#nerd thoughts

I don’t understand why, in the context of Superbat, Clark is always on top. The fandom at large rarely seems to write/interpret him bottoming. The super cheeks are off limits. Superman is strictly pitching in most Superbat fan works that I see.

I get it from the danger standpoint. Because involuntary clenching of muscles, potentially making Bruce a eunuch and/or killing him, etc. It’s an offshoot of the whole “invulnerability to the point of un-fuck-ability” concept. That takes a fan interpretation of Superbat from humorous and a little smutty to oh-dear-god-this-is-violent.

Problem is, we have a very convenient, often discussed work-around—red lights. Red lights, my dudes (gender neutral)! It’s right there and it’s not like Bruce is a Broke Boy who can’t afford several million red light bulbs. It’s not like Bruce is lacking the intelligence or imagination to create a perfectly functional, failure-proof mechanism to keep his sex life with Clark safe and healthy for both of them.

Like how is tragedy not horrifying???

Lack of Love

So, you want to talk about why J.R.R. Tolkien never actually finished The Silmarillion? Let’s skip the usual Reddit-tier discourse about canon, casting choices, and whether Galadriel’s armor fits some arbitrary historical vibe check. We’re missing the forest for the trees here, and honestly, the real story is way more elegant—and kind of a massive theological trainwreck.Tolkien didn't get stuck in his notes because he ran out of time or hit a writer's block. He got himself trapped in a philosophical dead end that Western Europe has been wrestling with since the Middle Ages. If the Professor were alive today, nursing a pour-over in a Greenwich Village cafe, he’d probably be the first to admit that his stubborn Catholic perfectionism totally painted him into a corner.See, Tolkien was a hardcore Thomist—meaning his brain operated on the logic of Thomas Aquinas, who tried to marry Christian theology with Aristotle’s cold-as-stone rationalism. In this framework, God (Eru Ilúvatar) is the Ultimate Architect and Lawgiver. He codes the "Music of the Ainur," sets the ground rules, and then basically ghosts the cosmos. There is this unbridgeable ontological chasm between the Creator and the creation. Salvation becomes a legal transaction: you just have to fix your broken will and make the "right" moral choices.

And that’s exactly where the vibes go rancid. The rebellion of Melkor and the whole Noldor exodus? It’s not some grand passion; it’s a revolt of pure, edgy intellect. Fëanor crafts the Silmarils like a brilliant, obsessive artist-scientist, but his genius is all brain and no heart. His sub-creation is just a hyper-fixated ego trip. Tolkien’s heroes are profoundly, deeply isolated. They don’t have a hotline to the divine because their theology doesn't allow you to actually experience God—you just obey Him. If Tolkien had dumped Aquinas and spent some time reading Eastern Christian mystics—the Hesychasts, who were big on Theosis (the literal deification of the human being)—Middle-earth would have had a radically different endgame. On the Eastern side of the fence, salvation isn't about submitting your will to a corporate checklist; it’s about Theosis. It’s the wild idea that divine uncreated light permeates everything, and you can plug directly into the source through love, physically transfiguring the material world.

But in Tolkien’s Thomist cage, there is no uncreated light. The Light of the Trees of Valinor is totally material. It can be stolen, locked up in Fëanor’s fancy rocks, or literally sucked dry by a giant cosmic spider like Ungoliant.Because of this system defect, Love in Middle-earth never actually saves the day. It’s just a beautifully tragic way to schedule a funeral. Look at Beren and Lúthien, or Aragorn and Arwen—they’re magnificent stories, but they’re essentially elegies about fading out. Lúthien, despite having divine Maia blood in her veins, doesn't transfigure reality; she just signs away her immortality and dies. Her love doesn’t resurrect Middle-earth—it just lets her claw back one Silmaril, which immediately triggers a chain reaction of genocidal elven civil wars and completely wrecks Doriath.By the time you get to the end of The Lord of the Rings, the world isn’t saved—it’s just utterly drained. The Ring is in the volcano, sure, but the magic is dead, the elves are ghosting to the West, and humanity is left with a gray, flat, totally disenchanted reality. Frodo and Sam aren’t carrying that burden out of some world-transfiguring love; they’re just stubbornly fulfilling a contract. It’s peak grindset, but it's devoid of actual glory.The Professor spent his final decades obsessively rewriting dates and commas because his poetic genius had built a world that was absolutely dying for some transcendent, world-healing Love to fix the Marred Earth. But his own dogmatic intellect, locked in that Western loop of "corrupted human will," flat out refused to let that healing happen. So we’re left with this magnificent, hyper-structured, but deeply depressing blueprint—a world where the heroes had flawless willpower, but their hearts never got to feel the warmth of actual transfiguration.

And my busy ass isn't doing anything 😭

What’s the beef with Gigi… should I be scared…

you should be VERY scared. I've never hated a character so much in my life i absolutely despise her.