#his kids like shit & teaching them to treat others like shit & then says ‘gee i hope this thing doesn’t explode’

[atopvisenyashill]

What if Tywin died instead of Joanna?

i’m so mad i had a better structured answer and tumblr ate it so now this is super long and ranty. blame tumblr!!

anyways, i’m seeing three scenarios here

everyone is better off

the twins are still Doing That but tyrion is better off, so probably everything is still better off

aerys loses his absolute mind bc joanna is single now

while i imagine joanna does engage jaime to elia - and this is probably a much happier outcome for both of them, because joanna would have attempted to put a stop to the incest, up to and including sending cersei to foster somewhere else - i do think cersei is a huge question mark. she is often the instigator of their problems!

not to lay the respsonibility at her feet or anything, bc she experiences shit in her childhood that is enough to damage most people’s psyches (losing a parent that young and to childbirth is hard developmentally not to mention a fucked up prophecy hanging over her head & potential issues with empathy already!) and then experiences decades of spousal abuse, and is then given near unlimited power and told “now don’t do anything crazy lol” like, of course cersei decides “if i have to live in hell i’m taking these two idiots with me what are baby brothers FOR after all” and if you want them to have a chance at normalcy in adulthood, the key is for cersei to have a less traumatic time so she has half a chance at adjusting to the regular stressors of life. the main way to do this is to get her away from jaime and away from any terrible prophecies that trigger some sort of fucked up neurosis in her from an early age.

now, we don’t know who joanna had in mind for cersei, if she had even thought that far, but being lady regent of the west, she’s going to have significant control over who cersei marries. if she sends cersei away to foster somewhere to get her away from jaime, shes got a wide range of possibilities and if someone reaches out to her to get involved in their lil rebellion, she might take the opportunity to send cersei somewhere quite far, like riverrun or the eyrie or dorne or the fucking north, so long as it’s right now immediately & the distance might do cersei some good but equally possible cersei takes this as rejection and turns on her mother; though, if she’s spending her adolescent years somewhere with a healthier dynamic (and the bar is in hell) maybe cersei isn’t so paranoid. but that’s ONLY IF joanna is healthy enough & aware enough to send cersei away when she’s like 8 or 9. it’s a big if.

then there’s the tyrion of it all - i think joanna warms up to him eventually and cersei being elsewheres means he’s probably better off. at the very least, there’s less conflict if jaime married elia and had heirs like he was supposed to wrt tyrion, and Joanna may even attempt some matchmaking for him and can do that without the added stress of “he is disabled and also inheriting casterly rock” bc like, i’m not saying joanna would take the same hardline stance but i AM saying she saw something to love in fucjing TYWIN, and i don’t think she’s a saint who would unequivocably embrace her disabled son. BUT i don’t think she’d shame him or abuse him the way tywin does either. tyrion grows up in a family all similar to jaime; they certainly aren’t always respectful, frequently patronizing, dismissive, and tyrion is likely to get resentful at times (who wouldn’t) but i think everyone can agree that a household full of “i know they mean well but they don’t understand what it’s like” is an improvement over whatever the fuck tywin was doing.

all of this means…maybe the twins are married elsewhere when robert gains his throne potentially after KL goes boom since Jaime isn’t there to whack Aerys, but potentially after a much easier rebellion because dorne sided with the rebels, house lannister sides with the rebels, and they coup aerys the fuck out of there a bit easier. robert probably marries a tyrell or a hightower (there’s a few of marriage age and they’re rich) in that case. the realm is a lot better off lmao. OR cersei isn’t married yet (she’s still a lil young admittedly) and does marry robert. probably still attempts to pull jaime to her but joanna knows this is happening and is more inclined to stop it, especially with jaime married to elia, her best friend’s daughter and the beloved sister of the now prince of dorne. this probably causes a lot of problems ergo scenario two, but i do think a world where jaime or joanna is in charge of casterly rock, even a world where the incest still exists, is a world that is miles better off just bc joanna isn’t going to ignore the problem like tywin, and tyrion being even marginally less fucked up is a net win.

OR like i worried above, aerys starts a war for joanna. i mean, petyr started a war over his obsession with cat & sansa, it is not out of the realm of possibility that aerys “burning the lord paramount and his heir alive is fine actually” targaryen goes “joanna comes to court or i set casterly rock on fire” and that’s not really good for ANYONE.

so anyways if joanna lives it’s probably fine, probably even better actually, or maybe, everyone dies on fire. typical westeros really.

[thecarnivorousmuffinmeta]

What would happen if you were sent back and ended up in the orphanage with Tom Riddle—and say you also had magic?

Oh boy.

Well, there's a lot to question here. Judging by the... spirit of this ask, I presume I'm... pretty much reincarnated. I'm in the orphanage, I'm much younger than I am now and a child, I'm pre-Hogwarts age, and I retain my current knowledge.

For the purpose of this ask I suppose I also retain my current mental faculties. Despite being in the body of an eight-year-old, I'm not The Carnivorous Muffin at eight.

Welp, there's a lot to consider here.

First, I probably don't realize I'm in Harry Potter for quite some time and instead assume I've been reincarnated to some parallel universe. It's the 1930's, I'm in England in the depression, WWI has occurred and the vast majority of major historical events I know about seem to have happened in the right order, and this Earth is eerily similar to the Earth I left behind.

Strange that I appear to remember everything of my past life with my adult mental abilities, but alright universe, I guess that's how we're going to play this.

What I do know is that I'm dirt poor, presumably still a woman which does not bode well for my career prospects, and if I want any prospects in life period I'm going to have to fight tooth and nail for it. It'd be great if I got adopted to help with this, and might be nice to have people in my life who love me, but there's a lot of orphans in the world and a lot of orphans who are much less weird than I am.

The orphanage is the orphanage and not great, Mrs. Cole is overworked, the orphanage is chronically understaffed, and the kids are running wild beating the shit out of each other.

Being a girl, I probably don't have to worry about getting the shit kicked out of me quite as much, but I still probably try to keep my head down and don't aggravate the particularly beefy looking orphans.

Yes, there's some very angry gremlin named Tom Riddle around who will shove you down the stairs in retribution, but that's just a weird coincidence. And then supernatural shit starts happening. Billy's rabbit hangs itself, people get injuries when Tom is nowhere near them, and I start wondering if this is really the Tom Riddle.

I'm in Wool's Orphanage, my matron is Mrs. Cole, Tom Riddle is running around lighting things on fire. It's possible, though it could all be a strange coincidence.

Now, how things go from here depends on how controlled my own magic is. Since accidental magic typically does manifest at least once or twice, it probably does manifest for me for.. something. If Tom Riddle's there to witness it then...

Well, I imagine he's very offended. Here he was, special, different, better than everyone else, and then some girl in the orphanage (who dares to get very good grades on her assignments in school) has it too.

And I just stand there, smiling, going "Tee hee".

He probably confronts me to prove that he's better at it than I am, and he probably is unless the universe hates both him and me, but having someone else with the Shining around probably prompts him to take me as his protégé (in part so he can show off and in part because he's genuinely excited to be able to share this super cool talent).

I am now apprentice to eight-year-old Tom Riddle. Whoop de doo.

Well, I don't remember this part of Harry Potter, so now I'm probably confused as to where I am again. Regardless, I try to advise Tom on how to tone it down and not, say, traumatize Amy and Dennis for life and antagonize all the other orphans forever. He probably doesn't take me seriously. What do I know, I can't even light that patch of grass on fire?

Hanging around Tom Riddle gets me a reputation to, given the difference in genders, probably a fairly nasty one at that. When Dumbledore arrives he's undoubtedly told hot gossip about how eleven-year-old Tom and I have had sex in a ritual to summon Satan. Dumbledore takes this seriously.

Dumbledore probably meets us both at the same time and it's a disaster. I tried my best to prep Tom without revealing I'm a prophet, Tom first doesn't believe there might not be others, then doesn't believe they would be antagonist/anything but amazed by how awesome he is.

Well, Dumbledore lights his wardrobe on fire while I sit there. Dying inside. Dumbledore probably also does something to me too, to teach me some kind of lesson about something.

I imagine he temporarily disfigures me/makes me appear very ugly, then sticks a mirror to the wall, that way I realize that looks aren’t everything/being a whore is wrong. Tom, still traumatized over the wardrobe, is no help and my magic’s probably not controlled enough to do a thing about it.

I spend a day looking like a pig, Tom and I are given just enough money to buy new wands and second hand/barely functioning everything else and given the world’s worst directions to Diagon Alley. Thanks, Albus.

Well, months pass, we get our wands, Tom gets excited for Hogwarts and I... start seriously considering the future. WWII is coming, the Blitz is coming, Tom and I live in east London and must be able to evacuate during the bombing of London (which went on well past the Blitz to the end of the war). I also start considering my future in the wizarding world. Do I now actually have career prospects?

Probably not because I’m muggle born and a woman. My best bet is doing very well in useful subjects and finding employment with the goblins, I can’t imagine they have the same hang ups as the wizarding world.

Tom wants to go to Slytherin, of course, I tell him this is a bad idea. “Gee Tom,” I say, “Not sure how I know this but I have this feeling that Slytherin is filled with people who loathe our very existence and will shank us. Why don’t we pick Ravenclaw or Gryffindor instead?”

No one shanks Tom Riddle! Tom says. Tom is still eleven and while he admits that sometimes I may, in retrospect, have been right about certain things that doesn’t mean he wants to go to the house known for hard work. That’s code word for everyone there being a moron and having no other redeeming features than tenacity. As for the other two, Ravenclaws sound like smug, elitist, nerds and Gryffindors like dumb jocks.

Better to be known for ambition, cunning, and actually being competent.

Well, there’s no talking him out of this one, and goddamn it we’re all each other has.

I’m the closest thing Tom Riddle has ever had to a friend in all these years and in the orphanage the only one who could hold a decent conversation with him. And while it’s not my moral obligation to keep Tom from becoming a domestic terrorist, and there’s no guarantee I even can, dumping him for one of the other houses and drifting apart won’t help.

Not to mention that, after all these years, I’m undoubtedly lonely, I’m in this foreign land, and he’s now the closest thing to a friend I have.

Looks like I’m going to Slytherin, YOOOOOLLLLLLLLOOOOOOOOO! I shout as a battle cry as tears run down my face. I may have to convince the hat to put me in Slytherin, but like all human beings I am a mixture of many qualities. I’m not cunning in the least, mind games exhaust me unutterably, but I’m full of ambition. 

This confirms every bad opinion Dumbledore had regarding me and Tom.

For the next several months, Tom probably beats the shit out of dormmates who steal his things/harass him. He beats up mine too because feminism (TM) means that he should treat all people equally when guilty of the same crime. I... am not sure I can win that fight so I just resign myself to having to adopt some of Tom’s tactics to make sure I’m not shoved in lockers, have tampons thrown at me, or pig’s blood dumped on me at the prom.

Once again, everyone thinks Tom Riddle and I are dating. I don’t even know if they’re wrong at this point.

Well, being in class with eleven year olds who seem to have had little to no prior education, Tom and I are undoubtedly blazing through class. I imagine I’m bored out of my mind (the Hogwarts curriculum sounds unbelievably boring) and Tom is... well, probably devouring the library but probably also bored. I decide to try and see if I can find some real history texts on this world (there are probably none, the wizarding world seems to only have two historians and both... have a different approach to history than current modern thought as I know it) and discover what magic even is. That shit is fascinating: wingardium leviosa is not.

Dumbledore likely gives neither me nor Tom points in class, I think the house cup is stupid, so I really don’t care. I have no interest in playing quidditch, neither does Tom, so that doesn’t happen.

The second world war starts up, Tom, me, and the muggle borns are the only ones who give a flying fuck. I work harder on figuring out how to get lodging during the Blitz/the bombing of London. Unfortunately, Mrs. Cole hates me too for being the Bride of Satan, so that’s a no go. Third year, 1939, I probably write her in earnest anyway telling her to PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, send Tom and I instructions for the summer/where the orphans are staying/how they’ve been dispersed to the countryside. As a back up plan, I try desperately to shmooze shopkeepers in Hogsmeade during every Hogsmeade weekend to get myself and Tom part time jobs and lodging over the summer. As a back up back up plan, I spend my time badgering Tom to become very good at survivalist wandless magic and if the Lord has pity on me gain some ability in it myself.

Hopefully, either Mrs. Cole or one of the Hogsmeade shop owners take pity on us. If not, then Tom and I are going extreme camping. Given Mrs. Cole (and the brain damage brought on by Dumbledore erasing memories left and right) and the likelihood of Hogsmeade shop owners just not getting it, Tom and I probably go extreme camping.

(Tom, meanwhile, asks Dippet and Dumbledore if we can stay in Hogwarts over the summer. He’s told no exceptions. London’s being bombed, you say? No exceptions. Toodles. Tom is never the same.)

Me, Tom Riddle, a tent we made ourselves, several rabbits we had to catch and skin ourselves, and the pitiful fire that we can keep going through pure will alone because if we try to use real people spells then we’ll get arrested. It has the benefit of making Tom feel very manly and impressive, catching his own food, but both of us are well aware that this sucks.

But hey, we aren’t dead.

