#amphetamines save me.....

[leah2eroes]

tumblr stopped being fun at some point in the last like 3 weeks. i hope it comes back. i feel awful.

[oneshotdepresso]

hitting like on the tweet calling bojere shippers mentally ill bc i really am mentally ill and need help <3

[xdeadbarbie]

you touched my heart in a very different way. & that’s exactly why I still think about u

[wickedhawtwexler]

i get sooo worried about going off my adhd meds, but honestly i feel like i sometimes exaggerate how bad my adhd is because the last time i was unmedicated for a long period of time (right before i was diagnosed) i was also literally suicidal and had severe anxiety which uh. definitely exacerbated the lack of focus 🫠

[littlemuppetmonsters]

Vyvanse secured✅

[johnwickb1tsch]

bittersweet ~ a yandere!John Wick x fem!reader sunshine/grump coffee shop AU... Part 33 all chapters

WARNING: NSFW, SEXUAL CONTENT, YANDERE SH!T. Plz take care. I luv u all. 😘

As it turns out, the Underworld provides a whole slew of services designed to deal with circumstances just like this. Medical care, emergency home repair–and body disposal, all for the price of a handful of gold coins.

You sit with John as a man your lover so descriptively calls Doc sews up Wick’s wounds. There is blood on your face, and your silk pjs. Dog sits on your foot, clearly anxious about letting either one of you out of his sight. In the same spirit, John’s good hand is clasped in yours, or yours in his–neither of you have been able to let go. 

Another man known simply as Charlie orchestrates the removal of the collection of corpses through the house. Yet more tattooed tradesmen work on boarding up the blown out window in the kitchen with a big piece of plywood. 

It’s a miracle, really, the house didn’t burn down. 

“Thought you’d left all this behind you, John?” asks Doc, making a neat knot in the former assassin’s side. 

“So did I.”

“What will you do?”

“The same thing I always do when I’m lost. Talk to Winston.” 

The two men share a snort of laughter you don’t entirely understand. 

When Doc finishes with John he gives you a bottle of pain meds, and a bottle of what are, as far as you can tell, pharmacy grade amphetamines. “In case he has to work again.” You take them with wide eyes and a nod, praying to whatever devil might be listening that that won’t be necessary. 

You’re fairly certain that no one up above is interested in any of you anymore. 

You killed a man. 

You killed a man with a gun to save John, and you do not feel sorry at all. 

Numb, perhaps, but not sorry. 

John groans as he adjusts himself on the couch. You reach out to steady him, helping him best you can. He is heavy, and you look at the stairs with doubt. “Maybe we should sleep down here tonight?”

He blinks at you, undoubtedly thinking you incredibly naïve. “We can’t stay here, baby. It’s not safe.”

“Where will we go?” 

“We’re going to the city,” says John, sounding weary as a man twice his age. “I know a place. Can you drive?”

You have to admit you’re a little dizzy from the whiplash. In the span of a few hours, you’ve gone from being locked up like a princess in the castle, to murdering a man, and now John is going to let you drive?

He must read the blatant surprise on your face. He doesn’t like it, his grip tightening on your hand. “These are bad, bad men who would eat you for breakfast. You’ve got to stick with me.” 

You bristle at this, because even though you absolutely should be thinking about escape? You’re not. You were thinking about how you were going to manage taking care of him in this state, and it pisses you off that he’s still so fucking worried about controlling you that he can’t see the writing written in blood on the wall. 

Or at least, written in blood, on the kitchen floor. 

“You asshole,” you say for the second time tonight. It wins you a lordly scowl that for some fucked up reason thrills you to the tips of your toes. But it’s too late to turn back now. “Were you there, when I fucking shot a man for you? Maybe this is just business as usual for you, but it’s fucking new to me.”

He clenches his other fist on his knee, seeming to count to ten with his eyes closed. “I’m sorry,” he finally grinds out. “I know…Are you alright?”

