it is hard to explain without sounding vain or stupid - but the more attractive others find you, the more you're allowed to do. the easier your life is.
i have been on both sides of this. i am queer and cuban. i grew up poor. for a long time i didn't know "how" to dress - and i still don't. i make my sister pick out any important outfits. i have adhd in spades: i was never "cool and quiet", i was the weird kid who didn't understand how "normal" people behave. i was bullied so hard that the "social outcasts" wouldn't even talk to me.
i got my teeth straightened. i cut my hair and learned how to style it. i got into makeup. it didn't matter, at first, if i actually liked what i was doing - it mattered how people responded to it. like a magic trick; the right dress and winged eyeliner and suddenly i was no longer too weird for all of it. i could wear the ugly pokemon shirt and it was just "ironic" or a "cute interest."
when i am seen as pretty, people listen. they laugh at my jokes. they allow me to be weird and a little spacey. i can trust that if i need something, people will generally help me. privilege suddenly rushes in: pretty does buy things. pretty people get treated more gently.
i am the same ugly little girl, is the thing. still odd. still not-quite-fitting-in. still scrambling. still angry and afraid and full of bad things. of course it became my obsession. of course i stopped eating. i had seen, in real time, the exact way it could change my life - simply always be perfect, and things can be easy. people will "overlook" all the other things. i used to have panic attacks at the idea others would see me without makeup - what would they think? even for a simple friend hangout, i'd spend a few hours getting ready. after all, it seemed so obvious to me: these people liked me because i was pretty.
i worry about how much i'm being a bad activist: i understand that "pretty" is determined by white, het, cis, able-bodied hegemonies. if i was really an ally, wouldn't i rally against all of this? recently there's been a "clean girl" trend which copies latinx aesthetics: dark slicked-back hair, hoop earrings. i almost never wear my hair like that; i can hear the middle school guidance counsellor advising me that i might fare better if i toned it down on the culture.
the problem is that i can take pretty on and off. that i have seen how different my life is on a day where i try and a day where i don't. i told my therapist i want to believe the difference is confidence, but it's not. and when you have seen it, you can't unsee it. it lives inside your brain. it rots there; taunting. i get rewarded for following the rules. i am punished for breaking them. end of story.
pretty people can get what they want. pretty people can feel confident without others asking where they got their nerve from. pretty people can be weird and different. pretty people get to have emotions; it's different when they get aggressive, it's pretty when they cry with frustration.
of course people care about this. of course it has crawled into you. of course you want to be seen as attractive. it's not vanity: it's self-preservation.
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i'm going to move on. whatever it takes, i will forget.
this was something that you began to carry around, the weight of the words a burden to your shoulders. you feel weak. you feel lethargic. floating. like a body drowning in stagnant waters.
there is no one else that could pull you up, you know that. god, you know that, but you continue to fall. splintering. breaking.
a washed up star, devouring everything in its wake as it sputters in its futile attempts to live—is this not you?
is this not the way in which simon left you? pawing at the flesh of your body, nails digging in as you poke and scratch, hoping to gouge out the pulsing organ because maybe, just maybe, if you had no heart then you would not feel this way anymore.
because he left you like this: a broken person, unable to live. to breathe. food no longer tastes the same, your bedroom smells sour—it still smells like his old perfume—and no amount of opened windows can make the scent waft away. you can barely drink your water, you can barely stand underneath the shower.
he left you like this: a ghost of what once was, unable to let go of the memories. you hear the rumble of his voice even when you smother yourself with your sheets, you feel the ticklish touch of his fingers running down the planes of your spine when you lay on your side. the spring air feels too cold. the spring sun feels too hot.
you are a miasmic reaction. a person with no purpose. a museum of all of your love, no matter the end.
simon still leaves you messages:
"your friends say they haven't seen you for a while now, love. i hope you're doing just alright."
"i'm sorry. i always will be. please, take care sweetheart."
you think he is the devil whom old folks in your hometown used to talk about; the king of evil who comes in a beautiful visage, before sliding in your dreams to devour you from the inside-out. the malevolence who sucks the life out from every pore so that he may leave you stranded on your bed, in your house, on your own skin.
because if simon isn't the devil, then why does he torment you this way?
he calls you beautiful names like they don't mean anything to him; it makes you question if they even meant something to him then, before the breakup.
maybe they didn't. that hurts.
maybe they did—this hurts more. because why would he continue to call you these? why would he continue to remind you of what once was?
your fingers twitch, poised for a reply. poised for anything—a plea, a question.
you send him neither.
instead, you delete his contact and shut your phone off. you throw it underneath your bed before sliding back under your sheets, the backs of your eyes prickling as tears build. pooling. then, falling.
(a weeping star—)
your regret peaks the next day as you clamber to your bruised knees, stretching your gaunt body to pluck your phone out of the darkness. you turn it on and add him back to your message list, frantic, heart in your throat, only to stop short at the reality of what you've done.
his contact is a blank slate now, just as empty as you are.
the words that you used to cherish, the ones where he called you his beloved and his angel and his favourite person ever, are gone. the proof that he loved you just as much has all been deleted, all because of your error.
you sob again, anguish anew. bile rises from the back of your throat and you stumble to your feet as you rush to your bathroom, your body knocking against the door before tumbling onto the floor. you heave.
what a mess you've become, still unable to reconcile the fact that your lover is gone now.
lover—the holder of all of your love.
simon.
simonsimonsimon.
he's left you, truly.
this is it, forever.
how cruel, you think, weeping, your hands trembling as you wipe at the corners of your mouth. how could he leave me this way?
the grief bloats, and you cry.
you cry because it is all that you can do. all that you are left to do.
("why're you cryin'?" simon asked, his thumb gentle as it swiped at the skin just underneath your eyes.
"i've missed you," you replied wetly, voice all nasally from your tears.
he huffed a fond laugh, the puffs of his breath hitting the bridge of your nose. he turned to cup your cheek instead, his other arm falling to wrap around your waist.
"y'know i'll never leave you, yeah?" his eyes were crinkled in his smile. "i've got so much love f'r you, petal. leaving you isn't even something that i can see happening."
you sniffled, nodding, your lips wobbling as new bouts of tears fell. simon smiled before he pulled you to his lap, gentle and careful. you tucked your face on the crook of his neck, finding comfort in his touch.)
you peel your eyes open, cataloguing the phantom pain shooting from the small of your back to your hip. you shift, careful as you rouse from the cold floor of your bathroom.
you think you dreamt of something—a memory, perhaps—but you can't quite recall what it was.
the sharp throb in your heart clues you in on what it might have been, but you're too afraid to jog your memory because you know you wouldn't be able to handle thinking about simon again. it is going to be a long day, after all.
a long, empty day.
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Sometimes I feel like only Peter Parker gets how humbling it is to be poor jesus christ. I am enjoying my time despite not being my cup of tea (I am a dialogue person, I love dialogue I love dialogue as a dog loves little delicious treats. 60's comics unfortunately do not have the best kind of dialogues). But I am enjoying it, almost as a concept, hecause Stan Lee and Robin Dikto do not have the fear to show a pathetic little man, they don't have the embarrassment of showing your hero getting rejected by the girl, forgetting to let his suit dry and having to wear a wet scrunky suit, showing him being arrogant, being annoying, a very very antisocial guy.
I think reading so so many comics where it's clear how much the writers are trying to make the hero sound cool, the smartest, handsomest and smoothies guy in the room.
Peter is kind of a breath of fresh air. He gets it, he really does. He's not cool, he's not there yet. He's a kid doing dumb shit. Trying to do better, failing and failing and trying. No wonder so many people who got to read his comics as they were growing up hold Peter so close to their heart.
Because he's the proof you can try again, you can fuck up, in ten, twenty, thirty hell maybe forty years from now it won't matter. Just try again. Stand up. Try again.
@sciderman talks a lot about how Spider-Man is about reaching manhood and I've never get it, sure as a concept yes but I couldn't grasp why. Now I do.
It's not about waking up and being the man you should be, being responsible for having a cool montage of getting better and better. Nah it's the every day thing. Peter isn't (at least what I am getting of the comics while I read at my pace and time) the representation of becoming the power and responsability thing, he is the representation of having this as a goal. And trying each day.
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thinking of coming home to katsuki after a bad day and just. the weight of his presence is so strong yet so gentle and warm that you break down at the door and he’s all panicked because what the hell. just asked why you were so quiet and suddenly there’s sobs. would fuss over you the whole night. firm in taking care of you but his love is so gentle and tender. need him.
oh anon 🥺 my dearest 🥺 you've been holding it in all the way home bc you're so uncomfy !! and stressed !! and your clothes don't feel right on your skin and your head hurts and you feel anxious and irritated and and and 🥺 and when you get home, katsuki's there, earlier than you expected him to be—which also makes you upset, bc you wanted to have something ready for dinner by the time he got home 🥺
and he just kind of. glances up at you from his phone—some email he's writing; doing work while at home like always—and says a gruff, "hey," to which you don't respond 🥺 you just frown at him in the doorway, all crumpled 🥺 bc he's not supposed to be home yet !!!!
but 🥺 he's so soft in his sweatpants and hoodie and he looks relaxed 🥺 and you're finally home and—you are glad, really, that he's here too, so that you can change into sweatpants and sit on the couch with him and be relaxed and cozy 🥺
and he's just wrapped up in what he's doing, for the moment, so he asks you, "y'comin' in or what?" without looking up, and when you're still silent, he looks up to see your face drawn down and your mouth all open and you're covering your eyes bc they burn with all your tears.
and you're right he does panic LOL full on flips his phone out of his hands, socks sliding across the hardwood as he hurries over to you.
"oi, oi," he softens his voice, but there's a practiced urgency in it, a firmness in his grip when he pulls your hands from your face. "'s'wrong, huh?" and when you don't open your eyes, he gets close, enough to bump his forehead against yours gently. "oi, look at me,"
you weakly shake your head, and you're only able to imagine how awful your makeup has smeared. all your tears have made you instantly congested, and you almost don't even want to talk lest you get too snotty.
but katsuki doesn't budge, and so you breathe enough to say,
"i just had a bad day,"
and it's so pitiful LOL but once he realizes you're not hurt or in immediate danger, he just sighs and stands back up straight, before wrapping an arm around your neck and squishing you to his chest. he takes the bag off your shoulder and sets it on the ground and helps you out of your jacket, and then he makes you sit down on the couch and drink a big glass of water LOL
and he does take care of you 🥺 makes you dinner and doesn't let you argue with him about it, lets you cuddle up to him and stays off his phone as much as he can, leaves work at work, and then he gets in your bath without you even having to ask 🥹
HE'S A SOFTIE I ADORE HIM SO TY FOR GIVING US THIS IDEA 🥹🥹🥹
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You know what
These guys now have hair
Wouldn’t that get annoying fast?
Wanna patrol at night in the wind? Suddenly there is hair in your face, unable to see anything. Swimming underwater? Hair gets stuck in the tiniest gap possible. A little too much in the sun, outside? BAM, your hair is suddenly fluffed up and looks like a birds nest! Wanna comb it? Impossible, for not only do they now need to use conditioner to tame it, it needs to be EXACTLY right or they shall suffer with tangles in the way, cursed for the coming 72 years. Not to mention that hair gets EVERYWHERE- so now every single surface in their home has some hair around, or fighting over who's hair it is that magically appeared on their food
This started as a fluffy of thought that now they get to experience the feeling of someone playing or carding their fingers through their hair cause I love that so much but now I'm cracking up imagening all the minor inconveniences they could face
Omg I literally love everything about this so much!! 😂
Also I felt that “combing fingers through each others hair” so much and had to draw a picture:
Thankfully they won’t be dealing with having hair for the rest of their lives 🤣
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