somethingonthenet

[somethingonthenet]

MR. (Ant) TENNA'S JUST DIVORCED TIMEEEE!!

Idk why I dressed him that way, I don't know about the jacket I don't know. Listen here, I'm sleep deprived and hyper fixated on him and his ex husband. Don't ask questions, I can't answer them.

[somethingonthenet]

Drawing insects

TW?: Insects???? Gay insects?????

I don't know, I was drawing and I coloured gay flags on insects. The gay one is off...but who cares.

Might do more later dunno.

[somethingonthenet]

I ruined her, and I'm sorry.

TW: SH, Internalised Transphobia(?), Dysphoria(?) Auto-forced femininity (?) Mention of suicidal thoughts (Very hidden?)

Read the notes at the end after reading b4 commenting plz <3

Sometimes I feel like my body and I are two different people. I want to smoke, and I remember she had the cleanest lungs before high school. She could have been pretty, but I gave her scars on her left arm and on her tights. And I'm sorry for ruining her.

She could have had a good relationship with her mom and dad, and never been bullied in middle school because she was different. But I ruined her. I ruined everything that could have been her life, and I'm sorry. And sometimes I try to be her all over because I want to show sorrow towards her, I try on a tight shirt without my binder on, and I try not to feel that voice in my head that makes me upset.

"You were better off as a girl, you are just confused, you'll never be a boy. Die in a dress, do it for your parents, you are selfish..."

But I can't. She's not me, and I'm not her. And even she's inside me, and she's a brick that is part of the construction, of the final house, that is me. I can't pretend she's the one who runs things around here. I am. And, even if sometimes I feel a little guilty of going shopping with my dad for masculine clothes, or my mom crying about me being trans, I shouldn't say sorry. Because my parents wouldn't have had a kid at this time of the story if I hadn't told them my real name. And I wouldn't be me without being trans.

The end.

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Notes

Hiiii! (Probably no one is ever going to read this because who the fuck is this asshole on the internet but you know better safe then sorry, I want to say a few things before I start being mistaken for a trans-med or some other shit.)

Just wanted to say that you are valid.

In the text, I say that I feel guilty buying masculine clothes and that I feel like wearing a tight shirt without my binder is hell for me. You can feel another way, and that's okay. You know, gender is a social construct, and if you are a man (trans or cis, we don't care) and you want to wear a dress and be cunty go for it! (Literally, I love fem-boys and probably when my body is going to look more masc and I'm going to pass as a man, I'm going to be a pretty boy too, now I'm going for the 'Just a boy in the street you pass without even looking at him' look and I can't even pull that off lol) Even if you are non-binary, you don't own neutrality (androgyny?) to no one, dress how you feel comfortable! And look how you want to look! (You guys look fabulous anyway, so dress however you want)

DUE: The fact that I feel uncomfortable about my chest doesn't mean you have you feel too. Everyone is different, and we're not here to obtain the same as anyone else's body. Want the surgery/surgeries? You are trans. Don't want them? Still trans. We're people, we're all different. BE YOU DAMNIT! And if you can't because you aren't safe yet, you are still trans! Hang in there, you are loved!

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Okay, I think I covered everything? No one is ever going to read this anyway, so who cares? I fucking yapped more then I wrote. Worth it tho' I like yapping about these things. Bye, have a great day/night/afternoon. <3

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[somethingonthenet]

Blue eyes and fast trainers

|Photo taken by me... "Rain and wind" Italy, Vicenza, Palazzo Chiericati| ----------------------------------------------------

My head was low on a canned-pasta container, and I was reading the calories. My eyes couldn't make sense of the small words on the can, so I was like a hunchback of Notre-Dame over the pasta.

I was having a normal day. In the morning, reading and writing. In the afternoon, out with... no one, just in the woods drawing insects and lying in grass, capturing with my camera the butterflies flying near the little river.

And now at 15:43, 3:43 PM for Americans, I was deciding on my dinner. 'So fancy, pre-cooked meal for one, uuuuh' I thought sarcastically to myself. This, I thought, was torture. I adjusted my hair, frustrated at myself for not being energized enough to cook something that I really like.

