#sorta yk

[humanteethmarksonhumanbone]

i swear if it wasn't for the fact that every single thing on this planet make me nauseous

[scribbyizhere]

does anybody feel Zesty abt ldr Sun?? oh hey yeah not me pffft nah. spirals

love death and rollerskates by @spadillelicious

[kkolg]

you know while I love making nuzi art and don’t plan to stop

I get a little sad when a silly comic of them blows up while a fully rendered piece of an oc goes under the radar

I mean that’s kinda just how the internet works and I don’t hate it or anything

It’s just a little disappointing

[random-twst-things]

Crowley: Perfect! Just the person I was looking for!

Mc/Y/N/Yuu: 😐

Crowley: I acquire some assistance for an accident made in-

Mc/Y/N/Yuu: Hey Grimm?

Grimm: What?

Mc/Y/N/Yuu: ya know what sounds really good to eat right now?

Grimm: Tuna?

Mc/Y/N/Yuu: no, roasted crow

Crowley: ...

Grimm: Roasted crow? Where ya gonna get a crow from?

Mc/Y/N/Yuu: Oh, don't worry, I know where we can find one veeerrryyy near

Mc/Y/N/Yuu, turning to look at Crowley with a smile: Reeaaally close 😀

Crowley: OH! WOULD YOU LOOK AT THAT! It would seem the accident was mysteriously cleaned! Isn't that great? I must leave now! BYEEEE!!

Crowley, running away:

[cicada-candy]

Loose GPT wip I Will Actually Probably Finish at some point

[truefandemonium]

Welp I’m back and so is Bill

Please enjoy the drabble <3

a mind ensnared pt.2

a billstill ficlet

(inspired by the AU by @jellynut)

TW: self harm

…

It hurt like hell. And Stanley knew hell.

Hell was the lifetime he spent wishing he hadn’t hurt Ford. The lifetime he wasted running from the family he should have made amends with.

The lifetime he could no longer recall most of.

Ford was easing him back into reconnecting with his past— both of theirs. He shared stories they’d experienced as kids in Jersey… the good times they’d shared in high school… moments in between where they didn’t hate each other’s guts.

But it hurt.

Stan pressed his palms against his eyes with a low groan. “I’m sicka this.”

“Stanley, we can stop,” Ford said calmly. “This is for you, remember.”

“Remember. Right,” Stan scoffed. His attitude had plummeted in the last half hour since his headache had grown from a dull ache to a sharp throbbing in his right temple.

Ford rolled his eyes, shutting the scrapbook and shoving it back into the small shelf inside the interior of the boat. The name of the author was scrawled in glitter gel pen on the inside: MABLE PINES. “We can revisit it later,” Ford said, keeping his tone level.

Stan hated him for always being reasonable and kind despite his own short temper. Who gave him the right to be so forgiving?

Sure as blue skies wasn’t me! If anything, I helped him find his fiery side— Ol’ Fordsy never would have hurt you before I came along…

Ford never hurt me. This was never his fault, no matter how much I want to believe it was. Stan shifted to look at his feet, hiding his gaze. He didn’t know if Ford could see it; the way his eyes changed when Bill spoke. Maybe no one could see it… but Stan felt it. It clawed at the back of his brain like long tendrils of flame, licking until they could reach the glassy surface of his eyes, where they’d stare out.

Oh really?

Stan could practically see that damned Triangle grinning now.

Remember this?

Fire. This time, not just behind his eyes. It ate away at the flesh of his back, just at his wing, where the deep burn scar remained. Lately, Stan would run his fingers over the grooves in his flesh, as if he could pry the memory out of his skin, desperate to recall the moment in which he gained the scar.

But now he didn’t need anything to evoke it. It all came back like a tidal wave, floodgates opened and ready to drown him in the deep waters of his own mind.

Stan pushed himself up from the table, his chair clattering to the floor behind him as he reeled. The pain made him dizzy, and Ford’s brow furrowed deep as he looked up at him in concern.

“Alright, Stanley?”

“Headache,” Stan barked.

So worried for you. How sweet. Brotherly love is such a wonderful thing, isn’t it? Why don’t you go ahead and ask Sixer about that scar, Mystery Man?

Flashes of memory threatened to knock Stan to the floor. The deep pain of the burn on his back. The cold of the earth as he fell to his side in agony. A distant cry of, “Stanley… I’m so sorry…”

But why? Why had Ford burned him? Why had they been fighting at all?

