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battleangel · 7 months

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I Am Not My Hair

What actually happens if I shave my head bald?

Why cant I see what I look like without hair?

Why do I have to be sick or have cancer or be dying?

Why am I not allowed as a woman to just shave my head?

Why do I need a reason, a justification, an explanation?

Why do I have to justify being hairless?

Why are people acting like Im dying and have cancer just because Im bald?

Nothing happens. Thats the gag.

Youve been taught to fear.

Its just my bald head. Why is that forbidden?

Verboten?

Why cant I ever see what my actual head looks like without all this hair on it?

Why cant I see what my face looks like without it constantly being surrounded by hair?

What if I like being bald?

What if I like not spending $1200+ a year on my hair?

What if I like not styling my hair?

What if I like not doing anything with my hair other than cutting it super short, about an inch or two, every few months?

Why does it threaten people for a woman not to care about her hair?

I dont want to go to a hair salon or barbershop.

I dont want to go back to an afro.

I dont want locs or dreads.

I dont want shaved sides, I already did that last year.

I dont want corn rows or bantu knots, Ive done that too.

I dont want to grow it out.

I dont want a $500 lace front wig.

I dont want a wig professionally installed by a stylist every 2 to 3 months.

I dont want to wash or brush my hair.

I dont want to put any products in my hair.

Why is it a sin for a black woman to not want to grow her hair out?

I dont want my "long beautiful" hair back.

I dont want it halfway down my back again.

I dont want it to my waist again.

I dont want to relax it again -- there are lawsuits against Loreal, black women who used Just For Me and other chemical relaxers to straighten their hair are being diagnosed with cancer, inferitility and fibroids.

The chemicals in a relaxer are strong enough to break down and destroy the natural texture of your curly coiled kinks and force it to be straight -- those same chemicals are also strong enough to literally peel paint off of cars -- why are you putting this directly on your scalp for an hour plus every 2 to 3 months from the time you are a pre-teen or in high school until adulthood, for decades, and thinking that there wont be health issues?

They target products to Black women that kill them.

Remember the little Black girls that sang the R&B pop jingle in the Just For Me commercial?

"Just for me...hair so healthy, silky and free."

Who was that song for?

This was the 90s and there were multiple Black girl groups back then -- TLC, 702, Blaque, Xscape, Jade, Total, MoKenStef, etc. -- they wanted to get us while we were young so we would keep using their products until adulthood.

I got my first perm, I am 4C, at 11. I was so glad my mother stopped burning me with the hot comb that she had tortured me with since I was 5. Anything was better than that as I had a very sensitive scalp or "tenderheaded" as it is called in our community.

I couldnt wait to go to Touch of Magic salon where my older sister already had her long, silky hair. I was tired of being tortured by a hot ass comb that was constantlu burning my fucking scalp and I was tired of being told to "sit still" while my scalp was being fucking burned. I couldnt wait for the Revlon Fabulaxer so the dreaded golden hot comb could be forever banished from my existence.

From 11 to 34, 23 years, I faithfully got a relaxer at the salon every 2 to 3 months. It was about $120+ (relaxer, deep condition, style, split ends, color, etc.). Over the years, that fucking adds up, over $100k I spent on my hair. Even when I went natural at 34, my 4c hair is extremely thick, kinky, nappy, unruly and very difficult to deal with. People have literally broken combs trying to comb through it. Needless to say, I couldnt manage anything myself but a wash and go so I spent thousands at the salon as a 4c natural on Senegalese twists, box braids, Bantu knots, corn rows, twist outs, twist updos and flat twists.

Then I shaved my sides and cut my hair super short and started going to barber shops but I was dyeing it fuschia back then so my hair was still costing me money.

Then last year, I finally just grabbed kitchen scissors out of my kitchen and hacked it myself and decided I was never going to go back to a salon or barbershop.

