how dare the item of clothing i developed a weird attachment to and have worn almost every single day since i bought it start to show signs of wear
My stage career began when I was a little under two months old, when I took the spotlight as Baby Jesus in a Christmas pageant. I’m told that I did a wonderful job and slept calmly through the whole thing, which can only speak to my talents as an actress, because I was 1. the wrong gender 2. a colicky screaming demon of a baby and 3. about as far from divine as it’s possible for an allegedly-human child to be.
I continued to be actively involved in theater as a kid (and frequently played roles of various small animals, because I was tiny for my age). Around the age of ten, I was cast as the lead character in a musical about cowboys that I no longer remember the name of. It was my first real lead role, and I took it very, very seriously. And because I am myself, that means I maaaaybe went…a little overboard.
My character’s introduction was early in the play, accompanied by the crack of a bullwhip. This was more-or-less pre internet (or, at least, our director was not tech-savvy enough to find sound effects online) and we didn’t have a sound effect track for that noise. There were plans to acquire the appropriate sound effect before opening night, but I rapidly tired of making my entrance during rehearsals to the sound of someone yelling “BULLWHIP NOISE!”
This, I thought to myself, is a problem I can solve.
I learned early in life that it’s good to be friends with people who have skills; they always come in handy eventually. After rehearsals one day, I put on my cowboy boots and biked a couple miles over to my friend Grace’s house. I went down to their basement and knocked on her older brother’s door.
“Hello,” I said. “I need to learn how to use a bullwhip.”
“….Okay,” he said. It did not seem to occur to him that he might ask further questions about why I, a tiny horrible munchkin composed exclusively of rage and pointy elbows, needed to be weaponized any further. Clearly, I had come to the right person.
My friend’s older brother would have been an SCA nerd, if SCA was a thing where we were. Instead, he was one of those unsupervised 4H kids with weird hobbies, largely oriented around ancient forms of combat. He was somewhere in his late teens at this time, and he liked to make stuff. It was an urge I, even at age ten, could sympathize with. His name was Aron.
Aron got out his bullwhip (which I had noticed hanging on his wall on a prior visit, and had filed away mentally under a for future use tab) and we went to the backyard.
“Step one of using a bullwhip,” Aron began, “Swinging the bullwhip.”
We rapidly discovered that since I was god’s tiniest, angriest creation, a full-size bullwhip was way too long for me to use. Aron’s shins suffered for my attempt.
“…Step one of using a bullwhip,” Aron said, “Making a bullwhip.”
So we went back inside, found a tanned cowhide (that he just…had? I don’t remember if there was a reason for this.) and some razor blades, and I learned how to cut and braid a bullwhip. It took a few tries, and I wound up coming back for a while, because I kept getting frustrated with the bullwhip-braiding process and Aron kept distracting me with bait like: “Hey kid, wanna learn to make some chainmail?” and “Hey kid, wanna fletch some arrows?” and “Hey kid, wanna try doing horseback archery?”
Obviously the answer to these questions was “BOY, WOULD I EVER!” Some delays are necessary to the artistic process.
(At one point my mom asked me “Hellen, what are you doing over at Grace’s house all the time?” And I, perfectly innocent, said, “Making weapons!” and my mother, who never understood why I was like this, but accepted that a girl has needs and those needs occasionally involve stocking a personal armory, said “Okay! Have fun!”)
Soon, the bullwhip, size extra small, was finished. The lessons on actual bullwhip use commenced.
It should be noted that Aron was self-taught, and really had no idea what to do, so this was mostly an exercise in the two of us standing twenty feet apart and flailing wildly with our respective whips until snapping noises happened. And then we figured out what we’d done to make the snapping noises. And then we kept doing that. Extremely vigorously. So vigorously that at one point one of the bullwhips launched into the air and caught on a tree branch and we hand to drag the trampoline over so Aron could bounce me high enough to grab it. But we persisted!
Eventually we reached a point where we could line up pop cans on a fence rail and hit them off three times out of five.
Feeling extremely accomplished and like I finally understood method acting, I packed my bullwhip into my backpack for the next play rehearsal. Soon enough, it was time for me to make my entrance.
I leaped on stage in my cowboy boots and cracked the bullwhip as hard as I could, immediately launching into the song despite the fact that the sound of five feet of braided leather breaking sound barrier had startled the accompanist so badly she’d keysmashed on the piano.
The director shouted something she probably shouldn’t have shouted in a room full of small children, and then demanded, “WHERE DID YOU GET THAT!”
“I made it!” I declared proudly. “I’m a cowgirl! I can make my own bullwhip noise!”
“You…made it?”
“Yes! Because we needed a bullwhip sound effect. And bullwhips are where bullwhip sound effects come from!”
This was, of course, impeccable logic.
It is apparently difficult to argue with a gleeful ten year old who happens to be armed with a bullwhip longer than she is tall. After some negotiation, the director agreed that I could use my bullwhip for my opening song, provided that I didn’t pop it while anyone was anywhere near me on stage and I didn’t let anyone else play with it. These terms were acceptable to me.
Somehow, no one was injured and the play went off without a hitch. We can only chalk up these things to the magic of the theatre.
Nearly a decade later, an unsuspecting college classmate asked me, “Hellen, wanna take a class on bullwhip combat with me?”
And obviously I answered, “BOY, WOULD I EVER!”
My friend’s little brother (non-verbal) used to hide people’s shoes if he liked the person, because it meant they had to stay longer. The more difficult it was to find your shoes, the more he liked you.
One day my cousin came over, and she was a bitch. When it was time to leave, my friend’s brother handed her shoes directly to her and she went on and on about how he must have a crush on her because he only “helped” her.
I’m glad humans evolved to Boop the Snoot for Good Luck.
glowing as though holy
there’s got to be at least one trans woman named eve out there whose deadname is adam. and she’s the funniest person to ever grace this earth with her presence.
Remember when Jeff Bezos, who is worth 181 billion USD donated 690k to stopping Australian fires? Yeah, me too.
McKenzie Scott is literally proof that these fuckers can donate HUGE sums of money to EVERYTHING and still live a comfortable life.... But nooO someone HAS to justify the pitifully small donations the richest men on earth make every year for their tax write-off
Some also important context (this is June 2021, after her second round of grants was announced), as well:
[image description: tweet from Dan Price, the Seattle business owner who doesn’t take a massive salary and pays everybody at his company really well: “Two years ago, she had $36 billion. Since then, she has donated $8 billion - more than anyone in the world. She is now worth $60 billion. I think people struggle to understand just how fast wealth accumulates for the super-rich. She literally can't give it away fast enough.”.]
She’s trying to singlehandedly redistribute the wealth she took back from Jeff Bezos and is failing at it because the economy is built so that wealth travels from the bottom, accumulates at the top, and then stays there. She literally cannot give her money away fast enough.
Think about this. This is our current capitalist economy at work. It is working as intended and designed by those who benefit from it.
Her story is incredibly revealing of how and where the system is failing.
It also means that we can, indeed, tax the hell out of billionaires and they will not suffer at all.
sorry but i have one (1) more bttf post
marty mcfly is trans
love the concept that a disgraced nuclear scientist just has spare testosterone that he’ll give to a 17 year old
I just assumed that the implication was that a disgraced nuclear physicist went ‘It can’t be that hard to synthesise; it’s only chemistry’ and took on providing Marty’s testosterone supply as a personal hobby
it sucks breasts arent transferable. This is going to sound absurdly egotistical but im genuinely bothered that my boobs are like pretty nice but they are just going to go to waste. like i have way too much physical discomfort and coughing from binding to go that route and don’t particularly want to go with a Betittied Man thing for myself, i do really want top surgery, it’s just like. They’re nice tits and that’s one less pair of nice tits in the world. there are girls hurting for tits right now and im a tit wealthy man. Gods a jester and im in his circus.
sooooo can yall help me determine if this is a fireable offense
a lady just came in asking if we have oat milk and we dont so i said “our soy milk is pretty good though, thats what i use in my drinks!” and she looked at me and went “yknow soy milk lowers a mans sperm count” and without thinking i just went “cant lose something you never had”
youre laughing. i got called a soy boy and youre laughing
okay to the people confused by this allow me to shed a little light on the subject
icant fucking breathe
