anyone else kinda terrified you’ll never be able to hold a job in the future because of your mental illness


oddly enough, some of my best halloween costumes have been worn by my sister.

@ailuridude21 don’t usually do on the spot requests, but I will draw blazamy any time, any place, for any reason


{ 09.21 } 黒澤 ルビィ 彡☆

Happy Birthday Ruby! (⌒▽⌒)♡

Mr. Spooky, Scourge of the Apartment Complex, Destroyer of Roaches, Charmer of Small Children, He of the Ankylosaurus Tail and the Missing Eartip.

The Time Chocolate Eggs Exploded in my Microwave

I wasn’t smart that particular morning.

One Saturday, I was watching cartoons in the living room. My sisters were asleep and my parents had gone off to work already. It was a very beautiful day. The sun was rising slow but steadily, casting white rays of light onto the floor of my dark kitchen.

I really wanna eat a brownie.

I hadn’t eaten breakfast yet but I had a strong craving for a chocolate treat. I picked up my mother’s laptop and started doing research. Luckily, I found a ton of “1-minute mug cake” recipes. 

I went to work.

Flour, sugar, baking soda, chocolate powder, etc. It seemed easy enough. After combining all the ingredients, all I had to do was mix it properly. 

All I had to do was mix it properly.

I stopped halfway. It wasn’t a smooth liquid when I stopped. Chunky. But my eleven-year-old mind didn’t care. I opened the microwave, popped the mug inside, slammed it shut and pressed on one minute. It hummed to life and with apprehension in the back of my mind, I went back to the living room, plopped on the couch and continued watching cartoons.

After about fifty-five seconds, I started back towards the kitchen.


Four …

Three …


My heart dropped and I instantly felt sweaty. Quickly but with caution, I came to the microwave and opened it. Scrambled eggs. Except they were the color of rich, hot chocolate. Shaking, I wiped the mess, silently thanking God it didn’t explode in my face. My whole body was trembling. 

I made sure every speck of evidence was gone before I crawled up the stairs and slipped under my covers, resolved to forget it ever happened.

Thus starting a chain of baking fails in the oven for the next years to come. Now, brownies are the best thing I can bake these days. xD Thanks for reading!

when ur writing ur essay abt cultural influences in ur life & u realize u havent written abt like 3 ppl who helped raise u,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

we all think that life is gonna take us till we’re 85 with a husband/wife and grandkids galore. but life holds no mercy. situations come without any warning. we can be 22, slammed by a rare form of cancer that has no survival rate. you never know. hold the ones you love extra tight, everyday. live like today is your last day because we really don’t have tomorrow promised.

Hunted. Chapter 6

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6: 

My mind was restless, my dreams full and deep. From behind my eyelids I feel a memory play out. I see the dim light of a small fire and two bodies sitting across from me. That night the power in the resistance building had gone out, and we had been smart enough to make a small fire. We’d built it outside, just outside the building we lived in. My sister, Poe Dameron and I had sat around the fire, Poe’s hand firmly gripped around his six string instrument. My sister sat next to him with her head on his shoulder as he strummed away. Breaking through the silence of the world around us was Poe’s voice as he sang a song he’d grown up hearing. He’d told us his dad would sing it to him every night before he went to bed. His eyes looked sad when he told us this, his head tilting ever so slightly when he spoke. I could see the way his fingers played through the fire light, and I could see the way my sister’s face lit up as she watched him play. That was the first night that I felt at peace… the first night since everything fell to pieces. It was there, underneath the stars, that I felt safe…

My body awakens suddenly, my eyes flicking open without warning. The dream I’d had in the mist of my restlessness, had left me sad. Tears burned my eyes and my throat ached in desperation. The images of my dream and the ghost of Poe’s singing rang in my mind. It continues to ring in my mind as I stare up at the ceiling above me. I cry silently, and let the tears fall without care. My whole body feels as if it’s stuck in the darkest sorrow I’ve ever experienced and I feel trapped under the weight of my torment. I’m unsure of how long I lay there drowning in my own memory filled grief, but eventually the tears stop and emptiness engulfs me.

With a blurry gaze I study my surroundings and attempt to calm myself. The room around me was pitch black, and silent. For a moment I don’t realize where I am or whose bed I am in. It isn’t until I guide my head off of the propped pillow, that I remember whose bed chamber I am in. From across the room I see his shirt less silhouette standing in front of a fireplace, his hands balled into tight fists. The bare back of Kylo Ren is one that I never would’ve thought I’d see again after he’d left all those years ago. In the years that had passed his muscles had become more refined, the muscle had been added from his relentless trainings.

