I redid it in color. Black children are denied their innocence and childhood, even in death.
I don’t get me. Things were sort of awesome, despite frequent panicking. But now I’m like oh fuck I’m in a relationship with someone and I wish actually we could just be friends that cuddled and did things together and now being in a relationship wants me to avoid it and sex apparently scares the shit out of me and it’s sort of unfair to not be physically attracted to people you’re super emotionally attracted to and now I have to explain that and I feel like an awful person. And I know it’s not just me being not in the mood because I’m sleeping with someone else and it causes no panic attacks.
…I just. I can’t seem to do anything that doesn’t induce worry and panic anymore. I’m moving to South Florida it was so much easier except for my traffic and bad drivers anxiety idk wtf even why does everything including my own body have to make me anxious.
I haven’t made an 8tracks playlist since Valentine’s day I don’t think! So I did the thing, again, where I mix pop love songs with Irish folk and Ratatat, because actually this is just for me and I don’t care if it’s weird ;p
hey spn hey guess what
- dean is bisexual
- benny is bisexual
- cas is demisexual panromantic
- sam probably experimented with guys at stanford and still thinks of himself as questioning or undefined
- all demons are pansexual
- all angels are pansexual, asexual/panromantic, or aroace
- all angels are nonbinary
- nobody on your show is straight fight me
In other news, the writers of Supernatural are really fond of queerbaiting and horrible at follow through.
I doubt I have the same communication style as anyone I know. I gesture with smoke signals, cloak with empty smiles the desperation they might scent on me, all while needing to run away, buck in the backyard of a hunter, and hoping if I angle my head just right and make sure more of the things I say are funny than depressing this person will beg me to stay, mount me on their wall and keep me. If I cease to be, I won’t cease to be wanted. My mother begs me to slow my speech so she can keep up with the flow, but sometimes I only sit and listen in distain. And sometimes i sit and listen in awe, because how can I matter when you offer this kind of intimacy, allow me a plumbing of your depths and do you know how I love before the weeping sets in? — before the conviction of failure, that one of us will hurt the other? I speak in vagueries and poetry and expect someone will learn cryptography, because all I ever intended or felt is there, see, written in the foam on the waves and these incessant words, which sometimes lie, but look. Even the lies are obvious. I am the shape of human disaster. I am the lover of transient others, flying into the window glass and loving the sky no less for my mistake.