me: i know we just met but im in love with you

stray cat whos letting me pet her: meow meow meow

this is MAYA. she is ROBUST. and PLUMP. and we LOVE her.

THANK YOU for these tags!

that urge to climb the rooftop of ur house. where does it come from.

the gargoyle instinct

unquenchable desire to be the protag in an indie film about teenage disillusionment

All of my problems are at ground level

My inner desire to become Batman.

when aang is happy: air nomad

when aang is in the avatar state: air verymad

when aang destroys the cabbage guy’s cart (again): aye mybad

mods are asleep post illegal lego building techniques

this is heresy

this is good

you’re in her dms im hiding from something following me in the Paris catacombs

Need any help there

get out of her dms and come save me

Be careful what you say in there, some of the skulls still have their jaws and will tell your secrets to whom ever will listen

they’re telling me mortal kombat 2 cheat codes

hi there, my name is logan. (~: 

i was informed by my therapist yesterday afternoon that while i have a good chance of being approved for disability, my case is at a standstill right now because of the pandemic. it’s out of both of our hands at this stage, and we can’t do anything to make the case advance during this time. i have zero income, and can’t drive & my roommate is w/o a car at the moment due to a car crash we got into in january. he’s still struggling w/ lawyers & the local police, also being hindered due to the pandemic.

if you are interested in, or able to help during this time, i appreciate it wholeheartedly, as i know how tough it is. if you’re unable to help monetarily, reblogs make a huge impact, as well as support & kind words. thank you so much for your time and consideration <3 please, please keep yourselves safe out there. wash ya hands.

paypal.me/slapnutbongo | slapnutbongo@gmail.com

I’ll never forget my first pride.

I can’t remember my actual age, but it was in the range of 10 to 13 I think. my parents had dragged me to a Pride festival, and walked across the street from the main event, across where the lines were drawn, to where a sea of people in red shirts that read “god has a better way” tried to drown out the celebration with speakers blasting christian music, and shouting and loud praying.

the leaders pulled all us kids to the side and gave us the spiel. they told us how the rainbow had been stolen from us, and that these people were tricked by the devil and just needed prayer, but that if we didn’t save them, they were going to hell.

I rolled my eyes because I already didn’t believe in god, and although I barely knew what being gay was, I knew my parents were usually on the Wrong side of things, and I shouldn’t be siding with them.

“We aren’t allowed over there if we’re wearing the red shirts,” the leaders told us, “so we’re sending people over in secret without them so you can pass out tracts and pray for people. they won’t talk to us, but they’ll talk to the kids. does anyone want to volunteer?”

the people in red shirts disgusted me. the people on the other side of the line were cheering and having fun. I raised my hand.

we were supposed to go in groups with young adults, to make sure we were doing what we were supposed to be. I wandered off the minute I could and stood nervously at the edge of a crowd, watching on as people went by, happy and unbothered by the protests across the street. I felt a little pride myself in tricking the protestors into giving up a witness spot to me, when I was going to smile on and think profanities at god instead.

there was an older woman standing outside the crowd too. she asked if I was here with anyone, a girlfriend maybe? I said no, my parents were across the street. she nodded, and said she was here with her kid. a daughter, that she came to support, but couldn’t keep up with in the crowd.

I almost cried. I told her how amazing that was, because I couldn’t imagine my mother showing support like that to me over anything, much less something as serious as Being Gay. I imagined if I was gay, and at a pride event just like now, but this time because I Belong.

I knew automatically that my mother, without a doubt, would still be in the same place, across the street.

I got hungry after a bit, and tried to find a good food truck. I had a little money and I was unused to being on my own like this, but I didn’t want to go back to the Other Side. I knew now without a shadow of a doubt, this was the Good side and that was the Bad side.

as I was eating the gyro I got, there was a stream of red shirted protestors trickling through; I had reached the end of the boundaries, and the protestors were allowed in here. I backed up a little, spotting my dad among them. I didn’t want him to tell me to go back.

there was a line of women closing ranks around the Pride attendees, separating them from the protesters as they walked through. they spread their arms out and told every person the protesters spoke to that they were not obligated to respond, they could walk away and not engage.

my dad spotted me back, and made a beeline over. he couldn’t cross over because a butch lesbian stood between us. I didn’t know what those words meant, but I never forgot the buttons she was wearing.

he tried to tell me that it was time to go. “you’re not obligated to speak to him,” the butch said, cutting him off and edging further between us. I smiled at her, a little in wonderment. no one had ever told me that I didn’t have to speak to my parents, or do anything other than blindly obey them. I watched my dad get held behind a line by a woman half his height, with no intention on letting him get to me, and I smiled and walked away.

