the following poem was never published by Lord Percy Cunningsworth, and was found amongst piles of letters in his country estate after it became a historical site in 2022. like his published works, Cunningsworth refers to "F" in a romantic tone, however this poem, referred to by academics as "a simple story", seems to represent Cunningsworth and "F" as two men. because of this, and the romantic tone Cunningsworth uses to portray "our lord" and "our hero", this poem is one of the key pieces of evidence used to claim that Cunningsworth was a queer man. scholars cannot be sure of the date it was written, but it is largely agreed to be part of his later work.
F,
it is the simplest stories that I find
do the most to upset the mind
so, dear lover, strong and fair
keep that thought as one to bare
first, centre stage. a lord who thinks himself a fraud
he is respectable, he has wit, he is a child of god
he has the highest castle in all the land
and a sword held by a shaky hand
all his life he has stood tall
tall and towering above them all
all of them he'd rather be
rather be focused, and loved, kind and steady
now enter from the wings; stage left
stands a man with nimble fingers and a deft
of talent he has never used
our hero turns and watches the lord, amused
all his life he has stood proud
proud and kind, quietly loud
loudly speaking of his love
love for others, that he holds so far above
our lord still has his shaky hand
his sword unsteady, route unplanned
no matter how much love he dreams
his hopes are falling at the seams
so, feeling lost for more than words
he turns to slowly falling on his sword
lost for hope. lost his mind.
and that is when it is our hero finds
our lord, sword tip to heart
but our hero forces blade apart
from skin, draws close and closer
our lord, feels bold and bolder
our lord and hero become great friends
though that is not where their tale ends
that ending, you know, I am sure
the one of love, and feelings pure
-P.
though it's relevance is contested, certain historians point out that the page under it, a written message from Cunningsworth's long time butler who's only known name was Franklin, also makes reference to falling on swords, and goes on to mention a public poetry reading Cunningworth had seemingly read at.
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Here’s something I cooked up one dark, stormy night when I was in need of a little motivation. You can do this with items easily found in the house and the kitchen, which makes it great for a little last minute push.
You’ll need the following:
Herbs: I used cinnamon for motivation, basil for luck, lavender to ease anxiety and depression (the main issue with my lack of motivation), rosemary for clear thinking and concentration, and coffee (whatever dry form you have) for energy. You might also use vanilla for restoring energy (I burned vanilla incense as I worked the spell instead). You can use some or all of these.
Tools: a fireproof bowl or cauldron, matches, paper and something to write on it with, OR a glass bottle or jar.
You will also need a sigil for motivation. I used the following “get off your ass” sigil of my own design, but a sigil designed for your specific purpose would work just as well (or better).
There are two ways to work this spell.
Method one: fire. For this you need the cauldron, the matches, and the paper. Draw your sigil in the middle of the piece of paper. Add your herbs (I added mine in pinches of three) and fold the paper around them (most pieces of paper will fold seven times only, which is handy). Place the paper into the cauldron and set it alight to activate it. As you watch it burn, think about the kinds of things you want to achieve once you’re motivated. If you like, you can sprinkle a little of the ashes on your clothes or in your shoes to keep the spell with you throughout the day.
Method two: herb jar. Clean a small jar for use in the spell. Mark your sigil on a small piece of paper and add it to the jar. Then layer your herbs into the jar, stating aloud or meditating on the power you wish to draw from each. Seal the jar and keep it somewhere close to you when you require motivation (on your desk for homework, in your pocket or bag if you’re travelling, etc.)
I hate when I get an ad for chatgpt on youtube and when I go to the ad center it's like "oh you want to block the category fitness? is that the part you don't like". No you know what part I don't fucking like.
"Aro/Ace person gets given a love potion" story but instead of them being immune or whatever, it DOES work, and they realize IMMEDIATELY that they've been fed a love potion because this feeling is so wrong and foreign but everyone keeps laughing off the idea of it being a love potion because "they were probably just a late bloomer" or "no, you just finally found the right person!" and it's just a horror story about how no one believes them even though they know, they KNOW this isn't right and they can't stand it.
