#my appearance peaked in high school and then i just became ugly as fuck after that

[zmpl]

sometimes i remember how ugly i am :) pain and hellfire forever and ever

[ellavogues]

london sunrises - harry styles

summary: harry made you feel like home in a place far from it, but stupidly ruins it in fear of losing you

a/n: hey, second fic in two days! let me know your thoughtsss :) thanks for reading angels

Sometimes you wish you were seventeen again.

The carelessness, easy breezy lifestyle you lead was problematic and unproductive, but you never felt more free. Even now as an adult, unrestricted by menial rules made by your parents or your school, you don’t feel the same liberty as you felt when you were seventeen.

Maybe it was him that made you feel so free.

You met him at sixteen, when you moved countries from the USA to England. Originally pessimistic about the complete upheaval of your life, you took it upon yourself to not even try and socialise and familiarise yourself with people at your new school.

But one day, around a week after you moved, you were sat on the bus, headphones in your ear and gazing out the window as you waited for the bus driver to start the journey home, a brown, curly haired boy sat next to you, sporting a huge grin on his face.

“I’m Harry,” he introduced himself, extending his hand as if to ask you to shake it. “Mind if I sit here?”

You shake your head, “Yeah, go ahead. I’m Y/N.”

“You’re new, right? We’ve got homeroom and science together I think.”

He’s smiling the whole bus ride, cracking stupid jokes and telling stupid stories, right up until you get off at your stop. You’re smiling too, feeling grateful to have met a friend in this new place.

The next day, he sat next to you in homeroom and science, and you conversed as if you had known each other for years. He was just that easy to talk to, always able to quickly come up with a witty, smartass remark to whatever you may say and chuckling to himself when you get slightly irritated at his teasing. He noticed you sitting by yourself at lunch, and insisted you sit with him and his mates.

Over time, your friendship with Harry gradually and organically blossomed into something more. Worried that it was only a one-sided feeling, you kept it to yourself and put on a front when you were around him, attempting to veil your new-found feelings with excessive teasing and smart remarks at his expense. But keeping up appearances proved to be difficult as time progressed and the two of you got closer and closer and as he got to know you better, picking up on the way you deflect your emotions.

One night, after a lot of weed and talking, you both found yourselves on Harry’s roof, just above his window to his room. His parent’s room was thankfully on the other end of the house and given it being the early hours of the morning, they were surely asleep. At least you hoped they were, he did manage to make you laugh louder than you thought possible and you crossed your fingers that they didn’t hear the two of you. The night sky was full of stars, you remember, and you finally didn’t have a weight on your shoulders, finally comfortable enough to be your true, authentic self and genuinely happy for the first time since you moved. Neither of you realised how long you had been up there, talking, laughing, smoking, until little glints of orange light began peaking through the clouds in the sky, the birds starting to sing their morning songs. You were honestly disappointed that the memory was over, that the rare moment that you got to feel like yourself alone with Harry had come to its inevitable end.

It was hard making friends in a new city, but his cheeky grin made it so easy to be his friend. 

The next time you went up there, you had your first kiss. It was like you thought it would be, your friends implanting in your mind that your first kiss is never as special as it is romanticised on film, but the kiss with Harry made butterflies swarm in your stomach, his soft lips feeling like the closest thing to home in this foreign city that with him you’ve grown to love. You later found out that it was his first kiss too, making the moment feel more special.

You were giddy again that night, but not because you had alcohol. A smile was stuck on your face with no setback being able to push you out of this happy trance. Harry loved seeing you happy, he loved the way your eyes got that little sparkle in them when you got all excited, a detail that no one else would be able to notice. He made you feel giddy in the best way possible, the feeling almost addicting. Dangerously, it seemed you had the same effect on him. 

It seems for once the two of you were on the same page about your feelings, making a hopeful promise of what the future may hold

By the time you were seventeen, London sunrises on Harry’s roof after a long night of talking and weed have become a habit for the two of you. Something about being wrapped up in each other’s presence, in a space just for the two of you and distanced just enough from the world around you, is incredibly addictive. But the rays of sunlight pop the little bubble over you and Harry every time, though despite your disappointment of being brought back from your own perfect world where all you have and need is each other, you’re quick to get over it because it just means it’s time to climb back in his window and go to sleep in each other's arms.

All you had with him was friendship, but it felt like so much more than that. He gave you butterflies, he made you feel free and invited you to be a part of his world when you had no one. When you were with him, you had nothing to hide. He gave you this warm feeling that you had never felt before, a safe feeling. A feeling of home.

All you desperately wanted was to be more than friends, but you were simultaneously so scared of losing what you had with him. The love you had him was unfathomable, you couldn’t wrap your head around it and nothing made you more scared than losing him.

He was scared, too.

Despite being enlightened that your feelings were mutual, Harry couldn’t comprehend in his mind what you had, It didn’t make sense to him that you could love each other so deeply but not be together. He wanted to be mindful that you were heading in completely different directions in life, knowing your dreams of starting a startup and his dreams of having a career in music. He was scared that if you both wanted different things you’d lose each other forever. And he can’t lose you. 

So he pulled away. He forgot to invite you to his X-Factor audition, making up some lame excuse that everything’s been so hectic and he knew how stressed you were about our own future. It hurt your feelings, because in spite of his carefully crafted excuses, you could tell he didn’t invite you on purpose. 

It quickly became apparent that not inviting you wasn’t just a mistake, because he didn’t hold you safely and securely in his arms after you watched the sunrise anymore, kissing the back of your head as you fell asleep tangled in each other. He didn’t kiss you like he used to, no butterflies forming in either of your stomachs, his hand barely grazing your cheeks as he reluctantly connected your lips. Eventually he barely kissed you at all. 

He wanted you so bad, but he wasn’t willing to lose you to get you.

But he pulled so far away that you were barely in sight anymore. He tried to convince himself it was for the best, because at least this way you’d always be on good terms and he’d always have you in his life. He’d always have a part of you. But he missed the smell of you in his sheets, he missed the way you rubbed your nose against his when you were sleepy. He missed making you laugh so hard that you were practically falling off the roof (not that he’d ever let that happen, you were too secure in his arms to even slip an inch.

He wanted all of you, the good, the bad, the ugly. He wanted to wake up and see the remnants of your makeup from the night before still on your face, your sleepy smile completing the look. More than anything, he wanted to have you as his, to announce to everyone that he finally got the girl.

You wanted him just as bad, but his distance hurt you more than you’d ever admit to him. Harry had always made you feel free, like you can have anything you could possibly want. That is, except for him. 

That was the fucking catch. He gave you everything you could have ever wanted. You had the passion, the love, the sensitivity, the jokes. You had it all with him, except you never had him. That’s what sucked the most.

It wasn’t til graduation that you finally worked up the courage to put everything on the line. You went back with him to his house after everything with the school finished, him driving you because even after all this time, he absolutely never trusts your driving. 

“We need to talk,” you start ambiguously.

He laughs, raising his eyebrows as he turns to you for a second, “Should I be scared?”

“Maybe,” you mumble back, anxious and growing fidgety in the seat next to him. Harry clocked this, his hand coming to rest over yours to calm your fidgets down. Glancing over at you briefly, the worry was evident in his features. “H, you’ve always brought out the best in me and made me feel special when I had absolutely no one. I didn’t need anyone else because your friendship, our relationship is all I’ve ever needed. I mean, we’ve dreamt about our futures while we were fucking high on your roof, but when I told you about what I want in my future, I never told you that I wanted you. You’re all I see when I see my life five years from now. You’re all I want, H.”

Harry goes unusually quiet, processing what you told him. It’s uncomfortable, usually by now he would’ve made some inappropriate joke, called you stupid or even just reacted in some way. It’s painful when he looks at you for a moment as he’s stopped as a stop light, and it’s blatantly obvious to you that he’s carefully considering what to say next. 

