#deadly mouth cancer

[crucialplayer]

Thoughts on mercury placements

!! everything is based purely on my experiences with signs, written with no other purpose than to share my observations and be unserious.

Gemini mercury. Throw shit at the wall and see what sticks mercury. When they talk be sure ur not the only one hearing this thought for the first time - they are too. They think as they speak. Cannot hold info inside of them longer than 5 minutes so no secrets kept, no embarrassing opinions left unspoken.

Sagittarius mercury. This one doesn’t really stir the pot, usually just blows it up. They are bold with words for no reason. What they are saying is almost always what they truly think. Will give a random lecture that no one asked for on a topic they barely know anything about.

Aries mercury. Сan either be supeeeer fun or suuuuuper insane and nothing in between. Very expressive and usually swear a lot, but they have the best sense of timing with it. No filter of course, so often get themselves in trouble with that whirlwind of a mouth.

Scorpio mercury. They kinda have a talent for talking shit in the most cutting way. It’s like a perfect combo of clairvoyance and knowing where to strike with that deadly sting using words. Sometimes don’t recognize when they’ve overdone it tho so they can come across as edgy.

Virgo mercury. Meticulous mercury, very observant. They talk even faster than Gemini mercuries but they actually manage to get their point across. Can be blunt but typically when it’s much needed. There’s a reason why this is ultimately the best mercury placement.

Capricorn mercury. Dry as fuck. Also I’ve noticed they like to complain a lot but not on abstract themes. More like being precise about why this thing sucks. Can be very adamant and stubborn with their opinions. Can sound so confident you forget to analyze what they are saying.

Pisces mercury. So whimsical and romantic but at what cost. Literally can never tell what they are trying to convey, pretty sure they have no idea too. Get carried away with their associations and metaphors that make sense only to them. If they’re nerdy it’s even worse.

Cancer mercury. Awkward with words but in a cute way. Hate to be misconstrued and taken out of context. Therefore tend to over-explain themselves and things in general but in a way that makes the point slip away further. Also very sentimental.

Aquarius mercury. Usually like to argue on social justice issues… with people who are removed from politics as much as possible. Don't care to be understood by people they consider irrelevant to them. It's like the fewer people actually do get them the better they feel but that’s just my theory. Also artistic.

Libra mercury. More concise than Pisces but ur still kinda left with a «what...» feeling. Also poetic and romantic. They usually have 1 or 2 topics they can talk about hours on end but can lose interest once the convo shifts onto something else. Like to giggle a lot too.

Leo mercury. I call this one bimbo mercury in the best way possible. Very entertaining and charismatic, but don’t give much thought to what they’re saying. Like to be the authority in every convo and if they are not they just kinda… leave. Loud (if they don't have a water sun).

Taurus mercury. Time ceases to exist, nature slows its rhythm. Some might call it relaxing I call it torture. If surrounded by their friends they tend to speed up and show more of a goofy side. Nice voices, yes yes.

#astrology #astro notes #astro observations #natal chart #zodiac signs #aries #taurus #gemini #cancer #leo #virgo #libra #scorpio #sagittarius #capricorn #aquarius #pisces #mercury placements

[imfinereallyy]

Bedside Manner

for @acasualcrossfade request for "the infection has spread"

"Some birdie told me that you have been causing a fuss, Wayne, is that true?"

Wayne huffs from his hospital bed, glasses sliding down his nose. He places the newspaper he was reading on the table beside him. "You tell that Robbie of yours to stop exaggerating. It was only a small request."

Steve raises his eyebrows at his favorite patient (Dustin tells him he isn't supposed to have favorites, but he also used to cry anytime he picked up Max before him when they were younger, so what does he know) and gives him a knowing look. "Robin listens to no man, Wayne, you know this. You're better off sending that message through her wife. Besides, small? She was telling me you refused to have any other nurse help you because I wasn't here last night. Which surprised me since you are always pushing me on about taking a vacation. "

Wayne opens his mouth, but Steve presses on. "And the fact Robin was even in the room means they called a psych consult, so I can only imagine how bad it was."

Wayne grumbles like a little kid being scolded for getting his hands caught in the cookie jar. "Yea, well, it was a bad night, kid."

Steve feels his shoulders sag, he takes off his glasses and rubs a hand down his face before placing them back on. "Sorry, Wayne, I had a bad migraine last night. Nance and Robs wouldn't even let me pass the entrance. Bad news?"

"Kid, don't stress yourself out over me. I'm just your patient, and more so, I am just a cranky old man." Wayne patted Steve's knee as he sat down next to him.

"C'mon, Wayne. You're more than that. I'd like to think seeing you in and out of here the last year has made us friends. Although I gotta say, you're the only friend I have that I'll be glad if I don't get to see again, given the circumstances. So, what's the news?"

"The infection has spread."

Steve takes in a deep breath, he tries not to panic, but any infection in a hospital can be deadly, especially for a cancer patient like Wayne. "Incision site?"

Steve must not be as good at hiding his emotions as he used to be because Wayne jumps to ease his worry. "No, kid, don't worry. The surgery was a success. Just got that hospital fever, the good old bronchitis. But it just means I'm here longer than I have to. It also means my nephew is on edge, and I don't know if I can take a second longer of his hovering."

Steve laughed wetly, thankful for the topic change. "Ah yes, the mysterious nephew of yours that I've never met. The way you talk about him almost tempts me into switching to the day shift, sounds like he might be entertaining. But only almost."

"Always wondered why you were always working the nights, most of the others seem to switch. Not a big fan of the day?"

Steve shakes his head gently, "No, I like the quiet here at night. Like getting to know the patients without having to worry about fixing ten million things. Don't get me wrong, it has its downfalls. Like the doctors can be horrible at night, never tell Dr. Wheeler that or Robbie will kill me, and the food is awful. But there is something special about it here at night. So sorry, your ridiculous nephew isn't enough to tempt me."

Wayne smirked, "What if I told you he was a looker and single?"

Steve blushes slightly. He is used to patients trying to pawn him off to their relatives, it came with being a young male nurse, but typically it didn't phase him. But Steve has become close with Wayne, so hearing him suggest he get together with his nephew has him flustered. "I'm good, Wayne, thanks. Gave up on the dating scene a while ago. Not many people can keep up with a guy who works nights and suffers from severe head trauma."

"Shame, Eddie likes the nights too. I'd reckon yal would get along."

"I'm pretty sure we would need more than that, Wayne."

Wayne smiles fondly at Steve. "You don't need a whole lot to build a connection, son. Me and Linda, god rest her soul, only started dating for our mutual love of mugs. And we may not have had long together, but our love was strong. Besides, there is more yal would have in common than just the night shift."

Steve huffs a laugh, "Oh yea, like what?" The least he can do is humor the man.

"Well, you both care about me deeply."

Steve blushes again, "C'mon, Wayne. I'm your nurse. I'm kinda paid to care."

Wayne won't hear any of it, "No, son, it's more than that. You take your break in here every night. You make sure to record the game at home for me because they only have the news here. And last night, you tried to come in with a migraine, even though we both know I am the only patient you can stand right now."

Steve doesn't know what to say back. Wayne is right, of course. Steve has been spending all of his time with the man, giving him extra care. Steve isn't bad with his other patients, he goes above and beyond most of his coworkers, but there is something special about Wayne.

"You got nothing, kid, you know I'm right. Remind me a lot of my nephew. Before visiting hours ended is when I got the news of having to stay longer. Kid almost threw a fit when they kicked him out. Swore he was gonna break in to stay the night with me. I told him not to worry since you would be there, I brag about you too, ya know. When he found out today you weren't here, that boy threw a fit again. Swear he gets his tantrums from his father. Said he was gonna sneak back in tonight. Make sure I had company. That 'the man' couldn't stop him. That if he ran into you, he was gonna have a word with you."

Steve can't help the snort that shakes his body, "I'd like to see him get passed Hop first."

Wayne starts to chuckle, too, "Eds may have had his fair share of escaping the law, but no man moves as fast as Jim in a security uniform."

Steve is fully laughing now, "I know, right? It's like those pants make him aerodynamic or something. No way your nephew is getting by."

It is almost as if Steve's words summon what happens next. There in the doorway is the most gorgeous man he's ever seen, even though he is bent over and out of breath.

"Eds?" Wayne questions, clearly surprised. Steve has to mask his face and quickly before Wayne catches him ogling his nephew. Steve is finding it difficult, though. The man, Eddie, despite his out-of-breath appearance, is stunning. His long curly hair is thrown up in a bun, showing off the piercings up his ears. His clothes are simple but suiting, ripped jeans and a black band tee. Tattoos cover his entire body, and Steve wants to ask about every single one of them.

The most surprising thing about him isn't that he got by Hop (although he has questions for that later), no the most surprising thing to Steve is that Wayne somehow knew his exact type, which most people assume wrong in that department.

Eddie awakens an old craving inside Steve that he thought he had buried long ago.

"Wayne, you would not believe what I just went to get up here. The story I have for you, oh boy. You're gonna love it. Who knew security guards could move that fast. Anyway, I hope that nurse boy of yours is here tonight because I am ready to—" Eddie stops mid-rant when his eyes land on Steve, a lovely blush blossoming across his pale cheeks.

"I believe what you are trying to say is, what was it, Wayne? Oh yea, 'have a word with me,'" Steve laughs softly.

Eddie sputters, "Wayne!?!" His blushing becomes deeper as the seconds pass by.

Wayne just chuckles as Steve stands. "Don't be mad at your Uncle, I think he was just trying to make me feel better. I am sorry I wasn't here last night for the news. Got my head knocked around too much as a kid—" Steve taps his head with his knuckles, "—so I suffer from migraines sometimes. I really did try to come in, but well—you met Jim. He's pretty fast." Steve worries his lip. Eddie's eyes follow.

