So, I follow this “bad commercial interior design” Facebook page and-

Honestly I think what is more upsetting about these results is just how many people thought it was going to be more even than it was. I fell for it too! The sneak peek looked so close, the half time report even closer, but then...

...it kinda stings, y'know? It shouldn't have been like that. All the games I played, it felt even. I played just as much against Big Man, I thought. It definitely didn't feel like we were such a small cohort. It didn't feel like there were 55% Shiver. It felt genuinely equal and to find out it was nowhere near is soul-crushing.

Guys help I've been entranced. Abducted. Blasphamized.

POOPY (/POS) SKETCH TIME!!! CULT OF THE LAMB‼️‼️

2:40 am mania thoughts, as told by me. TW for disassociation, mentions of BPD, suicidal ideation/self harm ideation, mental hospital mentions, overdose (melatonin) mentions, nightmares, emotional abuse, depression

It's 2:41 am here in Delaware. I slept (stupidly) from 7:30ish to 10pm, then stayed up an extra hour doing my sister's college list with her. Well, a basic version.

I don't want her to make the same mistake I did. Rushing into things. I did with my first college and left. I wasn't ready mentally. Second college, still not ready.

Sometimes I wonder if it's because of the medications. Gabapentin, Abilify. Supposed-to-be-Effexor. (We don't talk about that - I ran out days ago. The psychiatrist couldn't move me up and the insurance won't explain why. (Cigna if you're seeing this, fuck you.)) Birth control pills. Trazadone for sleep. Trazadone.

It's funny - a Discord server I'm in, a couple of days ago, a certain channel for those with neurodivergences and mental illnesses brought up how certain meds like Melatonin and Trazadone made them have vivid nightmares, so realistic. I didn't want to put my two cents in - plus being in a BPD depression never helps. The past few weeks, since Sun, I've been having vivid dreams. Going to sleep by disassociating, then falling into the pattern of reliving memories, or creating fantasies.

The most recent one was watching TV with Mom, Dad, Stepdad, and the siblings. I said something awful, and Mom and Stepdad starting chasing me. I was eventually cornered into a window, and I woke up in silent screams for help. I didn't actually scream - but in my dreams I was calling, screaming for help.

I was screaming in November. Many noticed it, but I went into a mental hospital short-term. Long story short, don't plan an impromptu move then have it all fall apart (not the friend's fault tho), have a mental breakdown, reach out to Mom for support, be screamed at by said Mom whilst sobbing, then take Melatonin to cope. Dad brought me home saying he wished he knew, that we needed to communicate better.

I wish I could. Words don't come out of me easily. It's hard - I write for the freedom. Freedom I don't have. I've not had a comprehensive psych eval ever - I started looking at them today.

I fear they won't find anything wrong. That the constant anxiety, the BPD, the depression are lies. I've lied and been lied to so many times in life my life is one now.

Life. Funny thing, isn't it? Dreams crushed before they even start, breakdown after breakdown, nightmare after nightmare. Vent after vent, friends dropping like flies. Applications to colleges.

I wonder how my old friends are doing. I used to be a friendly person - now acting out a DnD character has me thinking I'm insane. Hydrus doesn't deserve this, my dad doesn't deserve this, my sister and brother don't deserve this. Self-sacrificial cause my mirror is shattered and I'm left picking up those pieces. I still am - my hands bleed and hurt every time though so it's hard. I might send my dad this. He knows best, he'd commit me if needed, he loves me. Right?

Mom... I miss her. Emotional abuse isn't easy because part of me misses before she went off her meds, the glimpses I have of a happy childhood. Coming out in my Ariel nightgown on my birthday, singing in the car at the bus stop, and of course, being 9 and having to call 911 cause "my mommy fell and won't wake up." I remember that. Nothing else.

I wonder if she was mixing them with something. Or if they just didn't work - I'm trying not to become her. But yet, something's not right.

2:58 am. Hydrus is snoring next to me, the little brat. I love him though. I've been awake since Dad left for work. Maybe I should go to bed. My mind goes to dark places though, and I don't want to go into the darkness. What does light look like again?

What does being normal look like again?

I hope Smith is the answer. Otherwise I don't know what I'm going to do.

Read a fic in which Crowley's brain (or lack thereof) stopped working whenever he got a nice angelic cuddle... got inspired

On an insane sonamy kick today lmao so here have this utter shitpost

(Ft. @e-vay ‘s Aurora cause that will always be where my brain defaults to when I have to draw a sonamy kid lmao)

so was anyone going to fucking tell me that the music that plays during this scene

IS THE SAME MUSIC THAT PLAYS DURING THIS SCENE

OR WAS I JUST SUPPOSED TO FIGURE THAT OUT MYSELF???

returning to my baby donnie roots

NCIS HAWAII | 1.06 vs 3.05

We've come so faaaar

I do not believe that Eggman swears, nor sees that his machines should ever need to swear (he never plans for them to fail or get frustrated).

I do not believe the Ultimate Life Form was taught bad words on the Ark. I just cannot imagine Gerald and the scientists seeing that as something to do, but maybe he heard some. They definitely weren't in his vocabulary.

