#forcing myself to use all these stickers i’ve been collecting for fucking years
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new years doodles
mizu… need i say more 🤭
actually i do say more: 🔊 WATCH BLUE EYE SAMURAI MAYHAPS
#thank you tumblr for having the soundtrack#everyone shut up#she’s so fine#oh yeah the stickers are just gonna be a thing now#forcing myself to use all these stickers i’ve been collecting for fucking years#what better place than a sketchbook#blue eye samurai#mizu blue eye samurai#bes mizu#bes fanart#mizu#rottmnt#rottmnt mikey#rise mikey#doodles#traditional art#Spotify
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Joselia Hughes
Joselia "Jo" Hughes is a Black 1.5-generation Cuban-Jamaican-Guyanese-American writer and artist from the Bronx. She lives with Sickle Cell Disease (HBSC) and ADHD.
Where did you find the 3rd grade poem? How did you decide to include it? What other collage or found art/poetry do you like?
The 3rd grade poem was from a collection of student works, Witch’s Brew, released by my grammar school, Horace Mann. I have two issues from 2nd and 3rd grades. Both of my works were quartered in the “Fantasy” section. There was another section called “Feelings” and, I think, The Sky more accurately suggests a feeling. Scratch that: it explicitly discusses a feeling. This misidentification by academic administration/curatorial staff (which doubles as a political demonstration) is telling. I think it explains a lot about the root confusion between what I have felt/feel to know as Experientially True versus what I’m told to know as The Truth. When considering the emotional and material lives of Black femmes, we must remember Black femmes have been historically disallowed, disavowed and dispossessed of creative virtuosity. Too often, we are strapped in the monolith of stereotyped caricature dictated by the manifested destiny written into commandments/constitution of misogynoir. Black femme virtuosity is reappropriated, regesticulated and worn like some earned bloody body wisdom by the Opps (Oppressive Forces). While I didn’t have those terms as a child, I experienced the consequences of misogynoir in conjunction with dis/ableism and classism, which aren’t separate entities but necessary vices that amplify asphyxiation. Is disabled Black femme loneliness only permissible when classified as fantasy? That shit don’t sit right in my spirit. I also used the poem because the title is Witch’s Brew and my zine, Heartbeats But No Air (HBNA), is a kind of exorcism. A few years ago, I pieced together that my maternal grandmother was a covertly practicing Bruja. With the widening reclamation of ancestral wisdom by BIPOC, in an effort to decolonize our existences, I was tapping into that tender tendon of wisdom.
Understanding my grandmother’s practice reminded me that she wanted to name me Darthula Verbena (daughter of God, enchanting and medicinal). I started referring to myself as DV, my pre-name, and inspected my childhood. That’s been a remarkable endeavor. I had to teach myself to play again. Through play, I learned how to feel. Learning feeling meant learning the qualitative and quantitative nature of the labyrinth of my thoughts. Once I learned some of the turns of the labyrinth, I could feel to know how to navigate the terrain without fear and engage in the rigorous study that’s always characterized my central self. Play is a code switch. I often think of code switching as a means to subvert/refigure power differentials. To hide in plain sight by retooling “seeing” to perception/sensing. How much are we perceiving/sensing? How often do we mean perception/sensing yet default to “sight”? Perception/Sensing adds dimensionality that isn’t always articulated with and through “sight” and “seeing”. Ralph Ellison’s identification of “lower frequencies” and J. Halberstam’s configurations of Low Theory do this work. I toy with these multiplicities in the zine. I work low to the ground which means I work close to my heartbeat, my central drum. I work meta; I go beyond. I like to sprinkle codes, tickle clues, tuck in questions, sew in wisdoms so I know what I’m doing, why I’m doing it, who I’m doing it for and to always remember the fun of FLiP (Feeling, Learning, iPlaying).
Some of the works/folks who’ve helped me FLiP are Dana Robinson’s meditative and piercing collages; Zulie’s mind bending, heart wrenching, time suspending zines; Nikki Wallschlaeger’s I HATE TELLING YOU HOW I REALLY FEEL; Seth Graham’s tattoo practice/paintings/unbounded love of outer space (they’ve done 3/4 of my tattoos); Amanda Glassman’s razor sharp poetry and encyclopedic curiosity; L’Rain's music has literally helped me scale the side of a mountain and carried me through hospitalizations; KT PE Benito’s multidisciplinary liberation praxis and collaborative friendship; Zoraida Ingles' holistic creative prowess (a conversation with her is why Heartbeats But No Air, as a title, exists); and Marcus Scott Williams’ writings/video/sculpture work that readily embraces the persistence of ephemera. This isn’t an exhaustive list—I have a solid library of books and papers and zines and tunes at my crib—but, genuinely, I’m inspired by everyone I’ve had the honor to encounter.
There are themes of love and race and beauty and culture and self-transformation in this book. Paired randomly, some pieces may not make as much common sense together, but as a whole, it feels powerful and cohesive. What was the structuring process like for this chapbook? Each zine is different, right?
It is one zine. I find it cool that you consider HBNA a chapbook made up of many zines. The word chapbook had never crossed my mind. I walked into the process with DIY zine logic and HBNA was printed using office photocopiers. I think the feeling of cohesion you mention is what happens when you witness a lot of parts of one person. In this case, you’re witnessing a lot of different parts of me, my thoughts, my actual labor. Whole is the goal ‘cuz people are whole. I am whole. I consider HBNA a single revolution of myself— one big twirl around a fire, a sun. I was in a very strange place. I’d alleviated, with the help of acupuncture and CBD products, a significant amount of the chronic pain I’d been experiencing since August 2014. I fell around love with someone and rose in love to myself (thanks Ms. Morrison and Ms. Stanford!). I was in an unfamiliar painless trance. I created and tinkered with all of those pieces during a very short period of time from Summer 2017 to Summer 2018. HBNA was originally named Girl Pickney (the prose pieces were written under that moniker) and before that NggrGrl (a nod to Dick Gregory). I wrote the poetry in an even shorter period of time—March to July 2018—and the poems are actually part of a full length collection that I wrote in those four months. I didn’t decide on the layout of the zine until I was with two friends formatting it for printing two days before I was going to read at The Strand and sell it. I kept all the pages, the puzzle pieces, in a folder. A lot of book structuring, for me, is based on emotional knowing—when to slap, when to pound, when to breathe, when to confuse, when to stun, when to anger, when to tell, when to soothe. All of my structuring decisions are fly about to get swatted dead but fast enuf to fly away first intuitive. If I’m channeling that intuition, I know I’m in running in the proper heat and lane.
You were in an MFA program at one point. How does this chapbook contrast with your style from before that program and during that program? Did that program have an effect on your writing? This doesn’t feel like the most MFA-y writing, which is why I ask, and which I mean as a compliment.
I’ve attended a few schools. I’ve completed fewer than I’ve attended. Until my late 20s, I was shy and desperate for people, those noun-verbs, to stay. This desire for people to stay meant I spent an inordinate about of time and energy relegating the difficult parts of myself to the margins of the margins and continually stepped into social/academic shoes that did not fit. HBNA was the first fitting of the bespoke shoes I can now emotionally afford to make. The first copies I sold had typos! I misspelled my own pre-name and that’s exactly what I needed to happen. It needed it to happen because I’m full of mistakes and yet! I try! I understand HBNA as a radical refutation of embarrassment. Depending on when you purchased a copy, you’ll see I used white-out to make a few corrections. No two zines are the same; only 80 copies exist. I’m printing 12 more copies (they’ve already been claimed) and then on to new pastures! The zine was printed in three different places (two offices I don’t work in and a local printing shop) and I was lugging around 800 individual sheets of paper that I stapled, numbered, indexed and decorated with stickers by myself…standing barefoot on the carpet of Staples in Co-Op City, listening to Ryo Fukui’s Early Summer on repeat until I finished and then I jetted to the Strand to read. HBNA was how I knew to embody my physical, emotional, intellectual, and spiritual labor. I’m a goofball with zany ideas, an indifference to external definitions of relevancy, sickled cells and a lot of chaotically grounding love. I write for myself first. Of the school lessons I did receive and learn, there weren’t many I didn’t later disassemble to rebuild, freak unfamiliar or completely misunderstand. J. Halberstam calls this “failing”. Rejigging failure has been such a gift to me. How wonderful! A failure AND still happening? Fuck yeah! I was a wildly uneven student whose knees buckled at mere thought of rigid academic authority. After years of shame and refusal, I can finally admit I am an autodidact. I intentionally get lost and navigate in and to the direction of my own senses. School didn’t teach me to write for myself and that’s who I always have to write for. If that’s selfish, so be it. I am my first audience. If I’m sus of me, then me and myself got foundational problems. I know my writing is non-institutional and that lack of institutional alignment and support, while scary as shit, pushes me to make and take risks to believe beyond the immediate demands/plans/remands of whatever external force I am facing. My writing is constantly colliding into A New I can’t predict. I’m fully committed to unfolding, unraveling, for curiosity’s sake.
What’s a typical day like for you?
My day to day life is as predictable as it is unpredictable. I am formally unemployed and have been for awhile. I live on very little cash and am kept afloat because my mom is a gem and hasn’t kicked me out. My days are 100% influenced by the weather and I spend a good portion of my time negotiating how to minimize the occurrence of vaso-occlusive crises and other complications from the disease I have, Sickle Cell. Between January 2018 and January 2019, I was hospitalized three times. Each hospitalization was about a week long and recovery took significantly longer.
Here’s a sketch of what I call a really great day: I wake up before 10. If the night’s sleep was especially restorative, I can comfortably rise at 8. Depending on how my body feels, depending on how much pain I’m enduring, how much fatigue is shrouding/clouding my faculties, I decide if I have the energy to take a shower. I do the bathroom routine, get a cup of orange juice and take my medications (Endari, sometimes Adderall, Folic Acid). I use the first hours of wakefulness to connect with loved ones via text-phonecalls-DMs and browse the internet for headlines-news-updates-new smiles. I wear my fits comfortable. I call comfort my uniform—upend normcore to body sensible—sweatpants/leggings, pullover, one earring (although I’m leaning to pairs again), handy dandy baseball cap and sneakers. I keep it simple. If the weather is aight—if it isn’t too cold or too hot and if precipitation is mostly at bay and air quality isn’t extremely poor—I go outside and get some living exercise. When able, I take extremely long walks. Once I walked over 50 miles in a week! It’s my preferred form of meditation. Walking/body movement grounds my ADHD symptoms more effectively than stimulants, strengthens my body for potential Sickle Cell episodes and satiates my unyielding need to feel connected to other people. I’m at my best when outside and happening. Illness can create an inescapable interiority. Inside reminds me of the hospital and my relationship with the hospital is, at best, fraught. Walking allows me to follow myself. I engage in peek-a-boo with babies, witness accidents, smile at strangers, duck the eyes of leering people and learn how to love differently too. I go to playgrounds and swing. I take photos and notes. If I’ve got a lil cash, I ride the subway for fun. I poke into shops, admire graffiti and other street signs. I have one woman dance parties on sidewalks. I rest on park benches and read. I pick up grub from hole in the wall spots—you know—I live my life and embrace as much as I can while centering kindness and gentle flow. The walks are my favorite part of my job, which I do not have. When I return home, I rest then get to crafting which I sometimes call spelling. Crafting/Spelling can be anything from adding to my I-Box, spitting verses from the abstract (poetry), spinning short stories, detailing journal entries, doodling, painting, knitting, researching & studying, dancing & stretching, bugging out on Twitter or reading. My bedroom is my studio so I work small yet widely. I intentionally provide myself with many targets so I can a) keep my thoughts and feelings flowing b) find the connections between all of my actions and c) mitigate the stress that sits in the heart of a lone project. I am a multifaceted, multifauceted being. Why not turn on all the taps?
The more long form prose pieces in here have the feel of nice punch-y flash fiction. Are you writing a fiction collection without poems and collage in it? I want to read that, too :)
Hahaha! You’re onto me! Yeah, I am writing another book of poems, a manifesto zine and a collection of fiction. I’ve been writing a collection of fiction since 2012. I had a lot of the difficultly writing the fiction because I was too attached to the title, the characters I conceived needed to grow up with me, and I experienced many years of unremitting and improperly managed mental and physical illness. I was holding onto and telling lies. The shame woven into those lies kept me silent and scared. All of that shit needed to get integrated or dropped. I couldn’t enter the prose/fiction I’m currently writing without learning how to survive myself and the world and bottom-belly-believe in survival too. I’m getting there— healing with primary, secondary and tertiary intentions. Won’t say much about the fiction pieces of than: ~15 stories, lyrically speculative fiction, capital B Black, disabled, and queerfemme parables of creation and destruction and maintenance. My website is in flux but I do readings and performances. Hit me up on Instagram , Twitter or email me at [email protected]. Might take a minute for me to respond because I’m thoughtful yet questionably organized. Now go play, ya’ll!
