#and to me that is genuinely an appealing thought this is why god wont let me draw seggsy

[epicqtefail]

I like how you're the only artist I know who doesn't try to make Connor look super sexy or super cute all the time, you draw him exactly like a person I would expect to lick blood off the floor, and I mean that in a good way. Not that there's anything wrong with depicting him as sexy or cute, but he's a multifaceted guy, and you always manage to capture the funniest facet.

wdym are my connors not super sexy and cute 🥺? (im joking!! sorry, i couldn't resist)

this made me laugh i'm thrilled you think i capture that, thank you, (and yes of course, nothing wrong (everything right!) with any connors i love the variety this community produces! all delightfully unique). it’s just a matter of style, i have to admit it’s half because i've never been capable of drawing sexy or cute, all my ideas are bad and not by choice. probably for the best because my oh no connors hot moments and does connor is baby? moments are usually over weird stupid shit. but it's probably also influenced by the happy surprise i got over his character when i played the game, relative to the guy i was expecting whose only traits i thought were appealingly 'quirky' and good looking (idk why i was such a snob about connor before i knew connor). Instead he turned out to be this nightmare clown nerd that no amount of beauty or dark googly puppy eyes can conceal (although, i commit the crime of exaggerating that until he's just a bad one dimensional parody. I hope it doesn't come across as mean-spirited, it's with love).

But yes absolutely i love getting to see everyone's own flavour of connor,, goofy, badass, good boy, bad boy, sickcunt, angled, wrinkled, babyfaced, awooga-fied, cryptid, he can be all of these things. it's like when you really love a song and you find different versions/demos/covers because having it in one form isn't enough. i want to print out everyone’s connor art and just

[sunnyisinsane]

HI IGNORE THIS GOOGLE DOCS KEEPS CRASHING ON ME SO IM USING THIS TO TAKE NOTES OF A THING I HAVE A THOUGHT ABOUT THIS WONT MAKE SENSE TO ANYONE BUT ME

ALSO KINDA SPOILERS FOR MY SPIRIT FIC . NOT REALLY THIS CHAPTER IS FOR A LOOOTTTT LATER

Being here after what happened feels wrong, what happened was wrong. I should've left after that but I had the bright idea of sticking around.

"Oh Spirit, here." I look up at Stein, he's walking around the couch I'm sitting on and sets down a stack of books on the coffee table.

"Hey wait, are those?" I mumble out and lean over the table.

"yep, it's only a few of them, the rest are in some boxes. I figured these will keep you from going bored. You forgot to grab them after you left me, I didn't have the gaul to return them." The man awkwardly sits next to me from a distance he breaths out heavily and continues on.

"i even tried reading them, I missed you that much. I couldn't finish even one though, not my kind of genre." I feel my face flush with embarrassment when Stein says that.

I pick up the first book. It's the first twilight book. I had the entire fucking series of books.

"promise me you didn't read this one." I look up at him and he looks uncomfortable.

"not my genre,"

Looking back at the book I start remember old moments here sitting on this couch reading books. Oh my god I remember putting myself in the place of the main character is genuinely getting giddy when anything romantic happened.

"I'm going to grade some papers, you sit here, I can't concentrate with you near me."

Stein goes to stand up but I grab his arm.

"spirit,"

"stein, I'm still worried about you, could we....just so I can feel that you're breathing, you're safe."

I can't say what I want to say, I'm just hoping he understands what I'm asking.

"...fine, I don't mind. It'll be nice...yeah?" Nodding, I let go of his arm, happy with his answer.

I feel his soul and mine spark it doesn't take much concentration for us to balance and get on the same wavelength. He leaves to the next room, I can still feel it, the beating of his soul, his heart and his mind. It's nice.

Picking up the book I cringe a small bit. This is probably going to still hold up with how much I liked this book or make me hate myself more for ever reading it.

-

We didn't talk much while resonating, just the occasional "what chapter now?" And "did maka get a good grade?" But when I finished the book I immediately ran into the room Stein was in and cut him out of his focus.

"spirit?"

"stein it was BAD."

He raises an eyebrow, then looks down at the book I was holding.

I raise the book up, distraught and embarrassed. "Why didn't I just look at porn magazines like normal teenagers?!"

"you did." He interrupts and I wave him off.

"not my point,"

"It couldn't have been that bad, you still enjoyed it as a kid." He swivels around in his chair, attention fully on me.