“Y/N, you’re my bestfriend-“

“Fuck that,” you laugh dryly, unimpressed and masking your hurt with anger.

“Y/N-“

“No,” you raise your voice slightly. “I fucking get it. It’s fine. But I can’t be your friend, Harry. Fuck that. I want more than that.”

“I don’t want to lose you,” his voice is a whisper, tears beginning to form in his eyes before he roughly wipes them away, clearing his vision as he parks in front of his house and turns to meet your gaze. “I can’t lose you.”

“And I can’t be just your friend.”

This moment still replayed in your head like a broken record for years later. 

Maybe you were stupid for letting him go, but you might’ve driven yourself insane if you were still his best friend after everything that you’ve been through together. It wasn’t sustainable for you to continue to just be there, waiting for him to decide that you’re what he wants or, scarily, sticking by him and watching him be with another girl. It would have ruined you to see him treat another girl the way you wanted him to treat you.

You ran into him when he was strolling London a few years later, on his rare day off from touring and concerts and meetings. Even though the run in was supposed to be short you got to talking and laughing and he saw that sparkle in your eye again, something that he hadn’t seen in years and something that made him feel at home. Old habits die hard, and you and Harry ended up staying up all night together, catching up. It felt like you were seventeen again, hopelessly and foolishly in love with a man you could never have.

Before you left the next morning, he grabbed your wrist, turning you to face him. “I have to see you again. Please, Y/N, don’t say goodbye forever.”

Butterflies erupted in your stomach, contented that after all these years apart, you finally have a part of him again. You always had a part of him, you just didn’t know it. “Take me to your album’s party tomorrow?”

And he did, picking you up sporting that grin that made you weak in the knees. He was proud, introducing you to his friends, showing you off on his arm. It felt right.

As the night started getting old, Harry laced his fingers in yours and led you out to the balcony, escaping the chaos and noise inside and making the world just about the two of you. Letting go of his hand, you stepped towards the railing and admired the view while Harry admired you, breath taken away as you turned your head back at him and smiled. Harry wondered how he ever let you go.

Tapping your shoulder gently, he prompts you to turn around to face him. His hand finds your cheek, tilting your face to face his and leaning in to kiss you, lips soft against yours and his free hand finding its home on your hip.

He finally felt like yours again.

[mortedeveles]

Wrinkles.

Summary: Life can go by in a blink of an eye, and you couldn't agree more as you stare into the mirror, staring at wrinkles that you didn’t have years ago.

Pairing: Pro Hero! Eijirou Kirishima x gn!reader. [DRABBLE]

Themes: hurt comfort, fluff, reassurance.

TW: body appearance issues, aging, insecurities, slightly suggestive and i think 1 curse word 

WORD COUNT: A little bit over 1K!

A/N: what is this? me actually writing a drabble while still having online school in session? :flushed: shocking, i know. anyway, i was studying earlier today when this idea came to me- as a drabble, and now it’s a little over 1K words :’> 

barely read over this, feel free to point out any errors or typos!! i also haven’t written in a hot minute so i hope this is okay!! 

kiri & reader are into their older years (+30-40 yrs old) in this drabble, and they’re married! hope you guys enjoy huehue, pls remember to reblog, comment and like if you enjoyed <33

Wrinkles. You could spot several of them, engraved into your skin and no matter how much you tried to avoid them, they clung to your skin like powder onto a wet surface. 

You sighed, tracing the marks with a finger, feeling your heart plummet with each stroke. God, you were getting old, weren't you? 

Sunlight streamed into the bedroom as you stared at yourself in the vanity mirror, hands pressed flat on the wooden drawer. Behind you, Eijirou moaned lowly, and you heard the kicking of some blankets before he resumed his loud snoring.

It made you smile softly before you mentally groaned. There they are again! You thought with indignation. The moment you smiled, the wrinkles on your face became even more prominent. 

It's been years since you married Kirishima, and it's no hidden truth that both of you are aging; gaining new scars and experiences every day. Even then, you didn't expect to look at yourself in the mirror one day, and suddenly realize that you looked....old. The type of elderly facial features you saw on your aging parents, on your middle-aged aunt, or your grandparents. 

You frowned. You could still remember your high school days, and although you did not have porcelain skin; free of all blemishes- your skin was at least young and lively. Not anymore, you thought sadly. Gone were the days of your lively smile, childish expressions. Whenever you smiled, it was tainted by the wrinkles of time.

A solemn sigh left your lips as you lowered your gaze to the drawer's surface, eyes trailing over the dentures and swirls of the texture of the wood. Caught up in your storm of insecurities of aging, you didn't hear the floor creaked softly as Kirishima left the mattress, and approached you from behind. It was only until you heard his feet dragging on the floor, and his warm and heavy arms wrapping around your waist that you realized he had awoken. 

''Morning,'' you whispered softly. He mumbled, burying his face in the crook of your neck. You smiled and pressed a kiss on his messy red hair. His black roots were starting peaking out, but you merely smiled fondly. Kirishima had never lost his heartfelt and considerate attitude and his appearance had aged like wine; only growing better with years. You were as much in love with him as you were in your teenage years. 

''What are you doing up?'' He murmured into your neck. ''It's our day off.'' 

You smiled, before raising your gaze to the vanity mirror. Kirishima rose his gaze and meet yours in the mirror, his rubies for eyes making your smile widen. 

''I know, but I couldn't sleep anymore,'' you placed your hand on top of his, locked in front of your abdomen. He squeezed you lightly. 

''Somethin' on your mind?'' You chuckled lightly. Somehow, Eijirou always knew whenever you were feeling insecure or melancholic.

 ''Yeah...'' you sighed wistfully, before shaking your head in regret. ''But it's nothing.'' The redhead frowned.

 ''If it's on your mind, then it's something,'' he pressed a kiss on your cheek. ''Talk to me, babe.'' You swallowed a thick lump in your throat, before slightly craning your neck to meet his gaze. 

''Do you...'' you faltered for a few seconds. ''Do you think I look too old?'' Kirishima's eyebrows furrowed with disapproval and his lips slightly parted open.

 ''Of course not, Y/N- what are you talking about?'' 

You sighed. ''My face is all wrinkly now, it's so different and... I don't like how it looks. I feel so...old. I know we're bound to grow old, but for some reason, it's still hard to stomach. The wrinkles look ugly.'' 

He laughed in disbelief, before turning you around to face his gaze. He smiled fondly, hands cupping your cheeks. A few seconds in silence passed by before he spoke up.

''Baby- they don't make you look old, or ugly. I think they're beautiful. Fascinating to look at. It shows that you have lived,'' his eyes gleamed as he spoke earnestly. '’You’ve experienced many things, and lived to tell the tale. Life has blessed you with happiness, and it shows on your laugh lines.'' He paused and softly kissed both your cheeks before continuing. 

''But you have also endured pain,'' he murmured. ''I can see it in the wrinkles of your forehead, and the bags under your eyes, but that doesn't stop me from making love to you, does it now?'' He smiled mischievously and you felt your face grow warm.

''I love it. Because staring at your face is like admiring a beautiful artwork at a museum. Staring at the lines of your life, the good and the bad, and it makes me remember how much I fucking love you. Baby, you've been through hell and more- you've been thrown off your course so many times. And yet, you've kept moving forward, without a glance to the past. You rose when many others remained with the ashes.''

Tears welled up in your eyes as he continued speaking. The words flowing from his lips were a soothing balm to your aching wounds.

