#how the fuck am i 20

[mysticfoxdesigns]

It's my 20th birthday.

Making friends was never a strong suit of mine, as evident by the fact I did not have friends throughout elementary school. I was that weird kid that no one wanted to hang out with. It wasn't until middle school when I met the start of the Caseus group that I started making friends.

Hundreds of people in person and online have entered and left my life since then, with few remaining consistent. While I still deal with the side effects of those several years without friends, I wouldn't change it for the world, given who I have now in my life.

If I could go back and tell my younger self, that we did succeed, I would. She deserves that assurance that everything turned alright.

"You've become the adult you needed" -my therapist

I couldn’t add everyone onto this piece, some people I didn’t even know if they had a persona. I put the people I know IRL towards the front, with (mostly Tumblr) mutuals towards the back. All y’all have impacted my life in ways I never expected, and I am grateful for the bonds I have forged with everyone.

A not so complete list of mutuals and friends I have made here on Tumblr

@kdjam1 @wholesomepotato @ohboyitsmiles @sillyman-inc @spiritshaydra @gelu-the-babosa-multiversal @nova--spark @mikiusol @disclaimeryikes @thicctails @grahminradarin @kray-zay @staijey-the-creator @benadrylcandlewhack @frosty-tian @sphnyspinspin @genstudiosrelocated @signanothername @celestite-caroline @cayennesugar @justxplosions and many more who I know in real life and on other social medias

[nny-diocre]

i am filled with dread

[bacchuschucklefuck]

while teen while goblin while aroace while injured while doing your best

[ewwww-what]

Nobody is as excited about the preview as I am. I have paragraphs.

[deelovesbooks]

ko-fi

[sea-buns]

captioners you are so valid

[luck-of-the-drawings]

[OLD ART ALERT] A COLLECTION OF SCENES FROM THE GILLIONS CATSCRATCH ARC THAT BROUGHT ME GREAT JOY. i love fishy chips especially when its just gillion being delirious and violent and hostile

[heytherecentaurs]

Give Rashawn a fucking Emmy. Holy shit. Not even 20 minutes in and she is ACTING. This scene with Brennan, Erika and Rashawn is incredible. INCREDIBLE! They're amazing.

There are professional plays that have been written, workshopped, rewritten, rehearsed and performed that lack this level of acting and this degree of honesty.

[fairuzfan]

Something that really shocked me these past few days is the clarification that it isn't a matter of ignorance for these representatives and world leaders — it's blatant selfish interest that motivates them to commit atrocities on a large scale.

I think a small part of me assumed that once people find out about who we are and what we represent, naturally love will prevail instantly and the Palestinian people will finally receive our unending liberation — but that's not what happened. We have Biden confirming the beheaded babies stories despite not seeing a shred of evidence and at the same time downplaying the reported number of Palestinian deaths and it's not that he doesn't know. He's President of the United States for God's sake. He probably has intel on what Netanyahu ate for breakfast, of course he can see the public videos of Palestinian children with their heads blown off. Its not that he doesn't know — its that he doesn't care.

It's fully just the complete lack of compassion and empathy — placing your own selfish desires above everyone else's and for what? Truly, for what? For a few billion extra dollars? To assure that a select few will survive even if it means alienating the rest of your countrymen? Who is he serving and benefiting other than himself in this situation? What use is that money if you're going to die soon anyways?

I can't comprehend the level of selfishness these people have, to sacrifice lives that he knows can never speak up against him. But that's "the cost of war," isn't it Biden?

[camellia-thea]

so.... i finally started watching burrow's end

[rrat-king]

RINGS! THE BALL IS WEARING MAD RINGS (also the friendship bracelets are everything to me (i think everyone we’ve seen so far has had them which . adore))

why isn’t he wearing socks/is the ball wearing no show socks/the era of hot ankles gukgak

[intramoon]

𝒲+𝒜 (circa 2017)

[bacchuschucklefuck]

Riz has counted four casseroles this week alone. Five, if one goes by the method of cooking, but Yelen's scary when she's crossed, and calling her burek by its proper name is important to her, so Riz does her the courtesy and doesn't include it in his mental tally.

