#Chris does talk to ghosts though I think he makes friends with Daniel

[try-set-me-on-fire]

every moment points towards the aftermath

Ok this is literally the most self indulgent little au snippet, I’m not even putting it on ao3. They’re wrestlers. Bluff City is like Atlantic City, but weirder. You can listen here.

For awhile, in the beginning, every time Eddie meets Buck the other man has blood in his teeth.

They're in the ring, the first time, so it's hardly surprising. Eddie can taste copper, too. His tongue throbs where he bit it when Buck had dropped on him from the top rope, after a ridiculous spin he shouldn't have been able to pull off with his height. It's scripted, and Eddie tries not to be a romantic about that much later, shoving down the obvious metaphor that they were prewritten somewhere, by someone. It's scripted, Eddie wins the match but Buck steals the belt, and several other beats along the way that make the crowd scream. Eddie's not sure he's ever gone over so well, but this is also hardly surprising when he's never in his life felt more alive. The script couldn't have known the way he feels when their body's move together. When he slams Buck to the mat and their faces are inches from each other and Buck is grinning, teeth crimson and eyes so blue, Eddie feels like he's on fire, and like he'd be happy to let himself burn.

The second time - when he'd been unable to stop thinking about that night in the ring, when he'd already been in talks with Bobby Nash to bring him over to the Firehouse, maybe get a tag team going, maybe see how far they can take a good thing - they're at a bar and they didn't even come together. He's just… here. He's just here, because his house is empty, because Chris is with his parents tonight, because when he'd dropped him at the door his mother said "you can stay" in a tone that meant he really couldn't, because when he drives towards home the preacher on the radio is talking about ghosts and long distances, because he doesn't think his presence will make a difference in his house being empty, because he doesn't want to sit waiting for the phone to ring and flinching when it does. So, he's here and it's packed because it's raining, though it's the kind of place that would be packed regardless of the weather, and the crowd surges against him and Buck is dumped out of it, practically into Eddie's lap. His top lip is split and bleeding into his mouth and he's laughing as he steadies himself with a hand on Eddie's shoulder.

"Oh," he says when he gets upright enough to look at Eddie's face. "It's you." His finger swims as he points it at him, and Eddie's not sure if he's drunk, concussed, or just showy. "Eddie Diaz." The finger turns into a hand outstretched for a shake.

"Buck…" Eddie takes the hand, tilts his head. "You got another name?"

"Not really," Buck shrugs. "Yeah, a few." The crowd behind them churns again, and he says "I should get out of here," in a tone that means you could come with me.

He doesn't. He lets go of his hand, and Buck shrugs again, his smile a little… something, that Eddie doesn't know how to quantify. He takes a step backwards and the crowd swallows him whole.

The next time is the thing with the-

Well, actually between that they're in the ring together a bunch of times because instinct was right and Hotshot and Firebrand are a tag team people start coming to see, and at the celebratory team barbecues at Bobby's place Buck shares his beer with Eddie, one bottle they pass back and forth. Buck meets Christopher because Eddie's car had broken down and he was desperate not to be late picking him up from his parents, and they get on like a house on fire. Buck sleeps on his couch sometimes after matches or on weekends or whenever he feels like it, and Buck cooks meals in his unused kitchen, and Buck answers the phone when Eddie can’t make himself do it. Eddie doesn't ask what's on the other end of the line, and Buck doesn't tell him. Eddie still barely knows anything about him, doesn't know where he goes when they're not at the ring or Bobby's place or Eddie's house, if he has a job outside of wrestling or other friends or a family, but Buck still fits into his life like they have opposing ridges, a key and a lock.

And actually, that first time in the ring with the blood in the teeth is not the first time they met. They'd shook hands half an hour before, gone over the moves they were going to hit. And before that, years before that, when Eddie was still wrestling in a mask and hadn't disappointed anybody yet, he'd been in the crowd on Buck's first night up there under the lights where he'd been booked to lose but fought like hell anyway. Eddie had been there because his sister had a crush on Buck's opponent, they weren't even close to the ring, but Eddie found himself leaning forward in his seat, trying to make out the expression on his face as he was ground into the canvas.

So the timelines already fucked, but the next time after the bar, the time when he meets Evan Buckley, is the thing with the guy who had a crab for a face.

