Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle RAGE

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I loved the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Michelangelo was my favorite. Though this mutant turtle kicked much ass, he was mellow in a way that I liked. His world view was sweet, and I wanted nothing more than to sit on the rooftop of some building with him and destroy a pizza together while the sun set in the west and all that. Even as a kid I knew he and his brothers were named after Renaissance painters of greatness. Somehow my childish mind attributed their characteristics onto those artists in some weird type of way, and those awesome artists became human beings for me. I became interested in the work via a child's cartoon. They were the good guys, fighting the bad guys to a standstill for no more reason than that the bad guys were wrong. It was no deeper than that, and the simplicity felt good. 

The Turtles were adolescents, and talk about being different. Having acne, being chubby, and different as human beings had nothing on what these guys had to go through. They were so human they ached. They lived in the sewer in order not to be pointed and stared at, and despite that, they handled their differences well and rose to become heroes. 

Because of This: 
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I was introduced to This:

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And not because I was forced to learn it, but because I wanted to. 

That said, I didn't know that Michael Bay was "remaking" the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles until I caught the trailer. I can not express my disappointment enough in words upon viewing that...thing

I loved the Transformers too. I do not watch his Transformer movies. There's just something missing in them besides explosions. But, Dear Mr. Bay, Shredder is not a Transformer. He is not an robot in disguise. Shedder is just a bastard in a shiny suit.  He was a human being, and he was flawed and jealous and a whole lot of other things that made him a very bad man. Not ROBOT. Man

People keep kicking me in the childhood. -Sniff-

And the turtles are ... ugly ... in a way they've never been before. Big. Bulky. Sinister looking. They've lost something in this dark translation--kind of like Superman turning into a villain and killing everyone recently. 

The world seems dark to most people. The villains are running rampant and unchecked, they have the best cars, the most money, and because of that, they seem to be things to be admired. As human beings we look up to the powerful, and if the most powerful happens to be Darth Vader on a mean Crack binge, then we tend to make him our hero. However, it is not good to paint everything with the same bloody, rape-y, rage-encrusted brush. It leaves little room for beauty, hope...

...and messages about how being different ain't necessarily bad.  


Sexy University Students show some Thor and Loki love

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Graduates of  Shandong University in China did some amazing things with their graduation photos. This one caught my eye and drew an immediate smile which I want to struggle snuggle them for.  

Whomever the two guys are who took the graduation pic, I appreciate the hell out of them. The fan-made poster of Thor and Loki made me rush to see that movie in the first place, and these two students look gorgeous in similar pose. Sexy at it's absolute finest for the minds that went into creating this. 

Sidenote: I recommend reading the Norse myths to anyone who was as pleased by the fan-art as I was. Don't let the television and movie screens tell you everything. The original myths are filled with Thor wearing dresses and Loki having babies--not someone having babies for Loki, but Loki having them himself

I believe he gave birth to a dragon at some point...

Making for better/fiction/fanfiction, reading is fucking fundamental:)

But, to sexy China, pictures are, truly, worth a thousand words. 


After posting that, I felt like posting something beautiful

Somewhere Over The Rainbow

Security Aka. Bullet Proof Body Guard Blankets

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Jesse Martin walked into his classroom. The air was somber. The day had begun and no one was really enthused about being here. School was bad enough as it was. The teachers were unenthusiastic. He had six classes a day, lunch, and gym. The teachers read off his lessons from rote memory. The books were uninteresting. The material dull as a butter knife. He had to go to school though everyone assured him. In school lay the keys to his future. Without an education he would be nothing—lucky to get a job flipping burgers at McDonald's. Like every other kid at East West High School, he resigned himself to a day of absolute boredom in the hopes that he could achieve this distant dream of a decent life, free of burden and debt.

