I'm Noah (He/It/They/Neops.), a writer who occasionally appears to show what I'm working on. Longer pieces can be found on AO3 under WriterBumbleBee here; I also have a secondary, religious account, which is @devoutbutterfly.
In this blog, you will find quite a bit of:
`•° Original writing
°*• Works about Les Misérables, The Picture Of Dorian Gray and Iron Lung (Just Blood/Bloodymary)
*•` Rants about my interests
Content Warnings: trauma, drug use, grooming, physical and psychological abuse, mental disorders, death, etc (individual CWs can be found per post).
DNI: queerphobes, radqueers, radfems, racists, anti-theists, religious extremists, proshippers, and porn blogs.
I hope you'll find in this blog a place in which to think freely and fiercely, for every dangerous idea started with a lingering thought.
"To learn to read is to light a fire; every syllable that is spelled out is a spark."
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
CW: vomit, dissociation, and mention of alcohol and drugs
English & Español
NUMB LITTLE BOY
Dorian’s awakening was not a gentle one. It only took the first rays of the morning to bring him back to the world of the living, with all the misfortunes that brought. The first one: the headache.
With the slightest move of his head, Dorian felt a thousand needles break his skull open, scattering his brain for the world to see and for him to wonder where he was. This time, it only took him a few minutes to realize he was in his own house; more especially, in his drawing room. He felt a twinge of pride for knowing that this time.
In all honestly with himself, however, he could not for the life of him remember what he had been doing the night before. The empty bottles of wine and cigarette butts gave him a broad idea, but the closer picture was a mystery, like most nights.
He stopped trying to remember. It would be futile, anyway.
He remembered, however, the letter he had promised to write Henry so long ago. Had it been two weeks? Or was it two months? Again, the details eluded him. He did remember they had been in one of those parties his friends like to throw from time to time. Dorian had been drinking quite a lot, but he was still lucid enough to not drop the cup of wine—or was it whiskey?—on his hand. It had been then, at nearly midnight, when Henry had come to him after spending the evening with any other person while leaving Dorian to his own endeavors—he could not remember what he had done alone—. With one of his smiles, he had surrounded Dorian with his arm and talked about the old times—they had known each other for six years, had they not?—and how they used to spend time together so much more before.
Dorian had not replied, because he knew were was not need.
With a squish of his hand, Henry had made Dorian promise to write him at least once a week, to keep the friendship, to keep the good people in his life.
Dorian had meant to keep the promise. He had. But the days had passed one after the other, and then the weeks, and then perhaps the months—two? Or maybe four?—, and eventually Dorian started to feel a sort of weight when thinking about the chore of writing.
Henry had not written to him.
Neither had Basil.
Basil. Yes. When had been the last time he had talked to the painter? Dorian could not remember. Had it been in that one gala held by that handsome baroness last winter? Had Basil attented? He had promised Dorian he would, but he knew Hallward many times forgot those kinds of promises, too far gone into whatever knew project he had in his hands.
It did not matter. Dorian was perfectly fine on his own, and last night proved his point only further. Why else, if not for fun, would he drink so much wine and smoke so much opium? Those were the pinnacle of happiness on one’s fingertips, as Henry always said, and Dorian knew the lord was right.
Sure, Dorian could admit these past few days, or weeks, or months, he had not been his best self, and maybe he had let go a bit, but that was completely irrelevant.
When he finally gained the strength to rise up, he did with the help of his sofa as support. Taking uneasy steps, he went to the closest bottle, looking for even a few drops of that rouge lichor. He thought about having breakfast, but nausea came at the mere thought.
The nausea did not leave.
He kneeled when strength completely left his legs, surrendering to the spasms of his back as vomit fell on his garnet carpet. It had been a nice carpet. Shame; he would buy one later, or maybe the next day, or maybe he would send a maid instead. That would work just as much.
Seated on the not ruined part of the floor, he used his sleeve to clean his mouth as best as he could. Another ruined piece of clothe. Who cared?
With his back on the sofa, he stated at his room. Then, he just stared ahead. Then, he was not sure.
He stayed there.
CHIQUILLO ATONTADO
El despertar de Dorian no fue uno gentil. Bastaron los primeros rayos de la mañana para devolverlo al mundo de los vivos, con todas las desgracias que ello conllevaba. La primera: el dolor de cabeza.
Con el más leve movimiento de cabeza, Dorian sintió mil agujas partiéndole el cráneo, esparciendo su cerebro a la vista de todos y dejándole preguntándose dónde estaba. Esta vez, tardó apenas unos minutos en darse cuenta de que estaba en su propia casa; más específicamente, en su salón. Sintió una punzada de orgullo al saberlo esta vez.
Sin embargo, siendo totalmente sincero consigo mismo, era incapaz de recordar qué había estado haciendo la noche anterior. Las botellas de vino vacías y las colillas le daban una idea general, pero los detalles concretos seguían siendo un misterio, como ocurría la mayoría de las noches.
Dejó de intentar recordarlo. Sería inútil, de todas formas.
Sin embargo, recordó la carta que le había prometido escribir a Henry hacía tanto tiempo. ¿Habían pasado dos semanas? ¿O dos meses? Una vez más, los detalles se le escapaban. Sí recordaba que había estado en una de esas fiestas que a sus amigos les gustaba organizar de vez en cuando. Dorian había bebido bastante, pero aún conservaba la lucidez suficiente para que no se le cayera la copa de vino (¿o era whisky?). Fue entonces, casi a medianoche, cuando Henry se le acercó tras haber pasado la velada con cualquier otra persona, dejando a Dorian a sus propios asuntos (aunque no lograba recordar qué había hecho estando solo). Con una de sus sonrisas, Henry le pasó el brazo por encima y habló de los viejos tiempos (se conocían desde hacía seis años, ¿verdad?) y de cómo solían pasar mucho más tiempo juntos antes.
Dorian no respondió, porque sabía que no hacía falta.
Apretando la mano, Henry le hizo prometer que le escribiría al menos una vez a la semana, para mantener la amistad, para mantener las buenas personas en su vida.
Dorian había tenido la intención de cumplir la promesa. De verdad. Pero los días fueron pasando uno tras otro, y luego las semanas, y después quizá los meses (¿dos? ¿o tal vez cuatro?), y con el tiempo Dorian empezó a sentir una especie de peso al pensar en la tarea de escribir.
Henry no le había escrito.
Basil tampoco.
Basil. Sí. ¿Cuándo había sido la última vez que habló con el pintor? Dorian no lograba recordarlo. ¿Había sido en aquella gala que había hecho esa hermosa baronesa el invierno pasado? ¿Había asistido Basil? Le había prometido a Dorian que iría, pero él sabía que Hallward a menudo olvidaba ese tipo de promesas, absorto como estaba en cualquier nuevo proyecto que tuviera entre manos.
No importaba. Dorian estaba perfectamente bien por su cuenta, y la noche anterior no hacía más que confirmarlo. ¿Por qué otra razón, si no por diversión, habría bebido tanto vino y fumado tanto opio? Aquello representaba el pináculo de la felicidad al alcance de la mano, como siempre decía Henry, y Dorian sabía que el lord tenía razón.
Ciertamente, Dorian podía admitir que en los últimos días, o semanas, o meses, no había estado en su mejor momento y que tal vez se había dejado llevar un poco, pero eso carecía por completo de importancia.
Cuando por fin reunió fuerzas para levantarse, lo hizo apoyándose en el sofá. Con pasos vacilantes, se dirigió a la botella más cercana en busca de aunque fuera unas gotas de aquel licor carmesí. Pensó en desayunar, pero la sola idea le provocó náuseas.
Las náuseas no desaparecieron.
Cayó de rodillas cuando las piernas le fallaron por completo, rindiéndose ante los espasmos de su espalda mientras el vómito manchaba su alfombra granate. Había sido una alfombra bonita. Qué lástima; compraría otra más tarde, o tal vez al día siguiente, o quizá enviaría a una criada a hacerlo. Eso serviría igual.
Sentado en la parte del suelo que no se había estropeado, se limpió la boca con la manga lo mejor que pudo. Otra prenda arruinada. ¿A quién le importaba?
Con la espalda apoyada en el sofá, contempló la habitación. Luego, simplemente se quedó mirando al frente. Después, ya no estaba seguro.
Simon was roaming around the halls of the station when he found it.
He hadn’t meant to pay that much attention to it. He hadn’t meant to pay attention at all. But there was something about it—something about its small body, its little antennae, its round shape—that made him stop for too long.
For a moment, he forgot where he was supposed to go.
