#I fucking hate the dermatologist I don’t want to go that bitch is so fucking mean

[an-absolute-trainwreck]

im fighting against my eczema and im losing

[chososcamgirl]

omg.. i barely even have anything to say because i literally did nothing today😞😞

today i caught up with a friend and she was asking me what hair dye i used cuz she wanted to dye her hair blue black even tho when i told her i was going to do blue black she said it would look really ugly on me?? so i told her that and she said she never said anything like that😭 i also just finished s1 of demon slayer😋 since i was really bored i decided to make slime.. i threw it out because it was way to sticky and i was out of activator💔 tmrw i’m only going to my first two classes since i have a dermatologist appointment tmrw (fuck acne) buttt i also have a french test second period😞😞 i don’t feel like i’m gonna do good on it but we ball!!!

hope you have a lovely day🙏🏼🙏🏼

-🪼

WHAT? so she was plotting on u the whole time. or she was just a hating bitch😭 girl i hope u have some good friends in ur circle bc the ones u tell me r so ??😭 OOOO how was demon slayer its still sitting there collecting dust… omg take me back to my slime days i think everyone’s primary school collectively banned slime like it’s just a universal thing.. yay for only two classes! boo for french test💔 i hope u do well in it tho!! <3 #lebronjames also good luck at ur appointment and lmk how it goes angel🙂‍↕️

ily and u too!!!

[thekitschdiet]

my take on the literary masterpiece, the chic diet

Firstly, I am no one. It’s part of my charm. My fifteen minutes of fame was years ago, when I had an instagram niche meme page. I didn’t even take any brand deals! And my posts averaged six thousand likes! Anyhow. I am hardly literate and well hydrated and carry a small sephora-CVS-hybrid worth in my mini tote bag. Here is my guide on how to live like me, the intermediate kitsch-rat, aspiring influencer. But like, in an apathetic, somewhat dissonant, ironic way. I like saying I live by dogmatic principles. But a lot of it, um, is just eating disorder rituals. But that’s not really important. You’re as hot as you say you are, and as much an authority on what you write so long as you say it with, you know, conviction. It’s kind of venerable how fucking delusional I am, actually. Giving any sort of advice like I’m anywhere close to the ritzy ideal of the amphetamine-areyouami label-american. New York, ideally. West Village, preferably. But I guess the kind of guide I can write is better suited to someone living in a suburb, in a house with the twelve-paned windows. I always thought those were so chic. SO quaint, in a somewhat luxe way. Like, Connecticut vibes. My parents used to drive me up there as a child to buy books and ice cream. Nowadays I’d opt for a matcha latte with novelty ice cubes, but I guess at the time it was pretty sweet. 

Because I popped a Vyvanse at like, 10pm, this next little bit could go one of two ways. I will write the most articulate, brilliant piece of literature of my life. Magnum opus, if there was a skinnier word for it. Or, I will get wrapped up doing something like folding all my last-season knits (which is part of my look, okay! I don’t have a job!) and fixating on a paragraph on how a girl’s collarbones are almost as identifying as a fingerprint, or a signature. I’m not a graphologist, but if you write your A’s with the little tail on top (like on a computer), you’re probably a snake. Nothing personal, just an observation. Also, I do have a biology final to study for. Not that I’m super anal, or even particularly committed to academia, but even in my precariously manicured (read that as separate terms; I did a good job on my nail polish, okay? But I happen to also be teetering on the brink of an epiphany or a collapse. Hence the use of the word precarious.) state, I know it’s important enough I can let one of my countless side-quests sit idle for a couple more days. 

The first section seems only natural to be about hydration. And the whole idea of drinking things, really. There was a section in The Chic Diet about Adderall dry-mouth, which deeply resonated with me. Once I bit off a chunk of a Nivea Strawberry Shine (my favorite lip balm, more on that later) and swished it around my mouth. Didn’t help. Really, really didn’t. Anyway, I suppose that even if it served no purpose for combatting my prevacatingly ingenious cottonmouth solution, I was able to milk a sentence or two out of the experience. “Do it for the Vine”, all grown up! And wearing bananapapaya resin hoops too. Side note, that Etsy shop is a parasocial enemy of mine. It stems from jealousy, which sucks, but hating from inside a club I’m adjacent to is much healthier than being a hateful individual towards people I would, you know, interact with. Daily. Or something. I stopped going to therapy because I felt stupid about going and I don’t live in the right kind of town to warrant vacuous $300 hours. Bitching about my well-adjusted parents and how desperately I wished my anxiety would just “go away” was plainly gross, and a waste. Like, pretty sure almost every problem I have could be solved by a couple painful conversations taking place during a hurricane. Such a shame it doesn’t rain much here. Anyhow, I digress. 