Unintentionally wrote a poem in the interview. I call it A.B.B in Lieu of A.B.C
beyond
fly, about to get swatted dead but fast enuf to fly away first,
always believe beyond
#joselia hughes#heartbeats but no air#zine#chapbook#poetry#fiction#nonfiction#writing#adhd#sickle cell#verse#abstract#stories#speculative fiction#parables#walking#walks#DIY#ralph ellison#Bruja#prose#MFA
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LA Times
I went to a Halloween party in October and I wrote down my experience in my phone.
A month or so ago I had made the decision that I wanted to attend a Halloween event and ultimately I decided on scream in Edmonton. I had bought the pre-sale ticket without actually knowing who was playing since there was no lineup details but this didn't concern me because I just wanted to go have fun and listen to some jams with cool people. I had calculated the cost of bus and hotel and came up to roughly 700 for a comfortable trip with all the best food/mixed drinks at the show. I had already had my own party favors so this was one of the reasons why I wanted to keep it local in Alberta. But then the lineup got released and I only seen one artist that was potentially going to be "okay" after listening to their SoundCloud. I was feeling very on the fence and on top of that, the party only went until 2am which was making it real hard to justify a long boring ass bus ride for a short night of mostly lame edm music. (No offense to the edm enthusiasts out there)
After some Olympic tier mental gymnastics of being so sure I wanted to go to Scream, I got curious and went to the handy dandy Resident Advisor and looked at shows in Alberta then Vancouver, even Toronto. I didn't see any events I was interested in and I left it at that. Then I got the brilliant and brave idea to possibly venture outside our borders, and a few clicks later I stumbled upon louisahhh's upcoming events and noticed she was playing a show along with boys noize and tbh, it was a no brainer. I had to make this happen. After a few calculations, it was literally going to cost the same as going to Edmonton (600 cdn) but with more spending money required in American. So naturally it was 💯 percent the logical choice. The event was called Minimal Effort which was an all techno show with 4 stages. Like holy shit! This event was most definitely calling my name.
I had told family and a few friends and some them ask me why? I've already vacationed once or twice this year so why a third time? I really don't know why, there is no reason. I just like doing these things. It is true that given the current situation, I better to avoid these such things. but the idea of letting someone's words prevent me from doing something so fun and exciting yet so doable drives me mad. In fact this very idea is what makes it so evident that I am in control of my life. I create the reality I live in and why should I let others shape it for me with manipulating opinions. I would argue I am not living to die, I am dying to live. Personally I don't think it's very odd or strange to do exactly what you put your mind to, so it is in such a context that I wanted to make this trip. I hope people see what I do and feel encouraged or empowered. If I can do it you can too. But everyone isnt me and is open to their own opinion.
So my passport is lightly damaged, a few months after I got it I washed it lol whoops. I've been using it since without incident and it expires pretty quick in early 2019 so I felt confident I will make it on the plane and I did! I flew air Canada btw and their service was very meh. There was also some meean turbulence, other than that it was boring. Planes suck ass and I can't sleep on them. I had bought a roaming plan so I can text and use Google maps like a real Traveller. This was the best decision of the whole trip actually, so get ur phones working guys!
Upon landing I was very nervous because I literally didn't want to pay a lot of money to get downtown where my hostel was. But I asked this Tony hawk looking guy he gave me the rundown and to take the skyaway bus which was like 9 dollars. Hella life saver! I got downtown and got Subway spicy chicken wrap at Union station. Now I taxi'd to my hostel... It was near or in the ghetto. When the man dropped me off it was dark and these yuuuge dogs were jumping at me from the other side of the fence, confirming my suspicion that this is in fact the ghetto. I find the property next door and these dudes are smoking outside, I got their attention and they said to go upstairs and talk to "Champaign". In my head I instantly thought a black drug dealer... But then I was greeted by a slim easy going japanese dude with a samurai ponytail who spoke poor English but still had a friendly vibe. Turns out he is the cook/caretaker. I came on the night they had a dinner party that they hold once a month. Pay 10 dollars and you can eat the food that he was cooking. Champaign cooked for a army and I felt like an asshole because I literally came with a belly full of Subway. I had a few snacks and met the other Traveller's/Tennant's that were residing here. In that exact moment I felt like this is exactly where I needed to be. I was not alone and I was amongst other human beings like myself and we were all brought together by an unknown force all so Champaign can go to bed we knowing no one went to bed hungry. I actually passed out after midnight. Kinda lame but tbh I was wiped out from that hectic almost frantic trip to this hostel. The toppest compliment I give to any hotel/hostel is that this place had the best mattress, apparently they were italian (I asked lol).
Saturday (party day). My goal in the afternoon was to adventure and have a decent meal but it was getting off to a slow start due to me not figuring out where I wanted to go. I was recommended business district and looked up reviews but it was all meh. I want that yummy and probably unhealthy local food locations. The guy also said to take an Uber. Which I was like uhhhhhh iduno man... Maybe. Then as I was just getting ready to leave, this korean guy named Sam asked where I was going and he said "you should check out Korea Town, it's dope!!" And I looked up places and he said "no go here!" And I was like okay. Then he said he'll come with me and show me around after he finishes the laundry. Like a good lad I waited and in between he looked at me and whispered "hey do you do... Stuff" and there are a lot of implications there lol so I had to ask like what? And he pulled a little baggie and my reply was "yeah I like stuff" then did it and the kid lit up like a Christmas tree. He was mad hype folding the towels and then him and Champaign blazed downstairs.
One of the most fascinating yet mundane happenings was that I installed Uber on my phone. While those guys were blasting off I went ahead and gave the Uber a good historic first whirl. Little did I know my life was about to change in that exact moment. In 2 minutes after selecting where I wanted to go the driver was there. Holy shit! The cool part was that I only paid 8 dollars to go to the opposite side of the downtown. I wish I can expand on what I did, but tbh all we did was just walk and talk. It was great because it made me feel more immersed in to the city. Kind of like you had to be there type of experience. Then it was food time, he pointed out a Korean joint and I got a meal and he didn't order anything and then like 10 sides came and then 6 more little plates for the main dish. I told Sam he can have some because this is absurd. As we were eating, I slowly gazed around the place and everyone was just a little bit chubby. Sam told me Koreans don't waste their shit and eat as much as possible... Plus it's America lol. After eating like an animal and totally ruining my white shirt we went to get smokes and the line at 711 was almost way too long. Sam pointed out that everyone was powerballin' it... Then upon paying for the smokes and soda I said "one Powerball please". I had caved in and joined the race. We took an Uber back and the driver was a Mexican mom. She was cute in a grandma kind of way and we talked about there should be a "good news" radio because it's so scary listening to the radio. We laughed and laughed some more while Sam had fell into a Korean BBQ coma.
We get back to the hostel, Sam goes back to work and I have about an hour to get ready/nap before the party. Sam asked if I needed party favors and I took him up on his offer, because I hate asking at parties because it's so sketchy. At this point of the trip I realized everything is going 110% right. Sometimes I feel like I am just lucky because I always find myself in surprising situations and that now it's almost normal to me. My body and mind was totes ready to party, then I almost forget... I have stickers!!! I always have some in my bag and I grabbed at least 50 of them. People always love that shit, plus it makes everything more fun by adding another layer to the party... Lol get it? Layer?!? Aaanyways the one girl showed me how to work the door lock, basically it's an app that registers my phone to the deadbolt... What a game changer! Technology huh?! What a cool place! Then the Uber came and took like 4 dollars to get there, I think I can get used to this LA lifestyle if I ever had the chance. The dude dropped me off and I was proper nervous, made sure to hide my shit good and have my ID, ticket and game face ready because there was like 8 security in front... Also I am a pretty nervous person in general, I may seem cool and collected on the outside but on the inside I am a scared little shaking Chihuahua barking internally.
So I finally made it! All my hard work payed off! The weird thing was the guy didn't even look at my ticket, just my ID. Any Yahoo off the street could have walked in. Butt fuck it, I am here and that's all that matters. Imediately I get a beer... 8 dollars. The shit I put up with tbh, the price I pay for fun is worth it but my goodness is it painful. I wander around the theatre and it is nicely large and open. Not hot!! Can you believe that? The other stages weren't bad, too much to take it all in tbh. I settled at the main stage which was the first one you sent me when you walk in. The first artist playing was a chick, she played some good jam actually so I quite enjoyed her set. The only thing that led me to believe she doesn't actually make music and only is a DJ, was that every track she played I knew. Which is expected from shows like this but she didn't play anything "original", it's not a bad thing but if I was to critique her I'd be disappointed because I am the type of person to be wowed and I like to seek new material. I went for a smoke and met this couple dressed and Vegeta and Bulma, hella rad. They were cool, totally forget their names tho. Met this Mexican dude too who was a little short had crazy contact lenses and had a friendly chat. he was rolling which was cool because I wish I was, I even asked him but he was fresh out. The party started picking up too and louisahhh's set was about to play and I am 3 beers deep so I gotta step up my game. And guess what!? It's Modelo time homie!! Met a dude in a headdress and took a pic with him to piss off other people who are against that bullshit, as long as they are respectful about it I think it's awesome... so @ those who are trying to be offended on purpose, fuck you. Went to the bathroom and dropped my Modelo and the worker watched me do it and didn't say anything and swept it up. I went back to get another normal beer because the Modelo was 9 dollars. They mind as well get the lube ready because they are already fucking me dry. I had run out of party favors at this point because I only had a little but that's not why I am here so I accept that fact and I am just glad to be here. The dancefloor was sticky but as more spills happened it was less annoying and more people came, it made it more bearable lol if that makes sense. The sound was definitely worse at the front of the stage so I found that sweet spot 15 feet back in the zone where the speakers were pointed. 7/10 audio, it's no pk system but hey I don't mind too much! Louisahhh was stepping in and she had a super neat outfit going kind of future/madmax like. Her hair was excellent if I might add. I've always wanted to catch her set but never had the chance until now. I could say it was what I expected, which was basically the same set I've heard her play on other sets I heard from her. It's not a negative but mental gymnastics aside she could have spiced it up some more by playing new shit, like I said. I am just glad to be there.
After louisahhh played her set Boys Noize had stepped in and he opened up with that one song he always does lately lol I forget the name but let me tell you, my body was ready! The "wares" I had bought off Sam at the hostel were already used up but I didn't need any, my body was tingling from the energy in the room. I met the maddest group of lads in the crowd and I gave them a handful of stickers to help me distribute. They loved it! I was also doing "rogue" work by slapping stickers on people without them knowing. The funniest ones were the Dealer and Wasted stickers. The lazers and lights in this place were magnificent. Production was nearly top notch 7.8/10. it's a theatre but they used it as well as they could. I want to describe this experience more but going to a party is the purest chaos you can experience. It almost can't be explained, only witnessed. I honestly love being social at these events. In real life I can be very shy or unwilling to exchange or talk with others. It pains me really, I just love people and I want to make genuine friends but I feel so reluctant to meet new faces because I don't really click that well with others. I know that I am unique and sometimes strange, I am sometimes don't give a fuck but I tend to be antisocial because of paranoia that other people won't like me when they get to know the real me. When I attend rave parties, I tend to feel more free and open because I know the people in attendance are also there for the same reason I am. Obviously this may or may not be a healthy life style but it is very fulfilling in a very emotional way. I may not have that many real life friends but when on the dancefloor everyone is my friends lol that sounds like the gayest shit ever but it's true. Anyways party is still bumping and it's 6 am and I am wiped out, boys Noize played some of the best tracks I heard at awakenings I noticed. Kind of the same shit really. But it was LA so more mainstream crowd. I leave the club and it was so fucking foggy outside, like a horror movie. 2spooky4me. I hit up Uber like 4 blocks away because it was just too crazy in the front of the theatre. I got this younger driver about my age and we talked about McDonald's lol she was fun then I get back to the hostel hungry as fuck. Eated bread and smonked some herb and hit the hay.
