#Entrapment Day

[whatareyoureallyafraidof]

Now, the MAGA Morons and MAGA Maggots are trying to call January 6th "Entrapment Day."

[cyarskaren52]

Even MAGA knows that 💩isn’t happening!

[chiropteracupola]

Oh, how I long for the wind / It was here and blew away / And like an anchor in the sand / I was forced to stay...

[starwarmth]

We were seated by the fire, as just now described, and Miss Havisham still had Estella’s arm drawn through her own, and still clutched Estella’s hand in hers, when Estella gradually began to detach herself. She had shown a proud impatience more than once before, and had rather endured that fierce affection than accepted or returned it.

“What!” said Miss Havisham, flashing her eyes upon her, “are you tired of me?”

“Only a little tired of myself,” replied Estella, disengaging her arm, and moving to the great chimney-piece, where she stood looking down at the fire.

“Speak the truth, you ingrate!” cried Miss Havisham, passionately striking her stick upon the floor; “you are tired of me.”

Estella looked at her with perfect composure, and again looked down at the fire. Her graceful figure and her beautiful face expressed a self-possessed indifference to the wild heat of the other, that was almost cruel.

“You stock and stone!” exclaimed Miss Havisham. “You cold, cold heart!”

“What?” said Estella, preserving her attitude of indifference as she leaned against the great chimney-piece and only moving her eyes; “do you reproach me for being cold? You?”

“Are you not?” was the fierce retort.

“You should know,” said Estella. “I am what you have made me. Take all the praise, take all the blame; take all the success, take all the failure; in short, take me.”

“O, look at her, look at her!” cried Miss Havisham, bitterly; “Look at her, so hard and thankless, on the hearth where she was reared! Where I took her into this wretched breast when it was first bleeding from its stabs, and where I have lavished years of tenderness upon her!”

“At least I was no party to the compact,” said Estella, “for if I could walk and speak, when it was made, it was as much as I could do. But what would you have? You have been very good to me, and I owe everything to you. What would you have?”

“Love,” replied the other.

“You have it.”

“I have not,” said Miss Havisham.

“Mother by adoption,” retorted Estella, never departing from the easy grace of her attitude, never raising her voice as the other did, never yielding either to anger or tenderness, “Mother by adoption, I have said that I owe everything to you. All I possess is freely yours. All that you have given me, is at your command to have again. Beyond that, I have nothing. And if you ask me to give you what you never gave me, my gratitude and duty cannot do impossibilities.”

“Did I never give her love!” cried Miss Havisham, turning wildly to me. “Did I never give her a burning love, inseparable from jealousy at all times, and from sharp pain, while she speaks thus to me! Let her call me mad, let her call me mad!”

“Why should I call you mad,” returned Estella, “I, of all people? Does any one live, who knows what set purposes you have, half as well as I do? Does any one live, who knows what a steady memory you have, half as well as I do? I who have sat on this same hearth on the little stool that is even now beside you there, learning your lessons and looking up into your face, when your face was strange and frightened me!”

“Soon forgotten!” moaned Miss Havisham. “Times soon forgotten!”

“No, not forgotten,” retorted Estella. “Not forgotten, but treasured up in my memory. When have you found me false to your teaching? When have you found me unmindful of your lessons? When have you found me giving admission here,” she touched her bosom with her hand, “to anything that you excluded? Be just to me.”

“So proud, so proud!” moaned Miss Havisham, pushing away her grey hair with both her hands.

“Who taught me to be proud?” returned Estella. “Who praised me when I learnt my lesson?”

“So hard, so hard!” moaned Miss Havisham, with her former action.

“Who taught me to be hard?” returned Estella. “Who praised me when I learnt my lesson?”

“But to be proud and hard to me!” Miss Havisham quite shrieked, as she stretched out her arms. “Estella, Estella, Estella, to be proud and hard to me!”

Estella looked at her for a moment with a kind of calm wonder, but was not otherwise disturbed; when the moment was past, she looked down at the fire again.

“I cannot think,” said Estella, raising her eyes after a silence “why you should be so unreasonable when I come to see you after a separation. I have never forgotten your wrongs and their causes. I have never been unfaithful to you or your schooling. I have never shown any weakness that I can charge myself with.”

