God Dammit. Every Single Short Horror Story Audiobook Thing On Youtube Is Always Titled The Same Fuckin

compilation of texts my mom has sent me when my cat is wailing outside my room and i haven’t opened the door for her yet

one of my cousins has one of those wretched sequined nicolas cage pillows and today the rest of us received this photo of perhaps the most upsetting thing i’ve seen all year, slugolas cage

learned the interesting but frankly horrifying fact today that, since army ants don’t have permanent nests, their queen has to travel around with them, but she’s still basically just a reproductive factory and doesn’t have any eyes so the regular ants have to lead her around like some kind of WH40K siege monster

more of my chemistry professor (and wizard)

A Series Of Analogies And Bitterness

 I am a writer. This is more an affirmation than a statement of fact. I’m not sure if you’ve ever done that thing where you make a list of affirmations before. I have. Did it last week. I’m seeing a counselor for my depression and anxiety. The idea was to create a list of true statements about myself, good things. The fun part is that you don’t always believe them.

 The statement “I am a writer” is an affirmation because while it is objectively true, I struggle to believe it. Of course I’m a writer. I love writing stories and journals. I’m a creative writing major. Writing is my everything. It’s cheesy, but it’s true. I write to cope, celebrate, vent, relax, everything. You may be wondering now “if she’s obviously a writer, why can’t she believe it?” Well, nameless reader, I can’t believe it because, for the past two weeks, I have written a grand total of 20 pages.

 Writing is my everything, and yet I find myself scooped out like a goddamn pumpkin. Actually, no, because a pumpkin has a chance to become a grinning jack o'lantern. I’m scooped out like a grave. There is nothing beautiful left in me. Just something putrid and rotting. I am full of dead ideas and wriggling maggots that are gnawing at my finger bones as I try in vain to squeeze life out of a bloated corpse called creativity.

 This is all I can do now. I can type. I type out words that are close to truth and I settle. I settle because I’ve lost everything. Sure, I’ve got family and most of my health and I’ve got food and I’ve got an education. But what’s the point? I live to write and vice versa. What’s the point if I can’t do the one thing I’m certain of?

 I am haunted by blank word documents. They’re always on my screen. I type out a line and delete it because it goes nowhere. Lines are supposed to be infinite. It’s a fact of math class that actually stuck with me. Just because we only see part of the line, doesn’t stop it being infinite. My lines aren’t infinite. They lay on the page, just a collection of letters that happen to form some statement or action that would be better articulated by a child’s rag doll.

 I’ve officially hit 21 pages in two weeks. Brilliant. 

 Hell is real, and it is a room full of blank pages and flashing cursors.

men literally love dying on doomed sea voyages it’s so so cruel to keep them from dying on doomed sea voyages

“Why should rich people pay more” because fuck ‘em

“So you are okay for paying more when you have money” I am not excluded from ‘fuck ‘em’ when relevant

he lets me hit bc i say shit like ‘alas’