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post so bad tumblr offers 5 delete buttons and no post button
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I mean, I get mixing them up based on names alone, but I’m concerned about the people who think Martin Luther King Jr. routinely wrote with a quill or dressed like a Renaissance man.
~~One day, at the weekly reunion of the “My LI Is Oblivious to Love” association~~
Fanny Price: -and it took him falling out of love with Miss Crawford to finally notice me! I had resigned myself to the inevitable engagement between the two of them and his impending unhappiness, and yet-!
Gabriel Oak: what a dolt!
Fitzwilliam Darcy: but, we want to talk about Elizabeth? She is so smart but so incapable of understanding how things truly are sometimes! Hear this- she found out she liked me only after her sister eloped with Wickham!
Gabriel Oak: *he is enjoying this a bit too much* no!
Fitzwilliam Darcy: and if my aunt had not tried to force her to forget me we would have never ended up together!
John Brooke: you too?
John Knightley: and what about Emma? She thought that I wanted to marry her friend Harriet! And that is how she understood she loved me! What a world!
Fitzwilliam Darcy: what a world indeed! How could we have ended up with such oblivious heroines?
Gilbert Blythe: *curtly* it took me almost dying of typhoid fever to get Anne to realised her feelings for me.
Everyone Else:
Gilbert Blythe: please, do keep on lovingly complaining about your love interests.
Valancy Stirling: I nearly got hit by a train, people. I had to be the trolley problem before Barney figured it out. Gilbert, please pass the raspberry cordial. I want to see how drunk Diana got.
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Greer Garson | Pride and Prejudice (1940)
Elizabeth Garvie | Pride and Prejudice (1980)
Jennifer Ehle | Pride and Prejudice (1995)
Aishwarya Rai | Bride and Prejudice (2004)
Keira Knightley | Pride and Prejudice (2005)
Ashley Clements | The Lizzie Bennet Diaries (2012-2013)
Anna Maxwell Martin | Death Comes to Pemberley (2013)
Lily James | Pride and Prejudice and Zombies (2016)
Mary Mattison | Pride and Prejudice: A New Musical (2020)
Poppy Gilbert | The Other Bennet Sister (2026)
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happy mohabbot monday! I think I've posted a snippet of this for a WIP Wednesday, but I fleshed it out a little more. It may still turn into something longer but I'm trying to get better at not turning every idea into a multi-chapter that takes over my life.
Samira means to put more distance between herself and the ED, but as soon as she steps outside it’s like her legs have turned to lead and she can barely bring herself to move out of the way of ambulance traffic to sink down on the curb, not caring about the few EMTs throwing her curious glances as she tries to stifle the sobs fighting their way to the surface. She brings her knees to her chest and digs her fingers into her thighs, anything to keep herself from floating away.
“Dr. Mohan.”
The voice is accompanied by footsteps moving to where she sits and stopping a respectful distance away. She doesn’t have to look up to know who it is. Hardly anyone calls her Dr. Mohan, unless they’re in front of a patient. There is only one physician in the entire department she’s never heard use her first name, and she frantically wipes at her eyes before she looks up to meet Dr. Jack Abbot’s steady gaze.
She blinks and looks back down at the pavement beneath her feet. “I’m sorry,” she says reflexively. “I’ll be back in–” her voice catches, and she fights to keep it under control. “In a minute.”
“Take your time.” The kindness in his voice is almost too much, tender and soft in a way she’s not used to hearing from anyone. “I saw you leave.” If she’s not mistaken, she thinks there’s a hesitancy there, like he’s treading in unfamiliar water. “Are you…” He clears his throat. “Do you need anything?”
“I’m fine,” she manages to choke out, knowing neither of them believes it. His footsteps shift and she prepares for him to go back inside, now that he can get credit for doing his due diligence and checking on the fragile resident who ran outside to cry. He’ll go, and she can go back to pulling herself together enough to finish her shift and then go home and scream in the shower. Her usual routine.
So when he lowers himself to the curb beside her with a nearly inaudible groan, she can’t help the surprise that shows on her face.
“What?” he asks, perhaps interpreting her surprise for judgment at his less-than-elegant descent. “I’m almost fifty and down a leg, I don’t make it a habit to sit on the ground.”
