND: Right HEIGHT: 5’10 ¾”. The ¾ is very important. WEIGHT: 160lbs BUILD: Leaner side of muscular EXERCISE HABITS: Every morning he wakes up at 6am and he runs two miles, and then he does push ups, sit ups, pull ups, and some other weight lifting before going back to sleep. If he’s idle and feeling restless he may sometimes just start stretching. SKIN TONE: Olive, though frankly he doesn’t sleep or see the sun enough to look anywhere near healthy TATTOOS/PIERCINGS: n/a MARKS/SCARS: He has small shrapnel scars on his right cheekbone/temple, and scars on his knuckles. A wicked looking scar that stretches from his belly button to the tenth left rib. And a bullet scar to his upper left arm with no exit wound. NOTABLE FEATURES: His nose is pretty large and he’s broken it a few times. Other than that he just kind of looks terrible and tired most of the time. USUAL EXPRESSION: Blank, or a scowl CLOTHING STYLE: His whole wardrobe is black. Black jeans, black shirts, black slacks, black jackets. When he’s sleeping, he wears a ratty paracadutisti forze speciali tee shirt (also black) that he picked up…. somewhere JEWELRY: A silver Star of David necklace ALLERGIES: Genuine Human Emotion. Sesame seeds. Certain medications. BODY TEMPERATURE: He runs a little cool at an average of 97.9 degrees, and always feels like a solid, miserable block of ice. Especially his hands and feet. DIET: Black coffee, MDMA, antidepressants, vodka, and a highly regulated food diet that is usually Mediterranean or Indian food PHYSICAL AILMENTS: Occasional seizures from his medication, some chronic pain from old injuries.

psychology

JUNG TYPE: ISTJ-strong preference on thinking and judging, medium preference on sensing, almost no preference on introverted      Responsible organizers, driven to create and enforce order within systems and institutions. They are neat and orderly, inside and out, and tend to have a procedure for everything they do. ISTJs are steady, productive contributors. They like to know what the rules of the game are, valuing predictability more than imagination. They rely on their past experience to guide them. ISTJs are hardworking and will persist until a task is done. They are logical and methodical, and often enjoy tasks that require them to use step-by-step reasoning to solve a problem. They are meticulous in their attention to details, and examine things closely to be sure they are correct. With their straightforward logic and orientation to detail, ISTJs work systematically to bring order to their own small parts of the world.      ISTJs have a serious, conservative air about them. They want to know and follow the rules of the game, and typically seek out predictable surroundings where they understand their role. You may find the ISTJ doing something useful even in social situations (for instance, organizing coats and hats at a party) as they’re often more comfortable taking charge of a task than they are chatting up strangers. When given something to do, they are highly dependable, and follow it through to the end. ISTJs are practical and no-nonsense, and rarely call attention to themselves. Their clothes and possessions tend to be chosen based on utility rather than fashion, and they have an affection for the classics. ISTJs typically speak in a straightforward manner and have a good head for details. They are usually more enthusiastic about sharing factual information than exploring abstract concepts or unproven ideas.

ENNEAGRAM TYPE: 1, the Reformer      People of this personality type are essentially looking to make things better, as they think nothing is ever quite good enough. This makes them perfectionists who desire to reform and improve; idealists who strive to make order out of the omnipresent chaos.      Ones have a fine eye for detail. They are always aware of the flaws in themselves, others and the situations in which they find themselves. This triggers their need to improve, which can be beneficial for all concerned, but which can also prove to be burdensome to both the One and those who are on the receiving end of the One’s reform efforts.      The One’s inability to achieve the perfection they desire feeds their feelings of guilt for having fallen short, and fuels their incipient anger against an imperfect world. Ones, however, tend to feel guilty about their anger. Anger is a “bad” emotion, and Ones strive sincerely and wholeheartedly to be “good.” Anger is therefore vigorously repressed from consciousness, bursting forth in occasional fits of temper, but usually manifesting in one of its many less obvious permutations - impatience, frustration, annoyance and judgmental criticality. For this reason, Ones can be difficult to live with, but, on the high side, they tend to be loyal, responsible and capable partners and friends.      Ones are serious people; they tend to be highly principled, competent and uncompromising. They follow the rules and expect others to do so as well. Because they believe so thoroughly in their convictions, they are often excellent leaders who can inspire those who follow them with their own vision of excellence. Reform movements are frequently spearheaded by Ones.
Ones are often driven and ambitious, and are sometimes workaholics. But whatever their professional involvement, they are definitely active, practical people who get things done. They are natural born organizers, listmakers who finish everything on the list, the last one to leave the office, the first one to return, industrious, reliable, honest and dutiful.

MORAL ALIGNMENT: True Neutral      True neutral characters are concerned with their own well-being and that of the group or organization which aids them. They may behave in a good manner to those that they consider friends and allies, but will only act maliciously against those who have tried to injure them in some way. For the rest, they do not care. They do not wish ill on those they do not know, but they also do not care when they hear of evil befalling them. Better for others to suffer the evil than the true neutral and his allies. If an ally is in need, the true neutral will aid him, out of genuine love or because he may be able to count on that ally a little more in the future. If someone else is in need, they will weigh the options of the potential rewards and dangers associated with the act. If an enemy is in need, they will ignore him or take advantage of his misfortune.

TEMPERAMENT: Melancholic      Melancholics naturally lean toward being analytical and intellectual. They often foresee the result of a project long before its completion. They are able to view situations and problems from all sides and see every possible outcome. This makes them very effective at problem solving, planning, and organizing. And although people with a melancholic temperament generally keep their emotions guarded, they are still emotional individuals. In fact, they may be the most emotional of all the temperament types. Their heightened, ever-changing emotions can result in quick shifts in mood. For instance, they might feel a strong sense of elation, quickly replaced by gloom if something negative happens.      Because people with a melancholic temperament are introverted, they are often task oriented rather than people oriented. Individuals with this temperament love having a list of chores to complete. They prefer to stay busy, and they tackle their daily to-do list with relish. They tend to be extremely efficient and productive in any career. Melancholics are often perfectionists as well– they have a specific idea of the perfect situation, the perfect way to do things, and the perfect outcome. They tend to set incredibly high standards for themselves and others. When the perfect outcome is not achieved, they can become angered; however, these individuals don’t typically show their anger until it becomes so pent up over time that they reach a breaking point.

ELEMENT: Earth      Grounded and practical, when balanced earth is the glue that binds all elements together. It is “nurturing, supportive, relaxed, oriented, sociable, sympathetic, considerate, agreeable, poised, and attentive.” As nice as the balanced Earth is, unbalanced “Excess” Earth frets and meddles and can be quite overbearing as that wonderful groundedness transforms into unmovable and impractical stubbornness. When “Deficient”, Earth can become clingy and vacillating, too eager to please others and unable to ask for help. Earth is the caretaker and the main issue is over-thinking and worry

PRIMARY INTELLIGENCE TYPE: Bodily Kinesthetic      Tends to learn things by doing them with his hands. He must engage in a material in order to understand it – simply listening to a theory or looking at a picture is not going to help him. He also tends to be active in sports and have extraordinary balance. Moving his body brings him joy, and it is how he participates in the world around him.

APPROXIMATE IQ: 140-149 MENTAL CONDITIONS/DISORDERS: PTSD, Generalized Anxiety Disorder, Depression SOCIABILITY: Battista pretends to prefer solitude, but he needs other people like a flower needs sunlight. This generally manifests in him spending as little time alone as possible, whether it’s going out at night or wandering around during the day, or showing up unannounced to inflict himself on people that seem capable of tolerating him for any extended period of time. EMOTIONAL STABILITY: Though he may come off as cold, calculating, and unfeeling to the layman, Battista’s emotions are generally experienced as long periods of nothingness followed by intense emotional outbursts– anger, sadness, stress, etc. Generally he tries to keep his outbursts private, because he’s embarrassed by them. OBSESSION(S): Battista is prone to overthinking almost everything when he gets in his own head, but the most prevalent worry is about acting violently towards others on accident. He fears nothing more than being a rabid dog in need of being put down. COMPULSION(S): When he starts obsessively overthinking, he begins compulsive behaviors. Usually these are limited to things like hand washing, counting, listing. The hand washing is the most overt and alarming of the three behaviors, because most of the time he counts and lists things in his head. The latter two are usually used to help manage his anxiety, but sometimes he can get into his own head while doing them. PHOBIA(S): n/a ADDICTION(S): Alcohol, MDMA DRUG USE: Ecstasy, though he limits this to maybe two nights a week. Sometimes he’ll do cocaine but only if he’s obscenely drunk. ALCOHOL USE: He tries to limit his intake of alcohol as well, but he averages 3-4 drinks a night and way more on Friday and Saturday nights. PRONE TO VIOLENCE?: He would prefer not to be, but it’s generally his first reaction when startled at the very least. Sometimes it’s his first reaction to being angered as well.

mannerisms

SPEECH STYLE: Though it’s rare for him to speak much (if at all) around strangers, when he does he tends to keep his sentences clipped and without much inflection. He isn’t shy– it’s just better to be thought of as a taciturn fool than known to be a chatty one. In more familiar company, his voice can gain a little warmth, but most of his sense of humor comes from him deadpanning some pretty off the wall shit, which he is almost always doing. Even when he’s asking a question, he usually doesn’t raise the inflection at the end of his sentence to indicate that. ACCENT: Typical sing-song Veronan with a slight tendency to mispronounce the “ch” sound in words as the Khaf sound in Hebrew. He has a certain lack of consonant gemination when otherwise required (“ecco” comes out as “eco”), and his intonation has a kind of staccato pattern as a result. QUIRKS: occasionally prone to stuttering and muttering to himself under his breath, as well as completely zoning out. Generally during the day he can be spotted wandering the city like a cryptid if he isn’t working. HOBBIES:

frmr- sketching, writing

current- sex, working out, wandering. He leads a sad life.

HABITS: He wakes up every morning at 6 to work out. Goes to brunch a couple Sundays a month with Matthias Warren. Shows up like a bad penny to shadow his friends occasionally. NERVOUS TICKS: Squeezing the back of his neck, chewing on something DRIVES/MOTIVATIONS: He wants to kill the man that killed his father And Then Die. FEARS: Losing control of himself/his situation, getting an innocent person killed, and getting a friend killed. POSITIVE TRAITS: Fundamentally responsible, serious, efficient, and rational. Passionate, incisive, cunning, strategic, and perceptive NEGATIVE TRAITS: Emotionally reserved, comes off as intimidating and powerful if not malicious or aggressive. A bit dramatic. He has trouble opening up and letting other people in, and tries to keep his intense darker emotions private. He finds it difficult to trust others, which means his perception may manifest in suspicion and controlling tendencies. SENSE OF HUMOR: Dry and hard to understand. I don’t think he’s funny, I think he’s fucked up. DO THEY CURSE OFTEN?: Situational, and depending on the language he’s speaking CATCHPHRASE(S): not really a catchphrase, but as a filler word he tends toward “bene–” where most Americans would use “like” or “um”

attitudes

GREATEST DREAM: He can’t see himself really… going anywhere. As of right now, he struggles so much with his past and his present that the only goal he can set for himself is “survive”. Perhaps his greatest dream, then, is to someday have a hope for the future. GREATEST FEAR: His greatest fear is the thing most likely to come true, at this point– he spends the rest of his short life fruitlessly chasing his own tail in a pointless quest to find out who killed his father. Part of him already believes he’ll never figure it out, but he clings to it because he needs a reason to keep going, no matter how flimsy it is. MOST AT EASE WHEN: Battista is a creature of war. He’s most at ease when there are fists and bullets flying, blood on his tongue. When he’s tying off an artery and improvising a saline drip, when he’s barking orders (when he has his head resting in someone’s lap and they’ve got their hands in his hair, and they’re talking) LEAST AT EASE WHEN: There are things that crawl around in his head and under his skin in what most would consider a peaceful silence. He can’t relax, he can’t breathe, he can’t think. He shuts down. WORST POSSIBLE THING THAT COULD HAPPEN: In 2016 he was involuntarily committed because he was going to blow the whistle on his CO’s war crimes. The shit he dealt with there and the explicit threats afterwards were clear: if he doesn’t keep his mouth shut, or if COL. Bianchi decides he’s too much of a wild card, they’ll put him back and throw away the key. MOST EMBARRASSING MOMENT: He remembers this so clearly. In 2013 he was bragging to Alessio Rossi how good he was at dealing with snow and ice because he was from Verona and he was used to it and he immediately slipped on the rain damp stairs to the office they were walking into and fully ate shit. Rossi made fun of him for months, but he laughed really hard so it was almost worth it. BIGGEST SECRET: See: war crimes TOP PRIORITIES: He can pretend his biggest priority is catching and killing his father’s murderer all he wants, but that’s basically the only excuse he has for surviving at this point. Top Priorities are: Keep his friends alive, don’t get caught, survive. In that order.

[raeveno-blog]

The Grass is Greener Where You Water it (or, 20 essential ingredients for a kick-ass marriage)

1. My spouse is not my soulmate. There’s no such thing. The chances are good that I could get divorced from my perfect spouse today and find someone else that makes me as, if not more, happy. I believe it, I embrace it. I love my husband more having let go of the fantasy that my marriage could be bulletproof.

2. My marriage isn’t bulletproof. He or I could do something stupid or hurtful either intentionally or unintentionally and the whole thing could fall apart. Knowing this makes me more conscious of not doing something stupid or hurtful.

3. My marriage is a one-way street. That’s not to say we don’t each have our own parts to play, but after 43 years on this planet I finally understand that I’m 100% responsible for how I behave in my relationship. He doesn’t make me feel anything, do anything or be anything. Everything I feel, everything I do, everything I am, I’m responsible for. I don’t blame him for my feelings, actions or decisions. They’re mine and mine alone. More importantly, I know he would say the same thing about himself.

4. We know what hills not to defend. We choose not to fight over dishes or laundry or where we’re going to go for dinner. When the house is messy, I pick it up because it’s more important to me to have a tidy house than it is to him. When the front door is squeaking, he greases it because it’s more important for him to have a quiet front door than it is to me. I don’t tell him to pick up and he doesn’t tell me to grease the door and we sure as hell don’t fight about it.

5. We keep our big fat mouths shut. Sometimes it’s worth mentioning, but more often it’s not. “It” could be anything, from my kid’s tendency to spill every liquid within her reach to the fact that I can hear him chewing even though his mouth is closed. When we’re annoyed, we keep our big fat mouths shut.

6. We compliment one another every single day. It can be something as small as “you smell good,” or “that shirt makes your eyes pop.” Letting small kindnesses fall by the wayside as a marriage ages is a certain sign of impending misery.

7. I don’t say I’m fine when I’m not. It’s insulting to his intelligence and empathy to assume that he can’t handle hearing about what’s going on with me. If I don’t want to talk about it, I say I’d rather not talk about it. I don’t say I’m fine.

8. We have sex regularly. We have sex even when we don’t feel like it. Anyone who tells you that it’s not important to have sex regularly is in a shitty relationship.

9. I apologize when I hurt him and he apologizes when he hurts me. It’s astounding to me how many people are incapable of saying, “I’m sorry.” A genuine apology is as empowering as it is healing. Try it.

10. We never, ever say anything negative or “constructive” about the other’s weight or appearance. Neither of us is blind to the fact that we could both stand to lose a few pounds, eat more vegetables and exercise more. But believe me, there’s just no happy ending when you start criticizing your spouse’s weight or appearance.

11. We both think the other is beautiful. Physical attraction is important. I still get butterflies in my stomach when I see him walk through the door.

12. We don’t place unfair significance on birthdays, anniversaries, or Valentine’s Day. No one needs that pressure. We try to be kind and generous with one another every day. He brings me flowers on a random Tuesday and I sneak out early on a Saturday morning to run his car through the carwash. And when my birthday rolls around, he hugs and kisses me and says “Happy Birthday.” Easy.

13. We recognize and embrace the fact that we’re both imperfect flesh-and-blood humans. We both shit, piss, fart, vomit sometimes, have skid-marks on our underwear, grow hair in unattractive places, and have to cope with bodily fluids like period blood, semen, snot and saliva. We don’t pretend we don’t.

14. We don’t go to the bathroom in front of each other. Why do couples do this? Some things should remain sacred. And besides, his bathroom time is sacred to him. He doesn’t need me in there brushing my teeth while he’s drinking his coffee and having his morning constitutional.

15. We don’t shower together. We’re not rich. We have a regular shower in a standard sized bathtub. We’re grown adults. Two grown adults in a regular old shower is not romantic. It’s fucking cold and annoying.

16. We have similar values about money, saving and spending. Other people fight about money. We don’t. Not ever. Not even when we disagree, which we do sometimes. No one, on their deathbed, has ever whispered to their spouse, “I wish we’d spent more time and energy hashing out our financial differences. We really missed out there.”

17. We’re both introverts. I don’t necessarily think that introverts always need to be with other introverts and extroverts always need to be with other extroverts, but my guess is that it saves a lot of heartache and irritation. We can be together all day, not talking, and it’s never awkward. When I say I don’t feel like going out tonight, he says, “OK,” not “damn woman, we never do anything anymore!”

18. I drive my car and he drives his car. Sometimes we take his car and when we do, he drives. Sometimes we take my car and when we do, I drive. It provides for some healthy balance and helps negate annoying gender roles.

19. We both stare at and admire fine-looking people and don’t hide it. There are some truly gorgeous people out there. More gorgeous than my husband or me, and we know it. When he looks, it’s cool and when I look, it’s cool. Sometimes one of us will even point out a sweet ass when we see one. It’s all good and neither of us is threatened.

20. We trust one another. Truly. But more significantly, we never do anything that will risk betraying that trust. We tell the truth even when it sucks. We don’t snoop in one another’s phones, but neither of us has anything in our phones that we wouldn’t share with the other. We don’t monitor one another’s spending, friendships or whereabouts. And we always share our spending, friendships and whereabouts.

[hard-reset-with-a-hammer]

Valentine's Day was four days ago, and in four days, the world almost set a record with how fast something can piss me off. I've spent the last 96 hours talking to friends, family, and even a couple complete strangers who just needed someone to listen, and everything I read and heard broke my shrivelled heart, which only served to piss me off even further. This year had to be one of the single worst years for hopeful romantics around this armageddon-tier fuck up of a country, and I'll tell you why in one, simple, easy to understand word that everyone knows;

Expectations.

That's right, the super villain of the world of love. And I'm not talking about your run of the mill "You look nothing like your Tinder pictures" expectations, I'm talking the kind that people vilify and have mocked you for your entire fucking life. Acne, pudge, bad hair, gangly appearance, a weird skin condition, limbs that don't function correctly, or even mental disorders. Outside bullshit that means nothing in the grand scheme of whatever fucked up religion you follow. If you're one of these shit spewing ass-nozzles, then you can kindly fuck off in a direction of your choosing.

As for all of you hopefuls that got your heart broken or didn't have the courage to confess your affections, stick around. Uncle Fuck Off is gonna take a break today. It's just you and me, and I'm gonna tell you everything you need to hear. I don't have dating advice, obviously because I don't date, and I don't have any magic words that will get you that date with the lover of your dreams. But what I can give you is peace of mind.

The first thing I wanna address is everybody here who has trouble with their weight. Not for lack of trying to be healthier, some people just don't have a good metabolism, and it's something you gotta fight with every day. You've tried dieting, you've tried fasting, you've busted your ass exercising every day until you damn near vomited blood, hoping that you'd see some improvement that never came. It's not your fault, even when you gave up. You're down on yourself all the time, thinking you could've tried harder, but no one on this ball of mud tries harder to be better than you do. If other people don't see that, then they're the ones who has something wrong with them. Just keep doing your best, and do what you love.

To everybody who suffers from acne; I get it. I understand completely. Most people think acne is just bad, pimply skin from being dirty, but they couldn't be further from the truth. Acne is a bacterial issue that can't really be treated. Sometimes people are born who's dermal oil is really corrosive that it creates more impurities than it traps, and that eventually leads to acne. It's not something that a shower can get rid of, and all these advertisements on TV for "Dermal Acne Cleansing Products" are full of shit. The only thing in these products that are good for the skin is Charcoal, Isopropyl, and Aloe, but none of those things do shit for acne and can actually exaggerate the issue. If you want to have clearer skin, chlorine is actually the best thing for the job. I'm not telling you to buy straight up chlorine and rub it on your skin, that will just kill you slowly. Go swimming in a chlorinated pool, take a dip in the hot tub, let the water sit on your skin for a half hour before washing it off, I guarantee you'll notice a difference in dermal clarity in a couple months time. Just don't push yourself to be beautiful. Beauty is bullshit and only used to market to vain cunts who wanna be stars but can't get the job because they're too bitchy.

Vitiligo. I'm sure a good number of people don't know what that means, so I'm gonna give you the Cliff Notes explanation. Vitiligo is a skin condition that is often described as a disease because of how it works. Vitiligo is what happens when pigment-producing cells die, causing the skin to look patchy and mismatched. Physically, it is not a painful disease, nor is it contagious, but mentally and emotionally, it can be torturous due to people afflicted with it feeling self-conscious or out of place. Let me tell you right now; it is nothing to be ashamed about. It is a unique and beautiful feature that none of us could ever hope to experience in life. To have something that sets you apart in this mundane world is a gift and should never, ever be considered a burden or ugly. You are an image of beauty itself.

To anybody still reading this, let me ask you a question: What defines love in your eyes? Where is the line drawn? Does it have to be limited? Weird questions, but you would, or maybe wouldn't, be surprised to know that most of the people whom I spoke to were disabled. Three of them couldn't walk and one of them was born without her left arm. I wanna know why these people, above all else, couldn't find love. And don't give me that tired answer of "Well if it was me, I would have said yes" or "I dated a blind (gender) in high school". I don't care about that shit. I wanna know why disabled people are seen as inferior in something as simple as love. And fuck you if you tell me "lOvE iSn'T sImPle". Love isn't simple when one, or fucking both, parties are making it difficult. What makes a relationship difficult? Again, motherfucking expectations. Make money, have a good car, do your makeup, wear the good clothing, go to the popular places, drink the good alcohol, know the right people, have a big house. You avarice driven cunts can lick my dogs ass. Your standards are the metaphorical roach in my coffee cup. I spent almost 3 hours consoling a woman I barely knew because "He didn't want to date somebody who was handicapped". Her exact fucking words. This would surprise me if it wasn't for the fact that this is the standard in this ass backwards country. This motherfucker didn't care that she was 5'8", brunette, athletic, and had a fucking experts degree in biological sciences, he cared that she was missing an arm. An arm that she never had in the first place and never once in her life felt hindered by. He cared that she didn't fit his vision of beauty. What the fucks the problem here? Smoking hot wife with an education that will lift you up when times are hard, or some crack addicted crypt keeper who sucks your bank account dry every two weeks so she can get another fix? Pick your fucking poison.

There is not a single person on this planet who tries harder to be a better person or live a better life than these people that you take for granted. You've denied them a chance at sharing a life of happiness with you, and honestly, you're the ones missing out. In the end, it's you dumbasses that will suffer in the end when you die at the ripe old age of 31 in your low rent apartment from an overdose of painkillers and Jack Daniels.

A little too morbid at the end there? Good. Maybe then some of you will think about what's really important the next time one of these people I've listed off asks you for a chance instead of laughing them out the fucking door.

[twelvesignsrp]

congratulations sav, aries is now kieran campbell with the faceclaim dudley o’shaughnessy !

APPLICATION

Character Sign: Aries

Character name: Kieran Campbell Birthday: 04/02/1997 Sexuality: Homosexual Gender: Cisgender Male Moon Sign: Capricorn Faceclaim: Dudley O’Shaugnessy Power: Fire Manipulation – He can only manipulate fire, not create it, so he carries a lighter with him in order to spark a flame when needed. He’s still not the best at controlling this ability yet, so it takes an intense amount of concentration on his part to keep the fire from going haywire. This, as you might imagine, takes a considerable toll on him. Usually after only a few minutes of continuous use his knees get wobbly and his head starts to spin.

Secondary ability (from the sudden power up): Enhanced charisma. Fire signs have incredibly large personalities and, just like the element they represent, can be very charming and magnetic, drawing people into their area of influence. This added ability allows Kieran to subtly persuade others to see his opinion/take his side. It’s not an exact science, and some people seem to be more susceptible than others. Of course, he can’t persuade someone to jump out of a window or hand him a million dollars. His natural born charisma is only slightly heightened, giving him a mild edge when it comes to things like: suggesting that the librarian allow him to check out more books/research materials than is usually allowed, convincing the chef at his favorite restaurant that an item that’s no longer on the menu should be reintroduced, etc.

What do they study?: Kieran is a law student

Biography:

T H E N

Kieran Campbell grew up in Edinburgh, Scotland. His father was a respected incumbent member of the Scottish Parliament, his mother a devoted homemaker and caregiver. From a young age, his parents impressed upon him three essential traits that, they believed, were the key to success: Ambition, Excellence, Dominance.

[First, ambition. Do nothing without enthusiasm, charisma, and innovation. Do not drag your feet. Motivate yourself. Be an example. A leader. Do not wait to be asked. Anticipate. Outrun, outgun, and outperform those around you. Do not settle for average, because in this world, average is a death sentence. Averagewon’t get you noticed. Average won’t pay your bills. Average won’t get you anywhere.

Next, excellence. Do not attempt something unless you’re aiming to be the best – anything less is wasting your time. Do not accept participation trophies or consolation prizes: they’re symbols of your defeat, your inability to be number one. “Trying” is only an excuse created by those who cannot do.  Who cannot achieve. “Trying” means nothing. Winning means everything.

Last, dominance. Do not pity those below you. Do not give charity or handouts. The only thing separating them from you is that you made it and they did not. You’re on top because you deserve to be, so show no mercy. Take what you want. Take what is owed. Lead. Delegate. Do not apologize. Do not offer excuses or justifications for your greatness.]

Kieran was a model son. Top of his class every year, head of every committee or club he could join, and an exceptional athlete. His parents took him out to society dinners and exclusive functions and paraded him around, singing his praises to anyone who would listen. He lived for it. The attention. The recognition. It became an addiction, a fix that he craved. To be applauded and told “Yes. Yes, this is life and you are doing it right. You’re going to go places young man, I already know it. You’re such a smart boy. Such a winner.”

By the time he was halfway through secondary school, there wasn’t a soul in his school that didn’t know his name. The faculty, the staff, the students: they all watched him walk by with the same look – equal parts awe and fear. He was a rising football star, the best player in his league. He carried his club team with ease, winning every match. He practiced on the pitch for hours each day after class, honing his skills. Perfecting his form. He was guaranteed a scholarship at this point to any school of his choosing. He was going to be able to take his pick: a feat not even his father had boasted.

Things were perfect.

He was perfect.

But a house of cards can only be stacked so high before its own weight becomes too much to bear.

His last year of school before applying to university, he met a boy. A boy who didn’t care who his father was. A boy who wasn’t impressed by his grades or his skills or his good looks. A boy who saw through the arrogance. The confidence. A boy who drank whiskey out of water bottles and doodled on his bare, white skin with permanent marker. A boy who called him late at night to ask questions he couldn’t answer and spin pipe dreams he could never have (dreams he couldn’t hope to want, no matter how badly he ached for them). A boy with dark hair and green eyes who kissed him one day on the train and shattered every little piece of him.

His grades started to slip. He started lying to his parents, sneaking out at night for midnight rendezvous. People began to notice, especially after he started skipping football practice. To stave off suspicion, he started dating a petite little blonde who smiled when he opened doors for her and put a napkin in her lap when she ate. Her face would crumple every time he told her he was too busy to hang out after school, but he never felt bad.

Three months after he met the boy, the two of them drove Kieran’s father’s luxury sedan over a median and straight into a light pole.

Kieran doesn’t remember much, after that, except pain and, even more agonizing: regret.