Well, I’m sure Tom doesn’t appreciate that and this is where I imagine he seriously starts talking about violent revolution. I imagine much of my time is spent discussing the merits of not violently overthrowing our ant overlords. I imagine a thirteen-year-old Tom isn’t impressed by my pacifism, but he’s not married to Voldemort yet (probably).

Then I imagine the horcrux thing comes up and... Well, I will argue hard against it. Humans die, it is a truth of the universe, and simply something we have to accept. Horcruxes are not a measure against that, they can be destroyed, given infinite time they will be, and the sacrifice they require is too high: human life as well as the very essence of who you are.

What is a soul? I’m not sure, we never really learn in HP canon, but whatever it is, it is in some way the essence of yourself. If you take half of it and throw it somewhere else, you will cease to be you, someone or something else is walking around in your body while the other half of you exists in endless agony.

If you must chase immortality, create a philosopher’s stone (as I darkly wonder why it was that couldn’t be replicated and what Flamel had to do to make it in the first place). On second thought, maybe we should search for the Holy Grail.

Whether I can talk Tom out of this or not is... unclear. I’m going to say that I can, in part because I imagine he’ll want to show the chamber off to me, tell me when he realizes he’s Heir of Slytherin, and in doing so I can prevent the basilisk incident from occurring. Without that, there’s no dead Myrtle, which means no first victim. That summer, when he goes to the Gaunts, I’ll go with him and convince him that it’s not worth it. He can just turn around and leave these people alone, I hopefully can talk him down. Which means no second victim.

I start writing Flamel to see if Tom or I can get an apprenticeship (Dumbledore probably beats us to the chase and poisons him against us, but it’s worth a shot).

Then, should all go well, I can convince Tom to find employment with the goblins rather than shady antique dealers on the bad side of town. Hopefully, I can convince him to never become Voldemort, and instead we travel the world together looking for the origins of magic or something.

Dumbledore goes around taking people’s memories of us in preparation for when Tom becomes a dark lord and I his lady of the night darkness.

TL;DR Apparently my life would become an SI/Tom Riddle fic. So, thanks anon.

[tezzbot]

Heard that you wanted to talk about some stuff so go on a rant about your favorite MLP ships. I'd love to hear your headcanons or just anything about why you ship these ships and stuff like that

okay so appledash obviously absolute banger of a ship they have So much in common yet still have many many differences that keeps it interesting, PLUS bonus that its a butch4butch ship which is p rare honestly, also helps that i can relate very easily with the both of them :P i feel like i have Many thoughts about them bc i love them and their chemistry sm but nothing coherent is coming to mind its basically just HDJVDBEVDHD 💖💞THEM💞💖 in there so. ya lol

another ship that i dont really talk abt is what i call the friendship school polycule bc its fun and rhymes lol, w starlight, trixie and sunburst, now i dont ship starlight and sunburst i think they're better as ver close friends so basically its trixie and her bitches HDNDV lmao im kidding but still i think her and starlight are Very cute theres a lot of chemistry there and i think trixie and sunburst together has a lot of interesting possibilities, his interest in her stage magic, maybe she gains some kind of interest in a bit of his nerd shit blossoming into something more idk!! i think trixie deserves it<3 queen<3 i might go off abt her in another post idk lol

uhhmm hm... okay how about some ship related headcanons

aj and rainbow have had crushes on each other for A Loooong Time before actually getting together, its why they spent so much time with one another alone which is why, when rainbow asked aj if she wanted to go somewhere for lunch aj's dumb ass had no idea it was supposed to be a date until she realised partway through that rainbow was acting nervous as hell and that it was in fact hearts and hooves day and was like Wait. This. Is this a date this is a date isnt it and rainbow embarrassed as fuck is like ahahhag yeah its supposed to be ya n aj is like Oh. 😳 BFNFBGV then they properly talk abt it and get together and its cute and i like the them love and light<3

aj n rara were each others gay awakening and first gfs when they were younger but broke it off when they were writing bc long distance wasnt gonna work :( then they had a little thing while rara was in ponyville that one time but ultimately decided itd be better to stay friends

torque wrench had a huge crush on aj while the mane 6 visited hope hollow, aj made torque feel special and that her work Meant something, that she wasnt just some dime a dozen mechanic or whatever so. maybe they kissed while fixing the billboard together maybe they didnt but it was just a passing thing between the two

rainbow and gilda Definitely exes, initially left each other on good terms but it went sour after gildas visit in season 1, they make up again in season 5 but still remain friends bc rainbow has her eyes on someone else<3 lol

pinkie and twi for sure had a thing at some point but once they realised that twilight was gonna be so very outliving the whole rest of the mane 6 twilight thought it for the best to break it off, tho a little kiss on the head or cheek here and there isnt gonna hurt anybody :P (cheese is well aware of the two and would be 100% supportive if they decided to get back together :] gee lil cheese how come ur dad lets u have Two moms!!!)

lil bit of a rarepair but celestia and queen novo is very cute 🥺 i dont have much to say about em but ya i like the them :]

i think twilight and luna is also a very good ship tbh :( twilight was probably the first pony to treat luna as a friend and not someone to be feared or bowed down to and took the time to teach her about modern life after being gone for 1000 years, i feel like after that their relationship grew and luna developed a sort of crush on twilight idk if i think she actually ever confessed or not but its very sweet 🥺🥺

also fluttercord is perfect<3 enemies to lovers slowburn done RIGHT thank u mlp writers for eveythig

okay this is very long im done sorry HDNDV

[platypanthewriter]

Hook Possum 2/4

Art by @monsdasarah​ for Harringrove Big Bang!

CHAPTER ONE

After dinner, Jonathan Byers got out his guitar, and started teaching them camp songs.  Steve resigned himself to weeks of Kum-ba-ya stuck in his head, but they heard a weird grinding, crunching noise in the distance, and Robin whispered “I think that came from the cemetery,” just to freak everyone out.

“The cemetery?!” a boy yelped, and Jonathan started playing The Bell Witch, because he was just as awful as Robin was.

 “Little Betsy, the age of 12/Living in a dream, the first one to scream,” he sang, and Steve groaned into his hands.

“Invisible hands/Leaving their mark in the dark

Night after night/The Bell Witch attacked and attacked

Torturing Betsy/Until a circle was held in candle light.”

 The littlest kids started climbing right up on Hook Possum.  The air filled with stories of the Bell Witch, and how she could travel, she could be anywhere, and how the bathrooms at Camp Butternut Springs were always cold.  

“They’re haunted,” Robin said, and Steve elbowed her, growling.

The bathrooms were always cold, because they were poured cement set in the hill, and the cabins warmer, because they were up the hill where they got some sun, and built of wood.  Steve tried to explain it every year, but every year the kids all started running around and shrieking about the goddamn Bell Witch.  The littlest kids asked Hook Possum to go with them to the toilets as it got dark.

Even Robin ‘Oh, that’s haunted’ Buckley took mercy, and didn’t tell them the local ghost stories.  Yet, anyway, Steve thought.  A small mercy. 

When Steve found a kid crying outside the bathrooms after playing the mirror game—they stared in and said I hate the Bell Witch, over and over, watching until their faces looked creepy and distorted in the low, flickering light—Steve sat down on the ground and patted his little sobbing shoulder, and sighed.

“Look,” he said, “—there’s only one ghost around here, Hook Possum.  Hook Possum is the ghost of possums who get hit by reckless drivers.  The Bell Witch isn’t here, because of Hook Possum, okay?”

“I s-saw s-something,” the kid wailed, clinging to Steve’s arm, and Steve pulled his sobbing hanger-on back to the fire.

“Hook Possum’s our local cryptid,” Dustin was saying, and then he had to explain to the younger kids what a cryptid was.  “Like Bigfoot,” he said, “—or the Loch Ness Monster.  Or the Pope Lick Goat Man.”

“...the what?!” Hook Possum asked, startled, and Dustin’s chest swelled with excitement as his grin widened.  

“The Pope Lick Goat Man,” Dustin breathed, “—was originally a farmer, who sacrificed his goats and who knows what else to Satan.”

“Dustin,” Steve sighed, as the story brought more kids around the fire.  

“He was reborn as a twisted goat man,” Dustin said over him, because Dustin wouldn’t have any frantic children banging on the door of his cabin at two am.  Dustin continued with relish.  “He lives under the train trestles of Pope Lick Creek, mimicking the voices of dead loved ones to lure people into the path of the train.  There have been so many deaths it’s illegal to go near there,” Dustin whispered, to his rapt audience of a bunch of children who were definitely gonna be too scared to go to the toilets that night, and they’d probably wet their beds.

“Dustin, come on,” Steve groaned.

“The trestle is over 750 feet long, and it’s a 90 foot drop,” Will Byers added, and Steve smacked his face into his hands, because he hadn’t expected that epic betrayal.  

“When the train comes, there’s nowhere to go,” Dustin continued, with relish.  “It’s said he’s so terrifying people leap to their deaths at the sight of him, even if there’s no oncoming train.  Ninety feet down into Pope Lick Creek.  That’s like jumping off an eight-story building.”

The kids gasped, and Steve pinched the bridge of his nose as Robin stepped in, grinning evilly.

“He’s been known to jump down from the trestle himself, to attack cars underneath with an axe,” she said.

“Augh!” squeaked one little boy, and the kid Steve had rescued from the Bell Witch mirror game clung tighter to Hook Possum, sniffling.

“Hook Possum has a hook,” Robin told the squeaking kid, once Steve elbowed her hard in the gut, again.  The kid did not look reassured.  “—and the Goat Man lives in Kentucky, over a hundred miles away.”

“Hook Possum jumps on cars too,” Dustin said cheerfully, and Hook Possum said “Wait, what,” again, as Dustin climbed up on one of the logs around the fire, holding his finger like a hook.

“Hook Possum is the vengeful spirit of possums killed by reckless drivers,” Robin explained—far from helping—and started telling tales of drivers stopping to pick up hitchhikers that turned into massive, man-sized hissing possums in the passenger seat of their car.

“One account is weirder, because the guy was super drunk,” she whispered, leaning in, and the kids listened, riveted.  “He picked up a hitchhiker, but when he looked in the backseat, it was just a coat around a fleet of possums,” she said with relish.  “They climbed all over him, scratching and biting—”

“I’m a ghost story?” asked Hook Possum, and Steve spun in place to see him half-shadowed in the light of the fire, the flames glinting off his molded teeth, his empty mesh eyes skull-like.

“Uh,” he said, giving an involuntary shudder.  “Yeah.  Didn’t you know?”

“Don’t let anything get me,” the kid Steve had rescued from the bathroom sobbed, throwing both arms around Hook Possum, and Hook Possum patted their hair.  

“I want real ghost stories,” said one of the kids around the fire, and Hook Possum breathed “You don’t think I’m real, kid?” with a little possum-y hiss in his voice, his silvery plastic hook reflecting the firelight, and the kid yelped.  “I’m scarier than anything else out there,” he growled, and Steve, in all honesty, had to agree.  The kid blinked huge eyes, and Hook Possum patted their head again, clumsily, nearly poking them in the eye as they giggled.  

Steve groaned, smiling, and wondered if Hook Possum knew what he was letting himself in for.  

That night, he patrolled by a cabin of boys talking about two travellers whose car was attacked by metallic thumps, and sure enough, the kids who’d been playing the mirror game and scaring the shit out of themselves all came and banged on the counsellor cabin door shrieking that they’d seen red lights in the woods, and demanded Hook Possum, who ended up costuming back up in the dark.  

Steve helped tie the costume at the back of his neck, and Hook Possum lurched by him to listen to them wail.  Steve could hear his confused growling from inside, and wandered out after a while to help.  

They spent a weird three-quarters of an hour standing in the humid night heat, making up stories about Hook Possum, and Steve maybe, sleepily, told everyone his limited stock of possum facts three or four times.  They eat ticks, the kids started reciting along with him.  Their body temperature is too high to carry fleas.  Steve could feel Hook Possum laughing against his shoulder.  

“Can you sleep hanging from your tail?” one asked, and Hook Possum shook his creepy paper-mache head, shoulders slumped like maybe he really wanted to.  

Steve patted his back.  “Possums can’t actually do that,” he said, grateful to be reminded of a possum fact he’d forgotten.  “They can use it to climb, though.”

“You are not helping,” Hook Possum hissed, as the kids started clamoring for him to climb a tree.  

“Sorry,” Steve whispered back, thinking fast.  “Uh, possums carry their young on their backs—” he started, and stopped, because that was obviously the wrong thing to say, and Hook Possum yelled as he got dog-piled to the ground.  

“Harrington,” he hissed from the ground, and for a second it sounded so familiar Steve paused, frowning vaguely at the lake, until Hook Possum’s yells threatened to wake the whole camp, and Steve had to pick up the top-most flailing child and threaten to throw them all in the water.  

“Go back to bed, all of you,” Hook Possum growled, and one of them hugged him.  

“Will you walk me to the cabin?” she asked softly, and he sighed, staring—maybe—at Steve.  

“Come on, might as well,” Steve told him, and Hook Possum snarled, but let the little girl grab his hook.  He then stumbled off the step edge of the boardwalk around the cabin, flailing his arms, and Steve grabbed him by one gross fursuited paw, clicking his flashlight on.  Since the little girl had the other one, and the whole horde of them trotted along surrounding Hook Possum, which made it slightly less weird to hold hands with him.

