Jason Patrick as MICHAEL EMERSON in THE LOST BOYS (1987)
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jasonvoorheesism
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i survived a tuesday, and for what? wednesday? disgusting.
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i would make an excellent goon. i’d be like ”on it boss” and then i’d fuck it up instantly.
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all i can think about right now is how happy i am to be alive. sure, im stressed about a number of things. but i have wonderful friends, a wonderful/loving/supportive partner, and idk we spent the last like 6 or 7 hours on video chat and playing stardew valley and i just cant help but think about how happy i am. things are so good. i finally made it. it really does get better.
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between us (there’s something special)
You are not my first love, darling. You are not the first person I have promised tomorrow in a sunken daze of love. You are not the first person I have held hands with, or kissed with a fiery intent. You are not the first person I have wrapped my arms around. And, as unfortunate as it sounds, you may not be the last (as much as I am hoping you are). But between us, my darling, you are the one that counts. Between us, you are the one who changed me forever. Between us, you will always be home. Between us, you are my moon and all of my stars, and I have this feeling you always will be. Between us, I’ll never look at the moon quite the same again. I’ll never be able to get a milkshake without thinking of your sweet, toothy grin. I’ll never be able to get a slushy without the hopes that it’ll make me hear your laughter. I’ll never be able to cook in my kitchen without thinking of all the meals we have shared together. All of the time spent cooking, cleaning, eating, laughing, smiling. No, I don’t think I’ll ever be the same after I’ve experienced all that you are. I don’t think I want to be. Between us, my love, you have shaken my world. Most importantly, between us, I will always love you. Even if we aren’t together, and the space between us can only be measured in miles. It will always be you.
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to my bones (oh, i love you so)
I love you to my bones. In every meaning of the word I love you. I will shout it from every roof top. I will whisper it to you softly in the quiet of my room at 3 am. I will climb the tallest tower. I will climb the tallest tree, the tallest mountain. I will proclaim my love feverishly, ferociously. In that moment it will consume my body. I love Nikoli Gunther. I would say it over and over until that nasty little voice in your head is silenced. Until you never again have to question why. I will say it in a crowded room. I will tell everyone I know (and everyone I don’t) about you. I will love you loudly, and proudly, and without a single regret. I will brush your hair behind your ear. I will graze the tips of my fingers down to your neck. Lightly trail them up to your chin and rest them on your cheek. Watch you instinctively lean into my palm. A look of peace and comfort washing over your beautiful face. And in the smallest of voices I will tell you that I love you the way the sun loves the moon. How she rises every morning so he can rest. How she assures him she will be there every morning so he can crawl away and slumber peacefully. She will watch the earth. She will light the way. She will be his warmth after a cold, windy night. She will kiss him good morning and kiss him good night like her life depended on that single, fleeting moment. And then ask for another. And another. And maybe one more, for good luck. She will tuck him into bed with the promise it is over now, and she is here. The sun loves the moon in ways no one will ever truly comprehend, and that is how I love you. Or maybe instead, the words will get caught in my throat as I’m looking at you. Eyes, more green than brown. Lips, smiling. What? You’ll ask me. I’ll smile and say nothing, while thinking about how I love you to my bones.
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anything else (how could i have ever?)
