#genuinely repulsive and putrid human being

[sadkidwarexpert]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐰

t/w: none, this is mild angst.

a/n: i know i don't talk to anyone, it's nothing personal, im just too overwhelmed and barely keeping up with any social stuff, even texting my close friends is hard, so just excuse that. i have few energy left so i want to save it.

tags: @daisycheols @etherealyoungk @scarlet789

Sometime between the black of night and violets of early dawn, she had crept from the warmth of her blanket up to the frozen roof. It was damp, the clouds were generous earlier, the sky had poured when her eyes did, and even more so. The earthy, after-rain scent softly grounded her loud mind, sending soothing tendrils up to her thoughts and tethering them down. She could see her reflection in the small puddle on one of the tiles, a grim-faced creature with the same dark stare as of that crow perched next to her. A companion of sorts, like recognized like, its head cocked to the side, beady black eyes gazing at her empty green ones, its curiosity searching. She wondered if it sat there out of genuine camaraderie or if it was patiently waiting for the last signs of life to leave her like everyone else did and turn her into a festive feast.

The thought made her smile, her lips painfully tugging from dryness. If this crow was the friend she'll have then welcome, anything better than solitude that kneads you into yourself until the lines are all a blurred mess of pain and pain. Sheepishly extending a finger towards the bird, she held her breath as her heartbeat picked up a notch, afraid to startle the thing into disappearing in a flap of ebony wings, but it stood still, watching her, beak pointing towards the tip of her finger, until they touched, ever so slightly. She traced it's tiny head, a jolt going through her as its warmth surprised her; she hadn't touched a living being for a long time.

"Fancy a cup of tea, you silly thing?" she whispered, her voice hoarse and unused.

The crow blinked once and hopped closer to her, nuzzling against the fuzzy sweater she wore. The proximity amused her, how bold it was to be that close to a human, and her of all people, her with the electric temper, the wild words and dark stares. Her with trembling hands and fleeting headaches, with her bursting sadness and subdued thoughts. She was the dimmest person she knew, sometimes even relished in that, knowing that even though she was repulsive, that served her sometimes in keeping people away, because they were simply a liability, just like she was, even if in many different ways. It was a two-way relationship of burdening, to them she was the burden, but to her it was the heaviness of the key to her jumbled universe, unlocking it and letting it tumble down in a big mess of fragments, then explaining each crack and shard, the war that triggered the boom, and then playing it all down, with frosting on top so it didn't look that disturbing. Her problem with people was that they never understood, the quantum of how her heart and mind didn't fit together at times and at others way too much, the mechanics of how a normal notion could turn murderous in one second, and shut her entire system down the next. The more she explained, the larger the enigma grew until it became too suffocating to look at the pity and disgust in their faces, and she preferred her own grotesque reflection. The familiarity.

Her sudden jostling startled the crow, but she knew it would follow her down the ladder and into the warmth inside. The only light was the hazy glow of the moon, and at that hour she thought it best to just keep the lamps off, she did not need another thing gnawing the cracks of her overloaded mind at that time; night was for peace. Miserable, suffocating, unlivable peace.

A shy croak, What are you doing?

"Trying for a safer option of caffeine," she said, scoffing at herself. "Coffee is a bit vicious."

The putrid stench of sulfur burned through her nostrils, making her cringe against it, but the fire on the matchstick was a beautiful wisp of oranges and blues, nature's pallette burning warmth inside her chest as memories flew by, of sunsets and sunrises, of shrieks of laughter fading on the horizon, of ambition and aspirations igniting in her eyes. But that fire quickly turned red, and along the way came the rage, the crippling fear, until it singed her into black nothing, until the phoenix died one last time and all left were ashes for her to mourn. She frowned, and set the kettle on the stove.

The glass jar of tea leaves was soothing cool in her palm as she checked how much was left; two fingerwidths. It was her favorite mix, dried berries with black tea and a hint of peppermint, the closest thing to spring that she could taste, made specially for her by her grandmother, when she visited. Her chest tightened; she hadn't seen her in months. It always felt like a knife between her ribs, this distance she kept from everyone, even those who didn't deserve it, her nan least of all. In some twisted way she was afraid, of the rawness of love, of the vulnerability it would unleash in her and force her to disintegrate, but most of all, she was afraid of her own shadows, and how they will possess all the light and snuff it out. She was afraid to seep into lives like poison, leaving decay behind. She had to sit with her rot, fine and fair, but never another.

