born a man

Why I have no sympathy for Trump voters:

My grandfather was a white, working-class man born to a poor farming family in rural Oklahoma who held avowedly racist views. His family lost their farm to the dustbowl and debt when he was a young child, so they went to California as refugees where he spent his childhood in grinding poverty, some of it homeless. His mother had to turn to sex work to keep the family fed due to the absence of any support network. Despite being an avowed pacifist, he joined the military because literally the only way he could get a secondary education was if the army covered it in return for service. He went bankrupt, lost his home and died penniless because the American healthcare system would not cover medication for a horrific genetic condition he suffered from throughout his life. He lost the love of his life to the gun violence epidemic and America’s failure to keep its people safe. He was less than a block away from the World Trade Centre on 9/11, witnessed multiple suicides past his office window and suffered from PTSD.

And you know what? He worked undercover for the NAACP investigating racist police brutality in 1960’s Alabama for more than a decade until death threats from the KKK forced him to move relocate his family. He did vital research on mass incarceration, effects of the war on drugs on black communities, and the impact of the Vietnam War on black veterans. He was consulted on the investigation into the assassination of Martin Luther King Jr. He participated in protest for every kind of cause throughout his life and he lined up to vote for Obama even though advanced Parkinson’s disease meant he could barely hold a pen and he died just months later, proud to have witnessed Obama’s inauguration.

Obviously not everyone needs to make a career of activism or put their lives on the line, but my point is this: my grandfather was a white, working-class man who the American Dream failed at literally every stage of his life. He had every reason to fall into anger and resentment, but he fought for civil rights and other causes until the day he died. He never gave into hateful ideology and he never stopped fighting for those who had less than he did. Economic frustration and the failures of the American dream are no excuse for hate, no excuse for endangering every person on this planet, because that’s what voting for Trump did. They are no excuse.

In fair Verona, our tale begins with HUGO KIM, who is TWENTY-NINE years old. He is often called HELENUS by the  MONTAGUES and works as their EMISSARY.

Hugo was a man born from dust and earth who had been given a chance to ascend, never forgetting the taste of poverty but also never forgetting the love born in spite of it. His family was one of many nameless in Yekaterinburg who weathered through their circumstances, his parents owning a hole-in-the-wall restaurant far from the city center that was seemingly constantly on the brink of closing, his brother, Albert, working as a server, and he a dishwasher. Though they lacked many things, love was not one of them, and he was never left wanting for an embrace, a kiss, a lullaby deep in the night. He cherished his family as he was sure God had wanted children to, following them to mass every Sunday and closed his eyes as the priests spoke and let their words wash him free of his grime and dirt. “We are all equals in front of God,” his mother would murmur. “He measures his blessings in faith, not money.” Whereas Hugo was obedient, kindly, sweet and quickly volunteered to become an altar server during his free hours,  Albert, spitfire that he was, cared to find his own mortal wealth. Hugo would sigh softly as Albert scoffed during mass and scavenge through trash to find intact trinkets and sell them to tourists on the streets. The acolyte and the entrepreneur, though one would be challenged to find two brothers who loved each other more.

Finding his way into priesthood seemed a natural progression after a childhood of devotion, and the parishioners, many of whom watched him grow from altar server to priest, were quick to accept him warmly. His sermons brought crowds from neighboring towns, his charm and gentleness earning their adoration and eager ears, and his influence grew with his parish. A man of whom his parents were endlessly proud, a leader many would trust with their own salvation, Hugo didn’t regard his growing clout with much thought, but reveled in doing something right, in becoming better than the dirt that had been his home for so long. Within years, he’d saved up enough of his earnings to find a small, cozy family home for him, his parents, and his brother.          

