#Getting Unstuck

[xerserise]

Executive function tip for when you are stuck in a loop and don't want to be.

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Notice. Pause. Identify. Work Toward.

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Notice: Scrolling and cycling between apps, getting my brain all anxious about all the bad things happening in the world, while struggling to get myself to start my day? Unproductive. But it happens. A lot. And there are other unproductive and actively harmful loops I can get stuck in.

So, when I notice that I'm getting locked in an unproductive loop, I try to pause.

(Rest is productful, though. I'm not against mindless scrolling when it's actually useful for me, such as for decompression.)

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Pause: I used to try to get myself to 'go do the thing' while I was still stuck in a loop, and that rarely worked. Asking myself to pause—usually entailing a looking up, a deep breath, a small stretch, and/or focusing my eyes on something at a different distance from me than the thing I'm stuck on—creates almost no demand and requires no preparation.

There's no commitment. It's just a breaking of concentration when I'm not happy with concentrating on the thing I'm stuck on.

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Identify: Once I've paused, I can think a little more clearly about the loops I'm stuck in and what things I may want/need to work toward to that require not being stuck in those loops. That's when I identify something to work toward (or a less stressful way to occupy idle time).

The currently identified thing is 'get out of the bedroom'. No specific plans after that, just generally start my day.

Sometimes it's a bigger thing, a project that I want to work on, but even then I try to identify the thing to work toward as the getting myself in the general proximity of the tools required. It allows me to regularly check in with myself and see what my capabilities at the moment are.

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Work Toward: Once I've identified something to work toward, I can start taking steps in that direction. Currently, I'm working toward leaving the bedroom by tidying up the bed that I've been sitting on. Which included putting away the laptop, with a minor tangent of writing this post.

Sometimes it means gathering supplies. Sometimes it means putting everything away. Sometimes it means going somewhere and pacing around and looking at things and thinking.

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Notice that you're stuck and don't want to be. Try to pause for a moment. Once paused, identify something small that will lessen the likelihood of going right back into that stuckness. And take steps toward that.

[drendarmorevo]

In Old "Text Adventure" Style

You enter the mostly empty space to find the shop keeper sitting on a stool, what's in the room isn't very much, a few bits and bobs, a few pieces of furniture, but the industrial lighting overhead makes you think this used to be a bustling space with many workers in it trudging away at some manner of light industry. The age on his face is only surpassed by the age of his hands, did he work here before only to end up here again? You might never know, but he looks like he might tell you if you ask earnestly.

[peppurthehotone]

What do you do? I'd love to know.

I’m having one of those days where I really want to tell you all something, but I can’t put my finger on what it is. When this happens, I start to feel like my inner psychic is trying to tell me something, but that I am not hearing her. Like, she’s telling me to take the headphones off…and listen. Sometimes, I can do this. Sometimes I can remove the barrier that is making being present so…

[arianezurcher]

Unstuck: How to Keep Creating

[stellacartography]

talk it out! Talk to your beta or another writer. Someone else getting excited about your ideas can be inspiring!

Summarize your story. Even if you've already written several iterations of summaries, write another. Explain it in a different way or from a different perspective.

Some of my writer’s block cures:

Handwrite. (If you already are, write in a different coloured pen.)

Write outside or at a different location.

Read.

Look up some writing prompts.

Take a break. Do something different. Comeback to it later.

Write something else. (A different WIP, a poem, a quick short story, etc.)

Find inspiring writing music playlists on YouTube. (Themed music, POV playlists, ambient music, etc.)

Do some character or story prompts/questions to get a better idea of who or what you’re writing.

Word sprints. Set a timer and write as much as you can. Not a lot of time to overthink things.

Set your own goals and deadlines.

Write another scene from your WIP. (You don’t have to write in order.) Write a scene you want to write, or the ending. (You can change it or scrap it if it doesn’t fit into your story later.)

Write a scene for your WIP that you will never post/add to your story. A prologue, a different P.O.V., how your characters would react in a situation that’s not in your story, a flashback, etc.

Write down a bunch of ideas. Things that could happen, thing that will never happen, good things, bad things.

Change the weather (in the story of course.)

Feel free to add your own.

[helenwhiteart-blog]

Are you becoming more aligned with yourself than you realised?

Has your year been really challenging in lots of ways….but….when you allow yourself to pull back and gain the overview, you can sense just how positively impactful and on track it has all really been? Can you sense how you have actually been getting much more in alignment with who you really are all along the way, if not always by the most predictable or tidy means? Can you sense that it has all…

[digitalinktees]

Remembering Gratefulness

This year has been a mixed bag of good and bad.