"Well kid me was stupid! He didn't have good opinions like he does now!" All Stein does is smirk at my complaints. He stands up and takes the book from my hand.

"I remember opening this and reading some of it, I didn't see the appeal but it was so *you*"

I suddenly feel offended.

"What the hell does that mean?!" His smile is still there and he looks down at me.

"I can't explain it, you're full of surprises. It just, felt like you. You'd read books, you'd get excited about it and I'd just watch you not understanding why you like something so abnormal!" I feel hot again and Stein looks up from the book, his glasses tilting down from his nose.

"you have problems."

He then waves the book to make a point, "we both have problems."

[valdomarx]

“Geralt. My dearest friend. My closest companion. Light of my life, fire of my-”

Geralt narrows his eyes. “What do you want, Jaskier?”

“Seeing as how I’ve made you famous, and I flatter myself that this has eased you path somewhat, why, this very inn not only took us in but even offered us a discounted rate-”

“What do you want, Jaskier?” Testier this time.

“Ahh. Well. Let me put it plainly: I’m in need of a favour.”

Geralt raises one eyebrow, in an expression he knows speaks volumes.

“I need you to come with me to Lettenhove this winter and pose as my fiancé.”

Geralt nearly drops the sword he’s sharpening. A million thoughts whip through his mind, but one is most pressing: “Why, for Melitele’s sake?”

Jaskier waves a hand in a vague and non-descriptive gesture. “It’s a court thing, you know how families are, and my mother has made it abundantly clear that it’s time for me to settle down and this year I’m to return affianced or else she’ll select someone for me. And I can’t get hitched to some local lady, Geralt, I simply can’t, it’ll ruin my bardic appeal, not to mention my employment prospects, and of course I won’t be able to travel with you, and it’s-”

Geralt holds up a hand to ward off the wall of words. The idea of no longer travelling with Jaskier is unconscionable, not that he’d ever admit that out loud. And they spend so much time together they’re practically married anyway. How hard could it be to pretend for a few days?

“Fine,” he says gruffly.

“Oh, Geralt, you are wonderful.” Jaskier beams and throws his arms around Geralt’s neck. Geralt growls, but secretly, it’s actually rather nice.

-

“Mother, this is Geralt, my fiancé.”

Cold, clear eyes look him up and down, assessing him, and pinch into an expression suggesting he has been found wanting. Geralt decides against opening his mouth and further cementing that opinion.

“A witcher.” Her voice has the familiar twang of Jaskier’s, but with the flat, expressionless cadence he associates with the higher echelons of the aristocracy.

“A witcher!” Jaskier confirms in a cheery tone. “Isn’t that exciting?”

She sniffs in a manner which makes it clear that exciting would not be her first choice of word. “I see. He will be joining us for this year’s Yuletide?”

“He will.”

Her face draws back into the impassive mask of the well-bred. “Very well. You will stay in the east wing.”

“Thank you, mother.” Jaskier executes a stiff bow which Geralt copies and they beat a hasty retreat.

-

“That went rather well!”

Geralt blinks. “Jaskier, I’m fairly sure your mother means to have me killed in my sleep.”

“Oh, don’t mind her. She’s always like that. She’s actually softened up a lot since dear old dad died, gods rest the grumpy bastard.”

Geralt struggles to imagine how such staid, cold people could possibly have produced a son as bright and warm as Jaskier. They might as well be a different species.

Jaskier pushes open a door to a grand suite, all plush velvets and gold ornamentation, a thick woven rug underfoot. It’s the most opulent room Geralt has ever seen, but Jaskier pays it no mind and throws his bag casually on the bed.

“We’ll have to stay here together,” he says apologetically, not looking Geralt in the eye. “But the bed is plenty big, or I can sleep on the sofa if you’d rather -”

Geralt is still taking it all in: The space, the furnishings, the frankly enormous bed which looks divinely comfortable. And there, through the next room, that looks like-

“Is that a copper bathtub?” he asks, eyes wide. Such luxuries were a rarity indeed.

Jaskier grinned. “It is. Let me get some food sent up and I’ll wash your hair?”

Geralt grumbles, just for the effect, and decides that putting up with tedious aristocracy might have its benefits after all.

