Spinning-spinning-spinning - What If? Why Not? - Tumblr Blog

create! create! even if it’s been a while. even if you don’t know what to write or draw or sing. connect with what once brought you joy and you will remember how. create in a new way, knit or dance or crochet. try spoken word or painting. poetry or pottery. the freedom in creating… it’s liberating

God did not create us so diverse and unique so that plastic surgeons on tiktok can tell us how to look like insta baddie no. 1932713, no ma'am

totality

it’s so hilarious to me that straight women think they are so irresistible to us gay women that we are just waiting to pounce on them as soon as we’re in the same space like nah we can smell your homophobia from miles away you fucking gremlins

Life is brief, but when it’s gone Love goes on and on.

Robin Hood (1973)

dir. Wolfgang Reitherman

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actually i love growing older and learning how i work as a person like realizing what kinds of fabrics feel best on my skin or what brand of yogurt i like best or how I want to be touched. watching myself change, enjoying brussel sprouts when I used to hate them as a child, understanding why I got angry in that one conversation 10 years ago… there are so many mysteries inside me that i have yet to unravel and there will always be more and sometimes i think maybe its all worth it

me n my medieval gf sexting:

me: i will rend thy cunt asunder, wench

her: o! prithee split me in twain

If you’re not silly get better soon

“The Guiding Light” by Andrea Fossati (Italian, 1844 - 1919)

would b nice to have a happiness that didnt turn out to be a horrible lesson in the end u know what i mean

classic lit authors on ao3

Jane Austen: The slowburn writer to end all slowburn writers. Has a mild case of purple prose syndrome. Sets you up to think she’s using a really lame trope or cliche, but then pulls the old BITCH U THOUGHT. Gets in fights with commenters who completely miss the point of her work.

William Shakespeare: Where dick jokes meet feels. Recycles old plots that have been in the fandom for years, but always manages to put a new spin on it. That said, he’s better known for good character writing than good plots. Kind of problematic, but people love him anyway. Laughs at and encourages commenters who completely miss the point of his work.

The Brontë Sisters: Their fics get lots of comments but they never reply. They never leave author notes, either. They share an account, and there are talks of a collab fic coming soon. Write fics for OTPs of questionable healthiness and consent. Only ever write darkfic. Like, REALLY dark. …People are getting kind of worried about them.

Edgar Allan Poe: Also only ever writes darkfic, but at this point, people have moved past being worried about him and have just accepted that he’s weird, he’s morbid, and we love him. Channels his feelings about his ex into his writing. It results in really good stories but everyone’s sort of like, “…Dude.”

Charles Dickens: Trying to set the record for highest wordcount on ao3, and it shows.

Victor Hugo: Currently holds the record for highest wordcount on ao3.

Oscar Wilde: Only ever writes M/M. Has a BAD case of purple prose, but it’s worth it if you manage to get through. His stories are either hilarious or soul-crushing. Or somehow both. People love him but know better than to disagree with him publicly, lest he destroy you with one of his infamous subtweets.

L. Frank Baum: Wrote one really well-loved story that’s among the most famous in the fandom, and it’s literally all he’s known for, and it pisses him off. His popular story became a multichap against his will because it’s the only one of his stories anyone actually reads. He keeps trying to end it so he can work on other things, but always ends up coming back.

Arthur Conan Doyle: Feels L. Frank Baum’s pain. SO much.

James Joyce: Has fascinating ideas, but takes forEVER to get to the point in his stories. Also a stoner, and it shows.

Lousia May Alcott: Writes stories for her unpopular OTP (that’s a NOTP for most of the fandom) and breaks up everyone’s favorite ships, mainly out of spite. Also kills everyone’s favorite characters, less so out of spite.

Mary Shelley: Writes incredible stories, but publishes under her boyfriend’s account because she’s banned from ao3. …Again.

The Lego Movie was really good actually

I cannot stress enough that donating to either major political party in the United States will not make anything materially better. Donate to bail funds, donate to mutual aid funds. Donate to abortion funds. Donate housing programs and rehab programs. The republicans and democrats will both eat your money and do absolutely fuck all for you.

hi everyone im still pissed we never learnt in school that shakespeare was bi and wrote the sonnets about a dude and a woc he was into

i love you obvious symbolism i love you blatant foreshadowing i love you gratuitous parallels i love you dramatic lighting i love you cheesy music. i love you media that doesn't take itself too seriously

Is it not enough that I'm hot? Must I also be awake?

omg i love this character he deserves the world!!!!! *puts him through the horrors* *puts him through the horrors* *pu

do you want to know what having alopecia is like?

odds are, you develop it as a teenager, so you’re concerned about your appearance as it is. always self conscious, always on edge. you want to be liked. you feel like you’re fighting a losing battle, but you can tell yourself that no one cares, you’re invisible, and sometimes that helps, a little. invisible is better than obviously wrong.

and then one day, you notice something isn’t right.

maybe you see it. maybe you feel it. a small, smooth spot on your skull. hairless.

your first thought is that you’ve been brushing your hair too hard, that you tore out some accidentally. you try to be more careful. but now you always notice it: it’s sensitive. you know every time you touch it with a brush, or a pin, or a hat. you can feel the air against it, like invisible fingers, prodding, pointing.

