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It's always hard reading about the violence committed to steal America, but the buffalo is always like... That's some inhuman shit. Everyone is burning in hell for that one. Wdym there were thirty to sixty MILLION buffalo in 1800, and by 1900 there were only 300 left. THREE HUNDRED. Do you know, can you fathom the amount of purposeful cruelty required to kill NINETY NINE PERCENT of a population of an animal, just to spite and murder the living Native people who existed and thrived with them? All this, for White Power and Entitlement?? Sickening.
and never let anyone tell you that they didn't know what the effect of this would be on the native population- they knew exactly what they were doing, and their deliberate intent was etched into the very fabric of the economic system being built on this genocide.
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What if, stay with me here, most humans are complicated, complex, and imperfect beings? What if they are capable of making mistakes or doing âa bad thingâ while not being a bad person? What if no one (outside of a few exceptions) is a true villain that is irredeemable? What if we are allowed to be disappointed, upset with them without completely condemning them to villainy? I donât know just something Iâm thinking about.
bestie boo, let me fill you in on something: if you're going to take any part of 'good grammar' and randomly assign it to She's A Witch! AI, you might as well give up. It's over. You're cooked. Anyone who has spent the last decade or more learning to type properly, anyone who has spent any time writing articles/papers/essays that require you to use 'good grammar' is going to fall into that 'oh no it might be AI' trap.
Stop hunting like it's 1692. You're not going to find Goody Proctor at the ChatGPT sacrament. What you're going to do is exactly what happened back then: harming people who've done nothing wrong.
when in the history of this fucking world has a human being ever entered two search terms without operands and thought "yeah, I'm okay if either one of these words are present, they don't need to both be there"
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"my therapist says I find comfort in the darkness/call me if it gets too dark."
Jack who knows grief like the back of his hand. Who knows sleepless nights and sitting on the floor of his shower with the lights turned off. Who knows the pull of the void, how sweet it seems, to slide into unconsciousness and never resurface.
Jack who finds peace at rock bottom. Trudging in the murky depths and scraping through walls that close around you. He's known it for years. He's used to it. He copes with it. You learn to sit with these kinds of things, y'know?
Jack who wouldn't kill himself, but wouldn't be upset if he died. His head's above water, and maybe he's broken, but he's still right twice a day. It's good enough. It's better than it was. He wouldn't kill himself, but he would've, back then.
Robby who is sick of being sick. Robby who can't handle not having a light at the end of the tunnel, can't handle not getting better. Robby who is drowning, briny water filling up his lungs, burning salt in his wounds. Limbs too weak to swim to the surface on his own.
Robby who can't be alone, but he fucking deserves it, doesn't he? He pushes people away, he asks for it. He's difficult and he knows it. A feral dog who barks and bites, who'll leave you bleeding and infected with the sort of sickness only he carries. He sees it in Santos, in Mohan, in Langdon. Ugly pieces of him rubbing off on people who never deserved to be subjected to his disease.
It would be better if he was gone. Everyone would be better if he was fucking gone. Bleach the bloodstain of him from every surface. Kitchen knives whisper temptations, double yellow traffic lines are a mere suggestion. If he dies, he dies. Sometimes that's the best outcome.
Except it's not working. Reckless and rash, some G-d out there laughs as he avoids death time and time again. He'll have to take matters into his own hands. He fucking will. He's not scaredâ he's ready.
Jack is scared. Jack notices hands that hold a slight tremor, vacant eyes, dismissive grin. Settled and turbulent all at once. Planned, maybe. Active, definitely.
Jack cannot lose another love. There are many things he can stomach. Torn open flesh, blood curdling screams, nightmares that send him bolting upright and sweating in his sheets. But a grief that heavy would rip him sinew from sinew, erase the progress he's so painstakingly made.
Jack who corners Robby, persistent as a sheepdog, trying to herd him somewhere stable. Desperately offering beers, smokes, shitty takeout on his couch. Please. Don't go tonight. Please.
Robby who denies, denies, denies, grins that stupid fucking grin and shrugs it off. Starts avoiding him a little more, eyes anywhere but meeting Jack's.
Jack who has enough. Shoves Robby in an empty room, up against a wall, cradling his face with tender hands and kissing him with a hungry mouth. If Robby won't hear his words, he'll hear this. The need imbued in every touch, the slide of warm palms under his scrub top. Please, stay. I'll give you this forever if you stay. You won't be alone anymore, I promise, I promise. I'm sorry.
Robby who trembles and whimpers and breaks. Crumpling like paper into Jack, clutching onto him with the desperation he's been keeping at bay. Crying something unintelligible and heartbroken into his shoulder, hiccupping up some of that water that's been drowning him for months.
Jack who pets him, holds him, stays steady. This storm he knows, he'll be Robby's eye, his calm. It's so dark. Jack will sit with him in it until they both can breathe steady again.
for the first like 14 years of my life i thought that the story of saint valentine and valentines day were a celebration of a massive gay polyamorous marriage and let me tell you, i was sorely disappointed when i learned i had massively misunderstood that story
i was told the basic story of âthe king had made it illegal for young men to get married so that they could be drafted off to go to war (as married men with families were not, apparently)â and that âsaint valentine thought this was cruel, and married the young men in secretâ
what this was supposed to communicate to me was âsaint valentine would marry young men to their girlfriends in secret as a priest at his own risk and thats why we celebrate valentines dayâÂ
what i got out of it was âsaint valentine married a shitton of dudes so he could protect his army of husbands from having to go to war and it was beautiful and love can halt war in its tracks and thats why we celebrate valentines dayâ
and thats why the assumption that a child would automatically get a hetero interpretation of the story and the innate unclarity of the english language made me think that valentines day was about mass gay poly marriage until i was like fourteen and recited the story to a friend who stared at me like id grown three extra heads
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