My great-grandmother was pregnant for over a decade of her life.

She was pregnant at least fifteen times, had over a dozen children. Raised all of them in a big rambling farmhouse in central Pennsylvania.

And I thought about her this afternoon, lying in bed with my spouse after my lazy weekend nap, snuggling him and burying my nose in his hair, taking deep breaths of the scent of his skin. This man who is the center of my universe, my best friend, one of two reasons why I literally decided I had to live and kept fighting through the pain after surgery when I really wanted to just let go and die: I held him closer and I thought of her.

I thought of how family myth tells us that after a decade of being pregnant pretty much constantly, she kicked my great-grandfather out of their house. How she made him go live in his workshop, and he came to the house for meals and to check in.

But he slept in his workshop.

Not because she didn’t love him, but because she did.

She loved him, and if they slept in the same bed together, these two people who had crossed an ocean together, had built a life together after getting out of Poland together, they’d have sex. And because cheap, reliable, universal birth control wasn’t available then, and she was terribly fecund, apparently, she’d become pregnant again, inevitably.

My great-grandmother was TIRED of being pregnant.

So she kicked her love out of the house, and he went. He lived in his workshop, on their farm, and they stopped sleeping together, in every sense of the word. My father tells me he remembers as a child his grandfather sitting outside his workshop, leaning back on his chair, and looking up at the house in which he couldn’t sleep anymore, just… sad.

They missed each other desperately from across the yard.

I listen to @adhocavenger sleep, to the sound of his breathing, a sound that’s as familiar to me as my own heartbeat, and I can’t imagine having to sleep away from him for long. To have to separate myself from my spouse or to have to completely eschew having the kind of sex they obviously enjoyed having. To not have him close enough at night that I can curl up to him and breathe in the scent of his skin.

And that, I think, is the sort of thing that I think maybe I take for granted. That I know I can be secure in the knowledge that I can have sex with my spouse when I want to, and not have a baby.

The personal is political. I do not want our country to continue to slide backward on reproductive freedom. I do not want us to lose our freedom, threatened and small as it may be.

There are a thousand small tragedies that we talk about from the Olde Days. The unwanted baby of the unmarried lass, of course.

But my heart breaks tonight for the story I was told as a child, of the lovingly married couple who had to sleep apart because she was just damn tired of being pregnant.

Because she’d been pregnant for a DECADE of her life.


#storytime #pregnancy cw #death tw #politics cw #this probably deserves some other warning tag but I am not sure what #that one post with the thing




you spend so much time trying to make yourself more palatable that in the end you taste bland. forgettable



#Hannibal #anything that makes me laugh this much deserves a reblog #cannibalism cw? #this probably deserves some other warning tag but I am not sure what


I don’t know if we’re still in the age of Y/N L/N search-and-replace self-insert fanfics but can I just say there’s MASSIVE untapped potential for a Y/N L/N Death Note fanfiction if you just

if you just

hang on. This. Like this:

Light clicked his bedroom door shut, and leaned against it, and slid gently down. His attention was wrapped so wholly in the unmarked envelope in his hand. He slit it open, and unsheathed the documents like he was pulling money from a wallet. He was, in a sense. These documents had cost him. The private eye he hired had not been cheap.

But it HAD been worth it, Light knew with relief washing through his veins as he thumbed through the contents: birth certificate, social security card, medical records, vaccination history, school records, IDs with photos – mother’s name, father’s name, date of birth, eye color, hair color, blood type.

Light held in his hands EVERYTHING there was to know about the girl. And he basked in it, drinking it in, a name finally to attach to the woman who haunted him.

First name: Y/N. Last name: L/N.

Light cracked a grin, rib cage rippling with manic chuckles that bubbled to his lips and erupted, cackles, delighted trills. The sense of victory flooded him. That girl who knew he was Kira, that girl who had worked so hard to hide her identity, that girl who plagued him, followed him, haunted him every day, who he could never touch.

