#this queue wouldn’t be for evermore
i wasn’t tagged but can i join pls i liked the questions
why did you choose your url?
i thought this wouldn’t be taken lol. also im a sensitive person, and some people in my life don’t seem to get the message, so this is to smite them on a blog that they dont know exists ha that will show them
any side blogs?
no :) this was initially a writeblr and i had another url for simping after taylor, but i couldn’t keep track of them. so heck, whatever i wanna do on tumblr, i’ll do on this blog. my followers can die mad (i was joking thank ya’ll so much)
how long have you been on tumblr?
i used to open tumblr and look around taylor tags since, like, 2015, but only started actively running this blog in 2021 when evermore came out
do you have a queue tag?
no :)) again we do what we like (TWICE, Eyes Wide Open, Track 4), i’ll have five text posts in one day if i have a lot to say, then nothing for a week, maybe reblogs
why did you start your blog in the first place?
evermore came out and i just had a lot to say
why did you choose your icon/pfp?
i found it on pinterest and i knew, the red vibes. the picture evokes so much without having a face in it!! the gorgeous beige toned background!! the contemplation, the melancholy i feel when i listen to the album
why did you choose your header?
vintage record store very red vibes, i think it matches the pfp really well
what’s your post with the most notes?
how many followers do you have?
43!! 🥰 blessed.
how many people do you follow?
how do you feel about ‘you need to reblog this’ posts?
there’s this overwhelming wave of political discourse, while im glad these things are finally being said, being in a position where i can’t do much about things, it takes a toll on my energy. so i try to read and understand the posts to be educated but avoid reblogging, unless i find the links or information to be genuinely helpful to other people
do you like tag games?
not that much
do you like ask games?
yesss! i wanted to do a red one i found but noone sent anything :( i think ill do it anyway
which of your mutuals do you think is tumblr famous?
nope we are all hustling in the swiftie community, but yeah they’re all more deservedly more ‘successful’ than me
do you have a crush on a mutual?
@discoball13 gives me notes on my posts i notice it boo and thank you!!
ill tag all my mutuals, i love all of you: @13cloverblooms, @xcleanx, @kissesonswifts, @discoball13, @tanglledupwithyouallnight also @andysambrg reeshika my tumblr bestie
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This blog begins where the end of my journey should have been, but instead, it looks evermore likely, and evermore hauntingly, like it is in fact, just the beginning.
I had imagined that after four months of brutal illness, a multitude of infections, and endless other issues, that the turning of the new year would entail a welcome wave of freedom from hospital, god-awful doctors, and the hell that I had been staggering through in order to try and get better. Instead, the New Year has brought new challenges, the continuation of unreseolved illnesses, and even worse, a hightened sense of arrogance and narcissism from certain doctors that make this journey utterly unbearable.
Whilst writing this first post, I am passing an astonishing amount of blood, my back hurts, my bones feel like they’re broken they’re so painful, my feet are swollen and hard to walk on, and despite all of this, my doctor will not refer me to a nephrologist because it is “not his job”. I shall come to explain.
You wonder; when doctors took an oath to act within their patient’s best interest at all times, did they ever intend to adhere to that? Did they start off well and distend into a world of atrocity and cruel narcissism, acquiring a raw sense of vulgarity along the way? Either way, his leaving me to get sicker, in order to prove a point, is abhorrent and negligent.
Here’s what happened this week...
About 6 months ago, I started peeing large amounts of blood. Sometimes the urine sample would show infection, sometimes it wouldn’t. I got treated over 8 times with antibiotics, but after three months of repeated bloody urine, agonising pain in my back, swollen feet and a distended belly (in my opinion everything pointed to issues with my kidneys), and no infection showing, I told the surgery that I thought it was time that I was referred to a specialist - because constantly pissing blood is surely not normal. It’s beggars belief that after months of bleeding my doctors’ didn’t take the initiative to refer me themselves or even try to look into the issue further - instead of keep sending the sample off for cytology and getting the same results.
