#i have no money no prospects and I'm frightened

[kafkaesqueer]

This is what it feels like to be a closeted queer in a homophobic household hearing your family talking shit about lgbt while you're slowly dying inside (but you gotta smile through the pain because you can't blow your cover)

[guinevereslancelot]

it's my birthday 🥳

[azucarera-art]

life hasn't been kind to me but i remembered i draw, i sing, i play piano & guitar, i cook, i tend the garden, i stitch & embroider, i write, i read extensively, & i speak 4 languages. i would have been an "accomplished woman" in the 1800s

[beananacake]

Guess how old I turn today???

[halfricanlife]

I never shared my birthday cake from September on here even though I really wanted to, so here it is. @turnipwizard and I thought about this cake for literally 6 months before we made it a reality.

[saturnismo]

Terminé de leer orgullo y prejuicio por primera vez para después ver la peli y me timaron como que you have bewitched body and soul es sólo parte de la película 😭😭

[ezrazone]

i was so frightened when i saw the fires outside al aqsa martyr’s hospital in the center of the strip. a hospital still standing, one of the last, named in honor of the palestinian dead.

this is where my dearest friend mohamed, his wife manal, and these three beautiful children have been sheltering. i waited in dread and fear to learn if these children were among the human beings burned alive. i couldn’t eat. i paced and shook.

when the intensification of the genocide on palestine began on october 7th, 2023 (a continuation of the nakbas, “catastrophes” “disasters” that the illegitimate entity has visited upon the people of the land since its inception less than a hundred years ago), i struggled to pray.

god seemed all around in the silence, but i felt insecure at the prospect of shouting into that darkness with all of my heart. it seemed petty, somehow - what did i have to pray for? my ancestors escaped a catastrophe in europe. many, many died, but enough survived to drop me in this white skin in the richest country in the world. what does a winner in a global bloodsport have to pray for?

as i have watched israel’s unmasking, it is as if the scales have fallen from my eyes with hashem. i know now that i cannot gaze upon the lord god’s silent face in the abyss but look instead upon my muslim brothers who are my own family. my own flesh and blood.

when i finally received a text from mohamed, i quietly left the room i had stood in and dropped to my knees in the quiet dark. there, i made god. here is god’s face:

how we care for these children. look into their eyes. how will you honor them? do you have a skill? will you write a song for them? draw a picture for them? so the world knows their story and loves them enough to tear this wretched world open and build one that keeps them safe?

my favorite drawings i have ever made are my drawings for mohamed’s family.

how do we meet what empire is doing to our family?

throw sand in its gears by any means necessary. love the living with all of your heart.

give your money away. it’s only money. give your time away. that’s what time is for. give your heart away. that’s what that’s for too.

Y'varekh'khah Adonai V'yishm'rekha; a free Falastin, B’ezrat Hashem, Adonai Adonai Amen.

[faru-itsok]

Is more likely I get enough money to buy a house or live my highschool romance (I graduated hs 9 years ago 👌🏻) before Gosho finish Detective Conan 🥲

I have a funny idea for all my fellow detective conan fans! reblog this, stating things that are more likely to happen than gosho ever finishing this series (considering plot-wise we're only 6 months in.. after 104 volumes it's only been 6 MONTHAVSBSHDHDHD)

I'll go first: it's more likely for me finding a boyfriend, getting married, having children AND grandchildren before detco ever ends.

[ribbittrobbit]

18 years old vs. 26 years old

turned 26 today, meaning i'm one year out from charlotte lucas' "I'm 27 years old, I've no money and no prospects. I'm already a burden to my parents. And I'm frightened."

I think 18 year old me could take me in a fight, honestly. She didn't have carpal tunnel + wasn't googling stretching routines for her hip flexors. BUT she weighed 60 kg soaking wet so I could totally just sit on her and she'd be done.

