#so i dont think shed be as angry in the moment - though she supports the others 100%

[good-beanswrites]

Remembering how Futa said in one timeline that there’s no way a woman could beat a man in a fight and got his ass beat. Can you do a crackfic of the girls beating him up for that?

Ahahaha thank you for the request!! This was really fun to write omg -- and well deserved, there was no need for all that in the timeline convo 😤 He was too busy thinking of leverages and forms he failed to consider the fury of a woman scorned..... may he rest in peace......

Fuuta didn’t even know what he did to earn himself an ass-beating.

“Oh, you know what you did,” Yuno said. She closed the cell door behind her. 

Whatever it was, it had managed to anger every woman on the premises. He thought it took a lot to get girls riled up this much – something like cheating on them or calling them names, you know? But without a single action on his part, he found himself facing Yuno, Muu, and Amane. All three had a fire in their eyes that Fuuta was not liking the look of. 

Mahiru had pointed him to his cell, saying Es was looking for him there. She spoke strangely as she did it, and waited awkwardly outside as he went in, but everyone around here was a little odd. How was he supposed to distinguish when people were being murderer-in-a-supernatural-prison weird from setting-a-trap-to-corner-him-in-his-cell weird?

He waved his palms in front of him. “Listen, listen! Let’s just talk, okay? Let’s slow down.”

Muu cracked her knuckles.

Amane began rolling up her sleeves in perfect creases. “You have doubted our abilities. We will make you a believer.”

Fuuta took a few steps back. His voice came out loud and frantic. “What are you talking about? If you’re looking to pick a fight, you better think twice, because I’m not gonna hit a girl or anything.”

“Oh, good!” Yuno’s voice was as bubbly as always as the three closed in. “That will make our job a lot easier.”

He felt his back hit the wall. “I mean it, let’s just talk about this for a sec! Hey!”

Mikoto’s voice came from outside the cell. 

“Mappi? What’s going on in there?”

“Yes!” Fuuta called, “Mikoto! Help! They’re gonna kill me in here!”

“Oh, no need to worry~ The girls are just teaching him a little lesson about not saying awful things.”

“Isn’t this going a bit too far…? What did he even say?”

“Nothing! Come on, get me the fuck outta here!”

“I believe his exact words were, ‘there’s no way a girl could win in a fight against a man.’”

Fuuta paled. He did say that, didn't he...

“Oh crap. Yeah, that’d do it. Carry on.”

“Wha–? Mikoto!” 

He gaped at the three in front of him. 

He remembered a hero in a video game who had faced off against an unbeatable foe; a glorious knight who came to understand that he could never conquer the world-razing dragon before him. After giving his all, and seeing his fate was sealed, the hero had no choice. In a manly show of valor, he’d lifted his chin, closed his eyes, and accepted his impending, gory death.  

Yuno's gaze was cold as she raised her arms. Muu had a hungry look in her eyes. Amane clenched her fists, her posture perfect.

It wasn’t a dragon, but Fuuta would argue this was a good deal more dangerous. He lifted his chin and squeezed his eyes shut.

“Get ‘em, girls!”

—

Kotoko approached just as the other girls filed out of Fuuta’s cell. They had giddy looks on their faces. They giggled and whispered in a huddle as they walked around the panopticon. 

“Wow, Muu!”

“Haha, I didn’t know you had it in you!”

“That felt amazing…”

Kotoko didn’t know what kind of game they were all playing in there, but Fuuta was in for a big surprise now. The fun was over. Today was the day she acted out her responsibilities as Es’ fang. Today was the day she delivered justice. 

She swung the cell door open. Her eyebrows shot up. 

Her head whipped around to take a look at the girls, still complementing one another and laughing lightly.

Hell, her work here was already done.

#milgram #yuno kashiki #fuuta kajiyama #muu kusunoki #mahiru shiina #amane momose #mikoto kayano #kotoko yuzuriha #and then he dieded 😔 -- sad! #fuuta stumbles out of shidous cell a few hours later wearing the 'im sorry women' hat #as much as i tried i couldnt picture mappi throwing any punches but shed love to help!! #the girls go to john afterwards to say 'hey youre right beating the shit out of someone really does feel like it solved all my problems' #i originally had kotoko as part of the main group but she actually agrees with him in the timeline convo #so i dont think shed be as angry in the moment - though she supports the others 100% #LMAO thank you this was so funny 😂😂😂 #i was so so silly finishing up work and stuff and constantly plotting ways to beat up my fave #drabbles

[bionic-penis]

Here it is! Before we get into it I'd just like to say that I sent this all in discord and so i dont use the most academic language and i also had to cut out some bits where I was speaking/replying to friends :)

Okay so maybe Yang and Blake are just good friends, I can see that, but the storyline and all their major character events are so intertwined that it wouldnt make sense not to make them a couple

Spoilers for literally everything

But in my defense its been seven years

Anyway Yang and Blake's stories dont start getting seriously interconnected until around volume 3, but we do see them being closer to eachother than the rest of team rwby (save for Yang and Ruby but they're sisters so it doesnt count)

When Blake is stressed out over the White Fang in Volume 2, it takes Yang to snap her out of it

Also a lot of people have mentioned this but I'm gonna say it again for those who havent heard it but colours and weapons matter in rwby. They're a key element in the show

ahem

Colours play a big part in the design and storytelling aspect and rwby and its no coincidence that Yang eyes are purple and Blakes are yellow, which are eachothers like signature colours outside of Blakes black

But even more than that is weapons

As we learn from Ruby in the first Volume, a lot of students make their own weapons and, as it is constantly reiterated, weapons are an extension of the self in RWBY. They're not just a tool to be tossed around

In the show we see little instances of people interacting with and using other peoples weapons. There's that one scene where Ruby uses one of Penny's swords to defend Pyrrah, but that was out of necessity. however, over and over again we see Yang interacting with Blake's weapon, Gambol Shroud

As someones mentioned before, an entire moveset of theirs is dependent on it

So it's clear that these two characters are incredibly close

Moving on from that point, Id like to analyze the incidents thst occur in volume 3 and following events that further Yang and Blakes connection

In volume 3 after Yang "breaks" Mercurys leg due to Emeralds illusion, she sits in the dorm room surrounded by her teammates, yet the scene singles out Yang and Blake. When Yang asked if they (her team) believed her, Ruby and Weiss are ready to say yes, but Blake hesitates. Yang and Blake then share a moment where Blake explains that shes trusted people before who turned out to be cruel. She asks Yang to look her in the eyes and tell her that she (Yang) is telling the truth. Yang does so and Blake believes her this level of affirmation from one another is so unlike the rest of Team RWBY and even Team JNPR

Ofc in the dorm scene the person Blake is talking about is Adam, her abusive and possessive ex. Obviously your relationship with an abusive person effects any and all interactions/relationships, regardless of their extent, but I think it bears mentioning

Continuing on in the events of volume 3 when Beacon is being attacked and Blake is confronted by Adam, he has her pinned down and says something along the lines of "I am going to destroy everything that you love". Unfortunately this is when Yang happens to stumble into the scene. Horror is prominent on Blakes face. Yang sees Adam over Blake and yells at him before charging forward, which is when Adam cuts her arm off. It's a very emotional scene imo. Blake then uses her semblance to get her and Yang to safety

So let's analyze this

Adam specifically singled Yang out

Ofc yang was the only one there at the time but Adam didnt say "starting with your little teammates" he said "starting with her". Ofc this could just be me cherrypicking but I think that word choice has meaning

Regardless, this is an intense moment for Yang and Blake that really welds their stories together, romantic or not

In volume 4 Yang and Blake take a break from one another-- Jk but theyre separated. After the events at Beacon, and especially after what happened to Yang, Blake runs. And we get to see both women dealing with this and trying to come to terms with it. Yang is bitter. She's angry that Blake, specifically, left her. And Blake feels like she had to run away to keep everyone, specifically Yang, safe

In Volume 5 we dont get much interaction at all between Yang and Blake aside from the same feelings represented in Volume 4, but these are put on the back burner for Blakes White Fang arc

However these feelings take a forward play in Yangs mind and she even voices these feelings to Weiss and Ruby

I take a deep breath

Volume 6, Blake and Yang are together again but tensions are high. They have to learn how to be together again. When Blake and Yang finally have alone time in the shed, Blake expresses how she won't leave, which comforts Yang. However, Blake continues on to say how she will protect Yang to which Yang gets mad and the moment is ruined.

Despite this, Yang and Blake are still going strong and trying to make things work by being there and supporting each other

Yang and Blake's arc for Volume 6 reaches its peak in the fight against Adam. In this fight we see both women fighting the actual source of their trauma. One thing id like to note about this fight is that Blake starts it alone but is joined by Yang, who tells her to catch her breath. This fight is the first major fight Blake and Yang have fought together in a long time. And its amazing. During the fight, Adam screams at Yang in anger and jealousy, asking "WHAT DOES SHE SEE IN YOU?" And saying that she (Blake) cant protect Yang to which Blake replies "I'm not protecting her. And she's not protecting me." MIRRORING the conversation in the shed

the fight ends with Yang and Blake stabbing Adam through with Gambol Shroud, killing him

Now theres some little things id like to point out with this fight, aside from the amazing chemistry between Blake and Yang and the awesome choreography

Its during this fight that we learn about Adams semblance (magic power basically), which is that any hit he absorbs with his sword, he can return with greater force. This is a corruption of Yang's semblance, where any hit she takes herself she can return with greater force

Now why do I think this is significant? Because rwby is all about symbolism. I think Adam's semblance was specifically chosen to mirror Yangs. Adam doesnt have to deal with pain, he just deflects it, which is how his relationship with Blake plays out. She tries to let him off easy, she tells him to leave her alone, but he just can't take the hint, just like he can't take a hit. However, Yang does take the hits. Yang takes them all and it makes her stronger. She empathizes with Blake and works with her. Adam doesnt have to deal with the pain his actions cause because he doesnt care. This reflects Yangs extremely empathetic personality. Yang knows what consequences her actions can have. She can take the pain

Another thing id like to point out is Adam's behaviour during the fight. He lashes out as Yang for getting in between Blake and him, blaming her for his flaws. He targets her just like in Volume 3. I think this was done purposefully

Another thing is Yang runs Bumblebee off the cliff to help Blake! Her bike! I think this is important bc yang loved her bike. It was part of her brand for the longest time. Perhaps running it off the cliff in the fight vs Adam is a nod to growing by letting things go? Idk I just feel like its an important beat

In Volume 7 we see Yang and Blake working together more regularly again with even a few flustered glances (maybe). Marrow even mentions that they never pair up with anyone else to which they respond with a cool fight scene this feels like the extent of their interaction since Volume 7 focuses more on ruby

Volume 8 isnt finished but there is one line that I think is important which is when Yang asked Jaune if "she'll think bad of me if we fail?" To which Jaune responds "Ruby's your sister" and Yang says "yeah... Ruby..." LIKE EXCUSE ME?

[I take some time to riff with my friends and partner before continuing]

ANOTHER THING

Adam BREAKS Gambol Shroud during their fight, mirroring how Yang, once again, works with Blake and Gambol Shroud. This is yet another example of Adam being violent and abusive towards Blake where Yang is sympathetic and kind. Theyre set up to be narrative opposites

Even though both Adam and Yang are both hot heads, utilize a similar semblance, and both have a deep connection with Blake, they are not the same bc Yang trusts and appreciates Blake while Adam does not

Also Adam and Yang both share the same sentiment of "Blake left me" but whereas Adam lashes out at Blake, Yang is mostly frustrated. Unlike Yang, Adam never attempts to work it out with Blake, which is where the two differ greatly. Yang is willing to listen whilst Adam is not

TLDR: uh give me Bmblb content right now Roosterteeth or I will suck the marrow from ur bones

#rambles #rwby tag #rwby #bmblb #YES IM PUTTING IT IN THE MAIN TAGS I DESERVE IT #also i wrote this like a few episodes or so into v8 so 🤧

[lokbobpop]

Child children childhood

Biologically, a child (plural children) is a human being between the stages of birth and puberty, or between the developmental period of infancy and puberty. The legal definition of child generally refers to a minor, otherwise known as a person younger than the age of majority.

From Middle English child, from Old English ċild (“fetus; female baby; child”), from Proto-Germanic *kelþaz (“womb; fetus”), from Proto-Indo-European *ǵelt- (“womb”).

Child c hild chi ld c hill d

Writing the word child

You know id rather the use the word child children than i would kid even though i do right out kid probably because i cant be bothered to think about how to write out children out thinking ill get it wrong when speaking i usually use kid also but would like to use child children but see i think i might be judged as old fashioned or sill for going so. So thing brings to mind how i let myself be manipulated by what others think what i say which i most certainly do most of the time as not to get judged but as something as most simple as this do i really need to know i dont hey i just need to be authentic me.

Children writing the thoughts of children young innocent thoughts of how it was in the sixths seventies and being a child

Childhood i thing my childhood was ok my dad wasn’t drinking to get angry as much then thanks fully that started a few years later

Reading the word child or children childhood

Yes much better im not a baby goat lol

Or am i really being old fashioned nothing wrong with the word kids i could use both when ever i wanted as lone as it wasn’t within energy like would i say it in from of some people and not others as then I would be manipulated within it interesting thought

Children’s books are lovely great pictures i looked to look at the pictures hey and nowadays the the picture are so amazing i think i would of loved to see the pictures if i was a child now.

My childhood i think of school play outside playing in the fields being disappointed in myself at school why could i read why was i behind the others I couldn’t understand ho wit was so easy for others and not myself it felt unfair nice teachers horrible teachers

Saying out loud child children childhood

Your just a child what do you know thoughts of being called a child as in not being very mature and being immature comes up or saying something to some one your a child grow up judgement of an event.

