I Think Yes. - Blog Posts

I adore your galaxy brain, and I also raise you this idea: Rab looks at Ogler's Digest magazines because he wants to be like the girls in the magazines. In one of the 2D quests, a bunch of old men are turned into bunny girls. If you talk to Rab at some point in the quest, he says "Hm, maybe I could become a bunny girl? Aye, that wouldnae be so bad—it might give me a new lease of life!"

Ever since then, I've just imagined that when Rab said he was reading the magazines for the articles, he was telling the truth because he wanted to learn how to become a bunny girl. I love that option so much more than the old "horny grandpa" trope.

somehow my one celibate hendrik text post is like the most popular thing I’ve ever contributed to the dragon quest community and every so often people still comment on it.

anyway I also have opinions on rab do you guys wanna hear them

gaz and the wallflower. 'tis the season for self-indulgence. cw: alcohol

you're not sure why you agreed to come.

parties have never been your thing. the music's always too loud, and the number of strangers is always exhausting. tonight, everyone seems determined to find the holiday spirit at the bottom of a glass. you guess the alternative—sitting in bed with only your cat for company, scrolling aimlessly—would be worse. certainly more pathetic.

your flatmate had begged you. at first, she'd been casual. perched on the edge of the sink, curling her eyelashes, tossing out the invitation like it didn't matter either way. then, when you mentioned starting a new puzzle, she shifted. she lined her words up in a neat row. she had her reasons, and they came fast.

she couldn't go alone. she couldn't leave you alone, either. you'd know people there, she promised, it wouldn't be like the other times she dragged you out. john would be there, obviously, as would simon and soap. and kyle. you liked kyle, didn't you?

the first time you met him was another night at some pub. you'd nearly melted into the floor when she introduced you. "this is my flatmate. she's shy, so be nice." the words hit you squarely in the chest, singed your cheeks, and you'd thought briefly about slipping out the back door. the men barely glanced at you, their attention ricocheting back to their pints and conversation, except kyle. he stayed planted in your periphery, and when you risked looking up, you found him watching you, his mouth lifting in the corner.

"lovely to meet you," he'd said, and you'd managed to eke something out before skittering to the bar to order. you'd stuck close to your flatmate the rest of the night, even as she and john dissolved into their usual nauseating couple routine. if you felt kyle's gaze from down the table, you ignored it.

one drink in, you'd muttered something about a headache, grabbed your coat, and left.

you liked kyle, didn't you?

well...

when you arrived, you floated, half-hidden behind your flatmate, letting her take the reins to usher you through the packed house. you felt more like a prized pony with the way she presented you to people while you mumbled polite hellos and imagined silent commentary. yes, that's right, i'm the mysterious recluse who shares her rent. oh, you know her from pilates? how fascinating. oh, you're old school friends? of course. she seemed to know everyone. why she needed you in attendance, you didn't know.

eventually, she left you on the edges, john having finally arrived. you glanced around and spotted one familiar face—kyle. but he was mid-laugh, mid-conversation, already folded into the room's warmth in a way you couldn't imagine being. 

you slipped away before he could spot you.

historically, you've never done well with the socially gifted. folks who thrive in crowds, extroverts who absorb energy from it all. your flatmate is the exception, and it's a helpful arrangement. she fields deliveries and visits with the landlady. she's good for company, and her occasional night in. she's a better gossip than the cat, who isn't much of a conversationalist, and you're not immune to loneliness.

still, there's an ache to it. you envy her sometimes. her affable nature, her ability to take up space without apology. you've always been quiet, someone who gets spoken over. perpetually torn between wanting to be noticed and dreading the moment someone actually looks too closely.

which is why it feels almost miraculous how kyle doesn't make a show of it. you wouldn't even notice him approaching if you weren't already scanning the room, rehearsing excuses to leave, plotting a french exit. but then he's there, sliding into your orbit. a drink in his hand, an easy smile on his face. like you've known each other for years, not just one brief introduction.

he doesn't ask if you're alright or why you're standing off to the side of things. he seems smart enough to know those questions tend to come off wrong. awkward. a little patronizing. instead, he glances at the empty glass dangling from your fingers.

"need a refill?"

he doesn't wait for more than a nod before taking it and braving the packed kitchen to fetch another.

"not your scene, is it?" he asks, slotting the drink into your hand upon his return.

you laugh nervously, though it's more air than sound. up close, he's almost too much. undeniably handsome, with that easy confidence that feels like it should come with a catch. you half expect someone to slip him cash or for him to crack a joke at your expense, something to break the spell. but he doesn't. he just leans an elbow on the wall beside you and cozies up. god, he even smells good.

