i hate it when i cant even write a poem about something because its too obvious. like in the airbnb i was at i guess it used to be a kids room cause you could see the imprint of one little glow in the dark star that had been missed and painted over in landlord white. like that's a poem already what's the point
my life is a joke i live 2 minutes from a castle in one direction and the old town market in the other. you can see remnants of the old walls in part of the town, our library used to be the medieval townhall. we have a 500 y/o fairy tree overlooking the entire valley. and i dont even have any elves to fuck
Judging from the way the stripes go, that scarf was knitted sideways. Meaning the person cast on 17 feet’s worth of stitches and knitted those 17 feet back & forth for three inches. I’m in awe.
I preface this by saying I have a weird metabolism that clears through anaesthesia crazy fast (I heal quickly too; my spouse has accused me many times of being other than human).
So when I got my wisdom teeth out, my darling warned them not to leave me unattended while in recovery. “She will not take as long as you think to come out of it,” he said. “She will not stay put.”
The medical staff dismissed this as implausible. When my surgery was done, they shuffled me into recovery, ensured I was stable, and left me alone to sleep it off.
I did not take as long as they thought to come out of it. I did not stay put. A startled and slightly horrified nurse intercepted me staggering towards what I was apparently convinced was the exit, but was in fact (I am told) the gent’s.
They bundled me out to the car with embarrassing haste, probably eager to let me be someone else’s problem, and my best beloved took me home, aided by our friend Mathilda, who had volunteered to help wrangle.
They got me home and I immediately passed out on the sofa for round two of my drug nap. They ran out very quickly to the pharmacy to fill my prescriptions, figuring they’d be back before I woke up again (I have also been accused, again by my spouse, of being likely to sleep through the apocalypse).
The fools.
So… Backstory: we, as a group of friends, had been trying for a while to beat the last level of a video game, and nobody had managed it yet.
When m'darling and Mathilda got back, I was no longer on the sofa. The TV was on, displaying the screen where I had victoriously finished the game. The whiteboard in the hall had been wiped clean of any trace of grocery list or memos, and instead had a huge, smug SUCK IT, BITCHES written on it in multiple colors, and I was unconscious and snoring, facedown in the hallway, halfway through the bedroom door.
This was over ten years ago. I have yet to live it down.
dude you should have been at the club last night it was insane. the dj was playing the lament and funeral of hector from the iliad and everyone was beating their breasts and tearing open their garments. at the end we all built up a funeral pyre in the middle of the dance floor and set it aflame. we were all feeling the inherent human connection through millennia old poetry, it was wild
canthaveshitingotham-crucified
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theamazingian
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crowley-anthony
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