#i need to get tangible reason so i can make myself go and stop being stupid ab it

[ironmanstan]

afflicted with some sort of evil girl disorder where i feel stressed constantly and do everything in my power to make it worse

[velvetvexations]

Not gonna lie the whole "trans women are women because they experience misogyny or [xyz tangible reason like dysphoria or whatever]" thing confuses me so much because every single time I have seen a trans person or group take on the big "why are trans people the gender they say they are" question it quickly becomes clear the only real answer that exists and will ever exist is "because they say they are".

We've tried hinging it on dysphoria or brain gender or hormones or presentation or societal oppression(or lack thereof) and every single time we end up excluding people who are trans, and the only answer that includes the full, beautiful, diverse trans experience is "because we say we are".

I just don't understand the drive to make sense of it, it doesn't have to make sense, it doesn't have to hinge on anything, let alone societal oppression, and we don't have to have a perfect answer for the bigots because our word should be all that matters! Why am I transmasc? Because I say I am. Because it makes me happy. Is it a choice? I don't really know anymore, but if it is a choice I would choose it over and over again, every single time, and that doesn't make me any less trans. We make ourselves out of a mess of chemicals and electricity and salt and water every day. We make sense out of light and air and rocks and everything and nothing, that's all reality is! So what if it's a choice, or if it isn't? So what if gender doesn't really matter! Nothing matters!! And that means you have the freedom to decide what has meaning. What matters.

You're a woman because you say you are, because you choose to be, just like I'm a butch genderwhatever because I say I am, I choose to be, and that really should be all the justification we need. And for fucks sake we do NOT need to suffer to prove we're real. I do not oppressed therefore I am and I'm genuinely concerned that anyone would try to base their rationalization for their existence on SUFFERING!! You're not here to suffer, you're here to go spinny in a skirt and eat delicious food and piss off your family by shaving your head and play dumb computer games with your friends. Isn't that enough?

And like, there will never be a perfect argument that convinces people who are determined to misunderstand you that you are what you say you are, no scars spelling out the word misogyny or patriarchy you can show them to get them to go "oh yes sorry I was mistaken you are indeed woman pls go on your merry way", and even if there was they'd just move the goalposts. So ffs stop fucking waiting for the approval of people who hate you. You're a woman because you say you are, if that's not good enough for some people frankly they can go fuck themselves.

Anyway sorry for getting philosophical in your inbox I just have a lot of feelings about this. I had a really bad existential crisis in high school and came out fully believing that if nothing matters then everything matters and it seems so silly to me to keep trying to like, rationalize the existence of trans people with cold hard facts because like. We exist. We are what we say we are because we say we are. I don't have to have a man soul or whatever, I just know putting on guy's jeans and calling myself a dyke makes me happy, and I try to make a habit of not being shaken to my core every time some asshole tells me that's not good enough.

Very powerfully worded anon, thank you.

[fushiglow]

Hello glow!!! Thank you for another lovely satosugu work! :)

I absolutely love how real and tangible your writing is - seeing them start with different states of being turned on and building together really paints such a lovely picture of what intimacy is without the expectation of a perfect start-stop :) 3 cheers to realistic sexual dynamics!

Also, I think that your link at the end of your post goes to Violent Delights instead - but maybe that's just an issue on my end!

Thank you so much for this lovely feedback (and the heads up about the link), I can't tell you how much your words cheered me on Friday! They came at a time I really needed to hear them so, if you don't mind, I'm going to use this ask as an opportunity to say a few things about my writing and why I do what I do — no obligation to respond!

Quite honestly, I have been feeling a little anxious about how I'm perceived as a writer recently. When Over the Threshold started gathering some steam in January, I only had five published works on AO3 posted over the course of six months. By the end of August, I'll have 18 published works for Jujutsu Kaisen, 16 of which will be complete. I have never been this productive in a fandom before!

A lot of the reason for that is because I'm finally learning how to work with my AuDHD brain. I love writing, I really do, and I'm constantly excited by the possibilities that reside within my brain. I have more ideas than I have time or hands to write them, but I want to explore as many of those ideas as possible. In the past, I would have forced myself to stick to the thing that I was "supposed" to write, rather than following the burst of inspiration and writing the thing that I "wanted" to write. To no one's surprise, that usually meant I ended up writing nothing at all.

I'm someone who seeks out challenges, and all the fics I've published in 2024 have been experimental in some way. Come Get Your Honey was a challenge in extended metaphor. Balance was a challenge in seamlessly blending two very different universes. Mailman AU was a challenge in format. Violent Delights was a challenge in pushing myself to new and uncomfortable places. Thunder was a challenge in encapsulating an entire world and history within a single motif without ever actually seeing that world and history.

I'm really proud of every single one of those works, as well as the speed I've written them at. I've published 92k words on AO3 already this year and written far more, so I feel like I can no longer justifiably call myself a slow writer. However, all the works mentioned above have artistic merit in the more traditional sense — i.e. they're not smut.

At the time of writing this, three of my five most recent works contain sexual content with varying degrees of explicitness, and it's hard to escape that pervasive (and flawed) idea that smut is "less serious" as a form of writing. Even writing smut in the first place has been a slow process of overcoming some of my own biases. However, sex is part of the spectrum of human experiences, and it's also deeply political. Whenever I explore it in my writing, you can be sure that I always have that at the forefront of my mind. That's why these works, too, have represented something new and challenging and exciting for me.

Discreet Delivery was the first piece containing explicit sexual content that I ever shared publicly and, with how rife top/bottom discourse is in this fandom (most of which is based on heteronormative ideals that I vehemently disagree with), I really wanted to make a statement straight out of the gate. I'm very proud of how I managed to weave a switch/vers narrative into a oneshot, and the feedback on it was wonderful.

Headroom, however, presented a very different kind of challenge. It was extremely difficult to write, because it doesn't follow the beats of a traditional sex scene. There's no satisfaction for Satoru nor for the readers, and that made it tricky to keep it engaging. I was also very nervous about showing a different side of these beloved AU characters and establishing a new dynamic between them while incorporating some of the broader themes from Over the Threshold.

Finally, Tell Me I'm Pretty was pure subversion, writing Suguru in particular in a way I've never seen before to challenge expectations about "roles" in sex. It meant I had no blueprint to work from, but I'm not interested in reproducing the same dynamics I've read a thousand times. However, that also means that I felt very anxious about how people would receive this fic — especially on GeGo Day.

The truth is, everything I write I write for myself first and foremost (even if it's writing something to make my friends happy!), but it's hard to keep sight of that when you're blessed with an engaged audience. This is a huge reason why updates to Over the Threshold take time. This fic is deeply important and deeply personal to me, but its growing popularity adds a pressure that I don't want to influence my writing. I feel a constant underlying need to outdo myself with every new fic and chapter I post, but that's unrealistic and unachievable.

Obviously, I want readers to enjoy what I write, but I know the moment I start making choices for other people is the moment my writing suffers. That's the main reason why I'm reluctant to put anything behind a paywall, even if I feel frustrated with the way fanfics are casually consumed on the internet. Readers occasionally make demands of me without any respect for my time and effort and creative vision, and sometimes I look at what I've written and think, "Am I really going to give that away for free?". However, asking for anything beyond tips would change the game for me. Enjoying my writing is far more valuable to me, at least at this point in time.

All of this is to say: I really loved writing Tell Me I'm Pretty. I had a blast with it — until it came time to post, at which point I suddenly felt full of self-doubt. For you to appear in my inbox and tell me that you appreciated the realism of the intimacy in this fic? I couldn't have asked for anything more, thank you so much ♥️

TL;DR, I write for myself, but god, it's the best feeling in the world when readers resonate with my writing. I can't tell you how much I appreciate you taking the time to let me know. I love you all to the moon and back!

[skunkes]

can u tell us more abt al and smunker lore!!

its not really anything tangible or even interesting its just the current backdrop for my little continuous daydream i explore before sleeps

Foundational info:

(in past) Cow Al is struggling to recover from emotional crisis experienced in college (traumatic relationship), + tries to hold down some jawb but finds himself unable to stay in that environment away from home (none of his "friends" acknowledge the turmoil which makes him feel more lost), + moves back to family farm.

He likes doing different kinds of manual jobs which are always needed around + he does have that "my parents are my best friends" thing going on so he kind of just stays there to present day.

He lives in a little, idk what else to call it but a mobile home, but its the longer rectangular ones ykwim, some ways off the main Hub. (Also there's lots of focus on community in my furryverse + there's lots of non al family furs living in and working on the place + sharing resources and work and such. Its not a HUGE place but its big ^_^)

Anyway, Smunker moves in to the little forest that you cld walk to from the farm area. He lives in a little sunken tree stump den thing hee heeeee. Not many other furs live there, + there's actually more Lesser Animals (what i call just regular non furry animals) present

-

The two of em meet at a grocery store, there was a relevant little point here that I forgot, which was that one of em wasn't even supposed to be there that first day for (x reason). Whatever.

