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jaynovz · 3 years

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tell us more abt the hannibal and black sails parallels pls

Okay, first off, I am so sorry this took so long!! I’ve been moving and shit has been so busy.

Second, yay!! This question. Now I have an excuse to ramble.

Okay so, the two shows do have a lot of similarities. The big one you notice right off the bat is that both have an extremely codependent relationship at the center.

There are a ton of ways the Flint-Silver and Hannibal-Will relationships parallel, like, they both talk about melding minds with another person, being monstrous, reveling in being monstrous, being made complete by an unlikely source, personas/playing roles/person suits, knowing yourself more completely next to another person, darkness as a source of freedom, something beyond choice/being drawn inexorably into a person’s destructive orbit and being forever changed by it. They deal with the nature of truth, both have supernatural elements, both have religious imagery connected to one half of the ship (Flint and Hannibal both compared to god).

Also, both shows end with an impossible choice and, ostensibly, tragedy; and they both have open endings that are interpretable based on what you want to believe.

But at a certain point, the similarities end and the two shows veer off from each other. Namely, the dynamics between the two ships are fundamentally different in a lot of ways, and it's more interesting to look at the ways in which they don't parallel. At the end of the day, the biggest one is that Silverflint is not anywhere near as destructive, whereas for Hannigram, mutual self-destruction is sort of the name of the game. Silverflint may be as codependent but I think the important addition of either Madi or Thomas or (ideally) both, helps make the relationship a lot healthier. If they would actually just talk to each other and work some shit out, it could be great. This is of course contingent on whether you think one or the other could compromise. (The compromise being that they come to some middle ground between Flint giving up the big picture Cause for personal happiness, or Silver throwing in genuinely with the idea of revolution and it being worth the risk of the people most important to him.) The end tragedy of Black Sails sets us in a spot where it doesn’t seem like either Flint or Silver are willing to do so, but perhaps one or the other could grow and change (with helpful mediation, as stated.)

Whereas Hannigram, well. It’s rooted from the very beginning in gaslighting, manipulation, and a completely skewed power balance. It’s absolutely like, this person has done so much bad shit to you, they’ve killed people you love, they’ve sent people to kill you, they’ve lied to you, isolated you, made you fundamentally doubt what kind of person you are etc. But still, you literally can’t cut them out of your life because nothing is ever going to compare to the experience of having them around even if it’s, most often, largely a negative influence. Like, damn. So dark, so unhealthy. They’re the zero-sum game.

For Will it’s: you love this terrible, terrible thing and you hate yourself for loving it, but also can’t deny it and it makes you feel alive. And for Hannibal, Will’s really the only person who can understand and accept him, but also is uniquely positioned to be able to lie to him, manipulate him in return, and be his utter ruin. They both tried to cut each other out and it didn’t work. So, can’t live with him and can’t live without him. That’s why we end with a cliff dive (impossible choice), Will can’t abide the thought that this thing that is objectively terrible, this ugly thing, is the thing he wants desperately, but he also can’t give it up. So it’s like, “let me try to do my last little bit to society by throwing both our asses off of this cliff b/c we’re both terrible.” Will is so interesting b/c he is at all times living in both the dark and the light and has trouble reconciling these opposing drives. It’s a function of his magic empathy.

(I think they’re metaphorical cliffs also b/c like.... there are no cliffs in Maryland jsyk. What is it with these shows that I like and Metaphorical Cliffs. Edit: I have been corrected there are some cliffs in Maryland but they're not as absurdly high as the ones in Hannibal.)

Anyway, let’s do the one-to-one and talk about Empathy and my Mirrorball boys first. Silver and Will are both extremely good at reading people, seeing what they most need to be, and shapeshifting into it. They both have the ability to shrug on different personas as easy as changing clothes. HOWEVER, the way in which they view this ability is very different. For Will, it’s a curse, he literally cannot turn it off, can’t stop himself from doing it, and it torments him. And I think for Silver, he also does it unconsciously and can’t help himself, but it’s not a torment in the same way. It’s rooted in survival and is an acquired skill that a very intelligent mind learned in order to stay alive. Though I would say they could commiserate on their mirrorball tendencies getting them into trouble/in over their heads.

As for Flint and Hannibal parallels? Well Hannibal is the unrepentant monster who revels in wickedness and largely views the rest of humanity as inferior. He’s having an absolutely excellent time murdering and cannibalizing folks, and the only real thorn in his side is Will Graham and his inability to kill Will b/c Hannibal loves him.

I think Hannibal is the absolute beast that Flint fears himself to be. And though both are presented as the “destructive orbit” or “intoxicating presence” and both perpetrate great violence... well they’re on opposite ends of the spectrum as far as how they view those behaviors. Flint is drowning in guilt constantly, hates that he has to be this monster, the persona of the dread pirate Captain, and that he’s losing more and more of his humanity every time he does some heinous shit. Whereas Hannibal is a “happy little duckling,” literally feels zero guilt about his heinous acts. Hannibal’s playacting a real man in a lot of ways while Flint is playacting a monster. So, Flint wears a monster suit and Hannibal wears a person suit.

Anyway, I could go on and on about this. The way they use supernatural elements, the way characters embed multiple meanings in subtextual dialogue, how well quotes from Silverflint can transfer to Hannigram and vice versa. Oh the way each show deals with like, queer issues, disability issues. etc etc ad infinitum

But I’ll let this be it for now, lol. If you wanna hear me ramble more, let me know~

THANKS AGAIN FOR ASKING.

#fictionandmusic #thoughts #hannibal #black sails #hannibal spoilers #black sails spoilers #hannibal/blacksails

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cloudykaii · 4 years

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perfect

pairing: blackpink x fifth member!reader [platonic]

summary: Hi. How are you? I hope you're really well. I would like to request, if it's okay. Haha. I want to request a 5th member story for Blackpink, since I love your 8th member stories. Maybe she has like some insecurities about herself (since Blackpink girls are gorgeous) or whatever comes to your mind. I know you're creative. Haha. Thank you 💜💜💜

warnings: just mentions of some insecurities, negative body image

It just didn’t make sense to you. It was obvious that your sisters were perfect, you weren’t the only one who thought it. They were beautiful, talented, and perfect. So why was it that when you looked in the mirror at your reflection beside them, you felt so out of place?

You sighed, turning to the side.Your head tilted as you criticized your outfit, a hand on your stomach as you moved in different positions, frowning harder at the outcome each time.

Lisa looked over at you, her smile falling a little as she saw you practically glaring at the mirror. She bumped her shoulder with yours. “What’s wrong?”

You looked over at her, plastering a smile on your face. “Nothing, I just-”

“You’re beautiful, you know,” Jennie interrupted you. “You shouldn’t compare yourself, you’re already beautiful.” Knowing you had been caught, you sighed, falling back in your chair. “You guys are so perfect... I look like the ugly duckling.”

Jisoo frowned. “Don’t talk like that. We’re not perfect and you are absolutely gorgeous.”

