#stupid memory

'you're such a nice PERSON' 'you're my favourite HUMAN' 'you're a very interesting CREATURE' 'fellow INHABITANT'

it usually works pretty well unless they're an alien then it doesnt work or a cat the first two dont work for cats

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Teen Wolf (TV) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski Characters: Derek Hale, Stiles Stilinski, Scott McCall, Sheriff Stilinski, Melissa McCall Additional Tags: Mpreg, Derek mpreg, Temporary Amnesia, Amnesiac Stiles Stilinski, Hurt Stiles, Humor, Fluff and Crack, Established Relationship, Established Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski Summary:

When Stiles wakes up in the hospital with temporary amnesia after a household accident, finding out that he's no longer 17 but 27 AND happily married to Derek Hale is not even the biggest shock in store for him that day.

It's a Iida x reader where he's to busy to spend time with them so bakugou comes in

5/5/2004 (I am 20 and have been reading too much woolf and am entirely embarrassing)

As I ordinarily place no importance on the merely physical (it is that I am honestly rarely aware of the purely physical: an error in observation more than proof of a superior character) it is particularly disturbing to me when I become preoccupied with my own body. Some piercing vision I blind myself from to get through looking in mirrors and fixing my hair ordinarily; ordinarily, I can see myself without really seeing myself, a deeper sight which, when rarely and horrifically gained, convinces me that this is the way all people see me always, this deeply ugly and blemished creature, and makes me loathe myself.

I caught sight of myself in the train window and realized why people seem always to perceive me as a frightened, weak, shy thing; up until that moment I was perfectly at ease and content, but I looked terrified and defeated. No other affected expression seemed to change this: no slight smile, widening or narrowing of my eyes, parting of my lips could give me outwardly the manifestation of the comfort and settledness I felt -- or had, until this anxiety. I looked small, brittle and helpless, my eyes cold and empty -- so do I always look this way? Even in companionable silence, even engaged in conversation? If this is the first impression I create (and it always seems that it is) how long does it persist? Am I powerless to reverse it?

And I am small, and I do cross my legs and draw them in close to my body, and I cross my arms, too, or rest my head on one hand, that arm resting tight against my side: no, I do not sprawl confidently, carelessly. My shoulders slouch out of habit and I nest myself into corners for comfort. I am comfortable wedged in, withdrawn and curled tight, but does that say anything about who I am or how I feel?

Obviously, I think not, no more than I believe this face I cannot help and its natural expression really prove some insurmountable passivity. But I am sometimes almost pathologically aware that this is how I am perceived. 

I cannot stand to be watched -- and I feel always that I am watched. On a train, in a crowded square, doubtless someone’s eyes are on me, judging and dismissing me all in an instant. I pass into their lives with no choice in the matter, and am summarily forgotten, discarded, unwanted. I do it too, which is why it deeply disturbs me: I judge people in order to feel better about myself; unless I capture a moment of self-destroying pure scientific objectivity, or unless I fall in love with them (and, egotistically, view what I love in them as the qualities I lack) then I am silently judging. And this, I fear, is their unacknowledged judgment of me: there goes a girl who doesn’t pick up her feet enough when she walks so her shoes make grating squeaking noises on the concrete; she must be fearful and weak. This I assume yet the truth is no one gives a damn what I do or what I look like; I am a stranger passing meaninglessly, if at all, in and forever out of their lives.

And yet I know there is also a mood in which I want -- desperately -- all eyes on me: I am beautiful, I am brilliant; look how expressive my fingers are, merely sliding against, caressing one another; I am reading Virginia Woolf on a train. I want to be admired, recalled to a stranger’s mind the way I sometimes conjure up images of people I sat across from on a DC metro seven years ago. That is not me, but nevermind: take this body and create an image of me in your mind.  I often feel I am performing, affecting a superior tone with those I feel are not my equal. My feminist conversation in the cafe last week: was that not enjoyable not only in itself, but also because I performed gloriously? I was haughty, I was forceful: it didn’t really matter what I said, because I could dazzle with phrases better than they. With conviction in my superior knowledge I put myself on display: do you suppose my face looks the same, as empty and spiritless, in these moments?

