#why bother letting me open

[dailyjournalsblog]

There are very few things that enrage me more than realising that my secrets aren't safe. I don't believe a lot in sharing, sharing is the most intimate thing that I do. And to know that what I've told you isn't staying with you, it makes me crawl up on the inside of the mind and scratch the exact moment out with a knife when I decided to open up. I want to just stay in a corner. It hurts do bad.

[astrolavas]

my art style is too simple for this but just know that when i draw post-ttt hunter, in my mind he has central pink-brown heterochromia. like this, kinda:

[stuckinapril]

im sorry that people are being dicks. you really are making a difference. maybe i just dont follow that many people, but you post more abt palestine than anyone ive seen and im so glad that i follow you because i think youre awesome for it. !!free palestine!!

thank u babe <3 <3 it’s not even ppl. its just one unhinged chronically online person whose opinion means nothing to me. i rest easy knowing people like that will never be pleased no matter what u do, so i just do what i want anyway & laugh whenever something like that gets sent to me. its entertaining fodder like 90% of the time. also the irony in people like that hate watching your blog is literally that they will neverrr understand that hating on someone still gives that person power regardless of how much u hate them. hate is not the opposite of love. the opposite of love is indifference. but they can’t even manage that can they

[isfjmel-phleg]

😶

[catkin-morgs-kookaburralover]

cursed intrusive thoughts, knowing i hated the whole experience and wish to never never have it happen again: but what if we did it again but deliberately this time. and then didn't go to hospital. and didn't try to stop the bleeding.

[keptthepieces]

just another diary entry obvs

[meatriarch]

im still on my fuckshit but when i think of cc maria ( by extension also nosy maria but specifically noting the isolation aspect of cc );

can you imagine one day skimming the paper. its been a few weeks since all the commotion knowing your friends' had attempted to come find you but then were chased off. never actually heard or saw any of them, but you know they were around.

but you've been moved from the cells to a mattress upstairs. you're given more freedom, more wiggle room, you're allowed to do things - little hobby-type activities - you're given better foods, you're looked after by the older woman at the other house. the man who took you, who terrifies you still to some degree, slowly doesn't feel like such a stranger anymore, you're right to still be cautious around him but as the days, the weeks, pass by, there's simply a different air about him, and in the shack. lighter, in a sense.

you find yourself growing used to the new daily - the new routine. of waking to the sound of him getting ready for the day, of being left alone in there for hours sometimes, others trailing after him like a duckling, around the older womans' property, helping with an array of tasks. and you worry about upsetting her at first, unsure if doing so will earn a knife to the throat. you listen, you do as you're told, you find some kind of way to co-exist - all the while still, in the back of your mind, there's still a ray of hope,

that maybe, maybe, since the rest of them got away - that they're merely licking their wounds, that they'll get word out and even with all the silence since they had been on the property, there's that shred of hope that maybe? someone will waltz in, guns blazing so to speak, and you'll get out of this hell finally.

that is, until that day - that you're skimming through the paper, and you recognize yourself in a little column - and you realize you're staring at your own fucking obituary.

and in that moment everything seems solidified.

you're never getting away.

there's no point in it.

there's no one out there who are still trying to find you, get you back, bring you home, back to your mothers' arms, back to being an older sister, back to the circle of friends you loved so dearly.

you're dead.

not just to the world, but to those you loved - those who claimed to have loved you, too.

what else do you have at that point? where else do you go, even if you still tried to leave? who wouldn't look at you sideways for the blood that's already stained your hands? for the flesh caught between teeth?

who else is there, except the one murmuring encouragement and praise in your ear?

the only constant you've had in all these weeks? whose words rang true - clearly - that no one cared? that they abandoned you? left you there, didn't even care to make sure you were alive or not? only thought of themselves and got the fuck outta there without confirming if you were even still alive.

