i love him a lot
“When your head hits the pillow tonight, remind yourself that you’ve done a good job. Be patient with yourself, and remember that big things are achieved not all at once, but one day at a time.”
— Nicole Addison
“What’s the matter..? You don’t think you deserve to be saved.”
I read this as “bad things are achieved not all at once, but one day at a time.” What we planning, friend?
"it's so embarrassing you like that popular thing" "oh ew that geeky/strange thing is so cringe lol" "oh it's kind of weird you get excited about that harmless shit"
dude i love how ironic and jaded you are and that's so cool and sexy of you. and i am so so glad to tell you - you won!! we all had a meeting and we decided that you won, and we are writing your name on the inside of a burger king crown. the marker smeared, sorry, but we knew any form of real effort is ugly to you. but anyway. congrats! you are officially the coolest, most ironic, most jaded person in-the-world-right-now. we would throw you a party but you would think it was totally boring - and besides, we're weird so we wouldn't have been coming. we would have brought our love of beetles and of baking and of little canapes. we would have brought our artsy videogames and pages of writing. we would have written a poem with you, our hands covered in ink, and spread out a canvas to dance on, the night so lurid and pink.
but do not worry. we will not throw the party. we will just get you a ringlight and that crown i mentioned. it is a nice crown, except for where one of us dropped it.
the vote was a really hard one because we had so many cool ironic people to pick off the shelves. all of you have hands that rot fruit, how strange is that - you can't look at something without destroying it for other people. you like it when you can squeeze a person into a pinpoint - all us small ones scampering our little feet around our ugly joys. the vote was also a hard one because we kept our voices down because you don't like it when we talk too loud. you were on your phone at the time, talking to people other than us. you are a ghoul of every moment - half in, half out, you resent us for being here without shame or embarrassment.
so good news! we have invented an island for people like you. you get to go there and speak into the air things like if you still like watching harmless twitch streamers in 2023 you're fucking boring. you will say things like liveplay podcasts are fucking ugly and it's kind of awkward they try to make everything gay. on the island we made you, all of your words will have weight. they will form in the air like icicles, large white behemoth letters that will crumple in anvils around your feet. maybe we will send someone there once in a while to sweep, but honestly you might be there for a while, alone, waiting. we are busy being outside looking for mushrooms and flapping our hands and humming. we are busy kicking our little heels while we watch cringey tv. we are busy - sorry! as an apology, we have pre-filled the island with every bland, mediocre, unscented thing we could find. the island has the texture of american cheese. the island has an ocean that never gets angry. the island is perfect for you, trust me. you will be so happy there - as happy as you can be, ironically.
we want to say we are sorry for doing harmless things that you find annoying, childish, or unappealing - but we are not sorry. we thought we could help you, because we don't mind laughing at ourselves, but it turns out you are allergic to color and noise and atmosphere, so this is the best that we can do for now. we are all making a big shirt that says i voted in the ironic monarchy. we got you one that is just a fast fashion buttondown. i am so excited for you and this island and the big life you have won. you have a cool jaded grey life and miles of irony to roam. i love you! be well.
now leave us alone.
Is there rly any softer scene than when o'malley sees duchess and falls in love with her at first sight in the aristocats, complimenting her at every turn and climbing into a cherry blossom tree to make the flower petals snow gracefully down on her? How dreamy 🥀💕
This Is Love 😍😍
Not to mention when he found she had kids, he was thrown for a second, then proceeded to not only still help her, but dote on them too.
“Not all men” you’re right, Abraham DeLacey Giuseppe Casey Thomas O’Malley would never.
had a fucking hilarious dream that tumblr replaced the "block" function with the far funnier "glock" function, which did the exact same thing except whenever anyone blocked you a random bullet hole, like a png of a bullet hole, would appear on your blog. discourse blogs were unreadable bc you'd go to the page and the sheer amount of bullet hole pngs stacked over the blogs obscured everything. I woke myself up laughing
i only bake when im happy. my grandmother taught me this. she says she has "a stigma" about it. (i say "isn't that the holes in the hands like jesus?" and get, from my father, a not-altogether unexpected back-of-the-head whack). she says that cooking you can kind-of fake. but you can taste if someone put their heart into baking.
i haven't made anything in an oven for over a year.
at first it was just plain grief. i couldn't even eat, much less mealplan. i have a weird thing about food; and can eat the same thing, every day, and be extremely happy about it. then i moved; and the oven here is weird, and i figured - ah, i'll figure it out eventually.
being sad silences such odd parts of your life. it's not like i meant to give up baking. i like baking. i list it in my hinge bio. people who have been friends with me for a while know she bakes. i like to make complicated, artistic things - things that take days to plan and a week to execute properly. my favorite does remain chocolate chip cookies - something about them being so simple and so immediately satisfying.
there are people i met in the last year who don't believe me. you don't cook, they laugh. which, i mean, i guess is true. as we speak, i'm eating something out of the microwave for dinner again. but still. i call one of my new friends and i tell her i saw a recipe for snail pretzels. she laughs and says why would you need that?
