#I forgot everything

[zeke-fanfucs]

Changed the school name cause i totally didn’t forget what i named it.

Edit: learn my mamá threw my dirty notebook with my notes on each AU. So I’m going to cry now cause fuck. I have to rewrite and read all my fanfic to get information back.

---

Three Months at Claymoore High

It had been three months since Karmor started his first year at Claymoore High, the school at the end of the district—literally and figuratively. The building looked like it had been forgotten on purpose, its brick walls crumbling under the weight of graffiti, time, and neglect. Officially, it was an alternative school for "difficult youth." Unofficially, it was a last stop for kids the system didn't know what to do with.

And yet, for Karmor, Claymoore had become something close to routine.

Every morning, just as the rising sun painted the cracked sidewalk with pale light, he’d wait at the corner by the rusted chain-link fence for Hipswitch. Hipswitch always showed up five minutes late, with a peanut butter sandwich wrapped in a napkin and a loud “Mornin’, K!” in his slow, Southern drawl.

They’d share whatever food they had—sometimes a sandwich, sometimes leftovers, once an actual slice of cake stolen from a retirement party Hipswitch had wandered into—and make their way to the bus stop. The ride to school was long and rough, the shocks on the old yellow bus barely functional. Karmor used the time to nap, head leaning lightly against the window, while Hipswitch kept watch, earbuds in but eyes always scanning, like he was expecting trouble to find them.

And trouble usually did.

The routine at Claymoore was simple: attend first period, and then the chaos started. Some days it was Albus who kicked things off, usually by punching someone for talking about his mother or spilling something on Faith. He'd swagger back into class like nothing happened, bruised knuckles and all, smelling like cheap booze he'd hidden in a water bottle.

Other days it was Hipswitch, when his sense of justice overrode his common sense—like when he body-slammed a senior who tried to steal Kerano’s lunch money, then coolly turned himself in to the principal's office.

Then there were the twins. Mahatma and Attila.

Last week they nearly burned down the science lab. Mahatma had tried to demonstrate a “controlled” chemical reaction for a project that wasn’t even assigned, and Attila—bored and twitchy—had added a little too much fuel just to see what would happen. They both watched with fascination as the flame burst up the wall, like it was a nature documentary and not a health hazard. No one got hurt, except the teacher’s eyebrows.

But the worst—or maybe the best, depending on how you looked at it—was two weeks ago, when the entire group decided to skip an exam in favor of an “educational” movie day. One turned into three. They all passed out in the cinema’s back row during a black-and-white horror flick marathon, only to wake up hours later surrounded by empty popcorn buckets and very bad decisions. Naturally, the exam had been that morning. The next day, Karmor, silent but determined, slipped into the locked teacher’s lounge and “found” the stack of ungraded exams. Somehow, the group all passed—barely. No one asked how. No one needed to.

Claymoore wasn’t a school that played by the rules. And neither did they. Despite all the messes, fights, suspensions, and “concerned calls” home that went to nowhere, something solid was building between them—something no report card could measure. They weren’t just surviving Claymoore. They were making it theirs.

And for Karmor, the new kid from nowhere, mute and strange and still piecing together what it meant to belong, this ragtag crew of broken edges had become something like family.

Not perfect. Not safe.

But real.

---

It had started pouring sometime after second period—thick, relentless sheets of rain that turned the cracked sidewalks outside into shallow rivers. The kind of rain that made even the teachers give up pretending to care.

By noon, most of the school had given in to the weather. Classrooms turned into dim sanctuaries of nap-heavy silence, where overhead lights flickered uselessly against the gray sky pressing at the windows. Nobody was learning anything. No one was even pretending.

Inside Room 204, the gang’s unofficial homeroom and usual hideout, the atmosphere was lazy, soaked in the sound of rain tapping against the windows and the occasional thud of wet sneakers as someone passed in the hall.