[meatriarchived]

i did not sleep yay for me im still on my fuckshit but when i think of cc maria ( by extension also nosy maria but specifically noting the isolation aspect of cc );

can you imagine one day skimming the paper. its been a few weeks since all the commotion knowing your friends' had attempted to come find you but then were chased off. never actually heard or saw any of them, but you know they were around.

but you've been moved from the cells to a mattress upstairs. you're given more freedom, more wiggle room, you're allowed to do things - little hobby-type activities - you're given better foods, you're looked after by the older woman at the other house. the man who took you, who terrifies you still to some degree, slowly doesn't feel like such a stranger anymore, you're right to still be cautious around him but as the days, the weeks, pass by, there's simply a different air about him, and in the shack. lighter, in a sense.

you find yourself growing used to the new daily - the new routine. of waking to the sound of him getting ready for the day, of being left alone in there for hours sometimes, others trailing after him like a duckling, around the older womans' property, helping with an array of tasks. and you worry about upsetting her at first, unsure if doing so will earn a knife to the throat. you listen, you do as you're told, you find some kind of way to co-exist - all the while still, in the back of your mind, there's still a ray of hope,

that maybe, maybe, since the rest of them got away - that they're merely licking their wounds, that they'll get word out and even with all the silence since they had been on the property, there's that shred of hope that maybe? someone will waltz in, guns blazing so to speak, and you'll get out of this hell finally.

that is, until that day - that you're skimming through the paper, and you recognize yourself in a little column - and you realize you're staring at your own fucking obituary.

and in that moment everything seems solidified.

you're never getting away.

there's no point in it.

there's no one out there who are still trying to find you, get you back, bring you home, back to your mothers' arms, back to being an older sister, back to the circle of friends you loved so dearly.

you're dead.

not just to the world, but to those you loved - those who claimed to have loved you, too.

what else do you have at that point? where else do you go, even if you still tried to leave? who wouldn't look at you sideways for the blood that's already stained your hands? for the flesh caught between teeth?

who else is there, except the one murmuring encouragement and praise in your ear?

the only constant you've had in all these weeks? whose words rang true - clearly - that no one cared? that they abandoned you? left you there, didn't even care to make sure you were alive or not? only thought of themselves and got the fuck outta there without confirming if you were even still alive.

[eeunwoo]

this is super on brand for me but today I’m experiencing debilitating frustration @ being misunderstood on the internet like some kind of loser 😩

[the-busy-ghost]

Knowing very little about clothing construction beyond the basics of how to hand sew in a straight(ish) line, combined with machine made fast fashion garments that fall apart easily, means it takes me waaaay longer to fix a button or a ripped pocket than it really should

[peapod20001]

LMAO QUICK. WIPE YOUR TEARS BEFORE SOMEONE SEEEESSS YOUUU

[dbphantom]

i just think he's neat but not neat enough to actually detail that minigun or you know actually finish this skdjhgkjhs my 40 year old babygirl

bonus cord because he was my warmup

anime mom hairstyle... i didn't draw his 'scouter' because i wasn't feeling it. that's all lol

my two favorite college professors are anarchists lmao... in my defense in high school (Real Life) my social studies teacher was a self proclaimed anarchist. I mean he was, tbf to him, not to make it sound like he wasn't. He'd actively go to protests and tell us stories about them and write rage against the machine lyrics on the blackboard. he was my 2nd favorite teacher even tho i was like. super socially awkward around him lol. he once talked to me about bor/derla/nds because he saw me wearing my Ze/r0 hoodie (the one with the Vau/lt/symb/ol on the shoulder) specifically T/P/S. he liked playing Cla/ptr/ap, and i mumbled something incoherent about maining At/he/na because i was freaking out lol.

my favorite teacher was actually my physics teacher... he once put on a long purple wig [because he was bald] to commemorate the start of our electricity unit. i miss physics a lot... anyway cord having purple magic and long hair totally isn't because of that wig or anything...

sometimes i forget this stuff. i don't have a lot of memories of high school, it's nice to be able to write down the parts i do remember and don't actively regret. i guess that's also how Cord feels some days.

