Just because what you wanted didn’t happen, doesn’t mean it’s queerbaiting. It is now being used an excuse when the ship you want didn’t get together. Queerbaiting has to do with marketing.
Queerbait: A cookbook that you learned about from ads with pictures of people eating tasty looking soups and the author’s social media posts about how soup lovers are going to love it, proves to have no soup recipes.
Not queerbait: A cookbook has no soup recipes. You assumed there would be some based on vibes and wishful thinking. No soups were ever advertised or promised.
Also not queerbait: A cookbook that was advertised as containing soup recipes has soup recipes but not for the types of soups you like.
Queerbait: The cookbook repeatedly mentions soups and how this or that sandwich would be great with soup (“wouldn’t it be funny if we put a soup recipe here,” it says, though it never does), and perhaps even having recipes for gravy, hot chocolate, and pasta sauce with photos of each thing in big bowls with a spoon in them so they appear to be soups at first glance (but of course anyone who says that they expected a soup recipe is a moron, and the cookbook spends a whole chapter making fun of people who like soup).
Not queerbait: The cookbook is published in a country where soup is illegal or highly stigmatized. For some reason the recipe for “mashed potatoes” calls for leeks and comes out way thinner than you’d expect mashed potatoes to be, and the “tomato pasta sauce” recipe makes way more than you’d need to top a couple of servings of spaghetti, but there’s definitely no soup in here, nope nope nope.
i was in the grocery store and saw an onion on the ground and picked it up, absently saying “poor little guy.” behind me a teenage girl started laughing and then stopped and went “aww. i’m sorry for laughing. that’s nice actually.” and the cycle of cruelty is broken for another generation as a young person realizes that it is not embarrassing to have empathy for another thing that was once living, because certainly to be a lone white onion rolling on the ground in a supermarket would be terrifying to anyone
[Image ID: Tumblr tags from spaceFuneral reading: #this reminds me of how these two teenage girls apparently come into my work often and i didnt recognize them but they recognized me #and they were like “ do you just have a collection of mystical cat shirts” #and i was like oh god im about to be bullied by teenagers #and i was like haha yeah! #and said that one person gifted me one and then suddenly i was collecting them #and they were like “i love that i love your vibes” #and “thank you for sharing your lore” #and i was like god damn………. peace and love on planet earth /End ID]
OP: A seasoned clothing insider with 16 years experience takes you shopping and shows you how to pick the right clothes—details that show the clothes aren’t worth the price. (cr 多多服装经)
The wind howls horribly as I stagger through the drifts of snow. It tears at my cloak and dress, digging icy fingers down to my bones. My teeth are chattering and I can barely feel my hands as I tug the cloak tight around my shoulders.
I find myself wondering for probably the thousandth time if this whole endeavor is a fool’s errand. Many men have attempted this very mission, most have never returned.
What hope does someone like me possibly have?
I pause beneath a rocky outcropping, desperately trying to rub feeling back into my numb hands when I hear the voice. It comes in the form of a song in a language I do not recognize, piercing through the storm unnaturally (though there is hardly anything natural about this storm in the first place).
Were I in my right mind, I would ignore it, but I am cold and delirious from exhaustion. Instead I stagger forward blindly through the wind driven snow, drawn inexorably towards the haunting voice.
What I find is a cage, hanging from a sorry looking tree and woven from rough hewn strips of wood and covered with glowing symbols. Within sits the hunched figure of the singer. Her back is to me, so all I can see is a cloak that appears to be covered in dusky feathers.
“Hello?”
She stops singing and whirls to grip the bars. What I previously mistook for a feathered cloak is in fact a pair of wings in place of her arms, three fingers with wicked looking claws emerging halfway down their length. Curling horns and pointed ears sprout from beneath the raven dark tresses of her hair, framing a face with pale mottled gray skin and a sort of flattened nose and tilted eyes like a cat’s. The eyes themselves… they are jet black with glowing flecks like sparks dancing within.
She… I don’t even know if this is a she… regards me hungrily with those eyes.
“Hey!” she says desperately. “Get me out of here and I’ll grant you your heart’s desire!”
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