#desperate to want to keep living

[brokenmusicboxwolfe]

Someone telling me there is no excuse for someone as creative as me not to have figured out how to make money from it REALLY ends up getting to me.

First, their calling me “creative” is utterly incorrect. I am not particularly creative in the grand scheme of things. I only seem creative because I make things and they don’t. They don’t even have a taste for the imaginative, so how would they have any basis of comparison?

Secondly, their assumption I can just snap my fingers and conjure up something misses how my brain works completely. I can’t just “make” something sellable. This extra true when their suggestion I do something as massive as “write a book”.

Thirdly, I suck at planning. Really. I can see dozens of possibilities but damned if I ever know which one pick, the positives and negatives spiraling out of control around me. I tend to end up fumbling through or making decisions based on which options have closed off while I dithered.

Fourthly, my planning when it comes to money is even worse. Oh sure, I can save. I’m very good at just not spending. It’s my one method of surviving. But anything that involves investing, spending with the intent on gaining more money in the long run, is beyond me. I’m incapable of calculating the danger, especially since I struggle with understanding what things are “worth”in terms of dollars. I see things in terms of beauty or usefulness or any other way of seeing value not connected to finance. Money is an absurdity that’s crucial for surviving, but damned if I’m wired for it. (Probably inherited, as seen in Pop’s inability to ever charge for all his labor.)

Fifthly, I have no time, energy, or heart any more! I can’t think. I can’t dream. I have sleepless night after sleepless night, lying there worrying, trying to hold the waves of despair at bay. I wear myself out trying to do the things I need to do to survive. I’m usually in pain. I end up perpetually exhausted and distracted. I’m barely able to create anything anymore!

So here I am, already upset at being unable to create anything and so broke I am terrified I won’t be able to pay crucial bills, and now I’ve got a ton of guilt and shame for both.

Yeah, all I need to do is find time to work on making things, turn off all my anxiety and depression, create something utterly amazing, rewire my brain for selling, and find enough money dropped in parking lots to actually invest in this making and selling!

Good to know it’s so easy. Obviously as someone so “creative” my poverty is deserved punishment for not whipping up the right thing…

(Honestly, I’m in a very bad way. It isn’t just poverty and pain and loneliness. I’ve crashed in just about every way at once. I have lost all hope, and the accompanying creative drought I’m trapped in has made is all the worse. I have no relief from it. I’m holding by a thread. I don’t need more guilt and shame for my failure to save myself.)

[biggest-gaudiest-patronuses]

i vote that next year instead of reading Dracula we do a Jeeves & Wooster Book Club. those two never got the rabid tumblr shipping fandom they deserved (disqualified for the sheer technicality of being published a century too soon). we must correct this injustice

[justaz]

merlin told arthur his favorite color was the color of the sky during sunset when it shifted into a deep violet. arthur gets a tunic made in that exact shade. its the best thing merlin owns. arthur was hoping that would mean he’d wear it almost everyday but merlin almost never wears it. the only time he does wear it is when royals come to visit (which isn’t all that often). arthur “subtly” asks about it and merlin is like “it’s the best thing i own. i’m not gonna dirty it mucking out the stables or serving rowdy knights wine while they splatter food on it” and arthur is like “why not wear it when nobles come to visit? look at least a little presentable for them” (cough nice save). merlin doesn’t see the point in it bc nobles don’t care about him at best, view him as less than human at worst.

arthur really just wants to see his boyfriend servant in the tunic he had made for him (bonus points for sending a message that merlin is his. not that merlin seems to notice. man is too much of an idiot). merlin wants to preserve his favorite tunic and gift from his boyfriend king.

[volivolition]

broken dopamine receptor

[suntails]

a father's love

[swampybogg]

[conceptofjoy]

what the fuck does "i guess" mean. i agree not existing is terrifying? dirk "im killin myself" strider. he just finished this whole rant

so basically the splintering is a a cause of that fear of non existence. "mind falters, ...threatens to retreat into the void in any way" its his fear of inaction. which is what existing means to them.

