#so why not post it now

[misbehaving-pet]

Hide your heart~

[butchfalin]

the funniest meltdown ive ever had was in college when i got so overstimulated that i could Not speak, including over text. one of my friends was trying to talk me through it but i was solely using emojis because they were easier than trying to come up with words so he started using primarily emojis as well just to make things feel balanced. this was not the Most effective strategy... until. he tried to ask me "you okay?" but the way he chose to do that was by sending "👉🏼👌🏼❓" and i was so shocked by suddenly being asked if i was dtf that i was like WHAT???? WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY TO ME?????????? and thus was verbal again

[atalana]

the curse of adhd:

i will remember with absolute clarity, when the thought strikes me that i have a text to send someone, that this is the fourth time in three days i've attempted to send this specific text

i will forget, in the time it takes me to pick up my phone, that i picked it up intending to send a text

[creed-of-cats]

"If voting changed anything they wouldn't let people do it-" grabs your face THEY DIDN'T JUST "LET" PEOPLE DO IT, MOST PEOPLE COULDN'T VOTE FOR HUNDREDS OF YEARS. PEOPLE OF COLOR ONLY GOT THE FULL RIGHT TO VOTE 50 YEARS AGO IN THE US, THATS BARELY A GENERATION.

IF IT DIDNT MATTER AT ALL WHY WOULD THEY SPEND SO MUCH TIME GERRYMANDERING THE SHIT OUT OF EVERYWHERE?? WHY CAN'T FELONS VOTE?? WHY CANT PUERTO RICO VOTE? WHY DO THEY KEEP SWITCHING DATES AND LAWS AND TIMES AND WHATEVER THEY POSSIBLY CAN TO STOP PEOPLE FROM VOTING?? WHY DO THEY MAKE EFFORT AT ALL??

BEING DISILLUSIONED IS A REASONABLE RESPONSE. BUT PEOPLE FOUGHT AND DIED AND ARE STILL FUCKING DYING FOR THAT RIGHT, DONT SPIT IN THEIR FACE.

[gibbearish]

love when ppl defend the aggressive monetization of the internet with "what, do you just expect it to be free and them not make a profit???" like. yeah that would be really nice actually i would love that:)! thanks for asking

[hamletthedane]

I was meeting a client at a famous museum’s lounge for lunch (fancy, I know) and had an hour to kill afterwards so I joined the first random docent tour I could find. The woman who took us around was a great-grandmother from the Bronx “back when that was nothing to brag about” and she was doing a talk on alternative mediums within art.

What I thought that meant: telling us about unique sculpture materials and paint mixtures.

What that actually meant: an 84yo woman gingerly holding a beautifully beaded and embroidered dress (apparently from Ukraine and at least 200 years old) and, with tears in her eyes, showing how each individual thread was spun by hand and weaved into place on a cottage floor loom, with bright blue silk embroidery thread and hand-blown beads intricately piercing the work of other labor for days upon days, as the labor of a dozen talented people came together to make something so beautiful for a village girl’s wedding day.

What it also meant: in 1948, a young girl lived in a cramped tenement-like third floor apartment in Manhattan, with a father who had just joined them after not having been allowed to escape through Poland with his pregnant wife nine years earlier. She sits in her father’s lap and watches with wide, quiet eyes as her mother’s deft hands fly across fabric with bright blue silk thread (echoing hands from over a century years earlier). Thread that her mother had salvaged from white embroidery scraps at the tailor’s shop where she worked and spent the last few days carefully dying in the kitchen sink and drying on the roof.

The dress is in the traditional Hungarian fashion and is folded across her mother’s lap: her mother doesn’t had a pattern, but she doesn’t need one to make her daughter’s dress for the fifth grade dance. The dress would end up differing significantly from the pure white, petticoated first communion dresses worn by her daughter’s majority-Catholic classmates, but the young girl would love it all the more for its uniqueness and bright blue thread.

