I write stuff. Modern Romans (ROMANITAS). Kids on Mars with blue-eyed flying American Fish Robots (MARS EVACUEES) also I wrote a thing called I Hate Strong Female Characters.
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Someone asked me a while ago if I still had a photo of the worst sink I had ever seen while apartment hunting in Los Angeles. I assumed I deleted it so I didn't answer the ask and now it's gone, but as it turns out, yes, I do still have a photo of it.
I’ve hear about how having cats makes you immune to hauntings, ghosts, spooky midnight noises etc but. for years I’ve been dealing with a panic response to unexpected nighttime noises, major enough that the adrenaline can keep me from falling back asleep for hours.
A few weeks of living with a cat and my brain’s been reprogrammed. last night at 4am the furry little shitmuppet broke a vase & I only woke up long enough to call her a rat bastard & roll over back to sleep
Oh shit. This totally made me realize that it must have been my cat that killed my fear of the dark. I used to be intensely scared of walking into dark spaces. Hated any area where I had to turn a light off before I could turn another one on.
Enter my mostly black demon who likes to jump out of dark spaces at me.
Now I can just walk through dark rooms with no anxiety. I’m now used to the darkness taking physical form and jumping at me. At this point if a monster did jump out of the darkness I’d instinctively reach for the cat treats to offer it.
holy crap what other fears do cats make you immune to?
I’m no longer scared to dangle my foot over the bed bc of demons with sharp claws & glowing eyes, i’m scared to dangle my foot over the bed bc of one specific small furry demon with sharp claws & glowing eyes
My cats are legit part of my grounding strategy for when I have sleep hallucinations. As part of my sleep paralysis, I “see” corpses in the bed next to me on a frequent basis, or shadow men lurking in the doorway; if there is a cat blissfully, softly snoring at the foot of the bed, I know I am safe, despite what my brain is trying to conjure.
the sound of my door opening slowly, but theres no one there. my cat. somethings clawing at the walls, glass or window screens, cats. somethings fucking licking my toe in the middle of the night, my fucking cat again. nothing can hurt me its all cat
My cats got rid of my fear, not because I assume every noise I hear is from them, but rather if my OCD is telling me not to look outside because someones out their waiting for me to see them so they can kill me, I know they aren’t actually there because my cats aren’t reacting.
Until they do some stupid shit like staring at my vent for 2-3 hours without moving at all for seemingly no reason what so ever
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I, a hearing person who likes subtitles just as a preference, shouldn't have to read a subtitle that's obvious nonsense, go back a couple seconds, and listen again in order to figure out what's going on. An accessibility feature should not be the most half-assed part of a professionally made production. Scripted media has absolutely no excuse for not having subtitles or having subtitles that aren't perfectly verbatim. Professional captioning services should be ashamed of the shoddy work that they put out. Captions should be treated as a part of the production, just like filming, editing, audio balancing, etc - and anything that releases with missing or bad captions should be seen as unfinished
A highlight in the history of uninvited cats on stage has to be the premiere of Rossini's Barbiere di Siviglia:
... during the finale, a cat arrived, and mingled with the performers. [Figaro] chased it from one side, it returned from the other side to throw itself at the legs of [Bartolo]. ... the audience imitated its meows and encouraged it to continue its improvised role.
Alexis Jacob Azevedo: G. Rossini, sa vie et ses oeuvres (1864)
So I caved and created an AgeKey. Making the most hideous face I could. It still worked. Well, it SAID it worked, anyhow.
But when I try to use it, this happens. Just a spinning circle, forever.
What gives, @tumblr?
Honestly the idea that even actual kids shouldn't be able to see arses painted by Frank Frazetta is ridiculous.
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Ever see a depiction of St. George and the Dragon? It's pretty fair to say if you've seen one, you've seen them all: Georgie on a horse stabbing a flailing dragon creature, princess piously kneeling in the background, vague landscape alluding to the homeland of the artist's patron.
The most varied part is the dragons. No one had a real definition for the thing, it seemed. For your pleasure and entertainment, I have ranked some medieval depictions based on how impressive George's feat seems once you see the dragon.
