the signs as suburban haunts

ARIES: flattened paper boats scattered like the remains of a murdered animal along a dried up river, rundown motels with their blasted neon signs and smashed-in windows, pink streamers from some neighborhood child’s birthday party shuffling across the street like bright tumbleweed, a train rattling off into the breathless night & the trace remnants of a week old bonfire found in the middle of nowhere. 

TAURUS: chipped paint, shattered shot glasses lying across an abandoned pool table missing a few billiard balls, flyers rustling like autumn leaves against the tempestuous tides of the wind, advertising concerts & magic shows that took place in 2005, the sillage of old perfume clogging up the air, still thick as the scent of blood or wildflowers.

GEMINI: the corpse of a cigarette that hasn’t touched a mouth in months, a dilapidated playground where lost souls come out to play, threadbare curtains ripped like the wings of a dissected bird, strange red-brown stains across the hotel bedsheets, a gate grown weary with new-forming foliage & age, whining erroneously whenever maneuvered. 

CANCER: an empty casket, coffee rim imprints across hardwood tables, an old, tattered shoe lying haphazardly on the side of the road, a junkyard littered with ancient cars still soggy with stories, a pick-up with a broken windshield, a cadillac with a massacred paint job, someone’s motorcycle with blood staining the front tire, an askew portrait with eyes that follow you around the room.

LEO: a carnival horse with one eye scratched out, a daycare centre that shut down years ago, plagued with the colorful ghosts of children’s drawings still tacked to the crumbling walls, a spiral staircase that seems to shift direction when nobody’s paying attention, crunched up beer cans rolling across an empty rooftop & lichen kissing the concrete. 

VIRGO: the supermarket, flickering & eerie at night like the shadows unearthed beneath troubled eyes, owls stirring in between the murmuring trees, a single upturned grave in a cemetery that isn’t supposed to be notorious for hauntings, an old fountain still glistening with pennies that are no longer considered currency, a collapsed bottle of wine running the tiles red.

LIBRA: handprints imprinted onto fogged-up windows, red rooms crowded with developing photographs of people whose faces you recognize but cannot quite place, broken doll heads, a necklace that erupted into a sea of pearls, a deflated blow up kiddie pool collecting parched grass and critters, a busted arcade game & the laughter of people long gone still trapped inside the walls.

SCORPIO: books with grimacing yellow pages, someone attempting to sell you a cursed object on etsy, a leaky shower-head, a clock that’s stuck in time, a torn, unravelled couch sitting deserted in someone’s front lawn, candy stores that proclaim sales on expired sweets & ruddy patches of farmland. 

SAGITTARIUS: basements stacked with unwanted toys, a box of thin-mints, footsteps reverberating around the house when it’s 2 AM and you’re home alone, a burned down lemonade stand, that weird alien light in the third window of your neighbor’s house that never seems to get turned off, a certain rattling coming from the kitchen.

CAPRICORN: rain pummeling against damp ceilings, clothes ripped off the washing line, an empty aquarium, obscure little thrift stores that sell leather jackets from the eighties, gas station lights flirting with you from the distance, the alley where they say the vagabonds roam their night countries, sniffing up and dressing down and slitting the throats of angels.

AQUARIUS: those tiny coffee shops that fill you with nostalgia for places you’ll never visit, ‘JESUS LOVES YOU’ spray-painted across the sides of ramshackle buildings, an antique almirah scratched to high hell, a monster in the closet, the tunnel beneath the bridge that half the town believes is a gateway to hell, smoking up in trip mall parking lots. 

