#y'all would not Believe how many Hours of my Life i poured into this video

[over-dramatic-diary]

the first time i knew i was in love.

I really enjoyed the format of telling y'all a story from my life that defines me as a person. So we're gonna do that again. I give you, the first time I knew I was in love.

I was seeing this young man who we'll call Spencer. So I had been seeing him for about two months, though we had recently decided to only be friends because his mental health was not the best at the moment, and he didn't want to cause himself much else to worry about for that time. But we never were only friends. We kissed and talked deeply, and told each other things we probably shouldn't have. In the end, on the night of his birthday, I had tried to plan a little board game night, but it had been last minute enough that he and I were the only attendees.

So we played stupid games, drank more than we should have for a Tuesday night, and skipped over to a friend's apartment for a brief birthday smoke session. After, we got Canes, where he got a large sweet tea and then proceeded to spill all over his living room. We watched the both most idiotic and funniest sitcom of all time. In the end, we were playing my family's somewhat stupid secret card game, and decided to play Two Truths and a Lie. We got down into the game, and my options were as follows:

I cannot count how many cousins I have on two hands

I broke my spine because I fell off the playground age 8

I've never been in love.

Was the final option somewhat leading? You bet your ass it was. But I believed it to be true. But, as I was getting ready to head home for the night around 1 am, I stood up, Spencer kissed me, and I stopped before heading to the door. I looked at him and told him that I might have fibbed a bit that night. When he asked what I meant, I responded as such:

"I fibbed when I said I've never been in love. Because I think I'm a little in love with you."

I meant it, too. I thought I was falling in love with him.

He kissed me again, and said "Let's leave it at that for tonight." And so I left.

The next day, we had work late together and Spencer asked if I wanted to go to his apartment and watch some tv after rehearsal and just hang out. I swear on the stars, I didn't think anything would come of this hangout other than maybe a short makeout session, and talking. Boy, was I wrong.

We go to his apartment and continue on the aforementioned dumbass tv show. We watch an entire season, and then we start bouncing back and forth cueing up and playing songs that we would show to an alien if they asked us what human music was like. I played Dreams by Fleetwood Mac and You Matter to Me from Waitress. Spencer played Hallucinogenics by Matt Maeson and Lana Del Rey.

I heard a thundercrack outside the window. I check from his balcony, and it was pouring, and the weather app says it's not stopping for hours. I was planning on walking the two blocks back to mine, so I ask him if I could sleep on his couch. He says sure, so we go back to music and stupid videos. I realize something a little while later:

He doesn't have a couch. He has a loveseat. And I am either stoned or bold enough to remark out loud that I just realized that I probably couldn't sleep on his couch. He looks me dead in my eyes and says "Oh. We both know you're sleeping in my bed."

DEAR LORD. I didn't know a man could make me feel so looked at. He gives me sweatpants to wear, and I take my earrings out as he puts on one last episode. He turns the tv off and heads into his bedroom. He takes off his shirt. Then his pants. That's when I knew I would be learning more about Spencer than I thought he would let me.

We get into bed. We kiss. Spencer asks how far I wanna go, and I tell him I want to go his speed, as far and as slow as he wants to. Soon though, there isn't a single layer of fabric between us. We spend the entire night tossing and turning, taking breaks to talk. That man told me things in his bed that I will take to my grave. I shall say no more on the subject, except that we only got about three hours of sleep that night.

It was the first time I had ever made love or spent the night in another man's bed.

I woke up the next morning, and we agreed to hit snooze for five more minutes. I lay my head across his chest, and we hold hands before either of us is fully conscious. Soon, I pick up my head, lean on my elbow, and stroke his chest gently to wake him fully. He turns his head to me, and just as he opens his eyes, he moves them into a shaft of early morning sunlight coming through his blinds.

This is the moment I knew I was in love. Fully and truly and indubitably. I knew because his normally dark and bottomless eyes were suddenly the most intense hue of gold that I had ever seen. It was not a color or a shade or a tint. This gold was far too piercing and sparkling to be anything but its purest form. I will never forget the way they both looked and looked at me.