"Well, I can't be too mad now, can I?" Eddie swallows nervously before a smirk spreads across his face, switching from shy to confident in two seconds flat. Steve shouldn't be turned on by that. "The pretty face helps too. I'm pretty sure you could convince me to give you my kidney right about now. I'm Eddie, which I know you know by now, and you are...?"

Steve puts his hand out for a shake, "Nurse Harrington. But most people call me Steve."

Eddie grabs his hand gently and brings the back of it to his lips. "Stevie, a pleasure, really." A light kiss is placed on Steve's knuckles. Stevie, he thinks. That's a new one. And he isn't mad about it, at all. In fact, the butterflies in his stomach want him to get Eddie to say it again.

Steve catches Wayne's smug face in the corner of his eye as Steve begins to blush again.

"I'm just gonna—I'll be right back." Steve stutters.

"Leaving so soon?" Eddie says disappointed.

Steve has the sudden urge to fix the frown on his face. "No, no! Just, uh, gonna call Jim and tell him not to send out a search party. That it's okay if you stay. I'll keep an eye on you."

Eddie's face breaks out into a brilliant smile, "Really, Stevie? You gonna keep me around?"

Steve's heart skips a beat, "If I can help it."

***

#steddie #stranger things #wayne munson #modern au #wayne likes to play match maker but unlike dustin he is good at it #steve harrington #eddie munson #implied ronance #platonic stobin #nurse steve harrington #my writing #request game #steve x eddie #ficlet

[blingblong55]

Stay professional- 141

A/n: I have no idea what picture to use…

Based on a request:

Doctor reader who has incredibly dark humor that most times their patients/the guys think their serious --- GN!Reader, doctor!reader, platonic!relationship ---

A/N: Just the jokes ig because my head is a mess rn

The first time meeting you did scare them. "You have very little time," You told Price as you fixed his arm during the flight. His eyes widened, "what?!" Gaz, Ghost and Soap swore the injury was minor. "What?" you asked and Price swore it was the morphine messing with him. "Oh, no…you aren't dead…dead.whatever I said, I meant, with the scar…you have very little time with this scar, it'll heal fast," you reassure and he breathes a sigh of relief. "Who the hell got us this doctor?" Ghost asks the team and you shrug. "I'm not even a doctor, just an infantry soldier," you casually mention and Price nearly faints.

"Oh, I'm kidding!" you laugh. "Y'all need to have some humour," you nudge Gaz who was beside you. "Humour? Humour?! Look 'ere you little-" Ghost gets stopped by Price. "Not now, they have a needle in their hand." Your hands working fast to get Price ready for the long way back home. Now and then check on him and then glance at the others. "Weather is nice out there?" Soap and Ghost glare. Gaz stays silent. "Not a friendly team?" You look at the three men. No one said a word. "Good thing I showed up, huh," you once more try and make the flight back to baseless awkward.

---

It was months since the initial welcome they gave you and now they've gotten used to you. Well, not really but you just believe they are.

You were sent back for them on a different occasion. More men in the team as they had just come back from another long and deadly mission. You were fixing a patient when one taps on your shoulder. After some conversation, you tell them, "Take one for each day of the week," the pills sit on your palm. "But there's only three pills," the soldier said. Price sighed. "Exactly." The man's life flashed before his eyes. "I'm just kidding, these three will help until we get back," You pat his back and the man's life comes back to him.

---

Price and his men were in the infirmary when you walked in. White attire on you as you walked to a man who had been waiting for results. His file on your hand as you walk to him. Ghost listened to whatever bull shit would come out of your mouth. "So, what's the problem doctor?" the ill soldier spoke. "What's your zodiac sign?" You casually ask. "Uhm…cancer I believe." You nod, "what a coincidence no?" The man was about to tear up when you walked away and to the next patient. Ghost was beyond bewildered as he watched you leave the man.

---

Another time when the team was left with a gasp was when you had to inform a child that their parents had died in combat. The little girl didn't know where to go or who to until they tugged on her white coat. "Excuse me, doctor, can you help me?" The little girl said. You knew well who it was, and out of nervousness, you said, "I wish I could, but I'm currently helping families and you're an orphan."

Price was left with an audible gasp from his sergeants and a deep chuckle from Ghost.

---

A soldier who was known to be the barracks bunny got tested and you had to deliver the news. Once more, 141 was there for a routine checkup when they saw you walk to the person. "I have your diagnosis," you carefully said. "Well what are the results, I don't have all day." The soldier said. "Well it's a clear positive for being a slut, but you go and slay your way on their infected dicks, honey," you walk away from the patient and to them. "Gaz, you're up next, then Soap, Price and then Ghost, we need a serious talk sugar," you walk into your office.

"Seriously, the rookie?" Soap looked at his lieutenant.

---

On another mission, Chimera and 141 worked as allies, and Soap got injured. You walked to him. "Hi, how are you?" You ask as you sit beside him. "I'm fine, thank you." He says politely. "So why the fuck did they say you need medical attention?" Price rolled his eyes as Gaz chuckled when he understood the joke. "To work, doctor," Price's gravelly voice said.

---

A young recruit needed serious medical attention after a bomb exploded by him. After hours of working on his body, Price who commanded the soldier came up to you. "Is he okay? The bomb exploded by his left side-"

"He's all right.." you chuckle and then apologise. "Sorry, uhm..yeah… stabilised" ---

It was time for you to end your shift, the men after some time got used to you and just waited for you to walk with them. "Night, doc," Soap walked his way with Gaz to their rooms. "You have some dark humour, doctor," Ghost comments. You grin, "Well you know what they say," you shrug. "What do they say?" Price made the accident of asking. "Dark humour is like food-" Price walked away when you said that. "R/N, don't you dare finish that sentence," Ghost commanded but gave you a fist bump. "Good one though," he chuckles.

#cod mw2 #cod x reader #cod #mwii #cod 141 #ghost cod #mw2 141 #task force 141 #141 #141 x reader #cod mwii #call of duty modern warfare 3 #call of duty modern warfare #cod price #cod soap #cod ghost #cod gaz #call of duty mw3 #cod mw #medic reader

[belit0]

Truce and Cancer - MadaIzu

Well well, I found myself writing an angsty little piece for my favorite pair of brothers based on two of my favorite songs. Needed to get this out of my system❤️‍🩹

"Could you... get me a drink... of water? My... lips... chapped and faded..." His voice aches in the ears of anyone who knows him, a hint of what little is left of him after days of arduous fighting a deadly infection.

Hikaku can only listen to him and grit his teeth hard, try not to curse the world, the Senjus, how merciless life is for taking another soul brother from him so cruelly. Izuna slowly disappears, each day a little more, since that cursed man dared to pierce him with his sword.

He holds a glass of water near his mouth, and helps him raise his head so as not to spill it on himself. Izuna drinks and coughs violently, body unable to tolerate anything at this point, ready to leave.

He doesn't have much time left.

"Call my... father... help him gather all my things... and... Aniki..."

"My dear Aniki..."

"Bury me in all my favorite colors..."

He speaks to him as if he were Madara, and in Izuna's fevered and consumed mind, Hikaku takes the form of his older brother.

Who a few days ago was joking with everyone and bragging about how he would bring the head of the cursed second Senju in command now withers in his bed, death hovering over him with longing.

His cousin has been sitting beside him for days, replacing the position the clan leader should be taking. No one could talk sense into Madara, unable to bring him out of his denial, to get him to visit his brother before it was too late.

The Uchiha does not leave his room, refusing to eat or see anyone, locked in his own world of suffering. It is impossible to know what is going through his mind, what is preventing him from holding his younger brother's hand for the last time, accompanying him in his last hours of life.

"My sisters and my brothers, still... Aniki..."

Hearing Izuna talk about people long gone, seeing him hallucinate from fever and calling his father, his brothers, as if they could come to see him, attend him, only ends up breaking his heart.

Hikaku has had enough.

He stands up decisively, making sure a doctor stays by his cousin's side as he walks to the leader's room and opens the door without knocking. His eyes are met with a mess of clothes and blood, armor strewn across the floor and weapons in disarray, a clear graphic representation of what Madara's head must be like at the moment.

The clan leader stares at him in shock from behind his desk, wracked by the agony and pain of what is happening, holding a bottle of sake and dressed only in a loose robe. His image speaks for itself, and it pains Hikaku to have to interrupt his duel, but he will not be able to forgive himself if he does not intervene in time.

Madara has one last time to say goodbye, and it is now or never.

The two connect glances and the sadness that his cousin is in charge of transmitting is enough for the leader to stand up, arrange his clothes as best he can, and cross the corridor that separates him from his younger brother. He has avoided that room since they arrived after the battle, like not seeing Izuna would make the problem invisible, as if nothing was happening, everything was unreal.

He crosses the door with his head down, and the doctor in charge of his brother quickly excuses himself to give them privacy. The world ends in that place, on his Izuna's deathbed, the last vision he will ever have of him.

His mind is a mess of suffering and pain, loss and grief, aching in advance as if mourning his younger brother before he disappears will make things easier later. He cannot tolerate the image, cannot see him without the energy that characterizes him, without his venomous and sarcastic remarks, without his terrible and beautiful way of being.

He can't deal with this.

Madara kneels down beside him, and holds his hand. Izuna is surprised at the contact, and looks at him for a good few seconds before his feverish mind realizes this is his Aniki. He gives him a weak, limp smile, before resting his knuckles on his dry lips.

"I will not kiss you... cause... the hardest part of this, is leaving you." He speaks in an almost imperceptible voice, a sound that Madara has trouble recognizing, assimilating with his brother. Seeing Izuna in this state breaks his heart, unable to come to terms with the idea that a part of his soul will soon disappear.

He will take the last of his love with him.

"Turn away Aniki... I'm awful just to see..." His words feel coherent within all the confusion that drives his body, as if he is making a last effort to give him a glimpse of who he used to be, to prevent his older brother from being left with a weak image of him.

