#a thousand year old doodle that wasn't coming out right

[notepagescribbles]

#8

When does it go away? When do i stop thinking about it?

Stop.

What?

Stop. Stop it.

I-

We both know how this goes. We've done a thousand times over now. You say 'when does it go away? When do I stop thinking about it?' And I say, 'it doesn't. You just get better at dealing with it.'

Which is still true-

Which is still true, and then you say 'but I don't want to deal with this pain forever,' and I say 'it gets easier,' and you say 'do people help me?' and I say, 'no, but you learn to deal with it yourself, and people around you get better at it,' and you say, 'but I didn't want to get better at it by myself. I wanted to be loved.' And I say 'you are. It's just hard sometimes.' And then you say 'I wish it wasn't.' And I say 'I know.' I say 'you got thicker skin now too-'

Which is true-

Which is true, and you say 'was it worth all that?' And I don't know, because we can't imagine a life where it didn't happen. Tell me that's not how this conversation happens.

...

Why do you keep doing this? Why do you keep coming back? What do you want from me?

...

Whatever you want, I don't know if I have it. I really don't.

I want-

'I want a reason not to die,' you say. 'Is that so bad? So heinous? Why do I keep thinking about it, then? Am I just going to keep half living forever?' And I say, 'you already have reasons. You know you have reasons. You counted them out this morning like daily bread on the way home from the shops. You have plenty of reasons. If you didn't, you'd already be dead.' That's how the conversation goes right?

...

Tell me otherwise. Tell me that's not how the conversation goes.

...

God, how am I still here? I'm stuck in this stupid bloody loop, and I can't... I just can't get past it.

...

How am I doing so much worse than everyone else?

...

Shit, there it goes again. And the thoughts keep coming. And I say, 'when does it go away? When does it stop?' And I have an answer, locked and loaded, because at least I know that answer is the right one. At least I can trust myself with that one.

...

It hurts. It hurts so badly. In my stomach, a grinding, sinking pit. Grating against the throat like iodine.

...

It would be okay if I'd earned it, I think. That's the trouble. It would be justified if it were anyone else. Shit, there's people who should be doing far worse than me. But I know them and they're way better. In every way better.

...

What the fuck does that say about you?

...

I'm stuck. I'm just stuck. It's like I started doodling nooses in my margins one day as a 15 year old, always rubbing them out before anyone could see them, and I never stopped. There's no more real notebooks. The only change is that I understand the movements of the pencil, the tilt of the head, why it moves up and down and side to side. But I can't seem to make it stop.

...

I was thinking, I never really learned how to ask for help, so I don't know how. I don't even know what it looks like. Maybe that's my problem. Because I didn't really reach out for help in the end, did I? I just sort of relented when cornered and fell apart and put myself back together as my own private porcelain Russian doll. I still kept it folded across my chest. Dirty laundry. My own shameful little secret.

...

I heard someone say, a while ago, something like, 'it doesn't matter how far along I seem to get, sometimes I just want to die.' Not exactly poetry, but it fits better than any of the poetry I've read honestly, and I've got heaps to speak of.

...

It was not death for I stood up/ and all the dead lay down. Is that how it goes? But it doesn't really fit, does it? Because I never lay down. Sometimes I think if I had, I could at least be more definitive in standing up again. Instead of floating, limbs tangled above the grave.

...

Schrodingers cat, I am. I keep thinking about the stupid wrist rhyme. It's one of those horrible 'knowledge nuggets' from IT that I wish I could unknow. One of those horrible blighting ones that stains against the nerve cells like mould and can't be pulled out. Can never be unknown. Unthought.

...

And so we begin again. When does it go away? When do I stop thinking about it?

...

Are you still listening? Can you hear me? It feels like it's all just a bloody echo sometimes, echoing back and back and back again. None of its really words, just the memories of thoughts once had, chisels in the stone. Do you remember the Greek origin of the word echo? The little nymph? Except she was too lovable. That was her downfall in the end.

...

I don't think we could say the same about you.

...

Hey. Do you hear me? It's better. I know it's better. It's so much better. But the stomach pit is pushing against my organs, and I'm tired of being like this. I don't think I can stop being like this. Maybe this is just me. Fuck. I'm tired of being worse. So horribly, visibly tangibly worse. I'm tired of being left behind. I hate this. I hate you. I hate you so much sometimes it burns.

When does it go away? When do i stop thinking about it?

[emilyartstudio-s]

It’s In The Water

Character Design: @sleepyeule 😩👌

[eusuntgratie]

Nobody knows about Dylan's secret Instagram account. bilinski420 is anonymous with a generic Stiles headshot he found on his phone as its profile pic and a blank bio. He doodles around on Instagram, checking up on what everyone's doing, following a few fan pages, seeing what the latest rumours are, actively liking everything Taylor Swift has ever posted, and oh -

Well, there's Hoechlin.

For a man who doesn't post much content of himself, there sure is more than enough being posted about him. Dylan's feed is a mess of Swiftie conspiracy theories and his former co-star, in various states of undress and with various degrees of chest hair.