On the way back, Hook Possum was still unsteady, even without a kid yanking on him.  Steve tried to keep the flashlight pointed squarely where the guy could see it, but he kept tripping over stuff he couldn’t see in the mask, so Steve kept holding his hand, leaning close to whisper ‘there’s a root in the path,’ and ‘step up here,’ and feeling like he was escorting a drunk date home from a party.  

“...didn’t know you were into possums, Harrington,” Hook Possum muttered, laughing a little, and Steve snickered, thinking of the lines he and Robin had decided on if any kids wanted to talk about—about awkward things, like girls kissing girls.  He hoped they didn’t—he hoped they all talked to Robin, who seemed much more qualified, but he’d practiced saying ‘I’m honored you trusted me’ in the mirror.

“I’m trusting you with my secret possum...thing,” he said, snorting a laugh.  “Aren’t you honored.”

“More nervous,” Hook Possum whispered back, stumbling again.  “Don’t take advantage of me out here, Harrington.  I’ll play dead, I swear to god.  I’ll hiss and bite you.”

“I’d treat you right,” Steve told him, grinning.  “Get you ticks to eat or whatever.  And carrion.”

“Oh, okay then.  Gee.  Thanks, man,” Hook Possum laughed, making a gagging noise.

“Eat your ticks, they’re good for you,” Steve commanded, and felt Hook Possum laughing harder.

When they got back to the cabin—finally—everybody else was trying to sleep, so Steve turned Hook Possum around by the shoulders in the dark, taking the hook, and feeling along under the awful mask to untie the suit.  He helped lift the creepy mask—the face of it felt warm and damp with breath, and Steve shuddered—and then he tugged on the paws as Hook Possum struggled to extricate himself.

“...you don’t have to help,” he said, but he sounded tired, and Steve squeezed his warm naked shoulder.  

“I don’t mind,” he said, and one of the other guys hucked a pillow at them, groaning.

“Get a room,” he mumbled sleepily.

“G’night, Possum,” Steve whispered, snickering again, and Hook Possum shoved him, but Steve was sure he heard a muffled laugh.

 The next morning, everybody was kinda subdued, as usual—the kids that weren’t scared were more homesick than they’d realized, the excited kids hadn’t gotten very much sleep, and the kids that believed in ghosts hadn’t gotten any sleep at all, which was about three-quarters of the camp, thanks to Steve’s best friend Robin “That toilet seat is also haunted” Buckley.  

It was the first really hot day of the summer, so Robin and Steve took everyone canoeing, and the shallows filled with splashing, giggling, and shrieks. Steve trailed his hands in the water, climbing in and out of the canoe at every opportunity to pick kids up so they wouldn’t overturn the boat.  In the middle of the chaos that afternoon, when the kids were mostly too exhausted to row and too full of lunch to swim, but it was too damn hot to want to get out of the water, Hook Possum stalked by, wading straight into the lake, twenty, thirty feet out up to his chin, and just stood there, staring, smoke wafting from his mesh eyes.  

After a few minutes of watching the floating, smoking possum head, Steve stuck his paddle in the water to bring himself to a splashing halt—the kids in the canoe yelped and squealed—and then he shouted paddling orders until they came up alongside the creepy apparition sticking out of the water like a malevolent buoy.

“Ho there,” Steve said, responsibly, “—non-invasive, helpful local wildlife!  Are you in need of assistance?”

Hook Possum coughed, choking, and then growled, shaking his long papier-mache snout.  “Temporary insanity,” he groaned.  “Jesus.  Even the water is warm.”

“Better than sitting in your own sweat,” Steve said cheerfully, having worn the damn thing.  He remembered feeling like a dripping-wet half-rotten kitchen sponge, sitting in a sauna.  

“Kill me,” Hook Possum muttered, sighing, and one of the kids leaned out of the boat and put a baseball cap on him.  

“The shade helps,” she reported, and he sighed, looking even more ridiculous as a bedraggled, haunted possum head, smoke wafting from its empty eye sockets, with a baseball hat over one ear.

“...thanks,” he said, and she nodded, tucking her hair behind her ear, and digging out a tube of sunscreen.  She proceeded to rub it on her ears, nose, and all over the boy next to her, who sighed.

“Uh, just...wave if you...start to drown,” Steve told Hook Possum, wanting to be encouraging, but uncertain how to help someone dying of heatstroke in a horrible old possum mascot costume who was presently up to their neck in a lake.  He couldn’t see any expression on Hook Possum’s face, but he was pretty sure it was the face of someone with nothing to live for.  “Uh.  S’mores tonight?  I think?”

“...I can’t eat in this thing,” Hook Possum groaned, with a plume of eye smoke.

“We can hide in one of the cabins,” Steve told him.  “You can, um, transform.  In there.”

“...like Cinderella?” Hook Possum asked, snorting a laugh, and Steve grimaced.  

“I was thinking more like a werewolf at the full moon,” he said, and Hook Possum’s mask shook with laughter.  “Don’t drown,” Steve told him.  “I mean, if you die, you won’t get the money anyway, so you might as well take the damn thing off.  And I’ll bring you s’mores.  With extra chocolate.  Chocolate is worth it, right?  How d’you like your marshmallows?”

The creepy, lumpy mask turned to him, its mesh eye holes more alarming than ever with the way the sun hit the smoke.  “...you giving me something to live for, Harrington?”

“Don’t die in a possum suit, man, you don’t want that on your gravestone,” Steve said fervently.  “And think about the funeral.  Everybody trying to say nice things and you in that thing.  Have a heart—”

“I think the funeral parlor would probably take it off my body,” said Hook Possum, genuinely laughing, and Steve blinked.

“Oh.  Oh, yeah, they probably would,” he said, nodding.

“Anyway, nobody’d come to my funeral,” Hook Possum said, snickering, and Steve leaned over and smacked his snout.  The water around the canoe splashed a little, and the kids yelped, watching them in exhausted, overheated fascination.

“You’re not a possum,” Steve reminded the guy, who turned his head towards Steve again, probably to stare.  Steve grabbed his painted snout, holding his attention.  “You’re not a real possum.  People would come.  Max would come, and me—”

“...you think?” Hook Possum laughed, and Steve glared.  “Okay, okay, sorry,” he said, sounding like he was grinning.  “I won’t drown.  Hook Possum says no drowning, kids.”

“I used to think Smokey the Bear did that,” said the boy dripping with sunscreen.  “You know, just walked up to you and said ‘don’t start forest fires,’ like that.  This huge bear.  I was terrified.”

“I could just walk up to boaters and say ‘don’t drown,’” Hook Possum snickered.  “Alongside the boats.  Hiss at them.”

“Holy shit,” Steve cackled, letting go of the mask.  “You should.  Do it.  Do it to Robin—her, look, over there—”

Hook Possum turned to look, and then moved silently through the water, his head floating along the surface like a duck gone wrong.  Steve and the kids floated in the water, holding their breaths, until the other boat erupted in shrieks and overturned.

“Oh, he is so getting s’mores,” Steve wheezed, laughing until he could hardly breathe.

 When the kids started to wander towards dinner, Steve found Hook Possum again, hanging onto the dock.  

“You okay, man?” he asked, and Hook Possum nodded silently, so Steve crouched down to have a look.  “You coming in?  It’s cooled off some,” he said, and Hook Possum nodded again, but didn’t move.  “...you need help?” Steve asked, and Hook Possum paused for a second before shaking his head.  

Steve waited, and finally, Hook Possum cleared his throat.  “Fuck off, I can do it, I’m fine.”

He obviously wasn’t.  “You feel sick?” Steve asked, used to the first aid questions after so many summers helping around camp.  “Tired?  Shaky?”

“...just getting...cooled off,” Hook Possum muttered, but he didn’t move.  The lake water was pretty warm, too, and Steve considered it, wondering whether it was even helping.  

“Don’t be an asshole.  You need a shower, some water, and a nap,” he told the stubborn six-foot tall possum clinging to the dock, and it hissed like it was born in the woods.  

“...don’t need a nap,” Hook Possum growled, and Steve laughed.  

“Well, lie down, at least.  You’ve got heatstroke, dude.”

Hook Possum shook his head, so finally Steve jumped in the water next to him, put an arm around him, and pulled him towards shore.  

“What are you doing,” he mumbled, but when he tried to push away he almost fell, so Steve grabbed him tighter.  

“I told you,” Steve sighed.  Hook Possum was staggering, leaning heavily against Steve’s shoulder, and vibrating with tension.  “You’re gonna die in that thing.  You can’t do this all summer.”

“Fuck you,” Hook Possum muttered, tripping as soon as they hit dry ground.

“I’ve got you,” Steve told him, grimacing, because it was probably ungodly humid in the wet fur suit, and he was pretty sure Hook Possum hadn’t taken his mask off to drink any water.  The chatter and occasional yells from the food tent washed over them as Steve took him through camp to the showers.

As soon as they were inside, Hook Possum’s head jerked up.  “Oh fuck no,” he mumbled, pulling away, but Steve held on.  

“You need to get cleaned up and cooled off, and rest up,” he told the scary possum mask.  “Seriously.  You can’t mess with this shit.”

“‘M’fine,” Hook Possum slurred, and Steve shoved him around to untie the suit.  

“I won’t look, jesus, I promise, I’ll close my eyes, okay?  Just lemme help you get this off, and get in the damn shower.”

“...fuck you,” Hook Possum muttered, his shoulders wet and shivery against Steve’s hands.  

With his eyes closed, Steve couldn’t tell whether Hook Possum had the grayish pallor, but he grabbed the moron by the back of the neck and held a hand to his forehead, which was feverishly hot.  

“Get off me,” Hook Possum squeaked, staggering back, and Steve stepped back too, listening to the sounds of sodden fur paws stumbling around.  

“You need me to stay with you?” Steve asked, knowing what the answer would be, but also wary of leaving someone who’d obviously never had heat stroke before.

“I don’t need a fucking babysitter,” Hook Possum snarled, in a deeper register than usual, and it pinged Steve’s brain.  He frowned, standing there trying to think of anyone he knew who was awkward and grouchy but good with kids, and called him Harrington.  “Get out,” Hook Possum said, sounding exhausted.

“I’ll get you some water,” Steve told him.  “Gimme the Hook Possum stuff, I’ll wash it.”

“...it can go in the wash?”  Hook Possum asked, sounding aggrieved, and Steve snorted a laugh.  

“It can go in the washtub,” he said.  “I’ll throw it in and let it dry overnight.”

“Oh,” Hook Possum said weakly, then rallied.  “Thought you were holding out on me.  Secret washing machine in your bunk.  ‘Cause you’re the owner’s son.”

“Yep, just me and the washer, holding each other close,” Steve agreed, rolling his eyes under their lids.  

“You’re into some kinky shit, Harrington,” Hook Possum told him, and Steve felt the gross muddy Hook Possum costume shoved against his arms.  

“Eugh,” he sighed, gathering up the paws and hook.  “You know it.”

“That’s not gonna be dry by tomorrow, is it,” Hook Possum said, woodenly, and Steve wanted to shake him.  

“Look, I can write you an excuse.  Take a sick day.  You can’t get right back in this thing.  It’s fine.”

“...I’ll make it up,” Hook Possum said, in a rush, after a long pause.  “And I’ll find something I can do, so I’m not fucking everybody over wearing this thing—”

“Dude,” Steve sighed.  It felt weird not knowing the guy’s name, but equally weird calling him Hook Possum.  “Relax.  Take a chill pill.  Nobody’s on your ass about this.”  He turned to leave, but Hook Possum started talking again.

“...they make you do all the first aid, or what?” Hook Possum asked, and Steve snorted a laugh at his wariness.

“They teach us all basic first aid,” he said patiently.  “You sure you don’t want me to stay?  Because you sure don’t seem like you want me to leave.”

“Fuck you!” Hook Possum growled, again, rattling at the door of the shower stall like he’d stumbled into it.  

“I’m going, don’t make me explain to Max how you fell and broke your face after I left you in here,” Steve called, heading out, gross stinking wet fur suit in hand.  He dumped the whole thing—except the mask, which he thought might melt, even though it was tempting—into the big wash basin where the kids washed their own clothes, added a ton of soap, and poked it a few times to get the water through the fur.  He found some apples and grapes in the fridge, added some cheese and crackers, and got a plastic cup of water.  He sat it all in his bunk—in case Hook Possum just collapsed in his own—and grabbed the bathrobe he always brought just in case, and Hook Possum’s towel.  

When he knocked at the showers, Hook Possum was silent, so Steve leaned in.  It was dark, but the shower was still running.  “...you alive in there?” he called, and heard Hook Possum laugh.  

“Told you I was fine,” he muttered, burbling with the water hitting his face, and Steve went to lean against the stall door.  

“Oh, sorry, should I put you back in the suit and dump you in the lake?” he asked.  “Or just leave you here to get back to your bunk naked?”  

In the darkness, Hook Possum was just a vague shape, but Steve squinted, trying to make out a face, or something.  “Fuck you,” he said, laughing.  “The hell are you gonna do, carry me in your arms?”

“I could,” Steve told him, always ready for a challenge.  

“Oh, fuck you,” Hook Possum said, laughing harder, and Steve grinned, a little confused.  

