magical

literally going to write stuff that pops into my head that sounds pretty sometimes and maybe it means something :)

[wanderlustedink]

it’s funny how, when you lose your notes they say you’re irresponsible. it’s funny how, when they look for someone to take care of their things, they say you’re reliable. they say it with a smile. they say it with a i love you don’t worry you’re everything and nothing i’ve ever said.

it’s funny how, you tell yourself you need to get up. you need to do the thing, you need to stop being tired, you need to help yourself. it’s funny how, when they need the same things, when they ask you for help, you’re not tired anymore, you want to do the thing, you get up and you do it. and you do it with every movement saying i love you i’ll do this for you.

we’re both idiots, aren’t we? we all are, and we laugh and poke fun, but when you said, “you’re my bestest friend ever,” i wasn’t thinking bestest isn’t a word, i was thinking, is this what love is?

no, we’re not in love, but we do love each other. and i’m sorry if someone told you that wasn’t enough. i’m sorry if you thought that romance was the epitome of love because it’s not.

friendship always came before. friendship is the paint peeling off of the swing set. friendship is dipping your toes in the water. friendship is getting a double scooped ice cream cone on a summer morning. and i can’t, i cannot find an end to this.

because this was never meant to end.

[wanderlustedink]

society likes love. the romantic kind. the ones that are tragic, like romeo and juliet. the ones that are heartstopping, heart-shattering. the ones that are sweet, bittersweet. but what about the best friend that held onto their hands long before that? the one who promised friendship and play dates and arts and crafts on the weekends? is it not love, when they are only friends?

of course it is. of course i love you, of course my love for you is as true, as pure and honest as any other kind. even if i am not there, even if you are not beside me and i miss you so — i still love you. i still brighten at your laughs and jokes. i still smile when you text me. i still try to convey everything i can to you without speaking and you to me, and in our comfortable silence, we will understand.

because we love each other. because i promise i will be weird and stupid and dumb and cheesy with you for as long as i can. and you will too. and i will be scared of affection and you will welcome it with open arms. but i swear it doesn’t mean i love you any less.

happy birthday.

[transgendz]

🚨Huge Emergency🚨

June 14

Okay, so my roomate and I have been sick. We are disabled homeless and trans and I'm on a waiting list for a lifesaving and urgent surgery.

Now there is mold in our hotel room we have discovered. We need to leave.

Its not a cleanable amount, its a "going to kill us" amount. The water has also slowly become unsafe to drink for the same reason, mold. It smells and tastes like mold. Its been making us sick and totally wrecking my ability to think.

We need about $700 to get medical treatment and book a new hotel and the transportation to get there.

Every day that we are still in this place makes us more sick, and we have go pay more.

$creepiecrippl

V3nm0: @tab-99

Go to paypal.me/creepiecrpple and type in the amount. Since it’s PayPal, it's easy and secure. Don’t have a PayPal account? No worries.

[prettyasapic]

Every person need to be taught disability history

Not the “oh Einstein was probably autistic” or the sanitized Helen Keller story. but this history disabled people have made and has been made for us.

Teach them about Carrie Buck, who was sterilized against her will, sued in 1927, and lost because “Three generations of imbeciles [were] enough.” (A decision which still has not been reversed)

Teach them about Judith Heumann and her associates, who in 1977, held the longest sit in a government building for the enactment of 504 protection passed three years earlier.

Teach them about all the Baby Does, newborns in 1980s who were born disabled and who doctors and parents left to die without treatment, who’s deaths lead to the passing of The Baby Doe amendment to the child abuse law in 1984.

Teach them about the deaf students at Gallaudet University, a liberal arts school for the deaf, who in 1988, protested the appointment of yet another hearing president and successfully elected I. King Jordan as their first deaf president.

Teach them about Jim Sinclair, who at the 1993 international Autism Conference stood and said “don’t mourn for us. We are alive. We are real. And we’re here waiting for you.”

Teach about the disability activists who laid down in front of buses for accessible transit in 1978, crawled up the steps of congress in 1990 for the ADA, and fight against police brutality, poverty, restricted access to medical care, and abuse today.

Teach about us.

