"didn't they already do this with—" no. put them in a slasher film. put them in a BLOODBATH. put this van full of weirdoes in a Texas Chainsaw Massacre scenario i have FAITH in them
not Saw specifically but a slasher with a legit body count. Summer camp slashers are overplayed but I think it really works because it's the type of thing the Scooby gang WOULD get caught up in.
like some of the counselors didn't show up (got got) so the head counselor calls his younger cousin to see if him and his friends can fill in last minute. They show up and they're a bunch of nerds, one of them even has an anxiety dog, and they don't have a big role at first. It seems like the movie is setting them up as cannon fodder.
and then the deaths start and suddenly the nerds are locked the fuck in. The little one with the glasses actually fixed the phone line and is taking stock of all their supplies in case the vehicles go out. The counselor's cousin who seemed like a himbo has set up a perimeter and made makeshift alarms for all the doors and windows, knows all the entry points. The anxious one and his dog are keeping the mood up with the snacks and activities that were supposed to be for the kids, making sure nobody panics and starts making dumb decisions. Somebody tried to grab the redhead and she flipped him over and had him zip-tied before anybody noticed. Weren't they a D&D group or something? What is happening???
I'm obsessed with the Bath & Body Works subreddit because there's only three types of posts and it's:
1.) Women in their fifties having the epiphany that capitalism and/or marketing is evil, but like. They don't realize that that's how capitalism and marketing as a whole are designed to work; they think that this is a unique type of evil that Bath & Body Works has invented. They'll be like, "It's sick and twisted that they just keep releasing new products that are inferior quality versions of their old products with a different label and then making them seasonal items so that people feel pressured to buy them before they can really think about it because they're worried they'll miss out!!! This should be illegal!!!" You're telling me, girl. You're gonna be soooooo mad when you find out about. The whole world.
2.) Level 1-2 Hoarders in denial showing off their collections of hundreds of candles and body sprays and lotions and then frothing at the mouth in the comments section when people offer support resources for hoarding and shopping addictions.
3.) The world's most iconic autistic women with a vintage Bath & Body Works special interest who don't realize they're autistic women with a vintage Bath & Body Works special interest trying to convince themselves that the lotion they thrifted from Goodwill that expired in 2002 isn't rancid, it's "macerated".
Actually, making this rebloggable only to add that there's a fourth type of post which is people posting pictures of horrifying fires that their candles caused and being like, "This is the sixth time my candle has almost cost me my home. What should I do? I am NOT going to get rid of it. It's a discontinued scent," and everybody being like, "Oh my god??? I LOVE that one, do NOT throw it away. Just get a candle warmer."
I feel like they deliberately made the circle in the center an egg shape which is frankly brilliant. Although it's a little bit difficult to be certain.
Sometimes, oftentimes, all the time, people will ask me, “Why did you do that to yourself?” when I tell them how proudly and valiantly I have weathered the storms of abuse and bigotry in my life. I tell them how I sat in a room or on a train or in a call and butt my fucking head against some brick-for-brains, a whole group of them if that’s what the day called for, and stood my ground as stubborn as a moose. The people I regale with these tales, so proud of my willpower and grit, look at me every time with so much sorrow and ask me, “Why did you do that to yourself?” and I feel that gentlest, smallest implication there. That I am hurting myself. That I am doing wrong to myself. That I am a glutton for the pain, suggesting out of sincerest concern that perhaps, just maybe, I hate myself. It makes my heart so… heavy. And so hauntingly alone. Some days it almost feels as wrong as the people who call me a freak, because of just how damn lonely it can feel. I know they beg me to run because they love me. I understand why, I’m not a fool. No one wants to see harm come to a loved one. No one wants to watch a loved one stand beneath the sun-blotting, sky-sickening rain of slings and arrows, not even bearing the hardest shield nor the finest armour.
But even just my skin is enough for their most nuclear words. Everything these bigots say just washes off me like the rain. Never have I hid from lightning, nor found my spirit cowed by rolling thunder. I know far too well that I am loved. I am loved by the sun and the moon and all the people within whose chests they dwell. When I am tired of being wet, I return to my warm and waiting home so I can dry myself at the hearth that she and I made together. That is my privilege. I am privileged because I have somewhere safe I can go, somewhere I am loved and somewhere I am warm. It’s not much, but it’s enough to let me heal and rest. Still I am told I should never go where rain decides to fall. Where angels fear to tread. I am looked at in horror, and pity, and confusion, like surely I am mad, or worse, self-loathingly sane. “I would’ve just left,” they always say. Always thinking that surely I must’ve sought the rain. That vile downpour simply cannot bear to watch me live in peace. It cannot even suffer knowing I dare to partake openly in the world it has so carefully beaten bloody and scared.
