Anakin was never a sith lord...He was an edgelord.....
One time my dad got mad at me for eating salad out of tupperware he yelled at me and told me to go get a plate and eat like a 'human being'...
So... I usually don't post pictures of myself online. I'm very self conscious about my appearance because I was bullied my entire life. But recently I tried to do my makeup, just for fun, and it turned out surprisingly good considering I have little to no experience. Since it turned out nice, I thought I'd upload a few selfies. I was incredibly surprised to find that, between Instagram and The Swift Life, I had almost 90 likes on my pictures. Even the one where I had wiped off half my face to show what a difference the makeup made. There were even a few comments telling me how pretty I am and how I shouldn't have low self esteem. And I wasn't trying to fish for compliments at all... in fact, I usually hate attention. But... I'm so happy. It warms my heart to know that people honestly think I look nice... After so many years of not being able to look in a mirror without hearing echoes of the terrible things people said to me in school, people I don't know telling me I look good gives me such an uplifting feeling. I feel just a little more confident <3
When I was 6, a girl at preschool complained to herself about how ugly her painting was and I said "Yeah, it's really ugly!" because I thought that I was supposed to agree with her because it was her painting. (Note that I didn't actually see the painting at any point...) Then she got offended and I didn't understand why until years later.
When I was 14, I told one of my friends about a creepypasta I had read completely without warning (and I had never talked about any remotely gory media with this friend so I had no reason to assume that she would be interested in that stuff). I literally just said "I read a story where a girl murders and eats her friend" like it was a normal thing to say and, understandably, she said nothing. I was so stupid. Talking about creepy stuff like that just because I was obsessed with that story... I wish I could have un-creeped her out somehow but I couldn't think of anything.
I hate how expensive video games are now. It's $60 for the game (regardless of if you buy the disc or the digital copy) and then even if you buy the disc, you still have to spend an eternity downloading the game. And then you have to pay more money to be able to play online, and most games now are pointless if you can't play online. And if you want all of the maps, characters, or more options/items, you can't unlock them. You have to pay MORE fucking money. Why is it so expensive just to play one game? This is why I never spent $200+ on a system. It's almost as much for the games once you factor everything in. It's just not worth it financially. You end up spending thousands on any kind of decent collection of playable games with complete stories/full maps/a full cast of characters. It's just so much bullshit. I miss just being able to unlock cool shit by actually playing the game. And don't even get me started on all these pointless "achievements" they have. This is why I stuck with Nintendo, and now even they are going to this garbage. I'm just sick of it. I just want to play video games and not have to break the bank to do it.
I once posted a confession on here about how my dad raped me from ages 14 to 18. Some of you might remember it, I think. I basically wrote that he started by "accidentally" touching me and grabbing me down there when my mum was out running errands, and when I confronted him about it, he got angry and beat me up. Then the next day he came to my room and just raped me as I screamed and cried from the pain. I couldn't do anything about it because since we had immigrated from England to America, my mum didn't have the right to work yet, so my dad said that if I told anyone about the stuff he was doing to me, he would divorce my mom and leave us to rot. So I was left with no choice but to let him do what he wanted until I was able to move out and live on my own. Well, a few days ago, I was chatting with a stranger online and I ended up telling her about the stuff my dad did to me, and she told me that she thought it was hot. I asked her how she could possibly say that, and she told me she has a “rape” kink and a "daddy x son" kink. (Yes, I am in fact a boy, not a girl. Yes, boys can be raped.) It was hard to breathe as I read her words. I told her that no, what happened to me was not "hot." It was not a "daddy x son" fantasy. It was rape. Real rape. Not whatever bullshit she pictured rape meant when she said she has a “rape kink.” I didn't want it. I told her that my dad doing that to me made me want to kill myself, it made me feel like everything was wrong and nothing was okay. I told her about all the blood that was on my bed the first time my dad did that to me, and how I couldn't move because every part of my body ached. And about the times I puked on myself, and how he kept going, even with the puke. I told her about how when it was over, I would just sit in my room with my knees to my chest, shaking and staring at the ceiling for hours, trying not to lose my mind. And about how I almost completely stopped eating, because it reminded me of the times my