talk to me
May. 13th, 2016 01:31 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dragonlady7via http://ift.tt/1OmzDAJ:
help, I feel weird. I feel cut-off and lonely and weird and stuck. I’m serious, I cried this morning because an old pickup truck smelled like my dad.
I was going to like, put prompts here for asks I’d like to get so I’d have something to talk about but I couldn’t think of anything. And I looked for an ask meme or something because that would be just the ticket, but naturally, I can’t find anything. (The ones that ask if you’re a virgin or have ever drank alcohol are very cute and make me feel a billion years old. Listen, virginity is a social construct and I lost mine before memes existed okay. Likewise my first alcoholic drink was probably related to my first communion and thus is lost to us in the deeps of time. Listen.)
Do feel free to ask me weird shit, though, it would please me to think about something besides the gross shit between my ears.
Anyway, instead of anything fluffy or useful, here’s a Did You Know based on the last picture I posted (which, since it was uncaptioned, I’ll explain here– it was an aerial shot from above of a damaged WWII medium bomber, a B-17, with one of its four engines trailing smoke, and I’d hashtagged it #same because, you know, accurate):
WWII bomber crews didn’t wear their parachutes because the packs were too heavy and bulky. In the event of a plane going down, if the pilot lost control all hands would perish because the plummeting plane’s G-forces would pin them down and they’d be unable to move, to get to their parachutes or to escape even if they could get the packs. (B-17s were normally staffed by a crew of up to 10.) Consequently, a lot of pilots rode their crashing planes down, knowing it would kill them, but trying to maintain control of the plane as long as they could so as many crew could get out as possible. Sometimes crew bailed early because of this; at the first trouble, the pilot would order them out, in case he lost control later; this meant a lot of gunners wound up with the Resistance or in prison camps or killed in hostile territory, even though the pilots managed to limp the planes back to base. So take those feels, which are a lot of feels if you feel me, and go read and subscribe to the WIP Blue Skies (feat. Poe Dameron and a Lancaster, which is the plane in my blog heading if you’re curious; approximate RAF equivalent of the B-17; also featuring Luke Skywalker and some excellent slang, and Finn just showed up, so–).
I’ve started and discarded a WWII bomber AU for probably every fandom I’ve ever been in, just FYI. I did a shitload of research on the French Resistance, to the point of actually attending a re-enactment in persona (I cheated and used my Dad’s WWI Enfield because guess what, the US airdropped a shitload of them on France and they were a common Resistance weapon).
But I’ve never written anything about it. Maybe someday.
Ugh I’m so disgusted with myself in general, I wish this brain chemistry situation would stop. Tell me stories? Ask me weird things. Or talk to me about Home Out In The Wind, I’d like that, next week is the last chapter and I’m starting to become genuinely terrified that if I don’t emotionally resolve it *enough* I’ll be burned at the stake or something. Like, I’m getting really worried. Listen, it’s better than it was going to be, I had Poe running away from his feelings a lot more before I fixed it, but I’m sort of. It’s. Uh.
Listen. When I emotionally hurt you, I do it to myself worse. Yes I just “it hurts me more than it hurts you”’d but I promise you I have cried actual human tears over this shit for months now do not give me that look.
Oh Christ, I need to come up with a titling gimmick for the next segment and I don’t know how. I just. I don’t. I don’t have a lot of cope, folks, and this shit is hard okay.
help, I feel weird. I feel cut-off and lonely and weird and stuck. I’m serious, I cried this morning because an old pickup truck smelled like my dad.
I was going to like, put prompts here for asks I’d like to get so I’d have something to talk about but I couldn’t think of anything. And I looked for an ask meme or something because that would be just the ticket, but naturally, I can’t find anything. (The ones that ask if you’re a virgin or have ever drank alcohol are very cute and make me feel a billion years old. Listen, virginity is a social construct and I lost mine before memes existed okay. Likewise my first alcoholic drink was probably related to my first communion and thus is lost to us in the deeps of time. Listen.)
Do feel free to ask me weird shit, though, it would please me to think about something besides the gross shit between my ears.
Anyway, instead of anything fluffy or useful, here’s a Did You Know based on the last picture I posted (which, since it was uncaptioned, I’ll explain here– it was an aerial shot from above of a damaged WWII medium bomber, a B-17, with one of its four engines trailing smoke, and I’d hashtagged it #same because, you know, accurate):
WWII bomber crews didn’t wear their parachutes because the packs were too heavy and bulky. In the event of a plane going down, if the pilot lost control all hands would perish because the plummeting plane’s G-forces would pin them down and they’d be unable to move, to get to their parachutes or to escape even if they could get the packs. (B-17s were normally staffed by a crew of up to 10.) Consequently, a lot of pilots rode their crashing planes down, knowing it would kill them, but trying to maintain control of the plane as long as they could so as many crew could get out as possible. Sometimes crew bailed early because of this; at the first trouble, the pilot would order them out, in case he lost control later; this meant a lot of gunners wound up with the Resistance or in prison camps or killed in hostile territory, even though the pilots managed to limp the planes back to base. So take those feels, which are a lot of feels if you feel me, and go read and subscribe to the WIP Blue Skies (feat. Poe Dameron and a Lancaster, which is the plane in my blog heading if you’re curious; approximate RAF equivalent of the B-17; also featuring Luke Skywalker and some excellent slang, and Finn just showed up, so–).
I’ve started and discarded a WWII bomber AU for probably every fandom I’ve ever been in, just FYI. I did a shitload of research on the French Resistance, to the point of actually attending a re-enactment in persona (I cheated and used my Dad’s WWI Enfield because guess what, the US airdropped a shitload of them on France and they were a common Resistance weapon).
But I’ve never written anything about it. Maybe someday.
Ugh I’m so disgusted with myself in general, I wish this brain chemistry situation would stop. Tell me stories? Ask me weird things. Or talk to me about Home Out In The Wind, I’d like that, next week is the last chapter and I’m starting to become genuinely terrified that if I don’t emotionally resolve it *enough* I’ll be burned at the stake or something. Like, I’m getting really worried. Listen, it’s better than it was going to be, I had Poe running away from his feelings a lot more before I fixed it, but I’m sort of. It’s. Uh.
Listen. When I emotionally hurt you, I do it to myself worse. Yes I just “it hurts me more than it hurts you”’d but I promise you I have cried actual human tears over this shit for months now do not give me that look.
Oh Christ, I need to come up with a titling gimmick for the next segment and I don’t know how. I just. I don’t. I don’t have a lot of cope, folks, and this shit is hard okay.
