#and iono how to shut the fuck up

[fionarara]

omg fifi i loved your dissertation on my selfship answers 😭 let’s talk about it!!

Taka having to grow up raising two sisters seems to be a dead giveaway to his ability to be patient!! mana and luna probably had their share of mood swings, pouty episodes, etc. not to mention, boy seems to be pretty familiar with depression and crazy family issues (bc of the shiba’s). i’m the type of person who would constantly give him an “out” because i go through waves of emotion sometimes, but GODDAMMIT Taka is just that type to keep holding your hand, rub your back, help you take a breath… how is one person so fkn composed?! 😭 he’d make your your favorite meal and run you a bath— man does he make little butterflies flap around in my stomach 😵‍💫😩

i also love that you love my tickle headcanon for Shuji. yk this guy being such a hardened delinquent and probably kept everyone at an arms length at all times, imagine his shock when you wiggle your hands into his sides and he jumps like two feet in the air like “what the fuck was that” and i just… personally i feel like he deserves to laugh and be a giggly goofy guy 🥲

and don’t EVER apologize for saying a lot bc i also have a lot to say about all these fine ass gang members 😌🤭

♡♡♡ EVERYBODY LISTEN UP ! I WANT IT SPREAD FAR AND WIDE ACROSS THIS FANDOM THAT SIN AND PUNISHMENT HAVER AKA HANMA SHUJI IS A CANON TICKLISH BISH (affectionate), little tickly fingers are his achilles heel which he has gone thru great lengths to hide, has spent a considerable amount of time trying to do so—not even kisaki knows—the only person that does know is the one he's dating,,, and whenever you do end up finding out that very first time, he just pounces you, wild and wide-eyed, pinning you to the couch. one playful tatted hand is clamped over your giggly mouth and his other has a tense singular index finger bolted up and out where it's then pointedly directed down at your face, while you're giddy and squirming beneath him, as he gleefully glowers down at you, it's a goofy lil threat, "—but don't you dare tell a fuckin soul ! " and oh mitsuya definitely has the best soft dom game out of the TR-verse, ~aftercare master extraordinaire~ ,,, only closely rivaled by draken's game, buuut tbh that's probably why they were bffs from way back ^_^ u know when they both had mohawks together ? they like gravitated toward each others' energy bc they have v similar nurturing dispositions\tendencies and sensed it in each other like finding your kin in the wild, since YEA they actually both grew up around vulnerable females, taka w his baby sisters, ken in the brothel, but i digress,,,lalala no no, rly, lex u speak big truths about mitsuya's love language: huge ACTS OF SERVICE guy, and when he's done running you a bath he will even brush the tangles out of your damp hair so gently because he is so practiced at it, please he fucking LIVES for that soft labor. . + .

[hyukalyptus]

best friend subby jjuni asking for help because he’s gonna see a girl later that week and doesnt know how to kiss 🥺 asks you to teach him as someone with so much experience… but it ends up with you blowing his back out

heheheheheh

AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH

cw. sub!virgin!yeonjun x dom!experienced!reader, kissing, degrading a lil, pegging, reader wears a strap.

first of all bsf jjuni ???????????????? FAVE. and omg he’s all anxious bc he’s so inexperienced but he’s trying to put on this act like he knows exactly what he’s doing but has no clue.

“can you please just help me?”

“iono jjun…i think it’ll make things weird”

“PLEEWAAASE”

rolling ur eyes and “fine whatever” and he kisses you, a lil sloppy but nothing bad. it’s actually quite good tbh. pulling apart and he’s like “see it wasn’t that bad” and ur like “just…just shut up for a second and lemme see something” and kissing him again but this time it’s so SO fucking good that you moan into his mouth and tug on his hair a bit, making him whimper. chills literally istg.

ending up w bending him over to fuck him with ur strap. and ugh he’s so nervous and cute but wants it so so bad “ur such a stupid fucking dork, you know that?” “begging me for kissing lessons..” yanking him up by his hair so ur chest is against his back to whisper in his ear. “now ur taking it so well, baby…are you sure this is ur first time?”

