Intellectual Digest, magazine, CRM (Ziff-Davis), May 1974

"yes im alterhuman but i dont think im actually physically an animal. no i DONT have clinical lycanthropy thats a MENTAL ILLNESS!! my alterhumanity would NEVER be part of a mental illness, how dare you"

🚩

"endels, clinical lycanthropes, and other somatic delusional people can NEVER TRULY be otherkin, therian, or another type of alterhuman. their experiences are mental illness, NOT Real alterhumanity"

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"p-shifters and clinical lycanthropes are the exact same thing and are equally dangerous and i refuse to learn otherwise"

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"clinical lycanthropes are a threat to alterhumanity"

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"i dont care if YOU think youre physically nonhuman, I DONT so im not going to respect your identity by referring to you as physically nonhuman/unalive/etc"

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"Real alterhumans know theyre physically human"

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thank you to the three people who will manage to read it to the end! i feel like i’m manic

People getting worked up over the perceived gentrification of American food at the hands of the English is one of my favourite genres of post.

I believe very strongly that if you want to be an ally to marginalized groups, you should absolutely read and watch material bigoted against them.

This is because one of the big things that radicalization pipelines benefit from is the principle I've seen framed as "milk before meat", where they feed you palatable, easily digestible ideas, often with a kernel of truth, in order to work you up to the core of the bigoted ideology. If you go to the meat first, you will choke on it. This will make you more easily able to spot it when they try to feed you the milk, and more resistant because you know the meat it's building up to.

There are two keys. First, you need to start with the meat, and second, you need to read it with a sharply critical eye.

If you're looking to read something fatphobic, for example, Harry Potter may be a great mainstream example, but it's in a way that is so culturally acceptable that it can slip by if you aren't looking for it. "None For You: How Fat People Are Ruining America and the Planet and What You Can Do About It", on the other hand, is rather obvious in its biases, allowing an amateur to see them clearly for easier interrogation of the premise. Most bigoted material can be acquired by piracy or through your local library. This is one of the big reasons that libraries stock bigoted material.

Then, start noting down all of the things that the material says that seem to make sense, or that you are sure are true. There's no shame in this. Bigoted ideas are ingrained in your upbringing, and on top of this, a lot of bigots will take real problems and build on them in ways that are bigoted.

For instance, anti-immigrant sentiment in the USA is often bolstered by the fact that wages in the USA are effectively decreasing, along with job security. They say that this is because immigrants are taking the jobs, decreasing the amount of value that is available to USAmericans. To a USAmerican who does not know much about immigrants, but does know that their paycheck buys less and less, this sounds like a plausible explanation.

Then, later, look up exactly what they are saying. What are the real issues? (Racism and unchecked capitalism.) Why are they being used to bolster this argument? (Because it takes the heat off of powerful people and puts it on powerless ones, redirecting the hate to people it can more easily hurt, which satisfies the rage of the USAmerican, drives a wedge between them and immigrants, and takes heat off of the powerful.) What are real ways to tackle the real issue? (Solidarity with immigrant workers, especially undocumented ones, unions, and working for better social safety nets.) Why did I fall for that? (You did not have enough information.) Can I notice this rhetoric in the future and avoid falling for it? (Yes.)

Know that many of the ideas you encounter will be normal. Much bigotry is normal. Normal is not automatically good or right.

Know that there will be useful ideas interspersed with some bigotry. A lot of people with useful ideas have been bigots. This does not mean we must discard their ideas, nor that we must accept the bigotry. It does mean that we need to critically examine the ideas to see if they are rooted in and/or affected by the bigotry, and if it is possible to effectively remove them from their bigoted origins, or if the bigotry is so wound into the ideas that they is no longer useful if you wish to avoid harming the group the thinker was bigoted against.

This is difficult work to do. It is intellectually intensive, and emotionally exhausting. You will start seeing bigotry in all kinds of places, including media you thought of as "good" and "progressive", and that will also be emotionally exhausting and dispiriting. It will also mean that you are no longer passively absorbing those bigoted ideas because you settled on the idea that this media is "good" and that as long as you only consume "good" media, you will be free of bigoted ideas- a premise that is disturbingly popular for how incorrect it is. Knowing how to recognize and discard bigotry in works is far, far more useful than flatly refusing to consume more overtly bigoted works.

One way to make it easier is to form reading groups, so that you can lean on each other when reading something that's affecting you badly. It also means that there's more than one person processing the bigotry, so other people might notice more subtle parts of the bigotry that slipped past you in your own reading, allowing you to have a fuller picture of the book. If you can't form a reading group, more famous bigoted works often have criticism available online for you to read through. Remember to do your own research. What makes doing this so valuable is increasing your own ability to detect bigotry and to think critically about material you are consuming.

You do not have to limit yourself to traditional media, either. There are forums and social media bubbles that are hotbeds of bubbling, seething bigotry that is more extreme and repugnant than the vast majority of published work. Reading these conversations can be useful for the exact same reasons that reading overtly bigoted books, articles, letters, and essays can be, and they often contain more up to date dogwhistles. However, this is a riskier move. Social media is built to make you keep scrolling, and you can easily find yourself at your wits end and vulnerable to a bigot whose rhetoric is slightly less obvious than the others. In addition, it can be tempting to interact- at which point the bigots will either attack you or try to recruit you, both of which are damaging to you. Only read the conversations of bigots if you are well supported and have strong impulse control, and read them in small doses.

You are not immune to propaganda, but you can partially inoculate yourself into being less vulnerable by consuming it in controlled circumstances that match your ability to recognize it as such and reject it.

had an interaction a few days ago that i’m still thinking about. I was talking to two students about the Day of Silence protest coming up that friday, and both of them seemed interested but needed more information. Both of these students were disabled with relatively high support needs for communication, processing, and learning. At least one was intellectually disabled.

