#trying to make a living from art is misery but not as miserable as not doing it at all

[handweavers]

trying to price my work is so difficult because all the websites that talk about pricing artwork are doing it from the perspective of like. a painting and how many hours go into that and it doesn't translate well into handmade textiles at all but if i priced my work based on actual time spent on it even in just material preparation alone nobody would be able to afford it ever. like the woven piece is not just handwoven which takes forever but also the yarn used to make it was handspun and hand-dyed by myself, which also takes hours, but those hours are not visually apparent to modern consumers and also once again nobody can afford that. so i have to price things on what the market will bear (gag) and what i would, theoretically, be willing to pay for something.

like a weaving that is 10 inches by 11 inches is small all things considered, but it took me 3~ hours to wind the warp, another 3~ hours to dress the loom, 2~ hours to weave the work. and the yarn used as the weft took me 5~ hours to spin, and another 3~ hours to dye with natural materials. if i paid myself the minimum livable wage in toronto which is $22/hour that would be $352 plus materials costs, so round up to $400 CAD. perhaps someone would be willing to pay that much for that but most can't, and never will, and i want to be able to actually survive selling my work without outpricing 99.9% of people including myself! i could never afford to spend $400+ on this, i - on a personal level - can't ask that of someone else.

so instead i do the price per square inch model, where you calculate square inches and multiply it by a dollar number and that's your starting price. so for this work that's 110 square inches and i multiply it by $2 - so that's $220. much better. still expensive, but it strikes the balance of 'price that people can afford' and 'price that pays my bills and adequately acknowledges my time and skill' and that's not even adding materials fees to that number. at that price i'm getting paid $13.75 an hour for my work, which a below minimum wage, but it's a price for a work that i can actually sell at a market. a theoretical $400 is worth less to me than a material, actual $220. even $220 is more than avg person can afford, it's more than i can afford lol, but it's a number than can actually sell.

but more than anything biggest reason i struggle with pricing is that i have such a hard time parting with my work, i spent so much time on it and love it so much and above all i make for my own enjoyment and love so as long as i like something, whether other people like it or not matters less. but that doesn't pay bills, so i have to part with my work, even if it makes me sad. i have so many pieces that i would love to sell and I know i could make real $$$ on but i can't get myself to part with because of sentimentality. i poured days of my life into this, please love it well 🥺

#its different too bc how much u can charge for your work early in your quote unquote career is different from later yeara #even if the quality of the work and the time spent etc is comparable #sigh #trying to make a living from art is misery but not as miserable as not doing it at all

[iamfuckingsorry]

Thinking about that mural from DE

You know which one

TRUE LOVE IS POSSIBLE ONLY IN THE NEXT WORLD, FOR THE NEW PEOPLE. IT IS TOO LATE FOR US. WREAK HAVOC ON THE MIDDLE CLASS

The next world mural. In the game, you encounter this piece very early on if you interact with everything available, you probably see this mural before you've ever even heard of Dora or before you've started to get really serious about your commie tendencies, if that's how you choose to play. And the reaction is like, "wow, this is kinda profound actually". Or maybe it's like, "oh lol, this game really is commie af isn't it" (even though later on it turns out that the game is much more critical of communism than you'd think at first). And the story in the ledger provides some insight into Harry and Jean and how they work together too, so it feels like it makes sense, it fits in very well at that moment in the game and that's it.

But looking back at this mural after you've played through the entire game, knowing what you know of Harry's relationship with Dora...

It's Harry's own fucking love story in a way, isn't it?

Him and Dora came from very different backgrounds. He's genuinely poor, grew up checking the trash cans on the streets for tare and edible food, spent his teenage years running around with a bunch of kids who all OD'd or got themselves killed one way or another over the years. He had dreams of getting an education, getting a chance to use his creativity and curiosity and learn about all that that is worth exploring in this world (which is everything), but those dreams are long dead. She's solidly middle class, with access to all the education and art and music he's always dreamt of, with her family to always fall back on. She's everything Harry's ever dreamt of growing up. She might as well be living in another world.

They fall in love with each other and she moves to Jamrock to live with him. Jamrock, the biggest fucking ghetto in Revachol, full of tweakers and gangsters and just thousands upon thousands of poor people permanently down on their luck trying to get by, with no proper aid or government and a police station so understaffed and underfunded they never even stood a chance. And they can barely make ends meet even living in Jamrock, moving from shithole to shithole, never knowing when they'll have their electricity cut, when something will happen that gets them thrown out, desperately scrambling for a new place to stay. And Dora could never do that, not really - she never actually lived in Jamrock, she always had the possibility of leaving, of going to work across the river and visiting her parents whenever she felt like it or just escaping, packing her shit and getting on the tram and never going back. And as long as she knew she wasn't really, truly stuck in this miserable shithole forever, she wasn't ever really living in Jamrock. And it could never be enough for her.

And she wanted more - for herself, for Harry, for their family, who even knows. Maybe she saw Harry struggling trying and failing to make a difference as a gym teacher and thought he could do more good with the RCM. Maybe she was getting desperate, living in this fucking shithole, and thought they needed more money. Maybe it was something completely else - but what is certain is that Harry ended up joining the RCM, and the 41st, and everyone there is on speed, everyone is miserable and desperate and always running behind playing catch up with the case load, with the crimes, with the drug addicts and rapists and murderers, and Harry, who's always been like this close to a genuine mental breakdown, just fucking falls apart. He needs to help people, needs to make a difference, and working at the 41st, with the budget and case load and staffing situation and the pure fucking misery in the area. He goes out and meets a miserable person after a miserable person and he can't do anything else than be nice, make their day a little bit more manageable, do his best- but he knows that no matter what he does, his best won't be enough. He won't be able to make a dent in the pure fucking misery that is Jamrock. But he needs to, so he drinks, he smokes, he does drugs, he loses any semblance of control he ever had over the voices in his head, the dude telling him to hit shit and the dude telling him to forget everything and just get fucked up and Revachol herself screaming at him about her imminent death. And in the end Dora can't stand it anymore and she leaves (and, honestly, good for her. I'm happy for her. But this is about Harry, and Harry isn't, he isn't able to be happy for her at this point in time).

And like. I personally doubt that she'd have left just because of the money if everything else was good. I honestly even doubt that the money was that big of an issue for her to start with, it was all the other issues first and then the fact that they couldn't even rent a fucking VHS and play it at times became just one more thing on top of this already massive pile of shit that broke the proverbial camel's back. But in Harry's mind, he was never rich enough for her. She was always the middle class girl who settled for the poor fuck, and he was never gonna be good enough for her because he was just a broke dude from Jamrock. She was perfect and so so beautiful and at one point her love was the only thing keeping him going, and then she left because he couldn't even

And from what we can see in the game she was the only person he's ever really, truly loved.

But in his mind, they could never be together again. They could try as they might, but it was never gonna work out, because she was a rich girl and he was just a poor miserable fuck. He grew up looking for change on the streets, she took piano lessons in a fancy part of town. The difference was just too large to ever truly be bridged.

So for post-breakup Harry, prior to Martinaise and even during the events in Martinaise, true love was never actually possible. It is possible only for the new people, in the next world. It was too late for him - he had his chance, and it was an impossible thing, it could never have worked out and now he's wasted it. Because of the inherent differences between different social classes. It is too late for him. So yeah, fuck it, wreak havoc on the fucking middle class. Fuck those rich bastards who took Dora from him, and fuck Dora too.

On another note, this was also one of the most recent cases him and Jean worked on prior to Martinaise. I don't remember the date exactly, but it was in his last ledger, it must have been pretty recent. Do you think he saw the mural and thought about it the same way I did? Maybe this was the one that truly pushed him over the edge? The impossible love. It truly was too late for him. The only way to fix it is a new fucking start. And how do you get that?

After life - death. After death - life again.

#disco elysium #harry du bois #harrier du bois #dora ingerlund #DE #herr's personal tag #next world mural #when first playing the game I didn't even really stop to think about the middle class line #the love part of the mural honestly felt very powerful to me #and I opened the compartment and read the letter right afterwards #so i had a lot to think about in addition to just this #anyway #this is more of a “what if” rant than any actual metaanalysis #our story about Dora is extremely influenced by Harry's point of view #but at the same time #every design decision in this game is deliberate #or most of them anyway #is this something the game designers were actually thinking of when designing the mural? #was that an intentional decision on their side? #or is it just me reading too much into random shit while missing important details elsewhere again? #who knows #midnight rant

[botnasty]

Part One: Prologue

Pairing: Divorce Lawyer!Ari Levinson X Married!Reader, Husband!Ransom X Wife!Reader  

Summary: After years of misery, you finally decide to divorce your husband Ransom Drysdale, but unfortunately for the man is too proud to let you go. That’s when you met Ari Levinson, a divorce lawyer, with him you’ll finally be free of pain... right?

Words: 2.7K

Warning: ANGST, cheating, mention of cheating, mention of death, mention of psychological abuse, mention of abuse, divorce, hurt/comfort, beefy!Ari Levinson, size difference, size kink, mention of sex, 

Series Masterlist

You were doing it. You were finally doing it. After years of being miserable, of being a shell of who you used to be, you were breaking off the chain that Ransom placed around you with that ring. 

Before him, you loved life. You were living it at his fullest. Your friends, Marna and Sam, and you used to do all sorts of things together. You would go on hikes, try new cafe places after class and before going to your shared apartment, but what you liked the most was visiting the museum of Fine Art. you went once with your mother when you were a child and it had become immediately your favorite place. “It’s like you’re in a completely different world. Like the paintings were making you travel all around the world.” Is what your mother kept saying when describing how you were in that place, and she wasn’t wrong. It's what made you decide to study the history of art in college. It’s also where you met Ransom, which is why you haven’t been there in years. The place was now tainted with his memories.  

You loved Ransom, you really did. You thought you would’ve grown old with him and have a few kids, but after the marriage, it’s like he became a whole new man. Gone was the Ransom that called you Bunny, cuddled you to sleep and made love to you. Now he has become bitter, always angry at the world and you. Like every single inconvenience was because of you when all you wanted was to show him love. He made you stop going to school, stopped you from seeing your friends saying ‘they were a bad influence’ and just kept you almost locked in his mansion. 

Slowly but surely, you became a shell of who you were. You were now constantly on your toes around him, trying not to anger him and always watching what you were saying. If you spoke a little too loud, he would scream. If not loud enough, he would also scream. You couldn’t express yourself anymore.

Everything had faded. Every time you shoved love for something you were shamed, humiliated. All the emotions you felt were tossed to the side. You were not yourself, you were a doll for Ransom to toss everywhere and mold how he wanted.

What made you decide to finally break it all off was when you found out he had cheated on you for the fourth time in your own marital bed. Before it was just mark of lips on his clothes, parfum, the whole cliche thing, but now he had taken things a little too far.