But it is my firm belief that between Heroes and Shadow the Hedgehog '05 both Shadow and Omega have been taught to swear. We know who. We know she enjoyed it.

I was meeting a client at a famous museum’s lounge for lunch (fancy, I know) and had an hour to kill afterwards so I joined the first random docent tour I could find. The woman who took us around was a great-grandmother from the Bronx “back when that was nothing to brag about” and she was doing a talk on alternative mediums within art.

What I thought that meant: telling us about unique sculpture materials and paint mixtures.

What that actually meant: an 84yo woman gingerly holding a beautifully beaded and embroidered dress (apparently from Ukraine and at least 200 years old) and, with tears in her eyes, showing how each individual thread was spun by hand and weaved into place on a cottage floor loom, with bright blue silk embroidery thread and hand-blown beads intricately piercing the work of other labor for days upon days, as the labor of a dozen talented people came together to make something so beautiful for a village girl’s wedding day.

What it also meant: in 1948, a young girl lived in a cramped tenement-like third floor apartment in Manhattan, with a father who had just joined them after not having been allowed to escape through Poland with his pregnant wife nine years earlier. She sits in her father’s lap and watches with wide, quiet eyes as her mother’s deft hands fly across fabric with bright blue silk thread (echoing hands from over a century years earlier). Thread that her mother had salvaged from white embroidery scraps at the tailor’s shop where she worked and spent the last few days carefully dying in the kitchen sink and drying on the roof.

The dress is in the traditional Hungarian fashion and is folded across her mother’s lap: her mother doesn’t had a pattern, but she doesn’t need one to make her daughter’s dress for the fifth grade dance. The dress would end up differing significantly from the pure white, petticoated first communion dresses worn by her daughter’s majority-Catholic classmates, but the young girl would love it all the more for its uniqueness and bright blue thread.

And now, that same young girl (and maybe also the villager from 19th century Ukraine) stands in front of us, trying not to clutch the old fabric too hard as her voice shakes with the emotion of all the love and humanity that is poured into the labor of art. The village girl and the girl in the Bronx were very different people: different centuries, different religions, different ages, and different continents. But the love in the stitches and beads on their dresses was the same. And she tells us that when we look at the labor of art, we don’t just see the work to create that piece - we see the labor of our own creations and the creations of others for us, and the value in something so seemingly frivolous.

But, maybe more importantly, she says that we only admire this piece in a museum because it happened to survive the love of the wearer and those who owned it afterwards, but there have been quite literally billions of small, quiet works of art in billions of small, quiet homes all over the world, for millennia. That your grandmother’s quilt is used as a picnic blanket just as Van Gogh’s works hung in his poor friends’ hallways. That your father’s hand-painted model plane sets are displayed in your parents’ livingroom as Grecian vases are displayed in museums. That your older sister’s engineering drawings in a steady, fine-lined hand are akin to Da Vinci’s scribbles of flying machines.

I don’t think there’s any dramatic conclusions to be drawn from these thoughts - they’ve been echoed by thousands of other people across the centuries. However, if you ever feel bad for spending all of your time sewing, knitting, drawing, building lego sets, or whatever else - especially if you feel like you have to somehow monetize or show off your work online to justify your labor - please know that there’s an 84yo museum docent in the Bronx who would cry simply at the thought of you spending so much effort to quietly create something that’s beautiful to you.

...

The Ones Who Live | 1x03 - Bye

"See those vapour trails up there? Can you see them? They've been lingering there for a while."

MY PERSONAL WEATHERMAN (2023). Episode 6.

the bros now have a new passion to share :)

bonus!

[id in alt]

lukewarm take of the evening: y'all care too much about being ""outdated"". fellas this smp moves inhumanly fast. it is ok to CHILL holy shit CHILL. y'all are like "(posts BANGER ART) super late guys sorry" friend i am hitting you with a blanket i am snapping you with my metaphorical towel WHAT DO YOU MEAN SORRY. "(posts BANGER FIC) rip this is outdated now" WHO CARES???? I LOVE YOU, OK. ohhhh woe is us as the fandom at large for having MORE HAPPY PILLS ARC CONTENT oh no how outdated!! how could you be writing speculative fiction about how forever felt during happy pills :( slash SARCASM!! WHAT DO YOU MEAN!!!! THERE ARE SO MANY BANGER ARCS, WHAT, YOU THINK WE'RE COMPLAINING????? FOR GETTING MORE OF THE CONTENT WE LOVED????? oh no we're past the period where everyone thought green gay ninjas were like Dead Dead, my work is now outdated and noncanon :( WDYM. GIMME. A BANGER IS A BANGER IDC IF IT TAKES THREE MONTHS. you think rome was built in a day?? fuck you, baltimore, GIMME. my ass has been cooking a goddamn backflipo family fic since july when it was ALREADY outdated do you think i fear god??? "oh no, you're making an edit of slime's (attempted) egg murdering spree?? how could you, that was months ago it's irrelevant" SAID NO ONE EVER.

save your wrists kidlings ok carpal tunnel is no joke. CHILL!!!!! CHILL!!!!!!!! TAKE YOUR TIME SHEEEEEESH OK LOVE YOU <3