-

Yule festivities in Lettenhove are, mercifully, a mere matter of days. First there is the fitting for formal attire, which Geralt scowls through but Jaskier promises will be made up for with plenty of good food and wine. Then there are several deeply tedious aristocratic parties, which Jaskier sails through and Geralt spends mostly hiding in dark corners, as is his wont.

Occasionally, Jaskier will grab him by the hand and introduce him as, “Geralt, my husband-to-be,” and something funny will flip over in his stomach which will require several drinks to settle. When he returns to his dark corner he’ll find his heart pumping a little faster as his eyes track Jaskier flitting around the room. It’s probably just indigestion from all the rich food.

Then there is the formal family Yuletide dinner, a spectacularly awkward and singly unpleasant evening spent around a long, cold table with Jaskier’s mother and various cousins, who regard Geralt with expressions ranging from bland disinterest to active hostility. The food is heavy beyond measure and the conversation cruel and bland by turns.

They cover the need for raising taxes, the many failings of the servant class, and the petty squabbles over jewels and titles that seems to be the bread and butter of these people. With each hateful line, Geralt feels his blood rising. If it weren’t for Jaskier making pleading eyes at him, he’d take great pleasure in explaining some hard truths to them.

When a cousin begins expounding on useless lazy peasants in the estate, complaining that they can’t work because of plague, but we all know they’re simply idle, Geralt grits his teeth so hard that he swears the sound must be audible.

Beneath the table, Jaskier takes his hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. Staring down at their joined hands, Geralt detaches from these awful people and their awful conversation and focuses on the simple warmth of Jaskier’s fingers intertwined with his own.

-

They make their escape from dinner as soon as can be considered polite, and Geralt takes a second to lean against the door to their room, breathing deeply.

“You did well not to throttle anyone,” Jaskier says with a reassuring smile. “If we’d had to listen to cousin Edrick for a minute longer, I might have launched over the table with a carving knife myself.”

Geralt reaches for him without thinking, and once again Jaskier’s hand slips into his own. It’s grounding, to feel something genuine in this place surrounded by artifice.

“Come on,” Jaskier says. “Let’s get out of here.”

Geralt doesn’t even ask where they’re going before nodding.

-

They sneak away from the estate out of the servants’ door and follow a winding path toward a cluster of lights in the valley below. The path into Lettenhove town is quiet and calm, and as they walk the snow begins to fall in soft flurries, covering the ground in a peaceful white blanket.

The town looks picture perfect when they arrive, a charming jumble of thatched cottages and a small, cosy inn from which bright light spills out into the snowy night. When they enter the barmaid runs over to hug Jaskier and the proprietor slaps him on the back, and Jaskier has a kind word and a waved greeting for every person in there.

Geralt feels something unwind in his chest, something he hadn’t realised was tight and twisted until now. Seeing Jaskier in his element, among people who love him for who he is, instead of among that cold, hateful family, he feels right in a way he hasn’t for days.

Jaskier is already buying drinks and passing them around, and he excitedly waves Geralt over. “Bree, Geoffrey,” he addresses the couple behind the bar, “This is Geralt.” A shy smile sneaks over his face. “My fiancé.” The couple gasp in delight and congratulate Jaskier, then they’re embracing Geralt like old friends and pushing a drink into his hands.

“Come on, Geralt, join us!” Bree smiles warmly. “It’ll be the ten o’clock bells soon, and we must have Jaskier lead us in a song.”

The evening is a whirl of music and dance and loud, terrible singing, which the entire town seems to join in. For once there is no corner for Geralt to hide in, so he stays by Jaskier’s side, basking in the reflected glow of these people’s clear adoration of his bard.

-

When the midnight bell chimes and Geoffrey turns them all out for the night, the revelers wend their way home still singing and drinking. As the place empties out, Jaskier slides over to Bree to press a kiss to her cheek and a bulging purse into her hand. She tries to wave him off but Jaskier tucks the money behind the counter all the same, and Geralt watches, a deep wave of fondness sweeping through him.

The snow is still falling when they step out into the now-quiet street, soft, fat flakes drifting lazily from the sky and sticking in Jaskier’s hair. His cheeks are flushed pink and his hair falls in an messy sweep over his eyes; without thinking Geralt reaches out to brush it away behind his ear. Jaskier’s blush deepens as he does so, but he shivers in the cold.

