A HOUSEWIFE HEADACHE,

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but she’s also looking at it through the lens of not feeling like she’s accomplished much herself. she never went to college, she ‘failed’ at her only real big girl job, she married at 19, she’s wildly unhappy with her life. so i feel like, while she does have vague aspirations on behalf of her kids, and wants to live vicariously through them, she mostly just wants to give them every opportunity they have to get the hell out of hawkins. even if it breaks her heart a little to think of them leaving

young karen makes me so :-(((

"Oh, thanks, Nance, real mature." A pout of the petulant variety, which is quite ironic, really, coming from a woman currently lecturing her daughter on maturity. "Just what am I supposed to do with all the Easter eggs I have hidden 'round the place now, huh? Eat them myself?" A tempting idea.

“can't i?”　spoken like a challenge, though the grin she wears is not nearly defiant enough to be cause for concern.　“let me spoil my grandkids, steven, i hardly ever get to see them!”　their piggy banks full of andrew jacksons' might beg to differ, but she's not planning on giving up anytime soon.

a mock-up, a first attempt, a pile of dogshit  –  w/e u wanna call it  ...  it has helped restored my karen muse :^)

automatically,  she  drops  her  gaze  to  the  gold  watch  around  her  wrist,  squinting  some  in  the  low  light  so  as  to  decipher  where  exactly  the  hands  lie.                ❝        oh,  god,  is  that  the  time?        ❞                hard  as  she  tries  to  appear  flabbergasted  at  just  how  late  (or  early)  it  is,  the  grimace  she  wears  soon  melts  into  an  almost  adolescent  laugh,  one  she  strives  to  smother.    a  mixture  of  the  wine  and  tiredness,  that’s  what  karen  blames  it  on.    it’s  been  so  long  since  she’s  done  this,  too,  stayed  up  until  the  wee  hours  just  talking  and  drinking  with  someone  else.    that  more  than  explains  it  away,  right?                ❝        you’re    ––    you’re  more  than  welcome  to  stay,  if  you  like.        ❞                with  no  spare  bedrooms,  one  of  the  couches  is  all  that  she  can  offer  up,  but  she  doesn’t  say  that  just  yet.

❝        w-what?  (!)        ❞                such  a  simple  word,  yet  she  trips  and  stumbles  over  it  like  she’s  walking  on  ancient  cobblestones.    a  hand  is  raised  to  press  against  the  lips  in  question,  stained  some  by  the  wine,  and  her  cheeks  almost  match  the  colour.                ❝        uh,  can  i    ––    top  up  your  glass,  or    ...        ❞

you’re trapped here, aren’t you? even if you like to say it’s of your own volition. i know better, and i bet you do, too. there’s this sickening kind of resentment that lives in your stomach, always trying to claw up and out through your mouth. people think they are entitled to your time and your being simply because you exist, which makes you feel both seen and entirely invisible at the same time. it feeds that anger inside of you, and it is a matter of time, every time, before that resentment turns sour, climbs out of your lungs, and rears its head at whoever is closest. this is your home. you’re the keeper of this house, and, in turn, it keeps you.