“Werft Keine Schnebälle. Einmal Hat Ein Mädchen Einen Schneeball Mit Einem Stein Drin Ins Auge Gekriegt

Don’t buy other stuff

PLEASE DON’T SCROLL

even if you only reblog, that’s enough

i was debating on whether or not i should post this on tumblr but seeing as there haven’t been posts about this yet, here it is. i’m exposing my real location and nationality but it doesn’t matter.

if you have been active on twitter, you may already know #savemyanmar is trending. long story short, there has been a military coup. several nations have released statements but i want to share insight on what’s happening in the country.

memes about a coup have been circulating around for a couple days and when i slept at 2 am last night, we were still under the rule of the National League for Democracy (NLD). while they are not technically democratic, they are the closest we’ve got. when my mother woke up at 6 this morning, she was notified that the country was now under the rule of the military.

banks services are no longer available. wifi was cut at around 7-8. some people got wifi again earlier but many got it barely thirty minutes ago. this is bad for businesses especially ones that require international communications. additionally, international students like myself are experiencing anxiety; how do we pay for and attend classes if we’re not sure wifi is a given?

myanmar has a long, complicated history with military governments. the last time the military went into rule was in 1962 and only stopped in 2011, following the 2010 elections. there was a huge protest in 1988 lead by students that resulted in lots of death. during the military junta, resources like rice, water, oil, were scarce. the gist is military rule is bad for us.

all of my followers are not myanmar citizens, i’m sure but as part of the international community, please help us. here is a petition that you can sign (although i’m not sure if that can do much). there may be protests in front of myanmar embassies so look out for those. most of all, please help spread awareness. 

the people here are coping with dark humor, primarily in the form of memes but we don’t know how long this rule will last, even though the official statement said only a year. here’s something that pretty much sums up our coping mechanism:

again, even a reblog helps

i. it's not quite a poem; but saturday was the first day my family saw me in a binder. this includes my extremely catholic deacon of a father. ii. the weird thing about binders is that they make me feel like more of a girl. a better, mirrored version of a girl. i joke with my friends - how the fuck am i gonna explain that to a republican. maybe it's like color theory, i guess (children's hospital notwithstanding). when i wear a dress, i am frequently, vividly - disco-ball spinning and glitter lights - a boy. a boy in a dress. i look in the mirror and i'm like - what the fuck is this?

iii. i had never actually planned to come out. for ten years i only told, like, 5 people; most of whom were my partners. i'm not, like, shy or embarrassed about it - it just wasn't something i felt like i needed to share, really. i kind of feel my gender like. a favorite sweater. you can't really control what your favorite sweater is going to be. it's just like, this is the sweater that's comfy and cozy and you get compliments on so you wear it a lot. half the time you don't even realize it is your favorite unless someone else is like - oh, you're wearing your favorite sweater today, i love that one on you. and that little starburst of gratitude you feel when people care enough to notice this tiny thing about you - like that, i guess. maybe.

iv. i was outed 2 years ago by someone i considered to be a friend. what's wild is that she and i are no longer talking because of something completely unrelated. when i asked her what the fuck she was thinking, she said: you'll see. it's better this way.

v. there are ways it's better. i'll give her that much. i was never, like, hiding it, and all pronouns are fine for me, so it's not like i changed a whole lot. but it was nice; the gentle way people supported me. my best friend asking if i'd feel better in a suit at her wedding, even though i know it would have thrown off the pictures. nick asking me if i want to come along on guy-night pub crawls. plus, like, being in a very beautiful community. it doesn't seem like a lot - but in my adulthood, i've really figured out that life is genuinely and truly about the small things. vi. my father was pretty mad about the gay thing, but lately he's been really really hoping my '"i'm 10% straight in case of emergency" joke is - you know, not a joke. i'm never going to tell him about my gender. sometimes my gender has his ghost in it. i put on the suit and the binder and i'm like that's a possum in a costume. my gender is crying in another room, she couldn't make it to this conversation. plus, she's currently a dude.

vii. at the same time. my mother didn't want to make me upset in case it was a sensitive topic so she asked my sister about it, who asked me. the other day my mom gently corrected my father; using they/them (for the first time!) just-casually, as if she had been practicing - "hang on, i want to hear what they were saying." this woman was raised by irish catholics who didn't allow elbows on the table; much less fruity little troublemakers. my mother went to the library and got herself a bunch of books to learn more about being genderfluid, even though i never asked her to. as the saying goes - those that want to, do.

