#i hate that i am feeling so much pressure to cover up everything about myself

[sakura1uvr]

best prom night ever!!

Fluff

A/N: Really bad pls i hate it sm 💔 the first and last time i ever write because i have 0 experience with writing so bear with me now 😭

Synopsis: not seeing your girlfriend sucks

Pairing: Winter (Aespa) x f!Y/N

Warning: really cringe

Requested: @snepy

MEN DNI

It was a school day. You were just casually walking with your friends Yuna and Chaewon. They were talking about some nonsense. Clothes and fashion or whatever you truly didn't pay attention. All that was on your mind was your girlfriend Minjeong.

She didn't show up to school these past few days and ignored your texts so as anyone would do you were worried about her. You stopped zoning out when someone pushed you slightly with their elbow. It was Yuna. "Y/N! Did you hear anything i said?" You were confused. You didn't pay attention at all. "Sorry what did we talk about?" Yuna sighed. "Do you have any plans for prom? Anyone to go with?" Right. Prom was coming up. Chaewon was going with Yunjin and Yuna was going with Chaeryeong and you.. well you had nobody to go with because Minjeong was ignoring you.

"Not really.." you muttered. "Why don't you ask Soobin? He showed alot of interest in you and asked you multiple times" Chaewon looked at Soobin across the hall talking with some randoms. "Sorry Chae i am.. not really interested." They didn't know you were going out with Minjeong.

The bell rings and you wave to your friends then go to your last class for today. It wasn't that interesting to be honest you just learned about some topics that you truly didn't care about. The class soon ends and you step out of the classroom. The sun cuts thru the hallways, slightly blinding your vision. You just can't shake off the feeling that there is something wrong with Minjeong. It's not like she can just dissapear without a word given the fact that you guys talk everyday.

As you walk home your phone buzzes. You take it out of your pocket and open the notification. Kinda expecting your loved girlfriend to respond to your messages. You sigh when you find out that it was just your friends talking about the prom theme.

You open the door to your apartmant and toss your bag somewhere else. You grab a snack and sit on your bed. It became a slight routine for you.

You turn on the tv to distract yourself but you just can't stop thinking about your girlfriend. Why won't she answer? Why wasn't she in school? You grab your phone and write a text to minjeong. "Hey mj. Just wanted to check up on you. What happened? Where are you? Why weren't you at school?" You sigh when you see another message being left on delievered. You toss your phone next to you and cover your face with your hands. A thought came into your mind. What if you ask her to meet up? Minjeong really likes going out especially with you so it wouldn't hurt to try. "Would you like to meet up? We can go to the park and just talk about things.." you hit send and go to bed.

The next day slowly rolls in and the minutes pass by like hours. The last bell rings and you run to your car. You get to the car and go to your favorite place to be with your favorite person. You scan around to see if her familiar figure has appeared. You spot her at a bench and sit next to her.

"Hey.." you say softly. "Hey," she replies quietly, almost like a whisper, "how have you been?" she continues. "Good i guess. What about you?" You question, looking at her hands that were playing with the strings of her hoodie. "Just... family and stuff" you nod. "You know that we are dating right? You can tell me anything that comes to your mind.. I may not have the best advice but i am willing to listen."

She looks at you and smiles. "Thank you.. I haven’t been handling things well. There’s this pressure to keep up with grades and everyone expects so much from me... But I don’t even know what I want for myself.. It's really hard you know.?"

You feel a pang in your chest. “You don’t have to have everything figured out right now. It’s okay to take your time.” Minjeong chuckles softly, but it’s tinged with sadness. “I guess it’s hard to remember that when everyone else seems so certain. And then there’s you…” She pauses, a hint of a smile breaking through the heaviness. “You seem to have everything under control. I didn’t want to drag you down with my problems.”

“Minjeong…” you begin, but she holds up a hand, stopping you.

“It’s just… I didn’t want you to see me like this. I felt so alone.” Her voice cracks, and you feel your heart ache even more. “I didn’t even answer your texts because I thought you’d get tired of me. I didn’t want to make you worry. You mean alot to me so i want you to be happy."

You scoot closer, placing a hand gently on her back. "You could never be a burden to me. I care about you too much for that." The sincerity in your voice seems to resonate, and you watch her expression soften.

"Honestly, it felt nice to be missed," she admits, her voice suddenly steadier. "I thought maybe you'd forget about me if I disappeared for a while."

"Forget about you?" You laugh lightly, trying to cut through the tension. "That's impossible. You mean too much to me."

A small smile breaks through her worry-the first genuine expression you've seen from her in days. "Really?"

"Really," you confirm, your voice earnest. "You're not just my girlfriend; you're my best friend. And I want to support you through whatever you're going through."

The light of the setting sun casts a warm glow, bathing you both in a soft embrace. If you could bottle this moment, you'd keep it forever. It feels like the weight of the world is beginning to lift, and with it, a renewed sense of hope.

As you sit in comfortable silence you decide to get alittle bold. You kiss her softly on the lips. Minjeong seemed suprised but kissed back. "Gosh i missed you." Minjeong laughes at your comment and pats your head. "I missed you too my love."

You hug it out and get up. "One last thing before we leave.." Minjeong looks at you "what is it?" You take a slight deep breath and say "Well would you like to go to prom with me? You know.. to get your mind off of things? It will be our chance to just enjoy ourselves... no pressure just us being together."

Minjeong slightly chuckles and smiles at you. "Yes of course i would love to go to prom with you. I could really use some fun now." You smile happily and hug her again. "It's a date then! I will make it the best prom you have ever been to!" You claim. Minjeong just smiles at you, falling inlove with you even harder than before.

You pay your goodbyes and walk home. It's gonna be an amazing week after all.

[junedenim]

2016

beneath the boardwalk, part 14 (series masterlist)

used to be my girl

warnings: ...i don't know at this point. let it be a surprise.

word count: 8.5k

January turns me into a bitter, restless being. I feel a need to be everywhere, yet I am too cold to move. I stay under my bed covers and rot. Unlike past winters, I had a watchman to make sure I didn’t slip into complete hibernation, and though I grew my hair long and had less care for what clothes I wore under my coat, I didn’t feel the need to set my apartment on fire.

George’s look hardened in winter, but his spirit didn’t. His smile glowed like the star on top of the tree. He shovelled the snow off my apartment steps, granting me favour with neighbors I previously thought hated me.

Mr. & Mrs. Sanders, who lived below me in the grand apartment on the first floor, gifted me a peanut butter fudge. Mrs. Sanders was quite disappointed to learn George didn’t actually live there. I was terrified she would revoke the dessert. I already shoved one in my mouth and nearly moaned at the delightful taste. Thankfully, they left the dessert with me and invited George and me over for dinner.

After the mouth-watering dinner, when George and I ascended the stairs to my apartment, I told him, “I can never break up with you ‘cause I think she’ll kill me if I do.”

He kissed my cheek. “Good.”

Should I have feared losing him or Mrs. Sanders and her kitchen knives?

*

My New Year’s resolution was to read more. George was the kind of man who believed in those wishful things. He had everyone who worked at the bookstore write one and pin it to the wall. He pinned mine next to his and cited me as an honour member. It felt like too much pressure not to uphold, especially when he gave me free books.

I started big, so I didn’t have to worry what he thought of me for not making it through a 100-page book. So, I cracked War & Peace open on the 10th.

I was two pages in when Alex called me.

“David Bowie died,” he told me.

It felt like every piece of news we exchanged that year was wrapped in somber tones. It wasn’t intentional. These were somber years. It was like god had died. We had to discuss everything. Nothing felt real until I knew what he thought about it and vice versa, I suspect. Unfortunately, Bowie was the first of these phone calls.

When I told Alex about my reading, he uttered, “Fuck. Are you trying to kill yourself?”

“If I accidentally drop the book, it could take off my foot.” The nearly 1,500 pages weighed around a newborn baby. “If I start now, I might be finished by the time I’m in a nursing home.”

He laughed at me. “Why didn’t you start with something lighter?”

I stood to grab a snack from the kitchen. My stomach rumbled. We’d been on the phone for a while. “Because I’m trying to be impressive. I might Anna Karenina myself.”

“See,” he said, “you’re already a Russian lit expert. When did you read Anna Karenina?”

George was due to come over in less than a half hour after work. He was making me a Greek chicken with cucumber-feta salad for dinner. I don’t know a single person who is healthier than George. I suppose none of them live in New York and smoke cigarettes like all my friends do. I snacked on a bag of chips. “I watched the movie.”

I could picture his smile. “I think War & Peace has a movie if you feel like giving up.”

“It’s alternative viewing, not giving up,” I reasoned. He was amused by that too. “Is it warm there? It’s freezing here.” I never named LA; it was simply there for me. New York was here.

“15 degrees or something,” he told me. No one I knew spoke in Celsius. It felt like order was restored. “The sky is crying a little. Been inside all day.”

I sat on the edge of my bed and placed the throw blanket over me. “It’s below freezing here. It’s crazy how different it can be when we’re in the same country.” Things were different when we were in the same city. I don’t know why a whole country between us would be any different.

“It was above 30 on me birthday.”

I stilled. “Shit.”

“It’s okay.” He laughed, but I wasn’t finding humour in the situation. I didn’t call him. No text. No “Happy Birthday.”

I clutched my hand over my head. “No, it’s not. I feel awful! I’ve barely been able to keep track of what day it is. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t care, Jane. I got to avoid your relentless jokes.” Alex last cared about a birthday around 18. I guess after that birthdays matter less and less.

“Oh, my god!” I pained myself. “I had a boatload of 30-year-old jokes. I even wrote them down.”

“Skipping your mocking was birthday present enough. It gives me a chance to come up with some for your birthday.” 

I pouted. “That’s not very generous.”

“Boo woo. I’ll give you In Search of Lost Time for your birthday.” 3,200 pages. I’ll be reading it in the grave.

*

George and I followed a screening of Brooklyn with lunch at his favourite delicatessen where he ate a huge hoagie and I had a bagel. “When she goes back to Ireland it makes me miss England,” I confessed to him. “You forgot how much you miss it until you’re back.”

“I couldn’t imagine being that far from home.” His parents lived an hour away in Yonkers. He visited one weekend a month. His family was close in a way I had never seen with any other family. He didn’t have the happiest of childhoods, yet he still adored his parents.

“It hasn’t been home for a while. I’ve been in the States for almost a decade. It’s weird to think about.”

“Do you think you’ll live here forever?”

I said, “I think so,” but I didn’t really. I couldn’t imagine having children who have American accents. It’s a grim thought.

*

Womb launched on Valentine’s Day because Opal thought it would be cute and an excuse to say she had plans for the day as a single woman. We had a small party at George’s bookstore and on the tispy walk back to my apartment, Alex called me. I picked up the phone and squeezed George’s hand.

“Hello,” I said.

“Hey. I like your Womb.”

I snorted uglily. “You’ve been waiting to say. I can tell.”

“Low-hanging fruit,” he conceded. “But I do like it.”

(For the briefest of moments, I thought he meant my actual womb. I was a little slow from the wine.) “Really?”

“Yeah. How could I not? I like everything you write.” He was always sincere in the practice. He never strayed.

We were stopped on a street corner. “I don’t know. It means a lot coming from you. You know that.”

“You never fail to impress me,” he said. “You know that.”

I ducked my head down and hoped from the icy air to chill my burning red cheeks. I hoped to turn them pink from the wind and hide this secret of mine. “Thank you,” I whispered. Too pure to acknowledge above a whisper.

We listened to each other’s breathing. Then, the moment passed. “Well, I’ve got to head out.”

“Valentine’s Day plans?”

“Yeah. Just a nice dinner.”

“Have fun.”

“You too. Night, Janie.”

I put my phone back in my purse and laughed. I thought of how we both had wished one another to have a good lay. Oh, how far we’ve come.

“Was that Alex?” George interrupted my giggles.

The light turned green and we began to cross. “Yeah. How’d you know?”

He looked straight ahead. “You always talk different when you’re on the phone with him.”

“How so?” I crossed my brows, but I wasn’t confused by what he was saying. I knew how I talked. I knew how my tone toward Alex could be ever since Stacey teased me about it in our youth.

George shrugged. “I can’t decode it, but I can tell.” He put a smile on and looked at me. “Should we stop for dessert?”

*

I had a rubbish 30th birthday. I found another decade to be disagreeable. I didn’t think turning the big 3-0 would affect me so deeply and I don’t believe it really did. Really, the better part of three vodka martinis (it felt like an adult drink, okay!) and the aged rotten thought that I was too old to still be having nights like this was what ruined 30 for me.

On the morning of my 30th—a Saturday, the best day of the week to have a birthday—I indulged in the pleasures of a cigarette indoors. It was my gift to myself. George had a late night at the bookstore and decided to stay there, but we had plans for the afternoon into the night.

Stacey called me while I nursed a cup of coffee and I laughed at all her jokes about me being a sorry old cunt now. She was living in London with her boyfriend. She had a job as an actuarial analyst, not that I really knew what that was (or is). She had always been above my head in smarts, let alone in maths. When she laughed, I felt like a riptide had pulled me away from her. My joints ached in the non-arthritis way, and part of my soul cried, but I laughed instead because she has the most infectious laugh. You just have to hear it to feel it.

I decided to treat myself to a pastry from the corner cafe. My birthday was reserved for plump sugar delights that I would later find regrettable, but they tasted so sweet going down. While finishing off a cinnamon roll, I unlocked my mailbox.

I think one of the best parts of your birthday is getting mail that isn’t bills. Of course, there was still some mixed in with the handwritten notes. I had already received most of the cards early and they lined the shelf by the front door.

Fennel and Kaka had sent me one. Like most gifts from them, it was too much—a beautiful card I would get framed and $100. When I (lackadaisically) tried to refuse it, they insisted I keep and said sweet things about me being their surrogate daughter and then I cried because I was 30 and drunk.

With sticky fingers, I came across a blue envelope with that scrawl I knew too well. I waited until I was sitting on the middle of my bed to open it. I was delicate with it until I spotted 100 in big, bold red letters. The card’s print read, “At 100, you're still playing with a full deck, you just shuffle slower.”

I laid back with a giggle and no longer felt so painfully old. On the inside, he wrote, “Saw this and thought of you. I’m afraid we need a gin rummy rematch. My record is in dire need of repair. I hope to recover before we’re 31. Happy birthday, Janie. I think you’ll find 30 to suit you. Love, Alex.” In different penmanship right below was “& Taylor & Scooter.” She wrote it in a red pen, which I found mildly offensive from my days of failed tests and edited manuscripts, but the gesture was nice considering I had no clue when her birthday was or how old she even was. 

Scooter was her dog, which now seemed to be their dog, and to the untrained eye, it could seem like a family. I placed the card on my chest right beside my heart. I waited for the beating to calm or at least to get used to this uneven breathing.

I didn’t place the card on my shelf. I stuffed it into the bottom of my bedside drawer like it was a bad omen. The card would appear more guilty in my drawer, and yet I felt that’s the only place it could be placed. I didn’t want to toss it, for some reason, but I couldn't bear to stare at it.

Guilt. Guilt. Guilt.

It sounded itself every time my heart pounded against my ribcage.

I called George. He sang “Happy Birthday!” I placed my phone down on the bed while he did it. I waited until the faint sound of his singing voice had finished. “So,” he said, “how’s it feel?”

“30, flirty, and thriving,” I sighed.

He began to talk about our plans for later in the day, but I could only hear the beating of my heart. He was still talking when I said, “I’d like to get a turtle.”

“A turtle?”

“Yeah.” I grabbed my laptop for further research. “I would like a turtle for 30. I’ve always wanted one, and now I want to have what I want.”

“Alright, Veruca,” he declared.

I met George on Atlantic Ave where we grabbed lunch at French Louie’s, which is really just American food pretending to be French. There was a PetSmart down the street where I picked up Louie, my turtle.

Louie became my best friend in an instant. Turtles don’t tend to be viewed in the same light as dogs or cats. They aren’t affectionate figures, but that’s what I like. Louie felt like me. He swam around his tank and bit everyone’s finger except mine. I ate when Louie ate. Louie deserved everything, and I believe Louie thinks I deserve everything. He became a tracking device for me to take care of myself adequately.

But first, we had to set up the tank with the basking lights and filtered water. I had no issues doing this, but then again, George was the one who had to carry the tank up the stairs because I was in charge of Louie. When Louie was away swimming, I kissed George for all my thankfulness. 

Admittedly, it was irresponsible to leave Louie alone on his first night in a tank and I would not repeat this behaviour, but for his first night, he was left with plenty of care and the lights on. Louie doesn’t need me to take care of him. He’s always been a self-sufficient creature.

The plan was to have a rocking night. George had a friend who owned a bar in DUMBO and he sectioned off a corner of it for my birthday gathering. It wasn’t very many people because I was over spectacle but I still loved the thought of getting a shit pile of gifts for simply making through another year.

Nonetheless, all my friends were considerate with their gift giving and Opal had a friend who baked these delightful cakes because she has a friend for every occupation. It was a strawberry lemonade cake with a scattering of sliced strawberries on the top. I was spared of numbered candles, instead, there were just five candles on the cake because my birthday is on the 5th. I don’t recall what I wished for, but I hope it came true.

I sat in a corner wooden booth with Opal and Kaka. George and Fennel were talking to his bar owner friend, likely about the architecture of the building, you know, support beams and load-bearing walls, man stuff. The three of us sat with drinks in our hands and laughed at them.

My phone buzzed. It was a text from Alex that read, “Has your back gone yet?”

I wrote back, “No, but I’ve only had two drinks and I already have a headache.”

A minute later, he pinged back, “Just wait until tomorrow and the day after and after that. You’ll feel normal in about a week.”

I nearly wrote back what I perceived to be a witty comment on mixing drugs and alcohol but I was distracted by Mina taking a picture of us and I never wrote Alex back, which is probably for the best. The text wasn’t so funny in the morning.

On the walk back to my apartment, I dragged my feet and laid my head on George’s arm. He was too tall for me to lay it on his shoulder. He was taller than any guy I had ever dated and I was still adjusting to how he towered over me.

I was tired and it was only around midnight. I hadn’t slept well the night before—pre-thirty jitters. I was hoping to get an Uber or taxi back to my apartment since there were no subway lines from the bar to my apartment but George insisted it wasn’t very far and a walk would do me good. He wasn’t wearing heels.

I was tempted to ask him to carry me. He was my strongest boyfriend and I believe he could have sustained the eleven-block walk with me on his back. I didn’t because I was wearing a short dress and worried my underwear would show when he lifted me.

“I’m sorry for hanging all over you,” I said to him.

He squeezed my side. “You’re fine. You’re a lightweight.”

I laughed at the inaccuracy. “Just tired. You should have seen me in college. I drank more than anyone you’ve ever met.”

“You were a party girl?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Well, yeah, sort of. Aren’t I still?”

He shrugged. “I guess. Galas are different than house parties.”

I stood up straight. My hand lowered off his shoulders to his upper back. “Yeah. I was queen of the kegger.”

He looked elated by this, laughing with fervor. “Guess it’s the Brit in you.”

I took my shoes off the moment we entered my apartment. I tossed my body on my bed and felt like maybe my back had gone out on the walk home. “What did you do for your 30th birthday?” I asked George.

He was still by the door, taking off his shoes. “I went to Disney.”

I shot up in bed. “You went to Disney?!”

“Yeah. My girlfriend had family in Florida and my family flew down. We spent a couple of days there.”

“And did what?”

He was bemused. He filled up a glass of water for himself. “Went to Disney.”

“For a couple of days?”

“Yeah. It’s pretty big. We should go. I mean, we could even go to the one in California so you can see all your friends.”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“I mean, you talk about Alex all—”

“No, go to Disney. Why would I do that?”

“‘Cause it’s fun.”

“But it’s overrun with people and cheesy and I’m the most impatient person you know.”

He chuckled disingenuously. “Relax. I didn’t book any trips yet.”

“I’m tired,” I complained. I stood and looked at Louie swimming around his tank. I wondered if he was tired too. I wish I could swim. It was too cold in New York.

I wanted to go to England. I’m not sure where in England. Probably London with Stacey. My father was in Bath. My mother was between places. I know she briefly stayed at Greg’s house in Birmingham. Maybe I’d do a tour of England, everyone was so separated. Harper lived in Leeds. She had a baby in February, her fourth, a girl named Asha, who I had yet to meet. 

I was cold. We went to bed within the hour and I woke up the next morning with a migraine and that was 30.

*

I had little connection with Everything You’ve Come to Expect. I listened to it when it came out and I complimented Alex and Miles on it in a shared text. My favourite song is “Miracle Aligner” but maybe that’s because of Alexandra Savior and my fear of admitting I liked “Sweet Dreams, TN” or a deep relatability to “The Bourne Identity.” Both were too personal to Alex for us to discuss. 

So, later that month, when he called me to tell me Prince died. I said I liked “Miracle Aligner.”

It might be the only song from the album we ever discussed. When the music video came out about a month later, I told him I found it funny and asked why he was so tan, and that was that.

*

Baseball is boring. I don’t know much about any sport, but I know that’s true about baseball because even baseball fans say it’s boring. Not that I know many baseball fans. George liked baseball. He rooted for the Mets, which I thought was weird because I figured New Yorkers rooted for the Yankees but I don’t know much about baseball and I probably don’t know much about New York—the state.

We went to Citi Field for their first home game of the 2016 season. George, three of his friends, one of his friends’ girlfriend, and me. The friend’s girlfriend, Rachel, was 22 and finishing her last year at NYU. This friend was 12 years her senior and I found this to be quite Leonardo DiCaprio predatory, but she was nice and didn’t know anything about baseball either.

I sat between her and George, who attempted to teach me baseball, but I don’t like men explaining sports to you because it never makes sense and they always seem to have a way of explaining it in a misogynistic way. Besides, I’ve seen A League of Their Own.

George spilled his beer on me when a double hitter occurred. The sun was out but the day was cold and it left a chilly splash on the front of my shirt. I left to clean myself up and grab a hot dog. It was awful. I texted Alex, “Hot dogs at Mets game suck. Isn’t that baseball games’ thing?”

I went back to my seat and talked to Rachel for the rest of the game. I didn’t see any of George’s friends again but Rachel and I are still friends. To quote an immature man, “She keeps me young.”

*

When The Last Shadow Puppets came through New York, George and I went to the concert. After the show, we chatted with the Puppets and company, but we didn’t hang around for long. They were playing Coachella that weekend, so I don’t believe they hung around in the city for an endless bout of time. In the time they did, they spent with one another. The city had been where Taylor and Alex both once lived, so they went to all of their old spots. Either way, I got the feeling George didn’t want to hang around with them for hours and hours, so we said our goodbyes. The show was mighty lovely though.

*

Rome is beautiful in June. When I was 14, my family spent a month in Italy and San Marino, the latter for its casino. Our first week was spent in Rome, where I dreamed of falling in love with an Italian boy and moving to Italy. I didn’t find any Italian boys and a move to Italy doesn’t seem likely, but I did fall in love with Rome.

Villa Borghese is where I first felt struck and connected to nature. I sat on a fountain and wished I was able to draw something beautiful enough to capture the sight of the floral and fauna. I didn’t own a camera and my drawing skills were as bad then as they are now, but the sight has been committed to memory.

George and I revisited it on our first day in Rome. I took pictures this time and while it was still as beautiful as I remembered, I don’t believe the photos captured what my mind has. It was something only the divinity of the seeing eye can behold.

We did all the other touristy things too. George had never been to Rome because his family spent holidays going to places like Disney World. I guess I’m not one to talk. My family spent holidays going to booze-filled casinos but we did fit in a historical sight every once and a while. Plus, I got a nice tan. George said he always got sunburnt at Disney.

We were in Rome for a wedding. It was Matt and Breana’s, and while destination weddings are a lot of work to attend, they are the most beautiful to witness. I’m quite jealous of theirs because the venue was a near-beauty to that of Villa Borghese. But Matt and Breana did always have a keen eye in their photography, so wedding planning, especially with a nice amount of funds, isn’t hard to imagine.

I wore a nice pink dress and it was one of the few times I have been immensely thankful to be a woman because I didn’t have to sweat in a suit. George complained of the heat the whole wedding ceremony. I reminded him I told him to dress light and to shave before we travelled, but he did neither, which is fine by me because I was proven right in the end, as always.

I met their baby, Amelia, for the first time. She had this cute little dress on and these booties and I wish I could wear her outfit and get fussy in the middle of the ceremony too, but alas, that’s inappropriate for a 30-year-old. I thought age was just a number.

The reception was a nice big hall where my heels clicked on the tiled floor. Each table had flower arrangements as centerpieces that I would’ve stolen from if I knew the flowers wouldn’t die on the way home. The food was divine and others at our table were nice but kept to themselves, leaving me to mainly talk with George through dinner.

After dinner, I went to have a smoke and George accompanied me out into the gardens. I felt sorry for polluting the smell of the air but craving, digestion, and all the rest. He stood with his hands in his pockets as I flicked away. “It’s a lovely wedding,” he said.

I smiled. “Without a doubt. Thanks for coming with me.”

He threw his hands up like it was no big deal. “Who could pass up a trip to Rome?” He bought his own plane ticket, something I felt tried to insist against, but he said we’d make a vacation out of it. He’d never met Matt or Breana, but I had told him stories of my college days with Matt and how sweet, gorgeous, and funny Breana was. 

A smattering of people occupied the pavilion, and the sun was still out, though setting, when Alex and Taylor popped out with fancy glasses in one hand and holding each other’s hand with their other hand. They chatted with a few others before approaching us. Alex knew far more people here than I did and the way he moved through the crowd would give off the impression that he was the host. That he was the groom with his bride.

He stopped in his tracks and tilted his head back when he saw us as if we were in a Western and I was the villain and he was Clint Eastwood. He cocked a smile slowly, almost deviously. “What are you doing here? Popping out for a smoke?”

