Crisp Glass Of Water Moodboard

after dying god informs you that hell is a myth, and “everyone sins, its ok”. instead the dead are sorted into six “houses of heaven” based on the sins they chose.

“How old are Jessie and James?”

alright i’m making a masterpost because i’m so tired. these never get notes. please give this one notes. i’m going to run through every single parroted argument. i’m going to run through every thought anyone engaged in this discourse has ever had. please give me notes. not because i want clout, i’m just so tired. so many of my posts get notes. i would trade them all for this post to get notes.

How old are Team Rocket?

25. They’re 25. 

But I thought they were teenagers? Lots of people have told me they’re 15/16.

so i’ve heard! i’m pleased to tell you exactly where that comes from.

1. this post, for some reason:

i have been on tumblr for 10 years now, and i never saw anyone debating their ages before this post started circulating. as you can tell by the low res memebase screencap, it was screenshotted and reposted all across social media until it became legend.

the ages you see in this bulbapedia screencap were edited. bulbapedia has either omitted their ages entirely, or put them at 25 for reasons we’ll discuss at the end of this post. 

because i’m a petty bitch, i googled the tumblr username of the person who added that bulbapedia screencap, found what their current URL was, and searched team rocket’s names on their blog. here’s what i discovered.

OP claims it wasn’t them who edited the ages–that they just found it like this. NOT sure i buy that, because I looked into it, and right around the time this post was made (January 8th, 2014) there was a random, unprecedented edit that erroneously put their ages at 15.

this resulted in mods locking the page, because this person was relentless. they would go on team rocket’s pages every day and try to edit the ages back down. again, i can’t prove this is the same person, but these edits happened within 24 hours of them adding to that post. this is, in my professional opinion, the biggest shift i ever saw in people talking about team rocket’s ages. but there are other things people bring up…

2. “Jessie said she was a teenager!”

she does this sometimes. here are the times she does this.

- In episode 218 of the original series, Plant It Now… Diglett Later, the following exchange happens:

This would make Jessie 12. This is a joke. A running gag in the show is younger characters calling Jessie variations on ‘old lady/old bat/old hag,’ and James gets this treatment to a lesser extent. Jessie, however, is incredibly vain and obsessed with youth/beauty, so she often lies to great extent about her age. When Jessie says something like “Oh, I’m 13 years old ;3c” it is meant to carry the same feeling as “Aren’t I the most gorgeous creature walking this very Earth?” To Jessie, calling her old = calling her ugly. Calling herself young = calling herself beautiful. This trope is common with her particular anime archetype–it is more of a Japanese thing, so while I understand it being lost on american audiences, it is NOT proof of her age. 

Right after this, Meowth calls her out on it, asking her where she learned that math, and Jessie angrily threatens him. It’s a joke.

- In episode 56 of the original series, The Ultimate Test, Jessie is in disguise at a Pokemon League qualification exam. When Ash starts giving her the ‘she looks vaguely familiar’ side-eye, she panics and starts muttering information about herself aloud. I will be using the original Japanese line for this one:

This is quoted constantly as proof that Jessie is a teenager–but she is blatantly stating false information about herself here because she’s in disguise and Ash is onto her. This is a false identity she’s crafted, marked even further by “I work as an idol.” That’s an actual profession she’s talking about, one she doesn’t work. Since Japanese Idols weren’t widely unknown to westerners at the time of this dub, her dub line is simply “Age: 17. Profession: Diva.” which makes it a little harder to read that she’s lying about who she is, but she is. The information she’s stating here is that of an alias. It is not her actual age or profession.

3. You literally just posted a screencap of James saying he should get a driver’s license. 

Okay, smart guy, that’s also jokes. The joke isn’t that he’s too young to drive–the joke is that he was a runaway at five years old and had his childhood & all his milestones taken from him because he defected from his abusive family in kindergarten. Also, he’s in the mafia and he just drives his damn balloon everywhere. The joke is that he’s a criminal driving without a license. The joke is breaking the law because he’s James. Its the same as when Jessie will casually say things like “Oh, that’s a good book! I’ve been meaning to shoplift one!” (EP157)

Also, it’s a dub-only line.

