lila. 32. she/her. bi trans woman. multifandom blog. interests change often but reliably you'll get fate, pokemon, kamen rider, symphogear, and other anime/tokusatsu. occasional homestuck warning. 98% reblogs, 2% milk
if a fae asks for your name and you give them your deadname does that mean you’re free to pick up your chosen name from there on or are you just nameless forever no reason haha but please answer quickly
Hey im making this post short and sweet cuz making these kindsa posts makes me wanna curl up and rot, but my food stamps got cut off and I need to be able to buy both food and medication, I have some gigs but they dont exactly keep the bills paid on their own. :(
we’re moving to a cheaper apt but first month’s rent is gonna take p much all our funds, anything to help us get groceries meds and necessities in the meantime would be the biggest help :<
I loved watching ghost in the shell stand alone complex on adult swim when I was a completely normal 12 year old boyworking out the logistics of uploading my consciousness into a woman’s body like I probably couldn’t tell my family but I think I could keep a few of my closest friends. I’d probably have to pick a new name it’d be kinda weird if i just kept going by my current one. I better look up girl names on wikipedia to figure it out. remember to avoid looking in the mirror while brushing my teeth tonight I really can’t stand to see my own body for reasons I can’t even begin to comprehend much less articulate but I think it might have something to do with not liking the freckles on my shoulders lol.
Last week I accidentally took an edible at 10x my usual dose. I say “accidentally” but it was really more of a “my friend held it out to my face and I impulsively swallowed it like a python”, which was technically on purpose but still an accident in that my squamate instincts acted faster than my ability to assess the situation and ask myself if I really wanted to get Atreides high or not.
Anyway. I was painting the wall when it hit. My friend heard me make a noise and asked what was wrong—I explained that I had just fallen through several portals. I realized that painting the wall fulfilled my entire hierarchy of needs, and was absolutely sure that I was on track to escaping the cycle of samsara if I just kept at it a little longer. I was thwarted on my journey towards nirvana only by the fact that I ran out of paint.
Seeking a surrogate act of humble service through which I might be redeemed and made human, I turned to unwashed dishes in the sink and took up the holy weapon of the sponge. I was partway through cleaning the blender when it REALLY hit.
You ever clean a blender? It’s a shockingly intimate act. They are complex tools. One of the most complicated denizens of the kitchen. Glass and steel and rubber and plastic. Fuck! They’ve got gaskets. You can’t just scrub ‘em and rinse them down like any other piece of shit dish. You’ve got to dissemble them piece by piece, groove by sensitive groove, taking care to lavish the spinning blades with cautious attention. There’s something sensual about it. Something strangely vulnerable.
As I stood there, turning the pieces over in my hands, I thought about all the things we ask of blenders. They don’t have an easy job. They are hard laborers taking on a thankless task. I have used them so roughly in my haste for high-density smoothies, pushing them to their limits and occasionally breaking them. I remembered the smell of acrid smoke and decaying rubber that filled the kitchen in the break room the last time I tried to make a smoothie at work—the motor overtaxed and melted, the gasket cracked and brittle. Strawberry slurry leaked out of it like the blood of a slain animal.
Was this blender built to last? Or was it doomed to an early grave in some distant landfill by the genetic disorder of planned obsolescence? I didn’t know, and was far too high to make an educated guess. But I knew that whatever care and tenderness and empathy I put into it, the more respect for the partnership of man and machine, the better it would perform for me.
This thought filled me with a surge of affection. However long its lifespan, I wanted it to be filled with dignity and love and understanding. I thought: I bet no one has hugged this blender before. And so I lifted it from its base.
A blender is roughly the size and shape of a human baby. Cradling one in your arms satisfies a primal need. A month ago I was permitted to hold an infant for the first time in my life, an experience which was physically and psychologically healing. I felt an echo of that satisfaction holding my friend the blender, and the thought of parting with it felt even more ridiculous than bringing it with me to hang out on my friend’s bed.
