the downside about college is that every single day i have 1038847594049588483 pages of my textbook to read. the upside is that the inside of my textbook looks like THIS
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the downside about college is that every single day i have 1038847594049588483 pages of my textbook to read. the upside is that the inside of my textbook looks like THIS

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how do you come up with ideas on what to write?? it’s what i struggle most with. i either have no ideas or i get an idea and im like wait am i accidentally plagiarizing another fic…
daydream. i daydream a lot and this tends to be my main source of ideas and stuff. also listen to songs and consume media!! for my last fic, i was listening to blue light by mazzy star and kinda processing the lyrics when i thought of the premise. it can be tricky, and i feel like i’m struggling with a good idea right now, especially one that i feel like writing but it’ll come to you!
Mia fey deserved better than to be murdered by a man who looks like he jumped off a kindergarten classroom’s copy of candy land
honestly my favorite thing about los campesinos as a whole is how each song feels so similar and familiar, and yet, each song is so distinct from the others and invokes such a hyper-specific emotion. like to tundra? the melancholy acceptance of our own mortality. coda: a burn scar in the shape of the sooner state? how you feel when you're crying on the floor of your shower at 1am with the lights turned off. the time before the last time? sobbing as you drive home in the pouring rain, but make it cinematic. hung empty? the feeling of exploring a brand new place, a new chapter of life, and the excitement coupled with creeping unease that comes with it. she crows (documented minor emotional breakdown #4)? sitting in a dimly lit diner far later at night than anyone should be out, reflecting on your life and everything that brought you to this moment, looking back on all of your successes and failures and everyone who's loved you and hated you and everything in between—and accepting them all and being proud of how much you've grown and how far you've come. we are beautiful, we are doomed? the feeling of being a teenager, of being rebellious, of doing all the things you're told you shouldn't do just because it's finally hit you just how fleeting life is and how badly you want to live when it feels like you're on the brink of dying. this is a flag. there is no wind? the very essence of apathy, of feeling trapped in your own life, of wanting to break free and be undeniably yourself but feeling like that's downright impossible. glue me? the feeling of being held in the arms of your dearest love, the feeling of being surrounded by something safe, something familiar, something that feels like home.
holy fuck i love this band
IM FUCKING SCREAMING AHHFHDHFHFJFJ THIS IS WHY I CANT PLAY JACKBOX WITH PEOPLE WHO KNOW MY FANDOMS
okay okay. let me set the scene. we’re playing champed up. my prompt is “the champion of glamour.” so naturally, my champion is ranboolive.
i hit submit. the challenger scene comes up. my friend, sitting opposite me on the couch, looks up and narrows her eyes. i know that she has mine, and i know that she knows it’s mine.
she says to me, with the most smug look on her face, “what’s that thing in genloss episode three called?”
HER CHALLENGER WAS LITERALLY “RANBOO GETTING CRUCIFIED ON AN IRON MAIDEN.”
AND HERS FUCKING WON.
THE AUDIENCE LITERALLY VOTED FOR THEM TO DIE.

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maybe the reason trying not to think about it has latched on to my heart and burrowed into my brain like a tiny little parasite is because it’s essentially la jolla after she grew up <3
alrighty everyone!!! i’ve about to bake some blueberry muffins and i’ve got lego ninjago season 1 playing on my living room tv. let’s DO this
Her Name
Beneath a blanket of laurel and viridian she lies, Tucked among the roots and ivy. The forest holds her in an embrace of thistles and thorns, Bones of ossified birch, knees sunk into dirt.
Her ghost likes to follow me around, A youthful skip in her gait. She is much more vibrant than I, Eyes azure and gleaming As she darts through the tree line and gleefully squeals "Last one there is a rotten egg."
It's not uncommon for people to see her in me, Or rather, her instead of me. Grown-ups often chuckle and sigh, sugar sweet smiles on their lips, And chitter amongst themselves about how oh-so precocious she is.
Will they ever see me?
She and I are one in the same, people tell me. We have the same smile, same hair, same face. She is all I have ever been and all I ever will be. Anything I think or say or do, no matter how original, She has done it first.
Her name is what people know me by. It sticks to my skin like maple sap, Burrows itself deeper like a malignant little tick. While it once tasted like wildflowers and pine needles, Now, it is no more than a withered husk That tastes of ash on my tongue.
I do not hate her.
How can I?
She is pure and free and bright, A beam of sunlight born in the burning summer sky. My history is hers, and hers is mine, Identical spirals of cambium etched into the flesh of our arms. When I look into weathered polaroid photographs, Streaked yellow and pink from bygone years, I see her round, youthful face, Lips quirked upward and beaming at the camera.
Her smile is beautiful.
I hold her closely, I carry her on my back. Her arms are looped around my shoulders And her messy caramel curls fall over mine. She clings to me like a moth to a lamp, Sinks her ivory birch roots into my bones, Entwines herself with me. She is a part of me.
But I am not her.
I am alive and she is no more than a memory. Yet when the world speaks to me they call upon her name. When I do not answer, they do not understand why. When I drag them after me, through the woods and to her grave, And show them the brambles growing in her lungs And the sunflowers blooming in her throat, They tell me that she is merely sleeping. For how could a dead thing Bloom so bright?
So I hack off those beloved curls under the cover of the night And stain them the same color as the dawn. If I am ever to become more than the person who wears her face, I must bloom brighter than her corpse. If not an act of rebellion, then call it a desperate plea For someone to softly cup my cheek and, for once, see me.
I am not the little girl with the sunlit smile, But I once was, years ago. It is a fact that is as immutable as death, A law as eternal as life. And though I still carry her in my arms, I am older and wiser now And she will remain forever a child.
We are not the same person. Not anymore. And someday, I hope, the world will look upon us, See our fingers entwined like morning glory vines, And call upon not her,
But me.