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oswald-privileges · 5 years

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Loudmouth

(I wrote some statement fic. It’s been a heck of a while since I wrote anything for fandom.)

Statement of Ulla Ness, regarding, um... a peculiar transformation. Original statement given March 14th, 1999. Audio recording by Christopher Peake, in an… unprofessional capacity. Statement begins.

I still don’t see why I had to come to you. I know you have an email address, so wouldn’t it have been easier to just scan the form and send it to me? Hell, I would have taken a physical copy sent to me in the post. It would have been slower, but it would have meant I could have stayed at home. But no. I asked, and you just gave me a lot of waffle about how you have ‘strict acquisition policies’, alongside directions that had been copied from google maps. Which I know, because I checked.

It’s not that I’m lazy, you understand, far from it. I used to have what I regarded as quite the active social life. But recently that’s become impossible for me to maintain, for a number of reasons. Which are also the reasons that I’ve come to talk to you.

I used to be quite a religious person. Still am, I suppose. I’m not entirely sure. I was a member of the congregation of Saint Mary’s, a small anglican church in a small, anglican village up in Lincolnshire. Not everybody there was particularly devout, but it wasn’t one of those places where it especially mattered. It was more about the sense of community we had. Catching up with each other after communion on Thursdays, singing in the choir, arranging cake sales or coffee mornings as fundraisers for whatever bit of the building had fallen off now. I’ve been attending since I was little, and more or less grew up with the congregation.

I miss it quite badly, if I’m being honest. I’ve always been the sort to need other people, but I didn’t realise quite how much losing them would affect me. You don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone and all that, I suppose.

It started with another fundraiser, a jumble sale this time. I had volunteered to help manage the event, so I was in charge of sorting through the items that people had brought in for us to sell. Like I said, not everyone there was strictly devout, and didn’t always take care with what they decided to donate. Some people seemed to use it as more of an excuse to toss legitimate junk in our direction and call it a good deed.

This was definitely the case with Mister Ashley. He attended purely because his mother was too old to walk by herself, and I rather think that she insisted that he stay with her throughout the service. It was definitely at her behest that he took part in any communal activities. She would always announce that he would be happy to run stalls or make tea or some other menial duty, while he sat by her side, stony-faced, and saying nothing at all.

The only time I remember him giving any sort of reaction was when when his mother announced that her Jamie would be happy to donate some of his shop’s excess stock for the jumble sale. I remember, he turned to her with the strangest look on his face. At the time, I thought it was one of badly suppressed outrage. I assumed that she had simply gone a bit too far in volunteering his services; Mister Ashley was a second hand book seller, and owned the Jabberwock Bookshop just off from Memorial Square. It can’t have been all that easy to turn a profit. Thinking back on it now, though, and I wonder if his expression was something sharper than just anger. If it could have been alarmed, almost panicked. But I believe that is likely be nothing more than hindsight colouring my memories. If he had had some way of knowing, had been frightened of something like that which came to pass, then… well. I cannot honestly say I ever truly liked James Ashley, but neither can I believe that he would be as cruel or as cowardly as to not have said or done anything.

As it was, he brought the books to the side room the next day, where I was going through the donations and sorting the sellable items from those things too broken, torn, stained, or just plain unusable. I had just set aside yet another jigsaw- this one with almost two thirds of the pieces obviously missing- when he knocked on the outer door. In spite of the heavy rain, he wasn’t wearing a coat, hat, or boots. He didn’t say a word to me when I opened it, just shouldered his way in, dropped a heavy cardboard box on the floor by the unsorted donations, and walked out again. He did this three more times, leaving the door swinging behind him, letting in strong gusts of wind and rain, and reinscribing a damp trail of rainwater on the carpeted floor. Then he was gone as abruptly as he had arrived.

Ashley had taken better care to protect the books from the rain than himself. The cardboard was soaked through, but the books inside had been wrapped in several layers of plastic sheeting. They were stacked upright, and had been fitted in without any attempt to force too many into a single space. They were all, without exception, worn, faded, and almost completely without interest. Paperback romances long since out of print, old text books, children’s encyclopedias. It was rather a relief, if I’m honest. I could just reach into the boxes, grab a book, give it a flick through, and place it on the “for sale” pile.

