#summer stop is a pain
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finn95o · 3 months ago
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Wanted to draw them, can’t believe I haven’t before..?
(Was I too lazy to draw the sponsers? Yes, yes I was)
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peregrine5 · 5 months ago
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"watcha doin?"
"Attempting to read this book."
"Oh, okay."
"..."
"Sigh. Do you want to go get muffins?"
Lazy day and Tanguish is bored, the obvious solution is to "bother" Helsknight about it >:)
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fanby-fckry · 2 months ago
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> Writing a fanfic where demons commit consensual, sadomasochist violence on each other, to a degree that would be irresponsible for humans.
> “Would this hurt someone with a normal spine?”
> Cautiously bends my back to see what my own limits are, stopping wayy before the demon in the fic will.
> “Ok, yeah, if my hypermobile ass can’t do this, then neither can the rest of you guys*.”
*Back-bender contortionists not withstanding.
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mosstrades · 5 months ago
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watching isttvg with your partner and holding their hand with the sudden awareness of how close you came to death. thinking: we are alive, we are alive, we are alive. thinking: every day we save ourselves from more and worse. thinking: for the love of god, dont let go.
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summercreolefanfictioner · 21 days ago
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when people pit the trauma of two fictional characters against each other like it's a contest of who has the most traumatic experience ever (eww shame on you)
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badcountryofficial · 1 month ago
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Me when im stuck in the past: no no I need an answer I need DRY HEAVE to find an answer I need to find a wY OUT I need...VOMITS it HURTS why did it happen why oh God let me change it please god—
Me when I get back to the present: WHEEEEEE LOG INTO MY HAPPY AND LEVEL UP MY LALA😀🌈🌼🍭🦋✨️💗🌞
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angelstrawbabie420 · 2 months ago
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in my quest to quell my pain ive only hurt myself worse. damned if i do damned if i dont.
#i need better coping mechanisms but it’s so easy to just turn to substances when you’ve never learned how to cope w your emotions#and physical pain. however a lot of it has been brought on by the substance abuse aka i did it to myself#so i probably deserve it#but i started with them in the first place to get rid of pain that was so overwhelming and constant#it feels like every time i do something to preserve myself im punished for it#and im so sick of it. i cant believe its gotten this bad#i drink to help the pain -> i get hungover and the pain is way worse -> i drink to stop that pain#and the worst part is it always works#realistically ive depended on substances for like a decade#i started drinking at 13 and fell into a rut of alcoholism at like 15/16#my mom was going thru a phase of alcoholism and roped me into it so bad if be woken up by her bringing me a drink at 9 am#and we’d drink till she passed out and i had to walk her to bed and cook for everyone and do all the chores#it went on for months one summer#then it was weed and i smoked every day from like 18-22#only thing thwt stopped me from drinking until i started again after both my parents died#i havent recovered since.#im still so traumatized and depressed that i looked for any method of relief#the dph phase was the worst. i think alc is even better than that lmfao it was horrible#once i got access to alc i stopped all that. wouldnt have if i hadnt had alc tho#it’s honestly been one addiction after the other for a decade#and my parents fueled so much of it#‘oh id rarher you drink under my eye than do it behind my back’#BRUH YOU WOULDNT LET ME GO ANYWHERE OR DO ANYTHING. HOW WOULD THWT HAVE HAPPENED#crazy how i was obsessed w drugs and shit by the time i was 10 and i remember thinking wow im gojna grow up to be an addict.#why am i so irreparably fucked up#idk whatever. like im not gonna drink abt it lmao.
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hollowwish · 1 year ago
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I like live streams but I wish they were not the main form of mcyt content. Or at least not starting to become that. Like it....really is not a sustainable way to do every single smp you ever make. A lot of people don't have time to catch streams and barely have time to watch vods as well (and most people only watch 1-5 streamers. Imagine watching MORE.) LIFE SERIES is a challenge for me and lots of others to get through, let alone several 2-7 hour long livestreams.
