Shout out to all my straight sisters I’m so sorry 😞
Jesus, leave his ass.
We learn fast to be very kind and attentive, tho.
My mom, who got her degree in Marriage and Family Counseling when she was 60, says studies show that women will sometimes sometimes leave a long term relationship to live on their own for a while before seeking a new relationship, but men will almost never leave a long term relationship without having a new relationship either in progress or just beginning. They don’t want to give up the caretaker they have without another one on deck or in the wings.
This is so sad
This isnt cute or quirky. This means hes a fucking hopeless user
Please date a man who actually acts like an adult.
Ok I lived with my ex for 2 years and he literally wouldn’t be able to get his own food if I wasn’t at home, I’d get home from work and he’d be angry at me for “making him starve”
My current partner has lived on his own for 8 years and the absolute most I have to help him with is maybe sending him $20 so he can make a bill payment on time
It made me realise for 2-4 years I wasn’t a girlfriend I was a fucking mother
Men who have been independent are capable of reverting if given the slightest excuse. When we married, my ex husband was 10 years older than me and had lived on his own for 8ish years. Yet (and I allowed this until I finally got fed up and took us to counseling) I did 80% of the cooking, because I was better at it. Same with the cleaning, shopping, social planning, etc.
After I left, in the first six months I got texts or calls asking me to please tell him:
The online banking password (dude, I left you, you should really change that)
Where I ordered his special-wecial organic underwear
Where the good cutting board was (my dad gave it to us at our wedding, genius, I took it with me along with the rest of the stuff from my family)
What brand butter we bought
What brand of local kielbasa we bought
Who his doctor was
What RMV office had the shortest lines
Where the old tax returns were (in the fucking box labeled tax returns)
The phone number for his best friend
I shit you not.
Then he had a heart attack (mild) and none of his family or friends were around to take him to the hospital. But instead of calling 911, he called me, who by then lived 45 minutes away. He lived 5 minutes from an EMS dispatch location. He called me, despite the fact that he didn’t believe me 8 months prior when I was feeling suicidal and I had to call a cab to go alone to check myself into the hospital for a 72-hour hold. I told him to call 911, hung up on him when he whined about “making a fuss”, called 911, called his siblings and then texted them “your brother is having a heart attack, I called 911 for him, come home,” and washed my hands of it.
Emotionally vacant men who won’t do household labor or emotional labor are not Nazis, but they aren’t good people, either, and you don’t have to put up with their shit.
Millennial women of Tumblr, please read this post.
And then please: make the decision for yourself to never stay with a man who expects you to be his mother and servant.
My dad’s in his 60’s and been with my mom for 30 years. He’s a doctor at the top of his field, so a very smart guy. He hit a deer with his car (they were both fine) and he insisted that my mom take care of the insurance company even though he knew information like, where the deer hit, how much damage there was, security questions, etc. He refused to do it. When his identity was stolen it was the same thing. My mom had to make all the calls to the credit card companies and when they said they had to speak to him, he refused so she had to do her best impression of him. I refuse to even date a guy that helpless.
Rami Malek is really an icon….there he goes playing main character on a critically acclaimed hacker show….there he is alongside Ben Stiller as a cute pharaoh……there he is in some horror game about wendigos and serial killers or whatever Until Dawn was…….there he is as Freddie Mercury…….what can’t this man do
One of my favorites is when a religious converter type comes up to me when I’m sitting around. Because they usually have a cold open like “The Lord has called me to you” replying with “Indeed He Has My Child, for He is Pleased With Your Work, and wishes you to know that you are known to Him”. Throw inflections into the wrong points in words, but do it with a very calming presence. After all, you’re the SMS from the afterlife, you’re merely the vessel of the vassal, and nothing scuttles their plans faster than trying to have to process that this very calmly spoken person who InflEcts their words JuiSSSSt quite not riGHt is acknowleding them in an uncomforting way.
Once they leave, watch them until something blocks the line of site, and then move like lightning to not be there when they glance back.
(This is why there are probably some really good rumours in Adelaide about me)
I remember this guy once who tried to dare me (the nerd of the group) to do something or another to prove my “manliness”. I calmly replied “How cute of you to think I´m human…” and kept walking. He stared at me in confusion and when I was several meters away I heard him say “yeah…good point.”
tbh nothing is weirder to me than manly grimdark dudebro lord of the rings bc it’s just??? the epitome of light and love to me???? no narrative embodies hope and gentleness and healing like lotr does why must you insist on talking to me about badass aragorn vs. useless frodo. that’s not the point brad
I feel like this is also why so many of the post-LOTR Tolkien ripoffs are so terrible! It’s people pulling from Tolkien when they fundamentally don’t understand what makes Tolkien work. You get all these stories written by people who don’t think Frodo was worthy of his plotline and so they give it to their Aragorn expy instead, and it’s dull and boring and totally lacks the themes and the heart that make LOTR an important, enduring story.
when Aragorn shows up in Gondor no one cares who he is until he gets to the Houses of Healing, because the proof of true kingship is not being able to fight real good, it’s having “the hands of a healer”
so Aragorn calls his friends back from the darkness with little more than a gentle touch and a loving voice (and some plants, but it’s pretty clear that the plants alone aren’t enough) and that’s when the rumors spread through Gondor that the King has returned because the love of a king has this great power
like… that’s the big moment. washing his friends’ wounds and telling them they’re going to be okay. this is not macho! it’s not badass! I mean… in a way it’s actually really fucking badass that someone can get stabbed by a knife made of evil and Aragorn doesn’t even have to raise his voice when he says “not today,” but it’s not, like, standard fantasy badass.
