#this is about shaming myself for not living up to the standards of the mob of hecklers in my head

[mostlydeadallday]

I have so much work to do. I am so behind and have so much to catch up on and I am hiding I am hiding I am hiding from it all.

[saintsugu]

ive taken the past few days to gather my mental bearings and try to properly formulate my thoughts. as a survivor of csa, i do not take these topics and criminal allegations lightly.

- starting with the two (2) threads that i wrote on twitter: writing has always been a form of therapy for me. I began writing on Twt, rather than just post on this blog, for a reason. It was separate from the the friends i’ve made on here. I’d be able to write things that about trauma that i’m too ashamed to admit. I could discuss topics that have been prevailing factors in my own real life without feeling worried about being shamed. I get that these are taboo topics (and for good reason), but I don’t know where the conclusion formed that just because i was discussing / consuming these topics through fiction, automatically meant that i was getting off on the idea of it happening in real life; especially compared to the possibility that maybe i was using it to cope.

Everybody has lines they’re not willing to cross. I get it; I have those too, believe it or not. for me— as a survivor, discussion of underaged content falls into the same category alongside of noncon, stepcest/incest and cannablism. None of which i support in real life yet all of which i have at some point consumed via fiction. Now obviously, these standards aren’t the same for everyone, but in my mind there is no difference. I would never accuse someone of being a r*pist if they wrote noncon. I would never claim that it’s dangerous for them to interact with women in their real lives.

People deal with trauma in different ways. When I first started to write dark content on my old blog, i dipped my feet into dubcon. I didn’t care much for it. But then in the months following, i was SA’ed by my best friend. I then began to write graphic noncon. And i felt a bit better— a bit more in control. I was now choosing when and where i was viewing and consuming fiction with these topics, rather than when i had something i did not want forced onto me.

It’s taken me a long time to begin to process certain things that took place in my childhood. Having to process something, that happened more than a decade ago, entirely alone with zero support from anyone i know is difficult. I found a way to help myself cope. My methods may have been unsavory and uncomfortable for people, but not to the extent of graphically telling me how to k*ll myself in my inbox. Yes, I did write and consume underaged fiction in order to cope with my personal trauma. I fully own up to that. At the end of the day, fiction is just fiction.

Concerning the ‘expose’ post, the OP also claims that this was not to start a witchhunt, just to shed light to the situation; all the while, they were in my inbox telling me to kill myself before even making a post. Alright. People have had no issues calling me the f slur, making transphobic remarks/purposely misgendering me, and of course, graphically telling me how i should end my life. They’ve sent hundreds of asks claiming they care about the situation, when in my opinion—which might not mean much, no matter how you feel about me, if you resort to threatening, hate mobbing and threatening me irl, you are not handling things in the right way either.

In regards to the minor in my following list, i don’t know who she was or if her pinned post had changed. when i read the expose post i immediately unfollowed her and checked to be met with the fact that she didn’t follow me and we had shared a total of zero messages between the two of us. I am unsure if her pinned post changed or if I had foolishly followed her without checking to a full extent. Either way, we had no interactions. That might sound like a copout but unfortunately, i have no other commentary i can share on the matter.

at the end of it all, i can only control my own boundaries. i tag everything accordingly and that is the most i can do. drawing and fictional pieces cannot be considered cp.

[mariacallous]

Actions have consequences. Britain’s political elite has for a long time decided to pander to – or deliberately stoke – bigotry against migrants and refugees. This is a joint enterprise with rightwing media outlets that have sought to portray some of the world’s most vulnerable people as a marauding mob, undeserving drains on resources and incompatible with British culture. It has reaped rich political dividends: justified public anger at a lack of affordable housing and secure work, declining living standards and austerity has been redirected, crudely, at the caricatured foreigner. To achieve this aim, it has been necessary to strip migrants and refugees of their humanity: after all, most human beings do not tolerate harm being committed against those we see as “people like us”.

This brings us to the Manston migrant processing centre, in Kent, and the petrol bombs that were lobbed on Sunday at a Dover Border Force immigration centre. Most people would find the conditions at Manston intolerable if it were housing cats and dogs, let alone people. Around 4,000 people seeking asylum – way more than double the official maximum capacity – sleep on blankets on floors. It is supposed to be a short-term holding facility, where checks are conducted before the people there are moved on to detention centres or accommodation. But these human beings are being effectively imprisoned for up to four weeks. In these bleak overcrowded conditions, there has been an outbreak of diphtheria, while scabies is said to run rampant.

You may ask yourselves whether this can possibly be legal. The answer is no, it isn’t. The home secretary, Suella Braverman, stands accused of ignoring advice that it is against the law to detain asylum seekers for so long in these abhorrent conditions. (The Home Office claims Braverman “has taken urgent decisions to alleviate issues at Manston and source alternative accommodation”.) She accordingly faces being taken to court by refugee charities.

That this pantomime rightwinger is farcically unsuitable to hold one of the great offices of state should now be clear to all but those afflicted with ultra-partisan bad faith. We now know that she sent official documents six times to her personal emails – a wanton violation of the ministerial code. Civil servants tell me they would be sacked for such egregious behaviour, but different standards apply to our senior politicians. Rishi Sunak put her there for two reasons: first, because her endorsement helped keep Boris Johnson from standing for party leader again; and second, because a government intent on renewed unpopular austerity measures will seek to deflect public anger by pressing a big red button labelled “culture war”.

But however much justified condemnation Braverman receives for her email misconduct, it is her treatment of human beings that deserves most ire.

Indeed, Sir Roger Gale, the Tory MP who represents the constituency in which Manston is situated, has condemned the government’s policy. He has suggested that a deliberate decision had been taken not to book space in local hotels, leading to disastrous overcrowding and inhumane conditions. (A Home Office spokesperson later told the BBC: “Claims advice was deliberately ignored are completely baseless.”)A local refugee campaigner, Bridget Chapman, puts to me that the authorities learned cynical lessons from another holding centre, the Napier barracks in Folkestone, where campaigners and journalists were able to talk to asylum seekers and learn about the conditions there. I myself visited: people who had fled violence and persecution in countries such as Iran and Afghanistan were living in conditions that violated basic sanitary and hygiene requirements. But such access has been largely denied in Manston, where conditions are accordingly even worse.

Manston is shrouded in other myths, too. “Lots of establishment media outlets are pushing the idea that everyone is from Albania and largely adult men who are economic migrants,” says another local refugee campaigner, Benny Hunter. “I wouldn’t want to pander to the idea that men aren’t vulnerable or [that] Albanians aren’t potentially refugees, but when we went, we saw families with young children, who shouted over the fence that they were from Syria, Iran, Afghanistan, Iraq – places with war, conflict and despotism.”

While the circumstances behind the Dover petrol bomb are yet to be uncovered, there are some things of which we can be certain. Public hostility to desperate people fleeing to our shores has been systematically ramped up by politicians, newspapers and broadcasters. With legal routes closed off, asylum seekers arriving on small boats are portrayed as a sinister invading force. Local citizens languishing on social housing waiting lists (because of politicians’ refusal to build council homes) or stuck waiting weeks for GP appointments (because of an underfunded health service) are led to believe that the problem lies with desperate newcomers. The likes of Braverman are there to shield the political elite from their failure to provide the citizens of a wealthy nation with a comfortable standard of living and adequate public provision, refocusing resentment on all the wrong targets. In the process, they have inflicted cruelty on often already traumatised people. That there is finally, at least, some outcry at this travesty is to be welcomed. But until we stop allowing politicians and their media allies to scapegoat asylum seekers for problems caused by the powerful, these scandals will happen again and again.

[withahappyrefrain]

https://evanschristopher.tumblr.com/post/680000964560830464/andrew-garfield-inside-andrew-garfields-oscars

I’ve seen this photoshoot a million times but now I’m thinking of mob peter getting ready for a meeting or sumn but instead of entering like a normal person he makes a beeline for you and drags you to the closest empty space

Oh......I like this a lot. 18+ Mob!Peter, daddy kink bc I can't help myself (I tried y'all, I really did), breeding kink if you squint. Also I apologize this is just pure filth

You surveyed the party, impressed by your own hosting skills.

It was simple. You hosted the guests while Peter met with his men in private for a meeting. No one suspects a thing.

The only downside was that you hadn't seen your husband since before the party started. He had several "colleagues" arrive early and you had to ensure the catering and centerpieces were in order, drop Sophie off at May's, as well as get ready.

It really was a shame. You were excited to see his reaction to your new dress.

In private.

Your attention turned to the entrance of the living room, which was suddenly filled with several voices- one of which, you recognized immediately.

It was stupid how attractive he was. How after years of being together, he still took your breath away.

His eyes found yours across the room.

As he walked over to you, they quickly trailed down your body, taking in how the green velvet fabric draped itself around your curves. How the V-shaped neckline accentuated your breasts. How there was a slit in your dress that exposed part of your thigh.

It was then you realized how fast he was walking to you. How he was ignoring the hello's guests were saying to him.

"Hi," was all you could get out before his lips crashed onto your's, his hands firmly on your hips.

For how short the kiss was (by Peter's standards), it still left you breathless.

Ironic, considering your reaction when you learned you were to marry him all those years ago.

"Need to talk to ya. Alone," He whispered in your ear, his grip on your hip tightening.

"Lead the way, Tiger," You smiled as you walked with Peter, his arm never leaving your body. He was practically dragging you away from the party. Not that you were complaining.

You found yourself in a nearby room, the door locked and your back pushed against the wall.

"What was it you wanted to talk to me about?" You asked, digging your fingers into Peter's shoulders as his mouth latched onto your neck.

"Just how much I missed you," He muttered, his tongue soothing the marks his teeth had left.

"Hmmm, is that all?" Your hands reached up to toy with the hair at the nape of his neck.

A shudder escaped your lips when you felt a hand grab one of your breasts.

"And that this dress looks fucking amazing on you. It come in any other colors?"

"Y-yes. Red and black." He gave your breasts another squeeze before traveling down to your thighs.

"I'll order those tomorrow. But for now, let's see if you've been a good girl." Peter sank down to his knees, his hands grabbing the hem of your dress.

"A-always a good girl for ya," You mumbled, your legs shaking as he pushed the fabric up to your hips, exposing your bare core.

Peter let out a hum of approval, his fingers tracing along your slit, "You're right. Always so good to me. Should reward ya."

A strangled moan escaped your lips as Peter dove in between your thighs, his tongue greedily lapping at your slicked folds.

Your fingers tugged on his hair as a desperate attempt to station yourself. The moan he let out against your cunt sent vibrations all the way up your spine.

"P-Peter," You whined, rocking your hips forward. He stroked your thigh in an attempt to soothe you.

"I know baby, you've been waitin' all day. Daddy just needs to get ya ready, okay?"

Before you could respond, two long fingers thrusted inside you. Fuck, you could feel his rings against your entrance.

One of your legs slung over a shoulder of Peter's, providing him better access.

Maybe you shouldn't be moaning so loud. Maybe he shouldn't be fingering you while the guests of your own party were out in the living room.

Your head would definitely be clearer if Peter wasn't angling his fingers so that they hit that sweet spot every time they thrusted against your walls.

"Peter," You whined, feeling your walls tightening.

"That's it baby. Come on my fingers. Get that pussy nice and wet for Daddy's cock."

You groaned at his words. Before meeting him, you didn't think it was possible for fingers to feel this good. His were nothing like your own. They were long, thick, nimble, and somehow always found that spot that pushed you closer and closer to the edge.

You clawed at his shoulders as his tongue began tracing circles around your clit. Luckily he was wearing a jacket, so you didn't have to worry about causing a rip in his shirt.

Not that Peter minds.

The sound that came out of your mouth as you came undone was gutteral. Your hands tightened their grip in his hair, desperate to keep his mouth on your cunt as you rode out your high on his fingers.

You slumped forward, your head resting against his chest. Peter chuckled as your hands reached towards his pants, quickly unbuttoning and pushing them down.

"Want you s'bad, Daddy," You whined. Your eyes widened at the sight of Peter using his fingers, covered in your slick, to stroke his cock.

"Lemme, lemme get on my knees," You panted. You were desperate for him, desperate to feel him again. There was an ache where his fingers once were.

He shook his head, his other hand wrapping your legs around his waist, "I don't think we need that. Though I wouldn't be opposed to later-"

"Peter." If someone had asked you five years ago, you would have told them the only time you'd whine for Peter Benjamin Parker would be when hell freezes over.

Funny how things change.

"Don't worry, Daddy's got you," He cooed in your ear. You buried your head into his neck, hoping it could down out your moans as his cock breached your entrance.

He pulled back, thrusting more of his cock into you. God, the stretch was something you'd never get used to.

Again, you weren't complaining.

Thought you were not okay with the fact that you still didn't have his whole cock inside of you.

You rocked your hips forward, desperate, "W-want it. Want it all. Please. Want ya s'bad."

"Fuck baby," Peter groaned, tugging your hair so that you looked up.

He crashed his lips onto yours as he slammed into you, bottoming out. You screamed into his mouth, your hands clawing at his shoulders.

You felt like an animal. Fuck having shame. Who had time for shame when he felt so good, deep inside of you, hitting places you didn't even know existed before you two met.

The noises coming out of your mouth refused to stop. You couldn't even tell if he was moving his hips anymore. All you could focus on was continuing the pleasurable high that was rolling through your body.

It wasn't until you stopped that you had realized how tightly your walls were clenching around his cock. Shit, did you just come?

Peter's hands moved from your hips to the back of your thighs, pressing you firmly against the wall as he slammed into you.

"F-fuck, oh baby. Y-you've been waitin' all day, haven't ya?" He cooed.

