nonsensetoprovealiarwrong's soup

wlwaes:

wlwaes:

how to get a girlfriend (easy)

what you’ll need:

• one (1) box of captain crunch
  
• a copy of fallout: new vegas (pc or console, both work)
  
• lactos-free milk or soy milk (never regular milk)
• one (1) can of sprite
• confidence!!!!!

steps:

• find a girl you like
  
• make sure she’s into girls by giving her the can of sprite (by then i hope i’ve made it well-known in the gay community that sprite is for gay ppl only)
• mention you play fallout: new vegas. of she gets excited, you’ve already got yourself a date. if she doesn’t know what that is, invite her over to your house to play
• yeah then do that. eat captain crunch while playing. kiss her on the mouth. ask her to be your gf.
• you get married and have three kids, a dog, and a cat. you live in a nineteenth-century home in the middle of kansas. you work the farm while your wife has her canning business. 
• sometimes you see a figure in your field of wheat and turnips: humanoid, shifting, like it’s made of smoke. every time you approach it, it vanishes. you chalk it up to your mind playing tricks on you.

• your landlord comes to your home on a chilly autumn evening, threatening to kick you out. it’s a week too early to pay rent, and you ask why they’re so upset. your youngest child, camilla, hugs your legs as your landlord’s eyes flit between your face, your feet, and the wide fields to the left. they sigh, clenching and unclenching their fists.
  
• “you’re a week late on rent, and i’m going to have to kick you out!”
  
• “what the heck are you talking about?” you’re starting to get a bit scared, and you gently nudge your genderless child behind you, protecting them from… something. you’re not quite sure what.
  
• “damn it, you’re running out of time. there’s spirits here. angry spirits. they demand penance for disrupting this land.”
  
• you’re about to respond, when your wife pokes her head around the corner, “honey, what’s going on?”
  
• “um… nothing. could you take camilla to bed?” you reply, your voice shaky from your landlord’s news. your wife approaches, takes your child’s hand, and meets the eyes of your landlord. she has a serious look on her face; lips pursed into a thin line, eyebrows knotted together. she blinks a few times, then smiles at you, your landlord, your child.
  
• “off to bed, then” she takes your child out, glancing one last time behind her before heading upstairs.
  
• the chilly air has penetrated your thin cotton shirt. goosebumps raise on your skin, but somehow, you don’t feel like it’s from the cold. your landlord notices.
  
• “i don’t have time to explain. please.”
  
• “why are we in danger?” you’re trying to keep your voice low, but frustration and lack of sleep has kept you from caring. your landlord freezes, as straight as a stick, eyes wide, “you’ll never believe me.”
  
• “is it about my wife and me?”
  
• “heavens no. i’ll tell you the story if i can come in. it’s cold as hell out here.”
  
• you step aside, letting them in. they glance around the front room, settling down on the armchair in front of the window. the light of the moon shines behind them, a shadow in your room. you sit in the couch in front of them. they take a deep breath, “the occupants before you were killed. the people before them were killed. and then people before them. all killed by a vengeful spirit who lives on this property. i don’t know its name, hell, i don’t even know what it looks like.”
  
• they run a hand through their hair, “you must’ve seen it. shadow-y, whispy, like a mirage.” you nod your head.
  
• they look between you and the wall behind you, and you turn your head to see your wife standing there. she’s biting her bottom lip, avoiding eye contact. 
  
• “do you know anything about this?” you ask. she nods.
  
• there’s a few moments of silence before she rounds the couch to sit next to you. she finally looks you in the eyes, “i love you.”
  
• you pause, before replying with “i love you too. what’s going on?”
  
• she takes your hands in hers, and looks at your landlord. “keep going. i’m too… nervous to tell the rest of the tale.”
  
• the landlord nods, and continues.
  
• the gist of the story: a ghost is jealous of the families that move onto the farm, and every six years, six months, and six days, the ghost appears in a physical form to take revenge on whatever is bothering her. but that’s only a theory.
  