[petoskeystones]

Happy (late) birthday Rickie!! Coincidentally I've been listening to your 19 and 91 playlists all day (I know nothing about hockey but they're really good) (and compelling...) (If you ever want to tell someone all about 19 and 91 I'm here 👀) <3

thank you for the birthday wishes bird!! you have no idea what you've just unleashed upon the dash, though. 19 and 91... everyone sit down for the abridged, but still way too long, version of the story of steve yzerman and sergei fedorov.

in 1983 the detroit red wings, formerly the greatest american hockey team of all time and the pride of the city, were very bad. they were called the dead wings. they had no money and no prospects and they were frightened. they had just been purchased, however, by a fellow named mike ilitch, who you may know as the founder and ceo of little caesars pizza, and he had hired a new general manager named jim devellano, and they wanted to turn things around. in that summer of 1983, with the fourth overall pick in the nhl draft, ilitch and devellano wanted to take pat lafontaine, a hometown boy and one of the best prospects of the year. but lafontaine went third, to the new york islanders, and they settled for a kid named steve yzerman instead.

in 1983, steve yzerman made the roster out of training camp. he scored 39 goals. he was the youngest nhl all-star ever. he finished second in voting for best rookie of the year. within two years, 20-year-old steve yzerman was the youngest captain in the history of the detroit red wings, with his coach stating that he practically had "the red wings crest tattooed on his chest". by the end of his career he would be one of the most beloved athletes in the history of detroit sports.

his legacy is for later though. in the 1980s we were still losing. so that wasn't great. by 1989, we hadn't seen the playoffs in over a decade, and jim devellano was in the hot seat, and so he decided to do something insane, which was use up one of his 1989 draft picks on a russian named sergei fedorov.

to try to put this into some context: in 1989 there was one single russian player in all of the nhl, alexander moligny, who had defected from the soviet union that year in order to play. soviet hockey was inextricably linked with the military during the cold war, with players for thee cska moscow team being considered army officers. they spent 11 months of the year playing hockey away from their families. they absolutely demolished the united states and canada at their own sport. jim devellano used his fourth-round draft pick on a soviet military asset that he would likely never get to see play in detroit.

why the hell did he do that? well, he had talked to steve yzerman beforehand, because steve had played against the soviet team in the hockey world championship.

and so they drafted sergei fedorov, and in the same draft, vladimir konstantinov, and everyone thought jim devellano was crazy for it. it took until june of 1990 for sergei fedorov to defect from the soviet union and fly, from the goodwill games in portland, to detroit, where they set him up in the wings' vice president jim lites' house in the suburbs and went about the business of teaching him english. why did he defect? well, other than the fact that he badly wanted to play nhl hockey, they gave him several things: a corvette, and $10,000, and an apartment on the river, and the same contract as steve yzerman. it was the last thing that eventually got sergei on the plane.

and so they had the second russian in the national hockey league, wearing number 91, chosen for being the inverse of steve's 19.

from 1990-1997 we acquired four more russian players (konstantinov, kozlov, larionov and fetisov), and the russian five unit revolutionized the hockey world. this not hyperbole, they are five of the most important players in hockey history, and sergei was arguably the most well-known of them. while steve was generally a quiet leader and not a particularly flashy player, sergei was a media darling and one of the most exciting players in the league. he's particularly well-known for his trademark white nike skates and all-star fastest skater record, but i also think about his love of sports cars, his fashion sense, the commercials, and his genuine love for being a detroit red wing, to start.

sergei became steve's alternate captain, although assistant captain might be more apt. when steve began to have knee problems, he would be put on a unit with sergei, who he would trust to carry the puck from end to end for him.

sergei, meanwhile, understood his job in detroit as making steve's job easier. “i could tell stevie was worried about a lot of things. i wasn’t sure what exactly i had to do. But i knew i had to help him as much as i can on the ice.”

the detroit red wings made the playoffs from 1990-2015, 13 of those years with steve and sergei. they won the stanley cup three times together, in 1997, 1998, and 2002. to call them the best hockey team of the 90s-00s is correct.

but good times come to an end. in 2003, sergei's contract with the red wings was up. he had previously had contract issues in 1998, forcing the ilitches to match a $38 million deal with the carolina hurricanes; in 2003, he signed a contract with the anaheim ducks that was worth $10 million less than what detroit was offering him. did he owe detroit, for everything they had done for him? the ilitches and devellano think so. detroit thought so, and booed him when he returned to play against his former team. he went back to russia in 2009, three years after steve retired as the longest-serving captain of any north american sports team in history— a very apt 19-season record that has never been broken. steve briefly worked for the tampa bay lightning; around that time, sergei's marriage ended, and he only asked for their florida beach house in the divorce.