I didn’t have a clue who I was then, and I wouldn’t for a good few years to come. but I never forgot the supportive mother, who symbolized to me everything a mother should be, that mine, for all her religious self righteousness, would never hold a candle to. I never forgot that she was the person I wanted to be, and my mother was the person I did not want to be.

I never forgot the butch who stood between me and my dad, and for the first time ever, put the idea in my head that I was ALLOWED to make my own choices in my beliefs, and made me feel protected in a way I hadn’t known I needed.

the image of her standing between me and my dad, being a physical barrier to protect me against any potential threat, that inspired the image of who I admired and wanted to become. it inspired the version of me who could stand up to my dad - to the point that I could hold my ground and educate him enough that over a decade later, he walked side by side with me at a pride festival, with no intent of witnessing to or condemning anybody.

pride month may be over, but the impact this month and these events can have is so damn important. I became who I am because of two people I met at a pride festival. I’ll never forget.

This is cool but I’d be terrified if someone blocked me from getting to my kid in a parade.

contextually, if a homophobe wants to come drag their kid away from a Pride event back to a homophobic protest across the street, I say let them be fucking scared.

Fam, that’s kidnapping

he could have come over to me if he had taken off his homophobic protest shirt but that mattered more than getting to me :)) he chose to let them block him off because of homophobia. and I was sent over in the first place, and was there of my choosing. don’t really appreciate you dictating my own past, but here let’s be controversial like you’re looking for:

homophobes who try to brainwash their children into hatred shouldn’t have a right to their children.

man really, in addition to all this: the blockade was specifically intended for protection. butch women stood the fuck up and placed themselves between vulnerable people and hateful people.

enormous amounts of LGBTQ child abuse comes from their family. a large man in a homophobic shirt coming towards a child in a Pride event is ENORMOUS cause for alarm.

there is NO ONE more vulnerable than LGBTQ children. I sure as fuck hope everyone would place the safety of a LGBTQ child over a parent’s “claim” to them. be on the right side of the line.

My stage career began when I was a little under two months old, when I took the spotlight as Baby Jesus in a Christmas pageant. I’m told that I did a wonderful job and slept calmly through the whole thing, which can only speak to my talents as an actress, because I was 1. the wrong gender 2. a colicky screaming demon of a baby and 3. about as far from divine as it’s possible for an allegedly-human child to be. 

I continued to be actively involved in theater as a kid (and frequently played roles of various small animals, because I was tiny for my age). Around the age of ten, I was cast as the lead character in a musical about cowboys that I no longer remember the name of. It was my first real lead role, and I took it very, very seriously. And because I am myself, that means I maaaaybe went…a little overboard.

My character’s introduction was early in the play, accompanied by the crack of a bullwhip. This was more-or-less pre internet (or, at least, our director was not tech-savvy enough to find sound effects online) and we didn’t have a sound effect track for that noise. There were plans to acquire the appropriate sound effect before opening night, but I rapidly tired of making my entrance during rehearsals to the sound of someone yelling “BULLWHIP NOISE!”

This, I thought to myself, is a problem I can solve.

I learned early in life that it’s good to be friends with people who have skills; they always come in handy eventually.  After rehearsals one day, I put on my cowboy boots and biked a couple miles over to my friend Grace’s house. I went down to their basement and knocked on her older brother’s door.

“Hello,” I said. “I need to learn how to use a bullwhip.”

“….Okay,” he said. It did not seem to occur to him that he might ask further questions about why I, a tiny horrible munchkin composed exclusively of rage and pointy elbows, needed to be weaponized any further. Clearly, I had come to the right person.

