terrancedipp

[terrancedipp]

brent forgetting GGAH lyrics for everyone who doesn’t have tiktok

via @/albanysal_25 on tiktok & originally shared on here by @sodas-white-tshirt

[terrancedipp]

victor soda how i adore u

thinking about them rn

[terrancedipp]

victor you evil evil man

hey so what the FUCK was that

[terrancedipp]

dyslexic sodapop curtis you will always be real to me.

[terrancedipp]

your boy, soda ; the first letter

sodapop couldn’t sleep. he wasn’t sure if his date earlier that night went well or if he was a complete fool. he’s pretty sure it was the latter, but he also got a kiss on the cheek when they were parked in the empty parking lot, so again, not too sure. words aren’t exactly his forte, especially not in the heat of the moment. so, he took inspiration from his younger brother, and wrote down what he was feeling. he had to write it to chet, of course, his best friend deserved to know every single detail about everything and nothing, even if he didn’t exactly want to. and that’s when he stumbled upon the idea of writing a letter.

authors note : i’m a bit nervous posting this, but here it is! all misspellings are intentional, but i tried not to make them too obvious. i hate when people write sodapop like he’s brain dead and doesn’t know his abcs. all punctuation, or lack of it, is intended, despite how much it pained me lol. anyways, enjoy!! sorry that it’s not all that long 😓😓

dear chet

dear 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗍

dear chet

dear chet,

i aint good at writin letters so dont lauf if this aint right. i just hadda say some stuff an i cant get it out when im lookin at you my words get all jummbled up in my head like they do on the page so im gonna try it this way even if it looks dumb.

you ever get that feelin in yer chest like yer hearts tryin to run but yer ribs keep holdin it back? thats what it feels like when i think bout you. like im gonna bust wide open and i dont even care

i aint ever felt like this bout nobody not even close. you got this way of talkin soft that makes me feel like i dont gotta be loud all the time you make things quiter inside me thats reel rare chet.

i like the way you lauf at stuff i dont think nobody else notises. i like how you dont talk too much but when you do it matters and i like that you look at me like im not just some dumb prety face even if most days i feel like thats all i am.

i dont really know what all this is i just know i think bout you all the time like all the time. and i feel weird in a way that aint bad but aint easy to say neither. when you’re around i feel like i can breathe easier but also like i cant sit still.

maybe this letter’s dumb but i dont care i just like you a hole lot more than i probly should more than anybody and i want you to know that.

yer boy,

ᔕOᗪᗩ

p.s. i tried writin your name nice at the top but i mesed it up 3 times so i gave up you probly gessed you always gess right

[terrancedipp]

dyslexic sodapop curtis you will always be real to me.

[terrancedipp]

your boy, soda

a series of letters written from the perspective of a newly sixteen-year-old sodapop curtis to his best friend — fifteen-year-old chet baker — who he’s gone on a few dates with. from the butterflies after their first date to the fallout of their biggest fight, and every messy, tender moment in between. sophomore year has a lot in store for these two.

ᥫ᭡. the first letter

[terrancedipp]

hi guys!! i have a few writings that i want to post, but i think i’m going to turn it into a series kinda thing. is that cool??

[terrancedipp]

Things in the musical that I love. I’m sure everyone already pointed all of these out like a year ago, but whatever.

1) GGAH ends on a gospel sound, because its philosophy is literally their gospel

2) “great expectations” is in a major key, and “grave revelations” is in a minor key

3) ICTTYAL, “suddenly it seems…” it sounds like the next line will be the final line. Like the verse should end, “suddenly it seems, I could talk to you all night.” But then Cherry adds one more line. Then another. “I could talk to you for hours. But these hours go like minutes.” It mimics a conversation where you keep thinking of little things to add on just because you don’t want it to end. The song is drawn out like their conversation. Like their conversation, the verse should end but it doesn’t.

4) RRB sounds like one of those “legend of an outlaw” folk ballads

5) RRB does that thing I love when musical act one finales do, and when they do it well: it brings back multiple musical and lyrical motifs/leitmotifs from throughout act one and re-contextualizes them in the current circumstances. “You’re a greaser now and you ain’t goin’ back,” playful and prideful and celebratory in GGAH, now an ominous verdict. It seemed like a game before, but now shit just got real. (Of course it was never a game, that’s the point). There’s no coming back from this. “This town is a dead end road, let’s leave it behind let’s just get up a go,” is twisted from a fantasy into something they’re forced to do.

