#i am incapable of writing this man as anything other than Such a fucking loser

[ableakersunday-blog]

I admit I’ve always seen Tumblr from an outside perspective; from a perspective within a crowd of people that mocked it. I joined in too, ignorant to what this site was actually like. I still am.

Ignorant, that is.

Probably why I’m choosing this as my outlet right now. It is unknown to me, as I am to it. We stand on equal ground. Or maybe I’m rambling the words of a mad man again, and... Well, I’m back to a square one that anyone who reads this won’t even know existed. I wonder if anyone will read this.

I don’t know what I wanna do now. Like, in a few ways. This post isn’t going anywhere that I can see, for one. In a wider sense, I don’t know where I want to go in my life either. Although, maybe that wider sense is narrower than I think because I’m only focusing on myself aaaand we’re back to rambling mad man again. Okay.

I guess if I could do anything, be anything, for like a career... I really like the idea of being a stand-up comedian. What’s purer than standing on a stage in front of thousands of people and just making them laugh by telling jokes and stories? Seriously? I mean, this isn’t to devalue actually useful-to-the-world jobs, like doctors that literally save people’s lives. I couldn’t do something like that. I’m slightly too indifferent about people I don’t know, but I imagine that’s something doctors don’t have a problem with.

I worry about some stupid shit, man. Like, I haven’t technically even lived yet, and I’m worried about the days where I won’t. I’m scared of dying, and I don’t really know why. Like, I know it’s something that’s normal to be scared of, but I guess that’s what bothers me? Like, we’re all supposed to just walk along this life-path until we get to our respective end and NOBODY SEEMS TO CARE. Sorry, but what? Makes you, or maybe just me, wonder. What’s the point?

That last bit? Wasn’t necessarily from a depression-y standpoint, I think. I don’t know what depression feels like, which I guess is why I don’t know what to answer when people jokingly ask me if I’m “depressed again” because I haven’t smiled in days, or hours, or minutes. Fuuuuck. Okay, guess this is where this is going, this is what I came to do. Get this out and hope nobody sees it.

I don’t think it’s normal to wake up every morning and have an inkling, nagging pull at the front of your mind that wishes you hadn’t. It’s like, getting up and doing things... Like, doing the same thing every day wears on you after a while. And I’m young! Man, I’m so fuckin’ young and other people have been at the “daily grind” for decades and decades and haven’t given up yet! How do you people do it? Getting up, and doing the same thing, studying subjects I don’t care about, seeing people I don’t care about (and those I do, but we’ll get to that), being told to prepare for a future I don’t actually fuckin’ want. It’s like standing there and smiling for a photo you don’t want to be in.

Of course, it’s not all doom and gloom for little old me. I have people I care about; my family for one. They have no idea the things I think. I couldn’t tell them. I couldn’t break them like that. They think I’m the normal teenager that likes music and hates school and never actually gets weighed down by the shit that I think about. That’s not their fault though and I will never try and subconsciously blame it on them again. I did that before until I realised it was shitty and just me trying to paint a target on something that wasn’t my own back.

I care about my friends. God, I wouldn’t have come this far without half of them. They are some of the most loving, kind, and caring people I have ever met, and the world did them a fucking disservice by dumping me near them. I have thanked them before for putting up with me; they took it jokingly and said the whole “don’t mention it thing” with a grin plastered on their faces that I’d return. But I was serious. Motherfucker, you know: there’s one in particular. A girl. Not naming names, but she’s absolutely amazing. I was (am?) utterly infatuated with one of them, she’s stunning. That’s what I fell for from a distance, but then we actually became pretty close. She’s the first person I ever broke down in front of, like properly. A friend of ours asked if I was doing okay, and you know when the only thing standing between you and the floodgates is someone asking that? Yeah, I started bawling in a field.

The exact words I told her were “Everything just seems so grey. There’s no colour, only grey.” It sounds way too highschool-movie, I know, but that’s how I put it into words. She came over, and hugged me as I cried into her shoulder. What a fucking loser I felt like right there at that moment in time. “Guys don’t cry,” I thought, “You’re not allowed.”

Anyways, “Everything seems so grey, there’s no colour.” that’s what I said. Y’know what she said to me? She said: “I know.” That hit me, and I’ll circle back round to that. She went on, “I know. But you know what you have to do? You have to keep your eyes open for any splash of colour you see and you have to follow it. Okay? Please just don’t give up.” I’m paraphrasing. But the jist of it stuck with me.

