#so yeah... resin down the drain pretty much...

[rubys-domain]

i hate the marechaussee domain

[lajulie24]

The girl in the pretty white picture

The Part 2 to “Let go of all the big deals,” from Han’s POV. Shoutout to all my writing sprint partners for helping me actually get this written! Title is another reference to a line in Abra Moore’s “Four Leaf Clover,” just like part 1.

Han was trying not to hover, to be close enough to be of help but avoid lingering outside the doorway. She’d been in there a long time, but that sap had caused a hell of a mess. And she had to have a lot of hair, given how much there was wrapped up in those braids, given the strands he’d seen on the floor of the Falcon’s shower after she’d been there. Worse than Chewie, clogging up the drain, but he’d never said anything, just marveled a little at them.

Hair was a big deal in Leia’s culture, he’d learned. He’d figured at first it was some high society fashion thing, all the different styles he’d seen her sporting in the first few weeks he knew her. The weird side bun things she’d worn running around the Death Star, the stacks of fancy braids during the medal ceremony, that braided twist she’d had for a hot second, then the crown braids she’d settled on for her everyday look. He’d made an offhand comment about it once, early on, and found himself on the receiving end of a cold stare from Tycho Celchu, who normally was one of the friendlier pilots on base. And importantly, an Alderaanian.

So, not a society thing. Han knew that now. Hells, he knew the entire cultural history of the side buns now. Which Leia never even wore anymore in real life, only in her many wanted holos and the kriff-the-Empire, avenger-of-Alderaan, revolution-girl-style-now graffiti art they’d inspired across the galaxy.

“Han?” he heard her call. “You still there?”

He grinned. Hanging around had been the right instinct, it seemed. “Yeah, you need something?”

“Do you have a scissors? I’m going to have to cut this bit out.”

“Sure,” he responded. Chewie wouldn’t mind if he borrowed the scissors used to trim his pelt; Han had used them himself a while back, when he’d sported a beard for a short while.

(How many years ago was that? Yeah, it had been a while, well before he’d met up with the Rebellion. Another of his many lives.)

He returned, and took care to hand the scissors through the doorway without opening it too far to look. Apparently hair was so important on Alderaan that you didn’t go to a special stylist or a barber or anything for a trim; you relied on your close family to do it.

Not that any of her close family was even alive. And it was a lot of hair. Maybe she would need a hand.

“Ah, you need any help with that?” Should he be asking? Was that stepping on something? Who the hell knew, though Leia would likely either give him hell or the cold shoulder if it were out of line, so he’d find out soon enough.

A beat, and then another, with no response. Shit.

“Ah, maybe?”

Han almost laughed, it was so tentative. Like she wasn’t sure how to answer that question. But he didn’t leave.

Another few beats. Had it always been so quiet back here? Weird, to be waiting—

“Uh, yeah, could you come help?” Leia asked.

“Sure.” Han slid the door open again, this time wide enough for him to actually come in. He could feel the grin he’d entered with giving way to surprise as he took in the full picture of her hair, which was in long waves all around her.

There was a lot of it, and it was so long. He’d never seen her like this.

Look at her eyes, he told himself. Nobody liked being treated like an oddity, a piece of meat, a sheath of luxurious long dark brown hair—

“What do you need?” he asked, shaking himself out of the little trance he’d put himself in.

She smiled and handed him the scissors, holding up a group of strands caught in a pretty impressive knot of hair and dried resin. She smoothed the section of hair she was holding and held it out to him to cut; the scissors made quick work of it.

That can’t be it. Was that it? She could have done that herself, easily. He waited for a moment.

She turned her face toward him again, not smiling, but not frowning either. “Would you trim the rest it for me? To match?” she asked. Still tentative, like she was about to blush—and Leia had never been what Han would call the blushing type.

“Uh, yeah,” he responded. “Sure.” Part of him was saying What are you making such a huge deal about? You help Chewie with his fur all the time. It’s just hair, it’s not like she asked you to marry her, or pleasure her, or something.

But that almost felt like it was what she’d asked him to do. If hair was private, this was like—baring herself to him. Something so intimate, it was only done by very close friends or family. Something cloaked in tradition, in ritual. In a culture that was being obliterated, that was hanging on by a thread.

