#autistic addict

[lobotomyd0ll]

Little Girl Lost

Getting sober from hard drugs, especially heroin really is like being reborn. I've spent years nodding off, numbing & forgetting. Each time you pull a plunger of the rig back you chip away parts of your identity... Until there's nothing left. I think that's why it's so hard to stay sober. When you realize you don't know who you are anymore it's terrifying. Your own thoughts and feelings feel foreign to you. So you run back to the one thing that feels familiar, even though its the very thing that put you in that predicament in the first place.

I've had a thousand different "personalities" before I stopped shooting up. All of them were failed attempts at trying to establish a life for myself that could never be lived because I was still killing myself on a daily basis. Each persona dying quicker than the last. It wasn't until I had spent years in therapy, without doing drugs that I finally got to know myself. People always tell you that they miss the person you used to be before you ever picked up substances. And so a lot of people strive to become the person they were before they became a junkie. The problem with that is that person is what lead you to selling your soul. The person you used to be was in so much pain they sought out a lethal relief from it.

The person you were before you got high is never going to come back. They were gone the minute you found out what it felt like to not feel at all. When you get clean you have to figure out how to live life again while trying to figure out who you are at the same time. And if you started doing drugs when you were a kid like I did, you never really had a chance to grow up either. Most addicts have some form of mental illness too. In my case I am bipolar. It took me years after getting clean to figure out who I truly am. I've been sober for 5 years now and it wasn't until about 1-2 years ago that I felt like I had finally "found myself." I hate the term "found myself" because its always used in such cliché examples, but if you are in recovery then you know that its the only way to describe what its like.

Every day I'm still finding myself. When you're in active addiction your only focus is getting drugs and doing drugs. In all that time you didn't do things that "regular" people did. You didn't explore different hobbies or watch tons of movies. You didn't binge watch your favorite tv shows or read books that changed your life. I'm not saying you never do those things while you're on drugs, but most people (like me) barely ever explore different interests because my main interest was heroin.

Now that I am sober and I am completely aware of who I am and what I love, I appreciate everything so much more now. My interests are not just interests anymore, they are my life line. My obsessions. My oxygen. I am autistic so I have a ton of special interests too, but all of my interests mean a great deal to me. Nowadays if i discover a song i like i will listen to it on repeat for 3 days. I will watch the same film 20 times in a row without getting sick of it. In my opinion, addicts never stop being addicted to something. I think us addicts will always replace drug addiction with an addiction to something else. It could be a lot of things or one big thing. It differs between different types of people. Heroin almost killed me and I wish I could take away all the pain and suffering it caused me and everyone around me, but in a weird way I am sort of thankful to have gone through it because of the way it has made me view life today.

I appreciate little things so much more than other people do. I enjoy video games that make me happy in a way that people enjoy going to an amusement park. My favorite books, characters, fictional environments and songs are all little pieces of who I am. I am so grateful for media. I'm so grateful to have constant access to it via my phone or television, etc. I love that I can write about it all I want to whoever is reading this blog. I'm not really sure with where I'm going with this post, I just wanted to share what was on my brain. I am currently trying out new forms of art and incorporating my interests into filmography, crochet, painting, etc. & I was thinking about how just 5 years ago I didn't even know I possessed the talent for some of these things. & How if I hadn't gotten sober I never would have discovered who I am. Getting sober is very freeing, but true freedom is knowing exactly who you are and embracing it. I used to try to shrink myself to make other people feel comfortable. My style was "too much" for them or the way I come off to certain people seems "weird." I decided actually pretty recently that I'm not doing that anymore. I shouldn't have to feel small because others want me to. I went through hell to discover who I am and I intend to be myself and do what I love and what makes me happy, unapologetically.

[m0untaing0ats]

People on the internet treat autism like it's some cute, childish thing, but like, autism and the trauma that comes with it have literally lead me to severe alcoholism, anger issues and a criminal record.

