When the knock falls on his door in the middle of the afternoon, Chowder is so grateful for the distraction from his homework he could cry.
He gets up, opens the door, and smiles–it’s Farmer, and she has a cardboard tray with two carry-out cups from Annie’s in her left hand. Kissing her briefly in greeting, he grabs one of the coffee cups. (It doesn’t matter which he takes, since they both drink it the same way anyway-no cream, two sugars.)
“You just saved my life, Cait,” Chowder informs her, sitting back down in his chair as she sits cross-legged on the bed. “I’m pretty sure another two minutes of staring at this screen and I’d, like, snap. Like those people on the news who are just, you know, postal workers or whatever, but then one day out of nowhere they try to stab a nun or something.”
full offense but it is unbelievably ridiculous to act as if micro-identity labels are coherent in society and act as if people have been historically oppressed because of those labels, not to mention that hardly any of them are functional at all and are way too specific/intimate for comfort like your sexuality should not include that you’re a bottom and only feel attraction on the seventh day of august
Summary: Harry has a diary and he’s been writing about the pen-pal he’s never met in there since he’s been 12 years old. One day he reads his diary out to a room full of strangers and finds that the man with the blue-eyes at the back of the room is a slight distraction.
(Or Harry goes to a public diary reading thing at his local coffee shop and gets more than he bargained for)