The area that Cow Al lives in doesn't have very many Different looking furs. Al's family is actually all natural colors too. So he sees this pink smunk and goes a little insane (positive) (he promises later its not just because smunker looks different, but it was what drew his eye) but they never really interact (al keeps going to that same store Just In Case lol) until one day (cliche incoming) the little wheeled ladder that helps smaller furs get to higher shelves isn't available + he gets to help smunker get something from high up (he all but runs to be able to be the person to do this LOL)

Al actually has game + is confident, he's just out of practice from prior Events. He loves being social and misses making/being able to make friends so he does in fact manage to build up on interactions with Smunker...they become friends ➡️ realize they live close to each other.

Al actually accidentally damages smunker's home at some point by accident, + houses them while it's fixed, and there's another instance where smunker gets his leg caught in an illegal bear/foot trap on the walk back home at night, and then Al is also adamant on keeping an eye on him while he heals (+ is also the one who had to go help him get out of said trap...its literally a whole dramatic thing.)

I think I'm keeping both of these events as canon because it leads to the funny little situation of Al being like no wayyyyy i actually for real like this guy now that we've spent more time together like this...i need him to sleep on my belly to live :3 and cant stop having weird dreams about him. Idk if he feels the same. heeeeeeeeeelp. While skunker is like. Im for real going to kill myself for inconveniencing this person. He probably thinks im the biggest nuisance ever. I've overstayed my welcome for sure.

I haven't yet decided on the event that gets em Together. Might just be a little "date" at nearby ducky pond or something LOL. Skunker is shocked either way like huhh I didn't even know you liked me... Al has to get used to having a small partner again + navigate a relationship that doesn't suck ass again. Smunker has to get used to having big nice bf who cares about them. They like each other

[leighlew3]

Regarding the FINALLY (in-progress) resolution to the strike situation. First of all -- YES! Barring any sudden turns and it all going to shit again, anyway. So so relieved. Especially once fully completed / ratified by union members and SAG-AFTRA has their deal, too.

Alas, it’s… a very complicated and utterly emotional day, for personal reasons.

I’m exhausted, relieved, and a million things… because it’s all coincided with losing Mom. Literally, as the strike was looming, she was declining and then going into the hospital, and the road towards her inevitable death was approaching along with the dreadful strike.

And then literally just five days after she died, the writer’s strike officially began.

And along with the loss of my Mom / best friend / whole world — my career which was JUST about to really take off — was put on hold. Brakes slammed. My world just… stopped. In every way.

These last five months have been a combination of my worst nightmare and worst ever loss and unimaginable grief, paired together with being unable to do anything in my career to move forward at all or have a reason to get up in the morning most days.

Imagine just being… halted. Utterly trapped. For five months, alone in your worst loss and grief. While your entire career and every dream that you and the person you lost always dreamed of, that you worked so hard for YEARS to make happen — just halts. Imagine that person was your biggest champion and cheerleader… and then you’re just stuck for five months once they’re gone and it’s like the world stops for you but for everybody else it keeps going.

Now though, with the ending of the WGA strike in sight today and wrapping this week, it feels like my world can start turning again. Like I have true and tangible hope again, like I can move forward, and like it was all for something. Everything we survived. Everything I’ve worked towards. It needed to be for something. For my mom. For myself. For us.

Now I can move forward and try and continue to go on this path of fulfilling the dreams that we had, even if I’m doing it on my own now. So, it’s very bittersweet but it’s a huge relief… yet it’s also gut-wrenching and painful.

Because there’s a sort of finality that Mom is really gone now, as the strike is really over, because it was all tied so intrinsically together.

So yeah, I’ve been crying for the past hour out of both relief and heartbreak and hope and sadness. And a million other emotions I wouldn’t even know how to begin to describe.

[blackberry-mochi]

cw: lots of complaining and acting terrible over loneliness and dissatisfaction I promised before that I would stop myself from complaining out in the open, because holding myself accountable to a promise usually works, but apparently that strategy is only moderately effective and has a distinct time limit, much like everything that influences me, I guess. I have been able to just go "no, I need to be quiet" for the past month and a half, and that's worked, even if it's admittedly felt terrible reinforcing the decision, but. Y'know. Sometimes you're trying to write something you want to write, and that something includes jumbled up people finding help and love, and sometimes you zoom out and get struck with an intense and gross pain from realizing, oh, right, this is just escapism; none of these positive feelings are coming from a realistic place; I shouldn't feel relief or joy from any of this. 

The scenarios I'm writing aren't even fantastical or unrealistic, though. The scenarios are based on patience and unconditional love existing, which are two concepts that do exist in some folks' lives. But it's escapism for me, absolutely. And that feels awful. Love this awful feeling.  Love watching other people in the world finding out they have problems and obtaining help for said problems, like that's something normal and basic and they're obviously allowed to have that. Love having this dead-end and unnecessary life. Love that getting professional help wouldn't even fix my life anyway, so I shouldn't care about my lack of help. Love that the primary issue is that I'm stuck living with abusers, and I love that I've wasted too much of my life to have any opportunities to change that. 

Love that, even if an opportunity to change my life were presented to me, no, I'd almost certainly pass. That sounds terrifying, after all. Getting away from my abusers sounds terrifying. Trying to actually live and develop into a real person instead of some miserable and abusive jackass sounds impossible. I don't want things to change, I guess. What a pathetic and annoying bit of blatant hypocrisy, huh. Love being this way. Love the way it feels to be trapped by both myself and the miserable circumstances of my life in general.   And by love it, I mean, god is it one of the worst feelings imaginable. It feels like absolute isolation and hopelessness. And the feeling is made all the worse with the knowledge that, y'know, circling back and looping all of this miserable garbage, even if I were willing to leave, there's no opportunities available to me to even accomplish that to begin with. But that's not very special, is it. It's honestly really privileged of me to complain that I'm not in a better situation, considering how the only problems I apparently have are an empty day-to-day life and a general feeling of being trapped with abusers who have always undermined me as a person and undercut the potential value of my life.

Whatever, right? The entire reason I said "I should stop complaining" is primarily because I know that complaining only makes people hate me, ignore me, and block me. I'm an exhausting person to look at and acknowledge. Just so uncooperative and histrionic and unpleasant. But the less selfish and less manipulative reason for shutting up is that, no, the only thing in my life that matters is my family. 

Nobody online matters. Nobody I'm marginally connected to actually exists to me. Nothing I can say or do online could ever have a tangible impact on my life. Nothing's going to affect my life in any real way, nothing besides my family. My stupid family of 12 that's left me incompetent and unpleasant thanks to abuse and neglect and abuse and neglect and abuse and neglect. I can't blame my family for all my problems, though, right? I'm the one who decided to give up to begin with, so it's my fault I'm so darn unsalvageable. Even if, I don't know, I was 8 or so when that decision was made, that's a fucking excuse, right? Clearly a fucking 8 year old should be held accountable for being a selfish and depressed piece of shit, right? So fucking immature. So fucking annoying. So fucking disconnected from reality, dreaming of a fantasy world, acting like they have it worse than anybody else in their goddamn family, begging for attention when they're just a spoiled brat.

And now, as somebody who's apparently just as mature as they were when they were 8, what does talking about any of my problems do except spread my negative feelings, something that bothers absolutely everybody that I force into giving me attention? I'm only talking about this because it feels awful keeping all of these rancid feelings to myself because, again, god, being lonely sure is the worst feeling in the world for me. But what does this ranting do? Nothing! It doesn't accomplish anything! It does nothing except invite and encourage people to ignore me, which is the only reasonable response to my utterly selfish and annoying and impossible-to-help behavior. Hate it. Hate having a completely disposable and unwanted life. Hate being an awful person who constantly has awful urges that compel them to do awful things to avoid or mute the worse feelings they're stuck with, feelings they only have because they're awful to begin with and deserve to feel awful. Hate it. Hate being a problem. 

Hate looking at myself from afar and knowing without a fucking doubt that I'm the kind of person that everybody should/will ignore and hate for being so goddamn overwhelming emotionally but unnecessary and unremarkable. So, even if anybody did reach out to me and try to help, I shouldn't accept it. They'd end up hating me at some point, no matter what. It's already happening, after all. The evidence is there. It's been there my entire life. So many relationships ruined by me being too fucking annoying and overwhelming and useless and dependent.  

