Latest Posts by twistybat - Page 8

Emotional and psychological abuse often go hand in hand to the point where you don’t even notice the person abusing you wasn’t merely ‘hurting your feelings’, but also changed the way you perceive yourself and your surroundings. Psychological abuse doesn’t only break your heart, it puts you in a reality where you’re worth nothing and can’t achieve anything on your own. Constant gaslighting, changing the past, convincing you of your own incapability and the cruelty of the world, is not only hurtful, it’s brainwashing. It can make you feel endangered, cornered and wondering if you’re insane.

This isn’t something small you could brush over, and it isn’t done to you when you’re in your full strength, this is done to you when you’re at your most vulnerable, most trusting and defenseless. There is nobody fully resistant to it, and nobody who could get out of that unscathed. Psychological abuse will make you blame yourself, hate yourself, ask your own self what is wrong with you, and the emotions will follow, making you ashamed, guilty, desperate, hopeless. You will find yourself living in environment where you’re powerless, unimportant, not taken seriously, not even heard if you try to voice your pain and anger. It will make you try thousand different ways to make it better, to become someone worthy of attention and care, and when it doesn’t work, you’ll fall depressed, and feel even stronger that everything is your fault somehow.

Psychological abuse might be the most dangerous one, because it will take your life, and your personality away from you. You will not see an exit from a life that breaks you into little pieces every day, you will not even feel as if you deserve any better. You wont even dare to think you could be worth more of that. You will lose sight of everything except whatever it is abuser wants you to think and believe, you will be reduced to merely surviving and not knowing what happiness even is. That is devastating for any person to go thru. It’s cruel, dehumanizing and torture to inflict on a human being. If this is what you’re recovering from, you can feel the extent of which your own life was taken away and broken into pieces for someone else to use. It’s revolting. It’s comparable to being held hostage against your will. It’s not a 'lesser’ type of abuse. It’s the worst.

I’ve been marathoning “Kill Count” videos (Dead Meat is a great horror channel btw) since last night, and I would like to take an opportunity now to call John Kramer out on his classist bullshit.

Keep reading

D i n e r

important post plz read

so idk how to start this or say anything about it because i am worried about preserving the sensitivity of the matter and wondering if asking for help damages that or makes me a bad person.

i went to planned parenthood yesterday after a couple weeks of weird symptoms and found out i was six weeks and three days pregnant.

i am eighteen years old and just graduated high school, and don’t plan on having a baby any time soon.

the problem is, i live in Indiana. i have gone through, in the last two days, so much more psychological trauma than i ever believed was possible because i wasn’t prepared for this situation. doctors telling me i’m lazy and irresponsible and begging me to keep my pregnancy, referring to it as “my baby” and telling me my due date, forcing me to listen to heart beats, giving me prenatal vitamins i won’t use and giving me pictures of my ultrasound. while my mom is supportive of my decision to end my pregnancy, my dad is outraged.

i work at dairy queen and get paid hourly, i work 35 hours. i am already in physical pain due to the pregnancy because i have kidney disease and am anorexic.

what i’m trying to say here is that, yeah. i messed up pretty badly. abortions are so expensive. i am going to college, and planning on moving in august. i have no money to pay for the abortion.

that’s where you can help. my paypal is

paypal.me/kate949 and my venmo is @altyrlog. i’m not begging for money, but simply asking if you have more to spare to help out a teenage girl who’s out of options. i need the procedure done soon, and the doctors are afraid that a medical (pill) abortion wouldn’t be the best decision for my previous health history.

please, if you have anything to offer and give, i will take it. i love you all and am so warmed by the support from my friends and people close to me. i need anywhere between 450-700 dollars and i’m praying my insurance will help me cover these costs.

thank you in advance and plz message me with any questions, i have a proof of pregnancy paper and multiple other documents to confirm. i am not trying to scam you for money, im out of ideas.

i love you xx

PS if you can’t help, please support by reblogging in hopes that someone else can

i dropped off my resume at this place at 1:15 and got called for an interview at 1:45 holy dang

trying to prove a point to my brother

reblog this if you think art IS work, and that it takes time and effort and is a valid source of income.

Trump Is Trying to Undermine Native Tribes' Right to Govern Themselves

The action may breach the Supremacy Clause of the Constitution.

I reblogged this last night. But it disapeared. This is incredibly important. Under the guise of Medicaide reform, Native american tribes are going to lose federal recognition.

This is cultural genocide.  Please spread this aruond. Colonizers especially.

At 18, everyone receive a superpower. Your childhood friend got a power-absorption, your best friends got time control, and they quickly rise into top 100 most powerful superheroes. You got a mediocre superpower, but somehow got into the top 10. Today they visit you asking how you did it.

Studying Trees by Fabian Rensch

15-year-old Rolesville student slammed to ground by school officer: “I was in shock”.

In a video posted on Twitter by a Rolesville student, a school officer can be seen lifting 15-year-old Jasmine Darwin and slamming her to the floor.

Jasmine says she saw her sister fighting another student and rushed to break up the altercation. Then the officer grabbed her from behind and slammer her on the floor.

Ruben De Los Santos, the officer seen in the video and a member of the Rolesville Police Department has been placed on paid administrative leave. 