I explained the basic premise of Day of Silence, and one of the students asked me to repeat myself, explain again. I did this several times, and she was engaged with me, even if she wasn’t processing yet she clearly wanted to know more and was interested in what i was saying. Her para-educator then came over and said it wasn’t worth trying to explain anything to her because she wouldn’t understand.

The para-educator’s intentions were good, she wanted to save me time and believed i may not have known this student was disabled. But to say that, in front of the student, as though she couldn’t hear the comment, is rude at best and downright hostile at worst. Furthermore, to be in a position in which you are the one in charge of helping this person navigate the world, and to believe they only deserve information that you think they can digest, is such an awful way to view someone you are supposed to help. This student was asking me questions, she was listening, and honestly - who cares if in the end she didn’t understand? just because we don’t end up understanding something doesn’t mean we can’t engage with it.

Intellectually disabled individuals and disabled individuals in general are not infants, they’re not incapable of learning or connecting with others. Yes, they may need extra help, and yes, some topics may be too complex for them to tackle, but let the individual decide that for themselves.

TLDR: The person who was supposed to be helping an intellectually disabled student navigate the world decided for that student what they could understand. In doing so, she projected her beliefs about the students abilities and overshadowed the student’s ability to define her own boundaries. Intellectually disabled people deserve the autonomy to decide for themselves what they want to engage with at a given time, not told they are too dumb to understand.

⸻ tennessee or me

✦ cairo sweet x gn!reader

✦ summary. you're reunited with the woman who stole your heart, shattered it, yet still drags it along with her. you haven't seen her in 3 years, and when she comes with no remorse you question why she came back in the first place. was it for you? hopefully it was for you...

instead of winnie being cairo's best friend, it's you. you're taking winnie's place.

✦ word count. 1.2k

✦ a/n. kinda hate this but oh well :)

It had been two years since Cairo left for Yale University, and it had been three years since she left you. 

While she was in Connecticut pursuing her education, fooling everyone like she didn’t know a thing, you had been stuck in Tennessee with the gypsy winds and the curse of first-love. You knew she was mad at you, and you knew she was vengeful upon her self-discovery. She had let Jonathan Miller go, but you hoped and prayed every lonely night that she had not done the same with you.

It was a rainy Wednesday morning when you made the walk through Cairo’s woods with your headphones and green hoodie; your eyes were fixed on the weedy, dirt path beneath your black converses before a crow's song finished off the track you were listening to.

“Y/n.”

“Cairo,” you breathed, eyes wide and face flushing pale as you pulled your earphones out and came face to face with the Ghost of Lovell Hill.

Her face was equivalent with her demeanor, calm but fierce, just as she was in highschool. Her eyelashes fluttered in the sunshine that seeped through the canopy of leaves, and her gaze bore into yours as she stood like a royal jackal. 

“W-What?,” you blinked wildly as if she were going to disappear in mere seconds. “What are you doing here? When did you get here? Why are you—?”

“Are you going to ask questions or are you going to greet me properly, as a lover should?” A hint of amusement edged her tone while her magenta lips held the slightest smirk.

You couldn’t speak. You could hear the rapid thump of your heart as the blood roared in your ears, sending your nerves tingling with disbelief. “Y-You… You left… You left me, Cairo…”

“I know,” was her reply.

And that had set you ablaze. You loved her with all your heart still, but that was it?After she abandoned you, betrayed your sincerity, and up and left miles and miles away from you without a second thought? No. This time, she was going to answer to you. 

“You’re gone for three years… Three whole years and then you suddenly appear and expect me to just welcome you back with open arms? Do you know what the fuck I went through having you gone? You left me, Cairo Sweet…”

She took a moment to digest your backlash, and it was almost like the entire world stood still as you stared daggers into each and every orb in her dark eyes. Her lips quivered softly like she was trying to bite her tongue.

“So, go on,” taking a step back, you challenged her to see if she would come or bypass you. “What do you have to say?”

Cairo swallowed swiftly and folded her hands in front of her as she usually did before proposing her intellectual gift of expression. “I have no regrets for leaving things the way I did… Testifying against Jonathan Miller, defying the morals of this tongue-tied state, and confronting you on the night our relationship was corrupted. Yes, I did them. And yes, I am well aware of the pain it caused you. I saw it in your eyes at the word ‘inspired’... I was inspired, Y/n. Inspired to hit the ground running. Inspired to get revenge on a man who was falsely accused of being trustworthy and kind. Inspired to get the fuck out of this graveyard of simpletons… I was inspired to be something more than what this life gave me. You didn’t deserve what happened. And I can argue that I didn’t either, but…that’s nature. I made it to Yale, and I never looked back.”

Your jaw ached with the pressure built up in your muscles; you were clenching them so hard you could hear the enamel slide and buckle. Your fists were balled with white knuckles and piercing nails that stabbed the clammy palms of your hands. “Is that it? Leaving me meant nothing to you aside from simple acknowledgement? You didn’t miss me, Cairo? Because I’ve been missing you… I’ve been missing you ever since this ‘Mr. Miller scandal’. Every morning, I wake up and think about you. Every night I pray you are happy, and I go to sleep with fresh tears that make my pillow cold. When I’m in these woods I am haunted by your memory, but you can bet that I walk through them every damn day just to feel something. When I walk the halls of Vanderbilt, all I can think about is the way it felt to have you next to me. I read through our old texts, and I revisit the countless late nights we shared on the balcony of your house. I listen to music 24/7 so I’m not alone in my own head, because if I don’t, I can still hear your voice. I hear your voice in the songs I sing, the papers I write, and the dreams I have. Cairo, you were my new dream. You know me. You know how fucked up my life was before I met you, and why do you think I changed? Why do you think I stayed? Why do you think I never stopped thinking about you even when you spat in my face?!”

The girl who was as smart as a whip, as cunning as a fox, and as deep as the sea remained frozen in sudden awe that tainted her face with light frost. You knew this, and you wanted it. You wanted her to hurt. You wanted her to feel the amount of pain you had suffered every waking day since she disappeared from your life. 

