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I'm at the pediatrician office watching two 3-year olds attempt to break the language barrier.

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i wanna talk about this shot

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You die and wake up standing in a nearly back to chest line carrying your heart on a plate. There's a thin golden strip on the floor that everyone else is standing on. You tap the shoulder of the guy in front of you and ask him what's going on.

"What, you an athiest?" He replied with a thick New York accent. "We're waiting to see Anubis so he can weigh our hearts. If you drop your heart or step off the line, you go to purgatory where they'll sort you into your preferred afterlife, or you can spin the wheel."

You ask about the wheel and wonder why this guy knows so much about being dead.

"It's got every religion, even some from other worlds, and whatever you land on, you go to their afterlife for as long as you want. Oh, would you look at that, a dropout wave, been a while since I've joined one. See you on the other side, kid." He says as everyone in front of you, including himself, drop their plates and/or do ridiculous stunts off the golden line.

You figure you should either move forward until you reach the next person or drop your plate.

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Get a job at your nearest grocery store as a cart pusher and just refuse to do anything but push carts while thinking about the source of your anger.

tell me

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As someone who has harmed others in serious ways but has never made a habit of it. I agree with OP. But I also see where everyone else is coming from. Forgiveness is not easy, *especially* for oneself. I never forgive someone the first time they say sorry or even the tenth time. I forgive them when they have the opportunity to repeat the act but choose not to. Sometimes, it takes multiple opportunities to believe them. But when it comes to abuse, the abuser shouldn't be anywhere near enough to the victim to show that forgiveness. So the journey becomes the abuser's to recognize when they caused harm, why they caused it, and to hold themselves accountable to be better when a similar situation occurs. And if they can do that enough times that they don't need to try to be better. Then, they should be allowed to forgive themselves for the harm they caused, even if they can never truly apologize to their victim.

the thing is, if your younger self was a bigot or an abuser, u can't make people forgive you. but you still gotta forgive yourself, like that's non-negotiable, dude. that happens before u can even ask the question of earning forgiveness from anyone lese

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oooo mutualsss

I'm a simple individual, I see someone follow and like/ rb a bunch of my posts. I follow back.

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To the like, 10 people that will see this.

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Alternatively...

The extremely Goth family with one normal looking kid.

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Literally saves me so much trouble. It probably won't work the first time or the tenth, but honestly, it's a lot nicer telling yourself your worries are unfounded for as opposed to just worrying about them. The hardest part is being able to break yourself out of the anxiety attack in the first place, but it just takes practice.

they won't tell you this in therapy but sometimes the best way to stop catastrophizing/anxiety is to interrupt your spiraling with "girl what the hell are you talking about"

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It also helps me digest the emotions behind the breakdown or attack in a way that allows me to prevent or at least lessen future breakdowns. Very helpful but equally strange to experience.

being a writer leads to a genuinely helpful but also very stupid kind of mindfulness where you'll be having a sobbing breakdown or the worst anxiety attack of your life and think "okay, I really need to pay attention to how this feels. so I can incorporate it into my fanfiction."

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do your ocs have dogs?

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Need new blogs to follow. If you're a writer or artist rb this and i'll follow you :)

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tag the oc who bites affectionately

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Love is universal; romantic, platonic, sibling, parent and child. If you want the absolute best for someone, no matter what, then that is love.

Reblog if you think it’s okay to platonically say “I Love You” to your friends

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With a name like "The Crown of Tyrants," many get the wrong idea. That something of such moniker would be used by the vile to rule the lowly. To their dismay, however, my powers would never yield themselves to one who seeks domination or destruction. But this man who holds me solemnly in his dirty, broken hands would see a side of me not witnessed since my creation. I saw him bring nations to their knees, I watched him burn countless, kill his own family with his own bare hands. He was a true tyrant, a killer, and a monster, but now he knelt in the ruins of his kingdom, no subjects to rule, no land to call his own. I was all he had left, a dirty, dented crown he once guarded selfishly. He threw me away in rage. He blamed me for making him what he was. While it's true his descent began after he wore me, it was not my influence that drove him to destruction, and he knew it. He was still tearing into me when he was interrupted by a pained wail. It was sound we were both far too familiar with, the sounds of a dying baby... When he went towards its source, I feared the worst. But unlike what I expected, he picked the crying baby up, a cloud of smoke obscured what happened next, but the crying ceased, not suddenly and all together, but gently and gradually. When the smoke cleared, his back was turned to me, and a tiny hand waved from his silhouette's shoulder.

The next day, the survivors of the insurrection entered the streets and investigated the ruins of their homes. One peasant recognized me and what it meant to see me separated from my previous owner. He picked me up and waved me victoriously in the air. His cheers caught the attention of some others, and they too recognized what I signified. Their king, their killer, was no more...

Soon, everyone was gathered and celebrated their liberation, and to end their celebration, the peasant threw me away, and when I landed, another kicked me further down, and again, and again. Before anyone knew it, I was far from the castle ruins, into the countryside, and lost in a bush.

I remained there, in that bush, for some time. Summer storms and snowy winters weathered me, but I maintained. One day, a young girl found me and yanked me from the branches that suspended me. She admired me for a while before stuffing me in her bag and skipping off, singing a song in a foreign language, her voice seemed familiar to me.

When I was finally released from the bag at the hands of the one who had put me there, I was shocked when I saw the man I was being shown off to. A face I expected never to see again. The Old King took me gently, with the permission of the girl. I recognized his face, but his eyes were different. He looked at me not with greed, like the first time he saw me, or with rage, like the last time he held me. But with reverence.

"I'm sorry." He told me. And he began crying. "I'm so sorry." He coughed. The girl went to comfort him, but he pulled away. Her eyes drooped. The king snapped out of his pity and hugged the girl. "It's okay." He told her. "We'll be OK."

I began to glow then, as my true nature was revealed. The king and his daughter watched me with awe as my brilliance, which the old tyrant could have never forced out of me, finally showed through.

"I get it now." The king began. "The Crown of Tyrants." He called me. "Not as a man of cruelty would your power shine, but only a man reformed can know your greatness." He said, and I shone brighter. "Tyrants Redemption, that's your true name." He picked me up and donned me. His grey hairs turned dark again, his wrinkled flesh tightened around his bones cured of arthritis. His atrophied arms filled out, and he was again young and healthy as the day he found me. He left his cottage, his farm that before was completely pitiful was now lush and his crops were ripe. He took a tomato, its juices oozed down his neck as he bit into it. He handed another to his daughter, who seemed to never have seen such elegant fruit before. The old Tyrant, a tyrant no longer, saw fit to spend the rest of his days in a slightly renovated cottage with a lustrous farm and his daughter, who not only reunited him with his crown, but was the sole reason that I would serve him to begin with.

A crown is only as powerful as the one who wears it. And there is no strength greater than overcoming your own evil.

You're a choosy magical artifact with a very specific criteria - in order to be deemed worthy, a potential wielder must have once committed great evils, but genuinely desire to change and atone for their wrongs.

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OK but like, why do I want it to be an eyeball? Like, just a little ball of darkness with a single eye and a tongue of unknown origin?