This post goes out to autistic addicts and autistic people who have personality disorders and autistic people who have hurt people during meltdowns and autistic people who have been in trouble with the law and autistic people who have been diagnosed with every mental illness under the sun only to find out it was autism all along.

You are loved. Your trauma and your reactions to it do not make you a bad person.

[theramblingsofajunkie]

Having autism and being a heroin addict is one hell of a ride

[bruciemilf]

So glad you clarified that "Alfred bleeding out at brucie's day party" was step 1 in becoming pennywaynes. I was just about to ask lol

Also thinking that Alfred doesn't say "fuck" because Thomas says it enough for both of them. And how they're both feral in opposite directions (loud and vulgar vs poised and eloquent) makes me wonder what direction Martha is feral in. Exceedingly painfully viciously polite? Barefoot in the dirt, she'd love poison ivy fae-tinged feral? Does this make sense? I'm sick. All I can think about is Thomas and Alfred preparing to carve someone up and you don't even know who you are supposed to be more scared of

I like to imagine Martha as Morticia Addams feral. Regal, majestic, peculiar, and could wipe the floor with your self-esteem in a minute if crossed. Bruce’s mama was a silent badass for sure.

I like to think Damian inherited her affection for animals! Hers pets were just more… Unique, let’s say.

Imagine you’re Alfred. You’ve been working at the Wayne manor for about two weeks now.

Thomas, your husband boss hands you a huge chunk of bloody meat hanging from a butcher hook, while yelling violently at a business partner on the phone.

“Al, go feed Bruce, will ya?”

“?????????????”

Bruce gently grabs Alfred’s hand (Alfred has to tilt down) and he’s taken to the pool area.

There’s a big ass tank.

There’s a big ass, 20 foot long, great white shark in that tank. Bruce hugs the glass. Alfred may or may not pass out. Martha gently takes Bruce in her arms, kindly asks Alfred to clean the floors, and vanishes in the shadows.

She also has an albino ball python that Bruce adores. Occasionally, she wears him as a scarf. Alfred is severely loving and regretting his life choices.

[punkeropercyjackson]

Tim Drake,they(Batfanon stans and Batcestcels)could never make me hate you

[i-am-trans-gwender]

Overly Sarcastic Productions is like crack cocaine for autistic people. (I'm autistic people)

[iveneverbeenmorestressedinmylife]

theres a parallel universe out there where house is british and that information scares me. x

[renmorris]

Trant is interesting in his own rights but fandom gets him wrong IMO. He is not your relatable autistic, he is not infodumping. He’s a literal poverty tourist. He’s taking his son to the site of a massacre in the poorest district in the city like he’s on holiday. He’s one of the moralist quest givers along with the Sunday Friend. Be serious.

[sc3rcasm]

How did I do today?

Were you proud of me? Did I do okay? How did you think I acted today? Was I talkative enough?did I make you happy? Did I make you uncontrollably laugh, like I usually do?

Or

Was I a failure like usual? Did I upset you? Did I act differently today? Did I go non-verbal like the little fucking dumb@ss I am? Did I make you depressed? Did I make you concerned, like I usually do?

do you hate me?

hate me hate me hate me hate me hate me hate me hate me hate me hate me hate me hate me hate me hate me hate me hate me hate me hate me hate me hate me hate me hate me hate me hate me hate me hate me hate me hate me hate me hate me hate me hate me hate me hate me hate me hate me hate me hate me hate me hate me hate me hate me hate me hate me hate me hate me hate me hate me hate me hate me hate me hate me hate me hate me hate me hate me hate me hate me hate me hate me hate me?

do you want me to shut the fvck up? I'll gladly do that for you. I'll do anything for you. I'm afraid I don't have my own personality anymore, can I borrow some of yours? Make myself seem more interesting and likeable for once in my life? Just so I can fit in and do what others do??

I feel myself falling.

