The floor is alive and healthy relationships and more screen time for all the lesbians characters

Best sites to kill time on

Been bored after school a lot nowadays so made a list of my most used sites. Am I missing any?

** DISCLAIMER I’m not responsible for late homework assignments, sleep deprivation, missed deadlines because of this list**

• Commaful - really addicting short stories and poetry

• The Oatmeal - funny web comics

• Find The Invisible Cow - watch the audio for this one….

• The Onion - fake news that’s actually hilarious

• Pornhub - not gonna link it. self explanatory.

• Useless Website Generator - literally does what its name says

• Best of Reddit - warning extremely addicting stuff here

• Funny Or Die - watching will ferrell as george bush never gets old

• Cyanide & Happiness - hilarious comics

• Rich Kids On Instagram - this makes me cry a little

• One Tiny Hand - they literally make hands tiny. it’s so great

And there it is……remember. With great power comes great responsibility

omg commaful and the oatmeal made me forget my midterm last semester

(via wutheringheights)

okay so. as someone who runs one of the very, very few ocpd-centric blogs on tumblr (not this one, i mean @thatocpdfeel ), its actually so upsetting how little people know abt ocpd, even here on tumblr amongst other mental health bloggers. not to say anything bad abt those bloggers!!! its just not spoken abt much. maybe thats because its not as common as, like, bpd or avpd, but its also because SO many ocpd symptoms are ENCOURAGED by society. i get so many tags on my posts saying “thats an ocpd thing???” or “thats not normal???” or “im not supposed to do that???” like so much of what is killing us from the inside are things parents, teachers, and guardians all think are positive attributes to have, but we internalize those things in such a twisted and intense way that we suffer and yet are idealized for our suffering. ive had so many people with other illnesses, like depression, tell me how ocpd has its upsides because i can be productive and get stuff done when they cant even get out of bed. thats not how it works. ocpd is not being perfect. ocpd is NEEDING to be perfect because even the tiniest mistake means you are the scum of the earth and deserve to die. ocpd is not double checking your work to make sure you got everyting right because you want a good score. ocpd is perfecting the wording of a single sentence because if it doesnt imply the exact thought you are trying to get across then it means you have failed and even if it is still technically right and no points are taken off, inside you know that it was wrong and it COULD have been better and your personal standards are ten times higher than the official standards because you know that the goals you need to reach to be successful are leaps and bounds above what the average person needs, not because you are better than them but because you must strive to become better than them at all cost because second best is still a loser. ocpd is not orangizing your work station before starting a new project. ocpd is crying and screaming while you trash 42 different versions of the same attempted project and shoving everything off your desk and wanting to pull out your hair or bang your head on a wall because you messed it up so many times already and if you dont get it right this time you will never get it and you will be marked as a failure for the rest of your life, unable to accomplish literally anything and youre so terrified of that thought you take six hours to scrub at your desk and mop the floor and take a razor to that bit of wax thats been stuck on the leg of your chair for a week and half and meticulously organize everything into boxes, counting every ration you put in to make sure they all even out, and listing everything thats there and labeling the boxes then straight up leaving the work area and not thinking about the project for another month. ocpd is not having a folder of all your important documents because you know you will need them some time. ocpd is having six folders, each containing vastly different documents, some of which are important, some of which are just old receipts to mcdonalds, some are keepsakes from friends, some of which are just a scap of paper with scribbles that you dont remember what they mean but maybe one day you will, and the rest are just any paper youve ever come across in your life. theyre all just as important as everything else though because the thought of prioritising them is nearly incomprehensible because they are all important and you need them all for equally important things so when you need, like, that paper for your auto insurance you first must sift through six hundred pages of notes your friends passed back and forth in middle school over five years ago and you dont even talk to them anymore but you absolutely cannot get rid of them. its all so important. ocpd is not being productive. ocpd is waking up and remembering that you are an inherently flawed and imperfect being, but also that your worth in this world is defined by what you put into it, so even if you cant be perfect, if you make enough perfect stuff or do enough stuff perfectly, it will all give the illusion to others as well as yourself that you are perfect. so you push yourself to do whatever it is you do. regardless of your other illnesses, you work and and try to be as productive as you possibly can because thats your only chance. you go into work sick. you push yourself past your limits, past what you know you are physically/mentally able to do, and you suffer for breaching those limits but all that pain is WORTH it because you are temporarily overcome with a sense of accomplishement and SOMEONE is finally proud of you. you did something right FOR ONCE. so even if you go completely nonverbal, or lay in bed for the next week in pain, or end up in the ER, or seventeen other things didnt get done, there was the most brief sense of absolute euphoria even if its almost immidiately replaced by a sense of overwhelming anxiety about what you messed up, forgot, did wrong, or ignored to achieve that feeling and the cycle of fixing, fixing, fixing repeats itself. ocpd is not being bossy, egotistical, or controlling. ocpd is a deeply psychological understanding that even the most insignificant mistake will reflect back on you in the most exaggerated and horrendous way possible. its knowing that if you ask your friend to go get you a red pen, but they bring you a blue one, and you dont know they got blue instead, so if you write even the smallest mark in that blue ink, even if its technically okay to write in red or blue, you specified red, so the fact that its blue makes it wrong and unnacceptable so in your mind its better to drop what your doing and get the correct red pen yourself even if its right beside your friend and you are already focusing on something else. the concept of asking others to do something, not even something in a manner of helping you but just to divide up jobs evenly, its absolutely impossible. because if they do something wrong, it will reflect on you, then you did something wrong and we both know that doing something wrong is completely out of the question. you would rather multitask four things at once, but the sight of someone else just twiddling their thumbs while you bust your ass is so infuriating! why cant they do what you are doing? why cant they just read your mind and know exactly what you need, when you need it, and be helpful? thats what you would do if they were in your situation! if they were working like you, you would hand them everything. you would also probably go ahead and just put that back for them. well, you could also handle that too. and before you know it, their job is your job and there they are twiddling their thumbs and looking at you for a job to do. its the phrase “if you want something done right, do it yourself” taken to a whole other level. ocpd is so much more than what people think. were more than just a “type a personality” or “perfectionists” and its not just “mild ocd” either. ocpd is painful. please remember that.

inspirational poster: the only expectations you should live up to are the ones you expect of yourself :)

me, who has ten times higher standards for myself than any other person, employer or academic institution ever did and regularly ruins my health by trying to live up to them: uh,

At the end of the day it’s the little things. (via alunit)

I love that gif of the cat walking though the door with that big ass blanket

Here’s a masterlist with mental disorders. If this helped you in any way, please LIKE/REBLOG this! Happy writing.

Keep reading

You wake up with two small lumps on your back, just around your shoulder blades. Your friend has a similar dilemma, however, theirs are on their forehead, and look like zits. Small horns protrude from theirs, while feathers come from yours.

Within a month, you have large, white, dove wings, while your friend has long, curly horns. Turns out, you’re an angel, they’re a demon, and you’re supposed to fight. But you both’d rather just go see a movie.

she looks like the way summer tastes. but she’s my best friend. she’s just my best friend, and this entire thing is too cheesy.

she’s spitting up into the sink. blood has been in her mouth a lot ever since the teeth starting coming in. “do you think teething is like?” she lisps around a sore tongue “permanent?”

i’m scrubbing at my eyes. i’m allergic to certain animal dander. my body has been going through shock; fever on, fever off. the truth is that human bodies don’t like foreign cells inside of themselves.

“you know,” i say, “i wrote this story once.” the movie ended a while ago but we had to wait until the bathroom was empty. if we’re lucky, people just think we’re cosplaying. we locked the door behind us.

“my mouth hurts,” she says.

“i was like, twelve,” i say. i feel like there are mites, always, everywhere, crawling all over me. the other day a third set of eyes started growing in my hands. i’m not used to it yet and i get a lot of vertigo and 3D glasses per pair are super expensive. “it was bad.”

“i mean,” she pauses. “we look stupid.” for a second, the fire on her starts again, and she swears while she puts it out. i meanwhile send her another “i can be ur angle or yuor devil” meme, leaning against the counter while she again washes her mouth out.

“it was stupid,” i say. “i didn’t even know the word nephilim, like some kind of pleb.”