You wish you were at her place, weren’t you?

Was what he said when you found the both of them, this girl on her hands and knees, back arching, as Ransom plowed into her from behind. Both were looking at you as they both continued. You just stared at them, not a feeling inside of you instead of shame for yourself. Shame for still being with this man after all he’s done to you. 

You had just sighed and closed the door behind you, not a tear in your eyes. Nothing. But that shame inside of you is what made you decide to get a divorce, but you didn’t know when to do it.

When Ransom was found guilty of killing his grandfather, which wasn’t surprising to you, the world was smiling at you. This was the perfect time. Your way out. When the day came that Ransom went to prison, instead of going with him to say your goodbye, you came here. 

Levinson’s Lawyer. 

You were doing it. you were gonna be free. 

You lightly tap your feet on the ground as the man in front of you named Ari Levinson, like what was written on the plate at the door, looked at your case. The man certainly didn’t look like a lawyer, with his long hair that stopped below his hair, his gruff beard and big very big build. The man was most likely twice your size and height. He was wearing a clean black tux with a white undershirt, slightly unbuttoned which made you able to see a little of his chest hair. The man seemed to be covered in hair everywhere. You saw him more as a lumberjack. You felt intimidated by him because you knew the man could probably crush you with one squeeze.

“So, I read here, Miss Drysdale, that you want to be divorced from Ransom Drysdale.” You cringed internally at the name he used. “Is that right?” The man looked at you with his blue eyes, his gaze a little too piercing to you so you looked down as you nodded. He went back to the paper. “And you don’t want anything that he owns which is a good thing. The man got some solid lawyers.”

You fidgeted with the wedding still on your fingers as you nodded once again. You knew very well he had powerful people by his side. He was Ransom Drysdale after all. The man came from old money and had people wanting to find dirt on him for years. “Yeah, I know that, Mr. Levinson, but we don't have a child together, we don’t have a shared account, don’t you think it could be easy?” You pleaded, your eyes finally finding his.

Ari signed and put the paper down. “Depends on the man, Miss. Drys–”

“Please, use my maiden name. I don’t want any association with that man. Please.”

Ari restarted, this time using your real name, making a little weight get off your shoulder. One step at the time. “We don’t know what he wants to do, right now. If the man wants to keep you, it could become messy, if he doesn’t then it would go smoothly.”

Ari put down the paper on his wooden desk and leaned. “But, let me tell you something, Miss. I hate abusers, so I’m gonna do everything in my power to make sure you never see the man again.” A sob escaped you. 

Ari got up his chair and went around the desk. He crouched in front of you and took your hands in his. You gasped at how big they were compared to yours, at how warm and rough his skin was as he played with the wedding band. “Everything will go your way. I promise. You can even start to remove it already if you want.” He said, referring to your ring.

“Thank you, thank you so much.” You said in a sob and you threw yourself in his arms, his immediately enveloping you in a hug and pulling you closer to him. You were gonna be free and all thanks to this man. 

For some odd reason, you believed him. You believed the man in front of you and that’s why you felt safe in his arms. After years of tenseness, you melted finally and that was with this man. Your eyes widen at the realization. You barely knew the guy. 

Slowly, you let go of him and let him wipe your tears away and it took everything in you to keep a blank face. “Thank you again, Mister Levinson. ”You slowly got up and took your purse. “At what time would you be willing to go through the divorce paper?” Your hands were fidgeting inside your purse to look for your phone, you were now nervous around scared he would see through your act.

Ari looked baffled at you, at the immediate change of character, but went through with it. “This week, I’m fully booked, but I could leave you my phone number to call to schedule for next week?” Is all he asked, as he got up. 

You went to give him your phone to get his number, when your eyes bulged out and all resolved went down, the man was way taller than you expected. He was probably taller than 6’5 and you didn’t know how to feel about that, one part of you got scared while the other part made your pussy gush from how big he was.

 “You—“ Your voice cracked. “You can leave your number.” Ari took your phone from your hands, his finger brushing against making you inhale sharply. 

As he typed on your phone, your eyes went to his muscle bulging with each move. You hated your brain at this moment for making you feel all sorts of things for this man you literally just met. Sure, he looked like a Greek god and wanted to help you, but he could also have dark intentions. 

“There you go, sweetheart.” Now you are sure to remove your panties when you get home. The way he said sweetheart in his gruff voice is something literally out of a porno. your eyes widened as you looked at him smiling, like he knew what he did to you. “Call me if you need anything.”

“Tha- Thank you. I’ll call you next week.” You immediately shoved your phone in your purse and shuffled out, your eyes always avoiding his and with one thing in your mind: tonight was going to be a long night with your vibrator. 

You quickly escape the building, your heels hitting the ground with a loud noise. ‘I need to get out’ are the words that keep on repeating themselves in your mind. Just constantly. You were confused. What had just happened to you? Never in your life have you instantly felt so attracted to somebody you barely knew and that scared you.

You felt watched the whole journey from Mr, Levinson’s office to down in the lobby and you hated that. Eyes, many eyes were starring at you and you stopped yourself from hiding with your purse. You felt like you were going insane, but the moment you stepped outside, everything made sense.

A horde of paparazzi was there, waiting for you to come out. “What in the fuck?” You whispered to yourself. “I can’t get out. I can’t.” If they saw you and took pictures of you, you were sure someone at the prison would tell Ransom and you couldn’t afford that.

Not now. 

You jumped when your phone vibrated in your purse. Before all this, you used to always put your favorite song of the moment as a ringtone, but Ransom hated it and almost beat you up when it rang one day. So, to this day, it’s always on the silent mode. 

You fetched inside your purse. Anxiety coursed through you when it was an unknown number, but you still answered. “Hello?” You cautiously said.

“Miss? It’s Ari.” Ari?

“I don’t recall giving you my phone number? And we just spoke, I don’t understand the meaning of this call.” You sounded harsh and professional, trying to make your body understand that what it was doing wasn’t good. Making you horny and wet for this man wasn’t something you wanted or needed right now. 

“Take the door on the other side of the building.” Was all he said. “You can hide from the pictures there.”

You felt bad. The man only wanted to help you. “Thank you... I’m sorry. I’ll call you next week.”

You were about to end the call when Ari said your name. Not your family name. Your first name. Your ears couldn’t help but perk up at the sound. “I don’t know how those people found out you were here, but I’ll find the person and have a stern talk about client confidentiality.” Your breath was stuck inside you. Ari continued. “And you don’t have to excuse yourself. I know you must be in a hard situation at this moment.” You hummed in approval. “I’m here for you. Whenever.” With those last words, the call ended. 

That week was the worst week of your life. Somehow people found out you had gone to a divorce lawyer and like people say: words traveled fast. Every day, you had been followed everywhere, you received calls from the news, journalists and from the one person you didn’t want to talk to: Ransom. Somehow, probably because a guard spilled it to him, he found out about it too and wasted his one phone call a day to you, but each time you refused it. Dreading to hear what he has to say. 

You were tired, so tired. You had a feeling divorcing that man wouldn’t have been a joyful ride, but you didn’t think it would be hell. 

Every day, you would wake up to a dream about that giant lawyer with sweat all over your body, your underwear fully drenched and a little bit of shame for dreaming about the stranger like that, but the moment you saw all the notifications on your phone, all that pleasure and good feeling from the dream would just drain out of your body and reality settled in. 

Today was none different. You woke up with the dream still very vivid in your mind. His gruff voice telling you all the dirty things he wanted to do. 

Look at you barely able to take my cock. 

Such a sweet warm pussy, all mine. 

You’re all mine aren’t you, sweetheart. 

You bit your lips.

You really needed to get laid. 

You sighed and got up the bed to go-on with your days. After a good shower to remove all the remnants of your wetness in between your legs and your skin-care routine, you went downstairs for your breakfast.

You looked outside to see the weather and sighed. “Will they ever leave me alone?” Paparazzi. Loads and loads of them waiting for you to get out of your house. You closed the curtains and continued your journey to the kitchen to continue your morning. 

Just as the clock turned eleven. You decided it was finally time to call Ari for this meeting this week. As you pick up your phone, you cringe in the background. It was still a picture of you and Ransom on your second date when he kissed you on the cheek. Those were simpler times.

The phone rang in your ear. One, Two. Thr– “Hello?” His deep voice took you by surprise. 

“Mr. Levinson. It’s me.” You told him your name. You shivered when you heard him repeat it to you. “You-” Your throat became tighter with nervousness. “You said to call for the appointment?”

You heard shuffling in the background. “I did, indeed. If you would be willing. I am going to lunch right now. If you would like, you could join me and we could talk ‘bout it?”

You nodded and you wanted to slap yourself because he clearly couldn’t see you. “Yes, just send me the address and I’ll be there shortly.”

You could hear the smile as he responded. “Good, I’ll be seeing you soon, Miss.” And the phone disconnected.

A few moments later, you jumped as your phone rang once again. “Why is Ari calling again?” You unlock your phone and answer the call. “Hello, Mr. Levison? Is there a problem with the divorce paper?” You looked at the floor curiously as to why he wasn’t answering. All you could hear was breathing and shuffling. 

“Probably a butt dial.” You whispered.

“Oh no, bunny.” You froze, why did he start using that nickname, now, of all time. “It certainly isn’t. Been trying to reach you fo’ so long, bunny. So long. And now, since you finally answer you’ goddamn fucking phone.” You heard him take a deep breath. “You’re going to answer my questions. Why the fuck are you talking to Ari Levinson?”

Thank you so much for reading :) Feel free to reblog and tell me what you think. Also, I realize I’m kinda having a hard time with dialogue sometimes and I’m sorry for that, I’m slowly working on that.

Tags : @patzammit @elrw24​

#ari levinson #ari levinson fanfiction #ari levinson fanfic #ari levinson smut #ari levinson angst #beefy!ari levinson #dilf!ari levinson #lawyer!ari levinson #ari levinson x reader #lawyer!ari levinson x reader #ransom drysdale #ransom drysdale fanfiction #ransom drysdale angst #husband!ransom drysdale #husband!ranson x reader #ransom drysdale x reader #ransom x reader #chris evans #chris evans characters #chris evans fanfiction #chirs evans smut #ari levinson au #ransom drysdale au #au #modern au

[sealingfan]

A Pigeon Sat On A Branch Reflecting On Existence

There are three things with which this film hits you over the head in its opening sequence: it is about death, the tone is lighthearted if miserable, and the use of sound, color, and still shots foreshadow a meticulous and deliberate symbolism. I have loved film, art, and media for some time now and recently have begun regulating my consumption at a new film a day. This film has inspired me to document my thoughts.