I am feeling nostalgic and reflective tonight, and I thank you for listening to it.

Goodnight loves.

- Jackson

[blessedarethebinarybreakers]

Here’s the link to the latest video in my YouTube series Disabled AND Blessed -- on the Parable of the Banquet

[image description: two light green textured squares, the first of which has white text reading “new video out at queerly christian on youtube!” with a photo of a white person with short brown hair and a blue shirt and more text reading, “Luke 14: disabled persons are the honored guests at God’s table...will abled people still accept the invite?” The second square has white text reading, “Let’s ponder together” and two white thought bubbles with green text. First thought bubble reads, “If our ‘banquet tables’ (faith communities) fail to include the people whom God's banquet will honor, can we claim to represent God’s Kingdom on earth?” and the second reads, “If people we think are “beneath us” or who make us uncomfortable will eat beside us, and may even have better seats…will we still accept the invitation to God’s table?” / end id]

____________

Jesus tells a story about a host whose original guests make excuses not to come. The host then invites persons with disabilities and poor persons to come fill his table. As in Isaiah 56, we find an image of God's community in which disabled persons participate just as they are, without needing to become abled. But there's even more to this little story, once you start unpacking what the various characters might represent and how we can live into the parable today!

Please feel free to share your thoughts, questions, or concerns on this topic; I'd love to chat! 

#parable of the banquet #disability theology #disabled christians #bible study #faithfullydisabled #disabled AND blessed #image described #parables #reading and studying the bible #y'all would not Believe how many Hours of my Life i poured into this video #hours upon hours of translation and research...hours and hours of editing and transcribing... #so please like. reblog or watch or comment or somethin! i need validation haha #also it's sorta like if someone mixed a bible study and a sermon together so if you weren't able to make it to church today #this might feel like a good alternative? #worship from home

[perylinsus]

Rant

Rant Contents-

Perming hair

Dyeing hair

Cutting hair

Getting piercings

Body weight

Tattoos

CONTAINS ENOUGH HATE AND UN-NEEDED CRITICISM TO LAST MILLIONS OF LIFE TIMES.

Okay, so this rant is gonna be weird as fuck, since it's about my hair and some piercings, but listen as I start talking about my hair. It's weird. It's straight somedays, curly on others, wavy on the others, and a combination of all three, though most of the time it's straight. It's also very, very, very thick and oily. Now, being in the end of my 3rd quarter of 8th grade, I keep telling people at school that I plan on getting a perm over the summer, since everyone is counting the days till then. But when I say perm, I mean tight-curls perm. Not even curls, more along the lines of coils. But everytime. Every. Single. Time. I say anything about getting a perm to someone with wavy/curly hair, they complain about how hard it is and how it'll be so much harder for me since; I'm not used to curly hair, my hair is too thick and/or my hair is super oily. All I want to do is turn and just fucking snap.

The only fucking reason my hair is straight and oily is because of the lice treatments I had to go through. I had those assholes all up on my head for 5 years straight. When I was a kid, I had to straighten my fucking hair everyday just to get it to cooperate. When I was a kid, I was fucking mistaken for a different race. My hair has always been thick, it was always silky and soft and it was in tight ass curls up until I was 5 or 6. I've experienced curly hair my entire life cause my step sister adopted triplet girls with hair that was on the verge of being kinky, but was still considered curly. I do their hair every fucking morning to this damn day. I have since they were adopted at 3 years old and that was 8 years ago. I was in my first year of having lice (I took precautions to make sure they didn't get lice. Luckily, it worked cause they never did).

I wanna fucking snap when people say to not get my hair permed into tight curls cause I won't be able to take care of them. I take care of curly hair every damn morning, 4 AM sharp, listening to babies cry when I only get 2 hours of sleep cause of my damn homework. Everything's good. I cope now, I will always fucking cope.

