And please understand
that I will never
get tired of listening
to the songs
of your lonely heart—
even if I failed
to understand it
sometimes.
—  ma.c.a // I’m sorry if my silence hurts you so bad

You’re on a massive spaceship with what’s left of humanity. It’s the only ship, what’s on the ship is all you have. There are no humans left except for the few thousand people on board.

There are a few Star Trek-style replicators throughout the ship. These produce food, clothing, medicine – all material needs. In order to produce enough for everyone to live comfortably, they require a few hundred people to use stationary bikes for a few hours each week to generate the required energy.

Paradise, right? Enough people are more than happy to spend some time helping the community meet its needs, and many just enjoy the exercise, so there shouldn’t be any problem getting those replicators running!

The trouble is, immediately after boarding the ship, a few people camped out by the replicators and claimed them as their own. Using the resources from the replicators, they have bribed some people to guard them and “their” replicator and beat up anyone who tries to use them.

Now that these people have total access to the replicators, they have total power over who gets food, water, medicine, etc. They demand that everyone on the ship use the bikes every day, all day, or they will not be allowed to eat or drink. (The exception is their enforcers, who are rewarded with more resources for keeping the population in line in a variety of ways.)

Overworking everyone else produces enough energy for the replicator-hoggers to live like kings. They order up luxuries for themselves from the replicators, and eat and drink when and whatever they want. They order up food and throw it away when they decide they don’t want it. Huge piles of objects go unused in their quarters.

They make rules for how everyone else on the ship has to live, under threat of violence from their enforcers. People who can’t or won’t spend all day using the bikes are deliberately allowed to die from hunger and thirst, and the resource-hoarders say it’s because life must be earned.

The resource-hoarders allow the ship to fall into disrepair, and even throw wild parties and break things. Engineers beg to be allowed to effect repairs, but the resource-hoarders refuse, even when warned that in a few years the ship will break down completely and no one will survive. They call the engineers liars and conspirators.

And people just… sort of get used to it. They rationalize it, they say that the resource hoarders work hardest of all because they decide who gets what and when. Even though there are thousands more being forced to work than there are resource hoarders or their enforcers, people are afraid, or don’t want to think about it, or they justify it, or they dream of the day when they can work their way up the ranks of the enforcers and hog resources too. 

And, I mean, it’s not human nature to hoard resources. Most people share their rations and help each other survive as best they can. It’s literally like eight jerks just camping out by the replicators surrounded by guards they bribe with the fruits of everyone else’s work.

But we let them do it. And the idea that we shouldn’t is considered wacky and fringe.

I want you to text me everyday. I need to stop waiting for your texts. I want to talk to you about life and everything happening in yours. I need to stop asking you so many questions. I want to hold your hand. I need to stop wringing my own. I want to make you smile all of the time. I need to stop staring at your lips. I want us to stay up all night talking on the phone with you. I need to stop losing sleep because of you. I want to be with you. I need to stop pretending that you’ll ever settle for someone like me.
—  what i want to say, what i never can // 3:34 pm (via @starlightaffliction )
To all writer pals

Don’t get discouraged if sometimes the ideas in your mind don’t come out the way you want them to. You’re doing great, bud, and it’s pretty fabulous how you paint pictures with your words, even if your mountains look a little more like hills! Keep on going, you’re doing great my dude.

