#kill yourself part IV

[187um-killa-trill]

$UICIDEBOY$ - KILL YOURSELF PART IV

[princessandtheweed]

Ever wake up every day and you want to die?

[nachosforfree]

KNOCKING THE PIECES THE FUCK OFF THE CHESS BOARD, INSISTING THAT SHE'S WON THE GAME

[daisybell-on-a-carousel]

Still very wild to me when people try to gotcha Jason with the whole "if you can kill other people for being evil why can't they kill you" when jason is like. One of the most passively suicidal characters I've ever seen. What if man

[monards]

everytime i find out someone has assumed i had a crush on them because i treat them with (normal) platonic affection i die a little inside. i fear people have unnormalized just being decent and kind a little *too* much

[rearranging-deck-chairs]

was thinking abt how my ideal doctor/yaz is when they love each other only sliiiightly more than they hate themselves, but then i was like, you know what might be better actually? if they dont love each other at all

i mean think about it. it's easy. they cant. they havent, like, build a life together. they never had to. love is a promise they didnt make

what passes for romantic feelings for companions in the doctor i think generally is idolisation. yaz has definitely been idolising. depending on your take the doctor might also have been the object of her first queer feelings ever. shes unattainable in like every way for yaz. theres no future to imagine here. there never was. i dont think either of them ever assumed there would be either. theyve had their eyes on the finish line since the beginning

so imagine a reunion. yaz and 14. every barrier now lifted. the doctor no longer lives a life of running from one place to the next; no more being with the doctor means neglecting home. hes suddenly emotionally available too. and they both know,,,Everything. they both know everything theyve never talked about. they reach the finish line and crash over it, into each other, no one had plans for this. a mess

so time to build, right? this is everything they wanted, right? except, is it? they only know each other in extremis. two adrenaline junkies in shared search of a fix. two people unable to stop running, forcibly grounded. yaz has five years of unspoken grievances to air. the doctor about five thousand of unspeakable memories. this is two peas in a powder keg

the doctor attaches in extremes, with abandon, yaz only cautiously, with reservation. neither of them know how to do friendship very well. theyve spent years afraid of losing each other, do you think theyre gonna be able to tolerate being apart now? even if being around each other is pressing every wrong button like a novice pilot or one who never read the manual, and inevitably leads to arguments they both know are years out of date but cant stop themselves from having anyway?

their coping mechanisms might have been malformed but now theyre taken away. dont you think theyre gonna come up with something to replace picking fights with daleks? we've got ptsd à deux and nowhere to go. if they cant be helpful at least they can keep busy. picking fights with each other. having sex with each other, because hey we got this newfound queer sexuality we should try it out, right? none of this is quite right but we're not gonna stop to think now, are we? 

should we talk about the gender thing? oh but youre a timelord, billions of years beyond this petty human obsession. but, youre not. so why not obsess a little. rather this than the other stuff. and yaz likes you as a woman. and rose gets all this trans stuff. keep weaving them in because if you stop they might just fall out. of your orbit, the world, the universe, the story. you'll never see them again and you'll be all alone. again. better keep tying knots

how long until they realise this is worse than it was? how long before they can admit it to themselves? how many people to suggest, to one or the other, that hey maybe you guys should spend some time apart? go on vacation, find a hobby, get a job, talk to other people, give yourself a break. how many people to get snapped and yelled at because what do they know? what does anyone know? nobody does, nobody gets it. ryan and graham left, dan came in too late. nobody else lived their days. nobody could possibly understand whats between them. including them

it's yaz who tries breaking up, of course. takes too long to get there, but she would get there. eventually. the doctor gets mean, all "glad to be home?", all tooth and nail and you cant leave me i leave you, all scoffs and snarls, "we're not together, yaz"

"sure, whatever you say"

but if people stop watching doctor who kills himself. the doctor doesnt say this, of course. but yaz is very proficient in all the ways the doctor does not say things

"yeah well, survived it last time, so"

she doesnt clarify who. doesnt need to. the game of chicken never ended, only changed shape. who falls first, who realises first, who admits first, who stays alive longest after the universe ends. and now, perhaps, whos gonna reach for desperate measures first

place your bets

[jackass-jones]