“Would it be weakness to return my love?” exclaimed Miss Havisham. “But yes, yes, she would call it so!”

“I begin to think,” said Estella, in a musing way, after another moment of calm wonder, “that I almost understand how this comes about. If you had brought up your adopted daughter wholly in the dark confinement of these rooms, and had never let her know that there was such a thing as the daylight by which she had never once seen your face—if you had done that, and then, for a purpose had wanted her to understand the daylight and know all about it, you would have been disappointed and angry?”

Miss Havisham, with her head in her hands, sat making a low moaning, and swaying herself on her chair, but gave no answer.

“Or,” said Estella, ”—which is a nearer case—if you had taught her, from the dawn of her intelligence, with your utmost energy and might, that there was such a thing as daylight, but that it was made to be her enemy and destroyer, and she must always turn against it, for it had blighted you and would else blight her;—if you had done this, and then, for a purpose, had wanted her to take naturally to the daylight and she could not do it, you would have been disappointed and angry?”

Miss Havisham sat listening (or it seemed so, for I could not see her face), but still made no answer.

“So,” said Estella, “I must be taken as I have been made. The success is not mine, the failure is not mine, but the two together make me.”

Great Expectations, ch. 38

[blueflyingturtleontheway]

How was I NOT supposed to get hooked after the wishing well episode

[rosesart11]

its goatman entrapment...

[here-is-kia]

I haven’t been writing for a while, I feel terrible about it. Since now I have always used my laptop and used Grammarly before uploading here. Right now it is 5:43 am, in the middle of Ramadan, school is closed because of it. I need to study, I know, but I can’t bring myself to do it. It takes too much of my time, and my efforts fucking always goes unnoticed. Expected, I know. My laptop is fucking broken and useless now, I can barely use it. Day by day I am losing my sanity because of it. I have no will whatsoever. I begged to die yesterday, crying and shivering. Pathetic. Couldn’t even stop. I wish my parents would see me as a human instead of a puppet who should just focus on their studies. They want the good for me, but what’s the point if every single word they make me want to crawl out of my skin? Staying with them for over three minutes is painful. I want to be myself. To be free. I can understand and see my mother’s thoughts, I can feel them. Like a hand is holding a vein between my heart and neck. It’s not fair. How my father treats my younger sister, how my mother is different to her. Few days ago, well actually two days ago- Me and my sister cried in each other’s arms complaining about life. She is fucking 9. Nine. She says life is too hard, how she thought pain is fictional. She saw a childhood video of mine, and it shocked her how different i had become. Trauma can change you, some people have it harder, you may not remember and intellectualise your past. My mother has a lot of opinions, and I know the existence of it. Just because she ‘loves’ me doesn’t mean I feel loved by her, she oversees my screams, and tears. I am genuinely disgusted by her. If I were a mother, I vow I wouldn’t be like her. She thinks she is the best in the whole world, she ‘thinks’ she lets us do whatever we want. She simply doesn’t ‘parent’ us. She never will. And my father is… ugh. Saying anything about him brings tears to my eyes, it fact there are tears in my eyes right now. He cares, but I did wish if he just left me fucking Alone. I want my own life. I fucking hate my parents. I am being ungrateful and don’t fucking care anymore. They simply don’t fucking understand how fucking hard it is to get these grades. How can ALL of your three kids be suicidal? One is 9, another is fucking 7 and tried to kill hi self with a knife. I don’t even know if they are blind or are just ignoring everything. Mother likes to hide from father. I hate her. I hate it when I tell her my grades and she doesn’t tell father, father thought I hide my grades from him. I didn’t correct him. It hurts. I have my ambitions and all, please just give me a fucking break. From all your fucking expectations and opinions. I hate my mother. I tell her I love her every now and then, I am simply lying. I joke around and shit, but I can’t stand it anymore. I am a Muslim, a mighty believer too. I can’t run away when I get older, no matter how much I want to. Maybe I can, hopefully. Though death seems more easy, still begging your God to take away your life but still let you go to heaven is like begging your teacher to let you leave the exam hall and still let you pass. When will I be free? When? Never? I want freedom, I hate my mother’s thoughts and opinions, I can fucking feel them. It makes me want to crawl out of my skin. She thinks she is the best mother there is, yet all she does she buy endlessly for her little dolls and argue how I have tons of clothes. She hates me, I am too ugly for her. I know. I hope she— no I don’t even want her to know about the pain she had caused us. She is too stubborn and would cry like a child. It’s sadly really, to be trapped your whole life. I can never be alone, I hate them. I hate taking the blame always. It’s not like my father is the capable man he thinks he is. I want to die.

