#thoughts-ideas-statements

[ingravinoveritas]

Speaking choices. It shows who a person is to repost the Jesus on the cross scene from GO and the importance of kindness and then spend the entire weekend shitting on a person’s social media posts because you think they didn’t express their love for their spouse enough or reposted something with or without knowing the possible problematic content and a picture you dislike.

Why do you spend your time picking apart someone’s lives? Do you think David Tennant would thank you that you are the breeder of critical content about his wife? That you and the others pick at every little thing searching for secret meanings that their relationship is a sham or abusive. It’s all well and fine to not be a fan of someone, but you do realize you are a creating a bullying atmosphere and encouraging others to judge a person by their social media posts. This is not the kind behavior you claim to want.

There are actual real and immediate problems in this world. The government is kidnapping people and putting them into gulags. A new Joseph Goebbles wants to “cure” autism and speaks about the autistic population in dehumanizing and dangerous language. This woman is not your enemy. She has never hurt you. She has never wronged you. And the fact you cannot help but revel in a completely benign post by being a judgmental, self-important, self-righteous person says more about you than her. The fact you spend your time attacking her than people doing you actually harm is really telling. Even if her social media posts can be awkward at least she’s fighting for social injustices, too.

Again, David Tennant would not thank you for what you are doing. You don’t know him. You don’t know his wife. And the fact that you think you do is really unsettling.

A person is not only who they are from their social media posts. From your posts I would presume you have a erotomania fixation on two actors and attack their spouse and partner because you think they’re unworthy of your fixations. I would think you are an arrogant, self-important individual who craves attention from sycophants. But I know that social media is not who we only are and I know you probably try to do good in this world. I don’t doubt you are someone who capable of kindness, but from what I see on your blog is hypocritical to your post asking for a kinder world. Do better.

Hello, Anon.

I hope this helped you feel better. I can tell that you must have a lot on your mind, to make the choice to put this message in my inbox. To say all of this--well, I suppose not to my face, since we are online and you're anonymous--but directly to me, or at least to the person you think I am.

In point of correction, I did not "spend the entire weekend shitting on someone's social media posts." I barely had time to even be on Tumblr this past weekend because of what I was actually doing.

What I did this weekend was take care of my parents. Not sleep, because my mother, who has Parkinson's, needed my help to get from bed to the bathroom at 4:30 in the morning. Ran around to the point of exhaustion helping my dad, who is still not very mobile because of his fractured ankle, and cooking an entire Easter dinner for the first time ever. All of this while also processing and coping with the emotions of that same day being exactly 20 years to the day my grandmother passed away. My Grandma, who always made every Easter so special.

That is what I did this weekend. And in the tiny moments where I didn't want to either cry or collapse, I posted on Tumblr. And out of the 1,000+ asks in my inbox, I answered two that were right at the top, because they were the easiest to answer. I also received multiple DMs that came in from others who had seen Georgia's posts and had a similar reaction, and there were public posts and comments made by other people hours before I'd even seen what Georgia posted.

The point I'm making here, Anon, is that you know fully well that I am not the only person who saw something wrong in what Georgia posted (particularly the video of the African dancers, which is a hell of a thing to reduce to "possible problematic content"). But you decided to come for me because although I am not your enemy, and I have never wronged you, I am the easiest target. Other people have made it acceptable to hate me. And that somehow means it's okay. In that same vein, how do we describe a bullying atmosphere? Would that be an environment where someone shares their observations based on multiple sources of information and opinions formed gradually over time? Where someone tells people not to blindly agree with anything, to make up their own minds, and speaks out against sending threats or hateful comments directly? Or would it be an environment where someone creates a blog (multiple blogs, even) solely for the sake of attacking someone? Talking about how ugly they are, how worthless their life is? Calling them things like "stupid bitch" and flooding the tags with hateful rhetoric almost every day for the last ten months, while encouraging attacks to where that person had to turn off Anon for almost a year because they were getting so many threats and insults.

That certainly seems a lot like bullying to me.

What's also interesting is that you go on to talk about the bigger things happening in the world and how it's more important to focus on those, a statement that is then contradicted by your subsequent point. By your definition, there should not be a reason to get upset about what RFK Jr. has said because I do not know him. He has never wronged or hurt me. But according to you, I'm only allowed to care if it affects me personally.

What this ultimately means is that someone does not have to (and should not have to) be personally affected to care about how something affects other people. I don't need RFK's behavior or actions to affect me specifically to care about others being potentially hurt by them, and the same thing applies to Georgia and how she treats people. That is where I am coming from, and that is why I care. Because I'm not the most important part of this equation, nor have I ever claimed to be.

(Also, in talking about attacking RFK Jr., perhaps you might have missed that I did exactly that last week, when I gave an interview in Newsweek and spoke out against his abhorrent comments about autistic people. Every facet of my life is dedicated to fighting for autistic people, particularly in the area of sex education and sexual health. Which tells me that you've never actually looked at anything on my blog other than what you needed to create a narrative about me that suited your purposes.)

My final point of contention is this notion of "do better," which I notice is only applied to people you dislike. The fans who have viciously attacked me and others earn a free pass. As does Georgia, whom it seems you expect absolutely nothing from. I fail to comprehend how it's possible that she can set someone up to receive death threats (as happened on Twitter a few years ago), "jokingly" insult her husband over and over, block fans for absolutely no reason at all (including an account that only posts about David's fashion)...and you will not hold her to a single standard. Yet you will come here and tell me to "do better."

Also, I very periodically receive kind comments/Anons from followers of my blog--comments I'm always surprised to get, as I still tend to be more prepared to read something negative than positive. I enjoy reading those comments and they make me happy, and by your definition, that makes me "arrogant" and "self-important" and someone who "craves attention from sycophants"...yet just last week, Georgia reshared hundreds of Insta stories from fans who'd listened to the recent podcasts, almost all of which were telling her how amazing she is, calling her "queen," saying what a great interviewer she is, how she should have her own podcast, etc. How is that different? Do you suppose Georgia shared those because she doesn't crave attention from admirers? Because that doesn't seem to make much sense.

