Turtle O'Carolan
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Dec 1, 2020
In Vicki's case, adaptive CPR would be her wheeling herself out to the sidewalk and yelling, "Does anyone know CPR?"
Victor Markhoff / Ana Victoria Markhoff / vvictorman_uel - Powerchair faker pooner, has every illness, allergic to Krebs cycle, bed mayo enjoyer, kicked out of house and mental hospital, constant ebeggar, applesauce heiress paid to yeet her teets
- Thread starter Diana Moon Glampers
- Start date
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- Joined
- May 2, 2022
Except that her voice is muffled by that massive respirator she wears, so people think she's just another insane homeless person ranting on the streets of NYC and everyone ends up ignoring her as the patient croaks. Like the Anti-Lassie.
Temperance
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- May 1, 2022
I don't think this ever got posted:
Truly the manliest lil dood.
Victoria is concerned about her mutual aid grift.
Although the weird thing is that if you actually scroll through her tweets... she almost never shills her own donation links. She retweets lots of other people's Paypal/CashApp/GoFundMe links, but not her own.
Basically all she has is her (outdated) pinned twitter thread:
I think this is the most recent occasion where she mentioned her own grift:
And - so far, at least - she's been too lazy to make a new "formal thread" like she suggested above.
Really not helping to debunk the theory that she secretly gets a large allowance from her rich parents.
Her GoFundMe is essentially dead, btw.
Maybe she's been privately telling people to donate to her through Venmo/Cashapp/Paypal instead, but I really doubt she's getting much at all even if that's the case.
Anyone familiar with the E-beggars on Social Media thread will know that #mutualaid grifters usually spam their links multiple times every single day (while claiming it's an
URGENT EMERGENCY - rinse & repeat every week). It's interesting to compare this to how Victoria basically does nothing.
Truly the manliest lil dood.
Victoria is concerned about her mutual aid grift.
Although the weird thing is that if you actually scroll through her tweets... she almost never shills her own donation links. She retweets lots of other people's Paypal/CashApp/GoFundMe links, but not her own.
Basically all she has is her (outdated) pinned twitter thread:
I think this is the most recent occasion where she mentioned her own grift:
And - so far, at least - she's been too lazy to make a new "formal thread" like she suggested above.
Really not helping to debunk the theory that she secretly gets a large allowance from her rich parents.
Her GoFundMe is essentially dead, btw.
Maybe she's been privately telling people to donate to her through Venmo/Cashapp/Paypal instead, but I really doubt she's getting much at all even if that's the case.
Anyone familiar with the E-beggars on Social Media thread will know that #mutualaid grifters usually spam their links multiple times every single day (while claiming it's an
URGENT EMERGENCY - rinse & repeat every week). It's interesting to compare this to how Victoria basically does nothing. 
- Joined
- Mar 24, 2016
Victoria's in the running in the Fresh Meat category for the annual Julay Awards.
Vote for her, and don't vote for more than 3 categories or they won't count any of them.
Vicki's sharing an essay...
Oh let's read it, shall we?
In the Before Times (before I knew I was disabled, before I knew there was a community out there, before I knew I belonged) I had a cookie-cutter view of love. As a child I knew there was love in the way my mom snuggled me, laying my head in her lap with tender hands brushing my hair. I grew to learn that there was love in the extra jobs my dad took on to make sure we had what we needed. As a teen, I found love in small-town connections and seemingly everlasting friendships. I thought my life was full of love, even brimming with it. I built friendships and maintained family connections. I played to all the normative standards of reciprocity.
I thought I had woven this gorgeous tapestry together with friends and family members connected in a tight-knit weave. My tapestry’s warp ( the long, vertical threads stretched across the loom) was made up of the threads of my love, and its weft (the sideways, horizontal threads locking everything into place) was made up of the love that others reflected back to me. I thought I was weaving something stable and secure. I thought I was churning out yards of doth from my threads.
But then I got sick. And I got sicker. And I started to cancel plans. Friends and family members witnessed my rapid deterioration, but no one outside my immediate family knew how bad it was. I didn’t tell them because I knew they didn’t want to know. I wasn’t healthy enough to have fun. I was frustrated and anxious as I tried to make sense of a body that seemed to defy my every desire for normalcy.
