#but i think under all those knives and toxic masculinity

[runthepockets]

I've been thinking a lot about "the war on masculinity" today and I came to this conclusion: I don't believe there's any grand war being waged on it, or that men are being "pussified", or whatever, but I do have reservations and resentment toward anything that boils down to "if men would just embrace their feminine sides and paint their nails and wear pink and show their soft sides more, everything would be perfect!" and nothing beyond that.

Look. I like stuffed animals, and chick flicks. There was a point in my life where I was a "boy with long hair" (I had dreads and cornrows till I was like, 14) I tell my little brothers and my dad and my roommate and my friends and pretty much everyone I love in my life that I love them and miss them and am proud of them and when I'm sad or insecure like, every day. I'm chill with dudes who like makeup and skirts and pink stuff, and wholeheartedly believe there's merit and letting these guys know they're as sexy and desirable as any flannel wearing, beefed up dude. I'll admit that there was a point in my life where I was that of your standard homophobic middle school straight boy where I turned my nose up at / mocked guys like that, but now I'm older and wiser and learned better and I have no ill will or condescending remarks or anything to say toward them. I know all that soft stuff pretty intimately, and feel no shame in admitting anything of it.

That said: I still kinda hate the idea that in order to be seen as "nonthreatening" I gotta divulge all of these things about myself. I won't say it's a large scale issue, or whatever, but I do sense the hesitation when I see people recommending that men who worry about their positions as patriarchs under patriarchy and what that means for the women and kids and gay people in their lives, who have never explicitly expressed any prior interest in experimenting with their presentation or interests or genders, simply "accept the feminine side they're so obviously in denial of" as the solution to combatting the capitalist white supremacist patriarchy and the rigid gender roles they're beholden to rather than, like, advising those guys to pick what they like about their current interest / presentations and shirking off all the bits that come off as chauvanistic (IE: I'm a heterosexual, working class dude from the south. I like guns, I like fancy pocket knives, gritty rock music, I like old school muscle cars and 90s pickup trucks and doing shit with my hands. I'm also black and a huge nerd, and am fully aware that these subcultures are very gatekeep-y toward women and gay people, let alone myself as another straight dude solely because of the color of my skin, so I just treat everyone that shows any interest in them the same as I would any other dude.) and simply proceeding on as you were before.

Again, I think it's great that men are very openly wearing skirts and painting their nails and watching magical girl animes, and stuff. That shit is wicked, and I know the occassional "friendly reminder that it's ok for boys to be soft" or "I love boys who've undergone the trials and tribulations of unpacking toxic masculinity, I feel so safe around them" post is helping more than it hurts, and generally isn't the grander opinion society draws to and needs to be said as a result. But also.....idk man, you can't be telling me the only way to escape hegemonic masculinity as a man is by being more like Harry Styles. Or by telling girls you listen to Pop Music and cry over Disney movies. Like even in a world without patriarchy, that's not going to be most men. Even under patriarchy, that's not all women. That's not a sustainable mindset. This can't be all there is. Surely there's a way to enjoy action movies and archery as a man without alienating the marginalized people around you or having to compromise yourself.

[ariadnesweb]

.

This was going to be the post where I theorized about 3rd entity or the vessel...

But actually this is just going to be where I put my two cents on whatever is going on with Kris...

-Honestly Kris is the member of the main cast I feel most 'alien' from. Presumably on purpose, yeah, but still frustrating.

-I think their history in Hometown will prob be very important. Mainly the fact that they're the only human in a town full of monsters...

-Other people can speak about the fact that Kris is: autistic, trans, nonbinary, probably has other forms of neurodivergency, disabled, a person of color, adopted, & mentally ill.

-These all kind of contribute to my understanding of Kris and I consider them canon, but I do not qualify for most of these traits, so like, I am limited in speaking how these traits affect them.

-I do think there is one trait Kris has that goes overlooked in the fandom - Kris is priviledged. They have a good home, a place to sleep, parents who respect boundaries even if they suck at communication. Their family is respected around town, so everyone makes sure to respect them as well.

-An additional element of characterizing Kris is their relationship to Frisk & Chara: Toby Fox wouldn't be so coy about whether Kris is one or the other if it didn't matter.

-Of course the easy answer here is that Kris is a mixture of both.

-That still doesn't clarify much...

-Physically Kris looks like Frisk. Environmentally, they fill the same role Chara did, as an adopted human child with a darker side. Personalitywise - it's unclear.

-I do think their tone and attitude to life speaks more of Frisk than Chara. Kris is chill, quiet, and generally likes having fun. Chara is contrasted by being intense, talkative, and too serious for games.

-Kris does seem to have inherited Chara's interests, though. Chocolate, knives, demons, drawing...

-Honestly, I suspect Kris might've inheritted Chara's moral values as well. Kris is not very chill with breaking the law - actually seems to have anxiety over it.

-(Chara seems to have an extremely black & white view of life, painting those who die/are killed as undeserving of life. It also seems to be a vector for their own self-destruction.)

-Kris's ideal RPG class is a fucking Paladin. The class known for, at their worst, black and white puritan violence. It's not flaws Kris seems to have, but they are trappings of their role.

-The last thing I have to say is: what's the point of Kris's arc? What's endgame?

-It's communication.

-Considering Undertale's themes around toxic masculinity & emotional vulnerability, I am... optimistic the point of Kris's arc is to talk about their own emotions, instead of hiding them under a masked face.

-Kris seems to be under the archetype of 'falling hero', someone who starts out in a good position in life, or decent at least, and by their own human flaw, casts away their gifts. (Kris seems to have a theme of temptation...) Archetypical Fallen Angel shit.

-The tragedy of a fallen hero Cannot Save the World, but the purpose of this tragedy is to bring some form of catharsis, a purging of emotion.

-A fallen hero is also a very fundamental upset to the status quo - a loss to everything that was good about the status quo, but it can also bring the destruction of everything wrong with the status quo.

-Yeah... Kris is going to cause the Roaring.

-But it's okay, because it was the only path available to search for their freedom (to be elaborated later.)

#deltarune #Soilai's Labyrinth

[thesquidgame]

Template by @youropinion-iswrong

#i did a thing #i love vanyas the best #diego was the hardest #but i think under all those knives and toxic masculinity #he just really wants everyone to be safe #ua #tua #tua2 #ua2 #umbrella academy s2 #umbrella academy #the umbrella academy #cha cha #hazel #diego hargreeves #allison hargreeves #luther hargreeves #ben hargreeves #five hargreeves #vanya hargreeves #klaus hargreeves

[remakethestars]

CABIN 5 — ARES

Headcanons.

❝We shouldn’t equate being a badass with never feeling scared, with never needing self-care, with never being affected by the world. I mean, I think ‘badass’ comes with knowing what makes you feel comfortable and secure, and when something doesn’t, unabashedly saying, ‘Nah.’❞

— Kim Rhodes, The Wayward Podcast

Headcanon masterlist.

Ares is more than just the god of war.

He's also the god of civil order, courage, fear, masculinity, rage, rebellion, & violence.

TRIGGER WARNING: mentions of homophobia, blood (there’s a gif of bloody knuckles), mentions of death.

C5 kids have excellent posture because they're always training, so they're always wearing breastplates. And I assume breastplates improve your posture the way corsets do.

A lot of them do that thing cops & army people do with their vest where they kinda hang their hands from the collar? Bane does it in The Dark Knight Rises, though I must admit he kind of looks weird with his elbows out like that?

Also because they're always training, they've got a lot of scars.

They've got a lot of year-rounders.

Kicking the bed above to wake your bunkmate up.

Steel-toed boots.

Parachute cord laces with knots at the ends for quick donning & removal.

Laces are wrapped around the top of the boot & tucked in rather than tied — U.S. Military style.

You'd think C5 would have a really messy interior, but actually, their bunks are made with military corners, & they all live out of a tidy footlocker. Because most of them have an active-duty mom (Ares seems like an a$$hole who feeds on toxic masculinity, so if he is gay, I feel like he'd take it to the grave), so Ares expects them all to be dutiful — at least under his roof.

The laurels they receive are mounted above their bunk.

Most have a staple jacket or vest. Every time they win laurels, they find a patch on their pillow from Ares to be stitched on to their staple clothing item.

Which means they're all pretty decent at the backstitch or whipstitch.

A lot of them wear camouflage.

A.C.U. jackets over bronze breastplates.

There are no little strings hanging off their clothes. (I’ve heard them called I.P.s?) They burn that sh¡t off with a Bic lighter. 

They grew up bouncing around all over the place. None of them really have a solid answer for, "Where are you from?"

Which means they're used to being the new kid & can make friends easily if they want to.

It also makes them very adaptable.

A lot of their belongings have those military moving stickers on them that never got peeled off.

Those belongings are actually pretty few. They're not materialistic; they travel light.

Obviously, I'd like to think of Ares as the god of army brats. 😅

They know their social security number on rote. And their mom's. And they probably still carry their I.D. card if they become year-rounders because their mom was K.I.A.

Set up a Missing Man Table in the dining pavilion for fallen half-bloods & a Missing Man Bunk in their cabin for their fallen siblings.

Work on 24-hour-time & the metric system.

Even the kids who don't have a military mom measure their lives in increments of 2–4 years.

Surprisingly punctual.

Know when to be quiet & respectful. If they got into trouble, their mom got into trouble too.

A lot of them take J.R.O.T.C. if they survive to high school & aren’t year-founders.

If you don’t know what that is, basically, the U.S. Army employs ex-Air Force, Coast Guard, Military, & Navy personnel to high schools across the country to teach classes that help kids develop into good leaders & overall citizens. They focus on current events, drills, government, history, & technology awareness & teach kids to do well with job interviews, studying, & test taking. I think they also do P.T. (physical training) once a week, so it gives a P.E. credit. (Source.)

It’s not for army recruitment, but if one does join the army, it helps.

Here’s a Tabbes video on it. She’s great.

Not innate weavers like C6, but they all know how to make a quick-deploy parachute cord bracelet & actively wear at least one.

