Why Do People Want Flat Stomachs So Super Badly????

???

do i like emo aesthetic? do i like pastel aesthetic? do i like preppy stuff? am i plain?

do i like country? do i like punk? do i like pop? do i like whatever genre(s) twenty one pilots/my chemical romance/fall out boy/panic! at the disco even is?

am i intimidating? am i friendly? am i mean? am i nice?

do i word my sentences right? do i talk calmly enough when i’m in an argument? do my friends really want to be with me as much as i want to be with them? can i talk about my interests without censoring them?

should i talk about my sexuality or preferences? should i talk to my mom about my crush on a girl? should i correct my parents when they only talk about me getting a husband when i’m older? should i tell my extended family that i’m not straight?

can i be open at school? can i raise my hand more than once every five minutes? can i tell my friends about what i really think about? can i be uncloseted at school and not have my flag and explanation of bisexuality on my locker taken down and have it explained to me by the school counselor that it’s because the younger kids could see and ask their parents?

is it okay if i talk louder? is it okay if i don’t apologize all the time? is it okay if i say what i’m thinking? is it okay if i laugh loud and smile wide with my teeth and walk with a wide stride?

is it okay if i ask these questions?

Prompt #1

(Character A) is in a relationship with (Character B). However, they became a couple after coming home from (Character A)’s family’s trip and pretending to be together. Their family found out that they were pretending on the last day of the trip, and think they are still friends. One member of the family, one that they both hate, said that they would be good together. Neither of them want to prove the family member right.

Recently, they were invited to another family trip. Now, (Character A) and (Character B) have to pretend to still be friends, the opposite of what they did before.

the oasis vs the ocean

it’s freezing in the quiet empty.

cold is comforting in its honesty;

the heat may envelope me but it only burns my skin,

its lies are all-encompassing.

yet the cold is here now,

and it is blunt, but it never hugs - it loves without a single touch.

the heat tries to love,

but it sears and scratches my bones, marking and tearing at my skin.

it smears its ash over my broken body, tears turning to steam and my gasping sobs turning into a cacophony of silence.

‘would you rather die of heat or cold?’

someone once said to me that the world will either end in fire or ice.

i know what i would prefer.

i know what i would rather feel.

numbness, hot, blazing frostbite causing slow inane hallucinations, a sick parody of the little match girl.

scathing, writhing flames licking the walls and leaning in, reeking of its victims and leering at its future prey.

i know myself well.

i hate that sometimes.

did you know that cold is not a feasible term?

cold is not its own self.

cold is simply the absence of heat.

a room filled to the brim with snow is not full,

not in the way a room full of fire is.

a room full of fire is suffocation in its most simple form,

smoke rising and smothering.

the snow is breathable, almost nonexistent,

and some animals even hide in the snow for protection in the winter.

did you know that?

the heat is a hitch in your breath, it’s a splatter of ink from a shaking hand.

it is stifling and deadly, not an embrace but a chokehold.

the heat will kill fierce, passionate, ares in his most pure form.

the cold is a ghost of a touch, a never ending inhale, a whisp of an idea.

it is a weathered blanket, holed and tattered and a false shelter in the storm.

the cold will kill gentle, quiet.

there is no glory, no fight in dying of cold.

resignation is cold, so it makes sense that cold will kill with resignation.

too little or too much?

i have always been safe in my choices.

too much will never make me empty,

too much will never leave me in the dark, blind and unknowing,

too much will never let me stay alone in blue air and white breaths and blurry vision from the saltwater streaming down my crimson cheeks and lips like shattered glass,

too much will never crack me with nothing, a void in my eyes and a thousand yard stare,

too much will never keep me deathly still in anticipation until everything seeps out of me in a realization that I only anticipate anticipation.

but even so…

too little will never send a fire through my nerves and cauterize my heart,

too little will never shatter me in a haze of red and dusty charcoal,

too little will never trace delicate fingers of ember across me and scar me in the ashes,

too little will never kill me with a glance, break me with uncertainty.

drowning is inevitable either way.

i will drown in either the oasis or the ocean,

nothing or all.

too little will never satisfy me,

but too much will only hurt me.

adventure has never been my friend,

and courage is swapped for anxiety.

my mind is not my brain,

and its thoughts aren’t my choices,

so i take the safe road,

as i always do.

…..

….

…

..

.

..

…

….

…..

the oasis is an empty salvation.

the ocean is an empty home.

water is simply an empty.

in the end, i will die, and it will be silent.

it is on nights like these that i think i will live in the nothing until nothing is my everything.

until i know the nothing as my home.

