AN OPEN LETTER TO THE GOVERNOR OF FLORIDA, REGARDING WHAT EXACTLY ABOUT MY CHILDHOOD WAS SO VERY INNOCENT AND NATURAL
was it protecting my innocence, governor, when we stood with our sweaty palms pressed together in a little circle, praying some adult step in and save the white rhino. when we huddled around a wood stove, sitting through yet-another worst-weather-on-record. running our hands over the dry dirt and learning monarch butterflies are going extinct in our lifetime.
was it protecting my innocence, governor, when we pressed our tender bodies like little shivering leaves closer to the back of the classroom, eyes closed, waiting for the shooting drill to end? i don’t know if you’ve been through one, governor, but it isn’t like a fire drill. nobody laughs. nobody talks. we all wait for the gray slip of death to pass us over; knowing - tomorrow might actually be the one.
was it protecting my innocence when our parents were suddenly all out of jobs. was it natural how many of us were living out of cars. how our school milk came soured, how we would skip eating rather than admit we didn’t have enough to pay off our “lunch debt,” how many of us were dropping out and working-for-a-bit.
was it natural and innocent when we were bullied within an inch of our life. how the school knew and did nothing. how people we trusted groomed us to be okay with men ogling. sex ed from the wrong kids, from the television, from pornography. shame pulsing through every inch of our bodies. believing that at 13 we could be something like tempting.
was it just the normal progression of things, i mean. was it god’s honest plan how many of us wound up sick in a gutter with something running through our systems. the designer drugs and the nicotine addictions. i broke my wrist, governor. i was 15, and they put me on opiates.
was it protecting my innocence, governor, and i don’t mean to be rude - but when my graduating class began to commit suicide, was that the innocence? is it an acceptable loss to you? that some of us will just not make it out of childhood alive - but then. for those like me, i guess, you don’t care if we do.
which part. i’m asking genuinely, now. my childhood never got to be the idyllic american dream. my childhood doesn’t look like yours. it looks like no generation before me. we watched the internet grow up with us, destroy us, destroy our self-esteem. those who came after you - we didn’t getto live in ignorance. it wasn’t an option, despite your priorities. it turns out what you don’t teach, children learn in their own way: and that learning is usually ugly.
i just want to know. i had an excellent education. i had it easy. and if innocence is what you are protecting, sir, as an educator, i’m happy to agree. but i’d love to know how being raised ashamed of being gay actually somehow protected me. how it made my life easier, smooth, free of cruelty.
when you’re ready, sir, i’d love to talk about public education policy. but in the meantime, if i may:
Great. Some people deal with mental illness their whole lives. A lot of mental disabilities aren’t mental illnesses and are not things that can go away.
This really is straight up invalidation at this point. Ableist generalizations.
Even mental illnesses don’t always go away. I have two disabilities that require me to be on medication because an organ doesn’t produce enough of a chemical, and require frequent adjustments. That one chemical is a thyroid hormone and another is an antidepressant shouldn’t matter, I need to be able to pay for medicines and doctors visits to live a normal life.
he said in 04x15 that he wished he’d gone with tessa…he doesn’t need to be taught that people should die when the universe prescribes it. he himself is alive because of choices other people made for him. and i think a lot of the time he wishes they hadn’t.
actually no, fuck this episode. death says to dean, “you throw away your life because you’ve come to assume it’ll bounce right back into your lap.” no, he throws away his life because it doesn’t matter to him. and it’s unbelievably fucking shitty to suggest otherwise.
@storiesandnarratives and @sinesalvatorem wrote lovelyletters to their 10-year-old selves. I liked this idea, but my 10-year-old self was pretty content. My 14-year-old self, though, I could muster a few choice words for.
Hi 14-year-old me,
I’m going to try to build credibility by starting off with something you won’t want to hear: sadness still haunts you. I know that one of your small secret hopes is that this too shall pass, that this worthless sad feeling is just a phase induced by teenage angst. Sorry.
It does get better, though, which I think won’t be a cliché phrase for another year. My future is uncertain, but it feels full of waiting possibilities rather than waiting failures. There comes a time when the years of life stretching in front of you no longer seem an inconceivable burden that cowardice will force you to bear. You stop collecting all the jagged hurts of the world and turning them inward to stab at your self-worth.
