tomyrot

[tomyrot]

"what happened to your face?" walter jr 😈

          “What happened t’yers?” He tries to muster up real venom but the momentum peters out before he even finishes speaking and Walter simply cradles his sore and discolored jaw in his hand. After forty plus years of “what happened to your face?”, things are getting a little old and trivial for his attention. “Can I help you?”

@dustroads : THE ELECTRIC WOMAN : ACCEPTING i suppose

[tomyrot]

DATING SIM TROPES.

REPOST AND FILL IN WITH DETAILS ABOUT YOUR MUSE AS IF THEY WERE A CHARACTER IN A DATING SIM.

NAME: Dane Ike Jekyll THEIR PROFESSION: used to hunt supernatural creatures, in the process of legally prosecuting the organization who brainwashed him, private detective for supernatural individuals (very sparingly) WHERE THEY CAN BE FOUND: in. his. house. only there. nowhere else. outside is scary. FAVOURITE FOOD TYPE: if it takes less than three minutes to cook in the microwave or comes in a take out box, it’s his favorite FAVOURITE ALCOHOLIC DRINK: beer and lots of it, overproof liquor FAVOURITE TRAIT u wot WHERE THEY WOULD GO ON A DATE: dive bars, since people tend to mind their business, H O M E, an unfrequented park. if people aren’t there, it’s a safe bet IDEAL GIFT: anything he can wear or drink from is sure to be a smash hit, something you might give your dad WHEN WILL THEY DRINK ALCOHOL: any time. usually before work. and after. and sometimes during. HOW MANY DATES UNTIL THEY GO TO BED: 10? 15? a lot. however long it takes to earn his trust.

TAGGED BY: @driftlikesleep TAGGING: @familyglued, @ferdrayt, @bunburie, and literally anyone else!!!! anyone!!!

[tomyrot]

gangofgeniuses‌:

Starter for @tomyrot

     It’s not often that Toro (the current name he’s been saddled with– a little uncreative, sure, but he won’t complain) sees someone so casually hanging around by the side of the road in the middle of nowhere. Usually if somebody’s out this far, they either got dropped off (not so willingly) or they’re very, very lost. But here Baby is, looking as relaxed as if they were having a picnic– wait, that’s exactly what they’re doing.

     Now, Toro may not be able to eat, but he doesn’t mind sticking around to chat. He’s intrigued, now, wondering why this stranger is hanging around all the way out here. Do they know sign, he wonders? It might be worth a shot. If not, he’ll just pull out his notepad and communicate that way. So, he waves, sits down cross-legged, and signs off a quick <<Do you know sign?>>

          Baby has crafted a fire from a stick and their shoelace after six long hours of furious friction. It blazes hot and wild beneath a makeshift grill of sticks and tin foil. They’re cooking a large lizard, the thing’s belly shivering up and down as the flames threaten to burst through. They look up from under their heavy brows. Their newcomer is nothing they haven’t seen before.            They give Toro a half-hearted, flapping yes in return. It’s been a long time but they haven’t forgotten.            "You must be awfully old,” they comment aloud and poke at the belly of the lizard until it wheezes open, guts popping and hissing and squealing. Baby reaches out and grasps the boiling lizard in their bare hands, then rends it in half, even as steam rises from their skin.            <<Can you hear?>> they query with the lizard half dangling in their hand.

