Rec
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Today I had the displeasure of working what was — likely — one of the worst services I have ever worked. Quite literally ran out of half the menu, an eighty-six list which had to tuck its tail between its legs and resort to a series of columns. The abhorred culmination of a week’s worth of missing food deliveries paired alongside a kitchen which itself is teeming with new staff. In short, it was a putrid, vile, sickening mess.
In the wake of walking homeward from this wretched workday I have retired myself to my kitchen floor, wrecked.Stripped of my work clothes I feel as if a starfish in an ocean of granite (or whatever tiles are made of), reptilian minded delight. Here I lie, a cold sensation across my backside and the gentle singing of wind-chimes in my ears. The stress of the day is dissipating into the grout beneath me and I cannot help but think: maybe it’ll all be okay.
In the wake of walking homeward from this wretched workday I have retired myself to my kitchen floor, wrecked.Stripped of my work clothes I feel as if a starfish in an ocean of granite (or whatever tiles are made of), reptilian minded delight. Here I lie, a cold sensation across my backside and the gentle singing of wind-chimes in my ears. The stress of the day is dissipating into the grout beneath me and I cannot help but think: maybe it’ll all be okay.
5d ago
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My room is a corridor of doorways. Not a space, not a shelter, but a network of half-thoughts and abandoned exits. The floors reek of piss, like some wild dog marked its territory and then left me to rot in it. The walls pulse with memory. Or maybe delusion. Either way, it’s loud in here. Thoughts swarm like ants — frantic, mindless, pathetic — all scrabbling for something to hold on to. Information. Meaning. But there’s nothing. Just famine. Starvation of sense. A thousand tiny legs searching for crumbs in a house that hasn’t been fed in years.
And every day the sky breaks open again. Not metaphorically. The rain here isn’t poetic. It hammers. It devours. It doesn’t cleanse; it drowns. The ants drown, but they don’t die. They keep moving, twitching, twitching, twitching. Not alive. Not dead. Just full of guts and nerves and the viscera that keep them twitching. That hard carapace we all grow when the storm doesn’t stop. That’s all they are. That’s all I am.
Sometimes I think I’ll dig my way in. Crawl through the iris of my own eye — molecular, meticulous — and enter the network of my brain like a savior. A surgeon. Maybe a god. Maybe I’ll find the ants and teach them how to be more than twitching muscle and damp despair. Maybe I’ll name them. Maybe I’ll give them something like hope.
But dry drowning is real. No matter what they say. And the terrifying thing is — there’s no evidence it isn’t.
And every day the sky breaks open again. Not metaphorically. The rain here isn’t poetic. It hammers. It devours. It doesn’t cleanse; it drowns. The ants drown, but they don’t die. They keep moving, twitching, twitching, twitching. Not alive. Not dead. Just full of guts and nerves and the viscera that keep them twitching. That hard carapace we all grow when the storm doesn’t stop. That’s all they are. That’s all I am.
Sometimes I think I’ll dig my way in. Crawl through the iris of my own eye — molecular, meticulous — and enter the network of my brain like a savior. A surgeon. Maybe a god. Maybe I’ll find the ants and teach them how to be more than twitching muscle and damp despair. Maybe I’ll name them. Maybe I’ll give them something like hope.
But dry drowning is real. No matter what they say. And the terrifying thing is — there’s no evidence it isn’t.
Rec
🏚I have this historical tendency where the second I get the sudden unmistakable feeling that a home is no longer forever, I stop tending to it. Dirty clothes pile up, the washed laundry sits unfolded, clutter accumulates, and I no longer wish to decorate. I disengage because my future is no longer tethered to this place; I’m being pulled forward from elsewhere and it’s only a matter of time.
I apologize for my inactivity, my malaise; I tell them that I’m going through a rough time and struggling to fully function. I’m feeling burnt out after years treading water with a cinderblock tied to my ankle and I worry day and night about external forces beyond my control that threaten to sink us both. They tell me there’s always an excuse; that I’m perpetually miserable and dissatisfied; that I only care about myself.
Of course, I’m not the only person living in this house. They’ve long since absconded from their share of the duty to this space we inhabit together, and yet I’m the one who is accused of giving up.
Every week for a decade, I’ve been matching their socks into pairs, rolling up their underwear, and promptly hanging up their clothing fresh out of the dryer to prevent wrinkles from setting in—and they didn’t even notice. They told me they were perfectly happy rummaging through the laundry basket every day.
Sometimes they will wash my clothes—delicates tossed in with T-shirts, jeans thrown in the dryer and tumbled until they shrink—but nobody has ever put away my laundry but me.
I apologize for my inactivity, my malaise; I tell them that I’m going through a rough time and struggling to fully function. I’m feeling burnt out after years treading water with a cinderblock tied to my ankle and I worry day and night about external forces beyond my control that threaten to sink us both. They tell me there’s always an excuse; that I’m perpetually miserable and dissatisfied; that I only care about myself.
