#i just think spite deserves to cause more problems than ive seen people giving him is all

[maythedreadwolftakeyou]

Hi! Cause you forced me to acknowledge how many damn WIPs I have (rude) I shall now send you an ask about yours 😌 So I'm gonna be super shameless and predictable and ask about that one Spite Lucanis x Rook fic I spy in there 👀👀👀

from this tumblr game thank you!! :)

ahahahaha well. this was indeed a character exploration about Spite's involvement in Rook/Lucanis' relationship but uhhhhhhh taken to the logical and less favorable conclusion than i have seen in fanfic so far, hence the word "interruption" in the title 😂 posting a longer snippet because... really i've just been writing random scenes for their relationship and am not sure if/when/how i will structure it into fanfic yet (handful of one shots? a longer thing? i am so low on free time though 😭 idk)

timing is after the romance lock-in but before the act 3 romance scene, so Rook & Lucanis are together as a couple but haven't slept together yet... though they may have been heading that way before Spite decided to get involved. under a readmore for length!

STOP, Spite suddenly roars, surging forward from the back of Lucanis’ awareness. The demon’s wings burst forth, their first downward stroke hard enough that it sends him reeling backwards, away from Rook. “What?” he cries, and “—what?” Rook echoes in sudden alarm, as their bodies tumble apart, Lucanis barely managing to throw out an arm to brace his fall as he crashes to the stone floor of the pantry. His feet tangle in his discarded waistcoat and trousers as he leaps back to his feet, nearly sending him to the floor for a second time.

He looks around wildly, for the attackers or whoever else is responsible for Spite’s sudden disquiet. But there is no one. No demons, no Antaam pulled into the Fade, not even one of their companions wandering too close on accident. He fumbles at the table for one of his knives anyway, trying to listen, to figure out where the danger is coming from. “What’s going on? Spite, what happened?!”  There, Spite says, all calm satisfaction now. If you kept going. She would have come. Now she wants more. “She—excuse me? Spite, what are you talking about?” Lucanis demands. She will think about you all night now, the demon replies happily. If you kept going. It would have been over. “I—why would you do that?! That’s not how it works!” “What’s he saying? What’s going on?” Rook stands in front of the bed, frantically staring around too, searching for enemies that clearly never existed. Her hair is still rumpled from where his hands had tangled in it, her breaths still coming fast and heavy.  He cannot believe he has to not only sit here, disgraced and ashamed, but he is left alone in actually explaining what’s happened. “Mierda. He did it on purpose. He thinks it’s—fun. To stop us.” He presses a hand over his eyes, taking a deep breath. “Spite—ohhh. Oh.” “I’m going to kill him,” Lucanis says flatly. “I’m going to take myself out back and—” I’m RIGHT, Spite howls in defiance, baring his teeth inches from Lucanis’ face. Despite himself, he flinches back. You wanted. Her to think about you. MORE! “No, stop that, it’s fine,” Rook tries to soothe him, her hands scrabbling to re-fasten her tunic around her waist. As though this catastrophe is something she can just brush off. “I guess we should figure out, uh, how Spite—how you and he—” “I can’t talk about this,” he mutters into his palm as he drags his hand down his face, dropping to sit back down on the cot again.. “This is not happening.” He knew Spite was a part of him. He was resigned to his presence, was growing used to the new precautions his life involved. He even, though he hated to admit it to himself, enjoyed the extra momentum and power the demon brought when they fought against enemies. What he hadn’t considered was the demon barging into the personal, intimate—   You did it BEFORE, the demon sulks. And it WORKED. She wanted to kiss you more because you stopped. “That was different,” he snaps in response. He ignores Rook’s baffled expression at his half of the conversation.  “I mean—he is Spite,” I guess, Rook acknowledges. “Uh, maybe I should leave you two to talk about this together?”