Izuna always had the need to protect him as if the roles were reversed, and today he tries to shield him from himself, to guard Madara from the pain he will feel when he finally lets him go.

"All my strenght abandoned my body... my agony... I'm counting down the days to go..." He smiles as always, that grin he usually gives when talking nonsense, but this time his speech presents a sepulchral seriousness. Izuna knows death is dancing over his head, waiting for the perfect moment to steal his last breath, and he is not unaware that it will happen soon.

He does his best to prepare his brother with the last effort he has left.

"This... just ain't livin', and I just hope you know... I will not kiss you" He looks at Madara with conviction, determination in everything he says, and his older brother has no choice but to succumb in front of him, to finally come to terms with what is happening, to shed all the tears he must. Izuna squeezes his hand with what little strength he has left, and it feels like the caress of a small child rather than the action of a grown man.

He is fading.

"Izuna... if you say goodbye today..." He pauses because he can't find a way to speak without breaking down, to put into words all the despair he feels, "I'll ask you to be true... Cause the hardest part of this is leaving you... Yes, the hardest part of this... just stay alive, stay alive for me, please..." He cannot continue talking, the anguish consuming his throat, pressing on his chest, making him sob without restraint. Madara collapses in front of his younger brother's deathbed, helpless at not being able to save him, feeling useless for failing to do anything about it. "If you go, I will fear the night again..."

Not even all the alcohol in the world can silence the pain in his body, the panic that runs in his veins at the thought of losing the last real connection in his life. Izuna will take everything with him, the last glimmers of his sanity and all the love he ever felt as well.

"Stay alive, stay alive for me, please..." He lays his forehead on his brother's chest, praying he can stay there forever, listening to life, a heart beating, lungs swelling, even if it is with too much strain to be okay.

"I will die... but now my life is free, Aniki... Take pride in what is sure to die..."

"Please... please..."

"I will not kiss you... Madara..."

After a few seconds from his last words, Izuna's chest stops swelling with life, his heart stops beating, and his lungs no longer draw in air. His last brother, the only reason to continue living, disappears under his eyes, useless hands trying to hold him and contain those last seconds in him, to make them last forever.

Madara's desperate cries are the ones that announce Izuna's departure.

#madaizu #uchiha madara x uchiha izuna #madara uchiha x izuna uchiha #izuna uchiha x madara uchiha #uchiha izuna x uchiha madara #uchiha izuna #izuna #izuna uchiha #madara uchiha #uchiha madara #madara #uchiha clan #uchiha hikaku #hikaku uchiha #hikaku #naruto #naruto shippuden #naruto imagines

[yeyinde]

Hi! Hope you're doing well. I just have to say that you're my favorite writer and a huge inspiration to me. Everything you write, even the small little snippets, just make me so happy.

Are you by chance still doing the WIP snippets? Cause I go feral for Jacob Seed, and when I saw you had a WIP for him I can honestly say I almost fell out of my chair.

Hiya! This is so sweet!! Thank you so much 🖤😭

Jacob Seed is one of those characters who I'd very much like to chisel open. He's so intriguing. His ideologies are so unfounded but his conviction and his reasons for them are what I find really appealing.

This is quite a deviation from what I normally do—third person, technically no reader-insert (I kindaaaaa made an OC? Oops) a bit darker (dragging me back to my slasher roots), and pulls a lot from a pseudo-religious upbringing. It is really fun to write, in theory, but is one of those fics that is mentally taxing in the sense that every piece is part of a bigger picture. Despite that, though, I could probably talk about this fic more than any others because of all the weird influences it draws from—Siken (it was originally gonna be titled war of the foxes but I felt that was a little too on the nose so I changed it to wishbone which is even more on the nose), bible mythology (in particular, the warring interpretations of Abaddon, iyjyk but also??? Abaddon and Michael, though???? 👀), and um. Cult shenanigans.

Here is a little bit about it!

He's in her head now, a sickness polluting her grey matter until it's shaded the same colour as the burning auburn around his wicked mouth. The one that splits wide, and croons about her failures, her destiny, until the rasping slur of his words are skeined tight around her gyri. Festering like a cancer she can't clove. One that sounds more like a truism each time she hears it.

Jacob has his finger on the trigger of a loaded gun with the barrel pressed tight to her cerebellum. A tool, he said. One without a master. Until now. Until him.

She can't fight him. Can't get rid of him. 

She wonders if she ever even tried.

And for some Rook x Jacob (kinda sorta but in a weird and twisted way):

Jacob doesn't give an inch even with the barrel of her Whitetailer pointed at his heart. A beat, then, where the world around her seems to shiver at the smirk he sends her way, his own hand fixed, deadly and calm, on the butt of his garish rifle. Red. 

(Of course. Of course.)

He stands on his tower, a castle of rock in the middle of the Whitetail Mountains, surrounded by unfathomable wilderness, and the broken remnants of his wolf beacons, his fallen men. His Judges. 

They lay by her feet, discarded offerings to the man who vultured her sense of self, her agency, until the person she was before all of this was lost, collateral to a war she never agreed to. She feels it sometimes, the putrefying remains of idealism and hope clawing at her skull until the tissue shreds and bleeds. Feels it like a second degree burn, a scab she can't stop picking at, and then pushes it back into its sarcophagus. It's an effigial prison in which she's both a warden and cellmate. 

It rears, now, as her patent yellow boots sink into the ribcage of a man torn to shreds by her bullets, her fists, mourning the loss of who it once was—a person of empathy and compassion. Someone who would have recoiled at the sight of viscera staining her laces, bone crunching under the soles of her feet. 

But it's gone. All she feels is annoyance. Disgust. 

They rendered it out of her. All of them pulling and tugging until bits of herself ripped apart, left behind in their regions, in their hands. Faith holds her belief. John, her compassion. Joseph, her fear. And Jacob—

Well. 

She tries not to think about what she lost in his cages. The gaping hole where her humanity once sat is heavier now that it's empty. 

It doesn't matter. Not anymore. 

Everything has been culminating to this point. To this moment. She feels the weight of it, the truth, in her bones. Unlike John, unlike Faith, only one of them will walk away from this still breathing. Her fingers tense. A proxysm. 

She finds, as the sky fades back to an endless blue and the mournful call of a loon breaks through the coppice, that she isn't entirely sure she wants it to be her. 

"Everything, all of it, has been leading up to this moment," he calls down to her, answering the unspoken assertions that bounce around the bruised fibres of her head. Hunt. Kill. Sacrifice. She gets it. She hates that she does. Hates him, she thinks, even more for making her see, for turning her into his executioner so easily. "So, Deputy, what will you do?"

If it were Faith, there'd be something about the path. About choices. About submission and surrender. Giving up agency and self in the single-minded pursuit of devotion to the Father. John, maybe a taunt. A sotto voce about atonement and true self. Of life admit the torture. A baptism in pain. 

But Jacob is neither of them. 

"Are you gonna kill me, angel?" 

She thinks about it. Really does. Lets it grind down into her synapses as she imagines a world without him. A place in Hope County where they celebrate his death and burn his body on an altar, unwilling to let the cult take him back until he's charred bones and ashes. Sure, then, that he's gone. Forever. Always. No more. 

Jacob will burn. 

She thinks about it, and she shudders. 

It feels anticlimactic despite the effort he put into setting it all up. Moving beacons and men and cages and wolves. Tracking her down through the forest until she led them to the Wolf's Den, and put a bullet in the head of the only man who made her feel some sense of footing amid a crumbling world. A place that wasn't quite home but it was something. Purpose, maybe. 

It stands in sharp contrast to the dogfight between them. Jacob and his soldiers. A commander playing a game of war from the comfort of his sanctuary. They're gone, now, and she hates that she isn't, too. That no matter what she does, how open she leaves herself, he still lets her sneak up the side of his perch until she's crouched behind a log, until she can hear the weight of his footfalls as he searches for her across the blood smeared landscape. 

It's a fallacy. He knows where she is despite the engineered confusion in his tone. What was that? He asks. Come out and fight me, Deputy. You know I'll find you—

The red dot follows her, always just a few inches from where she's hiding. A farce. She hates it. Hates that he isn't really fighting her. A marksman, he said (hoorah), but the only bruises he gave her are in her mind. Mental scars. Stupid. She hates him. Despises him. 

(Hates herself even more.)

It feels like muscle memory when she peers over the ledge, her bloodied knuckles leaving smears of her fingerprints behind. He's there. Waiting. 

Killing Eli, killing phantoms. Killing men. Killing him. It all congeals in her marrow. Effortless. Easy. She's killed him so many times already that she's sure, now, she could close her eyes and find her mark. 

Over and over again, he turned to a nebula of dust when she jumped on his back, wrapping nimble fingers around his neck. Mocking words haunting her as he dissolved into the aether. The Father will protect me. You need me. Don't fight it. Just let go. You've served your purpose. Let's say you get out of this. What's next? You go back to running errands for a teenager and a housewife? You are nothin' without Eli. 

"Come out, come out wherever you are, honey," his crooning taunt makes her hackles raise. A part of her hindbrain prickles with unease. Jacob brings a certain terror out of those dormant depths—an atavistic fear coils around her jugular. "Let's finish this." 

She wants to end him. To kill and maim and bend and break until nothing is left but bones and tissue. She wants to ruin him. Wants him to ruin her. To end this conflict at the top of a precipice she never wanted to climb. 

She says nothing—not to him, to them—but scuffs her feet against the gravel for no reason other than to make him look. He whips around, hand steady on his rifle. 

"Finally done hiding, Deputy?" 

The red dot hasn't left her vicinity since she prowled after him, unleashing hell and gunfire on the men—his Chosen, his best—that tried to keep her away from him. Hiding, she thinks, and wonders if those words are a projection. 

