#like we used to text on and off but it was v unserious

[fountainoflove]

bf has a journal entry from a month before we started hanging out, talking abt how perfect i am 😭😭

[pondslime]

Jack and David for the Headcanons PLEASSEEEE

oh u have UNLOCKED the evil demented pandora's box of my brain. I'm about to be FULLY annoying. TYSM

below are 3 pros and cons of dating my Favorite Boys Ever™

sidenote: if we're talking canon CANON, the fact that both of them are VERY dead is the MAIN and only VALID con. IMO. but I digress!!! for the sake of this list, they are very alive and very smoochable

(under the cut bc DAMN can a bitch talk. and I do not want u all to have to scroll thru a WALL of text of me bein humina humina awooooooga abt my current hyperfixation 💀 ur welcome)

anyways!! this was incredibly fun and I have tmrrw off!! so feel free to send me a character of ur choice for headcanons and I'll give u 3 pros and 3 cons of dating them. if ur so inclined!!!!

jack

3 PROS

man is goofy. GOOFY. he is so intensely unserious. the banter (both flirty or otherise) will be IMMACULATE.

SOLID movie buddy energy. since he's the first one to bring up lon chaney jr./the pentangle on the wall, I like to think he's a hammer horror movie enthusiast. and since we know that the two of them have been friends at least since the 8th grade, I find the idea of these two little dorks staying up late and catching reruns of the movies...........SO cute. so v v cute. jack's little 12-year-old ass insisting that they CAN'T MISS frankenstein meets the wolfman. no, david!! u can't go tf to sleep!! we need the LORE!!!! so anyway. he'd show u a bunch of old horror movies and point out all the weird lil details to u. get ready 2 be mst3k-ing every film. man has cable tv and chill written ALL over him.

knows his way around nyc and WILL take u to a funky lil hole-in-the-wall restaurant that serves the best sandwich u have ever had. he might forget his wallet @ his apartment and end up paying for it w/loose change he has stuffed in his jacket pockets, but goddamn was that hot pastrami incredible.

3 CONS

he's 5'7'' (this is also a pro)

a little bit of a whiny bitch. will make a mountain out of a molehill. thrives on melodrama and hyperbole. but he's right 90% of the time, so as annoying as it might be. u can't fault him too much for that

used to being the comic relief friend. chronically friendzoned. probably going 2 be a bit annoying about that. it's kinda difficult to get him to snap out of sarcastic showboat-mode. sometimes that can make him seem a bit ingenuine and detached. mild to severe performance anxiety vibes. once u crest over that. he'll trade any nervousness for comical overconfidence and it'll be off to the races. but in the interim................................lmao

david

3 PROS

SWEET himbo boy. v affectionate and complimentary dude. clear w/his intentions and fairly emotionally open. v much so gives the vibes of a guy who claims to want to have 74873848 flings before settling down........but will immediately fall head-over-heels and want to introduce u to his family. golden retriever boy

canonically!! gives good head. need I say more

has a sense of adventure. likes challenging himself and breaking up the routine. outdoorsy. he probably likes hiking. did track or soccer or smthn in high school. his sheer enthusiasm for GOING OUTSIDE will force u to get ur ass off the damn couch. u love to see it.

3 CONS

v much BIG "first person to die in a traditional horror movie"-vibes. not the best at reading situations. will bamboozle himself into a bad scenario purely bc his street-smarts are sometimes lacking. kinda clueless. it's v hot but also v dumb of him. u would think that growing up in nyc would've tempered some of that. occasionally it does. occasionally. not enough tho.

possible mama's boy/golden child. even if this is NOT true, he still lives at home. which means there WILL be tomfoolery afoot if u stay over @ that house. and VERY little privacy!! get ready for his younger siblings to find the most inconvenient ways to interrupt ur time together. ur patience and mental fortitude will be tested. u will be living in a crash course parent trap/home alone-simulator. have fun!!

u know when u were a kid and ur mom would see someone she knew @ the grocery store and talk w/them for an eternity. and u would just be standing there and waiting for her to END her conversation so that u could LEAVE. yeah. david gives me big "endless conversations in grocery store"-energy. u run into a bodega @ 9 PM to grab some chips and soda w/him. but this is his stomping ground and he somehow manages to run into 3797432989 different ppl who know AND adore him. and they've all got to ask him about how school is going. what's he majoring in again? how's the family? do u still know blah blah blah from blah blah blah? and ur just standin there sipping ur coke. which is rapidly becoming more and more room temperature w/every sip. when will it end. he's been talking about his sixth grade biology class for the last ten minutes

BONUS AND MOST OBVIOUS PROS FOR BOTH OF 'EM:

fluffy hair (x2)

there's two of them. u can and SHOULD date both of them simultaneously. IDEAL throuple situation.