Their E.D.C. (Everyday Carry) game is better than yours.

Boys probably wear their hair "high & tight" or in a crew cut.

Girls probably wear theirs in boxer braids.

They call camp rations M.R.E.s (Made Ready to Eat).

They jokingly call camp M.W.R. (Morale, Warfare, & Recreation).

They can all spot landmines instinctively — that's why none of then are worried about having them around their cabin.

C5 kids call each other by either a demeaning nickname or their surname.

R.B.F.s to end all R.B.F.s.

Some of them can instill anger or fear in someone just by looking at them. Just not as strong as their father or Phobos/Deimos, obviously.

One of them glares at you, & you feel an inkling of fear & think maybe you should reconsider.

Motor cycles & classic cars.

The older kids will teach the younger kids zippo tricks.

I like to think all of them have read Sun Tzu's The Art of War. C5 has a copy that's full of notes & diagrams in the margins.

I also think if they'd've been in the Battle of New York from the start, it would've gone differently; one of them would have questioned Percy's order for them to split up by cabin to cover certain places because, as verse seventeen of chapter six of The Art of War says, "For should the enemy strengthen his van, he will weaken his rear; should he strengthen his rear, he will weaken his van; should he strengthen his left, he will weaken his right; should he strengthen his right, he will weaken his left. If he sends reinforcements everywhere, he will everywhere be weak."

Of course, some C6 (Athena) kid would’ve countered with verse sixteen of chapter seven, which says, “Whether to concentrate or devide your troops, must be decided by circumstances.”

Honestly, I'm surprised none of the C6 kids said anything either; their mother's the goddess of battle strategy; you'd think The Art of War was their Bible.

Bloody knuckles.

Brass knuckles are for cowards.

Always armed to the teeth.

Some of them can turn every day objects into weapons, but it'll only last for a little while.

Knives that can be used against monsters & knives that can be used against mortals.

T5 has stab marks in it from where the older kids challenged the younger kids to I Have All Five Fingers.

🎶 i have all five fingers, and the knife goes chop, chop, chop 🎶

Carve their initials into their bunks & trunks.

My fancasts for Ares are Skeet Ulrich & Jon Bernthal. Jensen Ackles would kick a$$ too, though.

Visit my Ares cabin Pinterest board & my headcanon masterlist.

DISCLAIMER ━━━ I'm not a military brat, I wasn’t in J.R.O.T.C., & I.D.K. jacksh¡t. ━━━ These headcanons are what I consider to be canon in my fanfictions. They may be others’s headcanons I’ve subconsciously filed away in my noggin. If one’s yours and you want it removed or credited, please send me your post and let me know.

#Ares #Ares cabin #Ares kids #children of Ares #Percy Jackson #PJO #HOO #headcannons #headcanons #war #military #army brats #military brats #jrotc #remakethestars

[talvin-muircastle]

Am I Queer? It’s Controversial.

This is going to be long, and it’s going to cover a lot of ground, so please bear with me.  

Recently, this article came to my attention:

https://www.healthline.com/health/gender-nonconforming

I have spent a fair amount of time questioning my own sexuality/identity, and having it questioned by others.  Now approaching five full decades of life, I feel comfortable saying:

I identify as Male, and Straight.

I am Gender Non-Conforming by the standards of the culture I come from.

But I am not comfortable saying this qualifies me as “Queer” or otherwise under LGBTQIA+.   

That article (which is by no means the Last Word on the subject) identifies several areas where I do not conform to my AMAB status as culturally defined:

I have long hair.  But I also have a thick beard and moustache, and I like that combination.  Still, I grew up in a place where long hair on a guy meant you were A) Queer or B) into Heavy Metal.   Even though my teen years saw me sporting a military-style buzzcut more often than not, I tended to hang out with the Metalheads.  My long hair continues to be a point of contention with my conservative relatives and in-laws.   Some of them think I am a Hippie, which is funny because I am allergic to Cannabis.  Wanna watch me fight for breath and puke?  Blow weed smoke in my face.  

I am a Stay-At-Home Dad and Homemaker.  I have been the breadwinner for this family, but that is not part of my identity.  I am quite content to let my wife handle that part of things, and so is she.  I have been a Dad longer than I have been a father, in fact:  for most of my life I have been mentoring teenagers that find their way to me seeking advice, comfort, acceptance, and guidance.    I spent a lot of time worrying about what career should I follow, and it took me far too long to understand and accept that Dad was what I was after.  A woman seeking motherhood as a career is validated, a man seeking fatherhood in the same context is not conforming.  

When I was younger, I got hit with one hell of a double-standard: while wanting to be a Dad as a goal is not acceptable, I was supposed to go out there and sow my wild oats.  OK, I wasn’t really supposed to get girls pregnant, but I was supposed to try.  Wait, what? Try that again?  OK, if you were a teenaged boy in the 80s and 90s and I am pretty sure before that (not sure after, AIDS changed a lot of thinking all around), you were not supposed to get a girl pregnant, but you were supposed to make an attempt as often as possible, in fact you were supposed to score but fail.  If you are confused, don’t feel bad: I was living steeped in this paradox 24/7/365 and came out of it real confused.

Meanwhile, I was looking for a long-term, meaningful relationship with a woman who could be a partner in my life, and avoiding the one-night stands I was supposed to be after according to the standards of my culture, and so many of the people around me—parents, teachers, peers—decided that I must be Queer.  And that was Not A Good Classification To Find Yourself In in Rural Tennessee of the 80’s and 90’s.   Lacking real support, I entered adulthood like a trainwreck still skidding down the tracks, confused as hell and desperately trying to please people whose opinions mattered to me far more than they should.  I did finally find that relationship, and we celebrate 21 years of marriage this month.  Meanwhile I can’t keep track of who has gotten divorced and remarried from that crowd anymore.   

I am not a fan of American Football.  (I am not a fan of soccer, which is football to the rest of the world, but that’s not going to get you labeled Queer in the USA as yet.)   Even so, I got recruited to be the Football Manager for my high school football team, and then I spent several years studying to be an Athletic Trainer in college as an add-on to my English and Education degree.  The fact that I spent 7 years of my life on the sidelines of football games (and basketball, and baseball) and still do not really understand the rules of those sports should have been a clear sign to me that I was trying to conform and failing badly.  An American Male of my generation is supposed to like these things, he is supposed to scream at the television or scream from the stands when watching a game, he is supposed to have a Favorite Team and Wear Their Stuff.

Yeah, that’s not me.  I don’t like combative sports.  I like things that involve grace, beauty, and art.   Figure skating (either gender, singles, but especially pairs) is fun to watch.  The more artistic of gymnastics events are nice (uneven bars and vault are kinda boring, but I love watching floor exercise.)  Watching someone do tricks on a skateboard is more interesting to me than an MMA bout.  I enjoy the art of it.   I used to watch WWF Wrestling as a kid, but I found I enjoyed the “story” more than the violence.  Martial arts practice that is done like a dance is more interesting than watching two people try to kick each other in the face for real.   

I’m told I am supposed to like these things.  I am told that not liking them makes me less masculine.  

This extends into online gaming as well.  Oh, I like some combat games.  We aren’t going to talk about how many hours I have played the XCOM series.  But…I don’t like PVP or multiplayer. I like the story arc, and accomplishing things.  Minecraft?  I like building, and killing mobs is very secondary to that.  In single-player I usually just go peaceful mode and explore the world, build grand railways and tunnels, create comfortable houses or make a home under a lake with a glass roof under the water.  In World of Warcraft I spent more time exploring the world and getting cool screenshots than worrying about getting Phat Loot and XP.  I would take a whole afternoon just to escort a couple of new players through dangerous territory so they could find their friends.  

I have gotten a lot of grief over that.  I am supposed to go out and kill kill kill stab stab stab get the loot!  

And I am supposed to get more than the other person.  It’s competition.  Men are supposed to compete.  And if you can’t get more than the other guy you go dump buckets of lava on his house and laugh at the noob.  

I hate that.  

By the standards I was raised with, I am gender nonconforming.  I most definitely do not conform to the expectations that were laid upon me from my youth.

Does that make me Queer?   I am not comfortable claiming that.

The standards I was held to can also be considered Toxic Masculinity.  They hold that Queer==Less Of A Man.  “Queer” is not “Less.”  I was raised to think it is, but I have learned, and grown, and I know that it is not.  I also do not accept that I, myself, am Less.  The very premise of me being labeled Queer by those people is wrong on all counts.   I am different. I have always known that.  I believe that “Man” and “Male” can encompass more than violence, bullying, and competition.  I also know full well that many who identify as “Woman” and “Female” embrace those as ideals as well.  

I am no stranger to violence.  My life has often been violent.  I have fought off muggers who were armed with knives, I have stared down the barrel of a gun, I have been beaten because someone else wanted to establish himself as the dominant male in our school just after he moved there.  I am not a pacifist: the only reason I have not killed another human being in self-defense is because I was outnumbered.   I just don’t feel that defines my gender, and I have been told it should.  I fight to survive and to protect others, not to prove that I can.  

Others who look like me are guarding statues of Columbus with their Assault Rifles because they feel their masculinity is threatened.  This is another area where I do not conform to my expected gender roles.   Not only do I not feel my masculinity is threatened by BLM, or Pride, or the existence of Trans folks, I no longer feel my masculinity can be threatened.  I spent so many years under attack from “my” side, and gotten so much support from “their” side, that I now understand that my gender is not about what THEY think.  It is MY identity. I OWN it.  I am who I am regardless of their perception of me. Nothing someone else does can take that from me. 

And if anything about me is Queer, it is that: the understanding that my identity belongs to me and not to those who seek to mislabel me.  

I have been told by some in the Queer community that I am welcome among them, and I am grateful for that.  So, so many of my stories can be prefaced with, “There I was, the only Straight Guy in the room, when:”  I am proud to be an Ally.  

