#Neighborhood Atheism

[foreficfandom]

Alastor - Historical Trivia And Headcanons

Alastor was a mixed-race Creole man living in New Orleans, and was in his 30's/40's when he died in 1933. We don't know much else about him, but historical context can provide us with possible additional details:

The population of New Orleans in 1930 was 458,762, more than it is now. 27.2% of the people were black, 3.1% were foreign-born, and roughly half of America's bipoc population was unemployed thanks to the Great Depression. New Orleans' original Francophonication was still strong, and it was common to run into locals who only spoke French dialects (Cajun French, Louisiana Creole). The city has had a huge Chinatown, a small Little Italy, and multiple other districts known for their immigrant African/colonized French cultures.

The Jim Crow laws were heavily enforced, as was the 'One Drop' rule. If Alastor was a mixed race black man, he would not have been able to attend a white school, use the same public transport, and would have shopped at black-local stores and restaurants under threat of violence. If he was mixed with any other race, some Jim Crow laws didn't apply, but state or city laws might specify differently.

Just because Alastor wears a suit, it doesn't mean he was rich in life. Radio personalities often didn't earn a fortune. Unless he owned his own broadcast, he was paid by a private company for long shifts of hosting music, news, and radio plays. In 1930, 40% of households owned at least one radio, which means that a popular radio host would have been easily recognized.

If he was in his late 30's in 1933, he might have fought in WW1, so long as he was over the age of 21. Some cities gave veterans small benefits, or encouraged the community to give them jobs. This often did not include veterans of color.

New Orleans was famous for being one of the least Christian cities in America, thanks to its unique immigrant and slave population. Haitian-based faiths and practices (such as voudo), indigenous cultures, Asian Buddhism, and atheism were common. But Christianity was still the official, law-enforced religion. Schooling involved reading the Bible, laws were sworn to Jesus, etc.

Alastor's outfit in Hazbin Hotel isn't very accurate to real-life American men's fashions of the time. Back then, deviating from the norm with the smallest detail would have stuck out like a sore thumb - like his white-lined lapels. Men always wore a hat. They were allowed to go without a waistcoat, but not a jacket. Belts were becoming more popular than suspenders. The silhouette was bulkier than the slimmer, Italian cuts of our modern times, especially the pants. Hair was kept short, and oiled down in a side part. Americans preferred the clean shaven look. Ties were essential unless you were a blue-collar laborer. Colors were almost universally muted neutral tones for everyday wear. The most colorful textiles for men were sporting outfits, like a tennis jacket.

If Alastor was a middle-class single man, he likely would have lived in an inner-city apartment, in an ethnic neighborhood. He probably didn't own a car, and took public transit like the streetcars. If he owned a house, it would likely have been an inheritance, and even the more opulent houses of the time would have looked small and plain to our eyes.

Because of the Great Depression, unmarried men were becoming the norm, rather than the exception. Men of the community who were sought after but remained single were suspect to gossip, but less ire than you might think; in the '30s, American queer culture was going through a very sharp revival, escaping the rigid Victorian era and before the puritan 40's/50's. But as a mixed-race man, it may have been illegal for a white woman to marry him, as the Jim Crow laws forbade the marriage of white people and Black/Asian people.

A middle class city household would have had electricity, gas heating, indoor plumbing, but may not have had running taps or a gas stove. Even with decent means, Alastor might have been using a potbelly woodburning stove, a dry sink/washbasin, wooden bathtub, and did his own laundry instead of sending it to the neighborhood laundresses. He may or may not have bothered with an icebox. Fresh groceries needed to be cooked and eaten soon, as things like pasteurized milk or store refrigeration wasn't a thing.

If he had enough money, then he almost certainly hired maids or other servants. Whether the maid came over just once a week, or did the shopping and laundry every other day, hired help was much more common back then, especially if he had no wife.

The most popular musicians in 1933 were Bing Crosby, George Olsen, and Leo Reisman. As you might have noticed, it was trendy for the lead singer to be backed by an orchestra, not a 'band' of just four other people like today. The most popular radio shows were Dick Tracy, Sherlock Holmes, and Doc Savage. They were recordings the radio station would buy and then broadcast, or sometimes the actors were live on the air. The radio host was usually not the journalist - the production team was responsible for writing his script.

[weasleycream]

Hello again :)

How about hazbin hotel x male Rosie’s brother reader ?

Y/N was a car lover when he was alive and knew how to fix them and even tried to build engines. His sister was the opposite. The siblings often fought about it. Rosie wanted Y/N to get a proper job and not race all the time, but he didn't want to because racing made him good money. After that, they stopped talking to each other and never spoke to each other again for the rest of their lives. Y/N goes to hell first. He steals a proper car and puts a souped up V8 ( like in mad max) tough tires, he even makes his own thunderpoon and a harpoon to steal stuff, when he first sees himself in the mirror he realizes he looks scary. Pale skin, pointy sharp teeth, black eyes and greyish black hair. He starts working out and walking around half naked (like a warboy in mas max but without the paint) All of which earns him the nickname speed demon. Because he was raised as a decent man and hates violence against women and pimps for this reason he hates Valentino. And he makes fun of him as much as he can, which Valentino hates.

Because he looks like a cannibal, Charlie asks him to go with her and Alastor to Rosie's place ( he and Alastor have a great relationship because they help each other fight VVV). Eventually, the siblings meet

My mind has produced another creation of destruction🤪

. ୭.ᰍㅤ𝅄 ֹ " 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐮𝐧𝐢𝐨𝐧 " 🍥 Ⳋ

ઈઉ ㅤִㅤ𝐒𝐡𝐢𝐩𝐬 ; 𝒯here is no 😞

ઈઉ ݁  ㅤִㅤ𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ; Use of bad words, mentions of blood/death, illegal things, cannibalism, mentions of religion (heaven, hell, atheism, etc.) something short (AND PRETTY bad), Bad grammar in English.

ઈઉ ㅤִㅤ 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬 ; 2,2k+

ઈઉ ㅤִㅤ𝗨𝗻𝗰𝗼𝗿𝗿𝗲𝗰𝘁𝗲𝗱

A small group of demons were on their way to the cannibal neighborhood to settle some things with its leader, their sister, Rosie. Although he didn't really like the idea of ​​having to see his 'horrible' sister again, he couldn't refuse Charlie's annoying pleas and insistence and the favor he owed to Alastor, who days ago helped him free himself from the VVV with great humiliation.

Returning to the topic in his mind, he didn't want to see Rosie again, he knew that they were both tycoons from hell, and he shouldn't be afraid, but somehow he was, he never got along with his sister before she died, and the last thing What they did with each other was fighting, which untied the last bond they had left. He was really nervous just thinking about her still being mad at him, because after all, she was her sister and he loved her dearly.

"Oh Come on, Y/N! Nothing bad is going to happen, it's a… Uhm… Peaceful neighborhood?… You have nothing to fear, after all, you're an Overlord!" She appeased Charlie seeing the noticeable nervousness of her 'new friend' of hers wanting to lighten the mood before she too got nervous.

The grayish demon sighed with some annoyance and responded: "I'm not afraid of that disgusting neighborhood, Charlie… I'm nervous about Rosie" he mentioned with some sadness, looking away, seeing how in the distance he could already see the sign that said 'Welcome to the cannibal town!' making him snort resentfully.

"Do you like Rosie?" She blurted out in surprise, seeing how the male stood up straight and was surprised at this.

"Don't be disgusting, Charlie! She's my fucking sister!" She rebuked him angrily, making the blonde more surprised in an innocent way, making her let out a small 'oh' in a soft and low voice, and then see how she opened her eyes in surprise.

"It can't be! Are you the brother of an overlord?!" The demon just snorted tiredly and nodded, listening as Alastor, who had been somewhat quiet, gave an exaggerated and acted laugh, as was typical of him.

"Of course, my dear Charlie! Who else else?! After all, the resemblance is obvious! I can't believe that the princess of hell doesn't even know the relationships between Overlords! It's like asking someone who Lucifer is! " He said charismatic with that distorted voice that brought out humiliations every time he opened his mouth. The blonde only looked away with a nervous laugh, while the blush of embarrassment appeared on his pale skin.