You guess that you put up a good enough front that he forgot that maybe he should ask. Good on you. Maybe.

“No, not really,” you answer truthfully. “But I don’t have any choice, do I?”

He actually has the grace to cast his eyes down, seeming to really think on what you’re saying. “You had a choice,” he muses quietly, his thumb sliding over your knuckles. “In the kitchen.”

You stroke Dog’s head for something to do with your other hand, which is shaking. Your thundering heart beats painfully in your chest. From the corner of your eye you take in this anomaly of a man. This man, who kidnapped you, who has been playing mental games with you for months, who has kept you prisoner, who has taken your body to heights you never even knew were possible, who has spoiled you, who has adored you and degraded you all in the same breath–this man, who somehow, you know you love with your whole heart. 

“John…” He tilts his head to look at you, his eyes glazed with pain. You’re not sure if it’s physical or mental at this point. “Did you really think I could shoot you?”

Perhaps he did, because in his mind, the only acceptable answer to a wrong against you is murder. 

Perhaps in the brutal world he’s occupied since he was just a child, it is. 

Suddenly he can’t meet your eyes. “Maybe I would deserve it, y/n.”

The fact that he knows that is definitely a good sign. 

But the tricky truth is–it wasn’t all bad. And the good? The good was almost worth the bad, you dare to think now that you’ve survived it. You know better than to say that, because you know you are in the midst of a negotiation right now.

“I love our life together, when you’re sweet to me, John. I only want to murder you when you boss me around. And I only mean that figuratively.”

A huff of laughter escapes him; there is a glimmer of hope in his miserable dark eyes. You know it’s insane, after everything he’s done, but you feel sorry for this man. 

“If you would just treat me as an equal, instead of constantly trying to control me…” I’ll be your ride or die. You can’t bring yourself to say it aloud yet. He already has enough power over you. “Do you think…that’s something we can work on?”

He could have pushed you over with a feather, when slowly he nods, bringing your knuckles to his lips to kiss them. “If you don’t want to murder me after everything I’ve done to you…maybe anything is possible.”

You on the other hand, can only blink. Did you just hear what you think you heard? 

That blood-pressure induced ringing has returned to your ears again. The explosion and gunfire surely didn’t help, but somehow this is far more momentous to you. Your surprise for the magnitude of this admission surprises you, and you must show it in the lift of your brows. It makes him smile ruefully; you’re not sure why the sight of it squeezes your heart so. 

You are not so stupid as to think this traumatic event has healed him miraculously, knocked some loose screw back into place. The mind doesn’t work like that. But just maybe, it did put some things into perspective. You are allies now against a mutual cause, rather than enemies of each other. And just maybe, when you tell him that you don’t want to leave him, he will actually believe you from now on. 

“Anyway…I can drive the Rover…” you say with confidence, even though you are still utterly flabbergasted he’d even give you the opportunity. “I don’t know about the ‘Stang.” The Mustang you think you could manage in an emergency, but it’s been a long time since you had to drive a stick, and being responsible for his baby doesn’t sit well with you. 

“That will do.” He grumbles, mostly to himself, “I’ve got to teach you to drive. There is so much I need to teach you.”

You’re not sure what he means by that. You are too tired to hash it out completely right now, but you sense that something, a whole lot of something, has changed in the past few hours between you.  

He makes to get to his feet with a groan–and can’t quite. “Maybe I am too old for this shit,” he grouses. 

“John, you got shot, stabbed, and fought off ten heavily armed assassins. I think you can count tonight as a win.”

Again, that bitter huff of laughter escapes him. You help John to his feet, trying to steady him as best you can. If he’d injured one of his legs badly you would be so fucked; there was no way you could carry him.

“Um…who were they?” You realize you haven’t even talked about who was just trying to kill him. You suppose you already think you know the answer, but then again you could be wrong.

