#Clear Cut
Note
STEVE HARRINGTON X MILLION DOLLAR MAN !!!!
( idk if that’s what you meant 😭 pls delete if it’s not <3 )
send me 🎵+ character name and i’ll write a lil blurb inspired by a song from their playlist (you can also request songs and i will do my level best. god is a dj and i'm god)
▶ MILLION DOLLAR MAN - LANA DEL REY
you've got the world, but baby at what price? or how falling in love with notorious conman steve harrington began your career as a fence of stolen jewelry.
an: @stveharringtn cherry how the fuck did you know that i've been sitting on a conman!steve au for what feels like a hundred thousand years. PERFECT SONG PERFECT CHOICE lets begin i hope you like it
warnings: my blatant obsession with the oceans eleven cinematic universe and pathological need to create a heist au out of EVERYTHING. and CUSSING IS IN THIS TOO.
word count: 2.5k
MIAMI BEACH, 1990
“Whatever happened to a good old-fashioned safe?”
“I don’t trust a safe. I don’t trust me, I don’t trust you, and I most definitely don’t trust a safe.”
Dustin Henderson dangerously toes the edge of squawking, but he doesn’t know any better. At this point in his career as a thief, he doesn’t understand that when Steve Harrington says he doesn’t trust anyone, it’s not dismissive. It’s simply a missive, a fact of life. Everyone’s got knives, everyone’s got backs. Stands to reason that someone’s going to thrust and someone is going to get stabbed.
Steve likes to take all the necessary precautions.
He doesn’t trust anyone.
“But her you trust?”
Robin Buckley’s tone is hard. Robin Buckley is the only person that Steve could imagine himself trusting, and even so, they keep each other at an imperceptible arm’s length. To the outside world, they’re bosom buddies, best friends eating dirt together. But they both understand the business that they’re in.
They keep their knives sharp.
They take all the necessary precautions.
So why the fuck is Steve bringing an outsider into the ring.
“I never said that.” Steve grabs a coaster and pointedly puts it where Robin might next aim her beer bottle, dripping with incriminating condensation. All over his agarwood coffee table.
“It was inferred.” Robin pointedly puts the bottle down– to the far left of the coaster. Fuck you.
“I don’t see how that’s my problem.” Fuck you right back.
“I know why he’s not using a safe,” Eddie Munson crows from the near background, wiping ash from his face. Eddie Munson, munitions expert. Eddie Munson, expert in blowing up any conversation within a three mile radius. Detonation test, by the way, that’s why his face is covered in shit.
Steve holds out a hand–stop right where you are–before he can reach the agarwood table.
“Because he’s–” and proceeds to make that finger in hole gesture that doesn’t crack a single smile in the room. Not even Dustin Henderson’s, mostly due to the fact that it’s happening behind his head. “Because he’s fucking her.”
“It’s not that,” Steve and Robin say in unison, with Steve’s eyes narrowed on Eddie and Robin’s eyes trained unmercifully on Steve.
It’s not that. They’re right. It’s worse.
-
There’s something psychosexual about the game of tennis. The grunting, the tiny little skirts, the whacking of balls. The amount of money rich people love to spend on it. There’s something evil here, and you’ve committed yourself to a summer of trying to figure it out.
Well, half-committed. Your real commitment is making enough tips to make a dent in your looming student loans. Post-graduation, a friend had given you a hot tip about private tennis clubs in Miami. They use hundos like napkins there, girl. Go get your piece.
Your nana lives in Miami. Lived. She’s dead now, three months. You’re living in her condo now– technically in a seniors complex, assisted living type of thing, but it’s okay. It’s quiet. The people chat and force you to play bocce ball sometimes, the only sport you understand.
Tennis, you don’t understand, other than the fact that these people have more money than they know what to do with and they’re all too repressed to grunt in the privacy of their own homes.