They remained silent for the rest of the trip, until Charlie began to get angry remembering a certain 'Vaggie' and saying that she was a liar, while Alastor had a noticeable twitch in his eye due to the annoyance of the woman next to him. .

They arrived and entered the cannibal plaza, until they reached an elegant white building that looked even bigger on the inside, which was full of demons everywhere. 'Rosie's Emporium' He read the sign before entering, uselessly arranging his hair without taking into account his vulgar clothing, knowing that his sister was going to be dramatically surprised when she saw him, and even more so at those 'facades' as she used to call them years ago.

They went deeper into that place, arriving at what seemed to be the reception that was attended by his sister. It seems like she was a little busy, but she knew how to handle it fluidly without any help, which was something he always admired about her in life.

He was brought out of his thoughts again when he heard the demon scream "Alastor! Where have you been!" She arrived cheerfully without paying attention to her surroundings to greet her dear friend mentioning how gloomy the place was now without her presence. He kept his gaze tightly strained on the scene, wanting the extermination to come now and him to be killed again.

Rosie turned around and spotted Charlie first, making one of her typical cheeky and direct jokes causing the blonde to turn around and roll her eyes in obvious annoyance. When she finished joking, she turned around, finally seeing her brother, causing her smile to drop abruptly, leaving a surprised and annoyed look on her face.

"And it seems that you didn't just refuse to meet me, but also my brother, Al! Long time no see, Y/N, I see that you are still as vulgar as I remember" He mentioned, lowering his gaze as he I looked and 'greeted' him after so many decades.

"Yes… I'm glad to see you too, Ross. You haven't changed a bit either, you're still wearing the same dress they gave you years ago." He responded uncomfortably, keeping his gaze as long as he could, and then looking away, forming a uncomfortable environment [I know I don't believe in you, but… God, help me].

Habían pasado unos minutos desde que se conocieron, y ya estaban en medio de la plaza para que Charlie pudiera dar su gran discurso y ganarse a los caníbales. Pero debido a su tensión y enojo, Rosie se la llevó, dejando a Alastor a cargo. "Bueno, Al, tú estás a cargo mientras yo no estoy, no dejes que la inmundicia haga alboroto en mi territorio" le envió una clara pista a su hermano, para luego arrastrar a Charlie adentro para hablar.

He sighed in defeat. "I don't know why the hell they wanted me here, but I don't know why the hell I agreed to come," he snorted again in annoyance, earning a funny, mocking look from Alastor, who walked up to him and made a sound of 'I don't know,' clearly playing the idiot, bothering the gray-haired boy for the umpteenth time that day. "Look, Alastor, you should know that I don't give a shit that you're the dreaded demon of the Radio, but if you don't stop screwing around I'm going to take care of you may the next person on the air be you"

This made the deer laugh uproariously, who immediately looked back at her. "You know, the reason Rosie hates you is because you never won her heart properly, it's surprising because you're her brother, but I guess in reality every family treats each other the way they want" he received a withering look from Y/N who only grunted, looking straight ahead again.

"I know… It's just that it was always complicated for me, I was never liked by women who weren't my mother. Don't get me wrong, I always treated them well, I grew up with manners and grace, but it's just that, I never had that attitude so refined that they kept in my family, I was always different. Since I can remember, I love illegal racing and everything related to cars, and Rosie was always against them, and I agree with her, all that is dangerous, but Even so, I was passionate about running secretly and achieving my goals and what I was passionate about, something that no one could ever understand." He explained briefly with a gloomy and empty voice, raising his head looking at the ceiling of the central porch and spoke again after giving another sigh "I love Rosie very much, in life she was like my other half, although we have never gotten along, but "I didn't want to be with people who weren't going to support me, and she was never going to do that unless I changed my habits and lifestyle, which I didn't do of my own free will."

The deer listened attentively, narrowing his eyes after the other finished speaking "Then have me support you now in death, my dear menacing friend!" she taunted him, returning to her upright position by removing all her weight from the porch fence. “Rosie is a lovely, understanding demon, and there's not much of that in hell, you know? You should fix the situation with her, who knows?” "Maybe they'll get together and finally destroy the VVV, they're already mad enough." He blurted out of nowhere, causing the grayish demon's raspy laugh to leave his lips. 'Thank you, Al, I owe you again, again. "But don't get used to it," he thanked quietly, knowing that then he would have to return the favor to the radio demon.

After Charlie came out with a more cheerful Rosie and gave her big 'speech' and everyone, including Sussan, joined her, they all started heading to the hotel to get ready, and before Rosie followed them, he grabbed her wrist. , causing her to turn to him with a smile, which quickly dropped when she saw him.

"Ahg… What do you need, Y/N? I have a client to serve and a neighborhood to guide" she asked him sharply as she jerked out of his grip, turning around completely putting her hands on her hips, remaining in a pose challenging.

"Damn it, Rosie, don't be complicated, okay? I want to talk to you and fix things" He asked with a pleading look, with a quite noticeable blush of embarrassment on his grayish face, standing up straight again, waiting for his sister's response.

The demon snorted and turned her head exhausted, giving a nod and a soft noise, accepting, leading him back to the porch, where there was no one around anymore, they stayed there for a long time in an awkward silence, until the man spoke.

"Look Ross… I'm really, really sorry… I never wanted it to end like this…" he began with a shy look, addressing his dear sister, he turned his head once more, looking at her face to Rosie.

The feminine responded, giving a small smile "It's been a long time since no one called me Ross, you know?" she sighed again, watching as her brother smiled an almost invisible smile "And… I know it was never your intention, I know… "It's just that, I didn't want anything to happen to you, you always left at night and didn't take care of yourself, there were times you came back beaten and I didn't like it… But you couldn't understand that I couldn't support something that hurt you." He snapped again, to see his eyes, finally, they were solving their problems, something he always wanted before he died.

"I'm sorry for worrying you, Ross, but it's my passion, I can't leave it like this… But I want you to know that if it's for you, I'll take better care of myself." He responded, getting a little closer to his sister, who She quickly pulled him into a loving strong hug.

"Only if you promise not to dress like a cheap prostitute anymore and come see me often…" She murmured against him, holding him tighter against her lovingly, never wanting to let go.

"I missed you so much Rosie… You don't know how much" He returned the hug immediately, hiding his face in her neck, letting out a small laugh. "You know? I thought it was going to be a lot more complicated.." The woman slowly walked away from her, and she looked at him with a loving smile.

"Well, Charlie wasn't the only one who let off steam and got advice in there… She really is a lovely girl, of course, when she's not so loud and annoying…" She revealed as she let out a small laugh, walking away from him for fin, crossing his arms "I never thought you would be the one to take the initiative in these things, Speed ​​Demon, I didn't have you so sentimental" He mocked, with a victorious laugh as he laughed.

"You're not the only one who received advice when they left, Alastor can be a pain in the ass, but still, he knows how to help when he feels like it" He also said laughing, hugging the female's shoulders, starting to walk next to the group again, which was quite far away.

"Well, that stubborn guy can be a sweetheart when he wants to be," she replied, resting her head on her brother's shoulder as they walked.

"Although he doesn't give such bad advice, you know? He gave me the idea of ​​allying and overthrowing the VVV, and he's right, they really are annoying." He suggested to his sister, remembering Alastor's words, emphasizing the word 'ally' in burlesque way.

She laughed softly, then put her hands on her hips again. "Well, maybe, but first I'm going to get you decent clothes, don't think I'm going to forget your promise, sir." She remembered seriously, receiving a tired snort from her brother. 'Whatever you say, but we'll stop by my workshop and go by car' he responded in a low voice, knowing that his sister had heard, and received a disgusted face in response "Of course not! First exterminated and in heaven praying to Jesus before getting on "That thing of yours, you would kill me again but with a heart attack." He laughed loudly, keeping up with him.

