#why not just have it be fucking ebola or something.

[night-dark-woods]

we are at season 5 of our poi rewatch and ive never seen the second half and the outbreak episode (reassortment) is driving me fucking insane. and the only "goof" in the imdb page is that antivirals are given in the delt not the bicep.

THATS the only goof worth mentioning???

NOT the fact that they have someone get injected with the flu and then die within an hour even though incubation time for the flu is DAYS???

NOT the fact that they FLAT OUT state that if you inject someone with the normal flu if they already have avian flu, it will create a superflu???

NOT the fact that they show DIAGRAMS OF HUMAN CHROMOSOMES LABELED WITH THE VIRUS NAMES AND SAY THAT THATS THE VIRAL DNA??? AND THAT THOSE CHROMOSOMES ARE BEING COMBINED BC BOTH FLUS GOT INJECTED INTO ONE GUY???

[wendytestabrat]

Every Stendy episode in order if you wanted to watch their problematic relationship unfold and see how toxic and abusive Wendy is LOL

Cartman Gets an Anal Probe (s1e1)

Weight Gain 4000 (s1e2)

Wendy fucking makes Stan go with along with her bitchass plan to expose Cartman’s fake paper or whatever bc she was jealous he won the contest and not her

Pinkeye (s1e7)

Wendy fucking makes Stan dress up as Raggedy Andy and then changes her costume to Chewbacca at last second without telling him.

Tom’s Rhinoplasty (s1e11)

Wendy’s toxic jealous ass kills a substitute teacher and shoots her into the sun bc she couldn’t handle Stan paying attention to someone else.

Chef’s Chocolate Salty Balls (s2e9)

Wendy fucking drags Stan along to these boring ass films he doesn’t like, and then when he tries to hold her hand she fucking steals his soda and puts a DIRTY TISSUE in his hand

Clubhouses (s2e12)

She forces Stan to build a clubhouse to play truth or dare so Stan does it bc he’s a simp and he wants to kiss her, but instead of just kissing Stan, Wendy lets Bebe fucking dare him to jab a stick up his peehole.

Chef Goes Nanners (s4e7)

Wendy fucking cheats on Stan and kisses Cartman, ‘nuff said 😤

Bebe’s Boobs Destroy Society (s6e10)

Wendy fucking gets BREAST IMPLANTS bc she was so fucking jealous of Stan liking Bebe for her boobs. And ya’ll say Cartman is the crazy one for getting implants when Wendy did the same shit LOL.

Raisins (s7e14)

She fucking dumps Stan for no reason and doesn’t even tell him to his face just to hoe around with Tolkien.

Follow That Egg (s9e10)

Wendy fucking shits on Stan over his parenting skills over a god damn egg, and tries to pit him against Kyle bc she was bored and wanted his attention. And then her narcissistic ass has the nerve to be like “You made a great dad I’m sorry I doubted you” like Stan gives a crap about what she thinks.

The List (s11e14)

Boring don’t care

Super Fun Time (s12e7)

Stan & Wendy pair up on the field trip together but bc Wendy is snobby and stuck up, she tries to make Stan feel like he’s not good enough for her and deadass shits on him at the end and calls him a dork even tho he SAVED KENNY’S LIFE

Elementary School Musical (s12e13)

Wendy fucking hoes around with the Bridon kid, and then lies to Stan that she wouldn’t leave him for Bridon even tho she continues to hoe around with him after he expresses his hurt.

Butters Bottom Bitch (s13e9)

UGHHHH this is really when Wendy begins to get even more fucking annoying. Wendy gets mad at Stan and fucking yells at him for no reason even tho he defended her against Butters for calling her a bitch.

Dances With Smurfs (s13e12)

Wendy again, gets mad at Stan for no reason for standing up for her. He tries to help her stop Cartman when he was writing that book about her being a slut (I mean he’s not wrong tho) and then she fucking yells at him.

You Have 0 Friends (s14e4)

Wendy gets fucking jealous again for no reason and then accuses Stan of seeing another girl and yells “fuck you” at him bc his gma said something on his facebook page.

Insheeption (s14e10)

Ass Burgers (s15e8)

This is one of the only Stendy episodes I like Wendy in bc she cared about him and wanted to help him when he was depressed even tho Kyle didn’t do shit.

The Hobbit (17e10)

Wendy is a jealous bitch again over Stan looking at the pics of photoshopped girls, but this is just getting redundant at this point.

Gluten Free Ebola (s18e2)

UGHHHH Wendy gets all pissy at Stan for breaking up with her to start a startup company in the previous episode and she makes this dumbass speech to him about not walking out on people or some shit even tho she’s done the same thing to Stan herself in all fairness she had the right to be mad tho

Cock Magic (s18e8)

She gets all pissy at Stan for not knowing she was in volleyball or going to her games, I mean I get why she was mad but like it was still demanding bc we never see her show an interest in stuff Stan likes. And she deadass didn’t even say she was in the team either she just told Stan he should go to the game at the beginning of the episode and she made it sound like she was just going to watch.

Skank Hunt (s20e2)

UGHHHHHHHHHHHHHH you know what happened, next

Oh, Jeez (s20e7)

Boring, next

(s21-23) did they really not talk for 3 seasons?

They fucked at the end of the Post Covid specials tho

[brighth0pe]

4:39 A.M. Okinawa Japan

Somewhere in an abandoned facility in japan dozens of bodies of moon rabbit scientists covered and fused together with biomass covered everything even the walls and corridors of the facility. Surrounded by abominations created from a doomsday project unknown to the outside world and all of gensokyo. In such a shocking turns of events the one whose responsible for the creation of the doomsday project is none other than Reisen, the murderer of Yukari now returned from the dead but however... Something is off about the moon rabbit as her body convulsing and twitching in a very maniacal manner as she calls the ones who also took part in this project that will bring an end to gensokyo a second time and even worse yet, the death of every horror in all of makai including the city of makai. She look at a vial that reveals itself to be a virus all made with the blood of both horror and Yukari and combined with rabies and the ebola virus.

This virus is no ordinary virus as it has a horrifying higher mortality rate which can make the victim become far more rabid and dangerous right before the virus kills them which then they enter the next stage of the mutation. They be brought back as husk of their former selves.

" Yeah, don't rush me you know how the fuck do I feel about rushed by you fuck heads. We got work to do now... "

Reisen hung up the phone only staring at the wall blankly before walking deeper into the laboratory waiting, just waiting for them to come and try to stop her, her next victims to play with. Her next victims are the Makai army that arrived by helicopter as they drop down and now quarantining the area as the makai army are armed to the teeth and even accompanied by cyber horrors but one have stood from the rest. A boy who just looked identical to the black dragon of gensokyo herself. The boy appears to be in his teens roughly the age of 16 years old, but he was and always is a muted one in his own right following orders as this will most likely be his final mission together with his allies and squad mates. This particular horror' s name is Zaji who has a very odd past in his life he was born from the malevolence of horrors as well as their hatred for makai knights in general but why he looks and dresses as Koishi is complicated in his files but he wishes it to remain a mystery to save him from the public.

His orders are simple, find and rescue his kidnapped squad mates, apprehend the moon rabbit Reisen and stop the bioweapon from releasing into gensokyo, makai and the outside world. His squad Delta stand by and prevent anything from the lab to be set free and anyone to come near the quarantine zone while Zaji heads on inside as he place his gas mask around his face pulled out his rifle and pressed forward into the facility unaware that upon entering the nightmare has just begun in this holiday night.

[borbersk]

Can we talk for a second about how it's totally OK in many circles to use aids as a punchine? Because it's really fucked up that it's acceptable to do that with "the gay disease" but not something like cancer.

Now, personally I prefer to advocate for equality by ripping the absolute piss out of both diseases equally. Aids is hilarious and so is cancer. But if you think diseases like them are only funny when they affect a minority group disproportionately then you have some thinking to do. This is why I joke less about tuberculosis or ebola, for example. I dunno. Just a thought

[self-loathing-angel-of-thursday2]

Beautiful Spouse’s Rewatch Thoughts SPN 04x05 

Monster Movie

“Is this the first obnoxious intro they’ve done?” “Vladimir” “The whole first watch through, I thought Robert Singer was Bobby Singer the character” “They just amped the contract even further” “Creepy” “2008. Thanks Obama” “The suit is one thing but you gotta admire Dean’s hair” “Why does Dean get the striped tie? Oh Sam’s is striped too but it’s not as visible” “Again talking with your mouth full. Goddamn” “Stuffing his fkn mouth as he walks away” “yeah we’ll talk about my little problem” “that’s why they zoomed in on her tits” “what the fuck was that?” explaining the film noir homage to classic monster movies

“Haha lots of experience with strange” “hissing vampires” “I think the word you’re looking for is bolo tie. I mean the ebola ties” “Do vampires wear bolos?” “wasn’t that the lipstick from another waitress? The brunette?” “what the fuck kind of logic is that?” laughing loudly “how did I forget about this? This is fkn ridiculous” “oh I hate her bangs”

Spouse hates a blunt fringe bang, and idk why “his balls” “All sorts of medical type problems” “pouty face” Pauses the show. Looks at me. “It’s medical” “There were like 4 eye expressions in that one scene” “nice” Dean is always asking the important questions like if Dracula can turn into a bat

“They did the foam on purpose. It didn’t look so cool. That was on-purpose writing shit”

“Sure” “sure” spouse isn’t familiar with the old horror flicks so he’s just saying “sure” “Blessed the holy mother of crap” “She even fkn waited for Dean” “delicious. Fry it up like bacon” “They could mail his skin back to him in a box” “As he rides away on his little fkn whatever you call that thing. A scooter type of device with wheels” “dean is so slutty” “hey it checks out” “yeah thats real detailed” “why is Dean being so weird?” “LOL” “That was the worst fkn line in the whole episode? “Does that make you a monk? Let’s bone!”” “uh huh” “Music is dramatic but Jared isn’t being as dramatic as the music” “did she put something in the lipstick?” “don’t fall onto the glass dumbass” “they could have done more episodes like this. It’s fun” Spouse hated it the first time “well I like it now. It makes rewatches interesting”

“FUCK. I want a pizza for $15. If only it cost $15 delivered” “when did the vampire and garlic lore start?” “look at that fkn bed. Holy shit” “THat’s some fancy-ass pillows dude” “Tassels everywhere” “what the fuck” “vampire lipstick” “do shifters die by silver?”

[whimsicallyreading]

For Day 29 of Rowaelin Month

“A song fic-“

The song- “Always Been You” by Quinn XCII

CW- Mentions of miscarriage and divorce

"I can't believe you right now."

Rowan looks at his wife in frustration. She's sitting at the end of their bed, staring listlessly at the wall. The skirt of the red dress she's wearing is wrinkled, and his heart aches when he notices the mascara marks on her cheeks.

"Aelin," Rowan tries again to reach for her, but she leans away from his grasp.

"No, Rowan. I'm done."