Children playing in the play ground fear came up of a girl that was horrible mean i think she’s dead now well i hope so not a pleasant person any way she picked on my friend and I didn’t stand up for her i even moved away and left her in the situation she was scared and so was i but i left her and i felt guilt, also to my friend i was mean i made her put some crap on a stick and took it outside the toilet I know until this day she felt ashamed of this but so do i we cant now be close she has this underlying anger i hope she can let go one day as not to bother her adult life anymore with thoughts of being upset towards me. When we went to big school i missed her friendship as i had no one int he class i had.

My childhood i think was pretty good as i said dad wasn’t purposely getting drunk and angry i mean it did happen but not everyday under 10 years of age

I child called Jeremy mills hitting me with a book on the head I remember it made me cry it hurt a lot he was an angry kid but i was surprised when the girl Michelle dean stood up for me as i thought she didn’t actually like me at that moment because i used to copy everyone when we did class work and i think it annoyed them me coping all the time they would hide there work so i felt left out not liked i feel now i sat nest to dawn i a class before that i see it annoyed them to share what they did but with Angela she didn’t mind shed copy my math not sure why as when we got higher her math was better than mine.

Watching the women’s open tennis match at Wimbledon maybe 76 when Virginia wade won the hole class got to watch it with miss Queensborough

Ok so babysitting and making the little girl jump off the stool knickers less wasn’t a good idea got me pushed down the bank on the way home from school a bit of a fuck up there but i think it had to do with being flashed at an early age i was like whats these feeling are about its just a shame it came out like this but im sorry it obviously upset a family what i did do i how this also makes my childhood not so great with doing these things what was i thinking i affected what people thought of me and then that made me feel bad about myself and with not being very good at school. How do you feel right now ? Im in regret of what ive done im sorry for what i done but also it wasn’t a bad thing what i done just wrong and definitely not something i should sentence myself to feeling bad for the rest of my life over which i have seem to have done as it has made me feel dirty about myself we are so affected by our childhood we need to be safe feel safe we need to be better parents. How can i help myself get over my childhood your ok it’s alright it wasn’t that bad and it turned out alright your ok you can let it go you dont need it anymore it doesnt have to define you anymore you dont have to feel yucky dirty not good enough its ok your good now let it go its gone breathe.

Sf

Does this definition support me no lots of polarity here of my childhood being good scary and being mean to my friend and knowing how are childhood affects us my biggest problem was not being like others at school and being as in reading and writing and really upset at myself and not understanding why I couldn’t do it.

Child ch i held

Children child run

Childhood child hood

Child a young person learning life

Children young persons learning life

Childhood when you try to make sense of the word and your place in it anything can happen but you get over it you move on past and you dont take whats not needed with you you let stuff go and do whats best fro you and others at all times by apply sf breathe self love but see realizing and understanding that things happen which must be forgiven to lead a healthy adult life

How will you live this word ?

I will live this words to support me in letting go of my own dislikes of my own childhood my regrets with self respect self love to move past so the me now can move on be whole

[gracedandelioninkmind]

Since it's pride month

For most of my time at school betweeb last september and febrary I had a crush on this girl. And you see Id been working through how feelings and sexuality work for me ever since the end of high school, because id been realizing that id never been actively interested in kissing or anything intimate with anyone. Id had plenty of what I call Sparks of Interests, where I just enjoyed looking at someone, talking to them, but more and in a different way than normally for friends. But all of those Interests were towards guys. I loved talling to my friends about guys and hypotheticals about them. I always envisioned myself in a man and woman couple and I loved that opposites pairing in every romance. But I wouldnt say that the ppssibility that I could be interested in girls hadnt crossed my mind. It didnt when I was little, and it didnt in middle school when I told girls that I didnt like boys, because they were stupid, and someoen asked if I was a lesbian. But in high school there was this awesome chick that transferred into our school. I woulsnt say I was overtly attracted to her, I certainly never had any fantasies about her, but I just thought she was so cool and I definitely wanted her to like me and to be friends eith her. Her twin brother was cool too. Oh oh and dont let me forget that one year I was apart of the schools journalism program and some of us were sitting around the classroom and I suddenly giggled at something I was reading, and this one nice tomboy girl was like omygod was that you that was the most adorable sound. I was so flustered, i will never forget that compliment.

But still i was straight. I fantasized about m/f relationships, not necessarily involving me because I cant often envision myself eith just anyone. I just think that romance is fascinating and enthralling and sometimes lots of things can be interesting.

And then I was reading a fanfic, and the girl was asexual, and Id been thinking about asexuality as an explanation for why I just didnt think i wanted to be sexual with anyone id ever met. But it didnt feel quite right because I know i mustve felt some attraction to some guys before, and definitely felt attraction to actors and such.

And then my friend gave me the term Gray Asexuality to research. Have you ever been putting together a puzzle and u put a piece in place, and it looks right and the picture doesnt seem to be wrong--but then you find another piece that looks so similar and you try it instead and it fits so much better, not loose or jammed. That was my feeling finding out that there was this complexity to sexuality and romance to explain why things just always feel so subtle for me. To explain why I can crave love but I really very often find that the very idea of kissing and sex is just awkward and weird to imagine for myself. It explained part of why my one week relationship fell through. Id had a crush on the guy since first meeting him at the start if the school year, and i had been so excited when he asked me out, and it was fun to hold hands and hug. But i hadnt wanted to kiss him, and it had bene so annoying when my friend told me i should kiss him, even just on the cheek. It just hadnt felt like there was a very big difference between my friendship with him and dating him.

So i got to thinking over all of my feelings towards all sorts of people. And if my sexuality and attraction was as rare and subdued as all that towards men, then I felt that maybe I hadnt wuite recognized any feelings id had towards girls.

And after discovering the asexual spectrum, i finally had some very interesting dreams, the likes of which id never had before turning 18 let me tell you. And they didnt only focus on men anymore.

And then i was in my second year at college, and i hadnt had many more dreams, and i hadnt found any real crushes my first year. But my second year i started working at the library, and one day this cute asian girl came through with a polite hello as she passed the front desk where i sat politely greeting everyone for my first week. I found myself memorizing her immediately. I would hope to catch her eye, catch a hello, a goodbye. I found myself glancing over to ehere she sat if she was in sight. And when she came to check out dvds i memorized her name immediately, all the more because id seen it on a study desk while doing rounds. See i hadnt knoem that if someone leaves something at their desk ee leave it alonenso id taken the open umbrella doem to the front desk and asked my coworkers and they said to put it back so i remembered the namr on the desk and returned it. So when i saw this cute girls name and recognized it from that desk, it almsot felt like fate. But that was silly. And i only thought she seemed nice and she was cute. That was all.

But then i was trying to capture her likeness on paper, ehich didnt go well those first few sketches because i hadnt gotten any good looks at her face. And after finding out her name I suddenly heard it cropping up elsewhere, and i was talking to my friends about her. My friends did not agree that i wasnt crushing. I insisted that i just wanted to get to know her was all. And then one day at lunch a new friend id made in class invited me to sit with her and her friends, and she mentioned an Eliza. Boy the anticipation, the excitement, the shy feelings, and the satisfaction when the very same girl sat with us.

Then that same friend invited me to a movie night at her dorm lounge with her friends, and when i asked who all would be there, anyone i know, she said maybe. I wondered to myself if She would be there. When i got into the dorm, lost and unfamiliar with the halls, waiting for my friend to come find me, I suddenly heard teo voices from upstairs. I knew one was my new friend, and with joy i recognized the other as Her. As it turned out She was the only other friend to join us. We 3 spent the night watching black panther and history of japan, getting to know each other, and I painted Her nails. It was different touching her hands then itd ever been with another girl. I found myself hoping for something. I hoped at least that she would like me as a person and wed be friends.

Every interaction after was a treasure for me. Moments we happened to be alone, when she offered to keep me company at lonely meals, when we had a big kdrama hangout and she did my hair, etc etc.

I had to acknowledge that it was crush of course. I told my closest friends about it.

And one day this crazy thing happened. I was sitting with Her and our friend and the two of us apart from Her were discussing dating apps and whatnot. And She asked why was i even concerned eith that stuff anyways. Id been thinking by then that she might be aspec because she never threw in her oen teo cents about interest in relationships whrn we discussed these things. I explained that i just wanted to try dating. I hadnt ever been on a real date.

While our friend was continuing with another topic, i heard Her say that She could take me on a date. My mind caught on it, but the topic had changed, and I felt that it couldnt have been serious. And so i gushed and whined about it to my friends. But the next day I brought it up as a joke with our group of friends, and she acknowledged that shed said it. Our friends supported it, because why not. Theres such a thing as a friendly joke date. I kind of messed it up i think though because when it was jsut us parting ways after brunch, she said she was going downtown, and i said That couldve been our date. And she agreed and invited me along. I wish id been dressed cuter. But it was fine, and it was a nice enough date, though i dont think she had any experience or interedt in how dates usually worked--it wasnt a serious date anyways, so i wouldnt get my hopes up. I wouldnt be invested. But wr passed a friend of hers, another cute girl maybe smaller than me, and She told her that we were on a date. That felt significant.

The next day i brought up that wed gone on the date to my group of friends, with Her sitting next to me. And she became so awkward, and after my friends congratulated us, she told me It wasnt a real date. On the outside i played it off casually saying Listen do you know how excited friends get about dates let me have this. On the inside i was so disappointed and heartbroken and a bit defensively angry with her. I announced to the table that she wasnt to make sure everyone knew it wasnt a real date. What i was really saying was hey friends she just crushed my heart.

But we were still friends. And after a while i got okay again. She hadnt even noticed anything had gone wrong.

At some point I told that first mutual friend about my crush on Her. Id been withholding eho my crush was on from her for a while and she hadnt even guessed Her. But when I told her she said everything made sense.

And then she set us up for a valentines day date. I couldnt believe it. She jsut randomly messaged me Would u want Her to be ur valentines date. And i was like Id appreciate any date tbh but yeah id like to go on a date with Her. And apparently She just agreed. I couldnt tell you why she did any of the things she did. But i can tell you that thru some conversations it became clear that my hypothesis was likely accurate. She didnt understand dates, she didnt see the difference beteren friend date and real date. This was just this nice outing with a friend. Part of me was okay with that, because i did simply enjoy Her. But another part of me felt unfulfilled and sad. But we had a nice date anyways. I learned even mroe about her and she made me this oittle clay blueberry because i would sometimes just pick out a blueberry at the dining hall and admire its beauty. It was a very nice date and i got to dress up cute for someone. I didnt let myself hope for much.

And then i was talking to more of our mutual friends about crushing on Her, and someone told me that shed asked Her out before and that her response had been something along the lines of not being interested like that. We all agreed that She likely just doesnt have any interest in romance or whatnot.

And so i began burying it away. My mourning period passed. She graduated, and its all over. My first ever crush on a non-man. It had been nice.

Btw her ringtone in my phone was Mindy Gledhill's I Do Adore.

#gray asexual #personal experience #asexual spectrum #bisexual #pansexual

[garethito]

You know... I've been meaning to ask you about this for a while, and yesterday's tag thing that you did with those Bale gifs only like... fueled? My curiosity? Lol, if that makes sense. Could you like... relive? The Champions League final from this year for us? Like, your perspective on it? Or maybe even the actual whole day of the final? Sorry, God, I know this is weird, but I just love how you tell stories from your life! I have seen you do it with some other anons once!

First of all, THANK YOU SO MUCH for this like, you guys always send me such interesting questions and Im so??? and OMG no this is not weird stop this is such a wonderful question to ask!! And omg you liked how I told the stories to those anons that is so sweet thank you so muchhhhh ❤️❤️💝❤️💘💘💞💞💘

But also this is making me really emotional I dont think I will be able to write this without tearing up but here we go!!! I was at school today and we had a special day so we didnt make any classes, so I had time to formulate an answer to this, and to complete it at home 💞

Quick WARNING?? Yes I am perfectly aware of how crazy and overdramatic this whole story sounds, but the thing is that this is how I truly feel about this day in my life. So yeah lol. Football is basically my life!

I would like to start this by saying that the day of the 26th of May 2018 is the most important day of my entire life as a football fan. There is nothing that could even come close to this. Absolutely nothing. Never in my life have I cried like in that night. Never. Absolutely never. I have looked at my life as a person, at my hardest times, when I cried a lot, but not even that can even slightly compare to the amount of crying that I have done on that glorious day of May 7 months ago. When I say crying, though, I dont actually mean crying, no. I mean violently sobbing, screaming at the top of my lungs, shaking and feeling numb. But in the best way possible, the happiest tears that I ever shedded.

My actual perspective, like you said, though, starts from the 2nd of May, a day after our semi-final second leg against Bayern. From that day, until the 26th, my mind, my body, my soul only thought about the final. I could not even focus on the Clasico on the 6th, neither on the last La Liga match. I was so fucking nervous, words are not sufficient to describe….. At least once every 2-3 days I would go to the bathroom with severe stomach aches and sit there until I would try to calm myself down so that my grandmother wouldnt get worried. I thank God, the Universe, or whoever you think invented life for the fact that highschool had nothing special during that period, just a few tests, that I got the best grades on, because had there been something big, I would have surely failed. That was a nightmare. Just think about it. Horrible La Liga season, then those fucking shaky as fuck second leg matches against Juve AND Bayern. I was literally so pessimistic that I am scaring myself right now thinking about it. All these bad scenarios played through my head ”What if Zizou loses his job? What if this will be the start of our downfall? What if this is the last Champions League final we will play? What if, what if, what if….”. I always tried to tell my brain how stupid I was, that we are Real Madrid and that we will win, like we always do, that we are the best fucking team in the Universe and that nobody even comes close to being like us. But its like these voices in my head wouldnt stop, it was so scary.