“I am the first aid officer, actually,” he bragged, having put himself on the schedule earlier.  “You need me to sweep you across the threshold, I guess that’s what I gotta do.”  There was a muffled grunt and a splashing thud in the stall, and before Steve could think, he had kicked the bottom of the door and jiggled the latch so it popped open, the way he had a zillion times before, when kids crawled under locked stall doors as a prank.  He crouched next to the dark shape in the dim stall as Hook Possum scrambled back.  “You okay?”

“Jesus fuck,” Hook Possum panted in a high voice.  “What in the goddamn are you doing in here.”

“You fell, dipshit,” Steve told him, rolling his eyes.  “Are you okay?”

“Yes!  I am okay!” Hook Possum hissed, wedged in the corner.  “Get the hell out of my shower!”

“Jesus, sorry, didn’t know you were a blushing maiden possum,” Steve told him, holding out a hand to help the guy up, but Hook Possum just groaned into his hands, so Steve shrugged, and left.  The door slammed shut after him and latched.

“Go away,” Hook Possum growled, and Steve snickered.  

“I brought you a towel, and my robe,” he said, and Hook Possum sighed.  “And some water.”

“I’m fine, christ,” Hook Possum muttered.  

“And I got you some grapes and stuff,” Steve told him, halfway out the door.  “In the cabin.  Lot of water in grapes.”

“...I’m okay,” Hook Possum said, after a pause so quiet Steve was wondering if he’d passed out in there.  “Jesus.  I’m not one of your...second graders.”

“No, because then you wouldn’t’ve been wearing that thing, or going without water,” Steve said crisply.  “And I would carry you to your bunk, like a goddamn bride.”

Hook Possum choked on the shower water, somehow, coughing.  

“You’re getting off easy,” Steve told him, his vindication lessened by Hook Possum choking like he was about to die.

“Holy crap,” he panted.

“You’re welcome,” Steve told him.  “I guess.  I hung your gross fur bag out to dry where it’ll get sun.”

“...didn’t even get the full service,” Hook Possum muttered.  It sounded like he was still laughing, exhaustedly.

“What, you want the bridal carry?  Because I’ll do it,” Steve threatened, and Hook Possum said something muffled, like he had his face in his hands.  “I’ll just wait right here, ready to cradle you to my chest,” Steve told him, and Hook Possum groaned, laughing harder.  It was hard to stay mad at him, because he was kind of giggling, in the tired way kids did when they couldn’t stop.  

 He wandered back into the cabin as everybody was singing camp songs, to see a big bony foot sticking out from under the flag covering Hook Possum’s bunk.  It withdrew.

“You awake in there?” Steve asked, grinning.

“...no,” Hook Possum groaned.  “What are you doing here?”

“Brought you some more water,” Steve told him, and after a minute, Hook Possum said “...just set it on the floor.  I’ll drink it, I promise, jesus.”

Steve nodded, and wandered back to the fire. 

PART ONE | TWO | THREE | FOUR

[makeste]

BnHA Chapter 204: Chintetsu

Previously on BnHA: Shouto left Endeavor on read. Team TodoIidaShoujiRo attacked Team TetsuHonePonySen head-on, hitting them with a wave of ice and freezing them all in place. But it turns out Honenuki’s quicksand quirk is actually a “softening” quirk which can soften anything he touches. He used that to melt the ice to allow his teammates to escape. It also turns out that he had pre-treated some of the surrounding area with his quirk, and Ojiro and Iida came crashing down from their hiding spots shortly after as the softened ground gave way beneath them. Sen attacked Ojiro with his drill quirk while Pony took on Shouji. Meanwhile Tetsu went for Shouto, realizing a direct attack was his best bet. And Honenuki trapped Iida under a layer of the softened ice, but then made the mistake of rehardening it, intending to keep him stuck in place. Instead, Iida blasted free with his Recipro, revealing that he’s built up his endurance to the special move. So now we’ll see if he can take Honenuki down.

Today on BnHA: We get a wholesome Iida flashback to when Tensei explained how to upgrade his Recipro by -- wait, what? Mutilating his own fucking leg?! Holy shit. That’s not wholesome at all. What the fuck. But anyway, it worked I guess because back in the present day Iida is zipping along at speeds faster than Gran fucking Torino, and he’s able to maintain this speed for up to ten whole minutes. The only downside is that he can’t fully control himself because he’s so goddamn fast and so he keeps skidding around. Anyway, so Honenuki is like “nope” and gets the fuck out of there. Meanwhile Sen continues to whoop Ojiro’s ass, but then Iida shows up to save him so yay. Elsewhere the Tetsuroki fight has heated up, quite literally, as Todoroki activates his left side to create a wall of fire, and Tetsutetsu proceeds to walk right through it and attack Shouto as a red hot steel man. Shouto thinks back to his dad’s training and decides that the solution to this is clearly to make shit even hotter, so he starts up with that, and the chapter ends.

(As always, all comments not marked with an ETA are my mostly-unspoiled reactions from my first readthrough of this chapter. I’m caught up with the manga now at chapter 223, so any ETAs will reflect that.)

ohhh my god

IIDA FAM FLASHBACKS!??!

AHHHHH

EXCUSE ME IS THIS THE FUCKING FUTURE OR NOT?? CAN WE GET IIDA TENSEI A FUCKING HOVERCHAIR HERE PEOPLE? IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK. IF ONLY HORIKOSHI WAS AT ALL FAMILIAR WITH MARVEL COMICS -- OH, WAIT

but seriously though. also he’s supposed to be rich too isn’t he? c’mon

also! Iidamom looks exactly like I expected her to. welcome to our canon full of other awesome moms, Iidamom! a few more moms and I’ll be ready to do a top ten moms post. spoiler alert, the winner is not who you’d expect (unless you’re expecting Aizawa, because then you’re absolutely right)

anyways so I got SUPER distracted just now but apparently Tensei is talking about “tuning up” Iida’s engine!

wow can they do that?? fucking quirks, though. wild

oh my fucking god

just yank that fucking muffler right the fuck out. and a new one will grow in!! fucking QUIRKS, though. WILD

dsfalkhsd

just yank that fucking muffler right the fuck out without anesthesia. what are you, a pussy!?

gee thanks Horikoshi for this graphic image of Iida biting down on something while he uses his bare hands to yank what are essentially bones -- or organs, or whatever! the point is they’re part of him! -- right out of his fucking body. might wanna add some vodka to that OJ tonight Iida

OH SHIT, THAT PAYOFF THOUGH

IN TEN MINUTES YOU COULD TAKE OVER THE FUCKING WORLD, IIDA!

okay maybe I got a little overexcited. but damn though!

so he’s DRRNing over to Honenuki and

oh my god

loool at the thought of Iida zooming around wildly for the next ten minutes while he tries to figure out how to stop this thing, and meanwhile Honenuki can’t land a hit on him though

GET HIM IIDA!!

oh fuck

can he breathe under there? you know, depending on how long they still have until time runs out, he could just hide for the next ten minutes and then emerge and drag the paralyzed Iida to Rat Principal Jail

(ETA: actually that was a stupid thought. obviously Iida doesn’t have to keep Recipro activated the whole time if there’s no need to.)

but no, he’s swimming back to Tetsu and the others for now

meanwhile Iida’s still up top and trying to figure out what he’s up to

maybe you should do the same

holy shit we’re cutting back to the kids outside and Deku says Iida’s even faster than Gran Torino

“by a long shot.” that’s fucking fast. and I love it

by the way, with the way Mina was pointing, I thought, “oh, maybe Ojiro’s finally getting the upper hand!”

but no

Horikoshi why do you hate poor Ojiro

it’s probably the pain of this guy kicking you in the chest with his rotating fucking foot

so he’s trying to figure out what to do because he can’t really attack, and he keeps getting hurt whenever he tries to guard

oh hey there

trying to decide if I’m disappointed that Ojiro will never get to do anything cool, or ecstatic that Iida fucking Tenya just pulled off a badass save of this caliber

leaning more toward ecstatic, honestly. sorry Ojiro

oh, Iida

nice use of the word “forthwith”, Iida

(ETA: and nice use of the word “slammer”!!)

and now he’s telling Ojiro to go help Todoroki and that he’ll be right back

well I guess class 1-A will need some sidekicks too

meanwhile we’re sticking with Iida, which means I’m going to keep right on posting all of his panels, because his dialogue honestly deserves a fucking pulitzer prize

never, Sen!

Sen’s trying to reason his way out of this and telling Iida that he shouldn’t let Honenuki get away because he’s more of a threat

and he’s also grumping about Iida interrupting his and Ojiro’s fight. “you shouldn’t interrupt a one-on-one fistfight like that”

um, says who? fuck that. we’re trying to win here, we can make friends after

Iida says if he allows his will to be bent here, it will be bent in the real world as well

basically he’s treating this seriously. well, good

meanwhile! we’re cutting back to two minutes prior!

I guess Tetsu’s best option is to somehow knock him out. but the problem is that Shouto’s reflexes are too good and he can create an ice barrier in an instant

I think Tetsu’s steel would allow him to withstand Shouto’s fire long enough to punch him on his left side, though, so that would be my personal strategy if it were me

heh

A+ attack name. Shouto I’m sorry, I love you, but if I’m being honest I’m rooting for this guy here

heh

so you think he should try the fire instead? I’m not so sure that’s the best play in this case though. at least with the ice he has better control and he can hold him at bay. I just don’t think the fire would be that effective against Tetsu, but I’m sure we’ll find out shortly

because Tetsu’s bragging about how easily he can break through Shouto’s ice defense

ah here we go

for some reason Bakugou actually wanted to go up against this. still don’t quite understand it. my baby boy got a death wish

lol Pony’s running off. honestly a miracle she wasn’t incinerated just now

Shouto’s yelling at Shouji to go after her and Shouji’s all “got it”

yeah I’m thinking my initial assessment was right and this was indeed a mistake

fucking great. now you’ve got a molten steel man after your ass, Shouto

LOL

holy fucking shit. just in case anyone isn’t aware, “chinchin” means “penis” usually. so yeah

and I fucking love that here he’s using it to mean “hot”, but it could also be a throwback to the whole “five peepee man” thing, which he doesn’t actually know about but I do, and so to me this is the funniest thing ever okay

I have no further comment

oh fuck

no but as you can plainly see he is no stranger to burns, so please try not to maim him too badly...!?

lol Vlad has started narrating again. no doubt elated that his team is somehow eking out a win in what initially appeared to be the most one-sided matchup we were going to see today

uh oh but now it looks like Tetsu may have accidentally triggered the quirk development that Endeavor was trying to trigger but couldn’t because Shouto won’t return his damn texts

before I continue to the next and presumably final page of this chapter, I’m just gonna take a moment here to appreciate the irony of Endeavor accidentally conditioning Shouto to never listen to him ever, even on the occasions where it turns out he’s right. he spent years trying to get Shouto to use his flame side, but failed utterly, and then in the span of one fight Deku did what Endeavor had spent Shouto’s whole life trying to get him to do

and now it’s happening again here, where we see that Endeavor was once again trying to teach him something, but Shouto just ignored him until a random kid from the class next door just happened to say something similar. and then it clicked

like, it’s a major burn on Endeavor (no pun intended), but it’s also really unfortunate for Shouto, because his dad has been such a prick until recently that he’s missed out on absorbing the few worthwhile things he actually had to teach him. lot of lost time to make up for here, on both sides

anyways, let’s watch as Shouto slowly processes all this

well I assume (a) because of the “surpassing my limits” thing, and (b) because he’s been texting you nonstop and it was probably on your mind even though you were stubbornly trying to pretend it wasn’t

lol what kind of cliffhanger is this??

he’s not even doing anything! come on Shouto what are you doing to us. this isn’t fair

also, what happened to your hand? why is it all smooth. I assume because of some fire bullshit you’re about to do, but that’s still just weird looking

oh and on the last page there’s a long translator note explaining what I mentioned before about “chinchin” meaning penis. sometimes on select occasions I’m down with Horikoshi perpetually having the mind of a 12-year-old. if he wants to make this a recurring thing I won’t complain, lol

[bryanastar]

How I (Accidentally) Write About Dark Subject Matter: Rough & Tumble Ramblings (Bonus Post)

I don’t like writing content warnings, not because I’m one of those losers that think they aren’t needed (because, believe me, they definitely are) but because it means I have to step back from my work and think about what the hell I just wrote. Now, in my teen writer eyes, there is nothing more embarrassing than thinking back to what you wrote and realizing that you need five different content warnings to fully prepare the reader for your work, and also remembering that you’re barely a rising Junior in high school. I end up having an out of body experience where I see myself and my work as a long and beleaguered r/I’m14andthisisdeep post, and it can make it hard to read back over my work to edit and submit.

Not that there’s anything wrong with darker subject matter. In fact, some of my favorite work to read contains some particular dark and disturbing content. But when you’re a young writer trying to submit your stuff, it can feel… a bit embarrassing. You feel like the stereotypical edgelord teen writing about edgy stuff for the sake of making the adults cry with your edgy edge.

The thing is, I don’t even intend to write about dark subject material ninety-nine percent of the time. It’s just a natural consequence of my intuitive (and rather impulsive) writing process.

I feel that—when it comes to writing about heavier content as a teen writer—there are two types of people: the ones who write about dark content on purpose, and the ones who write it by accident.