Lisa nodded emphatically. “You look like a model.” You laughed a little at that she continued, making Rosé roll her eyes and turn your head to look at your reflection. “Look at you. You are beautiful from your hair to your toes, and I don’t know how you think any different when you look as good as you do in this outfit.” She tugged on the chain around your waist for emphasis, making you giggle a little.The jeweled chain did look fantastic with your black outfit. “I mean, come on,” Jennie grinned, “You look so badass.”

You let Lisa tug you out of your seat again to look in the mirror. Stood together, in your concept outfits, the five of you looked like you were about to lead a revolution, but you, on your own, looked like you were about to finish a war.

“I do look kind of good,” you mumbled, a smile teasing the corners of your lips, and Jisoo grinned. “Yes you do.” You had just needed a little help to see it.

#aimee grace writes #blackpink #kim jennie #blackpink lisa #blackpink imagine #blackpink x reader #blackpink 5th member #blackpink fifth member #park chaeyoung #Rosé #kim jisoo #jisoo

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ratingtheframe · 3 years

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Everything Wrong With… Ep 2 - The Devil Wears Prada

Welcome back to Everything Wrong With...the series where dive head first into some of the seemingly okay-ish films and analyse why in fact they do more harm than good in providing us with satiable entertainment. Follow me on instagram @ratingtheframe for more movie related content and without further ado, let's get into this chick flick and see how far we’ve come since 2006.

If you aren’t aware, The Devil Wears Prada is a 2006 “chick flick” originally written as a book by Lauren Weisenburger. I remember seeing The Devil Wears Prada as one of those grown up lady films, for mature women on tampon adverts who had wine on Thursday evenings from M&S and wore heels practically everywhere. My perception of this film and the audience it caters towards has changed dramatically after watching it and it kills me inside to imagine the popularity and praise such a film got back in 2006, an extremely harsh time for women and the perception of beauty standards.

The world was still getting into the internet, magazines and runways were adjusting to the 2000s and the way that women were viewed in the media was a lot more damaging than today. Former supermodels such as Kate Moss and Cara Delevingne have since come out and talked about their experiences in the modelling industry and how it creates unhealthy stereotypes for women and young girls to abide by. The ‘size 0’ and ‘heroin chic look’ has since been banished from the modelling industry, two expectations that were pretty popular in the late and early 2000s for models. We are witnessing a revolution for the modelling industry as they (very) slowly but surely are beginning to introduce more plus sized, diverse and unfiltered faces for their campaigns. We can breathe easier knowing that the only way is forward for the fashion industry and that very little people will stand for the mid 2000s ideologies that were pumped out to the entire world.

Back to 2006 and one of the year’s most popular films with female audiences; The Devil Wears Prada, starring the likes of Anne Hathaway, Meryl Streep and Emily Blunt. The film follows Andy Sachs (Anne Hathaway) , a wannabe journalist newly welcomed into New York City and is currently on the hunt for her career. She manages to land a job at Runway Magazine, a large, corporate editorial magazine for women’s fashion run by the one and only Miranda Priestly (Meryl Streep), a devious, beautiful and highly successful media personality and editor.

So far so good as we have two tangible and likeable female leads. The opening sequence (one of the most important in any film) had me eye rolling a touch in the way it depicted women of the 2000s and seemingly created the idea that there are two sides to women.

The five or so minute montage consisted of the various women who are models at Runway, getting ready for their long day of work, right from being undressed to fully made up. This was supposed to be a contrast to how our lead Andy gets ready, barely throwing on any makeup and throwing on whatever she wants whilst heading out the door. When you put the way women choose to be perceived in the world at an opposition, you create this divide between women and further place their worth on how they choose to look. The stereotype of a ‘pick me girl’ arises from this opposition, a girl who actively shames other women for choosing to be more openly feminine in their appearance and actions. The intelligence and respect of women should not be based on how they look when they show up, rather how they BEHAVE when they show up. I just thought this montage was a little unnecessary and if anything, introduced us into a misogynistic world of 2006 really well. One point for accuracy, no points for progression. Everyone gets dressed in the morning and (often) everyone wears underwear, showing this activity on screen didn’t really add much to the film besides the pressures of women to look a certain way.

Once Andy arrives at the company, she is rudely introduced by Emily (Emily Blunt) Miranda’s current right hand. Now the entire character of Emily is again, another concept to this film that is left better in the 2000s; a mean girl and a VERY mean one at that. This world is already a patriarchal mess for women like Andy and Emily and having women join the bandwagon in showing an oppressive side to those who don’t conform to the female societal norms is non progressive. It was almost as if Emily was an investor into the patriarchy by behaving abhorrently towards her from the way she dressed as opposed to her actual character and qualifications. Please, let's not have women against women based on their desirability in the eyes of the male gaze. Emily has already become a clear victim to her own policies, as her lack of eating is laid bare to us as an entertaining gimmick as opposed to a cause of concern. Last time I checked making fun of eating disorders wasn’t chic.

Now the argument whether Miranda Priestly is also an investor in the patriarchy is a little clouded. Through her mean spirit and harsh words towards Andy and her appearance, she comes across as someone who is doing more harm than good by joining the patriarchal view of women in the 2000s. I found myself having to bite my tongue a little instead of calling her bitch because that would be letting my internalized misogyny get the best of me.

Even though Miranda is tough talking and spiteful, I really can’t blame her for it as a character. She is one of the strongest female characters I’ve come across on screen for both her strengths and flaws. Had such a character been placed in a Roman Army or Italian Mob, my views of her would have stayed the same. She is a strong woman with enough versatility and strength to face any situation. The way she asserts her authority in a funny and patronizing way is hard not to fall in love with and any woman who asserts their authority and relishes in their own power is already technically against the patriarchy. Her industry may be patriarchal, however her spirit is not and the things she does in order to keep her status is admirable. I found myself comparing her to the way a man maneuvers the world (again, internalised misogyny, working on it) which in some parts is the reason there should be more Miranda Priestly's in films. Instead of comparing strong women to men, with more strong female leads we’ll start comparing these women to other women.

Thank god for the zilch, overly graphic sex scenes in this film (maybe cuz the screenplay was written by a woman, but who knows-), however their is one character I’d like to address that rubbed me the wrong way and spoke for a big hole in the modelling/fashion industry that still exists today. Christian Thompson (Simon Baker) is this handsome, 40 summit journalist who meets Andy at a social event for a fashion designer. I admit he was charming in his demeanour but also overtly creepy at points. Andy and Christian bump into each other in Paris where he leads her down a street (his hand on THAT part of the elbow) and kisses Andy without consent, knowing she has a boyfriend. “Oh, it's just a movie” you’re probably thinking, but yet I couldn’t help but cringe at such a thing. Movies are a reflection of our society after all. He kisses her several more times until Andy gives in. If we’re trying to get films to reach audiences and affect them in some way, encouraging consent should be one of those things. Depicting such a madness on screen makes my rolls right to the back of my head and speaks for the entire society behind the modelling and fashion industry; a society run by men who can do what they like with or without consent. Though the wellbeing of Andy wasn’t in imminent danger, I felt Christian Thompson as a character to be a representation of those in the fashion industry who take advantage of women because of their status and so called connections. No more of this please!