There’s two surgeries to repair his left leg. Metal plates and screws and physical therapy. He finishes out the rest of the year from home, his parents… disinclined to let him anywhere near that school again. The house is like a prison, silent and sharp with disappointment. His father won’t speak to him. His mother cries every time he hobbles by her on his crutches.

Climbing his way back to the top is exhausting, but he throws himself at it with renewed drive. He studies for hours. Does extra credit. His phone rings and rings and rings, some days, and he locks it away in his sock drawer because he can’t look at the caller ID without feeling like he’s back in that car again, hot blood running down his cheek and pain searing white hot through his lower body. Eventually, he takes out his SIM card and throws it away in the trash bin out back.

He graduates. But he’s not number one. And it stings, even though he’s expecting it. Without a chance for a sports scholarship and with his lackluster finish to the year, only a handful of universities contact him back, and none of them are up to his family’s standards.

His father pays for a spot at Durham.

N O W

Kieran knows what’s at stake, now. He’s already screwed up once: there won’t be any second chances. After the scandal (“Unlicensed Teen Son of Prominent Scottish Parliament Leader and Friend Collide with Light Pole After Drunk Driving Escapade, No Causalities”) his chances of following in his father’s footsteps were all but destroyed, but a career in law is just as respectable, and he really doesn’t mind the subject all that much. Durham is his only hope to salvage his reputation and his strained relationship with his father, and he’s not going to let anything distract him.

(Not even magic, he tells himself as the flame from the candle on his desk flickers and grows with a wave of his hand.)

Five interesting facts about your character:

Kieran is stressed, repressed, and overdressed like, always. He appreciates good fashion.

He loves pickles.

He still watches football matches, even if it’s a painful reminder of the future he could have had.

He doesn’t talk to anyone from Edinburgh anymore besides his parents, preferring to bury his past and move on rather than dwell on his mistakes.

While he’s still as determined and stubborn as ever, his drive is largely born out of desperation, now. He’s secretly terrified of making another mistake.

Character Quote: “Cause I fuck with myself more than anybody else.” – BANKS (“Fuck With Myself”)

If your character had a patronus what would it be? and why?: Komodo Dragon. These dragons have been around for centuries. Just like Kieran, they know the value of staying power. They’re patient and meticulous hunters and doggedly pursue their prey, sometimes for hundreds of miles, until their stubbornness is rewarded. Komodo dragons are often associated with fire, as many believe they can secretly breathe flames.

WRITING SAMPLE

He’s got one hand wrapped around the neck of a bottle of whiskey and the other is gripping your thigh, squeezing so hard he’s sure to leave bruises. You take your eyes off the road to look at him. He’s slouched down in the passenger seat, an unlit cigarette hanging between his lips. His eyes catch the light of neon shop signs as you pass and you can’t help but wonder how something so beautiful, so mysterious, looked at you and saw anything but a fraud. An empty, hollow vessel that’d been stuffed full to the brim with the thoughts and expectations of others.

“C’mon. Lemme drive.”

You pull over onto the shoulder and the two of you swap spots, shimming one at a time over the middle console so you don’t have to get out in the cold and circle around to the other side of the car. You take the bottle and he starts the engine. He slams his foot down on the accelerator, merging back onto the highway as you take a swig of whiskey, grimacing at the burn. He looks over at you and smiles, amused, and you smile back, helpless.

He turns his attention to the speedometer, eyes alight with chaos and exhilaration as it steadily climbs higher, and you lean over to turn on the radio.

“Oh, shit!”

You don’t even have time to blink. Your outstretched hand, frozen halfway between your body and the dash, is the last thing you remember. (The image lives beneath your eyelids, now, and every time you close your eyes you see it.)

You wake up, briefly, after the dust has settled, but all you recognize is pain, white hot agony tracing its way down your spin. Something hot and sticky drips from your nose. Your lips.

You hear him, screaming himself hoarse beside you, but you don’t know what he wants, so you close your eyes.

(You find out, later, that it was a dog. A dog, crossing the road.)

ANYTHING ELSE?

My favorite color is green! Thank ya’ll again for the generous reserve!!! (Also, just so there’s no confusion, the football I refer to here is the European football – so, soccer!)

[storiesofwildfire]

It’s Not Alright, But It's Okay

          { @weightofmyshield -- plotted starter for tiny!Steve }

♔—- Loki’s life was anything but ordinary. In truth, he sort of had a bit of a Hannah Montana story arc going on. During the day, people knew him by Loki, a young college graduate who played the violin and spent most of his time holed up in his loft, painting or sculpting for various art shows that he participated in. He was, by no means, a famous artist, but he gained enough recognition around the city to make a decent living by selling or featuring some of his pieces.

Occasionally, he even sported art shows to showcase everything he’d been working on and people truly did seem to eat up his creations. In fairness, Loki had a very strong, raw talent for telling stories through art and people responded well to it.

He was openly pansexual, dressed in a fashion that lent itself more towards androgyny than masculinity or femininity and always seemed to take a bit too much pride in his public appearance. He had a few close friends, people who supported his career as an artist and his self-expression in daily life as well as his second chosen career.

And yet, Loki never truly found happiness as Loki. While there were plenty of things the artist was open about and willingly shared with the world, there were even more secrets hidden just beneath the surface, things Loki hadn’t come to terms with or were afraid to reveal to even the people closest to him. His true gender identity, for instance, how he chose to express the gender fluid nature he actually adhered to, and the dark traumas of his upbringing. Even the friends Loki did keep close only saw glimpses and Loki never truly went into detail about the abuse he’d suffered growing up or how he’d never been accepted by his peers for one reason or another.

Loki was always too much of something, good or bad, and it always ended the same: people pushing him away.

So, he learned to push people first so he could be the one hurting others rather than the other way around. It wasn’t a way to live and he knew that but moving through his past experiences and navigating journeys of self-discovery and self-acceptance always seemed like a hard-enough task without fearing people leaving halfway through.

That journey of self-discovery led him to his “double life” decision, though. During the day, he was Loki, an openly pansexual, closeted gender fluid artist who spent more time with paints than people. At night, however, Loki transformed into a beautiful woman who went by the stage name Emerald Shores. A drag performer who captivated audiences with her beauty, her grace, and her talent.

Emerald started as an experiment to explore sexual and gender identities, but she quickly blossomed into an alter ego that allowed Loki to escape the realities of day-to-day life and, in a way, be more authentically Loki. Emerald enjoyed massive success, so much so, that she actually made more money from her gigs than Loki did from selling off paintings. People ate her up with a spoon. Perhaps it was her blend of classic drag with modern elements? One of the talents she showcased, after all, was her musical inclinations. Who didn’t love watching a drag queen play the violin? Or, perhaps it was her beauty? Aside from Loki’s obnoxious height in pumps, Loki made for a very believable and gorgeous young woman. It never took much makeup or too much padding to sell the illusion. Loki already had so many feminine features anyway, he was practically built to be a Glamazon. Or maybe, just maybe, it was Emerald’s enforcement that life is hard, but that shouldn’t stop you from being yourself any way that really resonated with people.

