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Thank You, Slater.I used to go to the nearby campus coffee shop in the early evenings, armed with a pen, a blank notebook, and writer's block. The sense of loneliness was unspoken but well accounted for.More Like This
I always shared coffee-counterspace with the same boy, who never smiled or talked and who had a penchant for bedhead and argyle sweaters. He liked to lean back on his stool, balancing precariously as he read novels, and I liked to pretend I wasn't watching him watch me. We coexisted in quiet companionship, thrived quietly under fluorescent lighting which sometimes caught his thick-framed glasses.
His novels changed while my notebook remained the same; his do
The DoctorWhen I was seven, I was diagnosed with emotions.More Like This
"Poor girl." I heard them say. "She'll never survive this one."
I laid with my face towards the ceiling on the cold examination table, listening to them discuss my fate. I felt something breaking in my chest and something burning inside my throat. A small tear slipped down my cheek.
"Doctor! Look at this!" Shrieked my mother, "Something is coming out of her eye."
The doctor rushed over to me and wiped the tear from my cheek. He touched the top of my head as he whispered, "I am so sorry." And then he turned to my mother. "It's a tear. It means that she is sad."
"Sad?" My mother asked inquis
The DoctorWhen I was seven, I was diagnosed with emotions.More Like This
"Poor girl." I heard them say. "She'll never survive this one."
I laid with my face towards the ceiling on the cold examination table, listening to them discuss my fate. I felt something breaking in my chest and something burning inside my throat. A small tear slipped down my cheek.
"Doctor! Look at this!" Shrieked my mother, "Something is coming out of her eye."
The doctor rushed over to me and wiped the tear from my cheek. He touched the top of my head as he whispered, "I am so sorry." And then he turned to my mother. "It's a tear. It means that she is sad."
"Sad?" My mother asked inquis
Drowning in Reverse x. I still have your phone.More Like This
ix. The boardwalk carnival was shut down a few months later, roped off and boarded up like a condemnation of joy. The ferris wheel still rose high above the skyline, towering in silent reminder.
viii. The funeral was on a beautiful, balmy, sunny day and somehow that made it all the worse. The wind would pick up a little and ruffle your goldspun hair and I could hope, just for a moment, that you were still here.
vii. It was a cold, white room. I don't know why hospitals are so cold. Or maybe it was just me - maybe it was just me trying to siphon out all of my warmth and channel it into you.
vi. I didn't see the
UnattainableThose who are lucky enough to have friends are lucky indeed. For not everyone is so lucky.More Like This
It must be nice to have someone's shoulder to cry on. Someone you can bitch to; someone who'll hold you when you're hurt. Not everyone has someone like that.
Some of us just have friends, only a few, whom we call best friends, but they don't say such things in return do they? No, because we aren't their best friend, we're just a friend. Or worse that weird person they hang out with.
You see they have someone else that they uncover their heart and soul too. Someone they've known since they were children; or someone they met several years ago and becam
I thought you had been more than a fake... "Freak." I felt the foot hit my ribcage. The pain reverberated though the hollow shell of my body. His foot wasn't there. It was the words that were breaking me. Shattering my bones. I would have been content to have lied there, being beaten silently, feeling the blood drip down my face, because blood hurt less than tears. But they were cruel. The world was cruel. A simple kick. Something that could be shrugged off in a second.More Like This
And then they started talking. And every word felt like a bullet ripping through my skull, shattering bone and breaking flesh. "Freak." "Disgusting." "Evil." "Worthless." "Creature." "Demon." And I just had to sit t
ImpressionableYou left impressions in her skin and they sank straight down to her heart. You always told her that she was impressionable, but she never took it quite so literally.More Like This
She was holding memories so tightly that her hands started to burn. Each day a layer of skin would char and crumble. She swept the ash off and carried on.
Sometimes when she felt lonely, she would take old blankets and wrap herself in them. They smelled like the people who used them before her. They have absorbed their dreams, their feelings, their hearts. She liked to hear other peoples' dreams because she never had one herself.
She never felt quite at home. She worried about
Is It Love?If I hugged you,More Like This
would you never let go?
If I kissed you,
would you cherish that moment?
If I reached for your hand,
would you take mine gently?