After a time or two taking drink orders and bringing their rackets for in-house repair, they all blend into the same amorphous blob– the white outfits-on-white people effect does not help. They tip you in enormous digits, confident that you’ll remember them and treat them right, but you don’t have that skill. Some of your co-workers do, but you don’t.
So, you notice when someone stands out.
You smell him before you see him, and you know how that sounds, but bare with–
The thickening, insistent incense smell of patchouli. Rainwater. Dust. Lemon.
When you turn from your place behind the bar, fetching your eighth double vodka soda in what seems like as many minutes for another bleach-blond man in his mid-forties, he’s leaning with one elegant elbow propped on the marble top. Sunglasses push over a shock of brown hair, streaked with blonde from the Florida sunshine.
“Macallan, buddy. Up.” But he’s not talking to you. He’s talking to the bartender, Trent, the picture of incompetence. Trent nods to him, smiling broadly, but that flattens into a hard line as he turns toward the bar.
This guy politely turns his head, eyes glossing right over you. But you are just staring a bullet hole right though him, and you can’t help it. He’s magnetic. He’s dressed in a light blue linen suit, a far cry from the tennis uniforms or the hollering Versace shirts every other man in the place seems to be wearing. The slope of his shoulders suggest something… provincial.
He’s not a city boy– man. This is a man.
You hear a clatter to your immediate right and see Trent pouring a finger of Chivas into a tumbler.
“Oh, Trent, that’s not–”
He passes it off to the linen gentleman, this Miami cowboy, with a serene smile. Most people wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between a Chivas and a Macallan, but you would.
And you bet he would too.
He departs in a cloud of the same heavenly scent he’d arrived in, heading courtside to watch trust fund kids fumble over backhands.
“Trent,” you say, reaching for the correct bottle and a fresh tumbler. “Meet Macallan. For next time, okay?”
The blond kid just shrugs at you. “All that shit tastes the same to me.”
To you.
You linger near the arm of his chair before speaking, suddenly able to hear your pulse in your ears. Up close, you can see moles dotting the hand holding the errant glass of Chivas. A big hand too, it seems to dwarf the crystal.
“Excuse me,” you say, as steady as you can manage. It’s not very steady. You wish you would’ve thought to check your makeup before you made a beeline out here, but time, you couldn’t help but feel, was of the essence.
He looks up at you over his sunglasses and you think your knees might buckle.
Eyes like a dark wood. Inviting you in. The kind of eyes that don’t look through you.
Christ, people had been looking through you all summer, but it didn’t matter now.
“Is that the Macallan?” he mumbles conspiratorially.
You just– nod, uniform-required ponytail bouncing.
“I’ll trade you,” he says, about to pass off the glass of Chivas, but then he pauses. Takes you in, surveying you in a way that makes you blush, “if you can finish this one with me.”
“Um…”
“Is that allowed?” he asks, “I don’t want to get you in trouble.”
Trouble be damned. The hell with trouble. Not only is your reputation as a little worker bee here untarnished, you can’t not sit with him.
“I’m due a break, actually.”
“So I’ll trade you. Sit down, get comfortable. Give me the scoop on these tennis brats.”
He leans in to take the glass of Macallan from you, to pass off the glass of Chivas, and he brushes your hand. You experience the full entirely of a cliche, feeling electricity thrum under your skin– but then he passes a fingertip over the ring finger of your right hand.
“That’s a pretty piece,” he hums, “Princess, right?”
For a second, you falter. Princess? Me? But it’s the ring he’s referring to– the yellow diamond engagement ring that once belonged to your nana.
“Close!” you say, twisting the band on your finger in an act of self-consciousness. “Carré cut. Less pricey than a princess.”
“But just as pretty.”
“And more rare, actually.”
“Huh,” he says, and you smooth your skirt out with one hand, taking the seat nearest him. Enveloping yourself in the cloud of him. “Rarer than a princess.”
From the court, a headband-wearing pre-teen in dazzling whites hollers fuck you, Mommy! Fuck you and your fucking bullshit topspin! I fucking hate this place!