[grantihare]

our cat broke his hip on christmas

hi, your local guy-with-a-blog is here to dox himself so his cat can walk again!

i made posts earlier as this was happening, but now that i've heard back from enough vets to get an idea of how steep this is going to be, i can't not ask for help.

its cheesy to say, but my cats are my everything. mordred, especially, spends his days basically glued to my side. he's my little shadow, and i don't know where i'd be without him.

when he woke me up to feed him at 6am on christmas morning, he was completely fine. i went back to sleep after, and when i woke up for real at 8, he was limp on the ground. when we went to move him, he howled and thrashed like we were torturing him. he ran, and we saw he wasn't using his right back leg.

many tears and an anxiety riddled 4 hour wait for our emergency vet appointment later, we were told he had a right capital physeal fracture, which basically means he snapped the ball bit of the ball joint in his hip. the vet said the best option for him is a femoral head and neck ostectomy (FHO), which'll take the broke bit of his bone out and the scar tissue will sort of just grow in the right way to replace his missing joint (cats are so weird)

its the cheapest option, and its the one with the best success rate, which is super lucky. unfortunately, its still expensive as fuck.

weve been quoted anywhere between 3.5k and 8k by vets i've contacted so far, and most need at least half as a downpayment before they'll operate. it'd take us years to cover the full cost by ourselves. so we've got to break out the big guns - a full gofundme, which will be shared with basically everyone we know, and hopefully far past that as well. carecredit can only cover so much for us, and our immediate family can't afford to lend us much. the internet is our only hope for meeting the full cost and getting mordred better

mordred's the light of my life and i can't stand to see him in pain like this. anything helps. if youre not in a financial state where you can donate, spreading the word is just as important and just as deeply appreciated.

thank you so much for getting this far.

our gofundme is here

[ace-and-ranty]

Speaking of, reason 173897985th why I love this book is how Naomi handles El’s shift from “Fuck you, got mine” to “I MUST SAVE THE ENTIRE SCHOOL OR I AM UNWORTHY OF LIFE”

It comes across so well, I think, because it is gradual, because it’s baked into her character so intimately, and because every time El shifts further forward into selflessness, she is so very pissed about it. Like. That’s real! She will be a good person! But she’ll be mad about it the whole fucking time!!

[compacflt]

Rumors from Pearl Harbor.

When Admiral Kazansky first comes to Pearl, he brings with him about half of his previous staff, all exceptionally-hardworking people hand-picked over years—advisors, flag aides, secretaries, ranks all over the board. But his new hires, upon getting acquainted with the old guard, are shocked to discover that his previous staff still hardly knows him at all.

“He keeps to himself, mostly,” Lieutenant Commander Hartford explains over a pint. “I made the mistake of asking him once what he did for fun. You know, like, hobbies and stuff. He blinked at me for a second, and then said, ‘I read.’ That’s it! I read! My advice to you newcomers would be, don’t ask him questions about his personal life, because it tends to be pretty boring.”

“It sounds to me like he’s a walking, talking Wikipedia page,” says Captain Calvert, who worked for the previous two Pacific Fleet Commanders and thinks she knows how to deal with them by now. “We owe it to ourselves to figure him out. It’ll make our lives easier, anyway. So, let’s put our heads together: what do we know about him?”

What they know are his habits, which they’ll come to learn intimately over the next few years, and which are admittedly pretty boring. Admiral Kazansky is one of the first to show up to work in the morning and one of the last to leave in the evening. He often answers e-mails past 2300 hours, but never later than midnight. Jokes never catch him off-guard; he rarely smiles, and when he does, it has an ulterior motive. When he’s not working, he’s scheming and making plans to go back home to San Diego, and his requests for leave are always granted, because he works like a pack mule from home anyway. He signs off every e-mail with “Sincerely,”…

“Is he sincere, though?” asks Chief Warrant Officer Kent halfway through Admiral Kazansky’s first year. (Admiral Kazansky is surely unaware that his staff now spends the second Friday of every month chit-chatting about him over drinks in downtown Honolulu.) “I can’t ever tell. And he lives in Hawaii. San Diego’s nice, I know, but what’s so different about the beaches there that he can’t get here?”

