i wish i could use sound on that

anonymous asked:

What do you think about autistic people who believe in the high-low functioning stuff?

I don’t know any, so I don’t think about them at all :P (That sounds sarcastic, but genuinely it’s something I’m fairly neutral on, much like autistics who wish they could be cured. Except if someone’s saying stuff like “I’m high-functioning so I’m better than those low-functioning autistics” or “High-functioning autistics don’t need resources like I do ‘cause I’m low-functioning” or something, in which case they’re jerkbags who should shut.)

-Brother Cat

I personally don’t care for functioning labels myself, but if someone still wants to use them, it’s their right, so long as they respect that I don’t care for them. If they won’t respect my choice or are using them to be holier-than-thou to fellow autistics like Brother Cat described…then yeah, they’re jerks.

- Auntie Cat

Bitty’s words echo in Jack’s ear. He might be a bit of a clueless idiot when it comes to relationships, as past evidence would show, but he knows that “can we talk” is almost never a good thing.

“A-about what?” Jack asks. He wishes now he’d listened to Bitty’s message before he called him, but there were so many missed calls he couldn’t just ignore it. And besides, Bitty sounds a little like he’s, well, crying.

“I’m just – I guess I had a bad day,” Bitty admits. “All the boys are over, Shitty even came down from Boston so we could all watch your game together. And they started talking about the rumours people used to have, y’know the ones, about how whether you and Parse were just friends, and…and it just – it hurts.”

Jack feels a little numb. He wants to drive up to Samwell right that second, but he knows he can’t. He’s got practice in the morning and then a game in the evening and so he can’t just drive the forty minutes to see his boyfriend, who is obviously hurting. Jack wants to, so badly, though. But he can’t jeopardize his career like that.

“We aren’t even friends now, you know that, right?” Jack says. He doesn’t like that Bitty’s jealous of Parse, even though he said he wasn’t back in August, but…

“No, honey, it’s not that,” Bitty says, and he sniffs again. “It’s – it’s the sneaking, and the lying, and the not being able to tell anyone about the fact the most amazing guy I’ve ever had the pleasure to know is in love with me and I love him right back and we’re together and happy when we are, and I can’t tell anyone.”

To Jack, who has never been big on confiding in anyone, this is a foreign concept. But Bitty sounds like he’s in so much pain, and Jack just wants to…well practice isn’t until ten. If he leaves right now, he can get to Samwell and back in the morning with a reasonable amount of sleep. Right?

“Bits, I’m gonna come up, okay?” Jack says, grabbing his keys and jogging down the stairs to the garage. “Just – I’ll be there in half an hour. We can stay on the phone, okay?”

“No, sweetheart, you don’t have to–”

“You’re hurt,” Jack says. He doesn’t mean to put a captain’s bark into it, but it happens anyway. “I’d do the same thing if you’d taken a bad check.”

“Oh sugar,” Bitty says. For a moment Jack thinks he’s going to tell him not to, but he doesn’t. Instead he sighs. “I dropped a pie.”

Jack feels the pain like a physical vice. He knew it wouldn’t be easy, being with Bitty the way he wanted – needed – to be with Bitty, but he never meant for it to actually hurt. It was love, right? It wasn’t supposed to be painful.

“Oh Bits,” he hears himself breathe. Bitty just sniffs in response.

“Why don’t – how about while you drive you just tell me about your game,” Bitty suggests. “And we can talk more when you get here.”

Jack agrees, although he doesn’t really want to talk about his game, and sets the phone on speaker on the passenger seat. The traffic’s good and he gets to Samwell earlier than he thinks he was going to. He parks in front of the Haus and sees Shitty’s car.

“Are you still in your room?” Jack asks.

He hears Bitty shift, like he’s getting off his bed.

“Yeah, are you outside?” he asks. Jack agrees and hears Bitty come down the stairs. This is possibly the second most impulsive thing Jack has ever done, but he thinks he’ll regret it about as much as he did the first most impulsive thing – that is to say, not at all.

“Who’s in the living room?” Jack asks.

“Uh, Lardo, Shitty, Ransom, Holster, and Nursey,” Bitty says.

