#my stream of consciousness

[kingsleeeee]

FUCK— just kidding it’ll be okay we’ll take care of each other— fffuuuuuuUUUUUUCCCKKKKKKK — hey I love you all we are not alone — FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK

[multiversegideons]

Proud of myself. So proud of myself for getting myself to where I am in life.

And I love my gf

[akashicrecord]

[falasta]

You have a very specific style of tagging and I love it ❤️

Oh you mean my crazy ramblings?? Thank you anon! You are so sweet.

[veni-vidi-vici-ous]

!!!!!!!

[mypeepeehurts]

big fan of saving the same post multiple times on pinterest. YES i know i already saved it to this board FUCK you

[plounce]

why was bashir a closeted homosexual in the 23rd century? like dude it's fine you can relax. actually wait the tense here is kinda funny. i used past tense because ds9 is from the 90s and i watched it in 2021 so in both cases it's from the past in my view. but when talking about a text you speak in the present: why IS bashir a closeted homosexual in the 23rd century? but the statement is half about how ds9 takes place in the scifi future: why WILL bashir be a closeted homosexual in the 23rd century?

[legallyherchronicles]

I really do not enjoy legal writing. It is so mechanical, not intuitive, and there’s just so many rulessss

[ubepan]

chilchuck gap moe this ep btw. he looked up at laios with big googoo eyes i Had to pause the ep. a middle-aged grown ass man wht are u doing looking at another man like he has the world in his eyes. you are divorced with three kids dude

i think im unwell

[jesuistrestriste]

you make art put on a skirt for the halloween party.

one that’s white and frilly and just barely covering him up; one that makes him compulsively pull down on the bottom of it to conceal himself everytime he has to talk to someone. fumbling with his red solo cup as he prays that whoever he’s in conversation with thinks it’s a joke.

and people do.

when you two walk through the front door of the house party, all of his fellow tennis players burst into laughter and rush up to him. they clap him on the back and tug on his pearl-covered corset. they put their hands all over his body; someone even manages to give him a playful slap on his ass. he feels like a piece of meat.

art’s dressed as an angel, while you’re dressed as the devil. fitting, he had thought when you helped him with his thigh-highs. he didn’t want to admit that you encouraging forcing him to dress so.. femininely.. made him feel hot under the collar. not to mention the grabby touches from his stanford tennis team buddies. it was all too much.

so the night goes on, and he sticks close to your side. one hand holding yours nearly 24/7 so he doesn’t lose you.

he gets more laughs here and there when new people arrive and see his costume. they, like everyone else, assume it’s some sort of gag he’s doing. or, at the very least, a humiliation ritual that you’re subjecting him to for some reason. art drinks cupful and cupful of the nasty, syrupy party punch to dull the weird warmth brewing in the pit of his stomach.

the party dies down and art is wasted.

like, completely gone.

while you’re in the middle of a heated debate with one of your friends about whether or not the guy she’s dating is worthy of approval, art presses his hips into the back of your body and mouths at your neck. it’s slow and a little sloppy, and then you realize you have to be on caretaker duty for the rest of the evening.

but then he kisses your jaw with more intention, his hips absentmindedly rolling against you from behind. you pull him away by his wrist before your friend has a chance to realize what he’s doing.

you drag him into the bathroom and shut the door, turning to look at him. he looks like a drunk college chick. costume slipping, tights somehow ripped, cheeks flushed, hair messed up in the most slutty way. and he’s managed to lose his halo headband somewhere.

he pushes you backwards to the toilet and you ungracefully fall back onto the toilet seat cover with a hard thump. you frown up at him and shake your head.

“art,” you hum, “babe, youre- god, when did you drink so much? i don’t even—“

he cuts you off by slowly climbing into your lap. his skirt rides up his thighs, milky skin being revealed as the fabric lifts. he whimpers.

“please..”

your hands instinctively come up to his waist, cupping it and playing with the dangling string holding together the back of his top. he shivers and blinks slowly.

“i.. i jus’ want you to touch me,” he breathes out, slurring the whole way, “please touch me..”

he takes one of your wrists and guides your hand up his skirt. you’re surprised when you feel how fucking hard he is inside the lacy panties you tucked his cock into before you both left for the night.

“im so fucking horny,” he gasps, “i don’t know.. dunno why ‘m so.. im leaking already, please-“

you grope him over the fabric and he keens, his chest falling forward to press against yours before he swallows thickly and his jaw goes slack. you feel him throbbing in your palm.

he turns his head so that his lips are right by your ear, and then one of his arms reaches around to wrap around your lower back. his blonde curls are starting to stick to his forehead.

“please… please jus’ play with me…”

he cums over your fingers after just ten strokes.

you make him walk home with you as the remnants of it drips down his thighs.

[casualcupholder]

Lots of them :))

[heartorbit]

revstar emu save me

[lucidloving]

I learned how to be quiet about pain when I was very young. I learned how to fold in on myself like laundry, to take up less space in the cupboard. I learned how to keep the peace around me by sweeping the dirt under my own rug.

I have been taught that expressing my less favourable emotions is just complaining—something weak people do when they're too incompetent to solve their own problems.

Incompetent. Incompetent. This word is very important to me. Incompetent is the word I am always running from. To run from incompetency means to run from feeling dejected, feeling lost, feeling hurt. To run from incompetency is to run towards goodness. To run towards a me who knows all the answers and shoulders all the burdens and shrugs off all the pain.

Some days I am not very good at this race I am running. Days when the past lurches forward to bite my ankles, or days when the future looks back to scorn my present.