Two more factors make the complaining worse. Before I perm my hair, I'm getting it colored. Again, more complaining. Things like, "You'll damage your hair!" Or "Why would you color your hair, it's already so pretty." I might be doing two different colors, they might be bright and because of that, I have to bleach and color my hair. Don't get pissed because I don't wanna have basic brunette bitch hair like you (that's aimed at one person, not all brunettes. I luh u). I want to die my hair because I can. I'll perm my hair afterwards because my cousin, aunt and grandma, certified hair dressers, told me it was okay. I'm tryna live my life so back the fuck up.

Next thing, I wanna cut it, too. Before getting a perm, but after coloring it, I'm gonna try and get an undercut. More. Fucking. Complaining. "Sweetie, if you wanna color and cut your hair, you can't perm it. It'll look weird. I've tried it." Bitch. Does it look like I care about what you tried. You're pale, skinny and you have some fake ass lookin blonde hair. I am, on the other fucking hand, a delicious hunk of chubby Mexican (I'm trying to love myself more. Don't judge me). Me and you, we're completely different. I have an ass, some tits and some fat around my waist. You look like a sheet of horny construction paper (that shit feels weird...idk what y'all feel like, I swear). People may retaliate with;

"I'm not saying you'll be ugly, I'm saying curly hair and undercuts don't go well together." What if my main goal is to look ugly? To put shame to my last name (that rhymed bruh). Idgaf what you think. I'm cutting my hair, I'm coloring my hair and I'm perming this shit. I fucking live for coloring my hair, I've done it for the entirety of my middle school life. I miss having an undercut. Living in Florida with some dark ass, thick hair is hard, so the less hair, the easier my life (less shampoo and conditioner too). And my curly hair. I want that shit back. I didn't hate it then, but I also didn't love it, but. I. Want. It. Back.

So, with my hair, back tf up. Now some piercings.

My uncle does piercings for people. Yeah, total fucking pothead, but he's chill and good at his 3 steady jobs. He said, once I get old enough, he'd give me good quality piercings. Because we moved away from him, down to Florida (that was 5 years ago btw. I had ear piercings then. I also temporarily moved up to Michigan for like half a year, when he promised me), he hasn't given me my piercings yet. Over a video call, since he's overseas helping a friend move into a new house, he asked me what piercings I wanted so when he got back (I'd be halfway through my first quarter of freshman year) he could give me my piercings.

As many as I want, for no price at all. He's self employed so it's no problem, however my face/head area is all he'll do. I'm okay with it bc that's all I want. I tell him, with my bff and her bf sitting next to me. Her bf has his friend with him so he can hear me too, obviously. I say both ears and lips, possibly nose. My uncle says ok. He asks me what kind I'm considering for my ears. I say; standard lobe, upper lobe, helix and industrial. That's another ok. Then for my lips. I say; angel bites, snake bites, spider bites or shark bites. Again. Another okay. Then he asks for my nose. I say septum or nostril but the nose piercings weren't definitive. Again. That's okay.

My mom knows about this and she's okay with it. I'm my own person and what I choose to do needs to be dealt with by me. I face my mistakes, or I suffer. I choose to take some pretty bad ending risks but I learned. That's always been my lesson and it won't change. Face the consequences. My bff asks if she could get the same deal as I did. He says no but that he could lower the price significantly. She says okay, definitely happy, and her bf asks the same, getting the same response as my bff (he's cool with piercings. He had some. He just wants more). Now, my bff's bf's friend starts criticizing us, specifically me. We hate eachother so it was expected.