Her saying those two words: “I know”, made me feel selfish. I’m not the only person in the world with self-perceived problems that they struggle to deal with. I’m not the only one. So I took her advice. I didn’t give up, I chased any colour I could find.

Now, hold on folks, ‘cause this ain’t the epic redemption story you want. Fast forward to around now-ish (December 2018). I feel as though I am well on my way to developing a minor drug dependency, and I am physically incapable of keeping a stable mood throughout a day purely because of my own mind. I am much more angry, prone to snapping at people I care about. The only time I feel like I’m not worrying is when I’m high, and as of writing, that hasn’t been for a few weeks.

I am a cynical, joyless buzzkill how I am right now. Which is fucking hilarious, considering I wanted to be a comedian like eight paragraphs ago. I just wanna make people laugh, dude. I don’t want other people to be unhappy.

I guess I kinda do know what I want.

Fuckin’... whatever. Thanks, Tumblr, for letting me do this where nobody will ever find it. Or care.

See ya later. Or not.

[legalist217]

Do Voldemort/Snape/Umbridge lmao

I think you’re overestimating my ability to not be creative about the situation, as well as my self-preservation and my interest in women because that’s what makes Umbridge rank worst from an SO perspective. (she’s not even a pretty woman, she’s a super gross woman inside and out, so it does nothing for me on any level, meh, bleh, weh)

This got lengthy so it’s under a cut, you’re welcome, enjoy. And I bothered to put these into exactly no logical canon timeframe. 

Well get this out of the way, fake date umbridge. because I will find ways to mortify her. I will drag her to youmacon. I will point out a photograph taken of Nancy Pelosi in a pink suit with all the Senate pages and then assure her that, no, of course you’re just as pretty in your headmistress photo as that Muggle politician is. Why would there even be a comparison. dear. [this is a real photo that we saw being taken at the Capitol when we toured circa HBP’s film coming out; we had to stifle giggles] 

And then arrange a scenario where she’s jailed for tax evasion. I’m not marrying the toad; no fifth amendment protections for non-spouse SOs as I recall. I assume MACUSA can ensure she’s put somewhere good and tedious. 

(note: this is the only scenario where I envisioned it happening in america)

now, hm. I guess I would slow burn Voldemort because I reckon if you’re his stated enemy, that’s probably not a changeable status. He’s all emotionally stunted in that way. So enemies to lovers doesn’t seem plausible. So, then, I guess I’m some Bellatrix-esque tart, except, well, myself. So rather than wetting myself over THE DAHHK LAWD, I’m just mildly amused at his fascist goals. “That’s a way to do it, I suppose, but hate’s a pretty tedious method to carry on with the world, and let’s remember that you never actually held power long term *ducks AK* so maybe something less... Hitlery? Oh don’t look at me like that, you grew up in muggle-trash London, you know who Hitler is.” 

And it goes on and on and on and on and on and it is a slow burn because he’s incapable of love and I think the best we manage for much of the run before the author begins developing carpal tunnel is “I barely tolerate her because she has 0.01% of a point; I tell the others she is too amusing to kill.” At least now I have slytherin creds to brandish to get a foot in the door. 

And being endlessly at such a tenuous “I guess that was almost funny, so I won’t murder you?” stage, I don’t have to figure out how to kiss a noseless man or how to deal with a jealous pet snek. 

you’re going to regret this

Enemies to lovers is a very tolerable way to deal with Snape, given the options on this playing field. Professors who tell you that your answer is wrong only for the right answer to be “the same thing but because I said it, it’s right” are my least fuckin faves. Snape treads close to that territory. 

But again, I have slytherin creds now. I’m also quite impulsive, so I can see myself writing him an annoyed owl after a class detailing specific moments where his behavior decreased the educational advantage to Housemates and how this is him not being a benefit to team and should I go to Dumbledore about this; like give that one gryffindor kid double shit, dude might deserve it for all I know [I am bad at popular gossip when it comes to school IRL], but stop fuckin it up for us and maybe for other students who are genuinely trying, ya pissant. And while Snape is very much a pissant, I think he also cares a lot about the House. And to a degree, his job; he definitely gave a fuck when he was sixteen about teaching potions because he was rewriting the goddamned book. 

