y’know i’ve given up on any real kind of online schedule.

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Andulka
Claire Keane

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Not today Justin
d e v o n

JVL
Today's Document
tumblr dot com

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he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
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todays bird
Game of Thrones Daily
Jules of Nature

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$LAYYYTER
wallacepolsom

ellievsbear
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
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@phantcmfxcker
y’know i’ve given up on any real kind of online schedule.
vermilus:
what are you some kind of vampire
also yeah I have a pretty good idea tho i wasnt there. We had a big fuck off satalite in the atmo that was built to be a big ship-teleporter to reduce the distance from the moon to the earth and it was GONNA be the big launching off point for colonizing mars and then the damn thing expoded
weird lights in the sky, weird irradiated glass raining down, big dust cloud and waaa the world is on fire except it isn’t its getting fucking cold and long-distance communication stops working.
well, yeah. actually. take it as you will or whatever but i’m very much dead. it’s no big secret.
so you’re basically stuck there until it clears up? except it’s been a couple decades hasn’t it? has anyone figured out exactly what’s causing this? it sounds like your sun just vanished or got blown up... how is this affecting where you live? what about the oceans and stuff? do you still have a moon?
uh. you don’t have to answer all that.
vermilus:
Not really unless you wanna pick up learnin how to farm or machine metal or fix 40 year old engines n synthesize gasoline substitute. Its goddamn cold n very little grows n this town aint big enough for anybody that cant work or aint a baby
the naked cat would prolly die in the cold too tbh
awww, i think dad would be a little upset if wrinkles didn’t make it. maybe a visit would be best sometime, i still think a vacation from the sun would do me some good at least.
what happened to your home? do you know?
vermilus:
sun aint come out in abt twenty years
the sky comes in the colors of pitch black, slightly less black, gray enough its almost black, n then pretty damn gray durin the “”””summer””””
hey...i’m packing my bags. you got room for three people and a naked cat over there? because that sounds awfully convenient.
vermilus:
disgustin!
its abt like 6pm but it hardly fuckin matters on my world
im ash
you’re telling me!
what do you mean it doesn’t matter? share with the class, ash. jongkyu. freelance journalist? i guess? and bat enthusiast. nice to meet you!
vermilus replied to your post: i know it’s 8:30 in the morning but consider the...
that sounds gross
the risks i have to take for conversation is what’s gross.
hi! i live on the other side of the world! everyone’s online at ass in the morning!
i know it’s 8:30 in the morning but consider the fact that i thrive off attention.
i can’t tell if being awake during the day is worth the conversation or if i should just stick to my nightly schedule.
thatsillyjohnkid replied to your post: "dancing"
from what i remember, you’re a great dancer, too!
you wouldn’t be saying that if you saw me when i first started out. i’ve had years of practice after all.
tm-ei:
September Love (Daft Punk x Earth Wind & Fire)
"dancing"
well yeah. but it’s not like i don’t actually dance, too.
now that i’ve wrapped up my weekly vlog episode i’m probably gonna go out dancing when it gets darker.
you know where to reach me!
How to Ride the Train When You’re a Lesbian
Sometimes in the morning, me and my girlfriend ride the redline together. Only when she’s running late. (She’s running late a lot). Our eyelids are heavy, hair frizzy. She always looks different than she did an hour ago, her arms around me, warm. It’s not that her hair wasn’t frizzy- it’s that she’s vibrating now, winding up for the day. She looks beautiful, chewing on her chapped lips. We wait for my train, that comes at 7:12 everyday. I check my email. She sneezes. Somebody else on the platform says bless you. I keep reading my email. It smells like piss. I don’t reach for her hand. We sit together on the train. I smile at her, put my headphones in, pull a book out. I sneak peaks at her, sometimes, like a kid with a crush. Count the freckles on her cheek. Laugh at the way her hair is sticking up. Quick though, always quick, when nobody is looking. I promise you, when nobody is looking.
When the train pulls up at my stop, I pause. I always pause. Sometimes, I just tell her to have a good day. “Bye, Beth,” I say. “Have a good day!” Nothing else. Barely a smile. On the way home, I see other lesbians on the train. Other people see them too. Handsome, butch. People stare. They are unmistakable. Loud, vibrant, visible. They cannot hide. Still, they smile at me, in my patchwork jean jackets and long, floral skirts. They see me when nobody else can. I wonder if they can hear me too. If they could, I’d say this: Let me hide us both. Only for a moment, only until the woman with the pursed lips and sharp perfume gets off at Thorndale, or the man in the Cubs jersey glaring at you finds something else to be mad about. I can make it so we only see each other. I can make it so you’re safe. But I can’t. I’m not sure you’d want me too anyways. I just smile back. I love you, I say. And you say it back. It’s not enough. I get to say “Bye Beth! Have a good day!” Sometimes, I am so lucky, it makes my bones sticky, like a kid who’s gotten away with sneaking candy late at night, no chocolate mustache or grimy fingers. I get away. Bye Beth! Have a good day!
