32 | GN | Melancholic Personal blog of a Self-Certified Doodler, Casual Gamer, and Monster Romanticist 18+ folks only here, minors gtfo Yume Blog: @yumejo-dreams-journal
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My least favorite new politically correct term is "unhoused." Like you can just tell it was created to make liberals feel less icky when talking about homeless people.
I was homeless. I was homeless as a child and as an adult. That shit sucks believe it or not.
The uncertainty. The ever-present grimy feeling from lack of access to running water. Having nothing to your name. The shame you feel is asking your fellow man for the bare minimum. Just so much shame, man.
"Unhoused" is so clinical. A technical term. Sure, its not incorrect, but it doesn't properly convey the emotional and psychological impact homelessness has on you.
"But it makes people uncomfortable!!" That's the point. People don't take these things seriously anymore because it was structured that way to make people think "not a big deal. I don't need to try and fight for change."
They didn't unalive themselves, it was suicide.
The video isn't talking about pew pews, it's about guns.
She wasn't graped, she was raped.
A large amount of people aren't unhoused, they're homeless.
I think I may never be sad ever again.
There is a statue entitled "Farewell to Orpheus" on my college campus. It's been there since 1968, created by a Prof. Frederic Littman that use to work at the university.
It sits in the middle of a fountain, and the fountain is often full of litter. I have taken it upon myself to clean the litter out when I see it (the skimmers only come by once a week at max). But because of my style of dress, this means that bystanders see a twenty-something on their hands and knees at the edge of the fountain, sleeves rolled up, trying not to splash dirty water on their slacks while their briefcase and suit coat sit nearby.
This is fine, usually. But today was Saturday Market, which means the twenty or so people in the area suddenly became hundreds. So, obviously, somebody stopped to ask what I was doing.
"This," I gestured at the statue, "is Eurydice. She was the wife of Orpheus, the greatest storyteller in Greece. And this litter is disrespectful." Then, on a whim, I squinted up at them. "Do you know the story of Orpheus and Eurydice?"
"No," they replied, shifting slightly to sit.
"Would you like to?"
"Sure!"
So I told them. I told them the story as I know it- and I've had a bit of practice. Orpheus, child of a wishing star, favorite of the messenger god, who had a hard-working, wonderful wife, Eurydice; his harp that could lull beasts to passivity, coax song from nymphs, and move mountains before him; and the men who, while he dreamed and composed, came to steal Eurydice away.
I told of how she ran, and the water splashed up on my clothes. But I didn't care. I told of how the adder in the field bit her heel, and she died. I told of the Underworld- how Orpheus charmed the riverman, pacified Cerberus with a lullaby, and melted the hearts of the wise judges.
I laughed as I remarked how lucky he was that it was winter- for Persephone was moved by his song where Hades was not. She convinced Hades to let Orpheus prove he was worthy of taking Eurydice.
I tugged my coat back on, and said how Orpheus had to play and sing all the way out of the Underworld, without ever looking back to see if his beloved wife followed. And I told how, when he stopped for breath, he thought he heard her stumble and fall, and turned to help her up- but it was too late.
I told the story four times after that, to four different groups, each larger than the last. And I must have cast a glance at the statue, something that said "I'm sorry, I miss you--" because when I finished my second to last retelling, a young boy piped up, perhaps seven or eight, and asked me a question that has made my day, and potentially my life:
"Are you Orpheus?"
I told the tale of the grieving bard so well, so convincingly, that in the eyes of a child I was telling not a story, but a memory. And while I laughed in the moment, with everyone else, I wept with gratitude and joy when I came home.
This is more than I deserve, and I think I may never be sad again.
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Non kh fans wouldn’t believe that without the Disney stuff kingdom hearts would be impossibly graphic and depressing. Mickey Mouse keeps us sane and away from the brink of crumbling into dust.
Kidnapping 7 women and forcing them into creating one of the most deadly weapons in existence that can either unlock hearts or destroy them
An old man needed a young vessel to survive longer, so he forced a 16 year old to try and give in to darkness in a trial by fire against heartless. When that failed and the boy almost died, he split the young boy’s heart in two to make two separate people, which saved the boy, but it was also so that he can force them to try and kill each other later.
The old man succeeded in obtaining a new vessel, by manipulating a 17 year old into giving into despair and anger by trying to kill the 16 year old and their other friend and making him weak for a heart transfer.
Another old man attempting to kill the 16 year old because he ventured out to see the worlds
The 17 year old killing his father figure because said father figure was going to kill the 16 year old because he ventured out to see the worlds
Everyone has had their hearts ripped violently from their bodies by a tornado of darkness
The main character’s best friend has killed at least 3 people at this point
Said best friend had to give up his entire being and turn into his worst enemy (the man who possessed him) so that he can save his best friend
Lots of talk about “the hurt you feel inside”, aka crippling depression
A data copy of the main character to see how much “hurt inside” the real one can handle. Essentially they made the data one experience all the depression the real one felt all throughout his journey, from losing his closest friends, his home, and having to take on an entire universe’s worth of problems. To see how he handles the “hurt”.
A fucking war happened. People literally killed each other over something they knew nothing about but believed had all the answers. The battleground is literally littered with their decrepit weapons, THOUSANDS upon thousands of them, and is called The Keyblade Graveyard because so, so many people died there. Ultimately no one won, almost everyone died in vain.
The main victims are usually children. In death, experimentation, and being used altogether.
The main character basically kills himself in the first game to release his friend’s heart from his own.
Later on in a much later game he discovers he now has 2 and a half hearts inside him. He starts seriously pondering if his heart is a prison to other hearts.
Main character enters a magic castle that is enchanted to steal and erase memories. He forgets who his friends are, and loses his memories as the game progresses.
This is a reminder for those who handmake Christmas presents that now is not too early to start. It may in fact be a good time to start if you have a lot to make/your craft takes a long time. You should maybe start it now, whether that's brainstorming or actually doing the crafts!
It may be less than stellar, but I have a strict personal rule: “don’t put longer than 30 minutes’ effort into a fetish joke”. The second you hit 30:01, the exposure becomes lethal and the fetish becomes unironic.
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For the record, if @tumblr ever tries to implement this age verification bullshit in the US, that'll probably be the last day I bother to spend on this website. If you think I'm giving @staff my government id, you clearly haven't seen the sheer volume of threats and harassment I get in my inbox and notes that staff doesn't do jack or shit about.
There is not a single person on earth who can or should be trusted with your information besides your spouse, your lawyer, and your doctor (maybe your priest, if that's your thing).
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