the new legends of monkey fic recs
cassieswitingblog recently posted a fic rec list, which made me realise that we have a real shortage of them in this fandom. So hereās my baby contribution of some of my favourite fics:Ā
Hemorrhage (In My Hands) byĀ commoncomitatusĀ
When one of their own is wounded by an enchanted weapon, our heroes race to acquire the cure. Ā A simple enough task, or it would be if they had any idea what it looks like.
The Sentinel by Jan LeeĀ
Itās only an ancient myth that demons can become human. Tripitaka wonders if there might be some truth in that story. Of course, Monkey, Sandy, and Pigsy think sheās nuts. The font demon is just there to obey and maybe to stab them in the back.Ā
Not Every Cloud Has a Silver Lining by UselessReptileWritesĀ
Since Monkey has regained the ability to summon his cloud, travel should be a lot easier than walking. Emphasis on āshould.ā
Nothing Personal by BashfulTenrecĀ
āRelax, little monk. Just a god warming up his human. Nothing personal.ā
The Warmest Part of Winter by timeforsomethrillingheroicsĀ
It wasnāt awful, Tripitaka decided. Holding Monkeyās hand.
A Little Bit of Light by commoncomitatusĀ
As our heroes set out on their quest, Sandy struggles to adjust to life outside the sewers. Ā A study in sunlight, social interaction, and being seen.
A Soft Spot for Sloshed Strangers by siriuspiggybackĀ
āyou drunkenly broke into my apartmentā AU
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Long suicidal rant.
Clickbait? Yes, unapologetically so. Just for that fractional chance that someone would give a damn even though this post is super useless and shitty and pointless, like me.Ā Ā
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So I remember high school very differently from one of my best friends. He said something I thought Iād never hear, that I was always happy. I guess I was happy around him. He was and is a happy personāthe most stable person I know, in fact. We just talked a lot, and we got to talk about a lot of things and still do. Still, I remember high school so differently. We hung out during break times when Iād fawn over a crush, chat, or just chill. Or sometimes weād cut classes together and just chat. Or go for a jog and end up just eating ice cream.
I remembered high school differently. I remember coming home from senior prom and hysterically crying myself to sleep because Iād failed to make one romantic connection the whole four years and it made me feel ugly and unloveable to the bone. Prom simply wasnāt special for people like meāones who didnāt star in the romcom, random background extras, a snippet in the burn book. I remember going home and hating school so much I felt suicidal every night. I remember writing a short story about killing myself with shrimps and ascorbic acidāI was a nerdy kid. I remember diagnosing myself bipolar because of the experience. I remember being bullied and just sticking to my diaries. I remember failing at math no matter how hard I tried. I remember begging my parents to put me into a different school.
Of course, I also remember finding ways to cut classes so I can paint and debate the whole dayātwo of my favorite things to do. I also remember the great times with friends and hiding behind a pillar just so we donāt go through another boring class. I remember the laughs, the platters of instant noodles, the spots Iād linger at to see my crush. I remember it all.
I think of high school and I feel so many things colliding, so many colors bursting. All my memories are like so. And my friends tend to remember them differently. I was this, I was that. I was bubbly, I was friendlyābut inside I was battling with social anxiety. They donāt know about how many hours I battled in the morning just to get up, just NOT to give up entirely. There were days I hated my friends because I just didnāt want to wake up and meet themāI just wanted to die instead.
I forget that people donāt actually hear my thoughts out loud. If they did, theyād be so turned off. Iām just such a party pooper inside. Iām always scared, always just wanting to fucking die. It began when I was fourāthat feeling that everything would be better off with my disappearance. My inability to carry on a suicide plan, really, up to this day, I consider a weakness, a form of indecisiveness, lackluster ambivalence.
Iāve had many dreams, of which dying has been the only consistent one. This doesnāt mean that people see me as emo, gothic or always wearing black. Far from it. I dress in rainbows. My favorite color has always been yellow. Specifically egg yolk yellow, Mercedes de Brazo yellow or that yellow dress I had as a child with the corset back I stopped wearing once it freaked out my mom because I had sleep walked in it.
No, Iām actually quite the party with the people I trust. I get it going. Ask around, youāll see. Itās called hypomania after all. Still, it all crashes. It always does in a ball of flames and I get lonely again. I feel like a fucking freak again.