We are introduced not to our protagonists, but to the film as a character with simple and otherwise mundane vignettes of people living in a world whose color seems to vary widely between shades of beige. The color (or lack thereof) and apparently deliberate set dressing immediately prepares us for contrast: children blowing bubbles and playing in colorful clothes, a mother's red leggings with her stroller in the park, a red-haired woman stealing a puff off her lover's cigarette, a young couple making love on the beach, dressed in red, soldiers going off to war, men dying in literal representations of corperate machines. It seems color exists only in the lives of people with drama, with emotion. The gray-and-beige world of bar scenes, of our protagonists' flophouse, of shops and even streets are devoid of intensity and are bathed in an omnipresent fluorescent office lighting.

Our protagonists are door-to-door novelty salesmen, whos self-described purpose is to help people laugh. The obvious irony being that they lack energy and their wares are not funny. They move like mobsters, threatening their clients who are behind on payments for rubber masks. In essence, they are sad, poor, and unexceptional.

As we watch Johnathan and Sam fail their way through town, their pitiable sales pitch in yet another bar is interrupted by the army of King Charles XII of Sweden evidently marching to fight the Russians in the Great Northern War. If we payed attention in AP Euro, we'd know the young and inexperienced King Charles would force each member of the anti-Swedish coalition into submission save Russia, and upon invading Moscow would suffer wounds resulting in his army's defeat. As the young king is escorted into the bland, beige-and-pea-green bar, we see intense and bright color in the navies and golds of the Swedish military uniforms. This, to me, cements the presence of color as a physical representation to contrast the pervasive ennui and boredom of the protagonists with their lot in life. We know these soldiers will return from war wounded and defeated, if they return at all, and yet they follow a cause, they are inspired, and they have decided upon a meaning in life, disagreeable and tragic though it may be. They march to war singing a song introduced in a particularly characterful bar scene about "Limping Lotta" and her tavern in Gothenburg, with the lyrics changed to fit Charles XII's ten thousand men. We see here that persistence remains the same even when the nature of the struggle changes.

We continue to loosely follow Jonathan and Sam as Jonathan begins to feel a sense of existential aimlessness. He is listening to a song on repeat late at night when Sam comes to talk to him, concerned for his wellbeing. The source of Jonathan's misery is a fear of meeting his parents again in heaven; he is afraid of dying, and maybe even having died so plainly, in a place so dingy, without having been colorful, as those three mundane deaths we see in the beginning, set to insistent, even petulant music. He wears one of the play masks they had been trying to sell perhaps in an attempt at coloring himself so to speak.

Sam, however sympathetic to his friend, is uninterested in this childishness. They have work to do and the people they report to are on their asses about their low sales records. They end up fighting and we see them part ways and make up. The friends are frustrated with their lot in life. They are uncertain of what to do. They are lost but they are friends. They have to keep living and they will do it side by side. Sam's apology to Jonathan is really touching. It is clear he isn't sure exactly what he's done wrong but he won't do it again. It is genuine and confused.

The next time we see Johnathan, he is recovering from a vision of black men and women and children being forced into a huge brass contraption which is then set alight. It begins spinning after a while and we see the name of Swedish multinational metals corporation Boliden. This long, agonizing shot ends when we flip to a window, out of which appear the cast of background characters, dressed up in black and ivory. This shot begins to bring together the themes of the film. The senses of meaninglessness and alienation begin to become attributable to bureaucracy and the complexity inherent in global forces - forces too large to observe with ripple effects too broad-ranging and complicated to wrap one's head around. Why do we march to war? For our king! Why do we drink? Because it makes me feel better. Why do we sell our novelties? Because we are told to. Why must we continue? Because we must. This scene has music that is somber and contemplative and new. It is not a callback or a reprise. Sam wants to get to work but Johnathan is full of turmoil. He asks thrice whether it is ok to use others for your own benefit to no answer.

The film ends at a bus stop as a man waiting for the bus is confused as to what day it is. His intuition failed him. It's an understated but fitting end. One can't expect satisfaction out of a film such as this.

Ultimately, the film is a depiction of the confusion innate in life as an individual in a society too vast to understand. Systems and machines overwhelm. One scene begins with the words homo-sapiens only to show us a monkey, wires sticking out of its brain, screaming, as a scientist ignores it entirely in the background, on a phone call. This is an obvious depiction of the film's perspective on the state of the individual human in a global world: buffeted by forces beyond understanding, suffering and unable to escape. A mind-numbing, boring, purposeless suffering envelopes contemporary society and salvation lies in ignorance and the simple joys of company. One may find it comforting that those with means still wear black even if they have slightly warmer lighting.

I am still contemplating the scene from which the film draws its title. As I understand it, children play a rather significant role in the symbol language of the film which I've yet to parse through entirely but I'm certain the three bots that read this will figure that out and tell me.

Anyhow,

I give Roy Andersson's "A Pigeon Sat on a Branch Reflecting on Existence" flaming Kafkaesque brazen bull turbine out of 5

#film #roy andersson #movie review #text heavy #long post #movies #cinema #cinephile #film review #long winded

[thruthelookingglass]

PTSD

art is from: https://www.pinterest.com/thejoelfund/tjf-ptsd-art/

I did a google search for PTSD to find a picture that represented what it feels like for me, and this piece of art speaks volumes. I'm not sure who the creative soul is but this is meaningful. To me, this depicts how the disorder keeps the person trapped with horrible triggers that cause more and more mental destruction.

Why this post?

I went to work in such a good mood this morning and was ready to face the day while kicking ass. This happiness was short-lived. There's a few ladies (and I use that description lightly) that I work with who are the epitome of miserable. I'm sure if you looked the word up online you'd see a pic of them together. They each seem to love to spread misery... no one can be happy because I guess it just goes against their soured souls. Anyway, I was doing my job but every time I turned around someone was taking off with my cart. I can't put out production without one. That's a ton of shit to have to try to carry and not drop. So, I grabbed a buggy to use because I knew no one would end up taking it.

She's already in a foul mood when I arrive at work. I don't know what's happened and I don't ask. It's always best to just ignore and do your own thing. Ignoring didn't help today because I was the pincushion. I normally can overlook the rudeness, the scoffs, the dirty looks, the shit she says when I'm not close by but am still in hearing distance, and so on; not the case today. Once she started banging on shit, throwing stuff, kicking shit out of her way it was enough for me. All of that triggered my PTSD and I lost it. The part that makes me mad is the fact that when I'm mad, sad, happy... any emotion really... I cry. My tear ducts completely betray me.

I cried. I was angry enough that I could have lifted a car and flipped it over, but the tears kept coming. My boss let me go smoke so I could calm down. She did apologize even though I'm not sure how sincere it was. I still can't believe I lost control at work, nonetheless. It's embarrassing but it also just makes me even madder. I don't like to show weakness.

I planned on writing about why I have PTSD, but that may be a story for another time.

I do wonder if I'm the only one who feels more like the bad guy once the meltdown is over? Once she apologized I felt almost like I was the one that betrayed her. I felt the need to apologize for crying. I don't know why I felt like I had done her wrong. It makes no sense to me. Anyone else ever feel like that?

I'd like to know that I'm not alone in this.

#ptsd thoughts #mental health #meltdown #well fuck #art #pinterest #emotional #rollercoaster #trauma #mental illness #sharing my story #can you relate

[drewoclock]

Drew Attempts to Depress Himself

Originally published September 19th, 2017

I don’t want to talk about this.  I’ve never felt that comfortable discussing my feelings, as important as I think that is.  It makes me feel vulnerable and it doesn’t feel entertaining.  But this isn’t something I can keep inside anymore.  This is something that’s been going on for years, and it’s really been affecting my life.  It’s just that no matter what I do, and no matter what I try, I keep ending up feeling--very happy.

Every day, I feel a gentle rush of warmth as I live my life in relative comfort, and it’s horrible.  I’m not even living my best life here, but my excessive amounts of hope and optimism keep me from dwelling on it.  Sure, I’ll occasionally feel a little sad, but it never sticks.  I keep ruining it with thoughts like “Focus on the good things!” and “Everything will turn out alright!”

What happened to me?  I used to feel way more miserable.  This blog was founded on me expressing misery!  Did my years of learning to love myself and think productively destroy my ability to just kick back and wish I were dead?  I can’t even remember what it was like to be deeply, pathetically sad, and I want to.  And so, I’m going to try to reconnect with my past.  I’m going to try to remember those once-familiar thoughts that made everything worse.

Hey Drew.  You know those popular people, who have a lot of friends and go to a lot of events and have a lot of sex?  You’re not one of them.  You’ve never been one of them and you never will be one of them.  

You need to be hot, and you’re not hot.  You’re short.  You’re always going to be short, and too many girls find that an instant turn-off.  And you don’t have the right interests and hobbies anyway.  And you kind of suck at conversation because you’re always worried about how uncool you are, which is a reasonable thought because it’s totally true.

So you’re gonna be really bored and stay at home playing with pencils or whatever while people that are better than you socialize and bang each other, and keep banging each other, and continue to improve upon their banging skills until they’re rather advanced at it, while you’re not even really going to be at a beginner’s banging level because you’ve never banged anyone.

And there’s an even cooler crowd you can’t fit in with.  It’s like that other cool crowd, but artsy.  You’d think you’d fit into this crowd because you do art, but this group is for COOL art, and your art isn’t COOL.  You like jokes and Pixar movies but this group is into provocative thoughts and Russian literature and underground music and stuff.  You don’t know much about any of that.

So you’ll be home pushing buttons or something and a whole other group will be dancing and banging each other, except this group you’ll wish you were a part of even more because they like art and stuff.  But they’re not gonna bang you.  You’re too short, and you like Toy Story too much.  Maybe if Toy Story had Woody kill himself, you’d have an in, but it didn’t, so you’re not gonna get to have sex.  Some really cool girls are gonna be banging and be thinking “I’m sure glad I’m banging this person instead of Drew, that Woody-loving freak.”

You could be cool, if you were better.  But you’re not.  You’re unattractive, and you’re bizarre, and because of that, you’re lonely, and you’re boring, and you don’t know what vaginas taste like.  You had a cool girlfriend once, but you blew it, and she’s went and had a bunch of boyfriends, and you haven’t had even one girlfriend, and she’s just proving how many people out there are cooler than you.

Oh yeah, there’s those other girls you liked too.  They were also too cool for your school, and your school teaches mediocrity and horrible shame.  They all rejected you because they didn’t want to be with you.  That’s the plain and simple truth.  Does it feel weird being a virgin when you’re 23?

Hey, you graduated college a year late.  Everyone that was in your grade graduated ahead of you and it makes you look like you were too stupid to graduate on time.  And you didn’t work as hard as you could have in your classes, so you were never one of the super smart kids.  You barely got into any colleges.  You should have taken AP US History, you HACK.