A tapestry can’t hold when warp and weft go at the same time. One thread snapping makes little difference in a woven piece, but when multiple threads splinter, the piece reverts to a shapeless tangle. My warp threads were straining under the pressures of internalized ableism. I had very little love for my failing body. I needed the weft to hold everything together until I could straighten out my warp. But those threads began to snap, one after another, as loved ones distanced themselves from me. I had banked on the idea that those threads were wrought of love. I thought they couldn’t snap, but they did. I watched as my whole tapestry unraveled before me.
I didn’t know what to do with the tangle of threads I was left with. I had scraps of love at my disposal, but everything seemed a mess. My warp was all wrong. I didn’t know how to love myself as I watched my body decline. I grew up denying my body the love it needed, convinced by doctors and teachers that I was “fine” and had to just “toughen up.” I had no love for my limitations. I wanted a body that could run on very little and churn out constant streams of productivity. I wanted to be independent, so I starved myself of rest. But a body can’t survive without rest, self-love, and community support. Eventually my symptoms accelerated so rapidly that doctors were forced to interrogate what was wrong. At age nineteen I was finally diagnosed with hypermobile Ehlers-Danlos syndrome. EDS is a genetic condition that affects your collagen production. Because I have weak collagen, my joints, blood vessels, and skin are very fragile. While symptoms are diverse for EDSers, in my case, EDS looks like frequent dislocations and subluxations (partial dislocations), chronic pain, weak muscles, and poor blood flow. Like a thread spun too loosely, my joints and bones tend to split away from one another, even under minimal pressure.
My diagnosis compromised every vision I had of my future. Motherhood? Gone. Living abroad? Gone. Working a political career? Gone. Having a day without pain? Gone. All these threads that I had planned to place in my tapestry fell from my grasp. I felt like I had nothing left to weave. Instead of giving me the tools I needed to craft something new, doctors gave me a lengthy to-do list. I’d have to put off the tapestry until I could set up appointments with cardiology, neurology, orthopedics, gastroenterology, optometry, pain management, and physical therapy. I’d have to screen for the life-threatening comorbidities. No sense weaving something together, they claimed, if I were dying. There was an endless list of medications, supplements, dietary changes, physical therapy plans, and other “habits” to change before I could even think of weaving again.
In the months following my diagnosis I looked for threads of love in all the wrong places. I looked through countless medical journals and patient community posts hoping for a cure. I looked at my body through a medical lens, thinking, “What can I fix?” and “How much can I fix?” A few months after my diagnosis, I went to a meeting of the 2013 Ehlers-Danlos National Foundation Conference. I was excited to meet other disabled people who shared my “rare” condition. Doctors had told me time and time again that EDS was so rare (back then they estimated 1/20,000) that I’d likely never meet another patient outside my family unless I sought them out (if only I had known about Twitter). I thought I’d find disabled people who were adapting—people I could learn from. I didn’t know how to weave a life together anymore, but I thought if I could just find one other person who was doing it,maybe I could simply mirror them.
I didn’t find threads of love at that conference. Medical professionals with tenuous and exploitative patient connections dominated the conversation. I wanted so badly to find community, but this was not a space built from love or joy. People were held together by fear, desperation, and anger. I attended “community support” sessions for my age group and listened to peers share stories reeking of discrimination. People described how they were forced to homeschool or drop out of college. Others recounted how they couldn’t find steady employment, and many had been fired over accommodations. I entered the room hoping I could find one thread to hold on to. I spiraled as I listened to others say that they had no friends anymore, that their romantic partners had left them, that no one was willing to stick around. If none of these people had found threads of love, how was I going to? People seemed resigned, but I was upset. Why weren’t they angry? Didn’t they want to talk about how unfair this was? I walked into the room hoping to borrow threads, or to learn to spin new ones. But the people in that room were clutching their own torn pieces, trying to repair holes in moth-bitten cloth. They had no threads to share.
