#or his fucking new wife is a conservative and its pushing him to express his stupid prejudices more comfortably

[dockaspbrak]

love my dad but sometimes he will call the LGBT the "alphabet" community and does that conservative joke thats like "LGBTqrstuxyz"....like dude. I think labels can be reductive and shit but also im a lesbian in a lesbian relationship dont be homophobic lite?? Hes even a democrat and pretty liberal idk why he's like this. He also said he thinks being gay is a choice....maybe you made a choice buddy but not everyone CHOOSES to be attracted to the same gender...

[nameless-shrimp]

HANGING BY A MOMENT || SATORU GOJO

You and Satoru Gojo were the strongest together; some even said you both were the most powerful duo. However, after the incident that happened, it was questioned whether you were the most strongest with your mindset.

Pairing: Satoru Gojo x F!Reader

Type: One-shot

Warnings: Mentions of suicide/implied suicide, depression, heavy angst with character death, swearing, and grammar errors.

Notes: Because I like to hurt my heart a lot. This is pretty bad, not gonna lie, so I'm sorry if it's terrible.

The thing about Satoru Gojo was that he was the strongest.

It was shown through the cursed techniques that he portrayed. Whenever there was a small cry for help, he could sense the weaknesses of the curses and was able to be exorcised within a matter of seconds to minutes, or maybe, less than an hour. He was too good for the jujutsu world.

However, beneath all of the powers that he was able to show off, what was the most strongest of all is his love for you. And—it really did start after you were assigned to train with him at first, when he was a second-year and you were the first-year.

Both of you battled through everything together; you both became the most powerful duo. Cocky smirks and cheeky grins were shown after each curse was exorcised and you were there for him throughout his own mental battles as well, whilst he did the same for you.

But as time went on, it suddenly began to worsen for you, and you weren’t sure if it was due to the stressful order of the higher ups or maybe, it was because of the horrendous scenes that you were forced to witness every single time you walked out the door for a mission.

With your husband at your side, Satoru always found his way to be there for you.

Satoru knew about your sudden depression that hit you so hard, almost as if a tidal wave had swept your voice away and every night, he heard you cry about having to risk your life on a daily basis. He couldn’t bring himself to go to work most days, leaving Nanami the work to pick up after him, and Satoru knew you were a priority, but the innocents around the world were just as important too.

However, whenever you broke down crying, wanting the mental pain to stop, Satoru could only hold onto you and give you soft kisses on your neck, forehead, hands—anywhere. He wanted you to calm down, to be safe, to be trusted, and to be happy.

“I love you,” Satoru whispered close to your ears, holding you close to his chest, not minding the tears that were dripping onto his bare chest. He sighed, clutching onto you tightly. “I love you; you’re not alone. You’re going to get through this. You’re the strongest person I know, baby, you’ll manage.”

“I know,” your voice croaked, and his heart felt as if he was losing its pieces. He couldn’t stand seeing you in so much mental pain.

As time progressed, you avoided going to the sessions with the students, and they all relied on Satoru to pick up the pace with everyone. He couldn’t blame you though, you didn’t love the life you had as a jujutsu sorcerer, and Satoru kept up a happy face in front of his students. Sometimes, taking them out to dinner and annoying Nanami helped get him through the day, but most nights, you were underneath the covers, frightened by the past trauma that soared through your head.

The nights were endless, but Satoru remained by your side. With every pull to his chest and kiss to the forehead, it eased your breakdowns a little bit more. Satoru couldn’t blame you for acting the way you did. The sight of blood, murder, indescribable and unforgivable crimes of assault were all over the streets as a jujutsu sorcerer; this wasn’t something you had asked for and you simply wanted it to stop—to make it all fucking stop.

“The life you have now isn’t for you, you don’t have to walk this path anymore if you don’t want it,” Satoru explained to you one night, where your breath was heaving against his chest and you stared at the minimal ceiling above you. “Nanami quit. He couldn’t take this shit anymore either, so you can do the same.”

“And what about you?” You questioned, trailing your fingers along his.

He smiled at you, comfort growing within the blue aura gaze of his eyes. “I love you. I’m supporting you with whatever you wanna do, especially if it’s best for you.”

And—well, that lasted for one night.

The higher ups had assigned you a mission, despite the fact that you avoided the majority of your sessions with the students and that you declined most of the missions you received. While Satoru was out in Tokyo with his first-years, you laid in your bed, covers pulled up to your neck as you read the message that was sent to you by Principal Yaga. It turned out that there was a special grade curse that was inhabiting a college campus and it needed an immediate exorcision.

You have taken out multiple special grade curses; most of the time it was with Satoru, especially when you both were still students at Jujutsu Tech, and you knew that this would’ve been a breeze. However, you haven’t trained in about two months; you knew that you were rusty, you knew that your mind was lost in its own shadows and your thoughts wandered to different directions. It wasn’t the best bet for you to go fight this special grade curse on your own, but—for some reason, a part of you decided to take control.

The moment you left the house, you contacted Satoru that you would be out on an important mission, and despite the multiple times he tried to call you, you declined every one of them. The higher ups had their ways, and you always ignored what they said, not minding their conservative viewpoints to slash your own opinions of them; they had their own despicable tasks, and perhaps, this was one of the missions that you’d be falling in for their act.

It didn’t take long until you realized you were next to burning buildings and the bodies of innocent students were laid out in front of you. It was a breeze fooling around with the special-grade curse, and it had that cocky grin on its face every time it tried to make a move on you, but with every swift dodge, it only caught itself in its own tangled web.

However, you felt your movements to be fast and sturdy, though it was all hollow. Nothing but emptiness was washing over you as you only kept your arms crossed while dodging every physical attack that the curse tried to unleash on you. Their techniques were weak, as you always thought, and you never could stop yourself from laughing because you knew you sounded like your husband.

A part of you wanted it all to vanish and have this come to an end. And with one glance of the burning buildings around you as you bent down to look at the decaying bodies that were surrounding your presence, you felt a strong surge of power growing within you.

Before you knew it, you decided to flash a smile, and finally make it all come to an end.

-

“Sat—”

“Don’t.”

“Satoru!”

“Don’t fucking get in my way.”

Yaga attempted to get in the way of Satoru, who was stopping him from coming into the building. With an unpleasant look on his face, Yaga grabbed ahold of Satoru, ignoring the fact that Satoru did not use Infinity, and then pushed him against the wall, making eye contact with the white-haired man whose eyes hid beneath the blindfold.

Yaga didn’t admit it, but he knew it.

Satoru’s eyes were pooled with sorrow underneath his blindfold, and maybe, like one of these situations, Satoru was thankful to have worn a blindfold every day for his life. At least no one could see how much suffering he was going through; one moment he felt his heartbeat stop its pace, and another, it continued to beat rapidly, such as when Yaga caught him off guard and now his back was against the wall.

“Is it true?” Satoru gritted his teeth, placing his hands on the grip of Yaga’s. “Fucking tell me if it’s true.”

“Satoru…” Yaga’s voice lowered and he looked away, not wanting to admit the news of his wife’s death right in front of him. He closed his eyes and scrunched up his nose in displeasure.

With that expression, Satoru got his answer. He pursed his lips, unsure if he should cry or let out a frustrated scream, but he did neither. Instead, he tightened his lips in a thin line, holding back a choke, and then asked, “how did… what happened…”

“Satoru,” Yaga sighed, lowering his grasp on the man and then he placed his arm down, finally letting Satoru go from his grip. “You don’t need to—”

“Like hell,” Satoru interrupted angrily. “Tell me what the hell happened.”

“We don’t know,” Yaga cautiously spoke at the mourning man in front of him.

“How the fuck do you not know?! You’re telling me nobody knows how my wife di—”

“The higher ups assigned her a mission for a special grade,” Yaga explained, turning his gaze away from Satoru. Clearly, not even Yaga, himself, wanted to talk about such depressing matters. “Y/N agreed to it immediately. The curse was exorcised, but her life was taken in the process of it.”

“No fucking way,” Satoru quipped, stomping on his foot. “She’s not that stupid. She wouldn’t allow herself to die so easily to a special grade. We went through so much shit together. And you’re telling me her life was taken away from it?”

“Sato—”

“You’re just messing with me, aren’t you?”

“Satoru…”

“God,” Satoru grunted, placing his palms on his warm forehead. There were too many emotions running through his mind; perhaps anger had gotten in a fight with sadness, and now both of these mixed emotions were the process of his thoughts. Nonetheless, he was drowning himself, and he wasn’t sure of where to actually process the news he was receiving in order to get to shore. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, you’re not serious, are you?”

Yaga remained silent, unsure of how to properly help the grieving man.

Without another word, Yaga stepped aside, allowing the entrance for the front door to be wide open. Unsure of what Yaga’s thoughts were processing, Satoru didn’t hesitate to push the doors open aggressively as the man he just walked past just kept his head down, not wanting to pester Satoru any further with his actions.

The audible footsteps was enough to make the atmosphere of the room go shallow. And once the door was open to the infirmary, the sight of your corpse was enough for him to stand there. It was impossible to have you look so beautiful despite your figure to be in a pale hue and your eyes were closed. His legs were frozen and he felt his fingers twitch, and without hesitation, he looked down, not minding the people in the room that had their eyes on him, contemplating on the actions he was going to do.