“I genuinely don’t think he’s human,” confesses Commander Stoddard. “People warned me about that when I came here, and I laughed it off, but… he keeps his desk biologically sterile. Not one fingerprint, but I’ve never seen anyone wipe it down. I’ve looked through his drawers. Don’t judge me, I got curious. Everything squared away, like he’s goddamn Einstein or something. Have any of you ever seen him in his civvies?” No one has. “God damn it, where does he shop for groceries? No one’s seen him at a grocery store? Does he even own a pair of jeans? Does he wear his uniform to bed, too?”

“He probably goes grocery shopping on the whole other side of the island to avoid all the enlisted kids,” laughs Captain Calvert. “Come to think of it…you know how he always eats lunch in the office? It’s always a salad. And always the same kind of salad. This guy survives on one cup of coffee and one spinach salad a day. Maybe he really isn’t human.”

They build out their wealth of knowledge and come to learn that Admiral Kazansky is defined by his extremes, by what he always does and what he never does. Admiral Kazansky gets his uniforms dry-cleaned every week, though he never spills anything on them. No one has ever seen Admiral Kazansky stumble over his words while giving a speech, or trip over a sidewalk curb, or push a “pull” door. He is always polite and never friendly. Sometimes he is cold, and sometimes he is cruel in his patience with you when you’ve fucked up, like a cat toying with a hemorrhaging mouse. But he never raises his voice. He is always immaculately put-together, well-groomed, constructed every day like a product on an assembly line. Nothing is ever out of place. Allegedly his umbrella once turned inside-out during a rainstorm; he disdainfully shook it once, as a hunter might pump a loaded shotgun, and it flipped itself right-side-in again. The laws of physics do not seem to apply to him. Nor do the natural embarrassments that come with being human. Admiral Kazansky is never flustered, never harried, and never falls apart.

“I found this old picture of him shaking hands with another pilot on the Internet,” says Chief Warrant Officer Kent in Admiral Kazansky’s second year. “Smiling like the Cheshire Cat. Never seen him smile like that in all my years working with him. And he had frosted tips, too. Like Guy Fieri on a diet and steroids. It was the eighties, sure, but it’s like he knew how to have fun, once upon a time. Wonder what happened to him.”

“I feel lonely for him sometimes,” says Commander Stoddard. “Strict guy like that, no family, no friends, no wife, nothing to live for but the Navy? He’s like a workhorse with blinders on. Nowhere to go but forward. That’s a lonely existence.”

“Not if you’re a robot,” says Lieutenant Commander Hartford. “I swear, sometimes he breathes and it makes me jump, ‘cause I forgot he was alive!” —What else doesn’t Admiral Kazansky do?

That’s when they realize that none of them, not the old guard nor the new, has ever, not once, ever seen or heard Admiral Kazansky sneeze.

And they all finally give up the game and quit arguing and agree that, no, he really isn’t human after all. He must be some cyborg from the future sent to whip the Pacific Fleet into shape, and you can’t ask for too much humanity from someone who’s doing a pretty damn good job of it.

The rumors start soon after that. Jokes that could get them all tossed out of the Navy, but probably won’t. Jokes that accidentally spread like wildfire.

Yes, Admiral Kazansky could be a cyborg, but he also could be a Mormon fundamentalist, or a Scientologist, or a really weird Catholic. Maybe he goes home to San Diego so often because in his spare time he’s really a mule ferrying cocaine across the Mexi-Cali border. That’s what he does for fun. He eats spinach salads because he’s a reincarnation of Popeye the Sailor Man, and he needs all the super-strength he can get to deal with the Navy’s modern-day bullshit.

“I don’t know if that story makes sense,” laughs Captain Calvert on the phone with her husband in Washington, “but it makes more sense than the real Admiral Kazansky does!”

So the rumors get spread around.

“I don’t know if you know this,” Maverick comments, watching Ice make their bed from the relative comfort of the bedroom doorway, “or if I should tell you this, because you might crack down on it, which would be a shame, ‘cause it’s funny. But every time you send a mass e-mail to the Pacific Fleet commissioned officer corps, you become the main topic of conversation between all of us officers for a solid day and a half.”