[dioles-writes]

• OC FICLET •

Masterlist | Characters: Felix (he/him), Reagan (she/her)

Story belongs to @jiphenn

Reagan turned away from her brother with a shake of the head, huffing out a breath of exasperation. What am I going to do with you?

He was staring at her blankly, not a single thought behind his eyes; the corners of his mouth upturned, a hint of what could almost be humour. Reagan couldn’t see what he found so funny, or what he found so unserious, about this situation.

He had disappeared for five hours. Five hours.

Reagan had tried his cell a million times over the past few hours, terrified out of her mind, pacing through their apartment as Paisley followed behind her, trying to (unsuccessfully) calm her down and reassure her that he was fine.

She was pretty sure she was going to die of stress before the semester was even over, with how Felix was acting lately.

It had been only a week at Diantha Rose High School, but he had already gotten into seven fist fights, ran away to Akali’s house even after she had explicitly told him he couldn’t go, and, according to him, almost died at Akali’s house.

And now, today, he had disappeared for five hours after school, with not even a text or a call, just complete radio silence. To make matters even worse, when she finally did get a call from him, the person on the other line was not her brother, but a random boy. The guy had given her practically no information, besides that her brother was passed out in an alleyway, ready for her to pick him up. Just like Felix, the boy had spoken with a twinge of humour, refusing to give her any idea on what had possibly happened to her baby brother. Just laughed at her worried concerns, dismissing them with a grin in his voice.

She did even know who it was that called her.

The worst part though, was probably his appearance: He was in a black v-neck and baggy jean combo, both of these items ones that Reagan had never seen before, but more importantly ones that Felix had not been wearing when he left the house this morning. And even more peculiar was his face, completely devoid of the bruises and swelling that it had held when he left the house, a mark of the amount of fights he had gotten into in just these last seven days alone.

She sighed loudly, fishing her keys out of her pocket and unlocking the side door to the bakery, trying to ignore the urge to start screaming at him and demanding answers. (Real answers, by the way, not the bullshit story he was trying to feed her.)

Reagan stepped inside, tiredly rubbing her eyes and kicking off her shoes. She didn’t have the patience for this. “We need to move again.” She mumbled, leaning against the doorframe as Felix followed in behind her.

Felix’s whole demeanour changed within milliseconds. “What?!” He snapped, whipping around to face her. Gone was his expression of nonchalance and ease, replaced by one of complete and utter fury. His eyes were bright and angry as he gave her the nastiest stink eye he could manage. “Reagan, you have to be fucking kidding me.”

“Kidding me?”

“I didn’t purposely get in a fucking fight! I went to all my classes! We just moved here! What the hell is wrong with you?!” The words were practically spit at her, said with a sudden harshness and cruelty that Reagan wasn’t used to having directed towards her.

“Well maybe because you just got jumped by a random group of people! That’s not safe!” She retorted back, on the defensive.

“You always try and ruin my life!” He yelled, voice growing louder by the second. “Why is running always the only option with you?! I finally start making friends and you want to punish me? AGAIN?”

Reagan blinked at him, speechless. She was almost too shocked at his sudden outburst to even respond, her mouth agape. “Move houses, not schools!” She shot back. “They must know your way home if they jumped you!”

Reagan paused, hot anger bubbling to the surface. Unfortunately, she knew exactly where Felix got his quick temper from. He got it from her.

“But if you feel like I’m ruining your life by protecting you then WHO CARES!”

[linorangge]

Lee Know as Your Boyfriend ! <3

(keep in mind this is a head canon !) requested by anon 

how you met: 

- minho still liked to attend and give dance lessons every now and then despite already being well versed in his area of expertise

- your first time at the studio happened to be during one of the few lessons he was giving

- you immediately found him v attractive but tried to be focused during the lesson

- after the lesson was over you got the guts to talk to him and ask him for tips

- he was v professional and completely genuine in the advice he was giving u

- like a month went by where you didn’t see him again

- and when u did you asked him for advice on footwork

- he asked if u were new to dancing since he remembered u from last time

- “yes”

- “oh wow I couldn’t tell haha”

- big ego booster on your end lol

- he taught u a few moves and then u guys attended a lesson that was going on at the time

