when i was post op after top surgery i had a good friend there with me to help recover. but the nurse didnt get the memo and when i woke up she was like “ok i’m gonna go get your girlfriend and bring her in to see you!” and i remember being so zonked on anesthesia and so disoriented i just laid there thinking wow…… all that an they’re bringing me a girlfriend too this place is amazing
opens box that reads “i wanna draw again”. inside lies a note. the note says, “mental illness and difficult circumstances have taken years of interest, accessibility, and skill away from me. i want to forgive myself for that. i want to heal my relationship to my hobbies. i want to feel connected to something that once made me feel good, but the cyclic discouragement is difficult to overcome.” i turn over the note. on the back it reads “wannta drawe sexy bodies awooga”
seems like this one really resonated with the artists who dont do art fandom
man. remember early in the pandemic, shortly into the telework phase, when a lot of women started vocalizing “wow, i didnt realize just how much time, energy, and even money i was wasting on dolling myself up for work every damn morning, until i didn’t have to do it anymore. i don’t think i’ll go back to doing that when we return to the office? i won’t be a slob or anything, of course, i’m just not going to go out of my way to look pretty at work" and then,
so many people proceeded to lose every last crumb of their shit about it, writing the most asinine crybaby articles ever where they were just. utterly horrified by the possibility that more and more women might become comfortable looking natural/plain and completely opting out of the expectation to look as appealing as possible at all times, even when all they’re doing is spending all day in a cubicle. that was bonkers. lmao.
some ladies were like “during lockdown, i saw myself in the mirror without makeup much more often, and got used to it, so now i don’t feel as anxious for others to see me without makeup on either. i’m comfortable with the face i have, it’s fine just the way it is”
and some absolute dork ass losers heard this and went “truly, this is the death of femininity”
TERFS who think they’re welcome on my posts: you’re not. the freedom to reject conventional beauty standards should apply to and be shared with trans women as well, moreso, in fact, because trans women are literally held to an even harsher, stricter standard when it comes to rando third parties feeling entitled to meticulous over-performance from them - demanding they put every last possible ounce of resource and effort into altering their appearance just to be seen as acceptable, demanding they “prove” their validity through excessive glamour, to ensure they are not “faking” - and the consequences for a trans woman if she does not flawlessly comply with these demands can be so dire as to be lethal for her.
That should not be the reality these women have to endure! That is a horrifying injustice, and anybody who not only lacks compassion for that, but promotes the ideologies that enable it, is not welcome here. I will not debate with you on the matter. Get lost.
so this post is making the rounds again, but only the version without this very important addition on it, so, as a reminder,
Frogs fall out of my mouth when I talk. Toads, too.
It used to be a problem.
There was an incident when I was young and cross and fed up parental expectations. My sister, who is the Good One, has gold fall from her lips, and since I could not be her, I had to go a different way.
So I got frogs. It happens.
“You’ll grow into it,” the fairy godmother said. “Some curses have cloth-of-gold linings.” She considered this, and her finger drifted to her lower lip, the way it did when she was forgetting things. “Mind you, some curses just grind you down and leave you broken. Some blessings do that too, though. Hmm. What was I saying?”
I spent a lot of time not talking. I got a slate and wrote things down. It was hard at first, but I hated to drop the frogs in the middle of the road. They got hit by cars, or dried out, miles away from their damp little homes.
Toads were easier. Toads are tough. After awhile, I learned to feel when a word was a toad and not a frog. I could roll the word around on my tongue and get the flavor before I spoke it. Toad words were drier. Desiccated is a toad word. So is crisp and crisis and obligation. So are elegant and matchstick.
Frog words were a bit more varied. Murky. Purple. Swinging. Jazz.
I practiced in the field behind the house, speaking words over and over, sending small creatures hopping into the evening. I learned to speak some words as either toads or frogs. It’s all in the delivery.
Love is a frog word, if spoken earnestly, and a toad word if spoken sarcastically. Frogs are not good at sarcasm.
Toads are masters of it.
I learned one day that the amphibians are going extinct all over the world, that some of them are vanishing. You go to ponds that should be full of frogs and find them silent. There are a hundred things responsible—fungus and pesticides and acid rain.
When I heard this, I cried “What!?” so loudly that an adult African bullfrog fell from my lips and I had to catch it. It weighed as much as a small cat. I took it to the pet store and spun them a lie in writing about my cousin going off to college and leaving the frog behind.
I brooded about frogs for weeks after that, and then eventually, I decided to do something about it.
I cannot fix the things that kill them. It would take an army of fairy godmothers, and mine retired long ago. Now she goes on long cruises and spreads her wings out across the deck chairs.
But I can make more.
I had to get a field guide at first. It was a long process. Say a word and catch it, check the field marks. Most words turn to bronze frogs if I am not paying attention.
Poison arrow frogs make my lips go numb. I can only do a few of those a day. I go through a lot of chapstick.
It is a holding action I am fighting, nothing more. I go to vernal pools and whisper sonnets that turn into wood frogs. I say the words squeak and squill and spring peepers skitter away into the trees. They begin singing almost the moment they emerge.
I read long legal documents to a growing audience of Fowler’s toads, who blink their goggling eyes up at me. (I wish I could do salamanders. I would read Clive Barker novels aloud and seed the streams with efts and hellbenders. I would fly to Mexico and read love poems in another language to restore the axolotl. Alas, it’s frogs and toads and nothing more. We make do.)
The woods behind my house are full of singing. The neighbors either learn to love it or move away.
My sister—the one who speaks gold and diamonds—funds my travels. She speaks less than I do, but for me and my amphibian friends, she will vomit rubies and sapphires. I am grateful.
I am practicing reading modernist revolutionary poetry aloud. My accent is atrocious. Still, a day will come when the Panamanian golden frog will tumble from my lips, and I will catch it and hold it, and whatever word I spoke, I’ll say again and again, until I stand at the center of a sea of yellow skins, and make from my curse at last a cloth of gold.
Terri Windling posted recently about the old fairy tale of frogs falling from a girl’s lips, and I started thinking about what I’d do if that happened to me, and…well…
!.
You know how if you go through years and years of “best science fiction short stories”, every so often you find some short story you’ve never heard of before, but it’s just amazing and brilliant and leaves you wondering why you never read stories with that plot before? This is one of those.
Seriously, wow.
this made me smile.
i’m still smiling.
I love this one. Thank you.
This remains one of those stories I cannot read without crying.
