Howdy!! Call me Z!!
Came back to this hellhole after a year, ngl I missed it
Multifandom, I sometimes draw and write and be silly
Plural, there's 400+ motherfuckers in my brain please help me-
Ace/Agender/AuDHD and I am going to make it EVERYONE's problem
Don't. don't ask where I've been okay I'm in obscure fandom hell
Tfw you wake up from a long ass nap and forget you weren't home alone
This is a scene from chapter 3 of my risk of rain fic btw. This. poor dumbass human. is not doing super well and didn't realize for a second that they did in fact let Mithrix on the Contact Light.
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a common experience in the group we're linked to is the energetic back-and-forth of a teleporting skeleton creature. he is two years old and so, so full of love. and so full of chaos. he's been adopted by every parent and has become a sibling to everybody else.
Thank-you to all of my new Internet stranger friends for being so gracious about having my post shoved onto your dashboards. I loved reading all of your kind tags and comments! Both Martin and Bosco have been gone for several years now but for 24 hours, they felt very present in my life. I greatly appreciate this gift. ❤️
Thank you to everyone who commented in their tags or messaged me. Indeed, today is “Martin and Bosco Day”. I originally whimsically blazed this photo on 13 July 2022. I never expected Martin and Bosco to travel so far and make so many new friends. The experience has been such a gift for me.
the reason usa birth rates going down is because we have a whole generation of women whose sexual awakening was Sans undertale and none of the men want to wear jorts and drink ketchup and go Er er er
Anyway this disability pride month I would like to shoutout disabled folks whose creativity has suffered because of their condition. I’m talking people with hand tremors and pain that stop them from drawing, knitting, and playing instruments. People whose thinking has become so disorganized that nothing they write makes sense to other people. People with chronic pain who can no longer dance. People so over medicated in a fruitless attempt to maintain stability that the wells of their imagination have run dry.
I see you and I love you. You are more than your creative output. You are not a shell of what you used to be. You are a whole, complete person, regardless of what your creativity has been, is now, or will be in the future.
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It was a Tuesday in 1981 when the San Francisco police kicked in the door.
Inside the small apartment, they expected to find a hardened criminal. They expected a drug kingpin. They expected resistance.
Instead, they found a 57-year-old waitress in an apron.
The air in the apartment smelled sweet, thick with chocolate and something earthier. On the kitchen counter, cooling on wire racks, were 54 dozen brownies.
The police officers began bagging the evidence. They confiscated nearly 18 pounds of marijuana. They handcuffed the woman, whose name was Mary Jane Rathbun.
She didn't look scared. She didn't look guilty.
She looked at the officers, smoothed her apron, and reportedly said, "I thought you guys were coming."
She was booked into the county jail. The headlines wrote themselves. A grandmother running a pot bakery. It seemed like a joke to the legal system, a quirky local news story about an older woman behaving badly.
But Mary wasn't baking for fun. And she certainly wasn't baking for profit.
To understand why Mary risked her freedom, you have to understand the silence of the early 1980s.
San Francisco was gripping the edge of a cliff. A mysterious illness was sweeping through the city, specifically targeting young men. Later, the world would know it as AIDS. But in those early days, it was just a death sentence that no one wanted to talk about.
Families were disowning their sons. Landlords were evicting tenants. Even doctors and nurses, paralyzed by the fear of the unknown, would sometimes leave food trays outside hospital doors, afraid to breathe the same air as their patients.
Men in their twenties were wasting away in sterile rooms, dying alone.
Mary knew what it felt like to lose a child.
Years earlier, in 1974, her daughter Peggy had been killed in a car accident. Peggy was only 22. The loss had hollowed Mary out, leaving a space in her heart that nothing seemed to fill.
When the judge sentenced Mary for that first arrest, he ordered her to perform 500 hours of community service. He likely thought the manual labor would teach her a lesson.
He sent her to the Shanti Project and San Francisco General Hospital.
It was a mistake that would change American history.
Mary walked into the AIDS wards when others were walking out. She didn't wear a hazmat suit. She didn't hold her breath. She saw rows of young men who looked like ghosts—skeletal, in pain, and terrified.
She saw "her kids."
She began mopping floors and changing sheets. But soon, she noticed something the doctors were missing. The harsh medications the men were taking caused violent nausea. They couldn't eat. They were starving to death as much as they were dying of the virus.
Mary knew a secret about the brownies she had been arrested for.
She knew they settled the stomach. She knew they brought back the appetite. She knew they could help a dying man sleep for a few hours without pain.
So, she made a choice.