It has been a rollercoaster ride- from starting the New Year hopeful of situations changing, to a Summer vacation spent with 4 teenagers in the midst of unimaginable heat, a loss of a beloved cat (Riley), to a new school year full of bad attitude from a 15 year old son who used to sit on my lap and watch Paw Patrol, and a medical diagnosis that forced me to make serious changes to my life.

What would we be without life's challenges? The ups make us happy and give us memories we will treasure, and the bad gives us a place where we can either get stuck or find strength from God to keep moving forward.

In all of it, I am grateful. Grateful that I could spend one more summer vacation with my two kids and their friends- even though vacation was far from perfect.

Grateful that I could hold Riley while he breathed his last and that he is not suffering anymore, and the memories of him and his love.

Grateful that even though my son is going through a difficult time, he gets up everyday and tries to do better for himself and those around him.

Grateful that this medical diagnosis has forced me to rethink the bad choices I've previously made and provided the opportunity to make the necessary changes.

It is easy to get stuck. It is easy to remain unstuck and move forward. It is a choice we make and though we must allow ourselves to grieve losses and growing pains and out of control temperatures- we can't allow ourselves to get stuck in all of that.

This year- I'm grateful. For everything.

[mftulin]

Poem: Purple Taquitos by Mark Tulin

Poem: Purple Taquitos by Mark Tulin

Published in the fine site, The Brain is a Noodle. Photo by Mark Tulin. When you feel stuck, there’s always an unusual food you can try. There’s a funky neighborhood you could visit to help you get unstuck. Enjoy my poem Purple Taquitos.

[leadlikeaqueen]

Are You Stuck In Your Trauma?

For a black woman leader who feels that she's stuck going in circles and never obtaining the goals she's pursuing, sometimes she just needs help recognizing what's keeping her stuck. Listen or watch episode 8 of season 4 Plant Your Seeds of Transformation

How Can You Recognize Trauma So You Can Get Unstuck? For a black woman leader who feels that she’s stuck going in circles and never obtaining the goals she’s pursuing, sometimes she just needs help recognizing what’s keeping her stuck. Listen or watch episode 8 of season 4 on the Plant Your Seeds of Transformation Podcast. LISTEN VIA SPOTIFY, or… Episode 8 via Spotify WATCH VIA YOUTUBE,…

[egophiliac]

Do you have any final theories/desires for Book 7 Part 12?

(slamming fists on table) I DEMAND MORE CHE'NYA

[strawb3rrytiramisu]

"Ted is doomed to become the homeless man and eventually die a horrible death wherein he is trapped within the Bastard's Box for eternity" to YOU. I, however, live in the Hatchetfield universe where he is de-Tinky'd through some magical and/or scientific machinations beyond my writing ability <3

His brain could never truly be "repaired" to its original state but you'll get some vicious side eyes from one Peter Spankoffski for ever referring to it as "broken". It's still his brother, and everyone adjusts to a new normal.

His internal clock is no longer linear; on good days his watch and many clocks and calendars keep him on track, but when he gets what Pete refers to as the "Time Scrambles", he gets foggy and mixed up, at which point someone will usually put on Borat for him and tell him to rest up till things make sense again.

Don't think Tinky doesn't try and wiggle his way back in; even if it's a bluff, being told "I'm coming for your ass" by a bright yellow demon goat doesn't help you sleep at night.

What should Ted's dog's name be tell me in the tags :3

[gutsby]

Love Tap

Pairing: Dad!Joel x Reader

Summary: Old habits die hard with your husband—touching you at inappropriate times is one of them.

Warnings: 18+. Joel Miller is a MUNCH Oral (f!receiving). Unprotected p-in-v (quickie). Slice of life, domestic-style and Joel calls you ‘Mama’ a whole lot. One playful bite.

Word count: 2.4k

Note: ‘You better back the fuck up before you get smacked the fuck up’ is a line from 2Pac’s song, ‘Hit ‘Em Up.’

Joel Miller was a wonderful father.

Occasionally, he forgot how to act like one.

He had a tendency to get a little careless. Sloppy.

Letting the dignified, ever-respectful façade slip every now and again and smacking your ass when you walked past. Copping a feel when you had to squeeze by him in the kitchen. Best of all, pinching your cheek through your skirt while you were cradling the baby—his baby—and leaving you no choice but to shoot him a quick back-the-fuck-up-before-you-get-smacked-the-fuck-up look and a covert middle finger to remind him that he wasn’t supposed to be slapping your butt in front of the kids.