“get wrecked, twelve-year-old you,” she says. 

i’ve learned a lot these past few months, have scoured the bible sixteen times. “The Nephilim were on the earth in those days, and also afterward, when the sons of God came in to the daughters of man and they bore children to them.” Genesis 6:4. Maybe that’s us. Or maybe we’re in the X-Men. If it wasn’t for the creepy voice who told us otherwise, we have no evidence.

i have trouble looking at her sometimes. not because she’s so different now, but because she makes my heart swell up like balloon. like an explosion. like heavenly light. 

she makes eye contact with my original set. i feel my hearts start revving. she smiles at me in that way that makes me forget about wings and horns and eternal forces.

“i liked the movie, though,” i blurt. 

“ugh!” she rolls her eyes, drying her hands by shaking them off. they again ignite, and she swears again, clapping them out. “it was bad, ray.”

i laugh, we head out. two girls in a jeep with too many layers for the heat. i can’t drive anymore, i’m too distracted by the extra eyes. she does better but has to stop sometimes to put out fires.

she pulls off on the lookout by the watertower to shake a few teeth loose. i stretch and almost fall over, unused to a new body and no balance. my bones are hollowing. 

“was that crack your wrist?” she asks. 

“yuh,” i say, holding it. 

“yuck,” she says, “sounds broken.”

“might be,” i’m biting my tongue, “it’s lit.”

she comes over to examine it. “broken,” she says. she glows in the darkness, but i don’t know if that’s literally her or just how i see her, all alight with life and perfect. she helps me wrap it. we sit on the hood of her car and look out to the forest below us. we sip snapple i stole. i hear my bone heal. we both ignore the noise it makes.

“that guy is kind of a dingus,” i say. i put on a deep voice, “Thou must wage in the eternal war. Put on Earth so that thy may Know; as above and so below.” 

“might not be a guy,” she says. “very gender-specific of you, ray.”

“my apologies,” i say to the sky, “that was crass of me. you can be whatever gender you want, giant sky voice. or many genders. or all. whatever works.”

“i’m still like… what the hell does that middle part about knowing mean. like. also. crack open a grammar book for the modern century.”

i “hmm” into my snapple. my running theory is that our time spent as mortals meant we knew what it was exactly we were fighting for. i don’t tell her this because my entire evidence is how i feel about her, is how every day with her made it worth it, how being her best friend was the best experience i ever had. but like. it’s chill. 

“it’s a broken capitalist heaven economy,” i say. “war eternal?”

she laughs. i love it when she laughs. “at least you can be sure you’re going to the place that profits off of all of this,” she says. “heaven’s got the big guy.”

i make a note in the back of my throat and face her. “you don’t know that,” i whisper, “we’ve talked about this.”

she laughs in a new way, a sad one, staring out ahead of her. “yeah, you and your bible. ‘angels and demons are the same species but separated geospatially,’ blah blah blah, either one of us could be the damned soul, blah blah blah.”

“hey, i did research,” i say. “and i’m right, a lot of angels are…”

“goatish? have devil horns? light on fire?”

“micheal was like, forty to ninety percent fire.”

“micheal also was like, always an angel. he don’t need to question anything. fire? sure, he good. he was born angel.”

“i don’t know they’re like, born,” i say. i look up at her. “but i’m serious. i got like sixteen eyes and counting -”

“nine, you have nine”

“and like that’s not counting the spiritual aspect of this whole thing since -“

“oh my god, ray,” she says, sighing, “not this whole ‘morally impure’ thing again.” 

“i’m just saying,” i don’t like how upset she is, but the more i try to fix it, the worse it is, “i’m not, like, a good person! i’m -” i stop myself two milliseconds before finishing the loaded end of that sentence about her, and how i feel, and the terrible gap before us.

she whips around and looks at me. just really looks, like i’m pinned there by her. for a second, she’s my best friend, not angel or demon, and she’s glaring. 

“that’s not true and you know it,” she says, her voice barely over a whisper, “don’t say that kind of thing about yourself.”

i sigh and pull my hair, dropping her gaze. “i’m sorry,” i say, “i’m just… this whole thing is messed up and, like… i’m not… an angel, i guess.”

