my other cousins are getting here soon i think, which i am actually extremely excited for, because i’m like 70% sure their parents (or at least their mom) is somewhat transphobic. last time we were here her oldest still deadnamed me and called me his female cousin (there’s a difference of gender in portugese), and when i confronted his parents on it, they explained that it was “too hard to explain it to him since he knew me pre-transition” despite my other cousin, who was the same age as him (aka like, 3) had no problem. he didn’t know me pre-transition. he was 2. he can’t remember shit from back then.
anyways they have another son, who i only met when he was less than a year old or so. so i’m super excited to see if they pull the same bullshit again. uh-huh, i get it. you can’t explain that i’m a boy because your six-month-old remembers me when i wasn’t. except he doesn’t because i’d already started transitioning when i met him. it’d also be especially funny because i’m so far in my transition now. yeah, i’m sure that explaining why his supposedly “female” cousin has a deep voice and facial hair is a lot easier than explaining trans people, susan.
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Friendly reminder that even if the Percy Jackson teaser looks amazing and it talks to our inner child and ofc we have all the right in the world to like it, we shouldn't forget about the wga strike. I don't wanna ruin the party, on the contrary.I'm SO excited for the show…. but its good to also remember what its happening on the real world.
This is just a reminder.Both excitement for the show and concern for the real people can coexist. Don't forget about neither…
EDIT: a person rebbloged this post with important information about why at least for now we shouldnt consider pracy if we want to help the strike. Go check it out.
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i mean this in the like... nicest way possible, but there is no way to post your writing and/or art on the internet without running the very high risk of it getting scraped, whether you post it on tumblr, pillowfort, or ao3. sites being 'anti ai' does not mean your art cannot be scraped. it is simply almost impossible to prevent, much less guarantee that. I'm not saying this to be a pessimist or to stop people from being rightfully pissed about this. it sucks. massively so! but if the idea does in fact bother you that much, you should know that moving sites won't fix the issue. ao3, as far as we know, has been scraped/is getting scraped. you can set your fics so that only logged in users can access them, but it only makes scraping one step more difficult, and by no means impossible and the otw has stated this clearly.
which, again, this sucks! i don't have a great solution either!! but tumblr is relatively honest, at least, when it tells you that it cannot prevent, only discourage it. ao3 said the same thing. any site promising you otherwise is, to the best of my knowledge, lying to you.
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one of the oddest arguments i've ever gotten into was like. i had agreed to give a dude a chance. we were on a first date. and he got. just. so mad. because i had told him i read about 2-5 books a week.
but he found out it was actually that i listen to 2-5 audiobooks. he was dead set on the idea - that's not reading, it's just listening. that i was lying, somehow, by implying i'd "read" the book.
language has a beautiful ability to adapt over time, particularly in the face of technology. when i "connect to the internet" i'm referencing the oldschool method of literally plugging into the internet - which i very rarely physically do. i roll down my window, which is a reference to the circular mechanical action it used to take. hell - the floppy disc remains our resolute save file icon. when i say i "ran to the store," nobody expects me to actually run - and what my version of running to the store looks like and your version are probably pretty different.
i told the guy, baffled: i look at things through glasses, that's still seeing. nobody complains i'm filtering the image.
he says: that's not the same and you know it.
i use audiobooks because i have adhd, and it makes it so i can actually focus. i am using it to help a medically diagnosed condition.
language also has a really cool ability: when we read something, our brains look at a word and make an image. when we hear a story, our brains hear a word and make an image. whether we hear it or read it - the word means the same thing, written or spoken. there is no quantifiable difference in the knowledge-encoding experience - i still happily hallucinate while i'm listening.
and i just kind of stared at him while he was telling me that "claiming" i had "actually read" a book that i had actually-listened-to was lying
and my only baffled response was like: "... are you gatekeeping the experience of... reading?"
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Bob in female fight club au. Thoughts
Probably named Marge
Rather than doing a direct inversion (ie making the character the exact opposite, much tits -> no tits, etc) I think sort of an analogue would work better riffing off the motherly role Bob has, in combination with the group being for uterine cancer/ovarian cancer
The women come together, and they cry, cry, cry, over lost husbands, who left them because they got cancer, because overwhelmingly, men leave if their wife gets cancer, over lost relationships with children, who stayed but resent them, over lost Motherhood, that thing you were told was your worth but now you are told you're shit. Remaining Women Together. Despite. Despite despite despite.
What is it, about purposes. Want to see misery, see women fed their own physical oppression as lost salvation.
Marge, whatever her name is, her husband divorced her, left her with the kids and medical bills stacked as high as she is tall. She is thankful she still has her kids, it makes her feel like she's still worth something. She's had to try and get back into the workforce. No one wants to hire dear former stay at home mother Marge. She shows you her kids in her wallet in her purse and there are no pictures of her. There's a picture of her old husband, which she keeps to show her kids if they ask. They're old enough to go to school now, which is good, because it gives her more time to work. Life is hard, but she's doing her best.
Marge, who is on hormone therapy so she doesn't get those "side effects" she's heard about from other total hysterectomy patients, the future of early dementia and degeneration and horror. Who does pelvic floor exercises in hopes it will minimise the fallout of the surgery. Who carefully rips every hair out of her upper lip and chin because even if it would be normal for a woman, a woman whose gone through menopause, a woman at all — she knows, it's probably the estrogen tipping back over into testosterone, and she can't handle any more losses. She compensates. They all do.
The support group is her Me Time. It is the single hour plus half hour commute she can afford once a week for herself. So she gets here, and she cries, cries, cries, and the others cry with her, all over how their lives have fallen apart since they got ovarian cancer, got breast cancer, and their lives derailed because they can't be proper women anymore.
They cry in their waterproof makeup. Another product to promise womanhood. Identify yourself via consumption. Identify yourself by covering yourself up.
And when she finds fight club. When she finds something that says, jesus fuck. You are more than your children. You are more than your ability to have kids. You aren't a failed woman, that's a sack of shit you've been sold wholesale. When she finds something that promises her she will grow, achieve personhood, not because she was the ultimate martyr mother, not because she played the game of human or woman, but because it promises a freedom from all that, identification and repulsion of such sickening chains. When she stops worrying about her slightly deepened voice, and works to keep her dose even keel for her health, to avoid the toxic highs of accidentally juicing, rather than the lesser effects of a black lip hair or two. When she has a photo, not of herself in her wallet, but of the things she makes with other women from fight club, of the one view of the sunset from that one parking lot that she always thought was wonderful, when she has things in her wallet for her and her enjoyment. When she has corded muscle and a built up spine, when she sits her kids down and explains why they only see dad one weekend every other month, all the fun holidays, because dad decided staying with her through cancer was too hard even when she stayed with him through four lost jobs pissed away in alcohol and lottery tickets.
And Marge, who gets shot by the police on a regulation chill-and-drill assignment for Project Mayhem. Whose obituary in the newspaper talks about the children she left behind, how she battled cancer and kept caring for them, how she was such a strong mother, whose kids would now be shipped off to their grieving father who is so, so brave and stunning for standing up and taking care of the kids he made and dropped as soon as his live-in servant had a few issues. Her name is Marge Paulson, and she was forty-eight years old. She was a person. She will be remembered in the annals of Project Mayhem, lest what little there was of her be stolen from the world. She was killed by Project Mayhem, but they're the only ones who will remember Marge Paulson.
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