#because goddamn i get my battery drained by staying in all day and dealing with family alone. my goood

[moomoorare]

I'm so sleepy I keep going to sleep at 6 am even tho I take my meds at like midnight BRO

[rattlerinthewheel]

Fruit Bat: Scud/Reader

He should know better than to irritate the vampire that’s already pissed, wounded, and starving—so you teach him.

For the Kinky Things Happen bingo square: vampires and discipline, at @pandoratriestowritestuff’s request for some Scud. Credit to them and @phoenixblack89, who talked about Scud getting spanked and choking on a donut, for the respective scenes.

- - -

You’re still pissed at him.

But it’s hard to give him the silent treatment when you need to get at the junk around the tables. Move, pass me that wrench, throw me that wire, is dry and distant, work-related; but turn that shit down, quit spewing crumbs, stop grabbing me, and other growls that aren’t related to the tech you’re fiddling with get read as some sign—to keep doing those things, but that’s sure not what your glares should be saying.

Well, it isn’t a surprise that he’s being a dumbass about it. A moron about a lot of shit, lately, the bandage on your arm can vouch for that. And it was an accident, sure, you wouldn’t usually blame him for aiming that UV flashlight at anything that swarmed at him on a job; but he’d been high and you’d called out a warning, dammit, and he still got you with it. Burned like a motherfucker, like acid.

His apology was huffed, high-sluggish, and rank like the shitty weed he’d been toking.

Maybe he’s realizing you’re really pissed, content with just your hand as company for a few days, because you haven’t taken a break even once from this group project—a net of UV panels you can drape over the van; they stay off for now, obviously—to get your hands down his pants, or his down yours.

But Josh—Scud’s dumb, and it pisses him off to be called Josh, so of course that’s what you call him—is definitely high, not as sharp as he’d otherwise be, and his logic is coming from his dick today. His brain would be screaming at him to not agitate the vampire that’s wounded and pissed.

He’s prodded at you the whole damn night so far, brushing your groin to grab a tool there’s fifteen more of scattered around that he can get to, angling his head in a way that makes the churning veins under too damn tempting, flat-out groping your ass when his first two tactics don’t get him anything more than warning hisses.

Except when he decides he doesn’t like a particular hiss you give, too much teeth for his liking, because when his hand drops from where it’s gotten in a squeeze it claps right back down across the ass cheek it grabbed. Fucking hard, too; "make peace, not war" your ass.

You whirl where he’s scrambling back to his side of the room, giggling, hands raised with his palms out like he can call a truce. Like he hasn’t been doing this shit all night and your hisses and menaced fangs are supposed to be equals, or something.

Well, they aren’t. And you feel like cashing in some payback.

"C’mon, baby, lighten up!" trails his getaway while you give chase. You don’t run after him, but Josh stumbles and darts around like you are. It’s one of the oldest hunting tactics, just following, while the prey tires itself out trying to get away. Vampires don’t need to use it, you could just as easily catch up, even with a bandaged arm.

But Josh wants to goddamn play, so you’ll follow suit. For now.

Smoker’s lungs, stoner’s, don’t let him keep it up as long as a guy his age could. Josh staggers, stumbles a last time like his clothes weigh fifty pounds, and drops on the steps up to another part of the workshop. By his couch and TV, the little nest he’s made for himself, and you don’t think that’s accidental; but you don’t plan to move things to that shitty couch, not anytime soon.

You walk right up to him, and Josh goddamn grins, leaning back on his hands and spreading his legs like he’s offering himself up like a damn meal. He’s still got one of those shitty donuts, and he takes a bite, still grinning, and flicks a crumb at your leg.

"You’re a child," you growl, getting a whiff of syrup lactic acids, probably burning his calves like battery; iron thumped in and out of his heart, jumping in his throat, flushing his face; that damn weed turning everything earthy, chalky like loam, but still good.

"I’m a delight," spews more crumbs with another giggle. "Besides, baby, you love it."

You do—when you aren’t pissed at him. "Love to kick your ass," you huff, toeing the step by his foot.

His hum makes you swallow. Fucking thirsty, you are, and that’s just the worst kind of trifecta for Josh to be near right now: starved, pissed, and wounded. Your nerves are shot, and his chase didn’t tire you, but it sure as shit reminded you of what hunts are supposed to take care of. And his hum, that sounds vaguely like a dying, helpless churr from a punctured throat...

Shit.

But the hum bubbles into a chuckle, as you’re stepping away to beat it and get back to work—so Blade doesn’t have you to stake and Josh to mend, or a drained corpse to bury—when you get a lazy kick to your calf and a teasing, "The little fruit bat running away? Afraid I’ll smack him again?"

You’re starving, agitated, and your arm throbs. It’s not a nickname you hate, but it sets off something.