“Okay, I guess I see where you’re coming from. But why are you so sure they’re 25?”

Glad you asked!

You might notice the Bulbapedia article up there says “as of M02.″ M02 is the fandom shorthand for the second pokemon movie: Pokemon the Movie: 2000. It’s referring to one scene in particular, one that had its dialogue massively changed in the dub. Here, Jessie and James are addressing Ash & co.:

The subber condensed the point of what James/Kojirou actually says here–his sentence when translated literally is more like:

Jessie: You’re ten years too early.

James: And us, your elders, are five years too late.

this is… a very Japanese expression, but because Ash & co. are 10 years old, Jessie’s basically saying “You really don’t need to be thinking this deeply about romance until you’re 20.” and James is saying “And we’re past our prime at the tender age of 25…”

Some other times this expression has been used, regrettably, is when older men are perving on the female kids in this show–they’ll say things like “I’ll look forward to you in ten years.” Gross, I know, but the point is it’s a thing people say. 20 is considered the age you’re supposed to settle down and marry. 25, especially for women, is considered the age when you’re “off the market”–you missed your window and now no one wants you.

That ties back into Jessie’s thing about youth and beauty and how other characters call her an old lady. What they’re calling her originally is usually some variation on ‘oba-san.’ This term is so widely used in anime that there’s a TVTropes page on it. An english equivalent would be rolling your eyes and sarcastically uttering ‘whatever, grandma’ or, if you really want me to one-shot kill you, ‘ok boomer.’

Another derogatory term you hear in Japan for this age is ‘Christmas Cake.’ Simply put: Delicious to a point, but no one wants it after the 25th.

Yeah.

“That line is still super vague. Their ages could still be ambiguous.”

I regret to inform you that I am very autistic and I have prepared timelines and flowcharts for you.

Allow me to introduce you to The Birth of Mewtwo, an audio drama that released alongside the first movie and was never given an english localization. TBOM (the book of mormon) was about Mewtwo’s Origins that weren’t expanded upon in the movie. But, in order to get to the bottom of Mewtwo, the story had to get to the bottom of how Team Rocket got their hands on Mew’s DNA–and that all started with a Class-A Rocket Agent known simply as ‘Miyamoto.’

if you didn’t know, she’s Jessie’s mom.

TBOM is fully translated and available to listen to in multiple parts on youtube. It opens with Giovanni placing it in the timeline:

Twenty years prior to Pokemon: The First Movie, when this radio drama is said to take place. It then goes into a flashback, where we get to see Jessie’s mom in her pursuit of Mew.

Jessie’s already been born by the time of this flashback, meaning, with 100% certainty, that Jessie is at least 20 years old.

As time passes, Miyamoto stays on her quest to find Mew. Lost in the Andes mountains, she never stops sending reports back to Rocket HQ. Every few years, they trickle back in, detailing her progress. She keeps a picture of Jessie with her, often meandering aloud about what she anticipates Jessie is doing–the milestones Jessie is hitting, the life Jessie might have that her mom was never able to see. The last report she gives says “The daughter I left behind’s an old hag by now…” the word she uses here is, again, ‘oba’–25 years old and unmarried. Again, this is Jessie’s mom. She might be stranded in the mountains with little concept of time, but it’s clear Jessie is the one thing she never truly loses sight of.

“Okay. That sure is a lot of convincing evidence about Jessie. But Team Rocket has another human person in it you’re ignoring.”

Yeah nah I was prepared for that. I actually could’ve just whipped this out at the beginning but I am feeling incredibly spicy so I wanted to lay the law down and not deal with easy arguments about my special interest tonight. Here ya go!

- In episode 87 of the Sun & Moon anime, Filling the Light With Darkness!, Necrozma places an aura across the Alola Region. This blight makes Alolans lethargic, depressed, and unmotivated. This aura also ONLY affects the adults in Alola–leaving the burden on the kids & pokemon to figure out what’s going on. Ash & everyone in his class–including some who can be argued as teenagers–are entirely unaffected. 

