TIK TOK MUST BE STOPPED BEFORE IT DESTROYS LANGUAGE
Ok, unless something’s going on I’m not aware of (extremely likely), I gotta point out the term “Pet Play” is significantly older than Tik Tok, or most of its userbase for that matter.
Yeah, I’m not mad about using the term “pet play”. That’s a perfectly fine term. I’m mad because they didn’t use that term: they used “pet p!ay”, a censored version
Oh. Oh gawd I missed that. Objection withdrawn, that is objectively terrible.
To anybody who is new to posting on ao3, if you’re using a tag you have to use the correct spelling of that tag. People aren’t going to type in every version of a censored word to hide or look for your content 
For everyone new to tumblr, the same rule applies to tumblr too.
You cannot censor your tags! Censored tags cannot be block or filtered. Censoring tags HARMS your audience, it does not protect them
Leftism teaches you that the most annoying people in the world can have the exact same opinions as you. And they’ll still get on your nerves
Other leftists will say some shit you fundamentally agree with but phrased in a way designed in a lab specifically to piss you off. Like you’re right but shut the fuck up
I hope y’all understand the racism apparent here and how black women are being expected to conform to the standards of white womanhood in order to be actually classified as women
Misogynoir and transphobia are inherently tied to one another as long as the standards of womanhood are small, “delicate” white women
AND INTERSEXISM. PLEASE stop leaving intersexism out of discussions of the intersection of intersexism and misogynoir!
you will in fact continue to have acne past the age of twenty
you will eventually hit a point where you start to feel icky inside if you go too long without eating some sort of vegetables
depending on your current level of athleticism/physical activity as well as the kind of activities you did as a kid/teenager, your joints may start acting whack in your twenties, despite what everyone says about that not happening until middle age
eventually you will reach a point where you wonder how you were able to stay up until 3am nearly every night and be perfectly fine the next day (and this moment will come much younger than you expect)
it is much harder to meet new people after you’re done with school than sitcoms would have you believe
don’t let society tell you shit: it is perfectly acceptable to live with your parents after you graduate, there’s no need to be broke and miserable just so you can have some misguided attempt at independence straight out of school
aging in general will catch up to you much sooner than you think. you’ll notice your first grey hairs ~25. crows feet appear when you smile ~30. aging is a slow and gradual process that’s happening throughout your life, including your 20’s. it’s not like an Old switch flips when you turn 40, any more than a Puberty switch flipped when you turned 13.
same thing with not being Cool anymore. you’ll be vibing one day and suddenly media is saying your favorite style of jeans or hairstyle “date” you. (on the up side, you probably won’t care about that kind of thing anymore.)
taking care of your body and your home is Relentless. nobody will make you do chores or eat your veggies. it can wear at you if you let it. setting and keeping good habits lessens the strain.
measuring success is harder as an adult. in school you get graded most days, sports are measured in points. feedback at work regarding performance will be largely arbitrary. nobody can tell you if you’re on the right track to raise children into well-adjusted adults (though there’s plenty of conflicting advise out there). are you happy? how happy?
outside of some obscene luck, you probably won’t build the life you want at the speed you want. that’s normal.
you don’t have to stop liking “kid” stuff when you grow up. if you can still like ice cream or sports, you can also still like disney or nerf guns.
you’re gonna have a favorite burner on your stove.
You will start to genuinely enjoy those ‘boring’ gifts like socks or hand soap (because now you don’t have to buy socks or hand soap)
It’s not the bending over for an extended period of time that’s gonna get you, it’s the standing back up after that’s gonna throw out your back. Take your time
STRETCH. Just do it. It will save, do you a world of good when stuff starts feeling stiff/breaking down.
NEVER dismiss health concerns that are really fucking with your life. and NEVER put off things like important medical things such as CT scans and scopes (endoscopies for me) until it’s too late- take it from me ….who had to get a 5x5 tumour removed from her stomach in 2020… where i spent 8 hours in surgery (due to my surgeon finding mid surgery that the tumour had progressed to growing near my kidneys… when the surgery was originally estimated to be TWO (2) HOURS) amonth in the icu and two more months in hospital (almost dying twice… also, this was originally calculated to be TWO (2) WEEKS) after that. then, I spent an entire year healing in 2021.
i learnt it the hard way, so you don’t have to… and not right after your birthday, like me in 2020 at 25. finally, the type of surgery I had came with a lifelong medication to properly digest food, as well. DO NOT put ANY preliminary scans or scopes off EVER.
hey netizens! i’m not sure how many people are aware, but youtube’s been slowly rolling out a new anti-adblock policy that can’t be bypassed with the usual software like uBlock Origin and Pi-Hole out of the gate
BUT, if you’re a uBlock Origin user (or use an adblocker with a similar cosmetics modifier), you can add these commands in the uBlock dashboard to get rid of it!
Temples are built for gods. Knowing this a farmer builds a small temple to see what kind of god turns up.
Arepo built a temple in his field, a humble thing, some stones stacked up to make a cairn, and two days later a god moved in.
“Hope you’re a harvest god,” Arepo said, and set up an altar and burnt two stalks of wheat. “It’d be nice, you know.” He looked down at the ash smeared on the stone, the rocks all laid askew, and coughed and scratched his head. “I know it’s not much,” he said, his straw hat in his hands. “But - I’ll do what I can. It’d be nice to think there’s a god looking after me.”
The next day he left a pair of figs, the day after that he spent ten minutes of his morning seated by the temple in prayer. On the third day, the god spoke up.
“You should go to a temple in the city,” the god said. Its voice was like the rustling of the wheat, like the squeaks of fieldmice running through the grass. “A real temple. A good one. Get some real gods to bless you. I’m no one much myself, but I might be able to put in a good word?” It plucked a leaf from a tree and sighed. “I mean, not to be rude. I like this temple. It’s cozy enough. The worship’s been nice. But you can’t honestly believe that any of this is going to bring you anything.”
“This is more than I was expecting when I built it,” Arepo said, laying down his scythe and lowering himself to the ground. “Tell me, what sort of god are you anyway?”
“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth. I’m a god of a dozen different nothings, scraps that lead to rot, momentary glimpses. A change in the air, and then it’s gone.”
The god heaved another sigh. “There’s no point in worship in that, not like War, or the Harvest, or the Storm. Save your prayers for the things beyond your control, good farmer. You’re so tiny in the world. So vulnerable. Best to pray to a greater thing than me.”
Arepo plucked a stalk of wheat and flattened it between his teeth. “I like this sort of worship fine,” he said. “So if you don’t mind, I think I’ll continue.”
“Do what you will,” said the god, and withdrew deeper into the stones. “But don’t say I never warned you otherwise.”
Arepo would say a prayer before the morning’s work, and he and the god contemplated the trees in silence. Days passed like that, and weeks, and then the Storm rolled in, black and bold and blustering. It flooded Arepo’s fields, shook the tiles from his roof, smote his olive tree and set it to cinder. The next day, Arepo and his sons walked among the wheat, salvaging what they could. The little temple had been strewn across the field, and so when the work was done for the day, Arepo gathered the stones and pieced them back together.
“Useless work,” the god whispered, but came creeping back inside the temple regardless. “There wasn’t a thing I could do to spare you this.”
“We’ll be fine,” Arepo said. “The storm’s blown over. We’ll rebuild. Don’t have much of an offering for today,” he said, and laid down some ruined wheat, “but I think I’ll shore up this thing’s foundations tomorrow, how about that?”
The god rattled around in the temple and sighed.
A year passed, and then another. The temple had layered walls of stones, a roof of woven twigs. Arepo’s neighbors chuckled as they passed it. Some of their children left fruit and flowers. And then the Harvest failed, the gods withdrew their bounty. In Arepo’s field the wheat sprouted thin and brittle. People wailed and tore their robes, slaughtered lambs and spilled their blood, looked upon the ground with haunted eyes and went to bed hungry. Arepo came and sat by the temple, the flowers wilted now, the fruit shriveled nubs, Arepo’s ribs showing through his chest, his hands still shaking, and murmured out a prayer.
“There is nothing here for you,” said the god, hudding in the dark. “There is nothing I can do. There is nothing to be done.” It shivered, and spat out its words. “What is this temple but another burden to you?”
“We -” Arepo said, and his voice wavered. “So it’s a lean year,” he said. “We’ve gone through this before, we’ll get through this again. So we’re hungry,” he said. “We’ve still got each other, don’t we? And a lot of people prayed to other gods, but it didn’t protect them from this. No,” he said, and shook his head, and laid down some shriveled weeds on the altar. “No, I think I like our arrangement fine.”
“There will come worse,” said the god, from the hollows of the stone. “And there will be nothing I can do to save you.”
The years passed. Arepo rested a wrinkled hand upon the temple of stone and some days spent an hour there, lost in contemplation with the god.
And one fateful day, from across the wine-dark seas, came War.
Arepo came stumbling to his temple now, his hand pressed against his gut, anointing the holy site with his blood. Behind him, his wheat fields burned, and the bones burned black in them. He came crawling on his knees to a temple of hewed stone, and the god rushed out to meet him.
“I could not save them,” said the god, its voice a low wail. “I am sorry. I am sorry. I am so so sorry.” The leaves fell burning from the trees, a soft slow rain of ash. “I have done nothing! All these years, and I have done nothing for you!”
“Shush,” Arepo said, tasting his own blood, his vision blurring. He propped himself up against the temple, forehead pressed against the stone in prayer. “Tell me,” he mumbled. “Tell me again. What sort of god are you?”
“I -” said the god, and reached out, cradling Arepo’s head, and closed its eyes and spoke.
“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said, and conjured up the image of them. “The worms that churn beneath the
earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost
before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath
your teeth.” Arepo’s lips parted in a smile.
“I am the god of a dozen different nothings,” it said. “The petals in bloom that lead to
rot, the momentary glimpses. A change in the air -” Its voice broke, and it wept. “Before it’s gone.”
“Beautiful,” Arepo said, his blood staining the stones, seeping into the earth. “All of them. They were all so beautiful.”