Staying hydrated. It is essential to my character, my persona, if you will; to never be without either an elegant metal bottle (I’m loyal to the smooth enamelled S’well ones, printed to look like marble or a semi holographic solid) or a little 16oz tumbler with a metal straw. Hydroflasks were some of the worst things to happen to society. I want to preface this claim with the fact that I wanted one in the same way a teenage girl wants a new iPhone so she can keep up appearances with her dermatologist-dad friends who still have the XR, by the way. But I ended up spending the money on like, a minidress at Brandy Melville before it fled my city. Or maybe a Fresh Sugar tinted lipbalm. For the better, even though the dress has a busted zipper now and the lipbalm tube has inevitably gotten dinged and dented by the other contents of my mini-totebag. Unlike a car, though, a couple scuffs on your laptop or your luxury lipbalm tube looks kind of cool. Like, you’re not someone who values the pristine, unused quality of an item that was ambiguously intended to be used versus displayed on Instagram.  Now, I’m wondering why this paragraph about hydration is so fucking impossible to stay on track for. I literally drink several litres of water a day, and more tea on top of that. And sometimes an almond milk latte if I can budget it in. Not that I’m so anorexic I can’t afford a 45cal latte. They’re just not that important to me. Anyhow. Drinking lukewarm (on the cool side) water is better than ice-cold. Partially because I just get it out of the tap of my ensuite and I can’t be bothered to wait for it to run cold enough every time, and it just seems wasteful. Plus, there is something so.. skinny about drinking water at an “obscure” temperature. Trust me, I want to know why my thought process is like this too. My favorite tea is blueberry tea foraged in a side aisle at my local supermarket. I love a good commercial, high-end steep or fruit infusion as much as the next girl. Maybe more. My pantry is filled with tins labelled with things like “emerald jade organic” and “magic potion”, which is really just currants and butterfly pea flowers. But there is a necessary glamor about drinking dirt-cheap tea on the daily. Seriously, a box of 25 sachets is like, $3. At a higher point with my, um, Adderall problem, I spent like several times that on pills. I didn’t really need to include that, and could have linked the price point to the cost of a drugstore lipbalm, but I wrote it in. And I’m married to it, stubbornly, as all amateur writers should be when they wittle in a somewhat indecorous little joke. This tea is sooo good because it has a strong fruit-reminiscent taste (not as sweet as a fresh blueberry, but who wants that anyway?), it’s zero-calorie, it’s the most GORGEOUS color ever. The latte, the third drink in my little trifecta, is nothing special. But necessary. The trick is to use a milk frother to whip up sugar free syrup with instant coffee and a little bit of hot water in a glass. It’ll make the most luscious foam.. Top it off with almond milk. My dad is a coffee purist, owning both an upstairs keurig AND a downstairs one (among other more analogue methods, but I can’t name-drop, so what’s the point?), so he hates this drink. Now, calling oneself a plebian is so unglamorous and teetering on self-deprecating territory, dangerously close to insecurity. But I can use it here because I am at least posh enough to have a different pair of earrings for every outfit I could possibly come up with, and I only wear Patagonia if I am in a situation where I just have to wear fleece. Like I was saying. It’s such a simple drink, certainly not a delicacy, and… I had a joke about the word plebian but I keep getting up to refill my water and I fear I have forgotten about it. 

Next section; the importance of a good tinted balm

In the intro I alluded to how a girl’s collarbones function essentially as an identifier, the way a signature or fingerprint does. This is a lie, or at least an exaggeration. But one’s ultimate tinted lipbalm is  actually extremely indicative about who you are, as a person, as a member of society, even… 

If you are loyal to Dior Lipglow, I have a couple questions. One; did you shoplift one tube, once, and refill it with cheaper stuff afterwards? I did that. I consider it one of my better-kept secrets, but now you know. Might as well explain the catalyst for my parent’s first separation now, and the horrifying experience that was meeting my dad’s Manhattan sugar baby (?) at the age of thirteen, wearing an overalls dress from, like, Topshop or something else equally embarrassing. .. Kidding. I digress. It’s such a fancy lipbalm, and good too! It smells like thin mints! But I could just never justify cell phone monthly installation payment money on something I will inevitably talk off. I do own three, but two I stole (before I lost the nerve, somewhat unfortunately) and one, a boy(not)friend bought for me. This is not something I feel any remorse about, because his house was easily four thousand square feet and his sisters had a dedicated all-glass room for their shared peloton. Oil money. Ugh!

My personal favorite lip balm, and I have tried a frightening amount, has got to be the Nivea Fruit Shine collection. The frosted one is shit-ugly. Hideous. But the strawberry one is the love of my life. It’s such a pleasant red, looking healthy and rejuvenated and really completes any look. Only downside is it will always, hopefully not always, remind me of Charles. Kissing Charles, specifically. And him asking me what lipbalm it was, because he knew I was somewhat frivolous and definitive and would have a very long answer. But for whatever reason, I simply stated it was from “out of town”. Not really sure why I said that, but it plagues me (minorly) to this day. Of all the things to make up.. .. The peach one is a perfectly demure spring classic shade. Cherry exists too, but the only tube I have ever had the fortune of owning was purchased in Costa Rica and lost somewhere on the way home. Honestly tragic, it was the juiciest shade. Blackberry is perfect too, but I have to layer it with either peach or untinted lipbalm to avoid what I imagine TooPoor would choose if she believed in tinted lipbalm. I don’t mean this hatefully, I think she’s a queen, but super dark, smudgy makeup suits the eyes better in my opinion. Or something. Or something.

Afraid to bore the reader, I have to move on now. Maybe at a later date I will release an addendum on my ultimate lipbalm buying guide. But also, that is so deeply personal (and everyone needs the excuse of “hunting for the perfect staple shade!!”), so it is really not my place to have any authority on something so intimate and subjective. Etcetera. 

Moving on; Decorating your room

Here is a section I lifted out of my memoir document. It fits, because as enigmatic as I hope I am, I am also quite unchanging.

 I just pushed three hangers and two tiny strappy tops with the tags still on, off my bed. Most nights, all, these days, actually; I spend in my large but cluttered bedroom. I have a little ensuite with a jetted tub I’ve never used because I just never get around to it. There’s a plush grey rug, spanning the expanse of the room (covering an ugly cherry wood that doesn’t match the rest of the house; no clue why. I never asked, and the previous owners were eager to sell so they could finally ditch this town and retire in Montreal for the bagels, or Hawaii for the monk seals. Point is, I’ll never know) with loose beads and loose pills and little shards of glass from plier-crushed beads. I vacuum every day. The whole room tells you exactly the kind of person I am; the clutter I possess, the encapsulation of the projects I start, start, start and the hours I don’t sleep for and the clothes I tried on (these to sell, these to cut up with kitchen scissors; thrifted lululemon and aritzia and heaps of knits and plaid fabric..) I would not say the room is a mess. Lived in, maybe. Chopsticks and mugs and gum wrappers. Single dangle earrings. I just finished the last of my Creme Brulee eos lipbalm; disguised as a relic of 2015, I was gifted it Christmas of ‘20. I think my next waxy conquest will be a tinted Burt’s one I palmed a while back, before I lost the nerve. Peering around the room you will see shopping bags strewn about the mouth of my walk-in closet. Every surface has something shiny or colorful stacked up on it. Cluttered, busy, but intentional. Except for the walls, which are bare. Bare and gray and miles-tall when I lie flat on my back, high out of my mind, willing things to change but knowing I’m responsible for a first step I will always be too scared for. Bare, pristine, no gumtack. Empty, Like they’re waiting. I wait around a lot. It makes sense. That was an awful lot of words about my stupid blank walls when truly it does not bother me that much; I really just don’t get around to it. I have other things on the ground to tend to, like post-email nausea, addressing envelopes, marrying wire and bead.  Writing a document I care about because I am determined and I am alive, alive, alive, goddammit. 

