#language rant

[afriendlylittlehobbit]

I used to be such a grammar bitch. And then I grew up.

Is it “grammatically correct” to start a sentence with “and”? Technically, no. Does it make the pacing of my story better? Absolutely. Not to mention all of the racist, classist, and ableist implications that enforcing Standard English entails.

Start your sentences with a conjunction. I don’t care. We made language up. We continue to make language up.

[the-elusive-soleil]

Okay, all I wanted to know what which Quenya words originally had þ instead of s, and instead I stumbled on this thing, and now I need to make it other people's problem.

So I knew a large part of why Feanor was so...twitchy about the þ vs. s thing was because of his mom's name, Miriel þerinde. What I did not know was that, while the verb þer- means "to sew", which means that "þerinde" is "seamstress", there was also a verb ser- before the þer- verb changed.

The original ser- means "to rest". So after the pronunciation shift, "Serinde" could mean either "seamstress" or "she who rests".

Considering that Feanor lost his mom because giving birth to him took so much out of her that she essentially had to permanently rest...I can see why this would be such an incredibly sore point with him.

It's not just about "hey, quit mispronouncing my mom's name", it's about "quit calling my mom 'the one who couldn't hack it and had to go away forever' and use the name that describes her as a craftswoman, you complete troglodytes".

[applecidersstuff]

One of the most annoying things for me, when it comes to reading books in Russian that were translated, is how translators for some reason translate names when they don’t need to.

It make a sense if they translate names like - Artemis, Hades, Isis, Owlbert or King, because all those names are puns or have a meaning, so without translation it would be lost. So in russian Artemis, Hades and Isis become Artemida, Aid and Isida (russian translations of the names of said gods) and Owlbert and King become Fillip (male owl in russian will be ‘fillin’) and the russian word for King.

But sometimes they translate Names for no reason, or worse they translate names with a hidden meaning and lose it. For example- Luke Castellan from pjo in the translation became Luca(pronounced like the movie Luca) despite Luke Skywalker never having an issue with being lost in translation. Kattniss Everdeen became Kittniss and Peeta changed his name to Pit, both names can be expressed using russian alphabet but they don’t.

[seven-symbols]

I doubt anybody will know what I mean when I say this but Afrikaans is so fucking coolllll

it sounds cooler than Dutch evenn, all the long vowels become diphthongs

/eː/ is fucking /ɪə/ <333

like hhh I love that

and Afrikaans ui sounds so much better than Dutch ui tbh, the Afrikaans way is how it should be

also

baie >>>>> heel/zeer

my god dit is so coooll <333

[dragoninahumancostume]

It's so stupid that I keep getting "According to AI" news

Shut the fuck up. I just got a "It's not Spain: what country speaks the best Spanish, according to AI" and at first I'm like "Eh, I guess it's kinda interesting?" but then I read the AI part. Why are we asking a robot which dialect is the best. Give me an actual scientific study and polls. What's even the criteria for the best one, you might ask? Which one is the most neutral and with the best grammar. They decided it was Colombia. Like, no?? It's like asking which one is the hardest language. It depends on what your first language is. Like, Colombian isn't really that neutral??? I don't understand them when they speak, which you'd think I would be able to do if that was the clearer one. And it's not like I care which one is the best, as long as it's not Spain I'm fine with it. I just hate that we're asking AI about this like its response matters in an objective way.

[demonoinakemono]

casually waiting for someone to

notice my translations for the inevitable au

@cl0verfall if/when you read it keep in mind i translated it in case you dont wanna go back and forth between google translate, theres only one i ask you do go to gtranslate for

its sometimes hard for me to translate stuff because i like,, just understand? i cant.. explain it i just know what theyre saying, i dont know how to tell you what it means when i just.. know?

like imagine trying to explain walking to someone,, you just know how to walk you dont (usually) know how it works, thats how it feels to translate/define french words sometimes

[f3mtguy]

"transandrophobia isn't real waaah waahhh trans men don't experience any unique forms of discrimination wahh wahhhhg."

this is just a handful of hundreds of comments of bitchass cis gay men talking about a video of a cis gay man (that they do not know and have never met before btw) sleeping with a trans man.

being a trans gay man is the literal trenches. you do not know how many fucking times i have wanted to kill myself because of how dehumanizing i get treated within my own community for literally just existing. NO ONE is telling these men they need to be attracted to trans men but they all feel comfortable spouting their disgusting abuse. this is the dehumanisation and vile hatred you get as a trans gay man for simply EXISTING.

you don't need to talk to these men or even look in their general direction for them to say this kind of shit unprompted about our bodies and our existence. it's sickening.

the whole 'conversion therapy' argument is fucking vile too because conversion therapy is a disgusting malpractice performed against someone's will. a man willingly, happily, and excitingly sleeping with another man who happens to have a vagina is not and will never be conversion therapy.