Come 25th of May I was an actual lifeless corpse. No matter how much I tried to call my best friend, who was in Bulgaria at that time, and telling her that I cant take this anymore, and her telling me that its going to be okay like it always is, that she doesnt really know my team well but she knows we will win, no matter how much of that was happening, I couldnt fucking stop being nervous and constantly thinking about this match.

On the morning of the 26th I woke up with a severe headache at about 8:30-9 AM. The only things that I remember from that whole day are the constant empty feeling, the amount of times I listened to Hala Madrid Y Nada Mas and the amount of pictures, videos, promotional/support videos I saw and watched. I called my friend one last time and I told her that now I am optimistic, that we will win.

My whole emotional state was ruined, however, by Gareth not starting. I dont need to explain the whole February-May Gaz-Zizou situation because I think everyone knows it too well by now and what I fucking felt about it. I have never been so enraged in my entire life. After all he has done, still no place in the starting XI. Though, this is pretty much the only thing that has ever angered me about Zizou. I love that man too much, I dont think there will ever be a coach that will ever come close to him, a coach that I will ever love as much as I loved him, but this whole situation really, really angered me. As I said, not going to get into details, I think that is enough. Though, I tried to only focus on my hardly achieved positivity about the match. 

The match started and my emotional state reached its lowest point. I couldnt take it anymore, I felt impossibly sick from being so nervous, I got the most severe migraine ever, my eyes were literally about to pop out ugh again, remembering that gives me chills. Dani got injured, and I got angry again, because he didnt deserve it, the World Cup was literally about to start like God give this man a break!!!

Halftime at 0-0, my optimism grew, believe it or not. I felt like we will have more urgency in the second half and that we will win this.

The second half came, with me just desperately hoping for a goal. Because we were playing so well, we deserved a reward!! And it did come, with Benzemas goal, God I felt so relieved and happy. I have seen people saying that his goal was not good but? You literally take everything that is being offered to you in a Champions League final! He scored, he gave us a goal, we were 1-0 up, and I was literally screaming from joy, I was shaking so much and I was the proudest person alive. God, I love my team. Then, Liverpools equalizer came. I didnt think anything of it. I wouldnt get rid of my optimism. I was looking at my boys and I knew we would win.

And Oh My God, here we fucking go. 

Minute 61. Gareth comes on. I was so grateful that he at least got to play 30 minutes, I literally only wanted to see him. At that time, considering everything that was happening, I was already emotionally starting to prepare for his departure to another team. I was watching him in those moments, flashbacks through my mind of all the glorious times I got to see him, all of his goals, everything.

And then…

All of a sudden…

62:58

That moment. The moment in which my soul has definitely left my body. The most beautiful moment I have ever lived in watching football. The moment in which I was the proudest person alive. A moment I will never, ever, ever forget, for as long as I get to live. The moment I have literally seen history being made, right before my eyes. The moment in which I literally evaporated, left the Earth, idk how to explain this but I hope you understand me. My idol, that had suffered so much that season, scored a fucking bicycle kick in a FUCKING UCL FINAL. ARE YOU KIDDING ME. The happiest, most full of joy, best, most emotional moment. Ever. No exaggeration.

My perspective on this? Oh well, brace yourselves. If you think everything that I have written so far seems insane, get ready for this.

I was on my bed, watching the game, shaking. I saw the passes, beautiful passes, that ended up with Marcelo controling the ball (incredibly, as he always does, my Brazilian sunshine). I saw him swaying to the side, and then passing a high, aerial ball in the box. Gareth came up to meet it, with… a scissor kick. That he scored. I literally fucking exploded like there is no other word. I jumped off my fucking bed and I ran literally across the house and came back, making the most inhuman noises ever I swear. I came back to my bedroom and I collapsed on the floor and I literally started fucking bawling my eyes out, and even that seems like an understatement. Screaming at the top of my lungs, bawling my eyes out, literally all of it happening on the floor. My grandmother literally came in and she thought something happened to me, but then I just pointed to the screen and she understood lmao. And from that point onward I cannot say anything anymore, because I dont remember anything else but me on the floor, literally. After like 15 minutes I hardly even managed to get back on the bed, and guess what?

82:41

AGAIN. 

A

G

A

I

N

???? I dont know what to say anymore. Like he literally toyed with everyone that night, he didnt care about anything. Again, with a pass from Marcelo, he literally goes from FAR FAR FAR away and he shoots and… scores?? How much do you think my poor fragile self can handle? Like, WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU SAY TO THAT?? Except for bawling your eyes out even more, if thats even possible? Its been 7 months and I still dont have words for what happened that night, like 2 goals ARE YOU KIDDING ME??? LIKE DO YOU UNDERSTAND I WAS LITERALLY DEAD LIKE ??? I LOST EVERY SINGLE BIT OF MY SANITY THAT NIGHT. 2 goals, 2 goals in 20 minutes, he was about to get a fucking hattrick. A fucking HATTRICK IN HALF AN HOUR, but Karius unfortunately stopped that shot.

The match ended and… I dont remember anything other than barely seeing the screen, I literally had a blurred vision.

We fucking won it. We DID IT. THE DECIMOTERCERA WAS OURS.

In the moment in which Sergio lifted it I… I dont have words, did I go into another Universe, did I ascend, did my soul leave my body I dont even know but what I do know is that I spent the rest of the night, up until like 6AM, crying my heart out. And this is what I mean by ”I have never cried so much in my entire life”. Like I have never spent a whole night crying.

I went to bed at like 6:30, woke up at like.. 10?? I think you can imagine how I woke up, I literally felt like I was going to die but I spent the rest of the day catching up on everything that happened the entire night.

And then, of course, the celebrations, Cibeles, Bernabeu… of course your sensitive girl bawled her eyes out again lol!

Every day ever since it happened, I have always been thinking about this day. About all of it. No point in counting how many times I rewatched the goals lol! But I think you can imagine haha 💘

So yeah, this is pretty much it DSLKFDKJFKDFJKDFK. The story about my best ever day of watching football I made it unecessarily long (Im so sorry). I think the only conclusion that I can get from this is Hala Madrid Y Gareth Y Nada Mas lol! 💘💘

#asks #Anonymous #gareth bale #real madrid

[nbnezumi]

25-30 w ALL ur dnd charas plus Marshall

im gonna limit it to the ones that have been posted on here because 5x3 is 15 and LONG and also some of them just arent that developed. under a cut because, again, long

25. Favorite animal?

azgen- Oh You Know 🐀

cléon- birds in general, but particularly big colorful ones

marshall- cows because he just thinks theyre neat

26. Expansion of civilization or the preservation of nature?

azgen- they just want things to stay balanced overall, like expanding is fine if its not hurting anything

cléon- definitely preservation of nature, she grew up surrounded by nature and values it for both its necessity to her work back home and because it was here first dont be rude

marshall- expansion of civilization kind of by necessity, like its not safe for most people outside of the domes so in order to have everyone live somewhere safe they need to push outwards

27. They’re at a tavern. They bump into a big burly angry drunk with a combative attitude. What happens?

azgen- 💪💪🐀 but only if the other person actually physically starts the fight

cléon- apologizes and offers to buy them a drink/share her snack to settle things down

marshall- since he bumped into the other person he would say sorry and try to continue whatever he was doing, but if they tried to start something he would say lets take this outside and then after walking out the front door he would just keep walking and leave and go home

28. What do they do between quests?

azgen- azgens been running a fairly successful business for about a century and is not gonna let a little jail time and a move get in the way of that. its pretty much just for fun/hobbies at this point though because adventuring makes a lot of $$$ (that we left on that goblin island because i dont know how factories work but they should be compensated for their work! i hope theyre doing ok...)

cléon- shes entirely out of her depth and is doing the adventure equivalent of nodding and saying yeah when you didnt hear the other person, so shes gonna spend a good while meeting everyone and exploring. she likes to draw maps so she probably draws one of the core/surrounding area

marshall- even before switching to office work it was pretty similar, like monster hunting and desk jobs are stressful in their own rights so a lot of it is stuff that relaxes him... read a book, work on a jigsaw puzzle, play with the gerbils... but also because too much of that is boring he definitely took the car outside and did some things of questionable legality 

29. Biggest positive and negative influences on their life and development?

azgen- positive, well both kids were troublemakers but they had a very patient mentor who put up with a lot of their shit until they figured out that actually sometimes learning is cool and actually got down to it. another positive i actually would count is getting arrested because otherwise theyd still be in that hermit hut and i think meeting a bunch of new friends and getting a big ol prophecy is a better direction for life. negative, since there were two of them and they basically did all the same stuff they ended up dividing up/prioritizing things differently which after they werent together anymore left azgen not being able to read common/swim/cook well/etc... also the Chicken Incident which scared both of them so much they still cant face a chicken in the flesh. this cant be used as a weakness against each other just based on the fact that one of them would have to get close enough to one to move it/put it in a trap/confirm its a chicken. and of course the whole gun thing is also a big negative.

cléon- positive, she has a very caring and supporting family! especially her older sister who took her on trips when she was younger and helped her get into music, and her mom who raised her to be polite but take no shit. learning to play an instrument also was a positive because it gave her a good creative outlet which shed been needing for a while. negative, she lived kind of in the middle of nowhere as a young kid and didnt really have perspective or exposure to much, and shes had a lot of responsibility re: her younger sisters handed down after her older sister moved to the city which she didnt really have a chance to get away from unless shes working.

marshall-i dont have a lot of his deeper backstory official yet because i know were supposed to do the shared history bits and ive been planning to get those and then work from there + my skeleton to get the big picture? i get stepping on toes anxiety about storywriting too though so this is partially that sorry. i do figure though that monster hunting as a profession would be a general negative just since its pretty dangerous and doing that as a paid job for a company like with a schedule would be more stressful/less flexible than just doing it freelance. positive, since hes got a less fatal job at the moment hes had a good amount of me time and has got himself right, as much as one can when they live in a dome and probably will go back to hunting monsters in the future. he might have to leave the gerbils with his cousin so he calls her twice a month to make sure she remembers how to take care of them, and also to watch movies. that counts as positive because they have a good time and im running out of things to say!

30. Would they smooch a ghost? 

azgen- they have to meet the same standards as any other person but the fact that theyre a ghost wouldnt get in the way

cléon- shed have to understand how someone can exist as a ghost and just how dead they actually are but she would be 

marshall- it might be a little weirder than bigfoot but yes you know it

#ghostie answers #dnd3d #idnd #mmotw #azgen #cléon #marshall #lesbian-warlock #asks

[vrabellas]

                         please don’t expect me to always be good and kind and loving.      there are times when I will be cold and thoughtless and hard to understand. 

ARABELLA FIGG is AN ORDER MEMBER in the war, even though HER official job is as AN EMPLOYEE AT THE MAGICAL MENAGERY. the THIRTY year old SQUIB is known to be STEADFAST and ADAPTABLE but also PARANOID and EMOTIONALLY REPRESSED. some might label them as THE CAT LADY.

hello meet arabella little tiny bitter bean who loves cats a bit too much. imma dive into Background stuff first.

youth !

the figgs are an irish pureblood family, an old one, one of pride and ambition and neutrality in any kind of confrontation. they don’t meddle in purist movements, but don’t act out against them either. they live in the country, hundreds of kilometers away from london and the ministry, nicely removed from any turbulence occurring in the world. they’re passive, truly, prefer to revel in their privilege and money rather than do much of anything.

arabella is the first to come out of a union of a shafiq and a figg. after five years, two more kids follow, and she’s branded oldest: most responsible, the one to follow, the one to lead the way and be the example. and this she does, most of the time, but not when it comes to the most important thing: magic. her younger siblings show signs much earlier, accidental magic brightening their futures and those of her parents with pride. they think that she’s just a late bloomer, but she’s not --- her eleventh birthday passes and no letter arrives and the truth that most of them knew already dawns on them. 

arabella figg, oldest of three, daughter of two respected purebloods, is a squib. they don’t know what to do at first; this is not what they want, this is not something that fits in their lives. they are disappointed, turn the blame on their daughter ( as if she can help it! ), and treat her differently, like a freak, an elephant in every room. 

eventually, with some questionable spellwork to get her in, arabella is dropped at a prestigious muggle boarding school. she’s behind, there, on many things --- she’s good at english, as she was thought that by tutors, but all the history she learned was magical and she barely knows how to do the easiest of sums. she’s just thought stupid as well as lazy, and arabella just feels anger --- she doesn’t want to be in that place, where the kids are all from a different world than hers, where so much of her knowledge cannot be applied. she works hard, though, even if she hates the place and its stuffy dorms and the snooty kids. she doesn’t like failure, after all, nor does she want to be kicked off for failing too many classes.

her moments back at home are awkward at first, but grow more nasty over time --- her parents’ embarrassment grows into something more nasty; disgust and despise. she’s met with snide and is treated as less, because while the figgs are not the most actively pureblood family, they ARE traditional. a squib doesn’t fit in their lives, and they make that very clear, without ever saying the words exactly.

she breaks ties with them after a very nasty christmas dinner, where glasses and hexes flew and words were shouted and tears were shed. she fled, to a friend without a drop of magical blood in their blood, and stays there for the rest of christmas break. her last year at boarding school is spent working harder than ever, her ambition having grown out of nothing but spite and the desire to succeed. she gets accepted at a good university and is granted a scholarship to keep herself alive and works her ass off. she studies english lit, because books have become companions to her in a time where she neither fit in among her peers and her parents. she gets a bachelor!! onto the next bit!!

adult lyf !