Andy has a transformation a little later into the film, a concept that we thought had been left in the patriarchy trash can, but quickly emerged in Debby Ryan’s Insatiable (2018). Lasting only 2 seasons from 2018-19, the Netflix series followed Patty Bladell who gets afforded niceties and respect after she loses weight and becomes a “hot girl”. The show was created by Lauren Guissis based on an article about a (male) Pageant Guru who tells women how they can become pageant queens for a small fee...EW. The fact that such a show got picked up in a day and age that was beginning to open up to body positivity and more inclusivity in the media, the show was insensitive to its current surroundings.

This same “ugly duckling” transformation isn’t something new or old apparently, with the one in The Devil Wears Prada being one of the least progressive moments of the film. Now that Andy looked like she could work at Runway, somehow she was working a lot better at Runway and was being afforded privileges she didn’t get before her new haircut. Is this the message we want to send out to the world anymore? That in order to get a one up in life, all you need is new clothes and better make up skills? Of course, glo ups can be fun but the purest, healthiest form of a glow up comes from within.

A tiring cliché that “beauty comes from within” but one that makes a lot of sense and something I experienced in my mid teens. Having never experienced male validity or the feeling of desirability, once I began to believe I was beautiful on the outside, others began to notice, because they could read the confidence and self worth I had from my outward energy. An energy that can’t be felt beyond a face tuned Instagram picture. Beauty can be an energy as well as a look and had Andy embraced this more and rejected the passing comments people made at her, it would have taught us that one doesn’t have to conform in order to be respected. On the other hand, I don’t want to shame nor blame her as conforming to societal standards as for most women ,it’s an act of survival, to secure their places in certain spaces, with Andy being no expectation. A sad reality that a woman may have to wear makeup in order to stay in people’s good books, but a choice that should be discussed as opposed to shamed.

I truly could go on and on about the harmful stereotypes and implications of The Devil Wears Prada and it's sad, yet true similarities to the real fashion industry of today and the mid 2000s. It was and still is cut throat, with many models developing eating disorders, low self esteem issues and even substance abuse due to the mounting pressures of trying to reach perfection. A perfection that doesn’t exist seeing as the fashion and modelling industry alters their version of perfection every single day. I’m glad that by the end of the film Andy ditched Runway in favour of living a more healthy and truthful lifestyle, one that wasn’t swapped in ridiculous pressures and the threat to conform or else leave. Which she did in the end. Miranda isn’t a devil, but a force to be reckoned with in a world that is ready to make her feel lesser than herself because of her gender. I hope to never see such a film like The Devil Wears Prada, ever again, in a world that no longer needs this sort of film to represent the strengths of women. It's best left in 2006 and hopefully you’ve learnt something you’ve never thought about from this in depth analysis.

#the devil wears prada #meryl streep #anne hathaway #emily blunt #2000s movies #fashion #fashionindustry #badmovies #cinema #feminisim #everyday feminism

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thereoncewereflwrs · 3 years

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in where i try to date a professor, and we never get to the point

A few years ago (in 2019, although we had known each other since 2015) I fell in love with my ex roommate in Brooklyn. He was, in fact, the total opposite of anyone I had ever had a remote or deep feeling towards prior to him: a white, Jewish, red curly haired, thin, freckly, trans man from upstate New York who had studied at the University of Chicago and knew fancy words in Russian. Regardless, or in spite of this great gap between my taste in men and his entire being, he had been the only man I had ever truly seen myself happy with. With him I learned new things about myself, words like ‘fat’ and ‘ugly;’ I learned that I was not a socialist because of its existing inability to reconcile the impact and affects of the industrial revolution; I learned I liked traveling with him and embarking in mindless and meaningless traditions in ways I had almost sworn myself off to. I had thought ‘well, I don’t ever want kids, but I’d raise his,’ or ‘I’ll never find a singular partner to spend the rest of my life with, but I don’t need that when I want to spend the rest of my life with my best friend anyways.’ Funny how it only takes one particular bundle of culminated cells to eradicate years of logical conclusions that have led you to the ideological and pragmatic decisions made. During a trip to New York that involved a very chaotic Passover dinner that led to an even more chaotic, and much more dangerous, outing in the middle of Manhattan at a lesbian dance club at 4 in the morning, I came to the realization that maybe the love I felt for him was beyond the kind one feels for friendship (up until this point I had convinced myself, and everyone around me, that I was living into the values of radical friendship....). On that trip I drunkenly confessed my newly realized feelings, clumsily putting together words the way a small child puts together lego blocks for the first time with sticky hands. That same trip his boyfriend gave me two books as a gift. I’ll never know why he did this, or what they really meant, but the awkwardness of the moment has stayed with me almost as if it happened yesterday.

Yesterday, in all actually, I scrambled through the piles of books in my small library and stumbled upon the selection of poems by Ocean Vuong that he had given me. As a general, personal rule I dislike poetry. Most often then not I don’t understand the different scraps of sentences cut and pasted together in strange formats to describe, what really? Hardly a plot, hardly a set of characters. A feeling, or sensation, or a set of things subjectively and rhythmically important but lacking in context or deeper development. Vuong is not the exception to this rule, but rather one that cleverly supports my self developed premise. Of course, my ex roommates boyfriend did not know any of this, and probably, he liked poetry and Ocean Vuong very much and thought it was a very nice gift indeed to give to his partners best friend (at the time). I feel inclined to say that Ocean Voung is a beyond amazing writer and I thoroughly enjoyed the few pages I did read of his novel “On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous.” Anyways, I perused the pages on his poetry book with slight amusement. More then the words on the pages, I relived my ex best friends face as his partner handed me the gift, his expression as he described how annoyed he’d been by the uncalled gesture, and how intrusive he had found the entire affair. I imagined his laughter, his comments, how his silence felt like so much presence that it felt like being home. That’s what it was like to be with him: home, being my own, authentic home, and always having him to gently guide me to that conclusion over and over again.

The only pages that stood out from the book go as thus:

From ‘Night Sky with Exit Wounds’ by Ocean Voung, Part 1:

‘Tell me it was for the hunger

& nothing less. For hunger is to give

the body what it knows

it cannot keep. That this amber light

whittled down by another war

is all that pins my hand to your chest.’

A few months ago, while driving up from South Florida after having picked up my mother from the airport, I confessed to her that I had been dating for the last 4 months, and had recently broken up with a Married Man. It had been the early hours of the dark night, and we had just passed the traffic infested city of Atlanta and were making our way through curved roads that led deeper into rural Georgia before it met Southern Tennessee. Tennessee was a new home away from an old home that had never been home to begin with. My anxiety came from the obvious places - a fear that she’d disapprove of my actions, that her judgement would lead to scrutinizing all my past decisions and actions until they became morally ambiguous to us both, and a fear of anger. More and more I think that in reality I feared seeing what I had been feeling all along: that I’d made a cliche joke of myself. Even through that haze, however, I could still feel the overriding, desperate sensation of being utterly heart-broken and sad. I had carried this feeling with me for the entirety of the 21 hour trip, and once the first words tripped over themselves to be heard, the watershed of memories and experiences flooded the car. It was both unbearable, like drowning, and overwhelmingly relieving, like being seen for the first time. Of course, this wasn’t the first time I’d told this story. But it had been the first time with my mother, and that, for some unrecognizable, instinctual reason, was different.