Paolo Uccello, 1456
This is a terrifying beast. The hell is that. Uccello was one of the first experimenters with perspective, so the thing also looks surreal, like it's taking place on Mars, or a Windows 95 screensaver. I would not want to fight that, I would not want to be tied to that. (Sometimes the princess is tied to the dragon for some reason.) 10/10
Horse thoughts: Maybe if I look at the ground it will be gone when I look up
Unknown artist, c. 1505
This is a rare change of form for the dragon; it's the only one I've seen actually flying (or at least falling with style). It doesn't look particularly deterred by the spear through its throat, either. Also, George looks appropriately nervous. On the other hand, it hasn't got teeth, it seems to be fuzzy rather than having scaly armor, and George is bolstered by his army of Henry VII and his children, most of whom definitely didn't actually die in infancy. Still, wouldn't want to fight it, wouldn't want my pet sheep near it. (Sometimes the princess has a pet sheep for some reason.) 9/10
Horse thoughts: I am so glad I wore my mightiest feather helmet for this
Raphael, 1505
We are coming to Dragons With Problems. This guy looks about comparable in size to George, and does have wings, but doesn't seem to be using these things to his advantage (and has he only got one wing?) And how does he deal with the neck? He does have a comically small head, but holding it up with such a twisty neck seems complicated at best. But most egregiously, he is doing the shitty superheroine pose where he is somehow simultaneously showcasing his chest and his butt, with its unnecessarily defined butthole (more on this later) (regrettably). 8/10 bc it's Raphael
Horse thoughts: AM I THE BESTEST BOI? AM I DOING SUCH A GOOD JOB? WE R DRAGON SLAYING BUDDIEZ
The Beauchamp Hours, c. 1401
We had a spirited debate about this one at work. Again, the dragon has gotten smaller, and this one hasn't got even one wing. He's basically a crocodile. So the debate became: would you want to fight a crocodile if you had a horse and a pointy stick? Would the horse trample the animal, who can't get on its hind legs, or freak out and throw its rider? Would the pointy stick be enough to pierce the croc's thick hide? In this case, George seems to be controlling his horse and putting his pointy stick in the dragon's weak spot, so we can be impressed by his skill and strategy. However, his hat is dumb. 7/10
Horse thoughts: Dehhhh
Book of Hours, c. 1480
Here we have the same kind of croco-dragon, but George's focus on his strategy has gone out the window. He's flailing around, not even looking at his target, he's about to lose his pointy stick, he hasn't got a hand on the reins, and his sword seems to only be poking the invisible dragon over his shoulder. All he's got going for him is that his hat is slightly less dumb. 6/10
Horse thoughts: Yay, new friend! Come play with me, new fr- what is happening
Final dragons put behind this Read More for your safety:
Rogier van der Weyden, c. 1432
I'm thinking this guy is at least semi-aquatic. Webbed feet, wings that seem more like fins, bipedal but top-heavy, jaws that seem more for scooping than biting. Maybe she's crawled up here from the nearby body of water to lay her eggs, and this is all a big misunderstanding. Moreover, George's dagged sleeves seem entirely impractical for the situation. 5/10
Horse thoughts: i got my hed stuk in a jar and now it is this way forever
Unknown artist, c. 15th century
I hate this. I hate everything about it. Why has it got human eyes and teeth. Why is its nose melting. Why has it got a dick on its face and balls under its chin. The fin/wings are back but they look even more useless. Also, George is shifty as hell, schlumped over in his saddle with his bowler hat thing over his eyes. The baby dragon at the bottom eating some hapless would-be rescuer is kind of metal. 4/10 at least the thing is gonna die
Horse thoughts: I Have Smoked So Much Crack
Book of Hours, c. 1450
Remember what I said about the buttholes? First, sorry. Second, yeah, we're back to that. I'll admit this one is less about the danger from the dragon itself than the very specific choices the artist has made. They didn't need to do that. It's a lizard. They don't even have. And it's like they had an orifice budget and they skipped an exit wound for the spear to focus. Elsewhere. It's so detailed. And George had an even dumber hat. 2/10 take it away
Horse thoughts: I Have Smoked So Much Weed
Book of Hours, c. 1415
This is just bullying. There isn't even a princess. That is clearly an infant. Look at that smug look on George's face as he swings his sword that's bigger than the whole little guy. This is the equivalent of when DJT Jr. hunted those sleeping endangered sheep. 1/10
Horse thoughts: ....yikes
And this is the previous one, but now the baby dragon is cute. He's chubby. He's got toe beans. He's Puff the Magic Dragon. His eyes have already gone white, implying that George is just kicking its corpse around for funsies. What's the difference between the dragon and the lamb in the background? That the dragon is dead, like our innocence. This George is truly deserving of the dumbest hat of all. 0/10 plus one more butthole for the road
Horse thoughts: Perhaps it is we who are the buttholes.
I wish I could say I cherry-picked these, but really the image of the dragon as a sky-blotting behemoth seems to be a quite recent one. They started to get bigger and more menacing around the 16th century, but really you'd be hard-pressed to find a dragon bigger than the horse.