“Here.” Geralt unclasps the thick cloak from around his neck and sweeps it over Jaskier’s shoulders. Jaskier’s mouth forms a little o of surprise and he looks up at Geralt, something tender in his eyes.

Geralt’s gaze is caught by the snow flakes settling on Jaskier’s lashes; he’s so focused that he almost jumps when Jaskier reaches out to take his hand. The sky seems to glow with a soft orange light as the clouds reflect the last few fires in the town below; everything is warm with Jaskier’s hand in his despite the chill in the air.

“Thank you,” Jaskier says softly. “For being here with me.” And leaning in, his breath caressing over Geralt’s face, he touches his lips to Geralt’s cheek in a ghost of a kiss.

Suddenly it occurs to Geralt that this will be it, tomorrow they’ll head back on the path like none of this ever happened, no more holding hands or being close, no more being introduced as Jaskier’s betrothed. And despite the hellish parts of this experience he really doesn’t want it to end. He likes being Jaskier’s person, and he likes Jaskier being his.

They are still standing close together, mere inches between them, and it’s no effort at all to lean in, slowly, cautiously, to find Jaskier’s lips with his own, to place a tentative kiss there. And then Jaskier’s hands are fisting in his shirt and tugging him closer still, and his arms go around his waist and Jaskier is kissing him back like he’s been waiting for it, their mouths slotting together like they were made to fit each other, and everything is blazingly bright like the white of the snow.

When they pull apart they stay with foreheads pressed together, breathing the same air, and Geralt can see a smile cracking wide over Jaskier’s face.

“I like being engaged to you,” Geralt says quietly, unable to keep it in.

Jaskier’s smile widens even further. “I like being engaged to you too,” he says. He kisses him again. “Fiancé.” Another kiss. “Husband to be.” And another. “Partner.” One more. “Beloved.”

“I like the sound of those.” He suspects he may be wearing the same dopey grin as Jaskier is.

“Then let’s make it official.” Jaskier bites his lip. “Marry me?”

Jaskier is a picture of perfection, eyes gleaming and cheeks ruddy, snowflakes in his hair. Geralt’s heart has always been right here.

“I’d be honoured.” He considers for a second. “But not in Lettenhove.”

Jaskier’s laugh sparkles with joy. “Anywhere but here.”

[certifiedceraunophile]

I can see that you're not a native English speaker but your grasp on the language is applaudable how long have you been learning?

Your writing (both tumblr posts and fanfiction) have a classical elegance to it and it's hard for even native speakers to communicate their thoughts as beautifully as you do 💙 Have you taken some special training for it?

Oh my god angel anon this is so sweet, and lmao you're right I'm not a native speaker like at all, tbvvh I struggle a lot w english, always have like I'd score the lowest in it out of all my subjects in high school, ugh my total percentage always took a hit bc of it -_- wont ever stop being salty about it ngl, so no I've had no real training whatsoever beyond like the general compulsory learning in school, and also anybody who chats w me for like more than a minute will immediately know that idgaf about spellings or sentence structure or general coherency in my day to day english, Lmao which reminds me the other day I literally told someone I ~idealize~ I look up to in every way possible when it comes to writing *cough* Jenn @cbk1000 *cough* that “……blah something blah…..I teached...blah blah” while talking and I didnt notice it for like a hot second and Jenn is too sweet (sort of) to point it out but oh my god I was mortified by it when I realized what I had said, but honestly what throws me is that I didn't really notice it was wrong for a long time and like I thought it was a-ok until it hit me that it’s taught.

So in all honesty my english is as good as any non-native speaker who had to learn the language growing up strictly for school purposes.

That being said in my ff writing I just try really really pathetically hard when I write, like the pretension leaps out and tries to reproduce whatever I myself have consumed so far in terms of writing and recycle it as my own crap, I just have this ability (it's not a special thing everyone does it lmao) to subsume what I read and I mostly just take sentences, metaphors and other writerly things sometimes even just the mood/setting of the writing that strike me and rewrite it w an added touch of pretension and it's actually really tangible how much I allow what I read to drastically affect how I write and since I read a weird eclectic mix of really….just a lot of different things that shouldn't really go together lol, my writing style/ narrator voice/ mood setting for my ff also varies a lot, like one day I write Klaus w a satire and critical wit that’s not exactly Voltaire but close, where he’s pretty much just disgusted by everything and decides to mock it all with a straight face and the next day I write him as a lil pining shit with saccharine levels of romanticism in my writing to appeal to his artist-soul mostly bc I sat my ass down and read a poem or two by Keats prior to writing, other days he’s cute and murderous, wears human teeth as jewelry and is just a tiny bit poignant bc I had a date with Poe….so yeah basically what I’m trying to say is that the only "training" I've ever had is what I've already read all these years and what I write is just all the text I've kept w myself and can recollect and re-arrange into my own writing, which is why I would never consider my work to be something that’s completely and originally mine bc I have this personal saying that goes, 

“Everything I see is an image of an image.”