Plus some people are gonna stop watching because they're only there for the lore and they'd rather save time than skim through several streams just to find it yk? After a certain point condensing them down into 15-30 (maybe 40) minute videos and making lore summaries is a necessity or your gonna lose viewers. (ESPECIALLY if you have a large cast meaning more characters to impact each other and the plot)
Idk I follow a lot of streamers and there's like...less than 10 who I have ever/would sit through a full stream from them, lore happening or not.
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albino-parakeet · 7 months ago
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Love looking at the the update of HGSN and just
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revasserium · 1 year ago
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狐と蛍の物語 (the story of the fox and the firefly)
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harrison; 4,064 words; fluff and angst a/n: for @violettduchess and @aquagirl1978's summer days, sultry nights event -- prompt "fireflies" (obviously); i'm also gonna say this counts for my 31 days of au prompt -- reincarnation!au; inspired by hotarubi no mori e and catheryn m valente's deathless and honestly, i'm so proud and happy with this one that i'd encourage you to read it even if you have no idea of the fandom/character. u__u i would love, love, love to know what you guys think!
once upon a time, a long, long time ago, there lived a girl who only danced to the firefly’s light and a fox who could tell nothing but lies.
01.
for as long as you can remember, there’s always been the wood. and it has always been behind your house, it’s leaves and branches foreboding in the winter wind, and somehow less so in the simmer of mid-summer afternoons, when the sunlight dappled light across the soft, forest floor. it isn’t a very large wood, but it’s a wood nevertheless, and deserves all the respect and fear afforded to bigger woods in faraway places. woods that warn of teeth and terrors, woods that hide both dreams and monsters.
you’d been wandering the wood from when you were a little girl, and to you, there’s not a single rock you don’t know, a single tree you haven’t tried to climb. and the forest knows you, as forests do the people who frequent them, and it welcomes you with open arms, it cradles you to its chest, whispers stories into your ears, carves itself open to show you it’s secrets —
“you’re late.”
you crinkle your nose at the familiar voice, letting out a huffing breath as you drop your picnic basket in the middle of the small, sun-lit clearing, taking your time with laying out the checked picnic blanket and two cups and saucers for tea, and finally, pulling out a tray of confections, covered by a thin, linen baking towel.
“no, i’m not! you just want me to think i am so i’ll give you more than half of the sweets.”
a boy settles over the picnic blanket, cocking his head at you before you narrow your eyes.
“well? isn’t that true?”
“ahh… i wonder if it is…” he says, but you can hear the grin in his voice, even through the material of his fox-faced mask, which, after a few more seconds of posturing, he pushes up onto his forehead. he shakes out his milk-tea hair and slates you a poison-ivy grin. you know that grin like you know the woods— and you know the woods like you know the backs of your own hands. better, even, you think sometimes.
because for as long as there’s been the woods, and as long as you have wandered it’s depths, the boy with the fox-faced mask has always been there.
“there were fresh strawberries at farmer’s market today,” you say, setting up the tea service as you nudge the opened picnic basket towards the boy with a foot. he peers in with wide, curious eyes before letting out a soft noise of contentment as he reaches in to pull out a slice of freshly baked strawberry cream cake.
“your grandmama makes the best pastries in the world,” he says, and there’s such sincerity in his voice that for a moment, you almost believe him.
but you nod and take the compliment in stride, “she sure does!”
he digs in with gusto even when you tut that the tea hasn’t steeped properly, but you laugh as he smears a large dollop of whipped cream across his cheeks. you point it out to him with a dainty finger, and as always, you fight the urge to reach over and wipe it off for him. instead, you hold yourself still and sigh as he finally gets to it, smudging a bit into his hair in the process.
“clumsy fox,” you giggle, pressing a hand up to your lips.
“picky girl,” he snipes back, but there’s that full, sated grin on his own lips as he leans back, his elbows propped up on the soft grasses of the clearing.
after a moment of pleasant silence during which the leaves sang on their trees and the grasses swayed beneath the breeze, the boy turns towards you.
“so. no dancing today?”
you turn your head towards him before casting your eyes up towards the still bright blue sky.
