Jackie Taylor did the thing that every teenager wants to do at least once — die after a petty argument so that everyone will feel fucking guilty for the rest of their lives

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@terrablighter
Jackie Taylor did the thing that every teenager wants to do at least once — die after a petty argument so that everyone will feel fucking guilty for the rest of their lives
this is them, to me.
Once when I was in undergrad, someone described something as “problematic” in class and our professor was like, “That’s cool, but ‘problematic’ doesn’t really mean anything. It means that the thing you’re describing has a problem, and in and of itself that’s not bad. Art, especially, should always have problems, or else it’s not interesting and not art, either. It sounds like you’re trying to say that this is bad, but you don’t want to say ‘bad.’ Is that right?”
So from then on whenever one of us called something problematic, he would make us talk it out until we could name the “bad” thing we were hinting at. In this particular class, 7/10 it was some type of oppression, and the remainder was like, “I’m uncomfortable because this is very new/confusing/pushing boundaries that made me feel safe.”
Once we stopped calling things “problematic” and stopping at that, class got way more interesting and... we all had to say, like, “that’s racist” or “that’s misogynistic” or “ew capitalism gross” out loud, which a lot of us had never done in a classroom before. Or we had to be like, “Uhhh... I’m not sure what’s so bad?” and confront our own beliefs and that was maybe even more useful.
Anyway. Whenever I see the word problematic, I can’t help but think of this professor being like, “Good starting point, now let’s get specific.” I think when we have to commit to saying “that’s ___” it requires a lot more careful thought about the truth and impact and complexities of whatever we’re claiming. Sometimes there really is some bullshit afoot, and also sometimes it’s art, and it should be full of problems, because that’s what art is.
I just have to lock in and get through my to-do list and then I'll start my new system with a clean slate and everything will be better.
Me, replying to every malingering email in my inbox: "It's going to be such a relief to clear this out finally!"
Everyone I'm replying to sending a response at the same time because I emailed them at the same time: ...
I'll set a calendar event for two weeks ahead of time and two days ahead of time so I won't forget.
If I just remember to do it every day it'll become a habit and I won't have to think about it.
I'll just stay at my desk until all of my tasks are done for the day and then they won't build up.
That's important, let me write it down on my hand so I can't ignore it.
If I skip lunch I'll catch up a little bit and I won't have to stay late or start early to stay on top of things.
has anyone figured out how to turn off the thing where you love your pet so much it slides inexorably into grief-borrowing
“For me this glass is already broken. I enjoy it; I drink out of it. It holds my water admirably, sometimes even reflecting the sun in beautiful patterns. If I should tap it, it has a lovely ring to it. But when I put this glass on the shelf and the wind knocks it over or my elbow brushes it off the table and it falls to the ground and shatters, I say, ‘Of course.’ When I understand that the glass is already broken, every moment with it is precious.”
bisexuals ily . let's fuck everyone n everything
There is always a fandom discourse about how fandom is too much about shipping and romantic love, but my beef is actually with people being too fond of the idea of a family as the purest form of love and the strongest unit.
Starting from pople tending to turn every story about siblings who are not besties into this huge tragedy instead of awknowledging that maybe, sometimes, people are not close with their siblings. Or that people are so weird about mothers.
But what irks me even more is the tendency to decide that two people who are close in canon have a "sibling coded relationship" which suddenly also means that shipping them together is wrong. Or if a character has an older person in their life whom they look up to - well that is their parent now!!!! They can't fuck their parent!!!!
There is this underlying idea that elevating characters into a familial bond is above such concepts as romantic love or sex. Which sucks because that is not what the concept found family means - it was meant to describe the queer experience of finding your people and community from outside of your blood relatives, and it was never meant to say that there can't also be romantic relationships within that community.
And it is not even always about the fact that I want to ship my blorbo with everyone who comes near him (although I absolutely do), but I think that sometimes there can be meaningful dynamics that are not about family. I want my blorbo to have friends, lovers, partners, mentors, neighbours, a trusted older person who they can call to but is not their parent.
Maybe some of this rises from the fact that family for me is something complicated and sore and not as important as my friends and community. But also the idea of a nuclear family as the pillar of society is such a conservative talking point and it is weird that people keep throwing a fit about romance and dating as societal standard but don't seem to notice this one.
Yes I am!!!
One hundred percent I am.
Happy Pride!
Every pride, you must reblog this. No exceptions
I love that four different people on my feed scheduled this joyous person to reblog by 8am on June 1. I look forward to seeing this a dozen more times today.
Earless Monitor Lizard (Lanthanotus borneensis), family Lanthanotidae, endemic to Borneo
ENDANGERED.
Semi-aquatic.
Closely related to the true monitor lizards in the family Varanidae.
The only member of its family.
They do have inner ears, and are capable of hearing, despite the lack of ear openings and tympana.
photograph by Will Hunt
“who is linkin park?” - one shot KO by my younger coworker
I am going to unfold all of your clean laundry and leave it in a pile on your bed
For those who don't know: Ikumi Nakamura is the woman who was senior artist on Bayonetta, and designed the titular character along with Hideki Kamiya. Their greatest moment of bonding was over their insistence that Bayonetta keep her glasses on at all times. Nakamura cannot go to horny jail. She is the warden.