She held her tongue - an unusual practice for my mother - as I recounted event after event of the last 4 months. I was as honest as I could be: we’d met on tinder after my break up with my previous partner of almost a year, I had wanted to have casual sex, he had wanted more, and (I emphasized) I had not known he had been married at the time. More importantly (I *double* emphasized) when he did tell me, he had confessed that the marriage had been one of convenience. As a fellow immigrant, and as a person who had witnessed a few of these kinds of entanglements, I had cleared myself, in almost the same quickness as I draw breath, of the moral implications of the situation. “As long as you’re not *cheating*” I had muttered, and he had nodded emphatically, “I’m not.” His reassurance was short lived. Soon after that the realities of his “entanglement” became less clear, and more obvious. He had a 4 year old daughter, he had been married for several years (technically, more years then necessary), he couldn’t, as a matter of convenience and then as a practical, legal afterthought, tell his wife where he was or what he was doing (he was lying, that is). I knew very early on that he was indeed cheating on his wife, even if the beginnings of their relationship had started as a marriage of convenience. But by the time I came to that conclusion, it had felt too late, almost as if I had dug too deep into the ground and could now fight my way through mud and dirt until I asphyxiated, or enjoy the eternal rest that was promised.

Loving the Married Man (because yes, I had foolishly loved him) had not been like loving my ex best friend. Married Man’s love had been wide but shallow - not in the way that denotes a superficiality, but in the way that one sees on the surface of a lake small things grow fast and move away even faster - small tadpoles and water lilies, the creeping of little reptilian noses and little ducklings floating on by. It was the kind of love that felt strongest when we touched, as if my physiological sensory threatened to spill in words and phrases that put together sounded like ‘I love you,’ ‘please don’t hurt me,’ and ‘yes.’ Married Man was married, and therefor there had always been the foreshadowing of a great plot twist, one were he (very unoriginally, as to be expected from men) promised to leave his wife and start a life with me. I rejected this almost as much as I desperately and willingly fell into it. In the same breath taken to tell his lies, almost as if our tongues collided from the desperation of wanting to believe our own delusional narratives, I gave him everything I possibly had in me. My energy, my time, my body, even my money. His wife, you see, had been away for a few months, seeing family in Baltimore with their baby daughter, while he had stayed to work. I had known from the beginning that we weren’t going to end up together, I had righteously, almost superiorly, thought that I knew exactly where we were heading and therefor had control over the entire situation. He had persisted he loved me, didn’t want to lose me, didn’t want to see me with anyone else, needed me there, and that he was in fact preparing the divorce papers as we spoke. I upgraded my status from a casual fuck to his girlfriend, and shamelessly introduced him to my best friends (who, true to who we all are, did not judge but made room for my own dramas to unfold). It took me a while to see that I was a mistress playing the role of pretend-girlfriend. Even more, I was a clown donning on mistress attire.

I can understand, in subtle and in abruptly immediate ways the ‘hunger’ Vuong speaks of. Married Man did not create the conditions for this ‘hunger’ in me, it has always existed. Before Married Man there had been My Ex, and before My Ex there had been my Ex Best Friend, and before him there had been every other man I’d engaged with romantically and in a familial way.

I know this ‘hunger’ inside me craves what can only go right through me. I have stubbornly, recklessly and without analysis, allowed myself to feed it with emptiness disguised as bountifulness. I have sat myself in a table that is all together wrong for me, in a chair that has been made too small for my thick thighs and bulbous belly, looked up at faces that have not smiled back, and taken a bite of food that has not been prepared with love, not really. This is no ones fault. I do not remove myself from accountability by saying this. What I did in a lot of ways can be considered hurtful, immoral, disdainful, distasteful, etc,. I also know that I am learning, still always learning, and need to be graceful and gentle with myself. Today, through a configuration of thoughts, I have realized I have been feeding my body meals foreign to me and my well being. And that I must now learn, or re-learn by tapping into what I hope is some collective, ancestral knowledge, how to make the meals that will nourish and settle in me forever.

From ‘Night Sky with Exit Wounds’ by Ocean Voung, Part 2:

‘I wanted to disappear - so I opened the door to a stranger’s car. He was divorced. He was sobbing into his hands (hands that tasted like rust). The pink breast-cancer ribbon on his key chain swayed in the ignition. Don’t we touch each other just to prove we are still here? I was still here once. The moon, distant & flickering, trapped itself in beads of sweat on my neck. I let the fog spill through the cracked window & cover my fangs. When I left, the Buick kept sitting there, a dumb bull in pasture, its eyes searing my shadow onto the side of the suburban houses. At home, I threw myself on the bed like a torch & watched the flames gnaw through my mother’s house until the sky appeared, bloodshot & massive. How I wanted to be that sky - to hold flight & fall at once.’

In October of 2020 I went on a date with a Professor from a State University. His profile on tinder promised 1 free joke if you matched with him, and I had casually indulged in the free entertainment. He had sent me 2, neither of which were funny, and instead had proceeded to insult me through a flurry of scattered presumptive discourse that I, true to my very nature, found anxiety inducing and oddly attractive. He had originally chosen to withhold his profession from me, having stated that he had “too many people under him” and wanted to keep the information hidden “for now.” I shrugged it off. I could trick myself into finding this level of secrecy mysterious, or I could see it for what it was, a waste of time as most tinder conversations tended to be. Through further indulgence he had confessed that he was a teachers assistant (here on by known only as the Professor) and was doing research on something or other in history (I really wish I could remember, but it was THAT obscure). I wanted to ask him what the impact and reasoning, and really, the justification he gave himself, was for embarking in studious, rigorous research and reading for a subject matter so far removed from our every day realities, especially during a pandemic and the mass murders of black and brown people at a national scale, but I kept silent. Instead we bantered a bit, exchanged ideas around Imposter Syndrome, and settled on an evening to see each other in where I’d drive to his apartment and he’d cook for me.