Panic surges in his chest, as he bites back his urge to shout No! at the suggestion. But she doesn’t deserve to half-witness the mess of the argument he’s already having. He was an idiot. He should never have assumed something might be going right in his life for once. “I don’t even know what to say to him,” he can’t help saying in exasperation. “He doesn’t listen, just does—whatever he wants.” What YOU wanted! You SAID it! I was only HELPING. “Well. You said you didn’t have much experience with, um, relationships—” “I don’t think this counts as the kind of experience anyone has, Rook,” Lucanis responds, dropping his head into his hands again, elbows resting on his knees. “I can’t exactly stop him from—he sees what I see. What I… feel.” Admitting it fills him with shame. He should have told her before this. Whether or not she’s guessed, there’s no avoiding it now, or pretending anything in his life could ever again be normal. Simple.  “No, I just meant—maybe try to explain it to him, is all.” Rook sighs, and he can hear the shift of fabric over skin as she tugs her clothing back into place. He wonders if she can see the bright flush of shame to his skin behind his hands. “He’s only got your memories for how to interpret the world,” she continues. “Maybe he… misunderstood something.” He doesn’t want to tell her that Spite probably understood more than he did himself. Lucanis certainly hadn’t realized just how close she’d been to—he shakes his head to clear away the thought.  “You two will figure this out,” Rook says, with a firm conviction he does not mirror. She leans forward and kisses the top of his head, but he can’t bring himself to raise his face to meet her gaze. “I’ll see you at dinner later.” He hears her soft footsteps pad to the door, and slip away, out of the kitchen and back to the other parts of the Lighthouse. Maybe if he never leaves the pantry, he won’t ever have to think about this again. Maybe she’ll forget the whole thing ever happened.  Won’t forget, Spite cackles gleefully. Definitely. Won’t forget.

[elsa-fogen]

hi ! i have a question, i was wondering something when it comes to your 'breakfast au'. ive read through a lot of this, and ive seen you and multiple other people state velvette "deserves" this? that just confused me in general, because out of all the people in the show, velvette probably has done the least amount of bad things. so how would she deserve this? i saw a few people saying its because of the love potion thing she collaborated with valentino on, but i dont really think thats a valid point. given it states in the wiki that its unconfirmed what that actually was. (ill send an image of where it says this.) it couldve been anything. and given velvettes line of work, (fashion, social media) id assume itd be some sort of perfume made to be taken orally. like perhaps a pheromone perfume which ive seen is commonly promoted by influencers, or just these types of people in general.

the next point i saw was somebody saying shes a narcissist? which, she really isnt. if you do any research on npd you could see that. velvette is shown to be confident, maybe even egotistical. she acts like a confident teenager would. she doesnt have npd.

ive seen people say she deserves this type of thing because shes friends with the vees..? which honestly would make no sense. so far in the show, shes shown to only really speak to vox. (which isnt bad, given vox hasnt exactly done anything big and bad like say alastor or valentino, or hell, even sir pentious' crimes.) everytime shes really talked about valentino, its been in a bad way. shes shown to not like him. so its not like those two are best friends or even anything more than business associates from what ive seen??

anywho, i was just a bit confused. i was also a bit confused on alastors behavior aswell. while yes, hes a horrible person, yes he eats people, YES he would do something like this; he has no reason to with velvette. he gains nothing from this. so whats the point of him doing it?? its not to spite vox, given alastor is shown in the show, not to give too fucks about vox 😭

I personally said that she deserved it only to spite that hater, i should've clarify that 😅

Alastor gets to mess with Vox and to make HIM suffer from screams (Valentino comes as a bonus). He GIVEs fucks about Vox tho, maybe not as much as the said TV man, but still. He spills the tea about Vox asking him to join the Vees, and does so clearly to humiliate him. The way he tells about it implies that. so he WOULD spite Vox if he had a chance that wouldn't take too much effort.

but still, Velvette isn't innocent. she's in hell and it has to be for a reason. she joined the Vees which indicates that she supports their activities. Velvette had no problem with Val killing her models except that it causes troubles to her show.

about Vox, he's also fucked up. And maybe he isn't killing people left ang right, he does many bad things, like hypnotizing people, stalkering and so on. He supports Valentino's attitude too. He knows what Val does to Angel and doesn't give a fuck.

