Speechwriter

you know you’re a crackshipper when there are more posts on the Drapple tag you’re tracking than any other ship.

._.

<confession>

I would write Voldmione (because their personalities would still make so much glorious, intellectual friction), but honestly, half the fun in Tomione is finding new ways to keep Tom young and hot.

Read: I am a shallow-ass motherfucker.

:D

</confession>

Hahahaha just spent like three hours hanging out with the girl I like and am deliriously happy!

She is straight. And doesn’t know I’m bisexual.

OH THE HELL WELL *does a frenzied dance*

I love the spectrum of human emotions. There are those crushes where everything is wildness and misery and you wake up in the night being unnecessarily melancholic and feeling like oh shit, I’m a disgusting human being, why am I so desperate and pathetic WHY DON’T YOU LOVE ME. And then there are those crushes where the tiniest bit of proximity buzzes up through your ribs and lights you on fire and when you’re close enough to see the color of their eyes your palms get tingly with sweat and your feet itch and everything is physical. And then there are those crushes where just looking at their smile makes your heart twitch like its own animal and your emotions turn to butter and caramel, and where you are so happy they are alive and on this planet that you don’t even care if they return your feelings. You just want them to be happy. And if they’re nearby, safe and themselves and happy, you are happy too.

this is the third kind

and it is fun.

and nice.

((Some crushes are all three. Those are the ones that scar.))

whisperend:

(yeah, i completely ignored that they don’t wear school uniforms in HaND!)

endless list of my favorite fanfictions [with crappy graphics, in no particular order]

HAVE A NICE DAY! by speechwriter

length: 19 chapters + hopefully an epilogue; rating: m; genre: [awesome?]

fandom: harry potter; era: modern AU setting; characters: hermione granger & tom riddle

what it’s about: 

Tom Riddle: secret, brilliant heir to the biggest company in the world, VoldeMart. Hermione Granger: sent to his prestigious school on full scholarship because VoldeMart outsourced her parents’ jobs to China. Bridges burn. Sparks fly.

why? because this is as awesome as it gets. i know i write that about every fic i rec here, but for this one, it’s more true than for any other. there are more metaphors than you could ever count, and most of them make you laugh for hours (really! - look at the excerpt.) because they are so brilliant. characterizations are perfect, tom especially, and he is so difficult to get right in fanfics - i really have never found any other that depicts him so in-character - and that is really ironic because this is AU, because this is satire. but maybe the real tom riddle can only live like this.

excerpt:

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KSDFJHKSDJHFKSDJ YOU MADE A GRAPHIC FOR MY FIC!!!! WITH VOLDEMART IN IT!!!! I LOVE YOU.

analikestoparty:

So do any of my …. 23 followers wanna read my essay that’s worth 25% of my final grade and tell me why it sucks and how to fix it?

Cause my stinky roommate is being a poop and refuses to read it.

me! what’s it about and how long is it? I love editing :)

I forgot to post this! Should’ve done it ages ago, but I forgot.

So, I wrote this for a short fic swap with the coolest people ever:

uchiha.s, author of The Scientist and Bad Romance, and moor, author of Merits. Theirs are forthcoming, I will totally pimp them when they emerge. (A Dramione and Zutara, respectively!) :D

Might post this on FFnet as well. Dunno. It sort of turned out longer than I expected, so there’s that.

without further ado

————————————————-
Title: AVADA KEDAVRA ANONYMOUS

Universe: Blatantly AU

Genre: Humor

Pairing: Tomione

————————————————-

“Let’s have a little quiet, everyone,” Hermione said. “Everyone? Excuse me?”

Hopeless.

She drew herself up and bellowed, “LISTEN TO ME!”

Instant silence.

“…all right, thank you. I’m Hermione, your unfortunately-state-appointed mediator. Let’s get started.”

Every eye narrowed in hatred as bodies settled into their chairs. Hermione cleared her throat, moving behind the podium. “First, let’s establish a few rules. I’m sure you’ve discovered by now that we’re in a neutral chamber, meaning that all magic is disabled here - which includes the effects of transformative magic.” Which explained why no one had Dark Marks on their forearms. And why Bellatrix Lestrange had only one eyebrow. And why Lucius’s hair had a distinctly gray sheen. And why Lord Voldemort had gained sudden repossession of his long-lost nose, hair, human features, et cetera. Hermione supposed she had the single remaining horcrux to blame for his startlingly youthful appearance. He still hadn’t revealed where the blasted thing was hidden, even after years of detainment and interrogation.