All people Jack trusts. Which is good. It’s very good.

“Okay,” Jack says. “I’ll see you in a few seconds.”

He hangs up and opens the front door of the Haus. Bitty is just inside, in plain view of the people in the den. Jack ignores all of their excited clamouring at his presence, their joy over his game, and pulls Bitty into a bone crushing hug. Bitty returns it a little too tentatively for Jack’s liking. Especially since Bitty’s got red eyes and keeps sniffing. Jack is well aware of the others streaming out of the living room when he cups Bitty’s face.

“Hi honey,” he says, and he kisses Bitty, right there in front of them. Because it’s the Samwell Men’s Hockey team, and he might have graduated, but they’ve still got his back.

I am really happy for you and I am not lying about it now.
I utter poison in ways only poets can and you sat in the warzone as if you weren’t begging for the antidote.
I was silent for days in ways you didn’t understand but she speaks smoothly like warm milk and honey.
Her words don’t burn.
They are composed like a symphony you hum all the notes to and you are starting to forget the sound of my voice.

Our love was constant begging but she never asks you to get on your knees.
You never have to hold her waist as you cry to the heavens.
You are relieved there is no blood running down your shins.
We never went enough days without bloodshed for your scars to heal
But she tends to your wounds and runs her lips over marks I made with mine.

I used to wish you well through teeth gritted so tight the sound barely escaped.
I used to clench my fists until my veins looked like they could escape from my skin and I couldn’t help but wonder what they would look like spilled open.
I wondered if you visit me in the hospital.
Now my fingers don’t shake and my fists aren’t tense and I can use my hands to write poems about how I am really happy for you.
And I am not lying about it now.

I wish I found some better sounds no one’s ever heard,
I wish I had a better voice that sang some better words,
I wish I found some chords in an order that is new,
I wish I didn’t have to rhyme every time I sang,

I was told when I get older all my fears would shrink,
But now I’m insecure and I care what people think.
My name’s ‘Blurryface’ and I care what you think

Wish we could turn back time, to the good ol’ days,
When our momma sang us to sleep but now we’re stressed out.

Sometimes a certain smell will take me back to when I was young,
How come I’m never able to identify where it’s coming from,
I’d make a candle out of it if I ever found it,
Try to sell it, never sell out of it, I’d probably only sell one,

It’d be to my brother, ‘cause we have the same nose,
Same clothes homegrown a stone’s throw from a creek we used to roam,
But it would remind us of when nothing really mattered,
Out of student loans and treehouse homes we all would take the latter.

My name’s ‘Blurryface’ and I care what you think

Wish we could turn back time, to the good ol’ days,
When our momma sang us to sleep but now we’re stressed out.

We used to play pretend, give each other different names,
We would build a rocket ship and then we’d fly it far away,
Used to dream of outer space but now they’re laughing at our face,
Saying, “wake up, you need to make money.

Wish we could turn back time, to the good ol’ days,
When our momma sang us to sleep but now we’re stressed out.

—  Stressed Out lyrics - Twenty One Pilots

This year I finally bought one of those mini souvenir Oscar statues that they sell all over Los Angeles. They’re fitted with witty, positively biting plaques such as “Best Stoner,” “Hottest Wife,” and “Coolest Cody,” (who the hell knows any cool “Codys,” let alone “Coolest”?). As truly side-splittingly hilarious as they all were, I didn’t think twice. I coughed up my $12 for the “Best Dad” model and gave it as a gift to the best father a girl could wish for: my mom, Dr. Carol Ellen Lee.

I honor my mother on Father’s Day because, when my twin brother and I were four months old, my father left my family. Or in Internet parlance, “unfollowed” us. You might be thinking that that sounds like a despicable thing for a father to do, but remember – I made very bad small talk at that age! I mooched off dad’s money, and my resume was lacking in all marketable skills. My brother refused to split the check when we went out to dinner! Ever! It was quite a hostile environment for a grown man. So he went splitsies (I think that’s the legal term??). He went AWOL. Oh, excuse me, typo: “A-HOLE.” He went a-hole. While he was vaguely in and out of our lives as small children, I haven’t spoken to him in almost fifteen years now. I mostly regret that I don’t know what he thought of Avatar!