it's weird, i guess. i have so many very-very-very good memories, barefoot and dancing in yellow kitchens, humming to old music, my hands around a bowl. why, out of everything, is that what the grief stole? just this sudden, strange ... missing piece. and to be honest; it kind of scares me. because it happened so quietly is the thing. i never meant to stop baking. it just ... kind of happened to me.
i'm in the hard part of therapy - where you have to start feeling things. the whole world opens up and suddenly, everything hurts like you're 19. exciting! i am also, at the same time, and for the first time in my whole life - only beholden to me. any longterm choice i make only impacts my life. my first and only priority is just... me. for a while, the only way i experienced this sensation was to think how blisteringly lonely.
but i cleaned my kitchen today. later i will call nick and we will talk about stupid shit. tomorrow alex and i are binge watching tv. i have finished rearranging my plants today; they span my ceiling in a river of green.
and i think. i think. tonight i'll make cookies. i don't know if i'm happy. but it's just. you know. in the spirit of trying.
it's been said before and i'm sure said better than i can phrase it. but really, really - if you like making "i'm going to kill myself" jokes, please try switching to being ironically conceited instead.
anytime something goes wrong, say things like "ah well at least i'm beautiful and charming and everyone loves me." when you forget something, try "my big huge brain is so smart and thinking about too many other very big wizardly thoughts you wouldn't even understand." when you're frustrated by one of your symptoms, start talking like you're in My Immortal. "Life has come for me but my eyes are beautiful pools of gorgeous fire and my hair is amazing. I stuck my middle finger up at life and told it to fuck off and it did."
just... try it for a month or two. try saying the most absurdly self-congratulatory shit you can think of.
i know it's tempting to make suicide or self-harm jokes. and for me at least, a decade ago (!) when someone suggested i stop making those kinds of jokes, i was kind of at a loss for what to replace them with. i wanted to make light of these moments, but genuinely (at the time) my first thought really was suicidal ideation. there was a part of me that even felt like ... i was kind of "making light" of that voice. that if i could say i want to die lol, it would help take the sting out of that genuine (albeit passive) desire. like i could turn my illness into a joke.
when i started complimenting myself instead, it felt awkward and stupid. it felt really, really ironic. what i was actually saying was nobody would ever think this stuff about me, that's what makes it so fucking funny.
but. the effect was immediate. first thing i noticed was the people around me. when i dropped a glass and said ah my skin is too beautiful and sleek the glass has swooned and broken for me, other people were suddenly overjoyed to jump in with the joke. rather than making an awkward moment, we'd both start cracking up. ah princess sleek hands, i've heard of you.
i was 19. i hadn't noticed i'd been making others tense when i said i want it all to end. i know now that it's incredibly hard to know how to walk that moment - do you talk to them about your concern? do you potentially make them uncomfortable by asking if they're okay? do you ignore the situation? do you help them pick up the glass, or do they need to do it by themselves? are they genuinely made suicidal over this small moment? and most importantly, how do you - without professional training or supplies - actually help?
most people want to help you pick up the glass in your life, they just have no fucking idea how to do it. they don't want to make anything worse. they don't want to make assumptions about you. they love you, they're scared for you - and being scared makes people kind of freeze up. it's not because they don't love you. it's because they do.
now when something bad happens, my first thought is how can i make a stupid joke about this. it isn't my brain saying you're a dumb fucking bitch. i spend more time laughing. i spend more time being gentle with myself. i spend more time feeling good.
and the thing is - what's kind of funny - is that you'd be surprised by how many people agree with you. the first time i said i'm too pretty to understand that, someone else said to be fair you're the prettiest person in this room. i promise - you really don't know how kindly your friends see you. but they love you for a reason. they sort of reverse-velveteen-rabbit you. your weird and ugly spots fade away and you just become... the love they want to give you.
go love yourself ironically. the worst thing that happens is that you end up tricking your reflection into actually loving you.
i spend my days waiting. waiting for the water to boil and my tea to be ready. for spring to come back. for more daylight. the oil in the pan to heat up. a “hey i miss you” or “can you help me out for a second?” or “you want to hang out?” text. for my phone to finish charging. for good news. flowers on the table. the next hug. “hey, you got the job!”. waiting for the sun. to set. to rise. to see both. for summer to be around the corner. a good song. a falling star. a text back. i spend my time waiting to be remembered. i spend my time repeating that tomorrow will be better. tomorrow will be better. i spend my days waiting and waiting and waiting. i spend my days waiting unbearably.
