capslockdoesntexpressmyjoy submitted:

Hey, so remember said what if Tim W. and Jay found Ziggy and kept him in the hotel room with them, but they left off what they did when they had to check out. Natural conclusion, car cat!

“Jay stop filming and grab him, he’s going to slide right off the dash!”
“No this is important I have to capture all of it.”
“Jay I swear-”

(Cat gifs supplied by this post)


spooksdontexpressmyjoy  asked:

Do you think Tim went through Jay's computer and looked over files and like, found footage of them hanging out, or old emails from Jay's family, or pictures from way-the-hell-back that Jay had annotated for studying, or search histories full of Jay looking up Jessica in missing persons' sites and asking Google how to find missing loved ones. What do you think Tim was feeling

w ow

did i need this


spooksdontexpressmyjoy  asked:

Hey, can you explain what the fuck bird latin is? My googling skills are proving useless x)

Well according to Mr. Craig Digsby

It was a language originally invented by birds but was used widely by pigs.

(You can write in bird latin by shifting the last letter of a word to the front and adding ‘ay’ ex. Bird - Daybir)


This is pretty long, just warning you, I cant make a read more ffffff.


Imagine an AU where Tim’s mom had kept visiting him at the hospital. Even when the hospital kept him admitted, month after incident-marred month. Even when was confined to his room.
Imagine her explaining as best as she could why she had brought him there; ‘as best as she could’ wasn’t strictly enough but eventually Tim just accepted it, or at least, he stopped asking. Imagine her reading stupid science fiction books with him on her visits because she wanted something to share and they were short enough to hold his attention. Imagine her hugging him and smoothing his hair down before she left each time and telling him to be brave.
(They had shouting matches about that later, because Tim /being brave/ would not have actually helped anything that had happened to him and he wanted her to know that; and Janet wanted her son to know that she’d been basically powerless outside of the hospital and even in the hospital but she’d needed to give him something and what did he expect her to say? What else /could she have said/? Tim would have wanted to hear that she would come back; of she’d come back, you’re here now; I know.)
Imagine that once he was stable enough on his meds she took him home. On that day Tim stood with the leaving nurse going over a checklist twice to make sure Tim had everything, while the doctors had told Janet in a separate room that it wouldn’t be easy. They said Tim would be unstable for a very long time; he would likely try to hurt other people if he relapsed; she must be careful. She’d listened to some things and ignored others out of hand, smiling understandingly the whole time. Imagine her taking twelve-year-old Tim, with his issues and his medication prescriptions and ill-fitting clothes and old dollar store nightlight, home.

Imagine it certainly not being easy, not for a long time. Tim skipped school and skipped his therapy appointments and ignored other kids his age and fought with his mom. Once or twice he ran away— only for the afternoon, and with shame written in bold just behind his eyes when he slunk back into the house and saw how frantic his mother had become, but still long enough to /have her become frantic/. (There would be yelling matches, /are you *trying* to get them to take you away again?! No! Then why did you run without telling me?!/) A teenagers’ moodiness and mercurial temperment was magnified in him, even at the best of times. It’d certainly not been easy.

But imagine there being good times, too. Janet worked pretty long days but she made sure to bring home curry or Taco Bell at least once a week, because Tim liked them. They’d eat together in the living room on the sofa watching soap operas since that was what was on (and because Janet thought the crime dramas struck a little too close a lot of the time). She bought Tim an acoustic guitar for his fourteenth birthday, and she learned when to give him space. Tim liked the guitar; he practiced some songs to show her on the guitar and tried to listened to his therapist about not isolating himself. Janet liked the songs. Imagine her digging her old guitar out of storage and them playing together sometimes, when she wasn’t too tired and he felt alright with other people around.

Imagine Tim recognizing the other kids were basically telling the truth when they call him a “mama’s boy” but also not giving a fuck because the other kids got to see their mom’s every day their whole lives. Imagine Tim badly wanting to make her proud of him.
Imagine Tim taking his prescribed medication on time and going to therapy and trying, but still seeing the faceless suited spectre among the branches outside of his room’s window at night, every night. But he didn’t say anything to anyone because they would tell his mom and she’d think he wasn’t trying and he wanted her to be proud of him. And it wasn’t like anything bad happened; the man-shaped thing just stayed there, staring without eyes, it didn’t do anything except make him cough sometimes (he took his medication and the coughing stopped before the shakes began). It was always gone by morning. Tim can be brave.