[inkskinned]

it's the levels of scrutiny too.

a movie that has a largely-female cast has to be well-written, well-shot, well-acted, well-advertised. people will spend 2 hours on youtube talking about a single plot hole; about a moment of bad pacing, about a singular background character's poor scripting. if there isn't something obvious, they will say - well there's nothing specifically bad, but it wasn't specifically good either.

they will turn out another all-male movie, and it's just a movie.

a book that has queer representation in it has to defy every convention of writing while also being true to traditional plot, structure, format, and pacing. it must have no boring chapters, no missteps, no awkward dialogue. it must be able to "prove" that any queer relationship "makes sense", their sparks must fly off the page and their love must be eternal. the writing must be clear and beautiful, the storyline original and fresh, the values traditional but with an undercurrent that is modern and saucy.

they will turn out another book without queer rep, where a man and woman just-fall-in-love, and it's just a book.

i am latinx. i am queer. i am nb & neurodivergent. my father said to me once: you will need to be exceptional to be just-as-good, and you will need to be beyond exceptional before they see you as just-a-person, and not your labels.

i am not beyond exceptional. i am a human person. i am skilled because i worked my ass off to be skilled.

i am currently reading a book that's so-bad-it's-good about a girl that falls in love with a vampire. i was 64% of the way through the book before she figures out tall-dark-fanged is not natural. i like books like these, i like letting myself relax while i just enjoy the read. but i do spend a lot of time wondering - would this have been published if it was about queer people? would this have gotten past the editors if the characters weren't white and sexy?

i want to write a movie about being a woman in a male space, and i want to start that movie with a 10 minute scene where the woman is lectured with the exact same whining that occurs in the youtube comments of even the trailers for those movies: "haven't we had enough diversity?" "we've had enough girl power movies" "sorry, this is just pandering. it's boring."

here's what's fucked up: it shouldn't matter, you're right. my identity shouldn't fold after my name like a battalion of stars: a cry of what i've gone through. what we all know i had to move past and through. i should just be a writer, plain and simple, without my work being shifted through with tweezers - i know everything i make, always, i am incredibly responsible for. beholden to. i don't like knowing that if i fuck up, i am also fucking up for every person like me. every person in a community i belong to.

once, back in undergrad, i wrote a short story about a girl who had been kicked by a horse. it was my first time writing about my experience with my ocd; i felt proud of it. the story was mostly about grief and slow recovery. the queerness of the main character was not important to the plot, my main character was just-queer. there wasn't even a romantic interest in it.

i remember one of my classmates being disappointed. "i just feel like you always write about girls who like girls, and i'm bored of it," he said. "you're a beautiful writer, but i'm like - oh, at some point, it's gonna be gay again." during the workshop, he folded his hands over my story and said, "and okay, i'm just going to say it. she's ocd, she's gay, she's depressed - it's a little much for me to believe is all happening to one person."

it is a little much to be that person (and more besides). i have therapy weekly, after all.

over and over, belonging to exception.

[wanderlustedink]

reedsy prompt: write a story about a picnic gone wrong (started: march 2022, finished: june 2022)

username change! from nostalgic ink to wanderlustedink (mostly because i was using the word nostalgia way too much)

it’s raining again.

there’s a lot of things i love about spring. the kiss of the sweet chill, the stain of plump strawberries, the dew on the window sill. i don’t love a lot of things, but i love spring. and i love just closing my eyes, breathing in, smelling the fresh—

my mother knows i love spring too.

“hi, mama,” i say it lightly, but my fists are strained. did i wash the bathrooms this month? the fridge? are all my clothes folded? put away? i hold my fingers up, examining the nails. crap. i didn’t cut my nails.

sometimes she does surprise visits, so.

“josephine! you haven’t called your mother in days. how are you? are you eating? how is school?”

i sigh, pinch the bridge of my nose. “mama, i called you yesterday. i call you every wednesday evening, monday morning, and over the weekend. i always do.” exhale. “i’m fine, mama. classes are going well. how are you?” you ignored the eating question again, josie.

my mom notices. of course she did. “good, good, i am good. your father is doing well as well. actually, we wanted to see you.”

we wanted to see you? briefly, i hear them: pinching my cheeks, examining my body, screaming at my grades, glaring at the floor of my dorm (“your roommate and you have no sense of cleanliness!”), saying again and again: we told you to stay in state. we just wanted to be near you, take care of you, you’re our only daughter.

i ended up at a picnic a couple days later anyway. i knew it was to get me to eat. i knew it was because they hated my salads and my skipping lunch and my ‘disgusting’ smoothies. “why do you wear this?” mama asks, tugging down my shirt. “everyone can see your stomach.”

i shift away. “so?” backpedal, backpedal—

she raises her eyebrows. “so? so, the boys will look at you!”

“let them. they shouldn’t be.” i need to shut my trap. immediately. sometime soon. i’ve tried too hard to be quiet and well and the perfect daughter to ruin this at college. what is wrong with me today?

