#such is the nature of the human condition

[humanconditionpoetry]

Spread this news and reblog!

People don’t have understand and till them experience it themselves that losing your house and processions to natural disasters is descanting to the mental health. In some cases, it can lead to anxiety, depression and PTSD( among other things). While nothing can replace the original, knowing that people care and will try their best is one of the most hopeful things one can do to someone in the dark. It is often what the person needs.

Reblog! Reblog! Reblog!

The company budsies, which specializes in making custom stuffed animals and making duplicates of old or lost plushies, is currently offering to recreate the beloved stuffed animal of any kid who lost theirs in the LA wildfire, free of charge.

Their instagram post said to share this, so please spread this around so that families who've lost everything can receive just a little bit more hope in their lives 🥺

[reasonsforhope]

"In one of the more remarkable marches of human progress, Bangladesh has reached the point of near-universal electricity access for its citizens.

Coupled with the rapid electrification has been one of the greatest single declines in the poverty rate of a nation ever seen, falling from 44.2% in 1991 to 18.7% in 2022.

In 1991, only 14% of the nation had access to electricity. By 2021, 99% had access.

Granted, half of these households are considered according to Our World in Data to have lower tier access, which accounts for home lighting and charging mobile phones at least 4 hours a day, but the other half are considered as having higher tier access, defined as the added capacity to power high-load appliances (such as fridges) for more than eight hours a day.

Bangladesh is the world’s most densely populated large country with a density of 3,020 per square mile. As the twelfth densest country in the world, the 11 above Bangladesh are all microstates whose combined land area would not even equal half the size of the smallest state in Bangladesh.

To put this into perspective, (a rather silly perspective) if one wanted to reduce the population density of Bangladesh to that of Mongolia, its borders would have to include both all of Africa and all of Eurasia. That’s how crowded Bangladesh is, and what these amazing reductions in poverty truly mean to global human flourishing."

-via Good News Network, January 21, 2025

--

Note: This is the kind of thing I mean when I say that very, very few people in the West know the degree to which absolutely massive societal progress has been happening in a lot of different developing countries.

Especially around access to infrastructure and access to electricity.

The quality of life improvements to electricity access are massive.

It's not just access to phones/the internet (already a huge deal that opens up massive channels of communication and information-sharing).

It's being able to preserve food because you have a fridge, meaning you get to spend less money on food/have less food waste/run fewer errands/have way more flexibility around food.

It's being able to do things after dark, because you have a lightbulb. It's being able to work late, make more of your time.

It's less air pollution because people can use electricity instead of burning fuel for things like heat/light/cooking. (Yes I know these things often use fuel or natural gas still, but they can be done with electricity, and a lot of developing countries are skipping over a natural gas/etc. phase and straight into renewables.)

Hell, it's safety. I had a friend when I was younger who was from southeast Asia. She was horribly injured when she was a kid because her family only had kerosene oil lamps that had to be manually refilled. If her family had had access to electricity, that never would have happened.

It's infrastructure for heating, air conditioning, and water access. It's so, so many things. It's huge.

[2hdedmthr]

𝑃𝑢𝑛𝑖𝑠𝘩

mother miranda x vampire!reader

・❥・E(xplicit), 3200 words

✧༺ ❥ ༻∞

A wave of indescribable bliss came over you with the squirming of Mother Miranda’s gift in your abdomen. It was nesting deep in your nervous system, having found purchase along your spinal cord. Slowly it crept up, up, up towards your cranium— then finally, the neurons in your brain began to synapse; and before you knew it, endorphins were flooding your system.

“Mother, oh!” you giggled, your forehead drenched in sweat, delirium roping your mind. The torches that lined the dank laboratory walls began to, in your vision, dim and blur. You looked toward your priestess— who had been sitting at your bedside since finishing your operation, silently monitoring your condition. She was jotting something down in a leather-bound journal. You continued, even though she did not look up at you: “I’m so terribly content! Comfortable, even— I think we ought to do away with these restraints.” You tugged a bit at the thick leather straps keeping your wrists bound up on either side of your head, and your ankles to the bedposts. They were uncomfortably tight.

Mother Miranda simply continued to write, no doubt documenting your hectic state. “You are in the rudimentary stages of transformation,” she returned dully. “You are to remain bound until I’ve seen proof of your fortitude.”

Excitatory chemicals were still running rampant through your body, so you’d no clue what Mother Miranda was going on about. All you could focus on were the warm streaks of color snaking, leaping, pulsing through your vision: you were in a weightless, feverish state of bliss incomprehensible to the ordinary human mind. Until, of course, small bursts of ineffable pain began to spark and flower across every inch of flesh your body had to offer. You’d fallen painfully from your high in less than a millisecond.

“Mother!” you wailed, arching your back up off the bed. The pain that came merely from lying still was too agonizing to bear. You began to sob, and, shortly thereafter, to plead: “Please, please, please, Mother! I cannot suffer this— I cannot endure this hell! Oh, what is happening to me? I beg of you, I beg: my heart will give out if you do not make it end!” You were pulling and tugging against your restraints, trying to reach for Miranda.

Your priestess merely dipped her pen into the pot of ink, continued writing, and said: “Your body is dying,” she paused, tilted her chin slightly upwards, and met your eye; “and your mind is trying to comprehend it. That is all.”

