lou preserving

when it wasn't meant to be 🤣🤣 but the potential of possibility still plagues you 🤔

i feel like there is a sleep in me that needs to be slept but each time i sleep i don't sleep that sleep

gonna be honest i don’t know how many more ‘enter the 6 digit code we sent to your phone’s i got left in me

When you thought it would be easy peasy lemon squeezy but it turns out to be difficult difficult lemon difficult.

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Not the citrus scale I was looking for but I like it

bodies should have crash logs. why the fuck did that just happen.

I feel like we really lost something when we started looking at writing as a reader-centric product meant to appeal to the desires of a specific audience rather than a writer-centric approach of someone writes whatever particular thing particular compels them/whatever weird thing the demons in their head want to talk about, and people out there who are also compelled, and/or relate, find that writing. A lot of discussions of writing really center around what readers want rather than a writer's exploration. Sometimes as a reader I don't know what I want. I click on a fic or pick up a book I'm not sure about but that looks interesting, and I love it. Reading what I expect to get is it's own joy, but we always need to expand our horizons and not get mad at creators for not always writing what we want/expect.

Dragging my bleeding, broken body up to the last computer and hitting post before succumbing to my injuries…

simply cannot ever resist what i call the little mermaid or the tin man or the pinnochio plot, the one about a character who is either inhuman or human but outside in some way, constantly searching for whatever it is that they consider to be the quintessential proof of humanity, preoccupied by it so deeply that they fail to realize the proof is in the act and fact of the search itself

MAYBE WE’LL FIND IT IF WE BOTH LOOK

"all you ever do is complain" that's not true. I also resent.

the humble tank top has done so much for homosexual women

Someday your hands will be old and wrinkled, the skin spotted and bunching over your knuckles. And a child will watch you make something. It's a simple task, you'll have done it a thousand times before. But to that child, the smooth, confident way your hands move will seem like impossible magic. You have to keep living.