“they can’t help themselves.”

excuse me? my head snaps up. meanwhile, my dad is very much engrossed in his stupid veggie burger to care much about anything. but i know he thinks the same. my nostrils flare. shouldn’t my father be living proof that they can help themselves? and if not, isn’t it disgusting that your own father does so?

i wrote an essay on this, dammit. it’s not our fault they get distracted. they should know better. why must we always adapt? why can’t they learn?

i settle for a neutral, “i’m sure they could if they put their mind to it.”

my mom stares for a second before offering me some sweets. “it’s your favorite. you’re not eating enough — look how thin you’ve gotten!” she frowns again. “if only your hair was straighter. did you brush it today?”

red. red hot.

for some reason, that makes me snap. for some reason, that’s the final straw. i get up, crop top and jeans that i opted for instead of my usual not-conservative-enough shorts and all.

“well, guess what, it’s not. it’s fucking not straight because of fucking genetics and it’s not going to change. you know why? because it’s the one thing — the one thing — you’ve managed to not make me hate about myself.”

my mother is stunned. “jo—“

“don’t you jo me. i don’t eat because you told me i was getting fatter when my favorite dress didn’t fit.” tears, dammit, i’m going to fucking cry, arent i? “i don’t like my face because all you do is primp and prod me and pester me about my pimples, my eyes, my acne, my body hair, like it isn’t all natural! like i didn’t come out of you looking like this!” the tears are starting to overflow. “you were supposed to love me unconditionally. you were supposed to accept me and love me just the way i am. you were supposed to let me live my life the way i wanted to.”

i stop. i pick up my bag. “but you didn’t, did you? would that have been so bad? so hard?” and then i say something i know i shouldn’t. “maybe, if you hadn’t done all those things, i would actually be eating every single fucking meal.”

and i run. i run faster than when i was terrified i was going to miss the bus. i run faster than when i thought my sister was going to run into oncoming traffic. i run faster than when i won that gold medal and all i got was a “good” when i got home.

i run all the way to my stupid messy dorm, my stupid messy life, and my stupid fantasies that maybe — maybe this was it.

maybe i got to them this time.

[inkskinned]

i know people are good because of this: the universe often assigns me side quests. in a circular strangeness; despite my inability to locate my-own-anything, i am almost-always finding someone else's lost things. dogs, coats, phones, cash, laptops. it happens so often it's almost tiring; suddenly being looped into a tiny amount of detective work.

but when i'm with other people who are not used to this: the response is almost invariably delight. yes, maybe they are simply thrilled by the mystery. it's just... they light up so much. i think maybe more... i think they like the opportunity to do something kind.

a few weeks ago, i was at a bar and i found a wallet as soon as we stepped outside. i felt nervous to ask for help, worried i would be holding up the night. i picked it up and said go on without me, i should help this get back to its home.

instead, three people pulled out their phones - to find him on facebook, to help cancel his credit cards. two people went back into the bar to tell the bartender, two others went calling down the street. group texts, facebook posts, instagram stories. people, without even seeing what happened, start offering help to me. fifteen minutes and: someone knows someone who knows the guy. the cheer that went up - just for finding him, just for this small thing. someone gets him on the phone. strangers dance around me, hopping on their feet - are you the girl that found that wallet? good for you, that's a good thing you're doing/same thing happened to me and somebody did what you're doing and i thank god everyday for people like you/i can't believe you found him so fast this is so exciting

i gave it back to him in a parking lot. i watched his shoulders sag with relief. there was cash in it still - he checked the pocket, and then sheepishly held the money out to me. i didn't take it. i held up my hands. "it's no problem, man. i know you'd do the same for me."

i don't know him, to be honest. i don't know if he is the same kind of person i am. but he nodded at me.

and i know people are good. i know people are good, because the way this story ends isn't surprising. we wave goodbye awkwardly. my friend loops their arm around me.

"i can't believe we got it back to him," they said. "i'm going to be riding that high for weeks."