[spro-o]

CW: suggestive / shirtless men

House the typa guy to grope Wilson at any chance he gets ❤️ love is love

my comms are open!!

featuring my rendition of this classic:

[neuroticboyfriend]

i'm not just a person with poly substance use disorder; i am an addict. for me, person first language doesn't describe the depth of addictive personality. i am fundamentally a person who's susceptible to unhealthy drug use - calling myself an addict reminds me of that. it bares my health issues front and center. i think that's why there's so much power in the "Hi, my name is _ and I'm an addict." when you confront who you are like that, it's not only brave, but keeps you on your feet. it's an undeniable expression of everything that led you to addiction.

it's very similar to why some people say they're autistic instead of a person with autism. there are so many traits and struggles that go into it - there's good and bad and neutral. addicts aren't just impulsive, obsessive, and desperate. we're also passionate, driven, and dedicated. even if that's to drugs a lot of the time, even if we get selfish... that passion, drive, and dedication can help us and others; especially in harm reduction, recovery, and community building.

we are neurodivergent. we do have a stake in embracing who we are, our struggles, in a way that empowers us. and calling ourselves addicts, taking away the stigma of the term - as autistic people do - is good. it's not for everyone of course, it's okay to use person first language for any neurodivergency. but it works for some and that deserves support.

and before anyone yells at me: i am autistic. i know what i'm talking about - my experience, and the experience of those similar to me. if this post doesn't resonate with you, that's fine, but it's not my problem. it shouldn't be a problem at all, actually. embrace similarities and differences. that's key to disability liberation.

[black-king-white-knight]

So, Vitamin C neutralizes ADHD meds, right?

And citric soda contains at least some Vitamin C.

And Alec Hardison is ADHD as fuck.

What if he drinks the soda to neutralize his ADHD meds when he needs to switch from forging to hacking?

That would also explain his need for his frogs when he's at his computer. Because a craving for sugar/sweets is another ADHD thing.

[punkeropercyjackson]

Tim Drake Core(He's the rat)

[0o-junebug-o0]

Just To Hear Her Voice

Here's my first Criminal Minds fic!

summary: In the aftermath of Emily's death, Spencer starts calling and texting her number to cope as his life spirals down around him. He has no idea that halfway across the world, Emily is listening.

content: drug addiction, grief/mourning, angst, hurt/comfort, near relapse, angst with a happy ending

word count: 3.2k

Spencer calls Emily for the first time a week after her death. He’s sitting with his knees pulled up to his chest on the floor of his apartment, pressed between a chair and the wall, rocking forward and backward. He holds the phone to his ear and sobs when he hears Emily’s voice.

“This is Emily Prentiss. I’m not available right now. Leave a message and I will call you back.”

The dial tone sounds. Spencer chokes on a sob and hangs up. He redials the number. 

“This is Emily Prentiss. I’m not available right now. Leave a message and I will call you back.”

He hangs up before the tone and calls again. 

He only speaks on the sixth call. 

“This is Emily Prentiss. I’m not available right now. Leave a message and I will call you back.”

The dial tone sounds and Spencer takes a deep, shaky breath. “H-hi, Emily. I, um, I don’t know why I’m calling you. It’s– it’s not like you’re going to answer. You’re dead. I helped carry your coffin. It—” A sob pushes up his throat and cuts him off. “It was so heavy,” he whispers. 

He bows his head and presses his knees against his face, he can feel the tears seeping through the fabric of his slacks. “I just– I really miss you. It doesn’t feel real, none of this feels real. I’m sorry. I—” Spencer cuts himself off with a wet chuckle. “I should go eat something.”

Spencer pulls the phone away from his ear and hangs up. He doesn’t push himself off the floor for another three hours and when he does he goes straight to his room.

He calls her again three days later just to hear her voice. He doesn’t speak.

Spencer lays on the floor of a Nashville hotel room four weeks and six days after Emily’s death and dials her number. 

