Come ti guadagni il centro dell’attenzione?
How to you get to be the at the center of the attention?
Come ti guadagni il centro dell’attenzione?
How to you get to be the at the center of the attention?
Hi there! I match you with:
You fit the personality for all of them, and Kyoko and Shuichi are big mystery people! I hope that this meets your expectations!
Is This Tomorrow: America under Communism is a thing i think is interesting to read i recommend it.
notable things i see:
“Ölmek için çok genç,yaşamak için fazla telaşlıydık”
Quirrell, however, must have been braver than they’d thought. In the weeks that followed he did seem to be getting paler and thinner, but it didn’t look as though he’d cracked yet.
They think that it’s because of Snape, but it’s Voldemort’s accentuated pressure for Quirrell to get the Stone
Whenever Harry passed Quirrell these days he gave him an encouraging sort of smile, and Ron had started telling people off for laughing at Quirrell’s stutter.
Look at them encouraging Voldemort lol
Harry and Ron spent most of their free time in the library with her, trying to get through all their extra work.
But fandom says they don’t study and leave it all to Hermione to do… *shake my head*
“But it’s against our laws,” said Ron. “Dragon breeding was outlawed by the Warlocks’ Convention of 1709, everyone knows that.
Look at Ron knowing the year of the Convention by heart, and actually the wizard born in a Wizarding Community know the backstory of the Wizarding World and not someone in her first months in the community… *side eyes Steve Kloves…*
You should see the burns Charlie’s got off wild ones in Romania.”
*adding burns to my mental image of Charlie*
Hermione went on. “We wondered who Dumbledore had trusted enough to help him, apart from you.”
Nice flattery, Hermione !
Harry suddenly turned to Ron.
“Charlie,” he said.
“You’re losing it, too,” said Ron. “I’m Ron, remember?”
“No — Charlie — your brother, Charlie. In Romania. Studying dragons. We could send Norbert to him. Charlie can take care of him and then put him back in the wild!”
My tiny Auror figuring out what to do yet again :)
There was a hitch. By the next morning, Ron’s bitten hand had swollen to twice its usual size. He didn’t know whether it was safe to go to Madam Pomfrey — would she recognize a dragon bite? By the afternoon, though, he had no choice. The cut had turned a nasty shade of green. It looked as if Norbert’s fangs were poisonous.
I always forget this part because of the movie!
“Oh no — oh no — I’ve just remembered — Charlie’s letter was in that book Malfoy took, he’s going to know we’re getting rid of Norbert.”
Oh no, that wasn’t their cleverest move!
They’d left the Invisibility Cloak on top of the tower.
… and neither was this!
BOY OH BOY DO I NEVER GET TO TALK ABOUT TEX!!
Full Name Texan Allie Flax (Pronounced like Tea-gan)
Gender and Sexuality: Trans man and Bi
Ethnicity/Species: That’s a good question that’s actually something I’m still working on
Birthplace and Birthdate: Pianissimo City August 23
Guilty Pleasures: Beach Combing and Old Comic books
Phobias: funny enough crabs wig him out
What They Would Be Famous For: Being the head of the Family
What They Would Get Arrested For: Being the head of the Family
OC You Ship Them With: @rainymeat‘s Snake
OC Most Likely To Murder Them: His own brother Arty on accident
Favorite Movie/Book Genre: He likes super hero movies because they were his favorite when he was a kid
Least Favorite Movie/Book Cliche: Horror movies; he’s not he biggest fan
Talents and/or Powers: He’s very good with a bat : - )
Why Someone Might Love Them: Despite his boisterous attitude and cockyness he’s got a caring heart and he cares a lot about his family
Why Someone Might Hate Them: good luck getting though the 7 layers of his stupid cocky exterior
How They Change: He learns to be more open about the things he loves and just less secretive in general. He also finally beats his brother at wrestling in the end.
