#bleating

[invisible-goats]

The Kids just aren't being taught how to write a cv or cover letter huh

I've seen ones today including photos, dates of birth, place of birth even!

And also several formatted like they were writing a message to a friend! Full of exclamation marks! This is a formal document!

[parhe1ion]

if you’re gonna introduce me to something new you have to defeat my 7 evil ex hyperfixations

[ghostlight-goat]

since i was a wee lesbian of 3 or 4 long before i knew the word transgender (or lesbian for that matter) i would simply decide there wasnt enough women in things and decide certain characters were girls, actually, because i liked them, which means my very first transfem head canon is faramir lotr and i stand by my 5yo self's literay analysis

[lesbianfwhip]

okay before episode 7 drops I feel like i wanna post my conspiracy board of theories I had in the last week based off all the vaguetweets… for the record I made this before avid posted his premiere + acoustic version of not right so I was absolutely still in denial here

[lamb-kind]

happy pride MONTH one of the most scathing opinions I have about Woolhaven is that they should've added gay bars or male strippers in leather harnesses.

[reallifeleinth]

baaa baaa baaa

im a lesbian btw baa btw

[askacultleader]

zip how tall are you

{Tall enough. Why are you attacking me????}

[windysweetly-writes]

The pencil

I lost my eraser. It must have been several weeks already, but I lost my eraser. It probably fell between the gap of a corner, behind the wrinkle of my bed. But I lost my eraser. I flipped my matress, dismantled my pencil-case, assailed my flooring, it’s no use, my eraser is lost. Hence, I don’t touch my pencil. If I did, I wouldn’t be able to use my eraser! Therefore, I leave my pencil in its case. It awaits sagely, impatiently that I carry it and bring it to my paper, but I don’t touch my pencil. And when it sees my pass by, ignored and hurt, it sighs and promises itself : « Next time. »

I lost my eraser. Thus, if I were to draw, I wouldn’t be able to erase. One crooked stroke, too accentuated, impulsive, and all of a work is ruined. I could forget about it, continue, but this malicious stroke will watch me through its big, heavy, black eyes and I will gnash under its gaze. Hence, I don’t touch my pencil. It has been several weeks in which I haven’t touched my pencil. My fingers tremble, itch under the desire to danse on the papier, but I don’t touch my pencil. After all, I lost my eraser.

But when I turn my gaze, I see the object of my desires staring at me darkly, intensively, in a pleading posture and I cede. I touch my pencil, hang onto it, embrace it. And when it slides onto the paper I hear its light and soft and charming laughter and I join it. And my eraser, fallen, forgotten at my feet, smiles as the dust tickles its milky rubber. My paper glistens under the reflections of the Moon, the metallic strokes akin to the thousands of stars inked before me. This mixed and hazardous spectacle offers itself to my eyes and I can’t help but love this messy arrrangement. Those dark, flowed, thick strokes stare at me with joy and I forget the eraser thanks to this excitement.

I touch my pencil and take out another page.

original in French under cut

J’ai perdu ma gomme. Ça doit bien déjà faire plusieurs semaines, mais j’ai perdu ma gomme. Elle est probablement tombée dans le creux d’un coin, derrière une ride de mon lit. Mais j’ai perdu ma gomme. J’ai retourné mon matelas, démonté ma trousse, assailli mon plancher, rien n’y fait, ma gomme est perdue. De ce fait, je ne touche plus mon crayon. Si je le faisais, je ne pourrais pas utiliser ma gomme ! Alors je laisse mon crayon dans ma trousse. Il attend sagement, impatiemment que je le porte et l’apporte à mon papier, mais je ne touche mon crayon. Et lorsqu’il me voit passer, ignoré et blessé, il soupire et se promet : « La prochaine fois. » 

J’ai perdu ma gomme. Ainsi si j’en venais à dessiner, je ne pourrais pas effacer. Un trait de travers, trop accentué, impulsif, et tout un travail est ruiné. J’aurais beau l’oublier, continuer, ce trait malicieux me regardera de ses gros, lourds yeux noirs et je grincerais sous son regard. Alors, je ne touche pas mon crayon. Cela fait plusieurs semaines que je n’ai pas touché mon crayon. Mes doigts tremblent, grattent sous le désir de danser sur le papier, mais je ne touche pas mon crayon. Après tout, j’ai perdu ma gomme.

Mais lorsque je tourne le regard, je vois l’objet de mes désirs me fixant sombrement, intensivement, d’une posture suppliante et je cède. Je touche mon crayon, je l’agrippe, je l’embrasse. Et lorsqu’il glisse sur le papier j’entends son rire léger et doux et charmant et je me joins à lui. Et ma gomme, tombée, oubliée à mes pieds, sourit alors que la poussière chatouille son caoutchouc laiteux. Mon papier brille sous les reflets de la Lune, les traits métalliques semblables à des milliers d’étoiles encrées face à moi. Ce spectacle mélangé et hasardeux s’offre à mes yeux et je ne peux m’empêcher d’aimer cet arrangement désordonné. Ces traits foncés, coulées, épais me regardent avec joie et j’oublie la gomme grâce à cet émois.

Je touche mon crayon et sors une nouvelle page.