“No!” you cried out, still arching your torso, twisting every appendage and extremity against your restraints. You were desperate to flee the touch of the bed. “No! It cannot be, Mother! I cannot be—!” You stopped to sob for a moment, then finished, hysterically, “Oh, I beg you to kill me! Truly kill me!”

“Ah-ah,” returned your priestess, who had, at last, flipped her journal shut and set it aside. Her affect remained unfeeling as ever as she reached to splay a palm over your abdomen, and then pressed your squirming body back against the mattress. “You must endure. Find the source of your agony, and it shall be quelled.”

Despite your continued sobbing, you dug deep inside yourself to root out your pain; when had Mother Miranda’s advice ever led you astray? Within, you were met with a hunger so primordial, so physical— so carnal— you’d no idea what, exactly, it was that you were hungry for.

“It hurts,” you managed; “I am starved, Mother; famished. Yet I know not for what.”

But Mother Miranda already knew exactly what you needed. It was in her preternatural nature, after all, to know everything that her subjects did not. She stood to retrieve a sharp, silver dagger from somewhere deeper within the lab, then returned to stand beside the bed with it in her grasp. At that point, she began, unaffected, to cut a deep gash into her wrist. The spine of the blade flashed keenly as she carved, blinding you horribly for a split second; though, as soon as your sight returned, you found yourself wishing to be blind again! Miranda was hovering her gashed wrist just above your mouth. Thick, black blood dripped and trickled down, steadily, onto your trembling lips.

“Drink,” she ordered— and that was all.

Your stomach churned: you felt extremely ill at the notion of drinking from another’s wound. But… you neither could deny the inherent temptation of it: the way your gut twisted was, in a way, perversely pleasant, subtly craving that which Miranda had offered you.

Should you… drink?

Oh, you couldn’t, you shouldn’t!— but your body was begging for it.

You couldn’t refrain. You ravaged the laceration with your mouth, latching onto it like an emaciated animal, sucking and biting as Mother Miranda pressed her arm into your want. She tasted dull— as if her blood had been stagnant for years; but even then, you simply couldn’t stop drinking. The bliss was coming over you again, washing clean away the pain of cell death. All you had to do was slide your tongue along the gash, suck, and the endorphins came rushing back. It was that easy.

Miranda observed aloud as she watched you feed: “Yes, an insatiable appetite, indeed.” She put a hand down round the back of your head to support your neck, then continued, “I’ve seen it a manifold of times before; though you are certainly my strongest to date.”

After a few more moments of starved suckling, panting, and licking, you fell back against the pillows in order to catch your frail breath. Your face was still half-drained of color— perhaps a lasting side effect of death— and your soft flesh glistened with sweat; though, you were invigorated as ever. Once you’d caught your breath, you licked a bead of Miranda’s blood from the corner of your mouth, leaned back up (as best you could against your restraints), and began to trace your tongue along her wound again.

But as soon as muscle met muscle, Mother Miranda pulled her arm away. She kept it a tentative distance from your face, where you could not reach, but still could ogle.

“You must learn discipline, if you wish to remain in my service,” she said. The wound then healed near instantaneously, and she brought her hand to her side. “No more puerile indulgence.”

‘Puerile’? you thought. But how could the need to sate your hunger be deemed puerile, or an indulgence, when there was a very real, very terrible ache in your gut for more of your priestess’s blood, her flesh? It was an ache so great that a whine had begun to creep up your throat; though, luckily, you managed to swallow it in time to prevent its escape.

No indulgence. For now.

“Of course, Mother,” you replied breathlessly, still half-leaning up. “As you wish.”

Pleased enough with your compliance, Miranda reached for the nearest of your bound wrists. “Now,” she began, freeing the restraint, “undo the other.” She waited, and then— “Sit up straight.”

As you straightened to your full sitting height, your head pounded, and swam with a tumultuous current of warmth. Everything was slipping in and out of view as your vision darkened, then returned, then darkened again: the dank stone walls, the scattered medical equipment, the dark holding cell in the corner. The minimal lighting couldn’t have been helping. It was like the time you’d had too much wine before bed, and woke the next morning feeling more ill than ever you’d felt before; only this time, it was amplified twentyfold— and had come merely from fixing your posture! You rubbed your eyes; Miranda began toward the end of the bed. Her stride was meticulously slow, each deliberate click of one heel identical to the last.

Once her steps had halted, she unstrapped one of your ankles, then the other, and asked, “What do you feel?”

You breathed out— only once, very weakly.

“Like… I’ve had too much liquor,” you replied. Your gut still ached with a dismal sense of vacancy, and you knew that you should not beg, or pry, but you could not bear the pain: “And I am still very hungry, Mother. If only I could have—“

“Patience, dear child,” Miranda interjected. Her tone of voice was as strategic as her stride. Once she’d retaken her post at the side of the bed, you looked over at her. “You’ve a far more acquired taste than the Countess: not just any petty, virgin flesh will do.” She wiped a bit of sweat from your forehead with her palm, letting her cool hand linger there as she went on, a bit quieter, “I am your lifeblood; and if you come to prove yourself as vexingly greedy as the aforementioned Lady, know that I will not hesitate to sever your access to nourishment.”

