Just following on from @glumshoe’s post about women’s branded clothing, can anyone rec me a good pair of women’s combat boots that aren’t made with faux cardboard soles? I’d like to enjoy style and comfort while maintaining the ability to kick through walls if necessary.
Preferably not Doc Martens, those boots always gouge my feet up cause of how the ankle area is constructed on them. Although I am sorely tempted by their current glitter range.
I did used to have a good pair of steel capped boots that saved my life more than once when I got grabbed on the streets and had to kneecap my way to safety, but my mother got rid of them in my absence and I don’t remember the brand.
you ever touch your own knees and realise how vulnerable they are like. knees are super sensitive, what if someone kicked your kneecap and it never came back down? like. fucking. don’t come near my knees. if you even look at my knees ill scream for help
WARNINGS: This story is really gross and/or horrifying but also hilarious imho. Your health always comes first, so mind the tags: Violence, Cannibalism Mention, Suicidal Ideation, Feces, Sleep Deprivation, Airplanes, I generally had a really bad time but now it’s hysterical. Most of the story is under the cut because it’s eight miles long.
In August of 2009 I flew back to Honolulu to do my sophomore year of college with the intention of entering 400-level german. What happened instead is the closest I’ve ever come to personally dying or actually murdering someone.
The problem started the day before my flight, when I attended a birthday party for a very dear cousin in Denver, and due to be in 1 of 2 adults present, ended up driving a bunch of teenagers home and didn’t get home until 12:30 that night. Oh well, my flight’s at 6AM anyway, I’ll just stay up. I can sleep on the plane, I thought, like a complete fucking fool.
Jonathan: Sunny Delight Overdrive!
*one meaty Hamon-infused punch into an exploding zombie face*
Joseph: No, but you see, when you tore off that square of toilet paper, you were not actually destroying my channel of Hamon, but simply bringing the ply that I infused with the Ripple even closer to your face! Now you will say, “But I already wiped my nose with it!”
Pillar Man: But I already wiped my nose with it! *explodes into a pile of molten Aztec god* (Pillar Man, to self: Little does Joestar know that my duodenum has survived his Hamon blow, and shall slip into a Switzerland-bound envelope along with the Red Stone of Aja!)
Jotaro: Yare yare daze…you though your stand, a werewolf that can turn its claws into knives, could defeat my Star Platinum. But you didn’t prepare for this, the Star Kneecap! *Star Platinum’s kneecap flips over and flies into the air, turning into a moon that burns the werewolf with silver light* ORA ORA ORA!!!
Josuke: you thought your broken stand, Blood Sugar Sex Magic, could level this block. But you didn’t count on what I can do with broken things.
*Crazy Diamond reforms a flattened stop sign Josuke is standing on, flinging him directly at the enemy’s face with a hail of punches*
Enemy stand user with a normal but mildly uncommon Japanese name: Alright, I’m your friend now.
*Mista takes a hail of razor tipped leaves to the chest and collapses to the ground.*
Mista: alright, you may have me on all f- threes and another hand, but as soon as I reload, you’re fucked!
*Giorno steps from the shadows*
Giorno: ah, yes, I was also here but decided not to do anything until my friend was eviscerated. *heals Mista* Ah yes, now, Mr. Pischetti N. Meatbalzo, here is another thing my stand can do sometimes.
*Gold Experience punches Pischetti, sending him reeling with sensory overload as he perceives time too fast for his body to handle*
Gold Experience can also do this thing.
*turns one of Mista’s spent shell casings into a scorpion that runs up Pischetti’s trousers. Pischetti then crushes it in a panic, collapsing his own ribcage and killing him instantly.*
Vera Wang: ah, you see, you’ve fallen for my trap. You opened a bottle I left on the floor filled with water that reflected the light of my Stand, All Eyez on Me, and now your stomach is going to fill with Sasquatch hair until you turn into a cryptid.