He’d never actually touched her hair before. He’d seen it in various states of disarray, watched her restyle it after the garbage smasher, seen it in multiple styles and plaits. To be honest, he’d dreamed of touching it before, of her letting down her hair like some mythical goddess or sorceress, like the heroine in a fairy story, and him having it all around him.

But Leia didn’t need some creep with a hair fetish; she needed a friend. And even though Han didn’t think she was particularly traditional in general, this was obviously important to her. She was trusting him with something that was a big deal. And at the same time, the last thing she needed was him making it a big deal.

She handed him the comb, and he worked it carefully through her hair. It felt a little surreal, this experience, like he was just dreaming and any minute would wake up alone in his bunk.

He matched the strands he’d already cut to the hair surrounding it, and carefully trimmed off the ends. Then he moved to the next section, and the next, and the next, working carefully around her head.

“Look this way,” he instructed, and did the little trick he’d seen a stylist do before, where he took two strands on either side of her head and compared them. He evened them up slightly, then pulled back.

“All done,” he announced. “Ain’t perfect, but….” He trailed off.

Leia ran her fingers through the finished hair. “No, it’s great. Thanks.”

Then he got his reward: that smile, and that look she gave him sometimes, the one better than any medal.

“I knew I could trust you,” she said.

[ezekielbhandarivalleros]

Little Handstrings

Paring: Logan x Colt Kaneko

Summary: Colt teaches Logan how to play the guitar

Second Chapter of Gay Bad Boys Series

Another day, another rain-washed street and a looming grey sky, predicting thunder.

Colt strummed mournfully, absent-mindedly, at his guitar. Normally he didn't mind the rain; the sound of it hammering his window made a nice backing track to his often rather somber music.

Today, however, it was draining him of inspiration, as if every drop of rain was a piece of his head. He couldn't explain it.

He plucked at a single note repetitively, until a voice from the corner of his room piped up.

"God, at least play something."

He'd almost forgotten his friend Logan was even in the room. He had been sat quietly flicking through his dusty assortment of old CDs and cassette tapes, nosing curiously as he did whenever she came over. It seemed the rain was causing him to be irritable as well.

"Sorry." he muttered, not really meaning it.

"What's this?" Logan asked, waving a blank tape at him, whilst inspecting another.

Colt tilted his head, as if that would help him to remember. He recalled that his blank tapes were ones he'd made himself when he was much younger.

"I dunno, give it here," he said taking it from Logan, without waiting for her to reply.

Bluey scowled but said nothing as he put the tape into his CD player and hit play.

A few moments of silence, the fuzzy crackling of ancient technology, and then the mumbling of a young boy.

"... um... I'm Colt. And uh... this is "Her Blues"..."

Logan snorted and covered his mouth when Colt shot him a look, but he blushed furiously when his childhood self began to play his guitar with youthful abandon... and little talent.

"She's gone, gone, gone away

She's gone away

I thought she would be here to stay

But she's gone away-ey-ey!"

Logan could no longer contain himself and toppled backwards in laughter, as little Colt began howling like a wolf. Seventeen-year-old Dom groaned loudly and flicked the stop button, drowning behind the blood that filled his face. Bluey sat up, grinning and wiping tears from her eyes.

"Oh my dear Colty," Logan chuckled. "What in the blue hell was that?"

Colt looked sheepish. "It was an entry for a competition when I was a kid."

"And you wrote it about your father leaving?"

"Yeah," Colt shrugged. "I was upset, who else was I gonna write a song about, huh?"

Logan looked as though he was itching to go into hysterics again.

"Just so you know, I never sent it in." Colt said, relieved now that he hadn't.

Logan smiled, almost sincerely, "Ah, I've heard worse. It was kinda cute anyway."

He looked at Logan and he nodded.

"So you've been playing guitar for a while then?" He asked.

"Pretty much."

"And the singing?" He enquired.

"I don't sing much anymore." He smirked slightly, running his fingers up and down the strings of his guitar. He'd stopped singing aloud since he'd played that tape to his brothers and they'd pounded him for it, calling him "gay". Now he only sang, mostly hummed, to himself, or when no one was in the house.

He looked up at his friend, who was deep in thought.

"Logan?" He mumbled, uncertainly.

"I'm struck by a thought, Waston." He said.

"My God, is that your first one, Holmes?" He replied cheekily.

Logan frowned but there was the slightest hint of a smile on her face. "Very funny." He reached over and took his guitar, then fingered the strings. "I was just thinking you could teach me to play guitar."

