#i can barely reach out to people to maintain relationships because I have zero desire to do anything but sit there and do nothing

[apotelesmaa]

I think the fact that u can just get prescribed ssris without being told about side effects to watch out for and then have your dose raised and suddenly have your mental health absolutely tank is. So funny. Absolutely incapable of feeling emotions to the point where all of my relationships are fucked (unable to feel affection/love) my academic career is fucked (unable to feel any sense of urgency towards assignments/attendance) my Everything Is Fucked (unable to gauge emotional well-being until things are actually hazardous) but at least I also can’t feel the Consuming Despair. Giving zombie realness. Going through the motions pilled. Apathymaxxing.

[maomao-words]

Here is another self-indulgent piece of writing!  (✿´‿`)

I binged Blue Lock’s manga in 3 days and I am now left with an empty void that I’m trying to fill by writing about my favorite characters in it.

On a side-note, I always seem to think of them as 18-19 years old. 

Contains few spoilers on some characters’ ranks after the Third Selection!

Being their Personal Manager at Blue Lock: (Itoshi Rin, Seishiro Nagi, Hyoma Chigiri)

Rin Itoshi:

Being assigned to the 1st ranker in all of Blue Lock immediately after your adaptability test barely shocked anyone. At this point in time where the whole existence of Blue Lock centered around Itoshi Rin, it was more than obvious that Rin would only receive the utmost care and the very best of the candidates as his manager.

Ranking first in the agonizingly harsh Entrance Exam and managing to out best all 600 other candidates from over the country, you were always the sole choice for Itoshi Rin’s personal manager.

You were already familiar with Rin’s character, preferences, weaknesses, strengths, diet and overall living style. You even had his body measurements down to the millimeter engraved in your brain. You thought yourself as perfectly ready to assist him in his endeavor, but reality soon proved you slightly wrong.

Meeting the genius called Itoshi Rin for the first time, you swore your blood ran cold within your veins the minute his eyes locked with yours. An oppressive aura, suffocating enough to send shivers down your back, surrounded you immediately the minute you stepped into his room. It took all of your willpower not to tremble in front of him.

Rin’s gaze did not move from yours for what seemed like an eternity, but noticing no visible signs of fear or submission on you, his lips slightly curved in a smirk and he finally stood up from his chair, discarding your test results on the table nearby.

“Not bad. She’ll do for now.”

Once you gained Rin’s initial approval, you started your mission as his closest aid. From the moment Rin opened his eyes to the minute he closed his door at night to sleep, you never left his side. You calculated his calories intake and planned his meals accordingly. You carefully reserved the training field and machines to Rin’s own wishes, making absolute sure they are available for Rin to use without any interruption or interference from other players. You planned, ran around, filled up water bottles and picked up emergency kits more quickly than you have ever did back in your own school’s competitive soccer club. You did that over and over again, to the point that you felt like dying. Until you finally broke down.

But being Itoshi Rin’s personal aid did not even offer you the privilege of breaking down in public. You waited until the day’s clamor and chaos was over. You meticulously prepared Rin’s lunch and reminded him to take the few tablets of vitamins afterwards before finally excusing yourself.

Rin raised a brow in faint confusion, as you have never willingly separated yourself from his side, even during meals. But the wound within your chest has finally festered to the point of no return, and you were unable to provide him with a convincing explanation before you gathered your papers and left.

The empty hallway located far from the center cafeteria soon echoed with your faint sobs. You gathered up your knees close to your chest and slowly rocked yourself in hopes of easing your pain. Weeks of harsh labor, zero communication with the outside world as well as the stress that came with handling all of Rin’s demanding responsibilities finally bled over.

You were not giving up. ‘Make no mistake,’ you whispered to yourself between sobs. You were just taking a much earned break before drying up your tears and returning to work.

But just as you began to feel frustrated at the tears still falling on your cheeks, you felt a heavy cloth fall on top of your head accompanied with an extremely familiar fragrance.