she starts working for a master’s but drops out. why? war. WAR!!!! yay! war! she has more important shit to do than read and analyse books and god!! she just!! she walks in the squib rights marches and is reminded of all the anger she holds towards her parents, towards the shit attitude of so many purebloods. and somehow ends up getting an invite for the order from mr dumbles himself. she had corresponded with him years ago, wondering if she could follow some classes (she could not) and calling him some nasty word years later (self control? whomst? she was angry ok!!). she accepted and tried doing uni and order at the same time, but it just didn’t work (the traveling was killer tbh lmao, she CANT DISAPPARATE ITS TRAGIC) and so she Dropped uni bc priorities, but she had her bachelor so??? and so she moved to london and threw herself into the wizarding world again after having turned her back for a good five years.

started working at the magical menagerie bc she loves animals and cats!! moved to london (muggle london, tho, bc like ... it’s scary living in diagon alley nowadays esp as a squib). also started doing some freelance text writing stuff for shops around diagon alley who needed pr (her dad worked in pr too so she Knows the ways). just. made her life a little there.

like??? seven yrs have passed since then and she’s been doing her thing in diagon alley and london and man. the War has had its impact. being part of the muggle world allowed her to take distance from all the risks, but being in it again is reminding her of all the Shit people like her get.

paranoia tw // anyway. those years took its toll. arabella doesnt regret joining the order, not at all --- it gives her purpose, allows her to know more about what’s going on, gives her a channel to throw her anger into BUT. BUT. she’s grown paranoid. she thinks people follow her when they take the same routes, sees danger in corners where there is none and is overly wary, having asked people to put wards on her place, moving through the world too quickly, always in a hurry to get from one save place to another. it’s gone undiagnosed but she has paranoid personality disorder. end of tw //

personality & rambling !

okay wtf this is my first time playing this one and lsfklhdf that got LONG!!!

anyway arabella is ?? a smart cookie tbh, she’s got Intensely Good language/literacy skills. also? knows a lot abt cats. canonically becomes a kneazle/cat breeder. just!! intelligent.

super ambitious and would have been a slytherin but there are complications (read: war) which have kept her from following them + the whole ppd business is also a Thing. could’ve gotten a masters but ya know. the order called!

suppresses her anger like a Pro. has a Lot of it, re: her parents, the world, etc. just. god. she’s gonna explode one day but she’s just doing her repressive Thing rn.

makes good chocolate cake + is v dependable as a person. as an order member, she does a lot of Supportive shit, when necessary (she may be Repressing her own shit but she can LISTEN), is good at adapting to any situation and is kind of flying in between doing little jobs and doing stuff in the muggle world. 

can adapt to many situations?? it’s?? really

loves her cats. !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! a lot!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!1

likes red wine.

rolls her eyes sometimes and can come off as a bit of an asshole but she doesnt mean to, she’s just Chronically Done with the world around her. v brave, v scared. 

when people fuck up easy shit she will get angry.

idk i dont have her figured out Too Much yet but i love her.

#( my heart is soft; my past is rough. ) #maraudrshq:intro #this got rly long tbh the last section is ?? easy if u dont want to read it all

[linkspooky]

What do you thought between kaneki n touka and furuta n rize? I dont why for me there so similiar but at the same time so contrast each other. Ah im not question it for ship, just character interest or i dont know what i should call it

Kaneki, Touka, Furuta and Rize form a nice square of foils that arranges itself neatly like this. I was even able to draw a chart for you. 

This is stuff I want to work on for a later post so I’m going to be more concise with this one.

Kaneki vs Furuta

Kaneki and Furuta’s current selves are both defined by a contrast to an extreme selflessness earlier in their lives. Furuta had one good thing about his early life as a Washuu child, somehow he was able to love one person despite being born completely unloved. 

Yet, he gave that up. Despite the actions of his adult self, his childhood self’s action is still one of pure selflessness and love. 

Perhaps too pure, so much so it was almost destined to be corrupted by his later self. Furuta’s selfishness in his current life is almost a direct response to this action. Even so far as overcompensation. His current self turns completely on his childhood self, as if he’s trying to prove his childhood self wrong for acting that way. 

Rather than a person capable of such acts, capable of letting go, the Furuta we are now presented with is one of ultimate control, who uses literal iron bars to subjuggate the person he once let free. Rather than a child born at the mercy of the Washuu who understood the cruelty of his father and wanted to spare others from it, Furuta steps into the exact same position his father once occupied and deals that hurt out to others.

Furuta’s clownish and wildly selfish antics are just that, an act. One to save himself from vulnerability. In his attempt to spare himself from his own emotions though, he reduces all others around him into nothing more than tools. They have no meaning and therefore he has no meaning, and Furuta spares himself from the hardness of his own life.

Furuta is all the negative traits of Kaneki, his extreme selfishness in his world spanning goals, his need for importance to justify the tragedy that happened to him, his habit of using others as objects. In Kaneki these habits still appear but much more lukewarm as they are expressed in the midst of a full persona rather than a concentrated antagonist. I always find it funny that Kaneki looks so bored when he’s told Furuta is running a revolution against the Washuu family for basically what is his own twisted  childhood romance, considering Kaneki not even fifteen chapters later says this.

Kaneki says in the same conversation that he’s willing to fight for all of ghouls kind, and that he also does not care at all for people unless they’re directly in front of him. His entire motivation for running a ghoul revolution then, is about ten or so people that he knew for about six months at most. 

The reasons look small and petty when you zoom out from Furuta and Kaneki’s perspective, but at the same time inside their own heads you can see why these people, these few brief moments of happiness in their otherwise miserable lives are reasons they see for fighting the entire world over.

Kaneki too is, afraid of being vulnerable, afraid of being weaker than the situations around him but most of all afraid of being abandoned again and therefore seeks to control the people around him in passive ways. 

Kaneki is always the first to abandon, with no warning or no explanation for himself. He always says it’s for the safety of the other one, but in reality it’s to spare his own feelings of having his agency ripped away, of losing them suddenly just like he lost his mother.

Kaneki himself once devoted himself to trying to live as selflessly as possible, but one day he snapped and became far more selfish to overcompensate. Whether this happened specifically with Yamori, or even before that is ambiguous but Kaneki’s current self is devoted almost entirely to his own ego and support. In a way then, Kaneki sees the people around him as symbols for himself and conjures them up inside his own head, Rize is his strength, Hide is his hope, Yamori is his evils. 

He assumes himself the point at which the universe turns just like Furuta, and just like Furuta is willing to take on revolutions with thousands of lives at stake for as petty a reason as finding his own reason to live. Which is why despite having massive amounts of empathy Kaneki is rarely ever able to make proper use of it. Because everything to him is always filtered through the lens of Kaneki. His passive action is to treat others as if they were support characters in his own tragic novel, to focus on those who validate his own existence over all else.

Rize vs Touka

Rize and Touka however are more interesting on how opposite they are. This is going to be shorter because Rize isn’t really allowed to be a character so much as a collection of traits that other people project onto, but I’ll try nonentheless. One important thing I want to observe is that originally there was no Rize in the oneshot version of Tokyo Ghoul. Instead Touka took up the role of what was basically the binge eater that Kaneki came in contact with. 

That trait was obviously shed from Touka, and split off into a character entirely of her own in the form of Rize. Being Kaneki’s two main love interests Rize and Touka are obviously set up to foil each other but I see little on comparing them. Perhaps because they’re not similiar enough to be considered classic foils. They do have some similarities.

In the manga Touka’s introduction to her real self rather than her cafe persona is in tearing apart a molester in a Rize like fashion, mostly due to losing her own temper. 

If there is a similarity between the two of them, they both tend to get violently angry and lash out physically at convenient targets. Touka was angry at the whole of the CCG, but only lashed out by picking a few select agents. Rize was angry at the existence of the Washuu and the birdcage she was born into, but rather than directly fighting against them she merely picked off male targets that most likely represented to her the Washuu as a hobby to cure her so called ‘boredom’. 

Of course there is a world of difference in how these two women express their primary anger they feel as a core part of their being. Touka does everything she can to suppress it and appear human, even to go so far as to eat food she could have easily thrown away when no other human being is looking at her. 

Rize would never do something like that in a million years, she actively resented the restrictions ghouls had to play to in order to pass as humans. While Touka wants to conform, Rize hates all rules, even the ones that make sense as to not attract Doves.

They both are women fueled by a fundamental anger but deal with it in a drastically opposite approach. Another minute detail is that after losing their homes, both Touka and Rize were adopted by secondary father figures. Rize had Shachi and Touka had Yoshimura, who also were both established as old friends. 

This is something that for the most part didn’t happen to both Kaneki and Furuta. Kaneki’s aunt who took him in only worsened his abuse, and Furuta was left in the garden alone after Rize fled. Perhaps that’s why the girls in this foil square are able to handle loneliness substantially better, while both boys are near suicidal from lack substantial love given in their lives. 

The Two Pairs of Foils

If you line up the two of them as a pair then, you have one pair defined by extreme selifshness and extreme selflessness.

Rize only used the freedom that Furuta gave her to indulge in herself, while thinking nothing of him. She turned her back on him fully and instead of making something for her life, she only indulged, and indulged building atop the corpses of others. Rather than try to fight for the freedom she seemed to care about so much for ghouls, she became nothing more than a serial killer basically who caused troubles for other ghouls. 

Furuta also, lost the childhood care he had for Rize and slowly only came to care about her through the lens of how she made him feel. Rize made him feel anxiety, Rize made him feel worry for her sake, or perhaps Rize just made him feel in general. As Rize turned away from him, Furuta too, turned away from her and eventually only sought to control her.

Then you have Touka and Kaneki, the couple that stands on opposite ends of the bridge. The great obstacle in their relationship, despite too coming from similiar places of origin just like Rize and Furuta. As both Kaneki and Touka are orphans, with abandonment complexes who therefore have their primary fear as losing epople. 

They both adapt to this fear in their own way. Kaneki pushes people away while attempting to fight for them, so he can feel validation from them in some indirect way. While this is selfishly motivated, Kaneki running himself into the ground, to near insanity merely trying to protect others is selflesss, an action he tries to do for others.

Touka herself who waited for three years, who chose the route of pasivity like Yoshimura to an extent. Refusing to act directly yet at the same time waiting all that time hoping that he will come back to the cafe.

Both of them were being selfless and trying to think of others, but neither of them were able to get closer that way. It’s only when Kaneki and Touka both acted on their selfish desires, when Kaneki spoke of his fear of losing others when Touka admitted she wanted to be by his side more than to wait at home for him to return did they actually get closer. 

#metasks #meta #tg meta #rize kamishiro #touka kirishima #kaneki ken #furuta nimura #i'm only tagging him with that one name #he has too many #this is my version of concise okay

[queen-mabs-revenge]

I agree with the critical post you reblogged but i dont get what you mean by their pasts are being obliterated? The virignal coding of emma?

This took a while, but I really wanted to think about it,and it’s still messy and vague, so be ye warned. To be honest, this reply got backspaced a load of differenttimes because you got me really considering the depths of why I feel this way.

My immediate answer was that what I see (in this whole 6B arcespecially) is Killian Jones, previously defined by his previous role of command,the things he holds sentimental and dear, his visual cues, and his familial ties havingall that tucked away or dismissed in favour of neutralising his threatening (in many ways) past and defining his happy ending as becoming Emma 2.0: Storybrooke deputy.

With Emma, it’s less striking, because it’s Killian that’s assimilatingto her world, but it’s there, too, but more subtly? Emma whose points of prideare her ability to find people and to read people having those thingsneutralised to allow for plot to move forward in a suitably dramatic fashion (see: not reading Killian at all and not looking for him when he was missing)?

That rankles me, but that’s not really an answer, I don’tthink. Why does that rankle me? Whydo I feel so bone-deep that these things that I see being swallowed by thenarration are something that the characters hold as dear as I do? Maybe they’reOK letting these things go as they evolve into their new lives happily everafter?

But that’s the thing. That’s the reason why. I just postedthis bit earlier because it kind of hit me like a ton of bricks: the reason why the “happyending” we’re getting for these characters feels strange and ill-fitting to me,is because I’m trying to define their happy endings by what I’ve actually seenthem happy about on the show, not just what makes them not sad/stressed/angry, and I’m not seeing those very, very, few things reflected at all in what we’re getting.

I think one of the problem this show has, is thatit doesn’t really do a great job of establishing sources of joy for its main characters.Supporting characters are often given a passion that exists as the key tosolving a dilemma: Merida has her archery, Ariel has her collections, and eventhough she’s more than a bit role, Belle has her books. Hell, Henry has hismusic, movies and writing, and Regina has her horses. We’ve seen these characters light up like Christmas trees when talking about these things. I can pictureAriel as a museum curator in a heartbeat because I know that tending a collection is something thatmakes her little merheart sing (free AU prompt! Omg come on that would beadorable!)

So what is it for Emma and Killian? When do we see themexcited and happy about things? When do they describe their pleasure?

Not fucking much, tbh.

(haha my long winded ass continues below the cut!)

For Killian, what immediately jumps to mind is him describingthe concept of what he does as a pirate to Milah in 5.14: sailing where onewill and answering to no crown – he gets all excited and scoots forward as hedescribes the foreign lands he’s been to – travelling and discovery and thefreedom to do so make him happy. His ship makes him happy – the face on himwhen walks into it after Ursula gets it back for him? I mean, come on. He takespride in his competence as a “hell of a captain”. He’s got like a friggin loveaffair going on with the ocean and “the full moon on the waves” and whateverelse.

Obviously Emma makes him happy, Henry makes him happy, beinga part of the family makes him happy – but outside of others, those are hiscanon-established kicks.

Emma is a bit more difficult for me. We’ve got her foodpreferences down pat. She takes fierce pride in her independence and ability tobuild herself up in any situation – “this is who I am”. We see her littlegleeful grin when asserting that “Emma Swan always gets her man” because she’sgood at searching, knowing what to look for, and bending the rules to do so. Her‘superpower’ give her confidence. We’ve gotten hints that she’s taken joy inartistic things before, but only those hints of her art portfolio Ingrid keptand we didn’t hear her actually react to it other than what was relevant to theproblem at hand. We know she likes to read Harry Potter and that it made herhappy growing up. Maybe she likes filming things?