Problem here is that you only count things shown on screen. While characters have life outside of it. And for now we've seen only Val being a horrible person. Bonus points that he's being mean to the chracter we know and love. Other Vees didn't get the time to show their fuckedupness. I know for a fact that in season 2 we'll get at least Vox' fucked up side. and, hopefully, Velvette's too, and people will finally stop thinking that they're poor little meow meows that ended up under bad Valentino's influence.

Also, as i was saying in the first post about this AU - Velvette really shouldn't have said that the can eat other overlords for breakfast (au namedrop!!!) in front if 2 real cannibals. They took that personal.

[astromechs]

slipped away into a moment in time ('cause it was never mine)

taylor swift made me do it. expect more, because the entire folklore album was basically angst fodder.

also on ao3!

i.

All things considered, Gamora has been through worse. Fought through worse.

There’s a lot of blood, but the gash across her thigh, courtesy of one of Annihilus’s minions, isn’t terribly deep ��� no exposed bone, nothing that would suggest any long-term damage. Still, though, when the Front has made its retreat to the makeshift camp and the wounded are being ushered into a medical shelter, when the skies clear over this rocky planet she’s already forgotten the name of, when the surroundings are quiet and there’s no longer a fight to focus on, a spasm of pain seizes her entire leg when it bears weight, and for a second, just one split-second, she winces.

You know what happens when you show weakness, Gamora. The voice of Thanos in her head, right on cue. That voice is right, of course; she knows what happens next, knows that it’s a mistake that’ll cost her.

Instantly, her hand reaches for the hilt of her sword, hanging on her hip; if someone’s coming to take advantage of that weakness, she’ll be ready for them. She’ll be ready for anything.

“Hey. You okay?”

Except, maybe, for this.

It’s not that she hadn’t heard Richard Rider, Nova Prime, Commander of the United Front, coming; that man doesn’t have a subtle bone in his body, and his steps would’ve likely been noticeable from several clicks away. He could never sneak up on her, but — something about him always seems to throw her off balance. Something about the perpetual kindness in his eyes, even through the worst of this war. Something about the gentle tone of his voice, a stark contrast to the power he holds in his hands.

No one like him has ever existed in her reality, and even now, months after joining a war effort that seems more destined to lose by the day, she still doesn’t know what to make of… any of it.

Her hand drops back down by her side, and she’s the picture of perfectly cool, even, with the requisite: “It’s nothing.”

She doesn’t quite see it under his helmet, but it’s obvious from the expression on his face that he’s raising a skeptical eyebrow. He’s a lot smarter than she’d initially given him credit for; maybe strategy isn’t his strength, no, but he knows those working under him, every single one — by name, by capability, by his own keen intuition that alerts him to anything that might be amiss.

There’s no getting past him. She knows in the instant before he says, “Doesn’t seem like nothing. You should go to medical.”

His voice isn’t chiding — just genuinely concerned. Again, she feels the ground shift under her feet; again, she feels so unsteady she could topple over. Instead, though, she swallows down a strange lump forming in her throat, hating the way her own voice sounds more strained than it should when she insists, “I’ll be fine.”

The conversation should end there; she owes him nothing more. But something tugs in her, prompts her to offer one useful piece of wisdom, perhaps in some attempt at equivalent exchange:

“Kindness will get you killed one day, Richard Rider.”

Then, she turns on her heel and leaves without another word, head held high, doing her best to ignore the limp in her steps.

ii.

He’s been staring aimlessly out the flagship’s viewport for hours.

She hasn’t been keeping track, not really; she’s purely exhausted her need for sleep on this particular night cycle, and in all the times she’s wandered by, he hasn’t moved, not even the arms folded across his chest. Nothing’s coming for them in this stretch of space, so any effort to keep vigil is pointless at best.

But she knows this isn’t that. Even if in this war, they’ve been handed nothing but defeat, Richard takes every single one of them hard, personally shoulders the weight of every life lost under his command. It’s a risky quality to have in a leader, and she’s still certain in what she’d told him before. Still certain that, one day, kindness will kill him. Break him.

She doesn’t want to see it happen.

