Explore the world, one post at a time
Tyler Durden - Blog Posts
My favourite Fine Ass Girl!
He smells so bad
Fight in da club
HELLO me and my friend dressed up as the soap boyfriends for halloweeeen and we thought it would be funny to take a "we're pregnant!" type pic in costume
And you know..... If anyone wated to... Maybe *cough cough* draw it..... I meeeaan that would be kinda cool..... No pressure tho guys 👾😋
Soapshipping editttt <333 (i would rly appreciate ur support on tt!)
Lemme just say this
Book narrator would whoop movie rators ass
Movie marla would whoop book marlas ass
And the Tyler's woouuuld.. idk, have sex
Guys is it weird if I ship myself with myself but like the myself that I created in my head?
CHAPTER 2 OF MY SOAPSHIPPING FIC JUST DROPPEDDDD
first of all TYSM FOR ALL YOUR SUPPORT ON THIS I LOVE U GUYS 🫶🫶 and also I'm sorry this took so long I just procrastinate a lot sooo yeah I'll try to be quicker with chapter 3 tho anyways ENJOYYY
My very first fanfic just dropped‼️
It's not like groundbreakingly good (not even half decent) but i hope other soapshiping mfs will like it 🙏
First rule of fight club is you have to kiss your homies goodnight
(Not that good but i had to draw them cuz they consume my every thought)
FIGHT CLUB 4/19/25
Despite the social meanings of them, "slut" "whore" and "bitch" are not words I associate with women. At all. When I hear "slut" I think of like. Tyler Durden. "Whore" makes me think of Dennis Reynolds. "Bitch," of course, is Jesse Pinkman.
Soap sellers 🧼
OMG OMG TYLER????
the more i love him the more he'll suffer tbh
RIP Bob you would have loved top gun: maverick
Inflamed Sense of Rejection: Chapter One
~~~~~~~~~~~ Author's Note: This is that Angel Face backstory I was talking about. His name is Caleb Handover because I'm not going to call him Angel Face the whole time. There will be no "spice" because I type this on a school computer and honestly I want to expand my writing abilities. ~~~~~~~~~~~
This is a horrible way to start a journal, probably the most over-done and unintriguing sentence used to start a story, but my name is Caleb Handover. I’m 16 years old, and I live in Wilmington, Delaware. I go to Mt. Pleasant High School, class of 2001. That makes me a Junior.
It’s boring. Every single day is the same. The ducks pass over the sky when I’m walking to school, and it looked cool when I was nine, but nowadays it just feels like I’m watching someone drive to work.
Delaware duck schedule: 6 AM, wake up to the same alarm as everyone in the neighborhood. 7 AM, fly to the pond for breakfast and a bath. Pass by that blond kid again.
My hair was born white. People on the street asked my mom while she was pushing the stroller, why do you bleach your baby’s hair?
She never did.
First period is Advanced Placement Calculus. I’m thinking about ducks. Derivatives, ducks, hyperbolas, ducks, factorials, ducks, integrals…
My mom called my hair duck-fuzz.
I like math, but I only say that because high schoolers have to like something. If you say you don’t like any subjects in school, you sound like a wannabe-dropout loser. I’m 16 years old and taking AP Calculus. I don’t think I’m a wannabe anything, but I don’t think I’m genuine, either. I’ve already done the warmup question on the board. Find 34! It’s just a factorial. Does anyone see me?
“Caleb Handover?”
Only during attendance.
I raise my hand until my elbow is about six inches off of my table, parallel to the smooth, fake-wood surface. Not high enough to seem like a geek, but still giving effort.
Invisibility is a science.
“Here.”
There’s a pause. My hand stays in the air.
“Caleb Handover?” my teacher tilts his chin up and surveys the room, his pencil hovering over my name, ready to write truant.
“I said I’m here,” I said louder as I raised my hand higher. My pen balances between my peace-sign fingers. My teacher flicks his eyes to me, and his eyebrows soften. He adjusts his glasses. The sad taste of desperation lingered in my mouth after essentially begging to be accounted for.
“Oh, hello Caleb. Sorry I didn’t see you.” My teacher laughs dryly and clears his throat. “Serena Hofstadter?”
She has mono.
“Gordon Jacobs?”
That’s how Serena got mono.
For a moment I picture Serena and Gordon as Romeo and Juliet during the final act. Gordon drinks from a tall, crystal vial of mononucleosis extract and collapses. Serena, covered head-to-toe in orange spray tan and blonde highlights underneath her Shakespearean garb, discovers him on the floor and gives a tearful soliloquy before kissing him feverishly in an attempt to drink the mono from his lips. In the end, they’re both bedridden, and everyone knows.
In fair Delaware we lay our scene.
I don’t know why, but I’m angry at them. Serena and Gordon. My knuckles turn white as I grip my pen harder, gritting my teeth and thinking about my peers who go to parties to drink and kiss and do drugs. I didn’t even think parties were a real thing until I started listening to rich kids’ conversations.
“I got home so late last night…” quote from the boy wearing the same clothes as yesterday.
“I’m, like, so hungover.” quote from the girl wearing sunglasses indoors at 8:30 AM.
“Her house was so tacky.” quote from the girl whose locker is head-to-toe in sequins and leopard print, who uses perfume to cover the smell of anxiety pheromones.
I’m not jealous, and I’d rather have lifelong diarrhea than be in the same boat as these kids, but it would be nice to have a life.
It would be nice to be a part of something bigger than myself.
~~~~~~~~~~~ Author's Note: Please let me know what you think, and if I should keep writing this. It would be appreciated :)
What if fight club was actually 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴 club and they partake in homoerotic fights and create a club where they have kinky degrading rituals wait a second
fight club characters as things not to say when someone just comes out
because you saw 'brokeback mountain'
