waywardprincestrawberry

[waywardprincestrawberry]

everyone hates orange until they actually see her in context. "oh it's such an ugly color, too bright!" look at sunsets and autumn, look at campfires and deserts. she's the most beautiful and special part of the scene. now apologize.

[waywardprincestrawberry]

‘aight, mate, we’re done! Looking like a proper little punk now, eh?

[waywardprincestrawberry]

Kinda feel like there's some untapped meme/reaction image potential from old horror movie trailers...

[waywardprincestrawberry]

Also, this talk about scapegoating ND people because of "incorrect" or "weird" behaviours vividly reminds me of this time in middle school when our entire year group did this desert island survival team-building exercise.

I've blanked most of it from my memory because the whole scenario was unspeakably miserable, but I don't think I'll ever forget what happened when the teachers introduced a Traitors-type mechanic. Basically, they randomly picked a student who would "sabotage" the "supplies" by stealing some (iirc, these were a stock of those little beanbags we used in PE), and we were supposed to work together to salvage the situation.

What actually happened was a witch hunt for the saboteur, and because I (undiagnosed autistic) wasn't reacting "correctly" to the situation, everyone came down on me. I remember standing in the corridor while a bunch of people that I called acquaintances, and some who I considered friends, all crowded around asking me if I was the thief. I think I might have been almost hysterical, because I started laughing and grinning in that painfully embarrassed way while I protested my innocence, and they took this as further "proof" and pressed me harder. I remember feeling absolutely filthy with hot-and-cold sweat, so frustrated I wanted to cry, because nobody would believe me. They were convinced it was me, because I'd committed some social transgression or other that I didn't understand, and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it.

The teachers put a stop to it in the end. (I think they actually cancelled the entire exercise, but maybe it was just that particular aspect they scrapped). Our form teacher gave everyone a very disappointed talk and revealed that the real thief was someone nobody had even glanced at, because he was popular and well-liked. I don't remember if anyone ever apologised to me. One of my friends told me I'd been "over-reacting", because it was "just a game", but to me it'd felt like a microcosm of my social life with the stakes dialled up a 100%.

I will always be able to point to that instance as the first time I became really, excruciatingly aware just how Different I was. For some reason, I'd put a target on myself, I thought. I know now that it was actually a case of ableism and inherent biases against neurodivergent behaviors, but that's a recent revelation. And my heart breaks when I think about how that kind of thing happens every day, all across the world, because so many societies train people to see ND traits as red flags.

[waywardprincestrawberry]

On their wedding day, he put his hand to her cheek and called her the most beautiful woman in the world.

He could have been correct, from an objective standpoint. Truly, she was one of the beauties in town. Her curls always in perfect order, her smile plump and joyous, her figure comely, even hidden modestly beneath clothing. From an objective standpoint, he was wrong, as nothing about beauty is objective, but none in the town would have disagreed with his assessment.

They spent several years together, in loving bliss. They built their house together, they planted their garden together, they grew together.

And then came the day that a hole in reality opened beneath him. Without thought, she jumped in after, a bare half second after he vanished.

When she opened her eyes, she was somewhere else. The stars were different, and wrong. There was the wrong number of moons, and the sun was the wrong colour. But the worst, most egregious wrong was that he was not there next to her. This, she could not abide.

She had nothing to her name besides her labour, but that she had in abundance. She travelled, from town to town, trading hours of work for food and board. She taught herself to draw, and she drew her love. Over and over, she drew him. In the dirt, on walls, on her own clothes. Asking, always asking, if any had seen him. Eventually she acquired paper and ink, and drew her husband again. Her inquiries became easier, more frequent, although the answers never changed. For none had seen her love.

She learned many things as she travelled. She learned how to fix a carriage wheel. How to tend to livestock and how to weed a garden far larger than the one she had known. She learned to shape a bowl from clay and to chop timber and to carve wood. She learned to fight off brigands who would take from her her sparse money, her life, or worse.

She learned other things, about this place she was in. It was a place where many came, and few left. A nexus one called it. A refuse heap, another said. But the method of arrival was always the same. One moment in the familiar, the next falling into the strange. But the people were the same, for all that they were often of alien appearance. Some looked down upon her dirt covered hems and worn boots. Some ignored her. Most were willing to at least listen to her question, to look at her picture, so carefully drawn. To keep an eye out, and pass on a message should they find him.

Time passed, and passed, and passed. The world she came from did not have things such as magical crystals or soul mates or wizards, or if it did they had none of the power that those here did. Regardless, one town she stayed in recommended she find the local witch, for they specialized in red strings of fate.

And so she did. The witch gave her a bowl of stew and a comfortable chair, and then listened when she spoke, and looked carefully at the drawing. It was a different one. She had drawn many, over the years, as the old ones wore out, and as her skill increased. And the witch said that they did not know if he was indeed her soul mate, but if he was, then the red string of fate that they revealed would lead her right to him. She need only follow it.

