Just once I want to be as happy about sleeping when I go to bed as I am when I have to wake up

I only love what I can’t have when it comes to sleep.

When I’m awake, I HATE sleep, I’m DOING things, what if I MISS something – I hate the feeling of slowly getting dumber and worse at everything, I was JUST starting to get really into my day

But then somehow, in the morning, I LOVE sleep, no don’t make stop sleeping I’m WARM and COMFY, I’ve finally relaxed, eyy I’m DREAMIN’ here, wtf I never want to be awake again go away

like. when will I sync up?

I like: internal screaming I dislike: not screaming incoherently You can often find me: unintelligibly screaming Current Mood: enraged screaming Favorite past time: helpless screaming

For more of the content you love, follow me at AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

when it’s tough to escape the stereotype

Me: “It’s chill, I’m just fucked up dude” oops, oh well, just don’t let on how totally  Californian you are Them: “oh? fucked up on what?” 

Me: just play it cool, man “a crisp Sav Blanc from the Lodi region and some Purple Widow, a mellow sativa with blueberry terpenes .” oh gods fucking damn it 

hey. your tea is getting cold, don’t forget about it

I see it all so easily, the scenery is freezin’ me, I seek to meet some minds but find the least of these is mean to me the thing to be is dead or free instead of fed by FEDs at 3:00 mentally pretending that we seize and kill this easy meat- and every week I try to speak about how we should try to leap the gate and break the fence and mend our ways but I’m a freak so I hear a lot of people are unhappy that the steeples are all turning good and evil into single serving meals but the deal is the feeling of the corporate ceiling stealing love and wonder out from under us is just as unappealing- reeling busted through the rubble, living deep in dust and trouble we must keep the trust and struggle ‘cause our jungle is in pain the rain is acid and the bastards that are passing off their asses as our masters cause disasters and the system is insane see if I had a crooked quarter for every honest dime I’d twisted from the system well then I could buy a diamond- I’m fine when it’s fine and the going’s going smoothly, usually content to spend the rent on rent dutifully; do to fee will though, i still go crazy daily bearing witness to the witless and their babies; lately i’m closer to the closure of my goals but the polls show my tail  touching toes with the trolls- stay composed though i know if i slow or slip anywhere they’ll kill me there still i dare to skip *record scratch* dare to skip *record scratch* dare to skip

if i fix all the things that are broken in pieces is life then a dream or does it just mean that all dreaming ceases

Hey you know how I rejected the flesh, and then the machine, and then the divine? But it was all supplented by decay itself? Has anyone tried becoming one with the rot?

the number of spas i've been to where men and women are totally naked around each other and everybody minds their own business just fine, like, some people are obsessed with insisting men are monsters who cannot control themselves around women and it's bullshit.

I've even been to spas where the people were all naked and children were allowed if they were accompanied by their parents, and nobody was at all weird about it. Because nudity is not inherently sexual and men are not inherently dangerous sexual predators.

And yeah some of those spas were in europe, but some were in the u.s. too, it's not like some impossible cultural change needs to happen. All you have to do is set a social standard, and people will meet that standard.

The thing is, there is a standard is being set and upheld at those spas, everybody there knows what behavior is expected of them, but the standard outside the spa has to be set higher. That's literally all that has to happen. People will meet that standard.

And it does take time to get a few hundred million people to agree on anything, but we can see it's been happening, the standards are changing. Just look at what movies and TV and general public opinion has become on stuff like whether or not it's okay to sleep with someone who is super drunk. A few decades ago getting a woman drunk to sleep with her was encouraged and applauded. Now saying "no, you're drunk let's not" is one way writers show a character is a good person. The standard is changing. And being a person who demands those new standards from the people in your life is what makes you a feminist.

Not insisting that women can't be safe around men. As OP notes, that's actually anti-feminist. It's just another way to say "if a woman dresses a certain way around men it's her fault if she gets sexually assaulted because men can't control themselves."

Most men who buy into that line of thinking do so not because they are the kind of man who thinks they can't control themselves around a naked woman, but because they know they can control themselves around a naked woman ... and the "men can't control themselves around women" take means they personally deserve praise and recognition as an exceptional man for that, instead of just being a common guy who meets a reasonable social standard.

