Meet Joi Weaver aka Joi the Artist, an overweight, 33 year old kissless brony, steampunk cosplayer, author of A Circle of Salt, NASA fanatic, and fat-positive feminist.
"I am 33, I have never been kissed, and the only guy who ever wanted to hold hands with me was killing time while he tried to find someone hot enough to date. I know this because that’s what he told my housemate when he hit on her."
http://www.joiweaver.com/ (http://archive.md/w3ttM)
https://twitter.com/Joi_the_Artist (http://archive.md/ayQV2)
http://joitheartist.deviantart.com/ (http://archive.md/qaE5u)
http://www.traderjoesfan.com/component/mtree/reviews/JoitheArtist/
https://www.flickr.com/people/40228880@N00/
https://www.etsy.com/shop/equestriarags
http://equestriarags.tumblr.com/ (http://archive.md/QHtCc)
http://www.ebay.com/usr/joi_the_artist?_trksid=p2047675.l2559
Bio: http://archive.md/SsCUa
I'm not even sure where to begin on this one so I'm just going to try and focus on one aspect at a time. A lot of these sections do have crossover, particularly the brony factor which seeped into nearly every aspect of her life.
It should come as no surprise that danger-haired Joi is a feminist and supports being obese, despite her weight likely being the cause of most of the problems in her life. She also doesn't like when people tell her that maybe - just maybe - she should lose weight. Predictably, Joi is also anti-Gamergate and has followed the usual idiots involved in that such as pedophile "Sick Nick" Nyberg.
She used to work as a writer for a women's organization and was let go in 2013. She appears to have remained unemployed since then as she is still trying to find a job years later.
Some highlights:
Why she started labeling herself a feminist
Apologizing to blacks
Sperging about Valentine's day
Boycotted Victoria's Secret
"Women of my size are portrayed as jokes, as monsters, as being unfathomably stupid for thinking that someone could be interested in them."
"Little black dress"
...he could never be interested in me as more than a pastime, because I had “let [my]self go."
Calling her attractive is a lie
Cheated on in an internet relationship
"Fashion and Fat Visibility"
Beauty and the Beast
Similar to other obese lolcows, Joi almost constantly tweets and blogs about food (particularly breads), such as these "taco cupcakes" she created.
Unsurprisingly, Joi is "scared" of the Trump train.
Joi has recently been making waves with an essay she wrote called "33 and Never Been Kissed", a long rant about how nobody finds her attractive and she's realizing that she's pretty much done for as getting older is not going to help matters. She has previously wrote about this on her blogs.
This has been shared across Tumblr, reddit, and was on the front page of Huffington Post. On her Twitter, Joi said it was "terrifying" and "heartbreaking" to write this.
This essay has apparently served as a beacon for the Forever Alones who have been relieved that they aren't the only grotesque failures out there. Reddit on the otherhand told it like it was, to Joi's chagrin.
"I am 33, I have never been kissed, and the only guy who ever wanted to hold hands with me was killing time while he tried to find someone hot enough to date. I know this because that’s what he told my housemate when he hit on her."
http://www.joiweaver.com/ (http://archive.md/w3ttM)
https://twitter.com/Joi_the_Artist (http://archive.md/ayQV2)
http://joitheartist.deviantart.com/ (http://archive.md/qaE5u)
http://www.traderjoesfan.com/component/mtree/reviews/JoitheArtist/
https://www.flickr.com/people/40228880@N00/
https://www.etsy.com/shop/equestriarags
http://equestriarags.tumblr.com/ (http://archive.md/QHtCc)
http://www.ebay.com/usr/joi_the_artist?_trksid=p2047675.l2559
Bio: http://archive.md/SsCUa
When I was 17, I wrote my first short story. As soon as I finished, I knew that I would never stop writing, and I never have. I have participate in National Novel Writing Month for 8 consecutive years, and “won” 7 of those years.
While I love all kinds of literature, science fiction holds a special place in my heart. I grew up reading Ray Bradbury and stories from the Twilight Zone. During my freshman year of college, my dad sent me a copy of The Martian Chronicles, and I fell in love with the Red Planet. In 2008, I began to connect with various NASA accounts on Twitter, attended the first NASA Tweetup at Jet Propulsion Labs in 2009, and met fascinating people who work on the Mars Rover, Phoenix Lander, and Mars Science Laboratory missions. I am privileged (and astounded!) to call many of these amazing individuals friends. They inspire me to keep writing about the planet that I love so much.
My goal is to write compelling science fiction that doesn’t rely on strange aliens, implausible futuristic tech, or intergalactic wars to be interesting. You won’t find artificial gravity in my novels, or green-skinned aliens from Orion, or a villain who wants to rule the Solar System. I write about human beings doing what human beings have always done: pushed back the boundaries of their world to find new places to call home.
While I love all kinds of literature, science fiction holds a special place in my heart. I grew up reading Ray Bradbury and stories from the Twilight Zone. During my freshman year of college, my dad sent me a copy of The Martian Chronicles, and I fell in love with the Red Planet. In 2008, I began to connect with various NASA accounts on Twitter, attended the first NASA Tweetup at Jet Propulsion Labs in 2009, and met fascinating people who work on the Mars Rover, Phoenix Lander, and Mars Science Laboratory missions. I am privileged (and astounded!) to call many of these amazing individuals friends. They inspire me to keep writing about the planet that I love so much.
My goal is to write compelling science fiction that doesn’t rely on strange aliens, implausible futuristic tech, or intergalactic wars to be interesting. You won’t find artificial gravity in my novels, or green-skinned aliens from Orion, or a villain who wants to rule the Solar System. I write about human beings doing what human beings have always done: pushed back the boundaries of their world to find new places to call home.
I'm not even sure where to begin on this one so I'm just going to try and focus on one aspect at a time. A lot of these sections do have crossover, particularly the brony factor which seeped into nearly every aspect of her life.
That Batsignal of Autism known as My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic attracted Joi to it and, as with most bronies, it became a huge part of her life.
Joi's ponysona. "This is my ponysona! She's Mars red, with a mane the color of the polar ice caps. Her cutie mark is a NASA-blue heart, with the red swoosh from their logo, with a white orbit and two moons."
http://archive.md/xJyFT/eeff98ade9400f3609a07eb1d9c593a3d026d9f0.jpg
Since Joi lives in the American Northwest she was able to go to several of the local brony conventions, including Equestria LA and Everfree Northwest. At EQLA 2015, there was some drama involving her and some other brony wanting to meet with Joi, Joi blocking him on Twitter, then the brony having a meltdown.
http://fatuglygeek.tumblr.com/post/128623950642/the-man-who-wasnt-there (http://archive.md/jZDSL)
http://fatuglygeek.tumblr.com/post/128625195657/the-man-who-wasnt-there-part-2 (http://archive.md/blCIR)
Follow up (http://archive.md/zTt0R)
Like most loser bronies, Joi's favorite pony is Luna because she believes Luna is an autistic sperg like herself.
Joi also capitalized off the brony fandom by selling ragdoll ponies, which we'll take a look at in the following section.
Joi's ponysona. "This is my ponysona! She's Mars red, with a mane the color of the polar ice caps. Her cutie mark is a NASA-blue heart, with the red swoosh from their logo, with a white orbit and two moons."
http://archive.md/xJyFT/eeff98ade9400f3609a07eb1d9c593a3d026d9f0.jpg
Since Joi lives in the American Northwest she was able to go to several of the local brony conventions, including Equestria LA and Everfree Northwest. At EQLA 2015, there was some drama involving her and some other brony wanting to meet with Joi, Joi blocking him on Twitter, then the brony having a meltdown.
http://fatuglygeek.tumblr.com/post/128623950642/the-man-who-wasnt-there (http://archive.md/jZDSL)
http://fatuglygeek.tumblr.com/post/128625195657/the-man-who-wasnt-there-part-2 (http://archive.md/blCIR)
Follow up (http://archive.md/zTt0R)
I spent the weekend in Anaheim attending Equestria LA, a My Little Pony fan convention. First off, let me say that the con was FANTASTIC, the events were great, the guests were a blast, and everything I went to was well-managed. The con had a clear harassment policy posted in the con book, and the only incident I heard of was dealt with promptly and efficiently.
My incident was…well, a little hard to describe. I blocked a creepy guy on Twitter a few months ago. Might even have been a year or more; I don’t remember because I literally forgot he existed after blocking him. He lives locally and had kept angling for an invite to my house. Creepy, but not a huge deal. I let him know he was being creepy, and blocked him. We’re both part of the MLP fandom, but I didn’t think much of it until the time for the local convention came around.
Fortunately, I got screenshots. LET THE SHOW BEGIN.
http://archive.md/jZDSL/f631ffbfe1539ea3b967380126795f5eddbca87e.png
(The timestamps are off because of my Twitter settings.) This is when it started; because people I do follow responded to him, I could see the tweets, and went to his profile to figure out what was going on. It starts off sort of ok; it can be awkward to be at an event with people who don’t much care for you. But we’re not talking a small house party; this was an event with 1500 people. Avoiding people was not difficult at all. But that would have made sense. The situation soon took a turn for the truly bizarre.
http://archive.md/jZDSL/393d968cc3ac872a7625165aa5947c750a91b647.png
Wow, we went from “this could be uncomfortable” to ““WAAAAAH I’m kicked out of the convention!” Notice that in 30 minutes, he went from “this girl who is afraid of me” to “fear of one attendee is keeping me home.” My terror is so strong that it turned back on him and made HIM afraid of ME! I must use these new powers for awesome!
