#itsqueermrmarvin

[howdoponieswork]

Pinkie for C1!

It’s pretty hard asking out your cute and smart and magical and really really cute crush.

[incorrectghdquotes]

Here’s the thing about when you live Groundhog Day over and over and over and over and over again: the second time it happens, your immediate thought is not, ‘Hey! It’s Groundhog Day again’, it’s, ‘Hey… Groundhog Day is a lot longer than I first thought.’

Phil Connors

[thingofnewyork]

Dust and Ashes, Natasha, Pierre, and the Great Comet of 1812 -> Phil Connors, Groundhog Day

As requested by @itsqueermrmarvin

[antialiasis]

I was just wondering, what do you mean when you talk about your "buttons"?

Well, the description of the “my buttons” tag on my about page is:

My tastes in fiction are somewhat twisted and tend to involve pain, suffering, torture, executions and psychological torment. I tag posts involving my glee over these and similar subjects with this so you can block it if that wigs you out.

That’s the gist of it; if I’m talking about my buttons, it’s because something hit the region of my brain that lights up instantly at particular subjects, tropes, etc. in fiction, mostly involving characters going through physical and/or emotional hell in some form. Instead of (well, often alongside) appreciating something intellectually for some specific, well-defined reasons, it's more like I just have this button on me that activates my dopamine circuit, and the thing just pressed it, hence the terminology.

I always feel a little weird describing it to people who might not instantly "get it”, because it sounds like a sadism or schadenfreude sort of thing, which is decidedly not what it’s about. If I can’t stand a character and want them to suffer for how terrible they are, and then they do, it might be viscerally satisfying, but that’s not my buttons and involves entirely different emotions. It’s more like an intense empathy thing. My favorite thing about fiction is exploring plausible human psychology under stress, often in extreme and horrifying situations, in an imaginary form where no one actually gets hurt - imagining how somebody who appears tough might eventually break after going through untold horrors, how a believable character might react to unusual, impossible, nightmarish scenarios and how their mind handles what’s going on, while understanding and empathizing with it every step of the way (can you tell why I like Groundhog Day and in particular the way the musical emphasizes showing Phil’s emotional arc better and more coherently, cough). Perhaps they make choices that are horrible, but which make sense to their mind at that moment after everything they’ve just been through, and I want to feel that it makes sense to them, to understand exactly why they’re making this awful choice and have my heart break for them in that moment.

So my buttons are basically that and various outgrowths of that. It’s an empathy-high that’s, at its most basic, triggered by being able to really feel on a gut level that a character who feels like a real person is suffering, scared, stressed, etc., and then possibly following along with what they’re feeling and what they’re suffering through and the choices they might make as a result.

[venfx]

Oh boy, I got another idea for a prompt, something I was discussing in the Discord: After the day Phil and Rita spent together and her waking him up, he's steadily getting better and better. But it's not totally linear. Though being good to people is making him feel good, it feels more like a distraction from the larger aching emptiness still inside him. Even as he finds new ways to fill his time, he still sometimes longs for an end in sight. One morning, in a moment of weakness, he makes (1/2)

one more attempt. However, he doesn’t actually die this time and wakes up in a hospital bed. For once, it hits him how real his body and what he’s been doing to it truly is. He’s pissed at himself for falling back into this and doubts if he’ll ever be able to just look on the bright side like Rita said to. To his surprise, before the day resets, his mom shows up at the hospital to see him, having urgently booked a flight over there. She’s pretty angry and scared and upset and gives him some harsh words, and she also loves him so, so much. They talk and she stays with him until it’s 6AM again.

why do you make me hurt him so. anyways this was a doozy but also weirdly fun to write mostly because i just got my EMT certification and am therefore allowed to throw in useless medical jargon

(again sorry mrs. connors you don’t deserve this)

send me fic prompts here!

CW for suicide mention/attempt

It’s impossible to put into words just how much Phil despises the inventor of the alarm clock.

“That’s right, woodchuck-chuckers, it’s-”

He slams his hand down onto the snooze button.

He’s never been a morning person.

Lately, his days look a little like this: sit up, stretch. Answer the phone on the first ring. Make sure to get the girl’s name- it’s Lisa- and wish her a good morning before heading out the door. Compliment Jonathan’s new sneakers, fix the coffee pot, meet up with Ned to chat about his family.

Then, get coffee for the crew and Rita, do the broadcast, change a flat tire, rescue a cat. Practice the piano, charm his way into staying a few extra hours.

Try to save the old man.