ASK HIM.

“Stanley, are you sure you’re alright?” Ford stood, his chair creaking as he pushed it back and stepped around the table toward his brother. “You look—”

“I’m fine!” Stan snapped, grabbing Ford’s collar and holding him at arm’s length to stop him from getting closer. Stan looked up and glared into the soft eyes staring back, his grip tightening.

You’ll never know if you don’t ASK.

“I don’t need to,” Stan whispered, the words falling from his lips against his will.

Ford’s eyes flashed fearfully. “What?”

Panic suddenly gripped Stanley— the man shoved his brother back and growled, “I said I don’t need you. This stupid memory thing isn’t helping me— and neither are you.”

“Stanley, you don’t need to—” Ford lifted his hand and Stan stepped back again.

“Just leave it alone! Leave me alone, and stop trying to help,” Stan ground out, clenching his fists at his sides and pivoting to leave the underbelly of the ship.

Ford yelled something else as Stan left, but he didn’t turn around. The screaming inside his head was too loud to think— to breathe.

On a fishing boat in the middle of the ocean, there weren't exactly many places to isolate oneself. Still, Stan managed to find solace in the crow’s nest. Cold wind buffeted his hair as he tried and failed to catch his breath, chest hammering as Bill raked at the inside of Stan’s skull.

YOU IDIOT

NOW YOU’LL NEVER KNOW WHY FORD GAVE YOU THAT SCAR— YOU’LL NEVER REMEMBER WHAT YOU SAID TO HIM TO MAKE HIM SNAP—

“Shut up, shut up,” Stan seethed, his hands coming up to frame his head, closing his eyes. “I don’t want to know, you stupid triangle. I don’t want to remember…” Stan shook his head, voice dissolving into a whimper. “I don’t want to remember him at all.”

It was the thing that was killing him; the memory of how he’d betrayed Ford at every turn, destroyed his chance at happiness. And Bill wouldn’t stop reminding him of all of it.

“I just wanna forget everything,” Stan hissed into the wind, the breeze taking his words and tossing them to the sea. “Just for a minute…”

For the first time in a long time, there was silence. And then,

I can make that happen.

All at once, Stan felt his body heat. Not the fiery pain of the past, but a gentle warmth like the rays of the sun beating down on him. He opened his eyes and inhaled a sharp, small gasp.

He was sitting in the crow’s nest of the original Stan ‘O’ War on Glass Shard Beach, the hot summer sun baking the wooden boat as it sat on the shore. Stan stood cautiously, raking his eyes over his surroundings.

He was looking for something. Some one. Yet he couldn’t manage to remember who. The memory felt blurry in his mind, like a permanent marker had been scrawled across the image— the thick, choking fumes of the ink making Stan’s vision cloudy and head swim.

And yet he welcomed it. The sensation of not remembering… it was as peaceful as it was oddly painful.

But something was tugging him— calling him. Stan pushed off from the wooden nest and crawled down the rickety wooden slats that served as steps to the main deck, then jumped down to reach the shore.

Normally a leap like that would knock him to his knees— and it almost did— but the pain in his joints seemed to have vanished. He felt like… like a kid again.

A sudden breath of excited air filled Stanley’s lungs as he straightened and examined the terrain. Sure enough, everything was as it was in his childhood. Every stone, every tree— every glass shard.

Except the presence of that unknown entity clawing at the inside of Stan’s mind.

As he wandered the beach, Stan’s anxiety grew, soon overwhelming the joy he’d felt at being back home. Until he saw it.

Saw him.

A faceless figure he knew so well. Part of him knew, anyway.

No name would lend itself to Stan as he raced forward, one hand extended into the air in greeting.

The faceless man sat placidly on a near broken down swing set, rocking forward and back in gentle motions.

Stan’s heart pounded as he got a good look at his face. Or rather, the emptiness that was there. His hands, too— his whole body seemed to flicker with obscuring yellow light. Light that shone so brightly Stan had to back up several steps.

But then it dimmed, and somehow, that was so much worse.

Before Stan stood a stranger. A stranger he’d grown up with, a stranger he loved. A stranger who had done so much for him and he did nothing in return.

“Hey, uh—” Stan started, his eyes trying to focus on the ever changing clawed out space that the man should reside in. “Who are you? This place is— this is Jersey, isn’t it?”

