i have thought a lot about censorship and what is “appropriate”. not a lot of people know this, but lolita was written to show what we allow on our bookshelves: there being no swear words in it meant it was free from censorship. a book about child molestation was allowed because it didn’t explicitly use the word “fuck”. he wrote it to show we don’t really care about protecting children, and it ended up being seen as a romance.
someone once told me - actually, many people have - that lgbt content isn’t appropriate for children. any content. not just kissing. i’m drowned in questions: “won’t the parents have to explain it?” “kids shouldn’t be thinking about sex at this age, or do you think differently?” “what will the kids think?”
at six i saw disney movies. people kiss and get married. i didn’t ask “what does that mean.” i didn’t ask “are those people going to have sex?” i didn’t ask anything, because i was six, and no six year old thinks twice about these things. nobody ever “explained” being straight to me, it was a fact, and it existed, and i was fine with that. why would being gay require a thesis, i wonder.
someone once told me that the one of the reasons people hate lgbt individuals is because they can’t see us as anything but sexual. we’re not people, so much as sinners. that they don’t see love, they see sex. just sex. it’s perversion, not a matter of the heart. only of the body.
i think i was in my early twenties before i saw someone like me.
how old were you, though, before you saw violence? before you saw sexual assault on tv? i think something like that is only pg-13, and if it’s implied, they can get away with anything. i remember watching things and learning about blood, but knowing sex - sex was what was really wrong. sex was always rated r. sex was always kind of a bad word. i was told a lot that i wasn’t ready.
i had a dream last night that i made a site where people could ask any question they wanted about sex and get answered by a professional. it was shut down in moments because 15 year olds wanted to know if it should hurt, if “double-bagging” was a real thing, if this, if that. we shudder. don’t let the children know about that!
but at thirteen i had seen enough violence it no longer struck me. i couldn’t say “fuck” but i knew that if you break your femur, you can bleed out internally in under half an hour. in school i wasn’t allowed to write about loving girls because what would the administration think - but i could write about wanting to kill myself and people would say how lovely, how blistering.
i have thought a lot about censorship. sometimes people on this site try it with me: don’t write this, don’t be so nasty. some of it is intrinsic. we know as people with a uterus not to complain about “that time of the month”, we know better than to talk about sexual assault (how shameful), we know that talking about a vagina is somehow scandalous. i can say “dick” and nobody questions me. some people only refer to the bottom half of me by “pussy”. they won’t wrap a mouth around “vagina” like it’s poison to them. even discussing this, that the language halts, that there’s an intrinsic desire to say “girls” instead of “women” - feels naughty, illicit. not for children.
the other day someone suggested i make my blog 18+. i said, okay, it deals a lot with depression and other problems that might be for a mature audience. oh no, they said, that’s not it, i think that’s helpful. i said, okay. so what is it then. well, you’re gay. you write about loving women. and i said, i don’t write about sex often and they said. it’s not about the sex. but wlw isn’t for a general audience. teenagers aren’t ready.
lolita is recommended for high school and up. i think about that a lot. i know girls who love it, who say it speaks to them on a deep level. it’s beautiful prose, after all. that was the whole point of the novel. something that looked like a rose but was intrinsically awful. i think about how if i was a model they’d want me to look young, thin, prepubescent. how my body would be sold and how through the mall i walk by images of barely-clothed women while mothers cannot breastfeed in public without fear of retribution.
i think about how i can write a novel about violence and it will be pg-13 but if my characters say “fuck” twice it’s inappropriate. i said fuck three times so far in this post, which makes it only appropriate for adults.
i think about that, and how my identity is something that people suggest lines up with a swear word. that people shouldn’t talk about it. that it’s a vulgarity. bad for children, harsh, confusing.
fuck. i love women. which one makes this only for those over eighteen.
There are glances across the room. Like nothing has changed. Like everything has changed.
It feels familiar and yet… new.
It confuses him.
It’s not like the hate is suddenly gone. Harry still feels it whenever he looks at him. But it’s different now.
He can’t really describe it. He has tried several times. Ron and Hermione have asked him about it. They’ve noticed something is “off”, as they call it.
“It’s not that we’re not glad you aren’t fighting anymore. There’s been enough fighting,” Hermione had said.
“Yeah, it’s just… weird, you know. Now you’re just staring at each other,” Ron had added.
Harry sighs as he tries to remember what he told them. It was probably something vague. Because… what Ron and Hermione don’t know… Harry has been meeting him. At night. In secret. They would just sit together and talk. But, Harry supposes, not like other people would.
They each take turns talking, while the other listens. Just listens. There are no interruptions, no judgement. They just each let the other talk. It’s been weirdly therapeutic. And also soothing.
Yesterday was Harry’s turn and after talking about his godson and Quidditch and classes, he also recounted one of his nightmares. He never talks about them with anyone. He doesn’t want to hear what they mean or that maybe he should see a mind healer. He knows perfectly well what they mean. So, simply talking about it, having the opportunity to get it out in the open and out of his system… it’s freeing. Harry also never appreciated before, how much it means when somebody listens, really just listens to him. It is a whole new experience.
As Harry makes his way to the tower nobody wants to go to anymore, he wonders what he will talk about tonight. Sometimes he talks about his mother. Never about his father. Sometimes he doesn’t say anything at all and they just sit there in silence. At first, Harry thought this was a waste of time. But it was in that silence, he realized that something really is different between them. It’s as if something between them has… shifted.
So when Harry sees Draco enter the tower, his body doesn’t go rigid. It relaxes. When Draco sits down beside him and their fingers touch, Harry doesn’t pull away. He welcomes the warmth. When Draco doesn’t say anything, Harry isn’t annoyed. He understands.
It’s in that moment, as Draco lays his head on Harry’s shoulder and Harry puts an arm around his waist, that he knows. He never thought he could be this sure. But he is. He knows.
Im talking about the ‘I know someone is there’ feeling. You could haveyour back to something, but then just /know/ that theres someone/something behind you without seeing or hearing anything. You just /know./ Like, imagine how weird that’d be to Aliens
Bizarinvin: *Walks up to Ava slowly and quietly, maybe trying to see if xey can surprise them somehow*
Ava: *Immediately turns around* Yo Biz. Trying to scare me?
Bizarinvin: Yes but how did you even know I was there! I made sure I was silent!
Ava: I have eyes on the back of my head
Ava: *Laughs* Nah. I just felt you there.
Bizarinvin: But you havent touched me.
Ava: I just sensed you there I guess then
Bizarinvin: What? How?
Ava: *Shrugs* I dunno. Humans can just… know if theres someone there without looking or hearing them sometimes
Bizarinvin:….Ok. *Goes to update the Human Guide with this new info
i just.. . can’t get over sign of the times. there is so much feeling in it - hope, desperation, strength, vulnerability, pain, love, bravery - and all of it is so palpable, i feel like i can taste it in the air while the song’s playing. he pulls you in at the very first note and tangles you into his soul with every note after that. the energy in his voice just. it washes over you, wave after wave, like an ocean of electricity and emotion.
<b>Lance:</b> hi Keith your mullet is gross but you're good looking~<p/><b>Keith:</b> what in tarnation<p/><b>Lance:</b> ...<p/><b>Shiro:</b> don't worry I speak my lil bro's weird Texan he meant to say "what the hell"<p/><b>Lance:</b> that makes a lot more sense now...<p/></p>
My insecurities about myself can be so damaging that it affects how I perform, or how much I enjoy a job. No matter what I achieve, my brain can somehow trick me into believing that I don’t know what I’m doing, which kind of sucks (laughs). I’m still working through that, it’s a daily practice, and maybe I’d give up if I didn’t love all of this so damn much. Thankfully, I’m getting to a stage where I’ve realized I don’t have time for those negative thoughts, because that’s all they are, so I have to let them in, and let them pass through as quickly as they came.
“My insecurities about myself can be so damaging that it affects how I perform, or how much I enjoy a job. No matter what I achieve, my brain can somehow trick me into believing that I don’t know what I’m doing, which kind of sucks. I’m still working through that, it’s a daily practice, and maybe I’d give up if I didn’t love all of this so damn much. Thankfully, I’m getting to a stage where I’ve realized I don’t have time for those negative thoughts, because that’s all they are, so I have to let them in, and let them pass through as quickly as they came.”
Keiynan Lonsdale photographed by Storm Santos for Vulkan Magazine (2017)
Hey, could you do a story where the reader (who doesn’t really know Peter but maybe they go to the same school?) finds one of Peter’s backpacks that he left behind and tries to find him to give it back to him? And maybe that happens more than one time and reader tries to solve this backpack mystery? Hope you can work with this messy idea, your blog’s name somehow gave me the idea.
a/n - this idea made me so happy!!!! (for obvious reasons LMAO) i tried to show his more dorky side in this fic and i’m sorry if it failed, but don’t forget to request a peter parker/spider-man fic if you’d like and follow!
I was walking down 53rd street, headphones in and heading home straight from work. I decided to take the short way home through a small alleyway, but was stopped when I almost tripped over something.
“What the hell-” I thought to myself, looking down to see a small backpack. It seemed as if it was left here since the sun was going down and everyone was starting to head home for the day. My eyes then caught onto the zipper was broken from the side down.
“Parker.” I huffed in my mind, recognizing the faulty zipper. This had marked the third time that I’ve found his backpack within the last month. Peter and I had never spoken to one another outside of Chemistry, and I never understood why he would be rushing out of school so quickly. Every time I found his backpack it would also be in the same place too, which I found odd.
I zipped his backpack up and looked at the tag on one of its straps.
“20 Ingram Street.” I typed into my phone, slinging the backpack around my shoulder and following the directions that radiated off of the screen, luckily not being longer than a 10 minute walk.