“I’ll drink to that.”
-
NEW YORK CITY, 1995
The car door slams behind Dustin Henderson, raindrops rolling from the brim of his baseball cap. It’s late November and a freezing rain has descended upon the Diamond District.
Steve had at least hoped he might see sunshine when he got out of the joint.
From the wheel, he cranes his neck to the back seat where Dustin sits, wiping the dripping water from the hat’s beak. His Thinking Cap. He’s had that thing since he was a kid and has somehow managed to keep it in immaculate condition. Dustin loves details. Dustin also loves risk. Which is why he’s the only man for this recon job.
“Tell me,” Steve says, tone as level as he can possibly keep it.
“She is way hotter than I remember.”
“Dustin.”
“Miami always makes people less hot. I think it’s the heat,” the kid chuckles, an obvious attempt at lightening a tense mood. See, they weren’t supposed to be here. They weren’t supposed to be looking for you. Robin hadn’t said don’t go looking for her, but that more or less should have been in the terms of Steve’s release from Sing Sing.
“Dustin.”
“She’s in there, just like you said she’d be in there. It’s a white room and it’s got every kind of goddamn sparkler you could think of. Three layers of security. Three. What kind of jewelry store you ever been to that’s got three layers of security?”
A detail like that would make a less accomplished thief sweat. But Dustin and Steve share a knowing smile.
“A jewelry store selling stolen jewelry.”
“Exactly,” Dustin nods. “I thought she’d be front-of-house, but she’s got her own office. Tucked away in the corner. Appointment only.”
“Any availability?”
The younger man smirks. “For me or for you?”
-
Buddy’s is the last place in midtown you can get a decent drink and not be surrounded by throngs of yuppies.
You know this, because you tend to date the yuppies in the throng.
This is the one place that seems to be universally avoided by the trader set– it’s too dark and wooden in here, no brutalist architecture to make them feel at home while they rail lines of coke off their girlfriend’s compact mirrors.
At Buddy’s, there’s a pianist that’s been propping up the corner for the last half century, minimum. A carpet that’s never been shampooed spreads across the floor and the mahogany is dented in all the places the light doesn’t hit. You can smoke indoors. Everything Happens to Me by Chet Baker will play, and everything feels like it’s going to be alright. At least until happy hour ends.
You have a regular seat by the bar, a vantage point for people-watching. A gin martini, hold the vermouth, sits waiting for you by the time you arrive. On an average Thursday, you spend a couple of hours drinking three of these in an act of decompression from the violent fluorescent lighting of your workplace. From peering through a looking glass, examining the way light refracts through gemstones.
From moving cargo that isn’t yours to move.
This Thursday has been no different.
You drag a finger along the condensation of your martini glass, it’s perfect conical shape a welcome weight in your hand.
Your hair is piled up on top of your head, and you wear your reading glasses, and though you are beautiful, no one bothers you. Nothing bothers you.
Until you hear a sound you haven’t heard in years.
Tapping, against the bartop. One, one. Two, two. Three, three. Nerves. It was the only time you could ever tell that he was nervous.
“Macallan, buddy. Up.”
Fucker.
-
He knew you by every single detail about you, let’s get that straight.
He is entirely sure that in a room of a thousand clones of you, he would be able to pick out the real one, just from your minute sigh. From the way your one shoulder always slopes. From curl at the base of your neck.
From the way you play with your grandmother’s Carré cut diamond, still sitting pretty on your right hand.
He positions himself a number of seats away from you, from the seat that he’s been watching you sit at for a couple of nights in a row now. He does not approach you directly.
Partially to see if you’ll still remember him.
Steve is still vain, in his ways. He wants a spotlight shone on him.
He only ever remembers the warmth of yours.
He orders the same drink he ordered that day you met at the tennis club, the same way. He even hopes the bartender will mistake the Chivas for the Macallan and you’ll have to climb over the bar and charmingly correct him. But Antoine, as he’s heard you call him, has been behind this bar longer than Saint Peter at the pearly gates, so there’s no fear of that.