It should also be noted that these are not conversations. For the most part, these are examples of him responding to any tweet about the convention with a statement about me, regardless of context.
How was I dealing with all of this paralyzing fear of him?
http://archive.md/jZDSL/ecbb51990f1f67a732a31ad7665fe893b03f4c2a.png
Yes. Clearly, I was scared out of my mind.
Actually, I think this may have been what bugged him. Since I’d blocked him, I had to actually search for his tweets to find any of this, and was having a fantastic time at the con.
So he decided to get some attention. “For charity.”
http://archive.md/jZDSL/44471393ec6b1d1388e5f3fa17aa97196a13b097.png
Yeah…that’s a TOTALLY appropriate response to being reported for harassment (which NEVER EVEN HAPPENED. I never actually reported him, just let a friend on con staff know where to look in case an incident happened.)
Also, seriously? The bro-iest brony shirt possible and FourLoko cap? He should’ve been banned for fashion sense alone.
This post is getting long; continued in part two…
My incident was…well, a little hard to describe. I blocked a creepy guy on Twitter a few months ago. Might even have been a year or more; I don’t remember because I literally forgot he existed after blocking him. He lives locally and had kept angling for an invite to my house. Creepy, but not a huge deal. I let him know he was being creepy, and blocked him. We’re both part of the MLP fandom, but I didn’t think much of it until the time for the local convention came around.
Fortunately, I got screenshots. LET THE SHOW BEGIN.
http://archive.md/jZDSL/f631ffbfe1539ea3b967380126795f5eddbca87e.png
(The timestamps are off because of my Twitter settings.) This is when it started; because people I do follow responded to him, I could see the tweets, and went to his profile to figure out what was going on. It starts off sort of ok; it can be awkward to be at an event with people who don’t much care for you. But we’re not talking a small house party; this was an event with 1500 people. Avoiding people was not difficult at all. But that would have made sense. The situation soon took a turn for the truly bizarre.
http://archive.md/jZDSL/393d968cc3ac872a7625165aa5947c750a91b647.png
Wow, we went from “this could be uncomfortable” to ““WAAAAAH I’m kicked out of the convention!” Notice that in 30 minutes, he went from “this girl who is afraid of me” to “fear of one attendee is keeping me home.” My terror is so strong that it turned back on him and made HIM afraid of ME! I must use these new powers for awesome!
It should also be noted that these are not conversations. For the most part, these are examples of him responding to any tweet about the convention with a statement about me, regardless of context.
How was I dealing with all of this paralyzing fear of him?
http://archive.md/jZDSL/ecbb51990f1f67a732a31ad7665fe893b03f4c2a.png
Yes. Clearly, I was scared out of my mind.
Actually, I think this may have been what bugged him. Since I’d blocked him, I had to actually search for his tweets to find any of this, and was having a fantastic time at the con.
So he decided to get some attention. “For charity.”
http://archive.md/jZDSL/44471393ec6b1d1388e5f3fa17aa97196a13b097.png
Yeah…that’s a TOTALLY appropriate response to being reported for harassment (which NEVER EVEN HAPPENED. I never actually reported him, just let a friend on con staff know where to look in case an incident happened.)
Also, seriously? The bro-iest brony shirt possible and FourLoko cap? He should’ve been banned for fashion sense alone.
This post is getting long; continued in part two…
CLEARLY, this charming person had simply tried to be friendly to me. Talking about coming over to one’s house without being invited is a sign of friendly affection, right?
http://archive.md/blCIR/9c7cc80df925441e1f4aaf4b0dc1e491c74aa212.png
Yes, my dear sir, the fact that some cons don’t have up-front harassment policies IS why you get “excluded.” It’s why I don’t go to cons that don’t have them. This is, as they say, “not a bug, but a feature.” (And seriously, EQLA, good job on that! Clear and detailed policy, right up front in the con book. THANK YOU.)
He attempted to take some of the blame, in the most passive-aggressive way possible, for a little while. Well, less accepting blame than pity-fishing with “WOE IS ME! I’ve been branded a HARASSER just because I keep tweeting about this girl to people who don’t know either of us!”
http://archive.md/blCIR/7c53b638bf9e4a66c7af28bb64744eae2f9f27f2.png
“Pretty sure I am not allowed at any future brony conventions now.” HE HAD NEVER BEEN REPORTED. This is, quite literally, all in his own head. Any minute now, I thought he was going to start using a cat-o-nine-tails on himself.
Naturally, that half-apologetic mood didn’t last long.
http://archive.md/blCIR/57ab4fde0b164062ad475a4c114b1e499fca6845.png
http://archive.md/blCIR/fe1207a25d8b613cda9626ebcf355617cb6b6b66.png
All of these restrictions and bans are entirely of his own invention. This persecution narrative is entirely of his own making. BUT IT GETS BETTER.
HE DID IT.
HE SAID THE THING.
http://archive.md/blCIR/1c7eede03e8d36e5872069e164bd1a14bc2383bc.png
*confetti* There it is! The silliest, most overblown “threat” of all time!
I feel like I need a bingo card. “I lost followers over this,” “I was just trying to be friendly,” “I’m quitting the fandom.”
Naturally, this quitting didn’t happen.
http://archive.md/blCIR/780baac40dcbf94d0ea57e8bf3908207a334745e.png
Yes, because setting up a new account to get around blocks is TOTALLY not the first thing a harasser would do, right? And as for the first one: did he not remember using my actual name, like, 40 times in previous tweets?
http://archive.md/blCIR/9b91d3fc53a1d1cd4ca55c3d4d3502bd1632bc98.png
I don’t even have words for this. I don’t know why he’s fixated on me. I don’t know why he’s convinced I have massive amounts of power. No one in this fandom knows or cares who I am, and I LIKE it that way. Yes, I had a lot of friends at the con. You can ask any of them if I ever once asked for favors or special treatment. (Also, is it just me, or is that last tweet to Draft kinda…stalkery?)
Poor little harasser. All alone inside his head. I actually feel a little sorry for him; that can’t be a pleasant existence. It’s much nicer to listen to people and make actual friends. Maybe he’ll figure that out someday.
http://archive.md/blCIR/9c7cc80df925441e1f4aaf4b0dc1e491c74aa212.png
Yes, my dear sir, the fact that some cons don’t have up-front harassment policies IS why you get “excluded.” It’s why I don’t go to cons that don’t have them. This is, as they say, “not a bug, but a feature.” (And seriously, EQLA, good job on that! Clear and detailed policy, right up front in the con book. THANK YOU.)
He attempted to take some of the blame, in the most passive-aggressive way possible, for a little while. Well, less accepting blame than pity-fishing with “WOE IS ME! I’ve been branded a HARASSER just because I keep tweeting about this girl to people who don’t know either of us!”
http://archive.md/blCIR/7c53b638bf9e4a66c7af28bb64744eae2f9f27f2.png
“Pretty sure I am not allowed at any future brony conventions now.” HE HAD NEVER BEEN REPORTED. This is, quite literally, all in his own head. Any minute now, I thought he was going to start using a cat-o-nine-tails on himself.
Naturally, that half-apologetic mood didn’t last long.
http://archive.md/blCIR/57ab4fde0b164062ad475a4c114b1e499fca6845.png
http://archive.md/blCIR/fe1207a25d8b613cda9626ebcf355617cb6b6b66.png
All of these restrictions and bans are entirely of his own invention. This persecution narrative is entirely of his own making. BUT IT GETS BETTER.
HE DID IT.
HE SAID THE THING.
http://archive.md/blCIR/1c7eede03e8d36e5872069e164bd1a14bc2383bc.png
*confetti* There it is! The silliest, most overblown “threat” of all time!
I feel like I need a bingo card. “I lost followers over this,” “I was just trying to be friendly,” “I’m quitting the fandom.”
Naturally, this quitting didn’t happen.
http://archive.md/blCIR/780baac40dcbf94d0ea57e8bf3908207a334745e.png
Yes, because setting up a new account to get around blocks is TOTALLY not the first thing a harasser would do, right? And as for the first one: did he not remember using my actual name, like, 40 times in previous tweets?
http://archive.md/blCIR/9b91d3fc53a1d1cd4ca55c3d4d3502bd1632bc98.png
I don’t even have words for this. I don’t know why he’s fixated on me. I don’t know why he’s convinced I have massive amounts of power. No one in this fandom knows or cares who I am, and I LIKE it that way. Yes, I had a lot of friends at the con. You can ask any of them if I ever once asked for favors or special treatment. (Also, is it just me, or is that last tweet to Draft kinda…stalkery?)
Poor little harasser. All alone inside his head. I actually feel a little sorry for him; that can’t be a pleasant existence. It’s much nicer to listen to people and make actual friends. Maybe he’ll figure that out someday.
Like most loser bronies, Joi's favorite pony is Luna because she believes Luna is an autistic sperg like herself.
Joi also capitalized off the brony fandom by selling ragdoll ponies, which we'll take a look at in the following section.