"A horseshoe crab is not technically a crab," Buck says, tilting his head back to stop the nosebleed. Eddie, helplessly, is trying to retrace steps to figure out how he got here. There was a match with stakes that didn't seem very high except for the way Bobby and Buck's eyes got tight whenever they were talking to the other federation backstage, and the desperate way Buck grabbed his arm as they were about to go out and told him "Don't take any offer they give you." And Eddie didn't know what that meant but then he was pinned to the mat and the guy, who was skinny and smelled like the ocean, was whispering in his ear about Shannon, who is gone, but sometimes the phone rings and he can hear her on the other end of the line. And the whole room was angry, Eddie and the other wrestlers and the crowd, and Eddie had fought for real, broke kayfabe, and they'd had to actually book it out the back door, Bobby nowhere to be seen, Hen and Chim waving at them from the van to hurry up, and then a tall man in a long coat had stepped out of nowhere and elbowed Buck in the face and Eddie had swung without thinking and his hand hit chitin where he'd been expecting flesh.

"They're more closely related to spiders and scorpions and stuff," Buck continues as Bobby runs up to the two of them. Three of them, Eddie supposes, the crab man is still out cold on the ground.

"Buck!" Bobby does the panicked parent pat down, frantically tapping his hands up Buck's arms and landing on either side of his head to check that he's whole and uninjured. Eddie did it himself when Chris tripped on the boardwalk the other day. It makes his chest feel tight. "You're okay? I called Athena. You're alright?"

Buck nods, eyes sliding to Eddie, and then Bobby is looking at him too. And there's a crab man, right there on the ground, and Eddie's wife is dead but calls him sometimes, and he's very dizzy all of a sudden and here is Buck, close, eyes blue.

"You've got blood," Eddie says weakly, "in your teeth."

And Eddie doesn't faint, but things do get a little fuzzy for a bit and then he's sitting at the back of the van, which is parked closer now, but angled so he cant see what's happening where they were before. He looks down at his wrestling boots on the pavement of the parking lot and thinks a reprimand in his father's voice.

"You grow up here?" Buck is next to him, tapping his toes together, gazing vaguely out into the night. Eddie looks at him, lit from behind by the overhead light in the van. "In Bluff?"

"Yeah?" Eddie's not sure why it comes out as a question.

Buck nods. "I'm from… out of town. I thought you might also- you kind of have the vibe, sometimes." He flashes a grin at Eddie, and his teeth are clean. "But maybe you're just a tight ass."

Eddie kicks him, and he laughs. "Outta town? Like Trenton?"

"Like… farther. Like Blough."

"Blue?" Eddie asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah."

"Buckaroo." Athena is standing in front of them, suddenly, in a long coat of her own. The nickname is kind, the tone is a warning.

"Yeah," Buck says again. "I know. I trust him, though."

"It's not just you that you have to trust him with," she says like she's had to remind him of this before.

"I know," he repeats, eyes just a little stubborn, and Eddie has no idea what this argument is about but still moves his arm a little so it's in contact with Buck's. It's not difficult. They're sitting very close.

"We'll talk," Athena says after a stretched out moment. He's not sure which of the two it's directed at.

"What's going to happen with the-" Eddie gestures more or less in the direction.

"We'll take care of it."

Eddie looks up at her. "What is your… job, again?" He must have learned it, at some point, some get together. Bobby talks about his wife with admiration and frequency.

"Coast guard," she says, and for the life of him he cannot tell if it's a joke.

"Right. Because of the… right."

"Right." She stares down at him before seeming to decide he passed the assessment, and turns to Buck. "You should still lay low for a few days."

"Okay." He glances at Eddie like he's trying not to glance at Eddie.

"You can stay at my place," Eddie says, and his tone means the same.

And they'll go home and Buck will tell him his name, and about his sister, and his parents, and a little about where he came from and how he got here, and he'll talk around Bobby's role in things, and Hen and Chim, because those parts aren't his to tell but they're written all over his life anyway, and it'll all be absolutely unbelievable but Eddie will believe it anyway.

But for now they're sitting in the back of a van and their arms are warm where they're pressed together, and Buck is smiling and it's-

It's something. It's something, and Eddie wants to figure out what.

