The only thing that disappoints me about this whole Johnny Depp thing is that he apologized.
lol sweetie, well the media blew this way out of proportion so maybe that has got something do do with it. but no one else who has said something like this has never apologized, including celebrities. but its no big deal, i really don’t understand the fuss. but i’m proud of him
but, last year people were sending death threats to Johnny Depp’s then 17-year-old daughter and nobody gave a shit about that. but one joke and the world ends. has anyone every apologised for behaving disgusting on Lily-Rose’s instagram posts. no. like johnny said at the rally with Damien, if they expect us to live by the book they should to! a joke about the president is improper and offensive, but a 17-year-old can be slandered and it’s ok. did trump ever apologized for the countless shit he said? has anyone ever apologised for throwing johnny’s private business and lies about him all over the media, has his abusive ex apologised? No!! but my god one joke and everyone loses their shit. lol@ all you herd sheap
I was tagged to do this fucking mess of an audio post by @roseok and I apologise in advance for the twelve minutes of shit-talking and answering the below questions about A Ticket To The Sun in the complete wrong order. I also apologise about the ten different tangents that I go on. Get ready to cringe.
1. What inspired you to write it? 2. What is your favourite line? 3. Where did you write it? 4. Why did you write it?
I would tag other writers, but 1. I am too lazy, and 2. Ariana tagged enough to make up for my lack of. Good luck to everyone else who is doing this ha ha.
Desperation is an act that involves the person in it to do things that they normally wouldn’t do. A good man who has done nothing wrong in his life might start looking into doing shady deals if it means is life would be restored to its former glory. When feeling trapped in society and unable to find a way out, that rope starts to look better and better. And it’s not just a recent occurrence. Mankind had done many unwise actions when desperate. A desperate act in history tat many know is with Hitler. Now why would he be connected with desperation? The reason. His people were desperate and turned to him for guidance. The Treaty of Versailles was killing them and they had nowhere to turn. Then Hitler showed up. He promised that he would make Germany great again. And why did the people accept his twisted ideas? They were desperate. I feel many aliens wouldn’t understand why we do what we do when we are desperate. They would understand the sinking feeling, the feeling of drowning, the feeling of wanting to get themselves safe no matter the cost. But hey who knows, they just might.
Omgggg. It amuses me to no end (in the best way possible) that Lili and Cami are the only ones to do photo shoots together in the cast. Like, who else has done shoots outside the show with each other? They're the best and I love that they keep feeding us. We are truly #blessed.
i just want to take some time and point to these nice little comic dubs that people have done for my comics over the past few months! i had seen a few things like this here and there before so i was really flattered that people wanted to make them for mine too. i’m especially impressed with the extra voice lines and sound effects that they’ve added.
so im not 100% comfortable posting this (body acceptance is a long road) but i wanted to say this swimming top has been the only swimming top ive been able to be semi-ok with wearing while taking a dip. ever since the day i was born ive loved swimming with a passion that just wont die. but i had to stop doing it for a few years once the dysphoria got too nasty, and that really sucked!! but this frilly thing had been a lifesaver. and i recommend to anyone else who has too much dysphoria to swim, especially if u dont want to wear a binder while swimming, to try out a top thats styled like this. obviously it doesnt come close to hiding everything but it sure as hell is a nice enough veil that helps keep my sanity together long enough to do one of the things i love most.
the 150 patchwork characters above your instagram photos and below your profile picture; the 650 words you bled into your common app essay, baptized by midnight tears and shaky fingers on backlit keyboards; the 2 am text you sent your friend when she was sad, which read more like a love song than any top 50 hit; the scribbled words you placed among doodles and integrals on the back of your math test, the ones you almost hesitated to erase before you turned it in.
call it art –
that photo of your best friend laughing, even though it’s blurry and his left hand is out of frame; those pancakes, the ones the man at the other booth smirked at you for admiring before eating, laughing harshly before returning to his bitter coffee and significantly underappreciated waffles; the sunsets and sunrises that fill your photo stream, reminders that yesterday was beautiful and tomorrow might be too; the photo of yourself that you can’t decide if you quite like, but can’t delete either, your finger nervously hovering above it. post it.
call it music –
the laughter of your friends from the other room that makes you smile, even though you missed the joke; the sound of your turn signal clicking, melting into the patter of raindrops on the windshield’s glass; the whistle of the summer wind outside of your old bedroom, the one that promised fairytales and twisters in sleepless childhood nights; the rhythm of your shoes in the empty hallway, reverberating with the sound of your arrival.
You are loved by your daughter, your girlfriend, your sister, your entire family, and the children you served lunch to everyday at school. You were not a threat, a thug, or any of the hurtful names they called you. It hurts to know an officer can take your life for no valid reason at all and walk away a free man. It irks me to the core to know that the officer felt your life wasn’t worth living. For you and anyone else who has lost their life due to do the individuals who are supposed to be protecting us, we will not give up hope or faith.
Philando Castile, I will continue to say YOUR name.
In spite of everything I love
Harley Quinn but, damn, writers treat her so badly. I swear, the temptation to
make her actually stupid must be terrible because it’s so often implied, or
explicitly stated, that she slept her way through school. First of all, it
does not work like that. Second, she’s
not a therapist or a psychologist, she’s a psychiatrist, she’s a fricking MD
and a damn young one too. Managing pre-med and collegiate gymnastics that she
relied on to keep her scholarship? Harley is fucked up, but she’s not the dumb
blonde she plays. (also stop making her stacked, she’s a gymnast. she is 4’11”
of pure muscle and is not top heavy)
If you want a good Harley
backstory it’s simple. She’s ADHD but medicated and slightly robotic because of
it. I want to take special care not to demonize meds but, rather, people’s
disapproval of neurodivergence and a lack of focus on what is best for a
patient rather than what is most convenient for others. So, maybe, around ten
years old Harley is a hyperactive space cadet who’s brilliant at tests but
sloppy at coursework, who would be a gymnastics prodigy if she could actually
focus on technique and put in practice time instead of fooling around. Then the
meds come and it’s actually really cool because she can do the things she needs
to do instead of just wanting to do them, doing something else entirely, and
getting in trouble. People are proud of her, she’s proud of herself. But now
there are expectations. Family and teachers and coaches overschedule her, find
worth only in her success and don’t care about her mental health at all as long
as she’s performing and castigate her when she does fail. Fuck if you don’t
internalize that. But she doesn’t look unhealthy and she’s doing amazing. She
actually has to choose between the Olympic trials and continuing her grad
studies. She probably has some issues with self-harm but it either doesn’t look
like self-harm or is well covered up.
When Arkham accepts her, fresh
from her residency, it’s not a mistake. The woman is amazing. All they can see
is a mountain of achievements rather than the seething ball of nerves,
self-loathing, and imposter syndrome boiling just under the surface. That’s
when Joker comes in. He’s got the Hannibal Lecter shtick down. Where everyone
else sees an intelligent driven young woman he sees a frightened overwhelmed
girl who is working her hardest to convince the world she’s anyone other than
herself. Sending her into a nervous breakdown would be too easy so he doesn’t even
bother. Instead he’s open with her, almost friendly. The other doctors are
amazed, Harley is amazed, she’s not done anything particularly revolutionary
but, for the first time in forever, it looks like the clown prince of crime is
showing progress. He unravels her and it’s a challenge, she flinches back and
gets very serious when he comes too close to the real Harley under the
professional. Still, soon she’s questioning everything. She doesn’t even really
like her co-workers. She hasn’t had a real friend in years. She’s forgotten how
to have fun. Did she ever want this to be her life or did she just do it for
other people? It starts so slowly that it looks, at first, like she’s getting
better at self-care. Maybe something totally silly one weekend, a trampoline
park where she can enjoy the way her toned body moves without stressing out
over landings, a face painting booth at a street fair, some garishly colored
downright tacky decoration that clashes with her sensible apartment. Suddenly
she realizes how much she hates knowing the difference between cream and ecru.
The beigeness of her life is repulsive. She hates the person she’s pretending
to be even more that she hates herself which is really saying something.
After her weekend of freedom she
would have called in sick if it wasn’t so suddenly important to see him. The
relief she feels at talking to one of Gotham’s most infamous supercriminals is
disturbing but it is relief and she’s been swallowing a slow-motion panic
attack for hours. She admits, though she shouldn’t, that she took his advice
about doing something fun and he teases her, what would straight-laced Doctor
Quinzel do for fun? Did she realphabetize her sock drawer or buy a new
clipboard? It’s not important to impress him, it’s really not. He’s dangerous,
cruel, and he looks so proud when she admits that she bought a lamp shaped like
a lawn flamingo. The only mistake, he says, is that she should have stolen it.
She hopes the wicked thrill it gives her doesn’t show on her face. It does. She
almost even laughs. He likes it when he can make her laugh and she likes it
when he likes things.
It’s wrong and unprofessional,
the relationship she develops, and she knows it but her whole life she’s been
so high strung. Nothing she’s done has been for her, she’s not sure she knows
how to really do selfish things anymore, but he knows the selfish things she
needs to do. It feels good when she follows his advice even when it’s small
things like the rainbow striped socks she wears concealed under her very bland
slacks and sensible shoes. She’s so happy, almost giddy, and he loves her
happiness, he loves her, he loves the real her that she’s had to beat down and
hide for so long, the her that even she isn’t able to love. She is able to love
him, though, and since he loves her she’s able to love herself for him, to
protect and nurture something so important to him.
When the choice comes between
her old self, the tedious endless labor of making the world proud, and Him, the
spectacular man that brought color into her life, it’s not even a question.
She kills Doctor Harleen Quinzel, she throws away the version of her that let
herself burn just for medals and hollow accolades. She embraces Harley Quinn
and it’s so much a part of her nature she can’t even see that she’s still
living her life for someone else’s approval, except this time that person is a murderous
clown. She hasn’t let her hair down, she’s just put it in pigtails instead of a