anyways, it's 2024 now. the red wings have gone eight years without seeing the playoffs. steve yzerman's number was retired in 2007, and since 2019, he has served as the team's general manager. it has been a decade since sergei fedorov was in detroit, for his hockey hall of fame induction ceremony; the ilitch family and jim devellano will not retire sergei's jersey with steve's, but nobody has worn 91 since he left, and several players have actually changed their jersey numbers from 91 upon coming to play here. when asked his thoughts about retiring number 91, it took steve eleven seconds to come up with a response.

the red wings are the second-worst team in our conference right now. we need a new coach. there has never been a russian coach in the nhl. sergei is, as of this summer, retired from coaching in russia where he won two championships with his former team; he still spends summers in detroit.

sergei is over it. steve is over it. the only people who still think about 2003 are jim devellano and mike ilitch's widow marian. retire 91 and let him come home!

[greppelheks]

Look at this pasture. Fuck!!!

I could save him.

There's this little house I cycle past every Friday that I'm absolutely obsessed with. It's completely falling apart but I want to renovate it and live there. There's endless pasture behind it.

[dosthoeyevsky]

its my 28th birthday tomorrow so i want to say while i still can

- i am 27 years old

- i have no money and no prospects

- i'm already a burden to my parents

- i am frightened

[quotergirl19]

​Bridgerton Characters & their matching Pride & Prejudice quotes:

Penelope: I've no money and no prospects. I'm already a burden to my parents and I'm frightened. So don't you judge me.

Penelope, Eloise & Edwina: I declare after all there is no enjoyment like reading!

Simon (to Daphne), Anthony (to Kate): In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.

Violet, Lady Danbury, Queen Charlotte & Portia: It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.

Colin: There are few people whom I really love, and still fewer of whom I think well. The more I see of the world, the more am I dissatisfied with it; and every day confirms my belief of the inconsistency of all human characters, and of the little dependence that can be placed on the appearance of merit or sense.

Violet: Do anything rather than marry without affection.

Colin (about falling in love with Penelope): I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun.

Penelope, Queen Charlotte, Portia, Violet, Kate, Daphne, (basically everyone except Mr. Finch): There is a stubbornness about me that never can bear to be frightened at the will of others. My courage always rises at every attempt to intimidate me.

Kate (about Anthony), Young Violet (about young Edmund), Penelope (about Colin): I could easily forgive his pride, if he had not mortified mine.

Penelope, Queen Charlotte, Portia, Violet, Kate, Daphne, (basically everyone except Eloise): To be fond of dancing was a certain step towards falling in love.

Penelope, (basically the ton & anyone in London who buys Lady Whistledown): For what do we live, but to make sport for our neighbors, and laugh at them in our turn?

Penelope, Violet, Daphne, Kate, Edwina: Do anything rather than marry without affection.

Violet (to all her children), Penelope (pleading with Marina & Eloise not to do things they plan on doing) Portia & Mary (with life in general): Have a little compassion on my nerves. You tear them to pieces.

Penelope: I certainly have not the talent which some people possess, of conversing easily with those I have never seen before.

Colin (realizing he loves Penelope & only had a boyish infatuation for Marina): Had I been in love, I could not have been more wretchedly blind. But vanity, not love, has been my folly. Pleased with the preference of one, and offended by the neglect of the other, on the very beginning of our aquaintance, I have courted prepossession and ignorance, and driven reason away, where either were concerned. Till this moment I never knew myself.

Kate, Queen Charlotte, Daphne, Penelope, Lady Danbury, Eloise: Now be sincere; did you admire me for my impertinence?

Penelope (to Colin), Queen Charlotte (to anyone groveling successfully before her): It is happy for you that you possess the talent of flattering with delicacy. May I ask whether these pleasing attentions proceed from the impulse of the moment, or are they the result of previous study?

Colin (at Featherington ball about Penelope): She is tolerable; but not handsome enough to tempt me; and I am in no humour at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men.