A weak, “Yes, Mother,” was all you could muster before your priestess was ordering you to get out of the bed; she’d like to see how you held yourself, now that your mind was not so clouded with bliss nor hunger.

You will only be fed if you obey. That is what Miranda’s keen, steel-blue eyes silently conveyed.

Once you’d managed to stand (your legs were incredibly weak, hardly able to withstand the scant weight of your deathly frame), Mother Miranda began to circle you. Again, her steps were slow and deliberate, as she was being very thorough in her scrutinies of your appearance.

“You hunch your shoulders; push out your chest. Yes, like that. No— now you’ve an unpleasant look about your face. Don’t allow yourself to appear so bothered. Fine, I suppose that…” This went on for the better part of a minute, Miranda fixing your posture, your face, your hands, your hair— until she had, at last, come around in front of you again, and quit her prowling.

Your eyes darted between her fearures, vision blurring, clearing, blurring again. Gods, were you hungry! Famine had consumed your every thought, poisoned your mind so that you could think only of feeding. You soon found yourself staring over-covetously at the pulsating artery along the side of Mother Miranda’s neck. You hadn’t even considered the possibility that she might still have a living, beating heart; but, considering, it must’ve been true. And what heaven it would be, you dreamt, to gnaw right through her soft breast, and tear her heart from its calcic cage. But your dull maws would be ill-fit for such carnivorous endeavors… Oh! who gives a damn? The experience would only be prolonged.

Your fantasies of soft, sacred flesh were cut short when you realized your quivering knees were about to give way. You breathed out another small plea to your priestess for more of her blood: without it, you did not think you could hold yourself upright any longer.

Begging again.

But she only tsk’d, and said: “If you are no longer able to stand without aid, perhaps you should kneel.” Mother Miranda emphasized her final word as a command, tilting your chin up with the gold-razored tip of a single finger. “I will not simply hand over my blood as if it were some meager commodity; you must earn the right to feed.”

To feed. The subtle promise of sweet sustenance— flesh, blood— spoken into existence by your priestess was a spell you could not help but fall under. So, as if it were in your very nature to serve, your knees came down in a bruising tumble onto the stone floor. In lieu of asking, though, in plain words, ‘What might I do next?’— you simply looked up into the eyes of your Creator, and let your softening gaze speak for you.

Anything at all, it said; I shall do anything for another taste of your blood.

This pitiful display of obedience made Miranda’s keen eyes dull just a bit with pleasure, and an arch little smile crept across her lips— “Greedy, yes,” she mused, threading her fingers through your hair, “but so very eager to please.”

You sucked in a quiet breath. “Please, Mother. I don’t…”

She pulled your face closer to the apex of her thighs. “Quiet,” she hissed. “How much can you take?”

For a moment, you were too stunned to reply. Had you any blood still coursing through your veins, your cheeks would’ve been flushed deep and hot. “I— Probably very little, Mother. I’ve never…”

“Good.”

Mother Miranda ordered you to hike up the skirts of her robe, and, of course, just as you’d been conditioned to do, you obeyed. Inch by tantalizing inch, her legs came into view: they were smooth, pale, and firmly toned— and they made you forget, for a split second, how carnally starved you were for flesh and blood. You clasped your thighs together unconsciously, not caring to brood over the indecency of your current thoughts. The thick, heavy fabric of the robe continued to creep higher by your hand: you pushed it up over her knees, her thighs. Once you’d hiked it up to her hips, you found that she’d been wearing no undergarments at all; for the patch of blonde hair covering her mound was at perfect eye level, and you could not look away. Earn the right to feed. You quickly tried to lean in, but Miranda yanked your head back, forcing you to look up at her once more.

“My true form: another privilege you’ve yet to earn.” While she spoke, the quiet sounds of transmutation came from between her legs; but she kept your head tilted upward so that you couldn’t see a thing. How cruel. “You will prove yourself another way, tonight.”

At last, she loosened her grip on your hair, allowing you to drop your gaze between her legs again. Though, instead of her cunt, you were met with the sight of a thick, erect cock. You swallowed hard, and found yourself short of breath.

“Do not fret,” Miranda soothed, gently scraping her talons over your scalp; “it is entirely artificial.”

“I…” You were at a loss for words. You’d never done anything so… base before, so salacious. And you wanted to, really; you wanted to please your priestess, so that she might grant you another quart of her blood. But you simply didn’t know how.

Miranda, though she could, at times, be effortlessly malevolent, did not disregard your apprehension: “There are other ways you may please me, if you so wish,” she said.

But you’d already gotten this far, hadn’t you? Knees pressing deep into cold stone, face inches away from your priestess’s cock— one mouth-fuck away from being fed? You shook your head no, managing a quick, “I want this, Mother.”

A faint grin flashed across her lips, and she wasted no time in pushing your face a bit closer to the newly-formed appendage. Then, she began to guide you:

“Open. Yes— good girl. Keep it just there.”

Your priestess pulled your head forward again, silently ordering you to wrap your virgin mouth around her cock. So you did. You’d not a clue what you should be doing; but you absentmindedly pressed your tongue along the bottom of Miranda’s shaft while she pushed into you— and, sure enough, it created a pleasant amount of pressure between her and the roof of your mouth. At least, you supposed as much from the way she gasped.

