May. 12th, 2017


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I’ll cut to reply too because asks cut off so short! In short, though, repasting the link to an amazing/awful Twitter thread by a (brilliant, follow her!) trans woman about how far-reaching the consequences of the political climate are in personally othering and isolating trans people especially. 

Well, count me as among the Internet friends that you do have. 

And it’s hard. I don’t have any other advice beyond that, as a presumably-older (I’m ancient, you must be younger than me), probably-not-wiser, cis person who may not have anything to tell you anyway– but just as someone who’s struggled with being Not What People Close To Me Assume/Expect, and who’s been not well and just as a fellow person– it’s an unspecific kind of sympathy, really, but if I could use it to cushion some of the rawness of your deal I would, use the dumb shit I’ve survived to maybe bubble-wrap some of the awfulness away, I would. 

I don’t know, I just don’t, and I’ve never had the innate capacity to keep a damn secret long enough in my life to ever really not be Out about Anything to Anyone, so I can’t really know how awful it would be to feel like your most intimate relationships are with people who just don’t know something so fundamental. I can only imagine, and the imagining feels Bad. 

Not to be trite, but I’m kind of like, envisioning as if the sharing of the Bad could dilute it, somehow, and make it not rest so heavy on you. I wish that were true and I wish I could help. I wish there were a way to know if your SO and your family could imagine it too, could come to understand it. But what a risk, what a frightening pressure– 

And I wish we had some kind of mental health support at all in this country/culture, all they ever do is freak out if you mention any kind of whisper of self-harm or even an unformed desire to just not be, they want to do terrible drastic terrifying counterproductive things, or nothing, and there’s basically no in-between. 

God, it’s not like you can just imagine yourself better, and it’s not like it’s not a serious chemical problem a lot of the time, but the absolute truth is that a supportive environment can make a world of difference, and that’s something that not only can’t be prescribed, it just can’t be provided at all, and that’s goddamn stupid. 

All I have is stupid stories and armloads of goddamn wishes, but I’ll send them all to you in the meantime. Be well. 








The last thing you ate + the first thing you see when you look to your left is the title of your pretentious lifestyle blog.

Right now, mine would be called Pizza and Prints.

Potato Chips and Dog.

I feel I could use that title for something.

Custard Tart and Cushion.

Chocolate Chip Cookie + Tylenol.

Eggs and shoes.

If that isn’t pretentious, then I don’t know what is. 

Pumpkin Seeds & Pencil Boxes

Peanut Butter Jelly and Lube

Sushi Bowl + Blanket

i never do these but it’s Banana Bread Boyfriend and I thought that was too hilarious.

A post shared by Bridget Kelly (@bomberqueen17) on May 12, 2017 at 12:23pm PDT

Now the empty dance party room has become a martial arts dojo. I was going to interfere but the awesome couch move hasn’t gotten repeated. There are a lot of rules in this game, and more explosions than you’d expect.
It was a half day from school and I wasn’t really prepared.
This song is on repeat #5 by the way, and there’s no “repeat” function on the player so they have to figure the skip backward every time, as if anew. It’s more entertaining than it sounds. (at Georgia)

We often think that the empathetic function in fiction is accomplished via the writer’s relation to his characters, but it’s also accomplished via the writer’s relation to his reader. You make a rarefied place (rarefied in language, in form; perfected in many inarticulable beauties – the way two scenes abut; a certain formal device that self-escalates; the perfect place at which a chapter cuts off); and then welcome the reader in. She can’t believe that you believe in her that much; that you are so confident that the subtle nuances of the place will speak to her; she is flattered. And they do speak to her. This mode of revision, then, is ultimately about imagining that your reader is as humane, bright, witty, experienced and well intentioned as you, and that, to communicate intimately with her, you have to maintain the state, through revision, of generously imagining her. You revise your reader up, in your imagination, with every pass. You keep saying to yourself: “No, she’s smarter than that. Don’t dishonour her with that lazy prose or that easy notion.”

And in revising your reader up, you revise yourself up too.

- George Saunders: what writers really do when they write (via ilvalentinos)



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