If I needed a shoulder,
would you let me cry on yours?
If I needed to talk,
would you really listen?
If I needed to scream,
would you do it with me?
If I needed to go,
would you come with me?
If I fell for you,
would you catch me?
or just let me hit the pavement?
CharlieI had a stalker.More Like This
I didn't know his name but I'm sure he knew mine.
I called him Charlie.
He always had a camera hanging from his twig thick neck and he cradled it in his hands; a wispy finger stroking the shutter release. His dark brown hair was a curly mess and his shirts wrinkly and thin. He had the most perfect eyebrows, sweeping and gentle. He must have the most captivating eyes, I thought every time he'd glance my way. We'd never made eye contact. Charlie preferred it that way.
He came into the bookstore once a week, not to watch me leaf through the used books or reach high to shelve the approved ones, but to actually browse them. He
Teacup FriendsWe brew cups of tea and remember them thirty minutes later. The water is still warm when we pull out the teabag, but the liquid is thick and smells bitter. We drink it anyway;the syrupy liquid coats our throats and stains our stomachs. We drink it anyway, since we took the time to make it.More Like This
We figure they are like that; bitter, forgotten cups of tea that we invested so much time in making. (We even give them names: Earl Grey, Peppermint, Breakfast Blend, and Chamomile.)
Chamomile was the first to go, clipping the hair above his ears, buttoning himself up inside a black pea coat, tying it all up with a noose-like scarf around his neck.
Insid
Bring on the ClichesI licked my lips, just about to dig into the mac-and-cheese I half-assedly whipped up when three scratching noises made me spill my dinner. A flourescent orange blob landed on my book. I turned towards the door and raised a brow. I had been handing out candy to trick-or-treaters all night, but this was certainly a creative way to get my attention. I picked up the plastic bowl full of full size Milky Ways ("Fun Size" just pisses off everyone involved). I threw open the door.More Like This
Some guy was staring back at me, his clothes reeking of sewage. His hair was stringy and a grin was plastered on his face, showing wicked daggers of teeth. I dropped the
HabitsI wake up. I get out of bed and warily pick up my jeans and long sleeve, which I picked out the day before.More Like This
I have convinced myself there are cameras in my house. Watching a television show where a criminal suspect was watched 24/7 with webcams and wiretaps didn't help. Now I am scared of changing, taking a shower, doing anything gross or embarassing. I pull my pajama shirt off and automatically cover my chest. I hurriedly change, glancing around the room.
I go into the kitchen and pull out some Frosted Flakes. I get out the milk too. Of course, I have to smell it before I pour it. The date says it won't expire for almost a month, but what
Noone's ever lostI woke up entirely too early for a Saturday, and stumbled half-open out to the kitchen. The view from the tiny second-floor window wasn't very good so I stared at the linoleum while I waited for the kettle on the stove to boil.More Like This
I shivered. It was colder than it'd been a few hours earlier.
We wandered away from our friends for a second in the carpark.
"Do you have somewhere to stay tonight?" He furrowed his brow.
I didn't look at him, I knew the look he'd be giving me. "I figured I'd find somewhere to crash later."
"Then you'll stay with me." He walked away.
"...what?"
The night started out quietly, we got Chinese from the place off the lane
Zombie KissThere was a zombie in the garden. But Libby didn't much mind. Clumps of rotten blood oozed from a shattered jaw, bulbous white eyes rolled in a shriveled decomposing skull, and gray green fingers reached towards the house. Gargled howls rose from its throat, hungry snorts from its nose, and a strange slush of liquid could be heard every time it moved. Still, Libby didn't care.More Like This
Two more pounded on the door; cold stiff bodies beating relentlessly, mindlessly, on the locked panel of wood. Another dozen circled; sucking in strangled gulps of air, and exhaling them in ugly, hungry, moans. Libby closed her eyes and kissed him, drowning out the ugly sounds from below with her own urgent whine of pleasure.
"Please!"
"Shh."