When the head of her cock finally bumped against the back of your throat, you gagged quietly, and your eyes welled with tears. There was still about a quarter of her length to go before she was fully sheathed; and you hadn’t a clue how you were going to take it.

“That’s it. That’s good,” Miranda praised. She rocked her hips forward, trying to coax herself a bit further down your throat. You gagged again, and she chuckled. “Is it too much?”

A moment passed wherein you thought it was; perhaps you weren't ready for her. Though, just as you were about to pull back, you felt your throat ease up a bit. That’s when you knew you could take her all. And, oh, the whine Mother Miranda let out as your warm mouth enveloped the entirety of her cock: it was utterly delectable. When you began to suck, her thighs quivered, and her fingers tightened through your tresses. You went slow— in part for the sake of your throat, seeing as you’d never sucked cock before; but also because you wished terribly to savor this moment of worship. It was languid, raw, intimate: the way Miranda allowed you to slowly ease her dick back into your throat then out again, never forcing you to take more than you could handle. You’d grown terribly aroused.

Though, this gentleness, this intimacy that you’d so quickly become accustomed to, lasted no longer than two minutes. Soon Miranda was fucking your face with abandon, grunting breathlessly out of exertion with every forward thrust of her hips. Each of her hushed groans were trailed by short growls of pleasure, usually when the head of her cock hit the back of your throat just right. At one point, she even uttered your name, to which you replied with a surprised gag. You continued working your flattened tongue over, under, along her shaft the best you could, desperately trying to keep up with her sporadic and vigorous pace. Until, finally, she came. Hard.

Hot ropes of cum shot down your throat and coated your tongue, all while Mother Miranda tipped her head far back, and let you suck her dry. She was drowning, and fast, in the throes of pure bliss: breathless, uninhibited moans tumbled dryly from the depths of her trachea in a manner quite unlike anything you’d ever heard before. And you, too, had become more vocal upon her release: you whined ceaselessly around her hard cock as it throbbed, and twitched and pumped your mouth full of cum. You were struggling to swallow it all (it was so unpleasantly salty and thick!) but felt you should not waste any part of your priestess’s pleasure, either— and so, you swallowed, and gagged, and swallowed some more until she’d no more cum to fill you with.

Mother Miranda pulled out of your mouth with a long, outward breath, and, at that point, you let her skirt fall back over her legs. She yanked you to your feet by your hair, and told you to clean yourself: your mouth, as well as your chin, were coated in a diluted amalgamation of spit and cum.

Immediately embarrassed, you began to wipe your face with the back of your hand, licking away any excess fluid that got into either corner of your mouth. Jesus, you’ve already begun to like the taste. Meanwhile, you noted the familiar sounds of transmutation from between Miranda’s legs, and her cock dissipated into the rest of her flesh.

“That’ll be enough, little dove,” Miranda said finally, grabbing your chin. Your face was clean. “You’ve proved your merit for the night.” She then slipped her hand round the back of your head, guided your mouth right to her cold neck, and gave one last order:

“Drink.”

✧༺ ❥ ༻∞

[alarajrogers]

OK, I understand what this person means. They are laughably wrong and committing one of the most common mistakes of the 20th and 21st centuries, but the mistake is largely one of vocabulary.

Aging and death are natural. They are fundamental parts of the condition of being alive, based on the law of entropy, which affects everything in the universe, including the universe itself. Everything breaks down and then ceases to exist in its current form. But that doesn't mean this is good. The person who is arguing that "aging is unnatural" is confusing the concepts of "natural" and "good."

Arsenic is natural. Cyanide is natural. Tsunamis are natural. And aging and death are natural. Things can absolutely be very natural and still be bad.

It is true that aging and death are worth fighting and that we have some ideas about future technologies we are working toward that can prolong life substantially or even make us effectively immortal (by current mortality standards anyway; humans who live a thousand years won't actually be immortal but they'll live a lot longer than we do now.) It is also true that those technologies don't yet exist and nearly everything sold as "anti-aging" is a scam. The beauty industry wants you to believe that there are over the counter creams you can rub on your face to make your wrinkles go away. This isn't true. Someday it may be true, but not yet. Currently, there is little you can do to prevent death or aging. Almost everyone who tells you otherwise either wants your money, or has been deluded by people who wanted their money. There are a handful of scientists who may be on the track of something real, but we just don't know enough yet.

Claiming that aging and death are worth fighting and we should not resign ourselves to death is good and valid. Claiming that aging and death are not natural makes you look like a total chump. Don't confuse natural with good. And don't confuse "death should not be inevitable and we;re working on it" with "death is not inevitable." Make no mistake, probably everybody on this web site will have a normal human life span or less, not because we want to, but because actual anti-aging technologies that come out (which they have not, yet) will be hoarded by the rich unless we fix the problem of income inequality before anti-aging technologies let the existing crop of billionnaires live longer than we do.

scrunching my face real hard rn

[the-crooked-library]

Ellen from Nosferatu is disabled? .o. Can you tell me more about that? I was already interested in watching the movie, but hearing the main female lead is disabled makes me ever more excited to see it! Do they say/imply what she has at all?