I learned young that there are no ends to the earth that cruelty won’t follow you to. To be vulnerable a moment, as if I’m ever not in all these writings, when I was bullied, I was often bullied in what I’d consider a shockingly trans way, in retrospect. I was a lonely kid. Easy to pick on and tease. Isolate. Calling me names and using their words to get as far under my skin as they could just to watch me explode. It often made me wish my bullies were the kind who would try to beat me up, but a bully knows not to fight you in a way they know they can’t win. Worse, the smart ones know to bully you in a way that looks just enough like it isn’t breaking any rules. As many of you will surmise, yes of course I got in trouble for beating their asses to the ground once I had enough. That constant, dogged hounding, always trying to make me lose my temper because it was funny. The same way some ghoulish bigot thinks he can ‘trigger’ me and show everyone what an angry freak I am. My teachers, my parents, my adults and gods would tell me, “You just have to ignore them. You need to learn to just walk away.” Where? Where can I go where they won’t follow? Where do their feet refuse to fall, where is the line they’re too scared to cross? I searched that recess yard for years, teacher. All I learned was that even if there were no end to the horizon and infinity were real, even if the town were big enough for all eight billion of us and kept stretching on and on into forever, they would stop at nothing just to follow me a little longer. I’m not asking for a homeland to fight for or an eden of my own. I am telling you, they would not even let me have the rubble or the camps if they thought I could find the briefest reprieve from them there. They would take the wasteland from me if that’s where I ran to to hide and live in isolation, just trying to carve myself a peaceful life and for what, what is my sin? I am asking to live, and worse yet, because I am human, I dared to try to do so unalone.
I have been threatened in front of my mother as we rode the train together. I remember how I shouted back at the man how I just wanted to be left alone, to be left in peace, how I didn’t deserve this, any of this. I remember the way every passenger looked at me then looked away, because they couldn’t bear to have their own peace disturbed. I remember the one teenage girl that started to lay into him too once I yelled loud enough to the rest of the car what this man was doing, bless her rage. But I also remember the way my mother’s hand gripped my arm. I remember the fear in her eyes. I remember the pleading look, don’t fight this, don’t let him hurt my baby, don’t put yourself in this danger. She thought I would die that day if I decided to defend myself too audaciously and for me, it was just another Tuesday. I looked at this man and I knew he was easily a weight class or two above me. He looked so deeply unwell in his vile rambling. Of course I could die if that’s what he wanted. If I were all alone on that train, maybe I never would’ve stepped off or maybe it would still be just another Tuesday. I chose to become a woman knowing of the men I could meet in the woods. I made this choice knowing both what it would cost me and the risks I’d face by choosing this life. Never once have I regretted it. But I still can’t shake the look I saw in mom’s eyes. How that paralyzing animal fear rose up in her that she was going to watch her daughter die in front of her. How lonely I felt, looking back at her. Shouldn’t it make you so angry that you start shouting too?Where would I even run, mother? I don’t want to run. Don’t I deserve the train too? Don’t I deserve the bathroom and the computer and the workplace? Don’t I deserve my pound of flesh or at least a little peace? If no one else on that train was going to shout and fight for me unless I did, why shouldn’t I make a scene? Don’t I deserve to be fought for? I want more than courtroom justice. I want more than pride parades. I want more than basic fucking decency. I want to be fought for. If I’m the only one that’s willing to pick that fight then I’ll gladly do it for my sake alone. That’s the very least I deserve.