I laughed, though I didn’t know what I found funny. It was a vague impersonation of some television character I had no idea about; I knew that much. Alex has a tendency to pick the obscure. I felt he was referencing an inside joke I had been shut out of. Maybe because Taylor laughed vocally.

“Digestion,” I replied. George breathed a laugh. Alex and Taylor hugged us both. 

Taylor and I shared a look when George and Alex “bro hugged.” It was the epitome of girls sharing a secret language. We were passing a note to one another that women had done for centuries. Men are childish fools, and we girls, though on different sides of the exchange, are forever bonded by standing in the same position. I think Taylor and I would’ve been good friends had I met her before she met Alex. Or maybe it was our fate to stand on different sides of the exchange, sending secret messages with our eyes. A different language than the male one of bro hugs and dabbing each other up.

“You both look great,” George said. “Taylor, your…” he gestured to the top of his head. Taylor had cut her hair short. It was a little pixie cut, like I imagine a fairy’s hair might be. A Tinker Bell for the modern age. 

George had a typical male response, as if maybe her hair isn’t something he, as a man, should address. He sounded like my father after Harper had gotten a nose ring (her one act of rebellion). He asked her if she had something stuck in her nose, a joke she never laughed at no matter how many times it was told.

I stepped in, the woman explaining her man’s faux paus. “I like it a lot. I’ve always wanted to shave my head.”

“You should totally do it,” Taylor encouraged. “It’s quite freeing and so much more manageable.” 

“I didn’t know you wanted to shave your head,” George said. He had only known me with long hair, the kind that fell delicately on my chest in loose curls.

Alex knew. “Yeah, she wanted to be like Sinéad O’Connor.”

I shrugged. “I don’t know if I’ll ever do it. I think I’d miss my long hair too much. Maybe I’ll dye it blue or something. It’s pretty dull.”

“Ugh, are you kidding?” Taylor gushed, “I’d kill for your hair.” I didn’t find it to be all that special compared to hers. I’m a brunette with eyes that have been trained to admire bright blonde hair, Taylor’s natural gift. I’ll be envious of blondes until the day I die, but I’d look ugly with blonde hair. I’m sure of this due to my mother’s phase of blonde hair when I was 12. She looked like Kate Gosselin. 

An awkward silence fell over the group. I puffed away at my cigarette and waited for someone else to speak. I felt eyes on me but stared at the ground at the way my pink heels looked on the cobblestone ground. I decided to blurt out, “I still haven’t finished War & Peace.”

 I was greeted with stares. Taylor, obviously, had no idea, George had no idea why I brought it up, and, slowly, Alex cracked a smile before he laughed. “Have you even finished the first page?” He quipped. 

I bolded my eyes at him. “Yes. I didn’t bring it on the plane ‘cause I feared it would set me over the weight limit.”

His face was warm. I imagine somewhere back in his lineage, you would find the Sun. He was one-half star and it came out best in the first few days of summer when the sky shined in just the right way upon his face. “Are you guys heading back to New York after this?”

“No,” I sighed. “We’re paying a visit to my family in Bath. Stacey is coming in for the weekend and my parents have agreed to tolerate one another for one meal together. Oh,” I realized, “they’re getting divorced. I forgot to tell you.”

His face was split because the news was shocking…but was it really that shocking? It was the inevitable that neither of my parents had the guts to say it out loud. “Wow,” he voiced. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

“Kind of wish they did it earlier. Better late than never, I suppose.” We hadn’t included George and Taylor in the conversation for several minutes now. I turned to Taylor. “Back on the road after this?”

“We were in Florence before this,” she said. “I miss it already and then there’s Glastonbury in about a week.”

I nodded and I was pretty sure George wasn’t listening by this point. “Glastonbury is fun.” I almost brought up memories of when I was there in 2007, but it was too personal and too long ago to utter. I finished my cigarette and it was enough conversing for the rest of the night.

*

“You guys heading out?” Alex asked. He was alone and so was I. The hallway was mostly empty with the exception of a few people at the other end. He was headed to the bathroom and I was leaving it. There were many jokes I could’ve made about being in this position again but all were flirtations. Things that would get us naked.

“I think so. We’re both pretty tired and our flight is tomorrow.”

He nodded. His eyes were fixed on the floor. He felt so far away. A rift set in the middle. He took a step toward me and looked up. “Well, good luck with your parents. Tell Stacey a hello from me.”

I agreed to but never did. I think Stacey would have made fun of me relentlessly for any mention of Alex. She was a grown-up but will forever be an immature little sister. “Good luck on tour.”

“Thanks,” he muttered. We moved closer and hugged in jolted, jagged-end movements.

I had walked several paces before he called out, “Janie.” I turned and he stood right outside the men’s bathroom—a hesitation in leaving. “Take it for a ride. For me.”

*

It’s a miracle the beetle wasn’t broken down dead. I think my mother drove it to the grocery store sometimes but it mostly sat idle in the garage. My father barely knew of the presence of the car, and if he did, I’m sure he would have gotten rid of it. He didn’t care for things taking up space.

The inside of the car was barely changed from the 2000s. CDs were still filed in the center console, all of them belonging to my teenage tastes. While I drove around Bath, George looked through the collection. “Why don’t you just toss these? You could probably get a few dollars for them.”

“I like having CDs.”

“But these have been collecting dust in here. Who are Sugababes?” 

I chuckled but didn’t tell him all the memories that would explain why. “It’s the same as you having all those picture books in your childhood bedroom.”

“But I’m gonna give those to my kids.”

“Well, I’ll give these to my kids.”

He put the CDs back and closed the console, leaning back in his seat. “CDs are obsolete now.”

“People said it about vinyl and now it’s back and when CDs come back, I could probably be a millionaire.”

He chuckled. “I don’t think you’ll be a millionaire with your cracked Britney Spears CD.”

“You never know. I bought it on the day it was released. It could be a special edition.”

He shook his head, guying me. He began to search the glove compartment, filled with old napkins and the old car manual. “What’s this?” 

It was a paper that looked like it had been folded up a hundred times. It was wrinkled and looked like it was a blow of the wind away from being torn in half. The ink on it had endured water damage. The entirety of the paper was covered with pen markings, making it impossible to discern what it was without taking the paper close to your eye.

I pulled over to have a look at it. I laughed at the first notes I spotted.

J                   A 275             195

“It’s gin rummy scores,” I told him, though there was much more to it. “Alex and I used to play all the time. This must be from the winter of 2005 or something. An ancient artifact.”

The paper was covered in words that I had never seen before. They were explicit and things I couldn’t utter aloud to George. I found two that were suitable for the situation and read them to him. “‘Sometimes, though, angels smoke-in their sleeves. But when the archangel goes by, they throw their cigarettes away: This is what falling stars are.’” I was beyond impressed with the words and taken aback by the carelessness. “I wonder why he threw it away in here. I might steal it. Doubt he remembers it.”

“Don’t,” George said.

I looked up at him with a giggle. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to actually plagiarize him. Not that he’d care.”

He chuckled at me. “I’m sure he wouldn’t care. He didn’t write it. It’s Nabokov.”

My mouth formed the letter ‘o’. “That makes more sense.”

George, as a member of the literati, nodded. “Letters to Véra. Good taste.”

I looked back at the smudged-up page, recalling back to the books of years past. I folded up the page to act uncaring and stuffed it back in the glove compartment. “I’ll have to see if he wants it. I guarantee he doesn’t remember it, but maybe it has some secret code on it.”

We continued our drive. I showed him the sights I knew and we walked around a little. It was nice weather and we sat outside for lunch. We returned home a bit before dinner with my family, which was shockingly boring.

Later that night, when we were ready for bed, I claimed to have forgotten something in the car. I sat in the passenger seat and took the page out.

On one corner of the page, in tiny writing, he penned “Jane” like that was all he needed to state.

I was taken back to the icy feeling of January in Sheffield, parked beside Charlton Brook and thinking that was the whole world. The words on the paper imprinted onto the walls of my heart, etched themselves in the marrow of my bones, and tasted sweet in my mouth as I chewed away at them. “It's cold today, but in a spring way, and I love you.”

“I am a very boring and unpleasant man, drowned in literature... But I love you.”

I wondered if he still had the book and if these parts were underlined, accompanied by words and thoughts that associated him with me. If there was a possibility every time he saw this book he thought of the winter he spent reading it beside me. If he saw Nabokov on the spines on his bookshelf and thought Janie. It was toe-curling madness, but I read on.

“The thought that you exist is so divinely blissful in itself that it is ridiculous to talk about the everyday sadness of separation—a week's, ten days'—what does it matter? Since my whole life belongs to you.” 

“I love you, my sun, my life, I love your eyes-closed—all the little tails of your thoughts, your stretchy vowels, your whole soul from head to heels.” 

“Without you I wouldn’t have moved this way, to speak the language of flowers.” 

“Kisses, my love, deep ones, to the point of fainting.” 

And the one that struck me the most that had me lying awake that night: “I will love you tonight, and tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow, and still many more, so very many more tomorrows.” 

Awfully, befitting for this book and for me.

Then came a line that I knew was his creation (or stolen from an old joke book with a title like Witty Remarks for Intellectual Conversations): “Why did Shakespeare only write in pen? Pencils confused him: 2B or not 2B?”

I felt like crying, but instead, I was overcome by laughter and the overwhelming memory of that distant time. I still felt it, still sore in my muscles. I felt him all around. The memories felt so close to me that I couldn’t quite believe how long ago they had occurred. They felt as recent and vivid as yesterday’s venture.

On the other side of the page, there was more writing with lines scratched out so harshly it almost ripped a hole through the page. It was nearly all unreadable, besides a handful of words that were written out, “My mouth hasn’t shut up about you since you kissed it. The idea that you may kiss it again is stuck in my brain, which hasn’t stopped thinking about you since well before any kiss.” The rest was more nonsense for me to pine over. Silently.

*

I only seem to like the beginnings of things. The thought of that has terrified me to an unbelievable degree for most of my life. The start of the school year would seem so sweet, but then around October, I felt like dropping out. Every idea felt like a form of genius at the first line, but by the second page, I was a failure, a fraud, and a phony.

I cherished the getting-to-know-you stage. I like mastering each nook and cranny of a person and then I discovered the petrifying knowledge that they were getting to know me too. When I was younger, this made me change into a mysterious being, or at least try to. 

Most people didn’t care to pull back the layers anymore. The rare person came along, and when they saw the center of me, it felt impossible to let them go because then I would have to expose myself to someone else to fill the void they left, the center they scooped out like a ball of cantaloupe. 

I believe you invent people in your head. Everything is perspective and I will never be viewed under the same light that I view myself. For some occasions, I am thankful for this, but I know I don’t get to control the narrative, no matter how much I write and spew my own view of things out into the world.

One night, on an early September night, I was struggling to write. I had to contribute a piece to Womb. I had neglected it for most of the summer and needed to have a piece of work in the September issuing. Opal comes from the fashion world, where Vogue’s September Issue is the Bible you swear upon.

It was still hot in the city. I cracked open a window and allowed the midnight breeze to try and penetrate the sweat. The cursor blinked at me and I felt like my brain was being cooked. When I had previously had these rots, I called Opal, but she had already heard from me that night, and we were in the middle of a spat where she was right and I was wrong, so I didn’t want to get another whiplashing from her or to ruin her night anymore.

George was at a friend’s bachelor party at a billiards club, which I thought was old-fashioned guy stuff. I thought about writing about that, but it was a stupid idea. I barely know anything about pool.

I won’t delay further like I was trying to delay the inevitable that evening. I called Alex.

The tour had finished about a week before and I hadn’t seen him since the wedding. I wouldn’t say I was avoiding him (though I did notably choose to go out of town the weekend they played Terminal 5), but I didn’t confront the matter either. We texted him about the Olympics and I called him when Gene Wilder died and we quoted Young Frankenstein insistently to one another.

That evening, he didn’t pick up when I initially called him. I considered the night awash for writing and decided to go to bed, but then he called me back before I could brush my teeth. “Who died?” He greeted me.

I slumped back in my desk chair. “No one. Do I have to kill someone to talk to you?” 

“No, it just worries me like Pavlov’s dog or something. You’re the bell that beckons death.”

I snorted. “Well, don’t go on associating me with the Grim Reaper.”

He could hear his smile in the quiet hum of his voice. “What’s up?”

All roads lead back to Rome and I’m stuck on the wishful thinking path. It’s filled with the autopsies of conversations from years ago. It took me too long to muster a reply and when I did I sheepishly said it like I had been caught doing something I shouldn’t, which probably was true. “I can’t think of anything to write and I’m a step away from throwing myself out the window.”

“Don’t do that,” he chuckled. “You’ll probably only break your legs.”

“I think my brain is fried and I wouldn’t care so much, except I’m letting Opal down by not writing anything. It wouldn’t be the first time but I’m trying not to be such an arsehole friend anymore.”

He sighed and whatever weight he was taking off by doing it was shoved onto me. I felt burdensome and the phone felt too heavy in my hand. “I wouldn’t be much help,” he said. “I’ve got nothing to write about either.”

I groaned. “Lame.”

