#i guess but like y’all should listen and it’s very gay if that’s a factor that influences the homos following me

[someonetooksendnoodles]

ok but can we talk about how fucking good chapell roans debut album is? like all of the singles were incredible but to have them all on an album with More incredible tracks? top ten album easily and i’m only one listen in

[sagamemes]

quotes from tabletop games, part i.   thank you to whomever decided in the first game i was in to start collecting quotes being said during the table—here’s a sentence meme featuring 100 sentences that have been said out loud or written down during various tabletop roleplaying games i’ve acted as a game master for, or in conversations surrounding it. sentences edited to fit written roleplay better. it’s a mixed bag, y’all. tw:  implied sexual content and jokes, death and violence mentions.

❝  holy shit, /i'm/ the professional in this situation.  ❞

❝  i don't think there's a lot of water in her birth chart.  ❞

❝  you know how much I love goading you into bad decisions.  ❞

❝  [i/you] did faceplant.  ❞

❝  i hope you know this is all your fault, [name].  ❞

❝  wouldn't it be nice if you could bite it back?  ❞

❝  [person] could've bonked the knob to death.  ❞

❝  a little bit of making out in the cupboard is not a security threat.  ❞

❝  no-one else can see it, but [person] is definitely being haunted by an ex-girlfriend.  ❞

❝  she's a new yorker, leave her alone  ❞

❝  we've all known each other for about four hours and we're making goblins of ourselves.  ❞

❝  you’re laughing!  [name] is dead and you’re laughing!  ❞

❝  god, what a weird little man!  ❞

❝  i don't speak [fandom/media].  ❞

❝  because, of course, you don't immediately run out of blood in your head—  ❞

❝  technically shoes are skin without feet.  ❞

❝  if it helps, she does have a youtube channel.  ❞

❝  should we even play d&d, maybe we just do therapy instead.  ❞

❝  oh great, what can i do with a dead body?  ❞

❝  the man with no face is just a raccoon.  ❞

❝  or whatever the victorian equivalent of reaching into the fridge and grabbing a block of cheese.  ❞

❝  i do not acknowledge more men than i need to.  ❞

❝  he footless because he got paws.  ❞

❝  [i am/they are] intrigued by the bundle of scarves.  ❞

❝  i thought she landed on her wrists?  ❞

❝  i'm glad i didn't faceplant, at least.  ❞

❝  it is not resistant to bonk damage.  ❞

❝  my interpersonal skills are shit!  ❞

❝  is he made of bees?  ❞

❝  oh well, she's got one of those as well.  ❞

❝  —which is objectively the wrong way to eat books.  ❞

❝  no teeth, no feet. simply vibes.  ❞

❝  we're going to have to listen to soft ballet while we fight this thing.  ❞

❝  that was my third frowny face.  ❞

❝  puff puff pass but instead of getting high you have a coherent thought  ❞

❝  oh yeah, i killed your neighbour, didn't i?  ❞

❝  we're city kids, we know what traffic is.  ❞

❝  give me a gay vibe check.  ❞

❝  THE QUEEN IS MICE.  ❞

❝  doesn't matter which of us die because i'll see you all again on hell.  ❞

❝  you know how when a person's decapitated—  ❞

❝  i don't even have my eyebrows on.  ❞

❝  we will create chaos.  ❞

❝  i heard g-string.  ❞

❝  i have a masters degree in library science and i googled  ‘ feetless man ’ !  ❞

❝  am sad. want ham.  ❞

❝  you are the most powerful person in the room with that cheese tray.  ❞

❝  you'll wake up to something you don't wanna see  ❞

❝  buff mice.  ❞

❝  —but it would've been a sexy thing to do.  ❞

❝  THE GAME'S OVER! THE GAME'S OVER! WHY ARE YOU STILL DOING THIS TO ME?  ❞

❝  it’s mice mentality.  ❞

❝  i know the implication was not that we were little beans but shh...  ❞

❝  it's your turn!  ❞

❝  charlie's angels, more like [name]'s headaches  ❞

❝  it's me, the bitch who failed  ❞

❝  i'm really good at that! ... no, i'm not.  ❞

❝  i love this absolutely doomed party.  ❞

❝  unless someone wants to try to overpower two peasants.  ❞

❝  we don't make good leather.  ❞

❝  you could definitely be mistaken for a respectable person now.  ❞

❝  unfortunately, my alibi is dead  ❞

❝  you would not think that english was my first, and frankly my only, language.  ❞

❝  what the fuck happened to my music?  ❞

❝  [name], that's gay behaviour.  ❞

❝  i truly just want u to imagine putting a hand on a titty and feeling a sack of dust through the skin.  ❞