You can’t take back your failures, Drew.  You had potential, but you lost it.  You could have been an amazing student, but instead you were an amazing stupid.  You’re so stupid you thought that was an okay sentence to write.  You wanted to have fun instead of work, like you always do, and so you wasted so many opportunities.  You could have been a nice person, but you’ve been selfish, and you’ve hurt a lot of people.  You found new potential in being a jerk.  They’ll never forget.

You’ve let a lot of people down who believed in you.  Some of them probably don’t believe in you anymore.  Your parents are probably kinda bummed.  Especially your dad.  I bet your mom thought you would be in Hollywood by now.  But you’re not trying to make connections, and you’re just typing this from her basement instead of trying to get a job in the city.  

You’re wasting your life doing meaningless things.  You used to be so much more involved.  You used to be in clubs, and be social, and those days are over.  You won’t do anything to change it.  You’ll just be alone, being bland, being bored.

You probably won’t be famous.  All the movies you dream of making?  You should probably consider that those dreams will never come true.  Not just because a lot of people try really hard and still fail.  You won’t even try that hard.  You’ll never be able to get to a point where you MIGHT make it.

You’re going to be one of those people that daydreams all the time, and at some point, you’re going to realize how old you are, and how dumb you’re being for dreaming like that.  You’re destined for mediocre things.  You’re destined to get by.  

You probably won’t be noticed.  That Mathmaticious video you made?  That could be the peak of your career.  The best thing you’ve ever done could be when you were fourteen, and people will talk about that video to you, and it’ll make you depressed knowing you’re never going to get attention like that again.  You’re going to die without having ever become who you wanted to be.  You'll let everyone who believed in you down.

Just picture the other people, who had things work out for them.  And remember that you’re not those people.  You’re inferior Drew.  Uncool Drew.  Drew that’s not as good as the other guy.  Drew that’s going to have nightmares of all the feature films he’ll never get a cent to make.  Picture those stories you’ve written, melting away and disappearing.  Picture the emptiness that’s left.  That’ll be your legacy.

Ooo.  Whoa.  I’ve shivering.  Or at least, the room feels marginally cooler, although I’m still kinda sweaty and I should turn on a fan.

So that was me, writing on the fly, reminding myself of some of my all-time greatest hits of depression.  The theme seemed to be a feeling that I absolutely would not get things that I deeply, deeply wanted because I wasn’t good enough.  My natural instinct was to wipe away the negative thoughts with a much sunnier outlook, but I fought that instinct as best as I could this time around.  And it kind of worked.  I did feel sort of sad.

But it’s already wearing off.  The positivity is already starting to creep back in.  I wasn’t really able to get to that nice, sweet spot of wallowing in my own misery, but I did at least remember what the feelings felt like.  The thing is, I'm someone that clearly wants things, and wants them hard.  And what I want most is to be happy.  Clearly, my newfound struggle to cry myself to sleep is a sign that I’m getting much better at having that happiness that I want.

And whether I like it or not, I can’t help but notice that.

[hospitalterrorizer]

diary25

9/29-30/2023

late night, tonight.

i was out super late after this very bad poetry reading here for some of these creative writing majors. i don't have a lot to say about it, it was bad and the writers make some people close to me miserable because they fail at being kind basically. kind in a real way, the kindness that lets you have some give for meanness when you actually articulate/show effort put towards anyone else, people who are utterly shallow, you know. i believe it must be the case that we all know of people like that essentially.

i didn't get to work on music today really, that's kind of good, tomorrow i will try to write some stuff, i did work on music actually i guess, i wrote a riff, and i'll see where that can take me, or less writing the riff, i wrote some chords to mess with. a fun shape that has a good sound, disso and freaky when inverted.

anyways tonight was good, or like, half good. it's given me a lot to think about, with people who do certain things (like 'ethical' nonmonogamy and if that can exist when the presupposition is monogamy in the first place). i met new people who i like, who are really nice and fun to be around, who got drunk and told me dirt about some old people i knew. or really, one person. that doofus from the noise band, actually. i don't mind saying that. i won't discuss the dirt. it just kind of makes me feel something sad, about people like that, and i guess at large people who in some sense resemble the poets, shallow engagement and deeply troubled ideas of what being an artist means leading to difficult lives, miseries that begin loud and only grow quieter, never actually dissipating.

my gf really wanted to take me to this, the reading and the afterparty, she and a friend really wanted to hear my thoughts on these people because supposedly i'm very funny about that kind of thing, she forgot i guess the bore of the poetry, and the fact that as time goes on, the ruin of these lives is exposed more and more, rich (really i don't actually know, it's the impression i get) developing bad habits and using people, and the drama, while never uninteresting to someone like me (maybe it makes me evil to want to hear), is always sad.

sometimes i am like a child and i just wish everyone could be okay and fine, i'd sometimes light myself on fire to make that possible, but someone i used to be obsessed with told me that me wanting to be jesus or buddha (he said both) so bad wouldn't do anything for anyone except feed how badly i like to see myself hurt. he's right. i guess that's what knowing things does too.

maybe my whole life i'm just going to be hurting myself in new ways.

so i made 3 new friends, or 4, let me count, yeah, 4, i think. and i actually saw 2 friends i knew before tonight, and i was with my one girl friend. so 7 people, i'm gonna see some tomorrow at a gay bar to see a drag show, super exciting stuff. hopefully there won't be any pangs of sadness over the fact we are living in hell sort of.

i guess everybody has really unpleasant fascinations sometimes.

one conversation tonight, one of the new friends told me about her research topic, modern apocalyptic media and its convergence with evangelical christianity, just talking about all that stuff and its evolving state, the dwindling numbers of evangelicals and their panic, her past, and stuff. i liked that. i liked all of tonight, even the sadder parts.

i'm listening to the song theory on sex as an art form, by camera obscura, on repeat. a really great track, it's just so perfect, i love the synth-y punky part especially, but i guess it's also perfect next to a perfect melodic release, this movement that recalls something tumbling downhill, or leaves off petals, while the first part is this total mania.

anyways i am exhausted now, and tomorrow is another day of socializing and stuff.

had an awful thought, or not awful, i dunno. someone posted the song absent friend by bark psychosis, a song that takes me to two specific moments in my life. one was when i'd listen to this song, thinking about the man i loved who would disappear without a word because he was awful, and i'd lay in bed without anyone to talk to, and the second place, is years later, when a friend who loved this record to bits, killed himself, and the song was so pointed, it felt like it said something. the night i found out i walked around and listened to this song.

both times, the lyric "that's the biggest joke of all" took on pretty different meanings. right now it means something else i guess.

the awful thought was about my dead friend rather than the friend who is dead to me. my dead friend, the thought was: the most meaningful thing he'd ever do for himself was kill his own self, that's where all the force of his life would end up, and missing him, and not wanting to forget him and wanting other people to know him, all i am left being able to do is revive the corpse he made of himself and tell others, this is what he did, this is his monument and it's an awful one but it is his. i don't know what else to say about it, i'm staving off the wish to tell a stranger in a server about him because they posted this song, all i can say is i guess, beautiful song, one of the best ever, and they won't know how much i mean that. maybe i mean it less because it means such particular things to me, and rather than thinking it's the best song ever, it's just clusters of memory and feeling forever tied to it. whatever, though, that's fine.

anyways, byebye!!!

[mirandamysilentdemon]

It doesnt take much to make me cry

Sensitive

Trying to face the misery i feel inside

I dont talk to anyone anymore.

There isnt one person in the world that really knows me.

We get close and it falls.

Im miserable inside

Im trying

I want to dissappear and leave behind every single person that knew me.

And not speak or think of them for years.

Begin again.

Moms right that its hard.

Its impossible

Im as sick of her as she is me

Judgey bitch

Family friends and im not even sure i like them

Cut off from mom

Idk whats with lil, sparse with mid

Fragile with mamaw

Friends have all faded away. And what id hoped for here wont happen

My only guidance is fantasy. But even that cant save me from the pain. Im so tired of performing changing masking pushing

Treats me like im a moron when really im just forgetful

Im miserable im alone

Decided i dont exist in the real world anymore. I cant live in it, so someone else will drive this body and ill just hang out in fantasy. Nothing matters. Just art.

I dont want to exist here anymore

I dont want to exist here anymore

I hate it here

I hate living in this world

Ive hated it for so long

Ive tried not to

I tried for so long

I want to paint

I cant paint

(I can at night or morning)

#hbvent #i feel hopeless #lost all motivation to move forward

[imspardagus]

Smile, though your heart is breaking

“Smile though your heart is aching

Smile even though it's breaking”*

I enjoyed one of the great pleasures of my life two weeks ago on Sunday. I sat opposite my son and his partner in a quiet local pub that served good beer, and participated in two hours of easy, life-affirming conversation.

It might seem to be overstating it a bit but I live for these times. They allow me to feel that maybe my life isn’t such a miserable waste of time as my depressed mind so often insists it is.

When they had left, I was returning our glasses to the bar and Jan, who works behind the bar, said how nice it was to see me smiling. And before I could stop myself (a measure of how my normal protective inhibitions had been lowered by what I had just enjoyed) I remarked that I didn’t know that I had been smiling.

It was an off the cuff remark, one of the remarks that are true but should go unsaid. As to its truth, I genuinely have no idea most of the time what expression I am offering the world. People taking my photograph have been known to look up in exasperation and said “Come on, give us a smile.” And I think “I was smiling wasn’t I?” Apparently I was not.

A fake smile is not uncommon though. It is what we are taught to present, what is expected of us. “Say cheese.” I have lost count of how many photos I have seen of people, especially children, especially young girls, whose rictus “sunny” smiles have all the false sincerity of a politician’s apology. “Sing out, Louise. Smile, dear.” “There’ll be no sad faces on Christmas.” “Are we all Happy, Happy, Happy?”

As I have mentioned before, my Mother’s take on my need to tell someone how deeply sad and joyless I felt as a teenager was “Nobody wants to know”. My Father, though he rarely smiled or laughed, went to his grave believing that the purpose (and duty) of the arts was to offer “escapism” – entertainment that made you feel happier for a while. They, of course, came from a generation that had borne more misery than most: economic depression, war, insecurity, deprivation, threat to life, loss of loved ones. They were unfrivolous, studiously serious in so many things, even about being happy. Even about pretending to be happy.

“When there are clouds in the sky, you'll get by

If you smile through your fear and sorrow

Smile and maybe tomorrow

You'll see the sun come shining through for you”

Maybe tomorrow. Maybe the day after tomorrow. Maybe never. But at least you won’t be bringing us down.

Occasionally I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror or reflected in a window and I am shocked at the dead, miserableness of the lines on my face. How can anyone want to be in my company? But people do. And they insist that I am “such a lovely man”, which makes me wonder whether they are trying to convince themselves or me.

“Light up your face with gladness

Hide every trace of sadness

Although a tear may be ever so near”

Jan smiles. Not just with her mouth but with her eyes. She does it the moment you approach. And perhaps that is why I allowed myself to be deceived. I had allowed myself to believe that she was genuinely happy.

