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in chess the queens can kill each other which is toxic yuri and the kings can never get within a square of each other which is doomed yaoi

and maybe i'm tired of ambiguity. maybe, i just wanted a story that showed concretely that yes, they loved each other and got their happy ending together. maybe i don't want it to be up to interpretation for once. maybe i want to see media that shows queer love and happy endings as attainable rather than always being ambiguous due to backlash and fear for the outcast characters that feel like they don't belong. don't they, and everybody else who sees themselves in these characters deserve that?

shit man tomorrow is christmas eve i swear yesterday was June 2010

As is tradition in tumblr culture the locals unearth the corpse of a long deceased figure and drag it across the streets merrily, laughing at what is preserved of the person’s words. This custom, seen as morbid in other cultures, is instead done gleefully and with an unmatched enthusiasm

i DON'T need them to kiss i need them to come to the sobering realisation that their souls are merged and no part of them is extricable from the other anymore

the line between not going out as an act of self-care and not going out as a symptom of depression is but a gossamer thread

Socrates

I should be allowed into every museum’s archives actually

all public transport should be free unconditionally and I'm TIREDDD of pretending this is a radical idea

apple spider vinegar

There is a standard media depiction of a "healed" person. Someone who has Gone To Therapy. I've noticed this in a few works recently. We often see them at the end of a story, maybe in a "ten years later" epilogue. They speak in a soft, serene voice. They have Accepted what they cannot change. They have let go of a lot, including most of what we see them actually care about in the story itself. They are Happy, At Peace, in some non-descript way. They bare little resemble to the person we were actually shown. They bare little resemblance to any person. We were shown, as we usually are in stories, an agent, a desirer, someone becoming. Now they have Become. And they look back on all that silly becoming as something childish that they have moved past. Fire, you know, fire is for children who don't know any better. To be Healed is to have your fire rightly extinguished; to not even miss it.

"DSM-5 seems to have no definition of happiness other than the absence of suffering. The normal individual in this book is tranquilized and bovine-eyed, mutely accepting everything in a sometimes painful world without ever feeling much in the way of anything about it." — Sam Kriss's review of the DSM-5 as a piece of surrealist literature

at least the colour green exists

My year of swag and resurrection

So last month I got hit by a car and died right. Which I didn't initially realize until I watched some guy haul my body into his pickup and drive off. Which, being that it's deep in rural Michigan, I assume means my body will make some venison jerky and maybe some wall decoration, and I'll be resigned to being one of hundreds of deer ghosts floating around Saginaw, which is w/e. But then I find out the guy works at a taxidermy shop or something, and he's actually pretty good at stuffing and mounting deer carcasses, which I come to find out when I find myself face to face with my old body in the shop window. So naturally, I figure since ghosts need to possess something to interact with the living world and etc etc etc the most logical thing to do is to possess my own body, since it's basically a statue of myself. And a little surprisingly, it actually fits like a glove. Like, since it's my body, it feels like stepping right back into place. So I get out of town and back to my herd, eventually. And that's where the trouble starts coming into it, because after I get settled again, I don't know how to explain to everyone else what feels so weird. Like since I can move my body and do everything I used to do, it's functionally the same, like nothing happened. Or it SHOULD be, so I don't know how to explain how it's NOT. But it's just hard to explain it to someone who's never been hit by a truck I guess

I will continue--but can I? - Virginia Woolf, diary entry on 9 June 1940