Netflix content is based on the number of views from start to finish. There’s a strong chance that “One Day At a Time” might not get renewed for a third season. Please watch this groundbreaking series to save it.
No, I think you’re misunderstanding. I take a very libertarian stance of LGBT issues.
You can do whatever you want with your life and body. Take hormone treatments, get surgery, cut your hair, change your name. I don’t care.
I just don’t think it’s right that I should be forced to call you a he when biology dictates that you are a she. That doesn’t mean I don’t think you should be alive. I just don’t believe that you are what you think you are.
You can be offended all you want, but when we get into the territory of legal ramifications for speech, I have a problem with that. There are plenty of people in this world willing to call you a he. If you don’t like me, disregard me and go find those people.
I don’t care what you do with your life and body. That is all 100% your choice. I just don’t want to be dragged into it against my will.
Biology doesn’t dictate pronouns.
Unless you’ve done a thorough medical evaluation including a hormone panel and chromosome analysis, every single pronoun you’ve ever used in your life has been your best guess. Or more likely, people tell you their pronouns and you take their word for it.
When you have to be ‘dragged into’ using correct pronouns for trans people but don’t check the ‘biology’ of people you assume are cis; your behavior is based on bigotry, not biology.
So you can double check, “Is it Ms, Miss, or Mrs?” but god fucking forbid you use correct pronouns. Like it is LITERALLY any skin off your bigotted nose if someone says, “Actually, I’m he/she/they.” You go, “Oh, k, sorry about that,” and go the fuck on with life. But oh NO, the GAYS REQUIRE ONE OUNCE OF RESPECT. IT CANNOT BE ABIDED. WE MUST PUT THEM IN THEIR PLACE BY USE OF BIOLOGY.
Which kindly go fuck yourself, considering how complex and misunderstood biology is. For fucks sake you ignorant ass.
“She says her name is Jennifer but I don’t beleive in Jennifers so I’m just gonna call her Tracy.”
Still reading “You Mean I’m Not Lazy, Crazy or Stupid?” – a book for and about adults with add. And this is all me, especially that last bit.
It’s sad there seems to be so many of us.
The things you see:
She is a mess of papers. Trailing things, losing things, can’t find the homework she swears she did. Or turns in homework with ink stains, water stains, creases. Chew marks? Her shirt is on backwards or inside out.
Her eyes drift, go glassy, she loses the thread of something she was saying in the middle of the sentence. She’s gone the moment you take your eyes off her.
She writes and draws slowly, painfully. She can’t keep up with notes in class. Her hand cramps, so she massages it absently. Sports may be great or average, but these fine motor skills are still hard after years of practice.
She wants to do better. She wants to. She always seems sincere. Sometimes she seems desperate. Always there’s a look in her eyes that says she knows she’ll fail but she’s going to try anyway.
She has that thing somewhere. In her bag? Her locker? Where was it?
You ask a simple question. She gives you a convoluted answer that is not what you were asking for at all but turns out, after a bit of a tangent, to be more accurate than you would ever expect from someone her age. It seems like an accident, but it happens just often enough to raise doubts.
She always seems to be working on the task you were doing 5 minutes ago, not the task you’re doing now. She has no idea what task you’re doing now.
Whenever she works on group projects, she has the biggest, grandest ideas and contributes the least amount of work to the finished product. Or she does the whole project herself and turns it in 3 days late. Or she has no idea what’s going on with the project and does her pieces incorrectly because she doesn’t know what the big picture is supposed to be.
She can’t remember the multiplication tables. She can’t, no matter what you do to try to help her. The information won’t go in. (She has the presidents memorized in order, with their years and vice presidents.)
She walks into the room, blinks at you, and says “I have no idea why I’m here.”
She forgot the homework. It’s midnight, and her friend called 2 hours ago to kindly remind her that the big project is due tomorrow and she’s been working on it for 2 hours (it was supposed to be 2 weeks) and she’s crying and trying and her parent finally puts her to bed. She will get up in half an hour and start again, stay up until 4am trying to finish, not even sure what the requirements are because she can’t find the sheet but refusing to stop until she falls asleep on her desk.
You ask her what she’s learned, and she can’t tell you. But in her head, her spaceship’s design is far more accurate now that she understands friction and propulsion and other things you weren’t actually trying to teach her. Or, you ask her what she’s learned and she can’t shut up about it, going on long after you’re very much Done with this conversation.
She mastered this task last month, but now she has no idea where to start. Again. You go over it with her. Again. She gets through the first two steps and can’t remember what comes next. Again.
She’s late. Again.
