#the art block is hitting me harder than ever so i bring you this shitty drawing of them both sorry for not posting much

[mochioartzzz]

My favorite Batboys duo is Tim and Jason! Who's your favorite duo?

P.s. I love your art!

My favourite duo is Nightwing and Jason. I love their dynamic and their personalities together. They're just so fun! And tysm I appreciate it <3<3

[septicbro1005]

I am an Addict, But I Get Paid to Indulge in my Habit

A/N: Sad Kirishima thing with implied Kiribaku. I just heard a song, got hit with the biggest wave of inspiration, so I’ll work on it between breaks in homework assignments. Ready for some good ol’ sad shit? Great. Based off of “Art is Dead” by Bo Burnham. There will be cursing, self-deprecation, depressed / anxious thoughts, suicidal thoughts, mentions of self-harm, etc. If this shit is not your cup of tea, go onto whatever the hell else you’d like. Cool? Cool.

Eijirou Kirishima hasn’t really been the most confident person in the world. Hell, probably not even the most confident person in Class 3-A. No matter the facade he put on, his inferiority complex has always bit him in the ass at the worst times.

Does he ever show other people how he feels when that happens?

Of course not!

He’s Eijirou Kirishima! The Unbreakable Red Riot! Nothing will ever make him break! He’s the toughest, manliest man out there!

Yet, behind closed doors, there are those days.

When the voice in his head screams. When a loud noise makes his heart race for the next thirty minutes. When his fingernails dig into his shoulders as he takes deep breaths. When the second he does something wrong or that he feels is wrong, he clams up and is flooded with guilt. When he doesn’t speak unless spoken to, and only replies with the fewest amount of words possible. When the fake smiles and the fake affirmations come to the surface.

Then the memories come in.

They flood in faster than he can stop them, and he’s stuck thinking about those things until he finds something else to do.

So that’s why he asked Jirou, in their first year, about music. Happily, Jirou taught him to play the keyboard, which he grasped quite quickly. In fact, by their third year, he was writing his own songs.

Of course, his lack of confidence never allowed him to put them out to the world for people to see.

But, he anonymously goes to a cafe near campus and plays his music there. Every weekend he can.

He’s somehow become a hero in training by day, and a comic musician by night.

This results in little to no down time, what with all of his classes, studying, creating new music, and anything else along those lines.

And there’s one song he’d been working on since he began writing his own music. He’s put his heart and soul into it. He’s practiced it, he’s practically perfected it.

Since he started his gigs at the cafe, he’s been debating on whether or not to throw it into his set list. And every time, before he can even make a joke to introduce the song, he pauses.

He can’t.

He can’t move. He can’t breathe. He can’t think properly. There’s only a few thoughts that swirl in his head, until one voice in his head yells at him to move on.

And so he does.

There was one night, however, that he had an exceptionally shitty day. He almost entirely flunked a quiz, he passed out during training because he didn’t eat lunch, and Bakugou was nowhere to be seen.

Eijirou has no idea how or why Katsuki Bakugou affects him so much. Yet, whenever something happens to the ash blond or the ash blond isn’t there, he’s filled with anxiety and even a bit of jealousy.

Which makes Eijirou hate the way he felt that day.

So when he came into the cafe that night, his beanie shoved low onto his head and colored contacts on, it was much harder to fake his entertainer’s smile.

He started with a couple of jokes and dumber songs, with only some meaning behind it.

And as he finished the third song, he heard the door open up to the cafe.

He’s grown used to people walking in part way into his shows, it doesn’t offend him. Not like it really should. He’s not doing it for money. He just wants to release his feelings in the form of music and comedy.

                                                          ~~~

Katsuki Bakugou was a frequent customer at a cafe close to campus. He had been since he was a second year. He’s always loved going on the weekends, when the entertainer is there.

He never heard a name from the man, and it seems no one else has either. He asked the manager, but she said she was sworn to secrecy by him.

So, he hears the wild applause coming from the cafe, and felt a small grin bloom on his face that grew once he entered.

The man sat in front of his piano, drinking from one of the coffee cups from the cafe. The cafe bought a piano for the man a few weeks after Katsuki began to frequent the place.

Customers erupted with clapping and laughter as the man turned from the piano.

“Okay. Next, I’ve got a poem for you guys. It’s called ‘I Fuck Sluts’,”

A woman in the crowd screamed.

“Not a roll call, but thank you,”

                                                        ~~~

The night was almost over, one song being the last thing in Eijirou’s set list.

He’s kept it to himself for far too long, He was gonna burst if he didn’t say something.

“This next song honestly isn’t funny at all, but it helps me sleep at night,” he managed to push out, rubbing his sweaty palms against his pants.

The anxiety in his voice would be obvious to any of his friends. None of them were there, though, so he doesn’t have to worry.

Katuski watched the performer closely, watching his nails dig into his knee for a moment before bringing them up to the piano keys.

His fingers moved quickly and gracefully across the keys, causing a swift yet elegant melody to float through the air.

Katuski watches as the performer looks out into the audience, taking a clear breath in before turning back to the piano.

“Art is dead. Art is dead. Art is dead. Art is dead,”

Eijirou’s voice carried through to the ears of the crowd, one or two weak cheers coming from the audience.

Katsuki appreciated the performer’s voice, being so soft and soothing, no matter how dark the lyrics were.

“Entertainers like to seem complicated, but we're not complicated. I can explain it pretty easily,”

The performer looked like he was glaring holes into somebody, brows furrowed and shoulders stiffer than usual.

Eijirou was tense.

There was no going back. No stopping now.

“Have you ever been to a birthday party for children? And one of the children won't stop screaming,”

They way that line was sang sent shivers through Katsuki. Hatred was evident in his voice, but the question was who it was pointed to. This hypothetical child was clearly a stand-in for somebody.

“'Cause he's just a little attention attractor. When he grows up to be a comic or actor, he'll be rewarded for never maturing. For never understanding or learning that every day can't be about him. There's other people, you selfish asshole,”

Katsuki frowned as the crowd laughed a bit.

Eijirou’s heart beat erratically in his chest, having to take deeper breaths to continue singing properly.

The hypothetical child was one he hated.

“I must be psychotic. I must be demented to think that I'm worthy of all this attention,”

The hypothetical child with shoulder length dark hair, red eyes, sharp teeth and a worthless Quirk.

“Of all of this money, you worked really hard for. I slept in late while you worked at the drug store,”

The hypothetical child who was greedy and ungrateful.

“My drug's attention, I am an addict. But I get paid to indulge in my habit,”

This hypothetical child who grew up, dyeing his hair firetruck red and putting on a mask of confidence.

“It's all an illusion, I'm wearing make-up, I'm wearing make-up Make-up, make-up, make-up, make...”

Katsuki noticed the performer’s voice sounding far more choked up, and he felt his own grip tighten on his coffee cup.

“Art is dead. So people think you're funny, how do you get those peoples money?”

Eijirou’s hands shook as he played, praying to every god that he wouldn’t miss a key and mess up.

Because then the audience might see this isn’t a joke.

“Said art is dead. We're rolling in dough, while Carlin rolls in his grave, his grave, his grave,”

Katsuki went to the coffee counter to go get a refill on coffee, not wanting to take his eyes off the beanie clad performer.