PISCES: halloween decor presented in shop windows a couple months early, visiting that lake where you heard that one kid drowned, the garage door slamming without cause or notice, storing fireflies in jars, drugstore makeup, birthday cake flavored oreos, a wheeled desk chair that seems to turn on its own when nobody’s in the office, a candle snuffed out on a windless evening.

my depression meals

-a peanut butter sandwich
-cranberry juice and birthday cake flavored oreos
-water with dust from my ceiling in it
- 2 large 1 topping pizzas and a 2 liter of Coca Cola from dominos
-aftertaste from my toothpaste after finally brushing my rotting teeth

The Signs As Suburban Haunts

ARIES: flattened paper boats scattered like the remains of a murdered animal along a dried up river, rundown motels with their blasted neon signs and smashed-in windows, pink streamers from some neighborhood child’s birthday party shuffling across the street like bright tumbleweed, a train rattling off into the breathless night & the trace remnants of a week old bonfire found in the middle of nowhere.

TAURUS: chipped paint, shattered shot glasses lying across an abandoned pool table missing a few billiard balls, flyers rustling like autumn leaves against the tempestuous tides of the wind, advertising concerts & magic shows that took place in 2005, the sillage of old perfume clogging up the air, still thick as the scent of blood or wildflowers.

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anonymous asked:

Are there any recipes that are easy to make yet still very delicious you'd recommend?

oh yes i have a whole list!


Cherry (Part 12)- wolf!jikook story

A week before Thanksgiving, Mr. and Mrs. Park decide to take a trip. While they pack their suitcases, Jungkook and Jimin lounge on their bed, watching the neatly-folded clothes being placed into the suitcase. A plate of birthday cake Oreos lie between them, crumbs littering the white bedsheets.

Chubby cheeks stuffed full of sweets, Jimin intently watches his mother place a toothbrush into a ziplock bag, ears perked. When he’d heard the news about their leave, he instantly pouted, upset that he wasn’t joining them. While his parents are away, his Aunt is going to watch over him and the house.

“I don’t even know her!” he’d shouted yesterday, voice so loud Jungkook could hear it from his place on his backyard’s swings. “I don’t wanna stay with her!” Since then he’s calmed down, albeit still upset. Whenever he’s irritated, he stuffs his face with food and asks Jungkook for extra cuddles.

“Eat a cookie!” Prodding the cookie against Jungkook’s lips, Jimin giggles when the chocolate stains his mouth. “Jungkookie, eat it!”

Shaking his head, Jungkook leans away from his friend. If he hadn’t downed a whole bowl of Captain Crunch then he’d have eaten a few cookies. Full and content, all he wants now is to be warm! Grabbing the blankets and bunching them around his body, Jungkook shivers. If only she’d let them snuggle!

“Jimin, don’t force him to eat,” his mother coos, folding her silk skirt neatly. The blue stones around her neck cackle together when she moves. “Perhaps he’s already eaten.”

“But there’s always room for cookies,” Jimin explains through his mouthful of food, spraying chocolate chunks all over the blankets. Before they’re shooed out of the room, Jimin grabs the plate of cookies, nibbling on one as they wander to the kitchen. Sniffing the pumpkin candle burning on the stove as Jimin fills a cup full of water, Jungkook yawns. Yesterday he’d snuck over to Jimin’s room at night and the two had played their Nintendos for hours.

Setting the empty cup into the sink, Jimin grabs Jungkook’s hand and leads him to his room. Inside, it’s warm and the sunshine bright, like his mother’s hugs.

Wiping his mouth on his blankets (receiving a “don’t do that!” from Jungkook), Jimin gently pulls him over to the bed. Jungkook’s back lies on the bedsheets, Jimin’s small body on top of his, their noses tentatively touching. Jungkook has to glance away from Jimin’s affectionate look as his tongue touches his cheek. It’s too much!

“Look at me,” Jimin touches his neck, voice gentle. “Jungkookie.”

“I am.” Their eyes locked, Jungkook flicks his ear against Jimin’s forehead. “Why can’t I be on top?”

“’Cause I’m older,” Jimin reaffirms by tentatively touching their lips together. Jimin’s lips are always fruity and delicious. Like he’s touched fire, he immediately flinches back, then stuffs his nose into Jungkook’s neck.

Ever since they cuddled under the pines, they’ve been spending a lot of time together, nuzzling and kissing. Not only on the lips, but on the cheeks!