I was going to cut my hair with kitchen scissors myself every 2 to 3 months. I do like different looks so I have five cheap synthetic shitty wigs that are different colors (blue, blonde, green, black). Depending on the lewk and fit, either I just wear my hair natural and short or I slap a wig on.

But thats it. No maintenance, no upkedp, no hair care routines, no wasting away a Saturday at a salon, no barbershops, no wash and gos, no 15 hour sessions getting braided extensions.

Just literally cutting it with kitchen scissors every 2 to 3 months and slapping on a cheap shitty wig whenever I have a certain fit or lewk and thats it.

Then in August, I decided to shave my head bald. I didnt want even a few inches of hair anymore so I grabbed my husbands razor and shaved it. Didnt go to a barbershop or stylist. Had no idea how to even use the razor and just shaved it all off in under 10 minutes. I loved the bald look especially with thick ass winged liquid eyeliner, bold dramatic eyeshadow and colorful lipstick.

I have a few inches of growth that in a month or two, I will grab the kitchen scissors again and cut my hair down to an inch or two. Ill do that every few months. I love it bald but even shaving my head on a regular basis is more time than I choose to devote to my hair. Cutting it with scissors to an inch or two every 2 to 3 months is my absolute limit.

As a woman, thats not allowed.

Especially as a Black woman.

And I was raised by a Southern Baptist fundamentalist, so forget about it.

You have to obsess over your hair, products, styling, color, length, look, appearance, texture, curl pattern, thickness, volume, care routines, pre poo, deep conditoning, tea tree oil, diffusing, texturizing, blow out, straightening, relaxing, lace front wig installations, weaves, kanekalon, bundles, braids, twists, locs, dreads, corn rows, bantu knots...

You cant just not do your hair!

Only you can. Because thats exactly what I do.

Even as a Black woman and we are brainwashed to be absolutely obsessed with our hair.

Go back and look at the hysteria India Arie caused when she shaved her "beautiful curls".

Just like India Arie, I am not my hair.

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s1l4s-l1k3s-t0m4t03s · 23 days

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tw $h mention under the cut!

and before you scroll, or if you interact, waffle the gerbil wishes you a nice day and is telling you to hydrate

i literally do NOT understand where the feeling came from??? my longest cl3an is 17 days (8 years of $h) and for a good 6 years it never got over a week, and 2 years ago when i was in ana recovery, i used to do it abt 4-5 times a day? theres been only a few times ive done it a few days in a row this year, but i did yesterday, and the day before and i want to now?? maybe i need to feel pa1n?? i cant c_t bc i dont even wanna think abt if i go to far, and im not ready to tell gem abt this (mikey went home). maybe i could pvnch myself instead?? i dont bru1s3 easily and if irs on my head you wont see a mark. i dont know why this happens. i dont get it, i dont like it.

#silas waffles #silas tag!#silas vents #silas is sad #tw sh related #vent tw #tw self destructive behavior #self h@rm #i wanna cvt

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olberic · 1 year

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games ive played in 2022, ranked from least to most favourite:

11: hollow knight (2017)

(i cant find a good gif for this one sorry 🥺)

i tried so hard to like this game. i should like it. its got bugs. its got atmosphere. its got worldbuilding and multiple endings. but god i hate platformers. i hate metroidvanias. this was painful to play and i will not be playing any more.

10: project diva future tone (ps4) (2017)

its a rhythm game so it really cant go any higher. i like it more than megamix (plus using the playstation is better than the switch i think) but yknow. i cant say its got great characters or story yknow? but the songs are good and its fun

9: final fantasy x (2001, switch remaster 2019)

i wish i liked this game more… its good but so watery. such old graphics. idk i just couldnt get into it even if the ending was really good

8. tales of phantasia (1995, gba version 2006)

very surprised at how well it holds up. its a tales game so it ranks higher than it probably should for me, but the characters are fun, the gameplay is fun, and its the first game in the series, so its iconic as hell. the old graphics and lacklustre combat knocked it down a few points (as did the goddamn mines…) but the enjoyment i got from it won out. good game. i played the gba version

