finalgwen

[finalgwen]

met a woman today whose original real actual given-at-birth first name is "Vendetta." ma'am are you aware you are a videogame protagonist and/or a character in a skullduggery pleasant novel. real quick sorry to bother you miss but who exactly were your parents expecting you to avenge in their name

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IT FUCKIN YURI DAAAAAAAAAAAY

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“the arts and sciences are completely separate fields that should be pitted against each other” the overlap of the arts and sciences make up our entire perceivable reality they r fucking on the couch

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Missionary? Sorry, I only do it in the Heretic position. It's a very similar position, except you do it in direct defiance of god. Whichever one you feel like defying. I frequently pick Zeus.

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trans girls are always so good at everything hey what do those red dots on that plane mean

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The problem with playing smash or pass is that there's a lot of characters which I'm not sexually attracted to but I would fuck in a heartbeat out of sheer curiosity and ego, like I don't find Mickey Mouse attractive at all but if he approached me at a bar and went "Hey sexy, want me to show you my mouseketool?" I would say yes because then I get to tell my friends I fucked Mickey Mouse

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I love how Lara Croft's first instinct when coming across a sarcophagus is to immediately open it and then magically gain ancient knowledge. I bet no one invites her to funerals anymore because every time they try to lower the coffin, she just shows up and opens it, suddenly becoming proficient in Microsoft Excel.

[finalgwen]

STOP! before you decide you are irretrievably doomed, try one of the following options:

transition

bdsm

iron supplements

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i feel strongly about this

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Moschino Pre-Fall 2022

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No transphobes allowed, only transborbs.

Check out my stuff!

✧Read Namesake✧ ✧Read Crow Time✧ ✧Store✧ ✧Patreon✧

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Devastated that rbs were turned off. I need this on my blog.

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New video!

The Fashion of Sci-Fi Futures!

[finalgwen]

I think I may never be sad ever again. There is a statue entitled "Farewell to Orpheus" on my college campus. It's been there since 1968, created by a Prof. Frederic Littman that use to work at the university. It sits in the middle of a fountain, and the fountain is often full of litter. I have taken it upon myself to clean the litter out when I see it (the skimmers only come by once a week at max). But because of my style of dress, this means that bystanders see a twenty-something on their hands and knees at the edge of the fountain, sleeves rolled up, trying not to splash dirty water on their slacks while their briefcase and suit coat sit nearby. This is fine, usually. But today was Saturday Market, which means the twenty or so people in the area suddenly became hundreds. So, obviously, somebody stopped to ask what I was doing. "This," I gestured at the statue, "is Eurydice. She was the wife of Orpheus, the greatest storyteller in Greece. And this litter is disrespectful." Then, on a whim, I squinted up at them. "Do you know the story of Orpheus and Eurydice?" "No," they replied, shifting slightly to sit.

"Would you like to?"

"Sure!"

So I told them. I told them the story as I know it- and I've had a bit of practice. Orpheus, child of a wishing star, favorite of the messenger god, who had a hard-working, wonderful wife, Eurydice; his harp that could lull beasts to passivity, coax song from nymphs, and move mountains before him; and the men who, while he dreamed and composed, came to steal Eurydice away. I told of how she ran, and the water splashed up on my clothes. But I didn't care. I told of how the adder in the field bit her heel, and she died. I told of the Underworld- how Orpheus charmed the riverman, pacified Cerberus with a lullaby, and melted the hearts of the wise judges. I laughed as I remarked how lucky he was that it was winter- for Persephone was moved by his song where Hades was not. She convinced Hades to let Orpheus prove he was worthy of taking Eurydice. I tugged my coat back on, and said how Orpheus had to play and sing all the way out of the Underworld, without ever looking back to see if his beloved wife followed. And I told how, when he stopped for breath, he thought he heard her stumble and fall, and turned to help her up- but it was too late. I told the story four times after that, to four different groups, each larger than the last. And I must have cast a glance at the statue, something that said "I'm sorry, I miss you--" because when I finished my second to last retelling, a young boy piped up, perhaps seven or eight, and asked me a question that has made my day, and potentially my life: "Are you Orpheus?" I told the tale of the grieving bard so well, so convincingly, that in the eyes of a child I was telling not a story, but a memory. And while I laughed in the moment, with everyone else, I wept with gratitude and joy when I came home. This is more than I deserve, and I think I may never be sad again.

Here is the aforementioned statue, by the way.

[finalgwen]

i don’t think people understand how much of life is grief. not just people dying, but losing the version of yourself you thought you’d become. grieving the city you had to leave. the friends you lost not in argument, but in silence. the summer that will never come back. the feeling that maybe you peaked at 12 when you were reading books under the covers and believing in forever

[finalgwen]

How beautiful is butch identity that it includes cis women, trans men, trans women, nonbinary people, and bruce springsteen.

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girl at the beach with mysterious bruises