The flavour of tea today is: y'all are real quick to demonize those with bpd, but then reblog all of our funniest posts and act like they’re funny exaggerations or not about the specific experience of having bpd.
If fucking Barb can get a god damn Emmy nomination for 5 minutes of screentime spent awkwardly shaming her friend, than I better fucking see Noah Schnapp’s name on every nominee list from here until Emmy season or I’m going to lose it.
I’ve been pretending my whole life. Pretending I don’t mind, pretending I belong. My life’s built on it. And it’s a good life. It’s a life I’ve always wanted. But then I came here and I get a glimpse for a second of a life in which I don’t have to pretend. A life in which I can be truly alive. How can I go back to pretending when I know what this feels like?
English still fucks with me in that I could purposefully use wrong word tense and exclude modifiers to give that “fukc grammer punctuaton speeling” feel, taking the standard phrase “I’m tired” and turning it into “i am tire” to maximize that no-effort-haha-whatever facade
But take that a step further and you get “I tire (of this)” and suddenly you go from tired millennial teen to confident noble on a white stallion looking down your nose at the peasants that dare walk on this same earth, what the fuck