So I’ve got this friend whose nervous because she’s trans and dating this guy who she hasn’t told yet because they’ve only been on a two dates. For this story let’s call the friend Jane and the guy she was dating Jason. Happy ending don’t worry.
So I tell Jane to bring her boy over to a bbq I’m having and she can tell him she’s trans at my place surrounded by queer and trans people who love her and will support her if he ends up being awful.
She waits till the end of the bbq to tell him the news, by which point the rest of us have learned that Jason is a kind, friendly, empathetic, hard working, dummy. So we sit down, all of us a little worried about this gym bro’s reaction when she tells him she’s trans, and that she understands if he doesn’t want to keep dating her it’s no big deal.
He’s baffled, so we explain what trans is, and after the disclosure that she hasn’t had bottom surgery yet…
“Oh you have a dick?”
“… yeah.”
He look’s around at the room full of people with baited breath, his clearly a little afraid girl friend says
“Oooohhhh! I get it! You think- don’t worry Babe! Watch this!”
And ya’ll this man jumps up, runs into the kitchen and returns with one of the bratwurst we had for grilling and proceeds to tilt his head back, put it down his throat, hold it in his mouth for a moment, and spit it up without even a whisper of a gag and then looks around at the group absolutely beaming with pride.
My mans saw his worried girlfriend and her support network and thought to him self “Oh they don’t think I can’t please my girl, but I’ll show them!”
I do feel the need to add that later he excitedly tell the group that as a straight guy, he never thought that skill would be useful outside hotdog eating contests.
“Man its too bad that im straight since I’ve got like no gag reflex and all.”
“Honey, I must tell you, i am in fact trans and I have not had bottom surgery.”
Every year on our birthdays, Uncle Martin and Auntie Stella would drive to our concrete house behind the carpet factory and gift me and my brother a book. They brought me Haffertee Hamster and Haffertee’s First Easter. They brought Alex Betsy Glowworm Shines Her Light and Friska, My Friend. There was a biography of the African American surgeon Ben Carson. My first Children’s Illustrated Dictionary.
Even when our parents forgot our birthdays, this elderly couple always remembered.
When my parents first arrived in Australia, they thought the government had put them in a five-star hotel. The Midway Migrant Hostel was just a group of sturdy brick buildings that looked like brown slab cakes – but compared to the cardboard and plastic tents in the camp at the Thai–Cambodian border where they’d been staying only a month before, these buildings were evidence of a life after death: the death of half of our family in the Killing Fields.
In this glorious afterlife, the residents of the Midway Migrant Hostel even had visitors, souls so pure and kind that they could only be sent from God. And indeed they were.
Uncle Martin and Auntie Stella visited the hostel with food for the adults, toys for the children, and they brought secondhand furniture for the families who’d moved into their own houses. They invited us to their church, but their love was not conditional on conversion. They called themselves our godparents, and neither they nor my family thought anything unusual about this arrangement.
Godparents in wonderland
Uncle Martin and Auntie Stella were in their 70s and had four grownup children. When I was born less than a month after my parents arrived in Australia, they came to visit us at the hospital and marvel at the first Chinese baby they’d ever seen, with a mop of black hair. My father proudly told them that he’d named me Alice because he thought Australia was a wonderland and he was happy that I’d grow up in such a paradise.
Auntie Stella wrote my birthday in her little floral pocket notebook, and every single year of my life until I became an adult, she delivered me a present without fail. They visited us at home and never judged the mess in our house or commented on my grandmother’s Buddhist shrine.
We secretly wanted to believe that we were their special favoured family, but we guessed that Uncle Martin and Auntie Stella were doing this for other refugee families as well. I knew that other children’s names and dates of birth would be in Auntie Stella’s little book and that every year she and Uncle Martin would bring them all a gift on their birthdays, too. We did not mind this. The magnitude of their love was extraordinary, and in such abundance that there could be no cause for envy.
The books were simple, earnest, and good. Haffertee was a toy hamster Ma Diamond made for her daughter Yolanda when Yolanda’s real hamster died. It was named Haffertee because Yolanda thought her hamster was a girl and wanted to bring her home to “have her tea”. Haffertee, an inanimate toy that comes to life through sheer love, showed us the power of imaginative empathy. The families in those books also had imaginative empathy as the adults had reasoned discussions and talked to children as if their thoughts mattered.