The stranger turned, his face a shroud of scribbled yellow that flickered with his movement.

Then, a sharp, loud, incessant static began to pour from him. No words, just agitated sounds in a garbled mess.

The sounds welled until Stan couldn’t take it anymore. He slammed his hands over his ears and cried, “I’m looking for—”

And then he stopped. Because… who was he looking for? He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember.

You wanted to forget. A grinning, gleaming flash of yellow appeared beside Stan. The single eye of the floating angular shape glinted with malice. So now he’s gone. Enjoy the spotlight, Stanley.

No, no, no no no no. Who did he forget? Who had Bill taken from him? And just when he was starting to remember—

But remember what? Even now, the memories were starting to fade. The image of the beach around him started to feel fuzzy in Stan’s mind. Everything but the glimmering shards of sun soaked glass that protruded from every corner of the beach.

The pain in Stan’s head, too, was beginning to grow. The aching that came with trying to uncover lost memories, the splintering sensation as the static noise penetrated his skull.

The sadness he felt when he looked into the space of the stranger’s face where his eyes should be.

The sound of glass shattering seemed to break him. Scrambling through the warm sand below his feet, Stan searched until he frantically pulled a shard of sharpened glass from the dirt.

Without hesitation, he lunged for the stranger, pressing the glass hard against his obscured throat. Stan felt the soft, kind hands of this unseeable man land on his shoulders. Confused. Comforting.

“Who are you?” Stan wailed. “I’m looking for someone! I— I can’t do this without him…”

Heaving for air, breath coming in short bursts as his heart hammered in his chest, Stan bleakly lifted the glass to his face and peered at it, retreating from the stranger.

Back then, he had terrible eyesight. He just never told anyone. He didn’t get glasses until he was in his late thirties and even then he hardly wore them. He didn’t feel like he deserved them. But his— someone— had loaned their own to Stanley. As a child, he borrowed someone’s glasses. Someone he looked up to and treasured and—

Fuck, the pain of forgetting was too much. It was like fire burning down the carefully crafted buildings inside his head. And the smoke was filling up his skull.

Maybe he could relieve the pressure. Clear the smoke and put the fire out.

Remember.

Ever so carefully, Stan placed the point of the glass shard against his right temple, and pressed. The pain was nothing compared to the sounds of agony his own brain was creating in this moment. The glass pierced his skin, drawing dark blood as Stan dragged the edge from his temple toward his eye.

Maybe he’d see better with just one eye.

STANLEY.

A horrible sound rang out. A mix of Bill’s voice and… someone else. As the rest of Jersey fell away, only the figure of the stranger remained: grabbing Stan’s shoulders and shaking him hard.

All at once, Stan’s eyes flew open. He was huddled on the floor of the ship, down below, one eye filling rapidly with blood from the long slice along the side of his head. Hand planted on the ground before him as he gasped and dropped the glass from his other.

“Stanley!”

That voice. Stan spun his body, revelling in the feeling of a familiar six fingered grasp on his shoulders.

And his own face staring back at him. For the first time in a long time, Stanley couldn’t get the words out. Until finally, “Stanford.”

Ford grabbed his brother and yanked him into a tight hug, his breathing frantic and horrified. “Stanley— oh for God’s sake, Stanley— I thought you were— it was like he had— but your eyes— oh thank goodness—” Ford’s rambling soothed Stanley.

His brother. He’d been looking for his brother all this time. And Bill had taken him.

Stan pulled away from the hug and slammed his fists into his brother’s chest, startling him into a sharp gasp. “Stanley, what are you—” he started, wondering and fearful.

The memories came back, finally, finally. The fight. That terrible moment when everything changed.

“You left me behind, you jerk! It was supposed to be us forever.”

And then the ever present searing pain in the flesh of Stanley’s right shoulder. Ford didn’t mean it. He didn’t mean any of it.

But he’d left him. And now he was back.

Stan rasped out, “Don’t ever leave me.”

“You ruined my life.”

Ford’s brows knitted over his eyes. “Stanley, you’re my brother,” he said gently. “We’re in this together.”

“You ruined your own life.”

“Forever,” Stan wheezed. Even through the dripping blood, and slowly darkening vision, Ford’s face was so clear now.

And Stan decided he would take the pain of remembering over the hell of forgetting. Always.

