iamnotafryingpan

Latest Posts by iamnotafryingpan

I HATE MORAL OCD. well i shouldnt say hate thats a strong word. and i dont want to sound like i hate people WITH moral ocd because i dont of course. i just hate having it. but i shouldnt think that, i do like having morals, its just stressful to be thinking about them so constantly and scrutinizing every little thing i do or think. but really thats the least i could do so i should at least try, right? just because i suffer from— no, struggle with moral ocd doesn’t mean i should just stop thinking about things all together, thats not what im saying and i should make that clear, but i

I was bored so here, have a little story that I wrote.

Chapter 1

A glimpse of sickly, pale, almost white light seeps through the little crack in the trees. The moon, however grim, is, at the same time, beautiful as ever. The deep, dimly lit by the reflection of the moon’s light on the snow forest is as quiet as ever. No sound is uttered, no movement is seen in it. The only living thing in it is stillness. The only breathing thing in it is wind that carries frost and bitter death with it throughout.

In the distance, despite the trees and all of the snow, a small but lively light could be seen. A man with a sick determination to disturb the peace of the forest’s sleep, moving towards his goal, unnerved. Pushing through the snow in his heavy and warm-looking leather attire, the man is holding a small torch. Besides him, a dog. A big, robust and full of life dog, that looked more like a wolf than a dog, trying to keep his owner company. The forest has been watching the man for quite a while now but his goal nor his reason for disturbing it was unknown to it. The sheer fact of his presence made the forest seemingly move as thought it was alive. A distant sound that made the man stop dead in his tracks could be heard. It was faint, almost unrecognisable because of the wind that was really trying to blow the man away from the forest. The sound that the man heard was unnatural. No animal could’ve been a bearer of it, nor not any human. It seemed alien. It seemed like vinyl that was suddenly ripped off out of a gramophone. The man stopped and listened some more. He called for his dog, which by that point was already by his left side and trying to meet its owner’s gaze. The man put his hand on the dog’s collar and started slowly backing away. Here it is again. A faint but audible sound that rippled through the wind and snow. The man put out his torch and started to listen more closely looking over his shoulder from time to time. A faint, but visible glow could be seen in the distance. It represented more of a warmer tone, which stood out in the snow.

The man locked his gaze on it and drew his axe. He let go of the dog and it started growling and snarling in the direction of the light, which by that point already disappeared. An ear-reaping scream could be heard going throughout the trees, making the man take his axe with both of his rugged hands. He raised his axe; there it was: a black mass that stared at him. The man’s eyes were filling up with tears as he looked at it. That thing was moving in his direction. In the faint glow of the moon, it could be seen stumbling in its tracks but still managing to get up and continue on its path. As it drew closer, the dog started barking and showing its teeth. The man’s eyes became bloodshot with rage. He threw his rucksack off his shoulders and took a stance. As he was getting ready to swing, the thing disintegrated before his eyes. It disappeared. The stillness of the forest was regained. The man remained still as a rock, holding his axe close to him and was ready to swing at any moment. A sound or rippling snow could be heard on the left side of him, after which a harrowing scream was heard. The black mass was now running at him at full speed and there was nothing he or his companion could do. As the man blindly swung his axe, a loud cry could be heard in his left ear. His axe pierced right through the shoulder, or what appeared to be a shoulder of the creature. It placed its gigantic hand on his face and started to try to shove him away. The man kicked its leg, bringing it to the knees. Meanwhile the dog, which was snarling and chewing its own teeth for a while now, grabbed the arm of the creature and started biting down on it. It could be heard whimpering and crying, as it seemed for help. The axe was swiftly and promptly removed from the beast’s shoulder. The mass stumbled down onto its back and tried to get the dog off of itself. A quick whistle could be heard and a sharp, almost comforting sound of an axe could be heard that was followed by complete and utter silence.

The man, who by that time was hovering above the creature was breathing heavily and trying to not fall over. The axe was stuck in its head, splitting it right in the middle. The man stumbled backwards falling onto his back. He removed his mask and started to cough. The dog came to him and started to lick his face, which made the man sit up and pet it. The tassel was over. The creature was dead. He picked himself up and went to get his rucksack back, leaving the creature laying in the pale snow. You could make it out very clearly in it, as it was black as the dark itself. After some time the man came back with a newly lit torch and bent over the thing. Now the creature could be seen in its whole glory. Its face looked almost human. It was black as night and bald. A clear expression of fear stuck to its eyes which were wide open and staring into the trees above. They were big and had a tint of emerald green in them. The man rumbled in his pockets for a bit and got out a small but sturdy blade. With it he bent down over the creature’s face and removed its first eye, and wanted to do the same with the other but a piece of the blade broke off, almost hitting him in the face. He decided that it was enough for the night and that it would be best to return to his shelter. With that, he removed the axe from the mass’s head, stomping onto his shoulders with his full weight and went back the way he came from.

insert cool caption here

this.

minecraft needs more birds. there are like two birds in the whole of minecraft and i find that unacceptable. where are the fucking ducks

shippy

Having ADHD is that your brain either feels like

Or

And it can switch in a matter of seconds.

"if tumblr dies you can find me on bluesky" "if tumblr dies you can find me on Instagram" if tumblr dies you cannot find me. It's over. I'm free.

Minecraft if it was awesome

Süß

Leonid Pasternak  (Ukrainian, 1862–1945) - The Torments of Creative Work

opossum for naturality

remake of the possums from this post which i grew increasingly dissatisfied by

these ones are cuter :3

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

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

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

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

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

And Mr. Hargrove loved it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There is this story from my hometown where a woman brutally murdered her husband after he came home from the grocery store with the wrong kind of beans for the chili she had been planning to make. Apparently when the cops arrived, that was the only reason she gave for murdering him. It was sensationalized in the papers and the narrative was like “Wow! This crazy bitch stabbed her husband to death all because he brought home the wrong kind of beans!” and it was so ridiculous and sensational that it was one of the biggest news stories my hometown had experienced in years.

Trial rolls around and it turns out he had been abusing and controlling her for years. Domestic violence call after domestic violence call. He’d been essentially torturing her for years and nobody had been doing a damn thing.

This poor woman was in the kitchen of the single wide trailer she shared with him (he was a convicted felon (violent offense) and refused to work so she was the sole breadwinner and did the domestic labor) having one simple request for him and sending him on this errand (he didn’t letting her to leave the house) and he returns with the wrong beans for the dinner she is making for him. She politely tells him he brought the wrong beans (I think they were dried (cheaper but take hours to prepare)) for dinner. And he goes off on her. And a switch flips in her and she grabs the kitchen knife from the counter and stabs him to death on the kitchen floor. And the cops come and she tells them she stabbed him over beans. Not because she had been essentially held captive for years, not because she was afraid for her life after he had been physically abusive to her, but because beans were the only thing she could think about.

She was so broken in that moment and everyone mocked her at her lowest. This crime could have been prevented. Not by her showing self restraint, not by him buying the right beans but by anyone getting her out of that fucking situation in the years prior. I’m from a rural area. There are no nearby shelters or available support groups. Somebody would have had to help her. But nobody did.

Hey everyone check THIS out *floats lifelessly down a river*

Please appreciate this pic of me loosing my mind over this fish I caught.

rule #1 of being a child soldier is to have fun and be yourself

i love things that come in glass jars because once its over the glass jar is mine

Yup returning to necromancy, I’m so back. And you’re so back, and you’re so back, and you’re so back, and you’re