The truth is, Anon, that if you genuinely believed that it's wrong to attack someone you don't know and who has never wronged you, you wouldn't have sent me this message in the first place. Because you would believe that no one deserves to be talked to this way. I believe that no one deserves to be bullied or made to feel worthless, and I have actively spoken against behavior that I've seen from fans to that effect. Hell, I've even defended Georgia on more than one occasion, because I don't have to like someone to think they don't deserve to be treated a certain way.

And if that is how you feel, then it is certainly not apparent from this message, because it seems to me that you think nastiness is just fine as long as it's aimed at someone you don't like.

I'm sure you do good things in this world, Anon. I don't doubt you are capable of kindness. But I have to stop and wonder when the only part of you I'm seeing here is a message full of needless cruelty.

[enjoyvoidblack]

The thing about Gerry being goth is that it makes an incredible amount of sense - not just as a spooky aesthetic, either. I think it has to do with the fact that he spent his entire life seeing and knowing the understructure of a world that is deeply horrifying to live in, especially if you aren't willing (as Mary was) to gamify it or align yourself with it enough to stop caring about the value of human life.

Imagine going to school at age 12, and being given brightly coloured books and told off for staying out too long on recess and pelted with dodgeballs during gym, all the normal middle school stuff - all the while knowing that 1: Everything you see around you is a thin facade for predatory forces of fear that could consume any person at any time, and 2: If you try to tell them they will either not believe you, or have their security and impression of existence irreparably altered and still not be any safer for it. Imagine feeling that misaligned with the reality every other person seems to be experiencing...and then looking in the mirror and seeing the most normal brownish hair, and the same bright clothes as any classmate, and the unassuming face of just anybody you might find on a playground, in a grocery store, anywhere. The face of the unknowing civilian, the face of a kid you never could have been, the face of potential prey.

Wouldn't that be a little bit unbearable? Would the pressure not grow until it claws at the inside of your chest, begging for if not a way to fix it or to tell anyone, at least some way to express how little the world you know matches up with the one you see?

I think, in that case, the alternative to running through the streets gripping random strangers by the shoulders and trying to make them realize just how tenuous and teetering on the edge of senseless terror and agony their existence is, is to go buy a big black coat and some shitty hair dye. Vent enough of the pressure that you can keep the rest to yourself. Find an equilibrium between two worlds that does not feel like a lie or an unacceptable vulnerability. "Goth." That's a thing people know. That's a thing that already exists in the world everyone else still lives in, but it's also a thing that doesn't shy away from morbidity, that copes with the doomed nature of existence by looking it in the eyes and saying Nothing here needs to be permanent to matter. I suspect it was Gerry's way of still interfacing with the world, to not cut himself off completely from the rest of unknowing humanity but to not present as an unbearably normal lie, either.

It just...adds. It's a foundational hint to who Gerry is and how he sees the world, so much more than just a quick visual aesthetic. It's one of my favourite choices re: canon character appearance expressed in the show, right next to Martin being "not the smallest guy".

[gking10]

Rigor Mortis

(CW: Thoughts of death, Insomnia, self-loathing, excessive drinking)

There are only a scant few people in the park and yet everyone is staring at Jon. Everything is staring at him. A million eyes gaze upon him, their irises so hot they bore holes through his flesh and cauterize the wounds. Static scraps against his skull like a rusty scalpel and his stomach, though full, feels empty. So sickeningly empty. Out of an abandoned habit, he reaches into his pocket for a cigarette. There’s nothing there.

Jon feels himself start to sweat. The Ceaseless Watcher screams at him that every single person he walks past knows exactly what he is and they hate him for it. As they rightfully should. He is a monster. And no matter how many times he throws himself into the fire and tries to save others, Jonathan Sims will always be a monster. He isn’t even sure why he came here. He doesn’t want to be here. He shouldn’t be here. He is an ant under a magnifying glass and he is burning. He needs to leave, he needs to run, he needs to-

His eyes lock onto a man. He’s of average build, early thirties, with well-groomed brown hair. His oversized brown suit hangs over his body as he stands next to an empty bench. Despite how dressed he is, the man’s face seems to be in a permanent state of restlessness and exhaustion. The pale-skinned man stares forward, but whether he is staring at something is unclear. Large headphones cling to his head, blaring rock music so loud it can be heard meters away. The man does not sit. He stands, stares off into nothingness, and listens to his music. He intermittently stretches and moves random parts of his body. But his chest does not rise or fall once. His glassy eyes do not blink even once.

The static whispers something. End. The Archivist approaches the man and touches his shoulder. Pulling off his headphones and turning down his music, the man meets the Archivist’s hungry gaze. The man’s voice is unbothered, yet listless. “What is it?”

The Archivist smiles. He feels the millions of eyes, the magnifying glass, move its focus to a new target. He says his well-rehearsed lines, no longer able to tell if the words or simply routine or if he is dutifully praying over a graciously gifted meal. “Hello. I’m Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute. I would like you to give me your statement.” “...Okay.” The man says after a pause. He shows much less apprehension than most do in his situation. “Do you mind if I listen to music while I do, because-” “I would like you to give me your statement.”

The tired man finds himself stepping in front of the bench and taking a seat. His eyes widen and begin to frantically dart around. The ant looks for an exit while the Archivist calmly sits down right next to him, never breaking eye contact. “I- I don’t- Do we really need to sit? I-”

The Archivist grins wide. His teeth are eyes. His mouth is eyes. His face is eyes. He is eyes and now the roaring static is so blissfully quiet because its claws are scratching at someone else’s brain. “Statement of Landen Mond regarding his insomnia. Statement begins.”

“I’ve never been able to sleep consistently. Not in bed, anyway. When I was a kid and my mum would take me somewhere in her car, I would be out like a light. Even if it was just a short drive to school, if she looked in the backseat, she would see me napping. I couldn’t stand the idea of just sitting and waiting. Not even staring out the windows and watching the sprawling cities and hearing the roaring traffic was any relief. I could not stand it. So, I slept. I would lean against the car door, shut my eyes, and drift off so I could be woken up at whatever destination. Then I would rush out the car as fast as possible. 