Hipswitch and Albus had claimed a battered desk in the back, an old deck of cards between them. It had started as a friendly game of Spades, but somewhere around the second round, it became obvious that Albus was cheating. Poorly.

"That’s your third king of hearts, man," Hipswitch said, eyeing him with a raised brow, vitiligo patches stretching across his cheek as he squinted.

Albus shrugged, grinning like a child caught red-handed but unbothered. “You ever think maybe the deck’s just... blessed in my favor?”

“You’re about to be blessed with a black eye,” Hipswitch muttered, chuckling anyway as he flicked a card at Albus’s forehead.

Albus ducked, laughing, long legs kicked out as he leaned back in his chair. He looked half-asleep already, the edge of a bruised eye from last week’s fight with a junior still faintly purple.

In the corner, sprawled on the floor with his back against a locker, Karmor flipped through a dog-eared paperback he’d pulled out of an old donation box in the library. The cover was faded, some forgotten sci-fi novel with a spaceship and screaming faces. He wasn’t even sure what the plot was yet—something about time travel and doomed planets—but he liked the way the words felt in his head. Solid. Predictable.

Next to him, perched awkwardly on a desk, Mahatma was hunched over a thick, slightly damp medical textbook, whispering to himself as he traced underlined diagrams of lungs and liver structures with one finger.

“Did you know blunt force trauma to the upper abdomen can rupture the spleen without—” he began, eyes wide behind foggy glasses.

Karmor glanced up from his book, barely interested, but nodded like he was listening.

“—any outward bruising,” Mahatma finished, sounding almost disappointed that no one seemed horrified.

“Fascinating,” Karmor mouthed silently, eyes back on the novel.

The book had definitely been stolen—that much was clear.

It still had the barcode sticker on the spine, and the corner had been half torn off, probably when Attila had ripped it off the shelf. Mahatma claimed they “borrowed it,” but Karmor had seen the way Attila had stared down the poor librarian like he was daring her to say something. She hadn’t. No one did, not when Attila looked like he might smile or bite your throat out in the same breath.

Speaking of...

Attila sat in the windowsill, legs drawn up to his chest, eyes locked on the rainy schoolyard like he was waiting for the storm to get bored and attack someone. His fingers twitched restlessly every so often, like he was itching to burn something just to watch it go up.

But right now, the rain had sedated even him.

“Boring day,” he said flatly, his voice low, like a warning or a threat—no one could ever tell with Attila.

Hipswitch glanced over. “Could be worse. You could be losing to Albus the Cheater over here.”

“Hey!” Albus barked, but his grin never wavered.

Karmor turned a page and, for a rare second, smiled to himself. Not wide, not enough for anyone to notice—but it was there.

They were broken kids in a broken school, but somehow, in that quiet, rain-soaked afternoon, things felt almost okay. Like maybe they weren’t just surviving. Maybe they were—however weird it sounded—together.

Even if the next fight was probably just a fire drill away.

———

The peace didn’t last. It never did when Albus got that grin.

It crept across his face like a sunrise over a battlefield—too wide, too sure, and completely reckless. The kind of grin that made people move their wallets to the front pocket and double-check their exit strategy.

Karmor noticed it first.

He looked up from his book, instantly suspicious. He knew that look. That was the ‘I just had the worst idea in the world and I’m gonna do it anyway’ face. He slowly marked his page with a wrapper and braced himself.

“I’ve got a plan,” Albus announced, sitting up like he was about to deliver a TED Talk. “Let’s steal a car.”

A beat of silence. The rain tapped calmly at the windows.

“What.” said Hipswitch, flat as cement.

Albus leaned forward, eyes glittering. “Just for a few hours. We drive outta this dump and hit that burger spot in Rowley—the one with the neon cow on the roof. I know where the keys are.”

Karmor let out a groan, pressing both hands over his face. He didn’t need a voice to express how unbelievably dumb that was. His whole body radiated this is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard and I hang out with Attila.

