got home from therapy. wrote some mshenko to clear my head. ate pancakes for dinner. tried to get my back less hurty. wrote some blowjobbery to clear my head again. now i am going to call my therapist to leave a message asking him if he knows of any good rehab clinics. it will be neither humiliating nor pleasant. i will wait for him to call back tomorrow. i will make a list. i will write it down. i will give it to my dad. i will not let this continue; i will not live with it if it does. it will be that simple and that ridiculous. it will be.
Dirt. Episode V
Trigger Warning: Contains references to alcohol and substance abuse.
‘Thanks for the flowers.’
Juice frowned into his cell phone as he slowly chewed his breakfast bacon and tried to figure out what flowers his sister could be talking about.
‘Sadie, the last time I gave you flowers was when you graduated high school… and, sorry to burst your bubble here, but they were actually from Mom.’
‘But…’ Mercedes trailed off quietly as she was forced to confront the possibility that they actually were from… Nooo.
Fighting the Urges, Fighting the Help |Balthazar&Lucifer|
Balthazar gathered up his jacket I’m his hands, zipping it up to his neck to block out the cold, pulling the hold over his head. He had always gotten cold easily. He didn’t know why, though. Not that it mattered, he was used to it now. He had come outside for a reason.
Glancing around, he pulled a lighter and a pack of cigarettes from his jacket, but they weren’t normal cigarettes. They were something he got from a party the previous weekend, the normal Mary-Jane, as he likes to call it. He lights one up, taking a drag, exhaling happily as that feeling already begins to make him relax. “Hmm,” he hums out, leaning against the wall.
Anonymous asked: Imagine dating Ricky and he goes on tour and you can't go with him so after a while of him being gone you turn to alcohol/drugs and when he gets home from tour he finds you a mess and helps you get your life back together ( sorry it's so long :/ )
((I’ll write about alcohol because before claiming edge I used to drink, but I have zero experience of drugs personally and I’m thinking it’s probably something you need to experience to write about convincingly… - Oh, and this is super long! Enjoy!))
TRIGGER WARNING: SUBSTANCE USE/ABUSE
“Just keep putting x’s on the calendar; I’ll be home soon.” Ricky said, his voice coming softly down the line.
He’d been on tour for two months now, and there was still another month left before he’d be home. Being away from him was becoming unbearable, you missed him so much, but there was nothing that you could do about it.
Andrew Hudgins, "Praying Drunk"
Our Father who art in heaven, I am drunk.
Again. Red wine. For which I offer thanks.
I ought to start with praise, but praise
comes hard to me. I stutter. Did I tell you
about the woman whom I taught, in bed,
this prayer? It starts with praise; the simple form
keeps things in order. I hear from her sometimes.
Do you? And after love, when I was hungry,
I said, Make me something to eat. She yelled,
Poof! You’re a casserole!—and laughed so hard
she fell out of the bed. Take care of her.
Next, confession—the dreary part. At night
deer drift from the dark woods and eat my garden.
They’re like enormous rats on stilts except,
of course, they’re beautiful. But why? What makes
them beautiful? I haven’t shot one yet.
I might. When I was twelve, I’d ride my bike
out to the dump and shoot the rats. It’s hard
to kill your rats, our Father. You have to use
a hollow point and hit them solidly.
A leg is not enough. The rat won’t pause.
Yeep! Yeep! it screams, and scrabbles, three-legged, back
into the trash, and I would feel a little bad
to kill something that wants to live
more savagely than I do, even if
it’s just a rat. My garden’s vanishing.
Perhaps I’ll merely plant more beans, though that
might mean more beautiful and hungry deer.
Who knows?
I’m sorry for the times I’ve driven
home past a black, enormous, twilight ridge.
Crested with mist, it looked like a giant wave
about to break and sweep across the valley,
and in my loneliness and fear I’ve thought,
O let it come and wash the whole world clean.
Forgive me. This is my favorite sin: despair—
whose love I celebrate with wine and prayer.
Our Father, thank you for all the birds and trees,
that nature stuff. I’m grateful for good health,
food, air, some laughs, and all the other things
I’m grateful that I’ve never had to do
without. I have confused myself. I’m glad
there’s not a rattrap large enough for deer.
While at the zoo last week, I sat and wept
when I saw one elephant insert his trunk
into another’s ass, pull out a lump,
and whip it back and forth impatiently
to free the goodies hidden in the lump.
I could have let it mean most anything,
but I was stunned again at just how little
we ask for in our lives. Don’t look! Don’t look!
Two young nuns tried to herd their giggling
schoolkids away. Line up, they called. Let’s go
and watch the monkeys in the monkey house.