“Call it empathic.”

I scoffed. “Men aren’t supposed to know about that.”

“You’re very difficult; you know that,” he joked. “You could always read War & Peace. Find some inspiration there.” 

I looked at the tome gathering dust on the floor beside my bed. “The only thing it’ll provide me is strained muscles.” My eyes trailed up to my bedside table and I thought on the other book hidden away, the one I hadn’t told anyone about. “I’m reading Letters to Véra now. You read that years ago, right?”

“Yeah. It’s good.”

“When we were in Bath, George found a sheet you wrote all these quotes from the book on. It’s been sitting in the glove compartment for a decade.” The confession felt like sacrilege. I had brought another man into holy ground.

It’s hard to predict Alex’s responses to these discoveries. I was timid and resisted revealing it to him for months. I figured he’d escape the notion of it too, instead, he breathed out, “Jesus. I forgot about that. There’s probably all kinds of shite like that tucked away somewhere. Whoever lives in your old bedroom now is finding scraps all over the place.” The knowledge that there was other scripture like this just lying around somewhere made me even hotter. Like he had just scattered his love around like Hansel and Gretel through the years, waiting for me to find my way back.

“Well, I have this one, if you want it,” I offered.

“You keep it,” he told me. I wanted to see his face. It was hard for me to read the situation. “It was supposed to be for you anyway.”

It made my head spin. I was almost certain I had to have taken some drug before this conversation. I felt dizzy and faint. “It had gin rummy scores on it too.”

His laugh sliced through the silence. “I’m sure you kicked my ass.”

I wish he could see my smug smile. “Up by nearly 100.”

“You should write about that,” he suggested.

“Gin rummy?”

“All those little things. I find that writing about Sheffield can be a good palate cleanser. Returning to the days of youth.” He hesitated, still trying to work out the thoughts that ping-ponged in his mind. “I don’t know what I’m saying.”

“I know what you mean,” I reassured him. “I know.”

*

I wrote a piece and stuffed it away in a drawer. It was about college, Alex, and smoking. It’s the first section of this book.

*

The following morning, after sleeping on my sullied writing, I decided to reach back further in the days of Wakefield. It was about a trip to the shopping centre I took with my mother when I was 11. We were looking for a dress for my year 6 leavers ceremony and she made me try on all these different dresses until I found one I fell in love with, but she didn’t like it so she ended up picking this scratchy old dress. It might be small, but I still think about that dress. I thought about it long enough that I couldn’t stop writing, and thus, I began my next book.

*

Christmas was coming. The first snow fell halfway through December, but it didn’t stick, just leaving an ice fog. George had spent the night at my place. We stayed huddled in bed and decided it was best for him to stay simply because it was too cold.

He cooked bacon while I showered. I had a towel wrapped in my hair when he handed me my coffee and a plate of cooked pig belly with some berries on the side. We ate at my tiny kitchen table and talked about the weather. Then he said, “It would probably just be easier to live together at this point.”

“Yeah,” I thoughtlessly said while chewing away.

“And my place has more room and is right above the store. It’s in Manhattan too, which seems more your scene than Brooklyn.”

“Yeah. I think so.” It was going over my head. The bacon was really good.

“We could do it in the New Year.”

I squinted. “Do what?” He stared at me. “Move in together?”

“Yeah.” He smiled.

“Oh.” I hate myself. “But I like my place.”

“It’s nice, but you’re always complaining how you wish you had more space and—”

“How would I have more space living with you?”

“I at least have a wall between my bed and kitchen.”

“But I would be sharing all that with you now.” It was a pointed comment. It was obvious my concern wasn’t over having a new roommate but who that roommate would be.

He began looking crossed. “What’s wrong with sharing?”

“I like having my own space,” I reasoned with a half-truth.

“Well, we could make space for you at my place.”

“Your place.”

“Our place,” he corrected.

“What’s wrong with my place?”

He laughed at me. “Nothing’s wrong with your place. But, come on, let’s pull the trigger.”

I rolled my eyes like a bitch. “How affectionate.”

“Jane.” He was scolding me.

“Let me think about it.”

He nodded, and we went back to eating, but this time in silence. He finished his coffee and decided for us. “You’re not gonna move in with me, are you?”

“I don’t know.”

He sighed. “Don’t kid me, Jane. At least give me that.”

“I just like having something of my own.”

“Okay.” He looked around. I feared he was X-raying the apartment and seeing all the things I was hiding. Then he stared at me so strongly I thought he’d burn a hole through me. “We’re never gonna go to the next step with me.”

“I’ll allowed to think about it.”

“No, I mean like we’re not going to live together or get married. All those dreams you told me about with the garden and your husband cooking you dinner, that’s not me, is it?”

I didn’t know what to say. “It could be.”

He shook his head. “It’s not.” He was soft and he broke my heart because I knew I was breaking his. “It’s okay.”

We finished breakfast and we talked about our individual plans for Christmas. When our plates were empty, he stood up and kissed my cheek. “I hope you come do an event for your new book.”

I nodded, and then he left. I cleared the table and did the dishes.

*

a/n: i'll try and figure out how to include pickles in the next part. it might be a bit before the next part because a) it'll be longer, b) i want to try and write something else in the time being to clear out my long list of in progress works, and c) there's not that many years left of this and we must cherish every second. thanks :)

[caitrol]

TIPS AND TRICKS FOR hEDS AND POTS

(Hypermobile Ehlers Danlos Syndrome and Postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome)

First some background, I am a college student living in a dorm. Had my symptoms since 16 and was officially diagnosed at 20. This is what works for me and my symptoms. I’m still learning more and more about POTS as it was kinda shoved under the rug for me.

- for low blood pressure have salty snacks. I personally hate flavored water and unflavored electrolyte water still tastes weird. I have a little snack corner with snacks and salt in case my blood pressure drops

- be a part of the disability program at your school!!! Even if you don’t need a specific accommodations join it. It helps the school and your teachers be aware. Since I’m part of my schools programs, if needed I get get a ride to my classes.

- TENS unit!!! This thing is my lifesaver when I have a dislocation. You can get some on amazon but depending on insurance, you can get one covered as well.

- eat more protein. Diet won’t cure anything but I find having more protein has really helped with my energy levels. I don’t eat much meat myself but chicken is always a good one. I also get Kodiak protein muffins (the double chocolate ones are good, rest are meh), fair life milk (more protein compared to most other brands), and fiber granola bars. I’ve found that fiber bars tend to have protein and vice versa.

- supplements!!! Most patients with EDS will have some vitamin deficiency. For me it’s B12 and D3 (which I find is most common) Talk to your doctor of course but supplements can help keep your body normalize better. 

- mobility aids!!! Always talk to a doctor or physical therapist to ensure you are using them correctly but my cane really helps on certain days. Don’t go through insurance because you can easily get a nice cane for cheap online, insurance will only cover so much use it for bigger items like a wheelchair.

- fans. I’m always overheating, I keep my room cold and have a fan going most times. I just cover myself in blankets if I’m cold. Just easier for me personally.

- compression socks! I personally don’t like most compression items as they bother me but my ankles are really unstable. I got two compression sleeves at Walmart and they help me feel more stable walking. Sole inserts as well.

- If you have a high arch get some good hiking/running shoes, I love my Hokas. Sadly they can be expensive but there’s many cheaper options available! (I’m unsure what is best for those with flat feet)

-chronic fatigue, make a schedule that can account for naps if needed. I ended up taking sleep aids and it has really helped. But even just being able to have the luxury to take a nap if needed has really been helpful

THINGS I WISH I DID FOR COLLEGE

- ask about the dorms!!! I was under the assumption everything would have an elevator and my apartment on campus does not.

- if you use a shower seat, always ask which dorm has accessible showers.

- as stated earlier sign up with the disability services right away. It only helps with finding dorm housing.

- get a single room if you can! My medical equipment and pills takes up space and it’s much easier to keep it locked and secured when alone vs with a roommate.

Feel free to share more!! There’s always room to learn and discover new things

[boobabietch]

Chapter VI: “All-Star Aftermath: O’Hara Wrestles With The Ghost Of Taurasi” | Diana Taurasi x OC

Warnings: mild smut, mild mild mild :)

A/N: Ok first of all I wanna say I am very fucking sorry okay? Because I neglected you guys, I am aware. So I’m apologizing publicly cause I was spiraling over a girl I didn’t even date (yk lesbian things) so I wanted to apologize because I starved you guys, I know I said I would give you this chapter weeks ago and I didn’t, but you have to understand me, college was kicking my ass, overall life was kicking my ass pretty hard so I apologize. But anywayssss this is kind of a filler chapter because I have bigger things planned for the next one so don’t come for me. I liked it? Yeah, I love it? probably, but it’s not the most interesting one so well who am I to dictate what y’all feel about this just enjoy it. It’s finally here. I’m sorry if I scared you guys with the possibility of never updating again I promise I will be more constant because I’m on vacation now. Yay me!! Sooo as always English is not my first language so tell me if something is wrong so I can change it asap, like reblogs and comments (!!!) are very very appreciated and my ask box is always open, and I’ll stop rambling shit now, enjoy!!! Love, Sof :))

Making headlines masterlist

Her lips were everywhere.

I could feel her nipping at my neck, her teeth sinking into my skin, only to ease the sting with a drag of her tongue.

I could feel her hands.

One wandering on my waist, gripping with enough strength to leave bruises I could stare at in disbelief for days, the other slipping under my waistband, cupping my core, making me ache for more of her touch.

I gasped, trying to form words, anything, but her mouth covered mine, swallowing the sound before it could escape. She tasted like the edge of a blade, sharp and intoxicating. I was melting, losing myself to the pressure of her body, the scent of her skin, the way our breaths tangled in the heated space between us.

Then suddenly, she pulled away, just enough for me to see that damn smirk curving on her lips.

Diana Taurasi.

The bane of my existence, the cause of my sleepless nights and restless days, now pressed against me.

My heart pounded so hard I was sure she could feel it against her chest. I wanted to push her away, tell her that I hated her, that I didn’t need her,

except I did.

I wanted her like I needed air. The realization stung as much as her teeth on my neck.

My fingers sank into her shoulders, nails scraping skin, and she hissed, leaning in again, her voice a low murmur against my jaw. “You like this, baby?” she teased, and my stomach flipped.

I hated that word. I hated how she said it. I hated how it made me want to beg.

But just as I was about to respond, maybe a breathless curse, maybe her name,

everything went dark.

I woke up with a choked gasp, the sheets twisted around my legs, sweat dampening the back of my neck. My heart hammered in my chest as I blinked against the early morning light filtering through the blinds. My breathing was ragged, my body tense, and I cursed under my breath, pushing the covers off me. I sat up, running a shaky hand through my hair, trying to dispel the lingering ghost of her touch.

It had been weeks since the All-Star game. Weeks since that impossible kiss that turned my world upside down. Weeks since I’d felt her lips on mine, tasted the challenge in her smirk. We hadn’t crossed paths since. The schedule hadn’t lined up. I’d tried to convince myself that was a good thing, that I needed space to clear my head.

But my head was anything but clear.

I couldn’t stop thinking about her. No matter how many times I hit the gym or how many hours I spent running drills until my legs shook, her face, her voice, her damn arrogance would creep in. At night, I dreamed of her, of her body pressed against mine, her insults whispered like sweet nothings, her hands daring to roam where I’d never let anyone else go. During the day, I caught myself searching for her name in headlines, hoping for some new rumor or comment, something to tether me back to reality.

Instead, I got nothing. Radio silence.

I stood up and paced across my apartment, trying to calm the pounding in my veins. This had to stop. I needed to get a grip. She was just a rival, a talented, annoying, beautiful rival who I had no business craving.

She played with my head like it was a ball in her hands, tossing it around, leaving me off-balance and hungry for more.

I grabbed my phone off the nightstand and scrolled through social media, trying to distract myself. But that was a mistake. I stumbled onto a clip from the All-Star game, one of our assists, the crowd going wild as we perfectly executed a play. The camera zoomed in on us high-fiving, her grin wicked, my smirk barely contained. My stomach twisted as I remembered how it felt to stand beside her, how alive I felt when her gaze met mine. I tossed the phone aside, frustrated.

A few more weeks until our teams faced off again. Until then, I was stuck in this haze of longing and resentment, pride and lust warring within me. I ran a hand over my face, tempted to throw on some gear and head to the court right now, burn off this energy. But I knew that no matter how hard I trained, I couldn’t sweat her out of my system.

I wanted to be mad at myself. I wanted to hate that I’d let her get to me so completely. But all I felt was this burning ache, this desperate need to have her in front of me, so I could either punch her or kiss her again. Possibly both.

My teammates had started to notice my distraction. A’ja had asked me, more than once, what was going on in my head. I never gave her a real answer. How could I possibly say it out loud? “Oh, nothing, just obsessing over Diana Taurasi, the woman I supposedly can’t stand, but who I apparently want to devour in my sleep.” Yeah, that would go over well.