My friend’s older brother would have been an SCA nerd, if SCA was a thing where we were. Instead, he was one of those unsupervised 4H kids with weird hobbies, largely oriented around ancient forms of combat. He was somewhere in his late teens at this time, and he liked to make stuff. It was an urge I, even at age ten, could sympathize with. His name was Aron. 

Aron got out his bullwhip (which I had noticed hanging on his wall on a prior visit, and had filed away mentally under a for future use tab) and we went to the backyard. 

“Step one of using a bullwhip,” Aron began, “Swinging the bullwhip.” 

We rapidly discovered that since I was god’s tiniest, angriest creation, a full-size bullwhip was way too long for me to use. Aron’s shins suffered for my attempt. 

“…Step one of using a bullwhip,” Aron said, “Making a bullwhip.”

So we went back inside, found a tanned cowhide (that he just…had? I don’t remember if there was a reason for this.) and some razor blades, and I learned how to cut and braid a bullwhip. It took a few tries, and I wound up coming back for a while, because I kept getting frustrated with the bullwhip-braiding process and Aron kept distracting me with bait like: “Hey kid, wanna learn to make some chainmail?” and “Hey kid, wanna fletch some arrows?” and “Hey kid, wanna try doing horseback archery?”

Obviously the answer to these questions was “BOY, WOULD I EVER!” Some delays are necessary to the artistic process.

(At one point my mom asked me “Hellen, what are you doing over at Grace’s house all the time?” And I, perfectly innocent, said, “Making weapons!” and my mother, who never understood why I was like this, but accepted that a girl has needs and those needs occasionally involve stocking a personal armory, said “Okay! Have fun!”)

Soon, the bullwhip, size extra small, was finished. The lessons on actual bullwhip use commenced. 

It should be noted that Aron was self-taught, and really had no idea what to do, so this was mostly an exercise in the two of us standing twenty feet apart and flailing wildly with our respective whips until snapping noises happened. And then we figured out what we’d done to make the snapping noises. And then we kept doing that. Extremely vigorously. So vigorously that at one point one of the bullwhips launched into the air and caught on a tree branch and we hand to drag the trampoline over so Aron could bounce me high enough to grab it. But we persisted!

Eventually we reached a point where we could line up pop cans on a fence rail and hit them off three times out of five.

Feeling extremely accomplished and like I finally understood method acting, I packed my bullwhip into my backpack for the next play rehearsal. Soon enough, it was time for me to make my entrance. 

I leaped on stage in my cowboy boots and cracked the bullwhip as hard as I could, immediately launching into the song despite the fact that the sound of five feet of braided leather breaking sound barrier had startled the accompanist so badly she’d keysmashed on the piano.

The director shouted something she probably shouldn’t have shouted in a room full of small children, and then demanded, “WHERE DID YOU GET THAT!”

“I made it!” I declared proudly. “I’m a cowgirl! I can make my own bullwhip noise!”

“You…made it?” 

“Yes! Because we needed a bullwhip sound effect. And bullwhips are where bullwhip sound effects come from!”

This was, of course, impeccable logic.

It is apparently difficult to argue with a gleeful ten year old who happens to be armed with a bullwhip longer than she is tall. After some negotiation, the director agreed that I could use my bullwhip for my opening song, provided that I didn’t pop it while anyone was anywhere near me on stage and I didn’t let anyone else play with it. These terms were acceptable to me. 

Somehow, no one was injured and the play went off without a hitch. We can only chalk up these things to the magic of the theatre. 

Nearly a decade later, an unsuspecting college classmate asked me, “Hellen, wanna take a class on bullwhip combat with me?”

And obviously I answered, “BOY, WOULD I EVER!”