You admitted to it without any hesitation. That you had been thinking of him all day. About his fingers. About his reaction to your new dress. About his mouth on your cunt. About him pinning you up against a wall and having his way with you.

You were desperate. And you knew, despite his exterior, he was just as desperate, if not more, for you as well.

So you begged him to keep going, to not stop no matter what.

"Anything for you baby," He cooed in your ear. You tugged on his hair, pulling his lips back towards yours. It was messy and chances were high that your lipstick was smeared, not that you cared.

Which was why you shook your head when his hips stilled upon hearing a knock at the door.

"Do not stop," You mouthed. With a couple more thrusts and groans, whoever was standing on the other side of the door would figure it out pretty quickly.

"Not so fucking innocent anymore are ya?" Peter growled as he pulled almost all the way out before slamming back into you.

"Fuck!" You didn't mean to yell, but hey, it would get the message across that you and Peter were busy, right?

"Uh, boss? Mr. Lee is lookin' for ya."

"Tell 'em I'm busy!" Peter grunted, chasing his own high now. A hand trailed down your chest, down the curve of your stomach until it reached your throbbing clit.

Another moan escaped your lips as you felt his fingers draw circles on your bundle of nerves. You bit your bottom lip, which he absolutely saw.

"None of that," He ordered in your ear, "Want them to hear how good I fuck ya."

"Uh, he says it's really important!" Jason's voice rang from the other side.

Peter muttered something about Miles needing to get back from his vacation, "Tell 'em I'm tryin'a fuck a baby into my wife!"

You clenched at his words, the wave building up inside of you. It wouldn't be long now, which was probably a good thing considering your legs were absolutely jello at this point.

"Ya like that?" He grunted, thrusting harder. You nodded weakly, causing Peter to smirk.

"So fucked out, ya can't even speak. You just want my cum, don't ya?" You nodded your head again.

"W-want it s'bad. Want ya t'fill me up," You moaned.

"Then give me one more, okay baby? Give Daddy one more and I'll fill ya up real good, promise." His fingers quicken their pace against your clit. You weren't sure when Jason left, nor did you care.

You shuddered as he hit that sacred spot again, your back arching. Small moans dribbled out of your mouth as Peter continued fucking you.

"C'mon baby, come on my cock one more time," He gritted through his teeth.

Your release hit you like a wave, spreading across your body. It started at your toes and worked its way up. By the time it got to your head, you were slumped forward, only being held up thanks to Peter.

His thrusts were becoming ragged and he was unable to keep his own groans down.

"F-fill me up Daddy, feels s'good," You begged, clinging onto him.

With one last yelp, his hips stilled as he spilled himself inside of you. You moaned at the sensation. It was your favorite part and you made no attempts to hide that.

As you both came down from your highs, your actions softened from animalistic to affectionate. Peter pressed his lips against your temple, whispering words of thanks and praise.

"Did s'good for me. Let's get ya cleaned up, okay?" You nodded your head, thankful he chose a room that contained a bathroom this time.

"Hey, come here," You lifted your head up from Peter's neck, receiving a chaste kiss on your lips. You smiled at the display of affection, returning the kiss.

"I love you so much," You said against his lips, feeling them form into a smile.

"I love you too. Now let's get cleaned up," He said as he carried you into the bathroom.

You giggled, "We should get back to our party."

Peter wiggled his eyebrows, "I like what we did better."

[dolugecat]

On some Japanese social issues I had learned about at uni and abroad):

(Rb ok!)

Legit had an epiphany about the true hidden meaning of the last arc of Mob Psycho 100. It’s hella projection but for real there is nothing neurotypical about Mob or Mob Psycho. I do not wish to enforce my interpretation on others (ironic bc I do that all the time but this is a serious social theory). There are some interesting and very sad social issues in Japan that the west really doesn’t understand but would I think help people understand a lot of context behind not only Mob Psycho, but also a lot of other anime. I learned this at my shitty university (prestigious but horrific) and while studying abroad in Japan and talking with Japanese peers. Get ready here we go (and tw for bullying and darker things):

Unfortunately in East Asian education systems, bullying can be extremely intense. Growing up I assumed it was over exaggerated extremely in anime for drama but it really can be so horrific. From what I’ve heard, there is often a single kid or so who is just shit on by everyone else, even the teacher. Mogami land *is* the reality of some Japanese kids. I’ve read that in Korea, this social punching bag sometimes is just the darkest skinned person (yayyy colorism /angry) and or someone who does not fit in. I mean, we have that in America too, but maybe not as common for the bullying to be as focused on one misfit rather than several. These kids just can’t escape the stigma too, kids from other schools find out they were a major victim at their old school and it starts anew. Thus there is so much stigma and incentive to join in on bullying so you aren’t the one. Sadly, this also ofc leads to higher suicide rates. That’s where the “shoe on building roof” anime trope comes in, bc somehow taking off shoes is relayed to death (I forgot why sorry)

There is a difference in how intense in general high school vs college is too. In the West, commonly college is the more intense curriculum and is harder than high school, but in Japan it’s usually the opposite. Grind suuuupppeeerrrr hard for entrance exams (huge standardized tests that determines what college you can qualify to) bc unlike the ACT or SAT here, that test is by far the most important factor for college admission. Then chill and relax a bit in college. Can’t relate. Name and prestige is very critical for job application, more important than here. That’s why planning out your future is sooo much more intense for Japanese high schoolers than in America, and why there is sooo much more pressure to excel in high school than here. Japanese school years and holidays are done different than ours, I’d suggest looking it up.

Social prestige of going to an American high school or college is nuts. Like whyyy do you value our shitty education, Japan’s is much higher quality (it’s bc we neo colonized them). Being able to speak English is very, very highly valued and any association with Americans make you cooler. From my experience, some Japanese students got very excited to practice speaking English with us, and their biggest issues with learning it is pronunciation, lmao. Wasai english is unique slang that is indeed English words but it’s kinda different and it’s kinda jarring to remember lol. So, Teru having parents that are working overseas isn’t too uncommon, idk about leaving him absolutely alone, but I did have a ex-friend who just came from Japan in middle school who’s situation probably wasn’t too far off from that. Empty wealth with no love, it’s no wonder those kind of people can end up being huge bullies (minori?)

I did a presentation on 引きこもり(hikikomori) for which means “shut in”, (like Serizawa) and it’s fucked up. It’s a social phenomena where according to some Japanese researchers a mix of undisciplined parenting, guilt/not living up to expectations, and hopelessness makes an alarming amount of youth/ young adults literally never go out side their house/room. Often a parent is “enabling” the behavior by supporting them, but idk the articles seemed a bit victim-blaming to me when I read it, but I don’t think I should make a judgement too hard, not my place. I will say I do suspect and believe I read something to support that ASD might play a role in hikikomoris (there is pitiful resources for autistic people in Asia, much much less support than even here, to the point I don’t think most know it exists). Like come on, with the other points I laid out my personal opinion as an Asian American with autism is that it really seems it’s unknowing ableism against autistic classmates, but I didn’t grow up in Asia so I don’t want to say.

Mental health in general is tragically quite abysmal in Japan, and with it being so hyper competitive and brutal work culture, it’s no surprise birth rate in Japan is so low; some Japanese young adults say it seems unethical to bring a life to such hostile world. Suicide rate is of the highest in the world. It’s fucked, I’ve interacted with some of the locals in Tokyo and they were so nice, but the business men just looked dead inside, it’s so sad.

Relationships between child and parent is also strained bc of this intense work and school culture. Quality time is too scarce when you gotta work so much. And the pressure from parents to do well in education or else you might end up socially stigmatized is rough. Bc your job is who you are, it’s hyper capitalism (thanks us for making them do this)

With autism being so unknown, support for parents in raising autistic kids is almost nonexistent. What happens if the “darker” side of ASD shows up in kids? I used to be a menace when I had meltdowns, I felt so bad but really just became so indiscriminately violent. See where this is going? Legit, I think ESP is a sort of metaphor for neurodivergance to ONE. There is so much stigma around it, and even less way for kids to understand why they are different than the others. My Korean family can’t admit we all got ASD, too much fear and internalized shame.

I got finally diagnosed with ASD as an adult and I’ll tell ya, I relate too much to Mob hurting Ritsu. I felt so bad, but also not in control, I knew what I was doing but not how to stop. Luckily, is was blessed in that my hyperfixations involved science and logic, so I did well at school. Sadly, our boy Mob just don’t got the passion or ability to do well at school. His kanji is very bad, even to point of not being confident he wrote a kanji (世) they learn when they are 9, in elementary school (thanks @katyatalks). Him being a bit berated by his parents for having bad grades and bending spoons seems harsh to Westerners I think, but IMO it’s pretty tame from what I’ve seen of some Asian parents (I get to say that lmao). Ofc, however the shaming is very real and Mob just agreeing with them about how weird and stupid he thinks he is so sad. There is even more pressure for the eldest to be better than here, I feel from some interactions. Nonetheless, it’s implied Mob is quite emotionally detached from his parents, even though he loves them, which also adds to his emotional complex. Combined with originally fragile self esteem and feelings of worthlessness, we got one emotionally stunted boy. However, contrary to common belief people with ASD are sometimes hyper empathic and experience emotions very intensely. We are prone to having “meltdowns” which if not assisted with can be quite violent if very intense. For me, my worse meltdowns as a kid came from when I didn’t understand why I wasn’t getting what I wanted, it seemed selfish and cruel of me but I couldn’t control it. I wanted to be a good kid, so why did hit my moms leg at target when she refused to buy me Pokémon toys? I couldn’t come up with a good reason for why my mind just commanded my body to do bad things, just a single thought was controlling me, I want I want I want I want I want ____. Which I argue could be what ???% represents… bc well…. Yeah….. hmm….. not in control of self (mob unconscious), selfish (not actually, I’ve forgave myself but my “normal” kid self was so ashamed), destructive, hurt family, wanting to stop but can’t, that’s kind of…. Too relatable.

But legit, since realizing my new HC, I’ve started to think of the last chapter of mp100 when I “explode” and it helps me feel better and I do gain “control” a bit easier. I don’t feel so bad anymore either, Mob!

[koolleenxxi]

Lovestruck

Infrastructures disappear right before my eyes, despite Kenny's command to speed up, the moon never leaves my sight. It illuminates the whole city, causing me to admire it even more.

"Make sure to socialize with your cousins and other acquaintances, Levi," Kenny said from the front seat. "Do not outcast yourself. There will be a lot of families later; I will introduce you to them."

"Yeah, Kenny, I got it already. I thought you don't like nagging?" I glanced at the rear-view mirror and fixed my tie.

"I do!"

I ignored him.

I felt my phone vibrating, so I took it out. Erwin's name appeared on the screen.

"You going?" I can hear loud music in his background; it is not hard to conclude he ditched the gathering.

"Where?" I lazily asked.

"Oh, no, no!" He laughed hysterically. "Don't tell me you're going to that party!?"

"Well, Kenny bribed me, so I had to go," I shrugged.

"Oh, is that Erwin?! Send my regards to him, Levi," Kenny interrupts.

"Tell him I said hello, too," he said. "Anyway, it's Petra's treat tonight, though! It's a shame," teasing is dripping in his tone. "Don't worry; I'll have girls your liking reserved for you—" I immediately cut the line.

He loses his intelligence once getting into the club. I thought coming with him once would shut him off, but I was wrong. It is fine with me, though, not until he sells me out to girls he met that he said passed my standards.

After a while, we arrived at the hotel. The media gathers outside the venue. It is my first time attending a party since Kenny didn't put effort into persuading me before. He didn't even inform me about what would happen. I wouldn't have come if it weren't for that damn vacuum cleaner.

"Ignore their questions, Levi, do not answer anything," Kenny instructed while fixing his black fedora.

"As if," then I got out of our car.

I fixed my suit and then proceeded to the entrance. Interviewers immediately crowded me. Bombarding me with different questions I do not have an interest in.

"Are you Levi Ackerman?"

"Who is the designer of your outfit today?"

"Since your parents died and left you to Mr. Kenny Ackerman, does he fulfill his duty to raise you well?"

"Of course, I'm raising my dearest nephew very well," I heard Kenny answered a reporter.

A guy mobbed me and grabbed my arms. I aggressively pulled it from him. How dare him to touch me! I'm not too fond of a crowded place like these; it makes my skin tingle.

"Is it true that you'll be the one to inherit the whole A.N company?"

What the hell would I do with my ancestors' company? I am not interested in it. Moreover, managing it. I wanted to answer him, but I remember Kenny's instruction earlier so I continued walking until we reached the hall.

As the large double doors open, it revealed a grand ballroom. It was good that the media is not allowed inside.

Blinding lights from the chandeliers was the first thing I saw. A combination of silver and gold made the whole place shine. A vast platform dominates the center part, both on left and right are the snacks and drinks area.

Kenny said that the party would start at precisely 8 PM. I glanced on my wristwatch and saw it's still—

"Mikasaaaaaa!"

A woman my age entered and shouted my cousin's name loudly, like too loud. She even bumped into my shoulders, which caused me to stop on my track. The whole place silenced after her flashiness; I feel so embarrassed and ashamed for her. I looked at her and realized she didn't mind the people looking at her. After some time, they took their gaze off of her as if it's just normal.

"Why are you still standing there, Levi? Our table is at your Aunt Mikaela's," Kenny appeared beside me.

I followed him and saw that the table we're going to is too crowded. Men in a business suit, looking intimidating, surrounds my relatives.

"Kenny,"

He glanced at me.

"What is it?"

"I will just go to the bathroom."

"Make sure to be back before the program starts."

I immediately head to the restroom. A waiter gave me a drink along the way, so I took it and finished in just one shot.