But calling myself Queer?  I’m not comfortable doing that.  I could, and I know some who would accept it.  But I feel it is more important to me to break the toxic definition of Masculinity and show that things like nurturing, caring, creating, dancing, loving, uplifting, and oh yes parenting, these ARE Male Qualities, always have been, and should always be.   No criticism of GNC folks who take the Queer label intended or implied: they are not Less, they own their own identity, they are valid.   They are themselves, and have a right to be. 

I am me.

I am a Man.

I will never be the Man they wanted me to be, and I am PROUD of that. 

Happy Pride Month.  

Don’t let the bastards get you down.

#lgbt #lgbtq #pride month

[abused-sides]

Stitching Up Someone Else [Whumptober 2020]

    Prompt: No. 30: Now Where Did That Come From? [Ignoring An Injury] 

    Synopsis: Remus has been hiding something. 

    Trigger warnings: Cults, gaslighting/manipulation, restraints, kidnapping, non-con, humiliation, treating people like property, blood, knives, violence/beatings, a person in a cage, guns, body horror/gore, reference to murder/hate crimes/child death/minor character death, vomiting, non-consensual drugging, burn scar mentions and brief descriptions, off-screen dumpster diving, major characters talking about potentially dying (but I don’t write major character death so no worries there), branding/burning, nonconsensual body-modification, murder threat, some gross bodily fluids, blackmail, vomit eating threat, domestic and child abuse mention/implication, toxic masculinity mentioned and preyed on, survivor’s guilt, implied suicidal thoughts past and present, chronic back pain, pretty detailed description of an allergic reaction (if you have food allergies it could potentially trigger a psuedo-reaction), being lured into a trap, I Swear That Logan Is A Good Boy (like almost-unsympathetic logan), murder threat, arguing, abandonment issues, let me know if I missed anything 

    Word count: 502

A/N: one more! One more! One more! (except if you have any prompts, i’m sure you’ll want more comfort fics)

October 26th. 5:08 am. 

“Remus?” Patton frowned. 

Remus forced a shaky smile, his face pale, and hugged Roman back. “Yeah?”

“You’ve been, um… Are you okay?” 

Roman pulled back a bit with a frown. “What’s wrong? Oh my- Is that blood?!” 

Remus laughed nervously and pulled his flannel tighter around his waist. He suppressed a flinch. 

Patton rushed over, picking up Logan’s backpack on the way, and knelt in between Remus’ legs. Roman pulled Remus’ arms away. Patton yanked Remus’ shirt up and gasped. 

In the right side of his stomach was a crookedly sewn up gash, some of the seams popped and dripping a trail of red. 

“I’m fine,” Remus managed, one hand gripping Roman’s. “It’s just, uh, easier stitching up someone else.” 

“When were-?!”

“Shh!” Patton looked over his shoulder at the closed door, where Janus and Virgil rested beyond. 

“When were you going to tell us about this?” Roman hissed. 

Patton pulled out Logan’s med kit and got to work mending the stitches. Remus grimaced and squeezed Roman’s hand. 

“I didn’t think I’d have to,” he panted. 

“When did you get this?” Patton whispered. 

“...When we left?” 

“Remus!” Roman snapped. “That was days ago!”

“I had it under control!” He insisted. “It’s not my fault you hug like a gorilla!” 

“You’re lucky this isn’t infected,” Patton mumbled. He finished the suture and set the supplies aside to be cleaned. 

Remus chuckled and let his shirt drop. “It’s not luck. You think I’d treat everyone in the compound without even some research? I don’t have a degree, obviously, but I learned what I could.” 

Patton sighed and took Remus’ free hand. “We’re glad you’re back. You…” He blinked away tears and smiled. “We were so sad when you didn’t come.” 

Roman nodded, face dark. 

“Was it Janus?” Patton asked. 

Remus shrugged, and nodded. “Kind of. He played a part, definitely, and Virgil, too. I left because I knew they had a better chance of getting out with my help, and if they did get caught, they wouldn’t have to deal with the punishment alone.” He squeezed Roman’s hand, who nuzzled into him while holding back sobs. “But I missed you. I don’t want to live without you.” 

Patton nodded slowly. “Okay… Then this,” he rested his hand on Remus’ hip, close to the wound but not enough to hurt, “can’t happen anymore. We’re not doubting your ability, but if the cult does catch up with us again, and we have to run, and you have secrets like this, we might not give you the help you need. You could get left behind, or someone could rely on you and get both of you caught.” 

“You’re right,” Remus said quietly. “I’m sorry.”

“We should get some sleep,” Roman murmured, the others nodding. 

They all stood, Patton leading Roman to the other bathroom. “We’ll see you in the morning. Don’t pop those stitches, okay?”

He smiled and pushed open the door to Virgil and Janus. “I won’t. Love you.”

“Love you.” 

#whumptober2020 #now where did that come from? #ignoring an injury #no.30 #sanders sides #fic #remus sanders #roman sanders #patton sanders #sympathetic remus #sympathetic roman #sympathetic patton #creativitwins #remus #roman #patton #whumptober 2020 v #virgil writes #hurt/comfort

[queerhargreeves]

This Brother Thing

Diego can’t stop his hand from shaking like how it used to at 18. Like how it used to before Eudora. He’s just tired. So, so tired. He reached down to pick up the syringe once more, wiping it with the alcohol cloth for the 9th time tonight, and resumed the familiar position.

OR

Diego needs help and he gets it from the most unlikely sibling. 

WC: 3k+

TW: needles, internalized toxic masculinity, body dysmorphia, body image issues, implied/referenced past child abuse

“Fuckin’ hell.” Diego cursed under his breath, his hand shaking and the bullet wound in his shoulder grounding him from completely losing his tempter with a dull, constant ache.

The man was currently stood shirtless in front of the bathroom mirror. He was clutching the fleshiest part above his hip with his injured arm and held a syringe in his good one. He took another deep breath and attempted the motion again. But not even a moment later the sound of the needle crashing onto the cool tile floor filled the still air in one of the 42 bathrooms - the one closest to his bedroom. It was 11 PM, almost 12, and Diego Hargreeves here almost forgot to do his T shot for the week. To be fair, this wasn’t your average week, even for the ex-superhero.

The pathetic excuse of a father died, his time-traveling brother came back after 17 years of being gone and returned in the teenage body he left in and he learned that said brother lived through the end of the world for ages and became a killer. And the end of the world has this week. But then his other brother was kidnapped, one of the most important women in his life died trying to save him. Diego killed his mother but his mother came back. His brother became a war vet and was gone for ten months. His assumed ordinary sister had powers and slashed his other sisters throat and she almost died in their arms. And his babiest sister almost destroyed the entire world. But then she didn’t. The Hargreeves lived another day as did the rest of the world. Thanks to the help of his now veteran brother who can conjure ghosts to be physical and his brother that’s been dead for years killed assassins that were after him and the rest of his siblings. But that’s all in their past now. Their new version of normal is all seven of them are all living under the same roof again for the time being, just like when they were kids.

So forgive Diego if his weekly testosterone shot happened to slip from his mind, okay? It shouldn’t be, well it never used to be, this damn hard. Not anymore at least. His fear of needles certainly made this weekly process hell at the beginning of his medical transition - this intimate moment in the bathroom he’s been doing since he moved out all those years ago could last up to two hours at a time. Shaky hands, intense staccato heartbeats, and hitched breaths were too common of an occurrence. But then he met Eudora Patch. And everything changed.

The two met during his second semester of the police academy. He admired her from afar for a good while, too scared to approach the woman. Diego was more than content watching this incredible person answer any and all questions with vigor and a spark in her eye. The way she bit on the inside of her lip when a question challenged her, her pencil beating against her notebook, made his heart flutter. If she didn’t understand a concept in class, she was adamant on making sure she figured it out, class and professors be damned. Diego learned how she was more than capable of standing up for herself. Being a black woman in a very male-dominated, whitewashed environment was certainly not the easiest of experiences. She faced comments daily, not just from her peers but from authority figures as well. But Diego knew he was officially head over heels for her when he watched her spit an ignorant 20 something year old out after he made a comment about how “Eudora the explorer” and “go Diego go” were to better suited for a life behind bars than on the field.

And that was how they officially met. Eudora stood up for him and in return, he bought her a coffee.

And then they went out again the next night and the night after that. But before they went on the third night, Diego needed to get something off his chest before he fell any more. He needed to tell her about his identity. Coming out is never something you do once and it doesn’t really get easier.

He practically bolted out of his last class of the week, beelining right to the classroom across the hall to meet up with Eudora. They made it a habit to meet up after class, but this time felt different and he made it quite obvious. If avoiding her for a week wasn’t telling enough, his constant leg bounce, his fingers playing with the fabric of his sweater sleeves, and the gum-chewing at an impressively fast rate was enough. And Eudora, being the quick woman she was, knew that something was up. She sat Diego down on the bench outside and took his hand in hers, reminding him to breathe with exercises she’s learned. She whispered sweet affirmations as she waited for the man in front of her to collect himself. After what seemed like a lifetime, he finally uttered the words.

“I-I’m trans.” The statement hung heavy in the air, the tears threatening to spill out of Diego’s eyes as he stared at his hand in her lap obscuring his vision. Then, a gentle finger tugged his chin up and soft lips met his very own.

“It’s okay.” She said softly, sealing the deal and leaned in for another sweet kiss. The two fell quickly and madly in love after that. Eudora would help Diego with his shots, taking his shaking hands in hers and kissing his knuckles. She kissed the spot of injection before she sterilized the area, and guided both of their hands to the designated area. She never patronized him for his apprehension, not a single time. She knew this vulnerability was hard for him and she was honored that he trusted her enough with something this intimate. Even after every fight and argument, she would never use his vulnerability against him. She was there every week to help if he needed it. And if he didn’t need the extra assistance, she still checked up on him to make sure he got it done.