7. splatoon 3 (2022)

sorry for not playing the other splatoon games this shit is FUN. salmon run is so good, yall. i put more hours into salmon run alone than most other games ive ever played. stream deep cut

6. ys viii (2017)

im actually still playing this one but MAN is it enjoyable. killer soundtrack. cool time mechanics. challenging combat. nice well rounded cast of npcs (and theres like 20+ regular ones!). makes me wanna try the rest of the series. even tho im kinda peeved that theres like no content for this game here but WHATEVER its good. play ys viii.

5. pokemon scarlet (2022)

yes it had bugs & ur correct to say i shouldnt have bought it. but theyve really perfected pokemon games with this one. open world is the way pokemon is meant to be played. the new pokemon are really good designs. the story was actually riveting at the end, the rivals are up there with sun and sword for how well done they are, koraidon’s one of my new faves, and holy god the soundtrack is good. the literal only thing that would improve it would be if it had a bigger dex and wasnt made in such a rush. i wish this game had come out next year or the year after bc then itd be perfect.

4. triangle strategy (2022)

this is the first strategy game in the genre that ive played, and i enjoyed it! i played it 3 times in a row to get all the endings + ramping up the difficulty made it such a good challenge. npcs couldve been a bit better developed, and the roland/benedict endings were bad to play, but the overall enjoyment of the gameplay and different paths puts it so high to the top.

3. pokemon legends arceus (2022)

i know i said scarlet perfected the series but whatever. ive always preferred catching to battling and arceus did a better job of that. between that and the way your character could actually get involved in things its probably my fave pokemon game ever ehehe 😅

2. tales of arise (2021)

i dont care what anyone says this was a REALLY good entry to the series. i liked the story and the twists. i loved the characters. combat was excellent (law main ↖️) and exploration was more fun than other tales games. might not be my favourite tales game but its better than (almost) everything else from this year!

1. tales of the abyss (2005, 3ds version 2012)

I LOVE THIS GAME. IF YOU HAVENT PLAYED THIS GAME YOUR LIFE WILL BE IMPROVED BY PLAYING THIS GAME. its about identity and tragedy and legacy and remembering the past and respecting the present and growing to care for yourself and your loved ones. its about herding rappigs and falling out of landships and going WHY ARE YOU ME. IM ME. it made me cry. its one of the best tales combat systems. why are you still reading this go play tales of the abyss.

#t #again not main tagging any of this!#and hi gifmakers youre all incredible and im sorry if you get a notification for this 😔

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nycorix · 2 years

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Consequences [8/11]

[fic post]

At long last I’m back with part 8!! Feat. the Director feeling proud of herself for #winning with him until she realizes, entirely too late, that she super lost

TW: emotional manipulation/abuse, medical stuff (see part 7 tw)

___________

When the Director enters Medical Bay One, 22 is sitting upright in the bed, posture ridiculously flawless, expression a perfect blank.

This does not surprise her.

She stands aside to let the medbot pass, looks on as it runs through diagnosis protocol, administers the first round of bespoke antivirals, disconnects his IV and pronounces him fit for release and monitoring.

There was a time when she would have had to bring in a team of six. One for the treatment, the other five requisitioned for restraint purposes. Medbots only, of course—broken medbots quantifiably less expensive to repair or replace than broken employees.

Now, in year twelve of the program, 22 does not so much as twitch at any point of the procedure, his stone-faced stillness perfectly evocative of the bioengineered lab-grown AI superweapon all of New Liberty City believes him to be. If he is relieved when it is done, or apprehensive at her presence, it does not show on his face.

This does not surprise her either.

Indeed, the only thing about the operative in front of her that gives her pause is the fact that he, despite a fever of nearly 102 and a vitals display feed that is threatening to give her a migraine, does not look ill in the slightest.

