Am Scared

— you've got ranmail !

exile arc but every day someone puts on a blonde wig and red n white t shirt and takes Tommy’s place as they all try to gaslight Dream

quackity: Hello it is me tommyinnit

dream: you aren’t tommyinnit and you don’t look or sound like him

quackity: *in a British accent* hello it is me tommyinnit

dream: tubbo I can see that it’s you

tubbo, wearing the ugliest blonde wig known to man: what? im tommyinnit. here I’ll prove it I just need some flint n steel and the location of your house

dream: are you ghostbur?

ghostbur: yes!

Phil: oh I forgot to tell you! Tommy’s street name is ghostbur. that’s why he said that :)

dream:

dream: oh hi “Tommy” why is your hair blue?

jack manifold, who didn’t own any other wigs: I’m going through a mid life crisis

dream: Ranboo I can see that you’re an enderman

ranboo, wearing a red and white suit: im tommyinnit. I remember everything. i can definitely swim mhm mhm

Dream: you aren’t even wearing the red and white. you’re just another blonde guy

purpled, a paid actor: wdym didn’t you know there’s only one blonde person ever. im tommyinnit

dream: technoblade what I meant to think of this

technoblade, wearing a sign that says ‘im tommyinnit’: well most people think I’m annoying at first

dream: you’re literally a pig

technoblade: that’s kinda rude to say about the British

Dream: how are you here. you’re dead.

glatt, who pierced the veil of life and death in order to make fun of tommy: no im tommyinnit. pogchamp or something

Congrats Ranboo for finally using the trap card you absolute mad lad

"You'll find Ponk's homes a little bit everywhere" ;-;

conflicting feelings about god

mary doria russel, the sparrow // contorno, hand in unloveable hand // ethel cain, sun bleached flies // @avainblue // billboard in ohio // ? // friedrich nietzsche // florence + the machine, girls against god // supernatural 10×16 // mary oliver, leaves and blossoms along the way // the last temptation of christ (1988) // @ponyoisms // frank bidart, the war of vaslav nijinsky // harley poe, I wanna die // sylvia plath // The Script, breakeven // pheobe bridgers, chinese satellite

— you’ve got ranmail !

Ranboo was in Ted’s Instagram story!

before we cut to Alexandria (Manberg era cabinetduo)

1.

Between you is a desk and, an hour later, a wall, and your brother- let’s call him your brother, because you do not have to like your brothers, but you have to have them. And he is here, your brother.

2.

Between you and your brother is a desk and on the desk, paper that you pass over the distance, seventy centimeters, ten seconds each to write until the things you say to one another to hide what you really mean fill the page from corner to corner, side to side.

3.

Learning how to read between the lines is a lot like learning how to make bullets, or how to stop a baby from crying, or how to stop your friend from crying when he looks like he’s about to: you don’t, really, but one day you find yourself just doing it, probably doing it wrong. I’ll keep you safe: I’ll (I) keep (will) you (fail) safe.

4.

Here's your brother sitting on the windowsill with his heels tucked in, staring at the smoke he blows into the wind like he wishes that were him. He does, but it's just one of hundreds whispered into dandelion seeds that will invariably land on barren asphalt. Your brother is someone whose wants are countably infinite and does not realize it.

5.

You know three ciphers in total. One's for babies, one you teach your friend, the last you show your brother. It's numbers all the way down, signaling lowly your prevailing existence. Three, one, seven, eight. Shadows in the hallway. Five, five, four, nine. Shift. Lights under the door.

6.

Your brother finds a radio. Has a radio. Had, a radio. It’s yours on Sunday mornings and in the afternoons on weekdays. You spin the dials until you’re sure there’s only static, then you take it all apart, slowly. The sound travels through the air, unseen and unfelt. You leave a whisper in the transmitter.

7.

And there’s a memory, his lanky arms tucked between his knees, head against the open door of the van with a cigarette between his teeth; this other not-brother of a man who has never promised safety in so many words as the walls he built says I don’t do it inside because it’s not good for the baby. Says you (I) keep the (don’t) bad shit (want) outside (them) the walls (to) because it’s (see) not good (this) for who you love.

8.

Between you and your brother and the desk and the walls is not enough space. Too dark, too hot, choked out and the wallpaper too sticky. Too many shadows without form nor sight. You know, I don’t care if you smoke inside. He definitely doesn’t. The sunlight in the window feels solid, like it could hold your brother when he shrugs, stubs the cigarette out on the stone exterior, and looks down like he’s thinking of jumping.

9.

He won’t do it, you know. Your brother doesn’t look at you, looks at where the smoke has disappeared, wishing he could be like that: something with less of a heart and not so much desire. Something that doesn’t hit the ground when it’s thrown out a window. He won’t jump, even though he’s always thinking about it. You have to push him. Or better yet, leap and watch him dive after you.

10.

You conclude the fear comes from the lack of escape, because everything else has begun to slide over you. A boy holds the door open. A man. Whatever. On paper your brother draws a blueprint you can’t understand. He draws the lines tender, the way you make a bed when you’re waiting for someone to come sleep in it. Slides it over. The pen he holds out is an open question.

11.

We can have something better than cheap takeout every day and we can go out to eat on our lunch breaks and you know, I can always learn how to cook and teach you, too. It’s a good thing to know.

12.

Is it love? Do you throw someone from two stories up and watch their bones break below you and shout at them I love you? Do you need to? Don’t they know? Looking up at you. They know. They know. The only difference is who of us got here first.

13.

Say the building's on fire. Say the doorknob's melting. Say you take to the heat better. There’s a hand in yours, paper crumpled in your palm. Take it, smooth it out, do the math in your head. One, two, three, four, nine. I struck the match. I’m sorry. Suddenly it’s just you, and the window is gone.

14.

He turns the bitterness over, splits it apple-seed white at the core. Did you notice he’s no taller than you? Not even a little bit. Between you is a desk, and you trace the ring of water damage on its surface and wish you were the type of person who could crack it. For a long moment that is your only wish. Place your fist in the center of the ring. It fits. Now imagine swinging.

15.

It’s a summer night and you can’t hear the buzz of the flies in the room over all the shouting. It’s summer, so there’s always flies. You don’t even know where they come from, just that when you’ve finally managed to kill the two there’s a third hanging around your leg. Like they know where the rot is. Like they’re born here, young larvae chewing their way out of the wallpaper, tasting blood.

16.

He’s your brother, which you are comfortable with because you do not have to like your brother. You do not have to love him, and neither he, you. You have to have him. You have to not blow smoke at babies (who can bear nothing). You have to buy food when there’s none and you have to make the necessary phone calls. You have to be quiet, and be loud, and quiet again. You have to lock doors, turn off the lights except the one in the hallway. Until you don’t. Until you’re gone.

17.

One more thing. If you jumped, he'd jump after you. And if you walked through the front door?

Wake up every midnight for three years straight to unlock the front door. Wake up every morning at six to lock it. Wait until it gets unbearable, then wait until the unbearable becomes easy, becomes nothing. This is how we survive, long past the moment we think we should have.

18.

Your brother has one leg over the windowsill and he leans back, telling you to come look. Look at the wide ledge jutting from the side of the house. The air is so still. He holds your hand when you follow him onto the ledge. Streetlights start to come on. You can see all of them, signals pointing to far and distant places. Further than your sight goes. There’s a car downstairs and soon there will be nothing between you, and that car. What (where) will (will) you (you) do, (be?) then? Your brother is on your left.

This, this is what I can give you.

idc this was the hard launch to me

my phone didn't refresh yet so I was able to take a screenshot of most of the mcyt places I could remember o7