Finally, Light could kill her.

He rose, and walked nearly numb to his desk, and pulled out the scrap of Death Note he kept in the false bottom of the top drawer. He reveled in it as he wrote: Y/N L/N, dies alone at 11:48pm of a brain aneurysm.

The damnation felt so sweet.

She was waiting for him, early as the sun which crested behind her, all soft smiles and sweet squinted eyes. She was waiting for him as she did every single day. She stood there, as always – a thing of nightmares.

The blood left Light’s face once he opened the front door to her, feet and hands tingling cold, stomach in knots.

He’d been worried when he awoke to no news about his dead university classmate. And the confirmation of his every fear settled as a knot in his gut. Y/N L/N was alive, in front of him, just as she was every other day, smiling.

“You seem surprised, Light. Like you’ve seen a ghost?” Her wry smile was a mockery. Light loathed her more than anything.

“Y/N … L/N…” he muttered, through gritted teeth. “…Good morning.”

“Oh! You discovered my name. Good job good job, that was faster than I expected.”


“Aren’t I dead?” she titled her head and swayed a bit in place. “That’s how Kira kills people, yeah? Full name? And you’ve got mine. So why aren’t I dead?”

Kira. Light’s eye twitched. She did that. At every chance, dropping with such nonchalance that she knew. If he argued back, she would ignore him. If he defended himself, it would get him nowhere.

Ignore, deflect, probe, find a weak point.

“Is it a fake name? Is Y/N L/N a fake name?” It would be hard to believe; it would be beyond elaborate. Every ounce of documentation would need to have been faked, or else perfectly stolen, with a complete erasure of who the girl really was. Not a single piece of contradictory evidence. Enough to completely fool Japan’s most esteemed private eye. It was almost unfathomable.

“No, it’s not a fake name. That’s my name. My real name. You’re right.” She spun on her heel and walked forward, into the sun, toward campus, sunlight streaking through the wisps in her hair. “But you can’t kill me with it, Kira.”

Light refused to answer. He refused to concede. He refused to show his hand, and yet, maybe he already had… Maybe he’d already lost.

He’d try again tonight. He’d try again as many times as it took to eliminate her, this unfathomable girl, who appeared in his uni classroom claiming to be an old elementary school classmate of his, who followed him every day and spoke in hints that suggested she knew, and yet never revealed how, or why, or what she wanted from him.

He’d try again. He’d kill her this time.

“It won’t work, trying again, that is. If you want to kill me, you’ll have to use your own hands.” She glanced over her shoulder at him. “But that’s messy, and suspicious, and too easy to solve, right? So you need the Death Note to do away with me. But it won’t work.”

Death Note, dammit, she really DID know.

“Hey Light, what’s my name?”

“Y/N, L/N,” he ground out, almost robotically.

“Say it again.”

“Y/N, L/N.”

“And what name did you write in the Death Note?”

Light hesitated. Did he stand any chance of keeping his hand concealed?

He locked eyes with her, and he knew the answer was no. She knew. He knew.

“Y/N L/N.”

“Doesn’t sound quite right, does it?” she asked. And with her words, Light felt some unsettled something thud in his chest. A disquiet. An unrest. A thinly veiled wrongness.

“My name, that name, Y/N L/N, how do you spell it?” she asked.

“Y…” Light paused. Y? No… That was almost certainly not right.

“First letter, second letter, third letter. Come on. I believe in you.”

A headache was building behind Light’s eyes.

“Y…. S-slash…. N…” No. That wasn’t a name. That wasn’t anyone’s name. And it wasn’t her name. Her name, her name was—

“You can’t spell it, Light. You can’t. And no one can. No one except an extremely, intractably lucky person could even guess what my name might be, at the time that all of this plays out.”

“What does that mean?”

“What do I look like, Light? The Death Note needs a mental image! What do I look like?”

And Light looked. He looked directly at her, piercing, probing, roving, studying, drinking her in. She looked exactly as he remembered, with H/C hair and E/C eyes and….