Imagine Tim thinking that, and believing it, until one day he comes home after school and smelling something cooking– noodles, his mom was home early— and walking into the kitchen to see his mom on the floor, coughing so hard dribbles of red leak out the sides of her mouth.

The thing in the suit, it’s there. It’s outside the window. Tim’s head started to pound and his vision blurred, but he couldn’t, he /couldn’t/ have an attack, his mom /needed him/. He dropped his backpack on the floor, lurched to the kitchen sink, grabbing pills out of his pocket with a trembling hand and downing two of them. He guzzled straight from the sink tap until he could swallow his medication without choking. When the pills had slid down his throat he threw himself down at his mother’s side and grabbed her shoulders, ask-yelling as much if she was okay, what was going /on/?! His head kept pounding and his mother didn’t say anything back. He grabbed for the house phone on the counter above him. He had to dial 911 three times before he hit all the correct numbers.

Imagine the paramedics arriving at the house ten minutes later and Tim had left the door unlocked so thy come straight in, and Tim was still sitting by his mom on the floor because he didn’t want to leave her. When he looked up it’s one of the people from the hospital, one of the one’s who had to come find him when he ran away into Rosswood, and he physically leaned away from them. They know him too, he can tell from the look on their face, but then they and the others were pushing Tim away into the living room so they could deal with his mom. He could only ask over and over what was happening to her, if she’d be okay.
The paramedics don’t say anything to him as they load her up onto a stretcher and strap a terrifying mask over her nose and mouth and /wheel her out the door/ away from him. The one who’d been at the hospital where he’d stayed looked over at him as they go out the door and tell him, firmly, to stay where he was until another adult came home.

Imagine Tim not being able to form words to explain that there /wasn’t/ anyone else. Imagine the paramedic leaving the door open so Tim had to close it and lock it himself. Imagine Tim sinking to the floor with his head against his knees and shaking, not because of a seizure but because he was crying; everything was his fault. His fault, again.




spooksdontexpressmyjoy  asked:

So I've been going through my likes & I hit one of your posts where you mention a night you had 36 shots. What the fuck, Mera? That could intoxicate a medium-sized horse why would you do that

A medium sized horse…but not a Slav.

(Actually, trying to remember the details, I think it might have been 26 shots, which is more reasonable - although 36 sounds right? In any case, I drank a whole lot.)

Anyway, here is the story called The Night of the 36 Shots, or The Drunkening.

A year or two before we had Obamacare, people like me - who were young and unemployable and vacillating between an abusive household and the streets - were put on really crappy state insurance that was taken by absolutely nobody, including the clinics, and definitely including mental health professionals. It was pretty much only useful if you happened to land yourself in the hospital, and in retrospect, must have been designed solely to bail out the hospitals who are legally obligated to take customers who can’t pay into the ER.

Unfortunately for me, I was having problems with my boyfriend and didn’t feel much love or desire for him, and that was creating new problems, which made the first problem worse. I did not, at the time, understand that the reason why I was emotionally numb and coudn’t feel love for him and or work up the desire to go to bed with him was because he hated me, and I figured that I had clinical depression and needed treatment.

I figured out somehow that if you poked your head into the hospital’s mental health department (or whatever that place was) and charmed the nurses they’d give you some samples of Effexor. So I got on the Effexor, which did nothing, because again, the problem was that my boyfriend hated me. But he was a model and I should have at least been able to get it up for him just biologically and other male feelings?-I-don’t-have-feelings bullshit, so I kept taking it, and fasting and meditating and exercising and whatever else was supposed to help (I did a lot of drinking trying to lower my emotional and sexual inhibitions) and when I ran out of the Effexor I’d head back to the hospital for more.

Eventually an uncharmable battleaxe of a nurse caught wind of this. For whatever reason she went through my intake anyway - or maybe she just started grilling me on my habits, I don’t remember exactly. Eventually we got to the subject of drinking.

Do you drink? “Yeah.”

How often do you drink? “I dunno, almost every night.“ (I didn’t get blind drunk every night, maybe 3-5 nights of the week at the time, but I’d at least have a beer with dinner.)

