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Books. Bands. Pizza.

@booksbandspizza / booksbandspizza.tumblr.com

// My name is Beatris and this blog contains all of the inner workings of my hyperactive brain. Enjoy your stay//
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This is worse. Looking at these you can tell they have no significant monetary value. They were confiscated as a fear tactic. Nothing more.

arithanas

This picture breaks my heart everytime it appears in my dash. It’s a fear tactic, alright but—

The first one in the left corner: It’s a first communion rosary, and it’s not cheap.

The black one in the first line: That’s a widow rosary and it’s old.

The white one in the second line:  is a commemoration rosary. It has a miniature picture in the round part. I haven’t seen that since the 70′s.

In the third line, multicolor one: It’s an Anima mundi, I have only seen those in the hands of Rosary ministery’s old ladies. The oldest ones are from the 80′s after Juan Pablo II came to Mexico for the first time. It’s one of the old ones, I know because the crucifixes are different.  The third one on the fourth line: Red and gold. The style is old, the metal is dark, that’s a 50′s rosary, probably a quinceañera one (or it’s maybe older, from the 40′s when the brides carried red roses with their offerings).

The fifth one on the fourth line: It’s a quinceañera rosary with Ignatius’s tear. The style is old and in my part of Mexico is orphan girls who used it. At least it was when I was young. The third one of the fifth line: the blue one with the anchor. That one I have only seen in Veracruz and it doesn’t look new. The fifth one on the fifth line: That’s a 90′s wedding rosary. Black and white patterns were popular on that date. The fourth one on the last line: That’s a first communion rosary from the 30′s. It’s delicate and most probably silver. The rest wrench my heart too, the humble everyday rosaries with wooden beads and knots. Those are cheap and bear the wear and tear of their user handling. But those  I described are much more.

Those are mother’s rosaries.

Those are not just rosaries. Those are mementos, that’s the proof of their families stories. They are taking from them the only portable things they can carry to feel the connection to their families. It’s not a fear tactic. Call it like by its name. It’s dehumanization.

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after dying god informs you that hell is a myth, and “everyone sins, its ok”. instead the dead are sorted into six “houses of heaven” based on the sins they chose.

We arrived first at the House of Lust. “House” is a misleading term. It was more of a camp, spread over acres and acres of lush forest. There was a white sandy beach (nude, of course) full of copulating couples. There were little cabins sprinkled all along the path, from which orgasmic moans regularly came belting out. Men with six pack abs and women with perky breasts strolled by without even noticing me and God. They only had eyes for each other, tickling and pinching each other with flirtatious giggles.

“What do you think?” God asked as we passed a nineteen-way taking place in a pool of champagne. Little cherubs flitted overhead armed with mops and cleaning supplies, thankfully. “Lust is our most popular sin.” I eyed the supermodel-like figures of a couple passing nearby, and could easily see why. “You can look however you want. Hell, you can be whatever gender you want. No fetish is too taboo, and no desire can be denied here.”

It was quite tempting, but I wasn’t ready to make a permanent decision here. “Let’s see the others,” I told God.

We carried on to Greed. We passed rows and rows of mansions, each more opulent than the next. Some of them were so large that they would have had enough bed rooms to fit my entire hometown. And so many different styles: one second, we were in a beautiful French vineyard in front of a gorgeous chateau with the Alps in the background. The next second, a warm tropical beach with a modern mansion atop breathtaking cliffs. After that, a ski chalet in Colorado with a roaring fire in a hearth large enough to fit an ox. Each one had various Italian sports cars and Rolls Royces parked in front, with the occasional smattering of boats, helicopters, etc.

“Any material desire you ever wanted,” God explained. “Your own world, where you can have everything. You want the Hope Diamond? You can fly to Washington DC in your own solid gold helicopter and buy it from the Smithsonian. Hell, you can just buy the Smithsonian.”

Also tempting, but I decided to keep looking.

Gluttony was next up. Tables and tables of the very finest foods: beautiful steaks cooked medium rare; butter-poached lobster tail; fresh oysters on a half shell; exotic wines in dusty bottles that had been hiding in the cellars of the world’s finest restaurants. Everyone had a glass of champagne in hand and simply lounged on couches and chairs near the tables, eating endlessly. As soon as the inhabitants took a bite, the food just instantly came back. My mouth watered even watching them.

“In every other House, the food is practically sawdust compared to Gluttony,” God explained. “You haven’t truly experienced heaven until you’ve been to Gluttony.”

I shook my head, and we kept moving.