Instead of moving on, she stops. Watches him for a moment longer, eyes lingering, before crossing the floor to stand next to him. If he’s heard her approach, he doesn’t acknowledge it, and so, for a time, she lets the silence hang in the air between them. Until —

“People die. This is war.” Her voice isn’t cold when she says it, nor is it any semblance of gentle or comforting, because she’d never been built for that; it simply is, another piece of factual wisdom that she’s trying to impart.

He exhales a long breath, and when he turns to look at her finally, expression haggard, he looks much older than anyone as young as him has a right to. “I know.”

Perhaps it’s that, above all, that tugs at something deep in her core, past years of hard-learned truths and carefully constructed armor; it aches in her chest, this sudden thought that maybe, in some ways, they’re not so different.

A hand reaches for one of his, winding their fingers together.

After a beat, he squeezes back.

iii.

Gamora gives him whatever small pieces of inconsequentials that she’s capable of giving. She gives him her nights, saves a spot for him in her bed. Gives him release from the pressure he threatens to crack under some days, gives him just one place where he doesn’t have to make all the calls.

Sometimes, she gives him an extra hour of the sleep that’s so difficult for him to find.

Already, she’s declined four pings on his comm this morning, but sooner or later, someone will come looking for him. He’s important, after all. And he would be angry at himself over missed duties.

“Richard-Human.” Her hand reaches for his forehead, gently brushes the hair from his forehead.

At that, one bleary eye opens to peer at her, followed by another. His hair is sticking up in all directions on the pillow, and he looks completely ridiculous. “Hey,” he says, raspy but soft.

His smile, though, lopsided as it cracks his face — his smile is bright enough to light up a star.

She thinks she could burn under the force of it, because for someone who’s spent most of her life in the dark, it’s almost too much to bear. The eye contact certainly is in this moment; her gaze drops, fixating on the tangled sheets that still cover them both. Time’s ticking on these moments she’s stolen, she knows — this thing they have, whatever it is, can only live in a warzone, and if they both make it out of this alive, he’ll go on to a life that certainly doesn’t include her. That’s what he deserves. What….

Fingers brush the lines of her jaw, graze over the skin of her face, and pull her out of her thoughts. Bring her eyes back up to meet his. She drifts closer, ever closer, until their lips meet and everything else fades away.

She lets herself have this.

For now.

iv.

The Kree prisoners fall under her sword. Their deaths are quick under barely more than a single stroke; their blood rains down, soaks the ground below.

If you find nothing useful, her teachings would tell her, wipe them out.

By them, she had done well.

She wipes the blade and sheaths it, steps delicately over a body that’s still warm. And —

Meets a pair of eyes that she’d never wanted to disappoint, their cold stare cutting through her like daggers.

It’d only been a matter of time. She’s so skilled in exploiting limits that it’s practically reflex to her; sooner or later, she’d have found the limits of his affection, his naive faith in her, too.

She’ll never see those eyes again. She’s sure of it.

v.

The first thing she thinks is that she feels — empty. Cold.

It’s a feeling she’s far from a stranger to. For years, it’s been her constant companion as she’s drifted, from one planet to the next, one galaxy to the next, between wars fought for causes and jobs taken for nothing at all, looking for something that’s long eluded her: purpose. Richard had been imbued with it every single day like it’d been effortless, conviction burning brighter than the force of a star that had propelled him — and she’d wanted that, more than anything, wanted to experience even just a fraction of what that could feel like.

Eventually, she had found it, buzzing through her veins with every directive from the Phalanx. Purpose. As part of a whole, part of something beyond herself, she could keep moving forward on a clear path with a set destination; weeds like guilt and regret had withered, making everything… blissfully uncomplicated.

And now it’s gone. It’s gone, and all she feels is cold.

They’re cured, Richard says, with his particular brand of bright-eyed earnestness, like all the universe’s problems are fixed, just like that, but it isn’t a solution at all. It puts her right back where she flarking started, and she’s — she’s tired, down to her cybernetic bones. Tomorrow, she’ll have to start drifting again.

But today, with his steady hands there to pick up the pieces, she allows herself to break.

It’s as ugly as she is inside, full of ragged breaths and stumbling words, full of the kind of weakness that would get someone killed. She hates it, she hates this entire situation — and she hates herself most of all.