Next morning I hung out in the common area. Watched friends and watched Champagne die from smoking weed lol he was my favorite. Cool hostel tbh very home like. I had few hours to myself before my flight so I decided I wanted to go to little Tokyo. I had to say goodbye to the hostel, the guys downstairs gave me a donut lol and I got into the Uber. The guy talked about the dodgers game like I actually give a heck about sports. He dropped me off at the entrance of Little Tokyo. This was actually the most wholesome part of my trip. The first sight of the Japanese style outside mall was kind of exhilarating because LA is mostly just the same everywhere. The buildings and decorations were very refreshing and it was a feast for the eyes. Such beauty. As I continue to explore the small but busy space I feel this feeling of wonder and excitement, it made me feel less hungover if I am being honest. The world I was seeing in that moment was powerfully moving and rich with happiness. I wanted to stay forever. In the centre there was an open space where an older Asian man in a scooter and an array of instrument s in front of him. He had a little sampler Casio and hi hats and maracas. It was like a scene out of the movies where you see those cute moments because he was playing to this couple from China that were standing in front of him and you can hear them talking to the Man in between singing lol, they gave him money to play that song from toy story "skies of blue" or whatever it's called and then at the end he pulled out the maracas and hit them on the cymbals with style. I filmed a little bit of it actually. I ended up eating sushi and chicken katsu outside on the deck and just enjoyed the experience. Alone. Fucking sad actually that I couldn't share my emotion with someone else but I really enjoyed the place. I shop in the anime store and gift shop, got a few things for friends and family then had to rush to the airport. I got to Union station and shuttle to the airport right on time. Slightly early since the flight changed to a later time. I walked around and had some beer and wings then got on the plane. Nice cozy airport experience. My dad picked me up and he was working in siksika that week so I slept in his trailer. It was cold as shit and I was late for work the next day like nothing ever happened lol. Just a quick weekend trip, no big deal. Travelling is so so so much fun, I want others to read or see my adventures and feel somewhat inspired to take more risks and go on their own adventures. Its good to open your eyes and free yourself of your surroundings, especially on the reserve. There's a world out there and there's more to life than the bullshit drama that happens here. I look at the world in wonder and amazement, I know it's a sick and sometimes dangerous place but I make it my world by appreciating it for what it is. Everything is kind of all right. Sometimes I wish I didn't exist but I don't want to die either, doing these things remind me that life can be great so I hope I don't come off braggy or I am acting "too good". I make minimum wage yet I still do all this cool stuff. It's not hard to do, just literally set your mind go and do it . I chase my dreams while others think "what if" lol but yeah do more fun shit guys!!!!
#travel#los angeles#america#little tokyo#boys noize#louisah#airport#journal#adventures#rave#party#friends#strangers#bread
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perso-rant underneath and at first i intended it to be more light hearted but welp cant dive into myself without digging the bad stuff so just ignore this as rambling.
(idk if the cut works on mobile so as usual blacklist #ichapersonal to skip it , its quite long)
its night and im noisy and all but yknow part of the reason m/lb is such a healing show for me and i rewatch it every couple of days?
i cry everytime M.arinette's family is on screen pretty badly bc i get so envious all the time. i hate my shitty family (and often can relate to A.drien's ressentment) so just seeing such a /healthy/ family being often shown litterally brings me to tears. im like C.hat in the animan episode when he stares at the family picture with a sweet smile (another detail that stupidly make me cry who allowed th i s)
like. i dont relate to A.drien's relation to his family but some of the emotional effects is often a moment of "welp. mood." and being kinda sad /for him/ even if i can feel it for myself too. but then with M.arinette's family everytime they get to be on screen i realize how happy this sort of dynamic makes me and it makes me /so envious/.
like my mom is an artist and an excellent cook but she always barred those interests from me bc it was /hers/ and it was for /her ego/ and this attitude just killed every curiosity i had and remplaced it with a complete unability to care.
i used to bake as a kid but my mom was always shutting down everything i was doing, and if i was asking for help or recieps she would just tell le "it's a secret just watch " and never letting me know tf she was doing so i stopped lmao. everytime ive tried meals since it was only for myself and with a hard mocking from family and mom saying she had a better recieps and i should just let her do so i dont even try it often. (moreeven now that the kitchen is opened to the living room and they're super judgemental when im in it)
i was messing with drawings and paints in her workshop when i was a kid but she would always point out flaws and take my tools to correct it without telling nor showing me how and it killed it, it took me until my 14yo to start doing mindless doodles and then my breakdown when i was about 20 to seriously try back to draw and do art and try different tools (until my right hand made it impossible for me to hold a tool and the failure still feels yknow)
i wanted to sew things and make clothes (at the time for my dolls) but my mom was never letting me touch the tools (that we HAD since not only she made clothes but her mom actually had a fabrique shop. like. right next door. i think it became part of my mom's trauma hating her mom and refusing us to connect with her, more so with what happened when i was 7 and we lost contact with them but still, the damn irony. and i cant remember if my grandma ever let me close her sewing material but i was a damn kid after all) so this is another thing i didnt pursue
i wanted to pick up music (piano mostly) bc my uncle is a musician but my parents never wanted to invest in that because they already gave a piano to my sister (that i wasnt allowed to use) so ye that was dropped lmao
and i started to write when i was about 11 and it was that /one thing/ i didnt need help for from anyone, completely self taught, with my own ways and tools, and my parents were always dismissive of it, never listening to me, always telling me it wasnt important, that i should focus on something else, and after other circumstances that added to that i dropped writting around my 17/18yo and it had been painful to even try to write again since.(i came back to writing around my 20yo a bit before my breakdown but after it happened it started to die out and i felt exhausted and stopped after a few months and since then i've never been able to pick up writing again ay.)
(and im not touching the obsessive elements bc like- the fact she does it for her crush makes it different, but the sort of things she does? taking pictures and putting them everywhere in her room when she hyperfixates, making overcomplicated schedules and such? i litteraly do that with fiction. i made a freaking timeline for this show. i am currently working on organizing codex from d.a and an approval guide for christ sake. and im not talking about my multiple fandom shrines in my room and the fact i legit have one for m/lb made from pictures found on merchs.
or also the fact i have a lot of passions i'd love to share and seeing M. play video games with her dad for exemple makes me so bitter when all i get is backhanded insults from my parents when i bring it up.)
So sometimes i see M. and part of me is just in awe, loving everything about her. the other part of me tho... i feel... a bit robbed? like she's such a creative kid, she's incredible and she inspires me everyday, and i cant help but think how i would have adored her when i was a kid. (im not even kidding, as a kid i requested my mom a costume of black cat for h.alloween and a l.adybug costume for the carnaval. i have pictures of that at my dad's place sadly it kills me. also my room when i was a kid used to be covered with l.adybug stickers like. HELL my mom doesnt care about my interests but last year she bought me a M/LB winter callendar (bc its been years i was mentioning i wanted one, a selfish whim but oh well) and i had a huge double take bc i was certain she didnt remember me talking about this show- and she did not. when i asked her why, she legit told me "because she reminded me of you as a kid with your pigtails your obsession for l.adybugs". like!! i cant even stress how kid!me would have adored this show and especially LB./M.) (the pigtails too this time i have proofs around there i used to carry them all the time until i was bullied for it at school. (bullying at school instead of good friends also adds to the difference in question tbh lmao))
there is something so... weird into seeing the parts of yourself that you cut yourself from in a character, and see that the main difference is because of how the family (and bullies) treated those elements so drastically differently.
my family was always neglectful but differently than A.. the things i relate to with him is how he specifically still holds on hope that his father will do better at least just for one day and his reaction when he's left down saying he's just used to it. and like normal, not every kind of abuse are the same and all but i still relate enough to feel sad.
but M. is always a whiplash of feelings like i could have been this sort of girl in a better environment.
at 13/14yo she was already making stuff up, baking, designing clothes, doing art, she was doing so many things, even forgetting the superhero part. she was being happy being a creator at her pace and with encouragement. at 13/14yo i was starting to show concerning signs of d.epression because i was trying to handle my parents's divorces and the multiple trials that followed that /i/ had to handle by finding middle grounds, allowing some of my father's blackmail to avoid worse, and by litterally having to collect infos from mails everytime to prove against some of his arguments to the judges. and my sister refusing to talk to us for a year, which caused us basically to feel very bad thinking of the eldest sister who ran away from home, and having to handle my father's harrasment and emotional abuse of constantly belittling me (fuck this was the age he legit told me i would probably end up a p.rostitute so ye!!! fuck that!!!) andd the fact my mom was also falling apart from all of it on me and i was always supposed to cheer her up while i was having a hard time in a new school and new environment away from the very few friends i had and again feeling abandonned by my sister which freaking sucks after already had suffered that from our eldest one.
but M. makes me cry every. goddam. rewatch. its like maybe the ultimate wish fufilling story of just how i would have loved my family to be. of how i think i could have turned up.
and that realization hits so badly everytime.
there's a thing with my hyperfixations where i'll always find a way to tie it back to my traumas. i dont know if im pulling straws, or if the things are there. for having watched m.lb when it came out unfazed and only got hit with that realization upon rewatching- i feel it was more me realizing "there is something there that is touching me more than before" and having an introspection to get it.
and i think the difference is that- before my breakdown the characters and stories i related to where the eternal optimistic-yet-damaged "never give up!" type of characters. When things started to go downhill to my breakdown and since then the fictions that talked to me the most were all dealing with guilt coming from toxic environment that werent your fault per se but you pierceved that way. my way to relate were to characters who felt deeply connected to their guilt (peak being c.loud of f.f7 that even topped it with the deadly skin disease making him lose will to live (because ye that happened. still hate to watch out for that so ye), and memories issues, you would have told me at 13yo when i first watched that movie that this would be what i would relate to him about 7 years later i would have laughed at your face.), which translated with pushing people away and self destructing habits.
and i know i watched m.lb the first time around that time, when i was 20/21. and that may be why i didnt feel that. that my concerns were too elsewhere to realize that. That i was too focalized on how i felt like i failed by suddenly breaking under the pressure, having all the things i've kept burried kicking me out at once, and that i couldnt afford to be a burden to anyone. and it translated with me loving characters like that because in most cases their friends ended up reminding them of what was important - and sometimes just getting frustrated about your fav being as dumb as it forces you to pull yourself back together lmao. not always working but it was there.
now im 23. i cut ties with my father for about 3/4 years now, with all the shitty things that ensued out of the last trial where he sued me and his still-happening harrasment (sometimes silly sometimes scary). My mom and step dad are suffocating me more and more everyday. my health had become so disastrous i cant even manage to go school or find a job. And more than ever im frustrated and angry.
and i think it may be a shown of recovery? perhaps linked to therapy? of while i still have guilt of falling apart- /they/ are the reason i fell apart. and I'm yet to have proper apologizes for it. i grew furious at my family. of how much i feel robbed.
lately im so angry at everything i lost, was taken of, stolen childhood all of that- because of my parents, mainly. (hell even the bullying at school - in primary school it apparently started bc of gossips about why my eldest sister ran away from home, and in middle school it was first bc my parents insisted on sending me to private school where i was an outcast. which then had me truly embrassing the outcast persona that had made it impossible for me to be at peace in the two others middle schools i went to. highschool saved my social life tbh).
i think it's therapy and recovery that is making me shift the blame and feel so angry at them. so bitter. and suddenly i see in an innocent kid show a "what could have been". same starting personality, different people to channel this.
and this is. frustrating.
but it makes me love it even more. idk if its driving anything else than ressentment but at least for the time of an episode I'm in a bubble of a.lternative universe where i can forget about my life and feel satisfied at once.
like finding a piece of myself that i deliberately broke and burried to never think about it again, and realize far later how it missed to the whole, and how damaged this piece is now, but still is.
and there is something incredibly healing about that. i would never have thought there would be this much healing out of this anger and yet satisfaction. what a strange feeling.
fiction is funny that way. the things people can get out of it to deal with their own psyche are so different one person to the next.
it's just so weird for me to go from "i relate to the horrors this character went through" to "and fuck those horrors. let me think about what could have been if this didnt happen."
even moreso knowing i had this piece of fiction before and didnt approach it that way. there's a time and a mindset for everything. apparently now was the best mindset for me huh
.......
so ye apparently i cant like something like a normal person and have to go on about how it connects to my deeply rooted traumas lmao.
anyway it's been eating me up for weeks now and it's 4:45am i have absolutly no impulse holding me back. if you sat through this piece of work im sorry. just needed it to get it out of my chest.
i'll go back to hugging my cheap-yet-lifesaving c.laire's l.adybug pillow now
good night o/
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“don’t cry.”
mild trigger warnings for anxiety/panic attacks.
i'm so excited about this one. in honor of it being the last day of pride month...enjoy.
33. "don't cry."
He shouldn't be here.
He doesn't know why he is, really. It doesn't feel right. There are stingers burning through his skin with every new step, a sea of razor sharp talons that dig themselves into his flesh and cut, rip, tear, why are you even here why did you think this was a good idea it wasn't worth all the shit it wasn't worth this you shouldn't be here you don't belong here you shouldn't be here you don't belong here-
His heart is pounding. He can still feel the bite in his cheek, the pinpricks of pain that blossom throughout in short bursts. Everything hurts. He doesn't know where it starts or ends. It just hurts. It all hurts. Everything hurts.
This was a bad idea you made a mistake it was bad badbadbad he hates you he fucking hates you you have to go back there and he hates you what the hell are you gonna do what's gonna happen from here why do you have to be so stupid why couldn't you have just kept your damn mouth shut why are you like this what the fuck is wrong with you-
He's seen the event posts for parades on Facebook. They're going on all across the country, in all of the big cities and a bunch of smaller ones. Los Angeles, Seattle, Philadelphia, New York City, San Diego, Houston...
