Sometimes I Forget Karmi Was A Wattpad Author

I feel indescribably empty when someone who I knew dies. How am I supposed to react? Death scares shit out of me. What do you mean they do not exist anymore? Like? I cannot speak to them anymore. I would never laugh at their jokes. What?

everyday i think about how henry could have put on a whole show of grief at bunny's funeral. he could have read a long-winded speech, hell, he could have even said "this poem was one of bunny's favourites" before he read it. that simple acknowledgement to let everyone at that funeral know he cared.

but he didn't. he read that poem, knowing full well it did not suit whatever 'aesthetic' he and julian had formulated, knowing that he'd be criticised for it. knowing that the only people who knew what it meant, were him, bunny, and the rest of the greek class.

i've seen some people have said that him smearing the dirt across his chest at the funeral was an 'act' of sorts to show how much he was grieving. but i don't think i could disagree more. henry was sick out of his mind at that funeral. i think the funeral wasn't just overwhelming for him mentally and physically, but also emotionally. he had to grieve once, then he had to grieve a second time, knowing that he killed his best friend.

everyday i think about it man. i love these freaks

This is so beautifully devastating, I'm gonna be sick. They really are even now

А моря…

i’ve been told by various european friends that the most american sentence i’ve ever said is “sophomore year of college, some friends and i road-tripped thirteen hours to florida for spring break.”

and now i can confidently say this is the most guy-who-lives-in-paris sentence i’ve ever said: “today i was cycling to meet a friend at buttes-chaumont and i went over some cobblestones and my baguette got launched out of the bike basket into the middle of the roundabout”

I feel like we really lost something when we started looking at writing as a reader-centric product meant to appeal to the desires of a specific audience rather than a writer-centric approach of someone writes whatever particular thing particular compels them/whatever weird thing the demons in their head want to talk about, and people out there who are also compelled, and/or relate, find that writing. A lot of discussions of writing really center around what readers want rather than a writer's exploration. Sometimes as a reader I don't know what I want. I click on a fic or pick up a book I'm not sure about but that looks interesting, and I love it. Reading what I expect to get is it's own joy, but we always need to expand our horizons and not get mad at creators for not always writing what we want/expect.

the world is getting so ugly and bleak and it’s hard not to feel so hopeless. but we have to remember that they want us to feel that way.

it reminds me of this quote by dan savage - “During the darkest days of the AIDS crisis we buried our friends in the morning, we protested in the afternoon, and we danced all night, and it was the dance that kept us in the fight because it was the dance we were fighting for.”

joy is resistance. it’s really scary times but we are all in this together.

just noticed a typo in one of my published smut fics where I wrote “sock” instead of “cock”. I will now go live the rest of my life in the forest where no one will ever see or hear from me again

all of my love goes to camilla macaulay and daisy buchanan, weird blonde girls who were never truly appreciated for their weirdness