dad held my jaw open and forced himself into my mouth. She said that sounded disgusting. Yeah, it is. It’s fucking disgusting. Rape is absolutely fucking disgusting. I couldn’t stop talking about it now that I had started. It was like I had opened a door in my mind and I wouldn’t be able to close it again until everything came out. I wanted her to know what it was truly like. I told her about how my mum became an alcoholic and was too drunk to realize anything was wrong, and about how I didn’t even care if my dad divorced her and left us to rot anymore like he said he would if I told anyone about the stuff he did to me. But I still couldn’t speak up because I was so fucking scared and ashamed. I was scared of what would happen to me if I spoke up and no one believed me. I was scared of people thinking it was consensual. I was so scared. Of everything and anything. I told her about the nightmares. How I would wake up feeling like my stomach was tied in a knot, and how I felt like my skin wasn’t and would never be mine again. I told her about the times I just gave up and let it happen, because it was going to happen whether I wanted it or not, and the less I struggled the less painful it was, and how my dad took that as a sign that I was enjoying it. And how he mistook my cries of pain for moans of pleasure, and how he encouraged me to let out my voice even more because it aroused him. I told her about all the times I came close to ending it all with a sip of bleach or a bullet to my head, but I didn’t because I was too scared to die. I told her about the first time I saw my dad since I moved out of the house. It had been three years. I was there for Thanksgiving. As soon as I saw him I just lost control and started to beat the shit out of him. No warning, no fucking hello how are you, no nothing. I just decked him. He was on the ground with blood surging from his nose but I punched him again and again so hard my fingers broke and I didn’t stop until my cousins pushed me off of him. Then I left. That was the only reason I had even showed up. Forget Thanksgiving. I just wanted to beat the bastard up. I told her about how I can't have sex with the girl I love or even bring myself to undress in front of her because I get flashbacks and begin to panic, sometimes breaking down crying. And about how I still won't allow anyone to touch me, even to shake hands when I'm meeting someone for the first time. She ended the chat because I was making her uncomfortable. Too fucking bad. That’s reality. That’s what I went through. That’s what rape is actually like. Fuck your kinks and fantasies to hell. If she experienced even a second of what real rape is like, she would never open her mouth again. I can guarantee that. It wasn't hot. It wasn't sex. It wasn't something to fucking lust over. It was a crime. It was pure evil. It was the worst thing anyone has ever done to me. It ruined me. I will never be able to forget it. And I didn’t fucking deserve it. I didn’t. None of it. Not even for a second. Not even when I misbehaved. Not even when I was rude. Not even when I told lies. Never. That shouldn’t have happened to me. Or anyone else who's been raped. It. Destroyed. And. Tainted. Every. Fucking. Part. Of. Me.
I’m white. When I was seven, I got adopted by a black woman. The thought of her skin color never crossed my mind for even a second. And I don’t think my skin color crossed her mind, either. I was just happy to have a mother and to get out of foster care, and she was happy to have a kid. It was good. Everything was going so well. But then after a couple of days, her boyfriend came over to meet me for the first time. He was full black, darker than my mom. (I actually don’t call her ‘mom.’ I call her by her first name but for now I’ll call her, my mom and her boyfriend, my dad). My dad took one look at me and the first thing I ever heard him say was “Oh, he’s not black?” to my mom. So my dad looked back at me and said hello and started talking to me about stuff. You know, the basics. He told me about himself and about how he was just so excited to meet me, but I could tell he was faking it. He seemed so uncomfortable and like he wanted to stop talking to me. After all that he looked at my mom and said “Can we talk?” so he and my mom went to a different room in the house and started arguing. After several minutes my dad came out of the room and told me he had somewhere to be, and left. Then my mom came out of the room with glossy eyes like she was trying not to cry. Is it because I don’t look the same as him and you? I wanted to ask her. But I didn’t ask. My ‘dad’ visited me just four more times after that. Each time was the same; he looked uncomfortable and it made me feel weird, like he just couldn’t stand being with me. Then after the fourth time, he broke up with my mom. When I asked my mom why he broke up with her, she didn’t sugar coat it. She just said it. She told me that it was because he and his family were old fashioned and wouldn’t have liked him to have a kid who was a different race as him. In my brain, that translated to, “It’s your fault for being a different race, if you were darker like them this wouldn’t have happened.” My mom then fell into a state of depression, and I grew to hate myself because of my skin color. Everyday