I was about halfway through the last box when my fingers brushed something that did not feel at all like paper. It was dense and yielding, and ever so slightly damp. I recoiled, shock and disgust crawling their prickling way up my arm. My fingers looked clean, but the ghost feeling of something sticky still clung to them.

My first thought that it was some nasty practical joke. That Ashley, stung by his mother’s willingness to give away his stock, had put something disgusting in there by way of relieving his feelings. But that would have been ridiculous- he was a grown man, for goodness sakes, not a slighted child. It was more likely that the plastic keeping the books wrapped up had slipped, and allowed the rain to seep in through the sides. That was the more likely explanation.

It seemed as though I was right when I looked into the box properly, and saw nothing there but more books. But when I reached in again, all I felt was rough, dry paper. Confused, I went through the contents more slowly, looking where I placed my hand and at the books I chose.

I didn’t feel it again until the fifth book I picked up, that same almost-damp feeling. It was broad and set in landscape, almost like a sketchbook. It was dense with pages all jammed together- dense and heavy. It flopped bonelessly in my hand, and I needed to support it from underneath before I could read the title.

Hymnal, it read. The gold letters gleamed wetly on the slick cover.

It appeared to be full of sheet music. No titles or lyrics, just scratched staves and notes that meandered up and down the lines as though drunk. The smell that rose from the pages as I turned them was odd and unpleasant. I wondered if the leather binding them hadn’t been properly cured. Those areas of page that weren’t covered in music were full of sketches, but so dense and overlapping that I couldn’t tell what they were supposed to be. And, I realised with an unpleasant start, the cover beneath my hands was warm, as though I was touching a live thing.

Suddenly, I’d had enough. I was sitting here, working myself up over an old, graffitied book for no good reason. I shut the thing hurriedly, and it snapped closed with a heavy slithering of pages. I caught the soft part of my forefinger on one of them, and a tiny bead of scarlet began to well from the wound. The stinging was welcome- it gave me something to focus on, mundane annoyance drowning out the confusion that had been threatening to become fear.

I dropped the book onto the discard pile. I couldn’t sell something like that, that much was obvious. Then I picked it up again, and dashed through the rain to the rubbish bins outside. I tossed it in, and followed it up with as much of the discard pile as I could bag up in one go, burying the thing underneath threadbare scarves, broken plastic dolls, and half used art supplies.

I felt a little better when it was done, but not much. Whatever those hymns were praising, I don’t think it was Our Lord.

The cut on my finger didn’t heal like it should. It stopped bleeding without any trouble, but the edges became raised, reddened and sensitive to the touch. I dabbed at it with antiseptic and did my best to put it out of my mind. I succeeded at first. I had plenty to keep me busy, both at church and at my workplace, and for a day or two, I completely forgot about it.

At least until it opened up again.

I don’t remember what caused it, or if anything caused it at all. Just that I was reaching for something, and there was the feeling of… unpeeling, almost, the cold feeling of fresh air on wet skin. I checked to see if the cut was bleeding again.

Instead of a cut, I found myself looking at a tiny, fully formed mouth.

The raised, reddened edges I had thought were a sign of infection had become minute lips. They were slightly parted, and behind them I could see the tiniest slivers of white. And behind that, a dark space where something wet shifted.

I didn’t look at it for long. Already I was reaching for the first aid kit, hastily covering the cut- the mouth- with a plaster. I was already convincing myself that what I’d just seen was some kind of infection I was too squeamish to look at, and that since I couldn’t feel any pain, I should probably go to the doctors, in case it was nerve damage or something. The impression of having seen a mouth rather than a cut was an unpleasant trick my mind had played on me, and one I didn’t feel like closely examining. I told myself I had imagined it.

I hadn’t, though. I could taste the soft fabric patch on the plaster.

I really did mean to go to the doctors. Mouth or no mouth, whatever was happening to the cut on my finger worried me. I even got as far as making an appointment. But the next day I went into work, and there was an accident involving a slippery patch of floor and a very, very sharp knife that I was carrying at the time. I ended up with a nasty slice parallel with the underside of my ribcage.

