three zeros

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and yeah, all those things are true, but having spent the past few months leaving enthusiastic comments on as many things as i can, i have a different perspective

you should leave comments on fics because it's fun

taking the time to stop and focus on what i like about a story has made me way more aware of what's going on in stories and what i like about them. there's bit more actual comprehension and appreciation and not just beaming content into my eyes to fill time

i like noticing cool little things in fics, or riffing on funny events. i've never been very good at speculating or picking apart characters, but sometimes something clicks and it rocks.

and of course it's pretty nice when you get a response and it's clear you've made another person happy

it’s standing over your kitchen sink and crying while doing the dishes because you just want to go back to bed but the dishes need done. and you don’t know why you’re crying but you're trusting you need it. and you aren’t listening to the music that pulls you into a spiral; you’re listening to some cheerful shit your friend sent you. it’s getting up and staring at your fridge and closing your eyes and then cooking yourself food even though you hate it and it’s miserable. because you know that you’d cook for your friend, and you are trying to befriend yourself. it’s dragging yourself into the shower because you know you’ll feel better afterwards. it’s doing mundane tasks with patience, cursing under your breath, trying desperately to give yourself grace. grace is the beginning of care. care is the beginning of love.

The rules are clear. The stakes are understood. Your monstrous ass is fundamentally more relatable than any interview panel.

What are you gonna do? Twist your question into some kind of esoteric and winding riddle to catch my capitalism-dulled brain out?

Cool. Great. At least your riddle *has* a correct answer and I don’t have to try and guess some arcane points-based system.

Like, oh no, you’ll eat me if I get it wrong? Will I have to pay rent in your f’ing lion-bird tum-tum?

Oh wait - I got the answer right, but someone else got it *more* right so now I’m screwed? Or maybe I got the answer *too* right so I’m disqualified??

The sphinx is only gonna eat my body.

Capitalism is slowly eating my soul with teeth made of mile-high gears

It doesn’t even really want to. It doesn’t think about it.

He held leftist and anarchist ideals. He belong to the ACAB subreddit. He recognized the evil of the US Military even though he himself was a part of it. He hated TERFS and called out fatphobia. He understood the dangers of white supremecy and the evils of capitalism.

He had a cat. He liked the show fleabag and played elden ring.

Apparently in his will he wants to leave any money in his name to palestinian relief funds. He was trying to find a new owner for his cat.

Rest in peace Aaron Bushnell. The world won't forget & we sure as fuck won't let the media paint you out to be some crazy conspiracy theorist who had no idea what he was doing.

Being abused at home, bullied at school and lost in the world, the library and all the books I could escape to the most amazing worlds, kept me alive!

I would walk to the library, and spend all day, from 10 am to 9 pm reading there!! I got special awards for how many books I read, I wrote little blurbs on why i loved the books (probably why I love to BETA and do ARCs) 

PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE Just hit the green arrows and the reblog!!!

As a 50 year old woman, the library offers me so much. Digital art pads to borrow, 3D printing, book clubs that are face to face (yeah, the introvert likes face to face because a moderator will stomp on anyone getting snarky)

New books in LARGE PRINT! I’m visually challenged and as much as I love my kindle, The feel of a real book in my hands will always be a beloved feeling!

What I thought that meant: telling us about unique sculpture materials and paint mixtures.

What that actually meant: an 84yo woman gingerly holding a beautifully beaded and embroidered dress (apparently from Ukraine and at least 200 years old) and, with tears in her eyes, showing how each individual thread was spun by hand and weaved into place on a cottage floor loom, with bright blue silk embroidery thread and hand-blown beads intricately piercing the work of other labor for days upon days, as the labor of a dozen talented people came together to make something so beautiful for a village girl’s wedding day.

What it also meant: in 1948, a young girl lived in a cramped tenement-like third floor apartment in Manhattan, with a father who had just joined them after not having been allowed to escape through Poland with his pregnant wife nine years earlier. She sits in her father’s lap and watches with wide, quiet eyes as her mother’s deft hands fly across fabric with bright blue silk thread (echoing hands from over a century years earlier). Thread that her mother had salvaged from white embroidery scraps at the tailor’s shop where she worked and spent the last few days carefully dying in the kitchen sink and drying on the roof.