You don’t react right away, and he doesn’t expect you to. He savors it, in fact, the opportunity to slyly watch you. Even if you’re seething. Even if you’re seething, you’re seething like a goddess might seethe. Horrifying and beautiful, all at once. The definite end of him.
Then, the lack of attention you’re showing him stretches on a beat too long.
“Excuse me,” he says from his spots a couple of seats down, “Can you do me a favor?”
You don’t respond. This doesn’t stop him. Never has.
“You mind tasting this for me?” Steve pushes the glass toward you, sending it sliding down the bar. You catch it with your right hand, yellow diamond catching in the light. A cut like that has never sparkled until you’ve worn it. “You think that’s Macallan or Chivas? Be honest.”
Steve’s fingers flex unconsciously as you lift the glass. Tilt it toward your lips. Still making no eye contact. But you don’t sip.
“I think you should be in prison,” you say into the crystal tumbler and place it back on the bar top. “Why the fuck are you not in prison.”
Steve closes the space between you, taking in that powdery perfume you’re still wearing after all this time. Candied violets. He settles into the beside you and props his palm under his chin.
“Why are you selling stolen jewelry.”
He sees you tense for a brief moment, then release. Like you knew he’d say that, like you should have seen that coming. Because you know him, and you always see him coming. Other than Robin, you’re the only one that ever has.
“I asked you first.”
“I asked you second.”
“So that when some bastard in a bad linen suit asks me to hold on to some stolen jewelry, I’ll at least know how much it’s worth.”
A beat. You stare Steve down with such naked disdain that his heart twists in his chest. You hate him, and he sees that, and with all the evidence stacked up against you, he should hate you too. But that wasn’t what bit him.
“That suit wasn’t bad, Princess.”
#powder room talk#stveharringtn#s. harrington by powder#steve harrington x reader#steve harrington x you#steve harrington x f!reader#heist au#conman!steve you will live forever unlike danny ocean who is apparently dead.#stranger things fic#published by powder#blurbs#clear cut
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Landscape with clear cuts, view from Hike (PCT?) at Stevens Pass, Washington, 1992.
Notes only indicate it is from a hike starting close to Stevens Pass.
#landscape#mountains#forest#clear cut#hiking trail#stevens pass#washington state#photographers on tumblr#pnw#pacific northwest
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One is that the boundaries between fact and fiction are increasingly blurred, according to some, while others seek to enforce a more clear-cut distinction – to devalue 'stories' and restrict discussion to 'facts'.
"Frankenstein's Footsteps: Science, Genetics and Popular Culture" - Jon Turney
#book quote#frankenstein's footsteps#jon turney#nonfiction#boundaries#fact#fiction#blurred lines#clear cut#distinction#devalue#stories#restriction#discussion#facts
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I have seen three different "how much of this site is queer" polls this evening poking fun at staff's 1/4 assertion and not a single indication any of them understand statistics. One someone even replied "This might have some sampling bias" what do you mean might what do you mean SOME
#ghostbloggings#like cmon#queer people who make a lot of queer posts including polls like this...#are predominantly followed by queer people.#and queer people are much more likely to reblog said polls for their queer audience#as sampling biases go?#'99% of responders are x degrees of follower separation from the OP'#is really really clear-cut#oops i was not expecting this to get notes. to be clear I am voting in these polls#they can be fun just... tired of people acting like they Mean Anything
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Something I wrote talking to @lulu-nightbon that I never sent
In her world Glass is a lot of things
An omen, a waste of space, a downright curse, a monster however what she truly is protection
Big Mama would be nothing to Glass
#Should this count as a#Clear Cut#Maus#Out of Glass#OoG#Note this doesn't count for Purple-Mama because TTATC is story driven and Glass isn't part of the lore
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100,000 dollars is not a lot of money.
it is also a lot more money than i will ever have. my student loans make up half of that - they're coming back, i'm told, like we all bounced back recently. the other day while paying for gas to go to work, i overdrew my account without knowing it.
