#essentially the 'where you come from and what you are' lables you as a fuck up part of the analysis

[ihatethiswebsite77]

Watching "it's a Jersey thing". I am beyond confused and in disbelief as to what prompted Cartman to say that

"Deep down you're a monster, but you're my little monster" line.

My working theory is that part of the reason Cartman hates and constantly rips on Kyle for things about him that he can't inherently change, and why he paints a narrative where he assigns those traits a negative meaning even tho they aren't negative in nature is because he is subconsciously annoyed that there is nothing "naturally" negative about Kyle. Kyle is pretty much a well adjusted kid for the most part, but his negative personality traits do come out a LOT when he is interacting with Cartman, but there's nothing about where he 'comes from' that's negative. He has a happy and healthy family, he knows his dad, his parents have respectable jobs, etc.

As opposed to Cartman, who is deluded about being "naturally big boned" which is something for which he is constantly being ridiculed, as well as his mother being a "crack whore" which is also something that he is constantly being ridiculed for. He can't change who his mother is, (and while he could lose weight) he doesn't really believe that cuz like I said he is deluded by his mother into thinking that that's just how his family is.

So when he finds out Kyle is from new Jersey, he immediately jumps to ripping on him about it. Because it's something that Kyle is just "naturally" that everyone in town actually considers to be a negative trait.

But then, when Kyle actually shows that Jersey side to everyone, and it stops being just a way for Cartman to do his usual thing of assigning negative traits to things Kyle is, even tho for once he actually has ground to rip on Kyle for, Cartman is very chill with him.

Almost like, knowing that deep down inside Kyle actually has that "monster" in him brings comfort to Cartman, because now he feels like Kyle is a bit more similar to him.

The "he's just like me fr" of it all.

Or maybe I'm just reaching for the high heavens with this analysis. Who knows.

[taintedsoulscomic]

What is a Mutant?

According to official papers, A mutant is a human being who’s DNA well, mutated to give them powers.

Physical Mutations such as Albinoism are not considered when somebody is labled as a ‘Mutated Human.’

These powers can go from Telepathy all the way to controlling the elements! (I can control the weather and Axel is essentially a demonic god.)

Due to this powers, mutants are feared. Many countries have negotaed with Muatnt leaders to live in peace and keep all citizents safe. The main issue remains in the United States of America! (Because of course it fucking does.)

The United States of America consists of a 10% Mutant population. It would be more if we were not brutally murdered in the streets like goddamned dogs. It’s the worst in conservative states like Texas, Alabama and my home state of Florida.

In the USA, Mutants are highly descriminated against to the point where most mutants have to have false documents made to earase thme from all government databases as a ‘mutant.’

Axel had to help me cover up my history... He looked really sad when he realized how much danger I was in.

Mutants are sorted by several catagories.

Type of Mutation: Elemental, Psycic, Spirital, mythological

Level of strength: 1-20

Risk Level: Safe, Cautious, Dangerous, Apocolyptic

Mutation Generation: Well, if you come from a family mutants this is where this comes in handy.

For Example I am an Elemental, Strength Level 14, Dangerous and Mutation Generation 2. Axel is a Spirital mutant, Strength Level 20, Dangerous.

His older sister is a non-mutant. (He says Hi Ari!)

Our friend Oculus is a Mythological, Cautious, Strenth Level 10 Mutant.

I think that covers all of it! 

- Nova L Thorne

Journalist Extrodeniar!

[r3b3lgrrrrrrrl]

A LunaTic and her Gunn (Part 31)

🎶Scared Is What You Should Be🎶

@lovemythsworld

@creatureofthen1ght-v3

"Fuuuckkk..." Colson thinks as he opens his eyes. "Fuuuuuuckkkk....." He knows he should move, but his body won't let him. He has shit he should do, but Luna feels too good against him and his head is rocking.

"One more minute...." He drifts off comfortably wrapped in Luna.

-------------------------------------------------

Colson wakes up again. He looks around, sure it was more than a minute that he passed back out. Luna's still knocked the FUCK out. Which is either a blessing or curse, given the situation. He truly has a love/hate relationship with her sleep. Colson wiggles carefully out from her.

"Bunny...." She pouts.

"Of course." He thinks with a content smile. He can't be mad that she missed him instantly.

"Where you go?" She sleep whines, shoving her face into the pillow.

He leans into her "To the studio. Sleep. Kitten." Kissing her somewhere on her blonde head before throwing on clothes and closing the door tight.

-----------------------------------------------

"I need to change some shit on the album." Colson tells Slim inside the studio

"Seriously, Man??" Slim asks blown beyond belief.

"YEAH. It needs an ending and I've got it." Colson tells him. "I'm pulling Wasted Love. We're gonna put I'm Okay in front of 5:366 then Bad Things after. With sick ASMRs."

"So you're changing the album because of her??" Slim asks Colson bluntly.

Thinking for a moment, before he responds. "Essentially, yes." Slim rolls his eyes. Colson continues "Dawg, this album is supposed to be a trip through my head and demons. What if she came in at the end to walk me out of the darkness..?" Isn't that what's happening? Isn't that what Bad Things is? Lemme show you the ASMR before you decide, Dawg."

Slim is reluctant. He agrees with Kells but they've already scrapped an album in the last year. And no matter how cool, or how much Kells THINKS he loves a bitch, he doesn't like anyone fucking with his money.

"We got this." Colson looks at him in a certain way that always reassures Slim.

