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I would just like everyone to know that I’m friggin’ gorgeous. Yey.
I could talk about the PE teacher in my town who was asked to resign due to his harassment of female students, who was then hired as a school bus driver for a rural route with both primary and high school students. I could talk about how, from the age of seven, I refused to wear skirts or dresses, and from the time I entered high school at 10 to when I moved at 16 I always wore bike shorts or CCC shorts under my dress, because he was not particularly subtle about the way he looked at us – and those bus steps are high. I could talk about how this was common knowledge and was never denied by any authority figure we ever raised it with, but rather we were just kind of brushed off. I could talk about how, sometimes, I was the last person on my bus in the afternoon and I was never quite sure if something bad would happen to me, even though for a long time I probably couldn’t have articulated what it was that I feared.
I could talk about how I spent ten years of my childhood believing it was perfectly normal and acceptable for a seven year old child to stop wearing her favourite clothes because a grown man she relies on to get to and from school from a relatively remote location gets a thrill from looking up her skirt.
I could talk about the art teacher at my high school who used to run his hands up and down our backs, right along the spot where your bra sits. Considering most of us were fairly new to wearing bras in the first place, this was a decidedly uncomfortable experience. I could talk about how he used to get just a little too close for comfort in the supply room. Nothing overt, nothing nameable – just enough to make you drag someone else along with you if you needed a fresh piece of paper or you ran out of ink. I could talk about how the odd comment or complaint that was made was completely handwaved, that we were told to be very careful about what we were saying, that we could get someone in a lot of trouble by “starting those kinds of rumours”, and did we really want to be responsible for that?
I could talk about the first time I was made to feel ashamed of my body, at twelve or thirteen, getting into a water fight with my stepfather and uncle in the height of summer. I could talk about my grandmother completely flipping out, talking about how disgusting it was, how grown men should be ashamed of the way they were behaving with a girl. I could talk about how she then spent the next few hours trying to convince me I was being somehow victimised, while I was mostly confused about what had taken place – it took me a long time to work it out. I could talk about the unvoiced but ever-present fear for months afterwards that my grandma would bring it up again, that she would bring it up in the wrong place or to the wrong people and that my uncle, a schoolteacher, would suffer for it.
I could talk about how that destroyed what had been a fantastic relationship with my uncle, and how, ten years later, he still won’t hug me at Christmas.
I could talk about being called a frigid bitch and a slut in the same breath in high school. I could talk about multiple instances of sitting in a big group of friends, hearing someone trying to get into someone else’s pants, starting off sweet enough but quickly descending into emotional manipulation and thinly veiled abuse. I could talk about the time I went off with someone willingly enough and being followed by someone I considered a friend, someone who would not leave no matter how many times I said “no”, who only went away when the person I was with said that he “didn’t feel like sharing”.
I could talk about the family friend who always made me feel a little bit off for no discernible reason. The one who if I was left alone in the room with him, I would always find an excuse to leave. The one time I expressed this, I was told I was being a drama queen, and that I needed to grow up and stop being so precious, that one day I was going to have to deal with people I didn’t like and I might as well get used to it. I could talk about how he never did anything untoward, never gave me any specific reason to feel unsafe – but years after I last saw him, when he was found guilty of four historical sexual assault charges, one of rape and three of indecent assault on girls under twelve, I was, for reasons I still don’t entirely understand, completely unsurprised.
I could talk about my boyfriend justifying his rape of me with “you could have fought me off if you really wanted you, you slut”. I could talk about how, when I tried to tell people, I was told I was being a nasty, spiteful, vindictive bitch. I could talk about how selfish it was of me to say such things, that he’d overcome such a hard life and was going to go on and make something of himself, who the hell was I to try and stand in his way?
I could talk about how my response to being raped was to sleep with anyone and everyone because I rationalised that if I never said no, then no one could force me. I could talk about how I have been told time and time again, by people who should know better, that this is a sign that I wasn’t really raped at all.
I could talk about how, when I finally worked up the courage to make a formal complaint of sexual harassment against my boss, I was asked why I had let it continue for so long, and what I had done to make him think his behaviour would be welcomed.
I could talk about how when a much later boss got me completely wasted at my leaving party, to the point where I couldn’t walk, and fucked me in a back alley, he waited until I was sober the next morning to tell me that he had a pregnant wife, because he heard through the grapevine that I was very strict about not sleeping with married people or straight women, and he thought I should “learn my place” and realise that I’m “not such a high and mighty bitch with a moral high ground after all”.