Distant gunfire rattled the window frames, far off screams rose with the wind, and somewhere a radio crackled out a series of commands. And a dark teaming smudge of black marred the horizon. The zombie horde, locked in battle with the
DragonsThe dragons just kept getting cuter.More Like This
I'd meant them to be scary, with snakelike heads and pearly fangs, but as my fingers gained more practice the dragons they shaped became younger and more innocent, their wings tiny and their eyes wide. Dull spikes lined their heads and tails, not yet sharpened by age. They lay on their bellies or sat up and watched with good-natured curiosity. They were friendly. They were sweet.
They were flawed, and there were a lot of them. I experimented with color and pose, sculpting the way others would turn a stress ball. Every morning I baked the newcomers in my oven, and within a week my desk was overrun. Rows o
For My DaughterDear daughter-I-do-not-have-yet,More Like This
You will be my perfect. You will be my proudest moments in one small person. You will be made in love, or maybe anger, or maybe even desperation. But that won't matter. What matters is what you will be made into.
You will have Daddy's hair and his nose, and my eyes and my smile, the smile that happens not because someone with a camera told you to, but because you're genuinely happy. But you will have your very own heart and will be full of all the things that give you your you-ness. Whether you sing in the bath or make Valentines for everyone in your class or give your last homemade chocolate chip cookie to
FishIt's funny, the little things that mean so much. You don't even notice them until they're gone. One day you wake up and find the neighbours have chopped a branch from the tree outside your window. Suddenly you feel a little more alone. You step outside and notice a For Sale sign across the street - it's an old, shabby house and you know it's going to be knocked down by the end of the month. And it's that moment when you realize a part of you will topple with it. Faint, but alive, soon to be as spectral as the puff of smoke that drifts from a candlewick after the flame is blown out. A sliver of your spirit.More Like This
Your sister kept goldfish once. The
The DoctorWhen I was seven, I was diagnosed with emotions.More Like This
"Poor girl." I heard them say. "She'll never survive this one."
I laid with my face towards the ceiling on the cold examination table, listening to them discuss my fate. I felt something breaking in my chest and something burning inside my throat. A small tear slipped down my cheek.
"Doctor! Look at this!" Shrieked my mother, "Something is coming out of her eye."
The doctor rushed over to me and wiped the tear from my cheek. He touched the top of my head as he whispered, "I am so sorry." And then he turned to my mother. "It's a tear. It means that she is sad."
"Sad?" My mother asked inquis
My EverythingI'm a shut-in, an outcast, a freak. My only connection to the outside world is my computer and I almost never go on social networks. What do I do you may ask.More Like This
I write. I write stories filled with twists and turns that lead you down a road I created. My stories are not only for you, however, they are for me as well. I escape my everyday boring life and become an adventurous, heroic, and brave heroine fighting dragons and kissing frogs.
I could become a shy girl thrust into greatness, a princess who gets tired of waiting for the white horse an the handsome prince. My legs and feet could transform into a tail and gills and I could be a beautif
La vida es justa?"¿La vida es justa?"More Like This
Eso fue lo que dijo aquel hombre, aquel hombre que con tan poco tiempo de conocerlo me ha enseñado tanto, aquel que parece tener una armazón de piedra irrompible, aquel que nunca sabes cuando bromea y cuando no, aquel que nunca sabes que hará, aquel que cuestiona la vida de forma casi poética.
"¿La vida es justa?"
Resuena en mi cabeza, aquella conversación grupal que tuvimos, todos declaraban que sí lo era.. Él los debatía y callaba, mientras yo no sabía que pensar.
"¿La vida es justa?"
Sinceramente no sé la respuesta, nunca lo había pensado, aun ahora, meses después, no tengo ni la menor idea. Sé con toda certeza que miles de millones dirían que no, que no lo era, mientras el resto diría que sí. Una batalla incesante, con pruebas tanto de un lado como el otro, nadie quiere perder, no con esa cla
pretty boys break hearts.sometimes I think I’m just a mess of badly drawn lines. I’m just scrawled veins beneath paper rough skin, I wear poorly sketched scars on my thighs [skin deep red pen lines] and even my smile is lop-sided- but he never seemed to notice.More Like This
my skin [spread like thick icing over my skeleton] is a monotonous pattern of pores, a stretch of the world the sun never kissed. I can’t see the beauty in multitudes of freckles and chipped fingernails- but he does.
‘why do you love me?’
‘you make me happy.’