And again, obviously she’s happy when she’s with her son,her parents, her friends and her boyfriend.

But that’s it. That’s what we have to go on? So I’m rankledthat it seems that the only things that are established asgiving Killian pleasure outside of people, are being dismissed as his past life, and not only not relevant to hishappy ending, but the shedding of those things being set up as the final stage of his redemption arc. But beyond that, thiswhole exercise has made me really contemplate why this happy ending plot feelsso empty for the both of them, IMO…

And it’s because, jeez, that’s all we have to go on to suss out what makes them happy? What’s their motivation beyond not dying this week and smiling at each other?

(When people ask for domestic moments, I really feel likethis is the crux of what they’re asking for – a scene of them at home watching Netflix might give an idea of something that Emma’s developed a little obsession for. A hint that maybe she’s picked up painting again because it’s something she genuinely enjoys as a person? A scene of them chilling on his ship might have her interrupting him duringsome kind of fucking hobby of his that literally doesn’t have to be explained,but by virtue of being there would have a rounding effect. Other shows do this. Fanfic does this. It’s not a far-out concept.)

We have so damned little about what gives these charactersjoy, because every second is jam packed with Another Fucking Baddie – and Ithink that they realised that as they were coming up to this possible end of aseries. When you harp on and on about A HAPPY ENDING for so long, but put sovery little into establishing what happiness is other than…not being separated?Not being attacked? Not being…dead? Destined to die? What the hell do you dofor your characters to give them their personalised happiness when they don’thave a damned hobby or interest (or when you dismiss that interest)?

And the answer is that you can’t. So you have to give them apre-fab, super co-dependent happy ending that has mass-market appeal. Hence Socially TraditionalMarriage Beats In A 10 Episode Arc! Complete With Parent-zillas! And StockWedding/Engagement Imagery! Very-Important-Bc We-Tell-You-It-Is Location!Someone Else’s Dress! Standard Suit in Super Edgy Velvet! And then riding offin to the sunset as job twinsies, forever and ever. Cute times. But again, ifeverything about what makes Killian happy is to be cut out of his life in orderto justify his redemption, what the hell else is there for him to do in townbut to be pushed into the hero mould to the final degree by making him join thesheriff’s office?

(To be completely honest, I’m skirting the virginal codingquestion because I need to think about it more, and because this is hella longalready, but I think there’s been more of a push in that direction to get Emma,established as non-traditional, to fit this traditional storyline. Same withKillian. But again, I haven’t really thought this one through so I’m notprepared to get super in depth on it.)

So yeah, conclusion? TL;DR? I think that this happy endingseems pastede on yey because 

we don’t really know what makes these peopleindividually happy and so a stock happy ending is as good as it’s going to get 

what little information we do have about what give them joy has beenaxed as them ‘shedding their old, stunted selves’.

#Anonymous #ouat spoilers #ouat critical #ouat meta #ouat negativity #ish #in the vaguest sense like i'm just being observational about the show so idk #cs critical #like idk if that's a tag ppl care about but i guess this is kind of that

[vexley]

Just Things About Riverdale, Chapter Ten: The Lost Weekend

Well, here we fucking go.

Oh god.

“I barely acknowledge my own birthday.”

Same, dude. Same.

Gasp.

We’re finally talking about Archie “mysterious” mother.

Official divorce. Damn. What went down, seriously?

Two years, holy shit.

Ah, Fred is leaving. The whole scene-jumping sequences involving dumb high-schoolers  partying is starting to make sense, unfortunately.

“Friendervention.” I don’t know why I’m laughing, but I’m laughing.

Archie & Betty?

“Three musketeers!” Aw.

Aw.

“I thought maybe I’d surprise him.”

Yeah, that sounds like a bad idea.

���I think the best gift that I could give to Jughead would be to stay away.”

I hurt in places that don’t exist.

Hostile eye-contact with the Pussy Cats.

I hope they fuck Archie UP.

Sorry, it’s been a long day, I’m feeling a little hostile.

“Jughead’s never had a Birthday party!”

Archie’s head-nod.

Jughead and Betty clearly weren’t super close before the start of the school year, if she’s had no idea about that. How do you not know something like that about a friend?

Am I actually, like, sort of--maybe--classifying Archie as the Better Friend during this episode?

I’m not sure how to deal with this?

“A low-key surprise party!”

Archie’s anxious head shake.

DANGER WILL ROBINSON. DANGER.

“NO.”

“Jughead doesn’t like his birthday!”

Okay, guys, fine.

Jughead&Archie.

“Jughead is a lone wolf.” He fucking sounds like he’s quoting Jughead.

What part of “Don’t turn around” do they not understand???

“Not that I care because he’s evil incarnate.”

“You don’t have to go Dark Betty on me.”

Betty has so many fucking rage issues, and I find it alarmingly relatable.

I really want her to punch him in his smug little FACE.

“But I can damn well make sure my boyfriend has the best Birthday of his life.”

I’m having flashbacks to that stupid fucking baby shower.

“Screw it, I’m with Betty.”

Archie.

I was fucking rooting for you, man.

“It’s going to be epic.”

It’s going to be catastrophic, calling it now.

“I didn’t mean to ambush you.”

Are you sure? Because it looks to me like you meant to ambush him.

“You’re really falling for this Jones boy, aren’t you?”

I really just love the fact that there’s no judgement. Alice is straight up supporting her daughter; it’s such a violent turn-around from the Alice we knew Before.

Excuse me for a moment, I just need to go into another room and spend 5 to 10 minutes squealing over the fact that Jughead apparently comes with his own sound-effects.

This episode is uncomfortably relatable.

75 years? Holy shit.

This whole HBIC face-off just feels really...superfluous?

Also, I’m really disappointed that Cheryl and Veronica’s friendship just went up in flames, before my very eyes.

I have no fucking words for how angry I am.

Like, is Chuck really supposed to be some kind of threat?

Because, honestly? Who fucking gives a shit?

There is absolutely nothing threatening about that fucking toad.

Emotional blackmail, signed with love by Daddy. Nice.

THAT FUCKING SHIRT.

“Do I look like Jughead to you?”

Maybe in the right lighting.

“You really shouldn’t have.”

“...Are you drunk?”

Wow, yeah, just kinda hit me that Jughead would automatically know. How could he not?

A Spanish Happy Birthday! <3

I love the fact that they incorporate Veronica’s heritage into the show with little things like that.

“Thanks everyone,” he says with no sincerity, at all.

“Oh, it’s Kevin.”

Wow, hot damn, what a voice.

“That was..haunting, Betty.”

LMAO, yeah it was.

Wow, I paused the episode to type out my thoughts, and Betty is right in the middle of kissing Jughead’s cheek. In the other Just Things About posts that I’ve written, I know that I’ve mentioned the expression on Jughead’s face when Betty kisses him. The only way I can think to describe him in those moments is warm.

Right here, though, as Jughead stares down at that (honestly) weird-ass cake, and Betty pecks him on the cheek, Jughead reminds me of the cold. There is no warmth in his expression; there’s no happiness there.

I suppose that, essentially, Jughead looks the way that he currently feels.

(That feeling that he described to Archie over an entire pan of pizza in the Andrews’ kitchen.)

Jughead looks overwhelmingly, achingly alone, and it’s an unsettling thing to see when he is surrounded by people who claim to be his friends.

“I wish it were just the two of us right now.”

“That makes two of us.”

“Why the hell is everything so doom and gloom with you, Jug?”

It’s a real fucking mystery.

“I’m not normal. I’m not wired to be normal.”

“Did you really think you could throw a party without inviting moi?”

Why don’t these people lock their doors? It’s like they want to be robbed.

“Screw it, one in the kitchen, one in the backyard!”

I vote that we take Jughead and give him to some better friends, who’s with me?

“Valerie’s here, and I think she wants me back.”

LMFAO

IN YOUR FUCKING DREAMS.

“Now we’re here, in the middle of a Seth Rogan movie.”

I don’t even know why I’m laughing.

Joaquin&Kevin.

Joaquin&Kevin.

Why does this keep happening?

Oh shit.

“I’m sorry that, after you sexually harassed those girls, there were actual consequences, Chuck.”

“These kids are more on-the-ball than the Sheriff.”

You have no fucking clue.

LMAO

Alice Cooper, with the fucking binoculars. I can’t even.

“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m weird. I’m a weirdo. I don’t fit in.”

I’m okay. I am so okay. I am, like, the most okay ever.

I don’t feel SAD. Like, what even are emotions, you know? I don’t fucking know.

“Why are you getting so upset?”

Hmm, maybe it’s because you did the complete opposite of what he wanted on a day that he clearly can’t stand.

“I hate that word.”

“We’re on borrowed time.”

“Or until Archie changes his mind and says he wants to be with you?”

I, uh

“You shut me out, remember? It’s too late.”

Melody, being there for her girl.

Ugh. Archie, you dumbass.

On today’s episode of Archie Makes Bad Decisions.

“This whole night is bad luck.”

FP’s Concerned Dad(tm) expression.

Cheryl and Chuck are, like, the worst tag-team in the history of ever.

“But did you love him, maybe, in ways that a sister shouldn’t?”

Holy hell on ice.

“I want you to go back inside and talk to your girl.”

“Don’t run away! You’ve got something good here, with her, with your friends! Something that--something that we could never give you.”

I”M NOT CRYING, YOU’RE CRYING!

“Snakes don’t shed their skin so easily.”

Omg, Alice Cooper makes so much more sense, now.

Does she have the tattoo? I really hope she has the tattoo.

“And all this time, I thought you were a lover, not a fighter.” “I’m both; I’ve got layers.”

Like an onion?

“Maybe I’m not used to it, maybe I’m scared.”

Oh, Betty.

</3

Jughead’s expression when he sees Betty’s palms.

His hands around hers, his lips pressed to her knuckles.

The way Betty looks at Jughead while he’s looking down at their hands, like he’s something special, and she doesn’t understand how she got so lucky.

“By Monday, this will all be but a dream. Trust me, no one will remember anything.”

Pfffffffffttt. Okay, sweetie, if you say so.

“Why do I keep doing this?”

I’ve been wondering the same thing. Only, like, along the lines of, “Why does he keep doing this?”

“I keep wrecking things.”

Again, except, “He keeps wrecking things.”

“Welcome to my life.”

Please don’t start.

There she goes.

“Everyday I wonder, what if I had left Riverdale with my mom?”

It’s like the writer’s are handing out prompts to fanfic authors.

“We all are, Archie, and honestly? You less than most.”

...What??

Archie&Veronica???????????

He took the mattress on the floor, that is so cute.

“Dont worry, my lips are sealed.”

Damnit all, can’t you guys be friends already?

“I believe in you, Mom.”

Aw.

OMG.

IT WAS A BURGER.

BETTY MADE HIM A CAKE THAT LOOKS LIKE A BURGER.

THAT’S FUCKING ADORABLE.

I need glasses.

“So, you and Veronica?”

Pinky out when he takes a drink.

“This is a small town, but it’s not that small.”

Shit is about to go doooooown.

Betty&Veronica.

Some much needed Beronica.

“The last time you brought me baked goods was because you kissed Archie.”

Betty&Veronica.

Betty&Veronica holding hands.

Oh, fuck off, you Actual Five Headed Dragon.

“We’re home.”

Oh shit.

I wasn’t going to do this tonight, because I just got off work, I’ve got the mother of all migraines, and I wasn’t sure I’d be coherent enough to take everything in and then spit out proper notes. So, I may come back to this episode at a later date, when I’m a little more awake, and add to it, like I did with Chapter Eight (?).

No, scratch that, I will definitely revisit and add a part two, because there was so much that I didn’t address, because I just??? I can’t even properly express the way I felt about some of these scenes right now, I’m really drained from work, and there’s a lot that I really do want to talk about.

On the upside, this time Jughead’s birthday was just as shitty as every other day of the year.

LOL

Okay, sorry, I’m going.

#riverdale spoilers #riverdale #spoilers #ash watches riverdale #chapter ten #the lost weekend #your lack of beronica is disturbing #anyone else catch the last jedi teaser trailer? #so good #night vale references #ash watches archie makes bad decisions #ash watches betty makes bad decisions #ash watches the whole of riverdale makes bad decisions #it's 2.31 #i'm fuckin going to bed

[imagines-hoarder]

Fix Me- Arthur Shelby

Request// Hello! Love your imagines, especially Peaky Blinders ones -- I'm a huge fan and love it when I find imagines/fics on here because I think PB is a fairly small fandom haha. Was wondering, can you write an imagine with Arthur Shelby? Not sure what your thoughts are on him, but perhaps a romance with a bit of angst ? ;)

*I feel so honored that there’s someone out there that is a fan of my work; I’m blushing haha! This took me a bit to write up but I hope you enjoy! I think I may have made it more angsty than romantic though. Gif by @bonniebirdsgifcentre. xoxox*

Masterlist

It didn’t take long for murmurs of what happened at the ring to make their way through the betting shop, but their muttered nature kept you from making any conclusions. All you could make out was Arthur was involved and Finn and Isaiah were witnesses. God, witnesses. You prayed for anything but the worse, especially with knowing that Arthur hadn’t been the most stable man in the prior months.

They spoke about the oldest Shelby boy like they did the rumors- in murmurs. Polly had told you once that he wasn’t always like this, short tempered and reckless. Maybe it had been memories of the war catching up to him or the illegal business finally driving him mad, but from what you knew about Arthur before you met, he would be almost unrecognizable.