And Iām sooooo tired. Iām so tired of all this cycling. People donāt actually see me at my worst. Only my mom and sister do. They donāt see me when I just canāt fucking move. They donāt see me when I have panic attacks. They donāt see me when I descend and break down. They donāt see me starving for days. They donāt see me crying uncontrollably. They donāt see me curl up in a ball. They donāt see me shaking and twitching in a corner. They donāt see me when I bang my head on the wall or start hitting myself. They donāt see me when it hurts and I feel my brain is on fire. They donāt see me when Iām all alone and everyone is asleep and Iām still typing all this shit out trying to make sense of something, trying to find a reason to stay alive.
Itās so fucking hard. Sorry for the French. Sorry ma. Sorry God. Sorry! But life feels like torture right now. Iām just so tired and everything is forcing me to move like Iāve caught my foot on a roller coaster.
Life can be good. Of course. Life can be so fucking good. Especially when Iām in love. But life right now is hell for me. Iām doing stuff I love, sure, but fucking shit! Motherfucking Ā goats on a ladder, monkey fucking balls, jizz dripping dick, shit show. Iām fucking lonely as fuck. I feel like Iām on an island away from civilization. If I want to be cute about it, I feel like Iām stuck in a tower with fucking guard dragons named Penniless and Insanity.
Life feels like hell for me. Iām fucking burning and I just wonāt die. Sure, hell is much worse, but fucking shit, you havenāt been in my head. God! Why? I just feel so fucking frustrated. Is there no way out?
Iām writing my shit, right? Just fucking finish this shit so I can pass it to Palanca which I wonāt win anyway. Iām not getting my hopes up. But I want to finish it for the sake of finishing it. I know itās not much. Itās just about time and unrequited love after all. Thereās tons of other stuff like it. Still, STILL. I just want the satisfaction of finishing something. Having some sort of closure. BUT IT JUST WONāT END. I have the middle and end, but thereās that chunk, that problem solving part that just wonāt come. You know why? Because Iām trying to write the solution to a problem I currently have no answer to. Iām asking questions I donāt know the answer to. Itās high school all over again, reading the same math problem over and over again and still having no fucking clue, that i wind up fucking crying.Ā
How do I cope with rejection? How do I become a better me? How do I be independent? Can i just insertĀ āto be continuedā in the middle of a screenplay?
Maybe my shrink knows the answer. I havenāt seen her in a while. Honestly, because I canāt fucking afford her like I canāt fucking afford meeting people right now even with isolation fucking driving me fucking mad.
Questions to ask my shrink:
What am I supposed to do when Iām suicidal?
Some people think Iām always happy, should I correct them?
How to not be a party pooper when telling people Iām fucking crazy?
Ā I think I might have over skinned my lips. Fucking burns.Ā
This feels just so dumb. Writing this shit down. No oneās ever going to read it. No oneās ever going to understand me. All my life has been about trying to make people understand just so I can feel a little fucking less lonely. Nothingās changed. People donāt know me. Iām either sunshine or a storm cloud.
Sometimes I wish I could chop off my legs so people could see why I canāt run, walk or just stand. Like yeah. At least now they can see. Itās not like I want a pity party. I donāt. But I want to be understood. I want someone who gets it.
I wish I could treat this. I wish meds will make this go away. But itāll just manage it. And when I get rid of the deepest blues, I get rid of the brightest yellows and Iāll just have nothing to live for anyway. How the fuck do I live?
I constantly feel fucking worthless and useless. I know itās the disorder, but itās not like I can get rid of the disorder. It might as well be an organ on its own really.
I just want to die so badly. Iāve just just had enough. My headās hurt for what, how many decades now? It just burns and aches and vibrates and spreads throughout my body and nobody understands. I donāt want to feel this way. I donāt want to be scared.
The paranoia doesnāt help. Yeah, you can say itās kept me alive, the whole panoptical life caused by years of trauma of mom reading my diaries, notes, letters, and text messages. Fucking motherfucking shit. Itās kept me alive in a way. I donāt do drugs, sex and very seldom drabble in legal potent substances. I very seldom lie. I canāt even leave the house without telling my mom. Iām āgoodā because I just live in constant fear of myself. I feel like everything is a gateway for worse things. I canāt let go. I canāt breathe. I wish I could just be.
I wish I could just breathe. I wish the pain would stop. I wish someone would get it. I wish I was worth it. I wish people believed in me. I wish he never had to leave me. I wish he loved me back. I wish my dad wasnāt an asshole. I wish my dad just loved my family. I wish my mom was ok. I wish I wasnāt so traumatized. I wish I could travel. I wish, I wish, I wish. We canāt have everything we want now.
Look, I have a lot. I got a great education. I got good grades even. I got an okay face. Mom says Iām too pretty, but sheās my mom, of course sheād say that. My mom also says my ass is wide but not bigāwhich is bad because I donāt do enough exercise.
Fuck.