Excerpt over. The memoir is coming out when I get famous, or something earth shattering happens. Like I become the world’s least remarkable entrepreneur, and I get retweeted by Colorpop. I don’t want to be the next Elizabeth Wurtzel. I read two of her memoirs one restless night, absorbing it to make up for the nutrients I didn’t that day (you can laugh. I think that is pretty clever), heart breaking a little bit. She writes about her struggles so intrinsically, you either get it, or you don’t. Anyway. She had the books and the fame from it, and she wrote more memoirs than I think a single person should. That is admirable. Aspirational, even. But I do not want to be like her. Where was I? Oh. Yes. Decorating/adorning/filling your room. Your room should serve as the kind of place to watch a movie (if you believe in film. I don’t) and put on ridiculous glittery eye makeup, or smoke an ~artistic cigarette~ or stay up all night on the phone, which is different from staying up all night simply on your phone. Chatting with someone you are tepidly in love with is much more exciting. Not chic as the whole affair is so juvenile, but fun regardless. It’s somewhere to keep your worldly possessions, too. I know I have a lot! Also, it is kind of thrilling to hide things in your room in little crevices only you know about. Now, unfortunately, everyone reading this will know too. But, like, I trust you not to really.. do anything about it. I keep my extra juul pods in the sliding box my apple pencil came in. That box is almost more useful than the pencil itself. I’m somewhat morally opposed to the iPad. Whole culture is so embarrassing! I have a tea tin with an ounce of golden teacher shrums in it. This is tossed in my closet among tins filled with other things, like lace trim and buttons. Which makes it actually a pretty terrible hiding spot, I see now… Anyhow. Keeping benign little secrets like that is so fun. You can tell I don’t have siblings. I sort of wish I did, but it is easier to believe there is something aristocratic about being an only child. Not sure if older-sister me would be egalitarian enough to share things. But that’s prophesying, which is kind of a waste of time. I live in the now, in a room positively cluttered with meaningless things that mean the world to me, chewing on my lip because my mouth is just so dry and 5gum is just not an after-8 indulgence. To live truly kitschly, you have to have somewhat hideous decor. Now, do not confuse dissonant, or incoherent, with what I mean by “hideous decor”. The kitsch room has as many surfaces to look at as possible, while also shying away from too many shelving units. Then you risk your room looking like a storage unit or something. When my mom renovated (re: paid someone to do it) our New York house so we could sell it, all our stuff was stacked up in a Cubesmart self storage. It was sort of horrifying, seeing my childhood home reduced to plastic storage tubs piled what felt like thirty feet high. Anyway. It’s just not an  inviting way to store things; I imagine it makes your room look like your stuff is all trapped in gelatin. The more fussy, tiny things you have out in the open, the better. Nail polish. Earring trees. Bowls full of rings and lighters and water color pans perched on your windowsill. A rack with the tackiest assortment of knits and bucket hats and baguette bags. And so forth.. Quickly surveying someone’s room is so telling. Bonus points if all your books are spine-in, except for your favorite ones, because you don’t want people to get the wrong idea. (that you read). 

[whoacanada]

Zimbits fic  - ‘I know you are, but what am I?’

Magic AU, inspired by ‘The Chilling Adventures of Sabrina’

Word Count: 3k+

Summary: After the Falconers take the Stanley Cup, Eric begins to notice his life changing in unwelcome ways. Good thing he has a loving partner who would never hide anything from him. 

Right?

Notes: Witchcraft. Nothing too intense, if you’ve seen the netflix show, that’s worse than this.

Crossposted to Ao3

“MooMaw? This is Jack, he’s a friend from college.”

Bitty's grandmother bypasses Jack’s outstretched hand and slaps her hands firmly on Jack’s cheeks, pulling him down to stare him in the eye. She’s small enough Jack has to bend at the waist, but she seems to appreciate his cooperation, even as the rest of the family begin stammering apologies.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Jack says, words muffled by the hands squishing his face. She narrows her eyes at him and looks past a horrified Suzanne to Bitty, who is probably bright red with embarrassment. Rightly so.

“You didn’t tell me he’d been touched, Dicky.”

At the time, Bitty had been so horrified he hadn't quite caught the intent of what his grandmother had said. 

“I’m sure the boys are tired, mother,” Suzanne interjects with a forced smile nudging them both toward the stairs. “Dicky, you want to show Jack where he’ll be sleeping?”

In retrospect, Bitty should have seen the signs for what they were.

In the months following the Falconers’ title, and Bitty’s own glorious rise into the court of public opinion thanks to his lack of foresight, life had been good. Then, suddenly, almost overnight, it wasn’t.

Between classes in Samwell and and nights with Jack in Providence, Bitty tries to sleep. When he manages to, he dreams. If they can be called ‘dreams’. Terrible nightmares and beautiful visions come in equal measure. Every night, every nap, he’s given another piece of a puzzle he can’t hope to comprehend. He wakes up more exhausted than when he laid down and most mornings he’ll wake up and stare out the window to watch the sun rise. It’s as much as he can manage — to let nature handle whatever is happening within him.  

Eventually, Bitty can’t sleep at all. By the seventh night, unable to vlog, and eating ice cream straight from the carton in an effort to stay awake, Bitty gives up.

Jack's season is over so Bitty has no guilt about kicking his boyfriend awake.  