All the people who keep saying “or, consider, they just suddenly really love their family/friends/pets/hobbies/etc!” in the notes 1) are missing the fucking point and 2) owe a loveless aro ten bucks
It's about the feeling of something foreign invading your body and your mind. It's about finding yourself inexplicably obsessed with something that's completely out of character for you. It's about feeling like you've been body snatched and absolutely nobody around you is clocking the imposter. It's about being forced to confront how there isn't anyone around you who would even be worth loving, because if they were then they'd be trying to help you when you say you need help, for no other reason than that you have said it.
Something is wrong something is wrong something is wrong.
You don’t drop your drink on the bar floor, you place it gently on the bar it was served on, as you feel your heart pulse in cut time, while your face flushes and your hands shake. Next to you, a warm smile, a gentle hand, a deep voice asks,
“Are you alright?”
And your heart sings, your pulse leaps, all you can think is I love you, I love you, I love you! and you feel sick with the infatuation of it all. “I’m fine.” is what you eventually say, but it comes out unstable, higher pitched, than you want it too, and in turning away you watch your friends trade glances with one another.
“She’s in love!” One of them, Rachel, says to the other.
“I never thought I’d see the day!” The other, Beth, replies.
Something is wrong! You try to tell them, but you can’t get the words out, as they trade giggles and hushed tones while you excuse yourself to go to the bathroom.
----
Inside, you face yourself in the mirror. Water has done nothing to calm the fire in your gut, and the butterflies in your stomach swirl to a stampeding rhythm.
You’ve never been in love before, and you never thought you would be. You love, you have always loved, or sometimes loved, or kinda sorta loved, before. But you’ve never been *in* love; beyond passing curiosity, you’ve never wanted to be. It took a while to be okay with that, and an even longer time to acknowledge it, but this is how you are and regardless of how you, or other people, feel on putting a term to it, it’s how you imagined your future remaining.
Asexual. Aromantic. The bane to love-song propaganda. The constant butt of every joke that cries “This is what it means to be human! To Love! To Love! To Love!”.
Right now, you don’t feel human. This feels wrong, like a violation, like someone reaching into your nerves and burning them with the uncomfortable jolt of electricity, forcing you to jitter and move against any conscious choice. Forcing your blood to rush, and your mind to fill with him, him, Him!
Ants bearing love notes and centipedes scrawling heart-felt confessions skitter and scrape across the undersides of your skin. You would cry, you think, if your mind wasn’t cotton stuffed full of Love.
“There you are!” Rachel says, entering the bathroom to find you, shaking, wiping down your face one last time with water and crumbling brown paper towels.
“Something is Wrong.” You tell her, finally able to think without that man drowning your thoughts, content to be a constant undercurrent for now.
“I’ll say!” She laughs, “Look at you, you couldn’t take your eyes off of Joshua back there!” No, no no, she has it wrong. You’re not here to think about Joshua’s soft blue eyes- Stop it! Blue: ice scrapping, chilling you to the bone.
“You don’t get it. This isn’t normal. I can’t stop thinking about him. I’ve never felt like this before.” You try to impress. You want to scream. You want to throw up, a little, too, but you can’t tell if that’s you or the Love.
“Twenty-seven is pretty late to get a first crush, sure, but Joshua’s a nice guy, I get it! Not to mention big, strong, and handsome~” She does that thing with her voice. That double entendre waver that you always thought was a little gross, when talking about someone in love.
Why doesn’t she understand- “No, I mean- Don’t you think it’s weird? Isn’t this out of character? I don’t-” You can’t, “But now-” You can’t even say it, “It won’t let go. It won’t stop. I want to be with him, I want him to be with me! I feel weird! This isn’t right!”
“You’re being dramatic... but I guess that makes sense- it’s your first time, after all! Oooh, I can’t believe I got to be there when you fell in love for the first time! This is so romantic, it’s like a fairy tale! No one was right, no one fit, you had resigned yourself to living a Loveless life, until suddenly, He appeared!” She sighs, dreamily. You think you’re going to be sick again.
But still, you stop and think. Stop to partition the little idiot in your brain that keeps designing cursive versions of your name next to Joshua, blossoming with bloodstained hearts in-between. Resigned, that’s how Rachel phrased it. Is that how she saw it, saw you? The bathroom door opens- it’s Beth. She’ll understand.