Houston. He remembers scrolling through the LA event listing and then navigating to Google right after, typing in 'Houston Pride', feeling his heart race, crossing his fingers as the page loaded.
He remembers feeling like his chest had opened up, like the floodgates had finally released and everything was able to pour out. He remembers the tears, feeling them on his cheeks before he even knew he was crying, it's here, it's happening, you can go. You can go there and be with them and feel safe and loved and accepted for who you are. You can go. You can be who you are. You can go.
He remembers how badly his hands shook as he dialed a number, pressing the phone against his ear and tightening his grip, please, tell me what to do I don't know what to do tell me what to do I'm so scared please please please-
Aws, hey, it'll be okay. You're gonna go out there and have so much fun, okay? Let them paint rainbows all over you and shine so fuckin' bright in the middla that street. It'll be okay. You'll be okay.
It'll be okay.
You'll be okay.
It'll be okay.
You'll be okay.
His cheeks are still wet. He blinks, feels the liquid transfer onto his eyelashes, and swallows. The lump in his throat is massive. The tears are burning. Sun is beating into his back, dampening the back of his shirt and encompassing him.
There are rainbows everywhere.
The street is covered. Flags are hanging from telephone poles and street signs. There are vendors with carts wearing the colored pieces of fabric as bandannas or bracelets or even capes. People are selling them. All kinds of flags, all different colors of the rainbow.
He sees a traditional rainbow one. There's another with only pink, purple and blue. Purple, white, grey. Blue, yellow, pink. White, pink, blue. Various pinks and reds. There are so many different flags so many different colors there's so much he doesn't know everyone's laughing and talking and hugging it's so loud there's so much noise and people laughingtalkinghugging why did you think this was a good idea you don't belong here you can't fit into all of this and most importantly who the fuck even said you belong here-
"Hey dude, you good? Whoa, holy shit, that looks bad..."
He jumps at the voice, reaches instinctively for his face and curses loudly when his fingertips make contact with his cheek. "Ow, fuck," he chokes out. The tears have crept into his voice. It feels like he's one giant ache, like all the liquid has been collected in a balloon behind his eyes and every new tear is it bursting the tiniest bit. It's only seconds from popping and bursting and spilling out everywhere.
He forces his head up.
He has blue eyes. Blue eyes and light brown hair that's parted on one side, a choker around his neck and a loose tank top draped over his body, feet shoved into Asics and necklaces hung around his neck.
And there are rainbows on his cheeks.
It looks like paint.
There's a stripe in every one of the colors, streaked across both cheeks. There's another flag hooked onto his belt loops. He's reaching a hand out, stretching forward and entering Awsten's space to follow his hand to his cheek.
Awsten bites his lip and takes the tiniest step backward. "I, i-it's fine," he says. His voice cracks. The tears are coming faster now, swelling and pressing into his skull. It feels like the pocket has created a ridge, been there so many times that it's a rut to sink back into now, a reminder of the survivor he never wanted to be. "S-Sorry I b-bothered you."
"You didn't bother me," the guy replies. The words are soft. He's smiling. Awsten jumps when the guy reaches for his shoulder. "Oh! And I'm Geoff, by the way."
"A-Awsten," he stutters. "I-I'm sorry." He turns his head, drops his gaze to the ground and shuffles his feet. Trying not to draw attention to yourself and you do this. Of course you do. He's a big deal. You're nothing. You don't belong here. You would've never fit in. You don't belong here. You never will.
"Hey." Geoff takes a step forward and turns to fall into place beside him. "It's okay. You're okay, I promise. You wanna come with me? I brought a first-aid kit, but it's back over by my tent."
"You- your...tent?" He shakes his head. "N-no, it's fine, r-really, you don't have to- I'm okay, just-"
"Awsten." His voice sounds different. Soft. Gentle. Warm. "You're not bothering me, I promise. You're hurt, and I wanna help. Is that okay?"
He nods. He can't say anything else. It feels like tumbleweeds are rolling across his throat. He's swallowing against sandpaper. It feels gravelly, like he just ingested a scoop and every piece is scraping the lining of his esophagus as it travels down.
Geoff's smile widens. Awsten follows him toward the right side of the street, where a white tent (with multiple rainbow flags printed on it) sits. There's a folding table with a box on it and an assortment of stickers and pens and pins. Everything has the flag. They all say some variation of 'get tested!'. Is that- could that be for...
"Our tent's dedicated to HIV," Geoff says from behind. "Spreading awareness about it and urging people to get tested. So many people are scared to, 'cause their family might find out or their partner might find out, y'know? They don't want anyone knowing. So we offer completely confidential testing in hope that it'll help them come forward." He smiles and reaches over behind the table, pulls a small box from underneath and sets it on the white surface.
"Do...d-does everyone have a tent?" He asks. Of course they do. You can't just come and blend in and expect to fit in why the fuck did you ever think that of course you don't belong here of course it'll never happen- see? this is why this is why you'll never fit in this isn't for you it's not your place it's not-
"Nah," Geoff replies. He pulls an icepack out of the kit and hands it to him. "It may not be that cold, but...it'll help a little bit. Your face is really swollen." Awsten reaches for the bag with shaking hands. He swallows heavily, feels the saliva trickle down and sit heavily in the pit of his stomach. "We- I work at the LGBT+ center downtown. It's like, a safe space for people. We've got beds and a really nice game room; it's kinda- a place for the people who feel like they don't have one, y'know? We get a lot of kids who've been living on the streets. Kicked out by their parents with nowhere ta go. They come to us. We give them a place to stay and hold workshops for them, help them finish up school or look for work, whatever they wanna do." He shakes his head. "So me and the other guys that work there set up these things at Pride, try and spread awareness when so many people are coming together. S'the best way ta get the word out."
"That makes sense." He breathes out. Breath. One more breath. You're fine. Everything's fine. Breathe. "S-Sorry, I'm just kinda- I dunno. Being here. It's a lot."
"It is." Geoff nods. "Sometimes it's a lot for me too, and I've been doing this for a few years now. Is- is this your first one?"
"Y-Yeah." There are the tears again. He swallows, tries to press in the sob and keep it back. It's your first one and you already don't want to be here. It's your first one and you're crying. It's your first one and you're a fucking mess. "I-I-I'm sorry. I know I look like a m-mess. I wanted to come so b-bad, but my dad, he j-just..." He trails off and squeezes his eyes shut.
He feels a pair of arms wind around his chest. His skin prickles at first. His heart is racing. But Geoff hugs him tighter, pulls him closer, and eventually, he lets an exhale slip.
"It's okay," Geoff is saying. "Please, Awsten, I promise, everything's okay." He doesn't move his arms, but takes a tiny step backward. Awsten lifts his head to meet his eyes. "Did- he did this to you, didn't he?"
He nods. He bites his lip and stares at Geoff and nods. The sob tears out of his throat before he has a chance to stop it. "He wasn't supposed to find out and Jawn was supposed to come with me but then his mom made him stay home and I wasn't gonna come by myself and then I did and I don't even know why it's so big and there's so much- I shouldn't even be here this wasn't for me I don't know why I came I-"
He hiccups and chokes, gasps out a breath that pokes a hole in his chest and opens it up, lets the pain flood through and collect. "I'm so stupid oh my god I'm sorry, I-"
"Whoa, hey. Awsten. Hey. It's okay." Geoff grips his shoulders. "Everything's gonna be okay, I promise. But you gotta breathe, alright? We'll do it together. Breathe with me, c'mon, you've got it."
He tries. He focuses all the energy he can muster on doing it, concentrates his gaze on Geoff's rising and falling chest and tries to copy the motions. It takes him longer and each breath is shorter, but the hole in his chest finally feels like it's getting smaller.
"There you go." Geoff squeezes his shoulders and smiles at him. "You okay?"
"Y-Yeah, I-"
"Please don't say you're sorry." Geoff's voice softens even more, if that's possible. He's barely audible at this point. "You don't have anything to be sorry for. You have everything to be proud of, Awsten. The first time is the hardest. You never know what to expect. Everything is nerve-wracking. And for you...you're here, anyway. After everything that happened, everything with your dad...you still decided to come. Do you even know how much strength that takes?"
"He didn't want me here." His face feels hot. His tongue is too thick, too big for his mouth. "He doesn't want me to be gay."
"It doesn't matter what he wants," Geoff tells him. "Or what his hopes and dreams were for you. Or what he imagined. None of it matters. This is about you. And you want to be here, don't you?"
"I just," he sobs. "I just- everyone just- they all fit. They look like they're supposed to be here. And I, I-"
"You are too."
He stops. His heart is racing. It's like someone hit the pause button on the world. He stops. He freezes. Everything stops.
"I-I-"
"You belong here, Awsten," Geoff says. "Just as much as me, or her." He pauses to point at a girl who has painted her entire face in pink, blue, and purple. "Or him." He moves his hand to motion toward a guy wearing the blue, pink, and white flag as a cape, being hoisted on someone else's shoulders. "Or anyone else here. Today's not about who belongs and who doesn't. We're celebrating. We're celebrating who we are. Every day, we're proud, but today...today we get to be as loud as we want. Today we get to shut down this city and fill it with rainbows and remember that who we are isn't abnormal or broken or wrong." His voice sounds thick too. "We're celebrating, today. And you deserve to celebrate too."
...
"Do you know what flag you want?"
"Huh?" Geoff's voice startles him out of thought. He jumps, rests his palms on the table and presses into it, and takes a breath.
"Have you figured out what flag you kinda- identify with?" Geoff holds both hands in the air. "It's totally okay if you haven't! I just- I think you'd look really pretty with a rainbow, and I was wondering if there was another flag you wanted instead."
"N-no, I don't, I didn't, I-" He starts to say. You fucked up you fucked up you're supposed to know these things you fucked up you fucked up you fucked up-
"Don't cry." Geoff steps out from behind the table and moves in front of him, reaches for his hands and squeezes them tight. "It's okay. Breathe. You're fine, I promise." He grabs for the box. Awsten follows his gaze, watches him unlatch and open it, and sees the tubes of- is that liquid lipstick holy shit-
"Otto said eyeshadow would be easier to carry, but this is brighter, y'know? It looks prettier." He picks out the red and unscrews the top. "You're okay with this, right?"
"Are you gonna..."
"Like me," Geoff motions to the rainbows on his own cheeks. "But only if you're okay with it. I don't wanna make you uncomfortable. It's okay if you're not ready yet."
"No," he says. "You- please. I want them."
"You're gonna look beautiful."
...
Awsten blossoms.
After he's capped the purple tube and replaced it in the box and made a big show of fanning him, repeating, you look so pretty, Awsten. They came out so good. It looks so fucking pretty, he starts to glow.
He gives those rainbows a pink background to stand out against. The smile stays on his face like it was permanently pressed there. He's beaming, grinning from ear to ear, all pink and soft and warm looking, like the ice in his cheeks is slowly starting to thaw and spread to the rest of his body. It's all starting to crack and break and melt underneath his skin, tear that layer away and let him truly start to bloom.
It doesn't go away.
None of it does. His hair is still a mess and his clothes are still rumpled. There are still these dark purple marks, these indents, under both his eyes. His face, his cheek, is still swollen. Part of the pink is coming from that. Geoff knows that. He knows that the side of Awsten's face that's darker, pink mixing with purple, is the same side that has tiny lines of red that combine to form the shape of a handprint.
But he's smiling.
This kid, who was shaking and crying and stuttering like crazy only twenty minutes ago, is now smiling so hard his cheeks are pink. His eyes are wide and bright. It's one of those open-mouthed smiles, one where he shows off his teeth and grins with all he is, one that lets out all the housed light and warmth like a layer of fairy dust that coats everything with a nice sparkle.
He's smiling.
...
He follows Geoff.
The parade begins. They choose a spot fairly close to the front. Geoff waves and cries out things he doesn't completely understand, shouts things and gets shouted at in return, laughs and grins and nods along to whatever the people are saying.
The atmosphere is like that.
There are people dancing in the streets. Hoisted up on each other's shoulders. Drag queens. Heavily drawn on makeup and bodysuits with glitter. Flags as capes, flags as shirts, flags hanging from everything. Chanting and screaming and singing as confetti reins down and people spray silly string and water guns into the crowd.
So many people have flags on their cheeks. They're wearing flags as capes. They're all variations of colors; pink, blue, white, purple, grey, white, purple, blue, pink, pink, yellow, blue, and so many others. Glitter on their faces. There's glitter and confetti and streamers and rainbows everywhere.
Everyone looks so happy.
People are shouting love everywhere. There's so much of it. It feels like a blanket after the first frost, a touch of warmth decades lost. It's wrapping around him and molding to his body, draping itself over him and staying, hugging, squeezing.
It feels warm.
He feels warm.