Of the afflicted?

“Alright, one last question…why should I care?”

Because ever since that tumblr post started circulating, it’s been Stressful as all hell to be a Rocketblogger. I know that we all had a lot of fun watching the pokemon anime when we were kids, and we probably all have a lot of shared and fond memories of it. But, weirdly enough, because of that shared joy… Pokeani is the only fandom where people who don’t even watch the show anymore will try to explain to members of the fandom what our own lore is. And a lot of the time, they won’t listen to us when we correct them on their misinformation.

The reason this matters is because Rocketbloggers still to this day get called pedophiles & perverts for drawing/writing smutty art of our funny bad people. And when we try to shut them down pulling all this evidence out, people who have seen a handful of episodes of the show but understandably don’t have the time to watch 1100 episodes will pull the doth protest too much card. It’s annoying but more than anything, it’s exhausting.

So this is a masterpost I made with my autistic superpowers. I hope that, in the future, this one gets spread around more than the one claiming them to be kids. And I hope that maybe, if you’re a rocketblogger, when someone comes in your inbox trying to explain your favourite anime to you… you can quietly link them to this post and no longer have to rehash all the arguments we’ve been rehashing for years.

Thank you for reading. Reblog to save a tired Rocketblogger’s life.

here’s a story about changelings

reposted from my old blog, which got deleted:   Mary was a beautiful baby, sweet and affectionate, but by the time she’s three she’s turned difficult and strange, with fey moods and a stubborn mouth that screams and bites but never says mama. But her mother’s well-used to hard work with little thanks, and when the village gossips wag their tongues she just shrugs, and pulls her difficult child away from their precious, perfect blossoms, before the bites draw blood. Mary’s mother doesn’t drown her in a bucket of saltwater, and she doesn’t take up the silver knife the wife of the village priest leaves out for her one Sunday brunch. She gives her daughter yarn, instead, and instead of a rowan stake through her inhuman heart she gives her a child’s first loom, oak and ash. She lets her vicious, uncooperative fairy daughter entertain herself with games of her own devising, in as much peace and comfort as either of them can manage. Mary grows up strangely, as a strange child would, learning everything in all the wrong order, and biting a great deal more than she should. But she also learns to weave, and takes to it with a grand passion. Soon enough she knows more than her mother–which isn’t all that much–and is striking out into unknown territory, turning out odd new knots and weaves, patterns as complex as spiderwebs and spellrings. “Aren’t you clever,” her mother says, of her work, and leaves her to her wool and flax and whatnot. Mary’s not biting anymore, and she smiles more than she frowns, and that’s about as much, her mother figures, as anyone should hope for from their child. Mary still cries sometimes, when the other girls reject her for her strange graces, her odd slow way of talking, her restless reaching fluttering hands that have learned to spin but never to settle. The other girls call her freak, witchblood, hobgoblin. “I don’t remember girls being quite so stupid when I was that age,” her mother says, brushing Mary’s hair smooth and steady like they’ve both learned to enjoy, smooth as a skein of silk. “Time was, you knew not to insult anyone you might need to flatter later. ‘Specially when you don’t know if they’re going to grow wings or horns or whatnot. Serve ‘em all right if you ever figure out curses.” “I want to go back,” Mary says. “I want to go home, to where I came from, where there’s people like me. If I’m a fairy’s child I should be in fairyland, and no one would call me a freak.” “Aye, well, I’d miss you though,” her mother says. “And I expect there’s stupid folk everywhere, even in fairyland. Cruel folk, too. You just have to make the best of things where you are, being my child instead.” Mary learns to read well enough, in between the weaving, especially when her mother tracks down the traveling booktraders and comes home with slim, precious manuals on dyes and stains and mordants, on pigments and patterns, diagrams too arcane for her own eyes but which make her daughter’s eyes shine. “We need an herb garden,” her daughter says, hands busy, flipping from page to page, pulling on her hair, twisting in her skirt, itching for a project. “Yarrow, and madder, and woad and weld…” “Well, start digging,” her mother