Sometimes I’ll sit for over two hours arguing, yelling at people on discord about how fucking stupid and illiterate they are. I don’t seek these people out, I just have the audacity to use a mic as a woman and the gall to have an androgynous voice. I don’t leave my online games and I don’t mute people after I report them, not unless they’re especially tiring and noisy or I myself am exhausted that day. I’d rather fight and tear into them or even just piss them off as hard as I can til I teach them that they’re the ones that are going to have to learn to shut the fuck up. That they can’t say whatever they want without someone biting back, hard. I know what a stubborn woman I am. No, I won’t laugh it off and jokingly call myself a fool. It is simply me and I take that very seriously. What if there’s someone like me watching in the wings, wondering if it’ll be safe to come out? Watching like I used to, if it was a safe place where others like me felt okay being seen in. I’ll give you a tip: there always is. Call it a sick kind of fun, call it heroic, call it unstrategic, but it’s who I am to live this loud and headstrong. I’ve made the world better for it, by inches or less probably, but even just those small victories give me the confidence and willpower to reach for the greater ones. But when I tell friends how I made things better in the end or at least how I neither bent nor broke while I made a fool of them all… I’ll admit, I can still sorta tell how they never really get it. I don’t blame others for not wanting to expose themselves to the shit that’s on my shoes. In case the above paragraphs weren’t clear, it’s not like it’s fun. But it does get… lonely. It’s easy to say “I would’ve just left,” or “You need to learn to just walk away,” when you’re not angry enough at the world. It’s easy to say that as long as you don’t think about how lonely it feels to have to do that again and again and again while everyone around you gets to do what you can’t. It’s easy to say that if you don’t want to get to do the same things men can do or feel the same safety when you choose to speak in the same public spaces. Isn’t it?
But I wish to go where I please. I wish to live, just like you, in sunlight, on crowded streets, in online forums and public facing workplaces. I wish to live in these places with a pride and love for myself so deep it crushes all my doubts under the pressure. I am willing to fight for that small and profound social privilege I once had as a young man but I do not bereave others who find my way too harsh, too direct and forceful. It’s ugly and it’s messy and damn can it ever be a burden on the soul wondering if you’re doing and saying all the right things, riding the razor’s edge of high running emotion and calm, coherent rhetoric. But I’m also privileged enough to live somewhere I’m loved, somewhere I have a home and close community that has accepted me even after all the wrong I’ve done in my life. I have somewhere I can go when I’m tired. If I want to go somewhere new, I know I’ll have to stay hyper vigilant. If I don’t want to be called sir I’ll have to put on makeup and not dress too butch. I’ll need to steel my heart against any flaw I hear in my voice. I know the sheer energy it takes just to be strong and how exhausting it is to feel safe. But I know I can do at least a little good with this strong heart of mine, not just for others but for myself. I deserve to be fought for too. I deserve to be fought for and I am strong enough to fight so I will fight until it’s safe enough for you and me and all those we love to rest at last in the peace we deserve. When I am tired I will rest and heal and dance and sing and rise again unbroken. I am loved and love in kind; it makes me gentle and nurtures my hope. My deepest scars were always healed by love. Oh, what an ugly, rare thing it can sometimes be to find your strength hiding in the callouses of your heart. But oh, what an honour I feel to use it for the sake of those I love.
Suffice it to say, I have never feared what may fall upon my head from on high. And they are not the rain. They are men. Bigots. They are not calamity, they are not disaster and there is nothing natural about the way they think the world ought to be. If I were to run, the storm won’t follow but men always will. If they both fell upon me, the rain would heal my nature but the men would burn it all, just another harvest for their vile machine gods or a light chuckle for their circuses of ridicule and humiliation. There is no amount of space they will ever be satisfied with taking. You can walk away and walk away and walk away and one day there will be nowhere left to go and when you face them again, you will have forgotten the rage you have to grip with two hands just to say, “No, this is where I belong, you are the one that is going to leave,” because rage is a muscle that must be exercised. Learned and learned from, but never feared. If you learn how to use it, it will protect you. It will save you from the fear that holds your hands and the darkness aching in your deepest regrets. The first weapon you ever held in your newborn fists, now yours to form against those who would dare to come for you and the people you hold dear. The first step, and the only step, is to just keep trying, no matter how many times you’ve failed before. To try and speak up, to challenge the wicked whenever you can and even if it never gets easier, even if it doesn’t do much, know that you still changed my world for the better. For people like me, just seeing that someone else tried for me is enough to keep me going. We’ll rage for love and we’ll rage for pride. That is enough. There is no victory too small to matter when you fight to make your world a kinder, softer place.
So you can tell me how you would’ve just left or how you’d never do that to yourself but don’t you dare dishonour my wish to live. Tell me how you could never do what I have no choice but to do every time I merely wish to exist unalone, but pity not my beautiful, angry life. Fight for me, fight by my side or love me from afar from wherever it is safe, but don’t you dare call me a fool. I know what privilege means and I gave that up gladly to live as a woman. Now I’m going to take it back, by wrathful pride and righteous love because that is what we all deserve.
One day, we will go where we please and feel as safe as our fathers. One day, we will live without needing to fight our way out of the creeping dark just to touch the smallest daylight anymore. One day, the callous of strength will fade and hope will find its long sought rest in peaceful tranquility.
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