It's been ten years and Dylan still feels like that awkward nineteen year old who looked at Hoechlin and wanted.

He still wants, is the thing. A teenage crush it may have been, but it's matured like fine wine, into something shockingly undeniable.

He double taps another post to like it and scrolls down.

And nearly swallows his tongue.

He's used to Hoechlin's chest, the ridiculous muscles and the way they'd grease him up for Teen Wolf, but they'd always made him wax, at least until season four and they'd barely shared any scenes so it wasn't like Dylan had been able to just... perve on the scenery.

But this is a... gym selfie? A shirtless gym selfie. And indecently short shorts. Hoechlin's smiling like he's proud of himself, and damn right, he should be, because - guh.

Dylan doesn't reply to posts. He likes them and moves on. But. But - oh, what the hell, he's anonymous and he's only human.

bilinkski420 commented SIR.

He doesn't think anything more of it as he closes out of the app (not before screenshotting it, not that the fans will ever let that post disappear from memory). He gets off in the shower to thoughts of running fingers through coarse black chest hair, rubbing his cheek against wiry thighs and - and it's fine, it's fine. Maybe he needs to get laid, but it's fine.

He goes to bed, and really, that should be the end of it.

Spoiler alert: it's not.

His phone pings at some god awful hour which can only mean disaster. He groans and reaches for it and blinking bleary eyes tries to unlock it.

He has a WhatsApp message from Hoechlin.

Fuck. Okay, they do talk, but mostly in the group chat. Their last private conversation is dated three months ago.

Hoech: I saw you liked my post.

Dylan's stomach does something he didn't know it could do, sort of flips and sinks in on itself all at once.

He hates whoever came up with the idea for read receipts, and then sees Hoechlin's typing again.

Hoech: I liked the comment you left too.

Which - this has to be a cruel prank. Dylan stares at his phone. Then stares at it some more. Hoechlin is still online, waiting. Dylan doesn't dare tap out a single message.

An image comes through.

It's Hoechlin sprawled out on his bed, wearing nothing but his stupid I'm-very-manly-I-workout underwear, which just makes his thighs look obscene, actually, and Hoechlin's looking at the camera like he's looking into Dylan's soul and oh god.

Hoech: Yeah?

Dylan bites his bottom lip. Yeah, he types back hesitantly, and sends it.

A video call starts ringing through. He answers, still half asleep, adrenaline and excitement warring inside of him.

Hoechlin's face pops up at a slightly awkward angle and he's so him that Dylan can't help but smile. He's terrified, but Hoechlin puts him at ease. That smile. It could launch a thousand ships.

"Hey Dyl," Hoechlin says. "Sorry, I forgot it was early for you."

"It's okay," Dylan says. "How - how did you know?"

He needs to know. Hoechlin's beautiful and smart and funny, but he's not like, a detective, right? There's no way he could have known one anonymous account was Dylan.

"MTV never released the photo you're using as your profile pic. You asked for it. Said it made your nose look cute, which, it does. But it's not on Google. Everything's on Google, Dyl, but not that. It's okay," Hoechlin says, eyes scanning Dylan's face, looking for what? Hurt? Anger? Fear? "It's really okay. I'm not upset. Kinda flattered. Kinda wondering - been wondering for a while, actually. Whether you meant it. The likes, and then - well," Hoechlin chuckles. "Your comment. Felt kinda like maybe you had some feelings about the photo."

"I did, I mean, I do," Dylan says. "God, I do." He closes his eyes, and then opens them again. "If I was a fan, I'd be the kind of fan you should be crossing the street to avoid, and possibly calling the cops too. I'm pretty obsessed with you. Hoech, you're - you know. You have to know. Don't make me spell out how perfect you are this early in the morning. I'm compromised."

"I'm compromised too," Hoechlin says, and Dylan tries to breathe. It feels like his lungs are too tight. "Been trying to get you out of my head for years. Thought I could get it out of my system, but I can't. You're in there. Want to touch you. Just - think about it sometimes and don't know why we never tried that. Seems like we should have."

"You wanted that? Want that?" Dylan whispers. Hoechlin tilts his head. God, he's so perfect.

"Really do," Hoechlin replies.

"Fuck, you have no idea what you do to me," Dylan says. "How quick can you get on a plane?"

"Not quick enough, but I could make it work, if you wanted me to," Hoechlin says.

"Please," Dylan isn't above begging, so he begs.

"Please?" Hoechlin teases.

"Please, sir," Dylan says, and watches Hoechlin's eyes go dark even through the shitty resolution of the camera.

"I'll look at flights," Hoechlin says.

"Okay," Dylan says, disbelieving.

"Means I need to hang up the call now though," Hoechlin points out. He absently runs a hand up his chest and Dylan follows the movement.

"Is this real?" Dylan asks, and Hoechlin chuckles, face going all squinty and adorable.

"Yeah, baby, I think it is," Hoechlin says.

"You should go - flights, and that."

"See you soon," Hoechlin says, and the screen goes back to their conversation. Dylan, ridiculously, misses him.

Twenty minutes later, Hoechlin sends through a screenshot of a ticket confirmation. It leaves in an hour.