‘’I don't care about your wrinkles because I'm not here just to admire your face, I'm here because I love you. I love you, even with all the hardships that we've faced, my love for you has gotten stronger. Every time I see you, your legs tangled with mine while we're in bed, and you're sleeping peacefully, I feel like we're still in our U.A. years, and I'm still the young boy who’s heart would go into a frenzy whenever you even so looked at me.'' You laughed roughly, feeling your throat clog up from all the emotions. Kirishima simply chuckled, before enveloping your hands in his. 

He pressed his forehead against yours, staring at your face with a serene smile. Then, he pressed a soft kiss on your forehead, and you nearly swore to God that his kiss felt like magic; dissipating years of wrinkles of worry and stress. You preened under his touch, eyes fluttering shut. 

''So no, I don't think your wrinkles make you look old or ugly. You're still as beautiful as ever, sweetheart.'' You smiled silently, and Eijirou's lips met yours. They danced slowly, pleasantly, and washed a sense of comfort and familiarity over your entire being. His lips were warm and soft, as were yours. The kiss slowly ended as you opened your eyes, smiling at your husband.

''I love you, Eijirou.'' Your hands were pressed flat against his chest, and he grinned widely in response, sharp fangs on display. He suddenly grabbed you under your legs, hoisting you upwards and you yelped in surprise, legs tightening around his waist.

He stared at you with gleaming eyes, sporting the same crow feet your eyes bore. A single sentence left his lips before they met yours once again, chasing after each other in everlasting bliss. 

 ''I love you more, my love.'' 

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[kuromantic]

Whumptober Day 3: Insomnia

Matsukawa sat slouched in his seat, biting his lip compulsively to keep himself awake. He couldn’t miss another lecture by snoring through it, when he’d already succeeded in passing out like that four times. On days he didn’t fall asleep in class, he sometimes couldn’t go altogether. He was dangerously close to failing with the sheer lack of participation.

A mechanical pencil poked his back. It was Oikawa, peering into him with the same concerned face since high school. “Mattsun, you okay? Want me to call Hanamaki?” He whispered, placing his palm on either side of his mouth.

Matsukawa shook his head to signify a definitive no. He couldn’t bother Hanamaki for the third time this week, when he had stayed with him through the sleepless nights until he could exhaust himself long enough to pass out. He’d decided to power through the pain on his own.

His tender spots throbbed with each passing second. It was the only thing keeping him awake, but also the reason he was in the verge of fainting. His energy had been sapped until he was nothing but a shell of what he used to be in high school, the chronic pain taking away his ability to lead a normal, functioning college life.

Instead of attending parties and looking for a part-time job, Matsukawa spent his evenings curled up on a soft surface in pain or staring at the ceiling counting the sleepless seconds as his eyes burned into his head. And Hanamaki often stayed by his side, comforting him through every painful and ugly moment. A plethora of problems came with his initial condition, some of them being very unpleasant to experience and discuss.

Matsukawa’s brain was engulfed in a thick cloud of mist, and his joins roared with pain as minutes passed. A bead of sweat travelled down his back as he counted down the seconds until class would be over. He couldn’t deal with the pain and drowsiness for long, and he’d completely given up on writing his sloppy notes halfway through.

It took too long for the bell to start ringing. Matsukawa waited until a good portion of his class had already left before he even attempted to stand up, knowing he could make a show of himself if he tried to stand up all of a sudden. He kept a hard grip on the table, lifting himself into a standing position before Oikawa could offer to help.

“Thank you, goodbye.” Matsukawa muttered as he left the classroom for common decency’s sake, avoiding all eye contact with his professor. He knew how some people looked at him, and he preferred not to take it all in when his entire body screamed at him to lie down. He knew that many of his classmates and professors judged him for hardly being able to attend classes, no matter what his friends did to help the cause.

It wasn’t like he could help feeling sick all the time. He was the most bitter about the whole situation. He didn’t ask for a chronic illness that leeched the life out of him. He wanted to study nutrition and graduate with a decent enough grade to get his dream job. He wanted to return to the days when he had his life together.

“Issei, hey.” Hanamaki gently wrapped an arm around him from behind, as he walked down the hallway. He remembered to avoid his tender spots, as always. Hanamaki never blamed Matsukawa for having a health condition that he couldn’t control. He always calmed him down after he broke down crying or had an angry outburst because of the amount of pain he couldn’t escape from. He never complained about losing sleep or his limited free time. As selfish as it made him felt, Matsukawa wanted more people like Hanamaki in his life.

Matsukawa nodded at Hanamaki, lifting his hand slightly to attempt a wave. He couldn’t lift his arm all the way, but Hanamaki recognised his gesture straight away. “How’s today been treating you?” Hanamaki asked, whipping out a few coins to buy a drink from the vending machine. “I’m assuming you want the green tea.” He waited a beat to let Matsukawa protest his order, and pressed the button on the vending machine when Matsukawa said nothing.

“Thanks, Hiro.” Matsukawa grinned in satisfaction, affection outweighing the pain for a brief moment before the throbbing in his body came back again. Hanamaki loosened the bottle cap before handing the green tea to him, while he bought his own matcha au lait. “You’re the best boyfriend I can ever-“ he paused, wincing as spots started appearing in the side of his vision.

“Bad pain day?” Hanamaki said, without missing a beat. Matsukawa shrugged, but it really meant a yes. He did have worse days, but almost passing out during a lecture was definitely bad. Hanamaki immediately got his cues, taking a glorious sip of his drink. “Let’s go home. Does that sound good?”

“Oh, it sounds absolutely amazing.” Matsukawa sighed with a hint of happiness. Walking hurt, but he could make it to Hanamaki’s car if he could bear with it for a few minutes. He’d stopped using public transport after he threw up in a train one night.

Matsukawa leaned his weight into Hanamaki as they trudged over to the car, attempting to mask the effects of pain on his body. It exhausted him to know that people stared at him when he walked that way and tripped over his own feet, so he stared at his shoes tagging behind Hanamaki’s until he reached the door.

“You hungry, or just tired?” Hanamaki draped a blanket over Matsukawa’s shoulders as he started the engine and placed his matcha in the drink holder. Matsukawa shivered, gripping the warm fabric tightly and pressing it against his eyes. His head was starting to pound, indicating the beginning of a migraine.

“I just wan’ sleep,” Matsukawa muttered, squeezing his eyes shut to stop the light coming beyond his eyelids. It did little to help the pain, but he knew it was so much worse when he didn’t do anything about the outside stimulus. “M’sorry, Hiro.”

Hanamaki ruffled Matsukawa’s matted hair. “Now, don’t be saying that. You’re not feeling well, so you should be resting up.” He kissed the top of Matsukawa’s head, tenderly. “I love you, illness or no illness.”

Matsukawa buried his face into Hanamaki’s shoulder as soon as he stepped out of the car, only lifting his head when they were both inside the building. Their flat wasn’t too big, but cosy to sleep in and watch Netflix when Matsukawa was able for it. “Want me to get a heat pack?” Matsukawa groaned in response, holding up a shaky thumbs up.

He pushed himself under the covers desperately, pressing his face into his pillow. All of his pain spots thrummed, and his migraine had reached its peak. His sleep schedule was messed up, but he needed to take the rest before he became physically incapable of it.

When Matsukawa woke up, it was too dark to make out anything but sounds and textures. His side was slightly warm, from where he had presumably rolled onto the heat pack while he was asleep. He had no recollection of Hanamaki bringing it to him, but he had to thank him later.

About fifteen seconds of relief lasted, until his upper body started to burn intensely. He ripped off the covers that made the burning worse, hot tears welling up in his eyes. “Hiro,” he called out instinctively to the person that gave him peace, but he wasn’t beside him on the bed. Panic seeped into his skin, eliciting a sob out of him.

“It hurts,” Matsukawa gave a whimper, opening his mouth to let out a pained cry. What came out was more than he expected. A splash of tea and bile dripped from his hands that flew up last minute to contain the mess, and onto the bedsheets. The burn spread to his throat, scorching hot and dripping.

