#and mashed potatoes.

[aiiaiiiyo]

Fried chicken, mixed veggies, corn, and mashed potatoes.. all made out of cake and candy. Check this blog!

[amalgi]

𝙹ackson strains, as it always had, toward some counterfeit replication of the [ BEFORE. ] A murdered republic of normalcy now peddled in gestures grown pitiful through its overuse. Fairy lights dangle luminous from veins of copper & scavenged patience; musicians coax from catgut & dented brass the skeletal remains of songs half-remembered. Bodies press & sway in the dim, generator fed lighting. THEY ARE CELEBRATING, SUPPOSEDLY. Some anniversary of survival, some successful supply run. This hollow triumph scavenged from the compost of civilization. Truthfully, the excuse hardly ever mattered & what does is the pretense that this is living & everything's fine. Through all of this borrowed nostalgia, Joel leans against the bar in his accustomed posture of fortified indifference, one elbow planted among the scuffed architecture, a small glass beside him containing whatever substance he'd bartered for homemade, more than likely, distilled from something that grew in the gardens & bearing its burn all the same with unnatural fermentation. Lowered shoulders, half-lidded gaze pretending to doze in order to study this herd more efficiently, to calculate angles of approach & exit; take inventory. Calleigh approached Joel with her palm upturned & waiting, with hopeful expectations.

/ @crimenalist : "COME DANCE WITH ME."  ████  ©

“ 𝙸'll, uh... pass on that. ” Refusal rough & unadorned. He shakes his head, just enough to attempt to close the possibility off like a door softly but decisively pulled shut against a draft. Then he lifts the glass & drinks. They've spoken sometimes in the occasional surface-level exchanging of words that passed for conversation in Joel's increasingly atrophied vocabulary.

THESE TWO HAVE ORBITED EACH OTHER'S SEPERATE PLANETS FOR A TIME NOW, SOME GRAVITATION AWARENESS AND GLANCES OF TWO BURNING STARS. THERE'S SOMETHING OF HER THAT REMINDS HIM OF HUMID AFTERNOONS AND THOSE OLD HOUSES WITH BIG OL' PORCHES. THOUGH, JOEL WOULD WATCH HER SOMETIMES WITH THE DULL WONDERMENT OF A MAN NOT TOO NAIVE TO RECOGNIZZING A MIRROR IN SUCH FEMININE SILVERING; ALL THAT SOFT PRESENTATION WRAPPED AROUND AN INTERIOR THAT MIGHT BE HARDER THAN MOST OF THE MEN IN HERE.

[ IN SHORT? ] Enough that she knows enough him to know that he does not dance & enough that he knows she asks anyway, underneath an eye forensic enough to catalogue every micro-expression & press at the bruise. “ Doin' just fine on your own, huh. ” He sets the glass down with a small, definitive click against the wood, & comes that peculiarly Joel-ish combination of deflection. He tips his chin toward the space where bodies shift & turn in clusters under the light. “ Y'go on, how 'bout I'll watch. Somebody ought'a enjoy this shit. ” And there, in that final relinquishing, is the shape of his tenderness.

[combusteen]

i’m eating a jack daniels brand pulled beef bbq sandwich at 12:30 on a thursday because i’ve lost control of my life.