Forever.

[stararch4ngelqueen]

Date Night Blues

—

Time written- 7:48 p.m.

Dick Grayson/fem!reader fluff

—

The sun slowly dies behind dreary, shadowy clouds before you pull your bedroom curtains closed, returning to your task at hand at folding your still warm laundry, munching on crunchy green grapes in between your work, mainly consisting of passive aggressively folding laundry.

To say you were mildly annoyed with a most gracious understatement.

Irritated. Aggravated. Distressed.

Fed up.

Majorly annoyed sounded much better than the very first option.

You would say you were mentally exhausted from the unfortunate routines of planning dates with vigilantes who always got called in at the worst moments. Talk about a crazy schedule.

Your days off remained rather dull without him, leaving you to do your daily chores or run errands on your own on some days. You thought vigilantes usually do their crime fighting at night. Sometimes, that just wasn’t the case in Blüdhaven.

Whilst debating on folding a particular shirt to slip into your drawer, or adjust on a hangar to put in your closet, you ponder over what was left for you to do for the rest of tonight.

Finish up my laundry, recheck my work schedule, make sure laptop’s charged, then debate on what to have for dinner.

Don’t have much, what should I order in then? Eh, don’t feel like going out tonight. It’s Sunday, maybe I’ll google to see if that one place on the corner is still open, see if they deliver—

“Boo."

You jump, turning around with a loud yelp. The culprit, while he wasn’t an intruding thief, smirked like a villain at your amusing outburst, your hand clutching onto that very shirt as if it would service to protect you.

“I- Dick! Oh my God, don’t do that!!”

The man chuckles, not caring if you meant to call him an insult or not, too amused to even care.

"Okay, that was the cutest sound ever." He points out as he steps closer, black gloved hands slowly settling along your shoulders.

He was still in uniform, off on a mission of sorts you cared little to bother about. The bitterness of his line of work came rushing back to you, making you scoff and toss the article of unfolded clothing onto your bed.

“How did you get in here?”

“Uh, the usual way?” Dick replies, the curtains billowing in the late evening breeze making an appearance behind his broad back. Of course he did.

“Jesus,” you mutter, glancing up at Dick in question.

“I literally could’ve strangled you with a pair of socks if I thought you were some thug breaking into my room. You’re aware of that, right?”

"But I wasn't a thug,” Dick smiles as he slightly leans down, his voice lowering the closer he approached your face. “So you don't get to strangle me tonight, babycake.”

He usually leers down closer to your level before giving you a kiss, which is what a part of you so desperately desired.

However, the more stubborn devil on your shoulder grimaced at his approach, controlling your thoughts to lean your head back just enough before his nose bumped against yours.

“Ah-ah. I didn’t hear you say sorry yet, Mister,” You tell the tall man, but you didn’t lean back from him any further than that.

He pouts with furrowed brows, face contorted in feigned shock and distress. He takes his chance to lean close one more, taking your chin with two gentle fingers.

“Sorry," he whispers before moving their faces close together. "Now can I kiss you?"

“Say it like you mean it,” Came his girl’s soft response. “And I just might let you.”

Dick looks at you for a moment as the gears quickly work inside his mind. Then, with a smirk, he answers.

"I apologize with my entire soul,” He begins, his hands working down to caress along your plush hips. “Please, my Goddess, forgive me for all of the mistakes I made by scaring you instead of kissing you the moment I broke into your room."

Nearly deadpanning by his choice of words, you scoff once more before snorting in full amusement, unsure whether to blush or cringe. You always blushed so damn easily with him anyway.

“Wow,” You couldn’t help but giggle. “Fiiine, I guess that deserves a kiss.”

Dick smiles widely, laughing a little at the success of his little trick.

Wasting no further time, his nose brushes against yours as he takes your lips, finally fulfilling the strong need he's had since the moment he left your apartment this morning after answering one of Batman’s calls.

“M’sorry, babycakes,” he mutters against your lips, nearly humming at the soft weight of your forearms resting up on his shoulders.

“I know you don’t— don’t like when I leave.” Talking full sentences in between a gentle, passionate make-out was a bit of a challenge. “Believe me, if I had it my way—“

“We would’ve finished what you started?”

Your interruption made a handsome smile stretch across his face, his head nodding. “We would’ve finish what I started. Exactly.”