#Shannon is not dead #or well she might be #ghost was one of the options I was thinking but Inlike either she’s trapped in Blough or she’s a selkie more #Chris does talk to ghosts though I think he makes friends with Daniel #Bobby is also from Blough but he’s been here for years #Athena is high level Concern and has been covering up for him and later Buck #and then also Maddie when she crosses over #hen and Chim know everything but are bluff city originals #buddie #my writing

[christopherwatsonbooks]

Covenant Spring, Chapter One

I’ve never been good at self-promotion. I’m terrific at touting someone else’s work -- it’s something I’ve done for decades to pay the bills. But when it comes to my own writing, my inherent aversion to calling attention to myself gets in the way. It just feels unseemly to boast. I’m also sensitive that others, like you, might find it off-putting.

Unfortunately, no one’s going to discover my writing unless I keep talking about it. And unless I also do something else I find quite difficult, which is to ask for help.

I need lots of people -- like you -- to read Covenant Spring and then write a review for it on Amazon, as well as spread the word via social media, word of mouth, book-loving friends and clandestine dalliances. As I said before, I just want to get the damn thing read. I really would give it away for free, if I could, but Amazon wants money for doing their part to help. Which seems fair.

But that doesn't mean I can't share some of it here. Maybe all of it. So let's give that a go.

Below, you’ll find the first chapter to Covenant Spring, which you can purchase on Amazon in ebook and softcover formats.

I'd really appreciate your help getting the word out about Covenant Spring. It’s about love and God and murder and sex and truth and lies and finding one good thing in your life to believe in, something to make weathering the rest of the s**t worthwhile. There’s also some excellent inside scoop about car sales. Really.

Check out the first chapter below and let me know what you think.

Chris

***

Covenant Spring

Foreword

All of the places in this story are real but I've changed their names and where they are, so if you try to follow the directions I give to Covenant Spring you’ll wind up someplace else entirely, past the New Covenant Presbyterian Church and Miz Dori's neat white house, past the dirt road into the woods by the swamp where Mister Silas lives, over and beyond the little cement bridge, where I held Aaron's hand and faced down Pastor Lamm, with the storm black and howling over our heads and the world a tick from ruin.

Some of the events I have changed for certain reasons that ought to be clear by the end. I've also changed the names of everyone involved, except my own, for the same reasons. So if you think you see yourself in here it’s not intentional but you can’t say it's all that surprising, the world being what it is.

. . .

Chapter One

My name is Daniel Ivy and I live in New Jersey. I’ve lived in Jersey all my life. I was born and raised in a typical Jersey town, which I know won't mean a thing to you if you haven't been here. There are worse places to grow up, and any place is fine when you’re a kid and don’t know any better.

My hometown is small. You might find it on a good state map. It's about an hour west of New York City, identical to the towns that surround it, like interlocking amoebas in a petri dish. Millions of squirming souls captured in a drop of dirty water, fighting over parking spaces. It’s home because it’s where I was born and grew up, and that’s the end of it. It’s difficult to get sentimental about asphalt and strip malls.

When I was younger I liked to search maps for my hometown. Big paper maps, atlases, the kind that showed the entire world. My town was never more than the smallest dot if it was listed at all, but I was always glad to find it. It meant we were real.

Our existence, officially confirmed.

. . .

There's a place one town over from where I was raised. It’s called Washington's Rock. During the Revolutionary War, General Washington is said to have stood there on the high ridge and observed troop movements in the valley below. It's also said he often went there to meditate, whether he would win or be hanged, I suppose. People drink there now and get stoned, and scrawl obscenities and the names of who they’re hooking up with at the moment on the tall granite marker erected where a ghost once stood and contemplated death, hope and honor. The limbs of the trees at the bottom of the ridge drip with sun-faded trash and used condoms, like tinsel.

I spent a lot of time on Washington's Rock as a kid. The road to the top is long and narrow, and it plunges at the shoulder into trees and rock. Trucks are banned from it. It’s alpine steep, and laid in serpentine turns around which it's impossible to see a chubby kid on a bicycle until the last moment.

