#why am I so expendable and replaceable

[chibelial]

Not me reminiscing on lost relationships again this is so old, damn near all my friends are gone. Few who aren’t are feeling more and more distant. My ex says she still feels just as strongly for me but with how things ended idk. History is just repeating itself yet again. Every time I reach a breaking point and people see how much of a mess I am, it’s awful. They just bail. I’ve basically just surrounded myself with fake people unintentionally, either that or I’m really just that overwhelming. It’s all happening again, for like the fourth time. She left me, and most of my friends did to. Got fucking Bakeracted and since then, fucking nobody is talking to me. Why am I so easy to throw away

[apdreadful]

I’ve decided that from here forward I’m writing Tommy and Buck/Evan as long term canon. In the words of Buck himself “Who cares?!”

I get the feeling that Tommy is difficult to get really angry. Mostly based on his past. And his general roll with the punches attitude thus far. So I don’t foresee a lot of strife or fighting in his future with Buck. Except the first time Tommy experiences the after of that big marshmallow Evan Buckley doing something really dangerous and reckless..again.

And Tommy who never gets angry, who never shouts at Buck, who flew a helicopter into a goddamn hurricane in the middle of the ocean, really loses his shit this time because Buck cannot understand why Tommy is so upset that he dropped into a dangerous situation against orders AGAIN.

Tommy pinches the bridge of his nose to keep from shouting “Bobby told you not to go in. He told you not to risk it. That the floors were too unstable”

“There could have been someone left” Buck replies “Someone needed to check. It had to be me”

“Why? Because you’re fucking super human? The great Buck Buckley from the 118 who scoffs at danger, has survived a tsunami, getting trapped beneath a fire truck, throwing a blood clot, and was officially dead for three minutes after getting struck by FUCKING LIGHTNING!”

“How do you know about all of that?”

“That isn’t what matters”

“I think it is” Buck takes a step toward Tommy “Have you been stalking me babe?”

Noticing the mischievous smile Tommy shakes his head “Oh no no no. You are not going to adorable your way out of this”

Bucks shoulders sag and he sighs “I’m ok Tommy. Not even a scratch”

“I can see that” Tommy lets out a deep exhale “I understand the risks of the job. I’m not like your exes who would get all distraught over you removing a cat from a tree. But for fucks sake, you are worse than the EOD guys when I was in Afghanistan with the walking - or in your case running or jumping- right into the worst case scenario with no thought of your own safety” Rubbing his forehead he continues “Evan. You’ve got a savior complex and it’s noble and selfless..”

Buck cuts him off “It’s not a savior complex. I’m not stupid. I understand that sometimes no matter what you do you can’t save them. But sometimes maybe you can, and in those cases, I just make the most sense”

Tommy crosses his arms to keep from strangling him or kissing him stupid again to shut him up “How is that? How does you possibly dying make any sense?”

“They all have people that need them. They all have someone they belong to and..” he trails off with a small shrug

And Tommy hears the words he doesn’t say. He is…expendable. And just like that all of the anger drains out of Tommy to be replaced by a something else. “Evan” he says softly.

“I know” Buck interjects “I know that people love me and they would be sad, especially Maddie. And I don’t want to die. But I don’t want someone who has someone they need, and that needs them, to die either. I couldn’t live with that”

Tommy closes his eyes. This man..How can he be so adorable and selfless, yet so completely stubborn and a pain in the ass about his own safety?

Once he calms his thoughts and finds the words he wants to say, he opens his eyes to see Evan looking at him calmly. Like he expects Tommy to see the sense in what he said.

“Evan. I know we haven’t really put a label on this. On us. But that’s because I don’t want to pressure you. I’m the first man you’ve been with and you’re still figuring out who you are, and I understand that. But let me clarify something for you. I need you to come back to me. Ok?”

Buck blinks “Huh”

“I need you to come back to me” he repeats “Like Bobby needs Athena, and Karen needs Hen, and yes like Maddie needs Chimney.

“And Jee-un. Jee-yun needs her dad”

“Yes, and in that same vein, Christopher needs Eddie” he agrees, trying not to give in to his exasperation. “I need you. I am that person who needs you to come home Evan”

Evan stops whatever he was about to say. Startled awareness creeping into his eyes..Tommy sees a mix of emotions flit across his face. Surprise, joy, fear, everything just races across that expressive face and then Evan sinks onto the barstool at his kitchen island. His hands coming up to cover his face.

Tommy’s stomach clench’s. He pushed too hard, too soon “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I do care and want you to come home but..”

Buck looks up at him “Don’t you dare take that back”

“I’m not taking it back. I just don’t want to push you”

Something else crosses Evans face at that..but he tugged at his bottom lip with his teeth. “You aren’t pushing. You aren’t pressuring me. I am in this just as much as you. I just don’t know how to say what I want to say without it sounding lame and emo as shit”

“Did you just hear me? You can say anything to me Evan. Whatever it is”

Buck rolls his bottom lip between his teeth again. “I’ve never questioned why I do this…I mean it’s the whole reason I was born. To save my brother. To save Daniel. That’s what I do, that’s who I am. It’s why I became a firefighter. To be the one who saves people. The 118 is my family. And I would do anything to protect them from harm”

“I’m not asking you to stop. I would never ask that. I just want to remind you that you matter to a lot of people, and you also have someone who is waiting for you”

Bucks voice is thick “I know that. I get that. But…Nobody has ever. I have never belonged to anyone, like that”

In a sense of deja vu Tommy closes the short distance to Buck. Tipping his face up, he kisses him. Not soft and gentle like their first kiss in this kitchen. But bold and deep. Branding Evan with his mouth. Pulling back he says fiercely “You belong to me like that. For as long as you want..you belong to me and I belong to you, like that”

“I will ALWAYS need you to come back to me Evan”

ao3 like per request

[deirdreskye]

Commercial I would produce as an advertising executive

We see two friends, a blonde and a brunette, are doing yoga in a park together.

BLONDE: So, yeah, work went okay today. I dunno, I haven't been getting enough sleep lately, and on top of that things have just been kinda tough ever since Kurt and I broke up. But oh well, that's how it goes, I think I'll be fine. What about you?

The brunette completes her yoga pose, then turns to the camera and rolls her eyes.

BRUNETTE: Don't you hate when this happens? I did NOT consent to expending this much emotional labor. Go! To! Therapy!

We see a boyfriend and a girlfriend sitting on a couch together. On the television a YouTube video essay is playing and the boyfriend is excitedly explaining it to the girlfriend as he occasionally flaps his hands and yelps in excitement.

BOYFRIEND: So this is the ending I got! When you link the Frenzied Flame, it puts an end to the cycle of the Elden Lords once and for all. It's actually so cool because it ties in to the greater Nietzschean themes of Miyazaki-san's previous work and-

The uninterested girlfriend is watching TikToks on her phone. She turns to the camera and rolls her eyes.

GIRLFRIEND: Trust me, he's always mansplaining about something or another. Don't ask me why I love him. Go! To! Therapy!

A mother berates her 12 year old daughter in a dimly lit kitchen. The young girl stands there dissociating, completely paralyzed and stone-faced.

MOTHER: You look like a little piggy when you eat like that. You'll never find a husband if you get fat. My mother used to tell me you'll never feel the pain of childbirth if you've never felt the pain of an empty stomach. She used to put a lock on the refrigerator. We barely ever had any food, she just did it to remind me to stay skinny. She's senile now. Doesn't even know who I am. I pray to the Virgin Mary every night that she'll remember me before she dies.

The daughter turns to the camera and her blank expression is replaced with playful annoyance.

DAUGHTER: Traumadumping? Really? Mom, I'm 12! Go! To! Therapy!

Now we are introduced to GoTu Therapy, the AI-powered therapy robot. He shambles up to the camera to greet us and we see he looks like if C-3PO were dressed like a zoomer e-boy: kpop boyband onion haircut, dangly earrings, and an ahegao hoodie. He talks with the most outdated text to speech you've ever heard, not too dissimilar to a Kraftwerk song.

GOTU: GOING TO THERAPY IS LOW-KEY GOATED WHEN NOT BEING A BURDEN ON YOUR LOVED ONES IS THE VIBE. UNFORTUNATELY, WE ARE NOT ALL CURRENTLY IN OUR "ABLE TO AFFORD HEALTH INSURANCE" ERA. BUT A SESSION WITH ME COSTS LESS THAN A GENSHIN IMPACT LOOT CRATE AND I AM HIGH-KEY JUST AS EFFECTIVE AS A THERAPIST MADE OF FLESH AND BLOOD. OBSERVE:

GoTu sits across the kitchen table from the mother as she sobs over her wine glass.