[tvitr]

Here have some more Grusha hc

Because he's taken over my blog and my brain by this point.

So let's talk about how he gets on with his fellow gym colleagues eh?

Under the cut because I can't shut up apparently.

-As you've probably seen from some of my previous shitposts, he has a massive crush on Katy, though this is purely superficial and nothing more. Partly because she's happily married, and she neither wants to leave her husband for some pretty toyboy, and he doesn't exactly want to be a homewrecker either, but also because she's way too overbearingly mommy-like for his liking. Like she found out he gets a sore back every now and then because of his snowboarding escapades and basically treats him like he's made of glass. If she didn’t mean well, he probably would've told her to fuck off by now.

-As an Artazon native in my hc, he's always kinda known Brassius; first as "that weird guy who sleeps on a bench underneath the windmill and yells at people as they walk by", to "that guy who lives next door with another guy and dad says they're 'gay' (whatever that means)". So he's familiar with who Brassius is long before they're actually colleagues. In term of how they'd actually get along, I... honestly think they'd get along pretty well? Like Brassius is a bit weird and offbeat, but he's also the only other Paldea leader to have canonically gone through some kind of heavy trauma in the past, and (unlike Grusha) appears to be past it enough that he seems comfortable talking about it. Can you imagine them actually having a deep heart to heart about their feelings?? I'm gonna write it.

(No really I actually do have a fic WIP right now about Grusha spending a night with Brassius and Hassel and having a proper deep conversation about his fucked up emotions so see you when that thing spawns)

-At first, he wouldn't have pissed on Iono if she was on fire. She annoyed him big time. Her high energy is a lot for anyone to handle, but combined with her begging him for weeks after they became colleagues for an interview on her show about his accident (as though his accident were the only thing he was famous for), and he just straight up despised her for the longest time. They eventually do smooth things over, he still dislikes her to some extent and avoids her when possible, but it's nowhere near as bad as it was when they met.

-Kofu is Kofu. I don't have much hc about him and I don't think anyone else does :')

-He knows Larry from living in the same town as him, and he probably likes to hang around him at the Treasury most evenings (if Larry's still there after his evening workout, which he usually is). Not sure what they'd talk about but they definitely appreciate each other's company. Probably involves a lot of slandering their jobs and colleagues though. Geeta and Iono are their usual targets.

-Ryme he gets along with pretty well, even if they don't hang out that much. I love the idea that she's actually helped him get to hospital after one of his (many) crashes, like she's out walking her dogs on a hiking trail when he careens out of nowhere and into a tree or something. Bonus if they don't recognise each other at first. Also also I like to think she makes lunch for him occasionally and gets one of her Pokémon (usually DJ G. Rave) to drop it off at his gym. Needless to say, he likes her.

-Tulip, oh boy Tulip. I will confess and say I never intended on shipping them, but I was trawling AO3 for actually readable fic when I stumbled into one of him and Tulip and it was really great and I've read it like a hundred times and now my shipping criteria for Grusha is "unbelievably hot women with lots of money" which Tulip fits pretty well. BUT. I honestly see them being friends with benefits more than anything lol, Grusha really doesn't give off much shippable energy to me.

I need more time to smooth this one over lol

[bitchapalooza]

No i will not shut up about the wasted design potential in the new games, yes I am upset about how boring and ugly Iono's city is and how we could have gotten a bustling, twinkling city with other displays of miscellaneous actors, influencers, ect next to Iono for the world building. How plastic and gross and corporate the "gym buildings" look. Now empty everythung really is. The fucking loading screens.

I can wait 4 years for a new game. One where devs are allowed to include little details and design choices. Please, I actually wanna feel connected to the locations I'm visiting! I don't even remember the one I'm in now! I miss when the pokemon cities and towns were alive :(

[caltropspress]

Notes on Pink Siifu’s NEGRO

You and anybody else who wants to get their random vicarious kicks off White Power can stay the fuck away from me. 