She went back to her kitchen. She fired up the oven. She started mixing batter, not to sell, but to save.
Every morning, Mary would bake. She lived on a fixed income, surviving on Social Security checks that barely covered her rent. Yet, she spent nearly every dime on flour, sugar, and butter.
The most expensive ingredient—the cannabis—was donated. Local growers heard what she was doing. They began dropping off pounds of product at her door, free of charge.
She packed the brownies into a basket and took the bus to the hospital.
She walked room to room. She sat by the bedsides of men who hadn't seen their own mothers in years. She held their hands. She told them jokes. And she gave them brownies.
"Here, baby," she would say. "Eat this. It'll help."
And it did.
Nurses watched in amazement as patients who hadn't eaten in days began to ask for food. The constant retching stopped. The mood on the ward shifted from despair to a quiet sort of comfort.
Mary Jane Rathbun became "Brownie Mary."
For over a decade, this was her life. She baked roughly 600 brownies a day. She went through 50 pounds of flour a week. She became the mother to a generation of lost boys.
She washed their pajamas. She attended their funerals. She held them while they took their last breaths.
She did this while the government declared a "War on Drugs."
By the early 1990s, the political climate was hostile. Politicians were competing to see who could be "tougher" on crime. Mandatory minimum sentences were locking people away for decades.
In 1992, at the age of 70, Mary was arrested again.
This time, the stakes were lethal. She was charged with felonies. The district attorney looked at her rap sheet and saw a repeat offender. He threatened to send her to prison.
One prosecutor famously whispered to a colleague that he was going to "kick this old lady's ass."
They underestimated who they were dealing with.
They thought they were prosecuting a drug dealer. In reality, they were attacking the most beloved woman in San Francisco.
When the news broke that Brownie Mary was facing prison, the city erupted.
It wasn't just the activists who were angry. It was the doctors. It was the nurses. It was the parents who had watched Mary care for their dying sons when the government did nothing.
Mary turned her trial into a pulpit.
She arrived at court not as a defendant, but as a grandmother standing her ground. The media swarmed her. Reporters asked if she was afraid of prison. They asked if she would stop baking if they let her go.
Mary looked into the cameras, her voice gravelly and firm.
"If the narcs think I'm gonna stop baking brownies for my kids with AIDS," she said, "they can go fuck themselves in Macy's window."
The quote ran in newspapers across the country.
The court didn't stand a chance.
Testimony poured in. Doctors from San Francisco General Hospital wrote letters explaining that Mary’s brownies were medically necessary. Patients testified that she was an angel of mercy.
The charges were dropped.
Mary walked out of the courthouse a free woman. But she didn't go home to rest. She realized that her personal victory wasn't enough. As long as the law was broken, her "kids" were still in danger.
She needed to change the law.
August 25 was declared "Brownie Mary Day" by the San Francisco Board of Supervisors. It was a nice gesture, but Mary wanted policy, not plaques.
She teamed up with fellow activist Dennis Peron. Together, they opened the San Francisco Cannabis Buyers Club—the first public dispensary in the United States. It was a safe haven where patients could get their medicine without fear of arrest.
But Mary wanted more. She wanted the state of California to acknowledge the truth.
She campaigned for Proposition 215. She traveled the state, despite her failing health. She spoke in her simple, direct way. She didn't talk about liberties or economics. She talked about compassion. She talked about pain.
She forced voters to look at the issue through the eyes of a grandmother.
In 1996, Proposition 215 passed. California became the first state to legalize medical marijuana.
It was a domino effect. Because one woman refused to let her "kids" suffer, the public perception of cannabis shifted. The Economist later noted that Mary was single-handedly responsible for changing the national conversation.
She never got rich.
She had always joked that if legalization ever happened, she would sell her recipe to Betty Crocker and buy a Victorian house for her patients to live in.
She never sold the recipe. She never bought the house.
Mary Jane Rathbun died in 1999, at the age of 77. She passed away in a nursing home, poor in money but rich in legacy.
Today, over 30 states have legalized medical marijuana. Millions of people use it to manage pain, seizures, and nausea.
Most of them have never heard of Mary.
They don't know that their legal prescription exists because a waitress in San Francisco decided that the law was wrong and her heart was right.
They don't know about the 600 brownies a day.
They don't know about the thousands of hospital visits.
Mary didn't set out to be a hero. She told the Chicago Tribune years before she died, "I didn't go into this thinking I would be a hero."
She was just a mother who had lost her daughter, trying to help boys who had lost their way.
She proved that authority doesn't always equal morality.