“Albus,” Mahatma started gently, already slipping into his concerned doctor voice, “maybe we should think this through—”

Albus raised a hand like he was defending a thesis. “Before you say no—hear me out. My deadbeat father—y’know, the charming senator who forgets I exist?—he just bought a brand-new, shiny-ass, cherry-red Mercedes. Sport edition. Real sleek. He parked it out back of his other house, the one with no cameras, ‘cause the main driveway’s for the press. That car is begging to be joyridden.”

Attila snorted. “That car’s begging to get you locked up for grand theft, dumbass.”

Hipswitch gave him a stare so deadpan it could've been carved into stone. “So your bright idea… is to steal your rich daddy’s expensive car, drive it across district lines to get a burger, and then what? Bring it back with fries in the cupholder like he ain’t gonna notice?”

Albus grinned harder. “Exactly!”

Mahatma visibly short-circuited. “That’s... that’s not how any of this works!”

Albus threw an arm around Hipswitch like they were already partners in crime. “C’mon, Switch. Don’t you wanna eat something that wasn’t cooked by a vending machine and shame?”

Karmor shook his head slowly. He mouthed ‘This is prison time.’

Even Attila looked like he was second-guessing his life choices, which was saying something.

They all stared at Albus like he’d just said, “Let’s go to prison, but make it fashion.”

Albus sat back, arms behind his head, completely unbothered. “Fine, fine. I’ll go alone. Enjoy your government-mandated cardboard pizza. Me? I’ll be out there living.”

Hipswitch sighed and leaned his head back against the wall. “If you crash that car, I’m not testifying. I’ll straight-up pretend I don’t know you.”

Albus winked. “That’s cool. I’ll haunt you anyway.”

Despite himself, Karmor gave a small, silent laugh.

Rain kept falling outside, the world soaked in gray. Inside, Albus’s wild idea hung in the air like a dare none of them wanted to admit they were tempted by.

———

The rain had let up by nightfall, but the clouds hung low, smothering the stars and leaving the world in a sleepy, gray hush. That made sneaking onto the York estate easier. Not that they were exactly subtle.

They slipped through a break in the back fence, scurrying through hedges that hadn’t been trimmed since before Albus learned how to spell “resentment.” The place was huge—grand stone arches, statues of lions, and balconies that looked down on everything like they judged anyone not born in a tie.

But Albus York didn’t live here.

This was his father’s world. The senator. The man who told Albus to “stay out of the papers” and then shoved him into a crummy one-bedroom apartment like he was tossing out the trash. The man who bought cars that cost more than most families made in a year—and left them sitting unattended behind his third home.

“You sure the keys ain’t inside?” Hipswitch whispered, eyes constantly flicking across the shadows.

Albus smirked. “Even if they are, this is way more fun.”

The car gleamed like blood under moonlight. A brand-new, cherry-red Mercedes, low to the ground and purring with potential. Karmor crouched by the driver’s door, sleeves rolled up, his expression oddly calm.

He had watched five different videos earlier that day—each one ending with “this is for educational purposes only.”

Now it was real. His hands moved with a quiet precision, a few wires stripped and twisted, a screwdriver borrowed from the school’s shop room jammed just right into the ignition.

Mahatma, standing awkwardly to the side, looked like he was watching the beginning of a nightmare. “Do you guys have any idea how many felonies this is? Like, this isn’t even juvenile hall. This is real prison. Big men with face tattoos prison.”

“Shhh,” Attila yawned, stretching lazily like a lion waking up from a nap. “Let the idiot work.”

Karmor let out a soft chuckle as the engine purred to life. It wasn’t loud—it was clean, like the hum of danger about to make a very big mistake. He pushed open the door and leaned out.

“Get in.”

That was all he had to mouth. The words barely left his lips before the others moved.

Hipswitch vaulted into the passenger seat, already clicking his seatbelt with an anxious frown. “We are absolutely going to hell for this.”