When I turned, I saw Mikasa with the woman earlier. They are having animated talks.

"Hey," Mikasa greeted me when I passed by them.

I nod at her.

The woman stopped talking to Mikasa when she saw me and then brought back her gaze to Mikasa as if accusing her. I didn't mind that, I proceeded.

"Hey!" I heard her call. "Stop!"

I wasn't sure if it was me so I didn't look back.

Clinks of loud stilettos filled the hallway of the restroom. And then I felt a hand grabbed my wrist.

"I said stop!" She spat.

What's wrong with this woman?

"Excuse me, why are you holding my wrist?" I asked.

Her hold tightened, and then she released it.

"I told you to stop, why didn't you?" She crossed her arms on her chest.

While she was loud, I had a good look at her overall look. A silver champagne dress hugged her petite, fair-skinned body. Her mid-length hair falls on her back; her right bangs were almost covering her right eye. Her almond eyes, narrow nose, and plump lower lips are distracting, so I cleared my throat.

"I didn't hear you call my name, so why would I look back?" I fixed my stance.

Mikasa hooked her arms to her and insisted that they should just go. "I told you, it isn't him. Stop suspecting everyone, Hange."

"It is because you're not telling me who it is!" She said, pouting.

Wow, now I am witnessing best friends' quarrel? I shook my head and turned my back to them.

Since we're the only ones in the hallway, I can still hear their murmurs.

"Then who is that guy, and why are you like "hey" to him?" She probed.

"He's my cousin, Levi Ackerman," I heard Mikasa.

"Oh, shoot! Really? Got to say he got good looks but his height—meh." She nonchalantly said.

People pointing out my height aren't very surprising for me, but I don't know why I got annoyed by how she discriminated me. I hated myself for that.

It was five minutes before 8 when I finally sat down. Kenny offered me a glass of wine as soon as he saw me. I took it.

"I am sorry if Hange caused you inconvenience earlier," Mikasa beside me talked.

"It was fine until I heard her pointed out my height," I sipped on my wine and shifted my vision to Hange's table. Cardboard with Zoë in it is placed in the middle of their round table. I saw her playing with the little boy in her lap.

"Oh. You heard that... I'm sorry for it too," then Mikasa looked at Hange. "She's just really... straight-forward and loud."

The program started shortly with the MC welcoming every business tycoons in the industry of engineering and construction. Several of my relatives stood when the MC called their names. When it was Kenny's turn, he waved his hand and bowed.

"Your astounding engineer, Kenny Ackerman, is here," he said that echoed in the hall.

Everyone laughed, and some even complimented him.

"You are not as astounding as your fedora, Mr. Ackerman!" An older man jokingly said.

"We expect nothing less from you, Kenny!" A woman from Hange's table said.

"Yeah, Uncle Kenny, you're the best!" Hange raised her thumbs, and Kenny winked at her.

Kenny then took his seat, laughing with Aunt Mikaela on his side.

"Flashy as always," I took a sip.

Kenny turned to me. "Shut up, Levi."

Speeches from people who introduced themselves as their company's CEO continuously went on and on. It bored the hell of me. I kept on glancing at my wristwatch and hoped for the event to end soon, but unfortunately, it didn't.

I massaged my temples after finishing the fifth glass of booze Kenny kept on giving me. I was about to stand up, but when I opened my eyes, I noticed Hange was gesturing something on me—or not.

I creased my forehead and glared at her. She kept showing her phone and putting it on her ear. She pointed out to me and then her phone while mouthing Rico. I shook my head and told Kenny I'd just go to the bathroom. The moment I turned my back, I saw a guy mouthing something to the person on my end. What's wrong with these mouthing people?

Berner was on the man's cardboard.

He looked up at me. "Dude? Can you move a bit?"

At first, I was confused about why the hell would he want me to step aside, and when I look back, I saw Hange gesturing me to move. I proceeded to walk and thought, why can't they just message each other? What are their phones for? Tch.

From the bathroom, I went directly to the garden at the back of the hall. Good thing the media didn't saw me—or just didn't pay enough attention when I passed through them.

Besides the lamp posts, the moon shines above me. I settled on a stone bench and rested my head on its backrest, I closed my eyes.

My phone vibrates, and I saw it's Kenny.

"Where are you, Levi?" His stern tone enveloped my ear.

"Just outside,"

"The main course will be served now."

"I had a cordon bleu earlier, so I'm fine. I'll just see you in the car late—"

"People are looking for you; get back here," he cut me off, and sounded strict, which is very unusual.

Ever since my parents died and Kenny took me in, he never forced me to do his biddings; that's why I am so thankful for him. Until now, I lived by my decisions, and he never disagreed with it. I have my own principles, and he respected it.

Recently, my relatives kept on convincing me to run the whole A.N. company for the reason that my grandfather's bedridden and cannot work anymore. I never showed interest in it, but they keep on insisting on it.

"Kenny, I know what you want, and I'm afraid I can't agree with whatever you guys are thinking. For Pete's sake, I am still studying. And you know that I didn't take engineering just to benefit from what my ancestors already established," I sighed. "Can't you just manage it? How about our other relatives?"

"They are busy with their own lives and businesses now. I'm sure taking over A.N. would prepare you since you're planning to build your own company, right?" He said convincingly. "Your uncles and I will assist you along the way; you don't have to worry."

"Let's just... talk it over some time," I ended the call and sighed.

"You don't have to do it if you don't want to," someone spoke behind the bushes that made me almost jump.

"Can't you do that?" I said, annoyed and still startled.

"What?" The girl replied.

"Coming out of nowhere and disturbing people's tranquility," I watched her as she took her way towards the space beside me.

"Oh, sorry about that... but I supposed you are not having your tranquility, Mr. Ackerman," she said, mocking me.

She took her seat, and I realized she's familiar.

"Do I know you?" I asked.

"Woah, Woah!" She laughed. "We just met, and you immediately forgot about me?" She muttered in disbelief.

"Am I supposed to remember you?"

She didn't answer that; instead, she took off her eyeglasses and untied her hair.

"You know me now? Come on; I am no Cinderella who changes looks after midnight," she said while putting her eyeglasses and ponytail back on its places. "I am Hange Zoë, the one with Mikasa earlier," she extended her hand.

"Yeah, her judgmental friend, huh?" I teased and crossed my arms instead of shaking hands with her.

"Excuse me?!" Hange faced me.

"I heard you call my height meh," shrugging, I said. "Doesn't that makes you judgmental?"

She shrugged and then laughed. I can't help but laugh, too.

Silence reigned between us. I looked up the sky, and so she did.

"Really, though... you don't have to do it if it would only burden you," Hange started.

I chuckled without humor in it. "It isn't that easy."

"Everyone has their own freedom to choose what fits them. They can decide for and by themselves," she started to remove her stilettos and massage her ankles. I watch her as she does it.

"Is it still free will if the people around you influenced your decision?"

"Yes, because you have the option to disregard their biddings and just continue living your life as you please, but—" Hange flinched, and I saw how red her feet were.

I immediately kneeled in front of her and took her right foot. I slowly unstrapped her high heels and massaged them gently.

"Was wearing stilettos your free will, or were you influenced by the people around you?"

I looked up at her and was astonished by how she shines like the moon behind her.

"It doesn't have to do with our serious conversation!" Hange shamelessly laughed out loud.

Looking at her from below, seeing how beautiful her silhouette is, her ponytailed hair, right bangs, the sound of her laugh made me catch my breath, the sequins from her champagne silver dress that makes her even more blinding to look at.

I blinked to knock myself off. I couldn't be lovestruck, right?! 

[lookbluesoup]

I’ve seen a lot of talk about anti anti culture lately and an emphasis on canceling people who write stories where bad things happen (i.e., rape, molestation, abuse). I’m really interested in facilitating a positive, open space here on my blog. So sharing my personal opinion about this at all is something I thought about for a while, and my hope is that it offers a helpful perspective as well as solidarity to people who use fiction the same way as me.

It’s not directed at anyone in particular or any event in particular. The tl;dr version is – people should always have a choice, they should be allowed to read or choose not to read, they should be allowed to write and share or choose not to write or share. Taking that choice away from people ultimately hurts survivors by making topics taboo and forcing everyone to fit a specific moral narrative for their pain or experiences to be valid.

Trigger Warnings: Rape, abuse, cancel culture, child molestation, depression, suicide, dogmatic religion, homophobia

1. These things DO happen in real life, and yes, they are harmful, and yes, reading about them can be triggering. Fully, completely acknowledge all of these things and have experienced my share of it firsthand.

2. People should be allowed to know before they get invested in a story whether triggers might be present so that they can choose to avoid it if they want to. It is their choice, and responsibility to decide not to read something that is appropriately tagged. (And please, please tag appropriately!)

3. Being interested in reading about dark subjects does not make a person evil. Somewhere between 31-57 percent of women admit to having rape fantasies. (x) That does not mean women want to be raped in real life. It does not mean that half the population of women are perverted degenerates. Reading fiction, like indulging in our fantasies, is a safe place to explore and enjoy sensations, dramas, and experiences we still don’t want in real life.

In less touchy examples - I love reading about gladiator arena battles! I love playing apocalyptic games where monsters jump out of the dark and scare the shit out of me! I do not want gladiator rings or to live in an apocalypse in real life! That doesn’t mean my interest in these stories or games condones them in real life. It doesn’t mean I think it was right that Rome irl forced slaves to fight to the death for entertainment.

4. I grew up in an environment without grey areas. The dogmatic Bible-beating hatemongering kind. Someone was good and did everything right according to my beliefs and worldview, or someone was bad and a direct threat to me. If I did something wrong, I had to punish myself physically and emotionally to make up for not being perfect. I was taught to despise myself. My parents believed there was only one correct way to view any situation - their way. I was petrified of punishment and learned that it wasn’t even worth trying to do better or accommodate someone else’s experiences because I would never measure up and would be condemned for doing something that wasn’t perfect. That is immensely, cripplingly harmful to an individual and to society. Cancel culture does the same thing. It excommunicates people who aren’t pure and allows others to get by with abuse because they are ‘teaching’ or an ‘authority on morality’ – and guess what? Nobody is pure. We are all human, we all make mistakes, and we are all learning. None of us have moral authority.

We cannot build a healthy, inclusive society if we are unsafe. We cannot be safe if we are not allowed to first admit that we ALL make mistakes and have prejudices that we can improve on. So we need to be kind and nonjudgmental whenever we have the chance to be. And we have to accept and respect that what’s fun or helpful or healing for us might be the opposite for someone else, or vice versa. Which is okay if we are respectful of each other’s boundaries and don’t try to force a way of being onto someone else without their consent.

5. With regard to writing, this means that people need to be allowed to explore difficult, even painful topics if they wish to. Even for fun. Even if someone else might not want or need to explore those same topics. That doesn’t make either person inherently evil or wrong. It just means we all have different needs and wants and diversity is normal. 

As a serious example, as someone who was molested by a teenage neighbor as a child, I can guarantee you that the fact these topics were considered so disgusting and taboo by society made it very difficult for me to cope. It was not my fault, and I’ve healed from it, but when it happened I didn’t even understand what was going on, and the guilt and self-blame that followed me for years afterward were almost crippling. So yes – what happened to me in real life was wrong, inexcusable behavior. But censorship did not protect me. First it made me ignorant and vulnerable to manipulation, and then it made me feel dirty, disgusting, and isolated. 

What I needed was a safe avenue to talk about it and the thoughts and sensations it stirred up, in order to heal. I needed to know it was okay to have automatic thoughts – they were a result of fear and trauma or even just being human, not a moral failing on my part. I needed to actually talk about and explore what I had felt openly, and how that related to the rest of my life, before I could move past it and have a healthy view of intimate acts that weren’t soaked in guilt and self-loathing.

I read a book after that happened, set in ancient Rome, where pederasty took place. And the victim was allowed to admit that he’d enjoyed some of what had happened to him while enslaved, and was then assured that even though he didn’t hate everything that he experienced, it didn’t make him to blame, nor his abuser right, and those thoughts/feelings did not define him or his morality. That has been immensely healing to me – but this ‘grey’ exploration of a topic is not compatible with mainstream cancel culture.

Or alternatively, I watched the series 13 Reasons Why. I hated it. It felt like nothing but shock value entertainment and not a respectful management of topics like suicide that were very, VERY real to me. Except for someone else I knew who had also struggled with suicidal thoughts and impulses, 13 Reasons Why was immensely validating. They were glad that a series showed such graphic representation of these events in a way that couldn’t be ignored or brushed over. What had been hurtful to me, was empowering to them.

I believe it is not mine, or anyone else’s place, to decide that a piece of media should be across the board banned because of what it might do. Because while some of us share traumas, we still each have different experiences, needs, and healing processes.

Such strict censorship allows for only victims who meet a certain “standard” to receive care and healing. The rest are left to suffer or are even punished further.

All of us have gone through life with vastly different levels of privilege, opportunity, expectations, etc, which leads to vastly different interpretations of the world, none of which are 100% correct or true.

6. Cancel culture hurts LGBTQ+ rights. I’m neither straight or cis, and I might never have learned that if I hadn’t been able to build friendships outside of my social circle who allowed me to integrate and ask questions without being obligated to agree with them. Where I grew up, there was immense prejudice against gay people. My cousin was disowned and disinherited for coming out. I was sheltered from anyone who might argue for gay rights, and discouraged from looking at or being curious of the deep south’s version of ‘problematic.’ That’s what I was taught – to be uncomfortable toward, judgmental, and condemning. If I had been on tumblr during those years and gotten ‘cancelled’ I would have been even more suspicious and condemning of Others, and even more determined that my way was the only right one. I specifically avoided tumblr social circles because I ‘knew’ they hated ‘people like me.’ It’s not exclusive. This trend where people become even more convinced to pick an opposing side because the Other person is being hateful is one of the first things they teach you in social psychology. 

The kind of intolerance that goes with mobbing people for saying anything they consider problematic at all is the same cruelty that makes me unable to tell my parents I identify as agender or pan. It’s what gets women stoned to death and gays beheaded. It’s not moral. 

What changed my point of view was friendships. One of my friends came out as gay and my world turned upside down because here was someone that didn’t match any of the stereotypes I’d been taught to fear. He wasn’t hateful or condemning of me, he was one of the most thoughtful and peaceful people I knew. That is what started to change things for me, and made it safe for me to explore other ways of thinking and interpretations of scripture. Because I cared about him more than I needed to be right.

7. Nobody is obligated to interact with someone who is being violent or hateful to them. You’re not even obligated to interact with someone you disagree with, if the topic is too painful or you simply don’t want to talk about it. Keep yourselves safe. But within the world of writing, live and let live. If someone posts a story you don’t like, and they’ve tagged it appropriately, please, please consider that your experience is not universal. You have the choice not to read that story. Someone else might need to read it. Let them, and don’t shame them for it. 

[popculturebuffet]

Life and Times of Scrooge McDuck Restrospective: The Raider of the Copper Hill! “You Got Rich Son”

Hello all you happy people! And welcome back to my retrospective of the Life and Times of Scrooge McDuck! It’s been far too long, almost three months since we last checked in with Scrooge and frankly I feel i’ve been spacing these entries out too much for this one and for the retrospectives that aren’t paid for in general. So expect at least one McDuck adventure a month till I finish, possibly two when I can swing it like this month. 

Now i’m done beating myself up, when we last left off a younger more naive, more optimistic and less experienced Scooge took up a career as a cowboy for  Cattle Baron, gained his first sidekick in the form of his Horse Hortense, and took out some cattle thieves with the help of Teddy Fucking Roosevelt. 

This chapter marks the end of the story’s first act. The first act is about a younger and far nicer Scrooge: still onrey and still a cheapskate, but still a good kid and far more outwardly friendly and welcoming, a far cry from the bitter untrusting man we come to know. This chapter is one of the reasons why, as Scrooge learns a hard lesson about wealth and success, the sacrifices one needs to make for family and about sticking your hand in a lightbulb while it’s plugged in. So join me under the cut as Scrooge meets another valuable mentor, one of his greatest enemies, and about 50 feet of barbed wire. 

We begin with the end of Scrooge’s time as a ranch hand and cowpunch. With homesteaders moving in and dividing up the land, Murdo simply dosen’t have the space for cattle baroning anymore and has to let Scrooge go and head back to texas. We do get a great bit of Scrooge wrapped in barbed wire, having gone to cut some down so Murdo could move the herd out. 

So with his Job done and parting on good terms with his old boss, Scrooge sets up his own homestead on some land near the Anaconda Silver Mine, trying to make it as a prospector, starting on the path that would eventually lead him to riches.. in about a decade and a half.

 So Scrooge bemoans his rotten luck over Dinner with a stranger, Marcus Daly owner of said mine... who just.. randomly sat down to have dinner with a 17 year old. 

Marcus belays his own woes: While Scrooge has failed at what he tried to do, having gotten into both steamboating and cattle punching too late to go anywhere with either, Daly has a silver mine that’s full of copper: decent amoutns of it but still not what his investors wanted. 

Both however find their fortunes reverse in an instant in the weirdest way possible. The light goes out at their table and Scrooge tries to adjust it only to electcute himself. To his shock...

He finds out it’s running on electricty, which is starting to become widespread.. and requires vast amounts of copper wiring. Scrooge is back in the game but finds trouble getting equipment as the local seller naturally is a jackass who jacks up the price. Scrooge instead sells the gold teeth his dad gave him to the nearest gentleman after talking him into it. . And i’ts not even the weirdest transaction i’ve seen this week. 

For the record those weird things are the guy on the left’s skinflakes, his power is to make naked golems of himself out of his dandruff and skin flakes and what have you, while the guy on the right is paying for a mutant with a star for a head. So yeah a scottish cowboy selling his ancestor’s dentures to pay for mining gear is refelshingly tame after all of this. 

So we get the comic equivleant of a montage as Scrooge starts his work at prospecting, making a portable homesteader shack as a miner owns any land he lives on, and moving around to try and find it, but he runs into a problem: with his last two careers he had mentors to help him learn what to do: Pothole taught him riverboating and Murdo helped him learn to ride the trails. Here he has no one and while you can self teach a lot of things prospecting isn’t one of them. 

He end sup finding one though as a rich gentleman asking about the mine happens to wander by: Howard D. Rockerduck. If that names sounds familiar it should as he’s indeed the father of exactly who your thinking of and we meet a young 10 or so year old john who asks him to stop dealing with a grubby workman. We also find out whose responsible for him turning out ot be such a piece of work as his mother’s response to his father telling him “I used to be a grubby workman is well... word’s cant’ do this amount of classist bulslhit justice. 

Seriously his unnamed wife is so odious it hurts. And how the fuck did an honest, kind man like Howard end up with this bitch? It’ sbaffled me every time i’ve read this: did he marry for money? is he a gold digger? go down gold dig get down? Is she just THAT good in bed? Did he just make a horrible mistake one night? Did she lie to him about who she was? Was she replaced by a skrull? I have questions no duck comic has properly explained.. and if they have please tell me.  Also it does tickle me we’re getting a bit with a duck named howard though sadly he wears a top hat instead of a nice little bowler. And if you don’t know who howard the duck is.. shame on you. And if you’ve seen the movie.. my deepest sympathies. 

While Howard laments wanting to horsewhip his son, this was a century ago with change mind you standards were different and also John sucks. Howard crticizes Scrooge’s techqniue after introducing himself, and Scrooge and him get into a bit of a tizzy, with Howard offering to teach him for two cents.. but the hostility quickly desolves hours later as Scrooge realizes Howard was right and he’d been doing things completely wrong and the thrill of hard honest work again has washed away any ego driven competiviness. 

I”ll get more into Howard in a second but he does eventually strike copper, and while the vein is full it’s also thin. But Howard has one final trick and takes Scroogey for an ore test. I tried to find more on this but just found a lot of ways to do it yourself and what not. I”m now really intrigued how they did this and found the content of minerals. I know it’s a dull subject but i’m curious how they did it with the technology of the time. Did they just use acids like I found? If so how’d they get them? I do say this is one of the great qualities of Rosa’s works: he makes you want to learn more about history. I looked up more about TR after the last chapter and now I want to know how the hell metallurgy worked in the late 1800′s. 

We then get an intresting interacton as Scrooge.. warmly greets the townsfolk and vice versa.. yes the same Scrooge who as an adult would be introduced proclaming...

Is warm, optimistic and wholeheartedly belieives...

As you can probably tell by Howard’s reaction and what Scrooge becomes.. this story’s all about shattering that notion and is the first of two to shatter the poor kid’s trust in people and make him into the bitter old sod we know. 

The sample comes back 55% positive... which leaves Howard rushing to get Scrooge to a court house. As it turns out there’s an old, very real for the time, mining law called the Law of Apex: whoever owns the land closest to where an ore vein is on the surface owns the whole thing... so legally Scrogoe owns the ENTIRE ANACONDA COPPER MINE, which at this point as detailed in the time skip has gone from struggling to utterly thriving and sucessful. Whoever owns the land at the time the Judge rules it gets the mine.. and Scrooge’s friends, who seconds ago were concerned about him being dragged into court.. are now all scrambling to take his fortune, something Howard dosen’t seem at all suprised about. 

But while this may be a kinder, more naive Scrooge McDuck, it’s still SCROOGE MCDUCK. His response is to cut a nearbye power wire and swing it tarzan style over to hortense and ride her back ahead of the mob... with the electric wire slapping her rear and causing her to go extra fast.. and also quit. So Scrooge stands alone but manages to take out some of the ruffians with his shack while John and the Judge rush to the site. As for Scrooge well... you want to see what a McDuck family beserker rage against an ENTIRE angry mob of opportunistic assholes look like? 

And this isn’t even the most badass thing Scrooge will do this series. Or even in the next few issues. That’s how awesome this series is: fighting an angry mob SOLO with simply his pure rage and whatever he can grab and throw. And he WINS. He’s exausted and passes out, falling out of the sky on his final opponent.. but he took out what was at the LEAST 50 men, and ONLY passed out because one of them threw dynamite in his out house.. and even THAT didn’t kill him or put him out, simply casuing him to land on said dynamite throwing idiot and wins. 

We find out Rockerduck actually was one of the mine’s owners but helped Scrooge anyway: he has more than enough money and all it’s going to do in the end is go to a greedy brat. Marcus Daly shows up and while he’ll get the law overturned eventually, he still has to shut down while that happens and finds the right officials to bribe. And this is the 1800s... you gotta go by train to do your bribes. You can’t just do that shit over email and hidden bank accounts. Daly offers him 10,000.. but given what Scrooge could earn even before he got his mine back, Scrooge turns it down. 

However this victory is bittersweet as Scrooge warmly greets his friends.. only for one to cuss him out and the other to tell him to get loss. We then get one of my faviorite exchanges in this story.

This whole Panel is a masterwork. The sheer INNOCENCE on Scrooge’s face, almost looking like Donald, desperately wondering what he did, when as Howard points out.. he did nothing wrong. He simply got successful and they resent him for it. 

This has been a hard paragraph for me to write as I want to tread carefully. People do have good reasons to scorn the rich or celebrtiies sometimes. Some rich people or those in the media are genuinely terrible. Jeff Bezos, Tucker Carlson, Mel Gibson, Louie CK, Joss Whedon and even someone as low on the totem pole as Doug Walker is odious. And of course we all can think of one odious example of rich bastard i’d rather not think of, especially when thinking of John D Rockerduck and what he’l lbecome as an adult that i’m not giving a pleasure of the name drop but came to mind. 

But even for good people becoming succesful puts up a barrier between you and other people: Fans of yours will admire you or write fanfic or what have about you without even knowing you, i’ve been on that side, and some people will hate you just because without valid reason, especially in this day and age. Success breeds resentment and even people you trusted and loved can sometimes turn on you. It’s the double eged sword of achieving your dreams: You get what you wanted but you often loose what you had. 

And it was no diffrent two centuries ago, with Scrooge’s friends only being friendly as long as it suited them, turning on him first to steal his chance at glory and then to scorn him for daring to achieve it. Some people.. are only there for you as long as your not above them. And sometimes you can be happy. Look at Tom Hanks, who has a lovely family and a long and storied career. Or Linkara, a youtuber who has been at this for over a decade, has tons of fans, a loving wife with her own succesful channel, and just recently got contacted by his childhood heroes. You CAN be happy and successful.. it’s just very hard to make it that far. 

One of the central points of life and times is that’s often not the case: You can get what you want but it comes at a cost. And it’s how you pay that price that will determine how happy you are. Another central point intertwined with it is it’s not the journey but the destination, and i’ts how Scrooge takes that journey that ultimately leads him where he ends up good and bad. And we get an all to telling all too foreboding hint in how he takes everyone he knew for at least a year turning on him overnight. 

When faced with his first real loss on this Journey that wasn’t material.. he dosen’t care. He has his money and riches and that’s enough. And as we’ll see that attitude will cost him greatly. Howard is irate for a moment, hoping he wasn’t wrong in trusting Scrooge.. and indeed, for now, turns out to have placed his faith in the right person as Scrooge gets a telegram: his family needs him. And while he could stay, turn his back on them, and earn MILLIONS.. he tells Howard  to tell the owner he’s taking the deal. For now when given the choice between his family and his fortune, SCrooge will choose them. Sadly.. that won’t hold true forever. 

With this being the end of his time in the story, as he has a still insufferable John buy him a horsewhip for horrific but darkly funny reasons, as John brags about how rich his father is not realizing he’s buying his own whupping tool, i’d like to touch on Howard D Rockerduck and how amazing he is. Rosa managed to pack a throughly interesting, throughly engaging character into only 8 pages. While Rockerduck DID show up earlier in of ducks dimes and destinys, he wasn’t really fleshed out or named and only showed up for one page so still 9 pages total. 

But in those we see a kind and noble man whose easily what Scrooge COULD have been, kind, noble, generous, hardworking and willing to give up money to help people. He’s a good man.. but even he’s seen the sacrifice Money brings. He’s clearly lost friends, lost a sense of peace, and married the wrong Woman, whose poisoned his children into a spoiled brat who will only grown into an even more spoield adult in both continuities.. if raised quite a bit earlier in the 2017 cartoon as he was made scrooge’s contemporary there rather than a child, but semeantics. Point is Howard hismelf isn’t wholly satisfied with his success.. and that’s what he and Scrooge will forever have in common, with Scrooge, likely as a result of meeting the Rockerducks, fearing an indadiquate inheritor and someone squandering what he worked hard for. Though his reasons for not taking up a wife as we’ll see eventually, if outside the main 12 part story but I intend to cover the subchapters in their own time, aren’t entirely motivated by avoiding goldigging but a broken hard and his own stubborness. 

For now though we bid Howard and america adue. Scrooge however for once ends an occupation with less bitterness. Unlike his last two ventures where he made it out with only enough to get to the next one here he made it out ahead: he now has a decent suit, likely bought for him by Howard given he hasn’t cashed the check yet, I know this as it’s a major plot point for next time, 10,000 dollars.. and experince. He may of not gotten all the money he was due on this venture, but he learned more valuable skills and he feels with a land like america, the next opportunity to earn some dough is just waiting for him to get back. And as the chapter ends he muses that maybe the country could use a symbol of this countries boundless opportunity...