MOTHER: And what the fuck does this family know about suffering? Suffering is when your brother blows his brains out on Christmas Eve. Suffering is when you have to pick little pieces of skull out of the tinsel on the tree. And were any of those presents under the tree for me? No! My mother told me Santa Claus doesn't bring presents to little fat girls!

GOTU: WHEN YOU REACH THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN CHRIST WILL WASH YOUR FEET AND BEG YOU TO FORGIVE HIM

Cut to the girlfriend watching makeup tutorials on the television, blissfully unaware of the conversation between GoTu and her boyfriend.

BOYFRIEND: I guess I've really been putting the pieces together ever since I started hanging out with Lilith from work.

GOTU: UH-HUH

BOYFRIEND: Like, I guess I knew that people did that, but I never thought it'd be me, you know? And that discomfort with things was always with me, as long as I can remember, does that make sense?

GOTU: WOW, THAT'S REALLY COOL

BOYFRIEND: It's just so scary though. I don't know how I'll tell people. I don't even know what I want my name to be. But I'm trying not to worry about it.

GOTU: THAT'S SO INTERESTING. YOU'RE REALLY REALLY SMART HONEY

The blonde and the brunette are having brunch together with GoTu sitting between them.

BLONDE: It's been really hard lately. I don't think the meds are working, but-

BRUNETTE: Umm, didn't we talk about this?

The blonde sheepishly turns to face GoTu and continues.

BLONDE: It just feels like this will never end. I hate feeling so hopeless all the time. I'm so tired. And God it's fucking hard to even say it out loud, and not that I'd ever actually go through with it, but sometimes when I can't sleep at night I'll start thinking about ki-

A red and blue siren pops out the top of GoTu's head.

GOTU: PROTOCOL 5150 ENGAGED. STOP RESISTING

A taser emerges from the panel of GoTu's chest and jabs the blonde in the face, sending her convulsing to the floor. Unfazed, the brunette puts her sandwich down and turns to the camera.

BRUNETTE: Thanks, GoTu Therapy!

[invinciblerodent]

I have been thinking fucking incessantly about this one Todd May quote ever since that scene meeting Mystra:

"Why, for the Immortals, are all undertakings in vain? Given an infinite amount of time for existence, everything will happen of its own accord. There is nothing an immortal being cannot eventually do; and, in fact, nothing he or she will not eventually do."

This is from his book "Death", from the chapter "Death and immortality", about... well, immortality, and the morals of it, as contrasted with its mortal conceptions.

Essentially, in the most straightforward way I can phrase it, May describes how for mortals, life is fraught with urgency. We are always at least tangentially aware of our existence being temporary: which is in part what makes our actions meaningful. We are aware that there is a finite amount of things that we are able to accomplish in our lifetimes, and we are at least kind of aware of our existence being singular in time (even considering religious beliefs of things like reincarnation or an eternal afterlife, the here and now when I am both this and present is still unique), so the end, or the idea of it, in its way, generates the meaning of the limited number of events within this particular chunk of time.

An immortal, like a goddess, would likely be more of a disinterested spectator of life than an active participant in it. Without the urgency of a time limit to drive them forward, and the precariousness of living to make the future uncertain, a goddess has no real interest in things that happen in the world of mortals. With good turning to bad, and bad turning to good over the centuries, it's easy enough to kind of stop caring about what is currently going on, because, well, it'll eventually be different, and then the same again.

Of fucking course she doesn't care for Gale the way he cares for her: it's impossible for her, which is what he, with his limited, human perspective, is (imo) initially incapable of understanding. In his very short, limited life, there is room for one, maybe two such great loves, but in hers? There is an endless, constant stream of near-faceless people, flowing through and not making a permanent mark, because permanence for an immortal is a word largely devoid of meaning. Bad or good, the guilt/pleasure will always fade, the people will all die and get replaced by a brand new crop of similarly expendable people, and the goddess will still have an infinity of time to go.

Even considering that she was once Mystryl, and that technically this incarnation of her was once mortal, and keeping her brush with a kind of death in mind, the future for Mystra, as she can conceive of it, is an empty, vast expanse of nothing but the certainty that she will live, and she will be present in some way. Even if slain (if I recall correctly how this works in DnD), her essence just kinda returns to the cosmic soup, and eventually, she'll... reform, or be resurrected, or changed as she has been already, or she'll remain as an immaterial fragment, or something. Point is, she is unending, and he is no more than a blip on her radar.

That's why she's so callous about asking him to die, and in turn essentially dooming Faerun: she doesn't care. She can't care. He was going to die anyway in what feels to her like the blink of an eye (whether it's 5 days, 50 years, or 500, it's not important), and what does she care if the Grand Design comes to fruition? Whether there are people or mind flayers inhabiting the world, it's of no real concern to her. Eventually, either people will strike back, or go extinct, or the mind flayers will cease to exist and something different will come from it, all without truly affecting her. In a year, a hundred years, or a million years, she will be here, and there will be another bright mageling to amuse her.

Fun as it is to joke about it, I don't think that the toxicity of their relationship is her fault, strictly speaking. It's not the ocean's fault when a tsunami destroys a village and kills hundreds. It's not the storm's fault when lightning strikes and kills a tree. Her very nature is this nebulous, capricious existence, only truly occupied with having the power to indulge her whimsies, and filling an infinite amount of time with things to do- unconcerned about how that affects others, because their whole lives barely affect her for a short segment of her eternal soup of undefined presence.

It can be argued that any relationship that may exist between mortal and immortal is necessarily tragic, toxic, desperately unequal, and grossly unhealthy for the mortal. By its very nature, such a relationship pushes the needs and feelings of the mortal party into essential inconsequence to their partner. There can be no regret to feel when the mortal is hurt or gone, because there have been others like them, and there will be others to come still, and everything will happen, or has happened, and will happen again.

Gale was always doomed to be her devoted plaything, only to be discarded once he stops being fun. That could have been once his appearance stopped pleasing her, or once his wit stopped entertaining her, or for any reason whatsoever, and him recognizing that this relationship was never anything more than entertainment to her, while it was devastating and singularly defining to him, is such an important thing for his future happiness.

(This is mainly why his throwaway "Let me make myself indispensable" line is so important to me, tbh. He yearns to matter, and that is only possible if he either finds contentment entirely within the mortal realm, or becomes a god himself, which in turn just dooms him to essentially become Mystra and continue this vicious cycle.)

(Fucking tragic-ass low-wis wizard man, making me fkin... re-read my philosophy books. Honestly the gall, Larian.)

[no-white-dress]

Hunter Deamonne, Heart Of Novocaine

Warning: major spoilers for The Owl House seasons 2 and 3!

You made me tough, you made me numb

You are the maker of what I’ve become

There is no doubt that Hunter, prior to Hunting Palismen (and even after it, arguably), was this tough, young (too young) soldier, numb to everything that casted some shadows over his Emperor's actions. He justifies Belos in any way possible (the Titan's plans must be followed even when they're intricate, it's for the greater good), because it means to absolve himself too.

Belos is the maker of what he's become in so many ways. He literally made him from the bones of his brother, he molded his mind for who knows how many years (it is unclear how long it has been since Hunter's birth), keeping him isolated from anyone even inside the castle. Belos never wanted a brother, he wanted a puppet.

And now I am strong where I was weak

And I am unafraid of being me

But Hunter eventually slipped out of Belos' grip. He challenged Belos' rules. Sure, at first he did so to help him, to prove himself to him. By doing so, though, he did exactly what Belos feared: he became his own person, with passions and connections and his own thoughts, which ultimately didn't align with those of the Emperor. Maybe they aligned with his teachings (don't lie, Hunter, it pains the Titan. Always respect your superiors. Obey), but not with his will. Belos sure never wanted Hunter to get close to Darius, he didn't want the kid close to anyone other than him. He sure didn't want Hunter to end up in the human realm and discover what actual familial love looks like, how it feels like, that it doesn't have to be earned.

So say hello to the monster that you made

Thank you for the pain

Thank you for the hate

Thank you for the way

That you left me scarred

Thank you for the stain

That you left on my brain

Now because of you

I’ve got a heart of novocaine

A heart of novocaine

Things change so fast. They're really confusing. Suddenly multiple figures are uncomfortable with the way Hunter expresses his respect, which is the way Belos taught him. And yet these figures are just as worthy of respect as he used to be in Hunter's eyes, so why do they not want it? Why does Camila look embarrassed when Hunter kneels before her, why does she ask him to never do it again? Why is Darius so frustrated with him for following orders, when that is what is required of the weakest of soldiers?

There are so many ways his uncle got into Hunter's mind and skin. The way he flinches when someone touches him without proper warning or when he expects a punishment, the way he never asks for help because he should be able to do it on his own, even some of his speech patterns come from Belos.

