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Because Fear Kills Everything

@parsleymusic / parsleymusic.tumblr.com

why are you here? like really? why are you here?
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glumshoe

What I say: “I’m touch-starved.”

What you think I mean: “I need a hug.”

What I truly mean: “I need someone to platonically lie across me with their full weight, crushing my body and providing deep pressure until my errant soul is reabsorbed into my flesh. Also, a hug would be nice.”

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prokopetz

The reason most people are bad at offering cogent criticisms of other people's work is because they're evaluating those works on the basis of The Thing They Would Make, not The Thing You Would Make. Indeed, a great many people don't understand that those are different things, interpreting The Thing You Would Make as a defective or incomplete version of The Thing They Would Make.

This gulf of understanding is not an impassable one. Learning to correctly identify the author's creative goals with respect to a particular work, and to formulate criticism in terms of how best to achieve those goals, is a skill which can be cultivated. In its proper place, it can be a hugely valuable skill – there's a reason many authors will tell you that a good editor is worth their weight in gold.

Unfortunately, developing this skill will not make you any less prone to being a hater. Learning how to correctly identify other people's creative goals simply means that you'll graduate from picking at specific choices to saying: "I understand this work's goals, and those goals fucking suck. I hate everything that this chooses to be."

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sorry i said it was hot when you were bleeding out :/ you literally didnt die why are you mad at me

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noknowshame

why is religious Christmas imagery all so joyful and pleasant? where is the inherent horror of the birth of Christ? A mother is handed her newborn child, wailing and innocent. Her hands come away sticky. Red. Simply by giving her son life she has already killed him. He is doomed from the beginning. Her love will not save him from suffering. Because the thing cradled in her arms is not a baby, it is a sacrifice: born amongst the other bleating animals whose blood will one day be spilled in the name of what demands it. the night is silent with anticipation. Mary, did you know? That your womb was also a grave?

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browniefox
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