i pretend not to care

Riverdale Photo Crackcap Preview 114 - Gotta Walk Vegas!!

Since y’all are so sulky, I’m gonna cheer you up. Pics taken from @bugheader hope that’s cool!

Wait…in the comics I heard (cause I no read) Jughead’s the zombie…..oh well, yeah, I am already pretty wooden and vacuous, so fine….”brainssss….must have brains…”

It’s so funny that you’re dad’s in a coma!! Also, tell me more about how you think that gross Poor came and shot him? Do you think he’s working for my dad, now too? Can we have chemistry-free sex again later?

Of course, Vermin, every time I sell my soul, it’s inevitably for your blowjobs….tell me more about you Mont Blanc pen, please? Cause I don’t actually know or care what that is, but I can pretend you’re Betty while you prattle.

You are my man, Archiekins!!! Oh those sweet, sweet words that relegate me to sloppy seconds!!! Be still my shallow heart!

Yes, let’s enjoy this view and our tender moment, before Vegas starts trying to, literally, eat you pants…..cause blood = yummy!! I’ve been taking Vampire lessons from Shadryl. It’s why I didn’t want her dead. Or undead…

Yepppp…..just an amazing daaayyyy….if I pretend to be Betty/care about Curious George can I whine about my dad, the big ol’ drug lord??? Or my new sleeveless in winter outfit? I mean, you know I’m like sorta sorry about your dad, right? Even if my mom arranged it? And I know the Poors are innocent?

No, Vermin, a man must draw the line somewhere…..we will NOT discuss your pearls…plus, Vegas just chewed my leg off..And I’m chilly, cause the blood isn’t dry yet and is freezing over. Time to go to Pop’s for shakes and o’rings!!!

4

Them boys and their girl~ *:・゚✧

if ur cis dont fucking tell trans people they’re pretending to be trans. i dont care if you’re not straight. the trans intracommunity discussion on dysphoria is not for you to fucking touch.

love is in the air

  • me: incest pairings make me deeply uncomfortable for the obvious reasons and reasons i'd rather not discuss
  • some clown for whatever goddamn reason: well you're wrong, actually, and here is my 50 page report detailing how and why you are wrong, for thinking that and feeling this way, and how you are actually the horrible person here, for saying that. just so you know

And then I realised how easy it is for someone to pretend that they care; how easy it is for them to distract you with kindness just long enough to stab you in the back and escape before you realise you’ve been well and truly fucked.

Anyone can pretend to be concerned about your sleeping patterns and anyone can ask about your dreams. You need to stop falling for words and start falling for actions before it’s too late. Before the knives build up and the pain builds up and everything becomes fucking unbearable and you end up on the floor surrounded by the regrets caused by boys who never even
Gave
A
Fuck.

4

I can’t tell you how touched I am by your concern for my welfare.

you know, even tho all the raphael/izzy scenes made me really uncomfortable i could somehow deal w it only if ! they would consciously show us how unhealthy is this relationship, or have a good reason to show us like be a part of a bigger picture. but im so utterly disgusted that the producers think that any of those scene were even a tiny bit romantic. no. there is nothing nice about how izzy dragged raphael into this whole mess, how he manipulated him, there is nothing lovely about how much they got deep into this addiction that manipulated both of their minds with feelings that are not real….. i could throw up just thinking about how much they romantize this relationship, isabelle lightwood and raphael santiago deserved better

i. domesticity

I drink milk every day because my doctor says I need it to grow. Kind of like I need this calcium rush in order to make my bones stronger so I stop cracking them so easily. Preventing them from ever reverting to the weak, knobbly knees of last summer when a boy I had a crush on. Had a crush on, crushed me. Like a pulp. Into grains. Like a spoon grinding up soggy cereal swimming at the bottom of a bowl. I wake up in the middle of the night, remembering I didn’t drink 3 glasses today, and run to the refrigerator in my socks and chug it straight from the gallon, barbaric and yearning like a schoolgirl hitching her skirt up too high, and picture the white flowing through my veins. Softening me. Rounding me out. Giving me curves. I get a brain freeze instead and pray I’ll stop crying over spills and that I can sleep with this cold lurching in my stomach.

ii. vicinity

Maybe one day my hair will stop being so limp in the heat, but I don’t think that kind of thing can be anticipated, so I just have to wait. Girls like me live in the back of an un-air-conditioned convenience store, ratty sweatpants, tight tank tops, and crawl out with week-old receipts bursting from their pockets. Like glued ribcage kind of girls, like elastic hair tie, red marks around the wrist kind of girls. The cashier doesn’t mind when I snag a magazine from the rack and browse through it without paying because no matter how hard I try, I end up looking pre-pubescent anyway. And they let things slide. For a girl like me, at least. I’m saying, lopsided bun, wide eyes, a mouthful of crooked teeth, stars pulling them into their places, I was always too scared to get braces. The cover has some headline about how to enlarge your breasts naturally, which I think might be useful, and another about how to communicate effectively with others without saying hurtful things, which makes me laugh. I flip to the back to check my horoscope and eat that prophetic, adolescent shit catered to the teenage soul up like Eucharist laid under the tongue. Swallow down a spoonful of March’s: “Prepare to face some stress this month, but that’s okay! You’ll be able to get through it and find time to relax.” I want to rip out the page and shove it into my bra, like keeping these soft, meaningless words close to my chest will make them seep into my heart and change me. Stop making me think so much, fill my brain up with Arizona tea and static instead. But I’m cheap, and I shove the magazine back. I think my chest will stay flat forever.

iii. mobilization

I seek healing. Mending. I’m fingernails deep, sitting in the back of a subway at 3 a.m., pressing crescent moons into the leather seat, trying to dig up salvation. You can’t find that here, you can’t find that in the cracks between the tiles, you can’t find comfort in the ground up cigarette butt stamped into the floor. I’m wishing against this fogged up glass I could say anything, anything that would make sense for once, so someone could help me. Like please, my mind is bending in backwards, like please, I don’t think this underdeveloped chest can take any more of this resentment or it’s going to explode through my ribcage, out of my flesh, like please, I don’t want to hurt anymore. And it’s not my fault that I launch myself around like I’m in some sick little competition, pretending I don’t care, like I’m having the time of my life. Of course I’m not, of course I’m not, I don’t think having your hands shake and your brain go fuzzy whenever you think a little too much is fun, something to be documented for the world to see. I guess I’m different from other people that way, I’d rather people think I’m having a good time than actually have one without anyone knowing. I wish I knew how to sew, so I could stitch up my fibrillating heart, no matter how sloppy and crooked, but the needle jabs my finger as the subway lurches left, and I bleed, I bleed, I bleed.

iv. unearthliness

My mom told me not to walk naked in front of the altar. Disrespectful, she called it, and even though I agree, sometimes I test my divinity and emerge from the bathroom, the steam from the shower wafting off smoke like the incense in its pot. Young god, skin tinted green from fake gold. Young god, empty stomach, fruit scooped out of its rind, leaving me seedless. This hatred has roots, and I don’t know whether I want to dig out my insides with my hands or fill myself up until I’m close to bursting. I let people think the scratches on my knees are from a night of alcohol and a boy tugging my hair. Of course, it’s that and not child worship on a scratchy rug, not begging for forgiveness, not praying for glamour and glory, not hoping for. Of course it’s not hoping for something better.

—  this pain lasts in every location