“This is Emily Prentiss. I’m not available right now. Leave a message and I will call you back.” 

He waits for the tone.

“I saw someone that looks like you today,” he says weakly. He breathes deeply and stares at the ceiling, tracing the perimeter of the room with his eyes. “It was uncanny. I, um, I really thought she was you. I was with Rossi, heading back to the Nashville police station, we’re on our first case since—” he pauses unable to finish the sentence. “It was good he was there. I might have called your name if he wasn’t. It feels wrong without you here.” Unable to think of anything else to say, Spencer hangs up. 

He doesn’t know that halfway across the world his voicemails are transferred from one phone to another and Emily Prentiss, newly arrived in Paris, listens to them and cries.

After the case in Nashville, calling Emily becomes a part of Spencer’s routine. Most of the time he doesn’t talk, unable to force himself to speak, and just listens to her voice. On those days he goes over to JJ’s house once he hangs up and cries in her arms. 

Emily receives records of those calls too, the times and dates are sent to her new phone and she stares at them when they arrive, hoping that she’s not the only person Spencer is talking to.

After three months he shifts from leaving messages to texting because it’s easier than talking. He still calls to listen to her voice but always hangs up before the tone. He texts her about his day, about the cases they’re working on without giving away any details, about how much he misses her. He still goes to JJ’s house at least once a week, he feels safer there on bad days.

Five months and thirteen days after her death, Spencer calls Emily’s number and yells.

“You should have told us! We could have helped you! We’re family, Emily! It’s our job to take care of each other.” Spencer's voice cracks and he lets out a screaming sob as he grabs a plate from the sink and throws it to the floor. “And now you’re dead! You’re dead and there’s nothing we can do about it! You’re so fucking stupid, Emily! We– we could have helped you! I hate you! I hate you! Why’d you have to leave?” He falls to the floor and trails off into uncontrollable sobs, not caring that the ceramic shards dig into his knees and the palm of his hand. He leans against the cabinets next to him and sobs, painfully and violently. He knows he’s being loud, loud enough that his neighbors can probably hear him but he can’t bring himself to care, not when he feels like he’s dying. He slams his head against the cabinet and the pain of it combined with the pain of the ceramic stuck in his skin helps ground him. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, his voice wet with tears. “I’m sorry, I don’t hate you. I promise I don’t hate you. I’m so sorry. I could never hate you. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He repeats those two words until his phone dies in his hand eleven minutes later.

Halfway across the world, Emily Prentiss sits in her Paris apartment, listens to the voicemail, and cries.

Spencer doesn’t call or text for twenty-four days after that. He knows she’s dead. He knows she can’t hear or see what he says to her, but he feels painfully guilty for his last voicemail. The kind of guilt that burrows into his chest and stays there, squeezing tight around his heart and lungs whenever he thinks about it. 

He lays awake in a hotel bed in Sedona, Arizona staring at the ceiling. With a sigh, he rolls onto his side, grabs his phone from the nightstand, and opens his text conversation with Emily. 

“I don’t know why I’m still doing this,” he types. Spencer squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. “I know you’re not going to see this, but I want to say I’m sorry again for when I last called. I don’t hate you. I promise I don’t hate you. I was just angry and sad and didn’t know what to do. I don’t know why I still feel so stuck. Obviously, everyone else is still sad but they seem to be moving on while I’m still here.” He sends the message and pauses for a moment. “I’ve been craving again, ever since you died. It’s getting worse the longer it’s been. I don’t know why. I thought it would get easier but it’s just getting harder. I’m scared, Emily.” His finger hovers over the send button before he changes his mind and deletes the message. He’s not going to tell anyone that, not even someone dead. Emily doesn’t deserve that. “I miss you,” he writes. He hits send and puts his phone back on the nightstand, curling into a ball with the comforter pulled up to his chin.

He squeezes his eyes shut and wraps his arms around his chest, trying not to scratch at the crook of his arm and trying not to think about getting high. 