The ironic thing is that I already knew how to extend disabled love, I just didn’t have the right framing for it. My mother and brother were diagnosed alongside me that December. Our household was already held together by disabled love. Every time we dimmed the lights or spoke in low voices, my family showed love for those with migraines. When my brother tiptoed down the stairs in the afternoon to grab a snack, avoiding all the squeaky spots, he left trails of love behind him. He would gently shut cabinet doors and creep back upstairs as I dozed on the living room couch, a napping spot that seemed to have a special kind of magic for aching joints. When my mom honed herself into a weapon at every new medical appointment, all sharp edges and hardened eyes, she was teaching me a new form of love. I had plenty of instances of disabled love in my life, I just hadn’t honed my self-love or awareness yet, so I didn’t see them for what they were.
The threads I was weaving together back then felt inadequate. I was spinning threads of self-love that seemed far too thin to hold and far too dull to make anything beautiful. I was taking my medications, doing physical therapy, using mobility aids, and slowing down. I was beginning to gather reserves I could spin, but I was still jealous. Non-disabled friends were weaving their tapestries together — dating, making career plans, building lasting friendships, going on spontaneous vacations. I was endlessly jealous of the threads my friends seemed to have, spun together from spur-of-the-moment trips, all-nighters in the library, and drinking parties on the weekends. My nondisabled friends seemed to have piles and piles of threads — colorful, bright, distinct — made of spontaneity and freedom. I wanted threads like that, too.
I wanted more. I had no idea what I was doing or what I needed, but I knew that I wanted a community. I wanted a space to weave love back into my life. At first, I tried to bring together disabled people on my university campus. I grew heartsick week after week when I was the only student who appeared for disability awareness meetings. Sitting in the ALANA Cultural Center at Colgate University, waiting endlessly because “maybe they’re just late” became a monthly occurrence. It felt like a sign that I wasn’t supposed to love this part of myself, and a reminder that seemingly no one else my age did.
Luckily, instead of shutting down, I got angry. I scoured my university looking for disabled love. I found scraps in the library, reading works by disabled scholars Paul Longmore and Tobin Siebers. I found fragments in the memoirs I read and the theories I parsed through and the histories of disability rights I pored over. I found so many people fiercely demanding equality, justice, and inclusion. There were blogs, zines, and lnstagram posts brimming with disabled love. I realized that even if I didn’t have disabled community nearby, it was out there. I just needed to look for the threads that disabled people were already putting out into the world.
Love came in the form of Anneliese, the first (and only) disabled person who ever showed up to a disability awareness student meeting. Ahead of me by a few years, she was already a fierce advocate for disability rights. We shared lengthy emails bemoaning our struggles to secure meaningful accommodations. We drafted policy briefs to improve campus transportation, housing, and classroom and campus environments. We debated how to best attack discriminatory policies.
Anneliese taught me that some of the thinnest threads in the world, like silk, make some of the strongest materials. She spun beautiful threads, in tones I had never seen before. A quicksilver gray thread — a reminder that work can always be done lying down. An opaque fishing line-encouragement to try to build access even when that labor goes ignored by others. Together we spun. Threads to ground us, threads to acknowledge the harms done to disabled individuals who came before us, threads to voice current harms, threads to encourage others to keep fighting.
Those early attempts at activism sustained me and reminded me that I, too, belong in this world. In an environment where disabled people are rarely accepted, and even more rarely valued, having disabled love in my life at school was vital. Anneliese broke every rule I had mistakenly held myself to. She taught me to ask for what I needed, to be unashamed of defying nondisabled norms and respectability politics, and to fight for my inclusion. Our threads did little to change the tapestry of our institution, but I graduated knowing how to spin glittery, silken, undamageable threads.
Disabled love is spun from respect and mutuality, not reciprocity. Disabled love isn’t about keeping score or competing to give the most. Disabled love doesn’t demand consistency or perfection. Disabled love asks us to love ourselves first and foremost. It reminds us that we are not a healthy community if we push one another to give beyond our individual means. Disabled love tells us it’s okay to cancel plans. Unlike nondisabled friends, my disabled friends never stop inviting me or rescheduling. They honor my boundaries just the same as I honor theirs, because disabled love is spun from honesty.