Well… It's not the best thing I've ever done, I apologize, really, I was never very good with reunions 😞💔Likewise, I hope you liked it.🥹

[transmisible]

“All That” by David Foster Wallace

Among the qualities that made my parents see me as eccentric and mysterious was religion, for, without any prompting or even understanding, I was a religious child—meaning I was interested in religion and filled with feelings and concerns that we use the word “religious” to describe. (I’m not putting any of this well. I am not and never have been an intellectual. I am not articulate, and the subjects that I am trying to describe and discuss are beyond my abilities. I am trying, however, the best I can, and will go back over this as carefully as possible when I am finished, and will make changes and corrections whenever I can see a way to make what I’m discussing clearer or more interesting without fabricating anything.) My parents were intellectuals and devout atheists, but they were tolerant and largehearted, and when I began to ask “religious” questions and to express interest in “religious” themes they freely allowed me to seek out religiously oriented people with whom I could discuss these themes, and even to attend church services and Mass with the families of other children from school and our neighborhood who were religious. If you consider the usual meaning of “atheism,” which, as I understand it, is a kind of anti-religious religion, which worships reason, skepticism, intellect, empirical proof, human autonomy, and self-determination, my parents’ open tolerance of my religious interests and my regular attendance of services with the family next door (by this time my father had tenure, and we had our own home in a middle-class neighborhood with a highly rated school system) was exceptional—the sort of nonjudgmental, respectful attitude that religion itself (as I see it) tries to promulgate in its followers.

None of this occurred to me at the time; nor did the connection between my feelings for the “magic” toy cement mixer and, later, my interest in and reverence for the “magic” of religion become apparent to me until years later, when I was in the second year of seminary, during my first adult crisis of faith. The fact that the most powerful and significant connections in our lives are (at the time) invisible to us seems to me a compelling argument for religious reverence rather than skeptical empiricism as a response to life’s meaning. It is difficult to stay on what feels like the “track” of this discussion in an orderly, logical way. Some of the adults my parents allowed me to approach with religious questions and issues included teachers, a religion professor whom my father knew and respected from an interdepartmental university committee they had served on together, and the father and mother of the family next door, who were both deacons (a type of élite lay minister) in the church two blocks from our home. I will forgo a description of the issues, questions, and themes that my parents allowed me to discuss with these religious adults; they were entirely unexceptional and universal and average, the sorts of questions that everyone eventually confronts in his own time and his own individual way.

My surfeit of religious interest also had to do with the frequency and tenor of the “voices” I regularly heard as a child (meaning up until roughly age thirteen, as I recall it). The major reason that I was never frightened about the voices or worried about what “hearing voices” indicated about my possible mental health involved the fact that the childhood “voices” (there were two of them, each distinct in timbre and personality) never spoke of anything that wasn’t good, happy, and reassuring. I will mention these voices only in passing, because they are both not directly vital to this and also very hard to describe or convey adequately to anyone else. I should emphasize that, although “make-believe” and “invisible friends” are customary parts of childhood, these voices were—or appeared to me as—entirely real and autonomous phenomena, unlike the voices of any “real” adults in my experience, and with manners of speech and accent that nothing in my childhood experience had exposed me to or prepared me in any way to “make up” or combine from outside sources. (I realized just now that another reason that I do not propose to discuss these childhood “voices” at length is that I tend to fall into attempts to argue that the voices were “real,” when in fact it is a matter of indifference to me whether they were truly “real” or not or whether any other person can be forced to admit that they were not “hallucinations” or “fantasies.” Indeed, one of the voices’ favorite topics consisted in their assuring me that it was of no importance whether I believed they were “real” or simply parts of myself, since—as one of the voices in particular liked to stress—there was nothing in the whole world as “real” as I was. I should concede that in some ways I regarded—or “counted on”—the voices as another set of parents (meaning, I think, that I loved them and trusted them and yet respected or “revered” them: in short, I was not their equal), and yet also as fellow-children: meaning that I had no doubt that they and I lived in the very same world and that they “understood” me in a way that biological adults were incapable of.) (Probably one reason that I fall automatically into the urge to “argue for” the voices’ “reality” is that my “real” parents, though they were wholly tolerant of my believing in the voices, obviously viewed them as the same sort of “invisible friend” fantasies I mentioned above.)

At any rate, the best analogy for the experience of hearing these childhood “voices” of mine is that it was like going around with your own private masseur, who spent all his time giving you back—and shoulder—rubs (which my biological mother also used to do whenever I was sick in bed, using rubbing alcohol and baby powder and also changing the pillowcases, so that they were clean and cool; the experience of the voices was analogous to the feeling of turning a pillow over to the cool side). Sometimes the experience of the voices was ecstatic, sometimes so much so that it was almost too intense for me—as when you first bite into an apple or a confection that tastes so delicious and causes such a flood of oral juices that there is a moment of intense pain in your mouth and glands—particularly in the late afternoons of spring and summer, when the sunlight on sunny days achieved moments of immanence and became the color of beaten gold and was itself (the light, as if it were taste) so delicious that it was almost too much to stand, and I would lie on the pile of large pillows in our living room and roll back and forth in an agony of delight and tell my mother, who always read on the couch, that I felt so good and full and ecstatic that I could hardly bear it, and I remember her pursing her lips, trying not to laugh, and saying in the driest possible voice that she found it hard to feel too much sympathy or concern for this problem and was confident that I could survive this level of ecstasy, and that I probably didn’t need to be rushed to the emergency room, and at such moments my love and affection for my mother’s dry humor and love became, stacked atop the original ecstasy, so intense that I almost had to stifle a scream of pleasure as I rolled ecstatically between the pillows and the books on the floor. I do not have any real idea what my mother—an exceptional, truly lovable woman—made of having a child who sometimes suffered actual fits of ecstasy; and I do not know whether she herself had them. Nevertheless, the experience of the real but unobservable and unexplainable “voices” and the ecstatic feelings they often aroused doubtless contributed to my reverence for magic and my faith that magic not only permeated the everyday world but did so in a way that was thoroughly benign and altruistic and wished me well. I was never the sort of child who believed in “monsters under the bed” or vampires, or who needed a night-light in his bedroom; on the contrary, my father (who clearly “enjoyed” me and my eccentricities) once laughingly told my mother that he thought I might suffer from a type of benign psychosis called “antiparanoia,” in which I seemed to believe that I was the object of an intricate universal conspiracy to make me so happy I could hardly stand it.

The specific instance traceable as the origin of my religious impulse after my interest in the cement mixer passed (to my parents’ great relief) involved a nineteen-fifties war movie that my father and I watched together on television one Sunday afternoon with the curtains drawn to prevent the sunlight from making it hard to see the screen of our black-and-white television. Watching television together was one of my father’s and my favorite and most frequent activities (my mother disliked television), and usually took place on the couch, with my father, who read during the commercials, sitting at one end and me lying down, with my head on a pillow on my father’s knees. (One of my strongest sensory memories of childhood is the feel of my father’s knees against my head and the joking way he sometimes rested his book on my head when the commercial interruption occurred.) The movie in question’s subject was the First World War and it starred an actor who was much lauded for his roles in war movies. At this point my memory diverges sharply from my father’s, as evidenced by a disturbing conversation we had during my second year at seminary. My father apparently remembers that the film’s hero, a beloved lieutenant, dies when he throws himself on an enemy grenade that has been lobbed into his platoon’s trench (“platoon” meaning a small military grouping of infantrymen with close ties from being constant comrades in arms). According to my father, a platoon is usually commanded by a lieutenant. Whereas I remember clearly that the hero, played by an actor who was noted for his portrayal of conflict and trauma, suffers private anguish over the moral question of killing in combat and the whole religious conundrum of a “just war” and “justified killing,” and finally undergoes a total psychological breakdown when his own comrade successfully lobs a grenade into a crowded enemy trench and leaps screaming (the hero does, fairly early in the film) into the enemy’s trench and falls on the grenade and dies saving the enemy platoon, and that much of the rest of the film (albeit constantly interrupted by commercials when I saw it) depicts the hero’s platoon struggling to interpret the action of their formerly beloved lieutenant, with many of them bitterly denouncing him as a traitor, many others holding that battle fatigue and a traumatic letter from “Stateside” received earlier in the film exculpated his act as a kind of temporary insanity, and only one shy, idealistic recruit (played by an actor I have never seen in another movie of that era) secretly believing that the lieutenant’s act of dying for the enemy was actually heroic and deserved to be recorded and dramatized for posterity (the shy, anonymous recruit is the narrator, in “voice-overs” at the film’s beginning and end), and I never forgot the movie (whose title both my father and I missed because we didn’t turn on the television until after the movie had begun, which is not the same as “forgetting” the title, which my father jokingly claims is what we both did) or the impact of the lieutenant’s act, which I, too (like the shy, idealistic narrator), regarded as not only “heroic” but also beautiful in a way that was almost too intense to bear, especially as I lay across my father’s knees.