I never could figure out just how. was it my illegible love notes, or the tiny hearts I drew into his bare back wi
First ImpressionsI remember the first time I met herMore Like This
a tower of books tucked under her chin
glasses sliding down her nose
that she wiggled like a hare's
I helped her carry the tower
to her brother's truck
him ever so persistent to return home
and her just happy to escape into literature
she slumped into the seat
the tower resting at her bare toes
she stuck out her hand
and told me her name
and laughed at the common of it
she would be a freshman after summer
same as me
her brother still urgent
had the engine roar to life
and drive away
her hand waving at me
with a broad smile bubbling over
that danced for me
and all I could think was
MOST COMMON CLICHES IN STORIESMore Like This
CHARACTERS:
Crazy, psychopathic, murderer ladies
Sexy, butt-kicking girls
Crazy/random/hyper self-inserts
Depressed emo/goth/always-dresses-in-black types
Angsty/moody/hot teenagers
The brown-haired girl with no personality
The mean, popular, snobby girl
Unreasonably cruel bullies out to make life harder for the main character
The best friend (if they were a good character who *happened* to be a best friend they wouldn't have to be described as this)
Fun fact: Making victim OCs is cliche
Another fun fact: how someone dresses is NOT their personality
Yet another fun fact: People who claim to be random really are not and they know it.
Day NineteenI.More Like This
This building will always
remind me of you.
You left your presence
in its walls and
it creaks like a
perverse lullaby.
II.
I hear you have a
baby now.
I’ll never know if
it’s a he or she,
and that is surprisingly okay.
III.
You are every cyclist
wearing aviator sunglasses,
which means that I see you,
on average,
six times on my way home.
Coincidentally,
that is the same number
of times that my heart stops
daily.
IV.
I have a friend with
the same name as you, it
feels weird saying it
aloud.
V.
I’ve written you
pages of poems,
hoping that your memory
will bleed from my fingers
like a pen
running out of ink.
The r
Day NineI don’t know whichMore Like This
I’m more afraid of:
breaking your heart,
or finding that you don’t
even have a heart to break.
Write What You KnowMore Like This
Once upon a time, a young woman was so in love with books that she decided she wanted to become a writer so she, too, could create loveable stories. She read everything she could about writing. Then, one day, she found herself in a book store where she bumped into an old man among the shelves. Turning to apologize, she discovered it was a venerable, much-loved author.
As soon as she could find her voice to speak, she said, "Oh, sir! I know you are very busy, and so I would just like to ask you one small question: what is the best piece of advice you have for a beginning writer?"
The old man smiled and said, "Certainly, young lady. In fact,
JavertOf course. Of all the barricades in Paris tonight, I had to infiltrate this one. I hadn't seen him in years, and he didn't seem to recognize me. He glanced up, then went back to his drink. I tried to put him out of mind, and found who I perceived to be the leader. He didn't look or act naive or stupid, but accepted my offer for help.More Like This
I was happy to get away from that godforsaken barricade, even if only temporarily. I had to decide if his presence changed anything. There wasn't the slightest spark of recognition in those drunken, dim eyes. Had I really changed so drastically? He hadn't changed a bit. When did we last meet, anyway...? I though
Contemplations of The Phantom of the Opera Contemplations on the Phantom of the Opera legends.More Like This
It is a certain fact that the majority of anyone who reads this, has no doubt, heard of the Phantom of the Opera.
Often parodied, and more often adapted, from juvenile books to being a staple concept for a filler episode in various television series, and even an out-of-print manga adaptation- it is a story that served for a general eeriness or for the premise of some unseen-at least to the characters-thief purloining various items or vandalizing an establishment and employing harassment through illusions.
There have been countless adaptations, from the iconic 1925 silent fil
The DoctorWhen I was seven, I was diagnosed with emotions.More Like This
"Poor girl." I heard them say. "She'll never survive this one."
I laid with my face towards the ceiling on the cold examination table, listening to them discuss my fate. I felt something breaking in my chest and something burning inside my throat. A small tear slipped down my cheek.
"Doctor! Look at this!" Shrieked my mother, "Something is coming out of her eye."
The doctor rushed over to me and wiped the tear from my cheek. He touched the top of my head as he whispered, "I am so sorry." And then he turned to my mother. "It's a tear. It means that she is sad."