Disabled people spin threads out of nothingness. We hand the shuttle back and forth when we spend time together, build space for one another, and find value in one another’s experiences. We map out new patterns, and make sure that every thread finds its own space to shine when we build and sustain access for one another. We dig through our reserves and share the threads we’ve spooled. When doctors take tools away from people, we show up with polished shuttles and shed sticks. When newly disabled people say that they have nothing to weave, we show them our finished works and remind them that there is more to this life than darkness. We reach out to those new to the community, those with shakily spun threads. Hand in hand, we twist our own materials to shore up weaker threads until each and every one of us can spin our own unbreakable strands. We spin skein after skein with care, curiosity, and understanding. Together, we weave rows of hope and laughter and joy to balance out those of frustration and despair. We borrow with care, and we share with generosity. We spin and weave and tamp down row after row of love when we build community together.
Disabled people know how to love like no others. We show our adoration for one another when we crack morbid jokes. We make one another laugh over very real, terrifying shit. We pay homage to one another by simply standing witness-to highs and lows, to cycles of grief and mourning and celebration. We find reverence in the stories shared with us, stories that teach us how to navigate, how to fight, how to resist. We say “I love you” in a million ways. When we murmur it at the end of phone calls, hoping that the simple sentiment resonates. When we scribble it all over medical notes as we help one another compile records, track changes, and figure out how to secure what we need despite a failing medical system. When we proclaim it, loudly, when we protest and make our stories public.
Disabled community teaches us how to weave love in a way that’s hard to put into words. We weave to sustain ourselves, one another, and our shared histories. We send one another threads across time and space. We ship them off in envelopes with letters and postcards. We trade them during Zoom calls where we do absolutely nothing together. We gift them over long phone calls peppered with silence because quietude is love, too. We unabashedly take them when we tell guests to leave already because it’s nap time. And we leave them behind in heaps when we perform care work.
The threads whisper that we are worth everything. That it is worth rebuilding the world so that we have a place in its future. They remind us that our lives have value, even when the world disagrees. Row after row, the tapestry tells us that our lives are worth living, even when we start to have our doubts. It claims that undoubtedly, we are enough, no matter our needs. The full picture tells us that we are beloved. Perhaps our tapestries are made up of thinner threads, maybe they don’t follow the patterns we expected or the color schemes we had hoped for. Nonetheless they are woven together from stronger stuff than we could have imagined. In the end, the final image is stunning.
TL;DR: "hypermobile EDS" munchie navel-gazes about how beautiful it is to LARP a disability and have other munchie friends.
Vote for her, and don't vote for more than 3 categories or they won't count any of them.
Vicki's sharing an essay...
Oh let's read it, shall we?
“Unspooling”, an excerpt from Alice Wong’s Disability Intimacy
“Unspooling” by Nicole Lee Schroeder
Disabled love is a different kind of love. It’s neither born from blood ties nor proximity. It doesn’t hold to the same rules as romantic, platonic, or familial love. It comes from a shared desire for a better world. It sustains us in moments when we don’t love ourselves, and it offers a tether to cling to as we cycle through grief and readjustment. It’s not performative or draining. These days, I weave disabled love into my life like a practiced artisan. I spin threads of love from late-night phone calls, Zoom get-togethers, and disparate Twitter threads. Hand over hand, I wind up scraps of wisdom from those who’ve come before me. I weave line after line, watching as patterns spring into existence, crafted from the instructions they have patiently and lovingly written down. I tamp down row after row, interlacing the love I have for me, the love I have for you, the love I have for us. The craft itself, and the result, is a thing of beauty.In the Before Times (before I knew I was disabled, before I knew there was a community out there, before I knew I belonged) I had a cookie-cutter view of love. As a child I knew there was love in the way my mom snuggled me, laying my head in her lap with tender hands brushing my hair. I grew to learn that there was love in the extra jobs my dad took on to make sure we had what we needed. As a teen, I found love in small-town connections and seemingly everlasting friendships. I thought my life was full of love, even brimming with it. I built friendships and maintained family connections. I played to all the normative standards of reciprocity.
I thought I had woven this gorgeous tapestry together with friends and family members connected in a tight-knit weave. My tapestry’s warp ( the long, vertical threads stretched across the loom) was made up of the threads of my love, and its weft (the sideways, horizontal threads locking everything into place) was made up of the love that others reflected back to me. I thought I was weaving something stable and secure. I thought I was churning out yards of doth from my threads.
But then I got sick. And I got sicker. And I started to cancel plans. Friends and family members witnessed my rapid deterioration, but no one outside my immediate family knew how bad it was. I didn’t tell them because I knew they didn’t want to know. I wasn’t healthy enough to have fun. I was frustrated and anxious as I tried to make sense of a body that seemed to defy my every desire for normalcy.
