the reason why im always talking about kaiba drinking protein smoothies is because a protein smoothie is an ideal kaiba snack (it’s efficient and nutritious, he can carry it around, he doesn’t even have to look up from his laptop) and he has to EAT and maintain muscle mass in his core and lower body if he wants to fly his jet without passing out at near-mach speeds over the pacific
mokuba thinks his smoothies are absolutely disgusting (KALE/CELERY/GINGER???) but this is a ruse. once kaiba conditioned mokuba to fear and avoid the taste of his smoothies, he switched it up, and now he doesn’t have to share his smooth as fuck strawberry/pineapple smoothie with almond milk and whey protein
50k and more of one Beauregard Lionett being put through an unreality ringer, separated from her friends for a day in real time and held for weeks in a pocket of distorted time. Singled out specifically for the will and the love of freedom that defines her and broken from the inside by a god and its helpers.
And then put back together with the help of the Nein, because obviously. Much of what happened is explained. Enough. There are a few threads left. That’s okay. They’re not the big ones.
Eleven chapters, sixteen months. Damn. Proud of it.
going through Google Books looking for pocket-related sources and I found something interesting in an 1875 issue of the magazine “The Spirit of ‘seventy-six”
it’s a letter to the editor, written by someone who signs herself “A Revolutionary Young Person” but later makes it clear that she’s a woman. and she is incensed about These Disgraceful Pockets Nowadays
she went through a man’s everyday outfit, based on general observations, and counted up a total of 25 pockets between all the different articles of clothing. this, to her, seems a gross unfairness compared to “these little shallow things, with the opening level with [one’s] bottom or a little lower, of which they sometimes allow us one in a dress…” she’s also transported with delight at the earlier, separate pockets she’s seen on display at American centennial fairs
based on my own study of extant garments, the “modern” pockets she’s talking about are often around 9 inches by 11 inches
so there might be a bit of an answer to the question of “why was there an association between women’s rights and women’s pockets in a time period when, by our standards, they were quite lavishly pocketed indeed?”
some of them were comparing their pockets to a truly excessive number in men’s outfits, and to the size of 18th-century examples. getting just as frustrated as we are today at our pocketless pants, fake pockets, and tiny pockets barely big enough for half a hand
“As to living another hundred years in this way, it isn’t to be thought of.” oh honey. I have some good news and some bad news…
1875 men’s fashion apparently
I have to quote this because the young lady was so Unhinged about pockets that I wish to go back in time and propose Boston Marriage
Look at a man. He’s just a mass of pockets. See his Ulster overcoat. Two pockets in the breast, to put his dear hands in when they are cold. Two pockets in the skirt [long hanging portion of the coat] to put his hands when he doesn’t know what to do with them, and what man ever does? One pocket just under the belt. Small change for [street]car-fare, is what he says that is for. One side pocket higher up on the breast, for his pocket handkerchief. Well, we don’t object to that. One pocket in the cuff. Heaven knows what that is for. All this on the outside.
Now just unbutton his coat and there, as I’m a living woman, three more pockets inside. Probably under his Ulster he has another light overcoat, many of these tender creatures do, but in that you will not find more than five pockets, so let that go. Then there is his [suit jacket]. Skirts, two pockets; breast, two pockets; another small pocket for change. Oh! if they only had money in any proportion to the pockets they have to keep it in, wouldn’t they be better worth having than most of them are now? Which? No matter which, the men or the pockets, which ever you please, or both together, for we have to take them that way if at all.
Then at least four more pockets in the vest. Then as to [trousers], I found a pair the other day without a man in them, and just counted the pockets myself. Let me see; there were two, where they always put their hands when they have no overcoats on. There was one, said to be a watch pocket, but this is on historical or traditional evidence entirely. No man has carried a watch there since- well, I’m sure I don’t know when- certainly not since the war with Mexico [1846-48]. Then, last of all, a pocket on the hip slanting backward. A girl who has brothers says they call this a pistol pocket…
Now, let me see. There is the Ulster, seven. The overcoat, five. The [suit jacket], five. The vest, four. The trousers, four- total, twenty-five pockets, to say nothing of others which I don’t know about and don’t care to.
Why do women carry things in their hands? humph! Why do women lose their purses? Why do women stuff things in their muffs? These are the questions which men with their twenty-five pockets are forever asking. Why don’t you keep a cash account [written log of money spent]? Why don’t you have a diary [planner]? What do you always want to borrow a knife for? Where’s that pencil I lent you?…What do you want a bag for? Think of their impudence, with all their twenty-five pockets, to ask such questions as these.
is her count correct, or typical of the period? I have no idea. is her energy IMMACULATE? Y E S
“Think of their impudence, with all their twenty-five pockets, to ask questions such as these.” GO OFF SIS
does the mortifying ordeal of being known guy know that his paragraph from a six year old NYT opinion piece about emailing pictures of goats to coworkers has become God Tier Tumblr Gospel ? like does he KNOW though
But what I wish I could tell all those children of the internet, holed up in their rooms, isolated online, is that they can only imagine the worst of relationships: they think that what another person will learn about them is what they see in themselves — the squirming, icky, insecure mess inside. They don’t know yet that the ways in which they’re secretly screwed up and repulsive are boringly ordinary. The issue isn’t that you’ll be despised for who you really are — that, as a friend and I used to say about girls we were dating, “she’ll realize.” It’s scarier than that: it’s that you lose control over who you are. Other people get to decide. And it may turn out that you’re not who you thought you were.
As an artist, you don’t get to decide why people love your work. […] I would describe my reaction to seeing my writing reanimated as meme as “nonplussed,” maybe “bemused.” It always does some slight violence to a writer’s intentions to yank a sentence out of its context and present it as if it were a complete, isolated thought, like a maxim or commandment. I am not in the business of pretending to be in possession of any wisdom, or of telling other people what to do: this is the realm of self-help and advice writers — in other words, of charlatans. Part of me worries it’s an indictment of my prose that it should lend itself so well to Tumblr memes, the digital equivalent of needlepoint samplers. […]
But the things people love about you aren’t necessarily the things you want to be loved for. They decide they like you for reasons completely outside your control, of which you’re often not even conscious: it’s certainly not because of the big act you put on, all the charm and anecdotes you’ve calculated for effect. (And if your act does fool someone, it only makes you feel like a successful fraud, and harbor some secret contempt for them — the contempt of a con artist for his mark — plus now you’re condemned to keep up that act forever, lest she Realize.) My last girlfriend found my flaws, the things that annoy even me about me, amusing. When you break up with someone, you don’t just lose them, but a version of yourself. You don’t even get to know what your children will remember you for; it probably won’t be what you thought were the important moments. […]
As The Velveteen Rabbit teaches, we don’t become fully real except in other people’s eyes, and in their affections. At some point you have to accept that other people’s perceptions of you are as valid as (and probably a lot more objective than) your own.
so, for the sake of ease and checking in on fewer blogs (and my stress levels and general sanity) i’ve decided to move beruthiel over to my multimuse. if you’re interested, feel free to give that one a follow!