I wore my ‘date dress’ - a simple, black dress that hugged my torso and spread over my hips, tricking the eye into seeing less fat then there was on my body. I dressed this way not to obscure my fatness (although I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t sometimes don the dress in part because it had the added bonus of doing so) but because it was an easy ‘fuck’ dress. All I had to do, I knew by then from practice, was lift the skirt part and bring my underwear down. The efficiency of the dress, and how it made me feel, gave me confidence enough to walk into a complete strangers apartment and make casual conversation as if pretending to be old friends who were excited about catching up. This is always the pretext that is built. I pretend to be captured by the magic of his words - he being whoever he is - and ask question after question in the hopes of digging deeper into who the person really is. I didn’t really care that he was from Ethiopia or that his parents had been revolutionaries or that he was stressed about his profession although he got paid almost double what I did, but I didn’t *not* care either, which made all the difference. He had been the *presumably* smartest man I had talked to during my time in Tennessee, and I have always liked feeling like I knew less then the male partners I had. I had my period that day, but after a few awkward moments in where he asked to kiss me (I said no, then felt horribly guilty about it and relented), grabbed my boob, and had his dick out while still in the couch, he came. It was one of the few times I have had casual sex with someone where I didn’t finish. In a strange, almost methodical way, I could give men my attention, my emotional presence, my intellectual capacity, my dry or dorky humor, even my body willing or unwilling, but I found it unacceptable to not finish while having sex with a cis-hetero-male. For this alone I was vexed by the entire interaction, and after taking him to buy cigarettes at the near by gas station and back (he was a Professor without a car), and after he had reassured me that he liked me, that he had had a nice time and that he hoped to see me again, I made the 30 minute drive home. We texted sparingly after that. We tried to make plans but he always flaked, claiming to be too busy and stressed with work (I don’t disbelieve this) and apologizing profusely about it. Saturday, October 31st had been our last text exchange, until two days ago. There’s no reason to berate this long winded summary with the details of that conversation. Suffice it to say that he once again asked to meet up with me, and then today canceled with the familiar excuse of work and stress. I think about him now and write about him because it took everything in my power to not text him reassuring words, to not ease his expressed anxiety at potentially “wasting my time.” To not ease his turmoil of using me by sending him a song and being witty and casual. I have felt, in fact, that my time has been wasted. That he got way more out of the flimsy arrangement we had concocted, and that after having had sex with my hand and mouth, he had no longer felt a genuine interest in talking with me. Of course, he owes me nothing and I am not entitled to his time or presence. But all together this story feels too similar to the many random encounters one has with ‘fuck-boys’ in where they feign interest until they are sexually fulfilled and then suddenly no longer remember your name. I don’t type any of this with bitterness. At most, I feel a slight comical annoyance at him. More importantly, I feel things for and towards myself.

Where does this hunger that needs fulfilling come from? Where was its conception? It’s birth? I wonder if I’ll ever be good enough for myself.

As Nina Simone once said, “you’ve got to learn to leave the table when loves no longer being served.” Tables and chairs and foods and a hunger. That’s all I can think of today.

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weaselle · 6 years

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I want to share something hidden about myself.

I’m sort of a girl? so I started this tumblr as just, like, a catch-all and curation: anything I miss on other social media usually makes it’s way to my dash here, and it’s also full of cute animals and cool art - win. And I have almost no cross followers and irl friends here, like close to zero people from my facebook friends know me here, so it’s… almost like an alone place with imaginary friends. Anyway, I’ve slowly been filling with this desire to say something about myself for years, I want it out in the universe but I don’t necessarily want a bunch of people in my life to know it, so this seems the right platform, maybe. I’m going to be talking about being… some kind of non-binary. And I would like to start with a kind of disclaimer: I don’t want to move into spaces that I feel are best left for others, people who need those spaces more than I do. I’m not trying to join any communities or participate in other people’s identity situations. This disclaimer will make more sense as I go on. I’m 40 years old (still pretty tho ;) ) and I’ve always presented myself as, and mostly conceived of myself as: cis white male. But I’ve also always been … other than that. On the inside; like, both things. I feel, idk, like… I read about two-spirit shamans, and I think about how that kind of identity must have always been a reality for some people since the dawn of humans, and I feel something on that spectrum, maybe. And there’s a whole other dimension to it, which is that my mother died when I was young - I was very lucky to be adopted right away by her sister, but, since I was 6 years old, I have actively tried to let her spirit live on this earth through me. This is part of the reason for my disclaimer- I don’t necessarily think my experience is very representative of many people who are non-binary. Or maybe it mostly is, I’m more of an accepting-my-friends-as-being-who-they-present-as and less a delving-into-the-deep-personal-exploration-of-WHY-they-are-who-they-are kind of friend, but at least, I don’t think housing the ghost of a dead parent inside your own soul is a component for most people. Anyway, that’s certainly not the whole story with me, either, but I definitely started from a place of trying to live life how a woman would live it. Like, especially when I was in 6th, 7th, 8th, 9th and 10th grade, I was intensely curious about what it would be like to be a woman. In 7th grade I carried around books like Are You There God It’s Me Margaret - which fact didn’t create a lot of social capital for me (but I feel ultimately that was a far better investment in socialization than I knew at the time). Along with LOTR and everything else a person who loves books reads, I read romance novels and stuff like Clan of the Cave Bear. Books by women that dealt with sexuality and women’s points of view - like The Mists of Avalon, which I devoured over the summer before freshman year. And the whole time I was exploring my sexual awakening, this curiosity of what it would be like to be a woman was present, and sometimes the focus. Women’s underwear, for example, feels super sexy and exciting to wear, if only it didn’t look ridiculous to me on my male anatomy. The thing is, I am DEFINITELY attracted to women. Like, I find some men attractive in a non-sexual way, the way a leopard in peak condition is beautiful, if that makes sense.. and I’ve known three or four men that I’ve thought “if only I wanted to fuck you, I would totally date you” - but, I’ve sucked a couple dicks over the years, and I’m just not that into it. I remember standing naked in the mirror trying to imagine what it would be like to just BE a girl, thinking about how as a late-blooming 14 year old physical body there seemed very little difference anyway, but I wanted so much to experience the entire reality… and trying to reconcile that desire with the fact that no matter how I tried to get into that fantasy, boys just weren’t sexy to me. In 1992 in a small town, with no internet access, I was definitely unknowingly trapped in binary preconceptions of gender and sexuality, while I tried to understand the possibility that I was a lesbian inside. But I never let that thought develop much. I mean the thought has been pretty omnipresent on the back burner of my being, but I’ve always kind of overlooked it with a “not really though”. The reasons are difficult to pin down, but … I had friends who were guys, and I heard their take on things, and I sort of felt that me getting off on pretending to be a lesbian would be participating in something similar to things I found kind of gross about the ways some of these boys were about women. I still wrestle with that. And, while I was lucky enough to have friends and family that I knew were sufficiently supportive that I could tell them I felt like a girl inside, I felt like that understanding would instantly shift to skepticism if I added “and I’m sexually attracted to women”. Like, that felt, and still feels, like one solid step too far to be taken seriously by most of my friends and family, hell, I barely comprehend it myself. Like, if I want to be a girl, but the girl I want to be would be described as a tomboy and I’m attracted to girls… what even am I doing? (It was weird, when I was young and imagined myself as a girl, I wanted to be a girl doing “boy” things like skateboarding and climbing trees and playing video games and fighting and playing in the mud - but when I imagined myself as a boy, I wanted to be a boy doing “girl” things, dressing up and singing and cooking and dancing and being the hub of a spy-network gossip circle. Now, as an adult in this the year 2018, with the exception of social-progression issues, it is utterly unimportant to me what things are “man” things and what things are “woman” things so this isn’t the same; like, I know men are often super gossipy and I’m no longer stuck thinking of ballet as a “girl” thing, so that part of my situation has resolved.) So I went on with my life, as a boy. I mean, sometimes people wondered if I was gay, and my theater-kid ass didn’t get into the overt parts of male culture by any means, but I was definitely a boy. And, as much as I fantasized about being a woman, I fantasized about growing into a man, too. A tall, lithe, broad-shouldered, slim-hipped, ninja-werewolf man in a killer business suit with a harem of super talented funny smart women who were all lovers and let me be their beloved bodyguard and sex parter. Or whatever, I’ve never been good at having realistic goals. And I definitely grew into a man. Like, I still have to consciously check myself to make sure I’m not interrupting women or talking over them, because I didn’t learn how inherent a quality that was in me until I was an adult, because I grew up in modern America AS a MAN, in ways that are undeniable and very real. And while I still STRONGLY wish I could experience life in a woman’s body (y’know, for three weeks out of the month) I’m very comfortable with my male body. Despite my lifelong social and mental issues (or maybe because of addressing them my whole life?) I’m pretty well-adjusted. I like myself, physically, spiritually (liking myself mentally is a 50/50 proposition, but whatever). I’ve come a long way. From a clumsy, socially inept, tantrum throwing, ugly duckling with a scalp condition and a bunch of warts on my hands, I’ve grown into a physically and socially skilled, wart-free healthy-scalped adult man, with slim hips and decently broad shoulders (still no luck on the werewolf thing) and a good handle on my anger management; fit and kind and thoughtful and only a little crazy… I’m pretty damn happy and comfortable with who I have become. I have even wound up in a couple romantic relationships with women who almost exclusively prefer dating other women, and that has been a wonderful low-key way to sort of be this other thing I feel I am. I just ALSO feel this desire to be a woman on the outside, sometimes, because I still feel like a woman on the inside, in many ways. And that leads me right back around to my starting point. I have a huge amount of privilege, and I don’t want to give it up. I feel like it’s my duty to use that privilege on behalf of those who don’t have it, but I do have it, and I take full advantage of it, so, I don’t think it’s fair of me to “come out” as any kind of trans or non-binary person. I feel like I would be taking space away from people who need it more than I do. I am, for all intents and purposes, a cis white male, and I have enjoyed every advantage that comes with that: I get to talk about being attracted to the people I’m attracted to, and it is the “cultural norm” for them to be attracted people who look like me… I don’t even really have any body dysphoria or anything. I’m just mostly comfortable with who I am while wishing I could be more, and isn’t that the human experience anyway? And part of that privilege is getting to not have this, whatever this gender sexuality non-binary thing I experience in my soul, not be society’s defining characteristic of me - I get to have it NOT be the main thing that everyone insists on bringing up with/about me. I’m grateful that it doesn’t have to be what takes all my time and energy, because I have a lot of other things I want to focus on. I have a very real socio-economic revolution I’ve spent almost 25 years putting together that I’m finally starting to get off the ground, in fact- I can’t really afford to get derailed over this. I just… I don’t want it to be THE part of my reality, but the older I get, the more I feel like I need to acknowledge that it is A part of my reality, a real part of me. Somewhere, on the inside, and to whatever extent regrettably not on the outside, I am a lesbian woman… in as much as a person can be who has grown up being treated by society as a cis man. As much as it makes me furious and sad that I cannot avoid adding such an addendum, that I cannot simply say “I feel in my soul that I am a lesbian woman” the plain fact is I have spent 40 years enjoying the privileges of a cis man, and that experience does not a lesbian make. But just here. Just this once. I want to say it anyway. To just accept this part of myself without all those qualifiers and conditions. I am a woman who loves other women. It has literally made me cry now, to have typed that simple sentence alone. So thank you, Tumblr, for being the void I can say this into.

