god. GOD. the underlying anger in everything terry writes really IS apparent in hogfather bc fuck u mean this is how things should be? no the fuck it shouldn't. poor people shouldn't have to be satisfied with what they get, that's just fucking capitalism. i REALLY like that terry decided to use death as projection for what he thinks bc death doesn't know anything and it has to be explained to him and by it being explained to him it shows how fucking stupid those things are. bc ok here's this world where an equivalent of santa ACTUALLY exists and, because it mirrors our world, it's still unjust. santa actually fucking exists in this world and he could give ANYONE ANYTHING bc he's essentially a god and people gave him that power by making him up, BUT because ppl imagined him in a way that poor people don't get shit (like they usually do) and rich people get EVERYTHING they want, he exists like that. whereas death has seen the absolutely WORST of humanity and he STILL thinks that's bullshit and it's not how it should be, it's just how it goes. bc capitalism is always capitalism where there's money and the world will always be fucked up as long as there are oppressor to hold it up. like i just.
3K notes
·
View notes
After Wilson dies, House wears his McGill sweatshirt for weeks, refusing to take it off except to shower every once in a while. Eventually, it stops actually smelling like Wilson, but if House brings the worn fabric up to his nose and takes a deep breath with his eyes closed, he can trick his brain into thinking he can still smell him. At night, he soaks the threadbare collar with the salt from his tears as he pulls it up over his eyes. He presses the fraying sleeves against his lips and resists the urge to pull the strings out with his teeth. Eventually, the red lettering starts to crack, and he ends up curled into a ball, refusing to move so that he doesn't risk damaging it more. The fabric becomes so thin that he can see his thumb through the other side when he pushes on it, and that's how he knows its time. He decides he wants to be buried in it.
504 notes
·
View notes
grief is an interesting concept. when things happen that are out of your control and youre forced to grieve, there is no right way to do it. you’ll have people who tell you the “best ways” to grieve, or even the usual “top ten ways to grieve”. but, in reality, nobody can tell you how to, because this grief is your own. you are human, you are allowed to grieve and nobody can tell you the right way to. an analogy i like to use is the ball button grief analogy, which is the one where you imagine a little ball that is hitting against a button. that button is your grief. when the grief begins, when its first happened, the ball is big and is constantly just hitting that button because it has nowhere else to go. however, as time goes on, the ball gets smaller, but the button is still there. the button never leaves, despite how much you can try to get rid of it, the button will always be there. as time goes on, the ball starts to hit the button less as it gets smaller, but less doesn’t mean its gone forever. there may be a day where the ball hasn't hit the button in a long while, and you even may think its strange how you dont feel as affected as you used to years ago, but then on a random tuesday years after the grief happened, the ball hits the button and you feel it as intensely as you did in the first place, because grief never really goes away. however, its managing with the grief and living through it instead of trying to “get over it” is what matters the most. thats what dealing with grief is for me
grief is always with you, and it can be beautiful too. take care of yourselves <3
1K notes
·
View notes
Something I genuinely don't have an answer to is why people who are born with disabilities that impact them for life and can't work because of those disabilities are treated as not-even second-class citizens, not just by their own families and peers, but by the very law itself. At best, we're treated as case numbers and statistics-- at worst, we're treated like barely-sentient objects.
I have tried, again and again and again and again, to find the answer to that, that isn't just a one-word answer (that is, ableism), but every search gives me no clear-cut results as to why this is the case. No opinion pieces. No academic or economic papers. No specific laws as to what defines what makes a person financially worth less when they are unable to work-- people who, often, need more financial help than their workable peers to cover medical costs. Why people who are unable to work are unable to marry without risking losing every benefit they have, be it Medicaid, SSI, or in some cases, even food stamps, even if both partners are under the federal poverty line.
I don't want a nebulous, one-word answer, even if I know that's what it boils down to. I want details. I want specific laws and rulings and reports.
And, furthermore, I want action from lawmakers and legislators to give people who have been disabled-- be it from birth or from an accident-- to be on equal financial footing with their able-bodied and/or neurotypical peers.
909 notes
·
View notes
“What are you looking at so intently?” says Engie like any good Texan boy would, all fluttering eyelashes and blushy grins despite the fact his eyes are behind half a centimeter of tinted glass. Medic puffs out his lips into a little pucker, then smooths back out, and Engie glints with satisfaction at just the lightest dusting of pink that rises to his cheeks.
He makes sure to be just a little extra slow and sultry when he leans over and plucks a beer from the case by his recliner-chair. “See somethin’ ya like?” By which he means: you're staring for a good reason, please, god, aren't you? But he’s too respectful and upstanding to say that, though he considers himself certainly talented at this whole implications thing, and the deep mauve Medic turns when he tosses just a slightly inflected look in his direction indicates he must get the general idea.
“Well—hoo, well.” He spends two seconds frankly adorably stumbling through his words and then that gloved hand darts out and there’s rubber around Engie’s wrist, two long, thick fingers barely touching thumb-to-pointer in a little ring. “I was—er…”
He rescinds the hand, temples his fingers under his chin, caught between sitting and standing and settling in a weird in-between as Engie watches, fascinated. “I was just… thinking… about your heart. And your lungs.” He tilts his head. “And, in a small measure, your brain, I suppose. Er, imagining your breathing, and your circulation, and the oxygen flowing in and out of your limbs, and… so on. Drawing your veins in my mind and, and such.”
… Huh. Maybe he misread the situation.
And he keeps just stumbling through, pushing up his glasses every few seconds, still perched on his heels with his arms wrapped around his knees. “You’re a—private man. I have not seen much of you besides what I have been able to—have the company require,” and his voice pushes up a few notes on the last word, and well he’ll be damned if it’s not the cutest thing he’s ever seen, “but I… think about you.”
He lowers his voice just a little for this one, reclining down onto his back. “Oh, you do.”
“You have a very impressive set of lungs. Even for all the, er, damage." Engie frowns and Medic puts his hands up. "That's a compliment."
"Uh-huh."
"And your heart is a perfect specimen. Strong, and healthy… pulsing with vitality," and his eyes bug out just a little on the last line. "I was almost upset to have to cut it out of you… until, well…"
Ain't that interesting. "Until?"
He smiles sheepishly, wringing his hands together with a frankly disgusting sound of rubber against rubber. “… I may or may not have kept your original heart in a jar. With my other personal possessions.”
He mentally re-catalogues everything of interest in the lab, mentally travels to Medic’s big mahogany former-bookshelf, stacked top-to-bottom with preserved organs in jars, and sees a lot of hearts. A lot of hearts. But, then again, his mind is drawn back to a smallish mason jar near the front, suspiciously unlabeled, amidst rows and rows of perfectly organized bits and pieces.
Yeah, sure.
He's sure Medic is approaching this more from scientific curiosity than any particular angle he'd prefer, but heat's rising to his face before he knows it and frankly he doesn't really feel like putting in the effort to quell it.
And just to press the envelope that tiny bit further, he ventures: "Well I'll be darned if that's not the most romantic thing I've ever heard."
Medic turns the color of his tie. Engineer's sure he follows suit.
158 notes
·
View notes