Scavengers Reign (2023)

I've realized recently that every time I'm asked for socials my response is sorta "oh i don't have twitter" "I'm not on Instagram much" "i uninstalled TikTok a few months ago" and this has led people into believing I'm just someone who doesn't do social media but in reality you can find me in here lets get it on cunts monday through shawty like a melody sunday, 9am to 12am, posting blorbo.

It's worth remembering that if ghosts are real, then you already are one.

In 1,000 years you'll be dancing in churchyard rain on some shaggy hillside and you'll think of the body you once had as a strange, short phase.

Like a bad haircut.

more of my chemistry professor (and wizard)

PERFECTION

ok but if bruce wayne somehow came upon zuko fresh out of banishment he would lose his mind.

black hair? check. bad parent(s)? check. trauma? double check.

bruce: how’d you get your scar?

zuko: my dad got mad at me for saying that killing people is wrong so he lit my face on fire and banished me.

bruce, vibrating with excitement, already pulling adoption papers from his utilility: that’s terrible. how do you feel about capes.

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.

guy who doesnt realize hes commanding a small army and thinks a lot of people are just going along with his bit

‏ياخي وقفة احترام للملابس اللي ما تحتاج كوي

- moqtabasaty

Breakfast Across the Globe