Which to me means a lot of things but in this particular context means that nothing I create belongs to me and only me, it belongs to every writer I’ve read before writing it and will be reminisced by every author who I’ll read after it, that everything I create is just what creators before me have done but have allowed me to take their creations and make it mine before I too pass it on with love and history to the next person.

I also have another quote I feel in every inch of my heart and that’s

"I am not sure that I exist, actually. I am all the writers that I have read, all the people that I have met, all the women and men that I have loved; all the cities I have visited."

-Jorge Luis Borges

So really this is just my personal...philosophy?? Belief, that I owe my creativity to the world and everything it creates *through* me because I don't own the beauty, I’m only a lens through which it passes through, that my creativity refracts the world's beauty into my life and my creations, and I am glad, blessed to have been the lens through which such beauty passes through.

And that I am more than happy to just be another image who is someone else’s reflection or the very object someone else will reflect, I love how much that connects every human being and every object of beauty, of creation in existence inescapably.

Now I’ve rambled on a lot like a LOT, definitely wayyyyyy more than that simple ask warranted lmao so I’ll shut up and just say you’re the sweetest lovely anon this message made me feel so very flattered and I genuinely think I blushed (and trust me brown girls cannot blush mostly bc the melanin wont let the pink filter through lmao) and I am honoured to know that you thought I took some professional coaching for this because I literally am the most amateur absolutely clueless bullshit your way through everything writer you will find out there and I am ngl proud of that.

(like seriously dude the other day I learnt for the first time how to use a semi colon and I s2g I wanted to dig a hole and bellyflop into it after realizing how many bloody times I’ve used a semi colon wrong like jfc someone kill me before I do it myself it’s mortifying)

eenyways *tackle hugs* thank you for making me smile and for your kind words youre absolutely precious 💖 and I dont deserve the compliments but I am never gonna let them go bc they make my heart warm.

[fossadeileonixv]

Throwback Tuesday!

Marco_CT & Milano80 reminded me why we should spit every time we hear the name....Pirlo. Allow me to take you back in time....

Andrea Pirlo. One of the best Milan players ever. A true hall of famer who has won pretty much everything there is to win within the higher echelons of world football, that is above doubt and beyond discussion and not the subject matter for today's piece. What I wish to try and address is the creeping history revisionism that seems to be repeated often enough that it warrants a firm reply.

The thing is, we all want to remember our heroes as perfect, without stain or any sign of impurity. Its why I understand the almost religious fervour displayed by fan-boys (from here on referred to as Pirlophiles) to defend their hero whenever they feel he is being slighted or his legacy besmirched with a vicious defence of the one they call Il Metroniomo but you know what? They say you should never meet your heroes! So I thought I would look up his book and would attempt to wash away some the revisionist BS that gets mindlessly regurgitated by relying solely on the words of the man himself to see if I could get to the bottom of the hows and whys that lead to his departure.

For Pirlophiles, Pirlo is a martyr, a victim if you will of Maleficent Evil-Allegri who wanted him gone, pushing him out maybe due to some level of jealousy of Pirlo's fine mane of hair? During all the back and forths between Pirlophiles and those merely pointing out the truth you will hear that Pirlo was pushed aside, deemed surplus, got rid of..........insulted even! The gist of a Pirlophiles argument appears to be that we foolishly let go a "star" player still in his prime as witnessed at his two seasons at Juve & (allegedly) with the Azzurri. An elegant & skill-full player who was stupidly replaced with the blunt hammer that is Muntari. So lets see what the "thinking man's" footballer has to say:

During the discussions with Fester he was informed of the following:

"Andrea,  our coach Massimiliano Allegri reckons that if you stay, you won't be  able to play in front of the defence. He's got a different role in mind  for you. Still in midfield, but on the left."

Wait! Allegri reckoned he could still play Pirlo in the midfield? A different role even huh? Ok, fine. So how does that sound Andrea?

One small detail: I still thought I could give of my best playing in front of the defence. If the sea's deep, a fish can breathe. If you put him just under the surface, he'll get by, but it's not quite the same thing.

Aaaah right! You didnt want to play on the left! I get where you are coming from now! Got it!

"Even with you sitting on the bench or in the stand we've won the   league. And you know, Andrea, the strategy's changed this year. If you're over 30, we're only offering a year's extension."

This was applied to EVERY player over 30! But have to admit we have been inconsistent in applying it in following seasons.

Another small detail: I've never felt old, not  even at that very moment. Only indirectly did I get the impression that  people were trying to make out I was finished. Even now, I struggle to  get my head round their reasoning."Thanks, but I really can't accept.  There's a three-year deal on the table at Juventus."

What? You mean the club succeeding without you made you feel self conscious?

It was a polite ‘no' for Milan, without money even entering  the conversation that spring afternoon in 2011. Not once in those  30minutes was it ever mentioned. I wanted to be thought of as important,  a key player in the club's plans, not someone about to be thrown on the  scrapheap.

Wait, asking to be played on the left equates to being thrown on the scrap heap? Drama queen!

I got on well with everyone and had a normal kind of relationship   with Allegri - there was just something in the air. I recognised the   walls that over the years had sheltered and protected me, but now I was starting to see cracks. I could sense some kind of draught that was out to make me sick.

What? The fact that the club was about to win its first scudetto in ages, largely without you??

One of the things I've long maintained is that Pirlo should have gone sooner, the main reason being that he had quite clearly given up. I cant even remember in his last 2 seasons at Milan when he last scored a world class free kick and sitting in front of the back four he had become a complete liability. In certain games he was nothing more than an open door into our penalty box for the opposition. I can still recall one of the Milan derbies during the Mourinho era where Maicon was set loose on Pirlo, I remember squinting at the TV in pain at the pitiful, half assed performance, wishing that he would be subbed off. Again Pirlophiles wont entertain that there was ever a drop off in performance from him, there are a few that are willing to acknowledge this but will instead insist on blaming the rest of the squad for ....and let me get this right.....not moving enough for him!

So is it all in my imagination? Was Pirlo bored? Had he given up at Milan? Maybe he had been there too long?? Lets check with the man himself:

That inner urge to go somewhere else, to breathe a different air, became ever more pressing and intense. The poetry that had always surrounded me was now becoming routine. It   wasn't something I could ignore. Even the fans maybe wanted a bit of   relief. For so many years they'd applauded me at San Siro of a Sunday   (and a Saturday, a Tuesday, a Wednesday...), but now perhaps they wanted  to stick new faces in their Panini album, hear new stories being told.  They'd got used to the things I did, my movements, my creations. They weren't awestruck any more. In their eyes, the extraordinary was in real  danger of becoming normal.

Maybe im just reading this wrong? Or maybe he's talking about a one off thing, you know like when you have a bad day in the office??

It was, it seemed, the end of an era and I felt in need of something  new. Alarm bells had been ringing ever since the middle of what turned  out to be my last season at the club, one ruined by a couple of  injuries. I arrived at Milanello for training and realised that I  didn't want to go into the dressing room. Didn't want to get changed,  didn't want to work.

Oh dear.

I phoned my agent every day, especially in the period when I was supposed to be recovering from injury, but the desire to really throw myself into it just wasn't there. Or at least it wasn't the same as it had been at one time. Massimo Ambrosini and then Mark van Bommel were playing in front of the defence.

Nope! That sounds like someone half assed and not willing to give his all to me! Stll no mention of Muntari. Here Pirlo is talking about his final meeting with Fester, you know, the one where he received a pen.

We said our goodbyes without regret. In the space of half an hour (probably not even that), I was out of there. When you're in love, it's time you need. When the feeling's gone, having an excuse can help.

Clearly stating here that he was out of love with Milan, almost happy to be leaving Milan, I cant begrudge him that. It sounds like this was the perfect excuse he needed to jump ship. Fair enough.

For someone who I did genuinely hold in high regard for what he achieved  at Milan I was kinda surprised to read that he came close to leaving Milan twice and it even appears that he had at one point decided to join Capello at Madrid but was ordered to stay at Milan by his own agent...

And then my agent phoned me.

"Sign for Milan. Right now, they'll not let you leave."

"No...

"Yes."

"Ok, fine."

So our "legend" had actually made up his mind on joining Madrid, that in itself  didn't  piss me off as much as the the idea that while Milan where awaiting the  outcome of Calciopoli in 06-07 our man Pirlo was thinking of jumping  ship, thanks Champ!

One day you'd read that we were going to be relegated to Serie B, the next that we were looking at a 15-point penalty. The next again day they'd be talking about us handing back trophies and having our titles removed from the record books.

One thing I was sure of, though: I would never drop down to Serie B. And if I had to leave, I wouldn't feel like a traitor. You always want to be ambitious and play for a noble cause. There was no way I was going to pay for other people's sins, if that's what they turned out to be.

Sorry, but you sound like a traitorous S.O.B to me! So while the rest of us where worrying about our club.....

I, meanwhile, was floating between Milan and Real Madrid.

Facepalm!

I pictured myself in that white jersey. Pristine, and at the same time aggressive; a mean streak running through its unusual purity. My thoughts often wandered to the Santiago Bernabeu, the temple, a ground that struck terror into opponents.

WOW! At this point you actually have to remind yourself that this guy was still playing for Milan at the time! Is it any wonder that he looked so half-assed when you now know he might have been running around the San Siro dreaming of playing for Real Madrid?

It's a pity it went the way it did. I'd have signed for Real in a heartbeat. They're a club with more glamour than Milan; more prospects, more appeal, more everything. They strike fear in their opponents, whoever they happen to be. All that said, I had the consolation of winning the Champions League at the end of the season. It could have gone a lot worse.

Club legend huh? Ah well not joining the team of your dreams is consoled by winning another Champions League, he sounds hard done by!

The second time he pondered leaving is even better, the following is after he was pitched by Pep Guardiola.

As with Real Madrid (in fact, even more so than with Real Madrid), I'd have crawled to Barcelona on all fours. At that time, they were the best team in the world - what more needs to be said?

Pfft. Now you're beginning to sound like another bandwagoner I know! (God I wish Fester would take his pen back!)

I get that a player, any player is free to choose where he works and far be it for me to demand how a guy earns his money and supports his family but I still feel that Pirlo wrongly felt he was owed more by the club that helped make him who he is today.

When you take into account the fact that he clearly wasn't happy at Milan I feel it was only right that he move on, for me I just wish it had been a season or two sooner, I also wish Pirlophiles would stop re-writing history.....but we can only dream. I know it hurts but for all the guys who still insist on kissing his ass I wish you would wake up to the guy he really is. I for one wish he had pissed off to RM or Barca when he had the chance!

You kinda wonder about a guy who wanted to jump ship a number of times then had to be such a di#k about only getting a one year extension!

For the most rabid of Pirlophiles, there will be no doubt be alot of fingers being jammed in ears and eyes covered up as they try and keep out the truth but for Milanista, we should at the minimum be indifferent to a guy we once held in high regard. As for me, I'm done with Pirlo. We got as much out of him as he got out of us, there was absolutely no heartbreak involved as he clearly points out in his book. The one notion that completely by-passes Pirlophiles is that if was he was half the legend he is held to be he would have been open to playing in Serie B, the notion of him jumping ship makes him more Cannavaro (ship jumping p#ssy) than Del Piero (club legend). So now that Allegri has joined Juve I take extreme satisfaction in the knowledge that right about now the floppy haired moron is sweating about whether he can swallow playing on the left of the midfield or whether he suddenly needs "new air to breathe". :D

PS: I have a signed Pirlo shirt. If a Pirlophile wants to make me an offer get in touch at Pirlocankissmyass@gmail.com

AviA Out

[kalesandfails]

special needs

For days when you are moody and the dishes still have to get done,

when you are going to Paris and your daughter was diagnosed with autism,

when you find yourself, like you do, watching your youngest baby with terror, because his adorable waddle now seems like an obvious sign of muscular dystrophy.

When you spent the morning running and listening to a podcast about Sex Every Day, but now you think you will have Sex Never Again, because you are full-blown panic attacking, because your panic is attacking you, over the autism and the muscular dystrophy and what is going to happen if you are hospitalized with a spinal cord injury, unable to care for your disabled children, unable to calm your daughter down because she is screaming for you and you are trapped in a nursing home?

