I'm still praying for that house in Nebraska

I keep thinking about that Ethel Cain idea

“God loves you, but not enough to save you.”

Like in Sun Bleached Files and Strangers, all those songs where Ethel is seconds away from being robbed of her entire future.

And somehow it always loops back to this feeling I've had since I was like 11

this sense that horrible things can happen to girls at any moment and no one, not parents, not god, not society, will actually step in.

I grew up watching R‑rated movies on my dad’s computer, alone, way too young. Some were silly. Some were genuinely horrific. And at the same time I had this unprotected access to the internet creepypastas, Russian lost media, grotesque images people sent me just because I was young enough to prey on. I opened one once, and it stayed in me like a stain.

So many involved very heavy stories about young girls.

So I learned very early:

bad things happen, especially to girls, and protection is mostly a myth.

And when I hit puberty, it felt like being shoved into a spotlight. I didn’t want a body. I didn’t want breasts or curves.

I didn’t want that moment when adults stop seeing you as a child and start seeing you as something… available. Visible. Vulnerable.

I always wanted to stay a child, because growing up felt like walking into danger without armor.

My friend reads these tragic yaoi stories about doomed couples.

Every couple is suffering, traumatized, doomed. I once asked her why she’d willingly read something so heavy, when comics are supposed to be light.

She told me something that stayed with me:

“Because even in the worst misery, they get little moments of happiness. Not endings, moments. And I like knowing those moments are possible.”

And I realized I do something similar, just in a different direction.

I watch true crime, Eastern European tragedies, cases about girls who never made it back home. The details change, the pattern doesn’t. Girls, young girls, robbed of life.

It's not fascination. It's mapping the danger.

It’s like if I understand the darkness, I won’t be caught off guard.

If I can predict the worst, maybe it won’t swallow me whole.

And then there’s God.

I wasn’t raised religious, my dad is agnostic. But school, culture, everything around me kept saying: God protects, God loves, God watches over His children. God saves the pure and the good

But girls my age were dying. Women were being hurt. Children were suffering.

And the sky never cracked open, no miracle, no invisible shield.

And I remember thinking:

If God is capable of everything, why does He do nothing?

Is heaven supposed to be the prize? Am I supposed to die so I can “earn” it?

Why would He want me more dead than alive?

Why is life a test if I actually like life?

I want to stay here. I want to live with my friends, my family, in this world.

Why is this world treated like something disposable — just a waiting room for heaven?

That question never left me.

And that’s exactly why Ethel Cain hits so hard.

Because she writes about a God who watches, maybe loves, but never intervenes.

A God who says, “I love you,” while letting the wolves wander freely.

There’s a reason doomed stories feel honest.

It's not because we’re morbid or broken.

It’s because we were never allowed to believe in a world where good things just happen safely.

Doomed stories tell the truth we grew up sensing:

danger is real, protection is fragile and endings aren’t guaranteed.

sometimes, survival itself is the miracle.

And yet inside that doom, there are those tiny, fragile, warm moments, a hand held, a confession whispered, a breath of happiness before everything caves in.

Those small moments mean more than any shiny, fake “happy ending.”

He never asked to exist — that’s the first thing you have to understand.

In Frankenstein 2025, when you look through the Creature’s eyes, the whole story shifts. There is no “monster.” There is only someone who woke up into a world where the first thing he saw was fear. Before he had a name. Before he had language. Before he even understood what it meant to be alive.

That stays with him — the first lesson of his existence is:

“You are wrong just for being here.”

The Creature is like a child who inherits the emotional damage of his parent before he ever gets a chance to be his own person.

This isn’t unique to Frankenstein — you see it everywhere:

In Neon Genesis Evangelion, where Shinji never asked to be born into his father’s grief.

In Frankenstein (1931) and Bride of Frankenstein, where the Monster’s loneliness is the real horror.

In Frankenstein (Mary Shelley’s novel), where the Creature starts innocent and becomes violent only after abandonment.

Children reflect their creators — even when the creator tries to run.