“you know it’s not time yet.”
the boy heaves a melodramatic sigh, sound much bigger and larger than his 14-year old body should be able to hold.
“ah… right, right — because you can —”
“— only dance by the fireflies’ light — yep!”
the boy regards you with an imperious sort of look before breaking into a fit of bright, open laughter.
“you’re the strangest girl i’ve ever met!”
“just you saying that tells me it’s not true,” you stick out your tongue at him, even as heat washes up into your cheeks.
the boy shrugs, lying back down on the picnic basket, “i don’t always have to lie, y’know.”
and it’s your turn to regard him with the imperious look, and, a the cock of a singular eyebrow, his lips tug into a lopsided grin. his eyes flash, the color of budding spring.
“liar,” you say, but you’re smiling too as you lie back down to watch the clouds pass.
he makes no sound to correct you.
02.
once, you’d asked him what his name is and he simply shook his head and said —
“call me whatever you’d like.”
“but i want to call you by your name.”
“what’s in a name anyway?”
“uhm… nothing’s in it but…” you’d frowned then, your eight year old mind spinning to try and catch up with this strange, strange question and this strange, strange boy.
“see? so why should it matter what my name is? just… call me whatever!”
but you’d only frowned hard enough for him to roll his eyes.
“fine then — uhm — what’s the name of the current prince?”
you’d blinked, “harry.”
“then call me that.”
“but is that your name?”
“well, now it is.”
you hadn’t been convinced but you liked it better than not calling him anything at all.
“harry, then,” you’d said, smiling. and the boy — harry — had smiled too, slipping his fox-faced mask back in place as he led you further into the forest.
03.
“y’know…” harry says, his voice light as the sun dips beneath the horizon line, leaving behind a blaze of reds and pinks. you turn your head, eyes catching on the shape of him, inked out against the dying light.
“you’re the only person i’ve ever met who’s wanted to be cursed.”
you take a long breath and turn your eyes back up to the bleeding sky.
“well. you’re cursed, and you seem just fine to me,” you try to keep your voice strong, resolute and steady. grandmama had always said that if you keep your voice strong, people are more willing to believe your words. you wonder if that’s why harry’s voice is always soft, always lilting, his words slippery as moss-covered stone.
“yeah, but you can’t even touch me,” he says, and for once, his voice is harsh, his words sharp and hard as broken glass.
“that’s okay though — once i get my own curse, i’ll be able to touch you, right?”
harry fights back the urge to turn, to take you by the shoulders and shake you till you push him away. he wants to scream, to howl at the moon like the mother wolves and the hungry cubs that live in the heart of the wood. he wants to run through the woods, crash into things, climb up the trees and shake off all their branching leaves.
but he can’t, and so he doesn’t.
instead, he turns to look at you and look at you and look at you.
he wonders if it’s a strange thing, to like looking at someone so much, to find something new about a face every single time it’s looked upon — the wisps of hair fallen loose to frame your face from the velvet ribbons holding it back, the curve of your button nose, the dip of your cupid’s bow. he wonders if this is a normal thing, the thick weight of it in this chest, the truth of his curse sitting heavy on his tongue.
“yeah… probably,” he says — and the lie is smooth as milk, sweet as just-spun sugar.
“good. then we won’t have long to wait, hm?”
04.
there’s a story, so you’ve been told, of a fox that lives in the woods — and the fox can tell nothing but lies, lest the truth cut open it’s throat. and when it bleeds, because even monsters bleed (oh especially monsters), it will bleed in blue and silver, which everyone knows is the color of magic.
“but why would telling the truth kill it?” you’d asked, your eyes wide and round as the full-bellied moon.
your grandmama had sighed, rocking you in her lap as the forest outside shivers and shakes with the steps and breaths of creatures unseen.
“that’s what curses do, my sweetest… they’re unfair things, they are. and they don’t like to make a lot of sense.”
and that had been that. she’d moved onto a nicer story, a sweeter story, a story that was not so much truth and mostly lies — because the truth, as your grandmama had said, is sharp and unfair and makes so very little sense.
lies are much, much the better for the makings of stories.
