𝙰𝚞𝚐𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝟷𝟻, 𝟷𝟿𝟷𝟸 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙳𝚒𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝙾𝚏 𝙵𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚣 𝙺𝚊𝚏𝚔𝚊, 𝟷𝟿𝟷𝟶 -𝟷𝟿𝟷𝟹

I wonder

Do I want them to know it was all on purpose?

Do I want them to be certain, when I'm gone, that everything was planned? Not a first draft, or a sketch, but an elaborate contraption a lifetime in the making?

There are things that don't bother me in the least that I will kick up a dramatic, comedic fuss about so they feel they got to "get me". Reoccurring bits and inside jokes they have no idea I set up just to build off of.

And when I *do* go, will those stories be told at the wake? Will I have a great-grand niece someday, hearing their parent talk about some old dead bag they never knew who was short as hell and, used to lift everyone off the ground just because they could, for no reason at all? To prove how strong they were, maybe?

I hope so.

I hope the person I'm making for them is the absolute best. I hope I give them so many good memories to share. I hope I become so many funny stories for someone else to tell someday.

You know, my siblings and I weren't always on good terms.

Our parents were always at work, and when they were home they were at each other's throats. We lived in the middle of nowhere. I was a snappy, brooding, sarcastic little baby emo, and a know-it-all on top of that, and they could be heartless, cruel little monsters when they wanted to be, and locked up alone together with me in charge we'd build up like a pressure cooker that always seemed to end in screaming and cursing and tears.

I've said some truly, unbelievably awful things.

And you know my brother, the hockey guy? We got into a knife fight once.

But we grew up. Our parents spilt. We moved on. We moved away. I gained the ability to let go of the bitter feelings, and decided that if there was a person in my life I thought I needed, maybe I could become that person, and maybe be that person for people like I was.

Not to set myself up as some kind of Saint. I'm not a well of endless patience. I'm still brittle sometimes, and my social battery runs out fast, and I don't have it in me to visit as often as my heart says I should, and I'm emotionally distant and lazy and kind of a mess, but I'm happier than I used to be. Hell, they're happier than they used to be. We were in a bad place, but we got out.

I'm sorry you didn't have the person you needed when you needed them, but that time is gone. You aren't going to get any do-overs.

Just take a dose of sunshine 🥰

Bonus 1 : him being gallant and kissing the crowd

(Also I am about the same height as Lauren so, I would probably only reach his shoulder too 😅)

Bonus 2 : extra shy 🥰😭!

George Orwell, whom I’ve dragged forward in time with my arcane powers because I’m lonely and want someone to talk to: You have a telephone in your pocket?  It listens to you all the time?

Me: Never mind about that, the point is, young people now mock each other by sending the wheelchair emoji - that’s a type of electronic heiroglyph - to suggest mental deficiency and shout SPESHUL!!!! while doing offensive imitations of disabled facial expressions and posture.  So any attempt to lexographically make crimethink impossible is pretty much doomed because the meaning of words in everyday conversation can’t be controlled by a dictionary entry, no matter how many Ministry of Truth employees-

Neither Courage Wolf nor Calming Manatee were doing much to help my anxiety, but I knew they were both on to something.