"Teach you?" He said, raising an eyebrow. He had never thought of Logan as being interested in music, other than having loud rock songs blaring out of his bedroom window till three in the morning. And he'd heard his singing, it wasn't great.

Logan shrugged, "Sure, why not? You can play, I want to play, and we're both bored. And there's not much we can do together when we're bored." His mouth curled into a demonic grin. "Well, except sex."

Logan was taken aback for a moment and his face turned hot, but Bluey eased up on him. "It was a joke, y'idiot."

He stood up with the guitar and lifted the strap over her head. Colt, being as tall and lanky as he was, had made the strap rather long, and Logan, being a good foot shorter than him, struggled to play the instrument when it dangled near his knees.

Colt rolled his eyes and got up to fix the strap for him, consenting, he decided, to teach her to play a few notes.

"Hold still." He muttered, as Logan continued strumming. The guitar lifted to his hips and she was able to play it more comfortably. He played a slow, often note-perfect rendition of "Highway to Hell", and he sat and listened.

"Where did you learn that?" He asked, mildly surprised.

Logan shrugged and sat down on the bed with him, "I did start learning a couple of years ago, until some little shit broke my guitar when I took it to school." He looked peeved. "You know my dad, he was too stingy to pay for it to be fixed. Then I just forgot about it."

"That wasn't bad." Colt smiled. "Know anything else?"

Logan shook his head; Colt couldn't help noticing that Logan looked like a small child who was trying hard to remember her ABCs. "But you're gonna teach me, right?"

Colt sighed in mock-exhaustion. "I guess." He stood up and circled him, trying to figure out the best way to go about teaching someone else to do something he'd always been adept at. Logan gently fiddled with a tune patiently as Colt pondered.

"I take it you know all the chords, then?" He said finally.

Logan nodded, "Kinda. All I really want... is to know how to play like specific songs."

"Like?"

"Well, whatever. Metallica, HIM, whatever. You pick."

Colt knew what to pick, but he took a moment to look as though he was in deep thought; he knew the song he was going to suggest would make his grimace, but it was perfect.

He moved behind him and put his arms around her shoulders so that his hands hovered above him over the guitar. Bluey raised an eyebrow.

"This how you teach?" He asked, unconvinced.

"Just work with me here," Colt snapped, feigning lack of enthusiasm. "I've never had to 'impart wisdom' before."

"There's a surprise." Logan snorted, but he ignored him.

"I'm gonna teach you a slow song, m'kay? We'll move on to the heavy stuff later."

Logan grunted, disappointed. He looked down at his guitar, barely registering how his fingers twitched near his, or how his breath ruffled her azure hair gently while he showed him the notes.

But Colt noticed everything about him. How soft his pale little hands were when he moved them about; how his tongue peeked out of the corner of her mouth when she was concentrating really hard; how his sank comfortably into his chest, or how his hair smelled of gel.

Deep down his ulterior motives for teaching Logan this way became apparent to him, as he realised that the sight, the sound, the smell and touch of his playing to him one of his favourite songs wouldn't leave him for a while.

He began to feel hot under his clothes, and his mouth dried up, and Logan played on, oblivious to the fact that he was rapidly falling for him.

The way his nose twitched adorably when she scowled at her mistakes...

The way he hummed so out of tune, yet not caring...

The way his hair brushed his neck and left him smelling of him...

Colt jumped back abruptly, knocking him forward onto his knees.

He turned and scowled at him, "The hell?"

"I thought I saw a spider!" He gasped, quickly, knowing he would accept that as he jumped onto his bed.

He glanced around, looking for the culprit and muttering about Colt and his "bloody phobias".

He lay back on the bed, his hands on his face, beads of sweat leaving him dizzy. Surely, it was just a heat of the moment? The romantic song? The close proximity? The fact that he hadn't had a Boyfriend in weeks?

As he forced himself to believe that that must be it, and that he wasn't falling in love with him, there was a little voice in the back of his mind, reminding him that he had felt this way before, and perhaps it was happening again.

Logan, meanwhile, had given up her search for the phantom spider and had seated himself on the floor, beginning to play the first few notes of the song.

"Y'know, I think I've pretty much got it now. Listen..."

And Colt listened with a tight knot in his stomach as Logan began to mumble the words he felt himself want to say.

"I don't know why this took so long.

It wasn't hard for me to see.

It wasn't that I didn't notice.

It was just hard to believe."