He just stood there, looking at the little cockroach on the wall. It had stopped moving, just like him, and probably because of the same reason: there was someone else in the room, and it just had to look. Simon wondered if the roach was scared, if its stillness was a way to make itself invisible, if it wanted Simon to go away without harming it.
Simon wondered why would anyone harm it.
He got closer, looking at its every detail. He smiled at the warm tones of its body, thinking about how it almost looked like the roach had a small fire inside it, even if the room was too dark to see all the colors, from black through red, going to orange but always with that brown tone.
He extended his hand towards the roach.
For a moment, it hesitated, walking around the wall just like it had done before Simon got into the hall. He worried it would leave him.
Then, it clawed into his fingers.
His smile got wider as he drew his hand closer to himself, holding the roach as it moved through his hand and wrist, never moving past his forearm. He giggled when it tickled, almost throwing the bug with a spasm of his hand.
“Sorry,” he whispered once the roach settled again.
Its antennae moved, as if forgiving Simon. He liked to think it did.
Then, another hand appeared. Bigger. Older.
The Father’s.
With a swift move, the man took the roach and threw it to the ground, stepping harshly on it, not letting it a second to run away.
Simon looked at the crushed bug once the Father moved his foot.
“These disgusting pests are everywhere,” he mumbled before acknowledging Simon. “Do not touch those things, my son. They only bring decease to this world.”
“Yes, Father,” he replied, because there was nothing else to say.
His eyes remained on the thing.
After a light pat on the shoulder and a content sigh, the Father walked away, going back to whatever it was he had been doing before this small pause on his day. Simon realized he should do the same.
He moved, walking away from the hall, away from the wall, and away from the small spot of blood he was leaving behind.
“Sorry,” he said once more.
It was useless.
La Cucharacha De Edén
Simon estaba deambulando por los pasillos de la estación cuando la encontró.
No pretendía prestarle tanta atención. De hecho, no pretendía prestarle atención en absoluto. Pero había algo en ella, algo en su pequeño cuerpo, sus diminutas antenas, su forma redonda, que le hizo detenerse por demasiado tiempo.
Por un momento, olvidó adónde debía ir. Se quedó allí parado, mirando a la pequeña cucaracha en la pared. Había dejado de moverse, igual que él, y probablemente por la misma razón: había alguien más en la habitación y simplemente tenía que mirar. Simon se preguntó si la cucaracha estaba asustada, si su quietud era una forma de volverse invisible, si quería que Simon se fuera sin hacerle daño.
Simon se preguntó por qué alguien querría hacerle daño.
Se acercó, observando cada detalle. Sonrió por los tonos cálidos de su cuerpo, pensando en cómo casi parecía que la cucaracha tuviera un pequeño fuego en su interior, aunque la habitación estuviera demasiado oscura para ver todos los colores, desde el negro por el rojo, llegando al naranja, pero siempre con ese tono marrón.
Extendió la mano hacia la cucaracha.
Por un instante, esta vaciló, caminando alrededor del muro como lo había hecho antes de que Simon entrara al pasillo. Temió que le abandonara.
Entonces, caminó a sus dedos.
Su sonrisa se amplió al acercar la mano a sí mismo, sujetando la cucaracha mientras se movía entre su mano y muñeca, sin pasar de su antebrazo. Se rió cuando le hizo cosquillas, casi lanzando al insecto con un espasmo de la mano.
—Lo siento, —susurró una vez que la cucaracha se calmó.
Sus antenas se movieron, como si perdonara a Simon. Le gustó pensar que así era.
Entonces, apareció otra mano. Más grande. Más vieja.
La del Padre.
Con un movimiento rápido, el hombre tomó la cucaracha y la tiró al suelo, pisándola con fuerza, sin darle ni un segundo para escapar.
Simon observó el insecto aplastado una vez que el Padre retiró el pie.
—Estas plagas repugnantes están por todas partes, —murmuró antes de dirigirse a Simon—. No toques esas cosas, hijo mío. Sólo traen enfermedades a este mundo.
—Sí, Padre, —respondió, pues no había nada más que decir.
Sus ojos permanecieron fijos en la cosa.
Tras darle una ligera palmada en el hombro y soltar un suspiro de satisfacción, el Padre se alejó para retomar lo que estuviera haciendo antes de esa breve pausa en su día. Simon se dio cuenta de que debía hacer lo mismo.