Fail to save the old man.

Drive Ralph and Gus back from the bar.

Wake up, do it all over again.

And, like, okay, it’s not all bad.  

Phil’s a new man, with a new lease on life and a steadily improving rendition of Hot Cross Buns to prove it. The more time he spends here actually living, the more he grows to love each and every resident of Punxsutawney.

He has friends here, as bizarre as that sounds.

Even if those friends don’t, y'know, remember him.-Here’s the thing: sometimes, his life feels like the weird second act of some two-bit play. The fact that the curtain will never fall is irrelevant.

Helping people of this small, quiet town should be enough. 

It is enough.

In terms of eternity, he’s won the fucking jackpot.-Still, it goes without saying that some days are easier than others.

“That’s right, woodchuck-chuckers, it’s-”

"That’s right, woodchuck-chuckers, it’s-”

That’s right, woodchuck-chuckers, it’s-”

He’s getting better.

He is.

It’s just, well. Sometimes.

Sometimes, he isn’t.

Here’s another thing: Phil spends the night before his seventeenth birthday locked in his parents’ bathroom with a bottle of his mom’s sleeping pills and a flask of gas station tequila he’d bribed off of his sister’s boyfriend a month earlier. 

He’s sixteen years, three hundred sixty four days, twenty two hours, and seventeen minutes old. 

People keep telling him that it’s going to get better, that he’ll be okay, that his problems are small and that everyone feels like this every once in a while. 

Maybe they’re right, but Phil’s not stupid, either- he knows that people aren’t supposed to be this empty, knows that there’s something in him that’s always going to be small and broken and wrong.

He’s just so fucking tired.

"That’s right, woodchuck-chuckers, it’s-”

Twenty three years and a thousand endless days later, he barely thinks twice before swallowing the whole damn bottle.

Phil wakes up.

He wakes up.

He’s not in the bed and breakfast.

For one panicked moment, he thinks maybe-

He jack-knifes up, yanks the cannula out of his nose. “Excuse me!”

There’s a nurse passing by his room. She turns, looks at him with a special cocktail of muted pity and vague disgust, which Phil very politely ignores because he is a nice fucking person now, thank you very much.

“Sorry, but um,” he rasps, voice hoarse. It sort of tastes like something crawled into the back of his throat and died. “What’s today’s date?“ 

“February 2nd, dear. I’ll go tell the doctor that you’re up.”

February 2nd.

Right.

He wakes up again to a woman in a white coat standing at the foot of his bed, reading off of a clipboard. 

“Phil Connors, 40, found unresponsive underneath a bridge near Patsy’s Park. Presented with mild hypothermia, bradycardia, hypotension, and significant respiratory depression as a result of an alcohol potentiated benzodiazepine overdose." 

Phil just wants to go back to sleep.

“ER administered 0.8mg of Flumazenil intravenously upon admission and performed a gastric lavage shortly after. Vitals have been stable since seven this evening.”

“Huh,” he mutters. “Thought it’d been longer than that." 

His doctor sighs, like she’s unimpressed or something, which strikes him as kind of rude.

Phil almost died.

God.

"Mr. Connors, you went outside half naked in the middle of snowstorm to chase 220 mg of clonazepam- that’s fifty five pills, by the way- with a bottle of raspberry vodka-”

“It was grape, actually-”

“Regardless,” she says and, great, her voice is all gentle now, like being nice is going to change anything. “I don’t think we need to pretend that this was accidental.”

“Shit, what gave it away?" 

"Mr. Connors, was this your first attempt?”

And Phil-

Phil thinks of the toaster.

He thinks of suffocating, of bleeding out, of freezing to death, of walking into traffic, eyes shut, over and over and over again. He remembers the rope and the car battery and the fucking clock tower.

He thinks of the screwdriver- and, okay, that had been a little excessive, but whatever.

He feels sick.

"Yeah,” he says, slumping back against the pillows. “Yeah. First time.”

They keep him on mandatory 72 hour watch.

Not that it really matters, but.

Phil hates hospitals.

The phone rings when Phil’s on his seventh episode of Law and Order: SVU. He’s eaten, like, four things of green Jello and an entire bag of ice chips. 

On screen, Ice-T is arresting a pedophile with a clown fetish.

He’s pretty sure his nurse is avoiding him.

This kind of feels like a new low.

“Mr. Connors? You have a visitor. Should I send her up?”

Phil absolutely does not want to see Rita right now, but also feels like he owes her for blowing off the broadcast and then literally almost dying. 