And as the fields burned and the smoke blotted out the sun, as men were trodden in the press and bloody War raged on, as the heavens let loose their wrath upon the earth, Arepo the sower lay down in his humble temple, his head sheltered by the stones, and returned home to his god.
Sora found the temple with the bones within it, the roof falling in upon them.
“Oh, poor god,” she said, “With no-one to bury your last priest.” Then she paused, because she was from far away. “Or is this how the dead are honored here?” The god roused from its contemplation.
“His name was Arepo,” it said, “He was a sower.”
Sora startled, a little, because she had never before heard the voice of a god. “How can I honor him?” She asked.
“Bury him,” the god said, “Beneath my altar.”
“All right,” Sora said, and went to fetch her shovel.
“Wait,” the god said when she got back and began collecting the bones from among the broken twigs and fallen leaves. She laid them out on a roll of undyed wool, the only cloth she had. “Wait,” the god said, “I cannot do anything for you. I am not a god of anything useful.”
Sora sat back on her heels and looked at the altar to listen to the god.
“When the Storm came and destroyed his wheat, I could not save it,” the god said, “When the Harvest failed and he was hungry, I could not feed him. When War came,” the god’s voice faltered. “When War came, I could not protect him. He came bleeding from the battle to die in my arms.” Sora looked down again at the bones.
“I think you are the god of something very useful,” she said.
“What?” the god asked.
Sora carefully lifted the skull onto the cloth. “You are the god of Arepo.”
Generations passed. The village recovered from its tragedies—homes
rebuilt, gardens re-planted, wounds healed. The old man who once lived on the
hill and spoke to stone and rubble had long since been forgotten, but the
temple stood in his name. Most believed it to empty, as the god who resided
there long ago had fallen silent. Yet, any who passed the decaying shrine felt an ache
in their hearts, as though mourning for a lost friend. The cold that seeped
from the temple entrance laid their spirits low, and warded off any potential
visitors, save for the rare and especially oblivious children who would leave tiny
clusters of pink and white flowers that they picked from the surrounding
meadow.
The god sat in his peaceful home, staring out at the distant
road, to pedestrians, workhorses, and carriages, raining leaves that swirled
around bustling feet. How long had it been? The world had progressed without
him, for he knew there was no help to be given. The world must be a cruel place, that even the useful gods have abandoned,
if farms can flood, harvests can run barren, and homes can burn, he
thought.
He had come to understand that humans are senseless
creatures, who would pray to a god that cannot grant wishes or bless upon them
good fortune. Who would maintain a temple and bring offerings with nothing in
return. Who would share their company and meditate with such a fruitless deity.
Who would bury a stranger without the hope for profit. What bizarre, futile
kindness they had wasted on him. What wonderful, foolish, virtuous, hopeless
creatures, humans were.
So he painted the sunset with yellow leaves, enticed the
worms to dance in their soil, flourished the boundary between forest and field
with blossoms and berries, christened the air with a biting cold before winter
came, ripened the apples with crisp, red freckles to break under sinking teeth,
and a dozen other nothings, in memory of the man who once praised the god’s
work on his dying breath.
“Hello, God of Every Humble Beauty in the World,” called a
familiar voice.
The squinting corners of the god’s eyes wept down onto
curled lips. “Arepo,” he whispered, for his voice was hoarse from its hundred-year
mutism.
“I am the god of devotion, of small kindnesses, of
unbreakable bonds. I am the god of selfless, unconditional love, of everlasting
friendships, and trust,” Arepo avowed, soothing the other with every word.
“That’s wonderful, Arepo,” he responded between tears, “I’m
so happy for you—such a powerful figure will certainly need a grand temple. Will
you leave to the city to gather more worshippers? You’ll be adored by all.”
“No,” Arepo smiled.
“Farther than that, to the capitol, then? Thank you for
visiting here before your departure.”
“No, I will not go there, either,” Arepo shook his head and
chuckled.
“Farther still? What ambitious goals, you must have. There
is no doubt in my mind that you will succeed, though,” the elder god continued.
“Actually,” interrupted Arepo, “I’d like to stay here, if
you’ll have me.”
The other god was struck speechless. “…. Why would you want
to live here?”
“I am the god of unbreakable bonds and everlasting
friendships. And you are the god of Arepo.”
I reblogged this once with the first story. Now the story has grown and I’m crying. This is gorgeous, guys. This is what dreams are made of.
I’m kind of glad to hear that everyone does this. Because it means it isn’t colonizer bullshit, it’s what everyone does. It’s just people discovering new things. Everyone goes:
“Oh hey these people have their own style of [language A’s word for thing. Say, what do you call it?”
“Oh it’s [language B’s word for thing].”
“Got it, it’s [language B’s word for thing] variety [language A’s word for thing]”
added to which it is LITERALLY JUST LINGUISTIC SHORTHAND for
[item] the way [culture] makes it.
If you don’t want sliced bread, you want bread the way Eastern Indians make it you ask for Roti, not bread. Because Roti is bread THE WAY [EASTERN] INDIANS MAKE IT. Like fuck, it’s not that complicated a concept.
OF COURSE it’s not colonizer bullshit! It’s just linguistic shorthand!
