Before anything else, I am a writer.

I would also call myself a singer. Or a textile artist, maybe. I could be a sibling, or a friend, or a student, or a baker, or a gardener, or a cook. There is an incredible number of labels you could put on me that would fit.

When I was a kid, I would deny so vehemently that I ever wanted to be a writer. I used to read like it was breathing, and when my relatives would interrupt me in the middle of a story to ask if I'd ever want to author one myself, I would tell them that reading and writing were two different things, thank you very much, and just because I was a reader didn't mean I was a writer.

But, through that love for reading, I ended up figuring out what the phrase "Stockholm Syndrome" meant much younger than you might expect. Think eight or nine, after reading the "Series of Unfortunate Events." Which, if you didn't know, is a notably bad place to garner vocabulary. Lemony Snicket is in the habit of explaining words in a context entirely different from what they actually mean. Still, I have a vivid memory of sitting in a corner of the living room on Thanksgiving as a nine-year-old (reading, naturally), and hearing my sister's boyfriend ask my mom for clarification on the concept of Stockholm Syndrome. I looked up from my book and told him what it was -- much to the chagrin of my parents, who were wondering where I'd learned it.

It's ironic that it was a book that introduced me to the concept of Stockholm Syndrome, and that it was one of the few phrases that Lemony Snicket ever explained correctly. I doubt you're unfamiliar with it, but it means to be trapped or held captive by something, and to grow to love it anyway.

When I think about it now, I realize that it was inevitable that I learned to love to write. I also hated learning how to read, but my dad taught me before I even started kindergarten, and I loved knowing I was better at it than the other kids. It was my way of setting myself apart. I drank so desperately from the books I read that I couldn't help but fill myself with words.

And then, just as inevitably, they had nowhere to go.

That was the first part of my own experience with Stockholm Syndrome. I was folded into myself like origami, with so much to say and no space for it. Every word I'd ever read was crammed into my lungs, and I didn't know what to do with them. It wasn't until I found other people's writing (like Broadway shows I loved, intersectional queer lit, characters that looked and felt and breathed like me, etc.) that I ever wanted to make my own.

I didn't start writing until I was 13. I found my first inspiration -- and what it was, I'll never tell because lord, is it embarrassing -- and I made something out of it. It felt like reaching down into my chest and taking hold of something I barely knew was there and turning myself out onto the page, but in a different font. Whether that be Times New Roman or the chicken scratch I had going in 4 different notebooks simultaneously, there was always something to say. I could never get away from it. And, as the Stockholm Syndrome mention might suggest, I grew to love it.

There is a part of me now that is inextricable from my writing. I put words together to get feelings out, in a way that is both authentic to myself and more beautiful than anything I have ever been. I put words together to process what I've been through. I put words together to write lives that I've never lived, and I grow vicariously through them. I know that love exists because I write it into existence. I am all that I need to be through the words I put down.

At the end of the day, yes. I am fully and completely bound to my writing. I am trapped in a way that I will never experience elsewhere. I would be nothing without it.

But fuck, I love it.

I wish we had more female characters like Eleanor Shellstrop. One of the most unlikable people you've ever met. Read a Buzzfeed article on most rude things you can do on a daily basis and decided to use that as a list of goals. Makes everyone's day worse just by being there. Dropped a margarita mix on the ground and tried to pick it up, only to get hit by a row of shopping carts which pushed her into the road where she was hit by a boner pill delivery truck, killing her instantly. Cannot keep a romantic partner despite being bisexual. Had a terrible childhood but will die before she gets therapy. Best employee at a scam company. Just the worst but also can't help but root for her to improve.

Absolute loser. Girl-failure. Bad at almost everything. Literally perfect female character.

because sometimes there are invisible tests and invisible rules and you're just supposed to ... know the rule. someone you thought of as a friend asks you for book recommendations, so you give her a list of like 30 books, each with a brief blurb and why you like it. later, you find out she screenshotted the list and send it out to a group chat with the note: what an absolute freak can you believe this. you saw the responses: emojis where people are rolling over laughing. too much and obsessive and actually kind of creepy in the comments. you thought you'd been doing the right thing. she'd asked, right? an invisible rule: this is what happens when you get too excited.

you aren't supposed to laugh at your own jokes, so you don't, but then you're too serious. you're not supposed to be too loud, but then people say you're too quiet. you aren't supposed to get passionate about things, but then you're shy, boring. you aren't supposed to talk too much, but then people are mad when you're not good at replying.

you fold yourself into a prettier paper crane. since you never know what is "selfish" and what is "charity," you give yourself over, fully. you'd rather be empty and over-generous - you'd rather eat your own boundaries than have even one person believe that you're mean. since you don't know what the thing is that will make them hate you, you simply scrub yourself clean of any form of roughness. if you are perfect and smiling and funny, they can love you. if you are always there for them and never admit what's happening and never mention your past and never make them uncomfortable - you can make up for it. you can earn it.

don't fuck up. they're all testing you, always. they're tolerating you. whatever secret club happened, over a summer somewhere - during some activity you didn't get to attend - everyone else just... figured it out. like they got some kind of award or examination that allowed them to know how-to-be-normal. how to fit. and for the rest of your life, you've been playing catch-up. you've been trying to prove that - haha! you get it! that the joke they're telling, the people they are, the manual they got- yeah, you've totally read it.