Love imbued with anxiety
In our world, adults were often angry giants. They loved us but they also yelled at us and controlled everything, from when and what we ate, to what we were allowed to have and wear, and who we were allowed to see at any given time. Those who have the least often have the most inadequate physical buffers against the world: the chemicals of the factories were closer to our lungs, the vehicles we drove were made of thinner metal, the clothes we wore were made of poor-quality fibres and textures.
Our parents loved us, but their love was imbued with anxiety, the real fear that bad things had happened and could happen again, things beyond mortal control. They talked a lot about who was “smashed”, who was starved, who was lost. They’d talk this way at any time – over dinner, crossing the road, looking at tins of food in the supermarket, even when they were content and shelling peanuts on the front veranda of our first house.
Uncle Martin and Auntie Stella were different. They talked to us as children, even when we failed to maintain eye contact, even when we hid behind sofas and doors, too shy and ashamed and guilty over our inability to express true gratitude. But my brother and I read the books over and over again until we could memorise lines and copy the illustrations. I even tried to sew myself a Haffertee hamster.
My parents forgot school interviews and concerts, not from indifference, but from the foggy-mindedness induced by the sort of invisible and exploitative work that delivered comforts to wealthier households. So, as children, we didn’t know how to be likeable, no one had ever taught us. We’d only been taught how to make ourselves useful.
The books Auntie Stella and Uncle Martin gave us were all about being useful, but they also contained things that had never crossed our minds before: that work was to be appreciated, not just expected, and that it was possible to find contentment in life through living it with great care, consideration, and purpose, not just in pursuit of a short “happily-ever-after” paragraph at the end.
These were simple books, not the perennial literary childhood classics, and many of them are now out of print. Most of them – aside from the Children’s Illustrated Dictionary – imparted some kind of lesson. Betsy Glowworm, for instance, lit up the cave so Billy Badger could see his food, while the naughtier Beryl Glowworm kept them all stumbling in the dark.
Suffused with love and reason
Auntie Stella and Uncle Martin gave me a beacon of light, the gift of reading. There was no library near our house when I was growing up, but our suburb had a tool library for men with anger issues.
Besides the free government guides on Dangerous Snakes and Spiders and the hospital’s Bringing Home Your Baby book, for a while these gifts were the only other English books we owned. I got to go places in my childhood because of these books – places that were safe and warm and suffused with love and reason.
I made little handmade books for Uncle Martin and Auntie Stella at Christmas. Uncle Martin always told me in great earnestness, “You learned English so well, we are amazed by how well you speak and read, and how wonderfully you write.” To more sophisticated minds, these words might be misconstrued as patronising. To me, they were earnest encouragement.
Over the years, there were of course presents that weren’t books: a set of two beautiful knitted dolls, an embroidery set, chocolates and Easter eggs. But these things are long gone, or passed on to younger cousins. What remain are the books.
When Uncle Martin passed away many years after his beloved Stella, their daughter Ruth sent me a message. She’d found her late mother’s diary when cleaning the house. In an entry from January 4 2000, Auntie Stella had written: “We went to buy birthday presents specially book for Alice Pung.”
The power of a good story
When I go to children’s bookstores with my own children, I see they are filled with big bright titles like Kindness, In My Heart: a book of feelings, and I Am Peace. But I believe children are born with the full spectrum of human feelings. They don’t need to be told how to love or be kind or generous. They also don’t need to be taught how to feel the pettier emotions: annoyance, resentment, jealousy, misery. What they probably need now, more than ever, is the power of a good story, larger than their egos or even capacity for feeling.
I still have all of Auntie Stella and Uncle Martin’s book gifts. This is the legacy they left us, and I will pass these books on to my children. In Betsy Glowworm, they may learn that just because you are having a bad day, you don’t dim your light. You do not block out the light of others.
Sometimes, you just have to do what has to be done, even when you don’t feel like it. I learned this lesson from watching the adults around me. They did not want to work in low-skilled jobs when they might have been nurses or engineers back home, but they did. They did not want to be polite to the racist store assistant who would never address them directly, just speak to their children, but they were. And they did not want to take anything or anyone for granted.
Every year at Christmas, we’d visit Uncle Martin and Auntie Stella. We children would sit on the floor and bask in the light of our Australian godparents – and we could see, even in the faces of the adults, that they felt truly seen – not for who they were, but for what they still might become.