05.
he has never complimented you on your dancing, not even once — not in all the years you’ve been dancing for him, by the light of a million and one fireflies.
you’d been eight when you made the promise, it’s been ten years since then.
and at eighteen, you wonder how many more years it’ll be before the moon or the forest or whatever it is that chooses people to curse will take pity on you.
it’s just after sunset, and you’d just finished your customary sunday afternoon picnic. harry is sprawled out on the picnic blanket, his fox-faced mask lying in the soft, long grasses, an arm thrown over his eyes. you wonder if he’s asleep, though you don’t think you’ve ever seen him fall asleep, not in all the time you’ve known him.
“music, please…” you announce to the clearing, and after a long pause, as if the forest itself is coming to life, the wind picks up — the leaves rustle on their branches, the birds sweep up into a twitter wingbeats and song, the grasses around the clearing hish and hush the thrumming baseline to a music that only you and harry and the forest can hear.
slowly, harry pushes himself up, making a show of rubbing his eyes, and in the darkness you can only see the shape of him.
you don’t see the prickle of tears at the edge of his eyes as he wipes them away.
instead, you close your own eyes and wait.
and wait.
and then — at the first flicker of a firefly’s light, you lift your hands and start to dance.
06.
once, you’d asked him how he’d gotten cursed in the first place.
“it’s a long story,” he’d said.
“i’ve got a long time,” you countered.
he’d crinkled his nose, pursing his lips as the pair of you hopped over a narrow stream, him watching as you teetered on the edge of the water.
“hm… well, if you do something a ton of times in the wood… the wood decides that that’s all your good for, and it becomes your curse!”
you’d blinked up at him from over your shoulder, a soft smear of mud on your cheeks.
“oh… it’s that easy?”
“easy?”
“i mean, to get a curse.”
he’d narrowed his eyes, “why would you want a curse?”
you’d straightened up, pressing your palms down your rather sullied dress.
“because — you said that i can’t touch you cause i’m human, right?”
“uh-huh…” harry had nodded, uncertain of where your child-logic had taken you.
“but other cursed things can touch you, right? like the wolves and the shadows and the queen of ravens.”
harry bit his lips. but you seemed to have taken his silence for consent and happily skipped off further into the forest. he’d never corrected you even as he heaved another world-weary sigh and followed after you. because technically, you hadn’t been totally wrong.
and his curse was only that he couldn’t correct you.
07.
your mind wanders as you begin to dance, and these days, it’s been doing a lot of that — wandering. so your grandmama says that it’s a part of growing up — learning when to let your mind wander and when to reign it back in, hold it on a tighter leash and tell it to wander no more. it’s a blessing to be able to let your mind wander, and so you do.
it’s just that these days, you can’t help but notice that it’s less of wandering and more of… well, a straight-shot descent to a well-known destination. and you know from a whole childhood of actual wandering that if you know the way and you know what you’ll find at the end, then it’s not wandering at all.
it’s just going.
but still, you let your mind go where it wants, and lately, it’s been going and going and going... to harry.
harry and his soul-soft laughter, harry and his knife-edge smiles, harry and his loose, lethargic movements, unhurried and always so certain. back when you were both still children, he’d led you through the forest with nothing but his voice, spouting out random facts that were much too outlandish to be true, and later, when you were both a bit older (and you’d long since memorized every bit of forest there was to memorize), he’d walk alongside you in companionable silence.
you knew his favorite trees, his favorite flowers, his favorite birds and colors, his favorite season, his favorite sweet, his favorite fruit and so many others.
and still, it feels as if you don’t know him at all, even though you’re certain he knows everything there is to know about you.
except…
you spin out on the long grasses, the light of a million and one fireflies dancing across your skin, dancing with you, singing with you as the forest does. and above you, a crescent moon cuts a sinister smile into a lonely, starless night.
years later, you’d wonder if the night had known — if the wood had known (of course, of course it had known, because there are no secrets the woods do not know, no secrets the waning moon doesn’t keep from the sleeping earth), if the entire world had conspired against you and for you that night.
when you finish dancing and the last of the fireflies flicker down to rest on the long, soft grasses, you’re breathless with exertion, luminous with exaltation and drunk on the song of the forest and a million and one lightless stars.
in the middle of the clearing, harry is smiling, you can see it even from here, and for the first time since you’d danced for him the very first time, he brings his hands together and claps.
