#grew up poor

[reginamillls]

what's the best holiday you ever had?

ajsjdhdh this is such a depressing holiday

the only "holiday" I've ever had was camping holidays as a kid

we went to a waterfall in my state that you could walk in and climb, as well as some other lakes that were very clear and beautiful - I appreciate nature

I've yet to take any kind of real holiday

[aesthetically0b5essed]

I actually think all the trashy low class stuff I've done is pretty cool. I also think all of the posh luxury stuff I've done is cool too. But if you can't appreciate both of them, then you can't appreciate me.

[dont-read-this-im-dead]

When I was in 12th grade, a bunch of girlfriends got together and decided to go to prom. They wanted to do the whole shebang, with the dinner, the pictures, then the dance. And they invited me.

I said no, because I actually hate school dances. And the money for a ticket? Who are we kidding? My parents can't afford eggs. You think I have money for a prom ticket?

The girl who put it together was like, "okay, but what if you just came to dinner, not the dance?"

I reminded her that if I didn't have money for a ticket, I wasn't going to have money for dinner.

So she promised to pay for me. Her parents spoiled her to no end and she had a healthy allowance, and she said it would be her treat, and that I shouldn't worry.

I don't like accepting favors like this, but I hadn't done anything with girlfriends in a very long time, so I finally agreed. She said not to worry, so I tried not to worry.

Night of prom, we all go to her house and get ready, then go to dinner.

When the checks came, she made no move to pay. I felt uneasy, but I snuck over to her chair to have a whispered conversation with her, where I realized she had completely forgotten her promise to pay for me.

She had some cash with her, and she told me I could "borrow it."

As soon as dinner was over, I went home and hunted around for a babysitting gig that would help me pay her back. Two days later, I had the money, and gave it to her.

I never accepted another favor or invitation from her again.

I didn't stop hanging out with her at school, just outside of it. But my heart could never forget that moment when she told me to trust her, and I did, only to find out I wasn't even on her mind.

And from that day on, when people invited me out when I didn't have money, I never let them talk me into going under the premise that they would pay for me again.

[inkskinned]

the thing about art is that it was always supposed to be about us, about the human-ness of us, the impossible and beautiful reality that we (for centuries) have stood still, transfixed by music. that we can close our eyes and cry about the same book passage; the events of which aren't real and never happened. theatre in shakespeare's time was as real as it is now; we all laugh at the same cue (pursued by bear), separated hundreds of years apart.

three years ago my housemates were jamming outdoors, just messing around with their instruments, mostly just making noise. our neighbors - shy, cautious, a little sheepish - sat down and started playing. i don't really know how it happened; i was somehow in charge of dancing, barefoot and laughing - but i looked up, and our yard was full of people. kids stacked on the shoulders of parents. old couples holding hands. someone had brought sidewalk chalk; our front walk became a riot of color. someone ran in with a flute and played the most astounding solo i've ever heard in my life, upright and wiggling, skipping as she did so. she only paused because the violin player was kicking his heels up and she was laughing too hard to continue.

two weeks ago my friend and i met in the basement of her apartment complex so she could work out a piece of choreography. we have a language barrier - i'm not as good at ASL as i'd like to be (i'm still learning!) so we communicate mostly through the notes app and this strange secret language of dancers - we have the same movement vocabulary. the two of us cracking jokes at each other, giggling. there were kids in the basement too, who had been playing soccer until we took up the far corner of the room. one by one they made their slow way over like feral cats - they laid down, belly-flat against the floor, just watching. my friend and i were not in tutus - we were in slouchy shirts and leggings and socks. nothing fancy. but when i asked the kids would you like to dance too? they were immediately on their feet and spinning. i love when people dance with abandon, the wild and leggy fervor of childhood. i think it is gorgeous.

their adults showed up eventually, and a few of them said hey, let's not bother the nice ladies. but they weren't bothering us, they were just having fun - so. a few of the adults started dancing awkwardly along, and then most of the adults. someone brought down a better sound system. someone opened a watermelon and started handing out slices. it was 8 PM on a tuesday and nothing about that day was particularly special; we might as well party.

one time i hosted a free "paint along party" and about 20 adults worked quietly while i taught them how to paint nessie. one time i taught community dance classes and so many people showed up we had to move the whole thing outside. we used chairs and coatracks to balance. one time i showed up to a random band playing in a random location, and the whole thing got packed so quickly we had to open every door and window in the place.

i don't think i can tell you how much people want to be making art and engaging with art. they want to, desperately. so many people would be stunning artists, but they are lied to and told from a very young age that art only matters if it is planned, purposeful, beautiful. that if you have an idea, you need to be able to express it perfectly. this is not true. you don't get only 1 chance to communicate. you can spend a lifetime trying to display exactly 1 thing you can never quite language. you can just express the "!!??!!!"-ing-ness of being alive; that is something none of us really have a full grasp on creating. and even when we can't make what we want - god, it feels fucking good to try. and even just enjoying other artists - art inherently rewards the act of participating.

i wasn't raised wealthy. whenever i make a post about art, someone inevitably says something along the lines of well some of us aren't that lucky. i am not lucky; i am dedicated. i have a chronic condition, my hands are constantly in pain. i am not neurotypical, nor was i raised safe. i worked 5-7 jobs while some of these memories happened. i chose art because it mattered to me more than anything on this fucking planet - i would work 80 hours a week just so i could afford to write in 3 of them.

