what are you going to do with this account now that you no longer have the motivation to post/and or he active?
This post feels really attention seeking in a way, but I do want to leave something for mutuals (or at least, if my mutuals remember me lmao). But recently, despite my initial attempts to try and find the motivation to post or do things, I have been burning out quickly. It’s making it hard for me to do things that I once used to love to do, and unfortunately, is forcing me to stray away from social media platforms.
Honestly, that might be for the best. But I am upset with myself because I’ll miss talking with mutuals and sharing my work online. But I want to prioritize my health and studies.
For now, this account is under archive, and might be deactivated. While I don’t have many followers here, I did just want my moots to know that I’m not going to be active.
It was an amazing experience getting to know everyone and I’m very happy that I was able to get to know my mutuals!
TW: Mentions of child neglect, Mentions child abuse (Mostly verbal but some physical.), Alcoholism, language, that's all I can think of.
THE OUTSIDERS- STEVE RANDEL
LOSS OF A PET- FIC ONE
When I was three, we got a cat, she was a gray short-haired cat, older, and mean. Golly, oh was she really mean, but I loved her- I still do. More than anything, maybe even more than Sodapop, that's real hard to say though- I remember when we first got her, I wore little yellow boots with blue shorts with a yellow sweatshirt with some dog on it. I hated that sweatshirt. I’d been sprawled out across our kitchen floor, my mother over me, laughing as I ran toy cars across the ground and over her legs- her brown curls fell in waves against her tanned skin and ran like marathons down her back, she’d worn a dark brown skirt, I’d loved that skirt when I was younger. It was so soft and comforting like caramel or coffee, and even if I hate my mother, I'd admit brown would always remind me of her no matter what, of those little moments we got along, or when she remembered she even had a son.
I remember very little about my mother, she's not dead, hell, she still lives in our house. I remember her being around until I turned about five- she was absent after that. Pretty much everything I remember and know about my parents is about my father, and it’s almost never fond.
“Stevie! C’mon, Daddy has a surprise for us, baby!” I jumped up and rushed to wrap myself around my mother's legs with a squeal- she’d just pried a toy car out of my mouth, throwing it on the ground with a groan of disgust as she pulled me closer. “Oh what’sa the surprise mama?” i’d squealed, a smile dropped across my face, whipping my spit on the sleeve of my mother’s blouse, she’d hated that but laughed and I'd met her with a grin back, something we never did anymore. my mother was nothing but a stranger to me now, he'll she couldnt even get my name right anymore. “It’s a gift my Stevie! We have to wait and see won't we, dimples?”
‘My Stevie’, I was her Stevie. I was hers. I remember her wrapping her soft fingers around my hand, her perfectly polished nails digging into my hand a little. She was always done up. My mother had loved my dimples, one of the only traits I'd gotten from my father, said she adored them. I hated them. So did my father; My father considered them too much of a feminine feature- He’d thought I was the most feminine man on earth apparently.
I remember my mother's warm embrace as some dance song played on the radio, we sprawled out across the kitchen floor and waited for my father’s car to pull into the driveway while the smell of coffee and dinner wafted through the room, and the speckles of sunshine just barely danced across my skin. I remember how my mother sang along with the radio and tucked my hair behind my ears and how in that moment in felt like the world had just stopped spinning at the perfect spot. Like everything was going to forever be alright, I was my mama’s boy after all, huh?
“Sheila!”
“Oh Conor!”
I don’t recall what my parents talked about. In fact, now that I think about it, I think this was the first time I’d ever heard my parents' names, the first time I’d ever heard them referred to as anything but mommy and daddy, and my father hated being called daddy, even when I was younger. I'd only stared in confusion and run up to my father, who pushed me away for a minute, before smiling and hugging me. “Oh, my darling boy!” He’s hugged me, spinning me around like I was the most important thing in the world, the most important thing in his world. I think that was the first, and last time he'd ever hugged me, My father hadn't hated me, and I'm not sure he does now. I feel mostly hate for him, he failed as a father. I mean it, the money and gifts didn't give me the father I wanted, I’d wanted a father who was not all the time, not one who only loved me when he was sober, and my father was hardly ever that, let me tell you. It had always bugged me, even when I was little, that we weren’t rich. Not Curtis levels of poor, but we weren’t exactly ’well off’. I don’t think the amount of alcohol purchased helped us at all, of all the gifts he’d showered me in after yelling for hours on end about how he wished I was never born and that he wished I’d get in some horrific accident so he’d never have to see me again. I remember squealing as my father hugged me, laughing so hardily I remember nearly vomiting as we laughed, and showing me with kisses before reminding me that I was the most beautiful boy in the world to him, I was his everything. I suppose that had gone to shit too. The rest was foggy, most of my childhood is foggy, the good and the bad, but I remember that night was good. I was only slightly on edge, but I felt special, like the biggest, happiest boy in the world.