In that diary entry of Auntie Stella’s, she’d written at the very top a passage from her favourite book: “Let everything I do reflect my love for you.”
We were blessed by this love, but through the books they gave us, the gifts of reading, we were also given the gift of hope.
A pub full of people blasting out a rendition of Toto's Africa is bliss to Astrid Jorgensen but chew popcorn near her, or cough, or sniff, and rage boils inside her.
She knows it is odd to admit she hates sounds. After all, Astrid has made a living out of organised noise, creating the worldwide phenomenon that is Pub Choir.
But hearing is her dominant sense, and if someone is tapping a pen or clearing their throat, it is all Astrid can hear.
"Probably the most contradictory part of my life is that I despise sounds," Astrid tells Australian Story. "I am infuriated by the sound of other people being alive, which is crazy, because at my show, that is the only thing you can hear, and I love that sound."
She has even been to a psychologist about the condition, known as misophonia. That did not work out, Astrid says, deadpan — he cleared his throat all the time.
So she carries earplugs with her for those moments of looming anger and gets on with doing what makes her happy: helping a crowd of amateurs find their voice, their joy, by singing as one.
"[Pub Choir] is an entirely improvised comedy music lesson where I try to convince groups of untrained strangers to learn a song in three-part harmony," Astrid explains.
At the start of the 90-minute show, Astrid is the performer, the bubbly tutor, but by the end, the audience is the all-singing star.
Musician Ben Lee compares Pub Choir to that moment on a night out with friends when a favourite song comes on and everyone sings at the top of their lungs — except under Astrid's tutelage, it sounds good.
Astrid is "one of a kind", Lee says. "The way she is fostering a love of music in her audiences … takes this from being just entertainment to actually being like a public service."
What began as a conducted sing-along with 80 people in a Brisbane pub in 2017 is now a global sensation.
Astrid's keen ear and upbeat vibe have won the praise of the reclusive Kate Bush, taken her to the stage of America's Got Talent, and, recently, led her to conduct 2,400 people to sing Queen's Don't Stop Me Now onboard Sir Richard Branson's newest cruise ship.
Her successful audition on America's Got Talent has been watched 288 million times, with many people suggesting her ability to unite a crowd through song "was a miraculous thing that happened".
The truth, says Astrid, is that it is the result of a lot of searching, self-doubt and hard work, and a series of milestones that culminated in her finding a unique way to let her love of music shine.
'Music was blowing my mind, not Jesus'
The first time Astrid felt the buzz of applause for a musical performance, she was a lonely little girl hoping to be seen.
Starting high school was tough for Astrid, who had immigrated to Australia from New Zealand a few years earlier with her parents, Elvira and Steve, and four older brothers.
"There were these clusters of friendship groups and I was just kind of walking the halls as the smallest, youngest person at school, wondering how to get in there," Astrid recalls.
But when the crowd gasped with delight at her piano and vocal recital of Vanessa Carlton's A Thousand Miles at a school talent quest, an understanding of the power of music took root.
"I was like, this was such an easy win," Astrid says. "Music is such an easy way to connect with people."
She felt that power again when she went to visit her aunt in Zambia as a 16-year-old, still filled with teenage angst, still searching for her place in the world.
Her aunt was a Franciscan nun. Astrid thought that could be her calling.
Then she heard the African congregation sing. "Every single person was singing in complex harmony," she says. "I was overawed. It was the most phenomenal thing I've ever heard.
"I was worshipping the music," Astrid says. "I didn't know that instantaneously, but I see now I was having huge spiritual revelations in Zambia, but it was the music that was blowing my mind, not Jesus."
Back home, as this revelation took time to filter through, Astrid applied to become a nun. A letter came back, gently advising her to get a little more life experience. Perhaps try university.
"I just thought I would tick that box so that I can get a degree and then come back and be a nun," Astrid says.
"And then I got very sidetracked."
'I have a skill': The turning point
It was at her first lecture in aural musicianship that Astrid finally realised she heard things differently, with more nuance, more depth, more texture, than most.
It was the only music subject she had selected, having told herself music was her pastime, not a vocation. Sure, she could play piano and sing, but Astrid's niggling inner voice and the brutal memories of a bullying violin teacher had convinced her she was not good enough.
