Austin: I want to take a selfie with you. Come on. Anita: NOOOOO! Austin, please. I look terrible. I’ve barely slept in two days. My hair’s dirty, my eyes are red, I’m hardly wearing any makeup…. Austin puts his hand on her shoulder. He stares into her eyes and smiles and shakes his head. She closes her mouth. She doesn’t have the energy to argue with him. The sooner they get out of here the quicker she can get to the Pharmacy and get her Valium prescription filled. She even pretends to smile, her arms wrapped around him like they are a normal couple posing in front of a normal scenic attraction. She wonders if she will have any recollection of this day in ten year’s, five years’ time. She asks him for his phone and studies the picture in silence. Anita: I look so old. Oh God. Please delete it, Austin- Austin: You look beautiful. Anita: I look old. Austin: You say that like the two things are mutually exclusive. Anita: Yeah, right. Whatever. Can we go now? I really need to get to the Pharmacy. Austin: Why do you need to go to the Pharmacy? She can’t see the point of lying to him. It’s hard to see the point of anything. Anita: I need to get my Valium prescription filled. I need my fucking Valium, Austin. Austin: Okay. If you’re really sure. Are you really sure, though? She feels the urge to howl rising again in her chest. Austin: Valium may soften the blow of a loss, but it doesn’t change that someone is gone. She steps inside the warmth of his arms and buries her face against his neck. Austin: Sometimes we need to feel pain, Annie. It reminds us we’re alive.
it is day one my dudes, of the carry on countdown. coffee shop au, to-go (two shots). (thats a lie its a one-shot) (but like) (shots??) (HA im hilarious)
Just a couple of bad days at an intersection.
There is both nothing ordinary or extraordinary about working in a coffee shop.
There’s sameness here. Every person that comes sweeping through the door in haste and disarray knows this. A common goal of retrieval, the survival of species, and a breather from a hectic day ahead. Even for five, ten, however many minutes they dwell, there is a sense of communal relief that drowns every patron in warm caffeinated vanilla atmosphere. They sigh once; to expel the stress and look at the day rationally, and then once more; to prepare themselves for a human interaction that deserves to be done well, and they smile as they order; to make the facade of a determined worker, a global citizen, an actively attentive human. The world is watching, Simon, a teacher once told me college, the context being lost on me now. It wants you eager - or at least willing to look like it.
And then, among the peace, there is difference. The diversity of people who file in; loud students all working together to pass midterms and assignments, laughing in stress, the acceptance of success and failure alike; quiet family gatherings out for Sunday brunch or post-sports lunch; couples absolutely infatuated in their own company on first dates (flailing - it’s hard to stare at), encompassed by the feeling of belonging ion such a hectic room. The sounds, the smells, the people who are genuinely happy to come here every morning… If there were a place I loved more, that place would be my home, and I’d return to it far more promptly at the end of a shift.
Good thing, too, that I live upstairs.
So, this is my home. These customers are guests, and the coffee I make is the only offering I could give to will them back. Every cup is my best cup of coffee.
Today is a particularly slow day. I dislike these days a far sight more than busy ones. There’s a bitter grind of thought in my head that blames my presence for this lack of presence. I know, for a fact, that there’s a protest somewhere across town, on top of it being a holiday season (because nothing says Christmas Spirit! like angry pitchforks and political rants and chants). There, like the coffee shop, was community. Angry, progressive, political community. Even if I wasn’t working, I wouldn’t go. Not because I don’t care about the increase of oil drilling and it’s effects on the environment - I don’t belong in that conflict. I belong in the quiet, right now. The few mutters of hesitant customers, the bumble of music that I was slowly turning up as the day went on and the customers became few. This is home - guests or not.
This is when he arrives. Swirling in at the exact point I’m drawing a coffee bean onto a paper cup. The tables are clean, the bench is tidy, and this man is angry - moving swift as a dream, looking staunch as a nightmare. He seems to look outside at something I can’t see, his eyebrows a dip of irritation above equally pissed of eyes (though I’m not sure they need eyebrows to be angry).
“Are you…safe?” I question. Confusion drops like a pin in the quiet space between us.
