histemper-blog

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anyway, my fc is flawless

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some url playlist thing i snagged from @vencficas​  ;^) 

Hypnotized  --  Set It Off I Predict A Riot  --  Kaiser Chiefs  Sex & Lies  --  Nothing More Turn the Lights Out  --  Hadouken!  Enemies  --  Shinedown Mayday [M’aidez]  --  People In Planes Plug In Baby  --  Muse El Dorado  --  EXO Revive  --  Hands Like Houses

tagging:   fuckin uuuhh  @psyclownsis,  @evilwork,  @serialclown,  @diagnonsins​,  @damnfinecup  and whoever else is reading this  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

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You will not be punished for your anger, you will be punished by your anger.

Buddha (via naturaekos)

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     “he now thought that part of his drinking problem had stemmed from an unconscious desire to be free of Stovington and the security he felt was stifling whatever creative urge he had.  he had stopped drinking, but the need to be free had been just as great.”  ( p. 157 )     “once, during the drinking phase, Wendy had accused him of desiring his own destruction but not possessing the necessary moral fiber to support a full-blown deathwish.  so he manufactured ways in which other people could do it, lopping a piece at a time off himself and their family.”  ( p. 275 ) 

jack  +  self-destructive tendencies.

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I’m afraid that I am destructive, that if I have something good, I am compelled to destroy it.

passad-e (via faded-and-dreaming)

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no matter what they say      the poets      the philosophers      the singers and the dreamers and the historians you are not a star. there is no fire when you fall. no shower of sparks, no whispered wishes, no tumbling tail of light splitting the sky in half– just cold      and ice           and wind                and winter and the dying echoes of a scream

only the damned and dying stars fall ( j.p. )

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@monstrauma go away i’m trying to watch improv

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dont ever talk to me or my 47 destructive tendencies again

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@monstrauma​

       HIS VISION IS SWIMMING.  he hasn’t had a single drink  --  not in a tangible, feel-it-in-your-hand way, but whatever sort of hallucinogenic martinis Lloyd��s been throwing at him have certainly done their job.  his feet stumble beneath him with uncertainty, limbs dangling aimlessly by his sides as he staggers down one of the Overlook’s countless hallways.  he stumbles, catches himself on the wall, feels the sharp pain in his shoulder on impact die down to a dull ache.  a quick, muttered swear and he’s on his way, teetering across the carpet he’s been instructed to keep clean.  WELL, FUCK YOU, ULLMAN.  I COULD TAKE A SHIT ON THIS CARPET AND NO ONE WOULD KNOW.  NO ONE BUT ME, MYSELF AND I.  AND I’M NO DIRTY SNITCH !

       there’s a self-satisfied grin that stretches across his face, albeit unconsciously, as he entertains the notion for longer than he’d care to admit   --  but the grin fades rather quickly as he comes to an abrupt halt, body swaying slightly with the sudden stillness.  somewhere down the hallway, a pair of eyes stares back, beneath a thick coat of what appears to be grease paint.  his own blue eyes, thick with inebriation, narrow to try and focus on the figure in the distance.  warily, he calls  --             ( UNMASK, UNMASK ! )       ❛ the fuck are you? ❜

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@citrained

      HE’S HUNGOVER.  WHAT ELSE IS NEW?  it’s hard to tell, really, with how apt he’s become at faking full sobriety, but the disheveled haircut and slightly askew necktie make it rather obvious that he did not have the most productive of mornings.  for Christ’s sake, he can’t even remember if he turned the toaster oven off.  ( or  --  on?  did he even make toast? )   Jack doesn’t intend to be mean, but with the raging headache he’s nursing and a violent mood swing on the rise, the absolute last thing he wants to hear is Courtney Callahan’s shrill, demanding voice cutting through his empty classroom long before the bell had even prepared to ring.        ❛  --  Courtney. ❜   shoulders rise briefly before he lets out a long, calming sigh.  ❛ i don’t mind answering your questions, but just.  keep it down.  alright? ❜

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@drpoisn

     MY GOD, THE SCREAMING !   he hasn’t seen an individual writhe like that since  ( HE SMASHED HIS OWN WIFE’S RIBS WITH A FUCKING MALLET )  the last time he found himself confined to the bathroom floor, shaky hands gripping desperately at a porcelain rim to keep himself upright.  it’s not something he cares to relive, but watching this other man claw at his own face, fingernails effortlessly tearing through flesh and drawing forth streams of red to matte his cheeks, there’s a familiar nausea that rises in his gut and makes him wish he was watching something, anything else.  when the screaming dies down and the body before him gradually falls limply to the floor, he turns to the attending doctor, hands balling into trembling fists.  nails dig into his palms for some kind of stability, half-crescents reddening his skin.         ❛  --  what the fuck did you do to him? ❜

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someone on this hellsite:  the shining isn’t even a horror movie, men are just like that me, angrily throwing back a shot:  the shining is about a severely mentally ill, depressed and suicidal recovering alcoholic trying to provide for and make amends with his family while desperately trying not to become his parents bc he was abused and neglected growing up.  jack torrance is a good man with a bad temper that often gets him into trouble and makes him an easy target for the murderous and vengeful spirits of the overlook that corrupt his mind and steal away his entire identity to the point that even his five-year-old son, the light of his life, the reason he lives and breathes, addresses a complete disconnect between jack and the creature / shape.  his descent into complete, grief-driven insanity was a major, drawn-out and wonderfully written plot point and if you want to pass his ongoing struggle and nicholson’s shoddy, one-trick “i’m already batshit crazy” performance off as “lol men being men” then by all means, enjoy your ignorant existence far away from me

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( you promised. ) ( promises were made to be broken. )      - p. 322-23

“you promised you’d never hit him again.”   [ ... ]  defeated, she answered herself.  he looks beaten. he said: “i always thought i could keep my promises.”     - p. 446 ( keep your promise, Mr. Torrance. )   “i will,” he said.       - p. 584 “i’ll find it.  they promised i could look all i want.” “yes, they promise,” Danny said, “but they lie.”     - p. 650

jack  +  promises.

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       DEAR GOD, DO OLD SCARS EVER STOP HURTING?   //  indie book-based jack torrance.  selective, private & nsfw.  written by cole.

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give me the drug you know i'm after connect me and you could be my chemical

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apathy. empty laughter. bitter coping

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