The next thing I can recall is sitting down and my father putting a box down. it
sounded like a car, I had asked if he’d just got a perfectly Steve-sized car and he’d laughed and I’d opened it so fast I couldn’t even imagine what it could be. My heart felt like it would implode out of excitement if I just waited a second longer- I was met with two pale greenish yellow eyes, Sweetheart- that’s what my father had named her.
I remember refusing to eat dinner. I was hungry and my mother had made Irish stew but even then, I couldn’t have been more disinterested. All my attention was on the cat bed and the new gray furrball that was lying there, “Stevie-“ I remember my father had called in a deeper voice. He’d had the remains of his accent then, he’d lost it since and I could just barely remember his voice, I had run around the house and cried for hours.
“Where is kitty? Oh, where is she, Daddy?” I’d only found her around dinner time, and I was determined not to let her out of my sight. I sat, my legs out, and grabbed onto her fur before she hissed and bit me, and even when she had I didn’t cry, in fact I followed her around until she finally stopped and brushed herself up on my leg. She wasn’t a large cat, but three-year-olds are tiny and she looked massive to me- I remember nearly falling over when she brushed hardly on my legs, I’d been so happy I only babbled and grabbed onto her.
I remember it was like that for a week, all I ever wanted was my cat, “Where did she go daddy?” Or “I’m busy Mama!” It had started to annoy my father something awful so he’d yell. That was my father’s favorite pastime, yelling. He was a mean yeller, I mean, you just don’t yell at a kid like how he was, it’s not right. I remember during that week so hard from calling me his sweet, to telling me to, ‘Haul your ass back here before he gets ridda’ the stupid cat because if I wanted to be around her so much him and cheatin’ ass mommy might as well leave for good and leave him here’. He had been drunk. I’m sure I ain’t gotta say this again but golly, he was a mean drunk, abusive one. Though, it feels weird calling him that. He was a good father when he ain’t on the drink and it was nowhere near what Johnny had to put up with. I have very mixed feelings about my father, I mean it. I hate him something awful but even then, there’s love in there somewhere for him, even if I despise him and wish the worst for him. It scared me something awful as a kid though, ya know? It’s not exactly the most enjoyable thing being screamed and told your that your father wishes abortions were legal so you would be here at ten years old, or that you oughta just go ahead and kill yourself, because you ain’t gonna be missed anyways at twelve. My father was always a yeller, and a mighty mean drunk.
I loved sweetheart, I still do. She was so mean, but she loved me- she hated my dad,
I remember one time when my dad was blasted beyond belief, I was supposed to stay at the Curtis’s but Ponyboy had gotten really sick, that wasn’t uncommon for him, even now, huh? The kid has a mighty streak of getting sick. I had been seven or eight, and he and my mother had gotten into a fight, a big one. I don’t remember why but he’d been day drinking all day and I was curled up on the cat bed, watching some movie, I don’t remember what it was- some program that let me tell you, I definitely shouldn’t have been watching at my age!
I remember shaking, cold, I’d left my jacket at the park and my dad loved to keep the doors open for fresh air, it had been snowing.
“Steve.”
I’d heard and I sat up- “Get up. You’re lying like fuckin’ pansy.” I sat up, my dad used to say that a lot, I hadn’t said anything, just sat up. My father gets ten times madder if you don’t do what he wants, especially drunk, let me tell you that. Sweetheart had let out a soft cry and my father had turned on gunsmoke. I hated that show, still do, I mean I used to hate violence, even if not anymore, I
That show would always remind me of my father's drunk yelling. Plus, it’s scary at seven years old so I’d tried to leave, go to my room but my father had stopped me, “Where the hell are you going, Steve?” He’d ask, and I’d say, “My room…”
He’d screamed at me for hours then, about how I needed to man up, that I was seven, not a baby. In fact, he’d raised his hand at my crying so I’d stop, I’d say that’s at least the top ten reasons my father has gotten upset at me, a seven-year-old wanting to go to his room. My father had hit me before, glory it feels strange admitting that, but it was the first time he’d thrown me out.