How much do you need to drink? “To get drunk? Maybe ten or twelve shots or so.” I thought about it a bit then, since I tend to lose count of my shots after they hit the double digits, and of course I wanted to show off a little bit. “But I could probably go up to twenty or thirty.”

(I did not understand at the time that when asked such questions you’re really not supposed to be honest.)

So the nurse got this smug little smile on her face, feeling satisfied that she was finally going to get this good-for-nothing out of her hospital, and told me that if I was going to come here bragging about taking thirty shots every night (”That’s not what I said!”), they couldn’t in good faith give me anything because you’re not supposed to mix medication with liquor.

“Well, what if I say I’m going to kill myself? Won’t you have to check me into the psych ward?”

“You can say whatever you want. We’re not giving you a thing.”

So I left, feeling slighted.

I got ahold of a big bottle of vodka somehow and came across my friend Ilya. I told him about the conversation the nurse and I had had (Ilya told me I was a fucking idiot) and that tonight I was going to have a spite drunk, or a Drunkening. For so long as I was being punished for it, I may as well drink those thirty shots (Ilya told me I was a fucking idiot and that I was going to die).

In any case, I got out my smallest shot glass, and started early in the night so that I would have several hours in which to pace myself. I remember nothing now about the course of that debauch, other than that I managed to hit and successfully pass 30, and that at the time I was still feeling pretty good and decided to continue on. (I remember informing Ilya of this, and he informed me in turn that I was still a fucking idiot and was definitely going to die.)

If you are wondering, I did not die. But when I woke up the next morning, I tried to account for how far I had gone, and came to the conclusion that I had drank, by my calculations, a total of 36 shots.

And in spite of all that, I had no hangover.

capslockdoesntexpressmyjoy reblogged your post and added:

Unsure if this is really relevant but tossing it out there anyway: there’s a game to play in community centres and/or bored college hangouts called ‘mafia’. The rules vary depending on where you learn it but the one I’m in familiar with has, along with the hitman and the doctor and the townspeople and the cop, two players who are designated as lovers. By their function in the game either both of them die in a single turn, or neither of them do.
You guys see where I’m going with this

The only time I’ve played Mafia was at an amandapalmer Kickstarter House Party, and she and I went out on the same round, so it holds a special place in my heart. 


I thouught it’d be funny to look for a Jay cat

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but then of course I had to find a Tim cat
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and a Alex cat
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(Apologies for the giant images)

(these are so perfect and I’m not even sure why)

spooksdontexpressmyjoy  asked:

Hi, this is re-that anon wondering about the "they won't get laid" gif, I've never seen the gif but I'm pretty sure it's from an early part of LOTMS? Gerard's wearing a sweatshirt and reallyy obnoxious white sunglasses and him and Frank (?) are being interviewed in an airport or something, right? I remember him saying that

as i search the dusty catacombs of my ancient mind, this sounds vaguely familiar. 

capslockdoesntexpressmyjoy replied to your post “Did I tell you guys about how at GMX my mom went over to the…”

You did not in fact. x) That is both unfortunate and adorable. Did they say anything??

They just laughed. xD

I think at one point mom mentioned that I had come running in there to the computer past my bedtime on school nights (don’t you love mothers? xD) and Troy was like ‘Oh we aren’t effecting her school performance, right? Like she’s not getting bad grades or anything because of us?’ and I was still amazed (because oh my god they're right there) and embarrassed and flustered and I was like 'Oh nononono I’m fine I’m fine,’ still covering my mouth with my hand and smiling like crazy. 

Mom took it as an opportunity to brag on my grades (mothers.) to the fucking creators of Marble Hornets. xD

spooksdontexpressmyjoy  asked:

'SUP at the risk of being creepy where are you from? I ask b/c of your crying when potato said that at least it'd be better than a plane ticket to have MH guys in California... I too am ridiculously far away, in Manitoba specifically.

omg i dont even live on the same continent ;A; i live in south korea

capslockdoesntexpressmyjoy replied to your post:The best things out of Old Oak Doors A so far: -…

Kitty’s name is Khoshekh! (Which is apparently Russian for ‘cat’!)

I didn’t know it was Russian for cat! I’ve learned two things today, then.

Now if only Spotify would play the second half of Old Oak Doors… I need to know who was on the other side of that door that Cecil was about to answer!