But oh well. Whatever. None of this is new. Absolutely none of this. I've been thinking this way since I was 14 at least and ruined one other person's life by abusing and parasitizing them for four whole fucking years of our life, just because they wanted me to feel less sad. I guess the reason I'm saying all this right now, though, is because I'm so fucking angry at the fact that my emotions and feelings are so fucking absurd in the worst ways possible, both egregiously overwhelming and frustratingly underwhelming, because apparently being robbed at gunpoint and being abused and ignored by everybody surrounding me afterwards isn't something I'm capable of having clear and resounding feelings about. All I know is I feel fucking exhausted. That's all. That's really the sum of my feelings. I hate it. I hate having such a broken, defeatist brain. All I can do is type out the way I want to feel, but I barely feel that way. It's pathetic.

Wow, great, amazing, my bank sure did decide that I wasn't robbed and therefore don't deserve any insurance or whatever after a person held me up at gunpoint and stole my phone and wallet. No, you're right, whoever the fuck investigated my claim. I did willingly give that person everything on me and I did willingly let them empty my bank account. We're best friends or something, obviously. And you're right, abusers, I did deserve this and God obviously caused this, as a sign. A sign that I need to go study cyber security and make the world safer or whatever fucking inconsistent bullshit I've been peddled over and over that never goes anywhere because my abusers are fucking self-righteous and disconnected from reality thanks to how perfectly privileged they are, acting like any of their random ideas for fixing my life are anything but fleeting wishes based on ignorant delusions based on looking at their kids and going "Why are you so much worse than me? What's wrong with you? Why can't you just be better? You're smart enough. You're just lazy. You don't deserve anything if you're going to be this lazy. Why did I have to be so unlucky and have 10 children who are so damn lazy, God?" 

I was expecting this result, though. I complained when it happened. I said "I know I'm not going to be reimbursed" and "I know my abusers are going to abuse me for getting robbed", and what do you know! That was right! I was hoping I was just being overly pessimistic, but I wasn't, hooray! I'm fine financially, though, so whatever. I still have my job, so whatever. I'm alive, so whatever. The robber didn't gun me down, so whatever. It would've been nice if that had happened, but whatever. The robber was never going to do that. I wouldn't be surprised if the gun had been fake. I was simply robbed because somebody decided to rob somebody and I got unlucky. Dying absolutely wasn't a part of that unlucky situation. Just robbing. I guess that's why I only feel exhausted. I just want to move on from this bullshit because the only thing that can be done is to keep going, as always. Ignore all my problems because nothing can be done. Just keep living. Because I don't have the capability or willpower to change anything in my life.

It's just so exhausting. Putting in so much effort to make sure I can still pay for nearly $500 worth of debts a couple days after being robbed completely was exhausting. Being notified that I wasn't getting any of my money back was exhausting. Having my abusers message me and harass me for being rejected compensation was exhausting. Knowing that my entire life revolves around my abusers is exhausting. Everything is exhausting. And if everything's exhausting, it's hard to know what does and doesn't matter. It's hard to be angry. I'm too tired to be angry at my life circumstances. I hate it. I wonder how I'd feel if I just had my own bank account, though. A bank account that my abusers couldn't look over constantly like hawks, judging me for fucking everything I buy and questioning me at least once a week on whether I should be buying any of the things I buy if they aren't food and fuel and debts. Maybe that would be nice. But if I did that, my abusers would absolutely hurt me for it, because they want to keep track of me, because I'm incompetent and lazy and they have to make sure I'm working because the only valuable part of me is that I can work without any limiting factors apart from sleep deprivation, exhaustion, and depression, three things that have never been respected and have only ever invited abuse from everybody around me my entire life. Frankly, it's stupid of me to act like those factors exist. They've never existed. I'm just lazy. I'm bad at sleeping. I'm bad at sleeping. I'm so goddamn bad at sleeping. Stop playing on the computer every night. Stop lying in bed for 12 hours a day and only getting 4 hours of sleep at best. It's the video games. They're the reason you're not getting enough sleep. And tea. And all the food you eat. And the fact that you stay up at night. Stop staying up at night. Go to bed at a reasonable hour. Stop being a useless leech. You're just irresponsible. You're not sleeping for 12 hours a day. That's a lie. You're just lazy. Shut up.

But yeah. It really would've been nice to not wake up a week and a half ago to see that all the temporary credit I was given was taken back with the explanation "Our investigation led us to conclude the transactions made to your account were done with the permission of the account holder". 

I guess I don't mind, though, like I said, like I've been saying over and over and over again, like I want to feel fucking furious over. I'm too exhausted and disconnected from my life to care, apparently. Whatever. I felt so fucking stressed when I saw that result, but now I don't feel anything except the feeling that I should be feeling something, but I feel nothing, so I guess my brain is broken, so whatever. I didn't need that money anyway, so whatever. It's not like I'm saving up for anything. It just would've given me a chance to stop working for a while if I ever felt like being self-destructive and lazy. My abusers would abuse the shit out of me if I did that, though, so that wasn't even an option, so whatever. Nothing's changed. I haven't actually lost anything. I'm just acting like a histrionic child. 

Y'know, this is so stupid to complain about, isn't it. It's pathetic. It's so irritating to listen to. It's so privileged. I'm in a privileged position, clearly, super clearly. I can still pay for rent and all my other monthly debts despite being robbed and ignored, so whatever. I'm not in any trouble because I practiced frugality and acted so darn responsible right after the incident, without any help from anybody, because I had no other choice, so whatever. I didn't have to experience whatever my abusers plan on doing when I'm too lazy to maintain my meager financial independence, so whatever. My life is perfectly fine, so whatever. Everything is perfectly fine, so whatever. The only problem is that I'm bored, so whatever. Just so bored. Plain ole boredom. That's all this is. So whatever. 

It isn't emptiness. A concept like that is ridiculous. It's delusional. That's so melodramatic. Shut up. You're just a selfish and lazy brat. 

I'm just so goddamn selfish. I want to be given things I don't deserve. What a miserable and shallow waste of space. But whatever. As long as I shut up, whatever. I need to shut up, so whatever. If I don't shut up, then people will reject me, block me, hate me, and, most importantly, feel worse than they would've if I just never took up space to begin with, if I never existed, so whatever. I hate that. But whatever. The best thing I can do is shut up and disappear, and whatever. I don't deserve to have a voice. It's cruel that I have one. I hate it. Whatever. 

Whatever, whatever. Everything's fine. I just feel awful. The feeling of hopelessness and abandonment that's apparently intrinsic to my day-to-day life is unbearable, and it keeps ruining my attempts to write some childish and delusional fanfic that only interests me, but whatever. It's just a stupid and tedious-to-read fanfic, so whatever. All I'm doing is just complaining about nothing and then saying whatever. Whatever. I don't want help. I don't want sympathy. Neither of those things actually exist for me. Whenever anybody's ever offered it, it's never helped. If anything, it's made everything worse. Everything is always getting worse. And whatever. I just want to complain. Complain and complain. That's the only thing I've ever been able to do, besides overwhelm people with my intense and ugly persona. Just complain and complain, with a disgusting side of obsession, dependence, desperation, and hate. 

Sorry for being annoying and cagey and isolated and rude and complaintive. That's who I am. Always have been. Just a bitter and angry person whose only redeeming qualities are based on delusional hopes that make them act strange for an indeterminable amount of time, hopes that inevitably pass because my life hasn't moved a goddamn inch at any point ever, hopes that ultimately make me a worse person every time. They're ephemeral hopes that invariably result in everybody around me liking me for a second before realizing, oh, this person sucks, wow, really don't want to see them anymore, gosh, really need to stop talking to them, this was a mistake. Like you, the reader of this, presumably. You're just like every other person I've "gotten to know" after the recent extremely strong and fucking moronic delusion of "maybe I'm allowed to be loved and wanted", as fucking pathetic and ridiculous and melodramatic as it is to have THAT as a wish. A wish that's all the more pathetic when given the context that my repressed state before that hope appeared suddenly was the result of me abusing the shit out of my first and only partner in 2018 and leaving and realizing oh my god I really don't fucking deserve to exist huh, I'm just so fucking insufficient and incapable of beauty huh, I'm just so fucking ugly and awful huh, I'm just so boring and miserable and incompatible with everybody in this goddamn world huh, I'm a selfish and miserable abuser masquerading as a kind and considerate person, huh.   

I'm aroace and completely incapable of loving people in any way whatsoever thanks to disorders that just make me an irredeemable and empty parasite. I can act like I love people. I can believe that I love people. But I just don't have it in me to actually love anybody. So that wish was ridiculous. It was such a stupid wish. I really needed to trash it the moment I remembered, "oh yeah, I have BPD, so nobody can or should love me, and I'm going to die at some point soon, so what am I doing, why did I think this was okay, I should stop, I need to be quiet". 