...

i will never know fulfillment the way i know the empty.

Prompt #14

Take your OTP. Imagine them as an angel and a demon, based on personality.

Switch them.

Prompt #30

(Character A) is a typical teenage protagonist of a high school movie. (Character B) is the typical teenage love interest of the high school movie. Only, there’s a few things in the way of their relationship - their depression, anxiety, problems with authority, and their parents...

All of them teachers at their school.

Prompt #2

Soulmate AU, where the first words you say to someone are written on your body somewhere. The catch is that they’re written in your soulmate’s handwriting, aging with them.

For example, if a child is about four years old when their soulmate is born, then scribbles will appear on their body somewhere, illegible until they get older and learn how to write. The baby would be born with their soulmate’s writing already on them.

Illiterate people’s soulmates would be nearly unable to find them. People would be getting older and older, and not know whether they had no soulmate or whether their soulmate had not been born yet.

Prompt #25

(Character A) and (Character B) are best friends, so of course, when (Character A) goes on Who Wants To Be A Millionaire, they use a lifeline to call their best friend. They don’t need it, but they just wanted to talk to them before they won.

So, of course, (Character B) accidentally confesses their long-time crush on (Character A) on live television.

... Shit.

Prompt #5

“Where will we go after we win?”

“We won’t.”

Prompt #26

(Character A) meets (Character B) at the Area 51 raid. (Character B) freaks out because they work there (albeit not voluntarily, it was a family thing to work for the government), and pretends they’re an alien because they’re a pathological liar.

Fortunately(?), (Character A) is stupid and believes them, so now (Character B) has to keep up with the charade after (Character A) takes them home to rescue them from the facility.

He doesn’t know what to make of it.

It’s ugly and it’s not, it’s beautiful and it’s not, it’s simultaneously everything he could have wanted and everything he dreaded.

She was leaving him.

She was leaving him, and wasn’t that fantastic? Wasn’t that horrible? Wasn’t that everything he could think of, alone but together with himself and a bottle that he could’ve sworn had fused to the callouses on his fingertips, had been superglued there and never ever left.

She was leaving him.

He still had his wedding ring, stuck to his finger in a different way than when you try on a ring and have to take it off with soap and water and time. It was stuck by the adhesive of his own mind. Trapped. He couldn’t take it off, couldn’t bare to pry it away.

She had taken hers off long ago, so why was his still stuck, like the bottle to his callouses and to his lips and permanent streams of saltwater that clung to his cheeks for days and days and days? Why?

All of his breaths were shudders and all of his thoughts were endless strings that never had a conclusion, an essay with an infinite word-count. He could still see the amber spilt on the floor through watery eyes, and still found it ironic that he was back to crying over spilt milk and spilt Jack Daniels and spilt tears and he was crying over everything and nothing and whatever was in between, so why did it matter anyways?

He clenched the bottle even tighter in his hand, and he wasn’t sure how much of it was alcohol and how much of it was his own tears at this point, and he knew he had to stop.

He had always known he needed to stop. He knew he needed to stop the first time he took a secret sip from beer in the fridge and the first time he had a serious hangover and the first time and the first time he met her and the first time she left him and the first time she came back and the first time she left a second time.

So many firsts. To him, the milestones didn’t matter a single bit. To him, all that mattered was that he didn’t have to care about what really did matter. And he was incredibly proficient at that in particular.

So he was good at knowing when to quit, but he was never quite as good at quitting. He was still stuck on that one time she smiled at him and she had looked so genuine, so real, and how she had looked just as real and tired when she said that she wanted a divorce and that she had had another.

She had another, didn’t she? Of course she did, she was always good at back-up plans and back-up-back-up plans. He knew it when she had a beer spilt on her shirt that neither of them liked (like the Jack Daniels on the floor and the milk knocked over to the ground and his heart to hell fires). He knew it when she came home with her lipstick smeared and with her eyes wild, he knew it when she stopped looking him in the eye and started looking at the wall behind him.

(The last time she looked him in the eye she told him straight to his face that she had another.)

(The last time he looked her in the eye he didn’t say a word.)

He stood up and slipped on the whiskey and prayed to whoever was out there that he wouldn’t be able to get up. It didn’t work.

It never worked, did it? Whoever was out there doesn’t care much for people like him anyway, and he could hear in the back of his head the whisper screams of ‘alcoholic’ and ‘acute mania’ his own screams weren’t loud enough. The shards of the bottles scattering everywhere when he smashed them to drown them out hid under his couch and beneath the coffee table to escape him and he understood why, because he was running from himself too, like her.

He didn’t know if there was a God anywhere.