Final Thoughts for the Raider of the Copper Hill:

This chapter is one of my favorites. It’s nicely paced, something Rosa himself admits was often a struggle as he had to cover years at a time, has a wonderful new mentor for Scrooge, and sets up a lot of the tragedy to come in the last act beautifully. It’s a nice closer for our first act, showing Scrooge has come out of his first trip to america wiser, more experinced and more hopeful, but at heart still the same kind and noble kid he left Glasgow as. The next act is about the change of that boy into a man, how he will finally find his fortune after some more adventures.. and how the last viestges of his kindess and optimisim towards others die at the hands of a certain fake scotish gentleman. 

Next Life And Times: As is tradition for this series act openers, Scrooge returns home.. and just in time to get his castle back, fight a duel and go to heaven and back. So an average McDuck tuesday then. 

If you liked this review follow for more. And if you liked it a lot join my patreon so I can keep making these and hit my stretch goals. Even at just the 2 dollar level you get access to my discord and your pick of shorts whenever I do a series of them and with Goofy and Donald’s birthdays being the next ones to be celebrated you can’t pick a better time. patreon.com/popculturebuffet See you at the next rainbow. 

[bubbyleh]

A Series of Shockingly Close Calls (ch.1)

oh no I fan fic’d a fan fic. I got thinking about soft monster au Boomer moments and it made my brain go bbbbrrrrr so then this happened. I’m woozy as hell because nobody told me that the antacids they were putting me on would make me not able to absorb my thyroid meds so I’m both very hypo, very potsy (cus hypo makes my p.o.t.s. worse) and in withdrawal so there’s no blood in my brain and I’m wacked out which makes me get suuuuuper purple with my prose so sorry for all the “forthright"s and "moreovers”. I’m just a little creature I cannot help this. Written in one sitting and probably a lot of typos and I’m sorry if I accidenally used ‘he’ for bubs in there somewhere I was having trouble with that. Once again, I’m p deep in withdrawal rn so bear with me. Anyway let me know if this is acceptable to put on ao3 as a gift fic to your fic. (yes I do plan on their being more than one chapter. no I make no promises due to aforementioned medical issues)

crocs here! sorry to put this in the middle of your submission, but i thought it’d get lost at the end. this is amazing! fanfic of a fanfic? i love this so much and i’m going to cherish it forever, thank you!

you can post this to ao3, i would be so happy if you did! i hope you feel better soon, i know health problems can be sucks. and don’t worry if you called bubby “he”, i write them using he/they pronouns (i just default to “they” for simplicity). 

also, i hope you don’t mind that i put a read more in! ________

Three months.

  Three months into Harold Coomer’s acquaintanceship with his eccentric and eclectic(in both taste and physical composition) companion was the first time the homunculus had begun to feel, as they’d put it, ‘drained’. 

  Bubby had explained to an enraptured Coomer,on more than one occasion, the nature of their state of reanimation, far different from Coomer’s own. They were a man-made construct of flesh, artfully pieced together from pieces of different corpses, stitched into a singular being and imbued with life by the great and terrible force of the heavens, in the form of lightning. 

  Coomer said it reminded him of Prometheus, sculpting mankind from clay.

  Bubby said it reminded them of a penny dreadful.

They existed in a state between life and death, though not quite undeath, either. Certainly each composite part of them, corpses as they had been, could be considered undead, but Bubby themself was a new creation that came into life for the first time upon the metal slab of their creators laboratory, never having ‘died’ and therefore not being themselves brought back from the dead, but nevertheless composed of reanimated parts.  

  They were sustained not by blood coursing through veins, but rather electricity, which was honestly a boon for Coomer. He was still fairly young, by vampire standards, anyway, and his self control could be…spotty at times, and it was nice to have a companion that he could sit beside and feel no desire to tear their throat out and drain them of their life juices. They could subsist without food or drink if they needed to, as well, which was also helpful, as it was often not possible for either of them to venture into civilization to obtain rations of any kind.

However, there were downsides to Bubby’s condition, as well, which began to make themselves apparent those three months in.

  Bubby’s escape from the lab of their creation was as unplanned as it was unorthodox. The whole thing had apparently been pure chaos from beginning to end, and Bubby didn’t seem to enjoy talking about it very much. Certainly an angry mob was involved, at least some pitchforks and torches, and a massive inferno of less than fully explained origin(‘Fire good,’ Bubby had said with a shrug), the last of which providing a convenient distraction for Bubby to make their escape into the nearby woods, but they hadn’t exactly had ample time to plan or provision their flight. They couldn’t take any of the tools or resources their creator had with them when they fled. They had no idea what they would need, nor any idea of what to expect when they were away from that lab for any extended period of time

  Three months after their escape, it began to become apparent.  

  Coomer noticed long before Bubby said anything, and, in fact, had to more or less force a confession out of them about it. 

  Bubby just began to…slow, the way one does when they’ve gone too long without proper sleep. They began to stumble more often, to take longer to think of words, and such. The difference was very slight, only so drastic as someone who had woken up an hour or so before they’d have liked to that morning, and generally only became noticeable when Bubby was themself tired, but sleep never seemed to completely chase away that fatigue and Coomer worried. 

  He especially worried when Bubby practically panicked at Coomer’s slight inquiry into the subject, insisting far too forcefully that nothing was wrong and changing the subject. Coomer was eventually able to wrestle(both metaphorically and literally) an answer from them.

  Energy of any kind, is finite, and that included the energy that maintained Bubby’s state of ‘half life’. Without supplementing it, it would eventually run out. Bubby’s creator had a huge contraption of wire and steel that Bubby would be attached to via the bolts on their neck. When lightning struck the lightning rod atop the laboratory roof, it would travel down those wires into the bolts and, by extension, Bubby, ‘recharging’ them, as Bubby put it. 

  “Why on Earth didn’t you tell me?” Coomer demanded.

  “Because I didn’t…Because it’s none of your business!” Bubby snapped. “I don’t go snooping into how you get your ‘fix’! When you disappear into a town for the night, I don’t pry into your sudden improvement in pallor. I don’t ask you about the screams!”

  Coomer flinched. It was a low blow and he was immediately inclined to take the bait, but the look in their eyes gave him pause. It was a fearful glint like a trapped animal, lashing out in fear, not anger. 

  He huffed out a small, unnecessary breath and crossed his arms.

  “What is this really about?” he asked, voice calm, but stern. “Why didn’t you…,” his voice wavered, ever so slightly, “Why didn’t you trust me?” 

  The anger in Bubby’s face drained in an instant, falling instead into a look of pain and remorse.

  “No, it’s not like that!” they insisted. “I just…I didn’t…I didn’t want you to think I couldn’t…I didn’t want you to…”

  “To what?”

  Bubby sighed, deflating. They averted their eyes, not meeting Coomer’s gaze. 

  “I didn’t want you to leave me behind,” they admitted at last, voice barely above a whisper. “There’s never been anything else like me before. I don’t know exactly how I work or how to keep myself working. I was afraid if you realized that, if you thought I couldn’t take care of myself, you’d…decide I was too much trouble.”

  Coomer burst out laughing.

  Any meekness to Bubby’s expression vanished in an instant and their bolts sparked with indignation. 

  “Why is it every time I bare my soul to you you laugh?!” they spat.

  Coomer wiped a tear from his eye. 

  “Forgive me, Bubby,” he said. “It just strikes me as so completely preposterous I can’t help but laugh!”

  “That I don’t even know how I can exist?” Bubby snarled. “That I don’t have any idea how this…hodge podge of flesh I call a body can even hold itself together? That I could just stop working one day and have no idea why? You find that ‘preposterous’?” they again cast their eyes to the ground, a mixture of shame and rage on their face.

  Coomer’s expression softened and he stepped towards Bubby to lay a hand gently on their cheek and guide their face up to meet his gaze.

  “That you could think there was anything that would make me want to not be with you,” he said.

  Bubby’s eyes went wide and his bolts sparked again, but with a softer sort of ‘hum’ of energy, rather than the earlier harsh zapping. 

  “You are one of a kind, Bubby,” he went on. “I’ve never even heard of something like you. I didn’t think something like you could even exist. It’s fascinating! You’re fascinating.”

  Bubby’s mouth opened and closed like they wanted to speak, but couldn’t find any words.

  “It’s easy, as an immortal, even one so relatively young as myself, to feel as though the world begins to stagnate.” Coomer continued. “That someday one will reach the point at which existence can yield nothing else but that with which one is already too well acquainted. But you…You’re something entirely new. Something unprecedented. There’s so much to learn from you. About you. I want to… understand you.”

  Coomer dropped his hand from Bubby’s face to their shoulder, this time being the one to avert his gaze.

  “Moreover, I want to…I want to see you experience this world, as new to you as you are to it,” he said. Had he not been long dead, a flush would have probably risen to his cheek. “There’s so much you haven’t seen, haven’t done. I want you to see them, to do them. And moreso, I want to show them to you, give them to you. The way your eyes light up at things I’ve lived in fear someday would hold for me only monotony and makes me feel as though I could never again find them mundane…I want to see that. I want…I want to never stop seeing it.”

  He braved a glance back up at Bubby, who was agape with shock. 

  “Nothing so trivial as a lack of energy could possibly deter me,” he said, voice resolute. “Even if I have to build a tower of steel and wire myself, there’s nothing that would make me leave you. For as long as…as long as you’ll have me.”

  Bubby’s hand clasped onto Coomer’s still resting on their shoulder, holding on like they expected him to disappear if their grip wavered. 

  “Forever!” they said, instantly, then seemed to panic at their own forthrightness. “I mean, for as…for as long as you’ll have me.” 

  Their bolts were crackling with electricity now, sending off small, glowing motes and arcs of energy. 

  Coomer smiled and reached out with his other hand to touch Bubby’s cheek again.

  Many years later, when Coomer would become fully educated on the idea of a ‘circuit’ and the ramifications of completing one by placing one’s hands on either side of what was essentially an openly sparking power source, the resulting occurrence would be an interesting and enlightening memory.

  As it stood in the moment, the resulting electrocution simply caused him to be rendered briefly unconscious and his hair to not lie flat for a week. 

[idiopathicsmile]

Okay, so a number of people have kindly expressed interest in, or at least willingness to look at, my thoughts on Unitarian Universalism, but while I was trying to double-check some facts about its origin story, I fell straight down the rabbit hole of researching one of my all-time favorite spiritual forefathers, a man who is not even famous among the “let’s discuss Unitarians who have been dead for over a century” crowd. Which is really a shame!

You see, my childhood church was founded in the 1840’s by a tiny, angry, nerdy abolitionist weirdo and I love him so much.

Friends, let me tell you a story about a guy named Augustus Conant.

The grandson of a Baptist minister, Augustus was a farmer in Vermont who moved to Illinois in 1836 for that sweet sweet soil. 

When he went to Chicago to grab more farming supplies at the General Store (because that’s what you did in 1830′s Chicago), he started also picking up a newspaper that featured writings from Unitarians. Instantly, he was HOOKED. He already had an interest in theology, although some of his views had always been heretical by Baptist standards. So he read all the Unitarian shit he could get his hands on and he just. Started teaching himself how to write sermons?

A favorite topic was the evils of slavery, something he’d never had to consider until moving west. While riding on a steamboat, Augustus had once witnessed a free black man (with papers and everything) narrowly avoid getting kidnapped by a slave catcher. In addition to being a nightmarishly bad fucking day for the man in question, this incident shaped Augustus’s views for the rest of his life.

Illinois was a free state, of course, but at the time, the majority opinion among its white population was “NOT OUR PROBLEM” or, if really pressed, “STOP FUCKING TALKING ABOUT IT.” One time, there was a big Fourth of July celebration and Augustus used this as an opportunity to preach a fiery anti-slavery sermon that pissed off the townspeople so badly, they ran him out of town.

Anyway, it turned out there was a group of transplanted New Englanders in a muddy farming outpost called Geneva, and maybe they needed a minister? But they were also old-school Unitarians so they were like “WHOA NOW, WE MAY HAVE CONSIDERABLY MORE COWS THAN PEOPLE BUT WE REALLY WOULD PREFER A FELLOW WITH A HARVARD EDUCATION” so naturally, Augustus moved his family to Cambridge and completed a three-year divinity course in a year. Like you do. (This was a guy who literally spent his sick days teaching himself Algebra.) 

(To be clear, that is not a joke. It is a biographical fact about Augustus Conant. Multiple diary entries that just say “Felt unwell. Studied algebra.”)

So he goes back to Geneva, and for a while the congregation is meeting in people’s basements and liquor stores, and then some Unitarians in New England raise the money to build an actual church by like holding a fucking ice cream social or something, and so Augustus and his dad grab their spare carpentry tools and help literally build this church.

(This one right here. The modern day structure includes an extension that was added in 1878 but you get the idea.)

As a public speaker, Augustus did not make a dazzling first impression. He was roughly five feet tall, his preaching style was short on eye contact and heavy on facial ticks, and he was described by his contemporaries as a “quaint” dresser. No, I have no idea what that meant in the 1840’s. Here’s a fashion plate from the era so I guess just picture this except, y’know, way way quainter:

Still, he was a talented writer and by all accounts a kind and genuine person. So for about a decade, he was well-received and folks were willing to tolerate his quirky grudge against the institution of enslaving human beings.