❝  we've conspiracy theory'd this ghost and now it's a feral raccoon.  ❞

❝  does the number of heads you have factor into how easy you are to hit?  ❞

❝  i wanna do something weird.  ❞

❝  are you trying to reason with a drugged cat?  ❞

❝  what die do i roll? the one with numbers?  ❞

❝  i'd avoid plants if i were you.  ❞

❝  i want to be the burger king of a ruined world.  ❞

❝  just because i can be charming doesn't mean i will initiate conversation.  ❞

❝  that scream didn't have an american accent.  ❞

❝  i guess he was just two horses in a trench coat in the end  ❞

❝  make meth, i dare you!  ❞

❝  holy shit, you read french?!  ❞

❝  i've already put down two frowny faces on my notes.  ❞

❝  [person/animal] doesn't have good stamina, actually.  ❞

❝  we've established that the bees are trustworthy, [name]!  ❞

❝  i can't find the fucking d!  ❞

❝  frostbite'll do that to you too. you're not so special.  ❞

❝  we laugh in the face of a vengeful god  ❞

❝  sorry, but for the sake of the mission, i gotta drown everyone.  ❞

❝  i don't know anything about... men.  ❞

❝  i didn't consider all the emotional implications!  ❞

❝  it's a little known fact, but the h in  ‘ goth ’  stands for hrt.  ❞

❝  thank you for giving me an opportunity to murder you.  ❞

❝  don't worry, i'm a very gentle dom  ❞

❝  i'm gonna stay riding it, then.  ❞

❝  just two dudes who may or may not have done a murder  ❞

❝  you can't even count on [name] for numbers.  ❞

❝  'twas the night before christmas and all through the house not a person was stirring, because they were all dead.  ❞

❝  how is that rat bastard looking?  ❞

❝  maybe [name], because he has rights  ❞

❝  maybe [name], because he has no brain  ❞

❝  i'm cruel but i'm not an asshole.  ❞

❝  we're just two cartoon dogs vibing in the fire.  ❞

❝  in the spanish dub, [person a] and [person b] kissed before [person a] left  ❞

[rewrite-the-wrongs]

introductions / howdy, pardner

My first short story was about a fishboy and his human best friend. They battled a mutant piranha (whose name I think may have been Mutant Piranha, such was the monumental daring of my creative endeavor) and his army, who were out to destroy a mountain that held a whole planet together. The boys won singlehandedly, because scale was apparently a bit of a mystery to me.

This was the second grade. My teacher--who held me every day as I cried for weeks, confused and miserable and stranded in the throes of my parents’ divorce--understood before I did that I create to a ploddingly slow and steady drumbeat. A sentence is always so much more in my head than I’m able to let out, at first; I have to pore over it again and again, fleshing and flourishing (and often correcting) it, the same way I often have to reread paragraphs or pages or whole books to truly capture their meaning. In a word processor, this back-and-forth is as easily said as it is done; on double-wide ruled paper with dashed-line handwriting guides, the task is magnitudes more time-consuming, especially for somebody as messy as I am. So, while nearly everybody else played at recess on the sandlot and the jungle gym around us, a select few stragglers laid our reading folders on our laps and finished our stories.

My villain, that dastardly Mutant Piranha, found himself in prison at the story’s close. Awaiting trial, I guess; I never ventured that far ahead, seeing the big fishy bastard for a coward. “When no one was looking, he stabbed himself.” That’s the last line, stuck in my memory, not for its own sake, but for my poor teacher’s horrified face as she read my final draft there on the playground.

A mom volunteered to type up the class’ stories and get them printed and bound. For years afterward I reread that collection, always proud to have written the second-longest piece therein. I felt the weight of the pages, inhaled the tiny but acrid breeze that came from rapidly leafing through them. Knew it was a whole smattering of worlds inside, that one of those worlds was wholly mine, and I had the power to show it to people however I wished. Yes, I thought, I want this.

*

I’ve been introduced to writing many times over, by many people. Don’t get me wrong--I nightowled the first several chapters to many half-baked novel concepts all through my youth. But teachers have a way of showing a thing to you from new angles.

The first person to impact me as such was a high school teacher who was essentially given carte-blanche to construct a creative writing workshop in the English curriculum. The first semester was structured--you practiced poems, short fiction, humor and essay writing, drama, the gamut. Every semester after, the carte-blanche was passed on: A single assignment due a week, each a single draft of a poem or a minimum of two pages’ worth of prose. Forty-five minutes a day to work, and of course free time at home. By the time I graduated, I’d finagled my schedule such that I was spending two periods a day in the computer lab, and several hours after school every day working the literary arts magazine before I went home to get the rest of my homework out of the way and write some more..

My next big influence came in the form of  a pair of writers who taught fiction at my university, a married couple. One had me print stories and literally, physically cut them up section-by-section as a method of reworking chronologies. Told me stories happened like engines or clocks or programs--pieces that meshed differently depending on how they were put together, rules that held each other in place. The other showed boundless confidence in me, listened happily to some older students who recommended I be brought on board for a national arts mag. They both encouraged me toward grad school, but toward the end of my junior year I began to stumble, and by senior year I was, to be frank, a drunken asshole. Time I could be bothered to set aside for writing began to dwindle. I limped through the editorship with the help of my extremely talented, utterly more-than-worthy successor--and come to think of it, I’ve never truly thanked her. Maybe I’ll send her that message, now that I’m feeling more myself.