“The show has got a budget. The show has got a budget. And all the poor people way more deserving, of the money won't budge it,”

Eijirou’s had a complicated relationship with money in his life. He started his life with a good amount of money, which then dropped substantially when his Quirk activated.

It wasn’t because of that, but he’d always thought it was his fault for developing a Quirk.

But as he got older, his financial state got much better. He could afford luxuries. He could afford dyeing his hair consistently. He could afford to go to Yuuei.

But then he felt guilty when his parents paid for his braces. He felt guilty when his parents paid for him to go to Yuuei. He felt guilty when his parents paid for a therapist after his mom thought he developed depression. He feels guilty when his parents pay for his medication.

He wants to pay them back, he just doesn’t know how.

“‘Cause I wanted my name in lights. When I could have feed a family of four for forty fucking fortnights. Forty fucking fortnights,”

Eijirou realizes he’s allowed to feel bad for himself. He knows that.

But it’s hard to feel like shit when you know there are small children who can only eat a meal or so a day, because their family lives in poverty.

There are people dying from cancer out there.

There are people who run a razor across their wrists almost daily because they no longer want to be alive.

There are kids who look at the knife block in their kitchen and think about which knife would kill them the fastest.

Because he used to be that kid.

He used to pull the big knives out of the knife block when his parents weren’t home and would think about how quick and easy it would be to make his family’s life so much easier.

Just a few stabs, and they don’t have to deal with me.

“I am an artist, please god forgive me. I am an artist, please don't revere me. I am an artist, please don't respect me. I am an artist, you're free to correct me,”

Katsuki had gotten his new cup of coffee and practically squeezed the coffee out of the cup when he looked at the performer.

His hands were shaking, his cheeks were flushed, and tears streaked down them.

“A self-centered artist. Self-obsesed artist. I am an artist. I am an artist,”

Eijirou hated the warm tears trickling down his face as he sang. He despised it. All he wanted was to finally put this song out, and just be free of it’s almost deathly grasp.

“But I'm just a kid. I'm just a kid I'm just a kid. Kid. And maybe I'll grow out of it,”

Forcefully, Eijirou pressed on the keys with their finishing notes, drinking from his water.

Hardened fingers dug into his leg as he told everyone to have a good night, packed up, and left.

As he exited the warm cafe, he shivered under the fluttering snow. Releasing a sigh, it quickly fogged up.

“Okay, back to--”

“Oi,”

Katsuki watched as the performer whirled around.

“You alright?”

Eijirou sat there, unable to speak.

Katsuki Bakugou went to his show.

Katsuki Bakugou saw him sing his most vulnerable song.

Katsuki Bakugou watched the unbreakable break.

“Fine. You need something, sir?”

“I need to know you’re okay, Shitty Hair,”

Hearing the nickname confirmed Eijirou’s fears, and he shook.

“Ha. So you did recognize me, huh?” Eijirou laughed weakly.

Katsuki felt his brows furrow in a way they don’t normally.

“Wanna talk back at the dorms?” Katsuki offered before taking a sip of coffee. “I’m willing to listen to you,”

Eijirou felt the lump in his throat swell and his eyes spring with tears.

“Yeah... sure,”

A/N: I actually like how this came out! It’s sorta shitty, but not incredibly so! I’ll put this on my Wattpad and my AO3 later, so if you vibe on there, then vibe on there. Peace out! Stay safe and healthy! - Septic / Spark

[psychedelic-freak-out]

What are you addicted to?

Started with music, then turned to me aggressively smoking pot, tripping way more than I should have, then prescription medications I messed with for a while, getting vicodin for a wrist surgery at 14. When I graduated coke was a big thing in my town, so many people were doing it but most of it is really shitty and just gave me an even stronger urge to do other things. At this point my twin sister had already overdosed on heroin the night of our prom, my dad and I had revived her, but she still struggled with her boyfriend who had been an addict for years at that point. I was so hateful towards hard drugs after that, but I ended up going through a really hard time in my life, dealing with a break up, working two jobs and losing my childhood home all in a short time, I moved in with a guy I had been friends with since I was 14 and he was about 2 years deep into his addiction already. I was almost 19 the first time I tried heroin, and I remember instantly knowing it was a feeling I didnt want to live without. I told myself I could actually moderate it, and I did for awhile. I quit my second job and stayed at the same one for around 3 years actually, functioning on drugs for the better part of a year, keeping it my secret from all but maybe 3 people and the people I met through drugs. That was so dangerous, living life like that in secret. Not to mention everything in MA was quickly turning to fentanyl, which is more addictive than morphine, and way more likely to make you overdose, plus narcan/naloxone doesnt always help- my sister needed like 3 when she OD’d, and I’ve heard of people needing more. H quickly changed me, made me bitter towards anything that wasn’t it, even though it was a constant battle with H itself. I told myself I wasn’t hurting others because they didnt even see me doing the things I did, because “I only stole from stores, not the people I loved”, because addiction will tell you anything to keep you in that animalistic “survival” state as my boyfriend and I call it. But basically about a year into doing harder drugs, one night I made the awful mistake of mixing what my friend told me was “liquid xanax” (basically just research chemicals), H, and alcohol, I went from being out and about with my friend, to waking up starfished on my parents front lawn, my head cracked open from me falling into the front cement stairs, me getting up to greet my parents because I couldn’t even feel my head, let alone realize how messed up I was. My mom literally laid in bed next to me and held me the whole night, and I had no idea until she told me the next morning. A day or so later, I remember I had to work all day and I was going through withdrawals towards the end of the day and of course was freaking out trying to figure out how to pickup. I figure out a plan and my boyfriend at the time who was also my manager at work was gonna bring me home from work that day and I was gonna pull my usual “oh I don’t feel good” or whatever so he’d drop me off and not know what I was up to, but I was stupid when I was stuck in that mindset and I can’t believe I thought I could hide it from him or my parents. I got home to an intervention with him and my parents, and an hour later was on my way to a detox in Boston. Freaking out because I was sick, I chugged the rest of the liquid nightmare stuff, and stumbled my way through my first night of detox, which wasn’t much considering I got there late at night. I remember waking up in so much pain the first day though, and everyone there looking at me like “you don’t look as happy as you did!” and me just thinking “I met you??” and realizing I was all alone in a well-known detox on Mass Ave (one of the worst places for drugs in Boston). It was the scariest and hardest week of my life. I did a methodone detox because I was way too sick and weak to try anything else, and I remember I actually came out of detox sicker than I went in because of it, which only pushed me further into my addict mindset, telling me “suboxone! get on the clinic!”- another wrong choice for me. Medical Assisted Treatment can help so so many people, don’t get me wrong. Like with everything, it depends on the person. Suboxone is a synthetic opiate, basically acting to get rid of physical withdrawal symptoms, and works as a blocker in your brain and makes it so you cannot get high on opiates. I ended up being on the clinic for 6 months which started out great, but soon turned into just another addiction. The clinic prescribed me a way higher dose than I needed, which made it super easy for me to sell or trade the subs for other drugs or cash. Not to mention it was just another thing I had to wake up and take every day, and you get sick if you don’t. Another prescription to fill and pickup weekly, biweekly, monthly. I ended up relapsing and after a few months of not talking, the friend since 14 that I had used with for my first time, and who I tried to help get clean so many times, was finally clean. And it hit me like a ton of bricks- he sounds so amazing, he looks so fucking good, and he sounds like HIMSELF again- the kid I fell in love with SIX years ago, before all the insane shit we went and put ourselves through. It took detoxing in jail for a month and getting put on probation, but the fact that he was THANKFUL for that and looking at this as an opportunity to build a new and even better him, was so inspiring to me. I went from basically the streets and living at dealers houses, to moving back in with him to focus on recovery, and I can’t even begin to explain how rewarding it has been. Recovery will always be the hardest thing I’ve ever had to deal with, but I also have to be honest and say I do not regret doing any of it. Anything and everything can be a learning experience, its just how you look at it and what you do with it. My addiction is once again music and art- I’ve made goals to learn something new everyday, to find new music, to learn lyrics, to get better with my memory. I’m planning my future and it looks so exciting, even though I’ve officially had to start over with NOTHING. My clothes all got stolen and lost, I had sold every bong, pipe, art piece, everything I cared about. I even lost my wallet and social security at one point, and I can’t begin to tell you how awful that felt. But I kept going, and things aren’t rapidly getting better, but I realize you get what you put into things, you have to make the daily decision to want to be better, it doesn’t just happen. And for anyone curious, I did detox from suboxone and my boyfriend and I are full supporters and advocators of VIVITROL/NALTREXONE. There are pills you can take daily, but I highly recommend getting the monthly shot in your ass, because this stuff has the amazing benefit of blocking opiates and making it so you can’t get high, but is completely not addictive or dependable, no physical symptoms occur.Thankyou so much to anyone who takes the time to read this, I’ve been wanting to post something like this for awhile but quite honestly I’ve been trying really hard to focus on myself in order to be able to at all be useful to others lol proud of everyone who woke up today though, and a huge rest in peace to those who might not, and to those I know who haven’t made it. My inbox is always open- I haven’t had my own phone for the better half of a year so I may not answer right away, but I will always try.