But in spite of everything, in spite of the fact that not an hour ago, she’d been ready to kill him, blade pointed at his throat, he doesn’t waiver. She doesn’t deserve anything that this man doesn’t hesitate or question giving — not his comfort, not his acceptance. Doesn’t deserve to be anywhere near the presence of someone so unfailingly kind and good.

“It’s gonna be okay,” he says into her hair, both arms wrapped tightly around her as he pulls her close to his chest.

Foolishly, she doesn’t fight it. But what’s most foolish of all is that in the warmth of his embrace, she almost lets herself believe him.

coda.

She hasn’t cried in decades; Thanos had firmly seen to that. Tears had been considered a weakness, and like every other she’d once carried, they’d been removed under the cut of a knife, her back strapped to a table, screams so long-buried that they hadn’t even attempted to rise to her throat. Several times since, in the private silence of cold nights, she’s waited, head bowed, for some kind of reminder that she can still feel, that she lives and breathes beyond being someone’s object.

But even if she could cry, could let tears cloud her vision and allow for some kind of release for the heaviness in her chest, she doesn’t think she would now.

There’s no point in crying over what she’s long known to be inevitable.

When her passport activates and the Cancerverse fades from view, when the familiar sights and sounds of Knowhere fill her senses once again, she doesn’t even get angry. There’s no point in that, either, she thinks.

Hope is fleeting, a flower that can sometimes manage to grow even in the hardest and driest of dirt — but it will always get crushed out of existence. Light can never overtake the dark; this is the way of things.

Richard Rider’s days have always been numbered; a light that brilliant could’ve never stayed.

The universe returns to balance.

[castlehead]

makeshift feels from the opinion lab

kafka wrote in a journal urhmherm of being limited to prague, then his room, then his bed, then nothing at all. to be limited at last to nothing at all. well. turns out i guess the most kafkaesque sentiment came from franz kafka.

enjoi ya rickety gethsemane while it is still to be dreamed, young writers, young writers of youth.

after a job on a hot day back in april or may or something i started listening to this while walking out of the truck towards the gas station convenience store and abruptly pivoted away from the sliding doors to sneak around the side and weep near the green fencing around some boilers. it occurred to me how little i could ever forgive myself for doing.

the shit ive done, all of it, i havent forgiven myself. if i did it and it was bad, or even meagre, dumb, really no big deal, bet yr ass it still keeps me from thinking i deserve happiness. i do not forgive myself for anything ive ever done. no deed is too temporal to etch itself cleanly into my head as something unforgivable, if only it makes a small point.

i know this is true because no joy i ever feel is felt fully, because i do not think it is deserved; and because i allow myself to be joyous only when i think of the truth of my unforgiven, unforgivable state. never to be. Never will.

and that is what is depression.

There must be something here, in me. Here where the jackals caterwAul Like streetcats Mewing their gizzard After this night’s heat, What’ll it be Jackals, Buzz off, shit man

i feel like the key to life is knowing that 90 percent of anxiety & depression, either in degree or in its truth, and at least somewhere not wracked by war, is unsubstantiated (the ten percent being actual crises, like fear of violence, a death in the family, etc). The problem is how persuasive these feelings can be that lead to the fulfillment of the very fear or solidifying the reason for being depressed. But with positive feelings, the least thing, whether true or no, can always be rewarding. A bit of happiness must be allowed to be felt, indiscriminately, because it is more useful to us than a bit of sadness. Take the fierce dialectic u use to establish a depressing ‘truth’ and persuade yourself of something good. If one is far fetched, let it be the something bad. Until it happens, after all, all of it remains in your head, to do with what u will.

You don’t get to lower taxes on the rich and gut social services at the same time. The reason social services are in place is to provide a fair shake for john q public. Mostly investors are feeling the benefits of the corporate tax cut. They’re not giving the money towards a better product that would help the people. but one day there will be no sesame seeds on the bun of yr Big Mac and you’ll wonder how that’s possible with an entire sesame seed dept that just got a pay raise.

tax reform should be done to help a free market, so that the rich can be poor and the poor rich. Taxation helps the people so that social services become less necessary. Social services were developed because the percentage of taxation was unequal between higher and lower class. Poor folks felt the pain while rich folks shrugged it off.

Thats why I say you can’t do both: social services are a protection against the world being entirely controlled, if it’s not already, by those from the very swamp this president wants to drain. T**** hasn’t drained shit.

i feel like writing takes over for your thought process. You can’t think and write at the same time, or something. something turns off or it switches where it’s doing the shit it’s doing to a different place, like yr hands. I don’t think you can write down one linear thought with another thought being thought in your head. This is why people say their mind goes blank in extended periods of inspiration. The functioning has gone from being untethered and temporal, ie wandering thoughts, notions, speculating, to being possessed in a focused place, ie yr hands, which usually leads to a more focused expression of perhaps a thought of particular value, enough in the first place to require writing down. But tho this can be easy for some talented people, who might, as Joyce said, polish their nails while writing some genius thing, what does not come easy for anybody, because it is imposssible, is thinking two disparate things, of the everyday and of some behemoth philosophic concept, for example, without either one taken place after or before; or, one of them being intermittently disturbed, tho linearly, by the other, like a notification on yr phone- until at last one of the two breaks down, and the foxus superseded by the one left. This is especially novel. One thinks; one does not think and also think. That would make it two people in one head. Therefore we can presume that ones identity is found in the unity, or internal focus, of their story in thoughts down one narrow wire: thought can cross many paths and examine everything under and beyond th sun, but per person it is still in the singular. It cannot divide into two simultaneous paths of equal focus. there can be multilayered thoughts with a similar core concept behind them, and these can be thought simultaneously as much as one can ante up and dole out shades of emotion and shades of thought, and so on. But I cannot think of a teleological explanation for all creation and with the same focus Apply myself to letters in the mail. There is a dominant voice, and the rest, the mundane voice, is seen thru that lens.

ya cant say yr colorblind then gripe about people hatin ya cuz u r white. contradiction of terms no? if you really didnt see color, ud say people hated yr ass because yr a damnfool entrylevel, grunt-ass lowbrow. not because of the color of ya skin, which ya recognized and put to the forefront in making that very statement.

feel like uh, a priori is not intuition alone. Intuition is a function of the mind, while a priori is, if I understand Kant correctly, a representation synthesized before there is an object of focus available for the senses to interpret, ie an essentially true conclusion drawn, that has no need for a combined manifold, as, Kant tells us, is offered by merely living in space and time: time to extend and progress from cause to effect to cause, and space to do it in. In other words, intuition is cognitive- psychological, and a priori, theoretical- logical.

Pathos is the one thing most divine about people, for i see that in my worst state I can still grieve for the savaging of life’s last hope, and be uplifted, feel tears, at least for a little blessed while. There is no state so low that does not inspire one to at least pity themselves, and feel the comfort of passions, however mistaken or wretched the person.

i feel that / Some subjects do not even allow to be proved through the scientific method, yet they are still issues of a scientific nature and not just mysticism. the line is very thin however, since usually these subjects devolve into mysticism. In fact, if science only worked with that which could be proven, from the outset or otherwise, we’d have a pretty limited roster of discoveries. Sometimes discoveries can be made along the way towards proving; sometimes, discoveries can be made, scientifically, thru means that for lack of anything better, are entirely theoretical. And sometimes the search is not to prove something true but to clarify something. Science is not out to be incontrovertible.

The man in mismatched sox inhaled not as deeply as he would have liked at such a crescendo, even if on the third listen in a row, then, looked up at the massive pure blue upwards, cloudless, felt likely to cry for joy, but in the end simply mouthed the words:

“I’m gonna die of loneliness, fo sho.”

So often doth trespass our intuition upon realms and pathways of a more intimate enumeration of cause and effect than could be available to any witness, and that is available only to the actioning of objects involved in the event seen and analyzed by what and who were no player.