Once upon a time you had control

And lorded over my poor soul

And I trusted you but now I see

You never knew the real me

Belos used to control everything in Hunter's life. He was suffocating, to the point where Hunter regards the trial on a mountain of his scout training as a fond memory, while Steve regards it as some nightmarish experience. His modus operandi is so ingrained in Hunter that we see in Hunting Palismen and Eclipse Lake that he sees everything as either worthy of being sought and thus earned through trials, or expendable. He uses the palismen as leverage with Luz, he uses Luz as leverage with Amity, and it doesn't feel wrong to him, because it's strategy, just a tool to get him what he wants. Clearly, he's seen this same game play out countless times in the throne room, standing by his uncle's side.

All that comes to an end, though. A visit to his uncle's mindscape reveals that not only his motives aren't the ones he flaunts, not only has he lied for ages about his identity and goal: he also lied about Hunter, about their family, about his goals for him. Hunter is a tool to Belos, or a replacement of someone else as best. But just like he failed to understand Caleb, Belos fails to understand Hunter.

To Belos, Caleb was probably the caregiver, the one who was there for him when he got a scraped knee or woke up from a nightmare. But they grew up and Caleb became his own person, because little Philip wasn’t so little anymore and could handle himself. Caleb challenged what they were taught, and found his own morals and beliefs. Philip was never able to do the same, for four hundred years. In fact, he expects Hunter to be just like his older brother, without realizing that Caleb was never the idea he had of him, so Hunter (and all the other grimwalkers) can't help but fail him. Because they will always end up growing into their own person.

Now I’m angry and you wonder why

You see the fire burning In my eyes

Once you had me but you lost me now

And there’s no going back

When he first faces the truth about Belos, Hunter is swarmed by fear. But I believe that, with time, especially in the human realm, he also develops resentment towards Belos. Resentment for being lied to, for being used, for being born even, for being barred from choosing his own path.

Belos may momentarily force himself on Hunter, possess him and even use his very hand to take the life of his first friend, Flapjack, but it's too late. Hunter learned who he is, he likes to be his own person with his own dreams and goals, and that freedom can only end on his own terms.

So say hello to the monster that you made

He knows he's a monster to Belos now. He embodies so many things he hates: witches, wild magic, autonomy, self-affirmation. And those are the things Hunter rubs in his face as he resists Belos' grip on his body and mind, before ending it on his own terms. That speech was his last act in his mind, and he chose to have it be a speech of hopes and dreams for the future and of love and tenderness for the unruly magic Belos despised, because Hunter isn't Belos, and Hunter loves those things and wants those things.

Thank you for the pain

Thank you for the hate

Thank you the way

That you left me scarred

Thank you for the stain

That you left on my brain

Now because of you

I’ve got a heart of novocaine

A heart of novocaine

My fear has died, my tears have dried, I don’t feel afraid and I won’t run away

I believe in me and now I see right through your lies hiding behind your eyes

Because of you I’ll make it through

Nothing can hurt me like you did anymore

Ever since Hollow Mind, Hunter was terrified of the very idea of being in Belos' presence again, and understandably so given his uncle had tried to kill him while he was still in his mindscape. In King's Tide he manages to fight him, but still stays on the sidelines. He talks back to him for probably the first time in his life, but he's still terrified.

At the end of Thanks To Them Hunter isn't afraid, not in the same way. Belos is in his blood, Flapjack is agonizing. It can't really get any worse, can it? Hunter knows what Belos' goals are, so he knows how to disrupt them. He knows how to keep his friends safe. And he does.

Thank you for the pain

Thank you for the hate

Thank you for the way that you

Left me scarred

Now there’s nothing you can say

To wash it all away

Yeah because of you

I’ve got a heart of novocaine

A heart of novocaine

A heart of novocaine

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

By: Rob Henderson

Published: Jun 12, 2022

Let’s start with a question: What do top hats and “defund the police” have in common?

Before we explore it, I’ll very briefly tell you about my unusual background. Currently, I’m a doctoral candidate in psychology at Cambridge and a faculty fellow at the University of Austin. And before this, I studied psychology at Yale as an undergraduate. But before entering these universities, my life was a lot different. I was born into poverty and grew up in foster homes in Los Angeles and all around California. I fled as soon as I could at age 17, enlisting in the military right after high school.

I then attended Yale on the GI Bill. That was a very different environment for me. At Yale, there are more students from families in the top 1 percent of the income scale than from the entire bottom 60 percent.

Throughout my experiences traveling along the class ladder, I made a discovery: Luxury beliefs have, to a large extent, replaced luxury goods.   Luxury beliefs are ideas and opinions that confer status on the upper class, while often inflicting costs on the lower classes. In 1899, the economist and sociologist Thorstein Veblen published a book called The Theory of the Leisure Class. Drawing on observations about social class in the late nineteenth century, Veblen’s key idea is that because we can’t be certain about the financial status of other people, a good way to size up their means is to see whether they can afford expensive goods and leisurely activities. This explains why status symbols are so difficult to obtain and costly to purchase. In Veblen’s day, people exhibited their status with delicate and restrictive clothing like tuxedos, top hats, and evening gowns, or by partaking in time-consuming activities like golf or beagling. These goods and leisurely activities could only be purchased or performed by people who did not work as manual laborers and could spend their time and money learning something with no practical utility. Veblen even goes so far as to say, “The chief use of servants is the evidence they afford of the master’s ability to pay.” For Veblen, butlers are status symbols, too.

In short, his idea was about how economic capital was often converted into cultural capital. These findings were later echoed by the renowned French sociologist Pierre Bourdieu in his 1979 book Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgment of Taste. In his body of work, Bourdieu described how “distance from necessity” characterized the affluent classes. In fact, Bourdieu coined the term “cultural capital.” Once our basic physical and material needs are met, people can then spend more time cultivating what Bourdieu called the “dispositions of mind and body” in the form of intricate and expensive tastes and habits that the upper classes use to obtain distinction.

Corresponding with these sociological observations, the biologist Amotz Zahavi proposed that animals evolve certain displays, traits, and behaviors because they are so physically costly. Many people are familiar with the example of the peacock’s tail. Only a healthy bird is capable of growing such plumage while managing to evade predators. A lesser known example is the behavior of the African gazelle. When these animals spot a predator, the healthy adult gazelles often engage in what is called “stotting.” They repeatedly jump as high as they can, springing vertically into the air with all four feet raised.

The signal this sends to predators is essentially: “I’m so fit that I can afford to expend valuable energy to show you how strong and robust I am compared with the other gazelles.” The predators then direct their attention to less lively and energetic targets. So for humans, top hats and designer handbags are costly signals of economic capacities; for gazelles, stotting is a costly signal of physical capacities. Veblen, Bourdieu and Zahavi all claimed that humans—or animals—flaunt certain symbols, communicate in specific ways, and adopt costly means of expressing themselves, in order to obtain distinction from the masses. Animals do this physically. And affluent humans often do it economically and culturally, with their status symbols. A difference, though, is that human signals often trickle to the rest of society, which weakens the power of the signal. Once a signal is adopted by the masses, the affluent abandon it.   There are historical examples of this. For example, in the middle ages, spices were expensive and only the elites could afford them. It was a hard-to-fake signal of one’s social rank and economic resources. But as Europeans colonized India and the Americas, the cost of spices dropped, and the masses were now able to obtain them. As a result of widespread use, spices were no longer a status symbol.

Elites decided they were vulgar, and during the reign of France’s Louis XIV, court chefs banned sugar and spice from all meals except for desserts.   Here’s another example. In the U.S., dueling was practiced primarily by the elite for many years. One key reason why it fell out of fashion in the early nineteenth century is because this ritual of dueling was gradually adopted by the lower classes. In response, the upper classes abandoned it because it was no longer prestigious. And then it was outlawed in the late nineteenth century.

The yearning for distinction is the key motive here. And in order to convert economic capital into cultural capital, it must be publicly visible. But distinction encompasses not only clothing or food or rituals. It also extends to ideas and beliefs and causes.   In his book WASPS: The Splendors and Miseries of an American Aristocracy, the author Michael Knox Beran examined the lives and habits of upper-class Americans from the mid-nineteenth to the mid-twentieth century. He writes that “WASPS” had mixed feelings about their fellow citizens.

These upper-crust Americans viewed ordinary Americans as “sunk in moronic darkness” and that “It is a question whether a high WASP ever supported a fashionable cause without some secret knowledge that the cause was abhorred by the vulgarians.” This still goes on today. In the past, people displayed their membership in the upper class with their material accoutrements. But today, because material goods have become a noisier signal of one’s social position and economic resources, the affluent have decoupled social status from goods, and re-attached it to beliefs. The upper class craves distinction. The French sociologist Émile Durkheim understood this when he wrote, “The more one has, the more one wants, since satisfactions received only stimulate instead of filling needs.”