Anyway, there's no reason men and women can't share locker rooms or bathrooms or spas or nude beaches or anything else. You'll get whatever behavior is expected and accepted... that's just how social beings are.

the idea that restrooms, locker rooms, etc need to be single-sex spaces in order for women to be safe is patriarchy's way of signalling to men & boys that society doesn't expect them to behave themselves around women. it is directly antifeminist. it would be antifeminist even if trans people did not exist. a feminist society would demand that women should be safe in all spaces even when there are men there.

imo any chance to ruin an algorithm experience is the way to go -- i've literally never once clicked on a "for you" recommendation because i want 0% encouragement for that sort of thing, if this website starts putting posts on my dash from people i'm not following i'm going to have to say goodbye to my very last social media platform

the first anon ask perfectly highlights the problem with that shit.. enjoyable posts from a person you chose to follow are going to contribute to ruining your experience here? it's easier to beg your mutuals to stop posting what they want to post than it is to curate your experience via the tools the website provides? wtf is that about

I am begging you, stop posting so much about T*ylor Sw*ft before my For You starts thinking "oh you follow someone who posts about T*ylor Sw*ft, I'll show you more"

Please, I have kids (mutuals) to feed (reblog posts to)

ive been given a choose-your-own-adventure style story choice and i dont know which to pick

The street is in a very nice neighborhood. Yards are manicured. Paint is fresh. The sidewalk is pristine. Elegant cars are parked in driveways and at curbs. Everything is expensive and nice.

Wy is walking down the street in a pair of jeans, a hoodie and a leather motorcycle jacket. They are androgynous in a pair of leather boots with a tall heel. Clearly they are experiencing something deeply, as their face is tense with suppressed energy. Sadness? Anger? Determination? It is hard to tell. Tears threaten to spill from their eyes, which begin to turn a complex and glowing grey, like pumice lit from within. Slowly the music starts, gaining volume. If an Italian opera about classic blues were written and produced by Tool and remixed by edIT using a heavy metal guitar sample, it might sound similar. Wy stops walking. They hunch slightly, clenching their fist, and then their body makes a motion like a full bodied scream, but they make no sound. Instead, the trees along the sidewalk near Wy droop and drop their leaves. The lawn on their other side becomes weeds. The lamp post nearest Wy rusts and dents. The pavement beneath their feet buckles and cracks.

Beat drop.

Wy begins to dance, a shuffling stomping dance. As the dance builds in energy, the decay of the immediate space around them intensifies. The dance and the decay and the music all build, until the dance is a very acrobatic breakdance ballet, and the surrounding area of entropy has reduced everything within it to dust and ash and dirt, clearly defining the area’s sharp edged shape: a perfect sphere.

beat drops out, just the melody plays.

Now the dance stops and Wy begins to walk. As the beat stutters back in Wy makes a motion or stomps or gives something a Look in time to each drum hit - and each motion causes that same entropic effect. Wy flings their arm out toward a new mercedes, and it ages, the tires bald, the surface weathers, a patina develops on the windshield. Wy glares at an expensive bike left in a driveway and the tires go flat, the seat falls in, the handlebars bend.

The beat crashes back in as Wy stalks to the rhythm.

Wy is creating bigger changes. Shaking both hands at a bougie store front like shaking water off their hands, they turn it into a liquor store. Inside, the items on the shelves are changing, from healthy snacks and pricey goods into liquor and tobacco and junk food. The proprietor and a customer are in the middle of a transaction. The customer has their wallet out and open, full of cash; he and the proprietor are talking and laughing. As the place changes, they change. Their clothes become threadbare and stained. Their health appears effected, as they suddenly show physical signs of hardship and chronic stress –  the proprietor is now balding, the customer is missing teeth. As the store around them finishes changing into a liquor store, the customer looks at their now empty wallet and immediately starts robbing the proprietor.

Back out on the sidewalk, Wy is marching forcefully onward, wreaking havoc. They perform a complicated dance move at a house and it ages explosively, windows blowing out, paint pealing as if in a heat blast, roof sagging suddenly.

