It's Honestly Such A Shame That We've Made Such A Huge Thing Out Of Swimming And Swimsuits And Looking

I wish age gap discourse hadn't spiraled the way it has because I want there to be a safe space to say "Men in their 40s who date 25 year olds aren't predators, they're just fucking losers"

University life is so goddamn weird because I don't understand anything and the only reaction my teacher had to "I'm going to write a paper about my Immortal" was a genuine "Ok, sounds very interesting."

been stewing on an analytical approach to fiction which I call "is this book afraid of me?" and in order to answer this question you determine how hard the book is trying to make sure you don't come after the writer on twitter

Etudier

Avant, étudier c’était pour faire briller des étoiles dans les yeux des adultes. C’était pour faire croire que j’étais quelqu’un de bien, de digne d’intérêt. C’était facile, c’était un jeu, je me racontais des histoires, ce en quoi j’excellais, on disait tu iras loin, et j’étais persuadée que c’était vrai. Longtemps, étudier a été une échappatoire, une fierté, un moteur d’ambition, quelque chose que j’aimais.

J’écrivais mes dictées comme des lettres d’amour. Je récitais l’alphabet comme un poème. Etudier valait la peine.

Aujourd’hui, maintenant que je suis adulte (qu’il est laid, ce mot, qu’il est écrasant), étudier est un mot qui me tord le ventre. Ce sont sept lettres comme une menace irrationnelle, sept lettres en moi qui font résonner les pierres. Pour mes études j’ai créé des échos qui font rouler des graviers dans ma gorge et me lacèrent de l’intérieur, l’angoisse en est devenue physique, et moi je suis : incontrôlable. J’ai des coups de sang, des crises de larmes, des rages infantiles. Je me noie entre mes fiches et mes listes interminables.

Il faut croire que même les études réveillent des monstres. Je suis terrifiée : de rater ma vie, de ne rien valoir, de me battre sans savoir pourquoi. Je suis terrifiée de poursuivre dans cette voie et de me rendre compte dans trente ans que ce n’était pas la mienne, que voilà, je me suis trompée, et que j’ai passé toute une vie à satisfaire des désirs qui n’étaient jamais les miens. C’est que je ne suis pas faite pour choisir, je n’ai pas de voie, non ; je suis mouvante et incapable de faire le deuil des possibles.

Je ne sais pas me définir sans ma quête de perfection, mes ambitions démesurées, mes exigences tyranniques. Je ne suis pas : sociable, jolie, intéressante, drôle, désirable. Alors je ne sais pas qui je suis si je ne parviens pas à réussir. C’est tout ce qu’il me reste. Je ne sais rien faire d’autre que cela, répondre à des exigences académiques, rentrer dans la norme, avoir un parcours sans accrocs.

Pour la première fois, étudier n’est pas facile. Peut-être que je n’irai pas si loin. Peut-être a-t-on placé en moi trop d’espoirs, trop d’attentes : des étouffements. J’ai l’impression que je n’ai jamais grandi, que j’ai fait semblant. Comment se faire à l’idée de décevoir ?

Whenever I get a particularly nasty message, I always check to see if they're following me first. Nine times out of ten, they're not. But they're also, unfortunately, the same people who feel entitled to send me multiple messages in a row, most of them heavily steeped in the language of moralization and purity.

Like whenever I talk about painkillers or pain management, I always get a handful of well-meaning people who are maybe new to my blog or are just young, asking me if I've tried diet/exercise/meditation, etc.

Sometimes I'll respond to them. Other times I'll just ignore them because I get those kinds of messages so often it's like white noise, and maybe part of me hopes if they stick around on my blog, they'll learn it through exposure via my incessant bitching.

When you see me responding to someone offering that kind of advice, it's either because I'm at my fucking limit or because I'm hoping it's a teachable moment and an otherwise seemingly nice person might unlearn some harmful biases.

The people who don't follow me are not interested in any kind of conversation on the subject. They do, however, feel the most qualified to tell me, someone they didn't know existed until one of my posts crossed their dash, how to manage my life, everything I'm doing wrong, and why I'm a bad person.

And for them, my disability is proof that I am a bad person because they view health as a moral issue.

If you're sick, it's because you don't exercise enough, don't eat the right foods, don't pray enough, don't do enough. They genuinely believe that if they say and do all the right things, like a Good Person, they'll never get sick.

It's their security blanket against the harsh reality that anyone is one bad day away from disability. One faulty gene, one bad infection, one bad accident away from a life-long diagnosis. And if they do get sick, it's a test. A challenge to be overcome with Willpower as they learn the True Meaning of Life.

It can never just be a simple fact of life that sickness happens. That disability exists without a moral reason.

And it's suffocating.

Day in, day out. Folks who don't know me from fucking Eve telling me I'm being punished. Not always as outright as that. They don't always use that word. But sometimes I appreciate it when they do because at least then they're being honest. They're not couching it in the softer language of leftist circles. Not hiding it behind concern.

Because the truth is, there are just as many folks who think they're liberal and enlightened who'd be happy if disabled people just stopped existing. They don't like thinking about us because it makes them think about themselves. About their own fragility and mortality, and they hate that. They hate that there's something they can't control with their thoughts and actions. That they can't moralize their way out of.

Honestly, it's a relief when people are just cunts about it because I can hit the block button, safe in the knowledge that they were never the kind of person who would see me as a person. But when it's some 20yo kid with their pronouns, orientation, and "ACAB" in their profile spouting the same kind of moralization, sometimes even with the language of eugenics, it feels like such a betrayal. Like a loss.

And perhaps if I wasn't multiply disabled, I'd have the energy to pull them back. To tell them why they're wrong and hope like hell they realize what they're doing is harmful. But then, if I wasn't disabled, they wouldn't be messaging me, so I wouldn't be dealing with it.

I wouldn't be expected to use my existence as a teachable moment to spoon-feed them compassion. But I am, and I do. When I can. Not always with the grace that's warranted. Not always with the thought and compassion I ought to. (And I don't; I acknowledge that. I'm prone to anger and off-the-cuff remarks that are hurtful too. Though I try to keep most of it to myself or save it for therapy.)

Basically, if you've made it this far through the TED talk, don't be fucking cunts to disabled people. Don't tell chronically ill people to try yoga. Don't moralize pain relief. Suffering is not noble.

You need to kill the cop and the priest in your head telling you otherwise.

And also if you're the nice people sending me nice messages. Thank you. It helps cushion all of *gestures* this.

Really feeling tempted to sign up for the "You're a crew member of the Demeter" LARP in the baltic sea rn.

part of being an ally to trans men is not being a dick to cis men for their appearance btw

Je suis totalement d'accord si tu initie un fandom Les lames du cardinal ! Je n'ai lu que le premier tome pour l'instant, mais je le trouve génial ! C'est décevant qu'il y ait si peu de contenu en ligne à propos de ce livre...

Pourquoi faut-il encore que j'aille me fourrer dans un fandom anglophone, hein ? J'sais plus comment on écrit en anglais, j'ai oublié, et pis j'aime mieux écrire en français d'abord. Je vais finir par initier un fandom “Les lames du cardinal” ou n'importe quoi où il y aura des francophones, na !

hobie would hate the overpriced hot topic spiderpunk jacket

“I’m not a starship ranger… I’m a bug.” I wanted to try doing some fake VHS screencaps of Starship. Like a straight to video movie you rented over and over again as a kid. Man, Joey Richter fucking killed it in that last scene…