[Dweck] has published a bestselling book on the subject and given very popular talks on what she calls in her TED appearance in Sweden above “the power of yet”—a phrase she derives from a high school in Chicago that gave students the grade of “not yet” when they hadn’t successfully passed a course. This hopeful assessment encouraged them to keep trying rather than to think of themselves as failures.
Dweck tells her TED audience about giving a group of ten-year-olds’ problems she knew would be too hard for them to solve. Those with a “growth mindset” responded with excitement, eager for a challenge and the opportunity to expand their capabilities. The kids who had a “fixed mindset” crumpled, feeling like they had been judged and come up wanting. “Instead of luxuriating in the power of yet,” says Dweck, “they were gripped in the tyranny of now.” Children thus “tyrannized” by feelings of failure might be more likely to cheat rather than study, make downward comparisons to boost feelings of self-worth, or become avoidant and “run from difficulty.”
…Unsurprisingly, when we believe we can change and improve, we are far more likely to work at developing talent, instead of assuming we’ve either got it or we don’t, an unscientific and self-defeating way of thinking that has done a lot of people needless harm. Dweck and her colleagues show that our life’s passion isn’t a fully-formed thing out there waiting for us, or an inborn, immutable quality, but rather it comes as the result of patient and persistent efforts.
“The kids who had a “fixed mindset” crumpled, feeling like they had been judged and come up wanting. “Instead of luxuriating in the power of yet,” says Dweck, “they were gripped in the tyranny of now.” Children thus “tyrannized” by feelings of failure might be more likely to cheat rather than study, make downward comparisons to boost feelings of self-worth, or become avoidant and “run from difficulty.“”
I don’t like the way people keep saying this as though it comes from nowhere, or from the kids themselves, rather than the very class of people that’s doing these studies. I especially don’t like the way that they often seem to be applying a value judgment to this and to the kids, when the whole point is that those sorts of value judgments are harmful.
Seconded. Also, as someone who went through school “gifted” and with an undiagnosed learning disability I flinch hard at implications that “mindset” is the be-all and end-all of success determinants because I hear the echo of “you want to fail, you didn’t try hard enough, you’ll definitely get it if you try”.
Yeah, as someone who would passionately learn advanced words and Greek roots from my papa, but collapse into self-hatred if I spelled a word wrong at school – if a kid or adult treats themself like this, it’s because authority figures have beat it into them.
Only partially understanding something my father was talking about? Exciting! I could learn! Let me ask a million questions!
Only partially understanding something at school? Brain freezes, I despair, there is no hope.
There’s a reason I know more about the Mochica language than many linguists studying it, but the idea of attending a linguistics course sends me into a dissociative panic.
[Video shows 9 giant kites in the air. They look incredibly like octopi and their tentacles move realistically behind them as they seem to swim through the air.
Hi babe. This
was totally cute and I’m sorry it took me so long to get to it. Honestly,
I struggled a little with fanboy Timmy, but you mentioned the Tiny!Tim universe
(so, in the same world as this thing). My babe @satire-please tortures me with this au, so
I thought of a thing? It’s not the thing you wanted exactly, but ah…
I tried?
**
And sometimes, he feels bad when his parents go
away on an extended trip to a dig or an unveiling. He feels bad because it
makes him happy since his parents leaving for a while means he
gets to stay with Mr. Bruce, Jay, and Alfred at nights instead of being home
all alone. It means he gets to do his homework in the kitchen across the table
from Jay, and can, you know, sometimes ask for his help
on the harder things (sometimes it makes him feel more
bad because he doesn’t need help, not really, but it’s so nice
when Jay scrunches up against his side and explains his way of solving a
problem).
But, it’s the best, the absolute best,
when he asks Jay for help with his Reading homework because Jay’s voice is
starting to get deeper like Mr. Bruce’s, and he reads out loud in such an easy,
effortless way it makes Tim wanna snuggle down and let the rhythm roll over
him.
And sometimes, after dinner, if he’s full and happy, he might
fall asleep on his favorite couch in the downstairs lounge, but when he wakes
up, he was always tucked in to “his” bed in “his” room, the one Mr. Bruce said
would always be for him, so he would always have a place with them.
(Every time he comes over, his Spider-Man bedspread is there
and his Sully slippers in the same place he left them last time he came over.
