thrift-store-shrek

[thrift-store-shrek]

How do I write?

A poem for writers and other creative who struggle with a creative block.

how do I write?

Such a mess of a mind,

Scrambled like eggs,

I find myself in a bind.

How do I write?

Come forth great ideas,

From the depths of a messy hell,

The need to leaking from my ears.

How do I write?

I lie there so patiently,

All for the motivation to come,

The lack of it dastardly.

How do I write?

Is it simply not in my nature,

Something never gained to be lost,

Imagnary pig lead to slaughter?

How do I write?

Surely if I count to three,

Some scrap will come up,

Nice and burning hot for me!

One.

Two.

...

How do I write?

Why can't o go forward?

Is it too much to ask for,

A simple request so untoward?

How do I write?

If I just sit here and scroll,

Useless vile media filling my mind,

This rot taking its toll?

How do I write?

Such a mess of a brain,

Craving one thing,

But all attempts to do it going down a drain.

How do I write?

Perhaps I could vent,

Go onto a site just like me,

The time came and went.

How do I write?

I've found myself here,

Looking through posts,

All with good cheer.

I can't find how to write,

But I have some idea.

Perhaps a poem will do,

Maybe then my mind will clear.

[thrift-store-shrek]

"...Martha Stewart killed John Lennon?"

I sat there, just staring. I felt nauseous, despite the fact I was lying on my kitchen floor. Perhaps the cat sitting on my chest has something to do with it. However, that couldn't be right, because I only had allergies to cucumbers and red onion. Cats were safe, cute, a like fluffy liquid bricks.

"...Frog Tart, what is going on?"

I speak my inquiry to said cat, Frog Tart. He just settles down, his tiny little ginger head, filled with nothing but air and the vague notion of cheese, tucked under his fluffy tail.

Nausea. Right. I needed to throw up- wow, I needed to throw up. I swallow the bile, a disgusting action many people do but won't admit, and lie there.

"...Froggie boy, America's baking sweetheart may have gone to jail for more than tex evasion."

Frog Tart doesn't reply. He's stupid, like a brick. Hes built like one too. But my mind starts wandering. Hm, Jail...

Jail!

It sit bolt upright, and Frog Tart proceeds to use me as a springboard. For a moment, air isn't going in as it used to, and then I can breath.

"I can be a superhero with this."

Much like the notion of cheese Frog Tart has rattling around his brain like a DVD Video logo bouncing off corners of a screen, people always have those thoughtsof becoming a superhero. Raised on books, films, comics, manga, and shows of those talented individuals who fight for the right thing, like the downfall of greedy corporations and governments, or to catch that guy in a suit trying to lower his streets property value, the people have always thirsted to become the one to do it.

Down with the Neighborhood Watch Association and all that.

But now I have the power to see the truths of everything. Brilliant flashes in my brain that suggest an oncoming headache, answers to all my questions popping up as soon as I need them.

I could do anything now!

--

At least, that was what I thought six hours ago.

Its too late to say "sike" I think. Frog Tart would agree if he had the words. Or brain cells.

As it turns out, while Martha Stewart did in fact kill John Lennon, it was an inside job. Apparently, a British boy with a nice face and good voice was a threat of enormous levels. So Martha, thirty-nine years old, was hired by the government to get rid of him.

Just like the sudden death of Lennon, God bless his soul and may he be at peace, I am suddenly now a supervillain.

Burdened with the knowledge that parasites didn't eat JFK's brain, and that Harvey Lee Oswald was a fall guy. I decided to not look in to that after I fell over after seeing the sentence "extraterrestrials wearing high-quality leather jockstraps" flashed in my mind. Some things are better left unsaid. And unseen.

I could pour bleach directly onto my brain, I would.

Instead, I've got sewer smell in my hair. At least Frog Tart is with me.

"Well, Froggy, what to do?"

I ponder aloud. I stroke my dumb, loyal cat. Ginger through and through. Not a thought behind those eyes of his. The void stares back if I look into them.

He meows. He's hungry. I am too. I nod sagely.

"Yes, food. Then maybe world domination?"

I joke around. Frog Tart looks up at me, and suddenly I am reminded that cats aren't as dumb as we think. Not a thought behind those little eyes of his, and yet there a chill down my spine.

"...I was kidding, but the truth is what matters, right?"

Something we were taught as children: always tell the truth. Never lie, not even little ones. Did you steal that cay? Yes. Did you bite him? Yes. Did Martha Stewart kill John Lennon? Yes.

Would I be able to overthrow the government?

Yes.

I have to lie down again. The sewer smell is going to sink into my skin, and I'll smell like what a US presidential candidates pants do. Ew.

A lot can change in six hours. Next time, I'll be more careful when I pray I can skip finals.

"...I should expose how corrupt universities are."

Frog Tart bats my face with one furry orange paw like you'd bat a wicket in badminton.

