Actually autistic ppl: pls refer to us as “autistic people”

NTs: people with autism

Autistic person: no

NTs: people suffering with the condition of autism

Autistic person: still no

NTs:

‘LOCKED IN AUTISTIC BODY’ HKFHDGDGFD?????

NT’s necks are going to be locked between these autistic arms if they don’t stop doing this shit

If i was the teen they wrote that about i'd start throwing hands

Teen with autistic hands

*beating someone up* sorry i can't stop uwu these hands have a special interest and it's violence

Holding the laptop’s power button down because it’s crashed and there’s no other way to turn it off feels so unsettling. It makes me feel like I’m holding a cushion over its face while the life slowly ebbs out of it.

is this relatable to everyone or just me

Oo! Everyone put your video essay recommendations in the tags!!!

goodnight boobs goodnight breasts goodnight tits goodnight chests

Goodnight boobies, goodnight tiddies, goodnight chesticles, goodnight calcium cannons, goodnight tig ol bitties, goodnight itty bitty titty committee 

official boob post

i spent an insane amount of time trying to make that gif on my phone lmao please validate me 🥲

"no one is super offended or offput by transmascs, they aren't viewed as sexual predators" steve dain was:

• discouraged from being a tomboy by his counselor as a child (he was told he had "penis envy" and needed to "straighten out" or he'd become a lesbian)
• accused of "violating God's laws," and called "thing" "creature" "it" after transitioning and returning to his job as a teacher
• his transition literally "divided the town" he lived in
• the superintendent fired him for "immoral conduct" and "unfitness"
• said superintendent also publicly speculated about his genitalia, suggested that he would have to use his own bathroom because "would you want your little girl in the powder room with her?" and spread rumors that he had shown young girls his genitalia & molested them (likely, imo, what he means his "he talked about transitioning to some interested students and their parents got pissed" if there's any truth at all)
• also said "And I’m telling you, kids here just don’t understand this hanky panky of people going around chopping off their breasts" (fearmongering about top surgery from 1975!)
• Steve won his wrongful termination suit, but the school board then accused him of misusing sick leave because he took time off to medically transition. He tried to fight this but after four years he could not afford the legal costs.
• He was never able to return to teaching even after winning his lawsuit because no one would hire him, so he had to completely switch careers.

erasure is not a lack of hatred or violence towards transmascs. its a culture of silence around that violence. you cannot know how people see transmascs by only looking at how they treat us when they think we're cis men.

woah you're telling me that when homophobic transphobic cis people see an adult trans man they actually see him as a predatory threat to their children? you mean that there's more to anti-transmasculinity than infantilization? you mean that they don't actually see adult trans men as basically the same as a cis man? wild

The infantilization is their idea of "early intervention" and the ones they can't "correct" will be given the same violent predator label as everyone else because they're, so to speak, "too far gone".

the devil works hard but the wickedwhims mod guy works harder 🙏🏼

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.