u/oldtownsadist

I've wanted to get into a combat sport for a while but I'm a broke college student, which is why I'm interested in going once my bus pass is activated for a semester. I know they have both adult and youth classes, but I've only heard good things about the youth classes compared to the adult ones. Anyone have any experiences with the adult classes in particular? Thanks

I'm planning on changing my first and middle name for a couple of personal reasons, likely to something Italian since over half of my family are either Italian-American or Italian (my nonna is from Rome, etc). I especially like the name Salvatore, which is also the name of my late great-grandfather. The only issue is that my surname is 100% Scottish. I'm not gonna say exactly what it is, but it's one of those "Mc" ones.

Would that combination be off-putting? I worry it might seem weird or if people would side-eye me for it or something. Worst case scenario, it'll be my middle name, but I do really like it. Thanks.

I know the vast majority of people share the belief that one must have dysphoria to be considered trans, as do I. My question is, though, what amount of dysphoria constitutes as "too mild" for an individual to be considered trans?

The dysphoria I experience in day-to-day life tends to manifest as a more mild level of discomfort and wrongness compared to others. I don't know if it's because I've been repressing for over a decade so I've just become numb or used to it, but it's typically not all-consuming as it can be for others. When I'm distracted, or not actively thinking about it, it tends to take a backseat until I'm reminded of my primary and secondary sex characteristics. When I am, it's like something is wrong, like I shouldn't be feeling breasts and I shouldn't be seeing breasts, or like there should be something where my groin is that isn't. When I'm out, I try not to look at windows, because I see myself, I see that I don't pass, I see that I look like a girl and that I am going to be perceived as a girl, and I feel the instinct that something is just wrong and it makes me sad. My face is too "cherubic", my hands and feet are too small, my hips are too wide, and it feels off and saddening. The feeling is even worse when I'm not to wear a binder in public. When I instinctively practice female mannerisms or find myself speaking in my head or throat voice, I feel discomfort in my immediate reversion to them. I see men out and about, and I get jealous that I don't have their flat chests, their bone structure, their ability to grow facial hair, just their total maleness and it just feels wrong that I don't have that, too. If I woke up one day and had a completely male body, I would be relieved and elated, but I won't, and I'm just uncomfortable.

It can get somewhat severe, though. I had a crying fit in the middle of my campus library due to me having to write an essay about transgender youth and transitioning and it reminded me that I never got to have a male upbringing and that I never got to transition as a kid because my mother said she wanted to "make sure I grew properly", which likely led to me repressing in the first place. I've had breakdowns because I didn't have a male skeletal structure. I'm into genealogy, so I have a lot of pictures of my male ancestors and relatives, and there's times where I look at them and want to start sobbing because I don't look like THEM and I'll never fit in with them because I look like all the female relatives instead and I know it. I had to stop looking at a picture of one of my grandfathers when he was younger yesterday because I just couldn't look at it anymore. Shit like that.

Even when my dysphoria is more mild at that time and it makes me question whether or not this is something I can live with, I think about me living as a woman and being perceived as a woman for the entirety of my life and it makes me feel awful. If I were to see into the future and knew for a fact that, by the end of my life, I would be an old lady instead of an old man, I would draft a will and kill myself. I'm not being dramatic and I'm not joking. I would literally rather die than always be a woman.

It just makes me really confused, you know? I'll have a spell where it's mostly just gnawing in the back of my mind, or I can put it out of my mind, and then I'll just be hit with a massive wave of despair. My goal is to transition and hopefully go stealth since, as I said, I would quite literally prefer to die than live as a woman my entire life regardless of how mild it is at any given moment, but sometimes I see people posit that the dysphoria can only be more or less constantly severe, which gives me pause. I don't know. This shit massively sucks. I tried living as a woman, tried praying it away, tried being hyperfeminine, tried for a future where I could be someone's wife and potentially someone's mother. It didn't work, but I often wish it did so I wouldn't have to deal with this shit.

Is such a bullshit statement.

I loved him so much.

I loved him so much, I stopped dressing how I wanted because he didn't like it and I wanted him to be happy.

I loved him so much, I didn't cut my hair the way I wanted because he didn't like it and I wanted him to be happy.

