peeling layers


[On her favorite role to play]: I really like playing Natasha, playing the Black Widow [in the movies]. It’s been an interesting journey, to take a character and grow it over these years, and peel the layers back and be able to, as you do in life, grow with this person. It’s a character that’s really enigmatic and has an amazing origins story, so there’s a lot for me to play off of.


Instead of dwelling on the negatives of zine making (namely, huge delays in shipping because of major printing error and slow turnaround), I’m focusing on the positives and giving everyone a preview of the bundle keychain! Your zines should all ship in a little over a week, if everything goes right. We love you.

Happy New Year!! May 2017 be good to all of us 💗💗💗

✨ Hopefully you all keep up with us on Twitter, because we have tons of fun over there! Polls, previews, and other fun stuff.

Sangwoo: *literally has beaten, verbally degraded, and all around hurt Bum*

Jieun Antis: *doesn’t get viciously upset about it*

Jieun: *makes one rude comment to Bum about walking home with his crutches*


Like I get it, homegirl was rude but she was just trying to get that Sangwoo D. She didn’t even know about Bum’s situation, please don’t act like she’s some terrible criminal and deserves to die for a petty comment. If petty comments = death penalty we all deserved to die at one point in our lives. My lord, give her a break.

My love,

I think my heart was meant to break a couple times before you came along.

I had to reach out a hopeful hand only to have it slapped away.

I had to peel away the layers of my soul to see what rested inside.

I had to make my mistakes and discover my own weakness.

Only then could I learn and only then could I grow.

Only then could I become strong enough to love you.

But now I may love you truly, for these scars will tell no lies.

I changed myself a lot to be the girl that you would like. I became a completely different version of myself. But now I miss the girl I used to be. Nobody likes this new girl. I don’t and you don’t either. But it’s so fucking difficult to go back to the old self. It’s like peeling away myself, layer by layer. And the scary part is, what if the girl I used to be isn’t there any more? What if she ran away to a far far place that no one knows of? What if she killed herself? What if I killed her?
—  Still looking for the me that probably isn’t there // JustScribbledWords

It all started with a simple nosebleed, my mother said that I’ve just been drinking too much soda. She’s always right, so I shrugged it off. And then it happened again. And again. And again. Something is wrong with me. You never think about death until it’s peeling the inside layers of your skin and you can feel the small flame called life fade into ashes left by a chain smoker who doesn’t know when to quit. I don’t do much, hell. I can barely keep my grades up. I don’t have much friends, maybe no one will miss me anyway. I woke up and looked into the mirror. Who is this person? I’ve lost so much weight. Mama says I haven’t been eating right. The doctor tells me a different story. A blank facial expression turned into a poem you’d only find on tumblr for sad kids who can’t get rid of feelings that stick like old gum under high school desks. Decades in and you’re still a mess. Living your early twenties like an old soul who has had enough of everything– I’ve still got a few sparks left in me. So I asked him for a poem and he answers. Every time, he answers. He says that when the sky is heavy and the rain is light– you can tilt the moon at a certain angle to see a glimpse of sunlight. He calls me reflected moonlight and he still writes me to sleep. I don’t answer anymore and I’m just trying to answer prayers, but does anyone listen anymore? When you’re gone, you’re just gone. The memories you leave behind will be your lasting legacy. I will bear no children. I will have no fame. I will have no flaws. I will die imperfectly perfect. My nose bleeds a little longer than usual and my body is brittle enough to make a teacup sound like titanium. I don’t know how much longer I have and maybe I’ll never be able to tell him thanks. I guess in more ways than one– he knows. Maybe he’ll stop writing about me some day. Maybe he’ll forget about me. Maybe I’ll forget about me some day.

“I never forgot about you.”

How To Make Love to a Trans Person by Gabe Moses

Forget the images you’ve learned to attach
To words like cock and clit,
Chest and breasts.
Break those words open
Like a paramedic cracking ribs
To pump blood through a failing heart.
Push your hands inside.
Get them messy.
Scratch new definitions on the bones.