"Oh, by the way, I think I might wanna re-record 'Hollywood Whore'. If we could just run a bar that'd be cool."

"Bitch, WHAT?!!!" Slim exclaims.

------------------------------------------------

Luna wakes up to an empty bed. "What the FUCK." She mutters, wanting Colson. She lays back. It hurts so she gets up, searching for a joint in her bag. She finds one. Lights it, hits it a few times, climbs out of the bed and proceeds to take a shower. Some may disagree but Morning Shower Joints are excellent. To Luna, they're equivalent to a Friday Night Shower Beer. A much needed necessity in life.

After her shower she dresses her shoulder, throws on a grey oversized hoodie and ANOTHER pair of cutoffs. She seems to live in them in CA and isn't sure where the FUCK they're all coming from, not that she really cares....

-------------------------------------------------

Luna finds Colson in the studio. He's sitting at the board with Slim. After greeting Slim and kissing Colson 'Hello' she curls up on the couch. After a minute Colson swings his chair around to her. "I wanna put 'Bad Things' on my album." He tells her.

"Okay." Wincing as she shrugs her free, but wounded shoulder, forgetting her injury for a moment.

"This is a pain in the fucking ass." She thinks, irritated. "And my FUCKING tattoos..." Luna reminds herself that, THIS was ultimately HER choice. "You stupid fucking Asshole." She thinks to herself ONLY.

"I'll call my lable, get the release, just gimme a minute." She tells Colson.

He slides his chair to her, radiating energy. "We have a Fucking song, Kitten." Eyes glowing, he kisses her solidly on the mouth.

She beams at him, still curled up. "We dooo." She says happily, lifting her neck for another kiss.

"Love-LOVE you." He kisses her again.

Holding him into their kiss by the back of his head, she lets go. "Love-looooove you." She smirks. He laughs as he kisses her on the head and slides back across the studio.

-------------------------------------------------

"HMPH!!" Luna snorts on the phone. "Ok, Charles. I'm going to have Monica go over my contract regarding features." She smiles wickedly to herself. "You know what, I'll give you, your fucking 40 for 40. But KNOW, my contract is up in June." Laughing lightly she continues "THIS was a favor. I never wanted to be on a lable. So, YOUUUUUUU tell Peter why I'm walking." With that she hangs up her phone.

"This cunt ass Motherfucker." She thinks. "It's cool, Loons. RUN IT." She antagonizes herself.

She sits outside on the patio, hopping on the the phone with her lawyer, Monica, real quick. Asking her to go over her contract with a fine tooth comb for feature clauses and if she can break the contract in anyway. Luna tells her that she's pretty sure there's a free to walk clause but not totally. Monica agrees, saying she'll get back to Luna, tomorrow at the latest, even though it'll be a Saturday. Luna graciously thanks her, teasing that Santa will treat her well this year before they hang up.

Walking back into the house her phone alerts her.

"THESE STUPID MOTHERFUCKERS!!!!!!!" She screams LOUDLY.

So loudly that the guys in the studio look at each other in a panic.

-------------------------------------------------

Colson finds Luna up in his room, rummaging through her things full force until she pulls out her running shoes. A pair of solid black Nikes. Colson knows she's fucking pissed, just not why.

"What's going on, Kitten?" He asks delicately.

She doesn't bother to change "FUCKING MEN." She says angrily as she pulls her sneakers on.

Colson stands there confused.

"I love you. I'm going to Ash's." She kisses him quickly on the lips, prances down the steps and is out the door.

Colson's still standing in the same place, shocked. "I gotta call Pete." He thinks.

-------------------------------------------------

Luna's running hard and fast. A thousand thoughts, lyrics, melodies and feelings raging through her body. It's a 10 mile run. She makes it to Ashley's in little over and hour. Bursting in the door, she's raring to go.

-------------------------------------------------

"Dude, she's RUNNING to Ashley's, that's a far ass run, Dawg." Colson says to Pete on the phone.

"Listen, know first, running is good for Luna. It's the safest way for her to rage. Second, what happened?" He asks Colson.

"I don't know. I heard her scream 'Something, Motherfucker!' from the first floor, THROUGH the studio. By time I got all the way upstairs to ask what was wrong, she said 'Men' and was out the door.

"You know who she talked to today?" Pete fishes.

"I don't know. Her lable, maybe, about Bad Things. Yeah, I think her lable.. But I don't know Pete, there's a 1000 people that could piss her off...." Colson trails off concerned.

"I know, Buddy." Pete tries to relieve his friend. "Knowing Loons, this is what I think happened, her lable probably pissed her off first and THEN she probably heard the news about AL, spinning her out. She's ok, Man. Call Ash, get an update. Then my advice, clear the studio."

"Clear the studio?" Colson's confused. He doesn't even ask about Alabama.

"When Luna gets like this, she creates. And she creates hard. Remember her NEED to re-record Bad Things?" Pete asks.

"Yeah..." Says a leary Colson.

"She created that with you when she was HAPPY. And like you said manic as fuck. NOW, she's angry. She's coming with 10 times the force."

"What the fuck do I do??" Asks Colson.

"I told you, Man. Clear the studio when she gets back. She's gonna want it. Besides that, NOTHING. I mean NOTHING. Unless she asks."

"Dude, I'm legit scared." Colson tells Pete.

"Dude, you should be. I told you, she ain't nothing to fuck with." Pete's words do not reassure Colson.