I got referred to Urology - even though the symptoms suggested it was my kidneys and the doctor actually asked if I had ever seen a nephrologist, they only referred me to urology - and after being throughly checked, the urology consultant sent a letter to my surgery and asked the GP to please refer me to nephrology, because the bleeding is clearly not right but is not coming from my bladder.
What happened next is, to say the least, astounding.
After spending a morning in hospital earlier this week (as many days are spent, now), the blood results showed that my white bloods, neutrophils and inflammation markers had raised from bloods taken 10 days before (I was in hospital for a ten-day follow-up because the week before I had developed a bad rash from new drugs I am taking for adrenal insufficiency). I said to the ER doctor that I had started passing loads of blood again that day (it comes and goes), and asked him to do a dip-test. He refused. He said that he didn’t want to give me more antibiotics and therefore, he didn’t want to test the urine to see if there was an infection. 🥴I don’t want anymore drugs. In fact, at this point, I think it’s probably dangerous to give me more antibiotics when they’re clearly not working. But surely, it’s not right for me to be passing so much blood and for the doctor to not even acknowledge it or try to find out what is going on. In fact, he didn’t even mention it in his discharge letter. I was happy not to spend any longer in hospital, but I left feeling slightly confused and, yet again, defeated. I find it bizarre that my bloods are showing an infection, along with bleeding profusely and yet I am told it is normal. I hate to dispute it, but I raised my questions, was told that the rise in bloods were due to my drugs (even though through multiple infections my inflammation markers have never risen and I know it isn’t my drugs because my dose has gone down, now up), and left.
If there is one way that this horrendous period of illness has made me feel, it’s defeated. As well as a feeling of being gagged and silenced and as though I could be screaming into the abyss, telling the doctors what is wrong, whilst being patted on the head, with a derisive smirk plastered across their faces, as they snigger and repeat, ‘there, there’. It’s been emotionally, physically and psychology horrendous.
After my midweek morning in hospital, I spoke to my GP that afternoon. I needed to ask him to make the referral to the nephrologist, as requested by the urologist in the letter. Nothing is ever done off the surgery’s own backs - even blood results that require attention takes for the patient to call up and prompt them to be looked at. I had called earlier in the week to ask for the referral to be made to the same hospital that I had been seen at for Urology, but I was told by the secretary that I would have to speak to a doctor for the referral to be made. Queue the 8am rush, and over 100 phone calls to try and get an appointment.
So, after three days, on the afternoon of the morning I had spent in hospital, my GP called me. Immediately, his tight, clipped tone was ready to bite. I explained that the Urologist had asked the surgery to refer me to nephrology in the letter and asked for the referral to be made. However, before I could finish my sentence, he told me that there was no letter on the system. He clearly had not looked. I explained that there was definitely a letter on the system because I get a copy and the secretary had printed their copy two days before, on the Monday. He looked again and miraculously, he found it, but not without making comment that it was in the “wrong” format. Of course, that was the reason.
I sat quietly whilst he read. And then, with an outraged scoff, he angrily spat that the referral should have been made internally and that it was solely down to “abject laziness” from the hospital that it had not been done. He told me that it was not his job to do it and, despite me bleeding heavily from what looks to be my kidneys, being in excruciating pain and feeling very sick, he told me that he would send the letter back to Urology and tell them to do it themselves. I was dumbfounded. But as ever, as with many who have had to undertake the constant battle of dealing with doctors through complex illness might be familiar with, I had to be the one to keep the cool head and stay calm.
I told him that when I had the conversation with my urology consultant, that she said it was for the surgery to make the referral, so I understood it was for them to do. He replied “absolutely not” before accusing the hospital of “workload shifting” and telling me that patients “choose to believe” that it is for the surgery to make the referral to another specialist. As it stands, I’m pretty sure that when one specialist has finished with you, the discharge letter has to come back to the surgery and the surgery has to be the coordinator, to refer you to the next specialist. But my GP was adamant that the hospital was lazy and useless and that they were the cause of any delay I might suffer.
Given how ill I have been, the amount I have been through, being immunosuppressed and any infection potentially being critical, I was flabbergasted that he was refusing to make the referral because he wanted to prove a point. I explained that whilst the two (the hospital and the surgery) disagreed, I was the one stuck in the middle whilst getting more sick. He said “I know” but told me that they had to learn to do it right.