Why You Love Them: He’s just a fun character to draw hes big loud and it’s really fun thinking about his relationship with others in the town
okay. okay damn, anon. i’ve been sitting on your ask for one month+ because that quote gave me a truckload of thoughts about arthur and alfred, the way power corrupts, the general eldritchy, great and terrible nature of nations—i wanted to draw something in response, but i’m being overloaded with deadlines—so i’m just going to let this out of my inbox for now, along with my headcanons + history:
‘he is me’: that’s seriously such a huge part of how i see arthur’s complicated feelings towards his eldest son manifest. the irony i see with the pacific siblings (and how i draw them) is that alfred’s the one who looks most unlike his father. jack and zee take after the old man in certain ways (the bold brows). matt’s resemblance to francis is pretty clear. alfred’s also the one with likely the most absentee parenting due to the longer travel times in the 17th—18th century. english polite society regards him as the bastard son of a wealthy english lord who was left to be raised by a governess in the distant colonies across the sea. but—it’s alfred who takes after his father’s own heart in many ways that his three siblings don’t. linguistically, culturally, philosophically—father influenced him all the same. and arthur knows it, no matter how adamantly alfred claims he will be different and remake a better world free of the tired, corrupt ways of the old world:
and yes, alfred is different from him in many ways; he’s far more of an idealist, compared to arthur’s more cynical pragmatism. during the 1940s, it’s a power struggle with his eldest son about how will the brave new world look?
but as the world progresses after 1945?
‘i look into his eyes, i see myself. do you expect me to love that?’ you know, i’ve said that i headcanon that arthur isn’t good at expressing simpler affection with alfred (compared to how he is with say, francis). but alfred is his favourite son, underneath all that dysfunction and surface differences, because of how much he’s frankly invested in him emotionally as the first child, when the empire was in its beginnings. he might be more reflective after being shorn of his empire—all the folly, hubris and self-destruction that is the price of such ambition amongst nations is still being reckoned with. i think arthur has the strongest attachment to alfred for these reasons; alfred is the firstborn, the one who rebelled and disowned the family name—it’s the mix of pride tinged with more regret after 1945: you’re just like me, son.
Hey Guys, I just want to say that if you are young, its ok to feel overwhelmed. I’m 16, and everything is going so fast, and I can handle it but I know younger ones cannot. My friend who is 15 is getting overwhelmed because she wants to help but at the same time is dealing with her own situations. I am too. If you have younger siblings, make sure they can talk to you if they feel like everything is too much. My friend and I are forced to grow up and it’s not fun. We are forced to take care of ourselves because of dead beat parents. Don’t let your younger siblings experience the same. They don’t deserve it.
This is personal, but my sister who is 10 is now getting depressed because my mom is depressed and it’s just her and my mom back in the Philippines. I try my best to talk to my sister and be her outlet. I also try to provide support for my mom. But I can’t always do it because I get sad too and I don’t want to provide more burden for them. If you are in the same situation, it’s okay to take a break for yourself. You can’t help them if you are also in the same situation.
I just want to let you guys know that its okay to take care of yourself.
If you guys need to talk, I’m sure members of this website are willing to help. I am as well if you guys need support.
[Note: I seem to have lost the ask where someone requested my post-war headcanon for Alloran, but anyway here it is.]
Less than a month after the end of the war, Alloran applies for transfer off of Earth and back to the homeworld. When the first request gets cancelled due to a minor typo in a sub-section of a supplemental form, he curses himself and immediately applies again.
The second request lingers in the metaphorical z-space between agents for longer, nearly two Earth months, before it gets cancelled as well. The systems are overtaxed due to the sudden influx of Earth tourism, the form letter tells him this time, and they’re very sorry for their inability to accommodate his request.
The third time he applies, the form remains “under review” on the submission portal for half a year, even though the review process normally takes less than a day. So he applies a fourth time, a terrible suspicion taking hold by now. The Electorate automatically cancels both applications, and has the gall to send him a snippy comm message asking that he refrain from filing redundant claims from now on.