A tapestry can’t hold when warp and weft go at the same time. One thread snapping makes little difference in a woven piece, but when multiple threads splinter, the piece reverts to a shapeless tangle. My warp threads were straining under the pressures of internalized ableism. I had very little love for my failing body. I needed the weft to hold everything together until I could straighten out my warp. But those threads began to snap, one after another, as loved ones distanced themselves from me. I had banked on the idea that those threads were wrought of love. I thought they couldn’t snap, but they did. I watched as my whole tapestry unraveled before me.
I didn’t know what to do with the tangle of threads I was left with. I had scraps of love at my disposal, but everything seemed a mess. My warp was all wrong. I didn’t know how to love myself as I watched my body decline. I grew up denying my body the love it needed, convinced by doctors and teachers that I was “fine” and had to just “toughen up.” I had no love for my limitations. I wanted a body that could run on very little and churn out constant streams of productivity. I wanted to be independent, so I starved myself of rest. But a body can’t survive without rest, self-love, and community support. Eventually my symptoms accelerated so rapidly that doctors were forced to interrogate what was wrong. At age nineteen I was finally diagnosed with hypermobile Ehlers-Danlos syndrome. EDS is a genetic condition that affects your collagen production. Because I have weak collagen, my joints, blood vessels, and skin are very fragile. While symptoms are diverse for EDSers, in my case, EDS looks like frequent dislocations and subluxations (partial dislocations), chronic pain, weak muscles, and poor blood flow. Like a thread spun too loosely, my joints and bones tend to split away from one another, even under minimal pressure.
My diagnosis compromised every vision I had of my future. Motherhood? Gone. Living abroad? Gone. Working a political career? Gone. Having a day without pain? Gone. All these threads that I had planned to place in my tapestry fell from my grasp. I felt like I had nothing left to weave. Instead of giving me the tools I needed to craft something new, doctors gave me a lengthy to-do list. I’d have to put off the tapestry until I could set up appointments with cardiology, neurology, orthopedics, gastroenterology, optometry, pain management, and physical therapy. I’d have to screen for the life-threatening comorbidities. No sense weaving something together, they claimed, if I were dying. There was an endless list of medications, supplements, dietary changes, physical therapy plans, and other “habits” to change before I could even think of weaving again.
In the months following my diagnosis I looked for threads of love in all the wrong places. I looked through countless medical journals and patient community posts hoping for a cure. I looked at my body through a medical lens, thinking, “What can I fix?” and “How much can I fix?” A few months after my diagnosis, I went to a meeting of the 2013 Ehlers-Danlos National Foundation Conference. I was excited to meet other disabled people who shared my “rare” condition. Doctors had told me time and time again that EDS was so rare (back then they estimated 1/20,000) that I’d likely never meet another patient outside my family unless I sought them out (if only I had known about Twitter). I thought I’d find disabled people who were adapting—people I could learn from. I didn’t know how to weave a life together anymore, but I thought if I could just find one other person who was doing it,maybe I could simply mirror them.
I didn’t find threads of love at that conference. Medical professionals with tenuous and exploitative patient connections dominated the conversation. I wanted so badly to find community, but this was not a space built from love or joy. People were held together by fear, desperation, and anger. I attended “community support” sessions for my age group and listened to peers share stories reeking of discrimination. People described how they were forced to homeschool or drop out of college. Others recounted how they couldn’t find steady employment, and many had been fired over accommodations. I entered the room hoping I could find one thread to hold on to. I spiraled as I listened to others say that they had no friends anymore, that their romantic partners had left them, that no one was willing to stick around. If none of these people had found threads of love, how was I going to? People seemed resigned, but I was upset. Why weren’t they angry? Didn’t they want to talk about how unfair this was? I walked into the room hoping to borrow threads, or to learn to spin new ones. But the people in that room were clutching their own torn pieces, trying to repair holes in moth-bitten cloth. They had no threads to share.