But I didn't! I didn't give up! I kept going! Like a selfish pest! Isn't that great! Fucking fantastic! It's so fucking stupid to keep up my charade after that realization! I made some stupid art with a mouse for a good-enough reason, and then I had a breakdown and remembered I'm inherently abusive and awful and ugly and obsessive, and it all went downhill from there! I didn't stop, I kept making things, and everything only got worse and worse and worse over time! Loved working on so many random things with the constant, nagging thought "this is hopefully the last thing I make. I'll die after this. Hopefully" until I just gave up on art! Too bad I couldn't follow through on my plan at all! Too bad I'm still alive! But at least I'm not making anything anymore! At least I'm completely fucking irrelevant and unwanted now! That's great! At least things are logical now!

Again, though, I really should've given up as soon as I remembered how flawed I am, a month after I started opening up. But that was only a month later, y'know? There was a whole month of sincere hope and happiness and joy in my life, so of course I was going to act extremely selfish and cling onto stupid delusions like "I can be loved, maybe", despite everything pointing to the contrary. And whatever. I'm a miserable, desperate loser, and whatever. I clung onto stupid things that I had no right to cling onto, and whatever. As always, whatever. My favorite word, "whatever". An incredibly useful word for an abusive and ugly defeatist nihilist who has absolutely no hope or potential for rational hope in their life. Whatever. Things suck and my circumstances are perfectly fair, I'm just a noisy and useless child. 

The only thing I have to add to my usual complaining about my mental illnesses is just, looking up my symptoms to make sure I'm not mistaken on my disorder really is such a mixed bag in terms of catharsis, huh. On one hand, I do feel some amount of understanding and certainty whenever I read through research documents that explain causes of BPD and the statistics of people who have BPD, even if that understanding admittedly usually comes from reading the more depressing stats and going "yeah. It makes sense that people like me are 50x more likely to commit suicide than usual, doesn't it" with no real relief, just acknowledgement. But on the other hand, y'know, having BPD sure does make you a terrible person, and everybody knows it. Anybody talking about it in Quora certainly thinks so anyway. And elsewhere. Everywhere. In every spot that isn't occupied by people with BPD. And I guess I'm partially aroace to avoid that reality, maybe. That has to be a part of it. I am aroace, without a doubt, but a part of that identity is absolutely the result of trauma and fear. Forming any sincere connections with people will always just result in me either disappointing them and disturbing them and abusing them. It really is best to just shut up and stay isolated forever. Hate it. 

Hate it, hate it, hate it. Hate it. Hate it. I hate it so much. Hate these feelings. Hate having no relief. Hate deserving nothing but rejection and hate. Hate having a life that's statistically meant to be over by now. Hate that it's still going. Hate that I can't control any part of my life. Hate being given a life that's nothing but a joke, literally. Hate only existing so two miserable and pathetic abusers could gloat to everybody about how they have 10 kids. Hate this. Hate everything in my life being meaningless and empty and disposable. Hate feeling exhausted. Hate feeling trapped. 

Whatever, though. Everything's fine. I'm still alive, and I'm likely going to keep going and going and going, so whatever. I'm not disowned and homeless yet, so whatever. Maybe once I'm finally disowned and homeless, I'll deserve anything, but, as an abusive, hollow, useless, joyless, loveless, annoying, contrarian loser, I doubt that I'll be given anything when that inevitably happens. I actually just deserve rejection and hate, for everybody's sake. Sure, logically, it's terrible, it deserves sympathy. Being disowned would drive me into a total psychotic breakdown, because insecurity is the scariest concept in existence for a parasite like me. But who cares about logic and expected sympathy? It'll be a good thing if I'm completely rejected and abandoned. That'll push me towards dying, so the insecurity will be justified. It'll be appropriate. Can't wait. Can't wait to die when I'm fully abandoned and disenfranchised. So excited. It'll be great. Hate it. Hate this. Hate everything. But whatever. Who cares. 

[ill-be-istj-if-no-one-else-is]

Hello, Em! I was hoping you could help me out with mailing down my type. For background, I’m in my mid-twenties and am waffling between Fi-dom and Fe-aux. I’m cautiously calling myself and enneagram 9w1, but I’m sure of being an introvert, I’ve always been quiet and need time to regroup after spending too much time out and about. I tend to be fairly practical, taking a job I strongly dislike because bills need to be paid and I’d like to finish grad school with as little debt as possible. (1)

It doesn’t stop me from looking for a job more closely related to my field, and I’ll be honest it wears on me more than I’d like to admit, but it keeps the lights on for now. I’ve always been a very sensitive person, and it doesn’t take much to make me cry, when I’m invested in something, or I must deal with conflict. My dad would list my biggest weakness as being a bit of a pushover and taking on responsibilities that were never mine to begin with.(2)

I’ve always been spotted by bosses as reliable and because of this have been the one to pick up the slack in some positions. Despite this, I struggle to blend well with my environment. I can be polite, I can be quiet, but I can’t lie. Whenever people ask, it’s hard not to come out and say what I really think. If it’s someone who knows me well, I can generally just say what’s on my mind, but at work and with friends who aren’t as close, I have to bite my tongue. (3)

I’d say I’m a creature of habit, for the most part. I moved cross country a couple years ago, so it’s still a bit hard to gauge, but changes in routine (such as suddenly switching workstations or being asked to go get drinks RIGHT NOW) throws me off. For all that, I tend to get a little low when I’m not learning something new. I’ve taken up several new hobbies and interests because of this and have learned the basics of them all quickly. (4)

Most of them have been sensory hobbies, such as baking, knitting, and crochet. They also serve another purpose, as it’s a tangible way I can show my appreciation for those around me. It irritates me a little to have people ask me to make them things, because it’s not so much the tactile sensation that I love, it’s being able to keep those I care about warm and fed. If there’s anything else you need, I can fill this out more, and thank you so much! (5)

---

Hi anon! This definitely sounds ISFJ to me. 9w1 also sounds reasonable:

Difficulty with conflict is definitely a 9 thing and so ISFPs who are 9s experience it, but it's very common with ISFJs. The taking on of responsibilities is both very Fe and Si, and aux-Fe users do have a bit of a reputation for being something of a pushover. The part about struggling to change routine is also extremely true to Si, as is the practicality.

Sensitivity is imo not super tied to any one function - I think feelers tend to be more outwardly emotional in general than thinkers but I've known very emotional FJs and FPs. I also think that difficulty lying is more a personal thing than tied specifically to MBTI.

As for learning new things - hobbies tend to be a place where people can explore their lower functions safely! I suspect taking on sensory hobbies (within your comfort zone) but in doing so, learning something new and developing a new internal and systemic understanding (Ne and Ti) is what appeals to you.

[troblsomtwins829]

This is mostly a reminder to myself, but also a PSA for anyone who needs it:

It's good to listen to your body when you start feeling off. Sometimes it isn't obvious what you need, and it's hard to pay attention, but there is so much benefit to being able to translate the random chemical signals your brain is sending you into actual tangible needs.

You don't always feel hungry when you need to eat.

You don't always feel tired when you need to sleep.

Sometimes you want salt when you need sugar.

Sometimes you want sugar when you need water.

And sometimes, like the case with me today, you feel trapped when you need human contact.

I was feeling really prickly all day at work and then finally I stopped and went "Okay, brain. wtf do you actually need right now?" My skin felt tight and loose and ragged; and my brain was telling me to get away be alone until the feeling passed, but I already knew that wasn't going to work, because I'd been alone most of the day and it only compounded the issue.

So I'm like...okay, what are my basic needs that haven't been met?

Food? Check. Water? Check. Sleep? Lacking, but that was my own fault. Human contact? I saw my friend the other day.

"Yeah, but did you hug?"

And then it clicked.

I'd spent the entire day yesterday being prickly and lonely and wrapped in a blanket burrito because I wanted to be hugged by a human, and my brain did not want my furbabies for some reason. So I'm starting to think about what I need to do to make this happen, to meet this basic need and my coworkers start entering the room. One of them, I'm actually pretty good friends with!

So you know what I did?

I walked right up to them and asked "Coworker, can I have a hug?"

It was the best damn hug.