What he had started bloomed from you waking up to him absentmindedly massaging your soft tits through your sleep shirt, an ‘absentminded’ habit he obtained over many nights of sleeping in your apartment.

Fortunately for you, you had stirred with a deep, hungry ache in your tummy, desperate for him in all ways he was more than willing to provide. He answered your silent pleas after reading your desires in your sleepy eyes, both hands working on simultaneously slipping under your shirt and underwear, lips trapped against one another in variously passionate, heavy kisses.

Ever so unfortunately, his phone begins to vibrate on the nightstand.

You both learn that not even scam callers were annoying enough to call so early in the morning, unless they were that desperate to steal your credit card info or identity.

You insisted within heavy gasps to not answer it, your fingers firmly grazing along the waistband of his sweats to convince him. His raspy groan echoing against the crook of your neck signified his inner turmoil between wanting to make you scream, and screaming at the person responsible displayed on the Caller ID.

Dick couldn’t scream at Bruce, but he did have an attitude after getting blue balled by the Dark Knight.

Even worse, it was nearly a common occurrence.

“You sound like you read Pride and Prejudice, by the way.” You snicker as you gently peel of his domino mask, peering into his pretty eyes free of their sheer, milky covering.

“Or watched Phantom of the Opera. Have you seen that movie?” You question after setting his mask alongside your folded clothes, especially curious since you may have it available on your current streaming service.

Dick gives a weak shrug and responds with a semi-truth. "No, I haven't. Always heard it's pretty good though."

What he meant by that was Jason invited him to watch it before, but what he could nearly recall was falling asleep after the opening credits. Jason “teased” him about it for weeks after, but he was sort of glad you hadn’t brought it up. Maybe you weren’t even aware of it, thankfully.

What could you say, really? You were dying for a movie night for the past week, pleading to whichever God that listened that Dick had the time to stay a while, without interruptions. Only, you weren’t sure if Dick merely broke into your apartment to stop by for a short spell.

“Maybe, you’d want to watch it with me?" You began to question with hints of hesitation. “Unless Mr. Nightwing has any secret crime fighting missions he’s not telling me about.”

“I mean..” Dick laughs at that, shaking his head a bit.

“What?” Your heart was nearly moments away from dropping into your stomach.

He pulls you closer to himself, warm material smooth against your cotton clothes, peering down at you with pretty eyes and a small, innocent smile.

"I'm not sure how much longer I can last without kissing you again." Dick leans towards your lips, smiling. “I’d much rather be doing this than any secret crime fighting—“

“You can kiss me all you want in a bit,” You insist, keeping your palms braced along his chest for fair measure, dying for your question to be answered.

“You wanna stay? Yes, or no? I want a full movie night this time, Dick. The kind where one of us falls asleep on top of the other, and it becomes an inconvenience.”

Dick, completely enamored by your sweet voice asking such an even sweeter request, nods his head twice without little time to ponder over it all.

Dick wants exactly what you desire, a deal that can be easily struck; to make tonight like every Hollywood romance movie. It deserves to be that special, you deserve to have that memory become born.

“Yeah, I can do that."

“Great,” your lips broaden into a smile, one he wanted to see plastered onto your face nearly every minute of the day.

“You hungry?” You suddenly question. “I need your help deciding what we should order out. Oh, and I’m thinking of making that chocolate, rainbow sprinkle popcorn for the movie.”

There you go again, getting your hopes up in planning ahead for a potentially successful date night. Dick could only stare at you with a content gaze, amused by the giddiness in your eyes, the glimmer brighter than any star.

You dropped your chores to spend time with him, he’s convinced you to skip a day or two of work to remain in bed with him for a few extra hours. It was unfair for him to always leave, putting the wrong person on the top of his priority list, when you should’ve remained the first.

He knew you were annoyed with him and Batman all day, he wasn’t an idiot on that account. Now?

All you wanted was for you both to hold one another underneath a fuzzy blanket, cuddling one another like two multicolored cats napping under the sun, tails and limbs intertwined.

His own tired smile revealed he wanted the very same thing. You were his girl, his babycakes, his short stack with a cute pout and firecracker temper.

Their was a firm chance he would fall asleep after the opening scene like before, but at least it would be in the warm safety of your arms and a large, cream knit blanket.

He’d do anything to keep that smile on your face just a while longer, even ignoring the subtle vibrating of his phone on his person. No doubt another ‘un-likely scammer.’