“Because I love you, Cairo Sweet. I love you more than I thought I ever would. And it fucking kills me to know I wasn’t enough to look back at… Never turned around… And I was still here… I’ve always been here…” 

You were in tears by now. Your face was hot and your blood was boiling beneath your skin, coursing through your veins like young fire that was tempted to set the entire forest ablaze. You yelled, “So why are you here?!”

Was it the evergreen trees stretching nearly county-wide? The foggy, cigarette mornings, or the whiskey bent nights? Did her Yale-bound dreams turn into a dead-end street? Was it a midnight glass in the terrace light? Her name missing on Lovell Hill’s mail? 

Was it something about a homebound love that her heart still needed?

Was she missing the tar pit of nowhere, Tennessee, or Y/n Y/ln?

“Well…?” You panted with hot streams staining your flustered cheeks. But little did you realize, she had tears of her own that made her mascara run.

Cairo walked up to you and pressed her lips onto yours, trapping the both of you into a love-filled, tear-stricken reunion. This was her regret. This was her truth. This was her apology. 

And you could feel that.

When you parted, you stared into her beautiful doe eyes that gave way to a faint but longing smile. 

“I just missed you, Y/n… I miss you so fucking much…”

The Oak Door

Laurie x March!Reader (aka "Ducky") Summary: At a gathering in london, hosted by Mister Laurence, Laurie gets drunk & the reader is forced to take care of him. While assisting him, Laurie attempts to propose, & the reader is everything but happy word count: 3.8k Warnings: ANGST, literally that's it just angst, also a lot of self doubt from reader

This story is a snippet from my longer Laurie x reader story, Foolish, Honest Love on ao3. If you want to know what happens next, you'll find out there ;P

Also, I am taking requests for Laurie x reader drabbles/minifics in my asks!!! :)

STORY STARTS UNDER THE PAGE BREAK

To say one’s heart & mind works separately is a lie because the heart is an organ that does not think, nor does it hold any greater understanding of what it is. It has no consciousness, yet is unrightfully given the capability to think & know. Nobody truly thinks with their heart or their throat or their liver or their pancreas. When someone says “thinking with their heart” or “thinking with their mind”, they mean thinking with their intuition or their rationality, or thinking with logic or emotion. They create a great divide in thought that, in all honesty, has & will never exist. A black & white. A right & wrong. A sky & sea. Existing between all of these concepts is a great trench, a lack of understanding, that was dug by the hands of men. 

In thinking with her heart, the middle March finds it best to avoid Laurie, &, in thinking with her head, she agrees with her heart. All of this to say, for the past couple of days, she’s both missed & feared the sight of his face. It’s easy to grow distant from someone when there’s no possible way to close said distance, but, when you’re staying in the same residence per the request of his grandfather, it’s much harder to remain distant, both in a literal & metaphysical sense.

Within the lounge, where she resides now, Miss March distances herself from the greater commotion of the gathering, in the dining hall, without being fully disconnected, like a hand is to the torso. The walls are dressed in a tender maroon wallpaper with an eloquent & detailed moulding of marble & gold, replicating greek columns, which act as a trim that runs across the ceilings. She shares the chaise lounge with other guests as they squeeze next to each other, and their skirts overlap like incoming tides crossing over one another. She’s unsure if she's become overwhelmed by all the stimulus or simply unable to sense anything. The air doesn’t carry any distinct scent. Oddly, the space around her smells of the sound of bustling people & drinks swishing in crystalline glasses. Around her is noise & people, & all of her senses confirm that truth in a monotone wave.  Nursing an empty glass, which she had thrown the contents of into a houseplant & plans to hold for the rest of the evening, she sits within conversation between several men & women, an intellectual hive of people that act more like displays for their attire then beings with bones & blood. For them, knowledge is a sport. It’s a trinket to place on your coffee table to try & impress your inlaws. It’s an accessory to tout & best acknowledge in thoughtful hums & inquisitive gasps. 

A man in a matching set of birdseye patterned, taupe slacks & waist drones on about the recent unification of Germany. While Miss March does find the subject, itself, interesting, she can’t seem to hold intrigue in the conversation. Something about the smoke & the long days warping together in England has led her to misplace the inquisitiveness of the young girl who dreamed of moving to Europe & leaving behind the dreariness of subordinate domesticity. While, with age, she’s gained the emotional intellect necessary to process her emotions beyond simply scraping the shallow tide with her toes, she’s also gained the awareness that, oftentimes, the act of digesting her emotions is tiring. She’s learned that the energy used toward emotions is better spent producing something tangible & of worth. 

Luckily for her, Laurie’s grandfather is a man in the know, which means he knew several associates with daughters of varying ages with varying tastes in clothes who were more than happy to lend a dress to a young lady. Over her crinoline skirt & bodice, a dress in a sweet champagne shade is draped across her. The lacy trim, not wanting to melt into the dress, itself, is a muted purple, almost a grey, that wraps around her puff sleeves & the edges of the champagne tier, with a silk white skirt with a lavender sheen peeks out from underneath. Nothing about the dress is loud. She feels much more at home in the fabric, especially after walking around in the daunting mauve dress like a living, breathing cake topper, a piece of decor for her employer to flaunt. For the first time since leaving New England & Meg & Hannah’s trusted fingers, she’d had her hair done by someone other than her family’s servant. The trusted maid of Mister Laurence had offered & promised to not pull too hard on the March’s hair. As the maid braided & pinned her hair, the middle March almost cried. However, it wasn’t due to any pain inflicted on her scalp, as the maid’s touch was tentative & gentle. It was the simple act of being touched & cared for, a touch Miss March had been subconsciously craving for since leaving her home. A touch she had forgotten until reuniting with Laurie in the crowded foyer. 

