#paying to only RENT everything

[adelle-ein]

if ribblr has 1 hater i am that hater

[inkskinned]

the thing about art is that it was always supposed to be about us, about the human-ness of us, the impossible and beautiful reality that we (for centuries) have stood still, transfixed by music. that we can close our eyes and cry about the same book passage; the events of which aren't real and never happened. theatre in shakespeare's time was as real as it is now; we all laugh at the same cue (pursued by bear), separated hundreds of years apart.

three years ago my housemates were jamming outdoors, just messing around with their instruments, mostly just making noise. our neighbors - shy, cautious, a little sheepish - sat down and started playing. i don't really know how it happened; i was somehow in charge of dancing, barefoot and laughing - but i looked up, and our yard was full of people. kids stacked on the shoulders of parents. old couples holding hands. someone had brought sidewalk chalk; our front walk became a riot of color. someone ran in with a flute and played the most astounding solo i've ever heard in my life, upright and wiggling, skipping as she did so. she only paused because the violin player was kicking his heels up and she was laughing too hard to continue.

two weeks ago my friend and i met in the basement of her apartment complex so she could work out a piece of choreography. we have a language barrier - i'm not as good at ASL as i'd like to be (i'm still learning!) so we communicate mostly through the notes app and this strange secret language of dancers - we have the same movement vocabulary. the two of us cracking jokes at each other, giggling. there were kids in the basement too, who had been playing soccer until we took up the far corner of the room. one by one they made their slow way over like feral cats - they laid down, belly-flat against the floor, just watching. my friend and i were not in tutus - we were in slouchy shirts and leggings and socks. nothing fancy. but when i asked the kids would you like to dance too? they were immediately on their feet and spinning. i love when people dance with abandon, the wild and leggy fervor of childhood. i think it is gorgeous.

their adults showed up eventually, and a few of them said hey, let's not bother the nice ladies. but they weren't bothering us, they were just having fun - so. a few of the adults started dancing awkwardly along, and then most of the adults. someone brought down a better sound system. someone opened a watermelon and started handing out slices. it was 8 PM on a tuesday and nothing about that day was particularly special; we might as well party.

one time i hosted a free "paint along party" and about 20 adults worked quietly while i taught them how to paint nessie. one time i taught community dance classes and so many people showed up we had to move the whole thing outside. we used chairs and coatracks to balance. one time i showed up to a random band playing in a random location, and the whole thing got packed so quickly we had to open every door and window in the place.

i don't think i can tell you how much people want to be making art and engaging with art. they want to, desperately. so many people would be stunning artists, but they are lied to and told from a very young age that art only matters if it is planned, purposeful, beautiful. that if you have an idea, you need to be able to express it perfectly. this is not true. you don't get only 1 chance to communicate. you can spend a lifetime trying to display exactly 1 thing you can never quite language. you can just express the "!!??!!!"-ing-ness of being alive; that is something none of us really have a full grasp on creating. and even when we can't make what we want - god, it feels fucking good to try. and even just enjoying other artists - art inherently rewards the act of participating.

i wasn't raised wealthy. whenever i make a post about art, someone inevitably says something along the lines of well some of us aren't that lucky. i am not lucky; i am dedicated. i have a chronic condition, my hands are constantly in pain. i am not neurotypical, nor was i raised safe. i worked 5-7 jobs while some of these memories happened. i chose art because it mattered to me more than anything on this fucking planet - i would work 80 hours a week just so i could afford to write in 3 of them.

and i am still telling you - if you are called to make art, you are called to the part of you that is human. you do not have to be good at it. you do not have to have enormous amounts of privilege. you can just... give yourself permission. you can just say i'm going to make something now and then - go out and make it. raquel it won't be good though that is okay, i don't make good things every time either. besides. who decides what good even is?

you weren't called to make something because you wanted it to be good, you were called to make something because it is a basic instinct. you were taught to judge its worth and over-value perfection. you are doing something impossible. a god's ability: from nothing springs creation.

