#04172015

[thinkingaboutsanfrancisco]

I’d like to be.

I’d like to be known as someone who doesn’t have to remember to be kind and naturally thinks of other people first without any other selfish ulterior motives — like Ray — yet I’m not that upstanding. I don’t consider that I’m incapable of nice gestures either and I’d rather he had complimented me on doing one instead so I could’ve accepted it and thanked him properly...but he didn’t. He said I’m a really sweet kid...and it’s put some pressure on me because I can’t say that about myself. For one thing, I’d look like a pompous and egocentric brat if I told him that yes, I do regard myself that highly — I don’t deserve to, not for being somewhat sweet sometimes...and even that feels like too much credit. Yet, it’s equally as wrong to reject it and tell him no, I don’t think so at all; undermining his feelings again solely to appease my guilty conscience and throwing him back in the spot that’s even more uncomfortable than this one. I’ve already wiped that tender smile off his face once tonight…

“I... try to be.” I answer, because there’s truth in it. I don’t exactly aim to be sweet, but I do try to be nice. I try to be fair. I try to lend my help if it’s needed.

I still try to be good.

“You’re successful in your attempts, JJ, trust me.”

I wish.

Success is a big word with a chasmic definition to me; where my goodwill impacts something so considerably that it creates a permanent change for the better so I wouldn’t have to keep making efforts, because one alone would be worthy enough. If I were so successful, we’d never have to be on the floor for him to finally figure it out...

I’d never be here at all.

“I’m glad you think so,” I concede to his simpler, more lenient definition, keeping my voice quiet as I do so I don’t have to hear it echo so loud anymore. I’m tired of my mind getting tangled in these choking cords of existentialism like it’s so prone to when…

I need a cigarette.

Goddamn it. I thought I’d shoved that pestering craving down by now but that was some wishful fucking thinking. Doesn’t matter that I’ve gotten too lazy to feel like moving or that this is a swankier bathroom than where I usually sneak my smoke breaks and undeserving of my pollution, it's been ignored enough and I have to satiate its vengeful appetite.

Unclasping my hands, I exhale a deep sigh while I stare at my lap...and the arm that blocks my way. Ending a hug is always an awkward thing to do, and I don’t have the energy to verbalize my weak excuse for why his moment of comfort must come to such an abrupt close.

Except I forgot that he’s a fellow fiend, who senses what I’m reaching for without me having to nudge him with my knuckles; shifting his arm up an inch and granting me full access to dive into my pocket to grab the box. Freeing a precious Parliament from the pack, I stick it in my lip and try to light it as quick as my fucking thumb can flick the sparkwheel— I fumble twice, I’m that impatient.

Then I hear it; the crisp crackling of tucked tobacco leaves scorching under the flame. I yank the lighter away and my finger latches around the cigarette, closing my eyes to concentrate on drawing it deeper into my lungs, keen on filling up that aching void as if it’s been several hours of cold separation instead of hardly one. I turn my head and tilt up towards the ceiling, looking to spare him from choking on my filthy fumes.

[na-page]

DarrenCriss: Suddenly I'm… http://bit.ly/DarrenIsHedwig @HedwigOnBway

[sincerelyegg]

Day: 107 tiny friends

[ohyeahlaylael]

[bach-que-mai]

Đẹp như ri cơ,...

[thinkingaboutsanfrancisco]

The weight of his weary head soon rests upon me. His cheekbone feels substantial and awkward against my clavicle, but it’s an improvement over loitering or staring directly into his piteous soul and my mild affliction isn’t in vain; his shoulders loosen up and make his body seem slightly less laden whilst he slackens against my side.

He believes me.

That’s satisfying as it is. It’ll be verbalized eventually, but neither of us are exactly keen to disturb the stillness that’s settled in and alleviated the smothering from the air. We’ve fucking needed this break.

While he uses it to regain his composure, my eyes are kept fixed on the silver door before us, getting a good look at our reflection...or rather the distorted remnants of it. The stainless steel blurs us to where the distinction between our blobby forms are the colors of our clothes and the shades of our pallor; everything is so unclear and I smile wryly at the reflection’s apt reminder.

Whatever will be, will be. The future’s not ours to see, what will be will be...

That silly tune loops in my sleep deprived head until there’s some shifting on my side that pulls me out of it, and, as I look over at him, his head lifts off my shoulder.

Already? Damn, you rebounded quick.

Yet he doesn’t push himself off the floor and my breath hitches at the strange sensation of something slowly snaking around my back — his arm, the other looping around the front of my stomach. His bleary eyes, again blind to how wide mine are, are benevolent; long devoid of the menace that almost got him jabbed by my elbow out in the parking lot. My friend’s not out to embarrass me, if he was past that quota at the bar he’s way beyond it now, but my face burns anyway when he squeezes me tight at my waist.