Sometimes there’s new books. Sometimes there’s a few games on the desk, puzzles
for him to solve! When he does solve them and explains to Mr. Bruce how he
figured it all out, he likes how Mr. Bruce tries to hide his smile behind one
hand while Jay’s eyes get all wide and surprised.)
Sometimes when he gets there, it’s just Mr. Alfred and Mr.
Bruce. He just tells Tim that Jay is visiting Dick for help on a project
so they would just have a movie night without him. How does that sound?
And it’s fine! Because Mr. Bruce is really nice and tries to be
silly sometimes, bantering back and forth with Alfred or Jay or him, absently
ruffling Jay’s hair and Tim’s immediately after.
But sometimes, if he’s lucky, very, very
lucky, Dick will come in from the Haven with the excuse of checking up on his adopted Father and proclaimed “Little Brother.”
So he thinks he must be so lucky because when
he walks into the foyer of Wayne Manor, still in his uniform from the private
school in the middle of Gotham, his backpack featuring Batman and Robin (of course he noticed Mr. Bruce smiling when he saw
it) still on his shoulders with
homework he’d already finished, and Dick is just right
there.
He might squeak just a little because Mr. Alfred looked down
at his shoes contemplatively, probably thinking no one in existence
could make a noise like that.
“Hey Timmy!”
And the little boy goes a little hazy when Dick says his name
in that fond tone, already coming close so he can swing Tim up in his arms and
hold him close for a hug.
“Hi Dick,” the younger boy returns shyly, but absolutely
throws his arms around Dick’s massive shoulders, snuggles himself down into the
hold.
**
But sometimes…sometimes he makes mistakes.
It’s after three when he has to get up out of bed and go
downstairs. He woke up from a nightmare and can’t go back to sleep, so he needs
a glass of milk and he doesn’t want to wake Mr. Alfred to get it.
When he finds Mr. Bruce, Jay, and Dick sitting at the kitchen
table in sweats and t-shirts, looking bruised and battered and exhausted, his
heart starts pounding so hard he think he might throw-up.
“Oh no,” and his eyes are getting hot and heavy, “no, no no.”
His little fists clench hard by his sides, his small body trembling because
they have bandages and bruises, because there’s blood and they got hurt.
Three heads immediately turn when they hear him, hear the
pain in his voice, hear the thick quality to it.
“Shit,” is Jay’s immediate answer, one hand already up in a hold-on a minute, you feel me? Kind of motion.
“Tim,” Bruce is half-rising out of his chair, obviously
wincing while he does.
“Hey! We were just–um, we couldn’t sleep, Timmy, okay? It’s
all right, we’re going back to bed–”
“You got hurt,” is trembling and angry and his jaw clenches
so hard he can barely get it out. “You went after the
Riddler and you got hurt.”
And since he’s feeling so many things, since
his eyes are heavy and the first tears start to fall even though he’s trying to
be a big boy and hold it all in, he takes a shaky step forward
and forgets that he probably shouldn’t say anything to give himself away.
By the absolute shock on their faces, he’s already messed
that up.
“And I knew where he was and I didn’t tell you,” is full of anger and recriminations, something so out of place
from a kid his age, “I saw all the trucks heading down to the Narrows on my way
home from school. I knew it had to be the Riddler’s goons. I knew they had
to be planning something big because there were five whole trucks, and I didn’t say anything.”
His voice picks up the more he talks, the faster he gets, his
eyes going wildly from the bandage around Dick’s hand to the one Jay’s cheek to
the nasty scratches on the lower part of Mr. Bruce’s arm.
He’s almost screaming when the truth finally comes out, “you
got hurt because I was too scared to say anything! I know
you didn’t want me to know your secret, so I didn’t tell, and-and it’s my fault you got hurt!”
And his chest hitches because he’s trying hard, so hard,
to stop crying, to keep the sobs in, “I didn’t want you to kick me out, so I
kept your secret! I like being here, I like–” having
a real home, a real family “–so I
never told! And-and look what happened! Look what I did!”
And now that they know he knows and that he
didn’t give them the evidence they needed against the Riddler, they weren’t
going to let him come back anyway. They couldn’t chance he would find out
anything else, so he would have to go back to staying with Mrs. Mac, to
promising he would never tell, to hearing the sound of the big car going past
his empty, silent house on the way to the city. By not telling them everything,
he was literally going to lose it all.
And the realization makes the small boy choke.