Get rid of the old words altogether.
Make up new words.
Call it a click or a ditto.
Call it the sound he makes
When you brush your hand against it through his jeans,
When you can hear his heart knocking on the back of his teeth
And every cell in his body is breathing.
Make the arch of her back a language
Name the hollows of each of her vertebrae
When they catch pools of sweat
Like rainwater in a row of paper cups
Align your teeth with this alphabet of her spine
So every word is weighted with the salt of her.

When you peel layers of clothing from his skin
Do not act as though you are changing dressings on a trauma patient
Even though it’s highly likely that you are.
Do not ask if she’s “had the surgery.”
Do not tell him that the needlepoint bruises on his thighs look like they hurt
If you are being offered a body
That has already been laid upon an altar of surgical steel
A sacrifice to whatever gods govern bodies
That come with some assembly required
Whatever you do,
Do not say that the carefully sculpted landscape
Bordered by rocky ridges of scar tissue
Looks almost natural.

If she offers you breastbone
Aching to carve soft fruit from its branches
Though there may be more tissue in the lining of her bra
Than the flesh that rises to meet it Let her ripen in your hands.
Imagine if she’d lost those swells to cancer,
A car accident instead of an accident of genetics
Would you think of her as less a woman then?
Then think of her as no less one now.

If he offers you a thumb-sized sprout of muscle
Reaching toward you when you kiss him
Like it wants to go deep enough inside you
To scratch his name on the bottom of your heart
Hold it as if it can-
In your hand, in your mouth
Inside the nest of your pelvic bones.
Though his skin may hardly do more than brush yours,
You will feel him deeper than you think.

Realize that bodies are only a fraction of who we are
They’re just oddly-shaped vessels for hearts
And honestly, they can barely contain us
We strain at their seams with every breath we take
We are all pulse and sweat,
Tissue and nerve ending
We are programmed to grope and fumble until we get it right.
Bodies have been learning each other forever.
It’s what bodies do.
They are grab bags of parts
And half the fun is figuring out
All the different ways we can fit them together;
All the different uses for hipbones and hands,
Tongues and teeth;
All the ways to car-crash our bodies beautiful.
But we could never forget how to use our hearts
Even if we tried.
That’s the important part.
Don’t worry about the bodies.
They’ve got this.


Just a small thing to note, in case some of you might not know! ^^ Most of the clear acrylic charms and standees i make come with a very clear protective layer over them–if it looks like a scratch, it’s most likely just on the surface and you can easily peel the layer off (: Same thing goes with the standee base! 

When you’re lonely, you feel as if there’s nobody in the world who can understand you, love you. Loneliness creeps into your mind with its long slender fingers and slowly inches forward a little more every day. It’s ultimate goal is to spread into you like a virus that has no cure, like those vines that grow anywhere, and everywhere, yet are impossible to cut away. Loneliness wants to peel away every layer of your happiness and fulfillment, first scratching at the surface, but digging deep inside in no time. It will make you hollow until you let it. This virus lives in you when it’s told you’re against your mind. So if you just try making friends with your mind, the light of friendship will steer clear any sign of those vines.

Your mind is like clay, it will be what you shape it into.

—  Be friends with your mind, then it won’t kill you as much
booze in the time of prohibition (reader/1920's AU)

(So here it is! Yes that title is a book reference, I’m a word nerd. Anyway, I might write a sequel to this, because I adore the premise. Enjoy!)

An ordinary night. An ordinary, warm, summer’s night, where streetlights bathed the pavements in a harsh glow and the world seemed to be so alive and so dead all at once.

An ordinary night in 1925, where you would break the law for the first time in your life.

Everyone was doing it. Prohibition wasn’t doing anyone any favors, so there was no time like the present to try it. You were dressed to the nines, outer layers peeled off in response to the weather. You had planned out an excuse just in case you were stopped on your way there by a policeman. “What’s a young thing like you doing so late at night looking like that?” He would inquire.

“Well, sir, I’m on my way back from my cousin’s wedding, sir. I don’t mean to be any trouble.” A fairly cunning lie, and you knew it. You would keep walking, knock at the door, mutter the password, and slip off into this secret world.

The thrill of getting caught was a wonderful, bone-shaking, stomach churning thrill. Almost the same thrill as when the cold, metal door was pulled open, and you slipped inside.

“The Blind King”, the bar was called. A small, cosy joint on the edge of town. It was your first time there, but all of your friends had recommended it.

“You’ve never been to the King’s? (As it was affectionately dubbed.) The music is amazing, the bartender is almost psychic, the patrons are great chat. And the poker? Challenge the King. Go ahead.” Your friends had told you the password and put in a good word for you last time they were there. So there you stood, looking in through the door into the eyes of a tall, tanned man.

“Password?” He asked in a deep voice, almost at a growl.

“Um… ‘R-Regalia.’ That is the password, right? Weird word.” You replied, almost inaudible. Your heart almost jumped out of your chest when you heard the door unlatch.

You took a good look at the man as you were ushered inside. He was a large, tattooed man, with a scar over his eye.

“You’re new. The name’s Gladiolus Amicitia. Call me Gladio.” He held out his hand, and you cautiously took it. Any regrets you once had melted away when he flashed you a toothy grin. “We get to know all our customers: we’re like a family. What can I call you?”

“(Y/N). It’s my first time at one of these… clubs.” You gazed around at the cozy decor. The place was fairly busy, and you picked up on dots of chatter, interspersed with wafting smoke and a deep laugh. The smell of a pleasant musk drifted around the room, spiced and soft.

“Well, enjoy yourself. If anyone gives you trouble, just gimme the word and I’ll take care of them.” Gladio gently pushed you off, taking your coat from you and leaving you standing in the middle of the small room. You found yourself wandering over to the bar. You perched on a stool, still searching the room and attempting to take the atmosphere in. You were brought out of your daydream by the noise of a man clearing his throat.

“Are you going to order something, or am I to guess?” A well dressed man with a thick accent and a pair of glasses caught your attention as he dried a glass with a pale towel. “Ignis Scientia. I’m the resident barman.” He smiled politely, setting the glass down and looking you over. He had a sophisticated air about him that was unfamiliar to you.

“Surprise me, Mr. Scientia. This is my first visit to one of these places, so I’d rather let you do the choosing.” You gave him a smile of your own, a smile that grew wider when he gave you a pleased nod.

“A Sidecar it is, then. Or maybe a Whiskey Sour… No. A Sidecar.” He set about collecting bottles and glasses, and began to almost effortlessly construct the drink. As he poured, he began a conversation.

“So, what brings you to our humble corner of the world?” He joked, beginning to shake the drink.

You answered, but the man in the corner of the room, at the microphone, caught your eye. He had a mess of shining blonde hair, and he sweetly crooned melody after melody with his eyes closed. He seemed to be away in away world of his own, irreverent and nostalgic.

“My friends told me this place was the best in town, so here I am.” He suddenly slid a glass over to you, tapping your hand.

“Your Sidecar. This one is on the house. Enjoy.” You took a sip, and when you hummed in pleasure, he allowed himself a chuckle. He had managed to get the balance exactly right, leading to a smooth, delicious drink.

“And him, over there?” He pointed at the man you had been watching. “Prompto Argentum. Our house musician.” You rolled the name over your tongue a few times. It sounded pleasant, like that of a film actress or a broadway starlet.

You thanked Ignis for the drink, bringing it with you as you looked for a table to sit at. Suddenly, someone tapped your shoulder. You turned around to see a suited man, with a mop of messy black hair and soft eyes.

“The name’s Noctis. Noctis Lucis Caelum. They call me the King.” So, here he was. “Stupid name, I know. I’m the poker guy. New patrons have to play me in in a round, so we can get to know each other. It’s tradition. You win? All your drinks are on my tab tonight. Sound good?”

The entire bar hushed, and you looked around for any response. Gladio motioned to urge you on, and so you sat down at his table and set down your drink. A new sense of bravado, you pulled a cigarette from your pocket and lit it, holding it loosely between your fingers.

“Let’s go, Your Highness.”


Rituals and Potions is an Atlantic series of personal essays that deal with beauty routines, and when they fail. Conceived by health and science writers, Julie Beck and Olga Khazan, this collection of stories peels back the cosmetic layer of vanity products to reveal deeper truths about insecurity, impossible beauty standards, and biology. Read the entire series here.

(credit: Katie Martin / Emily Jan / The Atlantic)


Why Science Will Never Know Everything About Our Universe

“The Universe itself may be finite or may be infinite; the jury is still out. But one thing is certain: the part that’s accessible to us is finite. Even with the expanding Universe, even with all the galaxies and stars and planet and molecules and atoms and subatomic particles in it, there’s only so much we can access. And those limitations – the total numbers of particles and the total amount of energy available in the Universe – means there’s only a finite amount of information we can determine about our cosmos. For the first time, we can quantify that, and begin to infer which things we might never understand.”

As we peel back the layers of information deeper and deeper into the Universe’s history, we uncover progressively more knowledge about how everything we know today came to be. The discovery of distant galaxies and their redshifts led to expanding Universe, which led to the Big Bang and the discovery of very early phases like the cosmic microwave background and big bang nucleosynthesis. But before that, there was a period of cosmic inflation that left its mark on the Universe. What came before inflation, then? Did it always exist? Did it have a beginning? Or did it mark the rebirth of a cosmic cycle? Maddeningly, this information may forever be inaccessible to us, as the nature of inflation wipes all this information clean from our visible Universe.

Go find out why some things are inherently unknowable on this special edition of Starts With A Bang!

A Proposal by Any Other Name, Chapter 25: Takeout


TW: Discussions of past / child abuse. Please tread carefully, read the chapter notes before continuing.

Chapter summary: Rey gets a little drunk and Kylo starts peeling back the layers.

Chapter Preview:

She licks her lips unconsciously and Kylo’s eyes follow, his line of sight falling from her eyes to her mouth between a hesitant heartbeat and the next as he inhales. Then there’s a buzz. Kylo frowns, his full brows stitching together as he tilts his head down and to the side, towards his pocket. It gives Rey enough time to pull away, though for a moment she feels Kylo’s unwillingness to let go in the slight tensing of his muscles, the reflexive pressure against her shoulder blades attempting to pull her back in before he quickly steps back and gives her a once over.

“Answer it,” Rey says, tilting her chin towards his pocket. She’d held her end of their deal. Kylo only frowns.

“What if it’s F—“

She shakes her head, cutting him off. “I doubt he’d be calling me now,” she murmurs, trying and failing to keep the bitter edge out of her voice. She’d just been dumped, after all. Told to go home, as if it were so easy or so commonplace for Rey to hop on a plane and cross the Atlantic.

Author’s note: Welp. Happy saturday? bit of a heavy chapter so please do mind the TW/CW included in the notes. Thanks for all the support as always <3 

metamorphosis is a tricky thing. upon various attempts, i’ve learned that it does not come quite as naturally as it would seem and that caterpillars are liars in that way. a chrysalis of self hate disintegrated to reveal a beautiful and almost textbook picture of depression. change is a wonderful thing. also my patterns remained the same and i look wildly similar. related: don’t be an idiot; does this look like an earl gray hoodie? either way, a stoplight is still red and yellow while it’s green, and i think that’s my point. change is nothing but another layer of paint on an older and dirtier and peeling layer, which used to be the desired look anyways. birth is just decay, and rebirth is recycling. i wrap this up as i wrap myself up, and i do hope you’ll stop by as i am currently residing in a cocoon and terribly lonely there, and you’ve always got nice things to say so maybe this will be the day i finally grow wings.
all my love,