Right now, you feel like life has given you everything you could have asked for and all you do is take and take and break and break, squandering the gifts you’ve been given. Your mental alchemy transmutes gratitude to guilt and then the guilt feeds itself on the knowledge that it ought to be gratitude. Here’s what I think you need to hear:
You can’t deserve your life.
You can never earn your birth.
Life is just something you have. There is no end point at which someone will judge you worthy. There exists no way for you to be accomplished enough or helpful enough or exceptional enough or just enough that someone will finally nod and say, “Yes, you’ve done it, you’re now officially a good person. Carry on being alive.” You know this, of course, but you don’t believeit.
Remember in the play where you were Arietty, you messed up your cue and someone tried to comfort you backstage, saying, “Everyone makes mistakes,” and you shouted, “I don’t!” and felt shaken and childish? Even at age eleven, you refused to give yourself permission to be a person in progress.
Think of that tender feeling you have when one of your little cousins tries to do something new. When they try to rescue all the monarch larvae in the field by bringing them to milkweed or attempt their first backwards somersault on the trampoline? When they fail, you don’t get angry at them. You feel proud that they’re growing. Can you try to feel some of that tenderness towards yourself? You’re growing, too. So am I. We’re going to be in progress as long as we’re alive.
In your diary (thanks for writing it, by the way, you were right that it would be fun to look back on) you spend paragraphs listing what you hate about yourself. You let yourself believe that you are a bad person who never does anything, while simultaneously telling yourself that anything less than perfection is failure. It’s overwhelming.
Letting go of your painful need to be perfect will happen gradually. You will let go. You will let go because the people you love, like your Nana and brother, are ordinary, not perfect. They will convince you that they will love you even if you never do anything exceptional. They celebrate your mundane accomplishments, sure, learning a new language or publishing a poem or winning a science contest, but their desire for you to live is never conditional on how impressive you are. Life is just something you have.
You’re homeschooling yourself right now, at your Academy of Vegan Learning. This was a good decision. It makes you anxious when your friends recite the fullness of their days in school, but don’t worry: you’re not falling behind. I’m so glad you took some time to read and e-mail your friends and do hardly anything. You don’t have to be productive to be progressing.
I don’t think this reassurance will be enough for you. You are dangerously good at convincing yourself that you never do anything. One thing I suspect may be a fundamental personality bug is that you always feel like you’re wasting time when you work alone. I suggest finding a project to work on with other people. Maybe go to Hacklab with your dad or spend more time making community theatre puppets.
You feel lonely sometimes, even sprawled out on that couch on the island with your eight closest friends. You feel isolated from their conversations about school and dating, because you really do just want to talk about genetics. You know what, though? Emotions and people are systems just as fascinatingly complex as protein signalling networks. It’s not necessarily less intellectual to analyze them instead. In fact, you feel really good when you have a new insight that helps explain people. Start chasing those insights now and maybe you’ll feel better about the conversations you so often dismiss as gossipy.
Finally, you really do need to talk to some people about your sadness. Turning inward isn’t strength. It isn’t unforgivable weakness, either. It’s just not optimal. You are so afraid that your parents will feel like failures if you tell them about your self-injury, or that they will panic and force you into therapy or snatch away your plans. In fact, your mother thinks all smart teenage girls get incredibly sad for a few years. I promise she won’t freak out. After you talk to your parents, you may want to consider therapy. I suggest you look for something mindfulness-based: that flavour of therapy asks you to practice being and thinking a certain way, which is more interesting than overanalyzing your regrets.
Anyway, I like pointing at pictures of you and saying how cool you are. I usually follow that up immediately with, “Too bad I was so sad back then”. Your life may not be something you deserve, but I’m glad you hold onto it. There’s a hell of a good future next door; let’s go.
i just have to laugh at the fact that not only was snape appointed a potion’s professor at the age of 21, but he also became the head of slytherin too like this fucking emo became responsible for a fourth of the entire student body while he was still pretty much a child compared to the average wizard’s lifespan i just wanna know how he didn’t just hurl himself off a ledge
He did and that’s where Dumbledore learned Arresto Momentum
Dumbledore: What a nice day Minerva isn’t it.. *beard ends flowing in breeze*
Minerva: *squinting hard at the distance* Albus.. I think..