Then again, she amends, he doesn’t exactly look well either. The longer she studies him, the better she can see it: something about him is distinctly and unmistakably off, like if you took everything in a room and shifted it over two inches to the left.

The medbot leaves, but it might as well be invisible for all the attention 22 has paid it. His eyes have been on her from the moment she set foot through the door, and as she comes nearer that gaze sharpens—into the trademark unblinking uncanny fixed stare that all of the operatives have, the one that is just shy of predatory and that to this day still sets all her hair on end.

She bypasses this inconvenient primal reflex with practiced ease, fixing him with a measured stare of her own.

“When I received the operative health crisis notification,” she says mildly, in lieu of a greeting, “you were the last one I expected it to be.”

Predictably, this garners no discernible reaction. He sits there, watching, looking for all the world like a bot awaiting a directive.

“Nor, I must confess, was said health crisis anywhere within the ballpark of my expectations,” she continues, seeding the words with just the slightest measure of reproach. “Sudden-onset acute upper respiratory infection?” Reproach up a fifth of a degree. “A broken nose?”

This last finally seems to get through, if infinitesimally. A sea change stirs in his unnaturally pale eyes—the barest glimmer of…something. Not shame, not embarrassment or alarm or unease. Annoyance.

“A miscalculation,” he says, and the ever-present behavioral-scientist-backbrain part of her points out that he does not specify to which affliction he is referring. “It will not happen again.”

The lethal certainty baked into this statement sends a chill through the whole of her, scalp to soles. She muscles the fight-or-flight response down and smothers it. Lifts a brow, lips pressed in a thin smile of quiet regard, and inclines her head.

“Walk with me.”

She leaves the room without a backward glance, his presence behind her like a weight at the top of her spine. The staccato click of her heels drowns out the faint swish of his socks on the tile of the hall, and when she clears the personnel from the nearest diagnostics room he’s there beside her, silent as death.

“Have a seat,” she says, gesturing to the row of recently-vacated chairs facing the bank of assorted lab equipment.

He does not. He stays put by the smartwall just inside the door, standing: spine perfectly straight, shoulders square. If he’s tired or symptomatic it isn’t presenting in either facial expression or body language.

A lab tech pushes a bundle of clothing into her arms with a jumbled apology as they scurry out the door. The Director takes a look at it, huffs a laugh through her nose, and sets it on a table.

“I see they’ve managed to get the blood out of your jacket,” she says, taking it from the pile and handing it over to him.

He doesn’t even glance at it. Just accepts it wordlessly and slides it on over the thin black smart fabric undershirt he’s still wearing, his stay in Medical too brief to warrant an in-patient tunic. She frowns, just slightly, and hands him his boots and utility belt, which are received in identical fashion.

He reaches out for the gloves as she holds them out next, the extensive knotted trails of scar tissue beneath his skin visible under the harsh fluorescents. She pulls her gaze away, up to his face.

“It’s unlike you.” She speaks softly, almost gently. She wants to say she can see him brace for whatever is coming, but if she’s honest with herself any read she has on his expressions is guesswork at best, twelve years and multiple facial analysis lens apps be damned. “To lose to Nicholas, of all people.”

To this, though, he again telegraphs annoyance to a degree she can pick up with reasonable confidence.

“I was still assessing his condition.” His voice, quietly brittle, is even harder to pick up than usual. “It was a mis…” He pauses, swallows. Immediately her interest is piqued—22 is not given to speaking without premeditation.

“Miscalculation,” she supplies.

The briefest of hesitations, then a nod.

“Yes, so you said.” She narrows her eyes. There is significant overlap between his current expression and the one he makes when he violates censorship parameters—only, this can’t possibly be that. Even if he is thinking about the undoubtedly forbidden behaviors that landed him in this situation, the array filter does not censor thoughts. Not that any of the operatives were explicitly told this, of course.

In any case, hesitation in 22 historically amounts to weak spot in defenses, and the Director is by no means above using this to her advantage.