I think @shaelinwrites said it best when she wrote in a blog post that teens are often attracted to darker subject matter due to being at the age where we realize that the world is a far darker and scarier place than what we saw as children. Writing, therefore, is the safest way to explore this newfound knowledge and come to terms with it. This is why young writers who write dark subject matter on purpose do it.

But some, like me, do it on accident.

Let me explain. So I’m rather sheltered, as I suspect a lot of teen writers are. I’m not exactly the most world-weary person, despite knowing that the world is, objectively, pretty screwed up. Due to this, I can often add, on accident, some pretty screwed up material just for not thinking it through deeply enough.

For example, here was was my general thought process for my short story “Judith was Never Adopted”, a story that is, objectively, a about a young teenage girl getting left behind in the foster care system due to going through puberty and not being “adorable” any more, getting sexualized while in puberty, getting forcibly married to an older guy who sees her as an object, all the while desperately trying to reclaim the childhood she’s lost and feeling lied to by all the media that claimed that she’d have a lovely and charmed life after being adopted by rich and happy parents (also, spoilers):

“Gee, isn’t it funny that orphan girls in children’s books are often adopted by nice, rich families and get whole musicals dedicated to them, while orphans in YA and Wattpad books are often paired up with the older, assholic, ‘bad boy’ and probably have their lives ruined?”

“Wait… that’s a cool idea for a story!”

“How do I make the villain as awful as possible…? I know! He’s a twenty year-old gangster who has no scruples when it comes to hitting on teenagers, and he also has no problem with busting the kneecaps of literal orphans! That’ll really emphasize how crappy he is!”

“Why did the main character never come back for Judith? Uh… he was in the Iraq War? But why would he willingly join that conflict? Oh right! To pay for college! And he loses an arm, because the war has to have some consequence.”

“But why doesn’t he go to find her when he gets back? Well, uh, his foster mother is dead and his foster siblings are gone, so he has bigger crap to worry about first cause now he’s homeless. Also, the gangster left the city anyway and took Judith with him, and nobody really knows where they went.”

“There! Now to look over the draft! Wait… what the fuck have I written?!”

If this all sounds thoughtless… it’s because it is. To be fair to me, I usually realize pretty quickly that what I’m writing is dark and messed up (by, like, the second paragraph of this story, I really thought long and hard about it’s concept and went “oh shit”).

From there, I usually try my best to do right by the themes and concepts I accidentally introduced, mostly because it’s content that usually gets glossed over in other books that include it, or that is otherwise even romanticized! In fact, it’s anger at these storylines and characters not being treated well that usually inspires me to write the story in the first place!

I’d actually say I did a pretty decent job with this story considering that the first magazine I submitted it to accepted it a day later and praised the piece for its “insights into the psyches and circumstances of foster children.” And this was an adult-run magazine too—with adult contributors with MFAs in creative writing that should be able to write circles around me and my story ideas! They had no reason to be more forgiving of my piece just because I was a young writer! They had plenty of adult ones to pick from!

So yeah, I can be pretty blind to my own story’s content until it’s time to write, at which point I usually stubbornly try to stick with it. Part this is, again, just because I’m sheltered, but I think another reason I do this is because, like I mentioned earlier, I write about stuff that is usually conveniently ignored or downplayed in other works—especially children’s stories.

To give an example, let’s look at one of my favorite childhood movies: Matilda. Objectively, the plot of Matilda is about a severely neglected and abused kindergartener overcoming her abusive family with her equally abused and traumatized teacher, all the while forming a tiny found family with said teacher and moving on from their dark pasts together. Remove the magic and this isn’t a children’s movie; it’s a litfic novel that I know at least one person on this goddamn hell site it writing (not that that’s a bad thing).

Part of the, I guess, novelty of the work that I write is that I enjoy writing about tropes commonly found in children’s stories and contrasting them with I see as toxic or harmful tropes found in works for older teens. As a person who basically went straight from reading children’s literature to adult litfic, I’m fascinated (and somewhat horrified) by the difference in themes and ideas presented to children versus older teens—especially since those same themes and tropes seen in children’s fiction seem to bizarrely reappear in work aimed toward adults (A Man Called Ove is basically UP but without the magic—change my mind). The main difference between how adult fiction treats these subjects and how children’s fiction treats them is that adult fiction fully shines a light on how messed up these subjects are, while you can get away with writing about literal Nazis and genocide in children’s fiction (*cough* Avatar the Last Airbender *cough*) and have no one think it’s too dark or try to tone it down.

Due to this, I think I’ve already been conditioned to not see these subjects to be as bad as they really are, until I sit down to write about them and start to think about them more deeply! Looking back, I’m sure I could’ve written about the subjects outlined in my short story in a way that’s conducive to children’s fiction. Heck, you already have some of the base tropes: over-the-top villain, sad wittle orphans, and deep childhood friendships. Written in another way, I could’ve been the next Roald Dahl!

I’d also like to point out that I have nothing against these themes being explored in literature for younger audiences—in fact I think it’s necessary to teach children about these issues early. But I do think how we perceive certain media to be “kid-friendly” can cause us to forget how deep and nuanced the content in this “kid-friendly” media usually is, mostly due to much of the content having to be toned down as to not scar younger audiences (which is also important). The problem isn’t that this media is included; the problem is that we can sometimes forget how important these issues really are because they’re such common tropes in children’s fiction, which is a great disservice both to these issues and to the stories that include them!

This is also an issue present in YA media, but in a different way as some of toned down issues present in YA are executed in such a way that is actively harmful to teenagers (from the abusive and controlling “bad boy”, to the toxic “not like other girls” character that disparages femininity and promotes competition rather than support among girls). These are my favorite tropes to explore and tear apart in my own work because, when not viewed through a glorified or romanticized lens, they can actually form extremely compelling fiction due to the fallout caused to surrounding characters who have to deal with the bull these tropes and characters cause.

Of course, playing these tropes for what they are tends to lead to darker fiction by consequence, but, due to so many of these tropes being ironically extremely present in children’s and YA literature, many teens that aren’t myself also end writing about them because, really, they’re just writing what they know. This is how an entire generation of teen writers, including myself, ends up writing about content far darker than they realize by accident. We’ve been reading about these subjects for a long time, and now we’re just copying from the masters.

Wow, that was a long rant. Was any of it sensical? I don’t really know, but I still enjoyed writing it!

That’s all for now! See you next Tuesday for your regularly scheduled writing update!

[redvalravn]

Lisamouthfilter.exe has failed to install

Mom: isn’t it amazing your cousins both have brown eyes and their baby has blue eyes? Me: that’s called recessive genes Mom: you used to have blue eyes like your cousin Me: and then they turned green, and my hair turned darker and you were upset Mom: what can I say I like what I like. I have preferences that doesn’t make me prejudiced Me: you are prejudiced. You make racist comments. Mom: I am not racist. It’s not like I’m a member of the kkk or anything Me: you don’t have to be a member of the kkk to be racist. Mom: that’s not true, I think it’s someone’s actions that make them racist Me: that’s not what racism is Mom: look I just think that statistically minorities commit more crimes Me: that’s generalizing, that’s racism Alex: well like think of it this way, if me and a person from the Dominican Republic apply for the same stockroom job, the guy doesn’t speak much English, we have the same qualifications though, but I’d still get the job Mom: because he doesn’t speak English Alex: but it’s a stockroom job, English isn’t required. Mom: it’s a matter of being educated. Yeah minorities have a harder time but they can rise above their circumstances. I have a black kid on my bus who is very nice, very smart. Alex: but black people and other minorities have a history of generations of shit like redlining and being passed over for jobs for white people Mom: so they have obstacles but it’s totally possible to rise above that Me: do you drive mostly black kids or mostly white kids Mom: white kids Me: because you live in CT, a rich state and it’s so much harder for a minority to live here as opposed to white people Mom: look okay I just don’t think it’s a mindset that makes you racist. Listen we got a nice brand new bus, very nice bus. There’s another black kid on my bus that cut up the back of a seat, and when we asked him why he did it he was like I dno... Me: why are you holding the actions of one kid to his entire race? Have you seen white kids get in trouble? Mom: of course Me: then see you’re basing your opinions of an entire race around 2 individuals. That’s what racism is Mom: don’t you want to live in an Area with more educated people and people like yourself? Me: no I don’t give a crap if people of other races live around me. Alex: you say this, yet we live in Boston, which is still very white and segregated Me: true Mom: Boston is still segregated? Alex: yes it is. Very much so. Mom: but Boston is a liberal city Me: that doesn’t mean anything, you can be liberal and still be racist. Alex: gran torino was an excuse for Clint Eastwood to be an old racist grandpa. Mom: what? But that was such a good and heart-wrenching movie. Me: I’ve never seen Gran Torino Alex: Clint Eastwood spent most of the movie calling the Asian family next door various racial epithets. the plot of the movie is that this poor Asian kid gets forced by a gang to steal Clint’s car. Clint goes all ptsd on him pulling out his old rifle and chances him. Clint then grudgingly tales the kid under his wing while continuing to insult him at every turn. After the gang rapes the kids sister. Clint decides to get rid of them by ticking them into murdering him because the only reason police would put a gang away is they killed a white person. Mom: but that doesn’t make Clint Eastwood a racist. Hollywood tends to be full of liberal people Alex: Mel Gibson is part of Hollywood and he’s still an asshole Mom: oh well Mel Gibson is the worst don’t get me started on Mel Gibson Me: well yes see mel Gibson is an actor and he’s still an anti-Semite, because he made anti-Semitic remarks Mom: I dno. I don’t have all the answers. Speaking of which what do you guys think about trump naming jerusalem as the capital of Israel? Me: I think it’s a move to please his base that think that it will encourage the rapture and the onset of the apocalypse Mom: The UN is anti Israel and keeps attacking them. Israel is trying to the right thing but no matter what they do they are attacked for it. Alex: the Israelis are more trying to appear to do the right thing while doing nothing. I think the UN picks on them because they are a democracy and there for can be influenced unlike say Saudi Arabia Mom: look jews were killed during the holocaust Me: what does that have to do with anything? Alex: see this is what I hate about people arguing about Israel is that someone brings up the holocaust when it’s completely irrelevant to what’s happening now. Mom: Well the Israelis are not murdering families while they sleep and stabbing people. Alex: that’s a minority of Arabs that do such things and there are conservative israelis that have attacked Palestinian settlements. Also the Israelis have killed far more Arabs than the other way around. It’s like a child fighting an adult. Until Israel shows restraint this will continue. Me: I’ve been to Hebron, in the area where it’s mostly Arab and the area where it’s mostly Israeli. The Arab area is full of soldiers on duty with guns. Mom: aren’t there soldiers everywhere in Israel? Me: yes, because everyone is required to serve in the military, but I’m saying that in areas that have more Jewish people it doesn’t feel like a police state Mom: Well I just see all these videos that Palestinians put out that they teach their kids to hate Israel and their government pays stipends to the families of suicide bombers. Did you go to the golan heights? Me: yes Mom: did you know that the people on the other side used to shoot Israelis from across the border Me: yeah because they felt like their land was being stolen, which it was Mom: My cousin Avi who is in the Israeli defense force says they show restraint when they can and they even warn Arab people by dropping leaflets that they’re going to attack the area Me: yeah for all the good that does Alex: *laughs* but they still destroy the area. The problem I also have with that is that a lot of them dont have the means to get out. They also don’t say when they’re going to attack so people will try to get out at the wrong time and they end up being caught in the attack and they die anyway. Mom: Well it’s just that what your cousin said...btw I read that Palestinians use their children as human shields and then make videos that say they killed our children to foster hate. Me:...are you saying that they deliberately herd their children into the line of fire for the express purpose of being able to say look they killed our children? Mom: look I’m just saying that I believe what [some woman I don’t remember] says that there will be peace in the Middle East when Arabs love their children more than they hate Israel (She kept talking but at this point I got up to go to the bathroom and because I needed a minute) Mom: what did your tour guides have to say about this Me: I felt like we were being fed a lot of propaganda Mom: look any group of people will say what they need to say to survive, it’s only natural that they would put out propaganda. Me: of course they would only say good things because they want us to move there. Alex: yeah that’s the whole point to increase the Jewish population in the area by getting more Jews to move there Me: yeah it’s so they can increase the percentage of Jews and decrease the percentage of Arabs living there Mom: well the Arabs do a good job of killing themselves off don’t they? Alex: ...what the fuck?? Me: see THAT was a racist comment. Also you keep saying Palestinians plural, like it’s the entire group, when really it’s only a few Arabs that do this. Mom: well the Palestinians... Me: see you keep doing it. Mom: I mean the few Palestinians that stab people and suicide bomb Jewish areas Me: then say that. Say “the ones that do these things” because it’s more accurate Mom: okay fine Alex: also, there are a few Jewish extremists that attack Arabs Mom: no. There are Jewish people that stab Arabs? Alex: no, they shoot them. Mom: you’ve read this? Alex: yes, I’ve read this. Again, it is only a small portion of Jewish people that do it, just like it’s a small portion of Arabs that stab people and suicide bomb people Mom: okay fine, I get that they feel like second class citizens but I just see all these articles about the UN being unfair and your cousin Avi posts these articles on Facebook about Arabs stabbing families and how hamas pays stipends to the families of suicide bombers Me: that’s your problem, reading articles on Facebook. You’re supposed to google these things and fact check them *mimes typing* gee maybe the UN has reasons for condemning israel Alex: because Israel has done shitty things Mom: they’re trying to survive while all the countries around them think they don’t have a right to exist Alex: yes, the most extreme hardliners think they don’t have a right to exist. A lot of Arabs living there just don’t want to be treated like second class citizens and resent the fact that they don’t have a voice in the Israeli government that’s very conservative right now. I guarantee you that if Netanyahu were to stop acting like they’re in a constant state of war with these people then he would lose a lot of power. Mom: but a lot of Arabs kill each other like saddam Hussein, colonel gaddafi Alex: Hussein killed a select subgroup of Arabs yes. But you seem to be naming Arabs who the US has backed that killed other Arabs Mom: what? Alex: yeah, we’re the problem Mom: okay fine I’ll try to read more about this it’s just it takes so much time to look up all this stuff This is all paraphrasing and the order of which topics were talked about may be inaccurate because this happened last night and both our memories are fuzzy but the main ideas were definitely said.