The Whitetailer—the only anchor she's had since she found it laying behind in an abandoned cabin—hums under her fingers. Pulses with the blood rushing through her veins. It's always been heavy. An SA50 isn't easy to carry across a landscape she mostly ventured on foot (as the near constant ache between her shoulders can attest to), but it feels both heavier and lighter than before. Another contradiction of many since she walked out of the Den and into a world on fire. Since she slit his throat and watched him turn into cosmic dust. 

It's steady, though. Unwavering. There's a gash on her arm from one of his Chosen. A bullet in her thigh. The unhealed wounds—bliss bullets and arrows—twinge with pain when she tenses her muscles, breathes in deep. Her broken ribs scream. She feels like more like a throbbing contusion than she does an actual person, still caught in the tendrils of her conditioning where his voice echoes in her head, the last notes of a song that turned her world into ashes. Only youuu… he'd crooned.

Only you. 

Only ever you. 

She gets it now. 

Or, she wishes that were true. It isn't. It isn't because maybe she's known all along. Since the bunker. Since Pratt. One, two, three. One, two, three. And then he's got you. Since she blinked into cognisance surrounded by the fallen bodies of the militia who didn't survive the training, who had bullet wounds that matched the shots she took in Jacob's trial. 

Since she went back to the Grand View and walked through the rows of cages in the parking lot. 

She gets it. 

She knows what she has to do. 

Her grip doesn't falter when she aims up. Up. His stomach. His lungs. His heart. 

"You can't. You're done. You've served your purpose, and now it's time to accept your place, Deputy. Where you belong." 

She thinks of Tammy. Of Wheaty. There's nothing left for her. Not anymore. 

Nothing except—

She wonders if there's a flash of panic in his cerulean eyes. A brief flicker of fear. But all she sees is contempt. 

"If I die, you'll be lost forever—"

She pulls the trigger. 

#its long #i couldn't help myself #jacob seed x deputy #wips #thank you so much for this but also im so sorry??? #i feel like i threw an essay at you and said “EAT UP!!!!”

[n-bjd]

Tek's Respirator FAQ for faceups & modding Ball Jointed Dolls

Copied from DenofAngels original posted date: Sep 21, 2010 Last edited by a moderator: Oct 10, 2016

Are you qualified to talk about this?

Yes. I [Tekenduis] am a Certified Respiratory Protection Tester/Trainer with extensive training in respiratory protection. I work at a company where my staff are exposed on a daily basis to some of the most harmful chemicals in industry. They can and will be exposed to things like silica, isocyanates and cyanide gas. Their short and long-term health is in my hands and I take that very seriously. Deadly seriously, in fact.

What is respiratory protection?

Respiratory protection is a part of your Personal Protective Equipment (PPE) designed to filter or block harmful substances from reaching your respiratory system. The hobbyists primary form of respiratory protection is the respirator. There are a great number of types of respirators, some useful only for certain applications (see more on this below). The two most common respirators for hobbyists are the disposable respirator and the half-face respirator.

The half-face respirator is a mask that covers your nose and mouth, and has cartridges that clip on, screw on, or otherwise attach to ports on the mask.

The disposable respirator looks like a dust mask or surgeon's mask. It is, as the name implies, made to be disposed of after a short period of time.

Why do I need it?

Many of the items that we work with as doll customizers are toxic and many of them are cumulatively toxic. You may feel ill for a while and then get better, but the sorts of diseases that can be caused by sanding processes and spraying processes can come back to haunt you many years down the road. These products can cause Cancer and Pneumoconiosis. Cancer may be treatable if caught early enough. Pneumoconiosis, which is respiratory diseases like asbestosis, silicosis and coalworker's "black lung" disease, is NOT TREATABLE. Your doctors will work hard to make you comfortable while you die. That is the most they will be able to do for you. If you get Pneumoconiosis you will DIE.

☠️ Are you scared? You should be. This is life and death. Do not play Russian Roulette with your health. ☠️

What do I need?

That depends on the application that you are going to be using your respiratory protection for.

Sanding

For sanding applications (including sanding of resin, apoxie and other sculpting materials, and wood), you need a respirator that provides at least N95 level protection. It should say N95 somewhere on the mask itself. If it doesn't say, it is not good enough. There is a scale to protection levels and anything above N95 is also acceptable (of course).

The levels are: N95 P95 N100 P100

What does this mean?

The prefix ahead of the number will tell you if the mask is Oil Proof or Not. The number will tell you the percentage effectiveness of the filter against particles of less than 0.3 Microns. An N100 or P100 filter may also be known as a HEPA filter. On the bright side, having a small supply of these types of respirators will mean that you are following CDC and WHO recommendations for infectious disease outbreaks, which may or may not include the Inevitable Zombie Apocalypse.

P100 filters are also effective in welding applications. N95 and above filters are most commonly found in the disposable variety and may also be referred to as "dust masks" or "surgical masks". Remember, if it doesn't say N95 (or one of the other codes listed above) it is not good enough!**

Spray

This includes all types of spray applications, whether you are spraying sealant (like MSC or Testors) or airbrushing or spraying paints. The process of spraying releases aerosols (and this is true whether or not you are using an aerosol spray can product. Airbrushing paint creates aerosols too!) for which an N95 filter is not effective.

At this point, you will need to move into a mask that protects you against Organic Vapors AND has an N95 filter. This will mean moving into a half-face respirator.

Your respirator is no longer disposable and can be used again and again without ill effect; the only thing that will need replacing is your filter and (if applicable) your prefilter. Some respirator brands have an N95 filter built right into the Organic Vapour cartridge, but I recommend looking for one that does not, for ease of replacement. Cartridges and filters have different life spans and it is more economical to replace only the part that requires replacing (more on this below!).

Okay! I've got my mask, I'm totally safe now right?

No. There are three things that can negatively impact the safety of your mask; poor fit, improper maintenance and environmental levels.

Poor Fit

A respirator (of any type) is completely and utterly useless if it is the wrong size for you and is not fitted properly. Please ensure you've read the section on fitting your mask to ensure that your mask is correctly fit.

How do I know if it fits?

According to my local Occupational Health and Safety Code, a respirator cannot legally be used in a workplace environment if it has not been correctly Fit Tested. Keep in mind that half-face respirators come in various sizes. Most women and men wear a medium but if you have a particularly slender or wide face, you may need a small or large. If you have a crooked nose, or sinus problems, look for a mask made of silicon; you will find it more comfortable than plastic or rubber.

Improper Maintenance

Your respirator is equally useless if you are not properly maintaining and caring for it. This includes care of the mask between uses and replacement. Please see the section on maintaining your mask for more information.

Environmental Levels

Environmental levels are important to take into account, as your mask can only protect you against the things it was designed to protect you against up to a certain concentration. since I'm sure none of us have the money or inclination to commit to environmental testing of our workspaces, the best way to ensure this is to make sure that the area in which you are working is properly ventilated before you start your project, and until well after you are finished. Open your windows, PREFERABLY PLEASE work outside so that there is fresh air circulating in the area you're working in. If the air is particularly still (no breeze) while you're working, it is worth investing in a simple fan. Set it up in your window, with the fan blowing out the window (ie: the front of the fan where the air blows from facing towards the window). This will help pull the toxins out of your room. Alternately, if you are working outdoors, set the fan up on your table to help promote air movement.

Fit Testing

Fit testing uses a noxious but harmless substance (usually either irritant smoke or Bitrex; an additive used to create bitterness in household cleaners to prevent children from tasting them) to ensure that the seal between the mask and the face is tight and proper. Qualitative fit testing is the most common type, and requires the user of the mask to confirm the presence of the noxious substance. In some cases (depending on chemicals in the environment or failure of the Qualitative test) Quantitative fit testing may be required; this type of fit testing uses scientific sensors to record levels inside the mask. If you have access to fit testing, especially with a half-face respirator, I encourage you to take advantage of it! Fit testing needs to be redone every two years, in the case of weight loss or gain of more than 15 lbs or in the case of surgery (including dental) involving the face.

And if I don't have access?

I have done hundreds of fit tests for staff at my place of employment and I can usually tell how well a mask is likely to fit prior to the fit test being done. This is done with a simple self test. In order to be effective this test must be done every single time you use the respirator (even if you pull it down to talk to someone and put it right back on!).

For Disposable

Step 1: Put your respirator on. Step 2: Cup your hands tightly over your mouth and nose, over top of the respirator. Step 3: Suck in a long breath. You will get air, but it should all be coming in through the small cracks between your fingers. You should not feel any air coming in from around the nose piece or under your chin. If you do, refit the mask and try again. If you cannot complete this successfully, you will need either a larger or smaller mask. Step 4: With your hands still over your mouth and nose, blow out. Again, you should feel the air moving past your fingers, and never around the bridge of your nose or under your chin.

For Half-Face

Step 1: Put on your mask and make sure the straps are tight. Step 2: Cover the cartridge, as much as possible, with the palm of your hands and suck in. The mask will likely deflate slightly. You should feel some air coming in through the cartridge but no air coming in from the sides, under your chin, or around your nose. If you do, adjust the mask and try again. If you cannot complete this step successfully, you will need either a smaller or larger mask. Step 3: Cover the exhalation valve of your respirator with the palm of your hand and blow out. You should feel the mask inflate slightly and again, you should feel no air escaping from the side of your mask, under your chin or around your nose.​

😷 How do I maintain my mask?

Respirator maintenance is exceptionally simple, takes very little time, and ensures that you are not exposing yourself to toxins. Take the extra few minutes to ensure that your respirator is working right!

Before you put it on

For Disposable

Do a quick visual check of the respirator. Is it dirty? A little discolouration from the dust is fine, but too much might mean that your respirator is clogged. I'll discuss this a bit further down. Check that your straps are still in good condition. Check that the foam piece at the nose is intact (if applicable) and that the metal part that bends across your nose is not bent out of shape. If your mask is clogged or not in good condition, replace it.