You stop, turn back slowly, and flick your eyes to either side to make sure you won’t be skewered by stray junk out of place. All clear, so you skulk up, schooling your face into a careful, bland look that puts Josh on edge more than a scowl.

"Ain’t my ass about to get smacked, boy," is throttled with a snap of fangs and a low pounce, and Josh can only drop the fucking donut and yelp as you tackle him.

He gets a bit of ground, because his hand clamps right down on the bandages, making you bark at the bolt of pain. It’s been longer since your last drink than you admitted to Blade, before he left, and that doesn’t help. But Blade would’ve had you come with, otherwise, and you figured dealing with Josh was worth getting the panels for the van closer to field testing.

Because as much as you want to skitter up the wall and drop Josh from the rafters, most days, you don’t want to get back to the van and find a drained, stoner-sized juice box.

So it’s a little ironic that he’s sprawled over your legs, when the scuffle’s over. It’s not what you intended—to pin him to his stomach, straddle, and give a few smacks before letting him go—but you sort yourselves out. First Josh, and you wrap an arm over his waist to keep him down; then yourself, and you sit up properly so his ass is right where you want it.

These days, child rearing isn’t what you were accustomed to, and Josh doesn’t figure it out until he feels your hand settle across the seat of his cargo pants. "No fuckin’ way," is half telling, half laughing, and the weed probably has something to do with that second part.

Because the first part’s not amused, but just in case he doesn’t get it across that he’s not thrilled to be pinned this way, Josh starts trying to buck off your lap.

"Yes fucking way," you hiss, and your hand cracks down over his right cheek.

It’s loud, even for his human hearing, and goes off like a shotgun blast. Josh twists his head back, huffing. The scowl he tries to give doesn’t have the kind of impact he hopes for, when it twitches at the second swat you land, right over the same spot. Harder than the first, because you won’t have him scowling at you, goddamn brat.

"Hope you know how to sleep with one eye open," cracks when you get a handful of flesh, quieter when he hangs his head. The pants are thin, and you feel the warmth from the swats, hell, hear the blood fizz under the surface. "Get you back for this."

You frown, not at the threat, but another rush of blood you hear. Feel, even better, in your lap.

You growl and throw a withering look his way, because fucking seriously? "You gettin’ hardover this?"

You hear the bones grind, Josh gritting his teeth, when you give the spot you’ve hit twice now a slow rub. Christ, he is, and he’s halfway there by the time you’ve rubbed enough circles into the warmed skin that you have to strain to hear the fizzing blood. You should’ve guessed he was into this, not like he doesn’t rile you up to pin or chase him anyway, this even makes sense.

The swipe to his left thigh is sudden, vampire speed but not strength because you aren’t that cruel. Your ears perk at the sound it gets, when the crack settles again, but before you can ask if he’s fine you feel his thigh rise up into your hand. You can’t help but scoff, because Christ’s sake, you weren’t trying to get frisky with him—and that ship’s goddamn sailed, because you’re helping him get hard.

You’re getting hard, too, can’t be a hypocrite about that. Josh feels it, pushing up into his side, and when he twists his head back again he’s flushed and his mouth’s open. His eyes are glazed over, brow’s furrowed, you think, but it’s hard to tell with the mop of hair in the way. Dammit,and you get a handful of his shirt in your striking hand to keep him from toppling over, and unwrap the other to push the hair off his face.

You can hear his sigh just fine, but it thrums into your fingers where you keep them pushed into his scalp, warm, damp from work and running from you. "Done already, baby? Maybe we can switch," buzzes up your arm.

Shit. You aren’t excited for that, because if he’s going to get you back he’s damn well working for it. But you can feel him reacting to you, swamping your senses; a whine when your fingers curl in the bangs before combing out, his hips shimmying when your arm loops over again, the muscles of his hide clenching as you drag down his pants and boxers.

That last one gets a sharp breath that’s followed up with a sharper swat. You suck in a gasp yourself and tighten your arm, giving your hard-on friction to grind off of, as you run your fingertips over the barely-pink skin. Warm, hot, without the fabric, and it fizzles louder like damn fireworks, when you drop your palm over the left cheek.

"Baby? Not getting any, uh, urges? Know I look good ‘nough to eat normally, but—"

"Shut up," you snarl, and then you’re smacking him again.

It’s anger at this bullshit, your injury, your arm throbbing as Josh twitches against the hold you just double down on when you start laying down swats quick and hard. He could’ve killed you, and he was too damn high to realize it, to apologize, still hasn’t.

But it’s some twisted fascination, too, watching the barely-pink go hot pink, white in the beat after a blow before it blooms darker, then red. You hear the blood fizz, pop, and simmer with each shade the flesh darkens to. Ass goes slower than the thighs, more meat to them, and that reminds you that there’s something to grab so you do. Not after every swat, just to give you both a breather, and you groan when you peel your hand off each time and a five-fingered print flares white before reddening again.