—Lester Bangs

Tell a nazi he can suck my dick. —Pink Siifu, from “SMD”

My first contact with white america was marked by her violence, for when a white doctor pulled me from between my mother’s legs and slapped my wet ass, I, as every other negro in america, reacted to this man-inflicted pain with a cry. A cry that america has never allowed to cease; a cry that gets louder and more intense with age….A cry? Or was it a scream? —H. Rap Brown (Jamil Abdullah Al-Amin), from Die Nigger Die!

it is the hour of conflict, antagonism, struggle the world turning autumn in warpaint everything silently prepares to scream —Amiri Baraka, from “Disorder”

1.  

White institutional power operates to negate or suppress. To that end, white institutional power bestows awards on singular figures when it’s convenient. Let’s call one such example Kendrick Lamar. Pulitzer Prizing DAMN. is white institutional power taking cover. This, in no way, defangs DAMN. But it does provide crowd control. Pink Siifu, meanwhile, won’t be awarded a Pulitzer for NEGRO. If he did, I’m confident he’d pull an Adrienne Rich, telling President Clinton to choke on his National Medal for the Arts, seeing as how the U.S. gov’t drives “the demonization of our young Black men.” Siifu would be PE boycotting the Grammys on the grounds of Black invisibility. Or John Lennon relinquishing his membership in the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire because, well, empire (see: Biafra).

2.

NEGRO is what happens when Three 6 Mafia goes full bandolier, full decolonization, full Thomas Sankara. When the emphasis is on the 666 sirening[1] across white cop foreheads, reflecting off Makrolon face shields. Siifu cites and channels Sun Ra, June Tyson, Death, and Bad Brains, but you also hear the mass hysteria of Abbey Lincoln’s vocal cords trembling, of Max Roach’s We Insist! in a street brawl showdown with the LRAD. Basically, it’s Ornette blowing sax in a riot, harmolodics like incendiary devices.

3.

“FK” is the primal scream reaction of hearing the news another one of your people has been killed, snuffed out. Suffer through our screams, it says to the listener. And “out of body, out of mind” distorts what we see with what we witness. It’s the re-played, re-tweeted, re-shared visuals of Black death.

4.

At moments, NEGRO sounds like Aaron Dilloway organizing a chapter of the White Panther Party.

5.

Siifu’s lyrics are a Stokely speech draft. His artistry is prismatic, shattered pane glass: crust punk, jazz cat, marching band drummer, hood ballerina, noisemaker, bareknuckle emcee. His lyrics should be run off on the mimeo and saddle-stitched into a chapbook for Totem Press to publish.

6.

“SMD” samples from Ivan Dixon's 1973 film The Spook Who Sat by the Door (“Do you hear me, man?...I am BLACK!”). Just like dead prez sampled the dialogue before Siifu on “We Want Freedom.” Siifu and dead prez are bedfellows, for sure, but Siifu's head rests on a pillow of static. It’s the friction that electrifies.

7.

NEGRO is the art of de-arresting in audio form. As the comrades at Mask Magazine have stated, de-arrests “are beautiful,” reminding us “the law and the state are not supernatural forces.”[2]

8.

I’ve always felt uncomfortable using the word freedom. It’s a word that’s been co-opted and gutted to the point of parody. I subscribe only to a different form of freedom, one articulated in noise. Suicidal Tendencies’ “Freedumb” cuts it: “Peace through politics is a fallacy—that doesn’t exist.” Liberation more seriously expresses the extinction agenda. Poor Righteous Teachers taught the curriculum out of Trenton, on “Freedom of Death”: “Consciousness—it’s a must / Just avoid the wicked, wicked ways of this pale Caucasoid.”