[tomyrot]

the electric woman.

dialogue prompts from tessa fontaine’s memoir in death-defying acts (part two).

i’m gonna make coffee. want some?

where you from, ___?

you don’t have to wait, but you do have to hurry.

why would you even talk about doing something like that?

just wait. wait until you don’t recognize yourself in the mirror anymore.

wake me up any time. seriously. i don’t care.

sometimes you’ve just got to do the hard thing.

we honor perseverance.

what happened to your face?

i don’t do drugs. not anymore.

she’s a real cutie.

she stopped drawing jesus and became a hippie, instead.

i make a very good angry hero.

something extraordinary happened last night.

i was on a team that snuck in to rescue people.

i’m scared of ghosts.

i guess i was just curious.

what did you learn?

the world is much more mysterious and magical than most of us think it is.

be whatever age you want.

there are things to say, and there are so many ways to say them.

what are you gonna do?

you know. same dumb shit.

don’t kill yourself out there.

what are you doing these days?

we have to stop ___.

we could call the cops.

you did what you had to do.

new worlds call for new yous.

health nuts these days hate cigarettes.

thank you for liking it.

you’re my alarm clock, honey.

i’ll come back later to try again.

how young were you when it happened?

i wish i knew something better to say than sorry.

what’s an adventure but an inconvenience properly regarded?

being old wasn’t what i wanted for us.

i wanna hear about all the things you do next.

[tomyrot]

driftlikesleep‌:

With the rising sun at Job’s back, his figure casts a long, narrow shadow over the meager heap of trash that used to be his beloved motorcycle as he lingers at the shed door. Though he knows the eerie feeling in his gut is, possibly, nothing more than his still-upset stomach trying to regain its footing - something tells him this is a bad idea. His mother’s voice still haunts him; Gene’s blurry face, as though Job were viewing him though foggy glass; the bitter bang of metal as he cried and yelled and hit his fists for anyone at all to hear and let him out.

Glancing over his shoulder, he briefly watches as Monty climbs up the stairs and, instead of relief, feels a wave of alienation wash over him, only barely managing to swallow the whine that creeps up his throat as he shuts the door behind him and crashes down on his ass, tears flooding his eyes.

Job can’t know just how long he sits in the cool darkness of the shed and weeps, but it feels like a long while. Try as he might, and try he does - each time the tears subside somewhat and he looks up to see the hot red cherry of Faith’s hood glint at him from the heap, all Job can do is bury his face back in his knees and try to will himself to vanish.

Eventually, the sun now well over the horizon, Job pushes himself up on two wobbly feet, his eyes kept to the ground; the plastic bag, filled with whatever little belongings he has left, dangling heedlessly from his hand, jittery with a three-day hunger yet too queasy to eat. He heads around back and slowly washes his pale carcass in the cold water, grateful for even the smallest relief of cleanliness, and no longer having to share the same space with the wreckage of his life. With a change of clothes at Monty’s advice, wet hair sticking to his scalp, Job finally begins his wary ascent to the watchtower.

Soon, the forest lays spread at his feet; the pines, which seemed infinitely tall only a few moments earlier, now like small plastic models far below - a child’s toy scattered across the floor. Were this any other day, he would pause to look, take the cold, fresh air in - but exhausted and distraught, Job makes no stops other than the one he makes at the door upon his arrival, stubbornly avoiding Monty’s gaze still.

“Thanks. I um, took a shower, but I couldn’t, uh…” lips twisting in a jagged little line, he sniffs, “do you need the space or, uh, can I take a look in there another time?”

          He holds a coffee mug in his hands but it’s empty, his mind so tangled in its own speculation that he’s forgotten to fill it. The door bangs shut on its loose hinges, stirring him away from his thoughts and into action. Monteith turns his back and attends to the coffee, filling his mug first and then, after a second thought, pulling another mug from a cupboard and filling that, too. The mug makes an unpleasant scraping sound when he slides it to Job across the counter.           "I don’t mind.” He shrugs and drinks his coffee. “It’s just for firewood in the winter. Here.” Monteith reaches at his hip and disconnects a carabiner from his belt loop. Nearly twenty keys jangle securely around the loop of metal, all topped with color-coded caps. He wrestles one with a fluorescent orange cap from the middle of the fray and sets it on the counter beside the proferred coffee mug. “Just make sure ya lock it up when you’re done, don’t lose the key. All that. Y’know.” Monteith is suddenly and distinctly uncomfortable, the reality of the situation still slowly coming over him. “It’s, uh, tight quarters in here, I know, but you’re welcome to stay a while. Considering, uh, all ya lost.”