"Hnn?" Jack rolls over and looks at Bitty blearily. "Whatzit? Bits?"  

"I can't sleep."

Jack drifts back under almost immediately and Bitty resists the urge to drag him off the bed in retaliation. At least for the time being, he's in this alone.

The extra linens are in the hall closet — Bitty doesn't bother with stealing blankets from beneath Jack's sprawled body, star-fished across the entire bed like he's half-Kudzu.

"Rude," Bitty whispers, tickling behind Jack's knee to make him twitch so Bitty can snatch Señor Bun from where he's being crushed beneath Jack's thigh. He throws on Netflix in the living room, wraps up in a heavy quilt, and spends the rest of the morning regretting his life decisions.

When Jack finally emerges from the bedroom at 6am, Bitty greets him with an exhausted, guilt-inducing, "I can't live like this." Jack, bless him, takes the hint and immediately starts on making breakfast; a real one with omelets and bacon and a noticeable lack of protein powder.

"You should call in," Jack insists when Bitty can barely keep his eyes open long enough to feed himself. "You're exhausted."

"Something's wrong. With me. With the bed. Something. I can't work if I can't sleep. Can't do anything if I can't sleep."

Bitty startles when a fork appears in front of him: a neat, steaming square of egg held patiently by his partner. He doesn’t remember seeing Jack actually cooking, only prepping.

"You nodded off," Jack says, answering a question Bitty hasn’t asked, and he almost misses the look of knowing concern that flits over Jack's features. Empathy at best, sympathy at worst. "Open up. You need to eat something."

"You don't have to feed me," Bitty protests, even as he opens his mouth.

"Started after the Cup? Just insomnia?" Jack continues, cutting another piece of the omelette before feeding it to Bitty.

"Nightmares. Mostly. Then insomnia."

"Hmm."

"What, you think you know what it is?"

"I have an idea," Jack hands back the fork and scoots back from the table, running a hand along Bitty's back as he heads back to the kitchen. “You’ve been under a lot of stress.”

"Hon?"

Jack is quiet long enough Bitty thinks he may have left the room. Instead, when he looks up, he finds Jack intently tapping on his phone.

"You should call in today," Jack repeats, this time as an order, not looking up from the device. "My parents are still in town and Maman has been bugging me about spending quality time with you. Use that spa package the Falcs gave us. Go spend the day with her, see if you can relax. I'll have a new mattress by the time you get back."

"You don't have to do that, it's just me being me. Much as I love your mother.”

"What's the point of having this life if I can't take care of you?" Jack's gaze flicks back up to Bitty, distant, like his attention is suddenly on another matter entirely. “Let me do this.”

Bitty gives in because, really, what else can he do?

Truth be told, Bitty can’t remember all of what happened between leaving the apartment, meeting Alicia (”Oh, you poor thing.”), and ending up back home. 

True to Jack's word, there's a new mattress on their bed: a delightfully plush pillow top that seems to be off-gassing lavender; but the relaxing scent is warring with something pungent and curiously damning.

"Is that sage?" Bitty asks, taking off his coat.

“Smudging. Shitty's idea," Jack admits, sniffing reflexively. "Get out the bad energy. Or something. Worth a shot."

“Oh, here.” Jack hands Bitty a slip of paper, on it, a note written in Jack’s own scratchy hand, is a string of French Bitty is ashamed to admit he still doesn’t understand. “For relaxation. You say it in the shower, before bed, anytime you need to calm down.”

Bitty falls face first onto the bare mattress, and, for the first time in what feels like weeks, he’s out like a light.

“What are we making today,” Jack hands Eric a single egg, eyebrows dancing. “Taking suggestions?”

“You wish, this is for Angelique in the front office. Promise made, promise kept—” Eric splits the egg and a red, bloody yolk drops into the the batter, startling them both.

“Crisse,” Jack curses, snatching the bowl to inspect it before dumping the whole mess in the trash.

“Ugh. No brownies, then?” Eric jokes, trying to calm himself as Jack takes the carton from the fridge and cracks another egg over the trash. This one is fine: a healthy, expected orange. “I’ve never seen that before? I’ve been cooking my entire life, MooMaw had chickens and I’ve never—”

“It happens sometimes,” Jack grouses, breaking normal egg after normal egg before handing Eric the last one still clutched safely in his fist. “Here. Try again.”

“Just throw out the whole mess, hon,” Eric waves Jack’s hand away but the man is insistent. “I’ll go to the market and try a different brand. Maybe this wasn’t the best plan for today.”

“One more, for me,” Jack urges. “I’ll buy more. Just, please.”

“Money is not the issue, here,” Eric takes the blue-green egg from Jack’s palm and cracks it on the edge of a spare bowl. He misjudges the strength of the shell and the whole thing crushes between his fingers, smearing rancid red and black all over the counter.

“Fuck! What’s wrong with it?!”

“…Spoiled.” Jack spits, snatching a dishtowel from the oven. The explanation makes zero sense to Eric, not that he’s level headed enough to think it through when the smell hits him.

“Oh, Lord, I’m gonna be sick —”

“Bath,” Jack blurts, guiding Eric to the sink, tapping the faucet on. “You need to take a bath. Right now. I’ll get the water started.”

“Wait, Jack —”

But he’s already gone.

“I just took a shower,” Eric laments, trying not to look down as he scrubs the gunk from his hands and under his nails. “But I guess this is disgusting enough to warrant another one.”

“Bath,” Jack calls from the bedroom. “No showers. Rinse it off and come in here.”

Jack's got the water running and at least six of Eric's good beeswax 'date-night' candles lit.

"We aren't making rancid egg goo sexy, are we?"

"Of course not," Jack's taking off his shirt which implies otherwise. "I'm gross, too."

"Yeah, you are," Bitty is trying to be playful but there's still red under his nails.

"Get in. You first."