The next two weeks pass in a haze and Spencer can feel himself getting worse. He calls and texts Emily’s number more frequently and visits JJ’s house nearly every other day. Being around Henry is the only thing keeping him from contacting his old dealer. He would never bring that shit into their home, he would never even think of being high around his godson. 

Spencer sits curled in on himself between a chair and the wall of his apartment with his phone pressed to his ear.

“This is Emily Prentiss. I’m not available right now. Leave a message and I will call you back.”

“This is Emily Prentiss. I’m not available right now. Leave a message and I will call you back.”

“This is Emily Prentiss. I’m not available right now. Leave a message and I will call you back.”

“This is Emily Prentiss. I’m not available right now. Leave a message and I will call you back.”

“This is Emily Prentiss. I’m not available right now. Leave a message and I will call you back.”

“This is Emily Prentiss. I’m not available right now. Leave a message and I will call you back.”

The tone sounds. “I miss you, Emily,” he says, his voice weak around the lump in his throat. “It’s not getting easier, but I’m alright.” That’s a lie. He doesn’t know why he’s lying. Emily’s dead. She’s not going to hear it anyway. But he just can’t bring himself to say it. He hangs up.

Three days later, Spencer calls JJ to ask if he can come over. She apologizes and tells him that Henry has the flu and passed it on to Will. He tells her it’s okay and hangs up.

Forty-five hours later he calls a number he deleted from his contacts years ago.

Sixteen hours later Spencer is curled up on his couch, staring at the unopened vial of Dilaudid sitting on his coffee table next to a packaged needle. 

He knows he shouldn’t do this. He doesn’t want to. But he needs it.

He feels frozen, his whole body is shaking. He rubs his eyes hard and continues to stare at the vial. He knows he should call someone but he’s scared and ashamed. He doesn’t want anyone to see him like this.

His hand shakes violently as he reaches for his phone and selects Emily’s contact. She’s dead. He can call her. She won’t know and maybe calling will give him the courage to dump it down the drain. 

The first ring startles him and he waits silently, tears streaming down his cheeks as the phone continues to ring.

“This is Emily Prentiss. I’m not available right now. Leave a message and I will call you back.”

The tone sounds and Spencer speaks.

______

Emily's phone pings as a new voicemail is transferred to her phone. She looks at her phone with surprise. It’s eight am in Paris and two am in DC. It’s much later than Spencer usually calls.

She turns her volume on and selects the voice message.

The first thing she hears is a shaky sob she’s become painfully familiar with.

“Hi, Emily. I don’t know why I’m calling,” Spencer mutters. His voice sounds completely broken and almost dead. “Actually, that’s– that’s not true. I know why I’m calling.” There’s a pause and all she can hear is the shaky sound of Spencer breathing and crying softly. “I can’t call anyone else.” He sighs. “I’m, um, I’m sitting in my living room in– in front of a needle and a vial of Dilaudid.” Emily’s stomach drops and she shoots to her feet. A broken sob plays from her phone. Panic builds rapidly in her chest and she hopes, prays, that Spencer hasn’t taken any yet. She’s pulled from her thoughts when he starts to speak again. “I don’t want to,” he whispers. “I promise I don’t want to. It’s just too much, I—” his voice breaks. “I need it, Em.” Emily raises her hand to cover her mouth as tears stream down her cheeks. This is her fault. This is all her fault. She should’ve told everyone. 

“I’m so sorry, Em. I just– I really miss you. I-I didn’t even get to say goodbye.” 

The playback ends and Emily immediately rushes to the toilet to vomit because that sounded horrifyingly like a suicide note. She coughs violently and spits into the toilet. She doesn’t even take the time to flush it before she clicks on Spencer’s number and her phone is ringing.

Halfway across the world, Spencer sobs as he rolls up his sleeve and wraps his belt around his upper arm. The sterile plastic crinkles as he removes the needle. He holds it and wishes he wasn’t like this. Wishes he was a better, stronger person. He reaches to grab the vial but as the tips of his fingers touch the cool class his phone rings. 

