generic-enthusiast

[generic-enthusiast]

when I comment on a fellow writer's fic and they, in turn, comment on one of mine

[generic-enthusiast]

Thank god soulmates (one person destined for you that you will never be happy without) aren't real but soulmates (people you understand and connect with on a special level, multiple, some of which you havent met yet) are real

[generic-enthusiast]

brat summer is OVER

time for DEAD POETS SOCIETY AUTUMN

[generic-enthusiast]

i always mean it when i say i love you btw

[generic-enthusiast]

learning a lot about men on the dash today

[generic-enthusiast]

sorry i overreacted i had no idea everything would be fine

[generic-enthusiast]

hey kinda messed up that 1st degree burn is the mildest burn but 1st degree murder is the worst murder. they should have collaborated more on that one.

[generic-enthusiast]

sodapop curtis will always love his name. it's cooler than any other name he's heard, for sure. it's original. he'll never have the embarrassing experience he hears darry sometimes has of hearing his name called only for it not to be him.

sure, people'll laugh, but not for long. sodapop is weird, but it's cute. his pops says it's all-american, whatever that means. people like him, they're drawn to him, like bees to honey. or wait flies? doesn't matter, point is people don't seem to care that he don't know on account of how good he gets on with anybody. he's good at it -- he's funny, energetic, a manifestation of his name. he's like his father, and he's proud of it, always laughing his head off whenever he can, never a care in the world. someone's got to, when everyone else can be so tense. who needs fear when there's laughter? pops said that once, and sodapop, bouncing like the bubbles of his namesake, agrees (he thinks. he tries hard not to think about it too hard or else he'll get trapped in his brain again).

sodapop curtis will always love his name, but he can't help but think that this definitely wasn't meant to be it. he might be dumb, but he ain't stupid. he knows his mama's special name is called Rivka even though the soc ladies she works for call their maid karen, and the teachers at school still call her that even after she corrects them every time. she ain't hiding no more and sodapop is proud as hell of that. 'sides, Rivka's about one of the prettiest names he ever heard, way prettier than karen which scratches his mouth all wrong when he says it and is definitely not his mama. he knows his pops had different name too, and that he's from a different country, so his mama says. pops'll never speak about it, and Darrel Curtis fits him but he just knows it ain't right. he's gotta have a secret special name too.

the other kids at the synagogue have those kind of names too. not always so outright, but always recognizable as a jew, like david, or abram, or sarah. then there were the more outright -- Tova mendoza, Avi cohen, or Chaim brillstein. lordy, soda would think. sodapop is cool, but to have a name like that! he knows that none of em go by that out of shul, but they have a secret name (if some more secret than others) and soda never got his.

he loves his name, really he does. but when he was a little kid he'd sneak up behind and whisper to his pops "tell me my special name. I know you know it," scaring the hell out of him, before he answered, cracking up, like every time, "sodapop's about the most special name I ever heard, I reckon," but soda knows he ain't telling the truth. eventually he'll ask his mama, who says he'll find out right before he turns thirteen. golly, he knew he was right. he counts up those days like it's everything. by the time he's thirteen he's nearly forgotten, and then it's his bar mitzvah and he's sitting impatiently in the seat behind the rabbi, feet tapping excitedly on the floor and his name is called and it's not sodapop it's Shmuel and it's joyous and it's real it feels like home and it--

It is silent. his yarmulke he'd worn proudly on his head is in the dirt of the alley he'd tried to cut through to beat pony home from the synagogue after his torah reading, only he hadn't gotten far enough to cut through and ponyboy would be grinning like a cheshire cat at home thinking he won, till he wondered what kept his brother so long and then soda comes in with a black eye and Shmuel would be his special name but -- well, sodapop was cooler than any other name, wasn't it?