Plus, he’s been trying to be less of an ass lately.

Really.

“Yeah, go ahead,” he says with a sigh. “Thank you.”

“Phil Connors, what the fuck.”

That’s not Rita.

He’s going to kill Rita.

“Mom? Jesus, who called you?”

“Is that how you greet me? We haven’t spoken in six months, and all I get is a Jesus-who-called-you?”

Joanne Connors is sixty four years old and 5'2”. 

She carries herself the way some people carry machine guns. 

“So, I’m in a hospital bed, don’t know if you noticed-"

"I noticed that you look like shit,” she says, scowling at the IV in Phil’s arm like it’s done something to  personally offend her. “So, I’ll reiterate: what the fuck.”

Phil’s been nursing a low level migraine since he woke up and the shrillness of his mother’s voice adds a special new dimension to this whole experience.

“Thanks, mom,” he says with a sigh. “Did you really fly all the way out here from Cleveland?”

“No, I was in the area,” she says bitingly. “Of course I flew out here. Your producer called-”

“Associate producer, actually-” he says, just because he’s feeling a little bitter.

“-saying that you were in the hospital, that it looked bad, that they found these pills-”

“I’m fine, oh my god-”

“-so, yes, I did fly out here in the middle of a goddamn blizzard. That flight cost me five hundred dollars, by the way-”

“I never asked you to-”

“-and that doctor you have is a real piece of work-”

“Mom! You’re yelling." 

She stops abruptly, looking stricken. 

With horror, Phil realizes that her eyes are welling up. 

He hates seeing his mom cry.

"You stupid, stupid boy,” she whispers. “You selfish, thoughtless child. What were you thinking?”

Phil can’t remember the last time his mother hugged him, but when she does, it feels like china, like glass, like something breakable and precious all at once.  

“Mom, I-”

He doesn’t know what he wants to say. 

There’s something ugly in his chest, some horrible emotion that makes his throat tight and his eyes burn. He can feel his mother’s tears seeping into the flimsy fabric of his hospital gown.

Phil grips her back like he’s drowning.

Eventually she pulls away, dabs at her eyes with a trembling hand.

“I’m so sorry,” she says. “Phil, I’m so sorry.”

“Um. Don’t be. This isn’t your fault,” he says thickly, scrubbing a hand across his face. “I just- uh. It’s been a long day.”

She chuckles weakly. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Phil doesn’t want to talk about it, and for once, she doesn’t push.

They just sit there instead, watching crappy crime procedurals and eating Jello. She tells him blatantly untrue stories about his childhood and pretends to be interested when he delivers a ten minute lecture on introductory quantum mechanics (his newest research project) and a half hour summary of the first four seasons of Game of Thrones (that he only watched for Rita).

At one point, she leans over to press a kiss to his forehead.

“I love you so much, Phil. So much.”

He closes his eyes.

Here’s a final thing: the day always resets in the time it takes him to blink. 

In that brief moment or space between seeing and not-seeing, a cosmic rubber band yanks him backwards, pulls him taut through time. He knows it’s happening before it happens, even though he’s never actually seen the clock hit six.

"That’s right, woodchuck-chuckers, it’s-”

He slams a hand on the alarm.

It’s a new day.

[ritahanson]

@geek-from-nowhere​ reblogged your post:

my heart

@uncommonbaceisst reblogged your post: 

it is beautiful 

@itsqueermrmarvin reblogged your post: 

exactly! this is their beginning

{ I just wanted to say a resounding ‘thank you’ to the three of you for liking that post! It’s always nice to see that people agree, especially when I have quite so many feelings about this show! } 

[superbatson]

@itsqueermrmarvin oh dear groundhog god, please let the show live until at least february 2nd, 2018! @trainzelda if it ends before the year's over then 2017 is truly canceled

[donnasheriden]

itsqueermrmarvin replied to your post “Rita & Phil”

I completely get the apprehension, though I feel like they handle it better than most cases.

I think what makes it work for me is he doesn't change solely because he's in love with her and, in fact, his turnaround happens after he's stopped romantically pursuing her. It's also less that he wants to win her over by the point and more that he wants to see life the way she does, which comes from a genuine respect and appreciation that grows stronger through the rest of the show.

On the other hand, Rita could come off as a Manic Pixie Dream Girl, but I feel like she's developed enough and has enough agency to avoid falling into that trap.

hmmm yeah no i get that, i think groundhog day does handle it in a way that avoids most of how the misogynistic parts of that trope can break down. i guess the asshole manchild/type a kind of dynamic grinds on me a bit but you’re 100% right in saying that he changes his ways out of respect and *wanting* to be less of an asshat to everyone because he learns that throughout the loop. though actually rita does have a little bit of manic pixie dream girl but it doesn’t annoy me so much because it’s not particularly strong. 

