people get so (!!) defensive about their faves when people call them out,,,relax you don’t have to ride their dick every moment of every day,,,take a walk or something
The catholic young adult scene in Toronto isnt THAT big and idk how I’m gonna meet people these next few years without running into old ex friends and bridges I burned while trying to cope with trauma and paranoia and maybe being horribly lonely will be my punishment
aight so here’s the thing
I’ll be taking a break from Tumblr
the stuff that’s happening around the world, it’s all overwhelming and I mostly see it on here
and honestly it just upsets me in general
but dw I’m not gonna be inactive in my other social medias
also I might post stuff here but like only rarely
if y'all wanna chill chill w me, my Discord is Nicky Nicole#1305
hope y'all understand!
if you say “i support black lives matter, but…” you are probably racist.
the gun song by car seat headrest…….
anyways women rule boys drool
I may not be a human, but I sure do have the bowels for it.
the police broke down my door today im fucking dead
Here’s a little bit of a fanfiction I’m working on:
[The Fright Zone] [Entrapta’s Room]
In the room of former Rebellion princess Entrapta, silent and weak sobs and sniffles were heard from inside. Her voice was in a tone of concern and disbelief.
“P-please don’t b-be-. Not him, please oh god…” she weakly muttered out with tears pouring out of her eyes.
“No,no,no NO, please no, I didn’t w-want this” she cried. The screen was reading out some kind of report. It sounded like it was analyzing a body, but who’s exactly?
She said the same thing. More warmth ran down her cheeks as her heart bumped against the boney cage that contained it. Her breaths became ragged and she choked on each intake of air.
Entrapta tried so hard to forget the vivid imagery of his body but to no avail. She the robotic voice became louder as the world around her began to shatter like glass and break into tiny pieces. The silent sobs she let loose when she looked back at the green, glitchy screen in her lab.
She shut off the computer monitors. Her mind couldn’t handle the dead, robotic voice reading it. The weight and reality of the situation was merciless on her as both pushed on her. She didn’t get it. Catra said that they left her for dead, so why? Why did it hurt so much when Bow…?
She hugged herself tightly and let the inhumane wails leave her throat…
Glimmer felt her legs buckle under her as she whimpered his name, hoping to get a answer. She couldn’t bear the truth and refused to accept it.
Bow, her best and first friend in the world, was dead.
The boy who always brighten her day with a jovial optimism lied in the arms of She-Ra, a cold and lifeless husk. Warmth streamed down her cheeks as choked up sobs escaped her lips.
She wanted to believe that Bow was playing a game and playing dead. He had to wake up, Glimmer wanted to see his eyes flutter open, even a little. It didn’t matter how he woke up, a weak smile, a corny joke, or even tears; anything would have suited her at the moment.
But he was completely still.
She-Ra, who wasn’t fairing any better, had a look of sadness and disbelief, because when she opened her eyes…
Her sword was deeply embedded in his torso.
All she could remember was fighting Catra. She was about to win, when suddenly, Catra pulled out the Data Disk, put it on the gem part of her sword, then darkness consumed her vision.
The next thing she saw was, well I don’t think I need to say it again now do I? She couldn’t hear anything. Adora hated this silence. She wanted to hear something, anything at all. She wanted to hear Bow talk again, she wanted a small chuckle escape from his lips, even a cuss word would have sufficed. She stared at her blood covered hand in fear.
She was scared of how strong she actually was, she was scared of the power gifted to her, but most of all, she feared that this was all her fault.
“Wow, Adora. It actually happened. You killed someone.”
A dark, manipulative voice came from behind Adora and caught her attention. The voice belonged to none other than Catra, her ex-friend.
She chuckled, “You know, I didn’t think you’d do it, but hear we are. You friend dead at your. Own. Hands. How did it feel, Adora?”
Adora felt something rise within her. Built up sadness or power, she didn’t know nor care.
“Did it feel good to tear off his arm?”
No, of course it didn’t. She remembered the pained cries of Bow as he fell to the ground, holding the stump of his arm, blood spritzing out. His fearful expression with tears in the corners of his eyes as he begged her to stop, but she didn’t.
Unfortunately, that’s it. If you like, I’ll see if I have some time to finish this.
Hope you like it!
Oh. I think that’s it, isn’t it? “Collective action is not separate from every other thing that is worth doing.”
Making art is worth doing, making food is worth doing, earning money (in a capitalist context) is something that kindasorta does really need to be done, vacuuming the carpet is worth doing, raising kids is worth doing, random acts of kindness are worth doing, various forms of political collective action are worth doing. Generally when people do more of one they do less of another, and someone else has to step in: someone who’s working 80 hours a week is probably not doing all of their own chores, for instance; someone who’s caring for an elderly or disabled relative probably isn’t building up as much financial security as they could be otherwise, and all that goes for collective action too. The things that need to be done still need to be done. And it doesn’t matter that much who does them, as long as they get done.
Being the person who talks a friend through their 3 am suicidal crises isn’t fundamentally separate from protesting, as long as the protesting still gets done (and the protester support still gets done) because it all matters. It all needs to be done.
(For white people who mostly hang with white people, part of the “as long as it gets done” thing means, well, if we’re not careful our money-chores-caring-art-action circles – our things-that-need-to-be-done circles – can circle around mostly white people and leave black people out. (Also, for affluent white people sometimes those circles get really small, but that’s a whole ‘nother issue.) So it’s worth keeping an eye on whether someone in our loop of aid and support is doing that collective action work. But if people in your circle of support are taking meaningful collective action and you’re doing non-collective-action things that need to be done, it’s, you know, you’re contributing. Cause we’re not just individuals, we’re networks of care and support. And our contributions are network contributions, not just individual contributions.)
to quote a post I saw on Facebook: nobody defends white people like the racist hispanics who want to be white
Yeah I had to put down my cat, Brownie, a few days before all the pandemic shit happened. Had her for nearly 19 years so it fucked me up pretty bad.
Disconnected from everything.
im gonna say it. ronan lynch was written like he was the eldest sibling and declan lynch was written like the middle sibling.
me realizing after s2 of tua i might have enough content to do the favorite character meme with diego
So I’ve realized recently that I don’t care anymore if I get into a relationship, like, ever. Independent lifeeee
and all the quiet nights you bear
seal them up with care
no one needs to know they’re there
thinking about dan pursing his lips and how it makes his dimple pop