The fifth application gets reviewed and cancelled; the sixth one doesn’t even get that courtesy. It just stays there, “submitted” but not yet “under review,” unwanted and ignored.
Just like its author.
Alloran considers, then. For nearly a day he paces, watching the andalite computer and the primitive human device alike, and weighs the merits of stealing Visser Three’s Blade ship out of the impound lot. It wouldn’t be hard; the security system is coded to his biometrics. No one but he or Tom Berenson could fly that ship now, and Tom Berenson is dead.
After another day, Alloran instead morphs human and walks to the nearest CVS.
He has to swallow an entire jumbo bag of marshmallows and three jars of tomato sauce for comfort before he can swallow his pride as well. But the comfort food does its trick, and at the end he pulls out the human cell phone still registered under one of Esplin 9466′s aliases and enters the third speed-dial option.
“Hey, you.” Eva answers immediately. “How’s it going?”
They don’t know each other, not really. And yet in every one of their three conversations, Eva has greeted him like an old friend. Her voice brings a reaction to Alloran’s human morph: tightness in his throat, the heat of tears behind his eyes.
“I apologize for troubling you,” Alloran says stiffly. “Please, if you are busy, disregard this request.”
Eva snorts a laugh. At least, Alloran thinks that that’s what the sound is. “I’m not busy, and I owe you a favor anyway. Shoot.”
Alloran glances around the room, but there are no weapons, so he decides to disregard that last. “I am truly sorry if it slipped my mind,” he says, “but what favor do you owe?”
“My kid is not in jail on some foreign planet right now, and I hear that’s all your fault. What’s the favor?”
“The War Council would not have imprisoned the Animorphs. That is, perhaps Aximili and Prince Jake may have been imprisoned, but doubtless the full Electorate court would have proven merciful—”
“Alloran. What’s the favor.”
He’s stalling, and she knows it. “It’s a bit of a complicated political matter, and I’m afraid I am not well equipped to explain it to a human, but enforcement of our travel policies is more subject to individual agents’ personal judgment than we ideally would have it be, and…”
“Hijo de puta. They’re not letting you go home, are they?”
Alloran fills his human lungs with more air than they technically need for speech. “It’s a complicated matter.” Nevertheless, his voice comes out small.
“You still camping at the Sharing Community Center?”
“Yes.” His voice is even smaller now.
“I’ll be there in half an hour, querido.” She hangs up.
While he waits, he goes outside to run, to graze, to stare up at the stars.
He didn’t lie; it is complicated. The Andalite Electorate is struggling to recover from a decades-long war, one that threatened the existence of their very soul as a people. Seerow’s mistakes — and Alloran’s own decision to publicize the failings of his prince — have ensured that the whole debacle was a massive embarrassment even before the defeat on the hork-bajir homeworld.
He’s heard the word, whispered and hissed and screamed and shouted.
His face is the public face of the Yeerk Empire. His voice is its voice. The morph he was just using — a bald, middle-aged human male — was constructed from the DNA of a dozen human-controllers. Everything he owns, from the black limousine parked at the curb to the press pass of a woman called Aria, was taken from the hands of murdered slaves.
Of course his people don’t want him back. Of course not. The quantum virus was one thing, but then he had the gall go to and get himself captured by the yeerks. And he’d added insult to injury when he’d challenged a captain on Aximili’s behalf.
He can see it. That’s what stings. He can stare up at the glittering point of his home star even as he runs across a field of dull foreign grass, and at this rate it’ll never be anything but a fixed point of light in an unfamiliar sky ever again.
Eva shows up then, before he can feel too sorry for himself.
She brings a human substance known as pinot noir.
“And then…” Eva points a wavering finger at him. Her words have gotten blurrier over time. “And then, we just sneak it in, and bam!” She slaps the tabletop.
Alloran leans in across to her. “Bam,” he agrees.
“You needed a ride home?”
At the new voice, Alloran stands up sharply. Too sharply. He gets his two flimsy little legs tangled in the chair and almost pitches over.
