#western idiocy

[kelluinox]

Current mood as an anti Russia Russian jew:

- Watching western college kids spout the same propaganda you heard on channel one growing up

- Hearing chants of "Death to America" and seeing the destruction of the American flag and whispering "of course" to yourself because you know exactly where this rhetoric came from and who sponsored it

- Watching the world waste its time on a democratic country fighting back against terrorists instead of paying attention to the real evil in the world like Russia, Iran, or China, because... antisemitism is more entertaining and you guys haven't been allowed to kill jews in a while I guess

- Being frustrated by the protests because nobody exerted this much energy on Ukraine and everybody has already forgotten about Ukraine and it's so painfully obvious that you all just hate jews

- Remembering the time you sat in class and had to listen to your professor say shit like "America is the greatest evil", and "America is committing modern day colonialism through globalization and global market" and then comparing that rhetoric to that of the brainwashed western college kids'

- Being terrified of the upcoming 9th of May because you have no idea what kind of shit your country will pull on the 9th of May

- Being very familiar with Islamic fundamentalism because you live near Chechnya and for as long as you remember you have been witnessing the murder of human rights' activists, attacks on lawyers, and young women and girls trying to escape families who promised to honor kill them, mutilated them or poisoned them with medicine - some successfully crossing the border to Georgia but many more being dragged back to Chechnya from where they were hiding in Moscow and St Petersburg to their deaths

- And then watching the west pretend that there is no extremism or problems because then you will be called a bunch of names and obviously that's very scary 👍

- Realizing you have nowhere to run because the west has been thoroughly infiltrated and is digging itself a grave and hasn't stopped doing so for 8 months now

- Losing friends because they either fell for the propaganda and don't see the danger you see so clearly, or they are too cowardly to call out the mob and lose followers on social media. Even though losing followers will be the least of your fucking problems when you lose your democracy and freedoms

- Being furious 24/7 because more sane people aren't standing up, again afraid of the mob and losing their social media status

- Honestly just expecting to be bombed by now

[charcutieri]

Western bigots are so stupid they genuinely believe that a conservative Islamic country in Africa would register a "male" as "female", raise "him" as a girl for shits and giggles and then send "him" to represent them at the Olympics

[sap-woods]

Can we begin to have a real conversation about the intersection of radical feminism - especially feminist or lesbian separatism - and left-leaning zionism?

Both are ultimately movements that demand space and protection — separatism — from males, from gentiles.

Both make their demands in context of a long and violent history. Both demand an ending to an underlying hatred that has been passed down for generations, yet is currently being revised and erased.

Both face a regressive Western left that views most separatism as "exclusionist" and therefore inherently wrong.

Both women - relabeled as "cis women" - and Jews are viewed as being extra-privileged and an oppressor class (again, revisionism), and thus not entitled to a safe space.

Both terms have been redefined as movements led by an oppressor class (e.g., zionists colonized the middle east, radical feminists are killing transwomen) that revise history and erase the real oppressors.

For both, this has been done to create an oppressor for the group deemed to be oppressed - women for trans-identified men, jews for arabs - obfuscating the real threats and powers at play who are less vulnerable (men, british colonialism).

These leftists also often place all their energy on reinvisioning specifically the most powerful males within that class as somehow the most oppressed or righteous (autogynephile predators, terrorist gunmen) and somehow convince themselves to identify with and find compassion for the very men using an oppressed people (palestinian citizens, gender non-confirming people) to justify their violence.

For both, they've reenvisioned the oppressed in ways that become almost mystical or magical, e.g., "trans people have always been here," (which conflates gender non-conformity with modern trans ideology), revising biblical figures as Palestinians, etc.

For both, these misunderstandings (e.g., zionists are white europeans, terfs are gender essentialist bigots) reflect a deep ignorance of real zionism and real radical feminism, yet are spoken about with an absolute confidence and used as propaganda.

Screaming "fuck terfs/zionism" is used to virtue signal yourself as having the correct politics - often with other slogans that lack actual meaningful opinion (e.g., screaming free Palestine, or trans women are women ad naseum) for the sole purpose of useless political posturing.

For both, consideration that perhaps "radical feminists and/or zionists aren't evil" is viewed as a thought-crime and even as literal violence.

Both are wielded — either by their original term or by nonsensical acronym — as insults or as stand-ins for pure evil (fuck zionists, fuck terfs, etc.).

Both targets—feminists, Jews—are able to see the bigotry—anti-Semitism, misogyny—when these insults are hurled at us by the Western left.

Both face a reality in which the left has regressed so far, that some have sought refuge with right-wing Christians who share none of our values, and cause more damage than they are worth.

Identification with either will de-platform you. To exist in a leftist space, you have to rename your views to discuss them at all.

If you are a radical feminist screaming "fuck zionism" or a leftist zionist screaming "fuck terfs," ask yourself: are you examining the movement you hate with the same intellectual dishonesty that the regressive left shows you?

[daisies-daydreams]

Hi! Can I request of TF141 x Fem! Reader who is cold hearted when going in war but she kind snd smile when helping the civilians and children. Like the tf141 never see Y/n smile after joining the military. And when they see her smile the first time, they felt heart warm and almost cry see Y/n smile as an angel.

Take all the time you want. No need to rush.

Pairing: TF141 x Fem!Reader (Platonic)

Category: Fluff & Angst

Warnings: Suggestive Comments, Blood, Injuries, Swearing, Depictions of Child Labor

Word Count: 1.6k+

A/N: Hi! Thank you so much for your request! (I love your incorrect COD quotes btw, they’re so much fun to read! ☺️).

“Bliz”

That’s what you were known as when you were in the SAS. It was short for “Blizzard”, and that you were. Your taciturn and cold demeanor made other soldiers weary of your presence.

“We call her Blizzard cause ‘Ice Queen’ was just too damn long,” you remember on of your fellow soldiers remarking when he thought you couldn’t hear him. Hopefully, you wouldn’t have to deal with such idiocy now that you’ve been recruited into Task Force 141. When you walked into Captain John Price’s office and he congratulated you on being selected, he seemed a bit put off by your stern attitude.

“Thank you for this opportunity, Captain Price,” you replied, your lips in a straight line. The Captain gave you a small smile.

“We’re on the same team now. Just call me Price,” he said. You stood in place and straighter your shoulders.

“I prefer to call my fellow soldiers and superiors by their rank,” you explained with a flat tone.

Your introduction to the rest of 141 went about the same way.

“Hey there! Name’s Soap. Nice to have a new face on the team!” Soap beamed with an outstretched hand. You eyed him up and down, mouth curved in a frown.

“Thanks,” you muttered as you shifted in place. Soap’s hand twitched slightly as he lowered it to his side. He watched you introduce yourself to Ghost and Gaz before you brushed past them.

“Come on. We have a meeting in five,” you stated. The three men watched you walk towards Price’s office for the newest mission’s pre-briefing. Soap clicked his tongue before walking in the same direction with Ghost and Gaz, your frame already out of sight.

“I thought ‘Blizzard’ was just an exaggeration,” Soap muttered.

“She’s SAS-you know the shite she’s probably seen,” Ghost said. Soap sighed, his shoulders slumping.

“Not every girl’s gonna want to get into your pants, Johnny,” Gaz retorted. Soap scoffed.

“That’s not-“ Ghost and Gaz gave him a knowing, sideways glance. Soap huffed through his nose. “Ah, what do you know? Probably haven’t even held hands with a lass,” Soap waved. Gaz’s nostrils flared but he kept walking. The men rounded the corner and stepped into the office. You were standing at the other side of the room, your arms crossed and brows slightly furrowed. Soap could’ve sworn that he saw you narrow your eyes at him.

“Right. Let’s begin,” Price said. A thick layer of unease settled over the room during the prebriefing. Soap would glance over at you every once in a while. You were like a statue, your eyes glued to the Captain as he explained the ins and outs of the mission.