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sarkastically · 6 years

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Participation Medals of the Heart

(Runaways fic written to A Softer World prompts. Uh oh. Here we go. Featuring pining Gert, Molly the best sister, and Chase.)

08. Ah, unrequited love. When your best isn’t enough. (Participation medals of the heart.)

Molly is currently staring at her like she has caught herself on fire and leapt screaming over a cliff for a cause. To be honest, Gert thinks that might be better than what she is actually doing, which is standing in the middle of a room watching Chase watching Karo watching Nico watching Alex. Being on fire and leaping over a cliff for a cause would at least be doing something for a cause, political revolution, the end to isms, equality, something. She wonders what movement would allow that sort of action. She wonders whether she can find one on short notice and join it when she is not yet eighteen and has a younger sister and a pet dinosaur to look after. A whole host of evil parents to try and take down. And a crush that has slowly been consuming her from the inside out.

There is a lot happening in the life of Gert Yorkes, but the only thing she can currently focus on is Chase watching Karo.

It’s dumb. It’s dumb. This is dumb. The worst thing is that she knows it is dumb, is fully aware of the facts and the circumstances and the knowledge that unrequited love is messy and problematic. That the fairy tales where the ugly duckling becomes a beautiful swan and gets the guy are just that, fairy tales, which are, intrinsically, lies or, depending on the story, warnings. Do not go into the forest because something bad is there and it might eat you. Do not trust the man with bushy eyebrows because he might be a wolf in disguise who only wants to use you for his own means. Do not eat people’s houses because it’s rude as shit, and they will inevitably try to make you pay for it.

So, yeah, she knows, but it doesn’t mean that she heeds the lessons. Not completely. For all that Gert is this person who knows herself and tries to control herself and every facet of her life, her heart, dumb heart, doesn’t pay attention, doesn’t let her control it.

It just keeps going. Pining.

Gert Yorkes has never felt dumb in her entire life, but she does when it comes to all of this wishing and wanting and yearning and thinking. With every small word said to her, with every little look, that hey, you know, maybe. Maybe he’s paying attention. Maybe there’s something in her that he can see. Maybe they’ve shared a moment. And then it blinks out. She wakes up. She realizes that, no, none of that is actually a thing that is happening anywhere except inside her head.

There is an entire world inside of her head and, unfortunately, not all of it is schemes to demolish the corrupt government and establish something new. No, at least 65% of it, which is too much when there is so much else to do, is devoted to whether or not Chase’s eyes soften a little when they look at her. They do not. She is sure that they do not. Except, perhaps, maybe that one time. Or that other time.

Or maybe no time at all.

“What are you doing?” Molly asks, though the look on her face has slid from annoyance into knowing, and Gert is equal parts pained and glad to have her sister who is so smart and so chipper and so kind. Even if she is sometimes a pain in the way that all siblings are pains.

I don’t know what I would have done without you, she thinks about saying to Molly sometimes but never does because she doesn’t know how those kinds of words work. So instead she tells Molly that dance team is patriarchal and terrible and reinforces gender stereotypes when what she means to say is good luck, I love you. And Molly, who has been with her forever, will already know what she means behind the words. Like Molly knows when she is nervous. Like Molly knows when she is sad.

Molly knows Gert’s emotions before she knows them herself most of the time. Because Molly is better with people. Always has been.