The ironic thing is that I already knew how to extend disabled love, I just didn’t have the right framing for it. My mother and brother were diagnosed alongside me that December. Our household was already held together by disabled love. Every time we dimmed the lights or spoke in low voices, my family showed love for those with migraines. When my brother tiptoed down the stairs in the afternoon to grab a snack, avoiding all the squeaky spots, he left trails of love behind him. He would gently shut cabinet doors and creep back upstairs as I dozed on the living room couch, a napping spot that seemed to have a special kind of magic for aching joints. When my mom honed herself into a weapon at every new medical appointment, all sharp edges and hardened eyes, she was teaching me a new form of love. I had plenty of instances of disabled love in my life, I just hadn’t honed my self-love or awareness yet, so I didn’t see them for what they were.
The threads I was weaving together back then felt inadequate. I was spinning threads of self-love that seemed far too thin to hold and far too dull to make anything beautiful. I was taking my medications, doing physical therapy, using mobility aids, and slowing down. I was beginning to gather reserves I could spin, but I was still jealous. Non-disabled friends were weaving their tapestries together — dating, making career plans, building lasting friendships, going on spontaneous vacations. I was endlessly jealous of the threads my friends seemed to have, spun together from spur-of-the-moment trips, all-nighters in the library, and drinking parties on the weekends. My nondisabled friends seemed to have piles and piles of threads — colorful, bright, distinct — made of spontaneity and freedom. I wanted threads like that, too.
I wanted more. I had no idea what I was doing or what I needed, but I knew that I wanted a community. I wanted a space to weave love back into my life. At first, I tried to bring together disabled people on my university campus. I grew heartsick week after week when I was the only student who appeared for disability awareness meetings. Sitting in the ALANA Cultural Center at Colgate University, waiting endlessly because “maybe they’re just late” became a monthly occurrence. It felt like a sign that I wasn’t supposed to love this part of myself, and a reminder that seemingly no one else my age did.
Luckily, instead of shutting down, I got angry. I scoured my university looking for disabled love. I found scraps in the library, reading works by disabled scholars Paul Longmore and Tobin Siebers. I found fragments in the memoirs I read and the theories I parsed through and the histories of disability rights I pored over. I found so many people fiercely demanding equality, justice, and inclusion. There were blogs, zines, and lnstagram posts brimming with disabled love. I realized that even if I didn’t have disabled community nearby, it was out there. I just needed to look for the threads that disabled people were already putting out into the world.
Love came in the form of Anneliese, the first (and only) disabled person who ever showed up to a disability awareness student meeting. Ahead of me by a few years, she was already a fierce advocate for disability rights. We shared lengthy emails bemoaning our struggles to secure meaningful accommodations. We drafted policy briefs to improve campus transportation, housing, and classroom and campus environments. We debated how to best attack discriminatory policies.
Anneliese taught me that some of the thinnest threads in the world, like silk, make some of the strongest materials. She spun beautiful threads, in tones I had never seen before. A quicksilver gray thread — a reminder that work can always be done lying down. An opaque fishing line-encouragement to try to build access even when that labor goes ignored by others. Together we spun. Threads to ground us, threads to acknowledge the harms done to disabled individuals who came before us, threads to voice current harms, threads to encourage others to keep fighting.
Those early attempts at activism sustained me and reminded me that I, too, belong in this world. In an environment where disabled people are rarely accepted, and even more rarely valued, having disabled love in my life at school was vital. Anneliese broke every rule I had mistakenly held myself to. She taught me to ask for what I needed, to be unashamed of defying nondisabled norms and respectability politics, and to fight for my inclusion. Our threads did little to change the tapestry of our institution, but I graduated knowing how to spin glittery, silken, undamageable threads.
Disabled love is spun from respect and mutuality, not reciprocity. Disabled love isn’t about keeping score or competing to give the most. Disabled love doesn’t demand consistency or perfection. Disabled love asks us to love ourselves first and foremost. It reminds us that we are not a healthy community if we push one another to give beyond our individual means. Disabled love tells us it’s okay to cancel plans. Unlike nondisabled friends, my disabled friends never stop inviting me or rescheduling. They honor my boundaries just the same as I honor theirs, because disabled love is spun from honesty.