People knew Satoru as the strongest. That’s what everyone saw him as, the balance for everything, and despite the man that he was, Satoru consistently remained high and mighty but still protected those that weren’t as powerful as him. He really was the strongest.

But with a loud, piercing scream that escaped his lips and echoed throughout the hallways—for Satoru to be the strongest, it seemed that it wasn’t the case anymore.

-

The rumors spread very quickly.

With how powerful you were, and Principal Yaga was there to witness how much potential you portrayed and that you were able to outmatch Satoru in your matches with him when you were both students, it didn’t take long for theories to pop up. And with every speculation wavering in the air, Satoru wasn’t sure if his own students and faculty were trying to destroy him more than he already was or if they were suffering through your death just as much as he was.

Satoru could even hear Yuji’s words, with his face stuffed with his lunch, Yuji barely spoke out, “do you think L/N-sensei did it on purpose…? Maybe she allowed herself to di—”

A smack on his face was audible and it seemed like Nobara scolded him for bringing you up with Satoru’s presence around.

The words were exhausting; Satoru couldn’t bear with the rumors and speculations of your sudden death. It wasn’t easing the sudden sharp pain that his heart would get at the sight of your favorite pastry at the bakery or the lollipops he’d avoid eating due to the fact that they were your favorite flavor. He couldn’t take it anymore, and it was gnawing him deep down underneath his flushed skin.

“Gojo-sensei?”

He heard Yuji’s words, and his students were staring at him, keeping his head down on the table with his fists clenched. Satoru couldn’t be angry with his students. They were just as unhappy about the situation as he was, but there was no lie in the air when Satoru knew that he was grieving the most from your sudden loss.

Satoru didn’t say a word. He got up from the table next to his first-years and then left to go to another room—he wasn’t sure where he was going; anywhere but there, or really, anywhere to get to you, somehow.

He ignored the waves of the other faculty members and Satoru kept his gaze down, wondering if you’d scold him for just leaving the kids behind without a single word or—or—or the sound of your voice; the soothing, so comforting, and gentle voice you had whenever he felt mellow and down on himself. He could practically hear you speak to him with his own ears, suggesting to go out for ice cream or that you were there for him whenever he needed to speak out his own mind.

Satoru’s hands ticked as he turned the knob of the door in front of him and was invited with dust falling onto his face. He fought back a sneeze and then waved the particles away, and he invited himself to your own office. He remembered you called it your little ‘getaway’ from the other faculty members and the students, and the only person that was really allowed to be in this room was Satoru.

Satoru sat down on the chair, not minding the dust, and his eyes gazed upon on the brown wooden frame of your marriage day. His heart felt warm, but it didn’t take long for it to fall into its empty space again, and he clenched his fists, feeling so incomplete and confused.

It had been three months since you died.

Satoru listened to everyone’s rumors; maybe you did decide to let yourself die easily to a curse, but he knew you from the bottom of his heart—or so he thought. You knew you wouldn’t go that route and you’d give it your all; he felt confused, too confused, and with the kick of his feet, he placed his feet on your old desk and then tilted his head down.

“Sorry sweetie,” he muttered quietly. ���I know you didn’t like it when I put my feet on your desk.”

Satoru laid his head back, staring up at the blank ceiling. He wasn’t sure of why you decided to take on a dangerous mission after you had avoided keeping in contact with the school for so long, and he wasn’t aware that you’d go on such a mission without his assistance or at least, you left without any thought into it. He knew you, he could’ve sworn he did, and Satoru remembered the nights that you’d cry in his chest about the nightmares you’d get or that you were tired of the endless battles and you were tired—just tired—you were so fucking tired and mentally drained of the chaos you had to endure as a jujutsu sorcerer.

Part of Satoru couldn’t blame you for what you did. The life you both shared was exhausting, but he continued to remain by your side no matter what happened. With every curse exorcised and that accomplished grin on your face, he fell in love with your capabilities and your strength as well as who you were as a person; at least, he knew you were someone he wasn’t ever going to lose from his heart.

Satoru wanted to scream again, but instead he didn’t.

He trailed his gaze to his feet that were still on your abandoned desk, still lost in confusion for your actions. But he knew that sitting around and wondering about the ‘what ifs’ wasn’t going to do anything for him. Perhaps you did let yourself get taken away so soon—maybe you did decide to choose suicide, or maybe that special-grade was stronger than you thought—than he thought.

Regardless, sitting around and wondering about what actually happened wasn’t going to bring you back. What happened had happened; you died, and it was that. Though, it was hard to grasp, of course it was, Satoru loved you tremendously and losing his other half had struck his heartstrings to the point where they had snapped.

Satoru sighed, not wanting to get stuck in the lost void any longer.

He looked at the emptiness of your desk, all that laid was the framed wedding photo and a black pen that had its cap off.

Satoru smiled, staring at his shoes as he came to realize that he still had his feet on your desk. Quickly, he kicked them off and then looked back at the wedding photo that was on your desk.

“My feet are off your desk now, honey,” Satoru kept a smile on his lips.

He knew you hated it when he kept his feet on your desk.

[hexalt]

CW for discussion of suicide

- She's the crazy ex-girlfriend - What? No, I'm not. - She's the crazy ex-girlfriend - That's a sexist term! - She's the crazy ex-girlfriend - Can you guys stop singing for just a second? - She's so broken insiiiiiide! - The situation's a lot more nuanced than that!

There’s the essay! You get it now. JK.

Crazy Ex-Girlfriend is the culmination of Rachel Bloom’s YouTube channel (and the song “Fuck Me, Ray Bradbury” in particular where she combined her lifelong obsession with musical theatre and sketch comedy and Aline Brosh McKenna stumbling onto Bloom’s channel one night while having an idea for a television show that subverted the tropes in scripts she’d been writing like The Devil Wears Prada and 27 Dresses.

The show begins with a flashback to teenage Rebecca Bunch (played by Bloom) at summer camp performing in South Pacific. She leaves summer camp gushing about the performance, holding hands with the guy she spent all summer with, Josh Chan. He says it was fun for the time, but it’s time to get back to real life. We flash forward to the present in New York, Rebecca’s world muted in greys and blues with clothing as conservative as her hair.

She’s become a top tier lawyer, a career that she doesn’t enjoy but was pushed into by her overprotective, controlling mother. She’s just found out she’s being promoted to junior partner, and that’s just objectively, on paper fantastic, right?! ...So why isn’t she happy? She goes out onto the streets in the midst of a panic attack, spilling her pills all over the ground, and suddenly sees an ad for butter asking, “When was the last time you were truly happy?” A literal arrow and beam of sunlight then point to none other than Josh Chan. She strikes up a conversation with him where he tells her he’s been trying to make it in New York but doesn’t like it, so he’s moving back to his hometown, West Covina, California, where everyone is just...happy.

The word echoes in her mind, and she absorbs it like a pill. She decides to break free of the hold others have had over her life and turns down the promotion of her mother’s dreams. I didn’t realize the show was a musical when I started it, and it’s at this point that Rebecca is breaking out into its first song, “West Covina”. It’s a parody of the extravagant, classic Broadway numbers filled with a children’s marching band whose funding gets cut, locals joining Rebecca in synchronized song and dance, and finishing with her being lifted into the sky while sitting on a giant pretzel. This was the moment I realized there was something special here.

With this introduction, the stage has been set for the premise of the show. Each season was planned with an overall theme. Season one is all about denial, season two is about being obsessed with love and losing yourself in it, season three is about the spiral and hitting rock bottom, and season four is about renewal and starting from scratch. You can see this from how the theme songs change every year, each being the musical thesis for that season.

We start the show with a bunch of cliché characters: the crazy ex-girlfriend; her quirky sidekick; the hot love interest; his bitchy girlfriend; and his sarcastic best friend who’s clearly a much better match for the heroine. The magic of Crazy Ex-Girlfriend is that no one in West Covina is the sum of their tropes. As Rachel says herself, “People aren’t badly written, people are made of specificities.”

The show is revolutionary for the authenticity with which it explores various topics but for the sake of this piece, we’ll discuss mental health, gender, Jewish identity, and sexuality. All topics that Bloom has dug into in her previous works but none better than here.

Simply from the title, many may be put off, but this is a story that has always been about deconstructing stereotypes. Rather than being called The Crazy Ex-Girlfriend, where the story would be from an outsider’s perspective, this story is from that woman’s point of view because the point isn’t to demonize Rebecca, it’s to understand her. Even if you hate her for all the awful things she’s doing.

The musical numbers are shown to be in Rebecca’s imagination, and she tells us they’re how she processes the world, but as she starts healing in the final season, she isn’t the lead singer so often anymore and other characters get to have their own problems and starring roles. When she does have a song, it’s because she’s backsliding into her former patterns.

While a lot of media will have characters that seem to have some sort of vague disorder, Crazy Ex-Girlfriend goes a step further and actually diagnoses Rebecca with Borderline Personality Disorder, while giving her an earnest, soaring anthem. She’s excited and relieved to finally have words for what’s plagued her whole life.