My hands brush along the comforter as my body continues to stir from the sleep I’d awoken from, the images of my dream slowly losing their vivid beauty. The soft texture of the black comforter and the silence isn’t enough to calm whatever anxiety and grief that flourishes through my mind. The longer I look at him the more I realize where I am and the potential danger I am in. I remember what he’d said before I dared to fall asleep by his side, and I remember our heated interaction that had happened minutes before. The memory alone causes my breathing to hitch for a moment, an action that causes him to chuckle darkly from across the room.

“Can’t sleep?”

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Tonight I ended up at Letters Live when I really shouldn’t have. I went twice in March (and was lucky enough to see Gillian perform one of those nights), I attended earlier this week, and it is very likely that I will end up at Saturday’s closing night because my sister has tickets. Total Letters Live overload! I also had plans today and was actually meant to be out of town for a few days. But rumour had it that Gillian was going to perform tonight and I really wanted to go. However, I could not justify spending any more money (I have spent a small fortune on theatre tickets this month), so I just sat and moped for a bit. While feeling sorry for myself, I noticed a competition running on twitter to win tickets and thought ‘fuck it, why not.’ We had to write a letter to Letters Live entitled ‘I Love Letters Live’. All my years as an English teacher had led to this very moment. I won’t post the witty masterpiece but to my shock, I won! I never win anything, so receiving that email a few hours before showtime was very exciting. 

That’s how I found myself at Letters Live again this evening, seated a few rows back on the stage. Gillian was wonderful, as were the other performers. Toby Jones and Louise Brealey were particularly good. G read 3 letters: the first a very funny letter by a 97 year old Irish woman (she read with a lovely Irish lilt), the second a letter by Margaret Mead responding to her sister who had just informed her of her first sexual encounter, and the third a letter by Jackie Kennedy to the Soviet leader Nikita Khrushche, one week after JFK’s funeral. All were read beautifully as you would expect. 

G didn’t stick around for the final bow for whatever reason and I assume that she didn’t do the stage door like the last time she was there. It’s kind of the nature of the event though. Matt Berry dropped in for the second half to read 1 letter but didn’t stay past that. In March, Benedict C attended one performances half way through then had to make a dash. These are busy people and judging by G’s twitter, she’s had a hectic day at her publishers etc. I don’t blame her for making a quick exit. A stage door meeting doesn’t come with the ticket price. 

All in all, it was another lovely evening. I’ve said it several times now but if you ever have the chance to attend LL, do. Obviously Gillian being there is wonderful but not guaranteed. Regardless, you are sure to have a great night whoever is performing. The letters are always a mixture of funny, poignant and sad. The whole thing is rather life affirming and makes you want to pick up a pen and write.

Gillian’s letters are under the cut if you’re interested.

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If you asked me, the one character I consider had the most fucked up past during SDC was Polnareff. Joseph too, of course, but please think about Polnareff. His sister was violated and murdered by a mysterious man and Polnareff devoted his youth and whole self to find the murderer and get revenge. That’s just too much for such a young man to burden. It was his sister! Sometimes, as we watch or read series, we tend to forget the impact of death and what it causes. 

Cherry was no longer there. Polnareff would wake up to her empty room, her chair during dinner would remain still and devoid of her voice and smile. He would still sense the scent in her room and he wouldn’t want to clean her stuff for fear of losing what’s he had left of her. She became a ghost in his life, whenever he looked around he swore he could see her or hear her calling. But she’s not there. Polnareff suffered a lot, and on top of that, he saw her zombified version and not only that: Avdul joined to his mourning.

The two most important people in his life were taken away from him. I will never stop myself from wanting to hold Polnareff, he deserves protection and he deserves love.

Year ago, when I was a kid, a house round the corner from me burned down. My Mum told me what had happened: my friend’s adult sister had lived there with her boyfriend, and in the garden she had two big aviaries; she absolutely loved her birds, they felt like family to her.

Eventually, she broke up with her boyfriend. I don’t know if he’d been abusive before this, though I guess I’d be surprised if he hadn’t. She slept at a friend’s house after a party one night, and when she got home, her house was gone.

The police investigation concluded that the boyfriend had set fire to the aviaries, burnt his ex’s beautiful birds alive just to hurt her, and the fire had spread to the house. It was lucky that no-one was there, because the house was quite literally burnt to the ground. I wonder if he knew she was away, or if he just didn’t care either way?

She sold the land not long after the fire, but a good ten or twelve years later, nothing has been done with it: it’s just a big wooden fence, through which you can see glimpses of the charred ruins of the house, overrun with weeds and litter. I can imagine the next generation of kids peeking through the fence and making up horror stories about what happened here: I hope none of them manage to think of anything as terrible as the truth.