“Speaking of miscalculations.” She casts his vitals monitor up on the smartwall behind him, alongside data from the medbot’s report. “Can you tell me what this is?” She gestures to the image on the right, a cluster of vaguely hexagonal blobs stained bluish against a pale backdrop.

He looks at it a moment, then shakes his head, watching her sidelong. He’s starting to look just the slightest bit bleary—which, given his readings, would hardly be surprising if not for what and, more importantly, who he is.

“Human adenovirus,” she interjects into his telling silence. “HAdV-B14, to be exact. Known to cause acute upper respiratory infections ranging from mild to severe, occasionally fatal, especially in the young, elderly, or immunocompromised. Present specimen imaged twenty minutes ago from a throat swab of yours.” She folds her hands, watching his face.

“I’m not critical.” This is not a question; and the way he holds her gaze as he speaks is more than a little unsettling, as is the subtle note of satisfaction in the husk of his tone.

“....No.” She regrets the admission immediately and hastens to regain her ground. “However, there is still plenty of time and opportunity for you to become so, given the tenuous state of your health, as you are well aware.” She pauses, meeting his blank gaze unflinchingly. Recalibrates, casting new data to the smartwall with a flick of her wrist. This time it’s a building schematic, overlaid with a scrolling list of names.

“I’m sure I don’t need to remind you,” she continues, selecting an entry on the list, “of the extensive measures we have to take to ensure your safety and wellbeing.” The name she selects is random, one she only vaguely recognizes as one of the researchers: a time punch with a small box beside it that reads health check complete. “We screen everyone who enters the building,” she adds, when he doesn’t respond. “The air filtration system is top of the line, especially—” she sidesteps the words down here, carefully—“for sublevels A through D.”

If any of this means anything to him, he gives no indication. He simply watches her, and the screen, and waits.

She pulls up a portion of his file to overlay the schematic. Name, number, age, birthday. Date of initial autoimmune disorder incidence. Dates of subsequential flare-ups. Number, type, and dates of corrective therapies and procedures. List of current medications. He barely glances at it.

“You’re more than old enough to understand the delicate balance your immune system is suspended in. The immunosuppressants you’re on alone would make you more susceptible to infection, never mind your lack of acquired natural immunities—and I’m sure you’re well aware of the fact that the former cannot be discontinued under any circumstances. Unless, of course, you would like another liver transplant.” She waits for him to flinch. He doesn’t.

Her jaw tightens. Waving away the display, she closes the distance between them, picking up a package of antibacterial wipes along her way.

“Given everything I have just shown you,” she says, tipping his chin down, bracing a hand—a gentling hand, a warning hand—against his jawbone as she begins wiping away dried blood leftover on his upper lip, “the only logical conclusion is that at some point in the last seventy-two hours, you or one of your fellow operatives spent a significant period of time outside of this building.”

He stays still—stiller than should be possible—as she works at the staining on his skin. He doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. She’s not sure he’s even breathing, come to think of it. If it wasn’t for the warmth radiating off him, for the pulse in his neck, even she might be inclined to think him more machine than human.

“Of course,” she continues, “none of you were under directive to do so, meaning this excursion was unauthorized.” She gives him a meaningful look. A don’t worry, you aren’t in trouble as long as you confide in me look. “I already have the security feeds to confirm this, by the way,” she concludes, conversationally, pulling back to admire her handiwork. “I’m simply giving you the opportunity to tell me the truth before any more…” she pauses, delicately— “...final decisions are made.”

He says nothing.

She presses her lips into a flat line, patience beginning to wear thin. “I don’t think you understand,” she begins, waving a grainy blow-up of a lens-captured photo from some customer-citizen’s social that depicts 06 and 22 huddled together in the middle of Greenleaf Square over to the blank smartwall, “how much is at stake here. Not just for you, but for her, and for Nicholas as well. So if you have any information for me, it is in your best interest and theirs to share it now.”

