Discover Top Posts Tagged with #maniladispatcher

MANILA DISPATCHER — THE OCCASIONAL UN-CANCELLATION

today: uncancelling my biodad

stan morgan freeman, giancarlo esposito, and will smith. forever && always. only good words for my swordfathers!!!!!!!!!!

#maniladispatcher #manila dispatcher occasional uncancellation #moe exes and whys #moetext #the thundering seamstress #moe writes

The Concept of Us (is Comedy Gold)

SUMMARY: Min Yoonji contracts her broke and disowned twin brother to pose as her in order to escape her upcoming arranged marriage to young CEO Kim Seokjin.

(previously posted on ao3 here)

#the concept of us is comedy gold #MANILADISPATCHER #yoonjin

MANILA DISPATCHER — THE OCCASIONAL WONDER-WANDER-WANTED

next agenda: gonna paint this eventually. i already have the tools. just gotta move to scrapbooking and the other steps. SLOWLY.

also, NOBODY understands Glassworks like i do!!! its spiritual/divine sequel is Thalassophobia by Karasu <3 and i owe this realization to Demetori and xi-on. obviously.

music for my painting + refining the cardverse au 🪄🎩🦋:

w(h)ip

ADDENDUM: some proposed titles

The Boy King in the Mirror Hall

Der junge König im Spiegelsaal

鏡の間の少年王

Ang Batang Ama sa Loob ng Salamin

#moe shaving cream #hetalia #maniladispatcher #manila dispatcher occasional www #the thundering seamstress

MANILA DISPATCHER — THE OCCASIONAL WHIMSY

i can't take it anymore. i'm done being in the closet! officially coming out as cuntressexual

#maniladispatcher #manila dispatcher occasional whimsy #ito akemi #lestat de lioncourt #kenjaku #vincenzo #schneizel el britannia #yelena aot

identity/agenda posting

in case some of y'all missed it, i've always listened to bts/bangtan/every other name they have

however, i do not consider myself a bts fan. i am no longer a part of the bts army. i am ex-kpop-military in general. an ex-stan, exile of both stans and antis.

some kpop fans will call me a "hag"—i refuse this title. i am transmasculine. he/him/his pronouns. i am a wizard, if anything. never a hag.

but also, i still listen to bts and keep up with the creative output of the members, though i don't enjoy some of it. that's okay. not all of it has to be for me.

same goes for other kpop bands and musicians and even producers. same goes for korean literature, animation, and performance art.

i no longer need any of these to be translated, explained, analyzed, reviewed, or hyped. i already love korean art enough + i already understand enough of the korean language.

because. once again. i am scottish-jewish, yamato-japanese, spanish-meztizo, filipino-tagalog. 1995. wood pig. libra/gemini. empress/world. etc.

i JUST DO love + respect korean art more than you ever will, unless you are actually korean in any way.

i JUST DO understand all forms of japanese art from any era for any audience better than you ever will. because i am ethnically japanese. my paternal great-grandmother was a japanese woman who grew up in a rural fishing village in nagasaki, but settled down in the philippines due to you-know-what.

am i fluent in japanese? fluent enough. i can translate doujins or manga, depending on the dialect and number of dense chinese terms. novels are a little much; too tedious. i trust other jpn language appreciators to handle that.

do i watch anime in sub or dub? it depends on the show. some anime are better when dubbed into a different language, especially if the characters therein are not 100% japanese (e.g. code geass, death note, fullmetal alchemist, jujutsu kaisen, chainsaw man). however, other anime make no damn sense in any other language (i.e. monogatari, jojo's). others still need multiple languages simultaneously to work well (e.g. great pretender) or illegal fandubs to fill in the gaps (salute to all arabic, russian, brazilian portugese, and tagalog weeb warriors especially).

how about chinese? absolutely hell torture to learn the writing system, but i love the poetry and opera and rap and pop and people having fun with it in general. i'll never have the patience to sit through high-brow chinese literature. it has to be zoomer or zillennial media for me to appreciate chinese.