However, they were two strong, independent people. Quick-witted and rash. They had a tendency to lash out before thinking, their mouths reacting before their brains. They certainly had their good moments. They had wonderful, healing, amazing moments with one another. They had blissful nights of falling asleep in each other's arms as Eudora traced the scars under his pecs after they finished exploring their bodies together for hours. They had long car rides where the two opened up about the most intimate parts of themselves. Then finishing off the ride by belting out 80’s dance songs at the top of their lungs, windows down and hair blowing in the wind. These kinds of nights made it seem like it was them against the world. It was as if these moments would never end.

But they also had equally as world-shattering, soul-crushing moments. They had nights where they only saw red, both of them quick to react to the other’s fractured egos. Especially when Diego got himself kicked out of the academy. There were plenty of eyes rolled and slamming of doors, conversations left with a bitter taste in their mouths and hearts. There were hurtful words thrown around that had the capacity to cut right through the other as fast as one of Diego’s knives, if not faster. They knew how to hurt each other. And they did hurt one another. But they also loved each other. The two of them continued to play this song and dance for years and years.

But that song was over. Dance finished. Eudora was gone. And she wasn’t coming back.

And now Diego can’t stop his hand from shaking like how it used to at 18. Like how it used to before Eudora. He’s just tired. So, so tired. He reached down to pick up the syringe once more, wiping it with the alcohol cloth for the 9th time so far, and resumed the familiar position.

He took a quick sharp inhale and squeezed his eyes shut. But as quick as that inhale was, the exhale was even quicker. It came out as a strangled groan and the syringe clattered against the floor once more.

“God fucking dammit!” Diego choked out louder than he realized and clenched his fists tight, willing them to stop shaking. He couldn’t stand himself, couldn’t stand how he is no longer able to even take care of himself right now. He should be past this. But he didn’t have Eudora to talk him down. He didn’t have her kind voice and gentle grip to help nor her nagging texts anymore. He didn’t have anyone.

“Oh, my bad. I-”

Diego whipped around in one swift motion, now eye to eye with his biggest brother. He was dressed in a thin grey long sleeve shirt and pajama pants. Oh yeah, his brother who was almost killed on a mission and was injected with Chimpanzee DNA to survive and is now three times the size of a normal human. The brother who had his body horribly mutilated without his consent by their poor excuse for a father.

“Sorry, didn’t realize this was occupied. I can, uh…” Luther trailed off and Diego watched as Luther took in the sight in front of him. Syringe on the floor, Testosterone bottle of to the side, and his brother in near hysterics and barely keeping it together. He looked as if he would fall apart at the softest breeze of wind.

“I-I-I,” Diego quickly snapped his mouth shut, jaw clenching and fists continuing to shake at his sides at an ever faster degree. He threw his head back and burning holes at the ceiling with his eyes, trying his best to regain some sort of composure. Luther didn’t need to see him like this - didn’t need to see him weak. Pathetic, inadequate Number Two.

“Hey, no Di,” Luther started as he softly closed the door behind him, “It’s okay.” He commented with a voice that Diego doesn’t think he’s heard before. At least not in a very, very long time.

“You’re okay… It’s okay.” He gently placed his hand on his shoulder and gave it a light squeeze, desperately hoping Diego believed him even if he wasn’t the best at comforting other people. But Luther didn’t miss the way his brother’s muscled stiffened under his touch. That broke his heart even more.

Luther was also tired. He didn’t want to do this anymore - the fighting and ugly comments. The two were always trying to one-up the other, trying to “out man” and assert their dominance. They have been doing it for the last 20+ years, or as long as their number rankings have been enforced. It was their idea of normal. But if looking death in the eye for the hundredth and most catastrophically devastating time taught Luther anything, it’s that all this petty stuff is useless. He loved his family. He loved Diego.

“I can help. Is...is that alright Diego?” Luther asked cautiously, not wanting to over step any more boundaries than he already has. He eyed Diego for any sort of reaction, which he was not rewarded with. He took a deep breath and removed his hand from his shoulder in the hopes that giving him some space would help.

“It’s not a big deal, I promise. We’ve...we’ve been through a lot, haven’t we?” That earned a small shrug from Diego which Luther considered progress from the almost catatonic state he’s been in since he’s walked in.

“I, uh. After you came out I looked into this sort of stuff.” He paused and took a seat at the edge of the bathtub, “I researched anything I could at the library about trans related stuff, testosterone, surgery, passing, binding. After you left... I made sure Pogo sent you enough money for your transition and stuff. I watched videos of trans people documenting their transition. I’m not an expert by any means but it did help me understand you better. I know trans people have a high rate of...of hurting themselves.” Diego finally met Luther’s eyes, which Luther considered the biggest win yet and he decided to continue. He was already this far off, might as well. Apparently, this whole communicating thing works.

“I want you to know I never thought less of you because of this. And same with your stutter,” Luther added, knowing that was yet another thing Reginald and his brother berated himself constantly for, “You’ve always been unapologetically yourself. You knew who you were such a young age and you always stood up for what you believe in. And that made us butt heads a lot and I’m sorry about that. You weren’t blinded like I was. I have so much respect for you, you know? I want to be better at this brother thing.” Luther sighed and wrung his hands together.

“I-I’m also sorry I made that comment about your job. You’re definitely a lot better at this whole being a ‘real grown-up’ thing than I am.”

And that earned a snort from Diego which Luther couldn’t help but smile at that. The anxious pit in his stomach lightened.

“You’re already getting better at this brother th...th-” Diego stopped for a moment, eyes locked with Luther. And he didn’t see a trace of judgment or a hint of mockery. All he saw was patience. “Thing.”

Luther gave a small nod, a faint smile ghosted on his lips.

“And I meant it when I said I can help you with your shot.”

“I-”

“I know you’re capable of doing it yourself. But with your gunshot wound and everything that’s happened this week...it’s okay. To accept some help I mean.” Luther couldn’t help but hold his breath ever so slightly. This was more emotions and vulnerability they’ve shared in the last 10 minutes than the pair has shared over the last 29 years.

“O...Okay. You can - you can help.” Diego finally spoke after a moment. His voice shook as he still sounded cautious, but the act of him letting Luther do this for him alone spoke enough for the bigger man.

A wave of relief washed over Luther as he stood and gave Diego’s good shoulder another squeeze. He bent down and picked up the syringe on the floor and carefully placed it down on the bathtub next to him. He quickly opened the cabinets next to Diego’s head.

“Should probably sterilize this one more time,” Luther said as he grabbed a cotton swab and alcohol. In a few swift motions, he managed to dab the alcohol onto the swab and placed the items back in the cabinet. Wordlessly, he picked up the syringe and cleaned the needle as well as the area above Diego’s skin. If Luther didn’t know where to inject the red fingerprint marks on his skin certainly helped plenty.

He washed his hands before picking up the needle again and dropped down to his knees to get a better angle. He had his left hand on the area above Diego’s hip and the syringe in his right hand. Being 6’5 didn’t make this an easy angle, but he was willing to do whatever he needed to do to make this go as smoothly as possible for his brother.

“Okay, I’m gonna touch you now,” Luther warned gently placed his hands around the area so he didn’t jump at the contact. Diego looked down for a moment and nodded, braced himself with still shaking hands.

“I’m going to count down from three and go for it at one. Sound good?” Luther watched as his brother gulped, eyes squeezed shut. But still no answer.

“If you can’t say yes or no, can you give me either a nod or a shake of the head?” He pressed gently.

Diego took a deep sigh, and another one, before finally nodding.

“Okay, here we go.” Luther raised the syringe right above the flesh he grasped between his fingers.

“Three, t-” Luther quickly injected the syringe before he could even finish the word, pushed down at the plunger, and just as quick as it started he pulled the sucker out.

“Okay!” Luther breathed out, getting up from his spot on the floor and finding the needle cap and putting it back on.

“You did good, Di.” He gave the shorter man a soft smile and an affirmative nod.

Diego finally breathed out the air he didn’t even realize he was holding. He stared down at the injection site without saying a word before pulling the rest of his shorts up. Not a drop of blood. He didn’t even feel a pinch.

He finally looked back at Luther, his blue eyes and smile comforting his residual nerves. He opened his mouth for a second before shutting it once more. He gave a small shake of his head and wasted no time in wrapping his good arm around his blonde brother.

Luther let out a tiny squeak, his arms hovering above his brother's shoulders in the air. He couldn’t help but flinch at the sudden touch, not used to anyone wanting to get this close to his new body. He wasn’t a fan of this new body so why would anyone else be?

“If-If it’s okay for me, it’s okay for y...you too, Lu.” Diego muffled into his shoulder, tightening his grip to show him as such. It’s okay. It’s okay.

Luther relaxed ever so slightly and let himself be held. He slowly dropped his arms and wrapped them gently around Diego, careful not to justle his hurt arm.

This? This felt nice, foreign as it is. He loved his brother. And his brother loved him. They were taught that emotions were a weakness. They were taught that intimacy and vulnerability are things that deserved to be shunned - something they should be ashamed of. But this new, radical concept of trying to rebuild their relationships as a family is the best thing that has ever happened in their lives. The Hargreeves are going to be

#diego hargreeves #trans diego hargreeves #luther hargreeves #luther protection squad #luther positivity #the umbrella academy #the umbrella academy fic #fanfiction #tua

[barberwitch]

Oh my god yes, another gay witch. I like to meditate on dualities, like masc-fem, good-evil, rational-emotional, and all the greys in between. How do you balance masculine and feminine aspects in yourself and your practice? Or, how do you go beyond those boundaries of gender (especially in tarot and cycles of destruction and creation)?

It’s...hmmm. You know I don’t really consciously do it, so pardon my ramble while I try and out words to my subconscious way of doing things.

TLDR: I don’t bring gender into magic, so it’s easy to not think about it and let it throw me off. Gender is a social construct, not a spiritual one.

So here’s a little background on me and it touches on how I work with certain things. I look at a lot of stuff philosophically and through Plato’s Theory of the Forms (or The Allegory of the Cave) to utilize things as archetypes to channel energy through.