When I was 5 years old I wanted prince charming. I wanted the white horse, the brave knight who traveled thousands of miles to rescue me from the evil dragon. I wanted him to whisk me off my feet in my elegant dress and we would ride off into the sunset together and live our happy ever after. When I was 10 I wanted Joe Jonas. His long, badly straightened hair. The loose tie he wore around his neck with the slightly unbuttoned white shirt. I often day dreamed about stumbling into him somehow and he’d fall in love with me. He would whisk me away and we would live our happy ever after in the suburbs of Los Angeles, California. When I was 15 I wanted a bad boy. I wanted the mysterious boy who was mean to everyone else, but had the softest of spots for me in his black hole of a heart. I thought there was something so romantic about someone who hated everyone except for me. The boy who hung around the back of the room, who never mingled or interacted with those outside of his rather small circle. A lone wolf, someone I thought I could change and save. And I would, I would show him what love was and he would whisk me away and we would live our happy ever after. When I was 22, I just wanted to be in love. With anyone. So much so that I found myself in odd and awful predicaments all in the name of love. I was so desperate to be loved. I was so desperate to feel something other than the agony I felt from being alone. I settled for many things, hoping that one of them would whisk me away and we would live our happy ever after. We never did. At 24, I met you. In the midst of the summer heat, we blossomed. A quick, mindless swipe. A meeting on a random Tuesday. Burritos from a local taco truck. Laying in my bed for hours. A first kiss where the sparks ignited something in my core that to this day I really cannot explain. Then, a first date. Pho in Mira Mesa. The desert tower. Seafoam. A farmers market. My first pride. The SDSU parking lot. After that, we were inseparable. You whisked me away and we started living our happy ever after. At 25, and almost a year later, I think back to all of the things I used to want. I look at you as you sleep peacefully next to me and wonder how I could have ever wanted anything else.
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hate is a strong word (but i fucking hate you)
I don’t know what’s worse: knowing you’ll never be sorry for all the damage you caused, or knowing that you blame me for all of the pain you put me through. You will never have to hurt the way that I did. Good for you, you know? I lost my mind for a year and a half while in the midst of your grip. I spent so much time aching, shedding tears over someone who absolutely was not worth it. I tried so hard to be everything you wanted. I wore the clothes. I did the makeup. I did my hair. I recreated myself to fit your narrative because I wanted so badly to keep you. But, I was yours and you were never mine. All I ever wanted was to be enough. Stupid, little me. Full of emotions I wish I never had to feel. I never would have been enough for you and to be quite honest, no one ever would be. You were never satisfied. Everything I did, everything I said. Nothing was ever right. You couldn’t have cared less for someone who whole heartedly loved you, even though you never committed. Even though you never actually wanted me. I was just a toy that you picked up when you wanted, and tossed when you didn’t. It’s been well over a year now and I think back to that year and a half I spent being available to you and I feel sorry for the person I used to be. The person I tried to be. All for someone who couldn’t have cared less if I was dead or alive. I wonder now how I could have hated myself so much that I allowed myself to love someone so cruel, selfish, and self absorbed. I look at my loving partner now, who kisses wounds he didn’t create. Who soothes my soul instead of making it rowdy and restless. Who lifts me up instead of cutting me down. Who has made me soft, who takes that softness and cradles it in his hands so gently. Who handles me with care. Who holds me tightly as though if he were to let go I would whither away. I look at him and think back to all the awful things you made me feel and I wonder how I could’ve ever hated myself so much that I settled for whatever the hell that was. He is picking up pieces he didn’t break, and while I am thankful, I want to spite you for breaking me in the first place. I know you’ll never be sorry, but I don’t want your sympathy or your pity. I want you to suffer for the rest of your life. I wish for you to, one day, self reflect and live with all of the awful things you have done and live with the guilt of that until you are buried six feet under. I wish for you to be miserable. You don’t deserve empathy.
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to grow old with you (would be such a privilege)
In all my years the thought of living past the age of 18 was non existent. And then, 18 came and went like spring to summer and I found myself trucking through the excessive heat. At 18 it became 25, but at 24 I had decided to take it year by year, sometimes day by day, others moment by moment. I had decided that breathing may have very well been worth it, even if I wheezed. 4 months before my 25th birthday I met you and it was like the air was rushed back into me. I had never really imagined growing old. I had always figured I’d somehow leave this earth very young, maybe not by my own hand but by some stroke of unluckiness. Maybe I’d be in the wrong place at the wrong time, I don’t know. I never imagined going into my 40’s, or 50’s, and definitely not my 60’s. In fact, I didn’t want to grow old. I wanted to preserve my youth in a coffin six feet in the ground where I’d rot, but I’d always be remembered as a bountiful 20 something, maybe 30 something year old. And then, I met you. Suddenly I could picture myself sitting on a wrap around porch with shutter windows on some countryside land. I suddenly pictured retiring and sailing the world by your side even though the thought of that terrifies me. I suddenly realized how much more time I wanted with you. It would be a privilege to grow old with you, darling. I hope to have that privilege.