Blond and blue eyed, Jessie was the stunning picture of the American dream. People that looked like him were on television all the time, and billboards, and, well, everything. He was the quarterback for the East West Saints, and he was good at his position. The other kids at school looked up to him. The girls all wanted to fuck him. The boys all wanted to be him. No one ever suspected that his mom was a drug addict who loved her Valium more than she’d ever loved him. Or that his dad was a ghost around their house—working himself to death trying to support their upper middle class lifestyle. He saw his dad in pictures more than he saw him in real life.

Jesse wasn't a whiner though. He knew the world had very little sympathy for whiners. All in all, he had a pretty good life. He always got the things he needed, and most of the time, he got whatever he wanted. He understood these things with a higher mind than most people his age. His grandfather had told him once that he was, simply, wise for his age. He had taken great pride in that. He buckled down. He did what needed doing, and, although he was bored on some weird level he could barely understand, he didn't let that stop him. There was a better future for him at the end of this long, dull, road. He wouldn't have to work as hard as his father if he played his cards right. He wouldn't marry a woman like his mother—pretty, but fake, all her smiles painted on with her lipstick in the morning.

“Substitute,” Jamal Irwin said as Jesse took his seat. Jamal was Jesse’s best friend and running back for the Saints. Half African-American and half Jewish, Jamal was a study in the determined. He’d already locked down a football scholarship to a top ten university. Jamal didn't come from the same kind of life that Jesse had. Jamal’s family was barely clinging to middle class, and with each drop in the economy, Jamal’s family was falling further and further down. Jamal was his family’s hope—their shining light and he was pulling through for them like the champion he was. Jesse didn't envy Jamal his success—he just loved him. They had been friends since kindergarten and time had rendered them more like brothers. “At least the eye candy’s pleasing today.”

Jesse glanced at the substitute teacher. He noted several things about her instantly. The first thing was that she was pretty and young when their ordinary teacher was ugly and old. This teacher didn't have the lines of bitterness around her eyes that Mrs. Morales, their real Spanish teacher did.

The two top buttons of the substitutes pale white blouse were undone. Her skirt was inky black and mid-thigh exposing long sexy legs.  Her black heels were high—maybe six inches. She looked a wet dream he’d had not too long ago, down to the long black curls cascading down her back. Her lips were ruby red and her attention was on them, sliding from face to face. Her gaze was slightly insecure. And there was a certain hunger in it that he didn't know how to name.

He was distracted from attempting to figure out why he thought his sexy new teacher was hungry, by the arrival of Charity Granger and Stephanie Blythe. He’d dated them both last year and actually slept with Stephanie. He’d almost liked her more than just that, but she’d been so needy that it had made him uncomfortable. She had wanted all of his time and all of his attention. Even though she was a cheerleader, she didn't like football, and while he didn't give much of a fuck about football either, he couldn't stand the way she expected to be worn like a pretty coat—and nothing else. He could do anything he wanted to her. She had no stops—as long as he was with her. He couldn't even tell if she liked him in the time they were together. All he knew was that she liked belonging to the East West Saint’s quarterback. He’d broken her a little in the polite phone call where he had dismissed her. He felt bad about it sometimes. Using her had never been his intention—a thing of which he was promptly accused—he’d wanted to like her. His only requirement had been that she liked him in return. Not the East West quarterback. Him.

His gaze moved from Stephanie’s sleek, flaxen, form to Charity. The whites of Charity’s chocolate colored eyes were pink from drug use. Charity tried hard to be Stephanie’s twin. She had the sleek, toned look down to a well-copied science. However, there was just more to Charity than there was to Stephanie. There was a sadness in Charity Granger that rested just beneath the carefully applied make-up she wore—a desperation that was just as intense, but very different from Stephanie’s. The makeup hid Charity’s cuts and bruises most of the time—and everybody, en mass, teachers and students alike, let most of the time be enough.

Charity sat next to Jamal and Stephanie took a place behind the other girl. The substitute sat on the desk, and crossed long tan legs. Her panties were thin, sheer and black.

“I will have you know,” the substitute said. He saw that her name was on the board. She was Ms. Rodriguez, “that I am, originally, from Mexico. Bad Spanish will not be tolerated in this classroom today. Each of you will try, very hard, to please me.”

