My two obsessions, The Sims 4 and The Good Place - a thread:

Look, I went crazy, okay? I’m still not okay after the season 3 finale and this is how I’m coping. JUDGE ME.

Eleanor Simstrop #ArizonaTrashbag

Tahani Al-Simil (seen also in her off the rack separates ) #TahaniTime

The many looks of Michael, the ArchSimtect (okay that was a stretch) - featuring Michael’s depression hoodie, midlife crisis look, and librarian getup #BirthisaCurse #ExistenceIsAPrison

Jason Simdoza - including the backward hat + wedding tux and Jake Jortles disguise #OhDip

Good SimJanet. Bad SimJanet. Neutral SimJanet. *bing!* #NotARobot

And last but certainly not least Chidi Simagonye - his professorial look and “chili babies” look #JeremyBearimyBaby

Everything is FINE.

We have met before in the pulse of the world’s creation and we will again colliding creating galaxies. The black holes of our wake echo with our fractures and leave bruises painted in the milky ways. We say that it was worth it - art loves a sacrifice. So I’ll see you soon in a thousand years to do it all again. But we will never catch each other. We’re destined to forge and break and make room for new life in what’s been broken.

—- J - 9.17.18 | Mend to break

do people that say shit like “ooh nobody reads anymore, they only use their phones and computers” think that computers and phones can only display pictures and make sounds 

like do they think words can’t be displayed by computers 

“Don’t say maybe if you want to say no.”

— the best advice I’ve ever read. (via suspend)

for sale: baby shoes never worn. kid was born bigger than anticipated. absolutely jacked. real renaissance man.

It’s complicated because I care and don’t care at the same time

QUEEN

the guy in the audience SNAPPED

Looking For Love In The Wrong Places 6.21.2013

I suppose there’s something to be said about looking for love in the wrong places. I know for a fact that I do it more often than I should, visiting the old habit the way a quitting smoker chews their nails out of desperation. It all gets gnawed down to the nub eventually - the nails and my sanity. Perhaps not my sanity but rather my will to trudge on in my treasure hunt. Lately I feel more like a scavenger than a treasure hunter. I take up clues like the rest but grab at things that are second best. What fools-gold could I trick myself into wearing today? It’s nothing more than a game, a child’s play of dress-up and pretend. Today I will pretend that I’m not trying to find a way out of the shadow of someone else’s ghost and maybe if I pretend long enough fact will come from fiction. So yes, I often look for love in the worst places. It’s as foolish as walking through thorns with your bare feet and yet I don’t stop.

I’m not the only one who likes attention. But maybe I should learn to safeguard my heart a little more and wear it on my sleeve just a little less. But then again, I never really take my own advice.

In my sleep I dreamt it was day. You had lines by your eyes just like when you are awake. You spoke and they were presents for me, words wrapped in paper, knotted and tied up with string and I remembered then how to breathe happily. A stranger to my eyes but I knew you so well then. You held your chin high like the little boys who insist that they’re men. And I suppose I’m playing along too just a girl trying on her mother’s shoes. Lipstick on that’s far too bright makes more sense in the night on a girl who danced her way out of remembering who she would be in the morning. Somewhere between awake and asleep we fell in love beside a landless sea. It was a thought that was worth keeping so I buried it with me. And I remember it was so pretty; the water darker than the sky.  You kept praying to be vaulted in and I never asked you why but I think I knew and saw through you and I couldn’t help but wonder : Since when did our complacence become so natural? Baby, it’s in the way that you speak. The contours of your mind were never so concrete and I can see you’re trying more than usual to be something that is casual but I can see your insides stirring and I think that it is true that time may leave us jaded but I’m still so scared of you.

They plugged into my artery with a needle named “IV” and there you saw how sick I was. You saw all my rotting parts. I asked the Clipboards and they said “Your heart has grown all crook’d.” I asked what went wrong and they just pointed, pointed to the heavy callouses that had grown. I swallowed all the pills that they said would make me well but I still couldn’t feel anything but the heaviness. Day after day you held my hand as the poison made its way into all of my veins and trickled through the broken capillaries that made my eyes so dark and bruised. A day came at last where there was nothing new, nothing but eyes rubbed blind, each day more blurry than the last. Your seat beside me grew cold but some nights I saw your silhouette. Some nights it kept me company but daylight always came and when it did I was reminded that one by one everyone left giving me more callouses as souvenirs to keep.

-Jalyn Peng

“I used to think in private how I hated my name in your mouth. You said it the most when your eyebrows were furrowed. It sounded like gravel being blended with glass. Now I’d give anything just to hear you shout at me. Here, have the steel of my bones and the splits in my lips. - I just want to know that you’re thinking of me.”

— jpeng 81814 || i miss you

A poem by Jalyn Peng and Gabriel Kennedy.