He’d just told me I oughta’ be a man and figure it out myself- at seven! I hadn’t even known how to tie my shoes yet. In fact, now that I think, I hadn’t even had shoes on anyway. It was snowing something heavy and he’d throw me out in the middle of the night, no shoes or coat.
I’d just wandered around too, crying. I mean, what are you supposed to do when your thrown out at seven? I couldn’t even comprehend what was going on, only that it was cold and I wanted to go play with my cars. Hell, I’d considered walking on down to the DX, I’d loved the DX even when I was younger! Or maybe I’d walk on down to school! I hadn’t known directions around then. I’d just trotted barefoot through the snow. I had decided to go to the DX, since I had wanted to see the cars and I was hungry. I thought cars were mighty tough and sometimes they’d let me wander around the back of the DX to look at them, I hadn’t understood that you had to pay for stuff then, I’d just assumed if you were hungry they gave it to you. God, wouldn’t that be world peace? I hadn’t even considered how I was walking through the middle of the road, all that was on my mind was how this was fantastic, and I oughta see the prettiest cars imaginable and stuff my face with chocolate and candy.
I hadn’t made it long before I had turned back to see a cat trailing behind me, crying. I’d run back to her and she brushed against me then, panting. I’d tried to pick her up, to carry her, since she didn’t like the snow, and my father always said that a real man takes care of his woman- and I wanted to impress my father.
I hadn’t made it past that though. I guess Mr. Curtis had heard the crying and decided to come and help the cat. He’d frozen though and grabbed me, I had been walking right through the road, he looked panicked you’d think he’d have an aneurysm on the spot, I had wondered if he could push his eyebrows any closer together, because it sure didn’t seem like it. The next thing I knew he was dragging me inside my by hand while I cried for him to let me go, I was going to the DX. He’d just sighed under his breath, with an, ‘oh baby…’
“Gosh, babydoll! Why’re you out at this hour? You ain’t got coat either-“ he’d stumbled and I’d dropped sweetheart to the ground, not expecting her to run off as soon as she did. I heard Soda rush out with a smile, he was in pajamas, Soda always smiled with all of his teeth, still did. I’d told Mr. Curtis, exactly what my father told me, that I couldn’t go back home because I wasn’t allowed, and that I wasn’t allowed to get my things so I was gonna go to the DX anyways, since I was hungry. He’d never looked more unamused, ravaging through the kitchen asking what I wanted to eat.
“Cmon Stevie! Oh mama, can he stay the night? Oh mama can he please? Oh, mama-” Soda has begged and I’d stumbled around anxiously for my cat with half a granola bar in my cheek as Mr. Curtis trailed after me. Where was she? I was really worried that maybe she’d made a run for it back home- instead, she cried and came rushing from the bathroom and nearly tripped Mr. Curtis who only let out a soft laugh, even with his brows, which seemed to be stuck in a furrow for the rest of his life with how he was staring at me. After ages of Soda pleading, Mrs. Curtis had agreed but said that she’d have to take Ponyboy out of the room then. Soda hadn’t seemed as amused at that but agreed, and had run up and embraced me, I had decided that I was mighty tired of Mr. Curtis’s questions by then and given up answering them. I ended up staying the night, never made it to the DX. Instead, Soda had ended up staying up the whole night, giggling and debating if Mr. Curtis or Batman, we got too distracted to ever finish that debate though.
My father had only come looking for me the next afternoon, panicked. If I had been kidnapped or killed, I think he would have given up after a few houses, you could smell it on his breath he’d been drinking from anxiety. I heard him and Mr. Curtis argue and I tried to hide myself just a little more under Soda’s bedsheets, as if I hid hard enough maybe he’d leave me here. Maybe I’d could be a Curtis instead and then he would have to yell at me like he always did. He would let my stag in my home, maybe if I hid hard enough I’d not be his son anymore. Soda had just sat up and stared at me, opening the door and saying I was in his room. That might have been the angriest I’ve ever been with him, I’d bit him when he pulled down the covers and he’d started crying, even in my anger I’d never felt worse.
