#bad parenting

[toqliss]

Dumbledore: Mr.Potter, I'm afraid that Tom is..

Harry: *angry Karen noises*

[batfambrainrotbeloved]

I updated twice today so y a y-

(Fic inspo from @brucewaynehater101 Trash Tim AU!)

"The Drakes Spoiled Brat. (im sorry dad)"

Multi-work series- Chapter 2/?? Current Word Count- 7,509 General Audience Rating Summary- Post Time reveal the Waynes have yet to make up, Red Robin flies solo. He also flies straight into his death. BUT instead he wakes up a kid again, only a few months after the first Robin made his debute. Tim Drake as Cardinal makes it his personal mission to prevent the tragedies that tore his family apart (even if that means he is no longer one of them)

He also becomes "Timothy Drake" a privilaged asshole that serves as a way. to make his old family hate them (keep them away, he's too late to save) and make people not look deeper. But as is with Bats, it's only a matter of time before someone starts digging. (maybe it isn't too late)

Link below-

[audaciousadvisers]

Based on this tumblr post I found out about how bro strider would say this, so I made it come to life.

[nothing0fnothing]

Not letting your daughters develop a creep alarm is abuse.

Not teaching your daughter to uphold her boundaries when men make her feel uncomfortable is abuse.

Insisting your daughter be polite to creepy family members is abuse.

Expecting your daughter to cuddle and kiss family friends she barely knows is abuse.

You know one day you will be sending an eighteen year old girl into a world full of rapists, weirdos and creeps. You are intentionally training her to ignore her instinct to pull away from these men and intilling one where she puts male comfort over her own safety.

You know that dangerous men take advantage of the way women are socialised to be polite at all costs, to never even give a man a hint that they think he's a little bit creepy, and you are teaching her to behave in exactly the way these men look for in a mark.

She will go to college one day. Just her and 10,000 20 year old men. Do you really think the purity culture narrative you have instilled in her is going to protect her if she's drunk at a party and is starting to feel unsafe, when you've taught her that her saftey comes second to male comfort?

She will have a job one day. How hard do you think it's going to be for her to navigate creepy advances in a professional setting if you've taught her she's being rude when she so much as tells a man he's making her uncomfortable?

You have 18 short years to instill into her a sense of caution and a firmness in her boundaries that for the rest of her life the society she lives in will try to beat out of her. You know she won't learn it later if you don't teach her now.

You're intentionally setting her up for an adult life of silently witnessing her own abuse, why? So you don't have to have a slightly awkward conversation about no meaning no with another grown adult? So your perfectly obedient child can be used as an entertainment accessory at family gatherings? I'd genuinely like to know what the reasoning is to intentionally endanger your child by teaching her to be perfect prey to violent men for the rest of her life.

[odinsblog]

This is actually very sad

And before someone tries to pull a, “Not all fathers” on me, I had a great father who would be dismayed by this video, but I’d still be willing to bet that this represents way more “fathers” than you might think. And honestly, even if this is representative of “only” a few thousand fathers, that’s still far far too many—especially those who know next to nothing about their own daughters

[whydidisavethistomyphone]

Parent so bad that they are the last person to find out their child has changed gender

[nmolesofadrenaline]

[sadhappylady]

Can we also talk a little about Kristina this season?

The manipulation and emotional blackmailing of Wille had me so furious!

Calling him to say she cannot handle this anymore! What about Wille? How is he supposed to handle it? He also lost Erik, and in addition he was outed to the world in such a horrenduous way, and then he was pushed into the closet and lost Simon because of that. And even if he won Simon back, he is under constant pressure.

And Kristina has the audacity to put the responsibility of the Crown on his shoulders! To carry alone, with no support.

I know she is grieving and that she is trying her best. But her best is not good enough!

The way I screamed when Wille called her out on her bad parenting!

[sa-dnesss]

My home will be a home with no loud anger, no explosive rage, no slamming doors or breaking glass, no holes punched into the walls, no name calling, shaming or blackmail. My home will be gentle, it will be warm. No fear, no hurt and no worries. I may come from a broken and twisted place but I will build something whole and safe.

[cooki3face]

You don’t teach your children not to hit people by hitting them.

You don’t teach your children not to scream by screaming at them.

You don’t teach your children to be respectful by disrespecting them.

You don’t teach your children how to do anything by subjecting them to physical, emotional, or verbal abuse as a form of discipline.

The type of parents you have makes all the difference and when someone has good and secure parents and comes from a loving and safe home it eliminates them having to suffer from trauma built up in a place that’s meant to be safe for them and inflicting that same pain on others. I hope that this generation grows up to be better parents and heals from the things our parents have done to them.

[idiot-mushroom]

hey have you ever had that moment of when your youngest sibling does a prank on an adult in your house and that adult says horrible things to your baby sibling telling them that they’re an abuser so you step in and tell the adult to quit it only for them to gaslight you into thinking that your a disrespectful brat the next day so you stop talking until someone makes you talk about your feelings in which that person goes to tell the shitty adult to stop being mean only for the shitty adult to say that they’re conspiring against them and that they’re the victim?

me neither bc that would be so super specific and weird and-

[phoenixyfriend]

A recurring thought I have about neopets is that, all evidence given, they are not pets. They are children. They have human intelligence. The vast majority of work is done by other neopets who happen to be adults, since the fairies are usually too busy being bitchy at each other to, you know, do real work.

But we dress them up. We decide what they wear, and (most of) what they eat, and what they read, and what they train, and how they fight, and what toys they play with, and what their skin looks like, and are basically their lords and masters. If we get bored, we can just… put them in the pound.

Neopets users are really shitty teen parents who all ended up 'my child is an extension of myself.'

This is surely a thought people have had many times over the past twenty-plus years of virtual pet care, but I have been rolling it around in the brainflesh for a few months now.

Also I mentioned this in a server and @thelifestoryofkara brought up that an added complication is the whole "Neopets can and will eat other neopets." She was thinking blumaroo steaks, but I managed to ruin everyone's day a little by revealing that all Chocolate Kougra Paws come with the item description:

No need to worry - we declawed this paw before dipping it in [dark/white/mint/milk] chocolate.

[flyin-shark]

I hate when parents say the world is cruel as an excuse for their shitty parenting.

“I see that the world is cruel, and so I shall add to the cruelness to show my children how terrible life is rather than giving them refuge from the hostility of the world and hope for a better future.

Let pain be etched into their mind not only by the authors of this wretched tale we call life but by the ones closest to them as well. This shall be seen not as cruelty but as a merciful act”

They may provide shelter but they fail to provide warmth and security

[writingoneout]

Untilted Katamari Reflections

Preamble:

Content considerations for the following include:

Parental abuse

Bigotry

Worldly anxiety

You're welcome back another day if that's too much right now.

I.

It’s fall of 2015.

You and your virgin college friends drink shitty cocktails called the “Slutty Will Rodgers.” They’re just Pepsi rawdogged with indeterminate amounts of grenadine and Captain Morgan. When you bought the mixers a Wal-Mart stocker yodeled “OOOOoOoooOH, maKIN sOMe DRINKS?!?!” and you knew it was time to leave.

We Love Katamari is on the Telly. It’s a sweet, trippy game you first bought to cope with high school. On Dark Fridays at 1am, when your inbox was barren and your balls were full, you’d drive to the empty gym downtown and sprint six miles. Then you’d come home and replay the firefly level until you fell asleep with your pug.

Your college friends are bad at the game, so they pass the controller. You’re playing the underwater stage. A spaceman falls in the pond of people gunk and stacked crabs. It’s going really well if you’re honest. You point to the screen and say “this’ll be Florida if Trump wins.” See Fig. 1.

Figure 1: Rick Desantis has big plans for Disney.

Your friends don’t reply because they soon won’t be virgins and their tongues battle each other’s. It’s a different game they play, one with fuzzier rules, but greater industry respect. You wish the campus gym was open 24/7.

. . .

Your skills as the prince are not inherent. You first meet him in 2005, when your dyspraxic hands can barely tie a shoe. Your parents catch you lose shit for the Toonami review of Me and My Katamari. They buy it for Christmas, hoping to steady your nerves while your father’s in therapy.

Dr. Flam is a Neo-Freudian hitched to your mom’s guy, Dr. Flim. She’s deep in your dad’s dream journal and makes him watch movies like Cool Hand Luke to really reign in his ego. He gets the DVDs from the Netflix site, then through the mail. As a family you watch your dad’s therapy films and reruns of Inyuasha.

In the waiting room you barely navigate the sticky ball through Namco Bandai’s Satoshi Kon parade. See Fig. 2. You’ve only seen adults express anger verbally, so when you mess up you grunt a lot and let out those Leopold Butters Stotch swears like “crap,” “shoot,” and “gosh darn.” You’re not particularly self-aware, so you probably just say “god fucking damn it” a few times and don’t remember. Years later you realize there was probably a secretary behind the glass watching you do all this.

Figure 2: Bwahbwahwabhbawahbwaaaaah.

Sometimes there’s a girl in the room with you, just around your age. She’s stuck while Dr. Flim teaches her mom about what dream snakes mean for her fear of male puberty. That's what he did for your mom, anyway.

You think the waiting-room stranger is cute, but you won’t admit you like girls yet, especially not to yourself. To cope with the cognitive dissonance, you do your weird shit louder while refusing to make eye contact with her. If you get real stressed you crank up the main menu track and yell “ahhhhh that’s so relaxing” while the “nah nah nah nahs” play through your headphones.

At one point the girl stands against a wall and stares at you with her arms crossed. You bet she thinks you’re cool, but she’s probably just annoyed and hopes you’ll notice, or maybe just ask if she’s OK. It’s probably good you don’t talk with her. You might ask something stupid, like if she's seen the roach corpse in the stairwell. It’s been there for a year straight, isn’t that crazy?

For better and worse, you power through your little game alone. Every time you lose the King of All Cosmos beats, shoots, and belittles you. See Fig. 3. It reminds you of when your own dad shattered your Harry Potter wand over the kitchen counter because you dropped a mini pizza.

Figure 3: The King of All Cosmos offers little constructive advice, all things considered.

You fail quite frequently. Eventually you drop the game because it’s getting stressful and you have the power to relieve yourself of the situation—not the Freudian lobby, just your fake dad.

II.

It’s 2012. PlayStation Network uploads The Prince’s primeval outing: Katamari Damacy. Within, Padre Cosmotic flaps his gums over too much hooch then slams his dump truck ass through the better part of our solar system. He dislodges every recognized constellation and even the moon itself.

Cosmos sends Prince to Earth—the last brick left in the shitstorm—to make slop of our planet and bodies. With the slop space itself will be made anew. The Good Son does as he's told, and every living entity experiences euphoric ego death within the bulbous heaven of the Katamari.

As a Real Gamer Teen you lose a lot less in this one. You really go in and fix Fake Dad’s mistakes, no problem at all. This is why a year ago you hailed “gaming journalism” as your calling. You write clean and play tight; should keep the lights on. It’s the most concrete idea you’ve had since 7th grade when you outlined a YA novel called Tooth Pocket. Even you didn’t think Scholastic would buy that one, though. It was just too hot for the book fair.

One day you’re cranking through FFVI and your real dad swings by, mad you're young. He grills your ass and says “I bet you can’t even tell me the biggest thing happening right now.” It’s some real “What’s a gallon of milk cost?” shit, he could mean anything.

 Surprisingly, you can’t think of a good answer. You and your friends are actually pretty informed because John Stewart is still at the desk and y’all chime in every day. See Fig. 4. You also spend hours each week tearing through MSN slideshows in your Graphic Design class because the Photoshop takes five minutes. You’ve seen a staggering amount of the Syrian civil war.

Figure 4: Sometimes in Snapchat you draw glasses on your cat to make him look like Mitch McConnel. You wouldn't do that without this guy.

Still, you’re a little stumped. It’s the middle of a phenomenon native to moralist presidencies known as "a slow news week.” You actually ran out of war shit the other day and clicked through some slides about Pakistani wrestlers. The seniors who offered you Jack Daniels in the Whataburger lot saw it and laughed. They thought you were peeping dong in class. You really weren’t, but they didn’t believe you. They graduate certain you were bricked up in the Dell Lab over big guys in spandex.

“I don’t know,” you tell your dad.

He throws his hands behind his head, hard, like an orangutan chucking logs at a poacher.

“It’s the fucking carbon tax,” he yells. This comes as a surprise, you think, because that shit is last month’s news. It really didn’t go anywhere.

“Do you not pay attention because you don’t give a shit, or are you just a nihilist and think you can’t do anything?” You can tell in his eyes he thinks there’s a real answer. “Seriously, which is it?

You don’t remember what you said. You probably just stammered until he walked off.

A month later he picks you up from marching band. Your phone is dead, so he had to wait twenty minutes longer than anticipated while you found his car. He punches the rearview mirror until the windshield cracks then screams of how your birth kept him from New England.

III.

It’s 2016. A rockin’ MILF in the Psych department gets you really into Hamilton. See Fig. 5. Every day you wake up on the grind and blast “You Aaron Burr, sir?” through your shitty 7-11 cans. While cramming foreign language Quizlets and McGraw Hill Online you do this thing called “Hafilton.” It’s where rock up to “Nonstop” and quit listening just before Hamilton decides what he will stop is being a good husband.

Figure 5: Like Kojima, you know "MILF" is a mindset, not a factual inquiry.

It’s 2018. Your grades are notably better and you’ve snuck into the honors program. Like Hamilton himself, you really flourished at 19 and thought about running for office. You immediately abandoned this idea after remembering your allergy to recordings of your image or voice.

You cohabit with the Psych MILF, and she offers some advice: she’s really had her boots on the ground with this whole “clinical psych thing” and honestly, respectfully, she loves you, but dear God it might not be your scene. It’s taken a real toll on her and the friends, and she can’t imagine you going through that shit.

At 1am in your living room you boot up DOOM (2016) and listen through some Hamilton. Angelica is thirsty on main when you remember that you, yourself, could be a lawyer. You don’t have to run for Congress to fight the establishment. There’s just the common law, and it’s right there. You can just get your grubby little hands in that shit and work your magic.

. . .

It’s the last semester of undergrad. Your Western Thought professor says Hamilton wasn’t really a huge deal and really James Madison shat out the big parts of our faction-proof empire. Yes, there was, in fact, a civil war, but the caplock rifle worked it out. After the Federalist papers he has you read the Bill of Rights but no Supreme Court cases. There’s a lot of talk on negative liberties.

Just before finals, the learned doctor says your generation only has two things to worry about: the climate and the poverty. Yeah they’re big, he says, but they’re just two things. You’re crafty kids, smart as the framers, even.

. . .

The state decides law school is your jam and lets you come inside.

There’s the negative liberties but you actually read Supreme Court opinions when the big boys aren’t shaking fists for Valley Forge. They have you listen to Hamilton for context. You feel dirty. An LRW professor puts on the “I’m Just a Bill” video and your sectionmate with Ivy degrees gets really, really mad.

. . .

The Federalist Society has a comfy presence at your law school. Along with Big Oil they sling out free pizza to every Little Scalia with a rumbly tum tum.

On your way to class you hear what the pizza boys feel. They hate Europeans, those social democrats with the rotten armories and clumpy cash. The Euros, they think, give too much wiggle room for the mentally ill, and by that they mean they mean gay people and probably just women overall.

There are more than two things to fix, you think.

. . .

The pandemic hits. You and some pals start a Google Doc to stay afloat. It barely works. In the Zoom review for the property final your professor catches multiple people crying. "You don't have to be here," he tells them, “there are other jobs.”

. . .

A year passes. You’re in a niche public interest class you do all right with. The professor looks you and thirty-five others dead in the eye and says how sorry he is that law school is traumatic. You shed a single tear in your little window. You're pretty in the shit and haven’t worn pants to class in months.

Then public interest prof takes a big, big drag from his long, fat spliff. He spins his desk chair and baseball cap at the same time, never letting go of the joint.

“Hey,” he says. “It’s not your fault, really, but the world is fucked. It’s time to fix what your parents did.”

The next week he gives a practice exam where the best solution is to sell an old lady’s house to Nestlé.

IV.

It’s 2022. After throwing your whole gooch at it, you fail the bar exam.

You fall back hard into exercise. When you’re not slamming Barbri you’re at the gym binging curls and cranking the Chainsaw Man soundtrack. One night on the way to squats you finally hear “Black Parade.” Just like you, Mr. Gerry Wayland is stuck between global disrepair and the desire to write Funny Little Books.

You just started an FLB yourself, actually. It’s spin on a Story Break episode you love. In your version there’s a fucked up civil war horse that moves like a spider and is covered in bugs. Rich people kill the planet then the horse gets lost in space. It’s compelling, you promise. There’s body horror and pirates dressed like Gorton’s Fisherman. See Fig. 6 It’s about the horrors of the contemporary world state. It’ll be fun.

