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.
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.
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.
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.
Moffat: We don’t know if Sherlock is gay or straight because they never talk about that kind of stuff in the show
ASIP: The restaurant scene (”Do you have a boyfriend?”)
ASIB: Literally everything with Irene like seriously that episode is entirely about repressed emotions (not to mention John counts the number of texts Sherlock receives from Irene and is extremely jealous of her)
HLV: John is jealous of Janine, Sherlock hates Magnussen because he “prays on people’s secrets”, Sherlock restarts his heart for John, John’s wife is an assassin and everything gets super emotional, “Sherlock is actually a girl’s name”
TAB: The whole thing takes place in Sherlock’s gay ass mind, “correct me, doctor”, the shed scene (which I’m willing to bet Moffat wrote), we find out that Sherlock couldn’t say goodbye to John without practically overdosing himself on drugs
TLD: Sherlock gives up everything for John, we find out that both characters were suicidal before they met each other, Mrs Hudson confirms that Sherlock is emotional, “the man we both love”, “posh boy”, John is jealous of Irene again, the hug
TFP: Sherlock and John move back into 221B and start raising a child together
Moffat: Sherlock and John never talk about their emotions or anything so I guess we’ll just never know, sorry guys
Just Tony Stark Things: Failing to use his Engineering Skills™ to stop a desk ornament from spinning- and then going home and creating a brand new fucking element in his basement. In the same afternoon.
I love you. You’re wonderful and fabulous and energized about seeing a cool project on the inter-webs and have finally said “yes! I think I could do that! This is the one that will get me into knitting/crochet” With all the excitement and joy in the world you go to the craft store, grab the coolest looking yarn (in the best color, duh) and the cheapest needles/hook you can find (If if needles are too intimidating, you opt for the knitting loom. It comes in a 3 pack! score!). You follow the instructions as best you can with dreams of your project turning out exactly like the professionally taken photograph. Oh my naive, beautiful newbie yarn bender, you are on a craft high. Head so far in the clouds that you don’t realize what has happened until it’s done. We’ve all been here at some point, no matter how skilled a person is.
My lovelies. Please learn from the mistakes that have already happened. Take the time to learn about gauge and value the materials needed. I am most definitely NOT saying buy the most expensive stuff. I am saying that skien of yarn that is one dollar more will likely make you enjoy the finished product bounties more than the value of one dollar.
Take the top picture. This was most definitely made on a knitting loom. Im personally not a huge advocate of these. They’re great for learning how knitting works. Not great for endless feats of creativity. You’re limited by the size of the loom which limits you to the size of the yarn as well as the size of the object you make. For something that will not ladder (the long horizontal bits between the “V” stitches) you need yarn thick enough to touch the stitch next to it when wrapped around the loom. In the case of the photo, yarn far too thin was used.
The next picture looks like it could be arm knitting. Which was a fad I loved. Can we bring this back instead of those pony tail hats? The larger the needle, in this case your arm, the larger yarn you need. The original appears to have multiple yarns being used. Perhaps our newbie knitter didn’t realize that’s an option? Lesson here: Larger needles, larger yarn. Smaller needles, smaller yarn.
The last picture. This crocheted hippo went through the stretcher! oh no! This is a case of right yarn, wrong size hook. When your needle/hook is larger than your yarn and you put it under tension (in this case, stuffing it) the created fabric will stretch (more-so demonstrated in the first picture). Amigurumi is also hard as shit. The people who do it very well are incredible talented. We should all bow before their prowess. Please don’t try an amigurumi (small figurine knitting/crochet) as your first or even 5th project!
General rule of thumb: if you don’t want holes in your work look for yarn and needle/hook approx same size in diameter.
Alas, you have returned for the craft store. Heading the advice you’ve gotten complimentary yarn and needle/hook. TIME TO START THE CRAFT JUICE!
“but whyyyy?” you whine
Because we must first test the yarn.
“But tests are boooooring” says the yarn.
I agree, talking yarn. Tests are boring and terrible and holy crap tell you if you’re doing something right or wrong. This is useful information to know before creating something beautiful with your HANDS.
Also my dear newbie yarn bender, practice makes a better yarn bender. Resist the urge to pump out something fast. Pinterst lied to you. It’s not going to take 1 hour. It will take at least 3 hours and two trips to the craft store. Accept this now. Knitting/crochet is slow ASF. Accept this now. Or find a different hobby.
So loop on some stitches and knit or crochet your joyous heart out. Then measure it once you get around 5 inches. Count the stitches horizontally and vertically. Then refer to the chart above and make sure everything agrees. Got 12 stitches per 4 inches and using DK (3) yarn? Time to change needles sizes or get your gorgeous self some bulky yarn. Or get yourself some bulky yarn anyhow. Treat yo’self.
i love you newbie yarn benders! Go forth and create and learn
i want lena and kara ruining cadmus’ plans without even realizing
alana-the evil, subpar assistant, the not jess assistant thank you very much- delivers a small, tiny bomb through lena’s mail?
(not enough to kill. lena always manages to scrape by. her mother needs her.
sometimes lena wonders if this is the first time lillian has ever wanted her, only because she’s useful to her now.)
it explodes. right on time.
except lena’s not there.
“what do you mean she wasn’t there?”
“i don’t know, she just slipped out. . oh. she left a note for me.”
“what is it?”
“ma’am, there’s . .hearts? on it? she wrote she was going to catco.”
“hearts? what does that even mean? is it some type of code?”
“i mean, she has been reading more magazines lately. i didn’t realize she liked it that much”
and it just keeps happening. they want to keep it quiet, minimal damages.
can’t send in a hitman while kara’s sprawled out on the couch. can’t when they walk out together late at night. every attempt at lena’s office fails because lena keeps disappearing off to catco. they try at lena’s apartment, the bombs rigged to go off when the door opens.
except, they never do. even though the lights are on and there’s laughter and music, and clearly lena got in somehow but didn’t? use the door?
“there’s another note.” a pause.” it’s from the reporter this time. ms.luthor, there’s hearts on this one too with dinner plans.”
“dammit, they are talking in codes.”
it’s a week later when lillian gets another call, alana’s breath harsh and choppy. “ma’am . . it’s kombucha”
Physiologically, so much muscle, he has to be tolerant to a large extent Taste, smell and sensation (e.g. fizz) all play a factor A whole lotta drink but not a lotta alcohol he would chug it from the jug