Wild Ramblings

"Would you like to?"

"Sure!"

So I told them. I told them the story as I know it- and I've had a bit of practice. Orpheus, child of a wishing star, favorite of the messenger god, who had a hard-working, wonderful wife, Eurydice; his harp that could lull beasts to passivity, coax song from nymphs, and move mountains before him; and the men who, while he dreamed and composed, came to steal Eurydice away. I told of how she ran, and the water splashed up on my clothes. But I didn't care. I told of how the adder in the field bit her heel, and she died. I told of the Underworld- how Orpheus charmed the riverman, pacified Cerberus with a lullaby, and melted the hearts of the wise judges. I laughed as I remarked how lucky he was that it was winter- for Persephone was moved by his song where Hades was not. She convinced Hades to let Orpheus prove he was worthy of taking Eurydice. I tugged my coat back on, and said how Orpheus had to play and sing all the way out of the Underworld, without ever looking back to see if his beloved wife followed. And I told how, when he stopped for breath, he thought he heard her stumble and fall, and turned to help her up- but it was too late. I told the story four times after that, to four different groups, each larger than the last. And I must have cast a glance at the statue, something that said "I'm sorry, I miss you--" because when I finished my second to last retelling, a young boy piped up, perhaps seven or eight, and asked me a question that has made my day, and potentially my life: "Are you Orpheus?" I told the tale of the grieving bard so well, so convincingly, that in the eyes of a child I was telling not a story, but a memory. And while I laughed in the moment, with everyone else, I wept with gratitude and joy when I came home. This is more than I deserve, and I think I may never be sad again.

“In a church,” Sam cuts in, resigned as he stares at the gathering clouds in a blood red sky. “This is because you fucked a priest in a church.”

“You what?” Cas repeats, in a tone entirely impossible for Dean to parse.

“He lived in a little building off the church!” Dean snaps. “What was I supposed to do, bring him back to the motel room where Gigantor would judge me when I kicked him out?”

“Listen,” Sam says. “I am not well versed in priest fuckery, but I’m pretty sure there is literally nowhere worse to fuck a priest than in a church.”

“It wasn’t even really in the church, you big baby-“

“And now I have to live my life, saddled to you-“

“Nobody is making you hang out with me-“

“Haunted by your bad, slutty decision-“

“Don’t slut shame me-“

“Don’t slut shame you for getting freaky with a priest? Dean?”

“We actually didn’t get that freaky,” Dean mutters.

“In a church?”

“It was a little building that was attached to the church-“

“The proximity to the church-“

“Okay,” Cas interrupts, with the bearing of a man under the impression that he is displaying an infinite fucking patience. “I fail to see how this is productive-“

“I dunno,” Sam says. “Maybe if we sacrifice Dean to God-“

“You know, your insufferable self righteousness about this should have ended right when you started shacking up with Ruby-“

“We are not sacrificing Dean to God,” Cas says flatly in his I am an Angel of the Lord voice. “We have a problem unrelated to Dean’s blasphemy. I suggest we solve it.”

“It wasn’t blasphemy,” Dean says.

“Was he in the getup, Dean?” Sam asks, in his most long suffering tone.

Dean struggles for a second, uncomfortably aware of Cas’ eyes on him.

“Well, it fit him pretty well-“

Sam turns to Cas. “All we gotta do is take him up a mountain, strap him to a big flat rock, and let nature take its course.”

“No. Not yet.”

Dean draws himself up. “The fuck do you mean, yet?”

Cas ignores him. “Sam, I would advise you call Rowena.”

“Right.”

“Dean.” Cas fixes him with a look he can’t read. “We will discuss this later.”

“I mean, we don’t have to-“

Cas vanishes, leaving Dean disgruntled as Sam walks away to call Rowena. Dean sticks his hands in his pockets out of a lack of something to do.

“Ooh, Dean, let’s dog pile on you for that time you fucked one guy,” he mumbles. “Let’s aaaaaaall gather round and judge Dean for that one time he hooked up with one priest-“

“I’m on the phone!” Sam shouts. “Sulk quieter!”

I've started treating myself like I would a dog that's going to chew through the house when it's bored. I walk myself. I seek activities that make my brain feel less like depressed sludge. I ask my body what it needs; I rest, I enjoy rest. I don't see it as a waste or unproductive. I see it as allowing my body to do its job of working better. I lean into appreciating my natural features. I'm a hunk of flesh. I can be ugly. I can decide that ugly is appealing. I can not care. Whatever. I started emphasizing little things that nourish my relationship(s), shelving distractions more, so I can relish the time I have with loved ones. I specifically pursue pleasure--dopamine--not just quick hits from scrolling social media but getting off my ass. Engaging. Cooking myself nice meals and making fucking art, man. Things that make my spirit feel more alive than I have for years. I ask myself what it is I want rather than only doing what I'm supposed to be doing. And it doesn't mean shirk every responsibility, it means recognizing you're one of your fucking responsibilities. It's reordering. I realized I'm going to die happy or unhappy and either way I'm just as dead in a given amount of years, and I choose to die happy and fulfilled.

Everything else can get fucked ad infinitum.

Hew name is Lucy, she is well-loved, and she just looks like that all the time:

Indistinct green shapes swirled overhead. The world seemed to be screened from me by a thick haze of fog and confusion. This smelled of craniocerebral trauma,

He had wavy shoulder-length brown hair and large brown eyes. I guess he'd be considered hot if you were into that sort of thing (which I wasn't) and by that sort of thing I mean men.

the hoppits

"You're the most gorgeous girl in the world," Legolas said. "You're a liar and also a creep" I responded and then I slapped him across the face.

I wish Boromir was my dad.

In the end they sent me to live out my days on a small farm in the middle of nowhere. It suited my tastes.

screenshotted excerpts from the

aforementioned fic: