theo

happy worm creation my friends

I love the different colour overlay options.

tagsssss:

tiny little worm!!!

In these posts you only see the sides of an ED that seem desirable (prominent collar bones, a thigh gap, reasons to keep pushing), but never the parts that would disgust and frighten you (inability to control your bodily functions, gaining and losing the same five pounds for years on end, pushing all of your friends and eventually yourself away).

Sometimes it seems attractive to be that “perfect broken person”. The one people look at and think “woah she’s so small” or “she needs help.” Sometimes you may feel like this is the way to show people that you are hurting. To give yourself worth.

But, sweetie, this isn’t it. It never will be. It’s not what people will tell you it is. Most of us will never be that “perfect broken person.” We’re not mysterious or tragically beautiful, we’re just hollow, wishing that we could go back to how things were before.

Wishing you have an eating disorder can be a sign you already have one. Please, talk to a therapist, a friend, a parent, anyone. Find someone that can tell you that an eating disorder cannot make things better. And listen.

I know that you are here because you are hurting. So, darling, let me tell you. I see you. I’m so sorry that you are going through this. You are so beautiful. You are amazing. You are deserving of life. Of food. Of happiness. Of everything you have tried to tell yourself you aren’t.

I know I can’t fix you. But, you can. You are so strong. You don’t have to let yourself go down this path only to look back years later and wished you’d turned away. Please leave these tags, go find anyone who can help you, and live. Just live. Please.

But one is a stranger, a woman she notices while she sits on a bench, gathering herself. It’s a type of woman she has never seen before, because there are no old women in Barbieland. When Barbie looks at her, she finds her beautiful and tells her so. The woman already knows. Suddenly Barbie, the fraught aspirational figure, has beheld someone she might aspire to be, and it is a radiantly content nonagenarian, reading a newspaper on a Los Angeles bench, who knows what she’s worth.

Hey, Sharpshooter - tortoisebore

Chapter 8: Dumb Stuff

One month later

At the end of the day, Remus was a weak, weak man.

It wasn’t his fault, really. The universe was working against him.

He was meant to be getting up for class right about now, but Sirius’ room was so quiet. Just on the right side of too warm under the mountain of thick blankets on the bed, the perfect sort of early morning dark with the barest hint of watery gray light seeping through the open blinds on the opposite wall. Rain was pattering softly against the windowsill, the smell of coffee drifting in from the kitchen, and the person he suspected was the love of his entire fucking life was plastered to his back, nose pressed to the nape of his neck, little puffs of breath slipping across his skin with every exhale. And Remus was supposed to just get up?

Despite the injustice of it all, he couldn’t help giving in to a smile when his phone alarm began chiming softly. This was one of his favorite versions of Sirius—warm and sleep-soft and clingy, sighing deep and pulling Remus back impossibly closer when he reached to turn the alarm off.

(pls zoom in bc this drawing is stacked)

(took the photo ref from pics/videos of celebrities-these celebrities include matt hitt, timothee chalamet, boygenius and lewis capaldi)

close ups without colour bc i may or may not like them better:

these two are the exception bc they turned out pretty cool

famous last words (an ode to eaters)