mostly-morpheus-and-myths

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I need y’all to understand that every time that somebody who makes $10,000 a year thinks that somebody who makes $30,000 a year thinks that somebody who makes $50,000 a year thinks that somebody who makes $100,000 a year thinks that YES EVEN somebody who makes $150,000 a year is the real enemy

…a billionaire wins and we all lose.

And every time that somebody who makes $150,000 a year thinks that they’re better than somebody else who makes $100,000 a year thinks that they’re better than somebody else who makes $50,000 a year thinks that they’re better than somebody else who makes $30,000 a year thinks that they’re better than somebody else who makes $10,000 a year

…a billionaire wins and we all lose.

Privilege and comfort rises with income, obvi. It’s not all “the same.” But please zoom the fuck out and look at the whole picture. The WHOLE picture.

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Mrs. Faust

by Carol Ann Duffy

First things first -- I married Faust. We met as students, shacked up, split up, made up, hitched up, got a mortgage on a house, flourished academically, BA. MA. Ph.D. No kids. Two toweled bathrobes. Hers. His. We worked. We saved. We moved again. Fast cars. A boat with sails. A second home in Wales. The latest toys -- computers, mobile phones. Prospered. Moved again. Faust’s face was clever, greedy, slightly mad. I was as bad. I grew to love the lifestyle, not the life. He grew to love the kudos, not the wife. He went to whores. I felt, not jealousy, but chronic irritation. I went to yoga, t’ai chi, Feng Shui, therapy, colonic irrigation. And Faust would boast at dinner parties of the cost of doing deals out East. Then take his lust to Soho in a cab, to say the least, to lay the ghost, get lost, meet panthers, feast. He wanted more. I came home late one winter’s evening, hadn’t eaten. Faust was upstairs in his study, in a meeting. I smelled cigar smoke, hellish, oddly sexy, not allowed. I heard Faust and the other laugh aloud. Next thing, the world, as Faust said, spread its legs. First politics -- Safe seat. MP. Right Hon. KG. 50 Then banks -- offshore, abroad -- and business - Vice-­chairman. Chairman. Owner. Lord. Enough? Encore! Faust was Cardinal, Pope, knew more than God; flew faster than the speed of sound around the globe, lunched; walked on the moon, golfed, holed in one; lit a fat Havana on the sun. Then backed a hunch -- Invested in smart bombs, in harms, Faust dealt in arms. Faust got in deep, got out. Bought farms, cloned sheep, Faust surfed the Internet for like-­minded Bo-­Peep. As for me, I went my own sweet way, saw Rome in a day, spun gold from hay, had a facelift, had my breasts enlarged, my buttocks tightened; went to China, Thailand, Africa, returned, enlightened. Turned 40, celibate, teetotal, vegan, Buddhist, 41. Went blonde, redhead, brunette, went native, ape, berserk, bananas; went on the run, alone; went home. Faust was in. A word, he said, I spent the night being pleasured by a virtual Helen of Troy. Face that launched a thousand ships. I kissed its lips. Things is -- I’ve made a pact with Mephistopheles, the Devil’s boy. He’s on his way to take away what’s owed, reap what I sowed. For all these years of gagging for it, going for it, rolling in it, I’ve sold my soul. At this, I heard a serpent’s hiss, tasted evil, knew its smell, as scaly devil hands poked up right through the terracotta Tuscan tiles at Faust’s bare feet and dragged him, oddly smirking, there and then straight down to Hell. Oh, well. Faust’s will left everything -- the yacht, the several homes, the Lear jet, the helipad, the loot, et cet, et cet, the lot -- to me. C’est la vie. When I got ill, it hurt like hell. I bought a kidney with my credit card, then I got well. I keep Faust’s secret still -- the clever, cunning, callous bastard didn’t have a soul to sell.