Victor teaches the Creature everything without ever speaking to him.

He teaches him fear, by fearing him.

He teaches him shame, by hiding him.

He teaches him rage, by abandoning him.

This is the same tragedy you see in myths where the god creates something they cannot control:

Prometheus, punished for giving humans fire.

Pandora, created to bring consequences into the world.

Lucifer, cast out not for evil, but for being too close to godliness.

And yes, Adam, who was created innocent but blamed for the knowledge that God allowed to exist in the first place.

But here in Frankenstein, there is no divine plan.

Just a man who wanted to make life, but never thought about what it means to love what you create.

This is why the Creature is doomed.

Not because he is immortal.

Not because he is powerful.

But because he remembers.

He remembers his first moment.

He remembers being rejected before he even understood what rejection was.

That’s the part everyone understands, even if they don’t say it out loud:

The first wound a parent gives a child is the wound the child carries forever.

When you are unloved at the beginning, everything that follows is shaped by that.

When Victor finally calls the Creature “my son”, it’s the first true thing he’s ever said.

Because this is the truth:

A creator cannot erase what they have made.

A parent cannot undo the mark they leave.

A god cannot outrun their creation.

The Creature forgives — not because he forgets — but because he understands the curse:

"I am what you made me, and you are what made me."

That bond is eternal.

That wound is shared.

That is the tragedy.

Not the violence.

Not the horror. Not the death.

But the love that came too late.

If humans made God, perhaps it wasn’t out of arrogance — but terror. The terror of being alone in the chaos, of realizing that no one was coming to guide them home. To invent God was to surrender responsibility for the direction of the world — to say “there’s a path already laid, someone else drew the map.”

Feuerbach argued in The Essence of Christianity (1841) that humanity projected its highest ideals outward and called them divine — that “God is nothing else than man: he is the outward projection of man’s inward nature.” Yet this projection also serves a darker purpose. Nietzsche, in The Genealogy of Morals, says that when humans could not act out their instincts — their cruelty, their hunger, their rage — they turned them inward and created guilt. To escape that guilt, they externalized it: the Devil was born. Evil became a thing outside them, a shadow they could fear rather than a mirror they had to face.

The invention of evil might then be seen as a psychological defense — a story that allowed us to remain “good” while acknowledging that destruction, envy, and chaos existed. It wasn’t us; it was him. Milton’s Paradise Lost captures this tension perfectly: Satan isn’t just the fallen angel — he’s the part of humanity that dares to question authority, to crave freedom and knowledge, and to be punished for it.

And the angels — maybe they were born of the same need. If the Devil carries the burden of our guilt, angels carry our longing for redemption. They are the soft antidote to our fear of damnation. They exist because humans could not bear the thought that no one would come to save them. As Simone Weil said, “Grace fills empty spaces, but it can only enter where there is a void to receive it.”

So perhaps the origin of good and evil, of heaven and hell, isn’t divine at all — it’s human architecture built from fear and longing. God was a map, the Devil was a scapegoat, and the angels were hope we couldn’t let go of.

something i never understood about the ahs fandom: when i was like 14 on tumblr… everyone was out here romanticizing tate and violet. i was expecting this super grungy epic love story and then i watched it and my brain just went ???

like… this man literally:

ra*ped violet's smom (aka fathered her half-brother)

is a whole mass mu*rderer

gaslight violet into “loving” him

and y’all were out here putting them on your blogs with lana del rey lyrics over black-and-white gifs??? this relationship is so toxic omg.

and don’t even get me started on how no one took kit walker seriously in season 2. my boy was literally so cute and soft, just trying to hustle between his two wives and have a quiet life 😭 the way tumblr ignored him because he wasn’t a sad emo boy with a hoodie… unforgivable.

justice for kit walker forever.

There’s a theory in psychology called Object Relations, which says that a child’s psyche is shaped based on their early experiences with their parents. Later on, the child’s expectations from the outside world are also influenced by these early relationships with mom and dad.