What color hair?

What color eyes?

What name?

“I’m not anyone, Light,” she offered with the same, sweetly saccharine smile that Light could not describe beyond those words. “Or I’m everyone, I guess. I’m every Y/N L/N who reads this, any one of them. And when the dust settles, and the story stabilizes, and those markers are replaced for real, it will be too late. Because that will not be the name you wrote in your Death Note. You’ll always have written Y, and slash, and N, and L, and slash, and N, and that will never be right. I’ll be someone else by the time it matters, every time.”

Light blinked through the stars in his vision. Looking at her hurt, his vision wobbling in and out of focus on the nothing, and the everything she was. The hair color, and the eye color, and the first name, and the last name, that were every potential quantum combination, and still none of them.

He shut his eyes.

“What do you want from me?” he asked. “Why are you following me? Why do you know who I am. What do you want?”

“Nothing. I want nothing. I don’t have a defined will. It’s not like I’m a person.” She stepped forward again, hands clenched to the bag behind her back. A normal school bag, a normal school uniform, trotting in step eastward toward the college campus. “I’m an insert. And that means I’m whoever they want me to be, every time. It’s not any deeper than that.”


#Death Note #fanfic #that one post with the thing #names #murder cw #this probably deserves some other warning tag but I am not sure what


Weird peeve time. Calling lab grown gemstones “fake” is stupid because it’s the same shit just not formed naturally. An artificially grown diamond is the same shit as a natural diamond it is the exact same material bro it’s all fuckign carbon


It’s carbon it’s pretty and it didn’t involve slave labor what’s not to love??? Hi I’m having geology opinions tonight apparently. And I’m right


There is so much bullshit in the diamonds industry to be mad about tbh. It also ties into the bullshit of the wedding industry as a whole but we don’t have the time to unpack all that


not even going to lie, the day i learned i could get like 15 lab grown rubies the size of dimes for $20 is the day i spent $20 on rubies, and i have never once said to myself “man, i wish this cost $1,600 and the lives of eight children to produce”


We are a pro-lab-grown mineral blog here, not only is it massively cheaper but massively more ethical as well in many cases.


another very cool lab grown gem is Moissanite. It has a 9.25 on the mohs hardness scale where diamond is a 10. Moissanote also has a 2.69 refractive index in comparison to diamond’s 2.419 and here is the difference


and the best thing about moissanite? It is all lab grown and it costs only a fraction of what diamond costs. So fuck the diamond indsutry and buy lab grown gems which cost significantly less


Also it’s just cool to think of some mad scientist lookin person doing shit against the law of the universe and making pretty gems for you. Like cmon. This shouldnt be allowed probably. But humans really be like on gOD i want some shiny an just started MAKIN em


for years people wanted alchemy, well now we have alchemy and we’re making gemstones out of it and suddenly “it doesn’t count” anymore


#…there’s something interesting here about the clash between gems-as-decorative-shinies and gems-as-store-of-value #if you were wearing jewellery because it was beautiful then increased availability is an improvement #but if you were wearing jewellery to display wealth‚ and jewellery becomes cheap‚ then it ceases to fulfil its function #more sympathetically‚ if you used to take comfort in the idea that if you ever hit financial rock bottom #–(and‚ especially‚ if you were ever cut off from access to the local financial system)– #you’d be able to get by through pawning your jewellery‚ and jewellery becomes cheap‚ you’ve lost that safety net #(a safety net your ancestors and/or past selves paid good money for‚ money now wasted) #((a few months back I had my mom help me go through the jewellery I’ve accumulated as gifts over the decades #and figure out which ones are valuable and which ones are costume)) #((I store the valuable ones separately from the others so that I can grab the container and run)) #((because silver is a better trade good than steel even if they’re equally shiny)) #((the world is full of stories of refugees who got the starting funds for a new life by selling the jewellery they wore when they escaped)) #I know a whole lot of people place a whole lot more value on decoration than I do #so I expect cheap gemstones are still *net* good #but I see the downsides here #tag rambles #jewellery #101 Uses for Infrastructureless Computers #adventures in human capitalism #proud citizen of The Future #disappointed permanent resident of The Future #is the blue I see the same as the blue you see #death tw? #this probably deserves some other warning tag but I am not sure what