“You two were having a gossip party without me?” Beth says, but there’s no hurt in her eyes as she gives a sly smile.
“She’s In Love~” Rachel taunts you, incriminating flush branded deep in your flesh burning all the brighter.
“I saw!” Beth squeals, and your stomach drops, hope failing, while your Love soars.
“Beth, you’ll listen to me, won’t you?” You ask, desperate, a last ditch effort “This isn’t normal, this isn’t right- I think maybe someone poisoned my drink-”
“Oh, she just won’t stop.” Rachel cuts you off, rolling her eyes, “She’s convinced, that just because she’s never been in love before, that must mean there’s something wrong.”
“Being in love isn’t wrong!” Beth responds to Rachel, sympathetic gaze turned towards you, reaching out to hold your hands like you’re a child needing comfort, “Sure, you’ve never been in love before, and change can be scary when you’re not ready for it, but shouldn’t you be celebrating? Now you know you were wrong! It is possible for you to love! Isn’t that wonderful?”
You’ve known Beth the longest, you’ve confided in her the most. Every moment of your life had been charted out and experienced with her by your side, your best friend and confidant. She knew you before you had a name for what you were, and she had always acted supportive of your decisions. She was the first person you told, when you discovered your relationship with love.
Beth looked so happy, as she said those words ‘Now you know you were wrong!’
You can’t. You can’t look at them. But you also can’t stay here.
“I’m going home.”
“Already?” Rachel scoffs, arms crossed, looking at you like you’ve said something ridiculous.
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of!” Beth calls out to you, as you shoulder your way past her to leave.
----
No one believes you. You think that’s the worst thing you’ve discovered, about being in Love.
They see how your rash of a blush spreads when you talk about him, how you choke and stammer out praises mixed in with your loathing. They think you’re an idiot, new to your feelings, bumbling about them like a hormonal teenager, Love too big to think clearly. That last one is true, (Love all but suffocates you) but not in a way that you can make people listen.
It’s amazing, how few people truly care, when they think it’s about Love.
You ask for help, but it’s not the kind anyone wants to give.
‘Self Sabotaging’, ‘Repressed’, ‘Denial’, you’ve learned there are a million different ways to tell you that you’re wrong for thinking it’s wrong you’re in Love.
----
It is with vindictive satisfaction that you eventually prove your claims correct. When enough time had passed without you throwing yourself at Joshua like he undoubtedly assumed you would (and you were terribly grateful you were able to prevent), you caught him in the act of poisoning another drink. You had proof, and you took it to the right channels; you were cured and he would never do it again.
You were overjoyed, for a bit, but the victory itself was tainted. You stopped the villain, but the damage had already been done.
How quickly did those close to you turn, and how alienating it was, for no one to believe you. Puppeted by Love, reciting poetry of rotting verses, they mistook sweetness for healing rather than underlying disease. They must have seen the festering spread of Love as something to fill in the cracks of your character, instead of covering what little of you there was left beneath it all.
A gift in disguise, you think bitterly to yourself, as you wash the whole event clean. If your friends and family wanted you to be in Love, they can hold onto that fantasy- you don’t plan on speaking with them again, after all. They can read about what happened to Joshua in the news, and you can find a better group of people to spend your time with.
It is with peace you find yourself, in a life without Love.
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I spent a lot of time handcuffed and in a cage in high school, for a charity bit the grocery store I worked at would do
the bit was that I was "put in jail for having too big a heart" and customers could donate to my bail to get me out (and the money would go to a children's hospital or something)
now. I was very clearly a teenaged employee handcuffed inside a large cage. and I would honestly tell people that I had been in there for hours. and people would say, that's terrible! that's awful! and I would show them my wrists red from the tight handcuffs, and say but I'm sooooooo close to making bail.
and then they would dump some cash in the basket, I'd thank them, and they'd walk away.
and every so often, one of the managers would come by and collect some of the cash, so I could keep being soooooo close to making bail.