For example, if a child’s parents suddenly shower them with affection and then abruptly withdraw it, that child will grow up expecting that anyone who loves them will eventually leave them.

This theory was later expanded to cover other areas too. It turned out that it’s not just limited to parents. There’s a general internalization process in all humans where their first experiences of a certain kind of relationship become embedded in their psyche. In a way, this forms part of that person’s “self.”

It’s tied to the whole concept of being haunted — like in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, The Haunting of Bly Manor, or books like Beloved. We don’t analyze new people who enter our lives purely for who they are. We always go back to our past experiences — our heartbreaks, sorrows, and patterns — and then decide how we want to deal with people and relationships.

In a way, our relationships are haunted by many people from our past. And this isn’t just some superficial pop-psychology theory. We truly can’t erase our past experiences, whether good or bad, from who we are. In the end, those experiences become part of us and affect how we relate to others. And that, in itself, can feel even scarier than being haunted by ghosts.

When we think about leaving childhood behind, we usually place ourselves as the one saying goodbye — to soft memories, safe spaces, and a time of innocence. We feel nostalgic. We long for it.

But what if it wasn’t just a one-sided goodbye?

What if childhood, too, had a heart — and missed us in return?

This tender, haunting idea is brought to life beautifully in Pixar’s Toy Story films — a world where toys are more than just objects. They are alive, loyal, feeling beings. But even more than that, they are living symbols of the moments, memories, and parts of ourselves we’ve left behind.

In Toy Story 3, Andy is all grown up and about to leave for college. His toys — Woody, Buzz, Jessie, and the rest — have spent years tucked away in a chest, forgotten. But when he opens that box, he pauses. He holds them gently, like he’s cradling a part of himself he didn’t realize he still missed.

The scene hits hard, because we realize:

Our childhood doesn’t just vanish — it waits. It stays. It still loves us.

The toys in Toy Story aren’t just characters. They’re representations of the inner child — the imaginative, loyal, hopeful part of us that never truly disappears. Woody, for example, stands for comfort, safety, and constancy. Buzz is the dreamer in us, the part that reached for the stars.

When we grow up, those voices fade. But Toy Story suggests: They’re never completely gone.

And so Woody, over and over again throughout the films, asks one painful question:

"What’s my purpose if no one plays with me anymore?"

It’s the same question our memories ask us:

"If you let go of me, do I still mean anything to you?"

We often think growing up is about us moving on. But what if the past has its own grief too?

What if the childhood we left behind still waits by the window, wondering if we’ll come back?

This way of thinking transforms nostalgia from a passive ache into something reciprocal. It’s not just that we remember our childhood — our childhood remembers us too.

When Andy gives his toys to Bonnie, it’s one of the most emotionally resonant scenes in animation. He says each of their names with love. When it’s time to give Woody away, he hesitates — and then finally lets go.

But this moment isn’t just a farewell.

It’s a resurrection. A passing of the flame.

Andy realizes that locking his toys in a box won’t preserve his childhood. He has to let them live again.

That’s the only way that part of him can continue.

The truth is, we never really leave childhood behind.

The toys, the laughter, the imaginary worlds — they’re still alive somewhere within us. Even if we can’t hear them anymore, they might still be whispering.

And maybe, if you glance out the window of your life one day,

you’ll see your childhood waving back at you — still waiting, still loving.

There is a haunting clarity in Laura Gilpin’s poem The Two-Headed Calf — the quiet, devastating realization that something beautiful and alive is already doomed. It is not the death that shocks us, but the tenderness of the moment before it: the calf, lying in the field under the moonlight, unaware of what tomorrow will take. In just a few lines, Gilpin captures the fragility of life, and the profound, aching gift of being alive just before the world turns.

When I was eleven, I had my own two-headed calf moment.

It came not in a field, but in a classroom, when the topic of puberty was introduced. The adults spoke clinically, with diagrams and terms — “hormones,” “change,” “growing up.” But beneath their words, I heard something else: that everything I knew was about to vanish. That I would no longer be a little girl. That my parents would grow older, that my friendships would scatter, that my childhood home — the world as I knew it — would begin to dissolve.