He didn’t know why he didn’t recognize the signs sooner, that Albert had been backed into a corner and was dangling off an edge. Blinded by a divine light, perhaps, fooled into thinking the mud around him had become diamonds and gold overnight. They’d all been awaken one night, a collector at their doorstep, a wolf sniffing for blood. There had been yelling, a gun pressed to Albert’s jaw, the sound of their mother falling to the ground with a wail. His own begging, dragging the barrel of the gun to his own heart, a promise he made on the spur of the moment, that he’d make up the money in Albert’s place. There had been silence, he’d expected the smell of gunpowder, but only heard the sound of gravelly laughter. “Alright, Father.” A sharp intake of breath. His own. “You got yourself a deal.” He doesn’t remember much else after, he thinks he must have passed out as soon as he watched their door slam shut. He’d never doubted his god once and knew a divine challenge to his faith when it was presented to him, but he couldn’t help but wonder if He couldn’t help a chuckle watching a faithful disciple join the leagues of brutes and debt collectors in the night. Hugo kept his hands clean when he could. The first time he struck someone was when he was ordered to by a captain, with a bat copper with dried blood, and he’d bit his lip raw to keep himself from weeping until he was left alone with his bleeding victim. Still, he did not cry, not even while he wrapped up their wound as best he could, not when they’d asked, “Why are you doing this?” His voice didn’t sound his own when he said, “Because you can do more for us marred with a trail of blood to lead you home than you can as a corpse.” 

Hugo didn’t touch blood again. He didn’t have to. He used the voice that had led a congregation to cut through marrow and courage with devastating efficiency that terrified the deepest fibers of him. When had he become so proficient in such flagrancy? Had it always been innate? How could he masquerade as a holy man in the light of day and step into wolf’s skin at night? And how, how could the warmth of pride (of poison) pool at the bottom of his gut as often as it did? A soldier turned into an emissary, and jeers edged into praise at his transformation - he prayed for forgiveness all night for how quickly he accepted the promotion. But when Roman and Damiano Montague of the Montagues, a distant (to him) connection to the south asked the boss for an extra, competent pair of hands to help with their empire, he didn’t expect for his boss to offer up his name. “He’s a priest. You’d have a laugh as well as an extra pair of hands. Qualified hands, don’t get me wrong.”  “A priest, you say?” The voice sounded younger than the Montague boss, curious and pensive. “Every battlefield needs a chaplain.”

Brielle King: Venture. He’d delivered her to safety and sought to fathom the woman out as well as take it upon his first unofficial goodwill mission for the Montagues to win her over. She was as guarded as she was silver-tongued, as prideful as she was sharp, and Hugo sees traces of his own childhood in her - from a shaky, starved foundation a formidable woman had blossomed, and he would be remiss if he said he didn’t admire her adaptability and had wished he’d turned out as untouched as she had. They had both risen from nothing, but where she rejects his god for neglecting her, Hugo believes he’d been the one to find her for a reason.

Cinead Cho: False deity. Hugo doesn’t know what it is about him that interested them so, but he finds their acute interest unnerving, as if they fancied themselves a trickster god who has set their eyes upon their next prey. But there is no shaking the feeling that Cinead sees roots dyed crimson beneath pristine daffodil petals, and while there is no one truly innocent within the mob, Hugo can’t help but feel… judged. No, not judged. That would be blasphemous. As if… they’re a cat and he’s a bird they’re intent on pinning down. As if it’s only a matter of time.

Roman Montague: Curiosity. The Montague heir seemed intent on bringing him over to Verona, and Hugo can’t help but wonder why Roman wouldn’t choose someone stronger, bigger, someone explicit in their severity, someone who could bring raw, physical power - unless that isn’t what Roman needs. Nonetheless, the Montagues are paying him handsomely for his services, much of which would be sent back home, and Roman, while seemingly his father’s son, seems to have a softer, more pensive brutality about him that signifies some humanity yet to be found in this war.

Hugo is portrayed by STEVEN YEUN. He is currently OPEN FOR AUDITIONS.

“Victory Cheese!” 

ft. Phichit as the cameraman. to the instagram we go!

Did I mention I have fallen to this hell hole of a fandom. More like Victuuri Cheese rite HAHAHA I’m sorry I’ll stop.

EPISODE 6 ENDS ME. All those moves cough Giacometti’s butt tho cough and ost and these two just—-I’m so glad to be alive. 


Tyler: Three reasons why you should come to our show. First one: Josh Dun is gonna be there. Second: Josh Dun’s arms are gonna be there. And third: his kindness. So Josh, three times. I have nothing to do with the show, I’m just… I’m just a singer. [x]

I- I just can’t get over Zuko and his arc. Everything he did - everything - was out of this insane drive to prove everyone wrong, to prove that he was worth something, and it amazes me that he never realized just how valuable he already was. 

His sister tells him ‘You waste all your time playing with knives. You’re not even good!’ and he masters dual swords.