The laugh that bubbles out of Samira’s chest surprises her with its force and she claps a hand over her mouth, trying to stifle the giggle. She doesn’t miss the way Dr. Abbot’s eyes seem to brighten before he ducks his head, only his profile in view, something like a smile fighting to show on his lips. It’s enough to make Samira’s tears slow to a stop as she inhales a shaky breath, feeling oddly lighter in his presence.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he offers.
Samira shrugs, feeling the stiffness in her shoulders as she does, the weight of the shift settling into her bones. The body keeps the score, or whatever that book her aunt gave her that has sat unopened on her shelf since then says. “Just a long shift,” she replies finally, her voice still a little unsteady. “My patient…” She rubs at her temples, already feeling the slow sheen of embarrassment set in, that she’d let herself get worked up over a routine shift. “I don’t know. Something about her just stuck with me.”
Eleanor Henry, twenty-eight. Restrained passenger in a two car motor vehicle crash. T-boned at an intersection by someone speeding through a light at two times the speed limit, her side of the car taking the brunt of it. Pneumothorax, significant organ damage, so much internal bleeding visible on the ultrasound one of the interns thought the machine was malfunctioning. And somehow still conscious, just enough to make eye contact with Samira and utter a single “please” before going under.
Another tear drops on Samira’s cheek and she wipes it away, conscious of Dr. Abbot’s eyes on her.
He lets her cry silently for a moment before speaking. “It’s okay to let your patients affect you.”
She can’t bring herself to look him in the eye. Her gaze falls instead to where he’s twisting his hands together, the movement secondary like he’s not aware he’s doing it. It’s not often she sees his hands without them being covered in blue nitrile gloves and she takes in the freckles sprinkled across them, the sparse hair on the knuckles. Good hands. Steady. Hands that have saved more lives than she thinks she’ll ever see in the ED, hands that have probably lost more than he’d like to count.
Hands that, she realizes, are twisting around a brushed metal ring sitting snugly on his left ring finger.
She’s surprised at how that stings. Not because she thought there could be something between them, but because she thought they were cut from the same cloth. That they both see the ED as the only place they feel truly human, that they spend all their time and energy on pushing themselves to be better, to save more lives, to keep the cracks from spreading. That maybe he also goes home to an empty apartment, goes to sleep in an empty bed, and wakes up to come back to work and come alive.
The wedding band staring back at her shatters that assumption.
Dr. Jack Abbot is not like her. Dr. Jack Abbot has someone he loves, someone who put that ring on his finger and promised to love him back, who probably fills his house with light and laughter and conversation, who has dinner ready when he comes home after a long shift. Dr. Jack Abbot is not going home to an empty apartment with a single lamp in the corner and plain walls because he can’t be bothered to expend energy on something as trivial as decorating, not when there’s research to be done, data to collect, a future of medicine to chart.
She looks back at the ground beneath her feet, the cracks in the sidewalk trailing out like lifelines.
“How do you stay so calm?”
The snort he lets out is enough of a surprise for her to finally look up at him, ignoring the twinge in her neck as she meets his gaze with confusion. His expression is unreadable, but his dark eyes meet hers with an unexpected weight. “I’m used to chaos,” he says finally. His voice is soft and a little rough, like there’s something grating beneath it. “It’s when things are calm that I don’t know what to do.”
The honesty surprises her and she finds she can’t look away, his eyes holding her in place. She knows some people find his constant eye contact unnerving—she did too, at first—but she doesn’t mind it. What he said about chaos makes it make a little more sense. When everything is spinning out of control around you, it helps to heavy a steady gaze to keep you from floating away.
Or a steady hand, which she sees he’s now holding out to help her to her feet.
[img id] Digital cel-shaded art of a white unicorn fleeing an unseen hunter in the woods. The unicorn leaps across an isometric chunk of land vegetated with plants drawn in the style of a medieval illuminated manuscript -- stylized grass and unknown plants, twisting painterly tree trunks, and broad paisley leaves. An arrow with red fletching stabs a tree behind the unicorn, just missing its mark. Below the unicorn, a small hedgehog mom has just rolled in some fresh grapes and is bringing them on her spines to her children in a burrow underground. [/id]
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“Do it scared” “do it alone” are all great tips, but my biggest takeaway from therapy is do it messy. This is especially true if you’re getting out of a burnout, which I experience often. Literally just do it messy. You don’t need to pick the perfect trail to walk, the perfect playlist to listen to, whatever the fuck it is. You don’t need to have a meticulous to do list and wake up at the exact time you planned and drink the exact amount of water you planned to drink. Like the biggest thing for people like me to remember is sometimes it’s okay to do it messy. Put on a random yt workout and just get it done in sweats. Do 5 minutes of a daunting task and go from there. Sometimes just getting up is a win during intense burnouts or depressive funks. Literally just do it messy.