'Stupid, stupid, stupid---Should've gone out with Eliza, Should've done something with my day...Should've killed mys---'

My thoughts stopped as I felt something on my foot. I got ready to shout at someone, ready to tell them "Watch where you're going asshole", but the words died in my mouth, precisely on my tongue that I now felt rigid in my mouth. Because the weight was still there on my foot, looking down, there was a little girl. Not older than five or maybe four? I don't know, I am not great with kids.

She looked at me with curious, blue eyes.

She's on my foot with those pink trainers with princesses on them, wearing a yellow dress with bees on it, and her hair, blonde and straight, makes her look like one of those stock images when you search 'happy kids' on Google.

She's keeping her balance just because she's got a good grip on my baggy jeans, and I don't know what to do. I look around, lost, searching for her parents, but we're alone in the aisle...

"Hi?" I say. She doesn't say anything back, she just looks at me as if to say something...But I'm not telepathic.

How can this kid be so fast to escape her parents? How did they let her get away? Who is she, Bolt?... But as I was thinking this, a woman in her 30s started walking down the aisle with a cart, looking a little pissed till she saw the kid on my shoe.

I think I looked a little terrified of the girl, and I had to look silly... (I mean, near-adult tensed up because of a kid on his shoe) I say this because the woman, whom I now knew was her mother, looked at me and smiled.

"Iris?"

She called and I looked down at the little girl that, after looking at her mom, hugged my leg.

'What the hell, kid?'

I thought, but I didn't try to move her, she was so cute, with her pink cheeks and closed eyes...

I wanted to cry, she was so cute like a puppy in a shelter trying to bite its own tail.

To my surprise, I spoke:

"I think your mom wants to go home, don't you want to go home?"

The kid looked at me as I started speaking.

"If you promise to be good and to let go of my leg, I'll buy you a candy from the store, how about that? IF your mom wants, of course"

The kid looked at her mom, who looked surprised, but not angry...And the woman looked at me as if to ask: You don't have to, you sure?

I gave her a nod.

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In line, I found out the woman was a nurse who worked the night shift in the nearby hospital and that her name was Grace.

Iris chose a flat red lollipop, and I paid for it happily. She looked ecstatic.

Grace offered to pay me back, but I declined politely.

I said bye to Iris and her mother as they walked to their car, and the kid, who now wore her jacket, waved back to me.

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I cooked pasta that night, and not the canned one. Pasta with tomato sauce and parmesan. I smiled as I thought about the things that happened that afternoon. And for a little while, I was happy.

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The end.

[somethingonthenet]

I'd been dead only an hour, I'd be dead for 11 years.

Tw: Infant death, Sibling death.

I'd been dead only an hour, and my blood would be cold, my parents would be still asleep, as my heart in my chest would go frozen. It would be 4 AM, and my body would grow colder and stiffer under the little blanket that my brother had put over my tiny body, saying goodnight for the last time. I thought I could live a little longer, a little better, a little, but instead, I would get this: sudden death, like a car crash, but quiet and less tragic, as the wind.

Two hours later, my father would wake up, and at 6:30, he would make breakfast for my brother and the thing that once, maybe around 3 AM, still resembled my essence, my soul, but now it would be much quieter, and much colder in the skin.

At 7:15 on a winter morning, my dad would notice. My older brother would be at the table, in the kitchen with mom, having breakfast, watching cartoons, and living, unlike me.

My father would call an ambulance, trying to make my little heart start beating again as he cried.

"It's too late, dad."

I'd try to say from above my crib.

My tiny face would be white as snow, cold as ice, and my breath non-existent.

My brother, too young to understand, would ask what's wrong, and our parents, now only his, would lie and say that it's nothing.

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The funeral would be on the local news, and people would gather to mourn with my family. Death would take my hand and walk me to the church, she would show me the way as my father would walk with my little white coffin to the mass, snow would start falling to match my skin, and tears would freeze in the cold.

The priest in the church would announce that:

"He went to our lord, and we should remember the grace of life even in these days of death."

And:

"That life is a gift even in days like these."

My grave would be visited often and would be full of flowers.

I'd be dead for 11 years, and my brother would write a story of how I died, feeling sorry, maybe, and a little unsure how to finish it other than with:

"I'm sorry life didn't gave you more time, I'm sorry it had to be you"

And I'd be dead, but not forgotten.

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To children who die in their sleep,

To my first little brother: love you always.