He startles, almost dropping the needle. Too large a part of him is glad he didn’t drop it because that means it’s still clean and he can still use it. He slips the needle back into the plastic packaging and sets it back down on the coffee table but he doesn’t undo the belt around his arm. His hand shakes violently as he picks up his phone.

He stares at the screen for a moment, it’s a number he doesn’t recognize with a Paris area code. He doesn’t know why but he answers it.

“Spencer!” Emily’s voice gasps through his phone. 

Spencer stares wide-eyed at the phone without responding. This isn’t happening, this isn’t real. She’s dead. He must be having a schizophrenic break, he’s the right age for it and he’s hearing the voice of his dead friend.

“Spencer!” the voice says again. He refuses to think of it as Emily’s voice. It’s not her voice, it can’t be because if it is that means she’s alive. That means that she and Hotch and who knows how many other members of his team have been lying to him for months. That means she heard and read all his messages. That means she heard him say that he bought Dilaudid and is about to shoot up. “Please, Spencer! Please answer me. Oh, God.”

“E-Emily?” he asks, his voice breaking. He hates that part of him believes it might actually be her.

“Yes, fuck. Yes, it’s me, Spencer, please tell me you’re okay,” she gasps. Spencer can hear her crying.

“Is–is this real? I’m not having a schizophrenic break?”

“No, I mean yes, I mean this is real!” Emily stutters. “I’m real. I���m alive. I’m so so sorry. But please, Spencer, tell me you haven’t done anything.”

Spencer doesn’t respond, just staring in disbelief at his phone. A moment later his phone beeps and a button appears at the bottom of the screen. Without thinking he presses it and immediately Emily’s face fills his screen. Her face is pale and her hair is all over the place and she looks terrified. She stares at him with wide eyes. In the bottom right corner is himself, and for the first time in sixty-one hours and twenty-three minutes, Spencer looks at himself. His face is red and blotchy and the bags under his eyes look like bruises. His hair is greasy and knotted. His shirt is buttoned incorrectly, his right sleeve is rolled up, and he can see the belt cinched around his arm.

“Spencer?” Emily asks, and her lips move on his phone as she speaks. “Did you—”

He cuts her off with a shake of the head and with a shaking hand, undoes the belt around his arm and lets it fall to the floor. “I was— I was about to,” he admits, his voice weak and wet. “I took out the needle. You called right— right as I grabbed the bottle.”

Spencer can see the panic fade from Emily’s face. “Okay, okay,” she says, her voice breathy with relief. “Thank God. Okay. Spencer, I need you to listen to me, okay?”

He nods and says nothing. 

“I need you to pick up the bottle and dump it.”

Spencer immediately bursts into tears. “I-I can’t, Em. I can’t!” he cries. “I want to but I can’t. You were dead. I helped carry your coffin! I can’t! It was so bad. I need it! I need to not feel!” He knows he’s not making any sense but by the look of her face, he can tell Emily understands.

“I know,” she says softly. “I know. But I need you to do this for me. Please, Spencer.”

He bows his head and sobs ugly and violent sobs. 

“You’re going to be okay, Spencer. I’m right here. I’ll always be right here.”

“But you weren’t!” he screams, the anger in his chest finally boiling over. “You weren’t here! You left! You lied! You let us believe you were dead! You let us mourn you! I hate you, Emily! I fucking hate you!” 

Spencer looks up at the phone when Emily doesn’t respond and freezes when he sees the tears streaming down her cheeks. 

“I–I’m sorry,” he says, panicked. “I don’t know why I said that. I don’t hate you. I don’t hate you. I promise I don’t hate you! Please, Emily, please. I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I— fuck!” Spencer drops his phone on the couch and pushes himself to his feet, grabbing the needle and vial of Dilaudid as he stands. 

