Latest Posts by elliot-gay-boi - Page 4
Everyone knows it's that time of year when many people feel compelled to set goals to alter their body and restrict their food. The pressure to be thin is everywhere---it's the water we swim in. If you want to take care of your body, I hope this is the year you learn more about weight-neutral approaches to health! The Health At Every Size movement and books by fat activist Aubrey Gordon are great places to start!
a collection of motivational insights regarding content creation and creative hobbies
and of course the classic
it’s almost a year since he died .., tragic :-( he was so old
Happy Febuary everyone!
they've been sitting or lying down for so many of the past episodes that I forgot how FUCKING tall Richie is compared to Eddie. I have to keep boxing his head out of panels like this
Hey, Muffin!
Just asking a question I've been wondering and which was highlighted by the newest chapter of The Seventh Seal: Who is the second (third?) Renesmee's biological father?
Before being changed into a vampire, was Bella's DNA disorted into a male with the Y-chromosome naturally belonging to Charlie while the X-chromosome remained the same/came from Renée (the parent samples wouldn't be clones of each other even though they would be genetically siblings), or was there some other way you thought Renesmee 2.0 (3.0?) got her biological father?
Weird question, I know, but would be great if you shared your thoughts!
The Seventh Seal
Hong just used Carlisle again.
If it's not broke, why fix it?
I’ve been contemplating for several days something, and I’ve been trying to distill it into meaning, and put nice little bullet points on how this relates to things that have been bugging me about some common Discourses I’ve been seeing, but at the end, I only really have a story. So here, have a story.
About ten years ago, sometime in the eventful 2006-2007 George W. Bush-ruled hellscape of my identity development, I was just starting to figure out how I felt about my conservative upbringing (not great) and whether I was some brand of queer (probably, but too scared to think about what brand for too long). I was working as a server at a popular Italian-inspired sit-down restaurant that was the closest thing my tiny South Carolinian town had to “fancy” at the time but isn’t really fancy at all.
The host brought a party of four men to one of my tables. It was hard to tell their ages, but my guess is they were teenagers or in their early 20s in the 1980s. Mid-40s, at the time. It was standard to ask if anyone at the table was celebrating anything, so I did. They said they were business partners celebrating a great business deal and would like a bottle of wine.
It was a fairly busy night so I didn’t have a LOT of time to spend at their table, but they were nice guys. They were polite and friendly to me, they didn’t hit on me (as most men were prone to do – sometimes even in front of their girlfriends, a story I’ll tell later if anyone wants me to), and they were racking up a hell of a tab that was going to make my managers happy, so I checked on them as often as I could.
Toward the end of their second bottle of wine, as they were finishing their entrees, I stopped at the table and asked if they wanted any more drinks or dessert or coffee. They were well and truly tipsy by now, giggling, leaning back in their chairs – but so, so careful not to touch each other when anyone was near the table.
They’re all on the fence about dessert, so being a good server, I offered to bring out the dessert menu so they could glance it over and make a decision, “Since you’re celebrating.”
“She’s right!” one of the men said, far too emphatically for a conversation on dessert. “It’s your anniversary! You should get dessert!”
It was like a movie. The whole table went absolutely silent. The clank of silverware at the next table sounded supernaturally loud. Dean Martin warbled “That’s Amore” in some distorted alternate universe where the rest of the restaurant went on acting like this one tipsy man hadn’t just shattered their carefully crafted cover story and blurted out in the middle of a tiny, South Carolina town, surrounded by conservatives and rednecks, that they were gay men celebrating a relationship milestone.
And I didn’t know what I was yet, but I knew I wasn’t an asshole, and I knew these men were family, and I felt their panic like a monster breathing down all our necks. It’s impossible to emphasize how palpably terrified they were, and how justified their terror was, and how much I wanted them to be happy.
So I did the only thing I knew to do. I said, “Congratulations! How many years?”
The man who’d spoken up burst into tears. His partner stood up and wrapped me in the tightest, warmest hug I’ve ever had – and I’ve never liked being touched by strangers, but this was different, and I hugged him back.
“Thank you,” he whispered, halfway to crying himself. “Thank you so much.”
When he finally let go of me and sat back down, they finally got around to telling me they were, in fact, two couples on a double date, and both celebrating anniversaries. Fifteen years for one of them, I think, and a few years off for the other. It’s hard to remember. It was a jumble of tears and laughter and trembling relief for all of us. They got more relaxed. They started holding hands – under the table, out of sight of anyone but me, but happy.
They did get dessert, and I spent more time at their table, letting them tell me stories about how they met and how they started dating and their lives together, and feeling this odd sense of belonging, like I’d just discovered a missing branch of my family.