Hannah Montana is fucked up because its entire POINT as a show is that children should be protected from fame and exploitation, but it stars a REAL little girl that's being exploited. Nearly every episode carries the looming threat of Miley being outed as Hannah and losing her peaceful teenage life to the ravages of fame. Her father in the show (played by her own father in real life) wisely protected her from the trauma of fame by making her wear a disguise and live a rather quiet, interview-free life. Meanwhile the REAL Billy Ray Cyrus sold his daughter to Disney Channel when she was 11 and forced her to read dialogue about how terrible it would be to face the public eye. Like... Jesus, dude. The fictional Robby Ray is 10x the father, and it's not even close. (It's also IMMENSELY funny that her dad doesn't use his real name in the show, while she does. Almost like he wanted a bit of a disconnect between his identity and his character. Something Miley didn't get.)
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Zoot suits look kinda stupid but I gotta respect the cultural context & symbolism of the things
"Fuck the military and fuck the war, look at all this good uniform-worthy fabric I'm wasting on a fuckoff giant suit" is a very solid basis for a subculture
I actually really love to talk about zoot suits and their associated subcultures. The amount that the silhouettes of the zoot suit have shaped american fashion and trends of oversized clothes is so understated. And, yk, I'm biased as hell, but it is kinda crazy how influential zoot suit culture was
I always love the og zoot suits made by black americans in Harlem, I really like looking at the changes from these clothes from the 30s to some of the more exaggerated renditions from the 40s. It's also so interesting to look at how fast the subculture spread, and especially in the american west integrated with mexican diaspora and pachuco culture to the point that that's what a lot of usamericans associate them with.
⬆️ long wallet chains and pork pie hats were classic accessories for mexican diaspora zoot suiters. Zoot suits/their components were also really popular with women and were a way to symbolize independence and a choice to move away from strict gender roles on top of the existing countercultural message ⬇️
Anyways it's kind of impossible to talk about zoot suits without mentioning the racism and violence that followed them. On top of a zoot suit making someone a target for individual racial violence, the national reaction of white america to zoot suit culture was part of the beginning of clothing and presentation being read explicitly as signals by police and justice systems, and the broad association of youth of color with gang violence through this specific excuse. Gang culture and how it's percieved in the western US and especially California is very influenced by this era. The most famous events from the zoot suit era are the collective zoot suit riots and the media characterization of all mexican american, filipino american, and black american youth as violent anti-american baby gangsters. Which, even if that was broadly true I mean. I'll take the opportunity to be flippant hell yeah??
As a side note, while making more new zoot suits during war rationing was pretty sick, most people weren't buying from the black market tailor shops and just wore what they already owned because the style had been popular for years already. People bought clothes less often to begin with back then. I think that misconception comes from the reasoning white americans gave to go beat up people of color with baseball bats in the street; i.e. it was racial and xenophobic violence to begin with and the nature of the suits themselves has been mushed around a lot to serve different narratives.
More zoot suits! ⬇️
They can definitely look kinda goofy- mostly the exaggerated cuts and badly tailored modern recreations- but like you said you gotta respect them.
This would have had me crucified on tumblr 10 years ago but maybe we are ready for this conversation now:
If you are a socially anxious person, you have to socialize. Your panic/anxiety attacks will only get worse and trigger more frequently if you constantly avoid contact with The Public. Not saying that you need to be a social butterfly- but there is a genuine problem with not being able to order your own meal at a restaurant. And it cannot be solved by always having someone else do it for you.
This is a PSA to about 3/4s of the Portland Youth populace
everyone who reblogs this and is like "I ordered my own tea this week" or "I only barfed once when I had to give a presentation'- you are doing amazing sweetie. Have patience with yourself, you are relearning a skill so difficult that people get 4 year degrees to do it professionally.
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