Yes, she is - though it's a mix of real-world and horror genre things! There are some details the film says outright and some it implies. To sum it up: Ellen is neurodivergent and psychic at the same time, which results both in social isolation and outright medical abuse. If you don't mind some spoilers (all regarding Ellen's condition rather than the plot), here's a brief overview of it!

From the beginning of the film, Ellen is implied to be in some way neurodivergent. Naturally, since most of the action takes place in 1838, there is no specific term for what she is; personally, I would guess her to be autistic. As a child, Ellen was considered odd, "running wild" in the woods near her father's property and struggling to follow established social conventions; she mentions at one point in the film that her father forcibly isolated her in the house when she failed to grow out of it; and she continues to struggle as an adult, as well, unable to fully understand or conform to the rules that everyone else considers per the course. One of the characters is actually shown to hate her for it - though his sense of manners prevents him from acting/saying anything on that subject until a certain point. Once it's out in the open, however, he admits that he dislikes her specifically because he could always tell (even before the story begins to unravel) that she is actively faking her propriety - in essence, masking.

That said, her psychic symptoms are more of a focus (it is gothic horror, after all). During her astral projections, Ellen experiences altered mental states and seizures. This leads her father to threaten her with institutionalization; and later in life, the other characters tie her to her bed and drug her for days on end after witnessing several of her episodes. These symptoms are visible - and, in fact, impossible to hide, as they have a distinct physical component; and the story centres this as one of the primary reasons her surrounding society abuses and rejects her. It is also important to note that the film reiterates several times that she would be subjected to this regardless of the vampiric aspect of the plot; she was born this way. She cannot be cured of it. It is, for all intents and purposes, a chronic condition that can only be managed and accommodated for - which the bigoted, misogynistic, industrialized society around her refuses to allow. Despite the genre, the horror of Ellen's life is painfully mundane, and all the more brutal for it.

The medical aspect of it is absolutely explicit. It is heavily stressed throughout the film (intersecting with the running theme of misogyny, as well). As in Stoker's Dracula, two of the characters are doctors; and even the most benevolent of them pushes a needle through Ellen's arm to demonstrate that her soul "isn't there" during one of her episodes. All human characters are complicit in this - either through perpetrating that violence themselves, or by letting it happen unimpeded. She's infantilized when people around her are feeling benevolent, and demonized when they're inconvenienced. Considering the history of the horror and gothic genres, and their numerous tragic and/or murderous madwomen, I think Nosferatu is a fascinating subversion of the trope. For a genre that so often frames the "lunatic" from the perspective of a horrified narrator, its centering of Ellen is rather unexpected; but, according to Robert Eggers, that was quite blatantly the point. He mentioned in some interviews that he'd wanted to make a film that actually explored the story from her POV - and god, did he deliver.

If you do end up watching the film, I hope you enjoy!! It is, truly, breathtaking. As a longtime fan of gothic horror, I could not have asked for more.

[gay-disabled-characters-showdown]

LGBTQ+ Disabled Characters Showdown Battle for Fourth

Please be civil in the notes. We will block people if we feel it is necessary. A character being canon LGBTQ+ and disabled was not required to be in this competition. Please check qualifications and propaganda before asking why a character is included. This is not a competition of who is better representation.

Check out the final poll here.

Eda Clawthorne-The Owl House

Qualifications:

She has a magical chronic disorder which has flare-ups, is mitigated by taking medication (potions), and has similar side effects to many real disorders such as fatigue, greying hair, and physical impairment (drains magic, a natural ability of *most witches). Unlike in other stories however, her condition is NOT ever completely cured. It does evolve and become more manageable over the course of the story, but she still experiences symptoms from it. Eda also loses one of her arms later in the story. She does get a replacement hook, but it is never shown whether she has a functional prosthetic or not. Most likely, she only has one fully functioning arm after this. As for being queer, she is in a relationship with a nonbinary person and is all but confirmed bisexual (has a secret box with the bi flag on it seriously why else would she have this). Also the owl house has a Lot of queer characters in it and I mean. just look at her. I would be surprised if she wasn't queer somehow.

Bisexual, and has a curse that affects her day to day life

Bi & lost arm and has a chronic illness metaphorically

Propaganda:

Has canonically dated both men and a non-binary person. Her curse affects her ability to use magic (and at one point outright stops it), which is very important in witch life. Said curse also causes her body parts to fall off sometimes. Many have said her curse is like a metaphor for depression but really it's more like a magic version of a physical disability (although I wouldn't be surprised if she actually also had depression).

Uuuuh she’s great and stuff idk I can’t propaganda well sorry

Harrowhark Nonagesimus-The Locked Tomb

Qualifications:

She's a lesbian and the author Tamsyn Muir has confirmed she's written as schizophrenic, based on her own experience.

Okay SO Harrow is a necromancer nun who is also a huge lesbian. She spends the books of TLT series being super gay and repressed about her emotions for 1. Butch lesbian Jesus and 2. Human Barbie the death of God. She narrates the second book (Harrow the Ninth) and is author-confirmed schizophrenic. She experiences hallucinations thru the whole book and has since childhood. She’s also WIDELY headcannoned as autistic by the fandom (me too) because. Because she IS SO FUCKING AUTISTIC (source: I am autistic too)

Schizophrenic lesbian with a traumatic brain injury

Schizophrenic and sapphic

canonically a schizophrenic lesbian. neither word is used in series, she isn't in a position to get a diagnosis and queer identities are so normalised in the universe that labels just don't get mentioned, but she is written as both by an author who is also both.