“Oh?” says Ice with a smile, struggling to fit the last corner of the fitted sheet to the mattress. He sighs, tugs on the strings of his old ratty-ass hooded sweatshirt, and looks at Maverick balefully through his glasses. “Help me out over here, would you? —What are people saying? All good things, I hope.”

“Not really,” Maverick says, stuffing a pillow into a pillowcase as he stares out the window into the San Diego sunshine. “Some pretty crazy shit, actually. Hard as hell for me to keep a straight face. I heard this one—you know, people are saying you eat nothing but salads?”

“Oh,” laughs Ice, hospital-cornering the free sheet. “Yeah, that one’s kind of true. I bring salads in to the office sometimes.”

“You hate salads.”

“I know, it’s torture! Move over.” He bumps Maverick out of the way to tuck in the last corner. “But, I figure, if a man torments himself with spinach-and-arugula salads three times a week, you ought to respect his commitment. It’s all an act. You get to a certain Defense Department paygrade, it all starts being storytelling and stagecraft.”

“Or trickery and deception, depending on how you look at it.”

“Sure. But you could say that about everything. —Besides, I’d rather the Navy discuss my salads than discuss… well, this.” He gestures to Maverick, then down to the bed. They start tugging the comforter over it together. “How much slack you got over there?”

“‘Bout a foot.”

Ice pulls his side down a couple more inches to match, then flips the top up. “Is that it? That’s all people are saying about me?”

Maverick grins and bends down to pick up a pillow. “They’re also saying that you’re the reincarnation of Popeye the Sailor Man. I yam what I yam and that’s all what I yam, and all that. Think fast.”

Ice doesn’t think fast, and the pillow hits him square in the face, and he laughs again as he catches it in his arms. “Shit, that’s good,” he says; “I was just about to call Slider, think I’ll tell him that one. That’ll make him laugh. Popeye Iceman.” He tosses the pillow onto the made-up bed and pulls out his cell phone, but—then he frowns, grimaces, mutters “Ah, no,” and turns away to sneeze.

[imogenkol]

KINCADE PACK 🐺 (original works) — “The name goes back centuries, and all Miranda cares about is making sure it lasts for many more”

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[sciderman]

Jinx monsoon is the queen I showed you and you said would do a good deadpool

oh yeah slay

it's not about the voice, really, but it is about the theatricality. we as a society need a real drama queen to play wade wilson. someone exactly this degree of extra.

[smile-files]

as a jew, seeing what all of these israeli leaders have said is sickening. as a jew, anti-palestinian rhetoric is sickening. as a jew, zionism is sickening.

how dare my people -- a people who've been massacred, ethnically cleansed, dehumanized, forcibly removed, and discriminated on religious grounds for their entire existence -- do the same to another people? how dare we turn our backs on them, when they suffer like we have?

i understand that so much of us have been fed zionist propaganda our entire lives; the same happened to me. i understand the desire for a homeland where we don't have to fear antisemitism at every turn; i want that too. but it doesn't take much thought to understand that a homeland for us, which actively oppresses and kills another people, is antithetical to what we want.

if you, as a member of an oppressed group, believe that your freedom and safety can only exist when you oppress another group, you are acting no better than the people who oppressed you. such a belief is horrible, and cynical, and wrong.

as a jew, i want jewish people to be happy and safe and connected to our heritage; as a jew, i also want other peoples to be happy and safe and connected to their heritage.

don't call the palestinians "amalek". you are turning us into amalek.

doesn't the torah tell us to have empathy for those beaten down by the world? doesn't the torah tell us to make the world a better place? doesn't the torah tell us to free people of their shackles and help them escape oppression?

i have so many israeli aunts and uncles and cousins; i fear for their safety. of course, my parents do as well. i'm worried that this fear, in addition to anything they were led to believe earlier in life, is placing my parents even deeper in the zionist camp. but it doesn't have to be this way! my relatives' safety does not rely on the continued oppression of gaza!

