xachery-apollo
Xee [he/they/xe/moon]
225 posts
Latest Posts by xachery-apollo
check out this 9-1-1 fic a wrote!!
This is my first fanfiction in years and my first one in the 9-1-1 fandom
This a trans lesbian buddie fic because there are none and I need them
https://archiveofourown.org/works/66468202
The notes are broken. This is what tumblr is all about apparently.
historical drama/sitcom where two gay best friends (woman and man) get lavender married--and proceed to spend the Fancy European Honeymoon their parents paid for acting as each other's wingman
Boner update! I turned it into a lamp 👍👍 very happy with how this piece came out, adding Lamp Maker to my résumé now! 💅✨
googling shit like "why do i feel bad after hanging out with my friends" and all of the answers are either "you need better friends" (i don't; my friends are wonderful) or "your social battery is drained, you need to rest and regain your energy levels" (i don't; i've got tons of energy, it's just manifesting as over-the-top neurotic mania). why is this even happening. it's like some stupid toll i have to pay as a punishment for enjoying myself too much
you want me to come out of my cage AND be doing just fine?? in this economy???
5 years ago, I was in Rehab.
10 years ago, I was watching my Potential and Opportunities dissolve and evaporate in an ocean of cheap gin and expensive whiskey.
But 5 years ago, I was in Rehab.
One of the exercises they had us perform was to imagine ourselves happy, 5 years in the future.
Many of us in that room had forgotten how to imagine nice things happening to them. A few snorted (well, I snorted), finding the notion that we’d even still be around in 5 years grimly humorous.
For about half of us, it was the last stop on the way down.
But I indulged the therapist. I was there, after all, because I did not want to die. So, I imagined myself, 5 years hence.
Happy.
It came to me all at once; an artistic remix on Norman Rockwell’s Freedom From Want, reframed with myself placing food at the table.
Sunday Dinner At My Place, I answered, when it came my turn to share my fantasy. I was asked what food I imagined eating.
It’s not the meal itself, I said, it’s the implications framed around it. Sunday Dinner At My Place means that I have a Place. It means that I have Family that will actually speak to me and friends who actually want to see me. It means money enough not just to feed myself but others too. It means having the time to spare to take the time preparing the meal.
A lot of nodding heads all around me. A struck chord. Many people with no Place, in that place. Nowhere that would lament their leaving.
5 years hence, as I lay down to sleep in my Home, with my Wife and my Son, surrounded by my Art and my Flowers, I reflect.
It was a long road. It was hard. We lost people. So many people. There were long days and long nights and hospital stays. Angry arguments with ghosts. I changed, in ways I never hoped for, or expected. Good ways, finally, for once. Slowly, against the backdrop of a world in chaos, I found my mind.
Sometimes, My Wife wondered aloud, what she did to deserve me. After some stumbling with my feelings, I eventually settled on an answer.
I’m a Rescue.
She gave me a Home.
And, so, I gave her a Family.
It seemed fair
This Sunday, my folks, which whom I have not had a shouting match in years, will come over for dinner. We will cook and eat together. My Friend became My Wife, and she took a piece of me and with it she made Our Son. There will be many hugs, and no violence. Good Things Happened.
I don’t know who needs to hear this, but you don’t know what the future holds.
don’t give up yet, ok?
It could get good, even.
you will feel so alive again.. like so incredibly alive. i dont know when that will be but it will be. u are gonna feel so alive that ur cheeks hurt from smiling oh man oh man i promise that day is coming. you do have a future, you do have good things coming, and you’ll survive everything that’s thrown at you until you reach that day
At long last I have created springlock suit from clsssic sci fi game Don't Create the Springlock Suit
I have been thinking a lot about what a cancer diagnosis used to mean. How in the ‘80s and ‘90s, when someone was diagnosed, my parents would gently prepare me for their death. That chemo and radiation and surgery just bought time, and over the age of fifty people would sometimes just. Skip it. For cost reasons, and for quality of life reasons. My grandmother was diagnosed in her early seventies and went directly into hospice for just under a year — palliative care only. And often, after diagnosis people and their families would go away — they’d cash out retirement or sell the house and go live on a beach for six months. Or they’d pay a charlatan all their savings to buy hope. People would get diagnosed, get very sick, leave, and then we’d hear that they died.
And then, at some point, the people who left started coming back.
It was the children first. The March of Dimes and Saint Jude set up programs and my town would do spaghetti fundraisers and raffles and meal trains to support the family and send the child and one parent to a hospital in the city — and the children came home. Their hair grew back. They went back to school. We were all trained to think of them as the angelic lost and they were turning into asshole teens right in front of our eyes. What a miracle, what a gift, how lucky we are that the odds for several children are in our favor!
Adults started leaving for a specific program to treat their specific cancer at a specific hospital or a specific research group. They’d stay in that city for 6-12 months and then they’d come home. We fully expected that they were still dying — or they’d gotten one of the good cancers. What a gift this year is for them, we’d think. How lucky they are to be strong enough to ski and swim and run. And then they didn’t stop — two decades later they haven’t stopped. Not all of them, but most of them.
We bought those extra hours and months and years. We paid for time with our taxes. Scientists found ways for treatment to be less terrible, less poisonous, and a thousand times more effective.
And now, when a friend was diagnosed, the five year survival odds were 95%. My friend is alive, nearly five years later. Those kids who miraculously survived are alive. The adults who beat the odds are still alive. I grew up in a place small enough that you can see the losses. And now, the hospital in my tiny hometown can effectively treat many cancers. Most people don’t have to go away for treatment. They said we could never cure cancer, as it were, but we can cure a lot of cancers. We can diagnose a lot of cancers early enough to treat them with minor interventions. We can prevent a lot of cancers.
We could keep doing that. We could continue to fund research into other heartbreaks — into Long Covid and MCAS and psych meds with fewer side effects and dementia treatments. We could buy months and years, alleviate the suffering of our neighbors. That is what funding health research buys: time and ease.
Anyway, I’m preaching to the choir here. But it is a quiet miracle what’s happened in my lifetime.
You’ve been hit by 🔪
You’ve been struck by 🔪
A Roman Senator 🔪🔪🔪
I work retail, and have for many years now. I'm not an easily fazed person and have a Talk No Shit, Take No Shit mentality. However, I also have a pretty intense anxiety disorder on top of other mental health issues and when I started 6+ years ago there were some customers who got to me.
So, to all the workers facing Karens and Kens out in the wild, here's my advice - cry.
If you have the type of relationships with your coworkers and managers that will support you, don't try to hold it in. Cry like the overworked, underpaid peon you are.
Nothing terrifies an asshole Karen like the indisputable proof that their actions/words are affecting you as a real live person. They feel perfectly entitled to cuss out a cashier over a wrong order/no cash policy/ face mask mandate but when that person starts to cry and asks them why they'd say such mean things? A whole other story, my friend.
There's no way to make that situation look good to the manager they demanded to speak with, either. My manager literally got a security guard fired for being so verbally abusive he made one of her employees cry.
This strategy has multiple benefits -
1. You're not standing there trying to pen up your emotions, crying is a great physical release for negative emotions and you may very well feel somewhat better afterwards.
2. The person who precipitated the situation is forced to not only see you as a person with feelings, but also has to confront the fact that their abuse has consequences beyond themselves.
3. It can actually give your higher-ups leverage to address these situations. 'They yelled at my employee' is one thing, but 'They yelled at my employee until they were in tears' is a waaaaay worse offense. A good manager can use that. Hell, it can get a security guard fired!
tl;dr: We live in a capitalist hell but we can work the system and cry at work to shame awful customers
