"I Have A Price On My Head, And Believe Me, It Is NOT Enough."

I wanted to write. What about? No idea.

I have so many stuff going on right now that I don't really know what to do.

For instance, the impending question, how do you know if you like someone in a romantic way?

This is lame, I know, but I've never *ever* had a crush on someone who is not a fictional character or an unreachable celebrity, and I'm having a real hard time separating my feelings, for I still have this stubbornness regarding our only being friends.

I think about him a lot, not too much, but he's constantly on my mind. What's worse, is that I haven't seen him properly for months, the day I saw him and chatted for two minutes three weeks ago not counting.

He went to a different high school, and at first, we continued chatting every day, never going as far as to phone one another . Then we grew apart, he stopped answering to my texts and I stopped trying to contact him, sure that he wouldn't answer. I texted him on his birthday, and after a curt greeting and a thank you, we didn't speak for a month.

I texted him first. I was lonely and sad because it was the anniversary of my grandmother's death, and I gave in tothe urge of texting him. He answered, thankfully, and we happily chatted for a week before he ignored me again.

It hurts a lot. It hurts when I think of how close we were and how he dismissed our friendship, continued texting a friend of mine who be wasn't that close with and focused entirely on his new girlfriend. It hurt that he had a new girlfriend, even if I had had no problems with the last one, but honestly, that had been over a year ago so I couldn't be sure if I actually felt jealous or anything.

Am I jealous?

I don't know. I've never even met her!

But even if we aren't close anymore...It just hurts, ok?

I don't know what else to write, and this is quite out of my usual style, so yeah, signing off,

A girl who knows very little about love.

“Could you at least try to be nice?”

“You’re still breathing. That’s me being fucking nice, asshole.”

found family trope: ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

found family trope but they’re misfits, outcasts, and criminals: ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

“I’m legally dead in nine different star systems.”

submitted by anonymous a rick and morty fan

sorry to get romantic on main but i want to go to an art museum and hold hands with someone i care about

Enemies to lovers romance is the journey from sweetheart (derogatory) to sweetheart (affectionate)

Demons

We judge eachother

By what we see

But there is so much more

Beneath the vanity

We are all fighting

The demons of our minds

We are all broken

All shapes and all kinds

No one is free

From pain and strife

But every soul

Flees a different knife

If only we could see

What lies beneath

Our outward appearance

Our contrived motifs

Understanding would be simpler

If we could only see

The demons that reside

Inside you and me

*giggles cutely* im going to snap

brought a poem to the gun fight

something that stuck with me once, way back in middle school when i was still learning how to write - my teacher said "writing shock and tragedy is easy, it's humor that's the hardest."

i have been up and down the halls of academia. i have the fancy degree and the experience in publishing. i think i paved most of my own road with the little bricks of sorrow i had stored inside of me. i know i did it mostly with works that are blisteringly lonely. i know why we write like that. it's lifesaving.

but yeah, i mean. i also know how much people think that "sad" media is the same thing as "good" media. our human desire to connect is so hard-pressed that we immediately latch onto any broken themes. the bullied kids and the tales of inspiration. people keep saying things like "glass onion" and "everything everywhere" weren't actually good. because, you know, they're. happy. or happy-ish. happy enough. and we only value art if it's grimdark-adjacent.

do you know - people still consistently whine at me that my writing would be so good if i just capitalized things. i used to flinch. i get kind of a weird, vindictive little rush these days - i get to say thank you for the comment! i have chronic pain and this is how i conserve my hands so i can write more during the day :) grammar isn't real anyway! and now they're trapped in the room with me, you know? i get to pull out my map and show them how grammar is not the same thing as good writing.

writers have this thing. we scratch at our insides, constantly, prying our lives apart into splinters. prying the splinters apart into atoms. when we combust something into poetry, we control it. it cannot hurt us if it exists outside of us rather than burning a hole through the bottom of our lungs. it's not a wonder to me that so much of what i make comes out like a death gasp. i spent a long time at the bottom. i keep going back, too. when you're down there for so long, the only thing you can exhale is fumes.

but humor is hard. humor needs timing; which i can't promise in a paragraph. i can kind-of force it through careful spacing, but i have no idea how fast you're reading these things. humor needs a somewhat awareness of your audience, when really - anybody could be looking. humor needs us to understand what the joke is, why it's a joke, and to think - ha! that is funny. in tragedy, everyone understands the metaphor of a kicked puppy. in humor, you need to introduce them to the concept of a dog.

and forget about positivity. forget about anything not made for adults explicitly. every time i see a well-made children's media piece, i feel fucking horrible for the creators. most of the time, people see children's media as being sort of "not worth" applause, even though i'm pretty sure they have to work twice as hard. i have no idea how hard it must be to not be able to have your character just say. "well, fuck." something about a message of peace or friendship or caring - for some reason, that makes the media not for adults. like, okay. i'm pretty sure my father actually, out of all of us, could use a good book on how to control his temper and talk about his feelings.

but whatever. i write a short story about my ocd, and how it's fucking killing me. it gets an award. it gets published. i write a short story about my ocd, and how i'm overcoming it, and how my days are getting lighter and starting to flourish. i keep getting ghosted. no response. it just is lacking... something.

is this it, forever? you can be an artist, okay. but the trade off is that the things you make - if they're happy? if they're joyful? people will say it's stupid and pandering. you bite your nails off. you file your teeth. you hear something inside of you breaking.

the other day in a writing group, someone i'd thought of as a friend said: "you write so much better these days! i love what you make when you'd rather be dead."