The crisis paid goodbyes in the form of telling your ass off, is what he said. But we all knew he thought he was merely a parable often enough already. We didn’t listen to the crisis, deliberately shut our ears like boxing them very slowly ourselves before anyone else could. Later in the year many terrible events would occur that were the direct result of ignoring his words. But nobody came around to believing he did it. The crisis was way off teaching prophecies someplace probably foreign. But if I refuse to be confined to learning from my own folly I should at least give the follies of others a chance. Fatass karma, and more hell than handbasket.

What the crisis he said was

HEY YOU DONT WANT TO FACE JACK, FACE? TELL ME ABOUT HOW CRUELTY CAN BE ELEGANT AGAIN. YOU ARE FACING NO SUCH BURDEN OF SIMPLY LIVING. TELL ME WHAT HALLUCINATIONS ARE, YOU SWOLLEN, DYSPEPTIC SHIT.

And to this day All I remember is him Looking slain already Like he’d be on the slab In days Or even hundreds of years from then And it’d be how, uh, how He looked then Slamming the door While my sister and things Was gatherin they buckets for weeping later In that queer disease of spite where You grieve for the vanquished enemy.

all triumph is in some sense humorous, for in itself triumph is the opposite of tragedy. that is why the soldier laughs as he shoots at a retreating enemy. there is an element of rowdiness that is somewhat comedic, taken in itself.

Numbers are the only symbols that stand for what they are. In this way they are more like hieroglyphs

is bed porn a thing? it should definitely be a thing.

THIS LIFE IS FILLED WITH DARKNESS THIS DARKNESS IS SO LIGHT GOD IN HEAVEN QUA SKY MUST BEAT WINGS TO KEEP ON GROUND NOTHING MUCH IS EVER FOUND NOTHING MUCH IS EVER FOUND. No symbols where none intended etc etc

No art is permanent, in that its aims in being created do not last, do not translate between epochs. I will never experience Homer as one living in Ancient Greece. Have not closely read Homer, but when I do it will be as myself in my time, with all the sullying context of those years from then to now only left to unguide me.

Kierkegaard tricks you into thinking he knows his insanity is illogical, the side effect of writing his labyrinths. The frightening moment comes when you realize how fiercely logical his insanity seems to him, and how insane the World actually is, and you wonder if it is that you do not understand it or just do not accept it.

[rockinem777]

Is this isn't even 30% of my life's fucking tragity & I still have the heart to do good for people and love like y'all are bitch made fr