[richardgoranski]

I'm gonna copy+paste this whole idea I had in a groupchat about Phil watching BatB: Phil watches some 90s Disney movies on a whim because he was "too cool" for them when they came out and he decides to give them another chance and he puts on Beauty and the Beast. Belle sings "little town, it's a quiet village, every day like the one before" and he's like, "yup been there". And at first he's snarking about everything cause it's a cheesy 90s Disney musical but he thinks Belle is pretty cool (1/?)

and smart and she doesn't take anyone's shit and she kinda reminds him of Rita. And then we get to the Beast who's this angry entitled immature jerk at first but then it turns out he's all isolated and self-hating and afraid of losing his humanity for good and Phil is like "oh shit that's me". And by the time he gets to the ballroom scene he's totally emotionally invested and he tears up at the line "bittersweet and strange, finding you can change, learning you were wrong".

oh m....y god....phil getting emotionally invested in batb please. Please this is so important

[jmberries]

itsqueermrmarvin replied to your post “F*ck, Mary, Kill. Riz Ahmed, Beyoncé Knowles-Carter, Donald Trump.”

Just a question, do we know for sure that Beyonce is straight?

To be honest we know very little about Beyoncé’s personal life outside of what she chooses to make public. Which is something I respect a lot about her.

So at least I don’t know for sure that she’s straight. 

[incorrectghdquotes]

Phil, to Rita: I need you to tell me that it’s not too late. I, I, I need you to tell me that I’m a good person. I know that I can be selfish and narcissistic and self-destructive, but underneath all that, deep down, I’m a good person and I need you to tell me that I’m good.

[thingofnewyork]

Edges Of The World, Fun Home -> Phil Connors, Groundhog Day

As requested by @itsqueermrmarvin

[antialiasis]

I was just thinking about Nancy again, and I realized that you do get a little bit of Phil seeing her as a person in that he helps her and Larry get together and he knows by now that they'd be good for each other.

JUST REALIZED I FORGOT ABOUT THIS ASK, SORRY. Yeah, I knew that happened, but didn’t find it entirely satisfying in itself - we don’t see Phil actually interact with her or be kind to her specifically (like, he helps Larry pick out a suit, but that definitely feels more for his benefit than hers), so it feels more like something he’s doing for Larry than for Nancy, and it’s a little unsatisfying that the story of a woman who feels secondary to the men she dates would end with her getting together with yet another man - if I were writing her story I think I’d have ended it with her happy doing something fulfilling for herself that doesn’t involve romance, probably?

That being said, those were all just thoughts I was having after hearing how her story resolves. When I was actually watching it, I didn’t actually find myself dissatisfied; in the moment I could accept the idea that Larry is probably a nice guy who would genuinely treat her like a person just fine, and she seems happy with him, and everything was just so lovely and happy that my brain was happy to wave away my concerns. I think it’s still a legitimate criticism, but it didn’t actually bother me in the moment.

[venfx]

I would absolutely love to see you write about Phil and his complicated relationship with his mom and him growing detached from his family.

this turned out, like, way longer than i thought it was going to, but whatever. i’m such a slut for vignette formatted angst. cw for family trouble, pregnancy, & poorly handled mental illness

(also i’m sorry mrs. connors u don’t deserve this)

send me fic prompts here!

Phil doesn’t know why he’s here. 

Well, okay, he does, but he’s really bitter about it. This is his last hold out, the one thing he’s been avoiding since he left Punxsutawney. 

He can’t believe Rita talked him into this.

“Mr. Connors, how are you feeling today?”

“Me? I’m great,” he says, as politely as he can manage.

He’s not great.

He hates therapy.

“Right,” his therapist- John or James or Jake- says. 

He’s waiting for Phil to make the first move.

Phil doesn’t want to make the first move.

He wants to leave.

The guy coughs and glances down at his clipboard. “It says here that you’ve had problems with anxiety in the past. Do you want to talk about that?”

Really?

“I manage with yoga, aromatherapy, and a strict vegan diet,” Phil says. “Oh, and, like, a lot of Xanax.”

He knows he’s being an ass, knows that this is the kind of behavior that makes Rita sigh a lot, but he can’t help it. New man or not, the concept of opening up to a complete stranger is still something that makes his skin crawl.

