Many trans girls, including me, have a habit of romanticizing the cisgender experience. A month or two into my transition, I told my girlfriend that I couldn’t wait until I could look in the mirror and see a pretty girl staring back at me. “You realize that’s never going to happen, right?” was her response. “You’re going to look at your reflection and feel unsatisfied — just like every other woman.” And it’s true: Even the most gorgeous of my friends can list a dozen things she’d change about her appearance. So the next time you’re feeling unattractive, don’t blame yourself; blame capitalism and a beauty culture designed to make you feel that way.
Eggplant Productions is now taking submissions for a children’s fantasy e-zine as as well as submissions for an adult anthology:
Both anthologies will feature fairy tales retold to feature POC, LGBT and disabled characters, as well as non-Western European and non-North American settings. We are looking for poetry and fiction, as well as artwork for both
[REBLOG FAR AND WIDE, PEEPS! :D MY CHALLENGE TO YOU - 1500 REBLOGS. THAT’S ONCE PER EACH OF YA. CAN WE DO IT?]
Do you like fanfic?
Do you read fanfic?
Do you write fanfic?
Does your life, perhaps, center around fanfic? fanart? fanvids? fanmixes? podfics? :D
(…..whaaaat? why you lookin’ at me that way??)
AO3 is the fanfic archive to beat all other fic archives - and we all know it. We all use it. Some of us are there every day. Some of us, maybe, possibly, never leave the site (how many tabs do I have open right now? ….not sayin.)
Those of us who were fans before we had an archive all our own remember getting TOS’d by LJ and other platforms (none of which had the right features for an archive anyway) on a regular basis, depending on who owned it or advertised on it at any given moment. Bah!
AO3 is a fabulous resource - we ought to remember that more often :D
Well, AO3 isn’t being generated by magic code monkeys :D It’s fans and writers and artists just like all of us writing and maintaining the code & the infrastructure, and they need dollars to keep the thing afloat.
Click your way on over there and give them five or ten bucks. I mean, it’s a couple of coffees, or a bubble tea or other imbibable equivalent of your choice :D GIVE THEM JUST A FEW DOLLARS. EVERY FEW DOLLARS COUNTS.
It’s amazing to me that they manage to keep AO3 up and running on donations. I mean, we could be being spammed with ads all the time or paying a monthly subscription fee - and it would be *worth* a subscription fee.
You use AO3 - go show them your support, nay love and adoration, in a concrete way. You know you want to :D
Yesterday, I spent 60 dollars on groceries,
took the bus home,
carried both bags with two good arms back to my studio apartment
and cooked myself dinner.
You and I may have different definitions of a good day.
This week, I paid my rent and my credit card bill,
worked 60 hours between my two jobs,
only saw the sun on my cigarette breaks
and slept like a rock.
Flossed in the morning,
locked my door,
and remembered to buy eggs.
My mother is proud of me.
It is not the kind of pride she brags about at the golf course.
She doesn’t combat topics like, ”My daughter got into Yale”
with, “Oh yeah, my daughter remembered to buy eggs”
But she is proud.
See, she remembers what came before this.
The weeks where I forgot how to use my muscles,
how I would stay as silent as a thick fog for weeks.
She thought each phone call from an unknown number was the notice of my suicide.
These were the bad days.
My life was a gift that I wanted to return.
My head was a house of leaking faucets and burnt-out lightbulbs.
Depression, is a good lover.
So attentive; has this innate way of making everything about you.
And it is easy to forget that your bedroom is not the world,
That the dark shadows your pain casts is not mood-lighting.
It is easier to stay in this abusive relationship than fix the problems it has created.
Today, I slept in until 10,
cleaned every dish I own,
fought with the bank,
took care of paperwork.
You and I might have different definitions of adulthood.
I don’t work for salary, I didn’t graduate from college,
but I don’t speak for others anymore,
and I don’t regret anything I can’t genuinely apologize for.
And my mother is proud of me.
I burned down a house of depression,
I painted over murals of greyscale,
and it was hard to rewrite my life into one I wanted to live
But today, I want to live.
I didn’t salivate over sharp knives,
or envy the boy who tossed himself off the Brooklyn bridge.
I just cleaned my bathroom,
did the laundry,
called my brother.
Told him, “it was a good day.