more likely than not, you try to hide it. you tell yourself it’s nothing. you tell yourself it will grow back. but you step into the shower, and there is always hair on your hands, on your skin, on the walls and floor. no matter what you do, it is there, far more than you’ve ever seen on them before. the same thing happens when you run a brush or even your fingers through it. those hairs are on your clothes, on your pillow, on your table, on your floor. you see them everywhere, all the lost strands, like mocking smiles, and you try not to think about where they came from.

more often than not, the patch grows. more often than not, new ones form. more often than not, no matter what you try, no matter what you do, it doesn’t stop.

you change your hairstyle. you wear more hats. you become afraid to go outside, and you grow to hate warm weather, because wearing a hood or a hat is strange then. it’s harder to hide in heat, you learn, and you dream of snow.

you tell yourself that it’s stress. you tell yourself it’s anxiety. and it is, sort of, because alopecia correlates with them, but even before you know that word, you know you’re lying to yourself. you live in fear of people noticing, and you live in fear of fearing because that makes it worse, and you live in fear of that vicious cycle you cannot escape.

eventually it becomes too hard to hide. maybe you tell people, maybe you ask for help, but maybe you don’t. it’s terrifying, you see, and you’re afraid. you don’t want anyone to know. but it becomes too hard to hide.

if you’re a teenager, your parents probably see it first. maybe a sibling. maybe a friend. you go to a doctor. you find out it’s alopecia. you find out alopecia exists in the first place. you find out there is no cure, really, just stuff they can try on you. some of it will be tested out on you. you know you are becoming a lab rat, but you think you might do anything to regrow your fur.

people make jokes about short hair and baldness and hair loss every day around you. you are petrified. many of them don’t even know what alopecia means. you hate them, sometimes. you don’t want to, but you do, and you can’t even tell them why.

you can’t dye your hair because that would make it obvious. you can’t tie it up because that would make it obvious. you can’t cut it too short or grow it too long because that would make it obvious. it always feels obvious. it always feels like people can see, no matter what you do.

sometimes, you can’t hide it at all.

you come out of the shower and you see patches on your skull and they are glaring. they bore into you, like angry eyes. you can feel their stare all day long. you hope they don’t make eye contact with anyone else, but you don’t know. you’re so, so afraid.

and people care. they care so much. they think it’s a joke, they think it’s a tragedy, they think that your hair is theirs and your loss is theirs and you can always feel them looking. you don’t know how to ask them to stop caring so much. you don’t know how to ask them to look away.

and you don’t know how to explain what you’re feeling. you don’t know how to talk about it. you fidget with your hair a lot now. you are looking in every mirror you pass even though it fills you with dread. you are always checking for exposed patches. you are so afraid. you always feel like you are being watched. you had anxiety before but it was nothing like this. you look in the mirror and you see a stranger, you see a monster, and the monster is you.

those patches of bare skin are so sensitive, like holes carved into your head. the wind is so cold. the sun is so warm. you have never felt them like this before. it doesn’t technically hurt, doesn’t ache or throb or burn, but it feels like it does. you want to cry like it does.

you think you’re being selfish. you think you’re being dramatic. you think you’re making too big a deal of it. sometimes, you don’t have to think, because people say it for you. it isn’t really a disability. you aren’t really hurting. you shouldn’t really be sad.

you feel so alone.

if you want to hide it, you can’t play sports or ride a rollercoaster or go swimming or be on stage or walk in the rain. you can’t do anything where something could mess up your hair and someone could see. you want to get a job, but you can’t do so many things, now. it’s not hygienic, you see, having your hair fall out. it’s not attractive or professional. it’s not something you can forget about, it’s a constant distraction, it is always, always there.

(no one listens when you try to tell them that. they call you lazy. they call you unambitious. they call you self-centered. sometimes, you want to tear out a hunk of your hair and then sprinkle it like a garnish on their meal or their clothes or their face, so it gets in their eyes and mouth and nose like creeping vines. you want to see what they’d say then.)

sometimes, the medication helps. sometimes, it grows back. sometimes, you learn to accept it. but that fear is always there, even when you laugh about it.

(to you, even your own jokes about it are never really funny. when other people make them, it’s so much worse.)

you lose, and you lose, and you lose, every single day. and maybe it’s just hair. just hair! just hair, just hair—it’s a mantra and a promise and a prayer you tell yourself every day. just hair.

maybe it is just hair, but it still feels like what you’re losing is yourself.

Konstantin Voronov

we need a bunch more lesbian / aroace girls solidarity. gotta love that childhood experience of feeling like there’s something wrong, immature, and cold about you because all your friends have crushes on boys and talk about which famous guys are hot and you’re just… not built the same, and you don’t know why. in fact i think we probably share a lot of experiences and it should be talked about more. i love all my aroace peers in our community!!

“Stories you read when you’re the right age never quite leave you. You may forget who wrote them or what the story was called. Sometimes you’ll forget precisely what happened, but if a story touches you it will stay with you, haunting the places in your mind that you rarely ever visit.”

— Neil Gaiman, M is for Magic