When diagnosing Rebecca, the show’s team consulted with doctors and psychiatrists to give her a proper diagnosis that ended up resonating with many who share it. BPD is a demonized and misunderstood disorder, and I’ve heard that for many, Crazy Ex-Girlfriend is the first honest and kind depiction they’ve seen of it in media. Where the taboo of mental illness often leads people to not get any help, Crazy Ex-Girlfriend says there is freedom and healing in identifying and sharing these parts of yourself with others.

Media often uses suicide for comedy or romanticizes it, but Crazy Ex-Girlfriend explored what’s going through someone’s mind to reach that bottomless pit. Its climactic episode is written by Jack Dolgen (Bloom’s long-time musical collaborator, co-songwriter and writer for the show) who’s dealt with suicidal ideation. Many misunderstood suicide as the person simply wanting to die for no reason, but Rebecca tells her best friend, “I didn’t even want to die. I just wanted the pain to stop. It’s like I was out of stories to tell myself that things would be okay.”

Bloom has never shied away from heavy topics. The show discusses in song the horrors of what women do to their bodies and self-esteem to conform to beauty standards, the contradiction of girl power songs that tell you to “Put Yourself First” but make sure you look good for men while doing it, and the importance of women bonding over how terrible straight men are are near and dear to her heart. This is a show that centers marginalized women, pokes fun at the misogyny they go through, and ultimately tells us the love story we thought was going to happen wasn’t between a woman and some guy but between her and her best friend.

I probably haven’t watched enough Jewish TV or film, but to me, Crazy Ex-Girlfriend is the most unapologetic and relatable Jewish portrayal I’ve seen overall. From Rebecca’s relationship with her toxic, controlling mother (if anyone ever wants to know what my mother’s like, I send them “Where’s the Bathroom”) to Patti Lupone’s Rabbi Shari answering a Rebecca that doesn’t believe in God, “Always questioning! That is the true spirit of the Jewish people,” the Jewish voices behind the show are clear.

Crazy Ex-Girlfriend continues to challenge our perceptions when a middle-aged man with an ex-wife and daughter realizes he’s bisexual and comes out in a Huey Lewis saxophone reverie. The hyper-feminine mean girl breaks up with her boyfriend and realizes the reason she was so obsessed with getting him to commit to her is the same reason she’s so scared to have female friends. She was suffering under the weight of compulsory heterosexuality, but thanks to Rebecca, she eventually finds love and friendship with women.

This thread is woven throughout the show. Many of the characters tell Rebecca when she’s at her lowest of how their lives would’ve never changed for the better if it wasn’t for her. She was a tornado that blew through West Covina, but instead of leaving destruction in her wake, she blew apart their façades, forcing true introspection into what made them happy too.

Rebecca’s story is that of a woman who felt hopeless, who felt no love or happiness in her life, when that’s all she’s ever wanted. She tried desperately to fill that void through validation from her parents and random men, things romantic comedies had taught her matter most but came up empty. She tried on a multitude of identities through the musical numbers in her mind, seeing herself as the hero and villain of the story, and eventually realized she’s neither because life doesn’t make narrative sense.

It takes her a long time but eventually she sees that all the things she thought would solve her problems can’t actually bring her happiness. What does is the real family she finds in West Covina, the town she moved to on a whim, and finally having agency over herself to use her own voice and tell her story through music.

The first words spoken by Rebecca are, “When I sang my solo, I felt, like, a really palpable connection with the audience.” Her last words are, “This is a song I wrote.” This connection with the audience that brought her such joy is something she finally gets when she gets to perform her story not to us, the TV audience, but to her loved ones in West Covina. Rebecca (and Rachel) always felt like an outcast, West Covina (and creating the show) showed her how cathartic it is to find others who understand you.

Crazy Ex-Girlfriend is the prologue to Rebecca’s life and the radical story of someone getting better. She didn’t need to change her entire being to find acceptance and happiness, she needed to embrace herself and accept love and help from others who truly cared for her. Community is what she always needed and community is what ultimately saved her.

*

P.S. If you have Spotify... I also process life through music, so I made some playlists related to the show because what better way to express my deep affection for it than through song?

CXG parodies, references, and is inspired by a lot of music from all kinds of genres, musicals, and musicians. Same goes for the videos themselves. I gathered all of them into one giant playlist along with the show’s songs.

A Rebecca Bunch mix that goes through her character arc from season 1 to 4.

I’m shamelessly a fan of Greg x Rebecca, so this is a mega mix of themselves and their relationship throughout the show.

*

I’m in a TV group where we wrote essays on our favorite shows of the 2010s, so here is mine on Crazy Ex-Girlfriend, I realized I forgot to ever post it. Also wrote one for Schitt’s Creek.

[sapphicscholar]

Pride Month Prompts Day 22: Wedding (Grace/Frankie)

From this Pride Month Prompts post! I’m taking the opportunity to write some short fics for a variety of pairings that I haven’t written for as much. I’ll be sure to tag them all with #pride month prompts so you can find them later if you’d like!

Day 22: Wedding - on AO3 as Casual Simplicity

Pairing: Grace/Frankie

A/N: I apologize if this has already been done and I haven’t gotten to read that particular fic yet!

“Marry me.”

They’re words Grace never expected to hear again, not after 40 years of a loveless marriage came crumbling down around her, the husband she’d tolerated for so long apparently deciding that the years she gave him weren’t enough to make up for that “more” he’d gone chasing in another man’s arms, sneaking away on long “business trips” and leaving her alone with the children she’d come to love but had never wanted for her own sake. But the words are real. Nick is real, sitting there, right in front of her, looking perfectly handsome in a tailored suit from a designer that Grace has heard of and approves of. But the words—they have to be a joke, and she says as much.

Only Nick doesn’t leave. He stays there, telling her he doesn’t care if it’s crazy; he wants to marry her anyway. There’s an answer for every question, even that why that Grace has tried to avoid thinking too hard about when it comes to most of her romantic decisions. But Nick smiles up at her, more guileless than he’ll ever be during the business day, and tells her it’s simple, says, “I love you,” says, “I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

And there’s something so damn attractive about simple.

Robert had seemed simple. He was a lawyer from a wealthy family with a charming smile and an easy laugh. He was a perfect gentleman on their dates, never pushing her to do things she didn’t want to do—later, she’ll wonder if all those years of polite manners were just repression dressed up in bourgeois niceties. When he asked her to marry him, neither of them asked why, neither of them wondered if it would be enough, if it would be the kind of love that sent them reeling. They fit. Socially, politically, financially, hell, even aesthetically—Robert’s taller, slightly stockier frame the perfect accessory to finish off Grace’s ensembles, right along with all shimmering, pre-packed gift jewelry that accentuated prominent collar bones and thin wrists and long, perfectly manicured fingers.

Simple makes sense. Simple is Byron telling Grace she’s “smokin’ hot” and sweeping her off her feet—quite literally—his desire plain for the world to see. Simple is the way her body had reacted to that show of need, of someone wanting her so clearly, so straightforwardly, at least until her mind caught up with her.

Everything with Nick would be simple. Problems would be purchased and turned into solutions or made to disappear. Love would be something declared in clear prose. Meals would appear and could be ignored in turn, the dishes vanishing and leftovers sliding down a garbage disposal that would never be clogged with paint or dirt or the DVR remote that had gone missing weeks ago. Sex would happen on a semi-regular basis and would continue to be semi-good, and Vybrant, promising older women that they could enjoy genuinely fulfilling sexual pleasure, would continue to flourish, and never would she let herself hold those two things up side-by-side for a comparison that might show her things she didn’t want to see.

Grace leans over and kisses Nick, hoping it’s answer enough when she can’t make her mouth form the sounds needed to agree to this next simple step. He cups her jaw and kisses her, smiling into it, and it isn’t Byron’s rough hands, but it’s real. It isn’t some video broadcast to the whole Internet talking about kisses that never happened—kisses offered in jest and discussed in public and penciled into Grace’s otherwise pristine planner in all capital letters, but never a real option.

As Grace walks down the beach, tucked into Nick’s side, she finally manages a, “Yes.” And that settles it. Because Nick doesn’t offer things he doesn’t mean. He doesn’t proposition someone for years only to laugh—loudly, too loudly—and insist it had been a great big tease all along when they finally start to say yes.

Only, it turns out that for all his simplicity, Nick wants some of that simplicity in return. He wants someone who will want him back. Can deal with a third player in the game, but not when it becomes clear that player 3 will always be priority 1.

They’re in the back of Nick’s car, flying down the highway on their way to be married, but all Grace can think about, can talk about, is Frankie. About what Frankie said. About everything Frankie has done. About all the ways Frankie has been telling her, again and again, even after her walking disease of a boyfriend took his yurt and fucked off, that what they have isn’t enough—and why shouldn’t it be enough? Why can’t it be enough? Why is Grace—again, always—being told that what she valued as enough someone else saw as lacking, never the “more” that would somehow make it worthwhile?

