“More than 100 gay men have been detained in concentration camp-style
prisons in the Russian region of Chechnya, according to reports by local
newspapers and human rights organisations.
The arrests are being
made as part of a widespread anti-LGBT purge in the area. The prison
camps are the first to be established for LGBT people since the Second
The information was first published by the Novaya Gazeta, an
independent Russian newspaper, which reported that men were being
arrested and kept in concentration camp prisons where violence and abuse is commonplace.
A prison camp has reportedly been established in the town of Argun, according to eyewitness testimonies.
report was published on the 1 April, prompting the spokesperson for
Chechnya’s Interior Ministry to dismiss the claims as an “April Fools’
The press secretary for Ramzan Kadyrov,
the head of the Chechen Republic, described the report as “lies” and
stated there were no gay people in Chechnya.
there were such people in Chechnya, law-enforcement agencies wouldn’t
need to have anything to do with them because their relatives would send
them somewhere from which there is no returning,” he said.
Human rights organisations have corroborated the information published by Novaya Gazeta.
several weeks now, a brutal campaign against LGBT people has been
sweeping through Chechnya. Law enforcement and security agency officials
under control of the ruthless head of the Chechen Republic, Ramzan
Kadyrov, have rounded up dozens of men on suspicion of being gay,
torturing and humiliating the victims,” a report by Human Rights Watch
“Some of the men have forcibly disappeared. Others were
returned to their families barely alive from beatings. At least three
men apparently have died since this brutal campaign began."”
OK I spent 20 + min crosschecking this and it all seems like it is real from every source I can find. This is disgusting and something needs to be done about it.
arright guys, like i posted last night, my apartment was broken into and quite a few of my electronics were stolen - the most important of which being my computer and my tablet. im a freelance artist and my computer is my only real source of income, so while i do have renters insurance and hopefully will receive some reimbursement from that, my bills wont wait for that and i need to make the funds to buy a new laptop and tablet ASAP
so im going to be offering unlimited slots on traditional commissions until i have a laptop again, so if you’re interested please email me at email@example.com !!
in addition to sketches and badges im also going to be offering single character simple watercolour paintings as well for $80 (overly complicated characters may be more, x2 for an additional character - i dont have an example of these yet but they’ll just be a single, fullbody character on a single colour backgrounds, with detail comparable to the badges)
if anyone isnt interested in commissioning me and would still like to help, my paypal is the same as my email address! firstname.lastname@example.org
I wanted to add to the growing list of posts that tell you that your craft is your own. You can do whatever you’d like, however you’d like, as much or as little as you’d like, just as long as you’re not taking from closed cultures.
But I see a lot of posts that say “13 things every young witch needs,” as if it’s a requirement to have crystals and herbs and jars. So I’m making it a point to say that whether you have rare herbs straight from the source of whatever country they grow in, or if you have only one tumbled rose quartz in your crystal arsenal, or maybe if you only have intent…
You. Are. A. Real. Witch.
You don’t need anything to be confident in your beliefs. Don’t let someone tell you that you need certain stuffs to validate your practice. Tools come with time, magic comes from within.
puttin together a little rule of thumb for cis people who may be worried about coming across as transphobic when writing trans fic
#1 - don’t write porn. if you’re cisgender, then don’t make trans porn. transgender people, especially women, are highly fetishized in pornography. so, try to keep porn to a minimum if you can
#2 - dont use “he’s female” or “she’s male” etc. some trans people are comfortable with that terminology, but thats up to THEM to use, not you. if you want to say “man with a vagina” dont say “a man who was female” or “a man who is female”. say “a transgender man”. trans is a beautiful word to use.
#3 - talk to actual trans people! if you need advice, don’t go to weird medical articles or the like - talk to a person!! why read creepily cold accounts from another cis person when you can get the information from the most accurate source - a real actual trans person!! all trans people are different and have different things and terms they dont like, so try and discover what the character your writing for would enjoy.