Which is why, returning to the point after this long tedious diversion, what happened next was so surprising. And why, perhaps, some things should go unsaid. Because my remark had barely died on my lips when Jan came out from behind the bar, wrapped her arms around me and buried her face in my chest. And when, what seemed like a long time after, she stepped back and looked up, her face was wet with tears which she was trying to hold back.

In the awkward moment that followed, she said, “I’ll tell you about it sometime.”

I am usually good at recognising hurt and pain in others. As someone who has lived so long by presenting to people what they want to see, to the point that, as I say, I no longer know that I am doing it, I have developed a form of radar for fellow sufferers. Sometimes the signals coming back are so powerful that I cannot look them in the face. Sometimes the shadow is so deep that I have to leave the place where they are. Thinking back, I did suspect, on a couple of occasions when I caught Jan’s face at rest, that she too was wearing the mask, the one we depressives get used to wearing in order to be accepted in company. But probably because I had found it so expedient on this occasion to take her literally at face value and draw on the warmth that she was radiating, I had let the thought pass.

It is easy to take that path. Not everyone wants to be told that you have seen past the mask. After all, disguise is why they have gone to the trouble of wearing it.

Within minutes, Jan was embarrassed and trying to reclaim her equilibrium. Reverting to her natural kindness, she insisted that if ever I needed to talk about anything, she’d be there. I made a stumbling reply that the same went for her. We both knew this wasn’t the time or the place.

Two days later, I met with Lee, Jan’s partner. He’s a nice lad. But he seemed keen to probe me as to my intentions towards her. I said, truthfully, that I thought they were both really lovely people but that I had been unprepared for her to be reduced to tears by a chance remark. “Yes,” he said, somewhat matter-of-factly, “She does cry rather easily.” I made a mental note of his remark and passed on, mumbling some inanities about “not wanting to hurt her” and not being a predator.

Yes, Jan is lovely but truly I have no designs on her. Quite the opposite. Having got things seriously out of proportion a few months earlier, causing damage and discomfort that I had not in my wildest dreams foreseen, let alone intended, I was determined never again to let my neediness trap me into reading anything as self-fulfilling as mutual feelings into another encounter. Rob, my very discreet friend, tried to suggest to me I could at least allow myself the pleasure of fantasy: “fantasies don’t do any harm”. But I’m afraid I know that to be wrong. As I told him, “Fantasies are like farts. Their immediate effect may be to bring relief but their stench lingers on and makes everyone in the room uncomfortable.” Perhaps that is going too far but anyway it doesn’t apply in Jan’s case. I like her very much, I care about her, but my feelings end there.

But the thought of her keeping so much unhappiness locked up inside her is unbearable. And sometimes, when you “cry easily” it is a sign that you are more sad than you wish to accept. Depression is toxic, it eats you up even as you think you have it under control. It taints every chance you have of pleasure. I hope she can find a friend to talk to. I would be happy if that friend was me.

“That's the time you must keep on trying

Smile, what's the use of crying?

You'll find that life is still worthwhile

If you just smile.”

That’s a nice thought. But I do not think it’s the right thought. And I have spent 60 years trying it.

IMS July 2023

*Lyrics by Turner and Parsons

#Hurt #depression #smile #pretence

[doktordismemberment]

Brain Puke: My Head's A Fucking Machine-Gun

Let’s be real here. You get born into a certain set of circumstances and life is fucking miserable.

Dad’s out of the picture, mom is an absolute weapon who works all the time and drinks to blur whatever time is left.

You’re average looking. An average student. You get screamed at a lot at home. Picked on just enough at school to know you do not and will not fit in.

You just started liking girls but have no idea how to talk to them and there’s nothing in your life to even to begin to pattern a healthy relationship after.

You have dreams but they’re discouraged out of hand.

College is too expensive.

The art world is too competitive.

You’ll never make it.

Like your mom who got knocked up at 17 and has worked at a fucking shoe factory ever since knows anything at all about college or “the art world.”

And you’re smart enough to start understanding that your life is not going to be fun or remarkable in any particular way.

You’re gonna scrape and struggle to get by while you watch people who were born into better families breeze by and act like the reason you’re stuck is because you’re not trying hard enough.

Like it’s 100% fair you’re gonna work retail for your entire life.

So you look for escapism, a cheap fix of the happy brain chemicals. For me it was comic books, sci fi novels, and playing heavy metal, for a lot of kids it’s video games and anime.

And believe me when I say you get fucking dunked on for it.

You’re the weird kid and it’s ok to fuck with the weird kid… Fuck it’s honestly a social bonding thing in most high schools. You need an out-group to define where the in-group ends.

They grind you into the dirt like it’s an extracurricular activity.

And your role is defined.

You’re the victim.

They’re the victor.

And you fucking hate it.

And the rage builds.

And if you live in a small town it doesn’t end with high school.

The casual cruelty carries right through to adulthood.

Once a schmuck always a schmuck.

If you’re lucky you eventually say fuck it, cut and run, decide that dying alone in the big city is better than fucking living here surrounded by idiots and assholes.

Then you make a couple friends who actually like some of the shit you like, find something that releases the pressure… for me it was playing in a grindcore band.

And in some small way shit starts to stabilize, there’s fun, and maybe just a bit of fairness, and people who talk to you like you’re people too.

And you work a job you hate but you also get to go to band practice and play shows and you start to realize there’s a balance there.

And you make friends with a few cool chicks who you learn to talk to like they’re one of the guys, then chicks stop being so weird and scary.

Eventually you start dating, and you get laid and think ok that was sex, that was cool. And it goes from unobtainable to obtainable and that’s cool too.

And life is fucking normal.

It’s a small life, but you like it well enough cos it’s way better than anything you imagined was possible when you were growing up.

And that’s how it went for me, and I’m not remarkable… I was a shitty student from a shitty family and I’m definitely not much to look at. If I can do it most people can probably do it with way less effort.

But I was lucky in one regard, there was no Internet when I was coming up, at least not any that I had access to.

I think about that a lot.

I WAS the archetype of the incel, the mass shooter, the monster.

And in my life it made total sense.

People were hurting me and I wanted to hurt them.

Christ, if I was at my lowest point and had other miserable kids to compare notes with I definitely would have picked up a fucking gun. No question. I was like one bad day away a lot of times as it was.

And that’s the part of this thing that I think we all miss in our pearl clutching when one of these kids does something bad.

We see the bodies pile up on the news but not the years of quiet misery that led to the break point.

You want fewer mass shootings? Don’t ban firearms, stop being shitty to the weird kids. Try to include them in your shit from time to time, and shit maybe watch Ninja Scroll and play a game or two of Magic: the Gathering with them cos it’s what they like.

Y’know, interacting with someone in a way that’s fun and comfortable for them, not just halfheartedly forcing them to do your shit then ditching them when they’re not into it.

Fuck, that might actually reach someone.

But hey, what the fuck do I know?

Just, whatever you do, stop making them feel like all they have is each other and their stupid message boards and their rage at how fucked up and ugly and unfair the whole stupid world is.

‘Cos straight up in a lot of ways they’re not even wrong.

#Brain Puke

[all-his-candy-necklaces]

I posted 4,642 times in 2022

212 posts created (5%)

4,430 posts reblogged (95%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@crehate

@perrfectly

@cottaqewhore

I tagged 3,655 of my posts in 2022

Only 21% of my posts had no tags

#!!! - 3,624 posts

#about me - 1,044 posts

#mood - 1,005 posts

#beautiful - 101 posts

#aesthetic - 97 posts

#art - 76 posts

#pokemon - 70 posts

#lana del rey - 57 posts

#nature - 54 posts

#amen - 51 posts

Longest Tag: 100 characters

#you can also just say ‘i was going through a lot at the time’ or something short and sweet like that

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

See the full post

3 notes - Posted May 3, 2022

#4

Thinking about how much determination, strength, courage, bravery, and perseverance it takes to really break away from controlling/ manipulative/ disrespectful/ narcissistic/ and insincere or duplicitous individuals. Now imagine those are your “family” and you’ve got my life!

I’m beyond proud of myself for leaving hateful, sad, unhappy, miserable , disrespectful, immature, and selfish people behind, “family” or not. Family is not what you call yourself, it’s how you act. I’ll take that with me to the grave.

Something I’ve also come to learn is that if people wanted you to talk about them better then maybe they should have behaved better towards you. Don’t get mad at me for being honest, a quality they certainly lack.

The best thing to do when dealing with a narcissist is to remove them from your life (if possible). They need someone to control, they need someone to manipulate, they need someone to abuse and hurt. They treat you even worse when they think you’ll never leave them and when they think you’re not strong enough or courageous enough to say ENOUGH IS ENOUGH.

My breaking point with the grimy people in my family came 5 years ago. It got to a point where I discovered something pretty horrible and completely unacceptable & I knew I had to get the hell out and cut all contact. For my sanity, for my integrity, and for the simply fact that someone I love deeply was hurt in a disgusting way by people who go around pretending to be ‘family’ and ‘adults’. Talk about me if you want, spew your lies. Lord knows that’s practically habitual for them. Please keep proving to the world why no one wants anything to do with you, your misery, your spite, your hate, your immaturity, your duplicitousness, and your COWARDLINESS !

You never know how strong you are until being strong is the only option you have left. And I struggle with my mental health. I struggle with trying to heal from childhood trauma and Narcissistic abuse. But I’ll be damned if I’m ever going to go back to what was hurting me and treating me less than human. Especially when NO ONE — especially not grown ‘adults’ who pretend to be family — have the right to hurt, abuse, disrespect, belittle, or lie to me. EVER. And that’s on GOD!

“Never let someone get comfortable with disrespecting you”. NEVER. Amen to that ! Those individuals live with a disgusting and sadistic need to hurt people, and usually they’ll go after people they think are “easy targets”, like children or people who they think shouldn’t question their abuse. That might be the pernicious and pathetic world they live in but out here in the real world I value respect, honesty, maturity, love, compassion, care, communication, integrity, humility, and some common decency.

People with narcissistic tendencies want to make it seem like you “need” them, which is why they belittle, attack, scream, disrespect, manipulate, lie, argue, fight, and gaslight you in an effort to wear you down so you do their immature bidding. And you know what? I got flat out tired of all that shit. No one has the right to speak or treat me like that because that’s abuse and disrespect and I will never tolerate that, especially when a supposed “adult” and supposed “family members” should NEVER be speaking to you like that.

The only way to win is to not play the game. Those slimy creatures live off of the fighting and the arguments and the attention you’re giving them. It’s what they want because they’re so insecure and unhappy that they need drama and instigation. The best way to let them wither is to remove them from your life like the garbage they are and don’t even waste your breath on them or acknowledge their paltry, pathetic, and pitiful existence. Not their life because lord knows they’re not living.