[siryyeet]

ÖHRWURM??? KÖNNT IHR EINMAL IN EUREM LEBEN BITTE UMLAUTE RICHTIG BENUTZEN???

[andsewingishalfthebattle]

Novice sewing pattern: Cut out shapes. Line up the little triangles on the edges. Stitch edges together. We've also included step-by-step assembly instructions with illustrations.

Novice knitting pattern: yOU MUSt uNDerstANd thE SECret cOdE CO67 (73, 87, 93) BO44 (63, 76, 90) 28 (32, 34) slip first pw repeat 7x K to end *kl (pl) 42 * until 13" (13, 13, 15) join new at 30 pl for 17 rows ssk 27 k2tog mattress lengthwise BO and sacrifice a goat to the knitting gods. WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU WANT "INSTRUCTIONS," I JUST GAVE THEM TO YOU

[nevergraciee]

the local vigilantes all know clint is deaf, so when they’re talking to him, they pull their mask up to show their mouths. even when he has his hearing aids in, they still accommodate him so he doesn’t have to rely on the aids.

matt: so, i’ll—

clint, eyes squinted and trying to decipher what’s being said with only one hearing aid’s battery charged: uh-huh uh-huh

matt as he turns to face clint: you could’ve just said something. i’m blind, you know

clint responding after a minute: i don’t think i heard you right

peter: AND THEN I ASKED HIM IF HE COULD CATCH A CAR BUT OBVIOUSLY HE COULDNT

clint, nodding absently:

peter: why havent you responded to me :(

clint, nodding absently:

peter: … you have your hearing aids on. i know they’re charged

clint, nodding absently:

peter: oh my fucking god he turned them off.

(peter pulls his mask up)

clint: goddamnit.

(clint closes his eyes)

peter: i dont talk THAT much damn bro

[running-with-kn1ves]

⋆˙⟡Webbed Infatuation⟡˙⋆

A/N: My submission for monstermag summer '25! I encourage yall to submit soon!

Summary: On a summer abroad trip in Italy, you find yourself getting flustered by your happy-go-lucky program guide. Little do you know, he's hiding more than just his feelings for you.

Warnings: Mercreature transformation, scratching, needy merboy

Your eyes melted at the sight of the computer screen before you. Again, you had stayed up far too late scrolling in the dark. Pinterest, TripAdvisor, pricey travel agents-- your retinas aching while looking at pictures of avant-garde French cities and Greek coastal villages.

It was all so enchanting, so foreign from the urban, dead-end life you were beginning to loathe. You had fantasized so often of an escape that it was beginning to grow into an obsessive form in every area of your life. That night you dreamt of opaline cathedrals and tasting hand-crafted delicacies, a faux afternoon of pure self-indulgent bliss. 

It was only a matter of time until you caved, taking the leap and signing up for a summer exchange program with a private university in Italy. Maybe it was a cliché destination to choose as a university student with no future financial plan and far too little self preservation; but nothing was as enticing as the crystal blue skies of Milan and a suave Italian accent that whipped you into butter. 

When you finally landed in the sweltering, overcrowded airport, you were quick to latch on to other students and your program’s native guides. Amongst bumbling foreigners like yourself were the sunny, pearly-toothed Italians who had the boldness and vocal cords necessary to lead you through seas of tourists. Before you could find someone to clutch at for safety in the winding streets, someone had already latched onto you. 

He was a peculiarly handsy guide who called himself Amadeo, kissing you on both cheeks and pulling you with an arm around your shoulder. He was rumored to be studying a masters in architecture at your host university, not that it mattered. He rarely answered any questions about the school or its courses, instead opting to finger feed you sweets and steal your wrist to lay an entwined bracelet upon it. 