Touching her shoulder, a soft hand brushes her & whispers a polite ask for her attention. She flutters her eyelashes, shaking off the weight of the dust that had collected on them, &, with the help of the welcomed touch, swims out of the mental fog she had sunk herself into. Her eyes flitter up & meet with the warm sight of Mister Laurence gazing back at her. Whether the strong scent of candle wax, lingering dust on velvet carpets, & forest breeze eminates from him or the memories of his manor in New England that she spent odd mornings & afternoons in, she’s unsure of. However, it’s another reminder of the young girl she tried to comfort & wish goodbye to before leaving for Lancashire.

“Pardon my forwardness, but, Miss March, I must ask you to join me for a brief moment. I do hate to take away from such wonderful company,” Mister Laurence requests, playing the role of the man wise beyond his years more gracefully than anyone Miss March has ever seen. With a curt nod, not even bothering to bid adieu to the people in the room, she lets curiosity lead her as she rises to her feet & wraps her arms around Mister Laurence’s. Ushering her out of the room at the exact speed that is swift without being suspicious, Mister Laurence guides the young lady to a hallway with no prying eyes or wandering ears. His gaze does not hold the anger of a great man who is weighed down by the hubris of those around him, but in his eyes is something deeply paternal & saddened. Around him, an umber waistcoat & slacks with a herringbone pattern remind her more of a bear then a man of business & wealth. However, her judgement may be heavily clouded from growing up under his watchful eye. While his hair used to be a soft salt & pepper, it has faded to a faint white & grey like the shadow of a tree painted on fresh snow during a cloudy evening. For most, with age comes wrinkles that hide within them their growing envy for the youth that’s being wasted on careless & stupid adolescents. Mister Laurence’s wrinkles are like the rings of a tree, lines that prove that he has lived & seen. They’re a promise that, if one is to ask, he will tell the story preserved in every smile line & crow’s foot. Bending down so his lips hover around her ear, she’s immediately washed in the same sincerity that soaks his demeanour.

“Y/N,” he calls her by her first name, a telltale sign of loyalty & unease from the man, “I do hate to put this upon your shoulders, but my grandson is acting aloof-”.

“In what sense?” she interrupts in the classic March fashion, &, used to this speech pattern, he continues speaking over her. 

“And, while I don’t wish to make you pay for his poor decisions, I have an important associate that I do need to impress,” he explains to her as his hand returns to her shoulder, “And you and I are both well aware that no servant is paid well enough to have to deal with my grandson’s… ”

“Stubbornness?”

“...Tenacity.”

Both finish his sentence at the same time & share a gaze that communicates that neither are completely wrong with their wording. Nodding his head to agree with her, he looks away at the hall ahead. No paternal figure wants to admit their children’s faults. To say a truth is to make it known, but to admit a truth makes it tangible. She can feel the glass ball that rolls up & down his throat, ever so often bobbing at the opening to his stomach. Hiding beneath his heavy wool morning coat, his shoulders tense while trying to protect the rest of his body.

“A servant caught him with several other young women & clearly inebriated,” he reveals to her, & the edges of his lips quiver & twitch as they are tugged by invisible strings into a frown. His words dig a hole into her chest. All that remains is her skin, which caves in & sags where her sternum once was. It leaves a tingling sensation where her muscles & bones used to rest. She feels that Mister Laurence is speaking of a different grandson, which she has never met. What happened to the young boy who would treat her childish fears with utmost sincerity? What happened to the boy who made pinky promises seem like the most honourable pacts a man could make? What monster, what man had stolen the skin from him & now wears it as a costume? 

“I’ll confess. I’m unsure of where I went wrong with him,” Mister Laurence slips out between hushed lips, telling his secret to the wind & Miss March. Pausing to swallow his words, she furrows her brows & purses her lips. Swimming in her mind, she can’t think of any words that can comfort him in this moment of vulnerability. So, rather than speaking, she wraps her arms around the older man & hugs him tightly. Surprise washes him over as she squeezes his ribcage tightly, &, for a moment, he freezes as his eyes dart around to try & catch leering gazes peaking around the corner. But they are hidden in the inky shadows of the hallway. With a long exhale, Mister Laurence allows his tension to escape, & he swallows her in his embrace.. 

“You worry about business, and I’ll worry about Laurie,” she comforts him while pulling away, pausing to fix his bowtie, “He’s very lucky to have a grandfather that’s as kind and loving as you.” Mister Laurence smiles at her reminder as the rosy glow on his cheeks alights the hallway for a moment. Each breath they take in the space that they share feels like it fills each corner of their lungs. Nodding to her, a silent show of gratitude, he leads her to an oak door which lays slightly ajar. Holding the nob, he turns back to her before speaking.

“Thank you for your assistance. He’s in here,” Mister Laurence informs her, & he slowly swings the door open. Immediately, the souring scent of wine hits her face, &, as an instinct, her nose scrunches up & a grimace stains her lips. Splayed out on a couch, dishevelled & basking in his own ruin, she sees more of a strange, unfamiliar man than the boy that she knew. She sees a man that will grow to be discontent with his wife, yet who stays for the kids. A man who never really loved his children but is patiently waiting for the fulfilment that comes from acting in the role that society has told him to. A man who will never be fulfilled. A man that has learned that he must settle for what he has, quietly & miserably. A miniscule part of Miss March relishes at the idea that he’d have to learn how cruel the impartial hand of life can be, but the rest of her is well aware that Laurie will never know “enough”. He’d love his wife, even if she loved another man. He’d work to provide for his kids, &, if the wife was never around, he’d raise them all on his own. He’d move mountains to try to find the better side of “enough”. Laurie will love & love because that is Laurie’s nature. He loves wine & women. He loves trekking through forests & acting a fool, even in public spaces. He loves to engage in conversation while in the company of the March sisters, where no sentence is ever finished & nothing is ever truly said but the quiet “I love you” that rattles around in the pauses between words for a quick draw of breath. Laurie loves Jo. Laurie will continue to love, & love will truly be the cause of his death. Yet, Laurie will find a way to love the silent & cold hand of what lies beyond in a way that no person has ever done before. Miss March cannot even entertain the idea of Laurie living a life that is just “enough” because, to her, his company is more than enough. It is good. It is plenty.