Sources (x/x)

Start reblogging the money blessings post…

If you haven’t already done it…. Go hit that reblog button. Do what you have to, just do that too.

Like seriously. Just find one and reblog it real quick. I post a couple yesterday and put into the universe that I actually wanted it

Only been at work for a couple and I get this at as a tip! (tips ain’t normal at ALL in here)

Come on now!!

Let it work for y’all too

All-New Wolverine #21

 a lot of cats (and 1 raccoon)

The Adventures of Todd and Granny

(Alternatively: “I Saw Granny Ethel with the Devil”)

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV

Yard Work

Of the many lessons instilled in him by Granny Ethel, the one that Todd knows best, is that good, hard, honest work keeps the devil at bay.

It’s only a saying. But he takes it to heart, if only to reassure himself that his brethren don’t know or care where he’s disappeared to for the past few months.

Really, they shouldn’t care. They’re often called away and sent on wayward tasks by superiors and skilled summoners alike. Sometimes for years.

Todd wouldn’t mind living like this for a decade, or two.

The Human Todd—Theodore—though, doesn’t seem to hold the same morals.

“Ugh—why won’t the damn thing just start?” he gripes at the old push lawn mower, rusted and peeling with age, as he yanks the motor’s rip cord for the third time in a row—unsuccessful. Not even a stutter. The heel of his shoe bounces off of its faded red deck with a dull, metallic thump as he tries to kick it into submission, but hitting machinery never inspires it to suddenly, magically work.

It isn’t that it doesn’t have gas—Todd has made sure it’s well taken care of in its old age and properly filled. It isn’t that it’s missing its grass-catcher bag, either. That’s another issue to be met further down the road.

Ultimately, it’s just Theodore’s poor luck and impatience. And a dirty carburetor, perhaps.

He’ll let him struggle obliviously for a few moments more—but only a few. Granny Ethel’s lawn is overgrown with a wily mass of green-yellow grass up to his shins, in desperate need of taming. But for now, he just shakes his head and minds his business at the stone-bordered garden on the other end of the lawn, getting his claws dirty pulling stray weeds from between herbs and taking notes on which ones need pruning.

More importantly, he only allows Theodore to swear so loudly because Granny Ethel is currently absent.

Their friend Sam from the grocery store kindly drove her to her routine check-up at the local clinic earlier that afternoon, though they probably would have walked if it wasn’t in the next town over.

Being who she is, he’s still a bit surprised they didn’t.

Another kick echoes off the metal body of the lawn mower—followed quickly by a strangled yell and the sound of something heavy—someone—hitting the grass with a sharp rustle. A soft landing.

Maybe he’s lucky after all.

Todd still ignores him, and pauses briefly to admire the ruby red glare of a ladybug landing on the back of his dark hand. Even as the swishing of disturbed grass only grows closer, until a distorted human shadow blocks the bright patch of sun reflecting off of the ladybug’s fragile shell.

Theodore clears his throat.

The ladybug’s wings unfurl in a flutter and it flits away, following the wind.

Again, he clears his throat to garner attention—and Todd ignores him. But he does keep him in the fringe of his peripheral vision.

“No help at all.” He huffs out an insulted breath as he stomps away, unkempt, sweaty blond hair flouncing with each step. It must be the hardest he’s worked out in ages, to get so worked up.

But Theodore doesn’t return to the lawn mower—this time he heads toward the far corner, to the small brown shed topped with a patchy, bright yellow roof. Unpainted, unfinished. It’s something Todd will take care of at an appropriate time. Granny Ethel’s birthday, perhaps…though she hasn’t mentioned it just yet.  

The doors rattle as he gives them a shake—locked, naturally. He sets his hands on his hips and hangs his head in defeat. Bends down and almost collapses in the grass, ready to give up, but stops. Frozen, as if struck by inspiration. His head tilts dramatically as he peers toward something in the corner, resting in the shadows between the shed wall and the fence.

Todd has to admit, this interests him greatly—he turns his head to watch, but doesn’t move from his spot beside the herb garden.

Theodore straightens up and slinks toward the shadowed nook, reaching a hand out into the blackness. And when he draws it back, a scythe handle is gripped in his palm.

It’s dusty. Rusted and bent at the edges, probably dull—and complete with another hand grip protruding from the main rod like a functional tool. Made of old wood; reliable wood. Hand-carved. Theodore wheezes out a laugh of disbelief and quickly turns. Todd can’t turn around fast enough and catches the brunt of the victorious grin wrinkling his face. Knowing, and so triumphant. The absolute epitome of foolish Pride.

He doesn’t even know what he’s holding, certainly. Not with those pristine, clean hands that have only been pricked by a splinter today.

Todd rises to his feet, to his full height. There’s no need to heed ceilings—not outdoors. When he takes the first step, Theodore’s smile crumbles. He clutches the scythe to his chest and takes a step back, shoulders tense. He holds the eye contact just to spook him. Just a bit.

But he doesn’t walk to him. He reaches the lawn mower and kneels to pass a hand over its motor, clearing it of whatever issue remains.

Ah. Like he thought. It’s the carburetor.  

He takes the rip cord in one hand and gives it a brisk yank—the motor stutters. Again, he pulls it, and the machine roars to life. Obedient, like a well-tamed beast.