I emailed the hospital the next morning, telling them his opinion and begging them to please make the referral. I followed up this email with a phone call on Friday morning, but as yet, have heard nothing. It’s always such a battle, and that, along with the already horrendous and draining existence of illness and constant hospital, makes everything so much worse. Multiple times I have told the surgery I am struggling with the stress of all of this, but despite offering help, or even acknowledging my concerns, they continue to play me like the ball against their two bats.
It’s Saturday evening and I am bleeding so heavily that I’m having to wear a sanitary as if I’m on a period. I feel sick. I’m in pain. And I have absolutely no idea where to turn anymore. Family have told me to go to ER but they will simply tell me that I’m waiting to see a specialist, which, currently I’m not because the referral hasn’t even been made.
The day after speaking to that GP, I spoke to another one. I told him that I needed my urine dipped. I handed in my blood-drenched urine and got told there was no infection but that it would be sent away to cytology anyway, just in case. I wonder what the protocol for these doctors is, when a young female patient is bleeding continuously, at times of no infection, with raised white blood counts and inflammation markers? Because all I am being faced with, is silence. I don’t even have the confidence to go to hospital anymore, because I feel as though I will be ignored.
And so, I am sitting here, desperate for the bleeding and pain to stop, but with no idea how.
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[Izashin] Ad Nauseam
It started off simple, as most obsessions do. Yet he came to be a bona fide obsessor, not solely towards something, but wholly of his soul. It was a profession above his held job title in the underground.
He took no informed advice of his addiction; it was already obvious. Two cents of web researched diagnoses weren’t needed; he already flaunted the sickness.
His state of being — it was toxic, but as it was related to love why should it be a bad thing? How could it be defined by a system of morals and ideals when systemically it was human nature? Rather, it was natural to the way of the world, not to exclude what and whom wasn't human, naturally.
And he wouldn't be bothered to correct someone’s misclassified image of him, not when it was what he wished others to know him by.
Then again that wasn't quite right, was it? Perhaps it ran along the lines of a blasé force of perception; what he didn't actively explain to others, rather let his boisterous love define him. Or not — it didn’t matter.
Validation he needn't; all kudos came from the praise he gave himself. All he needed from others was their crowd beneath the pedestal that he placed his beloved upon to boost it ever higher than if it stood alone. Did he himself need high regard? No. Did he need to be recognized as the one in ownership of this being that he too bowed before?
Well... The answer was foretold within the very question: no, unequivocally so!
He was gratified for life, happy to settle in that finality with open arms, which is why he wouldn’t dare yield his love.
So when he counted his blessings, it seemed odd that he recalled the moment that he let Izaya swoon him; an intimate sin that led him astray, what he sinfully indulged while in wait of addiction.
Of course sin is individually moralised; what may be wrong in most eyes, was seen good in the least. As it may, Shinra saw Izaya as a sin wrapped in flesh and blood: both good, bad, while neither. He saw himself a sinner that donned a welcome smile — together they were scintillating mess of trouble, an incinerating duo that singed the edges of their world.
Though a rousing sate, their nebulous relationship was evermore comfortable and natural; downplayed but foundational. Izaya's affection made life seem that much less of a chore, as there was no need to fight for something he couldn't guarantee would bear him fruit, at least now that his past endeavours were proved a success.
Though he tried to bear it, relentlessness wore him weary just as he wore out his favourite labcoat from time to time. Temptation made for an easy switch of adornment, an accessory he already felt incorrect without. Yet the pursuance of his age old obsession, what he claimed was ageless as his spied dullahan, was a unyielding path forward. Yet he considered what would leave him lost.
And ever a repeated memory was the moment he recognised his falter, what he wrapped his senses with whenever necessary. That act of instinct that preceded the first nail to his coffin with a second to follow, and the rest in a swift queue.
There was a particular hum and lazy grin that easily adhered to his pleasure, both past and present; possibly his initial pull into gravitation. Maybe he'd been the only one to receive it and might always be the sole target. Certainly he was the only one blessed enough to decipher the meaning behind it: a sentiment spun until it became an ouroboros of fancy.
