#like knowing that most artists would be staunchly against that

[kingofmyborrowedheart]

I think we as a society need to relentlessly shame people who use AI to make creative content.

[forwhump]

a/n; sorry !!!!!!!!!!!!! (either for the delay or the fact that I’m posting again depending on how you feel about me)(I’m from mountains, canada and I drove to prairies, canada & at one point completely out of nowhere my friend was like “you could hide a military base out here so easy” I was like 👀)(silas could literally be in flatlands, manitoba we don’t even know)

anyway LOL this is for the anon that asked for more outside pov !! I was actually looking for smth hal ‘cause I have a lot more lighthearted stuff & sort of caretaking healing things from hal’s pov BUT !!! I felt partway through june needed more screen time & I went back and wrote a lot of early stuff from her pov & this is some of that & it is TOO GOOD not to post !! more wren backstory 😏 but nothing good has happened to wren in his life so y’know

tw/cw: sexual violence, rape, noncon, transphobia, misgendering, graphic depictions of violence, serious bodily harm, forced imprisonment, captivity, mentions of kidnapping, sexual slavery, medical torture

outside pov, military whump, mentions of super soldiers

June has been in the unit for about two years — she thinks — when Point comes to escort her from the common room, and it isn’t unusual. Not at first.

She safely assumes it’s for combat or field training, which are two of the only three things she ever gets escorted from the unit for. The third is medical. She’s never seen anything else, she’s never been taken to any other part of the district, and the hair on the back of her neck starts to rise as Point leads her deeper and deeper into the labyrinth, farther and farther from familiarity.

“Sir?” She tries, and he doesn’t even look at her.

He leads her to a door at the end of a long, empty hallway. He stands with his back to it, finally looking at June. Something in his jaw twitches. “Against my better judgment,” he says, and has to stop, to calm himself, closing his eyes, breathing in slowly through his nose. When he opens his eyes again, he looks at her and says, “if I had another choice, you would not be here. You are about to become privy to information only my most trusted men have been entitled to. It is contraband. If, for any reason, my superiors find out, and she is taken from me, I will not be happy. And if I’m not happy, your employment with me will be terminated by means of your life. Do I make myself clear?”

June had never seen any farther into the district than the arenas, even further underground. This is a single, armoured door, at the end of a long, empty hallway, at the junction of more long, empty hallways. “She?” June asks.

“Do I make myself clear?” Point repeats, and June’s body nods with no help from her brain.

“Sir,” she says.

Point clicks his tongue, irritated, before he unlocks and unarms the door.

It opens to the worst thing June has ever seen in her life.

“Fuck!” She says, and she doesn’t mean to, taking a quick step back. She can see Point watching her, blank, from the corner of her eye, but she can’t look at him. She doesn’t want to look anymore but she can’t pull her eyes off the body laid flat on its back on the concrete.

The costume dress is ripped and stained, tulle and gingham soaked through with blood. The body is so emaciated that June can clearly make out every bone in its leg beneath its waxy, bruised skin.

She fixates on the long, white hair. Robin has the same hair.

“Oh my fucking god,” she says.

Robin speaks of him, still, but he hasn’t been the same since this place got to him. None of them are. He isn’t frantic in the same way, but he still talks about him. When Robin talks, it’s most of what he talks about.

When he’d been taken, escorted here, his brother had been with him. The artist. They’d taken him, too. The soldiers all staunchly denied him ever even having a brother with him, so June had always assumed he’d been killed at the scene. Robin had insisted as long as he’d been there — they’d taken his brother, too. He was here somewhere.

He was right.

June feels cold all over.

“I think her pelvis is broken,” Point explains, and she has never experienced the rush of emotion she feels now, wet and hot, like a tide that breaks in her chest.

“You think her —“ she starts, and it almost makes her gag. She has to take a long breath in through her nose. She still can’t look away. “You think his pelvis is broken?”

“No,” Point admits. “Her pelvis is definitely broken.”

“Oh my fucking god,” June says again, and her voice sounds really far away. Robin’s brother has been real this whole time and Point’s been keeping him as a pet. “Oh my fucking god. You raped him to death.”

“She’s still alive,” Point says, and he says it like she’s dumb. He steps closer to nudge him in the side with the toe of his boot and Robin’s brother makes a quiet, wet sound June has only ever heard from dying men.

She reacts without thinking, shoving Point away from him. He moves, but he sneers as he looks down at her. “Stand down, January.”

“Get the fuck away from him!”

One of his eyebrows lifts, menacing. She doesn’t like Point, and she’s never liked Point, but one of the things she’s growing to loathe is his almost cartoonish villany. His mood swings are goofy and violent and it sets her teeth on edge. “I own her,” he says, low and dangerous. He leans in close. June is a big girl — Point is a massive fucking man. She doesn’t want to be intimidated by him but he speaks like a threat and his breath is hot against her face. “I can do whatever I want to her. That’s not why I brought you here.”

June would be shivering if she let herself, which is interesting because she’s actually as hot as if she’s running a fever. The sweat is cold as it trickles down her spine. “Why did you bring me here?”

Point looks down at the blood dried on the concrete, at Robin’s bleeding, broken brother, and says, “I don’t know what to do.” He looks at June slowly and his face is completely void of any emotion that June knows or recognizes.

“What?” She says.

He looks down again, back up, and she still can’t read his face at all. “I don’t want her to die,” he finally admits.

“Oh my fucking god,” June says, and she doesn’t mean to. She doesn’t know what else to say. She knew Point was a mean bastard but she never would’ve thought he would’ve been capable of this. “You should’ve thought about that before you raped him to death.”

“She doesn’t have to die,” he says.

“What do you want me to do?” June cries.

He looks at her like she’s a little stupid, which is just mind blowing, and motions to Robin’s brother with one arm. The other is held at his back, at ease.

Wren.

The name comes to her out of nowhere.

Robin’s brother is Wren.

“You’re also female,” Point explains, and kind of tilts his head, “I think.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” June says. “So?”

He motions at Wren again.

June looks at him, too, and it’s so much more horrible now that he has a name. He’d had family before, loved ones, somebody who was worried about him, and that was bad enough, but now this small, bleeding thing, broken down the middle, has a name.

Wren.

What was their last name? Some other kind of bird, wasn’t it? Was it Heron?

“I don’t know why you think I can help him,” June says.

Point’s eyebrows lift. “I figured you would’ve dealt with your share of female hysteria.”

“Female hysteria?” June repeats. “He was raped to death!”

“She isn’t fuckin’ dead!” Point snaps.

“He’s dying right now!” June cries. “You know that or you wouldn’t have come for help. What the fuck do you expect me to do? Really?”

Rage simmers in Point’s face for only a second. It’s gone just as quickly, replaced by something shier, almost more bashful. “Word is,” he says tightly, “you were a big…female advocate during your time. I thought you might’ve —“ and he cuts himself, exhaling sharply. “I thought you might’ve known somebody who’d been…hurt like her before. I thought you might know what to do.”

“They died,” June says.

“No,” Point says.

“Yes,” June corrects. “I worked around a lot of men like you. They were always civilians, always young, and they always died. Always.”

“You just let them die?” Point says, like he’s horrified by that.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” June says. “He needs a doctor. Have Medic —“

“No.” When he’s not speaking with too much emotion, Point doesn’t speak with a lot. Still, this is the flattest June’s ever heard his voice.

“Oh my god,” she says. “I know what to do and that’s what I know. If those girls in the field had been allowed access to a doctor they might not have died. They would’ve had a fucking chance, at least. What do you think is —“

“No,” he says.

“You’re really just gonna let him die here?” She protests.

“She’s contraband,” Point says, flat. “I thought I made myself clear.”

“So?”

Point looks her up and down once, lip curling disdainfully. “On paper,” he says, “she was terminated on site.”

Something shivers in June’s chest and makes her breath rattle. “Oh my god.”

“She is an unsanctioned pet,” Point says, “and —“

“Oh my fucking god,” she says. She takes a step away from him and she isn’t sure when she had gotten so deep into this room. She doesn’t like it, but she’s standing between Point and Wren and she can’t bring herself to stand anywhere else.

He kind of rolls his eyes at her. “And —“

“So he was always going to die here!” June cries, and the spike of hysteria in her voice surprises even her but this is fucking unbelievable. This is unreal. This place was a hellscape when these men were just working guard detail at a fucked up mad science program making super soldiers.

She should’ve known better. She was in the military, and she knew what those men were like. Point was right, kind of; she didn’t really work as an advocate, she just got a nickname. She used to fight, physically fight stationed doctors to try and get them to help the girls the soldiers always left behind. But they were always locals, civilians; the military’s doctors weren’t authorized to help them.

She should’ve known they’d never just be working guard detail.

She just never would’ve thought they’d be keeping a fucking sex slave in the basement.

What the fuck?

“What the fuck!”

Point exhales through his nose. “Yes,” he agrees.

June puts a hand to her chest and her heartbeat is like gunfire. Robin had been so hysterical about his brother when he’d gotten here, but he’d been going through withdrawals. June had never doubted that he was real, like Hal had, but she really thought they’d killed him, and that Robin had probably just blocked it out. That he’d completely forgotten it after the lobotomy, or whatever the hell they did to him.

He’d been real this whole time and Point had been keeping him as a pet.

“Oh my fucking god.”

“I don’t want her to die,” Point admits again, and June can feel it under her hand, the way that makes her chest constrict.

“At this point it’s probably the least you can do,” she spits, and her head is spinning.

“No,” Point says, and she hates that she agrees with him, but he’s right.

She can’t let him die down here. Not like this. “He needs a doctor,” she says.

“No.”

“That’s all you can do!” she protests. “There’s no other way to help him! You broke his fucking pelvis. He probably needed a doctor six months ago but if he doesn’t get one now he’s going to die. If you don’t want him to, tell Medic.”

“They’ll take her from me,” Point says.

June throws her arms up. “Then he’ll just be dead!”

Point looks down at her for a long time and she looks right back. She thinks he’s probably trying to intimidate some hidden medical prowess out of her, but she’s serious, and at some point he sees it in her face. His lip curls back from his teeth and he leaves. Without a word, he leaves, and he locks the armoured door behind him.

“Fuck,” June says out loud, and she doesn’t mean to. Her voice breaks.

But they’re alone. At least they’re alone.

Slowly, she turns to Wren, and slowly, she sits beside him. “Hi, Wren,” she whispers. He doesn’t respond and she doesn’t really expect him to. Slowly, she reaches out to him, brushing bits of crusted hair out of his face. He looks like he’s probably really beautiful, and he looks young. He looks so young that it makes June nauseous and she has to do everything in her power to keep her voice soft and calm and sweet. She wants to scream for him. She wants to cry.

She starts to push his hair out of his face and his eyes don’t open but he flinches with his whole body. “It’s okay,” June whispers. “It’s okay. I’m not gonna hurt you. My name’s June. I’m a friend of your brother.”

It stirs something in him. His head turns slowly against the concrete and his hair is so white the parts dried with blood look like they’re rusting. Blinking open his eyes, he looks up at her, and he has eyes so much darker than June was expecting. He has really, really dark, really wide eyes, bloodshot and bruised underneath, and he looks up at June from beneath wet eyelashes and it makes him look even younger and she cries with him, then. She can’t help herself.

“Robin?” He asks, but just barely. His voice is really small, but when June strains to hear it, she can hear Robin’s accent, softer and sweeter. “He’s alive?”

“Yeah,” June agrees, smiling wetly, “and he’s clean. He’s all big now, looks like a real cowboy. They fixed his teeth, too. He’s got a great smile.”

He chokes out a wet sound that June only realizes is a sob when a tear clears a track in the grime on his face.

“I know,” she agrees softly. “Really seems like you got the shitty end of the deal here.”

He makes another choked sound and June likes to imagine that in another life, he got to laugh towards the end. “I’m gonna die,” he says, and June can hear it in how thin, how wet his voice is, that yeah, he probably is, “aren’t I?”

“I think so,” June whispers. “I hope not.”

He chokes out another sound, another sob. “I think I want to,” he whispers, and his brittle voice breaks. “I don’t wanna do this anymore.”

“I know,” she agrees. “I think I would, too.” He moves his head, tips his face up towards the ceiling, and strips of flesh have been peeled from the side of his throat. She takes his hand so carefully, and she doesn’t look at the bruising around his wrist or every one of his broken fingernails. “I don’t think I’d want to be alone,” she explains.

He makes a choked sort of sound. “I’m never alone.”

“I’m sorry,” she says softly. “Do you want to be alone now?” His fingers tighten around June’s, almost frantic, and she says, “it’s okay. I’m not going anywhere.” She squeezes his fingers as much as she’s comfortable, which is just barely. “Couldn’t get very far if I wanted to.”

She’s crying, but that feels rude. What does she have to cry about? She tries to wipe her eyes with the back of her other hand and says, “I’m really sorry this happened to you.”

He doesn’t say anything but his fingers are still shaking so June knows he’s still alive. He’s so cold she thinks it would be hard to tell, otherwise. She doesn’t think she’d let go of his hand either way.

They sit there for such a long time that June thinks that Point’s left them both to die. She holds Wren’s hand and cries for him when he isn’t conscious to hear it. When the door is finally opened again, she jumps so hard it feels like it throws something out in her back.

Jumping to her feet, she keeps Wren safely behind her as Point filters back in, face blank. Close at his back is Medic and June sobs out loud.

She would go as far as to say she likes Medic. A trauma surgeon, Medic is a good doctor and he’s kind to them. He’s a prisoner, too. He doesn’t want to be there, either. Him and the entire rest of his team are fitted with collars, flickering at all times with dangerous red light. Insubordination will lead to electrocution which will lead to death.

Medic is a prisoner and he’s one of if not the only person down here with any sort of humanity left. He reacts to Wren like any normal person would — with horror.

He recoils so hard it makes him take a step back, and he bumps into June. Neither of them acknowledge it. “What the fuck?”

Point opens his arms, dismissive. “Fix her.”

“Who is this?”

“Who cares?” Point says. “Can you fix her?”

“What the fuck?” Medic repeats, ragged. “What did you do to her? Who is this?”

“Robin’s brother,” June says, and Medic looks at her with eyes blown wide with horror.

They blow even wider with realization. He looks at Point slowly. “What the fuck?”

“You’re wasting time,” Point says. “She’s dying.”

“His pelvis is broken,” June tells him quietly, and Medic sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth.

“Fuck me,” he says. He rubs his face slowly, but if there’s one thing June likes best about Medic, it’s that she respects him. When he lowers his hands, he looks at Point. He says, “get the fuck out. Take June back to the unit, and stay the fuck away. If you try to see him at any point while he’s in my care, I will fucking kill you. You understand?”

Point’s lip curls back from his teeth. “You’re in no position to tell me what to do, doc.”

“Then maybe we’ll have Weaver come down here and take a look at him instead,” Medic says.

Point snarls, actually snarls, like some kind of fucked up beast, and the way the sound reverberates through the room is deeply unsettling. But he takes June by the arm, and he turns.

June turns to look over her shoulder, but Medic closes the door between them. As she turns back around, she sees it’s because Point tried to look back, too.

She doesn’t say anything to Robin. Maybe that’s the wrong choice, she isn’t sure. What would the right choice be? Would she wanna know, if it was her? What if she’d been lobotomized?

She doesn’t say anything and she doesn’t see Medic for months. When she does she’s sitting in a bed in the medical bay, trying to peer around for any sign of him. The medical bay, unfortunately, was designed for privacy; the size of a large airplane hanger, there are enough beds for a small army but spaced out far enough that June can’t peer end to end.

When the door is pushed open and Medic lifts the corner of his mouth at her, she has a bullet in her arm but she forgets that it hurts and blurts, “is he okay?”

Medic smiles a little more properly and the relief that crests in June’s chest almost makes her start crying out of nowhere. “No,” he says, “but he’s getting there. He’s alive.”

“Oh my fucking god,” she says, and he laughs. “Can I see him?”

“Let’s get this bullet out of you,” he says, “and we’ll see.”

A few months after that, somebody new is introduced to their unit. Like every other time, they don’t know until the guards show up with them. The new guy, this time, has long white hair, the same colour as Robin’s.

June cries pretty uncontrollably.

Robin doesn’t cry — can’t, maybe? — but June cries enough for him, too.

[derridoid]

Hetalia Food/Drink Headcanons: Main Ensemble Edition

We all know North Italy has a love for pasta. One might imagine that he has a love for the "fancier" or more "complex" pasta dishes his home has to offer - and he does! - his absolute favorite dish is cacio e pepe. It reminds him of what Grandpa Rome would make for him when he was younger and needed a pick-me-up. Nobody makes it as good as Grandpa Rome, of course.

Germany has been coming around to IPA's over the last few centuries. If a world meeting is held at America's house, and if he and some of the other nations will go out for drinks afterward, he'll order one. He'd rather have a lager any day, but given that he's not a huge fan of America's take on lagers, he'll take the lesser of two evils. You might even get him to admit he kinda-sorta-almost likes them if he's tipsy enough - yes, even the hipster-y ones.

Japan has gone to every Ramen Jiro in Japan dozens of times over. He'd consider himself a Jirorian, doing his best to blend in with the students and salarymen who frequent the shops, and he likes to invite Greece and Prussia to accompany him on his trips to the "sacred" shop in Mita. (ie, the original Ramen Jiro) His go-to is the tonkatsu.

(more under the cut)

While America is and always be a fan of a good all-beef patty, he's become a fan of the "impossible," plant-based meats that are growing in popularity. He says eating plant-based burgers and hot dogs make him feel like he's living in a sci-fi movie - "in the future, people will GROW their meat!" - and appreciates the fact that most plant-based meat companies' environmental footprints are much smaller.

England is, of course, something of a tea aficionado, at least in the Western world. His "usual" is a nice Earl Grey, usually the Twinings brand - a fan since the beginning! - but he's been known to drink green or oolong, with China giving him suggestions on which blends he'd like best. Canada has been trying to get him to come around to the London fog variant of Earl Grey, but England is staunchly against trying it.

It actually took France a few decades to get his recipe for macarons right - they're finnicky little pastries! - but now that he's got it down, he loves making them. Watching him make these confections is like watching an artist at the easel or the marble block. In the last century or so, he's also gotten really creative with the flavors he uses for each batch, both successfully and unsuccessfully. He's gotten into the practice of making a batch of two dozen with unique flavors for each nation on their "birthday" - his favorite to date are the cherry blossom ones he made for Japan some time ago.

Russia has a tendency to over-season his food. If he's following a recipe with specific measurements provided - half a teaspoon of celery seed, a teaspoon of tarragon - it's not a problem. However, if he's going off of sight and feel alone, he puts in way too much, because "it never looks like there's enough!" By the time he gets around to tasting the food to check the seasoning, it's often too late. The worst offender is usually pepper, but most people are too intimidated? nice to complain.

There's a long-standing agreement that the nation whose house a World Meeting is held at is the nation who decides where everyone goes out for dinner - if the meeting is hosted in New York, America usually takes the nations to a steakhouse; if the meeting is hosted in Rome, North and South usually take people to a local pizza place; so on and so forth. When meetings are hosted at China's house, he, almost without fail, takes everyone out for hot pot. Everybody loves it, and they look forward to when meetings are hosted in Beijing. China is personally is a huge fan of the mutton, and has been for centuries.