[dommingateez]

reblog to tell the person you reblogged this from that they are deserving of love and affection

[wanderlustedink]

click.

i hear it working, softly, loudly. she’s laughing, leaning against the edge, while the water rises to the backs of my knees.

she’s not paying attention to me. she hasn’t, in a while, actually. but i’ve been paying attention to her. i like capturing beautiful things.

dory always said just keep swimming. but it’s kind of hard sometimes. because well, for one, i hate swimming. and two, it’s fucking hard when the current’s always against you.

brrr. the polaroid slips out the top, pictureless. i press it against my shirt, my middle school band shirt. and it reminds me, how bad i was at my instrument. and how anxious i’d get when we were called out.

but i loved it. god, i loved it. i never stopped driving forward in there.

huh. i remove the picture from my shirt. maybe driving can be a replacement for swimming. her dark hair is falling in wet waves, laughing at someone else, my yellow sunglasses propped against her thick hair. her elbows are against the edge, and i notice the changes. like the remains of makeup, the new eye bags, the way the laugh falls a little. and i wonder, how easily a life can be drained.

i mean, the other day, i saw my mother pull out a slender roll and catch red to it. i saw her set risk to her lungs and i didn’t say a thing. because i was still wondering.

how easily a life can be drained.

she’s next to me now. we’re in the car. i’m driving. she’s choosing the music.

“it just does that sometimes,” i say when she asks about why the engine doesn’t turn on immediately. “when my dad drove it, he would pause for a second and tell me to give it time. it always worked after a bit.”

finally, the engine starts. “should we just keep driving?” i ask, despite reaching our neighborhood.

she smiles. again, that droopy one. i liked the childish ones. the ones from fifth grade wearing shirts with cheesy sayings and leggings with fun patterns.

we have a sleepover. my mom has already left, or maybe she is still asleep. maple syrup, coffee, for breakfast. i always stack my pancakes. a cylindrical shape, drizzle the syrup, cut it with a fork. she eats them with her fingers, one by one.

and i think, they’re not as good. they’re not as good as when my mom makes them. and i think, how can box mix taste different just when it’s made by a different person?

i set my fork down. i think about the paper roll again and i think — i think, despite all this, i will always love you.

we’re driving again. to school this time. and i think of the quote again, just keep swimming. and i wonder, how long will we stay above the surface?

i wonder, how long can we hold back the rain? how long can we hold darkness in withheld clouds?

we’re minutes away.

but then again, we are minutes away from everything. we are minutes away from falling off the edge. we are minutes away from falling out of orbit. we are minutes away from drowning.

and i want to google, how do you know if something’s wrong?

but i can’t. i won’t.

because this is life. this is stupidity. this is tea with cyborgs, science and edibles, life hacks in bathrooms, toothaches, bad moves, just another monday.

but is it wrong to take a pit stop?

the engine whirs to a lull. we pull to the side. my hair falls around my face in unwashed waves. i wore a t shirt and sweatpants again. she wore a crop top and jeans again.

she blinks. “why’d we stop?”

i look at her, and i see the darkening sky. i remember the weather had a chance of rain. “um. are you okay?” i turn, facing her. “are… are we okay?”

the clouds are plump in the sky. the sun shies away.

“yeah, of course, why?” her eyes are straight ahead. my sunglasses still sit on her head.

“because… i don’t know. we’re best friends. we always have been. it just…” i inhale. “it feels like we’re old childhood friends who are always… always standing on different edges of a broken bridge. like we don’t know how to get back to each other anymore.” i look up, trying to find the right words. where are the right words? when were we ever able to find the right words?

she stares at me. “but, but we are best friends.”

i shake my head. the sky is darkening. “we are. but that’s just a label. it just doesn’t… feel like it.” i lean back on the headrest. i breathe in, and i wonder how i can find the girl in pigtails and patterned leggings again. “tell me how to get back to you.”

the clouds burst.

[hldailyupdate]

"I think people have so much guilt with things that they don't necessarily need to have guilt with. It's your right to protect the space around you and be protective of yourself and look after yourself. I think it was a moment where it's not necessarily my place to make someone else's experience about me, but it's just wanting to reassure them that I was listening."

-Harry on Matilda. (20 May 2022)

via NPR

[monsteronthehill]

it’s hard out here for us mirrorball, nothing new, right where you left me, & matilda girlies

[wanderlustedink]

when harry styles said “we held darkness in withheld clouds” and “so you tie up your hair and you smile like it’s no big deal” and “i know you feel like a part of you’s dead inside” and “as long as you can let them go” and

[wanderlustedink]

look at yourself today. whatever time — 10 am 2 pm 8 pm 12 am.

look at yourself and know, this is the body you picked at, that everyone else picked at. that this is the person you scrutinized every detail of and every motion of. look at your heart, see how it is broken and bruised and barely holding on, the stitches crossing over one another like a path that has no destination.

look at yourself and know — you are still alive.

you may not feel it, may not know it, but you are. as alive as the flowers growing between the cracks. as alive as the sun on a cloudy day, breaking through. as alive as the snow angels still molded from the snowy day.

maybe you’re struggling. but you’re alive, and you’re here. this is the body you’re stuck with, so please take good care of it. your mind, your soul, your heart, your legs, you kind face and small smile. they’re all you, they’re a temple —

please take care of them.