Figure 6: An untapped horror icon. Imagine blood contrasting that yellow.

Big problem, though: you remember rich people love hiking. There’s no grass on Mars, not that good shit anyway. Would they really fuck all of it?

You edit. In the last few years, the real breathless ones, the oligarchs cash their tab. A cartel, they think, could really muscle those stragglers, the tragically common. There’s one city left with both breathable air and refugees. They level it. The few survivors are spread amongst the stars, so their loves and languages may die.

. . .

It’s the middle of Bar Prep Round 2. You and the patient MILF see Hadestown in the Big City.

There’s a juke joint on stage flanked by devil trombones. A sad little guy slinks in from the janitor’s closet. His name is Orpheus and, just like you, he’s a sad, short writer who likes a lady so much it comes out weird. He has a vision, he says, for a little ditty. It’s compelling, he promises, and shit’s gonna change. His love is functional and realized, worth the investment of a hardened woman displaced by capital’s torture. She believes him.

You cry because you know where this goes.

It’s just a single tear.

Don’t worry.

Nobody sees.

. . .

There’s this game you like, by some corporate anarchists who hate themselves. They’re Scandinavian, from the spot in Tallin where you stopped for a cruise. Every gift shop there had swastikas and gas masks leftover from the bloody years.

In the game is a liberal yacht MILF. She thinks you’re stupid but someone’s helping with your gun, so you’ve got that on her. And yet, she pins you, re your whole writing thing. See Fig. 7.

Figure 7: She sucked, but it still hurt when she left.

Your favorite Supreme Court podcast says the ocean’s last hope is other countries. But those countries’ people cry to the Disco game, and their ministers also bought The End of History. You meet them on the subreddit. You're all geeked out, waiting for the tide.

. . .

It’s the era of desert cradles. God thinks you’re disgusting, so he sends his better kids with a memo: the flood was too much work on his end, it’s time for something different.

“Just keep walking,” he says.

Your skin bares his figure. So do the corpses. You little birds among billions, gassed out and screaming, move to clean.

V.

It’s 2023.

We Love Katamari is up on the PlayStation store. You sit with the cats and mow down some crabs. You don’t need it so much these days, but it’s nice.

There’s a Bar card in your wallet, just below your gym tag. There are two interviews in your Google Calendar. Good stuff might happen, hopefully soon. You crawl into bed and wrap an arm around your wife’s rib cage.

Everything matters and nothing is safe.

You are loved enough to sleep.

[lolottes]

beacon of distress

Danny had joined the Justice League (although he hung out with Justice League Dark more during meetings) though he still only stepped in outside of Amity Park if it was a big deal because he was officially a guardian spirit (spirit ~ ghost and it's not false that he keeps his city so the name is not so misleading) of his city which had woken up a short time ago, unofficially the Dark for the most part had that he was a halfa even if some didn't know what exactly that term meant.

He had negotiated that no one enter his city, especially without an invitation, in exchange for carrying a communicator -on- in him at all times, his communicator containing, among other things, a beacon of distress which is automatically activated in various situations. He hadn't been thrilled with the compromise but it was the same deal Batman had so he couldn't quite complain (actually Batman modified his own communicator, not that it was public knowledge).

DeFinally his beacon activated; he was tied on a table in his basement, opened by his parents who had pulled out various things that he stored in him, such as the League communicators that his father fiddled with before starting tried to dismantle him

[connieaaa]

I remember being 17 and working at a retirement community. I made a casual comment to an 84 year old man about his ADHD.

He replied a very confused, "What?"

Me: "ADHD, it used to be called hyperkinesis back in the day." *proceeds to explain ADHD*

Him: *in shock nearly crying* "There is a name for it? I always thought I was broken"

Variations of this scene have played out for me again, and again, and again. The last time was less than 10 days ago.

Quirky kids who declare that they are just like me. Parents of Autistic kids in shock that I can have a "normal" conversation but still occasionally head bang in frustration. Explaining a specific learning disability, and having someone shout "That's a thing?! I was told I was stupid".

This is what I think about when I hear Semler's Thank God For That lyrics, "Hallelujah, we are all fucking weird, and there is a place for you at the table, honey, here."