Published in the print edition of the December 14, 2009, issue, with the headline “All That.”

[paradoxcase]

@turtletotem:

I actually don't think the exact nature of The Whole Alfred-and-Cristabel Thing is ever spelled out in the book. Smarter fans than me pieced it together, and once you know, a lot of things become a lot more clear. But don't feel bad if you need to have it spelled out to you in the end, because I sure did.

Well, I certainly don't have much of an idea right now, so I'll look forward to an explanation later if the actual books don't fill me in well enough

@wellhappybirthdaytomeiguess:

My favorite part in this chapter is the slowly growing horror on the part of Harrow and disgust on the part of Ianthe. Harrow ‘briefly contemplating atheism’ made me laugh way more than it should have…

Oh, yeah, I probably should have read that with a bit more weight to it than I did considering how strongly religious she is

Well, to be fair, Ianthe is only 22, and seems to be the type to think that anyone over 30 is too old to be worth anything.

That's fair, I could see her having that opinion

When it comes to Gideon the First, he IS using necromantic power. It’s how he drains all the thanergy from Harrow’s constructs. He just prefers to be a hands on type, and he seems to be the most physical of the Lyctors. And he and Pyrrha she establish the Second House. But good and interesting thinking on that duo!

That's true, the founders of the Second House would naturally be more physical/martial than the others, even the necromancers, but it's still pretty funny to me how little Mercy seems to align with the current focus of her House, so I'm not necessarily expecting all of the founding Lyctors to play to trope. But I think there is something going on with him

@eye-lantern:

I am very much not aroace but I gotta admit God fucking his Lyctors still took me by surprise. I knew they were being sexual between Lyctors but John had a responsibility and status that could have prevented this, but considering who he is, as soon as the shock passed I felt like of course he would.

I'm glad it's not just me! Honestly, I have very little idea of what is considered a normal/expected amount of sexuality, I think, I do actually add romantic and sexual drama to my sims neighborhood, but when I do that it winds up being wild chaos with everyone dating everyone else and/or large groups of people winding up in complicated poly relationships and I know that's not realistic but I don't know where the line is, really

@wandering-minx:

Small note that doesn't really matter, it was Cytherea that suggested the weeny construct as a way to bypass the siphoning challange.

Oh, you're right! I must have misremembered because of Harrow's line about not having worked with something as small as the key Palamedes got her to make during that other scene

[captainjonnitkessler]

i also grew up in a rural area, and honestly a lot of the same criticisms apply to both.

1. car dependent infrastructure.

i couldnt walk to any third spaces (stores or libraries) in either place. i also couldnt catch a bus or train to see the rest of the world. in both places, i was surrounded by long lonely highway.

2. insular and suspicious of outsiders

in the sticks and the burbs it was legit a liability to be any kind of nonwhite or queer. in the burbs because nobody really knew their neighbors, but everyone was a total busybody, and my Black neighbors would get the cops called all the time because they looked “suspicious”.

in rural areas because of deep envy and suspicion of anyone perceived to be doing “better than us” or being “too good for us” (because of atheism, queerness, nonwhiteness). even though i knew my neighbors they did not like me, and took every opportunity to let me know it. eventually, our town hall was defaced with a swastika.

these problems combined to produce a pervasive loneliness and surveillance culture that heavily punishes difference. people find relief in the diversity and options and free movement afforded to them by cities. its not a moral failing not to live in a city, but its a social failing that its so hard to leave the sticks and the burbs behind, if you want to go.

the problems at work here are isolation and alienation from ourselves and each other. and of course, poverty, and the fact that kids and disabled people and old people have no way to leave the gravity wells created by isolated and lonely places. that happens in cities too, but at least in a city, there’s a better chance to be able to GTFO.

in a fair and just world, it would be possible to move freely from place to place to pursue happiness. as long as we keep building car dependent, homogenous, sprawling suburbia and refuse to connect rural communities with transit infrastructure and resources, people will be trapped against their will in those places.

Those are valid criticisms! The car thing is definitely my biggest issue - anyone who can't drive can very easily be trapped in their own house. Growing up I was really lucky to have a mom who was willing to drive me around to friends' houses and school events - if she hadn't been able or willing to do so I would've been completely stuck.

I think the isolation problem is variable - personally I don't really want to know my neighbors and that would be true no matter where I lived. Other people really like having a neighborhood community. It's definitely easier to find people you mesh with (and who aren't bigoted dickbags) in the city though.

And I think it's worth noting that the mobility problem works in the other direction, too. Being in the city can be expensive, unpleasant, and can trigger a lot of sensory issues. But there aren't many apartments out in suburban/rural areas, so you not only need a car but the ability to buy a house, more time to commute, etc.

Basically I think it's totally fine to prefer living in the suburbs or in rural areas, but you're absolutely right that a lot of people can get trapped where they're living with no opportunity to get out. Suburbs definitely need better planning and zoning to prevent creating those gravity wells.

[welcome-to-oslov]

Thinking of/missing Tilrey, and this time of year made me wonder: does Oslov culture have holidays? Or religion/spirituality? Seems like no, but just curious!

I appreciate how Tilrey lives a bit by a code of being a good person (for ex. he was so uncomfortable/hesitant about recruiting a replacement, how he treated that sort-of doppelganger actor kindly, etc.), though of course that kinda of thing can totally exist side-by-side with atheism. Seems the high-class folks mainly worship those quant scores...?

Good question! I had to go into the archives for this one because it’s mentioned so rarely.

Officially, Oslov has no religion, but there are traditions left over from Feudalism, like saying “May their last moment be bright” about a dead person. Feudals believed that your last moment on earth becomes your after-life. Feudals also had myths about owls and believed they gave sap to human beings and it was a sacred substance for ritual, rather than a recreational drug. Niko Karishkov went undercover with some Thurskein Laborers who still believed this.

There is a secular solstice festival, and Thurskein has many additional winter festivals, some of which might have Feudal roots—we hear about that in “Crosscurrents and Consequences” when Vera goes there and has culture shock.

Many Laborers still have old religious beliefs that the government doesn’t sanction. Here’s the main passage about that, from “I’ll Be Watching You”:

“On the dingy-white drywall to his right, someone had stenciled an icon: a stylized yellow lightning-bolt enhanced with glitter. The Spark, the life giver. Bors had seen it often on walls in the neighborhood where he grew up, along with its companions, the Fruit and the Signal (or the Radiance, as some people called it). Maintenance crews scrubbed them off or painted over them, but they always reappeared.

His mother used to press her index finger to the Spark for good luck. Bors himself had done it a few times before big tests at school. Now, as an Upstart, he was ashamed of such superstitions; everyone knew the icons originated in the decadence of the Tangle and not in some magical past. The Spark had once signified electric power, nothing more or less.

He watched as pilots heading back out to the hangar paused to touch the icon with their fingers or thumbs. Did they really think the Spark would keep their battery-powered planes safely in the air, or was it just a reflex?”

This is also me being a little corny because the “spark” is the standard electricity icon, the “fruit” is the Apple logo, and the “radiance” is the Wi-Fi icon. 😏 I like the idea of them gaining religious significance in a post-collapse world (which is what Oslov emerged from).

Oh, and I have a chapter close to ready, but other stuff came up. Soon, I hope! ❤️

[fandom-space-princess]

None But Shining Hours

Chapter: 1/? Rating: M (No Archive Warnings Apply) Pairing: Michael/Adam Milligan Summary:

“What a gift,” he repeats. There is so much satiety in saying it, in existing before those eyes and saying anything at all. And so he makes a banquet of his words: “To be given another chance. To be allowed to do it with you by my side.”

“Do what?” whispers Adam, voice cracking.

Michael tilts his head forward. Presses his forehead to Adam’s.

“To find out.” ------- What does it mean, for an archangel to live? Post-resurrection, Michael explores what he is now, absent the burden of leadership and the context of a predestined fate. ------- [Written for @spnarchangelweek 2022, as a sequel to last year's fic The Game of Us. Read below, or on AO3.]