For Half-Face

Do a quick visual check of the inside and outside of your mask. Make sure that the valves (the little rubbery seals on the inhalation and exhalation points) are present and in good condition. Make sure there are no cracks or tears in your mask. Ensure that your filters are firmly attached. Correct any of these issues before proceeding with your work.

After you take it off

For disposable

Do another quick visual check of your mask. If everything is still in order, seal your mask inside a baggie and put it somewhere safe.

For Half-Face

Wipe all surfaces of the mask that touch your face with a respirator cleaning wipe. If you don't have any, use the following: For masks made of natural rubber, use a non-alcohol based antimicrobial wipe. For masks made of silicone or plastic, wipe with isopropanol (isopropyl alcohol, or rubbing alcohol). This step is less about the effectiveness of your mask and more about preventing build up of oils from the skin which can degrade the mask over time, necessitating replacement, as well as causing skin breakouts!

Seal your mask inside of a baggie or well-sealed (and clean!) coffee can and put it somewhere safe.

🧼 Once a month you should remove the cartridges and clean your mask with soap and water, and hang it up to dry. This keeps the inside of your mask smelling pleasant. Sweat and condensation from your breathing can build up in there over time and cause the mask to smell unpleasant.

🤔 How often do I need to replace my respirator, or cartridges?

Filters will only last so long! Keep in mind that whether or not you are actively breathing through your respirator (IE: wearing it) it is still filtering the air around you. The average Organic Vapour filter, which is what you should be wearing at the least for spraying, lasts approximately 24–48 hours. That's it! Not very long, right?

The good news is that you can extend the life of your filters dramatically by placing them into a sealed container, like a baggie or coffee can, as discussed in the section above. My staff generally see a lifetime of 1–2 weeks from their filters, and most staff are using their filters at least once a day.

💁 How do I know it's time to replace them?

For Disposable, N95 and above Your respirator is a simple filter made up of layer of material that filter out small particulates from the air. Eventually your respirator will become clogged and need to be replaced. This is not a matter of time, it is a matter of volume of filtering, something not easily tracked.

As a general rule of thumb, when your filter is ready to be replaced, you will know it because it will get harder to suck a good deep breath in. As soon as you start to feel this, replace your respirator. For Half-Face

Organic Vapour Cartridge – Because this is filtering vapours (or aerosols), you will know it is time to replace it the moment you smell or taste anything through the filters; even the tiniest bit. Throw them out and get new ones.

N95 Prefilter

Please see the explaination for disposables above, your prefilter works the same way. If your prefilter is built into your organic vapour cartridge, it is a matter of volume of filtering, something not easily tracked.

I've got this bandana/old respirator of my uncles/some other thing…

❌ Cloth is not an effective filter against either particulate or vapours. ❌

Your respirator needs to be yours. Quite aside from the obvious sanitation issues, if the respirator belongs to someone else, it may not fit correctly and is therefore ineffective.

You're just trying to scare us. No one actually gets sick from this. ☠️ ☠️

There are several people here on the [DenofAngels] forums that have stepped up to talk about the health problems that they have suffered as a result of exposure to chemicals in either this hobby or others.

NON ORIGINAL POST NOTE: Before you dismiss the risks involved please realize that even my friend, a professional artist has experienced the direct effects of long term exposure to harsh chemicals and resins for both film and personal BJD casting even when frequently taking proper protection.

🛍️ 🛒 Where do I get these things?

Disposable respirators are readily available in home improvement stores and pharmacies; just make sure you get one that says N95, or above, as discussed earlier. You can also refer to post #3 below for a Shopping Guide.

Half-face respirators are sometimes available in home improvement stores, but are also readily available from safety suppliers (many of which are open to the general public) and online.

🤢 I worked without my mask and now I'm not feeling well. Am I going to be okay?

This question is best discussed with your Doctor. My speciality is prevention, not treatment. I can tell you what results you may incur, but I cannot and will not attempt to diagnose your health, especially not over the internet.

Masks & Respirator Purchase links:

⚠️⚠️⚠️ THIS LIST IS FROM 2010⚠️⚠️⚠️ I AM ONLY INCLUDING PRODUCTS THAT STILL EXIST:

Disposable Respirators ("Dust Masks")

3M 8210 Lowes & Home Depot

3M 8210 Plus As above, but with a fabric elastic strap, so they last longer, but tend to be a bit more expensive.

3M 8511 Similar to the 8210 series, but these have an exhalation valve, which can prove more comfortable in hot or humid environments.

Half-Face Respirators (Rubber)

3M 6000 Series Half-Face Respirator Amazon (Small) Amazon (Med.)

3M 6001 Organic Vapour Cartridges & 3M 5N11 N95 Prefilters Cartridges Amazon Resupply Kit (OV Cartridges and Prefilters)

Starter Kits Amazon

Half-Face Respirators (Silicon)

3M 7500 Series Half-Face Respirator Amazon (Small) Amazon (Medium) Amazon (Large)

Starter Kits Amazon (Small) Amazon (Medium) Amazon (Large)

This is not my original post, I am simply sharing this information as not everyone can access the DenofAngels forums! Stay safe and creative guys!

#bjd #faceup #ball jointed doll #psa #warning #health and safety #respiratory health

[unofficial-sean]

I was baked and rewatched Knowing Better's video on the history of the cigarette industry in the U.S. and I kept seeing vivid, disturbing images of people in dark hospital rooms, alone, wheezing on respirators as lung cancer slowly ate away at their life, in my mind's eye. It was horrifying.

Now, any time I hear a mid-20th century advertisement man voice (you know the one) or any TV recording from the 50's-80's, all I can see is that room of death.

Entire decades are now reminders that businesses will sell people poison and fight tooth and nail to keep doing so. When the government mandated that, for every cigarette advertisement shown on TV, an anti-smoking ad would also have to be played, cigarette companies lobbied to have cigarette ads banned entirely. Why?:

1) the public would be further uninformed of the deadly hazards of smoking

2) smaller cigarette companies couldn't grow and further solidify the power of established brands

They didn't need to advertise their product anymore. They had entire generations addicted and created a lingering culture that pressures teens and adults into the habit. You wanna know when I first smoked? I was fucking 14. I hated it, though. I literally ran home to wash the taste out of my mouth with milk. 14!!

It's fucking disgusting. These companies threatened the family of a chemist who was hired by one of them to research and develop a "cleaner cigarette" after he tried to blow the whistle. Fucking mob shit.

Camel marketed their cigarettes as the "doctor's choice."

My sister still smokes. She does it in the backyard where the smoke drifts in through the only screened window in my room and exposes me to this shit. And my frogs. One day, she will be in that dark, lonely hospital room, wheezing with every breath. I've heard her raspy voice. I've heard her cough. These goons have cut my sister's life short, and maybe mine, too. Millions of people are being sold poison, still.

Fossil fuels are just like this, too. Don't underestimate the ruthless manipulation that comes with profit motivation. They suck the life from you with a god damn smile on their face and that friendly, low fidelity voice coming through the TV. These scum knew what their product did to their consumer's health and they kept going anyways and did all they could to keep them ignorant.

It's as angering as it is terrifying. These people aren't human. They're evil itself, if there ever was such an entity.

[like-sands-of-time]

The more research I do into Wilson's cancer (stage II thymoma) the more confused I am

According to the national cancer institute the treatment for stages 1 and 2 are surgery .. then maybe radiation therapy after depending on the situation.

According to cancernet the 5 year survival rate when the cancer is located only in the thymus is 93%. If it's spread to surrounding tissue and organ the survival rate is still 79%. And if it's found only after spreading to distant parts of the body the survival rate is still 40%, on average much higher than say lung cancer that's still localized (which is 56%) while lung cancer that's spread to other organs has a 5 year rate of only 5(five!) %. (This is from the American lung association)

I just find it frustrating that of all the cancers they picked, they picked one that ... Won't kill him? At stage 2? And he didn't need to do chemotherapy he needed to just have surgery???

What's even more interesting is I was looking into this cancer trying to find a way to make it believable .. give them the benefit of the doubt. And I found a disorder called Cowden Syndrome which is very rare and causes the patient to have an increased risk of both benign and cancerous tumors in their life.

While the most common tumors are in the skin, mouth, and gastrointestinal tract, the patient has an increased risk for cancerous tumors in the thyroid, colorectum, breast, etc.

Now these growths would be noticed on any number of scans so I can only assume a whole body scan was the only way they got a diagnosis of such a rare (indeed very rare cancer for Wilson. A statistic I read on cancer net said that for every 1 million people in the US only 1.5 people will be diagnosed with this disease. Naturally the complete picture can never be known but that's an insanely specific cancer for Wilson to get !)

Anyway the only way I can justify him having such a small and specific cancer is to have him highly susceptible to tumors and therefore one grew there. By that logic maybe he got another one elsewhere and that was the real reason he was dying.

Not a doctor so if anythings inaccurate I apologize but I just spent a lot of time reading differential diagnoses for both thymomas and Cowden Syndrome and can honestly say as far as rare interesting disorders go, that would have been my choice. Fits very well with House's zebras not horses mentality that the cancer doctor would get a disorder specifically generating tumors throughout his whole life and maybe one just went somewhere deadly.

#hey look im posting another essay #this one is actually interesting...kinda ..it is to me #james wilson #house md #house season 8

[starandcloud]

Bulletproof

Chapter 3

TW:

Chapter 2 <- Chapter 3 ->

Bulletproof Mainlist

COD Mainlist

Mainlist

John Mactavish let his head fall against the spikey word, the splinters that dug into his skull was irritating. It was uncomfortable and nearly painful. But Soap didn't move, he simply stayed there. Letting the spiked wood pierce the back of his skull. The dull sting of the splinters grounded Johnny's racing thoughts, it slowed the spiraling thoughts and then made them come to a full stop.

What the hell was that..?

