She has a lot of knowledge on how to profile people,
pick their triggers, and as Harley Quinn she kind of utilizes that to
just manipulate people and mess with them. She’s always picking someone to be dissecting and playing off and messing with. - Margot Robbie
Jack: Read a gritty nonfiction about war at age 6, proceeded to recount all the nasty parts of battle at the dinner table with great enthusiasm.
Bitty: Made 2,000 cupcakes in 2.5 hours and then passed out from exhaustion after the last cupcake was finished and decorated to my standards.
Shitty: Went up to a friend of a friend in only my underwear and went on a rant about the patriarchy because he was being ignorant.
Lardo: Was high, sat on my best friend’s lap and colored all over his face, declared it art, then paraded him around town for an hour.
Ransom: Got a B on a quiz, called my mom and told her I was dropping out of school because I was too ashamed to go on.
Holster: Called the new kid in one of my classes ‘bro’ and 'dude’ over 48 times in one day without realizing it (someone had tallied)
Nursey: Tripped while trying to use the stairs during a fancy dinner party my parents were holding, landed stomach first on the banister, rode it all the way down the the staircase, hopped off onto the foyer floor and did a curtsy.
Dex: Stayed up until 4 am working on a coding project for my comp. sci class, accidentally fell asleep, woke up with my head on the keyboard and everything erased.
Chowder: Was so elated that my friends finally got together I ended up crying out of happiness for 2 hours straight.
Tango: Asked so many questions in the first week of my 10th grade Gen Psych class that we had to make a rule that I needed to write all the questions on a spare paper and turn them in at the end to stop disrupting the class every five minutes.
Whiskey: Had a sour look on my face because I was trying to figure something out in my head that 3 people didn’t want to approach me and asked my friend to get my attention instead.
Bonus! Kent: Put on an outfit that costed probably over 4k all together but instead of going out I sprayed 3 cans of whipped cream into my mouth, watched the National Pet Show, and cried about the incredibly fluffy cats.
The 2NE1 criticism that I hate the most is that they weren’t good visuals (utter bullshit) and that they alienated the male market. You know what? That’s a good thing. It was nice having just one group that didn’t cater to the male gaze, that focused on female and personal empowerment and strong images and lyrics. 2NE1 offered an alternative to the fabricated images of many k-pop groups. They were real, their music was real. Lonely, Missing You and Ugly are just a few examples of vulnerable and painful songs with a sound and message that no one else has been able to achieve yet. I’m so going to miss 2NE1, the rule-breakers, the trend-setters. The ones that never shied away from bold fashion, from fierce stages, from letting loose on stage with gazes to the camera like they could set it on fire if they wanted to. I’m going to miss 2NE1, the girls who could just come out and perform great songs, many of which had 0% to do with relationships, and were instead all about having fun, independence, being free, following your dreams and dancing. I’m going to miss 2NE1 so much, especially in a world that badly needs true idols like them. But at the same time, I am so grateful for the time we had with them, and I hope their legacy will inspire future girl groups and girls and women around the world for many years to come.
“Even if a long time passes by, we’ll still remember each other.: - 2NE1, Missing You
Why are you so in love with science? (not meant in a bad way, I'm just curious)
I guess it’s because science just sort of makes sense to me, on a fundamental level.
The processes of science and scientific analysis are very in line with how I see the world and how I think. I’ve always been a very sort of analytic thinker. Like I was the kid who always had to know why and was always questioning everything and always tries to explain everything (to the point that I was, at time, a very obnoxious child).
I like facts. I like seeing how things fit together. I like sorting through things and finding the bigger picture and then seeing how the individual details slot into it.
It’s how I make sense of the world I guess. Trying to find an explanation for things I don’t understand. It’s why I was never good at being religious but am fascinated by the history of religion and how it creates and is created by society.
And it goes beyond the purely natural and physical sciences. I feel similarly about the social sciences and history and anything that relies on critical analysis.
On a fundamental level I want to know why. And science, at it’s core, is an attempt to answer that question.
I was a kid; sixth or seventh grade, and we were having gym class outside. It was cold, so I wore a coat. Nobody else wore a coat.
The teacher walked away for a minute, and that’s when it happened.
There wasn’t any signal, nobody said anything, but they surrounded me, and somebody forced the hood of my coat up over my head and somebody yanked the drawstrings of it tight so that it covered my face and I couldn’t see, and then they all pushed me around, laughing.
I dissociated. I felt like I was floating, all the fear I was feeling somehow distant.
And then the teacher walked back and they stopped. He must have seen, but he didn’t say anything. None of them got in trouble. I never told anyone about it because I thought it had been my fault for letting it happen. I should have fought back, I thought. I should have been strong enough to stop it. It was my fault.
For years afterwards, I never wore a coat.
I’m grown up now, stuck in the same small town where all of those people still live, and you know what they have? Guns. I’ve seen pictures of the permits, up on Facebook. Concealed carry.
I feel guilty, though, for being frightened. Illinois was a pretty solidly Democrat state—although I think a lot of the democrat votes come from Chicago, and I live in a very rural area.
But it’s not as if I’m visibly queer. I have long hair; I look like a cisgender girl. I’m not dating anyone; I’m only out as bisexual and genderqueer to a few people. I’m white. Logically, I’m relatively safe—as safe as anyone who looks like a woman can ever be.
And it’s not as if I see those people anymore, the ones from the mob. I stay in the house, mostly, and don’t see anyone, really, except my family: grandparents, cousins, aunt.
They voted for Trump.
My cousin has a baby shower coming up this Sunday—how am I supposed to go to it? How am I supposed to look these people in the eyes, these people who say they love me but think people like me are less than human?
I bite my tongue, second guess everything I say.
What a gorgeous woman, I say, when an actress comes onto the television screen, and then I wince.
I flinch when people use the wrong pronouns for me.
My mother says she has so much trouble remembering because she has to call me she in front of our family.
Just tell them, she says. What’s the worst that can happen?
My grandfather used to take me for boat rides when I was a kid.
He has a Trump sticker on the bumper of his truck.
They love you, my mother says.
My cousin taught me to ride a bicycle, to tie my shoes.
Voting Trump, she said on Facebook. Who’s with me.
He tells the truth, my thirteen-year-old cousin said.
What truth is that? The truth that people like me should be given electroshock? Or the truth that little girls like you are old enough for grown men to fuck them?
I am so angry.
Our family has lunch together every Sunday. At one of the lunches a couple of months ago, they had a discussion about how ‘homosexuals’ had ‘ruined’ the words gay and queer.
And there I am, in the corner, shaking.
I don’t go to those family lunches very often anymore.
They love you, my mother says, it’s not as if they’re going to disown you.
But I don’t want to be their fucking exception; I don’t want them to have to ‘overlook’ my queerness or ‘forgive’ me for it. Love the sinner, hate the sin—what sin, the sin of my existence?
I am so angry.
You act paranoid, my mother says, you act like you’re afraid for your life.
And maybe she’s right. Maybe I am paranoid. Logically, I know, I’m relatively safe, but I can’t help but feel that the teacher has walked away for the next four years.
I know the rules now, though: don’t wear a coat, if nobody else is wearing one. Smile when they call you she. Don’t glance at pretty girls. Bite your tongue. Present as your assigned gender.
The thing is, I don’t want to have to do that anymore. I want to be visible; I want to feel like I exist. Do you know, I didn’t even realize it was possible to be queer until I was twelve fucking years old? I learned it from a fantasy novel. I thought it was a misprint, at first, the main character and the love interest having the same pronouns. I had no queer role models growing up, because everyone I knew who was queer was closeted.
I am so angry.
I am tired of hiding; I am tired of feeling afraid.