They/them. Nonbinary. Queer. Polytheist. Autistic. Disabled. GISHer. Fannish (Wheel of Time, Star Trek, Supernatural, Wynonna Earp, and Doctor Who, among others).
Happy migraine and headache awareness month. This may seem like a minor terminology nitpick, but it’s a serious misconception about migraine: nausea is an actual migraine symptom, not a thing that happens because of the headache. When people with migraine experience nausea during attacks, it’s not because the pain is so bad (the idea that migraine is always excruciatingly painful is also a myth), it’s because migraine causes a lot of symptoms that aren’t pain, including nausea.
This goes for other symptoms as well: although pain can definitely contribute to people’s experiences of these symptoms, fatigue and brain fog are actual migraine symptoms, not just pain symptoms.
This is also your friendly PSA that nausea is not a normal tension headache symptom, if you frequently get nauseous with your headaches, you almost certainly have migraine.
A companion is only as good as the way she talks, and SweetDream clearly cares about that. The replies feel written by someone who gets nuance, playful when it should be, tender when it counts, never flat.
That writing quality is the soul of the experience. It's what makes an AI girlfriend charming instead of mechanical. If conversation matters most to you, sweetdream.ai is where it actually feels good.
I love it when traumatised characters are hard to love. I love it when it when they're vicious and cruel and unfair to people who care about them. I love it when they respond violently to gentle hands and take their hurt out on others.
and I love it when they are loved and cared for anyways
she's singing in another room and my dog is asleep at my feet. my grandma asked me why i haven't found a man yet and i laughed. oh, you know. i like my house clean.
my girlfriend is also my man is also "my partner" if i'm in a professional setting. yesterday we went to a ren faire and a man mimed at me - you're together? and at my delighted nod, his baffled, you're gay? made me laugh. a woman with rainbow hair said i love the two of you together. you're both so beautiful it's absurd.
my dad introduced my partner as my "..... friend. or whatever" the other day. he knows we're dating. in the same way, i was never able to get my sister's husband to stop saying that's gay like it's 2008. he still uses the word fa***t, and my sister's defense of him has always been well, he's just kidding.
my lover and i dance to old music in a tiny kitchen. we judge new music together and take food critique very seriously. we watch love is blind before we fall asleep and agree that if they had a queer season, it would be bloody but also make for excellent tv. of fucking course queer people would meet someone for 2 weeks and agree to get married. what are you saying.
at a bar with friends, a man puts his hand on my wrist. got a boyfriend? and yes, i do have a boyfriend, she's amazing. i am texting her while i wander around a gas station named after geese. i am visiting a swing state for a wedding. in the candy aisle i overhear: she's actually like a lesbian it's disgusting. two teenage girls with packaged sandwiches in their hands, giggling. no literally, like. i'm not, like. okay with her being there while we're all, like, naked and changing.
my girlfriend and i tailgate, drink gin and cider out of cups. from the frat group beside us, a man corrects himself with one of his friends: bro, i mean, nonbinary entity, and it makes everyone around him laugh, myself included. he razzes his friend the same way i would have killed for at 19 years old - like nothing happened, he continues: you apply sunscreen like an alien. he does a little sassy (and fairly accurate) dance interpretation of the motion. his friend is laughing so hard they're crying.
i am lucky, i live in a safe neighborhood in a safe state. my masc passenger princess comes up from DC. i drive her for an hour to where all the leaves are a violent arrangement of color. we walk along the trails, letting autumn into our blood. in this part of the state, there's a lot of pickup trucks and trump signs. when we chastely kiss before getting into the car, i accidentally make eye contact with a woman holding her child's wrist. she looks disgusted. she looks fucking pissed.
two hours later my girl and i are eating dinner on a patio, soaking in the last warmth of new england sun before the chill of winter sets in. we are giggling and trying to talk through plastic vampire teeth. at another table, i see a young woman sit up straighter. i watch her watch us. she blushes and takes her partner's hand from across the table. shy, like the taste of evening has just become something deeper.
it's worth it for this moment, i think. my lover is still humming the same song she's been singing for four days straight and i don't want to kill her for it. her guitar is beside my bed. her toothbrush is in my bathroom. in a few moments i will make us lunch. we are lucky enough to have found each other. it is lucky enough to be in love.
it's me again! so, after the most recent update from my partner regarding her cat's condition (the whole explanation is also in there), i decided to create a goal on ko-fi so that you can support this particular cause and also know the exact amount of money that's needed (i raised it just a little bit because of the taxes).
you still can donate to my paypal ([email protected]) as well, or you can commission my partner; she will post additional information about it later.
even simply sharing this post would already be a huge help for us. thank you.
a reminder that our circumstances are still tough. susja's lung condition is very likely lifelong, and although my girlfriend pays for her medication out of her pocket with my help, she also has to deal with her own health issues at the moment, which is, needless to say, exhausting and expensive as well💔
Brain fog is not an adequate descriptor, actually. Fog can be kinda nice and beautiful and ethereal and refreshing. The thing we’re describing is more like a brain BOG; everything moves slow like you’re wading through water, it’s clunky and heavy and you keep getting stuck in the mud. It’s uncomfortable and inconvenient and everything takes so much effort. You lost a shoe, probably.