- over time he started to attend the studio more and more often

- u thought maybe because his passion for dancing had grew

- his passion was never-ending, he mostly went to see you

- he taught you the choreo to maniac within the span of a few weeks

- over that time u rlly started hitting it off

- so much that u began to hang out outside of the studio and dancing

- u got to know his personality which u grew fond of 

- u guys went to lots of street food places

- bro was trying so hard to put u on tteokbokki 

- you were v sure he didn’t feel the same 

- until he popped the question out of the blue

- “we should go on a date”

- “HUH”

- “we don't have to if ur not interested”

- “nono! im interested”

- a day was set

- and after a few more dates

- he asked you to be his girlfriend at a book store in samseong-dong

lee know as your boyfriend:

- lots of playful teasing

- loves to annoy you

- it’s hard to stay mad at him when he annoys u enough

- he loves making you laugh until you cry

- loves seeing you smile

- he’ll do literally ANYTHING to make you happy

- very passionate about your relationship

- he’s not v expressive thru his words

- still v affectionate 

- gives tight hugs especially when he greets u

- kisses ur hair a lot?

- he has the tendency to push ur hair behind ur ears when ur talking

- uses pics of soonie doongie and dori as reaction pics when u text

- such a hard ass emoji user pls

- “im gonna pick up lunch 🍱 do u want anything ? 😘😋”

- “no thx babe enjoy ur meal :)”

- “ok 👍 love u bebi ❤️🫂”

- AUGHHHH minho best bf

- pet names…. baby(or bebi/bb), honey, bun

- the type to pull up to ur place randomly

- if u were to give him a key he’d let himself in and just chill there until u got home

- so unserious jfc

- when u need him to be tho he’ll straighten up

- when u need to sit down and talk he’ll be so attentive

- will give u his full 100% attention if u ask for it

- strokes the back of ur hand when ur feeling nervous

- omg pda…

- not v into it

- most is the reg hand holding and subtle hugging

- in private… back hugs r often his fav excuse to be constantly touching u

- for sure the clingy boyfriend in priv

- ass slaps ofc

- not even subtle either

- literally winds it up and makes a show of it

- at some point u got so used to it you just let him instead of dodging

- skz think ur v much his perfect much

- when u go out with minho and the members it’s like the energy in the room is somehow heightened

- they see the way he’s become slower to anger/irritate

- he’s more tolerant

- skz love him either way but you walking into his life was for sure a plus

the first time i love you was said:

- you said it first

- you went on a week trip to a fishing resort with his parents and him

- in short u left a good impression

- on the last two days of the trip u went back to minho’s childhood home to meet soonie doongie and dori

- minho and u were playing w them

- giving treats, playing with them, showing off tricks

- soonie was half asleep in your lap, and u were stroking his fur

- lino was putting on a show of holding dori and pretending to talk to u thru her

- “ur so pretty y/n”

- and then lino turned dori to face him

- “i totally agree dori ur so right”

- u laughed softly before saying it

- “i love you”

- and he turned to you kinda surprised

- “me or her?” (in reference to dori)

- “you, dummy”

- “oh… i love you too baby :)”

- and then he put dori down and leaned in to give u a long kiss

- this might be extra long

- but it’s bc he’s my bias (like no one could tell)

- almost all the members have been requested :)

- thx for the asks, i’ll get to them when i can :)

- luv u bye

[lit--bitch]

On Tom Bland, ‘The Death of a Clown’ (2018) (NSFW, if you’re at work).

(Disclosure: I’m good friends with Tom Bland. We came to know each other after he published some of my work in his former online zine, Blue of Noon. I read parts of this collection in some of its earliest drafts. Whilst it might seem nepotistic (and a bit late in the day to talk about The Death of a Clown), I thought it would be good to kick off with a positive review about someone’s writing I really love. As for Bad Betty Press, it is ran by Amy Acre and Jake Wild Hall, both of whom I’ve met on a few occasions but don’t know them v well).

Tom told me in a text he sent me last summer: “I stole ‘the death of a clown’ from The Kinks, do love that song”. You can read the lyrics here. It also ought to be noted that Tom did actually practice as a clown for a while. As for the publishers, Bad Betty Press is small, new, and fantastic. I think they’re a breath of fresh air for contemporary literature in the UK, with a clear, unique identity and a really strong focus for what they’re looking for. They’ve published some amazing writers. 

This is a book of moodswings and contradictions. It’s a glimpse of humanity in all its filth, and it deserves recognition for the unflinching honesty with which it is written. 