So, I dunno, maybe I can get through to him. I still get detention for unmitigated sass, but I knew that’d happen. Too bad he doesn’t realize how much I am wont to chat while working. And I have an IRL habit of roping even introverts into talking with me when I’m inclined to. What’s he gonna do, give me more detention? I don’t give a shit. I’ll clean this office and every office. Why the hell not. Castle’s an interesting place. How often do I get an elf’s eye view of the place? And anyway are there any good articles out on lacewing colony collapse disorder, because I hear that might screw over the polyjuice industry? Any good places to write? Lacewings are aptly named, you gotta admit. They need more words devoted to them. And then I force him to read my poetry because who the fuck else here knows about lacewings aside from maybe Hagrid who has automatic distrust of green robes? He tells me it sucks. I grin. (I cry later, but that’s not because he said it, just because no one wants to hear that their poem sucks in such flat words.)

In real life, I’m still in touch with some of my professors after graduation and some of them have outright said they think of me as a friend. I wouldn’t date them, because they are married and I am sensible and they are twice my age and the list goes on. But this is a forced narrative scenario, and given my dating history and its repeated Bad Calls, I can see me writing longer and more detailed letters than just “hey got a new job at Witch Weekly doing book reviews, it’s basically whatever’s on the Prophet’s best-seller list minus anything too difficult for a stay-at-home witch to bother with.” He writes back terse one-liners if I’m lucky. I still write a lot, because it makes me feel better about my sorta boring life. 

At some point, I dust off the old lacewing scroll and laugh at how bad it was. But the core idea of hiding oneself in another’s reflection has merit, so I rework it. Dredge up old textbooks to reference other ingredients of common potions, because Moste Potente Potions is still a restricted book so maybe not hinting at the recipe in a poem is a good call.  It’s eventually as done as this version’s going to be. I send it to him. 

It comes back around Christmas with the word “Better.” swirled in the corner. I tack it to the wall and write more. Sometimes they come back with tiny checkmarks by specific lines. I find myself quietly tallying those, like they’re gold stars and I’m back in primary school. And I have to stifle a gasp when one has a note saying he’d copied a version for himself. I can’t help imagining it pinned up on his fridge, him seeing it every day. That image is childish, but it gets me through bleak times. 

It’s a year before a poem I didn’t write comes back to me. It is so laughably bad that I’m in tears of laughter for half the night, but then, reading through it, they end up just tears. Who the fuck is this about, because none of the imagery fits me. It’s all flowers of the valley and gentle prey animals. Drawing from my name would be angels or wolves or birds of prey. Who the fuck, then, is this, and why am I sobbing. 

Printed at the bottom is a one-word question: Thoughts?

It’s all I can do not to crumple the stupid parchment and chuck it in the flames. Who is she. Who the hell would put up with such an obnoxious, icy, sneering, greasy, loser? I glance in the mirror. Who indeed. 

It’s a pathetic weekend spent balled up under a comforter trying to figure out how to rationally handle whatever the hell this is. But like I said, I’m impulsive. I have just enough Floo powder on hand, as well, and my head pokes out into a dingy flat. I think he nearly blacks out, he’s that startled. He does the many-blinking thing. 

I arrive swiftly at the point, which is to say that I sob inelegantly and the tears sizzle amid the flames. But I make my demands known through the mouthfuls of ash, both real and simply felt. Who is this other woman you’d write poetry to. 

Black eyes should be flat. His have too much depth at moments like these. There’s too much available to read. I don’t want to know that he knows I’m not crying on his behalf. He runs absent fingers through his hair as he looks at me, a gesture I’d forgotten to miss. Then he explains he wasn’t sure how to title it, which is why there wasn’t one. But it would have been an elegy. His way of burying the past.

I point out that repression isn’t healthy. At least, I think I do. Details are so hazy here in the fire. 

He kneels before me and says that is correct, if such be the case. But one must part with the past to allow for new beginnings. 

Lips brush there in the flames. And then I’m laughing. He pulls back, and I regret it just a little for how hurt those eyes are. Why do I laugh? “That poem sucked!” I shriek, before dragging myself back through the fires to my own hearth, where I lie laughing hysterically for quite some time. 

Years later, Elegy to the Valley is deemed complete. I walk with him as far as the gate, but let him enter the graveyard alone. It is summer, and I trace patterns in the warm metal, trying not to watch his shoulders shaking as he reads it to her. If he needs me, I can be there in a moment. But I would rather watch and mentally write my own poem of this moment instead. He will probably produce something about today as well. We will trade parchments and leave spare, biting comments. But our fingers will interlace at the end of the day. It suffices. 

The sky is tinged ruddy gold when he arrives back at the gate. We walk briskly to the end of the street. It’s not that we stand out; he still knows the Muggle ways. Still, this is a leonine place not meant for us. Time we made our excuses and left.

