I come home from school, and see that Meg is getting anon hate again.
Being her friend for many years, I’ve helped her go through the anon hate, and honestly I never understand anon hate–I had a few myself, but it was towards me being too depressing and attention seeker and many people I looked up to in my community talked lowly about me for not handling anon hate, so I tend to not talk negative as much as I use to, anyways, but here is my question to anyone that follows her, and doesn’t like customized Corrin:
why are you following her?
The unfollow button is there for a reason you know.
Hey want to know something? I have a customized Corrin myself!
She shares the same name as me: Kathryn.
While I did redo her blog to have the default!Corrin now, only because I can’t draw my own icons for her and their is limitations I can do with the sprite model–she is still there in a special tag.
Megan’s Corrin is close to default minus her hair color and accessories–look at my Corrin, mine is 100% customized, she looks nothing like default Corrin–wanna bitch to me about my Corrin being customized? Than go ahead, I’m not afraid because I chose to make her look different, and anyone who does default Corrin is great too because they add their own little spice to Corrin, no two Corrins are the same, just like every character that has a mun!
I’m a Xander RPer, but I’m different than any another Xander RPers on this site.
That’s how roleplaying works.
Many people can have a muse of the same character and it won’t look any different.
Anon hate is petty, always has been because people who prefer to hide behind some mask to hide their sorry ass does not have the backbone to show their URL to someone and say it to their face.
To all those customized and default Corrins–y’all are awesome and great, and I love seeing such different kinds of Corrins on my dash because every single one of you are so creative to make your Corrin your own–keep up the good work guys and fuck those anon hates!
Five people came out to Shitty in one week in sophomore year: Holster, Ransom, Johnson (“because really, man, I’m whatever the narrative demands from me, so I’d define it more as a fluid sexuality I guess?” “Cool, thanks for..telling me? I think?”), the cutest Frog Lardo, and…his mom.
Because bear with me here.
So Shitty’s mom - professor of English literature, made him read Toni Morrison etc. while he was growing up, is absolutely responsible for Shitty being the way he is. Mrs Shitty’s Mom (who still goes by Dr Knight because it’s the most badass and sometimes idiot husbands are good only for their last names) has always been a passionate feminist, and works really hard to teach her students about intersectionality and has always been supportive of LGBT rights, and like, she got married young to Mr Shitty’s Dad, and hadn’t really had a lot of time for introspection, and realizes at an age just shy of fifty that “Holy shit I think I am a gay?”
And so she tells Shitty because he’s her son, and she feels he deserves to know and Shitty does everything he can to be supportive because he’s Shitty, but the next person Dr Knight tells is her friend from the philosophy department, who she goes out for drinks with sometimes to complain about university politics. And Dr Suresh is like the sort of philosophy professor who tolerates zero bullshit from the rich white boys who only want to study dead white men, or any bullshit from perpetually stoned white boys who think they understand eastern philosophy better than people who created it. And at one of their drinks-and-debate outings, Drs Knight and Suresh get to talking about queer theory and Dr Knight, trying to be collected and casual and It’s Not A Big Deal™ about it, mentions that “Well shit, of course sexuality is a spectrum she’s 48 and only just realized she’s a lesbian” and Dr Suresh - who is the smoothest - is just “oh well that’s a relief or it was going to be awkward when I asked you on a real date.”
And poor Dr Knight, just total KO, DNR, that’s all she wrote folks.
And so Shitty has a really awesome philosophy professor for a stepmom on his mom’s side, and Dr Suresh gets along like a house on fire with Lardo, and with Shitty, and it’s all very gay in every sense of the word.
My film is well underway in it’s development faze! This is the character sheets for the characters featured in the film: the baby bear and his sick mother. The film is loosely inspired by the Haida artstyle in design, so I’m trying to incorporate the distinctive shape and colors in as much as I can to give the film a unique feel. I think I’ve succeeded for the characters, although they might need some reworking here and there. I’m very happy with how they came out, though, and the cub was well received by the class thus far; I’ve yet to show mama bear but here’s hoping she’s just as liked. :3
Buckets are essentially a motherhood symbol in Homestuck – the buckets we see are introduced alongside Nannasprite (2317) and Mom Lalonde’s “ironic housewife routine” (2277). This is made explicit through the trolls; the bucket represents the Mother Grub, the All Mother, to whom everyone jacks it.
More generally, any receptacle filled with a light-blue fluid seems to be correlated with the womb – as much is suggested by the juxtaposition of Nannasprite’s life-giving blue ectoplasm with the bucket (2328). If true, this is probably connected to the running gag of girls ripping up toilets and bathtubs, but I couldn’t tell you what it means. It makes John standing in the bathtub funnier maybe? Eh. And the martini glass left for Rose (3442) would then have an association with her mother aside from the alcohol – perhaps related to the use of ▽ as a feminine symbol.
It’s worth noting that the martini isn’t blue until Rose’s spit-take. While in Mom’s possession, the booze is colorless. And as Rose points out, Mom’s bucket doesn’t actually have any water in it (2277). I’m less sure of the martini connection, but the empty bucket strongly implies that Mom can’t bear kids – her womb is void. This draws a connection between Roxy’s ability to summon ideas from nowhere and the mythic motif of virgin mothers, immaculate conception, etc etc. Creation from the Void.
She calls herself Wren, after Two Things. One is the bird. The small, plainly colored, ball of feathers, sometimes called house wrens, that often flit about unnoticed. Two is another girl. This Wren, who spelled her name Ren, isn’t real. She’s Ren-from-the-book Found, the first–and still most favorite–post apocalyptic story Wren-with-a-W has read. There are others, but that one is closest to her heart.
Which probably makes the Choice a Stupid One, but she makes it, nonetheless. Maybe the Gentry will think she likes birds. Maybe–though that, likely, could have its own consequences.
Unlike some of the others, Wren-with-a-W–like Anne-with-an-e, but without either the fiery hair or tendency to babble–likes the rules at Elsewhere. She likes Rules period. Her life–and her brain–is often chaotic, though she won’t acquire the alphabet soup of abbreviations that explain why till years later.
She doesn’t know, at eighteen, that she has ADHD. All she knows is she’s disorganized, easily distracted, and loses everything she touches. She also doesn’t know that she’s probably Autistic. All she knows is that she has trouble with conversations–starting them, stopping them, keeping them going. She has trouble with loud sounds and her clothes feeling Wrong. And when she loves something, it consumes her.
Sometimes–before she learned better–she thought she might be a changeling. When she was very young, she lost herself, deliberately, inside her mind. She spent hours and hours daydreaming, blocking out the world. When she was a teenager, her bubble popped, and she found herself suddenly in a world that was strange, confusing, and much too loud.
So, Wren-with-a-W likes the Rules. They’re comforting. Follow them and you’ll be safe. Don’t follow them, and there are no promises. And so she follows them. She hoards packets of creamer and shakers of salt and iron nails like they’re going out of style. She carries each in her pockets–and she’s found that the nails double as stim toys.
A few weeks into the fall semester, and Wren has found herself alone in her dorm for the first time. Her roommate has gone. Not Gone, not Replaced, no, nothing so sinister. She’s simply gone home, to visit family. Wren has not. She loves her family, but she doesn’t miss them. Not the way other people seem to.
Alone for the first time, Wren crosses to her bed and pulls out the old chest. Her great-grandmother, Agnes, gave it to her when Wren was twelve. Great-grandmother Agnes was a lot like Wren. She was shy and spacey, quiet and scattered, and she didn’t seem to know what to do with people, either.
As she opens the trunk, the smell hits her first. There’s the sharp, burning-in-her-nose smell of mothballs, and under that, something even more bitter, salty like blood, like iron. Like the sea.
The blanket at the bottom is dark brown, like mahogany and chocolate stirred together. One side is rough. When Wren pets it, she’s reminded of Boris, her old mohair teddy bear Mom made her leave home, because You-know-how-college-kids-are-you-don’t-want-anything-to-happen-to-it. The other side is smooth. When Wren touches it, she’s reminded of her favorite suede couch, the big brown one at Grandma Ruth’s. She loved laying on it and running her hand up and down the arm while she watched My Little Pony The Movie for the million and first time.
Wrapping the blanket around her, Wren shuts the trunk and slides it under the bed. Great grandmother made her promise not to show either trunk nor blanket to a living soul, and so far, Wren has kept her word. Mom says that Great-grandma-was-getting-senile-before-she-passed-it’s-a-shame-really. Wren knows different, but that, too, is part of the secret.
There are other trunks, other young women in Wren’s family with blankets like these. But Wren has never fit in with them. Those girls, to a one, know how to get along in the world. They don’t lose things the moment they set them aside. They don’t misunderstand a look, a gesture, an implied demand. They know how to follow all the unwritten Social Rules. Not Wren. Not now, and maybe not ever.
So, blanket wrapped tight tight tight around her, Wren hoes to the couch and curls up. She turns on the TV, then the DVD player. Pressing play on the remote, she settles in, sighing happily, as My Little Pony Tales begins playing.
The blanket isn’t the only reason she waits till her roommate leaves before watching tv.