under-the-earth

[under-the-earth]

[under-the-earth]

apparently my boss who is a professor at my school doesn’t have a cell phone and his coworkers were upset by this so they bought him a childs toy phone and labeled it “David’s jitterbug” (for those of you that don’t know jitterbugs are phones made for old people that have like massive buttons and shit) so the other day I walked into his office to ask him a question and he pressed a button on it which made it start loudly playing the ABCs and he said “excuse me I have to take this” and then started singing along to the ABCs while shooing me out of his office

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there's a delicate balance between "seeing something on my dash so often i end up caring about it unexpectedly" and "seeing something on my dash so often that it gets added to the blocked list with extreme prejudice"

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you are 16. you are talking with a gay man in his 50s or 60s, a friend, huge and gentle with a scarf and short fluffy curls of gray hair, who has directed you in two plays staged in your mid-size artsy town. (he has not yet asked you to be in his production of The Laramie Project which will change your life. this conversation will also change your life.)

he is talking about theatre. he is talking about theatre when he was younger. he says, "of course, it was AIDS then." in the pause, you ask him. clumsy and quiet and 16 and "straight," you ask him. what was it like.

he takes a moment in which his face is not like a person's face. "there was a time," he says, "i'm not sure how long, years. when i went to a funeral every weekend." he tells you about two funerals in a day, and choosing between friends when you couldn't make it to both. he does not look at you, he looks at them. his wet grey gaze is so clear that you start to see ghosts. it will be years before you understand why it feels like your grief too. why the ghosts call you family.

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every day of my life i'm grateful that the same people who assign strict top/bottom and/or dom/sub dynamics to characters haven't gotten their hands on sadomasochism, at least within my purview, because Can you fucking imagine

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i feel strongly about this

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went to my best friend’s house last night and saw a little plushie dog and plushie cat that had been sewn together down the middle into a two-headed chimera. I said, “did you do that?” she said, “yes, I saved them.”

turns out at her old job when the last two plushies hadn’t sold and became deadstock, her boss told her to cut them up and throw them out. so she cut them each in half, preserved their heads, and then rebuilt them together.

cannot stop thinking about the way these little plushies were approached with the instinct of a Vampire or some sort of ancient god. “Let me save you [turn you into a monster].”

[under-the-earth]

literally any upper middle class tiktok self-identified ‘that girl’ in a pastel workout set with a thirteen step skincare routine and a green juice is a million times closer to being patrick bateman irl than any self-identified sigma film bro

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some of you aren’t even perverts you just have normal sexual desires that you are ashamed of

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the opposite of that "orc can't read ulysses" is an elf who smugly delivers a lecture misinterpreting the Very Hungry Caterpillar

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listen to me right now: stop wasting precious time waiting to dress sluttier until you're smaller. you have a limited number of slut hours before you die and barring cosmic interference you will Never obtain more of them. wear the crop top

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