You jolted, hand coming up to clutch at Rin’s jacket before glancing up at the tall figure standing by your side. You opened your mouth but a round package slammed into your face next, leaving you to wince in pain.

“Eat that and let’s hurry back. I can’t find my black cleats.”

Rin’s voice echoed in the empty hall, forcing you to bring your attention to the melon bread he threw at you. Sounds of clothes rustling beside you made you look up again, only to find that Rin has sat down beside you, hand coming up to tug you closer to him.

Placing his palm on top of your eyes, Rin’s voice sounded as soft as ever as he whispered.

“Rest. I’m here.”

Seishiro Nagi:

As you stared down at your test results that have finally arrived after a long wait, you suddenly had the urge to cry out. 

Why him of all people?

Having extensively studied all of Blue Lock’s key players prior to passing the Entrance Exam as a manager, you were filled with admiration and respect to them and thus felt ready to be assigned to any of them. Any of them but Nagi Seishiro.

A beginning who did not even know the most basic of the basics on football yet somehow blessed enough to be labeled as a genius even among Blue Lock’s outstanding participants. That was Nagi Seichiro.

You abhorred geniuses. You abhorred how easily they reached their goals, how effortlessly they achieved their desires and how the entire world seemed to bow down in front of them. Becoming the personal manager of a hard working individual, like Isagi Yoichi for example, would have made you the happiest woman on the planet. To watch that individual sweat and toil, think and plan all of his minor actions in order to reach the pinnacle of his dreams through both talent and hard work and get to assist him in that process was the reason behind your entrance to Blue Lock.

So when the day where the eleven chosen managers entered the isolated towering building to meet the elite players ranking at the top of the whole project came, all you could taste was bitterness and rage in your mouth.

After Ego finished the basic introductions between managers and players, he gave the green light for you all to start performing your duties. As you began to collect your belongings that were delivered to you by the staff, you could see the tall figure of a young man approaching you from behind.

Without allowing Nagi the faintest chance to offer his help, you hoisted your luggage up with both hands and started walking towards the managers’’ sleeping quarters with only “I will be back shortly” thrown behind your back at the frozen Nagi.

A job was a job after all and you had no intention to slack off because of your personal dislikes. But you will be sure to maintain a professional distance from Blue Lock’s 6th ranker to avoid any unnecessary trouble.

Being Nagi’s personal manager was as hard as you have expected. Having to support a monster who does not cease to evolve with each passing day at a frightening pace would be considered had by anyone’s standards. But you were already aware of the heavy duties imposed on you from the start so you grinded your teeth and bared the pain. The only issue you seemed to have was, unsurprisingly, Nagi himself.

You have intended for your cold treatment the day you both met to be enough warning for the player. You wanted to perform your duties. Nothing less, nothing more. But Nagi seemed to have another idea on the relationship between you. 

He did not hinder your tasks nor act difficult on purpose to harm you, but he also made sure to greet you warmly each morning before plopping his large hand on top of your head and gently pat your hair for a few minutes before leaving.

He made sure to stick close to you during meal time, pushing off whatever he deemed not-tasty to your own plate, and innocently smiling when your try to scold him. He always shared his dessert with you, no matter how many times you tried to lie and tell him you disliked sweets. He constantly tried his best not to overburden you with questions on players and tactics and carefully chose the times where you were free enough to answer him.

In short, Nagi Seichiro was a weirdo. A weirdo you wanted to choke.

As the time went by, your perspective on Nagi was entirely transformed, despite yourself. You started to put extra care into his meals, go beyond what is required of you when it came to taking care of his training schedule and treatment and even sacrifice some of your free time in order to answer as much of his questions as you can.

One morning, as Nagi stepped in the room and smiled brightly at you, you found yourself moving in closer to him before raising your arms and catching him in a tight hug. Nagi almost stumbled in surprise, but managed to stable you both as he wrapped his hands behind your back. But before he could even utter a word, your mouth opened and a joyful, “Good morning Sei-chan!” came out.