“that was… beautiful,” he says, and his voice is deeper now, supple and sweet with the night air.
“th-thanks! phew — i really think that might do it,” you say, plopping down on the picnic blanket next to him, spreading wide your arms and staring up at the velveteen sky above you.
08.
once, you’d been told another story, though you don’t quite recall who you’d heard it from. maybe your grandmama, and maybe the old man who sits in the village square after all the longest days of the year, smoking his pipe and telling his stories.
“do you know why the cursed forest creatures can’t touch humans?”
“why?” a village boy had asked before you had the chance to.
“because… if a cursed creature touches human flesh, the cursed creature will die.”
“oh…” you said, clutching your hands to your chest, and you’d never really thought about dying. because really, what ten year old in their right mind would? but you knew of the concept from when grandmama talked about grandpapa — how he was there one day and then the next day he just… wasn’t.
“he died in his sleep,” she’d said, a tone of sadness in her voice that you’d never heard there before and wished you’d never have to hear again, “it was the best way to go.”
you’d wondered then if there’s really such thing as a “best” way to go. wouldn't the “best” thing to be not going at all?
“then… do the cursed creatures get to live forever?” you asked, before the village boy could cut in.
the old man took a long sip from his pipe and blew out a few concentric rings of smokes before coughing and waving it all away.
“no… you see, if the cursed creatures get to pass on their curses, they’d get to be reincarnated into being a human once more.”
09.
“do you… really want to be cursed?” harry asks as the pair of you share in the silence after your dance.
you suck in a long breath before pushing yourself up to sit in front of him, careful to keep your knees from bumping his.
“of course i do! it’s… it’s what i’ve been trying to do since i was like — eight!”
“but… why?” and harry’s voice is small, smaller than you’ve ever heard it, even though now, his eighteen year old body should carry a much heavier, harder sound.
“because,” you say, resolute as you’d always been, “once i’m cursed, i’ll be able to touch you.”
“and why… is that so important to you?”
harry casts his eyes towards you; you catch his gaze with yours, holding it steady. and in that moment, you mind lets go of the story that the old man told you. because it was a long time ago, and the story was so, so far away. and sometimes, the mind chooses which truths it wants to listen to, which truths it wants to believe in.
sometimes, it chooses truths that don’t look like truths from the outside in, but from the inside out — they’re the truest things to ever be true.
like this one —
“because i want to touch you. because… it’s what i’ve wanted since i was a little girl. because… sometimes, i think i want to do more than touch you — sometimes —” your voice catches on a hitched breath, lost somewhere in your chest, somewhere between your heart and your throat.
but then, darkness descends over your vision and it takes you a long moment to realize that you’re staring at the inside of a mask, thin but solid — the fox-faced mask that harry always wears.
and then pressure, and warmth, right where the fox’s dagger-carved grin usually is, so close to your own lips you can feel the heat.
it holds for a long, long moment, and then it’s gone.
the light returns as harry tugs the mask from you, grinning that teasing, lopsided grin of his, though there’s something about it tonight that makes your heart seize.
“tell me, one more time…” he says, and his voice is jagged with something that sounds painful and true and so, so terrible.
“i — i want the curse…” you say, before you really realize what you’re saying, and it takes you a moment to realize that this too, is the truth.
“okay then… it’s yours.”
and he leans in to press his lips to yours.
the truth, harry realizes, is always bitter, and harsh, and much too sharp. when he pulls back, he presses his palms to yours and lets the moon wash the clearing in blue and silver. you gasp as you feel the magic creeping into your bones, tugging you under, dragging you through the cracks in the world even as harry is tugged away from you back to the world of the living.