[tomyrot]

Send me a 🚶 and I’ll introduce you to an NPC in my muse’s life.

[tomyrot]

driftlikesleep‌:

tomyrot:

         The back of Monteith’s neck itches. He releases his grip on the steering wheel to scratch at it, nodding in affirmation. “Well, it ain’t a watchtower anymore. It was decommissioned in 1999, long before I got to it.”          Curling over the steering wheel to peer out the windshield, Monteith cranes his neck to look up with Job as if he’s never seen the place before. After bolting from the mortuary, to Hank’s dismay, Monteith had hiked for hours through the parkland surrounding the town before finding the watchtower. It had been a decaying monster, creaking loudly and swaying in the wind, its busted windows looking eerily like missing teeth. Though half the staircase had rotted and fallen away, Monteith decided he’d rather die a quick and painless death from a two-hundred-and-ninety foot drop than suffer the blistering cold any longer. He’d made it into the relative warmth of four non-insulated walls and never left.          It had taken surprisingly little time to find a job in town without any personal identification and Monteith began pouring his meager monthly wealth and more into repairing the tower. Just under two months into the project, a ranger by the name of Dresden found him out; somebody had spotted him re-shingling the roof. Dresden was a gracious man and listened to Monteith’s story with an open mind and, by the end of it, they parted ways only with Dresden’s warning that he couldn’t guarantee another ranger’s acceptance to a squatter on protected land. Six years have passed and Monteith has yet to meet a ranger he couldn’t persuade.          “Real long story. I renovated it myself, even built that shed.” Monteith points to the white shed again and clears his throat. “Ahem. Runnin’ water, too, if ya need to, uh— wipe…off, wash yer clothes, brush yer teeth ‘r whatever.” 

Job gets it. He can feel the hard crust of vomits still clotted in his hair, taste the sour acid in his mouth, and knows he must still reek of sick. Far worse things have busied his distraught mind until now but, finally, with the crying having somewhat subsided and some distance put between himself and that cold, dark cell – he realizes that he must have stunk up Monty’s entire truck and that, regardless - he would probably at least begin to feel somewhat better if he weren’t wallowing in his own dried-up puke.

“Yeah. I will, thanks.” Nodding briefly, Job looks to his own hands lying idly in his lap, the dirt still beneath his nails. He tries, but finds that he’s unable to meet Monty’s gaze - looking, instead, to the white shed behind Monty’s shoulder, and even that only for a short moment before he’s withdrawn into himself once more. “Thanks for, um,” for what? It isn’t the man’s fault, Job is all too aware – but even then, thanking the man who ran him over to death feels just a little bit… well, off. “Thanks,” echoing in lack of better words, nose scrunched as he sniffs and wipes it, Job then finally slips out of the cabin, leaving the door open behind him as to let it air of his stench.

         Monteith lingers in the cab, watching Job approach the shed door in the side mirror before hastily tearing his gaze away from his receding back. He busies himself with gathering his wallet, keys and thermos from the center console, a fraction of guilt settling over him. Monteith isn’t meant to see this, not with all he’s been inadvertent witness to in the past hour; he owes Job this moment of privacy and more.           Leaving its doors open, Monteith exits the truck’s cab and makes his way up the long staircase wrapped around the fire watch tower. Adrenaline has gone and left him achingly tired so he takes his time and uses the railing as an aid. He should be using this time to process what he’s seen today but instead, with his mind unusually blank, Monteith enters the station and heads for the kitchenette.            A nearly full pot of cold coffee greets him. He dumps it in the sink, rinses the pot and prepares a new filter with startling calm. The routine is soothing, something normal to return to after such a tumultuous start to the day. The clock on the wall reads five thirty-two and the freshly risen, early morning sun bathes the living space in cool light. He takes comfort in it. Monteith puts the pot on, presses the switch on his dingy yellow Mr. Coffee and simply turns his gaze out the window to wait. 