And now, that same young girl (and maybe also the villager from 19th century Ukraine) stands in front of us, trying not to clutch the old fabric too hard as her voice shakes with the emotion of all the love and humanity that is poured into the labor of art. The village girl and the girl in the Bronx were very different people: different centuries, different religions, different ages, and different continents. But the love in the stitches and beads on their dresses was the same. And she tells us that when we look at the labor of art, we don’t just see the work to create that piece - we see the labor of our own creations and the creations of others for us, and the value in something so seemingly frivolous.

But, maybe more importantly, she says that we only admire this piece in a museum because it happened to survive the love of the wearer and those who owned it afterwards, but there have been quite literally billions of small, quiet works of art in billions of small, quiet homes all over the world, for millennia. That your grandmother’s quilt is used as a picnic blanket just as Van Gogh’s works hung in his poor friends’ hallways. That your father’s hand-painted model plane sets are displayed in your parents’ livingroom as Grecian vases are displayed in museums. That your older sister’s engineering drawings in a steady, fine-lined hand are akin to Da Vinci’s scribbles of flying machines.

I don’t think there’s any dramatic conclusions to be drawn from these thoughts - they’ve been echoed by thousands of other people across the centuries. However, if you ever feel bad for spending all of your time sewing, knitting, drawing, building lego sets, or whatever else - especially if you feel like you have to somehow monetize or show off your work online to justify your labor - please know that there’s an 84yo museum docent in the Bronx who would cry simply at the thought of you spending so much effort to quietly create something that’s beautiful to you.

[reineydraws]

this is a scene from opla s2, black leg gazpacho told me himself!!!

src by @op-trash-blog-of-hell

[that1notetaker]

Getting out of the comfort zone can be uncomfortable.

[cassandracain52]

so I’ve seen lots of fics about Bruce coming back and finding out things like Tim loosing his spleen or Damian getting shot (on multiple occasions by different people) and he almost always finds out by either having dug into the Batcomputers records and stumbling across it or just seeing it on scans or something after Tim or Damian is injured

but imagine for a moment Bruce finds out, not on his own, but by the others telling him.

And by “tell him” I of course mean that they all automatically assume that he already knows about all of it(because he’s the worlds greatest detective so obviously they don’t need to say anything) so they never bring it up until they mention it one day in passing and nearly give him a heart attack.

for example:

Bruce: Tim, I need you to come with me to speak with Dr. Thompkins down at the clinic about that new drug that’s been circulating

Tim: Oh, sure thing, just let me grab my mask

[Bruce not saying anything but looking at him confused because Tim is already fully suited up and wearing his domino mask?]:

[Tim, now wearing a surgical face mask]: Ok, I’m ready! [Bruce just staring at him, waiting for some explanation. He doesn’t get one.]:

Bruce: Tim

Tim: hm?

Bruce: Why are you wearing a face mask..?

Tim: Oh! Well Dr. Thompkins got mad at me last time I came to the clinic without one because there’s a lot of sick people there and I should be more careful since I’m immunocompromised-

[Bruce, immediately cutting him off]: Wait, what?

[Tim, slightly confused]: She got mad at me when I didn’t wear one last time..?

[Bruce, equally confused and growing very concerned]: No, not that. You’re immunocompromised?

[Tim, now completely lost because this is all common knowledge?]: Uh, yeah??

[Bruce, even more concerned]: How??? What do you mean??

[Tim, getting annoyed and rolling his eyes]: Well that’s what they call you when you have no spleen, Bruce.

Bruce: What.

[Tim finally realizing that, just maybe, they skipped a step]: I have no spleen? It got stabbed so Ra’s took it

[Bruce, about to have an aneurysm]: RA’S DID WHAT-

______ Or like him finding out Damian had his entire spine replaced

Bruce: Hey, do you think it’s strange Damian’s so small?

Dick: No?? He’s ten?? Ten year olds are small?