6) “little brother” and “stay gold” both end on unresolved notes. Two unresolved, unfinished lives. For Dallas it’s chaotic, a high note because he dies screaming. For Johnny it’s a more peaceful, premeditated choice to pass his final message onto Ponyboy, for Ponyboy to carry it forward in a way Johnny can’t. Both lives are cut short, but both live on through Ponyboy. Ponyboy picks up where their melodies left off, and finishes their stories.

[terrancedipp]

every time someone records hopeless war or little brother with the camera zoomed out an angel grows its wings

[terrancedipp]

hi fam… if u have a grease west end bootleg with hope dawe as sandy or solomon davy as kenickie dm me!! i’d be more than willing to trade :)

[terrancedipp]

i thought this was suee funny in my head maybe its plane brain talking

[terrancedipp]

what do i have to do to make Cole zieser to be a darry cover. and then have Cole on as darry and davis on as soda. what do i need to do

[terrancedipp]

trip is a violent crash-out, plain and simple. a walking eruption.

he would never—never—lay a hand on melvin or gramma. that’s not even up for debate. but that doesn’t mean the greasers get a free pass.

trip, who’ll beat the hell out of some unlucky greaser until he’s sore from throwing punches. until the poor guy is crumpled, soaked in blood—his own—and trip is left breathing hard, fists split, shirt ruined, too far gone to even wipe his hands clean.

trip, who breaks into the liquor cabinet when sneaking out isn’t an option. he tells himself he just needs a little something to take the edge off. but he never stops at a little.

even after he jumps a greaser, he’ll still go drink—sometimes stumbling into the house with blood still on his knuckles, forgetting he never washed it off. sometimes he drinks because of what he did. Other times, it’s just routine.

he drinks and drinks and drinks until it all goes numb. then he remembers. or worse—something reminds him. a phrase. a smell. a flicker of someone else’s pain.

and then he’s crashing out again.

he starts screaming—genuinely screaming. a raw, hoarse sound that no one should ever have to hear from someone they love. then he’s sobbing. ugly, full-body sobs that turn his face blotchy and red. sometimes it’s both at once: yelling and crying in tangled knots.

he throws things. beer bottles, mostly. hurls them at the wall, at the door, at nothing. they shatter. the noise doesn’t help, but it feels like it should.

he stumbles around his room like it’s a battlefield. punches the wall. runs shoulder-first into his dresser. he’s not trying to hurt himself, not exactly—but pain feels better than whatever else is happening inside him.

he chucks his basketball at the window. shoves everything off his desk. breaks things he loves and will regret destroying come morning. which just pisses him off all over again.

he hits the wall again. harder this time. his knuckles are split now. blood joins the tears on his cheeks, and it all blends—pain and rage and sadness, tangled up until even he doesn’t know which is which.

when it’s over, he slumps against the wall like his body gave out. legs curled to his chest, elbows balanced on his knees, the heels of his palms digging into his eyes. his fingers twist into his hair, tugging at the roots like maybe he can get something out that way.

gramma shows up with that tired, unimpressed look she always wears after one of his blowups. arms crossed, sighing through her nose.

“are you done now?” she asks like it’s a chore she’s tired of watching.

trip screams something at her—some half-coherent mix of curses and defenses, words that don’t even string together right. making a sound that gave gramma a glimpse to the boy she raised.

she doesn’t flinch. just mutters, “you’re just like your father,” and shuts the door behind her.

and when trip wakes up with dried spit at the corner of his mouth, blood on his knuckles, and the dull, sinking ache of regret already blooming behind his eyes. when the air in his room smells like beer and dust and sweat with shards of a bottle glittering under his desk, he still has the audacity to wonder why melvin won’t look him in the eyes at breakfast.

[terrancedipp]

does ANYONE have a floyd collins bootleg PLEASEEE im goign insane pleasepleasw🙏🙏🙏🙏

[terrancedipp]

im still thinking about it. it’s so. thank YOU

not a day goes by where i don’t think about the jewish brill fanfic. thank you whoever wrote that

[terrancedipp]

Jeremy Jordan performs "The Call" at the 2025 Tony Awards