Sloth was as you’d expect. An endless sea of the softest mattresses, stacked with cushions and pillows that made the story of the princess and the pea seem minimalist. Little angels visited each resident, giving them massages that made them all melt into their blankets.

Wrath was… well, a lot like what I’d expect Hell to be like. Fire, brimstone, whips, torture.. you know, the works. Except here, you weren’t the one being tortured. Every enemy you’d ever made in your real life was now under your thumb. “Lots of people choose their fathers,” God explained. “Lots of grudges against parents in general, you know. But you’re not limited to that. Someone beat you out for a big promotion back on Earth? Take your pound of flesh here.”

Then we arrived at Envy. It looked… well, a lot like home.

“Go on in,” God said, gesturing toward the door. I turned the knob and walked in… and found Emily waiting inside. She ran forward, wrapped her arms around my neck, and planted a kiss right on my lips. “Welcome home, honey.”

I looked back toward God. “Oh, don’t be coy,” he said. “You have no secrets from me. We all know that you were in love with your best friend’s wife.” She didn’t seem to hear him at all; she went back into the hall. “We all know that you just settled for your own wife while secretly pining after her. Well, this is your chance to live happily ever after.”

I peered into the kitchen. Emily was baking something, wearing nothing but an apron. Her curly black hair fell softly over her shoulder as she whisked ingredients. She turned back, noticed I was observing her, and an enthusiastic smile spread across her face.

“It’s what you’ve always wanted, isn’t it?” God whispered in my ear.

I wanted to take it. God damn did I want to take it. But I shook my head.

God seemed puzzled. “You need to make a decision,” he told me.

“I haven’t seen Pride yet.”

He scoffed. “No one ever wants Pride, trust me.”

“Well, I want to see it.”

_________________________

Pride was boring. Just a row of workbenches in a bare white room.

“I don’t get it,” I told God.

“Yeah, no one does,” he answered. “That’s why no one ever chooses it. Doesn’t cavorting in Lust sound better than sitting here building little trinkets for the rest of eternity? Wouldn’t you rather gorge yourself in Gluttony? Or spend time with Emily in Envy?”

I considered the options again. “I pick Pride,” I finally told him.

He narrowed his eyes. “What? Look at it!” He gestured around the room again. There wasn’t much to look at. “Why would you choose this for the rest of time?”

“Because you don’t want me to pick it,” I told him. If he was really God, he’d know what a contrarian I can be. And I knew he was hiding something, trying to pretend like Pride didn’t exist. There was something special about it.

God scowled back. “Fine.” He led me over to one of the workbenches. In the center, there was a black space. A blank, empty void that went on forever. “Here’s your universe,” he said. “You’ve got seven days to get started.” He took his seat at the bench next to me and went back to tinkering in his own world. After a long pause, he finally spoke again: “You know, it might be nice for me to actually have some company for once.”

FUCKING I MEAN.

IT’S LIKE 7AM AND I LOVE GONNA REBLOG SO I CAN READ THIS SHIT AGAIN

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dcmultiverse

People like to tell me things, those deep, dark, naughty little desires that are on their mind. It’s a gift. Must be something about this face.

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Hi brain if u could let me just have a nice day out with the guy I'm into without letting my heart and my feelings get in the way of persuing a great friendship that'd be great thanks

pls

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Rituals for the Squirrel-Brained

Listen, there are some people, myself included, that have certain rituals in life. Not like, sacrificing virgins rituals but activities or behaviors we engage in that needs to be exactly a certain way. For me, one of those rituals is having the house to myself very late at night, pulling insomnia-induced all-nighters where I actually get things DONE and be productive. I plug in earphones and just fall into this never-ending rhythm of work and music. In these moments my spiCY anxiety kicks in and I need everything to be exact, precise. But most importantly, I have to be alone. Once a person comes in at a time when they aren’t supposed, like say 4AM when I’m still WAY into it, the rhythm breaks and I start freaking out. as in FREAKING out. I get all panicky, and sometimes aggressive at the person who walked in and threw it off.

It’s so difficult. Because I become hysterical and I lash out at whoever interrupted that ritual. And like I don’t know how to explain it???? and I end up not being able to communicate the source of my stress. Or the rise in my tone of voice. And it just ends up that the person doesn’t understand what I’m trying to tell them and we just end up fighting, them being annoyed at my apparent drama and me being frustrated for WHY DON’T THEY UNDERSTAND?

And since the rhythm was broken I can’t seem to fall back into it after that. And the whole day after that is just ruined and thrown off somehow.