Albus practically dove into the back seat, laughing like a man who had just won the lottery and set it on fire for fun. “Roof, Karmor! Hit the damn roof!”

Karmor flicked the switch and the hardtop began to fold back, hissing into itself until the cool night air poured in over their heads. Attila dropped into the seat next to Albus with his usual casual menace, slouched and unimpressed but clearly riding the same high.

Then Karmor shifted into gear and stepped on the gas.

They flew down the gravel path, the tires spinning once before finding their grip, and then the whole car surged forward like a shot out of a cannon. The gates loomed up fast—but Albus had “borrowed” the code. The iron bars slid open just in time for them to blast through into the open back streets.

The night swallowed them up.

Karmor’s hair whipped in the wind, his eyes focused but bright with the thrill. The engine roared as they hit the highway entrance, and the world opened wide in front of them.

The highway stretched like a ribbon of freedom under the stars, and the Mercedes devoured it in seconds. Streetlights became blurs. Signs flew by unread.

Albus whooped in the backseat, arms up like he was riding a rollercoaster. “Hell yeah! We’re gods tonight, boys!”

Hipswitch held onto the dashboard like a seatbelt was a suggestion. “I’m gonna die. I’m gonna die and you’re gonna bury me in a school cafeteria tray.”

“Relax,” Attila said with a half-smile, “At least you'll die free.”

Even Mahatma, despite clinging to the seat in wide-eyed horror, was starting to laugh—nervously, breathlessly, but it was laughter all the same.

And Karmorgrinned like a devil behind the wheel.

For the first time in a long time, none of them were just surviving.

They were alive.

The night screamed by, all silver lines and rushing wind, as Karmor gripped the wheel like it was second nature—like this wasn’t his first time breaking every traffic law on the books. His eyes burned with something wild and alive, and his grin—so rare, so full—spread across his face like moonlight cracking open a storm.

He handled the Mercedes like it was an extension of himself, weaving through sleepy roads with surgical precision. The world around them became nothing but light trails and wind-whipped freedom.

Albus was practically vibrating in the backseat, laughter pouring out of him as Karmor took a sharp turn and the tires sang against the asphalt. “Who is this guy?! Karmor, you’ve been holding out on us, Whelp!”

Hipswitch shouted over the wind, grinning now despite himself, “he drives like he’s in Fast and Goddamn Furious Twelve!”

Karmor threw a glance in the mirror, eyes shining, and flicked on the indicator—not to follow the law, but as a dramatic flourish as he swerved off the main road and into the wide-open space of an empty strip mall parking lot.

It was huge—deserted, wet from the earlier rain, glistening under the dull buzz of flickering lights. A perfect arena.

Karmor slammed the brakes and yanked the wheel.

The car spun—once, twice, three perfect circles. Tires shrieked. The engine howled. The world turned into a blur of lights and momentum.

Albus screamed in pure joy, slamming his palms on the seat in front of him, which was Hipswitch’s, like a drum. “YEAH! Do it again!”

Mahatma, who’d been clinging to the seatbelt for dear life, let out a stunned laugh that surprised even himself. He stuck his head out the window, the night air hitting his face, loud and alive. “We’re going to get arrested and I don’t even care anymore!”

“Now you’re getting it, doc!” Albus yelled, grabbing his shoulders and shaking him with chaotic affection.

Hipswitch, still in the passenger seat, laughed hard enough that his eyes watered. He looked over at Karmor, that grin still on the driver’s face, hair wild in the wind.

“I didn’t know you had this in you, partner,” he said, voice catching on the adrenaline. “You ever not surprise me?”

Karmor just revved the engine in reply, that gleam in his eye louder than any words. He wasn’t just driving. He was flying.

Another donut. Another shriek of tires and gasps of laughter.

They weren’t delinquents in that moment. They weren’t poor kids, broken kids, discarded by the system and told to behave.

They were kings of the concrete. Outlaws in the best kind of way.