“First rule: Don’t try your wands; they’re useless,” Hermione said. “Second: Respect the other members of the group and listen when they’re speaking. Third: Don’t be rude about my heritage.”

General cackling.

Hermione sighed. “All right, let’s go once around the circle, then. Say your first name and why you think you’re here, in a sentence or two. So … go ahead.” She gestured to the first seat.

A muscle flexed in the Dark Lord’s jaw. Hermione could see the reluctance swirling around in the pool of malice beneath the surface. “Fine,” he finally said. “I am Lord Voldemort, and I -“

“Your real name. Aliases are not permitted.”

“Doesn’t that defeat the purpose of the anonymous part of Avada Kedavra Anonymous, Mudblood?”

“That’s why we’re restricting it to first names only, as I explicitly stated. And since it clearly needs reiteration, my name is Hermione.”

A long second. Their eyes locked, battling. No one in the room missed Riddle’s pale fist tightening around the useless wand in his lap. “I am Tom,” he ground out, every word labored. “I am here for the sole reason that the alternative was community service.”

An awkward pause. Hermione cleared her throat. “Next person?”

“I’m Severus,” said the potions master, his lips tight and his eyes grim. “My presence is due to the fact that my true allegiance, apparently, has been poorly publicized to the idiots at the Ministry.”

“We still need to have words about the allegiance thing,” Riddle hissed.

“I don’t see why we’re introducing ourselves,” said Bellatrix Lestrange, rather more loudly than necessary. “We all know each other. And you know us, too, Mudblood.”

“Unfortunately, yes, I do, but an introductory period is required,” Hermione said. “And it’s Hermione. Next.”

“I am Lucius. I came because I considered it an impropriety to neglect my court-appointed duties.”

“And I’m Bellatrix.” Bella pouted. “I’m here because Lucy dragged me along.”

“Would you stop calling me that?” Lucius snapped, his proud features turning a shade of red Hermione had never seen in a Malfoy.

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kazuya014:

http://www.fanfiction.net/s/7756217/4/Panned by: uchiha.s

This fic is perfection.

I’ve never had a personal blog or a diary, so I’ve never really had an outlet. But I really gotta vent right now, so if you enjoy reading rants or are curious about my private life, read on. Because I’m a Luddite, I have no clue how to do that “Read More” thing, so I’m sorry, but this post is gonna be long as fuck.

Let’s start with basics: I detest myself. I’ve tried taking meds for the usual depression shit, but the pills don’t help. To be honest, I think I’m predestined to be eternally miserable, so I’d rather take joy in the simple things that give me temporary satisfaction than try to manufacture some sort of unnatural happiness, anyway.

Sometimes I like to think that for a soul to produce poetry, it needs a healthy dose of misery. But that’s probably just to ward off how dumb I feel when I recognize my own sadness, because most of the time I feel like I don’t deserve to be miserable.

Being a rational sort of human being, I’ve told myself, feelings are absolute, not relative. In other words, it doesn’t matter how sad other people are; their sadness does not detract from or invalidate my own. But it doesn’t matter. No matter how logically I try to come to terms with myself, nothing works.

I hate the notion that I need to “come to terms with myself”, too. Most adults appear to have grown out of their adolescent angst, but in my opinion, that’s only a facade. I think most people still hate themselves - they just pretend not to because the realization makes them uncomfortable. And after a while, they can make themselves believe they’re happy due to their constant focus on outside stimuli which overwhelm any desire for introspection. In my opinion, those who are born miserable can only become less miserable. And those who were born happy have it fucking goooood.

My logical brain says, “Hey, you’re a good sort of kid! Don’t hate yourself.” But the rest of me is all, “NOOOO.”

And I know why I hate myself, which makes it even harder. And no, it’s not a measure of chemicals in my mind. It’s not depression, it’s not anxiety. Even when I take medication for both of those to help out my poor undernourished neurotransmitters, I’m still miserable. It’s a different tone of miserable, sure, but it’s misery nonetheless.