That same man has tossed away his vermillion silk tie & waistcoat, leaving him in a starch white shirt that’s a third of the way unbuttoned & hastily tucked into raven black slacks. Closing the door behind her, the click of the door knob alerts him to her presence. However, his verdant eyes don’t move to meet her as he stares through strands of his messy chocolate hair & up at the silver ring that he often displays on his pointer finger. 

“Are you here to scold me, oh my dear mother?” He asks to the wind, acknowledging her existence. Miss March inhales deeply as the beating of her heart starts to drown out the sound of her breath. Clasping her hands together, she tentatively begins to make her way over to the cobalt ottoman that rests near the matching couch. The room is a demure periwinkle with small etchings of leaves adding a splash of muted emerald to the room.

“No, Laurie. Your grandfather asked me to keep you company,” she tries to ease his nerves as she inches closer.

“No, he told you to keep me away from the guests as I am his greatest failure,” Laurie shoots up at her words, sitting up far too fast for his drunken mind to handle. A warbling groan of pain slips out of his mouth as he rakes his fingers through his hair & clutches his throbbing head. At the sight of his agony, Miss March rushes to him &, readjusting his legs, sits on the edge of the couch cushion, right in front of him. With a tender touch, she gently wraps her fingers around his wrists & rubs small circles with her thumb.

“Oh, shush, you’re as much of a failure as I am a dancer,” She teases him with a sympathetic smile. At her words, a small & raspy chuckle escapes his lips &, tilting his head, his celadon eyes, in which the fields of Elysium hide, gaze up at her. Hiding beneath a smoke of anger, she’s able to see the young boy that she grew up with. The young boy that she once fell in love with. He’s scared & small & all the things a child is never allowed to be. 

In this moment, as much as she despises it, she knows she must admit her faults to him & ask for forgiveness. She was cruel & unjust for bringing up Jo with the intent of spitting in his face. She hurt him with the intention of leaving a mark, & she succeeded in doing so. If he doesn’t ever forgive her, she’ll grow to understand. It won’t be an easy process, but loving Laurie has never been anything close to easy. Taking a deep breath, she shoves the racing thoughts out of her vision & looks him in the eyes.

“I apologise for what I said in the alley, concerning your feelings for Jo. I shouldn’t’ve ever used them to hurt you,” she apologises quickly, &, after speaking, immediately purses her lips together & stares at him. She waits for him to scream. To yell at her to get out. To say he hates her & never wants to see her again. To tell her he always hated her. That he only tolerated her for Jo. To say she’s stupid. She’s vile. She’s not worth Jo or Meg or Beth or Amy’s time. She waits for him to tell her the truth she’s been too scared to say to herself aloud. She waits & waits until, finally, his lips part, & he draws a quick breath.

“It’s alright. I was being mean too, and I, truly, do owe you many apologies, as well, ” he replies with a thin smile, replaying the events in his head. Ducky’s stomach squeezes as relief floods her system, & she sharply inhales while attempting to keep some kind of composure. A tight smile graces her features, slipping past her facade of propriety & decorum. 

“I’ve been spending this past year, & some odd months, wallowing in my own melancholy, but,” Laurie pauses for a moment, slouching forward so his eyes are level with Ducky’s, “but I cannot waste away my life being miserable. If money is truly of the highest concern, then marry me.” His words grab her by the neck, shove their long, spindly fingers down her throat, wrench the breath from her lungs, & pry the air out of her. Her mouth falls agape as she struggles to comb through & fully understand what he’s said.

“Laurie, I refuse-”

“You won’t have to work, nor do you have to love me, & your family will be provided for: Beth, Amy, Marmee, everyone,” he prattles on, afraid of the nearing rejection that comes when he stops to breathe. Ducky can’t hear anything other than her own heartbeat & what, to her, sounds like the faint whisper of Laurie’s voice. She can’t even hear herself think.

“You’ll be happy, I promise. Everyday I will spend in honest devotion to your happiness,” he’s breathless as he finishes his speech, &, feeling the walls begin to collapse in on her, Ducky jumps to her feet. Rushing back & forth, in front of her very eyes, are countless memories of Jo & Laurie, of the way it’s always been. Jo loves her work. Laurie loves Jo. Ducky was left to love the footprints Laurie had left while chasing after Jo. 

“Laurie, I, as a woman, must either enter a marriage for security or for love,” she whispers out as her arms wrap around her waist, squeezing her sides tightly, “while you can marry for any reason under the sun, and I will not be an accomplice in allowing you to waste that privilege.” The room grows smaller, the air between them thinner. It’s hard to breathe & her vision becomes a swirl of blues & greens with a spotty pillar of white & black wiggling around in the centre. Laurie stops, & Ducky stops. Neither move. Neither speak. Neither breathe. The walls stop moving, & everything around them fades into their shadows. They are a boy & a girl. A lady & a man, all grown up & yet the exact same as they were the day that they met. While his previous proclamations were loud & steady, the words he speaks next are a promise meant only for his lips & the spirits that hide in peoples’ breaths. 

“But I can give you both, love and security, if you’d allow me. I’ll inherit my grandfather’s wealth, and we could be happy, all of us.”

Clear on his face is the same sincerity that he’s gifted to her in every moment of embarrassment & shame. His eyes stay glued to hers. After waiting for years for him to say these words to her, she can’t help but feel his admittance is fake. That maybe his words are meant for someone smarter, braver, older, & better then she is. His words are meant for Jo.

“No, no, you don’t get to, this isn’t right,” she bites back, walking backwards & grasping for the door knob yet only finding the air between her fingers, “Stop it, Laurie, please.”. He follows her, &, in his drunken state, collides with the furniture, sending his body awry. 

