#journal entry 2

[ladybugjournal]

Why "Ladybug"

I ask myself "why Ladybug?" far too often. But why the name? Because it's what my father called me. The story is pretty simple.

Back home, in a far away place where I no longer am and at a house which I will probably never return, there was a backyard. This backyard was not just a backyard, it was a sanctuary, a play ground, the home of my imagination. That backyard was bigger than the entire world, it was the entire world, at least it sure felt like it to a tiny little Ladybug.

The backyard had three main realms: The Deck, the Field, and the Left Side.

From the sliding glass door that brought you from the dining room to the backyard, the deck was straight in front. It was probably the biggest part of the backyard, mainly because it was also part of the patio. My parents built the deck that stayed up for over twenty years. There was a secret trapped door in the deck, certain boards squeaked and bounced, and the grey wood they built it with was a perfect canvas for my chalk. I spent many summers camped out on that deck, building a tent made of blankets with the railings and heavy mental patio furniture. I had lunch out there with the neighbor kids, slept under the stars with my best friend (who was possibly one of the first people I ever loved but also one of the first boys to break my heart), and sat out there when my parents locked me out of the house (on accident... probably).

The deck was always special. It looked like a stage (and I made it my stage often). I could see it from my bedroom window and could hear the conversations happening out there when I was hiding away. Parties were spent out on that deck. Pictures taken, games played, memories made. It was a good deck.

To the left of the deck, a realm deemed "The Left Side" was a flat terrain were the gravel and grass were separated by the River of Stones. It was home to my Blue Sky Castle (a treehouse/swing set my parents built for me), and was were the River of Stones (a lava rock path where my mother kept her painted stepping stones) was the barrier between the "backyard" and the side of the house where the shed and side entrance to the garage was. I never spent much time on the gravel, mainly because that's where my father kept his tools and there were usually a bunch of spiderwebs there. Plus, it's where my childhood family dog used to shit and I didn't want to step in it.

Just past my Castle, and beyond the tiny trees my mother planted, was the entrance to the "Underworld" a secret 4th realm that was a trench that spread along the back fence from one end of the yard to the other, and the underside of the deck. Under the deck wasn't very full, there was a broken hammock, random popped pool floaties that got stuck under there, a forgotten ball or two, and some plumbing or electrical accesses that my father sometimes had to get to (hence the trap door in the deck). It was scary under there for a tiny ladybug who's nightmares felt far more real than her dreams. It's where the monsters lived, where the bodies were buried, and where I wasn't allowed to go (I went anyway, obviously).

To the right of the deck was the field. It wasn't actually a field, just a larger section of grass that led off to the swamp behind our house. A broken fence came to an acute triangle separating us from the marsh where the toads lived and the trees grew high, swaying in storms and threatening to fall on our house (hence the broken fence). The field ran from the gate on the side of the house, past the broken and rotting gazebo, past the newly built but sinking pool deck, past the garden and down to the triangle.

The field was important because of a small path of wood that wound from the side of the house all the way to the bushes that separated the yard from the drop off. That little path of wood was where the ladybugs were march.

Looking back, we may have had a nest or something near by, maybe an infestation that had to be taken care of, but for a little ladybug like myself, it wasn't for me to worry about. All I had to worry about was watching them march. It seemed, at the time, like there were hundreds of these ladybugs marching one by one on this little wooden path. I was mesmerized by millions of black dots on red bodies, tiny legs making the long hall from somewhere near the gate all the way to the bushes. Families of ladybugs marched, dutifully back to their home under my supervision.

I used to watch them for what felt like hours, but really, could have hours or minutes (I didn't have a good concept of time at that age). My father would watch me, sometimes my grandmother, sometimes no one, while I watched the ladybug march.

After this became a habit, my father, who like my mother, has never actually called me by my given name always preferring to call me by one of the many, many, nicknames they came up for me, deemed me his little ladybug. It was fitting because I too was small and red (I'm a ginger) and had little dots (I have freckles).

It's the nickname I most identify with, it's the nickname that means the most to me, and it's the nickname that I'm most referred to as.

So long story short, that's why "Ladybug".

[anatomic-adoration]

6/25/23

Finished work early today so I decided to head back to the coffee shop. It was fairly uneventful, but as I was getting near I saw a familiar face.

