quotes by Victorians about the 1920s view of their generation's women

"We are frequently told that the Victorian woman...generally behaved like a pampered and neurotic infant. This is all moonshine. I do not think that I ever saw a woman faint before I came to London in 1869, and not often after then...they enjoyed a hearty laugh, and a good many of them a contest of wits with any man." -Nineteenth Century, a Monthly Review, 1927 (written by a man born in 1850)

"What queer ideas the girl of 1929 has about the Victorian period- they are not a bit true...Marriage was by no means the end and aim of our existence. Oxford and Cambridge claimed quite a few of us after school days were over. We had great ideas about 'life' and what it all might mean to us." -St. Petersburg Times, 1929 (written by a woman born in 1853)

"True, debutantes were chaperoned at balls. But that fact did not prevent them from dancing as frequently as they chose with their favorite partners. The idea that girls in the Victorian era spent their days sewing seams and practicing scales is another fallacy." -Gettysburg Times, July 1, 1927 (quote from the Dowager Lady Raglan, Ethel Jemima Somerset, who lived from 1857 to 1940)

this is the funniest fucking thing, after you kinda murdered your professor you become friends and go to jcpenny for a friendship photoshoot

Goodnight everybody it's been an honor stabbing with you all

for a while i lived in an old house; the kind u.s americans don't often get to live in - living in a really old house here is super expensive. i found out right before i moved out that the house was actually so old that it features in a poem by emily dickinson.

i liked that there were footprints in front of the sink, worn into the hardwood. there were handprints on some of the handrails. we'd find secret marks from other tenants, little hints someone else had lived and died there. and yeah, there was a lot wrong with the house. there are a lot of DIY skills you learn when you are a grad student that cannot afford to pay someone else to do-it-for-ya. i shared the house with 8 others. the house always had this noise to it. sometimes that noise was really fucking awful.

in the mornings though, the sun would slant in thick amber skiens through the windows, and i'd be the first one up. i'd shuffle around, get showered in this tub that was trying to exit through the floor, get my clothes on. i would usually creep around in the kitchen until it was time to start waking everyone else up - some of them required multiple rounds of polite hey man we gotta go knocks. and it felt... outside of time. a loud kind of quiet.

the ghosts of the house always felt like they were humming in a melody just out of reach. i know people say that the witching hour happens in the dark, but i always felt like it occurred somewhere around 6:45 in the morning. like - for literal centuries, somebody stood here and did the dishes. for literal centuries, somebody else has been looking out the window to this tree in our garden. for literal centuries, people have been stubbing their toes and cracking their backs and complaining about the weather. something about that was so... strangely lovely.

i have to be honest. i'm not a history aficionado. i know, i know; it's tragic of me. i usually respond to "this thing is super old" by being like, wow! cool! and moving on. but this house was the first time i felt like the past was standing there. like it was breathing. like someone else was drying their hands with me. playing chess on the sofa. adding honey to their tea.

i grew up in an old town. like, literally, a few miles off of walden pond (as in of the walden). (also, relatedly, don't swim in walden, it's so unbelievably dirty). but my family didn't have "old house" kind of money. we had a barely-standing house from the 70's. history existed kind of... parallel to me. you had to go somewhere to be in history. your school would pack you up on a bus and take you to some "ye olden times" place and you'd see how they used to make glass or whatever, and then you'd go home to your LEDs. most museums were small and closed before 5. you knew history was, like, somewhere, but the only thing that was open was the mcdonalds and the mall.

i remember one of my seventh grade history teachers telling us - some day you'll see how long we've been human for and that thing has been puzzling me. i know the scientific number, technically.

the house had these little scars of use. my floors didn't actually touch the walls; i had to fill them with a stopgap to stop the wind. other people had shoved rags and pieces of newspaper. i know i've lost rings and earring backs down some of the floorboards. i think the raccoons that lived in our basement probably have collected a small fortune over the years. i complain out loud to myself about how awful the stairs are (uneven, steep, evil, turning, hard to get down while holding anything) and know - someone else has said this exact same thing.

when i was packing up to leave and doing a final deep cleaning, i found a note carved in the furthest corner in the narrow cave of my closet. a child's scrawled name, a faded paint handprint, the scrangly numbers: 1857.

we've been human for a long time. way back before we can remember.

Uhhh sooooo NYC 80’s punk scene AU where ed used to play in bands when younger but not anymore & runs a popular venue and is totally burned out on the scene. Until a blonde weirdo wearing pastels started coming to shows there and he had to understand what is going on with this guy?? And the guy wants to learn more about this world and Ed confused but ends up having more fun than he has in ages??

it’s kind of wonderful to watch Jeremy handle Jean’s trauma because the foxes are so used to each other being fucked up and problematic that when blood spills out of Neil’s locker and he says that he doesn’t want to talk about it they go okay fucked up but sure. Jeremy is so insistent with Jean’s issues and thinks that he just needs to talk about it and pushes and pushes and just begs him to tell him what’s going on. Because that’s the world of trauma he’s used to. He’s used to a problem shared is a problem halfed and being a shoulder to cry on that when Jean says “I’m traumatised” he thinks, “talking about it will make you feel better.”