South Italy makes the most unbelievable pizza ever known to man or nation. His favorite is the Pizza Margherita, which he perfected with Rafaele Esposito (the father of modern pizza) and has been eating since it first dropped at the Risorgimento in the 1860s, thank you very much. In fact, he used to work at Esposito's tavern Pizzeria di Pietro e basta così when he wasn't engaged with nation-y activities. In recent history, he grows his own San Marzano tomatoes and basil for the Margherita pizzas he makes, and he still uses the original dough recipe he picked up from Esposito. He could share it with you, but he'd have to kill you.

Prussia has swapped recipes with Poland for like, the past few hundred years, and much of the food he ate was influenced by Poland and, to some extent, Russia. His favorite thing to make, even after all these years, is Königsberger Klopse. He does tend to go a little heavy on the capers. Unrelated - one time, he accidentally ate some of Gilbird's gourmet seed blend, thinking it was snack seed mix, and didn't notice until about three handfuls in that it was not human/nation-grade product. Germany was there to see it, and is the only person that knows. He's been sworn to secrecy on the matter under the threat of blackmail.

Canada, as we know, is a fiend for ice cream, and he'll eat just about any brand of it that you offer to him. His favorite for "binging" is Chapman's, mostly because it comes in a cardboard box that can be deconstructed and laid out near-flat - no spoonfuls lost in the corners! He's also a fan of some of his brother's brands of ice cream, particularly Ben & Jerry's. He's been known to make the near 5-hour trek from his place to the factory in Waterbury, Vermont for a tour and free samples...multiple times a year, even...don't tell America this, or he'll get teased.

[calpalsworld]

So the behind the scenes for Pizza Tower is literally the worst. The creator is literally the worst. If i was in the same room as someone like this I would probably become a killer. Other fans have already said their opinions, basically "I get why people like the game but I can't engage with it anymore" etc. That's pretty much how I'm feeling. I feel disgusted and betrayed and it hurts to remember something I like about the game, and then remember it was made by these dangerous people. Maybe at some point if I do get the urge to draw the characters again, maybe I'll put a huge DNI banner that says "fuck bigots die mcpig" or something. But I need a bit to think about if thats a good decision or not... I feel like its not... On one hand I want to say "I'm gonna take the good parts of this game and make it what the creator hates" but I also have no clue if thats a good idea, and I need a while to think about it.

One BIG THING I'm asking of everyone, and I may make another post asking this question later, is does anyone know any Pizza Tower alternatives??? Any media that is cartoony and simple and crazy and well animated? I really wish I could find something that had the things I liked in Pizza Tower. Please comment or send me an ask if you have any suggestions.

Anyway heres some PERSONAL thoughts that are NOT as important:

I feel disappointed in myself for noticing problematic character designs from the start and convincing myself that maybe the bigotry was unintentional, that it was just a negative side effect of being inspired by other (bigoted) things. It was obviously not. I should've known it was intentional.

A lot of people have been saying "Pizza Tower being problematic was obvious due to the art style," which is partially true, but at the same time that makes me really sad. My first exposure to the game was my friend saying "this looks like something you would make!" And I've been fucking obsessed with the art style ever since. For those who don't know, I used to be an exclusively "shitpost" artist, which I REALLY enjoyed, and art college has made me more and more corporate. So sadly.... Pizza Tower made me feel connected to how I used to draw and create art. I was really happy to see such a creative and unconventional art style that is like my own thriving with popularity, and I liked to imagine that maybe the creator was similar to me (he is not). Lately I've started saying "I'm not gonna make sanitized art anymore I'm gonna only make crazy stuff" and yeah that was literally because of... Pizza Tower.... which has been revealed to be made by the worst people ever.... (so yeah lmk if you guys have any recommended alternatives).

Last thing is I think it has been cool how Peppino has become an iconic ass trans-headcanoned character for a lot of tumblr. So I guess thats the reason why I most likely won't judge anyone for drawing Pizza Tower. We got something awesome going that was our own thing. But you have to remember McPig is also a racist, and trans headcanons don't do anything to fight against that.

I just hope the people who will continue to draw art to spite McPig's intentions openly acknowledge how fucked up the game's creation is, and don't promote the game. If you continue being a Pizza Tower fan please at least be self-aware and adamantly against the creator. Like post a link to pirate the game along with every time you post art of it or something to counteract your inherent promotion of the game, idk. Don't let bigots get away with being popular. That is dangerous.

TLDR:;

No more Pizza Tower for me, at least for a while, if I do ever post something Pizza Tower-related again it will be staunchly anti-Pizza Tower. Someday, I hope to create something like fun and silly like Pizza Tower, but antifascist. Also, new hyperfixation recommendations that are similar to Pizza Tower strongly encouraged, thank you!

[the1975attheirverybest]

Hi Hala! So, I know your opinion on matty not speaking up about Palestine but I was here thinking about it, follow my train of thought.

Considering everything he ver spoke, we know where he stands on this issue, right? So It's not that we want to know his opinion on this. We want him to speak because of the "signing towards utopia" thing.

But then we get to something he has already talked about his tweet about George Floyd, that is the dicotomy between long and short term expression (I don't remember the exact words). But he said he thinks It's better to speak through his songs, cause he actually work oh the lyrics, think deeply about the issue and can articulate his thoughts in a better way than in a tweet.

In fact, that was what happend when the whole bomb thing on People mv happend.

That being said, I don't know why but I think It's possible that he addresses this issue on a song for the next album.

Now, I don't agree with you on this matter for reasons that I don't think are important, but I wonder: if he really talks about it in a song, do you think It would be enough or anything he does from now on is already overdue?

Hey anon!

You can hear the gist of my take on the matter over here. It hasn’t changed recently. I suspect it won’t ever change. Barring some like exceptional circumstances.

I’ll address some of the points that you make here and iterate what I say above.

1. There is a difference between speaking out about every bill that is ever proposed to be made into law ever, and speaking out against genocide. Do you understand me?

Let me put it this way: let’s say Utah introduces a bill to ban even more books that show queer love stories. Or Alabama starts a debate about the age of consent. Or a school board in South Dakota has an initiative about critical race theory. I do NOT expect Matty to get onstage every single time that any of this happens and start yelling about it. He said something very poignant in the ION PACK pod. He said that artists used to be bohemian outsiders. Now everyone expects them to be liberal academics. And he’s just not the liberal academic type. I AGREE WITH HIM. TREMENDOUSLY. I don’t want him out there as a political pundit. I think punditry is one of the dumbest most self-absorbed jobs lmao.

HOWEVER genocide and ethnic cleansing is VERY different. It is a humanitarian crisis. One that demands all of us be accountable. Literal bloodlines have been wiped from the earth. The Palestinian ministry of health has had to delete family lineages from their database because Israel has killed them all. Like there is not a single person remotely related to them who’s been left alive. The family name is gone forever. Children are being starved. Tortured. Literal kids.

In my opinion, it’s not a valid argument to say that because he’s pro BLM then he’s obviously pro Palestine. If you talk to liberals, if you watch the news, if you speak to majority white communities, you’ll see a curious phenomenon. The most progressive of folks suddenly turns into a bloodthirsty animal horny for the destruction of Palestinians. This is due to 75+ years of propaganda by Zionists. Even the “good guys” are against Palestine because they genuinely believe we have to destroy Palestinians for the safety of everyone else (especially Jewish folks). Being pro-Palestine has gotten people fired from their jobs, black listed in hollywood, influencers have lost sponsorships, authors have been dropped by their publishers. This wouldn’t happen to anyone who says Black Lives Matter.

Moreover, regular methods of advocacy are not working for the same reasons. Biden and Congress folks are staunchly pro Israel. It’s the same in the UK, France, Germany. you’ve seen what has been happening to student protestors. Suspensions, expulsions, jail, physical injury.

If, at times like these, people who are of immense privilege, who claim to be brought up on punk values, who “make standing up for human rights as part of my schtick” are not only SILENT but say “really? You wanna hear me and Brittany broski on Israel-Palestine?” “I’m just a singer.” Then tell me what’s left?

2. How is saying “he spoke up once about one political issue years ago shouldn’t that be enough.” Any different from saying “Taylor swift spoke up about queer rights once when she was trying to sell an album. Therefore she’s a queer advocate”?

3. I can’t speak about the song hypothetical. In other words, I would have to see the song. My reaction would be different based on if it’s one line or a whole song and what the context and message etc. but I will say that he has already used Gaza in the show. The barrage of news stuff that plays before POTB. Where he has the clip of the lady saying “the woke left are angry with my favorite artist even though he’s on their side let’s talk about it” or whatever the fuck.

4. The right time to speak out was October 8. The second best time is now. Every day that goes by where he’s silent, more and more blood is shed. And it’s on his hands and his consciousness whether he wants to admit it or not.

5. Finally, I’m sorry, but it’s a tad disingenuous and bad faith of you to say you “disagree for reasons that aren’t important.” If you’re going to scrutinizes me for my words you should be willing to lay yours out first.

[project1939]

100+ Films of 1952

Film number 128: Big Jim McLain 

Release date: August 30th, 1952 

Studio: Warner Brothers 

Genre: noir thriller 

Director: Edward Ludwig 

Producer: Robert M. Fellows, John Wayne 

Actors: John Wayne, Nancy Olson, James Arness, Alan Napier 

Plot Summary: Jim McLain and Mal Baxter are working hard for HUAC, relentlessly and only somewhat constitutionally ferreting out Commies. Their latest assignment requires travel to Hawaii, where they chase a minor spy ring. 

My Rating (out of five stars): ** 

It's propaganda time! When the heroes of a film are Communist witch hunters working for HUAC, you know something is very wrong. Especially when those heroes are disdainful of the fact that their suspects are entitled to the protections in the Bill of Rights! Most of the time I either wanted to yell or laugh while watching this. 

The Good: 

Nancy Olson. Her presence is always both so warm and intelligent. I loved her in Sunset Boulevard, Pollyanna, and The Absent Minded Professor, and she was the only ray of light in the film for me. (I also loved hearing that she was a liberal Democrat who hated the script but agreed to do it only so she could travel to Hawaii and work with John Wayne. She thought the movie was so bad no one would go to see it!) 

Hans Conried. He’s a legendary character actor who appeared in almost every sitcom ever from the 1950s-1970s, and he cracked me up as an eccentric man totally off his rocker. 

There was some picturesque location footage all around Hawaii. 

The Bad: 

Where to start? How ‘bout that the good guys are HUAC?! 

John Wayne. I’m not a big fan, but I do find him effective in some movies. When he’s not a cowboy, though, he struggles more with dialogue, sounding extremely monotone and unnatural. When he had to smile and flirt with Nancy, it was almost painful. 

The two main investigator protagonists spoke with palpable rage that the 5th Amendment existed for more than just “good” Americans. Hearing a similar conversation about the Constitution in Walk East on Beacon two days ago, it was chilling to remember the forces in the country who didn’t understand why everyone is entitled to the rights enshrined in it. They wanted to pick and choose who got those rights. 

There were lots of stupid stereotypes of what Communists were. Professors? Intellectuals? People involved in Labor Unions? Impressionable college students? Check, check, check, and check! I’m surprised no famous artists, writers, or actors were in this movie, cause we sure know HUAC loved targeting them! 

The script was not very smooth- the plot zigged and zagged too much. It felt choppy and disjointed. 

Like Walk East on Beacon, this it was just too dry. Thrills or excitement barely occurred. There were a couple of fist fights? That was about it. 

The villains were not interesting. There were too many of them, they were hard to keep track of, and they were fairly nameless. 

On assignment in Hawaii supposedly doing important government business, Jim seemed to spend at least half his time dating Nancy! He was sitting in restaurants, dancing, and going for scenic drives with her as much as he was surveilling and investigating. 

The maniacally patriotic voice over at the beginning and end was so over the top, it was laughable. And supposedly it was only the Soviets who made propaganda??? 

There were so many ridiculous quotes! Here are a few I wrote down: 

“This is the hearing room of the House of Representatives Committee on Un-American Activities. We, the citizens of the United States of America, owe these our elected officials, a great debt. Undaunted by the vicious campaign of slander launched against them, they have staunchly continued their investigation pursuing their stated beliefs that anyone who continued to be a communist after 1945 is guilty of high treason.”

"I wanted to hit you, but now I see you're a little guy. That's the difference between us [Americans and Soviets]- we don't hit the little guy." 

 “After being a hard-working dedicated Communist for almost 11 years, I came to my senses and recognized Communism for what it is- a vast conspiracy to enslave the common man.” 

[bestiesenpai]

Possession - Choso ft. Geto

Choso-nii is sweet in his own ways, we have to admit lol this is a non-curse uhmmmm I know Choso is literally like 150yrs old but just so we ALL KNOW: reader is 18+, and femme reader

Content warningssss: infantilization + dumbification, incest, slimy best friend Geto, dubcon, praise, dacryphilia, light choking, degradation, manipulation/gaslighting(i’m not sure which is the proper term for this situation so im just putting both)

Choso was lucky, being the oldest of all the siblings. He had the most life experience, the most time out of all of you to try things out and get shit right. Growing up, he tried to be there for you but he was often much too busy to dedicate the time and effort needed to properly foster a relationship.

Irregardless of that, you still looked up to him and sought him out whenever you could. Hanging out with him in little increments, somehow squeezing in alone time with just the two of you. It was no easy task with as many brothers as you had, but you managed to steal away a precious few seconds with him when you could.

Which is why when Choso moved out, you were utterly devastated. It felt like just yesterday he was helping you pick groceries for a big family hot pot and then the next he was packing boxes and moving into a trendy studio downtown to pursue an art and fashion career.

When he left with the final box you blubbered like a baby, not wanting to be comforted by him because it would only make you miss him more. It hurt him too to see you like that and to know that he could have prevented it if he just simply stayed, but he wasn’t about to hold himself back just to keep the bandaid on a little longer.

As the months ticked by, it agonized you to be left without him. Sure you had your other brothers and you loved them just as much, but it wasn’t the same without him. You texted and called Choso and made sure he kept up with the sibling group chat, but there wasn’t much you could do otherwise.

Until one fateful day, the power went out at the house over the weekend. The maintenance man had told your parents it wouldn’t be on until Monday morning and you were far too quick to snatch up the chance to be the one person that got to go to Choso’s.

“Choso-nii!” You were absolutely buzzing as you threw open the door with the spare key he had left at the house. Finally, finally, you got to see where he lived and spend more time with him. You hadn’t gotten the chance to go to his place yet despite how long it’d been since he moved out; he always said he was too busy working on a project or that he was out too late to entertain you.

Your shoulders dropped dramatically when you realized he wasn’t home. Dragging your small suitcase through the door, you let the disappointment hang on your face at being all alone. Taking your shoes off, you stepped onto the frigid hardwood and took a look around.

His place was modest, he wasn’t a starving artist but he couldn’t afford the large lofts you saw online. Immediately to your left was his small kitchen with only one full sized counter to speak of, to your left was a bathroom covered in slate gray tiles and no bathtub, and in front of you was his living room.

“He decorated pretty well.” Mumbling to yourself, you look around the room. There’s a tiny desk facing the wall shoved into the corner with his computer on top, a decently sized couch next to it and a coffee table with coffee ring stains on it. There’s an area rug your mother got him and hanging on the walls is multiple pieces of art he’d acquired. He’d shown you some when you last video called and all of them were beautiful.

Walking past the mounted TV and gaming consoles he kept was a space divided from the living room with a slatted wood wall. Right behind the wall was his bed, messily covered in blood red blankets, pillows and crumpled sheets. It was probably the biggest piece of furniture in the apartment, and the rest of the room was covered in posters and housed his clothes on open hangers.

Making yourself comfortable, you waited eagerly on the couch for him to come home. You’d already whined through text at him, berating him for not being here to greet you. With the promise of a large takeout meal when he got home, you could only sit and twiddle your thumbs.

“Choso-nii!” Leaping from the couch as the door opened, you were ready to pounce on your brother and smother him in a hug.

“Hey.” He replied gruffly and you stopped short at the looming shadow still behind him. Your smile fell when a man walked in behind him, long inky black hair tied up into a loose bun and a wide stature that made you nervous.

“Hi.” The way his low voice stretched into a higher pitch as he wiggled his long fingers at you, the sleeve of his hoodie dipping down to reveal scrawling black tattoos against his skin, had a shiver going through you.

“H-hi.” Your voice was tiny compared to his and it made him chuckle. Your eyes weren’t even on Choso anymore, glued to the man who was now smiling at you with his eyes half closed.

“How was the trip here?” Choso is suddenly right in front of you, cutting off your line of sight and pulling you into a hug you quickly reciprocate to ease your mind. Your fingers dig into the soft material of his jacket and you can smell a faint trace of nicotine on him.

“It was fine, mom drove me to the station.”

“Good, good.” All too soon he pulled away, rubbing your head affectionately before turning to the guest he’d brought. “This is my friend Geto, we do business together in the fashion district.”

“Ah, this must be the little sister you told me about!” Geto’s brows rose and he let out a pleased hum. “Hi little sister, I’m Geto Suguru.” The way he called you little sister made your face burn, it was like he was mocking you.

“Tell him your name.” Choso grunted and nudged your shoulders.

“I’m (Y/N)...” Licking your lips nervously, your eyes dropped to a spot on the floor.

“It’s nice to meet you, (Y/N).” Sliding closer Geto pat your shoulder lightly. “You can call me Geto-nii.” Your eyes widen and snap up to look at him, clearly surprised a stranger would be so casual already. “I want us to get closer, afterall we’ll probably be seeing a lot of each other. I’m one of your brother's best friends.”

“Uhm, o-okay.” Nodding quickly, you meet his dark eyes for a moment before looking at the piercings on his ears. “It’s nice to meet you too, Geto-nii.”

“Hey, what do you want for delivery?” Choso huffs from the couch. He’s surprisingly hands off with your interaction, not even looking at the way Geto sizes you up or how his fingers are close to closing in on your wrist.

“What is there?” Rushing to the couch, you practically fall right into Choso’s lap and nuzzle into his shoulder to look at his phone. Geto stands right where you left him for a moment, taking in the sight of you cuddling up to your brother so closely, before he slinks away into the bathroom.

“Wow, that came so quickly!” Twenty minutes later you’re seated on the floor, pressed against the coffee table as you marvel at how fast the delivery came. “At home it takes at least forty-five minutes!”

“That’s what you get for living in the sticks.” Choso teases, a small uptick to his mouth as he brings the food to the table.

“Shut up!” Puffing out your cheeks, you look up at the game Geto is playing. It’s some online multiplayer shooting game you hadn’t bothered to catch the title of, but the flashing lights and the way Geto got so worked up had you intrigued.

“Fuck yeah, foods here.” Taking a quick glance down, Geto abandoned the game quickly. Tossing the controller onto the couch, he walked to the fridge and dug around. “Choso, beer?”

