#ik this sucks no need to tell me

[kizzyedgelll]

(insp)

[starsandwriting]

Darrien Laurel do you want to go out with me

[ID: Excerpt from Tmagp episode 13: "On the way I made a few phone calls, first to my parents, telling them I never loved them and hoped they died horribly, next I was on the group chat with the lads telling each of them just how many times I'd slept with their partners, even when I hadn't. Then it was on to my socials publically declaring my affiliation with every messed up ideology and psychopath I could find. I ran out of time before I could confess to robbing orphanages to buy drugs but I think I made my point." End ID]

[bueris]

okay maybe I should seriously reconsider my path in life and sell my soul to marketing or journalism instead

[snekdood]

i mean i should probably stop saying shit just to be mean

[voulezloux]

.

[dottie-writes-haikyuu]

The Red Means I’m Drowning (Yet I See No One To Save Me)

Not connected to my apocalypse au. This was written as a vent.

So he was stuck doing it, because he wouldn’t dare tell anyone. He’d just upset them. And himself.

He hated his brain. He hated a lot of things, actually. He hated himself, hated his brain, hated how weak he was, hated how dependent he always seemed to get on the high the pain gave him when he relapsed.

Tw for sh

Akaashi let out a shuddery breath. Doja Cat, of all problematic artists, was blaring in his ears so he couldn’t hear himself. He didn’t want to hear himself. All he wanted was the sight of crimson and the blooms of pain with each pass of the blade.

His phone sat abandoned by his side. His arms tingled with want for attention too. But it was summer, so he couldn’t give them what they wanted. He just hoped the feeling faded with the continuous passes of the blade on his hip. It wasn’t a great place, but he’d been clean for long enough that he couldn’t work up the balls to target his thighs, and he needed a place that shorts would cover. He wouldn’t do much.

He’d texted Bokuto and Kuroo but neither had responded before he’d started and now he wouldn’t dare look. He hadn’t really asked for help, just said something in character for him. Another pass of the blade. He was pressed against his wall, leaning back enough to have a good amount of access, and he could feel how his shoulders flexed against the surface at a particularly deep cut. A smile started to spread across his face. He just wouldn’t tell anyone.

Relapse guilt for him only came when he told someone he’d relapsed. Relapsing itself felt good, each new bit of pain, each cut. And then that begged the question of why he’d ever stopped. He’d stayed clean for a long time. He’d feel bad, if it didn’t feel so good. He put the blade down when he was satisfied, but quickly found that the throbbing pain only made him want more.

So he was stuck doing it, because he wouldn’t dare tell anyone. He’d just upset them. And himself.

Eventually, he got to a point that he could stop and glanced at his phone. He texted Kuroo, Konoha, and Bokuto back. It was as if it had never happened. Yes, he felt a little guilty for not telling them, but he’d feel worse if he did tell them. They’d be worried and upset and they’d be upset with him and they had their own issues. So, he wouldn’t say anything.

He simply sat against his dresser, music blaring in his headphones— not Doja Cat anymore —and scratching at his arms, which were still feeling odd.

He hated his brain. He hated a lot of things, actually. He hated himself, hated his brain, hated how weak he was, hated how dependent he always seemed to get on the high the pain gave him when he relapsed.

He was fine though. It was all fine. He just needed to clean up and calm down. He sat, clawing at the skin of his arms for a while longer, before he got up.

Maybe this was the learned independence that he needed to regain.

The next time, he really was trying to be sensible. But Konoha was busy, Kuroo hadn’t talked to him all day, and Bokuto was upset, himself. So that left Keiji fresh out of options. And he didn’t have self restraint. He tried to, tried to listen to music to calm down, tried distracting himself, but nothing worked. So he queued up his Doja Cat and picked up the blade.

He tossed it across the room two seconds later, raking hands down his face. Why couldn’t he do it this time? All he had to do was make the first cut and then he’d be fine, like always. It would be easier if it were his arms, he was sure. He pulled at his hair. Why couldn’t he do it?

Maybe because he still wanted someone to stop him. But there was no one. So he shouldn’t hold his breath.

He wished he was a better friend. He wished he was better. He hardly ever actually helped when his friends came to him with their problems, even though he said he was someone they could talk to. He wanted to fix the problems, truly, but he just couldn’t. He used to be able to. Maybe he was losing his touch.

Maybe he would soon stop being of use.

Everything was so much. He was so tired. Everything was wrong. Anytime he had a good day, something either ruined it within the same day or came along to ruin it after. Maybe it was a sign. Maybe there was a reason his relationships didn’t last, and why his friends ignored him, and why people used him so much. That was all he was good for, anyway. Maybe he didn’t deserve nice things.

He’d never been great at asking for help. He’d gotten better at it, but he figured he’d used up his quota. So he wouldn’t ask. His more observant friends didn’t ask if he was alright, or if they did, they did it in a way he could— and did —ignore. He didn’t want to bother them. They had their own issues. He would be fine.

Who would care if he relapsed. He wouldn’t tell anyone.

So nobody would know. So it would be fine.

He would be fine. He turned up Doja Cat a little louder, then picked up the blade.

He’d be fine. This was fine.

He was sworn to secrecy, after all. By a blood hungry mouth that, up until yesterday, had never been fed.

[theoreticslut]

It’s been forever since I’ve been on here so I doubt anyone’s out there still but I just need to say this and I can’t say it anywhere else so skip this if you want idc I just need it out of my head & off my chest;

If any of you have been here you might have seen a few posts talking about this girl I like? Well, we were dating. We broke up about three weeks ago and im not doing that great. Especially not rn. I’ve been trying to be okay. I’ve been trying so hard and I’m just not. If it looks like I am it’s only bc I’m pushing it away and ignoring it but I can’t ignore it rn & it hurts so fucking bad. I miss her so much and I just wanna talk to her but I can’t and it sucks. We were going to try to be friends but I fucked it up bc idk when to stop and I hate it. I hate it so much but I can’t hate her. I hate myself honestly when ik I don’t deserve it. I didn’t do anything wrong but I feel like I did and I can’t get past it. I fucked up and I lost her which I’ve been terrified of from the very beginning. I love her but it didn’t work out and I’m not doing well.

[nomaishuttle]

guys remind me to watch la bamba later

[gifti3]

Ik its not real but god damn

[1980ssunflower]

i desperately need ryan kisses rn :-c

[madesofgold]

.

[snekdood]

Quite honestly, i think people just dont like to acknowledge how many times i have been victimized bc it doesnt work for their narrative of the Scary Bad Trans Guy With No Regard For Others And Likes To Kick Puppies And Doesnt Know Real Pain Or Trauma

[iiisilly]

man am i so glad to have the anxiety that makes me nauseous

[autism-corner]

i loove lying to health professionals!!

[watercolor-rainclouds]

what we dont need ai for: art, deepfakes, etc

what we would actually need ai for: identifying certain things (such as spiders) in pictures so we can filter things more effectively even when the tags or caption doesnt say the word "spider"

[nomairuins]

and also it doesnt even matter if i miraculously get a job tmrw bc we don't have a car . and im too out of shape to walk anywhere bc everything is far away . so i genuinely dont jnow what to do