“w-was this all a lie?” you ask, because inside you, your heart is fighting for it’s last few beats.
“no,” harry says, his voice is pained, and his expression even more so, because every truth he tells cuts him a little deeper, and he feels his throat constrict over the words, “your dance really was beautiful… and…”
he swallows hard, feeling the knife-edge of this one final truth slicing through him, sharp as moonlight, sweet as the lightless stars.
“i love you. please… don’t forget me.”
and already, you can feel the truth starting to hurt, starting to constrict inside you like a curse. but still, you force it from you as harry flickers and fades along with the light of a million and one firefly lights.
“i — i won’t.”
10.
“but how exactly do you transfer a curse?” the village boy asked, his voice loud and jarring.
the old man takes another long sip of his pipe, puffs out a few more smoke rings.
“through a kiss,” he said.
you blinked. a kiss?
“ew!” the village boy recoiled then, shrinking back from the thought of kissing — because that’s what children are taught to do at such grown-up concepts as kissing.
you, on the other hand, you stayed right where you are, but a frown has creased your tiny, child-like brow.
“and the trick,” the old man continues, his smile going wide and a little lascivious, “is getting someone who will take their curse willingly… to accept the kiss.”
01.
for as long as harry can remember, there has always been the wood. and in the wood, there’s always been a girl with a fox-painted mask who danced to the light of the fireflies.
once, when he’d gone exploring (even though his grandpapa had warned him time and time again about going into the wood by himself), he’d nearly run into her and she’d cocked her head when he’d fallen face-first near the bank of a tiny stream, smearing mud across his cheeks.
“you’re strange little boy,” the girl said — and she could be no more than his age, harry thinks.
“and you’re a weird little girl,” he counters, his eyes catching on the bright red of the fox’s painted mouth.
there is magic at work here, harry knows, though he doesn’t know what kind, and all he really wants is to explore the woods behind his house, to know all there is to know of the world, and perhaps — he thinks as you turn and make your way deeper into the forest — to one day hold the hand of the girl with the fox-faced mask.
but that’s a wish for another day, he decides as he follows after you, jogging to catch up and ask for your name.
“ah… what’s in name,” you say, you voice light and languid, even as he frowns, “you can call me whatever you like.”
02.
once, harry had asked his grandpapa what the truest feeling in the whole wide world is.
and his grandpapa had answered —
“that, harry, would be falling in love…”
“falling in love?”
“yes, my dear boy — and the thing about love is that it’s like a curse… but it’s also like a blessing.”
“but… how can a thing be a curse and a blessing?”
then, his grandpapa had smiled, a smile that is starlight and wolfsong and all the secrets the forest ever has to tell.
“because we are doomed to always, always fall in love, my boy — and it will always, always be like handing someone and knife and asking them to cut open your throat.”