This time, it was obvious how quickly it stopped bleeding, how it was practically dry before I even changed the gauze once. How the scabs began to flake before I even touched them, leaving nothing but those raised, reddening edges around the cut itself.

I didn’t go to that doctor’s appointment. I don’t think it would have helped me if I had.

It took longer for the second cut to open, but when it did, I could stand in front of the mirror to properly see the flat, white, human teeth, and the tongue that moved behind them.

It didn’t feel alien. That’s what surprised me most. I was scared, of course I was scared, I was growing new bits, opening up in places that I shouldn’t- but that was just it. It was my body doing this, not some… weird infection or surgery. Whatever was happening, it felt like an extension of myself.

I could move them, I found. Not as consciously as I could my original mouth, the one in its proper position on my face, but sort of like moving a limb after it’s fallen asleep. It took concentration, like I was working through partial numbness. Like I needed to focus to wake them up.

I didn’t spend very long doing that, though. I would realise with a start that what I was doing wasn’t normal, it wasn’t sane. I would pull my shirt back down or re-plaster my finger with a feeling almost like shame. I wasn’t as scared as I should have been, and that in itself was somehow a lot more frightening.

I’m not clumsy. I can’t be, considering the sharp tools I have to handle at work. But I started to accumulate injuries. Innocuous things at first. Paper cuts from the prayer books during mass, scrapes from the edges of the metal benches at work. And then other things. Pushing down a door-handle would lay my palm open as though I’d been struck with a metal ruler. The pressure of my jacket across my shoulders would tear the skin. I woke in bed one morning to discover that the folded sheets around me had left cuts going from my hip to my collar bone.

Every single one of them bled, reddened, and opened.

The mouths started to become restless as their number grew. They tried to chew on the clothes I wore to cover them, and if I didn’t focus, they would let out soft, but audible moans or sighs. I tried to quiet them. I even tried feeding them, though I only did that once. It seemed to help, but the mangled sensation of swallowing with a throat that seemed to be lodged under my right kidney was so disorienting I couldn’t bring myself to do it again.

I hadn’t stopped going out altogether. I left the house less, certainly, but as uncertain and uncomfortable as my changing existence was, I didn’t want to give up the company of other people altogether. I get lonely easily.

So, one Friday, when when there was so little skin left under my clothes and gloves that no new mouths could easily form, I patched my face and neck with gauze, and went to take my place in the choir again.

Nobody really seemed to notice anything different about me. I had all the right stories lined up for when I was asked about what had happened to my face, but almost nobody did. A few condolences, a few jokes, and that was it. People apparently preferred to gossip about the death of Mrs Ashley, and how her James had stopped coming to church now, and how they had known his heart wasn’t in it all along.

It felt awful. There I was, standing in the middle of them, skin to skin almost, with the most fragile disguise imaginable hiding a secret that would ruin their perception of the world for good- and they were too wrapped up in their own smug assurance of their own piety to notice. I offered up a brief prayer for patience, but like all my prayers lately, I don’t think I was offering it to the God whose praises we’d all gathered to sing.

And when we raised our voices together for All Things Bright And Beautiful, and I opened my mouth to join in, and then opened my mouth again, and opened my mouth again, and opened my mouth again- I wasn’t singing praises to that God either.

I didn’t realise that the others had stopped at first. It wasn’t until I glanced to one side, and saw Julie Wright staring at me with her powerless mouth open and unmoving, that I realised I was singing in harmony with myself.

I broke off, suddenly embarrassed and frightened by the way that they were all looking at me. There was something like awe in their expressions, but there was something else there too. Something that shuddered and recoiled. I desperately tried to remember the words I’d been singing, if I had gotten them right. I had the horrible sense that I might have subverted something holy.

Adam Bromley was the one to break the silence.

“Well now. You never told us you were getting private training!”

And just like that, the spell was broken. The unexpressed disgust sank back beneath their faces, and the others took up the idea almost with relief. A beautiful voice, they told me, what trick did they teach me to make it resonate like that? I forced a smile and said something non-committal and when we took up the tune again, I was careful to sing only the words that were on the page in front of me.

My own relief was short-lived. When I got home, I found the skin I had left was being pulled apart by the restless movements of the mouths. Blood stained the underside of my shirt, and I couldn’t stop the moans and hissings any more than I could have controlled a spasm or a muscular tic.