Joi uses "Joi the Artist" as her username on many sites, and she has indeed created a variety of things such as religious themed works, R2-D2 and other themed shoes, NASA fan art, a Mad Max Barbie, and lots and lots of the ragdoll pony dolls.
http://joitheartist.deviantart.com/
Joi gained some brony fame due to her EquestriaRags ragdoll ponies, which she produced and sold on Etsy and eBay. These things have sold for $100-$300+.
More ragdolls:
http://archive.md/urFUW
http://archive.md/OxcJn
http://archive.md/W9sqb
http://archive.md/UiqZm
http://archive.md/hHXzH
http://archive.md/ywF0z
http://archive.md/0fkrj
http://archive.md/oxgLC
http://archive.md/GgvXp
http://archive.md/a69qe
http://archive.md/YJG5x
These tended to be listed for sale alongside a sob story about needing money. http://archive.md/QHtCc
https://www.etsy.com/shop/EquestriaRags/sold?ref=shopinfo_sales_leftnav
http://joitheartist.deviantart.com/
Joi gained some brony fame due to her EquestriaRags ragdoll ponies, which she produced and sold on Etsy and eBay. These things have sold for $100-$300+.
More ragdolls:
http://archive.md/urFUW
http://archive.md/OxcJn
http://archive.md/W9sqb
http://archive.md/UiqZm
http://archive.md/hHXzH
http://archive.md/ywF0z
http://archive.md/0fkrj
http://archive.md/oxgLC
http://archive.md/GgvXp
http://archive.md/a69qe
http://archive.md/YJG5x
These tended to be listed for sale alongside a sob story about needing money. http://archive.md/QHtCc
https://www.etsy.com/shop/EquestriaRags/sold?ref=shopinfo_sales_leftnav
As you can tell from the bio she wrote, Joi wishes to be an author and has in fact published a book at Amazon called A Circle of Salt. According to the reviews on Amazon it is a 1st person story and some scenes involve the protagonist shapeshifting into a horse, because of course it does.
"Vasilissa is accustomed to spending her days in a world of eternal summer, but when her carelessness causes harm to a human being, she is exiled to the human world. Vasilissa tries to keep herself aloof, but as she interacts with men and women and learns about their struggles, cares, and bravery, she begins to care more than she thought possible. But Vasilissa is not the only magical being in that world, and it will take all of her strength, wits, and magic to survive. The ancient witch Baba Yaga, and her servant, Koschei, are intent on ruling the world with blood magic. And only Vasilissa’s blood will do."
Sample of A Circle of Salt:
"Vasilissa is accustomed to spending her days in a world of eternal summer, but when her carelessness causes harm to a human being, she is exiled to the human world. Vasilissa tries to keep herself aloof, but as she interacts with men and women and learns about their struggles, cares, and bravery, she begins to care more than she thought possible. But Vasilissa is not the only magical being in that world, and it will take all of her strength, wits, and magic to survive. The ancient witch Baba Yaga, and her servant, Koschei, are intent on ruling the world with blood magic. And only Vasilissa’s blood will do."
Sample of A Circle of Salt:
A Circle of Salt: sample
It seemed like nothing at the time: a simple moment of carelessness. But that single moment led to exile from my homeland, and everything else that came to pass. Great evils may be forgiven because they were done in service of a great end, but the great evils that are done without thought are unforgivable. If one notices that one has done wrong, it may be mended, but what if one cannot see the wrong?
I am Vasilissa, and I am the last true child of the Summer Realm. I have been an exile, a madwoman, a queen, and many other things. I have seen my land destroyed in the fires of the Dragon and lived to see a spring that I feared would never come again.
The Summer Realm goes by many names in the world of men: I have heard it called Avalon, Faerie, Hyperborea, and a host of others. It is a land of vast meadows, perilous mountains, and clear cold rivers. During the spring, the grass was cool and green, and it grew thicker than the most luxurious carpet. The fall was mild and pleasant, with warm days and cool nights. Winter never touched us, except to dust the tops of the mountains with snow. And summer…oh, the summers sometimes lasted a hundred years, with each night more perfect than the last. The days were bright and golden, with the heat of the sun glinting off the rivers, and the leaves almost glowing green. The nights in summer were warm, and we often slept under the stars instead of in our own flowery bowers. Ribbons of colored light streamed down from the north, and covered the sky with luminescence.
Much of what my land is like cannot be told here: there are no words in human language for the worlds beyond Man’s. To men, who could not enter our realm uninvited, the land was harsh, rocky, and bitterly cold. In the far north of their world, it was locked in almost perpetual winter, and the inhabitants had to scramble for a mere existence. I saw them often, when I was young: peasants, working themselves into exhaustion to provide for their children, grubbing a bare existence out of the ground.
I was merely curious about them when I was very young, but as I grew I came to despise them. The sight of their dirt-stained faces, even from a distance, disgusted me. My robes were always clean and bright, and suited to our warm climate, while they bundled themselves in rags and scraps.
Many of us, especially the younger ones, enjoyed playing tricks on them: tugging at their rags when they couldn’t see us, or hiding a sack of grain. Harmless, for the most part—not kind, but harmless. Most grew out of such pranks, and the peasants cursed us for a moment but considered us simply a part of the pattern of life: a nuisance, but little more.
It is so easy, with mostly harmless things, to take them too far. A slip of the tongue, meant in jest, becomes a knife in the heart of a friend. A little rip, left too long, ruins a gown. And a little trick, pushed too hard, destroys a man.
He was beautiful: a peasant boy newly grown to manhood, and hard of body from laboring in the fields. His hair was almost as golden as mine, and he could often be heard singing a tune as he worked. Many of my people would stop to listen as he sang, for his voice almost matched the beauty of our best singers.
I was also young and beautiful, though I had been so for hundreds of years, and would be so for hundreds or thousands more. The confidence that is natural to my kind began to turn to arrogance.
I became more and more daring in my trips into the world of men; I no longer bothered to hide myself, wore my most dazzling gowns, and sang without bothering to glamour it into the sound of bird song. My companions were amused at first, but as I dared more and more, they grew bored with my actions.
One day I walked down by the river, one of the few green spots for versts around. It was spring in the human world, and though the trees and grass were beginning to show green sprouts again, the air was cold and the wind sharp. The young man had come to the river with a barrow, filling it with stones for the repair of a wall.
Even when my kind wear no disguise, we are not easily seen. We are so much a part of the land that we can be indistinguishable from it. But I very much wanted to be seen.
I heard his voice before I saw him. He was singing a song that had no melody, apart from what he chose to give it at any given moment. It was tuneless, but not unpleasant. He came into view through the trees, and began loading the rocks into the barrow. For a moment, he did not notice me, until he saw my wavering reflection in the water of the river.
His song stopped, and he looked up. It must have been the first time he saw a child of the Summer Realm fully; the look on his face was one of sheer astonishment. I let a smile play across my lips and turned back through the woods, throwing him a glance over my shoulder. He was hesitant to follow, but when my song reached him, he stepped forward.
My people have the gift of words: men call it magic, but we have no such term. I wove my words and my will into the song, calling him ever forward, and deepening his enchantment. In an hour’s time, we had come to the stone archway that was the gate into my home; I quickly spoke the words to open the gate, and the rich air of the Realm poured through. I could feel the warm sun, and almost taste the juice of the apples ripening on the trees in the orchards.
I looked back to see what effect the breath of summer had on the young man. The breeze from the orchard ruffled his hair, and I saw his nostrils flare to catch the scent, like a horse near fresh water. His eyes were wide, and full of the light of the summer sun. I stepped through the gate, continuing my song, calling him forward. He paused, glancing over his shoulder to the familiar woods he had come from. I am sure that he had heard the stories all of his life: men and women lured into the Other Realm, and disappearing forever. Such things had not happened in a very long time; but it had happened, and the stories of old women have carried a kernel of the truth down through the years.
I wove the song again, singing of warm nights, sun-ripened fruit ready for the plucking, and a summer that lasted a lifetime. He stepped forward again, slowly at first, but moving more surely until both feet were over the border. He turned to look up at the sun that now shone on his face, bringing color to his wind-nipped cheeks.
He turned to me, as if seeing me for the first time. And truly, it must have been a sight, for I was not only beautiful, but aware of my own beauty. In the years since then, I have learned to appreciate the plain honest faces of the peasant women in the villages, but when I was not so tired of my mirrors as I have become, I despised them for their sun-burned cheeks and roughly plaited hair. I stood before the young man in robes of silk and fine linen, crimson and blue, with gold braided into the garments which gleamed in the sunshine. My hair fell like a shining curtain around my knees, my skin as pale and smooth as milk.
He followed where I led, and we spent the summer in the orchards, listening to the song of the women who sang at the palace, and dancing under the stars at night when the curtains of color were drawn rippling across the sky.
Everywhere I went there were whispers; I could hear them talking about me, and my arrogance in luring my young man into the Summer Realm, but I chose not to listen. I was not the first to do so, and he would have had no such life of ease with his own people. I even persuaded myself that I had done him a grand favor, bringing him out of the hard world of men into such a beautiful place.
But slowly I began to tire of him. He was out of time, out of the rhythm by which our life moved. He began to long for a season other than summer; he only wanted to talk about snow, and the warmth of a fire in a cold cabin, and the winter festivals. He no longer appreciated the taste of the summer fruit or the dances under the stars or the songs of the palace.