Izaya adored him — Shinra adored his adoration.
The interest of Orihara Izaya wasn’t obtained without merit, but once given was much too strong, way too fragile. Even at the age of 15 it was apparent. Shinra knew the stretch of time wouldn't break that love. Just like that worn-in clubroom would protect that smile while in its confides.
“You're lucky I formed this farcical club with you, Shinra. No one else would enjoy that voice of yours ad nauseam.” Izaya gleamed while braced by his palm.
Prop of Shinra's book slackened. While lost in a page-turner, he would have neglected his attention elsewhere, though this moment was an oddity — an opportunity for rare humour.
“Are you insinuating that you like the sound my voice, Orihara-kun?” His query a singsong that tickled his own smile.
“If you wish to assume it true, I can’t stop you.”
Intertwining his words was a proclamation. There was a charge to Izaya’s aura — electricity that stood Shinra’s interest on end in lieu of the air conditioning that ceased to cool at that hour; temptation licked the frame of his peer, thankfully coloured by the afternoon. It brought light to their shared curiousity; an experiment they'd enact like willing cats that taunted death, almost certain of a satisfactory saving grace.
“But I'll keep your voice a listen,” Izaya teetered on elbow tips, “if you promise me something.”
Shinra took pride in Izaya’s perfected charm and in reward let himself be swindled by what he’d inspired. Silent but an inquisitive purr, he beckoned, chin tipped in favour, a preemptive fill of his lungs that his lab partner mimicked.
“You give me a moment of silence every now and then.”
He was familiar with that smile, of course — naturally — but it was that particular twist of lips shared intimately with his own that was novel. It was enticing to explore as well. That biological phenomenon, their sudden kiss. How in the three years they’d livened that secluded room, nothing beat what life they reared the moment Izaya tugged them together.
That was his seized excitement — an instant addiction. Shinra always knew of Izaya’s growth potential, how the tiers of his complexity might ensnare him if he didn’t proceed with caution. Yet he got pulled into those chaotic grins that individually told their own story, that flicked between one another with his slight of will. Shinra was well aware that he was turned away from his twisted status quo; but he owned his opportunity to unravel that mystical personality, lost in the prestige.
Thus he was inflicted with quandary: why was it that Izaya — his beloved sin — seemed the most compelling? What did that make Celty, if anything to him but an adored...?
All the while he thought, his hand graced the pit of his gut, soothed the ache out of his phantom wound, enjoyed the spill of ghostly blood over his fingers to pool irrational logic within his conscience; and if it weren’t upon instinct he’d will his smile to grow fondly sadistic.
That was Shinra’s addiction — all of it — the entirety of his obsession that went further the one he exhaustively advertised with guilt of breaching his childhood devotion. Much more it was only a psychological lifeline he clung to out of natural inclination.
In the end...was it really so terrible to replace one unhealthy obsession with another?
AN: Behold! What I actually believe to be a decent grasp at Shinra’s character. Also what I hoped wouldn’t seem like Shinra simply casting his respect for Celty aside. ( ´ ▽ ` );
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It was much warmer in Atlanta than it would have been in England; the trees were beginning to leaf out, and the flowers planted outside the park’s gates were beginning to bloom. Robert had worn a t-shirt instead of an open button-down in deference to Laura’s strong opinions on the matter, and he was glad now.
For a Thursday during the school year, there was a fairly healthy crowd—school trips, college students, people taking advantage of the beautiful weather. It had almost a festival atmosphere to it. John had been to fun fairs and village fetes, but he had never seen an amusement park on an American scale.
“How do you decide what to do first, my Laurie? I can’t even see it all.”
“I’ve never been to one this big, either! It’s even bigger than Highlands or Chain of Rocks, the parks I grew up going to.” Laura snatched a map from the stand just inside the gate. “I say we start with the Ferris wheel, though. We can see everything from there!”
“Will we have to wait in line?” Robert, antsy, was bouncing on his heels, echoing Laura when she was excited.
“Of course we will—that's part of the experience. Should I have brought a coloring book for you?”