[generic-enthusiast]

something something the line “let’s permanently baptize this son of a bitch” with jewish ponyboy. something something bob knew he was jewish and in that moment he took his opportunity to not only force christianity on him, but baptise AND kill him. in that moment he was telling ponyboy that he was going to be baptised and he will die baptised. something something idk

[generic-enthusiast]

i always mean it when i say i love you btw

[generic-enthusiast]

Jewish Curtis brothers who grow up poor but still have to listen to stupid jokes about how Jews have all the money. Including from kids who have more money than they do.

Pony thinks he’s bonding with his middle class friends over how much they all hate the Socs, (the socs don’t go after middle class kids like they do greasers, but they act like stuck up rich kids to everybody), when one of them says, “my dad says it’s all the Jews that own those big mansions up there.” And the rest of them nod in agreement like it’s fact. And even though Pony knows it’s not true, he doesn’t speak up.

[generic-enthusiast]

(bit from chapter 1 one of my fic)

Clark Brillstein didn't always hide, not when he was smaller, and with small people comes a wider world. It's easy not to hide when you don't know who you're hiding from.

Clark Brillstein didn't always hide — he didn’t like to, anyway. Hiding places were too dark, and being alone was scary. At 7, he declared himself the designated seeker at the beat-up, rusted metal playground behind the synagogue playing hide-and-seek with Sodapop Curtis and his big brother Darry. Nobody minded. Brill liked being the seeker, creeping behind the tall grasses (the worst hiding spot) or under the slide (the best, though there weren't many other options), the thrill of screeching behind them, to the uncontrollable giggles of Soda and the irritated glances of the congregants through the window (they'd get over it eventually, they'd always murmur, "it's good to see 'em havin' fun, ain't it?").

CUT TO TWO CHAPTERS LATER BOTH OF WHICH I HAVEN'T WRITTEN BUT THIS

I'm gonna find you!

The memory hits Brill like a punch, sharp and disorienting. He falters for a split second. Soda doesn't, his fist slamming into Brill's shoulder, sending him stumbling.

37, 36, 38, 39, 40!

"Fight me, goddamn it, this is a rumble!" Soda shouts, his voice cutting through the rain and the sounds of fighting.

He tries, he really tries, a wild swing cracks Soda in the jaw and he staggers but comes back quickly, his punches relentless.

"You're off, Brillstein." Soda mutters, socking him in the side. "What's wrong with you?"

Brill doesn't answer. He can't. His movements hesitate, his punches are losing their force, the world feels like it's slowing down.

Ready or not, here I come!

Soda's fist hits him square in the stomach and Brill doubles over, gasping for air.

"Fight back!" Soda's voice cracks, frustration bleeding in.

Brill raises his fists again, but they're weak and trembling now, useless. He swings, but it's pitiful, almost pathetic. Soda naturally dodges easily, his brow furrowing deeper than before.

"Chaim?" Soda says, his voice quieter, confused, the rain could have drowned him out.

Brill freezes, and Soda's next punch sends him sprawling to the ground, the gravel scraping his palms.

Found you!

Soda stands over him, his fists raised, hesitating. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Shakily, Brill gets up, and wordlessly, he runs away like a coward as Soda watches, eyes full of confusion, and what was but would never be seen -- loss.

It's good to see 'em havin' fun, ain't it?

[generic-enthusiast]

i have a cold in the middle of summer and that's just not fair

[generic-enthusiast]

dallas wintson paid a 20 dollar speeding ticket entirely in pennies one time and sat there with the smuggest grin in the world while he watched the poor person at the police station count out all 2,000 pennies to make sure he wasn’t even a cent off. he bragged about it to tim later that night and that was the one time tim was impressed with something dally pulled off.

he’s that kind of petty.

[generic-enthusiast]

No, I don’t care if it’s “just the overture” or “only the orchestra.” I don’t care if there’s no one technically onstage yet. Put your phones away and stop talking. The show has started.

[generic-enthusiast]

If Pony made Cherry visit Johnny in the hospital only for Johnny to be like “what’s she doing here? I don’t want to see her.”

[generic-enthusiast]

INSANE moment to put on a shirt— please! Lmao