“Yeah.” He called back, digging out the contents of the bag and spreading it out across the table.

“Did you get me a-” Right as you were about to ask, Choso placed a cold can of soda in front of you.

“Yup.”

“Aw (Y/N), you don’t drink beer?” Geto whined, plopping down across from you with a pout. Handing a tall can to Choso, he cracked open his own and frowned slightly when you shook your head no. “Have you ever tried it?”

You could feel your brother's eyes looking right at you, curious to know the answer too. The truth was, you had experimented with both liquor and weed but you never told Choso. He always warned you not to get into any of that stuff.

“No.” Your cheeks burned as you lied and Choso’s eyes narrowed; he could tell you were lying and the curt sigh that left his lips was evidence enough.

“Really, never? Take a sip then.” Sitting up a little straighter, Choso opened his can and held it out to you.

“No thanks.” Trying to push the can away, you avoided both Choso’s narrowed gaze and Geto’s smirk.

“No go ahead, I insist.” He held the can out staunchly. “Your first time should be with me anyway.” That made your face even hotter and you hung your head, a whine threatening to bubble out of your throat.

“I don’t like it.”

“Hm, how do you know you don’t like it if you’ve never tried it?” Geto added, knowingly stirring the pot and hiding his wide smirk behind his beer can.

“I just do!” With a huff your head shot up and you looked at both of them.

“Try it.” Choso said firmly, his eyes now wide and unblinking at you. The whine you’d tried to hold back came out and your shoulders bounced up and down as you spoke.

“I don’t want to, I’ve already tried that kind and I don’t like it!” There, now it was out in the open for everyone to know. Your head dropped again but you could see the way Geto bit his lip hard to stop himself from giggling.

“I thought I told you not to get mixed up with that stuff.” Sighing softly, Choso took a long sip from his beer can and the silence that hung between you was heavy, at least on your end. Your shoulders sagged and you picked up your plate.

“Sorry.” Your voice was so pitiful it made Geto coo.

“What’s done is done.” Choso shrugged and began to dish himself up. “Next time you wanna do that stuff though, come to me.”

“Yeah, your big brothers will make sure you have a great time.” Lightly tapping the table, Geto grinned widely. Digging his phone out of his pocket, he turned on some music. “Now let's eat, I’m starving!”

The air between you and Choso was stilted. He wasn’t angry or disappointed with you, he’d made sure to tell you when he caught you pouting over your food. He just wished you’d come to him first, but you couldn’t help but see past it. Choso was hurt he wasn’t your first choice, and even though he didn’t vocalize it his actions showed it.

“Hey (Y/N), come and play with me.” After dinner Geto had flopped back down onto the couch, his stomach bloated with a food baby.

“Uhm, okay.” Taking a quick glance at Choso who was sitting down at his computer, you nodded. Taking a seat a good few inches away from Geto you picked up the other controller.

“Why’re you so far away, I won’t bite!” He laughed, quickly discarding the thick hoodie he’d been wearing. Your eyes were drawn to the heavy black and grey traditional Japanese tattoos going up and down both of his arms, stopped only by the t-shirt he had on.

“Your tattoos are really cool.” Unable to take your eyes away, you slid closer to him on the couch, body dipping on the cushions as you leaned close to examine them.

“You like them? I have more, lemme show you.” Off came Geto’s shirt and you gasped loudly. He had a whole bodysuit going on, large pops of color on his chest and shoulders going down his sides and disappearing beneath the waistband of his pants.

“Woah, these are so cool!” You couldn’t hide how impressed you were. Your hands ghosted over his skin, drinking in the intricate designs etched permanently into his body along with the rippled muscles underneath his skin.

“Does my little sister have any tattoos?” Geto asked, letting his hair out of its bun and letting the strands fall around his shoulders.

“No.” Choso answers for you, not taking his eyes away from his computer.

“Yeah, I don’t have any yet.”

“That’s a shame, I think you’d look really pretty with some ink.” Running a hand through his hair so he could flex his arm, Geto flicked his chin towards Choso. “I’ve been trying to get this guy to come to my shop to get some work done too.”

“Choso-nii, you should get a tattoo!” After seeing Geto’s you were hooked.

“Hm.” He grunted, casting you a sideways glance over his shoulder. “What should I get?”

“Get something like this!” You gestured towards Geto and Choso finally turned around away from his computer to look fully at you.

“You really think I’d look good with all that?”

“Yes!”

“Ah you heard her, Choso! I’ll book you a consultation with my artist, he’s a great guy.”

“Alright…” Choso’s eyes lingered on Geto for a little while longer before he turned back to his computer. “Sign me up then.” Letting out a victorious little sound, Geto tugged his shirt back on and picked up his controller again.

“Alright, let’s play now.”

It was safe to say that the kinds of games Geto and your brother played were much harder than the ones you played at home. There were far too many character controls to memorize and the speed at which you had to press the buttons was too fast and it hurt your fingers after a while.

“Geto-nii, I don’t like this!” You groaned, slumping against him and the couch cushions as you lost another round of the online game.

“Poor baby, is it too difficult for you?” Geto pouted at you and pat your thigh. Choso had slipped a pair of headphones on, oblivious to the way Geto was speaking to you.

“It is.”

“Here, we’ll go do a practice round and I’ll teach you how to play.” Flicking through the options, Geto found what he was looking for. “Your little brain just needs to take things slow.”

“S’not little.” Pushing his shoulder with a huff, your cheeks burned as he laughed. “Your games are just stupid.”

“Whatever you say, baby.” Drawing out the y, Geto loaded up a practice game and hooked his arm around your shoulders, putting his hands over yours on the controller. “Now just try to remember how I do it.”

His arms tightened around you, pushing your chest nearly flush with his as Geto pushed and pulled your fingers insanely fast, pulling off stilted combo moves with your hands. You could barely keep up with what was happening on screen let alone the buttons he was pushing.

“You think you got it?” His mouth was now right against your ear, his voice a low and rumbling whisper. A tiny, strangled noise comes from the back of your throat and Geto can feel you tense up slightly. “It’s okay, I’ll teach you all night if I have to.”

Chuckling darkly, his lips ghost along the ridge of your ear before starting up another game. Your face is on fire and Geto knows, he can feel the heat radiating off your body much stronger than it was before. The subtle shift of your thighs and the way they squeeze together isn’t lost on him, and it only makes him draw you deeper into his lap until you’re sitting pretty on his stretched out legs, head nestled gently on his shoulder while you try in vain to keep up with him.

“Alright I sent the final sketch to Gojo and-” Choso tosses his headphones off and turns around, body stretching and extending up and out, bones cracking and popping loudly in his ears. He stops speaking, gravelly voice suddenly caught in his throat when he sees the two of you together.

It’s been so long since he’s been cuddled up to you like that that the sight of you in his best friend's lap like that makes his mind go blank. Cuddled up with another man, you’re not even playing the game anymore, having given up a long time ago just to simply watch and lightly nap while you wait for your brother to give you attention again.

“Hm? Oh, that’s great.” Geto replies, giving a quick glance to Choso and then to the clock on the wall. “Fuck it’s already 2am? I missed the last train.”

“You know it’s not a big deal for you to crash here.” Choso shrugs and begins to turn off some of the lights that are beginning to burn his eyes. He can’t stand to look at you any longer or the creeping jealousy in his chest will bubble to the surface.

“Choso-nii…” With a big sleepy inhale you arch your back off Geto, pushing your weight into your hips as you stretch and rub your eyes.

“I shoulda had you get ready for bed earlier, you must be beat.”

“Mhmm.” Nodding sleepily, you stand up with help from Geto, his hands placed low on your hips and fingers splayed out on your body. “I’ll be quick.” Shuffling to your suitcase, you take out your sleeping clothes and bathroom essentials before blindly walking to his bathroom.

You can hear a low murmur in the living room as Choso and Geto also get ready for bed. There’s a few chuckles, and you hear Choso snap at Geto for something, and they’re definitely saying your name at parts, but by the time you come out the conversation is done and over with.

“Come sleep with me, little sister!” Geto calls from the couch where he’s set up a makeshift bed and taken all his clothes off except his underwear. There’s a blanket not yet put over his body right next to him, and your eyes are staring right at the tattoos that dip under his waistband and finish on his ankles.

“C’mere.” Choso huffs, snatching your wrist and pulling you into the bedroom. Your eyes follow Geto as you walk and you can feel the way he stares right at your bare thighs in your sleeping shorts.

Pushing you onto the bed, Choso climbs in after, flicking off the last light left on and engulfing everyone in a shroud of darkness and city light peeking through the curtains. Frustrated, Choso tosses and turns in the bed and throws the blanket around both of you.

“Goodnight.” You say loud enough for Geto to hear.

“Good night little sister.” He calls back.

“Yeah, night.” Choso grunts and finally slaps his head against the pillows before stilling completely. Slowly, you slide your body closer and closer to him, the touch of your fingers to his bare chest making you shiver.

“I love you, Choso-nii.” You whisper in his ear, wrapping your arms around him and curling a leg right against his sweatpants.

“Love you too.” It takes him a few seconds too long to reply but when he does it makes a delighted grin spread across your face. Hooking an arm around your back he pulls you closer, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head and squeezing you tightly before loosening up. “Now go to sleep.”

Sleep comes easily to you, after all you’re in the arms of your brother that you love so much. You used to sleep with him when he still lived at home, crawling in at night after you’d been forced to watch a scary movie and cuddling into him. He could never say no to you even if he was exhausted and just wanted to pass out, he always made time to cuddle you.

Choso was having a much harder time going to sleep. He remembers what it was like sleeping in the same bed at home and he doesn’t remember it being this much of a problem. Sure, he woke up with a half hard cock some mornings that he was able to force away before you woke up, but somehow this felt different.

You were at his house not at the family home. There were no other brothers to barge in and demand breakfast, no parents to poke and prod at him to get up and go to work - this was his space, somewhere he had complete control over and could do whatever he wanted and that included fantasizing about rubbing your ass while you slept and touching himself.

Eventually forcing himself to sleep, Choso was thankful when he woke up to the sound of his alarm and no hard cock. Blindly turning it off, he stretched as much as he could with your body laying on half of him. Slowly inching out of your hold he was greeted with the slimy, sticky feeling of cum soaking the insides of his thighs and smeared along his sweats creating a big wet patch on the front.

“Someone had a nice dream.” Geto said quietly into the early morning darkness. He could just barely make out Choso’s cum stained pants as he walked past the couch and into the bathroom.

“Shut the fuck up.” Choso bit back, ears burning red. Geto fell back onto the couch with a soft laugh under his breath.

When you woke up it was well after Choso had left. The digital clock he used flashed bright red numbers at your bleary eyes, telling you it was now ten in the morning. The bed was cold on the side Choso slept on but you rolled over anyway and breathed in the scent of his pillow.

“Oh my god.” When you got up and out of the bed you weren’t expecting to see Geto still in the apartment on the couch in his underwear wrapped up loosely in a blanket.

“Good morning, sleepy girl.” He hummed over a cup of black coffee, his long hair still tussled from sleep.

“Where’s Choso-nii?” You fidgeted with your fingers, looking anxiously around the room for a hint that he was still here.

“He had to go in early for a project, it’s just you and me.”

“O-oh.” A sickening grin spread across Getos face the longer you fidgeted. “Uhm, I’m gonna use the bathroom!” Rushing past him, you tugged your sleeping shirt down, attempting to hide the goosebumps rising on your thighs.

“I’ll make breakfast!” He called out, helping himself to Choso’s kitchen. You took as long as you could in the bathroom, waiting until he was done cooking to come out. “Hope you like eggs, little girl, because that’s all I know how to make.”

Taking the plate from him, you let Geto place his hand on your lower back and guide you to the couch. The TV was turned on low to some random morning news talking about the weather, and Geto’s hand stayed on your thigh the entire time you ate.

“Thank you for the food.” You said quickly, standing just as fast and going to the kitchen sink. Cleaning up the few dishes left out, you gasped and nearly jumped out of your skin feeling Geto press against your back.

His hands come to rest against the countertop, trapping you between it and him. His broad chest pushed against your back making you bend to accommodate the added weight, pushing your ass into his growing cock.

“G-geto-nii?” Another gasp came from you as his lips pressed against your ear, skimming around it and the sound of his breathing ringing in your head. Planting a soft kiss behind your ear, one of his hands came up to grab your jaw.

“You really are such a cute little sister, you know that?” Bringing your head back and up, Geto kisses your cheek a few times. His fingers splay downwards, grabbing onto a bit of your throat as he kissed the corner of your lips.

Squeezing your eyes shut, a little whimper comes from the back of your throat when he kisses your lips and forces your mouth open with his fingers. Getos tongue slides in effortlessly, like you’d invited him in and told himself to make your mouth his new home. Gliding his tongue over your teeth, his coffee flavored saliva started to drip down the corner of your mouth.

Beating a fist against the counter as you start to get too lightheaded, you’re gasping for air when he lets you fall back, crumpling to the countertop with ragged breathing. Smoothing a hand down your back, Geto goes down past the hem of your sleeping shorts and pushes his hand up under them.

“Geto-nii!” Curling your fingers into the granite, a loud squeal erupts from your chest and you force your body upright.

“Such a perfect fucking ass.” Geto groans, groping your flesh hard. “And no panties? Who knew you were so naughty while you slept.”

“M’not- not naughty!” You pout, turning over your shoulder and shaking your head at him.

“Such a naughty little sister I have.” Taking his hand out of your shorts, Geto lets you turn around and face him. Briefly biting his lip, Geto grabs you by the jaw again and kisses you, this time fully slotting his mouth against yours.

Immediately your hands fly back to catch yourself, the force of his kiss enough to almost make you fall over completely. The hand not holding your jaw snakes under your shirt and goes straight to your breast, giving it a rough squeeze that has your hands going to grip his upper arms.

“Sensitive, are we?” He pulls back slightly, licking his lips and yours and squeezing your breast again.

“It hurts.” Tilting your head back with a whine, your nails dig into his arms.

“Sshh sshh, you can take it, can’t you? Don’t you wanna be a good girl for me?”

“No.” A heavy pout is back on your lips, but you’re not sure it ever truly left. Geto’s brow quirks at your answer and he smirks.

“No? Why not? Is it because I’m not Choso?” He pauses and the silence that fills the air is all the answer he needs. “Didn’t I tell you last night I was your big brother now too? Hm?” As he speaks with slightly forced words his hand drops to the base of your throat and gets a tad tighter than you’re comfortable with.

“Y-yes but-”

“But nothing.” Geto cuts you off with a sharp press of his fingers against your pulse. Releasing your hold on his arms your hands fly up close to your throat, nerves on edge for what could happen next.

“Be a good little girl and let your big brother take care of you (Y/N).”

“But Choso-”

“Do you think Choso wants an inexperienced little baby who can’t handle having her tits groped a little?” Cocking his head to the side, Geto gives you a look. “Well, what do you think?” You’re at a loss for words and he can tell, a slight uptick to the side of his mouth when you lick your lips nervously.

“I don’t- I don’t know.”

“Exactly, you don’t know. You don’t know any better, so just let Geto-nii take care of you. I’ll get you nice and ready for Choso, baby, don’t you worry.” Closing in on you once again, he kisses you softer this time, lets you ease into the feeling of his lips on yours.

He goes back to touching your breast just as hard as he was before, tugging on your nipple and making you cry out. You tried to tug his fingers off your nipple but it only made it hurt more. Bundling up Geto’s shirt in your hands, you stood against the counter and whimpered as he moved to the other breast.

“Aw, the poor baby’s crying.” He feels your tears on his face before he can see them and when he pulls back he laughs a little. A soft hiccup catches your throat and you unhinge your fingers from his shirt to wipe at the tears that are falling.

“Cause it hurts.” You mumble, a fresh wave of tears springing forth at the same time a warbled cry does as Geto palms both of your breasts roughly. Standing on your tip-toes you try to shimmy away from the overwhelming sensation.

“Who knew you were so sexy when you cry?” Geto isn’t really looking at you, he’s looking at the tears going down your cheeks. It’s making his cock harder by the minute and he leans forward and darts his tongue out, catching the salty stream and running his tongue up your cheek.

“Ew!” Jerking back with a cry, your hands pushing at his bare chest are useless to stop him. Kissing you right at the corner of your eye, Geto finally relents and stands up straight. Furiously wiping your face off, your lip curls in disgust at the feeling of his drying saliva on your cheek.

Planting a hand behind you, Geto shoves his other hand down your shorts. Cupping your sex in his palm, his fingers tentatively prod at your entrance and spread your lower lips with his fingers. His breathing is heavy and right in your ear, heavily entranced with touching your cunt.

Your legs spread of your own accord to let him find your clit easier. You’re still sniffling, a few tears are still welling in your eyes, but a heady feeling is taking over you. The smell of nicotine and a woody body wash roll off Geto in waves, filling the tight space between you and making you flush.

“What a perfect little cunt you have.” Geto groans, his fingers finally catching your clit and lightly pinching it.

“Geto-nii, please.” Your thighs clamp together around his hand when he does it again, the pleasure shooting up your spine almost painful.

“Fuck, that’s hot.” Leaning his forehead against you, Geto shoves your legs open again and puts two fingers on your clit. He goes slow at first, savoring the feeling of touching your cunt. There’s a gentle buck to your hips every time he rolls his fingers just right and your fingers are back to gripping his shirt tightly.

Working up the wetness between your thighs, Geto goes down further and nudges your entrance, collecting the slick and bringing it back to your clit. He does this a few times until there’s a distinct wet sound in the air.

“Have you ever had fingers as big as mine in you?” He asks softly as he works his fingers into your cunt, the squeeze of your walls making his head spin.

“No.” That’s the truth and it makes you burn with shame. The only fingers that had been inside you as of late were your own, and even when it was someone else it wasn’t nearly like the stretch you were getting now.

“Right to the fucking knuckle.” Geto grunts, staring right down your shorts at his fingers buried inside you. “You’re so tight I’m surprised you took it all. What a good girl.” He presses a kiss to your temple and pulls his fingers out, stretching the fabric of your shorts as far as it’ll go.

Slamming them back in, Geto wastes no time in fucking you on his fingers. He’d been nice enough to go slow while he played with your clit, but he was tired of it now. He needed to feel your cunt clamp down on his fingers and see you lose yourself from just them alone.

Your mouth hung open dumbly, a gasp caught in your throat at the sudden change of pace. Looking up at him with wide eyes, you couldn’t get any words out as he pounded your cunt. The knuckles of his fingers rubbed against your clit with every stroke, making your legs twitch and threaten to collapse beneath you.

Your orgasm comes before you even know what’s happening, head falling forward and a loud moan finally spilling from your mouth. Grinding your hips down onto his fingers, a jolt goes through you when Getos thumb comes to rub your clit.

“What a good fucking little sister!” He all but cheers for you, grinding his hand on you and pushing in as far as he can to feel every inch of your spongy walls pulse around him. His chest swells with a bit of pride at getting you to cum and he withdraws from your shorts when you relax. Bringing his fingers up to your face, he spread your slick around his fingers. “Look at how messy you are.”

