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Edible tarantulas made following a tutorial from Christine McConnell. Their names are Clive and Mildred
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In memoriam
Diane Vera and Ray 🎼🌸
Thanks for the sense of rhythm and the green fingers. I miss you every day.
This tattoo was commissioned from Emma at Vivid Ink.
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A pretty unfiltered look at my first week and a bit on a hybrid closed loop
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prague, march 2022
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When people ask, “How can I tell if someone is disabled or just lazy?” I think about my parents.
My parents have known me my whole life. When they’re not actively contemptuous of me, they do seem to be somewhat aware of my general personality and character. In one of his nicer moments, my dad has called me “sweet-natured.” They can tell that when I make them a surprise breakfast or lunch that I enjoy being helpful and doing nice things for people.
They know from watching me grow up that I have always had trouble keeping my room clean, getting homework done, and keeping my desk tidy at school.
The longest I can push myself past my limits is about nine months. Then I collapse and end up less functional than I was before I pushed myself. This has been a pattern throughout my middle and high school years. I would go to public school for about a year, and then collapse and have to do the rest of my education at home. My work history follows this pattern, too.
I once sat in a therapy session with my dad to talk about the constant struggle we were having at home because he wanted me to help out more and do better in school. When he asked me why I didn’t do things, I broke down in tears, because I couldn’t explain it. “I just CAN’T. I want to, and I CAN’T.” Nobody listened.
My mom asked me why I don’t do things, and I said, “I just can’t. I sit there for hours trying to convince myself to do things, and I can’t. Move.”
And she said, “Don’t think about it, just do it,” completely missing the point.
When I got older I found words for the things I was dealing with. I got professionally diagnosed, and I’d look up information about my diagnosis and e-mail articles to my parents explaining what my disability is and why I can’t do things.
My parents have firsthand information about my character (helpful, likes doing things for others) and my history with disability (can’t consistently keep things clean, can’t manage a daily schedule). I’ve talked to them extensively about my diagnosis and given them information about it. They have known me my whole life, and I’ve always been this way. And they still, STILL choose to believe I’m just a bad person who doesn’t try and doesn’t care.
My disability isn’t invisible, people refuse to look at it.
People like problems they can yell at. They like having a target for their frustration. They don’t want to admit disability is real, because they want problems that they can either solve, or blame someone else for. And the disabled person themself is  their scapegoat, someone who can’t ever opt out of their role because the disability is never going to go away.
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Watch "Where have I been and what's going on?" on YouTube
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What would you do if your project vanished?
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When the festive baking goes badly wrong… the biscuit bites back
[Image Descriptions: 1. a gingerbread man being iced on a sheet of baking parchment. 2. A raw gingerbread man. 3. Becci is being attacked by a candy cane weilding biscuit. 4. Binx doesn’t like the evil gingerbread creature either. 5. Becci has the legs on the gingerbread man. Be has been defeated. END]
#krampusgingerbreadman https://www.instagram.com/p/CmUUnK2DjrN/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=
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I love Senate House Library. I love Bloomsbury.
ig: rhiharper
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🐈‍⬛ 📖
BRIGHT STAR (2009) dir. Jane Campion
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sometimes all you need is a wander in your favourite bookstore
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