I loved him so much, I was patient with him when he couldn't or wouldn't communicate his emotions despite me repeatedly begging him to.

I loved so much, I immediately forgave him after snapping at me multiple times and making me cry because I knew it was because he had a hard time with emotions.

I loved him so much, I gave up friends and events for his sake because he got jealous and didn't like them despite going to events on his own and having his own friends.

I loved him so much, I let him criticize me in public and private and make me feel like shit.

I loved him so much, I gave up integral parts of myself to make him happy while I never so much as asked him to change a shirt.

I loved him so much, I tried to change to make HIs life easier while never lifting a finger to change himself, because I'm the young one and he's "too old to change".

But I didn't love him because I couldn't do it anymore? I didn't love him because I didn't want to keep hurting myself for the sake of someone else?

He couldn't fully love me for me, but I'M the shitty person?

From the bottom of my heart: Fuck that, fuck everyone who stands by that, and fuck him, too.

Both of my sides of the family are mostly Italian. My nonna on my father's side was born in Rome, her father (my great-grandfather, who is also Sicilian) founded the Italian-American society in the city they eventually settled in, that level of Italian. My mother's side are primarily Abruzzesi and Molisan. My paternal grandfather, however, isn't Italian at all, so I don't have an Italian surname (I also wasn't given an Italian name at birth, unlike my cousins and the majority of my family in my father's side, which I'm still a little salty about 😅 But it's okay because I'm changing my legal first name to my OTHER great-grandfather's for unrelated reasons).

I see a lot of posts regarding Italian surnames, so I was wondering how many others DON'T have them despite our ancestry and culture.

Also, to those that don't - do you also get weird looks and comments sometimes about it when people do hear your last name? I've certainly gotten some. It's part of the reason I'm still debating whether or not to get involved with my local Italian-American cultural society (different one) once I have the time.

Good evening. I'm not a Roman pagan, but Roman religion and Roman paganism interests me greatly, and I have a question regarding Manes.

As I understand it, the Manes are a collective of deceased spirits, including deceased relatives. Most of what I've seen regarding the Manes are focused on them as a collective, but I was wondering if it were possible to invoke, set offerings for, and/or ask for the blessings of specific Manes that are ancestors/deceased relatives, even if you never met them in life? Likewise, is it possible to invoke specific Manes who were not part of one's family (neither by blood nor adoption), considering they would be part of that collective, as they are deceased?

Sorry if this is an odd question, or if my information is incorrect. Thank you!

The amount of people I've seen immediately assuming things about dumpers on this subreddit is genuinely disgusting. I've seen people imply the worst out of dumpers active on here (both in their own posts and comments om posts/other comments dumpers have made), that they're selfish, egotistical, avoidant, and the like, only to find out that the dumper left a relationship that was abusive, unfaithful, toxic, or had aspects of it that were unhealthy enough to warrant a break up.

Do you understand how shitty that is? Can you comprehend how harmful it is to be a person who's hurting after having left a relationship that was ultimately bad for them to not only to be blamed and attacked, but have the person who mistreated you to be made out like an innocent victim who did no wrong?

It's morally repulsive and abhorrent. How would YOU feel if we started projecting our own relationship problems onto you? What if we acted like you behaved the way our exes did? What if we assumed you were abusive, unfaithful, manipulative, a liar, controlling, etc.? The answer's obvious: You'd cry because it's probably not true and you'd think it's unfair. So why are you doing it to us?

Most of you would probably feel like a massive jerk after being told the person you're talking to genuinely tried or got hurt by their dumpees, because I'm assuming that most of you who do this are genuinely hurting in that moment. Remember that before you assume. Anyone who digs their heels in, before or after getting corrected on their behavior, probably has something in common with those toxic exes who rightfully got kicked to the curb. Work on it.

And to those who say "dumpers lie": so do toxic dumpees.

If your dumper wants to go no contact.

Go no contact.

Don't text them. Don't call them. Don't DM them. Don't contact them.

Don't beg, because it's self-deprecating and, if the person who left you isn't a complete narcissist, it's just sad to them. For your own sake, let's entertain the idea that begging DOES work, and they DO take you back: You're more likely going to end up with a partner who resents you for pressuring them back into a relationship they likely do not want to be in and you will get dumped AGAIN. Unless the both of you (and I say BOTH because, in many cases, both the dumper AND the dumpee contributed to the break-up) fix the problems that contributed to it, you're not gonna get that happy ending you're hoping for. Even then, you're likely not gonna get it. It hurts, but it's true.

Don't guilt-trip, that's shitty. Don't suicide-bait, that's exceptionally shitty and you don't deserve them back if you do that because nobody deserves a partner who hangs suicide and self-harm over their head in order to get what they want. In fact, don't date at all until you fix whatever's causing you to engage in that behavior, because it's likely that you'll do it again.

They set a firm boundary. If they want no contact, give them no contact. It hurts like hell, but, for the sake of human decency and your own self-respect, do not cross that boundary. You're hindering both of your abilities to heal when you do so, and it's not fair to either of you.

So, I know that a lot of names are unfortunately rather clocky for transgender men (Noah, Oliver, Theo, the -aydens, super unique names taken from fictional characters, names that sound like they belonged to at least one drowned little Victorian boy, etc.), and I know a lot of transgender men think about that when choosing a name, including myself.

I wondering, though, if some non-English or ethnic names could be considered clocky in countries within the Anglosphere? Or the United States, at the very least. I know a lot of people go for common names by default, and many of those non-English names aren't very common. I'd like to give myself the name of one of my great-grandfathers (Salvatore), because I adore that name and the nicknames that come from it, I've always felt some type of way about being the only cousin that doesn't have an Italian name, and I wanna associate more with that specific aspect of my family history and culture. It's also in the top 600 of my birth year.

I do worry, though, that it would be more clocky and impact my ability to go stealth when I get further into my transition. It made me wonder about whether names from other non-English ethnicities could be considered clocky in thus contex, too, so I just wanted to ask and see what the general consensus was about this.

Thanks.

I get dysphoric about by primary and secondary sex characteristics, of course. But sometimes I get so dysphoric about my internal thought processes and behavior, too. I never had the chance to be socialized as male, I didn't grow up around many men and boys to begin with, and as a result my mannerisms are so traditionally feminine and it disgusts me. More than that, I get dysphoric about the fact that I don't THINK like a man should. It's like everything about myself, inside and out, is feminine and female, and it's genuinely repulsive to me and it makes me feel like everything about me is unfathomably wrong. It's almost paralyzing, in a way, since it makes me feel like I'm stuck with this shit and literally can't get out of it. It's just so wrong. It genuinely makes my skin crawl. I don't know how common this is, but I wanted to know if anybody else understood what I feel, since it's a form of hell, I think.

I've genuinely been a massive fan of the Omertas for a long time. Big Sal is arguably one of my favorite characters in this game and has been since I was, like, fifteen. Every time I play New Vegas, I go out of my way to side with them every time regardless of what faction I'm siding with that run just because I like them.

I enjoy their whole mob shtick. I love how evil (and honestly a little stupid) they are. Their backstory and their time as the Slither Kin is something I would love to see expanded upon, as well as their actual culture aside from extreme loyalty to their own and preying on those who are outside of it. The fact that we don't really have anything aside from that makes me genuinely sad to the point where I've developed just have a massive amount of headcanons about them over the years (I think they would sharpen/chisel their canine teeth without anesthetics as a cultural practice, for example). They just have so, so much potential in so many aspects.

Just wanted to ask, though, in case anybody else also likes them, or at least thinks they're kinda fun, since I've never seen anyone else express genuine interest in them. Which I get. But I love these bastards so much.

I'm 24, and I've finally decided to start transitioning after about a decade of talking myself out of it and just ignoring my dysphoria in the hopes that it goes away fully.

The problem is, though, that I have no friends. Part of the reason my ex broke up with me recently was due to my dysphoria (not because I was transitioning, but because I had dysphoria in the first place, though I am transitioning now since there's nothing holding me back from doing so anymore), so I've been really alone for a while. I'd like to go out and meet new people, make new friends, but being so early in my transition makes me not want to associate with people because I'll obviously be perceived as a woman because I don't pass and would therefore have to come out to them, and I'll never be able to be stealth around them.

Has anyone experienced similar when they were early on in their transition? Is there a way to just get over it? The loneliness sucks.

Thanks.

