i dont get offended at white people jokes even though im white because:
- i can recognize white people as a whole have systemically oppressed POC in america, which is where i live
- most people when they make white people jokes only mean the shitty white people and i am not a shitty white person
- im not a pissbaby
my white friends that have reblogged this give me life
4. Sometimes I am a shitty white person and the jokes remind me to FUCKIN STOP
If ur white and like this post I fux with u
5. It’s hard to be offended when white people jokes involve bland food/tourist dads in socks and sandals/white girls in yoga pants obsessed with pumpkin spice/suburban PTA moms and other harmless and mostly true stereotypes while jokes about POC involve them being called thugs/criminals/slurs/uneducated/illegal immigrants.
i fucks with u heavy if ur white and you reblog this
6. They’re usually really fucking funny and don’t perpetuate stereotypes that will ever affect me economically, politically, or cause me any true harm, let alone create risks that “justify” my murder and/or death
Waits for my white mutuals to reblog😌
A concept: the window of Aziraphael’s shop is full of queer coded items from literally the entire time it’s been open. There’s a green carnation from the late 1800s that’s always in full bloom. A pink triangle from the 1980s stuck to the window. A little sting of flags along the top where he carefully added each new pride flag as it came out.
Heaven’s never noticed.
Aziraphale and Crowley slowly start adopting each other’s color palettes.
Aziraphale finds a grey bowtie (still tartan). His waistcoat gets a bit darker, more black and less brown.
Crowley wears an off-white shirt. His collar is cream. The scarf-thing is light blue.
They don’t say anything when they notice the other starting to shift. They just do little things to acknowledge it. Crowley will straighten Aziraphale’s bowtie. Aziraphale will fix Crowley’s color. It’s still very much their own aesthetics, but it’s just got a touch of the other ever-present.
zoom in and raise the brightness and you can see the flutter of his left eye closing behind the glasses, but there’s zero matching flutter on the other side, his right eye stays open. he winks from behind his sunglasses.
CROWLEY. WINKED. AT. AZIRAPHALE.
Crowley: (Looking out the window of Anathema’s cottage at the horrible weather) That storm’s not stopping, is it?
Anathema: I don’t think so, no.
Crowley: It’s going to be bloody miserable when Aziraphale gets back to his bookshop.
Anathema: I imagine so.
Crowley: (Pulls out his cell phone and dials) Alexa? Turn on the lights. Set the temperature to 23 degrees. Play Four Seasons - Spring, I think. And turn the kettle on. Thank you.”
Anathema: (impressed) Mr. Fell has an Alexa? That’s rather progressive of him, isn’t it?
Crowley: (Looking confused) No. His bookshop’s haunted by some chic named Alexa. If she’s going to hang about, she might as well earn her keep.
Oh my God. Perfect.
Everyone has their own headcanons as to when TV!Aziraphale and Crowley’s first lunch at the Ritz was, some time between 1967 when Aziraphale haltingly mentions it as a potential future activity and 2008 when it seems routine.
My money’s on a day in mid-November, 1989, shortly after the collapse of the Berlin Wall.
Let’s be real here–they both would have hated the 1980s. Thatcherism, the AIDS crisis, Reagan’s nuclear buildup in Europe, the unluckier parts of the world churning with proxy wars the superpowers were constantly pouring more fuel on. Not a great decade for those with compassion for humanity.
I’d like to think they were both in Berlin when it was happening, because they tend to be kicking around important events in history, doing anything other than what they’re supposed to be doing. Aziraphale says he’s there encouraging goodwill across borders and Crowley claims he’s fomenting political upheaval but really they both just kind of…want to see what the humans are going to do.
And then over the course of one chaotic night and the days that follow it, they watch humans open and then physically dismantle this barrier that had symbolically divided the entire world into two supposedly irreconcilable sides. Two sides that got told they were so different from one another, but were really more alike than those in power wanted them to believe. On both sides, the people at the bottom were just trying to survive and live their lives and the people at the top were willing to burn the entire world to prove their gang was best.
And then just like that, this barrier that divided humans for decades (maybe a blink of an eye for an angel and a demon, but a long time in human terms) is gone, smashed to bits by humans who a month or a week or a day ago wouldn’t dare.
(Oh how Crowley wishes he were responsible for the fact that part of the chain of events that brought down the wall was a bureaucratic miscommunication–and maybe he even tells Hell that part was his doing–but in the end it was all the humans’ work.)
And regardless of what they put in memos to head office, I think over those days Aziraphale and Crowley were mostly sitting on a rooftop somewhere, drinking mug after mug of German beer and watching the humans, watching how brave and clever and determined and loving they can be, when they suddenly realize they’re not alone. They’ve seen the whole sweep of human history, the triumphs and the horrors, but in a moment like this it’s impossible not to be a little bit hopeful, a little bit brazen.
“What’re you up to when we get back to London, angel?” Crowley says, when the prospect of return is starting to look unavoidable.
“I was thinking…lunch.”
“Of course you were.”
“I think…if you’d care to join me…we might find a table at the Ritz has miraculously become available.”
Crowley looks over at Aziraphale, but the angel is looking down at the scene below, two people embracing among the chunks of rubble now scattered around what used to be a checkpoint.
“Sounds lovely. Any time you’re ready, angel. Any time.”
oh dang you guys I just cycled to and from Meeting for the first time in ages and let me tell you, after three weeks of barely leaving my house thanks to the flu, I have all the endurance and strength of an asthmatic kitten. On the other hand, the light is silvery and late-autumn and beautiful and hey! I survived!
Now to take a midday bath and then spend the next three hours in bed, probably writing? Hopefully? Cos man I got a lot I want to get through.
The World and Its Beautiful Particle Logic: Put a chapter up this week. I’ve got the next one mostly written, although it feels kind of skeletal, so I’ll probably do a lot of editing before it goes up. (Ahaha, I just checked and it’s already 3300 words, so the next one’ll be a corker.) I don’t necessarily know how the end of this story goes yet, but I think it’s getting pretty close. I’ll still keep the series open for one-offs, but the big story arcs are over, I think.
promptBleedingOut: I think I’ve finished the first chapter. I want to edit it a lot, but then I’ll start posting this story. (I pretended for like five minutes that I’d write the whole thing then start posting, but I think we all know that my ego demands to be fed WAY before we reach that point.
I also have to get started on my GOmens holiday exchange story this week! I have a rough idea of what to write, based on the prompts I got, but I should sit down and really think about it.
UGH OH MY JESUS.
Ok so regular readers of this (ye poor fuckers) will know I’ve been battling my way through John Eliot Gardiner’s Bach: Music In the Castle of Heaven. This week I finally gave up. After WEEKS of reading impenetrable stuff on how Bach wrote…everything…I realized I had two 150-page chapters still to go and just threw in the towel. It’s a fine book, just not for me, and now in two days I’m halfway through His Dark Materials and happy as a clam. I usually don’t stick with books I don’t like, but I think I wanted to like this so bad, and anyway I am delirious with joy to be reading something engaging and interesting and that I love.