"Hope you choke on those damn donuts," you groan, throaty, when you realize your aim goes off because Josh is rutting into your damn lap. "Quit moving, lemme."

He goes rigid when you grab a hot thigh and spread him open, shift him right so his cock isn’t snug against your leg, and start to stroke. Cruelly slow, but it’s not like he’s getting out of this without some discipline. But you wouldn’t exactly mind doing this again, either...

"No one’s dead, then?"

Josh yelps and finally does buck off your lap. You let him, falling in a heap with his pants still down to his knees, because you’re too busy cringing back from the circle of UV light pointed at the floor. On concrete, not too close to the steps, but you’ve had enough of that wicked light as it is.

Blade doesn’t look bothered by Josh’s undressed, red ass, or the wet spot he left on your jeans. Neither of you finished, just pre-cum, but you’re not keeping a nose or ear out to scent or hear if Josh does by accident in the scramble. You’ve got something else on your mind, that wicks away the lust and anger and drags hunger up your throat so fast you’re dizzy.

The IV bag’s tossed to you, torn into and drained in the time it takes Blade to fish out another from his bag. You hear the flashlight go off and pounce out onto concrete to burrow into the second one he gives over, then growl for the third you can smell when he doesn’t offer it.

"There a problem?"

Your growl sputters, and Josh must’ve gotten his pants back up because he draws attention to himself now. "All good, B. Just looking for some shit for the panels."

Blade doesn’t ask what shit required Josh’s nose being two inches from the lowest step, or being over your lap while he looked, but you go deaf to what they do talk about when the third bag’s thrown your way. By the time you finish, wiggling the puncture marks over your yawning mouth to get the last drop, Blade’s gone and Josh’s face wrinkles.

"Oh, now you don’t want to bother me?" you purr, all fangs, your arm hardly aching and your throat good and wet.

"Shit, dude, would table manners kill you?"

You purr louder, a chuckle, as Josh turns away and goes to hide on his couch with his TV. Close to dawn, anyway, and it’s better to have two pairs of hands for the panels. At least that’s what Josh will tell Blade, probably, if he asks why he isn’t working on it in the morning when you’re sleeping. You’re betting on Blade either calling him out, saying a sore ass doesn’t mean a day off, or just letting it slide. He’s not stranger to vampire strength, even if it’s never been applied to his ass.

Well, Josh can tell him all about it, and you wipe the blood off your face, purr throttling in a real laugh, as Josh decides to lay down on his stomach while he fumbles with the TV.

"Gonna get you back," he reminds you.

In the dim, barely-lit room, with just some cartoon to flick pale tones over the dark space, you lurk over and crawl up onto the back of the couch, balancing on your side, so you can lick your fingers clean and run them through his hair. You tune out the shitty TV to hone in on his blood, calming down, still sputtering around his warm ass. It’s white noise you lose yourself in, purring at his swears when he shifts and agitates the flesh.

[welcome-to-the-sh1tshow]

So here I am. At fucking 1:35 am. Just- laying in bed. Fun backstory time (yay /s). So not to long ago I was reading some fanfic and then I without realizing it started reading something kinda not great for me (I’m loathe to say triggering but it’s somewhat similar) and then I didn’t stop. Witch is on me but I’m still not happy about it. Then I get the stellar idea to read even more stuff that probably won’t make me feel good. So I start reading ace/aro fanfics and they weren’t bad- they just got me thinking. And that’s never good for me because I overthink just about everything I can and most things I can’t. And I still don’t know if I’m aro and if I am how do I still want a relationship with someone. Like I want to live with you and make you breakfast every day but texting and talking all the time makes me want to puke. And like I want to fuck and I want feelings while we fuck but not like kissy feelings. Just like I appreciate you and love you platonically and sexually just not romantically. And that’s all fine and good but what if I’m just shit at this. The only real relationship I’ve been in ended because I didn’t want to text him every day and it was draining my social battery like a fucking leech. But I was probably just a shit girlfriend who’s lazy and emotionally constipated and can’t be bothered to work for a relationship of any kind.

So anyway here I am in bed and it’s 1:50 now and I should really go to sleep but I kinda don’t want to because I’m scared (more scared than I’d like to admit) of getting more nightmares. I might just throw myself a goddamned pity party, stay up all night, and get right back to my regularly scheduled not dealing with emotions tomorrow.

On the bright side I made chocolate pudding and that makes me very happy.

