His Dancing Kills Me, Bro. 😭

small flaws to give to characters

These aren’t anything super game breaking that turns the character into a psychopath, but they can foreshadow bigger, more important issues down the line.

—always making the conversation about themselves

—lying about something incredibly stupid but they refuse to back down from

—expecting others to pay for them at every store, restaurant or hotel

—subtle jabs at other people that they always respond with ‘I wasn’t SAYING it was bad! YOU’RE the one making ME look bad!’ (Watch one of those ‘alpha male vs modern feminist’ videos or clips for inspiration if you are brave enough)

—messy, except this time they have other people in their space (like a dorm, shared apartment, or any kind of shared living space) so their messiness makes everyone VERY upset

—refusing to understand or learn another friend/teammate/partners culture or background to even slightly understand then

—loud obnoxious voiced people who physically can NOT make a subtle entrance or just simply exist in a room without yelling or eating very loudly

—asks for permission to do absolutely anything even with people who are on the same or even a lower level than they are

—doesn’t listen to music with headphones on in a crowded space so EVERYONE has to listen to them

God I hope the last one isn’t just a me-thing because I actively want to strangle anyone who does that

I don't think things should cost money

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@lifemod17

a blanket of snow on fairy lights

So, okay, fun fact. When I was a freshman in high school… let me preface by saying my dad sent me to a private school and, like a bad organ transplant, it didn’t take. I was miserable, the student body hated me, I hated them, it was awful.

Okay, so, freshman year, I’m deep in my “everything sucks and I’m stuck with these assholes” mentality. My English teacher was a notorious hard-ass, let’s call him Mr. Hargrove. He was the guy every student prayed they didn’t get. And, on top of ALL OF THE SHIT I WAS ALREADY DEALING WITH, I had him for English.

One of the laborious assignments he gave us was to keep a daily journal. Daily! Not monthly or weekly. Fucking daily. Handwritten. And we had to turn it in every quarter and he fucking graded us. He graded us on a fucking journal.

All of my classmates wrote shit like what they did that day or whatever. But, I did not. No, sir. I decided to give the ol’ middle finger to the assignment and do my own shit.

So, for my daily journal entries, over the course of an entire year, I wrote a serialized story about a horde of man-eating slugs that invaded a small mining town. It was graphic, it was ridiculous, it was an epic feat of rebellion.

And Mr. Hargrove loved it.

It wasn’t just the journal. Every assignment he gave us, I tried to shit all over it. Every reading assignment, everyone gushed about how good it was, but I always had a negative take. Every writing assignment, people wrote boring prose, but I wrote cheesy limericks or pulp horror stories.

Then, one day, he read one of my essays to the class as an example of good writing. When a fellow student asked who wrote it, he said, “Some pipsqueak.”

And that’s when I had a revelation. He wanted to fight. And since all the other students were trying to kiss his ass, I was his only challenger.

Mr. Hargrove and I went head-to-head on every assignment, every conversation, every fucking thing. And he ate it up. And so did I.

One day, he read us a column from the Washington Post and asked the class what was wrong with it. Everyone chimed in with their dumbass takes, but I was the one who landed on Mr. Hargrove’s complaint: The reporter had BRAZENLY added the suffix “ize” to a verb.

That night I wrote a jokey letter to the reporter calling him out on the offense in which I added “ize” to every single verb. I gave it to Mr. Hargrove, who by then had become a friendly adversary, for a chuckle and he SENT IT TO THE REPORTER.

And, people… The reporter wrote back. And he said I was an exceptional student. Mr. Hargrove and I had a giggle about that because we both knew I was just being an asshole, but he and the reporter acknowledged I had a point.

And that was it. That was the moment. Not THAT EXACT moment, but that year with Mr. Hargrove taught me I had a knack for writing. And that knack was based in saying “fuck you” to authority. (The irony that someone in a position of authority helped me realize that is not lost on me.)

So, I can say without qualification that Mr. Hargrove is the reason I am now a professional writer. Yes, I do it for a living. And most of my stuff takes authorities of one kind or another to task.

Mr. Hargrove showed me my dissent was valid, my rebellion was righteous, and that killer slugs could bring a city to its knees. Someone just needs to write it.

right so can someone please put a beat behind this

Same, HoHo. Same. ❤️

There's something so terrifyingly beautiful about mind control.

Just imagine- a Whumpee who knows about Whumper's ability. As soon as they end up alone with them and realize what's going to happen, they panic. They attempt to get away, to stay out of Whumper's reach, to fight.

When that fails, they resort to choked pleas, backing away though they know it's futile. Their eyes warily scan the grinning Whumper, who is walking towards them at a painfully slow pace, aware of the fact that they have them cornered. As their back presses against the cold wall, and Whumper's hand delicately makes its way towards their face, Whumpee freezes.

Whumper's fingers gently brush against their face, the cold touch causing them to shiver.

"Don't fight me."

Their voice is sweet as they speak, so much so that, if they didn't know better, Whumpee would think this was their medium. But as Whumper's hand settles on their cheek, and their mind starts becoming foggy, that idea is discarded.

"You'll feel so much better afterwards, you'll see. Just let me in."

Whumpee grimaces, desperately trying to hold onto their thoughts. their thoughts. their, their, THEIR-

"There we go."

As Whumpee's facial features relax, their breathing slows down, and their expression goes blank, Whumper knows they've won.

Whumpee's mind is theirs now.