It was just bad practice to engage in those dumb, flirty antics, particularly when your four-year-old son had made it his mission in life to imitate everything dad did.

But again, Joel would sometimes forget that.

On a morning when he’d woken up a little too early with an erection that was a tad too stubborn to ignore, he got especially forgetful. He found himself plastered to your backside at the edge of the bathroom counter with a grin, knowing damn well you only had twenty-five minutes to get the family dressed, fed, and on the road.

“Joel, you are so—”

“Quick. I’ll be quick.”

His eyes suddenly pleading with yours in the mirror. You just might’ve had the willpower to turn his honeyed gaze away were it not for the lips that followed it. Tracing the shell of your ear and behind it, down your neck, leaving trails of soft kisses down the skin until he reached the collarbone, your sweet spot, and licked it—the bastard.

“Five. Minutes.” Your words were equal parts invitation and warning as you shimmied your PJs over your butt.

“You know I’ll have ya finished in two, sweet pea,” Joel teased—but deep down, you knew he wasn’t kidding.

Both of you had cum and were done in a record-breaking four and a half minutes, swapping pyjamas for normal clothes in less than half the time and stepping back out of the bathroom with your hair only marginally tousled.

By now you had the ‘Pre-K starts in thirty’ types of quickies down pat. You were proud. You glanced over your shoulder to see a similar glint in Joel’s eye, and as you started out the bedroom door, you felt a tap on your ass—or, with the sheer breadth of your husband’s hand, more like a WHACK, followed by the sound of a stifled laugh.

“Can Daddy get some more’a that later?” he quipped.

“More’a what?”

Aw, hell.

Your sweet, forever nosy mini-Joel was standing directly in front of you with two pinched brows and a mostly eaten dino nugget clenched tight in his tiny fist.

You opened your mouth to conjure up some half-assed excuse for the spank your son just saw, but then your husband was scooping the kid up in his arms and toting him straight down the hallway, and you heard, faintly:

“Whatcha gettin’ from Mama later?”

“None of your beeswax, bubs.”

Joel got his second helping around lunchtime.

He’d been in between calls with what felt like an endless stream of subcontractors, suppliers, architects, and project managers when he swung by the house. You were in the midst of baking cardamom buns when he blew through the kitchen like an EF5 tornado and decided he’d be feasting on something else entirely.

“Joel, my buns,” you whined as soon as he’d carried you up the stairs and tossed you onto the bed, eager as ever.

“Fuck your buns.”

“You already fucked ‘em this morning—can you relax?”

Your husband already had your pants tugged halfway down your legs. You let him, then helped him kick the fabric the rest of the way off when it got to your ankles.

“You’re a fuckin’ maniac, Miller, y’know that?”

Something in the way he smirked as he sank his face between your bare thighs told you he already knew that. You would’ve liked to try and scold him again—give him a little more grief for the baked treats that would surely be burnt to a crisp by the time he was done—but then you felt his tongue lick a stripe up your slit, and you refrained.

Even if you’d wanted to, you scarcely would’ve been able to form a single word apart from, ‘Fu-cking hell, Joel’ and ‘Right there, right thereohfuuuuuuckfuckfuck.’

That was just fine by your husband.

In fact, he seemed perfectly content to lap at your slick, glistening folds while you moaned and cursed his name; it made him proud. Appreciative. Maybe even a tad too smug for his own good, if he were being honest, because the way you fisted his hair and rutted your hips against his face made you act a little more like him. A touch more reckless, sloppy, and desperate than your daily obligations as parents would seem to allow. A bit less proper and refined and a lot more slutty—all for him.

Joel teased your clit with a few soft touches from the tip of his tongue, and you almost tore the sheets in two.

“That feel good, Mama?” he hummed.

“F-Fingers, fuck, Joel— fingers,” you begged.

Still using his tongue, Joel drew the shape of a lemniscate extra slow just to spite you. You whined and bucked your hips in protest, but the man was undeterred—he knew exactly what he was doing. The only way he could be tempted to use his fingers now would be to spread your lips apart and lick you more, which he did.

Joel licked and sucked and drove you up the fucking wall with those figure eights until you nearly couldn’t take it. In one hasty, desperate move, you tilted your hips and tried to slip a finger past Joel’s mouth, into your cunt.