Robert put out his tongue at Laura, making her laugh, and that laugh made John lace his fingers through hers, swinging her hand as he walked through the crowds. True, he’d rather be in Reddith, and yes, in some ways, the weight of the tour ahead pressed down on him.
Still, today held such promise—the beautiful afternoon light sparkling on the bright colors of the rides, the warm breeze playing with the strands of hair around Laura’s face—and John let the giddiness around him fill his chest like a balloon. He could, at least, take these few hours for himself, with nothing else to worry about.
They compared notes on all they passed as they went. Roller coasters would have to be ridden, of course. John, ever the adrenaline junkie, loved them. Laura wanted to ride the merry-go-round, her attention captured by the painted ponies, and Robert’s face lit up at the bumper cars. Beyond all that, the midway beckoned.
“I reckon I can win you one of them stuffed animals, lass. I used to have quite the arm on the cricket pitch, till I get drilled in me head with the ball.”
“No one’s ever done that for me before—that's rather romantic, Johnny.”
“Yeah, Johnny, it’s SO romantic,” Robert echoed, imitating Laura’s lilt.
“Why did we bring you again, Robert Anthony?”
“Was just wondering that meself. Bet he forgot his wallet, too.”
“As if I would do a thing like that.” Robert was the very picture of innocence as he slipped his arm through Laura’s free one and steered her toward the ride queue.
Laura was somewhat surprised—although also relieved—that no one had recognized her boys so far. Robert, tall and fair, with his attention-grabbing curls and silver jewelry, and her John, broad farmer’s shoulders and perfect mustache, cut a picture far above anyone else in the park that day. She still couldn’t quite believe she was part of all this—a husband who deeply loved her, good friends, and a new life, belonging to her and John alone.
She felt like a bird stretching her wings for the first time, in the glowing rays of spring. It felt wonderful, and Laura thought she saw the same twinkling back in John’s lovely eyes, emerald chased with the brown of the fields he so loved. The land was a part of him—and fast becoming a part of her, too.
Since it wasn’t a peak time, the three of them got a gondola to themselves, after not so long a wait. Laura cuddled into John’s side as soon as she sat down.
“Hang on a tick, Laurie—aren't you afraid of heights?” John, concerned, gently tipped her face up to his.
“Usually! But, Ferris wheels are different. I couldn’t tell you why. Maybe it’s because they go up slowly, or because I used to go on them when I was a kid. I was fearless back then, you know.”
The slight downward twist to Laura’s smile made John squeeze her closer. “You’re still a badass, sweetheart, or you wouldn’t be here with me.”
With a slight bump, the gondola began to rise, slowly, allowing the park to begin to spread out before them. As it went higher and higher, John could see past the other rides, past the midway, to the patchwork of cars in the parking lot, gleaming in the Georgia sun.
It hit John all over again how huge America was. It was easy to forget that the way they saw it, the country segmented into bite-size cities, separated by plane journeys he self-medicated to forget. Seeing the ribbon of the freeway curving past reminded him of the wide world out there, yet to be seen.
His wife, pointing something out to Robert, was another reminder of how it could be now, with her anchoring presence beside him. Even those cities that had lost their shine by now, like New York and Los Angeles, would seem brand new as he saw them through Laura’s eyes. It injected something new into the experience and made it more palatable.
“Shilling for your thoughts, Johnny.”
“You’re English already, aren’t you, lass? Was just thinkin’ how much different it is this time, having my wife with me.”
“Best it’s ever been.”
“What, are we not good enough for you, Bonz?” Robert nudged John with his foot, hard, making the gondola swing a bit.
“Oi! Stop that, you. Last thing we need is to end up arse over teakettle because you couldn’t behave.” There was no real danger, and yet, being that high up on a spindly-looking ride was enough to make John worry. The woman in his arms had become everything, after all.
“You two are like kids. Not that I’m any better, considering how much I’m looking forward to the merry-go-round. And cotton candy—definitely cotton candy.”
“What’s that, Laurie? You mentioned it when we were eating brekkie, but I forgot to ask. Still not up on all the Yank terms.”
“Yes, we’ve only been doing this five years.”