You would think being able to nod off in a moving vehicle would make it very easy to lie down in a bed and rest, but you would not be more wrong. I would always have some reason to push my bedtime further back. Homework, a book I just had to finish the next chapter of, my belly aching for a snack. Anything and everything was enough. It just always felt like there was more I wanted to do- had to do- and if I dared lie down for even a moment, I would miss it. And I know you’re supposed to allow your body to relax to sleep, get rid of all distractions- I knew even then, I would look up how to sleep better- but I simply couldn’t. Some nights I would rather just stand in my room aimlessly walking in circles than simply lie down and stop moving. As you can imagine, my parents were not thrilled. Got punished for it a lot. Pathetic as it is, I can’t get this one thing out of my head: It was my last year of primary school. I had gotten in trouble a few times that year for being unable to stay awake in class. Believe me, I would have liked to, but my body had other plans. Still, things didn’t get… too bad. But then there was the last day. I had been staying up the night before, so of course karma came and I overslept last night. My mum, at her wits end, decided it just simply wasn’t worth taking me to school that day. I had friends in primary. Best friends I had ever made in my life even. Again, pathetic, I know. Point is, I never even got to say goodbye to them.

Was that a wake up call in any way? Did I get myself together? No. I would try and try but sleep felt simply impossible. My health was absolutely awful. My sleep schedule would almost invert itself every week. I would force myself under my covers, trying to get it back on track. I would tell myself to just calm down and breathe. But then I would overfocus on every single tiny breath I took. I had no idea how to make my body start breathing on its own again, so I would just keep forcing myself out of fear of what would happen if I stopped. When you don’t sleep, every sense cranks itself up to the edge. There’s this dull headache in the back of your skull and you think your brain is failing you. You can’t help but check your heartbeat to make sure it's still there. And even when it is, you can’t help but think that it’s too fast, that its too slow, that you’re going to die, that you are dying. All of the thoughts you have about mortality, about the fact you’ll one day simply cease… There’s no protection from it. You just have to sit in it, let it all swarm you, and hope your body finally sleeps. It’s a nightmare. Worse than any one I’ve ever had. Not that I’ve ever had a nightmare. Or a dream. My sleep is just… nothing.

Before the last few months, I was managing four hours on average. Best I’ve ever done in my whole life. It’s a miracle I don’t fall asleep at work. I just throw myself at it while running on fumes the whole time and it somehow works out… I don’t think I even know how to not just run on fumes. My sleep is always broken. One night, I fall asleep at 2 in the morning and wake up at 6. Other nights, I mercifully manage to turn in at 10 pm, but then I just find myself waking up at 1 or 2 or 3, some treacherous time that blurs between night and morning, and no matter what I do, I can’t get back to sleep. At some point, I just decided I would give in and call it an early day whenever that happens. Some days I take naps in the middle of them. Some days I don’t. Some weekends I completely collapse. Some weekends I don’t. I could not for the life of me find any rule or solution. But at least it was normal.

It stopped being normal six months ago. It was night and I was doing my usual routine of not sleeping. I had at least managed to will myself to lay in the bed without staring at my phone. Instead, I stared up at the ceiling fan above me. I watched the blades spin at maximum speed. I researched urban legends a lot in my youth, especially as a means of escaping sleep. So while I lied there, I couldn’t help but think of the myth of Fan Death: If you don’t know about it, it’s a Korean rumor that if you sleep in a closed room with a running fan, the fan will suck up your oxygen and you’ll die of carbon dioxide poisoning. Technically, it’s about electric fans, not ceiling fans, but that didn’t matter in my tired, racing mind. And then my thoughts began to drift towards another way that ceiling fan could kill me. At any time, a screw could go loose and the whole entire thing could fall on me and crush me. I tried to reason with myself. I was clearly getting worked up over nothing. 

Then I felt it. The horrible stillness. I felt it in my arms. This tingling numbness. It felt like the flesh inside my arms was being pressed and squeezed so tight that there would be nothing but my bones. It didn’t even hurt. It was just so uncomfortable and my arms felt so stiff and hard to move. I didn’t know if I was having a panic attack or sleep paralysis but whatever it was, I couldn’t handle it. I almost jumped out of bed. The feeling quickly left my arms but I didn’t feel any comfort in that fact. I decided that sleeping for now was a bust. I fled to my living room.

My mind was too exhausted for television, but I just needed to do something. Anything to take my mind off of the thoughts. I thought some nighttime gardening would do the trick. I wouldn’t have been the first time. Taking care of my plants has always been therapeutic, in a way. I sometimes joke that they have a more healthy lifestyle than I do. But when I turned towards my snake plants and aloe veras, they were all drooping. Wilting from neglect, even though I had just watered them yesterday. Worse, they were covered in fine layers of dust. It looked like they hadn’t been touched in years. The flowers I keep vased were even worse. Petals were strewn across the floor and the stem was just a black, rotted stick. I stared down at it and felt the dust in my throat. Then I felt the stillness again. In my legs.

I forced myself out the front door. I started wandering the streets. It was a cold night. One where the chill of the wind isn’t completely unbearable, but it still bites at your skin and compels you to keep walking. That’s my favorite temperature. By all means, it should have been a wonderful night for me to simply walk in, but I could not shake off the feeling that something was deeply wrong. Everything was so quiet. None of my neighbors had a single light on in their house, not that I could see. As I walked, I came across a street light in the neighborhood that has always blinked and flickered throughout all the years I’ve lived here. But that night, the light remained completely still, the same as all the others. I don’t know why, but seeing that was what made me shift from feeling uneasy to feeling afraid.

I kept walking until I was in the city. I’ve been in the city late at night. It’s never quiet. It’s always bright and loud and alive. But the only lights that were on were the streetlights that oppressively shined upon the pavement. None of the buildings were open. The buildings weren’t even places. They were just… buildings. I don’t know how to describe it. There were no stores or apartment buildings or houses or libraries or movie theatres, there were just buildings, just monuments of concrete and wood that were impossible to associate with any sign of human life. Cars filled the street, but they didn’t run. They weren’t on. I dared to peak inside a few. Every time, I saw a person sitting in the driver’s seat. But they were asleep. At least, that’s what I hoped they were. I didn’t want to consider the other option. I banged on windows, but no one ever responded. I didn’t even hear the sound of my own fists punching the glass. Everything was dead silent.