[therealdragonnerdagain]

This is so true.

It's not because women are biologically inclined to be less interested or incapable. It's because we're bullied out and discouraged at an early age. It's the same way people of color are by and large denied access to a good education, then racists pull some statistics out of ther asses, citing black people as just "inferior" rather than looking at the way society is shaped and who it primarily benefits.

Anyone who's followed me since 2014 probably knows I grew up playing with Legos.

Not those pink Legos marketed at girls either. All the shit that was marketed at boys, I played with. And it never once occured to me that the sets weren't "meant" for me because I viewed it as totally normal, wanting to build things.

I always loved building things when I was a kid. Or else taking things apart. My mother would bring my sisters and I circuit boards. I remember building a telephone once and accidentally eavesdropping on my mother's conversation.

It wasn't until high school that I first learned how mean men and boys were to women who wanted to do things they had already deemed "male activities."

In high school I joined a computer class where each student was going to bulid a computer. The very first day, my teacher ridiculed me. He asked a question, and when I answered, he mimicked me in a high-pitched voice.

My friend and I were the only girls in the class, so when the teacher -- a grown-ass man -- made fun of a teenage girl's voice, everyone else laughed. I just quietly got up and left. My friend left with me, an we never went back.

I wound up taking Spanish instead. Ironically enough, the computer teacher's father taught Spanish and he was much nicer to me. I didn't have to put up with sexism and I was allowed to learn without being ridiculed. There were also more girls in the class, so I felt better being there (gee, I wonder WHY).

It was a shame. I really wanted to take a computer class but I just couldn't deal with the meanness and ridicule I faced just because I was a girl. I was already suffering the beginning of bipolar as a teen, so I just couldn't do it.

On top of that, the computer teacher who mocked me so cruelly was also my chemistry teacher, so having to put up with his shittiness in TWO classes would have been too much.

My chem/computer teacher was an all-around misogynist who spent more time complaining about his ex-wife than actually teaching us. If the boys in class sexually harassed me by making comments in the middle of class about having sex with me -- yes, this really happened -- my sexist teacher would yell at me for being angry about it, then proceed to explain away that men were always thinking about sex constantly, so telling them they weren't allowed to harass me was just denying them their freedom of expression.

Sound familiar? Yeah, my chem/computer teacher sounds like every asshole on the internet right now, who thinks being asked not to shout disgusting things at women on the street is somehow a threat to his free speech and freedom of sexual expression.

My chem/computer teacher was an older misogynist who taught all the boys in my class how to be an entire new generation of misogynists. See, when I say bigotry is something that's passed down generation after generation, it's not something I'm just making up -- it's something I have witnessed.

My chem/teacher "protected" his male students' "right" to treat me like a piece of meat, and all at the expense of a young girl's right to basic decency, respect, and the same opportunities to attend computer classes as the boys.

My uncle is an engineer (my mother brought it up once at a flea market and the white man sitting at the table laughed uproariously at her and accused her of lying about a black man actually being an engineer -- this was about five years ago and, no, it wasn't in the South) and had I followed in his foot steps, I would have faced more men like my computer teacher. It would have been an endless parade of mockery, condescension, and being told I am inferior.

As a black person who already has to deal with racism, why on earth would I want to spend my entire life dealing with pigheaded misogynists just so I can design some airplanes? When you're a minority in America, you learn pretty quick where you aren't wanted and what fields will be the most difficult for you to rise in due to your sexuality, color, and gender.

Maybe if I wasn't mentally ill, I could have pursued a career as an engineer (not that I wanted to). But I just don't have the mental fortitude to put up with that much bullshit.

Women don't gravitate away from STEM because we're biologically inclined.

Women gravitate away from STEM because men are assholes.

Men have made the world of STEM a toxic place to be for women. It's no different than video games. Or comedy. Or sports. Or any other space that is dominated by men.

The socially, economically oppressed groups in any given society are always a direct reflection of the people who have taken power.

You want answers, straight white men? Look in the mirror.

[as-be-low]

Time Has Changed Me, Chapter 4

You know how it feels, you understand What it is to be a stranger In this unfriendly land Here's my hand Take it, darling And I'll follow you Lead Me On—Bobby Blue Bland

AO3 | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7

When Stanford returned with Stella in tow, he looked somewhere between confused and pissed off. Stella, on the other hand, looked quite content to be hanging onto the other man’s trench coat lapel.

“Didja have fun, little bit?”

“We found the shiny!”

Stan let his eyebrows shoot upwards. “You found the shiny? Was it pretty?”

“Kinda!”

“Well, I’m glad.” He pointedly ignored Ford’s glare as he reached for his kid. He was surprised to find that the man’s arms tightened protectively, automatically, before he relaxed enough to pass her off. Stan smiled despite himself as the girl’s head came to rest against his shoulder. “Was it pretty, Uncle Ford?” he challenged, raising an eyebrow.

“…Remarkably so. Though I must admit, it came as quite a shock, as I was given absolutely no forewarning to process such a sight.”

Really? Was all this because he cried just now? Stanley rolled his eyes. “Don’t see why you’d need it, but at least the two of you had fun, I guess.”

“That would imply a more welcome surprise.”

Stan set his jaw. “You sayin’ it’s bad?”

“No. No.” Ford shook his head vehemently and sighed, running a hand through his fluffy curls. “I just… I wouldn’t wish that on anyone, okay? Least of all—

“Finish that thought later.” Stanley cut the man off, turning slightly away. He would have turned and walked away completely, but it wasn’t as though he had anywhere to actually go, other than his car. Can’t just invite yourself into another man’s house. Not when you’re arguin’ with him. He heard the man shuffle his feet.

“Right. Right. You’re right. Apologies.” Stanley’s nostrils flared briefly and he jerked his chin in acknowledgement. Even he could hear the distinct lack of sincerity.

“You’ve got glitter in your hair.” He mumbled, running a hand across Stella’s head to pick out the flecks. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Stanford aggressively muss his hair and shake his head back and forth, making his hair stand on end. Stan snorted.

“It appears the leprecorn makes its own form of dust. Awful creatures.” Stan was just gonna ignore that.

What in the fuck was a leprecorn, though? No, y’know what, I’m not gonna give him the satisfaction of asking. He settled for eyeing the man until he caught on and had the decency to look sheepish.

“Well. I suppose we should go inside?” Stanley let out a noncommittal grunt but followed behind him all the same.

≈

Ford led his brother through to his—he supposed it could be called a living room, now that he’d removed his equipment—and gestured to a chair. Maybe he should invest in furniture other than his book-laden worktable. It doesn’t matter. He reminded himself as his brother pulled out an empty chair and plopped the child down. He forced a stilted smile; it was bad form to fight your long-estranged brother in front of his toddler, that much he knew.

“Stella, sweetie, I’m gonna go get your crayons ‘n stuff out of the car, okay? Think you can hang tight for a minute?”

“ ‘Kay.” Stan gave Ford a vague jerk of the chin as he walked out. He followed his twin outside, taking care not to slam the door.

“Stanley—”

“Alright, here’s how this is gonna go. Make my kid feel bad about her hands and I’ll punch you in the face. Got it?”

“Punch me in the face? What the actual fuck, Stan? Are you out of your mind? First you treat this like some kind of a—some kind of a joke, and then you have the audacity to talk about me?” Ford bristled.

“Joking? You think I’m joking? I—”

“You turned this into some sort of a game for you to play, because you can’t—”

“My child is not a game, and don’t you dare act otherwise.”

“Stanley, you’re the one who—”

“Oh, I get it. You’re pissed off because I didn’t walk in and go ‘oh, gee. Hello, Ford, this is my daughter and guess what? She’s got hands just like you!’ Well, I’m not gonna make ‘em into a big deal for her, because they’re not. I’m not gonna teach her otherwise by making a big deal about it and having you or anyone else react badly to it, like you are now, and showing her ‘oh, there’s something wrong with this,’ because there isn’t. She’s absolutely perfect the way she is.” Stanley paused, running a hand along his face before gesturing towards Ford, the fingers of one hand straightened and pressed together as he pointed to him. “It’s not a big deal, and people really don’t give a shit about anyone else unless you make them care. Everyone’s more worried about themselves than anyone else. See? You didn’t even notice she’s got the same hands as you because you were too busy worrying about what a baby would think of you. As if she cares. So don’t… Y’know, no one in the diner said anything about your hands, either, ‘cause nobody made it into a big deal for them to notice in the first place. So don’t… Don’t even go there.” With a glare, he turned away from Ford and fumbled in his pocket to unlock the car.

Ford was speechless. His eyes followed Stanley slowly as he rummaged through the backseat, reemerging with a fistful of half-used crayons and various crumpled sheets of paper. He kicked the door shut with his heel and silently stalked inside.

Ford leaned against the side of the car, his hands folded in front of him. He stared down. The door creaked, then slammed shut behind his brother. Damn it. Had he just fucked up? It was likely. He didn’t want to think about that. So Stanley was more cognizant of things than he’d initially thought. It was unsettling. Why, to think that he was capable of any sort of rational thought or foresight?

He was wrong, though. Stanford had never thought poorly of his hands until they’d entered school-age territory and his brother’s nonchalance was drowned out by absolutely everyone else. The world was full of cruel children who grew up to become cruel, ostracizing adults, who then went on to complete the cycle and produce more cruel offspring. Nothing would change. She’d be just as shunned as he was, with the added insult of her father’s casual disregard. It wouldn’t make a difference.

Maybe it would. Had his own parents made it into a non-issue? Or had they preemptively consoled him about his unformed insecurities, as if they themselves needed the reassurance? Who was he kidding? His father didn’t care about consoling him. The man had always made it clear that he had the utmost disdain disinterest in his children, especially if they “served no use” to him. Like Stanley. The number of digits mattered as little to that man as his sons did combined. Fuck. His gaze trailed up towards the front door. He still wasn’t sure that his brother was doing the child any favors. He still wanted to punch him. But why, though? Was he still mad at him? He couldn’t tell. His feelings of anger and betrayal, followed by guilt and shame had colored his perception of the man for years. They probably wouldn’t fade any time soon. Would that I were colorblind, in that respect. He snorted. He should probably head inside.

Ford eased the door open and shut, then headed directly for the kitchen. I’m not avoiding Stanley. Really, he wasn’t—he just needed to clean the mess he’d made earlier. Truly. After all, he did promise to inspect the fridge. He’d also need a list of supplies to gather from the grocery store. From the looks of the fridge, he really hadn’t properly handled grocery shopping in quite some time. Despite his resolve, the sounds from his living room—he’d really have to get used to calling it that, he supposed—lured him to distraction. Faint giggles mixed alongside his brother’s low voice, his words blurred and obscured by the soft, gentle tone he spoke in. Ford didn’t think he’d ever heard Stanley speak so gently. He’d always been entirely rough-and-tumble in his mannerisms, with the boisterous voice to go along with it. He couldn’t imagine Stanley doing anything gently. It was disconcerting. He found himself leaning against the kitchen threshold, peeking across the hallway into the room. Stanley sat hunched, leaning over the table as he watched the child scribble over a sheet of paper. A grin broke across Stanley’s face.

“That’s real good, kiddo. Real nice.”

“Yeah!” The child beamed up at her father, climbing to her knees to bounce in the chair. She picked up a stubby red crayon. “This is gonna be a chicken.”

“A chicken, huh? I bet it’s gonna be the best chicken.”

“Mmm hmm.” She scribbled what looked like a jagged-edged blob from Ford’s vantage point, then dropped the crayon, satisfied. “Daddy, how do you draw a horse?”

Stanley sat up a bit, blinking. “Oh, geez, I dunno, sweetie. Daddy can’t draw as good as you can.” It took all o Dord’s willpower to refrain from correcting him from a distance. “I mean, it’s kinda round like an egg, but with legs?” Yikes, Stan.

“Egg legs?”

“Yeah, somethin’ like that.” Okay, no. That was decidedly not going to fly with Ford. He inched closer to the pair, but stopped short in the proper doorway. Such an intrusion was likely unwelcome. He shouldn’t intrude. But then again, his niece did want to learn to draw a horse… Oh, fuck it, it’s my house. I can go where I want. He eased his way inside the room, clearing his throat.

“I could…help you. To draw a horse. If…If that’s okay.” His eyes eased over to Stanley as he did his best to affect an air of nonchalance, which quickly dissipated as he noticed the smile fade from his brother’s face and the tension ease back in. Shit. Stanley remained quiet for a long beat.