“Shut it, mate, and let my wife talk.”
“It’s called spun sugar, too, cause that’s all it is, sugar, and it’s puffy and usually pink. Like a cloud during sunset, but on a stick. It also makes me bounce off the walls, so, fair warning.”
“Fairy floss!” Child-like excitement was in John’s voice, for that brought back memories of his childhood, of the little toy cars he drove until he was too big to fit.
“Is that what y’all call it? That’s so cute.”
Sudden shyness overcame John as Laura turned the full force of her attention on him. She was his wife—why was he blushing?
“Something for fairies suits you well, pixie, d’yer think?”
“Oh, I rather love that nickname.”
Robert watched the exchange with a smile, letting them be for a moment before he broke in again. It felt good to see John so happy, and with someone whose personality and inclinations complemented him so well. Laura was blissfully happy in the country, and her quiet, easy-going ways were the perfect foil for John’s intense extroversion.
Their part of the Ferris wheel reached the apex; Laura’s attention was captured by the doll-size people and tents under them. Even many of the rides, from that high up, looked small. “Something about being up in one these...I don’t know. It’s so peaceful, and makes me feel so serene. I guess I’m very easily pleased.”
“There ain’t a thing wrong with that, love.”
“Even I have to admit that’s one of your better traits, Laurie.”
“Thanks, ever so.” Laura bowed at the waist, forgoing a curtsy in deference to the precarious nature of their seats.
Once they had regained solid ground, the three of them set off on a stroll around the park, with a little bit more of an idea of what they wanted to do. When they passed a vendor selling cotton candy John stopped, buying one for Laura.
“There ya go, lass. Just what you wanted, right?”
She had no sooner taken it from John that Robert, quite happily, pulled off a large piece, shoving it all in his mouth at once.
“Hey! Johnny bought that for me, not you!”
Robert swallowed, then smiled smugly. “What kind of big brother would I be if I let you eat all that sugar? It wouldn’t be very responsible of me.”
“You’ve never been responsible in your entire life.”
They walked on a bit more, Laura nibbling at her treat and offering some to John. Robert, who had been much less careful eating, touched his face.
“Urgh, I’m all sticky.”
“Serves you right, Rob—you brought that on yourself.”
“Sounds like something a bird said after her last encounter with you, Percy.”
“I may leave them sticky, Bonzo, but I leave ‘em satisfied.”
Laura grabbed John’s hand, pulling him toward the line for the log flume. “With as much practice as you’ve had, I certainly hope so.”
John surveyed the ride as they waited, pulling Laura back against his chest. “You get wet on this one?”
“A little bit, if it’s like the one I rode growing up, but you don’t get drenched. It’s just enough to cool us down a bit.”
Robert opened his mouth, but Laura beat him to the punch and elbowed him.
“Do NOT start singing ‘Whole Lotta Love.’ That would just be tacky.”
“Well, we are the ruddy best.” John grinned, giving Laura’s thigh a light, teasing smack.
“And the cockiest. You’re lucky you’ve got me to keep you from getting too full of yourself.”
As much as Laura teased, John knew no one believed in him more; it was just the image of rock gods she enjoyed puncturing, and he didn’t mind that at all. On the road, it was cellophane. Ephemeral. The real thing was back in Redditch, and that was what meant more to Laura than anything else on Earth.
Just as Laura had promised, they didn’t get too wet on the ride. It was just a climb down a medium-sized incline and a plunge into a shallow pool, culminating in a curtain of mist that felt good on heated skin and tamped down Robert’s curls, to the point John snapped a picture of him exiting the ride.
“Percy without his mane—one for the memory books, that is. John turned the camera on Laura, who flashed a peace sign and a grin; another moment in time captured. He imagined showing the pictures to their kids someday—and here was your mum, on the ‘73 tour, when we were almost honeymooners!
Laura, as if she were reading his mind, grabbed the camera and took a picture of his feet.
“What was that for, then?”
“Someday, I’m going to tell our children you used to wear sandals with black socks, and they’re not going to believe me. I need proof of their father’s photographic sins because you’re usually so dapper.” She kissed his cheek to soften the blow. “My hippie man.”
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