Bitty’s barely settled when Jack slides in behind him, water sloshing dangerously close to the top of the tub, never quite going over. It’s nice. They haven’t done this in a while. Too long. Though, this doesn’t feel much like a romantic evening, more like a disgusting afternoon as Jack loops his arms around Bitty’s torso and holds him tight, murmuring something not quite English, not quite French, in a soothing, but hurried tone.

“Bits?” Jack, breaks for a moment, running his fingers over something on Eric’s hip. “What is this?”

“Hmm?” Eric looks down and finds Jack poking at his birthmark with no small measure of interest. “What?”

“I don’t remember having seen it before.”

“Oh, that darn thing? I’ve had it forever. Usually, I throw a little concealer over it or something.”

“Since when? Doesn't matter. That seems like a lot of effort for a birthmark. It’s not ugly, and I’ve never noticed it before now.”

“Oh, I hate it. I’d get it removed but no dermatologist I’ve seen will touch it. Who knows.”

“Who wanted it removed? You?”

“My grandmother,” Eric sighs, reaching down to poke where Jack’s fingers are resting. “Not MooMaw, Coach’s mother, Grandma Catherine. Apparently, she wouldn’t hold me as a baby because she thought it was a bad omen,” Bitty doesn’t mention how she’d terrorized his poor mother and ultimately ended up banned from the Bittle-Phelps household.

“She sounds like a bitch,” Jack mutters after a moment, catching Eric’s hand beneath the water, lacing their fingers.

“She was,” Bitty breathes, leaning into his boyfriend’s touch as Jack begins whispering again.

Bitty startles, phone falling between the pillows and hitting the floor with a low thud. He can't reach it.

"Of course," Bitty sighs, kicking off the sheets to slide out of bed and start a blind search. He doesn't find his phone immediately, though he does feel a mess of dirt and grime beneath his fingers. "Our cleaning service has not been doing a great job," Bitty complains to himself, finally getting a grip on his phone. "Gonna have to tell Jack — ”

When he pulls back his hand is covered in dust. His phone as well. Far too much to be explained away by a lazy cleaning crew. Or maybe just a lazy boyfriend.

Bitty grabs the base of the bed and pulls, frame squealing in protest of the action, and when he's made enough progress Bitty turns on his flashlight and illuminates half of a good sized ring of something that had previously been directly under his and Jack's bed. It's dark lines of paint, crushed leaves, a puck, and —

"Señor Bun!"

Bitty snatches his stuffed rabbit from the center of the circle and hugs him tight, trying not to overreact about whatever mildly-satanic insanity has been going on beneath him while he sleeps. Bitty snaps a photo of the scene and texts it to Jack with a succinct message of 'Please tell me this is you'.

"Don't you lie to me, Mister," Bitty whispers, dragging the bed back to cover the symbols like somehow covering it back up will make it go away.

Jack's reply is immediate.

‘Oh you found it’

[…]

‘Happy Halloween?’

“Bullshit,” Bitty growls, clutching Bun tight. “You hate Halloween.”

He texts Jack as much.

“Bits, look at me,” Jack holds his gaze firmly, though he’s attempting to be playful. “We’re going to do some word association, alright? I’m going to say some things and you just answer with the first thing that pops into your mind.”

“Okay,” Eric laughs. “If we must.”

“Alright, let’s start now. Ready?”

“Sure.”

“Dark Lord.”

“Voldemort.”

“Coven.”

“Jessica Lange.”

“Uh, how about ‘familiar’?”

“Overly,” Eric winks.

This isn’t the answer Jack seems to be looking for.

“Fuck,” Jack sighs.

“Me?” Eric chirps, earning a playful, halfhearted shove in return.

“Easy --”

“You.”

“Shut up,” Jack tugs Eric into his lap and snuggles him tightly. “Game’s over.”

“Well, you are. Easy, that is,” Eric laughs between kisses. “You did this to yourself! With your spooky wordplay.”

“You really are clueless, aren’t you?” Jack mumbles, pressing his lips to Bitty’s neck.

“Ouch,” Bitty swats his boyfriend’s arm. “Unnecessary.”

Jack dodges the comment and goes quiet, his lips still against Bitty’s skin as if someone has pressed a pause button on their evening.

“There’s something I need to tell you,” Jack says finally. “About me, and I really don’t want to scare you.”

“You cheatin’ on me?”

It’s the first thing that pops into Bitty’s head and he feels foolish for even saying it aloud when Jack snorts and shakes his head; which Bitty feels more than sees.

"Fuck no. Not in a million years. This is different. When I turned 16, I had to make a decision,” Jack awkwardly maneuvers around Bitty to stand them face-to-face. "I got lucky, because of my parents, their standing, but I . . . you know I'm not like everyone else, right?" Jack says, resting his hand on Bitty's cheek in what he probably intends to be a comforting gesture. “The others?”

“You’re . . . talking about the draft, right?” Bitty hazards.

Jack frowns, expression far too sober for Bitty to play this off as a joke, and holds his other hand up, revealing a small, violet flame cupped in his palm; so small and quaint it could be mistaken for a party trick. Bitty doesn’t even hear Jack’s warning as he reaches out to touch.

“What! How are you doing that -- Ow!”

“It's fire, bud,” Jack chastises, immediately checking the burn. 

“Because purple fire is normal,” Bitty sticks his finger in his mouth and glares at Jack before the weight of the moment catches up to him. “How did you do that?”

“I’m a member of the Church of Night.”

“Which is what.”

“I have supernatural abilities.”

"So, you're, like, a witch, then?"

“Give me your finger,” Jack tugs Bitty’s hand from his mouth and kisses the burn before whispering something against the red skin. The pain vanishes alongside the mark, which is not the most troubling part about the moment they're sharing. “Warlock,” Jack corrects, swiping a bit of stray saliva from the corner of his lip. “Try again,” the light dancing in Jack's palm is back, larger and terribly enticing. “Go on, Bits, it won’t hurt you, now that I know you’re just gonna go for it.”

Bitty reaches out a second time and Jack doesn’t recoil as the purple flames, cool to the touch, grow larger and dance between Bitty's fingers.

“You’re taking this really well.”

