hey, yes, i’m talking to you. i know you’re probably scrolling right now but this post wont take too long to read.
i just wanted to give you a quick reminder that you’re beautiful. yes, i know what you’re thinking, wow what an idiot they cant even see me, but that isn’t the case.
regardless of your looks, how long your hair is, how white your teeth are, how skinny you are, how tall you are, the colour of your skin, how big your butt is, you are beautiful. because you’ve made it this far. you have gotten through every fucking day in this shitty universe, and you are here right now, looking at this post. you have survived heartbreak, sadness, loneliness, trauma, and just all the general ups and down of life, and you are alive right now to tell the tale of it. you’ve pushed on through everything.
sometimes it doesn’t seem like it’s worth it, like you’re worth it, but you are. one day, that’ll make sense. you’ll be sitting somewhere nice, watching something, maybe someone, and you’ll remember all of the things you had to get through, and it’ll all make sense.
congratulate yourself on getting this far. it’s a big thing, yet you’ve done it. if you ever feel like you aren’t worth it, i want you to know that it’s all going to be okay. you impact so many people’s lives, and you are some people’s entire worlds. people love you, they look up to you, they admire you. don’t give anyone the ‘life would go on without me’ excuse, because you know it wouldn’t. no one recovers from that.
you, my friend, are beautiful. dont you dare ever forget it.
Yuuri has a picture of Victor and him as his lockscreen and wallpaper, maybe from their day at the beach or a picture someone took during their pair skate or a picture from practice where they are both sweaty and laughing and so in love.
But Victor has (two different) pictures of just Yuuri and he changes them a lot (because he takes a lot of pictures of Yuuri and would like to use them as a wallpaper all at the same time), and every time he opens his phone he just forgets what he was about to do and stares at the picture for a full five minutes, marvelling at the beauty of his husband.
And one time, Yuuri uses Victor’s phone because his own is dead (when Victor is still in the shower or sth bc you know The Hair) and Victor’s lockscreen is a picture Yuuri didn’t even know existed of him looking out over the city lights of Saint-Petersburg with a small smile around his lips while he’s absentmindedly patting Makkachin, and his heart just swells until he can hardly breathe, and he figures out how to make your phone switch wallpapers every time you open them and takes a bunch of selfies where he blows kisses and makes funny faces and just smiles, but he leaves the lockscreen the way it is. And now every time Victor opens his phone, his heart stops beating for a moment and whenever one of the pictures appear Yuuri took, he immediately calls him if he’s not around to tell him how much he loves him and asks him to get married again.
I couldn’t really think of one picture to fully capture my thoughts on the concept of soulmates, so instead I busted my butt and made this beast (I definitely did not need to colour it but oh well)
Anyway this soulmate AU is something like “some people have marks on their skin for their soulmates and those who don’t are believed not to have one”, but also it’s the idea that soulmates isn’t something that just comes to you because you wait, but a joint effort between two people who chose to make it work
Sorry for the long comic gosh I did not know it will end up this long
i love ur fusion art!!!! if u have time/want to you should do a bakushima fusion
You’re not the only one that asked, but actually I already did draw it! It’s the first one I’ve drawn haha I felt like drawing it again tho, so here’s a doodled comic of the first time they fused accidentally ✌️
especially when it’s so ‘normal’ and expected for girls to be naturally close and intimate in just a friendship.
like, are you holding my hand because we are friends? are we playing footsies as friends? are we hanging out every other night watching movies because we’re friends? are you playing with my hair as my friend? are you grabbing my arm while we walk as a friend?
because i’m having a bit of trouble distinguishing between platonic and romantic feelings as it is and i don’t need that added pressure in my life thank you very much.
“I quit my job earlier this year. I’m taking a little time to focus on myself. I worked from nine to six everyday. I often brought my work home with me. I was getting sick, and anxious, and I wasn’t sleeping well. But I could never accept my weaknesses. I’d see other people working harder than me, and I’d think: ‘If they can do it, why should I feel tired?’ Eventually I pushed myself so hard that I became depressed. One reason I couldn’t slow down is because my entire family is hard working. Both my parents are architects. My grandfather is an engineer. The importance of hard work has been passed down through the generations. I think the entire country is afraid to stop working. There have been so many hard times. There’s been so much hunger. For so long we had to work all the time just to survive. Even though things are better now, that’s a difficult to psychology to escape. I’m starting to interview for new jobs. But I’m asking different questions. Money is the last thing I worry about. I’m much more interested in the schedule.”
We never much care about skin, like the Americans.
Where we’re from, everyone has the same color, so we must fight over shades. You see, my brother had light hair and beard. Me dark, like you. I was like the black man over there. As against my brother, the white. Everybody thought he must be the good one. Yeah. So I became me. But time passes. Now I’m gray. Yeah, he too, I– I believe, now is gray. So you wouldn’t be able to tell who is light, who is dark. So much for fighting over color. American Gods: The Secret of Spoon
And perhaps I’m a little touchy on the subject and maybe I hold Carrie a little too dear to my heart, but the reason I do is because Carrie Fisher helped me realize I was mentally ill.
