a quarter of a girl

far from flawless

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babybassdrum asked: hi

today is my birthday and i’m riding high

you were standing with your girlfriends in the street

is this the real life? is this just fantasy?

shared my body and my mind with you

made of clay, shoot me down i’ll ricochet

still sane— lorde

miss atomic bomb— the killers

bohemian rhapsody— queen

cruel world— lana del rey

undone— ed sheeran


(if anyone else wants to send me a hi THAT’D BE COOL)

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also on the topic of firsts here THIS IS GONNA BE MY FIRST REAL RELAXING NIGHT

i got home from band practice at 8 and then took a shower and by the time i’d settled in it was like 8:30 and unlike all the other nights thus far i have no plans to go to AN EVEN LATER BAND PRACTICE or a party or a concert or the rec center or the cafeteria or a giant pep rally or a magician show or a football game or a board game night or a tour of campus or a friend’s room or the library or wawa or ANYWHERE or to buy textbooks or plan train times or call my parents or write in my agenda or unpack or clean my room or arrange my shower caddy or ANYTHING i am literally just gonna lay in my bed and go on the internet and probably play fire emblem and probably eat animal crackers too and veg and try not to hate myself too much for it because hey, this is my life now and i deserve to be able to veg every once in a while without feeling too supremely guilty about it…….

Filed under college AH relaxing YAY lazy

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I wrote this for a writing contest on Anatheria, my favorite virtual pet site! It’s still sorta cute, even if you don’t recognize the pet names or some of the world’s references

The frantic Fire Lios looked as though she had just lost a fight with a bakery—pink frosting dripped and dropped from her fur, clouds of cinnamon coated her cheeks and nose, and there were even jagged eggshells tangled up all over her body in the most uncanny places. A timid Air Diaco fluttered warily behind her, floating as quietly as he could, hardly daring to swallow, breath, or blink. He was trying to choose his next words with the utmost of caution—in his head he was debating about whether he should pat her on the back and sweetly console her or utter a calm “Good luck” and beat his hasty retreat before she blew up (quite possibly literally, considering her element).

What he actually ended up doing was blurting out, way less ceremoniously than he’d had in my mind, “How exactly did you even manage to get yolk between your toes?”

The Lios jumped, startled by his presence, but quickly regained her composure enough to assume an angry glare. “That’s irrelevant to the matter at hand, Butterscotch!” she yelled, wringing the tuft of hair between her ears in panic.

 ‘But I, er, thought that that was why you seemed so stressed, Cherry…” stammered the poor Diaco helplessly, immediately flitting several feet away from his volatile companion. Having known her for years, he was quite well aware of her tendency towards temper tantrums. In fact, Cherry’s hissy fits sometimes made him flash back to the physics class he’d taken a few years ago (with a Fenrir who’d, mind, born more than a passing resemblance to a certain scientifically vaunted alchemist) where he’d learned about vectors, quantities that had both magnitude and direction. Cherry’s rants and vents most definitely had magnitude and, unfortunately often, their direction was towards him.

Cherry now fixed Butterscotch even more sternly with her scathing stare. “Would you just use your brain?” she huffed in a characteristic flight of frustration. “I know it’s in there somewhere, so think about why, exactly, there would be yolk anywhere in my vicinity in the first place!”

 “Because… there are eggs in your vicinity too?” tried Butterscotch hopelessly. He squeezed his eyes shut, bracing himself for a swift (and flour-covered) slap in the face, but it never arrived. Instead, Cherry just heaved a deep sigh that, like a rumbling alpine avalanche, loosed a particularly large shard of shell from her hair and dumped it unceremoniously at her sullied paws.

“And why might that be?” she pressed between gritted teeth, sounding as though she was doing her very best to restrain herself—an anger-management technique, Butterscotch noted gratefully, that she must have learned quite recently. He nervously inched open an eye and carefully considered the bakery of ingredients covering Cherry’s body before anxiously offering forth an answer.

 “Are you making a cake?” he hazarded, popping open his second eye upon seeing her forceful nod. He swallowed hard before delivering his follow-up question, which she seemed to be anticipating. But right as he opened his mouth to ask it, she hotly interjected.

 “I don’t have time for your whiny whys, you know! This stupid thing needs to be ready in one hour and right now there’s more batter in my fur than there is in the bowl! I’m running terribly behind schedule and I’m absolutely freaking out, I dropped and cracked a dozen eggs when I was taking them out of the fridge, I squeezed my icing bag too hard when I was trying to fill it and it burst all over me, and then when I went to get some paper towels to clean it all up I tripped over a bag of flour, snagged my claw and tore the bag open as I hit the ground, covering myself in it! On top of all that I think my oven actually just exploded! Now to make things even worse now you’re here doing nothing but getting under my paws and bugging me?”

            “I heard a crash a few minutes ago and I just came in here to make sure everything was okay and see if I could help—” Butterscotch muttered in his typical forlorn tone, lowering his ears with guilt and shame.

            “If you want to help you can go grab me a mop, an industrial strength vacuum cleaner and a clinical psychologist!” snapped Cherry. “Oh, and a store-bought cake too, while you’re at it!”

            Unsure what to say to defend himself from her onslaught—and whether it was even worth it—Butterscotch decided to squeak out a suggestion.

            “How about you just, uh, give up on the cake? I mean, I know cake’s delicious and all but it seems to be giving you way more trouble than it’s worth, and there’s no reason you even have to be baking anything right now when you’re obviously so stressed out and upset and—”

            “NO REASON TO BE BAKING ANYTHING RIGHT NOW?” howled Cherry, even louder and angrier than she’d previously been. “DO YOU EVEN KNOW WHAT TODAY IS?”

            “… The last day of July?” muttered Butterscotch, seconds away from the fetal position.

            All of a sudden Cherry went completely still, save for a twitching eyelid. “… It’s… only… July…?” she whispered.

            Butterscotch nodded slowly, suppressing a whimper of fear.

             “You mean to tell me…,” she continued, “that today isn’t Anaversary Eve?”

             “Not for several weeks, no,” piped Butterscotch, trembling.

            “So what you’re saying,” she asked, now trembling too, “is that I spent all these hours and all these stinkin’ eggs wearing myself to the core baking a cake for a holiday that isn’t even happening any time soon?”

            “… You were… making an Anaversary cake?” stuttered Butterscotch. But he didn’t wait for an answer—the indignant fire in Cherry’s eyes said it all. Flapping his wings as quickly as he could, Butterscotch raced out of the kitchen before his ears were assailed with a tremendous, terrible scream and what sounded conspicuously like the violent cracking of another dozen eggs.

Filed under writing anatheria flavors cherry butterscotch

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a 60-second ramble poem from when robin williams died

What’s in my heart, what do I want to say? What’s the reason I wake up every day? Passion or patience or unfiltered dreams? Simply a fear about tearing the seams? Where’s inspiration? Where’s poetry? Where are the things that give meaning to me? What’s in my heart? What do I need? What is my motto, my lesson, my creed? I guess it’s be happy, I guess it’s have fun; guess it’s dance in the rain and relax in the sun. Do things, go crazy, and don’t be held back— don’t let fear define you or wage an attack. But not being ruined and not being scared are two different things, one about which I’ve cared— not being ruined’s the  key, that is true, but not being scared’s not a thing you can do. Because you need to push and you need to strive, because nervousness means that you’re staying alive. Because sometimes you whimper, and cower, and cry, and sometimes you wonder and ask yourself why, and sometimes you shiver and sometimes you shake, and sometimes you bend, and sometimes you break, and sometimes you think that you just can’t go on, but sometimes you’ll find out that that was just wrong. Because fear’s not just fear— indeed fear’s not just a not, for it teaches you to pursue more than you’ve got, because fear’s a compulsion and fear’s a desire, fear fills you with lightning and brimstone and fire, fear  keeps you going, fear makes you tough, fear keeps you from thinking that good’s good enough, fear keeps you ready, fear keeps you sane, fear leaves room to grow and to go in your brain. Without fear, think now, what would you be? What would you do and desire and see? Fear makes you hungry when something’s got to give; if you know you have fear then you know that you live. So let that trembling in your hands be a prayer, and don’t get tripped up by the how and the where. The cold sweat, the heartbeat, the catch in your chest, each of them symbols you’re doing your best. Please, go embrace it, don’t let your soul die— fear’s not an obstacle but a reason why.

Filed under fear life writing poem poetry 60 seconds