[chocolaytte]

일상 생활  (daily life) - iii

[7-oh-ta1]

Y'all I won't lie I be sad asl all the time

[crowlore]

i promise y’all i spend more time thinking bout the strengths of/things i like about shit than i do shit talking it but honestly i dont get the whole “the creator had a hand in it” defense of bad adaptations and reboots..like be a fan that’s fine but don’t pretend the creator is infallible and incapable of making bad creative decisions just cause overall you like their work. criticism =/= hate and people who love and hold passion for things are allowed to find flaws in them even when their criticisms don’t come with an alternative to what they got. i wish i could enjoy bad adaptations as much as their defenders can and im happy that there are fans that can still like them but im a deeply critical person and while i try to go into things with an open mind im not against walking back my optimism once ive gotten through it.

another frankly obnoxious defense i see more than id like is the “well it’s the first season; they’re never the best” sentiment bc like. be so for real with me right now…in what world are we all going into shows with the expectation that it’ll be a waste of our goddamn time and that’s fine. like be so honest with me lol..nah. im not sitting through a whole season of television just to get mad at the end..

[lxvvie]

Couples Shit with Simon Riley (Part 2):

Having a giggle/chuckle fest almost every time you are intimate. It first happened at the beginning of your relationship when you would giggle every time you two kissed. It opened the floodgates, had let that nervous energy out, and Simon was right there chuckling with you. ("Heh—aw, fuck me.")

Swearing up and down that you're gonna fuck each other's brains out but as soon as you hit the bed, you and Simon are out like a light. The last time this happened, he was supposed to go down on you, but the next thing you know, you woke up to him fast asleep with his head on your stomach.

Kissing the bridge of his crooked nose and Simon turning into putty every time. Hell, kissing any and every dent, bruise, and scar, and making your man melt.

A nice round of horizontal tango turning into a cuddle session after you comforted Simon through a charley horse. Poor baby.

Initially making the telly watch you two make sex but turns out whatever you're watching was pretty decent after all so you guys are back to watching the telly again.

Getting hot and heavy one time but you were so intrigued with the mole you discovered on Simon's inner thigh that you spent the next half-hour or so trying to find other moles on his body.

Telling Simon that you "always wanted to do this" and when you get him hot, bothered, and hard, it turns out what you always wanted to do was measure him. His disappointment was immeasurable... even if he was interested to know the number.

Twinning in some way, shape, or fashion whenever you're out together.

Talking mad shit about his snoring but let him tell it, he doesn't say shit when you take up about 80% of the bed, covers, and sleep under him.

Speaking of talking shit, having disagreements like every couple does and when you go to bed, you're angrily cuddling each other. And yes, Simon still wants your kisses in the morning, even if you two are still mad at each other. Simon doesn't give a shit, you're still gonna love on him, dammit. And him on you.

Being mad with Simon when he arrived too late to get the creepy crawler that was harassing you. Harassing you by doing what it does best: be a creepy crawler. Simon tells you you'll have to conquer your fear one day. You tell him to conquer the couch tonight lmao.

Agreeing to disagree about the superior ice cream flavor in the house. It's too bad there's not any of his favorite ice cream in the freezer. There's some of yours, though. Why? You didn't get any because it was so superior that you wouldn't "dare sully it with your hands". Cue the judgemental stare and him eating YOUR ice cream afterward. Rude.

Scaring the ever-living shit out of Simon on the rare occasions he gets to sleep in. He woke up to you sitting up in bed with his mask and paint on. Oh, and he calls bullshit. He did not nearly fall out the bed. Nor did he jump. Okay, Simon.

Chilling and drinking with Simon. Finding out he gets hot and sweaty pretty easily and off comes his clothes. Waking up hungover the next morning and you're the big spoon to a naked and equally hungover Simon. Choosing to do fuck all but sleep it off that day.

Playfully calling or referring to him as the Missus, especially in front of your co-workers. When they finally meet Simon and ask him who he is, he replies in pure deadpan Ghost fashion: "The Missus".