[tomyrot]

gia (1998) sentence starters.

‘If I’d known you were looking for Marcia fucking Brady I would have stayed home.’

‘Yeah, I go, I go see, nobody sees me.’

‘I don’t know,

‘Does she remind you of your mother?’

‘No, she reminds me of my brother. He’s in jail now, thank Jesus.’

‘You don’t have any clothes on.’

‘Don’t change the subject.’

‘Where does everyone go when they have to go?’

‘Please don’t go.’

‘She was like a puppy who’s like “love me, love me, love me, love me!”’

‘I met somebody. Someone I really like.’

‘Take a deep breath, you are in for the ride of your life.’

‘How do you know my name?’

‘I’m God, I know everything.’

‘See? Even God knows your name.’

‘With a face like that she doesn’t need a name.’

‘Sometimes even I don’t believe it, but it’s all true.’

‘I do be the prettiest, prettiest girl. I do be that.’

‘Wanna go for a ride?’

‘Always the same story, always different.’

‘I think she was a different person to everybody.’

‘She wanted me there. She wanted me there all the time.’

‘Who died?’

‘Are you fucking a florist behind my back?’

‘You’re a model, aren’t you?’

‘Why, do I look stupid?’

‘Maybe we could party.’

‘You are the most beautiful woman that I have ever seen.’

‘All right, see you around.’

‘What the fuck was that?’

‘Look, I’ll come back, but I have to go home now.’

‘I need you– I need you now!’

‘Your ass is fat, honey.’

‘Life is so disappointing, hmm?’

‘Life will be there later.’

‘It’s the only answer I know.’

‘I should’ve been a rockstar, but I can’t sing.’

‘Please, vanish from my world.’

‘And all the people loved her and she was very, very happy.’

‘The thing you have to remember is that it’s not about you.’

‘You have to stay separate from what you’re doing, you have to be somewhere else. But I don’t know where that somewhere else is.’

‘I don’t think a woman is really a woman unless she’s a blonde, you know?’

‘You don’t have to be anybody. Because being somebody doesn’t make you anybody anyway.’

‘I thought you were sick.’

‘I am sick, darling. Sick and tired.’

‘Plenty of time to rest when you’re in the ground.’

‘She really looked dead, didn’t she?’

‘The great thing about the afterlife is nobody really cares how you look.’

‘It means that you’re half dead.’

‘Oh my god, did you just almost throw up?’

‘She’s out of her fucking mind.’

‘I was thinking about you.’

‘I don’t have a boyfriend anymore.’

‘We did. We did make it work.’

‘Just out of the blue, you’re coming home?’

‘You are a piece of work, you are.’

‘I hope she fucking dies in Philadelphia.’ 

‘I could do this, you know? I could be a fucking housewife.’

‘What is wrong with you, huh?’

‘I can’t live like this, and I can’t live without you.’

‘Because you’re a greedy fuck.’

‘Everyone’s aware of the drug problem, you haven’t been very discreet.’

‘I’m not supposed to talk. I’m supposed to just look beautiful.’

‘It’s hard to make out the difference between what’s real and what’s not real.’

‘I just wanted to make you smile.’

‘Please don’t leave me.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘I need you so much. Don’t make me do this.’

‘I don’t make you do anything. I wish I could.’

‘You could take care of me.’

‘This shit owns you.’

‘I know. Right now you love everybody.’

‘What do you do with a woman who has no love for you?’

‘Who took my fucking knife?’

‘What the fuck is wrong with you people?’

‘You don’t have to be perfect.’

‘You’re probably just tired, you know?’

‘You wanna fuck me?’

‘You give me money, I’ll let you fuck me.’