Finally, I decided I no longer wished to see him. One day, while walking in the orchard, he began again to speak of the joys of winter, and while he was thus engrossed, I began weaving our path closer and closer to the gate. Then, with a quick push, he was through into the human world; without me at his side, he had no way back to the Summer Realm. For a moment, he looked around in surprise, trying to understand what had happened; he could not see me, though I watched through the gate. Then the cold hit him; it was winter in the world of men, and he was still dressed for summer. He began to shiver and wrapped his arms around himself to keep the cold at bay.
He opened his mouth and began to call for me, but I was no longer listening; my attention had been caught by something in the woods beyond him. At first it was just a sound, much like any other sound in the forest. But in a moment I knew it, for every member of my race knows the sound by heart.
Scrape. Scrape. Brush. Crack. Scrape.
It was the sound of an iron mortar being driven rapidly through the woods, driven onward by a pestle the size of a tree.
The Baba Yaga was coming.
I strengthened the charms holding shut the gate between the worlds, and stepped back quickly so that the grandmother of all witches would not sense my presence. She had never been able to enter our world, but she had tried. She had roamed the forest for time beyond memory, perhaps since the beginning of the world. Some said she was the first wife of the first man, furious that she had been replaced after defying the god who created her. I have no knowledge of these matters, but she was a dark and twisted thing, purely malevolent, with no drop of kindness or compassion in her heart. Though she had never set foot in our Realm, we knew that she might someday find the key to the door, and our happiness would be gone forever. The Baba Yaga brings nothing but death and madness.
I heard the scraping continue faintly through the shielding charm, and held my breath until all was silent again. When I was sure the Baba Yaga was no longer near, I ran quickly back to my own garden, and walked among my flowers until my heart ceased to pound.
It is difficult to be worried for long in the heart of the Summer Realm, and my mind soon returned to its usual calm. But this was not to last.
~
I woke the next morning, not quite at peace. In my mind, I could still hear the scraping of the Yaga’s pestle, and I went to check the Gate again. The morning was like almost every morning in the Summer Realm: cool, green, the air lightly scented with night-blooming flowers, and dew dripping from every blade of grass.
No-one else was awake yet, and I moved silently through the gardens. I reached the Gate, and reassured myself that all was as it should be. I turned to go, and found my way barred by two tall figures. I knew them instantly, though I had never seen either one.
Tales had been told about the Lawkeepers. They were rarely needed, but when one of our number did some evil or wrong, they would appear, and settle the matter. Their word was irrevocable. I do not know where they come from, or who sends them, but their power to enact their pronouncements has always been inescapable. They wore long robes of crimson, and wings of fire covered their eyes, though they were not blind.
They motioned to me to step through the Gate and though I still feared the Baba Yaga, I obeyed instantly, wondering what had brought them to me. I had wronged none of my people, and I myself had scarcely seen anyone during the summer season, much less caused harm.
My foot touched the cold snows of the human world, and I hoped that the Lawgivers would not take long. My favorite flower vine was blooming and I wished to be back in my own garden soon to pluck a few of the best blossoms.
One of the Lawkeepers pointed a shining hand into the woods and I followed his gesture. There, huddled under a tree, was a pathetic figure. Hunched and grey, it looked like a man, but only just. His arms and legs were gnarled and twisted by age, and there was no light of reason in his eyes. His beard hung low upon his chest, matted with mud, twigs, and saliva. His fingers were rough and the nails looked as though he’d been rooting in the ground for his food.
The eyes, I heard a whisper behind me, look into his eyes, Vasilissa.
I took a step closer and looked into the depths of his madness. And then I saw it. Deep down, past the years and the suffering he had endured, was the remnant of a man, a vigorous young man with eyes as blue as the flowers in my garden.
“But…” I found myself saying, “He was just a young man yesterday. Has so much time passed in one night of the Summer Realm?”
It is not age which has done this to him, one of the Lawkeepers said, though several human years have indeed passed since you cast him from the Realm. When you first found him, he was a man, suited to his own place and time. But after a long summer in the Realm, he grew soft: it is not a place for the children of men to live, and you knew this. Yet you tired of him and cast him out in the middle of winter. More, when you heard the Grandmother of Witches coming, you did nothing to help him but left him to her mercy, and she has none. She took him as her servant for three days and his mind was shattered. His village could not stand his ravings and let him go back out to wander the woods, always looking for the Gate into the eternal warmth that he once knew.
I was repulsed; the handsome young man was entirely replaced by this creature of madness and filth.
This is your doing, daughter of the earth, it continued. You might have had compassion on him and restrained yourself to the pranks and tricks allowed to your kind. You might have had pity on him and returned him to his own world after a single night in yours. You might even have had enough thought to send him back during a more amenable season of his own world, that he might have had time to find his own place again. Barring even that, you might have offered him protection from the Yaga: such is the sort of thing all forms of life owe each other in the face of that which destroys. But you would not lift a finger to do even this.
I felt the biting cold of the human world for the first time as they made their pronouncement.
For this, daughter of the earth, they intoned, raising their hands to lay the doom on me, you are banished from your home. You must learn to live by the labor of your hands, learn what it is to fear cold and starvation and death. You may find your home again when you have learned these things, but not before. Feel cold, feel pain, feel hunger and want. Feel the hard earth beneath your feet.
At that moment, the cold sank deep into my bones, and I cried out in surprise, anger, and pain, dropping to my knees in the snow. When I looked up, they were gone, and I was alone with the madman.
Stumbling, I ran back toward the Gate, but I could not find it. In the clearing where I knew it had stood, I found only a single white tree, barren and dead.
I was overwhelmed by all of the sensations I had never known before: the sharpness of sticks pricking my bare feet, the cold of winter, and the wetness of my gown where I had fallen to my knees in the snow. My mind whirled with confusion, but though I could no longer find the Gate, I could still feel magic deep within me. It came to me with no ease, ripping its way out of my soul, but I summoned it with every ounce of strength I had.
In a moment, I ran from the forest in the form of a horse: a strong, powerful body, fast as the wind. I ran for as long as I could, leaving only a trail of hoof prints behind me.
It seemed like nothing at the time: a simple moment of carelessness. But that single moment led to exile from my homeland, and everything else that came to pass. Great evils may be forgiven because they were done in service of a great end, but the great evils that are done without thought are unforgivable. If one notices that one has done wrong, it may be mended, but what if one cannot see the wrong?
I am Vasilissa, and I am the last true child of the Summer Realm. I have been an exile, a madwoman, a queen, and many other things. I have seen my land destroyed in the fires of the Dragon and lived to see a spring that I feared would never come again.
The Summer Realm goes by many names in the world of men: I have heard it called Avalon, Faerie, Hyperborea, and a host of others. It is a land of vast meadows, perilous mountains, and clear cold rivers. During the spring, the grass was cool and green, and it grew thicker than the most luxurious carpet. The fall was mild and pleasant, with warm days and cool nights. Winter never touched us, except to dust the tops of the mountains with snow. And summer…oh, the summers sometimes lasted a hundred years, with each night more perfect than the last. The days were bright and golden, with the heat of the sun glinting off the rivers, and the leaves almost glowing green. The nights in summer were warm, and we often slept under the stars instead of in our own flowery bowers. Ribbons of colored light streamed down from the north, and covered the sky with luminescence.
Much of what my land is like cannot be told here: there are no words in human language for the worlds beyond Man’s. To men, who could not enter our realm uninvited, the land was harsh, rocky, and bitterly cold. In the far north of their world, it was locked in almost perpetual winter, and the inhabitants had to scramble for a mere existence. I saw them often, when I was young: peasants, working themselves into exhaustion to provide for their children, grubbing a bare existence out of the ground.
I was merely curious about them when I was very young, but as I grew I came to despise them. The sight of their dirt-stained faces, even from a distance, disgusted me. My robes were always clean and bright, and suited to our warm climate, while they bundled themselves in rags and scraps.
Many of us, especially the younger ones, enjoyed playing tricks on them: tugging at their rags when they couldn’t see us, or hiding a sack of grain. Harmless, for the most part—not kind, but harmless. Most grew out of such pranks, and the peasants cursed us for a moment but considered us simply a part of the pattern of life: a nuisance, but little more.
It is so easy, with mostly harmless things, to take them too far. A slip of the tongue, meant in jest, becomes a knife in the heart of a friend. A little rip, left too long, ruins a gown. And a little trick, pushed too hard, destroys a man.
He was beautiful: a peasant boy newly grown to manhood, and hard of body from laboring in the fields. His hair was almost as golden as mine, and he could often be heard singing a tune as he worked. Many of my people would stop to listen as he sang, for his voice almost matched the beauty of our best singers.
I was also young and beautiful, though I had been so for hundreds of years, and would be so for hundreds or thousands more. The confidence that is natural to my kind began to turn to arrogance.
I became more and more daring in my trips into the world of men; I no longer bothered to hide myself, wore my most dazzling gowns, and sang without bothering to glamour it into the sound of bird song. My companions were amused at first, but as I dared more and more, they grew bored with my actions.