a few months ago i found a piece of sidewalk chalk and started drawing. within an hour i had somehow collected a small classroom of young children. their adults often brought their own chalk. i looked up and about fifteen families had joined me from around the block. we drew scrangly unicorns and messed up flowers and one girl asked me to draw charizard. i am not good at drawing. i basically drew an orb with wings. you would have thought i drew her the mona lisa. she dragged her mother over and pointed and said look! look what she drew for me and, in the moment, i admit i flinched (sorry, i don't -). but the mother just grinned at me. he's beautiful. and then she sat down and started drawing.

someone took a picture of it. it was in the local newspaper. the summary underneath said joyful and spontaneous artwork from local artists springs up in public gallery. in the picture, a little girl covered in chalk dust has her head thrown back, delighted. laughing.

[burningfaith]

next month me and my grandma are going to visit my godfather who lives in Spain, but instead of being excited (it's gonna be my second time abroad in my life) I'm anxious af, because even though I'm an adult I live with my parents and I need to tell my father about it. normal parents would - y'know - be happy that their children have opportunity to visit another country, but instead he's gonna be insufferable about it, because it's my mom's side of family and he despises my uncle. but what is he gonna do? kick me out of the house even though he promised that as long as I'm studying or working I don't need to worry about such thing, humiliate me as usual, tell me that I'm childish and spoiled or make my mom's life a living hell again? I'm aware of the fact that the longer I'm putting it off the worse his reaction is gonna be, but I'm just not mentally able to tell him that, because I don't know how he will react. I don't need any money from him, I don't have to use my phone during this trip (I dunno how the roaming and stuff work), I just want to be sure he's gonna behave like a proper human being towards my mom and my siblings when I won't be at home and not act like a total asshole while talking with me about it.

[sibelin]

Me when I need emotional support but can't message anyone saying "Hey I need emotional support" because everyone around me have a better life than me and can't imagine the struggles I go through :

[charkyzombicorn]

Roger and Rayleigh were walking down the street, sharing idle chatter as they made their way back to the Oro Jackson with a freshly reset log pose in hand. Then there was a high-pitched yell.

"DAD!!!" A kid yelled, and Roger looked around for a second before something hit him in the stomach and stayed there. He looked down and saw a head of curly blue hair. He looked up and saw six armored guards running toward them.

Then the kid looked up with the most mischievous little smile and a very swollen button nose and then dashed around and past him. One of the guards said something about getting the kid, another just said they had his father. Roger could already feel the smile growing.

He looked up and the guards all stopped, weapons poised and at the ready. Rayleigh took a step back, fully aware his captain had been getting antsy waiting for the log pose the past month.

One of the guards began droning. "You're under arrest for your son's theft, assault and battery, breaking and entering, sixteen counts of assault on a marine guard, twenty-one counts of assault on a noble guard, and--" Roger decked him, his armor making him sound like a pile of knocked-over pots when he fell. Two guards swung at him, he dodged both, and they swung into each other instead. Then he took the helmet off one of the downed soldiers (it was a very cool looking helmet), put it on his head with his straw hat on his back and then took on the last three at once. The fight was over in less than a minute.

He smiled at Rayleigh, Rayleigh just took the helmet off his head and told him it made him look like a thumb with a feather on it. Roger pouted.

Then he saw the blue hair again, trying to run by the other direction, and snagged him by the back of the shirt. "LEMME GO!" The kid screamed, already swinging but barely grazing Roger's shirt. He was small, a little thin all-around, and his shirt was worn but covered in bright colours in all states of sun-bleached. His was hissing and spitting like a feral cat, digging his nails into Roger's wrist.

"You called me 'Dad'." Roger mentioned, and the kid had the nerve to stop moving entirely and glare up at him as if he were the one being scruffed.

The kid crossed his arms. "Yeah. They fell for it, too - dumbasses. Whaddya want? I won't give you a cent." He said harshly, making his voice deeper and more growly very clearly on purpose. When he remained off the ground with Roger just staring at him curiously, he tried threatening. "You try hittin' me and I'll scream 'Pedo' till' my lungs run out, asshole."