‘What, am I supposed to feel sorry for you because you’re beautiful?’

‘I just got so mad. I got so mad.’

‘You wanna blame somebody, you wanna blame me? Go ahead, knock yourself out.’

‘Everything I did, I did because I loved her.’

‘Well now I don’t know what to say.’

‘It’s okay, I heard you. I heard it all.’

‘Everything’s gonna be really good from now on, okay?’

‘Just– I gotta be alone, okay?’

‘Could you lend me a few bucks for coffee and toothpaste?’

‘You know what I think? I think there’s a reason for everything, and I think there’s a plan for everyone. And I think God has a big plan for me. Just not in this life.’

‘She must have been scared too.’

‘No, no more work for me.’

‘I just thought we’d have more time.’

‘That’s okay, we have all the time in the world.’

‘But today Ijust wanted to see your face. I missed your face.’

‘Maybe even settle down and have some kids, you know 

‘How straight are you now? I mean, are we talking about men?’

‘You don’t need a man to have kids.’

‘And besides, you were always the one that had my heart, you know?’

‘Yeah, I guess I did know that.’

‘No, read it, I want you to. Maybe you could make some sense out of it. I never could.’

‘I’m gonna see you again, aren’t I?’

‘I would like so much for us to have another chance.’

‘You were the one. You were the only one. And you are amazing.’

‘I really didn’t think she would do that. I really didn’t.’

‘Well, that’s my business.’

‘No matter how screwed up our lives may be, we’ve gotta take care of our children.’

‘You can handle it. You can handle anything that comes your way.’

‘Do you forgive me, ____?’

[tomyrot]

driftlikesleep‌:

Job, entirely lost to a fog of agony and self-pity, remains entirely oblivious to the road. He tries to watch it at first, nature big and open all around them, knowing he ought to seek out that which he knows makes him happy; but soon enough, even with Monty’s careful driving - he can’t help but picture a lightning flash of chrome and red slip directly under the truck’s wheels. He pictures the sound of crashing metal and crackling bones and cringes, shrinking even smaller in his seat as he curls up around his bag and squeezes his watery eyes tightly shut.

Only when the engine stills again does Job open them again, blinking at the forest all around them. Whatever he had been expecting, exactly, remains unclear - though it certainly wasn’t this. Cheek pressed to the window so that he may glance up the tall, tall wooden frame supporting the ranger station, he nods slowly as he finally turns his attention to Monty, as though not yet ready to process the information he’s been given. “You live in a watchtower?”

         The back of Monteith’s neck itches. He releases his grip on the steering wheel to scratch at it, nodding in affirmation. “Well, it ain’t a watchtower anymore. It was decommissioned in 1999, long before I got to it.”          Curling over the steering wheel to peer out the windshield, Monteith cranes his neck to look up with Job as if he’s never seen the place before. After bolting from the mortuary, to Hank’s dismay, Monteith had hiked for hours through the parkland surrounding the town before finding the watchtower. It had been a decaying monster, creaking loudly and swaying in the wind, its busted windows looking eerily like missing teeth. Though half the staircase had rotted and fallen away, Monteith decided he’d rather die a quick and painless death from a two-hundred-and-ninety foot drop than suffer the blistering cold any longer. He’d made it into the relative warmth of four non-insulated walls and never left.          It had taken surprisingly little time to find a job in town without any personal identification and Monteith began pouring his meager monthly wealth and more into repairing the tower. Just under two months into the project, a ranger by the name of Dresden found him out; somebody had spotted him re-shingling the roof. Dresden was a gracious man and listened to Monteith’s story with an open mind and, by the end of it, they parted ways only with Dresden’s warning that he couldn’t guarantee another ranger’s acceptance to a squatter on protected land. Six years have passed and Monteith has yet to meet a ranger he couldn’t persuade.          “Real long story. I renovated it myself, even built that shed.” Monteith points to the white shed again and clears his throat. “Ahem. Runnin’ water, too, if ya need to, uh--- wipe...off, wash yer clothes, brush yer teeth ‘r whatever.” 

