mare bear

At the start of my employment, my boss showed me videos of people stealing, and we both had a chuckle about it. How silly they were! There was a camera overhead, and it’s not to watch the shoppers. See, we can’t actually stop shoplifters. They get away with it maybe nine out of ten times. But we, who are watched and tallied and witnessed? We are always caught.

At first it was hard to hold one hundred dollars bills. An amount I had never seen before. An amount that didn’t exist in my household. It’s normal now. Here is something that is not for me.

“What the hell, I’ll take another,” says the man, pondering our 200 dollar watches. What the hell. Total comes to 580 and not even a flinch in his face. I have been working for 11 hours today and made only 110 dollars. It will go to my rent. Today I work for free, it feels. When I get my check, I will have 35 dollars left for food and saving.

The six hundreds he hands me go into the cash register. For a moment, I imagine having money. Then I put it away, counting out his change.

I know for a fact we sell our products for double what they are worth. That I could be making commission. That they could hand me those 580 dollars and change my life and not even mark the difference in their checkbooks. He’s not the only sale they make today, but I am the reason they made it. He’s not the only one spending 600 dollars, but if I hadn’t spent two hours with him telling me about his life, he wouldn’t have spent any. I go home. I don’t own a watch.

I have watched and rewatched a video on how to make salmon four ways. My shopping list is always the same. Pasta. Rice. Tuna. If I can afford butter it was a good week. I dream of the world I will never walk in, where I can throw the best fish fillet in the cart with a shrug. I hold hundreds in my hand and look up at the camera. I put them under the cash drawer.

I go to work. I scrap together my savings. I eat my bowl of rice slowly. My manager takes a paid week off from work just for his birthday. He owns a yacht. 

i was part of their college program. i moved to the state for it. they legally owned the building i was living in and still charged me rent. i ostensibly was being charged to work for them. it was a 2 bedroom apartment and they placed 6 adult women in it in forced triples.

as many as one in ten disney employees have experienced homelessness while working for the company. despite huge efforts to unionize, strike, or otherwise demand fair treatment; disney has refused to increase employee quality of life.

disney admits publicly that a good portion of their success is because the employees (“cast members”) are dedicated, passionate, and selfless. this is never reflected in pay. even “face” characters (ie those that are princesses etc) make barely above a minimum wage.

at the time that i worked there, i made $8.50 an hour. at one point i was asked to create a human shield around a bag because a bomb dog had alerted to it. for eight fucking dollars an hour.

i now work a very cushy office job. i have bought the salmon and cooked it all four ways.

i go to the store. i am nice to the person behind the counter. she looks up at the camera while she counts out my change. there is nothing fundamentally different about her and i.

2) Many vapes contain diacetyl, which, when inhaled causes popcorn lung, or scarring of the lung

3) Ultrafine particles, when being inhaled, can be lodged in the trachea (not good!)

4) Ultrafine particles can also constrict the arteries in the lungs potentially causing A HEART ATTACK

and like this.

it’s not this. it’s this.

adjective.

adjective.

adjective.

“I wanna fuck [fictional character]!” “Just one night with [fictional character(s)]!” “My girl doesn’t [insert sexual activity] that’s why I cheat!” “It’s too small.” “It’s not pink.” “[Fictional character] is sooo fuckable.” “She doesn’t know how to do it right.” “He’s too small to feel good, I should break up with him.” “[Fictional character] is so boring but I’d still smash.” “She’s boring, I need two at once.” “My man doesn’t [insert sexual activity] should I break up with him?”

“LATINA FETISH, ASIAN FETISH, BLACK FETISH, he’s too chopped, she’s too chopped, BLAH BLAH BLAH!”

I dont understand why human beings are so, so, so, soooo SOOOOOOO FUCKING obsessed with sex. Hypersexual as fuck. It’s literally everywhere. It’s all you talk about. It’s fucking annoying. We get it, sex is fun, smut is fun too, moderation, people. WHY is sex/sexual content always being shoved up our ass ANY CHANCE ANYONE GETS?!! Is it all you people think about?!!?? So many of this world’s problems would be fixed if humans weren’t so hyperfixated on SEX? (You know who you are)

Why does no one ever say “I wanna cuddle with him.” “I love her personality, she makes me feel so special.” “He’s so sweet.” “I wanna buy her a cute dress.” “I’ll always love him and him only.”

I don’t need a sex obsession to be in a relationship. I don’t need sex to be happy. Neither should you.

TLDR: I think sexualizing characters/people IS COMPLETELY OKAY, but I’ve seen sooooo many people who make it their entire fucking personality and all they can think about 24/7 is dick or pussy AND ITS FUCKING ANNOYING.

Edit: To those pussies sending me anonymous inbox messages, I D O N' T G I V E A F U C K :)

-dont go to the emergency room with dental problems. go to the dentist

-bagged greens are cheaper than pre-made salads

-taco bell is NOT worth the money anymore. 1/4 cup mayo, 1/4 cup sour cream, 3 tblspoons pickled jalapenos+2tblspoons of the jar liquid, 2 tsp paprika 1 tsp cumin 1 tsp garlic powder 1 tsp onion powder salt+pepper. all in your blender. creamy jalapeno sauce

-dont quit your job unless you have a bunch of job interviews lined up immediately after

-use resources. food bank, unemployment, housing assistance, financial aid, etc. yes there will be paperwork. but Do It

-dont stay awake longer than 20 hours. you Will start to become impulsive and cranky. resting for 20 minutes is better than trying to stay awake