He bit that finger. You yelped.

“JOEL!”

It wasn’t that the bite actually hurt—his teeth barely grazed skin—but rather the way he refused to speed up. Gauging your wants and your needs with expert precision, he massaged the hood of your clit with his tongue and took care to plant suckling kisses as he did. You moaned and squeezed the bedspread, relishing the vulgar sounds of his mouth and the need he was building inside you. You turned your head to the side and whined into the pillow, knowing from the depths of your soul you needed release, but Joel just wouldn’t oblige you…yet.

When he grinned against your wet, warm, and slippery folds, his mouth might as well have joined in and said, ‘Keep going—you’ll cum on my tongue when I say so.’

Instead, Joel opted to say ‘Mama’ again, softly.

Mama.

He always called you that when he took you extra slow. Sometimes when he took you quick, too. Like a reminder to you both that you were, in fact, the mother of his children, and if the man had had it his way he’d have given you fifty more by now, daycare bills be damned.

He was generous like that. Always giving, giving, giving.

Just not when it came to doling out orgasms sometimes.

“I have a divorce lawyer on speed dial, just so you know,” you hissed through gritted teeth, head falling back when Joel’s tongue sank forward—inside you, then, “FUCK!”

“Mhmmm,” he hummed before retracting once more. Licking the soft, fleshy rim and nearly eliciting a scream.

Joel traced a circle with his tongue. He savored the taste. While you were whining and grinding your hips against the wet spot underneath you—a puddle that would only grow larger the longer he went on—your husband was devouring you, kissing your thighs every now and then.

“Well, if we split, my tongue goes too,” Joel said. Smug.

“Texas is a community property state,” you murmured, “I taught you how to eat pussy so your mouth is a marital asset.”

Silently, Joel wondered how that argument might hold up in court, grinned, then continued licking your cunt. You squeezed his head with your thighs, dug the balls of your feet in the sheets, and let out a lewd, pornographic scream that could’ve woken half the street. Luckily, your neighbors were probably all at work, your bedroom walls insulated just well enough to mask the noise, and Joel’s resolve crumbling slowly as he kissed between your legs.

One wanton, shameless, ‘I’m gonna cum, Joel, please’ was like music to his ears. He couldn’t believe how lucky he’d gotten with a wife and mother as sweet as you, so upright and polite in your day-to-day life and then a hot, trembling mess beneath his tongue when he needed you like this the most. Surely he couldn’t treat you so mean.

Joel wedged two thick fingers in your slick, dripping heat and beckoned you to him as kindly as he possibly could. Rubbing the pads of both digits, callused as they were, against the spongy insides of your core and flicking them forward—‘C’mere, Mama, Daddy’s right here, go on’— so of course, you had no other logical choice but to cum.

It was all habit by now. A dazzling, sumptuous routine.

And Joel Miller was certain he’d never tire of seeing it.

Your spine arched off the mattress an inch or two, toes curling at the feeling, and while the sensation spanned over your body, your husband was the first to see it, sense it on his lips and tongue and fingers just as well. He squeezed your hip, told you how fucking pretty you looked when you came for him, then patiently waited out the spasms and cries and fingers lacing through his soft, dark locks like he was your last remaining tether to earth.

Then he kissed the inside of your thighs and smiled.

“All better, honey?” he hummed.

“Yeah,” you breathed back.

“Still want a divorce?”

A smirk and a response of ‘Not until you knock me up at least one more time’ was hovering somewhere over your tongue when you felt the bed shake. Buzzing. Vibrating?

Joel sat up between your legs and yanked something out from under his ass. He peered down at the thing—staring into a screen—and cocked a brow as he looked back up.

“Someone’s been naughty,” he said simply. Grinning.

He lobbed the phone your way, and you just barely managed to catch it between two trembling hands.

Incoming Call: Francisco C. Morales Elementary

You shot Joel a look and answered it instantly.

Disoriented, disheveled, and slightly foggy from climax, you half-expected to find one of your son’s disgruntled teachers on the other end of the line, reminding you that today was a noon dismissal and everyone was supposed to pick their kids up an hour ago. Your husband was the one who would always keep up with school schedules, so your gaze narrowed at him, butt scooting up the bed while he tried to dive right back between your legs.

“He-llo?”

You smacked a hand away from the front of your blouse.

“Is this Mrs. Miller?” a voice trilled through the phone.

Yes, unfortunately, it was.