Like, I'm sorry (no, I'm not), there's nothing more rage-inducing to see someone play the victim and pretend to be utterly faultless when their behavior directly contributed to the break-up.

When your ex is sacrificing integral parts of themselves to make YOU happy, if your ex is constantly having to compromise to make life easier for YOU while you explicitly say you're "too old/too tired/too whatever-excuse-you-have" to change, if your ex has been actively trying to communicate and while YOU repeatedly push these talks away because you're "not good with feelings", if your ex is trying to grow and YOU'RE continually stifling them, if your ex has had to drop friends and events and opportunities to be with you while YOU haven't done the same, if your ex has to deal with you taking your anger out on them and being a snippy a-hole because YOU can't do emotions, if you continually expect your ex to work on themselves but YOU don't do a damn thing to work on yourself? This is your fault, too.

Don't pretend I'm the problem when you made me feel like I was under a fucking microscope, trying to change and give up things I loved so my world could revolve around you, while I NEVER asked the same from you. Cut the pity party and act like the adult you are. It's pathetic.

This goes doubly for abusive, toxic, avoidant, and/or cheating dumpees. Put your big boy or big girl pants on and suck it up, buttercup. Hope it stings.

I didn't catch this at the time, but I've had some level of dysphoria ever since I was young. I actively didn't want to be grouped with girls, wanted to be grouped with boys instead, had an aversion towards typically feminine things, etc. Between fifth grade through the middle of high school, I wanted to actively transition so bad, but I never did for a number of reasons (I was relying on my family for my transition/medical needs, I was developing a separate neurological condition incredibly early that needed far more immediate attention, transitioning is a lot of work and I was terrified of it, etc.). I eventually gave up and just started leaning into aspects of femininity that didn't make me wildly uncomfortable. It'd come back up, because dysphoria always comes back, and even when I did express my dysphoria and desire to others, I'd always end up pushing it down again for reasons and end up back at square one.

I'm 24 now, and this shit is hell. My dysphoria could be considered relatively mild compared to other peoples', and there are instances where I can distract myself for a while and feel like I can be okay without transitioning for a bit, but when it flares up, it flares up bad, and all those times I told myself (both back then and recently, since I've been in a 3-year relationship with a man that doesn't want me to transition, and I chose him instead of transitioning because I love him and still wanted to be with him) that I couldn't/wouldn't transition, it would get even worse. What bothers me even more about it is realizing the aspects of femininity that I would lean into (dresses, mostly) were more due to their convenience rather than active enjoyment. I remember, at one point, I was writing a paper on transgender youth and access to resources necessary for transitioning, and I was trying my absolute hardest not to have a massive, full-blown mental breakdown in the middle of the campus library because of this intense, profound sense of loss and pain and regret because I never transitioned when I wanted to and I thought that I never would transition because I'd always just push it down because it was easier. I even had to separate myself from other transgender people, because even being around them reminded me of the dysphoria that I had and felt like I couldn't/shouldn't do anything about.

I really don't think I can take this shit anymore. I wish I had male reproductive organs. I wish I had male secondary sex characteristics. I wish I had male bone structure. I wish I had a male brain. I wish I had been socialized as male instead of as female. I wish I looked like a male. I wish I behaved like a male. I wish I had been born as a male, and if I had the choice to change my entire biology to be male, I would in a heartbeat. There's been points where I've literally seen cis men and nearly cried because I know I'd never look like that or have that. When it gets really bad (it doesn't often, but it can), it genuinely can make me feel suicidal or like I want to SH.

Anyone else deal with similar shit? This sucks so hard. I don't know why I still do this to myself.

Hello all and good morning! I hope you all are doing well today! I'm making this post because I would love some feedback on another piece of flash fiction I recently completed. I'd mainly like feedback on structure and word choice (Does anything sound wrong or off? Is anything confusing? Could anything be worded differently? Things like that!), but any and all feedback is welcome, too! Thank you very much, both those who read this and take time out of their day to leave feedback. I hope you all have a wonderful day!

Four screws held the skin in place.

The epidermis stretched from the sculpture’s spine and up to the crescent-shaped rod that curved above it from the pedestal. Crusted little flaps hid the threaded holes, which the brass screws had subsequently filled.