I could talk about these things, but I very rarely do. Since I was seven years old, I have been told that my body is not my own, that my consent is not my own, that my feelings of discomfort are not my own. I have taught myself to suppress my gut instinct upon meeting people. I have been taught to smile, to be polite, to suck it up if I feel unsafe. When I complain, I have been told I’m being irrational, oversensitive, and selfish. The underlying message is, how dare I try and ascertain any kind of control over my own body?
I should talk about it. But I don’t actually know whether I can."
Reblog if your cramps have ever
- made you vomit
- lasted between 2-3 days
- stopped you from being able to walk or run
- made you cry
It’s not considered a viable excuse on any occasion, and I would like to know why.
- woken you up at night the pain was so bad
- made you pass out
- made you unable to stand up without doubling over and grabbing onto the closest object for support
if i’m ever rich i’m gonna always leave huge tips, like 200%. that’s like the dream. having enough money to give some waitress 40 bucks extra just because she’s nice.
People sometimes send me Asks wanting writing advice. I suck at it. I don’t really know how I do the writing, or how one should do the writing, or what one should do to get better at the writing. All I can ever think to say is “write a lot of stuff and you will get better at the writing.” Which is true, but hardly a bolt from the sky.
Well, as it turns out, I do have one piece of Legit Writing Advice, and I am going to share it with you, right now. If you were in any of my writing workshop groups at a con, you’ve heard this advice already.
Warning: you’re going to fucking hate it. But if you do it, you will thank me.
If you have a piece of fiction you’re serious about, something you might want to actually shop around, or just something you really are into and want to make it as good as you can…do NOT edit it.
Repeat. DO NOT EDIT.
As in, print out the whole fucking thing and re-enter it, every word (or use two screens). Retype the whole thing. Recreate it from the ground up using your first draft as a template. Start with a blank page and re-enter every. single. word.
I hear you screaming. OH MY GOD THAT’S INSANE.
Yes. Yes, it is.
It is also the most powerful thing you will ever do for a piece of fiction that you are serious about.
Now, let’s get real. I don’t do this for most things. I don’t do it for my fanfiction. But if it’s something original, something I might like to get to a professional level - I do it. You absolutely COULD do it for fanfiction. It’s just up to you and how much time you want to sink into a piece.
You can edit, sure. But you WILL NOT get down to the level of change that needs to happen in a second draft. You will let things slide. Your eyes will miss things. You will say “eh, good enough.”
The first time I did this, on someone else’s advice, I was dubious. Within two pages, I was saying WHY HAVE I NOT BEEN DOING THIS ALL THE TIME. I was amazed at how much change was happening. By the time I got to the end, I had an entirely different novel than the one I’d started with. When you’re already re-entering every single word, it’s easy to make deep changes. You’ll reformat sentences, you’ll switch phrases around, you’ll massage your word choice. You’ll discover whole paragraphs that don’t need to be there at all because they became redundant. You’ll find dialogue exchanges that need reimagining. Whole plot points will suddenly be different, whole story arcs will reveal their flaws and get re-drawn.
You cannot get down to the fundamental level of change that’s required just by editing an existing document. You have to rebuild it if you really want your story to evolve. You will be AMAZED at the difference it will make.
It will take time. It will seem like a huge, Herculean task. I’m not saying it’s easy. It isn’t. But it is absolutely revolutionary.
Try it. I promise, you will see what I mean.
*PSA: Tipsy!Lori wrote this post. In case you couldn’t tell.
Throwing my two cents in - I do this all the time. This is 100% the reason I handwrite papers for school, for fanfiction, etc. Because the act of rewriting it forces your brain to reevaluate.
Just because the good cops are in town now doesnt mean that the system is fixed bruh. These cops that were using unnecessary force must be put to justice by a court of their peers as criminals. Bills for stricter police control need to be introduced and laws must be passed. The people are safe now but by every meaning of the phrase: stay woke
I will give you a team of pokemon according to your blog if you reblog this
guys I am not kidding. I will if its the last thing I do
Upon second viewing, I have definitely concluded that Guardians of the Galaxy is even better when you imagine it as a tabletop campaign with an increasingly frustrated DM who’s sick of being interrupted.
GM: “Roll 2d10.”
Peter: “Red high. Twelve.”
GM: “You have 12 percent of a plan.”
The entire prison break scene was just Rocket’s player rolling knowledge checks on every turn until something worked.
