Losing my shit about this article in which a transphobic Tory was so busy panicking about existing in the vicinity of a Trans that she almost certainly misheard "jeans" as "penis" and decided that not only was this a problem with the other woman, but also that the world must be informed of this pressing danger.
"a trans woman! I had to stand directly behind her....I thought, 'this is going well', I'm handling The Situation fine'..."
translated: I saw a tall woman with broad shoulders. How would I get out of this alive? I thought. she has a PENIS. PENIS PENIS PENIS. through some force of PENIS I mean will I managed to PENIS behave normally towards her. My hands were PENIS PENIS PENIS shaking as I tried to dry them. summoning up all my PENIS courage I said 'dryer's crap innit'. she turned to me and said " yeah I'm just goiPENIS PENIS PENIS"
It's been a week and I'm still shaking. This proves trans women are the problem and I'm not weird. I'm fine. It's fine. If you think about it I'm the hero hePENIS!!!!!
very this
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I was explaining this to someone earlier and I don't think I've seen enough people talk about it, but the kids getting four pearls instead of three was actually a really great writing choice. Did anything change? No. Did we all know one of them was gonna break/get lost? Yes absolutely. However, the fourth pearl wasn't about the story. It was about Poseidon. It was about him also being desperate to save the woman he loves. Watch him and Sally in ep 7 and tell me he wouldn't try his hardest to save her too?? It's such a significant insight into him that paired with the scenes we've gotten this episode, tell us so much about him and his relationship with Sally that we don't get to figure out until later in the books.
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iwtv is insanity inducing bc every time you google some reference in it you find out theyre doing some 4d chess with the symbolism… like okay playing roosevelt's speech about the us joining ww2 in the background as claudia tells louis shes gonna kill lestat is pretty straightforward, and of course the chess game theyre playing foreshadows how she beats him in the next episode but doesn't "finish the game" ie burn him. and bc claudia later compares lestat to the nazis/hitler, that obviously makes lestat germany and thus claudia is poland and louis is the us/roosevelt in the speech we hear: "I had hoped against hope that some miracle would prevent a devastating war in Europe and bring to an end the invasion of Poland by Germany" etc. BUT THEN you get nerdy and google some of the chess terms lestat uses like the dutch defense and stonewalling which is pretty interesting and then you vaguely remember one of the writers said the scene was based on some famous chess game, and you realize it must be glücksberg vs miguel najdorf which turns out to be literally called the POLISH IMMORTAL. najdorf was polish and glücksberg is some unknown but based on the name likely german. this was najdorf's first famous game, at the beginning of his career when he was only like 19 or something although we dont know the exact details of the game (and ofc you watch a few videos on the polish immortal and they all heavily criticize glücksberg's moves which makes lestat's arrogance even funnier) and ALSO, in 1939 (literally at the same time as the chess scene takes place) najdorf was participating in a chess tournament in buenos aires and since he was not only polish but also jewish, he stayed there rather than return home. his whole family was killed in the holocaust but he lived a long life in argentina. why is this relevant? because BUENOS AIRES which btw lestat also calls "la reina del plata" so you google that and find the 1930 song by carlos gardel and the lyrics are literally— anyway so buenos aires is where lestat planned for them to move to in ep7. perhaps if they had indeed gone to argentina instead of europe… well… perhaps… perhaps…
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war god sukuna has no need for you. you know this as intimately as you know yourself.
he is a monstrous god, well-suited to the mantle he was given from birth; two pairs of muscular arms as thick as the average man’s torso, two cruel faces, a gaping maw carved into the hardness of his stomach. to peer into sukuna’s eyes is to see death and famine and destruction — wars raged long before you and long after you — and live through it all.
he has no need for you. he is perhaps more powerful than the entire pantheon, even the six-eyed-one and the curse-consumer, who swallows the sky every day to bring night. you have little understanding of the sheer magnitude of his power — your pathetic human brain can only fathom so much — but you know that sukuna, undoubtedly, is the very meaning of the word. and yet, he keeps you.
you are not a concubine, though he shirks those he has in favour of your company. you are not a general, nor an admiral, nor a soldier, and yet he seeks your counsel. you are not a mage, and hardly a grand priestess, and yet sukuna finds your door instead of that of his great temple, where hundreds live and breathe to serve him.
you had only reached the status of alter-maiden before your own temple was crushed to dust; little responsibility was given to you beyond tending the hearth, studying, and occasionally helping with chores. but sukuna dresses you in the finery of high priestesses — gauzy crimson dresses that bare your stomach and chest, fine golden jewellery and garnets that appear almost black in low light — and instructs you to dance in the way your superiors did. dances of worship, dances that he does not need, because he is already all-powerful.
the dances fit you like armour fits the weedy frame of a young boy — your legs don’t quite stretch far enough, your arms can’t move with a fluidity only gained by experience — but sukuna watches you like you are a sorceress, enchanting him with each step. he hushes uruame as they try to speak, insisting on remaining undisturbed during your worship — and when you finish, panting and glistening with sweat, your god only hums in satisfaction, grin all sharp-toothed and feral.
it must be blasphemous, you think, to perform such revered dances so clumsily—
but perhaps even more blasphemous, though, is the lingering touches your god fixes upon your waist; the hunger in his eyes as you dance; the scrape of his pointed nails against your jawline; the tent in his robes at the sound of your laboured breaths after dancing.
you fear the god of war means to have you in more ways than one — and worse still, you can’t find it within you to care.
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