[wanderlustedink]

why do the days when we were traced by chalk feel like the best days of our lives?

[wanderlustedink]

i think about you all the time.

not about you that way, necessarily. you’re someone that is thought about by me. you’re no less important, though. i spend an awful lot of time thinking about you.

thinking about how that conversation could’ve been better. thinking about how when the third party left, wishing it could’ve been the same. but it wasn’t. it felt awkward.

speaking of which, the third party’s quite obviously, the one who always has something to say. something to put out there, something to give to the world.

and sometimes i don’t talk to you because i think you don’t like talking to me. i think you don’t want to talk to me. but then again, i don’t want to tell you this to simply explain myself, because i don’t want to you to think i’m having a pity party.

because i’m not. i just want to explain myself.

i’m turning in circles again. the wormhole’s getting deeper.

please don’t hate me.

[wanderlustedink]

she wants to pluck flowers and dry them so she can use them as bookmarks. she wants to print all the colors and all the art in the world so maybe her room has a personality she doesn’t.

she wants to wear pretty vintage dresses and run through a field of sunflowers, she wants to feel the sun on her skin, because she was almost dead yesterday and could die tomorrow but hell, if she could just feel alive today.

she wants to make her life beautiful, she doesn’t want to care about her body hair or the way her hair looks or the things she thinks when she appears, ghostly, in front of a mirror.

she wants someone to hold her hand and ask why she looks as if she’s about to cry, she wants someone to hold her close and ask if she’s okay. she wants to be there for someone the way they are for her, she wants to be loved and love with no limits.

because isn’t it such a beautiful feeling? to be in love. in love with life. in love with yourself. in love with you.

and she’s screaming, crying, because she can’t have that, she doesn’t have that.

her heart twists. how does she stop this? how long can she stay on the surface, pretending everything’s okay when she knows that if she dove deeper she’d only find pain pain and more pain?

because really. she’s just a dead sunflower, wilting into browns. because really. she’s too tired to even turn her head to the sun anymore. because really. she just wants someone to notice and that this pain would just stop.

and it hurts. so much.

[inkskinned]

a world where you cannot see faces. they are a blur to everyone. the way we watch for body language is by watching hands. we know what a smile sounds like, but the image slips away. 

except: love. the people you love. you only know the eyes of your parents, of your sister. you only have seen the faces of your aunt who always stops by for wine.

the first time you saw brown eyes it was in your mother. for a long time you thought she was the only person with eyes like that. like oak trees. you thought it was the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen. later when you were in forth grade you’d meet a boy who had eyes like a fawn. you’d help him not reverse his letters. and you’d stare at his eyes in awe.

you meet your best friend because you both see each other’s nose first, and then the picture develops. she has a wild set of teeth and you love her for that, for how she smiles so big that it blinds you. her cheeks have the only freckles you’ve ever met, and that makes them golden.

you meet people slowly. sometimes you can catch small moments on trains, in cities, in dark theaters. the momentary love of a person who lets you cut them in line - a little shadow on their cheekbone. the flash of a wink from a store clerk. it’s gone before you can tack it down, but it leaves you blushing for a long time after.

the first girl you kiss has acne scars. you settle your hands on them. she is beautiful and flawless. she helps you figure out your math problems. she sees everyone’s face, because she loves everyone. it is different for her, because she’s aromantic. she’s the kindest mathematician you’ve ever met.

a world where beauty doesn’t exist. you only know the faces of the ones you love and that’s it. they are beautiful because they’re yours. because you love them. because seeing them for the first time changed everything.

the first time you meet her, you freeze. it’s the way her eyelashes look while she reads. your heart tries to break through your chest and kiss her pink lips (you can see her lips!) and your hands shake. you settle for walking by her table only to trip. she doesn’t laugh. she asks you if you’re okay. you want to say: i am now. i am now. god, what a perfect face you have.

your face, in the mirror, sometimes clear, often not. sometimes you don’t look at all, worried about what you’ll find there. you think - maybe i have a straight nose? but you’re not sure. it is hard for you. a lot. but one day, after a bad night you somehow survived: you catch sight of your eyes. brown like your mother’s, full of light and amber, a smile at their corners. and you think: it’s nice to meet you. and you never forget. you’re beautiful too. even if you don’t always see it.