The light flickered on, and the sudden light made Matsukawa gag again. “Issei, shit!” Hanamaki was beside him as quickly as he appeared, pulling him away from the soiled blankets. “Breathe in, two, three, four. You’re okay.” Matsukawa sucked in a breath, then started to cry harder. “I’m sorry for not noticing for so long.”

“I threw up on our sheets. Again.” Matsukawa sighed in his self-defeating tone. He felt disgusting, no matter how many times Hanamaki would assure him it wasn’t his fault.

Hanamaki shrugged, rubbing his back sympathetically. “They were ugly anyway. You can take the couch, if you think you can sleep.” He handed Matsukawa a new t-shirt and shorts, helping him out of his stained ones. “Is the pain still really bothersome?”

“It’s been hurting all this week,” Matsukawa said bitterly. “I just want to sleep, Takahiro. I’m just so fucking tired, it’s killing me…!” He broke into a round of sobbing, cursing his uncooperative body to hell. The only escape from constant pain was sleeping, but he couldn’t keep his eyes closed when his body hurt so much.

“God, I’m so sorry Issei. I’d make it all go away if I could. You don’t deserve any of this,” Hanamaki whispered, wrapping his arm around his boyfriend tentatively. “I’ll stay with you until you can sleep. You don’t have to go through this alone.”

“You’re my boyfriend, Hiro. You should be having fun with me, not staying at home because my body’s being a dick.”

“Especially because I’m your boyfriend.” Hanamaki pecked Matsukawa’s cheek, handing him another heat pack. “Come on. Let’s try the sleeping thing again, yeah?”

[introvertllux]

Copia (Donald Pierce Fanfic) (Re-uploaded)

Enjoy this first chapter sorry if there are any errors I just sort of wrote this spontaneously! :) (LET ME KNOW IF YOU WANT TO SEE A SECOND CHAPTER)

 Chapter 1: The Start

       My name is Luanna Morgan. I used to just go by Luanna point blank, I never knew my last name I just had assumed I was never given one, I was once asked my Charles Xavier himself, you know… the head of that one fancy boarding school a long time ago. The school for mutants. Yeah, that’s the one. 

       Sorry, I was getting a little ahead of the story there, so anyways as I was saying I never knew anything about my life. I never knew my biological parents; I don’t know if I have any siblings either… the one thing besides my first name that I was sure of is that I was a mutant. Clearly I was dropped off at a school for mutants as a fucking baby but I couldn’t have shown signs that early on, could I? As I grew up I started noticing I was not like other mutants I was different. Now let me explain myself, I felt as if I was a copy. I didn’t have any unique powers of my own. It seemed to me as though I had the same powers as other individual mutants. For example, telepathy and flight like Jean Grey, healing factor like Logan, and shape shifting like Mystique. 

      As a kid all I craved was to have my own original power something no one else had, it was all I’ve ever wanted no toy or car could ever replace my desire to have my own power. I also struggled with my appearance. It was not until I was seven years old that I had discovered “my” shape shifting ability. Like I said before I never knew who my parent were so of course I couldn’t even tell you what they looked like, so that did not help me try and form an appearance I like. I saw that I was born with green eyes, brown skin, thick curly hair, so I left it I didn’t think I was ugly or anything of the sort I was just like any child, nothing less than…curious. Other than that, living with Charles Xavier and all the mutants were great. Until the war broke out.

        Everything was destroyed! So, I did what I thought was right at the time I ran away, I didn’t fight. Years went by and hundreds and hundreds of mutants died. We became extinct. Now, it’s the years 2029 and it’s a rarity to run into a mutant these days. After I ran away, I went all over the states, I stole and even killed to feed, clothe myself. As I reached my late teens and I decided that I wanted to make a life for self-something that didn’t involve stealing or murdering so I decided that I would get a job and go to school. So, I did just that, I majored in nursing. To my surprise it was quite hard for me to find a job. I searched high and low until… one day I was offered this job. It was for this company called Trasigen, I had never applied for then nor have I even heard of them at that time.

          I was just a young twenty-two year-old girl looking for something to pay the bills. So, I said yes. I was told that it was asylum that helps cater to young children with mental illness. I was assured that they would be healthily tested on so that we may find cures for their individual illness and be sent back into the real world to live as average people do. My job was to just feed, talk, and play with them. Although I knew I was much more capable than that I was a nurse for crying out loud. But nonetheless, I still did what I was told. I never did see the child during the afternoons or night at first I did not find it suspicious I just kept my mouth shut the pay was extremely good. However, one morning I checked up on one child his name was Rictor. I love Rictor he was such a sweet, nice, and brave little boy. My curiosity reached its peak that day.

  Whilst I gave him his breakfast I asked him 

“Rictor, where…where do you go when I leave” 

He looked at me hesitantly and began to shake.

 “Rictor?”

 I said as I placed my hand gently on his left shoulder.

  He flinched instantly. “Its okay sweetie you can tell me.” I said trying to reassure him.

 “They…they do bad things to us after you leave miss…bad things. They-they hurt us…”

 He said to me crying. 

I comforted him the best I could because look what they were doing to him to the other kids it was for the best these experiments weren’t to hurt them it was to help.

       But, I needed to know more so I spoke to Zander Rice the head of this whole place. It was not too often you’d see him so I was lucky. I demanded he tell me what he was doing to the children after I left, I even threaten to report him to authorities if he did not tell me the truth! I expected to be fired on the spot but instead he showed me. He told me the truth. The truth shocked me. He told me that those children having a mental illness was nothing more than a cover up. Zander explained to me that in the past the world was not yet ready for mutants to live among them so he comprised this facility of lost mutant children that they had found on their quest for mutants. 

           Zander said his goal is to stabilize their powers so that they can live normally among humans and everyone will be safe. I believed him, but I sure as hell I didn’t tell him I was a mutant for I feared he tried to keep me here too. After our long discussion, he told he that this would be my new work area, the lab department, I was ecstatic a promotion and I had only worked there for six months. 

“Of course Luanna if you are going to working in this department I must introduce you to my right-hand man, Mr. Pierce.”

 He said to me.

 I turned behind me, sensing another presence.  

 “Zander ! I’d say it’s quite rude of you to hid a beauty this great from me.”

 He said to me as he grabbed my left hand and kissed it.

 “I go by Donald, baby.”He said to me.                                                                           

 I was left speechless and to my own thoughts. I felt a shock jolt through my body as soon as his hand touched mine.                                                             

“My name is Luanna.”

 I said blushing lightly.                                           

“Luanna, such a great name for such a beautiful woman.” 

He smiled at me flashing his gold tooth at me.

 “Zander I sure we’ve kept you away from work… allow me to finish up the tour with her.” 

Donald said ad he wrapped his left hand around my waist.

To say I didn’t melt in his grasp would be an understatement. “So eager to whisk me away.” 

I said jokingly to Donald.                                     

“I have to be with Zander hidn’ a beauty like you away from me.”

 He said smiling at me again.  

 “He wasn’t hiding me, maybe I was hiding myself… waiting on a reason to come out.” 

I said as I flirted back just as hard.                                             

“Trust me sweetheart I can be your damn reason.”

 Donald said to me as he pulled my body close.

   He gripped both sides of my hips. I sucked in a deep breath as I just realized that one of his hands feels different from the other. I slowly slid my right hand down to his and felt his right hand. I closed my eyes and took in a deep breath, I felt his hand and just as I suspected it was not a human hand. It lacked flesh, bones, and muscles everything a human hand had. Could he be a mutant like me? No, I would have sensed it. I opened my eyes and gripped his hand. I looked up at him in a questioning matter.