This falls into what I define as spirits: could be people, plants, stones, deities, ghosts, fae etc. like a poorly explained animism 😅. To continue on your question of Tarot and working with it in a non gendered way, the archetypal emotions, situations etc aren’t gendered. Happiness, reunion, failure, success, etc aren’t gendered. Though the pictures they represent may be, that was the artist’s choice and not mine. I use certain tarot cards because I like the artwork, and art and beauty aren’t gendered either. (Though I did do a little squee when I got my Prisma Visions deck and the Lovers were different couples all wearing masks including two people center stage in tuxes).

Duality is a very important part of my craft. And while I don’t work with gender boundaries within it, I can see how that can be very stifling for some. I already have an uphill battle being a witch and a cisgendered male because people don’t want to put the time into thinking that their culture didn’t invent witchcraft, and gender had very little to do within certain cultures. And while it may be their interpretation, it’s not inherently fact.

Going past that, how do I balance it in myself and my craft? Well, it’s all just labels and stereotypes. Cooking, why is it that there are so many famous male chefs, but women are expected to be in the kitchen? I view that as BS. Cooking falls into certain masculine heteronormativity-killing animals, using knives, Fire good oogabooga...But is seen as feminine because even through destruction there is creation. You’ve created a meal, an atmosphere, sustenance and life through death. I take the gender out of everything I can because nothing is inherently masculine or feminine because we all have the potential.

That’s what witchcraft is for me, it’s utilizing the potential in specific ways for specific means. I’ve said it before but one main reason I utilize poisonous plants is in fact for their duality. They are a mirror of human nature. Able to destroy, grow, entice, repulse, protect, and wound, and it’s all in how it’s used. I can grow, destroy, entice, repulse, raise up, or strike down.

I thrive on flipping the norm because that’s what witches do. What’s a beard? It’s hair doesn’t have gender and everyone has it, so why is it masculine because it grows on the chin? Skirts and dresses? Fabric and stitches, why is it feminine because it’s draped and flows instead of constricting? It’s all social expectations and toxic gender normatives and as a witch, I’m already breaking social norms, so why would I bring in toxicity to that as well?

I’m a blend and a contradiction and if people would be honest with themselves about that, it would be a lot less pressure and a nicer place to live. I cook and bake, I cut hair and make candles. I have a beard, placed in league for wrestling in high school, I can shoot a gun and throw a knife. I like to read, I can sing, I’ve composed songs, i like bugs and insects and reptiles, I like dogs and owls. There’s nothing inherently gendered about any of those. It’s other’s ideas of what is and what should be that put a obstructive curtain around somethings, and I don’t need that.

I think that view of gender connecting to spirituality is another reason why religion just didn’t do it for me. I always connected more with Mary than Jesus growing up. And I don’t need more gender re-inforcement of Wicca either, especially for gender roles and hertosexual imagery. I don’t find peace or comfort in fitting a mold or the archetype of being a man. No need to ceremoniously stab an atheme into a chalice or talk about how every cauldron represents a womb...because that’s not true to me. (Now this may not be your experience, but my brushes with Wicca as a youngin, That was my experience. And I still see it in some places so I stay in my lane.)

MY practice, MY beliefs, MY peace and MY power are all based in me as a person, not because I’ve got a dick.

Again, this is just my perspective (as shown by the capital MY’s 😂) but looking at all these posts about the sacred feminine makes me just as uncomfortable as seeing posts about the divine masculine. It just shuts people out, enforces a power dynamic that isn’t helpful and seems toxic.* Which comes back to why I work with things as an archetype. The archetype can be fulfilled by multiple things. A creative deity, a destructive one, a fertility spirit, or a blight on the land. While it may be represented as one gender, it can be fulfilled by another. And working with established deities who are one gender or another is that cultures interpretation of that deity. Looking at it archetypically and through synchretism can help shed some of those things that wear down on you:

In one culture, the moon is feminine, in another a man. War gods or war goddesses, guardians of the dead, tricksters, nurtures...each culture has a story, and the reason they do is because across cultures, we share the same experiences.

So like the tarot deck, someone chose a specific representation of a deity, a spirit, a situation, of beauty, or disgust, but that was their choice. It doesn’t have to be mine.

🦇Cheers, Barberwitch

*I check my privilege. I realize workings with those gender archetypes of sacred masculine and feminine may in fact be very peaceful and fulfilling for some. I’m all for that, but forcing it as an issue on others is where I draw the line. Saying someone needs to channel the divine feminine OR the divine masculine to connect to a specific thing on a meaningful level...is restrictive and exclusionary. Hence, why all my posts, spells, and workings I post are not only secular, but non gender based.

Last thing. I know gender is a hot button issue for a lot of people. It is for me too. The treatment of woman, non-binary, trans and gender fluid people is disgusting. People telling women what they can and can’t do with their bodies is shameful, but it goes further. Telling trans and non binary people what they are and aren’t because of what they do or don’t do to their bodies is just toxicity under another guise. So I don’t tell people who they are or what to do with their bodies. They’re social issues and I work socially against them. But my spiritual practice is mine and personal and it’s a non starter. It’s not some Freudian fantasy of every wand is a penis and every chalice is a wmbmb or whatever they say. It’s a fucking piece of wood channeling power through the plant and my energy. It’s a fucking cup that looks pretty that holds stuff and liquids for offerings. Don’t sexualize my practice.

#witchy asks #ask a witch #personal practice #gender in magic #gender witchcraft #witchy real talk #sacred feminine #sacred masculine #gender roles #witchblr #gay witches #gay witch #daulity #witch #witchcraft #male witch #witches #original post #tarot #lgbtq witch #queer witch #long post

[hozukitofu]

More chillis please

Being the person who assumes the landscape of their environment upon entering the room and often designated as kin of the furniture, Yachi is very happy when people speak at her and not to her, so that unnecessary conversations do not occur and everyone can go back to ignoring her as they did before.

Acquiring a retail job runs something similar to that vein.

A retail job in a relatively functional business is great. People still try to be friendly - older people, and older men, which, no - but it's not too unbearable.

She gets a message, one day, while she's getting a one-on-one tutoring session by Yours Truly, Chameleon Expert Man Himself, Kinoshita, on calculus and tactics of evading eye contact. They're revising what she should know, she's confident that going to the job, with these new skills, will maximise her invisibility, when her phone vibrates and seeing as the team shares absolutely zero boundaries, she pores over the message with Kinoshita, who bites into a slice of orange.

"New shift?" He chews, eyebrow lifted.

She's noting that down as a skill that she needs to be taught. Kiyoko-san does it very often and it makes grown men cry on the spot. Yachi can weaponise that and turn it on the creeps at work. It can work for her.

"Hmm," she nods, mouth full of orange slices. Kinoshita slaps a napkin to her face, picks up her phone and types a response out. By the time she swallows the pieces of citrusy goods and wipes herself dry of unwanted orange spit, there is a hovering screen with the line I'm good to go on Saturday. Same time as usual? waiting for her approval from her upperclassman.

"All good, Kinoshita-san," she gives him two thumbs up, because he deserves it.

"I'm going inside to tell Chikara we're almost done. Send it and pack up. We're bullying Ryuu to buy us food," he rises, takes his books with him, and gives her a jaunty wave at the doorway.

She hits send. Working at the bakery in Miyagi central shopping district with the locals is great, but working in busy Tokyo where she will know nobody and the customers will assume she is a speaking brick wall?

Ideal.

She sweeps all her books into her tote bag and sprints after Kinoshita.

-.-

The nature of the bakery franchise she works at is that she rings in all the sales when customers approach her with the baked goods and she restocks when bread is running low. That's the official job description.

Recently the bakery, influenced a little by by multiculturalism and mostly by the owner being completely smitten with the Vietnamese literature teacher with the dimpled smile who passes by their bakery every second day, they also have a banh mi side gig.

According to Suga-san, what the workplace is doing is very similar to Subway, but more Asian. Regardless of the plagiarism of what had been done in food chain stores, this is her job and if she wants to save up for a nicer tablet for graphic design then she just has to suck it up princess and cry her way through the world of earning hard cold cash.

So now she makes bread. Per order of the customers who now have to interact with her, human to human.

It is just as uncomfortable for her as it is for the customers so - equivalent exchange?

Anyways. Now she has Stories. The team sets aside time to provide group therapy for Yachi and the Woes of Being a Slave to Capitalism. It is aptly named group therapy because it is a bunch of highschoolers sitting in a loose collection of volley playing brats and consoling a little blonde girl of her retail hardships.

Today's story, she muses as she runs nose first into Asahi's abruptly stopped back, must be the More Chillis Please episide.

It happens like this -

It is 10 o'clock, she had been there for two hours and made, to the worst of her memory and knowledge, at least twenty individual banh mi. She is righteously outraged by the smell of egg mayonnaise, and if somebody shows up in the store again she will Scream.

Anyways, once the moment of Mandatory Two Hour Fury manifested and dissipated, she settles back into greeting customers, offering her services, and registering sales.

She sees the two boys, clad in similar sports jackets, not a uniform, but it is close enough, on their very very tall and lanky frames.

She is immediately brought back to the sight of Kei and Asahi, except Asahi is twice as wide as one of these guys.

Yachi ties up the package for her current customer, bides them farewell and good luck on their date, and turns to the two boys, her Customer Service Voice already on its routine greeting and question.

"Hi, welcome to Dreamworks Bakery. How can I help you today?"

The slightly shorter boy, with bushy eyebrows and wow those really look like caterpillars, wait until the team hears about this, leans forward, friendly smile fixed across his crooked front teeth.

"Hi there, if you don't mind, can I have one pork roll please, that's cut in half."

Yachi sets to work, doesn't think too much or too hard at why there are two boys and only one bread. She picks up the tongs, considering the viable options -

They are sharing this tiny loaf of Vietnamese bread roll, which, is never going to be enough, even for her, and she eats roughly a sixth of the amount Kageyama eats, so that says Something. Maybe it's just a snack. Who knows

The grumpy boy with the face mask willingly walked his friend or walked with him to this busy bakery to wait for him to buy a small snack, which, Amazing Dedication

She finishes it up, takes the knife to cut the bread in half but wonkily, because she has a healthy fear of knives, you know, as a normal sensible human person would. The boys have been chattering between themselves, the one who ordered constantly bumping into his companion, grinning and tugging on his arm. While from the companion's end there is the long suffering Stop being annoying universal eye roll and sigh combo, it's done with the same degree of exasperated fondness Kei huffs at Tadashi, the unspoken but loud What am I going to do with you, you troublesome creature?