The feeling doesn't leave all day. Geoff introduces him to his friends, Otto, Grace, Zakk, Lucas, and Chloe. He learns that Otto and Grace are together and Chloe and Geoff once were - it was before I realized I was gay, actually. We broke up before I came out, but she...she was the first person I came out to, after myself. They tell him more about the center - all of them work there in various capacities - and invite him to a bunch of the events they're hosting in the coming weeks - whatever you're comfortable with, dude. We go all out for pride month. It's okay if you're not ready for that just yet.
These are the things that would set his anxiety off. These are things that would make his heart race and his hands shake, wake the bugs under his skin, stir up the pot of nausea in his stomach and tip it over. These are the things that would have him panicking, I need to go I need to get out I need to go home this is too much I need my bed my room my home this is too much I need to get out go get out go get out go-
These are people. This is a place unlike any other. This is different. This is so much love and acceptance and celebration and pride, strangers hugging and waving and cheering one another on like they're family they've known for decades.
He's never been here before.
He's never felt this before.
This is pride. This is running through sunflowers and walking past cherry blossoms, snuggling up by the fire on cold winter nights and drinking the first sip of ice cold on a hot summer day. This is everything.
This is pride.
And it is warm.
...
"Hey, um, do you have any..." He trails off, shakes his head. He's gonna kill me. He's actually gonna kill me.
"Makeup wipes?" Geoff asks. His face softens. "Yeah." He reaches under the table and produces a package. "Don't feel bad. I've been there too." He says the words as Awsten reaches inside, pulls a wipe from the packaging and presses it to his face.
"I didn't want it to end," he mumbles. He scrubs at his good cheek with a sigh. "At first I didn't know if I wanted to come here and now I don't wanna leave."
"Pride's an annual thing," Geoff says. He collects the last of the remaining stickers and stuffs them into the box with the liquid lipsticks. "There'll be one next year. And you should come check out the center sometime. There are so many other cool people to meet."
"I will, I promise," he murmurs. "I guess, I just..."
"Don't wanna go home?" Geoff supplies.
"He's gonna be so mad at me," Awsten confesses. He stares down at the table, reaches for one of the leftover pins and starts to turn it over in his hand. "And I just- today was so beautiful. How can he hate it so much? It doesn't make sense."
"It never does," Geoff replies. "Maybe one day he'll get it. Or he won't and you'll have to deal with him being an ass until you can eventually move out and be free. Either way, you've got us. You've got me. You're not alone in this, Aws. You know that, right?"
"Yeah." He meets Geoff's eyes with a smile. "Thanks."
"I'll text you," Geoff says. "And you should definitely come visit me at the center."
"I will." He can't keep the laugh back. "I will, I promise."
"And, hey, um..." Geoff trails off and drops his gaze down to his fingers. "I know you're still figurin' everything out, but if you're down for it...would you wanna go out sometime?"
His cheeks are starting to get hot, and it's not because he's finally rubbing (and irritating) the swollen one. "I-I...I'd really like that."
...
He smiles the whole way home.
He won't be, once he gets there. He won't be while he's having a panic attack and he absolutely won't be when it's 3am and he's trying to will his body into the sleep it's so stubbornly refusing. He won't be when he gets hit again and he definitely won't be while listening to his father call him a filthy faggot and a sorry ass fucking queer.
But the day's been sparkles. It's been love and glitter and confetti and a warmth, one that has seeped into his bones and begun to thaw out a decade old frost.
The day's been different.
This community is different.
Geoff is different.
And this warmth has the power to permeate any trace of cold. He's not cold anymore.
He smiles the whole way home.
#i almost cried writing this i love it so much#waterparks#waterparks fanfiction#awsten knight#geoff wigington#gawsten#gawsten fanfiction#neha writes
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Dead On Arrival
Awakening to a sharp pain in your chest is scary, but also it’s really really funny. It was funny even at the time. I had started my first antidepressant about a month before this incident; Viibryd. I hate to say that I love doing drugs but I love doing drugs.
When I was diagnosed with depression, Viibryd had just hit the antidepressant scene, a new drug that would dramatically decrease the latency period before the antidepressant would take effect. The day I was prescribed, I was told the effects would be immediate. As soon as I took the drug, I didn’t even feel happy--I felt balanced. It wasn’t an “upper”: a perky, pleasure pill. It was a secret ingredient that provided my brain with some homeostasis. As immediate as the effects were, so were the adverse effects; but that is the trial by fire you face when you relinquish yourself to the world of pharmaceuticals.
The stability I was finally feeling was wonderful, but was it worth the cost of waking up everyday at four in the morning with a searing pain in your chest? I’ll tell you two truths: one, that this deliciously, delectable drug exacerbated my anxiety and two, I secretly enjoyed waking up everyday at four A.M because it was something I could count on. I’ve always been comforted by stability even if it came in the form of torment. All I craved was some structure. However, the pain started to worry me.
At the time I hadn’t recognized that this searing pain was an anxiety attack. That diagnosis came later, in the hospital. Day after day, I awoke in pain, my hypochondria sighing in sorrow. For the sear, for the burn, for the meeting of tomorrow. Every attack was greeted with overwhelming fear. Fear that I was dying. That I was having a heart attack. I went to sleep thinking that every night would be my last. Eventually, after I had let this fear build up in my chest, the fear overwhelmed me. So naturally, I turned it loose on my parents. I allowed my screams and cries to fall upon their sleeping ears. I desperately knocked on their bedroom door.
I hear muffled voices and footsteps creaking on the hardwood floor. “What’s wrong?” Father answers through a crack of the door. I’m not sure how to explain the pain that I’m in.
“My chest hurts.” I say, with efforts of sincerity. My fear is that my plea will be disregarded. Luckily, I was first held at the will of my overbearing Father.
For him, my plea was an immediate call to action. “Do you want to go to a hospital?” He responded. “I think I have to.” I said. Here’s where the water works start. How pathetic. I mean at this point, couldn’t you have just quietly driven yourself to the ER? Here we go, become a burden on all those forced to love you.
Father and I were panicked, quickly collecting ourselves and carrying our urgent vessels into the vehicle. Mother, on the other hand, was at ease. What a fucking bitch. She slowly made her way out of bed and into the shower. While she soaked herself in relaxing hot water, I waited in the car clutching my chest. Like, way to make me feel like shit, I’m sitting in this musky-ass car possibly having a heart attack and here you are taking your sweet time probably awaiting my possible death. She took her time, drying her hair, putting her face on, and adorning herself in a beautiful outfit. I was clearly no cause for her concern. Not like I’ve ever been...are you kidding? She finally made her way out of the house and into the passenger side of the car. Fuckin’ bitch. As soon as her door shut, Father hit the road and said nothing. How could he just sit there and say nothing to her while she treats me like nothing?
The closest hospital was only 10 minutes away. The ride halted at a red stop light. We sat in silence for a few minutes. I would assume if anyone gave a fuck about me they would have flown through that stupid stop light to get me some proper medical care. On the outside I was cold, stern, and stoic. WHY HE WASN’T RUNNING THE FUCKING RED LIGHT? It was five in morning, there was no other car in sight. The silence was broken by my Father who needed my Mother’s permission to run the light. Of course she made us wait. For a moment I couldn’t believe it. Until I could. It made so much sense. No ticket was worth the potential danger my life was in to this woman.
When I had finally realized that, I laughed my fucking head off. In the car, my explosion of laughter was grounds for mental insanity. My Mother questioned the validity of my pain-of course-but I just couldn’t stop laughing even as I clutched onto my chest. The pain had not subsided, even when the light turned green, even when we had made our way into the emergency room. The pain remained, but the irony was not lost on me. It was truly funny to me. This was the first time I had the full realization that I meant nothing to her. I meant absolutely nothing. I had also seen my Father for the coward his is. I realized that there was no one that could protect me from this environment and at that point all I could do was laugh. My laughter was rooted in disbelief, even though I had an entire lifetime of evidence that convinced me that this experience was completely plausible. I found this cognitive dissonance hilarious.
I guess with some introspection I realized that the alternative reactions wouldn’t have served me well. This is difficult to describe to people. Like, how am I going to tell you that depression and anxiety has been the worst challenge of my life? That it has given me insurmountable pain, and yet it has saved my life on multiple occasions? I revere mental illness as the miracle reaper of life. It has challenged every molecule of my being to give into death, yet has allowed me to navigate traumatic situations with ease because, of course, with anxiety, I expected all this to happen anyway.
The rest of the trip wasn’t as eventful. The first course of action included attaching stickers onto my chest to monitor my heart’s rhythms. I remember two things about this scene; I had to take off my shirt, and I was afraid. What does it say about me that I was more concerned with the fact that I would be taking me shirt off rather than being concerned with the probable cause of my lurid chest pain? The technician was sweet. Tasty even, his skin looked soft and I wanted to touch it. From what I remember, I had made it clear to him that I was uncomfortable. I fear that I secretly wanted his pity. I realized that this would be the first time I was going to take my shirt off in front of a man. Honestly, it was hard to not be a little turned on. I had spent about two years trying to avoid this moment and here my life was depending on it. I took off the white cotton sweatshirt I had fallen asleep in. Sexy right? I laid myself down on the thin, noisy paper availed upon the hospital bed bust. Pieces of my skin stuck to the leather peeking from beneath the tissue.
I knew this was standard procedure, I knew he did this everyday to all sorts of people. It still felt intimate for me. He and I made eye contact while he slowly stuck cold plastic stickers all over my chest. It made me embarrassed. I was a little wet. I was self conscience about my body. He assured me that I was doing great. The technician had no idea that I was slightly turned on and that’s okay with me. But honestly I thought we had a connection. He turned to me and showed me my heart monitor. The technician said that my results were normal. Normal heart rate, regular rhythm and if I remember correctly, he said I had a beautiful heart rhythm. What did I tell you? He loved me.
After we had ruled out that I was in fact not having a heart attack, we moved on to see if there was any damage to my upper body organs. I walked with another technician to get a chest x-ray. For this I had to change into a fabulous white hospital gown that showed off the spine line that led to my glorious plush pyjama pants. This technician was different. He was more personable. He left the room while I changed and when he stepped back in, he lifted my chart from the box above the door. I studied his face as he read my chart. I was looking for hints and tone. How was he going to address me? When he finally looked up at me, he smiled and asked, “How are you liking Viibryd?”
I was surprised but I responded slyly, “It’s pretty immediate actually, I’ve heard that other antidepressants can take up to six months to take effect.” When two people with mental illnesses get into a room together, there's an immediate sense of comradery. As long as someone is brave enough to out themselves first, the bond of emotional strife, taking drugs, and going to therapy is pretty immediate.
“I’ve been taking Zoloft for a while now”, he added.
“How long have you been depressed?” I asked. I was really hoping he’d say “Not very long! It was a temporary thing for me.” That was not the answer I received, of course.
He told me he had been depressed his entire life. That’s it. That’s always it. No one ever just does a stint with depression, it’s always a life sentence. A struggle that starts but never ends. At least, not until you end. He went on to tell met that it’s been an ongoing struggle for him and that he’s only recently been properly medicated. This is another thing that bothers me. Anytime you talk to someone struggling with depression They suffer for so long before they seek treatment. I am curious to know whether this is a folly on culture and institution or just a hazard of the illness.
He interrupted my thought, he had to ask me some health related questions before we did the chest x-ray. The technician jotted down some quick information about my age and medications I was taking. He also shyly asked if there was any way I could be pregnant. I said, “There’s no possible way.”
He responded “You’re not practicing huh?” I quickly wanted to change the subject but instead replied with a stern “no”. I don’t know why I was embarrassed to be a virgin. Maybe I was just embarrassed, about being a virgin and about my body. Two singularities existing in the multiplex of life. Whatever. He lead me to the machine. He placed a heavy lead cover on my chest. I knew this was to protect me from ray scatter.
“Just like the dentist” I joked. He told me that he was going to step into the small boxy closet in the corner of the room to take a few pictures. I stood still. I never thought anything could be wrong with my chest organs, yet my hypochondria sense was tingling. He left to take the pictures. It was painless. When he came back, I wanted to probe him with questions. “So is my chest okay?” My organs? My lungs? Was I slowly but surely dying? Was this the end of life as I knew it?
He spoke casually, “Only the doctor can really tell you that, I only take pictures.”
“That doesn’t help me.” I said.
He turned to me, not as a technician but as a person, and said, “I really think you’re fine.” I smiled and nodded. That is honestly all I’ve ever wanted anyone to say.
He walked me back to a regular hospital room to wait to speak with the doctor. I sat on the bed while both my parents sat in chairs in the corner of the room looking at their phones. Eventually, Father looked up at me, the gleam of screen still in his eyes, and asked how it went. I replied “It was fine”, so that he could get back to his phone.