[Bruce, audibly concerned]: No, I mean don’t you think he should have grown some by now? Is he not eating enough?

[Dick, immediately relaxing]: Oh, that? Yeah, it’s fine

[Bruce, still concerned]: Are you sure? I was taller than that at his age

[Dick, waving his hand dismissively]: Nah, he’s fine. I think the spine replacement just stunted his growth a bit

Bruce:…

Dick:..?

[Bruce, near hysterically because all his kids somehow keep losing pieces of their insides and none of them seem bothered by it??]: his wHAT- ____

Dick has to spend the next several hours trying to stop Bruce from making everyone do a mandatory medical examination so he can make sure none of his other kids are missing anything

Dick promises that it was just the two things

Bruce is not reassured

[nyaslashthreat]

shout out to when i told my dad about goncharov and he figured out it was fake because i told him "1973 martin scorsese film with robert de niro" and he said that wasn't possible because the godfather came out in 1972 and the godfather part II came out in 1974 and they wouldn't have had time to make a movie in between. a perfectly good jest, foiled by this man's weird and vast knowledge set

[clopinasworld]

[verflares]

(click for higher quality!) draconified link concept ive been chipping away at this past week ..... here's my funny little compendium concept for him:

"A heroic spirit has taken the form of this bestial dragon. Unlike it's kin, this creature exhibits an extremely aggressive disposition. It appears highly territorial, and will relentlessly chase down those who disturb its skywide patrols - of which it seems to be endlessly searching for either a long-time vassal or foe. Unfortunately, it seems the spirit within has long since forgotten exactly who it was looking for…"

[crowkip]

slides u some timkon wip scribbs

[opikiquu]

iknow my comics are ugly please just hear me out

[popping-greenbean]

"you

&

me,

forever

&

ever!

love,

freddy"

(rbs appreciated <3)

[giantkillerjack]

Today my therapist introduced me to a concept surrounding disability that she called "hLep".

Which is when you - in this case, you are a disabled person - ask someone for help ("I can't drink almond milk so can you get me some whole milk?", or "Please call Donna and ask her to pick up the car for me."), and they say yes, and then they do something that is not what you asked for but is what they think you should have asked for ("I know you said you wanted whole, but I got you skim milk because it's better for you!", "I didn't want to ruin Donna's day by asking her that, so I spent your money on an expensive towing service!") And then if you get annoyed at them for ignoring what you actually asked for - and often it has already happened repeatedly - they get angry because they "were just helping you! You should be grateful!!"

And my therapist pointed out that this is not "help", it's "hLep".

Sure, it looks like help; it kind of sounds like help too; and if it was adjusted just a little bit, it could be help. But it's not help. It's hLep.

At its best, it is patronizing and makes a person feel unvalued and un-listened-to. Always, it reinforces the false idea that disabled people can't be trusted with our own care. And at its worst, it results in disabled people losing our freedom and control over our lives, and also being unable to actually access what we need to survive.

So please, when a disabled person asks you for help on something, don't be a hLeper, be a helper! In other words: they know better than you what they need, and the best way you can honor the trust they've put in you is to believe that!

Also, I want to be very clear that the "getting angry at a disabled person's attempts to point out harmful behavior" part of this makes the whole thing WAY worse. Like it'd be one thing if my roommate bought me some passive-aggressive skim milk, but then they heard what I had to say, and they apologized and did better in the future - our relationship could bounce back from that. But it is very much another thing to have a crying shouting match with someone who is furious at you for saying something they did was ableist. Like, Christ, Jessica, remind me to never ask for your support ever again! You make me feel like if I asked you to call 911, you'd order a pizza because you know I'll feel better once I eat something!!

Edit: crediting my therapist by name with her permission - this term was coined by Nahime Aguirre Mtanous!

Edit again: I made an optional follow-up to this post after seeing the responses. Might help somebody. CW for me frankly talking about how dangerous hLep really is.