I didn’t sleep that night, and called in sick to work the next day. I lay on the bed, and stared up at the ceiling, trying very hard not to move.

It wasn’t any use. My skin had become so fragile that even getting up and walking to the kitchen caused it to split, the blood barely having time to dry before the wound began to twitch and whisper. All my fascination was gone now, as were all my attempts to ignore what was happening. All I did was lie on the bed, and let myself slowly drown in my own body. I lived like that for a week.

When next Friday evening came, my entire body burst into song.

I writhed and moaned and hummed without will, without choice, throwing out snatches of hymn before discarding them as not what I wanted, not right. And for the first time, the indistinct murmurs and whispers grew louder, began to form words. Prayers that had been chewed out of shape, pleas for more, more mouths, more brothers and sisters, to come out of hiding and join the great curdling of flesh.

This went on for the entire night.

That was when I decided that I needed to do something. I’d let… whatever this was go on for too long, long beyond the point of saving myself. But I wanted to tell someone first. So I dragged myself to my computer, and searched as best I could. It’s difficult to type with only a confusion of tongues.

And that’s where you came in. You aren’t special. You were just the closest place that didn’t either ignore my emails, or reply with not so gentle suggestions that I see a psychologist.

I don’t think I’ll be leaving my home again, once I get back. I doubt I’ll even bother uncovering, although there’s no-one there to see me. For all that I wanted to let someone know, I don’t want to be seen.

The cupboard below the stairs locks from the inside. I can push the key out from underneath the crack in the door.

Whatever is happening to me, I won’t allow it come to fruition.

Post-statement follow-up: There wasn’t anyone under the stairs when I went to check. The lock on cupboard door was broken, and so was the one on the back door. Either Ms Ness was, um… successful in her attempts to… halt her transformation, and a housebreaker with some seriously questionable motives took what was- what was left of her. Or she wasn’t. And her resolve either waned or the situation was, um. Taken out of her hands. Or. Whatever she had instead of hands.

I wasn’t… going to record this. It’s not my job, strictly speaking, but I was reading some of the old statements, and this one just… sort of caught my eye. And I’ve seen the Archivist and some of the others do recordings, and it just looked so… I wanted to try it out. I’ll be taking the tape with me, though. None of the others need to know about this.

#The Magnus Archives #tma #the magnus institute #whoops its all OCs

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polyadvice · 6 years

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Why isn't polyamory included in LGBTQ?

Hey there i have a question and im sorry if these comes off ignorant, or selfish or anything but im rly confused. why is poly not accepted in lgbtq. im bi and poly and i feel like there needs to be a safe space for poly ppl. poly ppl are oppressed. ppl have told me poly ppl arent queer bc some of us are cis het and its a choice to be poly. but for my it isnt a choice. and ace people are in lgbtq even tho some of them are cis/het. i just dont get it. we deserve a safe space rigt?

Polyamory is not generally included in the LGBTQ umbrella because it's not a sexuality (who you're attracted to) or a gender identity (who you are). It's more about how you date. So many people feel that it isn't an "identity," but a behavior, practice, or lifestyle. However, for a lot of polyamorous people, polyamory is experienced as an identity - it's who we are, not just how we date. So there is tension there. You can see my FAQ page on this issue here.

There is also a conversation about queerness and its history and community. Some people feel that since polyamory has never been historically marginalized, it is missing a critical component of LGBTQ-ness. Other people believe (incorrectly) that polyamory is an invention of the past few decades, and that it is primarily white, cis, hetero, wealthy people who are privileged enough to play around with sexuality in this way. This can make people feel that people are imposing on the LGBTQ community who don't share a history or current experience of oppression that bonds the LGBTQ community.

However, polyamorous people do face issues around health insurance, hospital visitation, child custody, workplace protections, family rejection, etc. We just don't have a long history of institutionalized abuses, for a variety of reasons. So defining LGBTQ as "people who are marginalized due to their sexuality/relationships/gender identity" would include polyamorous people, unless you narrow the definition to "specifically targeted in a historic pattern of specific types of violence," which to me is a strange way to define a community or an identity.