She proved that sometimes, the most patriotic thing a citizen can do is break a bad law.
Every August, a few people in San Francisco still celebrate Brownie Mary Day. But her true memorial isn't a date on a calendar.
It is found in every oncology ward where a patient finds relief. It is found in every dispensary door that opens without fear.
It is found in the simple, quiet courage of anyone who sees suffering and refuses to look away.
Mary taught us that you don't need a law degree to change the world. You don't need millions of dollars. You don't need political office.
Sometimes, all you need is a mixing bowl, an oven, and enough love to tell the world to get out of your way.
Sources: New York Times Obituary (1999), "Brownie Mary" Rathbun. San Francisco Chronicle Archives (1992, 1996). History.com, "The History of Medical Marijuana." Weird Everything, FB december 12, 2025
I'd be only too happy to do that. I was suspicious to start, too. It seemed a bit on the nose to have the weed brownie grandma named "Mary Jane," but also, that's a very common combination in a certain place and time, so I thought it was worth the extra effort.
What I did was find sources that made the claim (in this case, that a woman named Mary Jane was a medicinal marijuana activist in California, USA in the 1980s and 90s.) I checked the dates to get some certainty those sources aren't AI slop, then checked that the sources are generally reliable.
Then I followed useful details about the place and time, and other people involved, to explore it more fully.
The first thing I did was search for "Brownie Mary" and see if that turned anything up at all. It turned up a LOT of results. Predictably, some of them were recipes, but not all of them.
Next up, I checked sources and dates. Wikipedia can be dodgy for academic use, but their policy on LLM-generated input is very clear: they don't want slop. I started by reading that page and then went on to read others.
The Atlas Obscura article is from 2018. I found another one from SFWeekly from 2017.
Both of those are decent sources - Atlas Obscura gets a High factual reporting rate from MediaBiasFactCheck, and while MBFC doesn't have a rating for SFWeekly, the verbiage in that article is very close to what GastroObscura has. (Also to what the post itself has, right down to the choice of pull quote.)
Now, we can stop there and feel pretty confident that articles published before the wide availability of LLMs are not, in fact, LLM generated.
...or we can go deeper, and run this all the way back to source.
I spotted references to a Chicago Tribune imterview of Mary Jane Rathbun, published in 1993.
My search string of "Chicago Tribune 1993 Mary Jane Rathbun" hit it in the top 3 results. That article includes some fun new details: she wore a cannabis leaf shaped pendant to her trial!
She also objected to being portrayed as a cuddly grandma up against The Man, so I must retract my flippant tags, above.
The evidence now strongly points to Brownie Mary being a real woman who really went to court for giving AIDS patients weed brownies. But can we get closer? I've now seen several mentions of a 1980 attempt at convicting her too.
The articles have mentioned Sonoma County and a nonprofit called the Shanti Project, so let's hook onto that and see what we get.
Searching for "Mary Jane Rathbun Sonoma County 1980" gets me an article from a law firm; that mentions the prosecuting attorney by name, and points to a book: Lust for Justice: The Radical Life & Law of J. Tony Serra, by Paulette Frankl. It even has an excerpt!
We can run the book down too, just for fun (now we have a primary source.) My favorite used book site has a copy for $1. Amazon gives a view of the back cover, too:
...wow. I should see if my library has that!
The excerpt on the site has a mention of a candelight vigil held for her death in 1999. It took some hunting past things I'd already read and a bunch of shops giving written tributes, but I found a news report about that, too.
There's a lot of information out there, and it's worth digging into. Otherwise it's altogether too easy to think something real and worth knowing is just another bit of slop.
Everybody look at my succulence. I don't know what breed these lil guys are, my IDing isn't up to snuff on succulents and I wasnt there when they were brought home
But I am happy they're growing so well :] Look at their lil flowers
I watched Iron Lung again tonight in the comfort of my home and my dog must've been watching with me cause as soon as bad things started happening to Simon she started crying. In the scene where he ultimately dies she could not stop crying at me. I am now watching him play the Henry Stickman collection so she can see that A.) He's not dead and B.) He's not in distress. Occasionally he'll whine or hum in discontent about something and my dog will look at me and whine to try and get me to fix whatever is distressing Markiplier.
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If you hate narcissistic people you need to unfollow me. Only people who love and support narcissists are allowed on this blog.
For anyone who's still around and wants to be educated, "narcissism" is a personality disorder, which is a fancy way of saying that it's a way of existing, which has real disadvantages, but which has also been effectively criminalized by the medicarceral system. If you hate narcissists, you are complicit in the ongoing social processes which deny them bodily autonomy, human connection, and basic dignity.