Her voice was like velvet, her accent so slight it was almost imperceptible, but it was there, and he found himself leaning forward to listen to her talk.

“Oh, I’d try very hard to please you,” Jamal whispered, and Charity tapped him the in back of the head with a number two pencil.

“Pervert,” she breathed.

“Damn right,” he said.

“She looks like a cheap whore,” Stephanie said, “but then Jesse likes his whores cheap. Look how hard he’s paying attention.”

“Do not fuck with me,” Jesse told her. He was simply not in the mood for her shit today. He took his gaze off the spectacle that was their substitute teacher, glanced at the clock, and just resigned himself to it.

The sound was loud, and in the near distance. It sounded like someone’s tire blew out while driving fast. It was a hard pop, and, along with that sound came one long, dreadful scream.

The entire room grew silent in the wake of that sound. No one talked. No one breathed. The sound of the clock moving a second hand was the loudest noise in the room.

“What was that?” the substitute asked.

“I don’t know,” someone whispered back. There was burgeoning panic in that frantic reply.

Another hard pop, and a wavering high-pitched scream.

“What the fuck?” Jamal asked.

The loudspeaker made that strangely annoying static noise it made when it came on. The principal’s voice dominated the room.

“Attention classrooms of East West High, it seems we are in the middle of a school shooting. If you would please move to the back of your classrooms and retrieve your Security Blankets in an orderly fashion…Please do not try to leave the classrooms. This is standard procedure in these situations…Just retrieve your assigned Security Blanket and everything will be okay…”

There were several more pops—gunshots. And several more screams, each one higher and more horrible than the last. Some went on and on, the agonized shrieks of those in pain—dying.

“Oh my God,” Ms. Rodriguez moaned in horror. 

“…I repeat,” the principal continued. “Classrooms of East West High, retrieve your Security Blankets. This will be over in a matter of moments as long as no one panics. Do not confront the gunman. Do not run out into the halls. Get on your hands and knees, and put your Security Blankets around yourselves in the procedure we have practiced. The police are on their way…”

Jesse couldn't move, but chaos reigned all around him. It was like he was in some special place outside of all of this, watching it like it was some horrible dream. The gunfire was coming closer by the second. He heard screams in the hallway. The substitute teacher rushed past him, less pretty now that her face was a picture of horror.

Everyone was moving at once—surging toward the back of the classroom like a fleshy sea. They had practiced this a thousand times—but in the culmination of the horror all grace and order was gone. Chairs were turned over and scattered everyone. Several people started crying outright.




Someone smashed into the classroom door and a pale hand left a dark red blood streak on the glass. A face was visible for a second, the eyes wide. He recognized the other boy. Paul Cranston. Science nerd who’d somehow lost his glasses. A little geek who, Jesse secretly thought, was going to change the world in some big way. Paul’s startled, agonized, face slid out of sight.

Pa-Pa-Pa- POP.



You’re not wearing your Security Blanket Mr. Cranston, Jesse thought insanely. He felt the smile curve his lips—a terrified reaction of his face for a joke that really wasn't funny.

The slightly hideous, oh-so-plastic, grin faltered when he actually heard Paul answer him.

That’s because they’re stupid, Mr. Martin. An incredibly stupid way to solve the problem of gun violence in America. The essence of putting a Band-Aid on a gunshot wound, excuse my terrible pun and darkish sense of humor. The next thing they’re going to do is have us come to school in bullet proof vests. Or hell, maybe they’ll arm us and we can shoot it out in the classrooms like Billy the Kidd and Butch Cassidy…

Blood—thick and bright—seeped under the door. At first it was a trickle, and then it became a river, moving over white linoleum like a thing sentient and alive. Just outside the door, Paul’s voice welled into a terrible howl, that clipped off suddenly and became horrific begging. “Please,” he said, “Pl-Please. N-No. Don’t--”


A face wearing a dark ski mask appeared suddenly at the classroom door’s window. Jesse felt like a statue—a thing made of solid marble. His mind told him to move as he stared into the gunman’s eyes, but his body simply would not obey. He understood the meaning of rooted in fear then—completely. His bladder felt heavy. Distantly, he wondered if he were going to piss himself before he died.

