Midoriya, Barely Conscious While Healing In A Hospital: UA. . . Can You Even Imagine it?

My ex best friend gave me a blanket for Christmas, back when we were still friends. The other day my mom asked if I was going to keep it and I was like, well, it’s a blanket, so yes. She asked why I would keep something from someone I hate, and I responded that it’s still useful no matter who gave it to me. She took a sip of her water and said to me while looking out the window, “That’s what is called having no morals.”

I am so STUPID it took me LITERALLY A WHOLE YEAR to realise that Trey's name sounds like the Spanish word "tres" and Cater sounds like the word "quatro." As in.

3 and 4.

UPDATE ON SLOT 66

There is now brown food, such as brownies and other such foods, placed into slot 66. I am okay with this, because when blood dries, it turns brown, so red and brown are allowed to be in slot 66 as long as it is predominantly red.

Today I learned that all the little stories I wrote in high school got deleted because I didn’t save them to my other account, but it’s kind of fine because I don’t actually remember what any of them were. Still, I’m a little disappointed.

These new American Girl shoes look like if Jotaro was a Barbie

I want to go to sleep today. Why? Because I want to dream.

I cried today at work.

There was a girl who was kind of a new coworker, and I complimented her voice. She was shocked, and thanked me profusely, and told me that she is very insecure about her voice and that it meant a lot to her that I liked it. She said that just yesterday she had been feeling down because of how much she disliked it.

I didn’t cry a lot, but my eyes got watery and a few tears leaked out. I was devastated that she didn’t like her own voice, because I adored it so much and it hurt that she didn’t see the beauty in it. But mostly I cried because of how sincerely she thanked me, and it felt so good to be able to lift her spirits at least a little bit. As I walked away and continued my work, it dawned on me for the first time in my life that perhaps I really am useful, and that I am a good person.

If all I have accomplished by the end of my life is complimenting her, then her reaction alone makes my life worth it.

My workplace finally added a place to insert a card on the vending machine, so I got to eat a smol pie on my lunch break

I Used to Write

I used to write. I used to have paper and pens and pencils and crayons and markers stuffing my purse to bursting, and I used to USE them. My purse would be full of character ideas and dialogue and descriptions of lights and sounds and emotion. There were words in everything I did, my mind narrating my every action as if I were in a parallel fantasy world.

And now my purse is full of pens that don’t work, pencils with no lead, and half-filled papers with faded words that will never know their fate. My mind only speaks my fears. I feel nothing but regret and longing for a time where I could feel more. I used to write.

I had a dream that I started dating this girl because she said so and then someone who was very homophobic tried to kill us by throwing some type of gas into the hallway we were in, and the school wasn’t doing anything about it, so I tracked this person down and threatened them because I was not about to let a SINGLE BEING hurt my girl