HIGH

Parts of Tumblr.com: I have literally never heard of classism and thus have no frame of reference for the idea that I should be nice to people with stereotypically low class interests and so I will make fun of those interests now. 

Bitch we all know you like farm asthetique. What we want is support for the Actual rural southern queer community. The trailer park/pre-used prefab queers. The ones who are never going to get more than a 10th grade education and work dirty blue collar jobs with hard labor. And remember that this whole ass time we often have to lie about who we are so we can keep the shitty hard labor jobs that fuck up our bodies. And remember that these communities are also black and Hispanic communities?? I see y'all in the notes “this is so white, this is so white” like the entire South isn’t full of poc and queer poc who struggle even harder because of all this??

Broke: everyone in the rural south is white homophobic racists

I mean, they’re the blood god.

Presumably they already have blood.

If you have a son, will you love him? She is pacing in the living room while the Thanksgiving Day Parade plays behind her, a montage of inflated cartoon bodies, floating slow down 6th avenue, smiles painted onto their faces.

I consider not responding. I consider explaining that I can love him and not trust him. I consider saying that I won't love him at all. Just to scare her. Instead, I say,

If I am ever murdered, like, body found in a ditch, mouth stuffed with dirt, stocking around my neck, identified by my toenails, please don't go looking for a guilty woman.

When my father and I go for a jog on the arroyo and he runs ahead, leaving me alone with my breath and an empty trail, I keep running—but now, from something. When I cross a coyote drinking from the ditch, I am so relieved it is an animal. When I see him, my father, stretching against a tree, I scream at him for leaving me alone. He grabs my shoulders as if to shake my loose parts into place. What are you afraid of? he asks. Why are you so afraid?

I don't know why I'm doing this— playing show and tell with the times I've walked fast in the dark. Maybe I see myself in the worst of it. Maybe if I can imagine myself in the shallow water, you should too. Maybe I am tired of hearing people talk about the murder of girls like is both beautiful and out of the ordinary.

I ask the hotel attendant to put me in a room near the elevator. I listen to my best friend breathe on the line while she walks home. Sometimes I search "woman's body found in" when I visit a new city. Then I learn her name. Her age. Where they found her—under a baseboard, limbs folded into a closet. I learn her hobbies— that she loved to sing. I watch the security footage they discovered of her last moments, I watch her move and breathe like the rest of us. I watch her look over her shoulder three times before walking out of view.

certainly they didn’t have a monopoly on dark folktales/fantasy stories- plenty of cultures and eras before them Went There -but people often to tend to default to the Grimm brothers as the originators of European fairytales, period

which is. very incorrect. 

their best-known book of stories was published in seven editions between 1812 and 1857. but the non-violent version of Cinderella that Disney based their animated movie on was written by Charles Perrault in 1697. and the oldest known version, from Hellenic Egypt, is also bloodless (and like a paragraph long). so did some meddling Mouseketeer build a time machine to “sanitize” the story, or…?