I tried so hard to stay away from drama, but right now staying silent would be betraying the movement.
A lot of people already spoken up about Ricky’s interview, so I’m not touching that. My stance on the matter: he did what he had to do, and I have absolutely no hate for him. I am glad he got to share his story, and I am glad he stood up for himself and left a toxic environment. Also, it was the most blatant PR I’ve ever seen (and I work as a PR specialist and am getting a Master’s in Communications in a country that’s been experiencing crisis after crisis, from political to economical all wrapped into one. I’ve seen ministers and presidents and ceos feed lines to people that left me speechless. I can recognize PR when it’s neatly wrapped in a pretty package with a bow on top, so spotting this disastrous trainwreck had been too easy. Like, come on.)
I encourage you to keep boycotting the show if you’ve previously made the choice to do so; I encourage you to think again about the reasons you chose not to watch the show, and I encourage you not to fall for the guilt-trip.
And most importantly, I encourage you to fucking buckle up and brace yourselves, because for so many of you, Lindsey is gonna crash and burn in your eyes this coming Thursday. It’s the most transparent bullshit PR I’ve ever seen, and while with Ricky, the network had to run around and make deals with him, with Lindsey Morgan it’s gonna be staged. Ricky wasn’t THE PR move we were warned about and expected to happen. Lindsey Morgan is. She has been the most outspoken cast member and openly supported the cause and the movement (I mean out of the whole cast). And she was in some deep shit ever since. It’s easy, it’s very simple, she either defends the show or she’s gone. That’s it. That’s what coming. That’s what her interview’s gonna be about. She will tell us to keep watching, she will tell us that while yes aw so sad Lexa’s dead they didn’t have a choice, she will praise the network and the cast and she will try to guilt-trip us.
But Lindsey’s tune will be different. She will also praise Clexa,. She will also confirm that Lexa was Clarke’s soulmate. She will hype up the finale and even hint at a possible “I love you” from Clexa. Because the network who staged this keep missing the point and still think they can get us back and improve their ratings; they still think it’s all about the ship and the character. Lindsey will be forced to become a baiter because the network is getting smart and will use her love for the pairing so it looks more believable. They think that we, much like some Blarke shippers I’ve seen, will forgive and forget every disgusting thing they’ve ever done just for a tiny promise of our ship. But we won’t.
Don’t fall for that. Even if Clexa get married in the finale and a cute brunette green-eyed kid suddenly pops out of Clarke’s lady bits, it won’t change the fact that we’ve been baited, used, and then ignored and mocked. It doesn’t change the fact that so many people, myself included, have regressed and were triggered by a harmful trope that the writers and Jason and the network knew about and still used anyway. It’s about the damage they inflicted on our community yet again, it’s not about the ship – remember that! I beg you all to remember that! Never forget, just please never fucking forget what they’ve done! It’s inexcusable.
Now, I love Lindsey to death. I will stan her and I will follow her on all of her future projects and I will always hope that my dream of getting to work with her might actually become true one day. She’s an incredible, talented actress, a kind, brilliant young woman, and I wish nothing but success to her in all her future endeavors – but I will not buy anything she’ll try to sell this Thursday, because I already know what she’s about to say and whose words she’ll be saying and who put them in her mouth.
Be prepared for that to happen and do not send hate to Lindsey, much like you shouldn’t, under any ciscumstances, send hate to Ricky. They are doing what they have to do to keep their job and any chance of getting another job in the industry. It is your right to be disappointed, but don’t let it distract you from the thing that matters! Our current and future representation is all that the movement is about. An actor’s or an actress’s opinion doesn’t matter at this point. Especially since it isn’t their opinion at all, at least in Lindsey’s case.
24 is your age and you wouldn’t be able to tell by the smooth blush of your cheek, the constellation-kissed skin of your nose. you could be fifteen by the shrug of your blazer around your narrow shoulders, but you’re 24 and you’re too old to be playing the spy.
18 is the number of steps to the basement. 18 is the one-two one-two click of kitten heels on dirty cement and side-step around a white collared, glossy-badged senior agent who doesn’t even see you because you’re 18 steps closer to below ground, 18 steps closer to the invisibility he wears like a cloak, 18 steps closer.
