In the world where whatever you write/draw on your skin will appear on your soulmate’s skin, it can’t be erased by the person who received it. You’ve been writing on your arm to your soulmate for years, but you never got a reply. You thought they were dead or just hate soulmates, so you gave up. Then one day, while partying hard, your asshole bestfriend drew a dick on your cheek, you woke up to find on your belly, in messy handwriting, the word “WTF”. Your stupid ass doesn’t understand why your soulmate decided to write you back now, until you see the neighbor kid who lost both of their arms with a dick very  similar to the one on your face. Damn.

justin mcelroy opened a podcast recording studio open to the public for rent in huntington, to let people who may not have the equipment share their voices and tell stories that deserve to be told 

this man. is a good man. he is such a good good man

clovercatlove  asked:

When editing a video of Jack playing a scary game, do the scares ever get you? I dunno if you’ve ever been asked this before, but I’m just curious haha

Nope! Because I can see the future (the timeline).

Friendly reminder, you don’t owe anyone your survivor status for them to treat you with civility and respect. That’s on them.

You do not need to relive your trauma for others to validate you. You do not need their validation or approval to exist.

And no, I don’t have to advocate and talk about it in a public forum if I don’t want to. That’s my choice, and you don’t get to take that from me.

(¾)  “One morning the killers brought a list of names, and gathered everyone together.  They told us to sit on the floor.  They stepped through the crowd and began reading out the names.  My name was called out, but it was misspelled by one letter.  They kept shouting ‘Marengo’ instead of ‘Masengo.’  But I knew it was me they were looking for.  They told the crowd: ‘If you give up these people, we won’t come back to kill your sons and daughters.’  But nobody spoke.  The killers were examining one person at a time.  I sat with my head between my knees.  Back then I had the face of a girl, so I tried to cover myself with fabric.  Some of the killers were from my neighborhood.  I knew that when they got around to me, I would be recognized.  So I slipped out and ran toward a banana plantation.  One of them spotted me and alerted the others.  I jumped over a brick fence and dove into the tallest grasses I could find.  Soon I heard footsteps.  They were walking all around me.  I remember one of them saying: ‘Cockroaches are so mysterious.  How are they able to disappear?’  He got so frustrated that he hacked at a banana tree with his machete.  The leaves fell on my legs.  I was lying with my cheek on the dirt.  I remember the exact time because my watch was next to my face.  It was 12:22 PM.  I remember thinking: ‘This is the time I’m going to die.”    
(Kigali, Rwanda)

You can be really excited about Cloak, buy something, and be proud of Mark and Jack.

You can love the idea of Cloak and still not buy anything because it’s too expensive and still be a legitimate member of the community.

You can not really care either way and still care about Mark and Jack and you’d still be a valid part of the community.

What you shouldn’t ever do is bully others for their opinions or lack thereof. Cruelty does not belong in this community.

This is ridiculous. Be good to each other. Not everyone agrees with you and that’s okay.

(4/4)  “I managed to escape that day, but things had grown desperate.  In the end there were two thousand of us trying to survive.  We’d begun to run out of food.  The militia was losing on the battlefield and began to grow frustrated.  Two days before our rescue, they came to the church for a final big attack.   They were going in every room.  They were finding everyone.  Some of the mothers were lying on mattresses over their sons, trying to hide them.  But it was no use.  I’d managed to climb into the ceiling.  I’d poked holes in the exterior wall so I could breathe.  Through those holes I could see everything that was happening outside.  They tied every boy up, two-by-two.  They brought them to this exact spot and began to beat them.  Their mothers were screaming and crying from inside the building.  One group of boys was pulled to the center.  These were my friends.  We played soccer together.  We studied together.  Sebajura.  Galindo.  Muyoboke. Jean Bosco, he was a believer.  They walked up to Jean Bosco and kicked him in the head.  They told him: ‘We know you are a friend of Masengo. Tell us where he is.’  And Jean Bosco knew.  He knew where I was.  He’d seen me climb into the ceiling.  But he didn’t say a word.  So they beat him harder.  They kept saying: ‘Tell us, tell us, tell us.’  But he kept silent.  He kept silent until his last breath.  And then they shot him.  Jean Bosco died because of me.  He died for me.  Seventy-two young men died that day.  The crowd screamed the entire time.  But that night when I finally climbed down from the ceiling, everyone was silent.  Nobody was saying a word.”
(Kigali, Rwanda)

Inktober 19! Also announcing that Ill be selling all of my original inktober drawings alongside a book of them and prints of my favorites during November! I will make an announcement post when it launches!