Babygirl i can fail at subtasks you wouldnt even think to conceptualise as their own task

Imagine being Kaz Brekker, on the roof of the Ice Court, ready to plunge into the next step of a scheme so hair-brained he’s not even sure is going to work, and the girl he’s accidentally fallen in love with has just scaled an incinerator shaft six stories while it’s still burning as her shoes melted to her feet while wearing the gloves that are such a huge part of both Kaz’s own reputation and the crux of his biggest shame. And she stands there and everything is a bit damp from the rain and then she tells him she’s got purpose now and touches his cheek (the only positive physical contact he’s had in years) and asks him will you die afraid like how was he supposed to respond I think I would have simply exploded

I was watching Shrek 2 and my wife and I were reflecting on how much transmisogyny was in it as jokes (e.g. “gender confused wolf” “ugly step sister” “women’s underwear” etc.) and it’s so extremely ridiculous to me the transphobes’ line that having positive representations of trans people (esp trans women) in children’s media would be “too confusing” for kids—because they are literally already making references to trans women in children’s media, they’re just doing it in the most offensive ways possible. Taking away all the empty cis rationalization of it, really they’re not arguing for kids to not see trans characters, they’re arguing that kids should see trans characters as demonized, fetishized, objects of ridicule and disgust. Like that’s literally the subtext in these “how do I explain this to my kids” conversations. They really mean “let me continue to explain this in ways that groom kids into hating trans people and themselves if they are trans”

This…is a great point

Y'know Shrek the musical straight up drops the t slur

“Public libraries are such important, lovely places!” Yes but do you GO there. Do you STUDY there. Do you meet friends and get coffee there. Do you borrow the FREE, ZERO SUBSCRIPTION, ZERO TRACKING books, audiobooks, ebooks, and films. Have you checked out their events and schemes. Do you sign up for the low cost courses in ASL or knitting or programming or writing your CV that they probably run. Do you know they probably have myriad of schemes to help low income families. Do you hire their low cost rooms if you need them. Have you joined their social groups. Do you use the FREE COMPUTERS. Do you even know what your library is trying to offer you. Listen, the library shouldn’t just exist for you as a nice idea. That’s why more libraries shut every year

If this post persuades even one person to get a free library account and use it, my time on this hellsite will not have been spent in vain

IM SORRY I LOVE THIS SHOW IM DYING

Girl help but not jn a way where you’re calling the person ur talking to a girl but more in the way where you say “so help me god” or “lord help me”. There is a theoretical girl out there who is some kind of other worldly being and I am asking for her help

You pray to the one they call Jolene

Gate C22

by Ellen Bass

At gate C22 in the Portland airport a man in a broad-band leather hat kissed a woman arriving from Orange County. They kissed and kissed and kissed. Long after the other passengers clicked the handles of their carry-ons and wheeled briskly toward short-term parking, the couple stood there, arms wrapped around each other like he’d just staggered off the boat at Ellis Island, like she’d been released at last from ICU, snapped out of a coma, survived bone cancer, made it down from Annapurna in only the clothes she was wearing. Neither of them was young. His beard was gray. She carried a few extra pounds you could imagine her saying she had to lose. But they kissed lavish kisses like the ocean in the early morning, the way it gathers and swells, sucking each rock under, swallowing it again and again. We were all watching— passengers waiting for the delayed flight to San Jose, the stewardesses, the pilots, the aproned woman icing Cinnabons, the man selling sunglasses. We couldn’t look away. We could taste the kisses crushed in our mouths. But the best part was his face. When he drew back and looked at her, his smile soft with wonder, almost as though he were a mother still open from giving birth, as your mother must have looked at you, no matter what happened after—if she beat you or left you or you’re lonely now—you once lay there, the vernix not yet wiped off, and someone gazed at you as if you were the first sunrise seen from the Earth. The whole wing of the airport hushed, all of us trying to slip into that woman’s middle-aged body, her plaid Bermuda shorts, sleeveless blouse, glasses, little gold hoop earrings, tilting our heads up.

Four in the Morning

by Wislawa Szymborska

The hour from night to day.

The hour from side to side.

The hour for those past thirty.

The hour swept clean to the crowing of cocks. The hour when earth betrays us. The hour when wind blows from extinguished stars. The hour of and-what-if-nothing-remains-after-us.

The hollow hour. Blank, empty. The very pit of all other hours.

No one feels good at four in the morning. If ants feel good at four in the morning –three cheers for the ants. And let five o'clock come if we’re to go on living.

At Last the Secret Is Out

by W.H. Auden

At last the secret is out, as it always must come in the end, The delicious story is ripe to tell to the intimate friend; Over the tea-cups and in the square the tongue has its desire; Still waters run deep, my dear, there’s never smoke without fire. Behind the corpse in the reservoir, behind the ghost on the links, Behind the lady who dances and the man who madly drinks, Under the look of fatigue, the attack of migraine and the sigh There is always another story, there is more than meets the eye. For the clear voice suddenly singing, high up in the convent wall, The scent of the elder bushes, the sporting prints in the hall, The croquet matches in summer, the handshake, the cough, the kiss, There is always a wicked secret, a private reason for this.

january, s.t.

bestie, you and me are boiled of the same broth…..

Listen, if you give me only verbal instructions, understand that I will not understand a word you said no matter how good they were if it’s more than one or two steps

nowhere - gregg araki (1997)

Melanie Parke - Morning Stems, 2021