Oh uh, okay…

I laugh a little at first because being squished feels really weird and funny; this move is definitely brought to me by the remnants of his inebriation, but the surge of warmth is overwhelming and my hesitance is cleansed by this nice rush of fuzziness that floods in through my chest. He comes in peace; this embrace is his simple attempt to extend the olive branch and express how thankful he is to have someone there to cling onto. I pick up my end of it, loosely wrapping my other arm over one of his, letting him know he's welcome by lightly patting it twice.

He ceases squeezing me to death before it gets too cloying, his arms gently laxing in their place around my sides. That gesture spent whatever energy he’d accumulated, because he can’t keep his head even slightly upright anymore. I have to smoothen out the small stutter in my breathing that happens when his cheek starts to slunk down to my ribcage, kept shielded from the remnants of tequila and vomit tainting his breath by him nestling his face into my shirt as he finally expels the contents of his mind…

“Give another hour for my ransom to rake in and I may reconsider,” My brows raise as I grin at that thought, though it all falls quickly since I know that isn't the tone of reassurance he wants to hear, “It hasn’t been that hopeless. Yeah, you absolutely should’ve listened to me— or rather, your own advice. Older people aren’t magically exempt from getting it wrong, man, they do it easily and often; what matters is that you recognized how you fucked up and, now that you’re okay, you have plenty of time to correct it. It’s still early enough, y’know? It’s...” I pause, lifting my left wrist up so I can read the hands of my analog watch, “Not even eleven yet.”

Lord knows how.

Exhaling a long sigh, I clasp my hands back together at his shoulder, staring down loosely at my knuckles as I continue, “If it’s any consolation, watching you get overzealous with shots and throwing up once isn’t exactly enough criteria to rile my resentment. You didn’t put me through anything I didn’t stay for, man. I mean come on... I would’ve been knocked to my knees here too had you not intervened and nursed me back to health at the bar, so I reckon it’s only right for me to do the same in return when you need it. In case you haven’t noticed, you’re the only person I know in this place and I suspect I’m the only one you know too, so if we want to survive this night and keep it as prosperous as it promised to be, we’re going to have to try and take care of ourselves first and foremost, but also keep taking care of each other...like friends do.”

[c-camachoo]

So i just got "stopped" is you can call it that,by a cop and complimented on my big eyes lol

[daprojex]

Learning to see

Direction Dimension Models Platforms Elevation Mirrors Stairs Ladders Pavement Translation of light through mind and hand Layering perspectives

[thinkingaboutsanfrancisco]

“Yeah...” He answers, his hoarse voice sounding nowhere near as dry as his humor when he plays on my words, “I feel like a fucking rockstar.”

His self depreciation is amusing enough, yet the irony entrenched deep within it is what really rouses a snicker. Yeah, he does look like one... when the show’s over and they've been brought to their knees in the first free bathroom backstage to purge the excess. Not exactly the portrait of health that’s fit for a glossy magazine cover, but it’s been worked into enough great lyrics, lackluster autobiographies, and bloated biopics for me to consider it the apt interpretation of his metaphor.

You aren’t the first person who’s taken a trip down here. Happens to the best of them.

“I’m sure you do, Kurt,” I tease him, “Perhaps you did assume his spirit...”

I can't believe I'm referencing that night in a lighthearted manner, but God...that was so out of the fucking park that it stuck with me enough to slip.

Despite how he was higher than the Transamerica building, just not on the substance that my paranoid ass thought he was at the time, he must recognize it either as a memory or some phantom thing he would say because he’s laughing too. It’s not another dangerous, uncontrollable, force of a boisterous fit though; rather a good, hearty, chuckle that’s akin to the ones we had at the bar. His flush hasn't tinged too much at all.

“I hope not. I’d like to think I have more than three years left to live,” He quips and damn that’s dark as hell. The anniversary of his death was mere weeks ago, for God's sake — another fact which worsens my bout of forbidden hysteria. We can't get started like this. Not yet. He’s still got a raw headache that I don’t want to aggravate further by being loud and raucous, nor do I dare provoke another aftershock of nausea...

As much as I've missed this levity, I bury my forehead in my knee to stifle myself and swallow down my comeback like it’s my repugnant iron supplements. By the time I've regained enough of my composure to come back up for air, his laughter’s faded, settling us back into quiet sincerity when he circles back to my question to answer it seriously.

“Yeah, it feels nice,” He sighs and closes his eyes again, “Thanks kid.”

He won't see it, but I mirror his softened smile anyway.

“You’re welcome, man.”