Soon after, the ER Doctor knocked on the door and walked in. She looked at me hopefully. I feel like a sigh, like deflated air. She was carrying my chart, she flipped a few pages and said that my heart and lungs looked perfectly healthy. She deduced that my chest pain was an adverse effect of my new antidepressant and should subside over time. Of course at this point, Mother chimed in to say “I told you, antidepressants are bad for you.”
The ER Doctor responded, “Actually these symptoms are common while the body acclimates to the new drug.”
I’m not sure if Mother listened to one word that came out of the doctor’s mouth, she only replied, “I just believe that they’re bad.”
The doctor wasn’t sure how to respond. She told me that she was going to give me some Klonopin and beta blockers to subdue the anxiety. I took them both before we left. Within 30 minutes, my chest pain subsided. I felt lightheaded in the best way possible. We walked out of the ER and I listened to my parents talk as I slid back into the car. The only thing Mother had to say to Father about the experience was, “I can’t wait to see how much that bill will be, she shouldn’t even take antidepressants.” And maybe I would’ve cared, if I wasn’t so fucking high.
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Brushwork || ArtMajor!Calum AU (Chapter 23)
Summary: An Art Major AU where Dallas - third year gawky art student at VCA - makes a deal with Calum - her cute new neighbour and project partner - and they spend the semester learning that the perfect masterpiece takes a whole lot of brushwork.
Date: 22 March 2018
Requested: honestly i should just get rid of this bit
Pairing: Calum + Dallas
Words: 3.9K
Warnings: familial turmoils, an underwhelming coming out story, and a fuck tonne of crying.
A/N: Honestly i’m not even going to apologise for this chapter. This is the Big One i’ve been waiting to write since the beginning basically so like. Please let me know what you think. This story isn’t anywhere near finished. Stay with me, & Big love xo
Ask | Masterlist | ‘Brushwork’ Spotify Playlist | Next Chapter | ‘Brushwork’ News
Chapter 23: I Felt So Unhelpful. Like, I Felt ‘Supportive Facebook Message When Everyone Finds Out Somebody Has Cancer’ Level Unhelpful.
After coming to the conclusion that Ashton was right about me needing to apologise to my sister, I didn’t really do anything about it for days – nearly a week, actually. It wasn’t that I was too proud or spiteful or anything, I was just embarrassed and I didn’t know what I was supposed to say. So instead of actively seeking her out like I should have, I spent those days dancing around Polly and Calum, barely making it to any of my classes, and kind of avoiding Luke, too, even though he’d done literally nothing wrong. Turns out, I became an even shittier person after finding out that I was already a shitty person.
It took me a while, but eventually I plucked up the courage to at least text Belle. I didn’t really say much, knowing she wasn’t going to forgive me that easy. How did I know that? Because we were sisters, and I wouldn’t have forgiven anyone that easy, either. If Polly – or even Belle, for that matter – tried to pull that shit from the other night and then said ‘sorry’ through a text message, I would one hundred per cent tell them exactly where to stick that ‘sorry’ and it wouldn’t be anywhere pretty.
I asked Belle if she wanted to come over and talk. She replied around ten minutes later that she was actually already on her way over and the all of a sudden, I cared about what the apartment looked like. There were dishes everywhere, clothes strewn across the place and bits of paper and miscellaneous unfinished art pieces on the floor. I knew that Belle wouldn’t have been far away, either, so like someone had lit a fire under my ass I scrambled. I collected all of the week-old dishes across the place and washed them in the sink and, somehow, I even had enough time to dig out the vacuum cleaner that I usually forgot that I owned.
After around half an hour everything looked almost too clean, so I did what I could to reshuffle the clutter on the benches and coffee table to make it look like I hadn’t just spent those thirty minutes cleaning for my sister – of all people. She wasn’t going to give a shit what my place looked like, so I wasn’t really sure why I did. But I felt like maybe if I did this, if I could inject any kind of positivity into any space I could reach then maybe having Belle come over wouldn’t end in a total disaster. Or, at least, not as big of a disaster as the last time I saw her.
My heart practically stopped when I heard the knock on the door. It was unfamiliar; I was used to Isabelle just barging into my apartment whenever she visited. But this time I was almost convinced it wasn’t even her, just bad on the fact that the knock was so slow and hesitant. But I wasn’t expecting anybody else (not that I ever had guests that often) so it had to have been her anyway.
It was, and when I swung the door open she was a wreck. She looked like she hadn’t stopped crying since last week. Her eyes were so red and raw that I barely recognised them, her cheeks splotchy and puffy and her hair an absolute mess. She wore what looked like an attempt at normal-people clothes, but the blue flannel shirt was kind of falling off of one shoulder and one side of her jeans was rolled up significantly higher than the other above her ankles, the jandals on her feet slipped over odd socks. Seeing her like this didn’t make me feel good the way seeing Polly like this did; my heart was breaking for my sister already.
I didn’t really greet her with words, I just pulled her inside the door and enveloped her in a hug and she squeezed me so tight that I almost couldn’t breathe. But I let her. I thought back to what Ashton had said about her needing me, and it was this moment before we’d even spoken that I realised that Isabelle didn’t just need me right now – she needed me more than I needed her.
“I’m so sorry, B.” I told her quietly as she let go of me. I watched her bottom lip quiver and I thought she my cry. But she didn’t, not yet anyway.
“Me too.” She practically whispered back. She was so distracted, her eyes darting from place to place while she stood awkwardly shifting her weight from one foot to the other. If I’d seen her this way before everything that happened I would have thought she was on drugs or something. There was just something else pressing on her mind and I didn’t know how to go about getting her to open up to me.
Whenever Belle and I came together in a time of crisis, it was almost always my crisis. Belle was always the one who took care of me when I thought the world was falling apart, so having her here barely breathing in front of me was something almost entirely new for me to experience. I tried to tap into everything she’d done for me, trying to remember the process she and I went through to get out of the hole I’d dug for myself. I needed to be the strong one today, even if I had to make it up.
“Sit down.” I said, standing up taller and gesturing my sister toward the (freshly vacuumed) couch. “I’ll get us a drink.” It was literally barely ten thirty in the morning, but I found two bottles of Corona in the fridges and grabbed them anyway. Beer wasn’t going to solve any of our problems, but it sure as shit wasn’t going to make them any worse, either. Belle chuckled a little when I handed her one and we both tapped the lips of each bottle together in a toast, taking a sup before we both grimaced violently.
“I hate beer.” I somewhat coughed out, disgusted. Belle nodded in agreement while I sat down.
“Same.” She said, and then we both took another swig, our post-beer expressions not as bad this time. Belle still looked lost and sad, though, so I put my drink down on the coffee table and swivelled on the couch next to her so I could face her straight on.
“You wanna tell me what’s going on?” I asked bluntly. We had to start the dreaded conversation eventually. I didn’t want to be stuck in this endless loop of purgatory with her. We were sisters – it shouldn’t have had to be like that.
“Yeah.” She said quietly taking a moment to clear her throat and take a deep breath. I gave her time and didn’t push, because forcing her to talk wasn’t going to help.
“I, um.” She started peeling at the sticker on her beet bottle. “I dropped out of law school.” Belle confessed, and I just stared at her blankly because that was not at all where I thought she was going with this, nor did I think that’s what she’d come all this way to tell me.
“I’m sorry, what?” I kind of bumbled out. Belle nodded, lips pursed and her eyes not meeting mine for longer than a second at a time.
“Yeah…” She seemed to hum out. “I, uh, dropped out of law school.”
I felt like that was a very simple statement, but I was really struggling to understand why in the hell Belle would have done something so… life-changing. My sister and I were different in almost every way, but I knew that neither of us liked change. We liked routine and did not enjoy harsh changes like dropping out of fucking law school. And besides that, she was good at it! And I thought law was something she wanted more than anything.
“Uh?!” I made a face, eyes wild and eyebrows where beyond the earth’s atmosphere. “When? And why?!”
To my complete and absolute shock, Isabelle started to laugh. She snorted, the way us James women did, and then let a giggle bubble on her chapped lips until she couldn’t stop.
“Seriously, B, what the fuck?!” I started to laugh too, and when Belle finally looked at me she was almost in tears from laughing so much.
“I tried to join the circus!” She cackled, it took me a couple of extra seconds to really catch what she’d said.
“The…circus?!” I spluttered out, and all Belle could do was laugh even more. I let out a loud snort and threw my head back, clutching my sides in a fit of amusement. Isabelle was as averted to exercise and teamwork as I was, so the idea of her doing somersaults and attempting the splits was absolutely hilarious to me.
“B, what the fuck?!” I giggled out again, wiping at my eyes while the pair of us tried as hard as we could to stop laughing.
“I–!” B tried to calm down, breathing in and out and dabbing her sleeve under her eyes, too. “It was like a year ago.” She giggled. “I’d been taking these acrobatics classes and my instructor said I was getting really good. One day the Russian circus came through so my friends and I – the other girls from the class – we all decided to go together, and D!” Belle was smiling at me, lips spread wide as she reminisced. “Dal, it was incredible.”
Belle went away for a little bit, after we’d stopped giggling enough for her to tell her story. I watched as she got lost in the memory, and part of me wished I could have been there with her to see what she was seeing. The other part of me kind of felt like I was intruding, just a little bit. I shifted, pulling my legs up on the couch so I could cross them under me.
“What happened?” I asked, prompting Belle to continue and brought her back to earth. Her expression grew sad again, and the humour in the room was long gone.
“We, uh.” She exhaled, almost like she was defeated already, and then took another swig from her drink as I did the same. “We found the manager. He didn’t speak a whole lot of English but we convinced him to let us… I dunno, audition, I guess.”
I arched my brow at my sister, still very confused as to how far along down the law school line she’d decided that she wanted to join the circus. I had so many questions, and I felt like I was fighting with myself not to interrupt. But I didn’t say anything, I just promised myself to just wait ‘til Belle was done before I did.
“I… I was going to run away with the Russian Circus.” Belle said again with a heavy sigh. “I thought that it would solve all of my problems and be a hell of a lot more fun that law school. But I wasn’t good enough. I mean, the manager said I was great and the other girls – the trapeze girls – they loved me. But I just… I wasn’t there yet. I didn’t have the experience or the years of practise they did, and the Russians didn’t have enough space to carry around dead weight, you know?”
I felt so unhelpful. Like, I felt ‘supportive Facebook message when everyone finds out somebody has cancer’ level unhelpful. I’d had no idea that Belle was struggling with anything, let alone that she was struggling with being rejected from the Russian fucking Circus. She’d been doing this all on her own and I’d done nothing to help.
“B?” I looked at my sister, just one question coming to mind as I watched her long for something she couldn’t have. “Belle, why do you want to run away?”
As if I’d said the magic words, Belle started to cry again. For real this time, her shoulders shaking and her eyes squeezed shut behind her hands that were covering her face. I wanted to reach out to her, to just hold her tight until all of the hurt that she was feeling went away. But I was wiping away my own slow tears, now, and Belle looked like she was fighting. I could feel her trembling beside me and somehow, I just knew that her fight right now was with herself, to do this one last thing on her own.
“I’m here, B.” I said to her quietly, reminding her. “Just tell me what’s wrong.” Belle sobbed, and she did for a few more moments before she could even attempt to speak again.
“Dal, I’m… I-I…” Her lip trembled again and her hand flew up to cover her mouth. Whatever words she was trying to get out, they were fighting her back. It was hurting me how hard this was for her – it was hurting that my own twin sister was finding it so hard to open up like this with me. I wiped at my face again, and dragged the sleeve of my hoodie across my nose ungracefully. I should have grabbed the tissues before I sat down.
“You’re what, B?” I felt like I was begging her. “What’s the matter?”
“I’m gay!” Belle finally blurted out, panting afterwards, almost hyperventilating as if it had taken literally every last bit of energy she had to say it.
“…what?” My eyes went wide once again, though there was no comprehension in them. Belle wasn’t sobbing anymore, but she was still wiping away tears and trying to control her breathing.
“I’m gay, Dallas.” She said again. “I… I’ve been so lost trying to figure it out. And when I did I-I just…: She gave a wild shrug, looking down to her fingers. “I thought running away with the circus would just fix everything. Running away from law school could have meant… running from this a-and just being someone else.”
“But…” I paused to wipe my face again, trying as hard as I could to control the confusion I had and trying to choose my words carefully so I didn’t make this about me. Because as upset as I was that my sister was too scared to confused to tell me her life secrets, this was about her coming to terms with them herself. “Wait, what about Ashton?” I asked. “I thought…?”
Isabelle shook her head as she took another long drink from her beer, nearly finishing it.
“It… it was never about Ashton.” She said quietly, once again refusing to look at me. “I… I mean he liked me but I –” she kind of choked on her words a bit, but she coughed back the hesitation and took a deep breath. “I-I had to tell him because this was about Polly.” I blinked at my sister. She looked up me for just a second and I saw nothing but complete fear in her eyes.