He holds the tupperware over his head to keep it out if the way as he takes careful steps over the piles of notes in his path. The dockman case just closed, relevant documentations handed over to relevant personnels, evidences dealt with as needed; all he has lying around now is just record of the process and traces of himself thinking through it. Unsurprisingly they still haven't invented a surface more convenient for people under five feet who like to pace to put pieces of paper on than the ground.

Actual records go into the case folder with the other documents. Anything else with at least one side still blank is going to the school kids in the block - they chew through an astounding amount of paper just learning arithmetic. The rest is for the recycling basket.

Later. It's his mandated lunch break right now.

Riz sits down in front of the corner file cabinet. In an office often overrun with papers and strings and sometimes even thumbtacks, he's never really managed to clutter up this exact square of surface like every other ones. Ever since the bottom drawer rattled for no discernible reason a day long past, his eyes have always just kinda decided to slide across the space without acknowledging it.

It's years out, now. Riz doesn't know why he thought it such a big deal anymore, back then. He wasn't scared, he doesn't think. Not anymore. Maybe just uncomfortable with the idea that certain things persist despite all efforts to change.

He opens the tupperware. Dame Carabelle's experiment greets him with enough spice in the aroma alone to knock out a small mammal. When he chopped the vegetables for this casserole he couldn't really imagine the eventual heft of it, evident even through just these few ladles' worth, maybe weighing heavier for being still warm. His folk eat more through the smell and the textures and the aftertastes than the taste itself. His folk's meal is really the cooking rather than the eating. The eating is the meal's end.

"Hey," he tells the file cabinet's bottom drawer. "Um."

It's the anniversary. Riz doesn't know the exact date of his dad's death; nobody currently alive does. He and Mom both use the date of the funeral, though as he moved out to Bastion and then got more directly involved with Interplanar he hasn't really been going to Dad's grave as much. Doesn't seem like very efficient use of his time, catching a train or borrowing a car or spending a whole spell slot on going somewhere he knows Dad isn't at. They're sorta coworkers now. They talk on and off every other week between missions. When he goes now, it's just to clean up the place, keeping the landmark tidy and respectable.

Without that work to mark the date he doesn't really know what it serves anymore. But he still remembers it. Still takes note, absently or not, when it comes around.

There's not really a good way to tell the drawer that. Riz looks for another way to start the... conversation, hopefully. The question at play, he'd guess, is why he's doing this. He's been pretty content ignoring all the rattlings and the knocks from inside and the times it sits slightly ajar without him ever opening it himself; hell, he still uses the three drawers on top of it. Space is fucking precious in Bastion.

Precious enough to finally fix this damn drawer so he gets his turn to use it? Riz asks himself. Is that what we're getting to? Then he dismisses the thought - he didn't manage to fix it the times he actually tried, let alone-- now. When he doesn't really care that much to.

That's probably a good place to start. "'s fine if you keep being in there, turns out," Riz says.

The lunch hours are quiet in the block, sleepy and bright with the brief window of sunlight that manages to break through roof overhangs and extended balconies and laundry lines and climbing vines. Riz's work isn't loud here (the loud parts happen away from his office, if everything goes right), but the fragment of early summer heat reflected in the steady warmth his meal still carries compels him to lower his voice even more. It makes the words feel intimate, in a way he's never been familiar with - if he says something he just says it. He doesn't whisper. If he gives his friends something, he gives it open-palm. He's found out, along the way, that people usually don't think of rituals and courtesies the way he does.

Small voice for a diminished monster. "You know why I think so?" Riz asks. "Because almost two decades ago you kidnapped me and almost killed me, and now you rattle a drawer in my office."