Rowan takes a long swing from the beer in front of him. The time on his phone alerts him that he's spent most of the evening sulking at his bar.

The guys had invited him to dinner, but Rowan hadn't felt like going in light of his current situation. Instead, choosing to meander to the shady little pub they'd passed by coming from the airport.

His lawyer had sent him numerous emails. Documents to sign, agreements to approve, and papers he needed to read through before sending them to the judge.

Divorce was a pain, and Aelin wasn't making it easy.

"Hey, bud. I thought I might find you here." Fenrys slides onto the barstool next to his.

Rowan sighs and rubs the lines forming on his forehead. "Well, I thought it was obvious I didn't want company."

"Too bad. Drinking alone isn't a good look on you." Fenrys raises a hand and motions for another round of beers. "How are things going with ya know?"

"Shitty. She's never paid a dime of rent on that apartment, but she wants the lease signed into her name and for me to front the first four months of rent." Rowan cracks a peanut between his finger. He has no intent to eat the growing pile in front of him. He just craved the satisfaction of breaking something.

"Well, have you talked to her about that?" Fenrys frowns in sympathy, knowing how equally attached both parties were to the little rental.

Rowan laughs mirthlessly. "No, she said that it was better if our conversations were mediated. I always knew Aelin was catty, but she's acting like such a-"

"Don't." Fenrys gives Rowan a severe look. "I know you are upset, but don't start saying shit you'll regret."

Rowan pauses and reluctantly nods his agreement. It's the alcohol talking. He knew the problems that had festered his marriage were predominantly his responsibility.

He takes a deep breath, but a heaviness seems to keep the air from reaching his lungs fully. The weight was slowly becoming too familiar, starting the day Aelin had presented him with the papers.

Rowan wishes he'd done more. Wishes he'd paid more attention and seen the signs of Aelin's unhappiness.

The day Aelin had broken down in their bedroom had been a cold wake-up call but by then? It was already too late.

"You missed our anniversary Rowan." Aelin shouts and pulls her heels off angrily.

Rowan picks up a shoe and tries to hand it back to her. "I know. I'm sorry. It's not too late, though. We can still go out? There's still time to salvage-"

Aelin turns away from him and seems to fold in on herself. Rowan wants to reach out. He wants to hold her, but something dark is building in the air.

"I don't want your leftovers, Rowan," Aelin whispers. "That's all I get anymore—your leftover time. Your leftover attention. Whatever leftover resentment you bring home from work."

"Aelin-" he tries to cut off her depressive spiral, but she's not finished.

"You used to call me during the day." Aelin's voice cracks, and he realizes she's crying. "Every day, you would call me on your break. Now you don't even call when you leave town."

"Baby, just listen to me." He puts his hands on her shoulders, but Aelin breaks his grasp to turn around and look at him.

"Is there someone else?" Her eyes are wide and vulnerable. So unlike his regular Aelin."

"What?" His brain is struggling even to formulate a reply. Rowan's lack of response only causes Aelin to worry more.

Something in her cracks. There's a quiver to her lips, and her face drains of color. "Oh. Oh no."

"Aelin. I swear there is no one else." Rowan finally says, but it's too late.

"Is," Aelin presses the heels of her hands against her eyes. "Is it because I lost the baby?" She sucks in a hiccupping breath. "You've always wanted kids. So did I, but my fucking body doesn't work."

Aelin closes her eyes, and Rowan knows she's speaking more to herself than him, but her words gut him just the same. "My body doesn't work right. I keep giving us false hopes and wasting money on pregnancy tests. Of course, you would look for a woman who can give you what you want."

He's surprised by the sudden flare of anger in him. "Don't put words in my mouth. That will never be your fault."

They'd known right from the start their journey to parenthood would be a long one. Aelin had a family history of complicated fertility. It had seemed so trivial when they got married. Yet even knowing there could be issues, nothing quite prepared them for the pain of a miscarriage.

Aelin sniffles, unable to force back her grief, "But you resent me. Don't you?"

Rowan doesn't reply.

"It's rough," Rowan admits out loud. "I let a lot get left unsaid. I was hurt and pushed her away. Now she won't even speak to me without a lawyer present."

Fenrys nods, "It's all probably for the best. Once this is over, you guys can put this drama behind you."

"I wish it were that easy," Rowan knocks back the rest of his beer. He grimaces at the drink. It's not taking hold quickly enough.

Fenrys raises an eyebrow. "You both will be able to shut the book on this chapter of your lives and move on? Considering how bloody you two have been fighting, it sounds ideal."

They sit in silence. Fenrys takes the peanut basket away from Rowan and picks at the shells. The bartender comes by, and disgruntledly eyes Rowan's pile of crumbs as he orders a whiskey neat.

Fen was like his little brother, but Rowan found it hard to admit his real problem to him aloud. "I still love her."

The basket goes flying over the side of the counter, and Fenrys chokes on his beer. "What?"

Rowan can't look him in the eye, "We lost a baby. It was early. Aelin didn't want to tell everyone. Three years we tried to get pregnant, and finally, a test comes back positive. She was so happy."

"Shit," Fenrys says quietly. "I'm so sorry."

"It was there, and then it was gone. I thought Aelin was fine. She cried for a week, but then it was like a switch flipped, and she was back to normal." Rowan clenches a napkin in his fist. "I was devastated. It hurt like hell, but I didn't want to send her back into a depression." Rowan shakes his head at how stupid he'd been. "So I put some distance between us. I didn't want her to think I was upset with her."

"I didn't feel better," Rowan sips the whiskey, relishing the warmth. "It made me mad that she got over it so quickly, and I couldn't. I didn't realize that I was growing that space between us. I didn't understand how much guilt she harbored and that she tried to be strong for me. Not until she broke."

"We fought. I said all the wrong things. Aelin couldn't take it anymore, she left, and I didn't stop her." Rowan leans his head on his hands and elbows against the counter. "She's the love of my life, and I watched her walk out the door."

Fenrys sucks in a breath and sighs. "You are my best friend, and I mean this in the most loving way possible. Why the hell are you here?"

"What?" Rowan looks at Fenrys annoyed face.

"Get out of here. Go. I'll tell the boss you have ebola or some shit." Fenrys fishes his wallet out and throws cash on the bar. "I'll even cover the tab. Just leave. Now."

"What? I don't understand?"

Fenrys looks at Rowan like he's stupid. "No offense, but you are about as interesting as a brick wall. The fact you caught a girl like Aelin is astonishing. If you love her, are you honestly going to let her go on being miserable?"

"She's not miserable," Rowan scoffs.

Fenrys laughs bitterly. "You forget I'm pals with Aedion too? Aelin winds up at his house almost every evening crying her eyes out. You two are still hopelessly in love. You're just dumb and badly in need of a good conversation."

"Aelin is upset?" A sense of disbelief washes over him.

"Yes! She misses you, but she's under the impression you are off sleeping around." His face saddens. "I told Aedion you weren't. He knows I go on all of these trips with you. Aelin's just upset you're gone and needs to believe in something that can help her let go."

Rowan stands up, swaying. "I have to go."

"Hell yeah, you do. Give Aelin my love," Fenrys waves as Rowan vates the bar like a hawk out of hell.

Aelin sets the stack of papers in front of him.

Rowan had been camping out in his office ever since there disaster of an anniversary. He'd texted a few times, but every time they talked, it was like relighting a fuze. Things weren't getting better.

"What are these?" Rowan asks without looking up from his screen.

"Your ticket to freedom," Aelin sits in the chair across from him.

She looks thin, thinner than she did when Arobynn was her foster father. It physically hurts Rowan that he's causing her that kind of stress. Glancing at the papers, she slapped in front of him. His blood becomes like an ice river through his body. "Aelin-"

"I'm not the one for you. That's apparent now. I won't hold you hostage in a marriage that you aren't happy in." Aelin blinks, and a tear slides down her face. He wants to wipe it away, but he's beyond angry. She was giving up on them.

"If this is what you want," Rowan slides the papers towards him and pulls out a pen.

Rowan is racing the familiar paths to their apartment. He doesn't care that it's almost four in the morning. The plane ride between Perranth and Ornyth is mercifully short, but he can't force himself to wait another minute.

"Aelin," he yells through their door. "Baby, answer me. Open the door."

Rowan's fists tap a consistent rhythm on the door, and his heart skips a beat when a bedraggled Aelin finally appears. "Rowan, do you know what time it is?"

She's in a pair of grey flannel pajamas, not one of her usual silky numbers. Aelin's eyes are red around the edges, and her face is still dewy from the excessive amount of lotion he knows she loves to put on. Rowan knows all of her routines. All of her favorite outfits, comfort movies, and best memories. He knows the scar she has on her left hand from an abusive foster father. Rowan remembers how the bridge of her nose wrinkles when she's upset in the same spot her cousin's does.

He knows everything about her, because not only were they husband and wife, they were best friends.

How could he have let that go?

Before Aelin can ask any more questions, Rowan has swept her into his arms. "I missed you so damn much."

"Rowan, have you been drinking?" Aelin asks in a voice cracked with emotion.

His hands are running up her back, and his knows burrows into her hair. He's always loved the smell of her jasmine shampoo. "Fireheart, I never resented you for losing the baby."

"Rowan, I don't want to talk about this," Aelin tries to push him away, but he squeezes her into his chest, and she melts.

That had been his mistake. He should have held Aelik like this and never let her go on pretending to be happy. How could he know everything about this woman and not have seen past her facade? She'd suffered. His own pain had blinded him.

"Aelin, I've made so many mistakes lately." Rowan rubs the back of Aelin's neck the way she likes, and he can feel the sobs starting to build up inside of her. "But the greatest shame of my life is not being there for you when you needed me. I was stupid, Fireheart. I'm not going to be stupid any longer. This separation can't go on, we aren't any happier for it, and I can't live knowing I'm away from the other half of my soul."

Aelin cracks, and he can feel the tears wetting the front of his shoulder. "You were never home. I thought there was someone else, someone who could give you the things you wanted because I can't."

Her whole form is shuddering his arms, and Rowan squeezes tighter as if he can hold her broken pieces together. "It's always been you. I don't care if we adopt or never have any kids at all. All I need is you, baby. You are all I've ever needed."

Suddenly, hands are in Rowan's hair as Aelin crushes their lips together. The kiss is frantic, a relief of the stress they'd carried upon their shoulders.

"I missed you too," Aelin whispers in between kisses. “Gods I mussed you so much.”

The rest of their night is filled with soothing words, frantic kissing, and murmured apologies. Rowan kisses the tears from her cheeks and Aelin looks into his eyes like she’s home. Nail dig into skin as they promise never to be apart again.

For the first time in months they sleep in the same bed. Rowan sinks into a deep restful sleep with his wife in his arms once more. He loves the way her cold toes search out his heat. How Aelin fits so perfectly against his chest. When he wakes up and she’s still there, his heart nearly features from relief.

After months of pain, it's the beginning of their walk towards healing.