[luesmainblog]

Y'know.... I love fat positivity, I do, but there's one thing that really, really bothers me about it. Y'all need to stop acting like the ONLY reasons to not want to gain weight are social, and that if it weren't for people treating fat folks worse, nobody would ever worry about their weight. That simply isn't true. I've been slowly gaining weight over the last few years, with depression and a lack of nutritional control making it very difficult to get up and work it off. I don't especially care what other people think about it, because I rarely see other people to begin with, and people have never been especially kind to me unless I put in a week's worth of effort to my appearance. You wanna know why i don't want to be fat? Why i wanna lose the weight? 1. Buying new clothes is fucking expensive. Let's imagine, for the sake of argument, that all the cute stuff I like WASN'T religated to skinny people. That still wouldn't change the fact that I have clothes RIGHT NOW, that I love, that I'm not going to find a replacement for, that I cannot fit into anymore. Which means I have less options on what I can wear, especially if I wanna wear it outside. But even cheap clothes cost money. Buying an entire new wardrobe because my body just randomly decided it's gonna get bigger now SUCKS. there is no getting around that; i didn't like doing it when i was a growing lass in school, and i don't like doing it now as an adult who is supposed to be done growing. 2. My Spine. I am pretty much destined to have back problems, something i've already begun to develop at the ripe old age of 25. My natural resting position is a clouch, I curl up like an unborn baby when I sleep, and my tits have the combined weight of a frozen turkey. I do not need even MORE extra weight on my spine. And no, having an unhealthy spine wouldn't make me Less Valuable as a person, it's not some terrible fate that removes my life of happiness, you don't HAVE to be healthy, but it's still an uncomfortable thing i would very much like to AVOID. 3. It's making it harder to sleep. Listen. I have insomnia already as it is. I don't need my slowly developing double-chin to swoop in and make certain positions unbreathable and make it even fucking HARDER to sleep. I can no longer sleep in some of my comfiest poses because fat is getting in the way and making them unworkable. and yes, these are all, ultimately, minor inconveniences. But they're inconveniences that FUCKING matter to me. I'm so tired of "I wanna lose weight" being treated as some slight against all fat people and something that no normal person would ever want all on their own without magazines telling them blah blah FUCKING blah. It is a decision you can come to because becoming fat has an effect on your life. not just a social effect, not just a mental health effect, a Tangible, PHYSICAL change to how you interact with your body and with the world. I don't hate my body, aside from maybe a couple reproductive organs. but i would like it more if it would stop growing out and cooperate with me. i miss the way that it was just a few years back. i am allowed to be upset about these changes.

yes, i could choose to love my body as it is and accept the changes that come with it. but i can ALSO choose to acknowledge the reasons i'm gaining weight and try to make some changes in my life. that is not a slight against you, and it is not a slight against myself. and frankly, i'm not very comfortable with the idea that i shouldn't be making decisions on what my body looks like beyond the decorations. strikes me as a bit transphobic in nature if i'm gonna be fully honest.

[nahalism]

the quote you reblogged : That is why mysticism is the only source of virtue for humanity. Because when men do not believe that there is infinite mercy behind the curtain of the world, or when they think that this mercy is in front of the curtain, they become cruel.

Made me want to ask you: Were you or rather are you ever in states where you don’t feel and believe there’s anything more to life? That there is no energy no soul everything is accidental and there is no higher power out there, that everything is meaningless and pointless. No matter what we do or think but it’s maybe easier or even necessary to believe that there’s something more to all of it, to us? Maybe we desperately need that? Maybe it would be impossible for us to function and keep sanity? Or are you unshaken in your beliefs, maybe life proved it to be true enough that you never get those nihilistic waves of everything means nothing

heyy. love the question, quick disclaimer :: ultimately, each person is entitled to their own beliefs. i believe what i believe, and allow others to do the same. also, re: the quotation, i think theres a differentiation between mythology and theology. its less directed toward the existence of a god, and rather pertains to the idea that a world/morality beyond that of the physical tangible realm is at play. if infinite mercy can be extended to people despite their past transgressions, in that, a person can make a mistake, but redeem themselves through their consequent deeds, it alludes to some higher goal to strive for than the base or hedonistic goals that otherwise drive us forward. if people didnt believe they could be better, or make good despite their past actions, being a better person, choosing to evolve, or choosing to self correct, would not only cease to be appealing but cease to be necessary. the fact we believe we can be better, should be better, and that the choice to be better leads to better, is what keeps the balance of good and bad in balance, and what keeps humanity from slipping into complete debauchery.

as for me, i was raised catholic & i didnt relate or buy into what they were teaching me at church. anytime i had a question the answers seemed completely far fetched and unbelievable, and i felt like people were more concerned with the idea of salvation, or the need to believe in something to feel there was an overarching purpose to life, than they were with what i understood to be the core principles of the religion. even the term religion rubbed me up the wrong way because i felt like, isnt it just a personal belief/conviction/way of life, opposed to a faction or group to 'belong' to. people spoke a good game but the enactment of what they spoke about left me wanting.

fast forward. beginning to ask those questions around age 7/8 was the start of my spiritual journey even though i wasnt aware of it at the time. by 10/11 i stopped going to church & was calling myself an atheist or agnostic depending on what my mood was on the day. not because i didnt believe or feel there was something out there, but because it didnt align with any religious views i was privy to at the time. then at 12 i experienced a traumatic incident, and as i started to spend more time alone i was shown certain things and would have very particular experiences / feel the voice of some force out in nature or speaking to me through my conscience. and when that happened i felt (not from the teachings or reasoning of anyone but myself) that that force and feeling i was encountering was my true understanding of god or this thing i knew existed but wasnt entirely sure about how it existed. that pervading presence, its voice and the way its guided me is the only reason i believe in a higher, supreme power.

thats when i began to study life thru the humanities and in doing so form my opinions and ideas on what i believe regarding my views on the world & spirituality. i studied through the lens of the bible, the qu'aran, hindu teachings, buddhist teachings, syncretism, kemetic texts and teachings, new age spirituality, gnosticism & even science. i feel as though all of them have appealed to me and allowed me to grow in knowledge and understanding & that whilst they use different language to explain themselves, they all point toward and explain one truth. however beyond that the point still stands that i just believe. — ive had experiences i cant doubt, and feelings i cant doubt, not that i havent doubted them, or questioned, but each time i did it only confirmed my initial belief and made me believe more strongly. and so yeah, without that fundamental belief, all of it would just be a beautiful story. i could read every text, but if i didnt believe in what i was reading it would be no more than a harry potter type situation. i couldnt be swayed into pretending i believed, not for the idea of heaven, a promised land, or eternal salvation. thats not what i get out of this. my relationship w god saved my life and it keeps rebirthing me, educating me, & moulding me, and in doing so brings new meaning to things id previously read & doubted/didn't understand (think the concept of ressurection). anyway

i know people are religious and believe in god (whatever term or label u wanna give that force) for a variety of reasons. i cant speak for them, because im sure many people do believe for the reasons u stated. my reasons are simply that i feel and believe there is a higher, supreme, overarching force, that is the matrix of the spirit that permeates every living thing. i think theres a design to the world, one too specific to be down to chance. i think life is eternal and that there is a point to the experiences and growth or lack of that we experience in this life. that generationally it has significance and that it will one day account for something bigger than what we can see or comprehend right now. and i feel that when i look into the spirit of another being whether its human animal a tree or fire/water etc, that we all share the same force that ignites and powers our beings. & those are a just a few of the reasons why i believe

<3 hope this answers for u. sending my love

[opalescent--eye]

This Christmas Party Was So Fun That Now I’m a Communist, by Brennan Lee Mulligan

Highlights:

[I] thought to myself, “This is the most fun I’ve ever seen anyone have. ... This is… so great. This is… completely fucked.”

This party cannot be allowed to happen again. It was too much fun! No human being can justify having that much fun. There is an indirect but tangible connection between my family’s inability to purchase health insurance, and the quality of the hors d’oeuvres at this party. The world that makes my childhood friends go on large, unnecessary detours to get a shot at their dreams is the same world that heaps largely unappreciated splendors on these party-goers. It’s not an intuitive conclusion to draw, but when you think about it, the reason this chocolate truffle tastes so good is that my brother and I went to a state school. The reason this champagne is on the house is that the house is largely on Africa, South America and rural India.

This party is so much goddamned fun and it has to be stopped.

I wondered if I had been too harsh. Perhaps there was some kind of justice to all of this that I, as the malnourished, hayseed-child of the working poor, could not fully comprehend.

In that moment, I knew that I would never again experience a party this fun. Because the next time I was at a party this fun, I’d be burning it to the ground, holding high the banner of the revolution.

--- 

If you had guessed there would be a fortuneteller at this party, you would have been dead wrong. Because there were two fortunetellers at this party.

This party was so insane, extravagant and incredible that the hosts hired not one, but two separate soothsayers. The services of two women capable of piercing space and time with their minds were required for this shindig. Next to one of the three fully-stocked open bars, there was a woman wearing a bird on her head who was reading palms. And downstairs, in a hallway filled with ancient Buddhist art recovered during the Chinese invasion of Tibet, there was a Romani woman giving Tarot card readings. I mean, take your pick, really. Do you prefer the occult prognostications of cartomancy, or the intimate and personal revelations of the mysteries of your own goddamned hand? Because this party had both.