When they finally left, all four of them took turns standing up and hugging me, and all four of them reached into their wallets to tip me. I tried to wave them off but they insisted, and the first man who’d hugged me handed me forty dollars and said, “Please. You are an angel. Please take this.”
After they left I hid in the bathroom and cried because I couldn’t process all my thoughts and feelings.
Fast forward to three days ago, when my own partner and I showed up to a dinner reservation at a fancy-casual restaurant to celebrate our fifth anniversary. The whole time I was getting ready to leave, there was a worry in the back of my mind. The internet web form had asked if the reservation was celebrating anything in particular, and I’d selected “Anniversary.” I stood in the bathroom blow-drying my hair, wondering what I would do if we showed up, two women, and the host or the server took one look at us and the “Anniversary” designation on our reservation and refused to serve us. It’s not as ubiquitous anymore, but we’re still in the south, and these things still happen. Eight years of progressive leadership is over, and we’ve got another conservative despot in office who’s emboldening assholes everywhere.
It was on my mind the whole fifteen minutes it took to drive there. I didn’t mention it to my partner because I didn’t want to cast a shadow over the occasion. More than that, I didn’t want to jinx us, superstitious bastard that I am.
We walked into the restaurant. I told the hostess we had a reservation, gave her my last name.
She looked at her screen, then looked back at us. She smiled, broadly and genuinely, and said, “Happy anniversary! Your table is right this way.”
Our server greeted us, said, “I heard you were celebrating!”
“It’s our anniversary,” Kellie said, and our server gasped, beaming.
“That’s great! Congratulations! How many years?”
And I finally breathed a sigh of relief, and I thought about those men at that restaurant ten years ago. I hope they’re still safe and happy, and I hope we all get the satisfaction of helping the world keep blooming into something that’s not so unrelentingly terrible all the time.
i have to do everything myself around here
also tangentially related to my last post - someone i worked with years ago told me about this thing she always tried to do. she said that every so often, when she's with a friend, she let's a stranger 'overhear' a compliment. she'll go to the shop and, as she's walking away from the till, she'll say something like 'that cashier was so lovely, weren't they?'. or she'll wait until someone walks past and say 'gosh didn't they look gorgeous in that dress' or 'their hair looks amazing' or 'wow that person's tattoos were so intricate - beautiful'.
and it really stuck with me. imagine walking past someone and overhearing them say 'that outfit really suits them!' to their friend. imagine choosing to shine a little light into the world for no other reason than because you think it's a nice thing to do.
you’re not behind in life. you’re going at your own pace. it’s better to do things the right way with time than to rush things. don’t stress yourself out too much over a self-conceived timeline.
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."
Don't think I've seen them all together in one big video like this before
Some froggy affirmations for you🐸💚
(All available as stickers and such in my Redbubble shop✨)
ive just been born into the world what are some good games for beginners
"Asexuality is a sexuality and as a whole is not inherently rooted in mental health problems or hormone problems and thus should not be pathologized."
And
"Some people who use the label asexual are asexual due to trauma, mental health conditions, or medications/hormonal problems and they should always be welcome within the asexual community."
Are two concepts that can and should coexist.
Thinking about how Kate had a bit of a gap between working at DIA and starting at the FBI, and knowing that she was estranged from Lucy at the time and while she was becoming closer to Tennant at that time, she didn’t seem to have many close friends, it makes me wonder how long it would have taken someone to notice if something happened to her in that period. I’m not sure what it is about Kate that makes me imagine her in sadder and/or lonelier circumstances
She's not supposed to be working right now. She'd tried to schedule so that she'd only have a weekend between jobs—wrap DIA on Friday and start FBI on Monday—but that hadn't worked. She'd been saddled with two full weeks between, and she'd tried to tell herself that it was fine, that she was in Hawai’i and people pay thousands and thousands of dollars for two week vacations in Hawai’i! She should go surfing and hike up a volcano and eat all the poke and moco loco and saimin she can handle and sleep late and use the fucking hot tub on her deck she never remembers she has.
But all of that only occupies her mind for a couple of days. She finishes at DIA on Friday, by Tuesday she's bored, and by Thursday she's breaking rules and wandering the Pearl offices, running into Lucy and making jokes that fall flat, sneaking info to Tennant about the Maggie Shaw hearing like she still has a job.
She gets slightly busted, though. Not majorly, but Dale from DIA sees her and says something about "hey, aren't you off the clock these days, Whistler?" with something like a smirk because he’s always hated her—most men do, when you're better at the job than they are and take less time to do it—and she'd had to back off.
No more field trips to Pearl, no more Lucy sightings. She spends one night drinking with Tennant but then the next week and a half are in front of her, bleak and empty, nothing to do but torture herself with memories of good times with Lucy and bad times with Cara and every single opportunity she had but passed up to make things right and get herself free and clear before it all blew up in her face.