"Good luck, Buddy." Pete tells him.

"Well, this'll be fun.... Prefect balance of hot/crazy.... Right?" Colson worries, hanging up with Pete.

--------------------------------------------

To be continued....

[shootwinterfest]

Let It Snow

Shoot Secret Santa by @spicycheeser!

*_*_*_*_*

The whole situation feels really weird and the fact that she agreed to it means… well it doesn’t matter now, because they’re already here.

She pushes open the door to the cabin, knocking the excess snow off her boots before heading inside.

“She says a light switch  on the right,” Root says, entering just behind her and dusting the snow off the shoulders of her coat.

Shaw slides a hand along the wall until she finds the switch. The lights flicker on and they get their first look at the place they’ll be spending the next four days.

The living room is open, all high ceilings and exposed wooden beams, everything you’d expect from a “luxury ski lodge”.  To their left is a fireplace. A couch and armchair sit around it, with a soft looking rug and coffee table between. Bookcases and a few paintings line the walls. The kitchen is open to the living room, only separated by a breakfast bar, and there’s a staircase to the second floor loft that winds up and around (to the bedroom, Shaw assumes).

Slipping off her boots, Shaw leaves her duffle bag by the door. Padding to the kitchen, she begins rummaging and finds both fridge and cupboards to be fully stocked. Recently too, if the expiration dates are accurate.

“She says there’s a freezer in the basement with extra food as well,” Root says, leaning over the breakfast bar. “There’s sports equipment down there. Skis, snowshoes, that sort of thing.”

Shaw grabs a banana from the bowl of fruit, peeling it down. “Looks like Robot Overlord thought of everything.” She takes a bite, enjoying the minut flinch of annoyance Root makes at the nickname.

“Even if this wasn’t her idea, She likes to make sure we’re taken care of.”

Shaw rolls her eyes, takes another big bite of fruit so she doesn’t have to respond to that. It’s true though. However serious or not Shaw’s comment about going on vacation together was, it was Shaw’s idea. And now here they are, fully stocked cabin in the middle of nowhere siberia, four days to kill until their job in Moscow comes up.

“I’m going to take my bag upstairs and unpack,” Root clicks the ‘k’ at extra hard and attempts a wink before sliding away.

With reluctant sigh Shaw finishes her banana, tossing it before heading back to grab her bag as well. Ascending the staircase she follows the thin banister around to the one and only door and heads inside.

The loft bedroom is... fair-sized. She might be ill or something because “cozy” was honestly the first adjective that came to mind. There’s a dresser on each side of the room, a small bookcase, and a door that probably leads to a bathroom. Most of the room however is taken up by the enormous bed and now, as Shaw stands at the foot of it, she’s struck by just how little thinking she did about this whole vacation thing. What it might entail, for example. Not a vacation in general but a vacation with someone. With Root. It’s a thought exercise made infinitely harder to since she’s not exactly sure how to define what being “with Root” means either.

They’ve fucked (once) and kissed (twice) and spent plenty of time together flirting and shooting at people. All of that happened on the job though so downtime like this is completely undefined. Shaw’’s not sure what Root expects and not what sure what she wants from Root either.

Tossing her duffle in the corner, Shaw flops back onto the bed. There’s a skylight above, currently featuring a perfect square of grey-blue winter sky. She feels the bed dip beside her and hears Root release and over exaggerated sigh.

“What are we supposed to do now?” Shaw wonders outloud.

“I can think of several things,” Root hums, teasing tone not o be misinterpreted. “But vacation is about doing what you want to do.”

Shaw sits with that for a fw long minutes. She’s still not sure what to make of it, even when she feels Root roll off the bed and head towards the door.

“I have a project I want to work on,” she says by way of exiting, and Shaw is alone once more.

Propping herself up on her elbows, Shaw looks out the small window. There’s a fresh layer of snow out there and more forecasted for the evening as well.

Four days of this, Shaw thinks, wondering what on earth possessed her to even entertain the idea, much less suggest it. She conjures up ideas of what ‘normal’ people do on a snowy vacation and finds herself with a barrage of media stock images that involve people snuggling together for various activities.

Suddenly the idea of staying inside makes her itch.

Shaw heads downstairs. Root is on the couch, curled up under a blanket, laptop in lap. “Leave it to you to manage to find a WiFi signal in the middle of the woods.”

“She and I are well practiced at creating our own hotspot,” Root hums.

“Ew, okay, I don’t wanna know,” Shaw says, waving hand and making her way towards the basement.

Descending the stairs, she’s actually surprised by what she finds. The basement is tidy, well organized, and labled. It reminding Shaw of something she’d expect to find in White Suburbia rather than the frozen tundra. She heads for the sports equipment mounted and displayed towards the back and shuffs on a pair of snow pants (surprisingly just her size). She grabs the cross country skis, having watched enough Winter Olympics to know that if she wants a good burn that’s a good bet, and heads back upstairs.

Root’s still staring at the computer and Shaw can tell from the faraway look that the Machine must be talking to her. Fingers flying across the keys and Shaw wonders who is dictating to whom. Though, remembering Root’s prior innuendo ,maybe she’d rather not know.

Shaw walks behind the couch and pulls on her jacket. Peeking over Root’s shoulder she sees lines of code growing of across the screen. It’s a language Shaw has no desire to learn, and a lifestyle she has no interest in adopting. The contrast between her and Root sits odd in her stomach and propels her out the door even quicker.

Outside, the sky is still bright grey and she’s thankful she remembered to bring sunglasses for  the glare off the snow. Strapping into the skis it takes a few minutes to figure out how to get moving, but it’s not long before she’s gliding along at a good clip.

The trail near the cabin excellent, challenging. A good rhythm going now, she feels confident enough to push a little harder. She loses herself in it, letting concerns and thoughts from before fall away and shifting attention inward to the way her quads burn or the bite of the cold air at her lungs. The world around her is crisp and quiet, the only sounds are the swishing of her skis and the hiss of her breath. Every once in awhile she’ll stop and take in the serene woods. Watch the way the light glints off iced branches, or examine some animal tracks she crosses. She spends a few hours like that and by the time she gets back, the waning light has taken on a golden hue.

Back inside, Shaw is almost thankful not to find Root where she left her. Instead, she’s in the kitchen, starting at the open cupboards in thought.

“Problem?” Shaw asks, grabbing a beer from the fridge.

“Just reviewing dinner options. Decisions, decisions.”

Shaw pops the top off the beer with her belt buckle, taking a long swig. “Kinda assumed I’d be doing the cooking, you know, considering.”

“Considering?”

“Considering half the time I have to remind you to eat,” Shaw huffs, taking another sip. “Food’s not really your thing.”

Root looks at her and it feels heavy somehow. She tries not to squirm under it, changes the subject. “Look, don’t blow a microchip- let me shower and I’ll make something,” she shrugs like it’s nothing, even though Root is still looking like it's anything but.

Shaw moves towards the door, before Root’s voice catches up with her, “Need any company?”

The tone is light, the weigh from before evaporated. “I think I can handle it,” Shaw deadpans back.

Back upstairs, she takes a few extra minutes in the shower, letting the hot water defrost the cold ache from her bones. After, she finds that Root seems to have taken it upon herself to unpack their bags. All their clothes are neatly folded in the dresser to the left of the bed. Shaw’s extra ammo clips, gas mask, and other gear is organized in her duffle bag, tucked under the bed.

It’s annoying in its efficiency, annoying because it’s exactly how Shaw would have done it. Totally unnecessary. Could have done this myself, Shaw thinks. Helping herself to her favorite pair of worn USMC sweats and a hoodie, she pads back downstairs.

“You look cozy,” Root says. She’s kneeling near the fireplace depositing another log on an already roaring fire.

“She help you with that too?” Shaw asks.

“Fire setting happens to be one of my skills actually.”

“Somehow not surprised,” Shaw states and heads to the kitchen.

Cooking has always been luxury when she had the time to indulge, so she’s happy to seize the opportunity. The cabinets are still open from Root’s rummaging and Shaw browses those and the fridge before settling on a meal. There’s a whole raw chicken which she helps herself to, spending a few minutes of collecting seasonings and other essentials before setting to work. She dresses it the way she remembers her mother doing years ago and makes sure to grab and chop an assortment of veggies to lay underneath the roasting bird too.

Root could use the friggin’ nutrients, she thinks idly.

Shoving the whole thing in the oven, she sets a timer before heading back to the living room. Root is back on the couch, feet on the coffee table and afghan blanket wrapped around her legs like a mermaid tail. They have about an hour before dinner so Shaw makes her way to the bookshelves. Perusing the titles, she can’t help sneaking quick glances back at Root. The woman is typing away oblivious, brow furrowed in concentration. It’s a sight Shaw finds to be a weird comfort normally, but here it makes her slightly unnerved. Not because of the action, but because it leaves Shaw to her own devices. It’s the ‘what’s next’ anticipation that’s bothered Shaw since they got here, and it seems like she’s the only one.

Eventually she selects a book, a popular title she recognizes from a few years ago, and is then faced another choice: Where to sit. The armchair, the other end of the couch? Root’s words about Shaw doing whatever she wants on vacation mock her and it pisses her off enough she bypasses the couch and chair, opting to flop down on the rug in front of the fireplace.

Root doesn’t look up from her typing but states, “The bear skin rug was the owner’s Great-Great Grandfather’s. He killed the bear himself and fed his family for 6 months off the meat. It’s a family heirloom and the owner apparently takes a eat deal of pride in it.”

“So sex on the rug is out?” she jokes, enjoying the way Root’s glitches excitedly. Shaw doesn’t bother waiting for a verbal response, simply rolls over, faces the fire, and cracks open the book.

Time flies after that. The book is good, but the wafting smell of roasting chicken and subsequent stomach grumbling buoys her to the present. Shaw portions dinner for them, Root watching ruefully as she very purposefully places roasted vegetables both plates. They eat at the small wooden table in the breakfast nook. Root takes her time, cutting her entire meal into tiny pieces before even taking a bite. Shaw has more of an eat-as-you-go style, which is why she's half done by the time Root finishes cutting. Shaw tries to slow her pace.

Companionable silence is one of her favorite things about Root. The quiet never feels pressured or uncomfortable. Even in the midst of this odd situation, it still feels right. They finish up and before Shaw can say anything, Root clears dishes. She returns to the table with a tumbler of whisky for Shaw glass of water for herself.

“She says I need to drink more water” Root says.

“She’s not wrong ,” Shaw chuckles, taking a sip of her own drink. “But She doesn’t mind if I’m dehydrated?”

Root smiles over the lip of her glass. “She thought you might appreciate a good buzz at the moment.”

They sip quietly, watching the snow starts to fall through the window.