You get to live a real life away from all of that. When you’re in all of that toxic miasma it is hard to see the reality of it all. It’s hard to see that those things that are happening are not normal, and that’s not how family nor adults behave. Ever. No one has the right to make you feel inferior, especially not to soother their overinflated and disgustingly fragile ego.

None of this is easy. None of this is straightforward. I can’t tell you how much I struggle with remnant feelings of guilt, shame, anger, resentment, depression, intense pain, humiliation, despondency, disassociation, and the feeling of being a victim. But I try to tell myself I am not a victim. I try to tell myself none of what happened to me was my fault at all, especially since I was a kid. That is not my fault, that has nothing to do with me. Guilt, shame, anger, resentment, unhappiness, etc. none of those things belong to me.

Abusers and narcissistic and toxic people carry those things inside of them and that’s what makes them such onerous people. I understand it’s easy to feel like you’re carrying those things, and sometimes we are, but realizing that we don’t need to carry that resentment and that pain and that unfairness can be liberating. I give it back to them because it never belonged to me in the first place. Let them all stare at one another. Let them all sit with one another in discomfort and self - disgust. It’s what they deserve. It’s what they are

When they no longer have you to disparage and mistreat, they implode. They rely on having that source and that supply, and I refuse to be anyone’s punching bag or supply. Ever again.

Either come correct or don’t come at all.

None of this is easy. I waver, and sometimes a lot. I stumble, I fall, I shake, I fall off my path. God knows there are days where I fall and I feel so despondent and crushed by the weight of it all. But that is not for me to carry. I never did anything wrong. I’m actually an incredible person. I’m flawed and yet I’m glad I can admit my flaws. I’m smart, kind, caring, honest, bold, passionate, brave, vulnerable, flawed, imperfect, perceptive, witty, loving, and that all makes me who I am.

I am not that. I am not them.

They all get to carry the shame now. They get to hold onto the loneliness.

I get to hold myself.

5 notes - Posted May 25, 2022

#3

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10 notes - Posted May 5, 2022

#2

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13 notes - Posted May 5, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

I refuse to live with resentment and anger

15 notes - Posted June 2, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

#tumblr2022 #year in review #my 2022 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review

[soupandtissues]

Behold My Stuff

An ongoing collection of my writings about making various characters miserable for my own amusement enjoy!

Good Omens

A Demon Suffers an Angel Helps - Aziraphale is nice to Crowley when he’s sick Crowley likes that 

Art Inspired - Crowley gets sick after the failed apocalypse.

Art Inspired -  Crowley sneeze dials Aziraphale

Art Inspired - 70s Crowley works on the M25

A Yellow Wood - Crowley with fall allergies

Aziraphale has an old fashioned footbath to help his cold

Aziraphale runs into Crowley at an Inn

Aziraphale and Crowley argue, but then Crowley doesn’t come back to apologize

Aziraphale needs a favour

Blankets and Warm Drinks

Chicken Soup for the Bureaucratic Soul

Crowley and Aziraphale meet at a Roman bath and Part 2

Crowley catches Aziraphale’s cold and tries not to wake him 

Crowley doesn’t like to sneeze but he likes it when Aziraphale does

Crowley gets sick while living in his car

Crowley has a cute sneeze

Crowley has to cancel plans with Aziraphale

Crowley is sick and needs a hug

Crowley is sick on an important date

Early to Bed - Crowley gets the flu the world fails to care 

Fragile - Crowley isn’t quite sure how to be vulnerable around his angel anymore

Going Too Fast - Crowley wakes up on the second third day of his holiday in Paris with Aziraphale and isn’t feeling well

Harsh Crowley and Aziraphale return from the Ritz 

Hiss or Lack There of - Crowley has a cough Aziraphale doesn’t believe him

Indulgent Inducing

More Inducing

Listless - Aziraphale tends to snake Crowley

Naga Crowley

No Rest for the Wicked - Crowley is having a rough day and seeks shelter at the bookshop  

Tissues

Titanic AU - Female Crowley and Aziraphale with sneezing while hiding

Two by Two - Crawly brings a cold virus on the ark

Saint Aziraphale Slaying the Dragon - Sir Aziraphale is sent to fight a dragon who turns out to be an ailing Crowley  

Scotland did not agree with Aziraphale

Sick in an Inconvenient Place Gabriel and Beelzebub meet at the pub 

Sniffles and Reading in Bed

Speechless - Crowley loses his voice and needs another way to tell Aziraphale he’s been under the weather

Sore Throat

Wessex - Sir Aziraphale fights the black knight.  Crowley forgets to mention he’s sick 

When it Rains it Pours - Crowley and Aziraphale get caught in a rainstorm

Whoever Invented Christmas Trees Should be Drug Out into the Street and Shot - Crowley and Aziraphale decorate a Christmas tree

Legend of Korra

Solitude - Lin Beifong

Loki

Aftershocks - Loki loses control of his magic when he’s sick

A Cold for Three - Loki/Mobius/Sylvie -  The trio share a cold and get small comforts to help with the misery

Am I Good Enough - Loki/Mobius/Sylvie - Loki has a cold and his lovers find that frustrating Part 2

Fireplace - Thor AU Thor is a good brother to King Loki Part 2 Part 3

Falling Asleep by accident in a Warm Place - Loki/Mobius/Sylvie

Favourite - Loki and Sylvie are sick and trying not to wake Mobius

Injury - Loki in the woods

Support Systems - Time slipping countless times is bound to leave a body a mess afterwards as Loki finds out

Star Trek TOS

Indulgences - a collection of fics loosely tied together under the same tag starting here mostly Kirk/Spock focused 

McSpirk Drabbles

Embarrassment

Headache

Lonely

Itch

Warmth

Rain

Star Trek AOS

Caring for the Caregiver - Kirk/McCoy McCoy is a doctor taking care of a ship full of idiot children they aren’t supposed to take care of him

Spock knows what to do when one is sick: work anyway

McSpirk Drabbles

Memories

Jealous

Handkerchief

Relationship

Confess

Dinner for Three

Hold Back

Affection

Hoarse

Shower

Stress

Bed

Control

Apologize

Immune

Caught in the Act

Exhausted

Headcold

#snz fic #snz kink #sickfic

[ddarker-dreams]

Exodus. Yan Chrollo x Reader

Warnings: Alcohol mention, implied trauma, and panic attacks.  Word count: 1.6k.

Tonight commemorates an important milestone. 

You don’t know if you’d call this outing a “celebration”, the somberness of your mood presenting a stark contrast to the festive label. Reclaiming authority over your own life shouldn’t have been a necessity in the first place. To take pleasure in having autonomy again feels surreal, invoking a bitterness within you that can never be sated. Nothing serves as a permanent solution in making you feel better. Distractions, all of them, fleeting as the wind that carries you from one city to the next. 

The glass in front of you is empty, your throat burning from finishing it off. It’s late -- around midnight, last time you checked -- you should be heading out by now. Staying in one location longer than necessary is unwise. This prepaid card should have just enough to cover your tab for the night, if you’ve been keeping track properly. The man who’s been chatting you up for the past thirty minutes pauses when he sees you reaching for your wallet. 

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” he chuckles, cheeks flushed from the alcohol. “My treat?” 

It’s a welcome enough invitation. “Ah... if it’s not too much a bother.” 

He shakes his head, and waves the bartender over. “It’s the least I could do. You make for a good conversation partner.” 

Good conversation partner, you think, repeating his words in your mind. Well, it beats some lecherous guy trying to feel me up. I’ll take it. 

“Though, I’ve got to say, are you feeling alright? You look like you’ve been spaced out for a bit. Did you drink too much?” He asks with a frown. It’s true that your head feels hazy, but it’s not debilitating. 

“I’ll be fine,” you respond, stretching your sore muscles. “Thank you for caring.” 

As more people from nearby clubs pour in for a drink, the bar feels more claustrophobic. Various people walk by you at every moment. You and your friendly companion have to move out of the way to make room for the influx of people, even though you’re sitting on barstools. Can’t people bother giving a bit more space? Geez... 

“Alright, just making sure,” he’s been feeling around his pocket for a few seconds now, eyebrows furrowing. “Huh, that’s strange, I could’ve sworn I left my wallet right here...” 

You look at the pocket he’s referring to, recalling how he put his wallet in there after ordering drinks for himself earlier. Before you get the opportunity to offer to help him search, there’s an additional voice behind you. One that instantly submerges your body into a state of unrivaled panic.

“I’ll pay for them.” 

There’s a hand placed on your shoulder. For such a light touch, it carries a heavy weight, your body all but crumbling underneath of it. Your breath catches in the back of your tightening throat. This... this can’t be happening. It’s been months. How is this possible, I took every precaution-- 

“Isn’t that right, [First]?” Chrollo comes into your view, a content smile on his face. The same smile that tells you he knows he’s won. The same smile that seals your fate, closing every door to the future you fought tooth and nail to open up. You don’t trust your voice, not in this petrified state, opting to nod your head once. Wrapping up some unsuspecting stranger in this is the last thing you want to do. Especially as courteous as this person has been to you.  

“Ah, thanks man, I must’ve dropped it somewhere,” he lets out an awkward laugh. From how Chrollo is referring to you with familiarity, he assume he’s your boyfriend. “I’ll head out for now then. It was nice meeting you.” 

“Y-yeah. Nice meeting you too.” You swallow bile that rises in your throat, every muscle in your body going taut. Chrollo takes the seat the stranger had once occupied and eyes you with acute interest. He’s wearing far more casual clothes than usual, bandages covering the peculiar mark on his head. Neither of you make a move. Had it been anyone else, any other person threatening you without so much as uttering a word, you’d be making a scene. 

It isn’t anyone else. You know Chrollo, you know the lengths he’d go to. One wrong move and everyone in here would be reduced to nothing less than a bloodstain on the floor. Playing your cards right is the only option, stalling until a better solution comes into your paralyzed mind. His dark grey eyes are unreadable, piercing straight through you, bringing a sense of dread like no other.

Your hands tighten on your lap, fingernails digging into the skin of your thighs. “How... how long...?” 

Chrollo raises an eyebrow at your quivering voice. “How long what? How long ago I knew the body wasn’t yours, that you’ve been using various forms of false identification, or since I entered this bar?” 

He returns your poorly executed question with a barrage of his own, delivered in an even timbre. Chrollo takes a sip from his own glass at your silence. What is there to say? What is there to do? You’ve been caught, trapped in the spider’s web, any forms of struggle fastening you further into his clutches. Squirming underneath his unrelenting stare feels even worse, but you can’t will yourself to remain calm. You know this is what he wants. To make you feel powerless, taking some form of twisted pleasure in your misery. There’d be a tiniest touch of satisfaction in denying him that, yet you can’t even manage that much. 