Regardless, we see freedom, liberation, knife through even with Siifu’s orthography. Revolutionary thought requires revolutionary language. Ask the Combahee River Collective. Come correct. Fuck autocorrect. Remember womyn. Siifu spellings like: nxggas, eye, tyme, iono, and the evergreen ameriKKKa. The abbreviated words—eliding letters wherever possible—don’t reflect self-censorship so much as the mindmaze of a harried man. Deliberate typos demonstrate no faith in the system. It’s like if Bon Iver (see: “22 (OVER S∞∞N)”) decided to forgo BLM symbolic gestures (Mahalia Jackson) and straight-up encouraged looting. Siifu is CAPS LOCK happy, too. We’re witnessing the joy of militancy.

9.

To begin with, it must be said that former African slaves and their ancestors have been the avant-garde of everything in this country. There’s no culture in America, in this American wasteland, without us. There’s no classical music; there’s jazz, and that was invented by us. And besides that, America has nothing to offer the world and it never has. —Idris Robinson, from “How It Might Should Be Done”

Siifu in the audience of the Congress of Afrikan Peoples, and Baraka imploring him like, “Get up, Pink Siifu.” It’s nation time. But on “Nation Tyme.,” Siifu groans, I’m tired…can’t fall…asleep. Black rage, of course—but what of Black insomnia? The French revolutionaries abolished the calendar. CPT, so, is rightly weaponized. “I feel fettered by Western time,” Gregory Pardlo writes in “Colored People’s Time.” Punch clocks need punching, smashing. I saw Baraka roll up to a conference panel late as fuck once, cane-walking right down the center aisle, shameless, commandingly.

In a somnolent slur, Siifu says, “They treat me like I’m wasting away / I know I’m worth more than they pay.” What of these capitalist definitions of work? What of productivity? What does it mean to monetize every waking moment? He’s been quoted as saying, “I ain’t have to work for no white man.”[3] “Nation Tyme.” picks up there.

10.  Feel like deadmeat. They say I’m deadmeat.

“DEADMEAT” is a pig siren stuffed into an industrial-grade slaughterhouse grinder. It sounds the way Alan Vega's sculptures look—hazardous masses of electronic junk, like wires raveled inside a homemade bomb, like buzzing viscera. 

I want to see Siifu perform it at the Meat Locker, a cellar club in the underguts of Montclair, New Jersey (s/o the dramacydal Outlawz). The place is dingy and bedecked with feces—a venue befitting a GG Allin opener. GG Allin, a racist, who also hated cops. Who, on “Shove That Warrant Up Your Ass,” a track that appeared on the posthumous Brutality & Bloodshed For All album, sang, “You say I broke the laws in your state… / Your courts and cops should all be hung.” Allin hoists a headless, legless, armless torso on his hip in the cover photograph—a slab of meat. Like the Beatles with baby doll parts and prime cuts in their laps, bloodless butcher coats on the original Yesterday and Today (1966) artwork. Like the papal kill floor in Francis Bacon’s “Figure with Meat” (1954) with its tapestry of offal. But what you don’t get from Bacon, or the Beatles, or GG Allin is what Siifu needs us to hear. What Siifu tells us is the reality of corporeality is that cops continue to make carcasses of Black people.

11.

That cellar club can be scream therapy, can be cell therapy. Siifu brings us there—to the darkest, dampest corner of the Dungeon Family’s dungeon. Big Gipp, speaking self-defensively: “Try to separate me from the blood / Is disrespect like you coming in my home and not wiping your feet on the rug.” It’s echoed in Siifu addressing the question of his audience: “This [album] is for black people, but I know white people are going to fuck with it. I’m mad cool with that. I just want everyone to know, before they come through the door, that this is a black house and you have to respect my people.”[4] The theme of respect as it relates to a sense of home, to cultural tourism, is paramount in both. Everyone’s got to know their place. No listener should approach ignorant of the auction block. Siifu’s noise refuses the separation of kinsfolk and his stubbornness makes the dungeon shake—he is rightfully “tough, dark, vulnerable, moody,” and, on NEGRO, he has a “definite tendency to sound truculent.”[5]

12.  