Daphne (to Simon at dinner before their fake courtship): From the very beginning— from the first moment, I may almost say— of my acquaintance with you, your manners, impressing me with the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the feelings of others… I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry.

Portia: Happiness in marriage is entirely a matter of chance.

Eloise: My good opinion once lost, is lost forever.

Kate: A girl likes to be crossed a little in love now and then.

Anthony: Is not general incivility the very essence of love?

Penelope & Eloise (fighting with each other): There is nothing so bad as parting with one’s friends.

Penelope: There are very few who have heart enough to be really in love without encouragement.

[smilingformoney]

Help, I'm getting such a kick out of reading your fics but then I remembered that I'm in my 20's, I've no money and no prospects. I'm already a burden to my family and I'm frightened. And sadly, I have never been in a relationship.

Alan Rickman is a babe though. Good times! <3

I am uncomfortably close to 30 and I also have no money and no prospects so I make myself feel better by taking various aspects of my personality and turning them into oc/reader characters who Alan’s characters adore and who are also very cool and sexy in order to cope with the fact I do not feel cool or sexy irl 🙂

[alduinlovesyou]

Hiss.

I want to say that I'm looking for work, but I'm always looking for work, and I don't want a ton of pointless advice. Everyone has the solution to all my problems until I explain why it isn't a viable solution at all, then people get resentful for "being picky" or "just not wanting a solution".

I was born disabled/chronically ill, therefore:

I could not finish high school, therefore:

I could not attend any colleges, therefore:

I have not been able to find work for over 20 years.

I don't have a license, nor reliable transportation.

I have a stutter that makes phone work impossible. My family has all but given up because "I'm too lazy to try," and I used to be on disability (USA) but the accompanying health insurance didn't cover any of my care, which resulted in eventually being removed from disability for lack of medical records/proof. If I had remained on disability benefits, I still would have only received $400 a month to live on. I've applied at various fast food places, but the computer systems see a 20+ year employment gap and my application gets immediately tossed out of the system. And nowadays, no, you cannot speak to a human. "I am 36 years old, I have no money, no prospects, I'm already a burden to my parents. And I'm frightened," My options are to lie on applications, potentially getting caught and causing worse problems, or simply continuing with the soul crushing grind of 'content creating' as someone who isn't 135lbs, has DD boobs, and a perfect smile. And a budget to do thousand dollar photoshoots every week. "You'll get lucky eventually," is not a viable career option - and I've been trying to get canadian citizenship for years so I can have access to MAiD, or 'medical assistance in dying', which feels like my only hope if you consider my dignity and quality of life.

[wheels-of-despair]

What You Deserve | Leonard Bast x You | Series Masterlist

Once upon a time, a boy entered a bookshop...

Part Three: Rest Your Eyes Words: 2.1k Date: Friday, December 20, 1912

"I hope he loves it. Have a happy holiday, and do come again!"

Your smile fades as the man shopping for his nephew turns his back on you and heads for the door with a new storybook.

You hate this time of year.

Everyone is far too joyful. People spend money they don't have on things they don't need. And how many bloody wreaths does one city need? It's all too much, and there is no escape from it.

Jimmy, the occasional employee who once had a crush on you, is now terrified of you. He'd held up a sprig of mistletoe between you yesterday and boasted, "look what I found!" You'd smacked it out of his hand and left him wide-eyed and slack-jawed. You suppose you owe him an apology. He didn't know that you hate Christmas. He didn't know that the sight of mistletoe turns your stomach.

He didn't know about Leonard Bast.

No one did.

You'd tried to carry on as usual, but everything felt different after that day. Despite your efforts, people noticed. You suspect that your father had shared his theory that you'd been attacked to your sisters, who no longer teased you about your love of books or lack of romantic prospects. They mostly left you alone now. You'd pretended to be sick last Christmas so that you wouldn't have to see them. You wanted to wallow alone in your shame. Would it work again this year?

You left the counter to dust shelves while there was no one else in the shop. It was nearing the end of the day anyway. No one ever came in at the last minute except for him. And you hadn't seen him in a year.

The bell above the door chimes, and you cast your miserable thoughts aside and force a smile as you turn to greet your customer.