I took a deep breath, willing my pulse to slow down. I had to figure something out. Maybe I just needed to see her again, to get the tension out of my system. On the court, we’d fight it out with skill and sweat. Off the court, maybe we could resolve this in some other way…

No

That was a dangerous thought. I couldn’t let myself hope for something that made so little sense. She’d probably laugh in my face if I showed any weakness, any confusion over what happened between us.

Leaning against the wall, I closed my eyes and pictured her again. I couldn’t help it. The memory of that kiss, the press of her body, the taste of her confidence, refused to leave me alone. Part of me wanted to run to the nearest gym and shoot hoops until my arms gave out. Another part wanted to hole up in my apartment and relive that dream until I found some semblance of relief.

I had to face it: I was hooked. And I hated it as much as I craved it.

With a frustrated sigh, I pushed away from the wall and started getting dressed. No matter how twisted my mind got, I had to keep living. Practice, training, breathing, eventually, we’d meet again, and I’d have to confront this head-on. Until then, I would survive somehow, even if every time I closed my eyes, her phantom touch set me on fire.

I snatched my keys off the table, determined to run until my legs screamed louder than my thoughts. Maybe then I could forget the ghost of her lips on mine, the echo of her voice in my ear, and the way my heart still pounded just thinking of her.

Maybe, for a little while, I could pretend that I didn’t want what I knew would ruin me.

Requests are Open!

Masterlist

[lutraslutra]

Today I decided to actually sit and write this down.

I was very much inspired to do so by my little family in the North, these people who I Absolutely Adore, and who were very surprised I hadn't "come out" to them as nonbinary. To be honest I found it pretty funny at first, I have literally been walking around with a nonbinary flag stitched to my backpack for years now and we just walked Pride with me wearing an enby flag as a cape.

It made me laugh that they were surprised, but then it made me think and feel a bit shit for not openly just saying it out loud, even if I thought it was obvious, I should have just mentioned it

So here, because I know they have questions and because maybe I can put some answers out there for others who might be wondering about the nonbinary experience.

I lived most of my life in function of what I WASN'T, I grew up and never identified as belonging with the blue or the pink team, I was my own team, but I didn't have a name for it.

I started growing boobs and hated everything about it, I was distressed month after month with my period, I was becoming more clearly "a woman" and it was horrible, it became a mission to cover it all up and find the biggest pair of pants and shirts available, to do my best to hide who I wasn't.

It was a weird inner struggle and I didn't even have the words to describe it, all I knew was "I am not this and I am definitely not that either" it made very little sense in my pre-teen brain, so it was left unsaid.

I grew up and to some degree I gave in to peer pressure (for a little while) I did the makeup and the dresses, the skirts and the "make yourself pretty for this occasion". It was less lonely that way, it made my mom happier to see me dressed the way she expected me to dress, it came with less arguments... Less arguments, less bullying and a lot more dysphoria, but I didn't know this word, I just knew I was uncomfortable and I knew I was putting a show, going through the motions that were expected of me.

By the time I reached 17 I actually made an appointment with a surgeon to ask about removing the 2 lumps of flesh that sat on my chest. It didn't go well, but I at least was able to voice out for the first time "This isn't a part of me that belongs here, this isn't me"

I slowly gave up on the womanly act, I understood that the act was adding to my anxiety, and eventually with the Internet I started to find others like me, others who didn't belong to one side or another, others who lived quite happily in the middle. I learned the word Nonbinary and it felt SO GOOD.

I've come to understand that I feel better in a more masculine presenting way, maybe because it is further from the box I was supposed to fit in, or maybe because that's just who I am , maybe a bit of both.

I have stopped trying to "play the part" assigned to me, to be kinder to myself and allow the inside and outside to match.

I am now comfortable knowing who I'm not, and proud to understand who I am.

I appreciate the questions, even if I'm really REALLY bad at articulating the answers on the spot.

I love the people who have accepted me and encouraged me to be me.

I hope this made some sort of sense, if not feel free to keep asking!

Anyway 🥂 To shades of grey and to our own side ✨

(couldn't help the Good Omens reference, deal with it)

This is dedicated to Diana & Marcos, Love you very much

[slaymitchabernathy]

Beating Heart

| "And I don't know where I'm going, but I know it's gonna be a long time. 'Cause I'll be leaving in the morning, come the white wine, bitter sunlight." |

For once, today will not be like other days. 

I wake up the same as always, surrounded by gray walls, dressed in gray clothes. I am surrounded by gray. Consumed by it. 

I am desperate to get out.

Not by necessity. I have everything I could ever need. But I’m selfish. Too selfish to be in Abnegation. I’ve seen how the others are, how selfless they are without even trying. How my father gives up his seat on the bus to a stranger without even batting an eye. How my neighbor Caleb always helps by opening the doors at school during dismissal. And how his younger sister Clara is always willing to lend a helping hand. 

I try to be selfless, to be helpful and I am, but not of my own volition. I wish I could be better, be more helpful but there’s a selfish part of me that longs to do things for myself, to not wear gray clothes and blend in with everyone else. “Stiffs” is what they call us. Since we’re always so stiff, always standing together like cattle. 

I have to get out of bed, start my day, cut my hair. I take my time getting out of bed, making sure that my covers are folded neatly and that my pillow is fluffed. At least I don’t have to worry about what to wear, it’s always the same thing. A gray dress, shapeless, unflattering, and a gray long-sleeved shrug. We get new clothes every once in a while but they’re never unique. 

I glance around my room one last time before saying goodbye to the four walls I’ve known my whole life. My life up until this point has been peaceful. It’s quiet in my house and I like that, I like how routine-oriented everything in my life is but if it doesn’t change soon then I just know that I’ll lose my mind. 

So today, I am going to be selfish. 

꧁ ꧂

My father is already downstairs eating breakfast. He gives me the warm smile he always gives me in the morning and nods towards my plate, full of boring, plain food. We only eat what’s necessary, only the nutrients that are absolutely required for our diets. I hate it. 

“How did you sleep?” I ask, it’s always custom that the children ask the parents about their days first. I’m going to miss our dinners together. Where he cooks the chicken and I cut the carrots. I’m going to miss my father. 

He swallows his food and grunts, “I slept quite well actually. How did you sleep? Any nerves keep you up at night?” 

A small smile teases my lips as I grab my cup of water and take a sip. I’ve attended enough Abnegation gatherings to know how most families interact with one another. Conversations are curt and surface level. My father is known for his calm demeanor and is a rather quiet man altogether. At home, he’s much more relaxed, much more open. Which surprises me, but I cherish it, cherish how he bends the rules sometimes and allows for more mature conversations. 

“I also slept very well,” I lie, feeling terribly guilty at how easy it’s become for me to lie to him, to everyone. “Although I must admit I’m quite nervous,” I add, and that’s not a lie. 

The Choosing Ceremony is today. I chose my future today.

I’ll have my name called out and I will walk onto the stage and take the knife and cut my palm, then I’ll drop my blood into one of the bowls that will determine how and where I spend the rest of my life. 

No pressure whatsoever. 

We took our Aptitude tests the other day, to help us narrow down and conclude which Faction we’ll belong in the best. It should’ve made me feel better, made my choice clearer but it didn’t.

My results were inconclusive. 

The one test that was supposed to tell me who I was and where I belonged was inconclusive. 

I, of course, slightly lost my mind. I begged the woman administering my test to tell me what my results meant, why they were inconclusive. She had taken me out the backdoor, into the alleyway of the school and whispered a few words that made me sick to my stomach, “People call it Divergent, you don’t fit into just one category. Just stick with your Faction and you’ll be fine Stiff.” 

I didn’t tell my father, didn’t tell anyone. I lied and said that the liquid they made me drink upset my stomach and that I got sent home early. It’s too easy to lie to these people, my people. I have to get out. 

He chuckles and shakes his head, “No need to feel nervous Soarynn. I’m sure you’ll make the right decision.” 

Our eyes meet for a moment and I begin to wonder what he felt when it was his day to decide his future. My father was born into Abnegation, born and raised and now here I am, his only daughter getting ready to abandon him. I wish my mother were still alive. But she died when I was two. I don’t remember her a lot, and we don’t have any photos of her. Photographs are seen as self-centered and a source of vanity. I wish we had a photo of her.

But I look just like her. That’s what everyone’s told me at least. I remember her being beautiful, even dressed in drab gray clothes she was beautiful. I don’t think I’m beautiful. 

“Yes,” I say, looking down at my plate, “I’ll make the right decision.”

꧁ ꧂

Neither of us speaks as he cuts my hair. Today will be the last day my father ever cuts my hair. It’s not too long but not too short. It falls below my shoulders although it hardly matters since it’s always twisted up in a bun. I got my blonde hair from my mother as well. My father has brown hair and brown eyes. I have blue eyes, but they sometimes look gray, as if the clothing is rubbing off on them. 

I close my eyes as I sit out in the hallway in front of the small wardrobe we keep out here. The sound of the scissors cutting my hair does nothing to cut the tension in the air. I crack open one eye and take a glance in the mirror in front of me. We aren’t allowed to look in mirrors, more vanity. But every four months, on the third day of the first week, we’re allowed to look in the mirror. I open my other eye and I don’t really know what to think of myself.

Being sixteen is hard enough already, not knowing what you look like makes it even worse. My brown eyebrows remind me that I am still my father’s daughter and I take a moment to memorize my face. My skin is still tan and there are still freckles all over my face. My lips seem to be a decent shade of pink and I wonder what it would look like if I put lipstick on them.

We aren’t allowed to have makeup either. 

I’m still a stick figure much to my dismay. Father says that mother was the same way, lean and limber. I don’t think I’m very lean though, nor limber. Lanky might be a better word for it. And little, I wish I could grow taller. 

I catch my father’s eyes in the mirror and he smiles, “You look beautiful.” 

That means more than he thinks it does. 

I nod and look down at the floor, my hair surrounds my feet. “All done,” he tells me before walking around me to slide the wardrobe door shut, taking the mirror away from me. I brush my hair behind my ears and look up at him, he has kind eyes. I’m going to miss him so much.

“Thank you for cutting my hair.”

I’ve offered to cut his hair but he says he prefers to cut it himself. Fine by me. At least he won’t be left without someone to cut his hair when I leave. 

“You’re welcome. Now, go get ready and I’ll meet you downstairs in five minutes,” he says, cleaning off the scissors with a cloth. I nod and shuffle into my room. There’s nothing for me to do except sit on the edge of my bed and try to soak it all in for the last time. I will miss how my bedsheets smell and how the light peeks in through the small rectangular window across from my bed. 

I pull my hair back into a bun. I don't know what it looks like, what I look like. I will miss knowing that people truly value me for my heart, not my looks.

But I will not miss feeling stuck, like I don't belong. 

꧁ ꧂

Many people greet me and my father as we all walk to the Hub. The Hub is the tallest building in all of the city. It used to be called “The Sears Center” but now it is where the Choosing Ceremony is held. There are one hundred floors. 

They greet my father more than me but I can’t blame them. He’s one of the Abnegation leaders. He makes public appearances and represents our Faction along with Crassus Snow, another leader and a good friend of my father’s. Crassus is a tall man with broad shoulders, his hair is blonde but he always keeps it clipped short. From what I’ve seen he’s very kind, always willing to lend a helping hand and he’s been nothing but nice to me since I can remember. 

But there’s something about his smile that seems forced. 

He claps my father on the back as we approach the Hub, the shadow it casts leaves me feeling cold. “Glen, good to see you.” My father gives him a smile, “You as well old friend. Today is quite an exciting day for our children.” Crassus does have a son, but he left when he turned sixteen. I remember it caused quite the scandal considering he’s the son of a Faction leader. Kids at my school said it was because Crassus beat his son but my father assured me that it wasn’t the truth. I don’t recall ever meeting or seeing his son before he left. 

“Yes, are you excited Soarynn?” Crassus asks me, looking down to maintain eye contact. I give him a polite smile, “Yes I’m very excited for today. You’ll be presenting, won’t you?” Every year one of the Faction leaders presents the Choosing Ceremony and is in charge of giving out the mandatory speech and handing the knife to every child who makes their way onto the stage. 

Crassus nods and doesn’t hesitate to hold the door open for me, which leads to him holding it open for the rest of our Faction so I stay by his side while my father is swept up in the crowd. I’ll see him inside. “I am. Hopefully, it doesn’t cause a scene,” he says with a chuckle.

I furrow my eyebrows and can’t shut my mouth before I ask a question I shouldn’t. “Why would you cause a scandal?” I can feel a few people looking at me but I want to know, even if it’s considered rude to ask your elders such questions. I wait for the scolding but I don’t get one.

Instead, he sighs and looks over at a group of people approaching us, all dressed in blue. “Let’s go inside,” he suggests and I’m quick to walk inside. We walk towards the rest of our group who has, of course, elected to take the stairs instead of the elevator. 

“People have been spreading rumors about me. Saying that I used to beat my son and my wife.” I frown, I don’t remember his wife either. “But you didn’t,” I say softly, and my legs already hurt from walking up all these stairs. Crassus nods, “I know. But some people aren’t too fond of me. They don’t want me to be a leader.”

