This took me like five years, but finally: completed commission for notwithoursins. His DnD character, Zig (post-ritualtrauma), who also happens to be Junno’s weird adoptive Action Dad.

I don’t think J’s ever talked about this with anybody in the party, and probably won’t ever get to with Zig because essentially everything is terrible now, but back where she comes from the word “junno” (roughly “lion’s tooth”) is actually the colloquial name for a type of snarly flowering weed, universally despised because it’s infuriatingly impossible to kill and grows like a motherfucker in the most annoying and inhospitable places, like between all the pretty fascist stonework. Its roots are stupid strong and tend to fuck up streets and architecture. As a derogatory term it’s fairly equivalent in connotation to “cockroach.”

So the military gives the strays it picks up temp names until they come of age at 12 and get to choose their own. “Junno” is this terrible nickname that sticks with J as a kid, so naturally she owns it out of spite and ends up claiming it for real as like the ultimate middle finger. Weaponizes it, because it makes people say it to her face, because it has shock value when she introduces herself, because they’ll never forget it, because it makes them associate her with it even if they didn’t use it because they still looked away and said nothing, TRY TO IGNORE ME NOW I dare you. Because it suits her, because hey guess what you can rip out a weed or stamp it down and it’ll only grow back stronger, unlike you spoiled little hothouse flowers, so suck on that.

So the flower is her I guess, in a sense. But before that sounds presumptuous, even more it’s the unshakable hope inside her, and the hope that resides in everybody if they’re willing to get up off their knees and fight for it. It’s human purpose and it’s a resilient self-worth, it’s a defiant shouting into the abyss, an unknotting of nooses, a rottweiler smile, a weed thriving in a crack in the concrete, an inferno inside that doggedly refuses, ever, to go out. It’s the moment, I suppose, when you realize that that distant voice calling you onward, pushing you through the dark and the muck, has been your own all along.

As for the bees, just—don’t ask.

This means a whole hell of a lot more than I can say, kid. Thank you. 


"When I was about 20 years old, I met an old pastor’s wife who told me that when she was young and had her first child, she didn’t believe in striking children, although spanking kids with a switch pulled from a tree was standard punishment at the time. But one day, when her son was four or five, he did something that she felt warranted a spanking–the first in his life. She told him that he would have to go outside himself and find a switch for her to hit him with.

The boy was gone a long time. And when he came back in, he was crying. He said to her, “Mama, I couldn’t find a switch, but here’s a rock that you can throw at me.”

All of a sudden the mother understood how the situation felt from the child’s point of view: that if my mother wants to hurt me, then it makes no difference what she does it with; she might as well do it with a stone.

And the mother took the boy into her lap and they both cried. Then she laid the rock on a shelf in the kitchen to remind herself forever: never violence. And that is something I think everyone should keep in mind. Because if violence begins in the nursery one can raise children into violence.”

— Astrid Lindgren, author of Pippi Longstocking, 1978 Peace Prize Acceptance Speech (via jillymomcraftypants)
"I have no mercy or compassion in me for a society that will crush people, and then penalize them for not being able to stand under the weight."
— Malcolm X | The Autobiography of Malcolm X (1964)

(Source: america-wakiewakie)


Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

— Dylan Thomas (via liam-azoulgay)



Yeah, neither did we.

QuestionI'll have to use a vessel for this, since you don't allow anonymous questions. For all your changes of heart, what is it like to know that in the last week you have committing genocide and in-so-doing made my goals that much easier? Answer

Changes of heart? I think that committing genocide would have bothered me whether I’d figured out that my definition of personal justice was deeply flawed or not. 

I’m pretty sure that “genocide” refers to killing people, and I wouldn’t define gods as people, exactly. But I guess if we were to call it genocide, the world not being snuffed out like a candle in a hurricane is a decent enough reason to commit genocide on a dozen and a half “people.” Or at least, I’d say so in light of my changes of heart.

And helping your goals? I suppose that keeping us all alive would help you, wouldn’t it? I guess you’re welcome. 

(Source: Spotify)

(Source: psicreepy)