[scotch-and-roses]

I wish I could just throw myself into my work to deal with my grief. Unfortunately ADHD and trouble focusing has not been helped by dealing with grief. I’ll start to hyperfocus, then have an intrusive thought about “why hasn’t the Princess come over to yell at me for not having gone to bed yet?” or I’ll look over at the bed expecting to see her curled up asleep to give myself a boost of warmth/comfort, and instead be confronted by an empty bed. Logically I knew that this would happen eventually. She had kidney disease and it wasn’t ever going to get better. I just really hoped that it wouldn’t happen while I was in grad school. I knew that coping with the loss of her while undergoing the stress of grad school would be amazingly difficult, and the idea terrified me. Just thinking of the day that I would lose her was enough to send me into tears. And the reality is that some days feel impossible to get through. And I haven’t figured out a way to keep myself together and productive when I hit those walls. Instead I just kinda fall apart. And I’m still so behind on my work from the migraines at the beginning of the quarter. I am literally down to the wire now. And I just keep alternating between feeling numb and feeling shattered. I have been pulling out of it more, feeling more functional again. There’s just so much all at once. I need to completely rebuild myself in some ways, and I just haven’t had the time or space to do that. And everything is suffering as a result. She was my emotional support/touchstone and this being that loved me and that I loved and cared for and having that routine gave me more purpose and I built my routines around her needs. Not having that framework has left me feeling extremely untethered. And I’m sorry y’all for having to deal with the constant stream of me talking about this, I appreciate the support and love you’ve all shown. This is just part of me processing really. Writing things out helps get it out of my head/helps me to work through the emotions. I just keep hoping that it won’t be real. It doesn’t feel like it should be real. I miss her so damn much. And there’s not a goddamn thing I can do about it. The last time I was apart from her for so long was when I was at Reed and lived in the dorms and she stayed with papa. But papa and I talked nearly every day so I’d get daily kitty updates and pictures sometimes. And she was always waiting for me when I got home from school. But this isn’t like that. She isn’t just somewhere else, waiting for me to come home. She’s gone. And now matter how badly I want that to not be the case, that’s how it is. She’s just gone. And I hate it. I wish so badly that I could hold her again and feel her warmth and softness and hear her purr. And it’s never going to happen. Sure, there will be other cats in my life again at some point. But they’ll never be her. I think my earliest memory is from about the age of 3. I’m 28 now, which means I have approximately 25 years of memories. I had Princess for 13 years. That means that over half of my life that I remember she was a part of. She was part of my family and one of the beings that I cared the most about in this world. Most of my friends have not been in my life for as long as she was at this point. She was this huge, important part of my life. And now that’s gone. I have the memories, and I cherish them. But it’s not the same. When I come home from a bad day I don’t have her to come sit on me and purr or take a nap with her curled up against my chest. And it’s just all these compounding things. Going through stress with school, or relationship drama, or worrying about financial stuff, and then not having my fuzzy creature that gave me comfort just takes that stress or whatever and then piles grief on top of it. Until I feel like I can’t breathe, like I’m drowning. Part of me wants to just give in. Give in to the depression, to just curl up and give up on trying to be productive and functional. To just blow off my work, my classes, everything. Because it is so hard. And I feel like my professors are being patient, but are also annoyed with me. And I don’t know how to explain to them how much I’m struggling. That I’m trying, but it’s all just so much and I am barely staying functional. Just doing the daily things that I need to do like eating and showering, keeping the apartment relatively orderly so that I’m not being a horrible roommate, they take so much energy right now. Going to class, grading, doing assignments on top of that is incredibly difficult. And I keep emailing them apologizing for the migraines, for missing class again and again because of them, and because some days the grief is too overwhelming. And I’m just terrified that they’re going to respond with “no, you’ve missed too much, you haven’t done enough, that’s not a valid reason, do better” and that I’m going to fail. I don’t want to. As tempting as it is to give up sometimes, I don’t want to. For one thing, Princess would be pissed. She hated when I was depressed. And this goddamn paper is now three hours overdue and I am torn between trying to pull myself out of this spiral and finishing it tonight like I planned or emailing the professor and once again begging for understanding and more time. It was a month two days ago since I lost her. And the pain is still tearing me apart. But I feel like emailing the professor and asking for more time again, that she’ll dismiss me. That because it’s been a month I shouldn’t be having these breakdowns anymore. That I should be better. And I think I’m slowly getting better. But I’m not better. I’m still a mess of tears and snot and emotions and I’m still trying to figure out how to piece my life back together. And I’m so tired. God I’m so tired. This is exhausting. I’ve always been a very emotional person, I joke that on a dial of 1-10, my emotions are turned up to 11. I feel a lot of things and I feel them very strongly. I love fiercely and strongly, and likewise I feel grief in the same way. And it is so draining. And Princess was my battery pack, she helped me recharge. And learning how to function without that, figuring out how to compensate for that loss, is overwhelming. And I can’t help wishing I could go back. Take her to the vet sooner. Spend more time with her. Something. Anything. And I can’t. And it sucks. So much. I just keep blaming myself. If I’d done more or something different. If I hadn’t spent so much time hanging out with friends away from home. If I’d been more diligent in her diet. If I’d seen about getting her some kind of medication. Anything to give myself more time with her. And I could have, at the end. She could have been hospitalized, had her kidneys completely flushed, been placed on fluids and things for multiple days. But her levels were so high that it would have been temporary. A way to get her feeling a little better for who knows how long just so that I could have more time. And that felt wrong. It felt wrong to put her through that just so that I didn’t have to say goodbye so soon. And I hate that I wish I had. Because I miss her so goddamn much and would give anything right now to have more time. Even though it would have meant her possibly suffering and me going into thousands of dollars of debt. And I know I made the right choice. But god it was so hard. And I wish I never had to make it. And for the last 13 years she’s been here to help me through hard times like this. When I’m crying in the middle of the night and don’t have anyone to talk to, don’t want to bother anyone, I had her. And it feels like I’m just stuck in this horrible loop where I miss her and it hurts, and I want to cuddle her because that’s how I’ve dealt with similar pain in the past, but she’s gone so I can’t, and it hurts more, and it just keeps going until I’m curled up on the bed, sobbing, with my arms wrapped around me because it feels like if I don’t physically hold myself together I’ll shatter into a million pieces. And I sob until I’m gasping for breath and I can’t see a way through the pain. I don’t know how to make it stop. Papa keeps telling me to “compartmentalize” and “just cherish the memories”. And I want to scream because that’s not how I work. If I could just flip a switch like that or tuck things into neat boxes, don’t you think I would? I don’t want to feel like I’m drowning. But I can’t just turn off my emotions or decide to feel something different. And he criticizes me for being so open, so giving of myself, for investing so much. And maybe it is a flaw, maybe I do need to work on closing myself off more. Perhaps I need to find ways to temper myself. But I feel like that’s work to be done when I’m not in the middle of emotional upheaval. I can only do so much at one time. And right now I’m at capacity, I’m over capacity really. So tired. Both physically and mentally/emotionally right now. I don’t want to email my professor, but I think I have to. Dammit. 

[voidingintotheshout]

I am just going to rant.

Note: I will not edit this until tomorrow. All mistakes are phonetic and easily rectified.

I am Muslim, but I am drunk. My best friend‘s mother just died and he was drunk and it shocked me because he never drinks. He tends to have an addictive personality and so it freaked me out that my friend who hasn’t drank any alcohol at all in five years is slurry and stumbling around his deceased mother‘s trailer in South Carolina trying to keep it together.

I am worried about my friend, but more worried, like the rideshare driver that I am about being a good steward to people and reminding him to set his alarm now so that he doesn’t oversleep for the appointment with the funeral director tomorrow. I have the high holy day Muslim prayer tomorrow at the mosque and it is very difficult and or unlikely for me to get there on time. I’m feeling very guilty because I haven’t drank almost anything in nearly a year and yet I am drinking tonight, in the wee hours of the morning before the holy Muslim prayer of Jumah; now, I sit here with my head moving further than my body does, feeling out of it and disoriented after my second large glass of Arak. 

It’s been such a strange day, I sit here feeling drunk. I woke up and I had a car with a nearly flat tire and a dead battery. The kindness of a stranger helped jumpstart my battery and give me some very good advice. I pushed back my physical therapy appointment for my bad shoulder and drove across the city to the one reputable used tire place to refill my tire. Now, I have a car with a working battery and a tire that is not leaking air and, after doing my laundry I call my friend, expecting it to be more of the same with his mother, circling the drain having more days of sleeplessness only to be thrown out of my universe and be told that no, she’s dead. She died this morning. I didn’t tell you earlier because I knew you would call. Some thing that I almost forgot to do.

Why am I telling you this? I don’t care. Only three people will ever fucking re-blog this. No one will even read this far. Anyway, I was in a completely different headspace for most of his hour and a half call. I wanted to crack jokes and cheer him up but how do you crack jokes about someone having their mother die in his arms? How do you make a funny joke about a woman peeing herself and then having hospice rush her to the funeral home? What witty one-liners do you use for that? How do you feel of use in a situation where you were 600 miles away from someone and you can’t do any goddamn thing to actually help them other than just feel impotent and powerless on the other end of a phone line. What the fuck do you do? Seeing your friend who has always struggled with addictions get drunk off of a concoction of very delicious sounding margaritas in the trailer that had here too for been occupied by his mother, the last surviving parent. Now here I am dealing with the fact that he is living some thing I will have to live through very soon enough when my second biological parent dies and I am left with virtually no family outside of an aunt who I talk to once every two or three years. I feel like he is living my future. His future is filled with drunkenly stumbling around a trailer that is not his, feeling impotent and powerless trying to focus on anything else other than the fact that his mother is never going to have a conversation with him again. I am trying to have a conversation with him try not to remind myself that I will once again have to prepare myself for some thing that no one can prepare themselves for: the death of someone you truly love. In this case, my mom. He starts getting drunk, and so do I. I just want to feel numb.