if you can just divide yourself in two - the lovable one, and the one that is you - you can do this. you can walk the line. they can laugh and accept you. if you are always-balanced, never burdensome, a delight to have in class, champagne and glittering and never gawky or florescent or god-forbid cringe: you can get away with it.

you stare at your therapist, whom you can make jokes with, and who laughs at your jokes, because you are so fucking good at people-pleasing. you smile at her, and she asks you how you're doing, and you automatically say i'm good, thanks, how are you? while the answer swims somewhere in your little lizard brain:

how long have you been doing this now? mastering the art of your body and mind like you're piloting a puppet. has it worked? what do you mean that all you feel is... just exhausted. pick yourself up, the tightrope has no net. after all, you're cheating, somehow, but nobody seems to know you actually flunked the test. it's working!

aren't you happy yet?

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god i wish i wouldn't have to explain the intricacies of the neopets economy to you guys to give the full context for this but. the new neopets team that took over from jumpstart pledged that they were going to curb the inflation of rare items, which is great because a lot of rare items are worth literally hundreds of millions of neopoints, they are unbuyable unless you've been playing actively for 20 years. they did this earlier with a site festival that included random loot boxes, some of which had Unbelievably Fucking Rare And Precious items worth 200 million neopoints apiece.

well.

today they have gone a step further. by releasing this year's trick-or-treat bags. and having the trick-or-treat bags be stuffed to the brim with unbelievably fucking rare stamps, weapons, paint brushes, defense magic, and other unbuyables. (all prohibitively expensive and in-high-demand types of items.)

jellyneo, the premier neopets website, has recorded prices of some items plummeting from 2,000,000 neopoints to 4,000 neopoints IN THE LAST THREE HOURS. this is when most people haven't even heard about the event or OPENED THEIR BAGS YET.

and of course. cherry on top. 20-year-old account holders are crytyping on the site events neoboard about how mean and cruel it is to make rare stamps part of the prize pool, because their entire identity hinges on being part of the neopian bourgeoisie, and they are having MELTDOWNS over their assets being devalued until they're part of the lowly proletariat.

this is a children's game for children btw.

none of the money is real.

i'm having such a good time.

Post-war shenanigans. It's all the same to him

there’s something that’s incredible about the intersectionality and flexibility of werewolves as metaphor.

anger issues? werewolf. intrusive thoughts? werewolf. unresolved trauma? werewolf. rejection by society? werewolf. autism? werewolf. transgenderism? werewolf. queer expression of any sort? werewolf. plurality? werewolf. dissociation? werewolf. repression of any sort? werewolf. abuse cycles? werewolf. emotion so strong it physically changes you? werewolf!!!

really doing it all

the intimacy of sharing old memories with someone new. check out the places i visited before i met you. i wish you were with me. maybe we can visit them together and create new memories? look at the pictures of the sky i took before we met. now you share the same view with my past self. look at the photos of my childhood and let me look at yours. have your facial features changed? your smile stayed the same, and i love it. look at my right cheek, i have the same birthmark as my grandmother. this is the child in me that you are healing with your affection. i am glad we met. all these years i was without you but now you know about all those years and even help me to grow. your love took roots in my past pain, and reaches out to my future happiness. please don't stop smiling.

A co-worker of mine was standing outside with me during a break from customers to share a cigarette with me, and told me about how he had lost his brother that he was close with some years ago. He told me about how they used to be in a band together with some friends, and how ever since he'd died, he hadn't played any music because he'd been too scared and anxious. I told him about how I'd lost my brother to suicide some years ago.

I went home and pulled out an old tiny wooden box my brother had given me before he'd died. I'd been using it to store guitar picks I'd collected over the years, including one guitar pick that used to be his. I haven't played the guitar since he'd died, my hands are too small to play some of the chords, so I play bass and piano instead.

I went to work the next day and gifted my brothers old guitar pick to my co-worker. I told him that it'd been sitting in a box for ten years unused, and would probably sit there for longer if I kept it there. Told him that I thought he deserved to have it, because I bet he could put it to better use than I ever would. Told him I didn't feel like it was coincidence that me and him would cross paths with each other in our lives, and that it seemed suiting that we had these similar experiences but split in two halves. That somehow, I felt like he was meant to have the guitar pick. I told him that I knew he'd not played guitar since his brother died, but that if he ever decided to play again one of these days, maybe he'd be able to honor both of our brothers by using that guitar pick.

He almost cried. He thanked me. Then he went home that night and for the first time in years he played the guitar.

I don't know what the meaning of life is or what my purpose is, but I do believe that love and human connection is one of the most important things in life. It's finding ways to tell strangers you love them and share experiences with others. I think it's all just about love.

How funny that she never considered that.

Do you think of me?

Hey idk what writer/artist/creative needs to hear this but: You can create the most garbage self-indulgent poorly made full-of-cliches awkward ugly piece of art on the entire planet and you're still allowed to be proud of it and share it with the world. In fact, I outright encourage you to be proud. You deserve it. I love you. Keep making things.

If you don’t accept me at my worst I make sure you won’t ever see the best of me.

k.b. // u never deserved my best in the first place

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I enjoyed every second of this quest

[This art has platonic intention. Thank you for not tag ship!]