[may-shepard]

the fine art of positive beta-ing

(This post was inspired by the incredible writers at the 2018 Fic Writers’ Retreat, which has just wrapped, and especially by @shamelessmash and @nautilicious. I love you awesome nerds!)

I have a confession to make: for a long time, I thought I was a writer who could not receive feedback. In an effort to hone my craft, I attended workshops and took classes where critique circles were part of the deal, hoping that some insight that my crit partners offered would help me get better, and better. This, I thought, was what I needed: another flail, in addition to the ones I applied to my work myself.

You know this kind of workshop, and this kind of attitude. Maybe you are holding onto it yourself: good writers are forged in Hell Places where All Mistakes Must Be Pointed Out and Eliminated and If You Can’t Take the Heat Get Out of the Kitchen. I was told that my use of commas was annoying. I was told that my choice of subgenre was untimely. I was red penned into a stupor. 

Despite the fact that I was able to edit myself to the point where I got a few pieces accepted for publication, crit never, ever worked for me. I emerged from these experiences both pissed off and self-flagellating. I couldn’t see through the multiple and often contradictory corrections offered by my fellow critters, or the instructor, when I was taking a course. 

Any piece I exposed to someone else’s crit, I always trunked, totally convinced that the problems with it were intractable, and that there was no point in trying to fix it. Worse yet, I felt like somehow I’d failed as a writer: I couldn’t take the heat. Perhaps it was time for me to exit the kitchen.

After a few failed attempts to find a crit circumstance that worked for me, and a really long bout of writer’s block, I managed to recover myself enough that I could write, by convincing myself that maybe I was just not a crit sort of a writer. I limited myself to troubleshooting my plots with my partner, who is great at reworking plots. As for making my craft better, I decided to go it alone.

Then I met @shamelessmash​, and everything changed, because she changed the way I look at the act of beta reading, and the way I do it.  

Way back when (uh, at 2017’s Fic Writer’s Retreat?), Mash and I were both working on longish projects, and, in part because I had a hand in helping her develop the idea for her lovely Sherlock fic A Case of Identity--The Musical, we agreed to trade beta. 

(I can admit now that I hoped that she would accept beta from me and then like, forget that she’d offered to beta my fic in return.)

When she first asked me to read a chapter of ACOI, she specified that she wanted squee only: just positive feedback on what was working so far. I’d never had anyone ask that before, so I had no idea what was going to happen next. (Spoiler: really great things.) 

At first, I thought, no problem! The fic was in the early stages of development, and we all want a little bit of encouragement along the way. As I read, and I thought, oh, there’s a comma here, a verb that could verb in a verbier way over there, I was tempted to mention it, but then I remembered her request and I refrained. I try, when I can, not to be a shitty friend. I also try not to be a shitty beta, which, hey you guys, means respecting the writer’s right to ask for the kind of feedback they want, and trying your best to offer it. 

At the same time, the part of me that wants to be useful was squirming. How could 100% positive feedback possibly help someone hone their work into something better? 

Boy was I about to find out. You will too, under the cut.

Receiving positive feedback makes you want to keep going. 

Mash, super smart awesome writer that she is, knew that she wanted motivation to carry on forward. She was trying to get as much of the draft done as possible, before she started to post. There is nothing wrong with needing positive feedback in order to keep going. It’s really, really clever to ask for it. Knowing that the premise was working and that what she’d written so far was charming (and it was, so so so charming, holy crap) gave her a boost, and who the fuck doesn’t need that?

Asking for positive feedback only is a good idea, you guys. Try it the next time you ask for help with an early draft of a thing.

The other lessons came when it was time for me to share my stuff with her. See above re: reasons why I really hesitate to let people crit my stuff, but, given who Mash is, I was pretty sure it would be okay.

It was okay. It was more than okay. It was brilliant, amazing, incredible.

If you’ve never had the pleasure of receiving beta from a writer who is really really good at knowing what works in a story, and is willing to yell at you about what’s working in yours, let me tell you, it is a treat and so, so helpful. As I watched Mash go through my google doc on the first couple of chapters of my Sherlock fic The Burning Heart, leaving trails of keysmash and screaming as she went, I not only felt like a goddamn writing genius, but I also was taking substantial notes about where she was doing it. 

Knowing what is working in a story is even more important for a writer than knowing what is not working.

If you know what works, you can play that up, and do more of it. That’s one reason, one very good reason, why telling a writer what you like in their story is a good idea, but there’s an even more important one. 

Telling a writer what works helps them understand their own magic.   

We all know, even if we’ve never been told, that what makes a writer great is not whether or not they can follow the rules for good writing, but rather, whatever it is that is uniquely theirs, that they bring to a story. Good craft, which you can learn, will always, always help you make your story more clear to whoever is reading it. Good story, good magic, the unique ineffable sense of play that makes you want to tell this story in this way at this point in time, that’s what makes people think, whoa wow whoa, this is amazing. It flourishes when it’s praised. When your magic is ignored, like it is when you receive crit that’s 100% focused on your mistakes, it lies down on the floor and refuses to get up again.

This is one major source of writer’s block. Even if you think offering positive feedback is kind of bullshit, I think it’s good, from a writerly karma pov, to avoid doing things that block other writers, especially the ones who’ve asked you for feedback. 

But wait there’s more!

Mash did a lot more than keysmash and scream: she also asked questions when she was particularly excited. 

The questions you, as a reader, are dying to have answered are invaluable writer feedback.

Hey is x going to do y next? (Insert inevitable joke about x being y’s love interest.)

Oh my god what did he mean by that?

How long is it going to be before we find out the answer to the question you laid out in Chapter Three?

These questions let me know where the breadcrumb trail I was trying to leave was effective. Under some circumstances, they let me know when I was waiting too long for a reveal. This alone helped me hone my plot. 

Radio silence helps you see where what you wanted to achieve isn’t coming through.

We all have those places in our writing where we think we’ve really nailed it. When you’re dealing with a beta whose primary mode is positive, and they skim past the moment that you hoped was Big and Significant and Came off Well, you know you have more work to do. As writers we have ideas of what we’re trying to achieve, and we’re all trying to bridge that gap between what’s in our heads (which is potentially AMAZING) and what’s on the page (which inevitably NEEDS WORK). We know that what we’ve done will benefit from polishing. A lukewarm response to a big deal moment is a great indicator that we need to hit it harder or make it more clear. 

The Role of What We Usually Think of When We Think of Crit

What do I think about comments that point out errors or ask thornier questions about what isn’t working? I think they have a place. I think that place is probably less important than most of us think.

It is still definitely helpful, and useful, to let a writer know if you think they’ve made a mistake, or if you think that something could be more clear. If they have an excessive attachment to a particular word or sentence structure, or whatever it may be, it’s fine and helpful and good to note that. 

There are gentler ways of doing this that will be more helpful to most writers. 

Instead of citing a “writing rule,” consider pointing out what the writer has done. 

Never use adverbs they are the devil is easier to take and more useful if you stick to observing what’s on the page: you’ve used twelve adverbs in the last three paragraphs. 

Show don’t tell could become instead of saying he’s sad, what about one sentence describing his internal reaction to finding his former partner’s scarf in the glove box?

If you’re offering crit in order to show off your knowledge of “the rules” and to talk about how you would never break those rules but the writer you’re critting has, your ego has taken over, and you’re probably not going to be super helpful in this moment. 

Teach, don’t overcorrect.

Where a writer makes the same grammar mistake over and over, this is not the time to judge them and point out every single instance of it, unless they’ve asked you for a SPAG edit. It’s the time to recognise that they probably don’t understand semi-colons and link them to a post that explains them, point out one or maybe two wrong uses of semi-colons as you do your crit, and leave it up to the writer to correct it themselves (or not!). 

Believe it or not, people generally like it better when you leave it up to them to take responsibility for their own work, and allow them to decide how much they want to take on board at any given time. If that writer doesn’t want to learn about semi-colons in this exact moment, then that is cool. If you’re not cool with it, perhaps it’s time to examine your excessive attachment to semi-colon evangelism. 

Consider the level of the writer and emphasize the positive anyway

If you’re dealing with a beginner writer who is just figuring shit out, for the love of all that’s sweet and tender, just pick one or two mistakes to work on. Tackle verb tenses or POV this time--leave run on sentences for some future moment, and let them know, in no uncertain terms, what you like about what they’ve done. You could be the difference between shutting a writer down or ensuring that they keep going.

If you’re dealing with an advanced writer, please, please don’t assume that they don’t need positive feedback. Mighty oaks need the sun just as much as seedlings do. I’m by no means super adept at my craft, but I’m not a beginner either, and I always, always learn so fucking much when I see what people respond to in my work, when I understand what resonates with them. 

A note on the proportion of positive to negative comments

There’s an old saw, that I’ve always found to be a bit cynical, about saying something positive before offering something negative in crit. This is a great idea, in theory. In practice, sometimes people following this rule offer comments like this:

This paragraph has some nice description in it, but 

*deep, sucking inhale*

eight sentences follow that go into intimate detail about how many times the writer has used the word feel and how that is not a great idea for these thirteen reasons and also there’s a mistake in the research with reference to the specific century the armor the main character is wearing was most likely to be manufactured and and and and

Okay, I’m hoping you can see why, if this is the only form of positive feedback offered, it might come off as insincere. 

On the other hand, in the context of a crit that lavishes praise on everything good, a genuine observation that a particular paragraph has issues or a particular aspect of the timeline is self-contradictory or the writer flips wantonly between first person and third person, is so much easier to take, and so much more likely to be seen as genuinely helpful. 

When I go into a crit, I usually try to get my energy up and my mindset into a positive space before I do. I try to remember that on the other end of this work of fiction is a human person who, in the act of offering their work up for feedback, is making themselves vulnerable. If I catch myself dryly pointing out errors without saying much positive, I know that it’s either not a good time for me to be offering crit, or I need to slow down a little and enjoy what I’m reading. (In rare cases, it means I’m not the right person to be beta-ing that particular story.) I try to read like a reader, not like a writer. I try to avoid reading like I do when I’m combing my own stuff for infelicitous turns of phrase or bad logic, unless that’s what the writer has requested.

If you yourself are from the Hell Place and believe that You Work Best When You’re Being Punched In the Face and So Should Everyone Else, first, uh, you probably need a hug, but also, try offering positive crit the next time you beta for someone, and see what a difference it makes. If you’ve never received a crit that’s largely positive, consider asking for one, the next time you go to a trusted beta. Ask them to tell you whatever it is that they think is working. (If they refuse, find someone else who is not from the Hell Place.) 

Even if you’re not from the Hell Place, give positive crit a try. We certainly have enough misery in this world. There are many, many reasons to spread some joy, especially where that joy is functional, helpful, and potentially life-changing.

I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised. 

[alphacrone]

Hmmm zimmbits camping would be cute!! Also good luck with your gastric situation :)

thank you! and i apologize, this started as a camping fic and quickly turned into a Summer Camp AU – i hope it’s close enough to what you prompted! :)

(on ao3)

Bitty watched fondly from his perch on the dock as Jack blew his whistle. Again.

“Only two people on the Blob!” He barked, pointing at the four B-Compound boys who had turned the yellow, inflatable monstrosity that was the Blob into their own WWE arena. “All of you — ten minutes on the dock. Blob privileges revoked for the day.”

The four boys chorused their protests, but this late into term no one bothered to argue with Jack when he was in lifeguard mode. The first few weeks spent down at Lake Faber, Bitty had thought Jack was an unnecessarily grouchy and strict lifeguard. But after he’d been assigned the ropes course for a few rotations, Bitty realized something incredibly important: children were kind of dumb and excelled at endangering themselves and others.

Now Bitty found Jack’s lakeside tyranny endearing. Technically this was Bitty’s free period, when he should have been enjoying the meager A/C of the offices or using the ancient staff computer to check Twitter, but lately Bitty had found himself drifting down to the lake after finishing his morning Arts and Crafts shifts. He told himself it was because Lardo often joined him for sunbathing and gossiping, but he and Lardo both knew it was because a certain lifeguard tended not to wear a shirt while on duty.

(Shitty didn’t either, and Bitty was beginning to suspect that was the reason Lardo joined him in the first place.)

“Did you hear about Holster and Esther?” Lardo asked, doodling on Bitty’s back with sunscreen.

“No,” Bitty said, not bothering to look back at her. Jack was currently leaning over to say something to a group of girls in the water and Bitty’s view was fantastic. “What happened? Did they finally hate bang?”

Lardo snorted. “You can say fuck, dude, none of the campers can hear us.”

Bitty made a noncommittal noise. A small part of him still felt that his mama would know if he dropped the f-bomb, even from hundreds of miles away.

“Anyway,” Lardo continued, her doodling turning into soft little scratches at the back of Bitty’s neck, just the way he loved it. He sighed in contentment as she continued, “Not only did they hate-fuck in the mess hall-” Bitty gasped, appalled. “-yeah, I know, gross. But they also were holding hands at flagpole this morning.”

Bitty abandoned his view of Jack to turn around to look at Lardo. “Seriously? They can’t even stand to be in the same room together, and now they’re- what, dating?”

Lardo shrugged, her grin half glee, half incredulity. “Ransom’s been pissy all morning.”

“But he’s been hooking up with March,” Bitty said, sitting up. “Lord, straight boys are so confusing.”

“Speak of the Devil,” Lardo muttered, and suddenly something large and dripping with water was blocking Bitty’s sunlight.

“Bits! Lards!” Shitty shouted, plopping down next to them. Technically he was also on lifeguard duty, but Shitty took a more…hands on approach than Jack, and usually ended his shifts soaking wet and carrying at least three giggling children. “The kids wanna see a chicken fight.”

Lardo raised an eyebrow, looking cool and impassive in her large, dark sunglasses. “Good for them?”

“Nah, brahs,” Shitty — or Shaggy, as the campers called him — said. “The kids wanna see a counselor chicken fight.”

Lardo folded her arms across her chest. “It’s my free period. Make Ollie and Wicks do it, they’re on canoe duty.”

“But Lards,” Shitty pleaded. “We would totally kick Bits’ and Jack’s asses.”

“Is that a challenge?”

All three of them looked up to see Jack standing a few feet away, eyes still trained on the kids in the water.

“Zimmermann, you beaut!” Shitty shouted. “C’mon Lardo, Bits, please?”

And that was how Bitty found himself balanced on Jack Zimmermann’s shoulders, standing in the shallow edge of the lake as all the kids cheered from the dock. He couldn’t be sure, but Bitty was almost certain he saw a few of them taking bets.

Being on Jack’s team for chicken was…distracting to say the least. Bitty was all too aware that his groin was pressed right up against the back of Jack’s head, thighs gripping tightly at his neck. It was the bastardization of a position he’d imagined himself in countless times, but somehow fewer clothes were involved now than they had been in his fantasies. The universe — or possible Shitty — was trying to kill him.

At least Lardo was in the same boat, though she was clearly handling it with more poise than Bitty. Shitty, on the other hand, could barely contain his glee and the fact that he’d probably dreamt of dying with Lardo’s thighs wrapped around his head.

“Hang on tight, Bittle,” Jack murmured, patting Bitty’s knee. “Lardo fights dirty.”

Against his own will, Bitty’s thighs tightened around Jack’s neck. “Try not to drown me,” Bitty said. “I’ve got a Wilderness Skills shift after this.”

“I’ve got your back, Bittle,” Jack said, squeezing his ankle. It made Bitty feel marginally better.

It was then that Shitty and Lardo charged forward, Shitty hollering out some approximation of the Xena, Warrior Princess battle cry. Lardo immediately went for Jack’s ears, tugging on them sharply. Bitty gasped and splashed water in her eyes, but missed and got Shitty instead.

Lardo laughed and shouted, “You’ve blinded my steed! You’ll pay for that, Bittle!”

Bitty laughed and caught her arms as she lunged at him. “You tried to maim mine! Fair’s fair, Lards.”

She scowled at him, then grinned, pulling from his grasp and jabbing him in the ribs. Bitty lurched sideways, falling off Jack’s shoulders and crashing face-first into the water.

The cold of the lake hit Bitty harder than he’d expected, and the wind was knocked from his lungs. He somersaulted downwards, disoriented, unable to determine where the surface of the water was. Everything was dark and cold and distorted by bubbles and lake weeds for a moment, then Bitty was hauled to the surface by two large, warm arms.

“Bittle, are you okay?” Jack asked, hoisting him onto the dock. “Can you breathe?”

Bitty sucked in air, then coughed raggedly as water rushed down the wrong pipe. “M’fine,” he choked out. “Hit- hit the water- hard- totally fine.”

“Is he okay?” Shitty asked. Jack nodded, hand resting on Bitty’s knee. “Cool!” Shitty shouted. “We win!”

As Shitty and Lardo began a victory lap around the shallow part of the lake, Bitty managed to stop coughing long enough to whisper to Jack, “They’ll never see you coming.”

Jack laughed and winked at Bitty, then dove to tackle Shitty into the water, sending Lardo flying. The kids on the dock cheered, screaming in delight as Jack surfaced with Shitty hoisted across his shoulders. Lardo popped up a second later, grinning at the boys, and swam over to pull herself up next to Bitty.

“Have you ever seen anything more attractive?” She asked him, shaking the water from her hair. “Like. Holy fuck, dude.”

“I hear ya,” Bitty sighed. “It’s like the good Lord himself is tryin’ to murder me.”

“Completely unfair,” Lardo said. “At least you’re pining for the hot one. My brain has to go and lust after the weirdo with the porn ‘stache.”

Bitty laughed and knocked his shoulder against hers. “I do worry about your tastes, Lardo. But you know Shits is gone on you, right?”

“Maybe,” Lardo said, slipping on her sunglasses again. “But he acts like that with everyone.”

Bitty snorted; they’d had this conversation a thousand times. “Sure, but he only looks at you like you hung the moon.” Lardo sighed and looked away. “Okay, okay, I’ll drop it. But I’m telling you, if you went up to him right now and kissed him, I guarantee Shitty would either kiss you back or pass out from excitement.”

“I heard they’re having chicken tenders in the mess hall tonight,” Lardo said loudly. Bitty was taken aback for a moment, then realized that Jack — with Shitty still on his shoulders — was fast approaching.

“Really?” Jack asked, grinning. “‘Swawesome.”

“Again?” Shitty groaned. “Is that all they bought for this term? I swear we have them every other meal.”

Bitty laughed as Shitty was unceremoniously dumped onto the dock. “Maybe Jack bribed Work Crew to keep serving them.”

Jack grinned at him. “Maybe I did.”

The bell to signify the end of the period rang over the ancient loudspeakers, and Bitty and Lardo stood reluctantly.

“Bye, y’all,” Bitty said. “Come sit with our cabins at campfire tonight.”

“Duh,” Shitty said. “My boys love your boys. If we join forces with Lardo’s girls, we could probably set fire to half of Samwell.”

“Or,” Jack said, going back into counselor mode as the kids dutifully lined up to get their ear drops. “We could just roast marshmallows and tell ghost stories like everyone else.”

Shitty shook his head in disgust. “Only you, Jacques Laurent, could make roasting marshmallows into some buzzkill-y.”

“Bye, losers,” Lardo said, looping her arm through Bitty’s. “We’ve gotta teach some small humans how to make friendship bracelets. If you’re lucky, we’ll bring you our rejects.”

Shitty grinned at her with hearts in his eyes. “I will gladly accept your ugliest and most deformed friendship bracelets, Lards, as long as they’re made with love.”

The very tips of Lardo’s ears went pink — the only signifier that she was shaken by Shitty’s flirting. “Maybe. No promises.”

Jack waved to Bitty with his elbow, hurriedly trying to get eardrops distributed to all the campers. “Make me something red, Bittle,” he said, and Bitty knew he was absolutely, truly fucked.

“Sure, Jack,” he said. “Anything you want.”

At campfire that night, Jack and Shitty’s campers came over to sit with Bitty and Chowder’s campers and the girls of Lardo and Camilla’s cabin. Shitty was wearing about twelve friendship bracelets on both arms, each uglier than the last, and Jack was very proudly sporting a thin, red thing that Bitty had spent far too much time on.

At the fire next to them, Bitty could see Ransom glaring daggers at Holster and Esther, and Nursey and Dex bickering about burnt marshmallows, and Caitlin Farmer desperately trying to catch Chowder’s attention.

Bitty smiled softly, knowing he could help at least one person in that group. He nudged Chowder gently and whispered, “Caitlin’s checking you out.”

“What?!” Chowder all but shouted. “She is?!”

Bitty grinned at Chowder fondly. “Go say hi. I’ll be fine with the boys.”

“Thanks, Bitty,” Chowder said almost shyly. “Was she really checking me out? I really like Farmer, Bitty, she’s so cool! She’s studying marine biology and knows about hockey and I really like her and I don’t want to ruin our friendship but I really really like her-”

“Sugar, breathe,” Bitty said, holding up a hand. “That poor girl had been trying to get your attention since we got here. Go put her out of her misery. I’m thinking she really really likes you, too.”

The smile Chowder gave him was blinding, and then he was off to the next fire pit, almost knocking Caitlin off her log in his excitement to say hi. Bitty laughed to himself, grinning when Caitlin gave him a grateful nod.

“Oooooooh!”

The boys had gathered around Bitty, also watching Chowder and Farmer. There were only eight of them and they were all in their tweens, but Bitty’s campers were exhausting. “Chowder’s got a girlfriend! Chowder’s got a girlfriend!” They sang.

“Shh, let him have this,” Bitty said, shooing the boys away. “Chirp him in the morning.”

Unfortunately — and this was something Bitty should’ve learned long ago — derailing the campers from one topic only led to him becoming the new target.

“Do you have a girlfriend, Bitty?”

“Is Lardo your girlfriend?”

“What about Camilla? She’s super hot.”

Bitty couldn’t help but laugh. He busied himself with putting a new marshmallow on his stick, then said, “No, I don’t have a girlfriend. Lardo’s just a friend. Yes, Camilla is very beautiful, I agree.” He glanced over to where both Lardo and Camilla were double-teaming a ghost story for their campers, sound effects and all. He didn’t think they could hear him.

One of his campers, Caleb, narrowed his eyes at this. “But Lardo was, like, all over you at Faber today. You should ask her out if she’s not already your girlfriend.”

A few feet away, Shitty had an amused look on his face that told Bitty there would be no lectures on heteronormativity to save him tonight.

Well, two could play at that game.

“Oh, I don’t think Lardo’s interested in me,” Bitty said casually. “She has her sights set on someone a little…taller.”

The boys laughed at this, and Shitty visibly perked up.

“Does Lardo have a crush on someone?”

“Bitty, you gotta fight him! Or grow more.”

“Guys, who put poison ivy in my s’more? Jackholes.”

Bitty sighed. “Eating poison ivy isn’t funny, boys, you could kill someone like that. And don’t say jackholes.”

“But you just said it-”

They fell silent when Bitty gave them his sternest glare, the one he’d learned from watching Moomaw run Sunday School back home. There was an awkward chorus of apologies, another (brief) silence, and then Xiaosong asked, “So who does Lardo like like?”

There was a muffled screech of laughter as Camilla slapped both hands over her mouth. The girls had finished their ghost story, and now everyone around the fire seemed invested in Bitty’s conversation.

“Yeah, Lardo,” one of the girls — Ceci — said. “Who do you like like? Is it Bitty?”

“No way, did you see her and Ransom at the stables yesterday-?”

“-Lardo and Chowder, sittin’ in a tree-”

“Alright, alright,” Lardo said, standing. There was something mischievous in her eyes, and Bitty couldn’t help but grin. “I do like someone. And he’s sitting at this campfire.”

The kids shrieked. Shitty looked like he might pass out.

Slowly, dramatically, Lardo walked around the fire, until she stood in front of Jack and Shitty. Jack looked like he wanted to give them space, but then Lardo was in his lap, sprawled out theatrically in a swoon.

“I’m afraid I’ve been pining for Jack this entire time,” she declared, waving an arm to the heavens. Jack was smirking now, wrapping his arms around her waist to keep her from falling off his lap. Shitty looked utterly lost.

The kids giggled nervously until Jack said, in his dullest monotone, “You know my heart belongs only to you, Lards.”

And then he kissed her on the cheek, loud and wet.

The kids screamed like a masked man had just jumped out of the woods. Bitty knew how they felt.

“Alright, nuggets,” Lardo said, clapping her hands together and sliding off of Jack’s lap without preamble. “Lights out is in ten minutes, let’s get a move on.”

Low enough that only Shitty and Bitty could hear, Jack murmured, “But how can we be parted so soon?”

Lardo snorted loudly and punched Jack’s shoulder. “I think you’ll manage.”

“Night, y’all,” Bitty said, waving at the others. He couldn’t help but notice how quiet Shitty was being, or the intense look he was sharing with Lardo. Jack caught his eye and shrugged, waving goodnight. Bitty grinned, very much looking forward to the deets he’d be demanding from Lardo in the morning.

When Bitty got back to the cabin, eight sugar-crashed campers in tow, he felt like he could pass out as soon as he hit his pillow. But then Chowder came in as the boys were crawling into their bunks and Bitty was brushing his teeth, bouncing and grinning like he’d just won the lottery.

“Bitty, Caitlin’s my girlfriend!” Chowder exclaimed as he joined Bitty at the small, nasty sink. “I’m so happy! I asked and she said yes!”

Bitty paused in his brushing to pat Chowder on the shoulder. “Congrats, sugar,” he said, spitting the toothpaste down the drain. “She’s a very lucky girl.”

“Please,” Chowder scoffed. “I’m the lucky one! Cait’s the coolest. Did you know she plays Volleyball for her school? Varsity team.”

“That’s great, sweetheart,” Bitty said, rinsing off his toothbrush. “I’m really happy for y’all.”

Chowder grinned at him. “This is the best feeling in the world, Bitty. Liking Cait and knowing she likes me back and finally getting to kiss her! It’s so great! I think this is the happiest I’ve ever been!”

Given Chowder’s sunshiny disposition, that last statement was probably debatable, but Bitty pulled him into a tight hug regardless. “That’s great, Chowder. Cait’s great. Y’all are very cute together.”

“Thanks, Bits,” Chowder saying, pulling back. “Gosh, I don’t know if I’ll be able to sleep, I’m so excited!”

Bitty laughed and went back to his nighttime routine as Chowder wandered back into the cabin to check on the campers. When Bitty joined him a few minutes later, Chowder was already passed out in his bunk, right on top of the covers. Bitty shook his head fondly and turned off the lights, one minute until the 11 PM curfew. Then, he slipped out the door, hoping none of the boys wondered where he was going.

As he stood outside, breathing in the muggy, summer air, Bitty caught sight of a figure perched on the steps of Jack and Shitty’s cabin. Drawing closer, Bitty saw it was Jack, who was leaned back to watch the stars. He noticed when Bitty approached and waved.

“What’re you doing up?” Bitty whispered, sitting down on the step next to Jack.

“Couldn’t sleep. You?”

Bitty shrugged. “Just thinking about something Chowder said.”

The stars above them were thick and bright, in a way that Bitty had never seen. Light pollution hadn’t been too big a problem in Madison, but Camp Samwell was the most isolated place Bitty had ever been and the night sky never failed to take his breath away. Sometimes, in moments like this, he wished he could live at Samwell forever.

“Yeah?” Jack was giving him a strange look, curiosity mixed with something unreadable. Bitty felt his face burn on its own accord. “What was that?”

“Oh, um.” Bitty chewed on his bottom lip, feeling a bit shy. “He said- well, I don’t know if you saw, but Caitlin kissed him at campfire tonight. And when we were getting ready for bed, he said that there was no feeling in the world that could beat the happiness of knowing someone likes you as much as you like them.”

Jack nodded, making an understanding noise in the back of his throat. “Yeah, I…that sounds nice.”

“Yeah,” Bitty sighed, training his gaze on the stars again. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Really?” Jack sounded genuinely surprised, which made Bitty’s heart flutter with nerves. “You…back home?”

“I’m not really out to anyone but my college friends,” Bitty admitted with a small shrug. “And…no. No one’s ever been interested in me before.”

Jack’s reply was immediate. “That’s not true.”

“Oh, trust me,” Bitty said, a bit bitterly. “I’m not the most desirable person, I know. No one’s ever wanted to date me.”

Jack frowned at him. “That’s not true,” he repeated. “Trust me.”

And- oh. Bitty felt the air hiss from his lungs, blood drain from his fingertips and rush to his wildly beating heart. “Um…wait. Really?”

Jack ducked his head and even in the dark Bitty could see the flush on his cheeks. It was adorable. “Yeah, really,” he admitted, sounding embarrassed and resigned, like he’d just been forced to spill his deepest secret. And in a way…

Bitty stopped thinking after that. Instead, he grabbed Jack by the front of his sleep-shirt and pulled him in for a kiss, chaste but forceful, as if he could convey everything he’d ever felt for Jack with just his lips.

Then Jack opened his mouth and Bitty found himself pushed back against the top step, one large hand at his ribs, the other gently cupping his cheek. Jack nipped at his lips, teeth clacking, then pulled back, resting his forehead against Bitty’s.

Chowder had been right. Bitty tingled head to toe with the knowledge that Jack liked him, Jack kissed him back and wanted to date him. It was like fireworks were going off overhead and every cheesy love song he’d ever heard on 94.9 was playing on max volume. He could die happy in this moment, with Jack gazing adoringly at him with soft, blue eyes.

“This is a pretty nice feeling,” Jack said, grinning goofily. He traced Bitty’s cheekbone with a calloused finger, trailing down to Bitty’s mouth. “I can think of a few things that would feel nicer.”

Bitty swatted at Jack’s chest, squawking a little in surprise. “Mr. Zimmermann, we are not hooking up right outside where our campers are sleeping.”

Jack’s blush darkened, but his grin didn’t falter. “I didn’t mean that, though I have it on good authority the mess hall is a great place-” He cut himself off laughing at the look of horror on Bitty’s face. “I just meant…being with you. Kissing you more. Holding your hand at flagpole.”

Bitty pulled Jack back in for another kiss, hands snaking up Jack’s deliciously muscled chest. Then he was hoisted into Jack’s lap, elevated just enough to adjust the kiss into something more comfortable. Bitty followed Jack’s lead, nibbling at his lips and sucking the tip of his tongue. Things were quickly getting hotter, wetter, and a familiar heat was building low in Bitty’s abdomen.

“Wait,” he breathed, pushing back a little. The dismayed noises Jack made was so utterly endearing that Bitty almost forgot why he stopped. “Jack, if you don’t plan on ravaging me in the Arts ‘n Crafts shed, you better stop kissin’ me like that.”

Jack’s eyes darkened and his smile widened. “You know, no one goes down to Faber this time of night…”

Bitty scowled at him. “If you think you can get me in that water after dark, you got another thing coming, mister.”

Jack laughed, soft and low, and ducked his head to press his lips to Bitty’s pulsepoint. Then Bitty felt tongue on his skin, then teeth, then a sweet, wet tug as Jack sucked on his neck. It sent a trembling warmth down his spine, and Bitty all but moaned on the steps of the cabin.

Spurred on by Bitty’s quiet whimpering, Jack’s bites quickly grew harder, his sucking longer and more intense. Bitty knew there would be marks — embarrassing, obvious marks — on his neck in the morning, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He was half-hard in his favorite blue shorts and the boy he like was giving his the first — and best — hickey of his life, hands firmly planted on his ass.

“Jack,” Bitty said sharply. “If you don’t take me to the Arts n’ Crafts shed right now-”

He didn’t even have a chance to finish his threat as he was slung over Jack’s shoulder. His shriek probably woke up half of E-Compound, but the realization that he was now eye-level with the greatest ass at Samwell kept him from caring too much.

Jack yelped in a slightly less embarrassing way when Bitty reached out to pat his ass. “Bittle,” he hissed, laugh evident in his voice. “What are you-?”

“Act like a caveman, get groped like a caveman,” Bitty retorted, making Jack laugh loud and deep.

“C’mon, I believe you and I have a date with a shed that reeks of Elmer’s Glue and bugspray.”

Bitty huffed. “Better than sunscreen and pondscum.”

“Changed my mind,” Jack said. “I’m throwing you in Faber instead.”

“Hey, I nearly drowned this morning,” Bitty said dramatically. “I deserve to have my way with you in the crafts shed.”

“Well, if you insist,” Jack said.

“I do,” Bitty said primly.

As it turned out, the Arts ‘n Crafts shed was already occupied by Shitty and Lardo, a sight which would haunt Bitty until his dying day. But, in the end, the docks turned out to be very romantic.

When Bitty came to flagpole the next morning with hickies on his neck and a sleepy Jack Zimmermann draped against his shoulders, Bitty was forced to endure the screaming and chirping of not only his entire cabin, but of half the counselors as well. Shitty cried a little, and Lardo told Jack — in her best impression of his monotone — that she would never recover from his betrayal.

“You’re coming down to the lake on your off period today, right?” Jack asked as their cabins walked to the mess hall for breakfast.

Bitty shrugged, biting back a smile. “I don’t know, I was thinking of ogling boys at the archery range — did you know Holster wears sleeveless shirts when he teaches archery? He says it’s because the sleeves get in the way, but we all know it’s so he can show off his guns. Which, really, are very impre-”

Jack cut him off with a kiss and a knowing look. “So, Faber?”