I personally believe that polyamory is not inherently queer, but that polyamory can be queered. To me, "queerness" is about "queering" institutions like gender identity, relationships, gender roles, marriage, monogamy, sex, etc. Polyamory as a way of being can be an intentional, self-aware critique and "queering" of capitalistically-imposed gender and relationship roles, the institution of marriage, and the "ideology of family" that upholds oppressive political, social, and economic systems.

It is fair, I think, to both accept that polyamory is not inherently queer, and a polyamorous relationship does not automatically grant a person a place in a community of people primarily bonded over LGBTQ issues - and that polyamorous people do need, and deserve, a community that is inclusive and can address their struggles. There is a time and a place to 'stay in your lane' and a time and a place to expand the umbrella. This is a very sensitive issue for a lot of people, and not everyone shares my opinions. It's important to honor existing community norms, be sensitive to painful areas for other people, and it's also important to advocate for ourselves and think critically and intentionally about what that Q means to us.

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witchywitchstudies · 3 years

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Witchy note before beginning New Moon Ritual:

Snow brings so much to me

I love and appreciate what it symbolizes to me as well

Rebirth- growth, refreshed. Restart. Build over. Covering footsteps of the past. Leaving no trace or clear boundary of where earth and water begin. Reflection, light bearing, soft, beautiful but also dangerous if not respected. (Not very different from Lava now that I think about it!)

Being able to gaze upon it, especially while reflecting with friends from the heart over the phone, has been such a healing experience.

I think seeing beauty in front of me helped me process the beauty in everything and the beauty that was happening now and around me- with our conversation and time together, and even helped me see the beauty in me- which I will say is rare for me to be aware of, that self reflection and self love. (Have I ever realized over the past few days, how life is definitely a team sport! At least for most of us- I imagine the only people that don’t, live a solo life- in the woods/mountains- in a cabin chopping wood, etc.)

I feel Nature could be the best medicine for any ailing mind, body, spirit, even soul. Or someone experiencing all of the above.

Just wish I could remember its with me everywhere, and able to be carried anywhere- my hands, feet, eyes, ears, etc.

Best way to help me fight those unwanted animalistic behaviors humans biologically have on the daily, yo.

Fight those unwanted animalistic behaviors I feel don’t help me be the best that I am. Nature, help remind me that I am human, and human only. Full of imagination, power of creation, light and love, but also mistakes and unrealized behaviors. We must walk in self-love, kindness, compassion, forgiveness, and humor.

Hope/Wonder probably wouldn’t hurt either. ;)

Alright! New Moon Ritual Time!

Sat. ~2:30PM

Notes for New Moon Seeds taken earlier in the week:

It’s a New Moon today

And it’s starting to snow for the next 4 days

Pretty magical and awesome

What seeds do I want to plant for this next moon cycle?

Goals/Interests:

—Start research/first steps towards becoming educated in Social Justice, Human Rights, and how to properly be an activist.

— First steps towards being an activist, sign up for Social Justice and Human Rights and Civil Rights (taking the next steps following the above)

— Research Viking/Nordic/pagan similiar gender fluid terms/genders

— Start a Patreon Draft-write out draft/business plan/purpose/schedule; post weekly versus bi-weekly, mental health, social justice, art process, personal facts, personal art, the development and maintanence of the artist artistically, spiritually, physically and mentally-etc- nail it down to x amount of topics, etc., goodies, etc.

— Practice walking in Self-Love every day. Build Ego strength, confidence, emotional IQ and awareness. Take note of what self image/identity/ptsd flags are

— Rituals- draft pm and reasses am

— Reading book list

— Create create create, draw draw draw

— Wolf Paw Pins!!!

— Organize (and maybe prioritize?) big goals- patreon, comic, tarot deck, store merch-schedule timing of releases(if do able), twitch/discord, super hero personaetc.

Animals popping up-

Hearing humminbird

Raccoon stories

Coyote stories

Bear stories

Have been really digging listening to podcasts made by WOC - “Thanks For Your Concern” and “The Self- Love Fix” podcast to name a few

Been really enjoying the work rituals that have fallen into place- naturally happened. Maybe feel that out with home as well?

I’ve been heavily enjoying journaling during my break, and listening to motivating self love podcast.