- When Drax’s player said, “I go into the phone booth and call Ronan to Knowhere”, the DM stared open-mouthed for a minute, then called break time. The rest of the party was speechless.
- Pretty much just in general, Drax’s player is one of those people who thinks Chaotic Neutral means “throws self at shit for the lulz” and is really fortunate he didn’t have many other opportunities to derail the campaign.
- Gamora’s player gets really exasperated by the entirety of the campaign. They rolled a character with a tragic backstory and clear hooks to the villain to expand on, and had no idea that everyone else was going to be so silly. It leads to begging the party to just once execute a normal plan because look at Gamora’s stealth bonus, this min/maxed assassin needs a chance to use her abilities, please.
- Rocket’s a skill monkey who, if not for Drax’s grand display of idiocy, would have gladly derailed the campaign with absurd plans.
- Groot was a joke idea someone came up with that people ended up liking too much.
- Ronan’s confusion when Star Lord began dancing was the DM’s confusion verbatim.
- The DM now vetoes Chaotic Neutral characters on principle.
There’s this comic I read, called Sister Claire! Recently it got an extra author and the writing gained levels, and major backstory for the nuns (it’s a comic about nuns) and one of the nuns is transgender, which is great.
What isn’t great is the comments everytime said nun, Sister Oscar who is a lovely lady who sparkles and is based off the character from Rose of Versailles, appears. They’re full of ‘he’s more of a man than us!’ ‘is he Claire’s real daddy?’ and ‘CAN WE PLEASE HAVE SOME CLEAR EVIDENCE ABOUT WHAT GENITALIA OSCAR HAS’ which is giving me the flying heebies.
If you don’t know what something is, you ask. That’s a good life policy. Or googling it. That’s also a really great policy. Some concepts can be kind of surprising if you’re a lil’ sheltered. I once met a man (who actually was a total creep but that’s unrelated) who actually believed bisexual meant full on hermaphrodite. I explained, then he sent me a dick pic, and then I had to tell him if he ever spoke to me again I’d report him to every single moderator that ever existed but I’m pretty sure that had nothing to do with the first part but I feel I’d be remiss if I didn’t include the whole story.
Anyway. Sister Oscar’s nethers. Why on earth would you need to know that? In what way is your viewing experience enhanced by knowing what’s going on under that habit? Do you lay up at night and think about trans people and go ‘GOD, I wish I knew if there was a weiner or a vulva down there god this is just burning me up WHY’ because it’s kind of unnerving. I’m not telling you what’s going on with me except for there’s a holy light and sometimes lepers are cured.
And I saw the mildest ‘please stop misgendering her’ from one of the authors met with ‘stop with the hostility it interferes with our LEARNING’ which is apparently super super fragile.
I totally get the argument that someone being confused getting greeted with a wall of swears can be somewhat detrimental, but if just being told ‘hey, stop’ clearly is enough to set you off I don’t think you’re trying.
Oh yeah, I forgot to say! The nuns all have superpowers and there’s a mecha. And one nun is pregnant with the messiah. You know, basic stuff.
While Elena (Yamino) and I can’t relate to this issue as personally as you do, dear reader, we do also feel a sense of trepidation posting pages or stories that feature Oscar prominently because of the inevitable ignorance (and stupidity, and foulness) that floods the comments. We want Oscar to make people happy, especially those of you who find her relatable in some way — and we want to do right by her, if that makes sense. We know Oscar shoulders a good deal of representation in the comic and we want to emphasize that without it also being the only thing her character is there for: she’s transgender but she’s not in the cast to be the token transgender person, the end. She’s so important for so many reasons, for who she loves and what she fights for and what she does, and how she moves in the world we’ve made around her, and it is endlessly frustrating when someone in the comments ignores all that in favor of bugling, “LOL but does she have a weewee or a wawa?”
Still, Oscar’s a main character in our story, and we won’t let a little negativity reduce her to a stereotype or keep her from being seen. More than that, we will continue to keep a close eye on the comments and do our best to make them a safe space for our readers… we anticipate and will try to alleviate occasional instances of cluelessness, but slurs and transphobia will not be tolerated.
That’s a promise, from me and Elena and Oscar too.
We hope you keep reading.
… apparently my new “I’m drunk!” typo is following ys up with us. as in “thanksgiving turkuyu”
Apparently drunk you has a typing quirk!
Sober me has a typing quirk too! Sometimes I’d be too deep in the Lohqua mindset and get stuck doing her typing quirk until I typed up half of an essay or some shit. It sucked.
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