says. “Won’t do you a harm to get out of the house now’n then.” Mary doesn’t like dirt but she’s learned determination well enough from her mother. She digs and digs, and plants what she’s given, and the first year doesn’t turn out so well but the second’s better, and by the third a cauldron’s always simmering something over the fire, and Mary’s taking in orders from girls five years older or more, turning out vivid bolts and spools and skeins of red and gold and blue, restless fingers dancing like they’ve summoned down the rainbow. Her mother figures she probably has. “Just as well you never got the hang of curses,” she says, admiring her bright new skirts. “I like this sort of trick a lot better.” Mary smiles, rocking back and forth on her heels, fingers already fluttering to find the next project. She finally grows up tall and fair, if a bit stooped and squinty, and time and age seem to calm her unhappy mouth about as well as it does for human children. Word gets around she never lies or breaks a bargain, and if the first seems odd for a fairy’s child then the second one seems fit enough. The undyed stacks of taken orders grow taller, the dyed lots of filled orders grow brighter, the loom in the corner for Mary’s own creations grows stranger and more complex. Mary’s hands callus just like her mother’s, become as strong and tough and smooth as the oak and ash of her needles and frames, though they never fall still. “Do you ever wonder what your real daughter would be like?” the priest’s wife asks, once. Mary’s mother snorts. “She wouldn’t be worth a damn at weaving,” she says. “Lord knows I never was. No, I’ll keep what I’ve been given and thank the givers kindly. It was a fair enough trade for me. Good day, ma’am.” Mary brings her mother sweet chamomile tea, that night, and a warm shawl in all the colors of a garden, and a hairbrush. In the morning, the priest’s son comes round, with payment for his mother’s pretty new dress and a shy smile just for Mary. He thinks her hair is nice, and her hands are even nicer, vibrant in their strength and skill and endless motion.   They all live happily ever after. * Here’s another story: Gregor grew fast, even for a boy, grew tall and big and healthy and began shoving his older siblings around early. He was blunt and strange and flew into rages over odd things, over the taste of his porridge or the scratch of his shirt, over the sound of rain hammering on the roof, over being touched when he didn’t expect it and sometimes even when he did. He never wore shoes if he could help it and he could tell you the number of nails in the floorboards without looking, and his favorite thing was to sit in the pantry and run his hands through the bags of dry barley and corn and oat. Considering as how he had fists like a young ox by the time he was five, his family left him to it. “He’s a changeling,” his father said to his wife, expecting an argument, but men are often the last to know anything about their children, and his wife only shrugged and nodded, like the matter was already settled, and that was that. They didn’t bind Gregor in iron and leave him in the woods for his own kind to take back. They didn’t dig him a grave and load him into it early. They worked out what made Gregor angry, in much the same way they figured out the personal constellations of emotion for each of their other sons, and when spring came, Gregor’s father taught him about sprouts, and when autumn came, Gregor’s father taught him about sheaves. Meanwhile his mother didn’t mind his quiet company around the house, the way he always knew where she’d left the kettle, or the mending, because she was forgetful and he never missed a detail. “Pity you’re not a girl, you’d never drop a stitch of knitting,” she tells Gregor, in the winter, watching him shell peas. His brothers wrestle and yell before the hearth fire, but her fairy child just works quietly, turning peas by their threes and fours into the bowl. “You know exactly how many you’ve got there, don’t you?” she says. “Six hundred and thirteen,” he says, in his quiet, precise way. His mother says “Very good,” and never says Pity you’re not human. He smiles just like one, if not for quite the same reasons. The next autumn he’s seven, a lucky number that pleases him immensely, and his father takes him along to the mill with the grain. “What you got there?” The miller asks them. “Sixty measures of Prince barley, thirty two measures of Hare’s Ear corn, and eighteen of Abernathy Blue Slate oats,” Gregor says. “Total weight is three hundred fifty pounds, or near enough. Our horse is named Madam. The wagon doesn’t have a name. I’m Gregor.” “My son,” his father says. “The changeling one.” “Bit sharper’n your