Even with his less than fond qualities, it didn’t take much for you to love him because if you took a close look, it wasn’t hard to see that he was a lover not a fighter. He always put you in his family first, even before himself, but that could be a double edged sword. You loved him but could see he was followed by his dark past. You would rarely ask because it should stay where it was- in the past. But what is one to do when their vicious dog bites someone? These were the questions you feared. Polly must have seen you were driving yourself mad with fear as she told you to find Isaiah and Finn and wait for them in Arthur’s old office. The room remained silent until Tommy got to the shop.

He paced the room a couple times before turning to the boys for answers. “All right. What happened?”

“It was a fair fight,” Finn spoke up.

“Yeah, Arthur just caught him with a good one,” Isaiah defended.

Again, the room was filled with silence, no answers yet to reveal themselves. “I saw the body,” Tommy stated. What body? “Dont fuckin’ lie to me. I saw the body. What fucking happened?”

“I’m not family. I’m saying nothing.” Isaiah turned his head and became mute.

Tommy looked down to Finn expectantly, nodding his head as a command to reply.

“Arthur...he’s blown a few time lately. Six, seven. It’s like he’s not there in the head. He can’t even here ‘stop’. Even his own name.” You weren’t aware of this. You knew better than to go to the ring.

Silence. None of you really knew what to do with this information, but you felt disappointed. Disappointed in yourself for being so useless to the man you love.

“Right, listen to me. That’s two fuckin’ stories,” Tommy pointed sternly at the boys. “You’re brother killed a boy. There were witnesses, there will be questions, get your story straight. It was an accident. Fuck off.” The two didn’t hesitate to exit the room, leaving you leaning against the back wall and Tommy, lost in thought, came towards you.

“Tommy,” you whispered. You were afraid that if you said it too loud, it would come out as a sob. “He killed a kid.”

He stopped in front of you and let out a sober sigh. “Go to him, Y/N. I’ve got to visit a mourning mother and try to fix his mess.” With that, you left the office and the shop, running to locate Arthur.

When you entered the house you began calling out anxiously for Arthur. You knew he wouldn’t be at the Garrison, not after an event like this, though it wasn’t until you stumbled into the sitting that you felt true fear. He sat in his chair staring off into the distance completely still.

“Arthur,” you uttered quietly. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“Polly said I should have stuck with the medicine,” he stated with empty words. “I said that  Tommy knows best.” Your guilt began to weave heavier. You had talked about the medicine with him before, telling him that you would support whatever he thought best. If only you could turn back time. “Head’s like a fuckin’ boat, Y/N.” You turned away, slowly walking to your chain positioned across from is. “And when the boat tips...I can feel it slipping. But there ain’t nothin’ I can do about it.” He began to lose his stone demeanor as his eyes began to squint in pain and he fan his heavy hands through his hair.

“You boys have dealt with so much, Arthur. Conquered so much. I’m sure you’re fine.” He wasn’t, and you knew it. You just hoped that if you could convince him everything was alright, maybe you could persuade yourself as well.

“I...I don’t think I am, Y/N.” He reached into his holster and pulled out his gun, making you jump as he threw it on the table. “And take this fucking thing away from me.”

It was in this moment that you saw Arthur Shelby crystal clear. He looked like a child who knew he was guilty and destined to reap the punishment. He was haunted by things only he could see and dark thoughts that he had tried to keep from you, and then he did something unimaginable. He began to cry small, angry tears.

You moved to kneel in front of him, try to wipe the droplets away swiftly. “Arthur...Arthur, don’t cry, please. We’ll be fine. We’ll figure it out.”

You were startled as his rough calloused hands pulled your away from is cheek and moved them to press on either side of his head. “The fix me, Y/N. Fix me!”

You had never seen this before, and didn’t know what to say to make it better. He had hidden these thoughts for so long, that they poured from is lips in the form of sobs. You began to shed your own tear, feeling culpable for the boy’s death as if you had done it yourself. “I’ll try Arthur. I promise you, I’ll try.” You began to scatter reassuring kisses across the bridge of his nose as his glassy blue eyes mourned their unbecoming master.

Not many words were uttered that night. You just held the trouble man you love close, hoping that you could fix him before you lost him forever.

Peaky-taggers: @thinemineours @buckybarnesisalittleshit @w0nderlxnd @kill-thy-zombie-babies @roliepoliegirl

#Arthur Shelby #arthur shelby imagine #arthur shelby one shot #Peaky Blinders #peaky blinders imagine #peaky blinders oneshot #arthur shelby angst #arthur shelby fluff #peaky blinders angst #peaky blinders fluff #peaky week

[samanthasroberts]

Dangerous idiots: how the liberal media elite failed working-class Americans

Trump supporters are not the caricatures journalists depict and native Kansan Sarah Smarsh sets out to correct what newsrooms get wrong

Last March, my 71-year-old grandmother, Betty, waited in line for three hours to caucus for Bernie Sanders. The wait to be able to cast her first-ever vote in a primary election was punishing, but nothing could have deterred her. Betty a white woman who left school after ninth grade, had her first child at age 16 and spent much of her life in severe poverty wanted to vote.

So she waited with busted knees that once stood on factory lines. She waited with smoking-induced emphysema and the false teeth shes had since her late 20s both markers of our class. She waited with a womb that in the 1960s, before Roe v Wade, she paid a stranger to thrust a wire hanger inside after she discovered she was pregnant by a man shed fled after he broke her jaw.

Betty worked for many years as a probation officer for the state judicial system in Wichita, Kansas, keeping tabs on men who had murdered and raped. As a result, its hard to faze her, but she has pronounced Republican candidate Donald Trump a sociopath whose mouth overloads his ass.

No one loathes Trump who suggested women should be punished for having abortions, who said hateful things about groups of people she has loved and worked alongside since childhood, whose pomp and indecency offends her modest, midwestern sensibility more than she.

Yet, it is white working-class people like Betty who have become a particular fixation among the chattering class during this election: what is this angry beast, and why does it support Trump?

Not so poor: Trump voters are middle class

Hard numbers complicate, if not roundly dismiss, the oft-regurgitated theory that income or education levels predict Trump support, or that working-class whites support him disproportionately. Last month, results of 87,000 interviews conducted by Gallup showed that those who liked Trump were under no more economic distress or immigration-related anxiety than those who opposed him.

According to the study, his supporters didnt have lower incomes or higher unemployment levels than other Americans. Income data misses a lot; those with healthy earnings might also have negative wealth or downward mobility. But respondents overall werent clinging to jobs perceived to be endangered. Surprisingly, a Gallup researcher wrote, there appears to be no link whatsoever between exposure to trade competition and support for nationalist policies in America, as embodied by the Trump campaign.

Earlier this year, primary exit polls revealed that Trump voters were, in fact, more affluent than most Americans, with a median household income of $72,000 higher than that of Hillary Clinton or Bernie Sanders supporters. Forty-four percent of them had college degrees, well above the national average of 33% among whites or 29% overall. In January, political scientist Matthew MacWilliams reported findings that a penchant for authoritarianism not income, education, gender, age or race predicted Trump support.

These facts havent stopped pundits and journalists from pushing story after story about the white working classs giddy embrace of a bloviating demagogue.

In seeking to explain Trumps appeal, proportionate media coverage would require more stories about the racism and misogyny among white Trump supporters in tony suburbs. Or, if were examining economically driven bitterness among the working class, stories about the Democratic lawmakers who in recent decades ended welfare as we knew it, hopped in the sack with Wall Street and forgot American labor in their global trade agreements.

But, for national media outlets comprised largely of middle- and upper-class liberals, that would mean looking their own class in the face.

The faces journalists do train the cameras on hateful ones screaming sexist vitriol next to Confederate flags must receive coverage but do not speak for the communities I know well. That the media industry ignored my home for so long left a vacuum of understanding in which the first glimpse of an economically downtrodden white is presumed to represent the whole.

Part of the current glimpse is JD Vance, author of the bestselling new memoir Hillbilly Elegy. A successful attorney who had a precariously middle-class upbringing in an Ohio steel town, Vance wrote of the chaos that can haunt a family with generational memory of deep poverty. A conservative who says he wont vote for Trump, Vance speculates about why working-class whites will: cultural anxiety that arises when opioid overdose kills your friends and the political establishment has proven it will throw you under the bus. While his theories may hold up in some corners, in interviews coastal media members have repeatedly asked Vance to speak for the entire white working class.

His interviewers and reviewers often seem relieved to find someone with ownership on the topic whose ideas in large part confirm their own. The New York Times election podcast The Run-Up said Vances memoir doubles as a cultural anthropology of the white underclass that has flocked to the Republican presidential nominees candidacy. (The Times teased its review of the book with the tweet: Want to know more about the people who fueled the rise of Donald Trump?)

While Vance happens to have roots in Kentucky mining country, most downtrodden whites are not conservative male Protestants from Appalachia. That sometimes seems the only concept of them that the American consciousness can contain: tucked away in a remote mountain shanty like a coal-dust-covered ghost, as though white poverty isnt always right in front of us, swiping our credit cards at a Target in Denver or asking for cash on a Los Angeles sidewalk.

One-dimensional stereotypes fester where journalism fails to tread. The last time I saw my native class receive substantial focus, before now, was over 20 years ago not in the news but on the television show Roseanne, the fictional storylines of which remain more accurate than the musings of comfortable commentators in New York studios.

Countless images of working-class progressives, including women such as Betty, are thus rendered invisible by a ratings-fixated media that covers elections as horse races and seeks sensational b-roll.

This media paradigm created the tale of a divided America red v blue in which the 42% of Kansans who voted for Barack Obama in 2008 are meaningless.

This year, more Kansans caucused for Bernie Sanders than for Donald Trump a newsworthy point I never saw noted in national press, who perhaps couldnt fathom that flyover country might contain millions of Americans more progressive than their Clinton strongholds.

In lieu of such coverage, media makers cast the white working class as a monolith and imply an old, treacherous story convenient to capitalism: that the poor are dangerous idiots.

Poor whiteness and poor character

The two-fold myth about the white working class that they are to blame for Trumps rise, and that those among them who support him for the worst reasons exemplify the rest takes flight on the wings of moral superiority affluent Americans often pin upon themselves.

I have never seen them flap so insistently as in todays election commentary, where notions of poor whiteness and poor character are routinely conflated.

In an election piece last March in the National Review, writer Kevin Williamsons assessment of poor white voters among whom mortality rates have sharply risen in recent decades expressed what many conservatives and liberals alike may well believe when he observed that communities ravaged by oxycodone use deserve to die.

The white American underclass is in thrall to a vicious, selfish culture whose main products are misery and used heroin needles, Williamson wrote. Donald Trumps speeches make them feel good. So does OxyContin.

For confirmation that this point is lost on most reporters, not just conservative provocateurs, look no further than a recent Washington Post series that explored spiking death rates among rural white women by fixating on their smoking habits and graphically detailing the haggard face and embalming processes of their corpses. Imagine wealthy white woman examined thusly after their deaths. The outrage among family and friends with the education, time, and agency to write letters to the editor would have been deafening.

A sentiment that I care for even less than contempt or degradation is their tender cousin: pity.

In a recent op-ed headlined Dignity and Sadness in the Working Class, David Brooks told of a laid-off Kentucky metal worker he met. On his last day, the man left to rows of cheering coworkers a moment I read as triumphant, but that Brooks declared pitiable. How hard the man worked for so little, how great his skills and how dwindling their value, Brooks pointed out, for people he said radiate the residual sadness of the lonely heart.

Im hard-pressed to think of a worse slight than the media figures who have disregarded the embattled white working class for decades now beseeching the country to have sympathy for them. We dont need their analysis, and we sure dont need their tears. What we need is to have our stories told, preferably by someone who can walk into a factory without his own guilt fogging his glasses.

One such journalist, Alexander Zaitchik, spent several months on the road in six states getting to know white working-class people who do support Trump. His goal for the resulting new book, The Gilded Rage, was to convey the human complexity that daily news misses. Zaitchik wrote that his mission arose from frustration with hot takes written by people living several time zones and income brackets away from their subjects.

Zaitchik wisely described those he met as a blue-collar middle class mostly white people who have worked hard and lost a lot, whether in the market crash of 2008 or the manufacturing layoffs of recent decades. He found that their motivations overwhelmingly started with economics and ended with economics. The anger he observed was pointed up, not down at those who forgot them when global trade deals were negotiated, not at minority groups.

Meanwhile, the racism and nationalism that surely exist among them also exist among Democrats and higher socioeconomic strata. A poll conducted last spring by Reuters found that a third of questioned Democrats supported a temporary ban on Muslims entering the United States. In another, by YouGov, 45% of polled Democrats reported holding an unfavorable view of Islam, with almost no fluctuation based on household income. Those who wont vote for Trump are not necessarily paragons of virtue, while the rest are easily scapegoated as the countrys moral scourge.

When Hillary Clinton recently declared half of Trump supporters a basket of deplorables, Zaitchik told another reporter, the language could be read as another way of saying white-trash bin. Clinton quickly apologized for the comment, the context of which contained compassion for many Trump voters. But making such generalizations at a $6m fundraiser in downtown New York City, at which some attendees paid $50,000 for a seat, recalled for me scenes from the television political satire Veep in which powerful Washington figures discuss normals with distaste behind closed doors.

The DeBruce Grain elevator. Federal safety inspectors had not visited it for 16 years when an explosion ripped through the half-mile long structure, killing seven workers. Photograph: Cliff Schiappa/AP

When we talked, Zaitchik mentioned HBO talk-show host Bill Maher, who he pointed out basically makes eugenics-level arguments about anyone who votes for Donald Trump having congenital defects. You would never get away with talking that way about any other group of people and still have a TV show.

Maher is, perhaps, the pinnacle of classist smugness. In the summer of 1998, when I was 17 and just out of high school, I worked at a grain elevator during the wheat harvest. An elevator 50 miles east in Haysville, Kansas, exploded (grain dust is highly combustible), killing seven workers. The accident rattled my community and reminded us about the physical dangers my family and I often faced as farmers.