she would cry, and seeing her cry made me feel guilty. I would look at her and her face dripping with tears and I would think, I did that, she’s like that because of me; her boyfriend left her because of me and that’s why she’s so sad. Eventually she stopped being depressed and stopped crying everyday, but whenever we got in fights or arguments, she would say, “I wish I’d never adopted you!” or something along the lines of her regretting adopting me, or that she wished she had adopted a black kid instead of me, and that it was my fault her boyfriend left her, and that I ruined her life. She never said those things when she wasn’t angry, but the fact that she even said them at all means she believed them. Doesn’t it? I guess she never really got over it, because she started being violent towards me. I wouldn’t call it abuse, but she would slap me across the face and then she'd tell me to look at her. And when I looked at her, she slapped me again in the same place, twice as hard. She also whipped me with straps and stuff and sometimes she would put her whole hand on my face and just shove me against the wall. When she got REALLY angry she would just smack me with an open hand over and over again, if I tried to run away or brought my hands up to protect my face, she would hit me even harder. Stuff like that. Oh, and best of all? She didn’t introduce me to her friends or family ever. Not even once. She actually went out of her way to make sure that didn’t happen, because she was just so embarrassed to have a kid who was white instead of black. Which made me fucking hate myself even more than I already did. So needless to say, my life was pretty fucking bad because of my skin color. I have grown to distrust every black person I meet until I get to know them and make sure they’re not racist like my ‘mom’ and ‘dad.’ Oh, and another thing: when I hear people telling me that I have “white privilege” and that my life is automatically so much better than a black person’s because I’m white, or that black people can’t be racist, I want to kindly put my hands around their throats and squeeze as hard as I can. My childhood was SHIT because I was white, and there are so many fucking imbeciles out there that have the nerve to declare that I have it easier than others as if it were a fact. Shut the fuck up. This race garbage needs to stop. Now. Stop assuming you know the circumstances of all white people because they’re white. Do you know how many other white kids have gone through something similar to what I did? Especially now, with all the anti-white propaganda on social media? I swear to god, I will punch the next person who tries to tell me I have some sort of privilege for being white. Fuck everyone and anyone who thinks like that. You all make me want to puke.
I used to have this imaginary friend when I was a kid. His name was Ray. But he wasn’t a human. He was more like a ghost or a demon or something, all tall and shadowy and see through and black all over. The first time I saw him he scared me but he told me that he was my friend. After that, he just started appearing at random times. Mostly when I was by myself. He had this weird obsession with the piano that was in our living room. Every time he was near it he would examine it closely and then say something like “what a stupendous make of a piano” and I’d shrug and say “big deal.” He hated when I said stuff like that. He always said he was my friend but I wonder if that was true because he always made me feel bad about myself. He would always say things about how we think we're so important, so great, when really we’re nothing. He always said that his people were better and smarter because everyone knew over six thousand languages while we only knew one or two, and how his people never died and that everyone he knew was over nine thousand years old while we humans only lived to be eighty. Stuff like that. Sometimes I would be alone in my room just drawing or whatever and then I’d turn around because I felt something and Ray would just be standing in the corner of my room watching me. I'd say hello and sometimes he would say hello back, other times he would ignore me and just look around at the stuff in my room. It always made me feel kind of nervous. But I never told anyone because I knew he wasn't real and I didn’t want people to think I was crazy. When I turned 13 he stopped showing up. I never saw him again. But I still feel his “presence” sometimes. I don’t know how to describe it. It’s like I know he’s there watching me but I don’t see or hear him anymore. I feel it right now, too. Like he's watching me write this. He doesn't want me to post this, I can feel it. But I'm going to do it. I often wonder if he really was just an imaginary friend I made up or if he was an actual demon. Part of me wants to believe he was real. And honestly, even if he was made up I kind of miss him and wish I could see him again. Is that weird?
My mom had me at 16, my sister at 17, my brother at 19, and my youngest sister at 22. She is 28 now. Our father left us when I was five so for the past 7 years my mom has been raising me and my siblings with no trouble at all, being a stay at home mom and having two jobs to support us. She is an amazing woman and I'm not ashamed to have a 'teen mom'.