The water boiled, she poured it over the leaves in her chipped mug, and stirred it, sugarless, until water bloomed a clear crimson. She glanced at the crow again, that was standing now at the edge of the sink. She took a moment to admire it's shimmering black coat, before extending her palm, hoping it would be brave enough to join her in front of the fireplace on her couch. The only invitation she'd extended to anyone. The only one answered.

The mug wobbled in her unsteady grip under her disapproving frown, and wondered maybe doing something with her hands to strengthen them would be a better choice than lying in bed at all times, it seemed that even though she held books and cooked scraps of meals it wasn't enough yet. She dropped into the couch, the crow bobbing in her palm, and lightly stroke it's wing with her thumb, chipped nail rough against the feathers. There was warmth in her chest, a feeling she vaguely remembered, but she knew one thing for sure, and that was for this creature of darkness to accompany her till the sun embraces her again.

"The pin cushion is big enough for you to sleep on," she whispered, as she lifted the bird to her eye level. "It's warmer here than out in the woods."

There was a bitter aftertaste to the desperation in her voice, and the break at the end of it almost went by unnoticed, but not by her. It disgusted her, this weakness, and she wished she was made of steel. Cold, unyielding, solid, not this easily ground, fragile husk.

The crow had nuzzled into her chest for the entire night and a few hours after dawn, before flying out and leaving her alone for breakfast, but the twigs it brought while she was asleep will forever remain in her pocket, along with the small black stone, and the stainless steel chain it had found too. Maybe they'll remain with her until she'd become nothing but remains, maybe until one day they all mold into the earth from where they've come, to the waiting womb.

•

©2023 sadkidwarexpert, Eboni.

[female-eren]

I wrote a little review of it on Goodreads. 

I'm rating this 1 star only so I can write a review. I wish I could rate this so negatively it would implode into a black hole that would wipe all evidence of this shitstain of a "book" off the face of the Earth. The author is the worst piece of shit misogynist ever. The entire text is agonizingly woman-hating degrading drivel, an amalgamation of the sociopathic ravings of Freud's most demented patient. The only explanation is that he has a brain-eating amoeba with an angry micropenis where his recognition for women as human beings should be. According to him, men are constantly battling the "need" to brutally rape women at all times, and he describes pornographic torture scenes of what passes for sexuality to him (and all men, supposedly). Men like him will death grip their sad pathetic dicks to torture porn five times a day and wonder why they're so fucked in the head, why they have erectile dysfunction at 22, why they're so flighty and schizoid they can't look women in the eyes. It's the most festering, rotted fucking abscessed wound of everything wrong with men and male culture you'll ever see. One of the few things that genuinely makes me think we need to kill all men. This author is showing with his entire bare pasty ass that he is a putrid miserable danger to women and society and he needs to be castrated rusty-knife SAW-style: the happiest outcome of all would be if he bled out and died on some floor in a 5-inch layer of piss and shit and vomit and all his revolting little fans with him (your brains are all so liquified by porn there's absolutely no hope for you and from the bottom of my soul my wish that you are so bone-achingly lonely your entire life that you waste away to nothing like some heartbroken Lord of the Rings character is so strong I'd be surprised if it didn't influence the timeline. God fucking knows you don't deserve to even glance at the most repulsive woman on the planet, she is still too good for you). I genuinely hope the author kills himself. Fucking shame on Kindle and any other platform hosting this pile of garbage words from a pile of garbage person.

(It’s called “The Pussy” by the way. The author calls himself Delicious Tacos)

KAM

source

[theatricalplacenta]

Just having some early morning thoughts on relationships. Contemplating and reflecting on how trauma affects your ability to connect with people or have basic fucking emotions, or how to trust people, or connect with them.