Actually you know what? I don’t want to be away from a family, I want to spend time with a family, I want to joke around with a family(I mean I am already a laughing subject no matter how amazing my grades and weight are.) I just can’t stand this one. I am far too disgusted by them. Far, far too disgusted. In Ramadan, your Naf is still with you, maybe this is who I actually am. A pathetic emotional child. A worthless being. What benefit would my parents get from my successful future, that I do not know. I think they want me to succeed so they can feel like they accomplished something. I can never be my own person. I hate them. Even if parents have their own problems, their children still shouldn’t all be fucking in love with death.

Here, death is not a fear but a privilege. The children envies people who experience death. They want to physically(my sister said to me that day) harm themselves for attention. Please, you are fucking busy but you are a parent. They aren’t parenting, they are slacking off, giving us the basic human needs then taking a break. I was never enough, will never be. I am worthless, and if my fucking mother says ‘Oh Sweetie no! Who told you that!?’ In her honeyed voice, I will kill her. I probably won’t— but it will still be my breaking point js—

Freedom, heaven, today I saw a comment on a reel on Instagram, saying the prophet said life is a prison to the believers and paradise to the non-believers. It is kind of like a sign, of course life is not a paradise to everyone. I am doubting the authenticity of the translation. The last sentence doesn’t sound correct, it certainly is not from the Quran. It says ‘prison’ not hell, so I don’t think the is actually ‘paradise’. I did like how it said ‘prison’ though, a sign hopefully. It just gives you that shed of hope every delusional teenager with trauma likes to cling into.

-6:39 including time taken for tags :P

[books-in-a-storm]

Romance A Day🌹

Omen's Entrapment, Ciara St. James

[autumnalhalcyon]

the rage just kinda never fully goes away, huh.

[cyarskaren52]

What’s the sense of putting Black people in power in his administration, if he’s going to block their moves. It screams “Token” for me!

[yeah-thats-probably-it]

sometimes, when you’re scanning and transcribing old archived letters, it’s all you can do to sit on your hands and dutifully chant “I shall not project modern concepts of gender and sexuality onto historical people who would have conceptualized those things differently and in any case aren’t alive to confirm or deny them” until the urge passes

[welcometogrouchland]

I have had a million important things happen this week w/ more to come (got 5 college offers, get to be interviewed on local radio, have to meet the mayor for the third(?) time this year, get to attend a film pitch, etc) and I can't appreciate any of it because I am just so scared of an email I have to send

[hungryfan45]

If you’ve been wondering where Henry Zaga is, don’t worry, Ive got him. Henry had become too good at hiding away from preds on Vore day that he thought he was invincible. He was sloppy this time, leaving behind a trail to his hiding place. It was too easy to grab him while he was dozing off. And now I’ve got him all wrapped up nice and pretty. Now I can live out my fantasy and see him finally get devoured. Would you like to do the honors, I’d love for you to be the pred?

Heres to number 31!

[encasedinobsidian]

me trying to finish writing finally dawn while my Next Thing is breathing down my neck wanting my attention

but also work is getting busy which ive been waiting for for a long time so im happy to not really have time to write anything else rn lmfao

[millimononym]

i feel like we dont talk Enough about the fact that Lin Manuel Miranda made a musical based on a real 18yo who got his life almost ruined by a grown woman police officer entrapping him by making it seem like she loved him to get him to sell her drugs on school property so she could arrest him. Like is this not a well known fact

[screampied]

you don’t really realize you’re growing old with satoru until you spot a grey tress inside the roots of your hair as you’re looking in the mirror. the thing about marriage and life itself was that time really doesn’t stop—for no one. as you entrap the lock between your fingers, you murmur out to satoru with a cheeky grin. “satoru baby, c’mere.”and as he’s lying in bed with a wrinkled nose, he reads some book titled ‘three men in a boat.’ as he flips a thick page, his cerulean blue reading glasses crook down the bridge of his nose before he turns his attention toward you.