“…I understand that you are afraid,” the principal’s voice said over the loudspeaker.

Afraid to go to school,” Paul’s voice said. …Afraid of getting beaten up by bigger kids because you’re smart or gay or black. Or all of those things. Or none of those things. Just different. Afraid of lackadaisical teachers who think we need to ‘toughen up’ … or the predatory ones. Afraid of being so bored with the mundane, watered down, curriculum that you’ll quit and have no future at all. Afraid of not doing well enough to secure a good future. Afraid of being shot by some kid that’s feeling all those fears and can’t control it

“…but I assure you that we have this situation under control…”

…Out of control. Everything is out of control. Big Money says guns are okay. So what if a few kids get killed in the process of making all that delicious money. Fuck, even the Security Blankets are going for a thousand dollars a pop. Pay a thousand dollars and save your children. Standard Issue Security Blankets will keep them safe during those war-like sojourns in school. This is another test. Live or die. The results will be on your taxes. Along with the price of the gun this fucker’s using to kill you today, Jesse My Man…

The doorknob turned and didn't open. Jesse was surprised that someone had had the forethought to lock it against the intruder. A second later and the butt of the madman’s rifle smashed through the glass of the door. A dark clad arm reached in, grabbed the knob, and turned it.

“…The police are here. Can you hear the sirens? It’s almost over. Just remember you’re Security Blanket and you will be okay…”

Bullshit… Paul snapped. …Stupid, greedy, and careless is never okay. Someone always pays the price. Today it’s us. Tomorrow it’ll be someone else…

“Here’s Johnny,” the gunman cackled madly before exploding into the room. He was dressed in all black—a grotesque TV depiction of a vigilante murderer, but, Jesse had recognized his voice. It was Craig Jackson—a kid as low down on the social scale as Paul Cranston ever was without any of the brainy potential.

Jesse sat in his seat in school being stared at by his would-be murderer with the voice of a dead boy in his head. He could see Paul’s body now, just outside the door way. Behind him, his Spanish class cried out in a symphony of terror, the uniform sound broken only by the occasional plea. He turned his head to see them because the killer’s eyes were on them and they were a solid wall of orange—draped in the security of the school issued blankets. The things were bullet proof and damn near military grade.

“Fuck it,” the killer said.






…He sounds just like the goddamn government, Paul said. His voice was soft under the wailing of sirens, the screams of the classroom, the noise of the gun and the pounding of Jesse’s terrified heart.



Frank Wolf = Beautiful

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I don't want this to sound wrong. This person was only twenty years old. I am not calling him beautiful for any kind of sneaky secret desire on my part. It is purely aesthetic appreciation here. The viewing of some beautiful artwork--a thing put together with utmost care and magnificence. I find this young man to be a pleasure to look at. He cosplayed a lot of the things I like: Marshall Lee,  the vampire boy from Adventure Time, any kind of Neko creature, anime of all sorts, and he made an awfully pretty girl. Beautiful.

While I don't mind praising his beauty, and admitting that his beauty is what drew me, it took me a long time to want to talk about what happened to him. Or, at least, what I think happened to him. I don't investigate it too much, honestly. I don't want to know the real end of the story, and I hold out hope that what I am thinking is wrong. This beautiful person was gay. He was twenty. He was a Canadian model, or so I've read. He got on camera and made a lot of our personal cosplay/anime dreams come true out of the kindness of his heart and his willingness to share. And, from what I've read, he's dead--bullied to death by those who didn't appreciate the kind of person that he was. Cyber bullying= the new, safe, anonymous, way to destroy people from the inside out.