But this asshole. THIS ASSHOLE. Had the audacity to insult me on my choice of piercings. He's anti everything. Anti gays, anti abortion (this one is agreeable), anti Muslim, he's HORRIBLE (his personality filters into this. Believe what you want but if your personality is too evident in your opinion, DO NOT TALK TO ME. Especially if you're stuck up). I'm learning makeup atm so he goes down that road and calls me an ugly whore who deserves to die on the streets. Nice. But...same thing with the hair. I WILL DO WHATEVER I FUCKING WANT TO. IDGAF ABOUT YOUR OPINION. Don't criticize me because I want to get tons of piercings. He went down the path of racism, too, and called me a typical Hispanic bitch. Rebellious and dumb. I have nothing to say to this other than get tf out of my house. I turn to my friends and tell them if they agree with him to leave with him. They're actual friends so they stayed but he had to find his way home in the pouring rain. Don't be an ass to innocent people cause Karma's a bitch.

Anyway, I was called a hippy, spic, typical druggie, shitty person and retard (this word isn't taken lightly in my family. Don't call people that shit).

You know what, let's rant some more.

I'm a chunky motherfucker. I way well over 100 lbs but I ain't too close to 200. I'm almost 14 and I'm kinda short. Still growing, but short.

I have lots of body fat. Obese, depends on your definition of it. Fat, yes, but I can still rock some tight clothes better than anyone else. I've embraced my body fat. Yes, I'm currently researching healthy, lemme repeat, healthy ways to get rid of it, but I've embraced it and I now tell myself I'm cute whether people like it or not. It's strange since I've never done it before but it helps with depression.

Anyway, I'm chubby but I'm working on it. I need to glow up to rock my bullies' motherfucking worlds. This dude, idek who he was, comes up, calls me fat and walks away. I turn around and yell fuck you or fuck off or some shit like that. I'm making my way to class and this other kid trips me. When I hit the ground, he screams earthquake and runs.

I get up and walk my way to class like a civil person. Eventually, my mom, who works at my school, has to take me to the hospital cause I couldn't get up and leave my class at the end of the day. Why, you may ask? Well, I had;

minor whiplash

a sprained wrist

Scrapes on my knee that were so bad, they'll probably scar

My day sucked before that so it only got worse. Besides that, the whiplash is gone, my sprained wrist is healing nicely and it's just my knees that are still fucked up.

All that trouble because some bastard wanted to fuck with me cause I'm chubby. Stop being dicks everyone, unless that's your nickname.

Finally, the last topic. Tattoos. My other uncle, the twin brother of my piercings uncle, is a tattoo artist. Game addict, too, but, like, srsly, unhealthily addicted.

Anyway, if I can't do college, I have a guaranteed spot as a tattoo designer in his parlor. I'm trying to plan for college so it might not happen but, you never know. Besides that, he gave me a deal. As many tattoos as I want, for no price. All because I'm his only blood niece.

I said hell fucking yeah (I got a shoe thrown at me for it). He said as long as I designed them, he'd give me them. Okay, not too bad since I'm a 14 year old with college level art. First, though, I had to tell him what type I wanted. I said I wanted tribal, illustrative and possibly neo traditional.

I have designs for my illustrative tattoos. One for each important person in my life. My older brother, my younger brother, my mom, my grandma, my bff and my 1st dog. I was gonna try and do one for my husband/wife when and if I get married but I was warned about tattooing names of people I'm not related to on my body. Again, I might still do it. Anyway, those are for my illustrative tattoos. Then, comes my tribal tattoos.

I plan on asking my bestfriend and my mom to choose from a set of Moon Glyphs, which symbols best represent me. Whichever common ones they choose, will be hidden in a tribal tattoo on my ribcage. I also want a tribal on the top of my forearm and a tribal band around my bicep. I may just get arrows on the inside of my other forearm.

Neo traditional will probably be a worn down banner with flowers that has a saying in it. In another language, most likely, but there'll be a saying.

Anyway, I told my uncles this and my tattoo artist uncle said he was perfectly okay with it. My mom was chill with it, too, so everything was good. Until my great grandmother got ahold of the information. So many vulgarities.

Anyway, don't be a shithead when it isn't necessary. Let people learn from their own mistakes when said mistakes are revocable.

Luv ya and thanks for reading.