Death Petal Ink @deathpetalink - Tumblr Blog | Tumlook
Death Petal Ink
@deathpetalink
š« A catalog for captured cleverness š« ššø Tumblr.com/DeathPetalArt āØļøš¼āØļø & Tumblr.com/PolyAmorKey šā¤ļøš for the details on my queer whimsy-horror scifi fantasy comic š¬ššŖš§šāØļø
the whole "insulting someone based on their appearance is bad because it could indirectly hurt people you like who share that feature" is a good start for unlearning body shaming but i do think we need to go further and remind people that even if there was some physical trait that was magically 10000% exclusive to conservatives and creeps and nobody else ever had it, we still shouldnt be insulting them based on that. because the problem with them is not their appearance its their ideology and actions. by insulting their appearance you arent just indirectly insulting others who look like that, youre literally not making the correct point. stay on topic ya know.
A common justification that incels have for being assholes is that no one would like them anyway so they see no point in even trying to be likeable.
When someone is an asshole and you insult them for something that would still be just as true even if they stopped being an asshole or never started, you're only reinforcing that belief.
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Still can't believe I fractured my spine while washing my own ass š I can't take a deep breath without scream-honking. My neighbors probably think I'm torturing an enormous goose šŖæšŖæšŖæ
I still don't regret having my busted spinal fusion hardware removed, but the holes (ghost tracts) left behind have made my spine so fragile. This is my 4th vertebral fracture in 3 months š
I need a āhumans are space orcsā thing where all sentient species are weird like that, but in their own unique ways
And a lot of them are aware of this (like we are when we make these āhumans are space orcsā stories)
Maybe one species enjoys getting bit by something equivalent to mosquitoes. Maybe one actively avoids the hospitable places on their planet because itās boring without a challenge. You get the gist.
I want to see a bunch of aliens (+humans) sitting around a table talking about how their own species is a bunch of freaks
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it feels so evil that you can't still access your university online library after you graduate *remembers my principles* it feels so evil that everyone can't access to that stuff all the time
White folks compare ICE to the Gestapo, but this brand of evil is homegrown. ICE are just slave catchers v2.0. The US constitution never actually abolished slavery. It was always legal to enslave prisoners. & after the civil war, a whole lotta states suddenly criminalized being unhoused, allowing them to kidnap all those recently freed black people who hadn't had the time or resources to find housing & employment just yet. & hey, if white folks ended up enslaved in the prisons too, who cares; they're poor. & a lot of people now considered "white" were still just spicy white, or worse. They hadn't yet given up their culture for homogeneity & a foot in the door.
Poor white folks slobbing on cop knob will always baffle me. Where is your rebel redneck spirit? Whatever happened to Yeehaw, fuck the law? The fucks who used to screech about tyranny now suckle at the gangrenous teat of fascism.
This should be a time for heroes. So many young men are disenfranchised, longing to feel appreciated, a sense of meaning & belonging. Yet despite the uncountable corrupt forces they could choose to fight against, so many still lazily blame trans people, immigrants, minorities, & uppity women. ...The fuck?
The hero's call has come to fight injustice & tyranny. Yet so few answer.
You can see the missing spinal process at L1 where my vertebra was smashed & the bone shards removed. I'll have to update this postmortem self portrait to remove the metal hardware, since I finally got my busted spinal fusion reversed after 20 years of agony. Relentless agony. Recovery has been hell, but I can already tell I was right; the pain was coming from the broken metal rods embedded in my spine. I didn't have a pain disorder. My body was reporting a real fucking problem. I don't know if I'll ever stop being angry about the 20 years I lost to a haze of pain.
I'm still disabled. Still paralyzed. It'll take years to rebuild my body from the muscle atrophy from being trapped in bed.
On March 12, my spinal fusion will be fully reversed. The bones have long since fused, with the aid of the honored dead, for which I am eternally grateful & haunted, so my busted-ass metal hardware won't be replaced. I'll be... free.