It is a dangerous road, my parents warned me, back when I was the age when dangerous was intoxicating. The feel of a dangerous thing, a forbidden thing, was sexual in its allure. To brave the slender bending limbs at the crest of a tall tree, or to dash across the teeming interstate with my friends. These are the trials of early manhood for suburban boys. We would dance nervous on the highway shoulder and then dive into the diesel avalanche, through doppler-shifting horn blasts, knowing even then, even that young with our legs shaking and gulping breaths coming precious and hard on the other side, that we’d done something. You weren’t quite the same person you had been moments before. You had done a dangerous thing, a stupid thing, and had been changed.

But it wasn’t stupid. It built me by small degrees like daubs of clay pressed on a frame. It gave me weight in the world, an earned power that was mine alone, and was important.

It took everything I had to pump the pedals and make it to the top of Washington’s Rock. The passing cars kicked their grit in my face, their horns blasted hurled curses. But I dared not stop. The road was so steep that if I stopped, I knew my legs wouldn’t find the power to push the pedals anew, and I would think about giving up. And if I gave up, I would be that much smaller, diminished by it forever, and I might never try again.

So I did not allow myself to quit. The trial made me real. There was nothing else I had then that possessed the power and magic to make me much of anything.

. . .

I knew a girl in middle school named Shelly. I saw her one day in class pressing the point of a nail file into her arm under her desk until she bled. Her face was as composed as a cameo the whole time. She saw me watching her and she put the file back in her purse and returned her attention to the blackboard like nothing at all had happened.

I read years later that a lot of young women hurt themselves like that, mostly women, but nothing I ever read explained why. It was a disease. It was a disorder, a warning sign. A warning of what, no one seemed to know. But if you saw it, you were supposed to tell someone. You were supposed to take action.

Shelly was beautiful. She was pale and doe-eyed and slender. She wore nice clothes and got excellent grades. She waited every day after school out front, her books embraced against her chest like body armor, waiting for her mother to come in their giant SUV and pick her up.

They found Shelly that summer in her bedroom. She had found some pills and washed them down with liquor from her parents’ wet bar. The local paper wrote about it on the front page, how Shelly might never wake up and how it was such a senseless tragedy, as if there was such a thing as sensible tragedy. How it was such a shame that it had happened to so beautiful a young woman, as if good skin should have been enough for her.

“She was so beautiful,” everyone said. As if that was all they could see.

Kids visited Shelly for a while in the hospital. They took turns caring for her, talking to her, playing her favorite music for her, brushing her hair. The nurses showed them how to turn Shelly every few hours and position pillows under her so she wouldn’t get bedsores, and how to clean the site where her feeding tube punched a hole into her stomach, and how to empty her urine and colostomy bags. Shelly’s friends at school set up an online crowdfunding site for her and held fundraisers for the family to offset medical bills when insurance ran out, “We Heart Shelly” dances and 10K walks and bake sales. A local car dealership held a raffle for a new vehicle. Save Shelly, win a Toyota.

Then after a while, no one talked about it anymore. Everyone forgot about Shelly until she died two years later, a wax doll skeleton in pink sweat clothes, resembling her former beautiful self as much as a paper sack resembles a tree.

It would have been better if Shelly had been shot in the head, or had died in a car crash. I’ve heard others say it, families and friends of people injured like Shelly, the ones who have to live with the unromanticized pain, who can’t go home and leave it behind. The ones who have to wear the rubber gloves and clean the fluids and feces, and exhausted wrestle tormented with their love against the slow expiration of hope, and the guilt of wishing more each day for death’s blessed mercy.

If the crease from living Shelly to dead Shelly had been sharper, it might have cut us more than it did. A knife to awaken us. Useful pain, instructive pain, stopping our lives, making us ponder more than it did.

Remember Shelly? What a shame. Her poor family. Gee, how long ago was that?

The newspaper ran a story: Local Girl Dies After Two-Year Battle.

It wasn’t a battle. It was decomposition. The battle ended when Shelly said so.

Two years for the edge to dull, until it drew no blood at all. Maybe if it had, we wouldn’t have so easily forgotten her. But Shelly Christ did not give her life with the intention of making us see. It was about us, but it was never for us.

. . .