i sat in the car and looked at the charge and tried to do the math. where the fuck is the money even going? i don't live extravagantly. i live in a hole in the ground, in an apartment the size of a sneeze; covered in ants. yes, i wanted to live close to a population center. maybe that's my fault. i've downloaded the apps and i've spoken to the experts and i've cut back on excess. i can't help the pharmacy bills or the medical debt.
i have a good, well-paying job. when i googled it to see if i was getting a fair salary, i found out i'd be making "upper middle class" money. which doesn't make sense - is "upper middle class" now just "able to afford a one-bedroom without a roommate". when i was younger, upper-middle meant a nice big house and a backyard and vacations and not flinching about eating at a resturant.
i was talking to my friend who is a realtor. he said 100,000 dollars is extremely cheap for housing. he's not wrong. 100,000 dollars would change my life. 100,000 dollars also won't really buy you anything. it could get you out of debt, potentially, if you were lucky and had a certain amount of scholarships to tack onto your degree. you could pay off the car and then have enough left over for "spending" money. how fucking amazing. one vacation, maybe two if you're thrifty. and then - like magic - the money would evaporate into nothing. people would sigh and tell you see, you should have put it into savings! like "upper middle class" people can't afford to value "actually living" over squirrelling wealth. you should spend your life only in scarcity. like that is what made the rich people all their real "actually a lot of money".
100,000 dollars would literally set me free. it also would just set me back to "earning normally" instead of paying down debt into infinity. god, do you know how many of us just want that? that our first thought is we could stop scrambling and just be free of debt if we won the lottery? that we don't even necessarily need to stop working - we just wouldn't have to worry about failing or falling?
and. at the same time. 100,000 dollars is next to fucking nothing.
#writeblr#me paying my taxes this year:#haha good to know im literally doing more for my community out of my tiny apartment#than most corporations will do in their entire scope! :) these motherfuckers will NEVER pay taxes!!!#bc they lobby others to be sure we CHOKE :) !!!#i hope this is clear like. this isn't someone being like ''haha if i got 100k it wouldn't be a big deal''#it's more like. the gap between corporations and the ppl WORKING in those corporations#has become HORRIFIC. 100k to the company i work for is like. pocket change to them.#and it is LIFE CHANGING for me.#they could cut me a check for 100k tomorrow and not even budge their margin of error
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so, would you?
nothing important under the cut, you don't need to look haha
#inspired by the random youtube short i saw about how these types of questions are not really about logic but about emotion and reassurance#doesn't matter if the question doesn't make sense. you say 'yes' because you love them no matter what. not because its a worm or a bug or#or anything. its a way of saying 'i will love you when you've changed and when you're different. because it's still *you*.'#idk something about it just felt so gentle and genuine. like a pure display of affection through a silly question...#and of course fnc was the first thing i thought about because i got brainworms#jrwi fish and chips#jrwi riptide#jrwi chip#gillion tidestrider#my art#sketch#also im back from a vacation! and i feel so awful i got sick the first day home and im sitting here at 6am drawing fishes and chips#the dialog feels a little ooc but i cant figure out if it really is or if its because my head hurts and i cant think#tbh it doesn't really matter.......... but it matters to me augh#ALSO yes the under the cut bit is about episode 109. i dont know if its clear or not
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The hardest, but most important, part of my transition has been untangling what my personal dysphoria is, and what is more a result of cissexism.
What I mean by this is that I learned that I am not dysphoric about certain aspects of myself, my body, and my life, but my discomfort in these aspects was influenced by the cissexist culture I live in which told me I couldn't exist as myself.
It's definitely a slow process, but I have found that it helps me self-actualize and actually see myself instead of what others demand of me.