Nick shrugs his shoulders, as laissez-faire in his attitude towards Frankie’s behavior as he wants the government to be about his business. “Maybe Kooky wants something that you already have without her.”

“And what the hell would that be?” Grace snaps, yanking her hand free of Nick’s, too annoyed to want his easy comfort right now.

Nick turns to face her head on then, and Grace can see something like resignation in his expression, wonders how she’s fucked another thing up today, all before the sun has even set. “I meant me. A relationship.”

“Oh.”

Before Grace can get out one of those light, breezy laughs and paper over the fact that she’s forgotten the very thing she’s on her way to concretize in binding, legal documents, Nick takes her hand in his once more. “Maybe I should have listened when you told me this was crazy.”

“Nick.”

“I love you, Grace. I love you, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you. But not when you’ll always be there wondering about someone else.”

“It’s not the same,” Grace insists, her voice cracking as Nick’s words edge close—too close—to the questions that she’s been trying to quiet with pills and drown in vodka.

“No, it’s not the same. But I think I’m on the losing side here.”

---

Hovering on that thin line between still drunk and already hungover that would normally have Grace reaching for either a new drink or an Ambien and a few Advil, Grace pulls her sweater tighter around herself to ward off the chill as she wanders down the beach. The sea lions are quiet now, the breeze barely a whisper in the air. If only Bud and Allison had scheduled their wedding for 4am, then no one would have known that Grace couldn’t make heads or tails of Frankie’s pictionary Post Its.

The lights are almost all out at the beach house now, though the outside decorations are still up, long strings of fairy lights twinkling in the night sky. Grace knows she could walk back in, go up to her room, and sleep in a bed, but after hours of drunken contemplation alone, she isn’t quite sure she deserves it. Yes, Frankie had left stupid notes that made no fucking sense, but Grace could have asked, could have dealt with Joan Margaret and gotten on Frankie’s calendar, or pulled a Frankie and scrawled her name across the entire day (and she thinks Frankie may well have honored such a request). Instead, she’d assumed that Frankie was being, well, Kooky—and the caricature of Kooky that Nick thought he knew, not the slightly kooky but also brilliant, caring, warm woman Grace had come to know over the years.

Of course, there’s still anger there, too. Anger at Frankie for thinking that her life only meant something if she drank disgusting cacao and slept in a yurt on a beachfront in La Jolla and stole the Whole Foods groceries Grace was still buying for her and acted like somehow it was all enlightened because some man who smelled like feet and patchouli told her it was. Anger at Frankie for getting stoned and tweeting out promises that would bankrupt the company they’d worked so hard to build together—their refuge in a world that told them they didn’t matter. Anger at Frankie for posting some poorly edited video that made it sound like they were some old lesbian couple selling vibrators and sneaking into one another’s rooms late at night to kiss and test out their merchandise. Anger at Frankie for making her think about those things, making her wonder about those possibilities.

Then Frankie’s own anger and hurt comes rushing back at her. The betrayal in her voice when she’d seen the store-bought cake—the last straw that seemed to scream into that big empty kitchen: “I don’t trust you to do anything, not even when it comes to your children.” But Grace’s mind keeps returning, again and again, to the big fuck you moment—at least the one Frankie named as such. “You ran away with your boyfriend.” Grace absolutely loathes the hope she can feel bubbling up in her chest at the thought that maybe Frankie does see value in what they are together, that maybe Nick hurt Frankie—not because he was a capitalist or a fiscal conservative, but because he was there, with Grace, the new second name to her “Grace and”—as much as the yurt hobo and the version of Jacob who’d decided Santa Fe was a good idea had hurt Grace.

Eventually Grace settles herself in on a pile of rocks, tries to ignore the aches and pains that have become so much sharper as all the alcohol from earlier fades into the cold sobriety of almost-morning. Closing her eyes, Grace lets her mind drift, thinks about all that might have been had she run off with Nick and gone through with the marriage. Would she be here now? She doubts it. A wife would have been at home in bed with her husband, not sitting on the beach desperately needing to make things right with the woman who’d been her home for the past five years.

---

It’s a little after sunrise when Grace sees what she thinks is another figure down the beach. Her eyesight isn’t as bad as Frankie’s, but it certainly isn’t what it once was. Deciding it’s worth the potential humiliation of yelling at a stranger or an inanimate object, Grace stands and starts moving toward the blurry shape, yelling, “Frankie!”

But then the blurry shape is standing and yelling, “Grace!” right back at her.

And she doesn’t care that her knee is screaming, doesn’t care that Grace Hanson most definitely does not run, because her heart is pushing her as fast and as far as she can go—even if it isn’t very far or very fast.

“I’ll come to you!” And Frankie, who eats carbs and whipped cream and gummy bears for breakfast, is running like some sort of elite athlete in the 65+ category, while Grace waits, half hobbling, desperately hoping her knee won’t give out on her now.

Then Frankie is in front of her, and all the anger slips away in the face of the person she might have lost, maybe forever, and everything Grace has been thinking comes pouring out of her. Apologies for the terrible things she’s said. Admissions that she’s become a better person, someone that most days she can stand to look at in the mirror, with Frankie at her side. And somehow it all builds to Grace, standing on the beach, waves crashing beside them and the surf inching closer and closer to their feet, holding Frankie close, calling her a best friend, a partner, telling her that she needs her. And there’s nothing simple about that need. There are no straightforward lines where Frankie can do x or be y to fulfill z. It’s a need mingled with pangs of annoyance and frustration and anger but wrapped up in what Grace is finally realizing is love, and somehow that outweighs everything else, makes it simple even when it’s not. “I need you,” Grace repeats, blinking back tears that make Frankie look blurry, even now when she’s only inches away.

“Oh, I need you too.” Frankie falls into her arms with the words, holds her tight, the last vestiges of their fight falling away the longer they stay like that. “So, let’s go home.”

A sentimental part of Grace that rarely rears its head, and even more rarely gets anything out, wants to say that she’s already there. Instead she blurts out, “Nick asked me to marry him.” In an instant, all the happiness and love in Frankie’s expression is clouded over with hurt. “I—we’re not.”

“Not getting married?”

“Not getting married. Not together.” A deep breath. “He felt like he was always competing with you. Competing and losing.” Frankie’s usual taunts about beating Nick in any way are absent. She looks cautious, and Grace wonders if the same fragile hope is demanding shelter from her too. “Maybe he’s right.”

The quiet maybe isn’t enough to bring Frankie back to that joyous openness—not after she’s put back up those walls so few people realize she has in the face of all the pain Grace’s declaration had been poised to deliver.

This will never be simple, and Frankie will never be Robert, assuming Grace will say yes because it follows logically. She will never be Nick, convinced so deeply of her own charms that she’ll put her heart on the line in matters of love without a moment’s hesitation. Despite the “fuck it” lifestyle, she will never be Byron, desire plainly written in every move.

But, Grace realizes with a jolt, she can be that for Frankie, can let her see everything she’s offering—no jokes or questions about it.

Grace steps forward, closes the distance that had pulled them apart again. Her hands find Frankie’s arms first, one coming up to hold her jaw, thumb sweeping across her cheekbone. “I’m not going anywhere this time. I promise.” A kiss to the forehead, like Frankie had asked for all those years ago, only to have Grace deny her in a moment of panic about why—dear god, why—the thought of pressing her lips to any part of Frankie had sent her heart pounding. Then Frankie’s cheeks, one after the other. Grace pauses, waiting, centimeters away from Frankie’s mouth. “I promise,” she whispers again, the words ghosting across Frankie’s lips. Her eyes flutter shut as she leans forward, her mouth finding Frankie’s. Just one kiss. One sealed promise. One hint of what might be waiting for them.

When she pulls back, she finds Frankie blinking at her. Everything is still and silent for a long moment.

Frankie’s hand reaches out, tangling around her own. “Let’s go home.”

[badmousestuff-blog]

The problem with Free Speech (Script)

One day I was helping out with the Free Palestine stall on Church Street. About an hour in a young dude came up to me, and gave us the usual conservative drivel.

He told me that he couldn’t support the left, because to him we were against free speech. Right below me were flyers detailing the extent of Israeli war crimes against Palestinians, and how little the world still hears about their plight. He stated that he wasn’t interested in our campaign, and bid me farewell. For, of course we must have our standards.

(Rowan Atkinson speech)

There’s never been a more unshakeable dogma in my lifetime than that of Freedom of Speech.

The real test of a country’s standards is if it allows people to criticise one another, especially the regime. The foundation of Liberty and Freedom and Friberty, is the story of free expression, after all, if you want to know who has the power, just look at which group you’re not allowed to criticise. Right?

Well no, I’m here to say that Free Speech isn’t just some base, flatline, monolith from which all societies are to be judged like an angelical truth, its a political concept, thought up by human beings, subject to critique, and frankly is in great need of one.

Let’s start with something simple.

Your concept that Free Speech is good, is only possible if your opponent also agrees with you, i.e. they’re not going to kill you if you disagree.

So therefore if your opponent doesn’t ?? and will use aggression against you, then you can’t really argue for free speech can you?

The conditions around you need to be such that nobody is going to die.

Right, whats next, oh I gotta do the Hitler bit, right…

Y’know the story, Weiner Republic, Full suffrage, large democracy, massive instability and debt caused from the prior war, enter the Nazis, and the German Communist party. Yes everyone seems to forget that the Commies were there too, headed by Ernst Thalmann, and at their peak gained 16% of the vote in 1932. Whilst Ernst was forward in his Anti-Fascism, the Social Democrats, and their newspapers, didn’t seem to understand the concept of a united front, they refused to confront the Fascists in an effective manner and simultaneously denounced the KDP as being a bunch of Muscovites, sporting the famous Iron Front symbol, The third arrow originally meant Anti-Communism, mind.

The SPD’s failure to effectively confront Fascism aided Hitler’s rise to power, sent the KDP underground, and Ernst to 11 years in the hole, followed by a firing squad.

So don’t tell me free-speech exists in vacuum, it doesn’t. In this video we’ll ask the necessary further questions.

Who dictates the media, who controls which advertisements we see, which views are more profitable? Does the removal of speech in given scenarios serve a common good? And if the enlightenment was correct why did Liberalism fail in its mission?

(Rowan Atkinson)

This clip was one of the first main intro points for me as well as many others into the realm of Super Free Speech, and it’s strange looking back just how dated it is. It’s not like we didn’t have the arguments back then, but moreso that nobody really cared, we were all swept up in the dogma, to challenge free speech would be on the same level as strangling a baby.

Anybody can go around today and talk about the joy of free speech, but it means nothing to a person who has no power with that speech, Freedom to Beg? That's not a freedom; that’s institutionalised sadism.

I’m not a believer in Maslow’s hierarchy but hypothetically, this really wouldn’t go number 2, it’d be right down at number… 27. Why do I say this? Well in the words of some philosophy guy people say I look like, “No rights matter if you’re dead”.

Food, Water, Healthcare, and Housing. These are all things you need in order to survive, in other words fulfil the other things that we consider ‘rights’ - rights that are worth struggling for. And despite the fact that the millions end up dying from the lack of these rights, even when they’re universally agreed upon, ever notice how this struggle goes very very quiet… Suspiciously quiet.

Sargon on the Socialists

I wonder…??? I wonder why the left seems to be largely committed to these causes, it’s something you find scantly addressed in the middle and right spheres with the exception of private individual charity (OSCAR WILDE), and Carl may find himself wondering why it is that these ideologies can barely create a solid solidarity towards these topics.

You might be a Liberal and say “Yeah yeah, I support that too though” but fact remains there’s no confidence here.

I see no outpouring of condemnation coming from you when Politicians like Bolsonaro press forward their restrictive measures, unlike what you have to say about this powerless Redhead. Why is that?

Count Dankula, who interestingly I had a couple scuffles with a while back without realising it, last year taught his dog to do a Hitler Salute, and he got fined £800. Now that’s probably one of the most petty excuses for a sentencing I’ll admit, but again this isn’t about whether it was justified, it’s about people’s standards.

Dankula received enormous support from, well, everyone, and he’s now more famous than he ever previously was, enough to be at the forefront of the free-speech festival later that year, and even use his fame to help push the emergence of UKIP. This is attention that people would pay top dollar for, way more than £800. He should be proud that he got a court hearing.

Frankly, me and my colleagues didn’t really care about this whole thing too much, just ask my IWW friend who I was with when this all went down. What happened around the same time that did catch some of our attention though was the plight of the J20 protesters who got arrested back during Trump’s inauguration.

Some of these people are on the butchers list to serve 60 year sentences for standing against a president who’s, a real dick, like I get the whole Liberal opposition is fucking corny but still he’s a dick, they’ve all been dicks, he’s just continuing what every dick who ever stood on centre stage ever started, this is America, you think Bernie’s going to save you? You think reforming the democrats can change the number one imperialist power?

Apologies. If you’re at all concerned that I didn’t give a toss about Dankula’s pug joke, if you’ve ever had friends like him this stuff isn’t too surprising, I know these are highly political times but a guy who votes UKIP is really not our number one concern right now.

I didn’t give a toss, but I know somebody who did, Mike Stuchbury, who you’ll remember from his childish twitter ramblings and dealings with Watson. Who proclaimed that the left needs to stand with Free Speech, A free-speech that is largely in the teat of Right-leaning discourse.

Sargon who was there with him, earlier that year got de-platformed by lefty-liberals in his debate with Muke.

The dogma is enforcing itself here, the left is all supposed to throw up our hands in swich liquor, of which vertu engendered is the flour, and decide Whether we should allow freedom of speech to our enemies, or not allow it, when the actual thing we should be doing, is taking hold of the narrative and putting forward our own ideas as the new talking point of discussion, instead of fucking Nazi Pug.

“Hey, you, what gives you the right to determine the narrative?”

Thats a good question, the hegemonic propaganda of our status quo is already setting the narrative, Noam Chomsky “I’m bored bye”

How can I make this more interesting… Ah ha…

IT’S TIME FOR FILM THEORY!!1 WOOOO

-

The Pursuit of Happiness.

In 2006 Will Smith told the story of Chris Gardner, a black man who struggled through poverty, separation, and fatherhood whilst living in San Francisco.

He gets an internship with a sales company and despite having to put up with a lot, by the end of the film he passes and at this point, we’re supposed to feel happy and redeemed, but to those who’ve watched it (surely I’m not alone) was it really a happy ending?

I’ll say that I walked out of the viewing feeling very uncomfortable and sour, but why is that?

Well for starters, that Internship he got was a 6 month unpaid one, in the most expensive US city might have something to do with it.

Then he’s got to deal with his wife leaving him, then he’s got to take care of his son, then he loses his source of income, then he’s got to deal with eviction, sleeping rough, not sleeping at all, by the end of the movie sure he gets his redemption but the message of ‘when life gives you lemons, just keep getting pummelled with those lemons and don’t ask why’ ultimately seems hollow.

Contrast that a more traditionally Anti-establishment film which was made by a literal Communist, where the exploiters are treated as they should be and thats what comes across on screen, with surprise horse-dick, and while Happiness doesn’t treat them like saints, they sure don’t come across as devils either.

6 months of free labour he and 19 other people who did not make the cut that they are effectively giving away for free.

What about those other 19 people, who ever tells their story?

The way his superiors always act like total dicks pushing him around and getting him to be their lobby boy, they lost nothing. And now he’s going to work for them.

Is the message here supposed to be “Well if this guy can survive the moon falling on him, what the hell are you complaining about?” Actually yeah, I think that consciously or not, this is what’s being said… Don’t worry we’re getting to the point of all this.

The extent of exploitation is naked, yet in the way the movie is presented I’m inclined to agree to this, and take it into my home, and sleep with it.

Now name me as many pieces of media that regurgitate this same old theme of rags to riches through adversity, to look at the man on centre stage, yet pay no attention to the millions locked in a cage.

Sure, say it how you will, Art is merely what you make of it and there’s not necessarily any devious agenda being pursued at any time. That’s one perspective I guess, another might be that there’s no such thing as Art for Arts sake, it all gears itself to differing political lines.

In a society based on private, individual enterprise, it's no surprise that Art would also foster themes that would support society as the normal and natural, even if they appear on the surface as radical.

Case in point, well the entire Hollywood Catalog.

On the Waterfront is literally Mccarthyism on celluloid, The People vs Larry Flynt guises pornification and billionairedom with a story of libel and freedom of speech.

And ironically enough probably the worst offender is, well I’m gonna lose some of you now, Billy Elliot, the Movie.

In which 2/3rds of the way through Billy’s dad strike breaks as a way to pay for his son to go to a prestigious arts school, y’know rather than maybe having him stay and use his skills to improve, embolden and enliven the downtrodden community, rather than leaving it to die.

Jackie’s very sympathetic in his devotion towards his son, except Striking is caring for your family, you’re fighting for a better future, together, as one, and it’s thrown away in favour of a much more individualistic get out of your circumstances, go and live your dream.

Now I’ve read Lee Hall, I know he didn’t intend for this to come through, but he is also no more aloof than any of us, we’re all susceptible to this ‘Common Culture’.

Just see the way our ‘Common Culture’ infiltrates into how Communism is talked about, in 2015’s Trumbo. The Hollywood screenwriter who was blacklisted for 2 decades for being a member of Communist Party.

Could make for some groundbreaking stuff right?...

Well no, instead we’re left with a film that focuses entirely on freedom of expression, which is ironic because if they represented him truthfully it would’ve resulted in a much more nuanced movie.

All we get is a 2 minute scene talking about Communist ethics and god its done in the most sanitised, unradical, storybook tale way possible, that doesn’t in any possible regard represent who the actual Dalton Trumbo was.

“If a book or play or film is produced which is harmful to the best interests of the working class, that work and its author should and must be attacked in the sharpest possible terms.”

I think I have a case that profit incentives are steering the way in which media is presented…

We have no problem pointing out the subtle propaganda messages in Soviet children’s cartoons (Cheburashka) but reverse that onto our society, prepare for some awkward stares.

