Honkai: Star rail | Version 2.2

2.2 banners

BOOTHILL'S VOICELINE PREVIEWS I LOVE HIM

so uh. that 2.2 Special Program, huh

yes all my favorite characters are desperate to be loved. no i don’t think that says anything about me

#my writing

“my father tells our dog, “don’t act mortally wounded, i barely hurt you,” and i fall silent because those words have been used in my childhood after slaps that left welts on the side of my cheek and a scream in my ears that has never stopped ringing and i have my father’s talents i have his hair his eyes and i have his love for teaching and every time i lose my temper i am afraid of who i will grow up to be because what if one day my child will be at my feet begging me to please stop hitting your mother has hair that touches her shoulders and you’re twice as pretty but she never feels like you deserve the spotlight so when we were thirteen the first time i met her she stormed into your room where we were working on a project and poured the cat litter out on your floor because you had forgotten to do your chores and you have her thin frame and her blue sky eyes and you can see other people’s weaknesses with the same sniper-like accuracy and you once cried in my lap for three hours because you hated being able to hurt people the way she’s hurt you and my best friend never talks about her dad because her dad is never home until four years ago at senior prom when he showed up at the front door and spent one hour screaming in another room while we turned up the music and smiled broad at her like we were trying to outshine the darkness we saw creeping into her eyes and when he left again he slammed the door so hard the floor shook under us and she collapsed - she was raised with his ambition, his wit, his constant need to be doing something - she was in fifth grade when she looked at me and said “i’m never having kids” and i am talking to a boy with sad eyes and he says that he thinks that we’re all messed up because our parents never really cared enough - he says “there’s a reason they call us the ‘me’ generation: it’s because we always asked for too much” because so many of us just never felt loved there was always something more important than us we are raised in four white prison walls rather than outside, we are in schools that everyone knows are teaching us poorly, we are succumbing to more mental illness than ever and we’re still told it’s just a “teenage affliction,” we are clutching degrees that amount to a waste of time because there are no jobs there are no options there is nothing for us in a world that is burning we were born to solve the problems that those before us built and we are called selfish when we ask for help - we are so scared of being like the ones who raised us we are so scared of messing this up we just want to do good we went to do well we want to stop fighting in the wars other men built but what have we to protect ourselves in this wide world that spits our names like they are toothpicks what have we to fight our own battles how do we go forth into that dark place when they made the caves and called us canary what do we carry but the skeletons our parents buried?”

—

INHERITANCE // r.i.d (via inkskinned)

You have the friendship and support and shoulders of those of us elders who endured what you endure—the bruises, the slaps, the constant verbal whittling—the emergence from the labor of school with a degree that means nothing, the struggle to get on your feet and to find where you stand.  We have walked the same path; we know it’s so damn hard.  We know what it is to want all the pretty things because we never had them as we grew up, because we “didn’t earn them,” because our “school costs too much,” because we “were bad,” because we didn’t get that A/trophy/scholarship that we were supposed to, because we weren’t perfect.  Because we were poor and wore things until they wore out, then went to the 2nd hand store while our classmates made fun of us.  Of course we/you want things.  Maybe they’ll fill the empty, hurting spaces.

You may not hit your kids, because you’re so terrified of it. Talk to a therapist, go to Alanon and talk it out there if you’re really rattled (this also works if you worry about taking up a parent’s addiction).  And if you’re really sure, there are other ways.  There are paths that bring you in contact with kids: scouts, children’s librarians, Big Brothers/Big Sisters, social work (for the strong), teachers, children’s or teen writers.  You get to pick the length of your exposure, your favorite age, and how close you can bear to get.  There are plenty of parents.  There can always be more helpers. And you will find that by helping others, you help yourself.  Let those people who look at your generation go swim.  They never bothered to get to know you.

(via tamorapierce)

worst part about getting angry is how much it makes you want to be mean

so was anyone gonna tell me that the poet whose works helped me process the death of my childhood dog has a book coming out and it’s release date happens to be the ten year anniversary of said dog’s death or was i supposed to find that out on my own

“when you came home my dog had already died and the gold in my eyes had gone out, but it’s okay. you were never good at watching the tide go out. besides, i discovered that the only way to walk this floor is to just lie here, breathing, and kind-of-not-really either sobbing or laughing i buried her next to where your five-year-old goldfish mr. bubbles is respectfully interred and where the weeds are similarly growing over the bones of a golden retriever named boomer who was hit by a car and the collar of a grey cat named ghost who was hit by a car and the suicide note i hid that apologized for getting hit by a car but it’s okay you weren’t there. it shouldn't hurt. we could always order a new puppy in the mail. there’s plenty of them. don’t worry. sometimes i think i’m sad as a decoration rather than as a disease. you could always order a new poet at starbucks. there are plenty of us. i’m sorry that when you came home i didn’t have the strength to stand up. the dog died of cancer, see. i spent the last five months handfeeding her boiled chicken and white rice and cleaning up the blood and vomit she left behind. i did not hold her paw when we killed her with kindness. she hated having her feet touched. i know the gold has gone out and so has the fire. i sold it off so i wouldn’t have to see you every time i looked in the mirror. it’s okay. you only went to the ocean when the tide was in. you said you didn’t like watching the water leave things stranded. you would have hated to see her shaking. it’s okay. it’s been okay ever since i learned how to lie about stuff. i know why you left. i am just upset i could not come along. somebody always has to stay behind and take care of the dying dog.”

— you would have hated to hear her whining. // r.i.d

man. grief really sneaks up on ya at the most random times

.

i’m not like other girls, my “Rest” stats are a heart rate of 110bpm and a HRV of 14 fucking milliseconds. :)

the housing market is ruining my sex life

"oh, if you make out with friends, you could ruin the friendship" so who am i supposed to kiss? my enemies? get a grip

wish i could go missing for a little bit and no one would freak out and then i could come back and they'd be like "did you have fun going missing" and i'd be like "yeah, thanks" and then i could do that every couple of months or so and it wouldn't be a big deal

can i bap you with my paws and be really annoying