 “What, this old thang? I had an accident a long time ago after the military, I quit and that’s when I meet Zander he fixed my hand for free. After I quit the military nobody even looked twice at me I was a honorary disgrace to the U.S. no hospitals would fix my hand. Nobody would he me, but Zander did.”

 He said looking at me with said eyes.

     I place my left hand on his cheek, well you’re no disgrace to me.” I said quietly. “Look I’m saying this from the bottom of my heart you are so brave and smart for doing this for these kids you’re helping them have a better like, you’re anything but a disgrace.” 

I said with a soft smile. 

“Thank you, sweetheart.” He said. 

    I looked into his blue eyes and then at his lips I wanted to kiss him. To tell the truth it would be my first one I had done nothing romantic or sexual in my whole entire life. My focus was to survive and those two categories were not options for me. Donald looked at me and then down at my lips. He then leaned down to kiss me, it felt right. He pulled away for a second and looked at me then he continued to kiss me and I kissed him back and we started making out. From there on things got very heated to say the least. 

   The next day I found myself in a bed alone with soft sheets covering my body. Yeah, we fucked but that wasn’t all it meant to me. I lost my firsts to this man, a man I knew for a couple of fucking moments. Maybe that made me a whore in somebody else’s eyes, the hell if I know but I know one thing I have strong feelings for this man and I’m pissed off he left me here. I searched for a clock somewhere in this god forsaken room. I found one handing in the darkest corner of a wall for what I could see it was 8:00 am, great now I have thirty minutes to find out where the hell I am and get to work. I quickly got up and searched the room for my clothes. I found them and put them on, I slipped my shows on and found my way out the door.

     Before I  can closed the door behind me I notice, that the outside of the room was all too familiar. This was the lab. Donald lives in the lab section of the building? I had a bone to pick with Donald so I there this new discovery towards the back of my mind. I had no idea where he worked. I looked all over the lab and I couldn’t find him. I searched and searched until I came upon this door that said ‘RESTRICTED AREA’ in capital letters. 

      I didn’t care, I twisted the door handled and it was looked. I easily picked the lock and walked inside the area. I looked around and noticed a lot of cells and smoke, this place made me feel so uneasy. My sensing was going wild but ignored the for now. I walked further until I was stopped. 

“This is a restricted area, I’m sorry Miss Luanna but I cannot allow you to walk any further.”

 A man with a loaded gun strapped to him said to me, he was built like a military man. 

“I just would like to know if you have seen Donald anywhere, I need to speak with him,” I said kindly to this guard.

 “He is handling something important at, he is out right now.”

 The guard said not looking in my direction.

 I felt his heart rate go up… he was lying to me.

 “I know he is here and I’m not leaving until I speak with him. So, your move.”   I said in a stern voice.

    Seconds later he moved to find Donald. I stayed put not wanting to look around this place any further. I waited a minute until I saw Donald approach me. I knitted my eyebrows together.

 “So you think you can fuck me and leave, great fucking swarming you left me with.”

 I said with anger in my voice. 

“Hey, hey I never once said that.”

 He said putting his hand up in defense. “

You. Actually. Think. I’m. Joking.”

 I said jabbing my finger into his chest with every word.

 “Never said you were darling. I think we should talk about this the room.”

 He said pulling me along with him out of this restricted area. 

    I could not believe this man, hell I couldn’t even believe myself for allowing this man to pull me back to that room. We made it back to his room sooner than I had thought. He slammed the door behind him as I folded my arms underneath my breast. 

“Look sweetheart I know you’re mad at me but there’s no reason.” 

He said walking closer to me.

 “Oh really? Because I can think of a couple go reasons off the top of my fucking head!”

 I yelled at him.

 “Look I didn’t fuck you and leave if that’s what you’re thinkin’ I felt something between us and I don’t want to let that go yet.”

 He said as he pinned me against the wall, the same on with that dangling clock.

 He uncrossed my arms and healed them to both sides of my head. I looked away from him “

Let go of me asshole!”

 I yelled.

 “I’m an honest man baby you think that if I wanted to hurt you I would have done it already. Look at me.”

 I didn’t look at him.

 “Look at me.”

 He repeated softer.

    This time I listen I stared straight in his eyes I felt as if he was telling the truth. He let go of my hands and I left them at my sides. He then placed both of his hands at the sides of my face and leaned down and kissed my forehead. 

“I want this.”

 He told me…and I believed him.

[squawkercr-blog]

Love, Violence, and those Outcasts too

I’m nothing but a smidgen of man crawling out of The Hole for adrenaline and fascination, wondering about the future for myself, my family, the girls I’ve fucked, my country, and humanity, although I will probably die only a few inches of knowledge further away from where I am now. If anything, life is dictated by a set of forces and circumstance, a plethora of things evading comprehension, but love and violence certainly are two of them, and nothing is more American than that. My understanding primarily comes from searching recollections for a cue on what will be, scanning for patterns and synchronization, Google, and what I read under the bluebirds belly.

Rumors were several cruisers had surrounded a home in the neighborhood earlier in the day to take a man to jail. He had arrived home on lunch break to slapping echoing throughout his home and found his wife getting fucked in their bed, so he grabbed a pump shotgun and chased the bare philanderer through the living room out the foyer to the open breeze, where he grazed his hind side with a righteous blast in the front yard. I was in elementary school when I heard my parents detail this story in the kitchen, and it’s always stuck in my mind. When another man’s love is stolen, there’s no tellin’ the lengths he’ll go revengin’. I feel like that’s something Johnny Cash would say. That’s part of the America I know, a series of anti-heroic warped mementos glorifying the rush, flirting with lost love, trying to make it independently— a country rooted to Slavery, the Gold Rush, Woodstock, and now a more modern hush— a paranoia of domestic implosion, a slender, unspoken fear you can feel on your nape in malls, theaters, schools, and Waffle House.

I originally caught whiff of this fog in first grade. My brother, Wesson, was born on September 6th, 2001. I held him while my mom slept in her hospital bed. And five days later two planes crashed into two towers, one into a shape, and one in Pennsylvania. I was in Ms. Angel’s class when the airwaves became visible. I didn’t know it then, but I was looking at the DNA of humanity, a composition of atrocities and beauty consistently shedding.

Violence honed in like a looping vulture as I grew. My father taught me how to shoot and took me hunting with him during the season. Eventually, it became my time. We woke up early and we sat in a shooting house on the edge of his friend, Cardew’s poppy field before the sun rose. When light came, a herd of whitetail meandered into the shade of the forest line, where the light kisses woods and beyond’s mystic. “Shoot that doe, right there.” My dad said, pointing to the middle of the herd.

Their heads hung in the grass, grazing. I jutted the barrel out the window and placed the crosshairs on a whitetail’s shoulder. My heart whispered in my ears. The whitetail lifted its head, chewing seeds. I pulled the trigger. The body fell. All the deer scattered and vanished in the forests cover. Smoke dissipated from the barrel into the wind. White fur peaked through the grass. “You got one buddy… You got your first kill.” My dad’s voice shook excitedly and he patted my back. “Not the one I pointed at, but that’s fine… You done good.”

We climbed down from the shooting house and walked up to limp doe. The dew-speckled the grass shimmered across the field. The sun singed the shade. Steam crawled from the bullet hole torn in the shoulder. “Go over next to it and lean down for a photo,” my dad said.

I walked over. The tongue tasted the grass. I kneeled, grabbed the ears, and put my knee on its ribcage. Blood spread through the mud. Two nubs rested on its skull barely poking through the fur. “I don’t think this is a doe,” I said.

My dad hung the camera around his neck and stood, speculating with his eyes squinted. I held the limp head up for him to see. “That’s a button buck.”

“Isn’t that illegal?” I asked.

