If you have a sister and she dies, do you stop saying you have one?
I don’t know what asshole invented the idea that teenage girls are the cause for all evil, but I really hope that person never has to raise one. I don’t want him to see her dissolve in his fingers as society tells her to eat less, be thinner, be the damsel in distress, be something for a man to fix, be different but not too different, be special but never ever a special snowflake - I don’t want him to watch as she realizes that no matter what she loves, she’ll be made fun of for it. She can simply like her coffee from Starbucks and suddenly she’s vapid and thinks herself poetic. She’ll want to play video games but be called a fake nerd, particularly if she poses in any remotely flirtatious way because for some reason despite the entire community playing games with poorly dressed women they still hate it when a real girl wears less clothing, she will be seen as trespassing in a specifically male space - but when she falls in love with a female-based television show for children, she’ll watch as men step on themselves to sexualize it. If she wants old-fashion romance she’s seen as being naive but at the same time is told to keep herself ‘pure’ for some dude that might not hurt her. If she admits to being anything, she makes herself a target. She will be told her worth is based on how much a man values her. She might love to cook but she’ll hate being asked to stay in the kitchen, she might love to read but get told she’s too introverted by half the population and ‘not that special’ by the other. If she loves to go out and party, she’s ‘just another college co-ed,’ if she loves to spend her friday nights watching anime, she’s a shut-in. God forbid she be proud of something: the words “I’m different from other girls” are a death sentence because we live in a society that doesn’t want to see women like that, a society that doesn’t like the idea maybe we all are actually different and not carbon copies of each other, maybe we all would like to feel unique and loved and worth knowing - maybe the real problem is that she will be raised to believe being a girl means silicone and photoshop and dying as a way to move forwards a plot - and she doesn’t want to be seen as that. When she says “I’m not like other girls,” she means she’s not like the girls she sees on tv, these invented two-dimensional creatures that say one line and then get chased down by monsters.
She can try all she likes. She’ll be shut down at every single fucking turn. What she doesn’t know is that they’re getting her ready for when she’s grown up because she’ll be so used to being stepped on she’ll just give up. Why respect women when you don’t even respect little girls?
And when she is burning up, when she mentions that her insides are volcanoes and her skin is too thin to contain them: she will be told she is hysterical, that she’s doing it for attention.
I don’t want him to watch as she shuts down, as she learns to live as a paradox, I don’t want him to see her rip herself to shreds in order to be perfect, I don’t want him to realize that there’s no way she’ll get help because she’s only doing what she’s told."
I’d like to apologize for my partner. His parents didn’t give him enough attention.
you walk a lonely road
Skyrim: Low Resolution Edition
"Does this unit have a soul?"
i grieve with thee
continuously in mourning for saemus and ashaad
Kill your darlings, the old adage goes, but a writer knows it’s more like favorite sentences that don’t belong, the beautiful rhyme that just doesn’t fit. It’s about words you favor too much, turns of phrase you rely on, the metaphor you don’t know how to replace.
Nobody ever asks a storyteller to commit murder like a common rogue—except for an editor, of course.
‘That doesn’t mean I don’t think about them, you know,’ Varric tells Isabela when they’re out on the open ocean, waves making the planks nicker and groan, as far as a dwarf and a pirate can get from the bronze and brass of the city of chains.
‘You old romantic so-and-so,’ Isabela replies, in that way she has of saying one thing and meaning me, too.
Journal of Hawke. Part-time champion, full-time comeback artist.
Answered correspondence. Bothered the seneschal so he’d feel important. Planted more mushrooms in Fenris’s carpet. Will Fenris ever notice?
Making a real difference in this city while making really good jokes. Father would be proud.
Of the jokes.
Thought about Saemus again today. Strange young man. Of course he wouldn’t last in a place like this. Or anywhere, really, save for Varric’s stories. Never got to deliver all the jokes I thought of about the lad’s hair.
But it wouldn’t have mattered, would it? Ashaad never seemed to mind it.
Wonder what pillow talk’s like with a qunari.
On the morning Saemus Dumar fell in love there was a smog in the air from the foundries in Lowtown, particularly rank due to the summertime warehouse fires, and all the nobles waiting to speak to Father—Viscount Father, Saemus thought of him now, always with the title, never alone—had their silk handkerchiefs in front of their mouths and noses to avoid breathing any of the uncomfortable truth in the air, its dirtiest, foulest, vilest realities, the acrid tang in the back of the throat, the promise of a poisoned sort of rain from dubious clouds that wouldn’t clean the ash away, that would only make the blood stains run between the cracks in the cobblestones, that would water the weeds and little else, but Saemus Dumar’s hair stuck to his forehead when the rainfall began, and he touched Ashaad’s chest with his not-so-small hand, where a strong heart beat the truth in steady time: below, below, below.