☄ ☠ ☤ ▽
☼ • → SEND ME A SYMBOL ( accepting )
☄ — the last five google searches my muse made
☼ • → seattle cannabis cup 2014 application deadline
☼ • → what day does the new lana del rey album come out
☼ • → electric daisy carnival orlando four day pass
☼ • → how to make mango sticky rice
☼ • → is cnn actually playing real news coverage right now or did i miss something
☠ — how my muse would choose to die, if it were up to him
preferably peacefully and at the end of a long and beautiful life, out in the middle of the woods surrounded by friends and family while the sun kisses his skin through the verdant filter of the treetops one last time. but he knows a fate so picturesque is unlikely, even for a d r e a m e r like him, so he simply holds onto the hope that when his time comes — whenever that may be — it comes in a way that allows his spirit to go. he does not want to remain shackled indefinitely to an infected vessel — it makes him shudder to consider what that sort of inescapable negativity could do to the soul trapped within it.
☤ — the last time my muse went to the hospital and why
in late april of 2014, he was admitted to the virginia mason medical center in seattle for injuries he sustained while trying to change a light that had blown in the grow room at the dispensary early one morning before work. unable to find the actual ladder, topher decided to improvise by climbing to the top of a three foot step-ladder he balanced precariously atop an old, metal folding chair with a 45W grow panel tucked under one arm. admittedly not a better idea of his. he managed to break a table and destroy three young plants on his way down, and the force of the impact dislocated his left shoulder and elbow and fractured three of his ribs. given the extent of the dislocations ( and the intense bruising that accompanied them ) he was discharged with a recommendation to seek out a rheumatologist to get blood work done, but he never remembered to make an appointment.
▽ — the first job my muse ever had
working for a landscaping company owned by the father of a casual school friend of his from the time he was twelve until he was sixteen years old. it was a blessing when he’d found it — he was young when he realized that he would have to work if he and his mom wanted to stay afloat ( to have dinner more nights out of the week than not, to keep it just warm enough that the water pipes didn’t freeze in the winter ) and he had been okay with that, but even so, there weren’t many places willing to hire a twelve year old boy with dyslexia and adhd. never mind the child labor laws they’d be breaking, they just didn’t want to have to watch him. but mr. slater never said a word about that, and he’d pay him seventy-five dollars a week in cash to mow lawns and pull weeds and haul bags of mulch out of the bed of his truck while his son, derek, sat in the cab and smashed buttons on his gameboy for hours while he waited for them to finish. he lost the job when he dropped out of high school against all of mr. slater’s wishes and warnings, but he quickly found a way to replace the income selling bud to his circle of friends he still thinks about him every now and then — not so much derek, though he sincerely hopes they’re both still alive doing well — and wonders if he’d known then how desperately he needed that opportunity, or if he knows now how grateful he still remains for it.