Minutes pass, silence and eye contact unbroken.

Irrational anger seizes her, product of the history between them—of the incomprehensible long game she suspects he’s playing but can’t even approximate the shape of; of the way he’s the perfectly obedient foil to 06’s rebellious streak, yet something in his eyes is anything but; of too many unfruitful conversations just like this one.

“I didn’t want to do this, but—” she stops short, distracted by a sharp movement from 22. More of a twitch than anything else, but the sheer uncharacteristicness of it puts her immediately on high alert. His pulse simultaneously spikes, incongruous with the absence of any detectable motion from him.

She glances sharply at him when he does it again, some kind of spasm that has his vitals feed going momentarily haywire with each one.

“Something the matter?” she says, eyes narrowing—and when it happens a third time, his expression contorting in an obvious flinch before he forcibly schools it back, it suddenly makes sense.

“Gesundheit,” she says, arching an eyebrow. “I’d advise you not to keep trying to stop them like that, by the way. If you give yourself an aneurysm, I can’t help you.”

The contempt in the look he brings to bear on her then is enough to curdle her blood, though in a moment it, too, is wiped from his face with a hard blink and the faintest hint of a sniff.

She feels a headache coming on.

“Or Kit, for that matter,” she adds, in a sudden fit of inspiration, probing for sore spots that exist if one knows where to look. “Is she faring similarly after your little excursion, I wonder?”

“I don’t know.” His response is as instant as it is flat.

“I believe you,” she concedes finally, after another long moment of not quailing beneath his stare, “but only because if she were severely ill you would have brought her to me.” She pauses. He doesn’t quite blink under her sudden scrutiny, but he doesn’t quite not, either. “Unless, perhaps, you’ve got her sequestered away somewhere on sublevel D.”

This, finally, visibly strikes a nerve. As well it should—he came out of the incident she’s referencing with a double concussion, a punctured lung, fourteen broken bones, twenty-eight mishealed ones and a stress-triggered flare up. He was in the ICU for almost a month.

…But then, of course, she doubts that’s the nerve that was struck. She remembers all too well how Kit flatlined no less than eight times during her liver transplant, and she’s certain he remembers it too. The only times he had surfaced from delirium during his own harrowing recovery were to ask if she was alive—and with such uncharacteristic distress that multiple personnel broke protocol to answer him truthfully, in case it would improve his chances of pulling through.

She had, regrettably, been one of said personnel.

In the end, obviously, both operatives had survived, and if it was by virtue of the tenacity of their fucking bonds she did not care to know it.

When she glances at him again, his face is blank, any trace of a reaction wiped clean from it.

A spike of frustration nearly claims her before she tamps it down.

“If neither of you are in critical condition,” she says evenly, “and if Catherine does not choose to join you in the next, let’s say, five minutes—” she makes a show of checking the time on her lenses— “then I’m afraid you’re going to have to take full responsibility for the consequences of your actions, with or without her participation.”

He remains silent. If she didn’t know him better, she’d almost think he was exhibiting the faintest air of impatience.

She sighs. “We both know whose idea it was to leave the grounds,” she says, softening a degree or two. An olive branch. A final offering before she drops the other shoe. “Why didn’t you stop her?”

“Risk assessment,” he says crisply—and oh, there’s the infection. Raised just a little louder now, she notes that his voice is nothing like itself, thick and raw like he’s been gargling knife blades. Interesting. “She would have left regardless. I followed her according to the buddy system protocol.”

Listening to him makes her want to clear her own throat. She fights the instinct, instead pressing her lips together in the approximation of maternal concern she’s honed to perfection.

“If you tell me where she is now,” she says carefully, eyes fixed to his, “I will leave you both in the green. Just this once.”

It’s a bluff, all of it. Whether he knows this or not, whether his obstinate lack of cooperation is inspired by this, or his loyalty to Kit, or his compromised state, she couldn’t be fucked to guess; but whatever the case, he does not budge an inch. They stay locked in this stalemate of a stare before finally, hating herself, she blinks first.