Marco catches him. “You all right?” he asks.
“I,” Alloran intones, “am intoxicated. Tox. I. Cate. Ed. Wonderful word. Intock. Sick. Kate. Dd-d-d-d-d.”
“Yeeeaah, I was getting those vibes from the—” Marco leans around him in an impressive display of human balance. “Bottle of wine apiece you two’ve apparently emptied.”
Eva draws herself up. “I did not call and request a ride home, I called and requested a ride to the Netherlands!”
“You’re right, you did.” Marco rolls his eyes. “Which is why I made the decision to show up and bring you home instead.”
“No, no, the Netherlands.” Eva steps up next to Alloran. They both regard Marco carefully. “Not to worry, we’ve thought it through. You call your friend with the private plane, Bradley or Bradford or whomever his name is. We fly out to the Hague tonight.”
“Where is this going,” Marco mutters.
“Holland,” Alloran informs him. “It is-sssss in…”
“Yeah, I’ve been.”
“Anyway.” Eva gestures sharply, bringing attention back to her. “We shall have a perfectly ordinary canister of table salt with us, and we shall request to visit with Visser Three—”
“Oh Jesus. Mom.”
“The guards will not suspect a thing, for it is just an ordinary condiment. All we must then do is create a diversion, and…” Eva flings out both hands as if miming an explosion.
“Splat,” Alloran says. “Pllll-lat. Hissssss.”
“And this will accomplish what, exactly?” Marco asks.
“Making Alloran feel better,” Eva whispers to him. However, she seems to be whispering a great deal louder than she realizes. Humans are ill-equipped for private communication, with their sad reliance on verbal speech. “None of the andalites want him back.”
“Yeah. Cool.” Marco laughs. “Ten out of ten therapists recommend war crimes for a friend in need! And as a guy who’s been to at least ten therapists, I’d know.”
Alloran is not certain, but he believes that Marco might be employing the human verbal quirk known as “sarcasm.”
“No one will suspect a thing.” Eva pats him on the shoulder.
Marco sighs. “Security will just think it’s cocaine.”
“Cocaine?” Alloran asks. “Coke-cane? Co-c-c-c-c-c-c-aine?”
“Something you’re never going to try.” Marco levels a hard stare at him. “Given how well you handle your red wine.”
“How did you get wrapped up in this dumbass heist, anyway?” Marco looks from one of them to the other.
“Alloran needed me,” Eva says.
“I have no friends,” Alloran announces. “And Arbron does not own a cell phone. Ell. Elffffff-own.”
Marco closes his main eyes for several seconds, massaging the bridge of his nose. An impressive feat of daring, for a creature with no stalk eyes who relies upon bipedalism. “Should’ve known you’d be a morose drunk,” he says.
“So, you’ll take us to the airfield, then?” Eva asks.
Lifting his head up, Marco opens his eyes. “In the words of my wise and estimable mother: if you want it that bad, you can have it when you’re sober.”
Eva opens her mouth halfway, squinting in what Alloran would guess is the effort of remembering when she would have said that. After a second, her expression clears. “I was right to say it, that floozy would have broken your heart in the morning, and this situation is entirely different!”
“That floozy’s name was Jake Gyllenhaal,” Marco mutters, “and I totally would’ve gone for it when I was sober, but I never got his number.”
Eva says something in Spanish, presumably about the loose morals of Jake Gyllenhaal. Marco’s expression would suggest that he only pretends not to understand her.
“Anyway. The point stands. I’m driving you home.” Marco jerks his chin at Eva. “And you,” he says, looking at Alloran, “are gonna morph and sober up before we go anywhere. I’m not having you nothlited on my conscience.”
“But,” Alloran says, “the salt—”
“We’ll revisit the salt in the morning,” Marco says firmly. “Demorph. Please.”
Alloran considers pointing out that he is a war-prince, he does not take orders from alien children, he has his pride… And then considers whether any of those statements is actually true.
Instantly, he feels both better and worse. On the upside he’s more clear-headed now, but on the downside he’s more clear-headed.
“I’ll call you.” Marco gives him a long look while shepherding Eva out the door.
Marco does not call, but he does send several written missives to Alloran’s cell phone. The Animorphs still have an illegal andalite communication device, it would appear, and Marco has put in requests to channels both official and not about the possibility of transport from Earth to the homeworld.
—Ax is on it, Marco’s latest text reads. —He’s calling an old friend. Might take some smuggling, but we’ve got an idea.
—Thank you, Alloran types carefully on the tiny keyboard. —Your assistance is greatly appreciated, and undeserved.
He’s debating whether to hit send when there’s a knock on the door.
Alloran’s in an abandoned building the Sharing used to use for housing human-controllers. There is very little chance that this is an incidental knock, or someone who wandered by accidentally.
The thought occurs to him that it’d be smarter to morph human and blend in before he answers. But the fear of facing the unknown in a half-blind, tailless morph wins out. He opens the door as is.
It proves to be the right decision. The andalite on the other side didn’t bother to morph either.
Estrid stares at him in silence for several seconds. Her expression is unreadable, all eyes ahead and carefully blank. Alloran doesn’t know what she’s looking for, but he lets her look.
«Estrid,» he says at last, when it’s clear she isn’t going to speak first. He gestures with his tail blade, the downward sweep of greeting for an honored warrior.
«Father,» she says.
Her own sharp tail-turn puts the flat of her blade toward him. A greeting between equals. An insult. Both not formal enough for an aristh to acknowledge a war-prince, and too formal for greeting a family member.
But then, Alloran went for Estrid, didn’t he. Not Aristh Estrid-Corill-Darrath, not Estri-kala or my child.
They haven’t seen each other in over two years. They haven’t spoken in almost twenty.
Arguably, given how young she was when he was taken, they’ve never really spoken at all. Certainly Alloran knows little of the person his daughter has become as a young adult. As a groundbreaking aristh. As a brilliant researcher.
As a war criminal.
Humans have a saying, about apples that don’t fall far.
«How is Jahar?» Alloran says. It’s what he really wants to know, and he doesn’t know how to approach any of the other minefields that lie between them. «And Ajaht, how is he?»
Judging by Estrid’s expression, she takes this to be a standard small-talk opening instead of the deeply earnest inquiry it is. «Mother is well enough. I suppose you’ll have to apologize to her in person.» She doesn’t mention her brother.
Alloran feels his tail blade drop nearly to the floor without his permission. «Yes. Of course. Estrid…»
«I’m on a diplomatic mission to Earth,» she says briskly. «Prince Aximili and I have concluded discussions with several local leaders about access to morphing technology and tourism restrictions going forward. Therefore, I will be able to exit the planet and return home after being subject to nothing more rigorous than human security scans.» The dismissive little flick of her tail at this last is, all things considered, somewhat warranted. Humans have yet to devise a single effective way to detect morphers.
«Return home,» Alloran repeats.
Might take some smuggling, Marco said. It’s sinking in: Estrid is here to bring him home.
Home. To the wife he disgraced. The brother he got killed. The children who won’t even acknowledge him, a feverish pair of overachievers desperate to leave his legacy behind. Ajaht’s tail-fighting is so legendary that, even using human channels, Alloran has been able to find scraps of news. Estrid’s skill is not praised so publicly… but the yeerks got ahold of Arbat’s files, after their disastrous mission to Earth. Alloran knows more about her, he thinks, than he ever wanted to.
«We’re leaving now,» Estrid says. «My window for authorized exit ends in two-point-eight-six Earth hours, so we need to move.»
She must have been here for days if not weeks, to negotiate the way she’s describing. And yet she came to find him at the last possible second. Likely to minimize the time they’re forced to spend together.
Alloran doesn’t have the time or the energy to care. «What would you prefer me to morph?»
«Something small and Earth-based.» She barely finishes speaking before she starts to morph herself.
Alloran pauses in surprise, because Estrid morphs with shocking skill, melding from andalite to human in a mere forty-seven seconds, all without ever once losing her footing. She even wears a normative amount of clothing when she’s finished, a sundress and sneakers and a coat overtop.
She sighs, looking him over. «We don’t have all day, here.»
«You were wasted in Arbat’s lab,» Alloran says.
«You don’t have to tell me that,» Estrid snaps. «Tell me, dear father, what else was a girl and a second-born and the child of a disgraced bloodline meant to do?»
Alloran has no answer. Silently he morphs.
His options are limited — Visser Three overwhelmingly preferred large to small morphs, and Alloran hasn’t bothered acquiring much else — so he opts for snake, Lachesis muta according to a human-controller from the area. It’s still larger than most Earth reptiles, but by coiling in close he becomes small enough to drop into the oversized pocket of Estrid’s jacket.
Estrid doesn’t speak to him, and he doesn’t ask her to, the entire way back to her fighter. She’s under no obligation, and he won’t force the issue.
«We’re landing soon,» Estrid tells him, three Earth weeks and eighty-two light years later. She’s maintained that icy formality throughout the entire journey so far, responding to Alloran’s questions — about her research, about her brother, about her morphing — with flat non-answers.
Alloran steps to the viewport to look out over the rolling grasslands of home like a child on his first in-atmosphere flight. Is it home, really? It’s been thirty-nine years since he left home to quell the small skirmish on the hork-bajir homeworld, forty-seven since his first offworld assignment serving under Prince Seerow. He has seen a dozen planets, been a hundred species, since that time. This body belonged to Visser Three for nearly as long as it did to Alloran himself, decades of nonexistence until he all but forgot his own name.
«What will you do next?» Alloran asks Estrid, still desperate for conversation.
She flicks a dismissive hand at the air. «I have my work.»
«Even without Arbat?»
«I didn’t say it was easy.»
«And the quantum virus?»
She turns all four eyes on him. A small part of him wants to scold her for bad form, but a far larger part of him recognizes he’d be overstepping. «The quantum virus never happened,» she says sharply. «And if it did, I was never informed of its existence. This journey was my first visit to Earth, Arbat died in a lab accident, we were never involved in weapons development, and if you even think about saying differently the War Council will back my story, because all of the documentation —»
«Estrid.» He cuts her off as gently as he can. «I would never…»
He sees it, in the stiffening of her stalk eyes. Hears it in the catch of her breath. She doesn’t want a father. Or if she does, she doesn’t want him.
«I would never dishonor the memory of my brother by raising questions about his death,» Alloran says instead.
Estrid relaxes, and turns back to the controls.
He is weary of war, weary of being alone. The person he’d been when he first met Esplin 9466 would have been shouting by now, demanding to know what right Estrid has to consider herself any better than him. He only deployed a quantum virus, had no hand in its evil creation. Either she is a hypocrite… or she is just like the War Council officials who consider it a far worse crime to be enslaved by yeerks than to have murdered ten million hork-bajir.
It’s been a long war, and Alloran has missed her every moment of it. Let her be angry; she’s here.
There is one more delicate question Alloran needs to ask, however, before they disembark on their family’s land. «Jahar,» he says. «I assume… She has found someone else. To help raise you, and…» Dark Sun, but this is hard. «She deserves to be loved, of course.»
Eva’s mate remarried, after all. Together they’d cried about that, somewhere between the third and fourth glasses of wine.
«Who would date her?» Estrid asks. «Who would be seen speaking to her? No. There’s no one. There hasn’t been. There was me, and Ajaht, and that’s it.»
Alloran feels sadness and relief and disappointment and shame at his relief, all at once in a rush too complex to understand. «I see,» he says at last.
«So go to her.» Estrid yanks hard to unseal the fighter’s outer door; they’ve landed without his noticing. «Go to her and—» Another hard yank. «Kriffing thing!»