A muffled groan comes from him as he sticks his fingers into his mouth, savoring the flavor of your cunt and rutting against you slightly. It’s a taste he knows he’s now addicted to and his chest gets even bigger at being the first to taste you - something he’s going to hold over Choso’s head for ages.

Just as he’s cleaned his fingers and is about to shove his impossibly tight boxers off, Geto gets a phone call.

“Fuck, right now?” Gritting his teeth he leaves you to slump against the counter as he bounds over to the couch and grabs his phone. “Fuck! Fuck, fuck you!” He rants at his phone before straightening up and clearing his throat. “Hey, what’s up?”

The switch in his tone catches you off guard and your knees knock together when he looks over at you with scarily wide eyes. His nostrils flared as he listened to whoever spoke, he was clearly worked up and being interrupted wasn’t something he was taking lightly.

“I’ll be there in twenty.” Hanging up his phone right after, Geto let it fall from his hands and clatter onto the floor. He didn’t speak any further, only letting out an angry and frustrated groan as he began to collect his clothes.

“What’s going on?” You whispered hesitantly, watching him quickly gather his hair into a bun.

“Fucking work. Fucking- ugh, stupid fucking creative director just had to call a god damn meeting. Doesn’t the bitch know I’m fucking busy?” Getting the last of his things, Geto nearly storms right past you but catches himself at the last moment. “Hey.”

“Hm?” You look at him just in time for him to plant a heavy hand on the back of your neck and kiss you one last time, hard enough to leave your head spinning.

“I got your number from Choso’s phone, make sure to text me back, little sister.” The words rush out of him as he pulls away and you barely understand them but nod all the same. Slipping his shoes on, Geto opens the door and turns to you one last time. “See you later, little sis.”

“B-bye Geto-nii.” You wave goodbye, cheeks flushing at the bright smile he sends you before slamming the door closed and running down the corridor.

It takes far too long for you to push yourself away from the counter after his footsteps have disappeared entirely. The realization of what just transpired hit you, a dull ache throbbing between your legs as you walked to the couch. Your chest tightened up at the memory of how Geto treated you and the feeling of his hands lingered on you.

Checking your phone, there’s a few messages waiting for you. One from your mother asking how your day was going, a few from your brothers and one from Geto.

(Geto): I miss your pretty pussy already little sis

Attached to the message is a picture that makes waves of embarrassed heat go over your body. It’s taken in a bathroom stall at the closest station, the harsh fluorescent lighting casting weird shadows on Getos body. But that’s not what your focus is on, not at all.

What you’re looking at is his hard cock, flushed a deep angry red at the tip and sticky with precum. Geto hiked his shirt up and shoved his pants down on his thighs, the selfie just catching the way his shirt is tucked into his teeth.

He sends you another message, a video this time with a dark thumbnail. You click on it with no hesitation, heart thumping loudly in your chest and ears ringing as the video comes to life.

“Fuck, look what you did to me baby girl.” Geto’s gruff voice is low and hushed, the sounds of other men coming in and out of the bathroom drowning out his soft groans. The camera is held from a down angle right by his head, directed straight at his hand working his cock over in his fist.

There’s a faint wet clicking sound and you can see the way Getos cock glistens in the light. With his mouth right by the receiver you can hear every little grunt and whimper that leaves his mouth and it makes your thighs clench together tightly, cunt aching to be filled by his fingers again.

The hard muscles of his stomach were shuddering with every downstroke, a slight rock to his hips beginning to take form the longer he went. Geto was very wound up, the playtime with his new little sister cut far too short.

“Wish it was you touching me, I’d cum so fast.” His words come out a hushed whisper and the camera shakes as he begins to really fuck his fist. “Just want your cute little mouth wrapped around me-” Geto’s voice was getting higher strung the more he spoke. “Your cunt felt so good around my fingers- want it- need it on my cock-”

Geto nearly dropped his phone as he came, angling his cock up so it shot onto his stomach, painting his tattooed skin in a sticky film of white. A long moan left him and you could practically see him squeezing his eyes shut tightly, fucking his fist through his orgasm until his cock started to get soft.

The video ends without anything else, screen turning black the second he lets go. You don’t realize how tightly your body has wound up from the video, thighs clenched tightly together and a breath caught in your chest.

(Geto): you like it? I bet you’re touching yourself right now, huh?

(Geto): I’m getting on the train now, hopefully Choso will let me come over again tonight after I tell him how good you taste

(Y/N): no don’t tell him!

You frantically send that message a few times but Geto doesn’t respond, just leaves you on read as soon as the message is sent. Despite the heat between your legs your heart starts to pound for a different reason, hands shaking with fear that Geto really will tell Choso what he did to you.

An hour has passed of you sitting on the couch stewing in worry and the sound of the door opening is what brings you out of your stupor and you almost fling your phone across the room in shame. Choso appears in the doorway with a somber expression on his face, giving you a long look as he toes his shoes off.

“Still in your pajamas I see.” He comments, voice low and even. You nod, still unable to speak with the image of Geto milking his cock still fresh in your mind. Walking further into his apartment Choso stifles a sigh and runs a hand through his hair.

“Why’re you here? Shouldn’t you be at work?” You avoid meeting his steeled gaze, instead focusing on your phone and trying to hide your guilty expression.

“Came home early, thought we could have some lunch together in a cafe before I head back.” Choso’s words are casual but his body language is anything but. With a tight jaw and arms crossed over his chest, you can tell he’s upset.

“What’s wrong?” Your blood begins to run cold as you ask and Choso scoffs, brow quirking in annoyance.

“Why don’t you tell me?” He’s staring directly at you with an unmistakable fire in his eyes. No air fills your lungs as you’re locked into staring back at him, but dread drips slowly down your back. Geto must have told him, that’s why he’s making that face.

“I-I don’t- I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Shaking your head, you move to stand. “I’ll go get changed.” Choso watches you almost run to the bedroom and once you’re there he makes his move.

“You don’t know what I’m talking about, huh?” He leans his body against the wall, blocking you from leaving.

“I don’t!” Your voice is getting more defensive by the minute. “I have no idea, Choso-nii.”

“Did he tell you to lie? It’s okay, you don’t have to pretend anymore little sister.” Walking chest to chest with you, Choso stares down his nose at you.

“I’m not lying!” You can feel yourself breaking down, the tension in the air enough to make a painful burning prick behind your eyes and tears threaten to mist your lashes.

“I thought you loved me? Yet you won’t tell me the truth.” Narrowing his eyes, Choso’s hands curl into fists. “Or do you love Geto-nii more now?”

“I don’t love him!”

“No, you must love him otherwise why would you let him touch you like that? Just tell me the fucking truth (Y/N), you care more about Geto now that he made you cum.”

“I don’t-”

“Shut up yes you do. I can’t believe you turned into a stupid little slut who lets anyone touch her.”

“Choso-nii!” Now tears are welling in your eyes the longer you look at him.

“Don’t call me that anymore, I don’t want a little sister like you anymore.” Those words stabbed you right in the heart and Choso could tell by the way a choked gasp came from you. “When I moved out you told me you’d wait for me but I guess that was a lie.”

“I’m sorry!” Tears are falling down your face with no remorse, snot starting to drip out of your nose as well. Gripping Choso’s hoodie in your hands, you refuse to let go as he gives you a hard push. “B-big brother, please!”

“Geto’s your big brother now, not me.”

“No, no he’s not! You are! You are and I love you and I’m sorry!” Bouncing your toes, you wrench your arms around his neck and force him against you. “I didn’t mean to- to do all that.” Choso manages to fling one of your arms off of him and you let out a screech. “No, please!”

“What a good act you’re putting up right now.”

“Big brother!” Burying your face into his hoodie, your nails are nearly clawing through the fabric to feel his skin underneath. “I-I’ll do anything, please don’t do this!”

“You’ll do anything? Is that what you told Geto?”

“No!” Pulling back with horribly blurry vision, you blink fat tears down your cheeks. As your gaze slowly focuses on Choso you’re met with his hollow blank expression. Your chest is heaving as you try to calm down, try to find some other words to say to convince him not to abandon you.

Face unbearably hot and mind clouded with emotion, you lurch forward and push your lips onto his. The kiss is awkward, the angle at which you came at him making your noses bump together uncomfortably.

“Please, please, please.” You beg against his lips, your tears staining his face from how close you are. “Don’t be mad, please.” Kissing him all over his face, you don’t feel his expression change.

“Tell me where he touched you.” Choso says, effectively pushing you away from him in one go.

“What?”

“Tell me where he touched you.” He repeats, pushing you to the bed. Your knees buckle as soon as they meet the mattress and you fall down across the messy sheets. Stripping off his hoodie and pants, you can see the outline of his cock when his shirt moves.

“He…” You begin, but stop as Choso sinks both knees into the mattress and straddles you.

“Go on.” He grabs your chin and forces your head to tilt up.

“First he kissed me.” One of your hands comes up, gesturing to all the places on your face where he kissed you.

“With his tongue, too?” Choso’s eyes dart around your face and he grimaces when you nod. “Bastard.” Gripping your chin harder, Choso leans down and kisses your wet cheek, the tip of his tongue lightly grazing your skin to drink in your tears.

“Choso-nii!” Squirming as the slimy appendage follows along with his lips, you yelp when he gets to your ear and licks there too.

“Geto was right about one thing - you’re fucking hot when you cry.” Blowing cool air over your ear, he goes back to your lips. They’re much drier than Geto’s but you like it, let his tongue in immediately when he pushes it in.

Wrapping your arms around his neck, you pull him closer. Your mouths slot together, drool beginning to drip down your face as Choso pushes more of himself on you. Wrapping your legs around his waist, he ruts into your shorts, his cock coming to life.

“Where else?” His voice is raspy when he pulls away and he doesn’t go far.

“Here.” You shake your shoulders side to side, making your breasts move under your shirt. Choso hikes your shirt up over your breasts, your nipples already hard and waiting for him.

“Look at you, my pretty little sister.” With an unwavering gaze, Choso smooths his palms over your breasts. “Geto really touched you here with his dirty hands?”

“Y-yeah, he was too rough. It hurt a lot.” Choso nodded as you spoke, running soft fingers over your nipples and taking them gently between his fingers.

“Geto is a big meanie, hurting my baby like that.” He chided and leaned down to plant a kiss between your breasts. “I told him to be gentle too.” Choso begins to pepper kisses all over your chest. “He promised he’d wait until we got back home from work but the bastard just couldn’t help himself, huh?”

“What?”

“Geto and I wanted to give you a gift tonight but it seems he was unable to wait.” Cupping your breasts, Choso flicked one of your nipples with his tongue making you jump. “I told him he had to wait for me to be there, I know how rough he can get with girls. And it seems I wasn’t mistaken.”

Kissing you before you have the chance to really think about the words he said, Choso gropes your breasts softly. It’s a stark contrast to how rough Geto had been, when Choso rolls your nipples between his fingers you don’t try to get away.

Littering kisses down your neck, Choso sucks on your nipples gently, grazing them with his teeth and running his hands up and down your sides. With every pleasurable wave that goes through you, you buck your hips up into his, the feeling of his hard cock brushing against you making you more excited.

“He touched you here too, I know that.” Choso says with his mouth pressed against your chest, his hand pushing between your bodies to cup your sex through your shorts. “Was he rough here, too?”

“A little.”

“Geto-nii really is just a big jerk, isn’t he?” He asks you with a soft smile, running his other hand over your face and cupping your cheek.

“Yeah, a big meanie.” You pout up at him, nuzzling your cheek into his hand.

“I’ll make you feel all better, don’t worry baby.” Unraveling his body from yours, he nudges you up the bed. “Take your clothes off and put your head on the pillow, get comfortable for me.”

You immediately do as he says, stripping yourself bare in record time. Choso steps back to take his clothes off as well and his cock slaps against his stomach when he takes off his underwear.

Crawling back onto the bed, Choso falls face first between your legs, catching himself on his elbows. He’s directly facing your cunt, his nose is so close he wouldn’t need to lean far at all to put it on you.

“Choso-nii.” Your head falls back with a sigh against the pillows as he runs his hands over your inner thighs, spreading your lips and exposing your leaking cunt for him.

“What a pretty fucking pussy you have, Geto was right about that too.” Blowing air onto you, he chuckles softly when your hole clenches around nothing. Leaning forward, Choso places a gentle kiss on your clit and your thighs nearly clamp around him.

“Choso!” A hand flies down to grip his hair as his lips wrap around your clit, his thumb pulling back the hood. The action is enough to make your thighs wrap around his head, your hips bucking high off the bed the longer he runs his tongue over you.

Choso doesn’t mind the squeeze, he welcomes it in fact and wraps an arm around your leg, pulling you closer to his face. A series of heady pants leave your mouth, eyes rolling back when he gives a brief, sharp suck.

Letting go of your clit, Choso pushes his face deeper into your cunt and worms his tongue inside you. Lapping at your walls Choso groans as you tighten around his tongue, your essence flowing into his mouth that he swallows eagerly. There’s drool beginning to pool on his lower lip, dripping down the crack of your ass and staining his bed.

Getting drunk off the taste of your cunt, Choso ruts against the bed as he fucks you with his tongue. More groans come from deep within his chest and when your hips buck up into him he rides the motion, encouraging you to do it more.

Going back to your clit, Choso wiggles two fingers between your legs and pushes them deep inside you. His fingers aren’t as long as Geto’s but they’re thicker, stretching you in a way the other man simply could not. The rough calluses on your brothers fingers served him well, the extra friction on that special spot inside you making you keen.

“Go ahead and cum, (Y/N), use me for your pleasure.” Choso’s breathless as he speaks, forcing his head up from the vice grip you’re holding him in.

“Choso-nii, please-” Your entire back is arched high off the bed, your hips canting up to fuck yourself on his fingers. Choso bites his lip and watches your face contort for a moment before diving back down and honing in on your clit.

His fingers inside you go slower than Getos, milking the feeling of your walls around him for as long as possible. The pace is almost unbearable and not enough, but his mouth on your clit makes up for it.

As you cum the hand grabbing Choso’s hair tightens, pushing his face deeper into you as you ride out the waves. A loud, unabashed moan comes from you, whatever neighbors are home next door have definitely heard it. Choso fucks you through your orgasm, mouth going down to catch your release.

When your body finally relaxes is when Choso comes up from between your legs. His face is smeared with his spit and your slick and he wipes it off on the back of his hand, catching his breath as he moves over you and hooks your legs back around his waist.

“Are you ready, baby?” The tip of his cock is dragging up and down your slit, making the growing fuzziness in your head even stronger. You nod, eager to have him inside you. “Use your words.”

“I’m- I’m ready.” You speak with a heavy tongue, arms wrapped loosely around his shoulders in an attempt to get him closer. Satisfied, Choso pushes in with little resistance, his cock gliding in easily with the amount of slick you have.

“Fuck-” He chokes as he bottoms out, a delicious shiver running through him. Chosos cock is thick like his fingers are, stretching you out and making you squirm. Panting and heaving, he draws out halfway and pushes back in with the wet squelching of your cunt around him.

“Big brother!” Your nails dig into his back, hips rising to meet his slow thrusting. His back bows deeply, trying to keep as much control as he can over himself. All Choso wants to do is sit back and pound into you, make you cream all over him and maybe even squirt.

But he takes his time, working his cock into you at a nice and even pace. He has a point to prove, that he’s better than Geto and that he’ll treat you better. He knows he will, knows he can, but he needs you to know it too.

Digging your feet into his lower back, you huff. Being fucked by Choso is better than you could ever imagine, the veins on his cock dragging across your walls wonderfully, but you need more. This slow pace can only keep you satisfied for so long.

“Getting impatient?” Choso chuckles, giving you a chaste kiss on the lips. Curling his fists into the pillow beneath you, Choso snaps his hips into yours. “I’ll give you what you want, don’t worry.”

Choso slowly increased the speed of his hips, the slapping of wet skin against skin getting louder and louder. The control he had was slipping away with every thrust, his lip caught tightly between his teeth as he watched your eyes roll back.

“Choso-nii, ah- ah-” The moans coming out of your mouth were so pretty Choso held his breath to be able to hear them better. He tried to keep his head upright to stare at you, but the drag of his heavy cock inside you was making it impossible.

Dropping his head to rest in the crook of your neck, Choso kissed and sucked on your flesh as he fucked you. Your body rocked with every thrust, a moan spilling out every time he bottomed out and nails dragging down his back.

“Take my cock so fucking well-” Choso panted, grabbing under your ass to angle your hips higher. “My lil sis so good to me-” His head was clouding up from pleasure and his words dissolved into babbles.

Chosos teeth scraped against your neck as he spoke, adding to all the sensations washing over you. You moaned right along with what he was saying even though half of his words didn’t make it to your ear, muffled by his mouth pressed against your neck.

A squeal ripped through you as Choso clumsily rubbed your clit, making you tighten around him even harder. He growled deep from his chest, it was becoming almost impossible to drag his cock out of you.

“Choso-nii! I’m- ah-” Tears pricked your lashes you squeezed your eyes so hard together. The pleasure was coming to a head, making your ears ring and mouth fall open in a perfect O. Strained moans broke through, echoed by sharp gasps of air you forced into your lungs.

At the sound of you coming undone, Choso came as well. His hips went even faster, chasing the high for as long as he could. Your cunt gushed around him, mixing with the seed he was pumping into you and creating an even bigger mess on his sheets.

Choso slammed his lips onto yours, desperate to take as much as you could give him. His fingers didn’t stop moving on your clit until you feebly pushed his hand away, and that’s when he knew he could slow down.

“I love you.” Choso says immediately after he stops moving, his body buzzing with happy hormones and a drunken smile is on his face.

“I love you too!” You reply quickly, still trying to catch your breath. Choso stays buried inside you until his cock goes soft and then he pulls out slowly, watching his cum string along his cock and keeping the two of you connected.

“You did so well for me.” He mused, falling to your side and closing his eyes. He’s already pulling you into a side hug before he can even think, throwing the blankets over the two of you to keep the chill from evaporating sweat away.

You lay quietly together, catching your breath and sharing soft kisses together. Your heart is absolutely full of love for Choso, and a smile threatens to never leave your face. It strains your cheeks and makes them ache but you don’t try to push it away.

“How about we get some lunch now?” Choso asks after twenty minutes.

“Okay.” Nodding softly, you make no move to get up from his hold, instead curling into him even more and staying there for another few minutes.

“Alright, let’s really get up now.” Rocking back and forth, Choso rolls on top of you for a moment before rolling completely off the bed. “I’m fucking starving.”

You get dressed after Choso cleans his cum from between your thighs, giving you soft kisses on your stomach and hips as he does so. He keeps an arm around you the entire time, never letting you stray too far from him as you walk to the front door.

“Oh, and (Y/N)?” He stops right as you open the front door.

“Yes?”

“Give me your phone, I’m blocking Geto’s number and deleting those fucking nudes.”

