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The amount I desire to transform into aliens is normal

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Always remember: Ben 10 has canonical mpreg in it

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Thoughts on albedo and species stuff

Albedo is really interesting to me because theres a lot of work depicting him as a human and his relationship with humanity is really interesting. Albedo is/was a Galvan, who was forced to become a teenage human and the show keeps him stuck in that. Then it doubles down by a turning him into a preteen human.

It’s kind of insane, being trapped in a body that’s not your own, and I think there’s a lot of narrative possibility with Albedo either owning that (trans stuff) or rejecting that (body horror stuff), maybe even a combo of both with Albedo enjoying being human and Galvan in different situations.

I also see the concept of Ben 10 on its own as a kind of gold mine for trans themes. Feedback and Big Chill stand out to me, but really any alien could have a trans gender or trans human element to it. Hell you could probably argue Jen is therian in some way, although I’m not educated much in therians to make that case.

Basically I need more juicy trans Ben 10 stuff in my life

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Rex is discovering the downsides of having a boyfriend from another dimension 💔

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🔟

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power fantasy

(thinking a lot about bens relationship with his human body. i like uaf trying to assert that ben was still strong and capable w out the watch, but i think it loses an aspect of his character that was always important, that being ben finding himself inadequate and weak in his human form and overusing the watch to escape it. i think thats why the feedback arc hit so hard, bens hatred of himself and his past over something that was never his fault, all stemming from his hatred of his human body. i personally interpret the feedback arc as less of a drug addiction metaphor [which if it is was pretty shittily written] and more of becoming consumed by what youre not. that theme with ben is most of the reason i relate to him and project on to him as a fellow transexual)

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Free Write from a few months ago

Rolling Stone, Kristen Stewart front cover in a jock strap her hand down her pants. Black mullet’s shining with sweat and her mouth hangs open so I can clearly see her front teeth. It is with regret that I write to let you know that this decision will be a disappointment to you. It was a difficult one for the committee to make. Of course this can mean one a thousand things, possibly it was a difficult decision. Perhaps I had one noble soldier fighting for my admission, but a writer with one less typo or something impossibly small got in over me. Or perhaps there was only five minutes of deliberation, my recommenders weren’t up to snuff and my prose was sloppy. How does one cope with the endless turning and twisting of life, is it really so simple to avoid life? Can I hide within a television set, within a typhoon twisting with such vicious rage. Is my heartache only due to a bruised ego, perhaps they do not understand that what they hold is the truth behind my future. Perhaps they do not understand the stern lecture given to me by my parents, the importance of advancing my studies.

I suppose it’s hard not to realize this if one has the job of admissions, that each person you say yes too is moving on a path parallel with your own. That each life you push is nudged in a new direction so that now you can meet and cultivate their talents. I wonder if Bennington writers have a style, Syracuse, or Sarah Lawrence? Emerson? Perhaps one day I will be blessed with that knowledge, or I will be tossed aside and thrown into the gutter of reality. Not shielded by the motherly embrace of those strong well financed hands of higher education.

Grinding bodies press against each other, piston hips like oil rigs, drilling into the soft pale earth. Her teeth sink into my shoulder and I yelp into her ear, pushing, growling, we are animals most rabid as we move against the forces of gravity. I am tired of these stinky boots, I am tired of plane-doors flying off sucking out each passenger one by one by one by one, cascading their souls out into the sky. A gorgeous flesh-toned mass falling from the heavens. Splats onto the ground like wet pinates.

Watch blood bags for the wealthy pop against the tarmac. Mothers and Fathers scream as their children are pulverized into paste. I am tired of travel, I am sick of this world and its evil masters. Perhaps one day I will own my own breakup hotel, perhaps one day I will be strong as fuck. Perhaps one day I can pose almost nude, covered in sweat on the cover of Rolling Stone.

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Jen Ten Grow Up be like

As someone who turns into aliens daily and can’t be killed, at what point do you realise you’re further away from any grounded sense of normality than you even realised?

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dork loser

Couldn’t find the original tweet but here’s the person who made the original image: (x)

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Free Write 3/11/24

Language oozes from me like an infected wound. I am desperate to communicate something, yet what exactly alludes even to my unfortunately incurious mind. That particularly may come as somewhat of a surprise, to those younger than the version of myself who wrote these mostly-fictions. A witness to what may appear on the surface to be an outward explosion of raw creativity can easily be seen through by the well traveled mind to be mere artistic ramblings. Not that ramblings lack artistic value, but those who wish to find a voice of a generation may be upset to find that my words are only my own. Unfortunately I am afflicted with this artistic condition, my family and friends speak to me with such reverence that I should expect my life to move upwards. A train moving on its already laid track, my destination appears a roller coaster of impossible possibility. Now I must consider each choice carefully, every note in a song sung without precision yet chosen acutely, and every letter carefully typed into an old laptop keyboard, while I idly pretend I am invested in a lecture on poetry written during the AIDS crisis.