He handles Jeans trauma with this messy heavy hand and he means so well but his version of trauma, his perspective on trauma is so far removed from the trauma the foxes or the ravens are used to. Every single minute detail Jean reveals is shocking and insane and fucked up and he’s barely scraping the surface. How do you tell someone who thinks you can talk through your problems that you’re afraid of water because you were waterboarded, or that you are so used to your body being used that it’s no longer that Jean feels as if he deserves his abuse, it’s no longer that he thinks his punishments were normal. They are facts. They are core unmoving beliefs so ingrained in him they are set into his skin like the tattoo on his cheek. They’re going nowhere. Jeremy will never understand that, and every thing Jean tells him disturbs him more than the last. He’s so empathetic and compassionate - I think if Jean told him the truth, it would destroy him. It would destroy his spirit, his belief in others, his faith in kindness. It would make him angry. It would make it impossible not to annihilate the Ravens for what they did in the dirtiest, meanest way possible.

And I cannot wait to watch that all happen.

My drug of choice? Any of the bats/birds saying “help” at a normal volume and their designated super is suddenly there

Mmmmmm

Not sure quite how to phrase this, but I feel like there's sometimes implicit judgement of medieval and early modern women for being ill-educated.

Which is kinda funny because by the Tudor idea of 'a good education', the modern world is woefully under educated.

"Katherine Howard wasn't knowledgeable of the classics" and neither are you Stevie and you have Google.

serious art later ive got essays to work on have this while waiting xD

(16th September)

ashes to ashes.

a short comic about the day Ash was born.

Ash's story

Red and Wolf's story

notes:

--

all my other comics

store

new zine about asexual history! this one's been rattling around my head for awhile

invisible scars (referenced previous talk here)

[ID: A colourless, digital Trigun comic of Vash and Wolfwood talking about Wolfwood's scars. They're both laying in bed and topless. Vash lays on top of Wolfwood, playing with the rosary around his neck. Then, Vash kisses a spot on Wolfwood's chest. Wolfwood asks, "What are you doing?" Vash smiles sadly, "You got shot here. In the last town we visited. You didn't even bother moving."

Vash props himself up over Wolfwood, who frowns slightly. Wolfwood is quiet for a moment before he says, "You remember that, huh?" Vash grabs Wolfwood's left wrist and brings it to his face. "And here." He kisses another spot there. "When you helped free the hostages from that robber..." Wolfwood dismissively says, looking away, "Was a lucky shot." Vash huffs, “Don’t brag. Jeez.”

Half of Wolfwood's expression is shown, eyes returning to Vash who is now sitting up, continuing to say, "And..." Vash goes on and kiss Wolfwood's right palm. "You got cut here, even though that girl was aiming at me." A moment from the past flashes, of Wolfwood grabbing a knife aimed at Vash, his hand bleeding.

At present, Vash moves down and puts another kiss on Wolfwood's right shoulder. "And here, from watching my back." Another memory flashes of Wolfwood and Vash back to back. Vash looks back as Wolfwood grins while holding Punisher, bleeding from multiple gunshots in his shoulder.

"And," Vash combs up Wolfwood's hair to reveal his forehead, "Here." A final memory shows Wolfwood with a regeneration vial in his mouth while getting shot on his temple. The next panel is framed in blood with Vash at the center, eyes wide and stunned in horror. The next panel is a closed up shot of Wolfwood's eye, locked on Vash's face.

Back to present, Vash’s head is bowed down as Wolfwood raises a hand to his nape and says, “Spikey.”

Wolfwood looks serious and frowns as he says, "We talked about this. Those were my decisions. They're not there anymore. Forget about them." Vash looks very sad before he smiles ruefully and says, "I still see them. All the time." He leans down so they touch foreheads. Wolfwood’s sorrowful expression can be seen as Vash says, "You protect so much. I could never forget what you've done to me. And many others..."

In the last image, they're drawn more cartoonishly. Wolfwood sweats and asks, "You don't actually remember every wound, right?" Vash points at a spot on his chest. "Kuroneko left a scratch here 7 times." Wolfwood, startled, says, "Why the hell are you keeping count—" End ID]

Credits for ID here and here

One of my favorite things that could potentially come out of Nico being implied to be guaranteed immortality after he dies is, knowing how he is, there is a non-zero chance he could die defending his friends.

Which means you could totally have a scene where Nico is killed in a fight protecting his loved ones, and they see he is dead. Everyone is 100% certain he is dead, because he is. But then he just gets back up. And absolutely wrecks shit. Because he just entered phase two of his boss battle and he’s a GOD NOW.

I just need everyone to picture that scene. Imagine it in your mind’s eye. Good. Enjoy that.

i made myself a tf2 oc to ship with demo. say hi to jaimito.

hes a milkman hired by tf industries to deliver imported milk specifically to the red/blu base because local milk is radioactive (he has his own logo!! hes important)

i know someone must have done this already but--

based on this post by @chaotic-kass