Disabled people spin threads out of nothingness. We hand the shuttle back and forth when we spend time together, build space for one another, and find value in one another’s experiences. We map out new patterns, and make sure that every thread finds its own space to shine when we build and sustain access for one another. We dig through our reserves and share the threads we’ve spooled. When doctors take tools away from people, we show up with polished shuttles and shed sticks. When newly disabled people say that they have nothing to weave, we show them our finished works and remind them that there is more to this life than darkness. We reach out to those new to the community, those with shakily spun threads. Hand in hand, we twist our own materials to shore up weaker threads until each and every one of us can spin our own unbreakable strands. We spin skein after skein with care, curiosity, and understanding. Together, we weave rows of hope and laughter and joy to balance out those of frustration and despair. We borrow with care, and we share with generosity. We spin and weave and tamp down row after row of love when we build community together.
Disabled people know how to love like no others. We show our adoration for one another when we crack morbid jokes. We make one another laugh over very real, terrifying shit. We pay homage to one another by simply standing witness-to highs and lows, to cycles of grief and mourning and celebration. We find reverence in the stories shared with us, stories that teach us how to navigate, how to fight, how to resist. We say “I love you” in a million ways. When we murmur it at the end of phone calls, hoping that the simple sentiment resonates. When we scribble it all over medical notes as we help one another compile records, track changes, and figure out how to secure what we need despite a failing medical system. When we proclaim it, loudly, when we protest and make our stories public.
Disabled community teaches us how to weave love in a way that’s hard to put into words. We weave to sustain ourselves, one another, and our shared histories. We send one another threads across time and space. We ship them off in envelopes with letters and postcards. We trade them during Zoom calls where we do absolutely nothing together. We gift them over long phone calls peppered with silence because quietude is love, too. We unabashedly take them when we tell guests to leave already because it’s nap time. And we leave them behind in heaps when we perform care work.
The threads whisper that we are worth everything. That it is worth rebuilding the world so that we have a place in its future. They remind us that our lives have value, even when the world disagrees. Row after row, the tapestry tells us that our lives are worth living, even when we start to have our doubts. It claims that undoubtedly, we are enough, no matter our needs. The full picture tells us that we are beloved. Perhaps our tapestries are made up of thinner threads, maybe they don’t follow the patterns we expected or the color schemes we had hoped for. Nonetheless they are woven together from stronger stuff than we could have imagined. In the end, the final image is stunning.
TL;DR: "hypermobile EDS" munchie navel-gazes about how beautiful it is to LARP a disability and have other munchie friends.
Woggie's child bride
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Aug 8, 2022
If I tried to think of a more fitting name for a munchie publication I don't think I could do better than "The Sick Times". It doesn't sound like a respectable medical publication or something for the disabled, it sounds like something a child would make up as an excuse to not go to school tomorrow.
a tightly clenched butt
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Mar 22, 2016
Vicky's parents sent her some of her stuff, but they forgot to pack her dildo collection shm
She had saved up for that dildo collection thank you very much.
She had saved up for that dildo collection thank you very much.
- Joined
- Sep 8, 2013
I wonder how quickly she packed on the weight if all the clothes her parents sent are too small
- Joined
- Aug 4, 2021
Prednisone can make people balloon.
- Joined
- Feb 1, 2019
I'm speechless. Waterboarding wouldn't make me ask my parents for my dildos back.
- Joined
- Aug 4, 2019
The idea that you would bring a dildo to your parents house in the first place.
I’d probably contract Seal Team 6 to abduct it back before asking my parents.
horse toots
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Aug 11, 2024
And then whine about it on a public social media account.
I do find it incredibly funny that she thinks THAT is the one thing she needs to have a sexy sex life, and not a willing partner who can stand to look at her. Pretty sure her parents didn't bother to send that shit because they know she isn't having sex anywhere outside of her imagination.
- Joined
- Apr 6, 2019
I just want to remind Mr. and Mrs. Markhoff, if you're reading, that help is available and listening 24/7 call or text 988.
We here on the farms all completely understand why you would consider ending it all, but please consider the impact on your other survivors.
Muskcarpone
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Feb 24, 2019
A lack of self awareness is pretty much a requisite for anybody to get their own dedicated thread on the farms, but as usual, Victoria dials it up to 11. It's this quality that makes her the best new cow of 2024 for me.