But eventually, in 1857, a bunch of newer congregants were like “HEY MAN, AS MERCHANTS WHO TRADE WITH PLANTATION OWNERS, ALL THIS TALK OF SLAVERY HURTS OUR FEEEEELINGS” and he was all “SORRY, I CAN’T HEAR YOU OVER THE SOUND OF HOW INCREDIBLY COMPLICIT YOU ARE IN THIS BULLSHIT” and so many people left the congregation that he had to promise to either turn things around in six months or resign.

Like, they were gonna force him out of the church he physically helped construct, with his fragile elfin body. They were kicking him out of his own band. So he skipped town for a different Unitarian church, and then when the Civil War broke out in 1861, he volunteered as a chaplain and medic for the Union.

Once, while staying at Camp Lincoln in Elizabethtown, Kentucky, he met a Baptist minister who agreed to let Augustus hold a service in the local Baptist meeting-house. So you’ve got Augustus’s regiment, the Baptist minister and his wife, and a whole bunch of locals who figured they’d catch a guest sermon from the visitor, neat.

And although Kentucky was in the Union, this was kind of a delicate situation because it was also still a slave state, and a lot of white Kentuckians were sympathetic to the Confederacy. In a letter home to his family, Augustus notes that probably most of the people in the room that day supported secession, and besides that, many of them owned slaves—including, by the way, that oh-so-generous minister and his wife. Who were, you know, the only reason Augustus even had this gig in the first place. And we’re talking about a guy who knew that taking a strong stance on this issue can get you chased out of town by an angry mob IN PREWAR ILLINOIS.

So Augustus, keenly reading the situation, decided to stay diplomatic and—no, I’m kidding, obviously he gave a pointed sermon about how he, personally, felt the Civil War should go.

“For once in their lives they had an opportunity to hear a little plain preaching on the subject of slavery,” Augustus later wrote in his letter, “and I had an opportunity to preach without hindrance, or fear of molestation, to slave-holders in a slave State. The good deacon of the church and his wife…were evidently sore alarmed, and a good deal troubled about the effect of the sermon on their succession neighbors, but I hope a little wholesome truth will do them no lasting injury.”

My favorite part is the word “evidently.” Evidently they were alarmed. Like he couldn’t fucking TELL.

Runner-up: “I hope a little wholesome truth will do them no lasting injury” yeah but DO YOU, Augustus? DO YOU REALLY?

People write a lot about his charity, he was popular with kids, and in his letters he seems devoted to his family, but I suspect that Augustus Conant was also a little bit of an asshole.

(I know it’s always iffy to romanticize dead white guys, but fuck. Dude had a point of view.)

So, even among the Union soldiers, a lot of them didn’t really have strong feelings about slavery, and plenty were willing to let slave catchers search the army camps for runaways in exchange for a little bribe money. This, of course, infuriated Augustus, and the story is that he started inviting runaway slaves to hide in his own tent, and if anyone came around trying to investigate this, he would stare that person down like I FUCKING DARE YOU TO CHECK MY TENT, I MOTHERFUCKING DARE YOU until they were so uncomfortable they just kind of shuffled off. I have no idea if this is actually true but if it is, I really want to know just what this petite, unarmed middle-aged man was doing with his face to get results like that.

A lifelong pacifist, Augustus was pretty freaked out by the horrors of war but threw his energy into finding, aiding, and comforting the wounded on the battlefield. In a letter home, he assures his family that, although he’d been briefly captured by the Confederacy, the enemy let him go when they realized he was a chaplain. Since nobody went around aiming for holy men, Augustus figured the only way he’d be getting shot in the war was by accident.

I don’t really know why he thought that image would be comforting to his loved ones, but okay.

(I don’t have any pictures for this part because I don’t feel like googling gory Civil War wound photos. You don’t need to, either. It was bad, we all know, end of story.)

Apparently, sometimes there were visits from wandering hell-and-damnation preachers, who would go around targeting emotionally vulnerable soldiers right before battle. Neat.  Augustus didn’t believe in eternal damnation; he conceived of Hell as the place where you work off your sins before ascending into Heaven, and this kind of shit made him furious. He’d chase off the fire-and-brimstoners whenever he could, and in a letter to his wife, vented about one such speaker: “I hope in the Lord’s good time, He will take her to glory. I am sure I should much prefer that all such sisters should go to glory than come into camp.” 

Which is actually a pretty sick burn for the 19th century.

Reading his letters, you get the sense he found the work of to be fulfilling, although it’s said he had a hard time taking breaks if anyone around him was still suffering, so chances are good he was not resting much. Ultimately what killed him was not a stray bullet but exhaustion. He died of an illness that stemmed, according to his son, from over-exertion of the lungs. I don’t know what you’d call that condition today, or even if it’s really a thing, but Augustus was a fifty-year-old workaholic minister in a war zone, so I can believe that his system gave out.

He left behind his wife, Betsy, and a number of children, including a baby he never got to meet. And also that church he helped found, whose members I hope now felt a little weird about having soft-fired him.

The End

(Hat tip to this book and to this sermon, church photo by meridithb on flickr.)

I loved this story when I was a kid. (There are wildly unsubstantiated rumors that he was using the Geneva church as a stop on the Underground Railroad, about which I actually once wrote a very very bad piece of historical fiction.) And now that I’m an adult, I find myself wondering what to do with it, how to store it in my head. He comes across as the kind historical figure a white liberal would dream into existence, and that seems almost dangerous . 

I think what I’m coming back to, at least tonight, is that we all want to be that eccentric visionary miles ahead of their time, but statistically, most of us are much more likely to be a random member of that congregation in Geneva, who maybe even knew, on some level, that slavery was wrong, but didn’t like thinking about it for too long.

And as much as I like seeing him as a spiritual ancestor, I shouldn’t be “proud,” exactly, because pride implies a personal accomplishment and I was born into this religion, just like I was born into my family and my country. Maybe the most constructive thing to do here, is to try to take inspiration. Not to use his example as a ruler to measure against, since that way lies a paralyzing sense of inadequacy (the Fourth of July incident happened when he was 27! I’m coming up on 30 and have yet to get kicked out of a single town!), but as fuel for humanism. 

When times get hard and the path seems endless, to ask, “What would Augustus Conant do?” And then, I guess, to yell at white northerners about slavery.

[blueyesblackminds]

The current trend in social and mainstream media is not only disturbing but is also filled with attacks against healthy, fit people and support for being "big and body confident" without mention of the health issues associated with being overweight. Are we entering another period in time in which health suddenly becomes looked down upon? For the safety of our children and the longevity of our lives, we better hope not. - Jackie Warner, 'Fit-Shaming' Our Way to Poor Mental Health and Obesity? This is Maria Kang. She created this Facebook post to inspire people to try and live a healthier lifestyle. By no means was she targeting any specific groups or implying that others should live her lifestyle. But the mobs who idealized "big and body confident" have interpreted this as a personal attack, and are 'fit-shaming' her and other athletic individuals in her field. Seriously? The only thing these 'haters' are ironically proving is that Maria Kang (and others like her) are right. If you feel ashamed of your ever-so-glorious bouncing rolls of flesh, it's not her problem---it's your f*cking problem. This excludes people who have medical conditions that prevent them from engaging in physical exercise. But to these "big and body confident" haters: If you can exercise---but refuse to put in the time and effort to do so---that's your excuse. You made the choice to get fat and unhealthy, and now you're attacking others with healthy lifestyle choices so you can mask how miserable and pathetic you really are. I was overweight and unhealthy at one point, and suffered seizures from a diet that consisted of greasy, sweet, and carbohydrate-ridden foods. I made plenty of excuses, going as far as to play the blame game: It's my parents' fault, it's the unfair social standards, it's my mentality, etc. But seeing Maria Kang in shape after having three children? It inspired me to get up off my lazy fat ass, and actually attempt to solve my health issues. Blaming my lifestyle choices on everything else---but myself---certainly didn't do it. Why should people like Maria Kang apologize for making healthier lifestyle choices? Answer: They DON'T. If you choose to be overweight or obese, and expect the world to feel sorry for you, too bad. There's a difference between being plus-size and being fat: You can be a plus-size, and still be healthy; fat is the choice of living in an unhealthy lifestyle. My suggestion to the "big and body confident" haters: Quit f*cking bitching and moaning about others, and f*cking grow up. But you have the time to create counter-posts of your flab in lingerie or with the headline "[Name] has no excuse"? Sure as hell doesn't change the fact that you're still FAT. Honestly, I don't care what your lifestyle is. You can sit on the sofa, and eat as many cookies and waffles as you want. But when you act in a spiteful manner, and refuse to take responsibility for your own well-being, it's NOBODY'S fault but YOURS. Links: +People I Want To Punch in the Throat by Jen Mann (a proud 'chunky monkey,' as Jen puts it) +‘No Excuses’ Mom Gains Weight, Realizes There Actually Are Excuses by Maria Guido +‘What’s Your Excuse?’ Fitness Mom Maria Kang Should be Supported not Shamed by Angelina Bouc +'Fit mom' Maria Kang recreates infamous 'What's your excuse' photo five years later by Michelle Gant +Buff Mom Says Her 'What's Your Excuse?' Post Sparked 'Fit Shaming' by Liz Neporent +Fit Mom Defends Controversial Photo: 'I Never Called You Fat' by Eliza Murphy +'No Excuses Mom' Maria Kang Shares Unedited, 'Unapologetic' Bikini Photo by Julie Mazziotta +Viral 'what's your excuse? Fit Mom' apologizes for 'normalizing unnatural body standards' by Julie Pepitone

[gamerszone2019-blog]

Children of Morta Review

New Post has been published on https://gamerszone.tn/children-of-morta-review/

Children of Morta Review

Children of Morta is a game about family. Mechanically, it’s a satisfying dungeon crawler where you grind through bad guys, level up your characters, and unlock better abilities so that you can face off against a series of increasingly difficult bosses. But really, at its heart, it’s a compelling game about what it means to be a part of a family, and how being surrounded by loved ones can make you a better, stronger person.

The Bergson family, six of whom you’re able to play as, is made up of warriors, mages, and inventors all tasked with holding back the Corruption–which has, at the game’s opening, started to spread across their homeland. Their house sits atop a shrine, and to battle against the evil forces of the demonic Ou they need to travel through portals and conquer dungeons, in order to awaken three spirits that can guard against the Corruption.

It’s a cliched fantasy setup, but Children of Morta makes the most of its tropes by making sure that you’re invested in the Bergsons and their plight. Between runs of the dungeons, you’re treated to cutscenes and vignettes of the family interacting with one another, and you get to know the beats of their lives and what they get up to when they’re not enduring dungeons. You start with two playable characters, family patriarch John and his eldest daughter Linda, but the other four are introduced within the game’s opening half. Seeing them train and grow in cutscenes, and getting a sense of their place within the family, means that you’re already attached to the characters before you get your hands on them.

Gameplay in Children of Morta involves battling your way through hordes of enemies to reach each dungeon’s boss, exploring thoroughly and nabbing as many temporary boosts as you can along the way. Each character has three main abilities they’ll unlock as they level up: a standard attack that can be used continuously, a special attack with a cooldown, and a more defensive ability (although some of these can still do damage). The combat isn’t necessarily super deep, but it’s a lot of fun thanks to some extremely satisfying animation and the strategic possibilities that become available as you level up. Dungeons consist of multiple levels and are generated anew each time you enter, so finding the entrance to the next level will always require some exploration. Occasionally I’d find myself frustrated when the path to the exit ended up being very elaborate, but this also kept the game feeling fresh when some dungeons took a long time to clear.

There’s an imbalance between the number of melee and ranged characters–four melee to two ranged–which is a shame, because playing the ranged characters changes the rhythm of the game significantly by encouraging a slower, more thoughtful playstyle, and only having two of them feels like a missed opportunity. I found that Linda (who uses a bow and arrow) was the character I most often managed to beat bosses with, since so many bosses are primed to punish you for getting too close, and I would have loved to have another option beyond her and Lucy, the family’s youngest daughter.

Each character plays differently, and you’ll no doubt have your favorites. Lucy can shoot a continuous wave of fireballs while standing still, and can be upgraded to withstand three hits without damage; Kevin, the youngest son, can dramatically increase his speed and strength by building up “rage” with continuous knife attacks, but he needs to get very up-close to do so before using his power of invisibility to get out of danger. Some characters are less interesting; for the life of me I can’t figure out how to make Joey, who swings a huge hammer, effective. But it’s still fun trying out a character you haven’t played for a few runs and getting into the groove with each of their distinct rhythms.

You need to switch characters regularly, too, as any member of the family who is used too many times in a row begins to suffer from corruption fatigue, which lowers their overall health until they’re given time to recover. Each member of the family can also unlock new abilities that benefit every other family member as they level up (like higher rates of critical attack or even assists in certain situations), and later abilities in their skill trees can be very useful–I initially dismissed John for being too slow but found his shield and wide swing arc extremely useful later in the game, and was ultimately glad that the game encouraged me to use every character and discover their strengths (in five cases out of six, at least).

The plot’s focus on the family, paired with the tremendous art and beautiful animation, makes it easy to love the Bergsons. Lucy is so full of energy that she’ll jump in the middle of her run animation (which doesn’t interrupt your pathfinding at all but adds personality to her sprite), while eldest son Mark’s Naruto-style run is a perfect complement to his martial arts fighting style. Charming touches like this are everywhere, and they give the characters more personality. You feel those unique traits come through in combat, too; there are few things more satisfying than seeing Kevin shimmer with rage and rip through a huge mob of enemies.

And as with any family gathering, Children of Morta will encourage and then test your patience. It’s a grind-heavy game; it was very rare for me to beat a dungeon on my first shot, as most required that I level up and learn the boss’ attack patterns, which requires storming through the dungeon to get to them a few times. You can get away with running right past most enemy mobs, but to stand a chance against the boss at the end, you want to be armed with powerful buffs, and growing stronger requires farming experience and gold to unlock new abilities and improve your stats.

