no1readsmyblog

[no1readsmyblog]

Do I have to learn to live with this now? Is this never going away? Would be horrendous if I dragged someone into loving me if I'm like this.

[no1readsmyblog]

The ideation is so strong. I really want to give in. Especially when something good happens. It's like. It's never gonna get better than this.

[no1readsmyblog]

everyone else: sun maybe think twice before murdering your brother?

wolfgang: god forbid women do anything 🙄

[no1readsmyblog]

Sometimes I feel I am a weakling. That I don't have the right to exist in the world. As if I'm a sensitive child who has tantrums but this sensitive child doesn't have the right to have her needs met.

Rationally, I know if someone else told me this is how they felt, I'd tell them they were valid and that being sensitive wasn't a weakness but a strength. And people can be weak and strong at the same time. Neither is better than the other.

But then why do I have these double standards for myself. Is my incapability to be kind to myself the biggest weakness of all? Or am I just being realistic and brutally honest about who I am as a person? Someone who doesn't deserve to exist.

[no1readsmyblog]

there’s a lot to unpack here

[no1readsmyblog]

What is this deep sadness? It feels like my heart is breaking. Like I don't exist without it. But I haven't even been in love like that? Then why does my heart break into a million pieces that are so sharp, that when I try to gather them, it hurts even more. Why does my heart break as if the deepest lovs and aches of the world are all mine? Why do my cries shatter my soul which feels like it is overwhelmed. Why do my cries sound like an animal is dying? Is this depression or has my heart been fooled into falling in love and then breaking in that love and I don't even know it has happened?

[no1readsmyblog]

There is a cafe in the forest. Its lights are bright, it should not be there.

Something chimes. You don’t remember opening the door that swings closed behind you. You’re out of breath. Have you been running? Your brow furrows. There is mud on your boots. Clumps of dirt that dry and crack then fall away as you stand there, staring.

“May I have your name?” 

You look up. Your neck strains as if it hasn’t moved in days. Blink, flex your hands. Needles race up your arms like stabbing insects. The barista stands before you with limbs that are too long and a smile that reaches their eyes in more ways than one. 

“May I have your name?” They say again, like a name is a thing to be taken. 

Maybe it is. You are struck with the notion that you do not want them to have yours. With great effort you pause the words forming on your lips. When did you open your mouth? It doesn’t matter. You give them a name.

The barista’s smile widens, if that is possible. Their skin is ashen gray and the apron they wear shifts in a way that blinds you. “That isn’t your name.”

You shake your head. No, it isn’t. 

You are seated at a table. (Is wood supposed to bleed?) The menu is soggy in your hands. Syllables jerk twisted and raw from your mouth as you pick an order at random and read. A mockery of language, you don’t recognise your own voice. 

The barista nods slowly, “will that be all?”

“Yes,” you find yourself saying. “that will be all.”

They turn away and you are left with yourself. Roll a corner of the menu between your finger and thumb, yellow liquid oozing from its fibers. Your hand is shaking.

Something chimes, slams. A man stands in the doorway- He has mud on his boots, though he doesn't stop to watch it dry. He sees you and you remember then why you went running in the woods at night. Ordinary fear; of abuse and fists and gaslit-rage. You cringe in your seat. 

He is an animal made of popping veins and flying spittle. He stalks towards you and then-

“May I have your name?” 

Was the barista always there? You don’t remember them arriving, you don’t remember them being there a moment ago. They stand with a smile that is still too wide, hands outstretched in a beckoning motion. The man doesn’t notice, or perhaps he is too caught in his own rage to care. He shoves the barista, but he may as well be shoving at a pillar, or a mountain. They make the beckoning motion again and you’re not sure which of them to warn of danger.

“May I have your name?” 

The man scowls, giving it offhandedly as he moves to step past. Then he stops. You stare, transfixed as the colour drains from his face. His legs seem rooted to the floor. You steel yourself to meet his gaze but it's… hollow. The eyes you meet are that of a shell- a vacant, breathing corpse. 

You look away and the barista descends upon what remains. 

He doesn’t scream, doesn’t make a sound at all. The wet tearing of flesh is enough to keep your eyes on the floor. The tiles are stained a dirty brown. (Smack.) They have chipped in places, little cracks running through and revealing the loose earth beneath. (Thud.) A bug crawls from the dirt. Or at least, you think it’s a bug. (Tear.) A crimson puddle seeps into view; you decide to look elsewhere.

Happy, laughing things stare at you from a poster. The figures on it are almost human, smiling renditions of men and women if they had been sculpted by a child. The only accurate features are the teeth. 

The clock on the wall has eleven numbers. The hands rotate at random, spinning and stopping in opposite directions. You watch as it falters and picks up speed, never once coming to a point where it could properly mark the passage of time.

A clink against the table pulls you from your transfixion. There stands the barista, smiling. They're different now- the slant of their chin, the colour of their eyes. Those features are new, stolen from a man who is now something different.

They have placed a cup in front of you; the muddy red liquid swirling inside almost looks like tea. You pick it up (because what else are you supposed to do?) and run a thumb along the handle’s rough surface. It’s white, with a hundred organic ridges. The liquid inside is warm and distinctly metallic. You try not to think about it.

“Would you like a sample?” They slide a tray towards you. You're not sure what the things on it are, but you know that you want them. Desires, goals. When you ask if they are free the barista says nothing. When you ask for the price a curious expression crosses their face before they give it to you.