Content Warning: X-Rays, surgery talk, self indulgent poetry.
I will never know the honored dead whose bones were ground to slurry to replace the shattered remains of my vertebrae when I was a broken child, my lower back peeled open on the cold metal slab so the shards of my shattered bones could be plucked out & discarded. Their bodies were recycled, & from their dust, a lattice was formed, on which my own anorectic body could rebuild.
I now wish the surgeons, the cutters, had left me with simple human blood & bone, & not the ladder of titanium screws & rods, that within 2 short years would snap in half & embed themselves in my spine, causing endless, unimaginable torment. For 22 years, I have suffered, while doctors & nurses have looked at my X-rays, & not said a damn word about the obviously broken metal rods.
Now, I'm just over a week away from freedom. There's no guarantee that this surgery will make anything better. It might even make things worse. But the metal rods & screws have started shifting, moving around inside my body. I have rolling blackouts like a low income city. I lose feeling in a few toes, my flanks, my thighs, my belly. One day it won't come back. It's time for the metal to go. My body wants it gone. I take an astronomical quantity of opiates every day just to stay sane. The alternative is opening an artery. I wouldn't last a single minute without them. I wear the scars to prove it.
My partner, 5'6, autistic, awkward, wears their scars on the inside, from having stopped me. From laying on top of me, holding me down while I screamed, begged them to please, just... let me die. Nothing was worth living a single second longer. I still don't know how the nurses & doctors failed to find the broken hardware in the ER that night. They had X-rays. They were looking at my guts. My spine was right there. 6 more years of pain they could have saved me.
...But I'm not going to sue anyone for malpractice. What's the point. They tried. They were kind. Even if they didn't listen.
learning that addiction is a progressive narrowing of the range of things that make one happy was kinda life changing for me. i apply it to everything not even just addiction i am always checking to ask if i am narrowing my range of happiness or widening it
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So what I think is that there's this default belief in patriarchy that men are superior to women and therefore the "masculine" sphere is superior to the "feminine" sphere. And so, as feminists have fought to expand the number of allowable female activities, men (on the aggregate over generations) have retreated from those activities because they're now seen as "feminine", and so partaking in them is incommensurate with their belief in their own superiority. And, unfortunately, as this has progressed, this has resulted in a lot of men sectioning themselves off from, frankly, everything that actually makes being alive worthwhile. It's a misery spiral, and the only way out is to abandon male supremacy.
#men gave up deep friendships and reading and poetry and colourful fashion#all things that used to be considered manly in the 19th century#they're currently giving up on studying law and medecine#it's so stupid and sad
you know what? fuck it, man. the world is held in the fists of people who like to break things. at this point iām saying who gives a shit. wear that victorian dress you donāt have an excuse for. dress up like a witch, pointed hat and all. who cares anymore. why worry about it when thereās bigger stuff to worry on. iām saying. yeah, this lipstick is too dark, wanna share? iām saying go talk to her, tell her that you like her hair. iām saying sheās out of my league but iām still swinging, iām saying yeah iām in a ballgown and itās a pta meeting. what about it. eat the extra brownie, tell her your feelings. iām saying if nothing matters than we might as well give nothing meaning.
#iām saying if existence is a void at least iām going down screaming.
itās been 9 years since i wrote this. i was experiencing 24/7 anxiety so badly that i needed serious medication. these days in the back of my car is an āemergency party box.ā when people admit they no longer really celebrate their birthday; i tell them to put the sash on and queue up kesha, weāre going bowling or something. these days i canāt spin around without finding something i am enamored with. these days i list 3 things iām grateful for before i fall asleep. youāre probably one of them, just by virtue of you existing.
at the time i wrote this, i was suffering through a severe panic attack literally every night. i tortured my brother with constant 2 AM calls just to hear someone else breathing, because i couldnāt be alone in the silence.