Canon schizophrenia Canon lesbian with canon schizophrenia

She's a schizophrenic lesbian with a traumatic brain injury

Propaganda:

The Locked Tomb is pretty popular on tumblr but I might as well submit her anyway

She’s a lesbian necromancer nun. She’s a saint and also woke up the death of God, who is a human Barbie, who she is in love with, tho she’s also kind of married to lesbian Jesus. She’s schizophrenic. She’s scrungly. She puts bread in a drawer. She’s even autistic

Harrow first started hallucinating (visual and auditory) when she was ten years old! The traumatic brain injury and seizures are much more recent. Unironically gotta love a pov protagonist who makes you struggle along with her in sorting out hallucination and false memory to figure out what's going on. Also while Harrow's disability shapes the narrative, the book isn't at all about her being disabled. It's a fantasy/scifi gothic horror novel about being trapped at a work retreat with God.

so many women want her but she’s determined to be in love with the soul of the dead earth trapped in a 10ft barbie doll instead. she’s a lesbian disaster and is trying to deal with both schizophrenia and over 200 actual ghosts haunting her.

a schizophrenic lesbian, written by a schizophrenic lesbian! she's in love with multiple dead women, but she's also a necromancer so that's not as big of an obstacle as it sounds. weird little bone-obsessed necromancer lesbian. I care about her deeply

Author Tamsyn Muir has discussed how Harrow's schizophrenia is modeled after her own experiences. It matters a lot in her eponymous novel, where her inability to trust what she sees and hears is compounded by her self-inflicted lobotomy to save her girlfriend's soul from getting absorbed into her own.

Harrow is one of the protagonists of her series & both her lesbianism & her schizophrenia play major parts in the story. The author has spoken about how she wrote Harrow based on her own experiences, and the authenticity comes through strongly. Beyond that, she's a teenage gothic nun in love with a holy corpse & she's the greatest bone magician ever born. What more needs be said.

She's a lesbian, she's psychotic, she has seizures, she faints regularly and can't rely on her own memory worth shit. And the only reason she's not going to kill god is so she and her girl can escape the cycle of violence. Basically, Harrowhark Nonagesimus is the entire package.

Anything Else?:

Listen. Listen. I’m not doing Harrow justice here. I LOVE her (Submitter 2)

The author is also schizophrenic! Which is pretty cool. (Submitter 3)

The author of the series is openly schizophrenic, and has mentioned in interviews that she's drawing on that experience when writing Harrow :) (Submitter 8)

[mdzs-owns-my-ass-i-guess]

In loving memory

based off a heartbreaking dream I had last night about Hua Cheng and his mom

Near the old border of the Xianle kingdom, there used to be a burial ground. It was not a place for the lavish mausoleums of nobles and royalty, nor the resting place of great scholars or renowned artists. The many plaques that used to dot the grassy expanse of that field had long eroded, or been destroyed, the lands of Xianle having fallen to wars, ruin and reconstruction countless times over the hundreds of years since the kingdom had met its tragic fate.

The people buried there had followed the same fate that all living beings did, their bodies lost to decay and their souls following the reincarnation cycle until they completed it. Those left to remember them had dissipated just the same, and with them, so did the memories of their loved ones.

New homes were erected, new cities appeared, new kingdoms rose, new people lived and died and loved, clueless to those before.

But near the old border of Xianle, in a corner of the old burial ground, a small mound dotted with red flowers and a dark marble headstone remained. The writing on it seemed to have been engraved in a long lost language, the letters glittering silver, so it was hard to say who the grave belonged to. It bore an elegance like no other, simple though incredibly refined, and no matter the tempest it endured, be it human or natural catastrophes, it stood unmoved, shaded by two, beautiful willow trees.

Some believed it to have been a monument to some great warrior, perhaps a beloved benefactor - but nobody had been able to find out anything about the person that lay there or the life they lived. More importantly, nobody seemed to know who it was that lit incense there every day, or how it was kept n such pristine condition although nobody was ever seen visiting.

Legends and folktales circulated, some speculating that it must have been the work of evil spirits or some sort of supernatural being, though no cultivators had ever found any ghost or monster haunting those lands - in fact, the vicinity of the grave was mysteriously un-haunted, like something was keeping evil at bay to protect the small monument. It was even said that, should one find themselves in a dangerous situation, like being chased by thieves or frightened by demons, if they bowed three times by that grave, the danger would pass them by and their life would be spared.

Regardless, it seemed whoever rested there had been loved immensely - because even if it was unknown who tended to the grave, its appearance spoke of great affection and respect. It had been often that people that passed by marveled at it, wishing that they would also be loved so deeply after they pass that their resting place would be kept so beautiful many years after they pass.

Xie Lian had passed by the grave once, in his long, aimless travels in the mortal realm, and had also wondered what kind of person rested there and how kind they must have been to be remembered even long after their language had disappeared and their home had fallen to ruin.

Though, he could not allow himself the luxury to imagine being remembered so fondly or loved this much, knowing his memory had been tainted and his name cursed too much to even dream of such a thing. And death had long been forbidden for him as an escape as well, no matter how much he had wished for it.