Colt sat up slowly and watched Logan fumble over the strings, her freckled face contorted in absorption.

"But this is what you did.

What you did to me."

He had no idea what he was thinking, about him, about the lyrics, about how juicy his lips were when she sang, even if she wasn't the greatest songstress.

"You put resin on my heartstrings. You make 'em sing.

You put resin on my heartstrings. You make 'em sing.

And it's about time that I told you everything.

You put resin on my heartstrings. You make 'em sing..."

He moved over to her and put his hand on his to stop his playing, she looked at him, those big blue eyes rolling over his face curiously.

"Was it bad?"

"No." Colt answered quietly. She was watching him with such an unnerved expression that he took his hand off of hers quickly. "I just... I think you've got it, Logan."

He beamed and flexed her fingers in front of his face. "Knew these babies wouldn't let me down. What's next then?"

Colt was standing by the window. The rain had stopped and he was willing it to stay that way. "I think that's enough for today." He muttered.

"Y'reckon?"

He looked at her, his heart aching so feebly at the sight of her pouting that he couldn't bear to look at her anymore. Not until he'd had time to think. He turned back to the window. "I'm pretty tired, you should probably leave."

Logan stood and eyed him. He reached for his shoulder and turned him to look at him, narrowing her eyes at him, inspecting his face. Colt tried to look as nonchalant as he could, but Logan's face softened on him as she noticed how upset he seemed all of a sudden.

"What's wrong dude?" Logan asked softly.

He shrugged her off, frowning slightly, "Nothing."

Logan wasn't convinced, but he felt it was pointless to pry if Colt didn't want to talk to him. He could be moody on his own.

"Fair enough. Same time tomorrow?"

"Maybe." He replied.

He didn't watch Logan leave the room; he could tell he did it in a strop because the door was slammed. But he watched Logan cross the road outside of his house and slouch off in the miserable weather.

Colt was determined he wouldn't know about his feelings, not until he was certain of them at least. After all it was probably just a little crush, nothing too serious.

[mjallanwrites]

Love Me

LOVE ME ( IF THAT’S WHAT YOU WANNA DO ) — in which ( Y/N ) and peter have been best friends since middle school despite the fact that she’s constantly been pegged as shy and withdrawn. ever since they entered high school ( Y/N ) has had a small crush on peter, but remains convinced that he’s never seemed to notice because she’s always been lost behind her giant frames

WARNINGS — none !!

WORD COUNT — 1.5k

REQUEST — can you do a drabble where the reader is the nervous one and has a huge crush on peter and he sees her one day without her glasses and realizes his feelings

AUTHOR’S NOTE — so i don’t wanna get ahead of myself or anything, but honestly y’all i’m super proud of myself for getting this one out in a timely manor. anyways, i hope this drabble lives up to your vision and thank you so much for requesting it ! also if anyone needs me to tag anything, let me know and i’ll be happy to add it to the warnings. !!

“PETER DID YOU hear what I just said?” The question is sullied by a sardonic kind of bitterness, and had it come from the mouth of anyone else—it would have read more like an affirmation of sorts. Of course Peter hadn't been paying attention, the capricious nature of his gaze ( which for the record, always seemed to return to the foggy window pane in five minute intervals )  had corroborated that very fact. But ( Y/N ) seems to posses an infinite amount of patience, and because she’s his best friend she’s polite enough to overlook his incessant flaw.

Sheepishness replaces the usual softness of Peter’s features, his smile wavering in the slightest fashion. “I’m sorry, I’ve just been a bit—”

“Distracted? Yeah I can tell.” ( Y/N ) adjusts the thick frame of black spectacles until they rest atop the bridge of her nose. Peter can’t help but to notice that she’s always careful not to smudge the lenses. She’s meticulous like that—straining over the minor details which would elicit indifference from most.

Spoiler alert: she isn’t most people.

“Hey! You have my full attention now, I promise.” And for five minutes he means it, listening intently to the girl who’d always prioritized physics over physical education and read Fitzgerald for fun. Only verb conjugations and the laws of grammar don’t intrigue him nearly as much as intercepting bank robberies or engaging in battle with the Avengers themselves. It was as if becoming Spider-man had cast a dullness over the intricacies of ordinary life—kaleidoscope colours gingerly draining from blank sky and left to saturate the worn out soles of his sneakers. The only time he’d ever felt some semblance of engagement was when school clothes had been swapped for red and blue spandex.