“Yes, fine, I’m-” He notices the empty café. “What the hell is today?”
“No, I mean…” His coat is spotted with rain. A flutter of hope for more customers, more company, perks my senses. Rain means cancelled plans, cancelled protests. Rain means the need for a better alternative. Rain means customers. He sighs (they all sigh). “Are you open?”
“Yeah,” I answer, and it technically isn’t a lie. Technically, the shop is closing in half and hour. I choose to stop working far later, though. For this guy, though, this distressed beauty in my cafe, I’d be as lenient as possible just make him stay. “All night, if you like. What’s got you rough?”
Clearly, this man has never had a conversation longer than a minute before. He doesn’t trust my words - have I offended you? - and is staring at me darkly below his intimidating (surprisingly well-groomed) eyebrows.
“Just a bad day,” he answers, his tone locked.
This catches his attention. He gesticulates rather passionately at the door. “Right outside my campus! I couldn’t get in!”
This man needs a coffee.
I see to setting up my station and preparing the coffee. “Why didn’t you just walk through them?”
“I-” He stops. He sighs. (He’s about to order). “I couldn’t get in. There we go. Story over. I’ll have a large moccachino to-go, thanks.”
To-go. No worse words could have been said (save for my own, apparently). Deciding that now isn’t the best time to run my mouth on etiquette and why should your bad day be my bad day too? rants, I get to work on his order in utter silence. Something mystical about him in the condensation fogged windows with amber streetlights outside fuzzing through makes him look godly and radiant, dominating over the quaint detail of the corner coffee shop. Even in his faltering moments, he doesn’t look out of place - rather, he makes the place his to rule.
He flicks through his wallet and pulls out a card. Eyebrows frown. No, he’s put it back. It’s this card, now. A desperate search goes on in the corner of my eye as he examines his belongings. No, no, no -
I know what’s happened. I’ve seen it before. Hands dive to pockets, keys go falling to the counter, another - familiar - shaky sigh drawls from the man’s lips.
“Stop, I-” He sounds about ready to cry. Or yell. Or protest. “I don’t have my card, it’s locked in my apartment. Fuck.”
Cry. The man is about to cry. The man in my coffee shop is about to cry, and I’m determined to be the one about to stop it. Despite his attitude, his bristling personality, his deep-etched intensity that simmered through the room and turned ambiance to intimidation, I’m beginning to see cause.
“It’s okay,” I tell him, continuing to make coffee.
“I- no, please, I don’t need your day to be shit because of me. I don’t want to owe you.”
Man, this guy has pride issues. He’s packing up his pockets just as I set a large moccachino down in front of him. To-go. It breaks my spirit a bit, but this is my only offering. The only thing I can do. It takes me a moment to realise that I’ve given him my spare-time-doodling mug. “Don’t worry about it. Sit. Drink. Calm down, you’re having a bad day.”
I make sure to smile. They tell you to smile at distressed customers. He looks at me, clearly quite concerned with the recent proceedings, and rests his hands on the counter. “I can’t ask you to break the rules like that.”
That is a factor. My boss, despite acknowledging that I’m a hard, eager worker (or at least look like it) would kill and fire me if she found out I gave away free coffee. In that order.
I take a few pounds from my tip jar and register the payment.
I push the coffee forward and point to a bar-stool.
We both sit: him with his mocha, me with my thoughts (and half a cuppachino).
“What’s your name?” I ask.
he answer out of hand: “Baz. Why is this man chasing a car?” He points to the cup.
I smile, and he smiles, and we’re smiling stupidly at each other for a good minute. “Interest. Adventure. What’s the plan after your drink?” I query, hoping the answer is nothing so to occupy his time more with this conversation.
To my delight: “I don’t know.” To my despair: “I can’t get home.”
I’ve known that feeling all day, even with customers coming in at sporadic points on stuttering cycles. Yet, with Baz here now, home doesn’t feel too far from here anymore.
He taps. I think it’s a nervous thing. “Crowds freak me out a bit,” he admits. “Childhood trauma and whatnot.”
Whatnot. How precious.
“Plus I was going to get cash out to ride the bus back, but…” I couldn’t even pay for a coffee, I’m not getting cash anytime soon.