The stories never said why she was wicked. It was enough to be an old woman, enough to be all alone, enough to look strange because you have no teeth. It was enough to be called a witch. If it came to that, the book never gave you the evidence of anything. It talked about “a handsome prince”… was he really, or was it just because he was a prince that people called handsome? As for “a girl who was as beautiful as the day was long”… well, which day? In midwinter it hardly ever got light! The stories don’t want you to think, they just wanted you to believe what you were told…
—  Terry Pratchett - The Wee Free Men
Things I Do At Concert Pits:

• Talk to literally everyone. Like if you’re next to me we will become besties. sorry
• Point out cool cosplays and people with awesome outfits
• Scream. Not sing the lyrics loudly. I will scream when the singer seems. Dude trust me it’s hella relaxing you let out all your stress there and leave it behind.
• Dance badly

CRY

• Kinda sit down before the band plays because honey my back fucking hurts
• Shout out “You saved my life” to the people on stage. Don’t you dare get mad at me for doing it because I’m a broke bitch and will never be able to meet them one on one
• When the concert ends imma hug you randomly. idgaf if you’ve never met me before we’re huggin. c’mere :)

•  DID I MENTION CRYING

• I AM SO SORRY THAT I AM OF AVERAGE HEIGHT AND I FEEL PERSONALLY GUILTY FOR MY HEIGHT AND I WILL HELP ALL THE SURROUNDING SMOLS AS BEST AS I CAN
• If you elbow me and you don’t say sorry and you clearly hear me you’re gonna catch these hands
• Steal my spot and I will fucking cut you
• I pull off my long sleeved shirts so I’m not hiding my cuts. This is the only place I feel accepted for all of me so YOU’RE GONNA SEE EM ACCIDENTALLY
• If I end up next to someone who only knows one or two popular songs on the radio I will be mad. sorry. oh wait. im not sorry. u bitch.
• If you just stand and record the whole thing without even smiling at your chance at seeing the people on stage I WILL JUDGE YOU.

• CRYING IS LIKELY

• Shout genuine compliments to the band members like “I love you” “You’re amazing” “Your beanie looks nice”
• I WILL KILL YOU IF YOU ARE “SAVING A SEAT FOR YOUR DAUGHTER” AND THEN NOT LEAVE WHEN SHE GETS THERE
• If you lie about your dad being in the front to be closer imma punch u
• I WILL HUG YOU IF YOU ARE ALSO CRYING BECAUSE I KNOW HOW YOU FEEL

THIS IS MY ONLY CHANCE TO BE MYSELF PLEASE JUST LET ME CRY GODDAMNIT

so in seventh grade, my band class had a creepy obsession with our band director. in my friend group, we called him dad and the entire clarinet section called him nigel (think - nigel from the wild thornberries). so towards the end of the year, my alto sax friend changed all the apps in his phone to a picture of our band director. that started the god awful trend of #spreadthebraue so after that - i posted on my instagram a photo of mr. b and tagged it with said tag. then about 15 other kids in my grade reposted it. it was hell.

then i got the bright idea to start an instagram account called “same picture of braue” i posted on it for the last month of school and it gained followers quickly.

fast forward to the last day of school when we were having a ceremony for students who did something special (idk i was asleep half the time) when mr. b was handing out awards for band students, he called up me, my alto sax friend, and my three other percussionist friends (we were an iconic friend group lemme tell you. whenever we would have to play in groups - we would all play as a quintet)
so we went up to the stage and mr. b explains why we are on the stage. he never got to finish because as soon as he says “spread the braue” my percussionist friend whips out a giant peanut butter jar that has “spread the braue like butter” labeled on it with a picture of his face and then hands it to him then motions for the rest of us to walk off stage.

so then last week, i stopped in the band room for my forgotten tuba mouthpiece that i was emailed about and then i saw it on the wall. mr. b had set up a shelf with the peanut butter jar on it and a plaque that read:

7th grade band class students - Matt -last name- (alto sax), savannah -last name- (tuba), asher (percussionist - the one who handed him the jar), diana -last name- (percussionist), and josh -last name- (percussionist) - started trend #spreadthebraue and @samepictureofbraue on instagram

long this the band class of 2017

Cry.
And cry hard.
Wipe your eyes
On the sleeves of scratchy sweaters
Clean your nose
Pressed well into your pillowcase.
Rub your skin raw
Bruise your face red
Until the air stings your soul.
Even without layers
You are still alive.
—  D.K.