The days after aren't perfect. They had legal issues to sort back out, more problems to lay bare to the sunlight. There was arguing, but it lacked actual heat, and they didn't walk away feeling unloved at the end. No longer did they fight to land barbs. Their bickering now served to work towards solutions and to express needs.

Between struggles, the love began to grow back. Rowan kept his job at work, and when he was home, it was about them. He started calling her on his breaks again, and it always astonished him how much he missed the sound of her voice. They both strived to communicate their feelings better and actually listen instead of reacting.

Aelin surprised him with romantic dates, and Rowan read pages of her favorite books to her at night. They danced in the kitchen and laughed at their favorite shows.

Fixing their marriage was hard work, but Rowan and Aelin didn't mind. The separation proved that neither of them wanted a life without the other. It was to whatever end, and they wouldn't accept anything less for them.

On one Sunday morning, Rowan opens his eyes and realizes that Aelin isn't on her side of the bed. Panic surges in him, and he looks around to make sure her things are still there.

They are, and the tension eases from his shoulders until he hears soft crying from the bathroom. Darting out of bed, he grabs Aelin's bathrobe and knocks on their bathroom door. "Aelin, what's wrong?"

Had he screwed something up? Was she sick?

The lock clicks, granting him silent permission for him to come inside. Rowan pushes the door open and finds Aelin crying on the side of the tup. With gentle hands, he wraps her robe around her and throws an arm over her shoulders. "What's wrong?"

Aelin looks up at him, a radiant smile on her face. "Look."

Rowan glances down to her clenched fists and-

He blinks, once, twice. Aelin laughs at his dumbfounded face, and it breaks his paralysis. Rowan grabs her around the waist and spins her around the cramped bathroom, the positive pregnancy test clattering to the floor.

Aelin's arms wrap around his neck. The emotion in the room is raw and bittersweet, but there's a hopefulness that can't be denied. Rowan holds her tight as they process the news. When they break apart, the love between them is palpable. They had another shot at this, a fresh start.

Hards times would come and go, but good days were never far behind for them. Because for Aelin and Rowan, it's always been them.

And that's all they needed.

[huevokinder24]

Differences and similarities between Mo Ran and He Yu: Abuse and forgiveness.

I've been thinking about this for a long time, and now seems like a good time to share my thoughts.

No one blames Mo Ran for what he did in 2ha, but He Yu is receiving a lot of hate so here's my take on why.

MB'S gongs are awful to their shous at first, but here's the thing: they never attack unprovoked. Both parts of the couple hurt each other. Usually the shous are the ones who hurt the other first, while the gongs act in retaliation. it's not a one-sided thing.

In MR's case, he basically thought CWN was responsible for the tragedy of his life, SM's death. He believed CWN looked down on him. CWN mistreated him, inflicted corporal punishment on him and humiliated him. Also, CWN was known for his purity, his dignity.

I could talk forever about their fucked up dynamic in 0.5 timeline because it's just so interesting. But to sum up, MR's lust mixed with his desire to hurt CWN, to bring him to his knees, to dirty him and crush his dignity, to humiliate him just as CWN had him. So sex was the obvious answer here.

He Yu's case is very similar. He didn't assault XQC just because. XQC hurt him first. He left without warning one day. He lied about the contract, then the naval battle happened... He Yu was, and still is, utterly brokenhearted.

Much like TXJ, his need to quench his lust mixed with his thirst for revenge. He wanted to see XQC's ice crack. He wanted to see him lose control, to invert the power dynamic in their relationship. (like ranwan) He wanted to make him submit, because HY has always been below him, while XQC was the one in control. HY is always the one being left behind. All that while satisfying his sexual and emotional needs.

Now, you might say that, unlike HY, MR never fucked up again once he realized his feelings, and treated CWN properly ever since. And that's... not true.

MR began to treat CWN well way before that, not because of his feelings, but because he got rid of the thing fucking with his brain, aka the flower.

This is not HY's case, because what's wrong with him isn't a magical flower, but an incurable mental illness. He's not going to wake up one day, take a 180° turn and be just another member of society. Mental illnesses don't work like that. He can't simply get rid of it just because he wants to. His psychological ebola won't be miraculously cured just because he fell in love.

The second difference bt MR and HY is healing. MR spent the 5year time skip knowing CWN had sacrificed for him. He took those years to reflect, to redeem himself and improve as a person. HY didn't have that chance. HY thought XQC sacrificed HIM. He spent his time skip boiling with hate. He let it simmer and take form for 3 whole years, only to come back to find XQC, the person he risked his life for, who he gave his everything without gaining anything but coldness in return, the person who sacrificed him, was with another man. This is his side of the story.

Mo Ran had the chance to reflect and heal. However, He Yu hasn't had the chance to do so yet. His life has been an ongoing tragedy from the moment he was born. Literally. And that tragedy has only become worse with every chapter. He hasn't had a break in his entire life. How can you expect him to heal when he's sinking deeper and deeper into the darkness? when he's utterly alone? when he believes absolutely no one in the world cares for him? when the person he loved the most betrayed him and left him to die?

Mo ran had a support network. He had a loving family, and he had CWN. He Yu has nothing. Never has. A person simply cannot put themselves together on their own, not when they believe the whole world is against them.

Give him time. Give him a chance. Give him something worth living for and he'll crawl back, bloody and beaten, to the light, just like Mo Ran did.

[jordanas-diary]

Seaspiracy

This documentary seems to be the talk of the time at the moment and I have to say that initially, I was super excited to see issues that I have been studying for the last four years, being brought to the forefront of people’s minds after having banged on about them for who knows how long. But boy oh boy was I disappointed in how the issues were being portrayed. Where to begin?

The first thing that frustrates me with this is the science/data/information these people are using. Or the lack of it. Sure it has sources for some of the data being used, but not once do I see the utilisation of a credible science journal with peer-reviewed articles. Nor do I see a lot of scientists providing input on the questions they are posing to ocean conservation organisations. With some googling, you will find a lot of the data isn’t backed up by scientists working in these areas of study in reports or in articles - so what’s the truth? The graphics in this documentary too ... a great white shark on coral reefs? Un-fucking-likely. Two heccing ridiculous claims were made in this documentary: 1. Dolphins are only killed bc they're pests; and 2. Ebola was caused by decreased fish stocks????? I will elaborate on these later. But anyways ...

This brings me to my next issue - the demonisation of ocean conservation organisations. Somehow BP oil came out looking like a good guy in comparison to these organisations. How in the world did that happen? These organisations provide funding for ocean conservation, research, clean up and education - if we stop funding these organisations, how can we continue to learn about the ocean and educate our younger generations?

What's more is the interview tactics used were shady as hell, and just aiming to paint the narrative they wanted. Now I was ok with this in the beginning, but the less they tried to paint a more balanced picture of the industry, the more frustrated I became. The narrative they were aiming for will have some detrimental impacts on these organisations as mentioned above.

Furthermore, this documentary is incredibly white-centric. Sure there are problematic practices across the world, but painting Asia as the worst? Have you ever wondered why? One of the key drivers for unsustainable fishing practices is the demand - but this demand is not only domestic, but international as well. Now, where internationally is the demand coming from? The West. It is our demand for more and more seafood, drives for the supply to become higher and higher CAUSING these businesses and countries to find more seafood in order to turn a profit.

I also had an issue with the spread and demographic of people contributing throughout the documentary. All of these people were white/white-passing, mostly male, majority activists/journalists, all bringing exceptionally similar perspectives and ideas as to what they see as the ideal future. But without diversity of thought - how can we create a truly encompassing and servicing society for all?

Back I will return to the "dolphins are pests" claim. This i n f u r i a t e d me to the absolute max. Why? Because not once did these people even THINK to acknowledge or even explore indigenous practices in the marine environment, or the significance these animals hold to these people culturally. Which then brings me to the intent of the documentary. 

This documentary was not created to explore sustainable modes of fishing - or even the idea of it for that matter - but to stop the consumption of fish. There are so many issues in this. I mean to unpack this from a science perspective - the lack of scientific backing of the majority of the claims this documentary made is laughable - but to go and completely disregard years of research and experiments and exploration is just plain ignorant. Why only tell one side of this complex issue? Where is the balance between science, governments and protection organisations? Heavily weighting this documentary to the side creates the misinformation that has scientists pressed from the get go fam. Science and technology have evolved [and will continue to evolve] to help us better understand fish stocks and populations, as well and feeding and breeding patterns. Genetics can be used to understand where fish are coming from and whether or not their capture was legal or not, making it harder for fishing vessels to lie about where and how stocks were caught. New Zealand is a good place to look at when exploring sustainable fisheries if you are interested in what this might look like. 

AND THEN from a cultural and social perspective - well if all fishing is banned then how do we put millions, if not billions of people into jobs to feed, clothe and house their families? What assistance will be given to these people from governments or international institutions? My guess? Very little. Most fisherman probably get paid dirt nothing and have skills for a specialised field - how can we ask them to go out and retrain? They most likely will not have the finds to do so. Many of these people will live in vulnerable communities, lacking infrastructure and opportunity to provide them with jobs if the fishing industry was to just ... stop. The expectation that Asian nations that make up a lot of international seafood trade will immediately have the capacity to if not give jobs, but provide assistance to millions of people without jobs and their families is so unrealistic that even on an international level this would be a huge ask. 

THEN we come to the question of what happens to indigenous people, coastal communities and island nations that literally r e l y on the ocean for everything? If we ask these people to stop relying on the ocean, not only will they lose their source of income and sustenance, but also lose their cultural practices and knowledge of the ocean that they can no longer pass on through action. Indigenous peoples and coastal communities have such a different relationship with the environment and the ocean, it is hard to comprehend let alone explain if you do not possess this. There is an inherent as well as learned intuition that is passed down between generations where you learn the right times of the year to harvest through the. understanding of the lifecycle and breeding patters, without specific scientific knowledge have the ability to know the difference between mature and juvenile species, and so much more. The knowledge that these people hold is integral to the survival of our oceans, yet not once was this mentioned throughout the documentary. 

Urging people to stop eating fish is incredibly ignorant. Some people many not be in a position to - whether that be culturally, socially, for health reasons - whatever. Sure reduce consumption, find an alternative if you have the ability and means to do so. Don’t do it just because a documentary told you to. The reason why a lot of organisations made no comment on this is because people deserve the right to choice of what they seat - and in some cases, seafood might be their main source of protein and energy. 

What this documentary did do right though, is raise all of these issues by bringing them to the front of public mind. Ghost fishing, overfishing, shark finning - all of these practices take an absolute toll on our oceans - without halting these specific practices, I cannot see how our oceans can survive, let alone sustain the human race.  