Yachi thinks that everything happening is meant to both be a private moment and a routine, and she shouldn't pry. She also thinks that she is reading too much into this, that toxic masculinity is slowly eroding away with her generation and boys can care for each other deeply without the gross gushing of others around them of Amazing, uwu, yaoi babies.

That had actually happened with Suga-san and Akiteru while they were running an errand so Ew. She's not going to become one of those people.

It's not really a big moment of deep euphoria when the shorter boy with the bushy caterpillar eyebrows slips a hand into the other's pocket, leaning right up into his side, under his retreated chin. It is a cuddle manifesting slowly in front of her eyes, and she pauses in her struggle with the paper bags and her two pieces of bread, to blink and the scene make an Ah sound in her lizard brain.

"Cool," she hums.

"Sorry again, but," Caterpillar Brow leans up against the glass, "would you mind adding chillis onto one half?"

Yachi is already stretching one nearest to her hand open. "Tell me when to stop."

He flashes her another winning smile. "You're so valid."

She grins, sprinkling chillis in the tiny half. After a good half of the bread is covered, and he asks her to stop.

Only for the masked friend to lean forward, tug down his face mask, and speak softly.

"Add more, please."

Because Yachi assumes things, as she does, like a presumptuous idiot, she goes on fulfilling the request and thinking that it's for the masked friend. The masked friend doesn't like ordering so his friend had taken up that responsibility for him and he has the taste bud of titanium which explains the excessive chilli situation.

"Is this," she is afraid to ask, "enough?"

She tries to make eye contact with both boys, but because the Presumptuous Moron Energy is on high visibility that day, the masked companion tugs his mask up and draws out his wallet, sighing softly.

"This one," he jerks his head to his companion, "likes his food to strip off skin when he eats. I hold no jurisdiction over his questionable tastes."

It's all kinds of a wonderful, wonderful plot twist. She accepts the payment and wishes them farewell in a rather mechanical manner, and spends a good half of the day just processing everything that transpired. Everything from the masked friend taking the bread from her and pulling the strap onto his wrist so he can hold the other boy's hand, to them knocking heads as they walk away, the excitable companion speaking onto his neck as they disappear into the throng of people.

Asahi apologises for almost running her over and into a medically induced concussion, but she reassures him that she's fine, I've been the victim of a spike before, Asahi-san, this is like a small shove next to that, oh no don't cry, please, I'll live.

Story time is going to be Lit.

#haikyuu! #yachi hitoka #karasuno team bonding #the couple is definitely komori and sakusa #sakukomo #sakusa kiyoomi #komori motoya #was sakusa wearing supreme? yes #this is inspired by 90% real events i did work at a banh mi bakery

[aion-rsa]

Woodstock 99: Peace, Love, and Rage Review: Behind the Scenes of a Musical Disaster

https://ift.tt/eA8V8J

That ain’t teenage spirit you’re smelling. HBO’s Music Box documentary Woodstock 99: Peace, Love, and Rage reeks of righteous condemnation, judicial indiscretion, and conspiratorial obfuscation. But it’s okay. This is a disaster film masquerading as a documentary, and the found footage makes it all pay off. Director Garrett Price personally opens the film in the voiceover, explaining how the 1999 celebration itself was written to be a comedy, but “played out much more like a horror film.”

Music festivals have come to represent generations. The original Woodstock: an Aquarian Exposition: 3 Days of Peace & Music concert in the summer of 1969 brought half a million people together with the artists who spoke for and to them in a communal love bond. The organizers lost money, the capacity was underestimated, but the audience came together to share what they had to make the weekend legendary. In December that year, the Rolling Stones concert at Altamont was marred by the pool cues and knives of the security team, the Hells Angels. It was deemed the end of the ‘60s.

Woodstock ‘94 happened at the height of the Grunge Revolution, when Kurt Cobain wore a dress but didn’t shave his stubble, and Riot Grrrls blasted personal dissent with the passion of the punk elite and no one cared if they shaved their legs. The organizers lost money, but the fans and the bands were one unit who achieved the common goal of joy. Woodstock ‘99 happened five years later and enjoyed the accessibility of the mainstream’s greatest unifier: MTV. The organizers made money and 200,000 people attended, but the audience got such a raw deal, even the musicians who played got scared. It is remembered as “the day the ’90s died.”

Opening on the 22nd anniversary of the festival, the documentary deems Woodstock ’99 a disaster. They even call in a guy from FEMA, who says it was worse than Hurricane Katrina and the great flood. Told chronologically, Price, who previously directed Love, Antosha, the 2019 tribute to Anton Yelchin, begins with the excitement of a three-day festival.  Held on a former military installation in Rome, New York, the Griffiss Air Base was set up to keep the grounds free of ticketless celebrants.

The security team is exposed as a bunch of amateurs specially trained on which boxes to check in a multiple-choice test, and how to find someone’s personal stash of bottled water in a backpack. “There’s a festival grounds in Germany that was literally built by Hitler,” The Offspring’s guitarist Noodles says in an interview. “It’s a great venue, a lot of fun. The air base was less hospitable than the venue built by Nazis.”

There were nonstop performances held a mile apart from each other on the grounds. One highlighted its mosh pits, the other the dance floor. The biggest electronic artist in the Rave Tent proves his genre’s atmosphere opens doorways to perception. “There is a sixth sense that you develop when you spend your life going to venues,” Moby says in an interview. “We got off the bus and I was like, ‘Something is not right.'”

The film is very generous with behind-the-scenes footage. We are treated to aerial shots of cramped campsites, long ATM lines, leaky Port-O-Potties oozing something that only looked like mud, and $4 water bottles, which sold as much as beer in temperatures over 100 degrees. We are told in advance three people died, 44 were arrested. There were 10 reported sexual assaults.

The lineup for the concert was a mix of hard rock bands, pop stars, and hip-hop acts like The Roots, and ICP. Rapper DMX’s epithetic call and response performance gets special notice. “The Black performer is essentially licensing the people in the crowd to say this word with him,” New York Times’ Wesley Morris says in an interview. “If you got each one of these guys after the show, and pulled them aside and said, ‘is it OK to say the N-word under any circumstances?’ They would, to a person, say, ‘I mean, the right answer is no, right?’”

For returning music aficionados with remnants of the first gathering still in their memories, organizers booked jam bands and a few older acts like Elvis Costello, Willie Nelson, and The Who’s John Entwistle. “The ’99 Woodstock seemed like it was trying to relive a nostalgic moment, along with commercialism and capitalism, but not having a real soulful purpose for the show,” singer-songwriter Jewel says in an interview.

As the documentary points out, a lot of the younger attendees had no idea what Wyclef Jean was referencing in his solo guitar performance of “The Star-Spangled Banner.” They ask one kid, who can’t remember who did it first even though he’s standing directly under a huge stencil of Jimi Hendrix’s name. When Bush’s Gavin Rossdale begins Country Joe & the Fish’s “Gimme an F,” the chanters only seek Amy.  

Music is supposed to have charms which soothe the savage breast. Many people think the final word of the phrase is “beast,” and the documentary further blurs the line. The early ‘90s music artists were anti-misogynist, anti-racist, anti-homophobic and radically informed. Happening at the end of the Clinton era, when MTV pitted boy bands and pop girls against nü-metal rockers, a fur-coated Kid Rock could call Monica Lewinsky a ho and pass it off as a political statement.

Toxic masculinity’s dirty sister framed Britney Spears as a “Girls Gone Wild” extra, and magazines like Maxim and FHM encouraged the idea young men could shout “show your tits” to Rosie Perez without getting bitch-slapped, the documentary posits. Only three women were invited to perform at the weekend-long, two-stage festival: Jewel, Alanis Morrissette, and Sheryl Crow. “I’m baffled how it went from the progressive, enlightened values of Kurt Cobain and Michael Stipe to misogyny and homophobia and the rape-frat boy culture that was at Woodstock ‘99,” Moby ponders in the film.

Of course, none of wouldn’t have happened if it wasn’t all pre-staged. This is where Price dips into the era’s obsession with paranoia. It was the end of the millennium, the Columbine shootings had happened, and the Y2K bug was coming. It was finally time to party like it’s 1999. “Really, the biggest problem was that MTV set the tone,” organizer John Scher says in an interview.

But he downplays it, like he might have been warned by Cigarette Smoking Man from The X-Files. “There’s no question that a few incidents took place. But if you go back in the records of the police and state police and stuff, we’re not talking about 100. Or even 50. We’re talking about 10. I am critical of the hundreds of women that were walking around with no clothes on, and expecting not to be touched. They shouldn’t have been touched, and I condemn it. But you know, I think that women that were running around naked, you know, are at least partially to blame for that.”

Partial blame is all the rage in Woodstock 99: Peace, Love, and Rage. The documentary points out how history paints the original Woodstock like it really was a return to the garden, with peace and love and former flower children having babies to Santana’s “Soul Sacrifice.” But music journalist Steven Hyden reminds us about a group of disgruntled shoppers called “’The Up Against the Wall Motherfuckers,” who didn’t like food prices and burned dozens of stands down.

After Woodstock ’99 grounds started smoking when the candles handed out for a vigil for Columbine victims became torches to burn the place down, the documentary says Rome Mayor Joseph Griffo asked Anthony Kiedis to douse the crowd’s misplaced enthusiasm. The Red Hot Chili Peppers launched into a scorching rendition of Jimi Hendrix’s “Fire.” History blames bands like Limp Bizkit, Korn, and Rage Against the Machine for the destruction. But really, the artistic decision of that song to those circumstances is a no-brainer. “Smoke on the Water” would have been too easy. “Disco Inferno” would have been too obvious.