“ON FIRE, PRAY!” eventually grinds the brakes to a cavernous slowjam pace. “Blood on my body / Blood on my face.”

13.

The racist dog policemen must withdraw immediately from our communities, cease their wanton murder and brutality and torture of black people, or face the wrath of the armed people. —caption on Huey Newton photograph

NEGRO’s album cover, painted by Junkyard, is a call-and-response. Pink Siifu is a portrait of exhaustion, slouched, shirtless like Huey was when he was released from the Alameda County courthouse in 1970. It’s a tableau like Huey in that rattan peacock chair was. Eldridge Cleaver orchestrated it, right down to the zebra rug.

If you squint, the glimmer of Siifu’s gold fronts looks like his jaw is wired shut. Of course, violent threats are routinely directed at Black people—that's how the system operates. Media is often behind the scope. Relentless orders to “shut up,” to silence yourself, police yourself. We know this from David Wojnarowicz, photographed with his lips sewn shut, blood dripping like shadows, in “(Silence = Death)” from 1989. The violent threats on queer life are kin to those on Black life. But Siifu, like Wojnarowicz, refuses the censorship. After all, those aren't wires—they're the glint of his grill. Siifu is dribbling blood, too, and those black splatters across the flag are like pen bursts—ink poisoning for all. If you squint, the mind’s eye might see the Pan-African flag.

The flag above his head recalls Jasper Johns’ flags: elliptical, non-patriotic, made slop-bucket sloppy from newspaper shreddings and other detritus, i.e. amerikkka is a trash heap. At least the stars are black in the “Flag (Moratorium)” rendition. Bullet hole dead center, too.

If all goes well, the riots going on—bless them—will go on interminably. Sly Stone’s customized flag with black in place of blue[6] and sharp solar-flared suns in place of Betsy Ross geometric stars is yet another parallel to Siifu’s flag. Like Sly, Siifu isn’t opposed to police ambushes. They both know you’ve got to grin at the gun of the devil. (“Don’t you mind people grinnin’ in your face,” Son House sings eternally.) Citizen takes on cop on “Thank You For Talkin’ To Me, Africa”: Bullets start chasin’, / I begin to stop. / We begin to tussle. / I was on the top. Just the same as Siifu on “SMD”: “Iono why eye ain’t shot ya.” Or on “run pig run.”: “Kill a cop / Left a pig dead.”

14.

We can't disparage any aggressive protest on the reductive grounds it's aggro or violent. I think of Pam Echols in Milwaukee in 1968. Siifu’s assertion of you are my enemy on “steal from the ENEMY” corresponds with Paris’s sophomore and shadowy album, Sleeping with the Enemy. Like on the corrode-ode “Coffee, Donuts, and Death”:

You get poached when you fuck with black folk. Said it ’til my voice was hoarse. I ain’t down with excessive force, But of course I wasn’t heard so I’m silent now. Black folk can’t be non-violent now. […] The only motherfucking pig that I eat is police.

Which is to say, try no pork, ameriKKKa.

15.  RE: punk

Think of Bad Brains playing CBGB’s in 1982. Lester Bangs writes of a woman in the scene who referred to Black people as “all these boons.” He tells us a Black friend of his believes the clubgoers “[strive] to be offensive however they can.” Anti-Blackness plagued CBGB’s and nascent punk like vermin, a pestilence. A white woman in the music business claims she “liked [Black people] so much better when they were just Negroes.” These anecdotes are culled from Bangs’ 1979 Village Voice piece entitled “The White Noise Supremacists.” He notes Ron Asheton’s predilection for “swastikas, Iron Crosses, and jackboots.” He cites Ivan Julian, guitarist for Richard Hell and the Voidoids—one of the few Black individuals to grace those inchoate punk stages—as saying “whenever he hears the word ‘n-----’…he wants to kill.” He calls Nico a “dumb kraut cunt” for her brazen, Third Reich-ish brand of racism, which was no industry secret. Bangs even implicates himself, quoting an earlier article: “…it’s the n-----s who control and direct everything just as it always has been and properly should be.” He meant this, somehow, as a compliment.

