to@thetruthampere, thank you for writing this fic! Every time I see an update my mood gets so much better, so this is my thank-you-present, because quite honestly I’m not that good with words! Keep up with the amazing work!
INTP: the sun is a deadly laser
ENFJ: you could make a religion out of this
ESTJ: well, blame them for something and go to war
INTJ: that’s bullshit. this whole thing is bullshit. that’s a scam. fuck the church
ENTP: wow, that worked?
INFP: china is whole again. and then it broke again
ESTP: whoops half of europe just died
ISTJ: fuck you obey the law
ISFP: will you get the hell out of here if i give you 500 elephants? ok, thanks, bye
ENFP: wait! said christopher columbus probably smoking crack
ESFJ: by the way, where the hell are we?
ESFP: ‘let’s overthrow the palace’
INFJ: error -125: out of destiny
ENTJ: they never got ethiopia
ISFJ: that’s just where he lives
ISTP: wanna print a brain?
⇢ summary: according to the rumours, min yoongi is a bad apple- doesn’t take grades seriously, drinks as if he has two livers, a certified bad boy™. when you get paired up with him for a project, you’d never expect that someone like him would have a thing or two to teach you about life itself- and how it should be lived.
⇢ warnings: angst, smut
🎵 song recommendation: something just like this by coldplay x the chainsmokers
a/n: finally something that isn’t pwp????? :”)
races through your veins and fills up your airway, causing your breathing to
double itself, chest heaving in an attempt to calm yourself down. No, this can’t be happening, you chant
to yourself over and over. The clock on your laptop is glaringly bright in the
near darkness of your room, and the numbers burn themselves into the back of
your eyelids. When you close your eyes, the uncomfortable stinging of your
contact lenses makes your eyes water and at this point they might as well be
tears of desperation.
not like you’ve never had writer’s block before, you reason with yourself. You
just have to start writing and edit along the way. Your own voice of reason is
drowned out by the anxiety that echoes all the possible consequences of not
acing this paper. It’s nearly 4 am and the essay you have so far in front of
you is not enough to get an A, you know it in your bones but you can’t come up
with anything better either. You could just submit this as it is, but anything
less than an A on this paper would pull you down from the cusp of that ever
elusive first class honours. And you can’t afford to graduate with anything
less than that. The very thought of it sends a fresh chill of panic that creeps
down your spine and jolts your fingers into a typing frenzy, spilling thoughts
and ideas onto your screen till you reach the end of the page.
when you read over what you’ve written, it doesn’t make sense at all, just
incoherent rambling sentences strung together into a never ending paragraph. In
frustration you shove your laptop away from you and push back your chair, reaching
for your keys and phone. Sneaking a peek at your roommate’s still form across
the room, you let yourself out of the room silently, feeling your tensed
shoulders relax immediately as the cool night air embraces you with open arms.
a little chilly to be out in just a long shirt and sleep shorts, but since
there’s no one awake to catch you dressed like this, it’s the least of your
concerns for now. The balcony that is attached to your room affords a little
privacy, and it’s one of the perks of occupying the corner room on this floor.
The tranquillity of the cold, autumn night directly contrasts with the millions
of theories and concepts running through your mind, and any attempts at
clearing your mind are failing pathetically. The residential halls are eerily
silent at this time of the night, and as you glance down over the protective
railings, you consider how easy it would be to just climb over, just one leg
over and then-
night?” You whirl around at the interruption of a raspy, gruff voice sounding
from behind you. Your eyes are met with a figure clothed in an oversized
sweatshirt and jeans, but it’s only when you squint in the darkness to survey
his face that you realise who he is.
November 14th. In the coffee shop, the man in the Make America Great Again hat smiles at me, so I take this as an invitation.
“Pardon me, but I have to ask— do you think Trump’s ideologies keep every person in this country safe?“
He doesn’t hesitate.
“Ma’am, I can’t get wrapped up in identity politics, all I can worry about is how I’m going to feed my girls.”
At my 40th birthday party, an acquaintance asks why we have “so much Mexican art in the house.”
“It might be because I’m Mexican,” I say.
“No,” he laughs, “you’re not Mexican.”
“Yes. I am.”
“No,” he continues, reassuringly, “and if you are, you’re only, maybe, 17%.“
The winter air stiffens between us. An old, familiar pain.
There was a time when I would have thanked him.