“The owner’s hunting gear is in the basement as well. If you're wondering what you can do for tomorrow.”

Shaw was, in fact, wondering that. “What kind of gun?”

“Compound bow, actually.” Root says. “Game fowl season is in full swing right now.”

“Sounds fun.”

What about tonight? lingers heavily after but Root smiles lightly ,diffusing it. “I have a few more things I’d like to work on. Unless you have something in mind for us for dessert?”

Shaw makes a ‘after you/don’t let me stop you’ motion with her arm towards the couch like and Root heads back to her spot from before. Shaw stays, finishes her drink in her own time, but eventually returns to her spot on the rug as well.

It’s late when she finally lays the book down, the fire fizzled out to its final embers. Now the blue light of the computer screen is the only illumination and the creepy way it lights Root’s face, the strung out tiredness there, brings to mind an entirely different type of snowed-in scenario. The Stephen King kind.

All work and no play, Shaw thinks. Standing, she moving behind the couch and touches Root’s shoulder. “She going to remind you to take a break any time soon?”

“She avoids redirecting me when unnecessary. Doing so when you’re around seems redundant.”

“Fine. Then this is me telling me you look like shit. Be done for the night.”

Root smiles sleepily, closing the laptop and placing it beside her. “As you wish.”

Shaw ignores the reference and heads for the bedroom. She changes, brushes her teeth, and passes Root on the stairs coming up as she heads down to find a glass of water. By the time she returns to the bedroom, Root has changed into her monogrammed PJ’s and bunny slippers and is sitting on edge of the bed, odd expression on her face as she stares at her phone.

Shaw pauses in the doorway, not sure what she wants to do or what she’s going to do (two different things).

They've always slept separately in the past. She could still sleep downstairs but that’d be stupid when the bed up here is big enfor three or four people. She watches Root discard her phone, giving Shaw a open, content look before shutting off her bedside light.

It was neither invitation nor declaration. Another thing Shaw likes about Root- there’s never any pressure.  Doesn’t make this any less confusing.

Shaw makes her way over to the bed despite the continued indecision, and slides under the covers. When she rolls over, she’s facing Root who blinks back at her in the dark.

Fuck it, Shaw thinks. “What is this?”

“It’s call ‘rest’, I think.”

“You know what I mean. This. You. Me. “ Shaw pauses “Her too I suppose- it’s a package deal right?”

Root beams at that, “Very much so.”

“So yeah, what is this?”

“What do you want it to be?”

“Can you just answer my question. I asked you first.”

Root shrugs, nuzzling her head further into her pillow. “I haven’t thought much about it.”

“Bullshit,” Shaw bites. “You always have a plan.”

“She always has a plan. I…” Root trails off. Shaw can tell it’s Root thinking rather than listening, so she waits.

“I enjoy you Sameen,” she says, quietly. “Whatever that is, day to day.”

“And Her?” Shaw asks, referring to the Machine. “She just along for the ride?”

“Mmm, on the contrary, she has always been quite invested in us as a pair.” Root smiles small, like it’s an inside joke. “She likes you too.”

“That is…” Shaw searches, but comes up with nothing. “Whatever. It’s fine, I guess.”

“Glad to hear it.”

Shaw rolls onto her back looks up at the skylight. Stars wink above, dots of bright in crisp, dark blue.

“I’m not good at this,” Shaw starts. Root doesn’t reply but Shaw doesn’t have to turn to know the woman’s attention is tuned in. “Not sure how it’s supposed to go.”

“On the contrary, you’re quite good at it. You make sure I eat, sleep-“

“So does the omnipotent FitBit in your ear,” Shaw grumbles.

“You talk to me, and listen,” Root continues. “And if I'm totally honest you're the first person, maybe in my whole life, who has thought about me. About my safety. About my health.” Root says it plainly, as though they’re discussing the weather.

There’s a pressure in Shaw’s chest at the words, like the air is compressing around her slowly, the weight of it clenching under her ribs. Something demanding attention, something stirring.

“It doesn’t have to be like on TV,” Root offers. “Or like what the rest of them, any of them have. Because we're not like the rest of them, are we?”

Shaw snorts, “Fuck no.”

“So forget them. Forget ‘should’ and ‘supposed to’.” Root adds, propping herself up on an elbow. “What you're not good at isn’t applicable. It’s a language you don't ever have to learn. Not with me.”

The pressure reaches combustion and that something that’s been building, building all day and even before, finally explodes. Without thought, Shaw pounces on top of Root, pinning her to the mattress.

Only anger usually moves her like this, but the sharp and familiar satisfaction that usually follow a snap is missing. There is relief, as she looks down at the other woman whose hips she was straddling, but she’s not sure where to go from here.

Root, by contrast, doesn’t seem unsure. Doesn’t seem surprised either. She simply looks back up at Shaw, and smiles knowingly. “Ditto.”

Shaw rolls her eyes, and dismounts, shuffling to her side of the bed once more, and letting the warm afterbuzz of that stirring thing, settle in her gut.

“Keep your freezing feet to yourself” Shaw says without malice, as she snuffles down further into the covers. “And tell Rosie the Robot to wake us up for 5am. I wanna shoot some stuff, bright and early.”

“Mmm, goodnight Sameen,” Root contently from the dark.

It’s odd, to have someone know her better than she know herself sometimes. To have someone who understands, who seems to hear the whispers within her like they were as clear as day. Maybe Root can help her hear them a little better too. Maybe together they can have their own language.