Sometimes, have a good day isn’t enough. Sometimes, I test my luck. I say I love you, squeeze her hand. I do it quick. I’m scared. I’m not brave. I made a call on the train, late at night. I said, “my girlfriend” on the phone. The man across from me licked his lips. When I hung up, he asked me if I was a lesbo, or something. I pretended I couldn’t hear him. He said it louder. I shook, slightly, closed my eyes. The seat seemed smaller, like it was trying to suffocate me, stained and still. He got up, sat next to me. Wanted to know if I heard him. Put his hand on my leg, calloused fingers. My heart was in my throat, heavy, strangling me. He gave up. Thank God, he gave up. I give up too. I just squeeze her hand, calloused, in a way I know, in a way that’s soft. I tell her I love her. She’s the only one who hears me.
Sometimes, I cup her face. I’m chicken. I don’t kiss her. I say I love you. I say it braver. I say it with everything in me. I look at her, so she can see all of me. The wrinkles in my heart and creases in my soul. She says it back. Once, a man pushed me, while I waited on the platform at Harrison. I was chatting with a friend. “I’m so gay,” I said. I think. Something. Had a stupid pin on, big letters. Something that broadcasted myself to the world. I was young, soul smooth, unblemished. I thought I was made of steel, the way I did when I was a child- skipping, running, shouting. I wanted to say excuse me, I wanted to say, what the fuck, but I couldn’t find my voice. I stared instead, misty eyed. “Fuck you, dyke, “ he said. I crawled into myself, walked back up the stairs, forgot where I was going. I felt like the little girl who stopped running and skipping and shouting when she fell on the sidewalk, two kneecaps scraped, the pain hissing and boiling. He got on the train, not a scratch on him.
Sometimes, I’m furious I can’t have more. Sometimes, my stomach feels like the sun, like it’ll burn me, like I’m glowing. I want more. I want it all. I kiss her. Cheek, mouth. It doesn’t matter. I kiss her. “I love you, have a good day.” I tell her, proud, squeezing her hand. Shining. I push past the sardine pack of people to the train door. I’m smiling, up the escalator. Until I’m not. One time, my girlfriend rode the redline next to a guy who spent 12 stops talking about how he wanted to kill a gay person. Any gay person. He was just in the mood, I guess. She held her breath for 12 stops. Don’t make any sudden movements. Don’t let him see me. A week ago, some teenage boys beat the shit out of a lesbian couple on a train in London. I’ve seen their picture everywhere. Bloody noses, one looking straight at the camera, mouth agape. The other staring at her own hands, face scrunched up. I haven’t read the details. I don’t need to. I need to. I can’t. I’m too chicken. When I get off the escalator, I think I’m going to be sick. The sun inside me has burnt her- left her in a train car where everybody knows she’s a dyke. I am safe. Brave, arrogant, safe. She’s not. I keep checking her location, until I see she’s arrived at work. I want to say I’m sorry, I want to say fuck sorry. I don’t say any of it- I don’t think any of it. When we’re both home, I kiss her freckles and her chapped lips and her silly, messy hair. I stare at her for as long as I want, until she blushes and tells me to fuck off, laughing with a snort. I hold her face in my hands, I hold her hand in my hand. I say I love you over and over again. Until she’s asleep, arms warm around me. The next morning, I get back on the train. The platform still smells like piss.
color me curious
it might just be easier because i’m dead, but you guys were really onto something with the “objects of importance” stuff.
but that’s only one of two things you’re gonna need. sure, if you have an object the spirit recognizes as something it valued in it’s living life you’re not gonna be seen as a threat. but limbo isn’t just one place. there’s a copy of limbo for every spirit out there to live in separately.
so this object is gonna help the two of you find each other among all the limbos out there, but there’s still the matter of getting them to see you. to them, you’re the mysterious spirit. you have to create a bridge to their universe, so you can appear before them.the idea of a bridge is vague, though. which is why a lot of mediums use themselves as the connection--but i wouldn’t recommend that. being the only ghost in limbo gets lonely. they’ll probably do anything to be able to see other faces again, which includes making themselves at home in your body.
this is why the simplest way is to set foot on their turf. find where they died, and the ground beneath your feet and theirs becomes a literal bridge that allows the both of you to see one another. if you can’t do that it usually helps to introduce yourself and call out the name of the one you’re looking for. the connection between your names becomes a verbal “bridge” that works in the same way, as long as the one you’re talking to can speak your name back to you.if either of those ways won’t work--say your spirit had their tongue removed or there’s a reason they can’t speak and you can’t get to their death site--it’s a little trickier. You’d have to either know them personally before death or find someone or something you both had a mutual connection to to use as your bridge.i don’t think i’ve done that yet though, so don’t quote me on that.
are you /actually/ talking to ghosts or just making out what you wanna hear?
i’m actually talking to them! i get them to appear and i sit down to keep them company. it’s a much easier process than you think it is.i could explain if you wanted.