writing papers is so HUMILIATING. why are these grown people with phds in this field making me, a baby year old child, write a stupid and trite paper that will neither interest nor benefit them in any way. what is thee point. just give me a cute little A and let’s all move on!
what does it mean that i, a doctoral student, am identifying with this post
we’re really at that point in the year where no one cares about anything huh
My psych professor mentioned swaddling in lecture so I emailed him a picture of me being swaddled in my dorm room and asked if I could get extra credit because it was really hot in there and I got really sweaty and he was like “fabulous, sure”
I’m going to miss the Honors Advisor from my university.
This is definitely my favorite email i’ve recieved from a professor, with the subject line “back at it”.
Sounds like a great time for me to repost the memes I’ve sent in emails to my students.
please let me know if you ever see any terfs reblogging my posts, i seem them occasionally but it can be hard to find them in my notes! i already check for them as much as i can but sometimes they slip through.
also, i block nsfw blogs. i shouldn’t have to see porn without warning while looking through my notes. exposing people to explicit content without their consent is nasty.
(and please, quit having conversations on my posts! just private message each other, don’t be weird.)
Thinking about the days where Magnus can’t get out of bed.
When the weight of time is honest on his shoulders, when it’s not just the memory of the past few lifetimes occupying his mind, but it’s the full thousand years of his existence pressing down on him at the same time to paralyze him against his bed, cheek tight to the pillow and immovable. When he feels exactly like the immortal man he is, a man who’s survived plagues and wars and the rise and fall of nations, watching as people’s short lives glanced briefly against his, only to disappear moments later while he remains, ever breathing.
These days are unpredictable. They’re infrequent. But still, they happen.
On mornings like this, he opens his damned golden eyes and automatically curls into himself. He aches to fall back asleep, but instead he feels like his head is on fire, burning and flickering and painful. He just – can’t shut his brain off, no matter how hard he tries, which means that he lies there, still as a rockface, while his thoughts cycle through names and faces and things he remembers, things he doesn’t. He can’t stop wondering at the mistakes he’s made, the million deeds he could’ve done that might’ve saved the lives of innocent passersby. He thinks of his mother’s smile, the dagger in her stomach, his stepfather’s face of horror, and Asmodeus’ oily grin. He thinks of blood on his hands, and imagines what he could’ve accomplished if he hadn’t wasted decades away on drinks and parties, wallowing in heartbreak instead of doing something better with his life. He thinks of every person he’s let down and disappointed and hated himself for the sheer volume of bodies that group represents.
He thinks – how much longer can he go on like this? Is life meant to be one long muddled mess interspersed with pinpoints of blinding joy? This blessing, this curse, does it destine him to being among the last beings on earth, one cynical deathless creature next to another, all halfway wobbling between the desire for closure and survival?
He has no answer. He never does.
On mornings like this, Magnus lies there, unblinking, staring into dark corners. The curtains stay closed from dawn until dusk, the only sound in the room his breath, slow and erratic, the only movement in his head, thoughts flying at a million miles a minute.
Until Alec comes home.
Alec – Alec knows. He knows because he’ll have texted Magnus in the morning; short, sweet messages, or requests for a lunch date, or anything, and all he’ll have received in turn is, “Not today.”
That’s enough. Alec knows what it means.
Which means that when he returns home, he enters the loft quietly, dropping his things onto the sofa, toeing his boots off by the door. He goes to the kitchen and makes chamomile tea, piping hot and floral, putting it in Magnus’ favorite mug – the one Madzie painted with purple polka dots and a crooked heart with a smiley face inside.
Alec walks into the bedroom, socked feet silent on the hardwood, and from where Magnus lies, he sees sweet hazel eyes soften, that wide, soft mouth flattening into a concerned line. Neither say anything, though, and as Alec passes behind him, all Magnus can detect is the noise of that mug getting set on the nightstand before his body dips along with the mattress as Alec wordlessly wraps himself around Magnus, arms on his waist, nose in his hair, fitting himself into all the hollow spaces Magnus has created.