Theodore’s strangled yelp of outrage satisfies the primal human vengeance he’s come to know as “pettiness.”

As the lawn mower idles, Theodore sets the scythe carelessly aside, dropped against the shed, and trudges through the tall grass toward it. He seizes it by the handle bar without sparing Todd a second glance even as he towers over him, still kneeling, thanks to the height of his spiraling horns.

Still, he doesn’t seem to know just how to operate the machine he snatched away. He pushes it forward, too rough—and jumps back with a start, cursing as the fresh-cut grass clippings pepper his navy-blue slacks in a rush of green.

But the beast has already been released, and as his fingers slip from the handlebar, it creeps its way forward without prompt and with surprising speed.

Straight into Granny Ethel’s beloved and flourishing lantanas.

Then right over them.

Both, speechless and stock still, stare at the vermillion whirl of shredded petals spit out in the lawn mower’s wake. Even as it bumps into the fence and tries to continue on, unaware—until it topples over and chokes itself out, blades whirring to a halt beneath its casing.

Just in time, too. In the distance, but not too far away, a car door slams shut. Swift and familiar, shuffling footsteps fast approach. The wooden side gate creaks open.

“We’re back at last, dears! I’m sure you’ve been working hard. Why don’t we take a break? I saw the most charming bakery on the way home and couldn’t help but—”

Something crashes against the cobblestone walkway. Soft—covered in a plastic bag. Bread. No, cinnamon buns. Todd can smell the sugary vanilla sweetness through the package. But he can’t quite turn to face Granny Ethel as a red hot glare fills his eyes, aimed only at Theodore.

But—no. It isn’t entirely the man’s fault.

It’s his, too, for playing a jealous, petty little game. Because he could have stopped the lawn mower and didn’t.

Sometimes, standing idly by is the worst sin of all.

Todd’s heart caves in as Granny Ethel breathes in and exhales, speechless, and presses her hands to her mouth when he turns to face her.

“Oh, my… The lantanas.”

Her eyes dart to the ruined mess of flowers and she takes a tiny step forward, over the fallen bag of sweet bread. Drops her hands from her mouth and holds them out in front of her as she ambles forward—and stops, a safe distance away from the destruction.

“Oh, my dudes, yikes,” Sam breathes, hissing in through his teeth and rubbing a brown hand across his frowning, pursed lips. “I, uh—I’ll go in and mix up some juice or something. You’ll need it.” He picks up the fallen bag of buns on the way.

Todd’s shoulders hunch as he very nearly curls in on himself in shame, wrapping his shawl tight around himself—because the heat never bothered him and it’s his it’s special and it was a gift from her and, somewhere deep down, he vows to never disappoint her, to hurt her, in such a way again. Ever.

Theodore, flushed deep red from neck to ears ever since his grandmother walked in, shuffles half-heartedly in front of the straight line of shredded lantanas, at least self-aware enough to realize he’d made a grave error. His hands knead roughly together, pale skin turning whiter from the pressure. Sweating, still, but not only from the summer heat.

“Gran, I…”

“Charles grew that patch for me.” Her soft poofs of cloud-white hair twist in the breeze as she closes her eyes and dips her head toward her chest, eyes closed. “Oh, they’ve been there ever since he planted them. Every single one.” She folds her hands in front of her loose, sunflower-yellow dress and shakes her head, saying no more on the subject.

“Oh my God. I’m so—Gran, I don’t… I didn’t mean to, it just… It wasn’t my fault!”

His frantic cry goes unheard by Granny Ethel as she stands with her head bowed in silence.

“There’s a silver lining, here, my dear.” When she looks up, her eyes shine behind her glasses, unshed tears catching sunlight, but her stare is hardened. And harsh.

Even with that small, tired smile, her fury is a cold-burning flame.

“You see, these particular flowers can live again. We will collect the undamaged stalks that are left and root them. Replant them. Then…” Her voice trails off into the silence of an unspoken thought. “For now, I’ll leave you two in peace to finish the yard work.”

Neither speaks a word, stuck in mortified silence, even as Granny Ethel disappears into the house.

The silence is only broken moments later when Sam makes his way back outside holding a tray filled with a glass pitched and three glasses, as well as a small pile of cookies. Peanut butter, of course.

But no sweet cinnamon buns.  

“Here’s that drink! Lavender lemonade with honey—and Granny’s special peanut cookies,” he smiles, trying his best to keep up a positive atmosphere as he sits cross-legged on the lawn with the fine silver tray in his lap. “She helped put it together, dudes, so don’t forget to thank her later.”

Theodore scoffs and grumbles out, “I’m allergic to peanuts,” but Todd knows that isn’t true. He’s seen entire containers of peanut butter disappear overnight, at times. And Granny Ethel simply wouldn’t do something that selfish, so he’s the only suspect.

But if the man is going to be that way about it, then all the more treats for him and Sam. He drains one of the glasses in a single gulp and devours two of the delicious, crispy cookies, nodding in appreciation. Because it’s what Granny Ethel would want—and he’d rather die than let her hospitality go to waste. Her happiness always comes first.

He hopes she’s not crying.

“She’s busy crocheting something in the den, by the way. Humming, and everything. Boy, am I glad she’s not mad.” Sam also eats a cookie and speaks around the crunchy bits in his mouth, providing him with just the answer he sought. “But, man, that’s some gnarly garden carnage, there.” He nods his head toward the lantanas and whistles low. “Did you apologize?”