“Your objective is to infiltrate a weapons manufacturing plant in the town of Nahr. It belongs to one of Al-Qatala’s allies: the Riah Sharquia,” Price explained.

“The Eastern Wind?” you asked.

“Never heard of them,” Ghost added. Price nodded.

“They’ve been operating underground for the past ten years. Just announced themselves publicly about a few weeks ago,” he stated. You nodded, gaze intensely set on the Captain.

“Anyway, back to what I was saying. You are to capture the head of the western plant, Adil Malik, and interrogate him,” he continued. “Best to keep your wits about you: These bastards have the region in an iron grip. They’ve been taking local people and forcing them to assemble their weapons…mostly children,” he continued. Your face twisted into a deep scowl, hands clenched into tight fists. It didn’t go unnoticed by Soap.

“Wheels up at seventeen-hundred tonight,” Price said with a nod. Time flew by quickly and before he knew it, Soap was sitting next to you on the flight. You were sandwiched between him and Ghost, the two imposing men towering over you even as you sat down. Gaz sat nearby along with some other soldiers crowded in the bay. Soap leaned over with a cheeky grin.

“Hey, Bliz,” he smiled. You kept your gaze forward, lips sealed tightly. “What smells like red paint but is blue?” Soap snickered. Ghost rolled his eyes, as if he were one to talk about bad jokes.

“Blue paint,” you replied shortly with a straight face. Soap twisted his lips.

“Yeah that’s…that’s right,” he muttered awkwardly. Some soldiers across from you whispered, only to cease when they realized your icy gaze was locked on them. Soap sighed and leaned back as much as he could.

It was going to be a very long flight.

+++

You pushed through the rickety door, splinters flying across the room.

“BLIZ! YOU BETTER GET YOUR ARSE BACK HERE RIGHT NOW!” Ghost barked. You gasped at the sight before you: a group of children huddled together in the corner of the filthy sweatshop. You heard the lieutenant rush up behind you. His eyes widened when he saw the group of gaunt faces.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he seethed while clenching his fists. You stepped forward and pulled your black mask down, revealing a gentle look on your face. A small lump formed in the lieutenant’s throat as he watched you kneel down on one knee.

“It’s okay. We aren’t going to hurt you,” you cooed softly as you slowly held out your hand. A young boy shuffled forward, hesitantly slipping his hand into yours. You helped him up, causing the other children to mutter to each other.

“GHOST! BLIZ! GET THE FUCK OUT OF THERE!” Gaz suddenly shouted over the coms. “THEY FUCKING RIGGED THE PLACE TO BLOW!” Both of you exchanged glances before looking back at the kids.

“Aitabieni,” you said calmly. Some children anxiously huddled near your side as you rushed them forward. Ghost surveyed the area before motioning to move.

“Soap, are the exits clear?” Ghost asked.

“Aye,” the Scotsman replied.

A sense of relief washed over you as you saw sunlight pour through a crack in the exit door. A sudden shriek pierced through the hallway, causing you to stop in your tracks. The other children ran past you as you whipped your head around. A young girl was crying as she held her bleeding foot, a shard of glass with crimson on it lying nearby.

“BLIZ! DON’T YOU DARE FUCKING STOP!” Ghost bellowed. You sprinted down the hallway, grabbing the child and scooping her into your arms as you rushed outside. Just as you reached the gate, you heard a rancorous crack behind you.

“(Y/N)!” Ghost shouted. You curled yourself over the small one, keeping your arms wrapped around their head. The shockwaves sent you tumbling forward. Rubble flew past you as you did your best to shield her from the blast. You held onto the child tightly as the ringing in your ears continued to bombard you. The smoke and embers were searing hot as they cascaded from what remained of the building. You coughed when the dust finally began to settle.

You looked down in your arms, relieved to see that the child was still breathing. The young girl had her face nuzzled into your chest, hands white-knuckling your shirt as she sobbed. You heard Ghost's muffled shouting as he ran towards you, helping you while Soap took the little girl. You tried to stand, only to fall on the ground. The world was spinning as Ghost picked you up in his arms.

“Make sure they’re safe,” you smiled weakly before your vision suddenly went black.

+++

You gasped as you shot upwards on a hard surface. You groaned as a throbbing pain shot through your skull. A dark haired man stood near you, his lips curving into a smile when he locked eyes with you.

“She’s awake!” he sang, his voice slightly muffled. You grunted as you tried to sit up, only to fall back down on the scratchy mat.

“Easy there, Bliz,” Soap said as he came to kneel by your side. You blinked a few times, your vision becoming less blurred.

“Where…what?” your voice croaked. Ghost and Gaz stood in the corner, their attention quickly shifting from their conversation over to you. All of you were in a small room, a lamp dimly lighting up the space. You trailed your fingers over your head, feeling at the blood-soaked bandages.

“You took quite the spill out there,” Soap said. He tilted his head towards the man who was preoccupied with preparing some medicine. “Doctor Kaan said he wasn’t too keen to taking in outsiders-but since you saved his wee lass, he made an exception,” the soldier beamed. A small face suddenly appeared behind the unknown man. Your eyes widened when you realized it was the young girl you had rescued from the hallway. She smiled sheepishly as the man turned and patted her head. He swiveled back to look at you, a wide smile on his face and tears in his eyes.

“Thanks to you, my little Emel has come back to me,” he choked. The girl tugged on his shirt. He chuckled as he brought her into his arms, kissing her forehead gently. The doctor stepped closer, holding your hand and shaking it. “Thank you, thank you,” he sobbed repeatedly. Your cheeks tinted with pink as the corners of your mouth finally curved into a complete smile. Soap felt his heart flutter as he stared at your soft, angelic face. Even the corners of Ghost’s eyes crinkled, and Gaz couldn’t help but crack a small grin. Your face truly shined like the sun when you smiled.

“Anything for the little ones,” you beamed.

+++

Epilogue

Soap watched you with a bright smile as you kicked the football back to a group of kids. They giggled and went on with their game. The empty streets before were starting to bustle back to life. Ghost and Gaz were…busy at the moment. Soap strode over to where you were seated. Your peaceful expression shifted into a slight frown.

“What is it, Sergeant MacTavish?” you asked bluntly. His shoulders bounced as he slid next to you.

“You know you can just call me Soap, right?” he nudged your arm. You rolled your eyes, only to flinch when the ball came flying towards you. Soap reached his hands out, catching it just inches from your face. You blinked as he chuckled and threw it back to the kids.

“How’d you do that?” you asked. He looked at you with a glint in his eye.

“I might have a tad bit of practice,” Soap hummed. You gave him an unreadable expression before turning back to the game.

“Thank you…Soap,” you murmured while looking forward. He grinned.

“Anytime, bonnie”.

————

Thank you for reading! ❤️

@silverwolf-108

[wizardbracket]

Round 3: Match 7 of 16

Why they deserve to be the ultimate wizard according to YOU:

Gandalf:

Vanquished (so far): Saruman, Tom Bombadil

"Big naturals"

“No other wizards shall pass him”

“Codified the wizard trope in modern western literature. You've read LotR. You know this."

“Its Gandalf"

Howl:

Vanquished (so far): Hughie, Moraine

“The DRAMA. the absolute IDIOCY. the fact that he's just a welsh postdoc who just went to another world and did tax evasion”

“*pointing accusingly* this man made me understand genderenvy”

“He's the perfect balance between pathetic man and scarily powerful wizard. When he accidentally colors his hair a shade he doesn't like he gets so upset because he isn't "beautiful" anymore and sees no reason to live, and it leads to him summoning the souls of the dead. He's sweet, cruel, mysterious and hot as hell!”

[sethshead]

Annual reminder that Jesus was not Palestinian and that Palestine as legally defined region did not exist at that time, nor did the Palestinian nation. This is empirically documented fact. Jesus was born a Jew and died a Jew in Roman Judea. If “Palestine” was used in some Greek texts to describe the region it was because of the Philistines (who aren’t Arab in origin) having lived here once. I’m now hearing people saying Christianity is Palestinian in origin. This is also sheer idiocy. Even if we allow for the fact that Jesus isn’t the progenitor of Christianity (again he died a Jew, his followers were all Jewish and they defined themselves as a sect of Judaism, not a new religion) and attribute the foundation to Paul and people of his generation, which I would say is true. Paul was born a Jew in Roman Judea and died 70 years before the region was renamed Palestine. Jesus and the founding of Christianity has everything to do with the Jews and zero to do with Palestine and Palestinians. And it goes without saying they have nothing to do with Arabs and Islam, except insofar as Islam tells it story with Jesus (and for that matter Judaism) being part of its origin story, which did not happen until the 600s. I will also point out that those western activists (historically clueless) who are making this claim are actually doing a great disservice to the Palestinian people. Why? Because they are inventing ancient Palestinian history that is easily refutable by fact, as I have just done. Given how easy it is to undermine such claims, when people who don’t know much about the region (but joined the river to the sea crowd because that’s what the cool kids do) learn the truth they will become skeptical about other claims made by Palestinians, some of which are true, some of which deserve acknowledgment. But the American left doesn’t care. They don’t actually care about the Palestinians. They are driven by Jew-hatred, and Zionism is the most convenient demon in their social justice arsenal. They will never help free Palestine. But what they will continue to do is endanger diaspora Jewry, which is their goal, or at least a means to their end. Such was also the case with the Arab regimes who opposed a Jewish state from the very beginning. They weren’t advocating for Palestinians, they were advocating for non Jewish state anywhere min the region. The left has constructed a binary opposition that undergirds their theology that pits the evil oppressive (((Zionists))) against the eternally oppressed Palestinians. Their construct is false, an eschatological theology and nothing else, with both “Zionists” and “Palestinians” being little more than constructs they have thrown together to advance their revolutionary (and profoundly anti-Western) agenda. But if they want to claim Palestinians as the progenitors of Christianity then, well, let me point out, that “Christianity” persecuted the Jews severely at least until the early modern era and in some parts of Europe far beyond that time, culminating in The Holocaust. So sure, you want to claim Jesus for Palestine, then you also acquire all the baggage that comes with him.

-- Jarrod Tanny

It’s all just another form of supersession.

[cbs-scorpion-coffee-shop]

Let's put this idiocy to bed.

The entire excuse of Zionism rests on the mere notion that every single person in the kingdoms of Judah and Israel was killed/kicked out of the land when really that only happened to a small percentage of them.

The rest were enslaved, persecuted and forced to renounce Judaism because the colonisers at the time worshiped idols and forced everyone to do the same thing. But most of them remained on the land.

Coloniser after coloniser came to the land, but they were never successful in wiping out the people or making them leave. Because most attempts at colonization actually fail in the end. England is the best example of that.

The chain ended in the Roman empire being kicked out.

The people of the land were free to choose their religion, so some chose Islam, some Christianity and some Judaism.

As for Arabs "colonizing" the land?

Well, Arabic, Hibru, Serialic and Aramaic languages are all part of a language tree called "The Semitic languages" hence semitism.

The people of the land weren't "colonised" by Arabs.

They became Arabs themselves, much like most Arabs including my country, and much like most of the European languages being derived of the Latin language.

It was simply the next language in the family tree and it is the language of the Qur'an.

If the colonisers of today were actually of the land, they would have mass-migrated and lived in the Palestine that welcomed them and it would be the end of the story.

Israel is a western colonial project. Israelis are thieves and killers.

From the river to the sea, Palestine will be free.

End of story.

[qqueenofhades]

https://www.theatlantic.com/international/archive/2024/02/white-house-israel-gaza-palestinian-state/677554/

i think this is a pretty decent article in general, but this is a passage i particularly want to highlight:

"The U.S. can’t force Israel to do anything it regards as anathema to its interests. All Washington can do is lay down its own markers, including open recognition of a Palestinian state and a clear warning to Israel that its rejectionism will do significant damage to bilateral relations. The bear hug of support that Biden has provided for Israel over Gaza, at times with no international backing, cannot be gratis. The U.S. has a right, indeed a responsibility, to demand Israeli cooperation on this indispensable priority. Failing that, Washington will have to reevaluate the merits of America’s special relationship with Israel.

That is unlikely to happen before the U.S. election. But Biden might be more willing to apply the full weight of American influence on Israel if he wins a second term. Historically, second-term presidents—freed from the domestic political constraints of seeking reelection—tend to take on such issues with more determination. And if Biden really believes that U.S. interests—and ultimately Israel’s future—rest on the creation of a Palestinian state and normalization with Saudi Arabia, he could act decisively."

like i can't see any scenario where Biden's re-election would make the current situation worse! idk why it's so hard for some people to get!

I mean... yeah. I literally said the other day that Biden would be much more likely to go MORE left in a second term, because he's always gone more left when he's been pushed before, he wouldn't have to face the general electorate again, and because he's already in such a precarious position right before the election (which again, NETANYAHU KNOWS and is using to his advantage in attempting to get Trump back in). There's also the fact that literally nothing, no cause whatsoever for anyone anywhere, would be helped by Trump being elected instead. But that's apparently "baseless fearmongering" for Online Leftists who resent it when reality intrudes on their glorious revolution fantasies and/or anyone points out the basic real-world consequences of their rhetoric, so...

We've already seen that Biden can be successfully pressured, in four short months, to make drastic changes to decades of long-standing US/Israeli policy. There's no reason except sheer brainrot and terminally online idiocy to think that re-electing him will make the current situation worse (and on the other hand, as noted, many reasons to think that now he will be able to act more forcefully and without the worries of being sabotaged in an election year). Yet for the Schrodinger's Imperialists who think all Western and American influence is Always Bad, but Acktually Good when it relies on being used as magical thinking to instantly solve major global/geopolitical crises with literal millennia of roots and sources, this is just really hard, I guess. GENOCIDE JOE. There, that's easier.

[pennyserenade]

YOU CAN(T) ALWAYS GET WHAT YOU WANT

pairing: dieter bravo x you, dieter bravo x ex-actress!reader rating: explicit (oral sex (female receiving), fingering, pinv, unprotected sex, light dirty talk (not degrading), references to previous sexual encounters, mentions of rough sex) tags: angst, hurt/comfort, talk of drugs (weed), drug usage (weed), dieter & reader are a little toxic - i cannot lie, talk of parents  word count: 4.8k+ summary: your relationship with dieter (albeit the very loose definition of the term) has finally landed you in the tabloids. he attempts to make it up to you  a/n: unbeta’d. i don’t know what possess me when i write dieter but its very real and active right now lol. if you want to get updates on whenever i write, follow @belovedinfidels​

The weight of knowledge wears you thin.

Dieter is a tabloid on page six, the embodiment of Hollywood idiocy sided up against a woman far too young for him. Half his age? the byline reads and the bitter laugh you let out earns you a concerned glance from the old lady in front of you. In his madness, he takes you with him, right there in the middle of the grocery store. You pay eight dollars to read the shit all week, like the spurred lover you can’t claim to be.

Your devotion is too incredible, but that’s the way you are. A strange concoction of bitter and sweet. You’ve never forgotten a wrong-doing and you choke what you love with sheer force of your eagerness. Dieter doesn’t know what he wants and yet he commits himself anyway. Which is why, usually, he is good for you. His touches are seldom chaste and his presence is hardly long-term. If you think you love him, he will disappear and you will remember that you don’t–or rather, that you can’t. It’s a convenience until he makes you remember you aren’t the only thing he occupies himself with in his spare time. Then it is a dull ache in your soul and a reminder of everything you don’t have.

In anger, you fuck a stranger on Tuesday. It’s a reckless moment that is the exception, not the rule, but it feels good. Your body isn’t past expiration, you learn, not an ugly thing. It is older than the girl Dieter was with in that paper, sure, but this stranger is so attentive to it. It responds in all the right ways. You are healthy, you are wanted. There is hope for you yet.

On Thursday, half guilty for no good reason, you tell Dieter congratulations on his new television show. You watched it. You liked it. You can’t help but confess it. He calls you after and you don’t answer, still full of some random man’s want. He doesn’t text you back but he hearts the message to show you he’s really seen it.

By Friday night, he’s got you bent over his kitchen table, his body strong, masculine and warm above your own. Whoever that girl was, she isn’t anymore. He doesn’t tell you this, but you know it to be true, for he is Dieter, and Dieter is consistent in his inconsistency.

He fucks into you with ferocity and you know he is trying to amend for some of his sins. The slick, obscene sound of his cock filling you, the way he presses into your shoulder, pinning you forward into the cold, hard table, the soft, guttural moans that he empties into the air—it is a form of devotion, albeit a slightly demented version of it.

It might be a little twisted, what the two of you share. It’s not love and it’s not necessarily friendship, but it is something akin to the ritual of opening one’s palm and sharing blood with another in a fit of childlike devotion. Forever, it yells with violence, but at the end of the day it merely remains a mess only on the surface. You wonder when you will grow out of it and start doing reasonable things.

When he easies out of you, he rewards you for your loyalty and asks if you’d like to watch an old movie – maybe even get high with him. The movie is an old western and the gunslinger dies in the end. The weed makes you tired.

When you wake the next morning, LA sunlight peeking through the blinds, you’re in his bed. His body is turned in the other direction and a lone pillow separates the space between you. You smile at the way this thoughtless man thinks. All your anger dissipates and he is right for you, all over again. —

On Sunday, you’re the tabloid story.

Finally, you’ve been caught in the act. A sneaky camera in the bushes, that lone photographer with a hungry belly and nothing better to do than explode your life. Half of twitter regals you with hate messages and the other half spouts encouragement. People discover you, search the depths of your online existence and find out more than you would like about everything you used to be.

By Monday morning he’s calling you.

“I’m sorry,” comes his hushed, apologetic tone, “I tried to do something about it but you know how those things are.”

You can’t believe this is the first time you’ve ever been caught. Dieter has been your… your whatever since you stretched your acting muscles briefly in 2012. It was that shitty little pilot that didn’t even make it to cable, but you got him, that up and coming actor with an extensive background in theater. You’ve become several different people since then, changing occupations like clothes, and now you sit halfway between writer and unemployed. It’s okay, though. You have money. Once upon a time you were famous too; a child actor who worked too much and didn’t understand what was real and what wasn’t for far too long. Your mother was kind enough not to exhaust your funds. You think instinctively she knew someday you would be this way.

You shrug, coming to. “It’s okay,” you mutter, trying not to think of all the mean things you’ve read. “Hell,” you joke, “Maybe they’ll finally do that revival now. I’m famous again, so why not?”

He laughs too, so easy. “I’m glad you’re taking this okay. I thought you’d never talk to me again.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“I know but still. It’s shitty and you don’t deserve shitty. One day you’ll wise up to it.”

Betrayal curls up inside of you, makes a newfound home. All the unspoken things between you, and he must bring up this today: the way you do this to yourself. “Not all of us can readily admit to the things we know, can we?” you say evenly. “Listen, Bravo, I’ve got to go respond to some of your fans on twitter now, if you don’t mind. They’re asking for your dick pics.”

You hear his laugh. “Oh, knock yourself out. What’s mine is yours or whatever.”

“I don’t feel similarly, just in case you get the same kind of messages this week.” He doesn’t respond, and you furrow your eyebrows, letting your smile drop. “Dieter?”

“I know what they’re saying—“ he pauses, weighing out his words. “I know they’re not all being kind to you. I’ve seen it, and I’m sorry. Really. If I could do something about it, I would. I’ve been trying,” he repeats, sounding far too exasperated for your liking.

You pick the phone off the counter and turn it off the speaker. No one lives here but you, but some things don’t feel like they should be put out in the open air. “It’s just a photo,” you tell him evenly. “I’ve been in this business longer than you. I know how to handle this.”

“I just don’t want you to think you shouldn’t see me anymore. We can be more careful.”

“Where are you?”

“Wherever you’d like me to be.”

You snort. “God, nowhere near me with a line like that.”

“Oh sorry. I forgot you’re not into that sentimentality bullshit.”

You smile, liking the way his voice has turned from sober to playful in a matter of seconds. “Here I’ve been, thinking you’ve got my number. If you don’t know by now what gets me going—”

“—a good fuck, a single cigarette on a bad day or a drunken night, and most photos of Fiona Apple.”

“Well done, Bravo.”

“Can I come over?”

“Sure, but you better make a couple of wrong left turns on the way here for safe measures. Hate for you to get caught with the same woman twice in one week.”

“Oh ha, ha,” he says deadpan. “Unlock your door. I’m outside already.”

—

The public expects you to break. They always have. As you hand Dieter the badly rolled joint, you think about how pleased they’d be to know this is how you spend your time. The little girl wonder grew up just as fucked as they expected, from pigtails to ill suited relationships and drugs during the week. That’s how they’d see it, anyway. You think it’s a little more nuanced than that, but the public hasn’t ever been particularly good at leaving room for it in their judgments.

Dieter sits on the ground between your thighs, his back to your stomach. Your fingers weave their way through his thick, slightly curly hair, catching every now and then on a stray knot. “Fuck,” he mutters when you land on a clump near his ear. You grin, coltish. “Let me cut it,” you tell him.

“I have a girl,” he says as an answer.

You wrap yourself around him, your face on his back. “Always do,” you tease, humming softly.

He covers your arms, allowing you to envelope him. “I’m getting the vibe that you’ve grown a tad bit possessive of me.” You scoff, loosening your grip. He clinches down, trapping you. “I’m like that with you, too,” he adds.

You hear the confession racket through his body, your ear pressing to some part of his rib, and yet you are the one who feels transparent. “That’s fucked up,” you answer simply, unable to find the right words in this state. He’s always too coherent for you when you smoke weed together. It’s better when you just fuck; it’s a language you communicate best in, even when perfectly sober.

“It is fucked up,” he says, setting the joint down on the ashtray. He blows out a cloud of smoke and runs his thumb affectionately over one of your forearms. “And I think in a fucked up way, you enjoy it. I do. I don’t know why — probably something therapy could sort out.” He laughs, though it sounds a bit hollow. “I mean, it makes me miserable. I know when you’re with someone else. I can just feel it. It’s in the way you text me—or the way you don’t text me, actually. You grow so distant and I think ‘This is it. She’s a smart girl, and you’ve done it this time.’ And then, like with Friday, you come back and you let me have my way with you and it’s awful and it’s nasty and yet…” He clicks his tongue, hesitating. “It’s great. I want you so bad I’m…I don’t know. Overcome with it. All the misery leaves my body and it’s just me and you, and it doesn’t feel nasty or degrading, does it? I don’t mean for it to. I just…It feels like I’m on the edge of the rest of my life when I’m with you like that. I want to tear you apart and I want you to tear me apart and then I want to put us together again, just to show you it can be done. And it’s always done, isn’t it? I leave you feeling whole again, like I’ve just righted this terrible wrong.”

“Dieter,” you manage, voice heavy. “You’re a secret romantic.”

“That’s the most fucked up part about it,” he says poignantly. “I think a lot of screwed up people do a lot of the screwed up shit they do in pursuit of love, and yet they can never quite allow themselves to have it. I’d love to stay put but it makes me itch. I don’t know why.”

“Were you parents fucked up?” You lean back. He lets you this time, but he moves back with you, laying his head on your chest.

