yk when you see someone share a finished handmade item that they clearly spent a lot of time and money on and it's just. The absolute tackiest thing you have seen in your life. And then you ask yourself why someone would waste all those resources on such an eyesore.
(no, of course you can't relate to that because you're a much nicer person than me)
In any case.
BEHOLD!
A wool coat!
The top fabric is handwoven and handspun, the whole thing is sewn by hand, too.
Leftovers. Barely anything, all things considered, which is very satisfying.
This thing took me well over 3 years to make, on and off. And now I'm done.
Thank you for your attention.
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The sheer pity party some alloromantics expect of aromantics is really funny to me. The expectation is that we ought to feel broken or afraid that we will never be worthy of anything if not for a romantic relationship, but as the years go on, I've been so much less inclined to feel those ways.
People expect aromanticism to feel like a prison, and I think that's looking at it wrong. My aromanticism never imprisoned me - amatonormativity did. Being aromantic taught me that I can never and will never be "made whole" through romantic attraction. Amatonormativity teaches that to be whole is to be pursued, to be in love, to be possessed, essentially. Being aromantic has freed me of those expectations because I had to break those chains in order to truly understand what will make my life worth living.
I've been finding more and more that being allo will never appeal to me - I don't give a flying fuck about allo being "normal," and frankly if being normal means being allo, I simply just won't be normal.
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feeling suddenly v ill about forever forcing dapper through an item scanner when an item scanner was used against forever during the happy pills arc. dapper's entry about the item scanner in her secret lab... and bad using it against forever to take the pills from him. to help him. and now forever used the scanner against dapper to take her warpstone. to hurt bad.
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The first pair of shoes Eddie purchased for himself when he started rebuilding the life he’d lost when his trailer was destroyed was a pair of Doc Martens.
They were new (well, not new – he’d still thrifted them, but they were barely worn, probably surrendered by some yuppie who liked the style but couldn’t handle the pain of breaking them in) and big and black and heavy with steel toes and thick woven laces.
Those boots went everywhere with him – navigating those first few years of recovering from all the trauma he’d suffered in ‘86, finally leaving Hawkins in 1990, his move to Washington in ’94 to live with Steve while he finished out his psych program, their joint move to Boston a couple years later, his first book release in ‘95 and his second in ‘99, not to mention all the countless big and small adventures that filled in all those gaps.
When Eddie and Steve’s daughter Moe was born in 2001, Eddie temporarily retired the boots.
There was a period during those first few years of her life when she was both very small and always underfoot, a combination that meant concerns about tripping on her were high enough without Eddie adding steel-toed boots larger than his kid into the mix.
So for a while, the boots sat on the floor in his and Steve’s closet collecting dust.
Then Moe got a little bit older and the boots started collecting other things.
“Ed, come look at this,” Steve snickers.
He’s in their closet, trying to tackle the cataclysmic mess that has accumulated over the last year and a half, because trivial things like cleaning had kind of taken the backseat the second they met Moe – as they should; Eddie maintains that there is literally nothing he’d rather do than spend time with his daughter, bar none. Alas she does need to nap sometimes, and he supposes that’s when all the other shit gets done.
He joins Steve in the closet to see that he's holding one of Eddie's Docs.
“Look what Moe did,” Steve continues, holding out the boot.
Eddie takes it, immediately noticing that it’s even heavier than usual. He peers inside to see that it’s filled to the brim with stuff – a small wooden car, a travel deodorant from his last trip to New York for work, a pair of socks, sunglasses, several loose bandaids, one of Steve’s combs, a roll of Smarties (it’s a wonder she didn’t eat them), a veritable cache of treasures in the eyes of their eighteen-month-old.
The other boot is pretty much exactly the same.
“Oh my god,” Eddie beams, “She’s fucking incredible.”
“She’s inheriting your raccoon behavior," Steve replies with a wicked grin.
“Alright.”
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