men and women are not opposites. men and women are not enemies. men and women are two parts of a broad coalition which fights against a mutual enemy: inkjet printers
One thing I don't often see people talk about in Steven Universe.
In the series most of Stevens powers come from a need to protect those around him. His shield, his bubble, healing spit/tears, all designed, and come from the desire to, protect those around him. With the exception of his floating which comes from a sense of joy and happiness.
In Future his new powers stem from a subconscious need to protect himself, instead of a need to protect others. He's dealing with a lot and his powers are reacting in an explosive way to keep him safe. Super speed to escape a dangerous situation, explosive screams to throw the threat away from him, and panels, thicker and stronger than his shield and bubble, to shield him from the perceived threat.
Which then makes me wonder, since Pink on Homeworld was known for destructive "temper tantrums" how often she must've felt so unsafe, scared and unhappy that her powers reacted the way Stevens do in Future.
When she became Rose Quartz she felt confident, comfortable and more safe as Rose than as Pink. She had a strong desire to protect the Earth and the Crystal Gems, developing her powers into the ones we see most in the show.
earlier this year 2 boys got expelled from my school for going on a teachers email and sending another teacher an email that says “you’re a disgusting little man” and i laugh about it all the time because imagine opening an email from your coworker and thinking it’s important and then it says that
I heard that this artist still calls themselves a 'fictive', and that's why they animated this whole mini Soul Eater music video. Well fools on them, cromaka is actually very real, especially to me.
This entire project was to try making a short music video without anything but 'color cards' for the backgrounds!
While working on "The Loud House" I did tons and tons of colorcards... so, I thought I'd see what I can make using the same simple bg format. Every BG is a simple color, gradient, and texture over top (except for the final shot).
the thing about media literacy is that understanding why the author chose to specify that the curtains are blue is the same skill set as understanding that the way the author characterizes all black characters as angry or all chinese characters as meek and silent is racist. it is the same skill set as being able to identify when a news source is biased or when someone is feeding you propaganda. the ability to ask "why did this person choose to present this premise in this specific way?" is a critical skill in a world full of misinformation. why are the curtains blue? maybe it's a characterization detail. maybe it's extraneous worldbuilding. why is this character written as being right all the time? maybe you're intended to disagree with them. maybe it doesn't matter. maybe you should still ask why.
Fuck it man I'm tired. Don't buy EA, don't buy Amazon, cancel Disney+, divest from Google to the extent that it's even possible, fuck AI, fuck shareholder profit, play indie games and find a real fucking coffee shop and mend some clothes and learn a craft and like, fuck it man. Move back to the forest and start using acorn caps as currency.
i just think that if the whole thing is a metaphor for feelings or love growing inside you and taking over your body from the inside, that instead of flowers you should start growing parts of the person you were unfortunate enough to fall in love with until it kills you and they open you up to find their hair in your lungs and their bones in your throat and their skin caught in your teeth.
wrote a short. gave the concept a name (bc obviously, no hana to throw up anymore lmao). barely edited it. whatever. take it dhshsj
恋吐き病 || KOIHAKI-BYŌ
The light of your life has the loveliest night-dark hair. You vomit a length of it up on a sunny Tuesday morning.
It snakes up your intestines and idles by your throat, long enough that you desperately cough and beat your chest in an effort to get it out. Clumps of it scratch your gums. Strands get caught between your teeth.
When you finally spit it all up, and it lays in the bottom of your sink swimming in your saliva and bile, you think this is the closest you will ever get to kissing her hair, to pressing your lips to the crown of her head and telling her how much you love her.
---
You throw up three fingers the following week; still hers, you can tell—her right pinky finger has a burn scar from when she accidentally brushed it against a hot kettle. Her left middle finger has a nick across its pad from when she sliced it open on a box cutter. Her right index has a mole on the middle.
She likes to gesture a lot when she talks and you watch every flick of her wrist, every bend of her arm, every pop of her knuckles. You watch when she taps an impatient beat on the table, when she twists a loose thread around a finger and pulls taut until her skin chokes and bruises. You can map out the veins on her palms, can find your way back if you were lost in the maze of her circulatory system.