I kept walking until I saw a building that was a place. A sign out front with a faint orange glow, like the neon lights were just about to give out. “The Last Stop” were the words, next to an image of a beer bottle. “Open all hours”. I’m not much of a drinker, but at that point I would do anything to not be in that lifeless city. I stepped inside and glanced around. The bar seemed old and run-down, yet the people were all dressed very formally. Tuxedos and suits and dresses. Faint green lighting came down from the ceiling and I couldn’t help but compare the hospital lights. The bar was just as cold inside as the city was outside, and it was just as quiet. The people moved, but they never made a sound. They didn’t speak to each other. They just sat there, staring down at their drinks and occasionally drank, almost with a rhythm. The entire place smelled of what I thought at the time was vinegar. Now, I think it was formaldehyde.

“Welcome, friend”, the bartender said to me in a voice completely devoid of passion. His skin was so pale, like he had never seen the sun. He looked just as formal and the other bargoers, but it looked like a vacuum bag had been poured on top of him. He was covered in dust. Not wanting to be rude and feeling underdressed for whatever this bar was, I decided not to mention it. “What will you be having?” he asked me. I told him I didn’t care. So I sat at the bar and with slow, deliberate motions, he poured me a drink. It looked like normal liquor. It smelled like normal liquor, outside of the pickle-scent that permeated everything in the building. When I drank it, it went down like mud and it tasted even worse. I don’t know why I kept drinking when he offered more cups. Maybe I was just too scared to go back out. So I sat at the bar. He asked me questions. About my aspirations, my career goals, everything I wanted to do in life. And after every question, he would pass me another bottle of that horrible, thick brown liquid, and I would take it and drink it. 

At some point, I lost count of how many I had had. My brain was buzzing. My lips felt numb and all my words were slurred, but I just kept answering questions. Then I tried to drink another, but couldn’t. My arm wouldn’t move. I tried to let go of the cup, but my hand was firmly gripped onto it like the cup was part of my body. I tried to stand up and all the bones in my leg were stone. I was paralyzed. No matter how much I commanded my limbs to move, nothing worked. My vision was blurry. All my thoughts were coated in layers of thick mud and alcohol but it didn’t nothing to dull the terror. All it did was put everything in slow motion. Seconds expanded into multiple minutes. I watched the bartending slowly lean over to me and look at my face, frozen in fright. “It looks like you need some help getting home.”

I tried to scream, but my jaw was wired shut. All I could do was watch as the bartender took ages to get closer to me. My arms and legs were completely numb and I couldn’t even breathe. My muscles were just gone. He put his hand on my shoulder and patted it. “You should sleep this off”, he said. And then he pushed. It took what felt like an hour to hit the ground. An hour of being completely petrified as I felt my body drop to the ground. When I thought I would finally hit the floor behind me, I just kept falling. There was a pit in the ground that hadn’t been there before, and I was landing right into it. With each second it took me to fall, I took notice of just how the hole was dug. The sides of the wall just barely touched me. It was exactly my size.

When my back hit the ground, my body jolted to life. I was instantly sober and my ability to move came back. I ran. I ran until I couldn’t see the bar anymore. Even though the city was now awake and all the other buildings had people going in and out of them and cars were blaring across the road, I kept running. And when I finally got home, I did not stop moving. I did not sit down and I did not dare touch my bed. I’ve been wrong ever since. I don’t get tired any more. Or maybe I’m just always at the same level of exhaustion. My plants don’t bring me comfort anymore. Nothing does. Nothing I do can muster me to feel… anything really. I’ve tried buffets, any movie, video games, music so loud it should rupture my eardrums, beaches, even skydiving, and I can’t muster up anything. Nothing feels new, or different, or good. Even thinking of things I’ve done in the past doesn’t offer any nostalgia or joy. There’s just nothing inside me. Nothing at all. But the worst of it is whenever the stillness comes back. When my hands won’t let go of something or my foot refuses to move and I start worrying that I might never move again. That my body will collapse and I’ll be a motionless nothing for eternity. That’s why I need to keep moving. That’s why I haven’t slept in six months. Why I haven’t even blinked in six months. Because if I close my eyes one more time, they won’t ever open again.”

Landen’s chest rises. And falls. He breathes. Fast. He breathes and breathes, inhaling twice for each exhale. His hands desperately grip the bench he sits on, searching for any form of stability. Tears run down his face. The Archivist drinks it all in with equal disgust and fascination. It is wonderful. It is horrible. He is full and he is a monster. At least, he thinks, this one will not be haunted in his dreams. For the moment Landen dreams is the moment Landen Mond ends. “Statement ends.” The Archivist says, unable to wipe the satisfaction from his face. He gets up from the bench. His work here is done. He does not want to be here any longer. Jon does not want to be here when the guilt fully sets in. “Thank you.”

As Jon leaves, Landen tries to lift himself from the bench. He can’t. His legs are stuck. His arms are stuck. He is a corpse and corpses don’t move. But Landen keeps trying. He chokes on his own tears but he keeps trying to move. Until he manages to stand up, run up to Jon and put a cold dead hand on the man’s shoulder. 

Jon slowly turns around. He looks at his victim Landen. The smoke of Landen’s terror wafts over Jon and makes his lungs feel like they're filled with the worst poison. The ash sticks in Jon’s mouth. He wants to throw up. He wants to throw back up each and every word he wrenched from Landen’s throat and ate. But he can’t. Landen’s grey eyes stare into him. “Do it again.”

Jon tries to back away, but Landen will not let go. “P- pardon?”

“Do. It. Again.”

“No, I-”

The desperation on Landen’s face grows. “I felt it. All of it. Not the quiet dread. The actual fear I felt in the moment. That was the first time I have felt anything in months. Do it again. Please.”