#4 - keep “i hate being trans!!!” things out of it….. youve never experienced transphobia or self-hatred for being trans because you are not trans. if you cannot write this sort of story from your own personal experience, please do not do it at all. write something happier, or write something less anti-trans. trans self-love is important and the more we write of it, the more we encourage it, the more of it there will be. support your trans siblings and neighbors by showing people who, yknow. dont hate trans people (especially if that person is themself)
#5 - show me the fic. send me links. im trans and im so thirsty for fic oh my gods please yes absolutely
You stood with your arms crossed, watching the monitor. The tag match was next. You wore a sweatshirt and your ring bottoms and boots. You just won the Raw’s women title.
An arm wrapped around you, looking up you see Shane. “Hey! You were great out there tonight! I was looking everywhere to congregate you!” You smiled at him and hugged him. “Thank you, Shane. You were amazing! The Coast to Coast was unbelievable!”
“Thank you.” Shane patted your back as you both pulled away. You watched the monitor as Karl and Luke finally made it down the long ramp.
Just as the bell was going to ring, the new day’s music hit. Shane’s arm tightened around you.
“I wonder who it’s going to be!” You laughed. “Jesus! Must they always do something like that?” You said, shaking your head with a smile.
Then their music hit and your body froze. The crowd went wild as the Hardy Boyz made their return. Matt and Jeff were walking down the ramp, while the crowd chanted “Delete! Delete! Delete!”
Shane kept you close as you tried to move away from him. “Let go of me, Shane.” You spoke through your teeth. “Listen…You have to understand I couldn’t-”
You cut him off. “You couldn’t tell me that my ex was coming back here! The same ex that broke my heart!” You hissed, ripping yourself away from him.
You met Jeff in TNA and dated him for almost three years. But the relationship came to a grinding halt when you were offered a spot in NXT. Jeff didn’t want you to go. He didn’t want you to leave and travel away from him.
You tried to reason with him. That this was something you wanted since you started. This was something you dreamt of.
He told you that if you sign you wouldn’t be together for very long. Relationships like that never lasted long.
So you told me you weren’t going to sign if it meant losing him.
You were on your way home when Matt had called you. “Hey what’s up, Matt?” You held the phone between your ear and shoulder as you turned your car down the road.
“Listen…Jeff…He…He’s in bed with another woman right now…I came over to pick up my ring gear that I left and I found them…I’m sorry, Y/N.”
You were shoving your ring gear into your bag quickly. You needed to get the hell out of here! Now! You couldn’t let him see you. You wiped away a tear that managed to escape. Your hands gripped the title belt, your jaw clenched. “Goddamnit!”
You pulled your hood up as you slipped through fellow wrestlers and crew members. You wanted to get out of here as soon as you could. Unnoticed by your ex.
Just as you were about to push the exit door, you were stopped by a strong hand. You glanced over your shoulder and see him. Jeff mother fucking Hardy stood there with a confused look on his face.
“Where…Where are you going? Aren’t you going to stay for the whole show?” You look away from his face, you try to pull yourself away from him, one arm still extended to the exit door, but he holds you.
“No…I have to go.” Jeff tugs on you, trying to pull you away from the door. “Where!? Come on, stay for the show! No one leaves WrestleMania! You were amazing out there! I couldn’t-”
“I don’t care, Jeff. I’m leaving! Let me go!” You said, trying to pull away. “This isn’t because of me…Right?”
You wouldn’t look at him as you tried pulling on your arm. “Let me go..Just please let me go. Please..” Jeff stared at you, keeping his hold strong.
“No. Stay. You need to stay for the rest of the show.”
“Let me go and I’ll stay.” Jeff slowly let his grip go on you.
A week Later…
You were trying to put your sweatshirt on, but it got caught in your hair. You tried to free it from the sweatshirt, but the more tugging you did, the worse it got.
“Hold still.” His voice rung in your ear, making you freeze. Jeff’s hands began gently pulling your hair free from the fabric. His hands grabbed the helm and pulled it down, your head popped out.
You pushed your arms through the sleeves, averting your gaze. “You looked nice tonight.” You glanced at him. “Thanks. I liked your face paint.”
Jeff smiled. “Thanks. The crowd was very lively tonight.” You nodded your head. “Yeah…I gotta get going…Few things I need to do before I have to do this Ride Along thing.”
“Can we talk real quick?” You went to walk away. “We just did.” Jeff grabbed your arm. “I meant about us. About what happened.”
You followed Jeff down an empty corridor. You pushed your hands into the pockets of your sweatpants as you both stopped, your sneakers suddenly became your source of attention.
“I’m sorry.” You shook your head. “Don’t you think it’s a little late for an apology? You cheated on me and never talked to me again! I got my stuff from our place and you never spoke two words to me! And now you say sorry!”
Jeff looked down at his hands. “I did it so you would sign and go on to live your dream.” You looked up at him. “W-What?” It came out like a whisper.
“I cheated so you would sign with WWE. You weren’t going to because what I said…I couldn’t let that happen. I cheated so you would hate me with every fiber of your being and sign with them.”
You ran your hands down your face. “Why didn’t you…Why didn’t you just tell me to sign with them instead! Why didn’t you just break up with me like a normal person!”
Jeff looked at you, his eyes flicker over your face. “Because you wouldn’t have signed if I was still in the picture! If I…If I just broke up with you, you would’ve stayed. You would’ve missed your chance at this! At the world’s largest stage! I couldn’t hold you back from that!”
“You…You don’t know what I would’ve done. If you told me all this…” You ran a hand over your head. “If you would’ve just spoken to me…If you would’ve just fucking spoken to me like anyone else would have, we could’ve been happy and together.” You hissed through your teeth.
“I loved you…I still fucking love you and I hate myself for it. I hate that you can still make me feel all this!” Jeff caught your arm and pulled you into his body.
“I still love you, Darlin’.” You let your head fall against his chest, his fell against the top of yours.
“I can’t do this, Jeff. I can’t lose again.” You tried to pull away, but he wouldn’t allow you. “You aren’t going to lose me. I’m here to stay.”
“Do you promise?” Jeff smiled against your hair. “Yes, I promise.”
It’s difficult to properly eulogize the Undertaker’s career because it feels like we’ve been slowly doing that for years, as each Wrestlemania raised new questions about his ability to carry on. Now that the end is finally here, though, something should be said.
I started watching WWE about a year before Taker debuted, and I cannot adequately explain what it like hearing about him right after Survivor Series 1990. No rock music, no neon colors. No weaknesses for the good guys to exploit. No passion for anything that would be his undoing. The only thing that really did make sense was that anybody managed by that jerkface Brother Love had to be seriously bad news.
He didn’t fit in with what I understood about pro wrestling. Looking back, that was because he would help change what pro wrestling was.
My brothers and I were fascinated with the Undertaker. How do you beat a guy that’s already dead? People would hit him with foreign objects and he wouldn’t flinch. One time Greg Valentine put him in the figure-four leglock and he just laid there like he didn’t care. I needed to make sense of this guy, figure out how his magic worked. At some point I came to realize that there were no answers, that the enduring mystery was the real source of his psychological advantage.
I’ve seen Undertaker described as the gimmick to end all gimmicks. Not that that stopped promoters from trotting out all manner of wrestling plumbers, wrestling dentists, and wrestling revenuers. But most of them had to square off with the Undertaker, which ensured that all of them looked ridiculous trying to compete with a wrestling angel of death. I think that situation encouraged the trend, beginning in the late ‘90s, of wrestlers being presented as athletes first and “here’s my shtick to psyche-out my opponents” second. By 2000, that trend was starting to make Taker himself look ridiculous.
Undertaker had a sort of second career at that point, where the character was less about being goth Frankenstein than the aura of work ethic and respect that surrounded a legendary company man. The awe of associating him with the spectre of death sort of took a back seat to the awe of knowing that nothing you did would ever overshadow this man’s career. Even if you managed to beat the Undertaker, the odds were pretty good that he’d outlast you.
It’s tough to pinpoint exactly where Taker went into decline, but for me the symbolic turning point was Wrestlemania XXVII, where the angle was that he could beat Triple H but couldn’t walk out under his own power. It was kayfabe to set up a rematch the following year, but it injected a new kind of mortality into the character–it became a legitimate question whether Undertaker still had it, whether he’d have to lose soon because he might retire at any time. After a lackluster performance at the 2017 Royal Rumble, I think everyone kinda knew his time was up. Better to go out now than to wait another year, chasing the perfect finale.
This isn’t the first time the Undertaker has left his gloves in the ring, so some part of me believes this may not really be the end. I hope it is, though. I want to know this guy gets to enjoy retirement and undergoes whatever surgeries he’s been putting off. I want to see the day when he can do interviews out of character, and talk about the sacrifices he made for his art. Mark Calaway has been the Undertaker for just over 26 years. It’s high time he gets to be just an ordinary man.
Over all humans are a hold my beer I’m winging it species, but there are individuals who dislike danger and will do what ever is needed to reduce the threat to what they care about.
Like, I have a friend who dislikes violence of any kind but if you threaten what she loves she will find a way to take you out of the picture before you can even blink.
She dislikes violence so she does what she has to in order to prevent it even if that means removing the source of conflict by force.
Can you imagine being an outsider watching this tiny human who has repeatedly said to dislike violence completely eradicate whatever threatens their crew? I feel like it would be a real balls to the wall oh shit I fucked up some one anyone save me moment.
I’m feeling salty, so here are some random things on Tumblr that really annoy me:
Screenshots/written explanations but no sources. You had time to write about it and cut up some screenshots, but not copy/paste a link in there, seriously?
Genuine hate and disgust over people liking things that others don’t like. Who cares. “Oh, you like X so I can ignore you and laugh at you for that instead.” What are you, ten? Grow up.
“This example of fiction is just fiction and you need to stop pretending it’s real. But because I don’t like this other example of fiction, this one’s harmful.” Shut up. Shut. Up.
“That person’s point can’t be true because of their political label!” They’ve either lied, manipulated the truth or are telling the truth. People you hate aren’t always automatically wrong. This ignorance is just, ugh.
“But what about the–?” No. Not everything has to revolve around you or your precious group-du-jour. If someone’s talking about something and it isn’t deliberately hateful against anyone else, just let them talk about it. Go outside.
“Someone on my side said/did something horrible, but at least they’re not from the other side, so who cares?” Oh, so you only care about scoring points and not actually being a decent human being? Fuck off.
“You can see just how bigoted if you replace “Jews” with–” No. How about you don’t bring Jews into it unless Jews are actually involved in it? There are no “New Jews.” There’s still antisemitism from every side out there. Stop using Jews as a “gotcha” moment.
There’s like a million other things but these really irritate me.
A/N: Hello everyone! As promised, here is the full ‘Dangerous Woman’ smut for all of you! This is part 1 of the trilogy so look forward to more after this! Part 2 and 3 will not be related to this particular smut so every fic will be based on a different scenario! Hope y’all would enjoy this little baby of mine x
Pairing(s): Luhan x Reader
Warnings: Call-girl industry references, blowjobs, sex in general
Genre: Smutty smut ;)
Summary: In which drug lord! and successful CEO! Luhan goes to a particular call-girl to get his needs fulfilled.
Word Count: 6103
Soundtrack: Dangerous Woman // Ariana Grande
I wanna savour, save it for later
The taste, the flavour
As the CEO of Lu
Corporations, the largest upscale drug company in Korea and China, Luhan is
viewed as the typical, arrogant and loaded young businessman whom everyone
assumes him to be. It’s not exactly untrue; the twenty-six-year-old drug lord
basically sits on stacks and stacks of dollar bills in his Lamborghini all day
long, admiring his flawless reflection in the rear-view mirror and aimlessly
thinking of methods to earn even more money.
Disgustingly handsome and
reeking of wealth and power, Luhan walks the world with unbreakable confidence,
never seen in public without his perfectly tailored suit and his jet-black hair
gelled back with a vengeance. Women clamour to be by his side, dying to look
good on his arm. Yet, for some strange and unknown reason, the young drug lord
chooses to remain single despite the endless stream of females queuing up to be
Nevertheless, the world
views him as one of the luckiest and most successful bachelors out there.
Wealth, glory, power, devastatingly good looks, a smooth-running business, a
diversity of women to date. What’s there for him to complain about?
Well, there is a
teensy little problem for him.
With all the workload and
the useless business meetings he has to attend, he barely has enough time for himself
and although he might be one of the most successful young men in the country,
he’s still…well, a man. And men have their needs that need to be fulfilled,
Iiii’m taking commissions! So I figure I might as well make an official post about it.
I really, really want to go see my best friend and my cat in June. Problem is, due to issues at home, I had to quit my job and therefore lost my source of steady income. It’s surprisingly difficult to save up money when you don’t have a “real job”.
So I’m turning to commissions!
I accept payments through paypal (though, with how the internet is, I’m sure we could work something else out if need be), and I have obscenely cheap prices.
How cheap? How about sketches like those bottom two pictures for $5 and those bendy styles at the top for $15!
If you’re interested, please contact me via an ask OR through the tumblr IMing service!
(If you don’t want to commission, reblogging this post and putting it out there helps a lot too <3)
I'm not answering any more asks regarding the Lauren Zuke discourse
Because I feel like we’re running around in circles now. Everything that needed to be said, has been said.
To summarise where I stand on it, as my final word about it all:
- Lauren leaving does not mean Lapidot is dead. Storyboarders aren’t physically able to decide the fate of characters without approval from the show’s higher-ups. And even if they were… Lauren’s not the only one who’s storyboarded/hinted at/publically shown support for the ship.
- Lauren leaving does not mean that the “secret second blog”/“Rebecca Sugar hates Lapidot” nonsense is real. There’s still no reliable source on it - and besides which, why would Rebecca hate Lapidot? She’s allowed it to be in the show - because, guess what, that’s how the animation industry works. The “second blog” is still highly likely to be fake and should still be treated as an unbased rumour, not as a fact.
- Lauren leaving means nothing at all for the other ships, either - for the reasons stated above.
- Lauren leaving is a real loss for the show. Their episodes were great and their amazing art style will be missed.
- Anyone who thinks it’s ok to harass people over all this (especially Lauren themselves) and/or show gross disrespect for other people’s opinions, can unfollow me.
Top signs that your Himalayan salt lamp is a fake include:
1. Poor Return Policy
Himalayan salt lamps are made of salt so it’s not surprising that
they’re fragile objects. A good manufacturer knows this and has return
policies that are flexible since there could be some damage in transit.
If a salt lamp’s maker is extremely strict (like a “NO RETURNS” policy),
then it makes you wonder if it’s a scam operation. This might not
necessarily be the case, but some fake retailers have been known not to
permit any returns because they know they’re not giving you the real
2. Highly Durable
As I just said,
Himalayan salt lamps are inherently fragile. Once you own one, you
definitely need to be careful not to drop it or bang it into other solid
objects because the salt crystal can be damaged very easily. This is
actually a rare time when durability is not desirable. If your salt lamp
is unaffected by a collision, it could likely be an imposter.
3. Very Bright Light
all you’re looking for is a bright light source, a salt lamp is not the
way to go. Due to its high content of numerous minerals, a Himalayan
salt lamp gives off light in an irregular and muffled manner. A true
salt lamp does not give off enough light to completely illuminate a
room. If yours does, then it’s most likely not the real deal.
4. Inexpensive White Crystal
typically find Himalayan salt lamps that give off a warm pinkish or
orange hue. There is such a thing as a white Himalayan salt lamp, but
it’s extremely rare and a lot more pricey than the colored ones. So if
you find a white salt crystal lamp that’s not substantially more
expensive than the pink/orange versions, steer clear because this is
likely an imposter.
5. No Mention of Pakistan
underground mines in Khewra, Pakistan, are the only source of true
Himalayan pink salt. If you’re questioning whether you have a real
Himalayan salt lamp, look for mention of Pakistan as the salt crystal’s
country of origin. You can also ask the lamp’s maker about the salt’s
origin, keeping in mind that it may list the country of origin as the
location of the lamp’s assembly.
its inherent nature, salt is an absorber of water. If your salt lamp
has no problem being near a moisture source (like a shower), this is a
good sign that you own a fake. A true salt lamp is prone to some
sweating when exposed to moisture.
7. Not Experiencing Any Benefits
you’re sure that you bought the appropriately sized salt lamp for the
space you’re using it in and you’ve also been exposed to it on a regular
basis and don’t see any positive effects whatsoever, then you may not
have a real Himalayan salt lamp.
The best and worst quotes from @straightcharactersoftheday
Today i took it upon myself to quote my favorite source of entertainment! The fantastic blog @straightcharactersoftheday I reeeaaallyyyy love that blog and i 10000000% think that straight characters need more representation??? like they are so right????????? straight characters are practically NON-EXISTENT NOW! wowzers! all vry fantastic vry good statements are bolded
guys okay so i watched ordinal scale and im literally dying. like i stepped out of the theatre and my hands were SHAKING!! that’s just how good the movie was!!! but i can’t express all my feelings towards the movie in such a small text post like this, so im gonna go full-on sao trash under the read more. feel free to click on it if you want my opinion on the movie!~ (will contain spoilers ofc lmao)
I don’t know what you text to a girlfriend this morning and I sure don’t want to find out through trial and error. Last night, she never came over because an hour into the election, at the sight of the first numbers, she stopped knowing how to interact with the world and couldn’t get out of bed. I share that deeply private fact without fear of embarrassing her, not because embarrassing women was legalized in last night’s referendum, but because she’s numb. If I texted her for permission to share her numbness, I’d get the same response as if I asked her to eat a submarine. “Okay,” she’d reply. “I’m going to try to sleep. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
I had no part in doing this to her, right? My state is blue, we legalized weed and protected Riley Reid’s workplace last night, and between being called an MRA, a douche and a pig by folks that remember me comparing Season 4 of Community to rape, I’m more often these days called an SJW cuck, which I like, because it sounds like someone younger than me. I want to be relevant and woke and lit and Pokémon to the max. Which is why I quietly rooted for Bernie but saw the Democratic primaries as being too sensitive to benefit from my loud mouth, and when Bernie conceded, I quietly switched to the only candidate that wasn’t anti-vaccination, anti-immigration or that Gary guy. I played my part in this whole thing just fine from beginning to end. So I’m off the hook with my shell shocked girlfriend, right?
No, because I played my part begrudgingly. And if I had known these results were possible, I wouldn’t have put an adverb on my playing of it. Except maybe “humbly” or “apologetically” or “extra cuckily” Because, at the risk of riling up anyone that will only see the political aspect of this personal confession: I know this wasn’t about emails.
If you feel it was, nothing bad is going to happen to you if you walk away from this post. I can assure you, I’m not challenging or invalidating the results of an election you see as a win. Fair play and all that. I’m glad we didn’t have a civil war.
But I want to leave a message here to my numb girlfriend that can’t work as tweets or texts or my trademark pillow talk babbling. And I guess there’s a few ex-lovers and coworkers that I hope read this too. Women that have reason not to believe I’m on their side.
The message starts with the obvious, I’m sorry. But what I’ve learned in my cuck SJW workshops is that saying “I’m sorry” isn’t an apology. A full apology is an acknowledgment of the offense, an expression of remorse and a commitment to change.
The remorse, that’s easy. I feel bad she lost and that I assumed she’d win and therefore was a dick about it. I’m all remorse this morning, I’d cut a pinky off if it let my girlfriend face the world today, smiling the way she was the last time I saw her. I don’t know if I’d be capable of actually doing the pinky cutting, I think that’s something a full on Trump guy would be better at, and if it were possible, I would like to be knocked out or at least anesthetized for the removal, because I’m a cuckity cuckimus maximus beta mega cucksuck. But I’d donate the finger and more to make this unhappen. Remorse expressed.
Acknowledgment of the crime is the one that’s going hurt and upset people because it’s confession to a crime that is life long and confusing and that won’t stop just because I confessed it.
I acknowledge that until this election, I have always felt, on some level, that although women weren’t getting a fair shake, it probably “kind of evened out” in other ways. No I can’t tell you what that means in detail because I’ve never actually consciously parsed the thought, and that’s the crime, I’ve just walked around with it. “It’s clearly harder to be a woman in this society,” I’d think, “but it’s probably easier in other ways. And in any case, one thing we know for sure…it’s different.” I do a podcast every week in which I’m constantly running my mouth about race and gender but my goal in doing so, I see now, has always been less to investigate, grow or connect and more to figure out how to make people like me (yes that last 43 years was me trying to make you like me, yes I know how sad and funny that is). I’ve kept one eye on the ever morphing fashion of gender discourse and the other eye on my own survival as a primate and figured I was, underneath it all, a feminist because my thoughts about women were never “they suck” or “they’re dumb” or “I want to hurt them.”
Now I see the crime starts so much earlier in the thought process than that. In figuring out how to survive as a frightened man, I’ve built every thought about people on a foundational assumption that the sexually reproductive dichotomy we inherited from life as old as plants was a more important dichotomy, regardless of context, than any other difference between two humans you could name.
And hey, sometimes that emphasis on sexual dichotomy is fun, or benign, or even progressive feeling, like when two men of two different complexions are so busy bonding about how women be shopping that they’re accidentally something other than racist for a second.
And then last night this thing happened. This thing that we know was not about emails. And not about the tangled roots of semi-documented corruption and not about revoked promises of walls or recanted suspicions about birthplaces, or anything you could name outside of that one thing that has us more divided than all our divisive specialities put together. This thing that has had us all so divided since before this country was a glint in its explorers’ eyes, that last night, with no ways left to express the division subtly, we walked up to the concept of our first lady president, gave it some thought, and walked away having opted for the first President to call Mexicans rapists in the same year he was charged with raping a 13 year old girl.
And I really hope you’re not still reading this if it’s making you want to argue with me. I don’t want to argue. There is no debate here to be had and we can all agree debates have stopped mattering because we also just elected the first President to blame flaming out in a debate on the moderator’s menstruation.
There I go to my comfort zone. Anger, babbling, competition, show everybody what a dramatic underdog hero you are. That’s the part of me represented by this election, that’s the part of me that got our first David Duke endorsed President into an office where he has access to the camera in your laptop and that’s the part of me I want to apologize for, which means to express remorse for, acknowledge the existence of, and finally, most importantly, to commit to changing.
I’m never going to secretly suspect anyone of exaggerating again when they tell me they don’t feel supported, or that they feel attacked. I’m going to take everything people tell me about the challenges facing them at face value and make it my goal to help them get their elusive fair shake however they can. And I’m going to take that part of my thought process that recognizes another human’s gender or race, and rather than nobly ignoring it or hilariously calling it out, I’m going to remove it from the foundation of my thoughts and just put it over to the side, where it’s as significant as someone’s horoscope and says as much about their needs as their height or weight or number of limbs, which is to say, sometimes a lot, sometimes not at all, but never by default. I am going to stop trying to find meaning in chaos by categorizing people, no matter how optimistic or supportive those categories might seem. They’ll never be fair and they’ll never lead to me doing right by anyone.
I’m not going to achieve this new thinking by typing it, I’m going to change it the way my therapist says change works: by behaving and speaking like a person that already lives in that world and letting my neurology gradually adapt. By slowing my thoughts down at the top of judgments and practicing the observation of my own brain in even the most common moments. By disrupting my mental routines even when I don’t perceive them as existing, in every encounter I have with every human being, even while I’m just laying in bed alone, running simulations of others. I’m going to stop expecting things like fairness and respect from the world and start seeing what happens when I become the source of those things. I’m going to stop making it my business to punish and reward others and defending myself. I’m going to try to figure out what the people that enter my life need in the moment of their entrance and make unique real time decisions about my relationship with them. No, I’m not going to be nicer to anyone on Twitter. Twitter is a fucking toilet. Don’t meet people in a toilet if you want to have a healthy encounter. I go there to shit on the planet and make jokes.
And if it takes me until the moment before I randomly die, I’m going to focus on making the space around me an effective advertisement for a decent world. Without expecting the world to buy into it. I don’t control the world. I don’t control other people. I control whether or not I surrender. I control when my walls come down, when the bullshit stops and whatever’s behind the walls joins whoever’s near me.
Whatever this is isn’t going to get better by getting longer. It also stopped behind honest in the last paragraph because my girlfriend came over and is now sitting next to me and I’m not interacting with her because I’m trying to finish this. I don’t know how to finish writing things. And I don’t know what people need or what they’ve been through or what hurts them and when it’s me. Cody, I’m sorry about last night, about the thing with the guy with the hair and the stuff. I acknowledge my role in it, I feel bad about it and I’m going to change the only part of it I can change. I love you. You deserve better.
Everybody reading this deserves better. Maybe this is how we end up getting it.
Or maybe this is how the statue of liberty ends up buried on a beach up to its armpits in Planet of the Apes. I always wondered what the hell could make that happen.