"This doesn't seem so scary," Bitty admits, leaning into the half truth as he pulls back to check his skin for any burns; Jack makes a fist, extinguishing the flame.

In another world Bitty actually possesses the confidence he's pretending to exude. In reality, he's low-key terrified; fighting off an existential crisis and trying to keep his composure as the man he loves tells him not only that magic is real, but that he himself is some kind of witch, and not a fun one. He’s something much more traditional that Bitty has not been raised to be comfortable with.

"Pyrokenisis is difficult," Jack defends, sounding like his old self again. "Most don't attempt it until they have years of experience with conjuration."

Just like that they're back to normal. Jack's air of mystery vanishes as he petulantly snaps another flame into existence, this one almost white and much larger. Bitty has flashes of his freshman year when a Quinnipiac d-man doubted the strength of Jack's slap-shot and Jack 'accidentally' cracked a pane of glass on the next shift.

Classic Zimmermann ego.

"Not just a hockey prodigy, then? Kind of a big deal off the ice, too, I bet," Bitty teases, hiding his fear behind humor as Jack goes pink and the flame falters. "You ever cursed anyone?"

Bitty watches Jack's left eyebrow twitch.

"Who was it?"

Jack's lips thin, though Bitty can tell the gesture isn't in irritation at being caught. The man is fighting a smile.

"It doesn't matter. Anything that happened was deserved."

"In that case, I have a lot of questions?" Bitty says once he's rediscovered his voice.

"And I'll answer all of them," Jack insists, bravado vanishing as he sags with relief. "Soon. Promise. Everything and anything you want to know."

"Have to admit, I'm a little intimidated," Bitty steps into Jack's space and allows himself to be pulled into his boyfriend's arms, trying not to tense. "Silly me, thinking I was the only secret you were hiding."

"I can have secrets. Makes me interesting." Jack runs his hand along Bitty's back.

“Makes you stressed,” Bitty counters.

“Also true.”

"What does all of this mean for me?"

"I don't know, yet. Still trying to figure that part out."

Bitty takes a moment to think about his life, then grabs Jack’s hand and drags him to their bedroom. He leaves Jack standing in the doorway to grab the corner of the bed frame and drag it sideways, revealing the madness beneath.

“Explain.”

"It's a protection ward." Jack doesn't miss a beat. "I laid it down after the egg incident. Didn't want to risk anything happening."

"To me."

"To you." Jack affirms, walking across the room to kneel and nudge a stone back into shape. "I have enough wards on me the only person who can hurt me is me, evidently," Jack looks up, apologetic. "I was worried about all the attention on you."

"If it’s for protection, does that mean people want to hurt me?"

Jack licks his thumb and smears something that could be ink. Or paint. Its viscous, a dark color Bitty can't identify and doesn’t want to examine too closely.

"One would be too many for me," Jack answers, wiping his hand on his jeans. "Better safe than sorry."

"Okay, so," Bitty kneels down beside his boyfriend and points at an off-white lump in the leaf pile. "Is this a tooth?"

The sheepish look is back.

"Euh, yeah, don't worry, it's one of mine."

"Oh, that doesn't make me not worry, Sugar. Not reassuring at all,” Bitty toes a leaf over the tooth, hiding it from view. “Don’t recall much human bits in the ‘good magic’ column.”

Jack flashes a smile, like they’re sharing a secret. Which, Eric realizes, they are.

“This isn’t like tv, bud. Though it doesn’t do itself any favors in the way of aesthetic, I’ll admit that much.”

“Can you…show me, um,” Eric nudges a leaf with his socked toe. “Some more? Maybe?”

The smile on Jack’s face is as wide and bright as Bitty has ever seen.

“Yeah, bud, I’d love to.”

[monachopsis-anemoia]

I’m fucking tired of life. Nothing is going well for me. I’m going to have to spend the weekend with a bunch of assholes who are just. Ugh. They’re ideas are so skewed from what reality is. And I’m gonna have to be a bitch about what I can eat because last time they didn’t get me food I could fucking eat so I was triggered to be anorexic again.

And then my SO has been an asshole. He’s been rude. He wakes me up in my sleep, he’s been aggressive, and I’m done. I’ve cried probably 5 times in less than 24 hours. I don’t even understand why I’m staying here. He fucking blamed it all on “mental health”.

Bitch, I’m back to being anorexic again, on top of some of the worst ptsd I’ve had in years since I’ve had to go to court against my rapist, I’m depressed & getting worse because of seasonal depression, I’m anxious as fuck because life & because I’m flying out this weekend to be with people who hate me and I don’t like. My car was hit. I was in a front end collision with me in my car parked. I’ve had leg pain from that all fucking day. Then I had to get a giant mole removed that the lady first said was a SKIN TAG and NOW SHES SENDING IT OFF FOR BIOPSY????

Oh and I was legit at the dermatologists. I leave there with a “okay that’s everything. Have a good day”. And get w call saying I need to schedule a check up in like a year.

WHAT THE FUCK???? Why didn’t you tell me when I was there.

Now I’m going through my CLEAN laundry and I notice my cat pissed on my clothes. Again.

I’m so done with life, and boo your mental health isn’t a reason to fucking throw things down that I CARE ABOUT, yell at me, or really anything. Don’t fucking act like you’re entitled to act that way because you don’t understand how you’re feeling when you haven’t even talked about any of this. And don’t get pissed at me that I tell you this & that I’m not gonna be receptive to you crying “mental health” by screaming it at me. Like no one wants to talk to you when you’re being a unjust cunt & screaming mental health in someone’s face who’s bitten off more of the “I’m mentally ill” block than you.

