#cugine

[banished-to-ebott]

The Boys Hobbies (Old)

Characters ⸺ Con, Eyes, Tax, Earner, Admin, Capo, Cugine, Runner, Enforcer, Shylock Genre ⸺ Headcannons Synopsis ⸺ The boys' hobbies in their free time Triggers ⸺ Anxiety mentioned in Earner, Alcohol in Capo, Gore mention in Shylock Word Count ⸺ 623

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MT Sans, Consigliere; Con says his hobby is napping, but he genuinely loves stargazing. The stars above are such a fascination for him and he wishes to just reach out and take a star or comet or something and keep it for himself. He likes to study the planets and stars. He even has a personal telescope in the attic of their manor.

MT Papyrus, Eyes; He's shy about it, but he loves photography. He'll go out into the woods and sit for hours just to capture photos of a bird he found interesting, or a scenery he saw that he thought was rather visually appealing. Thought his favorite photos have got to be of you; He especially loves the one where he snuck a photo of you while you both were on a cafe date, the sun making you look absolutely divine. Another hobby he has is poetry. He likes to a range, from short and sweet romantic poems to poems diving into evaluating existential dread, to loss

MS Sans, Tax; He likes pole dancing. He finds it fun to spin on it, put on shows for just himself or you, to learn new tricks like hanging by his leg or being upside down, thighs gripping the pole while his magic bruises from the pressure.

MS Papyrus, Earner; He isn't open about this, and it was a shock to Tax, but he likes coffee and coffee art. The manor will smell like a lovely brew of some sweet new bean he found, and a cute foam kitty peeking out from a cup. He also collects tea. He has anxieties and the teas not only help him calm down, they just taste good.

MF Sans, Admin; Admin doesn't admit this, and you'd have to dust him before he'd say this, but he's to a soft spot for video games. He harps on how people who play are dweebs and nerds and virgins with nothing to do and they need to touch some grass, but late at night, he'll be playing the nerdiest videogames like Can Your Pet, Genshin Impact, and then games like God of war (he has all of them,) and CoD (again, all of them.)

MF Papyrus, Capo; Capo finds himself more. . . Distinguished. He likes wine tasting, especially loves the fruity ones, the sweeter ones with a lig aftertaste. Not to disregard the deeper, rich blend that leaves a long-lasting taste on the tongue.

MSF Sans, Cugine; There's a reason Cugine looks so good all the time, and why all his tops have a crest on them somewhere; Fashion design. He loves making clothes, for himself and others. (He acts all mean, but he especially likes making clothes for kids who need them.)

MSF Papyrus, Runner; Runner especially likes gardening, especially food gardening. He grows his own peppers, berries, and maybe a couple melons.

HM Sans, Enforcer; this massive, hulking shape has a surprisingly gentle pastime. He finds open patches in secluded areas and just sits there, seeds sprinkled across him. Bird watching and feeding in one. He's actually surprisingly gentle when he's not on the edge.

HM Papyrus, Shylock; Shylock is one of the most unnerving of these boys, but he does like painting, What he makes fluctuates hard from painting to painting. One canvas could be filled with a colorful sunset in shades of orange and purple to pink and red, over a light blue lake highlighted in the sky's colors, and the next canvas would be streaked in red, a crow staring back blankly, and the third could be an abstract portrait of himself. His favorite has been a framed painting of himself with human guts spilling out his guts as he feasts on them on a loop.

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Please remember to reblog if you enjoyed this. Likes are nice, but they do not help the algorithm like other sites. Thank you for your time reading, enjoy your time, please.