If he wasn't leading you to new horizons he was trailing close behind, berating locals who had no problem ripping you off, swindling shop owners who seemed to melt after he said something along the lines of “l'amore della mi vita,”  with a quick kiss pressed to your cheek. If you didn't know any better, you might've thought he was flirting with you. But the not-so-subtle sensuality of Italians that you'd seen in dozens of young, loitering couples made you doubt any genuine romantic affection. For heaven's sake he kissed everyone on the cheek, often bumping shoulders with other students; it was in his nature to be a flirt. Why would his hand snaking to interlock with yours mean anything?

It all seemed so cut and dry, even if you laid at night pressing your fingertips to where his soft lips once kissed, fumbling with the keychain of an Italian flag he bought you. So, you ignored the beating of your heart, letting him string you along another field trip for the weekend, even with your gut telling you to turn around and crawl back home. 

 A small town of limestone resting on the breast of the ocean was your main source of exploration this time, Amadeo’s soft, tanned hands pulling at yours from rocky beaches to wineries. He was noticeably more eager in the past evening than normal for him, capricious in his decisions and erratic tugs at you. There was a nervous look as he watched the sea, almost as a child would appear when gazing from afar at the deep end of a pool. 

Amadeo arranged for your group to stay in a local inn, the inside just as dingy as you'd witnessed from the outside. But your guide promised it'd be worth it, that it had the best view of a shiny canal opening to the Adriatic, propped against the west of the inn’s cracking bricks. Like a fool, you yielded to trust him, smitten by his smile and silly auburn glasses that made his ocean eyes sparkle. 

While your fellow exchange students shared rooms with balconies adorned by woven flower baskets, you stayed on the tiny bottom floor with Amadeo, your low beds right next to a floor-to-ceiling open gap that was once a window, measly pale curtains protecting you from a ledge leading to the bottomless water. Even with bright shops sparkling from across the canal, the unlit areas of dark green sea were deep with lurking creatures, occasional blips flicking up to create torn ripples.

Amadeo had gone quiet once the lights were shut out, not a word released from him as the innkeepers and students went off to their rooms. The small town quieted besides for gentle laps of water against stone. A part of you wished you could ask him what was wrong, why he spent the entirety of dinner locked in your shared room watching the canal with a foreboding gaze, distancing himself.

 Even with your body exhausted and the thick clog of salt and sea up your nostrils, your heart fluttered at being in a place you once only saw in your dreams. The day’s long hours of walking in the summer sun with only acquacotta and gelato filling your stomach left you craving for sleep. Slowly, concern for Amadeo drifted into pleasant dreams of him, his blurring body curled away from you in a quivering hunch. 

Your sleep only lasted what seemed a few minutes, an abrupt sound causing you to stir. The open space between you and the canal was almost frightening, a silver moon bouncing off of old family photos laying the walls, dim picture frames and polaroids of the Amalfi coast. The only thing that familiarized you was Amadeo, watching over you. 

“...deo?” You muttered, your voice cracked and dry. The arid night left your throat parched. 

“Shh, cuore mio. Sleep.” He hushed, seemingly out of breath as beads of sweat trickled down his neck.  

Your legs were scrunched up, held still by him as he sat at the edge of your small twin-sized mattress, squeaky from a rusty bed frame. 

“What time’s it?” You mumbled, delirious and looking for your phone in a mess of faded bedsheets. 

Amadeo grabbed your forearm, gently brushing his fingers down it at a jagged pace. He held your limp wrist with a tender squeeze, trying to affirm and control it. 

“Just rest, my love. Ignore it.” 

His whine held a touch of needy desperation as you squirmed. With a free hand Amadeo rubbed at your knee, massaging it with a roughness that made it seem like he was ready to pry apart your leg. He was quick to make a trail from your outer thigh to beneath your pajama shorts, where the cotton’s end met your flesh. His hands were warm, almost sweaty in their attempts to caress your skin.

“What’s the matter, huh?” You try to fight sleep, knowing something must be wrong if he dared to come and harass you in the middle of the night. If it weren’t for the exhaustion of your endeavors only a few hours ago, you might’ve even been flustered at the way he touched you. “Can’t sleep?”

“Could say that,” He teases, huffing as he presses kisses to your knee. “Not without you, bellissima. Not here anymore.”