Of course, I’m not the only person living in this house. They’ve long since absconded from their share of the duty to this space we inhabit together, and yet I’m the one who is accused of giving up.
Every week for a decade, I’ve been matching their socks into pairs, rolling up their underwear, and promptly hanging up their clothing fresh out of the dryer to prevent wrinkles from setting in—and they didn’t even notice. They told me they were perfectly happy rummaging through the laundry basket every day.
Sometimes they will wash my clothes—delicates tossed in with T-shirts, jeans thrown in the dryer and tumbled until they shrink—but nobody has ever put away my laundry but me.
Feb 21, 2025
Rec
😃The girl wrapped her fingers around the piercing hot blades of the electric radiator, she counted for how long it would take for her finger to change from a warm fuzz to a sharp burn. Ten. Ten seconds. She pressed her finger harder against it seeing if the pressure would shave any time off. It did.
The girl’s mind slinked back into its usual slot, clocking in for another cycle of self-scrutiny and catastrophising without solution. It’s like slouching, unattractive and slothful but oh, how snug it feels. The sky is fuzzy outside her window, mute in tone but relentless in its ability to coat everything over in a layer of doom. Its like TV static, monotonous and constant but impossible to tune out as it pollutes every square inch of its surroundings.
The girl’s eyelids feels heavy. She gently squishes around the fat around them, hoping to wake them up. They don’t, how annoying.
It’s far too hot now but she doesn’t switch the radiator off. Her eyelids still feel heavy. She wonders it if they want to rest. How unfair is it, that some organs can afford the luxury of rest and some cannot. Why is it that the heart must pump away for every waking hour but the feet as rest idly on whatever surface it touches. Its winter break. The time of year for Phi Phi Islands getaways and the downing of countless pineapple flavoured drinks in glasses that have a little umbrella plopped in for those who can afford it.
She doesn’t know what to do but her to do list is full. She realised now that its not that she was cold but rather it was her bones that were freezing. They don’t do a great job at ventilation, the fats and muscles that is. God made it out to be pink thermal fiberglass when he pitched the idea of the body to the board but really budget was cut that year and the engineering team had massive waves of layoffs. Now they outsourced the labour, but what that really means is that some third-rate deity haphazardly rendered a flimsy flesh suit that will just get the job done. So now the girl must wear this body of hers around for a while. Cest la vie I guess. Cest la vie.
She begins to peel off her finger nails, then her skin, rolling the epidermis off like a fruit roll. The bone is cold, it hasn’t felt warmth in 20 years. Do you know how that can affect someone. 20 years. Excuse me, excuse me. I must continue the job, the bone is cold.
Her mother tried to ignore the cries of her bones. Now look at how she ended up. Limp, flaccid. Slack jawed and sloped. Her bones have stopped working. I’m sorry. I have to keep going. I have a job to do, I must continue the job. The bone is cold.
Jun 13, 2024
Top Recs from @prometheus
Rec
🥣I’ve been coping with prolonged malaise lately by eating a lot of yogurt, generally —albeit not aways— with granola and banana. Although any fruit will do. Even meals that otherwise would not include yogurt I’ve been putting yogurt in. But yogurt for breakfast has really been doing a number for me, feels difficult to succumb to listless grief when those tender moments of solitude are underscored by roughly one and a half cups of yogurt. I do not mean to diminish or trivialize the depth of your misery in saying this, but have you tried eating yogurt?
3d ago
Rec
On these horrid morrows wherein one awakes feeling utterly ghoulish it is easy to let oneself slip into a quite negative headspace. The Monster Mash reminds us that even the most vile of beast deserve a little joy.
6d ago
Rec
☕️Recently (i.e. within the last several weeks), I have found myself increasingly indulging in taking multiple coffees throughout my morning. This blooming habit marks a departure from the typical taking of a singular morning coffee, a ritual I have found myself engrossed within the maw of for years, what does this mean?
I suspect this departure is not just a departure from a familiar habit but an abandonment ritual propriety. Meaning, that the taking of my morning coffee has ceased to be a habit borne solely from the love of the ritual itself but rather (and more sinisterly) a habit borne from a genuine need of caffeination before I commence my day proper.
The why of this transition from love of ritual to need of substance can be chalked up to multiple factors. Unfortunately, none of these factors are all too interesting. And further, the point here is not one of why. My point is simply to remark what has already been stated, that I — like many — have become somebody who needs their morning coffee, I am dependent on the substance, a portion of own agency surrendered to this habit. The ritual propriety of the event has become of secondary importance to the substance itself. Agency sacrificed for pleasure or maybe for some grander feeling of productiveness. Not all too chuffed.
Jul 19, 2025