tw: skittles

Anyone who glorifies drug addiction for the sake of fucking grunge or art or fucking just tumblr being a cunt and romanticizing literally everything, can go fuck yourself.
Addiction isn’t fucking beautiful, it’s terrifying. Actually being addicted to drugs and then getting clean and recovering from it, is a lot harder than it seems. It’s not fun. It’s not cool. Being addicted to drugs isn’t waking up in a bathtub with your friends, it isn’t all fun and games. Being addicted to drugs is waking up in your own vomit, it’s not showering for weeks at a time, it’s living only to get high and getting high so that you can live. Addiction is lying to your own mom for drug money. Addiction is not eating for three weeks, because it’s either food or drugs. Addiction is destroying your relationships and making new ones with bad people, it’s building walls of amphetamines around your brain. Addiction is having your body shut down because of not sleeping or eating for weeks. Addiction is losing the best job you’ve ever had because you wanted to get high instead of go to work. Addiction is turning down wonderful opportunities because it doesn’t involve drugs, addiction is somehow getting three grams every night. Addiction is craving the come-down. Addiction is losing all hope and slitting your wrists in a tiny bathroom in the basement, because you just want it to be over. Addiction is always pushing your limit and not being afraid to.
Addiction is scary. It takes lives. When you get clean, you finally think you’re done. You think you’re going to get on the road straight to recovery and never look back. No. You have slip-ups. Some of us get sucked right back in. For me, addiction had me at a point where I get sick at even the thought of the feeling I got from drugs. Euphoria and nostalgia both make me want to vomit. It’s no longer comforting. Addiction is completely fucking your neurotransmitters for the rest of your life. Addiction is completely fucking yourself for the rest of your life. Addiction isn’t some aesthetic. Addiction is scary. Addiction is real.
—  ― A former addict who’s really fucking sick of seeing people acting like addiction isn’t a serious fucking illness because of this fucking website (via fishdticks)

weedjewish  asked:

uhhhhh hi! so im goin through your fic rec tag but im a lazy person so if could you give me some sciles recs please if you have any? love your blog btw!

Hi hello thank you! Here are some favorite Sciles pieces:

  • Sometimes a piece of sun by queerly_it_is (E, 40k) It doesn’t matter how Scott asks, Stiles always says he’s fine. Scott’s not sure who’s supposed to believe it, or if Stiles just says it because it’s what he thinks he’s supposed to say. They do this now. They break and bleed and fall to bits, but so long as they say they’re okay then none of it’s really happening. It’s a nice idea. Just stick your fingers in your ears and hum really loud. The problem is that it’s not working, and Scott’s terrible at pretending it is.
  • Scott McCall’s Field Guide to Felinology by airgeer (T, 20k) Usually a problem in Beacon Hills can be tracked back to werewolves at some point. Scott would like to categorically deny any responsibility for the latest mess, but the only person who understands the words coming out of his mouth is Stiles, and making a big speech isn’t really worth it when it’s all going to be lost in translation. Still, though. Not their fault. (aka the one where Scott get turned into a cat and it’s not a big issue until it really, really is)
  • the place that’s out of view by Loz (E, 11k) “As far as I can ascertain it’s a proximity curse,” Deaton says, still leading Stiles away from Scott’s house, walking quickly enough it’s nearly a jog. “Your life-forces have been merged. As you come into contact, he weakens and you strengthen.” “Is it temporary?” Stiles asks. He feels almost normal, now. Close to himself. Sick to his stomach, but not supercharged. Deaton frowns. “I don’t know.”
  • An Uncommon Want by rrrowr (E, 31k) ”We’ve got a new one for you, Scott,” is the first thing that Erica says to him when she spies him coming through the doors of their floor. The file that she sets on the edge of her desk is thin and crisp. The folders for regular clients tend to be thicker, full of reports and request forms. ”A virgin?” Scott says, raising a brow at the green tab at the top of the folder. ”It’s your specialty, isn’t it?” Erica teases with a sharp grin. “All that comforting and coddling you do with the newbies makes you ideal.” ”Everyone’s scared their first time,” Scott responds gently as he opens the folder to get a look at his new client. Erica scoffs. “Maybe if you’re an omega.” ”Especially if you’re an omega.”

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