Hyoma Chigiri:

“Are you sure you wish to be assigned to Chigiri?” Ego’s detached voice echoed in the almost empty hall, stopping you in your tracks. The results of the Blue Lock Entrance Exam for managers were just announced and the chosen eleven were asked to pack up and be ready to leave in a two-hours frame.

“You do realize that your rank actually qualifies you to become Itoshi’s Rin support, don’t you?” Ego’s fingers tapped on the table in a rhythmic manner, not stopping even as you glared at him.

“Yes, sir, I am well aware of that fact. But my decision will not change.” Your voice, calm and steady, caused Blue Lock’s host to grin, his raven locks falling to the side as he tilted his head to inspect you closely. “A calculative, rational and logical tactician as you, who managed to outrank all 600 other participants in a six hour long exam, is moved by mere personal emotions?”

It was hard for any regular person to detect the mockery dripping from each of Ego’s words and not feel their blood boiling within their veins. Only you slightly smirked at Ego, eyes curving in genuine mirth as you joyfully answered: “Yes! Is there any problem?”

All the struggles you have faced so far in order to reach this point were, after all, done for the sake of one person: Hyoma Chigiri. Specializing in medical treatment and athletic injuries as a manager was not a coincidence. You have long became aware of your intense desire to support Chigiri and aid him in his journey to achieve his dreams. No matter how many people laughed at you both, no matter how many criticized your choices and claimed you could do much, much better than an injured boy, playing on borrowed time, your resolve never shook.

As you finally locked eyes with Chigiri after your arrival at Blue Lock, you saw how his shoulders slightly trembled and his eyes widened, and your resolve was instantly renewed. Not many words were needed as you playfully extended your hand to shake Chigiri’s own. He was aware that you were there for him and that you will not change your mind no matter what he says or does.

Your duties at Blue Lock were slightly easier than your fellow managers simply due to the fact that you were already familiar with Chigiri’s routine. Needing no time to adjust, you dove head first into taking care of Chigiri, putting the well-being of his knee as your utmost priority. You tried your best not to bite your lips each time you bent down to take a look at the previously injured area, fully knowing that Chigiri has made his peace with the incident and was now focusing on moving on with no regrets.

Your favorite task to perform was, and still is, taking care of Chigiri’s silky hair. You were faced with his slightly damaged locks the day you arrived at Blue Lock’s building and Chigiri had to apologize a couple of times for ruining the hair you treasured the most. Ever since then, you returned to your usual task of picking hair products for him, drying and styling his hair depending on Chigiri’s schedule for the day. Braids were your go-to style but you also enjoyed changing things up, knowing that it made Chigiri happy each time you tried to come up with a new hairdo.

Now that you were finally reunited with your childhood friend and lover, you were ready to give it your all and see it all to its final end.

[foramomentonly]

Nail in My Coffin, Part 8a

Part One    Part Two    Part Three    Part Four    Part Five    Part Six    

Part Seven

Summary: Alex and Kyle are fashion designers on a Next In Fashion style reality show. Michael is their model. Dom/sub elements. Prompt courtesy of @signoraviolettavalery .

Michael and Alex go public. Takes place between Parts 5/6 and Part 7.

TW: Semi-public sex, restraints

Author’s Note: This one got LONG. So this is part A and part B will be posted simultaneously and is a direct continuation.

Read on AO3

The swagger with which Michael enters the studio in Alex’s Air Force t-shirt can only be described as excessive.

He’s worn it before, of course, usually half-concealed under a jacket or one of his endless denim or flannel button-downs—for a man working in the fashion industry he has shockingly little interest in personal style and grooming. But today, when he throws open the heavy double doors on set and ambles in looking like the cat fucking drowning in cream, the shirt is on full display, logo across the chest pulled a little less taut than it would be on Alex’s frame, but bold and obvious nonetheless. Alex smirks, trying and utterly failing not to stare as Michael locks eyes with him across the studio and sets off toward his station like a bloodhound. Kyle notices, notices Alex noticing, and shoots him a quizzical look.

“What’s he doing?” he asks. “He’s working with Liz and Rosa again today, isn’t he?”

“I think he’s coming to say hello,” Alex says, shaking his head in amusement and unable to keep his eyes off of Michael as he weaves between stations, equipment, and people. “We had a...talk the other night.”

He turns as Michael approaches, leaning back casually against the drafting table and waiting. And with zero hesitation Michael steps into Alex’s space, crowding him against the table with his arms on either side of Alex’s hips and captures his lips in a wet, open-mouthed, not-even-remotely-appropriate-for-public kiss. Alex slides his hands into Michael’s curls and tugs, biting at his bottom lip and laughing into the kiss as Michael moans exaggeratedly, and half the room whoops and burst into applause. Alex pulls back a little self-consciously, but he can’t stop smiling, and Michael is looking at him like he’s forgotten he was putting on an elaborate show not thirty seconds ago. 

“Hi,” he whispers, and sneaks back in to peck Alex once more, light and sincere.

“Nice shirt,” Alex replies lightly, and Michael grins wide.

“Oh, it’s not mine,” he shakes his head, voice teasing, but eyes intent. “It’s my boyfriend’s.”

“Okay,” says a brash voice to their left, “you know everyone’s only clapping cuz they don’t have to watch you two pretend to sneak around anymore, right?”

They turn their heads to find Rosa, hip cocked, arms crossed, and dark eyes narrow. Her stare is severe, but there’s a glint in her eyes, and her full lips are quirked in a playful smirk.

“Let’s go, güey,” she says to Michael. “You got a lot to make up to me and we started when you still had your tongue down your boyfriend’s throat.”

Michael grins one last time and darts forward, pressing a dry kiss to Alex’s cheek before he turns dutifully toward Rosa.

“Take him,” Kyle says, disgusted, waving his hand as if to shoo Michael away. “Take them both. How is it worse now that you're not sneaking around?"

"Really, dude?" Rosa laughs as she turns back to her own station, confident Michael will follow. "Did you think they'd tone it down?"

***

Being open about their relationship is better because it’s clearly better for Michael. He’s basking in it, preening for no damn reason, so secure in the knowledge that everyone knows he belongs to Alex. And Alex is happy to see Michael so content, he really is. But as the day goes on, Alex’s mood grows darker, and he can’t seem to grasp why Michael’s barking laugh, his bright eyes and flashing teeth seem to haunt Alex as he struggles to maintain some semblance of professional focus and integrity. 

Alex is working on the hem of their model’s shorts—it’s always the fucking hem—and watching Michael out of the corner of his eye. He’s laughing with Liz, Rosa rolling her eyes dramatically, but smiling. She pushes his shoulder and gestures at his torso, and Michael easily lifts Alex’s shirt over his head and drapes it over the garment rack to his left. Alex glowers at Michael’s tan, bare chest and the sharp curve of his hips, now on full display for the whole studio to see. Alex burns, arousal flushing his cheeks and something dark and unforgiving heating the blood in his veins. His next pass of the needle is a touch too aggressive, and his model gives a yelp as it pricks her thigh.

“I’m so sorry, Maria,” Alex says, leaning back as she bends over to inspect her leg.

“It’s all right,” she assures him, straightening again and gesturing for Alex to continue his work. “It was a pinch, that’s all.”

Alex shakes his head and he takes the garment back in hand, hyperfocused on his next stitch.

“It was stupid,” he insists. “I’m just—I’m distracted today.”

"I noticed,” Maria quips, laughter in her voice. 

Alex looks up at her and she smirks knowingly, eyes traveling deliberately to where Michael is—oh, fuck—dramatically dropping his pants, standing smugly in tiny red briefs as Rosa gags and Liz covers her mouth, half gaping, half giggling. Maria’s gaze returns to Alex and she raises a perfect brow.

“He's a lot to look at,” she grins. “Believe me, I know."

She gives him a conspiratorial wink, and Alex blinks. When he doesn't respond, her brow furrows and she begins to chew her lip nervously.

"O-oh, I'm sorry," she says. "Did you not know he–or that we used to–"

Alex comes back to himself and smiles quickly, reassuringly.

