In This Essay I Wont

what mary magdalene said to the young transsexual, elle emerson (@transsextual) after clint smith

text description under the cut!

text description:

What Mary Magdalene Said To The Young Transsexual

Child, I know you think yourself doomed / Written out of history, or else / Kept slinking in the shadows of alleyways, / Disappearing into unforgiving crowds, / Putting on airs in strange bedrooms, / Spoken over and denied / A place, a heart, a conscience, a home.

I know you have struggled to synthesize yourself / Into something logical, singular. / They have retold you into an outsider, / An amalgamation of sinners, / The repentant fool they would make out of you / If you let them.

I know you are not what they have made you out to be; / You are, in fact, good / & much more. / I have seen you with my whole heart & this / Is what you need to know:

You never were and never will be a singularity / In the sense that you are not and will never be a single thing. / You are a singularity in the sense that you are the celestial point from which / The universe of yourself will burst forth. / It is the nature of people like us to be / Pluralities, multiplicities, / Code-switchers, rich with motion, speaking in tongues, / Contorting the canon of love & sex & gender to fit our bodies / Not the other way round. / Even at rest, we never stop moving.

Child, they will try to keep you from yourself. / They will try to write you out. / They will smear your good name / (And it is, by the way, a good name, well chosen, / do not be afraid to choose a new one if the notion strikes you.) / They will call you perverted, call you out of line, / Call you scheming, call you outrageous, / Childish, reckless, evil, out of time. / They will run you out of time / Like they did me

If you let them.

It does not matter to them / If you are beloved by what is pure. / It does not matter to them / If you are devoted to the same forces / That tuck them into bed at night. / You will not change them with kindness. / They will eat you alive if you try.

So protect yourself with the truth / & with blades & bullets & fists / & tooth & nail. / & give them no further thought than that.

Child, we are something else. / We make ourselves holy. / Who are they to claim power over us? / They may dictate history,

But we are the ones who live it.

end text description.

really need someone to slonk my shit rn stupid style

i am gods bastard child and my mothers conditional love and my fathers temper and my sisters eyes and my brothers anger. i am the mother and the father and the sister and the brother and i am god and i am all of them combined

Babe your pussy is so labyrinthian it's got the minotaur and everything 😳

getting into the shower: evil evil evil

being in the shower: there is no past and there is no future, there is just the here and now, i am alone but i am not lonely, i am calm and one with the universe, existence is sublime

getting out of the shower: evil evil evil (wet version)

you know what dad? maybe i don't wanna be the saviour of the broken, the beaten and the damned. it's a lot of pressure to put on me and honestly i've been feeling stressed recently because of it

this is scaring me like my heart is beating so fast

breeding headphones without wires because you 'think it looks cute' is just cruel

You know what you really need is an English countryside murder mystery mashup with a splatterpunk supernatural horror movie. Think of it as the Re-Animator of Algernon Blackwood.

You got your level proper countryside Midsommer Murders group of coppers, only now they're not dealing with vengeful old aunties but the rage of nature itself, the raw an unchecked anger of the land given life, the darkness of the woods, the deep sunk pain of rocks and roots. The metaphysical embodiment of natural spirits takes the form of trees, growing form nowhere inside quiet drawing room, through the aging and satisfied ladies at gossip, ripping their bodies into bloody chunks of gore and offal.

But the steadfast inspectors stay at the same level despite investigating crime scenes like the aftermath of an Evil Dead movie, unflappably seeking out the mundane clues leading nowhere and puttering about at home with loving wife and doting daughter. For each tangle of thorns stretched over with gruesome skin and impaled bodies, for each body consumed alive by locusts, for the houses swallowed by earth leaving nothing but a blood soaked skeleton behind, life trundle onward undisturbed.

Which is not to say the protagonist is undisturbed. A historian and preservationist, they're seeking to maintain and increase the records for right if way paths throughout England, much to the annoyance of various gentleman about this quiet country town beside by horror and death. And it falls to them to make the discovery that the right of way paths are not as they're meant to be, no, it seems there's been some moving of landmarks and stone boundaries, an offsetting of the path letting lands fall increasingly into private hands.

Yet those paths and stones and markers were not merely guides. They were lines, sigils, locks and gates to hold back the will of the woods from the lands of men. For a time. For just a small but fair space. A trade of stewardship and watchful wards, but men long forgot the promise of caretaking or what the wards kept at bay.

And now they are paying, as the historian struggles to find the means to close the way. And the steadfast inspector begins to uncover a land grabbing plot. And as time counts down the fae and green and deep eldritch magic of old reaches shadows further into the tidy little village. It may have survived countryside murders for decades, but it will be lucky to last a week under these conditions.