“I wanted to observe what you’d do, what lengths you’d go to,” Chrollo explains as he taps the rim of his glass, “Now that you’ve had your fun, I believe it’s time to come home.” 

Fun...? Is that what he’d call it? Having to look over your shoulder whenever you went out for basic supplies, the insomnia that haunted you as you feared you might wake to the sight of him watching over you, cutting off contact with everyone you cared for as you feared the repercussions if he found out? There was no fun in the last few miserable months of your life, only anxiety and lament. It took everything you had to escape from Chrollo once. Seeing the light of that victory extinguished is agonizing. 

Chrollo places a smothering hand atop your shaking one. “Though, I do have to admit that I’m quite... disappointed, with you. There’ll be time to discuss that elsewhere.” 

“What makes you think I’ll come with you?” you snap before you can stop yourself, pulling your hand to your chest in disgust. Chrollo doesn’t bother moving his hand. You both know your lack of power in this situation, how every act like that is nothing but an attempt to make you appear stronger than you are. Never before has his surname felt more fitting than now. 

“The same reason why you haven’t tried doing anything since I showed up,” Chrollo closes his eyes, reflecting. His voice drops to a sinister whisper. “You know what’d happen if you did.” 

There are no hidden strategies up your sleeve. No escape route, counter argument, or clever tricks. Your eyes dart around. There are people from every walk of life gathered here, none the wiser to the threat that looms over like a shadow in the night. College students, long time friends reconnecting, workers relaxing after a long week at the job. To Chrollo, they aren’t meaningful people with lives and ambitions, they’re puppets. His Nen is capable of horrors that you wish you could unsee. 

“In that case... what do I do?” Your body is heavy with the burden of defeat. Shoulders slumping, eyelids drooping, and eyes threatening to overflow with tears. 

Chrollo places some bills onto the countertop, money no doubt gained through the pain of others. “I’m glad you asked. There’s a car outside waiting for us.” 

Of course. This wasn’t a chance encounter, or fate spitting at you in disgust. It was meticulously planned and executed by a man who specializes in the art of thievery. You’d expect no less. Sighing, you reach for Chrollo’s drink, that he had sit down in favor of inspecting you. He watches wordlessly as you take it for yourself, chugging the remnants in its entirety. The flush on your face worsens at your actions, but you can’t bother yourself to care. 

It’s only when you place it down with a clink that he comments. “I leave you to your own devices for this short a time and you end up like this? Surely, being with me was better than jumping motel to motel for months on end. You’ve proven you’re incapable of taking care of yourself without my intervention.” 

“It’s because of you that I’m like this,” you wipe at your mouth with the back of your hand, venom dripping from your every word. “Don’t get the wrong idea.” 

Chrollo simply smiles, standing and motioning for you to join him by his side. For something that’s posed as a choice, it’s lacking the options to truly be one, a single path set ahead of you. Chrollo helps you to your feet, your legs too unstable to function properly. In the moment, you can’t settle on how you feel. Angry with yourself? The rest of the world for not being able to see what’s happening? Exhausted from months of being on the run? You don’t know. You don’t know anything anymore for certain, the room around you steadily becoming a blur. All you know is that it’s all his fault. 

“Whatever helps you feel better about yourself, [First].” 

#chrollo lucilfer #chrollo #chrollo x reader #chrollo imagine #chrollo lucilfer imagine #yandere chrollo #yandere chrollo lucilfer #yandere chrollo imagine #yandere chrollo x reader #Hunter X Hunter #hunter x hunter imagine #hunter x hunter imagines #HunterXHunter #yandere hunter x hunter #hxh #hxh x reader #yandere hxh x reader #yandere #yandere x reader #my stuff #tw: alcohol mention #tw: anxiety

[crown-anon]

aah i thought of a req!!!!! could i maybe request one shots or hcs (separate) w dream, sapnap, n wilbur with a s/o (preferred he/him!!) who draws a whole lot,, n one day they catch him drawing him?? tysm :]

@ghcstbnr asked

gn i just realized i made a typo i meant cc catching reader drawing them- but ty again :)

of course! it's kind of long, sorry about that

I took a little creative liberty with the notion of "catching you drawing." also Sapnap's looks kind of long but it's also dialogue heavy. if you want me to redo it, I will. hope you like it 💗

& a note to everyone else, I don't write for Wilbur yet! I only write for the dream team at this time. sorry about that! this will probably change in the future, though, so look out 👀

CW: swearing

format: one-shot

people: dreamwastaken, Sapnap

pronouns: dreamwastaken's piece is ambiguous, Sapnap's piece uses he/him

edited 27 April 2021

—

dreamwastaken

since he doesn't use his camera, you find yourself with your boyfriend in the studio more often than not. when he's gaming casually, you play together, or one of you will cheer the other one on. when he's streaming, sometimes you interact with the viewers, or read donations for him; sometimes you just sit next to him, soaking up his energy and warmth. when he's working long days and long nights to edit videos, you're content with just relaxing together in the same space. at times you have to drag him out to the kitchen to eat, or help him to bed if he passes out, but…he's really cute when he's focused. (and you're starting to think he does it on purpose just so you can dote on him.)

today is a little different. he's recording for a manhunt that's meant to drop in a couple days. you're quiet, trying to avoid disrupting them. you're perched up on the loveseat, staring fondly at him across the room. he's so animated, the way his eyes shine when he talks to his friends, how he tears up when he laughs…

Patches mews at you from the arm of the couch, as if to say, disapprovingly, I cannot believe how sickeningly sweet your inner monologue is.

and you try to understand where she's coming from, you really do, but the sun's starting to set, and the gentle rays slotting through the blinds are shifting from white to gold.

he looks so divine, you decide. it's unfair. how could I not love him? he's seriously pretty. and before you can stop yourself, you're sketching him out on your tablet. you glance up at him fast to get the details right, and look away just as quickly. he never meets your eyes. soon your whole page is covered in little Clays, capturing the way he feels, the way he acts, the way you feel about him. Patches jumps off the chair, with all the moving. and before you know it, you've drawn up a whole page of concept art of your unfairly beautiful boyfriend. Patches was right about me, you muse to yourself.

fuck. Patches. the same Patches who's been meowing at you for the better part of an hour, now sitting patiently at the door? there's no way Clay didn't pick up on all that noise, you fret. but he's still playing, looking intense as ever. relief washes over you, replacing the guilt.

come here, girl, you think to yourself, knowing Patches wouldn't have even understood you if you spoke. sorry to keep you waiting. and you rise, slipping quietly out the door with his cat in your train.

—

you're coming back to the studio. Patches, fed and sated, is napping in another room. opening the door, you have to stop yourself, you freeze. your boyfriend's kneeling on the ground, sitting on his heels, right next to the door—you'd have hit him if it opened any further.

"baby, what are you…" the words die on your tongue.

my book. my sketchbook. my sketchbook full of drawings of him. shit, he's gonna think I'm such a simp! the embarrassment, the shame, the fear, it's overwhelming you.

you hear your voice break. "…what happened to recording…?"

"finished half an hour ago," he says simply.

and that was that. for the first time in ages, the silence hanging between you was thick and heavy with tension. you wait. and wait. and wait. you wait for the criticism, the hate, the argument that never comes.

suddenly, he seems content with what he's seen, when he looks up at you adoringly, and takes one of your hands, giving it a soft squeeze. "is that…me?"

you've lost your voice, all you can do is nod.

"you…you think I'm beautiful?" he glows.

ah, I suppose I did write that, somewhere in there. you look away. all the things I've said…

he brings your hand up to his lips and leaves kisses on your knuckles.

you sound small. "do I not tell you that enough?" you pause. "that you're beautiful? that I love you?"

and just like that, his nervousness dissolves into euphoria. you both start laughing at the same time.

"oh my god—" he wheezes. "—you're so sappy."

"only for you," you blurt out, and start laughing harder. but he quiets, he hesitates.

"only for me," he repeats.

you sink down onto the floor next to him. he's staring so fondly at you, you can't help but smile back.

"only for you," you affirm.

he rests his hands on your knees, pulling himself closer to you. he's so close to you, you can feel his blush. you let your eyes close, softly.

but the kiss never comes. instead, you're met with a "then what about all those drawings of Patches?"

laying on the floor, tangled up in each other, in hysterics, you distantly think I hope he remembered to leave the call from recording earlier.

—

over dinner, you meet his gaze, and he gives you that look. that stupid, handsome look; the one with the smile and the danger behind his eyes. he makes a point of pausing mid-bite, but it takes you a minute to notice that he's stopped eating.

"what's up, honey?" you ask, sounding a little more concerned than you should have been.

he shrugs dramatically. "oh, nothing…just figured you'd appreciate a muse." there it was. the teasing. you knew it would happen eventually. but the tone, it's kind, it's tempting; gentle, unlike a serious jab.

so all you do is roll your eyes, but you can't help the way your mouth quirks into a smile. "you're so dumb," you murmur with affection, and shake your head at nothing in particular.

Patches curls her tail around your ankle as she passes you by.

—

on the couch hours later for movie night, you're the last one up. Patches is curled up in Clay's lap, purring. Clay, in turn, sleeps soundly in your lap. (you think if he could purr, he would, but he settles for humming softly when you play with his hair.) you might think it's funny looking back on it later, but it feels so tender and vulnerable now. you like calm evenings like this one. Studio Ghibli plays quietly on the flatscreen; you don't know which one, you're not really paying attention anymore.

you're busy tracing the contours of Clay's skin, feeling more than seeing his shape in the dark room. mapping him out in your mind, learning his figure like you're seeing him for the first time again. you think you understand him a little bit better, every day you spend together. and with confidence, you make your first stroke, illuminated by the moon.

—

Sapnap

you only barely stop yourself from drawing a big "X" across your paper. exhale, and start erasing furiously. don't rip the paper—well, we didn't need that sheet anyway. ball it up and throw it at the dark, cobwebbed corner of the room. along with the rest of your mistakes.

you're trying. you're really trying. but those lips. his fucking lips. fuck.

your boyfriend smiles at the camera as he gets a donation with a sweet message on it. it should be so easy. he's right there. right here.

you check the time. it's been an hour. you've been trying, and miserably failing, to get his lips right for an entire hour. today, at least. you scoff at yourself, your misery, and pinch the bridge of your nose. it isn't fair.

his camera's on, and he's live, so you know you can't be in there with him. nobody knows you're together, and you don't want know what kind of backlash to expect if people found out. so you've been avoiding his streams…the whole room where he streams, really.

you've kept yourself busy by drawing. and you've cycled through many subjects in your life, and eventually, been able to draw whatever you put your mind to with enough time and effort. the problem is, your sights have been set on Sapnap, even for months before you got together. okay, maybe that isn't the problem. the actual problem is that you fucking suck at drawing him.

you get going, start it out, do an okay job, but midway through screw it all up somehow. to make things worse, your reference is his 2D image. he doesn't…know that you draw him. you're terrified to say. so you can't use the real life Sapnap as a reference, like you would prefer.

ugh, and this one's ruined too. you rip it up and throw it at your growing pile of paper balls, but being tiny confetti-sized pieces of paper, they don't make it very far. great, something else to clean up later, you huff at your own thoughts. it isn't fair.