Even Attila, who hadn’t said much, smirked in his seat, eyes half-lidded with contentment. “Not bad, mute,” he murmured. “Not bad at all.”

The car finally slid to a stop in the middle of the lot, smoke rising in lazy spirals from the wheels. Everyone was breathless. Laughing. Buzzing like electricity in the dark.

Karmor leaned back in the driver’s seat, one hand still on the wheel, and looked up at the stars peeking through the clouds.

For the first time since he landed in this world, he didn’t feel lost.

He felt seen.

Finally—after the whirlwind of stolen rubber and reckless joyrides—they made it to the burger joint.

It stood like a neon beacon on the edge of nowhere, the glowing blue cow on the roof flickering like it was giving up on life, but still clinging on. The parking lot was half empty, the streets dead quiet, and the air smelled like oil, meat, and freedom.

They pulled up, the engine still humming like it didn’t want the night to end.

Inside, the place was everything Albus promised and more: cracked leather booths, jukebox in the corner playing something old and gritty, and a menu that looked laminated in regret. But the food? The food hit like a religious experience.

Karmor sat with a double bacon burger in both hands, hunched over it like someone might try to steal it from him—and to be fair, someone was.

“Oi!” he mouthed furiously, slapping Albus’s hand away as the older boy made a grab for his fries.

Albus cackled, popping a stolen fry in his mouth anyway. “Hey, man! I brought us here, I deserve at least a tax!”

Karmor squinted, shook his head, then dramatically shoved a fistful of fries into his mouth, guarding the rest with his elbow like a raccoon protecting treasure. Albus just laughed louder.

“Brotherly love,” Hipswitch muttered, half amused, half exasperated. “Y’all ain’t even related and you still act like messy siblings.”

Albus leaned back, arms behind his head, greasy wrapper crinkling under him. “Family’s what you make it, bro.”

Across the table, Hipswitch slid his strawberry milkshake across the table between him and Karmor—two straws sticking out.

“Try this,” he said, casual. “It’s that good kind of fake strawberry.”

Karmor looked at it. Then at him.

Then at the two straws.

A pause.

Then he pointed—accusingly—at the extra straw, raising a brow.

Hipswitch laughed. “You think I’d make you share a straw with me? You’d turn redder than a beet.”

Karmor did turn red. Not pink. Not blush. Red. He took the straw and sipped quickly to hide his face, eyes on the table.

Hipswitch grinned to himself, proud of the chaos.

Meanwhile, Mahatma was halfway through a plate of cheesy fries, hands orange from the fake cheese dust. He looked more relaxed than he had in weeks, legs stretched under the booth, foot brushing against Attila’s like an anchor. Every so often he’d nudge a fry toward his twin, who ignored them completely.

Attila was dismantling a corn dog like it had insulted his mother. Bite after bite, casual and slow, but intensely focused. His eyes flicked up once, locking with Mahatma’s, then rolled when his brother nudged him again with another fry.

“Fine,” he muttered, taking one just to shut him up. Mahatma beamed like he won a war.

They sat like that for a long while—just eating, breathing, being.

No teachers. No cops. No parents who didn’t care.

Just a stolen night that belonged only to them.

Outside, the Mercedes cooled under the dim lights. Inside, the group laughed, argued over dipping sauces, swapped bites with fake threats and real smiles.

For once, it didn’t matter where they came from.

Just that they made it here, together.

The drive back was filled with sleepy satisfaction. Bellies full, the wind still whipping their hair, laughter echoing in the car like the remnants of a dream they didn’t want to end.

That is, until Hipswitch leaned his head back and said, smug as ever:

“No way we’re making it back without a single cop stopping us. Man, this might be the first time we didn’t get—”

FLASHING BLUE AND RED LIGHTS.

The night lit up behind them in a violent strobe of sirens and fate.

“YOU JINXED US!” Mahatma yelled, nearly choking on a cheese fry he’d been savoring.