“yesss, honey?” he rubs his eyes, bringing a palm up to his growing stubble. as he got older, you noticed how he moved a bit slower. satoru was still fit as he aged, but he’d have a bit of a waddle whenever he walked. it was cute—how his limbs were getting more and more fragile, but he was still labeled as the strongest despite his inevitable aging.

he makes his way behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist. the two of you make eye contact through the mirror that reflects you both, a happy married couple. “look, we’re finally matching now,” and his face softens once you bring the silvery colored strand up to his view. ‘matching,’ because his hair was naturally a snowy white . . almost similar to the strand of hair you just showed him.

although as the years progressed, satoru was growing ashen grey streaks too.

“i guess we are,” he replied in a gentle tone, his hands remaining on your hips. satoru’s touch was always gentle and ginger. he presses his lips near the back of your nape before letting off a soft sigh. “you’d look pretty with white hair, actually.”

“prettier than you?” you hum, glancing at him through the mirror. satoru towers over you as he holds you, the band of his wedding ring grazing against your hip.

again, you watch as the corners of his lips crease into a smile. a toothy genuine one where his dimples show.

“haha, veeeery funny,” and as he buries his face into your neck, he deeply ponders to himself for a moment.

to think . . how much time has passed, out of all the countless tiresome battles he’s had to face—

all those years at trying to keep the world safe and now, he could finally relax. having his arms around you gave him a peace of mind, and in the end it was all worth it because at the end of the day, satoru gojo—the strongest, came back to you. you were his personal safe haven and he was yours.

“but honeyyy,” he yawns with rosy pouty lips, shifting his chin up to rest against your left shoulder. satoru starts leading you toward your side of the bed. “ ‘s pretty late, let’s getcha back to bed, hm?”

“okay,” you mumble, already feeling your eyes starting to get heavy again. satoru’s still got his burly arms wrapped around your waist as he leisurely guides you back to bed. he was clingy, and that never changed. satoru gojo’s always been clingy ever since the two of you met. as he pulls down the cover for you to enter, you crawl back in and he gets beside you.

satoru slings an arm around you, pulling you close as his hooded eyes starts a staring contest with the swaying wooden ceiling fan.

it’s moving slow. . just like time was.

whenever he was with you, it felt as if time stood still. and as the both of you cuddled against each other with your head resting against his beating heart, he sighs. it’s a content happy sigh, and satoru’s hands find their way near the top of your head. his thin fingers maze it’s way near your soft grey growing strand before he leans in, giving the crown of your head a goodnight kiss. “mwah,” and he watches as your eyes briefly widen before glancing away, growing sheepish. “get some rest, my love. i’ll be here when you wake up. promise.”

you nod, too drowsy to reply and he pulls you closer. satoru’s heartbeat was steady and slow, and each pulse that bested against your ear made you felt more and more protected. as he holds you firm and close, a hand of his softly caresses your forehead—brushing against the soft hairs that cling onto your skin.

as your breathing starts to relax and your eyelids finally close, he realizes you finally drifted off to sleep. satoru exhales lowly, almost forgetting to take off his reading glasses. as he places them near the nightstand, he lies back down, giving your sleeping state once last glance.

“i love you,” he whispers against your ear before reaching for the pearled lamp switch. “so much.”your head nuzzles against his chest and he assumes that was your non-verbal way of saying it back, even in your sleep. cute.

the only sounds that could be heard were the faint tick tocking of the grandfather clock that stood near the hallway and your soft breathing as you deeply slept. satoru feels a smile tugging against his glossed lips yet again, but this time it’s different . .

it’s not the same smile from when you showed him that you were graying, it was a more genuine smile that was satisfied at everything—primarily at life. satoru’s long crystalline lashes gradually flap shut as he smiles to himself, a thumb brushing against your forehead. all those battles was worth it in the end, because right now, he’s at the only place he wanted to be . . with you.

life wasn’t a competition, but satoru finally felt at peace, true peace—and that peace was being in your presence. he wasn’t one for believing in good endings, but maybe this particular one wasn’t so bad.

“i . . won.”