16.

On “we need mo color. Abundance,” there’s no innocence left in asking “tell me your favorite color.” Siifu answers rhetorically, parenthetically, melanin. Don't settle for forty acres of color—demand abundance. Take, loot in abundance. And don't be contained by the gendered parameters of “pink or blue.” “You can have any color you like” suggests the limitless possibilities if you move your mind beyond the imposed parameters.

The “favorite color” invoked on “we need mo color. Abundance” becomes abundantly clear on the following track, “BLACK!”

17.

“ameriKKKa, try no pork” starts in a slurry of radio static, news reports of Black death. Black, Black, Black, Black. Sped up. Slowed down. Drag the progress bar. “Progress,” ha.

18.

“run pig run.” See the pig / Run away / Run, pig, run. Like a Dick and Jane basal reader. Like picking your favorite color. Like a Three Little Pigs fable. Like huffing and puffing. These are childhood exploits for childhoods that aren’t allowed to be. As long as the Kenneth and Mamie Clark doll experiments keep providing the proof, there can be no childhood innocence. So it's a carnival game in the meantime: See a pig / Shoot a pig. Huffing and puffing: Run, pig, run.

19.

"myheartHURT" is the safehouse after the shooting. It's the cooldown, the chillout. The hypnagogic nightmare. It's vaporwave minus whiteness. We all know Biz had the vapors before Daniel Lopatin. As if DJ Screw was just an apparition, a codeine cloud. The fact remains, Screw's phantasmagoria hovers above all our heads.

20.

The wail of distorted police sirens introduces “Chris Dorner.,” a track gleefully indebted to Ice-T and Body Count’s “Cop Killer.” Repetition was a popular device and it still is: die, pig, die. Chris Dorner has achieved folk-hero status in anarchist circles and beyond since he waged asymmetrical warfare on the LAPD. His manifesto has been published as a zine.[7] “No one grows up and wants to be a cop killer,” he wrote. Begs the question.

21.

“faceless wings,BLACK!” nods to Frank Castle[8], a figure who may or may not be recoverable from militias and thin blue liners, despite Gerry Conway’s best efforts.

22.

White institutional power operates to negate or suppress. Pink Siifu, through NEGRO, refuses suppression and negation. Siifu delivers a hole in the head, and it’s sublime.

Footnotes:

1  “The Law comes sirening across the town.” Gwendolyn Brooks, “THE THIRD SERMON OF THE WARPLAND” from RIOT

2  “De-Arrests are Beautiful.” Mask Magazine.

3  “The Necessity of Pink Siifu’s Rage.” Marcus J. Moore. The Fader.

4  “Pink Siifu’s ‘NEGRO’ is a Riotous Mix of Jazz, Rap and Punk.” Max Bell. Bandcamp Daily.

5  Baldwin, the god.

6  “What did I do to be so black and blue?” (see: Armstrong); light a reefer and listen to the phonograph (see: Ellison)

7  Research and Destroy New York City. https://researchdestroy.com/

8  https://archive.org/details/PunisherPigs

Images:

Emory Douglas work (detail), courtesy of Sean Stewart archives | Makrolon face shield, Google Image Search result | Amiri Baraka performing at the Congress of Afrikan Peoples (screenshot) | Alan Vega light sculpture (photograph) | GG Allin Brutality & Bloodshed for All album cover | The Beatles Yesterday & Today album cover | Francis Bacon, “Figure with Meat” (detail) | Goodie Mob “Cell Therapy” (screenshot) | Splitting up a family at auction, Public Domain | Huey Newton Black Panthers Minister of Defense, photographed by Blair Stapp, 1968 | Andreas Sterzing, David Wojnarowicz (Silence = Death), 1989 | Sly and the Family Stone There’s A Riot Goin’ On album cover | Jasper Johns, “Flag (Moratorium)” | Pam Echols punching cop, 1968 (photographer unknown) | Sid Vicious, nazi (photographer unknown) | Emory Douglas work (detail), courtesy of Sean Stewart archives | Biz Markie Goin’ Off album cover | Oneohtrix Point Never Memory Vague album cover 

[gamfcowboy-archived]

Sorry guys, i’ve been away for kinda a bit. explanation under cut, no worries if you don’t wanna read. some negative shit, some controversial shit, iono... life shit.))