For me, Seaspiracy comes from a place of privilege and stubbornness. There is very little attempt to better educate themselves on these issues, lack of will/want to learn about cultural aspects in fisheries, and the spread of misinformation through data and “facts”. If this documentary has made some how emotionally charged you to do something to protect our oceans - WOOO!!! This issue has been so underrated for far too long. However, do not take this documentary as gospel - go and do some of your own research! Explore the topics raised! Educate yourself! Critically analyse every piece of information you come across, check if it can be backed/verified by other articles/reports released on the same/similar topics! 

Happy to answer any questions people might have on this. Hopefully this sheds more light on our ocean issues and that people think more critically about this documentary before, during and after watching it. 

Tagging: @lightacademiasworld

[littlejeanniebean]

I would love to request if you’re still taking them :))) Amy x Laurie for the challenge

3. Canon Divergence & a. 5 Times + 1 & 4. “I’m not jealous.”

i’m taking requests all the way to Christmas! thank you for this @thatmartinskishit <3 this looks like a different list from the newest one i started using, but if you still have the link, feel free to send it my way so i can reblog it again! xx

5 times they weren’t flirting and the 1 time they were

context: modern au

1.

“You’re playing Tybalt?” Laurie gaped at Amy. 

“What?” She twirled her sword as deftly as a pen. “Jealous?”

“I’m not jealous,” he huffed. “I’m Romeo! I’m the male lead! I just…”

“Ah.” Amy nodded in serene understanding. “You don’t want to duel a girl.”

“It’s not that either!” Laurie lightly parried her sword with his own. “I just… don’t want to duel you. Your mom will have my head!” 

“I mean, if I catch you slippin’, then yes, I will bring your head home to my mama as a present.”

Laurie laughed, his tongue tucked into his cheek. “Alright, little lady, you talk a big game, but I’ve been fencing since I was five! En garde!” 

2. 

“Hello, Amy.” He ambled to a stop in the middle of the sidewalk. 

“Hello, Laurie.” She stuffed her hands, bandaged like an amateur, into the pockets of her jacket.

“What happened to your hand?”

“What happened to your head?”

“I fell off a stool and out a window —”

Amy snorted.

“Yeah, yeah...” He waved her off. “So whatever happened to you can’t be any more embarrassing.”

“My art teacher, Mr. Davis, is an ass. I think. Or maybe I was reading too much into it. He asked me to stay behind to help clean the classroom since I drew that not-so-nice picture of him —”

“And signed it and posted it on the internet like an idiot?”

“Yes,” Amy grunted. “Anyway, I broke some glass jars when he… he just startled me —”

“How?” Laurie’s voice hardened. 

“He just came up behind me, like I said, I’m probably reading too much into him —”

“Amy, your fifteen, you’re very pretty for fifteen, but you’re still fifteen —”

“Don’t tell my mama or she’ll never let me go to another art class again.”

Laurie held the door to their apartment building open for her. “I won’t if you let me pay for your next one and vet the teacher first.”

“Oh, because you’re an excellent judge of character.”

“Well, I’m friends with you, aren’t I?” He grinned winningly. 

“If you’re trying to appeal to my vanity…” Amy pressed the button for the elevator. “It’s working.”

3.

“What is Fred Vaughn doing here?” Laurie wrinkled his nose.

“You invited him,” Amy reminded him.

“But I didn’t expect him to come. It’s camp. In the wilderness. Unless we’re talking about the fashion kind, he hates it.”

“Hi, Fred!” Amy waved Fred over.

“Why would you do that?” Laurie muttered.

“To torment you,” she practically cackled. 

4. 

“I can’t believe I’m stuck here with her!” Amy paced up and down the length of her guest room at her aunt’s, pressing her cellphone to her ear. “I hate —” 

“Don’t let her hear you say it. If she’s really as bad as you all say —”

“There’s no if about it, Laurie! She’s —” 

“Then don’t let her win. Have the best fucking time of your life.” 

“How can I?” Amy flopped down onto the bed. “Beth is sick, again, and until we know whether is fucking ebola from her stupid mission trip —”

“Hey, now…”

Amy bit the inside of her cheek. “I’m sorry, but that’s how I feel. I wish… I love Beth, but I wish she wasn’t so nice sometimes. It’s going to get her hurt or worse. And I don’t understand why only I have to stay away —”

“Because you were with me at camp, so you weren’t exposed like the rest of them. Listen, Amy…” He waited, but no affirmative response came. “Are you listening or wallowing?”

Amy rolled her eyes relentingly. “Listening.” 

“I swear you're worse than Jo when it comes to thinking clearly in times like this.”

“Is that what you wanted to make sure I hear?”

“Yes, because if there’s one thing that truly motivates you, it’s being better than Jo at something.”

She choked out a rueful laugh. “Do you… Do you think I’m… the opposite of Beth? You know, not nice enough?” 

“I think if Santa had a nice list, we’d all rank behind Beth.” 

“Such a diplomat. Your uncle would be proud.”

“Thank you. Get some sleep. I’ll come to see you in the morning, okay?”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

5.

"I wish I could go to L.A. with you." Amy sat at the foot of Laurie's bed, staring longingly at the suitcase he was packing.

"It's not all it's cracked up to be, believe me." Laurie didn't want to go. Didn't want to have to smile and shake hands like a poster boy while his uncle met with deep-pocketed investors who couldn't care less about the actual work they were doing.

"I don't think you understand how lucky you are."

"I didn't ask for a lecture."

"That was one sentence."

"The lecture was coming, though."

"Eh, you've heard it so many times before that at this point, one sentence will suffice to remind you of its entire contents."

"You sound like Jo."

"Yeah, and while you're missing her in Los freaking Angeles, spare a thought for the rest of us, huh?"

"What?" Laurie smirked. "Jealous?"

Amy flipped him off and proceeded to tell him how he was supposed to fold his socks if he wanted them all to fit.

+.

"Amy!"

"Laurie!"

"Amy!"

"Laurie!"

He picked her up and spun her around easily in the middle of Sunset freaking Boulevard. He used his tongue to push his lollipop to the side of his mouth so he could talk to her. "What are you doing here?" 

"What are you still doing here? Your uncle's in San Francisco! I saw the company Insta—"

“Shh, shh, shh, please don’t talk about work —”

“Tsk, tsk, lazy Laurie... lost his lolly —” She plucked the red sucker out of his mouth and ran. 

“Amy!” he laughed, running after her. 

[leapyearkisses]

Consequences - (m, m/m preslash) Oneshot

Reupload. My brief attempt at writing an action thriller. Imagine if it were possible to buy a pill to make you sick. Then imagine you tried to use that pill to avoid the monumental consequences of your greed-motivated actions.

Probably a bit nsfw, mess, crimes against the environment, bastard men, capitalism, tw alcoholism

---

Murashiki Aritomo lifted the small white pill and examined it with a critical eye.  It looked no different than an aspirin or a breath mint, so innocuous as to be almost unbelievable.  But he was running out of options.  There wasn’t a lot of time to arrange anything different, and he wasn’t sure now whether there was any other course of action that wouldn’t land him in prison.  “This pill will make me sick?”

“It will, I can promise you that.”  The drug’s purveyor, Paul Gascoigne, had been Murashiki’s classmate in undergrad, although while Murashiki had gone into developmental chemistry, Gascoigne had pursued medicine.  Or at least pharmacology.  He looked the part now, dressed in a bespoke black suit and a white lab coat for effect, although his bright ginger hair brought a touch of life to the somber outfit.  “Flu symptoms for a week, starting about six hours after taking it.”  He shook the unlabeled bottle in his hand.  “If you double up, the symptoms get worse and last longer.  I’ll even give you a discount.”

Murashiki eyed the bottle, then shook his head.  “No, I only need to be unavailable for the length of the Summit.”

Gascoigne smiled in a manner befitting a fox.  “Yes, I’d heard on the DL there was some nasty business with the LiveBetter plastics.  Are you seeking new employment opportunities?”

Murashiki produced his wallet.  “I’ll give you an extra €50 to stop asking me questions.”

“Deal.” Gascoigne slipped the bottle back into an inner pocket and got up from where he’d been leaning against the wall.  He held out a hand for the money and didn’t make a secret of counting it before secreting that away as well.  “Pleasure doing business with you,” he said.  “While I have your attention, may I just say that my doors are always open if you’d like to seek out other opportunities as well.”

“I’m married,” snapped Murashiki, automatically running his thumb over the place where his wedding band used to be.

“Ah, young love,” Gascoigne said, mocking.  “You know, she’s a decade gone to Monaco, or Dubai, or wherever it is these days where they pay for high-class whor-”

“Get out.”

Gascoigne spread his hands, conciliatory.  “On my way.”  He turned on his heel and left the office, letting the glass-fronted door swing shut behind him.  Murashiki glared at his retreating back until it was gone, then glared at the door itself.  White frosted writing identified his sins.

Aritomo Murashiki, Ph.D.  Senior Project Lead, LiveBetter Development Group

He’d shredded all of his files already, but he checked the desk once more to be sure.  Everything he wanted to keep he’d put into a slim silver suitcase.  He wouldn’t be coming back here, God willing. The pill sat on top of his desk.  He swallowed it with a mouthful of whiskey from the decanter underneath.  With luck, he could make his excuses the next morning to the relevant people and be on his way out of the country by evening.

---

Murashiki reached his room at the Holiday Inn just past midnight.  He put his suitcase by the door and stripped to his shirtsleeves and boxer-briefs before going into the bathroom to splash some water on his face.  He’d always been one to keep up appearances for the investors, but after all the late night as alcohol he was starting to look wan.  He rubbed his eyes, pushing up his glasses.  He hadn’t expected that, at 37, his life would be self-destructing in such a public manner.  As soon as the environmental compliance reports were brought up in front of the EU, the company would throw him under the bus and that would be that.

Not that he didn’t deserve it.  He drew away from the mirror and back into the darkened bedroom.  He’d been present for almost every step of the process.  His initial warnings had fallen on deaf ears, and then... well, the money had been too good.

“Lead me not into temptation,” he mumbled, laying down on the bed closest to the exit.  Maybe he should have stuck with the whole religion thing after Satine had left, but he hadn’t been too fond of faith in the months after.  He touched his ring finger again.  He knew he was a fool.  Gascoigne was right, if insufferable.  He closed his eyes.  Unbidden, the man’s face came to him.  Always looking sly and fit, he’d cut a dashing figure in college, too.  They’d made out once, twice... Murashiki had already been married then, but a little bit of beer and bisexual guilt had motivated a slip here and there.  He’d never felt like he was “settling” for Satine - in fact, he’d loved her quite dearly - but he’d always been afraid of missing out.

He set an alarm for 5 AM.  That would give him enough time to contact the VP.  Hopefully by then the pill would have kicked in so it didn’t seem like he was shirking.  Of course, everyone would know why he wasn’t there soon enough, but he’d have a head start.  He felt fine at the moment, if stressed.  It had been four hours.

For the price he’d paid, Gascoigne had better not have ripped him off.

------

Five o’clock came too quickly.  Murasaki groped for his phone on the bedside table, slapping at it uncoordinatedly to turn off the alarm.  The room was still pitch black.  He groaned.

The doctor hadn’t been playing him; he felt awful.  His head was heavy and his limbs ached dully - perhaps he was already running a fever?  His mouth was dry, and when he tried to moisten it he realized why: he couldn’t breathe through his nose at all.  Rubbing it produced no relief, just an irritating shift of congestion in his sinus that led to sharp gasp and a rushed sneeze.

“Hahkyusht!”  He caught it against his wrist, and the next two in his palms.  “Hhkyuschtt!  Hgkktschkt!”  Head throbbing, he wiped saliva and snot on the sheets and got out of bed.  He’d seen a tissue box on the toilet tank last night and was in great need of it.

The fluorescent overhead light set him cursing when he flicked it on.  It felt like high beams stabbing him in the face after a particularly intemperate night of drinking.  He shielded his eyes with one arm and grabbed a handful of tissues to crush against his nose.  He was going to sneeze again.  He could feel an itch clawing deep inside his left nostril.  He squinted against it, trying to take shallow breaths, but it didn’t help.  “Hahgktsciutsz!”

The tissues were a mess already, but he tried to blow his nose.  That lead to coughing, too, and he found himself leaning over the sink, trying to get his bearings.  “The fuck did you put in that pill?” he growled to himself.  Surely not a live virus?  The consequences would be staggering.  And not just because he felt himself a little dizzy and unsteady on his feet.  It would be easy to transport pills across borders, easy to disguise them as something harmless - they already looked it.  Influenza was already one of the most deadly of epidemics.  What if Gascoigne could take TB, rabies, ebola and weaponize it marketed as aspirin or loperamide??

In the mirror, his gray eyes were wide and Murasaki could see even without his glasses that he was sweating.  He shivered.  Right.  Things were getting out of hand.  He was just feverish and letting his tension take over.

He took the tissues back into the room with him and returned to the bed.  He just had to make a few calls and then get out.  Everything would be fine.  He could make flight arrangements in the taxi and then be on his way back to Japan faster than you could say “non-extradition country.”  

It was 5:12.  The VP picked up on the third ring.  “Dr. Murasaki?” she asked, sounding like she hadn’t had her coffee yet.  “What is it?”

“Good morning, ma’am.”  He didn’t have to force the coughing that followed.  “I realize it’s terrible timing...”

“You sound awful.”  

He coughed again in agreement.  “I feel awful.  I’m nih- not sure I’ll make it to the convention center.”  He pinched his nose, at least until he could feel the sneeze cresting.  Then he let it out, not too far from his phone’s microphone.   “Hahkgtschgt!”  Mess painted his lips and he struggled to breathe past it for a moment.

“Santé!” She was too polite to sound appalled, but she was quick to dismiss him.  “We’ll miss you at the luncheon and awards ceremony.” 

“Oh, I don’t mind,” he said, through more tissues.  “The team is just as deserving of recognition for this as I am.”

“Yes, of course.  I will pass on news of your absence to the event coordinators.”  In the end, it didn’t really matter to her whether the scientists behind the company’s products were there or not, just that the presentation was made on time and the right people (her) made the right headlines.  Someone would make sure the info made it to the European stage.  And that someone would not be Murasaki.  He didn’t envy whoever was left with the data.  He didn’t even know if anyone else who was going knew exactly what they meant.  But the audience would.

He was free, though, for now.  He thanked her and hung up, then let the phone fall from his hand to the pillows.  “Hah... haah-”  If he could leave off sneezing for twenty minutes, he would be golden.  His nostrils flared, and he fumbled for more tissues as the right started running, worsening the irritation to an unbearable degree.  “Hakgschtgnx!  Nktscgshx!”  His ears rang and he dropped to lay back on the bed.  He hadn’t felt this bad since back in college, junior finals week, when he’d stayed up for four days and then been bedridden for just as long.  His nose felt raw already.  Even his eye sockets hurt.  He lay his arm back over his face, enjoying how cool it felt on his forehead.

He would just close his eyes for a minute.  For one minute, he would try to will away the pain and heat.

------

“HEY!”

Murasaki startled awake to the sound of fists raining down against the door.  He tried to kick out at an assailant, caught the sheet, and struggled until he found himself on the floor.  Threadbare carpeting pressed into his cheek and he tried desperately to remember where he was.  Not the office.  Not his apartment in Montmartre.  He forced himself to sit up and had to lean against the bed to stay upright.

He was in a hotel, he finally remembered. He was staying here before he left the city.  Just a few phone calls to make- no, he’d called the VP.  The room was awash in the orange light of fading afternoon.  His stomach twisted.  That wasn’t right.

The pounding hadn’t stopped, but by the time Murasaki thought he might be able to address it, whoever was outside had forced their way in.  He expected a horde of angry journalists, armed with cameras and microphones like on TV, but it was only one man.  Gascoigne, he thought.  It took him a moment to place the man without his glasses, but that hair...

“What are you doing?!” Gascoigne practically shouted.  He shoved the door closed again and used Murasaki’s suitcase to keep it from swinging.  “You’re still in Paris?  There’s an uproar!  They were showing parts of the Summit live, you know.”  He grabbed Murasaki’s elbow and yanked him to his feet.  “I wasn’t sure whether Le Monde or Greenpeace would get you first, but it’s much worse than that.”  No lab coat today, Murasaki noted distractedly.  Jeans and a bomber jacket.  Did black-market doctors get weekends?

He tried to free his arm and failed.

“I can’t believe you’re still here,” Gascoigne was saying still.  He shook the smaller man.  “Idiot.  Did you hear what I said?  The Russian mafia put out a hit on you!  Hey!”  He grabbed Murasaki by the nape.  “They found out LiveBetter is behind the collapse of their fishing interests in the Black Sea.  This is all over the deep web.  Hey.”  He shook Murasaki again.  “What’s wrong with you??”

Murasaki pressed his hand against Gascoigne’s chest, tried to push away from him.  “You,” he said.  “You poisoned me, or s- somethih- Hahktsch! Haktschngx!”

“Christ.”  Gascoigne let him go.  

Murasaki lifted his hands.  “Hgkttschzx!  You... what is this?  I’m burning up.” He was shivering, too.  He felt sick and dizzy.  “I must have passed out.”

“Yeah, you look like shit,” said Gascoigne.  He shrugged at Murasaki’s glare.  “What?  Sometimes it hits harder for people if they haven’t taken it before.  S’not exactly FDA approved.”

Murasaki collected more tissues and blew his nose.  “How did you find me?”  This was not good.  He’d be stopped at the airport, probably.  The mafia had connections all over Europe.

“Your phone.”  Gascoigne had picked it up off the pillow.  “You have... sixty missed calls and messages.  Wow.”  He dropped the device unceremoniously behind the bed.  “We’re leaving that here.  Get dressed.”

“‘We’?” Murasaki tossed the tissues to the carpet and started trying to button his shirt.  His pants were where he’d left them, and he picked them up, leaning against the wall dizzily as he tried to get them on one leg and then the other.

Gascoigne moved the blinds aside and took stock of the street outside.  “Yes, ‘we.’  I didn’t come after you for my own health.  Get going.  Where are your shoes?”

The two of them, led by Gascoigne, left out the back stairwell.  Gascoigne had parked an unassuming tan Renault at the sidewalk and he pushed Murasaki into the passenger seat before taking the wheel and driving out of the courtyard.  After only minutes, the car blended seamlessly in with the local traffic.  “We’ll head to Germany for now.  I’m sure the mafia has people at Charles de Gaulle.   When we get a chance, maybe Brazil?”  He was driving admirably despite the pressure he’d put himself under.  Not drawing the attention of anyone.

It didn’t occur to Murasaki, with how terrible he was feeling, to ask why Gascoigne had actually come for him until they were close to the border.  “I mean, you didn’t have to get involved,” he said.  “No one would have connected our names.”  He was looking up at Gascoigne’s face from under his bangs.  The car window was nicely cold against his temple.

Gascoigne glanced over to him and rolled his eyes.  “You’re an idiot.”

There was a silence.  Murasaki coughed.  “Is that it??”

Gascoigne didn’t meet his gaze, focusing on the highway ahead.  “You didn’t think I was just hitting on you to piss you off, did you?”

Murasaki frowned, then looked away.  “Oh.”

“You don’t have to answer me,” Gascoigne said, voice carefully neutral.  “I’m doing this because I want to.”  He reached down and turned on the radio.  The point was clear: no discussion was to be had at this time.

Murasaki stared out at the passing countryside and tried to get a handle on the mix of emotions churning inside him.  Fear, gratitude, helplessness, lust... he couldn’t think through the fever and eventually gave in to a numbing haze.  With luck, he would live long enough to figure out what he wanted a day, a week, a month from now.

Gascoigne kept driving.

[mitigatedchaos]

On predicting the “right side of history,”

gene control will be the new gun control once genes can be altered

I said this, but it’s just a provocation.

The general divide between Left and Right is about external locus of control vs internal locus of control, and “oppression” being the reason that things go wrong, vs “entropy” being the reason.

As an extrapolation of the direction of general attitudes, “Capital,” “Patriarchy,” “Society,” “Colonialism,” and so on are generally considered the causes of crimes like burglary by Progressive types, rather than a decision on the part of the burglar.  A lot of the impulse is that you aren’t supposed to judge the burglar, or attempt to solve the problem by capturing and physically isolating the burglar.

On the other hand, Progressive types are quick to condemn “gun violence” or knives - a matter of something you are, vs something you have.

Right now, of course, a gene is something you can’t change (except via risky experimental medical science), so it’s generally considered something you are.  Like let’s say you have red hair - the current Progressive perspective is that you are a redhead and not that you have red hair, and they would then seek to make you into a member of an interest group on that basis.

On the other hand, people can apply dyes to their hair to give them truly exotic hair colors, beyond even the level of anime characters.

But let’s say that I have a genetic treatment that can alter your hair color - red, blonde, brunette, black.  In fact, let’s go one more and assume a rainbow of colors are available, like it’s Second Life.  (Maroon hair can be a nice choice.)

Let’s suppose you were born into a world where genetically green hair was always a choice.  Is green hair still something you are, or is it something you have?

In the (extrapolated) Progressive view, external locus of control forces like “Society” are thought to be acting through the burglar as he commits burglary, rather than the burglar acting on his own.  (Guns and knives are tools of this force working through the burglar - this is why denying them is thought to reduce crime.)  Agency is assessed in consciously supporting or opposing the vast external locus of control forces.  Rather than no condemnation, you can be condemned for being X-ist or Y-phobic, with the belief that once X-ism or Y-phobia are gone, all the other problems will more or less solve themselves.

This is where the behavior of the Progressive movement, if it gets its hands on genetic alteration technologies, becomes undefined.