But when the lecturer clapped a rhythm, asked the class to remember it, and then later told them to clap it back, Astrid found it easy while many others struggled.
"I was like, 'It's so simple, what are you guys doing?'" she says. "Then I realised, this is not a thing that everyone has going on in their head."
It is called audiation, something Astrid describes as "hearing music in your brain when it's not playing out loud".
"That became very exciting to me to realise that I've actually got a skill," she says. "That was a cool turning point in my life."
Also at that lecture was Evyn Arnfield. In fact, he was at many of the same lectures as Astrid, having also chosen a grab bag of subjects ranging from religious studies to psychology to biology.
They kept bumping into each other in classes; then they started chatting. They exchanged messages over the summer holidays. Then they went out.
"I think she was starting to realise that it might not be the right life decision for her to go and become a nun," Evyn says. They have been together for 18 years.
Astrid finds her 'flow state'
Evyn was the first person Astrid told she had an eating disorder. At school, she felt ugly and insignificant, and an unhealthy relationship with food began.
After returning from Zambia slimmer, people told her she was "beautiful now".
"That really needled into my brain," Astrid says. She began purging food, telling herself that "if there's less of you in the world, people will like you more".
It took years, but with Evyn's support and ongoing professional help, Astrid has been able to manage the illness. "It is a part of me, but I have worked really hard to step through that," Astrid says.
After finishing her degree, Astrid had no real plan. She decided to become a music teacher.
"It was the most awful job for me," Astrid says. "I didn't enjoy making music competitive for children. I didn't like listening to a child sing with their whole heart and giving them a C. It doesn't feel right for me."
A circuit breaker came when Evyn, who had gone on to study medicine, had a placement in Townsville. Astrid joined him, taking a year off teaching to consider her future but continuing to conduct community choirs, something she had been doing since university.
Evyn suggested she would make a good air-traffic controller. "It seemed to tick a lot of boxes for me," Astrid says. "It's thinking quickly and doing maths equations and … also multi-tasking."
She passed the aptitude test, and over months, sat a range of exams. Finally, she was booked for a face-to-face interview in Brisbane.
Then an email landed in her inbox. A Townsville school wanted a choir conductor for "this crazy project" of creating a regular, but non-competitive, whole-school choir.
"It was the best idea I'd ever heard," Astrid says.
She cancelled her air-traffic controller interview.
"I'd been building up all my skills — my teaching skills, my arranging skills, conducting, performing — but this was the last piece of the puzzle," she says.
She recalls entering a "kind of flow state" the first time she stood on stage and got the school singing.
"I knew what to do with my arms, I knew how to pace the lesson. I'd never done it before, but I just knew how to get 500 kids singing."
This, Astrid realised, was the version of music she had been seeking — non-competitive, welcoming, communal, experiential.
"And that was the direct precursor to Pub Choir."
Astrid finds her slice of heaven
After the first Pub Choir, when a bunch of tipsy Brisbanites sang Dave Dobbyn's Slice of Heaven, Astrid wrote in her diary, "something has changed".
The extent of that change was unimaginable for Astrid. She has sold out shows in the US, performed Teenage Dirtbag with Wheatus's Brendan B. Brown in New York City, and got a record 7,000 people at Brisbane's Riverstage to harmonise John Paul Young's Love is in the Air.
In the early days, Astrid was Pub Choir. She spent hours listening to and deconstructing the songs, arranging them into bite-sized pieces that she could teach the crowd to bring to life. She organised the venues and song licensing, did the social media — with videos by Paris Owen — and built the website.
She now has a full-time manager, John Patterson, and musician Sahara Beck, but the most vital part of Pub Choir remains the audience and the joy it gets from sounding so damn good.
Everyone has been told at some point that their voice is out of tune, that they should just shush, says Astrid.
Pub Choir allows people to sing their heart out free of judgement, safe in the knowledge that, as Ben Lee would say, we're all in this together.
"We are all allowed to sing and to feel happy, and to clap our hands and to wave our hands in the air," Astrid says. "We should be more comfortable with having beautiful experiences as a community, just because that feels nice for each other."
Watch Astrid Jorgensen's Australian Story 'Striking a Chord' at 8pm (AEST) on ABCTV and ABC iview.
