faded overalls



tbh I’m v mad about this update. just ughh my phone and lighting wasn’t working with me so all the photos are faded and blurry. and overall it seems so messy ugh i’m seriously thinking of replacing the pictures if i can get better shots later i’m lazy af so that change is 0.5% lmao. ugh… i just.. wish i could get a proper scanner or smth

Part 25

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static on the line, i hear it all the time

my current favorite songs, not in the sense that they are actually my favorites but I am listening to them over and over and over while I do other stuff, are all songs from the Tragic Treasury, written loosely about A Series of Unfortunate Events

A lot of the songs I found to be kinda meh, but I really like Scream and Run Away, In the Reptile Room, and This Abyss. (I also kinda like A Million Mushrooms but think I am not going to listen to it much once my Interest fades more?) Overall, I think my favorite of these is probably In the Reptile Room, but right now it’s really really This Abyss which feels like breathing glitter or sand or something (in a good way). In the Reptile Room and This Abyss are pretty


Addicted Series Characters Aesthetics: Willow Moore and Garrison Abbey

“Garrison and Willow would seemingly never be friends. She’s sitting inside with faded overalls, a blue shirt with bat-prints, and glasses crooked on her nose. She’s introverted and bookish. He’s rebellious and outcast. Their unique interests may not align, but something in the core of their hearts does—and that makes the difference..” 


Using dishwater to keep his late wife’s favorite roses alive

Text by Diana Marcum

Photos by Robert Gauthier

We were driving north through Butte County when Rob saw an inflatable swan in a fire lane.

The car slowed. “You shooting?” I asked.

“Heck, yeah.”

I looked past the swan, a vinyl dinosaur, a Loch Ness monster and a blue-painted driveway. Across the street, an older man in faded overalls and a pith helmet was watering a border of roses with a garden hose. No inflatables in sight.

“Hell of a time keeping them alive with water restrictions,” said Ronald Bretherton, 85, his accent tipping off his Australian roots.

“But I’m not in jail yet, so I must not be abusing. We’re all going to have to do something to get us through this drought. ”

Once again, someone had brought up drought without me mentioning it. I’d barely said hello.

“When my wife was alive, we were growing the roses from bare roots,” he told me.

His wife Margaret’s favorite was a deeply perfumed red-and-gold rose called Double Delight. It smelled like fruit and sugar.

Ronald said he’d always liked roses because “it’s important to give women something pretty.”

He had dug the moats around the bushes a little deeper. He’d been carrying out his used dishwater to give them a soaking.

“Long as it’s not too soapy,” he said.

Today, he admitted, he had the hose trickling on a hot “non-watering”  day.

“Roses do love water,” he said. “But with just a little tiny bit, each day, I can pull them through.”


                                  ———————-  i stand there, feeling broken and small, thousands of eyes trained on me. there’s a long pause. then, from somewhere in the crowd, someone whistles rue’s four-note mocking-jay tune. the one that signaled the end of the workday in the orchards. the one that meant safety in the arena. by the end of the tune, i have found the whistler, a wizened old man in a faded red shirt and overalls. his eyes meet mine