One day I walked down by the river, one of the few green spots for versts around. It was spring in the human world, and though the trees and grass were beginning to show green sprouts again, the air was cold and the wind sharp. The young man had come to the river with a barrow, filling it with stones for the repair of a wall.
Even when my kind wear no disguise, we are not easily seen. We are so much a part of the land that we can be indistinguishable from it. But I very much wanted to be seen.
I heard his voice before I saw him. He was singing a song that had no melody, apart from what he chose to give it at any given moment. It was tuneless, but not unpleasant. He came into view through the trees, and began loading the rocks into the barrow. For a moment, he did not notice me, until he saw my wavering reflection in the water of the river.
His song stopped, and he looked up. It must have been the first time he saw a child of the Summer Realm fully; the look on his face was one of sheer astonishment. I let a smile play across my lips and turned back through the woods, throwing him a glance over my shoulder. He was hesitant to follow, but when my song reached him, he stepped forward.
My people have the gift of words: men call it magic, but we have no such term. I wove my words and my will into the song, calling him ever forward, and deepening his enchantment. In an hour’s time, we had come to the stone archway that was the gate into my home; I quickly spoke the words to open the gate, and the rich air of the Realm poured through. I could feel the warm sun, and almost taste the juice of the apples ripening on the trees in the orchards.
I looked back to see what effect the breath of summer had on the young man. The breeze from the orchard ruffled his hair, and I saw his nostrils flare to catch the scent, like a horse near fresh water. His eyes were wide, and full of the light of the summer sun. I stepped through the gate, continuing my song, calling him forward. He paused, glancing over his shoulder to the familiar woods he had come from. I am sure that he had heard the stories all of his life: men and women lured into the Other Realm, and disappearing forever. Such things had not happened in a very long time; but it had happened, and the stories of old women have carried a kernel of the truth down through the years.
I wove the song again, singing of warm nights, sun-ripened fruit ready for the plucking, and a summer that lasted a lifetime. He stepped forward again, slowly at first, but moving more surely until both feet were over the border. He turned to look up at the sun that now shone on his face, bringing color to his wind-nipped cheeks.
He turned to me, as if seeing me for the first time. And truly, it must have been a sight, for I was not only beautiful, but aware of my own beauty. In the years since then, I have learned to appreciate the plain honest faces of the peasant women in the villages, but when I was not so tired of my mirrors as I have become, I despised them for their sun-burned cheeks and roughly plaited hair. I stood before the young man in robes of silk and fine linen, crimson and blue, with gold braided into the garments which gleamed in the sunshine. My hair fell like a shining curtain around my knees, my skin as pale and smooth as milk.
He followed where I led, and we spent the summer in the orchards, listening to the song of the women who sang at the palace, and dancing under the stars at night when the curtains of color were drawn rippling across the sky.
Everywhere I went there were whispers; I could hear them talking about me, and my arrogance in luring my young man into the Summer Realm, but I chose not to listen. I was not the first to do so, and he would have had no such life of ease with his own people. I even persuaded myself that I had done him a grand favor, bringing him out of the hard world of men into such a beautiful place.
But slowly I began to tire of him. He was out of time, out of the rhythm by which our life moved. He began to long for a season other than summer; he only wanted to talk about snow, and the warmth of a fire in a cold cabin, and the winter festivals. He no longer appreciated the taste of the summer fruit or the dances under the stars or the songs of the palace.
Finally, I decided I no longer wished to see him. One day, while walking in the orchard, he began again to speak of the joys of winter, and while he was thus engrossed, I began weaving our path closer and closer to the gate. Then, with a quick push, he was through into the human world; without me at his side, he had no way back to the Summer Realm. For a moment, he looked around in surprise, trying to understand what had happened; he could not see me, though I watched through the gate. Then the cold hit him; it was winter in the world of men, and he was still dressed for summer. He began to shiver and wrapped his arms around himself to keep the cold at bay.
He opened his mouth and began to call for me, but I was no longer listening; my attention had been caught by something in the woods beyond him. At first it was just a sound, much like any other sound in the forest. But in a moment I knew it, for every member of my race knows the sound by heart.
Scrape. Scrape. Brush. Crack. Scrape.
It was the sound of an iron mortar being driven rapidly through the woods, driven onward by a pestle the size of a tree.
The Baba Yaga was coming.
I strengthened the charms holding shut the gate between the worlds, and stepped back quickly so that the grandmother of all witches would not sense my presence. She had never been able to enter our world, but she had tried. She had roamed the forest for time beyond memory, perhaps since the beginning of the world. Some said she was the first wife of the first man, furious that she had been replaced after defying the god who created her. I have no knowledge of these matters, but she was a dark and twisted thing, purely malevolent, with no drop of kindness or compassion in her heart. Though she had never set foot in our Realm, we knew that she might someday find the key to the door, and our happiness would be gone forever. The Baba Yaga brings nothing but death and madness.
I heard the scraping continue faintly through the shielding charm, and held my breath until all was silent again. When I was sure the Baba Yaga was no longer near, I ran quickly back to my own garden, and walked among my flowers until my heart ceased to pound.
It is difficult to be worried for long in the heart of the Summer Realm, and my mind soon returned to its usual calm. But this was not to last.
~
I woke the next morning, not quite at peace. In my mind, I could still hear the scraping of the Yaga’s pestle, and I went to check the Gate again. The morning was like almost every morning in the Summer Realm: cool, green, the air lightly scented with night-blooming flowers, and dew dripping from every blade of grass.
No-one else was awake yet, and I moved silently through the gardens. I reached the Gate, and reassured myself that all was as it should be. I turned to go, and found my way barred by two tall figures. I knew them instantly, though I had never seen either one.
Tales had been told about the Lawkeepers. They were rarely needed, but when one of our number did some evil or wrong, they would appear, and settle the matter. Their word was irrevocable. I do not know where they come from, or who sends them, but their power to enact their pronouncements has always been inescapable. They wore long robes of crimson, and wings of fire covered their eyes, though they were not blind.
They motioned to me to step through the Gate and though I still feared the Baba Yaga, I obeyed instantly, wondering what had brought them to me. I had wronged none of my people, and I myself had scarcely seen anyone during the summer season, much less caused harm.
My foot touched the cold snows of the human world, and I hoped that the Lawgivers would not take long. My favorite flower vine was blooming and I wished to be back in my own garden soon to pluck a few of the best blossoms.
One of the Lawkeepers pointed a shining hand into the woods and I followed his gesture. There, huddled under a tree, was a pathetic figure. Hunched and grey, it looked like a man, but only just. His arms and legs were gnarled and twisted by age, and there was no light of reason in his eyes. His beard hung low upon his chest, matted with mud, twigs, and saliva. His fingers were rough and the nails looked as though he’d been rooting in the ground for his food.
The eyes, I heard a whisper behind me, look into his eyes, Vasilissa.
I took a step closer and looked into the depths of his madness. And then I saw it. Deep down, past the years and the suffering he had endured, was the remnant of a man, a vigorous young man with eyes as blue as the flowers in my garden.
“But…” I found myself saying, “He was just a young man yesterday. Has so much time passed in one night of the Summer Realm?”
It is not age which has done this to him, one of the Lawkeepers said, though several human years have indeed passed since you cast him from the Realm. When you first found him, he was a man, suited to his own place and time. But after a long summer in the Realm, he grew soft: it is not a place for the children of men to live, and you knew this. Yet you tired of him and cast him out in the middle of winter. More, when you heard the Grandmother of Witches coming, you did nothing to help him but left him to her mercy, and she has none. She took him as her servant for three days and his mind was shattered. His village could not stand his ravings and let him go back out to wander the woods, always looking for the Gate into the eternal warmth that he once knew.
I was repulsed; the handsome young man was entirely replaced by this creature of madness and filth.
This is your doing, daughter of the earth, it continued. You might have had compassion on him and restrained yourself to the pranks and tricks allowed to your kind. You might have had pity on him and returned him to his own world after a single night in yours. You might even have had enough thought to send him back during a more amenable season of his own world, that he might have had time to find his own place again. Barring even that, you might have offered him protection from the Yaga: such is the sort of thing all forms of life owe each other in the face of that which destroys. But you would not lift a finger to do even this.
I felt the biting cold of the human world for the first time as they made their pronouncement.
For this, daughter of the earth, they intoned, raising their hands to lay the doom on me, you are banished from your home. You must learn to live by the labor of your hands, learn what it is to fear cold and starvation and death. You may find your home again when you have learned these things, but not before. Feel cold, feel pain, feel hunger and want. Feel the hard earth beneath your feet.
At that moment, the cold sank deep into my bones, and I cried out in surprise, anger, and pain, dropping to my knees in the snow. When I looked up, they were gone, and I was alone with the madman.
Stumbling, I ran back toward the Gate, but I could not find it. In the clearing where I knew it had stood, I found only a single white tree, barren and dead.
I was overwhelmed by all of the sensations I had never known before: the sharpness of sticks pricking my bare feet, the cold of winter, and the wetness of my gown where I had fallen to my knees in the snow. My mind whirled with confusion, but though I could no longer find the Gate, I could still feel magic deep within me. It came to me with no ease, ripping its way out of my soul, but I summoned it with every ounce of strength I had.
In a moment, I ran from the forest in the form of a horse: a strong, powerful body, fast as the wind. I ran for as long as I could, leaving only a trail of hoof prints behind me.