[batmansymbol]

hi riley! read this recently and would love to get ur perspective on this as a YA author https://tinyletter.com/misshelved/letters/did-twitter-break-ya-misshelved-6

hi anon! yeah, i read this the day it was posted. thoughts/supplementary essay below.

firstly, i'd put a big "I AGREE" stamp across this essay. i think it's well-cited and thoughtful, and i agree with pretty much everything in it. i especially appreciate it for introducing me to the terms "context collapse" and "morally motivated networked harassment" - seeing internet sociology studied and labeled is ... odd, but useful.

i left twitter in 2017, but i keep an eye on things, which seem similar now to the way they were four years ago. the essay describes the never-ending scrutiny, the need to seem perfect, and the pressure on writers to out themselves. all of that is spot-on. twitter is an outing machine. there is so much harassment and anger on the platform that in serious conversations, good-faith engagement becomes something that must be earned, rather than something that's expected. and in order to earn good faith, strangers expect you to offer up an all-access pass to who you are. otherwise, things might take a swift left turn into verbal abuse.

obviously twitter is a cesspit of harassment from racist, homophobic, and transphobic people, but i think the most painful harassment comes from within the community. i, and most people i know, wouldn't give a single minuscule little fuck if ben shapiro's entire army of ghouls came after us and told us we were destroying the sacred values of Old America or whatever. but the community at large does care about issues of racial justice and queer liberation and economic justice. which is why it's painful to see this supposed "community" eating its own over and over again.

how cruel can we be to people and pretend that we are their friends? that's the emotional crux of the essay to me. what we're doing to ourselves - people who do share our values and want to achieve the same goals - because this one platform is built on rewarding the quickest, most brutal, and most public response.

god forbid you don't have your identity figured out. god forbid you have an invisible disability, or are writing a story about something sensitive you've personally experienced but had an off-consensus reaction to. on twitter, if you are not a paragon of absolute and immediate clarity, you may as well be lower than dirt morally, because you're unable to do what the platform requires of you: air every private corner of your identity, up to and including your trauma, to justify not only your everyday actions and opinions but also your art.

(this is all honestly incompatible with interesting art, but i'll get to that in a bit.)

it doesn't take a genius to see how troubling this environment is when combined with twitter as a marketing tool. i remember that around the time of my debut, i'd tweet out threads of private, painful, personal stuff, which felt terrible to recount, but i'd watch the like count increase with this sense of catholic, confessional satisfaction. all of this was tied to the idea of my potential salability as a writer.

i was around 21 at the time. i felt a lot of pressure as a debut. i wanted people to like me and think i was exceptionally mature and confident. i wanted to do my job and build buzz for my book. i saw that all these publishing professionals and authors spent day in, day out angry and exhausted on twitter. every few days, a new person fifteen years older than me would say, "i can't take this anymore, i'm so fucking tired of this, i'm logging off for a while." i thought, well, this must be how online activism feels: like running on a sprained ankle.

i can still remember book after book after book that inspired blow-ups, big explanations, and simmering resentment: carve the mark (whose author was forced to admit that she suffered chronic pain after relentless criticism of that element), the black witch (a book explicitly about unlearning racism that was criticized for depicting ... racism), ramona blue (a book about a bi girl who thinks she's a lesbian but winds up in an m/f relationship, because she's still discovering her identity) ... etc

each book, each incident, followed the same pattern. firestorms of anger, a decision of where to place blame, the desperate need for a single consensus opinion in the community. i think a lot of people on book twitter see these as bugs inherent to the platform, but really, in twitter's eyes, they're features. the angrier and more upset twitter's userbase is, the more reliant they are on the platform.

i wound up leaving around the time i realized that not only was twitter making me anxious - NOT being on twitter was beginning to make me anxious, because of vaguely dread-infused tweets all around like "i'm seeing an awful lot of people who are staying silent about X. ... why are so many people who are so loud about X so silent about Y?" etc.

that shit is beyond poisonous. people will not always be logged on. the absence of someone's agreement does not mean disagreement. actually, someone's absence is not inherently meaningful, because it is the internet and silence is everyone's default position; internet silence in all likelihood means that that person is out in the universe doing other things.

this is already a ridiculously long response, so i'll try to wrap up. firstly, i think that progressive writers and readers have GOT to stop thinking that a correct consensus opinion can exist on every piece of fiction, and on every issue in general, and that if someone diverges from that consensus, they're incorrectly progressive.

secondly, i think that progressive writers and readers have got to uncouple the idea of a "book with good politics" from a good book, because 1) there are books about morally grimy, despicable subjects that help us process the landscape of human behavior, and

2) if, in your fiction, there is only one set of allowed responses for your protagonist, you will write the same person over and over and over again. you see this a lot in religious fiction. the person is not a human being but an expression of the creator's moral alignment. (not entirely surprising that this similarity to religious correctness might crop up with the current state of the movement. i read this piece around the time i left twitter and it shook me really, really deeply.)

i understand that in YA, there's a sensation of immense pressure because people want to model good politics and correct behavior for kids. this is a noble idea - and maybe twitter is great for people who want to be role models. but i've become more and more staunchly against the idea of artist as role model. the role of the writer is not to be emulated but to write fiction. and the role of fiction is not to read like something delivered from a soapbox, or to display some scrubbed-clean universe where each wrong is immediately identified as a wrong, and where total morality is always glowing in the backdrop. it's to put something human on paper, and as human beings, we might aspire to total morality, but we fall short again and again. honestly, that's what being on twitter showed me more clearly than anything.

[mittensmorgul]

Since the finale aired, I’ve been yammering on about how it would’ve only worked as a finale to s2, and now that I’m actually rewatching s2, I stand by that even more staunchly. The finale doesn’t work in a post-s2 supernatural universe.

This is the version of Dean we saw in the finale-- the one whose only mission in life was to Save Sammy, to help him get his revenge and allow him to go out and live a Normal Safe Life pretending that hunting and monsters don’t exist. The one who just wanted some pie, to drive his car, and had no real connections beyond Sam in the world outside of Bobby. Even Dean’s characterization in the finale is this far younger Dean who’d never allowed himself to crack open and truly understand love. It would take me years to plow through everything I’ve ever written about him as a character and his long struggle to emotional maturity we saw evolve over the next 13 years beyond this episode, but the tl;dr will always be “this s2 Dean is the same as the Dean in the finale.”

The goal of s2 was saving SAM from his “destiny,” too. In this era of the show, Dean didn’t have a “destiny” the same way Sam did. The ONLY thing that mattered was freeing Sam from “becoming evil,” and being manipulated into terrible things. What Dean wanted, what he was “destined” for by the narrative was irrelevant, because all of his choices and emotional burdens were tied only to saving Sam. To freeing Sam so he could safely return to his “normal life.” Go back to college, have a family and the white picket fence life.

This was before Dean truly began fighting for HIMSELF. Which only really and truly began after he sells his soul to resurrect Sam. That’s when Dean truly begins fighting for himself. Sure, he’s angry with John during s2 for trading his own life for Dean’s, for putting the burden of “if you can’t save Sam, you’ll have to kill him” on his shoulders with his dying breath, but Dean is still fighting against John’s authority and the complicated tangle of feelings of his own childhood and not actually coming to terms with his own wants and needs and wishes out beyond that yet. He’s still unwittingly confronting the “destiny” John had set up for him, and hasn’t moved beyond that yet. It’s only trading his soul for Sam’s that finally brings Dean into the cosmic narrative that will fuel his introspection and personal growth for the rest of the series.

And out beyond that point, his entire character arc explodes into orbit.

Dean’s entire character arc in s3 is confronting this very basic fact: he doesn’t deserve to have been sacrificed just to save Sam. He doesn’t deserve that burden, and he does deserve to live. This is the realization he comes to before eventually being dragged to Hell and then rescued by an angel, who literally tells him, “you don’t think you deserve to be saved” in the aftermath of that. From that point on, we have TWELVE SEASONS of Dean struggling with what he “deserves” versus what is “fate” and “destiny” and eventually confronting what he WANTS if he truly could choose his own destiny.

Plus, out beyond that point, he has Cas. And nothing changes Dean, pushes him to grow and understand himself, and accept himself-- all of himself, from the good to the horrific-- than the pure and unflinching acceptance of Castiel. Cas never looked at him and said “you are evil,” or “you are worthless.” (well, they’ve both said some pretty awful stuff to each other over the years, but there was either brainwashing or other deeper issues pushing those things on them, and they have ALWAYS eventually come back to one another, and the awful stuff was dealt with). Point is, Dean and Cas both began running these parallel arcs of duty versus desire, and for Dean, the duty was always framed around “taking care of Sam” versus pursuing any sort of ambition or goals for himself. They would fight for this for most of the rest of the series, until eventually the goal for ALL of them would be about discovering what they would want for themselves.

The show explicitly dealt with this, repeatedly, over later seasons, asking all of the characters the big questions: is this what you would choose for yourself? What WOULD you choose for yourself if you could?

And then they made the narrative of the final season, of the final Big Bad, the fact that they had NEVER had real freedom, and that their entire lives (and the entire history of not only this universe but every parallel universe) had been Chuck’s Puppet Theater, and true free will had been a lie all this time. Pushing all of the characters to confront their own choices and understand what about who they were as people was separate from what Chuck pushed them into choosing and doing all these years. The main thing that Dean (and also Cas, and to the extent she was included in the narrative this was Eileen’s issue as well) were being pushed to come to terms with what really was real, and were their feelings and choices their own or imposed on them for the furtherance of Chuck’s story.

At the end of the road, finally free and out from under Chuck’s control, they knew what was real. For Sam and Eileen, they had chosen each other. Cas had chosen Dean, but Dean hadn’t yet had a chance to reply, but anyone with two eyes and a brain knows what he would’ve said in return. It’s what Cas stopped him from saying even back in Purgatory in 15.09. And yet, for some reason Sam and Dean forgot all of that, as if none of it had ever even really happened at all, and we went right back to who they were right after they finally defeated the YED, before we even knew Azazel had a name, let alone the fact that the ultimate boogeyman of their entire lives to that point had been nothing more than a fanatic pawn in a much larger destiny for both of them.

The end of s2 was the last time Dean sacrificing himself so Sam could have a normal life, where Dean really felt there was nothing more for himself than fulfilling his father’s orders to save Sammy, even feels remotely plausible. It’s the last time we can feel like Dean might find peace and contentment in a Heaven where John is nearby to be proud of him, and where Dean would actually feel like that validation was even relevant to his own life.

And that finally brings me back to s2, where that was actually addressed through John’s self-sacrifice to save Dean, to serve Dean up to the narrative and provide a stage for this self-transformative journey INTO being a version of John himself. Only... Dean DOESN’T choose that. He fights to save Sam at all costs, even when it seems clear that the right answer would probably be to KILL Sam instead. When not only the ghost of John Winchester plaguing Dean’s mind would make him doubt his own drive to save his brother, but the John Winchester Insert Character of s2-- Gordon Walker-- basically put Dean’s own doubts out there in plain words in 2.10:

GORDON: I'm surprised at you, Dean. Getting all emotional. I'd heard you were more of a professional than this. Look, let's say you were cruising around in that car of yours and, uh, you had little Hitler riding shotgun, right? Back when he was just some goofy, crappy artist. But you knew what he was going to turn into someday. You'd take him out, no questions, am I right?

DEAN: That's not Sam.

GORDON: Yes it is. You just can't see it yet. Dean, it's his destiny. Look, I'm sympathetic. He's your brother, you love the guy. This has got to hurt like hell for you. But here's the thing. It would wreck him. But your dad? If it really came right down to it, he would have had the stones to do the right thing here. But you're telling me you're not the man he is?

This, the episode where Dean finally confesses John’s final orders to Sam, where Dean has decided that saving Sam is all that matters, even when circumstance and everyone else is practically screaming at him that this could all be over if only he gave in-- be it his own self-sacrifice OR killing Sam. Six of one, half a dozen of the other, the universe doesn’t care (and neither does Chuck... especially at this point... and the proof of that is Sam’s s15 nightmares where one of Chuck’s alternate universe endings for Sam and Dean was Sam actually going Darkside on demon blood and killing Dean... any iteration of the old drama, Chuck has explored all potential endings-- oh, except the ending where TFW gets to just be happy and live... that’s the one ending they never get and the only one they deserved in the end).

also from 2.10... loads of chat about “destiny” and one of Dean’s first “we should just lay all this shit down and take a vacation” moments when he suggests they go to Amsterdam and enjoy some of the not-coffee-coffee-shops, which Sam counters by doubling down on the fact that Dean has a destiny in all this as much as Sam does:

SAM: Well, come on, dude, you're a hunter. I mean, it's what you were meant to do.

DEAN: Ah, I wasn't meant to do anything, I don't believe in that destiny crap.

SAM: You mean you don't believe in my destiny.

DEAN: Yeah, whatever.

SAM: Look, Dean, I've tried running before. I mean, I ran all the way to California and look what happened. You can't run from this. And you can't protect me.

DEAN: I can try.

And that’s it, right there. This is the “neither of you can try for a normal life outside of the other while the other is still alive.” This is Sam pinning a destiny to Dean that’s just as inescapable within Chuck’s narrative as Sam’s demon blood and psychic powers. 

This is the core essence of Chuck’s story about them. The sibling dynamic that Chuck failed to free himself from, and that Sam and Dean failed to free themselves from after Chuck’s demise in 15.19.

Destiny. One must die so the other can live.

And considering the next 13 seasons of the show and the long and emotionally grueling character arcs Sam and Dean proceed through where they truly confront the core of who they are as people-- as individuals outside of their duty and destiny-- the finale ceases to make any sense outside of Chuck’s narrative for them. If 15.20 really happened exactly as we saw it on screen, then Chuck still won.

And they had to loop Sam and Dean all the way back to where they were emotionally at the end of s2 in order to make it seem plausible. Which, for those of us who actually care about what they endured after s2, makes the finale entirely implausible as a whole.

[bananaofswifts]

Released with little fanfare this move to more muted songwriting is proof Swift’s music can thrive without the celebrity drama

Taylor Swift announced the existence of her eighth album an uncharacteristic 17 hours prior to its release: “Most of the things I had planned this summer didn’t end up happening,” she said – among them, a headline slot at Glastonbury – “But there is something I hadn’t planned on that DID happen.” Swift only released her last album, Lover, last August. If she was surprised to have emerged from lockdown with Folklore – a 16-track album largely produced (remotely) by the National’s Aaron Dessner – her fans were even more stunned by the fact that Swift would release a record with zero fanfare.

Swift pioneered the art of the all-consuming album rollout. It usually starts with her sharing coded hints that her well trained fans understand immediately. Then there are teasers for lyric videos that beget actual blockbuster videos, strewn with self-mythologising references for Swifties and journalists to unpick. It’s a smart promotional strategy-by-proxy for an artist who has done little press in the past five years, and a good way of making your actions seem as if they were written in the stars. There are sometimes baffling brand endorsements. The often unpopular lead single seldom sounds like the rest of the album. By the time that arrives, a weariness has descended: the sense that one of pop’s all-time greatest songwriters is overcompensating despite her clear talent.

Recent albums, too, have been consumed with the various dramas that have plagued her since the country ingenue became a pop superstar with 2012’s Red. Despite the last 12 months bringing a new, high-profile disagreement with her former label and enduring disputes with Kanye West, thankfully Folklore features none of that, beyond inadvertently arriving the same day as West said he was releasing a new album. Moreover, Swift conveys the sense that her tendency to desire the last word, in public and private, has been her undoing: “I was so ahead of the curve, the curve became a sphere / Fell behind all my classmates and I ended up here,” she sings on This Is Me Trying.

Folklore proves that she can thrive away from the noise: if you interpret “classmates” as pop peers, Swift is no longer competing. Bombastic pop makes way for more muted songwriting, and a singular vision compared to the joyful but spread-betting Lover. With concerts off the table for the foreseeable future, no longer needing to reach four sides of a stadium may have proven liberating.

Elements of her fanbase have long wanted her to revisit the Nashville songcraft of her youth through an adult lens, but this isn’t that album. Folklore is largely built around the soft cascades of piano, burbling guitar and fractured, glitchy electronica that will be familiar to fans of the National’s post-2010 output – at least part of the album came about from Swift writing to Dessner’s musical sketches. Swift’s most coherent record since her staunchly country days, it’s nonetheless her most experimental, developing on Lover’s stranger, more minimalist end. More than one song evokes the intimate celestial tenderness of Sufjan Stevens circa Carrie and Lowell. At the opposite end of the scale, This Is Me Trying subtly grows into its wracked orchestral grandeur, sounding more unsettling still for how Swift’s voice, processed at a ghostly, vast remove, seems to encompass the whole song with her desperation.

Swift is known for her vocal directness – there is no pop star as adroit at searing a chorus into your brain, or as winking in her tartness – if not her range. But the demands of pop processing mean her voice has never been heard as it is here: the acceptance that colours it on The 1, a bouncy reminiscence of a lost lover from her “roaring twenties”; how weatherworn yet at peace she sounds as she remembers the good parts of a treacherous relationship on Cardigan, a song as cavernous and shimmering as a rock pool in a cave. Her vocal trademarks remain in the yo-yoing vocal yelps on August, and the climactic, processed cri de coeur of My Tears Ricochet, and she holds her own against the wounded bark of Bon Iver’s Justin Vernon on Exile, which paints a split first in scenes of overt betrayal, and then gorgeous, subtle harmonies at crossed purposes indicating a problem deeper than one infidelity.

Given the more earthy production, some will characterise Folklore as showing a more authentic side of Swift. Not only would that be facile, asserting some authentic self is also explicitly not her aim. In a brief essay included in the liner notes, she says of the album’s concept: “The lines between fantasy and reality blur and the boundaries between truth and fiction become almost indiscernible.” She writes that some songs are about her and others are about invented characters. More interesting than parsing which is which (many are obviously both) is the sense that Swift is interrogating her own self-conception and challenging that personal mythology: how helpful and true those ideas are to herself as a woman of 30.

Swift’s longest lyrical obsession is the loss of innocence, a theme she makes fairly devastating here. Set to high piano flurries, Seven switches between hopscotch-rhyme verses about childhood rituals, and pleading, choral depictions of herself at seven, “in the weeds, before I learned civility,” she sings. “I used to scream ferociously / Any time I wanted.” What conditioning beat out of her as a girl, it beat back in decades later: the tense, slippery Mad Woman traces the self-perpetuating cycle of women being angered by being labelled angry – both massively improve on Lover’s slightly facile gender inequality treatise, The Man, because they’re personal, not projections. Later she recalls naive young love, “back when we were still changing for the better”, then, on Illicit Affairs, willingly entering into a deceitful relationship with someone who “showed me colours you know I can’t see with anyone else”.

The self-awareness that Swift displayed on Lover deepens in Folklore, where she subtly considers the murky line between corruption and complicity, between being a victim and a catalyst. The recriminations are fewer, the fights fairer, and her sense of responsibility in them greater. The seismic shocks of her Reputation-era rude awakening about her public image are still felt: “I can change everything about me to fit in,” she sings on Mirrorball, a gorgeous pedal steel wooze made with Jack Antonoff. Yet she tentatively asserts what’s at her core: the deep dedication she sings about on the resonant, minimalist Peace, and the abiding romanticism of Invisible String.

