its really annoying that its like apparently impossible to explain to men that "sexual assault is not the Default State of women in distress and it's ReallyFhucking Stupid that this is literally the go-to when writing a conflict involving a woman" without it being interpreted as "writing about rape is bad and all suggestions of it as a reality for some women must be avoided at all costs" like i mean really really really annoying
like there are stories involving sexual assault where its inclusion gives you a more intimate understanding of the world and characters that would be objectively diminished by treating it with kid gloves and whitewashing it out of existence. and there are stories involving sexual assault where its inclusion makes it Incredibly Obvious the guy writing it just cannot fathom any scenario in which a woman could experience a struggle of Any Kind that does not ultimately involve rape .
the boss fight version of this is when its both and the inclusion of sexual assault is necessary for the reality of the situation to be portrayed with any sense of honesty or integrity but also the way its presented is in such poor taste that it feels like youre being held hostage by the most obnoxiously self-important nerd on the entire planet
connor storrie being the most relatable actor ever, literally having the life dream of at least 70% of the working class living paycheck to paycheck.
CONNOR STORRIE ON THE “IN YOU DREAMS” PODCAST WITH OWEN THIELE (2025)
*not counting people you knew irl first. use your discretion for other edge cases
snow while i’m at the library my favorite season
at some point in your life you will be boiling fruit, water, sugar, and lemon juice in a pot to make a syrup or jam. the instructions will tell you to simmer for a certain amt of time. your timer will go off and you will look at the pot and go, "hm, this doesn't look thick enough. maybe i'll let it go for another 10 minutes." this is the devil speaking. it's only so liquid right now because it is at boiling point. it will thicken when it cools down. learn from the follies of my youth and do not let this happen to you
at some point in your life you will be making a sauce or a stew in which you need to add cornstarch to thicken it. and you will prepare a slurry of starch in cold water and think "this looks like way too little starch to thicken this amount of liquid." this is the devil speaking. cornstarch instantly polymerizes at 95°C and if you add too much it will turn into an impossibly thick goop.
just a boy with big dreams and a signature pose
thinking about the rooftop scene at the end of episode 1 and how shane views competition/winning/losing re: his relationship with control (hockey) and desire (ilya). when he finds ilya on the roof, ilya’s clearly upset and shane assumes it’s because he won rookie of the year over ilya. he’s a little drunk and very pissed when he says "all you ever do is beat me", which we know isn't true. shane's actually won the last few competitions we've seen between them (their first face-off, that game, the shot accuracy competition, rookie of the year), but that’s not the point. the point is that shane historically doesn't lose. he’s finally met his competitive match, and he’s winning professionally, but his control over his desires keeps slipping. and that’s infuriating.
so imagine you're shane hollander, and you grew up being the undisputed best on every team you've ever played on. best on your youth teams, best on your high school team, captain of the canadian world juniors' team, who you lead to the championships. and then you lose your first juniors' championship in your home country. which sucks. and then, the stupid cocky, stupid hot captain of the team that beat you is the first draft pick your rookie season. you're second, which is huge, but you're not first. you were supposed to be first. you're drafted onto your mom's favorite team. it's almost everything you dreamed of—almost. this asshole shows up in the gym in the hotel in the middle of the night and silently challenges you to a race and you tie (in the book, shane loses). you don't win. you can't win. and then he's sitting across from you and he's sweaty and panting and making small talk and making you drink from his water bottle and you don't want to take it because that would be an admission of defeat too, but he insists, so you take it. he tells you to drink more and you do. why the fuck are you listening to him? he says you'll be seeing a lot of each other. you want to climb into his lap and kiss him. you feel your carefully honed self-control start to slip. you want to hit him. the next time you see him, it's your last world junior's championship, in your hometown, and you won't lose this time. you don't lose this time. good, you're climbing back up. you're evening the score. six months later, you're shooting a commercial with the guy and of course it was his idea for you do it together. fine. you shower afterward and you're trying to be out of there before he shows up but you lose that race too. he's gorgeous and you can't stop yourself from stealing glaces at every inch of him when you think he's not looking. but he sees you. and he sees that you're getting hard just from the sight of him. another goddamn thing for him to hold over you. you want to hate him. you want to swallow him whole. another loss. he asks for your room number and you give it to him, easily. another loss. you hook up and its terrifying and hopeless and really fucking good but you don't fully believe him when he says he won't tell anybody. you're losing control. you never lose control. you finally start playing against him and it's become your mission to beat him, to regain the control he’s been taking from you. so you do beat him. you win your first face-off against him, you score a goal right after and win the game. you're ahead of him in goals scored this season. you break the shot accuracy record he just set. it's either you or him for rookie of the year. there's another guy too, but everyone knows it's really down to hollander and rozanov. it's always down to hollander and rozanov. you win rookie of the year. you're getting your control back. the older players want to do shots with you, and despite yourself, you're looking for rozanov. you find him sulking on the roof, smoking a cigarette. he congratulates you, and you politely deflect it, but he doubles down and gives you a side eye, and that pisses you off. why can't he let you have this one stupid fucking thing? why can't this one thing belong to you when everything else that was yours (your game, your body, your heart) belongs to him? and now you're all but yelling at him, and he shoots back "not everything is about you, hollander" and—god damn it—your eyes well with tears. because for you, everything is about him. no matter how hard you try, it's always about him. you're shane hollander and you're 19 and all you want is to beat ilya rozanov for good so you can get your life back where you planned for it to be. but he won't let you.
tequila is like drinking the tears of a very happy young woman and whiskey is like drinking the tears of a very sad old man and gin is like drinking the tears of a closeted gay man named james
a swedish winter wonderland
diagram of using social media
Zeravshan gorge, Tajikistan. November 2002. By Dmitry Beliakov.