Shaw chuckles, into her pillow despite herself. The whole thing is so weird. So unexpected.

Inconceivable, she thinks as she drifts off. She falls asleep smirking at the reference and how ridiculous and maybe cool being ‘with’ some can actually turn out to be.

*-*-*-*-*

[rainbowdoom32]

So I'm going to start identifying myself as aspec. Previously I identified as a bisexual aromantic but upon furthur consideration I might be asexual.

I'm posting about this b/c 1) it puts it out there and makes the lable feel more real and tangible

2) I know some of y'all IRL or on a personal enough basis that I feel you should know

3) A queers need more visibilty in gen

4) cause I want to talk abouy it

So Idk how to do a read more and am on mobile so if you dont want to hear about what being aspec means to me start scrolling now

So. In the aspec community (do we have a better word?) theres an overwhelming discourse about sexual and romantic repulsion. For those of you who dont know thats when the idea of sex , sexual content, sex itself, the idea of romance, romantic gestures, and/or romantic content acts as a squick for you it creates some spectrum of a revulsion in you to be confronted with one or more of these things. Its an overwhelming discourse for many reasons but the one I want to talk about is that it makes it obvious that your ace or aro if your repulsed by sex or romance. The process for discovering your aspec identity is easier in a way, specifically in a way it isnt for me.

See I dont experience sexual or romantic repulsion. I like romance stories and porn. I actively seek these things out. I'm not put off by discussions of others romantic or sexual lives (specific aspects may repulse me but in general I'm interested in these especially when coming from people I care about). So naturally as a teenager I never considered myself as aspec. i considered myself bisexual almost immediatly (there was a thing where I thought I was tricking myself into thinking I liked women to be included in the queer community. More on that later) it took two very short very middle school esque (one took place my sophmore year) relationships and an accidental internet encounter with the concept of aromantisim for me to realise that the reason this wasnt working for me was because I didnt really want it.

The more I thought of myself as aro the more things made sense. At the slumber parties as a kid I never had a crush to confess. Those two failed relationshios? Guy friends I'd gotten real close to and thought my new stronger friendship feelings must be what romantic attraction feels like. Also the real sticker, I dont get jealousy in romance at all. Like that one goes over my head. I dont understand why cheating is the worst thing someone can do in a relationship to the point that people who've been sucked into a cycle of abuse and have become convinced everything is their fault will snap when they discover they were cheated on. That is absolutly mind boggling for me.

The point of that is I never got that ew ick romance feeling. As a reult the road to discovering I was aromantic was long and and full of doubt. Doubt that went along the lines of "Maybe I just havent found the right person". Which also happens to be the exact thing my mum says to me everytime I try to explain that Im aromantic to her. Bisexuality she understands and accepts. This she doesnt. So even though I know intellectually theres no right person for me that niggling doubt remains andit haunts me.

Now im going to devolve a bit here and I know what this sounds like but im seriously not trying to be offensive just explain something

See I read a fanfic recently. I dont remeber how I found it but it was a Stony fic and the story and the set up were very romantic cliche. Basically Steve was Tony's booty call it evolves to friends with benefits Steve falls in love. Textbook stuff. But see theres a wrench because the author identifies as aromantic is with the definition we have aromantic. They write their identity onto Tony. Thats something we do in fanfic and in writing. But the problem I ran into is this: the author identifies as aromantic because they experience romantic repulsion(yes they told me this) so in the fic Tony is in love with Steve but experiences romantic repulsion. The idea of romance of romantic commitment makes him anxious and sick. This is how the author feels FWB allows them to experience intimacy without triggering their repulsion. Identifying as atomantic makes them feel not broken. This so good right? This is why we have labels

Except. When I read this part of the story it hurt me. Directly. See Tong Stark has Daddy Issues. Ehen the author wrote about Tony's romantic repulsion narritevly they tied it into Tony's not nice childhood. I dont know specifically why it wasnt part of thwir explanation when I told them their story hurt me. I didnt ask. But this narritive decision made what was essentially was an author expressing their experience as an aromantic in a story feel like a personal attack against my aromantic identity.

See when I read that what I read was "Tony Stark cant commit to an actual relationship with Steve Rogers because Howard Starks Grade A parenting fucked up his ability to recieve expressions of love and his ability to commit. Tony Stark is in romantic love with Steve Rogers but his childhood trauma prevents him from expresing it in the traditional manner this is what being aromantic is"

That hurt. Because it hit that little doubt in my head about not having met the "right person" and mixed it up with some childhood trauma made you a broken person. It also hit me while I felt safe. Romance stories are my escapism. Their like an extra element of fantasy in a story for me. I specifically seek out romantic stories as a comforting mechanism. Fanfics in particular because of their inclusivity. I was in my safe space, and I was whammed in a sore spot.

The problem is though the author has a right to that story and that label and to express themselves. We usually draw the line at self expression where it hurts other people but thats not what happened here. What happened here was definitial confusion. The author and I were using "aromantic" to describe two different but similar romantic orientations. In doing so we hurt each other ironically in the same way. We both said to each other "Your identity is wrong and toxic you hurt people and yourself by expressing it the way you do". (I left a comment saying how her story affected me)

When I say I'm aromantic I mean I experience no romantic feelings. None nada zilch. The idea that I might one day experience a type of romantic feeling is an aggression against me. The same way the idea that gay people can choose to be straight is an aggression against being gay.