Whatever-his-name-is frowns, peers at the clipboard again. 

“Okay,” he says, like Phil’s some kind of idiot. “Let’s talk about something else. Why don’t you tell me about your mother? What kind of person is she?”

This is too much.

“Listen, buster,” he grits out, crossing his arms. “I’ve done this before. Don’t try to psychoanalyze me.”

“Mr. Connors- and I trust you know I’m not being facetious when I say this: that is literally what you’re paying me to do.”

Phil opens his mouth, closes it, briefly wrestles with the idea of getting up and leaving. Rita wouldn’t be upset, but she would be disappointed.

He’s not sure what’s worse.

“Fine,” he says after a long beat. “When I was a kid, my mom was my world.”

-“Mom, it’s not fair. Why does Alex get to go and I don’t?” 

Phil eight, okay, and he’s already lost, like, most of his baby teeth, which definitely means he’s old enough to go see some stupid scary movie. His mom sighs, puts down the book she’s been pretending to read for the past ten minutes.

“Phil, honey, we’ve been over this,” she says. “It’s too grown up for you. Your father and I don’t want you to get nightmares.”

“What, and Alex is more grown up than me?” He asks, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “She still eats her boogers, mom. I saw her.”

His mom makes a face at that. 

“I’ll tell you what, why don’t we have our own movie night? I can make popcorn,” she says.

“We don’t have a movie theater,” he points out. “It’s not the same.”

“We have something better.”-That night, they make a blanket fort in the living room and watch the Empire Strikes Back. Phil’s allowed eat an entire bowl of popcorn by himself and stay up as late as he wants. He passes out right after Han and Leia get to Cloud City, but whatever.- When he thinks back on that night, it’s sepia-toned and haloed in the Christmas lights they strung up in the middle of July. He remembers the low drone of the window fan, the smell of butter, a kiss pressed to his forehead after she’d carried him back to bed.

It’s still the best memory he has of his mom.-“I’m just saying: I don’t get why I need another brother,” Alex is saying. “One worm is already gross enough.”

She’s fifteen and Phil is ten and their mother has just told them that she’s pregnant.

Phil is ecstatic.

“Mom, you gotta name him after me,” he says, plaintive. 

Alex snorts. “What, Maggot the Second?”

“No,” he says haughtily. “Phil Junior, duh. But, hey, save that ‘Maggot’ thing for your own kid- it’s real fitting.”

“Phil!” His mother admonishes. “Be nice.”

He sticks his tongue out at Alex instead.

It’s so worth the time out.-“What are you actually gonna name him?” Phil asks that night as he’s being tucked in. “My vote’s still for Phil Junior, but I can see how that could get confusing.”

His mom just smiles and leans over to kiss his forehead. 

“It’s a secret,” she whispers. “Sleep well, sweetie.”-A few weeks later, Phil wakes in the middle of the night and tiptoes down to the kitchen. He’s big enough to get the cups for water– he doesn’t need to wake anyone up just because he’s thirsty. 

There’s already someone in the kitchen when he gets there. 

“Mom?” There’s no response, so he edges into the room. “Mom, is everything okay?”

It sounds like she’s crying, but Phil’s not sure. He creeps a little closer. 

He’s only seen his mother cry a few times, and never at 2AM in the middle of the kitchen.

“Go back to sleep, Phil,” she says. Her voice is hoarse, all scratchy like dad’s is in the morning before his coffee. She’s leaning over the counter, one hand curled protectively around her abdomen.

Phil moves towards her instead, reaching in to hug her side. 

“Does your stomach hurt? I can make tea now, Alex showed me how to heat up the water and everything,” he says. He pauses, thinks for a second. “Oh, wait, is it Phil Junior? I know you told me he kicks you at night, but-”

“I told you to go back to sleep,” she says, wrenching out of his grasp with enough force to make him stumble. There’s something ugly in her voice; she sounds wrecked and wrong and not at all like anyone that Phil knows.

“Mom, wait, I-” He starts.

He catches one last glimpse of her tear-stained face before she turns and runs.

-When Phil thinks back on that night, he remembers the slam of the bathroom door and how cold the sheets had been when he’d finally gotten back into bed.-He doesn’t have a little brother.-“I don’t know why you’re acting like this is my fault,” his mother hisses.

He’s just gotten detention for the fifth time this month. The principal keeps tossing around words like ‘suspension’ and ‘expulsion’, and Phil’s thirteen, he knows what that means, but he doesn’t really care. 