“Sure,” he responds. “They fought all the time, but most people did back then. I knew they loved each other, though. They liked to dance and they always used to have these lively conversations about everything. They were serious people, to the point that it was almost unserious.

“My mother, she was educated and my father loved to read and watch movies and talk, and I think she fell in love with him because of it, despite the fact he came from a more…less wealthy background than she did. They begged her, her family, to get a prenup but she never even married him, you know? They didn’t care. They just lived together and they were perfectly content with it.”

You stare up at the ceiling, listening. “Why do you say it like it’s over? What happened?”

“I am?” he asks. “I guess I’m talking in past tense, ‘cause that’s where I existed with them, in the past. I don’t speak to them much anymore, not because I don’t want to, but just because life got busy. They’re still together. Probably fighting or having a conversation about something trivial and unimportant right now.” He smiles, filled with fondness and nostalgia. “What were your parents like?”

“I don’t know. I’ve tried to remember, and I’ve tried to piece it together from what I have, but I can’t. I don’t think I ever could.” You close your eyes. “They love me immensely and they love each other immensely, but things happen. Good and bad things. I’m just their kid.” You shrug. “I feel like a terrible person a lot of the time because of it. Like, what did my mother want from life? Surely it wasn’t me. This. She must’ve wanted something and I’ll never know it.”

“Did she want to be an actress?” he asks curiously.

“No,” you say softly. “She wasn’t the projecting type. I wanted to be an actress. I loved it. She just put me in the theater to keep me busy during the summer and I took off. She encouraged me. She was and is the encouraging type.”

“And your dad?”

“He’s…well he’s there when he’s there and isn’t when he isn’t. I love him and I wonder about him and I feel like I know him more than myself. But I also feel like he’s a perfect stranger.”

“Hm,” Dieter surmises.

“I don’t have daddy issues,” you add. This makes him laugh and you feel it vibrate through you too. It’s so comforting, warm.

“I wouldn’t tell you that,” he says.

“I didn’t even want you to think about it. It's a cheap analysis that men have been pining on women for years. I’d sooner admit to fucking up myself. I mean, I’m sure he didn’t help me any but he didn’t do all the work. I’ve had directors more involved.” You crunch up your nose, remembering. “One of them hated me because of my mom. He had a crush on her and she wouldn’t go with him. I think he’s the reason I have a problem with authority.”

He breathes out through his nose and slaps his hand softly against your thigh, laughing. “For what it’s worth, I do not think you’re terribly fucked up. Just a normal amount, no worse than the best of the most successful. Hell,” he continues, “Maybe even a little better than them.”

You sink back into the sofa, feeling the room move beneath your eyelids. “Dieter, I’m so high,” you whine.

“It’s nice, isn’t it?”

“I can’t talk anymore,” you say. “My brain wants me to say things I shouldn’t.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “Like what?”

You groan. “Sentences I’ve already said, just worded differently.” The sincerity of your words makes him laugh — so heartily you squeeze his forearm in appreciation. It touches you everywhere, with your chest against his back like this.

“It’s okay,” he tells you, “Just close your eyes and I’ll keep talking.”

“Mm,” you acknowledge him.

But he doesn’t keep talking. The two of you fall asleep right there in your quiet contentment. You enjoy the peace that comes from soul purging confessions.

—

Tuesday afternoon and he’s still with you. It’s a record, almost. If there hadn’t been that five night stint you had pulled together during one particularly lonely holiday weekend two years ago, this would be the longest you’ve ever seen him. It’s certainly the longest you’ve been together and not had sex.

The pungent, sour-sweet smell of marijuana invades your home, clings to your clothes, and makes you feel like the love-sick, abandoned teenager you were at 17. It’s been a long, long time since then, but there’s a quality about Dieter that puts you back there. Tempting as it is to blame on his perpetual immaturity, you know it’s more to do with your own lack of control. The world spins and you spin with it—a fact that you’ve still yet to gulp down bravely and accept—and Dieter merely reminds you of it.

He thumbs through your record collection while you sip gingerly at a Coke on the couch. Under his breath, he whispers the title of albums that have made up your life, ignorant to just how intimate the act really is. Dieter sees a plethora of intricately organized vinyls and you see half your life; it is a collection made up of poor decisions, lovers’ gifts, and tokens of another life. He plucks out a Rolling Stones album and puts it on the spin table.

Domesticity threatens to choke you for a second before Dieter looks in your direction, sloppy grin on his face. “Let It Bleed,” he says, heading in your direction. “It has You Can’t Always Get What You Want at the end. I think it’s better this way, too, because you have to work for it.”

“What do you mean?”

He takes the Coke out of your hands and steals a sip, voice plugged with passion as he says, “Nowadays you can just listen to a song whenever you want but used to, you had to sit through the whole album. We’re losing the art of the music album because people don’t do that anymore.”

You take your Coke back and shake your head. “That’s not true. After David Bowie died, vinyls became popular again. Albums are very much still in.”

“So maybe they are.” He shrugs. “Regardless, I think they’re better this way. Don’t you?”

“Sometimes. But sometimes I just want to listen to one song.”

He lays his head on the back of the couch, pouting out his bottom lip in consideration. “You’re angry with me,” he surmises after a moment.

You frown. “No.”

“You’re something with me, and it’s certainly not pleased.”

“I was just saying my opinion.”

“You want me to leave?”

“No.”

“I can’t quite reach you in there—“ he points to your head “—so if you want me to do something, or say something, you’ve got to tell me.”

“I don’t want anything from you,” you tell him evenly. He narrows his eyes suspiciously. “I don’t,” you repeat, trying to soften out your features. “I’m feeling…I don’t know. Awkward. You don’t stick around this long and I guess it’s making me feel odd. Especially because you haven’t touched me.”

“Ah,” he says, straightening himself. “I didn’t know if you wanted me to.”

“Have I ever denied you?”

“No, but I figured you might like to know I don’t mind seeing you with your clothes on too.” He offers you a kind smile and his fingers reach out and intertwine loosely with a few of yours. This is completely uncharted territory that makes your heart beat ferociously against your chest.

You tug him closer and he comes, his body leaning into yours as your lips meet. The shirt he wears is slightly too big on him, and the fabric brushes against your stomach as you open your legs to make room for him. His fingers press into your hips, positioning you beneath him, and you open your lips slightly, permitting him access.

For lack of a better word, you think: Homecoming. But it isn’t. This isn’t home. This is Dieter Bravo, page six, Mr. Half His Age. You smile against his lips and he pulls back. “What?” he says, smiling too. You feel his breath on your face, warm, and you lean up to press your lips to his again. “Nothing,” you tell him, knowing the joke won’t be funny.

He doesn’t seem to mind, allowing himself to be swayed away by the suggestive rock of your hips. He leverages himself with a hand on the back of the couch, and you pull him down, further and further, latching your legs around his waist. He is warm, burning, and as you deepen the kiss, you can feel the way he grows hard above you.

“Fuck,” he mutters, nodding his head up, disconnecting the two of you. Your lips feel rubbed raw, bruised, but you want more. He grunts softly when you press yourself into his cock and you look at each other for one dizzying second. Then he is kissing the underside of your jaw, his large hand palming your covered breast.

You try desperately to figure out how to shed the layers of clothing that separate you but he is quicker on his feet, pushing the college shirt you wear up above your stomach. He puts it behind your head, pinning your arms up. You watch as he licks down your chest, warm tongue flattening between the valley of your breasts. Then his breath ghosts over the nipples he exposes, his long, thick fingers pulling down the fabric of your bra quickly, desperate, hungry. He takes one in his mouth and you squeal.

Dieter isn’t usually patient. He fucks for leisure but never really revels in it for too long, so it surprises you when he licks  down the rest of your body, swirling his tongue above the place where the band of your sleep shorts begins. You raise your hips for him and he sheds another layer, but again, just barely. Leaving you in your underwear, he worships you on the way back up, kissing your ankle, your calf, the inside of your thigh, even the place where your thigh meets your cunt. His fingers dig, eager to find skin full enough to grip; breasts and thighs, your hips, your ass when you respond to the hot breath that cascades over your cotton covered cunt.

He presses his hot mouth to you, underwear still in the way, and that’s it, you're ablaze and you are starved, crammed full of lust with an appetite that knows no bounds. You want to bare yourself to him—to spread yourself wide right there, and let him into the wetness of your cunt while you whisper dirty things into his ear. His words from yesterday echo in your mind — I want to tear you apart and I want you to tear me apart and then I want to put us together again, just to show you it can be done — and you think God, that’s it. The pulse point, the center, the raw and unbridled truth. You tear one another apart and it is tender, trusting. You’ve been getting him wrong. Over a decade and yet you’ve miscalculated it all.

He slips aside the fabric of your underwear, licks you, finds you wet and wanting. You are dripping. You feel it, know that his eager tongue is only adding to what his mere presence has caused.

That other man, he was lovely, young, flexible, all calloused hands and the taste of reckless mystery you thought you needed, but Dieter is ritual to you, like waves slapping against the rocks or the slow, inevitable spin of the planet around the sun. It happens and yet the sheer ferocity of the change it brings leaves you shocked. He is the taste of half smoked tobacco, the sweetness of a stolen sip of Coke, the warmth of an almost-orgasm rushing to your head.

His lips are coated with your slick, glossy beneath the warm living room light, but he doesn’t seem to care. He bites down on his bottom lip, pressing the pad of his finger to your entrance. Watching with heavy lidded eyes, he finds it in himself to smirk.

“Dieter,” you pant out, not taking your eyes away.

“You want it?” he growls, voice low and lust-filled. “Beg.”

You don’t hesitate. “Please. Fuck Dieter. Please.”

He sinks it in and the sound of your cunt welcoming him makes you both groan. It’s so deliciously obscene, the entirety of it. Your brain sputters, confused and overwrought, and you think: oh, I would never deny you anything. Never. Never.

His finger curls inside of you and his thumb presses down on your clit, focused and determined, the evidence found in the way his forehead crinkles. You note, even in this state, the way the front of his sweatpants tent and a dark spot where he’s leaked forms. He’s not wearing underwear and his finger is in you, above you, on you. You are warm, a beautiful burning thing around his thick finger. He enters another, says, “Fuck, you are so wet. Look at you.”

You shudder beneath him, a wordless moan escaping as you grip his tattooed wrist. The orgasm wracks through you, leaving you panting, pulling at his hand. So fitting - so ironic - that this is where he would mark himself with the symbol for femininity. Mother nature. That hollow triangle, pointed in the direction of you, sister to the darkened one pointing at him on the other forearm. That one means sun, masculine. They are earthly and complex, harmonic and just right.

Dieter puts his fingers flat on your tongue and you suck your own juices off of him, acidic - sour-sweet. He watches for a moment before he replaces them with his own tongue. There’s more of you there. As you work his sweats below his hips, dragging the fabric across his sensitive cock, he groans deep and you drink it up, hungry for more.

When he pushes into you, he does so with such ease, your body allowing him to sink into you like you’re his home, the missing half. It’s too romantic of a notion for you to carry in real life but somehow, like this, it fits. You crave the truth of it. As he rolls his hips into yours, deep as he can, you pull his shirt over his head and cover his lazy, soft lips with your own. You breathe each other in more than you kiss, bottom lips connected, top lips flirting, and tongues meeting each other as he seats himself fully inside of you.

Dieter is thick, makes you feel full in a decidedly feminine way as grinds himself against you. You clench around him, fingers thrusting into the skin of his back. He nuzzles into your neck, presses wet kisses to the sensitive skin.

You bury your hands in his sexed-up hair, let your body wrap entirely around his frame as he finds a rhythm inside of you. A soft flow of up and down, in and out, lacking ferocity but conveying a desperate need. He drags his cock through you, pierces you with it, and you take it gratefully, eyes shut and senses flooded. When nibble on his ear, you taste the metallic of his lone earring and his breath grows more ragged. “You feel so fucking good,” you whimper, voice high, “I feel you—I feel you everywhere. God your cock—you make me so fucking wet.”

You kiss him fully on the mouth again. Everything feels taut, moments away from being over, and you cling to him, wrapping your arms around his neck, your legs around his waist. You are one, a complete thing. Then he is pulling you apart before you know it, the twitch of his cock happening precariously inside of you. But he knows himself, well enough to pull out just in time, spilling his warm seed across the canvas of your exposed belly. A wordless sob escapes him and you reach out to hold the forearm he’s moved to the back of the couch again.

This is when it ends, the place where the two of you separate, go your own ways. He will hand you a tissue, wrestle out a pathetic ‘thank you’ or ‘see you later’ and the illusion will be broken–

“Do you mind if I spend another night with you?” he says, chest rising and falling. He sits back on his knees, looking at the milky white substance on you with a mixture of curiosity and fascination. He fingers it and you take it, bringing it to your lips. Dieter offers a lopsided grin, that dimple of his showing again.

“What’s mine is yours or whatever,” you echo his previous words, smiling too.

“That means a lot,” he says.

“More than you know,” you agree, “So don’t fuck it up.”

He presses his lips to your knee, the silence deafening, but you trust him despite it. This is different. He is different. He has to be. Please, you plead silently, running your hands through his hair again, Don’t ruin this for me.

He catches your eyes, smiles softly. “I won’t.”

[sgiandubh]

Such unsmiling people

The comment that moved me the most after posting that August 10 diatribe came from a very special blogger, @myrthil23. I promised her a longer, thoughtful answer, so here it is.

I share with her way more than meets the eye and with a bit of deductive skills, you could easily place us very specifically on an European map. To be honest, I was surprised (and then absolutely thrilled, of course) to find someone like her hanging on in here. But this is not the only reason prompting a response - her comment made me think a lot about a couple of relevant things.

For those who loathe foraging for reblogs, here goes:

In the colorful Shipper family, the Eastern Europeans are (supposedly) the unsmiling ones. This is one of the stubborn clichés that informed the Western gaze, especially in Communist times. Unsmiling, foreboding and unfathomable people: I am not smiling, I am laughing while writing it, because if anything, Myrthil, @zeya-zg, a couple of others and I do share a superb ability to use bullshit-o-meters, an unsinkable sense of humor and a hefty dose of sarcasm. All of these are basic, compulsory street smarts if you want to survive, God knows how, a nuclear winter of sorts.

Imagine you grow up in a world with empty supermarket shelves but permanently sold-out concert halls, where trivial details such as cotton swabs, potato chips (crisps, heh), political parties or The Last Tango in Paris are virtually unknown. Imagine your family is either cautiously aligned to some public idiocy they loathe everyday at home, teaching you at the same time to never talk to strangers. Or even worse, a political pariah, for reasons that have everything to do with the way you sip your tea, as Ella Fitzgerald would say. The latter situation (mine) was something very much akin to a civil death. And you just knew you could never be, for imbecile but firm reasons, an architect, a lawyer or even an epidemiologist: jobs way too sensitive to entrust the enemies of the people (and their spawn) with.

What is left for you, then, when the view from your window, in 1982, is something not very different from this photograph:

(side note: these people are staying in line to buy 1 kilogram of sugar for each person, which was the monthly allowance fixed by law in my country, from 1980 to 1989; you could only buy those with Government-issued tickets, not unlike what happened in the UK during WWII or what you can see in series like The Handmaid's Tale)

When all is seemingly lost, you will still have, in no particular order: books. Music (including piano lessons). Sports. Each other (although that was overall more complicated than it seemed). Going to the opera and never taking off your winter coat inside, but enjoying every second of it. Impromptu dinners by candlelight during power outages ("wir machen ein bisschen Stimmung"/let's make a bit of atmosphere, grinned my aunt). Foreign languages (a must). Fits and giggles and jokes galore. And the ability to adapt to just about anything, anywhere.