Happy pride month to her and her exclusively
she made a comic about the experience on twitter
happy pride
An Update from back in October I'm surprised wasn't added to this post. lol
Today at work a little crow fledgling was just having the worst damn day. The little goober kept trying to shove its way into the door and screaming at its reflection while I was helping a lady look at a bed.
I pointed it out to her and together we regarded the infant screaming.
After she left my coworker came up and informed me there was a bird on her car. I went out to look and lo, the fledgling had scrambled up onto her windshield and was pecking forlornly at its reflection.
It stayed perched there in the hot sun, trying to move higher up the car with no success but too scared to fly down. She was agitated that it was on her car since she didn’t know if it would leave on its own.
“It’s a baby,” I told her, “It’s still learning how to fly.”
“That’s a baby?! It’s so big!”
“Yeah, it’s just a little guy.”
I went out to investigate. The parents began screaming and swooping. I placated them with crackers which they accepted without relenting their screaming. My coworker said she could now see that the creature on her car was indeed a baby with the sleek black parents swooshing angrily around in the air.
We regarded the baby together. After a while I started noticing it was showing signs of fatigue and distress. Mouth gaping but not begging for food, wings drooping. I went back out to check on it.
I was debating moving the baby; the day kept getting hotter and it didn’t have the energy or skill to relocate itself. My coworker also wanted the bird to stop pooping on her car. So eventually I announced, “I’m gonna move the bird.”
“Your gonna grab it? Aren’t you scared?”
I looked at her in bafflement. I grew up around every imaginable kind of fowl. The only bird I’d be scared of would be some of the big flightless ones. Even geese/swans are manageable if you just grab their necks before they really get flapping. The parents were not gonna go for my eyes like magpies and in general crows tend to recognize when you’re trying to help. “It’s just a little baby guy. It’s fine.”
I approached the baby amidst its parents shrieking crow obscenities down upon me. I scooped it gently like the burger.
I cannot begin to convey how soft that baby crow felt. It was the downiest most pleasant tactile thing that I’ve maybe ever held and the experience was only slightly marred by the goober trying ineffectually to bite me. It was stymied by the fact that it ain’t my first rodeo.
I brought it ten feet away to a nice shady tree. I held the baby gently so it could get its feet under it on the branch. It seemed a bit confused at this point but eventually gripped the branch and I stepped back and threw peanuts in self defense while the angry parents swooped showily around at me.
It stayed there pretty much the rest of the day. Its parents both checked in to make sure I hadn’t murdered it then flew back to where we could see a nest. So best theory is that this dingus was the first to start fledging and couldn’t actually return to the nest after launching.
I told my wife afterward and they went, “You. You touched the bird?!” My coworkers husband was also flabbergasted that I’d been brave enough to grab it. My coworker said she was just gonna shove it off her car with a broom.
As if they didn’t know who they married. As if I am not someone who would confidently help a stray cat or wrangle a chicken.
I informed them that barring gloves I had thoroughly washed my hands twice and it was worth it to get the silly infant off a slippery car and into the shade.
You haven’t seen that meme?
No IDs, but these tags got me in a huff:
So ok look. The point is not the flared leg by itself. These cannot be yoga pants. These are, and you have to understand this if you are too young to have worn them, BLUE JEANS. And this was the last years before all jeans were 70% spandex.
They were denim, and they weren't bell bottoms. They hung loose from the knee in a way that would make a wizard envious. We all walked around like we were wearing hakama. And they dragged on the ground. That was important. Ragged cuffs. If your jeans weren't so long that they had ratty cuffs, they were embarrassingly short.
And the thing about denim is that it's a twill weave and it's cotton. So not only does it hold a lot of water, it wicks. Walking around in these suckers on a wet day could get you wet to the knees even if you never stepped in a puddle.
Then you'd go inside and take off your shoes and try to avoid letting your freezing, wet, filthy pant legs touch your skin.
Yoga pants. Hmf.
people in cold climates would have a tide line of white marks around their knees (if they were normal height) in the winter.
From wicking up road salt.
The visceral memory of that time is something that never leaves you. Everyone's jeans were many inches higher in the back than the front because you kept stepping on the hem and ripping it off. Your lower legs were so very cold. Every new pair of jeans literally enveloped your entire foot, they were so so long re: leg-to-waist ratio. Walking on a rainy day was a legitimate workout. You have no idea.
why is this post completely broken in every way imaginable
Broken notes… deactivated account… removed image….
Finally, we have them all.
In addition: OP’s name is just… gone. No “[insert username]-deactivated[insert a bunch of numbers]” as is the standard for deactivated blogs.
Just the world “deactivated.” Look upon their post, ye mighty, and despair.
It’ll be almost impossible to find this post unless it wanders across your dash.
It wandered across mine. I shall help it travel forward.
this is not a place of honor
Oh hey post of Ozymandius, good to see you again standing on your feet in a desert where no one remembers you