“Whaddya say, Stel?”

“Yeah!” the baby chirped. Ford let out a small sigh of relief. He sidled up to the table why Stanley rearranged the girl’s papers and crayons. He cocked an eyebrow. These weren’t coloring pages, or even blank paper, like he’d initially assumed. These were the backs of various flyers and menus.

His observation was clearly unwelcome, judging by the glare he felt melting the side of his face. He cleared his throat uncomfortably as he leaned into the table. “Let’s see,” he mumbled, “first, we’ll need to work on the body. He took his index finger and pantomimed tracing an oval. She doesn’t want to draw a realistic horse, right? Certainly not. This was a toddler. He watched her scribble a lumpy, oblong shape where he’d traced his finger. Nope. No realistic horses here. And now, you can add in the legs and tail…” Three roughly-hewn lines descended from the lump. “And—” Stanford was cut off by a giggle as his niece wiggled in her seat, reaching for something. A pink crayon? She hastily scribbled over the partially-finished equine, then drew in a smiling face. Does it even have a head? The girl climbed down from the chair to run the few short steps to Stan. She shoved the paper at him, then preoccupied herself with balancing her weight on the leg he’d crossed over his knee.

“Ow. Let’s see what we—ow. Ow. Ow. Okay.” He made a show of examining the paper. “Seriously, Stella, that kinda hurts.”

“Sorry.”

“S’okay, sweetie. Hey, is this a pig? I thought you were gonna draw a horse!”

“No,” she huffed, slapping a small hand against his knee. “It’s a pink horse. ‘Cause it’s magic.”

Ford was appalled. It wasn’t even finished.

“Oh, I get it now.” He hummed appreciatively. “I have to say, this is one for the Stella Book.

The child beamed. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah!” She began to chant, bouncing on Stanley’s leg once more. Ford took a wary step back. What in the hell was happening here? Was she normally this active? Was that normal? She’d been much quieter earlier, and when he’d first seen her. Stanley stood and lifted the child, who quickly complained, little legs flailing.

“I wanna get down!”

“I know, kiddo. We’re gonna go outside so you can run around, okay?”

Ford jolted. That was decidedly not a good idea. “Stanley, it’s not safe—”

“You think I can’t watch my own kid?” Something dangerous lingered behind his eyes.

“No. No, I mean—”

“I’ll watch her. Like I always do. I saw you freak out about the woods. I won’t let her go that far out. It’ll be fine.” He gave the child in his arms a quick heft. “Now, c’mon. Let’s burn off all that sugar from breakfast. Hit you faster’n I thought it would.” He headed for the front door, with Ford on his heels like a distraught puppy. This wasn’t a good idea. This was terrible. He’d have to extend the boundary lines out much further than they already were. It’d be a pain to gather the necessary supplies, what with Stanley repeatedly leaving the house without any sort of protection to begin with—

He was brought out of his thoughts by a shriek. His body tensed and he reared up, his posture harried and defensive as his wild eyes darted around their surroundings. "Oh." It was just Stella. Of course. "Running in circles?"

Stan grunted. "Doesn't take much. I lucked out on that one." He stepped off of the porch and stood in the browned grass, feigning an attempt to grab the child as she zoomed by. She looks happy. I guess that’s what’s important here. Peals of laughter filled the air as Ford watched her dart back towards his brother, who scooped her up and held her upside down by the ankles. He doubled over, blowing raspberries against her cheek.

He put on a good front, but Stanford could see the quiet resignation in the lines of Stan’s face. He may not have seen his brother in years, but he knew that look. He saw it often enough in the mirror, if he cared enough to pay particular attention to his reflection. No, Stanley’s face is different now. Certainly not so much that they weren’t easily recognized as twins, but Stanley’s face bore the evidence of several years of hard living. He heard his brother chuckle, bringing his attention back to the identical stranger in his front yard. He doesn’t have to stay a stranger, though. Ford couldn't help the hesitant smile that played at the corners of his lips. Maybe these things could be resolved. It would certainly take time, but he hoped despite himself that the issues between he and Stanley were not insurmountable.

Stanley put the child down and cheered on her attempt at a cartwheel before sidling back up to the porch, leaning a respectable distance away from the other man. Ford held back a sigh, opting to worry his lip between his teeth for a few long moments.

“So…” He trailed away. No. If Stanley had wanted to share anything with him, he would have. As it were, he seemed more than willing to ignore him indefinitely, were that an option. Ford let out a sigh after all.

“No, Ford. You can bring the Spanish Inquisition later.” Ford gaped.

“I wasn’t… At least allow me to ask a few questions. I’m completely in the dark here.”

Stan sighed in response. “Fine.”

“So…” Ford drawled again, searching for a question Stan would likely answer. “How have you been?” Ford winced as soon as the words left his mouth. Stan let out a dry laugh.

“Yikes. Busy, I guess.” He inclined his head towards Stella. “Those things take a lot outta ya.”

“I can imagine.” Ford began drumming his fingers against the side of the porch in a nervous staccato. “Is it…where was she born? Please don’t say New Jersey.” He added the last bit as an afterthought. Stan snorted.

“Hell, no. She was born in San Fran. June 22nd of ’87.” That fond smile returned.

“She’s quite small.” The smile left again.

“Yeah, well, not everybody can be tall, Ford.” He shifted, his hackles rising as Ford raised a hand in placation.

“I didn’t mean anything by it, Stanley, really. She’s just…smaller than I thought?”

Stan sighed. “Yeah.”

Ford had to get this back on track before Stanley shut down completely. “I take it you were there when she was born.”

“You kidding me? I wouldn’t ‘a missed it for all the money in the world. Almost punched the orderly who wouldn’t let me through.” Ford could see that happening.

“Do you have any pictures? I mean… What’s the Stella Book?” He hoped that was amenable.

A long beat of silence followed. Ford brought his hands together and cracked his knuckles, rhythmically lacing and unlacing his fingers as he fidgeted. “I’d love to see what she looked like.”

Stan leaned forward, as though he contemplated not responding, then nodded. “Yeah. Can’t believe you were payin’ attention to all that.” He mumbled under his breath, lingering for a moment longer against the side of the porch before pushing off to amble towards the Stanleymobile.

Well, why wouldn’t I pay attention? Stanford’s eyes tracked his brother as he made his way back to the porch. That car has certainly seen better days. Stanley returned, a worn notebook tucked protectively under his arm. He sat down on the front step, his chin tucked close to his chest as his fingers passed almost reverently over the frayed spiral-bound notebook in his lap. Ford eased himself down beside him, sparing a quick glance at the child currently tugging up his grass. Good. Less to have to have cut come spring. I should probably invest in a goat. He turned his attention back downwards as the notebook was carefully placed into his lap.

“Here.” His brother’s voice was gruff and he quickly looked away. Why was Stanley so uncomfortable? What was there to be uncomfortable about? It was just a baby book, albeit an unconventionally bound one. Ford studied the nondescript front, letting a finger trail along the warped and frayed edge.

“Well? Open it, if you’re gonna.” Stanley groused, one hand on the back of his neck as he stared down at the bottom step.

“…Right.” Ford thought it wise to hold his tongue for once. He cracked open the notebook and a smile slowly spread across his features. “D’awwww,” he teased, gently nudging the man beside him.

“Give it back if you don’t like it.”

Ford blinked. “That’s… That’s not what I meant. At all.”

“Yeah, well…”

Ford paused. Should he give the notebook back? Or would that be considered an insult? He couldn’t understand why Stanley was so keyed up over something so inconsequential. His curiosity won out, ultimately, and he began to pore over the pages in front of him. He studied a slightly younger Stan cradling a little pink bundle in his arms, looking equal parts lost, terrified, and thrilled. In another photo, his brother’s eyes watered as the newborn in his arms opened her eyes, presumably for the first time, and stared up at him. Beside it, tears streamed down his brother’s scruffy, bruised cheek as a miniscule hand pulled his pinky to her mouth. Was that a black eye he spotted? Why is he bruised up here?

“Quit lookin’ at the sappy ones. The nurse took those.” Stan interrupted with a grunt, unable to hide the affection in his voice despite its brusqueness. Ford ignored his directions and laughed at his brother pulling faces as an unimpressed and sleepy infant ignored him. He watched Stanley’s expression shift to sheer panic in the next photo as a tiny fist latched on to his long hair while a second pair of hands entered the frame, trying to coax the little hand open. I bet that must’ve been a handful. Ford snorted to himself.

He shuffled through more photos, stamping down his feelings of concern as the buckled notebook paper crackled with each turn from the cheap glue that bound the photos to its pages. He paused to frown at one photograph in particular. Stella was strapped into the backseat of the Stanleymobile, seatbelts crisscrossing across her as she slept, suckling on a hospital-issued pacifier.

“You took her home without a car seat.”

Stan had the gall to look affronted. “She’s fine. Look at her, she’s buckled up twice and she’s covered in pillows. Obviously she’s fine, since she’s right over there, and all.”

“Stanley, it’s important that young children have car seats to ensure proper safety. And that’s one pillow.” He scolded. Stanley rolled his eyes and turned away, mumbling under his breath.

“Since when did you become a baby expert? She’s got a car seat now, ain’t she?” Ford frowned, but bit back on his reply. He needed to change the subject to something…something else.

“What’ve you been up to? I mean, you’re living in San Francisco? That must be nice.” Ford couldn’t help the hopeful tone that crept into his voice. Stanley shook his head.

“Nah, Stella was just born there.”

“So where are you now?”

“Gravity Falls, Oregon.”

Ford let out a huff. “You know what I meant.”

Stanley shifted his weight, resting his arms on his thighs as he stared out. “All over the place. Been moving around a lot, picking up odd jobs here and there.”

“Jobs like what?”

“Does it really matter?”

“I’d like to think so.”

Stanley sighed through his nose, a long, drawn-out noise. “Just… Little odd shit here and there when I find it. Nothin’ special, nothin’ in particular.” He shrugged.

“But where are you living now?”

“Ford. Just here ‘n there, like I said, I move around a lot. Never stay in one place too long. Doesn’t matter.”

“I think it does.” Why wouldn’t he just tell him?

“Not to me. Just… Let it go, alright? Please.”

Ford blinked away his frustration. “Alright. Okay.” Something was wrong. He would find out what. Of that, he was certain.

“Sometimes I box.” Stanley added after several long moments.

“You still keep it up?”

Stan shrugged again. “It’s what I’m good at.”

“…Right.” Ford looked back down and flipped the page of the notebook, causing a lone sheet of paper to flutter out. He caught the page and held it out, frowning as he turned it upside down. “And what’s this supposed to be?”

“Shit if I know. She was like two.” Ford flipped the page over. Sure enough, in the margin of a diner’s menu, Stanley had carefully written Purple Cloud Thing by Stella, 1y 8mo. He put the sheet of paper back and continued to flip through the pages. Bath time in what looked like a dingy, generic tub. What might’ve been first steps or a first attempt at standing, with Stella clutching a stiff, mass-produced bed spread. Stella on a green patterned carpet with what looked like spaghetti in her hair and across her face, and a plastic microwave dinner tray in front of her.

Ford swallowed. His tongue was thick and dry. He flipped through more pictures of Stella grinning from her backseat seatbelt prison. “She’s absolutely adorable.” He managed a chuckle despite his growing alarm. These were all motel rooms. His brother’s child was growing up from the backseat of a car. Fuck. His worries were worse than he anticipated. His brother was homeless. But you already figured as much. That his brother had a child, who was, by extension, also homeless, left him with a sharp ache he hadn’t been prepared for. Couldn’t have been prepared for. He turned the notebook’s cramped pages and stared without seeing as his mind raced, his eyes unfocused as they trailed slowly over iterations of his homeless niece’s face. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down.

He heard Stanley shift, letting out a puff of air. “Spit it out.”

“I—What?”

“I can see that brain ‘a yours goin’ a mile a minute. Whatever it is, just go on and ask it already. You’re gonna do it, anyway, so go on.”

“Where were these pictures taken?” Ford saw his brother’s hackles rise in his peripheral vision. “I mean, where were you living here?” he quickly amended.

“Don’t really remember. Like I said, we move around a lot. Don’t make this into a big deal.” Stanley warned.

“Can’t I just want to know what you’ve been doing for the past several years? Is that so unreasonable?”

“Kinda, yeah, considering.”

That stung. That really stung. Ford wasn’t sure how to respond to that, or if he should. He’s probably right, though. Ford slumped slightly and leaned forward on his haunches, sparing a glance at his brother from the corner of his eye. The man had taken to hiding behind his hair, sitting similarly hunched.

Ford let out a huff to cut through the silence.

“I still forgot to get groceries.”

Stan snorted. “Seriously? You just... You had the ability, but you just managed to not buy food? Do you have anything?”

“I…may have used the last of the viable options this morning in my unsuccessful attempt to prepare a suitable breakfast.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Ford.”

“You say that as though it’s completely unusual.”

“You think it’s not?” Stan shook his head as though to clear his mind. “Y’know what? Never mind. Just…get in the car.”

“What?”

“Whaddya mean, ‘what?’ You got a car?”

Ford wrinkled his nose. “Well, no. You know that.”

“Then I’m drivin’ you to the grocery store.” He paused, eyeing Ford oddly. “You do know how t’get us there, right?”

