“But that’s kink sham-” Yes, it is. If your “kink” involves sexualized violence, paedophilia, role-playing rape or abuse, or is non-consensual, I am kink shaming you 100%. Shame on you. That’s horrible. Shame shame shame
Catra is the “we brushed hands once, ergo we are dating. We are engaged. I am already planning the wedding” type of lesbian.
Adora is the “We often hold hands, she sleeps in my bed and she sometimes plays serenades dedicated to me. But I am not certain if she likes me back or if she is trying to be nice” type of lesbian.
In the movie The Santa Clause, one becomes Santa by putting on the red coat after the death of the previous Santa. Even ignoring how morbid this premise is on its own, it’s possible that there’s another even darker level to the story. When Scott Calvin shows up at the North Pole as the new Santa, not only do the elves not appear surprised, they seem happy to see him and not at all upset about the Santa he replaced. And furthermore, at the very beginning of the movie, we see an elf standing with a crowd of children outside a toy store near Scott’s house. Why would she already be there if she didn’t have some sort of prior knowledge of what was going to occur? This leaves me no choice but to conclude that the elves not only hated the previous Santa but actually orchestrated his demise.
tl;dr: In The Santa Clause, the elves totally murdered the previous Santa.
Update: In The Santa Clause 2, the Easter Bunny says kids are 86% happier since Scott became Santa. 86%. Clearly, the last Santa was so terrible, the elves had to off him.
Also, according to The Santa Clause 2, Santa has to be married in order to remain Santa, which means that the previous Santa must have been married – but there’s no Mrs. Clause around when Scott gets to the North Pole. What happened to her?
And finally, I think this raises some pretty serious questions about Bernard’s sudden disappearance in between The Santa Clause 2 and 3. Just how badly did Curtis want to be Head Elf?
Just how many people have the elves murdered? Clearly those rosy cheeks and innocent, childlike faces are hiding some pretty dark secrets.
Oh my god
now this is the kind of Christmas post I want on my dash
The Santa Clause was just a Yuletide Julius Caesar.
Can we please be the generation that stops putting up with the family child molester? The grown uncle who dates teenage girls, the husband who makes uncomfortable comments about young women’s clothing, or the cousin who raises red flags with their behavior towards children but no one wants to talk about all need to go. Children, especially young women, are expected to “keep the family together” by not making a fuss over incredibly traumatic behavior. Children don’t deserve to suffer trauma for adults’ feelings of togetherness. They’re more worthy of protection than predators. A healthy family is not built on the backs of abuse survivors expected to live their lives in silence without justice, support, or protection.
Pretty is a six-letter word that can’t encompass your entire being in its arms. You were born to a mother who wore pain like trees wear their rings, as marks of fierce bravery and battle cries. You almost split her insides open coming out, wailing so hard the plaster cracked, but she grinned and bore it like a champion, even though the walls of her womb felt like one giant cigarette burn that no one cared enough to put out.
You are Icarus incarnate, with a body stitched from wings, flying toward the sun every day no matter how low the storm clouds hover. Pretty is not a synonym for learning how to put together a body that fights itself every day with pocket knives, like assembling letters to form words that flame in the mouth. That’s called survival. Pretty is an ugly word. It leaves behind a bitter residue that apologies cannot erase. Pretty is just an excuse for playing darts with a woman’s confidence.
When told you are not pretty, always remember how your body expanded to fit its widening cage, its blooming hips, how the growing pains were less like pain and more like cracking fault lines. How your body turned itself inside out and spilled over and over again. Getting emptied is not pretty. It is dark and wounding and it requires strength enough to move mountains.
On your worst days do not look in the mirror and call yourself pretty. Call yourself trying, call yourself surviving, call yourself learning how to get through a day, a week, a month or year. Call yourself still learning. Pretty is just six letters for lipstick, false eyelashes, combs for hair that never gets tangled, not for women who earn a victory every day just managing to exist.
When told you are not pretty, do not suck in your stomach. Pretty is a discriminatory word, but having a body that knows what it wants and gets what it wants is not a hate crime. It’s a healing hymn.
Don’t forget how trees shake their last leaves in winter like they’re shedding skin from the old year. Shed pretty. Shed it now. Teach yourself to replace it with heart-wrenching, brilliant, clever, artistic, unique, understanding, fighting. Always living.
When told you are not pretty, don’t fall in love with the ground. Get back up. This is not an apocalypse; this is not the end of the world. A six-letter word doesn’t have the power to burn down every building in site or freeze the entire world in epic proportions. Your body is not wreckage or refuse left over from a world on fire. Your body is just fine.
Look in the mirror. Tell yourself, Pretty is not me. Pretty is an ugly concept. I am more.
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