AU in which the future is bright and peaceful, and Michael goes on a vacation for the entire season.
@nomi–sunrider
[ID: two pictures of a painting of Michael Burnham looking down with a faint smile against a bright orange background. The first is a full-length portrait, and the second a close-up of her face and shoulders. She wears a Starfleet blue short skirt with a sparkly underskirt and a pair of silver spartiates. Her top is covered in small silver insignia and sleeveless, with a silver band around the shoulders like the standard uniform. Her hand is in her long braids, pushing them over her shoulder. She wears a silver bracelet with the command symbol. End ID]
Scheherazade stay with me when I've nothing left to give,
when my engine's running empty and I hate the way I live.
Antigone abandoned me the day I wouldn't die,
so Scheherazade stay with me, won't you teach me how to lie?
Scheherazade don't leave me here, there must be some escape,
I caught you spinning shadows, watched as you forswore your fate.
The truest of all falsehoods and the oldest of all tales:
a girl can weave a grave-shroud that will walk her out the grave.
Scheherazade you taught me well, sharp tongue and empty hands,
how to lose a world each evening, how to twist a crimson strand,
past jewel caves and warnings, and things that run in threes
'til the ceiling's painted brightly and my lungs still know to breathe.
The bedroom's full of stories piled up against the wall
and I'd drag them all down with me if I thought they'd break my fall.
Scheherazade, you laughed, I think, when slipping from the pyre
for no one loves an oracle, but all will trust a liar.
B'Elanna: I'm surprised you're putting time into this.
Seven: Initially I did find the activity irrelevant. But then I realized that it's important for the crew's morale, and for my relationship with Lieutenant Paris.
kinda tired of non binary being tied to skinny androgyny that's mostly white. I say that's as a non binary transmasc/boy thing who's fat and black.
being non binary can look like anything and anyone but especially individuals who have different body types outside of thin. they can have body/facial hair too. show up for all enbies.
you know what actually pisses me off? when I finally start to feel a smidge of confidence in my writing ability and then some JERK POSTS A SINGLE LINE FROM A TERRY PRATCHETT NOVEL AND IT’S BETTER THAN ANYTHING I WILL EVER WRITE NO MATTER HOW MANY MILLENNIA I SPEND TRYING!
Terry was a professional writer from the age of 17. He worked as a journalist which meant that he had to learn to research, write and edit his own work very quickly or else he’d lose his job.
He was 23 when his first novel was published. After six years of writing professionally every single day. The Carpet People was a lovely novel, from a lovely writer, but almost all of Terry’s iconic truth bomb lines come from Discworld.
The Colour of Magic, the first ever Discworld novel was published in 1983. Terry was 35 years old. He had been writing professionally for 18 years. His career was old enough to vote, get married and drink. We now know that at 35 he was, tragically, over half way through his life. And do you know what us devoted, adoring Discworld fans say about The Colour of Magic? “Don’t start with Colour of Magic.”
It is the only reading order rule we ever give people. Because it’s not that great. Don’t get me wrong, very good book, although I’ll be honest I’ve never been able to finish it, but it’s nowhere near his later stuff. Compare it to Guards Guards, The Fifth Elephant, the utterly iconic Nightwatch and it pales in comparison because even after nearly 20 years of writing, half a lifetime of loving books and storytelling Terry was still learning.
He was a man with a wonderful natural talent, yes. But more importantly he worked and worked and worked to be a better writer. He was writing up until days before he died. He spent 49 years learning and growing as a writer, taking so much joy in storytelling that not even Alzheimer’s could steal it from him. He wouldn’t want that joy stolen from you too.
Terry was a wonderful, kind, compassionate, genius of a writer. And all of this was in spite of many many people telling him he wasn’t good enough. At the age of five his headmaster told him that he would never amount to anything. He died a knight of the realm and one of the most beloved writers ever to have lived in a country with a vast and rich literary tradition. He wouldn’t let anyone tell him that he wasn’t good enough. And he wouldn’t want you to think you aren’t good enough. He especially wouldn’t want to be the reason why you think you aren’t good enough.
I only ever had a chance to talk to Terry Pratchett once, and that was in an autograph line. I’d bought a copy of The Carpet People, which was his very first book, and he looked at it with a faint air of concern. “You realise that I wrote that when I was very young,” he said, in warning.
“Yes,” I said. “But I like seeing how authors grow.”
He brightened and reached for his pen. “That’s all right then,” he said, and signed.
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