"Sad?" My mother asked inquis
1 month and 16 days before1 month and 16 days beforeMore Like This
00y/1m/16d/9h/32m/55s
1 month… 16 days… 9 hours… 32 minutes… 55 seconds… I watched intently as the tiny, digital numbers ticked away time as if it were nothing. I imagined the intangible numbers floating from the tiny screen and into space and eventually disintegrated into the air, lost forever. Was time really so precious after all? &
Dear Bronys *rant*Just a few words for the, er, "Bronys" out there. I'm sorry, in advanced, because I know a lot of you will be offended. I just needed to get this out.More Like This
Firstly, I'd like to ask you to stop shipping MLP with EVERY FUCKING OTHER FANDOM. IT'S CREEPING ME OUT, YO. Especially Slenderman. SERIOUSLY. Slenderman is not some cute, blushing "kawaii" creature who falls in love with the ponies and frolics through a field of daises. NO. That makes me sick just thinking about it. He's a murderous, bloodthirsty, tentacle-enhanced creature that KILLS PEOPLE. HE. DOES. NOT. MAKE. FRIENDS. WITH. PONIES.
AND STOP FUCKING UP THE PHANTOM OF THE OPERA WITH PONIES, TOO. YOU'RE RUINING EVERYTHING.
Also, Bronys, "brofist" is Pewdiepie's thing. "Brohoof" is your thing. STOP. And Pewdiepie IS NOT A PONY FOR FUCKS SAKE. HE IS A HUMAN. Mr Chair is not a pony. He. Is. A. Chair. Stephano is NOT A PONY. He is a statue. Jennifer, the bro, the barrels all have one thing in common. THEY'RE NOT PONIES. Everything else Pew
WINNERS EVERYDAY! Points GIVEWAY!! Hey dahlin's!<3! THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR DONATING AND SUPPORTING! I give all my points away anyways, and I love hosting giveaways <3 I am hoping to do more, and support Artists and to also make you smile Support what I am doing? Check out my page and lke if you'd like!More Like This
to keep updated <3 gracias! Thanks for enterting if you are! <3 -hug-
I AM STILL SO INSPIRED TO GIVE AND MAKE THE MOST OF THE START OF A BRAND NEW YEAR! for 2013=
I said I still wanted to help people and keep motivating
so why not have A BUNCH OF WINNERS?
I know, sorry I only have 80 points, but they are perfect to help give away ! Someday I shall get more points, but I WILL keep giving <3
and you can win up to two times!~ /w/
:iconbigheartplz:
HOW TO ENTER?
fave this journal and leave me a comment that you entered!fave my NEWEST PEICE!
and Follow me on facebook if you can :iconpsychoflowerplz: http://facebook.com/happy143photos
Try to help sprea
Hunger Games FanFic: Chapter 1It was typical- how the clouds hung over the sky that day. The day of the yearly Reaping.More Like This
I could hear many heartbeats thudding around me. They all seemed to join together in unison on this day of pure dread and utter despair, creating one huge anxious heartbeat. I looked around wearily at the people and friends I'd known all my life, cradling my pricked finger that hadn't yet ceased bleeding. Anyone of them could be picked and were likely to die in the Games- I had to stop thinking like that. Dirt and dust covered the feet, hands, and faces of all us District 12 kids. I bit my lip until I tasted that familiar metallic taste of blood. Suddenly, everything grew silent as Clover Middleton stepped up onto the stage, smiling down at us with sharp, evil eyes, her arms outstretched as though she were trying to hug all of us at once. "Ladies and Gentlemen," she began, a sneering grin danced across her lips. "Happy One Hundred and Fourth Hunger Games, e
If I went to a Therapist...Therapist: So tell me, Dappy, why are you here?More Like This
Me: That's what I'd like to know -.-
Therapist: I hear you have... a certain issue.
Me: I have lots of issues. What are you getting at? -.-
Therapist: Do you think you're in a bad situation?
Me: My life is a bad situation.
Therapist: Would you describe yourself as negative?
Me: I describe myself as nutso.
Therapist: Are you happy in life?
Me: WELL I'M NOT FAWKING EMO!