The Death of a Clown oscillates between serious and unserious. It can be funny, and then perturbing, yet all the while in possession of a certain solemnity. To me, the book’s cover (designed by Amy Acre) is synonymous with the writing in that it embodies similar contradictions: there’s the comical illustration of a clown face with its clown-smile on a gravestone engraved ‘RIP’. Then there’s the title—this juxtaposition of death and clown—an explicit introduction to death of something born to be funny (supposedly). All of this is pegged by Bad Betty Press’s (current) statement livery: black background, white font(s). All these visual elements counteract each other, which is a cornerstone to this collection’s literary thematics. You wouldn’t think it when you pick up the book, but after you’ve read it, you find that contradiction is all part of the book’s nature; a performance which self-negates and wildy flagellates itself, over and over. The cover is a clue, a graphic segue for what you’ve not yet read, which is, (and I’m going to try and commit to the following description) a series of undulating, anecdotal thoughts as opposed to “poems”. And they waterfall as one great stream of consciousness. 

Amy told me masturbating was not the same as meditating. But the cult of masturbation had already found its way into … no one can make you come like yourself … a manifesto of poetic intent. Millions of potential lives wiped away in a tissue down the toilet drain.

There’s no other titles within this work but the book title. Or so I think. Tom doesn’t entitle; he emboldens the first lines, or sometimes the first couple of words in an opening sentence. The book’s pagination is the only indication of a separation, apart from that, I can’t always tell if this is indicating the start of a new thought or the end of an old one. But I guess that’s the point, Tom’s writing is in essence, thinking, and thoughts resist titles, of course they do. So to embolden is an intriguing choice, because it gives the great effect of writing eating itself from page to page. The title becomes indiscernible from the actual first line of the thought itself. 

Perhaps I’ve read into this too deeply but honestly, in any artistic practice, it is so difficult to articulate a body of work under a single header. Even ‘The Death of a Clown’ is both so vague and specific a title. Every thought in this collection considers and recalls so much, so Tom just doesn’t do the thing of entitling every piece. I found that refreshing; we live in a world where everything yearns after a name, and a lot of the time we’re compelled to entitle our work, ourselves, our things, as if that would somehow give us clarity or meaning. But as you’ll read, Tom intimates that a lot of the time, there is little clarity to our thoughts, our perceptions, to anything. It’s only when dragged to the most severe and deafening of human experiences do we then, occasionally, achieve the briefest moment of mental clarity. 

my adrenaline induced out of body looking back at my pulsating limbs; that self-aware speck

jittering or jumping between the two, like being dead/born once again.

Ranting so fast all my words blurred into rapid hand gestures, the very shapes of my early tongue-tied jabbering.

Something I love about The Death of a Clown is the self-awareness of the writing, which I think is inherent in “writing which appears as stream of consciousness”. I think it’s further developed by the scrupulously researched references to things which have indelibly influenced or affected the ‘I’ here. It’s so telling of a person in what they choose to reference, it intimates what piques their interest, their attention. The thing I find interesting about Tom’s references however is the way they’re presented as odd dualisms. There’s Sufism and then The Satanic Bible. Then there’s Jesus and Ted Bundy. There’s Taylor Swift, Edward Erdinger and the disintegrating self, then there’s Fuz Sxx (a sex shop in London) and the act of public masturbation. You would think these figures, beliefs and concepts oppose each other, but when they collide within the same piece, it seems that they elicit the same emotional responses and memories. These things don’t really so much oppose each other, but rather they’re of each other. 

Bob Rogers always began the Sufi circle with, ‘The goal here is                                to                   create and destroy the idols of the self,’ then he glared at me,
 ‘but this is not an apocalyptic vision.’ At first, this unnerved me, but quickly, it started to annoy me, so much so, I had printed on             pink badges, a feminine figure and the words,                   LIFE IS DEATH. I gave the badges              out to the group to their discomfort and/or amusement. He asked me to leave. He said, ‘Sufism isn’t               about death but a new beginning.’ 

I also think these references signal personal perceptions and therefore, options. The array of religions, religious figures, celebrities and serial killers, mentioned in The Death of a Clown, is demonstrative of the many lifestyle choices, beliefs, idols, values we have to choose from. As we investigate through this pile, we eventually come to identify with a select few, most of which resonate in our personal experiences. In one piece, Tom writes: ‘Michelle called pain (her pain) the sun god Ra. / Ra equalled pathos. [...] I remained still, outside on my steps, looking up at the moon. / Sometimes I call my pain Hekate.’ Lines like these underpin the core of this work, which is that everybody’s perception is their own perception. Their choice in what to experience, believe and feel is entirely their responsibility. It’s a bit of a tangent but I’m reminded of that scene in Rick and Morty, the ‘Pickle Rick’ episode from Season 3 where the therapist says to Rick, ‘You are the master of your own universe [...] Each of us gets to choose.’