Dumbledore: Severus and I have finally reached a pleasant state of cordiality. I mean he still snarls and scowls like a feral bat pup but he resists from hexing and throwing the furniture at me.
Minerva: Albus I think you should just..
Dumbledore: *searching for hidden lemon sherbets in the folds of his lilac robes* I mean he is a very good Potion’s Master.. though I think he could be a little less harsh with the kiddos. Never mind, he will learn… who could stay too mad at those little darlings for long anyways.
Minerva: *feeling increasingly alarmed* Albus! I can see..
Dumbledore: *ploughing through his deputy’s words smoothly* I even made him Head of House for Slytherin last month. Have you seen the little snakes are behaving a wee less rowdier than usual. Severus has them handled well. I knew it.
Minerva: Albus please..
Dumbledore: I knew he had a heart somewhere behind those imposing black robes. I am truly happy after so long.
Minerva: Albus… I truly think you should..
Dumbledore : *ignoring her completely* Riddle’s gone temporarily at best.
Minerva: *visibly distressed now* Albus..
Dumbledore: *popping lemon sherbet in his mouth blisfully* The school’s functioning good.
Minerva: I..
Dumbledore: My staff..
Minerva: *finally loosing her cool* IS ABOUT TO GET ONE LESS! ALBUS TURN THE FUCKING AROUND!
Dumbledore: Merlin Minerva! I am standing just right beside you. You don’t have to….
Dumbledore:…..
Dumbledore: *breaking into an impromptu run* FOR CIRCE’S SPARKLING PANTIES SAKE SEVERUS! WE TALKED ABOUT THIS!
Minerva:
Dumbledore: uhh uhhh… I need to.. we can’t.. ARRESTO MOMENTUM! *mentally pats himself*
Snape: *dangling from mid height snarling at Dumbledore* FOR FUCKS SAKE! LEMME DIE PEACEFULLY! I DO NOT WANT TO KNOW WHO KISSED WHOSE GIRLFRIEND AND HOW THAT BROKE THEIR HEART AND NOW THEY ARE DOING WEED IN BINN’S CLASS ANYMORE!
Minerva:
Dumbledore:
Minerva:
Dumbledore: Wow! Who was it that broke whose heart? Come one Sev! You promised you will keep me up with the gossip!
Minerva: WAIT WHO IS DOING WEED?
Snape: I may have accidently let out where I keep my stash but..
Yesterday (25.05.2022) my best friend in the world k*lled himself. It’s surreal. He was 25. All my friends are depressed underdogs and I really feel like I will be the last one alive. I knew this day would come, but not now, not this soon.
I already miss you shooting star I had so many plans for us, I would have done anything to offer you a better life. But I’m glad you finally found peace Sleep well, no one will ever hurt you now ❤️
Garlic powder & onion powder are literally like two beautiful twin sisters brushing eachothers long hair at the lake by moonlight one last time before they both walk into the forest and kill themselves
The Swedish unemployment agency has once again cocked me over by their inability to do anything. This means that I am now deadass broke, I have no way to pay my bills, or rent for that matter, not to mention food.
I have spent most of the day crying my eyes out.
I have also come to a realization that ambition breeds only disappointment, and that neurodivergent people like me are subhuman in the eyes of society. Nobody wants to employ a fresh logistician who graduated at the start of the pandemic. I have done everything right. I have followed every rule. I have done all the instructions. I still lose. I have been fighting a losing battle for almost two years and my savings has run dry. It’s as if the Swedish government want me to commit suicide so that they don’t have to deal with the likes of me.
So here I am. I sit in effective municipal arrest with no belief in a future. A logistician with a diploma, attempting to get work in the one field that I have worked my ass off to get a foot in, and yet. Yet. I lose. I always lose. I can’t have anythingnice.
I’m tired of trying. I’m tired of trying so fucking hard to the extent that my dysfunctional ass allows. I hate life. I hate that I thought I could follow any ambition. I should’ve accepted the scraps given to me by Skamhall AB. Because that’s all I’m good for, apparently.
