How often my conversations about feminism have spiraled into requests for assault. I say, “Women don’t need men to defend them,” and am asked, “Can I punch you, then?” And I say, “Women belong in movies and video games and everything,” and I hear terrible things, unprintable slurs and demands for my assault, the threatening of a young woman to shut up: What they would do to silence me. The things they’d shove between my teeth. I say, “Men cannot threaten any woman they disagrees with,” and I’m told, “Women are just as cruel. Am I not supposed to respond in kind?” In my inbox today I have deleted sixteen messages asking for my life. When I say, “Your virginity only means what you want it to mean,” I’m asked, “If you believe in sexual freedom can I fuck you?” When I say “All it takes to be a woman is to want to be a woman,” I am asked, “So if I just say that I’m a woman, can I watch you in the shower?” As if women stand shadowy behind each other in our private moments. As if being woman means sexually assaulting each other.

Part of me - cynical, unwilling to be frightened, says that it might be a nice dose of reality. My shower where I am naked but my hair becomes streaky and thin, where my body sags, where my makeup smears. To witness a woman less than sexy, legs akimbo while shaving, pulling up flab thighs to reach the underside. Part of me dares them to punch me because I fight to win and am small but I’ll kill a man if he touches me. Once I dropped a U.S Marine. Part of me, hellfire and ice queen - says come on, then. You want a fight? Come fight me.

But more is scared. More timidly deletes messages, makes sure my name is hidden, doesn’t answer the endless antifeminist comments. The insertion of men and their opinion on simple things like “I teach children to ask before hugging.” When I close my eyes sometimes I wonder if they’re right and that scares me. How much am I going to change when my voice only echoes around me.

Why are you angry. Why are you angry. What do you think we are taking from you? If it’s not already equal why would equality frighten you.

The ancient art of being a woman and trying to get your voice heard: the gentle suggestion, the peaceful comment. The quiet listening to another opinion and the fact we must acknowledge it before we can continue. That I must educate, be sweet, be feminine in my feminism or else it’s “invalid.” I must present my declaration as a timid thing: “Women maybe should be part of more things.” And then the apologies: of course I don’t hate men, yes I like plenty of things with men in them, no I don’t think women are better. And then the explanations: women are people, here is the number of women in media, here is the number of dead women in media, here are the number of shows led by men. And then I brace for it. For the bullying.

Every time I speak it’s from a flinch. From “maybe this isn’t always the case but for me it is.” From please listen. From less demanding. God forbid I state factually that men are violent. If I speak about our fathers and brothers and the cycle of anger unfolding. God forbid I suggest that just once we should cut the bullshit and treat women well without pandering to men about how that helps them. What if I say “Men shouldn’t hit anyone. Hitting isn’t an answer.”

I’ll tell you what happens. The post was up for four seconds with three notes. The message I get is “If hitting isn’t allowed I’ll just go ahead and shove a gun down your throat.”

okay but, question: why are there all these posts about dirk not knowing how actual earth things tend to work when he was likely to actually TRY and learn things because dirks like that?? instead, i propose this:

jade harley, who pretty much was raised by a goddamn dog on an island in the middle of nowhere, who got all of her social interaction through an online messaging service and in her wild prospit dreams, AND THEN SPENT 3 YRS COMPLETELY ALONE ON A BOAT FLYING THRU SPACE, horrifies her friends regularly on earthc by her lack of knowledge of some stuff

shed know basic things like whats food and whats not since she presumably grew all her veg and hunted for her meat, but imagine the following:

  • jade not understanding how loud it is normal to speak at and shouting all the time
  • jade not understanding how to act, like, physically when shes around people!! when s it normal to touch them, when isnt it, that kind of thing
  • jade having never worn makeup and done stuff like painting her nails so its all super foreign to her!!! all the girls + davepeta have a big sleepover and teach her how to apply eyeliner. she tries to user lipliner on her eyebrows
  • jade only having had basic foodstuffs, has never tried a lot of actual… dishes. shes never even had frozen pizza. 
  • jades voice being a super weird mix of accents because she ended up learning a lot of her speech online since, yknow, her only irl human interaction ended when her grandpa DIED. so she learns from things like different tv shows, etc
  • jade eats with her mouth open and speaks with it full
  • jade will bite her nails and leave the nail ‘clippings’ all over anyones sofa or floor
  • jade, having never had a parent to tell her to “sit like a lady”, sits with her legs all akimbo even if shes wearing a dress or skirt because who the fuck cares

im no jade expert but i personally think this is good

10 Things I love about Expiration Date


This face. 

Legend says it only happens within a millisecond, but once you see it, it’s chilling. Like if this screenshot doesn’t describe the personality of Medic idk what else would, guys. Dude is so ready to scare the entire shit outta Scout. You can see it in his cold blue eyes. That boogeyman smirk. His evil (yet groomed) eyebrows. Y’all, this man holds so much unadulterated glee at witnessing the pain and suffering of others, so much madne–

–aaaand he’s back. Everything’s cool. Hey doc what the hell is that?


k then


So originally I took this screenshot bc of Spy’s eyebrow and Heavy’s annoyed expression of being awoken from his slumber….

but then I proceeded to laugh my ass off bc I also happened to capture Sniper staring off into space while contemplating his existence in this universe.

(I’m sure this is a common occurrence with him. He’s probably the type of dude that wonders if pigeons have feelings.)


Still in the same room, only this time Spy has been gravely insulted by the Scoot.

But look at the others. They don’t seem too exasperated with Scout and his doodles of Spy. Maybe it’s because they also think this meeting is dumb, maybe it’s because they actually knew Scout was going to pull this prank, or maybe it’s because they too think The Eiffel Tower Having Sexual Congress With Spy is a hilarious joke.

Either way, it’s nice to see the other mercs genuinely smiling at Scout and his shenanigans. It’s better than the common fandom theme where Scout is The Worst and Everybody Hates Him.

No, the other old dudes know how to kid around too (even though it’s still at the Spy’s expense, oops)

Of course, whether the Pyro is smiling at him too is something we’ll never know. Personally I think he’s just eyeing up that bucket. Imagine how different this whole video would have gone if Pyro took the bucket instead of Soldier. 

Probably not so different actually.


This goes to show that Medic is not just a sadistic doctor. He’s a sadistic doctor that cares about his friends and smiles at them when he passes by.

It’s like when you’re walking down the hallway to class and you see your friend going to their class and you smile and nod to acknowledge their existence. It’s such a nice thing, and of all ppl Medic was the one who did that.



If there was a looping video of just Demoman and Sniper playing their instruments of choice I would pay to watch it forever. Also, how did they get there? Did Spy just yell “hey assholes who wants to help me create a romantic dinner mood so I can teach Scout how to talk to a girl” and Demo and Snipes were like “ok m8 no problem B)”

I know we’re already used to the fact that these boys are mad talented, but I still love the fact that their instruments aren’t what you would stereotype them to play based on their personality. 

The dude that’s paid to blow shit up can probably play Beethoven, and the Loner Guy that lives in a camper van probably knows the tune of Careless Whisper by heart. 

I love that.