The corner is deserted. I see his eyes wander back over the church and the graves beside. I remind him he can always return. He shakes his head. “This is a parting of the ways.” He takes my hand, and we go twisting into the dark. 

so yeah, that’s what shipping me with snape looks like; any questions?

[nowuseeitnowudontium]

The Cold Evening Aches

Oneshot. Part of the Fallout Earth AU created by an amazing @julientel and me

Ao3 

They are sitting on the floor by the fire, inside the remnants of a terraced house. The street is deserted, every other houses alongside it are empty, same as this entire suburb. The fading light from the setting sun seeps through the shattered glass of a single window in what previously was a living room. Fire illuminates their bruised faces, so similar yet so fundamentally different. One person's eyes still hold that excited spark of curiosity and desire for knowledge, not yet stomped out by the hardships and struggles of the kind of life he is living. And the other one's inhuman eyes never had life in them to begin with.

 Both are focused on their work, while the dinner is being prepared in a pan hanging above the fireplace.

 Stan tears his gaze away from his little "diary", would you call it, to look at the canned soup and mix it with a steel rod he dig up (and boiled to sterilize beforehand).

 "I think it's ready." When Ford doesn't even make a move to lift his head, Stan calls his name sternly. The traveller simply gives a muffled sound of acknowledgement, still remaining in his hunched position.

 The synth then reaches to poke the man in front of him with the dirty and hot end of the stick. His irritated glowing eyes are finally met with the brown human ones, which seem to still be relieving the experience that he's been recording in his journal seconds ago. "Poindexter, I'm not the one who's gonna eat that food, so why don't cha take part in it's cookin, ha?" A second passes. Stanford finally comes back to Earth, setting his little book aside, "Yes. I guess that's fair." Stan rolls his eyes, handing him the metal plate he also found in the garbage lying everywhere around (and also sterilized).

 He settles back down on his metallic butt, hearing his joints creak in protest. How can this thing still manage to hold up after this long? Heh.

 The dude who put you together must be a genius.

 Suddenly, something appears from the fog that is most of his mind, but disappears before he can get a glance.

"So. Whacha writin'?" Here. He started a conversation.

 Ford, now having a full plate of hot soup in his hands, stops blowing at it and briefly looks up at Stan. The synth can swear his features even lit up a bit. Success.

"Well. I was honestly fascinated by that unique flora representative I saw near the crater we passed by today. From by my experience on this dimension's Earth I can state that any signs of life near places of nuclear blasts are a rare occurrence. Though this one looked almost like a cared for garden with a variety of plants of different lifeforms! I have been speculating on how they might have appeared here. Having a possibility to sample the ground would be great, that might have given some answers. I also noted some distinctive difference in the flower's structure, compared to the one of those on my Earth, indicating that it might have been subjected to mutation triggered by radioactive elements.."

 Right. Leave it to Ford to blubber about flowers for goddamn hours straight. At least it’s making him a little bit happier through all this.. shit.

 So much like his brother.. not his- the original Stan's. Not his. He isn't h-

 "Stanley!" Oops, he drifted off.

 "Wha wow chill! Wanna draw some freaks on us or what?"

 "I'm going to guess you weren't listening."

 "I just lived though it today with ya, why retell it to me! And I don't get most of your science junk."

 "Ugh." Eye roll. Stan mimics it perfectly, earning a scoff from the man, who then picks up his now barely warm soup again.

 The synth watches through the half-ruined window as the sky turns a darker shade of pink on the horizon where sun disappeared. Then he moves to pick up a journal of his own and starts writing again. He doesn't even notice himself getting lost in thought again as the next thing he hears is his brother (not your brother drop it) calling his name what must be the third time.

 "What?!" he rudely snaps. Ford doesn't flinch nor does he shout back. His empty bowl is set aside, he has his book in his hands again. And his expression borders on something too similar to sympathy. Where did that come from and why

 "What are you writing? Share with me," he pulls up a smirk.

 "Wanna tease me about it? Nah, nerd, that's not gonna happen." The synth averts his eyes to look down at the shabby notebook in his hands again, cutting off any further conversation point-blank. You goof. Racked your brains over how to start one a minute ago

 Ford is silent for some time, Stan even thinks he returned back to his own business. But then he hears a sound of a hard cover hitting paper, and realises that he isn't going to be left alone today.

 "You know, I'm not a complete jackass to make fun of people for their personal recordings."