-for every 2 hours you spend looking up close at screens, spend 20 minutes looking at something far away from you. stretch your wrists a lot

-dont do that yoga stretch where you roll your head around your shoulders. youre grinding down the joints in your neck

-be nice to your friends, bullying them as a joke gets old. if you need a ride somewhere at least offer them gas money

-brush your teeth at any time of the day but especially before you sleep. dont snack in bed if you can help it. make your bed the Clean Teeth Zone. keep floss picks by your bed

-dont tell your boss youre adhd/autism/depression/suicidal. dont trust your coworkers with that. you NEVER know how people will take it and its none of their business

-train your pets to go to the front door when they hear a fire alarm

jason todd has a habit.

several, actually.

a few centered around his family—he always sits or stands to the left of dick, always makes cass her plate, always brings dessert to gatherings because nobody can do it as well as he can.

a few about his work—he always starts on the south end of gotham and works toward the north, always cleans his guns an hour before patrol, always puts his right boot on before his left one.

then, he has several for you.

he always flicks your sky projector on fifteen minutes before you’re done getting ready for bed, he always lets you take a bite of food first before picking his fork up, he always lets you read the prologue of a book he’s considering purchasing.

but your personal favorite?

jason always lets you kiss him first.

he’ll lower his face to yours, keeping the space between the two of you until you lift your lips to slot against his. whenever he wants affection, he’ll draw closer, look at you with those utterly compelling eyes of his, and wait.

he waits until you respond—whether it be reciprocating his energy or not.

he doesn’t take from you. he loves whatever you give him, even if it’s merely eye contact.

even then, he’ll graciously accept it because it’s from you.

jason has a habit of waiting for you to kiss him first, not because he’s nervous or shy.

he waits because he knows what it’s like to have things taken, and he always wants you to have a choice.

sidenote: love your writing, always excited to read whatever you post xx

thank you for your request :⋆ fem, 1.2k

ambiguous themes of past abuse

It’s not about politics, or your interrelationship dynamics. It’s not about chores, or work, or money. The argument started when Clark was in a bad mood and you a worse one, and nobody called time out, so you’re fighting and getting angry at each other for sounding cruel, and Clark just– he laughs. He laughs at you. You’re saying, “I don’t understand why you’re making this into an argument when we both know you’re not prepared to listen to me,” and he laughs loudly and sharply. He is suddenly very tall.

His hand hits his belt buckle and the sound makes you flinch. It’s not as full-bodied as it could’ve been, more a cringe into yourself with your head snapping sideways and downward. You don’t keep your head down, you straighten up and clench your thighs, eyes squinted nervously at his hand, and his belt. 

You do not believe Clark would ever take that belt off and hurt you with it. Clark wouldn’t lay a finger on you. He couldn’t. It’s not how Clark Kent was built to function. Your heart skips, though, and he goes very still. 

“Is that funny?” you ask. 

“What– of course not.”

His voice has lost all of its colour. Any anger or annoyance has gone pale, leaving him with a voice like a man in the sun, parched for water. He clears his throat, his eyebrows pinching down again into a shade of fury you really don’t like. 

He softens again. 

It’s not his fault, but you’re on edge. You cross your hands over your chest and fawn, because you– you don’t know, Clark won’t hit you and you know he won’t hit you but you don’t want him to hit you, which comes first. 

“Can we just forget about it?” you ask, eyes flitting again to his belt. 

“Jesus Christ, sweetheart,” he says, and he turns around and heads into the kitchen. 

When he comes back less than ten seconds later, he’s not wearing his belt, and your eyes begin to feel hot at their stems. 

you aren’t sure how you survived them at first, new in love and feverish to be adored, you’d sit there waiting to be kissed. how to woo the sweetest girl in metropolis? kiss her over and over. kiss her tired and sick, kiss her crying at a bad movie, kiss and kiss and kiss, even if she isn’t sure she’s allowed to ask for one. you barely have to lift your chin, those first few weeks.

clark doesn’t adore you less over time. it’s not an issue, he falls for you more everyday and in strange ways, fancies your peach fuzz and your rumbly tummy, considers proposing the first time you almost pee your pants laughing on a dizzy walk home. it shouldn’t be a bad thing, but these kisses, they’re getting disruptive. he needs them between sips of coffee, or when you’re face down in a warm pillow, or in the middle of an inconvenient yawn.

we cannot keep meeting like this, he says through a laugh, the water from your shower wetting the top of his head and slicking his curls to his forehead as he leans in to nab a quick one, the curtain held aside by his shoulder. you’re so shocked you let him have it, your sudsy hand pressed against his clothed chest. sorry, he adds, to your owlish blinking. just needed one last one, honey.

clark doesn’t mean for it to start something. he wonders absently if he’s a pervert. the sweatpants aren’t anything special nor skimpy, but he finds himself wound up and weird whenever you wear them, thinking, oh, I paid for those. and so he begins buying you things to test the waters. a pair of pyjamas, a sweater, a cashmere sweater, waiting for you to tell him to stop. but you say thank you, sweet girl that you are. you didn’t have to, and never stop. clark buys another sweater, socks, a hoodie that’s soft inside and more expensive than it needs to be. he buys you fancy panties on a whim and doesn’t give them to you for a week, but when he does there’s a gift reciept in the box. you don’t return them. go hot and funny with him, sure, flushed to the touch as you lean against his side, but you don’t take them back—you wear them for him, and you smile with your hands behind your back in minky socks in the middle of the bedroom waiting for an appraisal that threatens to make his nosebleed.