Explaining this to kids usually isn’t as hard as people think it is! 

cultural posturing elves with superiority complexes are way out, now we’re doing elves who literally cannot stop adopting other species and imparting elvish wisdom on them

because elves have a very low fertility rate to counterbalance their remarkable longevity, to the point that childbearing elves are lucky if they’re able to get pregnant, say, more than twice a century

but some elves just want to Nurture and they’ve noticed that adoption is a pretty sick deal, and that their human neighbors in particular always seem to have a veritable cornucopia of orphans sitting around in need of shelter and food and loving guidance and someone to teach them the finer points of communing with nature. 

elves reaching out to their human neighbors nervously for guidance because their beautiful adopted human son has decided he wants to get married but he’s only 25, he’s only completed one apprenticeship, he’s so young, is that really normal? are they sure? are they sure sure?

a 400 year old elf eagerly introducing her friends to her younger siblings: a 100 year old elf, 55 year old human, 27 year old tiefling, and 12 year old human. 

elf parents spending centuries proudly maintaining large and convoluted family trees where some of their great grand-kids are older than their most recently adopted children. elves highly prizing sprawling systems of family that span species and culture and share everything they can with each other. 

I’m just. I really charmed by the idea of elfin culture having the potential to be remarkably set in its ways, since they lack the relatively quick generational turnover of other species, but instead being almost infinitely open-minded and fluid to accommodate the needs of their many adopted community members. 

even elves who have left home to become professional adventurers aren’t immune to this; no wandering elfin bard or warrior is going to pass up a perfectly good opportunity for adoption. it’s relatively commonplace to run into adventuring parties followed by one or two or five wayward children in tow, on the way to the elf’s parents to deposit those kiddos for safekeeping. the rest of the party are a little confused about whether their elf friend is those kids’ parent now, or if their parents will be considered the parents and that makes the elf in question a big sibling now, or what. the elf shrugs it off. they’re family, what do the specifics matter? 

it’s a fantasy meme that elves will see an orphan sitting around and ask if anyone’s going to adopt them then not wait for an answer.   

and they’re all considered elves which means that within like. a generation or two? the word ‘elf’ starts to become more of a broad cultural descriptor than a specific species. there’s an orc on the elfin high council, and at first visiting dignitaries assume that, obviously, she was adopted by elves. but no, actually she was raised by a lovely human/lizardman couple, but both of them come from adopted elf families, which makes them elves by association, and obviously the grandparents would never allow anyone to imply that their cherished granddaughter isn’t an elf just because she happens to be an orc.

after a few centuries of this calling someone an “elf” means “someone somewhere in their family was probably an elf at some point, don’t worry about who it was.” 

aight im drunk im 22 im cis im 99% sure this is a trans guy meme but,,, i experiuence this too dont worry this is a male experience i love u all ur wonderful and strong

I meant to add captuons like ur calid and all thar shit vut i hit the wronfg button oops

I wasn’t actually going to reblog this UNTIL I seen this reply… Thank u random drunk 22 year old cis man I appreciate you

A list of things I’ve thought of since encountering the Jon Becomes a Teacher AU

-Yes, he may be terribly unqualified to be a teacher, but he is a literal encyclopedia and can/does Know everything he needs to about a given subject. Which would be great if only he could

A) Not spiral out into digressions every time someone asks a question (the students catch on quick)

B) Not throw in a bit of Terrible trivia about any given important writer/author/poet the curriculum claims he has to teach them.

“Out of the list I can spot twelve racists, three anti-Semites, five who believed women were property, three who fought to keep child slavery active, and this one married his sister. So, you know. Grain of salt with all these fine gentlemen.”

-When students and faculty inevitably broach the topic of his many, many, many scars, Jon gives up on lying—Martin made it very clear he cannot bluff an alibi to save a life (“A butterknife, Jon? Seriously?”)—and tells as much of the truth as he can. Leading to:

“So, what are all the spots?”

“Bug bites.”

“?? Bug bites don’t scar?”

“Exotic species. Work-related accident.”

“Oh. Then what about the burn?”

“Also work-related.”

“The multiple stab wounds?”

“Work.”

“…Your work as an archivist?”

“It’s a surprisingly competitive field.”

-No one can tell how old he is. He’s got a millennial face, but so much grey in his hair it’s almost white, and eyes so sunken he looks like he hasn’t slept since 2005, and he talks like he came out of a different century half the time. The older folks on staff ask how he keeps so spry, walking around in front of the room so much and not bothering with the desk chair.