As Wy, clearly upset, continues this walk of withering, they begin to strip off their clothing, and change, in a vaguely lycanthropic way. They take off their jacket. Their hoodie. Their shirt. As the clothing comes off, their body changes - Wy becomes a larger winged humanoid, half angel half demon, all furious. Their body is denser, as if made of stone; wings unfurl behind them, one black and iridescent red feathered, one with feathers of bluish white and metallic gold. Feathers from their wings grow all the way along the shoulders and lay over the chest, beneath which, any gender is possible. Their pants tear away and the knee of each leg bends backward as they change below the waist – what might be goat or boar on one side, what looks like horse on the other. They remain androgynous, not in a static way, but fluidly seeming very feminine or very masculine depending on angle, lighting, or expression. Hair is in a state of flux, growing out and shortening, taking a variety of styles.  Bluish cracking electricity crawls around their glowing white angel eye, black smoke wisps from their demon eye which throbs with dull red light. They stalk the street as music sounds around them. Their demonic attributes seem…  more noticeable, than their angelic characteristics. More… in charge of the whole being.

Wy stalks the streets, a half demon half angel bestial principality. They scream at a passing car and it breaks down, aging 30 years in an instant, smoke pouring from under the hood. Their tears sizzle into the asphalt creating potholes and cracks. Crude graffiti sprouts on walls as they walk past. Wooden fences rot.

As Wy pulls the… quality, out of everything around them, they continue changing. The angel attributes are taking over the demonic ones. It is as if Wy is sucking the positive energy out of their surroundings and into themself, transforming into a full angel. The music is shifting, incorporating classical instrument samples and choir hits and becoming generally more up-beat.

A whole and beautiful but terrifying angel stands in the road. All around, the once glittering neighborhood has been turned into a place of poverty and neglect.

The angel Wy stands a moment in contemplation, the music breaks down to a single flute, or harp, or something. Wy seems to see something in the distance and leaps 6,000 feet into the air, rushing back down to earth in nearly the same second and landing in the middle of an inner city.

The music finishes it’s shift, nearly pop rock, a total bop – Janelle Monae, Bruno Mars, and Missy Eliot must be producing together now. 

Wy the angel dances energetically along the street through the run down neighborhood. As they dance, the sidewalk mends, the potholes fill, paint jobs on buildings become new.

Three people trying to get an old broken down car running are surprised to find they are under the hood of the same car, but new as the day it was first built, running perfectly. People’s clothes become new and expensive, in the same style, but higher quality. Chain link fences become ornate wood or fancy wrought iron. Wy dances past a wall covered in a large graffiti mural and.. the wall doesn’t change at all.

Pointing at a wheel-less bike leaning against an abandoned couch, it becomes a brand new street bike next to an artisan sausage and lemonade kiosk. The bum on the street is suddenly behind the dog and drink stand in decent clothes, looking a little startled, but someone is already putting money in his hand and asking for two lemonades. Behind him, a framed food critic review with the ex-bum's picture proclaims him the owner.

The music is getting harder. Glitchy. Less harp and flute sample, more electric guitar and record scratches. Moodier.

Wy is changing too, the earlier effect in reverse, pouring all the goodness out of themself and becoming an entire demon.

Finally, Wy is all demon - still terrifying, and still beautiful. They look around hungrily, angrily, and see something in the distance. They leap Up! Down! and land somewhere that might be Beverly Hills. Close up as Wy looks around themself. The demon is very angry at what it sees. FADE.

stop using science to justify bigotry in fiction

“Elves don’t reproduce quickly enough to get this divers. Not saying they can’t have slight differences in skin color, but… EVERYONE IS CLOSELY RELATED. So you’d have to stick with one look, maybe two.“

(actual quote from some post on this hellsite)

_________________________________________________________________

First of all, there’s enough science to create whatever fiction you want - an octopus uses a biological process to edit its genes during its lifetime and we don’t understand why or how, and an octopus is, idk, at least 50% more realistic than an elf, so…. but more importantly:

In fiction, “reality” is only ever a tool used to reenforce the fantasy. Otherwise a dragon twice the size of an elephant would need a wingspan of over 700 feet and unfurling their wings would cause them to faint from low blood pressure and everything else about these kind of stories would be impossible as well.