Se movió, alejándose del pasillo, de la pared y de la pequeña mancha de sangre que dejaba atrás.
I recently rewatched Iron Lung months after having seen it for the first time, and there's one detail that I can't stop thinking about.
While attacking Simon, the eel asks him if death was all his mother taught him, but later on it also asks if she would even recognize the murderer he has become. This made me wonder, how can someone teach a person how to kill while apparently being against murder?
Long story short: I've decided to headcanon Simon's mom as a farmer.
Let's say, for the sake of argument, that humanity made Mars a completely independent place, with its own flora and fauna that they brought. Obviously, there would be a need for someone to kill said fauna so people could eat, make clothes, etc.: enter Simon's mom, a farmer who taught Simon how to kill animals, skin them, and all that good stuff from quite the young age.
Maybe she even taught him where each organ and important artery was, both in the animals and in the human body. Maybe she gifted him her best knife after he first killed without her help. Maybe those are the reasons Simon was able to kill so many people so easily.
Also, wouldn't it be so fucked up if Simon's mom called him "butcher" in a silly, joking manner, only for him to end up being called that after killing more people than any other person of Eden? Jaja
CW: mentions of mutations, experimentation on people, and torture
Thinking about the possibilities of having Simon (and Ava) survive Iron Lung, I just realized that this could mean so much more suffering for our dear boy.
Imagine Simon is finally rescued by the C.O.I after the eel attack, maybe because the black box was lost and there wasn't any reason to keep Simon in the blood ocean but there were plenty of reasons to get the sub back.
And Simon is oh so fucking happy, because he will live and at this point he doesn't care about prison, he just wants to get away from this place as quickly as possible and forget this whole thing even happened in the first place.
Tough luck.
When the C.O.I. people open the sub, they don't find the man they sent down, but a mixture of what used to be a human and what is most certainly a monster.
They want to know what it is.
So, again, against Simon's pleas and fighting to get their hands off of him, they send him to their best scientists to know what happened to him, and how they can use it to their advantage. Why didn't the radiation hurt him? How did he mutate so fast? Are the mutations malignant or safe for him? Are they safe for the rest? Will he keep mutating or will he stay like this? Can he go back to how he was? What does he need to keep living like this, even if barely?
Countless experiments. Countless days of torture.
Ava is also there. She knows about all of this. She can't do anything about it, no matter how bad she feels for the convict that doesn't have the strength in himself to cry anymore.
Anyway, I might write something with this. And if any of you know a fic like this, please let me know!
Okay, so I just watched the film again, finally (I hadn't realized just how much I had forgotten, damn), and I'm now thinking about what possibilities could make Simon be rescued by the C.O.I., since the movie makes very clear that the hire ups don't give a fuck about him, so much so that Ava has to make her own rules in order to get him, even after finding out about the black box in SM-8.
Anyway, I have three ideas.
A: after getting the black box, Simon goes to the accorded meeting spot, where Ava uses her own sub to pull both of them up (look, I don't know how she was gonna get him in the movie, so I'm making my own rules rn). Plot twist: while they're escaping, each in their own sub, the blood gets a bit sassy and decides to get inside Simon's sub just like in the movie. By the time both humans are pulled to the surface, they find Simon mutated.
B: the fight between Simon and the eel happens before Ava gets to the meeting spot, and the eel lets Simon go before either of them die*. By the time Ava finally gets to him, Simon is already mutated.
C: the change of plans from Ava's part after Simon gets the black box happens, but the eel decides to attack Simon instead of Ava first. Ava is able to hear the whole fight from her sub, and by the time the eel leaves (see *), she can hear screams from Simon's sub that are definitely not human, so she gets the hire ups to let her get him in order to see what happened and how exactly he's alive.
*To be discussed in the fanfic
PS: if you have any other idea, please do let me know!
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Bricktober 2026 is officially a little over 2 months away!
For this year, I want to hear YOUR suggestions and ideas for the prompt list! I’ve created them myself for the last few years (with help from a handful of people) but this year i’ve decided I want to have more ideas from the fandom and what people want to see included on the list!
So, on the link provided, please submit at least two prompts that you would like to see on this years list! You can submit as many responses as you like and up to 5 prompts per response until the middle of September. After this time I will close the form and decide which prompts will be included and the official list will release in the final week of September.