Joi loves blogs. I'm not sure if I've seen anyone with so many blogspots before.
https://www.blogger.com/profile/07757013732505715189 (http://archive.md/2YdCm)
Her website even has its own blog section. http://archive.md/z9G2L
In addition to the EquestriaRags and DeviantArt blogs, Joi also writes on a Tumblr blog called Fat Ugly Geek, which her website describes as: "Musings on life as a stereotypical fat ugly geek girl. Also includes feminism, pop culture, and general geekitude."
https://www.blogger.com/profile/07757013732505715189 (http://archive.md/2YdCm)
Her website even has its own blog section. http://archive.md/z9G2L
In addition to the EquestriaRags and DeviantArt blogs, Joi also writes on a Tumblr blog called Fat Ugly Geek, which her website describes as: "Musings on life as a stereotypical fat ugly geek girl. Also includes feminism, pop culture, and general geekitude."
Joi loves taking photos, her Twitter and DeviantArt and swarming with them, going back nearly a decade,
http://joitheartist.deviantart.com/gallery/?offset=0
http://joitheartist.deviantart.com/gallery/?offset=0
Perhaps mercifully, despite the hundreds of photos Joi has taken there doesn't seem to be any of her steampunk cosplays. While the cosplay pics may exist out there, the closest I saw was some of her wearing some printed leggings and a dress.
Not even steampunk could escape the brony scourge as Joi injected that into this hobby as well and had a "Steampunk Luna" cosplay. http://archive.md/vk92i http://archive.md/STaqg
Joi has also created Loki and Magneto cosplays for her pet cat. http://archive.md/n2wXr
More about "Steampunk Luna": http://archive.md/jdfnC
Cosplay Conundrum
I’m preparing to go to my first con alone. I’ve been to other cons (Comic-Con and WonderCon) and cosplayed a little at each one, but this is a smaller con (harder to blend into the crowd) and my first one that I’d be attending alone.
I’m seriously considering not cosplaying at all.
I love dressing up and getting into costume, right up until the moment I look in a mirror. Then it all goes south: nothing fits the way I imagined it, and I’m reminded yet again that I need to be about half the size I am to look good in cosplay, not to mention in dire need of clearer skin, better teeth, and hair that I can actually control.
Why would I want to go out in my shabby thrown-together Steampunk Luna outfit, when there are girls who can cosplay like this?
The first time I considered cosplaying at a convention, a friend warned me that I’d be constantly stopped for photos. Yeah… never happened. It’s the same old story: it’s not that I want to be ogled or pestered for pictures, because I don’t. But I’d like to feel like I looked at least a little pretty in the cosplay, and I don’t. I know it, and so does everyone else on the con floor.
Will I cosplay at EQLA? Probably. I’ve got the whole costume, I do like it, and Luna is my favorite pony. But maybe this time I’ll be wearing it with no illusions.
Not even steampunk could escape the brony scourge as Joi injected that into this hobby as well and had a "Steampunk Luna" cosplay. http://archive.md/vk92i http://archive.md/STaqg
Joi has also created Loki and Magneto cosplays for her pet cat. http://archive.md/n2wXr
More about "Steampunk Luna": http://archive.md/jdfnC
Cosplay Conundrum
I’m preparing to go to my first con alone. I’ve been to other cons (Comic-Con and WonderCon) and cosplayed a little at each one, but this is a smaller con (harder to blend into the crowd) and my first one that I’d be attending alone.
I’m seriously considering not cosplaying at all.
I love dressing up and getting into costume, right up until the moment I look in a mirror. Then it all goes south: nothing fits the way I imagined it, and I’m reminded yet again that I need to be about half the size I am to look good in cosplay, not to mention in dire need of clearer skin, better teeth, and hair that I can actually control.
Why would I want to go out in my shabby thrown-together Steampunk Luna outfit, when there are girls who can cosplay like this?
The first time I considered cosplaying at a convention, a friend warned me that I’d be constantly stopped for photos. Yeah… never happened. It’s the same old story: it’s not that I want to be ogled or pestered for pictures, because I don’t. But I’d like to feel like I looked at least a little pretty in the cosplay, and I don’t. I know it, and so does everyone else on the con floor.
Will I cosplay at EQLA? Probably. I’ve got the whole costume, I do like it, and Luna is my favorite pony. But maybe this time I’ll be wearing it with no illusions.
Joi loves sci-fi and space and is really into NASA and its missions, particularly Mars, eagerly following them on Twitter and participating in TweetUps and SpaceUps. She even traveled to Florida to watch one of the launches.
Instead of a gingerbread house, Joi made a gingerbread Mars rover. She also made a Mars Explorer Barbie.
As with most bronies, Joi felt the autistic desire to infest everything she likes with MLP so she made ponysona ragdolls for NASA things.
http://archive.md/aigCs
http://archive.md/IXDFm
http://archive.md/o0AEy
"This gorgeous, one-of-a-kind ragdoll pony is named Liftoff. Her body is made from a cotton print of shuttle missions and the International Space Station. Her mane is a black cotton print with shimmery stars and swirls. Her cutie mark is a visual representation of LH2, the liquid fuel used for shuttle missions. There's nopony like her anywhere in the world... and she can be yours!
Liftoff is up for auction! Here's how it works: to bid on her, comment here: [link] OR send me a private message on Twitter and include your bid. The auction will end at 3pm Pacific Time, Thursday, May 23.
AUCTION HAS ENDED! Liftoff has sold for $170! thank you all!"
"This pony was a real doozy, one I wasn’t sure I could do at first. The MER rovers (Spirit and Opportunity) would translate into ponies pretty easily: wings for solar panels, etc. Their mast/body relation is about the same as a pony’s head/body relation. But Curiosity is bigger, longer, and has a smaller head/mast in relation to its body. Tricky! i contemplated making the pony with 6 legs at first, to match the rover, but quickly discarded that idea. I also thought of adding some sort of mechanical arm (made of plastic, naturally) to mimic the rover’s, but decided that would clutter the design. In the end, I settled on these features: boots with tread marks spelling out “JPL” like the rover wheels, tail design that mimics the RTG on Curiosity, glasses the shape of the NavCams, and a ChemCam headband."
Instead of a gingerbread house, Joi made a gingerbread Mars rover. She also made a Mars Explorer Barbie.
As with most bronies, Joi felt the autistic desire to infest everything she likes with MLP so she made ponysona ragdolls for NASA things.
http://archive.md/aigCs
http://archive.md/IXDFm
http://archive.md/o0AEy
"This gorgeous, one-of-a-kind ragdoll pony is named Liftoff. Her body is made from a cotton print of shuttle missions and the International Space Station. Her mane is a black cotton print with shimmery stars and swirls. Her cutie mark is a visual representation of LH2, the liquid fuel used for shuttle missions. There's nopony like her anywhere in the world... and she can be yours!
Liftoff is up for auction! Here's how it works: to bid on her, comment here: [link] OR send me a private message on Twitter and include your bid. The auction will end at 3pm Pacific Time, Thursday, May 23.
AUCTION HAS ENDED! Liftoff has sold for $170! thank you all!"
"This pony was a real doozy, one I wasn’t sure I could do at first. The MER rovers (Spirit and Opportunity) would translate into ponies pretty easily: wings for solar panels, etc. Their mast/body relation is about the same as a pony’s head/body relation. But Curiosity is bigger, longer, and has a smaller head/mast in relation to its body. Tricky! i contemplated making the pony with 6 legs at first, to match the rover, but quickly discarded that idea. I also thought of adding some sort of mechanical arm (made of plastic, naturally) to mimic the rover’s, but decided that would clutter the design. In the end, I settled on these features: boots with tread marks spelling out “JPL” like the rover wheels, tail design that mimics the RTG on Curiosity, glasses the shape of the NavCams, and a ChemCam headband."
It should come as no surprise that danger-haired Joi is a feminist and supports being obese, despite her weight likely being the cause of most of the problems in her life. She also doesn't like when people tell her that maybe - just maybe - she should lose weight. Predictably, Joi is also anti-Gamergate and has followed the usual idiots involved in that such as pedophile "Sick Nick" Nyberg.
She used to work as a writer for a women's organization and was let go in 2013. She appears to have remained unemployed since then as she is still trying to find a job years later.
Some highlights:
Why she started labeling herself a feminist
Apologizing to blacks
Sperging about Valentine's day
Boycotted Victoria's Secret
"Women of my size are portrayed as jokes, as monsters, as being unfathomably stupid for thinking that someone could be interested in them."
"Little black dress"
...he could never be interested in me as more than a pastime, because I had “let [my]self go."
Calling her attractive is a lie
Cheated on in an internet relationship
"Fashion and Fat Visibility"
Beauty and the Beast
http://archive.md/T2cdD
“If they want to give you a name, take it, make it your own. Then they can’t hurt you with it anymore.”
“Once you’ve accepted your flaws, no one can use them against you.”
~Tyrion Lannister
Nearly every time I post on this blog, some well-meaning person will contact me, asking me why on earth I would say "such horrible things” about myself by using the title I’ve chosen. “You’re not fat! You’re not ugly! You shouldn’t say such things!” is a very common theme.