“Cmon Steve, your daddy’s here-“ I’d heard Mr. Curtis pry and I’d locked myself just stood. My father stared at me with frustrated eyes and a sigh. He’d picked up Sweetheart and I darted towards her. I hadn’t even said hello or goodbye, I just remembered crying, crying for him to give her back. My father had locked her in a room at home and I’d cried and cried. He yelled again that night, about how I was being a baby. I’d just cried harder and screamed at him to open the door, I think I even bit him, repeating only some of the things he’d yelled at me, “Open the door you bastard!” I’d cried, he’d slapped me across the face, and told him never to talk to me like that.
For all of this, my mother was absent. At least from my memories, I know she was there, but she just watched it go on. As I kicked and cried and banged and tried to get my cat back, as I hit and bit and as my father yelled that he wished I was never born or called me every name under the sun he could think of, or slapped me across the face, she had just sat back and watched. Even after Pony had gotten me sick, I’d had to deal with it myself. God, I hated my mother.
Sweetheart died last winter, it wasn’t a paintful death. She got old and died. That’s how it goes- that’s just what happened with time, ya know? She had passed away in her sleep in my bed, buried her head into the crevice of my neck, and purred. Her soft meows, closing at me gently as she slipped away. I hadn’t done anything, just lay there. She had died when I woke up, we’d- I’d buried her in our backyard. I’d planted flowers over her since, to let her flourish. I kept her collar in my bedside stand with a ball of fur, my room still smelled like her, I’d rummaged through my drawers to find everything I could of her.
“Where are you going with her collar Sam?” My mother had asked, I hadn’t looked her in the eyes, or correcting her. I’d just shoved it into my pocket and headed up to my room. “I’m leaving.” I’d declared and my mother had just nodded, not even cared. My father had had more of a ruckus of it- “You’re leaving? Where? Gosh we’ll visit Stevie- you know we love you-“ he declared and I’d shoved him away. “Don’t call me Stevie, that's not my name.” He’d frowned and I’d avoided eye contact. He’d rambled on about all the ‘good memories’ we had here and that it was awfully early for me to move out-I felt a sense of shame almost bubble up in my chest. “Yeah.” I’d just agreed, and he’d told me I didn’t have to move out, I could stay. I’d just sighed and frowned at him. It almost- angered me how clueless he was acting, like he was the perfect father- he pulled me into a hug and I’d never thrown a woman off me faster. “Don’t touch me, I’m leaving tonight, I'm all packed.” I’d spat out and I watched the hurt fill his face, I’d stormed away to our yard and stood there. I wanted to say good boy to sweetheart before I left for good.
“Goodbye, princess…” I’d whispered, it felt weird, real weird, I unclenched my fists and sighed, “Goodbye Sweetheart…” I couldn’t seem to raise my voice at all. I still felt like that three-year-old boy who had just gotten a cat- my cat, Sweetheart, it felt so weird- saying goodbye to her.
Hey so I thought we as userbase should organize spontaneous blackout protest against shapes inc ads here. I thought Feb 26th would be a good date (so ppl has 72 hrs notice if they want to participate), we would log off for 24hrs to show tumblr we are not okay with that (and also for shapes to get less ad revenue for a day in a process lol). Tag would be 'anti shapes inc protest'
If you like the idea/want to participate, help spread the word by reblogging this ask. Thanks <3
I would happily comply with this, hopefully enough people participate for it to make an impact!
OOOOOH THANK GOD WE'RE DOING SOMETHING ABOUT THIS(though I do feel like we'll need to do more than just have a blackout every now and again. Ooohh I'm excited for what we could do next)
@cosmosdystopia @tricornesrcool @the-koolest-kal @princefable hope you don't mind the tag lol
this is who the shit tumblr is promoting hurts btw
fuck shapes.inc.
if you see this please at least think about partaking. websites like shapes.inc are predatory and target children. these sites have also been proven to be extremely addicting—it’s bullshit that tumblr is promoting this.