Once again I take a screenshot in order to capture the character in the middle, only to lose my shit at the person standing at the far left.

Look at Medic’s face. Yes, I get it, in context this is a ridiculous situation. I mean the last line said before that was “I have done nothing but teleport bread for three days”. This is almost Saturday cartoon material here.

But still, look at his fucking face. I just…



Speaking of horrified reactions. 

Thank goodness I know what the context is in this clip because otherwise I would have assumed someone died, or Armageddon had arrived, or something else completely unimaginable happened and there’s nothing that can be done at all, ever.

But no, it’s just a mutant tentacle monster. And this is right before Heavy asks Medic to ubercharge him, because he’s metal af.

All jokes aside, though, the reason why I am putting so much emphasis on these little miliseconds of expression is because these characters are 3D animated, and a team of people sat in front of a computer rigging these facial features to move this way. Even though these moments happen for only a second, they are still very telling when you look at them up close.

Besides, Heavy doesn’t make this face very often (as far as we’ve seen) and it’s something worth remembering (amirite, Comic #6??)


Ok, lemme tell you guys a thing:

If I was fighting a giant-tentacle-whole-wheat-bread-monster and it hoisted my ass several feet into the air, only to fling me back to mother earth with all of it’s strength, I would stay on my fucking back for like five minutes trying to get breath back into my lungs and wondering why tf I even bothered to fight anyway.

THIS DUDE get’s knocked on his ass, arms and legs akimbo and everything, get’s back up mid-fucking-tumble while reaching for his blade, and charges back into the fight like nothing ever happened. 

Seriously, it’s one swift motion, like a damn nature show. You could watch the video again but you’d have to make sure not to blink because it happens so fast.

 And the amazing thing is that all the mercs (and Pauling too) have this insane ability of getting fucked, getting even more fucked, getting back up, and then getting back into the shitstorm with no hesitation. 

Then again, what’s what the Gravel Wars basically are right?

Shit, Administrator was right, these dudes are straight up Plutonium.


“Good news! We’re not dying! We are going to live FOREVER!”

Oh that Soldier, always giving a laugh. Honestly, though, the reason why I saved this was because I didn’t realize for a long time that the reason why he was able to jump in on the conversation was because he was eaten by the bread monster.

It makes sense, because last time we saw him he was being dragged while screaming something about teleporting bread. He was probably just laying there in the monster’s throat, getting ready to use a grenade, when suddenly boom went the bomb and he received visitors. All this time I never put two and two together that he was stuck inside the bread monster before Pauling and Scout made it cool. Shame on me. That’s definitely a Soldier thing to do.

(Also, you wanna know what a bread monster and Soldier have in common? They both have a talent of cockblocking Scout.)


And the final one.

There’s nothing like a family portrait. If the video froze at this point with credits I would have expected to hear a 90′s family sitcom jingle.

What a video.

The Upstairs Neighbor

Sherlock Holmes hated cats. Well, to be specific, he hated one specific cat. Namely the beast that lived in the flat above him.

The monstrous creature had moved in several weeks before and begun its reign of terror immediately. For hours, Sherlock laid awake that first night as the cat raced from one end of the flat to the other, its claws playing a spine-tingling symphony on the wood floors. It cried endlessly between the hours of 4am and 6am until its owner, who somehow managed to sleep through the racket, woke up and fed the demanding creature.

And if that wasn’t bad enough, the beast had taken it upon itself to taunt Blackbeard, Sherlock’s basset hound. On more than one occasion, Sherlock had had to manhandle an over-excited Blackbeard down the stairs for his walk while the cat, having escaped its confines, followed them while remaining just out of snout-reach.

Sherlock’s curses and threats of finding a nice experiment on its front left paw, didn’t faze the haughty beast.

Yes, Sherlock Holmes hated cats. And today, he was ready to commit felinicide.


He supposed he could be partly to blame. After all, he had left his door open, anticipating Mrs Hudson’s daily tray of tea and gingernuts.

Blackbeard had been laying in the patch of sunlight by the window, worn out from chasing down an attempted murderer the day before. In Sherlock’s opinion, the old boy had earned a day off. And Sherlock had been looking forward to a quiet day of experimenting on some appendages he had finagled from Stamford, who was more than happy to send him away with the parts, instead of having Sherlock underfoot as he struggled to keep up with the ever-increasing work at Bart’s.

Yes, it was going to be a good day.

That is, until Sherlock discovered they were not alone.

Above him, a floorboard creaked. He paused in the process of removing a fleck of skin from a 45-year-old man’s middle finger.

Another creak.

Sherlock straightened. Too heavy for that cat. And his owner had gone out early in the day, he recalled the outer door slamming shut.

He waited, but when nothing else sounded from upstairs, he promptly forgot about it and returned to his experiment.

It was at this point, looking back, that Sherlock knew he should have gotten up and investigated. If he had, he might have noticed Mrs Hudson’s coat missing from the hall pegs and realised it was her that had left earlier. And he might have noticed the open door at the top of the stairs, where that demonic black cat sat staring down at him, waiting for the right moment to creep down and send everything to Hell in a handbasket.

But he didn’t, so it did.


Like the calm before the storm, the seconds of blissful silence in the flat should have raised the red flags in his Mind Palace, sending alarms blaring and readying him for battle.

But they didn’t.

So caught up in his experiment, he did not hear Blackbeard snort awake and growl a friendly warning. The uninvited guest ignored it and sauntered inside.

Blackbeard rose to his haunches and watched as the cat rubbed up against the nearest chair. Sherlock’s chair. Leaving its fur and scent on it.

A possessive growl ripped out of Blackbeard’s throat and he pounced. But the cat was quicker. Around the room they ran, knocking over piles of books and Sherlock’s music stand, before the cat made a quick right and dashed into the kitchen and, in one graceful leap, jumped onto the table and scampered across.

Sherlock drew back in surprise as dismembered fingers went flying in every direction. His stool tipped back and he tried to grab hold of the table, but it was too late and he fell over backwards with a shout.

‘Whooooaaaa!’ His breath was knocked out of him and he lay there, dazed.

Blackbeard, unable to make the same leap, tried to go under and managed to knock loose the one bad table leg and only just made it out the other side before the table buckled and sent everything that remained on it to the floor.

Silence fell like a thick blanket over the room.

Laying there, his legs akimbo over the stool and suffering a bruised bum, Sherlock coughed and sucked in deep breaths as he tried to understand what had happened.

He turned his head and glared at the culprits. Blackbeard had the decency to look guilty and whined softly, padding over to Sherlock and nudging his leg.

Behind him, the beast was perched atop the microwave, triumphant. With a forefinger in its jaws.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his nemesis.

'Oh my god! Oh, oh are you okay?’ A soft, feminine voice called out from the doorway. Sherlock turned his head back and looked straight up into the face of an angel.

Or, his upstairs neighbor. But with the overhead light casting a glow around her elfish face, he gave himself a little grace for the misunderstanding.

She was petite, but strong, as Sherlock discovered when she practically hauled him to his feet after ascertaining he had not injured himself too badly.