My hand edges a little bit closer to his, eyes trained on the door. Excited, tired youths bumble past and consider - for once I plead with universe to turn them away. “I live upstairs, you can crash with me.”
There’s a moment, fleeting, where I hope hope hope he understands that I’m flirting. There’s a moment - fleeting - where I think he does.
Perhaps the reason that Serena didn’t immediately demand that that… thing in her front garden be destroyed at the earliest convenience (AKA, you better be out there with a shovel within the next five minutes or you’re sleeping on the sofa for the next ten years) was the fact that it took five days for her to actually twig on.
I mean, okay, it was a little unusual for a snowman to have a leopard print scarf flowing down over it’s double-D cup cleavage (which Bernie insisted on affectionately patting every time she walked past, Serena noticed) and so maybe the surrounding Shiraz bottles should’ve been a clue but she’s a busy woman, for God’s sake - and entirely too busy to be dilly-dallying around looking for her resemblance in playboy-bunny snowmen.
That wasn’t to say that she was amused (the slight quiver in her lips was a cough, thank you very much, please, thank you) but really, the presence of a second snow-woman on the other side of the garden by the next morning, with straw hair and pebble features gazing sheepishly down at it’s twig arms, saved Bernie at least a month of no sex.
Berenice Griselda Wolfe is an idiot - but she’s her idiot.
(And the I’ll-made-it-up-to-you back-rubs weren’t all that bad, either).
marry me a little- showtunes about good marriages, bad marriages, and proposals
fancy dress - the drowsy chaperone // if momma was married - gypsy // i’ve decided to marry you - a gentleman’s guide to love and murder // the little things you do together - company // the story of lucy and jessie - follies // it takes two - into the woods // marriage - cabaret // daffodils - big fish // the next ten minutes - the last five years // this day/walking by a wedding - if/then // turning into beautiful - murder ballad // sugartime baby - here lies love // days and days - fun home // hemming & hawing - 35mm: a musical exhibition // fable - the light in the piazza // marry me a little - company //
[Having discovered that Tyson never learned how to read, thirteen year old Percy is trying to teach him]
Percy(Writing out the alphabet): So there are twenty six letters, and there’s two ways to write each letter- capital and lowercase. This is a capital A, see?
Tyson(Obedienty copying it down): So there are fifty two, Percy.
Tyson: Instead of twenty six letters. There are really fifty two.
Percy(Surprised): I guess that’s right. How’d you figure that out? Did you add, or multiply, or…?
Tyson(Shrugging): That’s just how many there are, Percy.
Percy: Um, okay then. Listen, this is probably going to take a long time, but don’t worry about it, okay?
Tyson(Helpfully): You can teach me ten letters a day- five big capitals, and five lowercase smalls. After five days I will know them all. Except on the last day I will have to do twelve- six capitals and six smalls.
Percy(Staring at him): How did you-
Tyson: That’s just what it is, Percy.
Percy: It’s good math.
Tyson: I am not stupid, Percy. I know everybody thinks that I am. I just do not like answering their questions.
There will be a day in five years, maybe ten, maybe more but I have to believe it will come, when everything makes sense. All the things I convinced myself mattered won’t. Things won’t always be perfect, but I won’t feel like I’m falling and failing. Sometimes I’ll be happy.
if there is one thing i’ve learned from the past nine years i’ve
been in school, it’s that organization is hard, but organization is key. sure,
you might think ‘why should i spent ten minutes a day cleaning crap up?’ but
those five to ten minutes each night will pay off when you’re in a hurry and need
to find something urgently.
so in this small masterpost, i’m going to give you a few
tips + show you how i organize my backpack!
get a nice, comfy backpack (here’s some good ones) [x] [x]
sometimes teaches ask for a specific notebook for their
class, that’s okay, follow their rules
the biggest tip i can give you is do not ever shove random
papers in your bag. take the time to pull a folder or binder out and place them
inside. do not use the ‘i’ll organize later’ excuse.
organizing isn’t something i can explain with links to amazon
and a shiny, ‘do this and you’ll get it right!’ motivation speech. organizing is
something you have to do on your own, but it is so simple and easy that you’ll
fall straight into the habit of it. so here i am, telling you that i believe in you and you can do it!!