“Camorra goons, I’m pretty sure,” hisses John, clearly in pain. “Guess I should have kept someone alive for questioning…I’ve always been bad at that.”

You press your lips, because it shouldn’t be funny…but if you don’t laugh about it, you might cry. Your life has been so weird lately, it almost just seems par for the course in a way. 

“John…” you chortle and sigh. “Surely the d’Antonio kid gets the picture now? You’ve killed everyone he’s sent after you? Why can’t these assholes just leave you alone?” Why the prince of the Camorra would court such trouble is beyond you. 

“Good question.” He groans as he takes a step, his good arm slung over your shoulder. “The young ones, especially the second or third generation, think they have to prove themselves. Or maybe…he loved his mother and wants me dead. It’s a faint possibility.” 

“Italian boys and their mothers.” 

John chuckles a little, then winces. “Please, sweetheart,” he entreats you. “Don’t make me laugh.” 

Maybe you are a silly creature, but hearing the endearment for you warms something in your heart that had been left out in the cold for too long. “Fine,” you agree, even though humor is absolutely your biggest coping mechanism. “Tell me what we need to do next?” 

“We need to pack.”

“Ok. What?”

“Suits, and guns.” 

You guess in a nutshell, that was the essential distillation of his world, once upon a time. Now, quite against your will, you both are being kicked back into it. By the look in John’s dark eyes, for some reason you have a feeling it’s the Camorra who are going to regret it. 

[the-labyrinth-of-me]

The tribunal fucking killed me.

"God, please" after I listened to Measurehead's racist theories

"God, please" after I stole amphetamines from Klaasje

"God, please" after I shared the kilo with Cuno

"God, please" after I took drugs and drank on several occasions

"God, please" after I tried to steal Lely's boots and didn't take him to the morgue

"God, please" after I stumbled into the trial and threw us recklessly in between the front lines without discussing the matter with Kim first

That's when I knew I massively fucked up and my main goal became to save Kim no matter the cost. I was so afraid he would die. It would have been my fault.

And then

"Kim trusts you"

I didn't want to cry about that game but here I am

[lanadelreyscokewhor3]

BADLANDS- JOSH WASHINGTON

i am never letting go of tumblr josh...

a hopeful future series inspired by halsey's "badlands" and perhaps some more artists on my tumblr playlist :)

short stories and drabbles in no order xx

➳ ghost

i like the sad eyes, bad guys, mouth full of white lies kiss me in the corridor, but quick to tell me "goodbye"

➳ colors

everything is blue, his pills, his hands, his jeans- and now I'm covered in the colors, pull apart at the seams- and it's blue

➳ haunting

i'm begging you to keep on (haunting) i know you're gonna keep on (haunting me)

➳ drive

my neck, the feeling of your soft lips illuminated in the light, bouncing off the exit signs i missed all we do is drive all we do is think about the feelings that we hide

➳ roman holiday

but for now let's get away on a roman holiday

➳ strange love

everybody wants to know if we fucked on the bathroom sink how your hands felt in my hair if we were high on amphetamines

➳ hurricane

he says, "oh, baby, beggin' you to save me well lately, i like 'em crazy oh, maybe, you could devastate me little lady, come and fade me"

[blacklegsanjiii]

Sanji who meets Law at 8, a few months after Corazon dies and before Germa makes it to the East Blue. They become brothers quickly and Sanji is the first Heart Pirates outside of its Captain and Bepo. They get separated during a storm and Sanji winds up in the East Blue after being picked up and shuttled there. He meets Zeff and they starve on the rock when Sanji is twelve rather than ten, things progress normally other than Sanji being sad his brother and Bepo are probably dead(Law and Bepo also mourn, as well as Penguin and Shachi). When he sees Law's wanted poster it's all Sanji talks about, especially as more come out and his bounty grows and he's just showing off his older brother proudly.