-Jalyn

You’re so maybe, just maybe - a mere possibility or probability without ever touching yes or no. I’m labeled the Beauty - as long as it’s convenient for you. But I’ve run out of time to waste on maybes. You can’t build a house on loose sand - nothing will stand on a ground so soulless, so lacking in security. There’s only so little time you can spend dancing along boardwalks and getting drunk with carnival lights reflecting in your eyes when there’s not a moon to hang above you. There are only so many days you can spend looking at little branches on bare winter trees before you start to feel homesick and disposable - as naked as the twigs and as easily broken. Life happens without you. Time is poignant and stuck up  -it couldn’t care less for your ideas. One day you’re grinnin’ sharp like Cheshire’s wit the next this little bonding thing turns into fights about tomorrow. You’re so maybe, only maybe but I remember me so I won’t be home tonight when you return. You might tell your friends I just left you - but only the dead truly leave without warning. You’ll say we had so much. You’ll paint yourself as Victim who got his heart ripped out with talons and see in the sky reasons to say “I am lost for words as I sit at the feet of this negligent God of mine”. Let me tell you the truth because good news is always desperate for a more sickly, sad companion. You’re so maybe but I’m so sure that your dramatics won’t get you far - just enough miles west of here to find another girl to thank you so much for lessons on how to be someone else other than an open book that you chose not to take off the shelf when the answers were underlined in red. One last thing to share with you is an honest full confession: The only reason I liked your closet door wide open was to look for all the skeletons that were long term tenants there. Their bones were as dense as the teeth in your skull that keep your truth shut in.

—

-Gabriel Shane I am…definitely…maybe There is safety…solace in maybe Maybe it’s a false sense of security Maybe can’t break my heart I roam the nights with the moon on my mind Kung fu grip on a bottle of bourbon Shuffling daydreams like a playlist Never stopping, in fear that my lungs will collapse When I think of you with him… I remember when you called me tomorrow And you painted a future so bright, so vivid That I started to believe it was me I was the street A canvas of black top and maybes I had the demeanor of one hell-bent on survival Until you stuck a rose in the barrel of my rifle We bled through cracks in the pavement Your tears painted my walls with a bitter sweet beauty I’m not sure when all of your colors turned to red But I won’t paint over them They are still beautiful

“I’m not sure how much of me contains common sense but I know that I’m still learning and that sometimes I feel so goddamn human for being just gullible enough to think that someone putting their mouth on my skin is the same as love. And I know that it isn’t but it feels good for a minute to play pretend where the script gives me a life with you in it. I can’t help but think that your drunken laugh works on me as well as the booze in your blood. — Second hand good times are my most familiar routine. So when you put your fingers on my neck I didn’t move or even think to. One man’s grip is sometimes a man’s pleasure and I’m addicted to attention.”

— jpeng || a little tired. a little strung out. // 342015 (via foxsaysjalyn)

“Mom likes to say that on the day that we met it was like I’d been struck by a big bolt of lightning. I don’t really believe in “love at first sight” but mothers know best. I mean, after all, Have you ever seen photos of lightning survivors? They get scars on their skin that branch open like trees. I read somewhere that sometimes they’re called lightning flowers. I don’t know much else about the science of lightning. All I know is that with the bloom of those flowers the scars left from lightning stand as irrevocable proof of something that can’t ever be changed or undone.”

— (Maybe she’s right.) Boy, did you strike me. || jpeng 101214

“be easy. take your time. you are coming home. to yourself.”

— the becoming | wing by Nayyirah Waheed (via destructourhearts)

“I don’t know anything about me except for crooked fingers wrapped around a wrinkled diary and another hand that wields red lipstick like a knife pressed to a neck. (I haven’t got it all figured out just yet.) I’d like to be your teeth and tongue, the words there in your mouth. I’d like to be that girl you’d one day tell all your friends about: “It’s some sort of ugly irony. She really did love flowers,”. (Insert some thing about living and dying and changing every hour.) But along sidewalk cracks and grimy flings I still don’t believe in a single thing except that chewed down nails make me think of crying in my sleep. I saved a memory, (like a hard candy). Leave me under your tongue while you kiss someone else. I promise I’ll get home just fine by myself and you can move mountains with your PhD. I’ll cover my eyes. (I don’t want to see or hear about the day you realized I was blocking your view with my When’s and my Why’s.) But I’ll be honest — I’m breathing shallow from days breathing in too deep, the smell of your white t-shirts that are still left in my sheets. So I’ll stay up all night doing laundry until everything smells like only me. I guess my lips are splitting from talking too much. I’m losing my faith and losing my touch so I break my skin on prayer — my fingertips my best friends. They kiss everything first that I kill in the end. I guess I’m a monster named Sweetheart but I was once scared of kissing and I took these pills like small candies when my mother went missing. But I remembered recently that park bench kisses don’t happen easily I hadn’t kissed anyone special that I liked or even liked me until you showed me bats one night in the summer and you said you were staring (but politely). “This girl’s dead on arrival.” (Ambulances are too clinical.) In the end I’m just sorry for all those things that I said when I was falling asleep on my side of the bed. Is it wrong to like the smell of bleach as much as I like brushing my teeth? I just don’t like any of these dirty things. I’m scrubbing myself until I’m all clean. But nothing feels right. I still won’t sleep at all tonight.”

— jpeng 81314 || "Do you think of me?“ I know you don’t: from the arch of my feet that hurt from pacing.

“You notice things in your sleep like lose threads in the pillow case and numbers lost while counting sheep. And it’s playing again and again, your echo on repeat — [on a loop.] but we don’t speak (i don’t speak.) It’s nothing more than passing cups of tea in a house that smells floral and warm and sweet like orchids in windows and dry cleaned custom sheets marble floors on bare feet. Pretty girls always cry. You’ve been pretty your whole life -a pretty sister to books and asthma, a pretty little teenage wife. New York City misses you. You never call, you never write. You’ve made a home down in your kitchen with a cigarette for light. Press a bruise; I’ll feel it too — same enemies and fights. We’re the same. Did you forget? (Why can’t we be alright?)”

— jpeng 81014 || “will you say something to me?” (via foxsaysjalyn)