 "You do realise you just hinted that I'm a jackass."

 "Stan p-lease" They both laugh half-heartedly for a bit. Ford is sitting on a piece of fabric they found in the house, his folded sleeping bag beneath him. He pulls knees up and puts his arms on them. A little shiver goes through his body. The air is cooling down. The fire is flickering, sending waves of warmth wherever the wind blows.

 Of course the synth is incapable of feeling any of it.

 "I was.. I am-" Why is his mouth saying this? Too late "writing my memories down".

The dimension hopper looks his way. His face, now illuminated by the relatively bright light, doesn't look so young, he notices. This man has been battered badly, and not only in physical way.

 Stan casts his gaze on the dusty cement. I feel sorry for him. Hey, focuse! Right. He just started opening up about stuff. Can't stop now. (you don't wanna stop now)

 "Ya know," he shrugs irritated at himself, not knowing how to phrase it, "to put stuff in order. Since I met you I've been.. remembering, and, like, a lot, for some flipping reason" One of his legs lies on the floor bent at the knee. He rests his hand on the other that is pulled up, making a "whatever" gesture with it. This hand's tissue isn't yet torn to shards, unlike the left one, so the metallic carcass isn't exposed and creaky, which is a cause for joy.

 "And.. it doesn't end up," he says it rather quietly, though Ford catches it nonetheless. The following question wasn't long in coming.

 "What is?"

 "A damn lot of stuff," he doesn't understand why he sounds so defensive. He did actually start this- monologue- himself. Well, he is a jackass after all. "But. Mostly that guy's real life and this," he gestured at his artificial body. "My life. I guess. I can't pin down the moment when it happened. I have no idea how it could even happen. I mean.. What the hell- how did the poor guy even get into this shit?

I remember.. war. I think I remember going to the war. Or planning to... There’s just, like.. fear? And twitching, and restlessness, and other emotional junk. And also your ugly mug." "We share the same fa-" "And another one that keeps coming in and out of focus- argh, this whole thing pisses me off! It doesn't end up, I've got only bits and pieces! It's so fucking frustrating, I- Jeez, I never even wondered much about it, I knew I had all this in my brain once but then I didn't and I did I care? No. Like, what's the point? It's not my life, I remember my life, and- it doesn't even have anything much to remember. It's not a life even.

I know I hate you- not you- for fucks sake!" he got pretty loud. "And that's not even that simple! Never this simple. It's always just a jumble.

That's what I remember! Just emotions! And no explanation to them. That's what sucks the most. For some reason I have this.. anger. Towards that other Ford. And resentment. And I feel like it came from.. me. Not the other guy. I can't tell. And it's freaking me out now more than ever." I thought you just said you remember your life clearly. loser. "Though I feel like.. like I owe him, or something. And, Jeez, of course I care about him. Cared." Well, that sounded not right. A sad sign escapes him. "It's a mess. And every day with you it gets messier. And every day I get new bits, but they are insignificant, like from childhood or somethin'. I don't know, today I got a memory of him geeking out about turtles." Ford snickers quietly.

 Stan cracks a smile too, though after spilling his heart out like this he feels rather worn out. Which is new, since he forgot the last time he experienced this feeling. It is.. pleasant. Though of course fearing for his companion's life when he is pulling some stunt in order to get a closer look at some weird thing, or the anxiety he feels when they explore an unknown territory, or that time when he could say he was worrying sick when Ford had a strong fever after not eating or sleeping for several days in order to find a way to fix the synth's conked out brains, or any other time Ford gets injured- all that surely delivers its punch to the robot's seemingly non-existent nervous system. Luckily he is not physically affected by all this in the long run, how can he be.

 He's just glad to feel again.

When Stan comes back to reality, he is met with a small, but sincere smile.

He realises he is smiling in a sweet, nostalgic-like way, himself. He corrects that slip pretty fast.

 Ford rubs his hands together, breathes on them a few times, then turns away, rising from his spot in order to unpack the sleeping bag. "Glad you shared. I'm sure you'll find answers sooner or later. I'll help with what I can." "Don't get all sappy on me, dork." "Yes, yes. You wish." "God, save me from this." He can practically hear a smile in the irritated tongue clicking sound his friend produces, having already laid down, face away from the weakening fire and him.  The synth looks out the window, the sky has no traces of red now, and the stars are barely seen behind the thick clouds that are almost always there as far as he can remember.  Though his childhood memories are bright, he'd give them that. "You keep watch." "Sure." "Goodnight, Stanley." "Night."