(heaven is you,)
(heaven is you,)
(heaven is you.)
everything else was stressing me out so i drew a bunch of hands to relax (thus me not bothering to polish them) (did its job for the first couple hours then i got anxious again)
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I just realized that I'm defining 'healing' by 'feeling and functioning a little better than I did before' when from any other point of view I literally just escaped, shut myself in, never talk about what happened, get scared of everything, don't make human connections and re-live past situations as if they're still here. But I am feeling a little better than I did. So I'm having good progress I guess.
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I imagine Machete's really only calm when he's sleep deprived AF and Vasco would just spend long nights listening to Machete's insane ramblings because he likes seeing him happy.
That's such a cute thought! Unfortunately I'm inclined to believe it's the complete opposite, insomnia makes him progressively more restless and agitated.
You know how after a sleepless night you sometimes get this second wind in the morning? You feel even more productive and motivated than you usually do and aren't tired at all, like a brief illusion of euphoria and invincibility. I think if he skips sleep he might initially get more self-assured, talkative and less inhibited (similar to being a little tipsy). This is probably the point where you might get those insane ramblings. But eventually he'd start going downhill and the cushioning that softens the edges of his anxiety, irratibility and neuroticism when he's in good health and good mood, would wear away and he'd become harder to deal with. He'd make rash desisions and obvious mistakes and get emotional outbursts that he'd regret later. And finally he'd fall into sort of confused, irresponsive and stuporous state where he's still trying to keep going but isn't actually getting anything done anymore, it isn't fun to watch.
He's happiest, calmest and at his best when he's well rested and properly fed. He's able to keep himself running on fumes for a considerable amount of time, mostly by taking several short sneaky naps per day. Rationally he knows this is detrimental to him and that he ends up doing subpar job when he'd tired and cranky, but it's a bad habit that seems impossible to correct.
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on a less serious side, bad and foolish having witnesses who are somewhat normal and regular to their usual strange and deranged antics is so hysterical. bad playing the role of kidnapped and felon this time around, letting himself get captured, pretending to be soooo guilty and talking like he’s actually gonna snitch. foolish doing it half for fun, half for show, because he knows cellbit is the killer already - he just needs nails for bad’s coffin because he’s gonna be the scapegoat, and he’s bored. if they were alone maybe they’d trade more intel - they’re on the same page but can’t exactly confirm nor allude to that with an audience, so it just devolves into their usual antics. meanwhile bagi is sweating and convinced bad is definitely about to spill everything she’s told him, falling for bad’s little ‘oh I’m so easily caught and convinced’ act harder than anyone else, trying to avoid bad’s arrest or worse, cellbit’s - while really what’s going on is bad and foolish’s homoerotic batshit insane cop and robber routine, where you’re not sure if someone’s getting arrested or if they’re about to make out. and aypierre is just there
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I'm watching Cunk on Earth and the image I got in my brain was one of retired Dream, new and fragile and trying to get his bearings, and Hob tells him "Let's put on something funny? I've been meaning to watch this one." And he puts on Cunk on Earth, and Hob finds it hilarious (especially when she gets to the medieval bits), right up until Dream, who has been -- unbeknownst to Hob -- getting himself well and truly lathered over the past 40-60 minutes, bursts into tears.
"Fuck," Hob says, and scrambles to get into a better position, the awkwardness of sitting beside someone on a sofa not the ideal way to comfort someone who is, by all indications, in the process of having some sort of horrific existential crisis. "Oh, fuck, Dream, sorry, sorry, I don't even know what I'm sorry for, please stop crying, why are we crying?"
(Hob has tried to cultivate a sense of empathy since the 1700s, and sometimes, like now, he thinks he might have overdone it a bit.)
And Dream, sniffling, red-eyed and tear tracks down his cheeks and snot glistening around his nostrils in a way that wouldn't be charming on any other human except for him, says, "All of the things she is saying are wrong."
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biblically accurate middle aged p.cakes (post-divorce) in which they:
1. don't have a child to solve their marital problems
2. both come to terms with what they really want in life
bob, a husband & a peaceful domestic life
eliza, no spouse or children, simply money and steamy one night stands with hot mediterranean men
3. only remain in contact with each other because they formed some kind of weird fucked up bond by marrying so young and being so miserable together.. they also split custody for their cats
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