Why is he begging for this? Jon is a monster. Why did Jon want to do this in the first place? Jon is a monster. Why did he think he could feast on the horror of an already dead man and simply leave without consequence? Maybe because that’s what he’s always done as the Archivist. The Fears did not often leave meals unfinished, and many statement givers died after giving their statement. 

Jon does not want to see this any more, despite his nature. “No.”

“You don’t understand!” Landen screams, not knowing that Jon knows far more than Landen ever will. Jon is always the one that knows while others get hurt. “I haven’t seen the sunrise since that night! I can check my phone to see it’s noon, but when I look at the sky? It’s night. It’s a big dark nothing with no stars, just a lifeless empty moon that reminds me that that night has never ended for me. Do you know what that does to a person? For your entire life to be stretched into a single, unescapable moment?” Something Jon snaps. “You’re already dead”, he replies as though it were a simple fact. Because it is.

Landen’s feverish desperation melts into confusion. “What?”

“You- you died. At the age of twelve. There was a car accident. Your mother was the only survivor.”

“I- I don’t remember… No, I would remember a-”

“How old are you?”

“Thirty-two.”

“How many cups did you drink that night?”

“Twenty. H- How… But I don’t…”

While Landen contemplates his stolen life, Jon takes the opportunity to break free from Landen’s grip. Jon turns and he runs. He runs until Landen is out of his sight, even though the man will never truly leave his Sight after giving a statement. But Jon cannot face Landen in-person right now. He just can’t. He can’t even bare to think about it.

Jon does not think about Landen. Jon does not think about what he would do in Landen’s situation. Jon does not think about the fact he already knows the answer. Jon does not think about his coma. Jon does not think about the months he spent as nothing but an observer of nightmares. Jon does not think about how he would rather live than be a motionless repository for dread or motionless corpse. Jon does not think about how he chose to do something.

Jon does not think Georgie. Jon does not think about how it feels Georgie would have preferred Jon to stay dead rather than do something. Jon does not think about the way his friend seemed almost disappointed by the fact he woke up.

Jon is a monster. He needs fear to live. But as long as he lives, he will damn well do something about it. He will move. It doesn’t matter how many coffins Jon has to climb into, how many bullets he has to pull out of people, how many people grow to hate and despise him. It doesn’t even matter if Jon drops dead, really. As long as he can make the world a better place in the process. As long as he can save someone else. Besides, Jon is already dead, in a way.

Jon’s eyes will not shut. They truly can’t any more. And Jonathan Sims will not rest.

[sesamestreep]

“requiem for methuselah” crazy ass episode for many reasons. Kirk is being fully insane, like I don’t actually think, even controlling for how quickly and easily and readily he seems to fall in love with anybody at the slightest encouragement, that he’d go that bonkers for that android woman he just met while everyone on the ship was this close to dying, but that’s neither here nor there, because in the background you’ve got an equally but much more subtly insane episode for Spock, who extremely uncharacteristically admits to experiencing an emotion (or nearly experiencing, whatever) and that emotion is ENVY of all things. And then spends the rest of the episode warning Kirk away from this new love interest (something that doesn’t usually happen, even when Kirk has very inadvisable love interests) and is, in the end, the person who accurately identifies that Rayna’s competing love for Kirk and Flint is ultimately what overwhelms and destroys her with the most killer line in maybe history???

And then to wrap it up we get an equally uncharacteristic sort of denouement scene (TOS loooves to cut an episode off right after the actual climax, leaving little time for falling action or character reflection, or to stick a sitcom-y button on the end where the gang all smiles and laughs at their misadventures and everything resets to zero, which is not a criticism, it’s just the style of that era of tv, honestly) where Kirk is literally miserable over Rayna’s death (again, kind of unusual for a lot of his love interests, he tends to be able to move on pretty quickly) and Spock goes to see him and he falls asleep right in front of Spock (also odd) and then when Bones comes in to give the final word on Flint, Spock waves him off from waking the Captain (tender) and Bones gives him that awful speech about how it’s sadder that Spock can’t even imagine the love Kirk felt for this random android woman than it is that Kirk lost her in the first place (debatable but also rude) and how his great tragedy is that he can’t love at all like they can and how all he wishes is that Kirk could forget about all of this and move on. AND THEN, to have Bones leave and Spock go over to Kirk and very gently, tenderly, reluctantly touch him and put his hand to his forehead and tell him to forget and HAVE THAT BE THE END OF THE EPISODE??? What am I supposed to do with that??

[imeriayapping]

He doesn't know when it starts or even how.

Well if Logan tried to go back to see all the steps that lead him here he should probably start around 2021 when he first opened MotoGP race when there was nothing else to watch.

He was always hungry for more, watching as much different racing as he could, it's just motorcycles are a bit out of his comfort zone so he never gravitated towards opening a stream somewhere to watch.

Of course logan knew about it, about people in it and thought about Rossi the same way he did about Gordon and Hamilton if not for his own experience of watching than at least for how much lando was talking about him. As the Greatest of all.

It takes him a bit to learn all teams, how everything works and some major events but he gets there, fully emerged at that point.

Logan still doesn't watch all that much content of riders bc he's not interested in their personalities besides what they say about bikes but he catches glimpse of how insane it all is anyway and it fascinates him when he compares it to formula scenery where it's so political and everyone is second away from clawing at your throat.

Guys there are wild and don't have pr crafted personalities that they need just to survive. Next season starts, he gets into f2 and watching gets a bit more challenging on some weekends but manageable on most. And nothing would change if not for one bike that his eyes keep going back to and the guy on it that Logan starts watching press conferences forBc firstly bez is amazing and it's interesting to watch him on track. And secondly he's just so..... different, so open and always smiley.

It's fascinating to Logan because it's almost diametrally different from what he himself is. He loves a good hug don't get him wrong but living mostly alone on another continent from your family and all friends doesn't make for a lot of opportunities to express emotions through touches. Sometimes it feels like he can go weeks without meaningful contact. Also Logan can only watch how outgoing and extrovert marco is never even being close to that, sticking with few people that he knew the best.

