apeachyboi - Tumblr blog

[apeachyboi]

[apeachyboi]

why did i try weed omg ima die i feel like a a dvd player

[apeachyboi]

Oh to be a bundle of glowing vaguely cat shaped void

[apeachyboi]

Beloved NPC Pan has unfortunately betrayed us, and has become even hotter in light of it.

[apeachyboi]

Redesigned my dnd char Amechania at last. Poor mf has switched patrons, died and got revivified, went to therapy and then got betrayed so I thought that warranted a fit check.

[apeachyboi]

At my funeral there will be no flowers.

There will be no white lilies stuck to cherrywood casket,

there will be no pre-wilting roses or orchids weeping in the iron fist of a father or Forget-Me-Nots in twin palms...

Instead, I imagine my funeral as I am: there is a thing lost at sea.

It is weathered by salt water and unanchored.

It is sinking,

At my funeral, the sky opens her mouth to pour. At my funeral, the river overflows.

Flowers do not grow underwater.

I learned this from a brother.

Or two.

I learned that grief is a thing of threes: there is no room in a mourning house for a fourth flood.

I live in rooms full of water and shipwrecks.

I do not miss the flowers.

I dream of a mother I’ve never met.

She has no head.

Just hands.

And she holds me as if my spine was always meant to be bent.

Curled into her arms.

Cradled.

I dream of funerals, and home grown alliums.

I dream of newly dead sons.

And their mothers.

There is ivy tickling my chin, soft earth a cushion underneath my heavy skull.

Truthfully, I am already there—I hear the soil is warm this time of year.

[apeachyboi]

“Self loathing and Consciousness walk into a bar, and of course, it’s the beginning of a joke, because what would you be if not the funny friend with not enough to laugh about…

So it goes like this, Self Loathing arrives twenty minutes late and asks the bartender to open a tab, of which only he will be paying, and the first round begins.

Self Loathing is already on his psycho-analyzing bullshit says—

‘You take while knowing you can never teach your hands what it means to be full, hours spent clinging to the phone waiting for friends to call just to never pick up - you are most at home in the rusted static of a voice-mail, in runaway Goodbyes and Hellos at arms length.’

And so I ask for a drink.

Take a shot.

You snap a wisecrack across your knee and tell your friends about the siblings you will never know, poking fun at empty bedrooms conquered by dust and distance.

On bad nights, you lay outside the threshold and slide your smallest finger underneath the doorway, cuticles carpet-burned and pink, imagining someone else’s nail bed just within reach.

Take a shot

When you were ten, you could block out anything with the hums of a video game cartridge slotted into a gameboy.

TV static.

Yelling.

Window shatter.

Slammed doors, now, you’ve traded pixels with sweated bedsheets and empty cups cemented to desktops. 

Take a shot.

You don’t clean your room, content to live pigsty.

Your closet door will not slide shut because of its rusted hinges, you do not ask your father to oil.

You do not ask your father for anything, he has already taught you how this joke goes: Self Loathing and Consciousness walk into a bar and your father keeps beer bottles by the TV set, you’re taught by age nine how to use an opener. The first time you try to pry off an aluminum lid, you slice the soft pads of your thumb open. That night you learn to get blood out of carpet and cry for hours.

Your father does not stay home; at age ten you teach yourself to use a stove and sear the face of a spatular into your palm the first time you try to make eggs. So you get sick on take-out and scrub down the bathroom sink once your father goes to sleep. Your friends say you smell like bleach in the mornings; they laugh when you say you’re in the business of drinking a cup before bed.

And there’s a mother underground somewhere, with a missing face and your smile, and your father claims he does not remember her. Your father does not remember your fifteenth/nineteenth birthday.

Take a shot.

And you’re afraid, you’re afraid that one day you’ll look in the mirror and see that you look exactly like him.

The last revenants of your relationship found in the color of your eyes, the strands of your hair.

Self loathing tells you to burn it off.

Consciousness tells you that this is a trick mirror.

I want to tell you that this is all a trick, one elaborate prank.

A joke.

Because the punchline has to have hit already.

Because the funny friend is still performing and no one is laughing. Of course.

Because how can I be the funny friend if I’m not constantly cauterizing my wounds into a stand up routine? Because I’m still performing and no one is laughing and the bottle is empty.

Take. A. Shot.

On the last day of eight grade, you get the superlative for Class Clown. During lunch, your friends laugh and tell you there’s never been a more perfect fit.

That night, you go home to a father asleep on the couch and kitchen lights blown out. The only lift is from the flicker of infomercials on a buzzing television.

You turn it off and draw a blanket to your father’s chest. You tell him goodnight.

You pretend he says it back. On your way to your room you pass by his liquor cabinet.

You pause. You pretend you didn’t.

Take. A. Shot.”

[apeachyboi]

Grumpy, a gnome monk amnesiac with bad drinking problems and worse women problems. Rip whore you will not be missed.

[apeachyboi]

Madellaine Malheuresement, my partners PC in Vampire: The Masquerade. She's an ulucky nosferatu who's never known what it's like to feel beautiful, but is learning her own strengths in her unlife.

[apeachyboi]

My VTM PC, Nascha Faulkner. They're a fledgling gangrel with concerningly low self control and humanity, barely clinging on to the morals of their previously mortal life.

[apeachyboi]

Meet my new bbeg turned pc for a vampire the masquerade oneshot, Ante Nora! She's a very devout and broken Lasombra who is one less stage of blond bonding away from walking into the sun.

[apeachyboi]

Torden Stormbringer, a human cleric and certified dilf

[apeachyboi]

One of our NPCs Juniper, the wood elf Barbarian who we all want to strangle us with her thighs ❤

[apeachyboi]

Meet Daena, a high elf bard and raging Tory, who happened to be the first character death of our campaign.

[apeachyboi]

Our favourite npc Pan, a half-elf cleric who is done with all of our shit

[apeachyboi]

Malfrey, the dragonborn rogue who is far too young to be here.

[apeachyboi]

My friend's PC Sycamore, the wood elf druid with the spine of a willow tree.