skin-falling-off

6

Kim Jongin looking glorious in a suit

(this is in 540 px i suggest u use a no resizing width script for optimum viewing pleasure to view both 540 and 500 px in ur dash without the blurry pic stress)

do you ever look in the mirror and yell “fuck” really loudly

6

Hello everyone and good evening!

I’m working on my post lab and its been a long time since I used landscape for data charts and graphs. I feel awesome (actually I’m sad and stressed inside but I have to pretend I’m having fun lest I will fail). 

I think I’m a perv. But a perv should not think he is a perv. Like a madman must not think he is mad because that destroys the whole point. 

The tough keratin covers of previously damaged fingers are falling off. My left pointing finger regained its sense of touch. Rejoice. 

visit my actual blog whereareyouleo.blogspot.com

burn unit

I recently was put on new medication that they have to carefully and gradually increase the dosage. If I take too much, too quickly, my doctor said I could develop an allergic reaction, which could turn into a life-threatening skin rash that could result in visits to the ER or Burn Unit…

Last night, the first signs of a rash popped up. All over my face. Call me Blotchy-Red Face. 

This morning, still Blotchy-Red Face, but now I have little red splotches on my arms and chest. I think I might be having a reaction. 

Called the doc, she said to stop taking the meds and to come in and see her ASAP. 

Get ready to visit me in the Burn Unit, friends…I can’t guarantee you’ll be able to recognize me :( 

Why?’ She nods. ‘She had everything: a family who loved her, friends, activities. Her mother wants to know why she threw it all away?’


Why you want to know why? Step into a tanning booth and fry yourself for two or three days. After your skin bubbles and falls off, roll in coarse salt, then put on long underwear woven from spun glass and razor wire. Over that goes your regular clothes, as long as they are tight.
Smoke gunpowder and go to school to jump through hoops, sit up and beg, and roll over on command. Listen to the whispers that curl into your head at night, calling you ugly and fat and stupid and bitch and whore and worst of all ‘A disappointment.’

Puke and starve and cut and drink because you need an anesthetic and it works. For a while. But then the anesthetic turns into poison and by then it’s too late because you are mainlining it now, straight into your soul. It is rotting you and you can’t stop. Look in a mirror and find a ghost. Hear every heartbeat scream that everythingsinglething is wrong with you. ‘Why?’ is the wrong question. Ask ‘Why not?

—  Wintergirls

me: okay i have to give my cat medicine now. he doesn’t like it so sometimes i wrap him in a blanket, but—

grandma: WHY NOT A TOWEL?

me: his claws get hooked in the fabric and it’s bad all around. alright, gray cat, come here—

grandma: DON’T TALK TO HIM

me: okay, i’m gonna unwrap the blanket since he’s hiding in it and i can’t get to his mouth—

grandma: NO, LEAVE IT. I’VE HAD SIX CATS AND SIX DOGS. I’VE SEEN THE VET DO IT.

me: yes, but this is my cat and i know how to get him to take medicine, i’ve been doing this for three weeks—

grandma: STOP SASSING ME

Cosplay Tips and Tricks : A ghoul from Fallout

What you’ll need:

-Plutonium

-Krokodil

-Clothing


Step 1: Inject the Krokodil into yourself, you’ll see why later

Step 2: GET RADIATION POISONING YOU FUCK

Step 3: Put on the clothes you idiot.


Now that you’ve done that stuff, you should have:

-Clothing on so you don’t get arrested

-A fuckton of money like how did you buy the plutonium holy shit

-Your skin falling off to get that classic ghoul look (thanks krokodil)


Have fun!

if u want cheap p good quality piercings go to minkymonkey I just ordered a bunch and they say like gold or silver plated so they won't make ur skin fall off!!

Canada used to be the safest place for a war deserter to go. Now it’s just about the worst destination.

Sometimes Dean Walcott disappears. He’ll be sitting on the sofa, watching his boys play, their shouts and giggles slicing the air, when the scent of blood washes over him and the day goes black.

"All of a sudden, I’m gone," he said quietly. "And I’m on the floor, crying."

Dean’s wife, Vanessa, turned to face him. She studied his eyes and frowned. “I just go and cuddle him,” she said. “Hugging him, rubbing his shoulders, reassuring, pointing at the boys and saying, ‘Look, they’re okay.’ One time I tried to get him to touch them, but he didn’t want to put his hand anywhere near their faces.”

"I was afraid their skin would fall off," Walcott said. "When you’re burned like that, you can lose the skin."

It was a crisp autumn afternoon, and we were in the Walcott living room in Peterborough, Ontario, a small city in eastern Canada. Outside, the banks of the Otonabee River burst with orange sugar maple and crimson staghorn sumac. Inside, the apartment was in shambles. A dozen cats and kittens tumbled across the carpet, mewling and clawing at drapes and cushions, while a plump dog waddled among heaps of clothing and sniffed at plates of crumbs. The Walcotts had bigger worries. Early that morning, Vanessa had been rushed to the hospital with a flare-up of her heart condition; Dean had just gone to pick her up, but as soon as they got home, they realized they didn’t have enough money to buy a birthday cake for their son Drake, who was turning 6 that day. Vanessa spent the next half-hour calling relatives for help, and just as she hung up with her stepfather, the elementary school called to report that their other son, Aidan, had fallen from the jungle gym and smashed the back of his head. Both the Walcott boys have behavioral issues and have to be medicated with anti-psychotic drugs. As if all this weren’t enough, Dean was about to be deported. He had just received a rejection notice from the Canadian immigration office. His application for political asylum was denied, which meant that any day, he might be ordered to the American border, taken into custody by the U.S. military, and prosecuted as a deserter.

More

We watched a video in forensic science about the Body Farm and I’ve spent the entire day thinking about death. What if our body feels everything after death? What if we can feel the skin falling off of our bones and the maggots crawling through the sockets of our eyes? Even if we’re rotting away in a coffin, what if we could feel the absence of air and the strain it puts on our lungs? What if we’re cremated and set free from the attachment of our body but we still feel the air as it blows us into the sea? If we’re settled in a jar in our daughters living room would we feel the pain of each glance she makes in our direction? If you drown at the bottom of the sea how long would you be able to feel your last breathe? If you put a bullet in your brain would your ears ever stop ringing? If you tie a noose around your neck and hang yourself in the foyer of your parents house, do you hear the swaying of your limp body? How differently would we treat the dead if no one really died?

In the shower, I breathe sighs of relief as I feel my skin falling off. I am shedding the day, the miles I walked, the fights I had, the smell of my garlic bagel. But as soon as I step out, the world hits me again. Never do my arms seem heavier than when they are drying my body, preparing it once again for the world.