The documentary talks with the event’s organizers, as well as performers like Korn’s Jonathan Davis, The Offspring, Scott Stapp of Creed, The Roots’ Black Thought. Wesley Morris and Spin‘s Maureen Callahan put things into perspective. The only person the documentary doesn’t talk with is Fred Durst, the frontman for Limp Bizkit, who became the poster boy for the event’s bad behavior. Oh, they talk about him, though. They talk about him like he’s not there, and because he’s not there they must think he won’t see it. At the height of Limp Bizkit’s set, the singer encouraged the crowd to “Break Stuff.” But let’s be fair, it is the name of their song, and Durst is the guy who told the crowd to pick someone up if they fall, not to grope them.

This is what happens when the counterculture makes money. Everyone wants a piece. Woodstock 99: Love, Peace, and Rage is an even-handed dispenser of blame, and has slices for all. The first in a series of music-based documentaries from Bill Simmons’ Ringer Films, this immersive journey bodes well for upcoming tunes.

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Woodstock 99: Peace, Love, and Rage is available to stream on HBO Max now.

The post Woodstock 99: Peace, Love, and Rage Review: Behind the Scenes of a Musical Disaster appeared first on Den of Geek.

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[khalilhumam]

Masculinity in my genes/jeans

New Post has been published on http://khalilhumam.com/masculinity-in-my-genes-jeans/

Masculinity in my genes/jeans

Like jeans, maleness can be re-worked when it doesn’t fit

Jeans photo by Jason Leung on Unsplash.

This article was originally published by Promundo, on “/masc: conversations on modern masculinity.” An edited version is published here with permission. “Be a man!” said the police officer, when he felt my friend wasn’t answering his questions clearly and loudly enough. The officer was asking about a fight he’d heard was going to take place that Friday afternoon near my school. Meanwhile, higher up the road, boys in their school uniforms stood on the sidewalk in silent anticipation, prepared for combat with iron bars, planks of wood, dog chains, bottles from the village shop, and knives. Those were the boys who at 15 and 16 years old were busy “being men”. Language is a funny thing. Formal education taught us to have a command of Standard English. In Literature and English classes, through correction and the recitation of prose, we were encouraged to be “middle-class, educated, post-colonial men.” But the boys who were versed in the national (“Creole”) language had no time for the ones who spoke Standard English only; they demanded that everyone be a man “of this culture and this soil!” Switching registers depended on the social situation as much as the person you were speaking to. On one occasion, two police officers lined up a group of boys on the street to search them because they were “acting suspiciously.” They gave instructions for the boys to put their hands on their heads and kneel, as they pointed a gun to their adolescent faces. One of the boys communicated his every action in Standard English to show that he was following orders diligently and respectfully. The response he received was, “Why do you talk like that? You like boys or what?” Standard English—which was meant to distinguish him from the poor, the uneducated, those who were more likely targets of state violence—did not make this young man any safer. I’ve never sat down and written exactly what it meant for me to be a man. I didn’t know there was the word—“masculinity”—that summed up the arbitrary definitions and meanings of manhood that could switch from person to person, depending on time, and context. The cry summoning us to “be men” assumed there was a DNA of maleness already living in us, sometimes waiting to be activated. Being a man meant that we were tough, certain, in control and dominant. But masculinity was an idea of manhood that they tried to fit to our bodies like a pair of jeans. These jeans of masculinity were handed out to me over the years. The concept of time, especially the fear of “lost time”, is important to manhood. Culture in a patriarchy drives boys to be men as early as possible. Boys seek out validation from peers and older men to continually affirm their “maleness.” This, in part, drives the animus in public discourse against single-parent female-headed households. Boys grow up learning to blame their mothers for not walking them along the measurements of manhood at what is perceived as an appropriate time. Some of the “mama’s boys” who long identified with the nurturing care and example of a woman may, later on, repudiate this tutelage. This is another form of “woman-blame” in our society. Mothers may also have some investments in patriarchy that are harmful to themselves and their sons. However, women ultimately do not bring up patriarchal sons as effectively as the dominant male culture does—male-led violence and conflict, sexual violence against women and girls, and violent regulation of heterosexual male culture in social and institutional spaces is not carried out by women. At the core of this dilemma is that men may enjoy social spaces and experiences that run contrary to the dominant patriarchal culture, but hold the deep fear that they are more vulnerable for participating in these environments and ultimately, they feel less equipped to deal with patriarchal ones. There were over 500 homicides in the last two years in Trinidad and Tobago. Of course, no government wishes to have a crime problem “on their hands” but the response of the state is always to throw responsibility to the public for their lack of morals and a culture of negligent parenting that supposedly engineered transnational trafficking of guns and drugs, entrepreneurial corruption in the procurement of contracts, gang formation in under-resourced urban communities and the increasing development of “gated communities” to draw lines of social distancing of classes, social outcomes, and opportunity. As a sign of the political dysfunction and the weak capacity of the state to create public safety, homicides, rapes, police brutality and societal “wickedness” generally go undetected and unpunished. The least we can do as a people is memorialize our dead to re-center the value of human life and expose the unfinished work of governance. The miserable men who murdered their partners are too many to mention. In one case last January, after a woman attempted to free herself from a toxic union, her ex-partner went to her place of work, after months of online stalking, shot her twice and then killed himself. It was around 8:00 am, a time when some have just had their first cup of coffee, some have already made their way to work, and some school girls scan the faces of men on the taxi stand before deciding which taxi to take: “Who is the least threatening?” “I’ve seen him before” “Just because he is very old doesn’t mean he can’t be my rapist.” Around 8:00 am, I would drive to class. I would blow one horn if I saw a woman walking by who was attractive, two if she was so impressive and “bess” that I felt the need to bombard her eardrums and peace with the noise of harassment. If you cannot see how these everyday practices lead to dead women then you have chosen to ignore what “being a man” contains and conceals. This is why when women march for their rights to be recognized and guaranteed by the state and ordinary members of the society, they ask “Where are the men?” The marchers, public displays of solidarity, and comrades are too few for us to really believe the compensatory cry: “Not all men are bad.” Some men point to their lives on the “right path”—extraordinary love for daughters, and “presence” in the home. And yes, all men are not bad, but too many are silent, and too few are reliable in the struggle for gender justice. Maybe the men who need to speak up and act are too busy being careful, trying to zip up the wrong jeans and/or staying quiet, ignoring permanent flaws in this wardrobe ritual. Thinking that manhood was an inheritance that moved through the ages, as an unchanging and inevitable truth of the universe is a mortuary for humanity. We have choices to make, personal and political. Our jeans can be thrown away at any time, especially when they don’t fit, or refashioned, and that—just like our maleness—is our responsibility and our freedom.

Written by Amilcar Sanatan

[loudlytransparenttrash]

10 Tips For Feminists Before You Have Children

TIPS IF YOU HAVE A DAUGHTER:

1. GET MARRIED AND STAY MARRIED

Little girls need the presence of their father as much as little boys do. Girls who grow up with positive, affirmative and consistent attention from a loving, ever-present man are immunized against slut culture, which is really just a cry for male recognition and validation. Sluts, especially the teenage ones, aren’t sluts because they like it. They’re sluts because they will do anything to get attention from a male, and if a blow job is the price, then they’ll pay it. 

2. LET HER BE A PRINCESS FFS

It’s rare to find a little girl who doesn’t love a tiara and a sparkly dress and no it’s not enforcing imaginary fucking negative gender roles. Being a princess is a way of practicing benevolent care. It’s a way of placing the welfare of others over your own and it places the value of marriage and love at the center of the narrative. The Disney Princesses, so reviled by feminists but beloved by little girls everywhere are role models that young girls adore emulating. 

There is no harm at all in nurturing the loving, caring beautiful princess in her heart. The princess stage usually starts at three years of age and ends around six when most girls seem to understand that they don’t have to be royalty to be kind, caring and lovely. True princesses are interested in the welfare of others -including animals and dwarves aka “little people” - and that’s a lovely thing to encourage. 

There is another kind of princess narrative that is much more dangerous, and that starts after the Disney Princess stage. Young girls who think they really ARE princesses, better than everyone else by virtue of having been born, deserving of special treatment, callous and selfish. A 12 year old princess is probably well on her way to narcissism and self-delusion, and that kind of princess shit needs to be shut down. We already have streets full of these narcissistic, self-deluded little children running around screaming because they lost. Don’t let your child be another one of these brats.

3. RESPECT HER MIND 

Little girls love dolls, kittens, cupcakes, sparkly jewelry, tea sets and bunny rabbits. They generally don’t like cars, knives, guns, worms, frogs or slimey things. A little girl’s mind is primed to be caring, nurturing, loving, protective and cooperative. The standard feminist bullshit argument is that these things have been brainwashed into her by the patriarchy, to keep females in their place, girls are brainwashed into evoking all the qualities that allow them to care for others because you know, there is no evolutionary basis for that particular psychology. 

Let little girls be little girls for fucks sake. Don’t denigrate them for loving femininity and care-giving. Don’t force them into soccer and sneer at their distaste for being dirty. You are essentially telling them that their mothering instincts are wrong - although I suppose that will come in handy when they grow up, have their own children that they drop off at the day orphanage and then go back to their jobs doing pretty much nothing so they say they’re living that empowering feminist life.

It’s time to stop destroying little girl’s instincts.

4. SHOWER HER WITH LOVE  

Little girls are generally quite naturally cuddly and affectionate but that doesn’t mean you should wait for her to come to you when she needs love and a hug. You are modeling for her what a loving mother should be, so be that mother.

It works better if you are actually there for her and not texting her from your office cubicle.

5. LET HER BE DIFFERENT

Of course, not all little girls are about glitter nail polish and unicorns and that’s just fine. Growing up my best friend was a full on tomboy. Trucks, guns, dirty jeans and she wanted a pet wolf. That’s beautiful, because she isn’t acting out her mother’s deluded fantasy of genderless utopia, she’s just being herself. 