So troubled had he been at that time that he had not stopped to look a second longer, and continued on his way, only hoping that, in time, people would at least forget him enough not to hate him any longer.

---

It was many hundreds of years later that Xie Lian saw the grave again, this time at his beloved's side. He had not explicitly asked Hua Cheng about his family, but it had been one night as they held one another that the topic came up, and Xie Lian had opened up about his parents, about his family, about how they died but more importantly, how they lived. It had not been something Xie Lian spoke of easily, but with Hua Cheng, he felt safe enough to share the burden of both his memories and his regrets.

Unlike him, Hua Cheng didn't have too many memories of his parents, as he had run away after his mother died. He could remember his father being a distant man, involved enough to provide basic necessities but absent enough to feel like he was never around. He'd had siblings, but they had never been close, as Hua Cheng had been born much later than them and so they were older and looked down on him, thinking him an accident born of their parents' negligence. There had been much bullying, to the point that he had learned it better to cover his mismatching eye to avoid the mockery of his peers, but that didn't help much either.

It had been unclear to Xie Lian whether that day when little Hong-er had fallen off the wall had been an accident or an intentional decision, and he had not pressed for answers. Part of him did not want to find out that the man that would become his beloved had consciously taken the dive back then, and another part of him knew Hua Cheng did not want him to know either.

So, Xie Lian instead asked about Hua Cheng's mother. She had been a kind woman from the fragments of memory Hua Cheng had of her, and she had loved him very much. She had come from foreign lands with many riches, but it was unclear what had happened to them - they had never been rich and Hua Cheng believed either his father spent recklessly or his siblings had taken advantage of their mother's kindness. Either way, Hua Cheng saw nothing of a comfortable life as a child, but he had not minded the poverty so long as he could take comfort in his mother's love.

But she had fallen ill unexpectedly and spent several months bedridden, and as such, Hua Cheng's father had left her, unwilling to care for his sick wife. Though he had been barely a teenager at the time, Hua Cheng had taken care of her to the best of his abilities - but when the money ran out, so did the medicine, and she wasted away in great pain and torment.

It was Hua Cheng alone that buried her, and her funeral ceremony had been incredibly modest. He visited her grave as much as he could when he was alive, and as a ghost as well. So, when he finally became Hua Cheng, Crimson Rain Sought Flower, and was not Hong-er any longer, he revisited the forgotten gravesite and sculpted a befitting headstone for his mother and made sure that her place of rest would be honored properly as long as he existed.

He had not been able to find her soul, and so he had taken solace in the knowledge that, somewhere in the world, in a different form, his mother's soul had, perhaps, found happiness. But as a dutiful, loving son, he honored her the best way he still could.

Xie Lian gazed at the masterfully carved gravestone and couldn't help a sad, remorseful smile tugging at his lips. He imagined little Hua Cheng crying for his mother, left alone in a cruel world, he imagined Crimson Rain Sought Flower carving her headstone with the same loving care he carved all of Xie Lian's statues.

He lit up four sticks of incense, and bowed to the grave alongside his husband, distantly remembering the tales he'd heard of the peaceful atmosphere that seemed to surround the mysterious grave at the border of the old Xianle kingdom. Perhaps some of it had been Hua Cheng's power and reputation keeping evil at bay. But, though her soul must have reincarnated, Xie Lian wondered whether some of the love remained.

Thank you. Thank you for having loved and cared for the one I love today. And for entrusting him to me, though I have not made it easy for him. Wherever you are, I hope that you can somehow feel that he is loved and he is happy. I will do the best I can for him to always be.

---

"Thank you for bringing me here today, San Lang." Xie Lian spoke after a poignant silence, on their way back home.

"I thought it was time gege met my mother... however, I must ask, had you been here before?"

Xie Lian huffed fondly, Hua Cheng's observant eye having not missed the familiarity in Xie Lian's eyes at the sight.

"A long time ago. I was in passing."

"Gege did not stop."

"No, I didn't... I was... troubled."

It was Hua Cheng's turn to huff. "If you had, I would have found you sooner."

"Such is fate, San Lang." Xie Lian laughed softly, taking his husband's hand in his.

Hua Cheng smiled, sincere and loving. "Then I am glad I could subdue fate enough to finally be able to meet you."

[wife-of-legolas]

Plumbing in Middle Earth

Just rewatched LOTR, came to the scene when Merry & Pip were washing dishes after the firework incident and started wondering about ME plumbing. So I did some digging- in that particular scene they're washing from a bucket (no tap), however, if you back up to the scene where Bilbo invites Gandalf into the kitchen, you can see fairly clearly a tap by the window! This brings up a whole load of questions & assumptions. By my reasoning, if they have somewhat 'modern' taps, they should have fairly advanced sewer systems and we'd assume toilets, baths with running water, etc. But, there's a whole can of worms that opens. Hobbits seem to have a somewhat typical standard of living across social classes, although some variation (Frodo & Bilbo inheritance, Sam working class), they all seem to have similar living conditions. I'd go so far to assume that the whole shire, and therefore everyone in it, would have advanced plumbing. Side note- the hobbits never having left the shire would also be spending their time in the wilderness without washrooms for the first time. Extra fun.

However, what about humans? Dwarves? Elves?