I don’t want to think about how I needed to get new clothes yesterday because I got too fat for most of my T-shirts. I don’t want to think about the fact that the people at the physical therapy place think I’m weird because I like obscure Russian movies and I don’t have anything in common with normal people. I don’t wanna think about the fact that my friends think that I am irritating every once in a while because I have ADHD and severe depression and anxiety which are comorbidities with ADHD. I don’t wanna think of myself as a burden to my friends. I don’t like thinking about myself as an annoyance to people who I love, but that haunting Spectre in the back of my brain reminds me that that may be exactly what it is. I may be ultimately just a burden who stays a burden, alone, and then dies. That may be all I accomplish, outside of worthless posts on here that few people will ever read, like this one.

I’m laying on my bed at 2:40 in the morning and one of the bits of clothing I got yesterday today. A new T-shirt that ironically says kindness matters but, what can I say? I’ve always been a person who felt like that slogan was about how I should treat other people but I could never figure out how to treat myself that way. With other people I can always give them the benefit of the doubt that they have their own shit to work through and that they are doing their best but I know myself too well. I know I’m not doing my best. Might be kind someone who is ultimately not trying hard enough to do their best? It seems like a waste of time to try to support someone who you know is going to fail. Someone who you know isn’t giving everything they have. Someone who is in hustling enough to actually reach the finish line. You feel like you’re just pumping someone up that you know he’s not gonna actually make it. Someone who you know you’re gonna have to be there telling them that they tried their best. Again. That’s how I feel like it is like to cheer myself up to pep myself up. I know it’s just proceeding telling myself that I’m gonna get them next time. Next time my story will be published. Next time I’ll have enough confidence to actually set up the profile on the dating app. Next time, the date with a nice guy is going to be a reality instead of just some kind of daydream fantasy that I entertain myself with while I shuttle people around who could care less about my existence.

Here I am, at nearly 3 o’clock in the morning with a phone that is nearly dead, my friend is probably getting ready for bed, too drunk to really think much about his mother who is going to need to make funeral plans at the funeral parlor tomorrow. My life will be completely uneventful. It is always uneventful. That is a blessing, I realize, but it is the stagnation that makes me feel like what is the pointing going on living when I am just going to spend it in nothingness? Why bother doing anything when it’s just gonna end up being made siphoning resources away from the poor and taking up space until eventually I just disappear and nothingness, forgotten buried somewhere, wherever.

What is life but just a waystation on the way to death, trying to build up enough supporters and memories and accomplishments so that the sting of death doesn’t hurt as much. It’s like running for class president. You’re trying, in the limited time you have to garner as much accomplishments and support as you can before you run out of time and you’ll be judged as either good enough or not good enough. That’s life. At least that’s how it seems to me at nearly 3 o’clock in the morning right before I’m supposed to do Muslim prayer, and I still have a little bit left on my second glass of Arak.

What am I even doing? I’m a gay Muslim. Why even bother? I feel so pathetic every single time I find another Muslim. Like I found a Muslim lady in my building from the United Arab Emirates. She seems so nice! She like to read! Something in common! I didn’t even bother to tell her where I lived or to introduce myself because I knew, but I didn’t know, but I assumed, that when she found out I was gay she would think of me is disgusting and an idiot for ever thinking I belong at the Muslim table and that I should just stop wasting my time trying to appeal to a God who I would never be good enough for. I like writing this year because I know that most of the people reading this are either non-religious, non-Muslims, or gay and so all of you reading this also think I’m stupid for ever trying to appeal to a God who I believe in but who probably will never be satisfied with me. Some of you reading this will probably feel, rightly so, that it is hubris for me to imply that I know the will of God and therefore I should just try to be the best version of myself that I can. That is probably the helpful advice. Unfortunately, I don’t feel like helpful advice right now.

That’s the problem. I feel like I want to punish myself for the piss poor excuse for life I have created even though, I don’t know what I was expecting? I guess I was expecting to have it all. I wanted to be surrounded by friends and a gorgeous caring boyfriend and a wildly successful riding career. I wanted my ADHD to not be an issue so that I could’ve accomplished all of those things with all of the silent work in the background that those goals actually require. I wanted to be happy. I wanted to be satisfied. I wanted to be able to throw my money around buying useless garbage like expensive meals that I could’ve made at home and not even thought about how much they cost. I wanted to have enough money to be one of those wasteful gay people they can throw their money on garbage on Etsy that they don’t really need, expensive bespoke clothes that they could get cheaper elsewhere, and restaurant quality meals that are going to provide fleeting joy and are ultimately just expensive fuel for the body. I want to be that kind of a person. I want to be someone wasteful. Burns the money that could feed the poor on their on alter to themselves. I want to be that kind of person, but I have always somehow fucked it up. I want to be that type of person, who can create this world about making themselves the best and most beautiful and amazing thing in the world and insisting that everyone else treat them as this beautiful jewel even though they’re really just some random fucking asshole who will live, and then die. I could never do it. I mean there are people Who devote their entire lives to helping the poor. People who Sean the television and the Internet and spend their free time writing because they are actually writers and they love writing, even if they never publish anything and their contribution to the world is thousands of pages of glorious fanfiction on AO3. They are more writers than I will ever be with my stories that no one reads. The pain of being jealous of a couple in what is clearly an unhappy marriage because at least they were in love once, some thing I can never claim.