Just across the street there's a flower shop. They're normally not my thing- when I take plants home I'm condemning the poor things to a death sentence- but that guy from the other day was there! Upon closer inspection, I could just make out that he was wearing a green apron. Does he work there? I shouldn't be surprised, he's obviously a very gentle person. Maybe that's why he dresses that way, as a form of protection? Seems silly, considering his size. He's definitely over six feet(!), but it's hard to gauge just how much from a distance. Regardless, it's not my place to judge what makes others comfortable.

I found myself watching him through the window in the coffee shop. It wasn't easy, considering I was looking through both the coffee shop and the flower shop across the street's window, but I could somewhat make out his form moving around in there. I ended up nursing my too bitter coffee for so long it was cold before even half was gone. Eh, it happens. Iced coffee is good too!

No use choking down the rest of the gross bean juice, so I made a quick trip to the customization station to add more sugar and some honey. No cream like I wanted though; they didn't have any lactose free options. I've never understood that, there's more lactose intolerant people than vegetarian, and yet there's almost never options for the former. If I was running a business I'd made sure to accommodate all my customers. Everyone's needs deserve to be given acknowledgement and respect.

Anyway, my "quick trip" evidently wasn't quick enough, as when I got back to the table he was gone. Shift probably ended. I'm not sure why, but I was actually a little upset to him gone. It's kind of exciting to see him. He... intrigues me. I mean, I've only seen the guy twice and he's disproved my expectations both times.

I spent the rest of the time there studying in one of the corners since they had a little alcove-like area with a book shelf and some couches. At one point I thought I heard the bell on the door ring as if someone was about to come in, but the door closed again almost immediately. I swear I saw a familiar gray blur, but I can't be sure it was him. Old people exist, after all. Wouldn't be surprised if one opened the door and was put off by all the skulls and the rock music. Still, kinda weird...

[honeybeedollie]

Oh! Before I forget, how was your day?...

[faux-saints]

Journal Entry #2: Tuesday, February 4rd, 2025 •───────────────────⋅ᓚᘏᗢ⋅───────────────────• Wasn't very hungry today either, but my dad pushed so much fucking food onto me today and literally guilt tripped me into eating it?? For context, he doesn't even know my history with my ED, it was just assumed my mom starved me so nobody assumed I had ana at all. Ig it's just him feeling like a bad dad for not doing such things in the past but oh my god get off my fucking back, you're literally making me binge. Head in hands. I wanted to have a sandwich today, but I couldn't because he brought me so much shit :[ I ended up having a slice of pizza for lunch, like the kind you get from costco that are stupidly big, made my tummy hurt from how full I was, and it was literally [700] calories. So. What the fuck. Then he coaxed me into eating some sweets, like a fourth of a maple bar donut, [77] and a fourth of a croissant with chocolate inside, [90] and so I ended up eating [887] calories total today.... more than I planned, which was only about 500 :/ •───────────────────⋅ᓚᘏᗢ⋅───────────────────• Mood: Turbulent, deeply upset, angry Limit: 500 Actual: 887

•───────────────────⋅ᓚᘏᗢ⋅───────────────────•

Diet Plan [02/31/2025]

[I edited it Feb 2nd to account for metab days and to try the calorie varying thing to see if that works better, I only crashed last year because my metab fucked up and I got hospitalized :/] •───────────────────⋅ᓚᘏᗢ⋅───────────────────•

Stats:

Highest Weight: 260 Lowest Weight: 110

Current Weight: Around 170 I think Still figuring that out, my family fucking hid the scale because my brother was taking it apart :|

Goal Weight: 150 Goal Weight: 130

Ultimate Goal Weight: 110 •───────────────────⋅ᓚᘏᗢ⋅───────────────────• Monday 500-1500 Calories max Drinks allowed, water/diet soda 1 snack only at night Vary it from yesterday •───────────────────⋅ᓚᘏᗢ⋅───────────────────• Tuesday 500-1500 Calories max Drinks allowed, water/diet soda 1 snack only at night Vary it from yesterday •───────────────────⋅ᓚᘏᗢ⋅───────────────────• Wednesday 500-1500 Calories max Drinks allowed, water/diet soda 1 snack only at night Vary it from yesterday •───────────────────⋅ᓚᘏᗢ⋅───────────────────• Thursday 500-1500 Calories max Drinks allowed, water/diet soda 1 snack only at night Vary it from yesterday •───────────────────⋅ᓚᘏᗢ⋅───────────────────• Friday 500-1500 Calories max Drinks allowed, water/diet soda 1 snack only at night Vary it from yesterday •───────────────────⋅ᓚᘏᗢ⋅───────────────────• Saturday 500-1500 Calories max Drinks allowed, water/diet soda 1 snack only at night Vary it from yesterday •───────────────────⋅ᓚᘏᗢ⋅───────────────────• Sunday Dinner [light], drinks, 1500 calories max •───────────────────⋅ᓚᘏᗢ⋅───────────────────• Every 2nd Sunday: Eat two meals, lunch and dinner, about 1800-2000 calories for metabolism crash avoidance •───────────────────⋅ᓚᘏᗢ⋅───────────────────•

[crueldudethesis]

ʃ what have I become?

ʅ made some more art, inspired by @postal97 ^_^!!!

[pinep-ne]

I stopped playing rdr2 for a few months due to the dissolving state of my ps4 and other life stresses. Decided last night to pick it up again and risked a house fire to give you all some lovely photos of Charles, and a sprinkle of Charthur.

I had some grand plan to linger around Charles and watch his morning routine like a creep. This particular time he went and removed last night's stew from the fire, then washed his face from the pail behind Pearson's wagon. He then walked all the way to the edge of camp to look at nothing for about a minute.

When that was done, I ended up sitting right beside him on a log for a good while. The interaction went like this:

C — "You okay?" (he spoke first!)

A — "Hi, Charles." (very insightful)

To which Charles responds with a very, very earnest smile.

The rest of the time I watched him roll his own cigarette and smoke it to a stub. Of course that's when I took all the photos— because, y'know, vague homoeroticism and cigarettes. All the while trying to turn Arthur's damn sights away so Charles would stop glaring insistently back at him. I mean, I'm aware that it's just game mechanics, but there was some serious eye-contact happening. Initially I felt it was interrupting my photoshoot, but on second-thought, I'm certain I was actually the one interrupting.

Anywho. During this enthusiastic interaction I kept thinking about this post by @arthursfuckinghat. I can't think of a better comparison. Finally being able to sit knee-to-knee with Charles for longer than ten seconds was a life-altering experience.

Also, I learned that he loves to lean back on the log a good bit. In comparison to Arthur's despondent (yet somehow immensely tense) shrimp posture, it was kinda silly.

[evercornelias]

the category is all the things pre-epilogue john marston would rather do than take responsibility of his family

[fujii-draws]

“Ohh Bidoof has a Journal!” “Sunflora has a Diary if you go into her room”— WHAT ABOUT PARTNER???

[iicaru2]

sometimes i flip through the beecher’s hope sections of the journal just to giggle at john’s repeated inability to spell mayor lemieux’s name

[aduckwithears]

The early 19th century sure was something for our boys (gn). They were taking things at a FAST pace. (If, of course, you’re immortal and need to layer everything under 6 layers of deniability).

Whatever you do, don’t think about how in 1793 Crowley rescued Aziraphale and then they got lunch, in 1800 he brought chocolates to the bookshop then saved Aziraphale from a heavenly promotion, then in 1827 they went on a date to a cemetery in Edinburgh(prime date spot at the time esp for non-trad couples) and Crowley seemed to be having the time of his life.

Then especially don’t think about Crowley getting lightning-sanded down to Hell and showing up 35 years later in a much grumpier mood and with a request for Holy Water as “insurance”.

And don’t think about the context of their last interaction being attempted suicide by poison drink after a partner was lost… no wonder Aziraphale didn’t take the request well and they fought. No wonder Crowley was offended by fraternizing - they’d been way beyond that. Nope, don’t think about any of that.

[mango-mya]

Elora species anatomy moment!! I like these sketches a lot tee bee aych

[valictini]

“The sound of the totems breaking around me was deafening”

[thingsarentgreat]

I don't know how to tell you that you should care about other people.