Soap thought as he lit a new cigarette, he inhaled deeply. Letting the cancerous smoke and toxics fill his lungs before releasing the smoke into the air. The deadly cloud swirled into the night air, dancing up towards the stars. The smoke dissipated, quickly leaving nothing but a bitter taste in his mouth and a distinctive smell that seemed to linger in the air. The cut on his cheek stung when sweat rolled into his, which made John groan and put his cigarette out on the crate beside him.

"Guess I shoulder get that patched up... Don't want the doc to give me a lecture..."

He mutter before silently leaving to his tent, never so glad he had a first-aid kit stashed away.

@spriinglockedd

#Bulletproof #ghoap #soap x ghost #ghost x soap #soap mactavish #soap #soap cod #soap mw2 #john soap mactavish #johnny soap mactavish #soap call of duty #soap mctavish #soapghost #cod #codmw2 #mw2 #modern warfare 2 #ghost call of duty #simon ghost riley #ghost mw2 #ghost cod #ghost #cod ghost #Lieutenant Riley #sergeant mactavish #lieutenant simon riley #Sergeant John MacTavish

[telekinetic-issue]

I get that cancer narratives in visual media are compelling because a lot of people don’t know more specifics than “it’s deadly” unless they’re a patient themselves or they’ve been a caregiver to a direct family member undergoing treatment. It’s not like the movies show it at all.

There are times I go days without showering because I have the energy to either feed myself or wash myself, and I choose the one that keeps me alive. When you lose your hair you lose everything—eyebrows, eyelashes, all your body hair, all of it. Your skin dries out and your lips crack and bleed. It doesn’t look anything like those gracefully skinny actresses with perfect makeup and bald caps. It looks and feels like death warmed over. Certain types make your skin look like it’s rotting off your body in places. It’s gross and wet and painful.

Sometimes you’re in such severe pain medication doesn’t even touch it. Your immune system is in shambles so you’re more susceptible to any kind of infection. MRSA is a threat and deadly. I still have scars from it. Blood infections are a risk every single time you get a cut or scrape or pull a hangnail or get blood drawn/an IV placed/port accessed. You want to live your life but you’re aware that one wrong move could have severe lasting consequences.

You don’t want to eat but you have to. Expect to throw up. Expect to shit yourself at least once, or get so constipated you’re taking anything and everything to relieve it because it feels like your gut is going to explode. You spend a lot of time in pain on the toilet. Your guts and your ass will never be the same. If you end up with bad enough nausea/vomiting you get mouth sores and your mouth bleeds and if you swallow enough blood you end up throwing that up too. Eating hurts. Drinking water hurts. If you don’t drink and eat, everything gets worse. Your body is trying desperately to outlast the poison pumped into you to try to kill the cancer but it’s killing you, too.

Radiation leaves your skin changed. I still have a stripe of darker skin down my spine and I probably will for a long time, if not forever. My body looks wrong in the mirror, like something sucked the vitality out of me and replaced it with flour. Did you know if you lose 10% of your initial body weight they have to recalculate your chemotherapy dose? Did you know that certain chemotherapies have a higher risk of anaphylactic reaction the longer you’re on them?

And this isn’t the pity Olympics either. It’s just reality for a lot of people. You honestly can’t do anything except take it one day at a time and hope to whatever you believe in that your next scan doesn’t show anything new or worse. If you make friends among other patients you also know that there’s a chance you’ll outlive them. It doesn’t matter if their cancer is different than yours, or how long they’ve been diagnosed or what stage their diagnosis is. If they die, you’ll feel that survivor’s guilt no matter what. You’ll also never forget them.

Cancer isn’t a war a patient fights. The battle is between your oncologist with treatment on their side and the cancer. You’re just the battleground for that fight and you’re forever changed by it.

And all of that is what the movies won’t show you.

#tele talks #tele’s cancer log #ok to reblog #there’s so much more but like #how to even begin. it’s impossible to explain almost #this is not proofread btw just stream of consciousness

[reptilian-angel]

HuskerDust Week 2023 - “Over The Bartop”

Day One: Smoke/Shot

Things were simple between Angel and Husk. Or as simple as they could be given the circumstances, at least.

As most that resided in Hell, they learned fairly quickly that exposure of themselves, weakness shown in any shape or form, would quickly be met with manipulation, cruelty or outright violence. As sinners indebted to powerful and malicious Overlords, they already knew the cost of such a mistake. And neither were eager for a repeat experience.

Sure, they were tough bastards in their own right. Husk could chug an entire galleon’s worth of ale and still be as ferocious and deadly as the cat creature his damned soul was changed into. And Angel? Well, however strained his relationship was with his crime family in life, Angel had learned enough to know when to rely on on the charms of pretty words or the glint shining off of his tommy gun. Despite their chains and shackles, they could do damn well enough to rattle and shake them towards any who doubted their will to survive.

All that in mind, with all the pain and anguish and lies and backstabbings they had endured, suffering one heartbreak to the next until there was almost no heart left, one would think that when both Barcat and Porn Star found themselves guests at “Happy” Hotel, they would be smart enough not to allow themselves to get close to one another.

And they would be right. They didn’t.

Because, honestly how stupid did you have to be to give someone your complete trust in Hell? (Angel’s friendship with Cherri notwithstanding.) Not them!

So sure, they bantered at first, - Or rather Angel flirted with Husk, only to be quickly rebuffed in favor of the cheap booze he was gulping down like water. - but that was that. Neither doubted they would see each other much after that anyway, and that suited them just fine. They had no interest in getting any closer than two demons should.

. . . . At least at first.

It started small. Angel would grab a seat at the bar and order whatever drink was appropriate with a wink and barely veiled innuendo and Husk, through a annoyed eye roll, was quick to make it. If he wasn’t in a hurry to get to work or meet up with Cherri, Angel made a point to savor the drink and deliver a compliment to the barely sober cat after, with an offer to “return the favor for a discount”. Husk either ignored him or flipped him off, to which the Spider laughed off as he flounced away.

And on the rare occasions Husk felt stir-crazy enough to leave front desk/bar and head up the roof for a cigar or cigarette, nine times out of ten, Angel would be there with half a pack in one hand while a lighter was flicked on and off repeatedly in another and a lit stick was held tight against his frowning mouth. Without a word, Husk would join him after a moment and simply sit on the closest discarded box he saw and light up his own cancer stick, neither savoring nor resenting the silence between them as they smoked. Rinse and repeat, the cycle went on without change.

And that was that.

Over time, however, drinks and smokes in passing started to become . . . More.

Angel had wide range of tastes in drinks that went to sweet and fruity to hard as liquid fire depending on his mood. Whether he just got done with a therapy session from the Princess or being chewed out by her girlfriend/manager, or of course, just before heading out to his job at the studio, Angel knew how to curb the itch of addiction with something aside from the powder and pills that both elated him and damned him.

Much to Angel’s delight, Husk’s talents was made clear in the preparation of each drink and he never hesitated to make his satisfaction known with each glass prepped and served. The Spider kept the Barcat on his toes, hardly ordering the same drink twice in a row and Husk found himself mildly appreciating the variety. Even more so when he was capable of knocking back some of the harder types of liquor that made even Husk’s fur bristle on a good day. Maybe because Angel reacted just as much the same with the fluff of his chest rippling and puffing nearly out of his designer jacket, despite every attempt to hide it and play it off.

Husk had long since preferred the comforts of the bottle both in life and death, at times smelling strong enough of booze that it wouldn’t come as a surprise that if some poor bastard lit a match, the air around him would combust (As gleefully stated from Alastor with his usual razor tooth smile that made Husk instantly make mind to keep far Far FAR away from any fireplaces in the future). That wasn’t to say the Husk didn’t appreciate the less than potent comforts of tobacco and nicotine, or the occasional hit of marijuana now and again.

The potency of “medical” grasses were a bit dizzying without some form of defense, but thankfully Husk found that his many, many years of boozing had helped him develop a kind of strange immunity to the mind-tampering effects of indulging on such. His resilience both annoyed and impressed Angel when he felt generous enough to share some of his personal stock that he tried like, well, Hell to keep hidden from Charlie and Vaggie. Thankfully, Husk didn’t believe in being a snitch, as that would violate his position as a trusted barkeep and kept his secret safe. Although he did feel strongly tempted to once when Angel decided to be a jackass and gave him a joint made out of catnip . . .

Simple quick drinks and bumming smokes in short greetings and momentary encounters slowly turned to nursing shot glasses and sharing cigarettes absently as the addicts talked long into the night.

Jokes and old embarrassing stories toward their bosses were spoken easily between them; Husk scoring a genuine laugh out of Angel once or twice that left a nice bubbling warmth inside him that had nothing to do with alcohol and Angel trying his damnedst to hide the flush when the Older Sinner gave a smile that reminded him all too well of butterflies felt in his youth.

Other times there were moments that had nothing but complete silence that spoke volumes; of the humiliation and hurt that either Angel had undergone on the clock or off, or that Husk was dealt from being made the Radio Demon’s errand boy, simple matchsticks and shots of vodka handled between them with no wards.

There were also the really bad times when beaten and battered by the forces of the cesspit of sin they resided in, they reluctantly took what comforts were offered; the Spider reluctantly allowing the Barcat to patch up the viscous cuts and burns on his back after a particularly bad day with Valentino with gauze and balms, and Husk “allowing” the Porn Star’s treasured pet pig in his lap as Angel tended to the gunshot wound on his arm that Alastor had deemed “unnecessary” to worry about. Depending on the situation, anything from joints to shots of gut-burning whiskey was offered and taken without question.

And other times, something rare and sweet and totally unexpected found itself budding between them when small, soft fingertips brushed against sharp tempered claws when Angel handed Husk a glass to be refilled, the tingle dutifully, but not really, ignored. Or when Husk offered the lit end of a cigarette to light Angel’s when his lighter refused to flicker to life, the glow accenting his glowing eyes pinpricking in his mind the whole night after. Or when Husk got one over Angel when, again offered the catnip joint, he retaliated by using what little magic he had to disguise a Christmas cracker as a “specially made” cigar and busting up into belly-aching laughter. Angel, pissed off and covered in glitter and confetti from the toy, couldn’t find it in him to tell him off, but found something twisted and sore in his fluffy chest go funny at the luscious sound.

And finally, one night, all glasses and joints and cigarettes were left completely forgotten when a rosy-cheeked, brightly smiling Angel Dust allowed a just as red Husker to carry him up to the cat’s room like a blushing bride, neither being seen again until the late morning after.

Things were simple between Angel and Husk. Or as simple as they could be given the circumstances, at least.

Two sinners in Hell, addicts to their own vices, grossly complicated in both their lives and themselves.

But they made it work. Through the good and bad, they made it work. Each shot and smoke at a time.

—————

Whew! My very first Huskerdust fic! Hella of a way to get back into the groove of writing again before trying to tackle Hidden in the Stars again - I shall my best to get the rest of the prompts done on time!

(I’m kinda stuck on the next prompt so, fingers crossed!) All comments are appreciated, but as this my first story for this pairing, please be gentle!

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel angel dust #hazbin hotel husk #husk #angel dust #huskerdust #Huskerdust Week 2023 #my fanfiction #no dialogue #tw: abuse #tw: drugs #tw: marijuana

[fineprintedsunsets]

             ☽ Wanting You And Me ☾ 

Synopsis: Acacia is brought back to the nights she spent alone when a bottle of alcohol and a detective's mouth runs too far. Will his stubborn demeanor and thought-reading mind be enough for Acacia? Or was that night, their last.

Word Count: 3k

!Trigger Warnings!

-swearing

-misuse of words

-brief mentions of cancer 

-mentions of rape/PTSD

-panic attacks/traumatic episodes

-abuse of substances

-intoxication

ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ : 

 Last Night- Morgan Wallen

1:35 ───ㅇ───── 3:47

People say the truth comes out when your lips meet a bottle. I suppose it’s true, because when his lips meet the rim of his beer, drinking in his 5th sip, his 4th bottle, and his first sentence, I can barely stand still. I haven’t drunk once, I never drink and I won't start now. Sherlock took me out to dinner to celebrate my new promotion at Nye Labs, and at how close I’m getting to balancing out the data for my cancer cause. I was happy when I enclosed myself in his arms, and we were practically jumping into each other's arms. I’ve never seen him as happy as he was when I told him. Or maybe it was just because it came out of my mouth. 

He says that a lot. Even If I were to deliver the news of someone's death to him,  he would be too mesmerized by me to care. It made me blush, and after he drug me into his bedroom and didn’t let me leave until I came three times. Now those memories feel like tar in my mouth as he looks at me. 

I drug him out of the bar 5 minutes ago, I grab the bottles he's been stuck to and throw it down against the concrete, watching as the glass shatters. Sherlock’s eyes bulge, too worried about the beer spilling from the bottle to worry about me. Tears wedge themselves behind my eyes, but I will not let him see me cry. 

I won’t do it.

I knew he had substance abuse problems, but It was usually only with drugs, certain medications, and the occasional cigarette. Weed makes him act a fool, meds make him go into crazy OCD episodes, But alcohol? Alcohol makes him speak the truth. 

And the truth hurts.

A lot. 

“Look at us!” I yell, jabbing his chest, and pushing him against the brick wall outside of the bar. We stand there in the back alley, dumpsters with overflowing trash filling my nostrils, my lab coat hanging limply on my frame. Sherlock wears his usual coat, the edges fanning just over his neck. His hair is disheveled, and his eyes are not his own. 

I noticed a pattern, not just with substances, but with anything that was able to make him forget. It was an ugly pattern. A deadly one. 

He stumbled out of the bar after his fourth drink, ending up in the alley, leaning against the wall and sipping from the bottle. I followed him outside, looking around, not understanding why he just left when we were just laughing moments earlier. I find him, against the wall and see his face. 

It’s how it always looks when he’s on something. It’s an odd look. 

An artificial feeling.

Before I screamed, “Look at us”. He said a couple of words, ones that made my palms itchy, and my breath catch in my throat. 

“Why do I stand here with someone who’s anything but me?” Sherlock mutters, taking a sip of his not yet broken beer bottle. 

“What?” I still have a smile on my face, thinking he’s just messing with me, but then I see it. That artificial shine he has to his cheekbones. My smile falters.

“You're not me, Acacia.” Sherlock starts to slur, taking another sip.

“You're not in my head. You stay in a lab, sweating like a pig, caring about a cause that means too much to you.”

I cock my head, It sounds like he’s describing himself. His cases, how indulgent he gets with them. But I shut my mouth and listen to his mumbling. 

“Seeing how these American Men toss their gazes at you, married men, men that aren't me.” 

“How do they look at me, Sherlock?” He pauses, before taking another sip. It’s his 8th one, on his 4th bottle. I’ve been counting. 

“Like a whore. Half the garments you wear are attention-grabbing as it is. Like the red silk panties you have on under that coat-” He starts to walk toward me, struggling to form words, I ignore the way he knows what I’m wearing. It’s Sherlock, of course, he knows. 

“You think I’m a whore.” I say breathlessly. The words sticking to the root of my mouth, hard to get out. 

“Precisely.” He growls, backing me against the wall. His breath is hot, smelling of cheap beer. He looms over me in an alley, and all of a sudden I’m back there. I’m back under my ex’s gaze, it’s no longer Sherlocks. Lance is backing me against my bedroom wall. Forcing himself onto me. My face is sticky with tears as I recall those moments. The moments in which he did way too often. His breath hot against my neck, and all I do is scream. I scream, and scream, begging for Lance to get off but he doesn't. 

Not until he’s done with me. 

The memory turns off. My breath is unsteady, but I realize I’m in an alley behind Tipsy Owl. I’m on the floor now, sitting on the concrete, my hands wrapped around my knees, my knees to my chest. I know I'm shaking by the way my bones rattle. I can barely see what’s ahead of me with the tears that crowd my eye ducts. 

Sherlock scared me. He made me go back to that moment. My panic attack starts to recede, keeping my mind at bay for the moment. I stand up, seeing his subtle, before locking eyes with him. 

He looks at me like he knows exactly what he just did. He knows he made me remember. Sherlock, for the first time in his life, looks scared. 

He looks sad. 

“Look at us!” I scream, pushing him against that brick wall. Tears spilling out of me. I grab the bottle, cracking it against the concrete. I still fill his hands over me, Lance’s. 

“You-” I breathe, looking at him, as his eyes fixate on the bottle. I realize now, it’s not because he cares more about the liquid spilling out of the remains of the glass. It’s because he can’t look at me, he knows what I saw. 

“-Scared me,”  I say it like it’s unbelievable to me. But is it really? People warned me about Sherlock Holmes. Why am I so surprised? Because you thought this time would be different. This time another man won't make you feel like Lance did. 

Except he did. 

He. Just. Fucking. Did. 

“I'm not him. I never will be.” He breathes, keeping his eyes fixated on the cracked glass on the ground. His words are still slurred, not as much as he tries hard to focus. 

“You may as well be.” I bite out, stepping away as he tries to come closer. My chest heaves with each breath, trying to find the right words. But men like him, men like Lance, don’t deserve words. 

“Acacia-” He reaches for me again, but this time my fist contacts his jaw. I know he knows I was going to do it, He knows everything I’m going to do in the next hour. But he lets me hit him. My knuckles sting as I pull away, anger replacing the fear. 

“Stay away from me,” I yell. Leaving him in the alley, I go to my car. I reach for my keys, seeing his body in the alley as my headlights roar to life. He looks down at the floor, I can see the bruise already forming on his muscled jaw. 

I hide the feeling that wants me to rush to him, and apologize. It wasn’t his fault. No. I won’t do it again. Lance always made me believe I had done something wrong. I’d done nothing, and Sherlock doesn't deserve my help. 

Another feeling comes to the surface. 

It seems as if it’s our Last Night. 

♠

I wake up in my own bed. My body is cold. I wear nothing but a T-shirt. I slept at my own flat last night, I couldn’t go to Baker Street. Not yet. Not now. Not ever. It was our last night. 

Right? 

I stretch, brush my teeth, tie up my hair, and check the door for mail. As I open the door, my eyes catch on the vase against my rug. I pick up the lilacs, looking at the note attached to it. I close the door, forgetting about the mail in the mailbox. A small red card hands off the rim. I open it, reading the brief message. 

I woke up wanting you and me. 

SH

Below there’s an address. The message is short, but it says so much, especially for someone like him. I won’t forgive him, not yet. But I will go to the address, I will hear him talk, if that’s what he wants to do. Its works first, though. 

♠

I give up after my 5th attempt. I’m not a quitter, usually anyway. I’m not stupid, though. I know when to stop. I put down the beaker as my hand continuously shakes. I’ve tried to take chemicals to the counter, mark down the results of various tests, and even talk to a few lab mates. But nothing has stopped the shaking or the feel of tears dabbing at my eyes.

It’s all his fault. 

Both of their faults. 

I can’t focus, god dammit.

I look up from the counter I work at, pulling off the safety glasses and sliding my lab coat down my arms. 

It’s 5:00 already. I seemed sure about going to this address later in the day. But now? Now I’m not so sure. What happened last night, it was terrifying. And it’s almost as if I’m walking into that court again, waiting to hear Lance's excuse as to why he treated me as he did.

But Sherlock's different. 

Right? 

I huff, almost grabbing the beaker and throwing it, wanting to feel the same adrenaline rush I did last night when I broke that beer bottle. I grab my keys, leave my lab coat on the counter, and head for my purse, pulling it off and flinging it around my shoulder. 

I’ll go. 

But not for him, for me.

For confirmation. 

That last night really was our last. 