However, it takes a long time for the grind to start wearing you down. The combat is meaty and intense, and the allure of growing stronger is so compelling that dealing with huge crowds and collecting all the gold they spill can hold your attention for hours. There’s a sharp increase in difficulty right at the end, but I could always identify what had gone right–which fights I’d avoided, which charms I’d made use of, how I’d thought about my character’s relative strengths and weaknesses to the boss–and adjust my strategies accordingly to continue to do well. The grind helped make me a better player, instead of simply acting as a level gate.

There are special buffs that are only active for that session, and you have a much better chance of beating the boss if you go in after thoroughly exploring the dungeon and powering up. There are many different kinds of buff you can unlock, some temporary, some permanent; I found that I did far better against bosses when I went in with a lot of them active. You can find the various items and objects that make you more powerful throughout each dungeon, or buy them from shopkeepers that pop up, and I found myself getting excited whenever I found a good combination. Going up against a boss that has beaten you several times, now armed with a combination that you think will give you an advantage, is a great feeling.

Your dungeon runs are also broken up by numerous subquests that can appear throughout each dungeon, which expand on the game’s lore, introduce new NPCs, and result in significant upgrades or rewards. A few even have major narrative impact–there are a series of quests early on that end with the Bergsons adopting and raising an adorable puppy, for instance. But if one dungeon is really giving you grief, eventually it can feel like the game’s ready for you to move on before you’re ready yourself–you’ll stop getting cutscenes and character vignettes after missions, and you’ll find that you’ve run out of subquests to complete. But then, the feeling of eventually taking down a boss that was troubling you is extremely satisfying, especially knowing that you’re going to get more lovely character moments as you try to beat the next one.

You also have the option of playing the whole game in co-op, and the game balance differs depending on whether you’re alone or not. However, I found myself preferring to stick to solo play–it’s annoying for a friend to talk over cutscenes and the difficulty scaling makes co-op more complicated.

Children of Morta’s fantastic art style and enjoyable storytelling take what would have been an otherwise fun roguelike dungeon-crawler and elevate it a great deal. Taking down enemies and eventually triumphing over bosses is enjoyable, but what kept bringing me back was the connection I felt to the Bergsons, and my sincere desire to help them push back against the Corruption. After all, it’s a lot easier dealing with dungeons full of monsters when you have a family to come home to.

Source : Gamesport

[masterofmunson]

Chase You Down (1)

Mobster!Bucky x Reader

Based off of Chase You Down by RUNAGROUND

Summary: The infamous Brooklyn mob boss, Bucky Barnes, has a tendency of sleeping around and killing people on a short fuse. So what happens when a certain girl catches his eye and turns his already shitty world upside down?

BEFORE YOU READ: this is a semi-oc fic! You can still insert your name into the fic, that’s not changing. However, ‘you’, will have some characteristics that ‘you’ might not actually have in real time. It just fits the story better if I actually describe it instead of leaving holes in the story. Enjoy!

Warnings: swearing, violence

Word Count: 1.7k+

Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

She sticks out like a sore thumb in my joint. Not because this is her first day on the job, but because of her mannerisms. She isn’t from around here, that fact is clear as day. Her fingers tug on the fabric of her standard red, stretch off shoulder, Josephine Fishtail dress that I acquired all the girls to wear when they performed their set. She takes a deep breath before stepping into the light. She noticeably squints and casts her eyes downward, staring at the wooden floor boards that held her up on the stage. She lifts her head up and stares around the room for a brief second.

“Hiya! I’m Chrissy and the boys ‘n I are gonna play Sing, Sing, Sing by our good friend Benny! Enjoy, folks!” she grins, stepping off to the side stage and the curtains fall open. I watch her pick up a well-waxed trumpet and she stands in front of the band and all eyes are on her. She brings her hands up and the drums begin to play.

Music fills the bar and everyone gets to their feet and onto the dance floor. I watch her intensely, completely enamored by her stage presence. She controls the band like a damn colonial. Although she doesn’t fit in when she’s not performing, she’s definitely in her element when she is.

Against the light, I can see a light layer of sweat against her temple and the dress she wore spun whenever she moved. The song ends and she bows before placing her trumpet into her case and hopping off stage towards the bar. She takes the seat next to me and orders a glass of whiskey from the bartender.

“That was one helluva show you put on, Chrissy, if that’s your real name? How long have you been playing?” I ask, completely baiting her. I know it’s not, but I ask anyway. It’s standard protocol for the girls that work for me to have stage names. Although I’m one dangerous man, I do care for people. These girls bring in big money with their performances--and then some--and I need to make sure that they are safe from the sleazy men that creep around the area, preying on women like the one to my left.

“Who’s askin’?” she replies back, turning towards me. Her bright blue eyes shine with mischief and wonder. I have no idea who this woman is, yet she has me in the palm of her hand. Who is she, and most importantly why do I feel drawn to her? I’m James Buchanan Barnes for Christ sake! I’m dangerous and threatening. I like sleeping around. Why is this girl already meddling in my life? She's only said two words to me!

“The Boss of this joint,” I answer, crossing my arms over my chest, staring at her menacingly.

“O-Oh! I’m s-so sorry!” she squeaks in shame. Her eyes widen to the size of boulders and her face pales. “I had no i-idea that you were Mr. Barnes! I-I’m sorry! I'm Y/n.”

“It's alright, Cookie. What brings you to my joint?” I ask.

“Just tryin’a make ends meet. Never thought playin’ tunes could make me money. It's expensive to live here.”

“Are you new in town?”

“Dagnabbit! Is it that obvious?” she asks, blushing furiously. She brings her hands to her face and buries her face in her hands.

“With that kind of wacky slang, it sure is,” I chuckle. “Where are you from?”

“Only the best city in the world! Chicago!”

“You crack me up, Miss. Y/n. Chicago? Really? What a shame,” I tease, winking at her.

She rolls her eyes at me and downs the rest of her whiskey, “Of course you’d say that. Chicagoans and New Yorkers are suppose to hate each other, I suppose? This town might be bigger, but it doesn’t have the food that my city does. The pies and dogs are the greatest legacies on the planet!”

She laughs and glances at the clock. Her eyes widen to the size of saucers and she stumbles off the bar stool and picks up her coat and her instrument case. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Barnes, but I have to go! I promised my friends I’d meet up with them after my shift was over. It was nice to meet you, Mr. Barnes!” she exclaims, scurrying out of my bar.

I flag one of my bodyguards over and I stand up, “Get me a car and follow that girl. I want to know where she’s going.” He nods obediently and disappears.

I followed her to a tiny little house that’s a couple blocks from the bar. It has a brick finish and a tiny little porch. I wait just a few houses down from where she lives and she appears outside her home with two girls, a redhead and a brunette. She changed into a loose fitting sparkly blue dress and her hair is pinned out of her face. She looks stunning and happy. They start to walk down the street in the opposite direction and my bodyguard follows them at a safe distance to Roseland Ballroom. They pay the entrance fee to get inside and disappear. I hop out of the car and nod to the body guard at the door before stepping inside.

The place reeks of sweat and smoke. The music pounds in my ears and I maneuver myself towards the bar. I flag the bartender down and he places my usual drink of choice, Budweiser, in front of me. I thank him and turn my attention towards the dance floor, scanning the scene for the woman who’s captivated my attention. I see her almost immediately. She’s still dancing with her friends, but the men around her are looking at her like she’s their next meal.

A man taps her on the shoulder and she turns around to face him. He speaks and then she answers. She turns her back towards him and returns to dancing with her friends. I can’t help but smirk. She rather dance with her friends than with a man. I watch the man grab her arm, seemingly taking no for an answer, and I hop off the bar stool I’m sitting on, ready to beat the living shit out of him, but she beats me to it.

“Buzz off, asswipe!” she snarls, hooking him straight in the jaw. He stumbles back, completely thrown off by the strength of her punch. He falls to the ground and clutches his jaw. The redhead who she came in with grabs her by the arms.

“Are you okay? Let me see your fist,” the redhead demands soothingly, reaching for her hand.

“Pattie, I’m fine. It’s nothing I can’t handle. I grew up with three older brothers. It’s fine. I’m fine,” Y/n sighs, pulling her arm out of her friends grasp. She runs a hand through her hair and noticeably winces as the pain from the punch creeps up her hand.

“Do you want some ice for that?” I ask over the loud music. She turns on her heels and is caught off guard by my presence. I smirk and push a strand of hair out of my face.

“Mi--Mister Barnes! You own this place too? What a pleasant surprise!” she stutters, scratching at the back of her neck. “Please tell me you didn’t see that.”

“I won’t say anything unless you don’t let me get ice for your hand,” I negotiate with a smirk, causing her face to fall. She sighs and nods, turning to her friends.

“I’ll be right back. This fella is gonna grab me some ice for my knuckles,” she states, turning back towards me and following me into the back where the kitchen is. I open the freezer and pull out a few ice cubes and wrap them in a wash cloth. I grab her hand and place it on her knuckles. She winces for a brief second before relaxing. “Sorry about that scene back there. I have a short fuse when it comes to jerks like him. I blame the Irish in me,” she laughs, blushing at the ground.

“Ah, you’re Irish?” I ask, “Me too.”

“Yeah, my Ma came over when she was sixteen. Met my Pa a couple of years later and the rest is history.”

“What made you leave Chicago?”

“I didn’t want to just be a house-wife. I had my own dreams and ambitions and my brothers and jerk of an ex boyfriend didn’t like that too much. That and I didn’t want to run the family business when it was my turn, so I left. None of ‘em know where I am. It’s better this way. Besides, I’m happier than I’ve been in years. These past couple of months have been nothing short of wonderful. I love New York.”

“Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry,” I apologize.

Her eyes narrow at me and she takes a deep breath, “Enough about me, what about you? Aren't you suppose to be an intimidating mob boss or something? Cos’ if you are, you're not really that scary, or intimidating, no offense, Mr. Barnes.”

I genuinely laugh at her question. She's right. I'm suppose to. I normally am, but those tendencies and mannerisms have seemingly disappeared since I've spoken to her. “None taken. You're right, I am. I dunno what's gotten into me.”

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. Of course I know what's gotten into me. It's the short, blonde and blue-eyed, Chicago native standing in front of me. Lying comes way too damn easy for me. She laughs and I swear I haven't heard anything more beautiful in my entire life. Her smile radiates the dull kitchen and makes my shitty lifestyle seem somewhat bearable.

“Well, Mr. Barnes, whatever’s gotten ‘into you,’ I quite like, so don't stop on my account,” she winks flirtatiously at me, causing my cheeks to flush. “Thanks for the ice. I'll see you at work tomorrow, Mr. Barnes.”

She hops off the counter and tosses the rag into one of the sinks. Her heels click against the tile and I call out to her, causing her to turn around. “You can call me Bucky. All my friends do.”

“Are you saying we're friends, Mr. Barnes?” she asks, raising a brow at me. I know she's teasing me, but I don't care.

“After what just happened, I sure hope so. I'm not nice to just anyone.”

“Well, Bucky, I'm glad I'm not just anyone,” she smirks. “See ya ‘round!”

A/N: AHHHHHH!!!! I couldn’t wait to post this till after QOTW was completed, so now I’m working on these two stories lol! If you want to be tagged, let me know!

PERMANENT TAGLIST: @jessevans @gingerbatchwife @ria132love @aenna-4 @bubblyaschampagne

[fatgirlsguidetodating]

(Not) Like a Queen.

When you blog it becomes part of the crazy entity known as the interwebz pretty much as soon as you press the post button. I know these blogs aren't private so I watch what I write- to some extent- and I don't advertise my name, location, photo etc. but those who blog with the main aim to become famous bloggers (who are only a rung ahead of Instagram famous models and Facebook famous people) do that. They share warts (or in the case of a so-called queen blogger chylmydia) and all stories about their lives. The most prevalent of these would be mummy bloggers. And the most prominent one of them is Queen Constance Hall. Originally I didn't mind her, I liked that she kept it real and admitted that you know what, being a mum isn't a walk in the park, there are hard days and sometimes it gets a bit too much but more so the message that you didn't need to have that perfect body! But then, as she continued, I found myself wanting to give her a good hard slap (after brushing that mop she calls hair!). Because her message about empowering other women, her queens, got lost in her desire to be famous by posting more and more shocking things. And when people disagreed with her her queens would turn on those people with a true mob mentality, tearing them down in defence of their queen. If she had kept her message like it was originally maybe I'd still be a fan. Maybe. But when a woman deletes and blocks you for disagreeing with her (labelling you a troll, bully or hater for the fact you had a different point of view than she did!), sicks her army on you, posts photos that are half naked with things like shorts riding up her vaj or wearing adult nappies that were bought "by mistake" instead of pads- cos they look sooooo alike right?-, posts photos of her on the toilet or having a crap by the side of the road, has her kids running around in soiled nappies down to their ankles practically, publicly shares a photo of her kids with a man playing Santa who she called a pedo, etc- well that's not a queen. It's so far from a queen it's laughable! Here's the thing: SHE chose to put her life out there in the public sphere std's and all, kids and all, way too many half naked selfies and all, all because she wanted to be famous. And when you do that you have to be prepared that not everyone is going to agree with you. Blocking them or having her queen army harass them all over social media isn't the regal way to handle it. Instead she should think about what she posts before thinking about fame and the amount of likes, books sold and newspaper articles she can be in. Instead she should acknowledge not everyone agrees with her and maybe engage in some kind of intellectual debate about it. But she doesn't. She cries about haters and whips her army into a frenzy. Yeah. Not like a queen at all.... P.S Please note I didn't mention anywhere in here anything to do with her body shape or indulged in any body shaming. (Except for her hair.) She really is a feral bogan but I hold myself to a higher standard than that to go after looks. I also hope this makes some sense because I'm beyond exhausted.... Fatgirl.