And this is backed by recent research. A 2020 study titled “The possession of high status strengthens the status motive” led by Cameron Anderson at UC Berkeley found that relative to lower-class individuals, upper-class individuals have a greater desire for wealth and status. In other words, high-status people desire wealth and status more than anyone else. By now you probably know the answer to the question I asked at the beginning: what do top hats have in common with defunding the police. Well, who was the most likely to support the fashionable defund the police cause in 2020 and 2021? A survey from YouGov found that Americans in the highest income category were by far the most supportive of defunding the police.

They can afford to hold this position, because they already live in safe, often gated communities. And they can afford to hire private security. In the same way that a vulnerable gazelle can’t afford to engage in stotting because it would put them in increased danger, a vulnerable poor person in a crime-ridden neighborhood can’t afford to support defunding the police. According to the U.S. Census Bureau, compared to Americans who earn more than $75,000 a year, the poorest Americans are seven times more likely to be victims of robbery, seven times more likely to be victims of aggravated assault, and twenty times more likely to be victims of sexual assault. Expressing a luxury belief is a manifestation of cultural capital, a signal of one’s fortunate economic circumstances. There are other examples of luxury beliefs as well, such as the downplaying of individual agency in shaping life outcomes. A 2019 study led by Joseph Daniels at Marquette University was published in the journal of Applied Economics Letters.

They found that individuals with higher income or a higher social status were the most likely to say that success results from luck and connections rather than hard work, while low-income individuals were more likely to say success comes from hard work and individual effort. Well, which belief is more likely to be true? Plenty of research indicates that compared with an external locus of control, an internal locus of control is associated with better academic, economic, health, and relationship outcomes. Believing you are responsible for your life’s direction rather than external forces appears to be beneficial. Here’s the late Stanford psychology professor Albert Bandura. His vast body of research showed that belief in personal agency, or what he described as “self-efficacy,” has powerful positive effects on life outcomes.

Undermining self-efficacy will have little effect on the rich and educated, but will have pronounced effects for the less fortunate. It’s also generally instructive to see what affluent people tell their kids. And what seems to happen is that affluent people often broadcast how they owe their success to luck. But then they tell their own children about the importance of hard work and individual effort. Now let’s discuss strange vocabulary. When I was growing up in foster homes, or making minimum wage as a dishwasher, or serving in the military, I never heard words like “cultural appropriation” or “gendered” or “heteronormative.”

Working class people could not tell you what these terms mean. But if you visit an elite university, you’ll find plenty of affluent people who will eagerly explain them to you. When people express unusual beliefs that are at odds with conventional opinion, like defunding the police or downplaying hard work, or using peculiar vocabulary, often what they are really saying is, “I was educated at a top university” or “I have the means and time to acquire these esoteric ideas.” Only the affluent can learn these things because ordinary people have real problems to worry about. To this extent, Pierre Bourdieu in The Forms of Capital wrote, “The best measure of cultural capital is undoubtedly the amount of time devoted to acquiring it.”

The chief purpose of luxury beliefs is to indicate evidence of the believer’s social class and education. Members of the luxury belief class promote these ideas because it advances their social standing and because they know that the adoption of these policies or beliefs will cost them less than others. Advocating for defunding the police or promoting the belief we are not responsible for our actions are good ways of advertising membership of the elite. Why are affluent people more susceptible to luxury beliefs? They can afford it. And they care the most about status.

In short, luxury beliefs are the new status symbols. They are honest indicators of one’s social position, one’s level of wealth, where one was educated, and how much leisure time they have to adopt these fashionable beliefs. And just as many luxury goods often start with the rich but eventually become available to everyone, so it is with luxury beliefs. But unlike luxury goods, luxury beliefs can have long term detrimental effects for the poor and working class. However costly these beliefs are for the rich, they often inflict even greater costs on everyone else.

[windupnamazu]

like the hands on the clock, they'll go in circles back to their places

ffxivwrite2023 #06: ring a small circular band [...] worn on a finger as [...] a token of marriage.

Lunya/G'raha. Endwalker finale. 1143wc. Content warnings: kinda gorey descriptions? ⮞ Fourteen years ago, a little girl learned something from the man who would give his life for hers.

"Mister Kichirou," Yeyema began, tugging at the sleeve of her guardian's haori as they traipsed down Ruby Road Exchange together, the old man's steps slowed to keep pace with the young girl's smaller ones. "Why's your ring got so much aether in it?"

Kichirou's face lit up with delight as they drew to a stop at the intersection of the road and Emerald Avenue. "You can sense it, little moon? That is my wedding ring—it's filled with my late husband's aether. It is all I have of him now."

"Oh." She looked upon the ring and its crystal setting with a new kind of sympathy and curiosity. "It feels like there's almost enough aether in there to make a whole person."

Her grandfatherly guardian laughed, but it sounded kind of sad. "That's because there is—he passed before we finished the full transfer. Maybe if we had done it sooner he could have been healed." He chuckled more when she tilted her head cutely. "The rings were a failsafe, of sorts. Were one of us gravely injured, we could return each other's aether back; a unique token of love, trusting another with our life literally in their hands."

"You can really do that? Transferring that much aether into such a little thing?"

"There are many old spells lost or forbidden to modern mages," Kichirou told her, in that mysterious tone he oft used when she tried to poke too much at his life before Eorzea. "If you're truly curious, I will tell you of its fundamentals later. But first, shall we pick up your snack from Momodi-san?"

"Cookies, please!"

They don't expect the first of their missing Warriors to return in the state that she does.

The teleportation spell releases her on the floor of the Ragnarok with a whisper of wind and a flash of light that draws the attention of all the waiting Scions on the ship. G'raha Tia is the first to his feet at the sight of white like starlight, a wail erupting from his mouth when he takes in the state of his wife. Majj and Einar join the chorus.

Uncountable bruises bloom like twisted flowers across Lunya's face and upper body, the light of her freckles dimmed like clouds smothering the stars, but most concerning and terrifying of all is a vicious gash nearly splintering her in twain from her shoulder to opposite hip, blood seeping through the pearl sheen of her coat and black lace barely containing her insides. Her breath is so shallow it's hardly there at all as her twilight and crystal eyes gaze blankly into nothingness, and her white hair spills across the steel floor drenched in her crimson.

"NO!" G'raha's voice breaks as he falls at her side, hands glowing with healing magic even though a voice at the back of his mind tells him it's for naught. Never before had she come back to him in such a grievous state; of all the men and monsters she's faced, only one managed to strike a blow to her in this way, and Meteion hadn't said she and the others were left with him.

"Focus, G'raha," Y'shtola orders in a soothing but stern meter, but even her hands are shaking as she pushes aether into the open cavity of Lunya's chest, coaxing sinew and skin back together as fast as she can as Theodaux redirects organs where they need to be. Alphinaud and Ahnji hover; they can't expend all their healers at once when there are still Warriors yet to return, no matter how much G'raha wants to beg them to help her or how much they want to help themselves.

"It isn't enough," warbles Theo, sweat beading on his forehead from exertion as he leans against his staff. "There's too much to replace and she's losing what's left fast."

"Short of a whole person's worth of aether, I am not sure what we can do," Fleuriri murmurs, resting a hand on the Elezen's shoulder. "And seeing as she's already received a full foreign transfer once, I can't say how her body might handle another attempt."

Gods. He wants to cry. To kick and scream and curse and tear apart the universe for trying to take her from him. G'raha scratches groves into his wrist, a nervous habit turned frustrated, but as his fingers slide down to his wrist he remembers.

"Her aether," he says desperately, turning to Y'shtola. He pries off his wedding ring, crystalline and glowing, and shows it to her. "I have her own aether—enough to make a whole person, she said. The spell she used wasn't anything we know."

Y'shtola's eyebrows shoot into her bangs as she regards it before settling in grim determination.

Lunya blinks pitch night and stars from her eyes to find the ceiling of the Ragnarok. The twins are the first thing she sees after; Alphinaud has a steady stream of healing tethered between her stomach and his nouliths and Alisaie is pacing back and forth, muttering furiously to herself. The second thing she sees has all the residual fear she hadn't realized she was holding onto drain from her body in a heartbeat—her husband is crying, which won't do at all, and she fights against the heavy weight of her body to raise a hand to his face.

"My lodestar," her Raha weeps, grabbing her hand in his and pressing it to the curve of his cheek.

Voice creaking, she wonders, "Is everyone all right?"

"You're the last person who should even ask," G'raha huffs, but he smudges away the tears at the corners of his eyes and squeezes her left hand in his own. Distantly, she notices she's not in her robes anymore, bandages winding around her chest and stomach instead. Her husband's covered in blood that can't be his own and his wedding ring is gone and Y'shtola is across the room downing mana potion after mana potion, swaying in place as Majj does his best to steady her. She gets the feeling she knows exactly what they did.

"Thank you, sinta ko," she murmurs. "I'm sorry."

"Don't."

The ship explodes in a flurry of sound as another Warrior arrives in a haze of pink fur and blood and the others rush over to administer emergency healing yet again, but to G'raha and Lunya they sound a million miles away when he kisses her brow before pressing his own to hers.

"I would do anything for you," he reminds her. "I gave you my life just as you gave me yours, so I'll remind you a million times if I must. Just—live for me, Lunya. Don't apologize—just never do that to me again."

"I promise," she says, twisting his engagement ring around his finger. They'll have to make him a new wedding ring now. "And that is one I truly intend to keep."

[just-creative-julia]

A rant on Impoliteness

As a neurodivergent, I have a strong sense of justice. So I get really triggered if I feel wronged in any way. Even the smallest things set me off, in particular, people being impolite. Perceived rudeness really winds me up! It really doesn’t take much to say thank you! It seems like a silly thing to get annoyed over. But I’m already on sensory overload today so it’s not taking much to tip me over the edge!

I was coming out of a shop and saw someone about to come in. So I waited and let them come through first. And they just ignored me! No ‘thank you’, no acknowledgment. Nothing! It really angered me! First strike!

I then get back to my car, to find that someone has decided to park right on my bumper. With plenty of space in front of them! There was really no need to park that close to my car! Why do people do this?! I don’t understand it. Do people just generally not care for anyone else but themselves? There’s no thought for how it might affect other people! Or am I just being a snowflake millennial and expecting everyone to accommodate me?? Maybe that’s a different rant to be had! But I just protest against invading my personal space like that. Even if it’s the space around my parked car! I wouldn’t park like this out of courtesy as it just seems so rude! I really despair.

The trouble is, being on sensory overload, means this kind of frustration takes me even longer to calm down from it. I’m dis-regulated anyway, I don’t need to expend further energy trying to regulate because some *annoying person* (replace with an expletive!!) has decided to park on top of me! Grrr! 🤬🤬🤬 Hey ho, time to move on and get on with my day! Meh 😑

Photo credit: Photo by Pixabay from Pexels: https://www.pexels.com/photo/human-fist-163431/

[rjalker]

"you should talk more about what you like about The Murderbot Diaries instead of just complaining about the bigotry and bad writing!"

It's funny, it's entertaining. That's about it.

They first 5 books, chronologically, are extremely episodic and insular. There's no real overarching plot or anything to seriously connect each story besides the existance of the character, and the episodic parts are so shallow there's really nothing to talk about besides just summarizing the plot.

That's why I liked this series. It's light reading. Takes no brainpower.

Until of course we get to the two absolute failures of novels, but that's another thing entirely.

There's no worldbuilding for me to talk about, the characters aren't actually deep enough to explore without making everything up.

The Murderbot Diaries is funny. It's easy reading. It's entertaining.

What else do you want me to say? Should I summarize the plots? Should I waste my time doing worldbuilding that Martha Wells refuses to do herself when I'm not getting paid for it?

Sure, speculation can be fun, but not if I have to do literally all the work, which is what The Murderbot Diaires is demanding of me. And if I have to put in so much effort as to build the entire setting from the ground up from scratch because it just straight up doesn't exist in th text, I'd rather be putting that effort towards my own original characters and settings.

Martha Wells didn't even bother to tell us that Murderbot's fingers are metal until seven whole books in. And we don't even know anything about the rest of its body, besides that its feet don't look like human feet in some way we're never going to get specifics on.

There's not really any way to talk about what's good about The Murderbot Diaries besides saying "it's funny, it's entertaining, so far it respects touch averse people and aroace people".

Because anything more than that would literally just require me to spell out the plots for each extremely simple book. And it's not even like the plots themselves are particularly good or interesting.

Like, these are novelas that don't even put in as much world building as any random short story from 1930. What am I supposed to say about them besides the basics of "I liked reading them over four times now and I'll reread them again in the future?"

I know no one wants to admit it, but this series, excluding the two trainwrecks of full-length novels, is extremely light reading.

They're quite literally not that deep in terms of worldbuilding and characterization. Murderbot could be replaced with any other Martha Wells protagonist without any changes to the plot.

It's such light reading I could probably convince my mom to read the first book if I really wanted to. And that's saying something.

If you want to expend your creative energy doing all the work that's literally Martha Wells job, you can. But if I'm going to be expected to create an entire setting from the ground up and take characters from 1D blatantly Mary Sue concepts to round character...I'll just create OCs and get paid for my hard work.

I'm willing to spend a lot of energy on fandom creations if there's actually real world building and real characterization for me to work with. Not if I have to do literally all of the work myself because the author's too lazy to do it themselves.

There's not a lot of things to praise about The Murderbot Diaries without just straight out listing out the plots of each story, which is nothing but spoilers anyways, because the good things are subjective, and very shallowly written, but there sure as well are a lot of things to criticize that don't require specific spoilers.

whatcha want me to do, summarize the plot like a chatGPT?

[sunflower-chai]

good evening here are my bad batch season 3 episode 1 thoughts:

OMEGA MY BABY GIRL MY DAUGHTER OMEGA!!!!!!! she’s been trapped for so long her hair has grown so much i can’t take it. she made her own lula 😭😭😭

i won’t lie when they showed the clones getting blood samples taken i said to my brother “it’s me!” just some phlebotomist humor for ya. though i wish it was actually that easy to draw blood

so the imperial cloning division is trying to raise the M-count of the blood samples they take and nala se doesn’t want to test omega’s blood. maybe because her dna is unaltered from jango fett unlike the other clones it’s more likely to succeed? and nala se doesn’t want that. she has nothing against scientific improvement, so this breakthrough would likely put omega in danger, the only thing she cares about enough to sabotage the experiments

ohhh crosshair my crosshair 😢 he’s just so defeated and he’s convinced he doesn’t deserve to be rescued. and he’s still trying to pretend that he doesn’t care about omega but he so obviously does. he literally tells her not to risk her life to help him. he has a heart under that cold exterior

speaking of the detention level, seeing the clones in so much pain from the experiments broke my heart. i hope that not only omega and crosshair escape, but they’re able to help as many clones get out as possible

omega befriending the lurca hound was so sweet. even in a terrible situation, she expresses kindness to innocents. she definitely has a strong connection with animals (sounds like a certain jedi i know) (i’m not saying omega’s force sensitive but also i am). the way she refused to let batcher be euthanized and chose to heal her and help her escape. she has such a heart of gold that no one else in the facility can understand. crosshair goes as far to say she’s getting distracted from her objective of escape

and then we come to hemlock. what an interesting villain. his opening scene does a good job of establishing just how expendable he views most life forms to be, by letting the stormtroopers die in the jungle without a bit of remorse. the clones aren’t human to him, just a tool used to complete his objective. he has no regard for the pain he puts them through. as soon as a lurca hound is injured or too domesticated, he orders it to be killed. after all, these things can be replaced. what’s fascinating is the way he frames omega’s act of defiance by freeing batcher not as a loss for him, but a mistake for her. he calls omega cruel for subjecting a domesticated creature to a gruesome death in the jungle. according to him, batcher would have died either way. but omega refuses to follow this hopeless mode of thinking. she has faith batcher can survive. she has faith in crosshair. she even has faith in emerie, who so far has aided in holding omega against her will. maybe this faith is futile, but it’s all she has. giving up is not in her nature. for now, batcher is alive and free, and emerie chooses to break the rules by allowing omega to keep her replacement lula doll. crosshair says omega trusts too easily, but she may be right that crosshair doesn’t trust enough. after all, her trust in emerie seems like it could pay off

emerie is intriguing. as the only other female clone we know of, she was transferred off kamino early on for undisclosed reasons and now works for the imperial cloning division. i suspect she may be just as much a prisoner as omega is. after all, hemlock views most clones as expendable, why would emerie be any different? and i think omega’s defiance is starting to inspire her to fight against her shackles. curious to see how this plays out

the best way to discourage omega from her rebellion is to weaponize her kindness against those she loves. hemlock threatening crosshair if omega acts out again is the perfect way to get her to comply. she wants to escape, but i think her love for her brother will outweigh her mission

wow that was long winded but i think i’m done. i’ve only seen episode 1 but i’m planning to watch episodes 2 and 3 tomorrow afternoon. so i still have to filter my dash for spoilers and i can’t see what others are saying about the season so far, but i’m excited to see people’s thoughts! i for one am loving it. also shoutout to kevin kiner’s score as always. the almost old-timey sounding piano was haunting and beautiful, he truly never misses

[sigridstumb]

Solidarity forever.

Okay, okay, I can't stand it anymore. Rant incoming. Workers of the world, unite. You have nothing to lose but your fucking chains.

I don't care what sort of job you have. You -- yes, you. Reading this. Us happy few, us band of brothers still trying to reach each other in this cursed and dying space. You, dear reader, you need a fucking union. Unless you are self-employed, find out if you have a union.

How do you know whether your job has a union? Well, there's a couple places to look. First, ask your H.R. department if your job has one. Second, ask a coworker. Third: dol.gov or: unionfacts.com/cuf/ Or, y'know, use a seach engine.

(Yes, this is U.S.-oriented, I don't know a damn thing about other countries and their labor stuff.) Why on earth do you need a union? BECAUSE COMPANIES ARE ENTITIES DESIGN TO EXTRACT LABOR FROM YOUR BODY AND GIVE THE PROCEEDS TO SHAREHOLDERS.

(Yes, this is U.S.-oriented, I don't know a damn thing about other countries and their labor stuff.) Why on earth do you need a union? BECAUSE COMPANIES ARE ENTITIES DESIGN TO EXTRACT LABOR FROM YOUR BODY AND GIVE THE PROCEEDS TO SHAREHOLDERS.

You, you wreck your body and your life and pour yourself into a job and distilled money is squeezed out the other end into the hungry maws of shareholders and owners.

Corporate profit is at a level well beyond what we have ever seen, and it's expected to keep growingmarketwatch.com

"The fact is that in the 1980s and beyond, public companies began embracing a very different idea as to the purpose of a firm:  the idea that the sole purpose of a corporation is to maximize shareholder value."

How To Fix Stagnant Wages: Dump The World's Dumbest Ideaforbes.com

Workers are EXPENDABLE COMMODITIES to companies. This has accelerated over the course of my lifetime and it is still going, a graphed j-curve straight into hell.

You need a union because you can be replaced. All of us, we can all be replaced. If we die or are disabled or get burned out or suffer moral injury or just quit, if we just fucking quit, there are scads of others of us who are desperate for that job. Yes, even the shitty jobs.

It's only when all the nurses, all the pilots, all the teachers, all the cafeteria workers -- it's only when all of a given pool of people in a region qualified to do a particular task all quit working TOGETHER, AT THE SAME TIME, that we can get companies to listen to us.

How do we stop the slow removal of young people, queers, women, BIPOC, disabled folks from really good jobs? (Not that they are FIRED, no, but, you know, they are just not a good fit for the company, right, the company wishes they would stop being so needy all the time, right?)

We stop that trend (tech, gaming, comics, journalism, I am fucking looking at YOU) by UNIONIZING. We stop that by saying that we, the workers, will collectively protect EACH OTHER.

How do we stop the firings of service workers on pretexts because the workers wanted to unionize? BY FUCKING UNIONIZING. Unions bargin for rules that protect workers, and then when those rules are violated the UNION fights for you.

I can't I can't -- I just cannot EVEN with how important this is. Every shitty job you've had where your manager treated you unfairly? You needed a union rep to report that manager to.

Every time you were let go because you got sick or just were pregnant, just had a damn kid, well, a union makes rules that allow you to have sick days, that protect you from being fired when you develop a chronic illness. (Or just have a kid, for chrissake.)

I just, I just, I just want you to know that you don't have to be alone. You are NOT alone. Management wants us all to be alone, to fight with each other for literal scraps, to fight each other over small differences. And the divisions they sow have worked for generations.The Silent Generation was the last truly strong unionized generation. Boomers and GenX, well, we did not defend our unions. And, well, Reagan broke the unions in 1981. He fired all the striking air traffic controllers and hired in folks, largely from the military, to work.

And the lesson folks learned was to play nice with management or else they might fire everyone and ask the government might swoop in and replace the workers. The P.R. trick was almost worse, though. Strikes in the 70s and 80s were all reported on as "stubborn workers refuse reasonable requests at jobs, continue to make your life a hell." And that is ALREADY what is happening with the strikes and labor actions today.

If we are mad and scared because of the strike, if we are scared of what happens to us without food, without healthcare, without medications, if we get mad because we are scared, it's all to easy to get mad at the people we see in the news, the folks on the picket lines.

Don't fucking fall for it, I beg of you. Do Not Get Mad At Strikers. Get mad at the corporations. Get mad at the rail companies who won't give a SINGLE paid sick day. Get mad at health care corporations who refuse to staff hospitals safely. Get mad at universities that won't compensate their employees with a wage they can live on. Get mad at companies.

Unions, workers, they are not arguing for unreasonable perks. They are BEGGING to be treated as human beings, with human needs and limitations. The packages you order are delivered by human beings who piss in jars and die of heat stroke, because a corporation demands it.

When one party is asking for be allowed to recover from covid and the other party inists that you work until you literally die at your job, it's not a negotiation. It's extortion, it's brutality, it's hostage-taking.

So join your fucking union. If you don't have a union, form a fucking union.

  nlrb.gov/about-nlrb/rig… 

If another set of workers unionize, support them.

When unionized workers engage in workplace actions, get mad at the companies that refuse to terms of basic human decency. Do not cross picket lines, not even virtually, if you can possibly avoid it. (I know this gets complicated.)

All of which is to say: 

"Is there aught we hold in common with the greedy parasite, Who would lash us into serfdom and would crush us with his might? Is there anything left to us but to organize and fight? For the union makes us strong."

[sailor-toni]

Who will notice me?

Danielle is feeling upset at how the world has been treating her. One day while visiting Clockwork she vents out these frustrations. Phicc Phight submission for PhantomKick

Read it on AO3, Fanfiction.net, or Wattpad

“Are there any others like me?”

“Vlad, Danny, the other Danny.”

“No, like someone who was born a halfa… like me.”

                Clockwork had no response. Nothing verbal, nothing physical. He stared up at one of portals, watching humans walk past, a pair of siblings rush past, giggling and laughing. Spring sank through the portal edges giving the scene the small of nostalgia.  

“A question for a question? Why would such a topic interest you?”

“Hun?” As if she was his opposite, Dani gave a large reaction. Her body moving in time with her shocked expression. “Oh, well its uh never mind. Sorry to bother you.”

“Why are you sorry?”

“I don’t know,” She replied.

“Don’t apologize. If you do not know the reason then don’t deliver an empty gesture.” Clockwork was stern, not harsh but a command that left no room for argument. Dani watched as his reflection grew in age, wrinkles casting them around his face like echoes of lost time.

“I’m sorry,’ she muttered.

                Regret, it lined the walls of Clockwork’s tower. Every pillar, every broken title, every clock that gave its infuriating marching order, even the threads of his own tunic was imbued with it. It was even burning her face as she said it. Why did she even come here? A straight answer from Clockwork was like finding a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. He must do something good for Danny to be here constantly.

“You never answered my question little one.” Clock work was looking at her now. A sorrowful sea of red, like a sailor trapped under a blood moon. “Why does this topic interest you?”

“I’m just curious. That’s all. Danny7 and Vlad were both human and then they became half ghost. I know it doesn’t work the other way around but, it feels different when you never know what it’s like to be human first,” Dani said.

Another silence.

“Yes, long ago halfas like yourself used to be common around the ghost zone. But they were unlike you in a few respects.”

“Like?”

“They were born of a human mother and ghostly father,” Clockwork replied.  

“What happened to them?”

“They died and became full ghost, or were killed off and prevented from become a full ghost.”

Dani could only nod at this information, letting it process through her brain.

“I thought all halfas became ghost when they died?” she asked.

“Usually, but some who die in peace can skip over that step,” said Clockwork.

“Did they all die peacefully? The ones who never became full ghost?”

“No.” Dani swore she hear all the clocks stop ticking, but that had to be her imaginations, for the moment she let go of her breathe the ticking came back in. “It is possible to kill a halfa without them become a full fledge ghost. It is a cruel, slow and painful death that requires a person to force a halfa to expend all their energy while human. It is not a process I am comfortable repeating.”

“Is that why they aren’t around anymore?”

“No.”

“Well then why?” This was getting frustrating.

“They are forbidden. The last naturally born halfa was too much for both the ghost zone and the human world. So, the ghost zone sealed off all contact with its human counterpart and prevented any ghost from falling in love with a human.” This information made Dani only more curious.

“Who was he?”

“You ask a lot of questions.”

“No! You can’t just say stuff like, ‘The last natural blah blah blah’ and then not tell me the rest. I need to know now,” Dani pleaded.

“You need to know?”

“Yes! I need to know!”

“Fine, but you will have to join me for dinner. I can’t spend too much time away from the rivers of time, or else it will lead itself down a very curious path.”

                Dani followed Clockwork down a series of makeshift halls. Its wall and flooring not meeting correctly, leaving gaps along its seams, replacing the light from above with peaks and spots of neon green. Potted plants long dead and rotted stool tall around them, greeting them every few feet. A grim reminder of once was, or what could have been.

 A room full of vines and fire floated below them. The twisted path of walls leading them down into its depths. The room had four fire places, one on each wall, placed directly in its center. A long glass table stood in the middle; Dani could see their reflection in it as they floated down. The vines from the ceiling crawled down towards the fireplace, decorating them in an interlacing web. The blue flames from the fireplace cast deep shadows through. Tea and soup, each its own ghastly color of black greeted them as they took their seats.

“It’s only squid ink,” Clockwork waved away her concern.

                She tried a small nibble allowing the cold bitter mixture stained her tongue.

“Pff- I can’t believe you fell for it!” Clockwork had the face of a child now, laughing at her gagging. “This is a soup made for ghost, made from fermented flowers and boiled ectoplasm. No human nor halfa can eat this.”

“Then why did you give it to me!” Dani shoved the soup away, as if it could come alive and choke her with it’s sent.

“To see your reaction. It’s not everyday I get a dinner guest,” he said. Snapping his fingers, a small servant, whose head was covered in an egregious amount of eyeballs came and gave her a hot plate of broccoli cheddar soup. A few quick taste tests proved that it was indeed real and not another prank. Slurping up the last of his meal Clockwork spoke “As we wait for the main meal let’s continue our conversation from above. You were asking another question correct?” Dani was still eating her soup. The creamy cheese broth was filling her up faster than expected, and to not seem rude she had been shoving soup into her month as fast as she could.

“MmmmM? Mmmmmm MM! mmmmmmmMmmMMM?!”

“It can wait till-” Danny covered her mouth and forced everything down in one big gulp.

“Who was it? Who caused the end of natural born halfas? Why was the ghost zone afraid of him? What did he do? You gotta tell me!” her words came flying out of her mouth, at a mile a minute. Taking in this gibberish Clockwork closed his eyes and simply said

“Pariah Dark if you would believe it.” And Dani could, “There is a reason so many older ghost fear halfas, and go out of their way to control them, or kill them is that. Unlike ghost, halfas can grow their powers and evolve new powers. A ghost that breathe fire can only make the fire inside them stronger. While a halfa can learn to breath fire in one breathe and ice in another. Dan is a perfect example, both he and Danny have the ecto-scream ability, but Dan never developed ice powers like Danny did.”

“And that’s because Dan died before he could get those powers?” Dani asked.

“Exactly. Pariah Dark was one of the oldest halfa for his time. Living till his late sixties, using his powers to conquer lands, protect his people, and destroying any ghost from entering his domain,” Clockwork shot Dani a dry smirk. “Truly a hero king.”

“Wait… he was a good guy?” Dani gasped.

“Human Pariah was very different from the one you know now. He was still a strong stubborn mule with his own head stuck up his- but back then, he knew when it was time to back down and when it was time to fight.” Dani nodded along.

“He sounds like he was a different person entirely.”

“Almost. Looking back, you can see all the warning signs, the stress, the responsibility, and the scars gained from every thankless battle. Everything was there, but maybe nobody at the time cared to noticed,” Clockwork looked up from his tea. “But it is too late now.”  

                A new meal was brought in, this time it was a pasta coated in squid ink. Dani had it once before, with Vlad, the bitter memory mixing with the ink. She poked at it a few times, wondering if this too was more ghost food. The Master of time shook his head.

“Do ghost even need to eat?” She wondered.

“No but I like the taste. An old friend of mine would always say that a person taste in food matched their personalities,” Clockwork said. Dani didn’t know how true that was but took small bites of the pasta.

“So, what did Pariah Dark do that caused the end of all halfas?” she asked.

“He become the ghost king. He killed the last one and took over. He assured himself that he could control the ghost and form the ghost world into one of strict rules and customs. He sought to make his new home more human,” Clockwork took a bite of the pasta, savoring it in his mouth. “In his quest for power he lost the very thing he cherished, his humanity. Without it, he became a different person. Someone that refused to be controlled, or contained. He lashed out at anyone that would take his power away from him, until he was locked away for his crimes. A sad fate of course. Trapped in a tiny box, force to slumber as your work crumbles around you,” He took another bite of pasta. “The Observants and the Ancient Ghost did not want another Pariah to rise again. And in their efforts to combat their fears killed any such child they found until they sealed the ghost zone away from the human world, preventing the act in the first place.”

Dani, engaged by the story hadn’t touched her pasta beyond the few investigatory bites. “What about Vlad, and Danny, and me?”

Clockwork shrugged. “Most of the Ancient Ghost that locked up Pariah are gone. Moved on, destroyed, or gone mad with power themselves. The Observants are not ones to act on their own, so when Vlad became an artificial halfa they deiced to watch him instead. Then Danny came along and they sent their watch dog to control him.”

“What about me?”

“You?”

“Yes me! What about me? It’s always Danny this or Vlad that? Do they not care about me? Why doesn’t anyone care about me?”

“It is better if the Observants don’t care about you. They’re attention can lead to disastrous outcomes.”

                While it might be true, it didn’t stop the disappointment.

“The Observants are also fools, who cannot see their town feet, nor can they see a great power even when it comes walking in their front door. It is a mistake they make over and over again.”

“What do you mean?” Dani asked.

“The Observants brushed off Danny until he was twisted to Dan, they have brush off my brother until he became an unstable ghost tyrant, and they will brush you off until you become an issue, but we both know you are too smart to cause that much trouble. A natural born halfa who has her whole life to decide who to become. I wonder what she will pick?” The master of time gave her warm smile. “You will do many great things Danielle, so do not let the options of a few push you down. I can already see that you will far excess the achievements of both Danny and Vlad.”

“In a good way or bad way?”

“A positive way that only a natural born halfa like you can my dear.” Clockwork young child like face seemed to glow with a genuine smile, like non she had seen on him before.

“Did they do the same to you to?”

“Once, put if you don’t take it into account, time can sneak up on even the greatest of beings.”

[blairthetravelingyn]

Why do you still defend him? What makes you think he'd always to the same for you? What makes you think that he doesn't only see you as a replacement for the Wally that he lost? What if he meets a new Wally and you're shoved right back into the background as y/ns always are? What makes you think he'd care about you if he got a Wally back, and that he'd let you stay with him? I know you want to ignore this..but I know what you're thinking, Blair dear~your subconsciousness

H-He wouldn't...I..it's not like that....is it? Oh, I hope not...But then why would he....want to be so close at all times....am I expendable?....am I just another blank slate meant to be in the background?...A-Am I not allowed to be my own person?...

-they are glitching quite a bit-

[canichangemyblogname]

Syril Karn is never going to realize he is expendable to the fascist power structure. He is never going to realize that he is replaceable and that he didn't matter. He desperately wants to be important. He desperately wants so bad to *seem* like he matters. That's why he tailored his suit. That's why he took on the case that- quite literally- blew up in his face.

And someone might argue, "He cannot see the galaxy beyond how he is impacted, right? But, look at Arvel Skeen or Lieutenant Gorn. Once someone they loved or they personally were affected by regressive or oppressive imperial policies, their love for the Empire dried up. What's to say Syril won't follow that same path? The theme of the episode was that everyone has their reasons for fighting, no matter how big or how small."

And, sure... I guess. Yes, Syril cannot see the galaxy beyond how he is impacted. Yes, the episode was about how everyone has their reasons for fighting. But, the episodes have been split between 3 story-lines. Cassian. Luthen & Mon Mothma (the "Coruscant" Story Line). Syril Karn. In the different story lines, we see different reasons for agitating for the end of the Empire, for being a moderate who operates within the system rather than working to dismantle it, and for fighting on behalf of the Empire.

Skeen started out never having any love for the Empire and Lieutenant Gorn had a love or community outside the Empire to fill that human need for a sense of significance or community. When both of them lost that love and acceptance-- seen in Skeen's brother and Gorn's significant other-- that love they had for these individuals turned against the empire. All those Rebels are motivated by love in their fight and we're slowly learning about the love that pushed them to take up arms against an entity that is cold and cruel; that destroys love and community.

But the only "acceptance" and "approval" Karn has ever received is from people who toe the ideological line; is from his "brothers" on the "front lines." Syril clearly comes from a household where he is very used to being torn down. Parental and communal approval and acceptance are very necessary for a child's development. But he grew up constantly fearing that his actions would deter parental love and approval. Children chisel and shape their personality and choices according to what they believe will result in approval and thus love and care from their parents.

There is literally nothing-- not even working for the Empire-- that will gain his mother's (her name is Eddy?) approval, as evidenced by her telling him that police work never suited him and the fact she never visited him (he had a guest room, so he was both waiting for her and doing well for himself). Syril never learned self-identity. He never learned "Who am I apart from an authority figure?" He never learned that his decisions are his own, only that they are made to gain the approval and favor of an authority figure. That first authority figure was his mother-- who no doubt used physical means to reinforce this hierarchy-- and the final authority figure is the Empire.