Roger burst out laughing. "HA! I suppose I wouldn't mind another son. I'm sure you'll get along with Shanks great." He said before putting the kid under his arm and marching back to the ship.

The kid was yelling about how calling him 'Dad' wasn't a request, Rayleigh just sighed and followed. "You seem sure of yourself."

Roger smiled. "Of course! He's a child of the sea, I can tell." The kid froze, Roger didn't acknowledge it. For the whole walk back, the kid was strangely quiet.

Then Rayleigh and Roger were safely on deck, a few people there to greet them, including Shanks. Roger set the completely silent child on the deck, and then the kid shot away from him like a bullet. Right towards Shanks, grabbing the dagger on Shanks' hip and pulling him in front of him with the knife under his chin. Rayleigh tensed, but Roger trusted him to not attack.

"Why am I here?! Where are you trying to take me?! How did you know I'm a selkie?!" The child asked, hand visibly shaking as he held the dagger, but more than enough conviction in his eyes. Shanks was pale, looking between Roger and Rayleigh for help.

Roger took a knee where he was, a comfortable 3 meters of space between him and the child. "A selkie, eh? I must admit, I've only known a few." He hummed. "And as for why - well, you seem quite the interesting stranger, but I'll guess you're an even more interesting friend."

"How about this," Rayleigh interrupted coolly. "We'll let you see new islands with protection from marines and traffickers, in exchange you be a cabin boy."

Roger smiled at his clever first mate. "And then be my son--"

"Just. Cabin boy, for now." Rayleigh reiterated. "I saw the way some of those civilians looked at you. You're a known criminal there, aren't you? Wouldn't be long before someone found out you were a selkie."

The kid looked at the town, then at Rayleigh, then at Roger. He lowered the knife and Shanks gasped. "Fine. But I'm keeping this - if any of you try anything I'll kill you while you sleep." He threatened, putting the knife in his belt loop and shoving Shanks.

Shanks ran at Roger, already sobbing, and Roger picked him up the same as he did when Shanks was two.

The kid stared ruefully at Shanks for a moment. "I'm Buggy. If that's the other cabin boy you can leave him."

Shanks choked a little 'Nooooo' into Roger's coat. Roger just laughed. "I think I'll be keeping this one too, nice try, little Bugger."

Buggy nodded before walking quickly away - likely to explore the ship and leave it a few berrie lighter.

Roger chuckled, patting Shanks back while Rayleigh gave him the most exhausted look.

[hauntedwoman]

as badly as i want to avoid my mom she is making it extremely difficult

[twilightarcade]

anyways wanna hear about what I've been thinking about

[gaygirldoodles]

In my JD era

[heavyedit]

medical websites love to be like “how to stop having physical stress symptoms: 1. be in less stressful situations 2. don’t be stressed”

[lilyaceofdiamonds]

My pizza bar apparently closed a couple weeks ago, and i’m so fucking sad now

[nerdie-faerie]

Do I have half unpacked boxes and bags all over my room? Yes. Do I have cleaning I still need to do? Also yes. Did I finish either of those tasks? No. But I did put up a lil photo collage, so what's it even matter

[tittyinfinity]

My mother confuses the fuck out of me

[dreams-in-daylight]

Figuring out budgeting w SNAP is such a friggin pain, esp when grocery store websites don’t list their prices/say see price in store to see if that store is worth shopping at

[cesium-sheep]

anyway she's on her way back now and it's sunny again. I did get to have the easier but more important of the two conversations beforehand tho, so I have a better idea of what the plan is with the money for the time being.

[gobbluthbutagirl]

crazy how if you google “how many job applications per week” (which you probably shouldn’t google anyway) you get one result saying doing 2-3 a day is good, one result saying doing 5-10 a day is good, and one result saying doing 11-20 a day is good. So basically, do whatever the hell you want forever

[pc-98s]

i’m going to be a couple hundred dollars short on rent. fuck