#fuckingtrashmouth

[miss-voice-of-a-generation]

cont {x}

“Yeah---I dunno, haven’t really decided yet, I guess.” She glanced down, shrugging, eyebrows lifting slightly.

“I was thinking maybe something vampire-ish, but---you know, the older you get, the less scary costumes are really the thing. Everybody’s imagination gradually dies.” 

[the-placebo-effect-blog1]

Eddie And Richie Have A Talk | May 30th, 2016

Wait! Don’t close the door, Eddie. What if you left your key on the coffee table? You’ll have to go all the way down to the lobby for another, and it’s getting late. He paused, hesitating over the threshold, cold fluorescence pouring in from the hallway, cutting a sharp, yellow-white streak where he was standing. Yeah Mom---sure. His fingertips swept along the back pocket of his grey jeans, double-checking for the plastic rectangle of his key card. It was there---same as it had been when he’d put it there five minutes ago, but---at least his mom wouldn’t hound him for the next ten minutes now. Wouldn’t be wailing and howling after him, flipping shit all the way to the vending machines, and wherever else he went. Might even shut up long enough for him to get some sleep later, but that wouldn’t matter much---because there were too many other things that he knew wouldn’t be quiet. Not tonight---maybe not for a long time. And sometimes it was worse---when those things were quiet. 

(Yeah, no shit---they’ve been quiet for the last twenty-something years, but they weren’t gone. They weren’t gone, and that’s why it suddenly feels like almost your entire life has been on pause until now. Hope you didn’t want to do anything important with those years.) 

He exhaled heavily, feeling oxygen and day-old stress leave the temperamental confines of his lungs, and he pulled the door closed---heard it lock with a muffled click. It would be a real shame if you were wrong about the key. His fingers dropped away from the cool handle. Yeah---sure would. He pulled out his phone and glanced at the time---10:22. The dull throbbing behind his eyes---or maybe it was somewhere in the center of his consciousness, made it feel about six hours later. He walked away. The hallway really was bright---too bright, especially after being in his room, where the only sources of light he’d bothered with had been a shoddy lamp and the TV, turned up just loud enough to suffice as background noise. Because he sure as fuck wasn’t ready to be left alone with the other noises kicking around inside his head---he’d put that off for as long as he could. 

Today and yesterday were jumbled blurs, merging somewhere on a shared note of mental overload---and that was that. Surreal enough they probably could’ve passed for basket case dreams if someone had kindly knocked him out and shipped him back to Long Island (Where he should’ve been by rights), but at the same time---they were realer than anything else he’d done for the past two decades. He couldn’t decide which impression was fucking with him more, and it didn’t really matter, because neither one seemed in a hurry to leave. Everything they’d talked about downstairs---in the library, at the mall, over lunch---all of that felt miles away, maybe even days. Maybe even years, straight back to when we were kids. But it hadn’t been years ago---God, some of it had only been twenty or thirty minutes ago. They’d all been together. No, we weren’t. 

Something cold and heavy plummeted inside of him---like pulling tight a knot that had just been waiting to cinch around his chest. Like getting kicked in the gut. We won’t ever all be together. He swallowed thickly. The knowledge came and went---had been coming and going all day. Every time he came close to grasping it, something buckled and the disbelief came back---or maybe he wasn’t even coming close in the first place. He’s not gone---can’t be gone. Not Stan. Not one of us. One of us can’t be gone while the rest of us are still here. That’s not how it’s supposed to work. But it had happened before, hadn’t it? Maybe not like that, not so final---but it had still happened. They’d all left each other behind. They’d all grown up. There was a time when he would’ve said that wasn’t possible either. 

His eyes flickered downwards, stinging, skimming along the carpet underfoot---sort’ve registering its circular pattern. The walls were dotted with low-hanging plants---and there was something off about them, something that struck him as unsettling. In a faint, subconscious way, he realized they reminded him of the Barrens, though he couldn’t call to mind any memories of similar looking things. But---the same could’ve been said about most of the feelings he’d been having for the past two days, since everything he knew about his life had been turned upside-down, and shaken out a couple times for good measure. Nothing made sense right now, but things hadn’t made sense back then either, had they---? They’d all just been better equipped to deal with it. 

Better equipped? Yeah right---we were fucking kids. We weren’t equipped for anything---we just didn’t know any better, that’s how we got away with it. If they’d gotten away with it at all---he was starting to think maybe they hadn’t. Otherwise, things wouldn’t look like this now, would they? And he thought Bill and Mike might’ve still had it---had whatever crazy thing it took to survive out here, but what about the rest of them? Bill made sense---of course Bill could still do it, if anybody could. Bill had always been different, Bill had always been stronger. And he guessed Mike had just never lost it, because he’d never left---but what about the rest of them? What had he even been like, back then---? All of that talking, and he still wasn’t sure---but he had a feeling he’d been tougher---a lot tougher than he was now. (Life really chips away at you.) He paused by a small alcove in the hallway, eyes lifting, glancing over the ice-maker and two vending machines, standing there side-by-side.