Between them, the skin dipped like the underside of a bat wing.

The android’s index finger traced along the tight curve between the first and second screw. Goosebumps pebbled underneath their fingertip.

Following a squiggling, purplish vein, they moved their finger down the taut wing to the base of the sculpture’s neck. They traced up hard protrusions of its vertebrae before shifting their attention to the sculpture’s jaw.

The android pressed their palm against the mandible, cradling the bone through the thin layer of skin.

Their thumb brushed over a fresh line of stitching.

The sculpture’s jaw clenched, but it didn’t flinch. It simply stared ahead, as if it could see through the walls of pink tissue sitting in its lidless eye sockets.

A thick rope of bloody mucus ran from the sculpture’s open nasal cavity and painted the rag of skin stitched over its mouth. Its lips bulged beneath it, as useless as its arms, which wrapped around the sculpture’s front in a permanent embrace.

Each stitch, from their length, to their placement, to the way the sturdy wire glistened in the overhead light, was perfect.

The android’s grip tightened around the craft knife in their hand, the steel handle digging into the gouged-out portion of their little finger. It clicked against the titanium within.

Their hand left the sculpture’s jaw and slid down the side of its neck. They swept over the sculpture’s collarbone, grazing the bumps of its fused fingers nestling into the dip of its shoulder before trailing down its arm.

Squatting, the android’s knee joints clicked as their hand passed the sculpture’s elbow.

They stopped at its rib cage.

There, placed on the low curve of the sculpture’s tenth rib, were dots: four of them, aligned like pips on a die.

The android splayed their forefinger and thumb around the dots. What remained of the little layer of muscle between the sculpture’s skin and bone tensed.

The android brought their craft knife up to the sculpture’s rib. Its handle bumped against the sculpture’s bent knee. The sculpture’s leg twitched.

Pressing the blade down, the flat steel dove under the skin.

The sculpture huffed. A red glob of mucous splattered against the four nails embedded into the bridges of its feet.

Little beads of blood, deep red and shiny in the fluorescent light, prickled up from under the cut.

The android sliced. The disconnecting bit of skin and its dots covered the blade.

The sculpture’s arms flexed against the firm threads. Its shin muscles bulged, as if hoping to unbend their knees and tear their feet from the pedestal.

Blood dripped onto the androids thumb. It burnt like a wet brand.

The sharp end of the blade scraped against something firm and hard. The android tilted. The blade cut upward.

The sullied piece of skin severed from the sculpture’s body. It fell, splatting against the pedestal. More blood rushed in to fill the incision, covering the white hint of a rib in crimson before spilling over.

Done.

The android stood. Their knee joints creaked. Taking a couple steps back, they tapped the dull side of the blade against their face and surveyed their work.

Blood flowed down the sculpture’s bony hip in rivulets. It leaked onto the pedestal, adding a smattering of crimson to the brown oak.

A low sound came from the sculpture’s throat. Its neck craned, the stretched skin tugging at the rod as the sculpture shook its head.

The metal strained.

The android hummed to themselves.

Perfection.

Saw something yesterday, and I feel like it needs to be said here, because this is the absolute last place we need misinformation in regarding these disorders.

The diagnostic criteria regarding symptoms of schizophrenia, schizoaffective, and schizophreniform requires that you have at least TWO of five symptoms, that being: Delusions, hallucinations, disorganized speech, grossly disorganized thoughts and behavior, and negative symptoms. ONE of those two must be delusions, hallucinations, or disorganized speech.

You do not need ALL of them.

You can lack delusions and still be on the schizophrenia spectrum.

You can lack hallucinations and still be on the schizophrenia spectrum.

You can lack disorganized speech and still be on the schizophrenia spectrum.

You can lack grossly disorganized thoughts and behavior and still be on the schizophrenia spectrum.

You can lack negative symptoms and still be on the schizophrenia spectrum.

This is an objective fact, and it is not up for debate.

Attempting to deny this is denying the reality of these conditions. At best, it is speaking from ignorance, and at worst, it is actively and knowingly spreading misinformation about an already misunderstood and stigmatized group of conditions, which is incredibly dangerous, thoughtless, and cruel.

It's very important to remember that schizophrenia spectrum disorders are noted for their heterogeneity, as well. No two people experience them the exact same way.