Jolyne: Yare Yare dawa…how pointless. See, I increased the tensile strength of my stomach’s string and had Anasui shape it into a Klein bottle. Now I can never be filled with any kind of cryptid hair.
*Diver Down retracts from Jolyne’s body*
Anasui: can I smell your hair now?
Jolyne: no, Anasui
Johnny: Yeah, come out and play, you shit head gunslinger! (To self: calm down Johnny…don’t blow all your fingernails in a panic)
Money Cash: Alright there partner, looks like I found you!
*Johnny fires off three of his fingernails in a panic, missing Money Cash completely*
Money Cash: Now, don’t go getting any crazy ideas. My stand, Sorry Ms. Jackson, prevents any kind of injury unless you beat me in a game of Battleship. Also my cousin has the same stand for some reason.
*Johnny panics again, firing off another 4 fingernails.*
Johnny: Gyro, halp. Gyro, pls.
Sato Aparachin: ah, my stand, Rock Around the Clock, cannot be bested. See, I am a rock human. And despite our many glaring weaknesses and no real advantages, I believe myself invincible!
Josuke: ah, see, but my Stand, Soft & Wet, has plundered your ability to win. I have taken its bubble into myself, so now I can double win!
Sato Aparachin: alright, that hardly seems fair.
Josuke: It isn’t. Can you help me find muh memories?
Sato Aparachin: No, I hate you. Stay away from muh fruit
Josuke: Muh memories!
Sato Aparachin: muh fruit
Mom, my depression is a shape shifter.
One day it is as small as a firefly in the palm of a bear,
The next, it’s the bear.
On those days I play dead until the bear leaves me alone.
I call the bad days: “the Dark Days.”
Mom says, “Try lighting candles.”
When I see a candle, I see the flesh of a church, the flicker of a flame,
Sparks of a memory younger than noon.
I am standing beside her open casket.
It is the moment I learn every person I ever come to know will someday die.
Besides Mom, I’m not afraid of the dark.
Perhaps, that’s part of the problem.
Mom says, “I thought the problem was that you can’t get out of bed.”
Anxiety holds me a hostage inside of my house, inside of my head.
Mom says, “Where did anxiety come from?”
Anxiety is the cousin visiting from out-of-town depression felt obligated to bring to the party.
Mom, I am the party.
Only I am a party I don’t want to be at.
Mom says, “Why don’t you try going to actual parties, see your friends?”
Sure, I make plans. I make plans but I don’t want to go.
I make plans because I know I should want to go. I know sometimes I would have wanted to go.
It’s just not that fun having fun when you don’t want to have fun, Mom.
You see, Mom, each night insomnia sweeps me up in his arms dips me in the kitchen in the small glow of the stove-light.
Insomnia has this romantic way of making the moon feel like perfect company.
Mom says, “Try counting sheep.”
But my mind can only count reasons to stay awake;
So I go for walks; but my stuttering kneecaps clank like silver spoons held in strong arms with loose wrists.
They ring in my ears like clumsy church bells reminding me I am sleepwalking on an ocean of happiness I cannot baptize myself in.
Mom says, “Happy is a decision.”
But my happy is as hollow as a pin pricked egg.
My happy is a high fever that will break.
Mom says I am so good at making something out of nothing and then flat-out asks me if I am afraid of dying.
I am afraid of living.
Mom, I am lonely.
I think I learned that when Dad left how to turn the anger into lonely —
The lonely into busy;
So when I tell you, “I’ve been super busy lately,” I mean I’ve been falling asleep watching Sports Center on the couch
To avoid confronting the empty side of my bed.
But my depression always drags me back to my bed
Until my bones are the forgotten fossils of a skeleton sunken city,
My mouth a bone yard of teeth broken from biting down on themselves.
The hollow auditorium of my chest swoons with echoes of a heartbeat,
But I am a careless tourist here.
I will never truly know everywhere I have been.
Mom still doesn’t understand.
Mom! Can’t you see that neither can I?
“Explaining My Depression to My Mother: A Conversation” by Sabrina Benaim