“Why would I?” Theodore snaps, arms crossed tight as he refuses to look at the flowers and their faces, still evident in his guilt by the way he answers so quickly. When no one gives him an immediate response, he breathes a theatrical sigh and clomps toward the fallen path of ruined flowers. Hands on his hips, now, he observes the mess. “Is any of this even salvageable? None of the stems look un-shredded!”

“You should apologize,” Sam insists lightly, taking another cookie when he finishes the first. He meets Todd’s eyes and they share a knowing glance. Then, his brown eyes light up. “Oh—and by the way, Granny’s appointment went great! She’s fit as a fiddle.”

By now, Theodore is squatting amongst the flower shreds, combing through the mess for anything that looks particularly helpful and root-able. “Of course she is. Her energy knows no bounds.”

Todd can only nod. Granny Ethel’s health is nigh infallible. But—that aside, it’s time to return to work. He finishes his cookies, brushes the crumbs off his palms and carefully makes his way to the flower patch to pick out the lantana stems they can still save.  

There are few—but a few is better than none. And for the rest, they can grow from the seeds.

It will take some time to return Granny’s beloved lantana garden to its former glory, but not forever. And before they know it, this day will be nothing more than a mistake of the past.  

So, they continue their yard work until the day’s chore is done.

The remaining lantanas: neat. The lawn: trimmed. The herb garden: weeded and pruned.

When the tools have been returned to their proper place, they leave the yard behind, and Todd gives one final, sweeping glance around the space as he slides the back door shut.

Something is out of place. He can’t quite pin down what, but later, when he curls up in his small twin bed and drifts to sleep in the room he shares with Theodore, he dreams of a rusted scythe that he can’t quite remember putting away—one that he promptly forgets when he wakes.

The Adventures of Todd and Granny

(Alternatively: “I Saw Granny Ethel with the Devil”)

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV

Unexpected Guest

Today is a good day for Todd—though they mostly are, as of late.

He’s heard people, mostly the damned, mention the “good ol’ days”; these must be his in the making.

By the end of the afternoon, he’s improved greatly on his stitch counting and his triple crochets and, especially, in mastering how to properly turn his piece so his rows are no longer frustratingly mismatched. It’s still a work in progress, but Granny Ethel’s lessons are wonderful as always. Next up is learning how to incorporate another yarn color for bright, fun designs—or in his case, dark and atmospheric—after their midday break of coffee and desserts, of course. Because as fond as she is of his preferred black yarn, she insists he has to branch out from solids eventually. There’s no growth if one always remains in their comfort zone.  

Instead of coffee, however, Granny Ethel is in the mood for tea—and just as with everything else he’s inherited from her lifestyle, the art of brewing tea presents a difficult learning curve.

She doesn’t take her tea from grocery store boxes and tiny sachets—she doesn’t buy those in bulk because they only go to waste and sit stale in the cupboards. When she drinks tea at all (that is, when she isn’t in the mood for espresso), it must be fresh, and from organic, homegrown ingredients. For this reason, tea isn’t an impulsive choice of drink. It must be planned. It’s another lesson she’s instilled in him during his stay, and, the week before, they’d spent an entire morning identifying each of the specific herbs thriving in the back garden, and which parts were best used in which blends. Of course, he is well acquainted with the rosemary and sage, the lavender and thyme, the basil and juniper, and the chamomile and anise. But lemongrass is new, and it grows in abundance in the planters set on the windowsills.

Because it’s such a novelty, he chooses it as the main note and adds in chamomile blossoms to offset the citrus tang. It’s a challenge to balance it just right so neither is too overwhelming, nor too bland, and he doesn’t expect this to be a great attempt, but Granny Ethel is honest with her evaluations and generous with encouragement. There’s also the matter of heating the water to a proper boil, and not overheating the mix, then steeping it for the right amount of time…

Well, there’s a reason he never apprenticed to a potion brewer and enlisted in the debt collecting department for souls instead.

But for Granny Ethel, he tries his best.

The kitchen counter, small as it is, is a difficult surface to work with. The kitchenware is tiny in his hands, and if he isn’t careful when he moves, his horns scrape the ceiling above, sending a fine powder of popcorned drywall down like snow out of season.

Water sloshes out of the kettle and spills across the granite, some trickling down onto the tiles, and the small, fragile jar he mixes the herbs in cracks beneath his claws, but doesn’t shatter. He scoops out the blend with care and packs it loosely into a metal tea strainer, but even so, most of it ends up scattered across the counter. Grass and petals bounce and dive out of the tea ball as he fumbles to secure the latch, and by the end of the struggle, only a small portion of what he’d placed remains within.

He tries once more—and again. And once more, just until there’s an appropriate measurement of herbs trapped inside. Then, ever-so-carefully, he sets the tea ball into Granny Ethel’s favorite tea cup (the special one, decorated with playful kittens and ribbons and an elaborate, golden cursive “C”) and pours boiling water over it to steep.

A freshly-baked apple pie waits on the small, round dining table, taken fresh from the oven only an hour before. A sliver of the circle has been removed for tasting—and it is delicious. Slicing two pieces of the pie is a far simpler task than brewing tea, and Todd makes sure that Granny Ethel’s piece dwarfs the plate it sits upon, because she deserves the best. And bigger is better.  

The two dessert-filled plates sit across from each other, equidistant, on the table, on finely crocheted doilies that serve as placemats. The pastel yellow tablecloth covering the table is riddled in fragile, embroidered daisies and winding leaves and it screams spring despite the heat of summer weighing heavy in the air. He’ll have to find another to replace it with, soon. Maybe one with sunflowers.

As he considers this, the doorbell rings.

It isn’t something he thinks twice about anymore. Not since their new friend from the supermarket made it habit to participate in their weekly Yahtzee or domino nights, and their bi-weekly trips to the bingo hall.

Neither does Granny Ethel—he can hear her call to the door from the living room, remaining in her seat, “Come in, dear! The door is unlocked.”

But it isn’t a game night, or a bingo day.

It’s midafternoon on a Tuesday and the only thing scheduled for the remainder of the day is a rerun of one of their favorite TV dramas about two women in law enforcement.

The door creaks open—it’s something Todd’s been meaning to fix, though the home is sorely lacking in tools and hardware necessary for the job. If there was hinge lubricant around, it would fix it right up, but he may have to resort to cooking oil as a quick fix.

Curiosity gets the better of him. Carefully balancing the teapot and teacup in both clawed hands, he approaches the carpeted hall between the kitchen and living room to take a peek at the mystery guest. But multitasking, pouring the tea and looking at the same time, proves to be a mistake and in hindsight something he should have avoided.

The tea, so carefully prepared and brewed, overflows from the fine china cup, spills onto the matching, chipped saucer and steadily splatters the floor. Todd doesn’t even move, doesn’t blink, as it saturates the floral rug beneath his claws. The drips are the only thing moving in this scene removed from time, and all else stands still, even the dust in the air.

Neither of them expected a guest today—neither of them ever expected this particular guest. Mostly because one believes he is already present, and one believes he is too selfish to ever even have the passing thought to visit, much less call or write.

“Oh no, Todd, the carpet! Hurry now, dear, hurry, go and—no, I’ll go and grab a towel, I know where the cleaning ones are!”

Granny Ethel is the first to break free from the frozen atmosphere—though she refuses to acknowledge anything aside from the growing stain on the living room floor. Todd quickly rights the white china teapot hanging from his claws and holds his other hand steady to prevent the flooded teacup from dripping more hot tea to the puddle below. It doesn’t work—seems to make it worse, actually. It’s a vain task, so he gives up and cradles it all in his large hands, doing his best to keep the remaining tea contained in his palms. 

“‘Todd?’” says the clean-cut young man standing in the open doorway, a jarring juxtaposition to the black clothes and heavily-blackened eyes and metal accessories from familiar photographs—but even in the full Sunday suit, those downturned, bright eyes are unmistakable, and they are fixed unblinkingly on Todd’s decidedly un-Todd-like form. “Who are you?”

I’m you, but better, doesn’t seem like an appropriate response, no matter how true it is. Todd the demon holds his silence and doesn’t break the gaze, because it feels like a challenge.

This man is the human Todd, and he’s come to visit.

Today is a….strange day, for Demon Todd.

Tea time is no longer a pleasant, cozy time. Not with their extra guest, seated between them at the small round table with a (small) slice of pie of his own and an untouched glass of water—no tea, no coffee, for him. He’s tall—a bit too large for the small table, though Demon Todd is one to talk. But being who he is, it’s only natural he dwarfs everything around him. This Human Todd, though… just what is his excuse?

Granny Ethel hasn’t spoken a single word to the young man the entire time and her silence is strange. She’s usually such a chatty, friendly woman.

So they eat in silence—but not Human Todd. He sits still, staring with narrowed, mean eyes, on edge. But not entirely frightened, like the general public tended to be in his presence. It’s odd. Perhaps it runs in the family.

As he sits in the silence, he wrings his hands together—clean hands, like one unaccustomed to frequent physical labor. No dirt in sight underneath his nail beds. Not even flecks of old nail polish hinting at remnants of a secret grunge lifestyle never quite grown out of. Whatever he has grown into certainly isn’t that of someone who toils in the underworld or its culture, like his counterpart.

No, rather, it reeks of money. Given—not earned. And possibly taken, too.

Demon Todd has an inkling of why Human Todd is here. After all, he didn’t come alone. Accompanying his arrival were three large, expensive suitcases, stuffed full. Still sitting in the living room, out of place.

At long last, as the last crumb falls, Granny Ethel speaks.

“Well, dear, speak up, speak up. What brings you here?” she asks the young man as she pats at the corners of her wrinkled mouth with a cloth napkin, and she avoids speaking his name despite the fact that she must know who he is.

The words, though, aren’t entirely conversational. With the three of them sitting at the small table, it more resembles a conference—no, a hearing. Especially when she pulls up the thick, round spectacles hanging from crocheted strings around her neck and sets them atop the bridge of her nose to better see the new visitor.

Human Todd’s eyes drift warily from the long, sharp claws tapping silently on the tabletop, and he clears his throat before looking to his grandmother, wearing a sickly sweet and fake smile as he does. “Well, it’s been so long. So, so many years, Gran. I’ve missed you, see. Dad was in the wrong, and he treated you terribly. I understand that now.”

“Ah, Arthur…” she replies faintly, setting the napkin down on the table and folding her hands across her lap. Yes—she knows exactly who Human Todd is. But the behavior is still so unlike her. No joy, no sweet smiles. All gone, drained, as empty as the teacup set in front of her, but not even leaving the dregs of what she once was behind.

Demon Todd briefly considers kicking Human Todd to the curb.

“He said awful things about you, and I listened. I came here by way of apology, to take care of you, but,” briefly, and not without a flinch, his eyes wander to Demon Todd, and linger on the dark, hand-crafted shawl perched on his spiny shoulders, “it seems like you’ve already gotten that under control.” His gaze lingers, fixed in a poorly-concealed grimace. “Who are you, by the way?”

Granny Ethel speaks for him, and for a moment her cheer returns. “This is my wonderful grandson, Todd! He’s such a polite young man. And it’s true, life has certainly become easier, and better, since he arrived and helped out so, so much.”

Demon Todd can only nod, but if he could smile without it looking like several rows of craggy, sharp teeth gnashed together in malicious threat, he would.  

Human Todd wrenches his gaze away, and pulls at the collar of his pristine white shirt. His hairline shines with sweat, and it isn’t due to the cozy temperature Granny Ethel prefers to keep in the house.

“Then…who am I?” he ventures quietly, eyebrows furrowed in an odd mixture of confusion and shame. Ah, the bafflement of mortals.

“Why, dear, I couldn’t say. In fact, I’d say that depends entirely on you! Actions speak louder than words, don’t you know.”

The sweat creeps down his temples, shining in the faint light. “Right, I…I see.”

“But if you’d like a name…I would insist on Theodore. What do you think, Todd, dear?”

Demon Todd nods once more, pleased by the way the conversation unsettles the man. In fact, the situation is much like naming a pet. Although something fluffy and small, or covered in feathers, would be preferable to this sweaty human.

“Theodore it is, then!”

Human Todd—now, Theodore—switches his gaze between them, fingers tugging at his shirt collar once again. “Alright. Theodore it is,” he agrees, as if, perhaps, it has been his name all along, and using a shortened form of it had been a way to rebel, once upon a time. A memory lost to time. A privilege denied. “I guess I deserve that.”

“Well, now that we’ve got that out of the way, Theodore, dear, how long are you planning on staying? I must warn you, showing up unannounced means Todd and I haven’t been able to prepare for guests. I’m afraid that means you and Todd will have to share a room until we’re able to make other arrangements.”

Theodore gulps audibly, Adam’s apple bobbing. He refuses to meet Demon Todd’s—just Todd, again, something of a victory—eyes. “Y-yes Gran.”

“And you must be aware of the house rules. Everyone contributes in any way they’re able.”

“Actions speak louder than words, right?” Theodore asks, shaky fingers reaching for the glass of water set in front of him. Not quite making it and falling still on the table, instead.

“That’s right, dear.” Granny Ethel smiles, at last. Full of her old joy again, as she should be. Renewed. Her eyes, large and owlish behind the clouded lenses, turn to Todd. “Now, Todd, won’t you be a dear and show our new house guest to his room?”

Todd looks to the dirty dishes on the table, caught between wanting to tend to them before taking care of any other, less important, duties.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of the dishes.”

Well, Granny Ethel’s word is law.

He rises to his feet—careful, always careful. Barely resisting the urge to let the ends of his horns graze the ceiling above Theodore so he gets a nice, healthy dose of powdered scrapings on his painstakingly slicked-back hair.

The man follows, cautiously, and keeps three steps behind as Todd leads him out of the kitchen and into the living room to scramble for his luggage, then down the hallway to the guest room, not making a peep, and not even stepping hard on the floors just to startle his counterpart a little, because one, it would flatten the carpets into ugly tracks, and two, Granny Ethel would want him to be a good host.

Theodore knows who—what—he is. Yet even when Granny Ethel is out of sight and out of earshot, he doesn’t question it. He simply goes about his business and does his best to ignore the hulking beast standing in the doorway, watching.

Though, between the two of them, Todd isn’t sure which one is the real monster.

It’s a conversation for another day.

An old and homely grandmother accidentally summons a demon. She mistakes him for her gothic-phase teenage grandson and takes care of him. The demon decides to stay at his new home.

An old and homely grandmother accidentally summons a demon. She mistakes him for her gothic-phase teenage grandson and takes care of him. The demon decides to stay at his new home.

Just Another Love Poem. Until the First Line.

No one ever teaches you how to fall out of love with your rapist.

How to survive until the moment when their shadow ceases to be

an extension of your own, how to find someone else to be your North Star

who won’t ever violate the rest of your sky.

How to recognize wolves in sheep’s clothing, or wolves that devour you

then bring you the remains of a dead dove as a peace offering

like its feathers are enough to erase the teeth marks.

No one ever teaches you how to stop looking into a bedroom

and seeing the person you love sitting next to the window, waiting,

seeing your rapist sitting there too

and wishing they weren’t one and the same.

No one ever teaches you that it could take years

before you stop feeling like a crescent moon and more like a full one,

that it takes eons to cut the strings connecting you

to the person who said I love you and it’s your fault in the same tone of voice

when all you want is to hand them the scissors

and keep the strings intact.

And most of all, no one talks about wishing to feel their skin on yours again

even after months of being torn in half.

An essay Darren Seals wrote to MTV after Darren Wilson was not indicted

“I was actually outside of the Ferguson police department headquarters, standing on top of a car with Mike Brown’s mother and some friends – all the people who have protested and fought with us. We were in the middle of the street and there were a lot of cameras around, CNN and [other outlets].

We already knew what the decision would be, but at the same time it still hurt to hear it.[Darren Wilson] got married right before the decision, so that’s how we knew he wasn’t going to jail. That was the ultimate slap in the face.

And for Mike Brown’s mother to be right there in my arms crying — she literally cried in my arms — it was like I felt her soul crying. It’s a different type of crying. I’ve seen people crying, but she was really hurt. And it hurt me. It hurt all of us.

I don’t recall anyone having a longer protest, a more productive protest, a more creative protest than what we did. I don’t think people will ever really appreciate what we did until years from now. We really did the best we could.

[Mike Brown’s family] is not a family of revolutionaries — this is a family of black people who grew up in the inner city and didn’t have the best education on these topics.

It’s easy to kill black people because we’re the have-nots. We’re at the bottom of the totem pole. What people don’t understand is, we actually live in a nightmare. We actually live in a place where gunshots [are normal]. We hear gunshots everyday.

We plan to rally more and protest more, but the long-term goal: We’re trying to use all the resources we gained from this to educate people, because we all know the system will never change. Black men being killed by police and not going to jail for it – it’s been going on for years and it’s not going to stop.

Our long-term goal is to educate young black men and young black women throughout the world on how to deal with police brutality, how to deal with the police, how to deal with traffic stops and learn their rights.

We don’t educate them on those things now. They don’t teach them that in school, and a lot of their parents don’t know these things because they were never taught. So the goal is to teach people how to avoid those situations, that way another Mike Brown situation won’t occur. We’re trying to prevent the next Mike Brown before it happens, through music, through writing, speaking at schools, talking to the kids and just educating them.

People who are not from our community don’t understand that Missouri [is filled with] oppressed people. That’s why we’ve got a lot of heart to fight this battle. We’ve been taught to fight our whole lives. They will literally have to shoot us down in the streets for us to stop fighting [for this cause].

Police brutality is going on everywhere, this is nothing new, but everyone talks about what we should do, and no one actually does it. For the first time we actually did every step – we marched, we protested, we voted – we did some historical things. We did everything they said we should do. We spread awareness, we kept it positive, we kept it peaceful. For 108 days, we did everything they told us we should do and we didn’t get one day in court. We did all of that and didn’t get ONE day in court.

What’s a civil suit going to do? Give us a little money? That’s just a pacifier. Make [it safe] for a couple of days? A couple of months? Maybe a year or two, before they kill the next Mike Brown somewhere? Maybe not even in St. Louis, it might be in Chicago, Memphis, anywhere. It’s a pacifier. We don’t want a civil suit, that’s not going to do anything. After Trayvon Martin…guess what? Cary Ball died. Mike Brown died. Eric Garner died.“

Source

For anyone who wants a free pose-able human reference for drawing

The other day I came across this awesome program by accident (I don’t even remember what I was actually searching for, but on the several times I’ve looked for a program like this I’ve had no luck). It’s cool enough that I wanted to share it.

It’s called DesignDoll (website here) and it’s a program that lets you shape and pose a human figure pretty much however you want.

There’s a trial version with no expiration date that can be downloaded for free, as well as the “pro license” version priced at $79. I’ve only had the free version for two days so far, so I’m not an expert and I haven’t figured out all of the features yet, but I’ve got the basics down. The website’s tutorials are actually pretty helpful for the basics, as well. 

Here’s the page for download, which has a list of the features available in both versions.

There are three features the free version doesn’t have:

Can’t save OBJ files for export

Can’t download models and poses from Doll Atelier (a sharing site for users; note that the site is in Japanese, though)

It can’t load saved files

The third one means that if you make a pose, save it, and close the program, you can’t load that pose/modified model later. You have to start with the default model. I found that out when I tried to load a file from the day before (this is why reading is important…). Whether saving your modifications (and downloading models and poses) is worth $80 is up to you. 

But, the default model is pretty nice and honestly if all you’re looking for is a basic pose reference it should work fairly well as it is. Here’s what it looks like:

There’s a pose tag that lets you drag each joint into place and rotate body parts. The torso and waist can be twisted separately, and it seems like everything pretty much follows the range of movement it would have on an actual human.

Even the entire shoulder area is actually movable along with the joint! See, like how the scapular area of the back raises with the arm:

The morphing tag is one of the coolest features, in my opinion. It lets you pick and choose from a library of pre-set forms for the head, chest, arms, legs, etc. It has some more realistic body shapes in addition to more anime-like ones. Don’t like the options there? Mix a few to get what you want! Each option has a slider that lets you blend as much or as little as you want into the design. 

So you, too, can create beautiful things like kawaii Muscle-chan!!

The scale tag lets you mess with the proportions and connection points of different joints. This feature combined with the morphing feature not only allows more body shape variations, but it also means that you can do things like make a more digitigrade model if you want. (The feet only have an ankle joint, but for regular human poses that’s all that you really need, so whatever.)

