#term illness

[myalgicencephalomyelitiscfstom]

[underwhelmingalchemist]

*mom voice* You can get these words back when you know what they mean

[inkskinned]

hey btw if you're in the USA at  2:20 p.m. ET on Wednesday, Oct. 4, they're testing the emergency broadcast system. your phone is probably going to make a really loud noise, even if it's on silent. there's a backup date on the 11th if they need to postpone it.

if you're not in a safe situation and have an extra phone, you should turn that phone completely off beforehand.

additionally, if you're like me, and are easily startled; i recommend treating it like a party. have a countdown or something. be surrounded by your loved ones. take the actions you personally need to take to make yourself safe.

i have already seen mockery towards any person who feels nervous about this. for the record, it completely, completely valid to have "emergency broadcast sounds" be an anxiety trigger. do not let other people make fun of you for that. emergency sounds are legitimately engineered to make us take action; those of us with high levels of anxiety and/or neurodivergence are already pre-disposed to have a Bad Time. sometimes it is best to acknowledge that the situation will be triggering for some, and to prepare for that; rather than just saying "well that's stupid, it's just a test."

"loud scary sound time" isn't like, my favorite thing, but we can at least try to prevent some additional anxiety by preparing for it. maybe get yourself a cake? noise cancelling headphones? the new hozier album? whatever helps. love u, hope you're okay. we are gonna ride it out together.

[pcktknife]

I know it's her canon texture but straight hair karlach doesn't sit right with my spirit I'm sorry 😔

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

(volume warning)

this was surprisingly fun to make so i'll probably do another

[autopsyfreak]

‘letting my intrusive thoughts win’

shut the fuck up.

you’re referring to impulsive thoughts, intrusive thoughts are undesirable and often horrific for the person experiencing them. you dying your hair randomly is not an intrusive thought.

if i let my intrusive thoughts dictate my actions, id be in jail for a long fucking time.

[aq2003]

[nonbinarymlm]

Please feel free to elaborate on your responses in the comments/tags/replies! Also please reblog to get a bigger sample size

[alexei-home-fromthewar-at-last]

I think a fair number of (able-bodied) people don’t understand that cripple is a slur. It’s a slur. It’s offensive. Physically disabled people can reclaim it *if they want to*, but they don’t have to. They can be offended by it if they want to as well. Both are valid.

Also, you can reclaim it FOR YOURSELF! You don’t just get to call other people cripples because you decided to reclaim it. That’s personal. Saying “oh, I can say that because I’m physically disabled” only applies if you’re referring to YOURSELF that way. You do not get to tell other people in your community what they should and shouldn’t be comfortable with.

[thedisablednaturalist]

Sometimes terms mean certain things and belong to certain groups of people and are not meant to apply to people outside that group. And that is on purpose and valid. You can make your own terms to describe your own experiences, you don't get to take terms from other people, especially people more vulnerable/less privileged than you. If multiple people tell you that the term is not for you, respect that.

When terms get used for many different situations they get diluted and trivialized. Remember "trigger"? It was a specific medical term and is now used to mean "something that pissed or upset someone". Brain fog is now turning into abled people just being a little sleepy or out of it, not literally a clinical term for brains not functioning correctly due to various illnesses. I tell someone I have brain fog and they say lol me too XD no you fucking don't. "Spirit animal" was taken from indigenous peoples so white people could make funny haha relatable t-shirts. Two spirit almost got taken by queer white people as well (although I think most people have backed off on that hopefully).

Not everything needs to apply to as many people as possible. You don't need to and can't relate to everyone. We can still support each other while respecting differences.

(Edited ver)

[geombyu]

GOJO SEES YOU WEARING HIS SHIRT !

Pairing. student!gojo x student!gn!reader

Genre. fluff, friends to hinted lovers perhaps

Word count. 0.6k | Warnings. swearing, the reader is smaller than gojo (the shirt is big on them)

A/N. i see a lot of these and like 7/10 times theyre smut LMAOAO so i wanted to write a fluff ver! i also did Not think id be writing for jjk but 😭 ig we are + not rlly proofread sorry :(

Today was Gojo's day off, and what better way to start it than waking up at four pm?

He was a busy guy - despite only being in high school - he's already taken on many jobs, it was only right he could get sixteen hours of sleep.

When he arrived at your shared dorm at twelve in the morning, you were already asleep, so when he got out of his room and laid his eyes on you wearing his t-shirt, he couldn't help but gasp.

"Oh, hey Satoru." You spoke, sparing him a quick glance before going back to cooking. His mouth was still wide open; he couldn't respond—he tried, but he couldn't. No sound could leave him. Who knew all it took for the strongest to be left speechless was the sight of you in his shirt?

You look back at him, seeing how his jaw was still on the floor, you realize it was probably because of what you were wearing right now.

"Oh! This? Sorry," you chuckle, "none of my clothes have been washed yet—call me gross, whatever—so I decided to steal from your wardrobe. Hope you don't mind." You stuck your tongue out before placing the eggs on a plate.