What could he say—being a masked hero could do to that to a person.

“It’s fine Peter, we can just do this another time. I have to go home soon anyways.” Peter can sense the  tinge of disappointment in her tone, it’s tethered to the faint lilt of her words—entwined like vine to stone. And he hates that he always seems to let her down, especially in times where she needs him most.

The pair had been inseparable since middle school, venturing through central park hand in hand and padding along beneath sweltering sun until the heat seemed to consume them entirely. They would feed throngs of ducks who never failed to linger by the shallow ponds, content with both the day and each other. She’d been his rock for what felt like an entirety, a paperweight which kept him fastened to the ground when his personal trials and tribulations threatened to blow him away. But above all she was tempered despite all irrationalities and empirical injustices. Perhaps it stemmed for an inherent timidness which she seemed to carry upon her shoulders like a perennial burden, or maybe she had just been that good at reservation—he could never quite put his finger on it.

Peter’s posture is stiff, as if one wrong move and her apathetic disposition may just contort into exasperation. “I swear I’ll make it up to you! Tomorrow—at that ice cream parlour you like.” He watches as ( Y/N )’s gaze seems to falter, and being the observant person that he was—he can’t help but to notice that she never seems to meet his eyes. “I’ll meet you there after school, my treat.”

( Y/N ) fiddles with the remaining notebooks which rest idly on the table. “Yeah that’s fine I guess, I-I mean you really don’t have to. But if you really wanna go then that’s cool.” She smiles that flimsy grin of hers that she’s worn since she was twelve years old, only now it’s less toothy. ( Y/N ) stopped baring ivories when she was fourteen, despite the fact the braces her parents invested thousands on ended up doing her a world of good.

“Great I’ll see you then.” Peter slips his phone into his pocket before giving her hand a light squeeze.

“Looking forward to it.” 

And as always, she really means it.

Peter Parker considers himself to be good with faces.

He can recall the identities of mask clad vigilantes who’d only exposed that particular chink in their armour for a brief moment, and the distinct profile of every librarian who’s ever shushed both him and an overzealous Ned Leeds. Such a tendency wouldn't come as a shock to those who actually knew the boy. He exuded a natural brilliance which seemed to recede that of his peers, and should he have made his intelligence the focal point of his persona—perhaps those who hadn’t known him would have dubbed him a genius. Genius’ had a tendency to notice things; they were constantly alert as if a peculiar kind of hyperactivity replaced the vitality which coursed through overt veins.

Peter was no different than the very people who never seemed to overlook even the littlest of things.

So you can only imagine his shock when a perky—and barely recognizable— ( Y/N Y/L/N ) arrives at Eddie’s Sweet Shop, clad in a floral patterned dress comprised of thin material and long sleeves. Honey lacquered nails clutch at the baby pearls which adorn her wrists—a family heirloom that she’d always donned in memory of her grandmother. On any other day, the beat up converse she’d purposely slipped on her feet that afternoon ( her solid attempt at contrasting her dress ) would look wrong—something so obviously out of place. Today they resinate with Peter like the ballet flats she’s grown so used to wearing for the sake of appearances. And it’s not that his inherent shock stems from a sudden recognition of her beauty—because she’s always been beautiful and she always would be. No, the jarring nature of his response stems from the unfamiliarity of character. The way she seems to have blossomed before a crowd of oblivious strangers, confidence etched into the crescent shape her mouth effortlessly conforms to. Light shades of pink stain the surface of her cheeks, and he knows it’s because she’s stood in the sun for far too long. More than that, the chunky frames of her glasses are missing in action, and for the first time ever—she’s visibly unfazed.

Yeah, his best friend has always been beautiful—but he’s never really seen her like this before.

“Hey ( Y/N )! You look, uh—wow, I mean, you look good.” His stuttering seems to intrigue a smiling ( Y/N ), which turns his own cheeks a deep red.

The giggle which escapes ( Y/N )’s lips is airy and delicate, and should it have been something of physical tangibility, it would have broke underneath the burden of her weighty expectations. “Thanks Peter. You don’t think it’s too much?” There’s a sudden crook in her right eyebrow as she gestures to her lanky form.

Peter holds back a nervous gulp. “N-No, definitely not.”

“Well that’s a relief.” She slides onto the stool next to him, and for a moment his throat seems constrict upon catching the light floral scent of her perfume. Was it possible for someone to smell pretty? Peter wants to ask her, but settles for requesting a menu instead.

“So I was thinking we could share a banana split—y’know, like when we were kids.” He begins to fiddle with the menu’s laminated edge, and ( Y/N ) watches him like it’s the most endearing thing she’s ever seen.

“That sounds great, but aren’t we technically still kids?” There’s a teasing glint in her eye, a stark disparity to a cautiousness which laces her words. And to anyone looking from the outside in—she was right. Peter and ( Y/N ) were nothing more than two kids who’d always harboured feelings for one another, though neither of them had ever been brave enough to act on such a sentiment. Instead, they continued forward with one another—ceaselessly pursuing the future with no intention to ever part, even if it meant an eternity of friendship and friendship alone.

The nights in which ( Y/N ) buried her head in the crook of Peter’s neck on her fire escape, tracing constellations with yearning fingers and telling tales of both science and fiction had been enough to cement an emotional attachment she could never quite shake. She’d loved him in a childish kind of way.

A stolen kisses on the cheek by the duck pond kind of way.

And Peter had loved her too, he always had. He loved the way she’d never been seen without a novel of some sort tucked at her side—pages tattered and cover torn because she always read her books more than once. The way she never grew weary of him, even when he lost focus during their study sessions in the library. And how he could know everything there was to know about her—only to reevaluate it all by the next morning. Because she’d never just been one thing, even when she was shy and vulnerable there’d still been a confidence to her; a security which transcended all hesitation.  

Aren’t we technically still kids?

“Yeah—I guess we are.”

Two kids who were just friends—but loved each other nonetheless.

[frogsandfries]

Wasting time being grouchy and complaining about it

I decided today’s weather is mild enough, I’m going to cut some cardboard so I can get a step closer to finally really nailing down some of these furniture designs.

But when I’d finally rounded up all my cardboard, it was all damp. Not quite soggy, but too wet to cut. So now I need to wait for it to dry.....and, as my sister pointed out, hope it isn’t moldy. It doesn’t have any colonies visible, but that’s like saying, I picked the mold off my muffin, so obviously it’s safe to eat. I’m hoping the dry-and-smother method works, but it’ll only work if the cardboard stays as dry as I can keep it until I seal it, which is unlikely as anything to happen.

Both of my sisters have suggested that I just buy furniture, off Facebook or similar venues. Neither of them have been thinking and planning and researching this since October, and they don’t realize how small the van is and how much I want and need to do in the van. I’m beyond sick and absolutely tired of eating out or eating frozen, prepackaged meals. I really want to cook! I insist on it. I also need a space to do studio work, and a place to store everything. I could try sculpting where I cook, but....I dunno, I don’t like the thought of spilling resin and then cooking where I spilled. Plus, I really do like the idea of having a designated work space. If I could sort of cook in a motel room, I can sort of a little more cook in a space that’s designated for cooking.

I could be working on my curtains, but I’m still in think mode. I spent all yesterday evening thinking about different ways I want to use the space, breaking it down by use--really getting into life in my kitchen, or how all the hookups will be managed.

I’ve just about figured that I can have the fridge permanent, but I’ve realized that I’ll also need the water area permanently affixed too. I might be able to squeeze the pump and water heater under the fridge, and it seems like most camper vans have a passive grey-water disposal method--many just let it drain out through the back, but you can’t pull that off when you’re stealthing. It’s also not practical to store it in an open system, for me at least. It’ll be interesting to learn how to keep the water from being funky.

Well, I’ve been debating for a while about where to start. Even once I get started constructing my 1:1 mockups in cardboard, it’ll be slow going. I’ll have to cut the cardboard to the needed width, make sure I have a fairly even mix of horizontal and vertical corrugation, and then I’ll start gluing. I’d like to do the whole piece at once, but I have no idea what I would use for weight. Maybe that leftover masonite my dad has in the truck, even though that involves taking a piece of cardboard with wet glue outside. Which can be quite a trek.

So where do I want to start? Personally, I think starting out by covering the wheel wells would be a pretty intelligent start. It’s something that needs to be done and it will be another element that will help me get a better feel for the space that I have to work with.

I may just take a sledge hammer to the tower if my dad doesn’t get moving on it soon here. He’s got it in the yard, he keeps talking about running an extension cord to the building, get a freakin move on already. Kids these days, they want everything and they want it now, I tell ya.