Gives me a sense of calm. Peace. Closeness to self, or at least closer before approaching an unpredictable day. (A fear I am working more on facing- unpredictability. A moment of calm/self time/moment/quiet/no distractions/focus/freshness before doing anything, especially outside, helps a lot in this area.)

This cycle’s crystal pack: Business, Motivation, Self-Love, Creativity, Human/Civil/Social-Justice/Rights, Identity

Fluorite: Business, motivation, creativity, self-work

Jade: Business, justice,

Lodestone: business, motivation, spirituality (find your path),

Malachite: Business, self work, transformation

Tiger’s Eye: creativity, success (business), self-work,

Tourmaline: business, self-work, transformation, self-love

Amethyst: Justice, self-work, creativity

Carnelian: Justice, creativity, self—work,

Rose Quartz: Justice, self-love

Tarot Reading: (2 cards fell out, as soon as I started to ask- and got paranoid they were not the cards. I looked at them anyway, just in case. Guess what. I shuffled, cleared the mind, shuffled, cut the deck and pulled the bottom of the deck- rare for me to do for the moon ritual. ALL THAT IS HOLY. The cards were the same xD Hilarious. Thank goodness my deck and the universe is so kind, especially with my suspicions and paranoia. XD)

Ace of Wands: Good Judgement needed more than ever, don’t rush into it. Thrilling to embark on new journey- growth all around, ideas and outlook expand, creativity seems endless. Fertile time- Expansion and Inspiration

The Sun (Also in last Full Moon’s reading): Spend some extra time outside today, be grateful for the radiance of the sun and the life force it gives all creatures. Soaking in warm rays- nourishing, healing, all aches and pains fade away. Sun brings amazing energy into life, Vitality and health abound-feel assurance and clarity in all doings- Vitality, enlightenment.

As a story/together: interesting- there is something big in the center for both of these cards. The Ace of Wands- the center is a radiating blooming wand- (Ume? Shinya and I were talking about? Blooming before spring?) Surrounded by a white light/glowing, and radiating yellow to orange to red, outward. Beautiful. The sun card is bordered with doves flying in each corner direction, away from the center, two up and two down, NE, SE, SW, NW- the center, red hot black sun. Radiating from the darkness, rods, strands, energies, beams, fractals of light, energy, saturation, color and burst-forth ness, but smoothly, from the center of eternity and forever- it seems. Vitality. Goes from black, to red, to orange, to yellow, to green at the birds, and blue beyond that. Radiating further outward when coming from the depths. Ace of wands powerful, beautiful, radiant, but the Sun is vibrant- beaming from a deeper darker place, but shining and bringing forth oh so much light and warmth. Ooooo.. tell-tale of self reflection, love and how it will help me fight for justice?

Rune Reading:

Fehu (again interestingly) - Wealth, especially-

“livestock, especially cattle. Latin made the same associations—our word “pecuniary” comes from the Latin pecus, a cow—demonstrating that for the early Indo-Europeans, wealth was not only transferable, but could move under its own power. Like the Celts, the early Germanic peoples were a cattle culture. Dairy products were a staple of the diet. The most valued beasts were kept through the winter in one end of the communal longhouse. The animals which could not be fed until spring were sacrificed to honor the gods and feed the people. One way or another, wealth was counted in cows.

Wealth to be guarded, not hoarded- “Nor should it lull one into a false sense of security. Welcome though it may be, it must be taken as a gift of the gods. Neither the fruits of the earth nor the love of others can ever be owned (the last verse implies a special warning not to treat women as property!). They are loaned to us only, to be used productively and shared with others. True riches are the wealth the soul gains from a life well-lived.”

“Meanings ascribed to this rune by modern commentators range from the mystical to the practical. Willis believes that the kind of wealth represented by cattle is that which grows when cared for, which can produce more money when wisely invested, but that the rune sometimes means the need to conserve resources. Thorsson, on the other hand, sees in the rune motion and expansion of power, mobility, luck, and fertility.

FEHU is always a rune of productivity, though the context may vary. Spiritual or artistic creativity, physical fertility, or the ability to create or to maintain wealth can be indicated, or it may signify an improvement in one's finances or health.