On these days I am weak. The poise slips. It's all too easy to cry a little and vent my fears. I forget that I am supposed to be keeping all of this shut away where no one else can see. I forget that I am not supposed to be dragged down by these feelings in the first place.

Today I feigned nonchalance and I feigned it well. No one noticed that I was hurt by the thing that happened, and sitting alone in all my hurt, I was bitterly gratified. I had fulfilled the proper narrative of an animal who is injured and returns to its cave to lick its wounds only in private.

But there is a desperation for the hidden pain to be noticed. This is the Achilles' Heel of the whole stealth operation; it threatens the little play I have constructed in which I suffer alone and inconvenience no one and am all the stronger for it.

Today I stood upright to talk to my mother and doubled over in pain the moment she left the room. It is satisfying, knowing I did the valiant and honourable thing of keeping the damn pain to myself. It is infuriating, the way my eyes flickered to the door in the dark and private hope that she would come back in and witness me while I was down.

I want to be strong and hide all the hard things away. I want someone to see my efforts to hide all the hard things away and realise I'm strong. I want to bring to life this character I have created who suffers without complaint and is loved when the truth is revealed. Who suffers well.

This is the person who stores up agony to a breaking point, to justify the ultimate snapping of composure. This is the person who wants to be depended on relentlessly and one-sidedly, so that someone someday might notice the unfairness of it all. This is the person who virtuously and righteously take all the hits without a sound, so that when they finally, inevitably break, their pain will come to light all at once and inspire awe and guilt in equal measure.

Who am I, really? Is it terrible to want to play this character? Perhaps some old wound craves acknowledgement and understanding and doesn't know how else to ask for it except by hiding until it festers.

Strength. Competency. Resilience. Dependability. Independence. They have all become synonyms in my black and white dictionary. They have all become straws for the drowning man.

I self-impose silence. I take pleasure in denial and secrecy. I take pride in successfully keeping a problem to myself.

Pride. That's another important word. I think I have too much of it, although it pains me when others point it out. Pride implies I think highly of myself, which is something a good person should never do. Pride is so audaciously self-absorbed, so high-and-mighty, so filthy with ego. There's probably a lot of it in this damn thing I've written.

Pride is the other thing that keeps my mouth shut. The thing that says I should be austere, untouchable, immovable. Pride is the thing that says look here, you don't have a lot going for you so you better keep this mask on right if you want to be good. If you want to be admired.

These terrible things keep me safe. I can't let go of that stupidly noble character or that cowardly pride. I need them to shield me from the reality that I am emotional, not all that put together, and honestly hopeless most of the time.

I need to have something worth liking about myself. I need to have a grit that makes me undeniably good. I need to have a strength that goes unsung, that lies in wait of discovery.

What an exhausting way to live. But it's the only way I know.

[shalom-iamcominghome]

I've been doing a lot of reflection as of late, especially after this past class.

This past class was about the Torah and Tanakh in general, and the way the rabbi talked about the commandments (specifically the ten commandments) has made me really reflect on how I interpret them, specifically the fifth commandment, or honoring your mother and father.

This is a commandment I have wrestled with for a long time - in fact, it brought me away from g-d at multiple times. I was severely abused when I was incredibly young by my mother, and I used to feel insulted at the implication that I were to honor her while she got to live a better life. It was hypocritical, in my eyes.

But this rabbi surmised that this particular commandment was because parenthood is an act of creation, something that is like the g-d from which we come from. My realization is this: I don't think we're necessarily meant to take even these commandments literally.

I this particular commandment is more of a call to honor creation - creation is a gift, and like any gift, many people simply will not like it and will discard it. The person who abused me created me, but she did not honor creation. She didn't honor me, but I can still honor it.

I have started to honor creation much more. I'm too young, too unstable, not mature enough to be a father (though I fantasize about it), but I create all the time. I create relationships, I create with my hands through crochet. I create memories, I create my world. And I can honor who I am and where I came from that made me who I am. I've been learning one of the mother tongues of my family (Italian, since part of my family originates there) and it was judaism that inspired me to do this.

I don't think g-d wants me to honor my abuser. I think He wants me to remember the Holy action of creation. When I am a father, that act of creation will be Holy, and indeed, I am already joyful about the thought.

I have seen many people struggle with this particular commandment, but I think this perspective helps me personally. I don't think I ever have to forgive my abusers (plural), and I don't think I am commanded to simply because they happened to be family. I am commanded to recognize the holy, to elevate the mundane. In doing so, I will remember g-d. Through creation, I honor g-d and everything he has done for us, for me, and for our collective people.

[biggest-gaudiest-patronuses]

*tries to organize my thoughts*

*remembers i'm not in school and therefore beholden to neither heaven nor hell nor any man's grading system*

*joyously shredding & tossing all my carefully arranged 3x5 mental notecards into the air like so much beige confetti. raising my arms in victory, cheering raucously until i accidentally inhale bits of homemade confetti*

(*coughing up itty bits of paper like a cat evicting a hairball with a firm understanding of tenants' rights*) wait wat happens next

[ricksanchezbignaturals]

silverv makes for such a tragic love story im surprised it didn't blow up with the gays. like can you imagine, can you imagine coming back from the dead after 50 years to find yourself stuck in the body of somebody who is dying because of you. you're trying to help them figure out how to get rid of you before it's too late and along that path you get to know each other so intimately from sharing memories and a body. and it's not really your fault but you are an intruder here, you are a parasite actively killing them but they're nice to you and care about you anyway. and you care about them. but you know that inevitably you will either take over their body or be removed. you can't both be alive at the same time for long. can you imagine realizing that you're falling in love with them