theevilmaninyourcomputer

[theevilmaninyourcomputer]

someone stop him

someone stop him

[theevilmaninyourcomputer]

somebody stop him

someone stop him

[theevilmaninyourcomputer]

he can't keep getting away with this

someone stop him

[theevilmaninyourcomputer]

someone stop him

[theevilmaninyourcomputer]

The duel

[theevilmaninyourcomputer]

Hey, at the risk of sewing division: can we be fucking normal about old healed self harm scars? like I realize it's nuanced but you have to understand how it feels to be told that like. you have to cover up because your body is inherently triggering to other people.

[theevilmaninyourcomputer]

Just saw a trampoline park called jumpy jump land

[theevilmaninyourcomputer]

factories look like city skylines from a distance. In the same way that tsunami's can sometimes look like mountains. like land. like respite. the illusion of familiarity. a mirage on hot pavement. destruction disguised as home.

[theevilmaninyourcomputer]

it helps that I was a competitive swimmer in highschool, and I realized very quickly that 1. food is fuel and if you don't eat it has the potential to end very badly (literally drowning) and 2. body type is not an indicator of athletic ability. Some of the best distance swimmers I knew were fat. It's not an advantage to be skinny, I actually suck booty cheeks. I've lost races to literal children.

as someone who is genuinely completely neutral about weight fluctuation the concept of skinny tok is kind of funny to me because I just accidentally lost 10 pounds (at home for the summer and I hate the food in my house) and I got bummed last night because we got pizza and I couldn't eat as much as I typically would. you will truly never catch me feeling any type of way about my weight unless I am emaciated or morbidly obese. heroin chic has nothing on me.

[theevilmaninyourcomputer]

as someone who is genuinely completely neutral about weight fluctuation the concept of skinny tok is kind of funny to me because I just accidentally lost 10 pounds (at home for the summer and I hate the food in my house) and I got bummed last night because we got pizza and I couldn't eat as much as I typically would. you will truly never catch me feeling any type of way about my weight unless I am emaciated or morbidly obese. heroin chic has nothing on me.

[theevilmaninyourcomputer]

[theevilmaninyourcomputer]

I'm like if a girl was a faggot.

[theevilmaninyourcomputer]

Sorry for emo-posting last night.

[theevilmaninyourcomputer]

Realizing that I'm incapable of committing to a relationship and I let people get away because I only really value things when I realize they're gone. I love concepts and hypotheticals, not actual people. Not real people, with their feelings, and needs, and bodies. I pursue people who are comfortably out of reach because that way I never have to contend with what an actual flesh-and-blood relationship could mean, and when I'm confronted with one, I freeze up or run or lash out and push them out of my life. And when they're gone I miss them, and I chew on the possibility of what could have been.

[theevilmaninyourcomputer]

thinking about the bermuda triangle. what the fuck is going on down there.

[theevilmaninyourcomputer]

I climb the water tower at the end of the world.

Transient, the moment between spring and summer. April 13th and it’s 90 degrees. It’s gonna be a hot one, scorched bones and my shadow lingering, clinging to the stark white ruins of the neighborhood pool; weather’s weird around here. Half-asleep but never dreaming. There’s a throbbing behind my temple, undulating like the churning of the universe, like thunderstorm wind in the maple trees. I hope the bomb lands in Washington. Politicians-now-silhouettes silent on the steps of capitol hill. But the clover is lush and the mourning dove coos and if there's a heaven it oughta look like this one. Forget about the humidity. Forget about the end of the world. Let's climb the water tower up, up to the edge of the sky. The Promised Land, and I don't believe in God but I believe in you—sweaty palms and a stench like iron disappearing into the sun. In my imagination, we haul our aching bodies over the cloudbursts, over the shellshock, over the wreckage of our ghost-town. Long legs dangling, I can see it from here. Can’t you? The plastic flowers and roadside crosses. The charred backroads and bar-patios. The carcass of the house where I used to sleep. And I’ve seen your face bathed in stage lights, watched your head fill with smoke, red eyes screaming Jesus Christ, get me outta here, out of this dead-country where the sunsets look like oil spills, where nothin’ ever changes and no one ever leaves. And somewhere there's a half-drunk cup of coffee, an unmade bed, a book I'll never finish. Too busy pulling myself out of the event horizon. Picking the red dirt out of my teeth. You’ll feel better in the morning. But this time, I wake up retching.

[theevilmaninyourcomputer]

what being a 13 year old girl does to a man