#trans#transgender#lgbt#lgbtq#ftm#mtf#nonbinary#dysphoria#and what makes this really tricky is that often it isn't clear-cut as to what makes you dysphoric...#...versus what makes you uncomfortable due to your culture or environment...#...i still experience dysphoria but now i find that my motivation isn't to please the people around me...#...if i truly wanted to please the people around me then i would cease to exist altogether...#...and once i truly recognized that and came to terms with this reality i stopped feeling like i owed the world everything...#...i stopped feeling so disconnected with myself...#...i don't think this will be useful for everybody but i want to offer a different approach to it...#...by no means do i think that this is a 'cure-all' in fact it's not even close...#...because what i found that this has done is bring me *closer* to my trans body and my trans soul...#...i have found that my dysphoria has narrowed (especially since going on testosterone) and i feel more at peace
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I’m a slut for a good heist, what’ve you got cooked up so far? 💜
cee my love let us walk and talk
so the conman!steve au has been once again on my mind like a hat for many a hundred of year mostly because i want him to have his danny ocean moment!!!! and danny ocean isn't full smooth either, he's got a little goofy energy like steve has
this really came to light after i got this whopper prompt request from my love cherry @stveharringtn
and with this i formulated the plan.
steve is fresh out of the joint, and you're a former mark of his. you met him while working at a country club in order to put yourself through college. during this whirlwind little affair, he (stupidly?) had you stash a number of stolen pieces of jewelry on his behalf. he eventually went to jail for this and the running theory is you're the one who ratted him out-- the main runner of this theory is robin buckley, president of the don't shit where you eat club, and steve can see where she's coming from. but still. love prevails and makes you do dumb shit.
you, on the other hand? well, since steve's arrest, you changed your career path-- studied to become a gemologist so the next time some bastard in a linen suit asks you to hold a couple of sparklers, you'll at least know what they're worth. you're currently working as a fence in new york's diamond district.
and steve harrington is back on the streets. and old habits die hard.
supporting cast of characters include but are not limited to--
the aforementioned robin buckley as steve's partner in crime (our resident rusty ryan), dustin henderson as the bright-eyed young pickpocket-turned-professional conman under steve and robin's detailed tutelage, eddie munson as our beloved munitions expert, lucas sinclair and mike wheeler as the resident getaway drivers and will byers as the surveillance expert.
and on your end? you've got jane hopper and max mayfield working as your very own diamond scouts-- two former teenage cat burglars who you weren't about to leave starving in hell's kitchen.
the student becomes the master.
but then the master approaches you with a plan to lift millions of precious jewels from a prestigious new york exhibit (one that nancy wheeler happens to be managing (robin? your wife is calling)). he also plans on lifting YOUR HEART!!!!!!!!! FUCK!!!!!!
#powder room talk#whatis-much#conman!steve#steve harrington x reader#stranger things fic#wips#our cee ❤️🔥#clear cut
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Yes, Pearl and Marina decimated Frye and Shiver in that rap battle—and yes, Marina recognized what was going on and knew what Shiver was doing and played accordingly. She is 23 years old and, as Pearl said, has a big mind—she knew she was in a rap battle, and Shiver getting increasingly irritated to the point of trying to end it with Marina giving the classic sassy "I can do this all night" proves it.
But I digress.
Yes, Off the Hook won that battle handily. But that doesn't mean that Shiver and Frye are bad at what they do.
It just shows their inexperience.
Compared to Squid Sisters and Off the Hook, Deep Cut is pretty much still an indie band. They're really only known within the Splatlands, and only reached the level of fame needed to take over Anarchy Splatcast a couple years before Splatoon 3. And that's fine, I'm not dissing them—but it means that they don't really know what it is to work within the broader music industry as a whole, or go up against musicians who have experience working on a world stage. Shiver and Frye feel threatened by Off the Hook performing in Splatsville because they feel as though Off the Hook could replace them, despite the fact that Off the Hook is famous enough to have done a world tour and this is a single drop in the bucket to them. Not to mention, Pearl has close to a decade of experience as a musician by now. Frye does not. So for Frye to step to her . . . no wonder she got stomped. This isn't Pearl's first rap battle and it won't be her last.
