There were so many times I wanted to kiss her.
listen I’m just dreading the day when they’re gonna screw us over and close this site for lack of use. you already see people talking like “oh I miss Tumblr” all the time like we’re not still RIGHT FREAKING HERE enjoying our fandom shenanigans in real time…like half the memes on Twitter and Insta are just reposted from here??? uh?? what is that saying???
like I KNOW that Tumblr usage has plummeted and half the blogs that follow me are probably dormant by now. I know that. but if other social media outlets aren’t gonna learn a thing or two about hiding follower counts or allowing tag-based organization or ACTUALLY SHOWING POSTS IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER FOR ONCE, then I don’t want them touching this one
seriously what on EARTH are you talking about
Stop telling everyone we’re dead!
Sometimes I can still hear our voice
Keying/graffiti-ing someones car is old news now if someone cheats we go at their wardrobe with a seam ripper
yknow what? Fuck you *unstitches all your shirts and jeans*
My mother did this to my father once. They got into an argument, my very pregnant and hormonal mother stormed off…except they lived in a tiny apartment so the only place to go was to shut herself into the closet for a good long sulk. And while she was sitting in there, fuming, she looked up and saw her sewing kit on the shelf, and all my father’s uniforms hanging right there.
So she picked one shirt and one pair of trousers, carefully, methodically ripped every third stitch out of every seam, and then hung them back up together so that he would be likely to pick them at the same time. This took her a couple hours, so by the time she was done, the anger had worn down. She came out, she and my father had a talk that ended in apologies, after which they were tired and went to bed. My mother swears up and down that she meant to warn my father about the sabotaged clothes in the morning, but he wore a different uniform set and they were both still feeling a little raw, so she didn’t want to bring up the fight again. She decided to tell him that night instead.
And then she forgot.
Anyway, about four days later, my father apparently came home roughly an hour after he left for work, his clothes slowly, gently shredding off his body, the most bewildered expression on his face. “Paula,” he said, his voice mildly shell-shocked. “Paula, my clothes are broken.”
My mother promptly burst out laughing so hard that she went into labor. And that’s the story of my birth, heralded by petty vengeance and utter confusion.