“Yes, but no one will know. We’ll skin it fast. It was an accident. You did good.” He took the photo. I let go of the ears and the head plopped in the dirt.

My father magnetized the memento of my first kill to the refrigerator at home. Does that make me a murderer before I got to the age of ten? We ate the meat. The action stuck. I still hunt today. Was I taught cruelty, ruined by my father?

I grew up in the countryside biking to my friend’s homes on the weekends, and when we weren’t meeting at someone’s house we met at the local holding pond. It was our coliseum, where we exposed our elbows and let blood flow until a mom forced Neosporin on our open wounds. Dirt was always in my fingernails. I’ve lost most of the finer details of those days, but not the summer of fights. We all met in the holding pond in the heat and shine, and Feral held out two pairs of MMA gloves. “Who wants to fight?” He asked. Everyone wanted to. And everyone did.

“What are the rules?” Jackson asked.

“Just stop when you’re done,” said Feral.

I was paired against Skid. We stood across from each other and strapped the gloves around our hands. The insides were sweaty and damp from the other boys’ hands. Feral stood a few feet away on the boundaries of an imaginary ring and yelled, “Fight!”

I’d never thrown a punch, but the first time I connected one to Skid’s cheek was a whirlwind of exhilaration. I jabbed Skid a few times on the nose. Then he tackled me and pinned me in the grass. Sugar ants grabbed hold of my legs. I held Skid’s arms between my armpits so he couldn’t punch me, but he slipped out and raised his fist, eclipsing the sun, to come back down on my face with the other following suit. I bucked and squirmed taking hits. My ears turned hot. With a good throw, I tossed his balance off of me onto his side. I stood to him still in the dirt. Simply scared to be the punching bag again, I repetitively hammer fisted his face into the sod. Jackson pulled me off. Blood ran out of Skid’s nostrils and tears fell from his ducts.

“Whoa, we got all of that on camera,” said Feral.

Jackson asked Skid if he was okay and he nodded his head. Feral walked over replaying the video on his phone. He was also the only one with a camera phone at the time.

“Damn, Charlie. You got your ass kicked,” said Feral.

“What? Y’all pulled me off at the end.”

“Look at the video.” Feral said holding the phone out. It was nothing to be proud of either way. I walked over to Skid and leaned over, holding my hand out.

“All good?” I asked.

“Good.” Skid said. We spit in our palms and shook. My eye felt heavy. Feral told me I had a shiner. Later, the mirror did too. But appearance didn’t matter, the gloves switched many hands in the passing summer and we found independence in the holding pond through a fury of fists and late night games of tag below fruit bats racketeering through the night sky.

I had enough love from my mother to never be a worry, I suppose. She loved me through soccer. I played from kindergarten to the end of high school, addicted to going shoulder to shoulder, the glory from winning, the competition, the lack of restriction. I walked in games angry to play, unhinged in a weird, focused anger, all nerve, excitement, and instinct like a dog that catches wind of a jackrabbit. I was in a mixture of primal action and strategy, breaths, shouting, kicking, pushing, while my mom screamed like a banshee from the bleachers. She paid fat sums of change for me to play on a travel team, driving across the armpit of the Southeast to different tournaments on the weekends, paying for my food, hotels, gas, miscellaneous giant pretzels, and tickets to the newest Harry Potter movie. I became captain of the high school team, which she took pride in by spamming her Facebook friends with the news. After I graduated, she gifted me a quilt of old tournament shirts, a sentimental reminder of our time together.

And how did my upbringing affect me? I bought a revolver and put a scope on it, ditched my faith, and sold drugs when I got to college, always to think “sorry mom” when I touched the money in my pocket. Was I set up with ruffian tendencies? I was just looking for a free way to smoke and a badass gun to hunt with. I still heard my father’s advice in the woods— “Point the barrel up. It’s not a joke your holding. Don’t put your finger on the trigger unless you’re gonna shoot”— and his guidance in the Gulf of Mexico— “Look over your shoulder before you cast. Don’t reel too fast. Work the bait through the water.”

I never looked to maim anyone. Where’s the split? Do we have answers for those outcasts running amok with ARs, minivans, and Youtube channels? Or what about the man that wandered into Strozier Library with a pistol and a death wish as me and many other students studied for final exams? I don’t remember the names of the victims in Parkland, Fl, but I remember Nikolas Cruz. His blank gaze was deadpan on my screens for days. Why is the news selling his story more than the victims? Why is tragedy bought more than the elated punchline?

Now, I sit in the corner of restaurants so I can see the entrance, I look for exit signs in auditoriums, and I haven’t been to AMC in years, although that could be another issue altogether. I’m confused towards the rogue motives plaguing people. If we put a leash on the all the beast’s barrels and tentacles will we control it? I keep in mind the pound is always in business, some dogs being repeat visitors. Do we reverse after the candlelight vigil and memorial? Arian news anchors yell at the comedians for being plastic and ugly, although they are smiling and really being quite polite. No one understands the entertainment, but they’re waiting for it’s scheduled time slot. When will bullets be in a story below my feet again, and where will they hit? I am coping hopelessly. The attention is on hot metal and gunpowder, but someone is sniffling behind the walls as we speak. Listen. Did you hear the hammer pull?

[longboner]

toxic infatuation

Just got back from a wedding today. It got me feeling the full spectrum of emotion with only a downfall at the end, similar to the high of being on ecstasy followed with the deadly “come-down”. Unfortunately, this come-down is a lifestyle I’ve grown accustomed to.

It comes to no surprise that I’m incredibly lazy. Even when things are vital to my future, I’m known to slack hardcore, so it somewhat makes sense that I haven’t put too much forethought to my current situation. I’ve come to hate my life. Before I really felt it now, I’ve only ever used that phrase ironically. I hate this place, I hate my housemates, and I hate myself. Hate, hate, hate. I can’t even find things to enjoy anymore.

Being in a new environment felt invigorating at first, mostly due to a sort of honeymoon phase. It quickly came down. My roommate is a complete weirdo who also stinks and overall lowers my quality of life. I actively despise his presence because his existence just worries me. Another Chinese fob housemate is incredibly annoying too. He’s always so nosy and goes out of his way to bother me.

Sure I haven’t done anything to completely mitigate his annoyingness, but for my roommate, I’ve gone through hell just to get this guy to a seemingly normal state of being. Just the act of replacing a towel took over a week to solve. The inner machinations of this guy’s mind is an enigma.

Amazingly, these housemate problems are only icing on this shitty cake I call life. I’m in the worst spot of my life. Or at least that’s how it feels. Every year feels the same to be honest. I’m always stuck in this shitty hole. My self-esteem is at an all-time low. I look in the mirror and I hate the person I see. Every time I look at a picture of myself I physically wince.

There was a time in my life where I thought I was somewhat attractive. It even came with the perk of not having to know how to socialize with people because girls just came to you! Delusions get you pretty far. All that self-confidence went to shit over time, as I started packing on the pounds and caring less about maintaining my appearance.

It all really leads to now. I feel like such a piece of shit. Like how did I become such a huge piece of shit. My life just feels meaningless. I don’t remember any phase in my life where just thinking about being alive would almost jerk tears out of my eyes. To die or cry, I can’t decide if I want to do one, the other, or both at the same time. I have so many things I want to happen, but I don’t have the confidence to do anything. I want to fall in love and be loved, I want to be smart and sociable, I want to enjoy my life; I want and I want and I want.

I can’t even talk to people normally without feeling self-conscious about being awkward, weird, or just plain out uninteresting. It’s fine to tell someone to be themselves, but if they’re just an uninteresting piece of shit then who would want to talk with them? Sure you could make the argument that everyone is a piece of shit in their own right, but you can’t help feeling how you feel about yourself. Kinda flawed argument because you can gain self-confidence, but you get what I mean.