I keep reflecting to determine if there's something more within me that's causing me to still feel so incredibly sick by it all. Really trying to expose the raw roots of the feeling to see if it stems from some kind of selfishness. And I suppose it does. But to reduce it to just that would also be lying, because it's a combination of poisons down in that soil. It's betrayal and a feeling of isolation amongst a group I thought I once knew, and then that selfish and bitter root grows in like a weed. I can only quietly observe to myself: "ah. this is where the radicalization and rampant nationalism come from. this is why I see it flowering in my family."

It's because I feel my trust breaking all over again each time I forget about it and try to go on with my business. I remember that I still can't mourn publicly without someone educating me on why obviously if I'm mourning, I must have Insert Political Alignment Here. I remember the utter silence and the downright celebration of more civilian deaths because "oh, fuckin Yaya or whatever deserved it after what Israel does."

For the record, Yaya-Or-Whatever didn't deserve it, and I still remember the lead dropping into my stomach upon hearing that from a friend. No one deserves it. No one ever deserves it.

I don't know how to tell you that you should care about other people.

Maybe that's a quote leftists recognize, but I realize now that few of them actually stick to it across the board. And I'm admittedly selfish, because I hoped that leftists could at least have a moment to care about my people suffering too before getting back to helping the people who currently need the most help. But instead we got "Yaya-Or-Whatever Deserved It." And I've been laying here for months watching everyone on the left just go back to the usual armchair activism as if they didn't just fucking say that, and when I do bring it up, suddenly I'm the problem for pointing out that it was fucked up.

You won't erase it, fyi. We saw you say it. Some of you said it with your full fucking chest. You were callous and let the antisemites into the bar by openly celebrating Jewish death. Then you pretended we were talking about Palestine when we pointed out your antisemitic actions. You know that's not what we were even pointing to as an example. But it's very convenient for you to pretend we don't know the difference, isn't it?

I don't know. It's just a reminder that most of you are actually all talk and virtue signals. There's no actual substance behind your ideals, you're just adhering to the party line, same as conservatives do. I guess I was naive to think otherwise. It's disingenuous for you to wonder why people leave the leftist movement as a whole and "suddenly" flip sides. You know why, and it's reasons like this - you're just covering it up and pretending it's a totally different, more convenient reason.

Tldr; you're hypocrite ass leftists and fuck you. You should be ashamed of how you acted.

[southernroach]

thinking of roach's coping mechanisms and i kinda think that he would have a log of all of his scars. maybe in his journal, written along the edges as if they were afterthoughts to his actual entries.

the first couple entries are clinical. they list:

the body part

the general weapon type (gun, knife, rope, whatever)

if he got revenge

all the usual stuff that he would find important

just enough to document them, in case they fade or to use as a story for later. every time he dots a period, it's with a warped sense of pride.

and then one day he gets a scar from someone protecting him. they had pushed roach out of the way a second after someone screams about a sniper through their comms and takes a bullet. roach ends up falling onto his own knife and gets sliced for it but that’s nothing compared to his savior.

when he goes to write the entry, it’s noticeably shakier, scribbled over and smudged like he couldn’t decide what to write and then got far too frustrated for what should be gratitude.

he’s seen people die but it’s never been for him. he makes sure that guy’s name is clear, makes sure the ink dries before allowing his hands to touch the page.

then another one happens. an enemy tosses a cooked grenade. they have a split second to react and the guy upfront turns around, looks him in the eye, and slams his palms into roach’s chest.

roach crashes to the ground, barely notices that he got hit with a nasty piece of debris until he’s crouched behind a wall and realizes that what’s dripping down his body is too hot, too thick, to be sweat. and another entry appears.

the scar, the location, his savior’s name. how it felt to look someone in the eye moments before death, knowing again that it was for him. another messy entry, cut only by the pristine printing of those names.

he’s lucky he doesn’t have to write one for every close call but even those have lost that naive arrogance from before.

the more it happens, the more he survives and other don’t, the less it becomes about the scars.

[crueldudethesis]

ʅ SHOOT SHOOT SHOOT SHOOT SHOOT !!!

ʃ haven’t been active because of school things …

but thank you for this amount of followers,

i’m very grateful for having this support <3

art is again inspired by @postal97 !!!!

og art below …

[suddencolds]

.(personal)