When change finally reached us, many had the almost surreal opportunity to go West. Some came back, others didn't, simply because they chose to continue elsewhere their pursuit of happiness. And yes, Myrthil is right, that fabled West was always something to behold and measure up to. In my case, it was almost too easy, but then I consider myself really lucky: going to live in Paris, at 18, felt both as homecoming and being left alone (and with unlimited credit) in a candy store.

So, here we are. We may have discovered Sylvia Plath a bit late, but I think we are decently knowledgeable about Chaucer. We sometimes may sound Edwardian and if we do, you should probably blame C.E. Eckersley's Essential English (this is how that life-long affair started, for me). And if anything, we bring another, perhaps even more inquisitive, angle to these strange things we are dealing with daily, in here.

But for the love of Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ, don't you ever dare tell us what to think and with whom to talk. Don't call us stupid. Don't call us liars. Historical reasons prompted a durable allergy to sanctimonious speech and yes (I can only speak for myself) I will always, always react. Because we do not deserve the arrogance of people who have no idea of how it really was to grow up somewhere in Eastern Europe during the Eighties. Oh, and something else, lest I forget: being pariahs never bothered us - we can cope.

Other than that, we should go along just fine. :)

PS: @claraisabelcampohermoso, you probably don't know how your gif made me smile. Nadia will always be Nadia: a humble, warm person with a terribly heartbreaking story.

[digital999placebo]

bc I love food content and chemistry I get the unholy mixture of US citizens idiocy regarding food. I can put a long ass rant about how mainly US citizens, but now also Western Europeans, stigmatise certain words regarding food that aren’t even harmful, but because they sound very “sciency” ppl run for the hills, and in the same way they use these words and terms to make something sound more healthy than it truly is, such is the case with blue spirulina and “””hydronised”””” water. Processed foods aren’t inherently bad, are they less beneficial from a nutrition standpoint than vegetables? Yes. But they’re tasty and make you happy when you eat them, that is also a benefit. People are terrified of GMO, when GMO gives us things such as tomatoes not filled to the brim with seeds.

[kelluinox]

"Fuck America. Fuck America."

Fucking leave America you ungrateful little bastards. If this is your stance. If you hate America this much - LEAVE. Now. Yesterday. Go to the places you venerate so much in your moronic chants of "Yemen Yemen you make us proud" and "Iran you make us proud". Experience those regimes on your own fucking skins and stop belittling the experiences of people who risked everything, who risked their lives to escape them. You should be fucking grateful you were born in America every single fucking day. You should be grateful for the freedoms you have and stop playing at oppression. Being oppressed isn't a cutesy fun experience you disgusting immature embarassments for humanity. You know what being oppressed is like?

In Russia you can be arrested for standing on a sidewalk with a blank sheet of paper. You can be arrested for printing out a portion of your own country's constitution. You can be arrested for openly insulting the government and opposing the war Putin started to fulfill his imperial ambitions. You can be arrested for saying Crimea belongs to Ukraine. You can be arrested for writing "No to vobla" in chalk. You can be arrested for anti war graffiti. You can have your daughter be put in solitary confinement for drawing an anti war picture in class while you yourself are kidnapped and secretly put away in prison. You can be arrested for liking the wrong post on social media, or leaving the wrong comment. You can be arrested for taking a picture in front of a church in case you somehow "offend the feelings of the religious". A little girl can be harassed by police for wearing blue and yellow ribbons in her hair while you yourself can be arrested for wearing blue and yellow clothes. You can be arrested for wearing rainbow earrings. You can be arrested for "promoting LGBTQ" (basically you're arrested just for being LGBTQ, or if you're suspected of being LGBTQ). You can be stopped at the airport and questioned and your phone searched for any anti war content. As a woman you can't defend yourself if someone tries to hurt you. You can be charged with "exceeding self defense" if you dare harm your assailant. The police will look the other way if you experience domestic abuse. Women and girls are regularly sent back to their relatives in Chechnya where they are abused and honor killed. Human rights advocates are imprisoned and sometimes even murdered. Families of those who vocally oppose the government are harassed and threatened. And all of this isn't even a complete list because the list of what goes on here is fucking endless. And in places like Iran it gets even WORSE.

It's not cute. It's not fun. You stupid little shits will start crying the moment you experience true oppression and run back to "evil fascist America" faster than I can say "I told you so".

[thecreaturecodex]

Hargin

"maggot princess" © @bowelfly, accessed here

[The hargin is a monster I first heard of recently, thanks to @abominationimperatrix. They're found in the stories of Gilgit, a province of west Asia currently belonging to Pakistan. The idea of a shapeshifting, charming, monster bride being a giant maggot is delightful to me, a novel twist on the various swan maidens and selkies of Western Europe. As is the idea that bioaccumulation can result in scavengers becoming magical. In Gilgit, the ibex is considered a fairy animal, and so maggots that eat a dead ibex are those that turn into hargins. I expanded it to fey of all kinds.

Also, how cool is the art? @bowelfly knocked this one out of the park. I sent them references for traditional Gilgit-Baltistan clothing.]

Hargin CR 3 CN Fey This creature has the body of a woman, but the head of a giant maggot. Her neck stretches to impossible lengths. She wears fine robes and carries a stringed instrument.

A hargin is a fey creature that becomes a fey creature through unusual means—its diet. Hargins begin their lives as the ordinary maggots of flies, laid in carrion. The difference is that the carrion is a fey creature of some kind. By eating flesh imbued with fey energy, the maggots themselves become dimly magical and sapient, and then rapidly turn on each other. By the time one had devoured its peers, it has grown to monstrous proportions, and then molts not into a fly pupa, but into a humanoid hargin. The hargin is capable of changing its shape, and then proceeds to enter humanoid society in disguise.

Hargins differ in terms of their alignments, but most have acquisitive personalities. A hargin typically wishes to gain some sort of power, prestige or fame in their humanoid form, or barring that, get rich. Some hargins turn to performance, others to theft, and others seduce their way into the households of the nobility. Although hargins are somewhat naïve, they are charming and capable, and have a handful of magical tricks to assist them in either social climbing or larceny. They spend almost all of their lives in disguise, returning to their monstrous forms only in order to defend themselves.  Hargins are more likely to view other members of their own species as threats than allies. Hargins are sexually compatible with the humanoids they mimic, and some fey or aberrant blooded sorcerers have a hargin ancestor somewhere on their family tree.

In combat, a hargin uses its bite attack as its primary weapon, but may carry weapons to defend itself as a humanoid in order to not blow its cover. Its mandibles ooze digestive acids, and it can concentrate them into a caustic bolus. A hargin’s neck can extend impossibly far, even in humanoid form, and they are sometimes mistaken for rokurokubi due to this ability.