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My heart cries out against the sheer waste of life here. Frankly, I can't even imagine how anyone could be mean to him. But, because I roleplay with the written word, I hung around a bunch of the 'type' of people who brought about his demise. I pretended to be like him, and I suffered their cruelty, day in and day out for months and months and months. If asked why I did it, I wouldn't be able to give you a sane answer. I suppose it can simply be narrowed down to the fact that I honestly wanted to know something of how it felt, and I honestly wanted to understand something of the minds of the people who would do something like this--torture someone--and then continue to consider themselves good people at the end. 

I can tell you this much from sheer experience and my experience was toned down because while the things they said to me where cruel, disturbing, and downright hateful, I didn't feel them the way that someone who really was what they were saying they were would--if that sentence makes any sense at all. I hurt. I felt guilty for no fucking reason half the time. I felt disturbed. I received private message upon private message of images that were so vile they made me cringe inside, and, yet, I was still distanced from it because I wasn't being me. I was being someone else. And still, a lot of times, I wanted to cry as insult after insult was hurled at me over and over again. Each insult from a different person. Some just in passing. Others, concentrated efforts by individuals for long periods of time. Purposeful. Malicious. All of it like a lead weight that kept growing and growing until I was paranoid and mistrustful.

And, yet, the same people that were torturing me would erect shrines to this particular person--which is how I found out who he was and what happened to him in the first place. "Rest in Peace" they'd write, with little poems about how tragic his death was. "Angel" and "We will miss you," and so on and etc., and then go right back to the same torture that harmed him in the first place. I would like to emphasize the fact that it was the lead weight effect that was the most damaging. Little things from individuals all day every day that a profound effect. Logging in to that site and checking my emails became something of a torture. And I often thought about how horrible they were when I wasn't even there. 

I can't even imagine the way this young man must have felt in receiving that kind of feedback. And not just on that one site--but all of them. A constant deluge of that kind of off-hand cruelty building up and building up until it is huge and uncontrollable. A meanness that is almost senseless--but still takes time to click send on the email. Raining. Constant. HORRIBLE.

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And what does the face of this kind of bully look like? In my case, it was a bunch of teenage girls mostly--some were a little older. The kind that love Justin Beiber and One Direction. Those little girls and young women send me some of the most disgusting pornography I've ever seen--again and again and again. They made me hate the word YAOI--how two men having sex is for women I will never understand. While love is for everyone lucky enough to find it, I don't get the meaning of that particular word. And it kind of pisses me the fuck off. 

Enough for today. Maybe I'll write more about this later. 

-Rage Quits The Game-



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This is a movie I knew I wanted to see the moment that I heard it existed. I wanted to see it because I like fairy tales and the things people do with fairy tales--and I think this bitch is beautiful. 

Maleficent is a hellova part to play. This particular fairy was bad to the bone. She cursed an innocent girl to death that became a rather merciful eternal sleep. There is nothing good about her in the original. And, yet, no one is evil for nothing---for simply the sake of evil. There's a story there, somewhere

This thing was just...gorgeous.

I can't think of another thing to say that matters.

Five glittery eternal stars.

PAID to see this one too.

Roxas sings: Beautiful Soul

Edit to include this SPOILER-Y wondering. DO NOT READ IF YOU HAVEN'T SEEN THE MOVIE:

Maleficent's love--the boy she knew who came to be king who betrayed her in such a grotesque and horrible way for power. Why the fuck did he hate her so much? She had never done anything to him. She had always been kind and good to him (well, until she cursed his daughter). His hatred was so huge he was willing to die for it. He was certainly willing to kill her. It wasn't as if he were a character I didn't understand. I understood him. I suppose my problem is--things just didn't have to be that way. 

Why couldn't he relent? Give her her wings back? Let her fly? He had achieved all he'd ever wanted in the world. Once he was nothing, and now he was king by the power of her blood and suffering--the darkest kind of betrayal. 

He could have lived in the woods with her forever and never wanted for anything...

He chose such ugliness. And wasn't happy for five fucking minutes afterward--with all he'd gained. 

His character was fascinating in the saddest way possible.