-------------------- 

A ghost in an apartment has much in common with an angel residing in a mortal host. Among other similarities, either has the power to render a space uncanny by virtue solely of presence. The unconscious ghost on Adam’s sofa is—was? Has been? Will be again?—an angel. In another life, this angel had taught him what it was to be a haunted house: to be inhabited, and then cherished, and then empty again.  

Under the woolen blanket, Michael frets, and stirs, but does not wake. Watching over him, Adam wonders if, this time, the haunting will last.  

-------------------- 

A memory, or a dream: the rap of a silver-tipped cane on cold stone. A voice like the hiss of dead leaves, dusty and skeletal, gusting across a mausoleum threshold.  

“Very well done, my boy, splendid work. Now, then. As edifying as this experience has been for us both, here is where we part.”  

His grace (or soul, or self-stuff, whatever it—he—now may be) is not yet settled in his new-made body—the return from the void has not been without turbulence. Yet through this unrest, Michael gathers his thoughts enough to reply:  

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’d rather not see you again any time soon.”  

The answering laughter rings into echoes, fading away as the darkness before the light.   

-------------------- 

A lifetime ago, Adam might have referred to the sudden appearance of a man on his living room floor—naked and incoherent, on the heels of tremors that rocked the neighborhood and set the local newscasters to learning vocabulary like seismicity and intraplate—as “Biblical.”  

Sometime between his first and second deaths, however, and born of the kinds of emotions he imagines might, for other people, have resulted in severing contact with the in-laws, Adam had cultivated a sort of willful atheism. And in the wake of Chuck’s dismissal from the helm of the universe, very little will ever happen again that could accurately be called Biblical. To his mind, this does nothing to ease the comparison. 

Nor does Michael’s constant, unconscious muttering.  

It’s been four days. Curled in the ratty green recliner that he’d dragged across the room to butt up against the arm of the couch near Michael’s head, Adam has slept only a handful of hours in that time. Mostly, he lays with his cheek pressed into the rough fabric of the chair. Tries, dragging nails into the furrows between his ribs, to understand the tightness nesting beneath his sternum. He watches Michael’s eyelids—the frantic flickering of the muscles there, of the eyes behind them. Listens to his erratic breathing. Observes that he has to breathe, now. 

… it’s going to take some getting used to. 

-------------------- 

Here: fingers. Hands. Wrists. Feel how it all connects. Joints and tendons. Supporting structure—bones. Muscles, to direct it all. And here, veins, yes—capillaries, yes, good—blood, and platelets in the blood; the chemical interplay of oxygen and carbon, supported by iron, nitrogen, hydrogen. Cellular osmosis, electrical impulse. Purpose-built. Bringing it all under control? A delicate balance of will. There is no soul here to moderate the experience. No conductor for this strange symphony but himself.  

Even without sight, he knows: the warmth on his palm is Adam’s hand, clasped around his own. Millimeter by crawling millimeter, Michael squeezes back.

-------------------- 

By day five, Adam is convinced that the guy Michael is wearing isn’t a vessel. At least, not in the sense of the word he’s most acquainted with.  

Mostly, this is because he’s translucent at the edges.  

While Adam remembers often feeling less than—well, real—while he was possessed, he suspects that was more about his state of mind than physical reality. But the man on the couch keeps edging into being literally see-through, skin washing out in patches to an otherworldly shimmer, patches that drift across ghostly afterimages of veins and shifting muscle beneath. It inspires an awful, sympathetic creeping sensation across his own skin, and Adam catches himself holding his breath every time a few square inches of Michael start to fade. So far, they’ve always returned to normal after a handful of seconds: the glossy paleness dissipating as quickly as it arrived, leaving in its place a more even, human brown. It isn’t limited to his skin, either; fingernails, hair, even his teeth, when Adam can see them. 

Fortunately, it happens less frequently as the days wear on. 

The body appears to require no upkeep—though it wouldn’t, would it? His own certainly hadn’t. And yet... his unsettled hands return to it, again and again. Every few hours rearranging the limbs. Turning it, propping a pillow beneath the head, checking pulse and rate of respiration.  

He doesn’t know how much control Michael has, how much of him is here and how much is some undefinable elsewhere. The list of things he knows is astonishingly short, when he thinks about it, and so mostly he doesn’t. But ages-gone nursing classes and boy scout preparedness mean that his hands can do what his mind cannot. And so he cleans the face, gently, with a warm damp cloth. Combs his fingers through the loose-coiled curls, the act of separating and smoothing them hypnotic. Checks the skin vigilantly, over and over and over, for the least sign of cuts or bruises, for any problem he might mitigate; for any hospitality he might offer this home, while he waits for its inhabitant to return.  

-------------------- 

This body embraces him. Wants him. Crafted for him, and only him; it has never been another’s. He wonders, distantly, if this is what it is to be born. He is drawing the symphony closer to harmony with each passing moment. Spirit in concordance with flesh: an experience he had never been designed for. And yet, he will achieve it—is achieving it, with each thud of the heart, now his; with each exhalation of the lungs, now his. There is little left between himself and the last step, but still, he hesitates.   

He’d had a home, before, in Adam, a body, and something more—a partner.   

His home, his body, has been reforged.   

Pulse aflutter with trepidation, he wonders what that will mean for the partnership.   

-------------------- 

On the seventh night, in the witching-hour stillness of Minnesota midnight, he strips his shirt from his shoulders and drags himself onto the couch. Under his hands, the body’s skin is hot, summer-hot and dry, even in the autumn cold. Their breathing, barely audible, all but vanishes under the whistling of the October wind around the edges of his drafty windows. When he pulls the head down to rest on his chest, tugs the arms around him, he can listen to that breathing, and let himself imagine that this is something he will be allowed to keep. 

Don’t ditch on me now, he thinks. He threads his fingers through the body’s hair—through Michael’s hair.  

Come home, Michael. Come home and stay.  

-------------------- 

This, then, is the final step:  

Sound registers first. Panes of glass rattled by the wind, the intermittent tick-thwock of acorns loosed from their trees, clattering down onto the roof— 

(pulse in ears—cacaphonous—jagged) 

—touch is next: textures, fabrics. Couch cushions under his back, unevenly worn— 

(stiff, scratchy—too loud—is that right?)  

—blankets, pants, socks: far softer— 

(muted)  

—atop his chest: a tickle of hair, warmth and the roughness of a calloused palm, and—? 

(blue)  

—someone has been looking at him. He realizes that the cadence of his heart has changed with wakefulness. That the heartbeat he can feel against him has changed, too, sped to match his own and then gone rushing on ahead— 

(blue?)  

—someone has been looking at him for what feels suspiciously like an eternity and— 

(ah. Blue. I remember.)  

“—What a gift.” His senses, still muzzy and cross-wired, lend flavor and texture to the shape of the words.   

Adam is looking at him. 

He looks back. 

“What a gift,” he repeats. There is so much satiety in saying it, in existing before those eyes and saying anything at all. And so he makes a banquet of his words: “To be given another chance. To be allowed to do it with you by my side.” 

“Do what?” whispers Adam, voice cracking.  

Michael tilts his head forward. Presses his forehead to Adam’s. 

“To find out.” 

-------------------- 

[argyrocratie]

“For instance, I was speaking on the west side of Chicago. The neighborhood was changing, originally had been Irish-Catholic and then changed to Jewish. There was still plenty of Irish-Catholics in that neighborhood and I was speaking against religion one night and a fellow threw a knife at me. It so happened that I had a fellow that worked with me at Hart-Schaffner & Marx, a fellow by the name of Moe Converher who knew me. He came over to me and said, "Keep  talking." Be went across the street and about a block from there was Dave and Bill's Pool Room, which was famous in Chicago – the hangout for all hoodlums at that time. Dave Miller used to be a referee in prizefights and just about five minutes later you'd see the gang coming from Dave Miller's Pool Room. They didn't care who it was, what I talked about, except if they could have a fight with Irish; that was going to be a lot of fun for them. So they surrounded me and said, “Keep talking." Well, I modified my talking so I wouldn't antagonize them also, because talking about atheism I might antagonize them as much as the Irish, you know. But those were happy days.”