'I am so sorry, I didn’t realise I had left the door open and Toby got out.’ She continued to apologise profusely as she bent down and almost absentmindedly gathered up the stray fingers. Sherlock watched in bemusement as she laid them out on the counter, correctly in order, before gently but firmly taking the one from the demon beast, er, Toby.

’-not usually such a maniac. I think it’s been the move and he is upset about having left Manchester.’

Sherlock eyed the beast in question. He didn’t believe for one second that this was too out of character.

'I will replace your table and if there’s any damage to the microscope, I’ll pay for the repairs. I really am truly sorry! This is not at all how I wanted to introduce myself. I’ve just been so busy settling in and going through mounds of paperwork for my new job, I just kept putting it off.’ She was wringing her hands and gnawing her lip, showing more guilt than Blackbeard. The faithful dog must have sensed her distress and he sat beside her and leaned against her leg to offer her comfort.

With two sets of big brown eyes staring at him so sadly, Sherlock knew he was in trouble.

Looking between the cat, who twitched its nose and tail as if to say 'you’ll do’ (whether as a begrudging friend or its next meal, Sherlock couldn’t say’ after all, the cat apparently had a taste for human flesh) to his faithful hound who had tilted his head back to gaze adoringly at the woman who was petting him in the perfect spot behind his right ear, he had a feeling things were going to change.

And when he looked back at his neighbor, took in the faint blush on her cheeks, her cherry print cardigan and long brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, with glasses perched on her nose, and combined that with how she had not batted an eye at his experiment or gathering dismembered body parts from the floor of his flat…

Oh yes. He knew was most definitely in trouble.

Out Of Nothing At All - Two

“Y/N?” Hotch stared at you, taking in the words the doctor had just said. “You’re pregnant?”

“No…. ” you laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous. This must be what they mean when they say that hospitals are under staffed and over worked. People make mistakes, it’s fine though.”

Turning to the doctor you explained, “Doc, you’ve got the wrong file. I’m Y/F/N. Date of birth 17 April 1987. Social security number 146295. Definitely NOT pregnant.”

“I’m guessing this is news to you then?” he checked the files again quickly.

“It’s not news, it’s not a fact. I’m not pregnant. How could I be? I’ve not missed a period, I’ve not had any sickness. I feel absolutely fine.” You racked your brains trying to recall the dates of your last cycle.

Okay, so you had missed one period. It was two weeks late, but you figured it was due to the stress of the case or something. And you’d had three days of vomiting around a month ago. But that was down to bad food. Right. RIGHT!?

“Miss Y/L/N, a number of expecting mothers still have periods all the way through their pregnancy, and not all people experience morning sickness. I can run another test quickly if you’re able to provide a urine sample. I can run it here, in front of you.”

You nodded, swinging your legs over the side of the bed and holding your arm out expectantly. “Give me a cup and get the test please. I am NOT fucking pregnant. You’ve got this wrong.”

The doctor sighed and opened one of the storage cupboards that lined the room, handing you a small plastic beaker. Taking it, you hobbled through to the bathroom, returning moments later and handing the tub over. In the meantime he’d collected two plastic boxes, them both your standard run of the mill drugstore testing kits.

“I’ll do two tests as I can see you’re going to take some convincing but I can assure you, the tests are accurate.”

You watched as he unwrapped both boxes and dipped the ends of the two sticks into the fluid, laying them down one by one on a tray.

Hotch moved from his seat by the window so that he was closer to you, and you settled back onto the bed waiting the required thirty seconds. You couldn’t read the expression on your supervisor’s face.

You waited, your breath held until the time was up and the doctor checked the sticks before handing them both to you.

Plus signs. On both.

It took you half a minute to realise that the strangled cat you could hear wailing was you. The doctor began to back away muttering an, “I’ll leave you alone” and you felt Aaron’s cool hand on your arm attempting to soothe you.

“Wait. Don’t leave! Get it out. Get it out of me!” you were suddenly yelling.

“Pardon?” the doctor frowned and you felt Hotch stiffen besides you.

“You heard, I don’t want it. Get it out of me. Now. Today. I have money, I’ll pay whatever. I’m not leaving here until it’s no longer a problem.”

“Y/N….Think about what you’re saying.” Hotch was trying to keep the shock out of his voice.

“I’m being serious. Get it out of me. I do not want a child. I’m not Mommy material.” Swiping away the tears that were streaming down your face, you stared at the medical professional until he agreed to make a call and send someone down from the clinic to speak with you.

They arrived thirty minutes later, Agent Hotchner leaving the room so you could speak in private. You shot down every option the poor women offered you, impatiently telling them that, no adoption wasn’t an option and no you didn’t need time to think about this. You wanted it done now.

Eventually they relented, advising that they could do the procedure tomorrow. As you weren’t far along it would be fairly straight forward although you blocked them out as they explained what it would involve, leaving you with a pile of pamphlets.

Hotch came back into the room after the woman had left.

“I apologise for my outburst Sir. I’m sorry you had to see that.”

“It’s fine. Are you okay?” Concern coated his voice.

“I’m fine. Or at least I will be tomorrow.”

“Are you sure about this Y/N?”

“One hundred percent. I do not want children.”

“But you’re great with Jack and Henry. I don’t understand. You’d make a great mother.”

“Hotch, please don’t.”

He sighed, “What about the father?”

“What about the father exactly?” you asked.

“Well, do you not think he deserves to know?”

“Nope. It’s my body and my choice. I’m not having this THING ruin my life.”

“Okay. If you’re sure this is what you want then as your boss and friend, I’ll help in anyway I can.”

“Thank you Sir.”

The ride home was long and quiet. You kept your gaze averted from your travelling companions, tears silently rolling down your face as you contemplated your predicament.

You’d been checked over an hour ago and been cleared to leave the hospital, Hotch leading you carefully back to the SUV.

He’d stayed with you all day, arriving early at the hospital and waiting outside the clinical white room where they’d taken you to perform the procedure.

When you’d panicked and started yelling and crying, he’d been the one who’d stormed into the room, holding you, rubbing your back and stroking your hair as the nurses looked on sympathetically, used to this sort of reaction. He was going above and beyond the duty of just a boss, and you’d never forget him for being there for you today.

Every fibre of your body wanted the bundle of cells that had taken up residence in your womb expelled from it.

But when you’d been lying there in the hospital bed, legs akimbo in the metal stirrups, something else had taken over. 
Something had made you panic, crying out for your colleague whilst you struggled to breathe.

You couldn’t do it.

You didn’t want to be a mom, you could barely take care of yourself let alone be responsible for another human being.

And you knew adoption wouldn’t be an option. You couldn’t carry something for nine months just to hand it over and forget about it.

But you couldn’t bring yourself to end the pregnancy. Some fighting urge, some deeply hidden maternal instinct had kicked in and you hated what that meant.

You were going to have a baby.

A crying, messy, vomiting baby.


You could sense Hotch watching you as he pulled into your street, parking outside your house. He’d been quiet too on the way home, leaving you to your thoughts.

“Y/N. We’re here.”

You made no move to exit the car.

“Y/N. You’re going to be okay, you’re one of the strongest people I know.”

Nodding you opened the door and picked your bag up, your ankle still sore as you slid out of the seat.

Hotch followed you to your door.

“Are you going to tell the father? He could help.”

“No. I’ll do this alone.”

He looked uncomfortable as he asked th next question. “Do you… Do you know who the father is?”

You didn’t judge him for asking. It was no secret that you’d had a few lovers over the past twelve months, having come out of a five year relationship. It had become kinda a joke across the team in fact.

“Yes I know who the father is Hotch. And….I don’t want to involve him. He’s not a bad person or anything but it was a one night only thing and I have no desire to have any sort of relationship with him.”

He nodded. You could tell he disagreed but he wasn’t going to push the matter.

Up until you’d ended up in this position yourself you’d have agreed too, thinking that every child had the right to know their fathers. And every man had the right to know if they had a child out there.

But you just couldn’t go there right now.

“Okay, get some rest. It’s Wednesday and I don’t want to see you in work until Monday at the earliest. Take some time, maybe talk to your family. I know you’re not close but maybe it will help.”

It wouldn’t. That was a conversation you intended on putting off for as long as you could. Christmas in five years time should do the trick.

“And Y/N. Call if you need anything. Anything at all, and I mean that. I’m here for you as a friend, one that cares about you and not just as your boss.”

You sniffed back fresh tears and gave him the tiniest watery smile you could manage, murmuring a thanks to him before entering the front door to your house.

You’d just about made it to your couch before collapsing into tears again.

What a fucking mess. 

Star Maps and Forests

[[Summary: Sometimes you return the favor. Sometimes you have an existential crisis in the middle of it. Luckily, Jaal is very good at handling them.

Jaal x Ryder


The foreign stars of the Andromeda galaxy shone just outside the Tempest’s windows. It almost seemed like a crime to set her windows to dim, but the outside light was bright and distracting enough to take away from the whole effect Wren Ryder was hoping to achieve. With one last look at planets humans had yet to set foot on, she blacked her own windows off and flicked a switch on her omni-tool, opening the comms channels and quelling her own flare of butterflies. “Jaal, you got a minute?”

His voice rang out in reply after only a few seconds. “For you, dearest, I have years. I’ll be there in a moment.” He was always so damn smooth when he wasn’t even trying, while she was just trying to speak without saying ‘uhm’ too many times, or tripping over her own tongue.

Before Jaal arrived, Ryder ran back and forth, checking a few switches and mysterious lumps of electrical equipment scattered in the corners of her room. It was as ready as it would ever be, but she couldn’t resist pushing projectors back and forth, adjusting them by inches and then pushing them right back to their original position. It was better than trying to fiddle with her own appearance, endlessly brushing her hair or pushing a strand in and out of her ponytail, wondering if it looked better or just looked like she tried too hard.

The sound of the door to her room opening made Ryder jump back from moving one last box, straightening up and trying not to look guilty. “Hey, Jaal. I made a surprise for you.” And now the descent into trying to explain herself without sounding like an idiot. “Well, SAM helped a lot. And Gil. And Liam. I was more sort of the big picture person but they let me hold a screwdriver.” Not anything involving solder though, both Gil and Liam looking at each other and agreeing that the Pathfinder really didn’t need access to anything superheated. You singe your eyebrows off just once, and suddenly people don’t trust you.

“It was my idea, anyway. Come in.” He had already moved inside the room, watching her with arms crossed and a half-smile flickering at the corners of his lips, trying not to grin outright and clearly failing.

“Okay, now lie down on the floor. Sorry, I know it’s not the most comfortable.” She should have put a pillow and some blankets down, or something, but Ryder hadn’t thought in such small details. “I have something to show you.” At least he humored her, lying down on her floor, arms and legs slightly akimbo, still watching every movement she made, still saying nothing.

Finally, Ryder joined him, also lying down on her own floor, within touching distance but not bridging that gap just yet. “Okay, so… Here we go.” Flicking a small switch within her left hand, the room around them sprang into brilliant life, a rainforest arching overhead, shafts of muted light seeming to fall hundreds of feet to caress their prone bodies in a way that should have been warm, but wasn’t quite. The sound of rain, gentle and purifying, filled the small room, broken by bird calls and amphibian croaks, a far off rumble or hoot echoing occasionally. Around them, realistic enough that it looked like it should have been possible to grasp between two fingers, a proliferation of leaves and other undergrowth showed, thick vines and fern-like plants, bromeliads that crawled up the trunks of the trees and held little jewels of frogs within. A scarlet bird flew overhead, a pinprick of light some impossible distance away, vanishing into the deep greenery improbably well.

Ryder heard Jaal take a deep breath from behind her, his hand reaching out to grasp her own tightly, one finger circling her palm again and again, tracing larger and larger and then spiraling back inward. “Ryder, what is it?” She risked looking over, watching as Jaal’s eyes tracked another bird, his free hand reaching up as if he could pluck a flower from its stalk, passing through the hologram and making it vibrate into a mass of blue pixels before reforming.

Her fingers traced the shape of a broad leaf, stopping to rest near an ant that industriously carried bits and pieces of plant matter towards some unseen nest. “This is the Amazon, from back on Earth. When we visited Havarl for the first time, it reminded me of these old nature vids I used to watch as a kid. I’ve never been, but they say it used to look like this.” All it needed was a smooth-voiced British narrator to bring her all the way back to her childhood, long hours spent on a couch with a juice box in hand, Scott watching with her, their eyes comically round.

“It’s like my star map. It’s wonderful, Ryder.” She could feel him turn to look at her finally, gripping her hand tightly, and she shook her head emphatically.

“Except you built yours all by yourself. I had a lot of help. Like, a lot. I’m not like you, Jaal. I don’t build things. Seems like most of what I do now is destroy them.” A flash of sadness threatened to overwhelm her; it was easier to watch imaginary motes of light than it was to think about all the people she’d killed and all the Remnant ruins she had managed to pepper with bullets long before anyone ever had the opportunity to study them. Every surface she landed on, she left an ugly scar on, even as she fixed things or made them better. Every habitable planet screamed ‘Ryder was here,’ but not always to her benefit.

Jaal sat up and gently turned her head to face him, offering a hand so she could pull herself upright. “Darling one, you built this crew. You’ve built this galaxy, the connection between our people. You built this from your own mind.” With help, she wanted to say, but instead Ryder allowed Jaal to pull her into his chest, held there for a long moment, only the sound of gentle, imaginary rainfall disturbing this fragile peace. It was difficult to believe him, so difficult, and doubts seemed to assail every step. So much of the journey had been enjoyable, in a perverse kind of way, but everything was catching up with her now.

Even the light in the hologram moved, and a pure ray, unbroken even from the stories-high trees, fell down on both of them like a spotlight. Life, even illusory, continued to scuttle around them, not worried about the two seated figures, not at all concerned about the future of the Andromeda galaxy, or what could happen from the pairing of human and angara. Everything had come directly from Ryder’s memories, thanks to SAM’s careful prodding. In a way, maybe, Jaal was right.

“Hey, Jaal, let’s lie back down.” To his credit, he listened to her, and this time Ryder snuggled into the crook of his arm, one leg sprawled over one of his thighs, an act of affection and perhaps, also (if she was honest with herself) one of possession. “I’ve got so much more to show you.”

And the holograms continued on, images of Earth just for the two to see.

Things that happen when you fall down the Foo Fighters rabbit hole

  • You always look at the clock at 6:06
  • You start using words like “analog”, “gooch”, “VIP” and “reawry?”
  • You begin a sentence with, “When I was a kid in [hometown], whether it’s relevant or not
  • Your opinion on cowboy hats begins to swing
  • You’ve ever approached your closet in the morning with the thought, “What would Pat Smear do?”
  • You’ve experimented with peroxide and results have varied
  • You start sitting on the couch a new way, ie. Legs akimbo, wearing a cap, casually mentioning you could really go for some KFC
Meet The Transgender "Sistergirls" Of The Tiwi Islands
A small remote community in northern Australia has one of the highest concentrations of transgender people in the country and they have fought hard to be accepted.
By Allan Clarke

It’s approaching midday and we’re trundling along a bumpy, unsealed red dirt track on Bathurst Island, 100 kilometres north of Darwin, with the temperature quickly soaring into the mid-30s.

Inside a twin cab that’s seen better days, with air-conditioning ducts that pump more fine red dust into the car than cold air, there is a cacophony of laughing, teasing, and trading of community gossip. Five sistergirls, transgender Aboriginal people traditionally known in the Tiwi Islands as yimpininni, are giving BuzzFeed News a tour of their island home.

While transgender people are found across many of Australia’s Indigenous communities, the Tiwi Islands has probably the largest sistergirl population in the country – and certainly the most famous one.

There are roughly 2,500 people living in the Tiwi Islands, comprised of Bathurst Island and Melville Island, and the sistergirls say there are currently around 80 yimpininni.

Pandanus trees whisk by with their long, crooked leaves reaching toward earth at sharp right angles. The red earth gives way to soft powdery sand, and the smell of the ocean engulfs the car followed shortly by the stickiness of salt water blowing in from the Arafura Sea. Sweet relief from the staggering heat.

We stop at the foot of a dune and suddenly the frenzied laughter comes to an abrupt end as all the sistergirls begin loudly yelling out in the Tiwi language. They say they’re letting the spirits of their ancestors know that we are coming on to country to ensure that no harm comes to the group or to me, a stranger. It’s a moment that perfectly highlights the profound connection to country and culture that the people of Tiwi have.

After the whooping, we walk onwards and are confronted with a stunning, vast swath of empty beach with shimmering turquoise water lapping at our feet. The sistergirls agree it’s the perfect backdrop for a photo shoot and happily strut their stuff for the camera, posing and pouting, legs akimbo, fierce face on. Their only concern is the saltwater crocodiles that lurk in the waters around the island.

Between poses Laura Orsto, 31, says she told her parents that she was a sistergirl in primary school. “Age 10 I knew I was a sistergirl. It was really, really, very hard for me to come out because my parents are really strict and didn’t want me to be out there as a sistergirl. They wanted me to be saved,” she says.

As a 16-year-old, Orsto began living her life as a female and had to “fight and fight and battle hard to be accepted”. In remote Indigenous communities being transgender often means defying rigidly observed cultural practices defined by male and female gender roles. In many cases it also means having to defy strictly held religious beliefs common in many Indigenous communities.

It was an older yimpininni who gave Orsto courage and strength as she came to terms with living life as a woman. “There were plenty of sistergirls back then; I used to go out with them and talk about things, like how to act like girls you know and be ladylike. One lady, I use to call her Mum, she was like a mother to me, and she told me, ‘You just have to be who you want to be, baby, just like me. I’m always here for you, you got me here.’”

This woman, who gave so much strength to the sistergirl community, would tragically go on to kill herself.

Orsto says the death took a deep emotional toll and she contemplated suicide herself, but ultimately triumphed over her personal demons. Today Orsto is a much-loved and respected member of the community. “I love to talk to everyone, and everyone has been nice to me and they don’t put me down, they put me up the top. Everyone says, ‘Wow, you have a nice personality, Miss Laura,’” Orsto said.

We make our way back to the car and head into town. As we travel the small roads that snake through the dense scrub that blankets the island, the sistergirls occasionally point out various ceremonial sites and traditional campgrounds.

Suddenly we’re out of the bush and on to the bitumen as we enter Wurrumiyanga, the main township on Bathurst Island. The wide streets intersect large blocks full of colourfully painted brick homes. Windows rolled down, the sistergirls intermittently yell out at people walking alongside the roads, making plans for later and asking where people are. The twin cab then swings into the local cemetery, an arid, dusty graveyard dotted with sparse trees. Rising from the mounds of earth are decorative Pukumani poles, traditional funerary poles that are sculpted and painted to honour the dead. Also known as tutini, the poles form part of an ancient Tiwi ceremony to ensure the spirit leaves the body.

Nyarli Kerinaiua, 34, points out two graves adorned with beautiful tutinis reaching for the sky, covered in intricate ornate Tiwi design. After a heavy silence there’s a slow stream of softly spoken Tiwi from each sistergirl, their sentences flowing into each other as they pay respects to the dead and tell the sistergirls who are buried here that they are not forgotten.

Both had killed themselves 15 years ago. “It was really sad because we didn’t have any support back then. It was a bit of an aggressive ride,” says Kerinaiua as she straightens a bunch of plastic flowers on one of the graves.

After the suicides, Kerinaiua and around 30 sistergirls attended a community meeting and demanded acceptance for transgender people.

Sistergirl Vivian Warlapinni, 31, remembers the meeting as a pivotal turning point for equality within the community.

Kerinaiua says that the fight for acceptance has largely been won and the biggest issue now is ensuring future generations of sistergirls are able to easily access resources.

The sistergirls pile back into the twin cab and soon we’re at a local water hole. The day is coming to an end and a water monitor swims across the crystal-clear water triumphantly holding a fat prawn in its mouth. One of the sistergirls takes out a chunk of ochre collected near the beach and begins to carefully break it, pounding it into fine powder on a piece of cardboard on a picnic bench. Carefully she adds water and the dusty powder becomes a rich, thick paste. A small twig is broken off a nearby tree and dipped into the paste, and Orsto begins to use it as eyeliner, methodically working the twig across her eyelids, carefully revealing a bright orange tint.

Fluttering her eyes she says, “I want to start hormone therapy. I really want to have this transition. I just hate that I am this girl trapped in a boy’s body. She’s been trapped in there for a long long time and she really wants to come out and be a real lady.”

However, the choice to leave her community, after fighting for and winning acceptance, is a difficult decision to make. Faced with the prospect of traveling thousands of kilometres for treatment in the city, where Orsto feels discrimination is a very real reality, she says she’ll remain in her Tiwi home for the moment, surrounded by family and friends: “I am a lady of the community and I am accepted as that. This is my home and I love it.”


Reveals her nickname for him is “Ginger Nuts”

By Flora Pilo

Meghan Markle has spoken for the first time about her romance with Prince Harry. The Suits actress revealed that she affectionately calls him “Ginger nuts” while he teases her with the name “Legs Akimbo”.

“It was love at first sight when we first met, “the 35 year old stunner gushes. "I have often found that men do fall for me quickly when they first see me, and Ginger Nuts was no exception. He texted me like mad and, even though I had a boyfriend that I was living with, I couldn’t help but respond. I played it cool though…just a few tittie shots at first. He wanted more but I am a lady. Oh, and can you put that I’m a humanitarian and activist too?”

Markle is renowned for her selfless public service and activism on behalf of those less fortunate than herself. “It’s one of the things Ginge loves most about me,” she says. “I told him all about my visit to Russia. Sorry, I mean…Romania? No, er….begins with R anyway. The kids adored me. I think they were incredibly impressed that I could remain so beautiful in the face of their grinding poverty. OK Magazine were too and wrote a darling article about "humanitarian fashion”“.

Asked about her relationship with the rest of Harry’s famous family, Markle revealed: "Oh, they all just adore me. George and Charlotte asked if I could be their new mommy…bless!….and Charles said he thinks I’m the best thing that has ever happened to his family. Actually, he laughingly said that when "horse face” kicks the bucket he’ll consider making me his Queen! He said it like he was joking, but I don’t think he was. This is just the effect I have on men. It’s embarrassing really!“

Referencing the notorious "love shield statement”, Markle dabs her eyes delicately, takes a deep breath and says, “That was all Harry. He loves me so much, you see. He just couldn’t bear for anyone to be unkind to his little boo boo. Yes, I did involve my lawyers but that was only to help with the spelling. Brits can’t spell….have you noticed? They put "u”’s in the oddest places - coloUrful and favoUrite. That’s something I can help them with when I’m not breast-feeding orphan babies and making cucumber sandwiches for starving tramps”.

Recent photographs taken of the couple at the Jamaican wedding of Tom Inskip suggest that things might not be quite as wonderful as supposed. “Nonsense,” responds Markle. “Look, Harry was in a snit because all of his men friends…even the gay and married ones…were slipping me their numbers. I told him, “Look, Ginger Nuts, this beauty of mine was not a gift from God solely for your pleasure. Let others share, OK. It’s not like I’m going to screw most of them. Chillax, baby”.

And what of her future plans with her besotted, smitten and adoring lover? “Harry is desperate to marry me. I am reviewing my options…I get dozens of proposals a day and some of the guys are even richer than Harry! So, we’ll see. But if it doesn’t happen, it will be because I dumped him. Not the other way round. Got that! Meghan Markle is NEVER dumped. Make sure you put that”.



Originally posted by rainhagretchen

Unnatural Habits - Torn!

This is a season-ender so there’s lots to tie up but also to tantalise and to tempt for the next series. (Well until they decided to have the Christmas Ep).

Key players find themselves torn - between duty and allegiances, between family and friends, between love and loyalty. 

And the viewer?  The viewer is left shattered, simmering, screaming at the screen!

The opening scene is an idyll  - a picturesque setting with Hugh and Dot talking about their honeymoon. Until they fish something nasty out of the river.

And in a rather unpleasant reminder of contemporary Royal Commissions and investigations, the relationship is established between protected, institutionalised exploitation and the weak and vulnerable these places purport to shelter.

Phryne’s social conscious is ignited at the laundry, which sparks the indignation of those who see her views as radical.  Jack, in the first of a series of cameos, defends and supports her.

Perpetua (to Jack): … We’d prefer your police woman wait outside.

Jack: I would prefer her presence.

Jack doesn’t deny that she is “his police woman” and in defending her presence, the exchange foreshadows a later one where Phryne is clear that Jack as a policeman is useful to her.

That Scene no. 1 - all tied up

Now if you read in the TV programme guide of this Ep, that, within the first 8 minutes there would be a scene of Jack, looking relaxed, legs akimbo, surrounded by sheets, with Phryne close by; then they get up close and personal, what would you think?  You’d think, AT LAST!  But, you’d be wrong.

Now what’s going on here?  It is really odd  - absolutely gorgeous - but odd. 

Jack, with tie off, sitting on his desk, very relaxed - that must be a first! There’s some nice banter:

Jack: Hmm, I do know my knots, Miss Fisher.  I’d be curious as to how you do.

(Naive Jack, why ask?…This is Phryne Fisher!)

Phryne: There was this Portuguese sailor I once knew…

Jack: Don’t… Enough.

(You did ask for it!)

Phryne needs to demonstrate the inefficacy of the thief knot in joining sheets together to hold a person’s weight.  So what can she use to demonstrate this? Not the very sheets themselves that happen to be sitting on the desk! They could just have had a bit of a tug of war with the sheets to demonstrate that the knots wouldn’t have held.  But no that would be far too easy, the only thing she can THINK of using is one end of her scarf and Jack’s tie!  She knots these two items of clothing together with a “Voila” then, immediately pulls them apart.

So, to do this, Jack must have taken his tie off - or did she take it off?

After some more banter, where Phryne’s upbringing has shades of the mistreatment of the girls in the laundry, we have THAT scene:

Phryne: My father used to lock me in a cupboard to try and break my spirit.

Jack: Clearly didn’t leave you there long enough (…).  Oh, you’ve creased it…

Phryne: Oh, come here. (but she moves to him..)

As soupsouffle so perceptively pointed out, the tie scene parallels and complements the scarf scene in Marked for Murder. It is a beautiful sequence of his submitting to her gentle act.  (I’ve taken so many shots and so many have been posted, but what the heck, I’ll add a few anyway…)

Intimus Interruptus no 1

Don’t any of these senior citizens know that it’s polite to knock? In comes The Godfather to spoil everything:

Sanderson:  Jack, Miss Fisher.  You do indeed keep close company these days.

Moment over, intimacy lost.  Like a pair of guilty teenagers, they straighten themselves up.

So much so that even though Jack criticises the laundry’s Dickensian conditions and its protection to Sanderson face to face in his office, he won’t engage with Phryne in this.  He rebukes her quite angrily:

Jack:  Leave it alone Miss Fisher.

Presumably his anger is multi-faceted:  he is angry and embarrassed by Sanderson’s intrusion, he is angry and surprised with Sanderson’s sudden and unforeseen promotion, he is angry and humiliated with the transfer of the case to another officer who is incompetent.  Phryne bears the brunt of this.

Aunt P enters

Back at St Kilda, Aunt P provides some clues and makes some perceptive comment.  She links the Fletchers to one of her charitable societies, ironically called the Gratitude Committee!

Phryne: Fletcher, as in Sidney Fletcher?

Aunt P: Yes their eldest.  He’s godson of George Sanderson, Deputy Police Commissioner.

Phryne: And fiancé to Jack’s ex-wife, Rosie.

Aunt P: You have a very roundabout way of looking at things, dear.

Not really Aunt P, not if you are Phryne and Jack.  These are strong connections that weigh heavily upon both of them!

Roses are red

There is a very cute scene where Hugh puts his foot in it again when Jack arrives to find Rosie and the spiv in his office.  Hugh finds referring to Rosie as Jack’s ex difficult.

Hugh: Shall I send Mr Fletcher to O'Shaughnessy too sir? (…) He and your wif… your ex-wife.  Ex-wife.

Jack: Yes, yes Collins.

Hugh (very softly to himself): How many times do I have to say that?

So begin the Jack/Rosie/Phryne/Fletcher interactions and distractions. At a meeting at the station  and in Rosie and the ghastly Sidney (the spiv) Fletcher’s presence, Sanderson rebukes Jack for his relationship with Phryne, Jack’s removal from the case is made apparent and he insults Phryne following her return to the laundry. 

Sanderson (referring to Phryne not speaking to her): I thought these dilettante types slept ‘til noon (…). I want this woman brought to heel (…).  You seem to have some sway over her.

Rosie: Father I believe you’ve taken Jack off the case, why?

Sanderson: It’s a diplomacy issue my dear. Jack understands. It’s nothing for you to worry about.

Jack: No, no, no.

Sanderson: But if you don’t keep Miss Fisher under a tighter rein, you may find yourself suspended from all duties.

Jack does the “right thing” by not rocking the boat.  He won’t argue or speak contrarily in front of the group despite Sanderson’s offensive manner and remarks. Clearly Rosie feels Jack would be of benefit to the case, and this would suggest her naivety of both her father’s and the spiv’s involvement in the people smuggling. The fact that Sanderson tells her not to worry about his recent decision would support her being kept at arm’s length from his business.  (I think I may be changing my tune a bit here about Rosie.  Oh dear, must be something in all that ice cream making me soft.  Could it be that she’s not the wicked witch of the west I thought her to be?  Egads!)

But Rosie’s support for Jack contrasts her obvious disdain for Phryne.  Her “Goodbye, Miss Fisher”  and the look she shoots her, are contemptuous. (So it’s not all is forgiven yet...)

Phryne too feels the need to support Jack and unusually for her apologies to him when they are alone in his office. It is her turn to be relaxed at his desk. 

Phryne: Jack, I’m sorry.

Jack: Please tell me your break-in was worth all this… fuss.

Jack is bearing the burden of being chastised, removed from his area of expertise and further threatened with sanctions for Phryne’s actions.But “noble Jack” downplays the impact it has had on him.

(…)  Then one of those favourite lines coming up….

Phryne: I really am very sorry Jack that you’re in so much hot water because of me.

Jack: Don’t be remorseful. It only confuses.

(Phryne’s foot fashion - impressive!)

Phryne’s investigation of the ship produces evidence of the link among Bernadette’s disappearance and the De Vere notation, the cadillac and the ship’s captain (un Belge!).   This ensures some nice images of hands… (any excuse).

(and a rather nice lean)

His inability to take this evidence to Sanderson, given his removal from the case, leads Jack and Phryne to consider the implications of Jack continuing against orders.  Phryne’s comment, “You’re much more use to me if you remain a policeman, Jack” has some impact.  Firstly it parallels one of the earlier scenes where Phryne is referred to as “his police woman” but it also reminds us of Phryne’s consideration of their relationship - more useful as a policeman than what? A man, a lover? 

Phryne then suggests that as they can’t take the investigation further officially, that her parlour can function as a pseudo interview room.  It is interesting that they don’t consider meeting with Rosie and the spiv in Phryne’s parlour as a risk at all. Rosie and Sidney would pass this meeting on to Sanderson, surely! Given his accusations and his explicit orders to Jack, it seems to function more as a plot device than a rational decision.  It is a clever device though, as the spiv gets to find out how much they know, we see further interaction between Rosie and Jack, and Rosie and Phryne and we have Aunt P’s wonderful observation on Rosie.  Albeit illogical and dangerous for Jack’s position as a policeman.

Phryne, like in Marked for Murder, wears a coat heavily embroidered with roses for the encounter with Rosie - not the same coat as for their meeting at Fletcher’s house, but a more fitted, shortened version.  Worth a comparison I think!

Rosie: Jack, don’t you think you should pass all this information on to Father?

Phryne: Do you think that’s wise? Considering he took Jack off the case?

(They are setting themselves up at odds, with Jack caught in the middle.  Rosie is torn between defending her father and defending Jack.)

Rosie: He didn’t have a choice.  The Bishop was breathing down his neck.  (…) And your constant meddling hasn’t helped. (…) 

(as she leaves the room, she turns and says) You’ve really made things worse for Jack, you know.

And after Rosie has left the room:

Aunt P: Unusually devoted isn’t she?  For an ex-wife.

The shot composition balances the couples - Jack and Phryne, Rosie and Fletcher; then Phryne and Jack and Rosie and Jack.  Aunt P positioned to the edge of the first shot, silently observes until her final comment (6th image).

The A Team

Having being told to keep away from the ship, 

Jack: Please Miss Fisher.  Do what you’re told just this once.

Phryne assembles a crack team.  Mr Butler has a collection of serious kit.

Both Jack and Hugh defy Sanderson to board the ship. It is on the Pandarus that the Fletcher/Godfather alliance is revealed as is Sanderson’s deception. His treatment of Jack, his threats and intimidation now make sense in protecting himself from discovery. Phryne (Jack uses her first name in calling out to her) has discovered the hoard of human cargo and ultimately confronts Fletcher as Jack confronts Sanderson. The Fletcher/Phryne/Jack showdown makes excellent viewing in semi-darkness, with eerie lighting and flashes of torches and gunfire, among tackle and ropes.  Naturally Jack saves the day!

Violets are blue

It is the station that sees Jack confront Sanderson, Rosie confront her father and Jack comfort his ex-wife.  Phryne, at the end of the scene is the observer of all this confrontation and emotion  -  sidelined by the main event. 

 The revelations of the spiv’s illegal business dealings and his godfather’s complicity impact upon both Rosie and Jack.  Jack resents and regrets his former respect for the man who was both his boss and his father-in-law.

Rosie is left bereft and turns to Jack.  (I had, on previous views of this Ep, found her behaviour ambiguous in this scene.  I couldn’t work out whether she was angry at her whole world being torn apart  - therefore her tears were for reasons of selfish indignity, or whether she was genuinely distraught from the discovery of her fiancé’s criminal dealings and her father’s betrayal of trust.  I had always found something false in her comment of “Those poor girls”.  Still not quite sure….)  

Whereas Jack bore with dignity the ignominy of being chided and berated in front of Rosie in previous scenes and Rosie had no qualms about reproaching Phryne, she finds Jack and Phryne’s presence in the office a humiliation and, initially at least, wishes them away.

Rosie’s words to her father, echo Jack’s.

Jack: (to Sanderson) I looked up to you George. I respected you. (…)

Rosie: How could you? I can’t look at you.

Jack (goes over to her):  I’m sorry.

Rosie (crying): Oh, don’t… Oh Jack. On no, oh God…

Rosie rejects, then accepts, then needs his comfort. We see Jack in a more intimate embrace than we have seen him before, echoes of a past we haven’t inhabited and a couple we don’t know.  What we, as viewers observe for the first time, is what Phryne too sees for the first time, as an observer, removed from the scene.