I look around at all the people in my Faction, people who I believe are good, genuine people. How could they spread a lie like that? He notices my staring and chuckles, “No one in Abnegation has been singing these lies Soarynn. But other Factions have.” 

I don’t say anything, there’s nothing left to say once I finally see the door that leads to the room where the Choosing Ceremony is held. There’s no walking this back now. My father is waiting for us and he gives me a small smile once I reach him, “Good luck Soarynn,” Crassus says, “I’m sure you’ll make the right choice.” I manage a fake smile but I feel like throwing up if I’m being honest. 

My father pulls me to the side once Crassus walks into the room and it’s just the two of us in the stairwell. “I don’t know if this is goodbye,” he says, “but I want you to know that no matter what you decide, I’ll always love you. I’m very proud of you Soarynn.” I can’t cry. Not now. Abnegation aren’t known for showing affection but neither of us hesitate to embrace one another in a tight hug. “I love you too,” I whisper, blinking the tears away. My eyes burn but I don't let it show once we pull away. 

He sniffles and clears his throat, “Well, we should head in, find our seats.”

Children sit separately from their parents. Each Faction has a designated seating area and ours is smack in the middle of the room. It’s so loud when we walk in, so many people are talking at once. I spot the many colors of the Factions, all shining brightly. Then I look over at Abnegation, dull as ever. 

A woman in a tight-fitting blue dress approaches us. Her hair is frizzy and she has a wild look in her eyes like she might pounce on you at any moment, “Glen, I didn’t know your daughter was Choosing today.” I bite my tongue even though I want to question how this woman knows me. My father simply nods and gives my shoulder a squeeze, “She is Volumina.” 

Volumina sizes me up in a matter of seconds before humming to herself, “Today is a very big day for you. Have you prepared yourself?” I subconsciously straighten up my posture, feeling as though this is a very important lady whose impression might matter to me someday, “I hope I have,” I answer. She raises an eyebrow, “I assume you already have a Faction in mind?” It takes everything in me not to glance around the room in search of where I belong. “I have my Aptitude results in mind,” I reply. 

Most people here have and will decide on their Faction solely based on their Aptitude results. If only mine were conclusive. She tilts her head, “But it’s your decision, isn’t it?” I wish I could walk away but I can’t embarrass my father or come off as rude. I give her a nervous laugh, “Well, aren’t we supposed to think about our Faction? What’s best for the city?” 

If this woman is in the Faction I think she’s in, then she’s looking for a scientific answer. Facts only. And the Aptitude test is as factual as you can get. She leans in, too close for comfort, “I want you to decide what’s best for you, not anybody else.” She straightens up as if none of that happened and gives my father a polite smile, “I’ll see you at the next city meeting, Glen.” 

Neither of us says anything as we watch her walk away. “That was Volumina Gaul,” my father tells me as if he can read my mind. I watch her walk back over to her Faction, a big sea of blue. 

I nod, “She seemed…prickly.” 

The lights flash and it’s time to take our seats. My father takes my hand and gives it a gentle squeeze, “I’ll see you soon.” I don’t return the sentient but I do find my seat. I’m seated next to Clara who’s sitting next to her brother Caleb. Caleb is older by three months but they’re both sixteen. Clara offers me a small smile which I return, “Are you nervous?” She whispers as Crassus takes the stage. I can’t seem to hide the truth from the girl I’ve spent the majority of my life with, “I am.” I’m going to miss Clara. 

꧁ ꧂

Names are called out and it feels like an eternity before it’s my turn. Crassus doled out the basic speech about how we get to choose for ourselves and how this is our chance to make a difference. “Faction before blood,” he had said before the Ceremony began. I repeated those words with everyone else in the room but couldn’t help but wonder if everyone actually meant them. 

Lots of children chose the Faction they originated from and it led me to really start considering my options.

There’s Amity, the Peaceful. They’re all about kindness. They often dress in bright colors and are always singing and holding hands. They’re harmonious people who provide most of our fresh produce. They’re always outside. 

There’s Candor, the Honest. They’re all about being brutally honest. They always wear black and white, always wanting to see things for what they truly are. Their leaders are among the more trusted in our city due to the fact that they’re simply the most honest. Their kids never hold back from sharing their opinions. 

There’s Dauntless, the Brave. They’re all about bravery. They wear black and have piercings and tattoos all over their bodies. To get to school, their children jump from a moving train every day. They’re our protectors and I think they’re admirable. 

There’s Erudite, the Intelligent. They’re all about knowledge. They often wear blue and most of them wear glasses even though I’m sure they can see without them. They’re always reading something, seeking knowledge. Volumina Gaul is from Erudite. 

I don’t know what to choose. Where to go. 

Caleb’s name is called and he shoots his sister a smile before standing up and making his way to the stage. There are five bowls on the stage, one for each Faction. Once you cut your hand, you squeeze a drop of blood onto the sizzling coals inside the bowl and it’s done. 

I used to have problems with breathing because I would think about the knife, how much it would hurt. Now I prefer it. I need to feel something, to feel pain. To wake up. 

Caleb gets onto the stage and takes the knife from Crassus. He cuts into his palm and I hear Clara take in a deep breath as he approaches the bowls. A gasp fills our section when his blood drops into the Amity bowl. 

Amity cheers and welcomes him in with open arms and hugs. Clara is in shock. I am too. Caleb and Clara have always screamed Abnegation to me. I can’t believe he deviated. Clara stares straight ahead when her name is called next and she doesn’t offer me a smile. I watch her walk onto the stage and cut into her palm.

She chooses Abnegation. 

She’ll have a good life. Marry a kind man and see her parents often. She made the right choice. 

“Soarynn Nightingale.” 

I swallow and my palms feel sweaty but there’s no time to linger. I push myself up from my chair and my entire body is shaking. I nervously climb the stage steps and reach out for the knife Crassus is holding out to me. He gives me a nod and I have to force my nerves down as I turn to face the bowls. The knife doesn’t even hurt, doesn’t phase me. 

I clench my fist and hold it over the Abnegation bowl. I am selfish. 

I can feel the blood pooling around my skin, getting ready to drop. 

When it does, I move my fist over the Dauntless bowl. 

A cheer goes up from the Dauntless section.

A gasp from the Abnegation section.

I am brave. 

| Part 1. |

| tumblr oneshot/drabble |

| Divergent x Hunger Games |

[consider-your-potatoes-mashed]

I fucking hate the way that working and having a job and what not is valued above everything else. It’s valued above health, above eating, above enjoying life, and so much more and that’s absolutely ridiculous. Not everyone can work and they should not be deemed less than because of that. Many people who cant work want to work! The focus on labor and one’s ability to work is unhealthy and unhelpful. Someone’s worth is not based on their productivity and to think or act otherwise is extremely harmful. People shouldn’t feel bad for taking the rest they need when they need it. No one should ever have to put off taking care of themself and treating themself with compassion. We need to treat each other with compassion, understanding, and respect.

I’ve called out of work a lot for numerous reasons related to my health and every time I do I feel really bad about it and quite frankly I shouldn’t feel bad for prioritizing my health. I am honestly really lucky because my job has super flexible hours and it’s really easy to have someone cover my shifts even last minute which I’m super thankful for. My shifts are short (2 hours) and I have a few days off every week so already I’m not working super frequently. My job is also something that I enjoy and don’t mind doing which is a privilege honestly. Even with all of that I still feel a lot of pressure to be productive and to work because of the society I live in. Today I didn’t feel good or comfortable enough to go to work but i did anyway because I feel like I can’t since I’ve called out so much recently. Many days I wake up and wish I could just do nothing without feeling less than for not being productive and that is something I need to work on deconstructing for myself.

We should not base our worth (or the worth of others) on how much we get done, how much we work, and/or how “successful” we are.

[the-jam-to-the-unicorn]

A little update about Showman and something I could use your opinion on ...

So, over the last few days / two weeks, I've worked a lot on the next Showman chapter. And I actually managed to write something that I don't completely hate to 100%. The first draft is a mess (like ... MESS), but I edit it at the moment, and it slowly turns into something with which I am increasingly happy, and I am optimistic it will reach the point where I feel comfortable with posting it. (More about that under the cut)

The "problem" is that I am getting close to 10k words. 🥲😅 I might actually end up with more than 10k. Which would be a MASSIVE chapter.

Initially, before the break, the plan was to stretch the idea over 2 chapters since there is a lot to cover for what I plan in the following chapters.

But now, because of the long break, I also want to give all of you something to read, so I'm not sure if I should still cut it into two chapters.

On the other hand, I know that not everyone prefers 10k words or more chapters, and I still want it to be an enjoyable reading experience.

So ...

If someone wants to add something, feel free to leave a comment or send a message. 🤗

I think, most people know what happened and what caused my long writing break with Showman.

And I talked about another problem here and there but wanted to write a bit more to be transparent.

After everything that happened, I struggled with getting back into writing because first writer block striked me and later imposter syndrome. Especially when it came to Showman. I think, I built up so much pressure, pressure I put on myself, that I just hated everything that I wrote so far. It was basically the same all the time - I wrote something and either deleted it immediately. Or I tried to talk myself into liking it but deleted it sooner or later when I edited it.

I think my main pressure comes from two things:

On the one hand, I want to believe that Showman has a certain level that people enjoy, and I want to reach that level again. And I somehow feeled I failed every time I tried. All my writing felt and sounded awful, boring and poorly. My brain lacked ideas and failed to connect with what I had planned.

On the other hand, it was hard to find back into Showman in general. Not because I lost the connection to the fandom or the stories around Vova and Olena. But there was something missing I can't really name. Call it "the spark", I had to re-discover.

In the end several things worked and helped, like focusing on the other fics.

I also realized I just have to finish the chapter in a way I am at least okay with and just post it and that hopefully will break the general angst. Get it out and continue basically.

[sophieinwonderland]

Hey, just read your vent post, and it resonated a lot with me. Always feeling like you have acquaintances and mutuals, not friends, constantly feeling like you're not really a part of any communities you nominally belong to. Feeling like that since childhood, all of it. Have you or your system overall ever looked into BPD? Not to diagnose based on a vent post, but it reads as eerily similar and well. The ICD diagnostic criteria for BPD read like our own damn biography to us when we looked into it. And either way, I hope you find people who you feel you belong with. Hugs from both of us if you need them.

Thank you both. 🫂🫂

I hope it doesn't come off as rude that I kind of laughed at this because BPD doesn't sound like me at all.

But then I realized, well, I don't really know about it that much and I'm not giving it honest consideration. Which is pretty closed-minded and unfair of me. So let's give it that. Because I don't want to be someone who dismisses things out of hand.

Let's check out the DSM.

Let's go point by point.

1. Frantic efforts to avoid real or imagined abandonment. (Note: Do not include suicidal or self-mutilating behavior covered in Criterion 5.)

I don't think so.

I guess one might say the reason I avoid getting too close to people is because the closer you let someone in, the more it might hurt to lose them, which could be vaguely related.

But for the people I do feel connections too... I don't mind them leaving if that's what they want.

I mean, it hurts. But I wouldn't want to be friends with someone who didn't want to be friends with me. I wouldn't want to cling to a relationship with somebody who felt obligated to be my friend. And I would never change myself to please someone.

So I don't feel like this accurately describes me.

🚫

2. A pattern of unstable and intense interpersonal relationships characterized by alternating between extremes of idealization and devaluation.

I had to read a bit further into the DSM to understand this, but no. I don't think this applies either. I feel like I have a pretty consistent and stable view of the people around me. I don't feel like I'm idealizing anyone. And I don't experience that sort of devaluation either.

Lately, I'm frustrated with certain people who were friends or mutuals who it feels have turned against me. But it's not even that I think they're bad people or anything for it. I just... I'm sad that it felt like they didn't know me or who I am, and the things they dislike about me are just... who I've always been. And they couldn't see it before.

It makes me feel like the whole thing was a lie in a way because it was an idealized version of me that they saw while the real me was invisible.

Maybe that can be counted as devaluation of a sort. But it's not that I feel like they never cared or that their feelings weren't real. I just don't think they ever understood who I was. And while that makes me sad, I don't even blame them for it.

🚫

3. Identity disturbance: markedly and persistently unstable self-image or sense of self.

I mean, we're a system.

But my own personal identity and self-image seems pretty stable to me. I think my host's is too.

🚫

4. Impulsivity in at least two areas that are potentially self-damaging (e.g., spending, sex, substance abuse, reckless driving, binge eating).

We hate gambling, have never done drugs or drank any sort of alcohol, and tend to overthink everything leading to frequent indecision. I wish we could be more impulsive, actually.

🚫

5. Recurrent suicidal behavior, gestures, or threats, or self-mutilating behavior

Nope. Never. We've never wanted to take our life.

There is the self-biting thing, which I got my host to stop for over a year but has come back recently and has leaked over to me unfortunately. But that feels more like an automatic response to anger. And it focuses us somehow. I think it's more of an autism thing, and is tied to relieving pressure from overwhelming emotions.

I don't quite understand it. But I know it's not like we want to feel pain or punish ourselves or anything like that. It's just that it somehow adds... clarity. I can't explain better than that.

(This might apply to the impulsivity category but we would need two things and this is only one.)