- 1970 oral history interview with Irving Abrams – Frank Ninkovich

[automatismoateo]

I dont want to be friends w religious people anymore via /r/atheism

I don’t want to be friends w religious people anymore I went to a memorial service this weekend and saw some old friends. I left religion decades ago; this friend also left but has recently gone back to it. This friend told the story of what convinced her that God exists: she ran into a person, who lived in her neighborhood, at a time when she “really needed” this person; therefore “how can there not be a god?” I can’t respect this thought process. I can’t stomach it. It’s offensive to me. How do you maintain friendships w people who carry these unsupportable beliefs well into adulthood? I’m embarrassed by it. I don’t want to be associated with it. And I find her enthusiasm and her diamond cross necklace repelling. I also have unspoken resentment for this friend, who went dark on me when my sister was murdered decades ago. She knows what happened and never reached out to me; then reached out to me when she was going through a divorce. Now she brings up stories about my sister and me when she has never acknowledged the loss or her going dark on me. I don’t respect that either. But I also know I’m not perfect so why should I expect her to be? All I know is religious belief makes me feel bad (why would this alleged god put someone in your path who you “really needed” but not help my sister when she was being raped and murdered? Or leave 6 million Jews to be gassed to death in WW2? It’s obscene.) As someone said, you can’t reason someone out of something they didn’t come to by reason in the first place. Time to broaden my friend group. Submitted September 02, 2024 at 10:08PM by Ok_Jicama3038 (From Reddit https://ift.tt/cPivJqE)

[international-intelligence-inc]

In the late 1970s the Central Intelligence Agency had a modish program to get Soviets and their children, to switch over to Capitalism. Strangely ironic was that my father and I had to go to Soviet Russia and put on shows in Russian the theme was to start a Mr. Roger's Neighborhood in underground Russia. I went and I'd tell the children in Soviet Russia the advantages of living in Capitalism. Overall it was a failure. But interesting. I've discovered any ideological belief including Atheism is a threat to capitalist democracy. I think Atheism more so studying where we went wrong in North Vietnam.

[teddysterk]

Because a lot of us are low on income and can’t afford to commission you, I would recommend you apply for food stamps save some money that way and besides that, maybe have a post on your local neighborhood Facebook page saying you’ll do yardwork for money or something to clean the house for money or I know you’re probably not religious but you could go visit a local church and ask if they have volunteer work. You could do for money mowing some old lady from church his lawn. 

I don’t even wanna answer this… I don’t have the time nor the patience to deal with this 😑 I get you were probably trying to be helpful but this is far from Let’s go over a few things

1. I know some people in this world are low income… I’m not talking to people who can’t afford stuff begging for money! I’m just spreading the word to see if someone who wasn’t struggling could help out someone who is and get a cool thing in return

2. You don’t know my prices?! You said you couldn’t afford something you don’t know the price of? 🤔 how does that make sense? Also no big deal if you can’t afford it if you want to support me but can’t afford a commission reblog like share stuff like that please don’t tell me to instead of commissioning people get food stamps or go to church

3. “Your probably not religious”…. Wtf does that mean? I have never posted anything on my blog relating to religion or atheism why does religion matter in this? It’s a simple thing lots of creators do to make money

4. I do appreciate someone trying to help but I can handle my life ok ❤️ first of all food stamps is actually a really hard thing to get and use second I have gone through lots of things with my mom being low income and on disability we have done all sorts of things and now I decided one of those things would be commissions because I like creating things and it can make money to help my family

5. Volunteers don’t get payed… that’s the whole point of volunteering also there are more places then churches

I’m not trying to sound like an asshole but there are much better ways you could have worded this or better yet just changed your actions entirely

[shirleysatterfield]

Three Arguments For The Existence of God

Anne Mandel

Poetry and Essays

11 articles

June 24, 2023

1.

A Rational Dialogue with an Atheist

Mr. Hedley says:

Atheism provides one with freedom of thought, and hence freedom of actions. It also allows one to think rationally (which gives religionists great trouble). Empty your head of religious doctrine and beliefs and THINK for yourself. Go on; try it; you might enjoy the freedom. If you don’t like it, you can always revert.

I reply:

I already have the freedoms of thought and religion afforded to me by the constitution of the United States. And better than that “Where the Spirit of the Lord is there is liberty.” So, I have freedom in my spirit too and freedom from all sins and addictions. I once had constant suicidal thoughts but they have been gone for thirty years now, even in the difficult times. Freedom from a lifetime of food addiction, I once weighed 250 pounds now I weigh 170 and have been at this weight for eight years with little effort from me outside of intentionally getting regular excise. It’s even a miracle I survived because I was a victim of horrible childhood abuse, raised in a house of horrors. Perhaps you didn’t need Jesus, but I sure did.

But I tell you this much, if China goes to war with the United States over Taiwan. We are all going to need Him sure enough.

Enjoy your day, but stay vigilant. These are no ordinary times.

I do appreciate your mutual respect

Take care

2.

I had another conversation with an atheist who wanted proof. So I gave him my testimony.

Dear Sir,

Testimony time then. I was an Army veteran living in Hawaii with my Army husband. My Navy brother had been killed in an auto accident. After the funeral I took of long distance running in order to cope with the bone crushing grief. One day I jogged up a beautiful side road lined with palm trees to find a small charming white chapel at the dead end end of the road. Inside I found some literature about the evidence on the Shroud of Turin. Curiosity peaked I just prayed to the Lord that I would find a book on this subject thinking that a trip to the book store was in order. But days later I found myself waiting at the main bus hub in Honolulu where there were hundreds of colorful people going to and fro, when out of nowhere out of the crowd stepped a man who I did not know who handed me a book entitled The Shroud of Turin and he handed to me saying, “Here God told me to give you this book.” Then he disappeared back into the crowd and I have never seen him again.

Fast forward many decades. I had been sick and broken and had gained 100 pounds following a sexual assault at work that was not believed which also had me estranged from God Himself. Well at this time in my life I had found my way back to Him again with many weak, faltering steps and now on disability for my many illnesses I had enrolled into Averett University as a journalism student in order to get my life back together. And I was living in a cheap tenement apartment on a street so bad that there had been eleven arson fires in that neighborhood that years, including the house next door my large apartment building when I could hear the people the people screaming as they ran out. No one hurt.

Somewhere along the line I found myself wanting a snack after dark in the PM side of the night. I was standing right by my front door just thinking about how I would like a bowl of cereal with some milk, but it was to late to go to the store on foot as I had no car, and the neighborhood was dangerous. Then immediately there was a little knock at the door and there stood the little old lady who was my upstairs neighbor, someone whom I had helped with food before. She was standing there holding a whole box of cereal and a jug of milk which she handed to me saying, Shirley these are for you.

Need I go on? Just last Sunday my husband and I had a fight, and being old we each have our own little bedrooms. Well, he stormed to his respective room yelled, “I don’t want to talk to you for the rest of the day.” And he slammed the door and locked it from the inside with one of those little hook and eye locks like on screen doors. After a few hours of excruciating pain over the silly fight I decided it was time to make our respective apologies and get ready for some makeup kissing. So I softly tapped on the door but there was no response. I gently tried the door and sure enough it was locked. I knocked on the door again and heard him command me to go away because he was tired. So I tried the door again and it immediately opened. He exclaimed, “How did that door get unlocked, I didn’t unlock it.” And neither did I nor did I even try to force it and on examination the lock was in no way damaged. It had just somehow had separated itself hook from eye.

Now if the devil is in the little details well so is God. He was small enough to make an atom and large enough to make the sun. So God is in the tiny details if you know where to look.

Faith is the substance of things hoped for the evidence of things not seen. Hebrews 11: 1

And we know that God is a rewarder of those who diligently seek Him. Hebrews 11:2

I rest my case. My testimony is my evidence and the last testimony had a witness of two. That’s all the proofs I have except more amazing testimonies of what God has done for me practically in this physical earth realm.

3.

A Last Word of Wisdom for the Atheist Community

I just have one question for the atheist community. What are the tangible benefits of being an atheist? Does it make you feel good, does it give you fulfillment, purpose, pleasure, the knowledge that brings awe? Does it enrich you in anyway? Just what is in it for you.? You sound so miserable. You sound like you don’t even have a song in your heart.