FEHU is one of the runes used to invoke passion, productivity, and prosperity in a couple being married. (And gardening growth/nourishment!)

Advice Card Reading: (The Four Agreements)

Be Ware of Unconcious Assumptions

Become a White Witch (with my word as well- the biggest!)

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swampgallows · 7 years

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really feel like im gonna struggle to ever integrate into society. i struggle to chill w people my own age because a lot of them have careers n shit (i think... i guess? i dont really know actually lmao cause i dont talk to em) or theyre dating people and i cant really tell people what im up to because theyre condescending about it. “oh youre still into the rave thing huh?” yeah i’m “still into” it, sorry. you got two kids and a husband and youre living w your parents still too, that’s not a life i envy. id rather keep my ‘childish’ interests, thanks.

and i dont drink or do drugs so a lot of Adult Outings make me uncomfortable or are not right for me. and any time i want to find sober anything it becomes religious or recovery related, or it is considered exclusively for children. i have no problem being in the vicinity of alcohol but i dont want to hang w people while they’re using controlling substances because it sucks for everybody involved: they cant enjoy themselves because they feel self-conscious around me being the sober one, and then i feel bad for making them self-conscious but am also uncomfortable with them using substances around me. and of course i mean substances for the purpose of getting fucked up, not as medication. except in the case of weed which is a huge monumentally major trigger for me (whether i mentally prepare myself to be around it or not).

raves are the perfect blend for me. people who wanna get fucked up can, people who dont want to dont have to, and everybody is there to have a good time in their own way. they wear what they want, they dance how they want, and they generally dont infringe on anybody else’s good time with weird stuff like sexual advances or whatever. and if something like that is going down (like when RTC strips down and starts fucking on stage basically) you can always go somewhere else without having to sacrifice listening to the music or enjoying yourself otherwise. there’s generally outdoor areas (or people will let you in/out if it’s not the shadiest) to chill or if you need a breather, people are willing to help you, etc. i dunno raves compared to clubs or bars are vastly VASTLY superior. youd think id be able to stand the latter two since i rave all the time but i just cant (also because there is never any good music at clubs).

plus im not dating anybody and being ace is a shit and a half in terms of All of That, it’s another fuckin hang up on my perceived adulthood that im unpalatable or a freak or something is wrong w me if i’ve “gone this long” being single. sorry all the dudes who have been into me have been petulant children or massive abusive jerks and im not open enough about my bi-ness to be visible to women i dont think. either way im entirely de-sexed and this is the age where people are definitely fuckin, and fuckin with a PURPOSE. theyve all had like ten years of practice by this point (whether actually having sex or not, theyre just programmed to understand it) and so most people dont have time for a stiff like me who really doesnt give a shit about sex or ranges to even actively fucking hating it. i also havent developed feelings for anybody in a long time unless you count my tumblr crush (who im pretty sure has a partner anyway lmao and they seem pretty sexual actually so i dont think theyd, among many other reasons, give a shit about my dumb ass) and that can be really alienating too.

my high school best friend got married yet to me i feel like the only development i’ve had since high school is Trauma and mental illness. like i developed dissociative episodes in the last few years whereas in high school i basically only had the chronic insomnia and hypnagogic hallucinations. i mean i certainly think i’ve developed AS A PERSON in HUMONGOUS strides since high school but i know people i knew then will just be like “oh you still do ‘the rave thing’ and play WoW, huh?”

like yeah, i dunno, FUCK ME for enjoying my interests. i quit wow when i needed to and im glad i did but it’s not WoW’s fault i entered a morass of suicidal depression in the years i wasnt playing. WoW had run its course at that time in my life. and at the latter end of that i was going to raves regularly, making the BEST lifelong friends i have ever had, and generally being part of something greater, part of a community that genuinely cared about me. i was working out further kinks with my ability to socialize and love and be open to people (as i will continue to do until i die) but i feel there is arguably a much larger capacity to love in me than before. so i still wear kandi, so i still wear black clothing, so i still prattle on about orcs and trolls. fuck off. at least now i dont hate myself and let myself get raped every day, at least now im not mindlessly swallowing and regurgitating actively racist rhetoric out of fear of confronting my parents’ hatred or by surrounding myself with the dregs of society, at least now i dont want to “sew up my vagina” because i detest my womanhood and the men who covet(ed) it