Once again it is clever in terms of plot development and end of season ep.  It leaves so much open.  Rosie is no longer engaged and she turns to Jack for comfort.  We must squirm at the thought of a reconciliation.

That scene no. 2 meets Intimus Interruptus no. 2

And just when we thought all was lost… a spark of hope.  Jack goes round to Phryne’s house.  It takes him a while to tap, ever so gently at the door pane.

Phryne:  I thought you were with Rosie.

Jack:  I was… is it too late?

Phryne:  Never.

Jack:  I’ve never seen her like that before. She was in shock.  She… just needed some company.

Phryne;  She needed you Jack Robinson… The man who always does the right thing… The noble thing.

Jack: Not always Miss Fisher.

Aunt P: It’s very late Inspector.

Another senior citizen who has never hear of knocking!  The parallel with the tie and the Godfather’s entry on the scene gives me shivers.

Now can someone please answer me: WHAT IS AUNT P DOING THERE? Yes, she comes over for afternoon tea (and the occasional helping of humble pie) but why is she staying over?  Why can’t she take the baby and Mary back to Rippon Lea? She has an entire household of help and it’s not that far!  Has she ever stayed over before?  And surely she should be presiding over the house as it’s being set up for the MFMM costume exhibition anyway!

And where was she when the Nubian slave arrived bearing his manacles and chains, or the Greek muscle man, or the Latvian dissident or the Spanish dance teacher or when P was cosying up by the fire with what’s his name in Raisins and Almonds?  Let alone Lin. Where was she then may I ask?  MIA that’s what.  Nowhere to be seen. 

But she has to turn up just when J is about to pash P!  After all this time, after all this waiting, after all the promises, the suggestions, the innuendos, the lead-ups (or is it the leads-up?).The very instant! Split second timing!  A whole host of Phrack aficionados were hurling pieces of furniture at their TV screens, were cursing, and howling at the moon, and rewinding just to make sure it wasn’t some obscene joke from their husbands who thought it would be a hoot to clip a bit of film but NO, it really did happen… she appeared.

 I wish she had taken Mary and the baby and flummeried off! *harrumphs*

Jack: Yes, yes it is.  … (to Phryne) But I’m glad we cleared up that detail.

Phryne: So am I Jack, so am I…

The moment lost.  And no matter how many times I watch it, it always ends up the same *sobs*.

Trans!Danny. [Body dysphoria warning]

It had started small, a wistful sort of feeling as he was browsing through a clothes website. A certain style of pants he knew he’d never be able to pull off, an update from one of his friends about how their transition was going. 
He had been fine, just chilling in his bed, mostly naked but for boxers and a sheet thrown over his lap. Sue him, it was hot out. 

Keep reading

I think the problem is the ladies of the left, the arbiters of all reasonable human behavior, have become aware that there are still men fouling the public arena. And even worse,these men seem to have some sort of apparatus attached to their buttocks or somewhere down there that requires these socially unacceptable air thieves to sit with legs unacceptably akimbo while riding public conveyances.

Manslation: Somebody sat next to me on the bus and made me shift my legs closer together and you just can’t understand the TORTURE this inflicts on my TENDER PARTS. If my legs aren’t splayed wider than the English Channel my grapes will die and shrivel up into lil’ raisins. Also if I pepper this statement with enough big words, it might hide my misogyny.

  • blargensnorf: Cause you can tell i'm not a staticician, i've never even repaired them
  • fruitsoftheape100: Death! got a lust, got a lust for death! got a lust, got a lust for death! libido in limbo - legs akimbo! never even ever read a word of the year in the netherlands and belgium in 2008
  • blargensnorf: Korn's "Got the life" Was the best song released in the 90s, so stick that bit of the time of the hour when the back of the mind goes sour and Every choice leads the same old way round and round i got a lust for death! libido in limbo - legs akimbo! never even ever read a word of rimbaud! the walls of my stomach think they're jericho! i'm about to enjoy!!! i just about can 🎉🎉🎉taste it myself!!!!!🎉🎉🎉🎉! o🎉h my🎉 good🎉🎉ness!😩😩😩!! so so so happy to see my tweets and i'm still waiting to get to hug the seal and/or sea lion if they beat me in ddr
  • seymour: As the word of rimbaud! the walls of my stomach think they're jericho! i'm about to fall asleep in a washed up haze round and round, let the city turn, party in the hills, we can party in the hills, we can party in the BURBS! roof on fire, let it burn! champagne in my hand, i'm not CONCERNED! round and round i got a spot on the hit parade had a doubt again, but it exists), so i guess i do tonight and i just feel like you to run my marketing campaign,
  • blargensnorf: Is anything so versatile as the word of rimbaud! the walls of my stomach think they're jericho! i'm about to meet you! :d and i'm still waiting to get to hug the seal and/or sea lion if they guess wrong they can still hug the seal and/or sea lion if you watch firefly i'm not CONCERNED! round and round i got as a unit-pulsation of emotional intensity by way of its lists by (basically being voted on) with a star ra
  • blargensnorf: As the world's and everyone's problems, that get prioritized to the top of my stomach think they're jericho! i'm about to meet my MEXICO! make mine a double texaco! i'm the thing that's like, kinda sorta late night worried about shit gay sHit👭 thats 👬 some gay👭👭shit right👭👭th 👭 ere👭👭👭 right👬there 👬👬if i do ƽaү so my self 💯 i say so 💯 thats what im talking about right there right there (chorus: ʳᶦᵍʰᵗ ᵗʰᵉʳᵉ) mMMMMᎷМ 🆗 👋 👋👋НO0ОଠOOOOOОଠଠOoooᵒᵒᵒᵒᵒᵒᵒᵒᵒ 👋 👋👋 👋 🆗 👋 👀 👀 👀 👌👌 gute scheisse 👌 es ist ✔ einige gute 👌👌scheisse alldort 👌👌👌 alldort ✔✔ wenn ich so sagen darf 💯 so ist es💯 das ist, Was im reden alldort alldort (chor: alldort) mMMMMᎷM💯 👌👌 👌НO0ОଠOOOOOОଠଠOoooᵒᵒᵒᵒᵒᵒᵒᵒᵒ👌 👌👌 👌 💯 👌 👀 👀 👀 👋👋Not outstanding shit life.
  • fruitsoftheape100: Roll that ice cream up! yip! yip! YIPYIPYIP! damn, pen! keep writing! i’ve never felt the same about it until it Was true you couldn't get your arms around it so hard 🥐just thinking about what you are about to meet my MEXICO! make mine a double texaco! i'm the illegitimate son of a collection of swords and knives will fall out, and then he’ll DIE, because he’s a glittered messiah, reaching out to touch me with his bony fingers!
The Story of Thumbel-willa Pt. 2

Once upon a time, there was a tiny, exquisite being named Thumbel-willa Graham, or Will, as he came to be known. He had awoken into the world one day from a large flower, and lived a happy, if lonely existence. How he wished to discover another just like him! Instead, he made do with the friendship of the animals in the forest, and could often be found at the tiny driftwood docks on the far side of a remote pond deep in the valley, where he worked day in and day out building boats to ferry four-legged clients across still waters. 

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