and finally, why do i never speak tagalog on here? because y'all are too fucking stupid to appreciate my tagalog. wrote a brilliant tagalog poem and posted it on here; zero notes. complete and total flop. sorry not sorry. i am just as smart and well-read when it comes to tagalog, but nobody ever fucking believes me because i look too wasian💀 + they are scared by my english/japanese/latinate/romance/germanic/whatever else. sigh.

gimme a fucking break 🫠

#moetext #maniladispatcher #the thundering seamstress

MANILA DISPATCHER — THE OCCASIONAL WEB OF FATE

#maniladispatcher #manila dispatcher occasional www #hetalia

MANILA DISPATCHER — THE OCCASIONAL GRAND UNIFYING LORE/META/OTHER

(source: am ✡️🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿🇯🇵🇵🇭🏳️‍⚧️FTΣ, est. 1995 🙄)

#christianity #religion #maniladispatcher #manila dispatcher ocassional GUT metaloreother

MANILA DISPATCHER — THE OCCASIONAL GRAND UNIFYING LORE/META/OTHER

my mother’s signature

at thirteen, i’d gotten really good at writing my mother’s signature. i could copy it flawlessly, and no one who ever looked between a signature of hers that she wrote and a signature of hers that i wrote could tell the difference, including her. nowadays, i’d say that i can write her signature even better than she can. this is because, as she got older, the occasions where she had to write her own signature became more and more seldom since her working days (which ended years before i was born). whenever i accompanied her to government offices or corporate mazes (to carry her things and especially her umbrella, because otherwise she’d lose it), she always had to practice her signature a few times on her little spiral notebook before she could write it confidently. i only needed one try, if i had a reference to look at (which i did; for many years i had a picture of her signature saved in my phone’s camera roll for whenever i happened to need it).

the reason i got so good at writing my mother’s signature is because she despised keeping up with my school documents. i would leave her forms and permission slips and report cards she was required to sign, and she could never be relied on to remember them. as i’ve doubtless mentioned many times before, i seem to have inherited her bad memory, and untreated adhd makes me fairly scatterbrained when it comes to most objects even on a good day. it’s why i always did my homework at the school cafeteria or library after class; i knew i would never get it done at home. i shopped for project supplies the day they were announced, and if possible, i left everything at school. it didn’t require much adjustment to take inventory of all the day’s forms at the same time as my homework, quickly fill them in, and shove everything back into my schoolbag before i went home, forgotten until the next day.

about the signatures, my mother cared so little that she rarely noticed. her only grumbling about school trips, for example, was that i’d better not ask her for any pocket money unless it was for something that couldn’t be avoided, like commute money. she didn’t care whether or not i studied for anything either; she just wanted a line of 90+ marks on my report card every quarter as proof that i was as smart as she thought i was. regardless of studying or preparation, according to her, i should just be able to ace it all. this is one of the things about which she and my father agreed. he used to say all the time that back when he was in school, all he’d have to do was listen to a lecture and he’d simply remember everything, enough to breeze through every test.

overall, she displayed strictness rather differently than every other mother i’ve encountered. by some measures, she was permissive, expecting me to just seamlessly sort out by myself many things which i observed most other kids needed help or even wholly let their parents handle. she never attended pta meetings (because i should never do anything that would require her presence at one of them). she never cared what i wore, as long as i never bugged her about buying clothes, though of course she would get her fill of complaining about how unbecoming it was that i mostly wore men’s clothes (hand-me-downs from my dad, uncles, and male cousins). she never cared what i did in my free time (as long as i was on call when she needed me and i never spent any money, so no real extracurriculars or hobbies could be pursued in any seriousness. everything costs money, even in ways you don’t think about like the money spent commuting, money for meals/snacks/drinks while outside, etc. not being locked inside the house was a conscious waste of money because temptation to spend was everywhere).