“Yes, yes I can, and we both know it to be true,” he tries to correct her as he raises his hands to grip her forearms. Her shoulders immediately tense at his touch. His fingers crinkle the poofy champagne fabric that delicately floats around her skin.

“You’re acting a fool, Laurie-”

“I can, I swear on my life Y/N, I am able and I am willing and, and content to do so.”

 “-I won’t allow it, I simply cannot,” she continues to ramble on, & her finger tips brush against the cool metal of the doorknob. Laurie opens his mouth to rebuke her statement, but, before he can, her palm flies up & presses against his lips. Covering his mouth with her hand, she shakes her head as her eyes gleam with tears.

“Please, stop. It hurts, Laurie. Please, Laurie, you’re hurting me,” she pleads to him as her fingers curl around the door knob, “I cannot do it. You broke my heart once already. Is that not enough for you?” 

To watch the boy she admires fall in love with her sister, who she’s loved since the dawn of time, was a constant, real ache that left her sobbing into Beth’s chest as she begged Meg to help her & relieve her of the pain, which was an impossible task. After the middle March had left for Europe & caught word of Jo’s rejection in a letter from Beth, she had a heavy heart knowing that the two people who were connected at the hip for all of her adolescence had now grown cold & distant. It was as if she’d heard that the moon no longer followed the sun, leaving the night cold & bleak. All she has done her entire life is labour & hurt for those she loves without question or complaint. However, she cannot look Laurie in the eyes as he slurs out ideas that would’ve sent her younger self spinning & giggling with a maddening joy. She cannot withstand that pain for him. She doesn’t feel happy or sad. Nor is she angry or scared. All that she can feel is the heavy pounding of her heart & a dull ache emanating through her. The pain swallows her mind, &, while her body still remains, Ducky has clearly fled far from the room. She’s racing down the streets in her dress, seeing how far her legs will take her. 

She yanks the door open just before he can reply & heaves her body through, slamming the door shut after her. Leaning her weight against the slab of carved & varnished oak, a few tears trickle down her cheek as she chokes back a sob, not wanting to alert any guests nearby. In her mind, she’s already ran all the way back to New England. There, back in her home, she lies, hiding her tears in Beth’s dress, as her sisters practically cocoon her, protecting her & the fire from the harsh reality of the world that waits outside their loving embrace & on the other side of the oak door. 

i told you it's literally & only just angst... sorry. please like & repost :)

I hate to be that guy, but crippled-pvp is a known raging neurodivergence/mental illness ableist who's said some real egregious stuff, I wouldn't hope you'd like what other posts they've made.

right ... so first off . morg do not use they pronouns . like gwydion , morg use he pronouns .

second … morg have severe level disabilities , and get mistreat and abuse for this . this include both things in body and in brain . people who have physical disabilities but perfect mental health just not exist , plain and simple . even someone who gain disability later in life , that bring trauma and anxiety at very least .

say that because , what is reason say this ? gwydion see so many these things that people say about morg , and just can not agree because kind of know where start . 

for example , and something that gwydion say too : accessible event or building should mean , physically . when people use this to say sensory friendly , that do nothing for people who can not walk up stairs , or fit through doors , or who can not use bathroom in peace to change diapers , deal with digestion problems , or take break for medications .

morg live with disabilities that genuinely do not get equal access in this world . after so much time people mistreat and abuse , who would not be angry ? especially when people start to take these important words , important ideas , and change so that not even actually help anymore . 

gwydion can put on sunglasses to make things less bright . on days that use wheelchair because too weak wobbly to walk , can not do anything to fit through door too narrow . and is lucky only experience things like that on rare days , not everyday , not all time . 

so yes . morg is angry , because so many times , people act as if morg " forget " other disabilities exist , when is really not in same discussion . sensory friendly not same as accessible , and help everyone to say so , to separate discussions .

do gwydion like see people get angry , say rude things ? no , really stress out sometimes , make wish could help . but that not mean not justify feel angry . and morg's blog , is morg's space . not think morg ever actually try be some big icon either , is just what happen over time because one of few here with spinal cord injury . but is still just some guy with blog , at end of day … numbers and presence not change that .

also . communities that focus on neurodivergence all so much more cruel to gwydion , than communities focus on physical disabilities .  if want say that morg have anti-neurodivergent problem , know can not stop , but need recognise this also very very much go other way too . neurodivergent focus communities can be very horrible to people with intellectual disability , with physical disabilities , with brain problems that not stop at just " quirky , kind of sensitive , but still fairly normal . " people like gwydion still try fight to undo these slogans and fight for selves .

is people with autism and nothing else who bully gwydion worst , who blackmail and trick , who kick out because could not believe someone would really have trouble eat food , trouble with walk and talk , trouble with understand and follow simple things . those things all just make gwydion fail who not try hard enough .

physical disabilities not make people magic understand those things because each disability different , and yes , sometimes physical disabled people cruel in same ways . but many understand those things , too , and far more welcome for gwydion even when not same reasons and experiences . 

I'd hate to be Jim Gordon when Martinez and Batman start getting along.

" I dare you to lick it,"

" Do not lick that gun."

Is Batman a symbol of hopeful justice now that he's not a myth to scare off the street thugs? Yes. You'd assume he wouldn't take the bait. You'd be wrong.

Martinez and Bruce, -- because who was that jawline supposed to fool, -- truly bring out the worst in eachother.

Jim tells them to stop arguing so what do they do? They furiously scribble on pieces of papers before sliding them on their shared desk, which, considering the actual consequences, was a poorly thought out punishment.

" Tell him to stop touching me,"

Martinez's hand is millimeters away from Bruce's chiseled easy to identify jawline, " I'm not touching you,"

He begs Comissioner MacKenzie not to yell at them because Martinez is gonna start wheezing behind his lips, and collapse into Bruce, and Bruce is gonna get angry and slam him through a desk. He truly can't tell who's the biggest menace

At least their arguments are free entertainment,

" You have the intellectual capacity of a half digested Pinto bean"

" Oh yeah? Your mama's so, -- " He makes a noise of suspended frustration

"She's not anything. That happens when you die."