“Which one will it be, Richy?” You question which of the two movies you listed for him to choose, leading him by the hand down the short hallway towards your cozy living room.

Maybe if neither of you fell asleep, he’d lead you both to make use of your futon. To finish what he started.

“What was the name of the masquerade musical again?”

[raetreaderarts]

TELL ME IS IT JUST A DREAM???

Yeah I like this song a lot, I was listening to it and I was like omg this is so Bive actually I think she would like it. It’s been a hot minute since I made a piece that’s more like. Cinematic ig. About time fr. Composition is a bit messy, I did a lotta this on the fly without much planning ahead of time, a lotta “OMG WAIT this would look super cool actually” ykwim, but overall I think I’m quite happy with how it turned out.

[sylvieserene]

Robin and Starfire in a nutshell:

[wu-wakfu-undertale]

Re-watching wakfu for the first time in years and s1 Yugo was so silly???

dude discovered he could make portals at will and his first thought after actually acknowledging it is "i can do so many cool pranks with this"

[krynutsreal]

yeah I'm normal about them

[burningfunobject]

Do you think jayce kinda recognises ekko from benzos??

[boxofoxberry]

found siblings, anyone?

[darknoverse]

i'm normal about them btw haha (biggest lie told yet )

yea no fr i ADORE their dynamic i love them so much they're both gonna make eachother WORSE /aff

btw very proud of the bg , i finally figured out which brushes give the show vibe yipeeeee

[greasydumbfuck]

i very much like. small franks

[jacksprostate]

Treatise on why No, the doctor just giving the narrator of Fight Club (full name) his requested sleep medication or sending him to therapy would not have Fixed Him

Firstly, saying giving him the insomnia meds would’ve fixed him ignores the reason he has insomnia in the first place. He is so deeply upset by his place in society that he literally cannot sleep. Drugging him to sleep would not change that. That, of course, is the easy, quick response.

But with regard to therapy? The biggest flaw is that it ignores a central tenet of the book. Part of what tortures the narrator and drives him to invent Tyler is that his feelings about this collective, systemic issue are constantly reduced to a Just Him thing. His seatmates ask what his company is. He’s the only one upset at the office. He gets weird looks if he says the truth of what he does. People will do anything in their power to pretend he is the issue, as an individual, because it is far scarier to consider the full implications of the systemic issues implied by what he is saying. Everyone treats it as if the issue is him, so he goes insane. He does anything to get someone to say, holy shit, that’s fucked up, what you’re a part of is wrong. In an attempt to feel any sort of vague sympathy and catharsis, he goes to support groups to pretend to be dying, because then at least people don’t habitually blame him for his anguish. 

Saying therapy would fix him ignores that his problems are not individual. They are collective. It’s the reason the entire story resonates with people! Something deeply, unignorably wrong with society, where people would rather blame you for bringing it up than try and address it, because it feels impossible. I don’t blame people for this, really, because it IS scary. It’s terrifying to sit and feel like you’ve realized there’s something deeply, deeply wrong, but if you say something, people will get mad at you since it’s so baked into everything around you. Or, even if they agree, it’s easier to deal with the dissonance by pretending it’s individual.

And it’s not like that’s not the purpose therapy and medications largely serve, anyway. Getting into dangerous territory for this website, but ultimately, the reason the narrator was seeking medication was because it’s a bandaid. A very numbing bandaid. For these very large, dissonance causing problems, therapy does very little. Medications do what they always have, and distract you with numbness or side effects. It’s a false solution. He is seeking an individualized false solution because he has been browbeaten with the idea that this is an issue with him alone, when it's plainly clear it's not. 

Don't get me wrong. Obviously he has something wrong with him. But it's a product of his situation. It is a fictional exaggeration of a very real occurrence of mental illness provoked by deep unconscionable dissonance and anguish.  There is a clear correlation between what happens and his mental state and his job and how isolated he is. 

The thing is, even if he were chemically numbed, I do think he would’ve lost it regardless. Many people on meds find they don’t fix things. For reasons I’ll get into, but in this case because even if numbed or distracted, once you’ve learned about deep, far reaching corruption in society, it’s very hard to forget. Especially if, in his case, you literally serve as the acting hand of this particular variety. He’s crawling up the walls. 

