or as my brother calls him

the mcelroys trying to relate to teens
  • Justin: brings teens to the outdoors to help them focus so they aren't looking at their phones while also calling several inanimate objects of nature "just like snapchat"
  • Travis: focuses on the teen's artistic interests and helps them express themselves while shouting positive statements at them nonsensically
  • Griffin: brings a lone teen out to the deep woods and makes him sacrifice his phone to the "clown box" a box that likely contains a murderous clown who thirsts for phones, in return for a hand-drawn maze and other gifts who proceeds to attack griffin's lone teen.

My little brother accidentally misgendered my friend. I told him quietly and he felt very bad and for the next few sentences he made sure to say “she” and “her” as much as possible.
He’s a very little boy. If you asked him what trans meant, he wouldn’t know. (He’s at that age where he has weird words for everything. He knows I’m a lesbian and calls me a “tutu”)He just knows to accept people and be polite.
Hate is taught and pushed into people’s heads. A little kid doesn’t pop out of the womb saying “I hate black people”
They’re exposed to negative images and maybe even parents who tell them this toxic stuff.

So, this happened.

Earlier today—around 1:30pm or so—I was walking Mysti back to work while I walked Dezi. Kill two birds with one stone kinda thing. As we start walking out of the alleyway of our apartment complex, one of my youngest brother’s friends came running passed Mysti and I. I have no idea what was going on, but there was some blood on his face. Another dude who I’ve never seen before came racing after him. I started walking over to figure out what the hell was going on, then the random dude slams my brother’s friend up against the back doors to our apartment. I watched him hit the ground, pretty hard. He called out to me for help—I was already rushing on over there—and without a second thought passing through my mind, I straight-up screamed at the kid. “If you don’t get the fuck outta here, Imma rip you in HALF!” He clearly got a look at me coming and was scared, as I was easily half a foot or so taller than him. Once I got a little closer to him I shouted once more. “Get! NOW!” I’m pretty sure my teeth were showing through each of my words. The kid booked it, like I straight up scared him. I unlocked our back door so my brother’s friend could go upstairs and clean himself up. He’s okay, thankfully. Moral of the story, I can still be REAL fucking scary.

can i just say?? im so happy the mcelroy brothers call clint daddy? its so pure and so cute and also i grew up thinking that men should never call their dads daddy and only call them dad or something. and like ive always called my dad daddy but bc i felt kinda ashamed of it being not masculine enough, for the past year and a half ive straight up been calling him “father” which is prob even more awkward and distancing. so like im just glad that they do that and it makes me feel a whole lot better abt myself

my brother just called me from the toilet??

“em this gonna be weird but i just sat down on the toilet and then james called and hes on the doorstep. could you let him in? beware, he’s dressed as freddie mercury,”

its 2am

“Write novels.”

I have a friend who’s a journalist. She’s ridiculously awesome and I really want to name her because everyone should know just how awesome she is, but this isn’t a time where it feels wise to reveal the political thoughts expressed by a journalist in private, at least not without her permission.

The day before I saw her last week, I’d locked myself out of Facebook and Twitter. I’d been forced to realise the psychological harm they were doing me outweighed any political good my frantic clicktivism could possibly be accomplishing. My brother had called, on my sister-in-law’s instructions. “R. says you’re tweeting and facebooking constantly about politics,” he said. “She said ‘call your sister, I don’t think she’s doing well.’”  

“I’m okay, probably,” I’d told him.

“I don’t think you are,” he said. 

I felt a little better, though not by much, by the time I met my friend for lunch. She was shaken, she said. Democracy was falling apart. I muttered weakly that perhaps it wasn’t quite that bad. She said she’d rather act now than hope for the best.

I agreed. But act how?

She said she was getting onto the board of various charities. She was writing about the best way to report on extremism, avoiding the terrible false equivalencies of the “he said/she said” approach which has blighted our discourse with such ghastly effect.

I said I was supporting the Stop Funding Hate campaign. Giving to Planned Parenthood and ACLU over there, refugee charities over here. Writing letters. Trying to think of useful ways to get involved in local politics.

“You know what you should do,” she said.

No, I really didn’t.

“Write novels,” she said.

I told her that in the days after the election I felt as if art had been revealed as an empty joke. An indulgence we could no longer afford. As if I would never be able to justify doing it again. What we were even going to write now? Flimsy, tinselly distractions from ghastly reality? Or sharp-eyed, unflinching commentary that no one except the already-convinced would ever read? What was the point of art?

No, no!” she said. “Art is what will save us.”

“But it hasn’t,” I wanted to scream. We tried and tried. We’ve filled the world with our stories, our songs – we’ve tried so hard to make our stories better - with diverse casts and empathy and hope – and it’s not enough; no one’s saying it was perfect, or that the attempt was anywhere close to  finished. But we were trying. And now look. 

It is so important, she told me, that there is art already made and due to come out in the coming year that embodies the opposite of this. Diverse, progressive stories, that are not going to go untold whatever happens.

I’d had in my mind two quotes. Peter Cook, on Germany’s satirical clubs of the thirties “that did so much to prevent the rise of Hitler.” 

And Kurt Vonnegut:

During the Vietnam War, which lasted longer than any war we’ve ever been in - and which we lost - every respectable artist in this country was against the war. It was like a laser beam. We were all aimed in the same direction. The power of this weapon turns out to be that of a custard pie dropped from a stepladder six feet high.“

But if they hadn’t been there? I thought, looking at my friend. Who was fierce and bright-eyed and smiling. Those useless satirists and artists and musicians pouring their spirits into their art and watching it land on the floor of history like that dropped custard pie?  What if there was nothing to look back on in those times but a culture in militaristic  lockstep, or perhaps worse, slumped in dead-eyed indifference?  After those years-long nightmares, what would there have been to wake up to? Maybe it was absurd to find the thought more chilling than the reality of what had happened, to feel that it would have been an international death of the soul,  but .. still …

If artists couldn’t prevent disaster, could they at least preserve something precious from being lost while it endured? If they hadn’t stopped a single war, had they at least kept the rot from penetrating the human culture unchallenged? 

It’s not enough. It’s not enough.

“Write novels,” said my friend stubbornly. “Write novels.”

Rogue One drunk headcanons

Chirrut: asks random rebels to hit him as hard as they can, go ahead, he can take it. eventually evolves into “throw random shit at me and watch me deflect it with my staff”. would evolve into “try to shoot me and watch me dodge” if Baze didn’t intervene. makes even more blind jokes than usual (they’re bad).

Baze: drinking competitions. once outdrank everyone on echo base, including a couple of aliens who were twice his size. gets emotional and calls everyone little brother/sister. eventually has to throw Chirrut over his shoulder and carry him away from the party.

Cassian: the mom friend until he himself gets too drunk. scolds his drunk friends and curses a lot in spanish. once got tearful and told K-2SO it was his best friend. “you wanna know what’s really shitty about the Empire? you wanna know what the really, really shitty thing is?”, never finishes the thought.

Bodhi: talks non-stop in a near-incomprehensible slur, goes from happy drunk to sad drunk and back to happy drunk in the span of one minute. must be kept out of the hangar at all costs or he will try to steal an x-wing (this job usually falls to Cassian).

Jyn: thinks she can outdrink everyone. cannot, in fact, outdrink anyone. extreme lightweight. will try to start fights with everyone in sight. once challenged Luke Skywalker to a duel (he declined). passes out two hours into the party, has to be carried out.

K-2SO: is a droid


Sherlock: Is a phone call possible? 

Mycroft: Phone call? 

Sherlock: Sherlock has a brother he may wish to say goodbye. John has a daughter he may wish to say goodbye.


If you’ve only got one single brother, you want to protect him
from all that is evil, don’t you understand that? - SN: 12x11
The Brothers Lionheart/Astrid Lindgren

My brother posted this on Facebook:

Punxsutawney Phil woke up, looked around him, and pronounced in groundhogese, “I have seen not only my own shadow, but the long, dark shadow that has enveloped your land, blotting out all light. All joy. All hope. Know that this winter shall not end! Not in six weeks! Not in six upon six thousand weeks!”

He then turned to the president of the Inner Circle and said, “Our accord is broken! Do not call upon me again!” And with that, Phil scurried back into his burrow.

“And Cast...

“Cas is my best friend.”

So when everything is slipping away from him, Dean first remembers his own name, his brother, his mother and his friend. Moments later, he forgets everything, including himself, but with his last moments of being himself, he made himself remembered the people he loved.

But he didn’t remember Castiel’s full name, not like he did Sam’s and Mary’s, even with the last, desperate moments of lucidity. Why? Because the name ‘Castiel’ doesn’t mean much to him.

But it’s so much more than that to Dean. Recall, Dean has called him ‘Castiel’ a handful of times since season 4. To Dean, Cas is so much more than simply the shortened version of his name.

‘Castiel’ is the name of the righteous angel who pulled him out of Hell. The warrior and soldier of God. Righteousness and glory-to-God-in-the-highest. 

But he’s changed. So obviously that Claire noticed it within minutes of spending time with him.

And he changed because he became Cas, not Castiel. He became the angel who stood up for humanity because Dean showed him how. He became the angel who fell to save humanity. He became the angel who fell because of Dean.

But through it, he became stronger, but in a different way. He learned why humanity matters. He learned what it means to feel. He knows now of guilt and loss, but also of love and compassion and sympathy. He’s the angel who heals a crying baby, who is kind to children, who protects Claire, who would die to protect his family, Dean, Sam and Mary. It gives him strength.

But Dean was the one who led him there. He dubbed Castiel, Cas, and showed him what it meant to care for someone and to take a stand. And Castiel took Dean’s hand and learned.

So Dean didn’t remember Castiel, as his memories were being ripped away from him. He remembered Cas. Because it’s Cas who loves Dean, and it’s Cas who Dean loves.