“Time’s up,” she says calmly, though her mind is anything but. “Unless you can somehow summon her in the next ten seconds, I’ll be sending you out to do street cleanup.” She pulls up the appropriate communication channels and information packets on her lenses. “When Catherine is found, she will be assigned to SCQ for the remainder of the month.”

SCQ—what the operatives dubbed “the box” when they were children, despite all her efforts to shut the pejorative down—is Catherine’s least favorite punishment, and she knows as well as 22 does that expecting her to spend a full thirty days in it is absurd, even dangerous.

“I’ll go,” he says without batting an eye, in what appears to be utter disregard of both his own failing health and the guaranteed wrath of his partner. As if in some involuntary acknowledgement of the first, however, he sneezes again, stifled to silence against the flat of his fist.

“Be careful.” Her tone is part admonishment, part threat, his name threaded onto the end of the phrase to seal the warning. As it leaves her lips his eyes snap to hers again, unnaturally quick, and something that looks disturbingly close to dangerous flashes in the depths of them, there and gone.

She musters every ounce of her will not to flinch or look away and the moment passes almost before she can register it, leaving him looking distinctly more tired than before.

“Let me be clear: I’m assigning you to clear 13th through 17th Street, alone, before curfew,” she says tightly, unsettled in a way she can’t quite parse. “No assistance, no excuses. If you fail to comply, I’m sending you to the community services department in the morning. Do you understand the directive?”

“I understand.” His tone, beneath the layers of fatigue and congestion, is ice and steel. Worse, though his expression does not change, somehow she gets the distinctly uncomfortable impression that he is, against all sensible logic, pleased. “Will that be all?”

It feels entirely too much like letting him have the last word. She grasps at the straws of the resolve she’d thought was airtight, coming up with little more than a ghost of a threat, the last cast of a baitless hook. “Not quite.” She folds her arms. Realizes the defensive nature of the posture and almost unfolds them, forces herself to remain in the position for consistency, taps her fingers against her arm. “I’m sure you’re as concerned about Catherine as I am. Would you like me to notify you when she is found?”

His eyes when they lock on hers are baleful, a coldly burning gray that pins her like a butterfly to velvet. “That,” he says quietly, “will not be necessary.”

She takes a breath, but by the time the words come he is gone.

|part 9|

#firebreak book #06/22 #fanfiction #kasey writes #consequences fic #boxcar thing #diana reyes says no to the power of friendship send tweet #hoo boy this one was A Challenge lmao #it took so long bc i ended up rewriting it #it's been a while since i wrote the first version and i understand their weirdo nuanced dynamic a lot better now so here we are rip #the director has almost no idea what's going on in his head lmaooo but she thinks she super does.#meanwhile he's using every scrap of his willpower to refrain from murdering her #especially whenever she touches him. or uses his name. sorry 22 #lmao he got exactly what he wanted in this scene but. I wouldn't call it winning lolll he's gonna regret it next scene

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worldtourrampage · 2 years

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⚠️ BEHIND THE MASK 🎭

This is a non-writing post. I may do these from time to time, but the bulk of my Tumblr content will be fanfiction. I've got some things on my chest I'd like to get off, and I think being open about my real self on Tumblr will help me feel even more comfortable posting things here. That's why I've decided to do a bit of an ice breaker by listing some facts about myself that make me who I am. More poetry is on the way next week, but for now, enjoy!

1) I'm a Scalie.

Being a Scalie is something I've been embarrassed about and borderline ashamed of for years, but I've recently started embracing it as a part of who I am. I don't have an original character, but my fursona (or scalesona? I dunno what term Scalies use for that to be honest) is Lizzie from Rampage. Obviously I didn't create her like most furries do with their fursonas, but I like roleplaying as her a lot. I feel that life is too short to be hard on yourself over things like being a part of the Furry/Scalie community. It feels really good to get this off my chest and be open about it for a change. If it bothers you, I sincerely apologize for making you uncomfortable. This is just something I've been working up the courage to be open about for many years, and I just wanted to make it known.