He doesn’t know he’s backing up until he hits the kitchen
wall, slaps both tiny hands over his mouth with his wet eyes wide with horror
at what he’d just said.
“I’m sorry,” he sobs, muffled behind his hands, “I’m so
sorry!”
He turns to run, manages to dart around Mr. Alfred still in
his pajamas, coming down to see what the commotion is, doesn’t turn when his
name is called.
Instead, he takes the stairs fast,
already throwing off his pajama shirt by the time he hits the door to his room
and locks it. His hands shake when he throws on his clothes and shoes without
socks, when he snags his backpack and shoves the window up in his room (not his anymore. They’re not going to be mean
about because they’re so nice putting up with him, dealing with him, being good
to him, but of course he can’t come back, not when he just screwed everything
up so badly).
He’s sobbing without realizing it when he slides his arms
into the straps and throws his small legs over the sill, feet trying to find
purchase.
He’s crying so loud, his chest hitching with breath that he
doesn’t hear the voices on the other side of the door calling to him, doesn’t
know the small clicking sounds are someone picking the lock.
He gets to the window below his and has to turn because
there’s no other purchase for him to find from there. With the small amount of
rooms he’s got, he bends his knees, steadies himself with a hand on the side of
the sill, and balances, calculates with the weight of the backpack and books.
When he finally springs, leaping from the window to the tree right next
to the Manor, he doesn’t really think about how far down it would be if he
doesn’t get hold of the branch in time to catch himself. He really doesn’t
think about anything else but leaving before they can tell him he can’t come back.
(Because that would be worse than not being able to after
this. Seeing Dick’s face so sad and Mr. Bruce tight-lipped. Even Jay not
looking him in the eye.)
The bark scratches his hands, but he doesn’t let go. He pulls
himself up, small arms straining with his weight and the books on his back.
“Oh my God, Tim!” Dick’s voice sounds completely panicked.
The riotous, “How
in the utter fuck did he–!” is
absolutely Jay.
But it’s Bruce Wayne that launches himself out the window
almost too fast to be seen, dives like he’s in the cape, like one of his boys
is in trouble (because one of his
boys is) and easily snatches Tim in one arm, holds the
little boy securely against his chest, and uses the other to swing around the
branch to propel them back up to the third story window.
It’s easy and effortless, Mr. Bruce swinging them both back
up to the window, holding on with one hand and him with the other, sliding his
legs back in and ducking so they don’t hit their heads.
Dick doesn’t wait even a second, just scoops him out of Mr.
Bruce’s arms and hugs him tight enough to hurt.
“D-Dick!” he whimpers but the vigilante just falls down on
the messy bed and refuses to let up even a little.
“Timothy Jackson Drake,” is shaky but still makes him huddle tighter
into Dick’s chest and neck, “if you ever scare me like that again!”
“All right, Dick, calm down,” because Mr. Bruce has to keep
order somehow. “He just scared himself, so we’re going to talk about this, then
everyone is going to bed.”
Mr. Bruce sits down on Dick’s right and Jay scowls while he
plops down on the left.
“I…I’m sorry, Dick. I’m sorry.”
“Tol’ ya he was a smartie,” Jay just shakes his head and lays
back, throws a forearm over his tired eyes.
“Thank-you, Master Jason. It would seem you have an eye for
detail. I suppose those detective lessons are coming along nicely,” Mr. Alfred comes
through the doorway with a tray, still in his pajamas and robe. Coffee smells
good but the tall glass of milk is for the shaky boy perched on Master Dick’s
lap.
A thumbs-up is all Jason has to say in return.
“There now, Master Timothy. Time to be brave, yes? Here, your
milk is quite ready.”
Wiping at his face, Tim climbs off Dick’s lap, stands to face
the four looking at him expectantly, sniffling and staring down at his
sneakers. Mr. Bruce reaches out for coffee and pats his head gently, pulls a
Batman move to slide the hand down to his his backpack and slip it down his
arms, puts it by the bed at the same time.
“So, you figured us out,” Dick leans in to take the next
offered cup, and tries to duck a little so Timmy would look up at them.
Sucking in a breath, the little boy just nods, ashamed and
shaky.
“How?” Mr. Bruce tries to make it gentle, but Timmy still
flinches and has to wipe his face with his sleeve again. “It’s okay, Tim, but
you need to tell us how you found out our identities.”