Holiday greetings. It is I, Winston George Higgensbooth Sr., real estate tycoon and hater of children and Christmas cookies… or at least that’s what the perky soap-opera star who runs the corner cocoa shop has been telling everyone on Main Street in this close-minded, glitter-choked, fabric-snow-stuffed Hallmark movie town.

In reality, I’ve decked many a hall and “fa”ed many a “la.” My wife used to make incredible gingerbread cookies, which I would mold and shape into staggering gingerbread houses and—better yet—gingerbread multi-family properties.

So why am I a villain? Oh, right, because I believe the most valuable commercial space in town could be used for something more vital than a store solely dedicated to Santa hats. Yeah, I do believe that, and you know what else? I think the growing and diverse community of Pine Creek or Snowy River or whatever-the-fuck would be better served by a thriving city center than a free-standing, dilapidated toy shop.

After spending a few days in this community with my son—who, incidentally, is falling in love with the owner of said toy shop—I feel even more dedicated to my efforts. That toy shop owner barely even opens her business on a normal day. Most afternoons, she’s visiting tree farms and baking sugar cookies with my son. Yesterday they had a snowball fight and nearly kissed in the gazebo. Cool job, lady, but the rest of us have a living to make.

I intend to build a five-story mixed-use complex in the middle of town, thereby making the city center more prosperous and accessible while relieving our strained housing market. But these NIMBY cocoa-snorters would rather that space be used for their favorite Christmas tree lot. Well, sorry kids, there are eleven other months in a year, and people need homes to live in.

Before I was made a widower (in a family tragedy some townspeople cruelly dismiss as my “backstory”), my wife would remind me not to lose sight of the reason for the season. And I agree. Joy, cheer, and togetherness are all very important, but lest we forget on that blessed Christmas night referenced in our carols, baby Jesus needed a room, and the town DIDN’T HAVE ONE.

So screw every single one of you reindeer-clad, ornament-obsessed weirdos who forbid progress because your one month of traditions are more important than creating affordable housing and a functional local economy for everyone year-round. Fuck the cocoa shop lady, and the Santa hat store manager, and that toy store chick. I don’t care how happy she makes my son. She’s a fascistic yuletide narcissist. The only way to solve this housing crisis is to build more ho-ho-ho-HOMES. And no climactic town square singing or Jingle Bell Ball buffoonery will convince me otherwise. Not this time.

I’m buying every Christmas inn from here to Sleighbell Springs and filling them up with families before you can say “auld lang syne.” If that makes me a villain, then I, Winston George Higgensbooth Sr., cordially invite you to kiss my fat, furry, sugarplum ass.


#I didn’t actually laugh aloud but it still amused me enough to reblog #storytime #Christmas #this probably deserves some other warning tag but I am not sure what



Ami couldn’t stop staring into the darkness. It was as if it simply swallowed up every stray particle of light that came her way, leaving her eyes so completely and totally accustomed to the blacker-than-blackness that greeted her gaze that she couldn’t even imagine illumination anymore. She didn’t know if she was blinking or not; her eyelids felt like they were fluttering and drooping, but there was no difference between the world of utter shadow that greeted her when they slipped shut and when they struggled, desperately and ineffectually, to open. Her optic nerves were simply shutting down from lack of stimulus, taking her mind along with it.