But I can't invalidate someone else to protect myself. What do I do? I dont want to hurt myself and I dont want to hurt other people? Idk

And now to why I no longer identify as bisexual.

I'm a virgin. Because most peoples first time is with someone their in a romantic relationship with. And we'll I dont do that. Im also a socially anxious person. I have no idea how to instogate a sexual encounter and honeslty I wouldnt feel comftorable dping it with someone I couldnt trust or alternatively someone I'm friends with and would have to continue being juat friends with in post we had sex awkwardness. So ive never had an opportunity to have sex.

But I also havent sought them out. And I dont feel particularly driven to. These are reasons to think your asexual but I'm sure it's also the experience of many introverted and secually awkawrd people. And it's not like I couldnt have sex at some future point. Even now if an opportunity arose I might say yes, of only to confirm my asexuality.

The thing that has made me actually consider if I'm ace tho is a weird quirk of mine. I cant get off to prom videos. I use lit erotica. Why? Cause the idea that those are real live people puts me off. Porn stars and amateur porn makers know people get off watching their videos. Theyre okay with that. But I'm not. At all. Thats a big ol nope for me.

See I'm a ciswoman. Which means I have a clitoris. An organ whose only purpose is to provide pleasure. As everyone knows reciving pleasure via the clit requires no participation by a second person. The fact that my clitiros functions as intended and that I use it isnt sexual attraction.

Thats a new idea for me. But it's true isnt it? Sexual attraction is about other people. And sure I can appreciate other people's hotness. But just because I think a horse is pretty doesnt mean I want to fuck it. Remeber that thing about thinking I was faking bisexuality?? I was right. I wasnt sexually attracted to women. But what I hadnt bothered to consider because of heteronormativity was that I wasnt sexually attracted to men either.

Other fun fact in case you might be an ace person who's read this far (why? Also hi Katie and possibly Sadie but definelty Nishat. No im not implying any of you are ace) I dont have sex dreams. But I do have dreams in which I masturbate. So stick that jn your pipe and smoke it.

Anyways these are all experinces that I have that I feel neccessry to share to make it so the repulsion story isnt the only one out there. And also to start a discourse about how experiencing and not experiencing repulsion affect aspec experience. Thanks for reading!

[ramrodd]

WHY ARE THERE NO ROMAN RECORDS OF JESUS?

COMMENTARY:

donwharrison

Like Jesus, Cornelius and me, you know Yaweh, Queen of Battle. If, in the line of duty, you have ever run to the sound of guns, you were responding to Yaweh, Queen of Battle. It's the nature of duty: Instant obedience and self-discipline. The sacrifice of Isaac is a study in the nature of obedience.

Everything Jesus does is in the context of dudy "For I, too, am under authority. I tell my soldier "Go!" and he goes. I tell his buddy "Come!" and I tell my Gunnery Sergeant "Do this thing" and it is done".  Authority = duty.

Jesus is totally a "Be All You Can Be - Semper Fe! Do or Die - Ranger: Lead the Way" kind of guy. You have far more in common with him and Cornelius than you do with wimps like Richard Carrier or candy-ass Christians like John Piper, as a proxy for all the Salvation-Prosperty Spiritual-candy-ass-Pro-Life/Creationist Christians. And that is exactly the theme, tone and emotional quality of Hebrews: Jesus is the real-deal, the process theology He represents is the best religion of all religions and, well, it could get you killed, but get one for the Gipper.

I have been in a sky filled with helicopters and my recon platoon was ordered to secure the LZ until the next larger until began to flow in and begin to enlarge the perimeter so that more than one slick at a time could get in underneath the triple canopy. Another day in Paradise.

I was in the third slick. I wanted to get an intact squad on the ground before I got into the mix and that took two slicks with Charley Funk's squad and "Preacher" the shake-and-bake lay minister squad leader and his RTO and a crank and maybe a thump gun from his squad. We were hot and high about a month after the 4ID got back from Cambodia and everything in Vietnam was wearing out and everything we were going to leave behind would be scrap metal, but that was a bit in the future and on this particular day, some of the slicks could barely get their crew off the ground with a running start and the loads varied. I was in the third slick to see what was going on from the air before I got my nose into the mud and had to everything by sound. I had me, my RTO, my 4.2 FO and his RTO and a medic. That would put two medics on the ground and my medics could fight their way in and out of some incredible shit to get their guy doped-up, plugged up and on his way to dust-off. My squad leaders didn't need me if the shit the fan and I got to shot all the wounded prisioners we couldn't back haul and couldn't wait to turn over to our relief. My morphine was for my men and if killing prisoners was to be done, that's why they paid me the big bucks. Rusty Calley was being courtmartialed for wet work at the time and if anybody was going to be court martialed for battlefield management, here am I.O Lord: Thy Will be done. Dying by the sword beat dying by the cross, any day.

Do you remember how rifle fire from out of the swadows of the tree line looked like fire-flies on a soft summer evening? Or how the NVA tracers came up in a lazy slow motion arc until they whip past your toes, looking like fat green beer cans in the center of a green haze. Did it ever make you think of Jimi Hendrix? Fire a burst of six, right Gunny? Fire a burst of six  and spit a little spear of fire every 5th round.

Getting shot at makes me crazy. It opens a little door of white hot rage in my consciousness and it doesn't go out until everybody shooting at me is dead. Combat was everything I hoped it woutd be. After I got back to the World and left the Army, I played rugby just for a taste of the intensity an hour a week.