I was very good with this bit. Parents with small kids would pay $5-10 if I told their children I had been placed in jail for not cleaning my room/doing my homework, etc. For people in their 20s, I'd threaten that I was very bad at playing the harmonica, but I WOULD play it and we'd all suffer unless they paid me. and for the most amount of money, older men in suits would almost always pay $20s if I avoided eye contact and stammered a lot.
eventually, the managers started to feel bad because I was in the cage so fucking long and often, that I'd need someone to brace me when I got out because I'd have no feeling in my legs. wobbling like a newborn giraffe.
but I would also rake in at LEAST $100 an hour in charity.
so they were like, hey champ. can we, uh, give you a pillow to sit on. in the cage. would you like a pillow so you're not just sitting on a cold metal slab. can we give you a pillow.
and I had to explain to them that if they gave me a pillow, people would think I was more comfortable, so they wouldn't feel as bad, so I'd bring in less money.
the compromise was that they'd bring me a nice coffee every couple hours, which I would have to try to block with my body from the customers.
all this money went to charity. that's what the money was for. it's what was on the sign. but how much they were willing to pay was very contingent on how comfortable I looked, never mind the fact that I was still a teenaged employee handcuffed inside a cage.
and out of the dozens of shifts I did this on, not ONCE did ANYONE say, hey kid I'm going to go talk to your manager because what the fuck is going on here. they would just drop money in the basket, and I'd thank them and sip from my secret drink.
I actually had people get MAD at me that I told them I was far away from bail, they donated like $15, and then 20 minutes I got let out because my shift ended.
again. the money was for charity. it was on the sign that was very clearly placed on the upper half of my cage.
so yeah. even when people think they mean well. people can be really, really fucking stupid.
took me a bit but this is roughly what the cage looked like, without the middle platform
It was something that was originally used in the back for carting boxes, but was repurposed into a teenager cage
they'd wheel it out and the one open side would be backed against either a wall or a large display (like very tall rows of soda boxes or something)
Then I'd get in, they'd push the thing so it would be as flush as possible against the wall, and then I'd stick my hands through the bars for them to handcuff me. there'd be a sign up top explaining the bit, and then a shopping basket tied on front for people to drop the money into.
the handcuffs were fake, and I could unlock them myself for obvious safety reasons. I would get more donations if they were tight, though.
After maybe a month or two, I asked for a harmonica to sell the bit. they also tried giving me a mug, but it was too awkward with the handcuffs. I got kind of okay at playing the harmonica, but the main point was just to do one sharp blast to startle people into looking down, and then I'd threaten that I had no idea how to play, but would do so anyway unless they donated to my bail. managers actually got me a prison jumpsuit to throw over my uniform, but it was really fucking awkward so we stopped eventually. I also got a metric fuckton of mardi gras beads so I could lure small children over, to then mournfully tell them of my imprisonment due to not cleaning my room, etc. parents would be moderately irritated that I'd lured their children over with beads, but would respect the game that I'd given their kids a whole new fear. I had some parents even ad lib what I could have been thrown in prison for. guaranteed donations.
obviously, the prison bit worked best with younger girls. my roughly 50-60 year old manager once congratulated me on doing so well with the donations because I "looked like a cute sad little puppy in one of those RSPCA commercials. like a helpless puppy or a kitten." wearing makeup and earrings also increased the rate of donations.
had to explain to another girl how I regularly got $20s, which was when an older guy in a suit walked by I'd rattle my handcuffs slightly to draw attention. 10/10 times the guy would walk over, and I had to tell this girl like. If you avoid eye contact and sound uncertain you will get at least $20. I am sorry. this is for children's cancer research.
cannot stress enough that the other employees fought to get to be in the cage. customers were so awful and the weather was so shitty. jail meant sitting down with very few expectations, talking and joking with people.
Anyway. Shit was definitely not an allegory, though it could be used as one for about 11 different things.
Everyone's all "ohhh 2026 bring back physical media" until I start talking illuminated manuscripts and then suddenly we're not on the same page anymore
yeah i like to give my blessing to the most pathetic looking weak little knight at the tournament. she can’t even look me in the eye when i give her my flower and she stutters out that she’ll do her best or something of the like. i think its funny when she has to cry and beg my forgiveness and i get to say “such a shame, i suppose my hand in marriage will have to go to someone else…” and then i get to hear her whimper like a dog. ive done this like 6 times alrea-
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The setting that prevents your work being used to train AI models is turned off by default! I had no idea about this until now! Artists, go to your settings, click “visibility”, and turn on this setting! Protect your work!
