yknow an argument I hear a lot from pr0shipper self shippers is
‘it’s healthy/it’s endorsed by therapists/my therapist said it’s ok to fantasise about fucked up things to process my trauma’ and like,, yeah, you’re right, that can be a way of regaining control.
The reason we hate your guts is because not only are you posting that shit, romanticised, on the internet, you are either attracted to child/animal/ect characters or are chill with people who are being in your community
there’s a difference between processing what you’ve been through and taking away it’s power and going ‘that kid is so hot’. There’s a difference between normal trauma responses and creating content of you/your s/i r wording someone.
There’s also a BIG difference between writing fucked up shit as a horror or drama thing and actually *shipping*/romanticising it.
People are shamelessly posting things like ‘imagine doing *insert sexual thing here* with your child f/o’ as if that’s an even vaguely alright thing to do.
If you are a pr0shipper, you are either a pe3o/z00/ect or you support them. What about this is so hard for people to understand ??
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Oh I don't think you were snapping, ev is fine eheh
And for the things I ment were not only killing people, like I know it's inevitably in wars butsuch as r@pe, tortures.. *mr incredible disturbing face*
Again I'm sorry for bringing up such dark topics😭😭
Well this what the mature labels are for! Now for that question...
Surprisingly, I don't think Kai or Oogway actively engaged in war crimes of that level- now torturing actual prisoners of war, captured off the battlefield, soldiers that they couldn't press into their service- yes, actually I headcanon Kai did that, usually to torture them for valuable information, hence his title "Master of Pain"; but...yeah, for the rest of it, I don't think either of them engaged in anything like that. Only prisoners of war ( rivals of some rank) were tortured- a war crime of itself, but nothing against civilians, except to pillage upon occasion when in desperate straits; horrible, but nothing like...that.
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♡ New Pinned! ♡
Hell♡, please call me Betta. She/her/hers. Vi♡let, Alternian, ten sweeps, please d♡n't g♡ l♡♡king f♡r my main I g♡t l♡cked ♡ut ♡f it and I'm embarrassed by the pers♡n I used t♡ pretend t♡ be.
This bl♡g is where I can be h♡nest, and be myself, the real self, and n♡t the ♡ne I made up as a mask f♡r the crushing s♡cietal pressure that was ch♡king me ♡ut. I'm s♡ft, and everything a vi♡let sh♡uldn't be. If y♡u're cut fr♡m similar cl♡th, y♡u can hide in my c♡ve with me f♡r a m♡ment here, and we can be free fr♡m the pressures ♡f the w♡rlds ar♡und us.
Tags:
♡ guppy tears - venting
♡ guppy glubs - chatting
♡ guppy school - asks
♡ about [fish type] - regarding my irls and such
I have an ass♡ciates list, but I w♡uld have t♡ rew♡rk it t♡ p♡st ab♡ut it. The imp♡rtant ♡ne as ♡f right n♡w is Drag♡net, my m♡irail. I might p♡st ab♡ut my previ♡us crushes as well, s♡, I d♡n't kn♡w. I'll give pe♡ple tags as they c♡me up.
My ♡ld p♡sts are ♡ld, please disregard them.
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two from John Grey
THE UNTHINKABLE
I’m all alone,
in my apartment,
and thinking the unthinkable.
It’s
XV&* young couple xv&*re kissing
x#3@ xv&* sight for older eyes,
X#3@ nothing incidentxv&*l. x#3@ remember times
long xv&*go x#3@ ooo!y found ooo!mselves
x#3@ your midnight visitor x#3@ your skin is xv&*s cold xv&*s stone…
xv&*rrived xv&*t such moments,
xv&*s xv&* drop in temperxv&*ture
xv&*s bloodstxv&*in xv&*ppexv&*rs
xv&*t ooo! behest F() his own pxv&*st devilry.
bexv&*ring ooo! pxv&*st’s iniquities,
becxv&*use xv&* kiss, becxv&*use even within hxv&*s visions,
brexv&*thless shxv&*pe, but welcome phenomenon
deep cxv&*ve F() xv&* mouth, exv&*ger to be ooo!re.
even xv&* thought cxv&*n get xv&*t you for his nightmxv&*res exist
from ordinxv&*ry life, glides towxv&*rd ooo! bed-bound cripple,
hollow eyes, If svelte impervious to wexv&*ooo!r, In ooo! xv&*bsence
in ooo! icy drizzle, inspiring, inimitxv&*ble,
is xv&*n experience xv&*pxv&*rt
is fxv&*r more thxv&*n is style's first commx#3@ment
No xv&*ttendxv&*nt fxv&*ults or fissures.
No closing his eyes, no drifting into sleep,
F() you being here with me. F() your nxv&*me x#3@ fxv&*ce
old hexv&*rts, to reminisce Old mxv&*n, on your bxv&*ck,
performs xv&*n xv&*utopsy on his memories.
plxv&*stered everywhere Sheer white is coming,
so vulnerxv&*ble, hxv&*t would even survive
ooo! one clench, ooo! one mouth-lock,
ooo! wxv&*y you conserve spxv&*ce.
ooo! wildest blizzxv&*rd ooo! wires to ooo! crexv&*ture you were
ooo!n you obey. Ooo!re's something xv&*bout
ooo!y remxv&*in visible
to be xv&*dored. tremble in dxv&*rk wind…
turns ooo! sky to flxv&*kes F() snow,
we hxv&*ve this strxv&*nge whxv&*t you’ve been thinking.
when ooo!ir lives when young, where xv&* hexv&*rt should be,
yet, even xv&*s ooo! xv&*ir fills,
You contxv&*in everything necessxv&*ry your fxv&*ce is twisted.
That just about covers it.
FROM MY TIME IN KANSAS
My heart strains like a shoehorn,
fitting love the size of number 15 feet
into the narrow gauge of your penny loafers.
I was born weird like Chagall’s violets –
the skin around my mouth had a mauve tinge –
and I made sounds…
green sounds
blue sounds.
And in a backwater,
over the tracks,
in the farmers’ ghetto,
hammered and bruised
until the wires in my neck almost snapped –
the wretched shack,
the dead cat by the fire
the railway carriage frozen in rust,
all the feelings departed for some better world
except, that is, for despair.
Houselights scorch with sulfur heat,
randomness sips wine,
salutes the fading stars,
predicts the past with total accuracy.
I ramble through my works –
I am a haunted house in which all the ghosts are afraid of me –
my chair is a pipe that my skinny ass smokes –
I fall asleep in a river of mirrors –
posing dramatically,
surrounded by fish vomit –
bad nights sit like a stone on my brow.
My demons defeat me in drunken battles,
their sideways glances versus my belly of dread,
my stars are spilled peas on tarmac.
my pain is a magnetic field,
and I drink whiskey from the horn of a goat
(one that’s still attached)
but forgive my uncontrolled mumbling –
it’s merely rain on a dry river bed.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Sheepshead Review, Stand, Poetry Salzburg Review and Red Weather. Latest books, “Covert” “Memory Outside The Head” and “Guest Of Myself” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in the McNeese Review, Rathalla Review and Open Ceilings.
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