Here's an anonymous one from around 1510:
There's a hefty amount of dragon there; I also enjoy his bug eyes, George's impressively stupid hat, and the gnarly bone pile. Also, if you check out the distant figures, this artist seems to be covering his bases by also including the version of the legend where George instead captures the dragon with the princess's girdle, taking it back with him to her kingdom where he uses it as blackmail to get them all to convert to Christianity before he'll kill it. Nice one, George. (This does explain why it sometimes looks like the princess is tied to the dragon.)
Here also are one by Cranach the Elder from c. 1515, and from a c. 1500 Book of Hours:
Pretty red in tooth and claw, especially the lovely blue boy there, who is not only still showing plenty of fight, but is also our first fire-breather! Kudos to George if he vanquished any of those.
But that's about as big as they get for many centuries, right up until, as far as I can tell, 1909, when Briton Rivière hits us with this game-changer:
I have learned of another dragon-slaying saint, and I am never letting George off the hook again.
The story of St. Margaret of Antioch goes that she was imprisoned for refusing to convert and marry a Roman official; in prison, she was visited by the devil in the form of a dragon. The dragon ate her, but she was holding a cross/made the sign of the cross and the dragon EXPLODED IN HALF and she escaped. (Still got beheaded tho; tough luck.)
And let me tell you. EVERY ONE of Margaret's dragons KICKS ASS:
That took me like five minutes. Big! Wings! Teeth! Fire! Sometimes there's another devil there getting his ass kicked too! And she ain't even trying!
And it nullifies my earlier thesis that they just weren't making big dragons back then. Go back and look at what Raphael had George fight, and then check out what he gave Margaret:
She don't even give a fuck. Why is George the dragon saint. George is FIRED.
So--when I was in my mid-twenties and the Disaster Ex tried to make me kill myself, the local mental hospital didn't have any beds open in the usual ward for attempted suicides.
What they did have was a single spare bed in the small, comfortable, quiet, wildly expensive facility for girls with eating disorders.
They asked each of the young women currently living there if it was acceptable that I might occupy a bed in one of the rooms for a while, just the long weekend while I was waiting for a doctor's evaluation. I hadn't been violent, I had gone with the cops without putting up any fight at all, and I was still and I was small and all those things were sufficient for me to be deemed safe. So up they sent me, to somewhere high in Western Psych, above the smells and sounds of the denser-packed wards, above where the care workers were harried and frustrated, to a gentle space with seven or eight young women in it.
I was five foot three, and I weighed about 115 pounds. I was underweight for my frame, as a fair amount of that weight was martial arts muscle; I would probably have been ten pounds heavier if I were healthy, with the amount of activity I got.
I was at least two inches shorter than pretty much every other young woman there, six or seven inches shorter than one of them, and I had at least thirty pounds on several of them. The tallest was not allowed to walk, she had to sit in a wheelchair and be pushed around, because her condition was so advanced that the motion would undo what good her hard work had done.
And over the course of the four or five days I was there, multiple of them came up to me alone to quietly tell me that I had the *perfect* body, and they wished they could be as skinny as I was. That I needed to live, because I was beautiful, and if they were as beautiful as I was, they wouldn't need to be here.
Their eyes were on me all the time, in the hours that I wasn't sleeping. I spent a lot of time sleeping, and we took our meals separately (I not needing to be monitored while I ate, and not having my food weighed), but we spent a fair amount of time sitting around in the little shared living room space, talking about movies and magazines and books we'd loved, talking about our families. I didn't talk about my family; they didn't pry.
They were all so fucking nice.
And I could have broken any one of them over my narrow knee.
They each thought they were bigger than I was.
Their brains lied to them, every time they looked at a mirror. Every time they looked down at their own thighs. What they saw was not what I could see. They had bright, beautiful eyes in dark hollows, and I could count their vertebrae, could see their ribs winging when they breathed, could see the motion of every tendon on the backs of their hands.
They weren't celebrities. They weren't being paid to have particular bodies, nor were they deep in the toxic sea of having strangers take photos of them to sell to gossip rags if they stepped out of doors in old jeans. They had families and loved ones who were doing everything that they could to protect them, to uplift them and help them be healthy. They were just everyday people--a nurse, a couple of students, a couple of recent college grads, a young woman who had decided it was time to really get help because she wanted to be a mother--and still they'd been so injured by the neverending fucking deluge of body-image bullshit that they were dying of it.
That was in 2009. Things are worse now.
I think about them still. I hope that they're all right.
