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EVERY SINGLE DAY there are MILLIONS of characters in their late 20s who get falsely accused of being father figures to teenagers when in reality the description of "weird older cousin" or "step-sibling that moved out before you were born" is 1000000x more apt

“Your mom” gone wrong. Not the right person.

this is lowkey so unserious don't kill me. it's a reference to all that stuff about his mother that I am seeing.

On Discomfort and Morality

My father finds gay men uncomfortable.

He's told me before that it's like a knee-jerk for him. Something he doesn't consciously control. He sees two men behaving romantically, and his body reacts with mild discomfort.

In the 1960s, when he was in high school, most of the boys in his form thought he was gay on the simple fact that he wasn't homophobic. He wouldn't participate in insulting queer people, he didn't care if someone was gay, he wouldn't have a problem hanging out with gay people. So people thought he was gay. That's how prevalent homophobia was in his formative years.

When I was 10, my dad told me very seriously that Holmes and Watson were gay. That it was obvious from the literature and the time period that they were meant to be a gay couple. When I was 14 and I came out to my parents as bi, when my mum was upset my dad ripped into her for it. Told her that she was being stupid, that it was my life to live how I wanted to and that she needed to get over herself.

My dad formed my views on censorship: that being that it was completely ridiculous and thoroughly evil. He didn't believe in censorship of any kind. If I asked him a question about sex, he answered it honestly. When I was 12 and I asked him about homosexuality, still young and uncertain, he told me that there was nothing wrong with it. That it was just how some people were. That there was likely an evolutionary reason for it. And that for some people it was uncomfortable on an instinctual level.

He taught me that just because you're uncomfortable with something, doesn't make it wrong. He also taught me that most people don't understand this.

I see a lot of this on the internet as of the last few years. The anti shipping movement, the terf movement, the anti ace movement. It all stems from discomfort that people have crossed wires into believing means wrong. Really every -ism and -phobia out there stems from this same fundamental aspect of humanity.

The next time you see something and you automatically think it's disgusting, or wrong, or immoral, I invite you to ask yourself: is this actually wrong or does this just make me uncomfortable?

I love these fools so much. I hope in the end they stay together or keep in touch. I heart them its like the dad who didn’t want a cat but loves the cat

I just love the idea of Lucifer having to deal with this fucking guy every time he wants to see Charlie

more domestics to warm the soul <33

gloves

I didn't want to write up a long explanation since its kind of obvious and straightforward like it basically happened just like this

but I did want to say that my dad's doing his best. I didn't draw this as like an indictment of his stubborn character or to paint him as transphobic or something. I know he's trying and hes old, so it'll take him a while to get used to me having transitioned. I get frustrated with him and do want to be mad at him sometimes when I get misgendered especially in public but he doesn't do it maliciously.

I can tell hes scared of a lot of things that come with getting to his age; it takes a serious effort to get him to the hospital sometimes and he ended up with pneumonia a few months back. hes seen his mother in law die to dementia and told me several times if his mind starts to go, drive him out to the woods to let him wander then leave. so I can't imagine whats going on in his head with all that worry when the person who basically looked just like him for 20 years suddenly... doesn't

I won't ever be able to properly portray it, but the look on his face when we compared hands was a little heartbreaking, for a split second I knew he didn't see his son anymore but it was someone he doesn't immediately know as his daughter.

FNAF movie Mike would fight game Michael if he knew

Bruce: I'm so relieved that Tim and Damian are getting along :)

Damian: shoving the antibiotic down Tim's throat like a dog

(Also Bruce: How's karma taste Tim?)

Part 2 from this

...Part 3...

with that said there are characters that a fat maybe not canonically but they are spiritually. to me. they may not be drawn that way but i know whats true. ive seen it like a sort of prophet

also by the way i am always obsessed with how spider-people just click and can work together without anything being said in spiderverse . mcu spiderman being like "omg ive never worked in a team” “how are we going to work together” “well im on a team so i’ll lead us" like that was the most boring way to do it . spiderverse instead saying "we just know how to work together because our histories and lives are so linked, its like knowing someone your whole life. seeing the self in the other. our lives rhyme.” LIKE I LOVE YOU GUYS

uncle sukuna whose snores sound like a lawn mower but is the only person who little yuuji can sleep peacefully in a bed with. stays asleep the whole night in sukuna's arms, foot against his chest, and bits of hair blowing with the strong gusts of sukuna's snores.

uncle sukuna, who shadowboxes little yuuji when he's sitting on the sofa, trying to watch his shows. yuuji remains unfazed but is slightly annoyed at sukuna constantly blocking the TV. sukuna probably shouldn't pretend to punch the kid, but they both know he'd rather slit his throat and die than hurt a single nerve on yuuji.

uncle sukuna who dresses yuuji in matching outfits whenever they go outside. women flocked to him when they saw the kid in his arms, and suddenly, having the snotty little brat was worth it. he was a sweetheart and smiled shyly at them all, but sukuna would hit them with the 'he likes you, he isn't this affectionate with most people'. works every single time.

uncle sukuna, who does that weird hacking up phlegm thing that scares yuuji half to death. the poor toddler immediately starts tearing up at the noise.

uncle sukuna who makes sure yuuji always has the best and most fashionable trainers. he doesn't care if it's pointless because yuuji's constantly growing. no nephew of his is allowed to have dead shoes. it's embarrassing for him.