But by the same stroke, I was talking to my younger sister and she was asking if I need money and I realized, I haven’t touched the gift card yet. I haven’t been able to get much of anything done with the weather too cold to do much of anything. But I really, really wanted to save the gift card for the fridge. Either way, I don’t want to buy anything, because when I really spend at Home Depot, I go well over a hundred dollars, and if I do that, I want to be able to cover it myself. Well, yeah I need money, that’s why I’m taking yet another stupid factory job.......

I’m kind of freaking out, because it’s not like this job is going to pay monumentally. I would like to know how people are filing their taxes that they aren’t getting gouged to death. It’s like, I can’t file my taxes to save my life, because they always take like a third of my check. I can’t figure it out and it’s so frustrating to work with my dad and be like, I got three hundred and he’s like I got five hundred!

I have to save a thousand dollars by April, I’m not positive when in April, because crazy isn’t going, my dad is worried about his animals, so if he can’t take the bus, he’s not going. My sister doesn’t work, but she has two little girls, so either her family of four goes, or she has to make arrangements for the girls. My younger sister can’t go because she’s still tied down with the book;learning part of her training. I’m the only one. And I’m considering working two jobs for a month or two. I really, really need cash in hand. I know anywhere I work, I’m not even going to see a check for at least four weeks, which is extra stressful. But at least if I’m working two jobs, I’ll see two checks at the same time, which may be a relief, but it won’t be till pretty much the end of March...so a whole month of paychecks......a month behind. Oh the joy....

I’m seriously panicking. It’s not fair to not go to congratulate my brother. He may be the baby, but he gets forgotten.....

If I put pretty much a month’s income into this trip, this puts me back a month on getting my license, which is utterly frustrating. Not having a license wasn’t so frustrating when I had public transit. But now I have to deal with certain people, who just want to waste my time putting their nose up my ass to figure out what I had for lunch and what I’m doing when it’s none of their fucking business. So dragging the waste along makes a quick, simple errand ten times longer. Additionally, having to have someone else drive me means I need to coordinate my schedule and I am too fucking busy for that shit. I need to get me places. Like a job. Like a job that I’m suited for. A job that pays decently, instead of a factory job where they work you too hard for what they pay you. Honestly, I’m willing to earn fifteen dollars an hour, but I refuse to kill myself for nine dollars an hour. My dad’s inability to read disqualifies him from most of the jobs I would be interested in.

I could ask my dad what more needs to be done with the roof extension--we have the left and right frame done, and we have enough 2x4s to frame out a roof. I know the frame for the loft is too short for the total space I wanted opened up, and I recently learned that it helps to bolt a carpentered roof extension to the area over the cab, for a little more stability. I don’t think there is any additional new material for a roof, and I think my dad whinged last time I suggested reusing what we have to maximize my budget. I think if the roof is going to slope, the chunk of existing roof will make a great roof, just throw in some 2x4s for additional support, and whatever the roof doesn’t cover, add some sheathing. i’m gonna need another sheet of sheathing for the slope of the walls from the ceiling to the original van walls. So maybe I can slide with just getting two sheets of sheathing and we (my dad) can bust out the grinder. If we finish assembling the rear wall pieces, the new ceiling--oh shit I forgot about the rear wall.....and I want windows, but those can be done later. I’ll even use my dremel if I have to. Fuck the loft, I can do that later too. As long as I can stand up in the back of my van, get dressed or sweep or cook, or sit in a chair, I’m good. Then with the new roof in place, I can figure out if the structure is stable enough or if it needs internal reinforcement.

Actually, we could even, as I’ve considered previously, wedge the frame forward--or, wait, we could bracket the frame we have to the roof, smooth down the edges to angles, build the extension the whole length of the van, adding to it when my budget is stabilized. I could have two feet, additional to what I have now, and then for the loft, two feet more to sit up in.

