i know you probably didn't mean to upset me but

earthquakefox  asked:

Hey, I just deleted that loopy-ass post I made. I got carried away. I didn't mean to make it sound like I was glorifying him and didn't want to take away from those he killed. I'm sorry that I upset you. I know I acted kind of stupid and crazy there, so can you please forgive me and delete that post that you reblogged from me? I feel bad now. You never had a problem with me before and I always liked you. Sorry about that.

I’m probably going to look like an asshole to anyone who has no context outside of this ask, but I have to say something that I’ve needed to say for awhile and now is as good a time as any. I’ve opted to make this reply public because you have made multiple vague posts about this situation, as I was taking my time to reply to you in a rational, logical fashion and you decided to do, as you tend to, back pedal your opinion, act like I was cruel to hold you accountable for your words by not deleting your post and instead sending you a message letting you know you have “offended” (which is not the right word at all, by the way, it is damn near impossible to actually offend me) me.

Your apology was not only unnecessary, but it wasn’t genuine, so don’t bother. You are entitled to whatever feelings you have about anything, as am I, and I don’t have to accept your apology (and I am not going to) and I’m not going to delete the post, and here is why.

For several months now, you have started arguments with me over trivial things. Obviously, the most noteworthy thing being the Aspergers debate surrounding Dahmer which always looks something like this:

- I get an ask about or I make a post or I reblog a post about Dahmer’s mental health with some insight that wasn’t initially included, usually received well because it’s adding more ‘true’ to ‘true crime’
- I don’t include my opinion unless asked, but generally it’s assumed I agree with experts, as I am not one, yet
- You reblog it with a subjective personal experience, attempting to dissuade or disprove facts OR you make a vague post about your disagreement with me (I ignore this, and sometimes this is where the cycle ends)
- I argue my point, again, is based on fact, not my own diagnosis because the dude has been dead for forever and I am not an expert on any mental illness just because I have one
- You insist you weren’t trying to start a fight, you get passive aggressive and apologize, annnnnnnnd
- Repeat again in a few weeks



It’s not that you disagree with me, it’s that you won’t stop shoving it down my throat and then act like a victim about it any time someone disagrees with you. The thing is, I know your stance. I know you disagree and that’s fine. You just aren’t going to change my mind - you give me nothing but subjective information that could apply to anyone (most of the time, the stuff you attribute to him possibly being autistic is stuff that applies to me, even?) I understand that you have Aspergers and that your experiences are very important to you, and I’m not removing any validity of those experiences when they are NOT applied to him. You have no facts or evidence or any research in support of this stance, yet you’re so committed to arguing with me EVERY opportunity available, just to act like you didn’t mean anything by it, even though you clearly do or you wouldn’t keep doing it.

This brings me to your recent post that I won’t delete and my problem with it. You meant what you said and you only deleted it because I disapproved. First of all, whatever, you want to nuzzle a serial killer and rub kidneys or whatever. I don’t care about that. I don’t care if people love, worship, or even want to fuck Jeffrey Dahmer or anyone else, period. My problem is that you DO glorify him by negating ALL of his negative attributes. You specifically avoid posting about victims, you don’t care about his actual psychology (unless you’re having a random moment of reflection where you decide to project and start to muse that you may have one of his personality disorders), and you minimize EVERY SINGLE REASON WE KNOW WHO JEFFREY DAHMER IS. You don’t love Dahmer, you love some made up idea you have of who he was.

In general? I’m tired of arguing with you, and then you acting like everyone (I forgot to mention you’ve done this to at least one other very psych-savvy user) is attacking you even though you jumped into a post with your opinion knowing that it wasn’t the most popular one. AGAIN, you are allowed to have those opinions, just understand that your words and your actions do have consequences, and sorry doesn’t mean anything if you keep repeating the same action over and over OR if you apologize just because you want to be liked. At this point, it’s a personality conflict, and I’m over it - your arguments have no backbone and you care more about approval than being honest and that is what I’m “offended” by.

Wilderness || Vincent Corvidae

Draco moved through his room without seeing, waving his wand here and there to direct whatever happened to be in front of him at the time into his trunk, not caring what he packed or left behind. It didn’t matter. Nothing was his anymore; anything that held value had been carted off to the Ministry as evidence, and that was what had made it through two years of living with the Dark Lord and, perhaps most destructively, Aunt Bella.

He threw a furious glare at the scorch mark on his dresser where his owl’s cage had once sat. Gone now, cage and bird alike. The scorch mark still festered quietly, occasionally sending up a tendril of smoke or glowing the dark red of burning wood despite both his parents’ efforts at putting it out.

There was a quiet knock on the door and before he could respond, his mother came in. She no longer swept regally about the Manor but entered silently, robes still and shoes enchanted against the stone floors.

“Are you ready?”

Draco glanced at his trunk. There was an empty picture frame–he’d set fire to everything with Goyle’s face on it and forced himself to watch it burn–and a pair of dragonhide gloves peppered with holes on top of a pile of unfolded clothes.

“Sure.”

Narcissa sighed quietly, took out the trinkets, and began folding. “Draco–”

“Don’t talk to me,” he snapped, which wasn’t what he wanted to say at all. “You’re sending me away like I’m a child. I know how to take care of myself. As the only one not on Trial in this house, I’d think that obvious.”

Her jaw clenched, and Draco wished he could take it back, but he couldn’t, and she kept folding.

“It’s for your own safety.”

“I’m safe enough,” he spat. “I don’t even know whoever this is you’re sending me to live with. Not even a proper witch, is she? You won’t say a word on her blood status or family name, she’s not from here, nobody’s heard of her, not even Father, and she’s buggering some bird? I hardly see how any of that’s better than the house I grew up in.”

“You are a fool,” Narcissa said. Her voice was quiet and ice, and goosebumps broke out along Draco’s arms. He waited for her to elaborate and when she didn’t, the hair on the back of his neck stood up as well.

She finished with the clothes, closed the trunk, and pulled a silver spoon out of her pocket. One of the good ones, from the wedding silver. Draco suddenly found himself blinking back tears.

“That’s it, then?” he asked coolly.

Narcissa nodded. “I’ll send word as often as I can.”

“Right.”

She held out the spoon. Draco took a deep breath, grabbed his trunk in one hand, patted his cloak to make absolutely certain his wand was there, and met his mother’s eyes. “Good luck,” he said, and grasped the spoon. The familiar, horrid feeling of being yanked by his bellybutton, and then the world spun away into darkness.