No more finals, anyway... on the plus side, I know what Banksy looks like.

...on second thought, that's one truth I'd better not tell. I can excuse lying by omission.

Sometimes.

I decide to lie there for a few hours in the sewers, a brief moment of respite before I go full Supervillian and overhaul the entire government just to expose what's really in Hot Cheetos.

You have one super power: The ability to know without fail what the truth is to any asked question. You planned to help the world as a super hero. It took you six hours for the government to declare you public enemy number one and the most deadly super villain alive.

[thrift-store-shrek]

the curse is ADHD and we keep forgetting about it because we're doing lore dives into FNAF again

I'm just saying, if there's a curse that runs along your family line and you don't tell your kids about it, how the hell are they supposed to go on a quest to stop it?

[thrift-store-shrek]

I did an entire assessment on snow leopards and how they evolved to survive in their climate

And when I tell you the things that were said about these cats is insane I beg you to research it yourself because they ARE just springs, rubber, spite, and airbags. That is all.

[thrift-store-shrek]

"Up you go, young'un."

The old man's voice was raspy. The child in his ratty old shirt, bound at the wrists with rope that chafed too much, simply obeyed.

This was the punishment for stealing, as it had always been.

The kingdom wasn't a home to those who were poor, who were sick, or to those who fell on hardship. It was praised as being a kingdom of peace, but in a place where child beggars couldn't even get away with stealing a single apple to sustain what little lift they clung to, there was no peace in the hearts of those who suffered.

In the midday sun, the sword glittered, beautiful and deadly as always. Mythical takes inscribed on the heavy scabbard, the shining blade hidden from watchful eyes. The crowd jeered, cruel and unfeeling towards the child. He looked out as he mounted the round execution table.

The old man unbound his hands and sighed. He was getting on in his years. Soon, he too would touch the sword, his debt to the king repaid. Some criminals faced fates worse than death, and becoming an executionor of children was one of them.

The boy, messier braided hair falling about his shoulders, looked upon the blade and felt the foreboding sense of wrongness just as many others had felt before.

To kill a child for trying to feed himself in a country that prided itself on being peaceful and just. What justice was this?

The old man watched with weary eyes, his own braids grey at the roots, watching as the boy who reminded him of himself approached the sword.

"That's it, boy, it'll be painless from 'ere."

A few last words of comfort. What little he could give.

The crowd before them hooted and hollered, shouting insults that felt like papercuts across the boys skin.

Was this it? Was this the price to pay for simply wanting to stay alive?

At least he would die in the summer, while the sun warmed his skin and the aches that spring rain brought burned away.

As the ropes fell away from his wrists, the boy reached out to touch the sword, his fingers grazing the hilt. He closed his eyes and waited, just waited, for his assessment to coat the ancient wood.

But nothing happened. For a moment, the boy wondered if he'd touched it right, before the crowd went silent and the old man looked on in wonder.

The boy grasped the hilt this time, and that's when his head split open with the force of an invaders presence.

I've waited thousands of years for you, little one.

A light so brilliant spilled from the boys eyes, liquid gold pooling in what once was plain brown depths. A sea of summer light washed through him. His bones were on fire. Was this death?

You are my chosen one, to bring true peace to a country, to a kingdom, so wretched.

The glowing stopped, and the crowd murmured, on the edge of a knife. The pressure faded from the boys mind, and he looked up at the executioner.

The old man stared in wonder before he spoke softly.

"Now that, boy, wasn't something I've ever seen."

The boy glanced at the sword, noticing he was still holding the hilt.

"It called me it's chosen."

Despite how disused his voice was, it now carried with weight. It washed over the crowd, and caused them to fall silent. A boy chosen by the sword. No Arthur like in tales, and no image of a great warrior. Just a child, a mere child, chosen by a sword.

The old man grasped the boys upper arm.

"Take up the sword. It's yours now."

"But what about the others?"

"Ther won't be any others. Not anymore."

The boy glanced at the sword. It was heavy. He looked back at the old man.

"But I'm a child."

The crowd began to pick up in sound again, though cheering, clapping, and roaring. It seed they thought it would be best to support the young chosen one. How late they were.

The old man kneeled this time, letting go of the boys arm and gently resting a hand on his shoulder.

"This burden, young'un, you won't bear it alone. Nor will you fight before your time. No chosen one ever fights before the Gods say so."

"But what if they make me?"

"No God would out the weight of justice on one so young."

The crowd, ever eager to meet the new warriors, began climbing the raised wooden dias, hoping in vain for even a glance of his molten gold gaze. The old pan looked away for a moment before her continued.

"At least, not on my watch."

The boy now noticed the crowd too, and quickly hugged the sword to use his meager weight to lift it out if the dias. It was heavy. But with the sunlight coursing through his veins, the strength of a man filled him, allowing him to lift the sword just as the old man swept to pick him up.