You moved to put the plate on the dining table, giving him a better view of you in his shirt. It fit him so perfectly, so seeing it so big on you absolutely made his heart melt.

There was a light tint of pink on your friend's cheeks now; you were so cute he felt like he was going to pass out.

"Are you okay with just eggs? There's more stuff but I wanna save them for next time—oh, actually, you might not be here tomorrow…" You mumbled the last part, choosing to ignore how he still hasn't responded to any of your sentences.

Gojo tried to get a word out, but all he could manage was a strange, strangled noise, which you respond to with a confused hum. No matter how much he tried, he couldn't organize any of his thoughts. He was screaming over and over in his head, but there was a thought slightly bigger than the rest (the rest which consisted of AAAA's, OH MY GOD's, and WHAT THE FUCK's)—that thought was: "holy fuck you're so adorable," which was also exactly what he just blurted out.

Now it was your turn to be flustered, "I—what?"

Gojo's eyes widen before he covers his face with his hands, his face now fully red. "Ignore what I just said," his voice was muffled, but you could still hear what he said.

You never thought you'd see the Gojo Satoru blushing so deeply with his face in his hands, but here he is. You laugh, "can you repeat that?" You were teasing him, I mean, it's not every day that this happens, but any more teasing and his heart might actually blow up.

"Y/n, shut up—oh my God—I hate you!"

"I thought you said I was adorable? Or do you hate cute things?"

He yells into the palms of his hands.

Although you're being bold right now, him calling you adorable caused your brain to shut down for a good millisecond. Gojo complimented you all the time, but somehow, this felt different.

You walk to where he's standing right now, hands still covering his pretty face. You put your hand on his, and the feeling of your warm and soft hands comfort him.

He could tell you wanted to pull his hands away, and while he didn't want that, he was so weak to your touch.

He had no other option but to give in, so he did. You put his left hand away first, then the right. With his hand still in yours, you softly spoke, "if that's the case, then you must really hate yourself."

Oh, he was so in love with you.

© geombyu

[myalgicencephalomyelitiscfstom]

[rosemarytrash]

okay and here's a kanaya. idk if I can fw the eyelashes long term

[spookberry]

Why is the Pool at Haunted High an actual giant cup of water tho

(Previous) (next)

[cuubism]

At first Hob isn't even sure the shop is open. The tiny door inset above a few steps, the utter lack of welcoming signage, the windows packed with unlabelled stacks of books--it doesn't exactly scream come in and buy something. As Hob steps up to the door, he really expects it to be locked, or for a sign to fall from the ceiling reading, abandon all hope here, mortal.

But the door to the bookshop--the name of which he's yet to determine, again with the utter lack of signage thing--just swings open at his touch, and he steps into a narrow hallway made entirely of--of course!--books.

Dust rises from the rug as he carefully makes his way deeper into the meandering corridors. The lightbulbs overhead are dim and in desperate need of replacement. The stacks are teetering and untouched. If he learned the place had been sitting here on this winding side street, exactly the same, for the past seven hundred years, he wouldn't be at all surprised.

And now Hob's marring its mysterious mausoleum aura by opening a jaunty modern coffee shop across the street.

Whoops.

Hence why he's bringing a peace offering before he accidentally starts a war over noise or crowds or god knows what else. Most places would probably be happy about increased foot traffic, but that's not the sense he's getting here.

This is all, of course, assuming he does find an owner, and not just a skeleton manning a till somewhere in this place long gone dark.

Hob doesn't find any customers. He does find several interesting-looking side hallways labelled things like, ~ the occult ~ , Oneiromancy, and "falconry -- advanced" and has to drag himself back into focus because the only thing worse than starting a turf war with a mysterious bookstore owner on his cafe's opening day is accidentally spilling the coffee he's brought--as a peace offering!--all over some ancient magical text.

"Hello?" he calls, finally giving up on the creeping about. "Anyone there?"

No answer. All Hob finds is a rickety set of stairs leading up the next level. So he ascends.

At the top is an even more cluttered room of books. This time in disorganized, unlabelled stacks on every surface. Waiting to be shelved, maybe? And in the center of it all, sitting cross-legged on the floor with several of these books spread out in a confusing array before him, is who Hob can only presume to be the owner.

An owner who is not dead, nor ancient and decrepit as Hob had kind of been picturing. Definitely not decrepit at all. Oohhhh dear.

The lithe, dark-haired, fey thing that is the owner tapes a note inside another book and says, in a distracted tone, "Can I help you?"

"Uh," says Hob, because he came here on a mission but he's gotten really turned around, "do you drink coffee?"

This gets him a raised eyebrow, but the shop owner does turn to look at him, staring up from his position on the floor. Christ he's pretty, spectacles and all. If there is a battle over street noise levels, Hob's going to lose by dint of caving automatically to those eyes. Pathetic.