Biting down on his lip doesn’t help stop the tears in his
eyes again, doesn’t stop the knock to his knees, or the trembling in his belly.
“Dick…Dick can do quadruple flips,” is half-sobbed out,
“just like Nightwing and-and the old footage of Robin.” He wraps his arms
around himself, hugging himself tight, trying to keep himself from breaking
down completely, “then there was a new Robin and it was because Jay came to
live with you. And how else could Batman pay for all the things he has? Where
would he get all the technology? It just…it just all added up,” and his knees
give a wobble, his chest hitching a little because they’re going to let him
stay the night and then take him back home. This room will be a guest room
again, all his things gone, like he’d never stayed at all–
“I’ll-I’ll never tell,” the little boy sobs, “no matter what
happens, I’ll never tell! Please believe me, please!”
Jay sits up to take the hot chocolate from Alfred and look
the crying little kid over. He sighs when Timmy covers his eyes and tries to
hide. He side-eyes B and Dickie, has a silent conversation with his partners
using facial expressions alone in their own Bat-language.
In a singular motion, all three of them turn to look at
Alfred sitting comfortably in the slipper chair, his wizened eyes softening.
The butler merely raises an eyebrow.
Bruce gives a firm nod since they’re all in agreement, and
puts his coffee cup down decisively.
“Tim,” and Mr. Bruce is being gentle again, trying to be so nice
that Timmy knows what’s coming, knows what he’s going to say.
“I’ll go back home,” he sniffs, keeps his hand over his eyes,
“I’ll never,” hic, “I’ll never bother you again and I’ll never tell
anyone.”
“Oh Timmy!” Dick’s eyes go wide.
“Now hold on a minute, kiddo–”
“Master Tim–”
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, please don’t hate me. Please–!”
Jay’s eyes blow wide with shock and Dick’s mouth falls open.
It’s Bruce this time that stands off the bed to kneel by the little boy and put
both hands solidly on his shoulders.
“Tim. Look. At. Me.” This time it’s firm, dark and
growly like the Batman. There’s no question, it’s a tone that demands the worst
criminals throw down their weapons and give
up.
His eyes watery and face wet, little Timmy blinks up at Mr.
Bruce and hastily wipes his face with his sleeve.
“There is absolutely no
way we could ever hate you, and
nothing, nothing is your fault, do you understand me?”
Uncomprehending, Tim just stares up at him with those dark
eyes.
“You’ll go back when your parents are there, just like we’ve
been doing until now. And when they need to leave, you’re going to come home
and stay in your room. You’ll do your homework with Jay and me and Alfred.
You’ll eat all your vegetables or no dessert. You’ll do your chores and keep up
your grades, just like the boys.”
And the blooming hope makes him catch his breath, his eyes
wide with it, his small hands come up to clench fists full of Mr. Bruce’s t-shirt.
“But no crime fighting until you’re at least in middle
school! Absolutely none, Tim, am I making myself clear?”
“Yes,” the boy breathes out with a last sniffle, “yesyesyes I
promise! I promise!”
“Good. No more talk of leaving, not ever again. You’re part
of the family and that isn’t going to change, okay?”
His eyes are full again and it’s for the happiest reason ever, and he’s nodding quickly because his throat is
thick (Mr. Bruce called this his
‘home’) and he doesn’t want
anyone to change their minds.
Jay grins at him widely, swigging the last of his chocolate
milk and giving him a wink.
Dick laughs out loud and snatches him from Mr. Bruce’s hold,
holds him up off his feet even with a bandaged hand and bruises. “See, Timmy?
Everything is fine, and someday when you’re bigger, you can come
hang out with me in the ‘Haven. I’ll totally teach you to train surf.”
He wraps both arms and legs around Dick to squeeze back and
laugh, too. He’s so full of happy even when Mr. Alfred says to put him down, he
needs to drink his milk, but perhaps a late movie night could be in order.
Jay doesn’t say anything when Timmy holds on the hem of his
t-shirt while they troop downstairs and presses between him and Dick on the
couch. He gets hair ruffles and some popcorn, nods off with a smile before Coco
even gets to the good musical part.
When he wakes up surrounded by everyone, the television off
and the smell of coffee and breakfast wafting from the kitchen, when he does
his chores and sets the table, gets the best French Toast to
ever exist, when he gets to be in the banter around him, he
thinks how nice it is.