Growing up with a literal bat shit crazy biological mother, who was narcissistic and didn’t love her children beyond loving them as possessions, beat them to shit, verbally abused them, left them in situations where they were sexually abused, and on one occasion even sexually abused her eldest (me) herself; /REALLY/ fucked up my ability to form relationships of any kind. I’ll never leave my friends, and I consider them family because they are much more to me than my birth parents were, and I love them like I love my siblings, but they can leave me, and i will “understand”, because I see myself as unlovable.

Years and years and years of therapy didn’t fix it. Didn’t help it.  Years and years and years of seeing a psychiatrist didn’t help either. Everyone always says “see a shrink”, like it’s an instant fix. Sometimes, things take your whole life to work with, to understand, to make peace with, and learn and teach yourself to do things you would have learned as a child. (Or maybe you had, and became unable to process a certain strain of thoughts, or feelings after a certain situation or occurrence.  Sometimes things are never fixed. Most of the time, you learn to live with it. Ptsd can be reversed... as can depression... but it is not something to expect. Aiming for “normality” can set you back. Striving for perfection instead of taking baby steps towards living with your mental illness; living with yourself, is just setting yourself up for failure. the need to “fix” can make the world seem so much bigger, or can make the path you want to walk seem so much longer as you haven’t planned any pit stops. I use to cry when people would hug me when I went into foster care. My foster mom would ask to hug me, and I had never been asked before. I would say no, until one day I said yes, just to see what it was like. To see what a hug that wouldn’t be accompanied with crazed whispers, or spindly, dagger fingers clawing into my back, keeping me captive as my birth mother conveyed her love and care; love and care that was never present, but she desperately tried to make it seem like it was, and it wasn’t very believable after being beaten to hell and back, screamed at and taken down with verbal assault until she foamed at the mouth and turned red and blue in the face with hatred and anger, or after she would make me watch her beat and abuse my baby brother and sister, my children, that I raised, because I was too strong to be hurt physically. Because hurting them was the only way I would understand how much she “loved me”, and hugging me- making me look, constricting my body- touching the body she so vehemently made me aware of  being ugly and disgusting, putrid-  What would it be like to be hugged by a mom who respected me, and thought I was good, and kind, and artistic, and wanted what was good for me; genuinely... Well... I can tell you. It still repulsed me. Not her- never my foster mom, but the touch. The memories that came with it. The physical feeling of nausea and revulsion, and the instinctual panic and fear that came with it- it was all there. It still is to this day- BUT, just because I am not over it...does not mean I didn’t learn to rationalize, and live with it. See, hugging was bad for me. It still is- but back then, I started going out of my way to welcome hugs, or to initiate them, because I needed to condition myself at the very least, if not train my brain to expect positive interaction with hugs. I do now, but the initial trauma will always be there, and I think I will always feel sick when being hugged, or touched in general- But... I learned to live with it. Not to say that I- nor ANYONE else has to learn to just... “live with it”, because that’s ridiculous... but if you work towards it... just baby steps... things might get better. Hell, I still panic at the sight of shoulder-blade length, wiry, curly, dark hair. I had a full on crying my eyes out silently, breath taking panic attack on a bus from seeing a woman with her hair on the road outside the window. ANYWAY The point is, shit like this affects your relationships on a primary level, and it can stay that way. I don’t have the tools to apply to my own ptsd, nor to attempt to try and help another work past their trauma, and who fucking knows if others do... I honestly haven’t found anyone who gave me factual life advice to ease these sorts of problems, but in general these people, the psychiatrists and therapists, gave me a better understanding of what is happening to me, and why... but I've come to the obvious conclusion that you can’t just /fix/ what is broken when it’s trauma.I can’t make myself attracted to people. I can’t make myself okay with being touched, even if I can become accustomed to it. I can’t just decide to have a relationship with someone like I see so many do.  But does that make me broken? Does that make me strange? Does that make me less of a person? I’m not sure... I love people in my life wholly and unconditionally, and I want to love someone some day in the way of romance.... but is my want for romance simply a want for the idea of romance?  I’m a private person... I don’t like to be nagged or when people are super clingly- or expect to talk to me every single day.... I could never not have my own bed (But i’ll peg that on my bed being my safe place, and only my closest friends may share a bed with me) I’m just.... maybe I’m just meant to die alone. On a sort-of-less-serious note: WHAT IS LOVE- HOW DO I FIND IT.  DO I GO ON TINDER!? DO I HAVE TO BE SKINNY FIRST AND LOOSE ALL THE WEIGHT I PUT ON FOR THE SOUL PURPOSE OF SCARING OFF ANYONE THAT COULD SEE ME SEXUALLY- AND NOW I’M LIKE “Damn, i wonder if sex with a person is cool. The fuck do I do- do I make a craigslist add?  Hire an escort? LOL “HELLO, I WOULD LIKE TO KNOW WHAT SEXUAL INTERCOURSE IS LIKE WITH A HUMAN BEING. IS IT AS DISGUSTING AND AWKWARD AS IT SOUNDS? OR IS IT AS HOT AS WHAT I WRITE ABOUT?” SHOULD I JOIN CHRISTIAN MINGLE AND SHOW UP WITH MY RELIGION-HATING ASS!?