Bricktober is a les mis themed version of Inktober (An art based event that takes place through the month of October). There will be 31 prom
If you have any questions feel free to leave it in the form above OR you can send me a dm/ask/comment on this blog and I will respond as quickly as possible.
That’s it! Thank you so much, i’m excited to host another year of Bricktober and see all the amazing creations people have for this year!
CW: mentions of mutations, experimentation on people, and torture
Thinking about the possibilities of having Simon (and Ava) survive Iron Lung, I just realized that this could mean so much more suffering for our dear boy.
Imagine Simon is finally rescued by the C.O.I after the eel attack, maybe because the black box was lost and there wasn't any reason to keep Simon in the blood ocean but there were plenty of reasons to get the sub back.
And Simon is oh so fucking happy, because he will live and at this point he doesn't care about prison, he just wants to get away from this place as quickly as possible and forget this whole thing even happened in the first place.
Tough luck.
When the C.O.I. people open the sub, they don't find the man they sent down, but a mixture of what used to be a human and what is most certainly a monster.
They want to know what it is.
So, again, against Simon's pleas and fighting to get their hands off of him, they send him to their best scientists to know what happened to him, and how they can use it to their advantage. Why didn't the radiation hurt him? How did he mutate so fast? Are the mutations malignant or safe for him? Are they safe for the rest? Will he keep mutating or will he stay like this? Can he go back to how he was? What does he need to keep living like this, even if barely?
Countless experiments. Countless days of torture.
Ava is also there. She knows about all of this. She can't do anything about it, no matter how bad she feels for the convict that doesn't have the strength in himself to cry anymore.
Anyway, I might write something with this. And if any of you know a fic like this, please let me know!
CW: mentions of mutations, experimentation on people, and torture
Thinking about the possibilities of having Simon (and Ava) survive Iron Lung, I just realized that this could mean so much more suffering for our dear boy.
Imagine Simon is finally rescued by the C.O.I after the eel attack, maybe because the black box was lost and there wasn't any reason to keep Simon in the blood ocean but there were plenty of reasons to get the sub back.
And Simon is oh so fucking happy, because he will live and at this point he doesn't care about prison, he just wants to get away from this place as quickly as possible and forget this whole thing even happened in the first place.
Tough luck.
When the C.O.I. people open the sub, they don't find the man they sent down, but a mixture of what used to be a human and what is most certainly a monster.
They want to know what it is.
So, again, against Simon's pleas and fighting to get their hands off of him, they send him to their best scientists to know what happened to him, and how they can use it to their advantage. Why didn't the radiation hurt him? How did he mutate so fast? Are the mutations malignant or safe for him? Are they safe for the rest? Will he keep mutating or will he stay like this? Can he go back to how he was? What does he need to keep living like this, even if barely?
Countless experiments. Countless days of torture.
Ava is also there. She knows about all of this. She can't do anything about it, no matter how bad she feels for the convict that doesn't have the strength in himself to cry anymore.
Anyway, I might write something with this. And if any of you know a fic like this, please let me know!
I've found myself in quite the fanfic predicament, because, on the one hand, I really want to make this one bloodymary fanfic that would have Simon's POV and a lot of flashbacks/references to his past, which I would obviously make up since the movie only gives us the more broad information. However, I don't know if people would understand or want to read about such a headcanon-y past without really getting into it, which brings me to the next subject: I also want to write a whole other fanfic with the life of Simon up to the moment of the movie, because it really is very interesting to me.
Should I first write the bloodymary fanfic, because it's the one I want to write the most at this moment, or the Iron Lung one to really show Simon's life?
Finding myself thinking about Bloodymary again, I've realized that, amongst all the AUs of this ship, I've never seen a post talking about how it would be to have Grace in Simon's prison.
Once more, I beg you walk with me here.
Imagine Grace goes to space, as always, but for some ✨bullshit✨ he enters another fucking reality/timeline/IDK, which is the one of Iron Lung. Plot twist: the C.O.I. finds the Hail Mary and believes Grace to be a criminal that stole a ship; Grace doesn't know what the hell is happening so he's unable to defend himself and he's sent to prison.
There, however, we meet Simon, and although their first meeting isn't great, they end up finding in each other the only source of light and hope left in a place that was specifically created to take everything away from them.
Honestly, I'm not sure how this story could end. Maybe they escape together and find the Hail Mary. Maybe one of them dies and the other has to live alone. Maybe both of them die because that place wasn't made for people like them.