[eyk-hetaart]

Romano endpoint is Staten Island Legend, Cugine

more cug

[tra-le-patatine-a-fuoco]

Aspè, che non posso andare a dormire senza lanciare questo nel vuoto: non posso essere l’unica che ritrova un po’ le stesse vibes in queste canzoni

[im-tryingtoloveyou]

-

[secretexpertwagoneagle]

Imara cerca le sue cugine 💕

Imara scrive, cerco due mie cugine,figlie della sorella di mia mamma. Assunta nata il 26 Gennaio 1973 e Annamaria nata il 19 Gennaio 1972. Si trovavano in un Istituto a Madonna dell’Arco a Napoli. So che sono state adottate dalla stessa famiglia. Vi chiedo di condividere il più possibile il mio appello affinché possa ritrovare le mie cugine. Grazie

[tensionesuperficiale]

[scrittrice-dipagine-bianche]

Se domani non rispondo alle tue chiamate, mamma.

Se non ti dico che non torno a cena. Se domani, il taxi non appare.

Forse sono avvolta nelle lenzuola di un hotel, su una strada o in un sacco nero (Mara, Micaela, Majo, Mariana).

Forse sono in una valigia o mi sono persa sulla spiaggia (Emily, Shirley).

Non aver paura, mamma, se vedi che sono stata pugnalata (Luz Marina).

Non gridare quando vedi che mi hanno trascinata per i capelli (Arlette).

Cara mamma, non piangere se scopri che mi hanno impalata (Lucia).

Ti diranno che sono stata io, che non ho urlato abbastanza, che era il modo in cui ero vestita, l'alcool nel sangue.

Ti diranno che era giusto, che ero da sola.

Che il mio ex psicopatico aveva delle ragioni, che ero infedele, che ero una puttana.

Ti diranno che ho vissuto, mamma, che ho osato volare molto in alto in un mondo senza aria.

Te lo giuro, mamma, sono morta combattendo.

Te lo giuro, mia cara mamma, ho urlato tanto forte quanto ho volato in alto.

Ti ricorderai di me, mamma, saprai che sono stata io a rovinarlo quando avrai di fronte tutte le donne che urleranno il mio nome.

Perché lo so, mamma, tu non ti fermerai.

Ma, per carità, non legare mia sorella.

Non rinchiudere le mie cugine, non limitare le tue nipoti.

Non è colpa tua, mamma, non è stata nemmeno mia.

Sono loro, saranno sempre loro.

Lotta per le vostre ali, quelle ali che mi hanno tagliato.

Lotta per loro, perché possano essere libere di volare più in alto di me.

Combatti perché possano urlare più forte di me.

Perché possano vivere senza paura, mamma, proprio come ho vissuto io.

Mamma, non piangere le mie ceneri.

Se domani sono io, se domani non torno, mamma, distruggi tutto.

Se domani tocca a me, voglio essere l'ultima.

[kon-igi]

I GIAPPONESI, MEDIAMENTE, STANNO MALE MA LA SANNO LUNGA (cit.)

Ieri, oltre ad aver sistemato il problema al motore del mio fuoristrada appiccicando dello scotch davanti alla spia del guasto (si chiama Metodo Vorace Bestia Bugblatta di Traal), un tamblero ungherese mi ha suggerito di fare un upgrade e coprire i gemiti del motore ascoltando la musica a tutto volume (il mio motore emetteva gemiti? Non lo so... avevo la musica a tutto volume!)

Fatto sta che in un impeto di autolesionismo estremo, su youtube scelgo un collage della durata di 60 minuti - il tempo del viaggio di ritorno a casa senza fare i tornanti in derapata, sia mai che i gemiti del motore coprissero la musica - dicevo, un collage di tutte le sigle dei cartoni animati anni '70-'80, quindi Cristina D'Avena esclusa.

Ora, può darsi che i miei gusti musicali siano pessimi (lo sono) e che io abbia la sindrome di Munchausen a Stoccolma (mi avveleno da solo con cose che mi hanno reso psicodipendente da bambino) però è stato un viaggio davvero molto... istruttivo (che fatica non aver messo la D) perché mi sono reso conto che oggi i bambini non possono avere ciò di cui è stato fatto dono a chi guardava i cartoni animati sulle tv regionali.

Il trauma psicofisico di una violenza televisiva gratuita e improvvisa senza la minima censura o il minimo controllo della società.

E non sto parlando di Goku che frugava nelle mutande di Bulma chiedendosi cosa fosse quella cosa ma robe tipo Ninja Kamui, Kyashan o Judo Boy che AMMAZZAVANO DI BRUTTO LA GENTE CON TANTO DI TORTURA E SCHIZZI DI SANGUE.

Voglio dire, l'Uomo Tigre crepava di mazzate i suoi avversari ma non modello Goku Super Sayan AAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!... una roba più tipo il poliziotto preso a rasoiate in Pulp Fiction

E cosa dire di Bem il Mostro Umano?

Cioè, non lo so... 'umano' perché lui dava solo bastonate, mentre i cattivi cavavano occhi, evisceravano pance e torturavano bambini. Letteralmente.

Ho in mente questa scena in cui Ninja Kamui sta meditando su un albero (?!) e a poca distanza da lui un brigante cattura una donna e le taglia la gola con un coltello... uno schizzo di sangue della vittima imbratta il volto del protagonista ma il narratore afferma subito che lo stato di meditazione del ninja era così profondo che lui non poteva accorgersene.

Avevo 9 anni.

In genere, però, anche nelle serie più kid-friendly c'era questo sottile filo di sado-masochismo per cui ok che il/la protagonista trionfava ma per riuscirci dovevano SOFFRIRE VISTOSAMENTE, preferibilmente assistendo alla morte atroce di parenti o amici di infanzia e subendo torture da Guantanamo (spesso autoinflitte, per quella storia di Nietzsche temo un po' sfuggita di mano al mangaka).

Comunque - e qua so di citare un cosa praticamente irraggiungibile conoscitivamente dalla maggior parte di voi - la cosa che ancora adesso mi mette più angoscia è il ricordo di Madame Butterfly che durante gli allenamenti fa espodere con furia le palline da tennis contro al muro.

Poi sono arrivati il MOIGE e il CODACONS, quindi ora i bambini vivono in uno stato di dissociazione mentale dovuto ai buchi di trama per i tagli censori e alle cugine assolutamente non lesbiche di Sailor Moon.

[beatricecenci]

Giannino Marchig (Italian, 1897-1983)

Le cugine

[blakelysco-pilot]

oooh chickie!! I’d love to see 4 & 11 with Val & Ev and 17 & 21 with Rosie & Jo for the “in love and scared to lose you” prompts! 🥰

Chickie these were a lot of fun, thanks for picking them! So sorry for the wait, I hope you love it! 😘

Prompts from this list; ask box is open and so are requests.

More of our favorites under the cut 💗

Ev & Val

4. "i feel stupid, why do u make me grin like a spineless fool whenever i am around you?"

11. a soothing, and tender "come here, sweetheart

The sound of the band playing filled the Officers Club, the men’s voices carrying over the music as they crowded around the bar and various tables. Those who had been gone for so long, finally home where they belonged. Thorpe Abbotts had never been so crowded, and yet, Val had never loved it more. Standing with a group of their friends, she was tucked under Curt’s arm, the two catching up on everything he had missed while he was held POW, the two years seeming endless while they were happening, but now, it was as if no time had passed. Friends till the very end, Curt had swore when they were teenagers- she’d be hard pressed to let him ever forget it.

“So, gal, tell me,” he started, lifting the rocks glass to his lips, taking a generous sip of whiskey. “Is Blakely coming home with us?”

“You make it sound like we’re a throuple,” she rolled her eyes. “But to answer your question, yes. He’s coming back to New York. At least for now.”

“For now?”

“Well, his family is in Seattle Curt….”

“Walla Walla ain’t got nothing for him but his Ma, and he knows that.”

“Well his mother is going to want to see him, same as yours wants to see you.” Val rolled her eyes, polishing off the last of her drink.

“He’s gonna wanna stay with you back home, mark my words.”

“There he goes again, Curt Biddick, psychiatrist.”

“You said not to do that anymore.” He grinned widely, blue eyes shining with mischief.

“I did, now stop, it’s gross.”

“What’s gross is the goo goo eyes Blakely’s making at ya while pretending to listen to DeMarco.”

She turned on her heel, eyes searching the crowded club until she found Everett’s big hazel eyes staring back at her. He was smiling lazily, whiskey glass hanging from his grasp, cigarette nestled between his middle and pointer finger. Benny DeMarco was going on about something, Meatball sitting dutifully at his owner's feet, but Everett’s eyes were on her. Turning back to the bar, she leaned forward to order another drink, when one was placed in front of her with no pretense. Expecting to see Curt to her right, she was surprised to find the spot empty, only Mike the bartender standing in front of her.

“From Major Blakely.” He nodded his head down the other end of the bar, where Everett was still watching her.

“Thanks Mike,” she grinned, taking a sip as if to make sure it was right. “Perfect as always.”

“You always say that Val.”

“And I always mean it.” She departed with a wink, intending on thanking her man for the sweet gesture.

Mindful of the drink in her hand, she crossed the room, pushing through the bodies packed in around her, until finally she reached Everett, who was still trying to give DeMarco some of his attention.

“Benny,” she placed a hand on his back to catch his attention. The way his shoulder blades seemed more pronounced was not lost on her. “Mind if I join you boys?”

“Cugine!” He crowed, throwing an arm over her shoulder. “We were just talking about you!”

Her eyebrow raised as if to ask what about, when Everett seemed to realize he had in fact missed an entire conversation about his girlfriend because he was too busy staring at her from across the room.

“I’m almost afraid to ask, Ben…”

“I was telling Blakely all about your secret letters in code.”

“I didn’t write letters in code, stunad…”

“Anyway,” Benny waved his hand as if to clear the air. “Looks like you want a minute, so I’m going to take this fella for a walk. C’mon Meatball!”

Once Benny was out of earshot, Ev had her in his arms, lips pressed to her ear so only she could hear him. She was shivering before he even said a word, the warm breath fanning over her cheek as she waited for him to do something. Anything.

“Everett…”

“I feel stupid,” he murmured, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “So, so stupid… like a fool in love.”

“Honey?”

“Why do you make me grin like a spineless fool whenever I’m around you?”

“Oh…”

“You,” he wrapped his arm around her tighter, until she was flush against his body. “Have all this power over me, did you know that?”

“I think you’ll find that you’re the one with all the power, Major.” She blinked up at him, lashes fluttering against her cheek

“Are we back to formalities?” He looked down at her, his left hand coming up to take the glass from her right hand, and carefully place it on the bar.

“Depends…”

“On what?”

“On whether you’re going to use some of that power or not.”

“Jesus…” he groaned, pressing his face into the soft curve of her neck, teeth grazing her pulse with enough force to leave her breathless.

He turned her in his arms, her back now pressed to his front, and guided her through the crowd in the club, towards the dance floor. To her, it was like the first time, every time. Being in his arms, safe, protected and loved, was Val’s favorite place.

John Brady, who had decided to jump in with the band for old times sake, clocked the two of them and mumbled something quick to the conductor, giving Everett a thumbs up before going back to his sheet music. As the music slowed, Val found herself being swayed gently, secure in her man’s arms.

“You all caught up with Curt?”

“Oh, hardly,” she giggled. “Mostly talked about going home.”

“I have a feeling we’ll be there sooner than we think.”

“Yea?”

“Absolutely, things are looking up.”

“Are you…are you excited to go home?”

“With you,” he grinned, and pressed his nose to hers. “Absolutely I am.”

“Well, what about your home?”

“I mean, we can take a trip out to visit, but there's nothing left in Walla Walla for me, honey.”

