Barbie: extremely driven narrative with clarity and focus and streamlined design that always pushes the message the director wanted to give, while making room for fun and for serious at the same time, full of diverse cast and characters
Oppenheimer: literally none of that
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had a cup of coffee last night — i do not usually drink coffee, not for any big reason, just because deviations from my routine have to be planned and when other drinks are on offer i default to the one i am most familiar with, and because i don’t usually drink coffee i didn’t realize that the caffeine would actually make my brain function the way that i am now certain my brain should be functioning. like i usually take an entire day to shower or cook or whatever it is but i cleaned the entire apartment and made my salad as well, and there was none of the “lying down for 3 hours for no reason doing nothing” in between? and now i am feeling very tangled and sad because i honestly did not realize my brain full on does work different on a lot of levels, and will need accommodations for things
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I am seeing a lot of comparisons between The Owl House and RW//BY and it is tempting me to make a post discussing why everything RW//BY tries to do that TOH does is far worse compared to TOH.
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. old bones .
(Went for a dig and found another old notes app poem. It’s about dysphoria, so heads up.💜)
.
There is a little girl I’ve hid beneath my bed in boxes, dressed in big clothes.
She’s tucked away within the stacks of old unfolded letters, pressed and tied closed.
(And there are things I wish someone had known to tell her.)
She shrieks and rattles the bed frame most nights, she’s a loud one.
She knows she wasn’t right when she walked the world, she was a proud one.
(She knows she was not made a cavern-dweller.)
She did not like her name then, when called aloud. It hurt her senses,
To feel the world bear down and roar like thunderclouds. She was defenseless.
She did not like the way her body felt lit from without, under the sunlight.
Within she begged for something else, a name for times of drought, a tougher birthright.
(It felt absurd to live set up beside the walking dead.)
But I could live life alive like she was not allowed, her plan backfired.
She gets quiet quickly now, the raving stops and starts. She’s growing tired.
(‘Take over, just for a little while’ is what she always said)
I stole this from her, the body lit without, the sunlit road.
I put her beneath my bed, I stuffed her skin, my fingers borrowed.
(She was the first one here. She has always owned this head)
I crawl down there to meet her there some nights when she is quiet, I tell her stories.
Of college classes, Waffle House, our latest book, those little glories.
She likes them. She’s not sure how she feels about the way we dress,
But that sick uneasy swoop that came with skirts is there with her. It’s laid to rest.
(There are so many things I’ll have to build and learn and witness in her stead.)
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idk how to explain this in a polite way, but just because you saw a cis boy on tiktok wearing a skirt and thigh highs, that doesn’t mean that the “pastel space prince uwu soft boy” subgenre of trans guy has been, like, accepted by mainstream society
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