I do think there is a negative feedback loop happening, and I don't really like the stuff antifa are doing. But, everything I've seen liberal/left-wing people fear is very real stuff. Bigotry, climate change, the growing gap between rich and poor. What things do you mean that are creating fear unnecessarily?
The biggest thing I can think of is feminist discourse around sexual assault. SPECIFICALLY, the kind that implies that women who exist in public are at constant risk of being assaulted and are brave to even leave the house, much less have a normal career or life outside the home.
People who talk this way nearly always insist that #yesallwomen are in danger no matter where they are or what they do and that any woman who says ‘that isn’t my experience’ is either a crazy outlier or a malicious liar.
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If you had a power what would it be? To stop time (but I still could do things)
Happy place: A comfy chair in a library or a coffeeshop
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I've been observing your empathy discussion (because I do largely agree with you about it and I find it interesting), but I think you just lost me somewhat. If you no longer want to interact with someone, just don't. I understand that you have scrupulosity issues, but the value judgement in saying "Jenny is just kinda bad tbh" hurts Jenny (IMO) at least as much as it helps you. And surely you understand why saying "x kind of people are bad" will hurt people who are x?
“i don’t want to go back into an rp group with someone who neglected her child” = me being too mean because i “will hurt someone who neglected her child” ?
or is the idea that if i say that out loud it’s too similar to making a callout?
AN: warning under the cut for description of a bombed out house/child death. the image doesn’t get graphic, but it’s there.
His shoulders tremble with the force of sobs too big for his frame to contain.
That’s not saying much, considering George is far from the biggest guy to begin with. The way he’s crying, he’s surprised he hasn’t snapped himself in two already. The despair feels like it’s tearing him apart from the inside out; he can’t help the way his body shakes with it. These tears would be enough to rattle Bull, who’s built like a tractor trailer, or Joe Toye, who could deadlift cars with those muscles. Right now, George has never felt smaller. Fragility leaves every breath feeling like this will be the one that breaks him, and it’s the pressing dread that scares him more than anything else.
This isn’t right, dammit, this is all wrong. He’s not the guy who breaks down. He’s the guy who keeps spirits up, who holds everyone else back from falling into the darkness. A well-timed wisecrack can do as much for a guy’s spirits as a smile and a pat on the back, and he knows that’s the role he plays. When he isn’t able to do that anymore...
Another gasp tears out of him, bringing a strangled cry with it. He tries to bite it back, but all he manages is to dig his teeth into his lips until he can taste iron. Who’s he kidding? He can’t help hold anyone else up. He can’t even support himself.
(There were kids, there were kids in that house and it had been bombed to all hell. Maybe it happened a week ago; maybe a month; maybe just a few days. It didn’t matter that they were German kids. All Luz saw was the bomb-wrecked basement, the tiny hands sticking out from under a pile of rubble, a goddamn teddy bear burnt up like a piece of trash —)
He hates this. What the hell is the point? What’s the point of all this — fighting, bleeding, falling, for what? For a war on foreign soil, watching innocent people die? To give up their lives in bullet-riddled hedgerows, rainy farmhouses, frozen woods? To forget what another life is worth? For what? There aren’t any victors here. They’re all dying, and it’s simple as that. Maybe they’re in Germany, maybe the goddamn war is almost over, but it will never really end —
His sobs cut off with a sharp gasp. Strong arms wrap around him, forcing him to remain still. George swallows hard, exhales, and tries to squirm in the iron clad grip.
“Easy,” someone says. “Take it easy.” It occurs to George that they may have been talking to him for a long time, and he just couldn’t hear. That wouldn’t be a surprise. “You’re alright. Just breathe.”
He has no energy for anything else. He lets the man behind him coax him back to self-control, inch by painstaking inch. He remembers how to breathe. He feels his heart rate slow. He pushes the bloody images away until they’ve joined the mess of other ugly, repressed memories in the back of his mind. He feels himself, slowly but surely, begin to feel like himself again.
Only when he can breathe once more and the tears have stopped coming does Lip (because of course it’s Lip) pull away. “Better?”
George turns around, swiping a hand across his grimy cheeks. Lipton has already seen the mess of it, and he’s got no dignity left, but he doesn’t want to hit him with a full-on mess after he went out of his way to help him. George doesn’t know how Lipton knew where he was, but he’s grateful he found him.
“Yeah, Lip,” he says. His voice is hoarse, but doesn’t tremble. “I’ll be okay.”
There is understanding in Lipton’s eyes. He raises a hand, brushing the bangs out of George’s face, and sighs. If George leans into the touch a bit more than he needs to, neither of them says a word about it.
“It’s okay, Luz,” he tells him. And no, it’s not okay; and no, none of this will ever be okay; but somehow, his words hit right at George’s very core.
He’s not sure how Lip is able to say the right thing every time, but damn is he glad he’s here.
I can see them fistfighting really, really easily.
It probably wouldn’t even be a fistfight though. It would literally just be Leckie pounding Webster into the ground and then wiping his bloody knuckles on his sweater vest and walking off to write a sarcastic poem about it.
“I’ll drive you.” Brad says it like there is no argument. Nate doesn’t even try to make one. He just smiles and agrees.
“No country music,” Nate winks.
It weird. Not weird. It has that quality of a day dream. The high way turning into a kind of endless haze in front of them. The desert baking the sky around them. Brad takes all the scenic routes. Nate puts on music that has a quality like techno but also the voices of longing and future wants.
They see the world’s largest ball of string.
Nate takes a picture on his cellphone. It’s a shit picture. It’s blurry and out of focus but Brad’s smile is in the screen and Nate’s eyes glow.
They get American Gods on tape at a Cracker Barrel.
“It’s about a road trip across America.” Nate explains. It’s about more than that. It’s about faith and love and all that shit. It’s about finding yourself in a car. It’s about accepting something you thought couldn’t exist.
Brad takes a detour to The House on the Rock. Nate buys post cards. They stand next to one another in a room filled with nothing but weird lamps.
Of course it’s the midwest when it happens. The fucking not middle of the country where the mountains and the desert are gone and the hills wont return until you can taste the Atlantic. Of course they are dead center in the corn belt. Of course the miles have helped them shed all the things they were holding onto.
When Brad had thought about it he had imagined something rushed and hurried and frantic. It’s nothing like that. It feels the same way the desert did out the windows. It feels infinite and hot and magical. Nate is mostly naked on top of him and they are laughing. He’s never had laughter int he middle of sex before. It’s amazing.
“England almost sounds like New England.” Brad teases when they start to smell the Atlantic. Nate turns on Coldplay in retaliation for the joke. It’s perfect.
lookashiny replied to your post: If You’re Nervous About Leaving Fic Comments
Except not all writers are as chill as you and some people are careful when leaving comments since they’ve seen wank go down when writers get offended because a comment is too long/too short/too critical/not critical enough, ect
I am so sorry that's something you've seen/experienced. I've seen a bit myself, and it is very frustrating. Writers who make a list of rules about how you can comment on their work are only hurting themselves. A nice comment is a nice comment. Any crit you don't want to consider can be ignored (and on AO3, it can even be deleted).
I don't have a good answer for dealing with those writers, and I wish I did. I will say that I think most writers are just happy to have comments, and if you leave a nice comment and the writer gets pissy because it's not exactly what they want, it's not on you.