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this kind of love (don’t you think it could be wonderful?)
The kind of love I would breathe into you is a warm kind of love. The kind of love you feel in every corner of your heart. It’s a take care of you when you’re sick kind of love. The kind where I stock your fridge with gatorade and water bottles so you’d have something cold and hydrating. The kind where I make you the soup my grandmother made me as a child and it made me feel warm and fuzzy the way you do and it always, always made me feel better. The kind of love where I’d drive an hour on your worst days just to hold you for a little while and drive back even if I had work the next day. The kind of love where I’d give you the best bite of all of my meals. Every. Single. One. The kind of love where I’d give you the last sip of any of my drinks. The kind of love where I’d pack your lunch every night with a note on the inside. The kind of love where I’d buy you every little thing that made me think of you, no matter how small or big. The kind of love where I wash the dishes every night (even though I hate washing dishes) because you spent an hour cooking the most wonderful meal for us. The kind of love that, no matter how tired I am, I would rub the tension out of your shoulders for however long you’d need me to. The kind of love where I would make sure the sheets are clean and clean often because I know how much you love the feeling of clean sheets. The kind of love where I would sweep every day so you could walk around our home without shoes. The kind of love that would make you feel like you are finally, finally home. The kind of love that is unconditional, and that would swallow you whole, and that has been yours since I first looked into your eyes. If there is anything I have done right in my life, it is giving my heart and that love to you.
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adolescent angst (does it ever end?)
They told me I would grow out of all this angst. So why do I still scream those Front Bottoms lyrics at the top of my lungs? Going 95 down 95 trying to release all of this hurt. Things were supposed to be better by now. I’m 25 and still as lost as ever. I make plans for them to only fall apart. I just really, really want to heal my heart. I thought once my frontal lobe was fully developed I would make better decisions but I still feel like I’m 5 years old with $5 I got on my birthday and I’m trying to choose between a candy bar and a toy. It feels like everyone around me has got it all figured out and I’m sitting here trying to figure out why I can’t stop falling apart. It seems like I am in a race and I am in last place. It seems like no matter what I do I still wind up feeling like a shell of a person with no real purpose and despite my fighting I will still die before I’m 30. Lord knows I’ve been asking for a sign to keep pushing forward but I don’t know if I have anymore fight left in me. All I have left is this unbridled rage as to why I can’t seem to figure anything out and no matter what turn I take it is always a dead end. It’s like my pen is coming to the last page. I probably won’t finish this coming of age. I’m 25 years old still feeling like I am 15 and full of angst. Is it ever going to end? Or will it end me first?
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pretty (what’s that like?)
“Pretty.” I say to myself in the mirror. Over, and over, and over again. The word bounces around my skull but won’t sit in one space. “Pretty.” I say again in hopes to settle the bouncing, in hopes to hold it in my hands. I never do. “Pretty.” My co workers say to me as I walk up the steps of the coffeehouse. I smile and say, “Thank you.” Even though it does not make home in my heart. The words go in one ear and out the other. A fleeting moment I try to hold onto but like most things, I cannot. “Pretty.” My boyfriend says to me, so lovingly, with so much love in his eyes that for a moment I can almost believe it. I can almost grasp it and hold it in my hand but it has decided it does not want to stay. It never wants to stay. I don’t blame it. “Pretty.” My friends say to me. A pained smile, a small thank you. The word is almost there. It is almost within reach. I can almost feel it but just as I am about to grab it, it runs away from me yet again. “Pretty.” I say to myself in the mirror. But the word refuses to stay. It clings to the air around me but will not make its way to me. It is always just an arms reach away. “Pretty.” I say to myself again. “Pretty.”
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really fucked up how you dont immediately stop being sick after breaking your fever. like cmon the hard parts done the narrative tension is gone. this is the right moment for it to end. what do you mean im still filled with evil gunk. what the fuck
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(through gritted teeth) i love being out of my comfort zone it is necessary for my personal development
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"This world can be beautiful sometimes"
"It's beautiful during a lot of times"