Hargin  CR 3 XP 800 CN Medium fey (shapechanger) Init +4; Senses low-light vision, Perception +5, scent Defense AC 14, touch 14, flat-footed 10 (+4 Dex) hp 27 (5d6+10) Fort +3, Ref +8, Will +3 DR 5/cold iron; SR 14 Offense Speed 30 ft. Melee dagger +6 (1d4+1/19-20), bite +1 (1d6 plus 1d6 acid) or bite +6 (1d6+1 plus 1d6 acid) Ranged shortbow +6 (1d6/x3) or acid spit +6 touch (2d6 acid) Space 5 ft.; Reach 5 ft. (15 ft. with bite) Special Attacks extensible neck Spell-like Abilities CL 5th, concentration +7 3/day—charm person (DC 13), faerie fire, hypnotism (DC 13), ventriloquism (DC 13) 1/day—deep slumber (DC 15), invisibility, touch of idiocy Statistics Str 12, Dex 19, Con 14, Int 11, Wis 8, Cha 14 Base Atk +2; CMB +3; CMD 17 Feats Deceitful, Point-Blank Shot, Weapon Finesse Skills Bluff +10, Diplomacy +8, Disguise +10, Knowledge (local, nature) +6, Perception +5, Perform (string instrument) +8, Sleight of Hand +10, Stealth +10, Survival +5 Languages Common, Sylvan SQ change shape (humanoid, alter self) Ecology Environment any land or urban Organization solitary Treasure standard (lute, dagger, shortbow with 20 arrows, other treasure) Special Abilities Acid (Ex) A creature that takes acid damage from a hargin’s bite or spit attack must succeed a DC 14 Fortitude save or take half the damage again (minimum 1) at the beginning of the hargin’s next turn. The save DC is Constitution based. Acid Spit (Ex) As a standard action, a hargin can spit a bolus of acid. Treat this as a ranged touch attack with a range of 30 feet and no range increment. A creature struck takes 2d6 points of acid damage. Extensible Neck (Ex) A hargin has fifteen feet of reach with its bite attack, and treats cover as being one step less for the purposes of making attacks with her bite attack or acid spit. A hargin may extend its neck in order to make an acid spit attack, effectively increasing its range to 45 feet. A hargin may extend its neck even in humanoid form.

[solarwynd]

Tbh I don't even care / dislike boycott armys. If you don't want to spend money on BTS because they haven't spoken about Palestine, that's your perogative. Because they're enlisted, that does make a difference for me - maybe others find it an excuse but as someone who doesn't live in a liberal western country myself, I know how things like this work in my country and how vulnerable you can be in this situation, so I don't know how it works in s korea but still I'm giving them some leeway. Also there's just this weird disconnect for me because on one side yeah they're millionaires with a huge platform, on the other side they're currently in the mfing army right now. It feels foul to start tweeting about their privilege from the comfort of my bed in my home - something they currently do not experience. That's just my opinion. Someone else might perceive them to have more power than I do and maybe they're right. I won't say mine is the only right way to think. Plus again it's your money - if you donate more and spend less on merch then that's still a net good imo.

But the whole tone of people remarking on this donation has been completely gross. The way they talk about a genocide the same way they talk about the stupid fanwars that happen on twt everyday rather than with the weight it deserves makes me feel like this is some performative bs. Tweets like the ones some armys and kpop stans make just degrades the whole movement.

If you do have genuine intentions and start making stupid tweets like that, you should really touch some grass, log off twitter and do some more actual activism offline instead of letting twitter brain worms consume you. Acting like everyone's misconstruing what you said and playing victim is also not the move. This is a serious topic so I'd expect tweets related to this to have some actual thought behind it instead of spewing some idiocy as a gotcha because again it looks like you're treating this whole issue like some fandom war and trying to one-up the other side. Click-clack my ass.

Armys always come at BTS crazy during times like this and it’s not because it’s “necessary” since you want them to speak up. It all just comes off as sanctimonious and BTS ruining the perception armys have built around them as stans of them being a bit more conscientious than other k groups. I’ve never had an issue with boycotting in theory it’s just that armys can’t stand behind shit or just go about it the wrong way.

Why is it the minute they don’t perform to your exact standards, all of a sudden they’re low down and evil?Why couldn’t y’all have used Jimin donating as a beacon to rally fans to open a pool or something? And I try not to go tit for tat on things like this, but it’s extremely hard not to when you see proof of all these armys happily buying and streaming golden from last year and have been the main ones making these posts about jimin’s donation.

Nothing has changed from that time to present day. Same with the kpop stans trying to join in on it stanning groups who haven’t said a word either. How do you expect me not to believe y’all don’t have ulterior motives by singling him or BTS out? Now all those accounts have deleted those tweets cause they’ve gotten called out on their hypocrisy and got caught up in how dumb they look getting Jimin dragged over something so harmless. Cause it’s not like he gave money to something inane or inconsequential. He���s helping underprivileged children. Just real dickheaded behavior from that person.

Now considering how a member has close ties with scooter, making a statement would come off as hypocritical. I know in the grander scheme of things, what’s needed and what’s important is the awareness and I’d take it as such. But denouncing Zionism with a Zionist so avidly in the mix still wouldn’t be a good look. Which is why I feel like donating would have been the better option. It’d be much more substantial helping out with funds/materials imo because those are things Palestinians desperately need. But I understand that it’s not on the table since they’re in the military.

[eretzyisrael]

by Lionel Shriver

Much has been written about the unholy, and in some ways, hilarious alliance developing between the progressive left and Islam (Lesbians for Palestine, etc.). But for Western writers to embrace a restrictive, prescriptive, and stifling culture isn’t merely ironic or comical; it’s self-defeating. One needn’t consult a professor of Middle Eastern studies to conclude that these fair-weather friends in Gaza may welcome useful idiocy, but the permissive ethos of the Anglo left is diametrically at odds with despotic Islamic theology. Moreover, for American writers to express increasingly shrill and little-disguised hostility to Jews is to disavow a substantial chunk of the country’s distinguished literary canon: Philip Roth, Saul Bellow, Isaac Bashevis Singer, Bernard Malamud, and Elie Wiesel just for starters.

But then, the past 15 years have demonstrated with depressing clarity that writers, along with artists of every stripe, aren’t special. Although our occupation is more at risk from censorship than most, we’re all too capable of perversely embracing suppressive viewpoints that violate our own interest. We’re paid not only to write but to think, yet we don’t think; we listen keenly for whatever tune is playing in our fellow travelers’ AirPods and whistle along. Apparently, we’re no more creative than the average bear, and as soon as the memo goes out, we’ll chant along with the kiddies camped at Columbia University, “from the river to the sea!” whatever that means. We’ll obediently switch out one cause for another whenever we’re told, as nimbly as using “find and replace” in Microsoft Word.

We’re cowards, conformists, and copycats. Real freedom of expression is too scary; we’d rather hide in a crowd whose keffiyeh-masked members all shout the same thing. PEN has a laudable history of advocating for writers who’ve been persecuted for their opinions in repressive polities—polities much like the contemporary United States. But too many of its members would have the nonprofit corrupt its global mission to protect free speech across the board so long as they can bully its leadership into pointless partisan posturing for progressives’ acrid flavor of the month.

[germiyahu]

Jews are no longer a marginalized group. Not anymore. Israel single-handedly burned through all the sympathy that the western world harbored for the Jewish people, and used their guilt to try to make them complacent in the oppression of an unrelated party. Nobody pities the Jews anymore.

How to break this to you gently... since you're obviously not Western, so maybe you weren't exposed to this intellectual tradition among Leftists. But if you are Western I have to ask how many times were you dropped on your head as a baby?

Marginalization is not a function of pity or sympathy. It's a material reality. The question is are Jews marginalized by society? The question is not do people like Jews enough to bestow the status of marginalized on them as a social justice badge of approval. And you better hope I'm right because outside of your little bubble of maybe half of the vocal activist college kids demographic (themselves a minority of that age group in America, let alone among all age groups), Hamas completely shattered any sympathy most people here had for Palestinians. That is evinced by the US, Canada, and most of Europe pulling their foreign aid and funding for UNWRA. That right there? That's a material fact. The West is punishing Gaza by refusing to donate to the organizations that (claim to) help them.

To say that Israel burned through the sympathy the Western world harbored for the Jewish People, and this means that Jews are not marginalized, is to say that because of the actions of the Likud government, all Jews everywhere are legitimate targets of hate, harassment, and violence. They deserve it. And these things are happening to all Jews everywhere, and increasing frequency and severity.

Oh but that actually proves they're not marginalized in Western societies because we can blame these acts of hate, harassment, threats, vandalism, intimidation, and violence on Israel fumbling the optics bag. Deliberate circular logic or just plain idiocy? Scholars remain divided.