“Aw, come on!” Albus groaned, twisting in his seat just in time to see a cruiser bearing down on them from behind. “That’s it, we’re dead. We’re not even gonna get juvie—we’re going straight to big-boy prison!”

“I’m seventeen!” Mahatma shrieked, holding onto the door like that would help.

Karmor, hands tight on the wheel, didn’t panic. Maybe a little.

He hit the gas.

The Mercedes screamed forward, tires gripping the highway like claws.

“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?!” Hipswitch shouted from the passenger seat.

Karmor didn’t answer. Just narrowed his eyes, floored it, and became the car.

Albus started laughing—again.

But things got worse. Ahead, another cruiser pulled sideways across the highway, lights blazing, an officer already tossing down tire spikes.

“Shitshitshit!” Hipswitch barked. “They're trying to box us in!”

Karmor’s mind raced—then instincts kicked in.

He yanked the wheel hard, swerved around the spikes—tires just missing them—and took the next exit at nearly 100. The Mercedes bumped hard onto the offramp, shocks screaming in protest as they cut through the dark.

No lights.

No signs.

Just black roads and abandoned industrial zones.

Karmor drove like the shadows themselves were guiding him—twisting through alleys, coasting between half-demolished buildings and rusted fences until they skidded to a stop behind a warehouse with half the roof caved in and vines crawling up the sides like spider legs.

They cut the lights.

The sirens passed a minute later.

Then the helicopter came.

They ducked inside the car as the chopper roared overhead, a searchlight sweeping across the concrete lot like the eye of God.

No one dared breathe.

Even Attila held still, eyes narrowed, watching the beam like he could bite it if it got too close.

They waited

Ten minutes. Then twenty. Then an hour. Time blurred. The fries went cold. Mahatma chewed his sleeve. Albus fell asleep for a few minutes and snored like a dog.

Eventually, the sky went quiet again.

Karmor turned the key. The engine rumbled like a held-in laugh.

They took the long way back—side roads, abandoned roads, even a stretch of unpaved dirt.

When they finally rolled the Mercedes back through the gap in the York estate fence, nerves raw and hands twitching with leftover adrenaline, dawn was bleeding into the sky.

Albus jumped out first, still barefoot from throwing his shoes at the cop cars during the chase. “WOOOO! We’re legends! Did y’all see that drift? Karmor’s got video game hands, I swear!”

Mahatma climbed out after him, half-dead, hair a mess. “We’re going to jail. We are going to real adult jail.”

Hipswitch just stumbled out, groaning as he stretched. “Next time I jinx us, someone slap me.”

They ran across the yard like kids sneaking back into summer camp—laughing, shouting, cursing—but alive. High on the impossible fact that they got away with it.

And Karmor?

He paused at the driver’s side door, looking back at the car.

The stolen Mercedes. The chaos. The friends. The night.

He smiled.

Then ran after the others, heart pounding, laughter spilling silently from his chest.

For a moment, they were untouchable.

…..

Well until..

The next day.

They were all wrecked. Bags under their eyes, uniforms wrinkled, and not a single one of them had the energy to pretend they weren’t hiding from the cops just twelve hours ago.

But they made it.

Somehow.

No one got caught. No one got arrested. No one had told on them. The stolen car was safely back in its precious garage, and the city was none the wiser.

Now they just had to survive homeroom.

They lounged under the stairwell behind the gym—an unofficial safe zone the teachers never bothered to patrol. Hipswitch was half-asleep against the wall, Mahatma was reading something upside-down and clearly not noticing, Attila was sharpening a pencil with a scalpel for no reason at all, and Karmor was curled up in his hoodie like a sentient laundry pile.

Then Albus pulled a little pink bottle out of his bag.

“What’s that?” Hipswitch grumbled, squinting at it.

Albus read the label aloud, squinting. “Strawberry... intimate massage gel.”

Attila, looking up with a bored expression, smirked. “I dare you to drink it.”