I take another sip of the alcohol, almost wishing that I could be videotaped and have this monologue in this pathetic scene where a 40 year old fat lonely man records a drunken monologue in his studio apartment at 3 AM. I wish they could show that at the mosque right before I arrive so everyone would be able to see that I am unworthy. Why do I want this? Is it sadism? Masochism? No. It’s a more toxic reason. I want everyone else to know so I can justify my own feelings of self hatred that are ultimately self created. It’s easier for me to imagine that the whole world sees me as terrible and pathetic than to imagine and except the terrible, terrible truth that I am actually a really great guy who is accomplished a lot. The terrible truth that I am totally fine and accomplishing a lot I just have depression that doesn’t let me see it. It’s so much more horrible to know that all of those negative self feelings are just in your head, you know? It’s so much harder to except that they are all in your head then to except that they are true. You almost want all of those negative self feelings to be true so it’s not just you being cruel to yourself for no goddamn reason. That’s the motherfucking horrible thing about being alive sometimes. Being a person with all of the advantages in a prosperous society like America and still having the nerve to not be happy. It’s like an insult to all of the people in the world that are struggling with not enough. 

[criticalerrorka]

Sharing the Excitement

I don’t share a lot of my personal life, or really make many original posts these days. This can be mostly attributed to the fact that I am always on mobile and don’t like the limited amount of editing I can do or the time that it takes me to write out long things on a phone keyboard. 

So, I’ve been driving a piece of shit car for the last 6 years. A 1998 Chrysler Sebring JXi convertible with a salvage title and a slow-drip oil hemorrhage. Within the first year of owning this car, I began putting away savings for a different car. See, this car had always been intended as a “temporary fix.” It was bought for me (by my dad, from one of his good friends) when my 1998 Dodge Stratus took it’s fourth or fifth shit. The damn thing had over 200k miles on it and we sold it for scrap (the Dodge, not the Chrysler).

Problems my Sebring has developed over our six year relationship include but are not limited to:

Dead trunk suspension. TBH, I think it might’ve been dead when I got the car. For most of my car’s duration with me, I have had my “trunk stick”, which I wedge into the trunk of the car to hold it open. 

A steady leak at the front windows during heavy rain.

A back window dropped off the track, then Macgyvered to stay mostly closed (with about a half inch gap) and never open again. Also leaky.

A driver’s seat belt that frequently tries to merge you with the seat because it’s locking up and won’t loosen, only tighten. 

A water leak in an unknown and unidentifiable location that guaranteed every three to four days I would have to check my fluid levels before driving the car.

A gas gauge needle that won’t go above 3/4 tank, so even when I spent extra money filling the tank, I never got the satisfaction of seeing the needle on FULL. Also, couldn’t quite trust it when it got close to empty.

A dysfunctional horn that also had to be Macgyvered--my dad rewired it to a weird little button on a string that sat in one corner of my dashboard. Super-impracticable, but it passed inspection. Prior to the re-wiring, the fuse for the horn had been pulled out, because one cold morning I went outside, cranked my car to warm it up, hit lock on my key fob to keep strangers out of my cranked car while I went back in to finish getting ready... and promptly began panicking, because instead of a single “honk” to indicate the car had locked, I was greeted with “HOOOOOOOOOOOONNNNNNNNNNKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK” and NOTHING WOULD STOP IT. My horn was stuck in the “on” position at fucking 6:30 in the morning and I had to barrel back inside and wake up my boyfriend because I had no fucking clue what to do. 

Illegal tint. My dad bought this car from a collision repair center owned by a friend of his. It had been the friend’s wife’s car before she upgraded. (Ironically, this woman used to drive me to school in the 7th grade because they lived in my neighborhood and her daughter was a grade below me, and at the time this car was my DREAM car, because I didn’t know anything about cars but it was purple, and this was like 2001 so it was relatively new.) So, car guy KNOWS the tint isn’t inspection-legal. But for the first few years I own the car, no one at the inspection station cares. It’s JUST BARELY out of the legal range, not super-blackout-tint or anything like that. Then one day I fail inspection, I’m told that police have been cracking down on tint more so the inspection guys likewise aren’t looking the other way, and I have to go home and peel off all of my already-failing tint with a razor blade and a hair dryer. 

Magic smoke. Like, a LOT of magic smoke. At some point, she had been cured of the magic smoke (not sure what surgery helped with that). But for a while, it was embarrassing to go through a drive thru or any place my car would be idling for a while, because I would just be smokescreening the people behind me.