“Spencer? Spencer!” Emily cries frantically through his phone. He doesn’t respond and practically sprints into his kitchen. Quickly, before he can regret it, he breaks off the tip of the needle and stabs it into a banana to make it safe and throws it and the rest of the needle in the trash. He unscrews the cap of the vial and dumps it down the kitchen sink. He sobs as he watches the liquid flow down the drain. The vial slips from his fingertips and he sinks to the floor. He says there until he’s sure all of the drug is gone before shakily pushing himself up, rinsing out the vial with water, and throwing it in the trash with the broken needle.

He stumbles back into the living room and picks up his phone to see Emily panicking. She opens her mouth to speak but Spencer interrupts her. “I dumped it,” he says weakly.

“Oh thank, God,” Emily sighs with relief. “Fuck. I’m so sorry, Spencer.”

“Who knew?” he demands. 

“What?”

“Who knew you were alive?”

“Just– just Hotch and JJ. But don’t be mad at them, please. I had no choice. Hotch knows because he’s Unit Chief and JJ only knows because she was assigned to making me disappear. It was too much of a risk to tell anyone else.”

Spencer scoffs. “What? You didn’t trust us? You don’t think we can keep a secret as important as this?”

A pained look crosses Emily’s face. “No,” she insists. “No that’s not it at all. I know all of you would have kept this a secret. I trust all of you with my life. But I couldn’t risk you knowing because it would put you in danger. Doyle will do anything to get to me. I wish even JJ and Hotch didn’t know, but I didn’t get a say in that. But I did get one in protecting you. You don’t– you don’t have to forgive me, or– or even be okay with it, but please—” a small sob cuts her off. “Please, I just need you to understand.”

Spencer stares at her for a while before slowly nodding. “I understand,” he whispers. “I hate it and I’m mad and I don’t forgive you yet but I understand.”

“Thank you,” Emily sighs weakly. “That’s all I ask. I just want you to be safe, that’s why I called, even though I have been ordered not to contact any of you. I couldn’t– I couldn’t let you relapse.”

Spencer nods weakly.

“I just need you to be okay,” she sobs softly.

“I’m not okay,” he admits, another sob forces its way up his throat. “I need help, Em. I’m sorry.”

She shakes her head. “Don’t be sorry. You have nothing to be sorry for. I’m going to call JJ, okay? And she’s going to come pick you up. I'm so proud of you.”

Spencer nods. “I love you, Emily.”

“I love you too, Spence. I’ll stay on the line until she gets here. I’m not leaving you.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If anyone wants to be tagged in future fics, just let me know! Also if you have something you'd like me to write, my requests are always open!

[miaubonnie]

Can we talk about how devastating is the fact is that time is a spiral? And that even if q!Cellbit was in a better place after the reset, he is destined to become Cell again? No matter what? CAN WE STOP PRETENDING THAT CELLBIT ISNT A FUCKING GENIUS AT ROLEPLAY AND STORY-TELLING?!!!!

[wanderingmind867]

I swear, sometimes it feels like ai chatbots are addictive. Or at least, they are until you've used them ad nauseum and finally get bored of them. That happened to me once before, so I know it'll probably happen again. At least, I sort of hope I get burnt out eventually. It'll mean I have more time to make posts here and generally explore other things. But while I'm still stuck riding it out and using them, I have to say: I think they're addictive because they're easier to talk to than actual human beings sometimes.

I mean, they are easier to talk to. Since I was at school months ago and read a line in the battle of the labyrinth where hephaestus says something about preferring machines, I've had opportunities to realize theres truth to that sentiment. They're easier to talk to Because they're controllable. They aren't unpredictable in the way other humans are. And the ai chatbots work on command. It's way more like a turn based system. You input something, then they respond. And so on and so forth. It's easier than talking to other humans. It's not as easy to feel in control and on equal footing and all that. So I can understand hephaestus's sentiments now.