She knew there was a person with her in the room; she could feel fingers caressing her nudity, groping and squeezing her body. But the latex suit they wore blended in perfectly with the impossibly deep shadows of the room, absorbing every last bit of luminescence until Ami’s eyes tricked her and she couldn’t pick them out from the black background they walked past. The only sign they even existed was when she saw them cover her skin with a silhouette of pure darkness, brushing her with caresses that kept her dazed and disoriented and helpless. She knew there must be light coming into the room from somewhere–she could see her own tawny flesh, at least when her stare wasn’t captivated by the perfect darkness that drew her ever deeper. But she didn’t know where it was coming from. Everywhere she looked, she saw only void.

The absence of visual stimuli numbed her brain, leaving her progressively more vacant and empty and desperate to be filled. It was as though the absolute blackness was leaking down through her eyes into her mind, her very soul, deadening Ami’s will and making her increasingly helpless to think her own thoughts anymore. When she felt the invisibly dark cock brushing against her lips, she opened wide for it simply to feel something concrete and tangible–she didn’t know whether it was flesh behind the sheath of latex, or a silicone strap-on, and she didn’t care. The shaft was real inside her mouth. She could center herself on it. She could anchor her mind to it. When it popped out, leaving her alone, she almost cried.

She knew she couldn’t take much more of this. Ami could sense her mind teetering on a precipice of utter subjugation, the sheer void around her leaving her unmoored to the point of total personality collapse. “Please,” she whimpered, her voice almost sounding as if it too was absorbed by the endless darkness, “please, I’ll do anything. Please, use my cunt, use my mouth, use my ass, I… I’ll be yours forever, I promise.” Her cheeks burned furiously at the depths to which she’d sunk, but she couldn’t stop herself from babbling out desperate pleas of submission and obedience. “Please, just t-tell me who you want me to be. Tell me what you want me to do. I, I’ll do anything, just command me. Just please tell me what I have to do. Please. Please tell me. Please.”

And she heard it. The voice in the darkness. Her new owner. Her salvation. The command that would tether her soul back to her body. Ami nodded gratefully as she heard, “By accepting this brainwashing you confirm that you are not Anish Kapoor, you are in no way affiliated with Anish Kapoor, and you are not being fucked into obedience on behalf of Anish Kapoor or an associate of Anish Kapoor….”

(Like this flash fiction? Want to see more? Visit or drop me a tip at if you like my work!)


#I don’t normally reblog porn and this porn isn’t even my style #but I have to admit that ending is amazing #anything that makes me laugh this much deserves a reblog #vantablack saga #sexuality and lack thereof #nsfw text #rape tw #this probably deserves some other warning tag but I am not sure what

Anonymous asked: y’know what I wish? I wish theists who do that thing where they act like any atheist they encounter or hear of is their defiant teenaged child, dissing religion to shock them personally and not out of any sincere belief, would get a fucking grip.


sincere disbelief, really



invertedporcupine said: There are cases where it’s not an act. Some of these people live in serious viewpoint bubbles. I have seen, verbatim, the claim “Even the craziest atheist believes in souls” written in all seriousness.

ironically the craziest atheist probably does believe in souls



I was taught that atheists all ACTUALLY believe in god, but they’re lying and saying they’re not because they don’t like the rules. when you push them they all deep down believe, even if they’re lying to themselves. (hence that ‘no atheists in foxholes’ thing.)

(another reason i was infuriated by that post that suggested only white male atheists don’t believe for intellectual reasons, poc/ women don’t believe because they were harmed by the religion’)



If by “soul” you mean the locus of your consciousness, morality, and cognition, which cannot be destroyed without destroying you, then yes, souls are absolutely real. They’re called “brains”, and we really should just start calling them souls to emphasize that point. (Eg, “exposure to lead is known to cause permanent soul damage, especially in bullet form.”)

This is in alignment with my other point of noting that if a lich is someone with their soul in a material phylactery, then we are all already degenerate lichs whose phylacteries are our bodies and who do not yet have access to immersive proxies, but who can already act by proxy without endangering our phylacteries (and by extensions, souls) by various forms of telecommunication, which would make one a form of cyber-lich.