Even before you saw the marks on the fingers you threw up, you already knew. You could feel her fingertips scouring your esophagus, dragging across the length of your tongue. She touched your arm once, to get your attention, and your skin memorized the groves of her fingerprints. You could recognize the press of them against your stomach lining.
---
Her blood floods your lungs while you're at the supermarket. You cough a river of it up your nose and mouth; it splashes all over your shoes and stains the white tiles of Aisle Five.
Strangers scream and yell for help as you collapse. You think someone pulls you back before you hit your head on the edge of a fruit display. You're not sure—the air smells like iron and your mouth tastes like salt; you've always figured she would taste sweet like all the candy she loves, but perhaps it's different when she doesn't love you back. She won't hold you in her mouth with affection, won't part her lips and welcome you in with excitement. You just daydream in the sickly white lights of the grocery store and drown in the salt of her inattention.
Someone pats your back to help you cough the blood out. You try to choke it all back down, try to keep as much of her as you can inside of you, but your body is loyal to its base instincts. Every animal wants to live, and that's hardwired into your biology. It betrays you for survival and gurgles all of her out. You watch the blood seep into the gaps between the tiles, ungrateful and unknowing of what they have received.
---
When you vomit her eyes out, you make sure to keep them with you this time. You wash them clean of the stomach acid and phlegm that's clung to them, and stick them in a jar while you look up how to preserve body parts.
But you know nothing about embalming—not yet at least. Her eyes cloud and discolor; after a few hours, her irises lose their natural shade of hazel and melt into a galaxy of dirty white, muddy blue, and rust brown. They don't resemble her eyes anymore.
You sit and stare at the jar. In a few hours, you're just going to have a putrid puddle in your hands, at least if abiogenesis doesn't make quick work of the eyeballs. You can't keep these, parts of her or not—but maggots spawning and feasting on her flesh seems unfair. They won't know to care and savor every part of her, won't appreciate that her cells will keep them alive a little while longer.
You pop the eyes into your mouth and let the sour taste seep into your tongue; familiarize yourself with her decomposition. She will fill your belly and spark energy into your cells, twine herself with your flesh in this way, keep you alive. The least you can do is choke down her rot.
---
You learn. You don't want to flush her hair into the sewers or pour her blood into tile gaps anymore, so you learn how to keep them with you. You collect the nails you regurgitate, the kidneys you hack up, the tongue you retch out. You learn to keep them from rotting, and when you have enough, you learn to stitch them all back together.
The body doesn't move, of course. You don't expect it to. But the work teaches you the softness of her thighs, shows you the route of her capillaries. You layer skin on meat on bone, hair on scalp on skull.
How tragic, that the closest you will ever come to having her is after you violently heave parts of her out of yourself. Connection through emesis. Union through suffering.
---
She starts growing inside your marrows. This time, your body can't betray you and get her out, no matter how much it wants to.
The pamphlet the nurse hands you sears your eyes with its garish colors; it tells you this stage of the disease is deadly. Soon, she will start growing vertebrae inside your veins, teeth between your brain folds, eyelashes in your spleen.
People like to say that love changes someone. Perhaps that's why your body is desperately trying to carve a space out for her to nestle in; twisting and contorting your ribcage to make room for her skull, hollowing out your spine to make room for her hands.
Or perhaps she's a parasite, finding home in your dying flesh, but that seems too caustic and you don't like to think of her cruelly. Your misery built shelter for her and greedily welcomed her inside your joints; you don't think that makes her worthy of blame.
That night, you sit in your tub and soak in the warm water. You wrap your arms around yourself, around the her that lives under your fingernails and behind your cornea and beside your callouses, and wonder if all love turns people into cancerous masses of those they adore. If a wife's tongue grows over her husband's, and that's why people learn to laugh like those they treasure.
When they find you in the morning, you are cold and dead, her arteries wrapped around your throat and her heart growing out of your cranium.
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