The old man was surprisingly strong.

The two escaped the dias, but not the city. Word quickly spread, and the hunt for the boy-warrior with the sword began.

Though not in earnest. Darker things were at play, for with the unveiling of a chosen one, the evil that follows must rise too.

So sat the king on his gilded throne, a cheap imitation of the carvings on the sword, biding his time.

The old man knew the king well. He knew of his greed, of his hatred for the poor and struggling. He knew of the envy now growing in the kings heart.

So he saddled his horse and mounted the boy on her. She was a beautiful thing, tall and lean. She would carry them both, and the sword.

Into to the forest they rode, swallowed by the trees and hidden by the will of the sword itself.

The sun could reach them here, and the boy would find a sense of peace for himself at last.

He will grow, thought the old man. But first, he will be a child. A child with a sword. Destiny will not stop, but it will wait.

Anyone who tried to wield the legendary sword would instantly turn to dust. Your country uses this as a method of execution. Little did you know, you were the chosen one it was waiting for.

[thrift-store-shrek]

Love how tumblr has its own folk stories. Yeah the God of Arepo we’ve all heard the story and we all still cry about it. Yeah that one about the woman locked up for centuries finally getting free. That one about the witch who would marry anyone who could get her house key from her cat and it’s revealed she IS the cat after the narrator befriends the cat.

[thrift-store-shrek]

I've never seen One Piece but I DO know there's this guy called Usopp who has a REALLY long nose.

And I've got one questions for fanfiction writers because I know of the things they've done to Sanji (twink) and Zoro (muscle dad[dy])

[thrift-store-shrek]

Trans things that make sense pt1

My deadname means "pure and innocent" right. It's Latin. Search it up if you wish, it's going to be one of my middle names. But I won't say it here.

My current name (Oberon) is the name of the very much not pure and innocent Fairy King from Shakespeare.

I noticed about two weeks ago with my good friend that around the time I realized I was transgender, I began losing my innocence and acting out. I started vaping, hanging out with Bad Influences, and started to be more rebellious than before.

When I fully realized I was transgender, it was like my deadname fell off of me and I fully knew I was Oberon, A Boy. That was the time I made some of the worst decisions of my life. I'm a mot better now.

But the symbolism of losing my innocent and what made me "pure" (not sex) and embracing myself as Oberon, a child made of chaos and rebellion, full of tiny armies of words to wreck havoc on my poor mother (bless her soul, she did a great job and still does when it comes to dealing with me.) Is interesting.

Especially when you hear the story of my deadname.

It came to my mother in a dream, where toddler me going to kindergarten told her what my name was. When I realised my name was Oberon, I dreamed that too. I dreamed of a snake shedding it's skin and becoming a housecat with a collar that said Oberon.

Weird dreams, insane symbolism, interesting stories.

[thrift-store-shrek]

I am drunk and Tumblr I love you so much ok? Even if you can't love yourself remember that I, and others, love you so much. It hurts to love, and to hurt is to care. Hurting is the most raw form of emotion you can have. Loving yourself is pain, and it hurts so much, but you can do it. Existence isn't just pain, it's the pain of loving others so much you feel pain for them.

[thrift-store-shrek]

I started uni and let me tell u its something Else

My like 60something lecturer said "bullshit" like 8 or 9 times in 50 mins and said the phrase "Elon musk put satellites in the sky and now thousands of years of history with the stars has been changed. Bullshit." And I swear I transcended to a new plane of existence

[thrift-store-shrek]

"He proclaimed he and he alone heard the word of god and spread it to the people, and his followers, The Weepers, believed in him, and those who didn’t were being influenced by darker things, such as the French."

[thrift-store-shrek]

it has come to my attention that having untreated adhd means ive written over 7 pages of pure nonesense, 14 pages of actual studying, and i've had the macarena stuck in my head for the last 8 hours AND i've been up since 8 am (wild)

[thrift-store-shrek]

[thrift-store-shrek]

“For the last time: Humans are not monkeys. They’re apes. Monkeys have tails. Humans do not. If you’re going to insist on being condescending, at least try not to sound like a moron at the same time.”

[thrift-store-shrek]

the fact he's also only immortal because God literally is disgusted by him makes this SO much funnier.

But the lack of response from the siblings about his death really hit me like a ton of bricks inside a sack that says "HA HA" in neon green spray paint

Five fans getting hyped for season 3: aww man, look at this pensioner in his old man clothes. peepaws on vacation. everything is great! I hope we get to see him relax this season :):):)

Klaus fans: I want to see this man die.

[thrift-store-shrek]

tbh my life has been ruined by first generation immigration, isolation, capitalism, hustle culture, derealisation, private schooling, patriarchy, mental illness, compulsory heterosexuality, physics class, religious trauma, and laura neal but at least i have nice tits

[thrift-store-shrek]

and now for my next trick i will think until i’m suicidal