I’m not interested in disparaging my father. One, because then there’d be nothing to explore in my future one-woman show “My mother’s Jewish, my father’s Jewish, and I’m Jewish! And HUNGRY! FOR DADDY’S HUGS…AND KNISHES!” (running off-off-Broadway in a meat locker in Detroit). But two, because I truly don’t feel any emotional wounds. It is not enough to say that my mom was the best mom anyone could’ve asked for. She was a superwoman. A champion. An Übermensch (German for “female Uber driver.”)

My mom raised my twin and me entirely by herself. For you nerds out there, that’s like my mom’s life was a video game and she had to play the whole way through on the “extreme difficult” setting, and still got the high score in record time and found all the Easter Eggs and did all the side challenges and learned all the Ocarina’s magical tunes and got all of Majora’s Masks including Romani’s Mask which took forever. It was a priority of hers that we never notice the deficit that my father’s departure could have left. While working full time as an anesthesiologist, she was still able to make every play performance, every school conference, every sports game my brother and I ever played. And I’m a girl who, in sixth grade, shot a basket on the wrong hoop in a game and missed. I honestly don’t know if that’s more or less embarrassing than making it. If I were my mom I would’ve probably heckled me at my games. I am the most coddled, softest, gooest lady-baby now and there’s not one day that goes by that I don’t thank my mom in my head or on the phone through an elaborate tableau of grateful emoji (“smiley face smiley face money sign eggplant”).

My mom gave me a lot of gifts, but one has become more and more important to me as I grow older. When I was a teenager, I remember offhandedly thanking my mom and her generation for “paving the way for girls my age, because now there’s no sexism. You fixed it for us!” My mother calmly sat me down and calmly looked me square in the eye and calmly advised me that I was mega-wrong (legal term). “Sexism is not dead. I’m sorry, Megan. Society is still backwards and it’s sneaky and it’s going to be here for awhile.” Then she probably made me three lasagnas or something, I was a very large girl at the time, I once ate eight McDonald’s hash browns in a sitting. But this essay isn’t about that, my one-woman show is!

That talk and those lasagnas changed my life. Because, whoa, newsflash – not everyone thinks women are the best. I started seeing the world as a complex place. There were men who hated women for nothing. There were women who hated other women for nothing. There was violence targeting women, all because we are soft and babies come out of us sometimes in two different types of holes. The world wasn’t the Eden I had formerly seen it to be. Though, maybe Eden is an apt comparison – Eve didn’t have it so great. She was punished for all eternity for eating carbs. I bet Eve made 70 cents to the dollar of what Adam did.

My mother’s mother gave my mom similar advice when she was young: “Get a job where you can support yourself. Don’t rely on a man to support you.” As simple and blunt as this sounds now, I forget how novel a woman’s fiscal independence is. Because of my successful mother, I grew up with the privilege of assuming that my brother and I would make comparable amounts of money. That is crazy! I wish I could tell Susan B. Anthony that. She would dig it. Plus, how PSYCHED would Susan B. Anthony be if she knew she was on a DOLLAR COIN?! She couldn’t vote and now she’s on money that men use to buy stuff like sandals and guns and radishes. Not even a more feminine 70 cent piece! A DOLLAR! And honestly, she’d probably be psyched about the time machine I’d used to visit her, too. I could really make Susan B. Anthony’s day.

I want to thank my mom today for giving me vigilance. It is a gift to be vigilant. A true gift. Too many people, both men and women, are complacent about social mores. (NOTE: I feel like this is the closest I might ever get to sincerely calling Americans “sheeple.” This is a big day for me!!) The gift of awareness is more important than ever. The Elliot Rodger shooting in Santa Barbara last month is just an inflorescence on the noxious weed of sexism and female-targeted violence that crops up constantly throughout this country. This is the norm. I feel that it is a privilege to have had my eyes opened by my exceptional mother. My mom raised a daughter who never once, for one second, thought I was going to be supported by a man. I never once thought I was less capable. That I couldn’t do a job that is still mostly done by men. That I was worse at math. That I was less physically strong. (NOTE: I am very bad at parking and spatial reasoning. My mother and I have both admitted that to ourselves.)