In fantasy, you only use science to reenforce what you want to see, for example, the dragon fire can melt iron, melting point 1538 degrees celsius, therefore it can melt steel, melting point 1370c. When reality gets in the way of the fantasy you’re creating, for example in your story dragon fire melts iron but does not melt steel, you just say “oh, that’s because magic” or whatever. That’s the whole point.

So if you find yourself saying something like the imaginary elves have to all be the same color because of science, you have to ask yourself… why is your fantasy an exclusion of diverse skin colors? Because Fantasy itself has room for anything at all, elves could be green and purple and blue and glow in the dark, the whole point of a fantasy is you get to make up whatever you want, so why exactly is it sooooo important to you that there are only pale skinned elves?

alien fic blurb

Admiral Tath’ulk slunk purposefully to the front of the presentation chamber, data quartz at the ready. Xe had a lot of information to cover, culminating in recent revelations concerning the true origin of this planet’s astounding biological diversity. That was going to be a delicate conclusion to present - xe was still having trouble believing it xerself.

“Thank you, Da’chitl, Commanders, and” deep genuflection, “Xor Divinity.”

Tath’ulk felt very small in xer divine presence. The presentation chamber, usually so spacious even in full attendance, could hardly contain xer Divinity’s bulk.

“Honored Geneomorphs, Brooders and Symbiots of the Assemblage, I have here the full report of our … conquest, of planet ‘Dirt.’”

A hisstle of amusement pheromones puffed from one side, and xer Divinity’s massive head swung across the chamber with frightening speed; xe was in full chem saturation this meeting.“YYEESS, Captain Yith’alal?” xer voice thundered, “The ‘Dirt’ Is Very Funny, Is It? We Have Lost A Full Third Of Our Invasion Force Trying To Subdue The ‘Dirt’ Planet - Are You Amused? Perhaps It Would Amuse US To See You Leave Your Administrative Duties And Take A Landing Party Down Yourself - Would This Be Humorous? No? Nothing To Hisstle At Suddenly? Good. We Are Also Not Amused By This ‘Dirt’… Do Continue, Admiral,” xe said, enormous face swiveling back to lock on Tath’ulk with all three eyes “Spare No Detail” Tath’ulk surreptitiously fanned nervous-scented chemicals away from xerself with xer vestial lower wings. “At once, xor Divinity, thank you. If the honored Assemblage would direct xor attention to my first image: This is creature type #5132, implicated in a wide range of deaths and destruction. In this next image,” there was a sharp puff of hastily fanned anxiety pheromones around the chamber “can be seen the size of the beast relative to a light-armored Xenkir surface transport. As the image sequence continues,” dismay wafted through the room, “those assembled can observe the damage sustained from high-speed contact with the creature. There were no survivors among this crew. Progressing,” smells changed to disbelief and outrage, “the beast can be seen moving away at speed. To the best estimation of witnesses, the creature was completely unharmed by this encounter, which, clearly, would have obliterated the most heavily armored Xoran trooper. This creature type 5132 is known to ‘Dirt’ natives as ‘Moose’, often given what may or may not be honorific titles such as ‘Fuckin’ or ‘Goddam’.” Here, Tath’ulk paused the image sequencing and raised one flay-hook appendage “I begin my report with creature 5132 in order that I may highlight one serious problem we have faced in securing information from our surviving human captives. Despite close questioning of several humans after the dreaded ‘hippo’ mission, we were completely without forewarning about this ‘moose’ creature.

“To study this, I arranged two groups of human prisoners. One group was asked to list the 25 most dangerous creatures on Dirt.”

“The second group was asked what number ‘moose’ would rank on a list of all of the planet’s most dangerous creatures. This second group yielded numbers from 8th to 500th, with most answers grouping around 20th.”

“Imagine then, my surprise, Geneomorphs, Brooders and Symbiots, when I discovered that ‘moose’ had only made it to a SINGLE top 25 list from the first group!”

“Curious I gathered a third group of humans and asked them the simple question of whether or not a ‘moose’ was deadly dangerous. The answers, honored Assemblage, ranged from disbelief that we might consider a ‘moose’ dangerous, to disbelief that we might NOT consider one deadly.”