i rarely wish i was still 23 even though ironically i had more hope back then. what i can tell you is this: i love the same way, but bigger now. iāve worn the velvet cape to several business meetings. i spent thursday in a crop top without caring what my stomach looked like.
i told her i like her; i often dress as a witch. i still got glass in my foot this morning. iāve kissed maybe a thousand people since then and met a million more than that; passing like the shadow of a hammerhead in trains and planes and buses.
i saw you, beloved, there, maybe, on platform in south station. you didnāt speak, but you said: i struggle to give the nothing meaning. the nothing fills up everything. it is just loud and yellowed panicked silence. i canāt stop shaking.
on the roof, birds curl together against the chilled spring wind. the sky outside of the craft store was an iridescent pink. the nothing already had meaning; you are giving it meaning by witnessing.
the act of living, beloved: itās just decoding how to translate it.
- Pantyhose, tights, leggings, and stockings are each different.
- Waxing hurts and leaves red skin for a while afterwards while shaving leaves stubble
- Most canāt run in heels unless they have been VERY worn
- Insecurity in appearance doesnāt mean ābuy me a drinkā
- EVERYONE HAS DIFFERENT TASTES IN EVERYTHING
-Having large breasts sucks. It sucks beyond belief. Ā If a garment happens to fit your large chest, odds are it wonāt fit the rest of you. Underboob sweat is real and terrible. Bending over for extended periods of time will tweak your back out. Running can be painful due to boob turbulence. Bras are hella expensive. Big breasts are not fun.
Putting a tampon in isnt a quick bend-poke-done kinda deal. It involves cubicle yoga, messy hands, numerous curse words as you realise it isnt in correctly and have to take it out and start again with a new one.
If her hair is in an updo, one does not simply remove a hairpin to send her hair cascading down her back. Ā No. Ā If her hair is an updo, it will take at least an hour and an extra set of hands to remove the 137 bobby pins that are holding her hair in place. Ā Furthermore, thereās probably a canās worth of hairspray in there, intended to withstand category 2 hurricane winds. Ā Thereās no cascading happening here - the best you can hope for is a misshapen nest of hair to clump and poof unattractively in the back while it still remains flat against her scalp.
This is one of the funniest posts Iāve seen in a while (especially if you read all the comments), but also really depressing because at 42 I still judge myself as having failed for not matching up to all these mythical stereotypes despite knowing theyāre impossible
The odds of a woman having smoothly shaved legs and armpits are directly proportional to the amount of skin her clothing bares and/or the amount of fucks she gives at that particular moment.
GLASSES ARE NOT COSMETIC. Ā If we whip them off, we do not become gorgeous fashion models. Ā We become squinty.
-most women wear bras. Yes, even when they are trying to dress sexy. Because bras make boobs look perkier and rounder, which is something men apparently find sexy, so being a seductress or femme fatale is not an automatic reason for a female character to not be wearing a bra.
-a good bra will hide headlights, or at the very least drastically reduce their noticeability. A women with enough pointy nipple issues will opt for a padded or molded bra to hide them.
-womenās nipples do not automatically become hard pyramids visible through any and all layers of clothing the second they become even slightly aroused. They are not the female equivalent of boners. And even if their nipples do get hard, the bras they are almost certainly wearing (because even a goddamn succubus with big, honkinā knockers for seducing men is gonna have those painful puppies in some kind of boob sling) should keep those pointy nipples from being visible to every other character in the scene, JIM BUTCHER. YES, EVEN LARA RAITH WOULD WEAR A BRA ONCE IN A GODDAMN WHILE.
if youāre being tied up and tortured in a freezing underground dungeon, then you probably have more important things to pay attention to than how hard somebodyās nipples are, jim butcher
- Wearing a bra that doesnāt fit HURTS.Ā Itās not sexy to wear a bra thatās ātwo sizes too smallā, itād make your clothes hang oddly and youād have a weird, uncomfortable āquad-boobā effect and your back would hurt, BEN AARONOVITCH.