I laughed, and got a dirty look. Dear Lord,
we lurch from metaphor to metaphor,
which is—let it be so—a form of praying.
I’m usually asleep by now—the time
for supplication. Requests. As if I’d stayed
up late and called the radio and asked
they play a sentimental song. Embarrassed.
I want a lot of money and a woman.
And, also, I want vanishing cream. You know—
a character like Popeye rubs it on
and disappears. Although you see right through him,
he’s there. He chuckles, stumbles into things,
and smoke that’s clearly visible escapes
from his invisible pipe. It makes me think,
sometimes, of you. What makes me think of me
is the poor jerk who wanders out on air
and then looks down. Below his feet, he sees
eternity, and suddenly his shoes
no longer work on nothingness, and down
he goes. As I fall past, remember me.
Ugh. I am so sick of all these really condescending posts on my dash about how people feel sorry for all the poor fans of BBC Sherlock who won’t watch Elementary because we’re all so narrow-minded and think that only Moffat can do Sherlock Holmes.
Um, no, actually.
I am unabashedly obsessed with BBC Sherlock. I fucking love that show. I love Benedict Cumberbatch’s interpretation of Sherlock.
But my definitive Holmes? Jeremy Brett. not even a question.
No, it isn’t because I think that BBC Sherlock is the only show allowed to adapt ACD’s works onto the screen. In fact, I was really dubious about BBC Sherlock when I first heard about it, and after watching a few clips had no interest in watching the show. I was wrong, and I’ve learned my lesson about making assumptions like that.
Elementary worries me. I’m not convinced it’s going to be terrible or anything like that, but there are a number of aspects of it that really worry me.
Going back to India is
I mean
Even if your family lives like mine does—with a driver and air conditioning and marble floors and not one but two back-up generators—
You still see the poverty. I mean
India is beautiful and rich and wonderful but
My god the poverty and the sickness and
Have you ever seen a child with polio?
Or an old woman with leprosy? And they’re begging on the side of the road, sleeping on the side of the road and no one spares them a glance? Because they’re sick, and they’re poor, and who cares it’s not like they’re going to ever contribute to society anyway how could they when they were born in a gutter and will probably die there.
And then you work in San Francisco and my god it’s the same here too. I have to politely ask the woman with the needle in the crook of her arm to please move away from the door of the clinic, our patients are addicts and you are triggering the hell out of them, but then again everything is a trigger. How do you stay sober when you’re chased out of parks and churches and off of the Civic Center steps by cops? How do you sleep when every moment your eyes are closed is an opportunity for someone to steal your backpack, which is the only thing you’ve got? How do you stay on your meds when the voices in your head are telling you that they’re not ARTs, no, they’re poison, because your doctor hates you don’t you know everyone hates you, because your mother certainly did.
Can I tell you that this is why I want to be a doctor? I’m tired of watching poverty and sickness feed each other, devouring people who have so much to offer. I’m tired of social triage, of invisibility, and yes I’m writing this from my castle on a hill. I have not suffered and I can claim to feel it on the behalf of others but really
The work should speak for itself. I can tell you about my transformation and having my eyes opened
But I’d much rather tell you about Eric, amazing Eric who has pulled himself up and put himself back together in spite of losing everything, and May who still needs needs so much help, and Cristy who is full of regret but trying to make good on promises, and Mori who battles demons but still tries to help others.
It should be enough.
Heart on my sleeve || Sawbastian
Sawyer had gone out for the afternoon to run some errands, looking for almost any excuse to get out of his apartment for a long period of time. It was still hard for him to be there alone, most nights he either went to Cam’s or even Sebastian’s, just to get away from the feelings he got. Slowly, he was getting better, but as his counselor told him, it would be a long road to recovery, a journey he’d have to learn that he wasn’t making alone. Still, he liked to do his best to make people forget what had happened, not bringing the subject up unless he needed to or it was addressed. He could still see the worry in his brothers’ and his father’s faces, and that was starting to eat at him.
After picking up some new paint and ordering some canvases from his favorite local art store, he browsed around town. As he saw couples walking hand in hand, his thoughts went to Sebastian and he smiled. Over the short time since their first night together on the beach, the two had been getting closer. He showed a side of himself few saw when he was around Sebastian, and he was sure he was seeing a side of Sebastian that not many saw too. A few days ago they had started to fool around, which was a big step for Sawyer, considering he had only been intimate with his ex-girlfriend, Robin. But Sebastian was a gentleman in almost every sense of the word, making it known that it was okay to take baby steps. Sawyer carried the bags of paints up the stairs to his apartment and started to put his key in the door, humming softly to himself as he fumbled with them.