You almost had to backhand Joel across the face when he tried to bite the button off your brand new top, teeth ruthless in their pursuit of getting you fully naked now.

“This is she,” you squeaked.

Someone cleared their throat on the other end of the line—as though they knew you had a broad, hulking husband with a cock as hard as sheet metal trying to tear your clothes off while you talked. You stifled a shriek and a giggle when you felt your relentless man move down.

Joel was busy working your blouse from the bottom with that feral mouth of his when the voice sounded again:

“We’d really appreciate it if you and your husband could come see us this afternoon to have a little chat about—”

Your eyes widened. You clutched your phone even tighter and this time, more seriously, shoved Joel away. When he frowned and started to pout, you raised a finger.

“A-About what? Has my— has he done something bad?” Your voice all of a sudden tight, words wavering just enough to snag your husband’s attention too.

“We can explain more when you get here, he’s just…”

‘What the fuck?’ Joel mouthed silently, leaning in.

“What? What’s he done?” You couldn’t help it.

You heard a long sigh across the line, and you knew that wasn’t good. It sounded a lot like the kind of sighs you made whenever your baby made a colossal mess all over the kitchen floor, or your husband slammed a door too loud and woke the kids from their nap, or your son just—

“—keeps slapping his classmates on the butt.”

“Wait, what?”

You blinked. Joel coughed. Together, half-naked on the bed, you sat up a little straighter and leaned even closer into the phone, hearts starting to thud in your chests.

“Your son was just…spanking other kids and asking if he could ‘get some more’a that later,’ and when his teacher asked him where he’d learned to do a thing like that—”

You turned. Joel paled. Your gaze could’ve seared a hole through the front of his skull if you stared any harder, and just as your son’s principal continued talking, Joel raised his hands in surrender, already trying to apologize.

“Honey—”

“—and he told her he saw your husband do it at home—”

You didn’t need to hear another word. You were already fishing for your pants, yanking them back up your legs and brushing aside your husband’s soft, red-faced attempts at consolation, and when you were dressed, you started straight for the door. Already babbling some half-coherent apology to the woman on the phone, dodging Joel’s impossibly large hands and arms and hugs as he tried to pull you back into his chest and tell you he was sorry. You just might’ve let him, and maybe even believed him to be sincere, if you didn’t see the tiniest smirk on his lips as he fought to wrangle you in.

You’d made it to the door and were just about to pivot to give Joel the finger, tell him this was not funny at all, and he was coming with you right now, when both of you halted at the threshold and were obliged to turn again.

You sniffed the air, and your husband made a face.

Was it—

Before you could think, a plume of smoke drifted out through the kitchen door. Your eyes widened, and right as the fire alarm let out its piercing scream, you wailed,

“My buns!”

[ariaxco]

why you're still stuck (and how to get unstuck)⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ 🕊️

you’re not stuck because life is unfair. you’re stuck because you’re doing the same things and expecting different results.

nobody's coming to drag you out of bed. nobody's going to shove your goals into your hands. you either decide today matters — or you keep lying to yourself that you’ll start tomorrow. 🌷

the truth is: • comfort is killing you softly. • fear is disguising itself as “playing it safe.” • procrastination feels easier now but it costs you everything later.

if you want to move, you have to be willing to move imperfectly.

messy mornings

awkward first steps

showing up ugly, unsure, half-ready

waiting until you "feel ready" is why you're still where you were six months ago.

you don't need a new planner, a new outfit, a new perfect schedule. you need urgency. you need to act like the door is closing — because it is.

time will pass whether you move or not.

the only question is: will you be proud of how you used it?

start with what you can do today. • make one decision your future self will thank you for. • take one risk that scares you in a good way. • finish one thing you've been putting off because it's "too small" to matter.

the only way to get unstuck is to move while you’re still scared.

nobody's coming. no permission slip, no announcement. it's on you — always has been. 🕯️

being stuck isn’t permanent. but staying stuck? that’s a choice.

get up before you're ready. do it badly at first. keep going until it looks easy to everyone else.

[determinedskipping]

returning from a bajillion years on Braize to glaze humans, mercy kill your bestie and be generally unbothered by the apocalypse happening around you all by yourself, handsome?

drawn for @basket-of-radiants’s campaign to get El to stormlight sexyman status. i will do my part by only referring to him as Big Daddy El from here on out

[tojosuggestionbox]

[sea-parrot]

Mechs tierlist based on how likely it'd be that they put a lightbulb in their mouth after hearing that you can put a lightbulb in your mouth but can't get it out