Cool concept. Gotta think more about it.
EDIT: I just remembered Grace has amnesia when he wakes up, and that just makes this whole thing even better. Imagine you're some guy who for some reason knows science, and then some cops from an organization you've never heard of in your life come to your space ship, which by the way you don't know how you got inside of, and tell you you fucking stole it, and you're like "I did????" because you can't really be sure.
Also, imagine neither Simon nor Grace know the other's crime for a long time, one became he feels horrible about it, and the other because he doesn't fucking remember what the hell he did.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
I see (and adore) your "when waking up, Simon believes Grace to be an angel and tries to be as pliant as possible" and your "when waking up, Simon immediately tries to attack Grace out of fear," and I raise you to "when waking up, Simon believes Grace to be an angel and that's why he's violent/untrusting towards him."
Walk with me here.
If I recall correctly (which I may not; I've only seen Iron Lung once, months ago), one could have the theory that the god Simon meets in his movie is an ignorant but "benevolent" one that tried to take a bit of humanity to itself, just as a human may take an exotic pet, and that's what caused the Quiet Rapture, and why the god wants Simon to join the blood.
Therefore, what if at the end of the movie the god felt bad about Simon's death and decided to bring him to a newer, calmer reality. Cue Erid, where Grace resides.
Before sending him there, the god talks a bit to Simon, you know, all weird and shit, and so when the man wakes up to a kind-enough guy, he believes the guy in question is an angel sent by the god, and so Simon hates him immediately. Cue Simon being like "I KNOW WHAT YOU ARE. FUCK OFF" and Grace, very anxious and weirded out, being like "uhh??".
I see (and adore) your "when waking up, Simon believes Grace to be an angel and tries to be as pliant as possible" and your "when waking up, Simon immediately tries to attack Grace out of fear," and I raise you to "when waking up, Simon believes Grace to be an angel and that's why he's violent/untrusting towards him."
Walk with me here.
If I recall correctly (which I may not; I've only seen Iron Lung once, months ago), one could have the theory that the god Simon meets in his movie is an ignorant but "benevolent" one that tried to take a bit of humanity to itself, just as a human may take an exotic pet, and that's what caused the Quiet Rapture, and why the god wants Simon to join the blood.
Therefore, what if at the end of the movie the god felt bad about Simon's death and decided to bring him to a newer, calmer reality. Cue Erid, where Grace resides.
Before sending him there, the god talks a bit to Simon, you know, all weird and shit, and so when the man wakes up to a kind-enough guy, he believes the guy in question is an angel sent by the god, and so Simon hates him immediately. Cue Simon being like "I KNOW WHAT YOU ARE. FUCK OFF" and Grace, very anxious and weirded out, being like "uhh??".
Eden has someone they need dealt with? Convince the violent kid, he's good at it.
COI has a prisoner they need gone without the responsibility of getting rid of valuable manpower? Get the butcher, he's going to solitary anyway.
Need someone to blame for filament? The butcher has a kill count, blame him and run.
"Get him angry and it will be dealt with, no problem."
Trained by a mother he trusts, so it must be the right choice. Isn't it? To kill? The tree is salvation. It's got to be more peaceful than being alive. He's doing them a favour. That's what they said. They wouldn't lie, would they?
"Boy, I sure hope I don't suddenly develop a type of favourite character in media :)," I say, as through the corner of my eye I see the glimpse of two long-haired brunette dudes who are missing an arm and were manipulated/brainwashed at some point to follow rules to the letter, being then dehumanized by the same people who used them for "the greater good" without a care for their well-being or even death, all of this resulting in said dudes believing to be bad people, even when they do all they can in their situation to be good, even helping the same society who hates them for something that was never truly in their control. They just want to live.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
it's very frustrating seeing otherwise well-structured posts about media literacy and critical thinking bookended with statements about "nowadays", "nobody has literacy anymore", "this generation is so anti-intellectual", and the like, unquestioningly falling into better past fallacies.
Do we really think the 80s and its Satanic Panic were better at critical thinking? what about the 40s? the Victorian era? societies have always had problems with critical thinking and literacy, because most societies have dealt with propaganda, corrupt leadership, difficulty providing education (due to poverty or discrimination or other issues), and/or people who resist critical thinking (due to privilege or circumstance or what have you). we can criticize media trends without pulling a "well back in the GOOD OLD DAYS" about it.