The walls may genuinely be closing in a little, some days. But also:

You can not get onto Twitter, is what you can do. Yes, the world is ugly and the people are sad; yes, people are simultaneously rejecting Pete Buttigieg for being gay and for eating Chic Fil A. Yes, probably no one should eat at Chic Fil A, because we should all collectively be saving our energy allotments for your motorized wheelchair and individual yogurt cups for your daughter because your good intentions, buying the more environmentally conscious quart container, earned another eight minutes of incoherent shrieking and yogurt all over the floor.

But, real talk, parents sometimes use wheelchairs and the world keeps turning. In fact, my shitty workday — oh, remember last week, when my biggest source of distress was my company’s brave new point-system world, which allots more points for missing your swipe out because your computer has locked than it does for arriving to work late, which you have never done?  — was saved in part by this article about badass nurses in wheelchairs, crushing it.

My conscious fear may be a random fear of becoming disabled, because of how my body dysmorphia locates takes every distressing thought or feeling I have and fleshes it out into a physical crisis of some kind. But underneath, the fear is of not being able to manage myself, or my children, because of how all of us are taught that needing help for a thing is the same as never being able to do that thing.

This makes sense if you are a politician who has taken more than he or she will ever need and now wants to make sure that we don’t waste any money on public transportation or special education or regular education or roads. If you want to cut $845 billion out of Medicare, a good system is one that assumes that anyone with any kind of physical or mental difference is a lost cause anyway, that rich people’s money is better spent procuring the sexual services of Russians for the benefit of failed millionaires who need to blow off steam after a hard day of tweeting.

But actually, people need, and give, help, all the time. It’s easy to forget that because of the aggressive efforts to stigmatize needing help and erase the assistance that those in power just take by force — like, say, when you enslave an entire segment of the human population for centuries, or use your legal power to avoid paying your contractors, or pay your nanny $5 an hour, no vacations, and then kvetch about having to finance her health care with your tax dollars.

But really, people are getting help literally all the time, from faxing my crumpled physical form to my boss to cleaning poop out of baby crevices to getting a fence put around the community playground to training aide dogs and fighting for ADA protections for others.

The part of me that wants to crawl under the bed hyperventilating or douse myself in wine until I am numb is the part than assumes that I have to do every hard thing, not just mine but everyone’s, all by myself, when actually every problem in the world has a solution, though some are more palatable than others.

Nursing, where you are routinely presented with problems whose solution is not immediately apparent, is a good antidote for this: I don’t know the answer here, you say, but I’m going to go find one. Jesus can be another, maybe, if you’re talking about Jesus the guy, a water-into-wine, here-let-me-pull-you-up kind of guy, not some bullshit platitude for why we keep letting brown children die kind of Jesus. Asking for and extending help regularly, like a breathing practice, is probably the best.

Help out: What-thing-do-you-need, let-me-help-you-with-that-thing.

Help in: Oh-hey, I-need-this-thing, can-you-help-me.

This is a way for people to live. It is, I think, the best alternative to the fantasy of rugged individualism, a fantasy in which huge chunks of need were just magically met, and the corollary of that shimmering myth, in which those needs were met by others who were not paid and whose meeting of those needs was compelled through violence or the threat of violence.

This help-from-the-universe model is humbling and scary, It can be especially hard when you really, really want specific people to help you, because you believe that you have to put in time to earn having your needs met, and that you do this by making the person you are closest to care enough to help. Why would some random guy help me when my mom or dad or brother or wife wont?

I don’t know why, except that this, and not that, is the way the world works. The help you need exists; it’s just that you don’t get to choose where it comes from. But did you want help, or did you want a good story starring you?

Life is hard, but people show up for each other. We do so even right now, when it’s being stigmatized as weakness to care about other people.

That’s the best way of understanding God I can get at on those mornings when even my brain doesn’t seem to be on my side: God as a thing we’re all doing, opening doors and carrying bags and appealing insurance denials. Saying:

no, I don’t want this thing until he gets it, too;

no, I can’t hug my own children and lose sight of other people’s children.

No, I don’t know the answer, but I know that it’s not acceptance or blame —

God as rejection of “tough shit, that’s the way things are”.

God as dismantler of walls, packer of lunches, wiper of bottoms, haver of backs.