Oh I knew I was crazy, in the same vague way you worry that you’ve left the stove on at home, despite not having cooked yourself a meal in weeks because you’re too depressed to eat a proper meal. (Except you don’t call it that, you call it “laziness” and maybe try and convince yourself it’s a new diet called “whatever requires the least amount of effort to put calories into my face”.)
Something was “off” inside my head, but no one seemed to care about it too much. Even when they threw me into eating rehab for a perceived eating disorder—despite lacking several of the vital criteria on the checklist to have typical eating disordered behavior—no one gave too much of a shit. I was just a girl who was “too nervous”, “too in touch with my emotions”, “too fragile”, I was “attention seeking”. And their remedy to this was ignore me and wonder why I crashed and burned at regular intervals, blame me for being selfish, then go back to not giving a fuck until it inconvenienced their life again.
I was crazy. But maybe I wasn’t. Maybe if I just tried harder…so I learned to cope. I became the one who Coped. I was There For Everyone. I became Reliable and above all else, I learned to be Funny and make It funny.
My mother still hates that. She thinks it’s crass for women to be funny. Personally I think I’m fucking hysterical, but then what do I know, I’m fucking nuts.
Later, now with hindsight and being able to look at my life from a safe(-r) mindset surrounded by people who care and want to help, I realize that what I was going through was (and is) untreated PTSD. Whether or not the PTSD caused the other issues, like the depression, the anxiety, the compulsive behaviors or the ADHD I think I might have, I don’t know. I likely will never know, because the Thing happened and shot my still developing child brain into a million tiny fragmented pieces of unparalleled terror and poor coping mechanisms. It doesn’t really matter at this point, all that matters is dealing with all of it as best as I can, however I can. But there’s a very real chance I might never have gotten to this stage if I hadn’t found out that Princess Leia, my childhood icon who helped me feel brave and strong while my world was ending, had written a book about living with mental health issues.
I wasn’t sure what to expect from it to be honest. I knew vaguely, that Carrie Fisher had issues. The word “junkie” had been used by my father—while unironically taking a drink from his self-medicating poison of choice and my mother tutted and tisked about how some people just ought to pull themselves together.
Ten, maybe twelve minutes into the book locked away in my room, I can’t even tell you anymore whether I was crying because I was laughing so hard or if I was laughing because I was crying my heart out, but I was having a fucking revelation.
This was me, holy shit this was me, this was me, this was me, an unboken mantra in my head pounding to the beat of my heart, this was me, this is me—I do exist.
That’s a weird thought to have, right? I do exist.
It wasn’t, “I’m normal”, because normal is not this. It’s not feeling like your mind is running a million miles a second in circles while simultaneously wading uphill through treacle and juggling chainsaws while trying to keep all your Life Plates spinning and oh gods someone just handed you a kitten to look after. What it is however, is fairly common, and suffered with varying degrees of severity by a rather sizable chunk of the world’s population. I mean, who knew? I sure as shit didn’t. I thought it was all in my head.
You know what I mean.
I’m told some people get up in the mornings and go through their entire day without once having an intrusive thought or struggling to do basic shit like take a shower and manage to remember to feed themselves. I know, seems fake right? It certainly does to me.
And here was Carrie, my Princess Leia, laying out her issues past, present and probable future, in what remains one of the funniest, most brutal attempts at self-lobotomy on paper I have ever had the privilege to read. I consumed that book in mere hours, I devoured her words and breathed them in like inhaling steam in a sauna and breathing out fire in their wake and moved onto her next book, then her next, then her next, and by then there was this blessed thing called Twitter and it should be impossible to be hilarious and poignant through 140 emojis or less, but that was the kind of brilliant she was. And this was me, this was someone like me. And she was witty and brilliant and funny and yes, things were difficult for her and yes, some parts of her life were an absolute clusterfuck of mistakes, addiction and general all round fuckery leading up to that point…but she was still there, y’know? She was still there.
And it breaks my heart a little every day, knowing that I’ll never be able to tell her how important that was to me. And to thank her for it.
So instead I try to pay it forward. Every day, from one day to the next, I try to be a little kinder, a little brighter—a little more like Our Lady Carrie—and throw two loving sparkly middle fingers up at the world that tries to stamp out and demonize the notion that mentally ill people like me, like you, exist.
And we deserve to exist, and more than that, we deserve to be treated with human fucking decency.
And if you are of a mind that the latest news surrounding Carrie’s death means that she was any lesser of a vital energy force in this world, that she mattered less, that her words were less important or that she “deserved” to die because they found drugs in her autopsy report, it is with my profound and heartfelt best wishes, that I invite you to cordially: