Having A Father Is Like You're The Worst Man I've Ever Met My Fondest Childhood Memories Include You

I wish rich people went back to keeping artists as pets. Like when you’re wealthy enough you pick a cool weirdo to do regular commissions for you, and if you really want to flex on your peers, you’ve got several.

 And you visit them every once in a while like “hello, I’ve paid for your rent and your tools, have you worked on that commission giant oil painting of me getting sucked off by my political opponent, who is unfortunately still the mayor of this town, like I requested?”

 And your favourite feral art person looks up - mouth full of gravel and completely surrounded by art-related trash like “no, but I designed a helicopter.”

And you’re like “that’s fucking lit, the mayor doesn’t have a helicopter. Please carry on as you have.”

Brother

TW: CSA

Tell me how does darkness feeds on an unsullied soul;

Am I the one to be blamed for your viciousness?

Or was it the gratuity of my parents' sins?

Or was it the ode of innocence that tempted you?

An ode you consumed.

You shredded me to ribbons so that you could use them

to tie the knots of your selfish yearnings;

Morphed me into an infernal machine in the pursuit

of your eternal fantasy.

Unbloomed; I was cradled in the soft bed of childhood

Yet, you stripped me away from that delectation;

And impelled me into the wretched abyss of unholiness.

Suffocated I was, as you took advantage of a frail heart,

and ruptured it from its hollow.

Yet I am the one they blame, I blame.

For being tainted, ruined.

Abhorrence filled in their gazes.

But, if to taint me is to ruin me, then let the gods be blamed for bestowing such wickedness on my existence,

For I was nothing but a child,

Slaughtered because of vulnerability and pestering naivety.

Tell me why does darkness feed on an unsullied soul, brother?

The eldest daughter urge to "move away from home and cut off her family"

no you live in a society. i live alone in the city befriending houses and mourned when one of them was painted hideously yellow

writing tip:

if you push buttons on a keyboard, letters will appear on the screen. and with that power you can do anything

“I think women like to read about murderous mothers and lost little girls because it’s our only mainstream outlet to even begin discussing female violence on a personal level. Female violence is a specific brand of ferocity. It’s invasive. A girlfight is all teeth and hair, spit and nails — a much more fearsome thing to watch than two dudes clobbering each other. And the mental violence is positively gory. Women entwine. Some of the most disturbing, sick relationships I’ve witnessed are between long-time friends, and especially mothers and daughters. Innuendo, backspin, false encouragement, punishing withdrawal, sexual jealousy, garden-variety jealousy — watching women go to work on each other is a horrific bit of pageantry that can stretch on for years. Libraries are filled with stories on generations of brutal men, trapped in a cycle of aggression. I wanted to write about the violence of women. […] I particularly mourn the lack of female villains — good, potent female villains…I’m talking violent, wicked women. Scary women. Don’t tell me you don’t know some. The point is, women have spent so many years girl-powering ourselves — to the point of almost parodic encouragement — we’ve left no room to acknowledge our dark side. Dark sides are important. They should be nurtured like nasty black orchids.”

— Gillian Flynn, “I Was Not a Nice Little Girl”

I don't want to be a productive member of society. I want to be a poet and a menace.

He asked me when I fell in love with him and I knew it sounded dramatic to say the moment I saw him, so I told him this story of my grandma who had Alzheimer's- she forgot her name and the words for fruit and food, she forgot her address and how to use the washroom, all her life lost to the disease. The only thing she remembered was her son's name and when that began to fade, the one thing she always remembered was that she loved him, even in illness, even in insanity. She saw this 6 foot 2 man with a scrubby beard and she didn't know him but she said she trusted him, she asked him to hold her hand when she died. When does memory end and love begin? All I know is- she loved him before she remembered him.

-Ritika Jyala, excerpt from The world is a sphere of ice and our hands are made of fire

Sometimes it's just you and your unconventional wardrobe against your mental illnesses and neurospiciness.

quiver lover