Physically Ill From This.

Me & my beautiful wonderful amazing wife! My wife who I love so much! (She can lift me like it's nothing)

Bob Dylan and Joan Baez. 1964

NOOOOOOO

SATAN NOT DURING PRIDE MONTH!!!

Chat

Chat I'm scared.. I think I'm gonna be in a.. straight relationship

I really wanna draw my Nameless Ghoul OC 😮‍💨

Drawing people is hard enough for me, how do I draw a GHOUL for crying out loud? If anybody has tips or can help me, please reach out, ghesties! 😭

So weird that JD Vance killed Pope Francis, guys. That wasn’t really cool 🫤

Hell, I'd make his joints work overtime, too.

/j though ofc

Shawn Hatosy making his joints work overtime

The Anish Kapoor tag being pinkest pink cracks me tf up

Like obviously it’s not exact but be so fr

Time Doesn't Heal-- An Original Short Story

This is a story I wrote for a creative writing assignment in my English class. Kind of angsty, it's technically my X-Men OC, but that's not important.

Word Count: 1,143

It had been awhile since Felix had a weekend off. Five years, to be specific. He had the occasional day off, sure, but he always found something to do with the free 24 hours. A whole weekend? Daunting. It would take more time and energy to plan what he would do, rather than just enjoying it. He would’ve been content with staying at work, but a co-worker of his insisted he stay home. She said that he ‘looked like he needed a break.’ Could he argue with that? He reluctantly accepted, and found himself with a whole weekend off in January of 1991.

Felix stared up at his ceiling, mind starting to wander. He remembered being young. He remembered enlisting in the army right around the tail end of the Vietnam war in 1974. He was eighteen years old, and he wanted to fight for something, anything. He wished he had the energy he had then. Now, at thirty-five years old with no life other than his job, and the occasional fishing trip, he found it difficult to really find the motivation he needed. 

He thought of his experiences. What was he fighting for? He couldn’t even remember. He only served for one year, but what he saw in that amount of time was enough to last him forever. For a long time after, his mind was a very dark place, and he didn’t know what to do with himself. He had quit attending therapy just two months prior to that weekend, and he was starting to wish he hadn’t. The louder his thoughts got, the more frustrated he became.

He got out of bed, trying to shake away the thoughts that were approaching quickly. Walking to the tall mirror standing in his room, he watched his reflection. He glared at it. He glared at the stress lines that appeared on his face far too early. He glared at the way his posture slumped, making him look defeated. The thoughts started again. Mocking him.

“Is this what becomes of the great Veterans in America? You look like your father.”

“Shut up,” he muttered, his voice breaking the silence of the room. No one else was in there with him. Who was he talking to? He thought about it as he moved into the kitchen. Would he turn into one of those crazy people the news talks about? Dangerous, violent, unpredictable, someone to fear, someone to lock up in the nearest psych ward, out of sight, and out of mind?

The coffee maker on the kitchen counter blinked 12:00, oblivious to the correct time. He forgot to set it after the last power outage, so on it went, forever blinking on, until it became a relic, lost to time. Felix often empathized with the piece of aluminum. He felt he was never able to move on. He would always stay stuck in the past while the world buzzed on without him. He was thirty-five, but he couldn’t remember a single significant event in his life past twenty. He was stuck, just like the coffee maker. 

“Still haven’t figured out how to fix a clock?” Those thoughts struck back up in his mind like a mosquito buzzing around as he grabbed the steaming mug from the machine.

“It makes coffee. That’s all it needs to do.” He responds sharply. 

“Like you? Just keep doing your job, right? Who needs to fix the broken pieces?” Felix tried to ignore it. He tried to think of his cat in the other room, probably sleeping. “You were more alive crawling through Jungle Mud than you are now. The world moved on. But you’re stuck here.”

“Just let me have a quiet morning, alright?” He was getting fed up with this. One normal morning. That’s all he wanted, but the murmuring in his head grew louder.

“You don’t really want a quiet morning. You’re afraid of what you hear while everything else is silent. You’re angry that no one else can hear it.” The ‘it’ in question made itself known. The sounds of war. Explosions, shouting, and gunfire. He gripped his coffee cup tighter, staring into the almost empty mug. The faint silhouette of his reflection stared back, taunting him.

“I went to therapy for that. I moved on,” Felix replied, before draining the rest of the cup.

“You didn’t, though. You’ll never move on. You’ll be just like the coffee maker. The world moved on without you. Maybe it was meant to.”

An indescribable anger surged through him at the thought. Before he could stop himself, the coffee mug was flying out of his hand towards the floor. He didn’t usually lash out like that. Not anymore. He tried telling himself that today was an exception. 

After a considerable amount of time out of the kitchen, ignoring the broken shards of mug, he had managed to calm down enough to where he was able to turn on the news for some background noise. Multiple times, he looked at the kitchen door. He didn’t want to go back in. He didn’t want to confront the chaos he caused. He didn’t want to see that infuriating coffee maker blinking at him, forever displaying 12:00.

Eventually, he dragged himself back into the room. He first looked at the appliance, and seriously considered fixing the time. The thought quickly left his head as he looked down and saw the mess of shattered porcelain. He crouched down, beginning to pick up the pieces. With all the large shards of the mug clutched precariously in his hand, he makes his way towards the trash can.

 “Damn!” It took all of his willpower not to drop the fragments that took too long to pick up already. After discarding the broken mug, he looked at his hand. A small cut had been made on his palm. The careless handling of the cup had its repercussions.

Upon returning to work after what seemed like the longest weekend ever, his co-worker was quick to question him.

“How was your weekend off? I hope it was nice.” He knew she would ask. His co-worker, what was her name? Janet? Julia? She was never one to keep to her own life. Felix knew she would have a field day if she knew about the weekend he really had. 

“Yes. Very relaxing,” he lied. She was none the wiser of this, instead, moving her eyes to the obvious cut on his hand. It was starting to heal, but it was still bright red and angry.

“Oh, my God, are you okay? What happened?” He tried thinking of something, anything to say. How could he explain this? 

“Er– yes, I– must’ve nicked it on something. Nevermind that.” He shoved his hand into his pocket. He wasn’t ready to get help again. Not yet. Maybe the next time he has a weekend off.

CIA got her before she could finish the post...

It's strange how blueberries are called blueberries but they purp

Mel King from The Pitt could tell me to do anything, and I'd study the art of whatever the hell that thing is so I could do it RIGHT.

Ororo Munroe. From X men. GODDESS!!!

Not a fictional woman, but JOAN BAEZ the folk musician. Bob Dylan fumbled her so bad!

And ofc not fictional again, but MY WIFE!!!

@thirteen-hundred-secrets

favorite character from any media BUT it has to be a woman. in the tags now go (pls talk to me about your favorite fictional women pls pls pls pls)