Or you can make a weird chubby alien-like thing with giant hands and balloon tiddies if that’s more your thing.

The ability to pose hands to the extent it allows is far more than I could have hoped for from a free program. Seriously, you can change the position of each finger joint individually, as well as how spread out the fingers are from each other. Each crease on the diagram below is a point of movement, and the circles are for spread between fingers. 

And to make it a bit more convenient, there’s a library of pre-set hand poses you can pick from as well, and then change the pose from that if you like. 

In both versions, you can also import OBJ files from other places for the model to hold, like if you wanted to have them hold a sword or something.

Basically, this program is awesome and free and you should totally check it out if you want a good program for creating pose references.

Petition to have Tumblr actually do something about porn blog bots following users.

• It’s annoying. • It gives an imperfect metric for how many followers you have. (I would estimate about 25% of my “followers” are porn blogs run by bots). • It makes pulling up your activity page iffy even if you use Tumblr strictly for SFW content. • It’s problematic for individuals who have struggled with sex and/or pornography addictions, especially since many of the blog names are not obviously porn names, causing you to preview the blog. • It exposes minors to illegal and harmful content.

And to many of us: • It’s disgusting. • it’s degrading to human beings, especially women. • It makes Tumblr a less classy, less reputable place.

Please share this if you agree this is a serious problem.

I adore this, I adore this so much.

that arm’s gonna get covered in stickers, just u wait

also:

it wasn’t designed w mabel’s artistic genius in mind

If you really like someone’s art/writing/etc, even if you’re scared to talk to them, tell them. I have really bad anxiety myself, and I’m usually scared to talk to people I like, even online. But when I have actually worked up the nerve to tell someone I like their work, literally every time the person has been nice, and even thankful. Why? Because nothing feels better than to know that someone loves something you created, or that what you made has helped them through a rough time. By telling them what they’ve done for you, you do something for them too!

Not getting over it anytime soon.

still recovering from the gravity falls finale

reblog if u agree

Thank you for these. <3

GRAVITY FALLS POST-ENDING HEADCANONS

- Dipper and Wendy swap hats every year

- Soos and Melody eventually have twins that live in Dipper and Mabel’s old room

- McGucket makes the old Northwest mansion into a mecha because he can…and because Soos hooked him on anime

- Ford and Stan visit the kids for Thanksgiving, which is why you see Mabel making Ford a turkey hand in the credits

- Bill is still kicking around somewhere in Stan’s subconscious, but it’s gonna take him a while to pull himself back together, much less be in a position to do any damage

- Since Soos moved into the Shack, Stan and Ford end up rooming with McGucket whenever they go back to Gravity Falls. Some of the weird creatures end up living in there too. It’s a big mansion.

- Stan still has occasional memory gaps, but he remembers the important stuff - anything to do with his family

- Stan pretended not to remember Ford just to annoy him. Ford is annoyed but hugs him anyway.

- Gideon starts sending his thugs after any bullies, not just ones who pick on him.

- Dipper and Mabel’s parents are understandably annoyed about the pig, but they leave it alone when they realize how much the kids have matured over the past few months. 

- (they are in fact, kind of worried about how much the kids have changed over the summer)

- Bill’s statue is still out in the woods. No one wants to go near it.

- …Except Dipper, who came across it the next summer and hangs out there sometimes when he wants to be alone and needs something to complain at that can’t interrupt him.

- (and if Bill ever meets Dipper again he’s going to have a lot to say about his petty human problems)

- Everyone involved in the circle eventually gets a tattoo of their symbol. They can’t exactly explain why, they just end up doing it on their own.

- Gravity Falls’ location? It’s in your heart.

I should have been studying for my finals over the weekend. Instead, I drew Princess Unattainabelle. Also, why must my scanner murder my pink tones so viciously?

Hello all! I have learned that a website called Live Heroes has multiple versions of my Princess Mononoke illustration available for purchase. The kicker is that I had no knowledge that the image was being sold and I do not give them my consent to have it on their website. The image was uploaded by a user going by Coffeecatsandcigaretts.  Please help me get this image off of this site!!! This is completely disrespectful/illegal! You can help me by following the link provided below and completely then bomb the comments section with aggression. Here is the link: DESTROY THE EVIL And it would also help if you Reblogged this post!! I’m glad people like my art, but this isn’t flattering to me. It just makes me feel cheap. Unfortunately, I am I one of thousands of victims of this situation. If you see someone’s art being sold and you think it’s being done without their consent please notify the artist!  In addition, if you do want to purchase this image, and love Princess Mononoke as much as I do, then you can purchase a print of it on my printshop: Princess Mononoke Print For Purchase I’ll look into selling other versions of this image since it seems to be so popular! Thanks so much for you support!! In the meantime I have emailed the website, and hopefully will have this issue resolved. It looks like the user made a pretty big profit off of my image. Hope it can be given to it’s rightful owner.  Thanks! :) www.daniel-shaffer.com danielh.shaffer@gmail.com

A tiny Stan I doodled. Mullet love

FANTASTIC.

Saving people, hunting things

I had this in mind for happening sometime after Stanford manages to somehow un-goldify himself.

Sorry, Eight Ball but not really