While the adjective "aimless" certainly doesn't suffice to give a complete description of Vicky, it is certainly apt. Yet she thinks her train ride in her pooners chair which she used to make the trip a living hell for all other passengers, her "university time" that she spends in adrug medication fueled haze and doing fuck all for her classes and her pointless ER trips all constitute a well-planned out and organized life.
But maybe her "aim" in life is to be as useless as humanely possible while maximising her negative impact on anybody unfortunate enough to encounter her. In that case, I stand corrected.
While the adjective "aimless" certainly doesn't suffice to give a complete description of Vicky, it is certainly apt. Yet she thinks her train ride in her pooners chair which she used to make the trip a living hell for all other passengers, her "university time" that she spends in a
But maybe her "aim" in life is to be as useless as humanely possible while maximising her negative impact on anybody unfortunate enough to encounter her. In that case, I stand corrected.
- Joined
- Sep 7, 2024
She’s going to mutual aid grift for a whole foods cucumber to pack with so people don’t mistake her for a bright pink genderless blob again
- Joined
- Feb 25, 2021
Hey, it's her chance to give back into that "mutual aid network" she 's been using!Vicky's parents sent her some of her stuff, but they forgot to pack her dildo collection shm
We should be expecting her to post a notice offering a free wardrobe for a 140 lb FtM in need. What a blessing, and at the tail end of the holidays!
behindyourightnow
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- May 17, 2021
And she eats like shit as well. Remember she thinks she has some kind of hypoglycemia and has to guzzle sugary drinks as soon as she feels her blood sugar dropping dangerously (aka, she feels like shit because her body is crashing after the last dose of sugar she consumed). From stuff she has said, I wouldn't be surprised if her weight has literally doubled.
That's a really good point. I think she was actually somewhat worried about money and shilling donation links a lot right after moving to New York, but then her parents seem to have caved and started paying her rent, and she just forgot to keep up the act.
But she really enjoys LARPING as a close-to-destitution disabled person, and it gives her an excuse to sit on Twitter all day, so she sticks around retweeting others and occasionally attempting to fit in.
Speaking of fundraising, did this get posted? She apparently needs to move soon (in other words, her roommates are kicking her out for being terrible). She also admits she's been lying in bed stuffing her face with doordash several times a day, but only because she's "recovering" from her serious, life-threatening hospital stay (for colonoscopy prep):
https://www.ghostarchive.org/archive/gXnxE
This is just more LARPing though. Did you notice how she said she's already put down first month's rent and a deposit? Her parents clearly came through for that but she still wants to remind everyone how precarious her living situation is and how marginalized she is, so she makes sure to post a link (I'm sure she is also interested in topping up her doordash funds, but that's secondary).
- Joined
- Sep 8, 2013
A 9-day hospital stay? She somehow spent over a week in the hospital for a colonoscopy, and now she has to recover from it by... Lying in bed eating Door Dashed food.
Sounds legit, carry on.
Sounds legit, carry on.
RandallBoggs
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Dec 17, 2019
Is that a fucking Muslima in the replies talking about her lost sex toy collection she amassed through paid sponsorships? With two extremely white names to boot
- Joined
- Mar 24, 2016
"Excuse the dirty mirror" Holy shit.
She's letting us know she reads over here. I wonder if she knows she's been nominated for a major award?
Big surprise, arrested development girl hates mommy, loves daddy.
Vicki's weight saved her, guys.
Oh hey, I know where you put that! It's on your mirror.
Victoria's officially moving, again.
It's a miracle she's alive, y'all.
Something interesting: she couldn't possibly have received that box from her parents (sans dildos) today, unless it was brought to her in person rather than mailed. There isn't mail service today.
She's letting us know she reads over here. I wonder if she knows she's been nominated for a major award?
Big surprise, arrested development girl hates mommy, loves daddy.
Vicki's weight saved her, guys.
Oh hey, I know where you put that! It's on your mirror.
Victoria's officially moving, again.
It's a miracle she's alive, y'all.
Something interesting: she couldn't possibly have received that box from her parents (sans dildos) today, unless it was brought to her in person rather than mailed. There isn't mail service today.
salt
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Nov 29, 2016
I like that she claims her parents left out books she needs to declare her major, like she’d need to show up with a stack of specific books she owns as part of the process. In addition to it being obvious bullshit, it puts responsibility on her parents for her lack of progression again.