For years, Emerald acted as Loki’s escape, what the artist most looked forward to every week, but as time went on, a new realization crept in and new loneliness along with it.

People adored Emerald, loved her, wanted to speak with her, see her perform, and get pictures with her after the shows were over. Some people even wanted autographs and videos of her were posted online all the time, but none of her so-called fans even knew who she was under the glitz and glam. Loki did not exist, there was only Emerald, a persona that was very much Loki, but only Loki’s very best qualities. No one saw the queen for who she really was or what flaws she possessed and that weighed... heavily on her. It made genuine connections harder to form because people did not want Loki, they only wanted the mask and the stage presence.

He loved drag because it allowed him to explore himself and be himself, but he didn’t know how to balance that life with real, day-to-day life, and it wore on him for ages. Emerald started to feel like an expectation and a standard that Loki could never live up to and she started to feel more like a prison sentence than an escape.

A feeling Loki genuinely hated and feared, because his passion for performing and dressing up to do it was always so evident...

At the end of the day, loneliness gripped at his heart. Yes, he did have a few close friends that stuck by him and saw him for more than just a good artist or a successful drag performer, but every stab at making new friends or even finding a partner fell flat. Forming meaningful connections became harder and harder and, eventually, Loki stopped trying, but that only made the loneliness worse. The reoccurring joke of needing to get laid certainly didn’t help things, but maybe that wasn’t too far off?

Maybe sex would make him feel better, somehow?

One of the bartenders that worked at Click-Clack, a gay club that Loki frequently performed at, pulled Loki aside one night after the show. “I know you’ve kind of been down on yourself,” Lawrence said, his tone quiet and hushed so no one would overhear them. “I know you’ve really been struggling to date and put yourself out there, so I thought this might help.” He passed Loki a card with a name and a number on it, written in messy handwriting. “Stevie’s a real sweetheart. He’ll treat you well for the right price and you’ve got plenty of money to spare. Why not give it a try?”

“I’m not paying someone to fuck me,” Loki insisted, the offense clear in his tone, but the bartender only pushed the card closer to him. “How desperate do you think I am?”

“On a scale of one to ten? Probably a solid eleven.” If Loki hadn’t been offended before, he certainly was now. “Look, I’m not trying to insult you. I just think if you had a good time with someone, maybe it would help pull you out of your funk. It helped me. I wouldn’t recommend you anything that I wasn’t willing to do too.”

“You’ve... hooked up with this person before?” Loki asked, astonished.

“Yeah, and he’s great. Give him a chance, he might help get you out of this slump.”

Loki took the card but didn’t say another word about it and for weeks, never even looked at the card again. After a while, though, the temptation plagued his mind, kept reminding him of his conversation with Lawrence... Loki hated the idea of paying someone to come and spend a few hours with him, of paying for sex. It seemed so horribly pathetic to stoop so low, but was the queen not in a low point already? Would it not maybe be beneficial?

He could always try it once and if he didn’t enjoy it, then he would never do it again. No one needed to know, right?

As low as the idea made him feel, he realized he probably couldn’t get much worse, so he finally picked up his phone and punched in Stevie’s number. Should he call? Or would a text be more appropriate?

Oh, who was he kidding? He didn’t have the nerve to actually call.

[ text; Stevie ]; Hey there... [ text; Stevie ]; Uhm, you don’t know me, but someone I work with gave me your number. I don’t even know how to say this or inquire about it without offending you, but—

What did he say without making a right proper arse of himself? He’d already sent two texts, though, like an idiot. He should have planned out his messages before sending anything at all, because now it was far too late to back-track. He typed and deleted his next message a dozen times before finally settling on something.

[ text; Stevie ]; Basically, he told me that he’s hired you for certain... “services” in the past and suggested I seek you out for the same reasons. [ text; Stevie ]; I don’t know how true his story is, but I am desperately in need of some help.

Yes, Loki, that was definitely one way to put it...

Much to his surprise, after about an hour of painting to distract from his anxiety, he actually received a text back from Stevie, and one that was pleasantly accepting and understanding of his desires and needs. Not only did he seem willing, but he also didn’t seem offended at all. Perhaps the man simply enjoyed his work? There was nothing wrong with sex work, after all, as long as you were safe and mindful about it. Despite Loki’s own personal hang-ups about paying someone to sleep with him—which spawned from pride more than anything—he didn’t actually think poorly of people who had sex for money. It was an honest way to make ends meet and maybe Stevie really needed the money?

Whatever his reasons, Loki was just genuinely thankful he hadn’t offended or upset the young man.

The had a few back and forth texts discussing a payment agreement, pricing, and anything that was off limits, but when it came to setting a time and a location to meet, Loki paused. He was really going to go through with this, wasn’t he? Where should they meet? A hotel? Loki’s apartment? What would even be appropriate in a situation like this? And what would be safe for both of them?

[ text; Stevie ]; Come to Click Clack. It’s a gay club in downtown. I perform there on weekends. I will be there Thursday night as well. I get off at 2. The club closes then, but I have a private dressing room in the back to get ready for shows and house my things. We can use it. We won’t be interrupted, and no one will question why I’m staying late. [ text; Stevie ]; I’ll have the cash with me. You’ll get it up front, okay?

With that, he sent the address of the club and nothing else, though his heart pounded in his chest. It didn’t seem to stop the entire week and when Loki finally headed to the club on Thursday, he found himself equal parts nervous, excited, and ashamed.

Would Stevie even show, he wondered?

Eh, he couldn’t worry about it just yet, as he did have a show to prepare for. So, Loki took the envelope of money and hid it in his vanity, beneath enough makeup that no one would ever think to look there, and then set out to get ready for Emerald’s show. Loki selected a rather short, emerald dress with a beaded corset that only hit down to mid-thigh, but the skirt had enough volume that Loki could get away without properly tucking. Going through the measures of a proper tuck would definitely hinder Loki later on that evening and untucking was anything but sexy... A couple pairs of stockings and some tucking panties would, at the very least, give Loki enough support to make it through the show without any embarrassing mishaps.

She completed the look with black over-the-knee boots that shimmered under the light to reflect shades of green and blue and a volumized wig with a similar color story to the boots. She painted to match her outfit, her eye makeup intense jewel tones that flared out into a cat shape and, of course, dark purple lipstick that nearly looked black.  Her entire look was very on-brand for Emerald, but it was designed more for comfort in mind...

[aikainkauna]

I still can't reply to replies because of Tumblr's new interface, so I have to respond to this very good point by @acitymadeofsong this way.

And yes. This is a big problem, because it seems like many writing gurus and teachers and BOFQs seem to treat it as an either/or thing: either you write sparse, sober prose *or* turgid, purple prose; there's *nothing* in between. Now, I know that especially in the zine era, there were mountains of azure orbs and limpid pools around. So that led into an attitude where every bit of poetry and every metaphor resulted in a kneejerky "that's badfic!" reaction from the critic and the readers and the writers themselves. And that deprived us of a lot of really good poetry, I feel. Hell, *I* have a superbly honed sense for romance cliches myself by now--and don't get me wrong, this puritanism did, in fact, help me as a writer in a "know the rules before you start rolling up the rulebook and smoking it" kind of way--but this terror of the dread demon of purpleness has got me to a point where I have to *constantly* slap myself upside the head to remind myself that it's not only ok, but *in character* for me to put poetic thoughts and lines into my characters' heads and mouths when I'm writing Thief of Bagdad fic.