“Oh…”

“There’s some things of mine in the house I’d like, but otherwise, my life is with you now. Ma knows that.”

“I don’t…”

“Don’t what?”

“I don’t want her to think I’m taking her son away.”

“Come here, sweetheart,” he tugged her closer, the hand on her waist sliding up her back. “I promise she doesn’t think that.

“She doesn’t?”

“She wants to come see us in New York as soon as we get back. She wants to meet you, and your Ma. Wants to see everyone and everything.”

“My mother is pretty keen on meeting yours too.”

“Her last letter said, and I quote ‘Everett Ernest, if I get there and she isn’t wearing a ring, god help you’.”

“She did not!”

“She can’t wait to meet her daughter in-law.” He grinned, pinching her chin softly.

“She’s always been sweet in her letters to me.”

“Cause she already loves you,” he soothed her, his hand coming up to rest on her neck, thumb grazing over her cheek. “Sweetheart, it’s hard not to love you. You’re something amazing.”

“Ev…”

“We’re going home soon. I promise, we’re going home soon.”

Rosie & Jo

17. "you.. you're a dream."

21. a sigh of release when they're finally in your arms like they longed for it all day !!!!!

Jo had just gotten baby Crosby to settle. After an hour of Jean rocking him, Jo had taken over to give her friend a break, the exhaustion on her face bordering on frustration and sadness, at her son’s feeble cries. Shushing him softly, Jo placed him in his bassinet before flicking on the small night light that Mrs. Rosenthal had gifted the baby, tiptoed out of the room, leaving the door open a crack, and made her way back downstairs to join Jean. She found her friend on the sofa, two cocktails in front of her on the coffee table, and the radio playing softly.

“Rough day?” Jo joked, coming to sit beside her.

“He’s his father’s son alright…” Jean huffed out a deep breath.

“Fussy?”

“He’s particular,” Jean rolled her eyes, passing one of the glasses to Jo. “Thank you for helping with putting him down, I thought my arms were going to fall off.”

“Oh, stop that, I’m happy to help for as long as you need it, I love that little boy.”

“He loves his Aunt Jo too.”

The pair remained on the sofa for some time, leisurely sipping their drinks and humming along to the radio. Time passed comfortably for them, and when Jo suggested a snack, Jean’s eyes lit up because she knew exactly what Jo was going into the kitchen to get. Mrs. Harris’ famed chocolate chip cookies. Standing from the couch, Jo made her way into the kitchen just as someone knocked on the front door.

“Just bring the tupperware, Jo!” Jean called out to her. “I’ll get the door.”

“It’s probably that grouch from next door,” Jo mumbled as she wandered into the kitchen. “She can’t stand the baby crying and now she’s come to tell you to quiet him down.”

Pulling open the ice box, Jo retrieved the tupperware of cookies from her mother. She couldn't hear Jean talking to anyone, and quickly made her way back towards the front of the house to find out what was going on.

“Jean? Who’s at the door?”

“Jo… put those down and come here.” Her friend’s voice was muffled from the foyer, and so she quickly dropped the cookies on the coffee table to join her.

“You sound like you’ve seen a ghost,” Jo turned to join her at the door. “Who’s here…oh!”

She knew this boy. Knew his curls, blue eyes, and bright smile. But it couldn’t be; not her Robbie, looking the same but older somehow and standing at their door. Behind him, she could see Harry Crosby in that same pressed uniform as when he came home on that four week leave all those months ago, giving her a gentle wave.

“Hi, honey pie…”

“Robbie!” Jo gasped, hand coming to cover her mouth, eyes filling with tears. Rosie smiled, taking a slight step forward to capture her free hand in his.

“I’m home, sweetheart.”