Whenever I see decent religious folks dunking on the cruelty, hypocrisy and/or literal bad faith of their shitty brethren by pointing out, say, that X political belief is not actually supported by the Bible, or that Islam is more progressive than Christianity on Y issue, it provokes roughly the same emotion in me as when the Menswear Guy reads some alt-right bro to filth for his poor tailoring choices, ie: I appreciate the optics of a terrible person being dressed down by someone well-versed in the rules of their shared field, but this doesn’t change the fact that both field and rules are, from my perspective, a bunch of made-up bullshit that we’d be better off without.
Like, I understand the depth of history and cultural heritage being invoked, I know why people care, but it’s ultimately like watching someone win at Calvinball. Left to my own devices, I no more care what a given religious text has to say about morality than I do about how many buttons a random man has on his suit jacket. But I’m forced to know about these things because other people not only care about them, but frequently behave like the most reprehensible motherfuckers on the face of planet Earth as a direct result. So when someone takes them to task in a way they might vaguely comprehend, using their own weapons against them, I applaud both effort and sentiment. But goddamn, I very much do resent being made to take these made-up shibboleths seriously.
@lulujamesspencer I’ve been thinking how to respond to this comment; I wrote the original post in a fit of anger, and so want to clarify my position:
As both an author and a reader, I believe profoundly in the power of narrative. Storytelling, to me, is one of humankind’s greatest inventions, and as such, I place a tremendous amount of stock in fiction - which is to say, in made-up things - not just as entertainment, but as expressions of humanity. I don’t think it’s stupid at all to care about fairytales; were that the case, I wouldn’t be a writer. But given that fiction and fable are bedrock aspects of human civilization, I also don’t think my sentiments are uncommon. People love stories, and always have, and always will.
That being so, I’m not saying the Bible can’t be profound. Or at least, I’m not doing doing that by default: very clearly, there a sentiments expressed within it that I find morally repugnant, and which I am, as such, loathe to see endorsed. But as a general principle, what I mean is that my view of the Bible as occupying the same historical-fabulist niche as Ovid’s Metamorphoses does not, in and of itself, cause me to see the entire text as worthless. What kind of hypocrite would I be, to deny people the right to find strength and guidance in a book of their choosing, when this is exactly how I live my own life?
No. What frustrates me is the idea that these stories are only profound because they’re true: that they cease to be either relevant or meaningful in the absence of faith. And this is, to me, a foundational error of fundamentalism: a baseline refusal to countenance, let alone meaningfully engage with, the vital business of such things as metaphor, ambiguity, analysis and interpretation. Stories are meaningful because they make us think and feel things about the world, and thus more fully consider ourselves and our place within it; literalism, by contrast, serves to terminate and even punish thought, replacing it with dogma.
As such, when people are taught that there’s only one correct way to receive a given story and thus only one thing it should mean - when specific interpretations are held to exist beyond question, and when the origins of the text are held to be sacrosanct, such that anyone who tries to query or engage with the wider context is mocked or punished - the end result, 100% of the time, is people behaving like assholes.
This is equally true of fandom as it is of religion: a comparison I draw with every seriousness, as the former all too often serves as a microcosm of the latter. As soon as people become dogmatic about What A Story Means and How It Must Be Engaged With - as soon as people start nailing manifestos to the metaphoric church doors - the community emphasis shifts from “how does this story help us to better understand, and thus exist within, the world” to “how can we best perform Conformity With The Group,” which very quickly tends to escalate to witch-hunts.
Nothing good ever comes of dogmatic behaviour, is what I’m saying; but in fandom, what allows us to step back from the brink - the specific thing that most readily enables de-escalation when people start fighting over Who Is The Most Correct - is the reminder that, at the end of the day, storiesare fictional: that we’re discussing made-up people and theoretical scenarios, not real events, and that, no matter what a specific narrative has made us feel or how deep our reaction, the only stakes when discussing it are those we allow it to have.
But religion in general and Christianity in particular set those same stakes sky-fucking-high, thereby guaranteeing a certain amount of extremely bad behaviour from their adherents, because there’s no mechanism for admitting that the text doesn’t have to matter; that we can, in fact, take our foot off the fucking brakes and go read something else. So when fundies start being assholes, there’s precious little recourse for the rest of us, because they’ve already decided we’re Outsiders, profane and unclean.
My beef, then, is not with Christians finding meaning and profundity in what I hold to be a largely mythical text; it’s with prioritizing conformity over community.
Recently in “strangely encouraging conversations with dementia patients”…
90yo woman, at least 20 years unmoored in time, with a reputation for grumpiness: You’re a man?!
Me, 28yo trans man with a very small beard, rare male nursing/healthcare staff member for this area: Yes.
90yo: Are you sure?
Me: Yes.
90yo: Are you looking to be a boy or a man or a woman?
Me: I’m a man.
90yo: You’d be very pretty as a girl.
Me: Thank you.
90yo: You’re a girl with a beard?
Me: It’s just my face.
90yo: You should shave it so people will see you’re a girl.
Me: That’s why I grow it.
90yo: You should grow it so people will see you’re a man.
Me: This is as long as it gets right now.
90yo: Is it your hormones?
Me: Yes, they were a bit low.
90yo: Are you a girl growing into a man?
Me: Yes, I’m a man.
90yo: You’re a very good man.
Another conversation which was both lighter and sadder…
80yo woman, friendly and polite, sitting next to an empty bed (neatly made): I’ll just get him up for you. Alan, wake up, the nurse is here!
Me: No need, I’m just here for you today. He can rest.
80yo: All right, Alan is just snoozing.
Me: How long have you been married?
80yo: We’re not married.
Me: Oh, who is Alan to you?
80yo: He’s my husband, we’ve been married over 60 years.
Me: Does he snore?
80yo: Yes, terribly!
This person has a brain injury rather than dementia. I’ve seen him a few times, I know him a little though he will never know me.
[rain bucketing down outside]
Me: How are you, this fine day?
70yo: It’s fucking horrible!
Me, gobsmacked because he has never before said a word to me or showed me he was aware of the not-immediate world: You’re absolutely right.
I have a family member with dementia who often calls on the phone asking to be picked up and taken home, or to the store, or to school. The other day she called and asked if her husband was going to pick her up, and I said, “do you mean [Paul]? You aren’t married to him anymore.”
She said, “Really? I’m not married?”
“No, you haven’t been married to him for thirty years.”
“Oh, thank goodness. I did not enjoy that marriage at all.”
My grandma had dementia far before I was born and until she passed at my tail end of high school. She had always lived in a facility from my time knowing her. She had 11 living bio children not counting her stepchildren and nieces/nephews she also took in. Uncountable amount of grandchildren and great grandchildren. Affectionately referred as a bitch and badass throughout life as a nurse by profession and overall caretaker to all. We had a family blog to keep tabs on who was visiting and when to what we did and what she said will all of her days documented. I enjoyed visiting her as a neurodivergent child because the facility was naturally designed to be less sensory overstimulating for the memory care patients. I would play dominos and chat with every older folk who wanted to. The nurses and aides enjoyed my presence as it often helped soothed the pricklier of the patients who were more prone to aggression in their confusion. Plus a lot of the patients were not as lucky as my grandmother who had so many to visit her.
I was often mistaken by these folks by other people in their life by name and timeline. I didn’t really mind this. They knew I was someone they felt safe around and they were always happy to see me as a child was rare to come by.
My grandma was never a big talker in her twilight days but I loved to tell her everything and anything. She never really got anyone else’s name right as far as her family but she always knew mine and would use memory care phone to call her adult children at random hours of the day and night to tell them about me by name in accurate detail.
Every so often she would grab my hand when she wanted to tell me important life advice. It would include anything from how to hide money from my husband in budgeting to how to best ditch my high school classes to get the roller rink without being caught.
One time while playing dominos with just us, she reached over and told me, “It’ll get hard. The days will get terribly long and the months will feel so short but there’s so much in those moments between and that love will carry.”
And you know? I think Grandma was right.
One time while playing dominos with just us, she reached over and told me, “It’ll get hard. The days will get terribly long and the months will feel so short but there’s so much in those moments between and that love will carry.” And you know? I think Grandma was right.
Oh wow I am crying. I’m in that place and it is so so hard and I feel so temporary and trapped. Thanks, Grandma Crunchy Noodle. 😭
the last words my grandma ever said to me were, “You be good,” and you know what granny? I’m gonna
More Holmemes (featuring a special guest appearance from Watson’s Sketchbook by @contact-guy bc this page was just too perfect)
This is my new Insomnia Hobby and if you are an artist in the SH fandom and you’d like to volunteer your art for The Memes™️ pls let me know. I am open to any and all sacrifices for the cause.