“Nothing,” Gert says, slides her glasses up her nose, fists her hands into the pockets of the jeans jacket Stacey bought her, laughing and pointing out how she would have worn something similar when she was young in a way that made Gert die a little inside because how embarrassing rather than how terrible, which is the way her parents make her die a little inside now.

She says nothing, but Molly knows better. Gert can tell by the way she looks across the room and sighs and shakes her head before linking their arms together. Molly is taller than her. Everyone is taller than she is, but this is okay because it just means she has to make her voice and her opinions louder, stronger, taller so that no one can step on them. Like her heart. Dumb heart.

“Come on,” Molly says, tugs her away from the middle of the room. “Let’s find coffee. Or chocolate. Or something for me to bench press.”

Gert rolls her eyes and laughs in the way that only her sister can make her laugh. “No bench pressing. You’re not passing out on me here.” Don’t leave me alone is what she means to say, and Molly leans against her, a solid weight that is as calming as any of the mantras they taught her to help her through her anxiety attacks long ago.

“Fine,” the girl says with a huff but with no irritation in her voice because she already knows the heart of the comment.

Gert wonders if any of the rest of them will ever fully figure out all the things she says behind sharp words, if they were will ever pause to consider the other meanings, the way her tongue cannot form soft words except in song. No. Probably not. She couldn’t even teach Chase Spanish, after all, why would she be able to teach him something infinitely more complicated, something that even she herself cannot always make sense of? Besides. He wouldn’t have any interest in it anyway. “So, Mols, where to?”

And Molly leads the way through twisted, curving hallways, and Gert follows with her mind and her eyes, though she thinks a part of her heart remains in that room watching Chase watching Karo watching Nico watching Alex.

No one watches me, part of her whispers, and she hates it. Hates the thought. Hates the feeling.

Molly laughs and teases her into walking along an edge she normally wouldn’t go near because Molly is brave and has never been anxious the way that Gert can be as her mind spins up a hundred thousand worst case scenarios. “Stop thinking about it,” Molly says, voice high, clear, young. Hopeful even when things around them are bad because that is. That is Molly. That is her sister.

“I’m trying,” Gert says, and she means it, understand it in all the ways that Molly is trying to convey. Even though she can’t. She knows she can’t.

It just doesn’t work that way. This stupid unrequited love. This stupid attempt that she makes where her best, which is normally so much more than needed, just isn’t enough. It means as little as those medals she got in kindergarten for participating. The ones her parents thought were super because everyone came away with something, though Gert always saw how hollow they were, how flawed. And they lost their shine so quickly, the sheen flaking away under her fingers. Thanks for trying. Glad you made it. Here you go. Your participation medal for your heart. Nevermind that it’s cracked across the face. At least you tried.

“I’m trying,” she repeats again to no one in particular, and Molly looks over her shoulder at her, older than her years, and smiles the way she smiles when Gert is sad and tugs her hand forward, onward.

“It’s okay,” Molly says. “It’s okay. Trying is enough sometimes.”

Gert tries to smile back, but her dumb heart just winces and it falters on her lips. “I don’t like losing.”

“Believe me, I know.”

The tone is fake annoyance, and Gert almost shoves her playfully off the ledge but doesn’t because sisters. Because when everything else washes away, what will she have, really? Molly. Just Molly. And this stuttering, breathless, uncontrollable gasp of her dumb heart, which does not listen to logic or sense, just continues to beat and pound and make her act in ways she doesn’t really like because she doesn’t know what else to do. “Watch it. I know where you sleep,” she teases, and then Molly playfully shoves at her, which sends her skittering off the side of the ledge because Gert has never been the agile one.

Here we go, she thinks, something else to make me look stupid because she expects to be picking herself off the ground in the next instant. Only she doesn’t because there are hands steadying her, and she knows those shoes because she is a dumb idiot with a memory that catches and holds onto everything.

“You okay?” He doesn’t even pause before continuing. “Molly, you should be more careful.”

Gert blinks at the eyes, and the set of Chase’s mouth, which is concern instead of amusement. You’re hiding, too, she thinks. We’re all hiding. She pushes her glasses up her nose even as she steps away from the hands, which do not grasp too tightly, which let her leave the instant she wants to. Chase Stein, terribly careful about respecting boundaries and secrets. All of them. Maybe that’s what annoys her most. The things he does, he does for everyone. Nothing is for her. But why should it be?

“Thanks,” she manages, glances over her shoulder to look for Molly who has continued walking along the ledge like it is the high bar, something that Gert could never master with her vision and her balance. “I’m fine. Thank you. Thanks.” She should shut up now. “Shouldn’t you be?” she hooks a thumb over her shoulder toward the building where the others likely are.

Chase shrugs, and Gert doesn’t know what that means so she just looks at him for five seconds too long while her dumb heart forgets that she is trying to be cool. “It was boring.”

“Oh. Well.” What can she possibly do that will not be boring? “You can hang with us? If you want. If not, that’s fine. It’s fine.” Launching off a cliff on fire sounds so good right now. Letting their parents put her into the weird glowing thing actually seems like a more pleasant outcome than painfully scraping through a conversation with Chase when he looks soft instead of cocky and perfect, which is his normal setting. Cocky and perfect Chase Gert knows how to deal with, what barbs to throw. They have years of practice in that setting. Soft Chase, the Chase who clung to her when they thought the dinosaur was going to devour them, is different. Soft Chase is unexpected.

She is not even trying her best.

“No, that’s fine,” he sits on the ledge and folds his hands in his lap and seems to take up less room than should be possible when one considers his height and size. Like he is trying not to be seen.

Gert has words behind the ones she says, but she thinks that Chase has words behind every move he makes. Gert likes languages. She wonders how she can learn this one.

Molly continues to walk along the ledge without even looking back, but Gert knows she knows what she’s doing.

“Tell me about the dinosaur,” Chase says.

Gert sits. Talks. Gestures with her hands and loses her nerves in the middle of a conversation about something that fascinates her, and there it is, her dumb heart thinks, a moment when his eyes go soft.

#sara writes #sara's fic #runaways fic #hulu runaways

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hamil-tots · 7 years

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The Kindergarten Revolution: Part 1 by therealcornking