[thecatladyknits]

i’ve definitely bitched about my skin in the past, i know, but it is worse than ever lately and really, really negatively impacting my day to day life. i can hardly look in the mirror before/after a shower and see all the spots on my neck, chest, arms and back. i have had multiple sobbing meltdowns over it. it is impacting my sex life in that i start to have a panic attack when D wants to have sex and i haven’t initiated in ages bc i’m so ashamed. the only times we’ve had sex have been at like 3 am when it’s still dark and he can’t see me in too much detail. i do not feel comfortable wearing short sleeves or tank tops and it’s getting warm out and i’m sweating my tits off. i can’t even walk down the street without almost breaking down crying bc every.single.person. i see has normal/clear skin. even those who might have acne on their face, NO ONE has anything on their neck or chest or shoulders or back or anywhere. FUCK. i just want to be ‘normal’. i know it sounds drastic but i would honestly give ANYTHING to have clear skin. i have legitimately wished that instead of bad skin, i had some type of disease or non-terminal cancer or amputee or something if i had to exchange something. if a genie popped up today, that’s #1 what i would wish for. 

anyway, most of the spots are post-inflammatory hyperpigmentation, which take FOREVER to fade, but i do still frequently get breakouts, which i then pick and then it turns into a scab and then either PIH or a scar. bc a) i have terrible picking habits and b) i’m just lucky like that.  

i don’t 100% know why it’s so awfully bad right now. prior to the move, i was eating a loooooot of junk food, especially greasy fast food. i’m still not doing perfectly, but i’m doing better and haven’t eaten fast food since the drive here. (being totally honest, i might still be if there was fast food close to where i am but the closest is mcdonalds, which is v low on my list and i’ve managed to avoid it). i’m drinking water, taking vitamins, eating fruits and veggies, trying to avoid dairy, white flour, and reduce sugar intake (doing okay on the dairy/flour; not great on the sugar). 

and NOW on top of the fucking acne issue, i am having some kind of itchy rash that won’t go away on the back of my arms and on my hips/top of my thighs (like right below the underwear line. it’s been there for a good 2 weeks. i’m trying like hell not to scratch and it seems to sloooooowly be going away, but i have no idea how it happened. heat rash (which is supposed to go away fairly quickly)? allergy to something? i’ve washed literally all of my clothes and bedding and everything that might touch me. i’m using hydrocortizone and eczema lotion. but again, more crying meltdowns bc i feel like i can’t fucking win. i look like a goddamn leper. 

so, i finally finally finally contacted an esthetics/body/skin spa place to see about a chemical peel or laser or something. i’ve been to dermatologists before and they are always mean and dismissive. i accept that it won’t give me flawless skin and i will always have scars and breakouts, but i need some fucking improvement. this is killing my self-esteem beyond all reason. i am still terrified to go to the skin spa, bc i just envision it’s rich white ladies with like 1 stretch mark or wrinkle they want removed or botoxed, and they’ll see me and be like CALL AN EXORCIST JESUS HAVE MERCY. i could not bring myself to call so i sent an online request and like begged them to be nice/gentle to me bc i’m so embarrassed and terrified to even have anyone see me (also i’m crying now just typing about this yay). the response was very kind; the woman who replied said she completely understood; that she got into the industry due to her own skin issues and that she has seen everything and i should not feel ashamed and they can help.

so, i’m going in tomorrow for a consultation. i’m still fucking terrified. i know i’m going to cry instantly. i need to remember to take some xanax before i go, if i have any left. they’re going to look at me and go FUCKING GROSS, YOU ARE BEYOND SAVING, GTFO YOU DISGUSTING FREAK.

so. yeah. that’s where i’m at. i know i’m being dramatic and i’m *probably* not the only person ever to have this type of issue or the worst they have ever seen, but i’m terrified to be seen and i’m also terrified that nothing can be done to help. really just anxious and ashamed and absolutely terrified all around. trying to keep hope, but feeling like... if it can’t be helped, what’s the point of even going and exposing my vulnerability? i hate this. i hate myself. i hate my skin. 

[asinglemagpie]

Okay so... to sum up a lot of things very quickly: about a year and a half ago my mum stole one of my nose pore strips, which yanked something out of her nose so thoroughly it left a dent. About 4 months ago, when we realised it was not healing, we saw a dermatologist and it was diagnosed as a basal cell carcinoma. It’s an incredibly common and extremely treatable type of skin cancer that grows so slowly that (as one doctor put it) it would take 25 years to kill you.

Saturday the “in-and-out-and-life-goes-on” toted treatment turned into “we’re going to take a lot off your nose, you need some kind of graft, and you can’t go to work for two weeks.” This is extremely hard to bounce back from when we were essentially told she’d be back to work Monday like nothing happened. On top of this she had to, on the spot, make a very big decision on how scarred her face is going be with absolutely no warning this was even going to be an issue. (To be fair he did keep checking with her about her choice up to before he began the procedure, but seriously, we should have had months to make an informed decision, not minutes.)

She opted for the graft because the “flap” method would have made her look like a grizzled anime character.

Today the dressing came away a little and... not good. At all. Think of everything that could be going wrong, and it was. So we panic call NHS 111 (thank fuck that’s an option!) and they were like oookay let’s get you a 2am appointment at the hospital to make sure you’re not screwed.

Well, we needn’t have bothered - the doctor took her temperature, declared she hasn’t got a fever, and since she can’t do dressings and she hasn’t got a nurse that can come do it she’s not going to touch it, especially as we’re in for the stitches out/dressing change with the surgical staff in... just over 10 hours from now.

So now I’m pissed off, I’m stressed, the motherfucking cuckoo has decided that 3:30am is when it MUST start it’s incessant noise, I can’t sleep, and now Instagram is bitching that I like too many things so I’m temporarily banned from liking posts. I can do literally everything else but like posts. Maybe it didn’t like that I posted and deleted a picture two or three times today when I decided no, I really do hate it.

Whatever... I’m just fixating on that because I now can’t sleep and I’m anxious af. I really don’t want her to freak out about this, and we really can’t afford her to take like another month off work because no one at any point bothered to explain the gravitas of the situation.

[genandherramblings]

Rosacea + Acne (what works for me)

Backstory: I’ve had rosacea in my family for a while, it’s sometimes hereditary and in my case, I also had to take hardcore medication for my Crohn’s (chemotherapy) and it flared up my initial tiny-2-3-dots of rosacea to a REAL problem and burned my skin.