Jim drowns his cup of coffee. Bruce. Bruce is the biggest menace.

I've realised how incredibly hostile, envious and demeaning patriarchy has made these men towards women when I heard countless women in my life calling me intelligent, be it from my circle or my family but NOT a single man acknowledging my intelligence or appreciating me for my intellectual debates or the enormous amount of times I managed to raise rational arguments and have actually beat them to it. And no saying ''good job!'' for maintaining a good academic record doesn't fucking count at all.

It's like they have a superiority complex that is deeply instilled into them that the moment they see a woman/young girl start questioning the complexities of life, happen to indulge in academic discourse or in general start flourishing as a learned individual, they immediately attempt to invalidate our achievements and prove us wrong by giving us petty challenges. Supposedly: ''Oh you love watching football and good at playing it too? Let's hear about the offside rule then.''

All that because we no longer allow ourselves to fit their dumb, naive and gullible girl image? What they don't seem to digest is that women have always been intelligent throughout the history. They only used to play dumb in the fear of getting burnt, divorced or severely beaten up had they stood for anything that was against a man's conventional and harrowing idea of how a woman behaves. Survival was the only priority then.

Here, I will give you, the reader, clear enumerations where SARS Cov 2 is unlike a common cold.

SARS Cov 2 triggers a unique, long-lived inflammatory overreaction unseen in Sepsis and influenza.

SARS Cov 2 sends T cells into the brain while lethal influenza does not.

SARS Cov 2 directly causes autoimmunity by reprogramming a special type of T cell called the T regulatory cell, which has never been observed before.

The human genetic line has not propagated any sarbecovirus elements therefore never has faced Sarbecovirus infection to the extent to evolutionarily adapt, except in the unlikely theoretical possibility of extremely negative selection (meaning infected humans did not create progeny.)

There are more exceptional facets but these are simple and digestible. There is also more to write about but I must make a confession. The status quo has morphed in such a way as to browbeat scientists into disavowing a harsh reality in order to acquiesce to corporate and business interests. As we see the average life expectancy decline, we have been left intellectually out in the cold. The truth tellers have been assaulted and crushed, and the individuals that comprise the public, in denial, will put off the realization of a below 70s life expectancy until each one approaches retirement in piecemeal, just as all the grains of sand in an hourglass do not fall at once.

Ketu in Houses- ☋ South Node in Houses

Ketu or South node is signifcator of spirituality, wisdom, worldly detachment, disappointment, wisdom, release from cycle of birth and death, black magic, occult, astrology, enlightenment.

1st House - Detached, reserved, observer, childhood difficulties, bodily issues, education troubles, introspective, less talkative, thinker, wise, headaches, researcher, acne or spots in face.

2nd House- Money issues, family issues, dissatisfied family life, arguments, domestic quarrels, eye troubles, troubles in earning, troubles till middle life, stammering, harsh speech.

3rd House- Patient, fearful, intellectual, problems with younger siblings, famous, good listening ability, better place for Ketu, shoulder pains, ear pain.

4th House- Problems with mother, health of mother affected, problems with inheritances, troubles in early education, problems with comforts, travel issues, discomfort at home, problems with vehicles, no affection from mother, settles abroad.

5th House- Troubles having children, could adopt, disappointment with children, troubled love affairs, affairs outside marriage, interested in spirituality, mantras, failure in love, trouble getting inheritances, stomach issues, past life sins.

6th House- Defeats enemies, victory and success, success with loans, minor health issues, diet issues, food poisonings, stomach issues, kidney issues, digestion issues, life gets better with age, court cases, criminal connections.

7th House- Trouble satisfying spouse, disappointment with spouse and business partners, troubles in married life, urinary infections, business breaks down.

8th House- Afraid of longevity, good researcher, brings secrets of others, finds treasures, interest in occult, tantra, health issues during Ketu period, more interest in isolation and psychic matters, problems with private parts, genitals

9th House- Trouble with father, no luck, interest in pilgrimages, world travel for religious purposes ,less opportunities, wanderer, joins ashrams, finds good mentors, teachers, spiritual trips, sciatic pain, thigh pain

10th House- Finds good jobs and opportunities, good worker, medical career, good for profession, knee issues, ortho troubles, Government fines, managerial success.

11th House- Good place for Ketu, but no success in early years, influential contacts, success post 35, success in actions, good wealth, disappointing friends, leg and calf pains, varicose veins, hearing issues, strained relations with elder siblings and father's relatives

12th House- Less practical, dreamy, more expenses, interest in liberation, sleep issues, foreign travels, searches for enlightenment, may be end of soul journey, sacrifices worldly things, feet issues.

Book your Ketu Reading- DM Here

Whiskey, not whisky

Kentucky bourbon it is, for McTavish, as formally announced on Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/reel/CvxuLwXBDgt/?igshid=MzRlODBiNWFlZA%3D%3D.

Website, here: https://mctavishspirits.com/. Very instructive: The Sassenach vs. The Warchief. How original.

With a hefty pricetag. Heh, and Mordor thought the Sassenach was a rip-off?

The similarities apparently also extend to the marketing pitch: young, struggling actor dreams big, goes to the States, finds relative critical success there, walks down memory lane. And shares with the world his real, real passion he's "been working on for a while".

Yes. I am selling it. I don't have to pay for it, but... you do. Ugh. I have no words, wow. Oh, the entitlement and the smugness. Completely expected.

Let's unpack:

This is by no means or stretch of imagination a whimsical, vanity project and is carefully differentiated from a white label, which would have meant that the guy was basically lending his beard and voice to the (generic) product, in the hopes it will sell well enough and for as long as possible. No: it is, to quote the leaflet, "meticulously hand selected". Oh.