"No, no," he assures her. "You're fine. I mean, I didn't know about your, um, history, but don't worry. You didn't say anything wrong."

She smiles weakly at him and clears her throat, eyes fixed ahead and very much not on either Alex or Michael. 

And, objectively, it really, absolutely is fine. Of course Michael has a sexual history, and Alex has always known it includes both women and men. He's been in this industry long enough to know that the social scene in any given fashion hub is insular and smaller than you might think. He's not at all surprised Michael has slept with another model from the show. They are some of the most beautiful people in the world by trade; it's natural that they’d seek out sex with one another. Alex would never begrudge Michael his history, not even when he currently has a hand on its very long, very soft, toned leg.

But he can't fight the dark, hot roil in the pit of his stomach that is growling mine.

***

Liz and Rosa finally let Michael go around three o’clock, confident they won’t need him again until the final fitting before runway the next day. He re-dresses hurriedly, eyes drifting shut as he tugs Alex’s shirt over his head and catches the scent of Alex’s detergent, his body wash, the heady smell of his skin. Michael runs a hand down his own torso under the guise of smoothing the wrinkles out of his shirt, but in reality, he’s worked up, on edge, and while it’s not his own hands he wants to feel dragging across his body, any touch helps to ground and focus him. He needs to find Alex, who's been conspicuously absent from his station since he let Maria go fifteen minutes ago.

Michael groans as he carefully fastens his jeans. He’s been half-hard all day long, Alex’s gaze a tangible thing, hot and heavy on the back of his neck. It’s been awkward, given the joke underwear he threw on to fuck with Rosa. It’s also unsettling. He's used to working for it, drawing Alex's focus from across the room slowly, painstakingly, with flourish. He's used to earning Alex's attention. Today, it has seemed to haunt him, and there's a hollow pit in his stomach and a dark voice in his ear whispering, You fucked up.

As soon as he's out of range of Rosa's prying eyes, he pulls his phone from his pocket and sends Alex a text.

M: Where are you rn?

He doesn’t expect Alex to answer quickly; Alex isn’t the type to jump for every buzz of his phone. But his reply comes almost immediately.

A:Dressing room.

The show isn’t nearly high profile enough for individual designers or models to have their own space, but they do have one dingy, communal “dressing room” set up for general purposes. Private phone calls, crying and bitching sessions, even panic attacks are not out of the ordinary. It’s a space designed to be out of reach of cameras and mics. That Alex is using it now pushes Michael from unsettled to concerned.

M: You okay?

A: Yes.

Michael is considering a response, his desire to respect Alex’s privacy battling with his need for reassurance, to wrap himself in the warm security of Alex’s touch and voice, when his phone vibrates again in his hand.

A: Wanna play?

Oh. Oh.

Michael licks his lips, pulse quickening. He’d sensed Alex’s restlessness, the steady strum of tension between them, and fell back into old habits. Presumed the worst, accepted fault, assumed he had failed on some intrinsic level. But this is not Michael disappointing Alex; this is Michael overwhelming him. 

Michael grins.

M: On my way, Captain.

[tedfashionski]

Finking, Finking.