She's usually fine on her own, not overly prone to loneliness. Or, well, maybe her usual baseline of loneliness is so high that it's hard for it to get to a level that feels significantly worse. She's not sure. But anyway, usually she's fine with being alone, and this week she's not. This week it hurts.
So of course this is the week she wakes up on her bathroom floor in a small pool of blood.
She's not sure how she got there. She's not sure why she's in the bathroom or how long she's been there. Her hand is sticky with blood. Once she can do anything other than just stare at it, her logical mind starts to slowly move forward. She takes in what she’s seeing. The blood is still kind of warm and wet, so she can't have been out that long. She finds her phone near her on the ground, the screen protector cracked. She hadn't sent anyone a text or made any calls, no indication of what happened.
She unsteadily climbs to her feet and looks in the mirror. From the floor she hadn't been able to tell where the blood had come from, but now she can see it's from her head. Or it must be from her head, because her hair is crimson and matted with it, on her right side just below and behind her ear. She looks down at the floor, and yes, there. An impact mark.
She’d fallen and hit her head on the ground.
In way this makes her feel better—head wounds notoriously bleed a lot. They always look worse than they are. In another way, this makes her feel worse. What the fuck happened? It’s seems like the falling happened before her head was hit, probably, based on what she’s seeing around her, so does that mean she passed out and then hit her head? And if so, what the fuck? Why? She’s never done that before.
She takes a few pictures with a shaking hand—of herself in the mirror, the floor, the scene, and then she washes her hands and shakily orders an uber.
It feels weird to get into a stranger’s car when she’s this vulnerable, not sure what happened or if it’ll happen again, literally bleeding from a head wound, but she doesn’t have other options. She’s not about to drive and endanger other people, and there’s no one she can call.
She thinks for a second about calling Tennant, but it’s late and Tennant has kids and just because they drank together once doesn’t mean she wants Tennant to see her like this. She thinks for five seconds about calling Lucy. If this happened to Lucy, if Lucy woke up five minutes ago covered in her own blood, shaking and confused, Kate would want to be called. She would want to get that call, to race over to Lucy’s apartment and take her to the hospital and wait for her and take her home and make her comfortable and take care of her, even if Lucy still hates her.
If she found out this happened to Lucy and Lucy ordered a fucking uber to the hospital, she’d be pissed as fuck.
But she’s not Lucy, and Lucy isn’t her, and Lucy won’t talk to her. Lucy still hates her, and Kate deserves it.
So Kate calls an uber.
She changes her bloody shirt, puts on a baseball hat and a jacket with a popped collar, and doesn’t give the driver a good look at the right side of her head. The drive isn’t long, but the waiting room at the hospital is full. She’d have thought that bleeding out of her head would get her seen quickly, but everyone seems pretty blasé about it. She waits for hours, her head aching and her vision swimming.
Other people go up to the charge nurse, saying things like, “My mother has been here for two hours, how long until she’s seen,” and “When will my daughter’s discharge papers be ready,” and “My husband is having trouble breathing.”
She wonders if she’s the only person there alone. The girl next to her doesn’t have anyone with her but Kate can see her phone, and she’s texting someone who is asking her for regular updates.
Kate doesn’t text anyone.
It’s five hours before she’s seen. She gets asked the same questions four times—nurse, other nurse, intern, resident—and gets a few tests before she gets four stitches and she’s sent on her way. What happened? They couldn’t possibly speculate. All her tests are normal. Go home.
If she had someone to text, she’d say, “Jesus I should have stitched myself up at home. What a waste of time,” or “Our tax dollars hard at work!” but instead she calls herself another uber and she goes home.
She cleans the blood off her bathroom floor and her sink.
It’s the early morning now, but she puts on pajamas and climbs into bed, wondering with every step if she’s about to pass out again, to fall again and hurt herself again. To wake up in another pool of her blood.
She thinks about texting Lucy something like, “if you don’t hear from me in the next 12 hours, can you please send a wellness check to my apartment, I need to make sure I wake up,” but that seems excessive and worrying and extreme and like something you might text a friend. Or, well, no. If she isn’t close enough to have told Lucy this happened, she’s not close enough to ask Lucy to make sure she’s okay now. She’s relied on herself up until now, and that’s how it’s going to have to be.
She sets alarms for herself for every two hours—the doctors didn’t tell her to but better safe than sorry, and she lies down on her left side.
Her head hurts. Her body aches. She’s cold and shaky and afraid. She pictures her blood sinking into her pillows, pictures someone finding her decaying body in a week and a half when she hasn’t reported in for work.
She doesn’t sleep well.
The next time she sees Lucy and Tennant, she doesn’t mention it. Tennant says, “how are you, how was your time off,” and she says, “it was fine.” Lucy doesn’t say anything at all.
[if you want a lucy part 2, lmk]