[tomyrot]

driftlikesleep‌:

All Job manages doing for a while is simply nod at Monty’s words, his forehead bumping against his knees, and then fall right back into the silence and stillness of the parking lot. This way, with his eyes shut, the cicadas turn into nothing but a wall of white noise. They allow Job to distance himself from his terrible visions of both the living and dead, the horror of waking up cold and alone, unable to move or escape. Those’re just things that happen to ya, his aunt Patty would say. They don’t define who you are.

He doesn’t want to rely on Monty or, in this moment, anyone - but finds that, having to, what with his trembling limbs and total-loss motorcycle - he’d rather it be Monty. His approach to Job stands in stark contrast to Hank’s and Job, despite his grief, is in no position to look a gift horse in the mouth.

After a long few minutes, he finally gathers just enough courage to take a deep breath and sit back up; pink, wet eyes blinking rapidly against the morning sun. The tall pines all around make him feel small and infantile and Job hurries to collect his belongings and join Monty in the cabin of his truck, curled up in his seat around his clear little bag of things as though his life depends on it. “Okay,” he tells the man behind the wheel and sniffs his nose and nods his head.

          He waits until Job has shut his door before he turns the key in the ignition and lets the engine roar to life. It isn’t deafening in the cab and the sudder and hum has become nothing more than background noise to Monteith, but he is still dinstictly aware of his passenger and the circumstances which have led them here. He pulls out of the parking lot at a snail’s pace, taking care to jostle the vehicle as little as possible. He takes backroads and dirtroads, anything to avoid the highway that hosted this mess.            The firewatch has one two-mile trail passing it by and at the half mile mark, Monteith grinds the truck to a stop at its base. Made entirely of wood, the structure stands some two hundred and eighty feet above their heads. Her silent, unwavering architecture puts Monteith somewhat at ease. He doesn’t exit the cab right away, instead pointing to a small white shed at its base. “I got a few pieces of your bike in there,” he points up, “and a book or two up there. You want me to just...ahem...give you the keys and leave you to it?”

[tomyrot]

gangofgeniuses‌:

Starter for @tomyrot

     “Oh. I’m very sorry, I hadn’t realized…” She feels a little bad for bringing the whole ‘home’ thing up now. At least she has a place to go back to– or, at least, she thinks so. The planet didn’t seem like it was on the edge of catastrophe when she left, so that’s probably a pretty safe assumption to make. (At the same time, maybe it’s worse to know home’s still there but she’s not.) 

     Still, he seems to be doing pretty decently for himself despite all that. Maybe she shouldn’t feel so guilty– after all, it’s not as if she had any way of knowing. “So, what have you been doing since you came here? I’ve gotten a job… an apartment… the expected things.”

          Alphie scratches his jaw. He doesn’t care if she cares about the destruction of a planet nearly eight light years away, in the same way he wouldn’t care if Earth met the same fate were it not his only source of survival.           He waves a hand to dismiss the line of discussion altogether. "I have an apartment, too, but I spend more time driving trucks than I do living in it. I like drugs, too, they make being here much easier. I’m surprised everyone isn’t using them.”

[tomyrot]

driftlikesleep‌:

If he wishes for it hard enough, maybe he’ll disappear. It’s never worked before, but that has never stopped Job from keeping on trying either.

It doesn’t, of course - but, for a while, Job can pretend as though it has. The monotonic chirp of the cicadas fills his ears and in the darkness of his closed eyelids, he can pretend as though none of this is really happening. It doesn’t last long, but it does give him just enough distance from the bottomless pit of pain burning in his innards to actually consider Monty’s question.