This time, it hadn’t even been his fault.

His parents are arguing about him in their bedroom over a pile of unfolded laundry, and Phil has one ear against their door. 

He’s basically an expert at espionage at this point.

“Because it is, it is your fault, Joanne,” his dad replies, not really doing much to keep his voice down. “You’re overbearing, it’s stifling him.”

“That’s better than you- when was the last time you were home for more than a day? Always off on those goddamn business trips; it’s no wonder Phil’s been having all of these behavioral problems.”

Dad scoffs. “The kid doesn’t have behavioral problems, he’s just a mouthy little shit-” 

“Oh, god, I wonder where he gets that from-”

“-and, anyways, if he does have problems, he probably gets ‘em from you. You’re a friggin lunatic-”

There’s a bout of hushed whispering that Phil has to press closer to the door to hear.

“-keeps acting up in class, we’re going to have to pull him from school. Is that what you want?”

“Why the hell would I want that?”

More whispering. Phil can tell that his dad’s pacing the room by the way the shadows spill from the gap underneath the door.

“-just do whatever you want, Joanne. You always do.”

The sound of a crash makes him startle away from the door. Someone’s upended the laundry basket.

“-you can’t do this. I won’t let you ruin our marriage over Phil.”

She says his name like it’s a bad word, like it’s a plane crash or a hurricane.

Oh.

Something inside him breaks. -When Phil thinks back on that night, all that comes to mind is the look of surprise on his father’s face when he’d opened the door.-“I just don’t see why you have to go so far away,” Joelle says with a pout.

They’re parked in front of his house, making out in the backseat of her car.He’s got a hand up her shirt. 

It’s kind of, like, annoying that she’s bringing this up now.

Phil’s seventeen and he’s going away to college tomorrow morning.

“Jesus, I told you,” he says against her throat. “I’m over this stupid town. Can we get back to the tearful goodbye sex? That was really doing something for me.”

“I’m serious, Phil,” she says, sitting up. Ugh. “I graduate in a year, and then we could-”

“What, move in together?” He scoffs, arching an eyebrow. “Sweetheart, you know this isn’t going to last, right?”

“What do you mean, you said-”

Suddenly, the front door of the house slams open and makes them both jump. Phil can hear the rise and fall of his parents’ voices from all the way out in the driveway. 

His stomach drops.

“Hey, this was fun, you’ve been great,” he says in a rush, quickly disentangling himself from her. “But I gotta go.”

He’s out of the car before she can respond.

Whatever she says probably isn’t very nice, anyways.-His father knocks into Phil just as he makes it through the front door. He has a suitcase in one hand, a jacket slung over his shoulder. 

Phil can hear his mom wailing in the other room.

“You’re leaving? That’s it?” He asks. 

“Good luck in school, Phil.”

A minute later, he hears the car start and peel away into the street.-Phil finds his mom on the floor, amidst what looks like several plates worth of broken glass. 

“Must’ve been one hell of a fight,” he says, because she’s still sobbing. 

He’s not good at this, has never been good at this.

They fight all the time. He doesn’t even know why he’s trying.

“Mom? Let’s get this cleaned up, c'mon.”

”Get out,” she says, not looking at him. He doesn’t move. “I said get out.”

She throws a plate, and it crashes against a wall somewhere over his shoulder. Abruptly, he’s struck by how exhausted she looks, all worn down and scared and fucking helpless, exactly like how he feels after every bad night he’s ever had. 

Maybe this is the truth of it: they’re too similar to ever really understand each other. 

Phil feels like he’s ten again.

It’s not his job to fix his mother.-He leaves, and doesn’t look back.-After his forty-five minutes are up, Phil steps out of the office. 

He isn’t relieved, or whatever, but he also doesn’t want to die, which feels like a small victory. His appointment for next week is already booked.

Rita’s going to be so proud.

It’s raining: a fine, chilly October mist, and the city feels quiet even though it’s only early afternoon. 

Eight months since his last Groundhog Day.

He takes out his phone, dials a number that he never thought he’d call again.

“Hey mom,” he says. “It’s Phil.”

[sweetfuse]

itsqueermrmarvin replied to your photoset “vengefulgrl: moodboard for me and @aimeemannlesbian <3”

i'm shitting over the phil collins one omg

in this house we have no respect for phil collins......aimee fucking deserved that academy award.......

[unlikelylovers]

@itsqueermrmarvin said: heather is so tall

omg i know right?! when i was making it i kept being like... she has to bend so much to kiss her.... this is adorable. :’)