[deviantmakki]

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by ⚥ Makki ツ (@deviantmakki)

Well hello there Mt Mayon! Com'on, don't be shy, don't hide please... 😊🌄✈ #Bicolandia #BicolTour #BestOfThePhilippines #KayGandaNgPilipinas #OutOfTown #Summer2015 #04172015 (at Legazpi Airport)

[walkingsiopao]

super late na late na late na post tungkol sa the script concert

04172015

isa sa mga masasayang araw ng buhay ko

dahil syempre sa the script concert hahahaha

kumikinang si danny nung nakita ko sya

tapos parang panaginip lahat

sobrang saya ko nung araw na yon

kung pwede lang ulitin

promise

uulitin ko yun

hahahaha

THE SCRIPT FOREVER!!!

[sunnyvaahn-blog]

Late night tacos in SD. #04172015 (at Toronado San Diego)

[thinkingaboutsanfrancisco]

Despite how the music outside booms and thuds, we’re insulated adequately in here where such a whisper echoes loudly and the only thing I can do is cringe the second that I hear myself.

So much for regarding his privacy. Checking on him didn’t permit me to barge in and intrude like this. Yeah, I’m someone he knows, but barely. We haven’t developed that sort of intuition yet and just because I‘m so beyond exhausted in that state where I wouldn’t give a flying fuck if someone opened the stall door and trampled over my limp body while I fell back to the floor, much less if they looked at me, doesn’t mean he’s that inclined to relinquish his dignity. Unlocked doors aren’t invitations, especially when he was that hastened and most likely forgot to lock it anyway, and I know better than this; I should’ve waited outside until he’s ready to be seen— which absolutely isn’t when he’s burying his head to escape the excruciating headache. As if I couldn’t feel any more useless, I remember that I can’t even offer him a spare Dramamine or Excedrin out of my pocket either, since I was in such a rush to get out of the apartment that I didn’t bring my jacket.

I’m...I’m sorry, I—

He lifts his head, and my regret sears when I see his face.

Jesus...you look miserable.

For what it’s worth, it’s not the worst I’ve seen him— the desolate shell of a man I found in the park still haunts me—but this mess is closer to claiming the title than I hoped. Not like anyone looks particularly glamorous after throwing up, but this bathroom’s harsh fluorescents are merciless in their illumination of his ruin; the hint of green in his ghastly shade of pallor contrasts with how flushed his cheeks are under a sheen of sweat, and there’s a gross bit of vomit on his mouth that needs to be tended to soon...

But all of those details are blurred behind how he looks up at me. His irritation is the one emotion I can’t locate, instead I first find how his eyes droop at the corners so dolefully in lament that comes with losing the battle of control of your own fucking body. It looks worse on him than it ever does in the mirror, remembering how contented and blissful they were mere minutes ago. Defeat wasn’t the planned outcome of his night, it was supposed to be triumph. It was — we were toasting and dancing for fuck’s sake! He was only trying to feel better...he merely got carried away, he didn’t mean to wind up here...but where the fuck else did he think he was going to wind up at that rate? The fucking lounge? He’s not that stupid. If he knows enough about tequila to school me on it and nourish me back to health after two almost sent me here, then I reckon he’s damn well knowledgeable of what happens when downing six of them without drinking any water in between like he told me he would.

That’s why he’s not feigning innocence. 

The deeper truth between us has too taut of a tether on his stare to let us stray away from it; it’s not my fault that he got in over his head but I let him keep going because he misled me into believing that everything was okay, that he was okay, even though he was just ignoring me and all my warning cues blaring that he wasn’t, and now we’re suffering the consequences. They’re a tale that’s as old as time to me, more familiar than some of my books that I’ve read until their pages separated from the cracked spine, but he doesn’t know that. He doesn’t know yet how deep my reservoir of patience runs or how much he can take advantage of my expendable amount of chances...

All he knows is that he’s sorry. 

Above all else, it’s that honesty keeping him fixated on me so frightfully, desperate to communicate his contrition as if my empathy will suddenly wane before he gains the strength to say the words aloud, and it’s unbearable enough for me to stop my gawking and finally turn away. I can’t stand seeing him this shattered, especially over a fuck up that’s remediable...

There’s a silver paper towel dispenser across the room that I walk over to, yanking quite a few of them out to take over to the sink and wet under the faucet before I return, like I should’ve considered doing in the first place. 

“Here,” I say with a sympathetic half-smile, extending my arm out and holding the bundle of paper towels in front of him, “You need these.”

[stinkpearl]

I wish I lived in a society where if I wanted to wear a dress I wouldn't be literally killed in the streets

[sunnyvaahn-blog]

Friday afternoon traditions. #04172015 (at Chownow)