Now, that's an example of a  war story.

We've done some of the same stuff, you and I and you just got to do it longer. It is impossible to overstate how fucked up the Army was between Tet 68 and 1973, when Gen Sullivan authorized Task Force Delta which produced the "Be All You Can Be" slogan. I'm in the same business as the guy who coined the phrase and was the Army's Organization Effectiveness guru. He and I are the only people in the world doing what we do and he's dead. He was a Green Brreret and one of the writers of The Port Huron Statement, which was the organizing manifesto of the Students for a Democratic Society. If you were in Vietnam in 71, you would remember the SDS, a Trotsky-insurgency process in action. Frank Burns was in his senior year in ROTC and almost got thrown out. Frank and I were both Army brats and, growing up then, Counter-insurgency was the sexy career path and Frank just wanted to see if it worked as advertised. Remember the Police Riots in Chicago '68? That's how it works. Newt Gingrich was an army brat Frank's age and he copied the tactics of the SDS to become Speaker of the House and I've been dealing with that shit since I got back in 71 while you got to play USMC Gunny, and I'm trying to cut through some of the crap in the civilian world that is fucking with all combat vets to the tune of 22 suicides a day but if you'd rather cop an attitude because it feels so good to roll out your best Full Metal Jacket tap dance on any handy Jesus freak, you've earned the right. Just take your Richard Carrier anti-theist apologetics and Jesus-as-myth drivel to the Chaplain because I'm not interested.

The Gospel of Mark is a war story by a guy who was there and was a very skilled observer and intelligence network manager. Cornelius. Like Theophilus, Cornelius is probably an operational name. You know, a British general used the Bible to mount an infiltration of an army in a sneak attack and T.E. Lawrence refered to the Bible for similar clues throughout his career against the Turks. That's where Paul wandered around for thrity years or so. Richard Carrier ever mention that?

In your resonse that this post actually responds to, you compain that I called you out as an anti-theist without you mentioning it and tried to slander me as a psychic. Fuck you. First of all, I am, in fact, a little psychic. I learned to read cards from a Richmond psychic, Wray Parks Pearman. Before the crypto-Nazis who came to town with Reagan fucked things up, there were a lot of gypsies in DC and a huge wicca population in Northern Virginia and I just sort of picked this stuff up from some of the women I was partying with.

But that's another story. I couldn't major in ROTC, so I studied English and German Literature and Epistemology to fill the time between Leadership Lab and rugby pracice. Content analysis is the essence of Literary criticism and psychology the basis of character development. Looking at what someone writes and considering the texture of communication involved is all you do. "

So, when I run across an asshole statement like this "This apologetic is so flawed as to be almost laughable" in a forum generated by the content of of that video, bells and whistles go off. Just scanning it left the impression of an autodidact with an attitude I associate with evangelical anti-theists schooled in the apologetics of Ken Humphries and Christopher Hitchens and the sermonizing of Richard Carrier. I wasn't even guessing. I was interested if you would continue to try to disguise your orientation. You're the first jarhead lifer I've ever flushed out but it don't mean nothing.

Richard Carrier likes to brag that he can match SEALs with stories of sleeplessness. I'm an Army Ranger and I can't match their stories of sleeplessness. Sleeplessness is a design feature of SEAL training. It is merely a consequence of Ranger training. Carrier's essential tool of protocol for historic veracity is, basically, "Fake News" for anything that doesn't fit his narrative.

For example, you dismiss Tertullian as a 2nd century Christian apologist because he completely out-flanks Carrier's historical protocols on about three things and, well, vitiates Carrier's entire library.

The most interesting to me is how the lable "Christian" got to Antioch when it did. Like Slope, Gook, Dink, Slant-eyes and the other names we called the Little People, "Christian" was an invention of the Roman soldiers, referring to the organizing principle of that group of people as they saw it, in the same way the Roman soldiers call the Israelis "Jews" because they were from Judea or you called Arabs Ragheads and Camel-Jockeys when you were in the sand box. The followers of Jesus didn't call themselves "Christians" because they didn't think of themselves as Christians. They saw themselves as People of The Way. So, it was a very local slang for the amusement of the troops in the two legions stationed around Caesarea patrolling the trade routes in and out of Africa across the Gaza land bridge. And the Jews probably ignored the soldiers as much as possible and the soldiers spoke in Latin, tactically, and in pidgen Greek like our "beaucoup dinki-dau" Vietnamese we used to do business with the little people.

But the intelligence report that came out of Palestine and caused Tertullian to propose Jesus as a legal deity included the catagory "Christian" to differentiate these people from the rest of the Jews in the world. So the term "Christian" gets to Rome sometime between 33 and 37, when Tiberius dies and Pilate is recalled. Now, Pilate could have taken the term back with him Rome when he was recalled by Caligula, but the important thing is that the term was created by the soldiers in Palestine and it became current in Rome before it becomes current in Jerusalem, because, according to Acts, it doesn't show up for Christians and Jews until 45 or so and it shows up in Antioch, which is a very cosmopolitian city not unlike Tel Aviv, today and it isn't, yet, a common term among Christians in that region. And doesn't gain much currency any place but Rome in Roman records and not the Book of Acts or the letters of Paul. They term, Christian, is extra-scriptural, and the way it gets there is through Roman military channels.

In terms of Hegelian dialectical processes, that's pretty compelling history. Amen.