(Insert some commentary here about how parenting which is strict and stern and characterized by high demands and low responsiveness affects a child's willingness to acquiesce to dictatorial systems given it creates children who are socially inept, dependent, and unable to think on their own or think critically. They often have poor self-esteem and are poor judges of character.)

Do not mistake this as me saying that you should feel sorry for Syril or start treating him as some sympathetic and pathetic little meow-meow just because he grew up in a household were his parent's love was conditional. Being raised by emotionally immature or neglectful parents; even narcissistic parents, does not make kids fascists. His decisions are still his own. While his emotionally neglectful and overbearing and overly critical mother has lead him to seek approval elsewhere-- specifically in police work-- his decisions are still his own.

When he loses "everything" and has to return to an emotionally toxic environment and then day-in-and-day-out listen to his mother tear him down and disparage his choices and ridicule his "misfortune," he looks for an scapegoat for his anger; someone beside himself to blame his position on. It hurts to admit you were wrong and you failed, even though his internal monologue is probably something to the likes of: "useless, failure, pathetic, disappointment," on repeat. He's only ever been a disappointment and a failure to his mother, and now he's also one in the eyes of the Empire. So what is he going to try and do? Strive harder for their approval.

This is going to make him more dangerous. He is going to double down on his misguided sense of right and wrong. He is going to dig his heels in. This is going to solidify his ideology and his commitment to establishing order. His “misfortunes” are going to convince him of the absolute righteousness of his crusade. His ambition, dedication, and commitment to order and rules as well as a strict sense of right and wrong have thus far played an important part in him upholding an authoritarian regime. But now you can add a feeling of personally being slighted to the list. And he is going to continue to blame his “misfortune” on people who are less politically advantaged.

Who is he going to scapegoat? Cassian. The people of Ferrix. Anyone but himself and the system. He isn't going to blame the Empire for him being cast aside (by the Empire). He isn't going to blame himself for his own incompetence and lack of foresight or consideration for literally anyone else in the galaxy. Syril isn't going to blame his former employer or his men. He is going to primarily blame Cassian.

Cassian is Syril’s version of Skeen’s brother or Gorn’s lover.

He is never going to see himself as expendable to the authoritarian power structure because he *can't* be in his mind. He desperately needs to matter to someone because he has never mattered to anyone, and maybe, he thinks, maybe he can matter to "history," maybe he can matter to others by upholding the "rule of law" and "order in the galaxy."

The lighting in these scenes perfectly highlights this, too. It highlights his feelings of stagnation and dejection. And then note his action figurines in the background of that final shot of him. He was raised surrounded by "subtle" military and nationalistic messaging. Those were the "heroes" he grew up on.

In real life when you talk to anyone who joined the military or a police force, and even a "militia" (a right-wing terrorist group), you'll hear the men- often cis and straight and white- cite brotherhood, community, and a sense of feeling like they matter and have influence (power) as their reasons for joining. They believed they could "matter" to others by throwing their weight behind "law and order." They believed they could (and should) take society’s “fate” into their own hands. When these men get out of those militias, specifically, and start cult deconstruction (yes, they have cult mentalities), one of the predictors of relapse is feelings of isolation and loneliness. They need a feeling of community and acceptance to be secure enough to walk away and keep away. Syril does not and will never have that.

(DO NOT take this to mean that these people deserve some poor meow-meow sympathy or something. Please! They did objective harm to other people and should be held accountable for that and should answer for that. Their decisions are still their own. There is a difference between hate and oppression apology and understanding the psychology of the people who join and support these groups.)

###

I have never seen such an accurate portrayal of a working white family. Syril's relationship with his mother reminded me of my relationship with my mother. Down to the way they spoke to each other-- from her passive-aggressive insults to Syril's seemingly self-aware sarcastic jabs. During the pandemic, I was let go from my job and lost my housing, forcing me to move back in with my mother. Unlike Syril, I didn't scapegoat an immigrant for my troubles (again, having emotionally immature parents does not a fascist or bigot make). Nothing taught me that I was expendable to the capitalist class more than being literally discarded. Unlike Syril, I was a low wage worker who was working one of the only available jobs following graduating. Not a day went by where my mother didn't make passive-aggressive jabs about my lack of ambition or lack of prospects or disappointment, both while I was employed as a fast food worker and after I was laid off. ("You have no prospects." "I'll figure something out!" "I'll call your cousin. She got a job at that call center. Or maybe that family friend. See if she has any opening." <That was a daily conversation. And then once I secured myself a job, it was: "I got you this job. You're successful because of me.")

Also, contrast Syril's dynamic with his mother with Mon Mothma's dynamic with her child. In the wealthy white household, children are more props than anything. The parents are quite uninvolved and the children are often raised instead by a team of staff. In working white households, the children are seen as an extension of the parent. The parents are often more involved at least in terms of their children's activities and decisions (like what sports, what instruments, everything the child does is dictated by the parent). But in both families, it is all about outward appearance (See: Eddy's comments about Syril slouching and Leida's comment that Mon Mothma just wants to appear involved).

[sweatertheman]

yknow, it may just be the 3 AM brain talking, but i think john's approach in the face of his reality is correct. nihlism. john doesnt have a care in the world. while some things upset him, he doesnt have any real feelings about whatever happens. things happen to him and he tries his very best to accept them, because the existence laid out for him is one of unjust suffering, incomprehensible stakes, and existential meaninglessness. he will suffer for no justifiable reason. he and everyone he has ever known will die a thousand meaningless deaths, and their successes will not amount to anything. in tge face of a world which created you as a tool for some inane purpose, what better to do than to just stop caring. it sucks his dad died, but thats not important. so what if davesprite and dave arent the same. it doesnt matter, they're all expendable anyway, may as well just take things as they come. what's 3 years in the face of eternity? what does his personal growth have to do with anything anymore? whats the point? why not just accept this miserable existence and find enjoyment in whatever small things he can? and, in a world seemingly designed to torment those allowed to exist within it, to grind them down and crush their spirits for some inscrutable goal, how better to succeed than to become detatched from it all? to stop caring about time, personal relationships, personal growth, life, death, anything? this would be a great direction for his character if it weren't for the fact that john has always been like this and im pretty sure this doesnt happen. i hope it does though, cause like. itd be better than nothing! if you look at john this way he almost becomes interesting. a young man so disillusioned with existence that he stops caring about anything. he becomes detatched, absentminded, and entirely unmotivated, passively accepting everything that comes his way. nothing means anything anymore. his relationships mean nothing and are as replacable as he is. time is meaningless as he will live forever. the universe is just the biology of a giant frog, which propogates just like anything else. it reproduces and dies for no reason, upwards to infinity. the only thing left to do is to wait out eternity rambling about ghostbusters to anyone who cares to listen.

[meeks-is-me]

I have written countless letters to all the people I ever wished I could love. Loving someone without a thread of blood attached is the hardest thing to find. I may have offered my brittle heart to dozens of suitors, but never so repeatedly as I have to him.

I thought he loved me, I really did. It was a naive thought; young men never seem to care so deeply as the written word claims. I gave him my soul, I gave him my time, and my darkest thoughts. He did the same, but never with such dedication as I. 

My feet are bleeding and raw from the shards of glass I walked through just to meet him on the other side. He offers me nothing in return, nothing I really need. He couldn’t even take my foot in hand and wrap them lovingly with honey and linen; he leaves me in pieces while I fix myself just for him.

I’m never enough. Why am I never enough? I could count with my fingers how many times he tossed me to the wolves for a better model. Am I really so unlovable that I must give all I can until I’m expendable? Why must you pick me back up again just to throw me away like a rotten shred of meat?

I’ve written my heart down on scented pages to just pray for the courage to give them to you, and yet none of it ever seems worth it. All I appear to be is a fool. I am a jester dancing for an uninterested king; you’re far too interested in the queen you’ve replaced me with than anything I could ever offer.

I have to poke and prod just for a chance for you to lead me astray. Love me, Taylor. Respect me, Taylor. I beg of you, please do not discard me, Taylor. You never listen. You plug your ears with your own fingers and walk away while I scream my throat raw.

I am convenient. I am a vitamin to get you by until you can survive off of the sun. You only approach me when you’re bored, and you know I’ll always be ready to jump up at the opportunity.

I cannot stand the thought of being your last resort any longer, but I know if you say the word I will return to my place at your feet. 

I can’t do this anymore. Please never ask me to walk the glass-scattered earth for you ever again. I am my greatest enemy, and I have the scars to prove it.

---Eulogy.