[hillergoodspeed]

[iiwaken]

☆*゜★。 potion room  ☆*゜★。

[dearest1]

my immense self hatred VS my delusional god complex

[grendel-menz]

burning food is an inherited trait

[holdersol]

How does one get your attention?

venmo me lol

[holdersol]

Drop the Amazon wishlist damn 😍

it’s 100% books my guy

[holdersol]

Oh if we venmo you we get to see your booty? 😍😍😍

correct

[holdersol]

Ok but if I venmo u do I get to see it? 🍑

Sure why not

[holdersol]

Betcha got a DONK

Okay so Venmo me

[fagsexuality-deactivated2019090]

me as a defence attorney: [mouthing ‘girl this is bullshit’ to the judge as the prosecutor talks]

judge: [shaking her head and mouthing ‘I know baby’]

[odessa-system]

me, gently pulling my consciousness back into my body: please keep your arms and legs inside the ride at all times

[heathenhouse]

GO GIRL!!!! GIVE US ROT!!! GIVE US DECAY! RETURN TO THE EARTH

[holdersol]

I want to worship 🍑🖤🍑🖤

Don’t we all

[holdersol]

Every time I arrive at a place of finally accepting that I’m simply bisexual something happens where I’m like “but whAT IF I’M A LESBIAN” and the vicious cycle starts again. I’m so tired

[holdersol]

Please stick around longer than 35 🥺

❤️

[holdersol]

It’s actually kinda funny how hard I’m working to get my masters and level up in my field even tho I know I’m gonna live to be 35 max lmfao

[boykeats]

Chronic pain makes you good at abandoning yourself. It teaches you to ignore your body until it insists on being noticed, until your joints ache too badly to stand, until something buckles, until you fall and then you’re bleeding hard enough to ruin your clothes. There’s a certain low thrum of hurt I don’t notice; it’s just the frequency at the bottom of everything. A good day is one where I hardly think about my body, where I adjust for its flaws by instinct, where there isn’t any sudden spike in that low pulse of pain.

On a good day, my body doesn’t embarrass me. It does what I ask it, lets me walk short distances and do my job. I don’t notice people staring, don’t trip on my way in to teach a class, sending thirty-five student papers flying everywhere. I don’t have to pause at a threshold and ask a stranger to help me lift my wheelchair up and through a door. No one I don’t really know needs to put their hands on me. No one in the grocery store asks, What happened, sweetie? You’re so pretty to be in a wheelchair! On a good day, my body pulls hard at the hem of my dress, and I hiss back, You don’t exist, and it goes somewhere else, or I do.

In bed, a man pauses, puts a wide, gentle hand on my face and asks, Honey, where are you? Come back here. I want to, and also I don’t.

—Molly McCully Brown, from “The Broken Country: On Disability and Desire,” published in VQR Online