The dress is in the traditional Hungarian fashion and is folded across her mother’s lap: her mother doesn’t had a pattern, but she doesn’t need one to make her daughter’s dress for the fifth grade dance. The dress would end up differing significantly from the pure white, petticoated first communion dresses worn by her daughter’s majority-Catholic classmates, but the young girl would love it all the more for its uniqueness and bright blue thread.

And now, that same young girl (and maybe also the villager from 19th century Ukraine) stands in front of us, trying not to clutch the old fabric too hard as her voice shakes with the emotion of all the love and humanity that is poured into the labor of art. The village girl and the girl in the Bronx were very different people: different centuries, different religions, different ages, and different continents. But the love in the stitches and beads on their dresses was the same. And she tells us that when we look at the labor of art, we don’t just see the work to create that piece - we see the labor of our own creations and the creations of others for us, and the value in something so seemingly frivolous.

But, maybe more importantly, she says that we only admire this piece in a museum because it happened to survive the love of the wearer and those who owned it afterwards, but there have been quite literally billions of small, quiet works of art in billions of small, quiet homes all over the world, for millennia. That your grandmother’s quilt is used as a picnic blanket just as Van Gogh’s works hung in his poor friends’ hallways. That your father’s hand-painted model plane sets are displayed in your parents’ livingroom as Grecian vases are displayed in museums. That your older sister’s engineering drawings in a steady, fine-lined hand are akin to Da Vinci’s scribbles of flying machines.

All’s fair in love and poetry… New album THE TORTURED POETS DEPARTMENT. Out April 19 🤍

store.taylorswift.com

“I will accept your surrender now.”

The commanding officer - not the original, but the surviving one - stepped towards the tyrant. She wore a Brigid’s Cross made of dirty reeds on her lapel. 

She could see the setting sun reflected in the necromancer’s obsidian gaze. Soon, the light would fade and dead would be at their strongest.

“I’m afraid I cannot offer you a surrender, Emperor of corpses. But I will beg for mercy, for you are the only soldier in your army with a heart to feel it.”

“My heart stopped beating long ago.”

“Yet I pray that enough feeling echoes in it still to grant clemency, despite your profanities.”

Then did the necromancer turn his gaze towards her. They were eyes that read fate and defied laws. She could have sworn she felt the air curdle, the ground buckle, and the light twist with its weight.

“Oh, your kings and queens are all so horrified by me and by what I do. They call it a crime against nature, a sin against god. Or *gods*.” He gestured to the cross on her uniform. “But if one has a war to fight - and if one believes in equal parts that war is *just* but also that no war *can* be just … is this not the most ethical, most correct thing? To fight the war in such a way that does not harm your subjects? Surely only a coward would let the disapproval of a few dozen gods sway them from saving a life?”

He paused as if to take a breath, but his chest did not move (he no longer needed air and considered it ill-disciplined to fall back into the habit of breathing). 

The officer paused too. His words felt heavy in her head. His dry voice scratching uncomfortably at her mental walls. But in his eyes, she still saw the last dying rays of sunlight…

“I suppose, tyrant of sunset, that were I in your shoes I *would* be tempted to keep harm and death from me and mine. But even if I could, I hope I would not do what you have done. For I would fear what other harm I was doing.”

“And what harm is that?”

“To put it simply, marshal of styx, those bodies that fight for you? They’re *not *yours*. You stole them. Dug up graveyards, cracked open tombs, emptied ossuaries.” She tutted and sunlight flared in her disapproval. “Maybe a few are honoured comrades, true believers, but most? They wouldn’t even know you to say good morning, yet alone to salute. Their spirits may be gone, but that doesn’t mean you get to make their dust dance.” 

“You defy me because you think my army is … theft?”

“That’s my line in the dirt. It may not be a good line. It may be a damned stupid line. I don’t know. But there it is - I know it, I feel it, it’s mine - like the bones that hold me upright.”

Bonaparte permitted himself a small sigh as a luxury.

but if you’re talking to a local you can say the name of your actual town bc they have a greater chance of knowing where/what that is.

ok well when I’m talking to a straight person I start with queer bc chances are they aren’t as familiar with the context of all the little towns in that big queer city and need gps (gay positioning system) to find me.

Lets gather around the campfire

And sing our campfire song

Our C-A-M-P-F-I-R-E S-O-N-G song