Originally posted by tim5555

His sister is a prodigy and he’s told he’ll never catch up. He learns from dragons. He trains the Avatar. He takes her down (with the help of a very skilled waterbender)

Originally posted by yipyipmotherfuckers

He’s left behind by his mother, cast out by his father, hunted by his sister, and Zuko still learns unconditional love. 

Originally posted by how-do-you-do-the-do

His father tells him he’s worthless and unloved, that he was ‘lucky to be born,’ and he becomes a man that the world is proud of. 

Originally posted by avatarwaterbender

Anything his family said to him, he managed to turn around and build on it. He thrived on it, exploded from it, turned all the negativity into a positive path and it’s just… it’s amazing.

There’s just no end to my love for this character. No fucking end. 

Bonus: The weak, banished prince has fangirls for all the ages. Take that, Ozai.

Originally posted by chatnoirs-baton

i wasnt ‘born ready’ but nazi science has solved that problem for me
dopamine album song ramblings

10,000 emerald pools: hazy walks through river-filled forests, marveling at the wonders of nature. echoey caves giving an innate sense of the going-ons of the world, feeling magical, being immersed in deep aqua cavernous pools of water, inhaling a fresh perspective on life, deciding, this is what i live for.

dug my heart: an edgy love story between two girls who wanted nothing but to be together forever, risking it all. climbing fences in the dark just for those secret smiles and shared secrets, a couple cigarettes exchanging hands, all for a breath of the other across your left cheek, wherever the cracks in the pavement lead you, you always have her in your memory

electric love: birds cawing into the sunrise, an assurance that you’re going to have a hell of a time, sweet candy coursing through your veins, visiting dusty bookshops together and feeling like you’ve found the one true love of your life, hearts beating like the rain, downing tequila shots in awe of your electric chemistry

american money: thunderstorms, racing through the dust on a bike, listening to rock music through earbuds, kisses sweet like tennessee honey, murmurs into necks, driving on the highway indulging in whims of buried treasure, writing an ode to the other’s eyes being “green like american money”, proudly carving hearts onto local tree trunks

the emotion: taking polaroids of your lover as you wander, driving through the timezones, the emotion suddenly building up, having an inexplicable urge to just gush out and confess your love, deep red roses at her side and heart sunglasses on your head, her taking out a guitar and strumming dissonant chords with all her heart - you burst out laughing at how endearing she is. all your love, all your emotions are pent up inside and you’ve never experienced so much at once; you wouldn’t trade it for anything else

holy ghost: pouring rain outside, a cozy motel room filled with glasses of wine and perfume. desperate in proving love, fantasies of thirst and ecstasy, ornate gates of glamour welcoming divinity and paradise. in a club, locking eyes with a kindred soul whom you connect with while violins are cranking out their shrillest, purest notes giving you that fully amazed sensation

past lives: a song for all the dreamers and the ones that long for past lives, an ode to the magnificence of times long ago and eras that no longer exist, validating the dreamers and their, vintage hotel rooms with golden bouquets of roses, nights of rock concerts and empty bottles of wine, scenery of red rocks and canyons of majesty, young love adrift at sea, a happy wisp of feeling that leaves you content yet melancholy

clouds: sitting around idly painting, listening to some ambient disco music, thinking about your lover and how you’re absolutely enamored with them. going with them on a carefree journey through paris, lovely beaches with gentle, rolling waves. you can’t help but go along with this experience; as you watch the tide steadily edge in, you can’t help but gaze in wonder at how lucky you are to end up with them

dopamine: twirling through the purple-tinted disco, everything is fresh and tilted due to a little “dopamine” in your veins, looking for anyone to spend a night with you, outrageously flirting, making eyes at the prettiest girl in the room, a night to throw out inhibitions, throwing down shots of tequila, ecstasy surging through you, a pulsating beat, dancing your heart out, tinted funky sunglasses

overnight sensation: lingering touches when that really pretty bartender you’ve been crushing on hands you your drink, sunbeams lighting up her wispy hair, confessing all the sensations of what you’ve been feeling, finally allowing someone past your built up boundaries, a climatic love, daisies picked and left near your purse

fool: becoming a fool for someone you love because you don’t mind it, swaying in this dreamy visual of your loved one forever, being under a spell, reaching out to touch their hand, intoxicating smiles, knowing you’re a goner. once they leave, you can’t help but reliving everything - all your road trips through sunny fields, waving hands around in absolute giddy joy; it’s a bittersweet reminiscing

(inspiration) (spotify)