Of course, not all the members of Deep Cut show this inexperience. Big Man knows there is a lot to be learned from seniors in the music industry, as shown by his collab with Squid Sisters and how he was "awestruck" by Off the Hook and didn't participate in Shiver and Frye's confrontation.
But Shiver and Frye's inexperience IS showing here. They have so much skill and talent! But if they want to go beyond Splatsville, they need to grow up a bit and not pointlessly pick fights with those who could help them. Picking a fight with Off the Hook in particular is silly af, because they LOVE collabing with less known artists to give them a boost, as seen with their Damp Socks collab. This didn't have to happen at all, but Shiver and Frye picked a fight, Pearl and Marina finished it, and, well. They got served the dish they asked for.
(But in the end it was still a collab, so maybe it'll still help in a roundabout way.)
#Big Man be like ''ay . . . (why can't we just accept help)''#splatoon#suffer no fools#again to be clear i love shiver and frye but#they are the epitome of ''going to fight i'll post the vid later''#''got my ass beat i ain't postin that shit''#off the hook#deep cut
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senshi dungeon meshi tell me what to eat for lunch…. senshi from dungeon meshi pls… Guide me…..
#lunch is thee hardest mealtime for me. lunch is bullshit.#breakfast and dinner are both clear cut. very specific food options. always good choices#lunch? vague. undefined. an irritating interruption in the middle of my day.#I wanna like lunch. I believe in what she stands for. but girl why are you so difficult.
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heir of grief
#homestuck#hom3stuck#dirk strider#dave strider#striders#homestuck fanart#my art#(clears my throat) hello welcome to my analysis of my own art#the two capes flow into an S shape (for strider..)#as well as the crows+gulls for a mirrored S#the unbreakable katana has a crack in the middle if u look closely#circle in the bg is the beat mesa & the scratch connects thru the sword visually to cut across dirk#(shuffles off stage)#print available btw link in bio :3
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btw since i am actually homeless now and the holidays are over i guess i should put a donation link here. you don't have to give me any money! i know how to live for free. it would just help me be more comfortable
things i'll spend money on in priority order:
- gas for my car (this will keep me from getting towed and get me to therapy and case management appointments)
- food and water (only if i run out of food stamps, or the occasional hot food treat)
- extra blankets and clothes for the winter (it's pretty warm so i might not need this)
- laundry
i don't really like the idea of asking for money since i do in fact have plenty of experience with this situation. i've lived in my car for two and a half years total now, and i know if i'm lucky i can survive this way for a long, long time. a little extra cash will just keep me sane and for sure safe without needing to get lucky. so, if you do throw something my way i will appreciate it! it will make my life easier for sure. but, if you'd rather give your money to someone who needs it more (including yourself), i don't mind at all.
there's no monthly rewards or anything, but for a bit of fun bonus, anyone who donates will get to see my face reveal
#a very difficult post for me to make#thank you to anyone who donates anything!#ive been trying to get some kind of welfare since i cant work in this condition#and tried working for my entire adult life and just couldnt do it#but my disability isnt so clear cut that the government will take it seriously#anyway#homeless#homelessness
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**I am talking about exactly no one but myself
#twsb#when the third wheel strikes back#jung yeseo#cedric riester#jesse venetiaan#THIS IS A JOKE I JUST THINK ITS FUNNY THAT IM PLAGUED BY THE YESSAYS#hes just a normal guy....#shitpost#TO BE CLEAR I BIAS BOTH... BOTH SIDES R ME THATS THE THING#i think cedric is my bias but yeseo also gives me brainworms#2024 edit: im glad ppl r still enjoying this shitpost even tho its no longer accurate for me-#(*yeseo is accurate but i also think in essays abt cedric🤧 )#btw if u zoom in both sides r my own tags i've written lol#its cut off but u can see a fraction of how much i love jung yeseo...#laughing that those r just about food tho kdjfkd
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