An array of small, devotion-like kisses fall from his pouty lips, decorating from the tops of your knees down to the middle of your thighs. 

Slowly the wetness of his tongue, like that of a slick eel, began to wake you up. A perspiring grope at your thigh made you flinch, your foot pressed at his abdomen as a warning. 

“Wasting your time, darling,” He smiles, still hunched against your right leg laying in his grasp. Your sleepy lips turned into a taught, worried frown, scanning over the bright moonlight that once shone sweetly on his opal-white, slightly crooked teeth, instead now illuminating needle-like razors. They almost seemed painful in his gums, thick as bone in his stretched mouth.

The horror reached your eyes before it could escape your parting lips, a webbed, sickly green-grey hand slipping over your mouth. 

“Shh, hush now,” He whispered, sibilant and harsh. “tu sei speciale, it's okay, you’re with me.”

A dark tongue left his mouth, a hint of purple running over his teeth that appeared sharp enough to pull the skin from your muscle. What had happened to him? Was this all part of some wicked dream induced by your fatigue?

“Ama..eo….p..ease,” Your voice was muffled beneath his wettening hand, his skin covered in a thin layer of moistness that seemed to transform him into something inhuman. Slits of skin carved in the sides of his throat, widening with each pant that left his mouth.

Amadeo’s body had slowly become gaunt and long, collarbones jutting out as his thin cotton shirt pooled around him. The soft green of his eyes transformed into a murky color that lightened as he let out a hiss of a laugh. Slowly, his damp lips came down to kiss your navel, putting the entirety of his newfound weight on the lower half of your body. 

“Divine… So divine all for me,” the hand covering your mouth scratched at your cheek in time with your jaw’s frightful flinch. Brittle nails drew a stinging pain as his hand flung away, the sight of blood shocking even Amadeo. 

His ease has disappeared as he brought the back of his webbed fingers to graze the four scratches, almost tearing up at the sight. If you had thought he was unpredictable before, his temperament had gotten a world of a lot worse.

“È colpa mia, no no,” He wiped the blood away, licking it from his knuckles before coming to clean the rest of your scratch. “I’m sorry, I promise, it will be fine.” 

He seemed to forget his knowledge of English, babbling in broken Italian and heaving as he grasped at your clothes, kissing up your stomach in repentance. 

“What’s wrong with you?” You ask, fear laden in your voice as the burn from your cut started to rise, slower than the blood had. “Amadeo please! Are-- are you sick?” 

You were no longer hazy with sleep now; something was very, very wrong here. Even the slapping waves of the once still canal thought so, pounding against the stone inn.

“This is what I am,” He grunted, digging beneath your shirt like a child throwing a tantrum, tightening it over his head. “It’s what I always do! But I can’t leave without you, even if you are hurt.” He mumbles, now raspy beneath your shirt as the slick of his skin and tears soak into your stomach. 

Was it right to push him away, as your mind had told you to do, or should you pull him close in a sympathetic embrace? He seemed untouchable in the sun, grabbing your chin and nuzzling your cheek each time you met for a new adventure, leading you by the hand to teach the rich history of seafaring towns and rustic cities. But this…. You didn’t know this distraught, monstrous man; maybe you never really knew him at all. 

“What….are you?” You look at his slippery feet, something akin to a vast fish’s tail grazing at his tailbone. His sharp hands dug into the flesh of your stomach, holding it against his cold face. “You’re not…”

“You hear of Colapesce legend? Il monstro delle acque nere, the sea snake?” Your guide unleashes his claws into your hips, like a cat preventing its prey from squirming. “Sirena Leucasia may be more famous for your Hollywood movies.”

“I have no idea what those words mean. Please, just let me take you to a hospital--”

“No!” He huffs, slinking off of you in a slippery fashion. Amadeo tries to pull you toward the edge of the bed by the wrist. “No doctors. Just… maybe I will show you.”

His accent grew thicker, the words almost garbled in his mouth as he hunched forward, beckoning you to come off the bed with him. Round glasses once pushed against his nose sat broken on the floor beside your slippers, the lenses cracked and wet. 

“Come, I promise you will be safe,” His weary smile was frightening, the poorly disguised deception hidden by a cold kiss to your knuckles. “Come, come.”