I’ve never told anyone about what I’d seen Shelly do, until now. Maybe if I had said something, I sometimes think, she might be alive now. But I think that’s arrogant. I don’t have that power. I don’t know what I would have said or done. I didn’t know her.

Maybe if I’d tried, maybe she would have let me be her friend. I don’t know if it would have made a difference. Maybe I only would’ve gotten in her way.

I think I should have tried, though. I still feel that I missed something big by not trying. And I didn’t understand power, not then.

. . .

I wondered why I was drawn to Washington’s Rock. Sometimes I would just find myself there, having set out on my bike with no conscious intention of going. I’d find myself at the bottom of the hill, waiting for the silent something that moved me from stillness — some hunger shown food, some decision I never was conscious of making, an impetus like a whisper, the only evidence of which is the echo I hear after I’ve begun.

Washington's Rock was my trial, my very own. Making it to the top gave me power, and freedom.

I walk around the trees, hot and panting and sweat-soaked and then, there is the entire world, spread out below me.

I stand on the marker and extend my arms, I outstretch my hands over it all. I can feel the press of the tiny houses and the billows of green against my palms. I spread my will over them and hold it suspended, like the sky. How lucky they all are to be ignorant of me, those tiny, stupid people. So ignorant of my power, for all I have to do is lower my hands and crush them all. And in their last moments, only then would they finally understand. Then they would know how stupid they were, how they had until that last terrible moment, when it was utterly too late, understood absolutely nothing.

But other times, I would fly. I would raise my hands with my palms upward and feel myself becoming light and I would rise like a flock of birds set loose from my heart, so high above the dull world and the stupid people in it. Soaring through the clean, cold air, my blood and breath transformed to joy, knowing at last that I was free.

I didn’t think of it then as prayer.

Maybe that’s what Shelly felt. Maybe that’s why I can’t forget her. Maybe I could have taken her with me and shown her another way, given her a trial that she could weather. Maybe she would have come out on the other side born anew, even if only for a little while, with a defining something other than pain that was completely hers, that was earned. And maybe she would have kissed me in thanks, the one person who understood, and we would both have had another thing to make us real.

But then always, I would feel my weight again, and I would open my eyes and be standing on the rock. But maybe just before, just moments before, I truly had been free. Maybe the world returned only because I opened my eyes expecting to see it.

The world is strong, but one day I would be strong enough to remove myself from it completely, I vowed. One day, I would ascend into the real and become my true self, forever, with no hope or desire of returning. I would be awesome and terrible to behold, and everyone then would know how deadly stupid had been their decision to dismiss me.

I carried this with me as a comfort. It is the closest thing I had to religion then. That, and searching for myself on maps.

. . .

My mother and I argued. I screamed at her but my voice was never strong enough. If only it had been, I could have blasted her with my power and then she, too, would know. That she had better stop and ponder, and wonder if what she was doing would one day prove dangerous.

I did not like my mother. I felt no obligation to. Any animal can give birth. Ten seconds after that’s done, you have to earn the rest.

My mother didn't understand. She would tell me to stop shouting. It didn't matter what we were shouting about or whether she had shouted first. "Stop shouting!" she would hiss, as if we were creating a scene in a restaurant. She would repeat it over and over, never looking at me until I went away, and she would make another drink.

I learned to give my mother my silence. I made myself easy for her to ignore. I gave her nothing, other than what was necessary to pass through her space. I learned to turn my mind from the wet crawl of her eyes on me, the slurp of her taking a drink. Sometimes she would say things but they were just rocks. I was too far away, and she didn't have the reach. I think she was grateful.

That silence was all we had in common. Except for blood, which can't be denied but is easy to ignore, once you make up your mind to do it.

. . .

There was a time when Dad tried to play peacemaker. I would stop arguing when he did, for him.

I love my dad. When I was still at home, I would hear my mother shouting at him downstairs, sometimes in fury, other times with words that cut but held no truth. She only wanted to hurt him. Usually dad would speak so low I couldn't hear him, so it sounded as if my mother was cursing a ghost.

Many times the front door would slam hard enough to rattle the windows in my bedroom. Then I would hear the fridge door open, and the cabinet where she kept the bottle, which was right beneath my room. And sometimes I would hear her cry, and I would turn up my music, just enough so I couldn't hear her but not so loud that she could hear me do it. It made me feel something that I had enough left to give her that, at least.