When Alex’s mother pulled in front of King’s Elementary School, she was glad she had the child safety lock in place on her beat-up Ford, as Alex was already tugging on the door, trying to get to his best friend, John Laurens, who was waiting for him in the parking lot. “Hey, hey! Give me hug, don’t run off so fast!” She spoke in a thick Caribbean accent. “Sorry, mama.” Alex lifted up his arms to be unbuckled and released from the car seat. She hugged her son and tousled his wavy hair. “Have a good day, mijo!” She called after him, watching him sprint away to John. “Alex! Alex! I gotsa new stuffie!” Alex’s freckled friend waved a stuffed turtle in his face. “His name is Mikey, like in teenage mutant ninja turtles. You wanna hold him?” Alex held and patted John’s new friend. “Where’s Shelby?” Alex asked. “Inside. Herc promised to take care of him.” Alex nodded knowingly. Herc was good at taking care of things. Alex and John had only been friends for a little while, but they were crazy about each other. They had play dates almost every day. Alex let John see his journals, and John trusted Alex with all his stuffies. They walked inside, hand in hand, hoping to snag the best spot for morning story time. Herc and their brand new friend Laf had saved them the spot in front of the whiteboard and next to Mr. Washington’s chair. Bingo. Mr. Washington liked Alex’s friends a lot, and especially loved Alex and Laf. Washington liked order, and quickly called the kindergarten class to attention. “Okay, okay, quiet down please. Let’s start by reading about the ugly duckling. Who here has read this?” Only Alex and Aaron, the brainiest kids in class were expected to raise their hands. But Mr. Washington said something unexpected. “Well, I know some ladies who do know the story. Class, please welcome some new students to King’s Elementary! These are the Schuyler sisters. Angelica, Elizabeth and Peggy!” Three girls stepped into the classroom. The tallest one, a girl with a pink dress and copious amounts of curly hair stepped forward. “I’m just here to drop off Eliza, Mr. Washington. Then I’m taking Peggy to preschool,” she said confidently. “Yes. Thank you, Angelica. And welcome, Eliza!” He motioned the second girl inside. She had straight brown hair, big eyes and a dress matching Angelica’s, but in blue. Angelica took the hand of a much smaller girl in yellow and left. Meanwhile, Alexander was completely in love. “Look, John! She’s amazing. Her hair!” John frowned. “I guess.” He took Alex’s hand quickly. Mr. Washington brought the class to order once more. “Class, make Eliza feel at home. Angelica is a first grader, so you’ll see her and Peggy, who is in preschool, at recess. Now, the story. Anyone know what this is about?” The class went on like that for a bit, before making ducks out of play-doh and then, blessed lunchtime at last. Alex, armed with his Avengers lunchbox, walked with John, Laf and Herc to the lunchroom. Alex was about to sit at their normal spot when he was faced with George, easily the biggest bully in first grade. Alex had been taking his apple and cookie out of his lunchbox, so the goodies were in plain sight. “Hey, twerp.” George flicked Alex’s forehead. “Don’t be mean,” Alex said, wincing. “What do you want?” “Gimme that apple and cookie. Actually, all of you twerps can give me and Sammy your desserts.” Sammy Seabury, standing behind George, nodded in agreement. “You know what, Sammy? I think they’ve been kinda greedy lately, don’t you? Tell you what. We’ll take those desserts for the rest of the year.” George smirked. “No! You don’t get my cookie!” Alex was getting red in the face from sheer rage. Herc puffed out his chest. Laf raised his fists. “Don’t bother, cootieheads. If we don’t get those, we’ll beat you up at recess.” George and Sammy both stuck out their tongues. The group reluctantly held out desserts. Eliza, who was sitting with them, started to cry. Alex gasped and rushed over to her. “Hey, don’t cry! We’ll get them back! Promise!” She sniffled and looked up at him. “Thanks. What’s your name?” “I’m Alex.” Alex bowed to her. “Mr. Washington says that’s called et-i-quette.” Eliza was reasonably impressed with this large word, and it was this that made her ask if he wanted to go on the see-saw with him that afternoon. Eliza’s clear reciprocation of feelings in Alex’s mind solidified his decision. George had called him a twerp, taken his dessert, and made Eliza, who was in his mind the best person in the world, cry, then it was settled. This meant war.

#awwwwww #hamiltots #alexander hamilton #john laurens #lafayette #hercules mulligan #angelica schuyler #eliza schuyler #peggy schuyler #thomas jefferson #james madison #king george iii #samuel seabury #george washington #submission #queue are not my dad #aaron burr

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quannywilliams-blog · 7 years

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By Quanny Williams

12-10-16

The Divine Feminine.

Hello World I am darkness!

I’m that ugly duckling who sat in the corner looking like a smudge of old paint they forgot to wipe over.

I’m that piece of burnt ness on the toast Billy told his mom about . “Throw it away honey; the blackness soiled something good.

I’m Tyler Perry’s next title for a popular same ole storyline film.

But this is no “Diary of A Mad Black Women”!

This ain’t no slave, slave, masser , masser fucking film.

This is the story they never told you about.

The story about the kids in Philadelphia in 1985 who were bombed and had a revolution against the oppressors going, the story about the light vehicle that guidses the soul from within, the one about the Indigenieous beings ruling ,owning, and establishing ways of teaching and civilization. I refuse to be forgotten!

To be washed away like those who have left a mark because I am a creator.

I guess ole Billy’s mom forgot without darkness there would be no light .

Look me up in the dictionary and the words , pitch black, jet black, owing to absence of, or complete absorption of light, the opposite of white. I guess google dictionary betrayed me.

Coming through! Kunta ken tay looking, Huey Freeman, revolutionary type MOVE bitch! get out the way.

MJ Thriller Whose Bad.

Like Ruby Bridges they’ve been poisoning me since the moment I stepped on this planet but head held high I ain’t scared, I bare scars having to be sweet, kind, strong, smart, fierce, perfect! Dark dark, child of the sun! I am God!

I hold the word of all things living and the uterus of life flows from inside blessing me with the almighty power to dominant and shut shit down and … abolish those disdainful stares.

I am lovely like a delicate flower a nd soft like it’s petals .

I crack a dead smile that’ll kill at ease and bash and melt your insides from the outside in.

Look at me y, our queen and respect me the way you would your sister your aunt your mother.

I connect with mother nature the womb of the vesicle pisces orbiting the universe and spreading female energy

. I AM the feminine and Th.

\e masculine the yin and the yang the ultimate , almighty, women enough to make the minds twist .

You call it seduction.

I call it #blackgirlmagic

#poetry #poets on tumblr #my poems #writing #writers #beyourself #blackgirlmagic #blackwriters #africanamericanart #artist #blackhistory #worldhistory #blackpower #divinefeminine #macmiller #iam #@creativity

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Otometeki Koi Kakumei Love Revo!!.

Alternative: 乙女的恋革命ラブレボ!!; 乙女的恋革命★ラブレボ!! (Japanese); Ugly Duckling's Love Revolution; Love Revo!; Love Revolution!; Girlish Love Revolution (English); 乙女的恋革命妄想 (Chinese); Love revo ปฏิวัติรัก ฉันขอเป็นคนใหม่!! (Thai)

Description : Welcome to the prestigious Saint Leaf School, where, among other things, the boys are so pretty they give the girls a run for their money! Amidst this bed of flowers exists one Hitomi Sakuragawa, a sweet girl with a not-so-little weight problem, who lives in a nearby apartment owned by her doting older brother. Hitomi also happens to have pretty much the best luck on the planet: Her neighbors are some of the hottest guys in school! But will she need to steel her willpower, cut out the cookies, and slim down before they’ll even give her the time of day? Or will they be charmed by her kindhearted, genuine personality? It won’t be long before Hitomi discovers that the road to a healthy lifestyle is paved with hilarity! #MangaReddit.com, #ReadFreeMangaOnline Read Free Manga Online at MangaReddit.com: https://mangareddit.com/p/otometeki-koi-kakumei-love-revo_1584428624.html