The early years, when I wanted only to pass, to rid myself of my last name— the dead giveaway, its muddy lineage
crawl out from the burying shame that held me down every time my father picked me up from school in our shitty car, his bushy mustache & brown face magnified by the sun.
A local white woman posts a photo of her new tattoo: a Mayan god etched eternal on her flesh. When I point out the disrespect, she assures me she speaks Spanish fluently, spent three years in South America.
For the next six hours, I argue with her friends. They demand I quit being so divisive. Judgemental. Close-minded.
“We have a racist running for President, and you’re complaining about a tattoo?” asks the white boy, who spray paints murals all over this city with impunity.
O, to be permitted the luxury of only worrying about one thing at a time.
O, to be white in America, to wake up knowing every god is your god.
When you never see yourself, you search for yourself all the time.
You know the white girl in the sombrero isn’t you. The bro dude in Calavera makeup isn’t either, not the ponchos and glued on mustaches, not the lowrider Chevy in the Disney movie or the hoochie-coochie sex pot on the Emmy award-winning television show.
Maybe you are only this:
the scorched bird pulled from the chimney, covered in soot. Not the actual bird, its velvet sack of jigsaw’d bones, but the feeling of recognition.
The ash of knowing.
A white comedian tells this joke: “I used to date Hispanics, but now I prefer consensual.”
The audience laughs. And you do, too. Until the punchline hardens, translates into a stone in your throat.
You swallow it, like you always do.
You don’t change the channel, but you also can’t remember a single joke she tells after that.
A few months later, the comedian’s career blows up. She’s so real. So edgy. Such a hardcore feminist. When someone writes an essay on her old stand-up routines— noting her blindspot when it comes to race,
her response is:
“It is a joke and it is funny. I know that because people laugh at it.”
If two Mexicans are in a car, who is driving? A police officer.
How do you starve a Mexican? Put their food stamps in their work boots.
What’s the difference between a Mexican and an elevator? One can raise a child.
What do you call a Mexican baptism? Bean dip
How do you stop a Mexican from robbing your house? Put a help wanted sign in the window.
What do you call a Mexican driving a BMW? Grand theft auto
What do you call a Mexican without a lawnmower? Unemployed
What do you call a building full of Mexicans? Jail
How do you keep Mexicans from stealing? Put everything of value on the top shelf.
What do you call a bunch of Mexicans running downhill? A mudslide.
Why don’t Mexicans play Hide ’n Seek? No one will look for them.
What does a Mexican get for Christmas? Your TV.
What do you call the Arizona man shot to death by his white neighbor, screaming, “Go back to Mexico!” Juan Varela
November 29th. For weeks, I’ve avoided eye contact with strangers. My face is a closed curtain. My mouth, the most decorated knife. I pay for groceries, grab the receipt & let my half-hearted thank yous trail like smoke. I no longer want to see who refuses to see me.
Anyone is everyone.
December 1st. I keep waking up. There isn’t anyone white enough to stop me.
Pantomime the living until the body remembers: wicked bitch. Bloodwhirl. Patron Saint of the Grab Back.
Still. Still. Still. Still. Still. Still here.
I etch my own face upon my wicked flesh. I am my own devastating god.
Prompt: “You’re the health-conscious med student and I’m the chain-smoking art student who’s also your barista and you leave me notes on smoking and lung health on your napkins and also a 20-page essay on lung cancer tucked under your saucer” AU. Where Sirius is the chain-smoking art student.
Word Count: About 5,500.
Warning(s): Smoking, sexual tension, kissing, motorcycle ride without all the gear. Don’t accept a ride from someone on a motorcycle unless they supply the proper gear and you’re wearing pants and a heavy jacket, preferably. Do some research before riding!
Note: Sort of a modern, college AU. This isn’t smut, but, I have to warn you, it does end up being smoking hot. Hah. Get it? Anyway, thank you @princesse-de-ravenclaw for reading this over!
To the barista with the pretty grey eyes,
Smoking can cause the lens of the eyes to fog up and the whites of the eyes to turn yellow. Don’t ruin their beauty. If not for yourself, then for those who have the pleasure of seeing them. ;)
Sirius rolled his eyes, a slight chuckle escaping his lips as he pocketed yet another note from you. If you were to open a spare drawer in his flat, you would find a collection of tossed napkins with rushed scribbles littering the surface. Maybe one day Sirius would take your insistent advice, but right now, all he wanted was a drag.
“Another love letter from your favorite med student?”