It’s probably not immediately obvious why I gave this blog the title I did, other than that it’s how I see myself. “But your self-confidence is so much higher now! Your body image is so much better than it was! You should change the name to reflect that!”
No.
I’m going to be very blunt for a moment. I don’t intend to hurt the feelings of anyone who cares about me, but I need to be extremely clear. I don’t have a problem referring to myself as “fat” and “ugly” because those are simply descriptors. They hold no moral weight. They are not indicative of my value as a person. Being “fat” or “ugly” does not make me in any way lesser. To insist that I am neither fat nor ugly when I am clearly both says a lot more about your ideas of what “fat” and “ugly” mean about a person than it does about my physical appearance.
I spent years feeling lesser because I wasn’t thin or pretty. Society attaches so much moral weight to appearance, and I had simply accepted that view. It wasn’t until about a year ago that I began to rethink things.
Acknowledging the reality of my appearance has not been depressing; it has been freeing. I don’t have to pretend that I’m pretty, and therefore worthwhile as a person, I can just be who I am, and work with what I have (which looks better, incidentally). Coming to peace with my face and body means no longer being afraid to look in the mirror because I’m afraid to see the truth about myself. I’ve started wearing shorter skirts now, not because I’m trying to flaunt my body, but because I am no longer so insistent on hiding its flaws. Long skirts and baggy pants may hide my pudgy knees and treetrunk legs, but they don’t change them.
Just because I acknowledge my appearance doesn’t mean that I don’t like things about my body; I do. In fact, I like my body more now than I did before I started using words like “fat” and “ugly.” I like the curve of my waist. I like the way my legs look when I wear my knee-high boots. I like the fullness and shape of my lips. My eyes are genuinely pretty. I love the way my skin glows pale pink when I get out of a long bath. I hope that some day, someone else will like these things, too, but it’s not necessary.
Please don’t tell me that I’m not fat or ugly. I am both, and that is ok.
Filed under fat, ugly, beauty standards, fatspo, women's issues
“If they want to give you a name, take it, make it your own. Then they can’t hurt you with it anymore.”
“Once you’ve accepted your flaws, no one can use them against you.”
~Tyrion Lannister
Nearly every time I post on this blog, some well-meaning person will contact me, asking me why on earth I would say "such horrible things” about myself by using the title I’ve chosen. “You’re not fat! You’re not ugly! You shouldn’t say such things!” is a very common theme.
It’s probably not immediately obvious why I gave this blog the title I did, other than that it’s how I see myself. “But your self-confidence is so much higher now! Your body image is so much better than it was! You should change the name to reflect that!”
No.
I’m going to be very blunt for a moment. I don’t intend to hurt the feelings of anyone who cares about me, but I need to be extremely clear. I don’t have a problem referring to myself as “fat” and “ugly” because those are simply descriptors. They hold no moral weight. They are not indicative of my value as a person. Being “fat” or “ugly” does not make me in any way lesser. To insist that I am neither fat nor ugly when I am clearly both says a lot more about your ideas of what “fat” and “ugly” mean about a person than it does about my physical appearance.
I spent years feeling lesser because I wasn’t thin or pretty. Society attaches so much moral weight to appearance, and I had simply accepted that view. It wasn’t until about a year ago that I began to rethink things.
Acknowledging the reality of my appearance has not been depressing; it has been freeing. I don’t have to pretend that I’m pretty, and therefore worthwhile as a person, I can just be who I am, and work with what I have (which looks better, incidentally). Coming to peace with my face and body means no longer being afraid to look in the mirror because I’m afraid to see the truth about myself. I’ve started wearing shorter skirts now, not because I’m trying to flaunt my body, but because I am no longer so insistent on hiding its flaws. Long skirts and baggy pants may hide my pudgy knees and treetrunk legs, but they don’t change them.
Just because I acknowledge my appearance doesn’t mean that I don’t like things about my body; I do. In fact, I like my body more now than I did before I started using words like “fat” and “ugly.” I like the curve of my waist. I like the way my legs look when I wear my knee-high boots. I like the fullness and shape of my lips. My eyes are genuinely pretty. I love the way my skin glows pale pink when I get out of a long bath. I hope that some day, someone else will like these things, too, but it’s not necessary.
Please don’t tell me that I’m not fat or ugly. I am both, and that is ok.
Filed under fat, ugly, beauty standards, fatspo, women's issues
Similar to other obese lolcows, Joi almost constantly tweets and blogs about food (particularly breads), such as these "taco cupcakes" she created.
Unsurprisingly, Joi is "scared" of the Trump train.
Joi has recently been making waves with an essay she wrote called "33 and Never Been Kissed", a long rant about how nobody finds her attractive and she's realizing that she's pretty much done for as getting older is not going to help matters. She has previously wrote about this on her blogs.
This has been shared across Tumblr, reddit, and was on the front page of Huffington Post. On her Twitter, Joi said it was "terrifying" and "heartbreaking" to write this.
Sometimes you have to face hard truths by stating the painful facts baldly. I am 33, I have never been kissed, and the only guy who ever wanted to hold hands with me was killing time while he tried to find someone hot enough to date. I know this because that’s what he told my housemate when he hit on her.
To the best of my knowledge, no one who has seen me in person has ever been attracted to me. I’m not catcalled or harassed. The only relationships I’ve had have been online. The only boyfriend who met me offline would not do more than give me a hug. I have met potential partners from the Internet, only to watch the interest in their eyes die when they see me.
I often feel like the only woman on the face of the planet who no one is attracted to. And I am ashamed—in part because this is something no one ever talks about.
We turn virginity into a punchline—a sign of misplaced religious conviction, physical grotesqueness, or social ineptitude. We try to escape the reality that sex is a choice that some are never offered, and ignore the fact that trumpeting sexual freedom also has the power to wound deeply. The sexually inexperienced (especially those with no choice in the matter) feel a strong urge to hide this fact, in order to let people assume a common level of sexual history. It’s a lot easier than trying to explain the truth, and it hurts less, too.
I’ve sat through countless conversations with groups of women, praying that the conversation wouldn’t turn to sex, cringing inwardly when it inevitably did, and trying to laugh with the others until the topic changed and I could relax again, my secret safe. For now.
When I was growing up, the conversation was always about how to say “no,” how to not be pressured into sex, how to turn down a date honestly and fairly. My educators, ministers, and youth group leaders never told me what to do when I wasn’t pressured, when I wasn’t asked out on dates. Teenage me was practically quivering with excitement over my first chance to say “no,” because even “no” contained the possibility that I could choose to say “yes.” But the question never came.
I thought that, perhaps, things would get better in college. Surely, the smart guys would at least be attracted to my intellect. Instead, while I made friends with lots of great guys who I’m still close with, I was never once asked on a date. No one ever tried to cop a feel at an event or in the movie theater. There was never the hint of a hookup. Perhaps, if my upbringing hadn’t been so conservative, or if I’d had a few dates in high school, I would have had the courage to ask someone out for myself instead of waiting, but that was unthinkable to me.
I was so confused. This wasn’t how the movies went. This wasn’t how the novels ended. Most of my friends got married right out of college, and those that didn’t at least had dates. I sat down to take inventory: Why wasn’t anyone interested? Was it my appearance? I’ve always been on the large side of curvy, but I knew plenty of girls my size and larger who had found happy relationships. Was it my face? I’ve never been pretty, but again, I knew women who were objectively less “pretty” than me who had found love. Was it my personality? I’m shy and reserved (unless you bring up Star Wars or Dune, then good luck getting me to shut up), but I’m comfortable talking to friends. I was part of several active social groups, and enjoyed spending time with friends. I couldn’t find a persuasive reason why no one was interested in me. And in the decade or so since college, as the disinterest has persisted, I still haven’t.
Over the past few years, I’ve made a certain amount of peace with being single. It took some time, especially since I could find very little to help me. The books I found on being single were almost exclusively geared toward “being single until you get married because of course you will.” The singles activities at my church were rare, and everyone in them was a good 40 years older than me. I eventually realized that I could not rely on a guide to help me; I had to find out what the single life meant for me. I had to build a life of my own, instead of waiting to find my “other half.”
It’s not my preferred choice, but I’m not going to fling myself at someone out of desperation. This sense of acceptance comes and goes. There are days when I’m tempted to run outside and proposition the first man I can find. But most days, I just accept that this is my reality right now, and change will not happen quickly or easily. Regardless, the frustration lingers: I would have liked it to be a real choice, not a matter of mere acceptance.
I’ve tried talking about my story a few times. I’ve pushed back when people assume that certain levels of romantic history are universal; when people make offhand remarks that assume that, given my age, I’ve had several intimate relationships, I correct them. I try to remind people that “virgin” is not an insult, and that sex isn’t the guarantor of adulthood. The rare times I’ve brought up this pain, I’ve been told that I simply didn’t notice guys who were interested, or that I just needed to “be myself” and admirers would miraculously appear.
That’s what hurts the worst: the absolute refusal of others to believe me when I talk about my experience. The insistence that I don’t know my own life. The appropriation of my narrative to turn it into a more palatable story for the comfort of others. I’ve tried to understand why my story makes others uncomfortable. It’s possible that it’s because it introduces an element of uncertainty into all relationships: What if a lot of it comes down to luck? If there’s no real reason behind my lack of relationships, maybe it’s just a coincidence, an accident of chance. And that means they found their partners due to chance as well, and their lives might have been like mine if a few things had gone differently. And so they rationalize and explain my story; if it’s due to something I’m not doing, then they are safe in their relationships. They didn’t make my mistakes.