You may argue that none of what I’ve just spoken about here has anything to do with censorship of free expression but this is the problem, our notions of censorship are stuck firmly behind the Berlin wall, and thats far too simplistic not to mention outdated.

Undoubtably Coca-cola has a far greater reach of expression than I ever will be able to ascertain, what says who can speak on a public forum, decide the content of a documentary, of a publication, of a movie, or a political campaign?

If a book is blacklisted by all publishers for political reasons, what difference does it make having 1 publishing house or 100?

If 90% of the movie market alone is controlled by just 7 companies, what kind of advice is “Just start your own business”.

If we want to talk about the free flow of expression and information, what little are these flyers (Free Palestine) when Zionism has a whole nation, and 2 continents supporting it?

This is the kind of expression we’re dealing with today, not the voices of individuals, but of multinationals. The fact that we had in any way an outpouring of sympathies towards one of these companies, Sony, for having their movie The Interview possibly censored by DPRK agents is a testament to how lost in the plot we have become.

And if by chance the media cannot direct the status quo by monopoly, it brings out its tried and tested method.

Commodify it.

I present to you Guerrillero Heroico, this photograph was allowed such free spread not simply because its bloody badass, but because there was no IP designated upon it, by Korda’s intention as a Communist himself he agreed with the free-flow of art. And what did this result in at the behest of Capitalist Corporations? The pastiche of revolution, to be bought and sold many times over.

Take any form of media, word, an expression, it will be hoisted away, slapped on a shirt, and sold back to you at a handsome price. You cannot escape this.

The moment that this (my tattoo) becomes the new Che it loses all its power, resistance is reduced to at worst LARPing, at best Nerd Fandom, and the winners are the profiteers.

If profit is the aim of the game, the speech that is supported will inevitably favour that which nurtures the economy, not destroys it, unless in farce. Speech ain’t a level base of which a country is determined by, its an apparatus held by those that dictate the game.

This is why there is a necessity for us to control the narrative, control the message, because if we don’t, they’re still going to.

-

Obligations:

When armies with unequal numbers go into battle, a draw is a defeat for the lesser side.

Make believe it or not Radical Centrist politics have their political leanings as well, even if just by effect.

Look I like free speech, I love it, I’m a goddamn youtuber, but I’m not stupid, I know what’s coming, I know that groups would try and silence me if they could. That’s politics.

You might go “All we’re talking about is the legal sphere”. Firstly the legal is the political, pure ideology to say otherwise, but second it’s difficult for you to call yourself a fighter for free speech when as I’ve explained there’s sooo much more to it than simply the judicial.

Many proponents will even side-step the judicial boundaries anyway when monopoly becomes involved, and if I have to explain how Monopoly is not an externality of our system but an inherent part of accumulation then… sigh.

Strange how we’re usually all skeptical of an Economic Free Market but the Free marketplace of ideas unlocks your inner Libertarian.

Its when I see stuff like this that I begin wondering if this is all just a trend that will eventually die off when people realise the complexities of their circumstances. I remember just a few years ago how many Libertarians were speaking the merits of free speech until they discovered that methodological individualism wasn’t actually achieving their goals. I count down the days when Lauren Southern finally calls for limits on speech just like her limits on borders. After all freedom is not free it must be defended right?

And btw folks usually aren’t as brave to actively advocate limits so they’ll always present justifications, such as that these views are mental disorders, or they’ll destroy civilisation, or these people are Degenerates.

This is a historic moment in political discourse, at this point ultimately we’re interested in picking sides, and you’ll do this just as much as anyone will.

On the left we like to talk a lot about Left Unity. I’m not necessarily against the idea, but a lot of the time people make a religion out of it, glossing over the fact that many aspects of various factions (???) contradict. It might not be immediately obvious, but when push comes to shove these conflicts become very apparent. There are some principles in which each side certainly doesn’t see eye to eye.

“Politics is pervasive, everything is political and the choice to remain apolitical is usually just an endorsement of the status quo”

If it wasn’t obvious, I’m a Communist, yeah yeah say what you want, I believe in the liberation of those who do all the work through armed struggle based upon material conditions. I’m going to therefore be in favour of real mass culture, the stuff that gets people focused on achieving liberating aims instead of just appealing to markets. Its for this reason that I’m not interested in defending the views of right-wing nationalists, fascists, reactionaries… my enemies in other words, the ideas largely speaking which regress the people and they’re not interested in defending me either, wouldn’t expect them to.

If all you’re talking about is the centre, you’re gonna get flanked, sorry.

You might bump in when I denounce Dankula stating “His punishment showcases the system is at fault” and I would agree. This system is at fault, its been at fault since before our constitution was written, and it’ll never stop being at fault until you solve the contradictions.

Liberalism did fail, its ideals never came to fruition and that’s the reason why Socialists bring forth the praxis to achieve it, sometimes that’ll involve using words, sometimes it’ll involve lots and lots of guns, but let me tell you, you can’t always fight a war by playing nice, sometimes you have to use a diversity of tactics to achieve it.

Maybe we need 11 of them? (Shows book)

But thats more of a material answer and I know that most you don’t give a crap about some dead Chinese guy., but getting back to the original idea about responsibilities behind our speech, well, here’s something to think about.

So… here goes nothing.

If you’re a straight white male aged 11-16 in the UK and weren’t brought up to fit into the standard male dynamic, chances are you got picked on, sometimes a lot, sometimes that’s every day, not necessarily violence but words from numerous mouths are highly unnerving.

I did not have a particularly fun time adolescence. Every day was horrible, I never had a feeling going in that this would be exciting or, this would be a day where things would be different, everyday was a total black smudge with no end in sight.

Unlike other people, I never got to have a group that I fit into, so I had no escape, nothing to take my mind off things.

Looking back I don’t know why I bothered going in, I wasn’t getting amazing grades anyway.

When I went to Drama school and other clubs on the weekends and after school, I would also get picked on, but it wasn’t in spite, it was just general, friendly teasing. But there wasn’t a difference in my mind, because when you’ve had to deal with so much constant abuse, and paranoia, and humiliation 30 hours a week, it fucks you up.

So when Id say to the weekend buds “I dont like this” theyd go “Oh come on man its just a bit of fun, its okay, dont worry about it, its just a joke, its all okay”

Back then I didn’t have the nerve, I just put up with it, but if I could go back, Id say. No, actually its not Okay, because you don’t know for the life of me how much I have had to deal with this shit, to me that doesn’t come across like you’re being funny, like your laughing with me, it comes across like you’re a psychopath who wants to get pleasure out of my misfortune.

Of course the response to this would be obvious “Well what am I supposed to do? Just talk to you like a robot. You should just get over it, leave it in the past. Your making it harder for everyone” or some other faux-victimised response.

And sometimes y’know they might be right, maybe I should’ve not made worse a bad situation, but fact remains I still bleed.

To you, this is just having fun and games, to you and your other friends its normal, but to me its a threat.

Now today you can call me what you want I don’t care, I’m out of that place now and I’m all the better for it,

But even though some 7 or 8 years since then I’ve been able to recover, I still carry a hangover of it all, and it affected my decisions later on in life sometimes to a dire extent,

Its had the effect of making me feel both distrustful of people, and also like Im a burden to be around other people,

I never feel I should hang around for too long, I never want to take chances in friendship for fear I’ll embarrass myself, I say one thing out of tempo and suddenly flashbacks and an enormous shadow of mordor conjures over me. And I think most of all its been very difficult for me to express my emotions because I used to do it a hell of a lot.

Those 5 years were the single handed worst years of my life. And if you were at any point responsible for adding to that devastation and humiliation, then a large part of me wants to lash your goddamn skull inside out.

Because as trivial and generic as my story may be, that part of my life has been stolen from me, and those 5 years I will never get back.

So what’s the point of all this?

“Ossidents are sometimes surprised that, instead of buying a dress for their wife, the colonized buy a transistor radio. They shouldn't be, the colonized are convinced their fate is in the balance. They live in a doomsday atmosphere and nothing must elude them”

I want you to place the relatively minor experiences I received as a child, and translate those into other groups, victims of domestic abuse, victims of colonialism, racism, sexism, queer phobia. Like I said I’m out of that place now, but others aren’t, for many people they still live day to day in this ever pressing struggle, trying to just tell people “Please, just don’t do this”.

It’s not okay. But maybe together you’ll help me out with solving these problems?

My conclusion to this is simple,

Free Speech is not just something you can fling around to score political points, it doesn’t materialise simply because we all decide it should. If we want free-speech we need to break a few eggs to make an omelette.

We need to be sure that the conditions in society don’t proliferate toxic ideas that might even lead to the downfall of said society.

This very Tattoo that 90 years ago would’ve been Anti-Communist as hell has become a Pan-Left symbol against Fascism. Its living proof that with the correct methods the conditions of words, symbols, ideas can be resolved.

When class struggle subsides, when our social divides have been solved, when the conflict doesn’t oppose the existence of certain folks, then maybe, we can well and truly say that we can have free speech, and we’ll stand at a comedy show and yell “Yes, lets talk about those BEEP BEEEEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP” and be met with cheering applause from all sides. But until then, Don’t be a dick.