AMERICA, ESPLAIN. This has been a delusional 1 am self reflection with Thea. Who should have used those two golden hours of awake time from not sleeping off her pneumonia, to finish colouring her villain deku zine piece! It’s so close to being done, and yet, HERE SHE IS!- wondering about how people could possibly be comfortable getting married, how they find and keep love- how the hell they’re having babies, and living happily- while she’s over here, crying into a bag of mcsweenies original beef jerky, with a dog at her side, and has a 95% expectancy to be living in her car or under a bridge at any given moment.  Life is really something else. I really don’t expect any of you to have read this, but if you have, share your experiences! Maybe you have pointers! Tips! Pick up lines. Maybe you can just re-affirm i’m stupid af and I should just shut the fuck up.

[geftheshittalkingmongoose]

Obligatory "this is just my opinion but"

It's because people aren't washing their damn feet.

The average person would rather watch rape scenes than a foot fetish scene because, to them, they have some sort of mental contingency for a garden variety rape scene within their headspace, but not for the idea of a stranger putting their stranger-feet into their sexual hypotheticals. As an audience to a story, we all allow our sense of self to overlap with characters as we watch them. It's normal. But a foot fetish being a bridge too far seems to suggest some "I just let the shower water run down my butt and legs, why would I need to scrub them with soap" mentality. Let me break it down.

I'm super paranoid about foot health; as a scrambly little kid, I got plenty of cuts or puncture wounds on my feet from rocks, sticks, concrete, broken toys, whatever, and I've broken my ankles before (separate times, but still). It was impressed upon me by doctors how important it was to tend to my feet like any other part of my body; wash them well, trim the nails, change my socks, wear good shoes, etc, because some of my early-life-injuries could have been made MUCH worse by infections or repeatedly opening wounds. My cousin almost lost a foot after stepping on a rusty, dirty nail and not taking proper care because "feet are gross". I've had friends allow their feet to turn into downright hideous, stinky, calloused, bird-taloned train wrecks because they refuse to tend to their own body, because "feet are gross".

Now I'm not saying you're icky and don't wash yourself if you aren't sexually aroused by feet, because that's insane. What I AM saying is that if you think feet, as a body part, are inherently disgusting, and are repulsed by the idea of SOMEONE ELSE being aroused by feet because "feet are gross", then methinks the call is coming from inside the house.

I make a genuine effort to not have feet that are dirty and/or smell bad, because I won't wear my shoes inside of my friends homes (because I'm not an animal) and it's only polite to have hygienic feet when you're exposing them in the domicile of a loved one. But you know what that's made me? The Nice Foot Bitch, among people who (I can verify) don't have foot fetishes. The fact that they universally clock that my feet are hygeinically sound is the reason they're all required to wear socks in my home. Fucking animals.

Because, for some mysterious reason, it's socially acceptable to allow your human feet to be filthier than a landfill with a scent billowing off of them that would gag a maggot, sometimes with putrid, greasy, sole-darkened socks to match. All in the name of No Horny.

You puritan freakshows need to settle down. And wash your ass, while you're at it, like actually wash the hole. I bet you don't.

All things considered I am completely neutral towards feet but I do find it funny how a fetish that's generally safe and inoffensive is seen as more weird and taboo than other kinks that can be genuinely more risky to engage in