He does want to get the fuck out of here. Whether or not he wants to do that with the man under whom’s truck he’d slipped is an entirely different question, but Job isn’t exactly in a position to be picky and, anyway - the promise of retrieving more of his belongings is one he can’t refuse. So he nods and takes a deep breath and finally pulls away from his knees if only so that Monty could gauge his answer, wiping his red, wet face over the back of his hand like a clumsy child coming down from a tantrum, and swallows a few deep breaths in an attempt to soothe the shaking of his shoulders and the hiccup of his voice.

“Yeah,” he breathes with a shiver and sniffs his nose, suddenly all too aware of the melodramatic performance he’s just given these two men, and finds himself unable to meet Monty’s gaze. “Yeah, please get me outta h-here.”

          Monteith looks to the mortuary, to Hank’s office window where he can see the old man’s face peeking between the curtains, his unkempt brows two huge waves of concern. It’s a look Monteith knows well and he shifts to Job’s side, putting his back to Hank and hiding the young man from view. After such a traumatizing and unpredictable experience, Job has earned the right to a bit of privacy.            Reaching behind himself, he picks up the plastic bag of Job’s things and sets it gently at his feet. “Whenever you’re ready,” he says quietly, so only Job might hear him, “I’ll be in the truck. Take however long you need, I got all the time in the world.”           Monteith makes short work of the parking lot, fumbles the keys on his belt, and then climbs inside the cab of his truck. The door shuts behind him with a resounding bang and he’s suddenly left in the relative silence of the cab. It feels almost eerie and his ears ring, but he doesn’t start the engine and simply lets the quiet wash over him.

[tomyrot]

First Name: Carmen (Godard, 1983)

[tomyrot]

i didn’t want to get blood on your floor. - charles / jean-marie

         Jean-Marie is mad enough to bark, her upper body tight with tension and exasperation, a thin sheen of sweat highlighting her forehead. As if she doesn’t have enough loose ends to tie up after office hours, here’s just one more man to ruin her night and her mother’s handmade towels. She holds a hand to her forehead and thanks God her son isn’t visiting this weekend so he might not witness this kind of careless behavior.          “I can clean a carpet but I can’t make my mama spin another towel, can I, god rest her soul?” She makes a gesture, like a wrangler slapping the ass of a stubborn cow. “Now, git. In the kitchen, go on.”

@armsdealing - GOODFELLAS - ACCEPTING

[tomyrot]

GOODFELLAS (1990) feel free to change details and pronouns as you see fit. some nsfw and triggering material.

what the fuck is that?

maybe you got a flat.

he’s still alive.

as far back as i can remember, i always wanted to be a gangster.

it was there that i knew i belonged.

my father was always pissed off.

the way i saw it everybody takes a beating sometime.

that was the first time i had ever seen anyone shot.

i got to toughen this kid up.

you might know who we are, but we know who you are.

i’m not mad, i’’m proud of you.

never rat on your friends and always keep your mouth shut.

go fuck your mother.

you’re really funny.

you’re a funny guy.

what the fuck is so funny about me?

get the fuck out of here, ___.

i almost had him.

when i leave my house in the morning i look over both shoulders.

fuck you, pay me.

i’m trying to bang this broad. help me out.

i couldn’t stand him.

you got some nerve standing me up.

i forgot. i thought it was next week.

i thought you would stand me up.

what happened? are you alright?

why don’t you go inside and get yourself together. clean up.

i swear on my mother, if you touch her again, you’re dead.

don’t shoot.

i got to admit the truth. it turned me on.

welcome to the family.

what kind of person doesn’t call?

leave him alone. he’s suffered enough.

why didn’t you call?

normal people don’t act like this.

give me a break. she’s drunk.

i don’t know if i could live like that.

god forbid, what would happen if you had to go to prison?

nobody goes to jail unless they want to.

come on, don’t worry so much, sweetie. come here.

you want some coffee?

i need money to go shopping.

let me shoot him in his fucking mouth.

i didn’t want to get blood on your floor.

i’ll make you something to eat.

tell me, where you been? i haven’t seen you.

you don’t eat much, you don’t talk much.

what do you like, the leg or the wing?

what happened to the car?

so he got shot in the foot. big fucking deal.

something’s going on.

i look in your face and i know you’re lying.

get out of my life. i can’t stand you.

that bandage on your foot is bigger than your fucking head.

go fuck yourself, ___.

don’t take shit from nobody.

you got a problem with what i did?

don’t hang up on me. i want to talk to you.

wake up.

i’m crazy enough to kill both of you.