currently i play wow honestly like maybe twice a week. i went on a bender with diego my REAL LIFE FRIEND LMFAO (like what, stop enjoying time w your friends, it isnt grown up!) a few days ago and we played for like 6 straight hours which was pretty fuckin wild. i think about wow a LOT like TOO mcuh and all of my art recently has been wow-related but holy shit i am drawing at least

since playing wow again (almost concurrent with when i had started my job) i did more drawing than i did in probably all 4.5 years of college, assignments or otherwise. i was drawing EVERY DAY, legitimately, even if they were just quick scribbles. and when i wasnt i was writing every single fucking day. and when i wasnt, i was READING. like FUCK me for having warcraft as a motivation to do fucking anything in my goddamn life. youre right, abandoning my interests and adopting ones i hate for the sake of appearing more adult is totally worth the mind-numbing soul-eating depression i crumble into without these silly safety nets.

like that’s all it is. it’s silly. raves are silly. video games are silly. “good luck getting laid” thanks i dont need it. “good luck finding someone who loves you” fuck you i have plenty of people who love me BECAUSE of the things i love, not “in spite” of them, not in some tongue-in-cheek “That’s our Swamp!” fashion. they say, “THIS IS GREAT. PLEASE MAKE MORE.” they say, “THIS IS GREAT. PLEASE TELL ME MORE.” they say, “THIS IS GREAT. PLEASE PLAY MORE.” (that last one is about music, not warcraft lol).

but i mean i do worry about it, worry about being “too insular” as some critical piece of shit idiot put it to the point of being unrelatable. I dont want to alienate myself from people of course, nor do i want to get so wrapped up in fantasy that i lose myself. and that’s something i was tearing myself apart about during my episode earlier, just that “I have to get off the internet” because while i think and do all of this stuff, “Me” is just sitting in my bed rotting. Even when im drawing or up at my tables mixing i know it’s still just me, in my house, sealed off from the world, and i started having panic because i was telling myself “i want to go home” over and over but i am at home, i’m in my bed, but i realized of course that home is not in this house. home is many places for me, but it’s also why im SO enthusiastic about wow again: it is home. and believe me im getting wary of just how fucking much i am eating breathing sleeping dreaming (literally dreaming) warcraft because while i dont know if i was ever “addicted” i, again, dont want to be so swept up that i forget im a person (and with dpdr that shit is way potent). that and uhh i got shit to do, but mostly... it’s not real. and i know im setting myself up for failure and heartbreak again by yearning for something that cannot exist no matter how much i set my mind and hands to create it.

i feel hurt physically by the fact that there are “only humans”. i mean there are infinite different kinds of humans, but it’s more of an existential quandary than a yearning for an orc boyfriend or something. it’s why we dream up fantastic creatures and aliens in the first place: we’re not alone in the universe, are we? are humans really the only sentient beings out there? we can’t be. we can’t be. “they” say either option—that we are, or are not alone—is equally terrifying but i dont think so. sure we might fear violence or eradication from not being alone, but to know that we are? out of everything we’ve charted and studied, that we’re it? that’s... that’s death. and of course there’s going to be heat death or whatever they say in 6 billion whatever i dont know, so whether we’re alone or not is irrelevant because it will destroy our universe and what happens when there is no universe? and so of course all of this was compounding into panic, of course, of course, jumping from a dumbass thought like “i guess im not as into overwatch because it’s sci-fi but also theyre all humans” straight into “INEVITABLE HEAT DEATH”. so like, really, does it matter that i care about wow lore more than i care about marriage?

i mean, i guess i should have a career, but i dont really know what i could be capable of doing. i dont know if it’s mental illness or discipline or what but even if like metzen himself was like “come work at blizzard!” i would still probably just collapse into a heap of worthlessness and fear.

i dont know what i fear. i guess i fear that im wasting my time, and by spending my time in another world i dont have to worry about how im spending time in this one. and that’s really, really bad. i dont like that.

i have to make this world worth living in. i have been trying. but i havent gotten very far. in fact, i took some steps backward.

from the edge of the cliff, so... i guess that’s forward in some ways.

#blathering

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