milk bowl

the other night i tried to make a curry and i got chilli burns all over my face, so i thought to myself ‘hang on, doesn’t milk soothe chilli burns? it does’ and i couldn’t google because i couldn’t see so i just had to blindly feel my way to the fridge and pour out a bowl of milk, and then plant my face in the bowl of milk, anyway at that point the rice cooker went off and triggered a power surge which turned my electricity off, which i didn’t notice at first because i had my face in a bowl of milk and when i did emerge from the dairy prison i thought i had gone blind with chilli burns. so no i don’t really cook much.

I tend to chew the inside of my bottom lip when I’m nervous or anxious. Right about now, it’s raw, almost numb, if that’s gives you a clue about how I’m feeling.

This morning when I woke up, I made oatmeal & let it sit until it was too thick & sticky to pick up with a spoon. I poured some milk in the bowl, watched the white trickle through the hills & mounds of oats, and had flashbacks of you biting your lip. That’s the face you’d make before you’d pull out & come on the sheets, my back or my stomach; like I was some porn star; like you didn’t caress my face a half hour earlier and tell me I “got the kind of beauty needs to be felt.” You remember how I reacted the first time you did that? Me neither, it’s fine.

I knew I had fucked up when you did that because you never asked if it was okay or cool; you assumed. Like I assumed that you really cared about me; that you were capable of loving. But that’s neither here nor there.

Somewhere between there and here though, I was late. Somewhere between my house & the drugstore, I realized that I was alone. Somewhere between my heart & my head, I decided that a baby isn’t something I needed or something that you’d want. Somewhere between my front door & the clinic my eyes started pouring and so did the sky.

This isn’t even for you. This is for me. Even if it was for you, you wouldn’t get it. By get it, I mean both understand and receive it.

I don’t want you thinking that you mean anything to me; because you shouldn’t even have to think about that. You could call now and I know I’d pick up desperately like you had something I need; because in actuality you do. I’m not exactly sure when you took it or if I gave it to you, but I know you have it. Picked it up right around the time you picked your boxers up off your bedroom floor and asked me how I was getting home. I could never make a home out of you, because men like you don’t have good foundations or sturdy walls. Your roofs leak and I’ve never been good with my hands. Any levelheaded girl would know that you needed more than just a fresh coat of paint.

I used to blame your father for leaving your mother, then your mother for leaving you be, then myself for not blaming you. But in life, you make choices. You chose to let your scars cut you again and again; to let the pain in; to let it stay. You chose to suffer.

I chose me.

The medical assistant told me it’s okay to have second thoughts. She doesn’t know this is the third clinic I’ve been to in four days. It’s not a question of whether or not I can do it. It’s a question of whether or not I want it to happen. When it does, we’re really over & I’m not sure if I’m okay with that. I’m not sure I’m even okay at all.

A smart girl would have left. She wouldn’t have had a reason to leave because she wouldn’t have come in. She wouldn’t have stay long enough to see the way you throw your head back in laughter whenever your niece dances, how your eyes squint when you smile too hard, how you crack your knuckles when you’re uncomfortable, how you breath deeply when you have to think of lie. She wouldn’t have seen you flinch the first time she reached out to touch you while you laid in bed staring into the darkness.

It’s hard to pinpoint the moment I realized I loved you. It wasn’t easy for me to admit it to myself; loving someone who proclaimed themselves incapable of love. We’d lay together, legs intertwined in a comfortable silence with your phone plugged into one of your homeboys portable speakers playing some R&B playlist you found & you’d say “you know I can’t give you what you want right? It’s what you deserve, but I just don’t think you’re gonna find it here.” What I wanted was for you to shut up.

Truthfully, I don’t regret loving you. It taught me patience & strength. Those are virtues I’m sure will be useful sometime in the future, when a child that isn’t ours won’t stop crying at 4 in the morning & I have to be up at 6.

I heard somewhere that true love is giving without the expectation of receiving. I never believed in that until you. That kind of love can’t be true though. It’s destructive, malicious even, & leaves you with a hollow chest that no amount of deep breathing can fill. The thing is, people don’t realize that you can only give what is being taken. You took my love. Honestly, if I was you, I would have to. You made me understand why hate & love are so often mistaken for each other.

You used to say I was stupid over you and I’d blush, shove you playfully, and tell you “stahpppp it” like it was a compliment; not knowing that I’d just confirmed everything you just said. It was stupid of me to think I could teach you how to love when you gave me no indication that you even wanted to learn. Stupid of me to think that I’d be the one to change you, when no one has ever changed on the basis of someone else wanting them to.

I used to go to your house when you weren’t around & sit with your mother at the kitchen table with the four mismatched chairs, hoping she’d break & tell me what I needed to do to make you love me. No one knows you better than your mother…..isn’t that what they say? I’d tell her about our arguments, things you’d said just to hurt me; to make me leave & she’d file her nails or busy herself with making some coffee. She’d clear her throat or suck her teeth, like something was stuck between them; like the truth. One day after filing her nails until perfectly round, pouring three cups of coffee and letting them sit until they were cold, she turned around to face me while leaning against the kitchen counter & folded her arms. “You know it’s true what they say…that books can’t teach you everything.” she said, looking at the floor. She looked up at me and continued “Because if they could, you’d be smart enough to see that my son doesn’t deserve a girl like you. Hell, I’m his mother and I love him, with all of me I do, but I know he’s never gonna be the man I want him to be….the kind of man you deserve. Why are you still here? You’re always here. He’s knows you’re here & he’s not even here! Doesn’t that tell you something?” She let out one of those laughs, the kind you let out when you’re convinced that what’s happening can’t be real; that it has to be a joke in order for it to make sense. I didn’t have an answer for her. Instead I moved my foot back & forth across the corner of one of the linoleum tiles on the kitchen floor that had started to lift. It made this low scraping sound that I pretended I didn’t hear. “These floors ain’t no good.” she said after realizing where the sound was coming from; “I swear any day it’ll give way right where you’re sitting.” and all of a sudden my foot stop moving because I know she wasn’t talking about the floor anymore; you remember what I said about foundations.

The chairs in the waiting room are cold & the plastic on them grabs on to your legs like it knows your secrets; what you did. I decided to stand after about 10 minutes of sitting. Nobody in the room wanted to be there. You could feel it. The receptionist kept checking the clock, then counting the people waiting with these sweeping head nods that scan the room. The medical assistant would walk in from the back of the office & sigh before calling the name of the next patient. One of the girls looked like she could be your cousin but that’s unlikely; your aunt had her on the pill as soon as she turned 15. “Listen you gotta take precaution with these young girls. I’m too young to have a grandchild & so was my mother when I had her.” I overheard her say one day when you left me in your bedroom to take a shower. It was summer time and we had just finished fucking. My skin was sticky and you’d just pushed me off of you to go shower. I turned over & laid there, letting anxiety set in. You came back in, still wet around the shoulders with the towel gripping your waist, & told me I should go home with your back to me. You were looking in the mirror brushing your hair toward your forehead. I went to the bathroom before I left; ran the water for a couple of seconds, cupped it in my hand and slushed it around my mouth, listening to it crash against my teeth and swollen bottom lip. You & blood never tasted good together.

You gotta understand that I never understood you. Now I know that it’s because there was nothing to figure out; to understand. Sometimes it’s easier to think someone is hiding some part of themselves from us; that we can get to that part if we stay long enough. In reality, it’s our own secrets & insecurities that make us believe that everyone must have them; that no one is truly transparent about their feelings. You were. When you said you couldn’t give me what I want, it wasn’t because you didn’t think you could. It was because you didn’t want to. In all honesty, I wish I could be like you; walking the earth needing & wanting for no one. Your mother told me you said you stopped saying “I love you too” when you realized that you were just saying it as a response & not because you meant it. It was never just a response for me.

They ask you if you want to see the embryo before you have the abortion. How stupid is that? Why would I want to see what I’m about to kill? So I can hate myself more? So I can think about not going through with it? Whatever the reason is, I declined the offer. It’s bad enough I dreamt about the baby ever by night. I imagined it’s face every day while I washed the dishes with my mother sitting at the kitchen table behind me, half watching/half staring at the news on the tv in the living room. “Why are you so quiet lately? You barely laugh when your brother tells those corny jokes you love so much.” she said once while she was waiting for the microwave to finish heating up her leftovers from the night before. I brushed her off, telling her I’ve just been thinking about “life”; you know like how mine would end if I told her I was pregnant.

She would have my eyes but your eyelashes because mine never curled up to the sun the way yours did. He would have your long legs but my muscles because you could never lift anything. She would have my shoulders because they’re the kind you can lean on. He would have your smile because it’s the kind that’s contagious. She would have my tenacity but your honesty because that’ll take her far, I think. He would have your curiosity, but my precaution. Then again that never helped me with you, so perhaps not. She would have my determination. He would have your arms but my hands because I can touch things and people without breaking them.

After they finished they asked me the obligatory “How are you feeling?”. I said I didn’t know because I honestly couldn’t feel anything. Physically, I felt the same as I did the day you didn’t pull out in time. I remember you breathing heavy, whispering “Ughh Shit!!” into the crook of my neck where your head always ended up. “My bad.”, you said after you’d caught your breath and for the first time I pushed you off of me, because it wasn’t your bad; it had never been your bad. It was always mine.

The Hogwarts School Counselor

The Hogwarts school counselor is a witch named Aesclepia Jones. It’s hard to say just how long she’s been the counselor; she’s looked to be somewhere ambiguously in her 20s since before Dumbledore was a student. (This is a source of idle discussion among students who use her services. Some of the more observant Ravenclaws have noted that there is no metal in her office and that she sometimes forgets to pick up her wand before casting a spell. That could mean anything, of course.) Her partner Madam Pomfrey likely knows the secret to her longevity, but has never told. (Rumors say she leaves a bowl of milk out any time Miss Jones comes to visit, but in fact it’s for their other partner, Minerva McGonagall.)

Still, Miss Jones always keeps up with the latest in psychology techniques both magical and mundane. Every month, a few owls fly into her office with new journals of psychology, and a few years ago a harpy eagle arrived with a copy of the DSM-5. She is also a regular contributor to the JWP (the Journal of Wizarding Psychology) and has pioneered a number of widely-used techniques such as pensieve therapy for PTSD and charms to change serotonin and dopamine levels.

This is because, despite everything, wizards are still human, and they still suffer the same mental tribulations as muggles. And while Madam Pomfrey can set ten bones with one charm, there is no magical cure for anxiety, and no spell can replace therapy.

Miss Jones knows this very well, and she knows that wizards resist any implication of humanity. This is why every headmaster she’s served under (save the brief tenure of headmaster Snape) has given her the authority to design and demand special accommodations for students who need them, be they legilimantic quills that write what the user thinks or modified time turners that slow time down to give the student extra time for tests.

She uses the modified time turners also to fit in dozens of sessions every day and squeeze them into the schedules of overachievers, because she is committed to seeing every student who wants to see her. Her clients are mostly Ravenclaws who think until their edges are fraying and Hufflepuffs who feel until their souls are heavy.

She sees few Slytherins and Gryffindors, as both houses have a tendency of being too proud to ask for help. Those she does see, however, are the ones who need it most: some of her favorite clients were Remus Lupin, who hated himself more than his friends loved him; Hermione Granger, who needed to hear it was okay to relax and to rebel; Neville Longbottom, who learned to accept his fear and his strength; and Draco Malfoy, who realized how much he needed someone to talk to after his “hippogryff injury” - and who stopped attending sessions in his sixth year when his secrets became too sharp to share. Those houses are also the sources of her final disagreement with Dumbledore: that he refused to allow Severus Snape or Harry Potter to attend her sessions, for the sake of his grand plans.

Slytherin also holds her greatest regret: that Tom Riddle never walked through her door. She wonders how much pain and death she could have prevented if she’d sought him out. But just as much, she knows how much good she’s done by keeping her door open for those who need her, day in and day out.

  • Gray: Putting milk in the bowl first is divorce worthy.
  • Natsu: “Or wetting your toothbrush BEFORE putting toothpaste on.” Wow, excuse you, maybe I like to soften the bristles first.
  • Gajeel: Who the fuck doesn’t wet their toothbrush before putting toothpaste on?
  • Laxus: Who the fuck does?
  • Gajeel: I the fuck do.
  • Laxus: What the fuck, man?
  • Gajeel: Fuck you!
  • Erza: This is how the civil wars are started.

There’s some knowledge needed before you read this story. I sleep walk. A LOT. It’s not uncommon for me to get up, start talking a full conversation to someone, and not be awake. Now this is not necessarily a dream, but a few weeks ago, I woke up at my desk with a freshly made bowl of rice crispies sitting in front of me. Keep in mind, this was at 4 am on a Saturday. In my sleep, I had apparently gotten up, made a bowl of cereal (milk, rice crispies, bowl and spoon and all) and sat down at my desk and waited to wake up. I don’t know what the fuck I was dreaming but it must have been wild.

Side note: yes i ate the bowl of cereal. Not gonna waste a gift from sleeping me.

  • Yamaguchi: Putting milk in the bowl first is divorce worthy.
  • Hinata: “Or wetting your toothbrush BEFORE putting toothpaste on.” Wow, excuse you, maybe I like to soften the bristles first.
  • Tsukishima: Who the fuck doesn’t wet their toothbrush before putting toothpaste on?
  • Kageyama: Who the fuck does?
  • Tsukishima: I the fuck do.
  • Kageyama: What the actual fuck?
  • Tsukishima: Fuck you.
  • Yachi: This is how civil wars are started.
  • Gokudera: Putting milk in the bowl first is divorce worthy.
  • Tsuna: “Or wetting your toothbrush BEFORE putting toothpaste on.” Wow, excuse you, maybe I like to soften the bristles first.
  • Hibari: Who the fuck doesn’t wet their toothbrush before putting toothpaste on?
  • Mukuro: Who the fuck does?
  • Hibari: I the fuck do.
  • Mukuro: What the fuck, man?
  • Hibari: Fuck you.
  • Chrome: This is how the civil wars are started.
  • I.M: the other night i tried to make a curry and i got chilli burns all over my face, so i thought to myself ‘hang on, doesn’t milk soothe chilli burns? it does’ and i couldn’t google because i couldn’t see so i just had to blindly feel my way to the fridge and pour out a bowl of milk, and then plant my face in the bowl of milk, anyway at that point the rice cooker went off and triggered a power surge which turned my electricity off, which i didn’t notice at first because i had my face in a bowl of milk and when i did emerge from the dairy prison i thought i had gone blind with chilli burns.
  • I.M: so no i don’t really cook much.
Imagine Sam and Dean finding your daughter trying to make breakfast

Dean stopped short as he walked towards the kitchen, stopping himself from laughing so as not to alert his niece to his presence.

Sam frowned as he saw his brother, standing in the kitchen doorway, a stupid smile on his face.


Dean turned to him, holding a finger to his lips.

Sam walked closer, grinning when he noticed what Dean was looking at.

Katie was standing on a stool at the kitchen counter, trying to peel a banana.

In front of her was a bowl of milk and muesli, a little spilled over the edge.

Katie huffed in annoyance, unable to peel the banana on her own.

“What’re you doing, kiddo?” Sam asked, causing her to jump, her foot twisting on the stool.

Dean moved quickly, swooping in and picking her up before she had a chance to fall.

“Tha’ was scerry,” she laughed breathlessly as Dean sat her down on the counter.

“What’re you doing in here?” Dean asked her, as she handed him the banana. 

“Makin’ breakfast for Mommy,” she explained, looking down at the bowl. “Din’t mean to spill.”

Sam looked at his brother, seeing Dean trying not to laugh as he peeled the fruit and cut pieces into the bowl.

A grin crossed Sam’s face as he let out a small huff of laughter.

He leaned down, kissing Katie’s cheek as he picked her up onto his hip.

“Let’s give Mommy her breakfast, yeah?” he suggested, causing her to grin.

Dean handed Katie the bowl and a spoon, finally letting himself laugh as Sam carried his daughter out of the room.

Daddy!Sam ‘verse