"Your mother is having a tough time," Dad would explain, though he never said with what. I don't think he knew. If he had, I don’t know how he could have explained it to me then so I would understand. I was in their world, and what bound them together was to me like a monster swimming in a dark swamp, a great merciless shape obscured in the murk whose silent approach I felt like a wave as it neared.

I would make myself small then, I would press myself against the walls in fear and pray it did not crush me as it passed because whatever it was, it did not see me at all.

It terrified me worse than dying.

Dad rescued me. His familiar footsteps on the carpeted stairs, the squat shadows of his feet against the crack of hallway light below my closed bedroom door. Three light taps. I never played my music so loud that I wouldn't be able to hear them.

Sometimes we talked for hours in the dark, with long silences between clumps of sentences like the highway between towns. Sometimes he drove and sometimes I did. And then, there would come a stretch of highway and I would feel his weight rise from the end of the bed, and his warm hand would squeeze my arm, and the door would close softly behind him, leaving the faint odor of after shave and cigarettes.

Dad always goes outside when he smokes. I would hear the screen door creak and close, and I would rise from my bed and go to the window and see him on the back patio. Sometimes he would just stand there, and sometimes he would walk slowly around the little yard that I mowed every weekend. He would move in and out of the next-door neighbor's yellow porchlight spill, in and out of the shadows cast by the high forsythia bushes along the fence. His hand would come up to his mouth, and I would see the little orange dot flare bright in the dark as he inhaled. His hand would swing down by his side and I knew he was exhaling but I would watch the cigarette cherry as it faded, seeing how long I could make it out before it went away completely, counting the seconds.

Sometimes he would be like that for an hour, smoking one cigarette after another, like he knew he had to smoke them all right then before he went back inside for the last time that night. Back on duty, back to my mother who with her vodka breath had ordered him and his cigarettes out of his house.

I always made sure there were no lights on in my room when I watched him. I didn't want him to look up and see my silhouette in the window. I wasn't afraid he would be angry. I didn't want to rob him of his religion.

Dad amazes me, what he tolerates. I don't know what my mother once was that made him fall in love with her, but it's gone now. Maybe there's just enough of it left that only he can see that keeps him there.

I think it's more that he feels sorry for her. If she can't love him, then he will protect her. That at least he can still do. He will be dutiful. It is the only way he has left to show her his love. The only way she will accept, even as she curses him for it.

If I think about it too long, the sadness of it breaks my heart.

[mischievouspoltergeist]