Talking to people legitimately depresses me. The moment the excitement in their eyes from meeting a new person disappears gives me such a deep sinking feeling of depression that I’m scared to talk to new people. The constant conflict between my fear of rejection and my yearning for companionship defines me.

And speaking of companionship, the one thing I love writing about is girls. When I was younger, middle school for example, I put girls on an incredibly high pedestal. Talking to ugly girls, piece of cake, maybe even add a little sprinkle of disgust in there too. But talking to girls I thought were attractive was a big no from me. I felt a massive divide between these two types of girls, and I immediately felt intimidated by them. It surely explains my storied history of relationships, seeing as, romantically or not, I’ve never approached any girl I’ve liked.

My life is built upon a growing list of unrequited infatuations. I never even saw them as human. To a spectator, it would look like girls were pretty much angels descended from heaven from how I treated them: untouchable and revered. Fuck, I had a huge crush on this girl I met in kindergarten that lasted the majority of my life. I barely even talked to her, it was too frightening. It was easy to just watch from a distance, I never had to do anything. Just her presence was enough to make me feel happy to be alive. After all, my mind literally couldn’t fit anything else but her.

Somehow, I didn’t learn about the merits of expressing your feelings until the end of high school. I had a group of guy friends and one thing they used to talk about was their relationships and others’ relationships. Needless to say, I was living under a rock. People were fucking each other left and right. Sure that sounds completely normal, but these were people that I actually knew. I never knew that people I knew were capable of this shit. Makes sense that I was living in a fucking cave if I thought people weren’t doing anything. I’m a human, and my desires could be shared with many, many others.

Actually, one of the guys in this group went out with that girl I’ve liked for over a decade at that point. Fascinating to hear about that person in your mind that you’ve put on a pedestal as some saint getting her ass plowed every Tuesday. Heart-breaking wouldn’t be the right way to put it, I’d say it was more of a soul-twisting, enlightening experience.

The real hard hitters are when a girl likes you and you completely fuck it up. In my senior year, a girl I knew in middle school messaged me. It was the old, “hey I used to like you” kind of spiel, so you already know she was looking for something here. My decline in self-esteem was already nearing its peak by this point, and I ruined everything that could have happened by making explicit the fact that I’ve become this empty shell of a human being.

And this feeling of mutual interest is something I find intoxicating. In high school I never really checked out girls because I was too obvious about it, and in high school, everybody knows everybody. I already put names and stories to these faces, and it was hard to sexually objectify them unless their bodies were fucking insane. When I met new people, I do that stupid movie shit where you’re always trying to steal glances from a girl and haha yes we met eyes hahahaahhhahaah. It’s a nice connection before you actually talk to a girl, since you almost entirely get rid of the initial factor of whether or not she finds you attractive.

The fear of rejection comes in many forms, so even after that preliminary ritual, I’m faced with the decision of approaching this girl. At this point, I’ve checked things off my inner list: she’s cute, she’s obviously interested in me, and I’m interested in her. All I have to do is talk to her, so why not? Well first of all, I’m a fat piece of shit. Every time I’ve talked to someone new, they almost immediately lose interest. And what if she’s not even interested in me in the first place? What if I’m misinterpreting these signals? God I’m so conceited to even assume someone as cute as her would even think to find someone like me attractive.

After a pep talk like that, it’s hard to think I wouldn’t approach her. I had that happen at the wedding. I noticed a girl there that was really cute, but I didn’t pass the initial ritual. Hell, there were near zero signs pointing to yes, but I thought she was cute so why not? Give it a go. But it got me thinking, I’ve already failed the ritual, so I don’t even have the comfort of that going before I go for it. Not to mention my hair is complete shit since I didn’t shower in the morning on top of my hair product being trash from Target. I’m a complete mess in a suit and tie without even a belt to hold my outfit together. God when I look in the mirror, some ugly fat disheveled retard is looking right back at me. At the end of this stupid monologue, I told myself I already failed. Every single time this happened in the past, I always ended up doing nothing and it all was stupid overthinking, and it just happened all over again.

Long story short, I thought she was too cute for me to approach. What kind of girl do I think I deserve? If I “settled” for a girl, wouldn’t that be disingenuous? I keep beating myself up for just existing and thinking I deserve someone that I like. Not to be that kind of guy, I see plenty of ugly guys going places and getting girls way out of their leagues. Logically speaking, they gotta work for their pay, so they’re doing something right.

Leads me to think that there’s some form of merit to being a fuckboy. Living solely to put your dick in some vagina could produce some results. It’s like bruteforcing; you’re mindlessly practicing over and over just to get some result that has no emotional significance to you other than sexual gratification. Maybe if I became a fuckboy, I’d get friends, albeit they’re like-minded in that they’d be fuckboys too. Maybe I’d be more confident, well, hopefully since at that point I’d be telling myself I’m confident everyday until it became reality.

I had a conversation with my cousin who told me, in short, that I just sound like I’m bored. I lose interest easily because it’s hard to stay interested in people. He told me to at least act interested, and act like I care. Fake it til you make it right? At that point why not be a fuckboy? But honestly there is merit to that advice. Nobody wants to talk to a wall, but if I’m forcing myself to be interested, would it make me happy to push this relationship further if I’m just going to continue to force myself to act like that? Maybe I’m being a hypocrite with that other shit I have going on.

Anyways, tired. Dunno how to end it, it’s gotten super long. This is something I think about a lot, so I’ll be writing the heck out of it.

[pettyandprettyblog-blog]

Let’s Talk About Taylor Swift

It’s about time we talked about the fake, money-grubbing, white supremacist, anti-feminist, Katy-Kim-Kanye-Clavin-John-Jake-Nicki-Spotify-Apple fighting, man-eating, snake, sheep, selfish bitch, (did I miss any descriptors?) that is more commonly known as Taylor Swift.  What’s that, you say?  You’re sick of hearing about her?  You’re tired of seeing her fake face all over social media?  Oh, honey.  I’m sorry, but she is just getting started and I am so here for it.  Allow me tell you exactly why.

Personally, I was never a huge Swiftie or “stan” (I literally just Googled what “stan” meant.  It means overly obsessive fan if you wanted to know), but I always listened to her music.  In eighth grade, when the Fearless album came out, of course I listened!  “You Belong With Me”, “Love Story”, “Fifteen”--those songs spoke to me as a fresh adolescent, ready to embrace the world of social mayhem one mismatched converse shoe at a time.  The boy you liked but never liked you back, the boy you loved and knew you were going to marry, the blind hope that your freshmen year of high school would be charming and romantic and pure and lovely and not just awkward and disappointing (SURPRISE!! No one escapes the fresh hell that is the first year of high school).

But I digress.

The Old Taylor Swift, I guess that’s what people are calling her now, could tap into your soul.  She somehow knew what you were suffering through and could sense your deepest dreams and desires.  Even those of us who weren’t “stans” could be caught singing along to “Mine” during the car ride to the movie theater with the girls and Kayla’s mom in the big, black suburban.  We all knew every word.  I had friends who went to her performance in Maine at a church after finishing her filming of a music video.  It started raining and she kept singing.  It was a whole thing with the rain and such.  I had other friends who went to each one of her tours from the flagship Taylor Swift Tour to the new and improved 1989 Tour.  I personally attended the 1989 Tour in Massachusetts.  Gillette Stadium was filled to capacity with tens of thousands of screaming and crying men, women, and children.  Even I shed a tear during her throwback to “Fifteen”, standing with my best friend since sixth grade who had seen me through the good, the bad, and the ugly (not necessarily in that order).  Taylor would stop and look around the stadium in awe.  Her face, projected on the massive LED screen, would make direct eye contact with every one of us and then she’d transition into her next banger.  She made you feel like she knew you.  She’s talented, I’ll giver her that.  It was certainly an experience.