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topicaltropic · 5 months ago
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oops! all wips
#dndads#1st img is morgan . tried to solidify the type of person that would marry glenn & jodie and its like#manic pixie dream girl meets wife under bedsheets. fun loving carefree extremely irresponsible i imagine shes as much a bad mom as glenn is#a bad dad#close family dinner for each day of the week#i imagine its very depressing cool for kids sad for adult/college life meals#i had like a pmv/animatic of tmbg erase to nicks everything but ill never finish it sadge!#comic in the middle i was gonna do like a immediately after the final where willys defeated and schools out for summer norm and scary run#into eachother while theyre walking home#and scary would ask whats wrong and normal would be like#well knowing that the entire world ended because of me has been sort of weighing#on me yeah“ and then scary would go ”normal...do you wish that *was* the reason?“ which would lead normal getting dumbstuck cuz she hits#the nail on the hammer. and then hes incredibly defensive and hes like uh b buh NO !!! MAYBE !!! and scary would share her experience#but itd make normal more resentful cuz hed be like well it all worked out for you in the end with you and your dad and you mom who all love#you. and then scary would get irked and start to call him out but then now that the bottles been uncorked his resentment would start#spilling out.#“you burned my house down! i thought it was *my* family that had the connection with the doodler ! but why- when- ”#and normal would be so frustrated and he couldnt get his words out and hed refuse to look at scary while she looks at him w/ the hardest#look of conflicted sympathy and pain#and all she could say would be stop comparing yourself to me and shed mean that in the most compassionate way possible and norm would just#be like i know#and then the bus would come and scary would have to go but shed look back and then be like “am i still coming over saturday to play#and him busy crying would just give a thumbs up#god now that i write this out maybe i will draw it i have a little bit of time left why not#to me i think scarys someone normal would have the easiest time being mean to#one because of his latent misogyny and this like unconscious superciliousness he holds towards her yet shes the one receiving the#validation he sorely craves and knowing if theres anyone he could talk to and whos understand what hes going through its her so though he#isnt able to be emotionally vulnerable or engage in a deeper level but he does feel comfortable enough to lash out at her#last pic is if nick woke up post doodlerized and found himself on cassandras couch (where the teens placed him) and shes there to greet him
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kirbyliker12 · 1 year ago
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kirbyliker12 dont draw challenge (IMPOSSIBLE) anyway i just 100%'d story mode in rtdldx + beat da Normal Arena
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l0ganberry · 9 months ago
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I just remembered I drew this 2 years ago.......
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qqqqqqqqqqq0 · 2 months ago
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#unfortunately i dont have anything to show you foday#or anything particular to tell you either#so how about you look at this flower i bought at the local store and i think about what to say along the way#actually the employee at the store gave me a discount#every time i buy flowers im forced to participate in human interactions with strangers and remember that we live in a society#i think now that summer is over and the grass is no longer that green and touchable we should buy flowers from time to time to remain sane#i had to take a break from meds for a few days last week and it went rather ok. except i was bawling my eyes out at every given opportunity#you know. there is actually a game that keeps making me cry even when i cant really physically do it#its not really that sad. i would say that the main genre of this game is actually comedy. but the topics raised in dialogues wreck my brain#i dont really feel anything at all while reading the text or anything like that. i dont ecen think about it that much#but every now and then i feel the wetness on my hands and realize i've been crying for a while because of what read there#thats how i cry 99% of the time since the day i was born and i didnt really think anything about it untill now#my psychiatrist told me i have severe problems with dissociation and recognising my own emotions#but a few days ago i was watching some silly local soap opera in the background (im binging this stuff its iconic) & it broke my brain#the raised topics in the series triggered me this much i felt The Pain™. idk how to describe it rather then The Pain™ lol#now im back on meds and i dont feel anything at all again. this or my ability to recognise my own emotions just went down to 5% again#sometime i dream of someone who would posses my brain for a few minutes so that they would help me understand what i really feel#or if my reactions to life events are correct. sometimes when i think that i know exactly what i feel i stop myself and recognise#that i dont know nor understand shit#the more i think about it the more materialistic i become#you can always measure something physical. you can touch it or even search every inch of it with a magnifying glass all you want#but you cant measure the feeling#you know its really bizzare that i feel so much attraction towards poetry while having so much trouble with the concept of emotions itself#you can call me pragmatic but im too lenient for that. you can call me lenient but im too pragmatic for that. idk man. im gonna sleep now
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autisticlee · 2 months ago
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all I wanted was making one friend to hang out with at least one time this summer and all I got was this horrible autistic burnout and now I cant even force myself to shower because everything is too much it's been 2 weeks so I need shower ugh send help
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theheroheart · 11 months ago
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As an adult who celebrates (heavily secularised) Christmas, including now actually inviting people over for dinner and stuff, I now understand the reason behind going overboard making the house look nice.
It's not about appearances or upholding tradition or anything like that. We're only inviting people who don't really care, and I only care about traditions that make me happy.
HOWEVER
A) It's fun to decorate and do something a lil fancy once in a while!
B) It's a good fucking excuse to actually make yourself clean the house properly, after putting it off all year.
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