I have a lot to be grateful about. I can writeāthough no one fucking reads me. I can paintāthereās a giant blank canvass upstairs but no fucking paint (for weeks I SOUGHT). I can cookāas much as the next internet aficionado with taste buds. I canā¦
I can die.
The thought soothes me. Comforts me. Iāve told my doctor many times before but drowned it out with jokes and Iām okays. She counter checks with my mom who still wishes that all this was controllable, was just imagined. Canāt blame her. I, too, wish this was just a nightmare I could wake up from.
Pinch. No! Haha!
Itās reality. Iām suicidal and I donāt know what I can do about it. Itās not like Iām actively trying. Iām just always considering how much better it would be on the other side. I keep thinking about overdosing on chocolate or eating too much fatty stuff that liver cirrhosis occurs. I keep thinking of finishing something great, an obra maestra, then just jumping off a building or some shit. Anything really. I donāt know.
Sometimes, it scares me, up close. Like that heart attack scare, I thought I wanted to live. But wanting to live is such a fleeting thing. What is more constant, what nags at my brain everyday is what if, what if!!! WHAT IF THIS ALL JUST ENDS.
Maybe this is just a call for attention. But Iām sort of tired of the attention too. Iām so tired of telling people how miserable I am and them filing it in a folder under my name. āJasper, sap.ā āJasper, toxic.ā Iām tired of wearing people thin. If I die, itāll be like pulling off a band aid, really. Quick. Not like this. A long torturous whine. My existence is like the nails on the chalkboard.
I scratched the blackboard once or twice and it caught my crushās attention. I kinda enjoyed it. Few times I existed in his orbit, even if it was in the worldās most annoying form. Gold.
This is why my humor is dark. Itās the only way I fucking survive. Laughing at myself. At the in-credulousness of it all. Of existing in spite. Of living through pain for nothing. Ha! Pathetic! To detach myself from myself, so I can look from above and laugh at me as I trip on my own fucking feetāmy reason for living.
Iām hilarious. How I blunder through life. How I almost got suspended once because some girls gossiped about my armpit hair. How I fell in love with a man who felt absolutely nothing for me. You know why I fell for him? Because Iād never felt so loved before. Ha! Amazing. Just hilarious.
I donāt want your pity. I donāt even want you to fucking worry. Iām not going to kill myself. I donāt need you to tell me that I donāt seem crazy. Telling me that makes me feel like I just imagined my whole diagnosis you know, and that my brand of fucked up is way beyond medical science. I just want to be underfuckingstood.
Is that so hard?
I didnāt know that a movie about aliens was going to be the movie of my life. Iāve never felt so understood until the movie Arrival, itās hilarious. I feel like Iām just talking alien and the only solution to my problem is to write a book in the future about it. Fucking shit. I experience life, also, I realized like an alien. Always experiencing everything in the context of the future and past. Everything to me is in medias res. I donāt understand linearity. Thatās why Iām always lost. Left and right is a circle to me. Everything is so fucking nonlinear my brain is constantly overwhelmed. Am I happy? Am I sad? I donāt know. Hence my trademark HUHUHAHA/HAHAHUHU. Sort of sounds like a monkey.
WHINE WHINE WHINE
Who the fuck will ever read this shit. Ā NO fucking one.
My whole life I dedicated to be understood--my whole college thesis all about it. In the words of Ursula: Pathetic.
I remember in fourth grade was it? Yeah, probably. I used abstract art to tell my dad that I knew his deepest darkest secret and he was the asshole of my life. Of course he didnāt get it. I abstracted it for a reason.
Life is like a knot. I donāt know where it ends or beginsāall I see is that itās a tangle I canāt solve.
Iām so fucking needy.
I know the answer isnāt love. Pop culture would tell you it is. Itās not. But what if medication doesnāt help? HOPELESS FuCKiNG SHIT.
One day, I ask the wind, the farts I make when everyone is asleep, will I grow thin? Will I just snap? Will I just finally have enough? Will the guilt of leaving my family behind finally be secondary to my suffering?
Someone has it worseāthey say. I just donāt like that saying. Like fuck that shit. FUCK THAT SHIT. Someone always has it worse, doesnāt cancel out the fucking chronic pain of my life. Now I have to feel guilty for feeling bad on top of feeling guilty for being alive? FUCK THAT SHIT.
I canāt sleep. Itās been 5 fucking pages. Itās 3 am.
I used to arrive with sappy you can do its. I donāt think I will this time.
Cheers to one day dying. Cheers to death that comes to all. Cheers to death the great equalizer. Cheers to death, my brainās last hope for a silencer.
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