it is easy to be uninformed, to be swayed by propaganda, to blindly hope that israel was founded in good faith -- but we can't lie to ourselves. a world steeped in senseless hatred (which we are now promoting!) could never be a home for us. none of us are free, liberated, equal, until all of us are.

as a jew, to other jews, i implore that we stand with our palestinian siblings. i want us all to be happy and safe. i want us all to live in harmony -- in the holy land and around the world. that is what we all deserve. <3

[sowearecleariamhere]

Something something Im Sol's happy ending being erasing Ryu Seon Jae from her life to keep him safe and alive because living in a world without him is more painful than never meeting and being with him in this timeline something something Ryu Seon Jae's happy ending being saving Im Sol even if it means his death, leading to him being willing to do whatever it takes to make sure Im Sol is safe because he cannot live in a world without her when he could have protected her something something me screaming into my pillow clawing at my keyboard scratching off my skin

[carefulfears]

how do you see mulder leaving in season 9? scully giving up william? how do they deal with these things? (their guilt, resentment, futility, etc)

i know i have a realllllllly unpopular opinion on all of this but as i've said recently, i just don't think there's anything easier on earth to convince mulder of than "things are safer if you're not here."

i usually come back to doggett's confusion in the beginning, the way he keeps asking and arguing and scully just keeps saying "he's gone" and shutting it down, until the end of the premiere when he realizes: "oh my god. it was scully. scully made him go."

god, it's sad. it's hard to talk about. i teared up trying to write this, as much as i am fonder of the storyline than most. i don't find it unrealistic or out of character or unfitting of the narrative. it doesn't mean i don't feel it's heartbreaking. i have such a hard time thinking of mulder missing that baby. not even having the chance to put up a fight, walking back into empty rooms. the show as a tragedy, finding your burden again, etc. the x-files as the gap between teary smiles at baby kicks to screams in a jail cell. as what it was in the beginning: unknowable answers to insurmountable grief.

and i just think about mulder's dramatic emails, writing that he doesn't think he can survive being away from them. spender looking at the baby and telling scully he's heard "so much" about him. mulder being tortured by soldiers, saying he's just thinking about his son. keeping 1 baby photo for 15 years. "i just missed both of you so much."

scully's fertility treatments and her prayers and her tears and her "last chance" and her miracle. and how deeply unfair it is, what happened to her. i don't think a single one of us could say what we could do if people kept breaking into our homes to suffocate a child we were still nursing. she didn't ever want to do it alone, that was never the plan.

but scully desperately wants to keep everybody safe. she thinks she’s keeping everybody safe. it’s hard to be starbuck. it's this conflict i keep talking about recently where you really start to notice how controlled she is by fear, how difficult it is for her to balance it all. my favorite visual on this is the gate at the house in i want to believe: every day the way she pulls up to it, gets out, opens it, pulls through, stops, gets out, closes it. repeat in reverse. and then she comes home and she says "the truth is, i worry about you." and that he's too isolated. turns around and shuts the door, leaves the house and locks the gate.

i wrote a bit a few weeks ago about scully's protectiveness and it made me think about what a trap it can be, how defending lends to fear and fear lends to defeat. to standing in a church 25-years deep and saying "i failed." in the tags of that post i asked "could they ever recover from her exiling him from being with their child because she was afraid it would kill him?" and said i don't know. and i don't, i don't know.

but i think there's something so brave in saying: i did the best i could, and maybe that wasn't right. it's why ghouli is one of my favorite episodes. scully sobbing to her son that she's sorry. she's sorry he doesn't know them. she wanted him, they loved him. "i was trying to keep you safe. i hope you know that." and she thought she was being strong, but maybe she was wrong.

things don't always shake out the way you want them to. it was always mulder that called their son a miracle, and mulder doesn't believe in miracles. mulder believes in the world, and the search, and the after.

[girlthativealwaysbeen]

i think growing up is just life repeatedly sucker punching you and saying bitch you thought things were gonna better lmao no you're so naive and stupid for having hope in 20 years the world will be flaming bag of garbage and no matter how hard you work you'll get eliminated at some point