You stumble out of the creaking bed, following him more out of pity as he skitters towards the open ledge meant for sea gazing. The curtains were billowing roughly towards you, salty wind airing the room in a nauseating flutter. With small steps you observe his tail dragging against the ground. It appeared to grow heavier with each movement, walking becoming impossible for him as he practically crawled. 

“Follow, you see, vita mia.” He murmured, ushering you forward with a webbed hand. His fingers shook, growing bluer with each fingertip. 

“After this, we’ll go to the hospital, okay Amadeo?” You looked at him, weary of the gleam in his eyes. “Right?”

“Yes, yes,” He sputtered too quickly, pulling you onto the stone ledge of the canal. The once safe, emerald water had turned an impossible black. Only a few street lights and a passing boat made Amadeo’s sickly face visible. 

His smile was so wide, delusional in its giddiness as he held both of your hands in his. He stepped closer to the water, only a foot away as he didn’t dare to look back. 

You had followed to pityingly entertain him; perhaps a breath of fresh air would do some good for whatever illness he had concurred. But somewhere along the sight of his animalistic grin, the nail marks digging into your skin, it dawned that your naivety had gotten the best of you.

“Ama…” His hands found your elbows, digging viscous fingers into them to drag you into his chest. He had no need to take another step, your weight and the slip of your feet providing all the power necessary to fall splashless into the canal. 

A short shriek fell from your lips before you were submerged into warm, cloudy water. The tips of something slimy touched the bottom of your foot, causing you to thrash about in Amadeo's arms. 

You desperately opened your eyes, ignoring the sting behind your eyelids as bleak water blinded your vision. Amadeos’ body shone like a twinkling, scaly blue hue. What looked dulled and grey on land was reflecting the minimal light shining in the canal, his skin covered in thick, silvery sapphire scales, occasionally broken by the tan human skin he once wore. That evening his sweat was a sweet scent of summery orange blossom that you once shyly inhaled. Now, water overflowed in your nose and lungs, brined dirt coating the back of your throat as Amadeo clutched you in his arms. The stench of fish and seaweed became suffocating.

‘Cuoricino’ he mouthed, wiping at the scratches left on your cheek in an unfitting tenderness. His distress had become a gentle, benevolent smile, still haunted by the features of a wild creature. The intense gag of salted water down your throat had turned your broken screams soundless, shivering at the sensation of a slippery tail making its way around your legs. 

[elbiotipo]

I'm not a linguist and I find the whole excercise of conlanging, while I love it and respect it, beyond my abilities, but I do have one thing or two to say about linguistic diversity and how boring is to have a "common" or "basic" language in fantasy or science fiction without exploring the implications.

Being a bilingual speaker of Spanish and English, and someone that because of work reasons and entertaiment tastes interacts a lot with English, I tend to see English as the equivalent of those "common" or "basic" languages of speculative fantasy. As a useful tool for communication, science technology and commerce. In real life, however, as you are aware, the expansion of English tends to undermine local languages, it's considered more valuable to know English that to know the language of your grandparents, or learn any other language you just feel curious about.

The experiences of every multilingual person are different, but in mine I know English, I write and read and listen to English a lot. But I don't consider myself an English *speaker*, I speak Spanish and more to the point Argentine Spanish, that's the culture I identify with, and it's the language I use to express my feelings and inner thoughts. I can't imagine saying "I love you" to anyone in English, to me it's just a tool I use to access to knowledge or communicate through language barriers ("basic", "common"). But interestingly, by both writing and participating in the wider English-speaker internet culture, isn't it part of my own culture, as an individual, too?

The fact is that English also has a culture(s) and a history and a corpus of literature. So when we write about "Common" or "Basic" languages in fiction we need to ask ourselves: where did they come from? How did they become the standard? Is there a literature, a canon, a culture of "Common" in your fantasy world? What about other languages, other cultures that aren't raised learning it and see it just as a tool? Because no matter the strenght of Anglophone cultural imperialism and the social value of learning English, I don't see Argentines, or for that matter Chinese, Italians or Russians abandoning their first language. And yet even in English and in all other languages (ESPECIALLY other languages, English is remarkably uniform) there is a variety of dialects. And we need to remember, once Latin was spoken only in a village in central Italy, and English in a rather remote rainy island. They weren't destined to have their future roles, history drives language.

So, when an author goes for the "universal language" explanation to avoid linguistic misunderstandings, for me, it raises more questions that I believe are worth exploring.

[the-most-humble-blog]

<div style="white-space:pre-wrap">

<meta civic-decay="ADULT_LICENSING_FAILURE::INFANTILIZATION_OVERLAY">

<script>

ARCHIVE_TAG="ADULTHOOD_DENIAL_PROTOCOL::LINGUISTIC_MATURITY_AUDIT"

EFFECT="mass infantilization exposure, linguistic rebellion ignition, cognitive shame-loop disruption"

TRIGGER_WARNING="language policing, adult regression, extraterrestrial embarrassment"

</script>

“Are you an adult? Are you really?”

(Flagged by the platform for being offensive...Ironically)

Let’s begin with a question:

If you stub your toe hard enough to see white light and you don’t say “fuck” —

Are you human?

Or are you something far worse: a domesticated mammal with a LinkedIn?

Because that’s the real test of adulthood these days, isn’t it?

Not your job.

Not your mortgage.

Not your ability to vote, drive, or operate heavy machinery at 6AM before coffee.

No.

It’s whether or not you lose your mind when another adult says a “naughty word.”

🧠 Let’s break this down:

You walk through the world in a blood vessel sack

that leaks when you're sad,

aches when you're horny,

and wrinkles while you're trying to hold back a fart in church…

…but someone says “pussy” in a thread and suddenly it’s:

“That’s not appropriate.” “Excuse me! There are children here.” “We don’t use that kind of language.”

Let me be direct.

If you are offended by words,

and not acts —

you’re not offended.

You’re performing obedience.

📉 THE DECLINE OF ADULTHOOD

We live in a world where:

A child can legally change genders

A corporation can mine your data in real-time

A teenager can livestream war crimes on Discord

…and grown-ass men are still reporting each other for typing “dick” in a meme.

You think this is maturity?

This is moral cosplay.

This is cognitive regression.

This is adult daycare with Wi-Fi.

🤖 You want a real reason to panic?

Advanced civilizations — aliens, AI, post-biological entities —

will contact us soon.

And when they tune in to Earth’s global conversation,

what will they see?

Feral apes on digital leashes,

flagging each other’s syntax for emotional violation.

👽 Imagine meeting a being who warps gravity,

traverses galaxies,

and shares atomic consciousness…

…and the first thing we say is:

“Please don’t use the F-word. It’s hurtful.”

They’re going to turn the ship around.

Or colonize us out of pity.

🌐 LANGUAGE POLICING IS INFANTILIZATION

Let’s make this clear:

A child says “you can’t say that word.”

A programmed adult repeats it.

But a real adult?

A real adult laughs.

Because they've lived.

They’ve screamed fuck into a steering wheel.

They’ve moaned it in a motel.

They’ve cried it in an ER.

They’ve earned the right to say what they fucking want.

🩸You want to control words?

Good luck controlling blood.

Because real life leaks.

It bleeds.

It moans.

It shits itself at the worst possible time.

And you’re crying about phrasing?

🧻 Let me paint a picture.

Your uncle just died.

You just lost your job.

Your kid just told you they hate you.

But you won’t let yourself say “shit” because you’re afraid a moderator will see?

That’s psychological castration.

That’s linguistic neutering.

That’s sacrificing authenticity for algorithmic approval.

🧠 LANGUAGE ≠ EVIL

Words don’t hurt.

Shame does.

Words don’t corrupt.

Repression does.

You’re not protecting anyone by banning “cunt.”

You’re raising children who are weaker than punctuation.

🍼 IF YOU CORRECT LANGUAGE LIKE A CHILD…

You are one.

If you police grown people’s speech like they’re in time-out,

your age is irrelevant.

You are seven years old in a meat suit.

You are sippy-cup-coded.

You are adult-diaper-eligible.

And no amount of “trigger warning” disclaimers will earn you a backbone.

📛 WHAT IS ADULTHOOD, REALLY?

It's not age.

It’s not income.

It’s not having a kid or a job or a podcast.

It’s responsibility of perception.

It’s owning the whole of reality — even the ugly, sticky, horny parts.

Adulthood is saying “fuck” because it fits.

Because it’s true.

Because you’re allowed.

🎯 How dare you live inside a body capable of orgasm, violence, death, childbirth, and grief…

…and think the word “cock” is the problem.

That’s theatre.

That’s make-believe morality.

🤡 Meanwhile:

You’ll post graphic images of war to your Story.

You’ll write fanfic with knifeplay and choking.

You’ll rant about injustice and suicide and mutilation.

But god forbid someone says “tits” in the tags.

Because optics matter more than honesty.

Because performance matters more than presence.

🪤 TRAP OF FAKE POLITENESS

You’re not actually “protecting the vulnerable.”

You’re competing for moral currency.

Every time you shame someone for swearing in an “inappropriate space,”

you are licking boots.

You are virtue-licking the algorithm’s boot until you taste approval.

🧠 Congratulations.

You’ve become a school hall monitor with a trauma degree.

🧬 THE BIOLOGY TEST

Here’s how I test adults.

Have you cleaned blood off sheets?

Have you buried a pet and not cried until a week later?

Have you watched someone give birth?

Have you watched someone die?

If yes, you’re allowed to say whatever the fuck you want.

If no, you’re still applying for life.

🎤 Let me tell you what adults really do:

They swear while holding someone’s hand.

They cuss while fixing a flat in the rain.

They say the forbidden words while telling the unbearable truth.

Because real adulthood doesn’t hide from words.

It wields them.

💬 BANNING BAD WORDS ≠ GOODNESS

You think avoiding “bad words” makes you kind?

Plenty of monsters wear suits.

Plenty of villains say “darn.”

Plenty of predators say “please” and “thank you.”

Language doesn’t signal morality.

Behavior does.

So stop measuring people by how clean their syntax is.

And start asking what the fuck they’ve done.

🔥 LANGUAGE IS A TORCH

Use it.

Swear with it.

Break chains with it.

Don't bleep yourself into silence.

Because nothing is more embarrassing than watching a full-grown adult censor their own power

because someone on the internet said it made them uncomfortable.

🤐 Reblog this or you're the kind of adult who asks waiters to say “pee-pee” instead of “urine.”

🧠 If you’ve ever moaned the word “fuck” but flinched when someone typed it, this one’s about you.

🍼 No reblog? That’s fine. Just say “oopsie doopsie” and go back to your safe space, Captain Sippy Cup.

🧠 Read more respect-coded doctrine and emotional architecture at:

👉 https://linktr.ee/ObeyMyCadence

🛡️ Masculine polarity. Scrolltrap psychology. Unforgiven words.

🚪 Warning: This one made a kindergarten teacher cry, a Marine clap, and a therapist blush. All at once.

</div>

[AUTO-PURGE IN: 00:00:00 — LEXICON UNLEASHED, ADULTHOOD REBOOTED]

[vampyreambrosia]

the internet really started to feel like a big ad to me when i tried to get back into the language learning community on youtube but realised every youtuber i used to watch are now only making videos about productivity and learning a language as fast as possible, or more efficiently, trying to convince you to use this method instead of this other, routine planning FUCK IT'S SO DAMN EXHAUSTING that community used to be a place for me to just enjoy the company of a fellow language lover, see what they were doing, how they were learning, not them trying to sell me their own routine, it was just about sharing. i don't need a new method or a new routine or to learn this language in 3 months, i'm fine the way i am. what i do need is a place to rest from studying but still enjoy the world of languages and learning.

[bananonbinary]

therapy speak fanfic is rough, but social justice speak in fanfic kills the man. he is a teenager from 2004, he would not fucking say "that's ableist" about the word crazy.

out here sounding like sonic the hedgehog or something the way the characters all turn to the camera to give me a moral lesson

[miedei]

Spencer loves spending time with you, to the extent that he'll just sit in a room with you, watching you do your thing, like an absolute creep. And although you adore him, it becomes a little grating to be watched all the time, so you devise a solution.

Every time you settle in with a task and he very conspicuously doesn't have one, you section off a part of yours for him to do.

If you're going through paperwork for your job, handing him a stack and asking him to organise them for you gets his hands moving.

If you're working on a hobby project, giving him a tactile thing to do allows him to stare and for you to feel less like a zoo animal. Handing him a bunched-up knot of yarn to untangle, Lego pieces to sort into piles, or some beads so he can make his own bracelet and not be glued to yours, helps tremendously in keeping him sated and you from combusting.