not me casually thinking about that when i said "i have amazing friendships, but my friends won't take care of me when i get old" it was a fact. and then additionally thinking about how i keep buying books, hoarding them, in hope that at least the books will keep me company when the time comes. i am building myself a nest. i'm trying to make it comfortable. i'm trying to make it less lonely one.

I feel like I'm in a rowboat with only one oar but it's like bolted down to one side and I can't really use it and also I'm really tired and hot and I can't sleep and I'm so so sick of being surrounded by people but feeling so alone so often and I'm going in circles and I'm dizzy and nauseous and tired and unhappy and tired and tired and tired

been hoffmanblogging for days now but don't think i've forgotten about peter strahm. don't think that for a second! i'm not a strahm kinnie for nothing. issue is i don't even know where to begin with him. what do you even say about special agent peter strahm, uncle sam's best boy? what do you say about the man who rocks up to the gruesome crime scene of a brutalized cop, and when everyone looks away from the gore, his eyes only linger on the mangled flesh till the sight imprints itself into his memory? what do you say about the man with a golden band about his finger, the heaviest thing he's ever carried, yet who never speaks a word of his wife, not her name nor a passing reference? what do you say about the man who has, by appearances, always been aware of his very loose handle on the anger that he tirelessly lugs around, heavy on his shoulders, thick in place of blood in his veins, always surging first to his fists—and then to his throat, squeezing and choking like a phantom hand? what do you say about the man who is more a bloodhound than a man, who catches the scent of blood in the water and doesn't—can't—stop pursuing? (for better or for worse, never losing sight or scent of the trail yet never lifting his nose far enough off the ground to see the vultures circling him overhead, eager to be fed if the creature tracking him in turn becomes hungry enough soon.) (it will.) what do you say about the man that calls it bringing criminals to justice and doesn't know it's the thrill of the chase he's after, hooked on adrenaline and hankering for a fix wherever he can find one? i guess you could say that he didn't think he'd cry, at the end of all things. he's an agent, of course he's thought about dying, don't be ridiculous. only, he'd figured he'd be going out in a blaze of glory, giving his last hurrah, laying his life down for something meaningful. always meaningful. and that never involved crying or even screaming, and yet—and yet look at him now. the walls are closing in—literally—and he's crying like he's never cried before, and what grips at him is not anger but terror, terror in its purest form, such as he's never felt in his life. i guess you could say that he's pacing the increasingly smaller room like an agitated, paranoid animal, that very bloodhound at a pound, the bloodhound at a kill shelter. i guess you could say he doesn't want to die, but he doesn't want to climb in there with hoffman still—even now, knowing what comes later, he doesn't want to. it leaves him in a sort of limbo. in picking between life and death, he can't make a decision. the decision is made for him, of course, but that's beside the point. i guess you could also say he's never imagined that anything could be more painful than a bullet tearing through flesh and viscera, though that was a belief conceived before the bone in his forearm (ulna, he remembers its name) comes out through the thin skin of his inner wrist—and for a second, just a second, he thinks he might be lucky enough and bleed out. there's a lot of blood. it splatters against glass. hoffman's looking up at him, and still he can't puzzle out the expression on his face and in his eyes. but it doesn't matter. peter realizes he will not bleed out fast enough. he has never been that lucky

sometimes I feel like i'm Not Doing Enough but that's only because i'm dumb and forgetful

Thoughts on this Mick image?

teaser for the next chapter of my hand was tied to yours because i am aware it's been a month but have u considered i neeeeddeddd to go on my little trips :) also so everyone knows i had a layover in chicago and cried for a solid 45 minutes cause everything i saw that said chicago on it i was like wow.........he's real

In his head, there’s always this list. 

It’s not a real thing, it’s not something he writes down or really tries to think about if he can help it, but it’s there, and he thinks it probably has been since he was eight years old and got a clue that other people’s houses don’t burst with clutter or creak with defeat underneath the moods of its inhabitants. It’s far too long ago, now, or too pointless, to remember how it started, anyway. It was probably over some stupid shit, like ice cream or wearing a suit jacket to mass, but he’s certain that once he had the thought he didn’t stop having it for the rest of his life: when I’m older, I won’t be like Mom. 

He wouldn’t have so much shit in his house. He wouldn’t miss a light bill or a gas bill, he wouldn’t talk to Sugar like that, he wouldn’t give the home phone number to strangers at the Beef, or let them leave uncomfortable messages, or laugh if his kids overhead them, if their faces turned red and hot and scared. 

He didn’t succeed at all of it, obviously. It couldn’t all stick. Smoking fell off the list pretty early on when Mikey, increasingly empty-handed of any other way to fix his little brother, begrudgingly shook out a Camel from the pack in his jacket pocket. As soon as his clumsy fourteen-year-old hands had managed to strike the lighter and choke down his first breath, Carmy had struck it cleanly off. 

He might not want to act like mom, or clean like her, or cook like her, or raise kids like her, but in that exact moment that the nicotine hit his bloodstream and began to open up every stitch that ached in his teenage chest, Carmy decided he didn’t mind so much if he smelled like her.

trust me I have many plans and ideas and intentions, it's just that I'm only one man with adhd and the constitution of a frail victorian child so shit kinda happens when it happens

last hour and a half of work gay people in au save meeeee

blueberry season is coming to an end

“A part of me still thinks we’ll find our way back around.”

I hope we do ❤️

I left the church a while ago and I don’t think I have any blessings I can actually give but the best one I can think of is that I hope you find a place for your art to go

I need to go to the seaside for my health

wanna make my own kny httyd au

honestly having given up on starfield and still wanting to take a break from bg3 is so freeing. im going to be normal about skyrim for the next few days.

light blue 🩵 green 🐢 orange 🍊 pink 🌸 sparklccc ✨ mrow 🐱

Um hello have I mentioned I adore you?? Our souls are intensely intertwined. I'm so sure of it.