and i am still telling you - if you are called to make art, you are called to the part of you that is human. you do not have to be good at it. you do not have to have enormous amounts of privilege. you can just... give yourself permission. you can just say i'm going to make something now and then - go out and make it. raquel it won't be good though that is okay, i don't make good things every time either. besides. who decides what good even is?

you weren't called to make something because you wanted it to be good, you were called to make something because it is a basic instinct. you were taught to judge its worth and over-value perfection. you are doing something impossible. a god's ability: from nothing springs creation.

a few months ago i found a piece of sidewalk chalk and started drawing. within an hour i had somehow collected a small classroom of young children. their adults often brought their own chalk. i looked up and about fifteen families had joined me from around the block. we drew scrangly unicorns and messed up flowers and one girl asked me to draw charizard. i am not good at drawing. i basically drew an orb with wings. you would have thought i drew her the mona lisa. she dragged her mother over and pointed and said look! look what she drew for me and, in the moment, i admit i flinched (sorry, i don't -). but the mother just grinned at me. he's beautiful. and then she sat down and started drawing.

someone took a picture of it. it was in the local newspaper. the summary underneath said joyful and spontaneous artwork from local artists springs up in public gallery. in the picture, a little girl covered in chalk dust has her head thrown back, delighted. laughing.

[the-winds-of-destiny-xxx]

.

[ethan-acfan]

Fic idea where Arthur and merlin go hunting (the other knights can also be there. It's up to you, but I'm just gonna do merlin and arthur for this) and they end up having to stay in the woods overnight. Well, arthur gets cold in the middle of the night and reaches over to ask merlin to go get the spare blanket from the horses. He does this by saying some variation of "Merlin, I'm cold." Then merlin, who is half asleep and not really registering what he is saying, just rolls over and sprawls out over arthur and falls back asleep. Arthur has a moment of internal panic before realizing that he is, in fact, very warm like this and decides to just leave it for the morning. They wake up from the best sleep ever, and Merlin is mortified, and Arthur (who already has this whole panic moment) is kinda like🤷🏼‍♂️

[kittykatninja321]

The funniest thing about the fanon whump fics where Tim is getting locked alone in his house with no food by his parents or something is that a lot of the times they have Jason, a character who actually did experience neglect and starvation as a child be like “wow Timmy your childhood is so sad :(“ absvwjsbsa

[brucewaynehater101]

Tim can't escape Robin. It's a self-inflicted curse brought about by his self-sacrificing tendencies, his need to feel useful, his continuous labor to Bruce, and the cycle of abuse.

He could be so much more than the mantle he chained himself to. Unfortunately, he hasn't healed enough to find self-worth outside of vigilantism and his ties to the Waynes. He also may not recognize that he's stuck in a cycle of abuse when he's (as far as I'm aware) only been hit by Bruce once. All abuse is horrid and has their own perils. Emotional abuse can be much harder to spot or acknowledge (especially when compounded by their situation as crime-fighter leading to easier excuses for drastic measures ["he psychologically tortured me to make me a better hero"]). Tim will need to willingly set boundaries and build his self-worth in order to flee the clutches of Robin. His love for Bruce makes this process extremely difficult.

Batman needs a Robin. Bruce needs Tim. Until Bruce can function without a child-made crutch, Tim will always be Robin (Red or not).

[ohno-the-sun]

Luca au Sun when he was a kid after uh the backstory stuff that might be spoilers

[orange-fresh]

After enough evaluation from the PvP civilisation tag, I can safely say that parkciv evbo has the highest Rizz rating, and pvpciv evbo has absolutely no Rizz, none

[sugarpucks]

I present my offering; Cigarette Mom Miku

She’ll let you buy candy with the change, if you go buy her a Diet Coke from the party store.

[maudiemoods]

Heads up new blorbo incoming

[super-marvel-dc]

Dean: How do you connect with a fictional character?

Soap: What?

Ghost: What?

Bucky: What?

Y/N: *pulls up a 500 slide presentation* I'm glad you asked.

[worstloki]

Mu Qing ascending is objectively so funny considering Feng Xin and Xie Lian also do. Out of the people in your kingdom who accomplished immortality there’s this guy who used to be your servant but is now on equal rank to you and he‘s super rude now and also thinks you hate him because he remembers when you were 18 and lacked socioeconomic-interpersonal awareness

[autisticrosewilson]

Um if you write Jason having to get drugs for Catherine I want you dead btw. Not only does it tell me you assume the average drug dealer would give the hard shit to a very small child and then not supervise them at all (classist stereotype that all drug dealers are inherently evil + lazy writing with no grasp on reality) and you genuinely think that Catherine was CONSTANTLY high, as if that's even possible without overdosing far sooner than she did. That's without even getting into the bad mom Catherine propaganda.

[yeoldenews]

A mother's word for word transcription of the imaginary phone call her four-year-old made to Santa Claus in 1911.

(source: The Harbor Beach Times, December 22, 1911.)

Through some outrageous case of serendipity I found a recording of another phone call this same child made 60 years later. Though I have to say his choice of conversational partner is a definite downgrade from the first call.