Guess I needed to vent. Anyone out there who needs a logistician in western Sweden hit me up. I’m available. I don’t care if this risks my life; I’m dying anyway if nothing changes.
Is there a place we can support you?
You deserve happiness, safety and health. You are cherished. Your being and impact in this world is a benefit.
(to the tune of Bo Burnham’s “How the World Works”)
The simple gameplay displayed in DDLC is just there So you feel safe and comfortable before the big jumpscare Don’t you know that this game is filled with death? And suicide! And self-mutilation!
The stereotypical characters essentially function To give the dating sim genre a dark deconstruction And Sayori there hung herself and died!
Yuri’s kinda shy and rather depressed And Natsuki’s tsundere and manga-obsessed And Monika’s aware that this is all just a game She kills the other girls and tries to keep the player in chains
Thaaaaaat is how the game works! That is how the game works! It starts outs cute and slow, then goes completely berserk That’s hooooooow… it works!
Observance: In spite of increased variation in enrichment as directed by the Grand Matriarchs, subject’s demeanor has only worsened. When previously they would eagerly demonstrate their anomalous abilities (see Report 1210-4-B #12, “Anti-fiction Manifestation” for further details), subject instead refuses to cooperate or even interact with researchers or handlers, with the exception of violently lashing out when touched, and responding to verbal discipline with crude insults and/or spitting. Subject instead spends the majority of its time either sleeping or with its head pressed tightly to one corner of its containment chamber, quietly muttering incomprehensibly to itself while rhythmically scratching at the wall with one appendage. On occasion it will pause to suckle on another appendage in an infantile manner, a habit that it was previously thought to have broken.
When it doesn’t outright refuse to eat, Subject will only consume a small amount of food before either leaving to go back to sleep, or spending up to half an hour playing with the remainder of their meal, throwing, chasing, or simply rubbing its food roughly against the floor for no discernible reason. This has resulted in noticeable weight loss in the Subject. Increasing the size and variety of meals has been met with little success in changing this behavior.
Though it has inflicted minor damage to its containment chamber and enrichment devices, no injuries have been reported from staff due to Subject’s inability to harm biological lifeforms (see Report 1210-4-B #36: “Effects Of Anti-Fiction Resonance On Humans”). As of time of writing, Subject has attempted self-termination twelve times in the last month. Thus far only three attempts were successful.
Notes:We were trying to approach this delicately before, but the Matriarchs’ patience is wearing thin and our time is running out. We can’t force it to use its Anti-Fiction abilities- we all know what happened last time- so we need to make this thing happy again or else this will all be for nothing.
I know what the director said about the budget, but we can worry about footing the bill after Valentine’s Day- money won’t matter if we don’t get the False Valentine to cooperate. Give it whatever it wants, toys, food, a bedtime story, human sacrifice, I don’t care what it takes, just get it done!
I need to work but all I want to do is daydream about Galadriel and Elrond’s Valinor reunions and think about whether Elrond saw Maglor one last time and if so did he ask him to come with him?
What happened that night? Your final night. Double, treble exposure Over everything. Late afternoon, Friday, My last sight of you alive. Burning your letter to me, in the ashtray, With that strange smile. Had I bungled your plan? Had it surprised me sooner than you purposed? Had I rushed it back to you too promptly? One hour later—-you would have been gone Where I could not have traced you. I would have turned from your locked red door That nobody would open Still holding your letter, A thunderbolt that could not earth itself. That would have been electric shock treatment For me. Repeated over and over, all weekend, As often as I read it, or thought of it. That would have remade my brains, and my life. The treatment that you planned needed some time. I cannot imagine How I would have got through that weekend. I cannot imagine. Had you plotted it all?
Your note reached me too soon—-that same day, Friday afternoon, posted in the morning. The prevalent devils expedited it. That was one more straw of ill-luck Drawn against you by the Post-Office And added to your load. I moved fast, Through the snow-blue, February, London twilight. Wept with relief when you opened the door. A huddle of riddles in solution. Precocious tears That failed to interpret to me, failed to divulge Their real import. But what did you say Over the smoking shards of that letter So carefully annihilated, so calmly, That let me release you, and leave you To blow its ashes off your plan—-off the ashtray Against which you would lean for me to read The Doctor’s phone-number. My escape Had become such a hunted thing Sleepless, hopeless, all its dreams exhausted, Only wanting to be recaptured, only Wanting to drop, out of its vacuum. Two days of dangling nothing. Two days gratis. Two days in no calendar, but stolen From no world, Beyond actuality, feeling, or name.
