I'm feeling mighty old.

people have suddenly started reblogging this post of mine from february 8th, 2012. great bit everybody

using google keyboard alchemy to create the most miserable emojis possible

when I was a little kid at some point I got upset with my parents because I didn't have a crucifix in my bedroom and they did- I was like why do YOU get to be safe from vampires??? you're okay with me getting my blood sucked???? so we took a little trip to the catholic store but the one closest to us was run by a group of nuns that had been moved here from romania. I got a little baby pink cross and this sweet old nun was like 'aww, is this a baptism gift?' and I was like no. I need to be protected from vampires. and she immediately got SO serious and was like 'this is the best one we've got, you'll definitely be safe' and since she was literally from vampire land I was convinced she was like, van helsing. like the whole time my parents had been laughing about how cute my fear was but she literally Knew dracula and was taking my concerns seriously I held this over my parents for so long lmfao

"the new pope is problematic" well folks it's the catholic fucking church so im not really sure where your hopes were at

When the wage slaves stage a revolt, so you have to call in the McPinkertons

THIRTY YEARS OF PRION DISEASE

And no I don’t think love ever leaves because it’s been eight years since my dad died and he is in every thought and hope and dream. and when I think I can’t fix the computer he is here. and when I eat chocolate cake he is here. and when the sun glows at 3pm he is here. and he will always be here because his life made mine, and my life will be his epilogue

Recently I’ve been thinking about forgiveness and freedom, presence and passing. He died, and he remains. He’s not here to love his favourite flowers; I water them daily. He can’t walk along his favourite path; I’ll think of him as I do. He exists in the mirror with the eyes we share, and I share his life with stories and myself. He is thought of in all that he was, all that he is.

why is religious Christmas imagery all so joyful and pleasant? where is the inherent horror of the birth of Christ? A mother is handed her newborn child, wailing and innocent. Her hands come away sticky. Red. Simply by giving her son life she has already killed him. He is doomed from the beginning. Her love will not save him from suffering. Because the thing cradled in her arms is not a baby, it is a sacrifice: born amongst the other bleating animals whose blood will one day be spilled in the name of what demands it. the night is silent with anticipation. Mary, did you know? That your womb was also a grave?

once i beat the depression and the burnout and the anxiety and the loneliness and the exhaustion and the guilt and the awkwardness and the apathy and the low income and the chronic illness and the impatience and the vulnerability and the creative block and the capitalism and the cruelty THEN you'll see