rayonship07  asked:

I just wanted to say thank you for telling that anon how "new 52" messed up with Harley and Ivy. I can't even start describing how much I hated it. And yes, Poison Ivy doesn't care about humans, just plants, I think that was more than clear. But, you also have to remember that we're on tumblr... So that anon really doesn't surprise me.

haha No problem New 52 messed up so many characters It’s crazy, but yeah I know what you mean people on tumblr are obsessed with making women into good role models and being Social Justice Warriors, I try and stay away from all the negativity now but if they directly say something to me I will say something back and try to educate them, even if they don’t fully understand.

when i was four years old, i was very obsessive about having my socks at the same length.
if they didn’t align to the t, i’d throw fits. and for the first few months, my parents saw this as a cute little quirk - something that made their darling daughter a tiny bit more interesting.
but what what was interesting was how my mind would refuse to let me step a foot out of the door if i dared to mismatch my socks, or god forbid, have them anything but at the same length. doctors would’ve jumped at getting the chance to examine me, and why i was so fucking obsessive. that’s interesting. that’s different.

when i was eight years old, i was teased for the way i ate. small, precise nibbles or else your family will die in a car crash in exactly ten minutes. oh, and you have to eat in twos or fours or tens otherwise you’ll get food poisoning. but my quirk made me different, right? and how could any of these people eat the way they did? weren’t they concerned about their loved ones burning to death because they forgot to take a fourth bite?

when i was nine years old, i was shouted at for using all the hot water. but i had to. i had to scrub and scrub and scrub at my flesh until it burned bloody and raw, otherwise the water would transform into acid when the next person used it. i had to, otherwise the bugs would squirm under my skin and lay babies there. i could feel them brewing, and so i scrubbed. i scrubbed. i scrubbed. i scrubbed-

when i was ten years old, i was grounded for changing the volume on the tv remote to an even number. my hand was quickly slapped away, and i was reprimanded immediately. but why? why were they so ungrateful? i was just trying to save them. thirteen is a bad number, you know; unlucky. do you want to be unlucky? do you love my quirk now?

when i was twelve years old, i convinced myself i was a murderer. i convinced myself that my favourite celebrities had hurt me and i wasn’t allowed to like them anymore. i became so sick with guilt that i was either throwing up or hiding in my bedroom. how did my friends do their homework when their minds were focused unwillingly on knives? why was my ‘quirk’ keeping me hostage in my own mind?

when i was still twelve years old, i ended up confessing everything to my mother through a flood of tears after an extreme panic attack. and she didn’t really understand, but our doctor insisted i had something called obsessive compulsive disorder. and finally i could breathe, i could loosen the chains on my wrist and stop worrying. my quirk wasn’t so interesting as it was daunting, after all. my prison door was still locked shut, but at least i had the courage now to attempt to open it.

when i was fourteen years old, i would constantly be reminded of embarrassing situations. they’d play in my mind like a jukebox or a tape recorder, and i wouldn’t have the heart nor the wits to press pause. i’d be haunted by visions of my dead family, their graves a mock gift from one side of my head to another. and yet,why couldn’t i unlock the door? ocd had stepped into my mind without even shutting the door or wiping it’s feet, so why couldn’t i return the favour?

when i was fifteen years old, everybody would be staring at me constantly. they had to be, didn’t they? they could see the intrusive thoughts blaring in my brain and the neon sign above my head reading ‘FREAK’ and the note stuck to my back saying 'KILL ME’. the prison door still won’t open.

when i was still fifteen years old, ocd had swamped my life like it wanted to consume me. and i let it; guiding it around like a shadow on a leash. the door is still locked, and whenever i try to open it, the shadow looms. i’m it’s prisoner, after all, and this quirk has booked me in for a life sentence.
i stop going to school. i stop posting stories online. i stop eating. i stop showering. the dishes pile up in the sink and my dog whines for a walk. i start crying.
i start dying.

when i was still fifteen years old, i began seeing a counsellor. for real, this time, and despite her and everyone else around me being tainted by my intrusive thoughts, i saw the glimmer in her eyes and recognised it as hope. i stopped trying to open the door. instead, i saw the hand poking through the slot in it, beckoning me to take a hold and trust. trust.
and so i did, and boy did i grip tight, holding onto her like she was my only hope from a next stop to insanity.

i stopped trying to open the door. and instead, i started looking for the key.

—  odd-bot
The muse ushers in man’s rebirth
as an artists,
and in a way
the muse will always remain
the artist’s first and only love,
yet it is a love
so perfectly designed
the entire world opens as a lotus
and blooms in pink flustered
white petals;
the muse is the artist’s obsession,
never to be creatively captured in
poems, songs, or paintings,
never to be possessed
by the artist,
but the reason for his passion;
the reason for all creation, she is,
were she to be picked
like a flower
the artist withers,
as there is no need for fantasy
and dreams in a state of total bliss.
—  The love and the muse (2) - M.A. Tempels © 2016

I could feel 
the slip of day 
between your 
golden hair,
like sand on 
a sunny beach.
When nighttime 
consumes us,
the dew of today
will dry into air - 
and gone,
will you dissolve,
like chocolate
on the tongue
or a kiss that has
consumed us
too long.

-  Y.M © N.O.V  

“how are aces oppressed?”

ace tumblr:

[lists 10 different microaggressions]

[links to a massive, irrelevant masterpost talking about violence that also happens to non-ace people]

[more microaggressions]

[appropriates LGBT terminology to explain violence that happens to non-ace people as well but claims it’s an ace thing]

haha!!! *drops the mic*

I’m #obsessed @topshop 🙋🏻 #sleepinginthem -

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psychology today

the first men I were ever attracted to were the Phantom of the Opera, and Victor Van Dort from Corpse Bride. I think that has a lot to do with my unhealthy obsession with antique furniture and always finding the villains hotter than the rest.