Chameleon Chameleon

Dogs have had many jobs throughout history, in this case: Revenge.

do you ever start writing a comment on the internet and then think “oh what the fuck am i going on about” and delete it

things i say that confuse and worry my coworkers:

“happy birthday” every time i hand them something

“well, that’s not ideal” whenever something is going wrong

“we are in the timeline that god abandoned” whenever i’m mildly inconvenienced

“can’t you see that your fighting is tearing this family apart?” whenever two or more coworkers are arguing

referring to taking medication as “eating medicine”

“time to go back to prison!” when putting animals back in their cages

referring to inanimate objects as (s)he, particularly when i break something and say “oh no, he’s dead.” this concerns them especially when i follow it up with “that’s not ideal”

“what are they gonna do, fire me?”

when i go in a room and forget what i needed i become a point and click protagonist. [water bottle?] that’s not helpful right now. [socks?] i don’t know what to do with that. [charger?] that’s not helpful right now. [scissors?] i can’t do anything with that. [water bottle?] that’s not helpful right now. [lone paperclip?] that’s not helpful right now. [water bottle?]

Well if this ain't relatable af

"Bleed the Sky"

The sky bursts open,

not gently,

not softly,

but like a body breaking,

like something holding on for too long

finally letting go.

The first drop hits—

hot asphalt hisses,

dust rises like ghosts startled awake,

and the earth opens her mouth

like she’s starving.

There’s no beauty here.

No poetry.

Just the raw writhing of water finding cracks,

finding hunger,

finding every place that aches or crumbles or waits.

The rain doesn’t ask permission.

It doesn’t care where it falls—

forest, rooftop, desert, skin.

It pounds against leaves as if to punish them

for turning their faces away,

fills the throats of rivers

until they choke on their own rushing,

slides down windowpanes like tears

too heavy to hold back.

And it keeps going.

There is no tenderness in this.

This is not about grace.

This is about gravity and surrender,

the weight of billions of tiny impacts

stripping the world bare.

And something in you loosens—

against your will,

unraveling in the rhythm,

in the relentless pounding that reminds you of your own breaking,

of the times you couldn’t stop falling.

You stand there,

letting it hit you,

letting it drench everything you thought was safe.

Maybe this is what healing feels like:

not silent, not soft,

not clean.

But messy.

Wet hands in the dirt,

skin soaked,

blurry vision as everything spills.

The rain knows.

It always knows.

It comes to destroy,

and in the destruction

it leaves something you didn’t know you were—

raw, gasping,

and growing.

The first post I liked on here

“But don’t forget who you really are. And I’m not talking about your so-called real name. All names are made up by someone else, even the one your parents gave you. You know who you really are. When you’re alone at night, looking up at the stars, or maybe lying in your bed in total darkness, you know that nameless person inside you.”

— Louis Sachar