They say that “living well is the best revenge.” Well, you know what’s also good revenge? Revenge. It is easy to be angry. It is easy to jump from awareness of inequality into crushing anger. I myself oscillate between fatalism at the state of the olio of inequalities in our world (gender-based, sexual orientation-based, socioeconomic, racial, religious, handicapped discrimination, etc. etc. etc.) and a burning desire to do something. But my mom taught me that rejecting the status quo is doing something. Succeeding, however quietly and tastefully, chips away at everything. And, while things might not fully change until women can physically match men, or until men can give birth, this is enough. This is the fight.

My mom is a feminist. A goofy, badass feminist. She lives her creed. Possibly even more important than instilling a confidence inside me, she raised a son, my brother, who is entirely respectful of women and who genuinely loves them. My brother is a real “DUDE” (legal term). He loves sports and cars and things and stuff and is still somehow able to love women (I guess technically we fall under “stuff”). And I entirely chalk that up to my mom.

I am not here to indict or praise other families. I only can be in my skin. I’m not a serial killer who kills ladies and puts on their skin, though that’s probably a good way to keep looking young, note to self, look into murder-skin-suits, they’re “in” this summer. Fathers are absolutely incredible. Great fathers are great. Fathers who parent with mothers. Single fathers. Gaylord double-fathers (legal term). Gingerbread men who you give little gingerbread children and then you eat all of them because fuck that family unit, I’m hungry, mommy didn’t make me enough lasagnas. All fathers who choose to be good fathers are good fathers. But plenty don’t, and that’s where certain heroes shine.

My mom is a hero. I wish they had a real award show for best parents. The odds are that thousands if not millions of people are walking around with ill-begotten “World’s Best Mom!” or “Dad!” shirts like GODDAM FRAUDS. I would love to have a real world’s best mom competition for those shirts or mugs. Because I’m pretty sure my mom could stand her ground with the best of them. Side note: I am selling this competition show to a highly reputable network as we speak for millions of dollars. Cha-CHING, LOSERS!!

Today is not just “Father’s” Day. Today is a day to honor whomever raised you. Your father, your mother, your grandparents, a fire hose, a gingerbread man, your television. Actually, yeah, definitely your television. Everyone, buy your television some golf clubs. But in addition to TV, the world is filled with beautiful humans who do a lot of good in their unfathomably short time in this smudge of consciousness we call life. They combat violence and hatred and complacency in whatever way they can, and the kindness and selflessness of them all fill me with excruciating joy, and ineffable sadness, and hunger for lasagna.

I love you, mommy. Happy father’s day. 

The Signs as Stressed Out Lyrics
  • Aries:I wish I found some better sounds no one's ever heard
  • Taurus:now they're laughing in our face/saying "wake up you need to make money"
  • Gemini:We used to play pretend/give each other different names
  • Cancer:My name is Blurryface and I care what you think
  • Leo:I was told when I was older all my fears would shrink/but now I'm insecure and I care what people think
  • Virgo:now we're stressed out
  • Libra:sometimes a certain smell will take me back to when I was young
  • Scorpio:wish we could turn back time/to the good old days
  • Sagittarius:out of student loans and treehouse homes/ we all would take the latter
  • Capricorn:it would remind us when nothing really mattered
  • Aquarius:used to dream of outer space
  • Pisces:We would build a rocket ship and we would fly it far away
My heart's a mess.

“I could have chosen a different life
Settled down, made it work with a simple wife
Instead I’ve taken my days by the horns
And honey, that’s where my problems were born.

I could have slept in a moonless night,
Closed my eyes, denying a restless fight
But what I did was to gaze upon the dome,
Seeking desperately for something called home.

My heart’s a mess,

My heart’s a mess, and my wounds are burning.
I could use a kiss to appease the stinging
What do I care if I’ll ever be fine ?
I just need my rose, and all of its spines.