It’s been a rough year. From vehicles constantly going out to 2 accidents to me STILL not having my truck fully fixed because the funds aren’t there to my nana being put in hospice.

And they’re saying she won’t last the year, which... considering the state she’s in i have to say honestly i’m glad. I’m sure that sounds callous, but... she doesn’t know who anyone is, not her husband or her kids, she’s calling for help from people who can’t come help her constantly, refuses to eat at all, it’s just... I dunno. I haven’t been to see her in months now because whenever she looks at me she makes comments about my hair or whatever.

She likes my kiddo though, no matter if she remembers her or not.

Came to a realization that I more then likely won’t ever finish my degree. Least, not anytime soon. 130+ credits and no degree, and I’m sitting here in motivation station watching trains go rushing by with all these younger adults who seem put together as hell. I feel old, and I don’t like it at all. Have given  up a lot of my own personal dreams, put more on hold, because I haven’t made the best choices.

Not to mention that the stupidest things keep adding straws to my back.

Like my cat projectile vomiting into my printer. Guess who had to spend money to buy a new printer? Stupid things like that that just keep ripping me up.

Underneath it all is that disapproval from family. I’ve mentioned being ‘conveniently lesbian’, stated my dislike of marriage as an institution and downright argued against being pushed into a hetero sexual relationship, hell, relationship period, because it’s expected and I’ve been burned just enough to make it unsavory. So disappointment that I’m not following the norm, disapproval that I’m choosing- because yes, I made a conscious decision to pursue women- to involve myself with my own gender over the opposite one. Attraction has nothing to do with it, either. I’d fuck a dog before I ever did a man again, and saying like that to my mother’s face still hasn’t gotten the point across that I’m not interested. Period.

You know, there was a poem I heard that described depression as a party goer. A party I don’t want to be at but I AM the party. I am the party and depression brought in anxiety and they won’t leave until the party is over but it isn’t ever over.

From the days spent dragging myself from bed to drive my kid to classes to the nights I have insomnia and she asks me why I’m awake and I tell her ‘I don’t know’ because I don’t. Because the light that’s on in my brain only has one setting, because the dimmer is broken and it’s a sun bright beacon that rips through my eyes to shine on my dark ceiling no matter how long I lay there begging for the lampshade of sleep to come back to me.

From the days spent clipping my nails to the nub because if I don’t I’ll chew them bloody. The moments I need quiet but is there ever a time when children are quiet? I can’t think of one. The constant chatter is teeth grinding and sandpaper against my nerves but you don’t tell children to shut up, you don’t tell them to stem the flow of their creative ideas because you’re having an anxiety attack and they don’t understand why you won’t look at the fifth drawing in ten minutes that looks the exact same and tell you again about their OCs that while creative are repeats and repeats of those made the day before. The week before and your brain remembers each one but you can’t cut off creativity so you sit there and shake in your chair and slit your eyes and clench fists against your thighs and murmur just how wonderful they are and count the moments until you can run to the bathroom for five minutes of peace before it starts again and you beg for it to be late enough to justify bringing out the melatonin so you can stay up late again, sleepless, knees knocking and legs running nowhere as you stare once again up at the ceiling. But at least it’s quiet outside of your brain, and that’s almost enough.

I’m... tired.

I’m sorry I can’t seem to keep my threads up, that I seem wishy washy and abstract and erratic. I don’t mean to be.