This is also a long-shot, well prepared blow:

Sorry: the website thinks I am a robot, even if there's just one and only R2D2 in our universe, but you should be able to get more details by yourselves. It is an LLC (easy-peasy, no hassle), filed on July 27 2023.

For the moment, the SM reactions are rather glacial. Sam's crowd is not amused, and with good reason:

I saw it coming, now the elephant is on the couch in the middle of the parlor and I have to say I am still perplexed, in a way, even if I shouldn't.

Sam's project is not the only thing he copies, btw. Check this out:

Yes, it's a Scottish brand I know absolutely nothing about (all input welcome), but still (http://thespiritscompany.com/portfolio/sir-mactavish-scotch-whisky/?age-verified=4b7d1b53bb):

McTavish, Sir Mactavish... Potato, potahto. In Europe, and specifically the EU , it would go to court for trademark infringement in 4, 3, 2, 1, especially since it could cause confusion, deception, or mistake. For comparison, Sassenach's German lost legal battle was sparked by way less than that: a mere partial homophony with the (obscure?) Sasse distillery in Schoppingen, somewhere in Westphalia (https://www.dailyrecord.co.uk/entertainment/celebrity/sam-heughan-loses-legal-battle-25578518 - this is the link I found first). But McTavish is clever enough to clearly go for the US market first and foremost.

And as a reminder, in S's situation, the European Union Intellectual Property Office (EUIPO)'s position has been particularly, and might I add, gratuitously, aggressive. I am intrigued enough and might get back to this in a separate post: don't hold your breath, though.

I still need to digest that and the question asked a couple of evenings ago remains open: what prompted S's sudden change of schedule? McTavish Anon might have been onto something, perhaps.

Tu quoque, McTavish? MIK, my earasaid. Now you understand why the sudden, subtle change on S's Twitter bio? Not only related to the SAG-AFTRA strike, I bet whatever you want on it (there's only a limited number of times I can bet my farm, heh).

[Much later edit, November 2023: It turns out this is an unashamed white label project. My bad for not immediately seeing it.]

If the past month has taught me anything, it's that a huge swath of people don't know what genocide actually is. Steadily growing Palestinian population, advance warnings from the Israeli military to evacuate to safety (something that hasn't been done since Japan in WW2), nothing even resembling deliberate targeting of specific ethnicities/cultures. Does this sound like "genocide" to you?

Add on the unironic simping and buying into Hamas propaganda, I swear that Genocide could be the name of an 800 pound hot pink Siberian tiger that breathes fire, shoots laser beams from its eyes, and has teeth the size of steak knives that bites these people square in the ass and they still wouldn't recognize it.

Exactly. Same with the term “apartheid”. They just throw around these terms without knowing what it actually means or what these situations actually entail.

It’s very intellectually lazy (and thus, more digestible) to mischaracterise this situation as apartheid or genocide so that they have this false “good vs bad” or “oppressed vs oppressor” binary.

While easier to understand because of the oversimplification, these false binaries are very harmful as it lumps all the actions of the “oppressed” as “good”, and that’s how you get people empathising with literal terrorists for the Oct 7 attacks and justifying the beheading of babies and raping of women as freedom fighting ¯\_(ツ)_/¯.

The Gloskun

The gloskun (singular and plural) is an amphibious octopoid about the size of a chicken, found in tide pool habitats. They fill similar ecological niches to seagulls and large semiterrestrial crabs; their intelligence and robust digestive systems makes them extremely adaptable generalists. Often referred to as a "quadrupedal mollusc", the gloskun has a full complement of eight arms, but the rear four are adapted into strong, short legs - rather than tapering like an octopus' arms, a gloskun's legs are wide at the base, with the final two suckers adapted into broad, protective, nonsensory "hooves". When moving about, gloskun hold their fore arms together in a "trunk" shape, moving apart to manipulate objects; gloskun are frequently observed with only three arms in the trunk and the fourth holding wet sea grass over their beak to preserve moisture and extend their periods on land, to the degree that cartoon images of gloskun often have green "mustaches" as part of their body. Gloskun defend themselves with ink in water and on land, where they contract their siphons to carefully aim it at the eyes, noses, or mouths of would-be predators. Gloskun move with a characteristic "stamping" gait on land and when hunting on the seafloor; they typically spend water periods resting, but their relaxed legs double as powerful, rippling paddles for fast movement underwater. Gloskun are frequently observed splashing in puddles; biologists previously explained this as a tactic designed to splash prey out of tidepools, but recent study of gloskun behavior has corroborated folk reports that gloskun extract prey from tidepools with their dexterous forearms, and that puddle splashing is a play behavior. Their playfulness, responsive intelligence, and large eyes (often observed as upturned and "pleading", although it's far more likely that gloskun are simply observing their taller observers) make them endearing to humans; this is offset by their dexterity, ink jets, problem-solving intelligence, and long association with humans, which also cast them firmly in the role of "pest" -- similar to opossums, raccoons, foxes, and monkeys in both public perception and folkloric roles. Seaside communities' DO NOT FEED THE GLOSKUN signs are matched only by gloskun skill in getting humans to feed them; gloskun are capable of using tools, and an arms race exists between gloskun and gloskun-proof-trash-receptacle manufacturers. Pet gloskun are analogous to pet parrots, both in that they are frequently found perching on fictional pirates' shoulders and that they require too much stimulation to be ethically kept as pets (gloskun are not as social as parrots, but have much better ability to manipulate objects and equal or greater intellectual stimulation needs). Some communities and individuals do have more equitable working relationships with gloskun, picking up litter in exchange for food rewards or assisting with shellfish harvests.

Joking around with a friend this morning and accidentally invented the perfect seaside pest, which we now release into the Creative Commons to menace your shores.

The gloskun species © 2024 by Nausicaä Enriquez and @transtanium is licensed under Attribution 4.0 International.