Female friends try to assure me that I am attractive, but have no explanation for why men don’t seem to agree. They don’t understand why I rebuff their compliments, assuming that I’m only operating from a foundation of low self-esteem, when in actuality I’m just trying to keep my grip on reality. If it were true that I were attractive, then at some point, someone would have acted on said attraction. No one has, and my narrative accounts for the truth better than their perspective does.
And yet, my friends seem to think my rejection of their narrative is a personal rebuff; I spend my energy protecting their feelings from the truth of mine. I laugh away the pain that runs deep so they won’t feel sorry for me. I go to their bridal showers, their weddings, and I’m genuinely happy for them. I enjoy dinners at their houses, trying not to be jealous of the cookware that they received when they married. No one throws showers for single women; all my cookware comes from the thrift store or the cheap aisle at the grocery store.
I wish I could talk more about others who have shared this experience. But the truth is, I don’t know of any others within my personal circles. I have many single friends, but all of them have had their share of admirers. According to CDC research conducted a few years ago, 2% of women age 25-44 (and 3% of men in the same age range) have never had vaginal sex. Surely some of these millions of virgins include those like me, who want physical intimacy but have never been offered it.
But we hide our stories, afraid of being judged, laughed at, or worse, pitied. We miss out on the support of others with similar stories.
The question I find myself facing now is whether or not to keep trying. As L.M. Montgomery wrote in The Blue Castle, “Yes, I’m ‘still young’—but that’s so different from young.” The reality is that if no one has wanted more than a hug from me by now, that’s not likely to change as I age. I don’t want to be single forever. I would very much like to be kissed at least once. Do I keep trying to find someone, or do I accept my situation for what it is, and direct my energies elsewhere? Will other people let me accept being unwillingly single, or will they keep pushing me to believe that I am somehow secretly attractive, in the face of all experiential evidence that suggests otherwise?
I may never stop wanting my story to change, but I will keep fighting to tell it my way. I intend to cling to the truth, even when it’s a painful one. I hope others with more normative experiences will start to understand, and find ways to include women like me in discussions about sex and love, without resorting to alienating comments about what “all women” experience.
We’re all women, we all have our stories, and we all want the chance to tell them with dignity and truth.
To the best of my knowledge, no one who has seen me in person has ever been attracted to me. I’m not catcalled or harassed. The only relationships I’ve had have been online. The only boyfriend who met me offline would not do more than give me a hug. I have met potential partners from the Internet, only to watch the interest in their eyes die when they see me.
I often feel like the only woman on the face of the planet who no one is attracted to. And I am ashamed—in part because this is something no one ever talks about.
We turn virginity into a punchline—a sign of misplaced religious conviction, physical grotesqueness, or social ineptitude. We try to escape the reality that sex is a choice that some are never offered, and ignore the fact that trumpeting sexual freedom also has the power to wound deeply. The sexually inexperienced (especially those with no choice in the matter) feel a strong urge to hide this fact, in order to let people assume a common level of sexual history. It’s a lot easier than trying to explain the truth, and it hurts less, too.
I’ve sat through countless conversations with groups of women, praying that the conversation wouldn’t turn to sex, cringing inwardly when it inevitably did, and trying to laugh with the others until the topic changed and I could relax again, my secret safe. For now.
When I was growing up, the conversation was always about how to say “no,” how to not be pressured into sex, how to turn down a date honestly and fairly. My educators, ministers, and youth group leaders never told me what to do when I wasn’t pressured, when I wasn’t asked out on dates. Teenage me was practically quivering with excitement over my first chance to say “no,” because even “no” contained the possibility that I could choose to say “yes.” But the question never came.
I thought that, perhaps, things would get better in college. Surely, the smart guys would at least be attracted to my intellect. Instead, while I made friends with lots of great guys who I’m still close with, I was never once asked on a date. No one ever tried to cop a feel at an event or in the movie theater. There was never the hint of a hookup. Perhaps, if my upbringing hadn’t been so conservative, or if I’d had a few dates in high school, I would have had the courage to ask someone out for myself instead of waiting, but that was unthinkable to me.
I was so confused. This wasn’t how the movies went. This wasn’t how the novels ended. Most of my friends got married right out of college, and those that didn’t at least had dates. I sat down to take inventory: Why wasn’t anyone interested? Was it my appearance? I’ve always been on the large side of curvy, but I knew plenty of girls my size and larger who had found happy relationships. Was it my face? I’ve never been pretty, but again, I knew women who were objectively less “pretty” than me who had found love. Was it my personality? I’m shy and reserved (unless you bring up Star Wars or Dune, then good luck getting me to shut up), but I’m comfortable talking to friends. I was part of several active social groups, and enjoyed spending time with friends. I couldn’t find a persuasive reason why no one was interested in me. And in the decade or so since college, as the disinterest has persisted, I still haven’t.
Over the past few years, I’ve made a certain amount of peace with being single. It took some time, especially since I could find very little to help me. The books I found on being single were almost exclusively geared toward “being single until you get married because of course you will.” The singles activities at my church were rare, and everyone in them was a good 40 years older than me. I eventually realized that I could not rely on a guide to help me; I had to find out what the single life meant for me. I had to build a life of my own, instead of waiting to find my “other half.”
It’s not my preferred choice, but I’m not going to fling myself at someone out of desperation. This sense of acceptance comes and goes. There are days when I’m tempted to run outside and proposition the first man I can find. But most days, I just accept that this is my reality right now, and change will not happen quickly or easily. Regardless, the frustration lingers: I would have liked it to be a real choice, not a matter of mere acceptance.
I’ve tried talking about my story a few times. I’ve pushed back when people assume that certain levels of romantic history are universal; when people make offhand remarks that assume that, given my age, I’ve had several intimate relationships, I correct them. I try to remind people that “virgin” is not an insult, and that sex isn’t the guarantor of adulthood. The rare times I’ve brought up this pain, I’ve been told that I simply didn’t notice guys who were interested, or that I just needed to “be myself” and admirers would miraculously appear.
That’s what hurts the worst: the absolute refusal of others to believe me when I talk about my experience. The insistence that I don’t know my own life. The appropriation of my narrative to turn it into a more palatable story for the comfort of others. I’ve tried to understand why my story makes others uncomfortable. It’s possible that it’s because it introduces an element of uncertainty into all relationships: What if a lot of it comes down to luck? If there’s no real reason behind my lack of relationships, maybe it’s just a coincidence, an accident of chance. And that means they found their partners due to chance as well, and their lives might have been like mine if a few things had gone differently. And so they rationalize and explain my story; if it’s due to something I’m not doing, then they are safe in their relationships. They didn’t make my mistakes.
Female friends try to assure me that I am attractive, but have no explanation for why men don’t seem to agree. They don’t understand why I rebuff their compliments, assuming that I’m only operating from a foundation of low self-esteem, when in actuality I’m just trying to keep my grip on reality. If it were true that I were attractive, then at some point, someone would have acted on said attraction. No one has, and my narrative accounts for the truth better than their perspective does.
And yet, my friends seem to think my rejection of their narrative is a personal rebuff; I spend my energy protecting their feelings from the truth of mine. I laugh away the pain that runs deep so they won’t feel sorry for me. I go to their bridal showers, their weddings, and I’m genuinely happy for them. I enjoy dinners at their houses, trying not to be jealous of the cookware that they received when they married. No one throws showers for single women; all my cookware comes from the thrift store or the cheap aisle at the grocery store.
I wish I could talk more about others who have shared this experience. But the truth is, I don’t know of any others within my personal circles. I have many single friends, but all of them have had their share of admirers. According to CDC research conducted a few years ago, 2% of women age 25-44 (and 3% of men in the same age range) have never had vaginal sex. Surely some of these millions of virgins include those like me, who want physical intimacy but have never been offered it.
But we hide our stories, afraid of being judged, laughed at, or worse, pitied. We miss out on the support of others with similar stories.
The question I find myself facing now is whether or not to keep trying. As L.M. Montgomery wrote in The Blue Castle, “Yes, I’m ‘still young’—but that’s so different from young.” The reality is that if no one has wanted more than a hug from me by now, that’s not likely to change as I age. I don’t want to be single forever. I would very much like to be kissed at least once. Do I keep trying to find someone, or do I accept my situation for what it is, and direct my energies elsewhere? Will other people let me accept being unwillingly single, or will they keep pushing me to believe that I am somehow secretly attractive, in the face of all experiential evidence that suggests otherwise?
I may never stop wanting my story to change, but I will keep fighting to tell it my way. I intend to cling to the truth, even when it’s a painful one. I hope others with more normative experiences will start to understand, and find ways to include women like me in discussions about sex and love, without resorting to alienating comments about what “all women” experience.
We’re all women, we all have our stories, and we all want the chance to tell them with dignity and truth.
This essay has apparently served as a beacon for the Forever Alones who have been relieved that they aren't the only grotesque failures out there. Reddit on the otherhand told it like it was, to Joi's chagrin.
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Male who likes MLP? "BRO"ny? Or has it evolved and this poor old Genie got left behind?