Mac keeps texting Dennis to check in even after Dennis goes to North Dakota. Dennis never replies, but he leaves his read receipt on so Mac knows that Dennis sees the messages. Now, anyone else might view blatantly seeing a message and not responding as a slap in the face but Mac being Mac and knowing Dennis sees this as an open line of communication. The messages drop off after a while from fifteen times a day to ten to five to one, but Mac, without fail, texts Dennis at least once a day and Dennis, without fail, reads them. Sometimes Mac sends pictures: of the bar, of the gang, of the apartment, of himself. Every once in a while – usually late at night when Mac’s exhausted and just staring at his phone like that’ll change things – Mac swears he sees the little grey dots like Dennis is typing back but they never last long enough for Mac to be totally sure it’s not just his imagination.
Eventually, Mac gets his first boyfriend. Then his second. The gang moves on to grander schemes and even Dee doesn’t talk about Dennis anymore.
I couldn’t decide which I loved most. I give @kittensplaypenshop a ten out of ten because, not only is my order here five days early when I changed the address last minute lol but the faux fur is absolutely luxurious. I love my custom “Desert” tail and ear set so much ♡ Its entirely correct down to the shade of blue of the bow ♡♡♡
Hey! Are you still doing Saturday night prompts every Saturday? I've not seen the post as often as before.
I hope you don’t mind me answering this public, but it’s probably a good note for everyone, as others may have also noticed the lack of prompts posts.
The reason as to why I’m not writing/posting nearly as much is that I started a full-time job in mid-February, which therefore eats up about ten of my waking hours five days a week between actual work and commuting. It’s a satisfying job, doing light assembly for the automotive industry in a supplier’s warehouse. I sneezed while on the line and if I hadn’t aimed into my elbow then one of my boogers would have been in someone’s future new car. ANYHOW, I really like the company and the people and work involved, so even though I come home exhausted and all sorts of sore, I have very little reason to quit (especially considering the pay’s better, which isn’t saying much since my net gain was $0 before).
That being said, I am still writing when I can, whether it be before/after work or when it’s a bit of the weekend not occupied with my boyfriend, and I will have prompt posts in the future… just not nearly as often as before due to an inability to fill them at the previous rate. Just please understand that I also have to pay the bills, hence the job and stuff. Things are not abandoned!
So, until I can work my way up and get a desk job that’s not so energy-draining…
Hey some advice for the last anon with piercing issues. It probably wont be a keloid since those are more serious and rarely happen. Its most likely hypertrophic scarring which is much more common. The best way to heal those would be warm sea salt soaks. With this method you soak your piercing in a warm salt mixture. The appropriate ratio for the mixture is ¼ a teaspoon of seasalt in 8oz or 1 cup of water. For this method you would do one to two soaks a day for five to ten minutes.
I measure my time in lock up in various units. Seven years. Two thousand five hundred and fifty five days. Sixty one thousand three hundred and ten hours and god only knows how many minutes. I’ve had four different cell mates, two were floated on their eighteenth birthdays and one actually requested to be transferred to solitary because apparently rooming with me really is that unbearable. The fourth and last was Octavia Blake, without her I probably wouldn’t have made it to seventeen. Years of age that is.
We’re very alike, O and I. Both named after the family members of Roman Emperors and both of us imprisoned for something we had absolutely no control over - being born. Octavia was an accident, I was a calculated risk. My dads always wanted a child of their own, but not even on our space station in the fucking stratosphere is it possible for two men to conceive a child together, no matter how much they love one another. Their friend Elena, my real mom I guess, offered to have me so that they could finally start a family of their own. But Elena already had a son, officially making me an illegitimate second child - strictly forbidden on the Ark. I watched my dads and Elena get floated simply because I existed and then I was designated a prisoner number and thrown into this cell.
I only have eleven days left. Two hundred and sixty four hours until I turn eighteen and the council decide whether or not I deserve to be floated for my crimes. I’m still praying for a miracle, some sort of divine intervention that saves my life. Octavia’s brother told me once that my surname means ‘lucky’ - I don’t feel so lucky.