I have been through so much fucking bullshit and deception and straight betrayals are an understatement to everything I have been through. I've lost my best friend. I have walked away from people I loved. I have let a grown man take advantage of everything in me he could and leave me with nothing but hate for myself. My best friend in high school wrote the first statement on me. My fiance in West Virginia has given up on me. I have never met anyone as solid as me. My best friend Kat Lynn fucking dumb fake ass bitch. She's causes a world of problems. Never did I once say a bad thing about her. My parents know I'm dying. They don't give a fuck. My dog is dying. Like lemme make it real fucking clear for you who doesn't seem to know who the fuck I am and wtf I've been through. I got my TBI cause I jumped out of a car cause the mfer told me I wouldn't. Well let me make it more realistic. My first love and I were fighting and his dad made me go home. In the car I wanted to jump out. He said I wouldn't and long story short I opened the door and the brakes through me out the door 55Mph I landed on my skull. I was unconscious for 9 days. I had to learn how to talk again. Like all for that first love of mine to leave as soon as I got out the hospital. All I had to talk to was myself. And that's just the beginning. I was suicidal then I'm suicidal now. I've lost every friend on my way here because they're fake liars back stabbers ect. My only friend Melanie Wade is who I could talk to. I used to watch her son and talk to her for days. She really understand me. She got shot in the head years ago. She was like my second mom. I talked and seen her more than my real mom. I ain't been the same since. My GMA and GPA knew I was gonna be homeless or kicked out of something when I was 16. They didn't let me stay at their house. Neither did my brother. The amount of times I've been beaten and thrown out this fucking house is an ungodly sin. And I don't want your fucking pity. The only reason I get to stay here now is cause I gave my mom a 75 thousand dollar check which I get 100 dollars a week of which she Hates to come up off of. which if I would have kept I bet you money id be dead. Ive moved out on my own with bfs and to drug houses like 5 times. 7th Street. Port republic. 10th St shout out to that nigga that gave me this fucking MRSA Gary lmao (this was the first house I was 16) scottsville. Norfolk. Like my first bf that was a mess. 4 years down the drain. IDK EHAT LOVE IS. 2nd bf my best friend at the time for years the only reason I dated that mfer is cause he would beg me for years so I figured id try. He ended up abusive. He ended up crazy. I ended up running out his house bleeding from stepping on the broken glass omw out walking from 7th to 250 near step-n-out. No phone. I got home cause that mfer came and got me and took me home no let him cause he promised I could go home. He used to refuse to let me leave. Throw me back into the house into the bedroom. Me and his son ooo malakii used to sleep and cuddle and rainy nights were the best with that amazing 5year old boy. Not that I know him anymore but whatever. Then we got that last one lmao wtf happened with that. Like fuck my life he told me I would see that none ofbthose mfers gaf about me and I guess I wanted to prove him wrong about a couple months ago when I lost all hope and I've became manically depressed I got a lisence plate that said, "told ya" like thanks. Soooo let's begiin on me being claimed by the KKK and forever fucking slave to some one or guy idk how it works tbh. Better than being sex trafficed right? I guess so. Like Garrette bar was the funniest and most loyal friend you could ask for and its a damn fucking shame he took his life over that fucking dumb whore cause she's the definition of vindictive and spiteful and evil. Hell yeah I love live blah blah blah loves you dillan I miss you. I should've ditched and went to hburg that nughtbeih you. Instead I've been having my hair pulled and legit hit and smacked around and screamed at by this mistake of a ex boyfriend John micheal which this should have been awarded with best human pickier me. Cause obviously I know how to pick the worse fucking ones cause up until today. I thought he loved me. I thought I could make it work. And tbh it was my last hope. He was my last hope and here we fucking are and fr I took 50 sleeping pills the other night and novlie he walked out on me and was clueless until he was dragging me around me bed by my hair and head calling me a bitch 2 days later for asking him "what he problem was now" in my sleep but he legit says I deserve it. He's called me a bitch twice today and oh yeah he pushed me off my bed into my closet which I like flew but anyway I smacked my head on the closet. And he watched me lay there for about an hour holding my head not saying a word. While he just got rude and acted like a douche. But then he picked me up off the floor and left me on the bed to tell me he was gonna leave me. Then I was ignoring him of course idk what to say cause obviously after forcing my hands off my ears while he screamed hateful shit into my ears 2xs he still grabbed me by my head and hair on my bed after throwing me ect and called me a bitch and told me about how his cousin is gonna come get him. So long story short I'm not trying to fix shit and he's laying on my floor saying he don't want me and blah blah blah long story short I wish I never fucking met the guy he popped my cherry. I hate myself for letting him docthisnto me if I could go back in time and never meet him. I would. I hate him. Up until today I swear I loved this mfer so much. Like I thought it was meant to be. Like omg if you don't want to be here anymore 😭 but I wish I was dead. But yeah but fr the way I let him treat me is disgraceful and I'm having a hard time forgiving myself for allowing it and like I'm not sure if that isn't the only reason I stayed this long like I was trying to vouch for myself for chasing after a man 2xs my age who was clearly just getting more abusive and mean and shamelessly more selfish by the day. Anyway I don't know what you think of me and I don't give a fuck honestly cause your fucking retarded if you don't know who the fuck has put in so much work and gave up so much fucking of my entire fucking life for the credit and adoration I receive. And no I don't ever remember the bad times. I have so many compressed memories. Like dude getting teeth taken out and getting brutally beat up and bitten and raped like and almost trafficed but I escaped. Like but fr I don't have a bone in my fucking body that has I'll intent for anyone. Always look for the helpful way. Always help who needs to be helped. Always there for people. I'm a good fucking person. Probably better than you. And I'm no longer interested in the position I think I had. I give people clothes and feed them and take care of who needs it. I'm a 100% spectacular human being and I'd be a jealous fucking asshole too if I had half the fucking mind to be as cruel hateful mean and selfish as almost everyone else around me seems to have.