Lockdown has been a fruitful time for this sort of soul-searching, the absence of much in the way of new memory-formation triggering nostalgic reveries and regrets. This strange summer of arrested development is steadily ending. Folklore will endure long beyond it: as fragmented as Swift is across her eighth album – and much as you hope it doesn’t mark the end of her pop ambitions – her emotional acuity has never been more assured.

[mobius-prime]

138. Sonic Super Special #11 - Girls Rule!

Are you ready? We have not a two, not a three or four, but a five parter this time 'round! This special contains five stories each following a different prominent Archie girl, and to be honest I find all of the stories pretty fascinating. Time to dive in!

Ascension

Writer: Ken Penders Pencils: Jim Valentino Colors: Josh and Aimee Ray

So I've heard plenty of mixed opinions on this story. In it (it says it takes place just before StH#74, but I feel like it fits better before #73, actually), Sally strips down, and with Elias' blessing watching from the sidelines, wades her way into the Source of All to discover her own destiny.

The controversy comes from the "stripping down" part. Some people feel that this is totally inoffensive, that in the early days of the comic she didn't wear a vest at all and that since she's covered in fur, wearing no clothing is no more inappropriate for her than for Sonic, or Geoffrey, or Dulcy. After all, plenty of other Mobians, both male and female, have been depicted as essentially "naked" barring shoes and sometimes gloves, but it's not like this ever reveals anything objectionable. On the other hand, some people criticize Jim's art for this story, believing it to be too "sexualized," as it does undeniably seem to accentuate her figure with proportions that appear more human than traditionally Mobian, and in future reprints of this story, the artists went back and actually added her vest back in. That move in itself garnered its own criticism, considering the points I addressed before, as well as the fact that they colored her vest blue in all the scenes for some reason despite almost every scene being in sepia tone. Personally, I'm on the side of "it's not a big deal." I won't deny that her "nudity" seems to be emphasized somewhat by the art style, but I honestly don't see that as a problem. It doesn't look "sexualized" to me - instead, how it comes across is that she's being depicted as, well, obviously naked. Nakedness has been a symbol of innocence and vulnerability to us humans for basically as long as our species has existed, across almost every culture throughout our history, and even though taking off her vest and boots hardly exposes anything more than we've already seen on her before, the symbolism is clear - that by taking off her clothing for this venture, she's making herself more vulnerable and open to whatever she may find within the Source of All. Frankly, I think anyone seeing anything sexual within this issue is looking a little too hard, but I'm also of the mindset that nudity in and of itself isn't an inherently sexual thing, so your mileage may vary.

Anyway, as soon as Sally steps into the pool, she finds herself plunged into a series of visions. She first sees herself as a baby, with her mother, safe and healthy, watching over her.

The visions jump forward to her as a small child, walking through the palace gardens with Julayla during the days of the Great War. She asks why wars happen and people fight each other, and Julayla points out a (non-sapient) predator on a tree up ahead, which pounces on a (non-sapient) bird and eats it, the lesson being that in nature, violence is and will always be a part of life, and that right now, the Mobians are the bird and the Overlanders, the predator. Of course, we know that's not quite the case given that the war was deliberately manufactured, but Julayla didn't know that. Sally continues to walk through images from her life, wondering if this is what the Source of All is all about - showing pieces of one's past - but a voice assures her that there is more to it. An image of her father appears, saying that he wishes he could have kept her safe and let her live a happy and peaceful life with her brother and the rest of her family. She questions him why he never told her about Elias, and an image of Elias appears too, assuring her that their father didn't even know he was alive until recently, and that he only kept things from her to spare her any more pain. He notes that the king's actions were all born of love for Sally since she was the only family he had left, and that they should recognize this even if they disagree with his actions, and I think this is very true. I certainly think King Max made some very bad decisions along the way, but you could make the case that he was making those choices for the right reasons. Sally asks if this means he thinks their father is always right, and Elias and the garden melt away, to be replaced with a fantastic array of planets and stars spinning around Sally. An image of her own face, older and crowned with the jewels of a queen, materializes in the sky, informing her that her father, having bonded with the Source in the past, is able to sense the future through that connection. The face thrusts her into the most vivid vision yet - one of horror and destruction.

The vision ends before Sally can see if she and her children escape, or if Sonic survives, and she desperately asks the image of herself as the queen what becomes of them. The apparition tells her that the only way she can find out is if she commits to bonding with the Source - that it's "all or nothing" and if she rejects this chance now, she will have rejected it for good. Sally, upon hearing this, immediately walks away despite the face continuing to warn her of the finality of her decision, saying that she's not willing to know everything that is to come in order to become queen. And thus, she takes control of her own destiny, rejecting her birthright, and emerges from the pool.

I absolutely love this ending. In stark contrast to Knuckles, who is staunchly bound by tradition and his own birthright, Sally instead chooses to reject everything in order to forge her own path through life. It's one of the first times in the comic we've seen a character so entrenched in family tradition and destiny refuse to follow along with it, and I greatly admire her for it. I think this is a story where Penders absolutely did right by this character - it's a hard choice, and a real one, and yet in the end she seized control of her own fate regardless of what her father may think. In addition, this is the beginning of her and Elias really beginning to bond as siblings - after all, it seems like they came down here to the Source of their own volition, without the knowledge of their father - and I love the sibling bond they develop as the comic progresses. They really care for each other and always look after one another, and it's just so sweet. Good on you, Sally girl. You've done well.

Solo

Writer/Pencils: Ken Penders Colors: Josh and Aimee Ray

Hershey and Geoffrey have snuck into Robotropolis on a mission - a mission too delicate for them to carry out together. Geoffrey acts as the lookout and backup as Hershey rappels her way down a wall and into the vent system of Robotnik's headquarters. Her target is a console containing vital information, but as luck would have it, Robotnik is standing directly between her and her objective.

Her words are apparently code for "please set off a gigantic explosion somewhere else in the city," but the plan doesn’t work quite as expected, as Robotnik merely orders some of his troops to go investigate the commotion. Hershey realizes she needs a distraction that's a bit closer, and sets off a small hand grenade through another part of the vents. Robotnik, hearing the noise, finally goes to investigate personally, and Hershey quickly drops down into the room to gather the information she needs from the console.

Well, that's unfortunate, but given that he sacrificed himself to save the others it's not entirely unexpected. Hershey, as revenge, decides to leave a small present behind for Robotnik, the present being an explosive that trips as soon as Robotnik walks back into the room. Take that, asshole!

Lupe and the Wolfpack: Family

Writer: Ken Penders Pencils: Colleen Doran Colors: Josh and Aimee Ray

Hey, remember this arc? It's been many issues since we saw anything of Lupe and the gang, but they're finally back! They've finally reached the city they once called home, though it's run down and looks abandoned due to the war against Robotnik. It's actually unclear if they're aware of the renewal of the war, or if they've been too far removed from current events due to traveling. Everyone begins to express unease at being in the desolate city, feeling that there may be nothing left for them here, but Lupe insists that if her husband Lobo had had the people abandon the place by choice he would have left her a sign, and wants to search for it before committing to leaving. Before they can discuss the matter further, however, suddenly a gas grenade hits the ground in the middle of the group, and everyone is overcome and passes out. After an indeterminate amount of time, they wake back up, finding themselves imprisoned inside a building. They hear the sound of clanking footsteps down the hall, and initially believe it to be swatbots, but when the source of the noise rounds the corner…

Oh, it gets worse, Lupe! See, the person who captured and roboticized your family is none other than Uncle Chuck, having been enslaved by Robotnik once more. She's so enraged that she leaps forward, screaming at Chuck that he's a traitor and attempting to rip him to shreds, but as her clanmates hold her back Chuck threatens to dismantle her family members if she doesn't comply with hi orders. She reluctantly stops fighting, and is ushered compliantly into a roboticizer, where her own husband pushes the button to finish the deed. However, upon stepping out in her newly-robotic body, Chuck is shocked to see her suddenly rampage once more, smashing the machine and shoving her pack away from their captors, telling them to run. Somehow, she manages to hang on to her own sanity just long enough to save them, but her free will is fading fast, and so the pack has to leave her behind.

I remember when I first read this issue, I was so excited to see the return of Lupe, as I'd grown to like her as a character, and was just thinking to myself about how cool she was when this happened. Immediate devastation upon seeing the tombstone. Because, for all intents and purposes, being roboticized is a kind of death. There's only one known cure - a dedicated deroboticizer - and to be fair, those were only ever included in previous issues to further the immediate plot with no real regard for such a device's effect on the larger storyline. I highly doubt that the new Robotnik would keep such a device lying around considering how easily it could be used to topple his regime, and even if he did it would be under such tight guard there would be no way to access it anyway. So, for now, we say sayonara to poor Lupe - it's small comfort that in the end, in a sense, she was able to be with her family once more.

Upgrade

Writer: Ken Penders Pencils: FRY Colors: Josh and Aimee Ray

So Bunnie is having some unexpected problems. One day, she's lifting heavy objects with her cybernetic arm as per usual when she abruptly becomes dizzy and collapses.

She's rushed to Dr. Quack, who in turn immediately preps her for surgery to determine what's wrong. She comes to later in the hospital with her friends surrounding her, worried for her wellbeing, but Dr. Quack enters and makes everyone clear out so he can have a private discussion with Bunnie. He has some very bad news - it turns out that her central nervous system is beginning to reject her cybernetic parts, and that if something isn't done about the situation, said parts could become toxic to her organic body, slowly killing her. He says that he's surprised nothing has gone wrong sooner, and honestly, I'm inclined to agree with him - after all, unlike other characters with cybernetic parts such as Julie-Su, hers weren't even meant to be attached to an organic body in the first place, since she's the fairly unique product of a roboticization process that was interrupted halfway through. Bunnie, horrified at this news, asks Dr. Quack what her options are, and he lays it out for her.

She could simply disconnect her bionic limbs, essentially becoming a triple amputee. She could get a hardware upgrade with custom parts, which would eliminate the risk to her health but make it impossible to ever be deroboticized in the future. Or, she could chance a deroboticization process right now (likely with the same machine used in the Mecha Madness special way back when), but her chances of survival in such a case would be low due to all the modifications that have already been made to her bionic parts. She asks tearfully to be left for a while to consider her options, sobbing quietly in the dark once the doctor leaves her be, and soon Antoine walks in to check on her. She simply asks him if he could continue to love her if she stayed half-cybernetic forever, and he reassures her that he will continue to love her no matter what she looks like or what she's made of, prompting her to tearfully hug him and tell him he's the best friend she's ever had. It's very sweet, especially as we've seen these two grow closer and closer over time, going from mere teammates, to friends, and eventually to lovers. The upgrade begins a few days later, with Nate in charge of the proceedings, and soon she's standing and testing out her new gear.

I have to say, this redesign was sorely needed. Her new limbs look sleeker and more modern, and overall compliment her looks far more than the old bulky design ever did. As she says - she's better than ever, and I'm excited to see how she puts her new getup to use in the future!

Shadows

Writer: Ken Penders Pencils: Patrick Spaziante Colors: Josh and Aimee Ray

This is perhaps the least exciting of the five stories, but it gives some crucial backstory to Julie-Su and some other prominent echidnas. Apparently, something has been bothering Julie-Su for some time now, and she's finally decided to head out and get some answers. And so, she heads back to her old home - the fortress that had been hidden underground where she first saw Knuckles escaping while she was still a member of the Legion. She wanders the derelict halls, lost in memories of her old routines there, including how Kragok and the Kommissar always seemed to be keeping an extra close eye on her. In the midst of reminiscing, she suddenly hears noises as though someone is also exploring the ruins. She creeps over to where the noises are from, and soon finds herself training her gun on an elderly echidna made more out of cybernetic parts and wrinkles than ordinary flesh and blood. To her shock, he immediately recognizes her, introducing himself as Simon and claiming that he and his wife Floren-Ca raised her as their own daughter and he'd been looking for her for a long time.

In case it isn't clear, Lien-Da is the Kommissar that we've seen before, and one of my favorite villains in the comic. We get into some meaty backstory here which I'll try to summarize as best I can. Essentially, when Kragok and Lien-Da were eight, the Dark Legion hopped through the portal from the Twilight Zone back into Mobius Prime, but doing so quickly made Merin-Da sick, and despite Luger's attempts to restore her to health by taking the Legion back through the portal, she died of her illness. Luger took a couple of years to recover, but eventually remarried to another woman, Mari-Su, with whom he had another child - Julie-Su. Kragok and Lien-Da, now seventeen, were intensely jealous, viewing their father's new wife and child as a threat to their own ambitions. They arranged for Mari-Su to meet her end in a tragic accident, and a despondent Luger handed Julie-Su off to Floren-Ca to raise.

Well, that's messed up. Julie-Su asks why she doesn't remember any of this and Simon says he suspects that after a while, when she was old enough to join the Legion's ranks directly, they performed another mind wipe on her. After the Legion opened the portal a second time, he took Floren-Ca through and they settled on the Floating Island, away from the Legion. However, now that he's found Julie-Su, he wants to take her back to see Floren-Ca once again, and Julie-Su eagerly agrees. Strangely enough, however, this encounter is never explored in subsequent issues, and in fact Simon and Floren-Ca aren't even brought up again until much later. It's a bit bizarre given how this is kind of built up to be a big reveal about Julie-Su's until-recently-unknown past, so unknown in fact that even she herself didn't know anything about it, but all we can assume is that she just went with Simon and met up with Floren-Ca and they had a nice happy reunion and then she went back to her normal business afterwards, because no one really mentions it again. Ah well!

[berniesrevolution]

In today’s Washington Post, Elizabeth Bruenig has an article arguing that socialism should no longer be considered a dirty word. Socialists believe that “working Americans deserve a say in how the country’s vast wealth will be used,” and that “more than policy tweaks will be needed to empower everyday people to participate meaningfully in society and democracy.” Since these are sensible positions, she says, socialism is at the very least a reasonable political tendency. She is, of course, completely correct, and all of the common criticisms of contemporary democratic socialism are misleading, unfair, or outright false.

In explaining why it can be difficult to figure out what socialism means, Bruenig notes that “the United States doesn’t have a familiar, established socialist history to look to for guidance on what socialism might mean in this country.” It’s certainly true that the U.S. doesn’t have a “familiar” socialist history, since students generally aren’t taught much about American socialists in school. (Eugene Debs is usually mentioned, mostly as a curiosity.) And it’s true that in the U.S., unlike many European countries, there was never a socialist movement that had mass popular support. In England, for instance, the Labour Party founded by socialist Keir Hardie would become a dominant force in British politics for the entire 20th century and establish the modern social welfare state. In France, socialists took over Paris! (A few things also happened in Russia.) Nothing comparable occurred in America, hence the title question of Werner Sombart’s 1906 book Why Is There No Socialism in the United States?, a question followed up nearly a century later in the book It Didn’t Happen Here: Why Socialism Failed In The United States.

But I also think it’s worth remembering that even though socialism “failed” here, insofar as it never became the kind of political force it was in many European, Latin American, Asian, and African countries, we do have a socialist history, and a rather inspiring one! Delving into that history is a great way to find lessons for contemporary democratic socialists. And in some ways, the successes of American socialists have been underappreciated. As I’ve written before, the list of socialist mayors in the United States in the early 20th century is impressively long, and one reason the Socialist Party fizzled after about 1908 is that the other major political parties actually began co-opting the Socialist agenda. I recommend reading Ira Kipnis’ The American Socialist Movement 1897-1912, which talks a lot about where the socialists succeeded and where they didn’t. Many of the intra-socialist debates were the same ones we are having today: What does socialism really mean? Are particular reforms “socialist”? To what extent should socialists work within the existing political system? Unfortunately, they did not resolve those debates then, and the first thing to learn is that we need to do better this time around.

The history of the American Socialist Party and the IWW are fascinating in their own right. (As well as the histories of socialist publications like The Masses and the Appeal to Reason.) But I’d like to single out a few historic American socialists who I find exemplary. We do have a grand left tradition in the United States, one carried forth from generation to generation by humane and committed activists. We should never forget their lives, struggles, and ideas.

Hubert Harrison

Hubert Harrison is one of my favorite forgotten Americans, period. Known as the “Black Socrates,” he was an important figure in the Harlem Renaissance, renowned for his dazzling streetcorner oratory and the seriousness of his intellect. Jeffrey B. Perry’s excellent biography of Harrison calls him the “voice of Harlem radicalism” and the book summary gives you a flavor of Harrison’s extraordinary life:

The foremost Black organizer, agitator, and theoretician of the Socialist Party of New York, Harrison was also the founder of the “New Negro” movement, the editor of Negro World, and the principal radical influence on the Garvey movement. He was a highly praised journalist and critic (reportedly the first regular Black book reviewer), a freethinker and early proponent of birth control, a supporter of Black writers and artists, a leading public intellectual, and a bibliophile who helped transform the 135th Street Public Library into an international center for research in Black culture.

Harrison is particularly notable for the way he combined “race consciousness” with “class consciousness,” And while considered a “Harlem Renaissance” figure, he was critical of the entire concept, because he felt it diminished previous black achievements. As a brilliant atheist, socialist, anti-racist intellectual, Harrison is a standout figure in the history of the left who deserves to be given his due.

Helen Keller

Keller herself is, of course, well-remembered. But her radical socialist politics are still too frequently neglected. She was a member of the Industrial Workers of the World and a supporter of Debs, an anti-militarist feminist trade unionist who was staunchly committed to the rights of working people. If you read her socialist writings, it can actually be a little surprising to realize just how firm her conviction was. Here she is describing the IWW and why she supports it:

The creators of wealth are entitled to all they create. Thus they find themselves pitted against the whole profit-making system. They declare that there can be no compromise so long as the majority of the working class lives in want while the master class lives in luxury. They insist that there can be no peace until the workers organize as a class, take possession of the resources of the earth and the machinery of production and distribution and abolish the wage system.

I don’t remember hearing that when we watched The Miracle Worker in middle school! In her essay “How I Became A Socialist,” Keller says she is pleased that people seem so interested in her inspiring life story, particularly because it will help get the word “socialism” into more newspapers! (Ah, how she underestimated the power of the whitewashing machine!) She also amusingly recounted how the New York Times asked her to write an article, before immediately printing an editorial condemning the “contemptible red flag.” This would not do, Keller said:

I love the red flag and what it symbolizes to me and other Socialists. I have a red flag hanging in my study, and if I could I should gladly march with it past the office of the Times and let all the reporters and photographers make the most of the spectacle. According to the inclusive condemnation of the Times I have forfeited all right to respect and sympathy, and I am to be regarded with suspicion. Yet the editor of the Times wants me to write him an article!