Looking at this analytically, here are reasons for me not to participate in self-detestation:

Firstly, as a disclaimer, I’m physically attractive by societal standards: I’m 5’6”, my face is clear and balanced, I have a snazzy haircut, and I’m a size zero without eating disorders. I’m the valedictorian in a class of around four hundred kids. By the end of my high school career, I will have taken enough AP classes to enter college as a junior, if I wanted to go to a school that accepts AP credits. I got a 2250 on the SAT when I was a sophomore and a 35 on the ACT this year. I started a non-profit organization which I run and maintain; we’ve raised over $8,000 for various local and international charities. I have friends with whom I chill on the reg. I’ve played piano since I was three, and this year I’m maxing out the top difficulty category in the state music federation. I made the top ten in all-state chorus, and I run an a cappella group. I’ve written six novels, and thus far, I’ve garnered quite a bit of interest from literary agents in representation of the latest. I am nice to everyone I encounter, albeit a bit awkward. The occasional boy has even liked me, probably because I curse a lot and am generally considered to be funny. I have fun without harmful substances. I have fun without being mean to others or belittling anyone or hating anyone.

Holy shit! I say, when I look at this list. Why the fuck am I so miserable? I have no right to misery. I am not allowed to be miserable. So I don’t let myself go around in misery, because I know no matter how supportive everyone else may seem when I show them I’m sad, they’re secretly thinking, She doesn’t have it bad at all.

I don’t have low self-esteem. I have exactly as much esteem as is logical. But I fucking hate myself anyway.

I know if I were to kill myself, it would probably be a shame. People would be sad. (And I’m too much of a wimp to try anyway, because I’m scared shitless of pain, but that’s irrelevant.)

I feel like I owe the world an escape from itself. So I write. I think I can do good through it. Touching lives with words is so important to me - so, so important.

I am miserable, but I would love to bear the brunt of it for the rest of the world. I don’t think anyone deserves to be miserable or to hate someone - whether themselves or someone else. If anything I can do or say or write can alleviate any amount of misery or hatred, it’s worth my being here.

It’s interesting how often people use the phrase “good enough.” What is that supposed to mean? Is goodness, unlike sadness, relative? Or is there a certain threshold at which things get good?

To my mother, I have never been good enough.

Oh, fuck, groans the disappointed reader. This is a mommy issues post. Hell yes it is. To my mother, good enough is measured on an arbitrary scale, one on which I will never tip the balance. Every mistake I’ve made has been a fault of mine, never a coincidence or the result of someone else’s flaws. I am the antagonist in my own life, and it is because of her. She is the insidious voice in the back of my mind. What are you doing? Do you really think this is good enough? Do you really think this isn’t your fault?

I made Bs in classes last semester (which, by the way, I still have a chance to pull up to A’s, since they’re year-long grades). Her reactions: For a straight-A student, that’s a pretty poor job, she says. Have your standards disappeared? You’re going to have to motivate yourself next year, you know. You might be happy with these grades, but I’m not. Your priorities are completely out of order.

My priorities are my priorities for a reason, I say to her. The one thing I prioritize is the one thing that makes me happy.

Do you want me to make you an ultimatum? she snaps. If you don’t pull up your grades, you can’t write until graduation.

Oh fucking hell no.

Let me zoom in on that for you:

YOU CAN’T WRITE UNTIL GRADUATION.

Inwardly, I laugh. I will write on the fucking backs of receipts if I have to. I’ll use the shitty school computers in the three minutes between classes. I will graffiti my shit onto WALLS if that’s what I’ve got to do to tell the stories I need to to tell, to get the words out of my heart and into the world.

Grades are the only thing she cares about. It’s almost comical, how she’s so fucking serious about it. Like if I make a B, more children will die in the starving regions of the world. Jesus H. Christ.

She is why I am not good enough and she is why I am miserable. She’s major depressive, seriously out of whack, and hates me.