Therapist: I never said you were. These are just questions.
Me: Stupid questions.
Therapist: Would you like help or not?
Me: Are you a pedophile or not?
Therapist: I see where the problem lies.
Me: O__________________O
Therapist: You're absolutely perverted. That's your problem.
Me: Well, DUH.
Therapist: And you're in love with your best friend.
Me: *le gasp* Whoa bro. I h
FrostbittenWinter is her favorite time of the year.More Like This
It's beautiful. Silver and blue dance around with one another in a waltz of freezing passion as snow and ice douse the land in a blanket of boreal glamour. Glass windowpanes become easels for falling snowflakes, frost etching into the smooth surfaces in intricate and unique patterns.
Winter has always been her favorite time of the year, and it always will be.
It is not because of Christmas--no, even though she loves the holiday, it is not what sparks her strong fondness for the star-colored blanketing across the land. Her infatuation with the snow and ice and everything cold has to do with something
i begin and end with you.How do you go about explaining love to someone who has never felt it? How do you put into words the sweetness of the first kiss or the bitterness of the first goodbye or the hundred pinpricks of emotion you feel each and every time lip parts lip? If I were to try, I wouldn't start with the first embrace or the first touch or the first time your tongue swept the top of your mouth and you breathed my name. I wouldn't start with the first time nail bit into hip or teeth into shoulder or the first time you cried my name and I cried yours. I wouldn't talk about the first time that we held hands under the branches of the willow, limbs interlaced asMore Like This
Dear Future Self,More Like This
Dear Future Me,
I bet you weren't expecting a letter from your past self, were you?
Well, you probably were, considering we're the same person and
you'd have to know I was writing you a letter since you wrote it in the
past so I guess you know already what's in this letter, right? Do I even
need to write it? If I don't write it… will that set off a chain of events
that lead to the you who won't read this being someone completely different!?
I've watched 'Back to the Future' far too many times.
Well, I'm going to write it. I guess I can't offer you infinite insight
about your future since I'm writing forward as opposed to back, and
Teacup FriendsWe brew cups of tea and remember them thirty minutes later. The water is still warm when we pull out the teabag, but the liquid is thick and smells bitter. We drink it anyway;the syrupy liquid coats our throats and stains our stomachs. We drink it anyway, since we took the time to make it.More Like This
We figure they are like that; bitter, forgotten cups of tea that we invested so much time in making. (We even give them names: Earl Grey, Peppermint, Breakfast Blend, and Chamomile.)
Chamomile was the first to go, clipping the hair above his ears, buttoning himself up inside a black pea coat, tying it all up with a noose-like scarf around his neck.
Insid
ImpressionableYou left impressions in her skin and they sank straight down to her heart. You always told her that she was impressionable, but she never took it quite so literally.More Like This
She was holding memories so tightly that her hands started to burn. Each day a layer of skin would char and crumble. She swept the ash off and carried on.
Sometimes when she felt lonely, she would take old blankets and wrap herself in them. They smelled like the people who used them before her. They have absorbed their dreams, their feelings, their hearts. She liked to hear other peoples' dreams because she never had one herself.
She never felt quite at home. She worried about
Please Don't Leave MeShe flutters her fingers over her skin, she smiles as she thinks of him. He only touched her once, and it was when she brushed up against him on the train. She smiles as she remembers the way he muttered an apology. Her heart feels light as her memories play though her mind, changing bit by bit as they pass through.More Like This
Please don't leave me.
She rides the train on Tuesday afternoons, because she ran into him once, several Tuesdays ago. She waits patiently at the station, hoping, praying that he will see him. She has the lines worked out in her head, hoping she will have the occasion to use them. She rides the bus day in, day out sitting in the
The DoctorWhen I was seven, I was diagnosed with emotions.More Like This
"Poor girl." I heard them say. "She'll never survive this one."
I laid with my face towards the ceiling on the cold examination table, listening to them discuss my fate. I felt something breaking in my chest and something burning inside my throat. A small tear slipped down my cheek.
"Doctor! Look at this!" Shrieked my mother, "Something is coming out of her eye."
The doctor rushed over to me and wiped the tear from my cheek. He touched the top of my head as he whispered, "I am so sorry." And then he turned to my mother. "It's a tear. It means that she is sad."