Living is in essence a kind of performance. Our choreography is sculpted by what we read, believe, consider and feel. It can be a laugh, but ultimately, we’re all still fools. Hence the impetus for the clown’s presence in this collection, or the part of us which acts the clown. In The Death of a Clown, choreography comes through performing in drag, bending sexualities, bending observations, defining fetishisms, reading religion and murder, thinking about religion and murder. The fact that all these things are being mentioned in the work, suggests the profound impact and lasting effects they imprint upon the ‘I’ of this work, the clown’s psychology, who laughs more than ever, and less than ever. 

[...] I

waxed my body, splattering body paints, wearing faux- leather corsets, see-through knickers, and PVC cowboy boots. It was and wasn’t fetishism; it was and wasn’t sexuality; it was and wasn’t perversion; first was the vision, the one in my head, the one I saw across my body, my body morphing into my androgynous Satanic self.

The collection is ravaged by sex, the frenzy of drug-stuffed London, the English sort of realism found in onion sauce, or ‘Hertfordshire surrounded by trees and red noses’ (not red roses), and more pertinently, the exhaustive performance of inhabiting these things, being these things. For me, I feel like these references function as both containers and artefacts to this ‘human-ness’ Tom is unpacking and reconstituting, and how they’re instrumental in self-alienation but also help with self-identity. It’s a bit, “the school of life” thing; whether it’s erotic asphyxiation, or racking up lines of ketamine before doing a live performance, it seems that these various extremities are an education in what it means to be truly vulnerable, and therefore in being able to call ourselves human. 

And yet at the crux of each “poem” lies the ultimate therapy to all of this, which is the safe insecurity in knowing that we are all dying. And what is more human than our conscious attempt in knowing and embracing that? 

[…] ‘Some
 people think the clown is a performance I put on and take off, but no, I must be a clown 
at all times. I can’t stand slipping back 
 into that thing...’

HUMAN.

I read a beautiful review from R J Dent on The Death of a Clown where he noted, ‘Tom Bland lists some of the stimulants and depressants that humans use to dull their awareness of their own mortality: acid, coke, speed, ketamine, cigs, Weston’s Old Rosie cider, and brandy.’ This was the only point I felt inclined to disagree. I don’t think this is 100% what Tom is doing, I don’t agree that it’s a form of listing per se, and I don’t think that we should necessarily believe that the mere function of these substances, in the collection’s case, is a human’s way of dulling the knowing surrounding the inevitability of death. Rather, they’re chunks of detail, which amplify and exaggerate that knowing, rendering the user as used… I mean this as in, it’s not that they’re taking drugs. Perhaps, it’s the drugs are taking them. And in these delicious, and often arduous experiences, a delightful indifference about life and death occurs, where user and substance are locked in mutual indulgence. Or at least, that’s my interpretation of it. I’m just not convinced the clown is resisting death here. I think the clown, or the part of us which acts the clown, has already died and sometimes I find the writing works not just as thought, but as a strange eulogy, sometimes even self-inflicted therapy. I’m still guessing.

About a year ago, I found myself snorting lines of coke, but I hated doing it with other people, only alone. Blue in the face. Breathing blue. Heart racing. Near heart attack. Was this orgasm? Was I even hard?

I loved the intensity of being on my own—

It is easier to attribute this writing, as I’ve already stated, as being a series of ‘thoughts’. Where The Death of a Clown may, in form, resemble poetry, ultimately this isn’t poetry. It defies category. Since I started this review, I’ve felt increasingly perplexed, in that the more I attempt to ascertain what kind of writing this is, the more indecipherable it becomes. 

It’s for this reason that The Death of a Clown is unabashedly weird and it kind of leaves you feeling disoriented. To me, this work is like an endless cycle of waking up with a hangover/comedown and going to the next party. It sticks to the skin like a latex suit. It’s the endless fixing and wiping away of makeup. It ruminates on itself and begs not to enquire further, and then does it anyway. It has both sharp and curved edges. It is literal, it doesn’t sugarcoat or tease, it doesn’t fuck with unnecessary, flowery metaphor or imagery (unlike this review lol). It doesn’t cater to you or pander. It is a deeply cutting exchange with oneself—which makes it all the more deliciously complicated. And I’ll leave you with one of my fav bits: 

[…] I stood perfectly still,   announcing the words I imagined scribbling  onto an A3 cardboard sheet, 

‘Do they really see (in the white of the eye) the unveiling of the whole history of a life?’ 

If you’d like to buy The Death of a Clown, you can buy it here. In addition to this, you can find out more about Tom through his zine, Spontaneous Poetics.