About me :3

1: Name; Charlie, or Char 2: Age; 21 3: 3 Fears; trains, spiders, the dark 4: 3 things I love; Chocolate, my phone, & my dog 5: 4 turns on; biting, good long kisses, touch my thigh and we’re so done, lingerie 6: 4 turns off: too much talking, blindfolds, the mere suggestion of taking pictures, and men being butthurt when I tell them I’m not enjoying something 7: My best friend: Daniel, my best friend of 10 years :3 8: Sexual orientation: I don’t even know anymore 9: My best first date; Went out for a walk around a beautiful lake. It was a good day. The best dates involve exercise for me tbh 10: How tall am I: V.small. 5′4 11: What do I miss: Going for 14 mile walks. Got no one to go with since my mam stopped! 12: What time were I born: I have absolutely no idea. My parents don’t remember anything like that. 13: Favorite color: Bluuueeeeee 14: Do I have a crush: Yes 15: Favorite quote: (gosh this is hard) I guess one that always sticks out is ‘Love that is not madness is not love’ - did a whole art project around that quote a few years ago 16: Favorite place: A beach about half an hour away from me. I just feel so chill there 17: Favorite food: chocolate. all the chocolate 18: Do I use sarcasm: Every other word is sarcasm, baby 19: What am I listening to right now: The sweet silence of an empty flat with the slight hint of fridge noise. 20: First thing I notice in new person: I have no idea. I don’t think like that, I guess. 21: Shoe size: UK size 8. Annoyingly big 22: Eye color: Hazel/brown/green, they change colour for some weird fucked up genetic reason 23: Hair color: Naturally brunette, currently blonde/ginger 24: Favorite style of clothing: Comfortable 25: Ever done a prank call?: Nope! Don’t have the guts! 27: Meaning behind my URL: Peeves from Harry Potter 28: Favorite movie: Harry Potter - any of them 29: Favorite song: Right now? Halsey - Haunting, or possibly Strange Love. Hard choice 30: Favorite band: Probably always be Linkin Park tbh. Those guys slay me 31: How I feel right now: A little bit sleepy but happy 32: Someone I love: A lot of people. I have a lot of love to give 33: My current relationship status: In an exclusive crush-ship 34: My relationship with my parents: Strained, at best. 35: Favorite holiday: A few years ago, me, my mum and my best friend took a nice quiet trip to Cornwall and it was so chill and de-stressed. 36: Tattoos and piercing i have: None 37: Tattoos and piercing i want: I don’t like piercings much, and I want so many tattoos 38: The reason I joined Tumblr: A friend told me to 39: Do I and my last ex hate each other?: Oh my god so much. Well, idk if he hates me but frankly if I ever see him again and I have a hot iron to hand... 40: Do I ever get “good morning” or “good night ” texts?: At the minute I do and I never knew it would make me this happy 41: Have I ever kissed the last person you texted?: Nope 42: When did I last hold hands?: November 9th 2016 43: How long does it take me to get ready in the morning?: Anywhere from 15 minutes to 45. 44: Have You shaved your legs in the past three days?: Hell no. I don’t gots no one to show off to. 45: Where am I right now?: At my dining table in my lovely new flat <3 46: If I were drunk & can’t stand, who’s taking care of me?: Hopefully, my best female friend Charlotte :3 She’s pretty reliable 47: Do I like my music loud or at a reasonable level?: Honestly depends what mood I’m in. I try to keep it reasonable but if I’m stressed or angry, the volume increases 48: Do I live with my Mom and Dad?: Nope! Just moved out my mum’s! 49: Am I excited for anything?: THE YU-GI-OH MOVIE OMG 50: Do I have someone of the opposite sex I can tell everything to?: Yah. Best friend 51: How often do I wear a fake smile?: 97% of the time. I find I feel better if I smile anyway. Fake it til you make it~ 52: When was the last time I hugged someone?: Uhhhhh Sunday :3 53: What if the last person I kissed was kissing someone else right in front of me?: I’d be pretty upset and hurt and confused! 54: Is there anyone I trust even though I should not?: Probably! 55: What is something I disliked about today?: I had to drive a car. Why make me do this 56: If I could meet anyone on this earth, who would it be?: Maria Mena. I just want to. 57: What do I think about most?: Idk. The crush bae. Naruto. YGO. My crushing mental illness. They all take up my mind evenly. 58: What’s my strangest talent?: I don’t think any of my talents are strange! (but I would say that) 59: Do I have any strange phobias?: Windows is pretty odd. I won’t touch windows if it’s dark outside. I rarely want to touch them during the day. 60: Do I prefer to be behind the camera or in front of it?: Both! 61: What was the last lie I told?: That I’m totally ready to book my driving test on the 20th February! 62: Do I prefer talking on the phone or video chatting online?: Talking on the phone 63: Do I believe in ghosts? How about aliens?: I already answered this to hell the other day I’m lazy. So yes to aliens, unsure about ghosts. 