Nobody Knows Who The Most Successful Criminal In History Was Because They’ve Never Been Caught

Oh My Dogggggg!!!! This is pure gold(en retriever) !!!

At Dogwarts School of Canine Wizardry, there are four houses: Gryffindog, Hufflefluff, Ravenpaw and Slobberyn. Your dog just got his invitation letter via flying cat (meowl post).

I HEAR THOSE SLEIGH BELLS JINGLING

RING TING TINGLING TOOOOOOOOOOOOO

COME ON IT’S LOVELY WEATHER

FOR A SLEIGH RIDE TOGETHER WITH YOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU

Give me Alex Rider’s politics teacher just being absolutely...astounded by the amount of knowledge this kid has on not only the socio-economic climate of literally every freaking country but the most freakishly good instincts of how each new politician that comes along is going to fare. It’s at the point he now has a secret cabinet of sticky notes on Alex’s off hand comments of each new public figure because God Dammit he always turns out to be right.

Give me Alex’s Riders politics teacher who stands up for him against others in the staff room because his essays provide the freshest viewpoints he’s seen in over 20 years. Ethics, politics, morality, social structures, negotiations, public figures, military influences and ulterior motivators; Alex Rider handles each topic with a grace and insight he hasn’t seen since university. Quite frankly he doesn’t know whether to be impressed or terrified. He settles on curious.

Give me Alex Rider’s politics teacher who’s family served in the army, who recognises the shadows of war in those dark brown eyes even if he can never understand why. The only one that seems to notice that seeing Alex’s controlled, efficient steps through a boisterous crowd of school children is like watching a ballet dancer glide through a swarm of drunk seagulls.

Give me Alex Rider’s politics teacher who let’s the poor kid take a nap in class or snack when he wants to (partly because 50% of the time he looks ready to drop) but mostly because deep down they both know there’s nothing that he can teach him here. Alex had an already pretty unusual and impressive grasp of foreign affairs before his uncle died and in the years since then? Well, he’s pretty sure Alex speaks more languages fluently than he has fingers.

Give me Alex Rider’s politics teacher whose subject gives him more of a glimpse into his talents than most people are allowed to see; who takes one good look at his extra little piece of the puzzle and thinks yeah. This kid is brilliant.

i personally love to over analyze everything and suffer

Important people are assassinated but everyone else is just murdered

you get used to it, but it's tiring, because they need you to understand your own life as a series of goalposts. what college are you going to, what's your major going to be, whatcha gonna do with that, oh where will you settle down, when can i expect grandkids.

for the longest time my goals have been so blurry that they track into each other, their undefined edges slipping quietly back into the soft night. today i want to be a writer; tomorrow i will want to be a doctor, later i will wish i took that law school free ride. how the fuck do people just know what they want to do with their life?

where do you want to be in five years? i want to be alive; which is a huge step for me. ten years ago i would have said i want to be asleep and meant i hope that i'm dead by then.

but i want a yellow kitchen and a stand mixer. i want a garden and a fruit tree (cherry, if i can make that happen) and a big yard for my dogs to play in. i want to come home and read poetry out loud to someone and have them close their eyes to listen. i want a summer watergun fight. i want to make snowmen. i want to be the house to go to for halloween. i want my life to settle around me in a softness, for it to lay down gently. if i am very, very, very lucky, i want to travel; finally go someplace overseas.

of course i don't know what i want to be doing professionally. what i actually want to be doing is curling up beside my dog, settling in to read. i want to be making myself a cup of good coffee.

i can't answer the other questions. whenever people asked me what do you want to be when you grow up, i used to say i hope i'm happy.

i hope i'm still kind, five years from now. i hope i never get jaded and mean. i hope i have stayed in therapy. what do you picture yourself doing? when will you actually be an adult about this? why are you so afraid of being ambitious?

am i not ambitious? the other day i rearranged my furniture which doesn't quite fit into my apartment. i watered my plants. i'm going to try to propagate a cherry seed. my five year goal is to spend more time laughing. to lie down in a patch of sunwarm moss. to relax for a minute. to close my eyes and think oh thank god. this is why i stayed. this is finally it.

sometimes a poem is just a poem and sometimes a poem is actually a confession and sometimes a poem is a person and sometimes a poem is a cardinal. sometimes art is just art and sometimes art is actually therapy and sometimes it’s a pipe and sometimes it’s also not a pipe. 

sometimes the text is “got home safe!” and sometimes the text is actually saying i already miss the way your hair feels in my hands and sometimes the text is a warning and sometimes the text is thank you for caring. sometimes you are on the phone with your friend and you’re talking about curious monkeys but you’re also both admitting how lonely you are but you’re also both talking about how love can be a bicycle and sometimes it is not a conversation it’s an intervention and sometimes it’s not a conversation it’s a poem and sometimes it’s not a conversation it’s an art piece and sometimes it’s just a conversation but more often it’s holding hands without touching

& sometimes you are in an argument about the dishes but none of the things you are mad about are about dishes, they’re about the stuff around the dishes and the hands and the soap and how he smelled on sunday of another girl. sometimes the dishes aren’t even dishes they’re blankets and sometimes they’re burnt food and sometimes they’re your favorite book. sometimes the song isn’t a song sometimes the song is a manipulation and sometimes the song is just bad and sometimes the song is stuck in my head from you singing it in bed and sometimes it is “i listened to this so i could learn what you like” and sometimes it is “i showed you this because i want to also show you my palm lines and my heart and the inside of my head.” 

sometimes you are dancing alone but you are not dancing alone because you are picturing seeing her in a green velvet dress across the room from you, and sometimes you are dancing with ghosts, and sometimes you are dancing with your mother’s voice. sometimes it is not a dance it is a walk and sometimes it is not a walk it is lying in bed and sometimes it is not lying in bed, it is not-dying, which is often good enough for survival purposes. 

& sometimes you say  oh, take a cookie with you when you go and you mean that i should take a cookie and sometimes you mean - take me with you, also. sometimes it is just burning something and sometimes it is burning something and sometimes it is burning a lot of other things first. sometimes it is just a shirt and sometimes it’s what you wore when you kissed her and sometimes it’s what you wore when you didn’t kiss her and sometimes it’s what you wore to the movies when you saw your last in-theatres movie without knowing it would be your last in-theatres movie. 

& sometimes the poem is just a poem and sometimes the poem is my earring in your hand and sometimes the poem is your smell and sometimes the poem is calligraphy and sometimes the poem is good lord you are addicting and sometimes the poem is a poem and sometimes the poem is unfiltered yearning and sometimes the poem is an anvil and sometimes the poem is - can i write a home, can you crawl in, can we be like little ferns, all curled up in bed. sometimes the poem is a poem and sometimes the poem is a dance and sometimes the poem is saying - no, i will skip showering, if you need me there, i’m coming.

Top 20 Most Popular Submissions (Part 1)

I’m so thankful for everyone who ever submitted prompts to this blog and who wanted to inspire us.

As a thank you here’s part one of the top 20 most popular prompts that you guys submitted! (Couldn’t find some of the blogs, if there are new blogs from the submitters feel free to tell me)

1. Prompt #345 by hamilfact

“So this doesn’t bother you?”

“Honestly the wings are kinda disconcerting.“

2. Prompt #313 by prettygayyyyyy

“So from the bottom of my cold, dead heart, screw you.”

3. Prompt #269 by ouilah

There is a common saying about the calm before the storm. But no one ever talks about the deafening silence after the storm hit.

4. Prompt #288 by serein-serene

“I like my coffee as black and bitter as my soul.”

“So, pink and sparkly then?”

5. Prompt #292 by punishingspace

“I still see him, you know? Like, in the corners of my eyes and such, little flashes; I’ll see him as I turn, but then he’s just gone.”

6. Prompt #359 by stringsoff

People aren’t made for each other; they make themselves for each other.

7. Prompt #327 by kubajznica

“You can’t just waltz in here like you own the place! There are regulations!”

“Relax, nobody saw me..”

8. Prompt #334 by ouilah

“Where do you see yourself in 5 years?”

I take a sip of my 4 am Whiskey Cola drink.

“At this time…probably in bed.”

9. Prompt #338 by themalenovelist

It was not what was said that ended their relationship - it was what went unsaid.

10. Prompt #402 by peaceandwaronplanetearth

“I’ve never seen a time traveler look so lost in his own era, but there’s a first time for everything I guess.”

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."

i love sunsets, i love discovering new music, i love stargazing, i love walking, i love the smell of earth after it rains, i love coffee, i love the smell of books, i love quiet afternoons, i love open windows, i love the underlying flavors in food, i love poetry, i love freshly baked bread, i love painting my nails, i love flowers growing through cracks in the pavement. etc etc