Alloran puts his hand next to hers, pleasantly surprised when she doesn’t pull away. As one they move, and the door comes open at last.
She came to meet them. Alloran doesn’t know why he wasn’t expecting that, and yet…
Jahar is older, lined around the eyes and stooped in her shoulders and dull-edged around her hooves. She’s radiant. Transcendent.
Alloran is frozen. Aware of all the knocks he’s taken, all the shine he’s lost. Aware that they’ve been apart for longer than they ever were together.
He blames that last for the way his knees lock. For the voice that freezes inside his mind, unable to form words. For the crack in his breath and the painful squeeze of his hearts as she becomes the one to step forward. As she raises a hand to his cheek, in the first gentle touch he’s felt in thirty-nine years.
[Note: I know that Aloth’s line in #38 about Estrid being Arbat’s niece — which would make her Alloran’s daughter — is probably not meant to be literal in context. But the literal interpretation is boring, so I went with the fun one.]
Oh Boi that takes me back! I love all Overlord games and have played them except for fellowship because yeah… That one had a little bit of the humor but otherwise just wasn’t the same.
For me personally 1 was fun, the Add-On Rising Hell was extremely good, absolutely incomparable to today’s DLC-bullshit! That Add-On had everything, a complete second game with all new mechanics (I loved the fact that you had to solve your enemy problems other than killing because they were all ready dead and who doesn’t want to play halfling ping pong). And Overlord 2 was my favorite! In my opinion improvement on all aspects. I have played it 5 times and Kelda is my fave (and the sounds of those tiny gnome squeaks will follow me into my deepest nightmares as I turn them great again by squashing all muhahahahaha).
That said the games are not without fault, the controls have made me loose my marbles more than once… But the fact that I overlooked my dumb minions idiocy everytime says something.
There is also that one spin off game with the youngest son of a noble finding gnarl and going against his siblings that one was short but fun.
Feew yeah that about summarizes it it was my brother who got me into the games when he played Two. I would watch him Play all kinds of games but Overlord stuck with me until today its the first game I bought myself. And you know WHAT? I am going to replay them right now thank you you beautiful stranger for reminding me
(*caugh but also I have the terrible habit of just not doing the final fights because well there will be nothing after and I know all the endings soooo yeah)
bold what definitely applies to your muse. italicize what somewhat applies to your muse. repost, and do not reblog.
So, this is going to be me writing a bit of current event. The fact that I’m trans, ace and homoromantic is no secret and I believe many of you know the two first things. What’s not fully as common knowledge is the fact that I’m also part Sámi (north Eurpean indigenous people) and part Romani (”but Niko you don’t look like you’re any of that” and exactly how many Sámi and Romani have you met?).
Anyway, I’m not a big social media person, but something I’ve seen on those places I do check is that any other minority, including LGBTAQ+ community, indigenous ppl and Romani, is that there’s this mentality of “it’s none of my business and I suffer enough so I won’t get involved with their problems”. And that, that enrages me. It doesn’t matter whatever minority or group you belong to, this should anger you, you should get angry by racism and discrimination towards anyone, especially when you have been there yourself. Frankly, I can’t understand this kind of thinking. If you’ve been treated in a discriminatory way, feared for your life, been beaten and so, how can you say it’s none of your problem and do absolutely nothing, sometimes even pretend the problem even exists? I get wanting to protect yourself, but for black people, especially in America, life is a constant fear, a constant struggle. How can you not want to do something to ease that?
I know not everyone has money to donate, can go protesting and so on. Not everyone has the mental health to confront others either, but there will always be something everyone can and should do. Share info, report racist posts online, those are two things pretty much everyone can do. If you’re in America, I know there’s plenty of lists to sign to politicians.
Anyway, I’ll stop now. I don’t know how much sense this make to the rest of you (my post, I mean), but it just makes me angry when other minority groups turn their back towards black people. If you’re like me, a firm believer in equality for everyone, you can’t turn your back towards something because it might make life worse for you.