*

On feeling more myself:

That drunken rage was brought on by a myriad list of factors, the primary ones being 1) I am the child of recovering alcoholics, and our inherited family trauma runs deep, 2) An assault that will likely be mentioned no further from hereon in, as I have reached a solid level of catharsis about it, 3) Some toxic-ass relationship issues, and 4) I was a massive egg and had no idea (or, really, I had some idea, just not the language or understanding or even the proper empathy to eloquently and effectively explore it).

I had a recent relapse with drinking, technically--a mimosa at Christmas breakfast at my partner’s parents’ home--but I’m not honestly sure I can call it a legitimate relapse. I’m not in any official self-help group, I’ve never engaged in the twelve steps or a professional rehabilitation. I had a very wonderful therapist for a few years but reached a point at which I could not pay her any longer and we parted ways--I miss her dearly, as she truly became my friend and confidante; she was the first person I came out to, and very well-equipped to handle it, lucky for me--but I’m still on behavioral medication. That tiny smidgen of alcohol pushed my antidepressants right out of my brain, and I became terribly anxious and angry and sad all at once, and briefly lashed out during a conversation with my partner behind closed doors. Not nearly the lashing out I’ve released in the now-distant past--more on that maybe-never, but who knows, as I am obviously a chronic over-sharer.

Frankly, I don’t deserve my partner. She endured my past abuses, told me to my face I had to be better, and found it in herself to wait for me to grow. She’s endlessly and tirelessly supportive of me. She sat with me to help me maintain the nerve to start this blog tonight. I came out to her as a trans woman just under a year ago, now, and I’m happier than ever, and we communicate better than ever. Our relationship is, bar-none, the healthiest and stablest and happiest I’ve ever been in.

So, naturally, I apologized fairly quickly at Christmas, and continuing where I’d left off at two and a half years, decided I’m still solid without booze.

If we’re all being honest, though (and I’m doing my best to be one hundred percent honest, here, though I will absolutely be censoring names because no shit), I still smoke way too much fuckin’ weed. High as balls, right now. 420 blaze it, all day erryday, bruh. That self-medicated ADHD life. I should be on Adderall and not antidepressants, probably, but it’s been a while since an appointment and psychiatrists are expensive, so I’m at where I’m at for now. Sativas help a lot. It helps with the dysphoria, too.

I don’t have a legal diagnosis for gender dysphoria, but tell that to my extreme urge to both be in and have a vagina. I’m making little changes--my hair, an outfit at a time, no longer policing how I walk or run or how much emphasis I put on S sounds. If I manage to come out to my parents sometime soon--and it feels like that moment is closer every day--maybe I’ll tell y’all my real, full chosen name. For right now, call me Easy.

*

Anyhow. My goals here are pretty simple:

1) Share words, both those by people I like/admire/sometimes know! and occasionally words I’ve made that I like. See the above screenshot from my notes app. Steal some words if you want, but if you manage to make money off some of mine, holler at ya gurl’s Venmo, yeah?

2) Discuss words, how they work, and how we create them, use them, engage with them, and ultimately make art of them. I am not a professional linguist, but I went to undergrad for creative writing, so, hey, I’ll have opinions and do my best to back them up with ideas from people smarter than I am.

3) Books! Read them, revisit them, quote them, talk about them, sometimes maybe even review them, if I’m feeling particularly bold. No writer can exist in a vacuum, and any writer who insists they don’t like to read is either a) dyslexic and prefers audiobooks or b) in serious need of switching to a communications major (no shade, but also definitely a little shade @corporate journalism).

5) I added this last, but I feel it’s less important than 4 and does not deserve bookend status, and I am verbose but incredibly lazy, so here I am, fucking with the system. Anyway: Art! Music! Video games! I fucking love them. I’ll talk about them, sometimes, too. Maybe I’ll finally do some of the ekphrastic work I’ve felt rattling around in my brain for a while now. Jade Cocoon 2′s Water Wormhole Forest, looking right the fuck at you.

6) Ah, shit, I did it again. Oh well. Last-but-not-last: This is obviously, in some ways, a diary, or a massive personal essay. I will sometimes discuss people, places, or experiences that have informed my work just the same as other people’s art has.

4) Be an unabashed and open Trans woman. TERFs, transphobes, ill-informed biological essentialists not permitted. Come at me and my girldick and prepare to be dunked on and subsequently shown the door via a swift and painful steel-toed kick in the ass. Everybody who doesn’t suck, if I screw up on any matter of socio-ethics or respect for diversity, please feel free to correct me.

*

Punk’s dead, but we’re a generation of motherfucking necromancers. Be gay, do crime, fight the patriarchy, and fart when you gotta. May the Great Old Ones select you to ascend to a higher plane and learn the terrible truths of existence.

Much love--

Easy