It somehow transformed into following him on multiple platforms and watching whatever content motogp or his team would put out. It became kinda embarrassing at the point where he could understand a few Italian words from sheer amount of them that he heard before. It was a bit annoying not being able to understand a lot of stuff but he wouldn't prove "dumb American" stereotype by wishing for guy to speak only in English. Plus the way his voice sounded when he actually did talk in English was very cute, so nothing to be sad about.

Logan started wondering if this what admiration for drivers felt like because he never experienced it before always only motivated by his own desire to win not by those he saw on screens. It was pretty tough to rationalize by himself so he went to the most rational person he could think of (and totally not because it was his only friend on the grid,no) - oscar.

It was usual hangout for them only stained by somewhat awkward logan who didn't know how to approach subject until oscar points out his weird behaviour and makes him talk it all out while listening intently. In the end oscar just answered with short but straightforward "sounds more like you catching an internet crush that anything else" which made Logan spat out million protesters a second only stopped by solid hand on his forearm

"Look you should think it all over and if you still not sure I'll go to MotoGP race next month for promo so you can tag along and actually speak to the guy to see how you feel"It took him a while to evaluate everything and actually come to some form of conclusion but looking back oscar wasn't wrong, it's just Logan never catched feelings in similar way so it was confusing. But looking at it now it wasn't even surprising with how mesmerising marco was, resembling the sun whenever he went with his blinding smile and warm attitude. And Logan wanted to reach out to that shine too

But even ignoring all that he asepted Oscar's offer mostly to watch race itself because in person it would be way cooler than through small screen in shitty hotel room. Logan didn't plan on even going close to bez there because mortifying ordeal of confronting a crush that doesn't know you exist is a bit too much for him but it's not like anything ever goes according to his plan.

So this time what gone wrong was bez himself that catched a cute blonde guy laughing with sun rays in corners of his eyes while talking to someone but standing completely on his own otherwise looking a bit uncomfortable in unfamiliar space. And of course marco went to introduce himself because why waste such chance? Especially when his outstretched hand ready for handshake is met with blush and shuttering before he even managed to say anything besides "hi, I'm bez"

[puke-ur-gutz]

i will cashapp $10 to the first person who can name 3 real life harmful things bob bryar did without accusing him of thought crime

[shannonsketches]

Hello, I love reading your DB analyses and headcanons on Vegebul... Was wondering how you imagine Vegeta realized and dealt with his growing deeper feelings of love towards Bulma after the Cell Games? Would he have confessed it outright to her or been more subtle about it?

Hello!! I love yelling about Vegebul, thanks (to you and everyone!) for sending me asks!

I like to think it's been all but unspoken for almost their entire relationship. Bulma's a big romo goober on the surface but she has a lot of trust issues like Vegeta does, and I think for as smart as they both are they both struggle sometimes to put their more fragile feelings into words.

As much as I talk about Goku and Vegeta and their relationships with their wives being foils, I think something they have in common is that their actions have always been much louder and much more meaningful to each other than words.

While I think that Bulma and Vegeta do both appreciate verbal affirmations, I also hc that genuine vulnerable emotion is an easy way to throw them both off their game, and I've always imagined their confessions to be very quiet, if not completely non-verbal.

tldr I think after the Cell Games Vegeta's confession was just Being There for his family and putting in the work to learn what his role is and what his life looks like now and how he can be what his family needs him to be with the options he has. (Saiyans are masters of adaptation, as we know)

In the same vein, one of my favorite things about Bulma's growth as a character is that as a teenager/younger woman she thought the ultimate love was a man who was performative arm candy that she could cart around in public to show off how loved and adored she is, and being with Vegeta seems to have changed that expectation.

My hc is that her needs became more grounded in what was solid and stable and real and her confidence was rebuilt in the shape of someone who didn't really need anything from her, but continued to choose her anyway, and Vegeta's was too. They're both used to positions of strategic leadership and resource acquisition, and expect their value to be limited to how much those positions are required by their peers.

While they both clearly enjoy certain kinds of attention, outside of the occasional performance, Bulma and Vegeta are both very solitary operators. They would do just fine without each other. They're not emotionally dependent on each other. They're not resource-dependent on each other. They could both easily find other physical outlets. They don't need each other at all.

They want to be together. They chose to be together. They keep choosing to be together. They seek each other out, they miss each other, they like each other, as full and complex and weird and annoying and recovering people.

I think that matters a lot more to both of them than anything else, and I think that's been their way of confessing how they feel for a long, long time.

[machiavelli]

All these haters, including Lesyle Headland, make the Jedi bashing even worse because the Jedi are inspired by inspired by Asian culture, aka my people's culture and religion. Buddhism is NOT Catholicism. And to see the Jedi portrayed by an Asian woman in episode 5 get horrifically killed by Darth Annoying Asshole aka Qimir (who is portrayed by an Asian man also), Master Sol portrayed by a Asian man, and there's a Brendok witch who died in episode 7, and portrayed by Amy Tsang, an Asian woman, plus all the awful Jedi hate ("the Jedi are BAD, confirmed" NO THEY AREN'T!!!) just makes me wonder about how Disney, a Western company (run by several racist, ignorant assholes) and Lesyle Headland (thst racist BITCH) makes me really wonder about how white Westerners feel about Asians. My people and their culture deserve better than how white Westerners treated them!!!

you said it all.

I wish she would understand the complexity of your culture, which, as you said, it’s the inspiration behind the jedi order. :/

[seyaryminamoto]

Fiction is really powerful. It has helped me across so many years of anguish and stress over real life matters that only seemed to get worse and worse as time went by.

I admit that, when I started writing Gladiator, there wasn't a single braincell in me that recognized the actual weavings of my personal experiences that I was pouring into that story. It was just a fun story to work on. It was about my favorite ship. I could do whatever I wanted within that space and explore things on my terms.

The longer it went on, the more reality and fiction seemed to blend together. The easier it became to recognize my life's greater villains in the monsters I was creating fictionally.

It may be a melodramatic way to announce that my country has yet again been subjected to an electoral fraud of a scale beyond measure. Where the official count is giving the current president a 51 over 44 lead, the truth is much more likely to be 30 vs. 70, NOT in his favor. He still announced himself the winner. There's no auditing the process because everyone fucking knows they've cheated as cheaply as possible. There's no stopping their frauds because they've already done this a thousand times over and they'll do it a million times again until there's nothing left of the country to sack and destroy with the modern, absolutist dictatorship they've imposed upon us.

What is the connection between this and that? Why... probably the fact that, without my awareness, my chaotic fic became my political power fantasy. Because the characters I write about aren't simply tools at my behest... they're representative of something greater, something that reality continues to deny to me, my family and countless people I love. I went to bed last night with the greatest dread and a spark of hope... woke up after a mere three hours to find the dread had won over, and the hope had been crushed under its heel.

I don't know if my reality will ever change. I don't know if the country I was born to will ever be free. Twenty-five years are not the same as a hundred, sure... but it shouldn't take a hundred. No power should be able to sustain itself on lies, corruption, greed and cruelty for that long. And yet everything in my reality screams that it will happen.

It's so much easier to fight this in fiction. To let your mind wander and imagine outcomes that are profoundly cathartic and blissful instead of the agonizing emptiness that I feel now. I can't sleep again. I can barely eat. I'm terrified of what's coming next. If we fight, the consequences will be as awful as they ever are. If we don't, the same is true. There is no way out. There is no solution. There is no dashing hero with the ability to break the chains of oppresion and change the world. No opening the eyes of the willfully blind supporters of this atrocity: they know what they're supporting. They simply do not give a shit as long as they can pretend they're still winning.

But fiction is a powerful thing.

Think of my work what you will. Think of my efforts to build up a nuanced political conflict what you may. It's speaking of a reality you might be unaware of. Of a pain you're very lucky to never have experienced, if you haven't.

Because, if you have, you long for someone to fix what you know is broken. You long to feel the power to change a reality that refuses to budge. You long to see every corrupt piece of shit thoroughly punished for every misdeed they've inflicted upon you, across the years and years of helplessness.

I don't have the power to do that in real life.

But I can tell stories.

[siliceouspebble]

Bell tower

Statement of Mika Johnson, given 14.06.2011

Statement begins

I haven't always heard the bells. They started a few years ago. Two, maybe three?. I just can't really recall when exactly they started, the bells I mean. I think they got louder over time.

I work in a bar, down in Hackney. So it's always loud and so many different noises, the people speaking, the music, the glasses clanking. So it took me a while to notice. The sound of bells.

It was summer and the bar was packed. At first I thought the new DJ took a liking to underscoring all songs with them. But when I asked him about his choice of adding bells to pop songs he just looked at me like I was joking. He laughed and patted my shoulder like I was kidding, so I joined in. God, that was so awkward. He said bye and left.

And I just stood there at the end of my shift. The people gone, the music turned off, the last load of dishes clean and I still heard them. Ringing in my ear. I checked the sound system. Powered off. I tried pulling the plug, so I really knew it was off. Still bells. I looked around the bar. Did somebody hide a speaker? But no matter where I turned the bells didn't get louder or more quiet. It must be some kind of fancy new tech that can project sound so it always sound the same no matter where in the room you stand.

I had ducked behind the counter rifling through one of the cupboards to see if there was anything hidden there when my coworkers exited the small kitchen. My shift manager asked me what I was doing. Not wanting to mention the bells and be laughed at again, I just said I had been looking for something and laughed it off.

It's better if you're the one that starts laughing at yourself and not join in belatedly.

They eyed me strangely.

The bells got louder. I quickly finished restocking the bar so I could head home.

The bells haven't stopped since. Not when I'm at work. Not at home. Not in the tube or anywhere else. No matter what I do. They don't stop.

It's always bells, just not always the same bells. Sometimes it's a single tiny one tinkling in my ears that I can ignore pretty easily, at other times it's like standing next to a church bell. It deafening. I can't hear people talking to me. Sometimes it's sleigh bells, Christmastime gets annoying really fast since they tend to be more prevalent in December. It's like whatever is tormenting me has a sense of humour.

I tried drowning them out with my headphones or my speakers at home. All that got me were noise complaints from my neighbours and hearing things other than the bells even less.

I unconsciously tried to shake away the very loud ones. A guest at the bar asked me if I had tics.

I stopped shaking my head.

I didn't want anyone to know anything was going on. I just wanted to make it through my days and keep my head down.

But I couldn't ignore the Bells completely

I didn't go to the doctor. I didn't know how to stop them, so why should they. They hadn't known how to help my dad when his already sick liver suddenly got worse and he got jaundice. He was in the hospital for over a month and didn't really do anything as he got sicker and more yellow. Yes he had drunk away his liver and half his brain but he had stopped years ago. There was no reason for him to decompensate now. No infection, no new alcohol, nothing. I begged them to look more thoroughly. For anything that could have been causing this. They said it was against procedure to do any kind of imaging beyond an ultrasound. I finally caused such a stirr when I exploded at the doctor in the hallway that they did decide to do a CT Abdomen. And shocker!! There was something that caused it. A fucking tumor of his billary tract. It was too late for treatment tho. His lab result in Billirubin and all that shit was too bad for chemo and it was too disseminated for surgery. He came home and I slowly watched him die over the next few months.

No doctors couldn't help.

Sorry I got distracted a bit there.

The Bells kept taunting me. Ringing louder when people tried to order things at the bar. I learned to try to read their lips for the different drinks we had but since I made too many mistakes I was told to keep to mixing the drinks when my colleagues passed me a paper with the orders.

I hated this. This was a sign that something was wrong with me. Made it obvious that things were different. But I kept smiling and did as I was told.

I still try to pretend everything is as it used to be. That's what I'm good at. It didn't matter that my dad was getting worse at home, at work I was all business as usual. It didn't matter that I could sometimes barely sleep after my shift with the loud Bells. Business as usual. I'm fine. I was fine. I'm ok. I'm doing well, thank you.