[theconservativebrief]

Saudi Arabia and Canada are fighting a nasty war of words on Twitter that has now escalated into a full-on diplomatic crisis.

In the past two days, Saudi Arabia has declared the Canadian ambassador “persona non grata” and given him 24 hours to leave the country. The Saudis have also called their ambassador back from Canada, suspended “all new businesses transactions and investments linked with Canada,” and cancelled direct flights to Toronto by Saudi’s state airline.

On the surface, the fight is about the recent arrest of several prominent human rights activists in Saudi Arabia, including some with ties to Canada.

But at its core, the fight is about the brave — and terrifying — new world being ushered in by the kingdom’s young new crown prince, Mohammed bin Salman.

It offers a disturbing glimpse into how MBS, as he is commonly known, is perpetuating the country’s horrific human rights record — and disproves the glowing headlines in the West proclaiming him to be the Middle East’s newest liberal savior.

The whole fight started early last week, when Amnesty International learned that several prominent female Saudi human rights activists, including Samar Badawi and Nassima al-Sada, had been detained by Saudi authorities.

“They have both been repeatedly targeted, harassed, and placed under travel bans for their human rights activism,” Amnesty said in a statement Wednesday. “It appears that Samar Badawi and Nassima al-Sada are once again being persecuted for their previous human rights work, and, if so, they should be immediately and unconditionally released,” the statement added.

Badawi, an internationally acclaimed activist in her own right, is the sister of Raif Badawi, a Saudi dissident blogger who has been imprisoned by the Saudi government since 2012 on charges of apostasy and “insulting Islam through electronic channels.” He’s also been subjected to brutal public flogging.

Raif Badawi’s wife, Ensaf Haidar, and their three children have been living in Quebec, Canada, since 2015, where they fled to escape further persecution. On Canada Day (July 1) 2018, Haidar and the children became Canadian citizens.

On Thursday, Canada’s foreign minister, Chrystia Freeland, tweeted that she was “Very alarmed to learn that Samar Badawi, Raif Badawi’s sister, has been imprisoned in Saudi Arabia,” adding that “Canada stands together with the Badawi family in this difficult time, and we continue to strongly call for the release of both Raif and Samar Badawi.”

The next day, Canada’s foreign ministry published a tweet calling on Saudi Arabia to “immediately release” Samar Badawi as well as “all other peaceful #humanrights activists.”

Canada is gravely concerned about additional arrests of civil society and women’s rights activists in #SaudiArabia, including Samar Badawi. We urge the Saudi authorities to immediately release them and all other peaceful #humanrights activists.

— Foreign Policy CAN (@CanadaFP) August 3, 2018

That tweet seems to have royally pissed off the Saudi government.

In a series of angry tweets on Sunday, the Saudi foreign ministry slammed Canada’s “negative and surprising attitude” and called Canada’s position “an overt and blatant interference in the internal affairs of the Kingdom of #SaudiArabia.” (The Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, or KSA, is the country’s formal name.)

#Statement | KSA through its history has not and will not accept any form of interfering in the internal affairs of the Kingdom. The KSA considers the Canadian position an attack on the KSA and requires a firm stance to deter who attempts to undermine the sovereignty of the KSA.

— Foreign Ministry (@KSAmofaEN) August 5, 2018

#Statement | Any other attempt to interfere with our internal affairs from #Canada, means that we are allowed to interfere in #Canada’s internal affairs.

— Foreign Ministry (@KSAmofaEN) August 5, 2018

The foreign ministry also announced in the Twitter thread that it was kicking the Canadian ambassador out of the country and suspending “all new trade and investment transactions” between Saudi Arabia and Canada.

In an email to the Canadian press Sunday night, a spokesperson for Freeland responded to the Saudi threats. “We are seriously concerned by these media reports and are seeking greater clarity on the recent statement from the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia,” said Marie-Pier Baril.

“Canada will always stand up for the protection of human rights, very much including women’s rights, and freedom of expression around the world,” she continued, adding, “Our government will never hesitate to promote these values and believes that this dialogue is critical to international diplomacy.”

Then things got even darker.

Early Monday morning, a pro-government Saudi Twitter account, @Infographic_ksa, tweeted a photo of a Canadian airliner flying directly toward the Toronto skyline with this message: “As the Arabic saying goes: ‘He who interferes with what doesn’t concern him finds what doesn’t please him.’”

The photo was eerily reminiscent of the scenes of jetliners slamming into the World Trade Center in New York on September 11, 2001. Fifteen of the 19 hijackers on 9/11 were citizens of Saudi Arabia.

Now deleted, here a screenshot of the threatening Saudi “infographic” featuring an airliner headed for the Toronto skyline. pic.twitter.com/LrkCLxxjFk

— Tobias Schneider (@tobiaschneider) August 6, 2018

The tweet was deleted shortly after, and a modified image without the plane was posted instead. A while later, @Infographic_ksa — a “verified” Twitter account closely associated with the Saudi government — tweeted out an apology, stating, “The aircraft was intended to symbolize the return of the Ambassador”:

Just a few hours later, the Saudi Ministry of Media announced it had ordered the owner of @Infographic_ksa to shut down the Twitter account “until investigations are completed, according to electronic broadcasting laws in KSA.”

But while the vague threat of another 9/11 may have been accidental and not sanctioned by the Saudi government directly, the message coming out of Saudi Arabia over the past several days has been clear: Don’t fuck with us, Canada.

The arrests of Badawi and others that Canada was objecting to are part of a wider government crackdown on human rights, ordered by Mohammed bin Salman, the 32-year-old crown prince who ascended to the position of next in line for the throne just a little over a year ago.

MBS has been hailed in the West as an “ambitious, energetic” young “reformer” who is upending the kingdom’s conservative ways and ushering in a bold new era of modernization, complete with sweeping liberal social and economic policies.

But while MBS has initiated some modest reforms, including relaxing longstanding restrictions on women driving and allowing movie theaters to open across the country, he has also ruthlessly consolidated his power and cracked down on dissent. One way he’s done this is by arresting many of the activists who championed the reforms he himself pushed through.

As the Guardian notes, “Badawi, a recipient of the International Women of Courage award, was a prominent figure in the call to end the driving ban for women, a landmark reform passed in June and credited to Saudi prince Mohammed bin Salman.”

And in November, under the guise of an anti-corruption campaign, MBS rounded up hundreds of influential businessmen — including many members of the royal family — imprisoning them in the Ritz-Carlton hotel in Riyadh and seizing millions of dollars in assets.

On the international stage, MBS has overseen an impulsive and utterly disastrous war in Yemen, spearheaded a diplomatic blockade of the tiny Gulf country of Qatar, and cultivated close ties with the Trump administration.

It is in this context that Bessma Momani, a Middle East expert at the University of Waterloo in Canada, says this latest fight between Saudi Arabia and Canada should be interpreted. “[T]his is less about Canadian foreign policy than it is about the Saudis,” Momani writes in the Globe and Mail newspaper. She continues:

This is a new, bold Saudi Arabia trying to make its mark on global and regional affairs. Led by the young and very brash Crown Prince Mohammed bin Salman (or MBS), this latest move is yet another red line that is being used to rile up nationalists and assert Saudi dominance. Expelling a Canadian ambassador is in keeping with the moves of a crown prince who allegedly took the Lebanese prime minister hostage, rounded up 200 of the most influential and richest Saudis and detained them until they paid part of their fortune back to the Saudi national accounts, and created a diplomatic firestorm with tiny neighbouring Qatar for not toeing the Saudi line on regional affairs. And this in under a year.

So while this diplomatic fight may have technically started over a tweet, it has a lot more to do with one man’s unbridled power and ambition. And that man just so happens to be next in line to rule Saudi Arabia.

Original Source -> Why Saudi Arabia is waging diplomatic war on … Canada

via The Conservative Brief

[benchgenderstudies]

The Empathy for Necrophiliacs Out of A Case Of Confederate Incest:

A Gender Professional's adventurous survey and discussion about Steven Pladl's Incestual Indoctrination of his daughter

 by Michael Bench

<Submitted to the Oregonian> 

It's the evening of April 12th ; less than a week after hearing about the stalled media reports of a father daughter couple arrest. Tonight their bodies are lifeless. Their childs' body is lifeless and Katie's stepfather is dead. Where we start with this story is Steven Pladl's selfish , reckless gratifications and the results of living for himself. About 20 years ago his now exwife Alyssa had a first child. They were young reckless teens having unprotected sex without the means to support pregnancy. Who was more reckless I don't know. Alyssa was pregnant at age 17 and gave up this child to adoption. That child was Katie. She's less than two hours dead right now.

 Approximately 18 years later, Katie sought out her biological parents and was invited by Steven Pladl, her father, to move in. This time unprotected sex also seems to have occurred  and in a situation no sex normally occurs. No innuendo can shield a father's lusts from taking their full social disgust to opportune sex with his daughter. She is/was cute, mind you. And, now there's a nearly warm Steven Pladl's body offering a welcome tight pucker for any Necrophiliacs that are into his type.

