prouvairx-blog

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important

i have been away for a long time. i am not yet back with any certainty. i just wanted to pop my head in and see what was going on. 

as many of you know I gave birth to a son in February – since I have tragically lost him. I would ask for your respect in this matter and that questions are not posed to me regarding it, and condolences are not extended (I’ve had enough to last me a lifetime).

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I am always saddened to hear about the atrocities in the world.  My heart breaks for each of them, and I hope their loved ones gain some peace away from media vultures.

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SO IDK if you guys noticed, but I’ve been away – for a while. I absolutely managed to have a baby. Slowly going to be coming back so

like for a starter

(or message me if you like, but I don’t see that happening, you’re all so shy)

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yeah baby all hard, i already knew that

this is a lie. i am soft and sweet.

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this is a lie. i am soft and sweet.

i just made the ugliest noise.

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a big 

gay

good

time.

wow.

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i just came out here to have a good time  and i am.

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i honestly feel so attacked right now

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Deep Ass Sentence Starters

“When you think about people who have died, do you picture them anywhere?” “Sometimes it freaks me out that everyone around me has a life as complex and real as my own.” “Do you sometimes suddenly hear your own heartbeat and feel sick because… What if it suddenly stops or something?” “I sometimes just want something really bad to happen to me. Something that’s just really awful. I don’t know why… Do you get that too?” “I can’t stand the thought that I don’t know what’s going to happen to the world in hundreds of years.” “Does thinking about Primary School make you sad, or happy?” “Most pets we keep only become a fraction of our age. Do you think that if they’d know this, they’d call us gods?” “What are you more afraid of, space or the ocean?” “There’s no way anyone can tick everything off their bucket list. We all want too much. It’s frustrating.” “Do you think we’re in control of our lives, generally? Or do you think we just think we are?” “If you knew you were going to die next week, would you tell people or live the way you were till the end?” “I think most people remember the exact moment they realised they were grown up. Because of something said to them, or something they saw… Do you remember that moment?” “One of us is going to die first. Do you think we’ll still know each other to find out who?” “Do you think we’re all capable of murder when it comes down to it?” “I’m so afraid of the moment you know you’re going to die.” “Are there things people have said to you that have legitimately changed you?” “Why do people fear losing things that they don’t even have yet?” “How do I know you even have a consciousness? I can’t know.” “What do you think our purpose is?” “What if everything is just a coincidence? For instance: What if gravity doesn’t exist? Everything has just always coincidentally fallen to the ground.” “If nothing else, we at least won the sperm race.” “If you could send a message to the entire world, what would you say in 30 seconds?” “Do you think other people’s judgments motivate us or hold us back?” “If karma was coming back to you, would it help or hurt you?” “Right, we’ve probably had enough alcohol for the rest of the night. We’re getting way too philosophical.”

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@sxintjust ‘Oh, mine will forever be immortal in the pages of a ledger somewhere –– the perpetual disappointment of the father in his son; occupation: poet, rather than a lawyer or some such other career. Funny how I’m often still behind a desk.’ Jehan reaches to him, one hand presses at his lips (to avoid the paper pulling on the skin) and the other takes the cigarette from them.  ‘It’s almost like a painting down there, busy, bodies, horses, Dante’s kind of world,’ he says with a laugh. And he takes a long drag of the cigarette, then another, and passes it back. ‘What of your family? You don’t talk about them much.’

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it’s that time again

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yes

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‘Why should I be amicable when you aren’t?’ he asks once the door is closed and he’s swallowed down his first bite. He’s hungry, and when he’s hungry there’s very little that will stop him from eating, not awkwardness, not an argument, he, unlike Howard, realises the necessity that is food. He puts the glass to his lips again, and he takes a mouthful. Another scoop of cheese onto a cracker and before he eats it he looks at Howard.  ‘It doesn’t work one way, you’ve done little for the past few weeks than look disapprovingly at me over your desk, or glasses, or the rim of your scotch, ever since the first time I grew angry with you,’ he says matter-of-factly, as if it doesn’t matter. Truth be told he doesn’t like it either. But what is there to do? ‘You are too stubborn.’

          “That is fucking ridiculous. You are fucking ridiculous,”            quips Howard Narcisse, uncharacteristically blunt, eyes            narrowed behind the gold frames of his spectacles. He            looks genuinely piqued, none of that restrained, tepid,            polite annoyance, and he does well to bite his tongue            as he sits there and looks upon his companion.

           The servant finally comes up to break his pensive irritation,            spared barely a glance from Howard as the tray is set down.            He gives a dismissive, limply effete wave, just thankful once            the door is gently shut again and the creak of footsteps upon            the landing grow dull.

           Howard hates this. Simply to avoid having to look Jehan in            the eye any longer he’ll take up a rather sinister looking            silver letter opener and some unopened post he finds atop            the pile on his desk and go about opening the envelope.

          “Funnily enough, no,” says Narcisse. “I’m not hungry.”

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He gives her a little smile and a gentle squeeze to the arm. ‘What say we go to the market, pick up things for a cake, I’ll help you make one, and then if it doesn’t work out so well I’m sure your being around is enough to last Marius through a hundred birthdays.’ And it is true enough. He remembers when this started, when Marius wouldn’t even tell them her name, wouldn’t tell them anything about her. But Jehan had seen them together, he had sussed it all out, had Marius tell him everything. But he likes Cosette. She’s sweet. ‘Yes?’

Cosette was more than thankful for the fact that Provaire was willing to help her. She might have been totally lost without him, not even thinking of something else to make instead of cake. He surely wasa lifesaver right now to the woman.

For a few minutes she thought about a possible solution for this dilemma. It seemed to be impossible to find something that the woman was actually accepting as a solution. In the end, she shrugged and turned to Prouvaire again, with a slightly frustrated look on her face.

     “..I don’t know. Nothing seems to be right. I can’t think of anything that I would be able to do and that I would still like enough that I am sure Marius would like it to.”

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‘Only when it is deserved, and returned. Plus, the French are not one to follow custom as closely as you English,’ he replies curtly. Why honesty is always tainted with the both of them, he doesn’t know, why it has to be this way, he doesn’t know, but it seems that it’s unlikely to change. He doesn’t correct, or even bristle, at Howard calling him my boy, he’s becomes used to it, being called a boy when he certainly is not. Not anymore. He’s far surpassed being a boy, he’s mature, he’s bitter.  The servant comes to the door, knocks, Jehan invites them in and the tray is set beside him. Cheese, crackers, wine, all the things he, a Frenchman, needs to survive. He leans to the side a little and scoops up some cheese onto a cracker and takes a bite. How very, very nice it is. It soothes his stomach, and the red wine he washes it down with soothes his nerves, makes his eyes close.  ‘Want some?’

          “I ah… I find that rather hard to believe, love,” says            Howard, rather snide in tone but oddly earnest. Even            so, his rare honesty, as it often is, is still fleeting. It’s            always far easier, he finds, to just sit there, cool and            pensive and just mildly irked, and to pretend that he            misses Jehan’s affections only for his cock and the            attention. He likes to think himself above such such            cloying attachment, but he couldn’t be much more            wrong.

           He pushes his spectacles up the bridge of his nose            and he’ll pout, but he doesn’t wear his irritation well.

          “I don’t know if you are aware of this, already, my boy,            but when one likes somebody, it is custom to at least            be… amicable, no?”