___, take it easy.

do you love her?

you know i love you, don’t you? you’re all i want, ___.

please, put the gun down.

what are you, fucking crazy?

i can’t stop people from visiting me.

in a month we’ll be fine.

we won’t need anybody.

you don’t have to go anywhere. make them wait.

go get yourself something nice.

it’s an occasion. have a drink.

i know something happened.

i wish you lots of luck.

he’s a good fella.

he’s gone. he’s gone.

i can’t fucking believe it.

there was nothing we could do about it.

the drugs are making your mind into mush.

i almost got into an accident on the way here.

everything’s gonna be all right in the morning.

you’re paranoid.

i need a hit.

don’t “yeah, yeah” me.

do you think you can come over, fuck me, then leave?

please stop feeding the dog from the table from the plate on top of it.

i got to go home and get my hat.

forget your hat.

only cops talk that way.

you don’t want to talk, don’t talk. i don’t give a fuck.

i’m clean.

you looked me in the eyes and lied to me.

you’re all i got.

i really, really need your help. i really do.

if we stay around here we’re dead.

i just got scared.

i ordered spaghetti with marinara sauce and i got egg noodles with ketchup.

i’m an average nobody.

i get to live the rest of my life like a schnook.

[tomyrot]

driftlikesleep‌:

This is what he gets for denying God’s will. This is what he gets for only ever wanting to lead a life of peace; for not wanting to abide by God’s plan of kill or be killed; for wanting to lead a normal, anonymous life filled only with love and kindness. Job has been trying to avoid this realization for a long time now, only to find that he simply cannot ignore it anymore: he is not, and never has been, in God’s favor. God hates and has condemned him to a life of misery.

Rejected by yet another parent. Job crumbles down to the pavement, his face in his knees, a fistful of black hair, still damp, in each hand, tightly grasped. “Job,” he whines into his knees without thought. The man he refuses to look at as he stands before him is, as always, nothing but an unsuspecting sap who’s been dragged into the steaming heap of impossible horseshit which is Job’s life - something he undoubtedly does not deserve. Still, despite going against his very nature, Job seems unable to acknowledge anything beyond his own immediate pain. “Th-this,” he hiccups, hating the stutter in his voice, “please – please just –” and, realizing that there’s nothing that he wants to say, merely shakes his head and falls silent.

          A man rising from the dead is leaps and bounds a different ball game than Monteith’s reintroduction to the world but he can still understand this clear tableau of misery before him. Empathetic as he is, he’s been leaving several feet of distance between himself and Job, still well aware of how unpredictable the situation has become. He takes just a few steps closer until he’s a foot longer than an arm’s length away then sits on the damp pavement before the young man.           He sits with him in silence and the cicadas seem to awaken all at once, their morning song forming a barrier of sound that just reaches the edge of the parking lot. “You want a ride out’a here, Job?” he questions softly, unsure if it’s in bad taste, considering the circumstances which led them here. Though Job can’t see it, Monteith points to his tractor unit at the treeline. “I got some’a your things at my place. I picked ‘em up out’a the road...yours if you want ‘em.”

[tomyrot]

/jazz hands! jazz hands!

I don know what I’m doing here again but this is a permanent plotting call. You read that right. Plotting! An exchange of ideas, the thing we’re all here for. You like this and I’ll magically appear in your IMs and establish a super weird vibe.