“Is this okay?” he asks every time. His breath is warm on the back of Magnus’ neck, the realest thing he’s felt all day.
“Y-yes.” Because it’s nice, that there’s someone else here. Someone here for him.
How long they stay like that, Magnus cannot say. From the first time to the tenth time, it always passes in a long, excruciating blur, but what he knows is this: that each time, when he finally feels like that constriction on his lungs lifts, when his thoughts settle themselves, when he comes back to himself and feels himself lighten and lift… that Alec is always there to greet him.
A silent, comforting presence, supporting him all the while. The best man he’s ever met, his partner in every way that matters.
“Okay,” he says.
“Do you want to talk?” Alec asks him in return, voice rough from disuse.
Sometimes the answer is yes. Sometimes the answer is no. Always, though, Magnus is exhausted after that ordeal, feeling weary and tired and weak – but better, too, for having his husband here waiting, the brightest point of happiness he’s ever experienced in his many, many years.
“Thank you, Alexander,” he says.
“Never,” Alec answers, kissing his shoulder. “I love you.”
And in the aftermath of days like this, long and broken and brutal in his mind… it’s as simple as that.
Simon: Okay, well, since Raphael isn’t here, we’ll just have to log onto his computer, click “forgot password” and answer his security questions to gain access.
ive been noticing for a while now how every time maia smiles she always ducks her head as if to hide it, and also how she usually catches herself doing it and ends up always raising her head right afterwards, as if making it a point to challenge herself for not allowing her smile to be seen
and projection ahead but i feel like thats a huge abuse survivor mood, especially when ur in a romantic abusive relationship, like… there’s this whole thing where being happy or excited about things you like is dangerous, because it’s almost guaranteed to get u backlash. because abusers will take that as u flirting, or complain that ur too excited about something and are not paying attention to them, or just immediately try to undermine ur positive feelings and convince u that ur being stupid for being happy, etc…
even if u dont directly make the association that u being happy = them fighting you, in some level u do make it and u learn to tone down ur happiness, not let it be too bright so it isn’t seen as a threat. and that keeps u safe. and we know maia’s been in an abusive relationship with jordan so im very sure that that’s where this comes from
also, the way that she seems to catch herself doing it and then purposefully look up as she smiles/laughs tells me that, at some point, in her journey through healing from that, it became important to her to fight it. that even if she can’t stop subconsciously looking down, she’s going to make an effort to look up. it seems very deliberate, purposeful, to me
and then i started thinking about how raphael rarely smiles, and when he does, he’s usually away from the clan’s space, and how living with camille, especially as someone who’s connected to magnus and also very loyal to the vampires, not to mention rosa, raphael also had to learn to be very careful about hiding his positive feelings because they could very easily be turned into weaknesses. and as a vampire having to deal with shadowhunters (plus just stereotypes/expectations of vampires being all stoic and all that crap) it was extra important that he kept himself stoic and poised and hid what he felt as well
and just as a whole having lived in the clan under camille for fuck knows how many years had to teach him to hide and dissimulate his affections and desires and just happiness in general
and the parallels between the two are certainly making me Have Thoughts and Feel Things
shopping for fathers’ day cards like: ok “world’s best dad” is a little much. where are the cards for “dad who i’ve partially forgiven due to extensive therapy”
just gonna get out in front of this one and request that people don’t go too hard dumping their dad trauma in the tags. thanks love you bye
shopping for fathers’ day cards like: ok “world’s best dad” is a little much. where are the cards for “dad who i’ve partially forgiven due to extensive therapy”
shopping for fathers’ day cards like: ok “world’s best dad” is a little much. where are the cards for “dad who i’ve partially forgiven due to extensive therapy”
in case anyone is curious this is the absolutely horrible but sufficiently neutral card that I got from walgreens
