#these men

[titwang]

dan is so done with his bs lmao

[holdmagun]

Smiling while being tortured? These men are nuts, and I couldn’t be more in love…

[ashesonpaper]

“My babies!”

I say about two full-grown adult men who starred in a show about sex.

[malachite-dream-boat]

@silicon-nodule here, in case you were interested

[melikes-reads]

"My hope and dream and message to every closeted person is that you find the strength and confidence to step out of the closet and when you step out of the closet, you walk into the cottage. That is what I want for every single person who is closeted, 'cause that's what we can all try to make sure is waiting for you."

Dan Powers, Empty Netters Podcast

[wralckpph]

okay okay okay party pittlings XP

i am deep in the trenches of the pitt and ive had this song stuck in my head and i feel like all three of them could be any part of it and many more could fit in but naturally i chose the easy way in...

thus i present my humbled story presented by a song

SOLDIER, POET, KING There will come a soldier—Jack Abbot— who walks like something already broken survived him. He carries no sword you can see, just the weight of one— dragged in the way he favors his leg, in the way his shoulders never quite come down, in the way loud rooms make him quieter instead. He has learned what it means to come home without ever arriving. And still— he will stand when the ceiling starts to groan, when the beams splinter and the lights flicker— when the whole damn roof threatens to cave. He will not run. He will plant himself beneath it, bones remembering things his mind won’t name, hands steady in the chaos like they were built for it. There will come a soldier who carries a mighty sword— not in his hands, but in everything he refuses to drop. Oh lei, oh lai, oh Lord— he will tear your city down. Not with rage. Not with fire. But with survival— raw, unrelenting, the kind that breaks structures just by outlasting them. Oh lei, oh lai, oh Lord— he will tear the roof down. There will come a poet—Dennis Whitaker— who looks like he doesn’t belong in war at all. Soft edges. Careful voice. The kind of man who chooses his words like they matter. Because to him— they do. He was taught that language builds worlds, that names have weight, that meaning is something sacred you don’t mishandle. Theology lingers in him— not loud, not preachy, but threaded through the way he listens, the way he pauses before speaking, the way he tries—desperately—to understand. But when he speaks— really speaks— it lands sharper than anything Abbot carries. Because Whitaker doesn’t just say things. He sees them. And once he names something— fear, grief, guilt— it has nowhere left to hide. There will come a poet whose weapon is his word— and he will undo you with the truth you were hoping no one noticed. Oh lei, oh lai, oh Lord— he will slay you with his tongue. Not cruelly. But precisely. Like a confession pulled from your chest before you even realize you’re bleeding. There will come a ruler—Dr. Michael Robinavitch— though he never asked for a crown. It was pressed onto him in the moments no one else stepped forward. In the silence after loss. In the space Adamson left behind like a wound that never sealed right. Gloria still lingers in him, too— in the choices he makes, in the way he carries people like they are something fragile and breakable and already halfway gone. His crown isn’t gold. It’s thorns. Responsibility. Guilt. The quiet understanding that leadership means being the one who stays when everyone else gets to fall apart. They look to him anyway. They always do. And he lets them. Because someone has to. There will come a ruler smeared with oil like David’s boy— not chosen because he wanted it, but because he was the only one who could hold it. Oh lei, oh lai, oh Lord— he will not break. Even when everything in him wants to. And when it all comes together— when the soldier stands beneath the failing roof, when the poet names the fear no one will say out loud, when the ruler holds them there, steady, keeping the world from slipping completely loose— that’s when it happens. Not all at once. But inevitable. The city doesn’t fall to one of them. It falls to all of them. To the soldier who refuses to move. To the poet who refuses to lie. To the ruler who refuses to let go. Oh lei, oh lai, oh Lord— they will tear your city down. And the roof— cracking, splintering, collapsing under its own weight— finally gives. Oh lei… oh lai… oh— Lord.

[ifeel-soweird]

I fear I kin Clifford Bradshaw and Nick Carraway bro i’m cooked my internal monologue and ever present confusion on what people are on about is getting to me