Narcissism/being narcissistic/having NPD is not a moral failing. Treating narcissistic people like shit is.
If you don't have NPD it's actually more important you reblog this. It's been really great seeing a lot of people with NPD react to this really positively, but I need everyone who does not have NPD to enforce this for their own blogs too.
-NPD has one of the highest suicide rates of any mood related disorder; slightly less impulsivity based attempts than BPD, but NPD sufferers are more likely to succeed in their attempts.
-NPD, like most cluster B disorders, is generally traumagenic, meaning it usually develops as a means of coping with childhood trauma, abuse, or neglect.
-"Narc abuse" is pop psychology with no real basis in reality. NPD sufferers are infinitely more likely to be abused than become abusers, and are typically more prone to self destructive than anything.
-If your parents sucked shit, it's because they *chose* to treat you like shit, not because they had a magic version of NPD that makes them a Bad Person. sorry you had to find out this way.
-Random people online with NPD aren't your parents and it's really creepy to project your trauma onto them.
treat the NPD sufferers in your life like people or die trying.
I always forget there are maga people on tumblr, this doesn’t feel like a website you’d find them on, so to keep them away:
Reblog if your blog is a maga free zone because if it wasn’t clear enough fuck ice, fuck maga, fuck Trump, Fuck Rowling, and fuck all the other bigots I missed
a lot of "signs of plurality" lists focus heavily on introjection and alter communication, two things that we have very little of. we wanted to lay out some experiences we had prior to syscovery with a focus on memory loss, identity confusion, dissociation, and unconscious masking since these are what we experience most. we hope this helps someone.
this is not an exhaustive list and identifying with it does not guarantee anything nor does not identifying with it mean you are not plural. we are one system and these are our experiences, which have heavy overlap with our other comorbid conditions. you know yourself/ves best, use your own judgement when reading.
feeling as though i was never a child even when my body was, that i was always an "old soul"
feeling as though i never stopped being a child, that my body aged without me
feeling as though it is my first day on earth and nothing has existed before the present moment
experiencing all of the above so strongly at different times that i cannot imagine feeling any other way
"i don't hear voices, i just have multiple overlapping trains of thought all reacting to and arguing with one another. probably the ADHD"
feeling upset as a kid that my imaginary friends didn't act the way i wanted, or that they didn't like me
remembering my childhood in third person, as though watching a movie of my own life
feeling as though i am having lines fed to me when talking about myself
remembering times that i was upset, but with the inciting incident cut out. being unable to understand why i felt the way i did
feeling as though the "real" me died a long time ago and i took their place
being talented at acting and lying. feeling like i have spent my whole life acting, as though "i" am a character i put on for other people
being afraid of voicing opinions because i know they might change suddenly, being upset when someone tells me a supposed opinion of mine that i no longer remember or agree with
knowing when i am supposed to have an opinion on something but not knowing what it is, having to make up my own opinions based on what i think "i" would most likely say
"what did you do today" i don't know "how do you feel" i don't know "what do you want" i don't know "did you have work yesterday" ...probably?
feeling like my body sometimes says things that my mind does not remember/agree with, or that i'm surprised to hear the things i'm saying
reflexively lying about things i didn't do because i assume i must have forgotten about it
being freaked out when someone touches my stuff without telling me, because i assume i moved it and forgot entirely. being afraid of how quick i can forget things
having excellent memory as a young child and terrible memory as an adult
"face blindness" where i can tell that people look familiar but feel like i have never met them, being unable to put faces in context
feeling like i have never actually met my own friends and loved ones
"i don't have amnesia, i can objectively tell you what happened. even when i do forget, i can usually put it together through context clues."
"it can't have been that bad, i barely remember it and don't feel upset when i think about it"
"i can't have DID, nothing bad has ever happened to me"
no name ever feels right longterm
creating alt accounts due to a desire to "pretend" to be someone else
lacking a solid sense of identity, feeling like a hollow husk of a person who occasionally experiences moments of clarity and wants to be treated as someone other than the "me" i present to the world
"i've never had a switch, i just have an inconsistent sense of identity"
"i've never had a switch, i have always felt exactly the way i do right now"
feeling like my mind is being pulled in several different directions, especially when i'm upset. being unable to act because different "parts" of me want different things
feeling jealousy when seeing other systems be open about their plurality. feeling like it's something you're not supposed to talk about
feeling guilty for being happiest when i'm "faking" plurality
feeling drawn to stories about possession, secret identities, or doppelgangers
all of the above being such routine experiences that i never even thought to question them
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