Hi, welcome to my ted talk. (That is the only time I will ever make that joke. This is Fashionski Finks. Expect radically low standards of self-involved rantiness with zero research or accountability from here on out). For a while there I seriously thought that the covid-19 quarantine was going to result in people being increasingly placid and accepting of creeping extensions of the police state. But here I am, getting depressed again, not about the protests, which I love, but more about my relationship to in-group pressure dynamics. One of the problems with being a relentless contrarian is the discomfort of my impulse to rebel against groups even when they’re championing the right thing. I have to find my own way to fight against the system as an outsider. No gods, no masters, no fucking peer pressure.  I’ll never be happy joining a chorus line. I don’t sign fucking petitions (they’re just lists for the NSA). I do donate, but like fuck will I do it performatively. I can’t go to protests cus I get panic attacky in crowds. I empathise pretty strongly with outsiders of all stripes but believe ridiculously excessively in the public good of criticism, and have a nostalgic love of trolling (I like to think I’m gentle with it though). Bring back the troll! We need that fucker, he’s a sign of a healthy internet. I’m writing this blog thing as an extension of my need to vent my extreme negativity. TBH I never expected to get any followers with ted twitter and the bizarre welcomingness of the hf twitter community totally wrongfooted me. I’m not nice. Ted isn’t meant to likable. He’s my dark side. I was meant to be using this alt as a way to terrorise the nice nice (secretly cruel) fashion people. I’m gunna try and up that aspect more. Just bear in mind, my complaints are largely about the system, but if I see you perpetuating fashion’s entrenched anti-intellectualism or its insidery bullshit, I’ll come for you with a little meta-bomb with your name on it. Maintaining my misanthropic tone does take work tho, like, deep down in some twisted part of my psyche, I guess I do actually want to be liked. It’s fucked up.

I suppose it’s only fair to explain this Ted fursona. Like, new concept, who dis? Why all the furry porn? …..because I just think it’s hilarious. Every time I think about the furries I cackle (not at them, mind). I just love the mad corruption of pure Disney aesthetics into hardcore pornography. That’s anti-authoritarian as fuck. I love the sincerity of their culture. The way the crazy fetish aspect means they’ll never be fully blandified by mainstream acceptance. The way it’s so cringe but so delightful. And more seriously, I’m interested in how a culture of mostly gay male nerds developed to the point where they’ll invest 10k in custom fursuits and support eachother’s independent businesses in ways that the fashion community completely fails to do. The fashion world sucks. There’s so many correlations there that I want to investigate: the newness (furries date from around the 70s, fashion culture in its self-aware state dates from the late 19th C – both very young fields); the centralisation/decentralisation; the hierarchy (furries can be pretty catty, I have discovered in my research, and we all know what fashion people are like); the adoption of new identities; the cis-boy gayness aspect (I’m increasingly tired of the extreme nasty hierarchy of certain CSM queens. It’s all very UGH. Just, fuck those particular bitches.) There’s more to the furry love, but I’ll explore it in future posts.

More importantly, why Ted fucking Kaczynski? I’m not like, actually a terrorist. (….yet. tehehe. NO, seriously I like non-maiming violence. Fuck yeah to property damage. Fuck yeah to disabling the system in extreme way. But no to wooden IEDs. Think of my shitty jokes that fail to land as my hand-crafted bombs). I think I like the shitness of Ted. He was just an epic fail of a terrorist. I’m a little white girl living in London. I’m not actually a primitivist, as much as I crave a hut in the woods. I did go to an elite school though. I had some really shitty experiences in the fashion industry in my early 20s, and I watch my friends who are relatively successful in that system and I get so angry on their behalf at their poor treatment. They think I’m too angry. Fuck that. They should be more angry, and the fact that they can’t be angry at their extreme precarity and the fact they’re still insecure and terrified of being ejected by the system after all their investment and skills they’ve built up is BULLSHIT. I’ll be double angry for them, I’m not invested in that system. I don’t need it to pay my rent. I’m free, motherfuckers, and I’m coming for the abusers and exploiters. If you’re a complacent industry figure not fighting hard from within, uggghhhhh fuck you. Yes, YOU. Soooo, I relate pretty hard to the MK ultra stuff. (go look him up, he was basically tortured and experimented upon by the elite). But there’s a pretty big chasm between my views and his, and I’ll try to be clear about the extent of my interest in his extreme beliefs. I haven’t even finished reading the manifesto. Basically, I watched that shitty show on Netflix with sam worthington around the same time I watched Joker (that movie fucked me up) and thought it’d be a good outlet to larp online as a terrorist. There’s the angry white alt-right school shooter aspect, which I’m still figuring out, cus I’m non-binary and I was raised by nutso trumpy right-wingers, who I barely speak to anymore, and I struggle to get along with people generally. There’s sad, self-pitying rage here. I empathise with the angry white dudes too much. I feel guilty about it. That’s good ground for artmaking (yes, shamefully, this…is…art. Sorry). I modelled this fursona a little after my brother, who I spent years living with and arguing with and trying to lift out of his scary racist youtube rabbit holes. This is actually quite an emotional thing for me, cus I did the ‘talk to your fascist family’ thing. And I completely failed. I realised his right-winginess wasn’t lessening, I wasn’t gaining ground, and in fact my excessive empathy and desire to reach out to the relative most similar to me in character meant his extremism was rubbing off on me. Making me more resentful and depressed. Feeling powerless. I was being too kind-hearted and forgiving of his masculine impotence. So I’m exploring some personal shit here. But Ted is also a cute lil fuzzball teddy bear. He means well, but me being super autistic and faily at social skills means he’s kind of a dick, cus I am. I’m going to try and further develop this character, this POV, and this post is the only time I’ll explain the divide between him and his creator (moi). The ‘I’ on the twitter and here is Ted Fashionski, I need that space between me and him. Masks give us this freedom to be more ourselves. Internet culture has lost a lot of its wild brutal anonymity in the last decade or so, now everyone’s afraid of making mistakes. How the hell do you grow if you’re not allowed to fuck up? This is a vital outlet. He’s become an important part of my life and I have to say, I love being Ted Fashionski. He’s like Paddington Bear who just escaped form Guantanamo or something.