“Polly?” I squeaked out, and I was a little scared now, too. Isabelle nodded but didn’t elaborate on that, just staring at me intently with watery eyes, silently willing me to put the pieces together sooner. “Why would…?” I thought backwards, going through everything that had happened. B’s confession, Ashton being allusive, B being upset that Ashton had hurt Polly…
“You like Polly.” I peeped out as the penny dropped.
Belle closed her eyes, tears trekking down her cheeks still. This was all because Belle had feelings for Polly, not Ashton. And she’d told Ashton first, instead of me, because I wasn’t there for her. She never would have had to battle this on her own if I’d just done my fucking job as her sister and just been there for her. I launched myself at my sister, throwing my arms around her neck and pulling her to me while I broke. I couldn’t stop thinking about how lonely she must have felt; how I failed her so much that she thought the solution to all of this would have been to run away with foreigners.
“I am so sorry, B!” I was telling her again, weeping into her shoulder and hugging her so tight I thought she might burst. I was trembling with apologies, the words barely audible. And Belle was holding me just as tight, both of us kind of just trying to keep each other from falling apart even more. “I didn't know, I-I! I wish you’d told me, Belle. I could’ve…!”
“There was nothing for you to do for me, D…” She whispered in my ear. I pulled back, cupping her face in my hands and forcing her to look me in the eye. He cheeks were sticky and wet but I ignored it because I needed her to look at me and believe me.
“I could have been better.” I said carefully, firmly. “I should have been better. Everything you said to me, you were right, B.” B shook her head at me again, taking my hands from her face so she could hold them in her lap.
“Everything I said to you, Dallas, came from a dark, hurting place.” She told me just as carefully. “And I’m sorry for hurting you like that, because I shouldn’t have taken it out on you, not like that.” I took one of my hands back to wipe my nose, and Belle did the same before she let out a sigh and squeezed my other hand, staring at me as if she could see something that I couldn’t.
“I’m... I’m so jealous of you, D.” She said to me quietly. I made a face of disbelief, staring at my sister like she’d sprouted a second head.
“Why?” I asked my voice thick with humour, but also disgust. Belle shrugged and offered a small smile.
“Because,” She said, and we paused so that we could twist and sit next to each other properly, Belle pulling me under her arm and hugging me to her closely. I don’t think it was so she could comfort me, it was more for herself. “Ever since we were kids, D, you’ve known exactly who you were and who you wanted to be. You’ve never been anybody but yourself.”
“But myself is a mess.” I tried to argue, but when I looked up at B she was just rolling her eyes.
“Maybe. But even when you think you’re a mess, at least you’re a hundred per cent sure that you’re a mess.” She clarified, and I just shut my mouth because she was kind of right. I’d always been more than a hundred per cent sure that I was Anxiety on Legs – I wasn’t proud of that, but it was true.
“You are – and have always been – destined for greatness, sis.” She said softly. “And if I could have half of that guaranteed for me then I’d be happy.”
“You were destined for greatness too, B.” I told her, hugging her back and hoping like hell that she could feel that I was here now and wasn’t going anywhere any time soon. “You’re destined for a different kind of greatness, but we’re going to do it together, okay?”
After a few more tears and a few more laughs and after B and I really sorted out what page we were on, we cleaned ourselves up and put on some fresh clothes. We didn’t plan on going anywhere or doing anything, but we smelt like beer and snot and it was not a good look. I help Belle untangle her hair and she helped me find the missing sweat pants she liked to borrow when she was over. Eventually we found ourselves in the kitchen cooking dinner, Belle stirring pasta over the stove while I microwave-cooked some fresh cheese sauce to go with it. Mac and Cheese was our soul food – the food that could solve all the problems and end every world war if The People let it.
“Hey D,” She asked over her shoulder while pulled the sauce out of the microwave and swore under my breath when the glass bowl burnt my fingertips to a crisp. “How’re things with Calum?”
I was hoping she wouldn’t ask. Truth was I had no idea how things were going because I hadn’t seen him in days.
“Uh.” I cleared my throat awkwardly while I mixed the half-done sauce. “It’s not, really. I haven’t really seen him.”
“Really?” She sounded sad, and I wished she wouldn’t. I spent enough of my own time being sad about missing Calum, I didn’t need her to give me The Eyes, too. “Why?”
I thought back the last time I’d spoken to Calum and grimaced at the memory.
“I uh. I kinda told him to get out of my face…”
I felt a sharp blow to my arm and I yelped.
“What the fuck would you do that for?!” Belle scolded me. I rubbed the red spot on the arm where she’d wacked me with the pasta stirrer.
“First of all, ow!” I snapped. “And second, I didn’t want him to get any more… involved. Pushing him away was just easier. He already thought that’s what I was doing so I just…” I gave a shrug, turning away from my sister so I could take a breath. “
“D, you gotta fix that.” Belle told me when I turned back to put the bowl back in the microwave. “You gotta apologise; you two were made for each other.” I snorted.
“After what he said to me? Yeah right.” I said, and I could feel the leftover anger bubbling over in my gut a little bit. Belle just gave me a look. The side-long kind that really didn’t approve.
“And you’re telling me you didn’t tell him anything that was hurtful either?” She threw at me and I opened my mouth to defend myself but I knew that she was right – as usual.
“Yeah, I know, I just…!” I sighed.
“You just what?!” B asked, thoroughly unimpressed with the way I had handled this. She was almost back to normal now, it was scary.
“Yes, I’m angry that he said I was selfish and conceited and that I pushed people away. But I’m… I-I’m mostly angry that I made him feel that way about me. I was supposed to… be different. I liked him. I do like him.”
B seemed to sigh, shifting her weight so that she could lean on the benchtop, hip popped and her hand balled at her waist.
“You need to fix this.” She told me again. “If you just explain it the way you just did and apologise for being a dick, he’ll forgive you.
“And what if he doesn’t?” I challenged. “Then what am I supposed to do?” Belle rolled her eyes at me and went back to stirring the pasta.
“He likes you, Dallas.” She said very matter-of-factly. “He’ll forgive you.”
I huffed. Just thinking about it all was making my heart race.
“I think… I think I just need to sort myself out first.” I said, and I was pretty sure I was pulling some excuse out of my ass so I could stall this much-needed apology and go a little longer avoiding Calum. “If I can just get sorted here and get in the right mind space… maybe it’ll be okay, you know?” Belle groaned.
“You are so full of shit.” She said. I wacked her this time, with my own stirring spoon and left a big white splat on her clean shirt.
#god i hate this story so much#when will it end#damn dallas#back at it again with the drama#brushwork#5sos#5 seconds of summer#calum hood#5sos au#5 seconds of summer au#calum hood au#5sos fanfiction#5 seconds of summer fanfiction#calum hood fanfiction#5sos blurb#5 seconds of summer blurb#calum hood blurb#5sos imagine#5 seconds of summer imagine#calum hood imagine#college 5sos#college!5sos#art major 5sos#art major calum hood#art major cal
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W R I T E I T O U T
While I took a break from blogging I realized a change in myself, a bad change. I felt a lot less focused & like I was forgetting things. I felt rushed, I felt like days blurred into one another. I didn’t have any time to decompress my thoughts & what events may have occurred. A month ago I purchased this planner & I felt a little silly about it at first but I thought it would help fix the feeling just being completely unorganized & unprepared at all times. Thankfully I was right. I kept a planner all through out school, & even when I worked at the tanning salon. Writing things down helps me visualize things better & has always been a therapeutic outlet for me for as long as I can remember. Its actually funny because I used to tell people about my poetry & my journaling a lot more when I was younger & now I kind of just keep it to myself. So anyways, yea, I got the planner.
I ordered it from Popflex, which if you don’t know, is a workout & athletic lifetsyle brand by Cassey Ho from the Blogilates series. Cassey & I go way back. Not really I never met her, but I’ve sworn at her on my computer screen about a hundred times when she made me do burpees in my bedroom way back when fitness was not my life (her videos are incredible, go download her work out calendar right now).
The reason this particular planner spoke out to me was because of a number of reasons. First of all it’s not just a note book, it’s got all these amazing different sections inside of it. In the beginning it asks you what some of your goals are for this year, then it asks you monthly what your goals are, & at the end of each month it makes you reflect on what the month was like for you. It gives you the typical calendar overview of the month, but also there is a weekly section with different time slots & places to write goals, ideas, & reminders down. It also has a daily food & water log as well as a spot for you to fill in your work out, which I think makes you feel more accountable. Its different from logging into an app. I think it forces you to be real with yourself & I think that logging also keeps you on track. There’s also a ton of space to fill in your to-do list which helps me from forgetting. I’m a creative person, so I obviously had to invest in a new gel pen collection. The pens make logging fun for me, I also ordered a shit ton of stickers from the company ban.do. The stickers are all designed by different female artists & are fucking amazing. I think if journaling or using a planner is something that doesn’t sound exciting to you, using colored pens or stickers can help make it more stimulating & therapeutic, or maybe that’s just me & I’m still 12 years old inside. The link to the specific planner I use is below!
https://www.popflexactive.com/collections/all-1/products/focus-journal-2017-2018
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That One Time I Worked For Trump.
Let me just start by saying, I have NOT met NOR have I ever met Trump in person. I am just here to speak about my expierence working in his store.
The views in this post are NOT affiliated with the white house. I am NOT a Trump supporter.
-Meka
It was the summer of 2016 when I was trying to leave my movie theater job. It was a fun job but buisness was slow and I was barley making any money. So I had took it upon myself to look for a better paying job and in the midst of my job search I stumbled upon an opening for a sales associate at “Trump Stores”, at the time Donald Trump was running for president but I didnt care, I still applied. In about 30 minuetes I recieved an email from a woman named Claire about setting up an interview. And within the next two days my interview was set up.
That afternoon I had threw on my black pencil skirt a white button up and some flats and made my way down to fifth avenue. I had given myself an extra 15 minuete head start in case the MTA decided to fuck up service. I had arrived at the Towers about 15 minuetes early. So I took about 5 minueutes to soak in the scenery. Trump Towers was beautiful, it had marble floors, glass doors and a water fountain. Not that I havent seen anything like it before, im just trying not to be a hater. I walked up to security and explained that I had an interview with Claire and was sent to the 16th floor. When I had stepped out of the elevator I was a greeted by a receptionist that looked like she had never saw a black person in her life. Instead of opening the glass door that seperated us, she got up from her desk and walked towards the glass. “What are you here for?” her pale skin turning red with hostility. “Im here for an interview with Claire” I said. “For what?” She asked a bit more aggresively. Just then a tall skinny big blue eyed brunette came out and said. “Shes here for the a store interview” she said smiling. The receptionist reluctantly opened the door and I walked in right past her. “ Hi im Meghan” she said as we shook hands. You can have a seat. She said pointing at a chair in a small cubcicle. We had spoken for about 5 minuetes and I was hired on the spot.
I had all my paperwork filled and started that Monday morning. I had went up to the store which was really a side shop attraction full of trump gear, ties, colonge, books and cuff links. Even a few trump golf balls, towels, umbrellas and hats. Behind the podium where a plethora of “Make America Great Again” T-shirts, hats, bumper stickers and pins. These where his campaign items that would be sold for his campaign. In order to purchase them you had to be 18 years old and be a US citizen. You also had to fill out a form.
Throughout my time there I had only had two co workers. One was a black girl like me, named Tawana and another was a mixed girl named Tee. My first day I had worked with Tee and ladies and gentlemen let me tell you, I have never disliked working with a person so much. From the beginning till the end of the shift all she did was comlain, talk on her phone, and ask for favors she wouldnt do for you. For every sale you made you got 20% commision, I didnt know that but she sure did. Since she did nothing I took it upon myself to help customers with their purchases and send them to her to cash out. Would you believe that she got all the commision for my hard work? The day I found out we got commission I made sure that every customer I helped I checked out. When days were dead she would spend most of the day talking my head off about shit that I didnt give a fuck about.
My other co worker Tawana was way more hard working and she was hilarious. All day it was nothing but jokes and good gossip. She was the complete opposite of Tee who did nothing but get on my nerves. One day Tawana saw that most of the customers were flocking to her, she pulled me to the register and said “Here, make some commission.” She was an all around cool person. The only negative thing about her was that she called out often and was never on time. Sometimes she would call out and leave me forced to do a double or I would wake up to a text asking for her shift to be covered. On days where I was alone, I would talk with my next door neighbor Barney. She was the hostees at the Trump resturant next door and was really sweet. She was an older women with a daughter my age that was a pre med student. She was very motherly in a way. One time for an early shift she bought me breakfast. On my lunch breaks she would put a rush on my lunch (steak and mashed potatoes).