“Bet,” Albus said immediately, unscrewing the cap.

Mahatma finally looked up in horror. “Albus, that’s lube!”

Karmor lunged across the space and smacked the bottle out of his hand like a cat defending its honor.

It bounced off the wall and landed in the trash can with a soft thunk.

Albus blinked. “...I was curious! It smelled like a Slurpee!”

“YOU CAN’T DRINK THAT!” Mahatma cried

Hipswitch just put his hand over his face and sighed. “We survived a police chase, grand theft auto, and hiding from a helicopter... and this is how we go out. Death by edible lube.”

Karmor flopped back down into his hoodie with a silent wheeze of laughter.

Albus shrugged, completely unbothered. “Y’all are no fun.”

Attila rolled his eyes. “You didn’t even flinch. You are truly a different breed of idiot.”

“And proud,” Albus grinned.

They all sat there in stunned silence for a moment. Then one by one, they cracked. Laughter bubbled up—tired, broken, giddy laughter that left their sides aching. It echoed through the stairwell like a battle cry of dumbass victory.

They weren’t normal

They weren’t safe.

But they had each other.

And they were just getting started.

Moral of the story: Don’t fucking listen to Albus. And keep flavor lube away from him.

[cookmyeggs]

The cuntiest mother in all of Royal British History. And then she got her head cut off. Tweedledee and Tweedledum had two heads, and Anne Boleyn has no head. So how's your head?

Plasma as Anne Boleyn on RuPaul's Drag Race S16E03

[sarastuss]

smash- i mean wait what was the question

[bugwolfsstuff]

History exam in 2 hours or less someone beam knowledge of the impacts of the Coleraine university controversy (Northern ireland) and Montgomery bus boycott into me

[hozier-mp3]

Heavily suggest rewatching Supernatural. I spent an hour and a half on the first episode kind of screaming.

[artemistorm]

THe good news is that my migraine went away. Thee bad news is now I have migraine hangover and have the attention span of a squirrel.

[lunadreamsdespondently]

I need them to put the SATs back on paper next year

i thought my computer was going to die it was terrifying 😭😭😭

[vytels]

Idk the name of this challenge but thank you @lothcatthree for tagging me in it. I had a wild time trying to think of characters, I suddenly forgot everything except for my favorite Star Wars characters jcsiemkdslsk

Here are the rules: choose 4 of your favorite characters from 4 pieces of media as poll options and let your tumblr pals decide which one most suits your vibe, then tag 4 people

I tag… @holly-bearie @halfwaytoknowhere @anxiousotters @scentedtigerfun

[dominikadecember]

will never get over sam reid playing our little baby rockstar wannabe in the most vulnerable way possible during a fucking hurricane

[soupbabe]

I would rather die than stop braiding my dolls' hair. If I have a doll they'll at least have two lil braided pieces framing their face. It's literally so much fun. I haven't had long hair since I was like 12, I'm living vicariously through them.

[thesinlesssinner]

It’s absolutely fucking terrifying. I just feel like my brain is short circuiting. I forget so much shit, important vital shit. And it’s just gone, like a puff of smoke.

i feel like we dont talk enough about how distressing and disturbing memory loss issues are. forgetting what you were talking about halfway through a sentence, putting something down and instantly forgetting where you put it. having to reread one paragraph over and over again because by the time youve moved onto the next sentence you dont remember what the one before it said. always doubting if your memories of things are real, not being able to remember important life events.

its so incredibly scary, it feels like your mind is constantly playing tricks on you and you start to doubt whats real and what isnt.

“i forgot” is treated like a lazy excuse when it’s genuinely such a big issue for so many people.

[squipedmew]

and suddently the rate of no-mercy routes goes up by 300%

[twinkle-art]

lingering a little longer

[delicatepointofview]

doing an exam later and will do so terribly it's embarrassing

[taiscloset]

awww ruby n sapphire r so cute in the movie

[egophiliac]

o-oh my god