I get pretty fatigued as a matter of course. I’m a long-term depressive since childhood. I have a difficult time keeping my hard-on for living. I don’t get suicidal really but I do struggle with extreme fatigue. I sleep a lot. I often fall into spirals of self-hate. And as someone who utterly believes in revolutionary leftist politics, I beat myself up about not doing enough. I’m so middle class and english and white. I was raised in such a chauvinistic and complacent culture; I don’t even know where to start. I’m wading my way through post-colonial literature and beating myself up for finding it boring and uncomfortable. It’s hard to force yourself to acknowledge your culture is The Bad Guys. It’s easier to fall into fanstasies of supremacy and butthurt misunderstoodness. And it’s not like my depressive brain needs any encouragement to hate me. My trajectory is ever leftwards, but I remember the righteous fury of being right-wing. I get it, that was me. We need more paths back from fascism, more comprehension of why people are that kind of shitty. I talk less, and less well, the more depressed I am. If I’m talking, it means im feeling a lot better. Just, fyi.

Give me a minute to be critical here. With the George Floyd protests, a lot of the cool guys on fashion twitter has gone blazingly hardcore on the political side. But there’s this troubling rhetoric about ‘no return to normal content’ or ‘this isn’t the time for fashion’. Like fuck it isn’t. This is a key problem with fashion culture right here, we have this received perception of fashion as empty escapism. Escapism matters in fashion, yes. But seriously, talking about the surfaces of things does not equal not caring about deeper meaning. What the fuck. Clothes are a connective tissue, a membrane between us. They’re emotional and powerful. We can talk about things that matter THROUGH clothes. I speak fashion, pretty fucking well. Most people who work at fashion magazines are morons with no understanding or respect for their subject. They’re incapable of doing it justice, and that’s deliberate. On this tumblr you’ll see rants and reviews of fashion and other artforms, always interpreting through a fashion lens. cus it matters, cus it’s a vital part of the culture, cus just because something has a glittery, seductive surface doesn’t mean it doesn’t communicate or contain depth. There’s no going back to ‘normal fashion content’, yes. Normal fashion content is a fucking psyop to divert legitimate interest in aesthetics amongst largely non-academic dyslexic visual types away from careful thought/feeling and towards empty consumerist commericiality. The traditional fashion media wants you to express yourself and your interest in the zeitgeist through buying more shit. Another fashion world is possible. Let’s destroy the old and build a new one, one where surface and spirit are connected and true and fashion can’t be abused in service of evil industrial monopolists.

/end rant. TLDR: angry fictional teddy bear with tin-foil hat and an eco-anarchist fetish says no to stupid fashion and yes to the renewal of conceptual fashion. Also, Fuck White People.