To be part of their family.
I SO HAPPY THAT I CAN STILL ‘TORTURE’ YOU WITH THIS AU. It’s so lovely and FLUFFY. TINY TIM FOR LIFE.
[Gif shows dozens of batlogos cycling up the image against a starry background. The logos are shiny red and different styles. End ID.]
Sometimes i think about the idea of Common as a language in fantasy settings.
On the one hand, it’s a nice convenient narrative device that doesn’t necessarily need to be explored, but if you do take a moment to think about where it came from or what it might look like, you find that there’s really only 2 possible origins.
In settings where humans speak common and only Common, while every other race has its own language and also speaks Common, the implication is rather clear: at some point in the setting’s history, humans did the imperialism thing, and while their empire has crumbled, the only reason everyone speaks Human is that way back when, they had to, and since everyone speaks it, the humans rebranded their language as Common and painted themselves as the default race in a not-so-subtle parallel of real-world whiteness.
In settings where Human and Common are separate languages, though (and I haven’t seen nearly as many of these as I’d like), Common would have developed communally between at least three or four races who needed to communicate all together. With only two races trying to communicate, no one would need to learn more than one new language, but if, say, a marketplace became a trading hub for humans, dwarves, orcs, and elves, then either any given trader would need to learn three new languages to be sure that they could talk to every potential customer, OR a pidgin could spring up around that marketplace that eventually spreads as the traders travel the world.
Drop your concept of Common meaning “english, but in middle earth” for a moment and imagine a language where everyone uses human words for produce, farming, and carpentry; dwarven words for gemstones, masonry, and construction; elven words for textiles, magic, and music; and orcish words for smithing weaponry/armor, and livestock. Imagine that it’s all tied together with a mishmash of grammatical structures where some words conjugate and others don’t, some adjectives go before the noun and some go after, and plurals and tenses vary wildly based on what you’re talking about.
Now try to tell me that’s not infinitely more interesting.
ALSO, Common that isn’t the HUMAN’S language.
Trolls have been here before plants even existed, much less biological life. Everyone accepts theirs as the True Language, and use it for cross cultural communication, even though the Trolls have almost all turned into mountains and nobody uses it as a first language. Many newer concepts don’t have Trollish translations, so creatures have to construct awkward compounds to describe them. (Somewhat similar to medieval Latin.)
Or, the Fae conquered most of the known world, and were only recently ousted. Everyone hates and fears them, but government and commerce are still conducted in Fairy Speech because no one can agree on which language to use and everyone knows it. (Kind of like the Hellenistic Era, where everyone spoke Greek after Alexander the Great’s empire fell apart.)
The Elves created writing (and, according to them, everything else) and all other races use some form of their creation. For a long time, to write you had to be able to speak Elvish. The script has now been adapted to other languages, but enough Elvish has crept into other tongues that it’s the easiest second language for most creatures to learn. (Like Chinese or Latin for long periods of history.)
Or YES, the contact languages that OP is talking about! Ranging from dialects to pidgins to creoles.
Take any of the above ideas, and add loanwords from all the first languages of speakers.
Maybe Elvish communities grew up in other cultural spheres and their language evolved. Now races are learning Elvish with strong accents, and lots of archaisms and foreign loanwords. (Like Cajun and Quebecois French.)
Maybe Common evolved in stages. First from the Trolls, then the Dwarves with their tools and society, the Merfolk with animal husbandry and cultural hierarchy, the Humans with farming and cooking, the Werecreatures with magic, etc. Layers of language, with the earliest vocabulary no longer similar to modern Dwarvish or Aquatic, the newest adoptions still pronounced with “quotation marks” by older speakers. (Like modern English, with French loanwords the French can’t recognize and new identity terms the previous generation won’t accept.)
Maybe instead of Common being the language of the educated (like Latin and Chinese were), Common is the domain of the lower classes. If you have the means, you learn your cultural tongue, but the poor all speak Fairy Speech. Other languages were mostly erased, and the struggle to revive them was an expression of pride and freedom. Many rich children no longer understand Fairy Speech, though their parents probably do. (Like innumerable endangered languages these days are trying for. Lets create worlds where they’ve mostly succeeded!)