My love-life grabbed it. My numbed love-life With its two mad needles, Embroidering their rose, piercing and tugging At their tapestry, their bloody tattoo Somewhere behind my navel, Treading that morass of emblazon, Two mad needles, criss-crossing their stitches, Selecting among my nerves For their colours, refashioning me Inside my own skin, each refashioning the other With their self-caricatures,
Their obsessed in and out. Two women Each with her needle.
That night My dellarobbia Susan. I moved With the circumspection Of a flame in a fuse. My whole fury Was an abandoned effort to blow up The old globe where shadows bent over My telltale track of ashes. I raced From and from, face backwards, a film reversed, Towards what? We went to Rugby St Where you and I began. Why did we go there? Of all places Why did we go there? Perversity In the artistry of our fate Adjusted its refinements for you, for me And for Susan. Solitaire Played by the Minotaur of that maze Even included Helen, in the ground-floor flat. You had noted her—-a girl for a story. You never met her. Few ever met her, Except across the ears and raving mask Of her Alsatian. You had not even glimpsed her. You had only recoiled When her demented animal crashed its weight Against her door, as we slipped through the hallway; And heard it choking on infinite German hatred.
That Sunday night she eased her door open Its few permitted inches. Susan greeted the black eyes, the unhappy Overweight, lovely face, that peeped out Across the little chain. The door closed. We heard her consoling her jailor Inside her cell, its kennel, where, days later, She gassed her ferocious kupo, and herself.
Susan and I spent that night In our wedding bed. I had not seen it Since we lay there on our wedding day. I did not take her back to my own bed. It had occurred to me, your weekend over, You might appear—-a surprise visitation. Did you appear, to tap at my dark window? So I stayed with Susan, hiding from you, In our own wedding bed—-the same from which Within three years she would be taken to die In that same hospital where, within twelve hours, I would find you dead. Monday morning I drove her to work, in the City, Then parked my van North of Euston Road And returned to where my telephone waited.
What happened that night, inside your hours, Is as unknown as if it never happened. What accumulation of your whole life, Like effort unconscious, like birth Pushing through the membrane of each slow second Into the next, happened Only as if it could not happen, As if it was not happening. How often Did the phone ring there in my empty room, You hearing the ring in your receiver—- At both ends the fading memory Of a telephone ringing, in a brain As if already dead. I count How often you walked to the phone-booth At the bottom of St George’s terrace. You are there whenever I look, just turning Out of Fitzroy Road, crossing over Between the heaped up banks of dirty sugar. In your long black coat, With your plait coiled up at the back of your hair You walk unable to move, or wake, and are Already nobody walking Walking by the railings under Primrose Hill Towards the phone booth that can never be reached. Before midnight. After midnight. Again. Again. Again. And, near dawn, again.
At what position of the hands on my watch-face Did your last attempt, Already deeply past My being able to hear it, shake the pillow Of that empty bed? A last time Lightly touch at my books, and my papers? By the time I got there my phone was asleep. The pillow innocent. My room slept, Already filled with the snowlit morning light. I lit my fire. I had got out my papers. And I had started to write when the telephone Jerked awake, in a jabbering alarm, Remembering everything. It recovered in my hand. Then a voice like a selected weapon Or a measured injection, Coolly delivered its four words Deep into my ear: ‘Your wife is dead.’
The memory issues ADHD causes are some of the scarier and more frustrating parts of living with it - so here’s a set of reaction doodles that all my fellow ADHD peeps are welcome to use whenever anybody decides to comment on your forgetfulness ^
ADHD nukes your working memory.
If it isn’t part of a hyperfixation its hard to store the details.
It gets especially bad for routine things, because you can’t tell if your memory of doing the thing was from today or yesterday or last week, and that can lead to some dangerous situations such as, say, skipping/overdosing on medication. I have to write down the date when I take my meds in the morning because the first time my memory messed up my medication I was terrified, I had to go with risking skipping because risking overdosing can get real bad real fast
OMG the medication thing I do that all the time.
I actually risk overdosing because I can’t drive behind the wheel without my medication.
My zone outs are more akin to black outs.
Like I’ll completely zone out and not only not remember what I did but there will be a complete time skip between when I first zoned out and when I came back to reality.
And sometimes I’ll do weird shit on auto pilot during these.
Like I once stuck a bag of lettuce in my bed, had no memory of it.
Went to sleep and my foot touched something wet and I flipped the fuck out till I realized it was lettuce.
I dont experience that when I take my ADHD meds.
The memory thing really messes with you.
HOLY SHIT THAT’S WHAT IT’S CALLED MY WORKING MEMORY IS SHIT I JUST THOUGHT I WAS STUPID IM CRYING
Okay this is my second attempt writeing this because I accidentally reblogged it to the ectoberhaunt blog and had to delete it.
But no you are not stupid.
Your brain is wired diffrent.
ADHD is a disorder of the frontal lobe.
It affects all of these listed areas.
It’s not just “not being able to focus or being too hyper”.
It’s also a dopamine deficiency.
You can’t make tonic dopmine.
In laymen’s terms.
You can only get dopmine in short spurts by doing certain things.
This is why so many people ADHD struggle with Addictive personalities and turn to drugs or alcohol to self-medicate.
It broke my heart that so many people with ADHD reblogged my posts not even realizing we have a month.
You deserve to understand you have a disorder that drastically impacts your life.
You deserve access to medication, and good doctors, and good resources, and managment skills.
You deserve to understand that you have probably been horribly abused or gas lit by the people in your life that dont understand your struggle because they never stopped to try too.
You deserve to understand that you are not stupid.
You were never stupid.
lest we forget the mysterious concept of Delayed Gratification and how that’s Not A Thing for ADHD
Delayed Gratification is not stimulating now therefor we will be hard pressed to work toward it. Exercise for healthier bodies? too long, don’t care. Work now, paid when you’re done? too long, don’t care. Work first, play later? No, play now, work & regret later. Do x for y minutes and then you do z as a reward? Too long, don’t care, also I can just do z now? who’s gonna stop me, me?
Honestly it was a revelation when I found out that ADHD brains just DON’T GIVE THE SAME REWARDS for doing things. Like you mean I’m not just lazy and being like this to make people’s lives harder? My brain actually works differently? It’s depressing to know that I will basically always have a brain that is jonesing for a dopamine fix, but it’s also incredibly validating.
I wish we could call it by a name that’s more accurate to what it’s like to have the disorder, rather than being named after two of the things that annoy our parents and teachers about it, but maybe someday.
I CANNOT reblog this enough. So. Much. This. It affects EVERYRHING in your life. Everything.
“I wish we could call it by a name that’s more accurate to what it’s like to have the disorder, rather than being named after two of the things that annoy our parents and teachers about it”
I’ve been wondering if the name is meant to be read “Attention Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder,” i.e the attention is eitherdeficientor it’s hyperactive, with no in-between?
@mooncustafer this is partly why we now categorize: ADHD-I for Inattentive Type, ADHD for Hyperactive Type, ADHD-C for Combined Type. We’re looking into other types as well as ADHD as a cousin neurology to autism, often seen as a twin to many autistic clustered traits.
Idid not know about the suicide statistics. That’s absolutely staggering. And I really think it has a lot to do with
1) the fact that so few women are diagnosed, especially so few diagnosed at an early age and
2) that women in particular tend to feel such a burden to “be enough” in so many ways and to live up to other people’s expectations and needs.
I do think for me specifically, it didn’t have much of anything to do with my ADHD, but I’m one of those women who’s had suicidal thoughts. I never made any sort of attempt, but the state of mind existed.
Seriously, if anyone needs someone to talk to, I’m here. I will listen. Is a therapist a better idea? Holy heck, yeah. But sometimes, we just need an ordinary person to just listen, and if I can save a life just by being there to listen, I will do it every freaking time.
ok but seriously why is “much older internet friend uses you as their personal suicide hotline” such a universal experience for kids on the internet. fyi for any kids/teens following me if an adult tries to make you be their therapist just flat out block them you dont have to explain yourself or try to reason with them and ur not responsible for their mental well-being. just block them
if youre an adult and you force a kid to talk you down from suicide i am going to put you in that reverse beartrap from the saw movies
some of you folks may have followed me on instagram, some of you might not have, but i’m posting on here because it’s my only other form of social media that might be able to help me out. i had a really intense depressive episode/suicide attempt and had to be hospitalized for a week. in the midst of the crisis i accidentally deleted my account @ velveteenbutch. now that i’m out of the hospital i’m really needing the support system i had on there. please take a second and report the problem to instagram so i can get my account back. <3
These photos were taken at the candle lighting ceremony for [name redacted], a UP Manila freshie who committed suicide after being advised to file a Leave of Absence (LOA) because she cannot pay the tuition fee.
“Iskolar” ng Bayan ang tawag sa atin ngunit bakit marami pa rin ang hindi nakakatamasa ng magandang edukasyon? To think na state university ang UP, bakit hindi magawa maging flexible ng admin regarding sa ganitong policies? Kinabukasan ng mga estudyante ang nakasalalay, ngayon may kinuha pang isang buhay.
Hey May 31th anon! I hope the past year has been good to you! ₍՞◌′ᵕ‵ू◌₎♡ Here are Sherlock and John trying to solve the mystery of the missing bread and being ducks. I’m looking forward to drawing for you next year again（*´▽｀*）
Oddly enough, the last song on the first BTMI! album technically predates the band itself, as Jeff recorded parts of “Future 86” with the Arrogant Sons Of Bitches. Probably the saddest song on the album, “Future 86” has a similar structure to “Sweet Home Cananada,” but it drops the ska rhythm for a different strum pattern more commonly associated with solo ukulele music. Lyrically, however, it’s far more devastating than anything on an Eddie Vedder solo album. “Can I stop my life so I could jut be with you?” the song begins, as if it’s going to be a tender, romantic moment; but just as life goes on, the song continues, refusing to paint any kind of oversimplified pretty picture of the consequences. Jeff jokes about embezzling his band fund, admitting that this would “destroy what he has made” – a melancholy reflection on what you might leave behind as the price of a stable relationship. Even then, there’s no guarantee things will work out: after he sings of moving to New York, he imagines: “We’ll start to fight when I start to resent you, / And we’ll both agree the thought was nice, but I should not have stayed.” In classic BTMI! fashion, this is juxtaposed with humour, as begins the verse that kicks of this rhyme scheme: “Say the word, and I’ll put my guitar down, / I’ll be sad, but at least we’ll both get laid.”
The song ends on a kind of plea for some sign that can help him make his decision to stay or go: “Tell me something awesome, / That can last my whole life sentence in the van, / ‘Cause I’m on the SS Bullshit Dreams to nowhere, / And I’ll probably never see your face again.” And the first repetition of this plea signals the count-in for a roaring wall-of-sound barrage of distorted bass, guitars, a horn section and more, ramping up the cathartic tension between indecision and finality carried by the song’s simple-yet-unforgettable melody. It all comes together with a chorus of “around 100” (according to Jeff’s notes) kids repeating that chorus in unison at the finale. It’s an arresting moment, and I’m not sure if there’s a better last song on any other BTMI! Album. In fact, it worked so well as a final song that this was chosen as the last song the band played at their last-ever show before breaking up in 2014.
In many ways, this song has followed me throughout my life. After listening to it obsessively when I finished Album Minus Band for the first time in 10th grade, it returned to me at the end of high school as I began to reflect on what would happen to the bonds between me and my friends if we moved to different cities in the future. I learned the guitar chords to it at some point and haven’t forgotten them (well, maybe I need a little prompting sometimes) since – it’s become a bit of a sing-along among my friend group from that time. I played it at the end of a relationship with a girl in university, which I can see in hindsight was really cringe-y; but I can’t say it didn’t help me get my feelings out. I played it again at what I thought was going to be the end of another relationship – but thankfully that one has worked out OK so far!
Last year, a friend of mine from those high school days who was also a big fan of BTMI! killed himself. At a memorial gathering in his backyard with a few other friends from those days, I brought my guitar and we sang a bunch of songs from that time in our life, including Wingnut Dishwashers Union’s “Fuck Shit Up!” and, of course, “Future 86.” And now that song has one more layer of resonance for me.
Oddly enough, the last song on the first BTMI! album technically predates the band itself, as Jeff recorded parts of “Future 86” with the Arrogant Sons Of Bitches. Probably the saddest song on the album, “Future 86” has a similar structure to “Sweet Home Cananada,” but it drops the ska rhythm for a different strum pattern more commonly associated with solo ukulele music. Lyrically, however, it’s far more devastating than anything on an Eddie Vedder solo album. “Can I stop my life so I could jut be with you?” the song begins, as if it’s going to be a tender, romantic moment; but just as life goes on, the song continues, refusing to paint any kind of oversimplified pretty picture of the consequences. Jeff jokes about embezzling his band fund, admitting that this would “destroy what he has made” – a melancholy reflection on what you might leave behind as the price of a stable relationship. Even then, there’s no guarantee things will work out: after he sings of moving to New York, he imagines: “We’ll start to fight when I start to resent you, / And we’ll both agree the thought was nice, but I should not have stayed.” In classic BTMI! fashion, this is juxtaposed with humour, as begins the verse that kicks of this rhyme scheme: “Say the word, and I’ll put my guitar down, / I’ll be sad, but at least we’ll both get laid.”
The song ends on a kind of plea for some sign that can help him make his decision to stay or go: “Tell me something awesome, / That can last my whole life sentence in the van, / ‘Cause I’m on the SS Bullshit Dreams to nowhere, / And I’ll probably never see your face again.” And the first repetition of this plea signals the count-in for a roaring wall-of-sound barrage of distorted bass, guitars, a horn section and more, ramping up the cathartic tension between indecision and finality carried by the song’s simple-yet-unforgettable melody. It all comes together with a chorus of “around 100” (according to Jeff’s notes) kids repeating that chorus in unison at the finale. It’s an arresting moment, and I’m not sure if there’s a better last song on any other BTMI! Album. In fact, it worked so well as a final song that this was chosen as the last song the band played at their last-ever show before breaking up in 2014.
In many ways, this song has followed me throughout my life. After listening to it obsessively when I finished Album Minus Band for the first time in 10th grade, it returned to me at the end of high school as I began to reflect on what would happen to the bonds between me and my friends if we moved to different cities in the future. I learned the guitar chords to it at some point and haven’t forgotten them (well, maybe I need a little prompting sometimes) since – it’s become a bit of a sing-along among my friend group from that time. I played it at the end of a relationship with a girl in university, which I can see in hindsight was really cringe-y; but I can’t say it didn’t help me get my feelings out. I played it again at what I thought was going to be the end of another relationship – but thankfully that one has worked out OK so far!
Last year, a friend of mine from those high school days who was also a big fan of BTMI! killed himself. At a memorial gathering in his backyard with a few other friends from those days, I brought my guitar and we sang a bunch of songs from that time in our life, including Wingnut Dishwashers Union’s “Fuck Shit Up!” and, of course, “Future 86.” And now that song has one more layer of resonance for me.
![marcedwrd:These photos were taken at the candle lighting ceremony for [name redacted], a UP Manila](https://64.media.tumblr.com/be42879766783857d656be2ef6923637/tumblr_mjphvuASxQ1qhyni4o3_1280.jpg "marcedwrd:These photos were taken at the candle lighting ceremony for [name redacted], a UP Manila")
![marcedwrd:These photos were taken at the candle lighting ceremony for [name redacted], a UP Manila](https://64.media.tumblr.com/a01c96d7727b8ceb87f84c3fe61c0cfb/tumblr_mjphvuASxQ1qhyni4o1_1280.jpg "marcedwrd:These photos were taken at the candle lighting ceremony for [name redacted], a UP Manila")
![marcedwrd:These photos were taken at the candle lighting ceremony for [name redacted], a UP Manila](https://64.media.tumblr.com/c32f93da740bd1056e566d7516a3b43f/tumblr_mjphvuASxQ1qhyni4o4_1280.jpg "marcedwrd:These photos were taken at the candle lighting ceremony for [name redacted], a UP Manila")