This party was so far off the fucking chain that you could have one of two magic women tell you what was going to happen to you in your future. And if you didn’t like what she said, you could get a second opinion, and never be more than thirty feet away from a fondue pot.

There was also a magician in a tuxedo walking around doing sleight of hand tricks. So to reiterate: Three different wizards were working at this party.

This party was the most fun anyone has ever had. And something needs to be done about it.

I arrived at the party as they were still setting up. The penthouse, located a few blocks from the eastern edge of Central Park, was in a word "palatial." It felt like I had stepped out of the gilded, art deco elevator into the distant palace of some Caliph at the height of the Ottoman Empire, were it not, I should add, for the many Christmas decorations being put up by an army of party planners. Pine garlands the length of city buses, with the circumference of an elephant’s leg, wrapped around marble banisters on staircases that ascended to impossible balconies overlooking Park Avenue. Shelves lined with ancient and powerful scotches, first edition books beyond reading, paintings and sculptures by artists so French that, were I to whisper their names, I would first need to buy a Rosetta Stone app. And all of this was being slathered in artisanal glass ornaments, gilded candles, sprigs of holly and every other thing that turns the darkest part of the year into the hap-happiest season of all. Guys, this party made the trailer for The Great Gatsby look like the strip mall parking lot where two divorced parents meet to exchange their children.

In the scraps and shreds of memory that come to me from that wild night of celebration, I remember certain landmarks. As guests exited an elevator that opened directly into the foyer of the apartment, they were greeted by butlers holding glasses of bellinis, champagne and sparkling water. They walked to a floor of waitered tables and a small dance floor, while being serenaded by a rotating cast of singers and pianists. These areas were overlooked by balconies with performers and entertainers of various stripes and shades, and from these balconies led hallways that arrived at various catered dining rooms and seating areas, all cozy, lovely and intimate, all just the right size to see that, yes, other people were having fun, but not too many other people were having too much fun too close by. And throughout it all, guests were bombarded with trays of lobster, caviar and truffle oil brioche canapés.

This party was like if the Dalai Lama and Elrond Half-Elven owned a castle together, and had decided to throw a birthday party for Santa Claus. More money than I have yet made in my life was spent on this party. It was immediately the most fun I’ve ever had, and within minutes, I was deeply unsettled.

As the immaculately dressed and bejeweled guests wended their way to banquet tables of delicious food and various dance floors, they were lit from not a single actual light bulb. I don’t know when I realized it, but aside from candlelight and the glow of the city through the windows, there was not a single visible source of light in the entire party. “Why do the rich find light bulbs so distasteful?” I thought. Every light had been tucked, hidden or sequestered from view, ensconced in little cubbies or stowed underneath cabinets, so that a warm glow filled everything, and you couldn’t tell how or from where. It became almost maddening as soon as I recognized it. Where is all this light coming from? Is this why I’m poor? Too much direct light?

While I was trying to piece this together, the music had once again changed, and I peered from the balcony where I was standing, to see the hired singer and pianist walk from the small raised stage with its rented Steinway through the doors into a literal servants’ quarters, like in Downton-motherfucking-Abbey. AND THERE WAS A PARTY IN THERE! A separate party for people working at the first party! The performers, jugglers, soothsayers and probably sex-workers that had been hired by the hosts had a separate catering group attending solely to their needs. This party was so dope, it was spawning sub-parties to bolster the spirits of workers for what I’m now calling “The Motherparty.”

I ducked into the servants’ party to discover that one of the singers had a day-job at the New York Metropolitan Opera. This Christmas party was so fucking great, that one of the 16 people they hired to sing in one of the rooms is a professional Opera singer at the Met.

I began to notice how many people were working at this party. There were the many performers and entertainers, and a fleet of photographers, separate from the gentlemen running the rented photo booth, which swarmed all night with beautiful young women immortalizing their splendor. One such woman was photographed while instagramming herself in front of the photo booth, which is maybe how wormholes are created. There were business staff, house staff, building staff, the host’s personal and executive assistants, custodians, and caterers, all of whom disappeared into grey hallways, designed to be ugly but also kind of invisible, a place where the help disappeared to. When you’re rich, you can afford to have sections of your home into which you never go.

As I watched the quick, nervous movements of the help, I began to look at who was actually attending the party. I ate my free lobster and furrowed my brow. These people probably didn’t even call their free lobster “free lobster.” They probably just called it ��lobster.”

I watched the beautiful children of the rich mingle and converse. Young, gay men so fabulous that I couldn’t even tell you the most basic elemental details of what they were wearing. Possibly a fabric? Maybe not. It could have been a ceramic. I just don’t have the facts. Some young Ivy League dudes, pupating senators and ambassadors. The young women were gorgeously dressed, adorned with jewels, and so beautiful that they seemed photo-shopped in person. It would be easy to write off these airbrushed debutants as vapid, but they weren’t. They all had sharp, predatory eyes and laughed quickly and with fierce intelligence. They were ubermensches, as much the daughters of their bloodthirsty, corporate fathers as their supermodel mothers. These stunning women would spend the rest of their ball-gowned lives handing out their fathers’ likely ill-gotten fortunes to worthy charities, and going to parties just like this one.

From a distance, it was hard to tell the mothers and the daughters apart. Rich women don’t age, they just desiccate. Their jewelry, hair, gowns, even their posture and attitude all stay the same as their elegant, somewhat more humid daughters. A rich young woman and a rich old woman, standing next to each other, kind of look like a snake having perfectly shed its skin.

The old men were by far the most diverse bunch. Old billionaires wear whatever the fuck they want. One man wore a maroon, velvet, three-piece suit and a paisley cravat, and he must have been sweating in it, but I couldn’t tell because he had doused himself in a cologne that I’m going to call “A Million, Billion Different Kinds Of Fruit, by Calvin Klein.” There were two shaven-headed men of Caucasian descent, wearing black hakama robes and some kind of pendants. They had white socks and sandals, and from the way people were bowing to them, I’m guessing they were some kind of religious officials, but I can’t be quite sure. Whatever faith they practiced, it wasn’t Christianity, Judaism, Islam, Buddhism, Hinduism, Sikhism, Baha’i, Taoism, Shinto, Confucianism, Voodoo, Wicca or the Dreamtime Faith of the Aboriginal Shamans. If I had to guess, I would say they were either members of the Illuminati, or we are living in the Matrix and they are priests from the remaining human city in the real, outer world.

I don’t know what religion they were from. Do we get why that’s scary? Aside from the fact that a vast chunk of my education centered on world religions and mythology, religions really want you to know about them. That’s their whole business model. They tell you why things are the way they are and then you give them money. So the fact that there’s a religion that I’m too poor to know about is deeply troubling.

These rich old billionaires were the kindest, sweetest old gents. In conversations I overheard more than once, a man worth more than my entire extended family (which is Irish and therefore vast and mighty) talked about another man at the party as “just being the sweetest soul,” or referred to a cupcake at a certain café as “sinfully seductive.” And I realized, these men may have been cutthroat sharks before, or they may have inherited their fortunes, but none of that matters now. They won. They won life. They are lions that, having killed enough gladiators, are now left gloriously alive to become old and toothless. The host of the party had an entire wall covered in plaques and trophies. I read most of them, and still couldn’t tell you what he did for a living. Because whatever he had done, he certainly didn’t need to do it anymore. His accomplishments referenced his humanitarianism, his civic heroism and his contributions to culture and civilization. So whether or not this man had worked at Bain Capital gutting companies in the American Heartland didn’t matter, because he had rescued a bunch of Tibetan art and now he was kissing other billionaires on both cheeks and saying, “Tom, I’m in love with you!” because who gives a fuck, I’m rich!

I watched these crazy old holiday wizards and their jeweled scarab wives, their Oxford sons and Cambridge daughters, and thought to myself, “This is the most fun I’ve ever seen anyone have. Louis the XVI would've shit a brick if he'd ever thrown a party this good. This is… so great. This is… completely fucked.”

I began to notice that people were looking at me funny. For a moment I became scared that they realized I was poor. Perhaps I had used the wrong fork, or a moth had flown in lazy spirals out of my wallet, or my toes had popped out of the holes in my shoes. But then I realized it was my expression that was drawing looks. I looked flabbergasted and astounded. And they didn’t.