 Just tonight I was on social media reminding the blogosphere of my disappointment in conservatives who weren't advocating for this antiscience traditional confederate example of family values. Do Americans  living against science have an obligation to notice genetics? Is incest a rally of free speech against evolution? It was a love child (as Fox called it) made in conservative heaven and they wanted nothing to do with it.

  Only 2 days and 45 minutes ago I had sent emails to ACLU and the Judges of Henrico County, VA citing a very simple point that consenting adults are not owed to state law biasing toward or against religion. Only 2 days and 45 minutes ago , I was led to believe any female voluntarily marrying their father would have to be convinced love was real. Shee would have to be equally into him; consenting adults have a right to their decisions. Would Sarah Palin defend them? No; She wouldn't shoo the arm of state law out of a marriage of one man and one woman. She wouldn't rail against Trump's use of celebrity video prostitutes either. He owes the national government $12,400 in taxes if he filed a joint return. Terms of marriage are terms of taxation.

 This evening I see that love is a "not". Steven Pladl's love was as transient as his interest in a reputation. He is believed to have killed his wife-daughter, his grandson-son, his daughter's stepfather and himself; traveling from North Carolina to New York. If a guy is going to have a child with his daughter, lets be sure he understands it’s a symbol of commitment both tragic and karmic that he better damn well support her like any other wife. A consenting daughter, that is. These aren't ideals I craft, I'm more dusting off what advocacy Charlottesville supremacists would take no white pride for. When I decided to take the defense on behalf of religious freedom from Evolution, be sure you understand I'm okay with the southern confederates polluting their gene line into crosseyed idiots. I didn't put them up to it. I didn't tell Katie to go see her father of all people for a hot beef injection. These are the type's of details to send Katie's mom straight off for divorce.  In North Carolina , two generations of the (Pladl) females didn't demand condoms. The conditions of stupidity are undereducated sexual maturity skills. What do Necrophiliacs feel about this? I wondered.  How similar do they feel this is to Josef Fritzls abuse of his daughter. It really did now turn to abuse.

  There's still these bodies around and leads us to our survey: Texting local Necrophiliacs:

Is Steven Pladl a good piece of ass? If you were going to judge this situation, How would you react to the opportunity to get on this fresh piece of meat?

Reacting to what you know about Stephen Pladl : What pickup line best expresses your opinion of this situation?

 A: There is something broke in you. I think we can both agree we have irreconcilable differences and  I'll hate fuck you.

 B: Dahmmmn you freaky, I can top your bottom all rot long.

 C: Well, Usually I 'd let you mourn your wife and kids but I guess since YOU KILLED THEM I'll ask for your blessing for marriage over your shoulder. I've been on a dry spell since they installed cameras at the local cemetery. Something monogamous of yours just fell onto the road.

 D: No way. If I were ever going to pole you, It would be with a fishing gaff right out of your mom before you did anything else stupid.

 Now why would I ask this? Superficially Necrophiliacs are our litmus test of decency. Has Steven Pladl done something to his identity so awful not even a necrophiliac would get on his pudd?  Now, the deeper issue… approximately 7 inches deeper into his chilling colon. Inmate equality. Normally sexual activity is not allowed between inmates. We know these inmates are making each other their pleasure domes. Unfortunately , tonight I have sympathy for incarcerated necrophiliacs that have had no good luck getting at the shiv victims. Or worse, maybe inmate corpses are just too fresh. I don't know the fetish.

As a guy looking for the very top federal offices, I see this as a moment to look out for the little guy. To bring around just a little bit of happiness and affection out of this tragedy. Wouldn't you agree Steven Pladl treats women nothing more than an orifice of pleasure? It's Karmic. The exception case feeds the exception cases.

 And where affection is not: When I contacted Henrico court, Virginia, I was not asking to discuss anything with Steven Pladl. Katie was left in jail while Steven was out on bail. Hasn't this girl been abandoned once already? I called for her release well after her freedom was already secured. It was a fresh story retelling dated material; her jailers ignored she had a child to take care of and a husband no matter how society felt about it. The state was neglecting the child and discriminating against her.  She wasn't looking to reconnect for a new boyfriend and simultaneously she had very little biological inhibition to regard Pladl as her father. Just products of the good ol boy environment not caring a damn.  Recklessness created this entire scene. I type of recklessness that no necrophiliac can share blame for. The crimes of the living southerners against each other made footprints past a step too far. The charges as well: We have murderers in the court system pleading down to jaywalking. IS that who should be free, really? Warrants by Henrico seemed fully ignorant of the outcomes of incarcerating only Steven Pladl while Katie would be locally weighed down with childcare. Her flight risk was low.

 Four things I'd like to see come of this:

I 'd like the wedding party of surviving adoption family members to be detailed about the entire situation of Katie's seeking out her parents to her deathbed. Televised interviews.

 Second, If daughter and father somehow find cause to consensually start a relationship.. despite the fact I call this Incuban Fetish related… and genetically incompetent… that a functional relationship has emotional fairness no matter who the partners are.

 A scorn of conservatives for only playing the easy field for anti science and not protecting one man-one woman marriage. Distinct failures include Trump, Pladls and the ambivalence to cashing in on 'gay mental illness' by regulating the fashion model anorexia industry. Even when republicans have creationist means on their side they're too lazy to regulate for good purposes.

 Finally, the medias attention to this story was delayed to an umpteenth degree so seriously compromising that it may have led to this extreme series of reactionary steps to undo what Steven came to believe was a mistake. Sex is not a mistake. Born children are not mistakes. Asking your daughter to marry you is not a questionably hazy intent.

 Tonight Steven Pladl killed people to save his reputation. Tonight lives ended. To Pladl, they were only objects in his kingdom of wants. Had Steven truly 'brainwashed his daughter' into physical relations,  this case would truly adhere to my definition of Incuban Fetish.  In the very same as-yet-unpublished article , I divulged a similar ego/narcissism disorder known as "Pharaoh Hex".(2014) When you see homicide suicides by males concerning their families, it tends to be an episode of lack of control.

A lawyer firm partner gets pushed out, he feels out of control of his reputation. The double murder suicide of Wrestler Chris Benoit was captioned by his suicide not indicating preparedness to leave this Earth. With him he took 'his familial possessions".

Benoit was regarded as having serious brain damage from his wrestling career. We can suspect Steven Pladl might also have some problems. After all, make no hesitations to wonder if he thought this was normal and how. Was he molested? Does he have some form of undisclosed derangement that only white people get? Fox news went so far as to call the birth a "love child", such a mitigating sympathy press that Blacks, Asians, and Hispanics would not.

 It's now exactly 3 days after we first read about Steven Pladl and Katie Pladl. They're dead sooner than initial press reaction has had its time. I found purpose to write this article in caution to other parents who have an abnormal affinity for your daughters or sons. I will hope that you have more sense than tarnish the family unit relationship. If for some reason your adult children go along with it; like a funny roleplay of incest; I hope you see it's not innocent. Can it be all that bad to reenact from the porn movies online? the people in your family are more than role play characters. Using them for your wants is not what families do. A family of enemies nurtured to hatefuck each other will most likely abuse each other in other ways. That closes to wonder if Katie Pladl is a dead now or dead later case. Will Steven plays the father card too often in disagreements? As disagreements do happen; a control issue that started as recklessly as forgetting to pull out has now killed her. What else might've happened that would've killed her? He was capable of murder for his own means. He'd go so far as to kill two of his children and an adult and that’s what we know.

 So keep the body fresh and lets have an inmate lottery

[thescamanderboi]

I understand if you dont want to answer this because it might be too personal, but have you experienced any extreme discrimination or support for being queer and in the US navy?

Um gosh. Hi! To answer your question, yes and no. As it generally is (and im not saying it should be like that) masculinity is always more encouraged than femininity, and so it's definitely easier for someone like me, than say, trans femme folks, in a lot of ways I've been approved of (even if they don't know what they're approving of), but also in a lot of way i am definitely pushed out. I have a lot of leadership, 1st classes, chiefs, and officers who have verbally and physically expressed distain and even disgust towards ppl like me. In fact, the base that im on just put out a new civilian clothes rule that literally hust says "no crossdressing". I went to my leadership to ask why this was done, and what it meant, and i got sneered at and asked why I was worried, "its not like you're going to walk out of the barracks in a 3 piece suit, or a bow tie" and i had to remind him that i had, in fact, done both. So there's that. The military is a weird place? Thing? Group? Bc its a strange mix of liberalness and conservativeness?? I guess. People drink, smoke, cuss, fuck on saturdays, and then go to chapel on sundays. But on the other hand, us queer/LGBT+ folks tend to gather together, and im at least partially out to everyone (most people hust think im a butch bi girl) and fully out to about 10 or so people currently. :) ive got flamboyant gay boys, super masc gay boys, femme gay girls, butch gay girls, nonbinary folk, trans guys, bi guys and girls, I'm friends with a wedded couple, and the one, she'd never been interested in girls until she met her wife, so she doesnt use any specific terms or labels. Its a decent mix. So, im not sure if I've answered you question. I know i tend to ramble a bit. Um, if that helped at all though, good, i guess. :) feel free to ask more questions if you want to know anything more specific.