things i am inexplicably proud of

I am inexplicably sad, and incredibly happy at the same time. I have officially finished my first fic, and I don’t know, I’m feeling pretty proud of myself?

It’s been a long journey, and it turned out a lot longer than I expected it to, so I’m happy. It’s probably not the best thing that I’ll have ever written. But, it’s out there, and people have read it. I’m just a big sap.

anonymous asked:

What are three things you've done that make you feel proud?

1. I got out of a bad relationship and literally moved to a different country. I didn’t expect my life to do a complete 180, but here I am! And I cannot fully explain how wonderful it feels.

2. I met the love of my life and she (inexplicably) loved me back

3. I graduated college Phi Theta Kappa with a 4.0 Average.

I ask God if it was hard, having a savior and a sacrilege for sons. She shrugs.

“They both became what they wanted to be, and neither wrote home enough. So it is with all children.”

Surely, I insist, there must have been hard feelings. I am starving to unravel the the secrets of this inexplicable family, as though dreging up tales of black sheep and unspotted lambs might help me situate myself in this drama I have always been cast in.

“At a certain point,” God sighs, “there isn’t ‘proud of’ or ‘angry at’. There is only a love you can’t suppress for a thing you can’t control. No child gets more of that than another.”

“Not even devils make a difference?” I ask.

God sees quite clearly that we’re not really talking about the Devil, that we never really have been. She reaches out to touch my face, and her calloused hands are warm with the fires of creation.

“I don’t draw lines with what I love,” God says.

—  S.T. Gibson
Derek Jr.

Hey I finally did it! @dontthinkaboutzimbits hope it’s good lol This is based off of a post by @kryptmachine

“What the fuck, Dex, that’s–”

Motherfucker–why? Why would you even–”

“You’re not listening to me, Poinde–”

“I’m not listening? You never fucking listen to me, you fucking douchecanoe–”

“What the hell kind of insult is douchecanoe?”

“Shut UP, Nurse–”


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Because Not-Science

Between 2009 and 2012, some pretty inexplicable shit happened in this apartment. That blazing candle when I returned from Cuba? Mystery strands of gray-and-black chest hair on my late husband’s laptop? His broken speakers that got unbroken? That 200-lb. armoire I was able to move?

The last inexplicable thing in this apartment happened in 2012 and lasted a few months. It was so simultaneously cliché and specific that I mentioned it to only a few girlfriends. It involved the remote-control lamp in the living room, which Alberto installed and was terribly proud of: Turn the house lights off without ever leaving bed? I am brilliant.

The lamp isn’t on a timer or an auto sensor: it’s controlled by a remote that lives in a container on my nightstand. There’s no reason the light should’ve been turning on and off—often while I was in the same room—but things like this happen when you remain in the apartment your husband died in, right?

Things like this haven’t happened for two years and while a part of me has missed those electrical hellos, the louder voice in my head reminds me that hey, I’m progressing through grief. And if doing the emotional work means I’m haunted less often, I’m OK with that.

So coming through the front door tonight, five plus years since his death, I am not expecting the remote-control light to be on. It’s neither his birthday nor deathiversary, but seeing this lighted lamp is the posthumous equivalent to seeing your husband’s keys on the foyer table: oh, he’s home.

Unlike a few years ago, I do not check the other still-dark rooms for further proof of the supernatural. I just smile, drop my keys on the foyer table and slip out of my shoes. I look around the apartment, trying to see it like someone who hasn’t visited in a while.

Setting aside science and reason for a sec, what would he have encountered if he stopped by tonight? A place setting for one on the dining room table. A day’s worth of dishes in the sink. Flung over a chair, the outfits I rejected before heading to tonight's birthday party for Tumblr Lomalomarevamped. But also…the newly color-coordinated bookshelf. The rearranged foyer. Framed pictures of me with the daughter I met two years ago. A nearly completed To-Do list scrawled on the bathroom mirror.

Is it ridiculous that while I’m brushing my teeth, I allow myself no small sigh of relief that the light wasn’t on last Thursday night, when I did not come home alone? Is it also ridiculous that when I change out of tonight’s clothes I half hope that a pair of hands will inexplicably cup my breasts from behind? And that I’m disappointed when it doesn’t happen?

Ridiculous or not, I’m headed to bed shirtless and with that living room light still blazing. Because not-science.