Nor did Keller think much of the Brooklyn Eagle when they suggested that her left-wing politics were a product of her physical disabilities. Keller’s reply is so deliciously scathing that it’s worth quoting at length:

The Brooklyn Eagle says, apropos of me, and socialism, that Helen Keller’s “mistakes spring out of the manifest limitations of her development.” Some years ago I met a gentleman who was introduced to me as Mr. McKelway, editor of the Brooklyn Eagle. It was after a meeting that we had in New York in behalf of the blind. At that time the compliments he paid me were so generous that I blush to remember them. But now that I have come out for socialism he reminds me and the public that I am blind and deaf and especially liable to error. I must have shrunk in intelligence during the years since I met him. Surely it is his turn to blush… Oh, ridiculous Brooklyn Eagle! What an ungallant bird it is! … The Eagle is willing to help us prevent misery provided, always provided, that we do not attack the industrial tyranny which supports it and stops its ears and clouds its vision. The Eagle and I are at war. I hate the system which it represents, apologizes for and upholds. When it fights back, let it fight fair. Let it attack my ideas and oppose the aims and arguments of Socialism. It is not fair fighting or good argument to remind me and others that I cannot see or hear. I can read. I can read all the socialist books I have time for in English, German and French. If the editor of the Brooklyn Eagle should read some of them, he might be a wiser man and make a better newspaper. If I ever contribute to the Socialist movement the book that I sometimes dream of, I know what I shall name it: Industrial Blindness and Social Deafness.

Mother Jones

I think if there is one thing we can say for certain about Mother Jones, it’s that she wouldn’t think much of the magazine that publishes under her name. She was certainly no liberal. (“I’m not a humanitarian, I’m a hell-raiser!”) She traveled across the country organizing strike after strike and motivating workers to resist the strike-breakers. She led a march of hundreds of child laborers, which ended up outside Teddy Roosevelt’s summer home, where she demanded to see the president to protest child labor. (She was refused.) She went to prison, was released, raised more hell, went to prison again, and then went to meet John D. Rockefeller, spending two hours telling him personally about the conditions in his mines and demanding he improve them. She was generous toward Rockefeller though: “Him raised in luxury, how could he know anything about real things? It isn’t his fault, though—the raising he got is the cause of it.” The woman who reminded laborers “You ain’t got a damn thing if you ain’t got a union!” was one of the most fearless, frank, uncompromising champions of working people in American history.

“I asked a man in prison once how he happened to be there and he said he had stolen a pair of shoes. I told him if he had stolen a railroad he would be a United States Senator.”  — Mother Jones

Peter Clark

Peter Clark is known as the first African American socialist. He was an active abolitionist in the decades leading up to the Civil War, and then afterwards became the first black school principal in the state of Ohio. He ran for office, ran a newspaper, taught black students, supported striking workers. He was once fired by the school he worked at after he taught students about the radical “atheist” thinking of Thomas Paine. Clark’s life is documented in Nikki Taylor’s America’s First Black Socialist: The Radical Life of Peter H. Clark. Here is an excerpt from a talk he gave on socialism in 1877:

Many wise men, learned in political economy, assure us that their doctrines, faithfully followed, will result in a greater production of wealth and a more equal division of the same. But as I have said before, there is but one efficacious remedy proposed, and that is found in Socialism. The present industrial organization of society has been faithfully tried and has proven a failure. We get rid of the king, we get rid of the aristocracy, but the capitalist comes in their place, and in the industrial organization and guidance of society his little finger is heavier than their loins. Whatever Socialism may bring about, it can present nothing more anarchical than is found in Grafton, Baltimore and Pittsburgh today.

(Continue Reading)

[modernlcve]

*  —  stats —   drew carter !

* — basics !

full name:   anastasia drew carter. nickname(s):   answers exclusively to drew.  has since she was nine. age:   twenty - four. date of birth:   april fifth. place of birth:   beaufort,  north carolina. gender:   female. pronouns:   she / her. sexual orientation:   lesbian.  level of education:   high school graduate. recipient of a degree in hospitality.

* — physical !

tattoos:  none. piercings:  multiple ear piercings. notable features:   balayage highlights. weakness(es):   none notable. scar(s):  none notable.

* — domestic !

occupation:   event planner at one of the hotels owned by her family. residence:   lives in the tucana apartments. social class:   upper class. parents:   andrew carter,   age 57,   hotelier that encouraged drew to be an Empowered Woman until she used that power against him.   charlotte carter,   age 46,   the hammer,  more generally an adversary to drew,   wished she’d just be a Lady. siblings:   eddie carter,   age 18,   drew’s younger brother.   they aren’t too close,  but they get along well enough. extended family:   lots of stuffy people with money drew doesn’t put work into keeping in touch with.

* — personality !

positive traits:   brazen,   resolute,  dependable. negative traits:   stubborn,   confrontational,   forceful. myers-briggs ( x ):   istj,   the logistician. temperament:   sanguine. moral alignment:   neutral good. horoscope:  aries,   the ram. hogwarts house:  gryffindor.

* — favorites !

movie:   steel magnolias. tv show:   veep. book:   the awakening. drink:   pink lemonade. food:   shrimp scampi. animal:   dolphins. color:   red. song:   here you come again by dolly parton. artist:   florence + the machine. celebrity crush:   lucy liu.

* — impressions !

first impression:  i made her sound like a freak with her traits but she comes off as a lot more chill than that.   she’s good- humored and knows enough about manners to not come off as overly rude. self impression:   she likes to think everything she’s doing will pay off one day.  but she wonders if she’s playing in too much to her dad’s fantasy of continuing the Family Empire even if she’s staunchly trying to do it her way. lover impression:   she’s casual.   she’s not one for great  declarations or big romantic gestures.   she just wants some- one she can have a good time with.   this could come off as distant,   but she doesn’t mean it that way.

* — et cetera !

turn ons:   a good sense of humor,  confidence. turn offs:   smothering,   smoking,   overly peppy or optimistic people get on her nerves. drink/drugs/smoke:   socially/no/no. dominant hand:   right. clean or messy:   clean. early bird or night owl:   night owl. hobbies or special talents:   did swim + dive all through high school and college.

* — QUESTIONNAIRE !

01. where was your character born? what brought them to carina bay? what do they like most about the town?

drew was born in the outer banks,   her family’s homestead for most of her childhood,   but they did a decent amount of travelling.   they were brought to carina for work,  her family owning one of the beachside hotels and a spot coming open that would allow her to get hands on experience in the hotel,   with her ultimate goal being able to take what she sees and use it when she’s working a more corporate position.

02. who are your character’s friends and family? who do they surround themselves with? who are the people your character is closest to?

a lot of what i have about drew’s family is Stolen.   her parents are high society ala emily and richard gilmore.   they’re very focused on their image and legacy and upholding both.   her brother,   eddie,   is the family rebel and the one who’s really straying hard from the Hospitality Buisness,   which makes her relationship with her parents better than it maybe could be.   she surrounds herself with the Gays of the greater carina area and generally just looks for people who can take a joke and blow off steam with her.

03. what is your character’s biggest fear? who have they told this to? who would they never tell this to? why?

drew’s biggest fear is wasting her life secretly being a Pawn to what her dad’s wanted all along.   she has plans to Steal his job one day,   and do things her way,   but until then,   she’s having to play along with him a little,   and she worries that she’s not fighting back hard enough.   she’s probably told eddie about this just because he Gets thinking their dad is a dumbass but that’s about it bc she doesn’t go into great Detail about her Career Plans with others.

04. has your character ever been in love? had a broken heart?

probably not 2 either.   she’s a casual dater.   she hasn’t really had a serious relationship before mara,   and i don’t know if we’ve established how Serious they are atm or at an In Love level.

05. your character is doing intense spring cleaning. what is easy for them to throw out? what is difficult for them to part with? why?

drew doesn’t have a problem getting rid of things.   she likes a good deep clean and tries to do one at least a couple times a year.   she has the hardest time getting rid of clothes and bags   ( specifically totes bags and backpacks,   her purse selection is much more Curated ).

06. it’s saturday at noon. what is your character doing? give details.

she likes spending saturday morning on the beach.   she goes for a run,   then sticks around for lunch with a book or her journal or something.   she likes just being outside and taking it easy.

07. what is one strong memory that has stuck with your character since childhood?

she remembers a winter her family went to spend the holidays with her mother’s parents in france.   it was a year where,   weirdly,   everyone got along,   and they didn’t bog themselves down with events and appearances during christmas,   and just focused on hanging out and being together.   she keeps meaning to make it back to visit again.

09. what is something that upsets your character? where do they go when they’re upset? 

drew’s upset by feeling like she’s being held back.   she thinks she has a lot of good ideas,   and doesn’t like feeling like they’re being ignored.   it’s a lot of what her problem with her family is:   her notes fall on deaf ears.   when she’s upset,   she likes to go for a walk or run,   or be around people who’ll let her rant and rave for a little.

10. when your character thinks of their childhood kitchen, what smell do they associate with it? why?

coffee.   she’s from a family of coffee people,   and moments they’d all spend getting out the door in the morning were sometimes the extent of the Family Time they’d all have together for the day,   so the smell of coffee brings back more memories of her childhood home and growing up with her family more than any food.

[middledumpling]

i like the way you smile

fandom: gekkan shoujo nozaki-kun

summary: everyday he walked past the dim windows of the tattoo shop next door and wondered about the owner with the bright orange hair and the beautiful smile

notes: soulmate!au for day 3 of @gsnkfandomweek 

The sun was just beginning to break over the mountains but Mikoshiba had already been up for hours. Truth be told, he hated getting up early, but there was something about the stillness in the air as the world was waking up, like it was holding its breath in anticipation of something, that made it worth it. He tilted the spout of his watering can back and stood up from where he was crouching on the ground. Those were the last of his various indoor plants and flowers watered. All that was left was to decorate the sign board and set the displays outside his door before he could officially open for the day. Mikoshiba rummaged through the top drawer for his chalk pen. Uncapping the pen, he began to outline some daffodils that would serve as a border to the text he’d add in later. Drawing flowers had always been a special skill of his and required almost no concentration, so inevitably his mind began to wander to the store next door, as it was wont to do these days. His small flower shop was unfortunately located right next to a tattoo parlour. It hadn’t been an ideal location for him. Mikoshiba was terrified of illicit yakuza activity and scary people in general, so he had always hurried past the tinted windows with averted eyes in order to avoid seeing any of the store’s employees or clients. But one day he had seen a small girl, at least a head shorter than him, stride confidently into the store. She had been wearing a long sleeved, poofy dress with two large ribbons in her hair. The sight was so odd that he stopped right there in the sidewalk to see what would happen. Nothing happened, of course. It wasn’t until later than he found out she was the owner of the store. But what had started as mere curiosity had slowly evolved into interest and then into a small crush. “You don’t even know her name,” his friend Kashima had pointed out. She had even offered to go and find out for him, but Mikoshiba had staunchly refused. Even if he knew her name, he was too much of a coward to do anything about it. He knew himself too well. Mikoshiba placed his chalkboard pen back down on the table and leaned back against his chair, staring at the way the early morning sunlight filtered through the store. The world didn’t feel beautiful anymore but terribly, terribly lonely. ... The bell over his front door jingled. “Welcome to Mikoto’s Flowers!” Mikoshiba greeted. “Oh—it’s just you.” Kashima laughed and brushed her windblown hair back into place. “Don’t sound so disappointed,” she said. Before he could say anything else, she went on. “Anyways, I know you told me not to talk to the tattoo girl but—” Mikoshiba heart lodged itself firmly into his throat and he leapt to his feet. “What?” he yelped. Kashima’s hands flew up in defence. “I just talked to her that’s all! I didn’t even say your name. I just mentioned I was interested in getting a tattoo.” Mikoshiba stared at her. Since when was she interested in getting a tattoo? Suddenly the pieces clicked as he watched her absently run a hand over her bare wrist. It was still strange to see it blank, when for the past however many years he’d known her it had been scrawled with lines of text. He flopped back into his chair and ran a hand through his hair, sighing. “You’re a hopeless romantic,” he complained half-heartedly. Mikoshiba glanced up just in time to see a soft smile spread across her usual charming face. “Hori-chan-senpai said that it wasn’t necessary, but I think I’d still like it as a momento,” she said decisively. “And besides, it was just lines of script anyways. Nothing to be embarrassed about!” Yeah, it was nothing like his. Mikoshiba’s face burned as he tugged down the sleeve of his sweater so it covered the black line of ink on the inside of his wrist. It was only one sentence, but it sure made an impact.

Too late, Kashima seemed to realize her blunder. “Not that having an embarrassing line is completely awful! It’ll fade either way once you meet them.” Mikoshiba sighs, running an hand through his hair. “Yeah, I know. But still. If I meet my soulmate and want this line tattooed on me again, promise me you’ll stop me.” Kashima nodded solemnly. “I won’t stop you.” “Thanks—hey!” While they tussled, Kashima put him into a headlock and grinned down at him. “I found out her name by the way,” she said. Mikoshiba glanced up, suitably distracted. “It’s Chiyo. Sakura Chiyo.” Mikoshiba mouthed the name to himself. Sakura Chiyo. The name suited her. ... It was still dark outside. Mikoshiba walked down the silent street, breathing in the crisp air of the morning.

As usual, he passed by the tattoo parlour on his way to the store. Before he realized it, Mikoshiba was hovering just outside the glass window of her storefront, watching her putter about the store, cleaning this or shifting that. There was no other way to describe it. She was just so… adorable.

But she walked around with a quiet confidence, with the kind of presence that had caught his attention in the first place. Their eyes met through the tinted glass. The girl—no, Chiyo—looked startled at first. Mikoshiba froze in place, embarrassed at having been caught staring in the first place. Then her lips quirked up into a smile as she waved at him. Mikoshiba had enough presence of mind to let out a quiet eep and wave back before ducking into his own store, blushing all the while. ... It was Valentine’s Day. Regardless of the fact that it was his birthday, his shop was swarming with people. Roses, lilies, chrysanthemums, assorted bouquets—everything was being sold at a rapid fire pace the way it did every year. The bell above his door jingled, signalling the arrival of yet another customer. “Welcome!” he yelled in the general direction of the front door. Milkoshiba rang the customer in and when glanced up, his heart nearly stopped in his chest. The customer that had just entered was Chiyo from next door, and when she caught his eye from the front of the store she wiggled her fingers at him in greeting. Adorable.

I’ll come back later, she mouthed sheepishly, pointing at the door. Mikoshiba nodded and waved back before his attention was completely seized again by a customer asking his opinion on flower languages. Later, after the chaos, Mikoshiba bemoaned the fact to Kashima. “I could have talked to her!” he exclaimed. “What would you have said?” she asked, eyebrows raised in question while perched on a nearby stool. “I would’ve, I dunno, introduced myself or something,” Mikoshiba groaned. “Or like, been all suave and given her a flower while saying ‘This is just for you, it’s on the house’.” “Maybe it’s better that you didn’t talk to her then,” Hori piped in, leaning casually against Kashima’s back. “Or you could always go next door you know, and introduce yourself like a normal person?” Kashima asked. “No, that’s not an option. I’ll just pine here until I die I guess.” “Please don’t,” Hori said.“You’ll ruin the linoleum.”

“I hate you both,” he complained. ... His phone rang once, twice, and then a third time  before he picked up. “Hey, are you free right now?” she asks, her tone peppy even through the static

“Yeah, what’s up?” Mikoshiba asked, phone cradled between his ear and shoulder during one of his only days off. “We just got our new script and we need some extra people to help read. You down?”

Mikoshiba hesitated. He stared at the screen of his TV, where Yukino was waiting for him to ask her on a date.

“I’ll buy you that new figure that came out. Limited edition, right?” Kashima wheedled.

His decision was made in an instance. “I’ll be there in five. Where are you?”

“Nozaki’s house! We’ll leave the door unlocked so just come right in.” And with that, she hung up. Mikoshiba grabbed his wallet and keys and headed out for the day. He stepped out into the sunshine, only mourning his cool and darkened room for a brief moment before he was cheered up by the thought of the limited edition figurine waiting for him at the end of the night.

It was a quick train ride to Nozaki’s house.

Nozaki was a bit of an eccentric mangaka, but then again, weren’t they all? Mikoshiba helped pen in flowers for him to make a little extra cash on the side and so he could tentatively call them friends.

Mikoshiba cautiously pushed open the door.The house was already alive with yelling and impassioned monologuing. Mikoshiba’s stomach twisted a little at the thought of how many people would be in the room, but he had to do this.

For Yukino, he decided, and pushed open the door.

He opened the door to total chaos. Hori had his back to him and was yelling his lines impassionately at a girl standing in front of him. Kashima was clearly long gone, her admiration for her senpai’s acting throwing her sanity out the window. And Nozaki was sitting back near the window, obviously enjoying the scene before him.

Hori moved to the side at his arrival, and Mikoshiba looked down at the girl, making eye contact with dizzyingly familiar purple eyes.

“Hey,” Sakura Chiyo, owner and tattoo artist of Ribbon & Ink Tattoos, said determinedly. “I know I cheated but I just can’t decide who I love more! You’ll forgive me right?”

Mikoshiba choked. His jaw dropped as he tried to process not only the turn of events, but his entire perspective on the concept of soulmates. There’s a burning sensation on his wrist and he glances down to see the black ink that had accompanied him for most of his life fading into unblemished skin.

“Your line!” Sakura snapped, and Mikoshiba jolted.

“Um,” he stammered, and suddenly a script was deposited in his hands. Mikoshiba scanned the page desperately. “The world may burn and the stars might twinkle out of existence, but I will always love you and therefore, I will always forgive you.”

He peeked up at Chiyo. The realization of what he just said registers in his mind and he feels his cheeks blaze red at the cheesy and embarrassing line. She stared up at him, wide-eyed and shocked, only breaking eye contact to glance down at her arm.

Hori, who had already finished his next line, trailed off to stare at the silent couple.

“...huh,” was all he said. Mikoshiba’s face burst into flames.

At this point, even Nozaki, hopeless in any type of romantic matters, caught on. “Oh ho,” he said, the statement made worse somehow by his usual deadpan face.

Kashima was beaming.

Mikoshiba targeted her, because he’s blushing so hard he can’t keep his gaze on Chiyo—his soulmate. Lord, even the thought of it was crazy.

“You set this up,” he hissed at her. She shrugged haplessly at the accusation, seemingly unable to keep a smile off her face.

“Let’s give them some privacy,” Hori interjected, dragging Kashima off by the back of her collar. “Nozaki, you too.”

In an instant the room was clear. Mikoshiba simultaneously loved and hated Hori-senpai at that moment.

There was a light touch on his arm, and he turned to see Chiyo holding her hand out. Up close, she was even tinier than he thought she was.

“I’m Sakura Chiyo,” she said, smiling bashfully at him. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

[bloodfromtherock-blog]

KAVANAUGH & THE CORONATED CREEPS

Daniel Hutchens October 10, 2018

"It would be naive to depend on the Supreme Court to defend the rights of poor people, women, people of color, dissenters of all kinds. Those rights only come alive when citizens organize, protest, demonstrate, strike, boycott, rebel, and violate the law in order to uphold justice." -Howard Zinn **********************************************

Kavanaugh repeatedly lied to the US Senate under oath during his job interview for Justice of the Supreme Court. These lies have been well-documented at this point, and aren’t even being contested; the essence of the reply from the Republican oligarchy is, “It doesn’t matter.”

And American women at this point have been demoted to second-class citizens by the Trump administration. This is clearly observable. Trump’s attacks on women are relentless; his push toward more restrictive policies on contraception and abortion, his rollback of gender equality pay laws, removal of paycheck transparency, forced arbitration clauses for sexual harassment, sexual assault or discrimination claims...for me, as the father of an 11 year old daughter, this is all a sinister slap in the face. But more to the point, Kavanaugh’s appointment to the Supreme Court now puts Trumpsters firmly in control of the move to strike down Roe v. Wade. Understand this clearly: female American citizens are considered nothing more than property by the Old Boys Club, and women’s voices regarding reproductive rights and their own bodies are considered irrelevant. In Trump’s eyes, women are cattle to be branded and used as deemed appropriate.

Kavanaugh is staunchly anti-abortion and has no intent of ruling objectively on this issue. When Sen. Susan Collins, R-Maine, shadily swung her support to Kavanaugh during the hearings, she apparently felt compelled to grandstand dishonestly for the cameras, maybe in deference to the power of the #MeToo movement, considering her stature as a female Senator. Her behavior reeks of a back room deal, after her previous assertions that if Kavanaugh lied he should be disqualified. She helped Republicans by putting a woman’s face on their warped campaign to shame and discredit survivors of sexual assault, thereby aiding Trump’s shitty backlash against #MeToo, and his brain dead catch phrase, “It’s a very scary time for young men in America.” #MeToo is so powerful that people like Susan Collins have to pretend to support it. She said that Kavanaugh would preserve Roe v Wade and legal abortion. Bullshit. “Operation Rescue,” a group working since the ‘80s to “make America abortion free,” and the rest of the extremist anti-woman crowd have all supported Kavanaugh’s nomination right down the line.

The looming abortion showdown is grim news for American women and those who care about them, alright. The notion that there’s some religious or ethical justification behind returning to back-alley amateurs and economically-selective access to these medical procedures is a sleazeball scam. And just for the record, the “religious right” who have supported Trump have completely forfeited all claim on morality, forevermore, end of discussion. Their previous hand-wringing over opposition candidates for sexual scandals, affairs etc.—then their ridiculous postures that “God chose Trump,” and they “weren’t electing a Sunday school teacher,” their transparent indifference to his cheating on all his wives with porn stars, scamming American citizens with rackets like Trump University etc., his history of racist business practices, his shady record of tax fraud and his whole laundry list of decidedly unChristian behavior, in the most basic sense of spirituality and genuine concern for others, which some of our parents actually schooled us about...yeah, those evangelical hucksters are exposed and discredited and can shut their mouths permanently about abortion and everything else. There are people with genuine soul convictions about these issues, but there are also plenty of imposters and their servility to a snake like Trump spotlights their insincerity. Ye shall know ‘em by their fruits, I’ve heard tell.

Of COURSE Trump wanted Kavanaugh on the Court. Kavanaugh has confirmed himself as a “get out of jail free card" should Trump ever be charged with any crime. Not to mention that Trump and Kavanaugh are plainly fellow members of a perverse fraternity we might as well call “The He-Man Woman Haters Club,” with apologies to the Little Rascals. They both have histories of a predatory mindset, insulting attitudes toward women in general (and no, hiring a few females or minorities does not erase acts of bigotry, and none of us fail to understand the concept of “making only a perfunctory or symbolic effort to do a particular thing, especially by recruiting a small number of people from underrepresented groups in order to give the appearance of sexual or racial equality”)…and Trump’s recent sideshow of mocking Dr. Ford was one of the most jaw-droppingly ugly little political performances this nation has witnessed in many years. (Excepting other Trump tantrums, of course.) Not so long ago, such a warped demonstration would have dropped like a stone any American politician from favor by both parties, immediately and with extreme prejudice. Not so in today’s world of Trumpian “alternative facts” and low-rent bullying.

Also revisit the whole Justice Kennedy/Deutsch Bank scandal, and put the pieces together. Plenty of in-depth and sobering articles are available on this subject, and the bottom line takeaway is that Russian money and influence indeed are swaying American policy and elections, and the whole thing is directly tied to the slow-moving Republican/Russian takeover of everything from our Supreme Court on down. By all means, don’t take my word for it, but by all means do your own research and do your own thinking. But these topics expand and branch out mighty far. Let’s snap focus back onto Kavanaugh.

******************************** “The politically convenient, scientifically baseless theory that sexual assault so traumatized Christine Blasey Ford she mixed up her attacker is now something like common wisdom for many Republicans… less than three weeks ago, when the mistaken-identity theory was first formulated, it was so widely ridiculed that a pundit who advanced it on Twitter subsequently apologized and offered to resign from his job.” -Avi Selk ********************************

October 5th Dr. Ford cover Illustration by John Mavroudis for TIME. © 2018

Some of Kavanaugh’s defenders have criticized Dr. Ford for being “coached” and otherwise manipulated. I have no doubt she got some advice from lawyers, etc., nor that the timing and presentation of her complaints were orchestrated through Democratic channels. That’s the name of the game in Big Time American Politics, folks. But her testimony was believable and compelling, and she retained adult composure through her emotions (it’s tough to imagine the storm of criticism she would have received from Republicans if she had behaved anything like Kavanaugh.) But the implication that Kavanaugh wasn’t also coached (with a professional eye toward manipulating opinion) is high-grade bullshit, or else a stunning level of naivete. Kavanaugh’s TV appearance in which he portrayed himself as a meek little virgin til long after high school, etc., was harshly disapproved of by Team Trump, and they coached him up with specific instructions for the Senate hearing: their advice was that he needed to unleash his anger. And Kavanaugh ran with the “anger” bit and it got away from him; that much-reported nasty temperament of his glared through the cracks in his public facade, and it wasn’t a pretty sight.

Kavanaugh’s face...God have mercy. Now in addition to Trump, we have another bitter, hideous visage to haunt our collective dreams. Understand we’re not discussing aesthetics. I’m referring to that old notion that eyes are the windows to the soul, and that intuitive interpretation of facial displays gives us significant information about an individual’s attitude, sense of humor, empathy...or the lack of it. And we were burned by flashes of Kavanaugh’s inner demons during the hearing. Much like Trump, Kavanaugh’s features contorted into a repellent mask of childish temper, ill-mannered impatience and lurking malevolence. It was a freak show that could have taught Hollywood’s monster make-up artists a trick or two. To the extent that Kavanaugh was moved (instructed) to write a quasi-apologetic op-ed piece after the hearing. But we all know what we saw.

During that hearing he raged at those who had questioned his nomination and he hinted not-so-subtly at retribution. He was prodded by White House counsel Don McGahn, who sat directly behind Kavanaugh during the hearing. The whole performance was sickeningly indignant, unashamedly entitled and arrogant, and stunningly partisan in a way that would have disqualified any nominee from previous years—but again, not so in today’s atmosphere of Trumpian distortion and pettiness.

Plenty of us out here recognize Kavanaugh for who he is. We’ve all known “that guy” in our lives; the spoiled, sneering little punkass who talks differently about women as soon as they walk out the door, and who suffers delusions of superiority, and who no one wants to hear any more shit from down at the corner bar.

Kavanaugh’s appointment was questioned or condemned by vast numbers in this country, represented by such organizations as the American Bar Association, Yale Law School, over 2400 Law Professors nationwide, many former classmates and friends, and the National Council of Churches (which represents 100,000 churches and about 45 million churchgoers.) Not to mention the many womens’ groups, the #MeToo movement, etc. Such outright opposition to a nominee for the Supreme Court is extraordinary, and the fact that said opposition was mocked, belittled and outright ignored by the Republicans determined to ram this nomination through come hell or high water—“we’re going to plow right through it,” as Mitch McConnell claimed without shame—yeah, such utter disregard for mass portions of the population is ominous. (And by the way, Trump’s dumbassed claim that Kavanaugh was “proven innocent” indicates a farcical, childish lack of legal comprehension.)

And of course, the meager FBI “investigation” allowed was nothing but a front. The whole circus was rushed and hushed, with zero perceivable interest in knowing the real truth. If team Trump had any interest in uniting the country or in general fairness, they could have trotted out any of a dozen other nominees, all of whom would even have satisfied the wish list of the conservative right, without all the unnecessary baggage. But there are higher priorities for these particular elected officials than fairness or the genuine best interests of the nation.

To pretend Kavanaugh isn’t a partisan shill now planted in the land’s highest court is preposterous belief in “alternative facts” and simplistic hype. The only ones who are fooled by Trump’s blather at this point are those who want to be fooled. His outright nonsense and habitual lies are easily spotted from miles away, but the sad fact is that his supporters don’t give a fuck. They don’t care if he lies, or demeans women or minorities or stirs up international diplomatic firestorms with “shithole countries”-style verbal diarrhea. As Trump himself famously said, he could “shoot somebody and not lose voters.” It’s strangely, sadly true.

It’s also true of Trump’s new handpuppet, Kavanaugh. To whom the idea of “a personality that is even-handed, unbiased, impartial, and dedicated to a process, not a result” in no way applies. Certainly not at this point, after he ranted about “the revenge of the Clintons,” and openly attacked “the Left,” “Democrats” and (for Crissakes) “the media” during his whinefest in front of the US Senate…beyond the pale, folks. We live in a strange new land, in strange new times.

Post-American, by many accounts. The much-revered and much-hated icon of the Left, Michael Moore, predicted Trump’s election in a written article in 2016. The prediction was often reprinted and ballyhooed as campaign-banner fodder by the Far Right. But they missed the warning flash of Moore’s article, and the unnerving prediction: “And now you’re fucked…When the rightfully angry people of Ohio and Michigan and Pennsylvania and Wisconsin find out after a few months in office that President Trump wasn’t going to do a damn thing for them, it will be too late to do anything about it…Goodnight America. You’ve just elected the last president of the United States.”

Pretty dramatic words, but unfortunately the further we sink into the era of the Trump regime, the less incredible such sentiments sound. We’re witnessing an active dismantling and attempted discrediting of institutions ranging from public education to the Free Press. And the schemed attack on the Supreme Court, again, has proven successful for far-righters who don’t give a damn about being even-handed or protecting an independent judiciary.

Trump said that Dr. Ford seemed “a very credible witness”and “very compelling” on one day. Then a few days later he openly mocked her like he was a dimwitted schoolkid. He gushed about what a great man Kavanaugh is, then the next day said, “I don’t even know him!” It’s all topsy-turvy and bizarre, the truth is treated like a curious artifact from a long-dead age, and Trump’s supporters act like it’s all “normal.” But it’s not. And the glimmer of hope is that there are plenty of us out here who understand perfectly well that Emperor Trump ain’t wearing any clothes. We see very clearly what’s happening in this country, the legitimizing of white supremacy, misogyny, homophobia, and bigotry of every stripe. We see you. We see you and know you and so does the whole world, and so will the history books, baby.

“I know Brett Kavanaugh but I wouldn’t confirm him,” wrote Benjamin Wittes, who had previously published and even admired Kavanaugh. “I cannot condone the partisanship—which was raw, undisguised, naked, and conspiratorial—from someone who asks for public faith as a dispassionate and impartial judicial actor. His performance was wholly inconsistent with the conduct we should expect from a member of the judiciary.”

And the message to women in this country, again, is sadly obvious. “Shut the hell up. Because if you ever dare to speak up about this kind of thing again, we will openly ridicule you and no one in power will ever take you seriously.”

******************************************** “Kavanaugh, though, has a distinct honor: He will be the first justice nominated by someone who lost the popular vote to earn his seat on the bench with support from senators representing less than half of the country while having his nomination opposed by a majority of the country.” -Philip Bump *********************************************

CODA: Yeah. The country is divided in a way it hasn’t been since Vietnam. Extremists are multiplying, and they’re nurturing diseases that were seething under the surface for many years before Trump. And indeed, we’re witnessing a perverse resurgence of tolerance for fascism and white supremacism worldwide. But here in America, Trump is the ringmaster of the new Ugliness; his lowering the bar of public discourse, his smug approval of greed and cruelty, his nod-and-a-wink okey-dokes to racism, misogyny and all manner of bigotry—he has legitimized, pardoned and coronated the creeps, the rotten underbelly of our society, the very worst we have to offer.

Let’s vote some of these bastards out in November, folks.

[violetsystems]

#personal

I keep referencing this Chris Morris interview lately, mostly to myself. I try to talk to people in real life but the things other people take seriously aren't as important as any words I try to speak outloud. This is a trend that Morris and crew began to target in the late nineties when Brass Eye was released. When asked if Brass Eye could happen at the time during the Trump administration, he replied staunchly it could not. Back in the late nineties people took themselves far too seriously in the news. So it was easier to lampoon. These days it feels like a regression. Everyone has a statement to unload on you. A complex series of opinions, arguments, and rules about this or that. Some of them have some weight. Others are carried away by counter arguments and burnt at the stake. The only reason a statement, argument, or ideological battle penetrates the news is to simply kick it around for two weeks in a cycle. It never reaches any sort of consensus. It never diffuses into at the very least a case of agreeing to disagree. The Met Gala recently is a fine example of this. Statement fashion is simply meant to nudge the conversation into focus. At it's very minimum the shock is meant to jolt someone out of this seriousness. To rattle them away from their protective shell to change the dialogue. Think tax the rich or peg the patriarchy. Neither of them if you flesh out the argument have much teeth to them. I'm sure you could find yourself at a party defending either argument. "How many stocks do you have in the bank Mister!" Or why victims of childhood sexual harassment and violence might feel a little differently about proving how you might be able to face the patriarchy in a less violent and humiliating way. This is that none of us are defending a 35,000 dollar ticket to the Met Gala in the first place. There were plenty of other statements. After all the ideological dust settled I almost never realized that Iris Van Herpen designed Grimes suit of armor. If I were too clouded by the ideology I would have missed that legitimate moment of genius. I'm a technologist by profession. I have years of 3D fabrication support. I've often found myself drawn into the intersect of technology and fashion. The embroidery machines that print out all the stupid little poetry that gets stolen from other artists? Those are pretty complex to operate. Without them none of this would be possible. And yet good statement fashion does get people talking. But fashion is more than statements. Especially from the rich and wealthy. And if we don't talk about all of it, we start to realize who controls the flow of the dialogue when it goes petty. We're supposed to move on from these arguments like exhibits in a museum. Not get stuck on one or two moments and use them as a soapbox to drown out the entire room. Statement fashion gets people's attention. I wore undercover for years only to find for years people thought I was an undercover cop. I wear a mouse on a shirt and suddenly my porch is overflowed with them. I hold a raccoon in my arms in Korea one trip and the next year my porch is flooded with them as well. You like animals so much! Prove it!

Prove it was also a song by the underground band Television. I was introduced to them by the king of statement fashion itself, Jun Takahashi. I've worn undercover for years at this point. The story of undercover during the Scab years is an interesting insight into what Jun was trying to express at the core. His assistants were getting food in London on a break. An old woman came up to them and offered them a banana. She thought they were homeless. They were excited because the fashion they were wearing felt real and unpretentious. It blended in and confused people in such a way that it was not high brow or high fashion. It was accessible. It was street level. And it was largely coopted by the ultra rich and worn far too seriously for its own good. For people like myself who wore it out of love to provoking real conversation, it did the opposite. It cast me into a shadow realm where people thought what I was saying enabled them to push the limit. To use people like myself as cover in terms of hijacking authenticity. You used to wear undercover as a badge of honor in Japanese street wear. It was designed for rebels after all. You could wear a t-shirt that simply said RAT out in the street and assume if it applied to someone they'd read into it. But nobody including myself really thought you'd be able to change shit with a t-shirt. In America, people wear rebellious shit to express this idea of freedom. With Jun's stuff, it was all centered around this idea of individualism and anarchy. You can be who you are and there are so many variants of human that there is no comparison. America always wants you to prove it. Prove the right to be alone. Prove the right not to mix with the general population to avoid dilution. To avoid being neutralized or have a narrative hijacked. Nowadays you can't even afford to have a statement without someone explaining it for you behind your back. When the streets become the runway, retaliation happens outside the niceties of press and junkets. It happens with real unbridled emotions. The statements you throw into people's faces don't get moderated by it kids, secret tribunals of the ultra rich or your heroes. They get dealt with in a violent and sometimes mob like fashion by people who take themselves so seriously that their arguments against you are louder than a bomb or a nuclear powered submarine. And everything starts to contradict itself so much that none of us have the energy to argue. We just start mocking it. And the entire situation gets worse.

When it comes to a person like myself, I live in a surreal shadow world where the worst Black Mirror plot lines get tested. I've been writing and making statements for years. I've carefully parsed the arguments online. I've defended myself against an invisible hoard to let people know I am not like other people. And yet in America, until they can throw you in a group you are still nobody. You have to be attached to an ecosystem. A financial sink hole that can sell back your ideas to you instead of compensating you for the trouble. I can't take America seriously anymore even when it comes to it's idea of freedom. It lies to maintain a status quo. It constantly lies. It holds it's head high while sniffing the coke back into it's nose and proudly proclaims how it cares. And when people like myself stare it back in the face with our rotting street wear clothes from early 2010, it's a laugh. It believes until it has fully roasted the juices out of you then you are ready to be carved up. And we buy into it consistently. We waste our time feeding into arguments that have no intent on reaching a consensus. It's always you are either for us or against us. Go back and rally with your people. If you can't find your people it must mean you are mentally ill. America can never take the blame. If you catch it off guard it will figure out a way to trash you or cause a diversion. And so making statements to fuel an argument you can't win becomes a lesson in tedium. We should, by all means, continue to make fun of it. But the more we take these arguments seriously, we miss the real problems. We neglect the real art. We see that there's a good 35,000 dollar barrier to being heard. If we're lucky maybe we stitched together the rags these people wear. To me there have been statements in the populist context that have far more penetration into poking a hole in the patriarchy. I'm supposed to preface this by saying I own stock in some company. But I'm not trying to sell a portfolio. And it'd be kind of laughable to say that I'm only serious about feminism by putting my money where my mouth is to break this glass ceiling. The glass ceiling is there for a lot of us if minimum wage can't get us into the Met Gala. These statements are supposed to give you an idea to confront things in your own way. Not some secret way to groom you into humiliation and destroy your sense of self and sexuality. I write statements every week here most of the time. And they get chuckled at by friends and whoever these days spies on me to see how I deal with dead mice on my porch. Aren't I doing enough by saying something for free? I don't get paid to write any of these words. I don't get paid to talk about any of these people. What was that quote about art being counter revolutionary if it isn't accessible by the regular people? What I could do with a four hundred dollar statement t-shirt I can do with a color. Maybe I could make a statement shirt myself and have it ripped off by an incompetent designer one day. I could point at the screen and say "I copyrighted that statement." And look where it is now. Not in my wallet. Not anywhere near the 35,000 dollar ticket price to point back at the camera. Do you see me? No you don't. People in that realm only see themselves. And we take them and their arguments so seriously for what? A laugh hopefully. Because nothing is going to change if we're locked on the outside looking in at a bonfire of vanities. Witches get roasted either way. <3 Tim