Everything about this movie is gold

(Source: cmdrstevenrogers)

Writing Submission

By: Rochedned

Junior year they said I was an inspiration.
In eighth grade I filled notebooks with poetry about his eyelashes.
People would see the words I sketched onto the paper and ask, “who is he?” and I said he is my friend. “friends don’t write about friends this way,” yet somehow I wrote about him that way and for me that was enough just like the length of his lashes was like the brightness of a lighthouse beaming out to sea at midnight. 
Junior year they said I was an inspiration. 
Freshman year I finally gripped that he whose lashes filled my college ruled notebook paper would always be known as my friend and I became vulnerable. 
Don’t tell me you can’t endure heartache at that age. 
Preacher boy told me God was his calling and he would marry a woman who felt the same, yet every day I became more inclined to believe that he was playing for the other team, at least in his mind and why was it such a bad thing to admit you like men when you’re a man. And I believed in him.
They say men can be controlling and although he never gave me the time of day as anything more than a member of his holier than thou posse I let him tell me who to ignore and who to befriend. As if my broken heart was something he alone could mend. 
And in the hallway I saw eyelashes. Scattered around the floor, I’d walk quickly past them,looking straight ahead my eyes never wandered but they became more difficult to ignore when they latched onto my close friend. 
Junior year they said I was an inspiration. 
Sophomore year left bruises and cuts where I poured salt on my skin and bumped into tables. Nobody understood who I was or why I was or why I was who I was and I didn’t understand either. Sixteen in a red hoodie and rasta striped sneakers said, “You have pretty hair,” and I liked him. But sixteen didn’t like me, in fact we had discussions about moving on from past relationships or who we at one time liked and I’d ask, “How far over your rainbow are you today?” and he’d go back and forth between halfway and closer to the beginning but my rainbow was far from even developing, sixteen had so many problems I hoped to fix. I confused pity for love. I whispered “I love you,” from my screen door that winter when he and his brother seventeen walked from my living room to the street they lived. Seventeen later send me a six word text message I couldn’t answer. Couldn’t say yes because sixteen had my heart. Months passed and by the following April sixteen had become a ticking time bomb of xanax and vicodin that constantly increased in size. Addiction painted dark pockets under his eyes, creasing them further into his skull. Sixteen became toxic and toxic doesn’t just become nontoxic so as many times as my brand new next door neighbor went through heroin withdrawal on my couch I knew better than to sit and hope toxic would some day come around. 
Junior year they said I was an inspiration. 
Because the words I sketched on college ruled paper became speeches at the podium in the front of the room and questions to follow “How do you handle sadness?” and tears that filled eyes as I looked up from my ripped out poetry. “Music and God,” I said and their faces shot with confusion as if they’d never heard a rhythm that quivered their bones or sang along to a lyric that snapped their skin with that same sting of a rubber band. They clapped anyway. 
One speech became two that became four that became eight and a note card with a tiny mirror hot glued on that read “You’re beautiful” got them a hell of a lot farther than I ever intended. Junior year they said I was an inspiration. 
But I felt far from it. At first they didn’t realize how grateful I was when they opened the classroom doors and how I carried Lysol in my purse to wipe down the desks and how before lunch and after lunch I went to the bathroom to scrub my hands of dirt and oil and germs and germs and germs. Between my classes I kept my hands in the pocket of my hoodie and lathered on hand sanitizer so often it made my skin blood red and dry and they’d ask what the hell was wrong with my hands and I’d say the weather has them chapped. They said I was an inspiration. 
But does an inspiration have to wash their hands every 25 minutes and after touching every surface, every animal, skin of another person, does an inspiration get looked at like an animal when anxiety takes a hold of their fingernails and pick at the dryness on their hands and does an inspiration chew the skin off of the tips of their fingers and does an inspiration chew the top of their nails off to stop the picking and continue chewing when there’s nothing left and does an inspiration lay in bed and wonder if they have sealed their windows properly or obsess over who touched them in the hallway and does and inspiration imagine pathogens crawling into their skin every second of the day because I do. And they look at me like I’m some sort of freak. So they stopped opening the doors and my teacher noticed so he’d get up from his desk and walk a across the room to open the door for me because the handle was too much for me to grasp. And they stopped calling me an inspiration. I stopped writing about eyelashes and I stopped using hand sanitizer and now although every time I touch a surface or someone else or an animal I feel a very big need to wash my hands I don’t. And before I eat I say grace silently and don’t use a moist towelette or wash my hands or anything because if I do it becomes a conversation piece, like the time I bought a bag of chocolate covered pretzels and someone I knew licked one and threw it back at me to bother me and by chance it landed in the untouched bag. Somehow for others this is humorous. Years later I continue to think in my head about eyelashes eyelashes eyelashes and everyone asks why I always mention eyelashes in my writing but I’m not just mentioning them they have become what I write about. Somehow for others this is humorous. But they don’t lay in bed and wonder is the door is locked or if the windows are sealed. They don’t notice that when the skin on my fingertips starts to grow back I chew it back off. I was an animal for too long. Now I’m just someone’s previous inspiration.

Anonymous asked:
I like a boy but OCD keeps sending me bad thoughts about him, like he's gonna hurt me and do terrible things, It's horrible. I don't know what to do and I can't trust anybody around me with this, I feel so sad and so alone because all my friends went to college and I've got him but thoughts won't let me be happy :( Any advice? Thanks

'OCD attaches to the things you love' It can literally latch onto anything. 

Whatever bad thoughts you have, just accept that they can be true and that you’ll deal with them if/when it happens. Let yourself hang out with him and be as much in the moment as you can be!

Practice letting yourself be with him and enjoy time with him and it will get easier. 

REALITY ISN'T REAL: Ok so I have an idea.


That I think/hope would help a lot of people, but I really need loads of opinions before/if I start because it would be a huge thing to undertake.

Sorry in advance for the essay, but PLEASE PLEASE at least give it a skim. Pwetty pweeeez!

Basically my sister has Down’s Syndrome and, for those…


Photo of the day: Abandoned baby squirrel gets a second chance

Read little Rob’s story and see more photos of him.