♠

I pull up to the location, puzzled when I see Sherlock Aston Martin. In its black beauty. The hood shines as I pull into the parking lot of The Pearl. The place where we first met. I snort, sentiment won't work Sherlock Holmes. 

Not this time. 

I park the car, turn off the revving engine, and pull my keys out of the ignition. I study myself in my rear-view mirror. A sweat breaks out against my brow as I take steady breaths. I inhale and exhale one more time before my lights go off and I step out of the car. 

I see him, walking over to the hood of his car. It’s not dark outside, but the sun is starting to set, taking its heat with its rays. I stand a few feet away, as he straightens his coat and clears his throat. 

My eyes don’t dare to meet his. I can’t. I won't.

His voice cracks with emotion. 

“I’m-” He starts over, 

“Thank you for coming.” Sherlock’s voice is clear, despite the emotion. He already knows what he’s going to say. 

“I love you, Acacia. The words I spoke last night are nothing if not a reflection of me. A case is no excuse for calling you what I did as If you wanted the attention.” 

I stop him, “What if I did-” 

“-Want the attention.” My stomach rolls at the thought, and of course, he knows I don’t. But he won’t argue. 

“That would be fine, It doesn’t make you what I labeled you.” 

A whore, he said. 

My eyes take me somewhere else at the flashback, 

“You fucking bitch!” Lance slams me against the hood of his car, and the smell of alcohol leaks around me, intoxicating. 

I fight to remove him from me as he goes to my pants, knowing it’s how he always ‘puts me in my place.’ But I kick him right in the stomach, desperate to get away. But he only grabs me, baring his teeth. 

“Fuckin’ whore. Look at you, Desprete for that man’s attention, You want fucked? You want a cock in your mouth, I’ll give you one.” That man was Sherlock. I slipped him a note, it was a small one. But his eyes were on me all night, Lance tossed him a few dirty looks, thinking he was gawking. 

Sherlock was doing anything but. He looked at me with sympathy, he knew something was wrong. The note was an attempt to get him to help, it was a lifeline. Lance took it as I was sliding my number to him. 

It’s how I ended up cornered in this very parking lot, against the hood of his car, desperate for escape. 

Even though this is where me and Sherlock first met, something else is attached to this place. Lance is. But even then, he’s everywhere. Underneath my skin, in my bones. 

I’m back in the present, with Sherlock staring at me. He knows I went back there, he’s the one that saved me that night. I gasp at the intensity of his stare, he reaches for me, almost on impulse but thinks better of it and pulls away. 

“I’d die before I’d ever make you feel that again.”

“Reliving your worst moments.” He finishes, almost to himself. 

“You did, Sherlock.” I want to say more, but I can’t. That’s all there is to it. He made me feel that again at that moment. A trigger. He triggered an episode. 

Sherlock nods, acknowledging my emotionless words, even though tears tug at me more and more, “For that, Acacia. I am sorry.” 

We stood there for a moment, both thinking. Or maybe it’s just me, but I look up, my eyes locking with his grey ones, a calm combination of green, gold,  and blue. 

“Come home.” Sherlock finally says, breathing a lot heavier now. As if he’s afraid I’m about to walk away. But my heart aches, he saved me from Lance, why come home? He was drunk, and like he said the words were more geared toward himself. 

Except for the first ones.

Maybe he just saw me and took his frustration out of himself because I was there. It was my fault I got him drunk-

“It was not your fault. I shouldn’t have drank as much as I did. Do not take the blame Acacia, and If you have to compare me to that prick, do it. Just know-” He clears his throat, and I catch a glimpse of a tear sliding down his face. 

“Know that I will hate myself for the rest of my life, If you want me to, for what I made you feel last night.”

“Blame me. Not yourself.” 

My heart swells, he knew what I was thinking, even if it’s what Sherlock Holmes does. He does it to solve cases, does it to impress people, to show off. But never once did Sherlock Holmes read someone's entire past, future, and current thoughts because he cared. 

He cares. 

Doesn't mean you should. The voice in my head speaks up, the part of me still not at ease with what Lance did. 

“I’ll go home, but I won’t sleep in your bed.” 

“Deal.” Even if it’s painful for him to say, Sherlock won't force me to do anything. 

“I’ll drive in my own car,” I murmur, swiping at a tear falling across my cheek. I walk to my car, pulling open the door, and not looking back as I shut it and start it up again. 

I want to continue to be mad at him, but my heart is relieved at the decision I just made.

Is my stomach in agreement, though? 

♠ 

I wake up in a sweat, gasping for air. I had a nightmare, one I haven’t had in so long. I reach for something, but all I feel is a body, keeping my head up, pulling me to his chest. It doesn't take me long to realize it’s Sherlock. He must have run in here when I was screaming. I can’t pull away, Lance's sweat is still over me, his breath coating my tongue. 

I punch Sherlock in the chest, he rears back but takes it.

 Even if he triggered it, he’s there as I scream, feeling Lance’s body on top of me, clawing at my wrist, slipping inside of me as I fight against it...

I punch his chest and claw at his hair, but Sherlock takes it. He takes it for me. And I realize then and there, that I love him, and I always will. We all make mistakes, and he’s learned from his, he always has. 

I stop as tears fall down my cheeks and onto my thighs, and I go to kiss him but he shakes his head, taking my head and putting it against his warming chest. 

“Don’t kiss me because you want an escape. Kiss me because you want to.” I sob some more, relishing in those words. He’s right. I’m escaping. 

“No, you don’t, Acacia. Not right now. Hit me, Cry into me, but don’t use me.” His accent is raspy, so I woke him up. He doesn't care though, he’s here for me. 

And I tried to use him as if sex would help this problem. 

“I’m sorry.” I sob, but he picks up my face from his chest, swiping both his thumbs across my face. 

“Do not say it again.” Sherlock orders.

“I should be apologizing to you.” He whispers against my scalp, pressing a kiss there, making my whole face heat. 

“You will see me on my knees, Acacia. But that night is not now.”

Sherlock on his knees, that’s a sight to remember. It makes me smile just a bit as I look into his eyes.

“Ok,” I whisper. 

It won't be our Last Night. 

He let the liquor talk, but perhaps it’s what we needed. 

But I know, I'll always wake up wanting him, and him me.

Even if it hurts in the process. 

#sherlockholmesangst #sherlockholmes(2010) #benedict cucumber #angstbro #apinchoffluff #Mr.holmes #bcdiditbetter

[sol1loqu1st]

idk like on the one hand my ocd symptoms are kind of getting out of control and to the point where it's not just "manageable ocd symptoms" and more along the lines of "actual ocd i should get treatment for" but tbh like. what the hell else was my brain supposed to do when my adhd makes me completely forget things like "locking my door" and like honestly how have you all *not* developed contamination based fears when every 2 seconds there's a product recall because they found out something random causes cancer or is contaminated with a deadly disease or, idk, the global pandemic that no one cares about anymore. and of course i have to have all my stuff arranged in a Certain Way because if i dont ill forget it exists (proof: i havent had the spoons to organize and i've completely forgotten anything thats not right in the open). the only thing i can think of thats not a perfectly reasonable response to something is the whole "having to apologize aloud for my own intrusive thoughts" thing but honestly even that starts to make fucking sense when you realize i have no brain to mouth filter and if i have an intrusive thought theres a good 90% chance ill blurt it out if i dont figure out something to say first

#d0nt r/b #(not sure if the button to turn those off has been working)

[violentviolette]

you've mentioned a few times that you have severe food allergens and I wanted to ask if you could expand on how that is or link educational sources since I'm planning to write about a character with food allergens but don't really know where to start in regards to research. thanks in advance !

unfortunately i cant help with the actual medical side of information because i dont actually know whats wrong with me or why this is happening lol ive been to a few doctors but im still in the process of figuring out whats going on and its pretty slow going because i have state medical insurance and so the dr's i can see are kind of shit because they're so overwhelmed with patients

ive been diagnosed with ibs but that definitly is not correct, or at the very least is not all i have. i suspect i might have some kind of autoimmune issue or mast cell problem tho. been looking into MCAS but that's very hard to get diagnosed and tested for because there's not much information currently available and alot of drs dont even think it exists

i got deathly sick around 7 years ago and physically couldnt eat for about 4 months. i was living off 1 tablespoon of chicken broth and 3 saltine crackers a day and lowkey almost died a bit. i couldnt keep anything down and everything i tried to eat i immediately threw back up. genuinely thank god im fat and had excess weight i could afford to lose because i lost 70lbs in 4 months, which if i'd been an average weight would have literally killed me. eventually i started to be able to hold down more food again, but thats when the allergies started. at this point most things i eat cause either lower intestinal issues (cramping, severe stabbing pain, burning, nausea, bowel problems, ect) or they cause a really bad allergic reaction (itchy gums and mouth, stuffy/runny nose, itchy watery eyes, hives, general itching on my hands and arms, difficulty swalling, vertigo, and in really bad cases passing out). i also have severe acid reflux and my stomach is constantly full of acid, which has caused some diverticuli and intestinal bleeding cause my intestines are just kinda erroding. this has all also lead to me developing pollups in my intestines which are like, fucked up collections of pre-cancerous mutated cells, and i have to get those removed every 3 years now so they dont turn into actual cancer

id say if u want to go the route of it being purely an allergy then MCAS would be a decent one to start with as far as autoimmune disorders go. it stands for mast cell activation syndrom and it's when ur mast cells, which control ur immune system and are what produces histamines, go all fuckey and become hyperactive and view everything as a deadly allergen and respond in extreme ways to absolutely everything and anything

googling stuff like mastocytosis, mast cells, mcas, and other related searches should be a good place to start

#jack.speaks #anon #hope that helps! sorry i dont have more like actual concrete sceintific info or explinations #my body just kinda decided to kill us both and im wrangling it like a desperate rodeo clown #i dont really know whats going on in here im just trying not to immediately die lmfaoooo #medical tw