The movie itself is a really great example of beautiful, poetic language that does hold together well even now, despite there always being some whiny, cynical asshats in the audience who think they're tough by moaning about its "corniness"--and I always think that they are doing themselves--hell, even their very own humanity--a disservice. "Were you never an innocent, dreaming child?" I think. "Are you *happy* in having thrown your dreams of romantic adventure and beauty onto the pyre of postmodern nihilism?" Because of course, those people aren't--the whole point of that film was to allow people to escape (especially since WWII broke out during filming), and it's *explicit* about the value and power of the mind of an innocent child. It's the last, defiant dying cry of Romanticism before the war crushed it. Its dialogue and storytelling were unabashedly Romantic even for the time, a loud cry in favour of the fairytale without a *shred* of cynicism, thanks to which the film is so incredibly pure--and thus refreshing, a merciful respite, a balm. So it was serving that same urge that I am defending here, really; therefore, I would be committing a crime against it were I not faithful to that same spirit of hope and passion that ran through it.

Where was I? Oh yeah, the whole sparse prose mafia thing. I think that this is also heavily cultural. I keep seeing posts on here from American kids complaining about their teachers wanting to make everyone write like Hemingway. Ah, Papa Hemingway. Now, he's a particularly painful example in that you can see the guy *did* feel, and did have even crazily romantic emotions, but his work reads like a classic process of machismo crushing all that, suffocating that, and him just not having been given any tools for handling those emotions because society robs men of that. If anything, it should be analysed as a warning example of how the culture of masculinity fucks guys over.

But in other countries, it's crazily different--I knew a Spanish girl who was an aspiring academic, and even at her university, the teachers pressured everyone to write academic text in this really old-fashioned, formal, conversational style. As in, "we should be grateful for the way the ancients..." and "the old truth of X has been aptly demonstrated by the brilliant Y here..." and all these other near-Victorian turns of phrase that are nowhere near a neutral, impersonal scientific POV. And then you've got the extreme politeness and formality in highly-educated Indian correspondence, and conversely txt spk being universal among even grown-up Middle Eastern and South Asian folks on the internet (I always wonder if this is because of having to switch between different writing systems, some of which skip many vowels), etc. So the cultural expectations of what's good language use is hugely varied.

But, yeah, poesy is being weeded out more and more as somehow embarrassing and naive (and always with that unconscious feel of its emotion being "feminine"=weaker, lesser, thus less strong and valuable--even the word "sentimental" is an insult when it just fucking means "something with feeling!"), all over the world. Yet, just like love and passion and intense emotion and awe at the grandness of grand things (the definition of Romanticism, obvs) cannot be killed because it's such an inherent part of human nature, poetry has found ways to survive through song lyrics--and a lot of bad writing that doesn't know what bad writing and cliches are. People still go for it, just like they still do ritual and devotional and spiritual things in a seemingly secularised Western world, because that kind of thing is how the human psyche works. (And there's a gender divide there as well, sadly--why is it that the rantiest, angriest atheists and puritan fundamentalists are angry men aiming to strip weaknesses and frills from human behaviour in favour of bleak brutality, and then it's either ditzy hippie chicks who are into all the fluffy superstitious New Age stuff or superintelligent academic women setting out to construct feminist witchcraft? Oh, wait, candles and incense and yoga and being kind to yourself and others are *girly.* Reason and strict rules and punishments are upright and manly!) Why are humans like this and can't just seek a balance from the best bits of both reason and compassion... *sigh*

So, yeah, that crazy polarisation is just lame, in everything ever, because... variety and diversity, please. I digressed hugely again, but one has to point this out because people really don't seem to see how stupidly b/w--and gendered--it all is. We've been lured into this idea that just because in society, the default for "human" is male/masculine and therefore, pursuing that leads to equality somehow, whereas it's just rubbish--and not just because of the poisons of modern ideas of masculinity, but because just like all gender bullshit, ideas of what's manly have varied like crazy from place to place and from era to era. Looking at history, you've got beautiful and emotionally complex poetry and Romanticism from guys, but now we're all supposed to just suffocate that and be bland and dead. To serve what purpose (if we're not aiming to become emotionless killing machines, the only reason a culture of sparseness/emotional coldness was ever developed for), I don't know. What if Bob wants to be as wild as a Dionysian devotee and compose wildly florid songs in praise of the moonlit meadows of Arcadia--where does he turn to hone his craft; who listens to him sing? What if Anne wants to be swept up in the arms of a wild romance and make her prose shine and glisten like the dew on that moonlit grass, without slipping into a limpid pool on the way? Where's the cave in which XYZ could hone hir poetry to soar like that of Inanna's dragtastic priests in fervent, orgiastic abandon?

My only answer to that would be to just... well.

Read tons of old shit.

Write tons of new shit.

And then *interact* about it, be *supportive* about it, *discuss it.*

Because, just like you said, we don't have enough of that right now.

But even then, I would just say, even to poetic writers whose work I might find bad, *keep fucking going.* Because if you are dedicated and exercise a constant, honest self-awareness about your flaws, you'll keep getting better. Even if you are writing in a vacuum, or think you're writing in a vacuum (because fuck knows it feels like it in today's "too scared to comment" culture), KEEP WRITING. You owe it to yourself and your soul, as an act of fierce honesty towards what you really are.

Besides, and most people don't seem to realise this, writing poetic language is *hard.* Even if you're not writing rhyming couplets, just constructing a sentence is more difficult if you want to evoke really specific images and emotions; the word order itself gets more difficult when you step outside the "see Spot run" style. That's why Twilight is so bad: because the sentence construction is clunky and godawful, and because the thoughts are really vague and drifty and not definite. When saying a bitch fancies a guy, saying "She also thought of other things" is horridly opaque, especially when it's not even meant to be mysterious: if you want to be mysterious, you have to signal that better. So you'd be better off saying "other thoughts also entered her mind, thoughts she was unable to understand or process; therefore she pushed them into the deepest peripheries of her mind, out of sight." Because that shows to us a hint of why these thoughts are vague and unprocessed; the *prose* can't be vague even if the heroine's experience is. That draws the reader in and helps her understand what's going on; the vague "other things" just leaves one hanging and WTFing.

But... yeah. That's the kind of thing I mean. I still stubbornly believe you can get away with anything if you just work hard enough on the suspension of disbelief part, work hard enough on the characters to make their actions seem like they were the sorts that character would commit, if pushed.

I can't remember if I actually made a post at any point talking about Romantic/poetic writing and how to make it work? Probably on LJ, or then I am thinking of fic comments? Because, really, if there *is* need for such, I could throw something like that together. But I don't really feel like I'm some kind of authority on the matter, that's the problem. For all I know, most people consider my stuff too purple, and there's no telling how objective that is--whether it's just a matter of taste, or some (however ephemeral and subjective) standard one either achieves or falls short of. So I don't want to become like one of those conceited people who get really puffed up if they've been published once, and actually write fairly mediocre fiction, and then suddenly start behaving like they're gurus.