Letting girls be who they are will result in most girls being loving mothers and wives. Even if they want to be princesses and love the color pink. Get over it. As it is, most girls will eventually grow up to be mothers, but feminism has succeeded in telling them that the loving and wife part don’t matter.

And that’s a tragedy. Show your little girl that being a wife and loving your children and family more than yourself is not only natural, it’s wonderful.

TIPS IF YOU HAVE A SON:

1. GET MARRIED AND STAY MARRIED

All children need their fathers, but little boys in particular get chucked under the proverbial bus, loaded with young, dumb single feminist moms demanding more money, more benefits, more handouts, more respect, more of everything they have not earned and do not deserve.

2. LET HIM PLAY VIOLENT GAMES 

It’s a rare little boy who sees a stick and doesn’t turn it into a weapon. Little boys love bows and arrows, guns, knives, shields, helmets and every other artifact of war. And no, they don’t want to have a tea parties and wear skirts for you to take photos of and share it on Facebook to show everyone what an educated, cool mom you are. They want to dig a trench and send his action men to the hospital with some serious injuries. 

Violent video games are important to little boys for a number of reasons. Firstly, video games demand mastery. Want to get to the next level in Call of Duty? Then get it right. All of it. There are no medals for showing up. Video games are an antidote to the idea that competition is bad and dangerous.

Which brings me to a curious contradiction: feminism insists that cooperation is more valuable than competition and boys are toxic for always wanting to be competitive. Sorry sweethearts, competition in males is why we have such things as medicine, phones, television, cars, internet, space shuttles and democracy. Feminists cry for equality by expecting the bar to be lowered only for women. We see it in the military, police, sports, education, employment. In fact, let your daughters play violent video games too so we can get away from this feminist trend of calling competitiveness “a toxic boy thing”. Being competitive will always get you further in life than being a feminist who demands special treatment for being a woman. 

3. RESPECT HIS MIND

Little boy’s minds do not work the same as little girl’s. Girls are happy to process visual data at an early age. They will sit quietly and listen to stories and follow instructions and cut and paste teddy bears onto the picnic board.

Little boys do not want to sit quietly. They want to run and scream and jump and discover and invent and tear things apart and put them back together again and kick and chase and jump on each other until someone cries. Eventually, they grow up and invent pretty much every other useful thing we have on the planet or risk their lives to keep women and children safe.

There is no such thing as toxic masculinity or whatever other bullshit term is used to describe little boys being little boys. The school system needs to change to celebrate the energy and vitality of little boys, but it will take the parents of those little boys to make it happen. You can start by refusing to shackle your son to a women’s movement who wants to change him, fix him and “improve” him.

4. SHOWER HIM WITH LOVE  

Do you remember those feminists who drowned their sons because they hate men? Please don’t be one of them. Despite boy’s energy and their desire to turn every implement in your kitchen into a weapon, little boys have soft little hearts and they desperately need their mother’s love and kindness and validation. You will model the kind of woman he will eventually marry, so try set a good example. Take care of him, treat him gently, listen to him, give him tons of affection and feed him when he’s hungry. 

5. LET HIM BE DIFFERENT

There’s a little boy who’s the son of a family friend and his favourite pastime is to braid my hair and my sister’s hair into elaborate creations he learns by watching internet tutorials. He is exactly like his father, so he is growing up in a home with a mom and dad who understand him, love him and let him be who he is. Not every little boy will be a ball of screaming energy, and that’s fine. Some little boys quite naturally behave like little girls and that is perfectly okay. Don’t force him to be feminine if he’s not though, not because femininity is bad, but because it’s not who he is. Respect your son for everything he is and he will grow up to respect himself, and the people around him. 

#feminism #feminist #anti feminist #anti feminism #radfem #radical feminism #gender #gender studies #gender equality #Gender Roles #social justice #social justice warrior #anti social justice warriors #SJW #anti-sjw #anti sjw #myposts #feminism1 #sjw1

[suckitsurveys]

Do you wear a ring on your finger?   Not currently. I need to get my wedding and engagement rings resized. Do you expect to be married in the next two years?   Still, yes. What is your favorite type of cookie?   Sugar or super soft chocolate chip.  Are you allergic to pollen?   Nope.

Do you have more upper or lower body strength?   Lower. Do you like hot tubs?   Yes.

Do you know anyone who is battling cancer?   Yes. Have you ever donated money to a charity?   Yes. What was the last movie you’ve seen in theaters? Isle of Dogs. Do you prefer Apple or Android?   Android. Do you like the color lime green?   Yes, depending how it’s used. Do you like the Silent Hill movies? I’ve only seen one. It was okay. What movie scared you the most out of any other movies?   No movies really scared me. Tell me something you’ve been made fun of for in the past.   Being fat. Have you ever wanted to be on American Idol? When was this?   No. Do you like kissing lightly better than just making out?   Light kisses. Making out is fun every once in a while. You get a text from someone saying that they want to hang out - who would you most like it to be from?   Ellen or Kayla or Sarah magically appearing in Chicago. Do you attend school, college, or university?   No. Name 5 things you don’t believe in.   This is a broad question. If you could have any friend that you’ve lost back, who would you pick? No one, I am good with my group of friends now. Sometimes I miss my old friend Mary because she really was a blast to hang out with but she turned out to be an awful human, so, not a total loss there. When was the last time you did something for the first time?   Tomorrow I will be chaperoning a field trip for my niece’s pre-school. Something I never thought I’d ever do. Do you have blinds in your bedroom? No, I have curtains. The last news you got that shocked you, what was it, and was it good news or bad news? Good news. This group I belong to in the university I work for will be featured in a student’s final film project. If you have pets, who normally puts food and water in their dish?   She has an automatic feeder thing Mark and I take turns refilling. Mark usually gives her fresh water, but I’ve done it a few times too. Do you organize the pictures on your computer into different folders or are they all just under “My Pictures”? I need to. My laptop is a mess. Do you think if someone is in a relationship, that it is acceptable to have sleepovers with other people of their preferred sex? That would be up to the people in the relationship. Would you shoot a gun if given the chance? If you’ve shot a gun before, how many different types of guns have you shot?   I don’t think so. Maybe a paintball gun. Do you feel uncomfortable sharing things like artwork or poetry you’ve written? Is it because you don’t think it’s good enough to show off or because it’s too personal? I don’t do either of those things. For those who have anxiety, has anyone ever told you that you just need to calm down and actually face your fears? Were you insulted or frustrated by this comment? That’s literally the worst thing you can say to someone having an anxiety attack. Do you have any siblings you absolutely despise? Why do you despise them?   I have a brother in law I despise. Do knives scare you? Is it from watching scary movies? No. Say lyrics from the song currently playing?   I’m not listening to music. If you HAD to get a piercing (not ears) what would you get?   I wouldn’t, though. How many closets does your house have? 2. What has been your most epic cooking failure? I don’t know. What was the last single item you spent over $100 on? APPARENTLY I SPENT $230 IN WISCONSIN EVEN THOUGH I WAS IN CHICAGO. FUCK YOU CHASE BANK GIMME MY MONEY BACK. Have you ever climbed a chain-link fence?   Yes. What is your LEAST favorite Disney animated movie? I don’t have one. Who was the last person’s house you went to besides your own? My sister’s. Do you enjoy the birds’ singing in the morning?   It’s okay. List these apple types from greatest to worst: green, red, yellow.   In the order they are in currently. On YouTube, who are two people you find hilarious?   Grav3yardGirl and Grace Helbig. If you had to live in a palace, what would be the color scheme?   Dude I don’t know. Favorite dinosaur? T-Rex. What is the best part of fall?   The colors. Favorite style of hat? Beanies. Have you ever gotten into a Facebook fight?   Sure. What are your favorite smells? Gardenia and coconut. And rain. Do you shave your pits? Yes. Do you know anyone who has been on life support, and survived? I don’t think so. What light in your house was the last to have a bulb burn out?   The oven. Have you ever been in an abandoned house?   Yes. What is your favorite phase of the moon? Full. What season do you want to get married in?   I got married in the summer. Besides the USA, what is your favorite country?   That’s it. Would you rather go to Europe or Asia? Europe. Would you rather go to Africa or Australia?   Australia. Would you rather go to Mexico or Canada?   Mexico. Are there such things as stupid questions?   Yeah. Did you get in trouble for cussing on accident when you were a kid? No. What’s the highest you can count in a different language? 1000, probably. Where would you like to be buried?   I wouldn’t. Do you think emo/scene hair is attractive? Sure. Have you ever had yourself drawn in caricature?   No. Have you ever seen a ghost orb picture?   Yeah. Do you think abortion should be illegal? Of course. How many keys are on your key-ring?   Three. What are some piercings you want?   None. Dogs or cats? Why?   Cats. Do any of your pets have strange habits? Explain?   She drools when she’s excited/lovey. Never had a cat do that before. Have you ever told an extremely inappropriate joke?   No. What is your favorite non-traditional fruit? What’s considered a traditional fruit? What’s your favorite older film? To Kill a Mockingbird. The Birds. Wait Until Dark. Aliens or unicorns?   Unicorns. Where did you meet your current or last significant other?   TinyChat, lol. Would you ever get a face tattoo? No. If you asked your mom to describe you, what do you think she’d say? My mom is deceased. What is the one thing you’d most like to change about the world? The toxic masculinity plaguing it. What are you most grateful for? My niece. Who is the most interesting person you’ve ever met?   The VP of our division. She’s so freaking cool. When do you love yourself most? When I’m being productive. What would you most readily die for?   My niece. What single word do you hate most?   Certain words in the wrong context. Who in life have you felt the strongest need to protect? My niece and my husband. What would you most like to be remembered for after you die?   My humor.

What’s the biggest surprise you’ve ever had in bed? I’d rather not talk about it. What is the most sacred thing in your life?   Hmm. Who have you most feared in your life? No one in particular. What was the quickest friendship you ever made? My friendship with my neighbor Stephanie. What single word would you use to most accurately describe your parents?   Supportive. What is the worst word anyone ever used to describe you? Heartless.

#surveys