That’s when I realized it. These motherfuckers weren’t going to the best party of their lives. They weren’t even necessarily going to the best party of their week. Who knows? Maybe one of these plutocrats was sneering at the lack of a third fortuneteller. “No augur divining mysteries from the movement of birds? No oracle breathing poison and screaming prophesies? You call this a Christmas Party!”

Well fuck that!

This party cannot be allowed to happen again. It was too much fun! No human being can justify having that much fun. There is an indirect but tangible connection between my family’s inability to purchase health insurance, and the quality of the hors d’oeuvres at this party. The world that makes my childhood friends go on large, unnecessary detours to get a shot at their dreams is the same world that heaps largely unappreciated splendors on these party-goers. It’s not an intuitive conclusion to draw, but when you think about it, the reason this chocolate truffle tastes so good is that my brother and I went to a state school. The reason this champagne is on the house is that the house is largely on Africa, South America and rural India.

This party is so much goddamned fun and it has to be stopped.

The last singer finished a tear-jerking rendition of Ave Maria, and the DJ came out. A man who looked like a young, handsome Santa Claus wheeled out his holly-studded turntable and then killed it. Every song he played was fucking perfect. Cecilia. Signed, Sealed, Delivered. Rescue Me. This goddamned DJ could do no wrong. And the patricians began to dance.

And oh how they danced. I used to think that only we poor, starving bohemians could truly dance with the hedonism and reckless abandon of our pagan ancestors. I was WRONG, guys. Starving artists don’t dance with reckless abandon. We dance like we’re trying to forget that the rent is past due. We dance to sweat off that last box of Annie’s Mac & Cheese. We dance to trick the endorphins into healing our tired, unkempt bodies.

The rich, however, dance as if possessed by Pan himself. The young and old alike gyrated, wiggled and bounced like they had not a care in the world. Sorry, let me rephrase that. The young and old alike gyrated, wiggled and bounced BECAUSE they had not a care in the world. And it was magical. Every face beamed with glorious jubilation. I saw five separate people fall in love that night, and I know it’s going to work out, because of just how good that party was. It was the most magical night I have ever witnessed, and so help me God, I will toil unyieldingly to ensure it never happens again.

For a brief moment I surveyed the upper balcony. The host and his wife smiled gaily, singing along and dancing. They looked so serene. So happy. And I saw the host turn, and start handing out tip money to the staff. $50 bills flew from his fingers into the waiting hands of the army of party workers. And they thanked him for his kindness. And he was kind. He was a kind man, this white-suited oligarch. In that moment, I wondered if I had been too harsh. Perhaps there was some kind of justice to all of this that I, as the malnourished, hayseed-child of the working poor, could not fully comprehend.

The caterers left the hall, and the DJ stopped.

That’s when I noticed that while the dance party had been happening, a Pinkberry and a Wafels & Dinges had both opened inside the penthouse.

Let me say that again.

A Pinkberry and a Wafels & Dinges both had their grand openings during and inside this party. Two, miniature, satellite restaurants with mobile service stations, serving free food, staffed by uniformed employees, with their full assortment of products, had sprouted up within the span of ten minutes. For every fortuneteller in this party, there was a restaurant in this party. And the choir sang. And the people ate. And the champagne flowed. And the two fortunetellers ordered extra nutella on their wafels & dinges. And the velvet suit fruit man hugged a young gay boy wearing a scarf with the whole Bhagavad Gita written on it and whispered, “We are never, ever going to die.”

In that moment, I knew that I would never again experience a party this fun. Because the next time I was at a party this fun, I’d be burning it to the ground, holding high the banner of the revolution.

Merry Christmas. Happy New Year. Fight the Power.

— Brennan Lee Mulligan

[use-your-telescope]

good morning, lovely! How about grass + rock for the elemental asks?

Good morning dearest!! Hope you're ready for a novel because these two are questions I have some thoughts on 😉

These prompts are from the Elemental Asks post.

Grass: What’s the biggest change you’ve made in your WIP since you started it?

Oh man, the story from draft one until now has MASSIVELY evolved; that being said, I think Theo as a character has probably changed the most.

When I started draft one, I had the premise that she had been kidnapped ten years before the story started and was taken to another planet, and she essentially struck a deal with SHIELD to get safe transport to Earth if she would agree to join the Avengers - yes, if that sounds sus, that's because it is; eventually it would be revealed that she wasn't actually from Earth, but from the planet SHIELD helped her escape from. She was running from her mother, a powerful mage who had started a war on her home planet in a quest for power and expected Theo to take it over. Theo had escaped to Earth in the past before, which is why SHIELD knew about her, but ten years ago her mom found her and she was dragged back to her home planet.

As I started to dig into it more, I realized it was really hard to connect Theo to the world around her and give her the depth needed for the story to work because she didn't have those tangible connections to ground her in the story and make her a realistic character, and I realized that if her motivation was running away without doing something to make her mother stop chasing her, there was no goal for her to work towards or reason for her to not immediately ditch the Avengers and go run.

Theo's background, goals, pretty much everything about her is entirely different from when I first started this story, to the point where almost everything I just said is no longer the case. Some things about Theo have stayed the same: she is a powerful healer, she loves music, and she is not originally from Earth (that's revealed in chapter 1, so it's really not a spoiler, but unlike what I just wrote she is not running from anyone). But now she has a career, interests, communities that she's a part of, and those intertwine with her character arc and provide different facets to explore her emotional wounds and growth through the story. Additionally, she has physical limitations that weren't present before: she has asthma, and using her magic has other physical consequences. She may be powerful, but she has limitations and she has to work within them. And that has made her a much more interesting character to write and explore.

Oh yeah, the other biggest change? THIS STARTED AS A FUCKING ONE SHOT. 😂🤣😂🤣 Because OF COURSE IT DID.

Rock: How do you deal with writer’s block?

This depends on when the writer's block occurs! if it's mid-scene, that usually means I somehow wrote myself into a corner or haven't fully sorted out where I want the scene to go. In that case, I will figure out what the point of the scene is, then go back a paragraph or two and try to find a new direction to take the scene, because that's usually where the roadblock actually exists.

If that doesn't work, I may chat with my beta about the scene and work through it that way - she has seen the story evolve and also LOVES analyzing stories, and with her marvel knowledge she has offered some great alternatives that have helped me get back on track (she also does this when I have scenes that are decent but are missing something, which is great!).

If I'm stuck on a description or know what needs to happen but can't find the right words for it, I'll just put a very vague summary in brackets and continue on, knowing I can come back to it later... essentially:

[insert Theo reflecting on what just happened]

That way I can continue working, and often by the time I finish the scene I've sorted out what I want to say in the brackets, so I just go back and fill in that section.

Other things I might do, usually if I'm stuck on how to start a chapter or how to get from major plot point A to plot point B:

work on a different part of the story and take some time away before re-approaching the section I'm stuck on so I can look at it with fresh perspective.

Read/watch other stuff and look for inspiration there - I particularly enjoy watching videos about story breakdowns, analysis, and character arcs because I find they help me go back and review my own story with new questions that I can use to explore my characters and the world they live in. If it's a creative work, I usually spend some time breaking down what I like about it and look for ways I can incorporate those elements into my work.

Find new music to listen to - not just because this story has a strong tie to music, but because music will often give me a scene/starting point with startling clarity that I can then build on.

Practice getting in my characters' heads - I've legit answered the Vogue 72 questions as Theo and as Loki, and though those will never be in the story, what I found from the process was really helpful. See also: the tweet about writing an AITA post from your villain's perspective as a way to develop their complexity.

Ask me about my writing!

Btw, the Elemental Asks include some really great questions that might give you some more information on When Everything's Made to be Broken...!)

[tangelo-jay]

personal, read if you want i guess it's just whining

Been trying to get D and T2 together at the same time to talk to them about me wanting to work my ass off so I can rank up and get a belt before I have to leave Judo for top surgery (whenever that is) but it wasn't working. It hit me when I was driving home last night to text D and ask him if he'd be there while I talked to T2 about something so I did. But of course D is not the kind of person that responds to things quickly so he left just enough time for the self-loathing "he hates you, you annoy him, it's always something with you isn't it?" thoughts to creep in. So I texted "Sorry, I don't mean to keep tugging on your sleeve like this. I know it's getting annoying." His response?

"Nah, you're fine."

Man of few words.

But also he said that he'd be there and it was no problem.

Ugh, I don't know what to make of this man still. Sometimes we talk like normal people. Sometimes it feels like he purposely ignores me. Sometimes I can't tell if he wants me to stay or go. And then he tries to (unsuccessfully but, hey, he tried) talk me away from a breakdown when he really could have just left if he wanted to. But then give it a week and then he's back to being three feet from me and not saying a word or even looking at me. Ugh.

