sweet imagines

So last spring my mother-in-law handed me a bag full of doilies (all made by her mother and mother in law) and a photograph of a craft project she found online and asked me to make it happen. What she didn’t know is that I am a doily junkie and I snatch them up all the time at flea markets and thrift stores. I love the story in these. I love to imagine sweet little old ladies in their rocking chairs, painstakingly making them. Most of all I love the design and the intricacy. So beautiful. I couldn’t bear the idea of soaking these gorgeous little nuggets of history in Mod Podge (the horror!) and permanently adhering them to a pre-stretched canvas. My mother in law has a profound respect for family and family history. These should be handed down to her grandchildren, and her grandchildrens’ children, and I just kept envisioning years of sometimes-sticky Mod Podge collecting dust and pollen and whatever else the corners and edges of our lives hold on to, ruining the very thing that was meant to be preserved. So, I proposed a question to her. Could I frame them? I plan to tack them down with acid-free adhesive in select spots so they could be removed from the frame and repurposed if need be, but the piece could be easily hung on the wall for her to enjoy. She loved the idea, and asked that I give it to her for Christmas this year. So here I am tonight, assembling this thing like it’s the most important chore these hands will ever accomplish, and I’m actually nervous. My style is *very* different from hers, but clearly I want this to be done in a style that I am proud of, but that she can appreciate as well. I want her to love it so much that the framed collection itself is the heirloom, not just the contents of the frame. I’m leaving it on my work room table overnight, and giving it consideration over the next day, before tacking it down and reassembling the frame. Sometimes you just have to live with it for a little while.

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Fanfic title: Sun That Never Sets

It’s been a brutal heat wave for person A. Not fortunate enough to own an air conditioner, they resolve to stripping down to their underwear whilst fanning themselves with a notebook. One very hot day, person B {A’s friendly neighbor} sees them suffering and offers for them to stay at their house {which is an icebox compared to A’s} until the heat wave passes.

Monday 8:27am
I woke up with you on my mind.
You called me babe last night —
my heart is still pounding.

Tuesday 10:53pm
Today I realized we won’t work.
What we are is hurting her.
And I think she matters more to me than you do.

Wednesday 11:52pm
I broke things off with you today.
She barely said a word.
I’ve never regretted anything more than this.

Thursday 4:03pm
I shouldn’t have sent that message.
You shouldn’t have been so okay with receiving it.

Friday 9:57pm
I almost messaged you today.
I didn’t.

Saturday 8:49pm
I’m walking around town in search of alcohol.
They say that liquor numbs the pain of having a broken heart.
I want to put that to the test.

Sunday 2:32am
I heard you texted a girl you’ve never spoken to before.
I wonder if it’s because you’re trying to replace me.
I can’t help but wish you weren’t.
I thought I was irreplaceable.

—  a week with you on my mind, c.j.n.
Looking back, I can’t remember the truth. I blew everything out of proportion so I could feel the hurt and betrayal and write about it in vivid detail. It was my own method of torture. My own undoing; and I enjoyed every second of it.
—  c.j.n.