7 seconds is how long he shakes your hand, swings it back and forth like a play-ground swing. he feeds you lines from your thesis, knew your mind before he knew your face. the projector paints you in the supernatural. you blink against the light when he smiles.
3 is the number of syllables he drawls into “plausible” like he’s reversing the definition. he’s a half-finished magic trick, and you watch him to try and catch him stutter in his sleight of hand.
30000 feet is how high you are above the ground and you were always endlessly earthbound, sea-legs, rock of the tide. he closes his eyes, stretches across the seat across the aisle like he owns it, like it’s his own leather couch (and you don’t know if he has a leather couch, but you think he should) and you think you like that, the way he touches things like they’re already familiar.
295 miles is the length of oregon east to west, sunrise to sunset. he drives with one hand on the wheel and asks you about eschatology. you’re not squeamish about these things, but your stomach does a half-turn low in your abdomen every quarter of a mile. you laugh and the window sends it back to you packaged like an echo.
1 is the number of possible alien bodies you discover in a cracked casket. it is a marked increase from the number you expected. you push your glasses up higher on your nose and tell him so with the slant of your gaze.
11 pm is the time it is when you turn him away from your door, bouncing on his heels like a beta wave that’s breaking away from its core. you rub the curtains through your hands, paperback pages between your thumb and forefinger, and lose sight of him across the dark, wet horizon.
5 is the number on his motel door when you knock out a nervous rhythm against the wood. three, you think, was the number of spots clustered low on the base of your spine and years from now you’ll think - you’ll think something must have changed, a realignment of poles, when he pressed candle-warmed fingers to the skin just above the dip of your hips: the place on your skin you’d deemed its own x-file. and it’s fitting, it’s somehow un-ironic, that this inexplicable spot is the first place he touches you.
200 is the thread count of the motel sheets. they are seedy love-affair sheets, dime-store romance cotton made to be used, abused, tangled and gripped in fists. they are secret-telling sheets, and he lowers his voice against the side of the bed. you rest your cheek on your hand while the moon plays the mathematician against the curve of his jaw, calculating angles on the lines of his cheeks. he tells you stories without endings until the phone rings.
113 is the number of raindrops that fall per square foot per second during a thunderstorm. but the number feels exponential, raised to a higher degree in the early morning of an oregon graveyard. your logic presses against his hypothetical like trees blown together against wind. twin smiles crack across your faces like lightning. you laugh in tandem and, even for a scientist, the decibels are incalculable.
12 is the number of impossible tasks hercules overcame to obtain salvation. your mind dwells on myth but functions in rationale; he speaks in legends and twists tales with his tongue. you put down the phone and pick up your weapons. this is the numerology of beginnings. this is step one.
nine is the number of minutes you lose when you look at him (episode 1) // j.a.s
Hey if you have a line that needs changed every week then I have a tip for you! Instead of them just ripping it off or using those remover whips (ask for those first and see if you like them) they have these adhesive removing sticks. You snap them just like you would a glow stick to make it work. They work great at removing the dressing without the oil feeling. Much quicker and much cleaner!
Just managed to catch some morning light today cause I slept in 😌 and did some work, mostly math but I have a tendency to scribble working out and cross things all over the place so those are hidden away.
As you grow up, there is this line they feed you like factory-line bread: “goals are important”. This is not an idea that will fill your stomach. It will swell in your throat and choke you like stone. Because goals are important the way breathing is important, but breathing underwater is very different from breathing on land. And when they don’t tell you that not everyone stretches the same way, you start trying on shoes that don’t fit, and shoes that don’t fit will only fill up with water.
Somebody out there might have grocery lists that start with waking up at dawn to catch the sun’s first kiss before the trees do. Somebody out there might need till dinnertime to unhinge their mouth and ask for change at the laundromat’s. I have been both of these people. There were years when telling my grandma good night was the kindest thing I could do for anyone. And there were years when I stared out the window of a flight a thousand miles above death and watched oceans unspool into new lives I hadn’t breathed into yet.
Whatever your goals are for today, you owe it to yourself not to pin it up next to anyone else’s. You are not a butterfly exhibit at a county fair. No one can count your wingspans without knowing which forest you called home.
“A Necessary Disclaimer for Productivity Apps”, Natalie Wee