She was in his arms in a flash, nose buried against his neck, arms wrapped around him tightly. Years of missing him, days spent trying to occupy her mind, nights curled under the blankets worrying while staving off tears, now over. He was home, and he was holding her the way she had longed to be held since the day she said goodbye to him on the platform of Grand Central. The scratch of his uniform against her cheek felt the same, his hands burning hot through her blouse and he tugged her infinitely closer on the doorstep. She hadn’t realized that she was crying until she heard Rosie’s quiet soothing, his hand rubbing up and down between her shoulder blades as big, fat crocodile tears splashed from her eyes to his shoulder, her quiet sobs (she hoped) muffled by his body.

“Are you… you’re a dream…”

“Not a dream, honey,” he huffed out a laugh. “I’m very real.”

“I’m sorry, I just… I can’t believe you’re finally home!”

“We’ve been wishing for this haven’t we,” he murmured lowly, pressing his lips softly into her hair. “Wishing for it all to be over.”

“It’s really over,” she sighed in relief, Rosie gingerly pulling her face from where she was hiding so that he could see her clearly. “Oh, I’m a mess, Robbie, no.”

“You’re beautiful, my sweet girl.” He beamed, thumb and index finger cradling her chin.

Neither of them had noticed Harry and Jean slipping back into the house, or that they were now alone in the foyer of the Crosby home, but it wasn’t something either cared to remedy at that moment. Love letters had brought them to this moment, and now there was nothing blocking the way for them. They had survived quite possibly the most difficult part of their relationship- the part that wasn’t much of a relationship, but a sweet courtship leading them to the good stuff.

“I have missed you, something terrible…” Rosie sighed, arms still wrapped around her, yet holding her at a distance so he could take all of her in.

“Just…” With a deep sigh, she fell back into his arms, holding him as tight as possible. Her head resting against his shoulder, fingers gently carding through the curls at the base of his neck, safe and content. “Hold me a little longer, please.”

“Honey pie, I’m never letting go.” He grinned, nose buried in her dark curls. “Never ever.”

[aci-daaa]

Se domani non rispondo alle tue chiamate, mamma. Se non ti dico che sto per cenare. Se domani, mami, non vedi arrivare il taxi.

Forse sono avvolta nelle lenzuola di un hotel, su una strada o in un sacco nero (Mara, Micaela, Majo, Mariana). Forse sono in una valigia o mi sono persa sulla spiaggia (Emily, Shirley).

Non aver paura, mamma, se vedi che sono stata pugnalata (Luz Marina). Non gridare quando vedi che mi hanno trascinata (Arlette [Giulia]). Mamma, non piangere se scopri che mi hanno impalata (Lucia).

Ti diranno che sono stata io, che non ho urlato, che sono stata io per com’ero vestita, perché avevo alcool nel sangue. Ti diranno che ero in giro la sera tardi, che ero da sola. Che il mio ex psicopatico aveva le sue ragioni, che gli ero stata infedele, che ero una puttana.

Ti diranno che ho vissuto, mamma, che ho osato volare molto in alto in un mondo senz’aria.

Ti giuro, mamma, che sono morta combattendo. Ti giuro che ho urlato tanto forte mentre volavo.

Lui si ricorderà di me, ma’, saprà che sono stata io a rovinarlo quando avrà di fronte il volto di tutte quelle che urleranno il mio nome. Perché lo so, mamma, che non ti fermerai.

Però

te lo chiedo per quello che ami di più al mondo,

non trattenere mia sorella. Non rinchiudere in casa le mie cugine. Non privare le tue nipoti. Non è stata colpa tua, mamma, non è stata nemmeno mia. Sono loro, saranno sempre loro.

Lotta per le ali, quelle ali che a me hanno tarpato. Lotta per loro, che possano essere libere di volare più in alto di me.

Combatti perché urlino più forte di me. Possano vivere senza paura, mamma, proprio come ho vissuto io.

Mamita, non piangere sulle mie ceneri.

Se domani sono io, mamma, se domani non torno, distruggi tutto.

Se domani tocca a me, voglio essere l’ultima.