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Caitvi by Tamias

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CaitVi by @chzs_m

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You know I don’t think I’m going to get over Vi’s expression in the “you really think I needed all the guards at the Hex Gates?” scene for as long as I live. The way she was just spiralling about how “I choose wrong every time” like, Vander told her she had a good heart and not to lose it, but she feels like every time she does what her heart tells her to do, something goes wrong, and every time that happens, it chips away at her confidence in her judgement a little more. And then Caitlyn shows up, and she might as well be the phantom that haunted Vi in act two, because doing what her heart told her was the right thing to do was what lost her Caitlyn last time. She has done what she felt was right and time and again it went went wrong in some way. She’s felt her belief in herself slip through her fingers and the people she loves along with it. And Caitlyn walks in and tells her that not only has she not lost her, but she had known, predicted, thrown her own weight behind Vi’s impetus, to facilitate her doing whatever her good heart told her was the right thing to do. At the moment Vi had lost faith in herself and her judgement, Caitlyn shows her that she values it so highly she’s now chosen to make it her own compass. And it’s kinda beautiful how Vi seizes it again, and Caitlyn along with it

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There are two kinds of people, separated by the way they dealing with heart shuttering break up:

They becoming sad alcoholic hobo with no sense of personal hygiene...

2. ...or career overachiver.

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#something has just awoken inside me...

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Honestly the way Caitlyn and Vi rebuild the trust that was broken between them didn’t feel cheap or rushed or unearned or anything to me, it just felt like two individuals who genuinely care so incredibly deeply about each other and really want to work it out, deliberately looking for ways to move forward together. Caitlyn wants Vi to know that she sees clearly now, that she’s trying to correct her mistakes, wants her to know she’s listening to her, prioritising her, doing right by her, wants to give her that in action, not just pretty words, and for her part, Vi isn’t holding forgiveness over her, waiting for Caitlyn her to fill out some arbitrary checklist; that’s not how forgiveness works. It’s unique and individual, but for Vi you can see the little ways she begins to let her back in, and then the way her heart blooms like a flower for the dawn in the famous “you really think I needed all the guards at the Hex Gates” moment. of course there’s bumps and jagged edges at first, but the fact that both of them want it so badly is an enormously underappreciated motivator to putting in the work that will get them there

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have realized that while i am not a fan necessarily of "people meet and immediately fall in love" i am a fan of "people meet and are immediately obsessed with each other." the love can come later but the absolute fixation should be immediate

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nimble, a border collie-papillon mix, wins the 12” class in the 2024 masters agility championship. the first time a mixed breed has won at westminster ever.

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I love how much Helly’s clothes have to say not just about her outie’s identity, but the origin of her rebellion as a whole.

Like… she breaks the dress code. Constantly. We know from The Lexington Letter that Lumon only allows white, black, navy, gray, and pastels. And what does Helly wear? Bright blues, green, orange, and at one point, even a dress that is unapologetically crayon-yellow.

For most of season one, the audience thinks this symbolizes Helly’s rebellious nature. Of course her outfits break the rules and stand out like a sore thumb in the muted halls of MDR — so does she! Helly is a new wild card spicing up the lives of her coworkers and shaking up the system. She doesn’t care a whit for Lumon and their stupid regulations, and her clothing reflects that.

But remember… Helly R. doesn’t dress herself.

Helena does.

If Helly could choose to break the dress code, she would — but she has no say in what she puts on every morning. It isn’t her who’s doing this. It’s Helena Eagan who wakes up and, every time she gets ready for work, purposefully dresses herself in ways contrary to her own father’s company.

Whatever her reasons, the point is this: the only reason Helly can unashamedly break the dress code is that no one has the guts to tell the CEO’s daughter to follow the rules. That rebellion, that defiant warmth? Only there because of privilege.

And isn’t that the point? Isn’t that so much of what Helly R.’s “moxie” is? Yes, she fights against MDR’s mistreatment and galvanizes the innies to revolution! Which is awesome! But a lot of it’s because when she first woke up on that table, something inside her went, “This isn’t right.

“This isn’t how people are supposed to treat me.”

It is SO deliciously ironic that almost every sliver, every atom of resistance Helly has against Lumon is an inversion from a sense of entitlement that they gave her in the first place. Helly R. goes to work with someone else’s power over her skin. It’s both the flaming crest of her defiance and a constant, quiet reminder that it is only there because she is not like the others. That she is only rebellious because on the outside… she is used to getting her way.

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Jane Austen really said ‘I respect the “I can fix him” movement but that’s just not me. He’ll fix himself if knows what’s good for him’ and that’s why her works are still calling the shots today.

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Ok this is kinda funny but imagine being surrounded by people who sound like this. The French language was a mistake in the first place but combining it with English…. abomination

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Shipping fictional characters isn’t representative of your moral values. It’s representative of your particular psychic damage and the themes and motifs that haunt you. Hope this helps.

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*pounds a monster at 9pm* why can't I ever sleep at night

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