I kept going to work like everyone else and, after a long day weighing wheat trucks and hauling heavy sacks of feed in and out of the mill, liked to watch Politically Incorrect, the ABC show Maher hosted then. With the search for one of the killed workers bodies still under way, Maher joked, as I recall, that the people should check their loaves of Wonder Bread.

That moment was perhaps my first reckoning with the hard truth that, throughout my life, I would politically identify with the same people who often insult the place I am from.

Such derision is so pervasive that its often imperceptible to the economically privileged. Those who write, discuss, and publish newspapers, books, and magazines with best intentions sometimes offend with obliviousness.

Many people recommended to me the bestselling new history book White Trash, for instance, without registering that its title is a slur that refers to me and the people I love as garbage. My happy relief that someone set out to tell this ignored thread of our shared past was squashed by my wincing every time I saw it on my shelf, so much so that I finally took the book jacket off. Incredibly, promotional copy for the book commits precisely the elitist shaming Isenberg is out to expose: (the book) takes on our comforting myths about equality, uncovering the crucial legacy of the ever-present, always embarrassing if occasionally entertaining poor white trash.

The book itself is more sensitively wrought and imparts facts that one hopes would dismantle popular use of its titular term. But even Isenberg cant escape our classist frameworks.

When On the Media host Brooke Gladstone asked Isenberg, earlier this year, to address long-held perceptions of poor whites as bigots, the author described a conundrum:They do subscribe to certain views that are undoubtedly racist, and you cant mask it and pretend that its not there. It is very much a part of their thinking.

Entertain a parallel broad statement about any other disenfranchised group, and you might begin to see how rudimentary class discussion is for this relatively young country that long believed itself to be free of castes. Isenberg has sniffed out the hypocrisy in play, though.

The other problem is when people want to blame poor whites for being the only racist in the room, she told Gladstone. as if theyre more racist than everyone else.

That problem is rooted in the notion that higher class means higher integrity. As journalist Lorraine Berry wrote last month, The story remains that only the ignorant would be racist. Racism disappears with education were told. As the first from my family to hold degrees, I assure you that none of us had to go to college to learn basic human decency.

Berry points out that Ivy-League-minted Republicans shepherded the rise of the alt-right. Indeed, it was not poor whites not even white Republicans who passed legislation bent on preserving segregation, or who watched the Confederate flag raised outside state capitols for decades to come.

It wasnt poor whites who criminalized blackness by way of marijuana laws and the war on drugs.

Nor was it poor whites who conjured the specter of the black welfare queen.

These points should not minimize the horrors of racism at the lowest economic rungs of society, but remind us that those horrors reside at the top in different forms and with more terrible power.

Among reporters and commentators this election cycle, then, a steady finger ought be pointed at whites with economic leverage: social conservatives who donate to Trumps campaign while being too civilized to attend a political rally and yell what they really believe.

Mainstream media is set up to fail the ordinary American

Based on Trumps campaign rhetoric and available data, it appears that most of his voters this November will be people who are getting by well enough but who think of themselves as victims.

One thing the media misses is that a great portion of the white working class would align with any sense before victimhood. Right now they are clocking in and out of work, sorting their grocery coupons, raising their children to respect others, and avoiding political news coverage.

Barack Obama, a black man formed by the black experience, often cites his maternal lineage in the white working class. A lot of whats shaped me came from my grandparents who grew up on the prairie in Kansas, he wrote this month to mark a White House forum on rural issues.

Last year, talking with author Marilynne Robinson for the New York Review of Books, Obama lamented common misconceptions of small-town middle America, for which he has a sort of reverence. Theres this huge gap between how folks go about their daily lives and how we talk about our common life and our political life, he said, naming one cause as the filters that stand between ordinary people who are busy getting by and complicated policy debates.

Im very encouraged when I meet people in their environments, Obama told Robinson. Somehow it gets distilled at the national political level in ways that arent always as encouraging.

To be sure, one discouraging distillation the caricature of the hate-spewing white male Trump voter with grease on his jeans is a real person of sorts. There were one or two in my town: the good ol boy who menaces those with less power than himself running people of color out of town with the threat of violence, denigrating women, shooting BB guns at stray cats for fun. They are who Trump would be if hed been born where I was.

Media fascination with the hateful white Trump voter fuels the theory, now in fashion, that bigotry is the only explanation for supporting him. Certainly, financial struggle does not predict a soft spot for Trump, as cash-strapped people of color who face the threat of his racism and xenophobia, and who resoundingly reject him, by all available measures can attest. However, one imagines that elite white liberals who maintain an air of ethical grandness this election season would have a harder time thinking globally about trade and immigration if it were their factory job that was lost and their community that was decimated.

Affluent analysts who oppose Trump, though, have a way of taking a systemic view when examining social woes but viewing their place on the political continuum as a triumph of individual character. Most of them presumably inherited their political bent, just like most of those in red America did. If you were handed liberalism, give yourself no pats on the back for your vote against Trump.

Spare, too, the condescending argument that disaffected Democrats who joined Republican ranks in recent decades are voting against their own best interests, undemocratic in its implication that a large swath of America isnt mentally fit to cast a ballot.

Whoever remains on Trumps side as stories concerning his treatment of women, racism and other dangers continue to unfurl gets no pass from me for any reason. They are capable of voting, and they own their decisions. Lets be aware of our class biases, though, as we discern who they are.

Journalist? Then the chances are youre not blue collar

A recent print-edition New York Times cutline described a Kentucky man:

Mitch Hedges, who farms cattle and welds coal-mining equipment. He expects to lose his job in six months, but does not support Mr Trump, who he says is an idiot.

This made me cheer for the rare spotlight on a member of the white working class who doesnt support Trump. It also made me laugh one cant farm cattle. One farms crops, and one raises livestock. Its sometimes hard for a journalist who has done both to take the New York Times seriously.

The main reason that national media outlets have a blind spot in matters of class is the lack of socioeconomic diversity within their ranks. Few people born to deprivation end up working in newsrooms or publishing books. So few, in fact, that this former laborer has found cause to shift her entire writing career to talk specifically about class in a wealth-privileged industry, much as journalists of color find themselves talking about race in a whiteness-privileged one.

This isnt to say that one must reside among a given group or place to do it justice, of course, as good muckrakers and commentators have shown for the past century and beyond. See On the Medias fine new series on poverty, the second episode of which includes Gladstones reflection that the poor are no more monolithic than the rest of us.

I know journalists to be hard-working people who want to get the story right, and Im resistant to rote condemnations of the media. The classism of cable-news hosts merely reflects the classism of privileged America in general. Its everywhere, from tweets describing Trump voters as inbred hillbillies to a Democratic campaign platform that didnt bother with a specific anti-poverty platform until a month out from the general election.

The economic trench between reporter and reported on has never been more hazardous than at this moment of historic wealth disparity, though, when stories focus more often on the stock market than on people who own no stocks. American journalism has been willfully obtuse about the grievances on Main Streets for decades surely a factor in digging the hole of resentment that Trumps venom now fills. That the term populism has become a pejorative among prominent liberal commentators should give us great pause. A journalism that embodies the plutocracy its supposed to critique has failed its watchdog duty and lost the respect of people who call bullshit when they see it.

One such person was my late grandfather, Arnie. Men like Trump sometimes drove expensive vehicles up the gravel driveway of our Kansas farmhouse looking to do some sort of business. Grandpa would recognize them as liars and thieves, treat them kindly, and send them packing. If you shook their hands, after they left Grandpa would laugh and say, Better count your fingers.

In a world in which the Bettys and Arnies of the world have little voice, those who enjoy a platform from which to speak might examine their hearts and minds before stepping onto the soap box.

If you would stereotype a group of people by presuming to guess their politics or deeming them inferior to yourself say, the ones who worked third shift on a Boeing floor while others flew to Mexico during spring break; the ones who mopped a McDonalds bathroom while others argued about the minimum wage on Twitter; the ones who cleaned out their lockers at a defunct Pabst factory while others drank craft beer at trendy bars; the ones who came back from the Middle East in caskets while others wrote op-eds about foreign policy then consider that you might have more in common with Trump than you would like to admit.

Source: http://allofbeer.com/dangerous-idiots-how-the-liberal-media-elite-failed-working-class-americans/

from All of Beer https://allofbeer.wordpress.com/2018/01/05/dangerous-idiots-how-the-liberal-media-elite-failed-working-class-americans/

[topsolarpanels]

Know Your Enemy: Celebrating 50 Years of the Forever War

Robert Sammelin

No one drank more than the scientist. Every night, after whatever patriotic black-tie gala marriage played props at, he could be found at the hotel bar, trying to extract existential meaning from a banana colada. It was an odd drinking of option for such a serious human, but only once did he respond to our interrogations about it.

It pleases the nerve fibers, he said, all baritone to his voice, before disappearing into the chilled yellow muck again. We were in New Tulsa, debriefing after a grueling dinner with a bunch of white-haired solar energy exec. Wed been on the road for months, and morale used to go the way of the glacier. I ordered a round for the table, and we toasted to the hustle. Heroes of the nation, peddling war bonds by day, drinking like froufrous by night. Our drill instructor would not have been proud.

Maybe it wasnt New Tulsa. Maybe itd been in Charlotte after the fund-raiser with the nanofinance douchebags. Anyhow.

There were 11 of us on the bond drive, 12 if you included the JngerBot. The Forever War had just entered its sixth decade, and our politicians didnt pretend they were going to end it anymore, even during elections. They couldnt. Wed tried everything: nation-building, nation-destroying, sending terrorists and their families to the Mars penal colony, sending the rebel Young Siberians to actual Siberia. Nothing had worked. We were at war because we always had been. We were at war because we always would be. We were at war because we were at war.

Matt Gallagher

About

Matt Gallagher is the author of the novel Youngblood and the Iraq memoir Kaboom: Embracing the Suck in a Savage Little War.

The government decided to celebrate the Forever Wars golden anniversary with loud, shiny bombast. We were part of that bombast. AMERICAS HEROES, TOGETHER AT LAST, ran the tagline. We were like a roving assortment act, but without name recognition or singing or sex appeal. Without anything, truly. Just pasts wiped clean with the antiseptic of narrative. So we stood there and smiled and waved while other people told our tales to the crowds. The crowd cheered. We waved again.

After the coladas, I settled the tab and excused myself. The younger veterinarians night was just beginning, but mine was nearing its end. In the queue for the teleporter to the rooms, a human about my age waited behind me. He wore a rumpled dress shirt and an overlong tie-in and a goatee on the brink of coherence.

He was looking everywhere but my hoverchair. People with legs always do that. It reminds me of the route some men used to try very hard not to look at my cleavage when I was younger. The endeavor simply underlines the fixation.

Thank you, he said. For what you did.

Thank you for your supporting, I told, a answer as hollow as it was practiced. He mustve been at the event earlier.

Cancan I tell you something?

Sure, I told. Women in military uniforms have this impact on men in dress shirts, for some reason. If youd like to.

I wanted to be a recon marine when I was a kid. He said it like it was a church confession, something hidden away in the lost rifts of his soul for decades. Did the recon workout at the gym for years, he continued. Stupid, I know.

I nodded, both because it was stupid and because I knew.

Youre a bona fide hero. The men segue was as graceful as a startled dog, but it was late. That scientist, though. Hes killing people. And not only the enemy.

I thought about “the mens” words. They were true enough. So what would you do? I asked. If you were him.

Me? The man stroked his goatee. I wouldnt even know.

Pragmatically, I told. Youre the scientist. You live in this country. The wars happening. You can perhaps aim it or not. Either style, people succumb. What do you do?

II object to the question. And to the idea. Im not him. The human voice had a quiver to it now. Not an angry quiver, either. A frightened one. I was just sayingI dont think its right. Thats all.

OK, I said. Night. It was my turning at the teleporter. I get in and went to my room. I didnt begrudge the man his opting out. We all had in some manner. Even us.

Especially us.

The Federals had discovered me at my sisters, on the porch, scrolling through a holopad article about the rabid lemur thatd killed Justin Bieber Jr. Furious George Howls With Delight! read the headline. Its always spooky when sons succumb the same way their fathers did. The past comprehend us all, eventually. Even Biebers.

I was on my seventh year of an indefinite visit, still sleeping in a bare guest room. A potted flower or framed scene would have felt like marks of permanence, somehow. Id been living in increments since high school and wasnt about to stop simply because I couldnt figure out what to do with the rest of my life.

Theywell, welived at the top of a windy mound in a suburbium of a suburbium, wedged between a stand of wild honeysuckle and a pond shaped like a swollen snout. It was green and quiet. The kind of place where big flags hung from porches with humility. I taught painting at the community center and took my nieces to soccer practice and spend my Saturday nights at the one townie bar that served ros.

The life didnt induce me happy or anything, but it could have. Maybe should have.

There were three of them. They all wore jeans and plaid shirts of differing blandness. Id have expected suits and black sunglasses, but the decay effects of after-empire were reaching and vast.

Chief Warrant Officer Valerie Speer? one said. Well, asked. I didnt look my part, either. Female veterinarians tend to cut a certain mold. A liter-sized gremlin in a gardening hat wasnt it.

They told me about the bond drive. About how it would inspire patriotism again in the hearts and minds of the person or persons. About how it would get everyday citizens invested in the wars again.( Like they ever were. I knew the history .) About how the governmental forces needed the money, how 50 years of blowing up things in strange, faraway places had taken its toll on the budget, especially since the geothermal insurgency in Blue Russia began eating away at Uncle sam foreign trade.

About how the bond drive needed a woman on it, because they had an old guy, a blexican, a mexipino, and a robot, and showing that heroes were as diverse as the country mattered.