I remember crying in my father’s arms that night for almost half an hour. It wasn’t a tantrum. It was mourning — mourning something that hadn’t even left yet, but I already knew would. I couldn’t grasp how people carried on so normally, knowing that the things they loved were temporary. That they would wake up one day and everything would be different, and there’d be no going back.

My father didn’t lie to me. He didn’t offer comfort in the form of denial. Instead, he told me the truth: that time can’t be stopped, that I would turn thirteen, sixteen, twenty-five. That life would bend and break and push in ways I couldn’t yet imagine. But then he said something else, something that has stayed with me like a thread in my chest:

"Right now, you are still eleven. This moment is still yours."

That moment of stillness — the recognition of now — is where my experience and Gilpin’s poem intertwine. The two-headed calf does not know it is a “freak,” does not know it will be found, studied, and pitied. All it knows is the wind in the grass, the moon rising over the orchard, and the strange magic of seeing twice as many stars. Its tragedy is real — but so is its wonder. And the wonder does not cancel the sadness. Nor does the sadness erase the beauty.

To be eleven and realize the world will end — not through fire or disaster, but slowly, through ordinary growing — is a kind of awakening most people experience in private, and too early. It is the moment when you stop simply being, and begin to understand loss. And yet, that night, in my father’s arms, I was still held in the warmth of the present. I had not yet become what I feared. I was still the girl who looked at people’s eyes and sensed their sadness before they even spoke.

Like the calf, I had one perfect night before the museum — before the forgetting, the aging, the changing. That night was mine. It didn’t save me from growing up. But it taught me how to hold time gently before it slips away.

One of the cute little things I’ve always noticed is how, in Celtic and Arthurian mythology, deer symbolize transition and transformation into another world.

And I keep thinking about this idea—what if deer experience a kind of apotheosis right before getting hit by a car?

Because it’s such a recurring motif in media: right before something horrific happens, a car hits a deer.

It always reads like an omen—a sign that everything’s about to fall apart for the character.

The moment feels like an impossible movement: the deer sees the light, but then it’s as if it can’t move.

Biological reasons aside, what matters is how we interpret it as the audience.

Usually the character sees the signs too, but they’re somehow powerless to stop what’s coming.

And I’ve always had this personal theory in the back of my mind:

What if it’s not about shock or paralysis?

What if the deer is a Christ-like figure, embracing death as a form of ascension?

Because light is also a metaphor for God.

even the iron still fears the rot

˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ Kit Walker the things I'd for u ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖

How to make vampire girls:

It all starts in the swollen throats, choked with memories they never tell to any ghost. Mom doesn’t brush their hair anymore. Dad doesn’t tell stories.

They turn eleven and pretend that they don’t see the signs.

But they can't ignore that long.

Too curious for their own good.

Once they find out their loved one's secrets, they'll be bound to be the last ones standing on Earth.

And just like that the places that used to feel like home are now just big crawl spaces.

They'll tell another lie, and they'll buy themselves five more minutes of feeling.

Their friends disappear mysteriously one by one.

And one night, at fourteen, they wake up from chewing on their own wrists.

They all say they’ve changed. but isn't that what they say about all teenagers?

They stay up at night, freezing to their core—but it’s not the open windows.

It’s something inside that’s gone terribly rotten. And there’s no use in digesting it.

Mom says "it’s the food".

But one time they get so mad at their best friend they forget that they're not allowed to bite to her.

So they next time they see her face it's on the missing papers all over the walls of the town.

There’s this hunger that never ends, not even when they stop eating.

Mom says their legs are getting fat…

But what does she know about calories gained from the blood of the loved ones?

Maybe she hears the whispers that they're chanting while they're asleep

“You never should have given birth to someone you don't know their cravings"

So many cuts. So many scars.

And they’re still not even eighteen.

A long road trip, and they don’t even know how or when they have turned to this thing.