You decide that no, you wouldn't like a sample today.

The barista steps towards you clumsily, as if putting one foot in front of the other is something they haven’t done before. They take your hand. Their fingers are hard, smooth as ice and just as cold. They run an almost-thumb down your palm, bones growing and shifting, snapping into place as their limbs change to imitate your own. You yank your arm away. The cold of their fingers has forced you to focus, pulled you back to some semblance of reality. You stand, knocking over your chair in the process. It hits the ground with a dull thud and begins to gently sink into the earth.

The barista looks at you with eyes that were his and are now yours too. You hug your chest, bile rising in your throat. You have to get away. They don’t stop you, and perhaps that is the most disturbing thing of all. Calling out a simple “come again!” before you can flee, breathless, into the night.

In the dark and cold you think for a moment that you have stumbled into another hell, so sudden is the change. But no, there are outlines of trees; leaves beneath your shoes. This is the forest once more.

You turn, expecting a building but greeted by darkness. Blink, let your eyes adjust to the night. There is a corpse at your feet. It looks like it's been there a while. Mushrooms grow from its eyes, the slant of its chin. You stumble away.

 The rumble of traffic offers a clear direction. Lights flash in the distance and you realise for the first time that your hands are caked in dry crimson. Look away, focus on the treeline and the false safety it promises. The taste of copper sits heavy on your tongue.

‘Come again!’ The call was not a request, but a promise. Not tomorrow, if you’re lucky not for years to come. But you will return one day,

To the midnight cafe.

[no1readsmyblog]

do y’all remember that short story where a scientist like, raises his daughter with no contact from the outside world and teaches her english wrong, like he teaches her that ‘yes’ and ‘no’ have the opposite meaning than they actually do and that ‘up’ means ‘down’ and vice versa, and then this guy meets her and starts to teach her what the words actually mean and she kinda sorta starts to get it and like, realize that it’s fucked up

and then one day she’s not home and the house is on fire and her dad’s inside and the firefighters are like ‘is there anyone inside’ and she says ‘no’ and we don’t know whether she understands what she’s saying or not

wild

[no1readsmyblog]

I am screaming lmao also this reminds me of @rosewater1997

[no1readsmyblog]

This feels like the start to a horror movie and I love it

[no1readsmyblog]

happy new year. have some tigers i did for a client

kind reminder that commissions and requests are both open!

[no1readsmyblog]

So I work at a video game store in a mall and across the hall from us is this really nice suit shop. One day one of the guys came in an asked if they could use our microwave (the store they used to go to closed down) and we bargined for use of their bathroom in return since the mall bathrooms are like a 5 min trek.

So for like three months now we just have these men in really nice suits come in and talk while using our microwave and teach them about nerdy shit? Then I, the goblin king in various shitty tee shirts and paint stained pants, walk into their super expensive store and just get greeted with “Yo dude what’s good?” and talk about the pains of steaming silken dress shirts properly and it’s my favorite business interaction every day

[no1readsmyblog]

Can someone please explain to me what evaporated milk is? Wouldn’t that just be gas by definition? I live in constant fear

[no1readsmyblog]

So you’ve got this bitch-ass fitted sheet that you would normally pile into a ball and shove into a closet so you won’t have to deal with it, yeah? Well. Quit acting like a piece of linen is better than you are. You can make a fitted sheet bend to your will. And here’s how…

First, put your sheet on the floor. Stand above it for a few seconds so it knows who’s boss.

Then, put your hand in the lower left corner so that it’s inside out. Do the same to the lower right corner.

Now, your lower left and right corners of the fitted sheet should be inside out. (Shoutout to Amy Poehler, love your work).

Then, take the lower left corner (that’s still inside out) and tuck it into the upper left corner. It should look like the picture above once you’re done. Then, do the same with your right corners.

It should look something like that. Right now, she’s your friend at the end of a good night out. Doesn’t look really bad, but you know she deserves better. 

Pull at the corners until you get something like this shape, as it makes it easier to fold. You’ve given your friend some plain white bread and a glass of water. She’s looking much more presentable now.

Now, pull in at the elastic until you make a rectangle. You’ll want to tuck and smooth the excess fabric away from the elastic seams and towards the closed edge of the fitted sheet.

Once you’ve got a (semi) neat rectangle, fold the the top of the sheet down about a third of the way through. I like to fold the upper part of the sheet down first, because it’s not as straight of an edge as the bottom. You can find your own meaning within that description.

Now, fold the lower portion of the sheet on top of the part you’ve already folded down.

Fold the left side of the sheet into the middle, and then fold the right side of the sheet on top of what you just folded. 

Congratulations. You just made a fitted sheet your bitch.

[no1readsmyblog]

wanna see my favorite sculpture?

[no1readsmyblog]

Have you ever seen a twitter thread (or, in this case, two!) that so perfectly expressed everything you’d felt over months and months of harassment persistent? With all credit to @blackblobyellowcone, who is clearly amazing and completely gets it– not just why us women write and read the erotica that we do, but the history behind the censorship we, as a gender, have experienced. Bravo. 

[no1readsmyblog]

Have you ever seen a twitter thread (or, in this case, two!) that so perfectly expressed everything you’d felt over months and months of harassment persistent? With all credit to @blackblobyellowcone, who is clearly amazing and completely gets it– not just why us women write and read the erotica that we do, but the history behind the censorship we, as a gender, have experienced. Bravo.