"that obvious?"

"since you walked in."your cheeks heat.

"i hoped you'd be here, actually. she's always going on about you."

that's news to you, but it seems sincere. you drum your fingers on your glass and shrug. play it cool. "she tends to exaggerate." you have no idea what she would even say about you. that you like puzzles and single-player games? that you have what's probably an unhealthy codependent relationship with your cat?

he grins. "i don't know, don't think she has. at least not this time. she said you're shy."

"don't remind me."

"a tough nut to crack."

"well, i wouldn't say that." he laughs at that, and you take a sip of your wine, the warmth in your cheeks spreading down to your chest.

it's stupid, the little knot of petulance tightening in your stomach. you want to be annoyed. the music is too loud, the crowd unbearable, the lights too harsh. even the wine tastes off, tart and acidic. there's a dozen reasons to leave, all of them ready to go in your head. but then here's kyle, tilting that all on its head, making your carefully constructed exit strategy feel flimsy and ridiculous.

before you know it, he reels you into an actual conversation. he pokes fun at the music. the way john keeps dragging your friend under the mistletoe. how simon glares daggers at anyone who even looks at soap.

and he makes you smile and laugh properly this time.

"you've got a great smile." he pays the compliment so softly, offhand like it's a simple fact, you almost look around to check again to ensure no one's put him up to it. then he continues, finishing his anecdote, and you realize you're actually enjoying yourself.

it's new. it's…nice. really nice.

you learn more about him—about his mums, how they're in greece for the holidays, and he won't see them until the new year. he tells you he wants to adopt a pet, but he can't, not with his job. you assume, maybe a little too quickly, that he means a dog, but he shakes his head. no, he wants a cat. ideally one that's lazy and less fussy. good for a night in. his life's chaotic enough as it is.

by the time it circles back to you, you're a little stunned. smitten, maybe. and from across the room, you catch your flatmate's eye. over john's shoulder, she gives you a sly thumbs-up and a big, dramatic wink.

oh. that sneak.

Unfortunately this is a rant because I don't have anyone to turn to when this happens.

My mother is not a crazy woman or often abusive, she's controlling but nothing much futher beyond that, but some times she has crises and it's always with me.

I always keep my bedroom door closed for my own safety, because I don't feel safe enough in my own home to keep it open. This wouldn't be a problem if my mother didn't blow up at me. She often yells and bangs on the door really hard when she's mad at me, and that's a huge problem.

Today she needed my documents to register for something, I listened to her the first few times, but I tried to ignore her so she would go away. She didn't leave. She banged harder on the door and screamed louder, and yelled threats at me. Saying he was going to break down the door and hit me.

I tried to ignore it again, but the screaming and banging were so loud that I cowered in my bed and covered my ears with my hands. I literally shook and cried with fear. I was so scared that I couldn't get out of bed to get the damn documents.

I contacted my friend so that I would have someone with me and know what happened to me if the worst case scenario happened. I really panicked, to the point of wanting to talk to God or the gods, but then I remembered that I didn't worship the gods and that I had angry towards Christian god. Nothing really big, but it's a moral of mine that I shouldn't benefit or contact god or gods only when it suits me. So I felt trapped in my own hole.

At some point I managed to gather enough strength to go to the drawer and get the documents to slip them under the door. It was torture. I was breathing heavily and panting with tears streaming down my face and my body was very weak. I had to crawl all the way to the end to pass the documents. My room is not big, less than ten square meters probably. That's how much fear affected me. Fear of my own mother.

I've stopped shaking and crying, I'm no longer in a state of panic, but my mind is still stuck in a state of alert. Every time I hear footsteps coming from the stairs I freeze, thinking it might be my mother and that I'll be greeted with more screams and threats. My heart is still tight and every movement I hear it leaves me on full alert, especially her voice.

Her voice makes me panic and want to cry again. It doesn't matter if it's directed at me or not.

Do you have any idea what it's like for a person to fear their own mother's voice? The person who should love and protect them, leaves them trembling and cowering, afraid of just her signal. As if the just air she breathed were thorns in your lungs... This is worrying. And what's more worrying is knowing that you don't have anyone in your family or outside to trust to be with you at these times. Because that role should belong to your mother. But she failed to fulfill the minimum of that role.

I wish this was just another whump in disguise, but no, this is a real occurrence of mine.

12/26/2024