Zeff pulls some strings with the clown(buggy is competent in everything bite me) and gets Law's number and Sanji actually screams his thanks and runs to phone Law. They make the hard decision to not pick up Sanji and leave him in the East Blue, both because of the debt Sanji feels he owes to Zeff but also because Law is still in the North Blue and headed to the grand line soon. Sanji is no longer a heart pirate, but Law is still his brother.

Which is why when Luffy convinces him to join and Zeff kicks his ass off the Baratie he goes and hopes to see Law and Bepo and Shachi, and Penguin. When he sees Law in Sabaody they don't have time to catch up but they exchange nods and then Marineford happens.

Law thinks Sanji is dead again. The first being the storm that separated them and that's why Law saves Luffy, except Luffy is in no state for Law to question him about Sanji. The elder Supernova goes on grieving again and plotting against Doflamingo.

Law doesn't even recognize Sanji when he switches their bodies two years later. So imagine his surprise when he agrees to an alliance with Strawhat and he is immediately tackled by the blond man he switched around earlier and getting called "shitty surgeon" and "worst brother ever" and just it's been years since Law has been held like this so Law grabs the blond's head and looks at him.

Sanji is smiling so brightly at him, the Strawhats and Caeser are watching. Law could cry, he feels like he's about to as he just pulls Sanji close and they hold each other. Law gets out a harsh "oh I'm the worst brother? I thought you died, twice! And now you smoke?"

"fuck off asshole, at least I don't look like I'm going through several different amphetamine withdrawals!" Sanji would shoot back before asking about Bepo and dragging Law to the galley to feed the elder and everyone is like what the fuck as Sanji starts on lunch and Caeser cries from his spot on the deck.

[kaurwreck]

Literary criticism of Ryuunosuke Akutagawa wants so badly for him to have been spiritually fragile. He was wrought with doubt and skepticism, and he felt crushed beneath the pressures stacked on his thin frame by others' demands of him. He was certain there was prophecy written in his mother's insanity and her ghost was a fixture haunting the edges of his vision.

But, he was also overprescribed barbituates. Like, really, really overprescribed. High doses of barbituates are now known to cause irritability, paranoia, depression, and, sometimes, suicidal ideation. His spirit was fine; it was his pharmacologist who should have been scrutinized.

This is especially agitating to me when Ryuunosuke Akutagawa's malaise is contrasted against Nakajima's mettle. Nakajima was administered ephedrine for his chronic, debilitating asthma. Ephedrine weakened his heart, but has a dopamine transporter inhibitory effect similar to amphetamine and other stimulants. (Then, stimulants were gaining popularity as antidepressants and were supplied by the US, British, Japanese, and German militaries to servicemen during World War II.) In other words, there were confounding variables which might have attributed to one's sensitive nerves and the other's spirited focus.

Both men were brilliant writers who stylized their pediatric onset anxiety; profound insight; excessive cleverness; stubborn resistance to literary trends; and existential terror. Both men suffered from chronic mental and physical illnesses and overrelied on treatments widely prescribed but poorly suited for their conditions. Both men were killed in no small part by excessive administration of medication: the former by depressants meant to settle his disordered mind enough to sleep, and the latter by the stimulant meant to settle his disordered body enough to write. But, way too much ink has been spilled on insisting fragile nerves and spiritual weakness killed Akutagawa, while the cruelty of fate struck down Nakajima.

That is the problem with treating authors as if they're literary devices or signs of the times, rather than people who lived to save themselves.

[thepleasuregoblin]

Fantasy king: my royal alchemist, a plague spreads across the land. The people burn with fever, retch, and have swollen masses on their body. Healing magic only helps temporarily, and the disease returns worse than before after the spell is cast. Your wisdom has saved us in the past, what should we do?

Me, who was isekai-ed into this world with only a pharmacology textbook and a lifetime supply of amphetamines: get me some moldy bread right now

[spandexual]

Hello! How are you doing these days?

