i am in love with your sollux i think
sollux love party :]
if you’re interested heres some of my personal fondness thoughts on him..
big warning for the mega long read ahead aye
as we alr know sollux's rejection of participation somewhat mirrors dave's rejection of heroism, but even without getting cooked to completion i still find sollux's character v compelling beyond the fourth wall
as someone who doesnt get a pinch of that Protagonist Sparkle to begin with, he can openly say he wants to leave anytime…. and unlike dave, he actually Can leave the scene anytime. but he can never be truly Free from the story via permanent character death like the other trolls.
his irrelevancy is indeed relevant - he’s there so u can point him out.
while his image is intended to be a relic of past internet subculture, his role is not only about hehehaha being a Chad or a 2000s cyberforum 2²chan haxxor ragequit gamebro.
his continued existence also happens to add a Bit to the overarching themes of homestuck! a Bit that gives him longer-lasting thematic relevance compared to the trolls who could’ve had more character potential but didnt get to survive beyond the main story.
the Bit in question:
his defiance contributes to the illusion of agency (treating characters = people with autonomy). he’s “aware” of it, and that recognition is worth noting enough to forcibly keep him alive as both reward and punishment.
considering how his personality & classpect is designed its definitely a very haha thing for hussie to do LOL. he’s made to be op asf so he's resigned to doing dirty work, gradually deteriorating along the way but never truly dying. as fans have mentioned before, him openly rejecting involvement after a while of grim tolerance is like if the sim u were controlling suddenly stopped, looked up and gave u the finger while u were step six into the walkthrough for Every Possible Sim Death Animation.
but since he’s just a sim… the more he hates it, the more you keep him around. if ur sim started complaining abt your whimsical household storyline you’d definitely keep that little fuck.
but yeah i like that sollux is just idling. the significance of his presence being that one dude who's always reliably Somewhere, root core Unchanged, no individual ambitions (possibly due to fear of consequence?), and design-wise: a staple representative product of his time.
compared to dirk's character, who has aged phenomenally well into the present (themes of control + AR + artificial intelligence, clearer exploration around navigating relationships/sexuality, infinite possibilities of self-splinterhood and trait inheritance), sollux's potential is really... contained. bitter. defeatist. limiting and frustrating in the way old tech is.
the world continues moving on to shinier, brighter, more advanced automated things - minimalist and metaverse or whatever but sollux is still here 🧍♂️ going woohoo redblue 3d. (tho personally i imagine his vibe similar to what the kids call cassette futurism on pinterest mixed w more grimy grunge insectoid influences eheh)
conceptually-speaking,
at the foundation of it all, the rapid pace of modern development was built off the understanding of ppl like sollux in the past, who were There actively at work while the dough was still beginning to rise
thats one of the cool things abt the idea of trolls preceding humans! the idea that trolls like sollux excelled back when lots of basic shit still needed to be discovered, building structures like networks and codes from scratch, and humans will eventually inherit and reinvent that knowledge in ways that become so optimized it makes the old manual effort seem archaic, slow, and labour-intensive.
but despite information/resources/shortcuts being more accessible now, much of the new highly-anticipated stuff released on trend still end up unfinished, inefficient, or expiring quickly due to cutting corners under severe capitalistic pressures
meanwhile, some of the old stuff frm past generations of thorough, exploratory and perfectionistic development still remains working, complete, and ever so sturdy.
those things continue to exist, just outside our periphery with either:
zero purpose left for modern needs (outdated/obsolete)
or
far too important to replace or destroy, bcs of its surprisingly essential and circumstantial usefulness in one niche specific area.
which are honestly? both points that sum up sollux pree well.
dramatic ending sorry. anw are u still on the fence or are u Sick abt him like me </3
1K notes
·
View notes
AITA for making my family eat my mother's terrible cooking?
I (32NB) currently live with my father (70M), mother (68F), and brother (36M). My brother is disabled and requires at least one full time caretaker. Up until recently, this was me. First, my mom and I were sharing the duty, but then my grandmother got sick and my mom left, leaving me working, going to school, and taking care of the house and my brother by myself most of the time. It's worth noting I'm also disabled (physically and mentally), I just lived on my own from 16-27 so I got used to dealing.
Now my father has moved in with us and is taking care of my brother which is a huge relief. My grandmother died and my mother is back and helping as well! As a result, and out of the severe damage all the previous work did to me physically and mentally, I have removed myself ENTIRELY from caretaking from my brother. I don't do SHIT anymore. I will occasionally make him a sandwich or something if I feel up to it. So this is where the assholery might come in.
My mom… cannot cook. She is terrible. I mean it. Whatever you're imagining: worse. I regularly impress one of my friends (just the one, I don't want to bad mouth her excessively) with tales of her horrifying abominations. Yesterday she cooked tilapia in MELTED. LIME. POPSICLES. because she thought it would give it a citrus flavor. She did not use other seasoning (no not even salt). We have lime and lemon juice in the fridge!!!
I used to cook at least half of the meals, and often would help mom with dinner when it wasn't something boxed, to avoid such… creativity (and because half the time when she cooked I couldn't stomach it). But now due to health issues (caused by illness caused by overworking), I'm buying my own food and cooking all my own meals regardless, so I have fully stopped cooking for the family because I can't eat what they eat and we can't afford to all eat what I eat. I am subjecting my poor family to lime popsicle tilapia. We are wasting food because she ruins it and then no one will eat it, at a time when eggs are like $8 a dozen. My dad cooks when mom's not here (he's GOOD) but when she is, he lets her.
AITA? Should I bite the bullet and start cooking for everyone again?
What are these acronyms?
442 notes
·
View notes
Helen of Troy Does Countertop Dancing
by Margaret Atwood
The world is full of women
who’d tell me I should be ashamed of myself
if they had the chance. Quit dancing.
Get some self-respect
and a day job.
Right. And minimum wage,
and varicose veins, just standing
in one place for eight hours
behind a glass counter
bundled up to the neck, instead of
naked as a meat sandwich.
Selling gloves, or something.
Instead of what I do sell.
You have to have talent
to peddle a thing so nebulous
and without material form.
Exploited, they’d say. Yes, any way
you cut it, but I’ve a choice
of how, and I’ll take the money.
I do give value.
Like preachers, I sell vision,
like perfume ads, desire
or its facsimile. Like jokes
or war, it’s all in the timing.
I sell men back their worse suspicions:
that everything’s for sale,
and piecemeal. They gaze at me and see
a chain-saw murder just before it happens,
when thigh, ass, inkblot, crevice, tit, and nipple
are still connected.
Such hatred leaps in them,
my beery worshipers! That, or a bleary
hopeless love. Seeing the rows of heads
and upturned eyes, imploring
but ready to snap at my ankles,
I understand floods and earthquakes, and the urge
to step on ants. I keep the beat,
and dance for them because
they can’t. The music smells like foxes,
crisp as heated metal
searing the nostrils
or humid as August, hazy and languorous
as a looted city the day after,
when all the rape’s been done
already, and the killing,
and the survivors wander around
looking for garbage
to eat, and there’s only a bleak exhaustion.
Speaking of which, it’s the smiling
tires me out the most.
This, and the pretence
that I can’t hear them.
And I can’t, because I’m after all
a foreigner to them.
The speech here is all warty gutturals,
obvious as a slab of ham,
but I come from the province of the gods
where meanings are lilting and oblique.
I don’t let on to everyone,
but lean close, and I’ll whisper:
My mother was raped by a holy swan.
You believe that? You can take me out to dinner.
That’s what we tell all the husbands.
There sure are a lot of dangerous birds around.
Not that anyone here
but you would understand.
The rest of them would like to watch me
and feel nothing. Reduce me to components
as in a clock factory or abattoir.
Crush out the mystery.
Wall me up alive
in my own body.
They’d like to see through me,
but nothing is more opaque
than absolute transparency.
Look–my feet don’t hit the marble!
Like breath or a balloon, I’m rising,
I hover six inches in the air
in my blazing swan-egg of light.
You think I’m not a goddess?
Try me.
This is a torch song.
Touch me and you’ll burn.
322 notes
·
View notes