My advisor explained to me very plainly that the best writers are the worst students; would Oscar Wilde be a good student? He asked me, the question obviously rhetorical in nature. These words clung to my neck like a thick rope, the corpse of a heavy bird hung, pulled my neck down toward the earth. Rejection stings like bug bite itch covered with Neosporin. My roommate told me that I will be better remembered in death than life, a fear that she unknowingly stoked back to life. Perhaps if I organize all my writings so that each word I dare scribble into margins of literature shall remain immortalized. Manuscripts unfinished, unpolished, fear of touching my words at risk of raising the fury of my resting corpse. I have no plan of dying, yet the possibility remains tempting. Not because I do not value my own life, but that I see a potential way to cheat this silly game. If I die tragically, my words will be immortalized by my frenzied mother desperate to chronicle every passing thought my unfortunately incurious mind conjures. Repaint these ramblings as words of prophecy and suddenly I am divine. I envy the Albatross. 

First snowfall of March, the eleventh stands tall, two ones combined into the roman numeral. I spotted a poem; To a Dead Graduate Student. Suddenly I am paying attention;

"The whole rich process of twined opposites,

Tendrils round stalk, developing in tandem

Through tangled exquisite detail that knits

To a unique promise - 

checked at random.

Killed, wasted. What a teacher you’d have made:

Your tough impatient mind, your flowering looks

Would you've seduced the backward where they played,

Rebels like you, to share your love of books."

To a Dead Graduate Student

Thomm Gunn

My egomania is my own unique madness. Every great work is really made to be seen by me the moment I witness it. Art made with foreknowledge of my life, so complex and multi-layered that only I can untangle its truth. Perhaps now that I’ve admitted this truth I can avoid it overwhelming my future. That is quite a pleasant thought. One day I will shed this ego like a snake sheds its skin. Perhaps then I can simply read to enjoy the act. I can write simply to enjoy the act. To merely tell a story, instead of trying to solve this artistic condition. 

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11/5/23 Journal

Aston Martin driving through empty Sunday air, everyone but him is out praying. He’s buying a six pack from the locals. The natives as I call them though I realize none of them are really native to this land. Those liquor store employees whose work schedule fits perfectly into the academic year. College kids shuffling in and out to get drinks, in and out. In and out. In and out. They come in pairs. Two guys, two girls. Never a mixture of those genders, we gotta keep 'em separated. The people of this town stole the land and then the college kids stole it again. Now we don’t know what to do with it. I wish I lived in an era where I could go to the library and bum for cigarettes; if a time like that ever existed.

 Women out for their Sunday jog, all in tight spandex and black headbands. These are the invaders, as I am now. This is not my neighborhood, not my community. Ending up here only because of my repeated failure. An inability to plan much further than four years. I suppose I’m smart enough to get by, even if I can’t make a deadline to save my life.

Aston Martin drugged a girl last night, she passed out in his bed. He hoped his roommate didn’t get to her, she was going to be his girl. Asston was going to marry that girl. God rest her soul. 

I smoked a cigarette and tried to read the 180 pages of Carrie required of me. I'm about 50 pages in. It's 11:37, I have until 2:30. Well actually I have until Tuesday, but 2:30 I’m meeting up for a group project. I wanted to get a coffee and a bagel, sit there and read for a few hours but I couldn’t bring myself to go inside. People kept moving in and out, moving in and out. Groups walked by, couples holding hands, pedestrians in simple jackets. My gray jacket felt stupid, my off-white sweaters. My greasy blonde hair, the pimple I was sure could be seen from outer space. I walked to the campus bookstore to buy a notebook. I wanted to write this all down on paper, but the place was closed.

Another loop around the neighborhood, I ran into a cat. She was sitting outside of a house, she bound toward me with a gleeful look. Like the last one she rushed up to me and I leaned down to pet her, cars rushed past but I didn’t care. Her fur was white with gray spots, and her coat was frizzy from the cold I guessed. I pet her, scratched under her chin then to her back. As I stood up to leave, she brushed against my legs with some aggression. Then flopped down in front of me, rolling around on the sidewalk. I rubbed her belly until she got bored of me, moving back to the porch she came from to lick herself clean. This was her neighborhood.

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2:34 AM Panic

Panic rises in my chest. It’s been rising for nearly an hour now. My roommate thought I might need a walk and a cigarette. I don’t smoke nicotine much. I’m sitting outside of the green building that houses the apartment I’m sharing. Honestly I don’t mind sharing, it’s easy to get in personal time. Call it a walk. Half written poems bounce around in the back of my head, is this enlightenment or are the substances in my body finally settling in. 

I can see the ghost of Henry Ford, in these pavement veins of our industrialized world.

My roommate glances at me, she’s heard this before but she isn’t sure what to say. Neither do I because really that is all I have to say. I could break down what I mean, but where’s the fun in that? I could be a genius or an idiot, and it is entirely up to the reader to determine so. Jim Morrison has a poem called, Lament. The poem is a lament to his cock and I hate it. It’s one of the most oddly foul things I have ever read yet it somehow is enticing, unforgettable. Who the hell would write a lament for their cock? 

“I pressed her thigh and death smiled Death, old friend Death and my cock are the world I can forgive my injuries in the name of Wisdom Luxury Romance Sentence upon sentence Words are the healing lament For the death of my cock’s spirit Has no meaning in the soft fire Words got me the wound and will get me well I you believe it…

All join now and lament the death of my cock A tongue of knowledge in the feathered night Boys get crazy in the head and suffer. I sacrifice my cock on the altar of silence.” - Jim Morrison Lament

Gross. 

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