Time for me to be completely changed as a person! *just watched falsettos*

[volcanogoblin]

:')

[treevore]

finding out that actually, depending on migraine severity and length, postdrome can last just MUCH LONGER and include symptoms like depression makes me want to put my head through a fucking wall

[187um-killa-trill]

$UICIDEBOY$ - KILL YOURSELF PART IV LYRIC VIDEO

[ear-motif]

*gritting my teeth so hard they shatter* they cannot afford for me to be hopeless they cannot afford for me to be hopeless i have not earned the right to lose hope i have not earned the right to give up make this life matter to someone who actually needs it come ooooon

[vvatchword]

Chapter 1: Take the Head

You remember Pa teaching you how to pop the head off of a chicken. You weren’t very big yet, maybe five. You had always been taught to treat the animals with respect, so it jarred you to yank the chicken up by the throat. The chicken flapped and kicked; the golden eye latched on yours, a panicked pinpoint.

You couldn’t break her neck. You tried and you tried but you just rubbed her throat in a circle over and over like you were trying to give her an Indian burn. She frantically scratched your arm up and down, her beak gaping in a terrified pant. You know now that you could have done it easily—a chicken’s spine is little more resistant than a dry stick or a pencil—but that was just the problem: she wasn’t either of those things.

Then Pa took her from you, wrapped his fist around the throat, and popped the head clean off. He held the head out to you. The eyes had closed. The lids were soft and pink. Her face was peaceful. Her body still kicked.

“See?” he said. “Easy. She didn’t feel a thing.”

There was blood on Pa’s hands. When he pointed out the cockerel for you to try again, there was blood on your hands, too.

** You aren’t much of a conversationalist. You’ve gone on dates where you barely spoke a word. Your coworkers don’t know your name. You work in a factory line, screwing in one piece at a time. Dull work, monotonous work. Lets your brain run on its own time at its own pace.

You like to remember lists during such times. Pa taught you about something called a “mind palace,” a detailed map you build in your mind and store thoughts inside of. Somehow recall is easier when you can imagine them in a physical space. You store your shopping lists there. You also store guns—lists about makes, models, ammunition.

Guns have been a special interest of yours since childhood. You would save pages out of the Sears catalog as a child and tape them on the wall so you saw them when you woke up. You were fascinated how they went together and would draw them in their disparate parts before drawing them put together again. You liked drawing them from all different angles just to admire the geometry. You checked out books on guns from the library so often that the librarian started setting aside new offerings for you. You had never been able to own guns of your own, but you practiced with your father’s Mark I Sturm Ruger and the old .22. You could ping prairie dogs like a pro.

You like to think that eventually, you’ll buy one of your own. You know just the model—the BAR, or Browning Automatic Rifle—full-aut, carried by Bonnie and Clyde, running second-fiddle to the M1 Garand throughout World War II. When you repeat the gun list, you think “BAR” before any of the others; it is the highest honor you can bestow.

You like monotony for the same reason you like lists. There’s something relaxing about rhythms. It’s like music, like dance. You can’t dance, of course—you never learned. You don’t own a record player, either—you don’t spend money on frivolous things. The Depression is still a heavy black cloud in the back of your mind. You lived on a farm, so your belly never went empty, but you also didn’t grow up wearing shoes.

You are 28. Or is it 29? It’s been a while since you’ve thought about your birthday. It’s on July 3. “Our independence baby,” someone said. It may have been Pa, but you don’t remember exactly; you were very small. You do remember Ma replying that it was one day off and they weren’t in America anyway, so it didn’t count. You were disappointed for some reason; sure, you know it doesn’t make a difference either way, but it would be nice to have something special that was just your own. Oh, Ma and Pa told you you were going to do great things someday—that’s something you could believe when you were, say, eight. But then you had to make your way in the world and all the world offered was a factory line, a small dark room, and the weather. It’s hard to believe in anything magnificent at the bottom of a hole.

**

You live in sparsely-furnished rooms in cheap apartments near the ocean. On weekdays, you make your bed, eat breakfast (eggs, toast, coffee with cream), shave, dress, go to work (screw, screw, screw), come home and turn on the radio (evening news, then whatever entertainment strikes your fancy, usually action and adventure programs), drink a beer while completing the evening ablutions (wash dishes, pack lunch for tomorrow, shower, set alarm clock, read evening edition in bed until you get tired).

Sometimes you go to your neighbor’s to watch their television in exchange for a beer; you sit side by side and quietly drink as Lucy gambols and the laugh track rolls. On Saturdays, you go shopping for the household essentials and stand in lines while the grocer bags produce and the butcher cuts your lunch meat.

If it’s nice enough, you walk down to the ocean to stretch your legs. It’s not a pretty place by any means; a sodden gray beach where colorless rushes thrust insistent heads and sun-bleached shells lie. In winter, it’s even more dreary; the Atlantic is a sullen gray sweep and the nasty cold steals your breath. It’s the kind of cold that makes you feel wet and heavy even if you haven’t touched water.

You have never felt as though the sea is a nice place; you distinctly remember deciding this back when you first entered the town. Even in the summer, when the water is glassy green and the beach crowded with tourists, you feel as though the sea is a vast and apathetic monster—apocalyptic in size, in scale, in potential. Apocalyptic: you don’t go to church, but that’s the word that comes to you. The sea feels as though it should be the focus of worship, the kind of thing you sacrifice to; you’ve never held much by spiritual claptrap, but you will grant one place worthy of godhood.

You did not grow up near the sea. You grew up in Kansas, a land so flat you used to roll up papers like spyglasses and try to see Japan. You moved to the coast of New Jersey because you’d wanted to see the ocean. No—no, it may well have been because of the factory job. They do pay well and they probably printed something in the help ads. A family friend in New York often sends newspaper clippings with his letters just to be of service. Yes, that would make a great deal more sense: “I heard Jack is looking for a job,” he’d say. “Here are some local ones that are right up his alley.”

Yes, now that you think about it, that’s exactly what happened. The sea was a bonus—until you saw it. But how were you to know what the sea was really like until you went there? It’s too bad someone couldn’t have told you.

Sometimes you think you should move away, but learning new routines is such a pain that you just put up with it. Someday you’ll probably get tired enough to leave. The way the cold weaponizes itself with humidity tires you down to your bones.

You know, you haven’t thought of the family friend in a while. What was his name again? Joe? Jim? John? One of those common names. You’ll have to check your address book. It’s been a while since you’ve heard from him. You should write sometime to make sure he’s all right.

For that matter, you haven’t heard from your parents. When did they last write? Hell! Maybe it’s your turn to write. Yes, it’s your turn to write for certain; that would explain why you haven’t received any letters recently. You do tend to forget minutiae with the humdrum flow of everyday life. Your parents are older now; you know better than to leave them without a word every now and then. Your mother must be worried sick.

You decide to purchase some stationery and stamps that weekend, but you forget until the invitation comes, and by that time, it’s far too late. You didn’t know that then, of course. You didn’t know much of anything, if you have to be honest.

UPRISING: BLACK SCRAPBOOK HUB

[buddyapologist]

something something lisa westworld parallels I'll explain it in excruciating detail later

[iressails]

Bayliss is looking extremely bad post shooting of homeless man. Eat his gun bad. He's unmoored without Frank, without his stabilitising influence, without his framing of his world in primary colours. All of Bayliss's stuff about being true to all the parts of himself, trying to reconcile his profession with his sexuality and spirituality and being left with just the former because when it came down to it he fired his gun and killed a man.

He's deleted his website, deleted parts of himself for his job, and I don't know if he has much left. Not with Frank being gone. (Where even if Frank? Did he ditch Bayliss after he left the department? He must have.)

I noticed he had a bit about surviving child abuse on his website, it seems it was ignored/shut down too so he's pushed that back down. Again? Same thing his father did, denied and voiceless again. JFC this is so depressing.

[chekovsphaser]

I have had MORE THAN ONE PERSON remark, when I explained that uncontrolled graves' disease made me lose 20 kg and nearly killed me that they "wished they had my disease".

[lelianaslefthand]

might have brava kill connor