64: Do I believe in magic?: Sadly, no 65: Do I believe in luck?: Strangely, yes 66: What’s the weather like right now?: It’s pissing it down. 67: What was the last book I’ve read?: Loving someone with bipolar disorder 68: Do I like the smell of gasoline?: No 69: Do I have any nicknames?: Char, Charmander, Lottie 70: What was the worst injury I’ve ever had?: I crashed my motorbike and sliced my knee right down to the bone. Took 6 hours of awake surgery and some of it was so bad that it couldn’t be stitched. 71: Do I spend money or save it?: Save when I’m well. Spend when I’m not. 72: Can I touch my nose with my tongue?: Nope 73: Is there anything pink in 10 feet from me?: Nope 74: Favorite animal?: Snow leopards 75: What was I doing last night at 12 AM?: Sleeping! :3 76: What do I think is Satan’s last name is?: Fuck knows 77: What’s a song that always makes me happy when I hear it?: Babycakes - 3 of a kind 78: How can you win my heart?: Say ‘Charlie.... will you walk 14 miles of the South West Coast Path with me today?’ or say ‘Charlie... will you tell me about your bipolar disorder and what I can do to help you?’ 79: What would I want to be written on my tombstone? To steal Spike Milligan’s grave; ‘I told you I was ill’ 80: What is my favorite word?: Probably ‘fuck’ 81: My top 5 blogs on tumblr: I CAN’T NAME JUST 5 82: If the whole world were listening to me right now, what would I say?: You all suck. Be nice to other people. 83: Do I have any relatives in jail?: Not that I know of! 84: I accidentally eat some radioactive vegetables. They were good, and what’s even cooler is that they endow me with the super-power of my choice! What is that power?: Hopefully the power to turn invisible whenever I want 85: What would be a question I’d be afraid to tell the truth on?: I don’t know. I’m pretty shameless honestly. 86: What is my current desktop picture?: Yu--gi-oh Bakura-shipping 87: Had sex?: All the sex 88: Bought condoms?: Yup bcos safe sex is good and because my friends used to go ‘will you buy them for me? I’m too scared!’ 89: Gotten pregnant?: Thankfully, no 90: Failed a class?: Yup. Chemistry A-level. You only get one batch of materials for your exam and if you fuck up with them, you fail the exam automatically. I very cleverly tipped hydrochloric acid all over myself, my coat and my bag, and my seat, and the floor.... and I basically went ‘hm. Maybe Chemistry isn’t for me’ and dropped out. 91: Kissed a boy?: Yes 92: Kissed a girl?: Tes 93: Have I ever kissed somebody in the rain?: Yes. So overrated 94: Had job?: Yes, several 95: Left the house without my wallet?: Too many times 96: Bullied someone on the internet?: Yes, when I was very young I made some very careless and horrible remarks. Got in trouble. Never did it again. 97: Had sex in public?: When we say public, do you mean were we seen...? 98: Played on a sports team?: Only when made to at school 99: Smoked weed?: Yup 100: Did drugs?: See above 101: Smoked cigarettes?: Not unless they had other elicit substances in 102: Drank alcohol?: A lot 103: Am I a vegetarian/vegan?: Slowly going vegetarian, easier now I live alone. 104: Been overweight?: Yes 105: Been underweight?: No. Too much muscle to allow it. 106: Been to a wedding?: Yes. Two! 107: Been on the computer for 5 hours straight?: All the time XD 108: Watched TV for 5 hours straight?: Yup 109: Been outside my home country?: I went to Scotland once :P 110: Gotten my heart broken?: I don’t know about broken. I maybe broke my own heart once or twice I guess 111: Been to a professional sports game?: Yup. I was 6 and I fell asleep 112: Broken a bone?: Yap. Three fingers, a toe, and my wrist a couple times 113: Cut myself?: Way too much 114: Been to prom?: Nope. I skipped out on that 115: Been in airplane?: Nope 116: Fly by helicopter?: Sadly no 117: What concerts have I been to?: None. Too much noise 118: Had a crush on someone of the same sex?: Yep 119: Learned another language?: Partially 120: Wore make up?: Yap 121: Lost my virginity before I was 18?: Yup, because that’s perfectly legal in the UK 122: Had oral sex?: Yup 123: Dyed my hair?: Loads 124: Voted in a presidential election?: Well, prime minister here, but yes 125: Rode in an ambulance?: 3 times last year alone. 126: Had a surgery?: Several when I was younger, and once last year. 127: Met someone famous?: CHRIS BARRIE FROM RED DWARF 128: Stalked someone on a social network?: So many people 129: Peed outside?: Not in the last 15 years or so 130: Been fishing?: No, thank god 131: Helped with charity?: I volunteer for one now! 132: Been rejected by a crush?: Yep. Lewis Spatcher, when I was 10 years old. Then Rebecca Haynes, 11 years old (then outed me as gay and I had the shit kicked out of me :’) ) 133: Broken a mirror?: Nope 134: What do I want for birthday?: Degus, and all the things I need to keep them

#me #this is what I do when I should be doing other stuff =D #do feel free to steal and edit in your own answers