Suppose you have some kind of genetically-induced Glass Leg Disease (GLD), which you have a very high risk of transmitting to any children you might have.  Under current conditions, the only option to avoid passing it down is not the have children.  Applying this limitation is deemed unacceptable, a violation of human dignity, and so on.  (Should a state even be trusted with that much power?  Imagine the typical politician in congress deciding whether you get to have children.  I think not.)

Suppose we develop near-perfect robotic legs that can replace your own legs so well that you move as well as an able-bodied person.  These are distributed to you and installed for a modest fee.  Are you still the person with Glass Leg Disease, or is your identity now “cyborg”?  If the legs are good enough, do you even think about Glass Leg Disease anymore?

Alternatively, should “has Glass Leg Disease” be considered a “culture”?  Should you be prohibited from getting the cybernetic legs because it “erases” that “culture”?

Now from the other direction.

Suppose we don’t have good-quality robotic legs, so if you have a child, that child will suffer from the full effects of Glass Leg Disease. However, we do have embryo selection, and the state has agreed to supply it for a modest fee, well within your income.

If you refuse and your child suffers as a result, is that your fault?  After all, you wouldn’t have been prevented from having children - including children that are biologically yours - by using embryo selection.

Now, this is where it really gets interesting.

What -ism is that?

We had a large burst of anti-religious and particularly anti-Christianity sentiment during the Bush Administration.

In terms of ideological formation, an “-ism” or “-phobia” of this kind could be defined within decades.  For instance, it might be “bioconservatism” to unnecessarily refuse embryo selection and thus pass on ‘dangerous’ genes.

There is likely to be substantial opposition from religious groups, who are right-wing coded, and thus the process that managed to politically polarize Ebola might decide that the two sides are “genetic engineering is a Babel-like attempt to climb to heaven, and defaces Man, who was made in the image of God; it is the work of the Devil,” allied with “fuck you the second amendment guarantees my right to have as many ‘dangerous genes’ as I want!” versus “keep interrogating your intrinsic bioconservative biases until you adopt what we believe to be the correct package of genetic alterations” combined with “gene siloing favors those born with greater biological wealth - those who seek to preserve it are supremacists and will be the first against the wall during the revolution! Commence Operation: Gene Expropriation!”

However, it’s difficult to be sure.

[herpronuonsarefemslash]

Where the Wild Things Are - TEASER #2

ABO and soul-mark world where alphas are significantly stronger than others and less well-behaved than in most stories, but no longer dominant. Seen as subhuman by many and legally discriminated against, they're either under house arrest if beta or omega mates will vouch for them or kept in prison-like fertility clinic holding cells...if they're lucky. https://www.patreon.com/posts/54904540 ----- Alex blows out a long breath, rolls her shoulders, and reaches for the doorknob. The instant she pushes against the door, there's a slurp-click sort of noise. Maggie must have had the presence of mind to file for emergency rut leave--and get it approved--because the apartment's federally mandated defenses are all switched on. A negative air pressure system like the CDC's. A dedicated HVAC that nearly doubled their rent, electrically reactive seals of some sort of space-age rubber that swell up around the door. Windows that can't be opened.

Her poor wife is more locked in and bottled up than the samples of Ebola virus Alex worked on back in her residency. All that, to protect tender sensibilities from the fact that Maggie smells fucking amazing right now. It hits her the moment she cracks the door, a little whiff before the fans reverse and pull it all back in. Spice and sweet. Salt and smoke. As alphic as pheromones get and still unmistakable as Maggie and nothing like the alphas the DEO takes in as prisoners, the unlucky refugees who didn't know about Earth's hangups and their human mates. Few omegas outside of a pump farm, psych hospital, or a federal prison could claim to have smelled a mature alpha more than once. Alex is lucky enough to say that her alpha is by far the best out of a few dozen.

Her mate's mouth zeros on Alex's scar where she huffs a long, growling breath and traces the outline with her tongue.

Maggie needs to know if another alpha's scent is there.

"Hurt?" Maggie grunts. Her eyes drop from Alex to her beat-up slippers. Her eyes are red and wet.

"Others?"

She needs to know why her omega left her in the morning, despite the pre-rut darkening of her scent. Why both Kelly and Alex abandoned her as her every instinct screamed to grab them, capture them, keep them. Nest with them. Every instinct Maggie has says that she's failed. That the omegas who had stayed, and taken her bite, and let themselves be cloaked in her scent, had left just when she was most ready for them. That her seed and her prowess to protect their pups were found wanting.

"Never," Alex replies, still lucid enough to notice the breathiness of her own voice. She wraps one of Maggie's small hands in both of hers and guides it to the front of her jeans. The heat in her core is climbing. Sweat beads inside her shirt and under her motorcycling gloves. Her body is warming, her muscles loosening, tendons slackening so that she can adapt to sudden shifts in position, impacts on her skin, and bends in her joints. Millions of years of pressure have prepared her to take an alpha's cock all the way to the hilt without pain, and open for their knot, and to endure their rough hands. To stay safe and unharmed under a creature far stronger and far past 'being gentle' when lost in a state of lust.

She's soaring on oxytocin and dopamine and her heartbeat is racing and she wants to laugh because the rush is almost like she's being tickled.

-----

"Absolutely not," Lena huffs.

The roll of Andrea's wrist catches Lena's eye, less for the near-perfect whirlpool it creates in the scotch and more for the memories of long fingers, curled and collected just so and sliding, scraping, slamming, into Lena's fevered cunt during a heat. Memories of her turning her fist and loosening it and Lena sobbing her relief as she was stretched like a knot was in her. Bawling and shaking and unburdened and chosen for rapture like a medieval woman who had just seen an angel descend to her hut.

The door to the suite opens and Veronica slides in, reaching around the back of her gown to remove the concealed pistol and muttering something deadly in what Lena thinks might be Nepalese. Veronica's father wasn't the sort to fuss about pedigree, not like the Luthors. She was taken from her probably abused, almost certainly uncooperative mother and given to nannies at a few months old.

"Absolutely not what?"

"Lena doesn't think we should make the pickup in person."

Veronica's glossy updo gleams in the shadow of the entryway as she looks up from where she'd been working the pen-sized taser and the knife out of her cherry-red leather boots.

"Wait. She's there? I heard 'trafficking ring for aliens on the moon' and I thought I'd hit my head."

[deanirae]

Can you get it inside your head I’m tired of dancing?  

post 8.07 pre 8.08] crack/angst past turned unrequited deancas, implied deanbenny 2,4k [x]

The sun, also currently known as bitch, has got some serious nerve to sit where it always does, not upside down and nine miles to the left as it frankly should on this memorable fuckhat day. Where is the End of Days when it's really called for? When it should be really nigh?

Dean flips the front mirror panel down not to have to deal with at least that one disappointment. He can still see Cas's half-constipated, half-abandoned and kicked in its fluffy ass puppy face in the mercilessly annoying reflection. The obvious choice would be to not grace it with anything right now, but A – he's the one driving so his eyes can't wander off pretty far, especially in the barely sunlit grayness – and B – on his left, Sam is currently roleplaying a twelve year old girl that has her big emotional introspection accompanied by listening to Sarah McLahlan because her mean parents wouldn't let her buy ebola from the internet. Or something.

Point is, he's three hours into ostentatiously moping, trying to quietly terrorize Dean into making peace with Cas on the fly so it won't be awkward and problematique for him anymore. To Sam, Dean is just too inconvenient anytime he's inconvenient. And that, by order of nature herself, demands immediate and final stopping and ballot recounting also.

And Dean's point is, that it's not gonna happen anytime soon.

And Cas's point – assuming he’s still remotely capable of making those –  seems to be dead-set on that 50:50 face thing. And Dean regrets briefly glancing; with more or less the same intensity he regrets his whole life on the crap weather days his bones hurt harder than it should be legal.

Sam, in his hemhorroidal disturbance, reaches out to the tape deck and attempts to put anything on, but Dean feels like exactly zero of his tapes right now, so he swats Sam's hand off with a loud smack. Judging from the faces he gets for that, it's gotta be resonating in their heads a lot.

It's gonna be a long ride to Lousiana, way longer and more exhausting than the freshly puked from Purgatory one. In fact, the closer they get to Lafayette, the more tired he is and they won't start working the vetalas case until tomorrow night because apparently hanging around clubs on fridays is the new hanging downside of trees or whatever cool thing it was vetalas were doing before the rise of the all you can eat buffet of horny dicks certain they're gonna get reverse cowgirls for a two dollar drink. Or reverse cowboys. Fucking cheapskates. Some of them do have it coming. But in severe STDs, not in this.

In itself, waiting for the actual hunt really doesn't need to be a problem. It's just that Sam and Cas are fucked-bent on having it be one because—

“I said I'm going to stay with you and join you on hunts,” Cas finally snaps. „There's no need for this 'backup' as you call it, Dean.”

—Because that.

“Don't air quote it, man,” Dean mutters wearily, because of course Cas air quoted it.

“And there is absolutely no need for you to sleep in a vampire's camping truck when we have plenty of motels to pick from,” Cas rants on, zero deterred and plus ten determined, clearly not tuning into Dean's I don't wanna discuss that vibe.

Annnd because that too, yeah.

“Well I donno, I sure didn't want us to look like some sort of a hookup site for salvation army fashionistas threesome. You'll thank me later. Or you can do it now and shut up when you're done, how's that.”

“A vampire,” Sam interrupts his polished bitchface just to whine it out, which has to be peak brotherly care by his modern standards.

“You two asshats had no problem leaving me in vamp-vegas for a goddamn year,” Dean growls. “I am an adult adult and I need some me-time that isn't you time. And I'm gonna have awesome time while I'm at it. Sue me if that's a crime. Bother my lawyer.”

“You don’t have a lawyer”, says Sam.

“Aren’t you kind of a lawyer?” Dean remembers suddenly. “Or at least close enough for you two to bother each other and not me?”

“No, didn’t get to get there yet, thanks to you,” Sam mutters, also suddenly remembering the past life of his that was never meant to be.

“Oh, I’m sorry”, Dean whines. “Did I set your girlfriend on fire?”

“Fuck off.”

“I thought you missed me,” as if triggered by the word fuck, Cas drops the bomb with an evenness in his voice which hints at many things but Dean's brain is too stop-record screech to dissect them right now.

“What?” he blurts out, confused and affronted both.

“I thought you missed me,” Cas repeats, lower and harder like Dean's a stupid cat that won't spit out what it's chewing.

“Cas, I really don't wanna do this.”

“You kept praying to me to come back, Dean. After you were out of Purgatory. I heard you. Those were quite some prayers. Now you're putting yourself in real danger just to stay away from me. I don’t understand.”

Sam just stares at Dean, the always most helpful thing on the planet that he is. Thanks, Sam. Dean stares at the road. Cas stares daggers through the back of Dean's head. Poor Baby can't just leave this situation so she just keeps on rollin’. Nobody wins that day.

“That was before you told me you were lying your ass off just to kick me out last minute. Your subscription for my prayers and personal Jesus license have now expired, by the way. Like, the fuck does talking to you even do?”

“Fine!” Castiel snaps, so close to throwing his hands in the air for a grand effect but luckily thinking better of it since he's in a car that has a roof among other things. “I understand that you're angry—” he tries to start over, calmer, after a self-collecting breath.

“No, you don't,” Dean mutters.

“But you can't risk your life in the stupidest available way just to get back at me, Dean. Not after everything I've done to make sure you come back safe.”

Well at least he didn't include Sam in that „saving” part.

“You were there, man. You know Benny never double crossed me or you. What the exact fuck is your problem with him?”

A very angry squint-frown precedes the actual answer.

“You were his ticket to Earth. Now your life doesn't hold the same value.”

“Thanks, Cas. That's really swee—”

“You know that's not what I meant, Dean,” Cas growls in a tone that's clearly a final warning.

So final even Sam and his high horse must have heard since he steps in to defuse Cas.

“Cas, I'm not a fan of saying it, but Benny isn't a threat to Dean. I think the guy is kinda trying to settle,” he offers.

Dean smiles a little bit.

“See, Cas?”

“But I'm worried he might have more vamps trying to take him down because he pissed off every fang that ever knew him and then some. This is actual danger, Dean.”

“What?!” Castiel explodes in unbridled rage.

“Sam, have you ever wondered where do snitches go after they die?”

“Dean, you know I'm serious.”

“Ditches,” Dean concludes.

“When exactly were you going to tell me this?” Castiel asks coldly. “After you get killed by vampire avengers?”

“They're all taken care of, Cas. No mean jokes this time. Relax.”

“With your Winchester luck? I doubt it.”

“Oh, come on. It's not like you wouldn't bring me back even if something did happen.”

“Yes, even twice because first I would have personally destroyed you for being so reckless.”

“I know you would.”

“Guys,” Sam tries to placate, “we should all calm down and rethink how to handle it safely. It's not a good time for some jilted lovers tiff”, he begs.

Dean frowns then makes mocking faces at him to communicate that he's being a fucking douche.

“You're a fucking jilted lovers tiff,” he decides.

“We had sex, Dean,” Castiel states accusatorily.

Little does he know, he just broke Sam beyond repair. Now that the cat is out of the bag, the only thing Dean can do is to straighten some things out.

“Once,” he says, raising a finger to accentuate his point. “Cas was sure we were gonna die in the morning. We didn't, but there never was a follow up on that, so,” Dean shrugs.

“You weren't interested.”

“Says you,” Dean huffs. “I’m sorry, do you know me? Being interested in sex is in my top five pasttimes. You behaved like a brick on the other hand and I don’t know how to read concrete.”

“I don’t want to be here, good fucking God,” Sam finally yelps after a successful reboot of his brain.

Dean’s pretty sure nobody wants to be in this car right now and the only goddamn thing that could potentially make him ‘special’ right now is the fact currently Sam’s probably the only person in the Impala who has not lain his mouth on Cas’s dick. Hopefully.

Funnily enough, Cas could easily poof out without lethal injuries, but he’s dead set on staying, judging from the frown on his face that looks like a stock market crash diagram.

“I didn’t exactly see you giving me any signs.”

And set on having this conversation.

“I’m not a cat, I don’t go into heats, Cas. Can we talk about it somewhere more private? Later? Cuz everybody here wants to fucking die right now.”

“Private?” Cas asks. “If you want privacy to talk then why do you refuse to book a room with me?”

“We don’t need to share a room to have a conversation. Unless what you want it to end with is getting back on track with that last night on Earth thing we had that one time.”

“Jesus Christ,” Sam cries.

“Grow up and stow your crap, Sam,” Cas says unexpectedly before Dean could even bother to serve anything in a similar note.

Dean is so thrown off his equilibrium by that he puts the car to an abrupt halt. Only because he’s too deeply wired to not crash the Impala into the first available so he won’t accidentally kill Sam.

That is, if Cas’s words haven’t obliterated him already. He glances at him, just in case. Speechless as holily commanded by the celestial – potentially horny – wrath from the back seat, but at least he’s still breathing.

“Um,” he says, because someone’s gotta, because he’s still the big brother in this demented equation. “Cas, what the fuck was that?”

“Should you, of all people, really need me to be this blunt – now that the worst affairs have been settled, we could pick up where we left off, and hopefully reach a mutual understanding regarding the nature of our relationship so that doubt no longer hinders you. If it’s still something that interests you, of course. Would that be clear and direct enough, Dean?”

Well, that was… long? Long enough citations are probably needed, but, uh, yeah. S’ gotta be addressed immediately or else.

“Cas, that was 2010 and we have 2012 now.”

“It was 2012 when you prayed to me in Purgatory and it was 2012 four days ago. Granted, your feelings towards me might be very complicated, but I still can sense and read your longing,” Cas says with a weary sigh.

“Stop smelling my longing,” Dean responds with a wearier one. “And I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

“But I should explain myself to you.”

“I’m real fed up with your explanations, you know that? And we don’t got time for that, either. We need to get to Lafayette because we got a case waiting to get solved.”

“It’s because he’s waiting there for you, isn’t it,” Cas says sadly; not a question. A statement.

Dean doesn’t need to respond. Doesn’t feel like it, too.

Yeah. It’s good to actually have someone waiting for you; someone there.

Maybe it’s not that complicated, after all. Maybe it doesn’t have to be.

Dean starts the car. He’s got a place to go to.

The sound apparently wakes Sam from his stupor. His bright idea of the day, he turns the radio on before the awkward silence can make the universe inside of the Impala collapse on itself and on all three of them. Too late for Dean to react now; might as well get a load of the weather report.

In the back seat, Cas flicks his wrist subtly and the monotone voice sharply cuts off into static for a moment and the frequency bar moves elsewhere on its’ – or rather, Cas’s – own.  Some solitary synthesiser-made sounds drop one after another like tiny steps and Dean realizes he definitely has heard this song before at some point in his life as eighties one hit wonders ain’t no strangers to him. Oh well. Might as well not get any of the wea—

Looking from a window above, it’s like a story of love… Can you hear me?

Is he fucking kidding?!

Came back only yesterday, I’m moving farther away.... Want you near me…

“Are you fucking kidding?” Dean cries out, incredulous.

Tries to turn the radio off but it just won’t die.

All I needed was the love you gave— “You want melodramatic? I’ll give you melodramatic.” —All I needed for another day — Dean reaches out for his phone and starts typing angrily — and all I ever knew, only you.

He puts on good ol’ Fish and hopes it’s gonna be louder than Cas’s synth-pop loving. And starts driving towards where he wants to be cause he’s tired of dancing.

[anhed-nia]

10/18/2020: STREET TRASH

I just caught myself trying to avoid writing about this movie. I was looking right at my Blogtober setlist, and I still managed to convince myself that I was all caught up, and I had earned my right to move on to the comparative luxury and ease of CATHY'S CURSE. I was well into that project before I realized that I was just subconsciously trying to shirk my 10/18 responsibilities. So, now I'm on punishment, but luckily, just trying to deal with this film is enough punishment in and of itself, if you are not one of this movie’s many passionate fans. I always feel like I'm making a big confession, even to myself, when I admit that I just don't like STREET TRASH.

For some reason, my failure to get down with this movie always makes me feel like a prude and a poseur. It's such a Thing for so many people, and such a grandiose act of rebellion against decency that I feel like I should like it. And I mean, I'm no prude; I'm a fan of a lot of movies that are fairly described as a bunch of sleazy, nihilistic, rage-fueled nonsense. When I try to say what I don't like about STREET TRASH, I find myself delivering a list of problems that is almost identical to the list of reasons I do like a lot of other movies: it's ugly, mean, tacky, offensive, depressingly cheap, grim, anti-social bordering on evil, and on top of everything else, it doesn't really make any sense. It's a little hard for me to explain where and why I draw the line between STREET TRASH and beloved favorites like LAST HOUSE ON DEAD END STREET, ISLAND OF DEATH, BEYOND THE DARKNESS, or EBOLA SYNDROME (ok so EBOLA SYNDROME isn't actually one of my favorite movies, but I definitely admire its...er, guts). My aversion to Troma movies--another thing that makes me feel like a stranger in a strange land--might help inform some of what I don't like about STREET TRASH. There's a way in which a willfully offensive movie can seem to cross over from being contemptuous of society, to contemptuous of its own audience, and that's what bothers me: Troma's insistence on its own laziness and prurience, accusing the viewer of getting off on failure and inferiority, and garnishing its pridefully crappy production with shitty jokes about smearing queers and killing whores. But, while STREET TRASH has a similar brand of extremely shallow nihilism, much of it is meticulously put-together, which is usually a movie's saving grace--not that it's expensive and beautiful, but that it is made with evident passion. Which is exactly why this movie is such a confusing experience for me.

Maybe I can find some further clarity by attempting to describe what the plot consists of. A Brooklyn liquor store owner finds a case of ancient malt liquor called Tenafly Viper in his basement that, for some reason, causes anyone who drinks it to melt down into human sewage and/or explode. Just when it seems like the mysterious action and origin of Viper will be at the center of the plot--after all, it is STREET TRASH's main claim to fame--we drift into the dour drama between a pair of young homeless brothers, Freddie and Kevin, living in a shack in the back of a junkyard. These guys are relatively wholesome compared to the surrounding encampment, where the absolute dregs of humanity exist in a HILLS HAVE EYES-like fiefdom under a deranged Vietnam vet. Their collective troubles begin when Freddy brings home a blind-drunk mafia moll, who is subsequently raped to death by the other hobos. This brings the heat down on the whole camp, as a violent cop tries to find the connection between the derelicts, the mob, and the melting corpses sloshing around in the streets. The results are, needless to say, a mess.

STREET TRASH is relentlessly hostile to all forms of life, salting its own festering wounds with a dash of brutally unfunny comedy. Writer and producer Roy Frumkes has said of his script, "I wrote it to democratically offend every group on the planet, and as a result the youth market embraced it as a renegade work, and it played midnight shows."  It’s hard for me to imagine what form of pleasure people derive from this film, but as Frumkes correctly notes, it does exist. The utterly debased narrative and its many scatological set pieces go so far above and beyond the call of flipping the bird to society, seething with bitterness and loathing in every frame, that one could wonder if the filmmakers weren't clinically depressed. The noxious brew of rape jokes, casual racism, miserable 'Nam flashbacks, and full-body incontinence foments such entirely bad vibes that you might feel like flushing yourself down the toilet by the end, just like the first victim does in the movie's admittedly spectacular opening salvo. 

