I don’t know who needs to hear this, but if you’re at a low point:
If you were a fictional man right now, there would be *at least* ten people if not a large portion of the fanbase that would call you their wet beast poor little meow meow
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Ten and Donna end up on a fucked up deadly space newlyweds show despite uh. Not being newlyweds but they get almost all the questions right. They start to sweat when the final question is "what's one secret desire you have involving the other?" And Donna writes "sometimes I wish I could occasionally shrink down the doctor real small so I could carry him around in my pocket and make sure he doesn't get lost' while Ten writes "sometimes I wish I was small enough that Donna could carry me around in like a cat backpack or maybe a shirt pocket" and they look at each other like AYYYYYY because not only are they deeply drift compatible they're also fuckin weird about it 💖
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[SCENE: driving back from my appointment]
dad: ...am I going to have to teach you how to shave?
me: uh yeah! at some point, lol
dad: hm. well I can show you the way I prefer, with mug soap and a brush, because the aerosol cans are just no. I showed your brother my way and he likes it a lot better too...
dad: [rambles for a bit]
dad: ...it's really just another chore, you look in the mirror and go 'ugh I have to shave soon' so it's just one of those things you do every once in a while
me, externally: haha yeah, I can't wait :]
me, internally: he's talking about this like it's no big deal, it's not weird at all,,, he doesn't mind the idea of teaching me despite the fact that he never expected to be doing this with me,,,, he's my dad and he supports me even if he doesn't completely get it,,,
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Say it with me:
Change is coming. Palestine, Congo, Sudan, Hawaii, and more will be free.
Stop talking about these places as if hope is lost. Change is coming. Palestine will be free, then we will work on the next thing, then the next.
Change is coming.
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at some point it's just like. do they even fucking like the thing they're asking AI to make? "oh we'll just use AI for all the scripts" "we'll just use AI for art" "no worries AI can write this book" "oh, AI could easily design this"
like... it's so clear they've never stood in the middle of an art museum and felt like crying, looking at a piece that somehow cuts into your marrow even though the artist and you are separated by space and time. they've never looked at a poem - once, twice, three times - just because the words feel like a fired gun, something too-close, clanging behind your eyes. they've never gotten to the end of the movie and had to arrive, blinking, back into their body, laughing a little because they were holding their breath without realizing.
"oh AI can mimic style" "AI can mimic emotion" "AI can mimic you and your job is almost gone, kid."
... how do i explain to you - you can make AI that does a perfect job of imitating me. you could disseminate it through the entire world and make so much money, using my works and my ideas and my everything.
and i'd still keep writing.
i don't know there's a word for it. in high school, we become aware that the way we feel about our artform is a cliche - it's like breathing. over and over, artists all feel the same thing. "i write because i need to" and "my music is how i speak" and "i make art because it's either that or i stop existing." it is such a common experience, the violence and immediacy we mean behind it is like breathing to me - comes out like a useless understatement. it's a cliche because we all feel it, not because the experience isn't actually persistent. so many of us have this ... fluttering urgency behind our ribs.
i'm not doing it for the money. for a star on the ground in some city i've never visited. i am doing it because when i was seven i started taking notebooks with me on walks. i am doing it because in second grade i wrote a poem and stood up in front of my whole class to read it out while i shook with nerves. i am doing it because i spent high school scribbling all my feelings down. i am doing it for the 16 year old me and the 18 year old me and the today-me, how we can never put the pen down. you can take me down to a subatomic layer, eviscerate me - and never find the source of it; it is of me. when i was 19 i named this blog inkskinned because i was dramatic and lonely and it felt like the only thing that was actually permanently-true about me was that this is what is inside of me, that the words come up over everything, coat everything, bloom their little twilight arias into every nook and corner and alley
"we're gonna replace you". that is okay. you think that i am writing to fill a space. that someone said JOB OPENING: Writer Needed, and i wrote to answer. you think one raindrop replaces another, and i think they're both just falling. you think art has a place, that is simply arrives on walls when it is needed, that is only ever on demand, perfect, easily requested. you see "audience spending" and "marketability" and "multi-line merch opportunity"
and i see a kid drowning. i am writing to make her a boat. i am writing because what used to be a river raft has long become a fully-rigged ship. i am writing because you can fucking rip this out of my cold dead clammy hands and i will still come back as a ghost and i will still be penning poems about it.
it isn't even love. the word we use the most i think is "passion". devotion, obsession, necessity. my favorite little fact about the magic of artists - "abracadabra" means i create as i speak. we make because it sluices out of us. because we look down and our hands are somehow already busy. because it was the first thing we knew and it is our backbone and heartbreak and everything. because we have given up well-paying jobs and a "real life" and the approval of our parents. we create because - the cliche again. it's like breathing. we create because we must.
you create because you're greedy.
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To adress this recent discourse I saw
Cishet Aromantic men ARE LGBT!
No other way around it, they are queer and if you disagree go fuck yourself
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I was going through my health textbook and someone wrote "fuck that" under the lines about ending friendships because dating is more important and if that is not the most aromantic/aroace thing ever, I don't know what is.
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You know what, fuck it. Let’s show some love for the “unpleasant” autistics.
For the autistics who are always accused of being angry or moody when all they’re doing is sitting there.
For the autistics who take everything literally and respond sincerely.
For the autistics who come across as “blunt” or “rude” for being honest.
For the autistics who are called “control freaks” for needing a sense of order and routine.
For the autistics who get told to shut up for infodumping about uncomfortable topics.
For the autistics who find it too exhausting to mask and pretend to be sunny and friendly.
“Unpleasant” autistics, I love you.
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