Humans, in contrast to hobbits, seem to have a clearer divide in living conditions between classes. I think that the lower classes would not have access to running water, and therefore have to draw water from wells.

I don't want to even think about the state of dwarven washrooms, or how on earth they drain them underground, so yeah. I'll leave that up to your imagination. The real kicker is the elves. We don't know a lot about the specifics of their bodily functions (except they're a lot cooler than us ofc), and therefore the question can be asked: do they release bodily waste in the same way as us? If so are there fancy wood-carved elven toilets in, say, Rivendell? And it probably smells like butterflies and rainbows, let's be honest. Also, though I doubt they need them, super nice baths and possibly showers.

Also on this note I could go on a whole tangent about my whole 'elf hair oil is a natural conditioner which is why they always have perfect hair' tangent but thought I'd keep it short & sweet

[gertritude-art]

Evil Gertritude: I'm making a VN about NORMAL KIDS without HEAD PROBLEMS 😈😈😈

i can't even joke about this... i started picturing mordred in jeans + a t-shirt and felt ill. what is wrong sweetie. come back to us.

[hisenemy]

I wanted to study others and behaviours. Now I see through everyone and everything.

Studying human nature and norms so masking isn’t as hard. (It is).

[ehhgg-art]

you ever think about the fact that laios won not by being a monster but by being human.

monsters as we’ve seen throughout the manga are predictable, they have this rhythm to them that, once someone understands, can be used to take them out. take kelpies like anne where laios states that she is just a monster and cannot be trusted. even kensuke is “just a monster after all”, running away from danger when laios needs it most. kensuke is beloved by laios not just because he is a monster, but because laios, in human fashion, anthropomorphized him in his mind (giving him a name, etc.)

but people are different. they are multifaceted, non-monolithic creatures. long lived races are not all pious and apathetic towards short lived races as we see with marcille and senshi. chilchuck actively works against the prejudice against half-foots. tallmen from every region have their cultural differences as we see with shuro and laios/falin. even “demi-humans” like orcs have depth to them, having rich culture and values despite the general idea that they are a violent pillaging race.

even laios’ family and village, the nexus point for his dislike of people, have depth to them. though their parents did not actively protect their children, they did not wish harm on them either. the exorcisms performed on falin by their mother was harmful in laios’ eyes, but helpful in his mother’s perspective.

laios himself, despite loving monsters and hating humans, is so very painfully human. he hates humans but has risked life and literal limb to save his sister and his party. he loves monsters but is aware of their dangerous nature and spares them no mercy.

(big spoilers under the cut)

the winged lion mistook laios as a one dimensional entity, one which only operates on a one track mind without paradox. it thought laios to operate like a monster, and so it approached his desires like one. it believed that laios, being so obsessed with monsters, must behave like one as well, so completely disregarded the fact that laios could have something up his sleeve.

but laios is not a monster, he is human. he has ulterior motives, overlapping beliefs, contradicting values. it is his humanness that made him explain to his party what to do when things went awry. it is his humanness that allowed him to lie. lie to the world about his true plan as well as lie to the winged lion about his intentions.

sure laios WANTS to be a monster, that much is definitely true. but what he IS is a different story. laios is an unpredictable, sporadic, messy human being. it is that fact which the winged lion overlooked, and ultimately led to its downfall and laios’ victory.

[lucidloving]

[ranticore]

do centaurs who would normally have horns (like cows or deer) have them in the ironwall setting? would a cowtaur be expected to be polled as a baby?

I did think pretty hard about including additional animal features above the waist but ultimately decided against it (they have round human ears etc), so I don't think there would be horns at all but I never really considered that either. So... maybe

[uncanny-tranny]

Trans people deserve the right to be fucked up without it being equated with if we deserve to, like, live or exist. All people, in some way or another, will be fucked up in a particular way that you might not jibe with and that is not inherently bad

[humanconditionpoetry]

Earth's Voice

Hello Y'all, I got a new poem for you. Sorry if I have not been in as much as I have been in the past few days. I kind of been out of it(in general), trying to regain back some momentum.

That said, I have a simple poem that I hope many of you will like. No, I have not forgotten about Illusions(Expectations vs. Reality), it is coming soon. I am just little typed out of writing, but it is in the editing stage.

That said....enjoy this simple nature poem.

Thanks for understanding and Hope you all have a great day!

Earth's Voice:

I hear the voice of nature in the trees.

It echos within me.

I am Scared to leave...

Nature's pleasant sounds....

are gone by Humans resound.

"Suddenly, I do not smell, hear, feel, taste or even see"

Is this the cast out of paradise like Eve?

Garden's, Flower and Trees lush...

Disappearing in a Rush.

Barren Lands...

Was this parts of God's Plan?

Or was it the Design of Man?

"It Matters not, Now"

The Earth's Singing constructs a vow

"Save me Now or Share your Name , along with others on the ground..."

This too is also a allowed.

"Save What was once so profound...."

"Don't let greed win another round"

I leave to save the Earth's Key...

Nature, her every beating heartbeat.

Nature preceded Civilization.... Civilization with no restraints or connections, ends Nature.

[now-you-sound-like-a-jedi]

Taking a course on ancient warfare and military history as part of my masters, I hope you're all ready for several long analyses applying sociological theories of violence and warfare to Mandalore