Came with short(er) ask this time: Have you ever tried Kilian’s Liquors line? Curious if it’s truly worth it. Also is Aventus worth sampling if I never ever tried it or will it kill me with the memory of some random douchebag

No toku ask since only thing I pondered was “do rangers smoke weed, I know Kusaka does”

I did very briefly in store and I quite liked them but they're veryyyyyyyyyyyyy expensive at least here so my curiosity ended there. Aventus is definitely worth trying because it is genuinely a very nice scent but as it stands you might as well buy Al Haramain L’Aventure and save yourself $300.

The only ranger who smokes weed is Kinji Takigawa because he is the only True American Who Eats Burger. Weed smoking goes along with it. Now if we were talking amphetamines (as those are actually easily available in Japan vs weed) we'd be going somewhere

[compassionatereminders]

it’s also just about simple size — stuff like fentanyl vs. morphine work by equivalency. so in the hospital a dose of fentanyl may technically be a lower number, like a microgram amount, but it’s on the same equivalency as a standard dose of 4mg of morphine. that’s why cops are full of shit claiming this small amount will kill most people, they give those in medicinal doses. it simply saves space for the higher level dealers trying to avoid law detection. if i can take 1/100th the weight of a dose of heroin, then i can get more into one space. it’s pretty good business sense, except when it finally gets to a customer who believed they were getting something else, and doses the incorrect weight. however true, addicts become increasingly aware of this and adjust accordingly — a common technique is to break off a piece of pill, and smoke it to test if it’s a pressed one or not. onset is faster, so you can judge faster if you really got oxy, or if you got fentanyl. of course another danger is the distribution is not even, the pressed pills can have “hot spots”.

most “fake acid” and stuff like that tends to be research chemicals that also work on serotonin to cause hallucinations, and “fake MDMA” just amphetamines. never heard of anyone dying from these or even experiencing psychosis in the case of amphetamines passed off as MDMA, because of several factors. sometimes it may be because they’ve never had the real thing, and can’t tell the difference, and these drugs don’t tend to be abused by non-addicts (the research chemicals no one really abuses in excess, but there are definitely people who enjoy trying them out, and documenting them. these same types of people also try out things like fentanyl analogs, they’re a great and helpful asset.)

so it is true it does largely depend on drug market, and who it’s being sold to. again a lot of this is very hard to prove in stats or numbers, since a lot of “data” we have isnt trustworthy, but it’s interesting there are websites that post samples that users send in to be tested. you’d be honest to god surprised at the stuff that’s put into products, and a lot of it on face value doesn’t seem like a great idea for business.

Thank you so much for these additions! It's so valuable to get the perspective of an addict and activist as my own is somewhat limited by me not having such a background, even as I try to be an ally to all kinds of users/addicts ❤️

[unification]

I would save so much money if i got my amphetamines from a GP instead of a psychiatrist but he's really funny and always tells me interesting stories and gives me insider info. so basically, I pay the interesting stories man for interesting stories.

[schooloftuneage]

Lesson 2: We're All Punk Here

CLASS IS IN SESSION.

This is my third time typing this damn lesson, so you'll excuse me if I'm a little short.

The image above was just filler for a `zine, but it became emblematic of a movement. The three chords and the truth vibe, the go out and do something call to action. This is a fifteen word manifesto, and it helped to codify what it meant to be a punk. The subculture has deep roots - ridiculously deep - but unlike some, it at least has a pretty clear lineage. Let's delve in.

If this glorious bastard looks familiar, it's because his guitar is my icon. Woody Guthrie was a protest singer back in the day, and in this berk's opinion, the great-great-granddaddy of the punk movement. Let's give it a look.

-Did shit? Yes, he would go from farm to farm trying to get the migrant workers to unionize.

-Stripped down instrumentation? Can't get any simpler than one man and his guitar.

-Sang in support of the common man, damning the powers what be? Just listen to the lyrics. Or the words on his guitar - THIS MACHINE KILLS FASCISTS.