🚫

6. Affective instability due to a marked reactivity of mood (e.g., intense episodic dysphoria, irritability, or anxiety usually lasting a few hours and only rarely more than a few days).

Not actually sure what this means. If I see something that upsets me sometimes, that can make me angry or sad for a few hours. But... is that actually that abnormal? I'm pretty sure most people can be put in bad moods by things.

❓

7. Chronic feelings of emptiness.

While we might occasionally feel empty, I wouldn't call those feelings chronic.

❓

8. Inappropriate, intense anger or difficulty controlling anger (e.g., frequent displays of temper, constant anger, recurrent physical fights).

Nah.

I mean, I'm not sure what I would be comparing to. Anger is a normal human emotion. But aside from the self-biting, I think we're pretty good at rolling with the punches. We definitely aren't getting into physical fights, and aren't experiencing constant anger. Even with the amount of time I spend scrolling through syscourse, and the number of hate posts I've gotten, I wouldn't say most of that makes me truly angry.

🚫

9. Transient, stress-related paranoid ideation or severe dissociative symptoms.

I mean, I suppose we have dissociative symptoms by being plural. And... I do wonder if the self-biting has a dissociative element to it given that it feels difficult to control.

But no. I don't think this fits either.

🚫

Round-up

Yeah, I don't think we have this.

I mean, you could probably make a case to claim we have the majority of these if you squint hard enough, and treat disorders like horoscopes.

The entry also mentions that people with BPD tend to view themselves as bad, which I think Ghost and I have both felt at different times for different reasons. But I feel like these are brief episodes rather than chronic issues.

We also lack the associated abuse, which I know isn't mandatory, but it's worth noting as well.

I'm glad to have gone through the entry to learn more about the disorder.

But giving it honest consideration, it doesn't fit.

[fuwaprince]

I'm howling as in doing whatever Howl is doing here in this gif

Got no family, my friends are all far and most aren't even in positions to support themselves (bless them) let alone others/questionably-worthy me. Life feels almost loveless, the economy sucks and I still haven't got a job. I get daily reminders that the people closest to me don't particularly enjoy me taking up space.

My body is twitching and I'm just so alone. I don't speak as in talk to anybody who actually likes and wants to talk to me so whenever I use my voice it's usually to defend myself or escape an interrogative situation. Barelyyyy eating enough. I'm actively losing weight not in a good way

This next one is big.

The one person willing to help me irl is a disrespectful creep to say the least. I'm hurt that people can be so shallow and sickly motivated. I'm sad that no one else here cares. His care comes off so insincerely when he says it's "because he GENUINELY loves me" but consistently doesn't fuckin act very loving. Do I block him? HOW COULD I? I TRULY depend on him for emergencies... rides to interviews, for covering the difference when I'm short on rent, for food when begging doesn't work. He was the only person willing to look for me when I was on the streets and maybe his reason for doing so wasn't very nice but he did it. That means something to me I guess? What does it mean?

I straight up BEG this dude "PLEASE... DO NOT only decide to help my desperate ass based on the premise that you expect your fantasies (that I'm going to be pressured enough into becoming your wife legal possession at the end of all this) to turn into reality!!!!!!".

When I need a hug and have no one but he says he's willing to drive to see me, I HATE knowing I need to say no because I know it's also like saying yes to something else secretly!!! I just want hugs. Innocent physical intimacy. Handholding, just sitting on a bench close enough to touch! I need a hug more than I need food sometimes so it feels.

If I ask him to stop, he asks WHY HUH? 😡 while continuing. Anyone remember Boris from Dreaming Mary? He does this all the time so I expect it when I see him and he immediately gets touchy. When I kindly remind him that I'm not interested, he suddenly shifts into offended fucking asshole. Rude comments. Degradation. Suddenly starts talking about his gun and how he wants to shoot it and wants a new one 🙄. Sometimes it's pettier punishment like I'll be lucky to get a response if I dare mention anybody else especially if I love them more than him. I grieved my ex gf and he was just not happy about that at all. Kept demanding I explain why it couldn't be him and kept being all "what makes her so great? 🙄 pfft" ( EVERYTHING BTW SHE WAS THE MOON AND STARS AND I WILL FOREVER STAY LOYAL TO HER). But no this dude gets NASTY MEAN. Don't fall for the sad boy shit. Like he hopes I fucking starve without him type shit!!!!!!!!!! He'll ignore me complaining about hunger pains all the time but when he wants to he'll ignore me and then come back after some period of punishment (shunning) like "did you want food? get ready so you can get a small snack" "there's snacks at my house" and what am I going to say??? No???? Well actually that is exactly correct. I do say no because I'm that fucking seriously not interested and I choose to starve over taking that.

He gets angry but he knows his demands aren't possible. NOT A CHANCE . I'll say it to his face. I have to walk on eggshells but I still hate to be taken advantage of because I'm not standing my ground.

He still tries to tower over me and shit when I'm turned around and I elbow/kick behind me to remind him I fucking feel his body heat because that's how close he is without actually touching me. He likes to do that in stores. I was in so much pain from cramps that I accepted his offer to go to the store in the middle of the night. There was a store open down the street from my house but he chose to drive to the one farthest away and says oops when I ask where he's going. He misses every exit he possibly can before I catch on when taking me back to where I live on the way back from trips like these. He always does that. It's so manipulative and shitty. Just take me fucking home.

One time he saw I had a stun gun in my bag while going through it without my permission and he said I didn't need to carry that around him and I said I sure as hell do. Which fucking sucks. Any normal person would just exit and block but if I did that, who would I be able to turn to? He really has caused me trouble but I would be in greater trouble without him and that's the truth. The only answer is to lean on myself or get the support of the state, which I was receiving and then my mom sabotaged (!) So it got cancelled which is why I'm depending on the help that he happens to offer! Do you see the issues there? I don't have any family. My friends can't help me besides sending me virtual hugs and everybody is so tired. They're doing their best not to be depressed and here I come! A doomsday cloud big enough to cover the sun. I wouldn't want to talk to me either. I've been blocked for asking for help from friends just because people don't want to be involved and don't want the stress. I remember "I want that shit out of my hair".

Another thing: I call my stuffed animal my son because like... Idk. He's my son!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! And that creepy asshole fucker kept calling him HIS SON and OUR SON and I got so pissed and kept correcting him. The same way I would correct him when he'd call me his girlfriend to his friends.

Can someone who isn't him please care more than he does?

[squeiky]

Sometimes I get really sad and lonely and then I scroll through tumblr.

I think I have to start making a routine to walk outside, but i keep making excuses not too. The only outside place I want to be is on my porch and a park that’s 30 minutes away.

I’m really lonely apparently. It’s a side effect of having very little of a social life (aside from the few interactions on here. Since I don’t interact with anyone on any other site tbh.)

I think it’s just easy for me to be alone. Like I’m sure I developed some kind of abandonment issues and I’m fully aware of how it makes me feel- and that might be why i keep avoiding irl interactions.

Everything feels easier here. No anxiety no pressure. I know people here are okay and already know my goofy little self. I don’t have to worry about appearances and present how I desire. I don’t feel trapped.

I can scream into the void here. I can keep screaming and maybe one day, someone might just scream back. It’s a good feeling.

I keep feeling guilty for posting or rebloging so much. I look at other people getting asks or interactions as “successes”. I see comments and tags and it’s “success”. At what? Hell if I know. Perhaps some social game like popularity, or the fact that somebody is liked enough to have people talk to them.

Ugh, I used to read my old blog posts from an account long abandoned. Reeked of insecurity. I see myself falling back into that spiral over and over again whenever the darkness creeps up a little to closely. Like I can only eve ignore it for so long, until I’m back to screaming again like I am now.

It’s like that stupid feeling, like someone in the back of my mind is screaming “please be with me.” It’s crying all the time.

I don’t know what freindship is, I only see people in black and whites of “useful” and “not useful” the definition of useful isnt exact and varies person to person, but I recognize this is my thought process.

I guess there’s the guilt of it all too. Some underlying shame or guilt constantly pestering me. I hate annoying things and it’s really annoying.

I’m young, and I’m still figuring things out. Though that doesn’t really invalidate or solve how I feel now. Idk.

At some point in time I forgot how to talk to people in real life. It’s like when I do my soul leaves my body and I just go on autopilot. Only to return to a state of constant evaluation and analysis (which are my saviors).

Sometimes I just want to stay broken. Or maybe I was never broken to begin with. I don’t know. I’m sad and buttnaked writing this at 11:54 because I’m slowly developing a fear of sleeping (technically I just have s very strong desire to stay awake for no reason in particular.)

I fucked up with the alt descriptions for my art. I’m unsure if I’m making excuses not to make alts because it’s too much effort-or it’s something else.all I know is that I feel guilty about it.

I hate guilt (or is what I feel shame? I’m uncertain). I wish I never felt it. It’s a disgusting feeling that only does me bad. Usually I can just determine via logic when ive fucked up. But if what I feel is guilt then I do not like it. I wish it wasn’t there I wish it didn’t exist because it annoys me.

I cleared out my wounds too. I’m hopping I made it better by opening up a covered path that was clogging the infection gunk from getting out- and some dead skin. Getting hurt sucks.I thought I would be stronger. But I am reminded I am frail.

Screaming into the void in hopes of a freind. It’s a strange habit to have. Always screaming never a reply. I wish I could make things like this one person I follow. I’ve never seen them ever sad about their lack of interactions (atleast in this platform). I’m trying to be like that. But it sucks that I can’t register likes Orin the same way I do as reason people’s tags or comments or seeing their reblogs.

Since I’m always reblogging other peoples stuff, there’s always that nagging feeling when ever I make my own shit that it’s never enough.

One day though I think I’ll feel “enough”. I’ll drink champagne on that day and eat a chocolate cupcake. Just like a birthday celebration.

[mcalhenwrites]

For what it's worth, I want to read your writing! lack of audience can really get to a writer but I feel sometimes one needs to be reminded of why they write? Are you writing for yourself or to please strangers, which I get is obviously important for motivation and as a professional worker but I guess what I'm trying to say is don't be too down about it. I appreciate your hard work and amazing stories.

For what it's worth, I want to read your writing! Thank you, anon, that means a lot to me!

I agree with "write for yourself", because you'll never please other people/have to select who you want to please, and that's never going to end well. You can't please everyone. I used to be in the Tales series fandom, and I'd have mixed feelings about some of the games that contradicted the way others felt. I liked some of the lesser known/older games for the same reasons people hated them. So as a creator, you have to think about what feels right to yourself. It's good advice, but I have seen it taken out of context. (For the record, I don't see that happening here, because you do clarify that it's harder when you're stepping into the profession. I'll get into that in a minute, if that's okay!)

That said, I think there needs to be a distinction between writing and sharing. Writing is a process for myself, but the career aspect is stressful and straining and honestly feels hopeless most days. I hate the idea that every single part of a story needs to be about the plot, because the formulaic ways of the publishing industry don't work for every story, every writer. I think the existence of fanfic is proof enough of that, actually! So many of us love fics that cover what might have happened behind the scenes or just… we'll read fifteen different stories of the same tropes for a single ship. And tbh, I think a lot of writers - including myself - really prefer to have more canon included than the publishing industry has room for.

I'm trying to find a middle balance, personally. I want to share! I'm an avid reader, and if no one had shared, what would I have read growing up? Plus the want of financial stability, which is pressure I sincerely despise. I'd happily share everything for free if I had $100k-$120k a year for the rest of my life so I could have my house, healthcare, 3-5 cats, garden, video games, and home library. xD

Sharing is actually pretty difficult for me. I barely showed anyone my work until I was in my mid-twenties. I started writing stories down at age seven. I'm now in my thirties. But sharing is something I want to do and it doesn't get easier after all this time of trying to spread my work. Past the perfectionism (I am definitely working on this and have already made improvements) and the history of bullying I've had over my writing (of which there's been a lot). Overcoming all of that is tough. Which means I feel a little extra sensitive to the idea that if something of mine isn't getting traction, it's confirmation of all the times someone mocked my writing or vaguetweeted by a BNF to make fun of fics I'd just posted. And while I'm starting to realize that some of that likely comes from jealousy - not necessarily that I'm a great writer that poses a threat, but just that my writing means that I might take attention from them in the fandom (which is not how that works) - it's still so hard to stop thinking, "What if they were right?" when I don't get any or very few likes/reblogs or kudos/comments, etc.

I have worked very hard to be a better writer, thinking I could escape that. Now I'm beginning to recognize that that hard work has paid off, but I was also never as bad as everyone made me feel (including myself). I want to keep working hard, because my standards for myself are high.

My writing makes me so happy, I can't describe how much. So even through all the pain above? I still do it. I just think that maybe there needs to be more separation between writing and the results of that ever reaching the public eye. (Most of my writing doesn't. I write a lot. XD)

Sorry to get a little real there. And so lengthy, ugh! I never can say things briefly.

Thank you for reading out, though, and thank you for reading my writing. There are more people reading my works than I know, but sometimes I fear that I'm the only one who will want what I'm making.

I've had IRL and health issues bringing me down too, which overlapped with stressing out over the editing of the next chapter of the story I've been posting. That chapter wasn't making me happy, so I'm taking a break, ignoring it a few days, and going back with fresh eyes later. So that all was knocking down my mood, and seeing only one person comment on the latest chapter, I was like, "Oh, maybe I'm just making a big old mess of this story"… perhaps because I see the mess in my head? Every possible path I threw out, every scene I want to write but won't fit in the story, every part I feel is lacking, every bit of character and world info, etc. Is that translating into something coherent on the page, I wonder, and… it's a lot to think about.

Sorry for TL;DR on this answer, and again: thank you. ;A;

[mywrittenavenue]

VENTING ABOUT JOB SEARCHING

It's so frustrating being neurodivergent and looking for a job after graduating. I keep putting out applications and I'm not getting much. I also applied for agencies but still nada. I'm also struggling so hard with the interviews that I'm barely even asked to go on, and I'm awkward as hell. It's as if I forget who I am suddenly when asked interview questions. I wish it was dumbed down instead of being complicated for no reason. I hate the interrogation, and the faces they make when I struggle to remember things and or stutter. To base a human existence after only a brief meeting is so dystopian. I feel like a cog, someone who doesn't matter in the scheme of things, as if I was factory made for the masses.

I also hate how interviewers expect you to know about their company in-depth. I don't have time to be researching every single company and acting like it's an exhaulted position I waited my entire life for, when really it's a means to an end. I get money, and you get a designer who is thorough about getting things done right. Also dont get me started on ghost/faux job listings and how people keep asking for 3-5 years for an entry level position. It's absolutely ridiculous, a real shitshow.

I don't lack skills as a designer neither. I'm a multidisciplinary designer and I believe my work speaks for itself. It's just frustrating that nobody is giving me a chance. I just keep getting ghosted or rejected. Ive been peer-pressured/grilled by HR for a job opportunity and they truly made me feel like trash. I once was even passive-aggressively verbally attacked by an interviewer who was trying to gaslight me about the fact they didnt supply me with files for a design test.

That's another thing... design tests. Why waste my time to ask me to make a design and then just reject me on the third round of interviewing? Shouldn't my portfolio speak for itself?? Stop asking me to do free work while I'm trying to job hunt, and potentially stealing ideas from myself and other designers who apply.

Also fuck cover letters. I write fairly well, but I can't be spending forever trying to write cover letters. I hate knowing that companies just throw resumes and cover letters into AI scanners that will pick up keywords from the job listing. None of what I wrote will be written and I have to rely on programs like ChatGPT to help me write everything because I simply don't have the time or patience (I tweak it with my flavor of course).

Jobs used to be about giving people a fair chance, to genuinely look at what they could offer. Now my degree is meaningless, I cant apply for internship positions anymore since a year passed after graduating, and a masters degree will put me in debt if I go for it. I feel so trapped and I'm just so frustrated that this is the hand that we've been dealt. Meanwhile boomers and older adults are all pointing fingers at us as if we're the issue and not companies becoming more and more corrupt.

I just want a job so I can make money and get out of my toxic home environment. Is that too much to ask for????

[11919815125]

3/27/24

in regards to the phone call about the future/my ambitions

i think the reason it strikes a nerve when you bring stuff like that up is because like. my entire self-worth is built on choosing to accept my shortcomings rather than fight them or feel shame about them. when you're upset that i "don't care" it's because it was a choice that i had to make in order to cope and survive. when i was 24 years old, i was living with my parents, unemployed for almost a year and a half, no intent to use the degree that i went thousands of dollars into debt for, smoking weed every day, barely even leaving my bedroom, no goals or ambitions. i was a fucking loser. i couldn't look my parents in the eye because i saw disappointment looking back at me. i cut off almost all of my friends because i didn't want them to see me like that. the embarrassment of it all nearly drove me to suicide.

i had to decide that it was okay. that i didn't need to be successful in the ways other people define it, that i didn't need a career, that i didn't need to make my parents proud, that i didn't have to be special, that i didn't need people to like me, that i didn't have to achieve my dreams. i just needed to survive and try my best to be happy; anything beyond that is just a bonus.

it's not that the things you're asking me for are unfair, but they pop that bubble. they knock down the jenga tower i've stacked up so carefully. caring so much about those pressures and goals and ambitions genuinely ruined my life and almost ended it, and now you're asking me to make them a priority again, and suggesting that if i don't it's because i don't care enough about you or that i don't care about myself.

i feel that i am successful!!!!! with my worthless degree and my shitty kitchen job and everything i have going on now!!!!! this is not failure to me! i am so unbelievably proud of myself! i am paying my bills, living independently, working full time, doing my best to maintain the relationships i have, traveling when i can, cooking delicious meals and trying new foods, going out and making memories on the weekends, spending so many of my days with you. that's a life that's worth celebrating and i really hate that you seem to see it as the bare minimum. of course i can do better, i can invest more into the things that matter to me.......i just don't know if those are the things that matter to you.

saying that "a career is not a priority to me" is really the polite way of saying, "i do not want a career, and if i can find a way to keep living my life without having to do that, i absolutely will." you dedicate years of your life building marketable skills, going to school, interning, networking, busting your ass and stressing yourself out to get...what? your life looks exactly the same with a little more cash in the bank and a few more rooms in your apartment. it's so cliche but i really really don't care about the "rat race." i don't feel the impulse to keep up with other people, i don't value most of the things that you gain from playing the game, and i definitely don't give a fuck what anyone else thinks about how i choose to live my life.

i value freedom, autonomy, authenticity, and honesty above anything else. i value working as little as possible while still being comfortable and happy, and maximizing the time that is mine and mine alone. i value the people that love and embrace me and being able to share this life with them. i value experiences over anything material; nice houses and fancy dinners and expensive clothes and flashy gifts mean absolutely nothing to me. i want to go bungee jumping, i want to see the northern lights, i want to visit every country in the world, i want to cover my body in tattoos and sleep under the stars and get married to somebody i love and learn to play guitar and create beautiful things with my bare hands and hope that one day i wake up and see my life as a beautiful thing too.

and you wanna ask me about a fuckin job lol

[bitch1986miami]

What to Do With My Freedom and Finance 🫡

I think, given you have enough money projected or that you can fathom, it's more important to get your house structured, to clean it and organize it. Etc. more cleaning and organizing. In the end, you need everything pretty structured. Someday, you can do other things, of course, and use new "inventions!"

Then, I guess you save your money and eventually get out. I get Lejeune compensation I think, maybe Thursday when I make hopefully only 2 calls, one by phone and one by webcam!

So yup got a clean area for my spinning, leaping, and hopping? I can do this on the basketball court, too. I just need to eventually be able to rotate my leg, when I get rid of all this extra laundry and throw out my broken portable washer and slight spin dryer. Any more? The returns need to go but 'am so glad in moving chords away to fix the window coverings to go up found all my chords could go in one neat pile! and I have all these things to hold my cell phone on webcam with lights etc. I got at a Dollar store I walk to in another little pile maybe not in the way so much or at all. I don't know, in this case, that I need a larger home regarding the furniture and possibilities, like I know I can get my stored necessities and toiletries to a boxed storage and use the shelf for other things. Oh, I have a bunch of round stuffed toys I could put up and other small ones from a young artist girl's book, maybe from my generation a lot of work for children. I think there are dead flies all around here, including on my revolving round bookshelf/bookccase. I think I got an extra one free and saved it and a 2nd violin stand and a 2nd violin bow for my broken electric Baroque violin. I had a regular one in Orlando probably broken. I have a few trash things to throw out, maybe 2 or 3 trips. I'm sorta like my back is like dry and broken and my pube or whatever felt cancerous or hardening on the side on the inside or something ~ hey, do you feel that?

So, now, I had some water, may lie down or exercise, maybe seated chair gentle senior workout. My mom used to teach Silver Sneakers in a gym studio. I wonder what she liked best, Disney spa at hotel/"resort?" Also, the huge hotel with a full gym in Orlando. She briefly taught children at the biggest gym in Orlando. I wanna do some Tai Chi? If I did Asian martial arts, I'd probably have to do both Kung Fu and Tai Chi, and it could be full time. I've actually considered it, to some extent. I dunno if college dance is great. I wanna post online, of course, do other exercise. I don't know what I'd be sacrificing. I'm better and my happiness relied on that I'd do something after I got better, so now I need to think about it but no pressure-rush.

If I wanted vacation, I'd probably move to Fort Lauderdale. If I wanted to be in the movies, I'd practice in Miami or maybe I like L.A. as a "way of life." I'd have to work to go on vacation. I'm not excited about just losing myself eating out while other people act all fancy and bossy and cook for me and bring me my food and look at me funny because Drew Gordon finished off my face as Asian to look non-American and more real after it got messed up when I was convinced Tim Burton was used to turn my life "inside out." I guess I'm hoping it gets better.

Like ballet/dance, no one wants to see me perform anything except memorize lots of lines, to "act." In Communications, it's NOT to do the arts. I do art for my own benefit.

I'm mostly worried about my health and wellbeing. I recover quickly but like to cook my own food so it's good, even with the ingredients. I hate people who complain who have any part in benefiting my life technically, physically. I always wanted to take care of myself.

I'm on Survivor's Benefits for $2K / month, according to my dad's ... what's it called? ... monetary place in life? "Class?" Like the Titanic. I should be making like $100,000 / year by now, based on my performance in elementary school, junior high school, and first 2 year of high school, and based on the college I got a high? or half scholarship at. I also got all A's in all but one of many major courses and the other a B+, in fact, first semester. I also got into Honors, somehow.

[jessidogg]

okay, imma be honest here... I was not expecting this silly joke to be such a big deal bahahah, but I do appreciate hearing feelings on this! I would like to add some things myself.

First, I would like to say that hating Creek is kinda my way of loving his character. After all, without Creek, Broppy might not even be a thing! That's the great thing about the story in trolls, things fall like dominoes, and usually everything ties together at the end. I do not like him especially because of the way he treats Branch, that is my whole thing, but it is important to point out that Branch isn't the only one affected by Creek's actions- Poppy is devastated to find that her closest friend would do such a thing. We can't say that "well, what else could he do?" because we know Branch and any of Poppy's friends, including BroZone, would literally die for each other and never do something like that.

Also, about BroZone, I am a huge BroZone fan, and I am NOT saying you have to be too, I just wanted you to know that you can't hold silly mistakes like that on them. They all obviously were angry in the moment, and it is mentioned that some even came back to find them. They probably saw Grandma Rosiepuff gone and guessed that everybody was gone forever or dead, and went off to live their own lives. Heck, John Dory probably didn't even know that Floyd as still living till Velvet's letter came, and he went looking for Branch because he heard about the world tour afterward.

Another thing: they were young, under loads of pressure, and probably felt so bad and didn't even think that their other brothers even wanted to see them again. Plus they were almost adults now and had figured that Grandma Rosiepuff had got it covered.

TOTALLY STUPID OF THEM. I KNOW. But in a way, this is kinda what Creek did to Poppy. Their job as brothers was to stand by their siblings thru thick and thin. They failed. It was Creek's job as a friend to stand with his friends thru thick and thin. He failed. oKay. The Difference? Creek apologized, yes, but never really changed, which really ticks me off about him. BroZone in the movie never really had time to apologize (except for Clay), but I know for sure they did, and they acted on it. Sure, they can still tease Branch and stuff, but they're his big bros- that's life. I have like five little brothers, and I get your guys' annoyance, but we do need to look at all sides of it.

The point of Trolls Band Together is to tell peeps that you don't have to be a perfect family to be a family. People make stupid decisions. I am adopted because my bio mom chose her messed up life over taking care of me. And tho it is too late now, she almost immediately realized her mistake and rushed to fix it. Now she is engaged, healthy, and has two baby boys that she won't have to worry about being taken from her. She apologized to me, told me she loved me, and acted on it. It may be a bit late, just like how it took Brozone 20 years, but they all realized they're mistakes, and were so happy to see each other again, especially Branch. They act on it. That's the important part.

My family is a huge mess lots of the time. We're not perfect. But we don't need to be. There are so many times when we all hate each other. But we get thru it. Being a teen is hard, and we always are doing stupid things. But we need to remember to act on our apologies, then we will be good.

Again, you can have whatever opinion you want, that is just my view of things and I feel I can easily relate. Also we love Branch's brothers cuz they're his brothers, he loves them, THEY'RE A BOY BAND LIKE WUT, and they are super fun characters. THX SO MUCH FOR HAVING THESE CHATS IT'S SO NICE TO TALK ABOUT IT WITHOUT BITING EACH OTHER'S HEADS OFF BAHAHA, THX FOR BEING MATURE ABOUT IT💕💕

This post was originally supposed to be a joke tho, and I did not expect so many literal answers 😂😂

-@jessi4branchifer

P.S. yes Branch is so autistic this is why we love him 😘

HOW?

Those People That Like Creek:

Me:

No, like fr tho- since it's obviously possible to love Creek HOW DO YOU DO IT?!!?!?!!?!!!!

Cuz I would if I could BUT I CAN'TTTT