I don’t understand why society expects me to love her. We were thrown together out of sheer chance. I did not ask to be born to this woman and she did not ask to end up with the child that cares more about emotions than integrals and more about music than particle physics and more about the art of the written word than fucking anything else in the world. Why should I love her if she’s wrecked me, crippled me, ruined any sense of functionality I might once have had? What debt do I owe to that? Just because we share DNA, or because she shoved me out her vagina? Gee, thanks, Mom. Thanks for the half an hour it took to birth me, and no fucking thank you for the seventeen years following. I know some people would say, “How ungrateful. She raised you.” Fantastic. She raised me to hate myself. She cultured me in a carefully monitored environment specifically crafted for guilt and self-loathing. She wants me to have impossibly high standards so I can hate myself for her, so I can hate myself on her behalf.

I use “hate myself” interchangeably here with “push myself.” But I protest that in my case, they are one and the same. I would be happy to settle for less than I’ve given. Ungrateful? Thank you, father, for earning money to clothe me. Thank you, parental figures, for allowing me a claimed stake in your household. Thank you for feeding me and nourishing me because without that, I could not be higher up than Maslow’s first tier on the hierarchy of needs.

How’s that for gratefulness?

That’s the extent to which I can muster gratitude for my upbringing. I would apologize, but I’m not sorry for it. I have more perspective than anyone else on how I’ve been raised, and on the person I’ve come to be. Anyone offering me advice along the lines of be grateful or she’s your mother can suck my dick, because they don’t know jack shit. (And I don’t even have a dick, so whatever, they can suck my small intestine or something.)

Everyone says my mother wants what’s best for me. That is a filthy lie. I want what is best for me, and what’s best for me is my happiness, and that’s how it is for everyone. She does not want my happiness. As shown by the conversation above, she is willing to deny me all happiness in the pursuit of her standards - which, by the way, are impossible to reach. Seventeen years of perfect A grades in all my classes, and hardly a good job.

No. She does not want me happy. She wants me to reach the myth of good enough. I could be happy in a one-room flat, alone, with no college degree, as long as I could write. I would be happy working at fucking McDonald’s if I were allowed to write when I wanted. And hell, I know some people could not be happy like that. I understand that. I also understand that my mother is one of those people, because she is passionless.

And now she dangles my passion over my head with an ultimatum, as if it’s something she can simply outlaw.

My mother does not understand that she is not me. She wants so desperately to be me, to say she knows my priorities better than anyone, to say she knows what I need better than anyone. To say she knows what’s best, because she’s a sad and washed-up and piteous human being who fell along the wrong path in life and did not find what was best for her.

But she is not me.

I am me.

I am the one who knows what’s best for me.

Leave me alone.

Leave me alone, if you want to help me, and stop telling me I’m not good enough. I want so badly to believe I am good enough but I can’t with you breathing down the back of my neck you paranoid sick bastard.

Let me be myself and maybe someday I can fix the damage you’ve done. Maybe I can say, “I am myself,” and sort of get a feeling of happiness or pride. Maybe I can stitch up the wound and watch the scar fade to a fine line. Maybe I can forget the agony I incurred in the first place.

But I doubt it.

benkling:

A question that has plagued the mind of cavemen and conquistadors, plebes and presidents, kings and other kings.

The obvious answer is “baby don’t hurt me / don’t hurt me / no more.”

But let’s dig a little deeper.

First, let me confess, I’m not a romantic being. I don’t subscribe to superstitions. Or even magazines. I don’t subscribe to many things at all. Except Hulu+.

But I have felt cupid’s keen arrow pierce my butt, and thus can’t deny that love is a thing.

(Click to keep reading.)

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One slight edit:

“Lust is here to make us want to fuck. It’s serotonin and adrenaline. It’s sweaty palms and goosebumps. <insert>It’s people on the internet who post hilarious, often-psychological, sometimes-feminist essays on Tumblr alongside witty graphics that combine Valentine’s Day with puns about manifest destiny, inertia, and Soren Kierkegaard.</insert>  I wrote a song about it once. Lust’s job is to get the sperm to the egg. You know how it works.”

Wit is hotter than a sexy bod and a cute face. Just saying.

Though having both tends to help.

Totally wimped out on punnery for the chapter title.

But I hope you like it. Chapter 19: The End.

GAH THOUGH HaND MAY BE OVER I LOVE TOMIONE FANS FOREVER *tears up*

-speechy

(p.s. epilogue or no?)

my thoughts every day in AP physics: i should be writing fanfiction it is so much more applicable to real life