(Plus, I've had so much shit for creative word choices in DW and B7 fic that I fear it'd just look like I was defending overt poetry where it doesn't work. I'm *fully* aware these days of how fandom-specific it is, and that's why I've burrowed myself firmly into ToB, so I will never have to come out into sparse-prose writing ever again. I still remember groaning at a fic that randomly described Romana's inner labia as "petals," whereas with Jaffar looking at Yassamin's bits? For a guy who describes her eyes as "Babylonian," "Petals" is par for the course and wouldn't even stand out.)

Anyway. I just hope these rants and discussions will shake up and/or encourage at least some people who have had their poetry suffocated. I will go and have a look at my notes and old LJ posts to see if I have, indeed, written anything that'd come close to the sort of poetry-encouraging writing guide you describe. Because I do feel like I *have* written about getting away with it at some point. I'm sure it all boils down to a) "learn the rules and *then* bend them," b) "avoid the most *obvious* cliches," c) "describe the poetic stuff in a new, original way or aim for a perfect pastiche," and d) "choose a poetic world and stay there," but I'll have a look anyway!

Also, JFC, this became long! But it really is a matter worth talking about. I want a whole fucking literary salon dedicated to getting Romantic/poetic writing right, and celebrating the style without shame. Who's with me?

[high-val-you]

Dove Commercial w Trans Mom

If you would like to feel outrage please look at the comments on this beautiful video reposted by a YouTube channel called the “Tea Partier”. Such as “Dove should not be celebrating mental illness.“ and “A B S O L U T E L Y D E G E N E R A T E“. I love this commercial. It warms my heart to see representation and have LGBTQ people represented as people. The amount of hate I see to the trans mother is heartbreaking. People saying it’s propaganda. Propaganda is information (sometimes misleading information) used to promote a political ideology. And in a way this is propaganda, I think there are a lot of good people at Dove who believe in representation, diversity, and inclusion as well as validating the experience of people who feel marginalized. I also think this is a good marketing strategy and ultimately if this wasn’t selling soap to young liberals then this commercial wouldn’t have been produced. It’s a form of pandering, but pandering to a community that hasn’t had a voice or representation and telling them that they’re valid is a powerful and positive thing.

On the side of those who view this as hurtful propaganda it’s the idea that this commercial is promoting something unnatural and wrong. A person born as a man raising his child as a woman is a menace to society, sick in the head, and going to spread his sickness to his child. It sees the commercial as promoting mental illness in order to appeal to SJWs and consistent with a theme of liberal media twisting the minds of young people and creating trans, genderqueer, and other equally abhorrent mental illnesses by normalizing them. Liberal media is making LGBTQ “cool” and infecting our children with dangerous beliefs. Our kids are going to “explore” by fucking everything in sight with no good Christian restraint or discipline. Being LGBTQ is the epitome of sodomy and unnatural wrongness and it’s a disgrace that it’s normalized here next to legitimate forms of mothering. Perhaps even said to be equal to obviously much better and more stable form of mothering. It comes with the assumption that the only way to raise a child is by a cis straight male married to a cis straight female. The child must be raised in a two parent household and the parents can NOT get divorced.

It ultimately comes from a place of wanting the best for children and not understanding that the best a parent can offer doesn’t necessarily come from the parent’s gender, or the number of parents. There are good parents where it’s a standard nuclear family. There are also broken marriages staying together for the kids where the parents’ emotional hurt is taken out on the children. If the trans mom was forced to fill the role of the stereotypical father then she wouldn’t be as good of a parent than when she is a trans mother at peace with herself and giving her all for her children. Also, just because she has had sex with a penis with another woman does not invalidate her identity as a woman, gender is more fluid than that.

I will admit, it may be harder for a single mother to raise a child because she may not have as much access to resources, or two income streams. She also will deal with the struggle of trying to be a professional with a child, because she must be a professional in order to support them. She may have harder choices to make than the average two parent household, but there will be hard choices for every parent no matter the situation. And I’ll admit the child of an LGBTQ couple might face different difficulties than a child of a traditional nuclear family, if only because of hateful people who don’t know how to react, but that shouldn’t invalidate someone’s aspirations to be a parent and raise a child to be strong and choose love. Sometimes parents fail. Sometimes LGBTQ parents will fail. That doesn’t make them invalid. Their kids are only as disadvantaged as those who cannot accept them force them to be.

I would also like to address the idea that LGBTQ leanings are a fad that is infecting the youth. As evidenced by the growing LGBTQ community that didn’t seem to exist when these right leaning peoples were growing up in the 70s. Yes there was free love, but that was on the fringes of society, the aids epidemic was a righteous smite by God on the Gays, and LGBTQ leanings were classified as mental illness by the DSM. This is the glory age of America, this is the time when we, the white rural middle class, were at our height and had the most wholesome American experience. This is the time we want to go back to when we say make America great again, the times of our youth when everything seemed pretty good, we had values that we stuck to, and we believed in God and hard work.

This doesn’t recognize that the same time in American history was characterized by systematic oppression of LGBTQ youth. People who were pushed to the edges of society and forced to live in hiding. People who asked, pleaded, for representation and acceptance for what they could not control about themselves. The LGBTQ “lifestyle choice” was a response to not having anywhere to go in mainstream media and therefore turning to the fringes of society and new identities that fit with their orientation and gender more fully. LGBTQ had to recreate and redefine themselves because the mainstream didn’t allow for them to exist. These are real people with hard lives that had to hide themselves and face a lot of discrimination. They didn’t have the internet then to recognize that they were not alone, so many remained isolated and went along with the moralistic stature of the general populace. They tried to do what everyone else was doing. Truth is, LGBTQ people have always existed and it’s not a trend or a choice. The only choice in the matter is “do I come out?”. And in the past the answer was usually “no”. The rise of gay culture is the rise of the fringes of society coming together, and it’s hard to recognize them as people when they’re so historically underrepresented and have never really been shown to be people, only demons tearing at the fabric of society.

And now gay culture is seeing a commercialization similar to the commercialization of black culture. It’s become “cool” to be fringe, to be gay. These people who were real victims are having their victimization exploited to sell art and used in commercials to move product. Just like it was cool to dress like and imitate the aesthetic of gangsters who were rapping about the violence and oppression of poverty and discrimination. It’s become cool to imitate the oppressed and marginalized LGBTQ community, that developed its own fringe aesthetic simply to stay alive and have an outlet in their American past. The fringes of society are being brought into the forefront in a way that exploits this group, while also promoting them. The popularization of PRIDE simultaneously lifts up and illuminates a community that has spent so long in the shadows, as well as selling an aesthetic that many young gays don’t respect the history of.

Overall I think this commercial is step in the right direction. It celebrates all types of mothers as people with equal opportunity to be good parents, or to be bad. It highlights the ability and possibility of different definitions of motherhood that affirms the humanity of the trans population. It does all of this while pandering to a neoliberal audience and utilizing a fringe community to sell soap, as well as angering a confused and scared right wing. It’s a good commercial.