"the curtains weren't blue on purpose. why should we care?"
my love! let me ask you this - did you eat breakfast today? this tiny moment in your life. just think about it. did you?
for some of you, the answer is yes and for some of you it is technically and for some of you it is does coffee count. some of you reached for cereal or gmo-free overnight oats or frozen waffles or 3-day-old pizza. sometimes we eat the same thing, every day, for weeks. i get tired of eggs randomly, only to go back to craving them desperately. i'm cuban; i take my coffee like my father showed me, very milky and sweet.
some of us ate in a hurry. some of us hate eating breakfast but if we don't we will get nauseous later. some of us took our meds first or took our meds after. some of us have a kitchen 5 feet wide and sometimes it's the biggest room in the house. some of us are confident there will be food in the pantry and some of us flinch and say well, the paycheck is coming. some of us turn on a podcast while we eat or we scroll our phones or write in our diaries.
some of us are choosing, specifically, not to eat breakfast. some of us are too busy. some of us are pretending we "just forgot," but we are ignoring the warning signs that everything feels too-heavy. some of us are so consumed with anxiety or grief that we can't eat. some of us can't stand up long enough to make our coffee. some of us have no table to sit down and eat.
i cannot tell you what an artist "meant" by their choices. but they did have to make a choice, conscious or otherwise, to give you information. to give you a little bit more light. each of these choices are little stars of data; connecting speckles for you to weave through, drawing a line.
you cannot use a mirror in a dark room. for some of us; we will not care that the curtains are blue, because that will just be a data point and not enough light to see by. for some of us, the blue curtains will be the same as our childhood bedroom. it will make us seasick. for some of us, blue will be the color of frostbite. it might look like a pixel up close; but from a distance, oh! the picture blooms.
i cannot tell you what will stick out for you. what will carry meaning. some of you will read the sentence "i didn't have breakfast today" and say "this means nothing." some of you will read that and say "oh, me neither." some of you will say "this means the character is probably a little grouchy." some of you will say "oh, i wonder if they're okay. why didn't they eat anything?" ... art is a mirror. i am holding hands with you, over space and time, and asking you to feel something with me.
i want you to read my work and find a blue pair of curtains. i want you to read my work and find things in it that i never imagined placing. i have no way of knowing what will resonate with you, that's true. and maybe i just was hungry while i wrote this, and thinking about the eggs in my fridge. but if you found meaning, that meaning is yours. it cannot be erased just because i didn't "intend" it. you created a different world by interpreting my work. it's collaborative! that's beautiful! that's stunning!
just! imagine looking at the night sky and saying - it's stupid to have a favorite constellation or a favorite star. they're just there.
because here's the thing - across centuries and cultures, we look up. we still find meaning in the stars. these beautiful, lovely scattered accidents. are you looking? they call. and we look back and say oh! of course we are!
sometimes i think that the worst part might be that what you did permanently changed me. the rest of my life is shaped by what you did to me. there is an after you, bleak and bleeding.
and i have to carry it around. i have to take care of it. i have to step around all the broken glass of it. sometimes i think i have finally outrun it; only to find it dripping from my sink. panic attacks in grocery stores - the acrid taste of you suddenly overwhelming. i cannot touch with clean hands; i'm too covered in this silken slime you left on me.
sometimes, though. sometimes i think the worst part is actually that despite all evidence to the contrary - how i scrambled for your approval, took ever-smaller pieces. despite the red flags and the warning signs and the days i spent angrily saying i deserve to get what i need. despite all of it.
i loved you anyway. and knowing that. absolutely broke me.
i had a dream last night that i had been born the right way,
that i had no trouble listening and made friends easily and
straightened my hair and dated only ben from highschool
until i got married to him. that our ring was gold
even though silver is my color and i don't support diamonds
i had a dream that i hadn't ever been ugly or weird, that
we'd had enough money to actually afford the clothes
everyone was wearing and in eighth grade i actually
twisted my ankle in ugg boots. that all my memories
were now diagonally drawn across the river
i should have been raised from -
we walked down boston in the chill and i kept talking about how
lucky i was to have a wonderful husband and how my father's love
poured over our relationship in evergreen gin - i swear sometimes
i think he prefers ben - and all the girls that bullied me were now
my beautiful friends with husbands and lives of their own,
spun out in gold and rhinestones
i had a dream that i hadn't been made wrong, that god had
treated me gently, that the hole that opened in me hadn't
seeped into everything, staining all of my fingers in chaos and
lightning. i had a dream i didn't know secrets about sharp things
or how deep the hole goes or how hard someone can hit
rock bottom, the snap of the bone.
i had a dream i kept twisting the ring and turning to
my oldest friend, who was frowning. barely looking at me.
i had a dream i got straight a's and went to a different college
but it meant we lost touch after it. she wasn't the same here - strange, unloving, chilly. something is wrong, i kept saying.
we were just out for boba tea. my hair was long and pretty and
i'd never dyed it enough to turn it frizzy. something is wrong and i think it's with me.
in this world, i still went to church. in this world, i had never been
abandoned. in this world, i had never disappointed my parents. in this world, neither she nor i ever kissed girls and meant it. she hadn't met her wife. in this world, nothing ever needed fixing. i didn't ruin things
compulsively.
is it worth it? she said, watching me. is it worth it,
everything that's missing?
inkskinned