(every time he buys himself new shoes, he always buys two pairs, one in his massive size 13 (14/49) and one in yuuji's cutesy teeny size. turns his heart into goo)

uncle sukuna who gets yuuji a mini version of his motorbike (or one that's similar enough) and helps the cutie decorate it however he wants with stickers and paint (even though he's dying on the inside). yuuji begs and begs sukuna to let him put stickers on his, but he vehemently refuses. they both settle on decorating sukuna's helmet instead <33

here's another post in the same universe, kinda like a pt 2 :))

© ffsg0jo 2024 — do not plagiarise, repost, modify, or translate any of my work, in any way shape or form; i will piss in your cereal if you do. all work belongs to me and me only.

the thing about art is that it was always supposed to be about us, about the human-ness of us, the impossible and beautiful reality that we (for centuries) have stood still, transfixed by music. that we can close our eyes and cry about the same book passage; the events of which aren't real and never happened. theatre in shakespeare's time was as real as it is now; we all laugh at the same cue (pursued by bear), separated hundreds of years apart.

three years ago my housemates were jamming outdoors, just messing around with their instruments, mostly just making noise. our neighbors - shy, cautious, a little sheepish - sat down and started playing. i don't really know how it happened; i was somehow in charge of dancing, barefoot and laughing - but i looked up, and our yard was full of people. kids stacked on the shoulders of parents. old couples holding hands. someone had brought sidewalk chalk; our front walk became a riot of color. someone ran in with a flute and played the most astounding solo i've ever heard in my life, upright and wiggling, skipping as she did so. she only paused because the violin player was kicking his heels up and she was laughing too hard to continue.

two weeks ago my friend and i met in the basement of her apartment complex so she could work out a piece of choreography. we have a language barrier - i'm not as good at ASL as i'd like to be (i'm still learning!) so we communicate mostly through the notes app and this strange secret language of dancers - we have the same movement vocabulary. the two of us cracking jokes at each other, giggling. there were kids in the basement too, who had been playing soccer until we took up the far corner of the room. one by one they made their slow way over like feral cats - they laid down, belly-flat against the floor, just watching. my friend and i were not in tutus - we were in slouchy shirts and leggings and socks. nothing fancy. but when i asked the kids would you like to dance too? they were immediately on their feet and spinning. i love when people dance with abandon, the wild and leggy fervor of childhood. i think it is gorgeous.

their adults showed up eventually, and a few of them said hey, let's not bother the nice ladies. but they weren't bothering us, they were just having fun - so. a few of the adults started dancing awkwardly along, and then most of the adults. someone brought down a better sound system. someone opened a watermelon and started handing out slices. it was 8 PM on a tuesday and nothing about that day was particularly special; we might as well party.

one time i hosted a free "paint along party" and about 20 adults worked quietly while i taught them how to paint nessie. one time i taught community dance classes and so many people showed up we had to move the whole thing outside. we used chairs and coatracks to balance. one time i showed up to a random band playing in a random location, and the whole thing got packed so quickly we had to open every door and window in the place.

i don't think i can tell you how much people want to be making art and engaging with art. they want to, desperately. so many people would be stunning artists, but they are lied to and told from a very young age that art only matters if it is planned, purposeful, beautiful. that if you have an idea, you need to be able to express it perfectly. this is not true. you don't get only 1 chance to communicate. you can spend a lifetime trying to display exactly 1 thing you can never quite language. you can just express the "!!??!!!"-ing-ness of being alive; that is something none of us really have a full grasp on creating. and even when we can't make what we want - god, it feels fucking good to try. and even just enjoying other artists - art inherently rewards the act of participating.

i wasn't raised wealthy. whenever i make a post about art, someone inevitably says something along the lines of well some of us aren't that lucky. i am not lucky; i am dedicated. i have a chronic condition, my hands are constantly in pain. i am not neurotypical, nor was i raised safe. i worked 5-7 jobs while some of these memories happened. i chose art because it mattered to me more than anything on this fucking planet - i would work 80 hours a week just so i could afford to write in 3 of them.

and i am still telling you - if you are called to make art, you are called to the part of you that is human. you do not have to be good at it. you do not have to have enormous amounts of privilege. you can just... give yourself permission. you can just say i'm going to make something now and then - go out and make it. raquel it won't be good though that is okay, i don't make good things every time either. besides. who decides what good even is?

you weren't called to make something because you wanted it to be good, you were called to make something because it is a basic instinct. you were taught to judge its worth and over-value perfection. you are doing something impossible. a god's ability: from nothing springs creation.

a few months ago i found a piece of sidewalk chalk and started drawing. within an hour i had somehow collected a small classroom of young children. their adults often brought their own chalk. i looked up and about fifteen families had joined me from around the block. we drew scrangly unicorns and messed up flowers and one girl asked me to draw charizard. i am not good at drawing. i basically drew an orb with wings. you would have thought i drew her the mona lisa. she dragged her mother over and pointed and said look! look what she drew for me and, in the moment, i admit i flinched (sorry, i don't -). but the mother just grinned at me. he's beautiful. and then she sat down and started drawing.

someone took a picture of it. it was in the local newspaper. the summary underneath said joyful and spontaneous artwork from local artists springs up in public gallery. in the picture, a little girl covered in chalk dust has her head thrown back, delighted. laughing.

I know the circustances didn't make it avaliable, but..I kinda wish we had a farewell scene