This is real.

Dylan can't quite believe it.

His phone shows a notification that Hoechlin has added a new Instagram story. He taps through to it.

It's just text, white on a blue background:

Ever think you're about to have a really good day?

Dylan smiles, and taps out a reply.

Yeah.

It gets marked as read.

(And yeah, he has a really, really good day.)

🥰😍🥰😍🥰😍

this is?!? So wonderful? The chest hair thirst? GYM SELFIE?!? THIGH THIRST? so much thirst but so sweet? Ahhhhhhhh

THANK YOU HOBRIEN ANON 💜💜💜

[tamiddyinyourcity]

2:39pm.

A sis finna drown in these edges.

Or moreso her own tears, so lmfaooo lets get it.

Sunday, August 30th of 2020.

I turned 20.

Anyways.

And I'm distressed, for a lot of reasons:

My boyfriend is a great guy, and he was when we first met as well. He was annoyingly my type. When you're like, "Damn it, stop checking all of the boxes you asswipe." I think I liked him for multiple reasons; I met him on Discord. In a chat where a lot of the people on there liked me. (It was mostly men, but to be fair, even the girls bonded with me. Which really feels nice, having a friend group that feels like home even when it isn't home.)

I guess a lot of things were clear when I met him. 1) He had an obnoxiously girthy slangin ass dick. It was the size of a coke can and maybe even thicker, how the actual fuck? (The discord had an nsfw server in it, and it was also where I flourished telling some good sexual stories or giving people advice.) 2) He was super slim. That's not 100% a type for me, but well, I'll be more comfortable with someone built like me rather than the Juggernaut on a date, or for a late night. 3) He had money. I wasn't targeting him for his money, it just so happened conveniently that while I was thinking about how I want to date someone who can provide for me, oh look, he's in the Discord, talking about how he makes thousands at his new job and doesn't pay rent. And, wanting a girlfriend. So, yeah.

But even that didn't get 100% of my interest. Lots of people have money, but there's a big difference between dating Tiger Woods and Tyga, or Lil Wayne or Bruce Wayne. Personalities, and morals and all that. But after a little flirting or saying "I'm in a bad mood. Blaze, post your dick" or "What's up big cock" as a joke when he entered the chat every day, we did start talking. And by talking, I mean that my constantly zoned out ass would sleep for large chunks of the day, paint, or be on the server, while he inboxes me tons and tons of messages.... I wasn't ignoring him on purpose. I was just exhausted, and confused, with the mindset of "It's not like I can even date someone right now, when will I ever leave my house in a pandemic?????"

Then, the chat server meetup day came. People egged me into showing up, so I did with joy. Personally DMed him if he wanted to show up too.... Said he might be too late, since it would end by the time he showed up.

But the day of, the picnic had lasted hours longer. And he had no other birthday plans, so he came! And considering how quiet I was because being 19 and around tons of 28+ year olds, who have only known me for two weeks or so, and them going "What's a vibe check?", as I doodle the meme in my sketchbook with all my watercolor pens.... It was awkward, but his also awkward presence made it better.

He kept ignoring me when I waved at him, or trying to message me from like 6 ft away..... Not even for social distancing reasons, but because anxiety from both people. Eventually I went to stand out in the sun to stretch, he walked up and joined me, but kept not knowing what to say, walking 8 ft back into the shade, and then texting me something, walking back up to me.... rinse and repeat.

Eventually I just, as he turned away once more with his hands in his pockets and shoulders high and head slumped, had said "So were you gonna go to the shade and text me something 3 ft away again, or are you gonna say something in person?" (Something along those lines... my memory fails me, but it sure as hell made him smile and come back to me again, lmfao.)

Had a great time the rest of the day. I didn't see him as a romantic prospect. But yknow, a cute shy guy with limited social skills. Fun to be with. Made lots of puns and jokes. And, hovered near me a lot. I think I found it really endearing. "Aww look, this very shy grown man is bashful around me. He has no idea what to do, but it's still obvious as hell what's going on here."

And I think eventually after getting tired from playing Frisbee with him and our friend Duck, we sat in the shade in silence for a bit. Pulp Fiction silence vibing can be healthy for a dynamic. I saw some swings. Just straight up said, "Those are nice swings...." "Yeah, they are." "....We're going on the swings." "Oh! Um, okay haha." "And you're the one I'm pushing." *intense chuckling*

And bet your ass that I pushed a 28 year old man on the swings for his birthday. He was incredibly light, it was super easy.

He also kept lowkey bragging about how much he made. "I made 60k last year! I have, like, 27k in the bank right now from my job man! I got to spend like 500 dollars all on Converse just last week!"

He seemed genuinely amused though, I wasn't too outwardly impressed but I let him know I felt happy for him.

And we started dating after I eventually nudged him into asking me out on a date sooner; went to a really dope pasta and italian spot where I got extremely lactose intolerant afterwards, and that sparked a nice start to a relationship.

3:38pm.

Feeling better. Might not write the rest of this. Thanks for listening. Stay safe yalls, peace out fams.