I laughed. A female. I danced my metal fingers through the air. In the right sun my prosthetics could look like flesh. We werent in it. Thats why you need me.

That made the two men in jeans and plaid look down at the ground, but the woman Fed just stared at me.

Youre Valerie Speer, she said. The tone in her voice sounded so earnest it snapped. Do you know what you mean to my generation of status of women? I joined the agency because of you.

She was lying about that, I was almost sure. But shed appealed to my pride. I danced my fingers through the air again and took in all the green, all the quiet. Seven years here. Seven years that had induced me soft. Did people my age go on escapades anymore?

I requested information about financial compensation.

Heres the thing about being labeled a war hero: You either love it or hate it. Theres little space for mixed impressions. Take the scientist. Invented a drone mosquito that gives people the runs, sold it to the military, and stopped the Arabican conflict practically overnight. You cant fire a rifle when youre crapping out your brains. But some of the mosquitoes werent as specific as billed. During strafes, they bit foes and civilians alike. Which wouldnt have mattered much had we been fighting in the developed world. We werent, though. Outbreaks of dysentery and super-cholera followed, and the last UN estimate I watched numbered deaths in the tens of thousands.

The bond drive needed a woman on it. They already had an old guy, a blexican, a mexipino, and a robot.

The scientist had ended a war all with his mind. Yet the only thing he wanted in the world was to return to his lab, to his anonymity, and forget any of it ever happened.

The JngerBot seemed to resent the attention for other reasons. It didnt know what to induce of people, and truth be told, people didnt know what to attain of it. They could handle robots, had been dealing with them all their lives. Even the rough-and-tumble behaviour of a regular InfantryBot could be explained away. But an elite InfantryBot 5000 upgraded with the transcendental heroism and philosophical musings of decorated German World War I soldier Ernst Jnger? That caused some issues.

The anarch wages his own wars, the JngerBot said at a fund-raiser to a journalist whod would like to know whether it missed battle. Even when marching in rank and file.

Before a boxing prizefight, the JngerBot felt it necessary to remind the crowd what was what. Furrow opposing is the bloodiest, wildest, most brutal of all, it said to 70,000 drunk revelers in Vegas. Of all the wars exciting moments , none is so powerful as the session of two cyclone troop leaders between narrow trench walls. Theres no compassion there , no going back. The blood speaks from a shrill exclaim of recognition that tears itself from ones breast like a nightmare.

And then there were the children.

It told a 10 -year old with a JngerBot poster on his wall that killing an adversary would be a finer tribute. And when a bank presidents “girls ” pointed to us and asked if we were heroes, the JngerBot objected as only it could TAGEND

Heroes deeds and heroes graves, it said. Old and new you here may assure. How the Empire was created. How the Empire was preserved. It paused. We sought the death of heroes. There is no lovelier demise in the world.

The little girls face paled to glass as her father resulted her away. We all laughed about it , no one harder or longer than Dizzy. Dizzy was a walking, talking debate for breeding the remaining cis-males out of the gene pool, if only he hadnt been so pretty. Drone pilots. They think theyre so starfish because they can laser insurrectionists dead from space. And Dizzy was an superstar. He adored every minute of the bond drive, “members attention”, the parties, the hoverfloat rides, the certain type of female patriot who wanted to see the view from his hotel balcony. Beats going back to Pueblo and coaching CrossFit, hed tell, before unleashing that smile of full, fluoride shine. God, he could charm the sorcery underwear off a Mormon.

Would try, at least.

Hed earned the Silver Star in the Iraq war. Well, the Iraq war before the last one. Maybe it was three Iraq wars ago.

Dizzy and the younger vets on the bond drive are always privateersmercenaries if youre the protest, virtual-petition kind. WarriorCorps and Foreign Legion Inc. and Armed Humanitarianism Limited and the like. I was hybrid: part contractor but also part national military, before that ran extinct during the Whig Revolt of 36. Merely Emo Carlos was old enough to have been GI from beginning to end. Hed earned the Silver Star in the Iraq war. Well, the Iraq war before the last one. Perhaps it was three Iraq wars ago. Anyhow. We asked Emo Carlos about it over sushi, after a parade in Cleveland.

Jumped on a grenade at a checkpoint, he told, defining down his chopsticks with a shrug. Didnt go off.

We hollered and banged the table just because we could. Itd been a couple decades since anything but a bot had been close enough to a grenade to do anything like that. Even the JngerBot conveyed its admiration.

Defective? I asked.

Emo Carlos nodded. One in a million, they said.

What happened then? Dizzy asked.

The creases in Emo Carlos forehead folded into one another like papier-mch. He usually never talked about anything but drumming for his old-man punk band. Theyd served together back in the day and were known across the greater Rochester area as the Infidels. Geriatric humor.

Stood up, he said. Dusted off. Looked down. Realise Id pissed myself.

We hollered and banged the table all over again.

An elderly couple came over to us subsequently. Theyd overheard our conversation and wanted to say thank you. They said they had two grandsons in privateer training.

I know our thanks is a small thing, the spouse said. He and his wife looked so cute in their nice old-people clothes, khakis and sweaters and thick-rimmed glasses. They looked like other peoples grandparents always look. But sometimes its all those of us here can offer.

The wife nodded. Were all involved, she told. We believe that. As taxpayers, as citizens, thats how it is. Were with you.

We thanked them for thanking us and they left the restaurant.

What did she mean, Were all involved? Dizzy asked. No theyre not.

There were echoes of agreement and deliberation over what the old woman had meant, and not just about the word involved . Also about the word we .

Yo, Emo Carlos told. The table hushed. Theyre from my hour. When wars had objectives. When citizens tried to keep up. America used to be young. Thats what she meant.

Then say that, Dizzy told. Taxes? Who the fucking cares.

Emo Carlos shook his head again. He was trying to clear himself of frustrations, either with himself or with us. Then he pointed at me. Sent her to the damn moon. Supposed to save us all, putting the wars up there. Preserve the land and resources, remove civilian demises. Be tidy and simple. That was the plan.

And no one ever went back, Dizzy told. The game changed.

Well. Emo Carlos giggled. Military lesson numero uno, son, he said. No plan survives first contact.

The rest of us chuckled along with the old wisdom. Everyone but the scientist, who sat off by himself in the corner. He looked up at us with something between sadness and ferocity. It was hard to decide which.

Tidy and simple, he said. I like that.

When my nieces turn 12 and gain access to FreedomNet, they will find these three paragraphs about their aunt, etched into the digital histories forever and ever TAGEND Valerie Jade Speer( born May 2, 2011) was a chief warrant officer( air) and assault pilot in the United States Army and later the privateer organization Star Spangled Security. She was awarded the Star of Valor in 2042 for her actions during the Battle on the Moon, of which she was the only survivor . Deployed to the moon as part of the NATO coalition during the course of its South Seas dispute, Speer flew a Flying Yeager fusion helocraft during the battle, destroying five Chinese Federation space-helos and two Young Siberian cosmo-planes. Struck by an enemy dwarf ballistic, Speer crash-landed into the Titius Crater. She was thus sheltered from the amaze thermonuclear strike carried out by the Young Siberians that killed all other fighters and blew the hole in the moon now known as Putins Smile . Initially presumed dead, Speer was found during NATO recovery operations two days after the end of the combat. She lost three extremities, suffered burns over much of her body, and survived over 90 surgeries. President Natasha Obama told Speers life and narrative are a testament to the American spirit at her Star of Valor ceremony at the White House .

Words can be funny beasts. Her actions suggest some sort of agency, even control. Destroy is such a clean term for such messiness. Struck by defied my memory of it. Same with crash-landed.

Less so with lost. And suffered.

Testament. As if enduring were a selection. I did what anyone would have. There are no atheists in moon craters. And there are no fatalists in survivor wards of one.

I was thinking about that ward as I zipped up my suitcase in my sisters guest room for the bond drive. Thinking about the long stills of quiet during the nights. Guessing about being “ve called the” Burn by nurses who guessed I couldnt hear them. Supposing about the full-thickness graft done without anesthesia.

You sure about this, Val? My sister stood in the doorway. Her posture betrayed opposition. She was four years older and had always asked me questions that she already had answers for. You have options.

Shed said the same years prior, before Id left for the moon.

I am, I told both times, even though I wasnt both days. Id always detected power and resolve in ambiguity, though. Most people werent like that. My sister, for one.

Youve done more than your share, she continued, moving to the bed and putting her arm around my shoulder. So much more. I leaned my head into her and tried to hold in some of the familial warmth. Id miss it, I knew. Only sisters and nieces hug people like me. I dont think its right.

I smiled at that.

Its not, I told. But. If not me, then who?

Even running can be its own form of opting out. I didnt know that the first time. But I did the second. The last night in the guest room, as I tossed and turned in bed, I thought about that. Then I thought about the survivor ward again. And the long stills of quiet during the nights. And being “ve called the” Burn. And the graft.

Somewhere between Omaha and Tesla City, I began to realize just how different the younger vets were. It wasnt simply that they were privateers, either, or that they called adversary combatants pixels as an insult. Dizzy and his crew, they crowed about their service. Owned their superiority, then basked in it.

Do soldiers think theyre better than citizens? Of course. It has nothing to do with what did or didnt happen in their service, either. It has to do with the very notion of joining up. Americas been at war since before most of us were born. We joined because we wanted to go. Wed been told we were special from day one of boot camp, doing something the rest of our nation couldnt. Or worse, wouldnt. Too fat. Too selfish. Too lazy. Which made the realization after we got out that citizens think were beneath them all the more shocking. If theyre fat, selfish, and lazy, then whats worse than that?

We werent supposed to say any of that, though. My generation didnt, at least. We were taught that part of our service was biding quiet about it. To rise above, because thats what Jesus and George Washington and Beyonc wouldve wanted.

Thats what I did. Or tried to, at the least. Let the citizenry think what it wants, ran the logic. All part of being a republic.

Maybe we had it incorrect, though.

I wondered about that the night the protester confronted us. We were in Washington for a gala. Ordinarily “were in” ushered in through side or back door for events, but the organizers of this one had us walking in on a red carpet, through a galaxy of flashing lightings and holographic cameras.

Finally, Dizzy told, pausing to adjust his bow affiliation and lick his front teeth. The treatment we deserve.

Why the protester chose the JngerBot to cream-pie, Ill never know. By the time the uproar had reached my ears and Id floated around in my chair, the JngerBot had the young man by the throat. Request order to remove home-front adversary, it said, which was funny, and then not.

We got the young man free of the JngerBots prongs. He was reed-thin and had thick brown curls with eyes as dark and mad as the moon. I didnt know what to think about him or his pie. People didnt protest war in person anymore. It wasnt sane behavior.

Youre not heroes, he told. His terms were shaky. Its never easy coming face to face with people youve demonized. Or cockpit to cockpit. Youre tools of empire. Fuck you. Fuck all of you.

The cameras along the walkway started popping off like mortars. We all only stood there, waiting out his denunciation, because we were there to be seen and applauded , nothing else. His anger dazed me, and the others too. Not Dizzy, though.

Get bent, joker, Dizzy told, intersecting his arms for the cameras. War is bad? No shit. But it wont go forth just cause we want it to. Last month, two brigades from the same base get deployed. One goes to Kurd Mountain, saves those households from the horde. The other goes to Blue Russia, blows up some insurrectionists. Ones a humanitarian mission. The others combat. Both involve destruction.

Id never heard Dizzy speak with eloquence and passion before. He was good, and he knew it. He pressed on.

This JngerBot is a goddamn national gem. I dont know what brought you here tonight, and I dont dedicate a single fucking. We went so you dont “re going to have to”. Suck my hero balls.

The arrogance. The entitlement. The narrowness of thought. I loved it all, and I wasnt the only one. The red carpet explosion with applause. Dizzy even took a bow. But the acclaim wasnt universal.

After the protester had been escorted away and wed run inside for the gala, the scientist saw Dizzy. Dont do that again, he said. He loomed over the younger human like an angry parent. That guy is not your adversary. Neither is anyone else youve met on this stupid tour.

He aint a friend. Dizzy was trying to sound unbothered, and he leaned back in his chair and set his feet on the table. So what is he?

Only morons speak in absolutes, the scientist said.

Dizzy changed tactics. You know what he likely thinks about you? he asked. What all these people say when they think we cant hear? I had a woman tell me she didnt think we were whole human beings. Fuck her, and fuck that protester. Fuck all of them.

I wondered what the answers were to Dizzys questionwhat did people say about us? When they thought about us at all. Beyond the pomp and rite of the bond drive, we werent anything, I supposed. Just ciphers with tales people believed in, or didnt believe in, even before they heard them.

So. What. The scientists voice turned to iron as he responded to Dizzy. Thats the job. We have consequences.

Dizzy opened his mouth, but the scientist cut him off. You did . You did when you didnt “re going to have to”. Thats enough. It has to be. Then he stormed off, presumably for the hotel bar.

The scientist opted out that night. The rest of us did too, by doing the job. We stood there and smiled and waved while other people told our stories to the crowds. The crowd cheered. We waved again.

We walked back to the hotel as a group after the jamboree. We stopped in a park with green lawns and a marble fountain and joked about the protester, giggled about the scientist. The scientist had been right, but so what? What did being right have to do with anything? Dizzy had regained whatever force-out it was that sustained him and began chatting up a pair of young women who considered themselves patriots. I watched it all and thought about the ward and then my sisters home. The JngerBot came up beside me.

You managed that pie well, I told it. It didnt say anything, so I continued. Waiting for an order, I mean.

Here is our kingdom, the best use of monarchies, the best republic, the JngerBot told. Here is our garden, our happiness.

What a random thing to tell, I thought. Even for a robot. But subsequently, after considering it more, I decided otherwise.

The Fiction Issue

Tales From an Uncertain Future

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