The prevailing mood is certainly not one or the other extreme: I am centered, comfortable in myself, and don’t give a damn what anyone thinks. I seek conversation with equals, to participate in honestly and with mutual respect; I do not often want to dominate or feel oppressed. I have overstated for effect; I have painted myself in the worst possible light once again.

But this face, this body, they truly do bring me anxiety when I allow myself to dwell on their reality, rather than continuing to see the world as I do, in essences and words, through feeling and not matter. I do, progressively and alarmingly, dissociate my self from my body, so that the notion that this body is the most almost everyone will ever know of me is abhorrent. If only we could really express ourselves bodily, if we could choose: I would be tall and slender, with long bony fingers, and much smaller breasts, and harder angles to my face, and more striking eyes -- this, if I could translate who I feel I am into what I appear to the world to be. This face, this body -- they lie about me every day; and people make their assumptions; and based upon this some may think they know something about me; but no one does.

I do actually wish to be somehow invisible, seen through, reduced to (elevated to, I mean) my words: this is who I am, at least so far as I understand. Everything else detracts, stands in the way of possible communion. I am not my body, no matter how I dress it, how I carry myself, how I screw up my face. It feels to me a hard shell, a restricting barrier, which I -- whatever various thing I call I -- must break through. Its preparations and ministrations only distract one from what I feel is my real work; I am at my most detestable when I consider it and occasionally become fixated on it; it stands between our mutual understanding. 

 - kindergarten: miss hill, I would have drawn blood to be Line Leader to the restroom, got to hold her hand the whole way, could still identify her perfume today if I smelled it

- second grade: miss tenney, I already told you the boing story

- third grade: that time ms shiflett probably. lightweight assaulted me and I liked it

- third grade: miss corbasero said I looked SHARP one day

- third grade: miss white took off her shoes during spelling bees

(third grade was A LOT)

- elementary school music teacher: MISS GOODEN, OH GOD, IDEK, I MADE HER SOME KIND OF POP-UP CARD when I thought she was leaving, but then she was back the next year, I wanted to D.I.E.

- fourth grade: I was legit in love with Miss Mahoney, I don’t want to talk about it, she introduced me to caddie woodlawn and let me steal a lot of travel books from the school, and forced me to read my writing aloud to the class when I didn’t want to but she thought it was good and like. IT WAS LOVE

- fourth grade: Miss Meredith for science, and I loved her too, but she was younger and I was too much in love with Miss Mahoney, isn’t that always the way,

- fourth grade: Miss Nicolson, the thing about Miss Nicolson is I never had her for class. But she was a serious hot older lady of the Harriet Walter variety ykwim. I remember WANTING to have class with Miss Nicolson. God I am so fucking gay.

- sixth grade: miss shelastovich (??) I got so honestly butthurt when she announced she got engaged

- sixth grade: miss lowery, boss ass bitch in charge of spelling bees, good god she had this way of lowering her voice to a whisper when kids dared to misbehave, I knew that shit was hot

- eighth grade: mrs elavsky, I WAS LEGIT IN LOVE WITH MISS ELAVSKY, I wrote her basically a love letter at the end of the year I don’t want to talk about it, she told me she saved my papers for when she was disheartened by everyone else’s papers, she could go to mine and have her faith restored it’s fine

- middle school “project excel” (groan): MRS MONRO, I’M NOT READY TO TALK ABOUT IT

- high school history: miss faulkner, she coached cheerleaders and was a raging feminist and told me to go after my dreams and also told me I wrote too many journal entries about ice skating

- high school history: MS KREINER, LIKE, I DEDICATED TWO YEARS OF MY LIFE TO THIS WOMAN, YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND, SHE PROBABLY VOTED FOR TRUMP BUT LIKE, I WORSHIPPED HER, ALSO SHE SAID SHE UNDERSTOOD GAY MEN BUT LESBIANS COULDN’T EXIST, SO IN RETROSPECT I HATE HER A LOT, BUT HONESTLY SITTING IN THE HALLWAY GRADING PAPERS FOR HER THEN WAS MY WORLD,