So why do people say this?  Well, it's funny I guess. Maybe the first time or whatever. But also, often, they believe it, to a degree. Maybe they've just been told how effective therapy and meds are for mental illness, they believe wholeheartedly in The Disease Model of Mental Illness, maybe they themselves have engaged with either and have considered it successful. Maybe they or someone they know has been 'saved' by such treatments. 

But in all honesty.... What therapy can help with is mentality, it's how you approach problems. For issues on a smaller scale, not meaning they are easier to deal with my any degree, but ones that are not raw and direct from deep awareness of corruption; these are things that can be worked through if you get lucky and get an actually good therapist who helps build up your resiliency. But when your issue is concrete, something large and inescapable? It's useless. At best it can help you develop coping mechanisms, but there is a limit for that. There is a point where that fails. To develop the ability to handle something like this requires intense development of a comfort with ambiguity and dissonance and being isolated and a firm positioning of your purpose and values and and belief in wonder and all the other shit I ramble about. The things that the narrator lacks, which lead him to taking an ineffectual death knell anarchist self-destruction path. Therapy, where the narrator is, full of the knowledge of braces melted to seats and all the people that have to allow this to happen? It fails. 

And meds — meds are a fucking scam. We know the working mechanism of basically none of them, the serotonin receptor model was made up and paid its way into prominence. We have very little evidence they're any better than placebo, and they come with genuinely horrific side effects. Maybe you got lucky. I did, on some meds. On others? I don't remember 2018. The pharmaceutical industry is also known for rampant medical ghostwriting, and for creating 'off-label' uses for drugs that have gained too many protests in their original use, then creating a cult of use to then have 'grassroots' campaigns for it to be made a label use (ie, legitimize their ghostwritten articles with guided anecdotes). 

The DSM itself is basically a marketing segregation plot. It's an attempt to legitimize the disease model by isolating subgroups of symptoms to propose individualized treatments for subgroups that are not necessarily all that separate. But if the groups exist, you can prescribe more and different medications, no? Not to mention, if you use the disease model, you can propose that these diseases are permanent, or permanent until treated, considered more and more severe to offset and justify the horrific side effects of the medications. Do you know why male birth control doesn't really exist? Same reason. They can justify all the horrible side effects for women, because the other option is pregnancy. For men, it's nothing. 

And they're not bothering to invent new drugs without side effects. When they invent new drugs it's just because the last one got too bad of a name, or they can enter a new market. Modern drugs don't work any better than gen1 drugs. They still have horrific side effects. At best, the industry will shit out studies saying the old one was flawed (truth) so they can say this new gen will be better (lie). They're doing it with ssris right now. 

Fundamentally, the single proposed benefit of any of these drugs is that they numb you. To whatever is torturing you. It's harder to be depressed if you can't feel it, or if you just can't muster the same outrage. Of course, there is people who find that numbness to be helpful, or worth it. But often, it's stasis. For the people who have problems that can be worked on, it serves as a stopgap to not actually work on said problems. The natural outcome of the disease model is stagnation for those whose need is to develop skills and resiliency. It keeps them medicalized and dependent on the idea that they're diseased and incapable. Profitable. Stuck in the womb. 

I’ve been there. It’s easier, to wallow, and resist growth because it’s difficult and painful and unfair and cruel and you can think of five billion reasons to justify your languishing. But don’t listen to anyone who tells you you’re just permanently damaged, no matter how nicely they word it, no identity or novel pathologization, no matter how many benefits they promise, especially if they swear up and down some lovely expensive medications with little solid backing and plentiful off-label usage and side effects that’ll kill you. Some days it feels like they want us all stuck in pods, agoraphobic and addicted to the ads they feed us to isolate the markets for the drugs they’ve trained us to beg them to pump us with. Polarization making it as easy as flashing blue light for go, red like for stop, or vice versa. I worry about the kids, for fucks sake. That’s a bit dark and intense, and I apologize. But I want you (generic) to understand, there is a profit motive. Behind everything. And they do not mean well. They do not care about your mental health or your rights or your personhood or your growth. They care about how they can profit off of you.