“Pays to keep on your feet, just in case.”

“In case of what?”

He looks at them, unblinking. Mr. Sims never blinks.

“Work-related accidents.”

They don’t press the matter.

-The whole, ‘no one can lie or keep quiet if he asks them a question’ thing still holds. It makes for some overly honest and very interesting schooldays when you can’t BS the excuse for why your assignment is late, or whether or not you actually understand the material. Jon tries to keep it reined in; a hard task when half the job of being a teacher is engaging the class with questions. He has to speak in declarations—“Describe the use of the symbol in X,” “Compare the parallel arcs in X character’s progression versus Y.”

He keeps this up until some of his students speak with him after class, thanking him for (somehow) helping them to articulate their thoughts clearly. These are the students who usually mumble, stutter, and generally have trouble putting what the feel into coherent packages. They remind Jon of himself at that age.

He asks more questions—purely about the day’s subject—and is happy to find it’s true on all counts: Every student he asks to speak on the topic, they articulate their view beautifully. In their own voices, but universally smooth, comprehensible, and clear. The same goes for their essays and general writing assignments. As and Bs all around, including the students who usually struggled in such topics or thought themselves incapable of producing anything worth reading.

He’s both lauded and a bit envied by others in the English department.

Jon goes home beaming on days when he hands papers back.

-He can, has, and will continue to immediately walk right out of the classroom or the teacher’s lounge if he Beholds something bad happening on school grounds. Bullying? Teacher being an asshole to their class or one student in particular? Fight broke out? Some kid having a medical emergency out of sight? Something worse? Jon’s gone mid-lecture or mid-coffee, and then Jon’s there, with whatever help is needed.

People start half-jokingly theorizing that he’s psychic, ha ha.

It isn’t until after a few confrontations with students who were expelled for violence and teachers who were fired for gross misconduct (all filmed, all full of confessions Mr. Sims Archived out of them) that the joke dies. Because Mr. Sims never has to throw a punch to get these situations to defuse. He just has to Look and ask a question. Always the same question.

“How do you think they felt?”

And, according to the assorted aggressors, they suddenly Know exactly how their victims felt. One of them, an especially aggro young man, manages to pull a knife and stab him. The knife stays in his shoulder. Jon winces, but honestly, it’s nothing compared to a Slaughter blade.

“Hmm.” He plucks it out. The wound is already gone. He Looks at the young man, pocketing the blade. “This is mine now.”

The young man does not argue and does not come back after the police take him away.

No assignments ever come in late after that.

-Everyone is dumbfounded when Martin shows up one day, bringing in the satchel with all Jon’s lesson plans (and lunchtime statements) to the classroom.

“Who was that?”

“My husband.” (I imagine this taking place after they’d made things official, or at least decided to throw in one more bit of harmless bullshit on the CV)

No one can quite reconcile Mr. Jonathan ‘Cryptid in Tweed’ Sims being married to a man who looks like what would be summoned from a circle of teddy bears, knitwear, and tea kettles.

-Eventually, yes, the students do enough Google-fu to discover sizable chunks of fucked up history to do with Jon’s former life. Jurgen Leitner’s murder comes up. Jon can feel them wanting to ask about it en masse, sighs, and:

“For those of you who are curious, which is everyone in this room bar Henrietta, Maria, and Joseph, yes, I was involved in the murder investigation of Jurgen Leitner.”

“…You were really a suspect?”

“Of murdering Leitner? Yes. But I was cleared of that one.”

That one. That one.

“There were no other charges, since you’re all wondering. You’d need a body for that.”

Mr. Sims smiles at them, Eyes bright.

“I’m open to other questions.”

“…When was the Voltaire assignment due, again?”

“Next Thursday.”

Someone put red paint on the “Serve and Protect” sculpture at the Salt Lake City police building and it is such a powerful statement.

“Good art should disturb the comfortable and comfort the disturbed.” -C.A.C.

A Friendly Guide for Locating Your Rogue When They’re About To Get Up To Some Shit Again 

Step 1) Give your Rogue A Unique Little Gift they will be forced to keep on their person at all times.

Step 2)