“My conclusion is that human beings themselves are so inured to the deadly nature of EVERYTHING on their planet that they are themselves unable to assess the horrors that live here. The following is my exploration into that phenomenon.” Admiral Tath’ulk slightly inflated xer hoiin gland and continued the image sequence “In this next image, we see a single naked human leaping into a Dirt ocean with a simple spear to slay a creature nearly the size of this council chamber, called whale …”

here’s an excerpt from a new thing i’m writing.

X took a deep breath and walked into the super market.

Storefront boredom, hoarded horrors, wars of wares for normal boarders – stop. Concentrate. X just needed to get… shit, what was it? Coffee. X was out of coffee. The caffeine kick, swift pick up quick, don’t stop in the pit stop licketty-split. And paper towels. Was X just standing in the entryway? How long had X been standing here? Don’t need a cart don’t need a hand basket just here for two things, move. And mouthwash, three things; also could get dinner to avoid cooking: that stovetop magic, love lost tragic, great to create food, rude not acted actually good to do but blast it after the eat creeps dish pile drastic – c’mon, focus. What aisle was X in? Juice, yeah, got a day and half worth back home might as well, don’t want to be doing this again tomorrow. Damn it, alright, go back for a hand basket.

Coffee got for the coffee pot the allotted stock more than less but less than a lot - a two pound bag. Straight shot to the mouthwash but so much public jumbled like pinball bumpers, so turn down the mostly empty…

… candy aisle? Evil, ah evil, look at the chocolate, largely sourced from plantations utilizing child slaves, so much money pouring in from chocolate companies that while slavery worldwide had dropped dramatically in the last several decades, slave trade in the areas surrounding the chocolate plantations was actually increasing. And here, shelves of chocolate, the labor of children sold into slavery, offered for just the right price in packages requiring designers and machines more costly than the lives bought and sold to work the harvest; can’t sell this bloodied treat in simple brown paper, no, it has to compete with the hundred other chocolate brands, but of course, all those brands were owned by the same three companies. Look, here was one chocolate item wrapped in Wholesome™ packaging proclaiming the chocolate to be not only organic but also sourced from independent cocoa farmers focused on helping women build better lives. But that chocolate company was just a brand name owned and operated by one of the same giant three corporations that bought chocolate harvested by children stolen from mothers and sold into forced labor. All to fill a carefully calculated percentage of shelf space in this pleasant nightmare. These weren’t goods they were selling, if anything they were bads. Hoarded horrors in this war of wares.

People, people, in the way, or was X in their way… a crowd of one not at one with the crowd, mumbled excuse-mes not allowed to be loud, while the silent voice’s noises shouted out! get out! But X still needed dinner and mouthwash.

Past the eggs which X could rarely eat anymore, used to like the ovarary production of the aviary, until the introduction of some drugs or somethin’ made it very hard to savor properly, a flavor like a cemetery, some property industrial, that’s possibly some commentary on the bigger problem: that our produce, all our meat and dairy’s basically controlled by cash, so have to stay completely wary.

Shit, X had done a whole loop around the store, head full of eggs.

X turned the corner into the next aisle, where meat ranched overcrowded on deforested land was dyed the cartoon color children were raised to expect. Bright red steaks, orangish pink chicken. How was X supposed to buy and eat these things, knowing that not only were the healthy qualities of the foods compromised, not only was the world itself harmed by their industrialized production, but also studies indicated enjoyment of the food, trust in the food, these things effected the very ability of the body to absorb nutrients from the food. When presented with the same ingredients in a form unfamiliar or untrusted versus in a form trusted and enjoyed, the nutritional uptake by the person eating that food was noticeably different. And knowing what X knew, there had not been a meal in years that had been trusted, that had not been tainted by guilt and uncertainty, the subtle aftertaste of evil.

X left the super market shattered and exhausted, halfway home before realizing the mouthwash had never made it into the hand basket.

Reblogging would be a great help, but don’t feel pressured to

sometimes when we spread and share all the vids and pics from these protests it doesn't feel like it does much good -- but here is some proof that it does

loud public opinion, even through media, is one tool we have, and it can work

If you’re in DC, stop by the GWU University Yard and show them some love. The encamped students are remaining under threat of suspension