Their parents really don’t like it when they kiss. A few days ago, Mrs. Park had caught them kissing (on the cheek!) and had instantly separated them. Expecting her to yell, he’d been surprised when she’d looked worried. How confusing. She doesn’t need to worry about them because they’re best friends.

Jungkook’s mother, on the other hand, was very upset. Stripping her son and plopping him into the bathtub, the bubbles touching his chin, he’d played with his rubber ducks while she’d scrubbed at his neck. It took a while for the cherry scent to fade. After rubbing his neck raw, she’d warned him to never mark each other again, otherwise “there’ll be consequences.” Jungkook knows Jimin wants to mark him again, he wants him to, so it’s useless to rub his neck till he’s red.

Deeply inhaling Jungkook’s scent, a growl suddenly erupts from Jimin’s chest. Eyes popping open in surprise when Jimin harshly nips his neck, Jungkook growls in return and pushes Jimin away. The bite stings when he moves, which is why he remains lying on the bed. “Hey, that hurt!” he snaps, touching his neck. His mother will definitely smell this bite.

“You don’t smell like me,” Jimin whispers, taking his place above Jungkook. This time, he nips Jungkook’s neck much softer, moving from one side to the other, covering the skin with licks, kisses, and nuzzles. It’s funny how serious he’s trying to be, with his chubby cheeks and cute lips, resembling a peach.

Jungkook’s a little nervous at this sudden aggressive behavior, but something inside him is telling him that this is good, very good. His parents tell him that he’s too young for Jimin to mark him, and he knows it, but something internal is clashing against these words.

“You smell like brownies,” Jimin giggles against his neck, content with his marking. “I wanna eat you.”

“Don’t eat me!” Jungkook squirms, laughing when Jimin flops off of him and smacks onto the floor. Hearing the small ‘ouch,’ Jungkook asks, “Are you okay!?”

Rubbing his back, Jimin nods, mouth scrunched in pain. “Yeah…”

Feeling bad at Jimin’s wobbly voice, Jungkook motions him over, a smile immediately forming on Jimin’s lips. Tails intertwined and bodies close, Jimin sniffles and wipes his eyes while Jungkook rubs his ears.

When they cuddle, everything’s gonna be alright.

The signs as  my friends favourite things
  • Aries: Dark colours
  • Taurus: Warm blankets on cold nights
  • Gemini: New phone chargers
  • Cancer: Oversized shirts
  • Leo: Nice lipstick
  • Virgo: New art supplies
  • Libra: The smell of ice cream shops
  • Scorpio: The sound of rain
  • Sagittarius: Birthday cake flavored oreos
  • Capricorn: Big dogs
  • Aquarius: Floating glitter phone cases
  • Pisces: Watercolour paintings

anonymous asked:

Oreo anon here and I would just like to say how offended I am . . . That you would even . . . How dare you. . . To suggest that I like birthday cake Oreos! How rude! Peanut butter Oreos on the other hand . . . And I suppose we can still be friends, at least i won't have to worry about you stealing my double stufs


I just…I can’t right now…why…

your double stuff oreos would be safe from harm from me, tho if you showed up and did not bring me my own pack of regular you will most likely be having extra icing handed to you to eat as i scrape off the excessive amounts and eat the cookie with the right ratio


Artists in Action (NY Edition)!

Continuing to take in all the Big Apple had to offer, we got the chance to hang out with Christian Marsh, a Script Coordinator on Welcome to the Wayne! We snagged him between his time spent in the writer’s room and record sessions to ask him a few questions. We are HUGE fans of his optimism, tips to be true to one’s self and desire to ride on the majestic back of a dino.


How did you get your start?

I started through internships at independent documentary studios around New York City, then DreamWorks Animation in LA, and finally at Nickelodeon in NY where I pitched an original idea. The preschool development team saw that I loved to write so they assigned me freelance writing projects.

Favorite parts of the job?

Being surrounded by inspiring people who love creativity and welcome spontaneity. The other day we pumped up a massive inflatable globe and named it Gemini - only at Nickelodeon!

What tools have helped you get to where you are?