Also, after removing a too small bra, thereās gonne be angry red lines on the boobs and ribs and the lady is not going to want them to be touched by anyone for a good long while
-Lips arenāt just naturally redĀ āas if sheād been drinking wine but they were just like that without makeup cause sheās so perfect,ā my dear little Kvothe from āName of the Windā. Also, girls do not naturally smell like fruit or flowers, itās either perfume or something sheād been eating recently.
Iāve been appreciating this post but now itās back very specifically calling out my problematic faves and I donāt think those male authors realize how much it totally takes me out of the story for a moment when they commit these errors. It does nothing useful for the plot and is annoying for half of the audience
(Most) Women do not look at themselves in the mirror and compare their breasts to fruit. Any sort of fruit. Especially melons. Please save us from the melons.
Also we are not aware of our breasts at all times. I do not walk down a flight of stairs and think āoh golly my breasts are bouncing so much right nowā. They are as much as natural part of our bodies as arms. Do you constantly think about how your arms are moving? Sure you may be aware of them, but paying full attention? Doubtful.
Also: women working out are almost never sexy. Theyāre not glowing or glistening or (kill me) *sparkling*. They are red and sweaty and gross just like all the dudebros doing their time with the dumbbells. Stop ogling fictional women at the gym, TOM WOLFE.
I never understood why men feel the need to address all this telltaleĀ āfeminineā awareness when writing women. Like once in grad school one of my male colleagues wrote from a female characterās POV and was like sure to notice how her feet felt in high heels and all the womenās lifestyle magazines on the coffee table and also that like, her breasts were āheavyā or some shit. I write male characters all the time. Not once have I ever stopped to make sure they notice the weight of their own balls or been hyper aware of their chest hair or some bullshit like that. ????? why????????
Love this. Iāve been cackling to myself for good 20 mins reading all the comments as well but the last reblog had me dying like can you imagine!!
āChad was late. He had an important meeting to get to and was mad at himself for oversleeping.
He quickly washed and brushed his teeth and then ran downstairs, his balls bouncing playfully in his pants.
Do I have time to make a coffee? he thought. He decided he did so went into the kitchen and switched the kettle on. As he was waiting, he noticed his thick, curly chest hair was poking through the button gaps of his shirt. He giggled to himself and tucked his manly fuzz back in, hoping it wouldnāt happen during the meeting.ā
I have one tiny quibble; as the cursed bearer of a 36-F cup bosom (my torso is approx 112cm in circumference without the wobble cage), I am painfully aware of the squish brigade at almost all times while conscious, particularly as I ascend any set of stairs quickly, as they most assuredly do bounce, & feel quite heavy. & not just physically heavy, mind you, but psychically. I'm aware of the jiggle twins at all times because they're heavy, & they hurt, even when I'm in stasis... & also because I'm aware that they inevitably draw attention, & I can't go anywhere without them being perceived.
I wake up tired. I found my first stretch mark at age 9, & it scared the shit out of me. I was an orphan, & there was no one to tell me what this lurid purple sin-stripe on my tiny budding breast was. (JK, I was raised by atheist feminists, "sin" was a baffling alien concept.)
TLDR; I'd argue the mistake these writers make is thinking that the constant awareness of having large breasts is in any way sensual, sexual, or even pleasurable. It's more akin to a constant low-grade claustrophobia, only it's your own tits, so you can't escape them, ever. They're also, yes, sweaty.
I also would not trade them in. I enjoy them.... maybe 5% of the time. But it's worth it to me.
@deathpetalart is my artsy blog @deathpetalink is my wordsy blog
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Oh, a human being is seeking a social response? Human being, the social animal wired to make and track social connection? A human desires the vital blood that permitted their species to survive for millennia? The human being who was born completely helpless and primed in every way by nature to seek attention and help from their community?
Wow thatās crazy. How embarrassing. Humiliating even. Should we isolate them from community? Should we call Wire Mother?
