Thinking about the episode where Dipper and Mabel went back in time and ran into kid-Wendy, who thought Dipper was cute, and it was kind of this "wow" moment for him. Now I can't stop imagining a scenario in the familiar au where a married, up-and-coming demon hunter Dipper Pines, along with Bill, have to go back in time for whatever reason to about when he was 12. He figures they should keep a low profile if they want to return to their timeline unchanged, but they end up bumping into Dipper's younger self, back when he was first dropped off and all noodle armed and couldn't really defend himself against the town bullies. Almost as if on cue, a group of kids come up on young Dipper and try to pick on him, only for adult Dipper to ward them away. Older Dipper still considering himself kind of a massive loser with a lot to learn, but his younger self just looks at this strange new-comer and thinks he's SO COOL🤩🤩🤩!!! And maybe follows him around a bit in admiration, silently saying stuff about wishing he were "that strong," or "that smart," or "ever a little cool." And Dipper has that same "wow" moment, but for an entirely different reason. Maybe he did grow up to be everything he wanted to be as a kid, and maybe even the kid version of him wasn't a loser to begin with; people were just serious jerks.
(Bonus points if Stan definitely knows who this flame-wielding stranger that just blew into town is, and seeing how Dipper's grown and matured puts him at ease and makes him more confident that maybe he can raise the twins on his own. Look at the kid go. He did something right.)
Anon, why must you tempt me with new ideas when I have so many WIPs
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Feel free to skip. TW: I'm joining the military.
Growing up is really hard, and I don't think we realize that until we're on the verge of a big change, standing on the border between two parts of your life, balancing on a precipice before you take the swan dive known to many as change.
I'm packing my things. My dad finally brought home boxes and storage tubs and I'm finally packing my things, and that makes the passage of time so much more real.
I'm packing my things. My mom opened the door to tell me to watch my sleeping brother, and said nothing about the fact my room is a mess, or that I was just staring blankly at the cardboard box I just taped the bottom of. That box is ready for my craft books and paint stuff, my origami paper, my reading stand, my books on how to make stuff like children's books and animation. She made no mention of it all, just made that same pinched expression she has for weeks and then schooled her expression into something more neutral as she nodded towards the bedroom where my brother is and after a moment I got up and stumbled in, sitting at the foot of the bed to type out some kind of vent on Tumblr.
I'm packing my things, and I'm stuck between wanting to cry and finding myself unable to cry. I'm leaving home. I've been dreaming of getting out of here off and on since I was 13. At times I had a countdown of years, months, weeks, days that I had to stay, that I had to wait for the day I could finally leave. It made being angry or sad or any other complicated emotion easier. It made hardship easier to cope with. It made it easier to get through the hard times because I knew I could leave and nothing could stop me.
I'm packing my things, slowly, piece by piece, and I'm starting to understand the weight of what my dad said, when he said I was the first person on either side of my family in generations to not run away from home before turning 18. My mom left home at 17, my dad spent more days out of the house than in it as a teenager and left the god damn country. My bio paternal family has these issues too. My maternal family is full of people that ran off, that stayed away from home and didn't look back. My mom only speaks to one sister, and can't speak to her brother as long as their mother is alive. I didn't leave. I finished high school, I got my diploma, I took my time and I didn't leave before I was a legal adult.
I'm packing my things to leave home, and it's hard. It's scary. I've never been away from home for very long, and here I am, getting ready to do something more than just "Move out".
I'm packing my things, putting my life into boxes, sorting what's going to stay, waiting for me to return, what's getting tossed, what's going to get donated or given away. I keep finding things and remembering shit related to them. I keep finding things and remembering who gave them to me. I keep finding things and remembering which parent smiled when I got it.
I'm packing my things, and in a way I'm also processing a kind of grief I didn't know existed.
I'm leaving home for something I thought through for 8 months, and I'm coming up on the one year anniversary since I made my decision. It's been just under two since I signed the dotted line, swore in, and came home to congratulations and a sureness that I'm doing the right thing for me.
In 5 days, I'm going to my last meeting. Getting a send off from a group of people doing the same thing. A couple of them doing the EXACT same thing.
In 9 days, I'll spend the last full 24 hours I've got with my family, eating a fruit tart and playing putt putt. I'll say good night and that'll be the last time I see them for months at the very least.
In 10 days, I'm hiding my key on the porch and walking out the front door while everyone is asleep. They'll wake up and I'll be hundreds of miles away from them. In 10 days, I'm hopping in a big unmarked government van (and this will never not be funny to me) with like 5 other people and we're all doing the same thing. We're going somewhere and we have no idea what is really waiting for us.
In 11 days, I'm not in civilian limbo anymore. As it stands I am subject to the UCMJ but I'm not a sailor yet. In 11 days, I'm a recruit, and that's fucking dizzying to think about.
I'm getting ready to start a new part of my life and it's going to be exciting and new and I'll make friends and I'll go a couple places and I'll have stories to tell my brother and family. I think I'll be better, when all is said and done.
But right now, I'm packing my things into boxes and tubs, and right now, I want to cry.
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People often ask me, "Where are you from?"
I tell them I'm from my hometown, in Illinois, in the USA.
But the real answer is a little more complicated.
I was born in this town. I've lived here my whole life. But my mother was born and raised in Hungary, an ocean away. I may have been born in America, but I bear a Hungarian name.
I never learned Hungarian. English is the only language I speak. And yet my accent is tinted by my mother's, my heritage shading my words with a language I do not understand. Where am I from, when I speak with the sounds of a language I never learned?
I lap up the bits of knowledge I find about Hungarian history, the bits of culture my mother shares. I feel a deep loss at the fact I do not speak the language; I make steps to learn. I have been to Hungary once, when I was nine years old; I long to visit again, to meet my aunts and cousins from so far away, to explore the place that helped shape me from afar. I feel a connection to this country I've barely been, more than to the country I've lived all my life.
I recently learned that by Hungarian law, because my mother is a Hungarian citizen, I am as well. I would simply need to file some paperwork and I would be officially verified as a citizen of the land of half my blood. Does being Hungarian mean I am from Hungary? Can I be from more than one place? Can I be from a place I've never lived?
America is often touted as a land of immigrants, a melting pot. People don't identify Americans by their surnames, as they might say someone has a German surname, or a French surname. Americans bear surnames from all over the world, regardless of where they were born. "Where are you from?" is not always a simple question. So many of us carry the history of so many places in our selves, in our voices, in our traditions.
But this is not what people want to hear when they ask me where I am from. They are saying, "I have identified you as Other. Tell me what kind of Other you are." They are saying "I do not know your name, I do not know your voice. You are not like me."
How do I know this?
Because when I say I am from my hometown - when I tell them I am from the place I was born, the place I have always lived - there is a second question.
"But where are you really from?"
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