"Good eve--"

Your heart stopped.

He was thinner. His cheeks were hollowed, and there were dark circles beneath his eyes that almost looked like bruises. His jacket was baggier and more frayed than the last time you'd seen it. And it was also wet, thanks to today's drizzle.

You knew you should be angry with him. That you should tell him to get out. But all you wanted to do was wrap him in a blanket and take him upstairs to warm up by the fire. He looked so cold. So miserable.

"I know you don't want to see me. And I'm sorry I've come. But…" He licks his chapped lips before continuing quietly. "I've a favor to ask of you. I know I have no right to. And I'm sorry for that too."

You swallow and try not to cry. "How can I help you today, Mr. Bast?"

He pulls a little leather-bound book from inside his jacket. Once upon a time, you'd thought that giving him this book of poetry, full of notes and underlined passages, would be a romantic way to tell him how you felt about him. Now, the sight of it makes you feel ill.

"I'm… I'm going to a place where I ought not take this. I wondered if you'd keep it for me?"

You stop staring at the book and meet his eyes, which are are pleading and apologetic.

"I'm not trying to sell it back. I just need someone to hold onto it for a little while."

"Why?" you croak.

"I just…" He sighs and starts over. "I was told I ought not take anything valuable or sentimental with me."

"Where are you going, Mr. Bast?"

He hesitates. The clock chimes, and he jumps in surprise, hugging the book to his chest. He looks like a frightened animal. What has the world done to you, Leonard Bast?

"Will you take it?" he asks, holding out the book to you. It's more worn than the day you slipped it into his parcel. His hands shake. You shove aside all the pain you've felt over the past year and make a decision.

"Only if you join me for tea, and tell me what's going on."

"I can't… I should…"

"Mr. Bast."

"Yes?"

"You broke my heart."

He flinches at your words.

"You broke my heart, and then you ran away. And now you've just walked back into my life and asked a favor of me. I think I deserve to know why."

He hangs his head and shifts uncomfortably.

"Will you please join me for tea?" you ask, a little softer this time.

His big brown eyes, which seem even bigger with his face so thin, look very glassy as he nods.

You move to lock the door, and he backs away as if he's afraid to touch you. You move slowly and deliberately as you lead him to your living quarters upstairs.

"Please," you gesture to the chairs by the fire, and he sits in your favorite one uneasily while you put the kettle on. He waits silently while the water boils, fidgeting with the frayed cuff of his jacket. You gather an assortment of food, hoping that he'll eat something, and place a tray in front of him.

He doesn't speak until you're seated across from him, and the tea is steaming on the table between you.

"I'm out of work." He stares at the food, but doesn't take anything. "I was told that my insurance firm was going under, so I took a position at the bank. And then the bank released me. I begged off my sisters for a while, until their husbands found out. Jacky left me for someone who could take care of her. She was right to."

So much for 'for richer and for poorer', you thought bitterly. He looks up, as if he'd heard your thought.

"I've sold everything… except this." He grasps the book you'd given him like he's holding onto it for dear life. "I can't take it with me. Would you please look after it for me? I'll try to come back for it one day. I'll pay you for keeping it safe, if I can."

"Where are you going, Mr. Bast?" you ask again, fearing the answer.

"A workhouse," he admits quietly, speaking to the floor. Your heart drops.

"Surely there's something else you can do?" you ask fearfully. When people go into workhouses, they rarely come out. And if they do, they're not the same. Hasn't he read the same literature on the subject as you?

He shakes his head in defeat, and all the breath leaves your lungs.

A knock at the door temporarily halts your turmoil.

"Excuse me for a moment," you say softly. You gesture to the food on the table. "Please, help yourself."

You cross the room and crack the door to see Jimmy. You'd forgotten he was fixing a wheel on the cart in the storage room. "Everything alright?" he asks.

"Just having tea with an old friend," you tell him in a hushed tone.

"Cart's ready. Need me to stick around?" He's peering over your shoulder, trying to get a glimpse of your guest. You shift into his way.

"No, thank you. You can go home for the night. I'll do the sweeping-up later."

You close the door before he can protest and return to Leonard.

He's eaten a few bites of a pastry and fallen asleep. His head rests against the chair's plush backing like yours often does, when you stop reading to rest your eyes for a minute that turns into an hour. You don't have the heart to wake him. Moving quietly as a mouse, you pick up a blanket and drape it over his sleeping form.

You sit back down to think.

The poor man has nothing. No job, no home, no wife. He is not yet forgiven for leaving out that little detail, but you cannot allow him to enter a workhouse. Leonard Bast is a bright young man with a brilliant brain. He's not built for breaking rocks.

If you can't find somewhere who needs to hire help, you'll hire him yourself. Your father has been longing to get out to the countryside more and breathe the fresh air, perhaps this could be his chance. Yes, Leonard could help you run the shop while your father takes a well-deserved holiday. It was just the two of you living here now, anyhow; your mother was long gone, and both sisters were happily married and living in big boring houses of their own. You could fix up the storage room and let him sleep there. Or would that be too cold? You could sleep in your father's room while he's away and let Leonard take yours. You could cook for him, and watch his cheeks and body fill out as they rediscovered proper nutrients. He could stay here as long as he needed.

The man may have broken your heart, but you would not let the workhouse break the man.

You were at the stove making dinner when he woke. His pale face went red immediately.

"I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to, I'll go, please forg--"

"Would you please fetch two bowls out of that cabinet?" you interrupt, gesturing vaguely in its direction without looking at him. He falls silent and obeys, bringing you the requested dishes.

You spoon hot stew into them as he stands there, confused.

"Take those to the table?" you smile. His brow furrows, but he does as you ask. You follow with a basket of bread and sit at the table. He squirms uncomfortably. "Please have a seat, Mr. Bast."

His eyes dart from you to the food and back again, like it's a trick. It reminds you of that first time you let him browse after the shop closed. You smile and wait for the battle going on inside his head to cease. Finally, he moves slowly toward the table, sitting lightly as if he's not sure he belongs there.

You close your eyes and say a prayer, thanking the Lord for your food, and your shelter, and for an old friend to share them with. When you open your eyes and meet Leonard's, they're brimming with tears.

He needs food more than you need answers, so you drop your eyes to your bowl and take a bite, hoping he'll do the same. He does. The meal passes in a comfortable silence.

He tries to leave again when dinner is done. "Thank you for dinner, although you ought not have been so accommodating after I overstayed my welcome. I should be going now, I've wasted too much of your time already."

"Mr. Bast, I'm not done with you yet."

"You're not?" he asks, taken aback.

"Would you sit with me a while?" You gesture to the chairs by the fire, where he'd slept the evening away. He agrees, and takes his seat.

You sit across from him and stare for a moment, wondering where to begin. The man is a walking tragedy, but you don't want to make him feel like one.

"Mr. Bast, you know that I care for you."

"I don't deserve it," he says quietly.

"You don't deserve the workhouse."

"I do," he whispers tearfully. "It was my own fault. I listened to advice I should not have listened to. I lost my job, I drove Jacky away because I couldn't provide, I drove my family away because I was a beggar and an embarrassment, and I hurt you because I lied. I deserve it."

"Why did you not tell me that you were married?" you ask.

"I wasn't," he admits. "Not really. We told a lie so that we might live together. She had no one else to care for her."

"Did you love her?"

He looks at the carpet and doesn't answer.

"Because I loved you," you confess, your voice cracking.

"I know." He sniffs and reaches for the annotated book of poetry you'd given him a year ago. He opens it to a bookmarked page, skims silently, and closes it. A tear streams down his cheek. "I read it every day. I never stopped thinking of you, even though I had no right to."

You want to dry his tears and hold him. Instead, you wrap your arms around yourself and try not to let your own tears fall.

"I'm sorry," he says, rising from his seat. He deposits the book on the table and steps toward the door.

You're in front of him before you realize you've left your chair. You stand defiantly between him and the door. His eyes are red, tears threatening to fall, lip quivering.

"Please don't leave me again," you beg. "Stay here, we'll find you work. We'll find you a place to stay. We'll figure things out."

"Why would you want to help me, after the way I've hurt you?" he asks pathetically.

"I never stopped thinking of you, either."