But th brings me to my point: STREET TRASH is not just a bad movie made poorly. The execution of its signature scene, an elaborate splatterpunk version of the once-popular Goodbye Cruel World novelty knickknacks, is a genuine labor of love, monstrously creative, and one of the most indelible images in horror. If that's my favorite thing in the movie (besides an all too short appearance of the wonderful James Lorinz), my least favorite thing might be its second-most notorious scene, in which the junkyard’s demented denizens play football with a guy's severed cock--but as I just read, even this sequence is rendered with some amount of thoughtfulness. Apparently three separate dildos were used to pull off the gag, including an extra large version that was required for the shots of the dick hurtling through the air in slow motion, warping and wobbling as it soars towards its next receiver. I am strangely beguiled by the idea of director Jim Muro experimenting with how to shoot this scrimmage for maximum effect, choosing dongs that were the right size and weight for the type of motion that he wanted to capture on camera. This shows a decided lack of the kind of laziness that I have come to expect from movies that are this grimy and dejected-feeling. A too-long genital mutilation joke is the last thing I want to give anyone credit for, but here, I feel kind of forced to.

A hot bondage scene with Doctor Jersey Boy!

Why did I put myself through this, you might ask, clearly knowing what I was in for? STREET TRASH is in a small group of movies that make me feel like I'm missing something. They're so well-loved, and they do so little for me--without my being able to completely denounce them as worthless--that I feel this nagging obligation to check in on them now and again. Maybe this is the year that my horizons have expanded to the right degree; maybe I've finally seen a vast enough number and variety of movies that my whole context for something like this will have changed. For the most part, it seems like the days of that kind of radical change are behind me, as a grownass woman with many thousands of hours of viewing under my belt. I still don't feel whatever specialized joy people seem to get from STREET TRASH, and I expect I never will. I really don’t know what else to say at this point, except that in my brief research for this piece, I discovered that the director went on to a substantial career as a cinematographer whose work includes CRASH. No, not the Cronenberg one. The incredibly sappy, pretentious, and witlessly tasteless social justice one from 2004. And there is something I find perversely satisfying about that fact. I guess Muro is really fucking things up from the inside now.

[oysters-aint-for-me]

i’ve been thinking abt something lately and i just need to write it out i think. it’s probably going to be long so i know most ppl won’t read it but i just wanna write it out for my own sanity 

i remember in 2014, when the ebola epidemic was hitting west africa hard, i kept reading articles (and comments on the articles) that said a big factor in the spread of the disease was that, in many west african cultures, there are funeral traditions that involve touching the body of the deceased person. i don’t recall exactly what these traditions are, but the link was clear: if a person died of ebola, then touching their body afterwards could spread the disease.

now, i don’t actually know how big of a factor this was. while it probably did have a part in the spread of the disease, it’s probably more likely that widespread poverty and the accompanying lack of healthcare infrastructure had a bigger impact. 

but that reality isn’t important to what i’m thinking about. what’s important is that this whole “funeral tradition” thing was a narrative that spread, mostly among people who weren’t on the frontlines fighting the disease, i.e., internet commenters.

and i remember reading comments, on news articles and in reddit threads and other places, about how these west african people were so “stupid and primitive,” asking why they wouldn’t just listen to doctors from the US and the UK other white colonial countries, talking about how ridiculous it was that they couldn’t give up this “obviously harmful” practice of touching the bodies of the deceased. 

i tried to explain a few times about the distrust of western medicine and doctors, about how the funeral traditions were cultural and therefore those of us who didn’t grow up with them might not understand the full depth of these ceremonies. i wasn’t saying that these traditions weren’t spreading ebola. it’s definitely true that you shouldn’t touch the body of a person who has died from ebola. i was just trying to say that it’s easy for a white person in america to look at that and say “oh, those people are so stupid!” i was trying to say that healthcare providers need to practice extreme cultural humility to gain the trust of people who are understandably distrustful of western medicine due to historically terrible experiences with it. and western doctors are notoriously reluctant to practice cultural humility. or they’re just bad at it. 

i’m not sure anyone really heard me, but anyway.... 

now it’s 2020 and COVID-19 is tearing through the US; states are reopening despite the virus spiking again and spreading exponentially; people protested with guns for their right to get haircuts; the president of the united states is refusing to wear a face mask even in facilities that explicitly require it, probably because it shows weakness.

i have no way of knowing if the people who are refusing to wear masks are the same people who thought west africans were stupid for holding on to their funeral traditions in spite of the ebola epidemic, but i feel like there is probably some overlap. it’s a similar line of thinking that causes both things, anyway—a lack of compassion for others, a refusal to understand the needs of people that are different from you, or to even consider the validity of another point of view. 

but either way, like...isn’t that fucked up? excuse me for not being eloquent, but it is so fucked up that ppl in the US were like “psssh stupid africans, continuing to do their primitive funeral stuff [i.e. deeply important cultural traditions relating to grief and saying goodbye to their loved ones], they should just shut up and listen to Modern Science [i.e., something that has been historically used as a weapon of colonialism against african peoples and of which they are understandably distrustful]!”....

....and now it’s 2020, and even though there is now significant scientific evidence that face masks can help stem the spread of COVID-19 in community settings, states that have reopened are facing unprecedented infections, just as scientists predicted, but people have turned right around like “yeah...but i hear the jury’s still out on science, and masks are a little bit uncomfortable, so i’m not gonna wear them.” 

like...important traditions regarding death? ridiculous. west african people are so stupid. science is god. 

but wearing a simple face mask? the idea that a contagious disease spreads more when people are in close proximity????? UNACCEPTABLE! SCIENCE IS A LIAR SOMETIMES (AND RIGHT NOW IS ONE OF THOSE SOMETIMES)!

i mean. i understand why it’s happening: it’s racism. it’s xenophobia. it’s capitalism. it’s cultural selfishness. it’s not a surprise. but the hypocrisy just frustrates me so much. it’s like that headline from that article after tr**p was elected: “i don’t know how to explain to you that you should care about other people.” i so wish i did. 

[glass-rose-paperweight]

2020 Was A Dumpster Fire - We Didn’t Start The Fire Parody

I was originally going to turn this into a Youtube video, but it ended up being more work than I was really ready to tackle, and it was not ‘sparking joy’, so I decided to abandon the project. However, I had already written up the lyrics for the parody, so I decided I would just post them on here. Note: I ended up adding verses and lines to one of the verses so I could fit everything in that I wanted to say, and I still didn’t cover everything that happened in this fucking year. Hope you enjoy

Protests in Hong Kong, riots in India Persian Gulf Crisis, a general is dead Yemen and Libya Civil War, fires in Australia Taliban peace treaty, disease starting to spread

Boris Johnson is a clown, Britain’s on it’s own now World war three drawing closer, and Kobe died Volcanoes erupting, Impeachment trial, Tiger King And why did Mr. Peanut have to say goodbye?

2020 was a dumpster fire It was doomed to burn When the year first turned 2020 was a dumpster fire  Can’t believe we made it Was 12 months I hated

The Senate acquits Trump, Quarantine, no testing And now we have to deal with the CoronaVirus England still has their queen, Meghan and Harry are leaving Global disasters rage as the temperature rises

States of emergency, Houston has a cheating team Stock market crash and New planet discovery Same-sex marriage in Ireland, social distance, travel banned People hoarding toilet paper, sports canceled temporarily

2020 was a dumpster fire It was doomed to burn When the year first turned 2020 was a dumpster fire  I can’t believe we made it Was 12 months I hated

Weinstein is guilty, lockdown in Italy Summer Olympics postponed, US election year  Syria Civil War, fires in California People are starting to die, Pope Francis livestream

UFO videos, murder hornets, black holes Black Lives Matter, more fires, we’re still in June Flash floods, hurricanes, cyclones, so much rain What do you mean there’s a crack on the moon?

2020 was a dumpster fire It was doomed to burn When the year first turned 2020 was a dumpster fire  I can’t believe we made it Was 12 months I hated

African locust swarm, Ebola’s back, Parasite won  Title IX rehaul, Austria shooting spree Gay marriage in Costa Rica, brain eating amoeba Don’t let Grimes and Elon name babies Earthquakes, no handshakes, Twitter scams with high stakes Immigration, Trump labeled "antifa" a terrorist organization

*dead silence while I ponder what the fuck this world has come to*

2020 was a dumpster fire It was doomed to burn When the year first turned 2020 was a dumpster fire  I can’t believe we made it Was 12 months I hated

Death of RBG, School starting back virtually Longest living Pope, Protests in Thailand Chadwick Bozemen dead, we just can’t get ahead Kim Jong Un death rumors and his sister was stanned

Beirut explosion, Lake Michigan erosion Trump has Corona, Eddie Van Halen died Mars 2020 rover goes, Africa free of polio Prince Charles of Luxembourg, We might have a vaccine

2020 was a dumpster fire It was doomed to burn When the year first turned 2020 was a dumpster fire  I can’t believe we made it Was 12 months I hated

Who will win, election night, Georgia flipping, what a sight Destiel became canon before our president Doesn’t matter anyway, speedrun bury your gays Then the actors almost died in an accident

Widest voter turnout in history, Trump calling early  Bolivian President attacked with dynamite Nevada get your shit together, Putin resignation rumor Ted Bundy artist, Alex Trebek died

Kill all the mink in Denmark, it’s Grittney bitch, stop the count Four Seasons Total Landscaping, Election over Georgia and Pennsylvania flipped blue, Trump is gonna sue *music stops* and all this happened in the FIRST GODDAMN WEEK OF NOVEMBER *moment of silence for my sanity*

2020 was a dumpster fire It was doomed to burn When the year first turned 2020 was a dumpster fire  I can’t believe we made it Was 12 months I hated

John Oliver Memorial Sewer Plant, Joe Biden is our President Over 75 million sick, Over 1.5 million dead Most active hurricane season, US exited the Paris Agreement  Ratatouille on Broadway, and Darth Vader dead

Covid reached Antarctica, Casey Goodson, Unus Annus Y yo a ti, Cas; Zodiac killer cipher solved Sean Connery died, Aliens are real according to the Israeli guy Exploding RV in Nashville, we can’t take it anymore!

2020 was a dumpster fire It was doomed to burn When the year first turned 2020 was a dumpster fire  Let just hope we don’t have to go Through this in twenty twenty-one, ne-one (x like 9 or something) 

2020 was a dumpster fire It was doomed to burn When the year first turned 2020 was a dumpster fire  I can’t believe we made it Was 12 months I hated

2020 was a dumpster fire It was doomed to burn When the year first turned 2020 was a dumpster fire  I can’t believe we made it Was 12 months I hated

2020 was a dumpster fire It was doomed to burn When the year first turned 2020 was a dumpster fire  I can’t believe we made it Was 12 months I hated

The rhyme scheme of this song was a bitch to try and get right. Technically, it changes for the last verse, but I had already more or less written it, and I didn’t feel like messing with it, so I just said ‘fuck it’ and went with what the rhyme scheme for the rest of the song was. 

Not everything that happened this year was bad, but, man, it was a year. I’m American, so what happened was very America centric, but I tried to branch out and be international with what was going on. Even with the extra verse and extra lines, I still didn’t manage to get everything. One of the most recent developments that I just wasn’t able to include is that abortion is now legal in Argentina, whoo whoo.