My temper has gotten worse. I'm more prone to snapping. No wonder with the sleep deprivation. But I'm fine.

I tried to google it. The Bells. But all the results were for tinnitus but that didn't really fit. That or auditory hallucinations. But that couldn't be. I have no history of mental health struggles and my family doesn't have a history of it either.

Sure my dad's cousin hung himself. And my mum's aunt killed herself after drowning her kids. But every family has a few odd ones in it.

But I'm healthy. I'm ok. I'm not hallucinating. I'm Not going insane.

I just gotta keep my head down, and do my work.

My coworkers must think I'm so strange. I sometimes catch them looking. They must talk about me behind my back. About how I should have been fired long ago if I can't hear the customers. How strange I sometimes sway with the rhythm of the big Bell in my head.

They never say anything to my face but I know they talk. I can't trust them. They are not my friends and if they knew they'd report and I get thrown out for sure. No I'm better of pretending everything is alright.

I'm fine. I'm ok.

This will pass. I'm sure of it. And until then it doesn't matter that I have to search my flat a few times a week for speakers, because maybe this time I can find them. Maybe.

I'm sure there must be a reason I'm hearing the Bells. Some kind of long time prank. Maybe some kind of supernatural reason? That's why I came here. I know doctors are useless academics that can't see reality if it jumped down their throat but maybe you stuffy bookworms have heard of something similar. Hopefully. I left my phone number and email attached so maybe when you find something you can tell me.

I don't know. But I know I'm not going insane! I can't be.

Statement ends

[enjoyvoidblack]

Something that I don't think I've ever personally seen talked about:

Jon mentions in season 3 that he'd quit smoking for 5 years, prior to the cigarette he went for after hearing the Fears explained by Leitner. It's not hard to assume that the stress makes him start again, and that it continues, since it gets mentioned a couple times more after that. That breaks my heart a bit on its own already.

But the other thing is that the Web tends to play with addiction.

And in Season 1 it gave him a fucking lighter.

[1pcii]

One piece headcanon: Zoro is POSIC+

(POSIC+ : (the) Perception of Object Sentience, Individuality, and Consciousness)

I think his relationship and perception of things like his swords (which he see's as having distinct personalities and consiousness') aswell as his view of the going merry (chapter 327, last page) being just as sentient as usopp and luffy make it so i wouldnt consider it a streatch to interpret his character this way.

(further context) <- seriously check the tags on this out if you want a better explenation its so good.

[chewysgummies]

Reminder that killbot 86 has the cutest fucking eye I've have ever seen🩷🩷

[billysjoel]

Why your replies restricted for your Whiplash post? I wanna give some thoughts.

and im trying to say this in the nicest way possible, but that's what tags are for. replies are only seen by the op of a post and the person you reblog it from. if you have thoughts about something, they're better relegated to the tags or on your own post. i made the gifset bc it's one of my favorite movies of all time, not bc i wanted to invite discourse about it

[gawankeundco]

saw an old interview of manuel neuer where he’s asked why he had to reach behind himself five times during the game and his response was the most precious “because that’s where the ball was” while looking like an absolute puppy – and my first thought was if leon had said that, it’d go down in history as yet another piss battle with the press. and i also think that shows so very well that just because leon states the obvious in interviews doesn’t default every single response to the media as pissy and it’s a shame that there’s no nuance in our perception anymore.

[runebears]

sorry im just thinking about bcs but like. why not add a few smaller scenes of gus interacting with his own men? why does it seem like, in comparison, mike is almost immediately elevated to a higher status than those two in bcs purely because we actually get to see him having normal conversations with gus? like i understand they might not keep the plot moving as well because of the fact obviously if victor is currently doing something it’s because gus told him to etc. but for the most part all of the smaller interactions gus does have with those two ends up being in a somewhat high stress situation where it feels very tense between everyone. and it’s just like damn! is it always like that?? why do those two even care that much about their jobs if their boss is a bit of a dick? etc. i think even an additional scene or two with those guys (either alone or the both of them) talking with gus in a more normal situation could’ve both added a bit more depth into how gus treats his employees (we got a lot with how he treats lyle and co., but not a whole lot with the illegal side of things), how comfortable vic and tyrus feel around him in a calmer setting, and exactly why they both feel the need to be as loyal as they are to the guy.

and also on the other side of this i don't think it'd hurt to maybe elaborate on their pay just a bit..? i'm not saying to randomly put a number out into the atmosphere but i just mean some smaller things like. do they buy nicer things for themselves? what's their housing situation? what's their car situation? are the escalade / yukon their own vehicles or does gus just use those two for business situations? do they use them when they're doing their own stuff off the clock or do they have their own cars? etc. that can also help with understanding their motivations a bit. don't get me wrong i don't think they should be visibly rich or something because that's not what gus would want but just smaller things! cause it's easy to write their loyalty off as Well they probably get paid super well, which i'm sure is true, but if they don't show a single hint of that then what's the point. even something as simple as giving tyrus a nice watch, or maybe victor having a nicer looking gun, etc. something small like that. because as it stands right now the average 41 year old viewer who watched the show once only knows and will only ever know victor and tyrus as those two guys in the background who do random stuff for gus with no clear motivation. just the personification of "On it boss (salute emoji)". and to be honest this is true for a whole lot of fans who do watch the show multiple times and enjoy thinking about it more in depth, because on screen we barely have anything about the two.

and to be clear i'm not trying to say we should have an episode just for them or something like no i understand they're side characters. i understand we don't need all that. and i understand this is also primarily Jimmy's show. but it's not like these two are on the same level as like, arlo or paige and kevin etc. these guys have been around since brba. victor was literally introduced in the same episode gus was. and they are a huge part of gus's story, especially in brba. s4 wouldn't have been what it was without victor and tyrus. and in bcs, ignacio's situation wouldn't have been the same if it weren't for victor and tyrus as well. and i just personally believe that if their goal with gus in bcs was to go back and elaborate on how everything came to be and show what he was like a few years younger, they could've dragged victor and tyrus into that. and i think his character would've benefited from taking that extra step with those two.