All I wish for is my mind to be resting
But the shifting tides keep heating my blood,
Every single thought appears to be bursting
Lord have mercy, I’m not that far from a flood.

My heart’s a mess,

My heart’s a mess but my soul will flourish.
I have gladly traded soundness to grow quite foolish
A genuine smile will appear on my face,
Anyways, I’ve chosen to live by that pace.

And now, my rising sun would finally sparkle
Reviving my aching wit, warming every parcel
I might as well get out of that nervous cell
To seize my scarlet rose, honey, I would go through hell.” ~ @ouahibjalal

The more time I spend learning ASL the more frustrated I get that, at the very least, fingerspelling and a few basic signs aren’t common knowledge. 

I mean, even if you don’t care about learning it in order to communicate with people who use it as their primary language, it’s just such a practical supplement to spoken language in every day life

Honestly, more and more I find myself in situations where I’m going “THIS WOULD BE SO MUCH EASIER IF I WASN’T THE ONLY PERSON IN THIS BUILDING WHO KNEW EVEN A LITTLE BIT OF SIGN LANGUAGE”. I’ve wished I could just sign the name of the customer I’m talking to at one of my coworkers, or ask “Where’s ________?” to someone on the phone, or say something to someone across the room who’s testing a sound system and won’t be able to hear me even if I scream it, or sign a part number with lots of similar-sounding letters so I don’t have to clarify it five times and then just write it down anyway because it’s still wrong.

And just about everyone at some point is going to experience some degree of hearing loss, so it only makes sense to teach sign language from the beginning. It’s frustrating now to see people (including my grandmother) who struggle to hear what I’m saying, because hearing aids aren’t perfect, and they don’t even have the option of switching to sign because they never learned it, and nobody ever presents it as an option instead of/as well as hearing aids.

And I’m just here now going, if I’m frustrated by the fact that I can’t use it as a secondary form of communication when it’s inconvenient to speak, I can’t even imagine what it’s like for those of you out there for whom it’s your first/primary language. And I’ve seen first hand how ignorant and awful people can be on top of that, I would be so angry at people all the time honestly.

[playing guitar softly]

[also singing softly to himself]

I have never known peace
Like the damp grass that yields to me
I have never known hunger
Like these insects that feast on me

A thousand teeth
And yours among them, I know
Our hungers appeased
Our heartbeats becoming slow

We lay here for years or for hours
Thrown here or found
To freeze or to thaw
So long we become the flowers
Two corpses we were
Two corpses I saw

And they’d find us in a week
When the weather gets hot
After the insects have made their claim
I’d be home with you
I’d be home with you

We suppose, that the heart is just another organ in our body;
that rests between our two lungs,
protected by our ribs,
and is made out of four chambers,
attached to hundreds of veins and tiny arteries.
If we had the ability of hearing the pulse of the one before us,
we would have seen more love,
but more lies.
Because when I looked in to your eyes,
and got the nerve to ask you a simple yes or no question,
my heart was beating a hundred and twenty times a minute;
and I asked you: ‘do you love me?’
You reply: 'yes.’
I wish that my sense of hearing was so sharp,
that I could hear the sound of your heart,
we all know that if someone is lying, their pulse rises,
and your heart, I would have heard, was beating about two hundred times a minute.
I would have known sooner, before it was too late,
that you were a liar with a rat heart.
a mouse on your porch is worth 2 in the... shh, he's sleeping.

   yesterday i found a mouse on my back porch. i named him herbert… possibly because that name kinda sounds like “her butt” to me and that made me laugh, but also because his face looked like 31st president of the united states, herbert hoover. google it. 
he was lying very peaceful and still on an old tupperware bin i had some yard tools and such in.
     for a moment or two while watching him sleep i thought to myself;
            ‘really? so this son of a bitch climbed up on my tupperware and took a nap huh?…wow, that’s fucking ballzy…and also quite lazy. shit, i wish i had thought of that…i could use a nap. actually if i were a field mouse who looked like the 31st president of the united states, herbert hoover, and had fuck all to do today i would probably have thought of that. i’d climb right up on some dumb human’s porch, take a shit on their picnic table, eat some old junk they left lying around, and take a big fat nap right there on their comfy ass tupperware bin they provided me, conveniently located on their shady back porch on a lukewarm day. because of course that’s clearly what it’s there for… mouse napping. no way anyone would travel to a store and purchase this tupperware bin for any other purpose. say housing yard tools, or the storage of things important to the upkeep of a property. and you know what? fuck it if they did. cause i’m herbert the chubby cheeked field mouse and i can do whatever the fuck i want with no goddamn sense of re…’
     …and thats when a cool spring breeze carried the waft of pure decomposition that stopped me mid thought like a bright red train crossing.
sorry herbert… you go ahead and rest awhile. xofrnk