Remember Madilyn Murray O’Hare and what a gruesome end she came to after years of mocking God and His people. And the very son that she strove so hard to shield from prayers didn’t even know she was missing for a year because he became a Christian pastor and she had disowned him. I sometimes wonder if she prayed for herself as she was driven to her death? So sad.

I hope you find some joy and awe and purpose in something because at least for us Christians life has some meaning for us beyond sex and getting food. The atheist crowd is making a big mistake insulting me because I am a new writer in town that has had decades of education, experience, trials in the school of hard knocks, and am from Baltimore too with a similar personality style to Madilyn. Well you have taken on God’s answer to this irreverent woman from Baltimore when you mock God and His people instead of having an intelligent courteous conversation with us because I am more than capable of answering tit for tat without the name calling that you resort to. And these little writings of mine are trending worldwide right now which is an absolute miracle since I am unknown and my page is anonymous. Worldwide revival as the age comes to a close is not coming, it’s here.

[blacklghter]

It didn’t feel ‘cool’ to be on tumblr back then

attention - rumbling forward!!! 

you were warned 

recently i’ve watched some essay youtube videos of people that, just like me, were part of the tumblr (should i say community?) about 10 years ago when we all were teenagers about said platform. when i talk to friends (just one friend actually) younger than me about tumblr, they weren’t old enough to be on it, but somehow participate in the revival through tiktok - a idealized nostalgia - like every nostalgia, doens’t really express truly the experience. 

i agree that tik tok can be very damaging to teenagers, girls or anyone trying to fit in that aesthetic-craze - but at least they are accepted now. 

but honestly, it didn’t feel cool to be on tumblr. i was here because i was too lonely, sad and weird to be anywhere else. i did fake the tumblr persona to myself because i couldn’t afford cool clothes, straightned hair and hang out with my “i’m a freak” group of friends in american suburban neighborhood. 

i come from a working class family in latin america, my parents were very strict, so hanging out with friends without an adult wasn’t a thing. i was thin, but wasn’t the “right” thin, my hair was wild, my smile cracked, my attitude shy and i had different interests than others. conclusion: was bullied from day one in middle school. 

Add to that: i studied in a protestant school and i questioned the “religion” teacher because i saw of something called “atheism” on the internet (yes, i was that naive) conclusion: i was heavily bullied from day one in middle school til the day i left for sophomore high.

does that still affect me today? of course, dummy! i am 24 yo now, is saturday night and i am reflecting on the topic because i feel like shit due to a traumatic event i went through on monday. shit happens to me and everytime i spend hours and hours asking myself “why do i feel so awful?” and my mind always gets me back to those pleasent memories of the good ol’ teenage years. 

i decided to write here because i got inspired by those yt essays, i want to vent about what happened to me on monday, but i can’t really vocalize nor write it yet. i want to go to a psychologist to understand what happened and cope with it properly before telling my family, i don’t want it to be a long lasting trauma like the bullying in school days. 

10 years forward, i’m not a depressed, teen anymore. anxious adult? sure. but now i have a ~life and i don’t have to nor want to rely on a internet persona to be validated, to exist. i just want to vent, to rumble, to understant what i’m thinking before speaking to my loved ones, so they don’t ask me things i can’t answer and worrying (see the anxiety coming thru?). 

So, tumblr.

what was the question? yes, “It didn’t feel ‘cool’ to be on tumblr back then” it didn’t, but it was special anyways. i’m not miserable all the time, but sometimes i do, other times i write. it’s a wrap! 

you’ll never read this, but thank you, Frog, for holding me tight <3 

see ya next time, folks

[divergent-one-1984]

Organized Crime Ring in Astoria, NY. I have been the victim of TARGETED COMMUNITY HARASSMENT SINCE SUMMER 2016 because of my race and gender first, making this ongoing abuse DISCRIMINATORY HATE CRIME. I am an African American female.

This ongoing abuse since Summer 2016 is going on in a neighborhood under the jurisdiction of the 114th Precinct, in apartment buildings managed by Central Astoria, LLC.

In addition to me being stalked and harassed because I am an African American female, I am being harassed for who I am and my life views, based on personal, private, confidential information illegally accessed and leaked while I was employed at NYC Department of Education where the abuse started in the form of WORKPLACE MOBBING, forcing me to quit in 2016 because I could not take the abuse anymore.

Confidential medical information (HPV, ABORTION) illegally accessed and leaked, was also used to justify the abuse.

I am being abused also because of my life views, which are more liberal, individual, critical thinking, free thinking, and open-minded, including my atheism. Basically, I don't fit into boxes people try to put me in, I am being targeted and abused for who I am and how I think, on multiple levels.

Also, to be quite candid, these people appear to highly subscribe to a group think mentality, don't seem to think for themselves of to think critically and let their religion overrule common sense, intellectual, and emotional intelligence so much so that I don't even think most of them have the ability to even fully understand who I am, the complexities, and the importance of individualism, choice, free will, dignity, privacy, anonymity as basic human rights simply based on the fact that they are closed off in their thinking, operate at a low vibrational level, and probably lack education and knowledge about history and culture of this country because they chose to siloe by their religion and ethnic origins and have the nerve to flip things when they are the ones filled with so much hate, they can even see it, its natural to them and seems to be an extension of their religious beliefs and their own bigotry, they are projecting their hate onto me even though I have never done anything to them.

They are operating off of some lies, half truths someone(s) told almost a decade ago, simply because they have hate and intolerance inherently in their spirit and opposed to anyone who does not subscribe to the life views they have, instead of living and let live they condemn people for being themselves and try to exert coercive control (an actual crime in some European countries) to try to change them as a person as if they have a right to do this.

They also make ridiculous assumptions because of close mindedness, which does not take into account details, context, and nuance, pretty much a reflection of the way society operates today.

We live very much in a society where if people don't think like the labels / boxes they "are supposed to" think then they should be condemned and cast out and the assumptions / perceptions about them are true and make them entirely who they are. Instead of leaving people alone we have to get them to agree with us or see things our way, that is ridiculous.

There are many reasons why people don't see eye to eye on things and there is nothing wrong with that, it should be expected based on the sheer volume of people in the world and the diversity of people, this is healthy intellectual debate, as long as boundaries and beliefs are respected, noone should be trying to force their way of life or way of thinking onto another just because you dont agree, especially if you resorting to emotional violence to punish / change someone (especially when your point of reference is based on lies someone with mental health issues and an unhealthy interest im me started seemingly because I would not give them attention they expected), that's morally and ethically wrong.

Since this hate, abuse, and coercive control is mostly coming from religious people I find it quite ridiculous and hypocritical, and they say Atheists have no morals, that's a joke.

I probably have more of a moral and ethical compass and understanding of right and wrong than any of these people put together, obviously, or they would not be harassing, stalking, and abusing me everyday for going into 8 years now.

These people hide behind religion to justify hate and hateful actions against another human being.

Live and Let live and Agree to Disagree are my mottos, this is an adult, intellectually healthy way to be and live. Mind your own business and don't bother me if I don't bother you.

Many people are not just not one thing, we are multifaceted, if your intellectual abilities are diminished in some way you will probably never even be able to grasp that concept, but at the end of day regardless of all this, no one has a right to harm or abuse another human being for any reason, it does not take a high IQ to know this, it's basic right and wrong, but religious zealotry, fundamentalism, extremism, racism, sexism, etc. can make people do nonsensical, stupid cruel things just because.

I have been part of this particular community since 1976, I have never had problems with individuals or groups of individuals and have never done anything to anyone here or in the workplace so obviously the abuse is entirely NOT instigated by me. Someone(s) with severe mental health issues and an unhealthy interest in me started this purely based on something made up in their head and unwarranted hate.

Everyday in this neighborhood, the majority of people I am being harassed by are Muslims and Latinos, 2 of the most religious groups of people on the planet. I do not believe this to be a coincidence, its by design because what is being done to me comes from a place of pure hate, discrimination, intolerance, racism, sexism, misogyny and religious zealotry, along with straight up lies, truths, and half truths from a gossip and a rumor mill started as part of WORKPLACE MOBBING HARASSMENT while I was employed at the NYC Department of Education simply because someone did not like me and wanted to exert control over me for some reason, not because I did something to them.