I still feel like an outsider. I'm alone in a room full of people. I can even be talking to people and acting like I'm fine and then it all falls apart the second I'm by myself. I don't know why. I don't know how to make it stop.

But I know that for my sanity's sake—what little of it is left—I need to rank up before I go otherwise the brain gremlins will tell me there's no reason for me to go back afterwards. I need something tangible to keep them at bay. T2 is the teacher that works with me the most often. D is the only person there I've had both the "I'm transgender" and "I'm having surgery soon" conversations with, though brief and not in depth at all. D's also the only "safe touch" person that I don't have to put through a mental filter. That still doesn't make things 100% comfortable for me but it's better.

So I'll be talking to D and T2 on Wednesday. Telling them I want to work as hard as I can on whatever I need to get there.

Sure hope you're right about this, Aunt B.

[angelbluediary]

Today will be my sixth day of work; I have two days off starting tomorrow 💗

Z is flying down next month! In a crazy twist, he booked the Airbnb hosted by my former employers (and yes I truly believe it was coincidental, given how many times I’ve mentioned the exact street as being the main attraction down here and their place being the prime, if not only?, rental). Hopefully I won’t even need to change anything in the schedule, since he’ll be down from Friday night to Monday evening.

He’s shell-shocked by all the crazy twists of fate leading to us meeting whereas I’m more amused, and curious to see how it all plays out. I still don’t “feel” this is The One (which might not be fair to say before we’ve officially met and spent time together) but even so, that’s no reason to close the door on a promising connection.

I’ve received so many signs over the years that my fixed vision of who I end up with is for a reason and to help me know when I’ve found them. Too many of the same recurring details of this person’s personality and our energy together. It can’t be for nothing, and I can’t so easily let it go.

But again—I’m getting way ahead of myself. I just want to live in the present moment and enjoy what I have now and who I know.

My body is still extremely sore, it weighs down my limbs and makes my joints stiff. I keep reminding myself that I’m not going to be permanently disabled from a week or even months/a year or two? of this job. It’s just temporary. My body is also having a hard time adjusting since it’s used to laying in bed all day, which isn’t healthy either.

Face is washed, laundry was done yesterday. Just need to make lunch in an hour and get ready in the meantime for my 3-11. Should be another slow day, even slower on a Monday—I’ll need to bring a notebook to occupy my time (and stop wasting our scrap paper at the desk). I’ll do a better job of eavesdropping on conversations and recording the actions and behaviors of the people around me. There is a tangible difference in the way wealthy people hold themselves; I’ll milk every detail.

I will also occasionally check local job listings (just in case) and continue to revise my savings plan as my paychecks start coming in. Had this thought yesterday of, even if I get the apartment, so what? What then? Will it be enough to make me happy for the time being? I don’t want to spend so much of the money I’m working hard to secure and then immediately regret it. There are lots of things I can be grateful for now—free meals and utilities/rent and access to material resources.

At the same time, I’ve never stopped wanting and needing more space for myself. Ginger needs more space. I’ll sleep better in my own bed, taking up a whole bed, no longer placed a few feet from the litter box. I’ll be reunited with all my belongings. If I need air pumped into my tires I can still just drive over to my parents’ and eat dinner with them when I can. Too bad that $800 apartment is gone and replaced by the cheapest option of $1,200. It has 2 bad ratings concerning the property manager’s rudeness, too—but the place looks good, there are no upstairs or downstairs neighbors, and the only other option is almost $1,500.

Once I move out, I’ll virtually be living paycheck to paycheck so I need a really sturdy foundation first. And streams of other income would be nice to lock down, too! Maybe I’ll write the erotica books I’ve been thinking about on the torturously slow days.

[redrosesshadowwolf]

Isn't it wonderful when your body feels the same type of nausea whether it's cause you need to eat or shouldn't eat?

Like I had a snack earlier. A little while after I felt nauseous and it hasn't gone away. So either I need to actually eat dinner. Or my body is telling me that if I put any more food in it it's gonna riot.

So yeah at this current moment I'm not feeling exclusively fine.

Just a bit under the weather till I decide to take the 50/50 chance and probably make myself feel worse.

I supposed I could test the waters by eating another snack instead of dinner. Perhaps it shall oust the actual conditions regarding my sudden and "unexpected" bout of nausea?

This just happened sometimes. And thats why I know it's a 50/50

Of course the fact that I ate a snack a little while beforehand was one of the conditions to know it was a 50/50

Otherwise I'd bet it was closer to a 25/75 chance if I hadn't eaten food that 75 was on my body requesting food.

I should stop snacking when I get home to hold me over till dinner. I should just eat dinner earlier.

Alas I am already comfy in bed(disregarding the nausea that is) and have no reason to go take the chance on the eating being what fixes me.

So I'll just sleep it off, I eat good breakfasts even if I forget about dinner sometimes.

Can't belive I'm announcing intention to sleep before it becomes late, or early.

But it seems it has finally come to such a situation where my body requests slumber upon a normal and appropriate time for such a thing.

Here's to hoping my mind does not mourn the twilight hours I shall miss. They tend to be the best of my time. Farwell my previous goal of finishing that essay amidst the sound of crickets and under the glare of the moon. It seems you shall wait till the sun rises for tangible efforts

Which I know evade me under the suns gaze often enough. A shame, truly.

But my eyes grow heavy and my body is past a state of weariness. So I shall indeed fall to slumber....eventually. but for now if I keep typing my mind is just occupied enough that I can keep my eyes focused upon the screen.

Not that my eyes are the main challenge. I can stay awake long after my eyes have shut for the evening due to the weight imposed on them.

Yet I suppose it is easier to fall asleep with one's eyes sufficiently closed.

Ugh I actually am tired though and I know that when I roll over to plug my phone in it may wake me up a bit and then this whole thing will have been for nothing as I sit quietly for hours to hopefully pass out. 🙃

[astecra]

Thoughts of a 23 year old living in a world of ever-evolving Materialism

Thinking of my childhood, and seeing old videos of my childhood homes, I see how many things we had as a family. We didn't have a lot of money and we didn't have a big apartment or any fancy things -but we did have a lot of things. The reason for that is because we took great care of what we had, and made sure to treat it with respect. I was the youngest of three girls, so naturally I had a lot of hand-me-downs. But I don't remember ever being annoyed about the hand-me-downs, or ever having a desire for owning my own things. I never really knew why hand-me-downs didn't bother me the way it seems to bother a lot of other 'youngest' children, but now I realize its because we were all raised, and lived in an environment, where we took care of the things we had. Any of the toys that were handed down to me were in tact. Granted, they didn't look brand new, but they didn't look old or overly used either; they just looked like they had been played with. Like they were loved. The same goes for all the clothes I inherited from my sisters. We now live in a time where two things happen: tangible items, 'things', are being mass produced because people constantly want to buy new things, and people want to constantly buy new things because things are constantly being mass produced. The supply and demand of basically anything you can think of has increased ten fold. And as a result, the quality of everything has significantly decreased, because you simply can't create quality work in a hurry. This then leads to incredibly high prices for things that take a little longer to be made, and feeds into the incredible economic disparity that we are all witnessing and suffering from. Also, obviously this all ties into how labor is being exploited on such a large scale - because it's nearly impossible to ethically produce all of these items in a timespan that meets the demand of consumers. But it really doesn't need to be like this, and we CAN change this. And no, you don't need to stop buying things that you see in the store or online and love, or that you have to restrict yourself from treating yourself to nice things. I'm a taurus, so I constantly see things I like, and rarely don't buy the things I love. I LOVE treating myself. What you can do however, is simply just take care of the things you DO have, value them and maintain them so that you can use them for a long time and wont need to buy something to replace it in a couple months time. This is not only more ethical and ensures you have nice things for a long time, but would also allow you to be more conscious of how you spend your money, and I guarantee that it will save you A LOT of money and make you feel less guilty in times where you do splurge on something. You'll get to buy nicer things because you'll have more financial access to them, which in turn will surely make you to want to take care of the things you buy. I'm not talking about the daily coffee you get that makes your day even just a little better. I'm talking about tangible items intended for long use. You don't need a new set of headphones every year. You don't need a new phone case, or water bottle, or jewelry every couple months. You definitely don't need 90 pairs of shirts. You're not Paris Hilton, chill. It makes me really sad how the quality of everything is decreasing, and how people don't see the value in the things they have anymore. I understand that this is very normal, because its impossible to constantly have something new and recognize the value of it when in a couple months if not weeks or days, you'll just replace it with something even newer. But I miss the simplicity of how things were, and hope we can all someday go back to loving the things we have, instead of being slaves to capitalism and materialism - constantly wanting more and more, and in turn losing the joy, appreciation and acknowledgement of value of the things we do have.