The Trick To A Good Insult Is Sort Of Talking Around It And Making Them Think So That It Hits Harder

reblog to join a school of fish with prev

oh shoot we got quarter century tomorrow

People only have so much patience for those of us with chronic illnesses, chronic pain, and or mental health difficulties.

At the beginning there is so much support (or at least more support) but when they realise you're not recovering as quickly as they'd like... you get avoided, isolated, told you're exaggerating, etc. They seldom think about how those of us with chronic issues feel. How overwhelming it is to deal with everything day in and day out. There is so much anxiety, depression, grief, etc when dealing with chronic issues regardless of what they are.

If you're even more isolated because people refuse to see how much you're struggling or you're not recovering "fast enough" for the people around you just know you're not alone! There are so many of us in the same boat too

Fiyero: Why did you give Glinda a knife?

Elphaba: "She said she didn't feel safe."

Fiyero: "Now I don't feel safe."

Elphaba: *looks a Glinda running around giggling maniacally with a knife*

*side eyes nervous Fiyero*

*hesitates* "Do...Do you want a knife?"

A child with a mask.

When I was little, my dad hired a Cambodian refugee called Jack to help him drywall a dining room ceiling. Jack spoke very little English; he'd recently gotten a part time job in a little Asian deli not far from our home and needed to pick up some extra work. He was very kind to six year old me and my exhausted mom; he brought us day old leftovers from the deli counter often, and liked to tuck the knuckle of his index finger into the dimple in my cheek whenever I smiled at him.

He soaked up construction skills and other information like a sponge, and by the time he left my dad's tiny construction company he'd gotten his GED, learned to drive, reunited with his sister and her family, and had begun remodeling a vacant business on the rich side of town into a Cambodian restaurant. He invited us to their grand opening on lunar new year, and I'll never forget when he gave me a red envelope with five dollars in it and told me, "tonight I am the luckiest man in the world, so this will bring you luck, too."

Years later, my dad told me that Jack had witnessed his parents' murder during the khmer rouge, and was immediately separated from his sister. He had to cross the killing fields at Choeung Ek alone, on foot, eating grass and insects to survive. He somehow made it to Cam Ranh on the coast of Vietnam, where a distant friend of his father's put him on a boat to Seattle. Jack was nine years old.

I tell this story because, even though I haven't seen Jack or any of his relatives in thirty years, I pray he's well and happy and eating like a king tonight with everyone he loves, celebrating the long overdue demise of the pestilential sonofabitch who tried to wipe them out.

Fuck Henry Kissinger's pathetic ghost, and fuck all those who praise him. Fuck Imperialism. Fuck the genocidal war machine. Drink deep for the freedom of all souls tonight, my friends. And tomorrow, keep fighting.

Shoutout to the people who don’t think double texts seem clingy or uncool text me all day spam me I’m into that kinda shit.

imagine having a personality so morally bankrupt that the pope himself said "i'm telling god" and headed out

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