some lives have been foretold

I get in theory why people complain about het ships or whatever, I get wanting to watch queer media I really do, but I guess where y’all lose me is like. I saw some asshole on a post about Sinners complaining it was “hetslop”—this person was specifically doing so while also claiming Remmick was a queer character and thus they were justified in caring more about him than the Black protagonists. which is a whole other disgusting can of worms that has been well addressed by others at this point. but even in the absence of that part of the argument, like, no, i actually don’t think that a hunger for queer stories is an especially good excuse to deride and dismiss a piece of landmark Black filmmaking, especially as a non-Black person. I have a post that’s been going around encouraging folks to engage with more Native stories and characters, and I had someone come onto that post saying in the tags that they’d need these stories to be queer in order to care. and I just think that, you know, sucks! like obviously as a queer Native I also want to see more of those stories too. but idk how else to put it other than to say that Black people and people of color shouldn’t have to be like you in order for you to care about our narratives and experiences. and I think some of y’all are using this disdain for heterosexuality as a cover for your unexamined racial biases. it’s not okay to be racist to people just because those people happen to be straight, and you continue to be white before you are queer.

"it's so fucking over" yeah dude it's 11pm it's the end of the day it's time for you to go to bed. and tomorrow you'll be so fucking back because you'll be awake. go tuck yourself in dude you'll be ok

i'm literally the priest's favorite sacrificial lamb because i am so docile and sweet and i hold very still when they put the rope around my neck and i trot along so happily while they lead me to the altar and they do not even have to tie me down because i lie so very still and only bleat once or twice in my lovely lamb voice and when the knife comes down it cuts through me like butter and i offer no resistance and i bleed so prettily all over my new white wool and my guts all unspool like the most beautiful shining yarn and my eyes are animal and dumb and hold no accusation and every time i die i come right back as another little lamb because the priest loves me so so much and he always chooses me for the sacrifice every time and he always places one hand on my small and twitching nose to calm me while he lifts the knife and he doesn't do it for the other lambs only me because i'm his favorite

i can hear through the screen when someone says “yall” because they absorbed it online and not because theyve ever said that shit irl

with enough meditation one can achieve a sufficiently attuned level of conciousness, where you may also learn to differentiate between the monoanglophones who just picked that up for unknown reasons, and the people who hate how most common vernacular english doesn't have a second-person plural, and would rather go with that one than go naked.

sometimes you invent mind prisons for yourself for no good reason and youre like "i really like being in the mind prison" even though you dont actually like being in the mind prison

(trying to vent but has too big of a following to get into any genuinely vulnerable specifics) there is a sadness that overtakes me at times

Hanging out with old people rules because after a while they trust you enough to confess to murder totally unprompted

Wait what.

Sometimes old ladies had to kick the ladder out from under their stepfathers when they were girls and that’s valid

My grandma murdered her first husband the first time he beat their daughter.

My college was next to an assisted living facility and one time we went over there to draw people’s portraits so we could get practice drawing older people. The lady I was drawing idly told me that she "dealt quite handily with her first husband” while making a stabbing gesture. Five minutes later she requested I make sure not to draw her double chin. I honored that request.

So when I was a child my grandmother told all these great stories about growing up in the Alaskan wilderness. Amazing bad ass stories about her and my great-grandmother. I recently asked my mom why my great-grandmother moved from Texas to Alaska in the first place. Turns out my Great-grandfather was abusive to my great grandmother for years and she lived with that until the first time he hit my grandmother, who was like three at the time, my great-grandmother got him very drunk and beat him to death then moved to Alaska to hide from the cops.

Men don't realize their life expectancy went up thanks to divorce.

My mom is a gastroenterologist and she once told me that the old wives' tale of people who died of "stopped digestion" was pretty much made up to cover up for women who got fed up with their abusive husbands and slipped some rat poison into their dinner (esp in rural areas). Local doctors knew who these men were (everyone knew) and the community pretty much nodded along when the death certificate said natural causes. The widow would dress in black for a couple years and basically go on with her life.

When Money is the Weapon: Understanding Intimate Partner Financial Abuse