champagneprobllems

[champagneprobllems]

by the way, quietly bottling your discomfort with someone and just hoping they'll "get the hint" until you can't take it anymore and then taking it to the nearest moderator isn't "setting a boundary" or "being victimized," it's actually called "being a huge piece of shit" and "expecting people to read your mind."

Sorry about your conflict aversion, but you actually need to tell people when they're making you uncomfortable. like, with explicit, clear, unmistakeable words that don't give you a safe cover of plausible deniability with which you can back out and "still be the good guy." It is kinder to let someone down face-to-face so they can hurt and move on knowing what went wrong than it is to lead someone on and then stab them in the fucking back, you know?

Also, I cannot stress this enough, it is not actually someone else's fault for making you uncomfortable when you literally make a point to lie to them about how much you like them by pretending you're enjoying their company more than you are. That's your fault. That's called making a bed to lie in. Maybe just desperately hoping someone who has already misinterpreted how close they are to you will just happen to pick up on the subtle signs of you desperately hiding your discomfort is, frankly, fucking stupid, and you need to get over yourself and say real words to them instead of getting some third party to punish them for your own inability to communicate.

Sorry this one isn't as nice as my other posts, but some of you need a wake-up slap. Stop fucking burning autistic people and trans women one-by-one because being a coward is easier than being a villain. It's not fucking nice, it's not cute, and the more I see it happen, the less forgivable it gets. Grow the fuck up and change in the scary but necessary ways.

Because it's kinder to tell someone when they're fucking up than it is to let them make the same mistakes in ignorance until you've secretly tallied enough transgressions to safely write them off as unforgivable, and thus disposable. Because I care about you, and everyone else, enough to give you a real chance to actually correct your harmful behaviors by being honest to you about the harm they cause. Because I believe people can make hurtful mistakes while still being genuine unintended mistakes, and that they can change.

Hint, hint.

[champagneprobllems]

i've moved! @glasshcldhigh

[champagneprobllems]

i've moved! @glasshcldhigh

[champagneprobllems]

i've moved! @glasshcldhigh

[champagneprobllems]

i've moved! @glasshcldhigh

[champagneprobllems]

i've moved! @glasshcldhigh

[champagneprobllems]

i've moved! @glasshcldhigh

[champagneprobllems]

i've moved! @glasshcldhigh

[champagneprobllems]

              i never notice till the day's gone by...

template.

[champagneprobllems]

THE SITE IS FINISHED.

[champagneprobllems]

i am almost done with the new blog.

[champagneprobllems]

it's almost done, the site is almost done i promise as soon as the info is all done i'm gonna bring the new blog live. the graphics can come later, the info's what's important and i s2g i Will finish it this time.

[champagneprobllems]

on the one hand, keeping everything the same and just moving to a clean slate. on the other, fuck with everyone's tags and pull a rebrand.

[champagneprobllems]

hm.

[champagneprobllems]

Lulah’s face breaks out into a wide grin, pleasantly surprised. “Oh, I weren’t nothing memorable, back then. Hell, I forget sometimes.” At least, she’d like to. She waves her fingers at the bartender, and something bright and sickeningly sweet is set in front of her moments later. She blows a kiss at the bartender before shifting her attention back to Henry. “So, you’ve seen what I been up to. How’s life been treatin’ you since I last saw ya?”

❝ miss tallulah, as i live and breathe, ❞ henry has been sat at the bar, nursing his whiskey since tal had taken the stage, swept up in the music enough he'd found himself in a rut of nostalgia. his own accent, usually lighter for the fact he'd only moved into his uncles house at thirteen, falls into a familiarly weighted drawl. lips twist in a failing attempt to stifle his grin. ❝ should i be offended you'd think i'd forget? ❞

[champagneprobllems]

yk i said nadya was a sophie style grifter but the more i think of it, the more i believe she's actually a tara-style grifter

[champagneprobllems]

The building is unnervingly clean, though she supposes it makes sense for the nonsense her contact got up to, back when she knew him. Still, she itches to pull out the near-empty can of yellow paint in her bag and tag their presence in a highlighter streak across the wall. It’s the first time in a long time that she’s been back here, and she’s hoping against hope that she won’t be recognized—or at the very least, he won’t call her by her old name. Esmeralda, Torvanera, hell, she’ll even take Hieta or Gorda, Red’s Osita or Cat’s Fiera. Anything but that name again. The girl who used that name is dead, and Gem wants to let her rest in peace. She’s so wrapped up in her own thoughts that she doesn’t notice Tech is no longer beside her as she coasts toward their destination.

At her name, she whips around. “Tech?” One hard push and she’s at Tech’s side again, circling her to stop in her line of sight. She recognizes, at least, the appearance of a panic attack. “Hey, you're good,” she assures, offering her hands for Tech to grab if she needs. She doesn’t really want to abandon their quest, but, “You wanna get outta here?” She can’t say she’s against putting off facing her past for another day.

@champagneprobllems ( Gem ) //> Where She Stops. . .

+ flashback

  The long pull of the hall swims in front of her eyes. She blinks, and blinks again. Trying to pull it - to pull anything into focus. But it slips and slips like shoes on the soaked floor, like sharp steel right through skin.

  “..H..” She tries, and fails, to say something. Though she’s not sure, exactly, what word she was aiming for. Maybe that’s why she can’t find it. Why she just stands there, breath catching, expression cycling in pieces through snatches of things that could be called angry… afraid… confused… hopeful… despairing. Desperate. She tries to look away and her head only twitches. A tremor begins to crawl up her leg. It’s after it reaches her middle, grabbing, that she remembers where she’s supposed to be. It’s creeping up around her collar, making her lift her head in search of air to breathe that she finds a small, tear-threatened version of her voice. “...Gem.”

  Help.