“i thought you said that the original angels were all-powerful and scary,” she says, “that purity was a new myth.”

i stare at her. how do i explain to my best friend that i’m taking advantage of her just by being around her; how every time she hugs me i mean more by it, how holding hands with her gives me little shocks that keep me happy.

“you know what?” she says, kicking off the hood, “fuck this, let’s go back to my place and let’s get drunk.”

we do.

late in the night i wake up and she’s not in bed anymore. i’m still drunk and my mouth feels like a trash bin. i blink in the light of her room, grab my toothbrush, put toothpaste on both tongues as an appetizer, just to dispel the taste. stretch the gross chicken-finger nubs of a sore back with six pairs of soon-to-be wings and stumble to her bathroom.

she’s sitting on the floor and her horns are gone. bandages bloodied with green ooze sit around her. black scars hide up in her hairline. 

“how’s it going?” she says casually.

i drop everything onto the sink and drop to her side. “oh my god,” i whisper, my hands touching her warm skin, “what happened?”

she looks at me. our faces are so close i have to stop myself from shaking, but the more i look at what she’s done, the worse i feel for her. i push back her matted hair and reach for new gauze to wipe away the blood she missed. her hand loops gently around one of my wrists, not restraining, just comforting.

“it’s okay, ray,” she says softly, “i found a tutorial on the internet. how to cut off goat horns. it didn’t hurt that bad, i promise. like, when we pierced our own cartilage back in middle school hurt a lot worse.”

i stare at her. “you cauterized your own wounds and you expect me to calm down.” i clean up her face frantically. i feel tears, but i’m not sure in which pair of eyes.

“i didn’t say i cauterized anything.”

“it’s clear!” i almost burst into a thousand pieces, holding her round face in my hands, struggling to lower my voice, “it’s clear.” 

“i’m okay,” she says, half-smiling, “i’m okay.”

“you should have woken me up,” i say. “what kind of -“

she kisses me and i understand why she’s got the power of fire. if i immolate, i don’t notice. we move from bathroom floor to hallway to bedroom. her hands and my hands and our bodies almost feel human.

when we finally separate, her voice is low. “fuck,” she says, “i wasn’t supposed to do that. you weren’t supposed to know.”

i’m breathless. i can’t form words. “know…?” i manage.

she leans in. kisses me again. “i like you, ray,” she whispers, “i like you a lot, you giant six-winged bug.”

“in a gay way?” i ask.

she laughs. “the gayest.”

“okay,” i say. i’m shaking. “because, like, i like you too. like. in the gay way.” my voice sounds different, high and tense and fluttery. almost too loud, even though we’re both whispering.

“your wings kind of look like chicken fingers,” she says, “or like, really big nipples.”

“you know,” i say, “i think the same thing.” i stare at her. all of my eyes, on her, on this girl, on the girl i can’t have, on the girl i couldn’t have even if we weren’t magical beings from a metaphysical plane, because we’re best friends and that matters more than anything. 

i think of us and of our future and of her, surrounded by the pieces of her horns, and of my wings, and of the world. i think of the bad movie we watched and how it was good because she was next to me. i think of the words of the giant sky voice and how we’re supposed to fight in an eternal war and how i do know, how i’ve always known, how love was the only thing that was worth fighting for, how she has always been my angel. how i would tear heaven down in order to have her and that’s how i know: i’m the one who fell long ago. 

she deserves heaven and holy and the best things. she deserves more than a twelve-year-old’s silly plotline, more than to be forced into fate, more than to be a drafted soldier. she deserves a better life than this. 

look out, god, i think, i’ve got a hell of a bone to pick.