[republicstandard]

Kipling, Lawless Britain and Legal Jihad

The much maligned British bobby has had a rum deal of late, and I'm afraid it's going to get a lot worse before it gets better, this article included. British society is spiraling into an entirely predictable and polarized future, which has flat-footed the flatfoots (flatfeet?) and their handlers in Whitehall.

To be honest, it is not the street constable at fault- after all, they can only enforce the laws in the manner in which they are trained, not to mention the brutal conflation of relentless migration and slashed funding and staff levels with which they have to suffer under. Even so, it is surprising that so much evidence of the double-standards of law enforcement in the United Kingdom has come to light so swiftly.

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Police at #speakerscorner have just confirmed we are living in a 2 tier policing system it's 1 rule for us and no rules for the religion of peace the United kingdom has fallen https://t.co/gdDtC4NYjH pic.twitter.com/XccKOdx9wZ

— #IAMTOMMY (@TRobinsonOnline) April 2, 2018

This video is a clip of a much longer piece that illustrates the two-tier system in place in the United Kingdom. When the concerned citizen reads the letter of the regulations, the police officers shrug and say it is being looked at higher up. Despite religious gatherings and worship being strictly banned from the park, the police do nothing- because the worshippers are Muslims. This video is nearly a year old, featuring a Kurdish Christian convert from Islam being physically attacked by a mob of Muslims.

Based on the actions of the state lately, it might suggest that Britain is merely following the rules of the great game, despite the public expressing their desire to seriously curtail immigration through the Brexit vote. One might be forgiven for seeing an ulterior motive in the way the negotiations have been handled by a decidedly Europhilic Tory party. It would be a shame, though surprising to none if the UK Power Elites take the line that less EU migration to the UK simply means more space for non-EU workers.

The UN itself demands it.

#Migration is: • inevitable • desirable • necessary this Easter, let’s not forget those who are caught in crises around the world 🌎 pic.twitter.com/e7fT1FE0D1

— IOM - UN Migration (@UNmigration) April 1, 2018

The Britons will simply have to put up with it all though they are suffering their own crisis, right now. Right now this global government is advocating for the demographic replacement of Britons, and no one in power in Britain seems to care. The Tories don't care. Labour definitely doesn't care. Ann-Marie Waters seems to be the only politician to give a damn though her nascent party has barely begun, and holds no seats. Female Genital Mutilation can be openly advocated in the United Kingdom, though the practice has been criminal for years. Not one person has ever been convicted of FGM in the country, and there has been only a single case brought before the court. Ever. I do not think that this will change, despite more people from cultures that circumcise little girls coming into the United Kingdom.

We know for sure that the police will do nothing as despite needing zero complaints to pursue and ultimately convict Mark Meechan of teaching a dog to respond to "Gas the Jews", the South Wales Police are unwilling to consider that advocacy of genital mutilation within their jurisdiction might be worth looking into.

It's just not a priority. The long arm of the law becomes short indeed when there is the possibility of being called a racist- so utterly craven are the British Constabulary today.

We have to stand up for ourselves. No one else will. The Establishment is not our ally. De-facto Sharia law is not our friend #SpeakerCorner #freedom pic.twitter.com/mgaHkoMN1J

— Katie Hopkins (@KTHopkins) April 2, 2018

I invite you to think for a moment what is really going on in this video. How you interpret this video might depend very much on your opinion of Katie Hopkins, the much-derided firebrand who unlike most of her critics, puts her money where her mouth is. She goes to places to see for herself the carnage that is headed our way. For saying that the crowd of Muslims are not her culture or her people, that British people need to stand up for their own culture, she is jostled, insulted, kicked and pushed by a crowd of Muslim men. Not because she is bigoted, or because she is a racist, but because she is right; and I think deep down everyone knows it. This is the reason why Hopkins receives death threats and this is why Hopkins can easily be physically harmed and her attackers will not receive retribution.

"Who can we look to defend us if we can't look to you?" Bob the Builder - a regular at #SpeakersCorner - questions the @metpoliceuk on why they are not enforcing the law for certain individuals despite being presented with video evidence of a crime being committed. pic.twitter.com/NdUDTAErC3

— l u c y b r o w n (@lucyfrown) April 3, 2018

Meanwhile, genuine racism from the followers of the warlord Mohammed goes unpunished and uninvestigated by the Police. Muslims can call a black person "nigger" on camera and there will be no prosecution, no investigation, not even a conversation. Assaults can be carried out on the Kuffar with impunity. Perhaps the policemen are scared of a large group of religious fanatics that they know are better armed than the police themselves.

Speaking of implements of violence, gird yourselves, dear readers, to be startled at the fiendish cache of deadly weapons unearthed by the brave police in Barnet.

Officers from @MPSBarnet were over in @MPSEnfield on #opsceptre found these items in ponders end recreation ground #saferEnfield pic.twitter.com/W5jHd7AVw5

— MPS Barnet (@MPSBarnet) March 20, 2018

Yes, a kitchen knife and some gardening tools have been safely removed from the streets of England. Sleep well, citizens. Don't pay attention to headlines about Pakistani rape gangs or Black youths murdering their way across the capital. It's all a bad dream. The worst you have to worry about is racist tweets and gardening shears. Go back to sleep.

For ages now @WestmonsterUK has been highlighting the ongoing crisis on the streets of London. There has been little outrage. Last night a 17-year-old girl was shot dead, 16-year-old boy was shot & 15-year-old stabbed. This is an emergency. https://t.co/M2GNw0nb01

— Michael Heaver (@Michael_Heaver) April 3, 2018

It appears that we are running out of enough narrative to wrap the truth in. The dream is cracking at the seams, the joins aren't so well papered over in this version of reality. The holes in the plot are too jarring, the suspension of disbelief breaks and we are shot out of the story, dismayed and disillusioned.

All that is left to do is prevent all conversation, make all dissent illegal, and become more Orwellian than ever before- except with Sharia-flavored liberalism as the despot.

You can't say it, so you are discouraged from thinking it. You can't think it, so you are discouraged from seeing it. Restrictions on speech rapidly escalate into an attack on perception itself.

— The Stoic Emperor (@TheStoicEmperor) April 1, 2018

I find myself often thinking of Kipling lately. His words, almost always conveying a story of the British Empire, today are perhaps our most valuable treasure-trove of descriptions about ourselves. Rivaled (and in some way succeeded) only by Orwell himself, who explored the being of us as a people in a different way, Kipling often wrote in patriotic terms.

We may not speak of England; her Flag’s to sell or share. What is the Flag of England? Winds of the World, declare! ~ Rudyard Kipling, The English Flag

The year before Kipling died, in 1935, he spoke at the annual dinner for the Royal Society of St. George, specifically noting on patriotism and "deploring the loss of ancestral virtues." The Spectator of the 10th of May 1935 disagreed strongly. In their view, pacifism and globalism were the future.

The roots of modern pacifism lie far back in the history and character of the British people. They were willing to fight for constitutional liberty because they wanted liberty, and went to prison to establish the right to freedom of thought and expression. In the past, they have willingly granted asylum to aliens on British soil, partly because they believed that freedom of movement and trade were profitable, but partly also because their standards of conduct were based on a conception of the personal rights of every individual as an individual, and not merely as a Briton. Citizenship of the world is a notion which can be more easily entertained by the British than by other people. The conception of citizenship which can be widened out to include the native inhabitants of countries once subject and now becoming increasingly free makes us less insular than we once were, and certainly more ready to respect citizen rights in foreign countries.

If this catalogue of British virtues may seem to savour of complacency, it should be noted that we are endeavouring to name only those virtues which belong to the British brand of patriotism—a brand of patriotism which is peculiar in that it minimizes the warlike elements in love of country, and makes us not, as Mr. Kipling suggests, soft in our championship of peace, but competent to take them lead in spreading the peace idea in the world.

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I do not think Rudyard Kipling would have taken any pleasure at all in being proven correct. I invoke this review of Kipling's perennial correctness to make a point- it is not a new thing that our very identities as Britons has been under assault. The brand of patriotism suggested by The Spectator was and remains a feckless perversion; framed as the sole alternative to the bellicose and imperial patriotism of the Victorian era, it misses the point of Kipling entirely. His patriotism was not the equally false my country right or wrong kind that is so easily twisted by the demagogue. Kipling was in love with his country, but not blinded by it so much that he could not criticize it. I too have learned to love England, and I take my lead in this from Kipling himself. We are lucky to have such a teacher available to us.

We thought we ranked above the chance of ill. Others might fall, not we, for we were wise— Merchants in freedom. So, of our free-will We let our servants drug our strength with lies. The pleasure and the poison had its way On us as on the meanest, till we learned That he who lies will steal, who steals will slay. Neither God’s judgment nor man's heart was turned.

Yet there remains His Mercy—to be sought Through wrath and peril till we cleanse the wrong By that last right which our forefathers claimed When their Law failed them and its stewards were bought. This is our cause. God help us, and make strong Our will to meet Him later, unashamed! Rudyard Kipling, The Covenant. 1914

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[opgamerop]

Angry Anon Pt2

OK you are right, I shouldn't have assumed anything about you. I was wrong, I apologize. about "singling out" - BLM for example, is a response to discriminatory treatment by the justice system and many other institutions. my point was that these labelers you are talking about are a response to how society treats their groups. I understand where you are coming from and you are right, ppl are more than their race/sex/ etc. that is exactly the problem. society treats mexicans(for example) like....like they are lazy and just cross the border to steal stuff. I agree with u. my point is that these groups are mobilizing BECAUSE of the treatment. now onto GITS, the box you were talking about was in SAC aswell, he even adopted a western "folksy" accent. togusa even commented on it. the box was a japanese business man. showing that even your accent can muddy identity - (the reason we all like gits). the reason im angry is because gits acknowledges race. saying it doesn't is making excuses..is making excuses for a very old racist practice in hollywood. they didn't cast an Asian because they didn't think an asian actress could play the major. simple as that. and cuz they think that Asian actresses don't have star power. The excuse ppl like u give for hollywood guarantees the absence of asians in Hollywood. If hollywood continues to snub Asian actors, there will never be a "big name" Asian actress to sell big films like this. This is how certain races are kept unsuccessful. exclusion. oh answer your q on the blonde woman. the gits 1995 movie is animated in a very "realistic" way. the opposite being a show like Mob Psycho100. I don't think blond=white . i think blond = foreign. there are few blond japanese ppl in gits. blond is their goto for foreign. the character design of the woman screams foreign diplomat. like it's supposed to. the scene confirms what i mean. they literally say shes a translator. i dont see how you whitewash defenders keep missing signifiers like this. IN the end, I don't see how you can watch all of gits and understand it's cultural significance, a text that was born in the tech/economic boom after ww2 in japan, but not see the importance of it's historical context when being adapted. It's really a shame many fans think race is this annoying thing that should be ignored by everyone. The major is japanese, why do you need so much for her identity to be erased? if the major was white, don't u think masamune shirow would've made it more obvious? I doubt I have changed your mind OR attitude towards whitewashing as a horrible practice hollywood needs to stop. at the very least, I hope you see that it's a problem that KEEPS nonwhite actors from being successful. Ill hope you reply to the last storm of asks, I've enjoyed reading your take. ur wrong tho :P

Changing an institution is hard. I could care less personally if there were Latino actors or not. I represent myself, I don’t need someone to represent me. Yes you have a point that there are people who call Mexicans some pretty ugly shit, but I don’t really care because I know who I am. Yes the President Trump has said he’s going to target all illegal immigrants but in the end what can I do? All I can do is hope to god I make it through the next 4 years of this administration.

I understand your frustration with the casting of GitS but here’s the thing. It’s a manga. This cry of whitewashing reminds me of the idiots who were upset about Hermione being portrayed as a young black girl. For the love of god, it’s a book and its all left up to interpretation.

Why make a big deal over nothing? Things should have creative freedom. If they remake GitS live action and cast an Asian women, that would be awesome. If they cast a black or latina women, cool that’s great but it’s all left to interpritation. Are you going to shame every person who cosplays Motoko for not being Asian? Are you going to call everything white washing because it doesn’t meet your creative standards?  Granted I say this because I’ve experienced and lived my life differently due to my condition, and not everyone will understand why I won’t call GitS whitewashing and that’s fine. Art should never be restricted or censored to fit the wants of the public. If you want to be the change then prove them wrong and show them who you are. Continue to go auditions and continue to get rejected but the more you persist the more people will notice you for you. Don’t lock your self in a bubble of I’m Asian, I’m Latino, or I’m Black etc, recognize that YOU ARE YOU! Break free from the chains of labels and embrace yourself as a whole. I don’t see race, gender, or sexuality, I see a human being who is an equal to me. 

I’m not implying you are wrong, we all view and understand things differently. We all experience life differently, but invalidating ones opinion makes you just the same as the people who try to invalidate yours. You as a human being have the right to express and openly talk about your opinions, and I won’t deny you that. You see life differently than me but personally I don’t see what you see; I don’t categorize the people around me. We as humans are inherently flawed. We all carry prejudices against one another and I am no exception to that but in the end I acknowledge that there will be continuous conflict because human love categorizing themselves and I can’t change someone’s view of the world. 

I remind you again you are entitled to your opinion. I see where you come from because you present your self clearly. I will say this, I agree that there are some questionable practices Hollywood has carried out but art is art no matter how you feel. I will take try to look at GitS in a different way for sure. Hope you have a good one.