For those struggling with immovable, society problems, like the narrator grappling with how his job fits into and is accepted by society while his rejection and horror in the face of it does not, it can work about as well as any other drug addiction. Your mileage may vary. From what I've seen, recovering from being on prozac for a long time can be worse than alcohol. They put kids on this shit. They keep campaigning for more. Off label, again. A pharmaceutical company’s favorite thing to do has to be to spread rumors of someone who knows someone who said an off label use of this drug helps with this little understood condition. Or, in the case of mental illness, questionably defined condition. And like, damn, I know I'm posting on the 'medicalization is my identity' website so no one will like all this and has probably stopped reading by now, but yall should be exposed to at least one person who doubts this stuff. Doesn't just trust it. Because I mean, that's the thing right?

It's so big. What would it mean, for this all to be true? Yeah, everyone says pharmaceutical companies are evil and predatory and ghostwriting, but to think about what that really entails. Coming back to the book, everyone knows the car lobby is huge and puts dangerous vehicles through that kill people. What does it mean if the car companies all hire people to calculate the cost of a recall and the cost of lawsuits? No one wants to think about the scale that means for people allowing it or the systems that have to be geared towards money, not safety like they say. Hell, even Chuck misses the beat and has the narrator threaten his boss with the Department of Transportation. And shit, man, if every company is doing this, you think Transportation doesn't know? That they give a fuck? You're better off mailing all the evidence to the news outlets and hoping they only character assassinate you a little bit as they release the news in a way that says it's all the fault of little workers like you, not the whole system. Something something, David McBride, any whistleblower you feel like, etc. 

So I don't blame you, if your reaction is "but but but, that can't be right, people wouldn't do it, they wouldn't allow it" or just an overwhelming feeling of dread that pushes you to deny all of this and avoid thinking about it. Just know, that's in the book. That's all the seatmates on the flights. That's all his fellow officemates. It's easier to pretend, I know.

But think about, how the response fits in with the themes of the book. The story, as a movie too. What drives the narrator’s mental breakdown? How would you handle being in his position? How would you handle being his seatmate? It’s easy to say you’d listen. But have you? Have you had any soul wrenching betrayals of how you thought society worked? How about a betrayal by the thing that promised to be the fix of the first? Can you honestly say you wouldn’t follow that gut instinct, saying follow what everyone says, that person must just be crazy, evil, rude, cruel, whatever it is that means you can set what they said aside?

For a lot of people, they can do that, I guess. Set it aside. Reaching that aforementioned state of managing to cope with the dissonance and ambiguity and despair is very hard. The narrator made the Big Realization, but he couldn’t cope. He self-destructed. Even when people don’t make the big realization consciously, they’re already self-destructing. It’s hard to escape it when it feels easier than continuing anyway. When it feels like the only option,

Would therapy fix the narrator of Fight Club? Would meds fix the narrator of Fight Club? No. He knows too much. All meds will do, by the time he’s in the psych ward, is spiritually neuter him. A silly phrase, but really. Take the wind out of his sails. 

Is he fixed if he doesn’t try to blow up town? If he just shuts up and settles in and stops costing money? If he still can’t cope with the things he’s unearthed? Do you see how this is a commentary in a commentary in a commentary?

Fight Club is an absolutely fascinating story because of this. The fact that it addresses the fallout of knowing. The isolation. The hopelessness. The spiral that results from a lack of hope. This is, I think, what resonates most with people, even if not consciously. Going insane because you’ve discovered something you wish you could unknow. It’s a classic horror story. Should our society be lovecraftian evil? I don’t think so. 

Do I think changing it will be easy? No. Lord knows a lot exists to push people who make these sorts of Realizations towards feelings of individuality and individualized solutions and denial and other distractions and coping methods. And to prevent people who make One realization from expanding on it and considering further ramifications. Fight Club itself gets into this; the isolation of men being a strict part of the role society shapes for their sex leaves them very vulnerable to death fetishes, in a sense, and generally towards self destructive violence. It helps funnel them away from substantial change and towards ineffectual change. Many things, misogyny, racism, serve to keep people isolated from one another, individualized, angry, and impossible to work with. Market segregation; god knows even appealing on those fronts has become such a classic ploy that companies do it now, the US military frames its plundering that way, etc. 

I’ve wandered a bit but ultimately, my point is this: Fight Club is a love letter to the horrors of critical thinking, and the importance of not falling into the trap of self destruction and hopelessness in the face of it. The latter is why Tyler was an anarchoterrorist instead of anything useful. The latter is why it was a death cult. It’s important to work through the horrors of critical thinking so you can do it, and stand on the other side ready to believe in each other. It’s worth it.