Folk was integral to the creation of punk - folk singer Dave Van Ronk famously joined in at Stonewall, not because he knew what was going on or was queer, but because he saw people fighting cops and thought yeah, rock on, let's do this. It was joined by the cynicism of the beat movement. The surrealism of Burroughs, and (unfortunately) the pretentious prose experiments of Kerouac helped to grease the wheels for what was to come. And from here, we have a very clear lineage, particularly in the UK punk scene. From folk and the beats, we got the MODS.

Short for Modernists, not Moderates, the mods were jazz-loving bastards that were known for taking amphetamines and dancing all night, driving around in souped up Vespas with entirely too many mirrors, getting into fights with rockers, and generally being the glorious asshole follow-ups to the beats. The thing is, they also got popular. Real fuckin' popular. And this created a problem. By the mid sixties, the mods had split in two. The larger part of the mods went mainstream, becoming what the others decried as "soft mods" or "peacock mods", while the remainder became "hard mods". These sods were working class folk, blue collar and unpretentious and kickass, and they found kindred spirits in the Jamaican Rude Boy subculture... and a music they called ska.

And from these "hard mods", we got... skinheads.

Yeah, skinheads. And before you say it, no, these weren't the racist neo-nazi fucks that we delight in introducing to the business end of a pipe wrench. That division came much later. These skinheads were basically just proto-punks, enraged at the world, but embracing music that spoke of unity and togetherness.

The fuel for the glorious, angry bonfire that was punk was there in the seventies, but it needed a spark. While 76 was widely considered Year Zero for the punk movement, it was 77 that gave us the watershed moment - the moment that punk erupted into public consciousness. It gave us the Sex Pistols, and "God Save the Queen".

Not too shabby for a band that picked a bassist based entirely on how he looked, right?

Now, I'm not going to say that the Sex Pistols were a great group. Musically they were middling, but the sheer impact they made cannot be understated. They outright called the UK a fascist regime in the second line of their first single, released the week of the Queen's diamond jubilee. "God Save the Queen" was banned from airplay in the UK, and is to this day one of the most banned records of all time.

This attention, and stellar releases from fellow UK punk band The Clash, helped to galvanize the scene. As "Never Mind the Bollocks, Here's The Sex Pistols" hit #1 on the charts, it was obvious that the punk scene was here to stay.

In the US, the scene started with a bar called CBGB, and an extended tenure of two bands - Television and The Ramones, with the latter band becoming sort of the prototype of the American punk band, focused on stripped down rock numbers, and a slightly goofier feel. This berk will argue that the Ramones were never truly punk - they were punk adjacent at a time when Punk was an upcoming genre, Johnny Ramone being a hardcore republican - but that's an argument for another time.

You see, with those bands making the first ripples, other bands soon impacted that turned it into a wave. `77 was the start of the Second Wave of Punk, the first years that punk could be considered a unified genre instead of a couple of bands doing their own thing that sort of fell into the same groove. The Misfits, Black Flag, the Police...

I could follow this rabbit hole all day. By `79 the genre was splintering, branching out into a dozen disparate subgenres, which are still branching out to this day. But instead of exploring every single one - which would be better served as another group of lessons another day - I'll leave you with the track of the week. The Badass Creed for the punk movement. The song that took a stand against the right wing trying to adopt punk in the 80's. The song that set the stage for Hobie Brown, and which arguably serves as the backbone to the punk ethos today... here's the Dead Kennedys, "Nazi Punks Fuck Off".

`NUFF SAID.

CLASS DISMISSED.

And next time, we're going to be looking at a genre which producer Rick Rubin could only process as "black punk rock" when he first heard it... I said a hip-hop, the hippie, the hippie to the hip, hip-hop and you don't stop the rockin' to the bang-bang boogie, say up jump the boogie to the rhythm of the boogie, the beat…

[tyazz]

Amphetamines save me