Along the way, I feel like I always noticed people clapping back at her but it never really registered.  I always brushed it off as another celebrity feud, another meaningless piece of exploitation or mindless positioning by the media.  When the whole thing about Taylor and Kanye’s “Famous-gate” happened, I remember thinking it was funny.  I, too, called her a snake.  Better her than me #taylorswiftexposedparty (hiss, hiss).  I thought Kanye and Kim were being kind of mean, but I didn’t care.  Not that much.

Not until now.

After the drama with Kanye, she disappeared.  Radio silence followed for approx. three whole years until the $1 Lawsuit.  Maybe some people kept track of her movements or her rare appearances in public places, but I didn’t.  I listened to 1989 just like a lot of people, a slightly bigger fan than I once was, thinking it was her best work to date and wondering what kind of music she would do next, IF she would do anything else.  I also wondered what kind of scandal she would be apart of this time, what version of Ms. Swift would be revealed in the chaos.  Then, just a few weeks ago, she deleted EVERYTHING.  Website?  Gone.  Instagram?  Gone.  Twitter?  Tumblr?  Gone, all gone.  “IT’S ALIVE!!!”  The world screamed.  The words of Lord Baelish from GoT echoed in my ears, “Chaos is a ladder” and Taylor Swift is scrambling up that shit.  She stirred from her hibernation.  What was she going to do now?  Was she hacked?  And she’s back on Spotify?!

Then came the snake.  An actual, bonafide snake video that Taylor posted on Instagram.  People were taken aback to say the least.  General excitement, theories, awkward laughs, shrugs, silence, and comments about how the snake-dragon was kind of scary, followed her posts.  I, on the other hand, was jacked.  I sent updates to like all my friends and would sit and refresh Taylor’s Instagram for a few minutes at a time just to make sure I wasn’t missing anything.  After all, time makes the heart grow fonder.  Or is it distance?  Idk same thing.  The album art popped up with Taylor looking edgy in black and white.  The classic New York Times-I Feel Like Pablo-esc font and color scheme graced the cover’s presence.  “Wow,” I thought.“ Reputation. She’s going after Kanye with this one.”  The too-tight choker, the ripped sweater, the dark makeup, slicked-back hair, this Taylor looks different.  Unprecedented.  Badass.

Taylor Swift released her newest single, “Look What You Made Me Do”, last Friday.  A few friends and I stayed up until late Thursday night to get a first listen.  We drank wine and streamed Ye Olde Taylor Swift while we waited for the single.  When it dropped, the universe lost its collective shit, Spotify kept cutting out, and we listened to the song four times in a row.  Two of my buddies didn’t like it.  They said that the New Taylor was bad, that they missed the Old Taylor Swift.  Her music was better.  I disagreed.  This is Taylor Swift.  What’s to differentiate Old from New?  She just is who she is.

After listening to the song about five-thousand, three-hundred, and twenty-six more times and then watching the following music video nine-hundred times more, I realized this: a lot of people were super upset about this “New Taylor Swift”.  I know.  Groundbreaking.  But then I thought about why, just like my liberal arts education wants me to, and I came to a conclusion.  People dislike change.  Especially those who feel as though they have a personal stake in whatever or whoever is changing.  People loved the Taylor that tapped into their souls and understood their plight of loving people who love them or don’t love them or kind of love them.  In “Look What You Made Me Do”, Taylor Swift focuses on other people in a completely different way and she mostly does it for herself, to build herself up.  That selfish bitch!  But wait.  Doesn’t Nicki Minaj do the same thing in Monster?  What about Katy Perry in Swish Swish?  How about all the countless male artists like Justin Bieber, Kanye West, Drake, etc. who do the same thing?  All of them are different stylistically but they all tend to put across the same message, don’t they?  That message being: Fuck. You.  Taylor would hide little tidbits like that in the past, but her current one has neon arrow signs, black leather, chainsaws, whips, and Grammy’s that get that message across like a flaming garbage fire.  She is finished with everyone’s bullshit and she will do whatever the hell she wants.

I also have my own theories.  I don’t believe in a “New” or “Old” Taylor Swift.  I believe in Taylor Swift.  Each one of us changes and develops in different ways as we get older.  Our viewpoints can/should change, our personalities shift, we move places, we meet people and lose old friends, and, hell, we can develop allergies to gluten and lactose.  So what if I said one day, “No, sorry. The old me is dead.  She wasn’t allergic to anything before but now she can’t eat ice cream without getting the shits, so new, shit-stained me is here to stay.”  Charming, I know, but ultimately untrue.  I’m still who I was in literally every aspect.  I’ve grown.  I look older.  I have different opinions and thoughts.  But I’m still me.  My image is simply what I choose to put forward to other people.  I exist on a continuum. I didn’t just stop one day and become a whole different version of myself.

Going along with the whole image theme, let me enlighten your asses about a little thing called business acumen.  Taylor Swift is a BRILLIANT businesswoman.  She times her music and tour releases for optimal moneymaking and can extend her reign for up to three years worth of Taylor tomfoolery.  There is also something to be said about musicians and their use of imagery to create hype and gain followers (much like a cult leader tbh).  But this is why I’m so into her right now at this moment like never before.  The whole premise of “Look What You Made Me Do” is how imagery and bad press (although Taylor Swift takes bad press and turns it into record breaking hit singles) has driven her to her peak of success.  “Oh look what you made me do!  I’ve won Grammy’s and lawsuits.  I have millions of dollars, loyal fans, a squad of friends, and two lovely cats.”

Since she was a mere fifteen year old girl, singin’ in Nashville, people have been all over her for one thing or another saying she can’t be that nice, or look that surprised all the time, or date that many people, etc.  “Look What You Made Me Do” is her way of saying “you know what?  I’m never going to be perfect in your eyes so why should I try?  I’m a product of what you all think of me and that will never change so I will become the stereotype and throw you all for a loop.”  In “Look What You Made Me Do”, she quite literally just BECAME the headlines.  I know this is a very different artist who operated with a totally different message but I’m going to do it anyway.  An 80’s pop star/model/actress/general badass and current goddess named Grace Jones had/has a similar plan of attack.  If you don’t know who she is, you should Google her ass immediately.  She pushed the boundaries of stereotypes and what people thought of her to the point where she became the stereotype and that was her whole thing as an artist.  Sounds familiar right?  (*cough* Madonna *cough* Lady Gaga *cough* Nicki Minaj and so many others *cough*).

We saw the start of this “Become the Stereotype: Grace Jone’s Method for Financial Success” in 1989.  “Blank Space” portrayed Taylor as a man-hungry, black-widow queen who lured unsuspecting males to her massive mansion only to chew them up and spit them out like a piece of Juicy Fruit Gum after five minutes.  And again, we saw it in “Shake It Off”: the girl can’t dance for shit (although it seems like she been taking lessons because she busts a fuckin’ MOVE in the LWYMMD music video) but she can sure mom-shimmy with the best of em and she does what she wants.

I’ve taken up too much space, but the moral of the story is this: don’t judge someone by what they did when they were younger or what you think they should be.  If I were judged that way, people would forever see a pockmarked sack of hormones with little talent but above average hand-eye coordination.  Let Taylor be.  She said that the Old Taylor couldn’t come to the phone right now because she’s dead, but she is certainly, very much alive.  We criticized her for not being “country” enough.  Then we judged her for not being “pop” enough.  Now we’re judging her for being a “snake” and presenting a different set of thoughts and sounds.  Just because she was young once doesn’t erase everything she’s said, or done, or sung, but she’s evolving.  We’ve been telling her to change her whole life.  Let her do it now.

It’s what we all wanted her to do anyway.  

Wasn’t it?

-A