Tolkien lived through a war. War is not entertaining and epic, it’s horrifying and terrible. That’s why all the climatic moments of LOTR aren’t battles, but decisions of love: Sam going back for Frodo, Bilbo giving Bard the Arkenstone, Aragorn healing Merry and Eowyn…
Where modern fantasy falls short is they think a war setting is the key to Tolkien’s success, so they describe warrior-man and the gorey, rapey, traumatizing things he does/sees (looking at u, SOIAF). But it’s not about fighting the war, it’s about living through it and loving despite it. Bilbo Baggins slept through his battles, Frodo and Sam (arguably, the main heroes) never fought or killed, a woman & hobbit defeated the witch-king out of love for their lord, not for power or fame. LOTR isn’t a story of war bc Tolkien had already seen that, it’s the story of hope.
Crimson Peak, and Edith herself, originate from books. Books, in particular, written by women. Young women. Girls, almost – girls like Edith. Mary Shelley, Ann Radcliffe, Daphne Du Maurier, and of course the Bronte sisters; Gothic romance has, since its conception, been the arena of female imagination. Of course men have written in the Gothic mode, but they tend to write a different type. In fact, scholars of the genre consider the line between Gothic romance and Gothic horror to be a gendered one. Where women tend to write stories of social oppression and interpersonal horror, men write ones where the supernatural is actually real, and actually the sinister force at work.
There are many theories as to why this is the case. I favour a simple one: women have long had a great deal of very real things to fear; they do not need to make up ghosts and monsters to menace them.
She is founded on softer things, pink and cream and sugar and silk, pastel fragility steeped in a tender, sun-striped melancholy. She is founded on love – every type of love, all of its variations spun together like lace, woven in the manner of the complex flute melodies that she so adores. She wishes that she could play the flute, and she has tried to learn a few times, though the nuances of it always slip from her mind, in the end. Her delicate fingers are better suited to tracing pipes and braiding hair, in any case, than to any rougher task; she is crafted as carefully as the breath of a rainbow, and it is there, in her shivering opalescent colors, that her strength resides.
Tholomyes, of course, draws more from her – and she does not hate him for it, though it hurts a little and the fleeting trembles of pleasure don’t quite redeem the unpleasant twists in her stomach. He asks her again and again with his smooth rich word, and she grows to accept the faintly sick chill that enclasps her whenever she detects that certain glint in his eye.
“You do not love him!” Zephine exclaims one day with a hand across her parted lips. The four of them sit with their legs long across the grassy slope of a hill in a park, flowers scattered around them, eager light dancing behind all of their eyes.
“Oh, but I do – it is only the action that I rather… well, it’s no better with him than it would be with any other man, that is all. The pleasure is fine enough, but – oh, this talk is not proper. Must we dwell upon it?”
And the topic is washed away with laughter and sunlight and sweet spring scent. Fantine is content. And later, when she begins to feel a deeper twist and stir in her belly, she is touched with relief. It is worth it, she thinks as soon as she knows. It is worth it, when she can’t breathe through the hurricane of tears that comes with his departure. It is worth it when she holds the child, kisses the cloud-and-cream softness of her daughter’s forehead for the first time.
It is worth it, in an alley populated by two dirty girls and their flame-haired mother.
It is worth it, with locks of shorn golden hair painting the dirty ground.
It is worth it, a dull ache spreading through her iron-stained mouth until she can feel naught else.
It is worth it – on the sailors’ beds, against alley walls, drowning in snow heaps. It is worth it, even in the end, cradled in sheets and doused with the calm of the hospital that she will never depart. Because Cosette is alive, and Fantine has made it that way, and surely there is no purer act of love in the whole of the world.
a male character you see as asexual // jean valjean
He used to think that it would happen eventually. He gave it time—nothing but time. He didn’t seek anyone out. He didn’t ever wish for more; only expected, in an odd distant way, that it would sometime reach him. After all, he was far too familiar with the words from his sister; she promised him that, as soon as he discovered true pleasure, he would never breathe carelessly again. She promised him that love was his purpose, and she, even after everything that had happened to her, did not know how to differentiate between love and the actions that she presumed to go along with it.
Yet he was far too often panting and sweating under the strain of his aching life to crave any exertion more. Love, surely, would best be the opposite. Something cool and gentle, something without passion, without flame.
The chains that ate away at him for nineteen years solidified his surety. They were not made solely of metal. There were men there, men with wild eyes, who saw him as prey. And he endured it, because he had no other choice. Only after years, when he let himself grow truly strong, was he able to fight back; until that time, he allowed his jaw to clench and his eyes to leak, and cast his thoughts out to the raging sea as it battered against the exterior of their fragile, salt-encrusted wooden bunk.
And when he saw Fantine—oh, Fantine, the purest and sweetest woman who would ever grace his presence, with a shining copper core that even starvation and disease could never dull—when he saw what it had done to her, he learned to hate it. It had ripped her apart. For him, for her, there was no pleasure, and it was then, with her cold and trembling in his arms, that he accepted it. He would not fear the action that had poisoned her, not forever, but he had no desire for it. His wants, his needs were broader, more ambitious, silver and less flowery.
Soon enough, he was old. No one expected more of him. He was content to be precisely what he was, and so he spent his life with the love he desired, awash in soft colors, covered in the kisses of old book pages and pressed flowers and the soothing glow of the stars.
¯_( ಠ_ಠ)_/¯ 