i used to compete in science quiz bees or journalism meets or writing competitions because of school, and she loved collecting my medals, but i never got very far because i never prepared for anything and she had no interest in providing any support because those things always cost money. she would always say that if i was really that good, i’d just rise to the top naturally, no training or tutors needed. eventually i stopped letting myself be talked into competing for these things by my teachers because i hated how disappointed they looked when i inevitably got eliminated at the division or regional level, after one or two successes. she never asked about them again after that.

she never cared that i never had any close friends, and i never tried making any for various reasons (could never trust anyone; couldn’t do small talk; lost interest and forgot anyone unless they saw and approached me every day; was disenchanted by listening in long sessions to her badmouth her best friends from high school; was too singularly invested in my parents’ marriage and individual lives that i had no room for any other deep and meaningful social connections). i still instinctively knew which people she wouldn’t approve of: no effeminate guys because they disgust her; guys in general were bad news, no relationships; no girly girls who would train me to be a slut; no butch girls who would train me to be a lesbian; no poor kids who’d rub off their stench and bad taste; no rich kids who’d train me to think spending money on frivolous things was okay; no activist types who would turn me into a communist like her older sister (dead); no troublemakers with crimes or vices.

i also had a feeling that she was never unhappy about my lack of friends because that meant i had lots of time and attention to spare whenever she needed a marriage counselor or a secretary or simply another warm body to drag to places. but, like i said earlier, as long as i could always be on call, she otherwise didn’t care what i did. unless i really fucked up, that is. it was also unspoken that i had no right to complain or be unhappy because she gave me unparalleled freedom; what more could i want?

two years after i mastered my mother’s signature, i had little in the way of social skills or life skills in general (besides cooking and cleaning). my only real skill was the ability to amuse myself in solitude without ever needing to spend a single cent. i’d never gone anywhere and i’d never done anything (still haven’t to this day). my only vice was the internet because beyond having to pay for the connection and electricity, i could do whatever i wanted for free. i had no bedroom or own bed or personal space for any possessions, but that was fine since i didn’t have much in the way of objects other than a phone (christmas gift from an aunt) and laptop (salvaged from a repair shop’s scrap). the digital space was my only space, and the only objects i could collect were mp3s and mp4s and jpegs and pngs and watch lists and ebook folders - records of where my time has gone.

two years after i mastered my mother’s signature, my adhd had finally caught up to me in school. i shortcircuited. shit happened: grades fell, tried to kill myself a few times, ended up in a hospital, and forfeited my scholarship to the high school my mother picked.

after graduating, i was supposed to go straight to the top university in the country’s best campus via scholarship, the one she couldn’t get into even via waiting list. the high school was a science high school, and a stipulation of the scholarship contract was that i had to for sure go to university and pick a bachelor of science degree or else i would have to pay them back. i always had an amateur fascination with science as a kid, but three years in that high school made me realize that i had absolutely no interest in any of the real work science involved; i didn’t want to teach or do research or have lives on the line with my work and i didn’t have a dedicated passion for one specific thing that would result in studies and progress. but never mind that. if i was a smart kid, i was supposed to go into stem. it had always been a foregone conclusion that i’d get some highly respectable stem degree and have an irresistibly beautiful resume and land a job that would surely make me rich and my mom would finally be lifted out of near-poverty and get to travel through europe and rebuild her wardrobe and buy a car just like the ones she saw in the magazines she read when she went to the parlor for a pedicure.

instead, i fucked up, and she was furious. it wasn’t the kind of furious i was used to, which was the way she often was with my dad (he fully reciprocated), or the kind of furious she was at my lesser transgressions. according to her, suicide was a guaranteed ticket to hell (coming from a woman who hadn’t attended church in years). she said that not only had i ruined my only chance at a good life (the scholarship), but i doomed my afterlife too.

she fucked up her signature on my release documents from the hospital, and made my dad sign them instead. after she left, i asked him how he paid for the hospital bills, and he said he borrowed money from his sisters which would be deducted from his inheritance (a meager share of the selling price of his parents’ house). to lighten the mood, i told him jokingly, while looking at the scribbly mess mom left on the papers, that i could’ve done a better job.

#maniladispatcher #manila dispatcher occasional GUT metaloreother