It doesn't sound as much like a taunt as Riz wanted it to; the drawer has made a lot of noises again this morning when he checked the calendar, and he was definitely annoyed at it. Now, though, facing it like this after cooking the whole morning with more grandparents and peers from the block than he can count on both hands to cater for a tenant union meeting, he thinks the annoyance has morphed. Changed shape.

It has the shades of something like pity. Riz is not prone to pity, and especially not at these kinda matters. It's slightly maddening that he coheres perfectly outside of this one spot. That he commands his spaces, except for a drawer.

He puts the tupperware onto the floor between himself and the cabinet. "I know we're aware it's the anniversary," he says at the drawer. "You do this every year. You make a ruckus every time I decide to go do my job instead of mooching off my friends' aircon, and every time I get an invitation to some stupid social thing I want to turn down, and every time one of the old people tries to introduce me to a child or a nibling, because being a bachelor over thirty is weird," he pinches the bridge of his nose. "I have three fucking jobs. I love doing my fucking jobs. I'm forcing funds into infrastructures. You're never leaving, are you."

The drawer vibrates lightly. It's a very, very mild acknowledgement, considering the history of reactions Riz has gotten from this thing. Riz thinks it's emanating joyous agreement, or satisfaction.

It only sharpens the pity. Riz doesn't like that, but it's how it is. That's, ultimately, the lesson he's been taught over and over and over again, just by existing as himself, turned every which way by space after space that don't see him eye-to-eye: it's not like he'd quit living over any of it. It's not like any of it can sand off these fundamental pieces of him.

He's outgrown a lot of things, he's found out. Again, and again, and again. A childhood home, a yearly trip, a monster.

"'s probably scary for you, huh?" He asks. "Because I left."

He thinks he hears joints creak that sound like you did. Probably the way a scorned lover would say it, in a movie or a yellowback. He has no more connection to the idea than he did as a kid. Less, because it doesn't even scare him.

"That's what it is, right? That it's the anniversary, and I'll never be like Dad." He raises a knee from the floor, pulls it back closer to him. Slings an arm over it. "You love to remind me. The thing is, Dad also left. He loved Mom and he loved me, and none of us wanted it to happen, but it still did. Because love does fuckall to make anyone stay on its own."

He's long past being bitter about it. It's just the facts. Once upon a time he looked into the future and the specter of his friends' happily-ever-after casted lightless, fathomless shadow over him. Love, marriage, that kind of devotion, to a fifteen-year-old with more solved cases than friends seemed so eternal. Final.

But you can only watch your friends build up apps' worth of jilted lovers for so long before getting over it.

"You know what I learned?" Riz tells the drawer. "Love doesn't make anyone stay. Project management does."

He stands up, and picks up the tupperware of Dame Carabelle's casserole, that he helped make, that he helped share with a block's worth of neighbors and members of a community he's at home with, and goes sit at his desk to eat. "Last chance to get any," he drops an offer over his shoulder as he walks away.

He doesn't eat all of his share in one go. What he's spared he leaves on the desk when going outside for a smoke break. Baron looks the exact same as when he saw them last, when he catches a glimpse; they haven't grown at all. They aren't there when he comes back inside, but the leftover has gone days-old cold, like someone's sucked the future out of it.

[puddleofpins]

people who misgender g3 Frankie while “critiquing” g3 designs and then ignore everyone correcting you in your comments, I’m swinging at you with my sword.

A popular media franchise makes a they/them-using nonbinary protag and it’s actually canon and they still can’t get any respect.

[mxtxfanatic]

Been inundated with posts about the character descriptions in the 7seas mxtx releases, and I just wanna say that I find it the highest level of disrespect how a publisher treated someone’s serious writing that they bought the publishing rights for as a little jokey joke that’s lead to so many people’s misconceptions about said book. Tell me: why do these character sheets include publisher/translator opinions on the characters? Why do these character sheets directly go against what the actual text has to say about these characters? Why do these novels need character sheets?

[sappho-rose]

toxic kaisagi yuri my beloved