Throughtout the day I would meet alot of different people. Trump towers was a kind of like a Tourist spot for rich people. They would come in to admire the architechure of the billionare would-be turned commander in cheif. I met Diplomats, Buisness Owners, Doctors, College Professors and more. Most people that came in were Trump supporters but let me tell you, not all of them where how the mass media makes them out to be. Many of them were really nice people who cant stand Trump themselves, they just didnt like Hilary (which is understandable). I’ve also met some rude obnixious people as well. One woman in particular wanted to by a MAGA hat, and as mentioned before you need to fill out some forms before you make a purchase. I picked out the womans hat, bagged up nicely and even threw in a few bumper sickers. When shes done filling it out I go to collect the paper and she goes “No” I go “Miam its a part of the procedure” she goes okay and starts tearing up her form and goes “I dont want you keeping my information” I felt a tinge of anger run throught my body and placed my forehead on my fingers. Was it really neccesary to rip up my damn paper? And I dont want your old ass information bitch.
Some days I wouldnt even be able to take a break because it was so busy with press confrences and protests. I rememeber this one day I worked for 16 hours straight because it was busy and I had to do a double. On that same day I had gotten stuck in a closet for two hours because I was busy running back and forth to restock on merchandice. But get this, there was a security guard standing outside of the closet and I had gotten his attention by banging on the door. Throught the crack he had seen me, can yall believe that this motherfucker just went back downstairs and left me there?
My time there began to spiral downwards due to the MTA fucking up service and leaving me stranded under ground with no service for an hour and thirty minuetes. When I got to work I was sent to the office and written up and sent home for the day. I was upset but understood her in a sense. The next day I was sent home again and written up because my outfit was “innapropriate”. That day I had worn a long blue maxi dress and sandals. I will admit that the fabric on the dress was a bit thin but the only skin I had showing was my face and arms. That got to me, because if I were skinner my outfit would have not been innapropriate. After that day I felt that she was going to eventually find a reason to fire me so I just never went back to work again.
The most important lesson I learned is that Trump supporters come in many colors, sizes and shapes. You never know who a Trump supporter might be.
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“Should I go put my baseball pants on?” the totally true story of how I lost my virginity to a gorgeous baseball player.
“Should I message him?” I asked as myself and my two friends M and L sat on the rocky shore watching the sunset. It was a Monday night, and we had no where to be. We were simply enjoying ourselves and the cotton candy sky, trying to pretend that the lingering stench of fish wasn’t there. With no idea of what time it was, or any hope that he’d actually respond I hit send.
I put my phone back in M’s purse, as the three of us embarked on the treacherous journey back to the safety of the sandy beach. Barefoot, and slightly terrified, we began to make our way across the jagged boulders searching for the best path that wouldn’t leave us with a sprained ankle.
When we finally reached the safety of the beach, I took out my phone. And I saw the notification.
“Oh my god M, you message him back I can’t look,” I exclaimed. I found myself paralyzed with anxiety whenever I tried to have a conversation with him. We had been talking off and on for a couple months, but nothing more than the brief conversations I cut short due to my fear of him rejecting me.
And before I knew it M and I were climbing into my car as she told me he had invited me over. “E**** you have to go!” M demanded. She knew how into this kid I was, and my secret desires that I would never tell anybody but her.
“E**** you’re going,” M said. There was no question about it. She wasn’t forcing me to do something I didn’t want to do, she was forcing me to try something I had always been too afraid to do. And that’s the kind of person M is to me.
So we parted ways with L, and I drove us back to my house so I could give my mom some bullshit lie that we were going over to one of my friend’s houses after she got off of work. And with no questions I asked, I changed into leggings and a crop top and threw on a cardigan to make it look a teensy bit more modest for my conservative mother. I agreed to be home by 12:30, and that was that.
“Are you still coming?” he had sent 8 minutes ago.
“Yes. Leaving now,” I said having forgot I left him on read after he had sent his address.
“When will you be here?”
“A half hour,” I replied as I pulled out of my driveway, knowing full well it takes more than a half hour to get to where he lives.
I plugged in the address and we were on our way. M came along because well she was staying for the week, and I needed her there. She was the reason I was in this mess, and she was going to be there when I walked into it.
“E**** oh my god. Why are you driving so slow?” M exclaimed. She was right, I was only driving 50.
“I don’t want to hit a deer,” I lied. “Do you want to drive?” I asked.
“Yes omg. Here we can get out here,” she said pointing to the flashing yellow light up ahead. I actually would rather her drive, even though she cruised down the back country roads at a solid 65, approaching 70. I trusted M (and her wild driving).
My phone lit up with a notification from him.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“15 minutes I lied.”
“Hurry b...” he quickly replied back.
I rolled my eyes. Does he honestly think he can rush me, the queen of being 15 minutes late to everything? I think to myself
“I almost just hit a deer,” I fired back, hoping he’d feel a little bad for being so pushy.
I didn’t lie this time, there was a deer that ran across the road in front of us, except I wasn’t the one driving.
"Oh shit be safe.” he typed back. I left him on read and sat back in my seat trying to relax a little. Knowing it wasn’t going to be that long before M would be dropping me off at his house.
“What are you going to do while I’m in there?” I ask M, trying to make an excuse for why this whole thing won’t work out.
“I don’t know. I’ll probably just drive around and probably just go on my phone. I’ll be fine.”
And before I knew it, we were in his driveway. M pulled out a condom from her purse.
“E**** he’s right there...” and sure enough I look up and he’s standing in the doorway.
“Just take the condom E****,” M says handing it to me and I place it in the front pocket of my bag.
“Okay well here goes nothing,” I say nerves causing me to tremble slightly. I still can’t distinguish if it was from fear or excitement.
“Hey how are you?” he asks, even more attractive in person despite being under the fluorescent outside lights from the garage.
I guess I should explain just exactly who he is.
His name is T and he is (now was, since he graduated lol) a senior at one of the two large high schools in my area. T also plays baseball (one of my primary turn ons to be quite honest with you...). And for three months or so, ever since we followed each other on Instagram, and added each other on Snapchat our interactions never became anything more than minor.
Him liking my posts, or me messaging him once in a while. Him swiping up on a selfie I posted on Snapchat (in hopes that he would message me. My plan worked ha!). But all of these interactions weren’t anything special, nothing to make me think that he actually had any interest in me, or found me attractive at least.
I mean in all honesty, he was a baseball player (and football player but honestly who cares about football when you have bAseBaLL pAnTsSSs). And something about baseball players made a guy instantly more attractive, and the fact that T was practically unattainable drew me to him even more. Plus he’s a skater, and not mediocre either.
He is honestly everything I could ever fantasize about in a guy. And the fact that I thought he was too good for me, and that our relationship was going no where made me crush even harder.
And that’s just the kind of person I am. I’ve never been in a relationship, I’ve never even kissed a boy, and for some reason I am only attracted to boys who I can never have. Or that’s what I thought...
T leads me up the short flight of stairs to his room.
“Sorry about the mess,” he apologizes, “I haven’t really had time to clean it.” And I pretended I didn’t care, because I honestly didn’t. I knew full well that my room was just as bad. I look around and it looks exactly like how I would think his room would look: a mixture between skate paraphernalia and baseball trophies. Pictures scattered here and there.
I have to admit, it was awkward being in a boys room for the first time, but also a boy who is almost a complete stranger besides for the bits and pieces of information I’ve been able to collect through our conversations and our social media interactions.
I’m sure that T could sense that I was a little nervous. I sat at the head of his bed, and he sat at the bottom of the bed on the other side. We talked about everything: baseball, softball, how he can’t stand to lose, where I want to go to college, where he’s going to college. We talked about so many different things, in such a short period of time.
He moved closer, and sat beside me. He went to show me a Patagonia sticker he had on his dresser by reaching over me and holding it up for me to see, after we had talked about the brand for sometime. Next thing I know, his hand his on my thigh and his lips are on mine.
I’m completely numb because oh my god this is my first time ever kissing a boy, I’m seventeen years old and this is my first time ever kissing a boy! Oh my god what do I do with my tongue? Is it okay if I hold his waist? He has such nice hair, I love running my fingers through it, I hope he doesn’t think this is weird.
A million questions ran through my mind, as I find myself on top of him as we’re still making out. Somehow I’ve managed to lose my sweater, tank top, and I vividly remember rolling my eyes as he fumbled trying to take off my bra. Suddenly, I feel T break away from the kiss.
“Do you want me to go put on my baseball pants?” he asks looking me in the eyes with that melt-your-heart smile. For a second it takes me a second to register what exactly he’s asking and then it clicks. I mentioned something earlier when we were messaging that I had a kink for boys in baseball pants, and now here I am.
“Oh my god no. It’s fine. I was really just kidding,” I say laughing. I’m so embarrassed yet flattered.
“Really it’s no problem. I have a couple pairs, it’ll only take me a minute,” he says seriously.
The fact that this boy, a popular, attractive senior baseball player, is willing to go put on a pair of god damn baseball pants just for me is honestly the funniest and cutest thing ever. I lost my virginity that night to this boy with the baseball pants that I refused to let him put on.
Our time together was cut short because he had to go meet his mom at his grandparent’s cottage in less than twenty minutes.
“Yeah I’m really sorry about all of this...” he says referencing that fact that we didn’t get to finish what we started.
“No it’s fine. I would rather leave early than have your mom come home and think I’m a slut,” I admit laughing.
“Yeah that would be bad. My mom like works with teen moms. So I’m always kinda worried that someday a girl’s going to go in there and my mom’s just going to be like ‘hey you look familiar’,” he jokes and I laugh. I can’t help but to wonder how many girls he’s sleeping around with that this is a scenario he can see happening.
“You don’t need to go yet,” he says as I try to find all my clothes. I’m thankful for the fact that I wore a sweater because I didn’t wear underwear and I can’t find my fucking leggings. “Would you like anything to drink? Water or a beer?”
“I’ll have a beer,” I say.
“Let me go get it,” he says as he finishes getting dressed.
“Okay sounds good. I’ll just text my ride real quick,” I hurry and text M and ask her where she is. She says she’s right across the road and I tell her to give me five minutes. T leaves the room, and I continue to look for my pants, and I’m starting to think that there’s no retrieving them and I’m going to have to go out into the subdivision not wearing any pants.
“Do you have everything?” he asks handing the beer to me.
“Um actually, I can’t seem to find my leggings,” I admit as I search frantically with my sweater wrapped around me.
“Shit,” I hear him whisper, “Well we’ll find them don’t worry.”
“Where the hell could they have gone?” he asks.
“I honestly couldn’t fucking tell you,” I say laughing.
“Here they are!” he says handing them to me. I quickly slide them on.
“Yeah all we had cold was Pabst,” he states as he cracks open his beer. “I fucking can’t stand warm beer and all the Labatt wasn’t refrigerated.”
“No this is fine,” I say.
“So do you smoke?” he asks, and me knowing full well this boy is a stoner try to play it off.
“No. I mean I’m not against it, I have friends who smoke weed, but I mean like being Catholic and all people never really offer because they assume I’m against it,” I state truthfully.
“Ah yeah the Catholics must be really against that huh?” he asks as if us just having sex wasn’t like the most gravest of all grave sins in the Catholic Church’s eyes. “Yeah I was going to say if you were against smoking you probably wouldn’t ever want to see me ever again,” and proceeds to tell me about how his mom doesn’t know that he’s a stoner.
“So do you party or anything?” he asks.
“Nope not really,” I laugh. This night was the most rebellious thing I had ever done in my life, and here he thinks that I party on the usual.
“Yeah I’m going to be having to drive soon, but I mean I’ll still be under the legal limit,” he says taking another sip of his beer as if he’s 21 and not 18.
And I can’t help but suppress a laugh because here I am literally cracking open a cold one with the boy I just lost my virginity to.
“I think your rides here...” he says peering out his bedroom window to the driveway below.
“Oh okay. Well I’m going to get going,” I say and leave my three quarters of the way drunk beer can on top of his dresser and make my way down the stairs by myself not waiting for him to follow me.
“Hey do you want this,” I here him ask from his bedroom as I reach the bottom step.
“No that’s fine,” I say opening the door and I feel him walk up behind me.
“Well thanks for coming,” he says as he throws the used but not filled condom into the trash can in the garage.
“Yeah thanks for having me,” I say trying to make my quick escape from anymore awkward conversation. I get into the car after saying our quick goodbyes and he just stands in the doorway like he did when I arrived.
I feel the warmth of M’s flash from her camera as she takes a video of me getting into the car.
“Oh my god M lets just leave,” I say exhausted.
“Soooooo how was it?” she asks laughing.
“Sex is so much fun,” I say exhausted, slightly sore, and so so happy and dazed and slightly drunk.
To be quite honest with you, I still cannot believe that that night’s events actually happened. That I lost my virginity to this boy, this BASEBALL boy, with the nice hair, and contagious smile, who also happened to be a skater. And it was no fantasy of mine, my first time, but it was natural and it felt right and I’m glad it happened with him just the way it did. Also, the hickey on my boob lasted for quite a few days.
-E
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