What I’ll write here is my own skincare routine, which was slightly adjusted by my own dermatologist (FINALLY got to see one, jesus).

Take this with a grain of salt y’all. 

I did go to my newly-acquired (adopted) Dermatologist, and she’s super nice and yeah, so here we go.

SHOWER

Here’s my skincare routine. Helped A LOT with acne and a big plus with chemo-induced-Rosacea. Feel free to adjust to your OWN skin, that’s what matters most!

1) Use no scrubs or loofas! Only your hands/fingers/soft clean materials. They irritate the skin and accentuate the redness in it. Plus, I feel it doesn’t help with sensitive skin, since scrubbing with rough materials, even lightly, cause micro-tears in your skin resulting in more scars.

2) NO scalding hot showers! Go for warm instead. It dries out your skin and no bueno, you don’t want that. 

3) I personally start with foam soaps - my go to is this bad boi, Aveno Clear Complexion FOAM Cleanser. The “clear-thing” helped my angry red-skin tbh and the foam is sooooo nice + my dermatologist recommended me foam-stuff (if you can’t afford medical cleasers / appointments to dermato, go foamy). It’s softer on your skin! TRY FOAM, AVENO OR NOT, I SWEAR

(Fuck me, that picture is BIG. I don’t know what I’m doing, might remove later, idk.)

#4) Wash your face g e n t l y with this and rinse off. Like, remove your makeup with it and go on with your shower, as usual.

#5) When washing your hair, try to do it before you wash your skin. Since you often have oils and others in your shampoo/conditioner, ya don’t want your pores all opened up and getting the oil at the end of your shower. Instead, do the following: 

Wash your face quick and nice first time to remove makeup.

Wash your hair and add the conditioner.

While letting the conditioner sit, wash your body, shave, etc.

Last thing last, re-wash your face more thoroughly with the foam, again. 

Now, step 4 is where my dermatologist would whoop my ass; she suggested to wash my face at the end, and in the beginning of my shower, simply rinse makeup off with water + soft soap. Washing your face too much is no good, BUT THAT’S HOW I ROLL MMMMKAY. I feel dirty otherwise ): 

Last but not least, when out of that hot shower, if you’re too cheap like me to buy a “night” toner or something, rinse your face with cold water. I usually get out of the shower, wrap myself and rinse my face 2-3 times with a splash of cold water to close my pores, but don’t over-do it! You still want open pores to put your night-cream!

AFTER SHOWERING (Acne stuff)

That’s when, depending on break-out or not,  I’ll do the following:

Acne Breakout ™ : Apply your anti-acne gels and lotions. Let it sit while brushing your teeth or something. Once it’s all in, apply your night-cream or just a simple hydrating cream. 

I-have-the-face-of-God™-and-don’t-have-acne: I hate you, but also, simply add a bit of hydrating cream / lotion. Let it get in your skin as well.

SLEEP WITH CLEAN PILLOWCASE!!! Your skin is still warm for the shower, even if you rinsed it with cold water + added your night creams, the dead skin and other bacteria from your day + nights end up there. CHANGE IT, I never did before and my dermatologist was like “Bruh.” Yeah, do it. 

DURING THE DAY 

Here’s what I do in the morning :D

Wash face with Dove scent-free soap bar and cold-warm water.

Pat (NEVER RUB YOU POTATO!) to dry - rubbing is like scrubbing and can cause tears in the skin!

Apply tout-de-suite your hydrating cream. I like Cetaphil and if you feel fancy, Neutrogena Hydro-Boost. Again, please take whatever your skin likes! No need to be these two!

Brush ya teeth while it sets in. I hate having something on my skin but yeah, I have to do this now!

Dermatologist tip for summer : Also add a layer of sun lotion made for your face. 

Start with your eye / lips / brow makeup and do your hair. The more time you let your products settle in, the better it is!

Apply your usual skin makeup. Ideally, in the perfect world, we wouldn’t feel pressure to hide our flaws BUT I do and maybe you too, so add it last!

WHAT DO YOU USE? (Found in Walmart + Pharmacy) 

Until very recently, I had no help from dermatologists whatsoever (took me a year to get one) and here’s what I use (also approved by my Brand-New Dermatologist™ : 

To clean : Aveno Clear Complexion Foam Cleanser  but also, my mother uses this one for her rosacea  (also from Aveno) and Dove’s basic, unscented soap bar. Think simple and gentle! Does not need to be those brands, but they are my go-to.

To scrub : Once in a while, it doesn’t hurt to scrub - go green or homemade. Scrubs with plastic beads in it are BAD for the environment and your skin! >:(

To hydrate : As mentioned above, I like scent-free stuff like Cetaphil and although Neutrogena Hydro-Boost has a slight smell to it, it’s not “perfume-ish” and is faint. I like it personally. 

Makeup : THIS BITCH. If you have ACNE, I 200% recommend it. I’ve been using it for a while now and if you have botchy skin that’s bumpy with pimples and scars or just heavy red skin, that’s my absolute FAVE. For me at least, it’d fill the “cracks” of my skin and even it out. It is a bit thicker, but it’s also light and fluffy. It is:

Sweat-resistant

Noice finish

I just love it tbh

If you can tho, try liquid foundations that have FPS protection or some form of sunscreen in it. Liquid foundations tend to have hydrating stuff in them and are easier. HOWEVER, with acne, I find versus mousse, they do get into your thirsty skin, that mistakes it for water and drinks it up = drinking makeup = more breakouts. 

Ultimately, it’s what your skin feels best in!

Hope this helped someone out there lmao, thanks for coming to my TED talk. 

PS: ALWAYS FOLLOW YOUR HEART SKIN - This is what I use, and am no professional but felt like sharing it. 

I’ll also post another freakin’ digital TED Talk on skin products that my dermatologist prescribed me, see how they work and maybe you can ask your doctor for them too! Prolly a review of some sort! :)

- Gen