Btw, I was awakened this morning around 430ish AM due to the ongoing, daily NOISE HARASSMENT in my apartment building and in the neighborhood, which is why I am up so early. Ongoing NOISE HARASSMENT and SLEEP DEPRIVATION especially this morning to agitate me because I have an appt to leave the house today for bed ridden relative. These stalkers / harassers / abusers want to not only harm me but exert coercive control over me and agitate me to try to get me to "act out" in public so that they can get police involved, this has been happening since the WORKPLACE MOBBING I experienced while I was employed at NYC Department of Education.

The last straw that made me quit was because I realized they were trying to not only fabricate a firing for cause they were trying to get me to lash out and put hands on someone so that I would be arrested and get entangled with the legal system, even though I have been a law abiding citizen and am not even a violent person. I suppose they wanted to fabricate situations repetitively in hopes I would act and fall into stereotypes of the angry black woman and violent black person. I knew it was time to go after a specific interaction with a staff member where she tried to block my egress from elevator upon my arrival to work. She was obviously trying to get me to lash out and put hands on her on camera even though she is the one in the wrong by physically blocking my egress. Multiple people in the woekplace had been harassing me for months at that point so I think they thought I was agitated enough that it could potentially cause me to act of violently but it did not and still hasn't after about 8 years now of daily stalking, abuse, and harassment.

[denialandavoidance]

god i wish i could go into the atheism tag and see some solid points once in a while instead of a bunch of basement-dwelling edgelords’ stolen memes and reductive picture post takes

[bates--boy]

   So, now came the time for Peter to compartmentalize, because compartmentalizing was good for the mind when the soul felt like checking out. And thus, Peter compartmentalized:

          He was doing this for the collective; this was only a step above what he normally does, anyway, and he was getting paid more money in one go doing it; this was a new experience and he should be happy that he was experiencing this experience instead of being dragged through the neighborhood at four in the morning by overeager dogs and a cat; he was going to be a professional model and this was going to look so good on his resume.

          All the rationalization in the world couldn’t unlock his body from the flash freeze of embarrassment as the tits were applied to his chest.

           There was much deliberation on which size was appropriate for Peter. Though the A- and B-cup silicone breasts complemented Peter’s physique well, making him look more femininely athletic and less boyishly skinny, his shoulders were a tad too wide and the smaller cups didn’t fill out the bust of the dress quite right. There were the DDs and larger that balanced out the width of Peter’s shoulders, but they looked too unnatural, and they would require bigger hip padding that would hide Peter’s slimness that the dress required, making his employment there moot.

          Of the C- and D-cups, they went with C. No one was really happy with this decision -- a true compromise.

        So Peter had to sit there in his topless glory, struggling with a discomfort so great that it was nearly paralyzing, and resisting the fascination with his newly acquired assets and its accompanying urge to fondle them and feel their weight in his palms. The makeup artist swooped in to work his airbrush magic, spraying a shimmering foundation at Peter’s shoulders and collarbone to soften the bones and structure. As the artist worked, Peter distracted himself with working on his new song, “Batta Boy”. He couldn’t write in his notebook, not with the makeup artist practically in his lap to get close enough to spruce up his face, but he worked the lyrics in his head all the same.

           He had a chorus and a dry, barebone structure of a verse, and as Peter deliberated between using “heckle” and “hackle” as rhyme schemes or changing it to “shackle” (which meant changing up half of the song he already had figured out), the artist refilled his nozzle and went to work on Peter’s breasts. With a little bit of spray and a lot of dabbing with the blending brush, the lines of the breast forms merge so neatly with his skin that Peter believed, for just a second, that he actually could jiggle the bad boys in his hands without fear of them popping off.

          ...He really needed to stop thinking about fondling himself, or fondling an extension of himself, or maybe stop being so hyperfocused on the jelly tits altogether. 

         The manager, somehow holding a conversation with whomever on her earpiece line and giving out orders to what Peter guessed were interns, hustled Peter to the rack of dresses, where workers waited with his dress hanging on its own pole. Peter was glad for the tucking underwear he wore as the workers slid the dress up his body. When they fit the bodice over the chest and zipped up the back, Peter checked himself out in the expansive mirror, smoothing his hands down the front; a bulge would have ruined the mermaid fashion piece, would have been extremely noticeable through the blindingly white smooth satin that twisted and cascaded into a pool of fabric around his feet. He twisted his torso in the mirror; he knew that the dress provided full back protection, but he had to be sure that the... thing, the unpleasant reminder of a barely-escaped catastrophe, wasn’t showing. He couldn’t have anything ruin his big day... His fake wedding photoshoot day.

       Even when the manager grabbed his elbow and guided him to the first set, Peter had stylists buzzing about him, setting pearl pins into his headband twist updo, setting in the veil, laying a silver and diamond bib necklace on his collarbone, yanking on his earlobes to put the pearl earrings in, spritzing hair product on his head.

          Because the weather decided to be a gloomy gray, the tech crew had set up soft lights along the wooden bridge. At the center stood the altar made of twisted birch wood and decorated with vines of white flowers and lamps with tea candles; stepping closer, Peter saw they were safely battery operated.

         Like the smooth tide of water, the manager marched off after delivering Peter to the altar and the photographer swooped in to nudge Peter onto the blue tape “X”. 

          “Alright, Mister Peter,” the baby-faced photographer -- Leo? Luis? Peter couldn’t remember and went with El -- said as he toyed with the settings on his camera. “Let’s start off with a couple test shots, and then some real ones with just you, okay? Look at the camera, and...”

          Even in the test shots, Peter had to give the camera something, even something as subtle as a tilted head, slightly lifted chin, or a faraway gaze with parted lips.

          El went through the last few shots, checking the lighting and angles and quality. “Excellent!” El exclaimed. He deleted the test shots and waved a worker over, who hurried to the altar to hand Peter the bouquet and hurriedly backed away. El raised the camera once more. “Alright, turn slightly to the left. A little more, a tad more...”

         Peter followed every direction. A demur gaze over the shoulder, a bold and full front-facing pose, a jutting of hips and emphasis of ass to show off the curvy fit of the dress, a “candid” moment of brushing aside a loose lock of hair. 

          “Pierre!” the manager called out as she made her return to the altar; Peter was about to correct her when he realized that she was talking to the photographer, and he was glad that the foundation on his face was laid on thick, because the way his face burned from not even being close to getting Pierre’s name right would have clashed awfully with the dress. “Burak’s ready!”

        El -- Pierre nodded and gestured for Peter to take a step back. Just like what he was subjected to, Peter saw that the supposed Burak was also swarmed with stylists fixing up the cream lapels of his white tuxedo. And the man was... huge. Okay, maybe it was the princely stride that made him seem gigantic, because he couldn’t have been more than 196 centimeters, and Peter has definitely met men taller than that even if he can count the number of them on one hand. But still, the way Burak took over the bridge like it was his catwalk, shoulders wide and sharp, grabbed Peter.

         It still didn’t prepare Peter for when the proximity between them closed, and he had to stand there, face-to-face, unguarded, in front of this...

         ...He didn’t want to say god, but when one stood before a man with a jaw so chiseled that they are willing to cut their palm just to touch it, and ink black hair in a neat and sweeping coif, warm honey skin that made the other person feel like warm honey inside, and amber eyes that made one feel like a cornered rabbit about to be devoured in the most thrilling way -- one became lost for words. 

          One became lost for breath, and Peter was surprised and relieved that when he said “Hi”, it didn’t come out in a choked, whimpering utterance.

         “Hello!” Burak said, and Peter forced himself to not imagine how such a deep voice would sound so lovely during pillow talk. He held a hand out. “You’re Peter, right?”

          “Yeah!” Peter said, taking the offered hand to shake. 

          “Introductions later!” Pierre called out. “Burak, take Peter’s hand and lift it up, give his knuckles a gentle kiss. Peter.”

         And the smile Burak gave behind Peter’s knuckle was too gentle, too unfairly divine, and Peter had two thoughts in that moment:

          He promised to turn away from atheism for the rest of his life if a god, any god out there, made sure his tucking underwear kept whatever erection he may have in check for the rest of this photoshoot.

          And he remembered that there was actual champagne on set. He was going to need some of it.