YAYAYAYYAAYAAAYAYAYAYAAYAAYAYAYAY I LOVE ORANGE JUICE!!!!!!!!!
do you wanna walk through a field of flowers
like this (i drew us in there)
YESSSS
i named my headphones awesome like gilbert 2000 and i sent it to my mom and she was like 'i dont understand' and then i explained it to her and she likes it
score
hehe characters...
i wnana
like
heres german empire :>
but he's not importaannnnnnttttttt
prussia doesnt care about himm
lmao
german empire and soviet could start some bad dad club or whatever
in some aus CA (colonial america) could def join that
.....
if i included all my different storylines a LOT of characters could be in that club ToT
bro i need to stop getting sidetracked and finish chapter two like damn bro
my question is why call forks and stuff utensils and they're widely known as just UTENSILS and then someone turns right around and says 'writing utensil' like how come that gets a well known specific
why isnt everything a utensil then???
electronic utensil uhh sitting utensil sleeping utensil????? walking utensil
if you're gonna do it at least do it all the way
i might just kms WHY DID I HAVE TO MAKE A WHOLE FAMILY LINE
thank god not all of the children have to come from sexual reproduction
gods i fucking hate this house i cant fucking wait to move out and be able to do my own god damn shit and be alone for once IN MY FUCKING GOD DAMN LIFE
......
Heh
what evil scheme do you have planned...
i hate my dad i hate my dad i hate my dad i hate my dad i hate my dad i hate my dad i hate my dad i hate my dad i hate my dad i hate my dad i hate my dad i hate my dad i hate my dad i hate my dad i hate my dad i hate my dad i hate my dad i hate my dad
HURRAY THEY DO GUESS WHOS MIGRATING TO AO3
do ao3 people like poems or is it like mostly fanfic or stories in there-
i mean technically the ask blog that DID follow mine technically sort of kind of volunteered themselves right????
thats how this works right-
These are the betrayals that aren’t loud. They don’t come with fireworks or screaming matches. These are the small, slow deaths. The ones that your character lets happen... while smiling politely.
» They say yes when they desperately want to say no. Every. Damn. Time. They show up when they're exhausted. They agree to things they hate. They make themselves smaller, softer, easier, because "good people" don’t make waves, right? (Spoiler: they're drowning.)
» They keep chasing people who only love them halfway. It's not even subtle anymore. They know these people leave them on "read," show up late, make them feel like an afterthought. But they cling anyway, spinning every scrap of affection into a story about hope. (It’s not hope. It’s hunger.)
» They refuse to believe good things are meant for them. They’ll hype everyone else up. They’ll believe in everyone else's dreams. But when something finally good lands in their lap? They’ll panic. Push it away. Tell themselves it was a fluke. (Because being disappointed feels safer than being lucky.)
» They’re waiting for closure that will never come. An apology. An explanation. A miracle where someone says, "You were right, and I was wrong, and I’m so sorry." They wait years. Decades. Lifetimes. But deep down, they know: some people never come back. Some stories just end without punctuation.
» They’re hoarding all their "almosts" like treasures. The job they almost got. The love that almost worked. The version of themselves they almost became. They replay those maybes like a greatest hits album. (Meanwhile, real life is slipping by while they mourn possibilities.)
» They’re performing a version of success they secretly hate. Look at the Instagram. Look at the LinkedIn updates. Look at the shiny exterior. It looks like winning. But every trophy they collect feels heavier, not lighter. Every promotion tastes a little more like ash. (Turns out, chasing someone else's dream is still losing.)
» They forgive people who aren’t sorry. Not because they’re enlightened. Not because they’ve healed. But because it’s easier to pretend it didn’t hurt than to sit with the fact that it did—and that the person responsible doesn't care. (Some wounds scar better when you stop pretending they were accidents.)
» They punish themselves for still being soft. The world told them, again and again, that soft things get broken. And they believed it. So every time they feel too much? Every time they cry or hope or trust? They tell themselves they’re weak. Stupid. Embarrassing. (They're not. They're just still alive.)
» They downplay their own magic. They call their talents "lucky breaks." Their beauty "average." Their intelligence "no big deal." They shrug off compliments like they're dangerous. Because deep down, they've been taught that being remarkable makes you a target.
» They cling to the idea that if they just work harder, they'll finally be enough. They believe in meritocracy like it’s a religion. That if they hustle hard enough, self-sacrifice deep enough, burn themselves to ash perfectly enough, someone, somewhere, will finally say, "You're worthy now." (They were always worthy. The system is just broken.)