It was not an easy ask. The witch wanted a blanket woven by her own hands in payment. And so she stayed in the town, longer than she had stayed anywhere. She traded her labour and her art for thick wool, and weaving lessons. It was near winter before she had a result she was pleased with, carefully folded in her arms to be presented to the witch. The blanket was unfolded immediately upon delivery, shaken out to its fullest extent. The blanket was scrutinized, for quality of the weave or for something else that she could not fathom. Finally, the witch nodded their head. They turned back to their cottage, moving to close the door. She protested, concerned about her end of the bargain, but needn’t have worried. For around her finger was tied a red string which hadn’t been there before. The end led off, through the woods.

And so she followed it. She followed it through fallen leaves. She followed it across rivers. She followed it through snowbanks and through melt waters and through hot summer sun. Finally, she followed it into a clearing on a mountain. And fell to her knees in despair. For in this clearing was nothing but moss, and the end of the string, fading into nothing.

She did not have long to weep however, as a hole in reality opened above her, and down he fell. Without thought, she moved to catch him.

He was just as he had been on the day she had left him. And as he opened his eyes, she suddenly felt ashamed. For he was here, perfect and whole and young. But it had been years and years for her. Her hair was frizzy and knotted. Her lips were thin, her hands were rough, and her figure both hard and flabby at once.

But he opened his eyes, and he called her name, and she nodded. And he smiled at her, and called her the most beautiful woman in the world.

On a truly objective standpoint, he was incorrect. Both because beauty was not within the realm of objectivity, but also because there were many women who could be called more beautiful, subjectively.

But she also knew that he was speaking nothing but the honest truth. For he loved her. He loved her, he loved her, he loved her. He loved her hair, frizzy as it was. He loved combing it free of knots, and helping her braid it in the mornings, and loved tucking flowers into it, to surprise her when she looked in the mirror. He loved her smile, and loved seeing it, and loved being the cause of it. He loved it when she spoke to him, when she told him of the things she had done, and what she had learned. He loved her art, even as he blushed darkly at being her only subject. She taught him what she knew, and delighted when he found particular pleasure in pottery. They travelled, to find a home that suited both of them. The first time she defended him from brigands had been a terrifying and yet exhilarating experience for them both.

And they built a house. With a room full of paper and clay. And a garden, and a loom. And always, forever, she was the most beautiful woman in the world.

[waywardprincestrawberry]

broad daylight evidence of israel "defending itself" from palestinian civillians and their bakeries and hospitals and residential buildings

[waywardprincestrawberry]

and let the history books name joe biden, rishi sunak, justin trudeau, emmanuel macron, ursula von der leyen and every other world leader who did not step in to prevent the genocide of palestine as cold-blooded murderers. may they face a shred of the immeasurable pain and suffering they allowed to be committed against 2.2. million innocent lives.

[waywardprincestrawberry]

i think nonbinary folks need to be louder and meaner about inclusion. we should refuse every effort to confine us to a "third" gender. we need to speak up about misguided "women & nonbinary" groupings, because nonbinary is not Girl Lite™. in fact we need to take the whole idea of Girl Lite™ and smash it with a hammer and put it in an acid bath. dissolve that garbage. nonbinary is fat, it's femme, it's masc, it's both, it's neither, it's an infinitely diverse category, and the sooner we nuke this basic-ass milquetoast image of "thin young white afab person" (which, lbr, people also wrongly interpret those folks as 'pretty much just girls who want to be special for some reason lol') the freer and better off we will all be

[waywardprincestrawberry]

[waywardprincestrawberry]

[waywardprincestrawberry]

fun discovery from today's internet rabbit hole:

the first lesbian magazine published in the US, Vice Versa (1947-48), was entirely hand-typed by one Edythe Eyde (better known by her pen name Lisa Ben - yes, that IS an anagram for lesbian). she worked as a secretary with a ton of spare time on her hands, and her boss would tell her he didn't care what she was doing so long as she "looked busy"... so she decided to use her free time to type out copies of a home-made periodical for lesbians, writing most of the content - editorials, book/film reviews, poetry, short stories, and more - herself!

overall, the magazine ran for 9 issues, 16 hand-typed copies of which lisa would mail to friends (well, until one of them advised her she could be arrested for sending "obscene" materials) and distribute at lesbian bars :)

[waywardprincestrawberry]

He's telling the kids: "A rocket is coming cover your ears." Then he tells them to remove their fingers once it's gone. At the end of the video, since the girl is wearing Messi Argentina jersey, he jokes with her saying: "They don't appreciate you anymore messi, they don't respect you anymore" to make her smile.

This is a famous influencer from gaza: Ahmed alhenawi. He came to gaza for his wedding which was a week before the genocide. The little girl here is his sister in law, and the little boy is their cousin who's staying with them since his mother was killed by Israeli bombardment.

This is the same girl who said: I wish I could just get killed right now, because I'm so exhausted. You know what's good though? They postponed examinations!

These people need you, never stop talking about Palestine. Speak up. If they find it in themselves to smile and joke during this and not fall into despair so can you. STOP THE GENOCIDE.

[waywardprincestrawberry]

[waywardprincestrawberry]

THE WORLD STANDS WITH PALESTINE 🇵🇸

[waywardprincestrawberry]

[waywardprincestrawberry]

Celtics fans in Scotland.

[waywardprincestrawberry]

John Cusack, the voice actor for Dimitri in Anatasia (1997), shared his statement on Palestine 🇵🇸 🇵🇸 🇵🇸 🇵🇸

P.S. He has been a Palestinian supporter for years