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okay but imagine 17-year-old dean in a dingy bathroom of some random motel with a name that had long faded from its sign, haphazardly smearing bleach all over his head, gloveless as his fingers burned, a magazine cutout of christian slater taped with gum on the dirty mirror. he’d found the box crumpled at a gas station clearance shelf, just next to the expired slim jims (he’d pocketed both), and it had read ‘frosted tips for men’, just like those nsync guys chicks dug and sammy secretly liked.

sammy himself had tried to put him off from doing it, told him it makes him look gay (because he knew it would rile dean up) and sat perched on his elbows on the stained bedspread, looking curiously into the small bathroom. he didn’t know what was worse, the stench of mould and stale cigarettes, or the offensive sting of the bleach. dean had taken off his prized lynyrd skynyrd shirt so as not to ruin it, despite that piece of clothing having more holes in it than any damage any chemical could do. sam would look for a bit too long at dean’s exposed back, sinewy muscles flexing as his hands moved, the white paste dripping in specks across his sunburnt shoulders, mixing with the freckles.

dean had told sam it was because the girls would go crazy over it. what he didn’t say was that he’d cried into his pillowcase the week before, when dad had told him he didn’t know when he’d lost those golden locks of mary’s, as he ran rough fingers through dean’s too-long hair, so close that his whiskey breath had made the little strands move. dean didn’t know when he’d lost them either, he hadn’t noticed until that moment; it was as if after a particularly rough hunt his hair had gotten matted with the dirt and mud so deeply that it never washed out.

dean’s hair had been too light for how long he’d left the bleach in, and instead of restoring the golden curls of his youth, he’d ended up with white, stringy strands. when john had come home later that afternoon he’d stopped for a second, his expression making sam’s stomach do flips, the slim jims too close to his trachea for comfort. that had only lasted a breath’s time, and john had then called dean a vain idiot and smacked the back of his head jokingly. after the fifth beer of the night, he’d grabbed the clippers from his duffle bag and dragged his eldest to the bathroom by the ear, shaving all of it off, uncaring whether he’d nick his ear or not.

dean would never grow his hair out again, resigning himself to light brown spikes, the only memory of his mother’s blonde being in the picture as faded as that motel’s sign. he didn’t know his features would be a memory in and of themselves, he’d already forgotten what she looked like. his dad hadn’t.

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All Baddies seem to like to grab Dean’s face…

May be face is the problem?

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girl stop those glamour shoots and get on that laptop damn

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The Vorgutyevsky trails; part 7. Photos of the cemetery chapel of the XX century

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normal movie where nothing bad happens 👍

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[Bataille's] texts obsessively reiterate that the decomposed body is excremental, and that the only sufficient response to death is laughter. The corpse not only dissolves into a noxious base matter analogous to excrement, it is also in fact defecated as waste by the life of the species. For the corpse is the truth of the biological individual, its consummate superfluity. It is only through the passage into irredeemable waste that the individual is marked with the delible trace of its excess.

Nick Land, Georges Bataille and Virulent Nihilism

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time is a flat circle

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marty: i can’t stop cheating on my wife bruh

rust subplot:

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Offering

by Ursula K. Le Guin

I made a poem going to sleep last night, woke in sunlight, it was clean forgotten.

If it was any good, gods of the great darkness where sleep goes and farther death goes, you not named, then as true offering accept it.

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supernatural, 1.22

the sopranos, 1.01

hard times, ethel cain

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© Bruce Weber, 1983

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They’re soul sisters

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THOMAS GIBSON — Love and Human Remains, 1994

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THOMAS GIBSON smoking and shopping in LOVE AND HUMAN REMAINS (1993)

requested by anon 🩷