Bitty melted against Jack’s side, too giddy to keep teasing his boyfriend. “You know you’re the only one I want to objectify. Are you wearing the blue swim trunks?”

Jack flushed a little, a pleased smile spreading across his face. “I am now. You like those?”

Bitty nodded. “They’re tighter. And they bring out your eyes.”

Jack kissed him once more as they parted to join their own cabins for breakfast. “See you later, Bits,” he said softly.

“Later,” Bitty said, watching fondly as Jack walked away.

On his wrist, a small, red friendship bracelet hung proudly. Bitty grinned and turned to join his own cabin, who all looked fit to burst with chirps for both him and Chowder. Chowder cast him a gleeful look, and together they faced down their horde of campers and the terrible, hilarious chirps that they’d spent all morning devising.

[matingsaliva-blog]

If Anything Happens to me, Know that I Still Care About You Deeply

We’re going to the grocery store. I haven’t felt good for the past day and a half because I took pills on an empty stomach and driving around the sickening back roads of Philly have been giving me a headache. I don’t want to tell you so I just say that Lincoln Drive is making me dizzy and you pretend to understand. I don’t want to talk about it so this answer comes as a huge relief. I’m nauseous I tell you. I only tell you that because I’m afraid my insides may explode and I don’t want to throw up in your car because that has never been a good impression no matter how many times someone says it’s okay. This isn’t the end of the world. But to me, it is.

I feel bad and I can tell you genuinely care about my well-being, which sort of annoys me. I change the subject again. My face is plastered to the window and the frozen winter dew is outlining a really abstract rendition of my face. I get self conscious that even this amorphous natural phenomenon has chosen to distort what little pride I have in my looks. I am a silhouette of dripping window droplets. I say they should repave the roads. I think you’re annoyed that I don’t particularly say that to anyone and certainly without conviction. You notice things like that. You think that I should have a world’s worth of captivating and contributing thoughts when I speak into the void. It’s an observation and I have to internalize the loss. You agree. You say it without much substance, probably to mirror me. Obviously it has never occurred to you.

We pass the road where my dad used to work. I point out the factory. It is across from Laurel Hill Cemetery. For some reason I imagine him on the factory belt line taking specimens of ink and saying “Yes, this ink is good. Thanks team” but part of me thinks that he wasn’t that team-centric or even well-mannered. But he was liked, very much, from what I know. I wonder if he ever wandered over to the cemetery or at least just appreciated that it was there. Maybe he should have been buried here.

I’ve sat there listening to commercial trains screech their way through long expanses of suspended bridges over highways at this spot. I wonder if he heard this too. It was so loud. But not just loud in a way that you can ignore, it was invasive and I bet he blocked it out over the 40 years that he had worked there. Clocking out as a greasy, rail-thin but respected man as the trains rubbed their metal against the tracks. I admire that.

I say they should really repair these roads, again, to engage you. We’re hitting potholes and bumps which is hard to continuously ignore. You agree. Again. I don’t know how I want this conversation to go. I think about bringing up a memory of my dad but every time that I do, nobody knows how to act. They want to dress me in sympathy and say sorry and I want to tell them that it’s been a very long time. It’s fine. Time will tell how it has cured or destroyed me but that will come at various and uncomfortable times and I want you to be prepared. So I say nothing. You look at it as the stark and surgical demeanor I’ve chosen for you to glimpse into and that’s all that I can give to you. It isn’t suppressed, I just don’t have time for it. Not now. But people pry, they want to pluck me and remove it from me because they think I live with it in an extreme way. Actually, the day-to-day is a lot harder, in all honestly. I keep this to myself, too.

Later when I get to know you, I’ll relay that this this is okay to joke about. My biggest fear is that my sadness cannot become a joke that I can laugh about. It just takes time to get there. I need to stand perched above it all like an orator and decide which pieces are okay and most of the time anything goes, (unless it’s about how I don’t deserve to be loved because I have too many problems that one singular person cannot handle on their own.) This might concern you a little bit, given the context. We talked about my life insurance policy while we were driving one night and I laughed and said that I probably don’t have much of a chance. I said something like “at this point, they probably won’t cover me or it’ll at least be very expensive given my inability to want to stay alive.” I’m not responsible enough to even think about that yet and you tell me that your parents set yours up with their disposable income and as much as my family loves me, there’s definitely a line.

You laughed shyly when I said this and I told you it was okay. I made a really dark joke the other night and you laughed uncomfortably, again, but that’s all I could have hoped for. You let it be and chalked it up to one of my many social misfires that you’ve chosen to find endearing right now. Because you like me and I’m pretty and i try very hard to be functional around you. You said that it’s funny how I compose this dark and morose life as a protective blanket so that I have something to fall back on, but that I seem happy most of the time. I laughed this time. If i even begin to argue this point, i will sound like a 13-year old goth kid pissed off at my parents for not dropping me off at the mall on a Friday night. I guess that’s a privilege, or I should be more of an absolute garbage crying child so that you see my true self catapulting toward legitimate moments of truly wanting to die. I like you though, but I can live without you. I shatter inside and my heart-to-brain artery sort of stops functioning.

We’re almost at the store. I know that I don’t really want to go in. I’m holding my head in my hands and I’m smiling at the funny things you say because I know you’re checking. You need instant gratification and I don’t mind. I have to remind myself that you’re doing me a favor and that i should be grateful. I have to relearn these emotions, I need to feel them rather than acknowledge that they exist. I ask you if it’s okay if i stay in the car, I have to make a phone call. You say absolutely. You leave and I open the notes in my phone

1. Buy more things that excentuate my tits 2. Collect decorative boxes 3. Buy apple butter from Whole Foods 4. The abcs of socialism? 5. Bankfujzzy (idk what that means) 6. Pink silk ribbon 7. The Girl with Curious Hair by David Foster Wallace 8. An objectively shitty poem 9. A thought “You could have hung out with jocks in high school but you chose art instead and that made you a very sensitive girl.”

Theres nothing of value in these lists. I know you’ll take your time in the store because you have to check all of the food labels. I have time to kill. I will make up a fake conversation in a few minutes about how my nephew was being a dick and my mom called me because she was upset. This will validate my extreme adversity to entering public places. I lean back in the seat and close my eyes. I can feel my eyes water and the eyeliner forming drops in my cornea. I close my eyes and let it flow out. Everyone says my eyes are red all the time anyway. I am going for the Sky Ferrieira look but without all of the other shit. They’re flowering. It’s okay.

“Remember when you drinking whiskey and you told me that I had said the nicest thing to you that anyone had ever said to you?” “Vaguely.” “You were talking about poetry. I told you that you seem really happy, your demeanor changes. When you talk about things that you’re passionate about, it makes me happy. I could listen to you talk for hours. “Yeah that’s still the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.” “I thought you said it because you were drunk.”

My hair is so greasy I can feel the grime burning my eyes and yet I feel considerably fine just knowing I have a very nominal control over it in the privacy of my own home. Sometimes the smells let me know that my body has had experiences and I embrace that I moved through it without dwelling on my self worth. I drop into puddles of reflections of me. When I’m compartmentalizing. There will be a debate if any of this is really worth fixing. And I will respect your decision. Always.