Optimism, passion, open mindedness, helping others, collaboration, and experimenting with mediums like theatre, film, improv comedy, and photography.

Choice of superpower/ability?

Teleportation! So long as I stay in one piece and don’t get motion sickness?

What inspires you?

Kids! They’re honest, imaginative, and are the future.

What are some dreams you hope to achieve?

Besides aspiring to own a pet Atlantic Puffin one day, I hope to show as many people how awesome it is to be true to oneself, laugh, and live/relive childhood.

Favorite hobbies?

Everything Nintendo, reading books, hiking, and Mermaid parades.

What is your favorite dessert?

We eat a lot of Birthday Cake Oreos in the Writer’s room. I adore the varieties of Oreos out there now. They’re really taking risks!

What is your biggest responsibility?

Tracking all the lore on Welcome to the Wayne! We’re building an incredibly deep world with a lot of secrets. I’m the chief mystery keeper- it’s lovely!

What do your day-to-day tasks look like?

Most of my time is spent in the writer’s room working closely with the writers and producers.

We plan out the course of the season, run through dialogue, and pitch story ideas & directions. I track the script revisions, write character bios, prep scripts for voice records, pitch ideas myself and take notes in every stage from premise to final draft!

Where would you go in a time machine?

I’d love to be the first human to majestically ride on the back of a dinosaur so probably any point in the Mesozoic Era.

Check out and follow Christian on:
Instagram - @asimplemarshmallow
Twitter - @marshmallowism


No la veía más que una vez a la semana, cada lunes para ser exactos. Llegaba a mi departamento por la mañana. Así, sin avisar. La primera vez que la vi me llamaron la atención sus ojos tristes. No sabía nada de ella pero una placa a la altura de su pecho me indicó que se llamaba Isadora.

No hablaba, sonreía bastante y al sentir mis ojos sobre ella, se encorvaba. Decía “good morning” haciendo notar que el inglés no era su idioma; me enseñaba sus dientes, la dejaba pasar, sacudía el polvo, pulía el piso… Le ganaba la risa al verme cocinar, creía que era muy joven para vivir solo. Nunca se enteró que estaba por cumplir 25.

Le intrigaban las “soup operas” en mi televisor; no supo que las veía por trabajo, no por gusto. Jamás cerraba la puerta sin decir “have a nice day”.  Me alegraba las mañanas, a veces me arruinaba el sueño. Para esas fechas era la única que me deseaba buen día.

Con los meses descubrí que era de Haití y había llegado a Miami –así, con las vocales bien marcaditas- en busca de lo que en su país no hay. Le tenía miedo al mar, era mi burla. Creía que dentro había mujeres ahogadas. Decía que las olas eran el encaje de sus batas de dormir y que como todas habían muerto vírgenes agitaban el agua en busca de hombres. Todo gracias a Almérinda, su abuela. Curandera de “Port-au-Prince” que se encargó de sembrarle en la cabeza espíritus que le susurrarían a diario viejos cuentos.

Pocas veces visitaba una costa, el clamor de las vírgenes se le acercaba demasiado, pero cuando iba llevaba un frasco al cual le introducía arena y lo agregaba a una extensa colección en su regadera – Ideática la mujer. Le gustaba sentarse en el parque a leer, buscaba la sombra de alguna tabebuia y se tiraba sobre el pasto. Suspiraba sujetando con fuerza su libro apolillado de Arthur Rimbaud. Era hipnótico escucharla leer en voz alta, en ese “francés” que ella dominaba pero yo no entendía. Después me contó que su idioma era el creole, voces africanas mezcladas con la lengua del conquistador parisino y enraizadas en el Caribe. 