-Fonte Facebook

[tinxanax]

Cristina Torre Cáceres

Se domani non rispondo alle tue chiamate, mamma.

Se non ti dico che vengo a cena. Se domani, non vedi arrivare il taxi.

Forse sono avvolta nelle lenzuola di un hotel, su una strada o in una borsa nera.

Forse sono in una valigia o mi sono persa sulla spiaggia.

Non aver paura, mamma, se vedi che sono stata pugnalata.

Non gridare quando vedi che mi hanno trascinata.

Mamma, non piangere se scopri che mi hanno impalata.

Ti diranno che sono stata io, che non ho urlato, che erano i miei vestiti, l’alcool nel sangue.

Ti diranno che era giusto, che ero da sola.

Che il mio ex psicopatico avesse delle ragioni, che ero infedele, che ero una puttana.

Ti diranno che ho vissuto, mamma, che ho osato volare molto in alto in un mondo senza aria.

Lo giuro, mamma, sono morta combattendo.

Lo giuro, mia cara mamma, ho urlato forte così come volavo alto.

Lui si ricorderà di me, mamma, saprà che sono stata io a rovinarlo quando avrà di fronte il volto di tutte quelle che urleranno il mio nome.

Perchè lo so, mamma, non ti fermerai.

Però, te lo chiedo per quello che ami di più al mondo, non trattenere mia sorella.

Non rinchiudere le mie cugine, non privare di nulla le tue nipoti.

Non è colpa tua, mamma, non è stata nemmeno mia.

Sono loro, saranno sempre loro.

Combatti per le loro ali, quelle ali che mi sono state strappate.

Combatti per loro, che possano essere libere di volare più in alto di me.

Combatti perché urlino più forte di me.

Possano vivere senza paura, mamma, proprio come ho vissuto io.

Mamma, non piangere le mie ceneri.

Se domani sono io, mamma, se non torno domani, distruggi tutto.

Ho pianto. E per la prima volta in vita mia, adesso si che ho paura delle persone. Nonostante io sapessi già, solo ora realizzo.

[clo-rofilla]

L'8 marzo è quella serafica giornata che inizia con un "Auguri a tutte le donne! 💐" nel gruppo famiglia di WhatsApp e termina 12 faticosissime ore dopo con io, mia sorella, e le mie 2 cugine che abbiamo pesantemente discusso e poi litigato con pressoché tutti i nostri padri, fratelli, zii e parenti di sesso (ovviamente) maschile dopo essere state triggerate da frasi come "Allora vogliamo anche la festa degli uomini!!!", "Che siete discriminate lo pensate voi, nel mio lavoro le donne non subiscono alcun tipo di discriminazione!" e, dulcis in fundo, "Vi ricordo che sono proprio le donne che educano i maschietti 😜".

La lotta continua, amiche. Non finisce mai, da quando siamo state messe al mondo fino a quando non esaleremo il nostro ultimo fiato. E allora lottiamo, cazzo. Siate scomode, sempre.

[im-tryingtoloveyou]

-

[ilsalvagocce]

ti ricordi ho pensato quando ho preso l'auto via dalla camera ardente tua per andar a prendere P. alla stazione dei treni più vicina, castelplanio, che non ci ero mai stata, e pioveva e avevo pianto così tanto o raccolto pianti, tipo pozzo tra le ciglia, via da lì per poi tornar lì, tra zii nipoti cugin amici amiche e sorella e padre ed era tutto grigio ghiaccio e i miei occhi con le lentine s'erano appannati, come occhiali dentro la nebbia e invece erano i miei occhi miei, e io non vedevo

niente

ho avuto paura di non vedere la strada, prima la strada giusta dove voltare per la stazione e poi la strada in cui stare, andare, la rotatoria la pioggia la nebbia dolente negli occhi guidatemi qualcuno mi guidi sono cieca sono cieca sono cieca

[tensionesuperficiale]