others, ain’t he?” the miller says, and his father laughs. Gregor feels proud and excited and shy, and it dries up all his words, sticks them in his throat. The mill is overwhelming, but the miller is kind, and tells him the name of each and every part when he points at it, and the names of all the grain in all the bags waiting for him to get to them. “Didn’t know the fair folk were much for machinery,” the miller says. Gregor shrugs. “I like seeds,” he says, each word shelled out with careful concentration. “And names. And numbers.” “Aye, well. Suppose that’d do it. Want t’help me load up the grist?” They leave the grain with the miller, who tells Gregor’s father to bring him back ‘round when he comes to pick up the cornflour and cracked barley and rolled oats. Gregor falls asleep in the nameless wagon on the way back, and when he wakes up he goes right back to the pantry, where the rest of the seeds are left, and he runs his hands through the shifting, soothing textures and thinks about turning wheels, about windspeed and counterweights. When he’s twelve–another lucky number–he goes to live in the mill with the miller, and he never leaves, and he lives happily ever after. * Here’s another: James is a small boy who likes animals much more than people, which doesn’t bother his parents overmuch, as someone needs to watch the sheep and make the sheepdogs mind. James learns the whistles and calls along with the lambs and puppies, and by the time he’s six he’s out all day, tending to the flock. His dad gives him a knife and his mom gives him a knapsack, and the sheepdogs give him doggy kisses and the sheep don’t give him too much trouble, considering. “It’s not right for a boy to have so few complaints,” his mother says, once, when he’s about eight. “Probably ain’t right for his parents to have so few complaints about their boy, neither,” his dad says. That’s about the end of it. James’ parents aren’t very talkative, either. They live the routines of a farm, up at dawn and down by dusk, clucking softly to the chickens and calling harshly to the goats, and James grows up slow but happy. When James is eleven, he’s sent to school, because he’s going to be a man and a man should know his numbers. He gets in fights for the first time in his life, unused to peers with two legs and loud mouths and quick fists. He doesn’t like the feel of slate and chalk against his fingers, or the harsh bite of a wooden bench against his legs. He doesn’t like the rules: rules for math, rules for meals, rules for sitting down and speaking when you’re spoken to and wearing shoes all day and sitting under a low ceiling in a crowded room with no sheep or sheepdogs. Not even a puppy. But his teacher is a good woman, patient and experienced, and James isn’t the first miserable, rocking, kicking, crying lost lamb ever handed into her care. She herds the other boys away from him, when she can, and lets him sit in the corner by the door, and have a soft rag to hold his slate and chalk with, so they don’t gnaw so dryly at his fingers. James learns his numbers well enough, eventually, but he also learns with the abruptness of any lamb taking their first few steps–tottering straight into a gallop–to read. Familiar with the sort of things a strange boy needs to know, his teacher gives him myths and legends and fairytales, and steps back. James reads about Arthur and Morgana, about Hercules and Odysseus, about djinni and banshee and brownies and bargains and quests and how sometimes, something that looks human is left to try and stumble along in the humans’ world, step by uncertain step, as best they can. James never comes to enjoy writing. He learns to talk, instead, full tilt, a leaping joyous gambol, and after a time no one wants to hit him anymore. The other boys sit next to him, instead, with their mouths closed, and their hands quiet on their knees.   “Let’s hear from James,” the men at the alehouse say, years later, when he’s become a man who still spends more time with sheep than anyone else, but who always comes back into town with something grand waiting for his friends on his tongue. “What’ve you got for us tonight, eh?” James finishes his pint, and stands up, and says, “Here’s a story about changelings.”

Only day you can reblog this

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you're welcome

I Am Having So Many Feelings™ About This, it's beautiful

Sons Of The Labyrinth or The Things Our Fathers Do To Us

*deep sigh* yeah

There are two wolves in me....hypersexuality and demisexuality.

One of them is in heat and the other just wants to howl at the moon and cuddle.

please can we do inbox trick-or-treating this year. can we make that a thing on tumblr. please please please please please