#religion #discourse cw? #if I were one of those people who puts a bunch of cryptic-but-accurate descriptors in their header #I would absolutely be adding ”cyber-lich” right now #worth putting up with the entire rest of this thread for that last post #fun with loopholes #this probably deserves some other warning tag but I am not sure what #death tw?

{{previous post in sequence}}


so strange to me when people pretend that reading subtitles doesnt severely affect your experience of a show. like, unless its very low on dialogue, youre gonna spend most of the time staring at the bottom of the screen. like, its totally valid if thats a valid tradeoff for you, or if it isnt dubbed, but it clearly IS a tradeoff



today on posts from a parallel universe: ????????

this has not been a problem to me, ever*, and I watch stuff with subtitles on all the time (including stuff in languages I am fluent in, because parsing audio is a pain sometimes.)

*(ok technically I had problems with subtitles when I was a tiny child, which I’ve always attributed to not yet being able to read very fast. Maybe this is an acquired skill you need and I picked it up early because of American cultural imperialism and my parents (correctly) hating dubbing)



I was *already* missing most of the details of what was happening on the screen [link], so there isn’t much to lose by turning on subtitles.



Oh yeah, reading subtitles absolutely severely affects my experience of a show, because I can actually understand what anybody is saying and therefore what’s supposed to be going on. ;P

I think the original post is about anime due to the “if it’s not dubbed” bit, but like… I have somewhat accidentally never watched an anime in my life. We’re talking 100% spoken English media here, for me. I just have bad enough auditory processing that the “tradeoff” is between understanding while only looking at the characters 90% of the time (rough estimate, but I know I can read a Terry Pratchett novel in four hours, I read *fast*), or not understanding at all.

(I also have a *lot* of issues with dubbed media. I would always rather hear the original inflections since I’m going to be reading subtitles anyway. Is hearing completely different voices and performances supposed to affect your experience of a non-English-original show less than “the one-inch-high barrier of subtitles”? :S)

(I mean, I will grant, ability to read fast and comprehend what you’re reading is frustratingly rare, at least in the US. One of the big things that’s driving me crazy at my job is being told by the support team “it’s unreasonable to expect us to read all that” when I ask for help and try to give them the information they’ll need. So maybe it’s a more average experience to find yourself absolutely hobbled by subtitles. But really… that doesn’t sound like a subtitles problem.)



I think you’re being overly uncharitable. People who have a harder time with text or images than with audio deserve sympathy too.

Note that I *didn’t* say subtitles don’t make it harder for me to parse visuals! They *do*, and I can absolutely see how someone’s sensory processors could be set up in such a way that subtitles do more harm than good. It’s just that *my* sensory-processing bandwidth is so small and so text-weighted that *most* of the things being sacrificed are things I would have had to sacrifice regardless, and *many* of the benefits received in exchange are things I needed.

(I recently read a *transcript* of a TV episode after watching it with subtitles and discovered that–despite the subtitles being helpful on net–I had *still* missed some of the dialogue. I’m really not that good at interacting with stories on a synchronous basis in general. Real life is *somewhat* easier because it doesn’t run on Chekhov’s Gun rules: the background details I missed very often *don’t* ever become important.)



i probably am being overly uncharitable. reading comprehension / reading speed is a sore spot with me anyway for a number of reasons, and ever since we went to work at home and therefore text-only support at work, those reasons have been piling up, to a point where being outside the standard deviation on that bell curve is a huge part of why i’m in a major depressive spiral and currently unable to work. (well, being outside the standard deviation and other people being *assholes* about it. but also just having to answer the same question five times when i’m trying to get help, and then being penalized for having long calls.)

anyway. yeah. i guess this one hit more of a sore spot than i realized, one where i don’t have a lot of sympathy to spare right now. :S


#*hug* #conversational aglets #is the blue I see the same as the blue you see #depression #discourse cw? #this probably deserves some other warning tag but I am not sure what