viii. i don't think i'll ever, like, "look" nonbinary. i know, i know, i know. there's no way to look nonbinary, and we both know i've done the reading and gotten the fancy degree about this. but when i was like 25 someone was measuring me for a costume and said - holy shit you have the same measurements as marilyn monroe except like. dude you're shorter and your waist is smaller. girls are probably killing themselves to look like you. and here's the thing - i know it was meant as a compliment. i know that. but i really, really, really wish i hadn't heard that. because my body is - and probably always will be - extremely, horrifically. feminine.

ix. and at the same time. it's not a poem, but on saturday my family saw me in a binder for the first time, and they were smiling. my sister cocked her head to the side. "it's good, actually. it's not that you look different. it's just like. a better view." she bit off a part of her fry before pointing the rest at me. "i don't know how to describe this, but ... you look more like you."

You remind me of an old seer who resides in a cave, and when young travelers seek you out in search of knowledge, you just sigh and say "I cannot give you what you want, for I speak the ugly truth, and you've come in search of beautiful lies."

But like a few travellers refuse to leave so now you have a ragtag group of starry-eyed listeners who hear out your prophecies and ask you questions, knowing the answer will most certainly be "Bella dies."

And occasionally an outsider comes along, asking about the Cullen's dog and Jacob's redemption, and all of your listeners shake their heads as your eyes begin to glow a burning, terrifying blue, and you say those unholy words, words that have brought monarchs to their knees and caused God to weep.

"Write the fic, anon."

...

I think you win the blog for the month, anon.

No!

I got it now and I hate it

3.14

You know those anime meta posts along the lines of “I was born with pink hair. The doctors told my parents I was a Main Character and ever since my life has not known peace from demons/spirits/sports competitions/harems who find me”

Well I see that, and I raise you this:

An anime boy whose appearance is, by absolutely anyone’s account, completely and utterly average. Mundane hair. Mundane eyes. Not even glasses to set him the tiniest bit apart. A simple, unmemorable, unrecognizable civilian among a backdrop of millions.

And he has a lot of passions, and a lot of ambitions, which he hones every chance he gets. He’s dabbled in sports and archery and cooking and just about anything you could wrap a competition around. And he’s competed in many of these. Every chance he gets. With all of his passion and all of his might.

He’s crushed by the competition every single time.

Until one day–one day something clicks for him. Something that should have seemed obvious from the start and yet never was–as though everyone, including himself, was unwittingly blind to it. It clicks, when he realizes every kid who’s beaten him in competition, every kid who’s gone on to fame and glory and acclaim, has been some candy-haired gel-spiked ridiculously-dressed fucker. 

There’s some trend there that this Main Character boy can’t explain and can’t understand but he decides, this one time, fuck it. He’ll play along too. He’s got a model train competition in four days, and he’s got nothing more to lose. He hits up the department store, buys the pinkest, noxious-est, fruitiest hair dye he can find, the spikiest hair gel available, and the gaudiest clothes on the thrift rack. He enters the model train competition looking like a bubble gum gijinka.

And he wins.

Suddenly, the other candy-haired contestants notice him. They talk to him. They pledge rivalries. Girls notice him. Judges applaud him. Acclaimed model train aficionados offer him internships across the world. He’s hit on something. 

The main cast expands to cover just about every candy-hair cliche in the book: from the mostly-normal-looking demure school girl with the blue hair to the Naruto-est, yelling-est boy with the red-and-green spiked hair. The cool megane senpais, the purple haired tsunderes, suddenly everyone is interested in him. They’re prodigies and upstarts and underdogs and they truly believe that this main character boy is one of them.

So the main character boy maintains his ruse. He touches up his roots at dawn every morning and carefully attends to his gelled spikes and tells absolutely no one about this great, uncanny, unfathomable secret he’s stumbled upon. He wins his competitions left and right. He racks up the acclaim. He’s hailed as a prodigy of all trades, just now bursting onto the scene, and boils to the top of all his candy-haired peers.

He’s rising up, his every dream within his grasp. Until one day he gets a note under his door, taped to an old picture of his Normal Boring self from middle school, that says “You don’t belong”

I thought that's how you write it?

finally …. joda (jean yoda)