And in case some people aren't aware: anorexia is deadly. There is a point at which your body looses the ability to digest food and you are no longer capable of improving.
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So--when I was in my mid-twenties and the Disaster Ex tried to make me kill myself, the local mental hospital didn't have any beds open in the usual ward for attempted suicides.
What they did have was a single spare bed in the small, comfortable, quiet, wildly expensive facility for girls with eating disorders.
They asked each of the young women currently living there if it was acceptable that I might occupy a bed in one of the rooms for a while, just the long weekend while I was waiting for a doctor's evaluation. I hadn't been violent, I had gone with the cops without putting up any fight at all, and I was still and I was small and all those things were sufficient for me to be deemed safe. So up they sent me, to somewhere high in Western Psych, above the smells and sounds of the denser-packed wards, above where the care workers were harried and frustrated, to a gentle space with seven or eight young women in it.
I was five foot three, and I weighed about 115 pounds. I was underweight for my frame, as a fair amount of that weight was martial arts muscle; I would probably have been ten pounds heavier if I were healthy, with the amount of activity I got.
I was at least two inches shorter than pretty much every other young woman there, six or seven inches shorter than one of them, and I had at least thirty pounds on several of them. The tallest was not allowed to walk, she had to sit in a wheelchair and be pushed around, because her condition was so advanced that the motion would undo what good her hard work had done.
And over the course of the four or five days I was there, multiple of them came up to me alone to quietly tell me that I had the *perfect* body, and they wished they could be as skinny as I was. That I needed to live, because I was beautiful, and if they were as beautiful as I was, they wouldn't need to be here.
Their eyes were on me all the time, in the hours that I wasn't sleeping. I spent a lot of time sleeping, and we took our meals separately (I not needing to be monitored while I ate, and not having my food weighed), but we spent a fair amount of time sitting around in the little shared living room space, talking about movies and magazines and books we'd loved, talking about our families. I didn't talk about my family; they didn't pry.
They were all so fucking nice.
And I could have broken any one of them over my narrow knee.
They each thought they were bigger than I was.
Their brains lied to them, every time they looked at a mirror. Every time they looked down at their own thighs. What they saw was not what I could see. They had bright, beautiful eyes in dark hollows, and I could count their vertebrae, could see their ribs winging when they breathed, could see the motion of every tendon on the backs of their hands.
They weren't celebrities. They weren't being paid to have particular bodies, nor were they deep in the toxic sea of having strangers take photos of them to sell to gossip rags if they stepped out of doors in old jeans. They had families and loved ones who were doing everything that they could to protect them, to uplift them and help them be healthy. They were just everyday people--a nurse, a couple of students, a couple of recent college grads, a young woman who had decided it was time to really get help because she wanted to be a mother--and still they'd been so injured by the neverending fucking deluge of body-image bullshit that they were dying of it.
That was in 2009. Things are worse now.
I think about them still. I hope that they're all right.
And in case some people aren't aware: anorexia is deadly. There is a point at which your body looses the ability to digest food and you are no longer capable of improving.
sorry if this is a stupid and/or weird question but your response to that anon talking about people experiencing orgasms during childbirth made me wonder if there's a certain point in development after which it'd be weird for pregnant people to have sex or masturbate, since after a certain point the fetus(?) can hear? like, should people do it quietly or does it just not really matter? sorry again but i am genuinely clueless
should. should pregnant people have sex quietly so their baby doesn't hear?
okay even assuming your unborn child can hear you fucking. it's like having sex in front of your stuffed animals or your dog, dude. they have absolutely no understand of what is going on. they don't give a shit. at no point is any person who has ever or will ever be born going to go "oooooh man I think hearing my parents fuck while I was in utero really fucked me up actually" that's not how anything works. they're too busy going "mmm yummy amniotic fluid" they do not know or care that sex is happening
I swear this is a consequence of the "life begins at conception" propaganda. Combined with the recurrent moral panic about "protecting children" (from knowledge).
Absolutely rancid combination of Christian morality with Christian morality.
I'm sad to say that the rise of fascism has been visible in my inbox for years as people become increasingly distrustful of their own bodies and pleasure. you see it in people's paranoia around becoming "porn addicts," their need for reassurance that a 24 year old isn't a predator for dating a 22 year old, their fears that they may have unwittingly committed assault by looking at another child's naked body when they were young, their insistence that consensual sex is impossible for anyone who has had a single drink or smoked a whiff of weed. people, especially young people, are doing a tremendous amount of work for fascism in terms of rigorously policing their own bodies and sexual expression, and they often don't even realize it.
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