• the landlord and your wife have been making uncomfortable eye contact for a while now, when you cut in, “how did you know this place was haunted?”
  
• “it’s been a local rumor here. the [redacted] witch has been terrorizing this place for centuries. i grew up here.”
  
• “so… you knew this would put us in danger?” a lump begins to form in your throat, but you’re not going to cry. you can’t.
  
• “i have a theory. a way to get rid of this ghost…” she lifts up your chin with her hand, and places a soft kiss upon your lips, “love of my life, i would never intentionally hurt our family on purpose.”
  
• “what’s your plan, then?”
  
• “well, it’s a long shot. but you need to trust me.”
  
• your wife of seventeen years has her eyes trained on you, unmoving, as if frozen in place. she looks confident and, damn it, you are too. you nod.
  
• she smiles, and turns to your landlord, “we’ve got to tell her it’s okay to be into girls.”
  
• “…what?” you ask.
  
• your wife nods, nodding at your landlord, who also nods, “i’ve owned this property, well, my whole life. i know a gay ghost when i see one.”
  
• “so the ghost is just an angry gay? that’s it?”
  
• “well, yeah,” your wife smiles, “if you were a ghost, wouldn’t you be gay?”
  
• “….i guess.” you shrug.
  
• a succession of three knocks on the door has caught everyone’s attention. all eyes are on it now, waiting for something to happen. your wife grabs your hand, looking you in the eyes before strolling forward, pulling you along.
  
• “do you trust me?” she asks, quietly. your landlord has pulled out a long knife, hiding against the wall in case things go south. you look at your wife and nod, “yeah. i love you.”
  
• “love you too.” she smiles, opens the door, and clears her throat.
  
• the ghost looks like a regular, angry, gay girl from the nineteenth century. she’s super pale, though.
  
• your wife smiles, kisses you on the mouth, and turns back to the ghost. her expression hasn’t changed. “hey, [redacted], it’s okay to be into girls.”
  
• “…is it?” the ghost’s voice was quiet, and echoed around you and your wife. your wife smiles wider, “yeah, look at me and my awesome wife. we’re both into girls and married a girl! we’re doing okay.”
  
• the ghost smiles too, “thanks. everyone else who lived here were kinda homophobic.”
  
• “do you want to come inside? i can get you a sprite.”
  
• the ghost beamed, “the gay drink? yeah, i think i can spare a few minutes.”

ba7lem:

snout:

hey everybody who’s in high school rn, in less than ten years its literally going to feel like a bad dream. like its not gonna feel even vaguely real. hang in there

it literally took me like 4 months like the second you graduate you’re in the process of forgetting all about it already

sapphic-art:

REQUESTING SUBMISSIONS OF POETRY, PROSE, AND VISUAL ART FOR A NEW ANTHOLOGY OF QUEER JOY:

Hi! This month, I’m launching my first project for my web production company, Gal Pals Present, and I’m hoping that you’ll help out by posting this request for submissions.

“Dawn with arms full of roses” is an anthology dedicated to queer joy. The name comes from one of Sappho’s fragments, and the project is all about appreciating and honoring the lives of queer folk. The fact is, this world is not safe for queer people. It’s mean, and it’s nasty, and it often doesn’t want us to celebrate ourselves. But our community has always succeeded in finding joy despite. And this anthology is all about spreading that joy.

So please: send me your gushing love poems, your meditations on your own hotness, your unabashed delight. Tell me about the moments where happiness feels impossible, and then tell me about finding it anyway. Send me stories about two girls kissing where no one dies. Your super cheesy sketches? Send them! Your old Star Trek slash fic with the names changed? Send it! Everything will be considered.

Submissions are due July 1st. They should be sent to galpalspresent@gmail.com. 1-3 poems. Prose should be no longer than 10 pages. Free author copies will be sent to all those with work in the anthology.