—

"[name]?" he calls for you. you're one step ahead, already opening the door. you can't remember when you got here and decided to brood outside his room.

"hey, do you think you can—" he tears his eyes from his camera, his waiting audience, to look up at you expectantly. when he sees you he stops immediately, looking concerned, standing to meet you.

"what is it?" your voice is flat.

out of view of the camera, he mouths, are you okay? you only shrug and avert your eyes.

he falters, contemplates, sits back down at his desk and starts to talk to his viewers. "hey guys, I'm sorry for the short notice, but I gotta cut this stream short. my…" he glances at you for approval, only to see you motioning with your hands as if to say, no, don't.

(you yourself don't really know what for. no, don't end the stream for me? no, don't out us like this?)

he looks back. "…my friend…something came up with my friend. I have to take care of it. it's really important." you can tell he has trouble finding the right words. you can tell it throws him off, he's acting out of character for his internet personality. do you blame him? isn't this your fault? "sorry again. bye guys!"

the second he made the last click, he gets up and pulls you into a hug. it's unexpected, it knocks the wind out of you. you're certain he feels the tension.

"babe…what's wrong?" it's muffled by your neck and the sweater you're wearing. you just hold him, saying nothing.

he pulls away and holds you by the shoulders. "look at me. what's wrong?"

you feel all the more embarrassed. it's so silly to be upset about. "I…I…well, it's a lot."

he shakes his head, to say I'm not going anywhere, but his expression softens, his grip loosens. "do you want to talk about it?"

you sigh. "it started as 'I can't draw for shit', then it became 'why am I afraid of asking you for help?', and finally, worst of all, 'why the fuck can't we be seen together?' it isn't fair. it's never been fair. I'm sorry."

he thinks about it for a second. "okay, what makes you feel like we can't be seen together?"

"are you joking?" you snap. "we're two fucking boyfriends. in this society." he didn't look hurt by the outburst, but the guilt crept in anyway. "…I'm sorry."

he shakes his head, "do you really think I'd let that happen? I wouldn't ever let anyone hurt you, darling. remember that."

"I know, I know…" you don't know what to say. "it's easy to forget, I guess."

"what are you afraid to ask me for help about?"

"I…" shit, you guess you have to tell him. close your eyes, breathe, "I've been drawing you. trying to draw you. but I can't, it never turns out right."

you peek, and he's red in the face, stuttering. "me? you draw me? of all the hot people out there?"

you furrow your eyebrows at him. "don't give me that shit. you know you're cute."

he shakes his head incredulously. "are we talking about the same person here?"

"dude, your smile is literally the most radiant fucking force of nature I have ever seen."

"you're hot too! why are you coming after me?"

"I'm not 'coming after you', you're being defensive about your looks, when you shouldn't be! you're gorgeous, baby."

you're both giggling like girls at a sleepover, the anger and frustration long forgotten. now it's a war of who can be more grossly in-love with the other.

"what part of me," he manages between laughs. "are you having trouble drawing?"

"oh god," you groan, remembering yourself and your dilemma. "your lips."

"my fucking lips? you would think that—"

"no," you warn. "shut up. don't say it. don't you dare say it."

he leans in close, his hands have moved up to cup your face. you shiver.

"don't worry," he grins. "I won't."

the kiss is long and sweet, nothing like the ones you've shared in the past. he takes his time, you savor each other. you feel time stop ticking, you feel your heart stop beating, you feel the way he tilts his head. you grab him by the collar of his shirt and pull him in. and when you part, you're breathing heavy, in tandem.

"thanks," you manage. "but I needed to see your lips, not kiss you into next saturday."

"nah," he laughs. "I think you needed that too."

you choose your words thoughtfully. "do you need me, too?"

he hums, and—

ding!

dreamwastaken donated $69!

:)

you could die. you could really, seriously die.

the response is instant. you don't even see Sapnap move from you to the PC, flushed down to his neck, apologizing, apologizing, and apologizing again. "change of plans, guys, we're doing an art stream!"

the chat is filled with "huh?"s and "what?"s.

"huh? what?" you didn't have the time to process what just happened.

karljacobs: I thought we were doing a make-out-with-our-secret-boyfriends stream :(

he smiled warmly at you. "yeah. my lovely boyfriend is going to draw me! he's been wanting to for a really long time, and his art is really good. let's go get your stuff."

you're in so much shock that he makes it past you and out of the room, while you stand there waiting. after a pause much longer than you intended, you hurry after him.

—

down the hall, in your room, he's got your sketchbook tucked under his arm, closed. you're sure you left it open when you came out.

you only barely get the words out. "um, did you…go through it? please don't laugh."

your heart sinks when he laughs heartily, but he grabs your hand, resting it on your book, about to hand it off. but he holds you there for a second. "of course not. I respect your privacy." he ponders for a moment. "I respect you."

you can feel the sigh of relief when you let it out. "I…love you."

your holding your book now, as he moves to collect the boxes containing your pens and pencils and colors. he gets them all together, but before he picks them up to head back, he turns around to face you. "is this too much?"

you absently reach for a hand, tracing over the lines on his palms. and you think about it. am I okay? is this too much?

"I don't think so. not with you. I'm okay."

he moves to open the door and grab the rest of your things. "well then, let's not keep them waiting!"

—

edited 27 April 2021

#dreamwastaken x reader #dream x reader #clay x reader #sapnap x reader

[yigittezcan]

Patrick Bateman and His Possession of Artworks

Everybody knows American Psycho or at least hear the name of the movie. It’s a quite famous movie even though it contains challenging and gruesome imagery. Besides, its huge fanbase, Patrick Bateman is a cultural viral. His memes, quotes are still circulated through media. Bateman mostly stands out with his possessions. His iconic Oliver People glasses, Valentino suit, Rolex watch, Jena-Paul Guilttere suit bag (suspected), and his prestigious house that located American Gardens Building on W. 81st Street on the 11th floor. Undoubtedly, Patrick adores his house. It is a white-dominant minimally designed house. It resembles an art gallery. If we look carefully at his house we could find many things to discuss but in this blog, I want to talk about Patrick Bateman’s possession of artworks.

At the beginning of the movie Patrick Bateman introduces himself to the audience by narration. He also gives us a tour of his house. Passing the frames with black squares, Bateman goes for a pee. As he tries to empty his bladder we see his face from a reflective surface of a frame. This frame is a poster of Les Miserables musical in which Bateman only would be able to bear misery in an art context. Although it’s a weird choice for toilet framing, Les Miserables (1985) is one of the most successful and profitable musical adaptation ever. You could see reviews like “A musical that made history”. Bateman might watch this musical in the front seat and have fun, especially in the fifth act where the performers sing the I Dreamed a Dream (also featured in the original soundtrack). He should be touched by the following lines: “There was a time when men were kind When their voices were soft And their words inviting There was a time when love was blind And the world was a song And the song was exciting There was a time and it all went wrong”

Besides, Les Miserables there is a second artwork that Bateman probably spent on an immense amount of money just to buy and use as a decoration. Longo’s Men In Cities always finds a way to be seen in the frame. His two pairs of lithographs are centered in the Bateman’s living room.

While Longo creating the Men in Cities series he states that his inspiration came from the neo-noir (specifically American Soldier 1970) crime movies and punks’ dance moves.  To execute this series he gathered his friends on the roof of the house and took their photos just like he uses the camera as a gun and his friends try to dodge the bullets. I think it's also a stop motion practice on photos where he tries to capture small movements of the human body. It is a physical artwork. We see men and women in chic dresses and trying to stay on their feet. The men and women become a silhouette with huge negative space. As I read into Longo's art, I found that Longo commonly inserts violence in his art where he references the war era and the rise of capitalism afterward.

In an interview, Ellis discusses the original book of American Psycho (written by Brad Easton Ellis) where he states that his primal concern is to make fun of capitalism and what stupid meaningless values it brings to the people. Hence using Longo’s artwork matches with the film. However, as a huge fan of the movie I always found the capitalist subtext of the movie arguably weak as the audience is blinded by the killer charisma of the Bateman. Thus, the audience fails to understand Bateman's misery in abundance.

#american psycho #artwork

[callmehopeless]

Something interesting I've found is that, now that I'm no longer living that "depressed artist searching for meaning" vibe in regards to my work: my whole attitude to it is different

Writing wasn't just an expression of my feelings of doubt, but it was sort of the last train out of the station. I always thought misery made me a better writer - so I got used to being miserable. And I got used to the idea that surrounding myself with miserable people would help me make better art

I was drinking to make art, and making art when I was at my lowest, and making art when I had nothing else. Because I was driven by the idea that I had to leave something behind, because then I'd finally fill a hole that I was ripping open in myself. I was ripping open this big hole in my chest, just to fill it up with art and send it back to me. It was repetitive; violent art for a violent world. I didn't want to be happy - I wanted to be seen. Loved from every angle. The sad bits and the miserable bits needed it more than all the other pieces of me did

I was trying to flatter and impress people who lived that pattern, and so I forgot. I forgot that art doesn't have to be ripped out of you to be beautiful. You don't have to be cynical and sad and lonely and bitter by ripping art out and giving it to someone, hoping they'll recognise something worthy in it

I think of Vincent Van Gogh when I reflect on that. I read something about him drinking yellow paint to put sunshine into his body, because art to him was about sacrifice

And then you take time away from ripping those pieces off of you, and you feel ethereal for a while. You can't exist without someone else seeing your art. Acknowledging your art

Then purposeless. Wandering around, looking for something you don't understand. If nobody is seeing me; do I really exist?

And then...parts of you heal. You rip them open sometimes, but you realise you're ripping something you can heal up, now. And then you're breathing again. You're finding people who help you breathe. Who encourage you to see art in things - small, insignificant things

And one day, you look back and you realise: you've spent that whole, healing, insignificant time...creating. Not bleeding or flattering for it; but making small things. Things nobody will ever praise you for. Little things; things just for you, in your own head. And suddenly, without needing to be a tortured and pained artist, you figure out your art is beautiful. It always was. It didn't have to be ripped right out of you to be art, and nobody has to sit there and tell you it's beautiful for you to be a worthwhile artist

The world is a different place for me than it was, I think. Now, when I write - it'll take longer. It'll be more sparse. It'll be better - not for everyone else, but for me. I've had to fall out of love with the result to fall in love with the process of writing

Thank you for reading this; I've needed to get it all down, and it's liberating for me to say it

#hope talks #cw: depression #art #if this comes off as rambling: it probably is