"Sad?" My mother asked inquis
I Am Not A Writer I am not a writer. A writer is someone who carries a notebook with them everywhere they go, ready to write down any new little description or thought that comes into their mind, anything that they can take and describe in a new little pretty way that would make any reader's heart ache and their thoughts spin around in different directions in hopes of figuring out the writer's intent. That's not me. A writer is someone who can look at a piece of fruit, or a picture of a dead man, and describe it in such a way that makes you feel compassion and a flood of emotions about an object that is so common to your everyMore Like This
Riding BikesGoing off medication is like riding a bike.More Like This
The doctor holds tight to my handlebars and lowers my dosage. The training wheels are off, and oh hey, look at me go! It's like flying but not, and I'm doing so well but then there's a horrible accident and I'm somehow upside down at the bottom of the sea with both wheels still spinning.
"Help," I say, and my doctor pats my head, puts a band-aid on my knee, and writes a note on my chart.
I've balanced by myself for months at a time, but I always end up hitting a fucking tree or falling off a cliff or something equally catastrophic because I am a catastrophic person. Except that is an exaggeration
ForgivenessIMore Like This
When the little girl woke up, she found cookies in her shoes.
It was December 6, St. Nicholas Day, her parents told her. That’s the day when Santa comes and takes your Christmas list and leaves you cookies if you were good, a switch if you were bad. Santa left her cookies! The little girl squealed in delight, in excitement.
Do you want to try one, her mother asked. The little girl put one in her mouth. She chewed. She swallowed. She smiled. It was the best thing she had ever eaten in her life.
You can eat another one, her father said. &
trilobite.look:More Like This
don't ask me to prove to you that evolution is real,
because i lost the notebook with the proof written
out in pen. i could try to sum it up for you anyway,
about how i didn't used to love you and then one day
i did and how whales used to have legs.
also i was once a flower or a seven year old
and my hands didn't know how to hold yours
or how to draw sunsets and make sandcastles.
evolution was you one year ago saying i was perfect,
that i should never change myself for anyone.
now you say that you are trying to fix me,
which means that perfect things could always
be trying harder. and that's evolution.
i'm tired of my hair
My lionAdmittedly, I was a rotten child. I liked to spend my time throwing rocks at stray dogs. No one ever bothered to stop me until the old voice in the alley.More Like This
“Why are you throwing rocks at puppies?” It was an old man voice, deep and gravelly, so I didn’t stop.
“Because I want to, old man,” I retorted and tried to sound mean. There was no warning before I heard a yelp and felt dirt under my shoulders. I tumbled over and realized the yelp had come from me. I lay on the ground and listened to my heart beat. That old man had pushed me down, and now he would pay. “You asked for it!” I yelled and grabbed the first
stop ruining autumn.listen:More Like This
fall makes me think of leaving and of apple cider, though i never liked apple cider.
but i liked the idea of it.
listen:
two years ago i met a boy as fragile as dead leaves, who called me his little spring girl. (i'd always liked autumn the best.) he kissed the two soft dimples on the small of my back and told me helikedme helovedme hewantedme.
and oh, by the way, "everything good must come to an end."
listen:
on our one year anniversary we picked out two pumpkins and i drew elephants on them for us to carve. he cut his out so aggressively that it lost its shape.
lopped off tusks and broken trunks became just a large, jagged
My Homestuck IntroYour name is GRAYSON. It is a SLIGHTLY DRAB March afternoon. Scattered around your room are several USELESS KNICKKNACKS that you hold on to for no particular reason other than to CUDDLE THEM. You have a variety of interests, including LISTENING TO PUNK ROCK AND ELECTRONICA. You enjoy NEVER TELLING PEOPLE YOUR REAL NAME, ranting about BANDS NOBODY LIKES BUT YOU, and BAD RAPPING. You like PIXEL ART although you are PRETTY GODDAMNED TERRIBLE at it. You also like CLASSIC LITERATURE, which is a bit DIFFERENT than most people. You write POETRY and PROSE sometimes and enjoy using the words EXISTENTIAL, EXTEMPARANIUS, SWASHBUCKLE, and CINDERBLOCK.More Like This
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