The bookstore owner looks at the coffee in Hob's hand, then back at Hob's face. "Why?"

Hob thrusts the cup in his direction. "Here."

The owner looks alarmed now, but takes the cup, gingerly, peering at it as if he thinks Hob might have given him pureed nightshade instead. "Why?" he repeats, and then, because apparently his level of self-preservation doesn't extend to things like not drinking random shit thrust at him by strangers, takes a sip, and hums in appreciation.

"I-- fuck, sorry--" Hob sits down on the floor, which only makes him look more like a maniac to be honest-- "I just-- I just opened across the street? The cafe? So I just wanted to say hi and-- holy shit, is your name actually Dream? Were you a stripper in another life or something?"

This because he's finally spotted a tiny nametag pin on the bookstore owner's cardigan-- a cat curled around a book where the cover reads, I am Dream.

"Yes," says Dream, and Hob has no idea if that's in response to the first question, the second, or both. Both is terrifying to think about. As is the fact that Hob even asked that. "The cafe, you said?"

"Mmhmm," Hob agrees, cheeks burning. Oh, he's making a right mess of this, all right.

"Hmm," says Dream, peering at him over the coffee cup. This indicates nothing to Hob about how he feels about the cafe situation.

"I just worried that more noise and stuff might bother you," Hob rushes to explain. "You seem. To. You know. Like your quiet. Is all."

"It is my understanding that cafes and bookstores frequently have symbiotic relationships," says Dream evenly, though he's still watching Hob with unnerving intensity.

Well. That was easy. Maybe Hob was just worrying over nothing. Wanting to be liked when it wouldn't have been an issue.

"Alright," he says, letting out a breath. "Well. Good!"

"Good," echoes Dream, with a tiny, wry smile.

"What is this place anyway? I've seen no signage whatsoever."

"It's called The Library," Dream says.

Hob waits for him to explain. He doesn't. "Um, but... isn't it a shop?"

Dream raises an unimpressed eyebrow. "And?"

"So..." Hob says, "it's not a library."

"Purchasing something is but extended borrowing from the universe," says Dream, like that makes any sense at all.

But Hob decides there's other things he'd rather do with a pretty goth bookstore/library/whatever owner than argue semantics. "What do you carry, then?"

Now Dream preens like a cat. "The Library contains every book in print."

Now it's Hob's turn to raise an eyebrow. "That seems... unlikely? Impossible?"

Dream's self-satisfied little smile doesn't fade. "You are welcome to browse the stacks and let me know if there is anything you cannot find."

And, well, it's true that Hob didn't really get a sense of just how far back this place goes. It looks small from the street, but he's already wandered pretty far in just to find Dream, and has yet to reach a back wall.

"I will definitely have to come back," he agrees. And get lost. Definitely get lost. He's not even sure he can find his way out. He'll probably get swallowed up in Oneiromancy.

"In return I will be sure to visit your cafe," says Dream. He says it so strangely, like crossing into a foreign land. I will be sure to visit your court. "Are you open late?"

"On Thursdays, Fridays, Saturdays, yup," says Hob.

"Excellent." Dream inclines his head imperiously to Hob. "Thank you. For the coffee."

Hob figures he should let him get back to his labeling. He has plenty of his own work, too.

"Yeah, sure, any time. Good to meet you, Dream."

And then he scurries away before he can make it any weirder, makes his meandering way out of "The Library," and doesn't get lost in Oneiromancy.

This time.

--

The following night, Hob looks up from the till to find Dream standing across the counter from him. He looks much the same as before, with the addition of a long dark coat over his clothes, and no reading glasses this time. He offers Hob a tiny smile. "Hob Gadling."

Gosh, he looks, if possible, even prettier in the warm lighting of the cafe than in the darkness of his shop. Though to be honest, Hob had half-convinced himself he'd hallucinated Dream's existence. He hasn't seen anyone go in or out of the shop since.

"Dream," he greets, with a smile. "Anything I can get for you?"

"It is I who have something for you." He hands Hob what must be a book, though it's wrapped in brown paper. "Consider it a return gift. Or perhaps. A welcome."

And before Hob can even ask if he wants coffee or something, if he wants to sit down, he slips back out through the crowd and onto the street like a vapor, and then he's gone.

Hob tears open the paper. And then stares at the book in astonishment.

It's the book. Everyone has one. The book once read but since forgotten in the shuffle of time; title, author, too vague in recollection to pin down. Unsearchable. Never found, for all that the heart of the story might have lodged its way in somewhere deep.

It's one of those books that he remembers in blistering detail now that it's in his hands, that he read in uni but couldn't have found for the life of him on his own, and Dream's just handed it to him over the counter of his cafe.

He runs his fingertip over the midnight blue cover, the embossed lettering. In Search of Nightingales. And it's only as he looks up again at the hidden shop across the street, that he realizes he never told Dream his name, either.

[keejot-arts]

wolfwood wednesday monday