He didn’t exactly feel like getting a drink---nothing short of an alcoholic one anyway, but it seemed better than just meandering around. Besides---maybe something with a few bubbles would help. His stomach wasn’t quite upset, but it probably wasn’t far off. He pulled his wallet out’ve the other back pocket on his jeans---the one his room key wasn’t occupying, sweeping a hand beneath the light jacket he’d thrown on. Despite the fact that they were essentially new---and had been reasonably expensive, he felt borderline ridiculous in the clothes he was wearing. Or he did now---for some reason, it’d felt more natural when he’d been with everybody else. 

There was nothing specifically weird about them---jeans, a grey long-sleeved shirt, a black jacket---he just hadn’t worn clothes like this in years. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time---but there was something familiar about them. (Everything was familiar, nothing was clearly recognizable.) He snapped his wallet open and pulled out two wrinkled dollars, pausing to straighten them out a bit before feeding them into the machine. It spit the second one back at him a few times, and then accepted it. He punched in the code for a clear sprite, waited---and nothing happened. “Seriously---?” He muttered, tapping the keypad---and then the side of the machine. Still nothing. If he hadn’t known he was home before---home in Derry, here was the final testimony. He closed his wallet and slipped it back into his pocket. Figures.

“---piece of shit.” He gave it another jostle, and then relented, still mumbling to himself, jabbing the button to get his money back---but he didn’t have any luck there either. “Oh, come on---seriously? I swear to God...” He jabbed it again---and again, slower this time. Great---real great. “You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.” He knew it didn’t matter---seriously, he’d barely even wanted the damn thing, but---maybe after everything else, this was just the sort’ve hitch that could rub him the wrong way. He took a deep breath. As a last-ditch effort, he tried entering the combination again, not remotely expecting it to work---and he supposed that was probably why a drink tumbled down afterwards. 

For a second, he just stared---feeling something like irony twinge inside his chest, an irony that was definitely too potent for the given situation, but---he guessed that was because none of this was really about a vending machine. 

Exhaling, he reached down and fished out the sprite, cheap plastic crinkling---straightening back up and sweeping his hair away from his forehead. He turned the bottle over, giving the ingredients a brief glance---and sure enough, the irony came back. He made a sound---somewhere between a sigh and a laugh, which was pretty damn close to what he was feeling. 

Sometimes---at least in Long Island, you were reasonably safe with the clear ones. Not that they’d win any health awards, but you at least had a decent shot at high fructose corn syrup not being the first fucking ingredient. No such luck in Derry. People like to die here, remember? Kids fast and grownups slow. Well---guess I really am a grownup now. He tossed the soda into a nearby trashcan---the angle wasn’t great, and it probably would’ve been safer to walk over, but the bottle went in easily enough. He could’ve drank it anyway---there was no telling exactly what they’d all consumed at lunch earlier today, and whether or not he had corn syrup floating around in his system probably wouldn’t decide whether he lived or died tomorrow, but---right now, he didn’t really feel like adding one more thing.  

[talk-so-tough-blog]

"He said I got a fuckin' fever. I told him I'm just sweaty and shit - see?"

        “Yeah, uh—no shit.” She made a slight face, regarding him with risen eyebrows. “You been running from the cops or something?” Her lips formed a wry smile, and then her expression got a little more serious, and she straightened up, bracing her hands atop her knees. “—did you talk him down?”

[wcllpower-blog]

@fucking-trashmouth

“Well, it’s a game where you make a character and you create a little profile for them and someone makes a campaign which is basically the setting. It’s pretty fun.”

[loserleader]

@fucking-trashmouth liked for a starter

"S-sometimes I wonder i-if you hear t-the words coming-g out o-of your own m-mouth," he commented, arching an eyebrow before furrowing them both. A moment later, he shook his head. "I th-thought I might h-have lost you."

[wroteloser-blog]

       ❛     well, apparently we’re partners for this  stupid project,   ❜   a loud, exasperated sigh escapes her lips.  there were only a few people greta liked to work with ------ not more than she could count with her fingers ------ and the class trashmouth was definitely not in that short list.    ❛     and i am so not psyched.  but let’s get one thing straight, alright?     ❜

@fucking-trashmouth !

[goodwithabat]

          ❛ You think I WANT to sound like your mom? ❜ That was the last thing Steve was aiming for, yet he didn’t care. ❛ Whatever the hell that stuff is, it's gross! So you touch it and you can bet I'll find the nearest hose to spray you with. You hear me? ❜ // cont

[barmitzvahed]

salty holiday stan for @fucking-trashmouth

          “ i swear to god, richie, if you ask me one more time if chanukah is ‘jewish christmas’, i’m banning you from my house for all eight nights ! ”