After the extension is done, and the wheel wells are covered (I think I’m going to pretty much sculpt those out of cardboard, so when more of my cardboard is dried out, I’ll probably go outside and try again. Or I could just measure it, and glue up the box in here? Nah, I’ll just try to do it outside, then I can just use the cardboard to build out the form; I don’t have to glue the cardboard down or anything), I really do want to dispense with sleeping on the floor. I’m really, really beyond sick and tired of sleeping on the floor. Although, just a desk top would be a quick and easy project. Like, a solid inch and a half, or two, of cardboard

So anyway, my dad grabbed some more cardboard from the storage bin, as I requested, but now he’s back on the freaking ladder rack. Honestly, I bought the shell entirely on his recommendation and now he can’t even get it onto the van. That was frustrating and annoying, and we basically risked our safety to get it up to a point where we were supposed to be able to get it up there. After that, I decided I was taking the project back; I’ll take care of it. I’m glad he was thinking about me/my project/getting me out of his space and back on my own, but I’m really, honestly, fully done with the whole ladder rack thing. He’s the one who thinks wood is superior to cardboard, even though cardboard has shown to be lighter weight for equal strength (especially if you really saturate your project with glue). Plus, every ladder rack he finds has those brackets--some of them have them at the bottom AND the top. I don’t see what a ladder rack would do that a wooden frame can’t or doesn’t. And I’m really angry/frustrated because I’ve already sunk the money into this wooden frame. He is not going to convince me to cut up the frame or anything like that. Besides, a steel frame doesn’t change the fact that if the part where the wind hits isn’t attached and maintained properly, the whole structure will still destabilize. Plus, let’s say, like he’s suggesting, the ladder rack attaches to the frame of the van where I’m planning on bolting the frame of the new walls, where am I going to put the new walls?

Ugh.

Yeah, I know I’m usually grateful when I listen to other people, but I’ve actually researched this one. It not only can be done,it has been done--and driven around. I’m losing my patience. Actually, I ran out of patience for this project just around the time winter hit. All of my patience evaporated when I was forced to live with certain people who are emotionally abusive and like to be creepy while other people sleep...or if not creepy, then disruptive. Plus, we’re past the six-month mark of technically living with my parents; or, if you want to exclude the time I spent actually sleeping and doing my own thing in my van, it’s four months. But it’s still seven, approaching eight, months that I’ve spent not really having a place to cook meals for myself, or store my own groceries or work in my studio to a capacity that is productive and meaningful to myself.

I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time, and I’ve had command of my own life since I was twenty. The woman who gave birth to me is mentally, verbally and emotionally abusive. She’s also greedy, intolerant, ignorant and selfish; overall, a toxic emotional energy to be living in, after spending five intensive years trying to cleanse myself and be a stronger, healthier person. Now I feel like I’ve been shoved back into a survival situation, where everything I’ve been doing since November has been less for pleasure and more for survival. I mean, there’s pleasure to be found in embroidery, but I was so busy trying to reignite my own internal joy, I didn’t really have much room to concentrate on what I needed to do for my van. Plus, when i have money, I take seriously the task of feeding myself. I don’t eat often, or a lot (I think lately, I’m doing something like, maybe a third to half of a two-pound meal of food for a large meal, and maybe whatever leftovers I have from this for snack, and maybe a few pieces of candy throughout the day). But I’ve actually reverted to a state of just eating enough so my stomach doesn’t growl from hunger, but overall, I spend most of the day hungry. No reason, I’m just busy and distracted.

I’m an adult. I’m used to taking care of myself because I’ve been doing so with what resources I have since I was young. I can’t tolerate stupid anger or blind hate. I can’t stand emotional toxicity anymore. My dad got me through the cold months, which was nice of him and all; I mean, not every parent would offer their adult child a place to sleep, let alone do something like rent-to-own me a van on a very loose repayment schedule. Now it’s time to boogie. After all, I’m not starting my own family when I can’t even drive myself to work or the grocery store. I’m not going to have a baby around the same woman who still verbally abuses me as an adult, screaming at me that she was a great mother because she wasn’t at the bar or having sex for money.

Once I have my own license, I won’t need to live with my parents. Once I own my van, I won’t have to worry about where I’m living. Once my van is in full working condition, I just have to concern myself about keeping it that way. I just worry about being too old by the time it’s a good time for me to have a baby. It’s bullshit that I have to be an adult and concern myself with things like not having a baby until it’s the right time. Because especially for our generation, there simply is never going to be a right time. Either you’re just going to work a baby into your budget and your life, or you’re going to wait your life away.

I truly believe as soon as I have a license, and the United States of Jobs will be an oyster cracked for my taking. I can be anywhere the job is. I still think a library is the place for me, at least while I’m working toward my studio goals. 

But I can’t live my life when I don’t even have room for my own groceries, let alone a studio.

That’s why I’m getting agitated about the roof situation.