I do have a therapist and I haven’t told her any of this yet. Yet I don’t know??? how??? to?? overcome?? this?

And I don’t know how to make people who don’t experience this what it feels like to have it. It’s like a toned down version of John Green’s description in Turtles All the Way Down, a wormhole you fall into, a spiral that keeps spiraling forever.

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Updates for Beatris version 4.0

So I haven’t been on this site for almost 2 years, I guess life got real busy. So here’s a bulleted list of things that happened while not being here

  • Got into the university I wanted to get into and I’m 1 term away from finishing my 2nd year
  • Developed a sPICY relationship with a dude a really, really liked
  • It was very cute
  • Ya know Dan and Phil? We were like THAT
  • Very intimate very close, u know what I’m talking about
  • Got broken up with by said dude after 1 year and 5 months
  • Got my heart broken for the first time. It sucks as much as they say it does
  • Cried over said dude for like 6 months
  • Got really into drinking
  • I used to be so against it
  • Found out I have a really, really high alcohol tolerance despite being a 5ft girl. I don’t get drunk even after consuming copious amounts of alcohol
  • I got a therapist in Dec 2017
  • It’s true what John Green says about them
  • You can measure how crazy you are based on how long they want the intervals to be before they see you again
  • Currently it’s at once a month so that’s not too bad
  • Went to a raging party that was 1.1 centimeters away from turning into an orgy.
  • The couples getting publicly physical all had at least one item of clothing on
  • Finally developed a fashion sense
  • Cut my hair the shortest it has ever been since the pixie cut I got when I was 4
  • Had the best classroom entrance of my life when all my blockmates screamed and applauded when I walked into the first class of 2019 with that new haircut
  • Lost my beloved Grandma
  • Realized just how much 2018 sucked and is 10/10 confirmed one of the worst years of my life ever
  • But I’m alive
  • And I’m THRIVING
  • So that’s fine
  • I’m shedding my 2018 skin like a snake
  • BEGONE T H OT
  • hiss hiss motherfuckers
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Why my brain won’t let me pursue perfectly healthy friendships with people I'm into

Me: What movie should I see?
Crush: Idk what are you in the mood for?
Me internally: You ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
Also me internally: hOE shUT the FuCK up get it together wtf
What I actually end up saying: haha idk
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I haven’t been online since early 2017 so what’s up I’m still alive and haven’t died yet sadly lol

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Simple actions become funny when you add *aggressively* to it

*aggressively brushes teeth*

*aggressively eats cereals*

*aggressively pets dog*

*aggressively baby talks*

*aggressively stares at fried chicken*

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Online Ramblings: MUSIC

I’m the kind of person who never shuts up, especially when I’m talking about something I love.

When you’re talking to me, I can launch into these long, rambling speeches about anything and everything.

And yes, I am aware of how annoying I can be.

My brain is this constant output of words and if you’ve ever been on the receiving end of that output thinking, “Will she ever shut up?” then I am sorry.

However, I refuse to stop. The inner musings of my hyperactive brain shall not go unheard! But you know, instead of torturing my friends, I’ve decided to just write it down on here. In a series called ‘Online Ramblings’

This second Online Ramblings post is about Music

Enjoy!

- Tris

There’s a certain kind of music that touches a certain emotion in our souls. There’s the music that touches the part in us that yearns for peace and that gentle sort of quiet. The kind of music that makes us think of belonging. Of a place belonging to us, to us belonging to a place.

There’s the music that touches the part of us that thinks of things that is greater then what we have the capacity to understand. The music that makes us think of meaning. The music that makes us see the universe, colors, and stars. The kind of music that makes us see the world in depth.

There is the music that brings out the part of us that was born in the wilderness. The music that requires movement; the music that whispers to our bodies, telling it to move to its beat, its melody.  We simply have to move to this music, either with our entire selves or with the tapping of our feet.

There is the music that stirs our tears, it reminds us of feelings too rich, too real to understand. It reminds us of love and despair and hatred. Of beauty and hope and dreams.

Music that breaths warmth.

Music that breaths cold.

Music that makes us feel like we are more. Like matter and substance was added to us.

These kinds of music, we cannot see it, cannot touch it. But it makes it feel like it sees us and its invisible hands reach into our hearts, our souls and play the strings pulled taunt by emotion. The world throws us into a state of numbness and callousness. But music reminds us what it is like to be.

Those who do not know how to love music have no souls, no hearts. That or their hearts and souls are defective. For music is the closest thing we will ever get on this Earth to heaven.

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