2) I'm relatively new to the Rampage franchise.

I've had a bit of experience over the years with Rampage, mainly through the Nintendo Entertainment System version of the game that I used to emulate through NEStopia as a kid. I never got around to playing the arcade version or other games in the series back then, but I’ve recently started playing Rampage World Tour on Nintendo 64 and I absolutely love it. I’m planning on playing World Tour’s sequels on Nintendo 64 and PlayStation 1 soon, as well as watching the 2018 live action Rampage movie. I’ll leave my thoughts on all those in future posts after I’ve spent a fair amount of time with them.

3) When not writing poetry, I play video games.

I play a handful of different games on my PlayStation 4. I'm hoping to upgrade to a PlayStation 5 later this year. I'm currently saving up the cash to buy one off of eBay. The whole stock and chip shortage debacle has been an absolute headache, and I was planning to upgrade sooner, but eBay scalper prices are insane, and their listings are the only reliable way to get one now. They have control over the entire PlayStation 5 market. Some games I play regularly on my PlayStation 4 include Metal Gear Solid V: The Definitive Experience, Call of Duty: Warzone, LittleBigPlanet 3, Saints Row IV: Re-Elected, Carmageddon: Max Damage, Twisted Metal: Black, and Among Us.

4) I'm 26 years old and I live in America.

My birthday is November 5th, 1995 and I’m an American. I have my birthday set to September 21, 2001 on most other platforms that have asked me for it because I prefer having my birthday be anonymous elsewhere. I feel comfortable being open about it here on Tumblr though. A fun fact about my birthday is that it was also the day the original Twisted Metal game came out for PlayStation 1, a game that would later make up most of my childhood gaming years. It also happens to be a British holiday known as Guy Fawkes' Day. It's sort of the British equivalent of the 4th of July here in America, and you might be familiar with his mask from hacker groups and movies like V for Vendetta.

5) I work a production job in a factory.

It might sound like a bad job to have, but truth be told it's not. The facility I work in is quite nice and values their employees a lot. Sometimes the production environment can be stressful with how much work needs done, and while the pressure to perform and meet quotas can be nerve-wracking, the thing that keeps me going is the peace of mind in knowing that what I'm doing allows me to be independent and to fuel my desire of being a female Godzilla in my spare time. We've all got things that motivate us to work hard, and for me getting to be a girly kaiju when I get home from work and to be able to pay for things like art commissions, Godzilla merch and video games to fuel my fantasy is what I get out of bed in the morning for.

6) I have a pet turtle.

I've always had a fascination with reptiles despite only getting deep into the Godzilla fandom recently. Dragons, dinosaurs, lizards, you name it, I love them. When I was younger, I thought a turtle would be an awesome pet to have, and my parents thought it would be a nice lesson in responsibility to take care of one, which is why they bought me one for my birthday. Her name is Pickles, and she's a Red-eared slider. I take very good care of her, and she's been with me for 14 years living a happy, healthy life. Turtles are known for living long lives, and that's exactly what I plan on giving Pickles. Hopefully she'll be with me for many years to come. Sylvester Stallone's turtles from the first Rocky movie are still alive if you can believe it, and with the proper care, turtles can be with you for most of your life!

Anyways, that's just a few things about yours truly in real life when I'm not playing pretend as a big girly lizard monster. It feels good to be a little more open about myself here and I think the comfortability I feel will bleed into my future posts and lead to stronger writing and better content. Stay tuned for more poems and posts! For now, I’ve got some cities to destroy...

~Lizzie

#lizzie #female #lizard #dinosaur #rampage #rampage world tour #scumlabs #midway #game refuge #warner bros #off my chest #personal

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