rip herbert. 2014, by frnkiero.

anonymous asked:

But you're not very sure anymore. Or As sure as you used to be

I don’t really understand where you got that impression, anon. Maybe because I’m answering calmly? Because I feel very calm. Logically, if the band was splitting, the guys wouldn’t be coordinating their schedules like this. You can bet record labels would want to create a war of loyalty among fans to drum up sales, pitting the guys against each other – remember how successful that Bieber ‘feud’ was for both albums’ sales? Liam would be distancing himself from the pop image in ways more similar (hopefully less harshly) than Zayn did. Harry would absolutely not be ghosting, he would be ramping up his image for an A-list career trajectory. The four of them would not be taking media cycles and vacation switch-offs. There would be no calendar patterns and no reassurances of the band staying together like we got with Liam’s initial solo announcement. Those things simply would not occur because they would not be advantageous to four separate careers.

flowers + iced coffee with my brother.

i miss every dang day, but i miss him extra today. i so wish i could shoot him a text telling him to pick up some beer, i’ll bring steaks home, and we’ll just hang out on the front porch tonight. catch up, reminisce, laugh, and just be in each other’s presence. i wonder all the time what his favorite beer would be, if he’d have brown hair like the rest of us, what his voice would sound like, what path of life he’d have taken, if he’d be healthy, and what his hugs would feel like. i miss him to the point of anger and tears and frustration. I miss him so much it hurts.

I am the quiet.
I am the mean streak they could not iron out of me.
Some girls are strong willed. Some girls are freaks.
My mother has called me both of those things.

I am the sound of what is left empty.
Do not tell me I have made myself up.
I don’t believe in bad luck anymore,
don’t believe I’m a hole built just to be fucked anymore.
I have learned the difference between whores,
and those who use “whore” to mean someone dirty.  

I am not dirty. I do not wish to do a man’s laundry.
I do not wish for money.
When I meet my eternity, I will know it.
I do not wish to glow, to grow up to be beautiful.

Here I eat, lick my fingers, drink whole cream,
I color myself lovely, paint with color from floor to the ceiling.
Here I have learned about healing.

Some girls are angry, even in pink.
Some girls do not think these things through.

I am not nervous, not dressed wrong.
I am not ever overreacting.
When you see me, you will know what you’re seeing.

I am my hair, my own body thinning.
I am the hurricane, you are the city.
I will rub my eyes without fear, see things clearly again.

I am the hand that turns the page,
all the rage of a thousand years boiled over.
I am in the shape of my pain.

Chemistry does not work this way:
they pry open my chest with screwdrivers,
and find the mess inside much too terrible to deal with.
I am scared, but no longer embarrassed.

—  Five Minutes Without Fear; Hannah Beth Ragland

10/23/2015 - 3 PM US EDT (UTC -4)

Hurricane Patricia is about to slam the coast of Mexico. Hundreds of thousands of people live in this area. This is the strongest Cat 5 hurricane ever recorded with winds gusting to 200 mph (321 km) The damage could be catastrophic.

The Daily Kos has already started a campaign to buy Shelter Boxes. (Charity Navigator gives Shelter Box a very good rating.)

Chances are high that people in the region will be without power and potable water. To put it in perspective–Typhoon Haiyan killed over 6k people in the Philippines in 2013. This storm may be worse. A lot of people could potentially die. Let’s hope and pray not.

ETA: Save the Children is ready and taking donations. 

AmeriCares is too