Ford sighed. “Yes. Yes, I do. I can get us there.” Stan wasn’t going to let him live his isolation down, was he?

“I’ll hold you to that.” Stan buried his hands deep into the pockets of his ratty jacket and stood, various joints cracking and popping as he moved. Both twins let out a hiss. How had that thing not fallen apart by now? Ford thought it impossible for the thing not to have dry rotted by now. No, this one is different. There isn’t a…a burn hole in the shoulder. One that I put there.

Ford’s expression quickly darkened in shame. He did that. He’d branded his brother. He’d—

“Well?” Stanley shifted his weight from foot to foot, keys jingling in his pocket as he wiggled his hands in agitation. “Are we going or not?”

“Right.” Stanford stood with a mild grimace of his own. They’d have to choose better seating arrangements in the future, though he’d have to worry himself with that later. For now, he’d focus more on keeping his foot out of his mouth and the tenuous relationship with his brother afloat. That, and not getting them lost on the way to the supermarket. It really had been a while.

This took a looot longer than I wanted it to, but life happens that way sometimes! As an aside, I should make a playlist of the songs I keep putting in the chapter titles and summaries. That would make sense. Yeah. Also, I somehow managed to post this to here but forgot to post to AO3. Too busy getting ready for Valentine's Day, I guess.

[badfurrynoyiff-blog]

BF-NY! Issue 1 Hypernormalization is Tearing the Furry World Apart, Not Nazis

Not only is the idea of a “Nazi Furry” absurd, it is an idea that real Neo-Nazis renounce. The real danger comes from violent and divisive tactics from financial interests.

As a young, impressionable teen I thought that this fandom would be a way to meet wonderful people. For a time it, was. Without the community I surely would have taken a dark road in life. Hell, I might have died. If it weren’t for the furs who opened their homes to me, I would still be living in squalor subject to an abusive, addicted family.

I have seen great things from this community. Without it, I wouldn’t have my spouse of five years. I would have never been able to draw like I do now. I wouldn't have found the ability to dance, and voice act. I have never seen this community as anything more than folks who appreciate art. (Also, they like dog dicks) For all the highs the community has given me, it has beaten me down with some of my biggest lows. For the longest time I was able to ignore the shit in the fandom. Slowly, it started to consume my friends as the rampage of the (3rd wave) feminist mind virus took my “second” family. I have often thought to myself that it is just from getting older, or maybe I am a shitty person. As of 2010 the fandom began to look much like my abusive dysfunctional family I left behind. Today, my god, I have no idea how anyone could feel comfortable in this fandom. The sheer amount of back stabbing, negative attitudes, toxic politics. I honestly feel a strange mixture of shame and anxiety when dealing in anything furry.

So, I left. I saw the abuse, I saw the pattern of addiction I was forming with competing to stay “relevant.” No joke. Someone has called me “Irrelevant” for not participating in cringe inducing fads, or agreeing with popular opinion. I think my last straw was when: someone made a website to keep me out  of the community; not even minutes after his friend called me irrelevant. Why? I didn’t want to be part of fandom popularity contests, I regularly stood up to bullies.

Jaret Reddick’s voice rings full in my head:

...You still don't have the right look, And you don't have the right friends, Nothing changes but the faces, the names and the trends High school never ends!

So, as of writing this blog there is currently a “furry war” the likes of which has never been seen. Forget The YouTube War, Burned Furs, or the Babyfur War. This has become a war that defies all logic, all reason, it has transcended into mainstream media, and boy howdy! It even barged it’s way right into my life. I thought I put furry behind me, nope. Nah son! It’s time that you lose your gaming friends over fucking furry drama. Cause guess what, your gaming buddies are Anti-Fa, and one of them happens to be a gender-queer babyfur. Whoops!

Pray tell what calamity would tear drama would reach a closet furry all the way in EvE Online? Of all things “Furry Nazis.” I managed to get into a fight about the existence of fucking Nazi furries. I made the fatal mistake of linking a “anti-semetic” video: Shut it Down. I won’t link that one here, but if you are familiar with chan culture, the reference is obvious. Because, RMFC getting shut down  by terrorist threats from a Jewish, communist, anti-fa, squat lord is honestly some of the funniest and stereotypical shit I ever heard.

(The answer is no.)

Consider my almonds fully activated

Thank goodness that the Rolling Stone still has some journalistic integrity. They did what many furries fail to do. RS recognized the “Furry Raiders” as a troll group. Something that is very obvious if you aren’t huffing Peggy Mcintosh’s intellectual queefs. If you don’t know who she is the matriarch of “Third Wave Feminism.” She literally wrote the book on Privilege .

“All white people live in a Disney movie!” - Peggy Mcintosh  Let’s detract from furries and focus on her assertions first, suspend your personal feelings on this subject matter. As with disproving all manor of intellectual guffaws we can easily break down the falsities of “white male privilege.”  In-case you missed it here is the link to “White Privilege: Unpacking the Invisible Knapsack.” I’ll give you a few moments to check your privilege. Done? Good. What you just read is by far one of the most intellectually unsound, racist, misandrist, and presumptuous pieces of collegiate refuse ever to be seen. If you didn't gleam that from what you read, just change some words around. Everyone experiences lack of privilege according to this list. But, racists on either side would have you believe differently.  I’m not going to go over all 50 points, (most of them being redundant) rather just the ones that scream "that's racist, Peggy.”

1. I can if I wish arrange to be in the company of people of my race most of the time 

By the first bullet point, we are already in “all whites are racist” territory. I am hard pressed to find people who are not hardcore racists who actually care about the race of others. I can not think of the last time I sincerely said “Gee I sure do wish I had more WHITE PEOPLE to hang out with!”  Like.... really? 

Isn’t this a privilege shared by most people, except white Europeans?

2. I can avoid spending time with people whom I was trained to mistrust and who have learned to mistrust my kind or me. 

Honestly, this is what this is all about. Isn’t it? Projecting your insecurities onto others.

7. When I am told about our national heritage or about “civilization,” I am shown that people of my color made it what it is

That’s because they did. The United States was colonized by Anglo-Saxons, who brought disease to the Native Population. They also relied on slave-labor as many undeveloped nations still do today. Slavery is present in every societal history. Industrialization was the end of slavery. Shit, all of civilization is due to people of any color. This statement is to explicitly demonize whites, as the US largely developed under white colonial rule. However, if you looked a Indian, or Chinese history book, it would largely show Indian or Chinese people, correct? Facts are facts. Whitewashing/Blackwashing of history is abhorrent; intellectually and socially.

8. I can be sure that my children will be given curricular materials that testify to the existence of their race.

This is the most obvious one to attack. I don't recall being told of different white heritages/races as a child. In-fact, I was labeled a white supremacist for recognizing more than one race of “white” people. Reasoning: “Culture comes from race! Not the other way around!”

20. I can do well in a challenging situation without being called a credit to my race

This is one of the only every-day racist statements in this entire handout. As a white person I have been called a “credit to my race” by a real Neo-Nazi, in a sarcastic manor. I cant think of any situation where anyone except racists or really ignorant folks would say this.

21. I am never asked to speak for all the people of my racial group 

No one asked you to do it, and here you are. Shame on you.

22. I can remain oblivious of the language and customs of persons of color who constitute the world’s majority without feeling in my culture any penalty for such oblivion

Currently, how I live I suffer social penalty for not understanding languages or customs. I am a foodie. I like to cook culturally authentic food. I try to speak as many major languages as possible. I travel. As you can imagine, I have the wealth to support it. In my personal culture; it is damaging to be ignorant.

23. I can criticize our government and talk about how much I fear its policies and behavior without being seen as a cultural outsider. 

So you teach people to feel like cultural outsiders... and then tell them its a privilege to not feel that way?

25. If a traffic cop pulls me over or if the IRS audits my tax return, I can be sure I haven’t been singled out because of my race.

This entire essay is racial profiling, but then implies not being racially profiled is a privilege of whites?

27. I can go home from most meetings of organizations I belong to feeling somewhat tied in, rather than isolated, out-of-place, outnumbered, unheard, held at a distance or feared.

So basically the opposite of how, straight, white, right leaning people are treated at college?

28. I can be pretty sure that an argument with a colleague of another race is more likely to jeopardize her/his chances for advancement than to jeopardize mine. 

A privilege granted explicitly to non-whites.

31. I can choose to ignore developments in minority writing and minority activist programs, or disparage them, or learn from them, but in any case, I can find ways to be more or less protected from negative consequences of any of these choices.

Uhh, isn’t this the piece of literature responsible for spawning a domestic terrorist group? Is it not that groups sole interest that  the construction of a communist anti-white ethnostate?  I’m not kidding. AntiFa/BlackBloc/BLM and Nation of Islam are the same movement. Am I not considered “problematic” simply for being white, male, and conservative? Do I not have to fear being “reprimanded” by revolution coming to my home town?  “By any means necessary” right AntiFa?

32. My culture gives me little fear about ignoring the perspectives and powers of people of other races.

I’m pretty sure people want to behead me, oven me, hang me, stone me, etc based on my race, sexuality, political stance, and religion. Many of them have the power and will to do so.

34. I can worry about racism without being seen as self-interested or self-seeking.

White folks get the worst when it comes to this. I am not allowed to worry about my culture dying without someone calling me a bigot. Likewise, I can’t be a champion for other races without being seen as a traitor or a SJW.

35. I can take a job with an affirmative action employer without having my co-workers on the job suspect that I got it because of my race.

I can’t take any job without it be attributed to my white male privilege now a days.

36. If my day, week or year is going badly, I need not ask of each negative episode or situation whether it had racial overtones. 

You should as that 67 year old woman who got socked for wearing a red cap about that one.

38. I can think over many options, social, political, imaginative or professional, without asking whether a person of my race would be accepted or allowed to do what I want to do.

“CULTURAL APPROPRIATION!” “RACIST!” “NAZI!” “WHITE SUPREMACIST” “PROBLEMATIC!” “ANTISEMITISM!” 

42. I can arrange my activities so that I will never have to experience feelings of rejection owing to my race.

If I was in college as a white male, I would be rejected an awful lot right now.

49. My children are given texts and classes which implicitly support our kind of family unit and do not turn them against my choice of domestic partnership.

What about my college students being sucked into a mind virus that teaches them that heterosexuality is abhorrent? “Sex Junk” anyone?

50. I will feel welcomed and “normal” in the usual walks of public life, institutional and social.

Unless you go slapping yourself with a snowflake gender (Outside of he, her, they), or you decide to rock a tail and Tripp Chains to work, I don't imagine sees anyone as abnormal; unless they themselves are.

You get the picture. While reading some of these bullet points did you feel a pang of polarization? You did? That’s the point.

Pictured: My heritage, also a potential hate symbol. 

What is hypernormalization, and what does it have to do with White Privilege?

 Since the 1970s, right around the “end” of the Cold War, most of the world’s cultures have been under attack by the same forces that fueled the Cold War. This has been detailed by a BBC documentary by the name of “HyperNormalization” likewise I used this to describe the current culture war in the Furry Fandom. This culture war is just a microcosm of current global culture. It is the march of Hypernormaliation.

Just what is this strange buzzword I have never heard before? Well, it is just what it sounds like. It is the hyper-normalization of everything: racism, communism, anarchism, sexuality, gender, furry, pedophilia, tribal conflict, consumerisim, etc. You name it, it is being normalized.

I am not going to go into full crazy territory and tell you that there is a plan to take over everyone (like the documentary suggests). Rather, I think this is a result of  ‘primitive’ humans and global communication. Our cultural war is of people clinging to their last vestiges of identity; and the instinct to dominate with their identity. It could be Social, Fiscal, or Theological dominance; the motivator is always power and capital.  Very few are capable of altruism, those who believe they are being altruistic, are not. It’s easy to tell when people start using or citing various *isims; and/or minimizing the struggles of others; it is for personal or herd gain, not out of altruism. Internet, public schooling, universities, and mass media have hypernormalized us all. Very few see themselves as a driven gear, rather, they see themselves as the driver gear in the great machine. Rarely do people today form their own opinions. As we are dying as individuals, desperate for identity we fight anyone trying to take that tiny piece of humanity away.  Which brings us back to to the truth of #altfurry, Furry Raiders, RMFC, Deo, Leftist, QuQu, “Bronies for Trump” etc; anyone else who is participating in this dumpster fire for anything more than schadenfreude. They are the hypernormalised. Even though #altfurry fights “pedophile” babyfurs, even though the SJWs fight the “nazi furries” neither of them actually exists for anything more than gaining social capital.

So what can you do?

Simple: Ignore them. Just do you. Make your gross porn, wear your Akransas suit, support Trump, but don’t force yourself on others. Don’t force your warped sensitivities on society because you don’t feel recognized. Likewise don’t force your identity on others. Accept them, they will accept you. You can’t hope to change people by ostracizing them, that only breeds more contempt and tribal behavior. Your identity is not unique, you are a human being. Unless you take the human race to Type 3 status, nothing you do actually matters. Neither should the personal tastes and and thoughts of others affect you now.

Pictured: a furry who gives no fucks.

If you have made it this far, congrats.

You most likely care about this fandom, and not warped, self service causes.

Do your part, ex-communicate those who only seek to defend themselves, and only themselves. The thirds side, is always the most moral.