Maybe there are areas that are multicultural enough that Common is the general language of speech. You can always recognize them because of their dialect. Second language Common speakers usually speak textbook Common, bloodless and inoffensive, with a well designed grammar that takes the best of all its component languages. People who speak it from birth have wildly varying grammar, depending on the most influential cultures in their neighbourhood. Genders vary from 0 to 4. Affixes are mostly the same, but can be added in different orders and either before or after the root. Word order is a disaster, and often new word endings have to be created just so you know who’s the object of the sentence, because in Tevinter they put the object at the beginning?
wild idea here but… instead of pushing this idea that teenagers can’t be asexual bc they’re children and not wanting sex is normal, how about “if you identify as ace as a teenager but later realize you just didn’t want sex bc you were a kid and stop identifying that way, that’s okay” and realizing that doesn’t mean no one can know they’re asexual as a teenager and stop maybe telling asexual teenagers that they’re too young to be ace bc that’s really weird given that teenagers are cetainly capable of being non-asexual also you totally can’t decide something like that for someone else
Also, it’s not the not wanting sex that’s generally cluing us in to the fact that we’re different. It’s the CRUSHES everyone else gets. The attraction. The preoccupation.
My son’s in grade one and already talking about the girl he’s going to marry. When I was 21 I still struggled with how I was going to get the kids I wanted, because relationships were SO uninteresting.
(There are alloromantic aces and allosexual aros who do get crushes. I’m not saying this is universal. And sometimes people want other aspects of relationships other than the romance/sex.)
candy? in his pockets before they’re even in the house. he spent 20+ years raising a hockey team’s worth of disciplined crime fighters, he’s gonna stoop to bribery and sugar coercion now. he suspects that they genuinely love him, but because he’s bruce, he’s not 100% sure and those three ounces of chocolate go a long way.
tea parties? hot wheels? he’s down. he will ignore the creak of his (probably now fake) aching knees to sit on the floor and have delicate tea parties with dolls and bears in attendance and drink lukewarm water from plastic cups. he will make impressive car noises out of the side of his mouth for an hour. he’s batman. earnestly playing with the sweetest beings on the face of the planet (that’s what they are) is not beyond him, beneath him, or really that far from him at all and he can be nudged there with a single pleading word. he might pretend to be hard to convince, but it’s a ruse and everyone knows it.
reading? listen he has a massive library and he isn’t afraid to use it. he has favorite books memorized and also can probably keep reciting for a solid thirty seconds after falling asleep, at which point a tiny finger has to poke him in the side or the eyelid. he was old fifteen years ago, the chair is almost comfortable, it’s warm. prod him and he’ll start up again.
best friend? once upon a time in his life, bruce harbored a secret (okay not a well kept secret) mild jealousy of clark. clark was the fun one. clark got to take Smol Dick flying while Bruce had to tell him to do his homework and pick his socks up off the floor. but times have changed and as the grandchildren’s merch representation clearly favors batman, he’s not at all opposed to having the coolest best friend in the universe. if you thought grandpa!bruce was a good jungle gym and playmate, just wait until you’re six years old and have been used in a literal game of catch across the lawn between batman and superman while they chat and wait for steak to finish grilling. superman does most of the talking, but you’re pretty fond of batman’s grunts.
conversationalist? this wouldn’t be the first place most people’s minds would go, but bruce is bruce. kids are kids. kids are blunt and ask a zillion questions an hour and bruce has a lot of practice teaching. he got a whole parade of robins to work with him for hours a day and still love him. he talks to the babies like they’re grown-ups, and the toddlers like they’re adults, and the kids like they’re actual people and can easily spend an afternoon answering as many questions as they can get through. and it seems like he knows everything; the grandkids have a running game where they try to stump him and nobody’s done it yet. and vice versa: he will listen to them about anything for hours, nodding and hmming at the appropriate times, regardless of the topic or his own interest.
hugs? everybody knows grandpa bruce gives the best hugs. uncle dick thinks grandpa bruce gives the best hugs. best hugs.
So, I would love to keep experimenting with the better binder project, in part because it helps me get off my mind of the incredibly soul-destroying process of applying for government income assistance. I came home from the assistance office on Friday and cried.
But I literally can’t afford to buy new sewing materials right now, I’m so badly off financially. And after today’s success I really want to try taking cheap Fruit of the Loom bras and putting zippers and boning on them, but that’s stuff I’d have to buy new.
So if you can, donate? Here’s my Patreon and Paypal.
kiragecko 