Things you don’t see:
The world is a fascinating, beautiful, bustling, overwhelming place, and she will always be Not. Good. Enough. for it. She knows failure more than success. It’s no wonder she wants to be somewhere else.
She often has insomnia because she can’t turn her brain off to sleep at night.
The tiniest accommodations make it so she can breathe again.
There is a place where she shines. It’s the athletic field, the music
room, debates, her kindness when she takes care of others, painting, her
fashion sense, hiking, telling stories. Somewhere, she shines. She
doesn’t think that means anything, though, because everywhere else she
is staggering through double gravity and wondering how everyone makes it
look easy.
She has no idea that she could shine everywhere – that it’s the rigid structure failing her, not her failing it.
She is on another planet during 3rd period, literally, inventing a fictional language and a syllabary to go with it, and no one has noticed because they’re droning on about test prep.
Sometimes she feels like an alien.
When she’s fully here, in the classroom, she sees who else is struggling, like a kind of visible kinship. She could tell you who and why, but she won’t because you won’t ask.
The day she finds out the bell curve was a eugenicist’s lie, she wants to burn the world down.
It’s not an “active imagination” or “escapism” or a “fantasy life” – it’s self-care to fight depression and anxiety caused by being unable to meet the rigid expectations of an inflexible school system and society at large.
She finally gets diagnosed in her 20s or 30s, after bringing her son in to the doctor to address his obvious ADHD. Going over the checklist in the waiting room, one hand absently snagged in the back of her son’s shirt to keep him from climbing the potted tree in the corner, she has a moment of stunning clarity: this is me.
* Note: There are boys and AMAB non-binary folks with non-hyperactive ADD as well, and we should not overlook them. Really, the only substantive reason to divide us into hyperactive and non-hyperactive is the structure of our school system and childcare, which mark hyperactivity as a behavioral issue to be addressed and everything else as just personality. Neither is accurate.
** This list is a conglomeration of experiences relayed to me anecdotally from several ladies of various ages and one dude. It’s not exhaustive or accurate for everyone.
Wow. Thank you. This, all of this is so true and I’m tearing up because it’s always a relief to know that you aren’t alone.
This is true btw. I did a report about Ann Boney in school and Read actually liked her back so they ran away together and were considered the two most terrifying pirates across the seven seas
Lesbian Pirates
Give us this film
Just fyi – many of the illustrations and statues of them show them with their breasts exposed. This is not because they are sexualising lesbians but because these women often used to open their shirts and expose a breast when they killed a man just so the man’s dying thought would be the realisation that he was killed by a woman.
Whenever someone says that johnlock couldn’t be canon, because it would ruin the source material, I always have to mention Granada Sherlock Holmes.
Produced in a time when suggesting that Holmes and Watson might have been in a romantic or sexual relationship could get you black listed from Sherlockian communities, this series thumbed its nose and pushed as many boundaries as it could.
One of the first screen adaptations to showcase the equality in the partnership between the two men, it gave us a Watson who was anything but the bumbling oaf he had been in previous works. This Watson was intelligent, strong, protective, and loving. When he wasn’t doctoring his Holmes after scrapes, he was comforting him in his failure, or helping to direct him toward success.
Rather than marry Watson off, Granada kept him a happy, if often put upon, bachelor. This deviation from the source Canon was handled smoothly, by occasionally sending Watson on much needed holidays or keeping him busy at his surgery, for stories that needed the men to be separated at the beginning.
Beyond the less than subtle hints into the nature of the relationship between Holmes and Watson, Granada is noted for including a story line in one of their most well known films that dealt with why that very relationship needed to be kept a secret. Working off of a few scant lines found in the original Charles Augustus Milverton, the film The Master Blackmailer featured a subplot of a soldier taking his life, when his love affair with a man is found out. This is a subject which leads to Lestrade making the remark that it isn’t the first time it has happened to a soldier, and it certainly won’t be the last, a remark that ends with Watson all but slamming the door to Baker Street behind the inspector.
There is hardly a scene throughout the show- which ran for a decade, and included five feature length films- that doesn’t show the gentle intimacy between Holmes and Watson. Whether he is threatening an armed man with a chair, insisting that his detective eat, or jumping between Holmes and a hired thug, Watson is every inch the devoted companion. As the series progresses, and the actors change, Watson subtly evolves from a man who loves the excitement of the world Holmes has shown him, into one that wants them to slow down and think of the future. There is a delightful scene in one of the later episodes, which shows Watson obviously relieved to learn that there is money in Holmes’ family.
And of course, nothing says canon otp, like giant floating rainbows splashed across the backgrounds of their scenes together.
Beltainefaerie's Flights of Fancy 