Extreme seat-cushion cracks, deterioration, exposure. My driver’s seat was 2/3 exposed foam.

Never gets warm. Between the compromised windows and the overall shitshow status of the car, it would take about 20 minutes for hot air to start coming out of the vents. And even then, the car would never truly feel warm.

A stuck passenger seat. Like, something got stuck in the track so it wouldn’t slide forward or back anymore.

Oh, I almost forgot about this one! One time I was vacuuming the car and I moved my driver seat all the way up and IT GOT STUCK. I had to drive with it like that, dangerously close to my steering wheel, windshield, and airbag, for a very terrifying 15 minutes to interrupt my dad at his job so I didn’t have to worry about an airbag snapping my neck.

One of the speakers died. I don’t think I blew it out--I hate bass and I don’t listen to my music very loud. It just gave up.

Around the same time the horn got an attitude, it stopped making any sound when I locked my car. I used to just spam the lock key and listen for the beep if I was in a crowded parking lot trying to find my car, but this was taken away from me. 

Towards the end, the locking mechanisms’s relation to my key fob was very strained by cold weather. If it was below freezing in the morning, I would have to unlock the door with the key itself instead of the button.

For a while, some of the electrical stuff was funny. The CD player wouldn’t get power and I would have to pound on the dashboard or wiggle the key around the ignition. If the radio wasn’t working, I knew my turning signals also weren’t working (much more concerning).

At some point it developed the ability to release the key without the key being in the proper position, so I had to be extra careful that I didn’t wind the key back too far so that the radio was running before I took the keys out. 

These next bits weren’t the car’s fault, but were still annoying to deal with. I broke my passenger side mirror on the world’s skinniest tree and it just sort of flopped for a while. Then, I dented the shit out of my passenger front corner panel when I sunk my tire into a pothole/storm drain combo. The panel was bent so badly you couldn’t open the door enough to let a person in or out. A coworker’s mechanically-savvy friend, a little bit of money, and a trip to the junkyard afforded me a replacement mirror and a new, non-matching quarter panel. I could have cared less about the look, but now I had a giant clashing square of burgundy on my purple car, more or less telling everyone around me “I LIKE TO HIT THINGS”.

Now mind you, I haven’t even gotten into the mechanical problems that grounded her for a while; she’s needed several surgeries, including her starter, her water pump, her fuel pump...I really can’t remember everything. It’s never been a huge, expensive fix, but it’s always been something very time consuming.

Oh, here’s a fun side-note about Chryslers; well, at least this one. I will NEVER buy another one so I can’t continue my research on this, but it seems Chrysler at least at some point was a malicious company that wanted to make sure the everyman had zero ability to work on their vehicles and would have to take them to the dealer for any sort of maintenance or repair. EVERYTHING is in a weird and inconvenient location inside this car. The goddamn battery was right above one of my wheel wells--I couldn’t even get my battery replaced at an auto-parts store like Auto Zone or O’Reily’s because THE DAMN CAR HAS TO GO ON A LIFT TO GET THE BATTERY OUT.

On Wednesday, January 10th, I was driving the 2-3 miles home from work, cutting through an apartment complex’s connecting road, and my RPMs dropped to zero. My power steering went out. I pulled my car into the parking lot, shut her off, and she wouldn’t crank. It just kept turning and turning and turning and turning, but would never spark.

Thank all the gods for AAA. I got her towed home. My boyfriend tried what little he could with the limited time he’s had: check battery, change fuses, things of that nature. But he’s been working a lot, and it’s been so fucking cold, he hasn’t really had the time to fiddle with her.

So for 10 days I’ve been getting rides to the bare necessity of places: work, home, and one doctor’s appointment (s/o to my best friend for making sure I got to where I needed to be). 

Friday, January 19, I left my boyfriend parked outside my work while I did my once-over before locking the place up. My manager was out of town and I was left in charge, so I was very meticulously making sure I had shut down and locked everything. Needless to say, he had to wait on me a good 15 minutes while I got my ducks in a row.

And wouldn’t you know, that wonderful man got on craigslist (after YEARS, mind you, of leaving me to be the one to do the searches while he provided second opinions) and lined up a test-drive with a private party, and the location was a place I drove by every day on my way to and from work. 

And guys? GUYS?!

She’s a 2009 Toyota Corolla and her name is Rebecca after Lori Petty’s character in Tank Girl, and I love her so much.

tldr: I’ve been driving a shitty car for 6 years, searching for an upgrade for 5 of those years, and yesterday I FINALLY bought another car. I had a 1998 Chrysler Sebring, it died, and I found a 2009 Toyota Corolla. 

And I really just can’t put into words how much weight has been lifted off of me. I’ve been terrified of my car for years. I’ve been searching, and struggling, and I’ve met up with at least a dozen people to test drive their cars and always left disappointed. And finally, finally, I’m free.