Stay informed, stay safe, and stay wonderful.

Peace!

(Flairing this under Pro Tip 'cause I wasn't exactly sure which to flair it as.)

Granted, I couldn't hear half of it 'cause I had my headphones in, but still. I feel like a Disney princess, but instead of birds flocking to me, it's weirdos and randoms.

I'm not even mad, just confused.

(Hi, again! Before I start, I want to thank everyone again who read and/or gave feedback regarding my earlier piece, Critica! I appreciate that you all took time out of your day to do so, and it meant a lot to me. This time, I’m looking for feedback on a different, yet connected piece. In particular, I'm looking for feedback regarding structure and word choice [Does anything sound wrong or off? Is anything confusing? Is anything worded weird? Stuff like that!], but I’m also open to any other feedback, as well! For the people who read my other piece, I took some advice that I got and changed the android from a ‘he’ to a ‘they’ in order to avoid getting them mixed up with the other men in these works, so they're still the same character. Thank you so much for taking the time to read this, and thank you so much for giving feedback, if you do! I hope you all have a lovely day!)

The patient sat motionless in the wheelchair.

His head lay upturned on the headrest, its metal posts bent back far beyond their intended capacities. The leather belt wrapped around his forehead pinned it to the cushion.

More belts looped tight around the armrests, three on each side. His flesh bulged up from underneath those cracked straps. Red, irritated indents ran along the edges.

He gaped at the android from his periphery. His gaze flickered between their head and the glass beaker they cradled in their palms.

The android approached.

“I have something for you,” they said. Their words boomed over the clack of their footsteps.

The patient took a jagged breath. His fingers dug into the armrest’s torn cushions.

The android stopped at the wheelchair’s left side and brought the beaker down for the patient to view.

The liquid inside was murky brown. It steamed, fogging up the top of the glass. A dark, viscous clump swirled within it.

“I just finished making it. It’s still warm, see?”

The patient's eyes widened. He spoke, but the bite block in his mouth rendered his words unintelligible.

The android withdrew the beaker and brought it to the patient’s mouth. They pressed the rim against the patient’s cracked lower lip.

It hissed.

The patient whined and clenched his jaw. His arms strained. The leather dug deeper into his flesh.

The android tilted the beaker, watching the liquid rise until it was on the cusp of pouring into the patient’s mouth.

The patient shut the flat of his tongue over his fauces.

The android paused.

Their eyelids narrowed. The gears in their neck ticked a slow rhythm as they turned to look in the patient’s eyes.

They were wet.

“Ingrate.”

The android broke their gaze and tilted the beaker.

The liquid spilled. It landed in the back of the patient’s mouth, forming a pool against the meaty barricade.

It sizzled. Thick puffs of steam rose from his mouth.

The soft tissue began to scald.

The patient’s cheek muscles twitched. His skin flushed. Squeezing his eyes shut, tears pricked up from their corners and trailed down to his ears as he struggled against the belts.

His mucous membranes burnt. His taste buds dissolved. Little bubbles formed and popped up in the newborn wounds.

A long, strangled cry ripped through his closed throat. He clawed at the cushion. Black bits of fabric stuck underneath his fingernails.

His gums reddened. Small blisters formed in the tissue before they were swallowed up by the steaming murk.

The viscous chunk plopped into his mouth.

The beaker emptied, and the android watched the brown pool bubble.

A wet ring of searing flesh formed around its edges. The ring hissed and deepened with each passing moment, as if hoping to eat through the confines of the patient’s mouth entirely.

In the center of the boiling pool, the chunk floated, serene.

The android removed the beaker from the patient’s lip. It left a fresh blister in its wake. A small piece of heated skin stuck to the underside of the spout.

Without looking, they tossed it onto the patient’s lap. He yelped.

They grasped the handle of the bite block and tugged. The patient’s teeth offered slight resistance, but the android wrenched it free.

With nothing holding the patient’s jaw open, it trembled. The liquid sloshed, seared any tissue it touched.

The android curled their silicone digits around the patient’s chin.

He flinched, breathing hard and fast through his nose, but held his jaw open.

The android shut it.

Brown liquid spilled from his lips, burning red lines into his chin.