“i love you,” i whisper, “and i have loved you for a long time.”

she kisses me. 

in the morning, i’m gone.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH What the fuck AAAAAAH This is glorious!

honestly this song gives me such strong pynch vibes - particularly in regards to ronan’s feelings about adam. just!! these lyrics! are you kidding me! i didn’t need my heart anyway, i’m fine

(in fact, a lot of kevin garrett’s other songs give me pynch feelings as well, particularly control and coloring. just go listen to all of them and drown in emotions)

prompt: persephone (trc), cool colors, a distant expression. suggested by an anon

honestly? i have no idea what the fuck peoples’ damage is with the term “allosexual”. it’s like they think it was created specifically to insult them, like it has the implication of shaming people for having sex (they like to imply it shames gay people specifically), when in reality i have never seen a single a-spec person use it in a derogatory way. the only people who use it detogatorily are… aphobes, in order to mock and vilify a-spec ppl.

because it just means? “non-ace”? that’s literally what it means?? ive heard aphobes say “as soon as you say allo this discussion is over lmao” like wtf??? can u imagine “as soon as u utter the phrase ‘non-ace ppl’ in this discussion about asexuality the convo is over bye u fucking homophobe” bc that’s. that’s what you just said

the really funny part is i’ve been in ace communities long enough to remember when allo started catching on, before that it was just “sexual”. asexual v sexual, not asexual v allosexual. and then ppl started (rightly) pointing out how just saying “sexual people” could sound shaming and insulting, which is why “allosexual” was fucking coined in the first place. we need a word for this? it had the exact same meaning as “non-ace” before aphobes started trying to twist it into some sort of slur. ive seen on a byf “don’t follow me if you say allo unironically” - could you imagine seeing “don’t follow me if you say cis unironically”?

except that isn’t even really the best analogy, bc it could be taken to imply that allos have “allo privilege” over a-specs the way cis ppl do over trans ppl, which, let’s get this out of the way, has never been the case and no one who’s educated on the matter has ever made that claim. but lateral aggression is very much a fucking thing, so maybe a better analogy is “binary” vs “nonbinary”, as in binary trans person vs nb person. ( and before anyone jumps on me for this, yes i am trans and nonbinary and i have a right to bring this into the discussion.)

cld you imagine if. all of a sudden everyone was saying “you can’t say binary, it’s a transphobic slur”, “lmao 'binary’?? you fucking transphobe”, “don’t follow me if you call trans men/women binary”, “are you saying they have privilege over you for being 'binary’???”, “look this asshole thinks trans men/women are oppressing NBs by being trans”.

but no, “binary” and “nonbinary” are terms that exist because they are useful and necessary for intracommunity discussions, because each group faces different challenges and experiences, and it’s language we need to talk about those experiences and engage in dialogue.

not to shame anyone or imply anything about someone’s privilege.

that’s why allosexual(/alloromantic) exists. why is this a problem to anyone.

oh, yeah, that’s right, to demonize a-spec ppl and paint them all as homophobes in a nonsensical smear campaign.

i’m tired.

Players across NFL kneel or rais their fists during the playing of the national anthem before their games to draw attention to police brutality against minorities and spur conversations about social justice.

shout out to everyone who said kapernick wasnt doing shit by taking a knee he showed just how racist america is and he created a movement that’s being seen worldwide

if suddenly you feel the urge to cry come upon you seemingly from nowhere, please, recognize that it is not from nowhere. it is from a somewhere where you forgot to mourn properly. a place only your body can remember. let these tears come. let your body mourn. let your body feel her loss. even if you cannot understand her (who can?) it is important to let your body have this. when the crying is over feed your body something special and be gentle with her. bless

academics: you can tell so much from word choice! here’s a 23 page discussion on hemmingway’s love for leather couches, which we can ascertain from these two unconnected words :) writer: i gayly walked with my gay ass (which is attracted to women) through the violets and thought about clipping my fingernails and how much i love women, me, myself, whomst is gay academics: there’s simply no way to tell the sexuality of the above writer, as the words here might be in the voice of a character or attempted as an experiment in prose. it’s likely the writer did not understand the implications that modern language puts into the text, and we must not assume anyth

the worst is when i make myself show up but i can’t make myself act well enough. like i tell myself “just go to the party, you’ll feel better, you’ll have fun.” but i go and nothing changes. i just realize better how tired i am. how i’m not good with anyone. i tell myself: make a joke, smile, relax, stop being so serious. but my brain feels empty and everything is muted. i’m trying, i swear. it’s just that i don’t have the energy for this. i don’t have the energy for anything, i guess.

do u ever feel like ur pulling an academic icarus flying too close to your deadlines on wings of deeply flawed time management

page 49 from ‘offering my heart’