Sin uniforme, vestía con un toque “vintage”. Sus color favorito era el azul. Manejaba orgullosa un Civic 72, manifestándose en contra del consumismo. Decía que era ridículo como todos en Miami creían necesitar un Mercedes-Benz o una Land Rover –. Yo estaba de acuerdo

El día que más hablé con ella, fue durante una hora. Me contó sobre una balacera en el edificio y tres suicidios. Todos, por deudas. Me dijo que me administrara. Se preocupaba tanto por mí y mi futuro que me hizo recordar a mi madre. Ese día salí a despedirla cabizbajo, recordando que llevaba un par de meses sin hablar con mi familia. Pude ver como mis vecinas cirujeadas la escrutaban de arriba abajo producto de la envidia a sus curvas genéticas. Ella ni en cuenta, siguió su camino.

Nunca hablábamos mucho, pero nos mirábamos, compartíamos puntos de vista. Los dos éramos foráneos… intrusos. Algunas veces platicábamos de la comida de nuestros países, hasta terminar salivando como perros frente a un bistec. Entre los dos nos ayudábamos con el inglés, reíamos mil. La regañaba por sus confianzas, se comía mis Oreo “birthday cake” que tanto me gustaban. En el fondo agradecía cada lunes para después extrañarla el resto de la semana. Le pedí su celular con el pretexto de cambiarle el día de trabajo, o por si algo se ofrecía. Le enviaba mensajes para abrir conversación… le hacia llamadas para imaginar que me hablaba al oído. Platicábamos de todo, menos de trabajo. Y sin darse cuenta me hacia las noches, los días.  

Comencé a enamorarme… ella a cambiar. Cada muestra de cariño la alejaba más. Nunca lo entendí, llegue a pensar que quizá tenía una vida secreta, que había olvidado hablarme de su marido, hijo o alguna enfermedad que no le permitía entregarse. Contenía mis cumplidos, las cosas lindas por decirle. Reprimía mis ganas de adular su cuerpo a besos. Isadora estaba en mí, pero no quería estarlo. En mi necesidad de bueno días, en mis pensamientos, en mis distracciones , en la ansiedad de un “iPhone” que no suena, en la esperanza por planear un futuro, en la acumulación de esperma, en mis sueños – el único lugar donde era linda y complaciente.

Se convirtió en propulsora de mi insomnio y una de esas noches de sábanas revueltas decidí que no quedaría en mí. Tome una libreta y comencé a escribir un borrador que después se convertiría en un “speech” con mucho mucho amor. -O necesidad, ya no sé. 

Ese día tocó la puerta despacito. Murmuró “housekeeping” como si no quisiera ser escuchada. De igual forma le abrí, para ese entonces la esperaba con el ojo en la mirilla de la puerta. Al verme agachó la cabeza. Comencé con un “Isadora” –usando mi voz grave que solía volverlas locas. Ella solo abrió los ojos. Supongo que mi playera transpirada y mi respiración agitada me delataban. Como un tartamudo le lancé unas cuantas silabas… “des-de que te co-co-no-cí”. Pude ver entre la torpeza como mis posibilidades se desmoronaban. Me puse rojo, moría de pena como cuando era pequeño y olvidaba los renglones del poema en pleno festival del día de las madres. Me rearmé de valor y apresuradamente terminé enunciando las palabras restantes. “Me gustas… y me estoy enamorando de ti”. Se hizo un silencio enorme, después de eso ella me abofeteó a palabras. Me dijo que dejaría el trabajo.

Desvalido me di la vuelta y me fui directo a la ducha con la mirada en el suelo para no volverla a ver. Me desnudé arrancándome el amor por ella que traía encima.  Abrí la llave. Mis lágrimas se mezclaban con el agua. Mis sollozos, con el sonido de la aspiradora. Ella nunca entró a pesar de la puerta entreabierta. Estaba muy silenciosa, por lo general siempre aventaba las cosas o rompía uno que otro traste. Pasé desnudo delante de ella… hizo una pausa, no dijo nada. Siguió su camino, entró al baño mientras yo la miraba a distancia por si hacía alguna mueca. Se fue al piso producto del impacto. Yo sonreía. A partir de ese momento Isadora jamás olvidaría mi nombre, la tina derramándose, mi cuerpo en el fondo, la sangre expandiéndose y mi piel blanca. Todo, un regalo para ella.