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[oftripps]

gwenlus‌:

// * @oftripps

“do you remember when my parents found out we were ‘dating’ ?” gwen puts air quote marks around the words, because the word ‘dating’ is used very loosely here. anybody under the age of 16 should not consider any relationship as being legit, in her opinion. but gwen was bringing it up now because she was NOSTALGIC. she loved her parents. she just… wanted to know w h e r e they were. and hoped that they were safe. but she also wasn’t convinced they were the kind of people to just leave, like so many other people had been insisting had happened to the town. gwen allows her lips to quirk up, in a fond smile. “they sat me down and told me to BREAK UP WITH YOU. and i got so mad and told them they didn’t UNDERSTAND.” just the memory is enough to make gwen shake her head at herself. “you and i talked… what… like two whole times, during that whole ‘relationship’ ? once was when i accidentally stepped on your foot.” she clicks her tongue. “no wonder my parents didn’t believe in the legit-ability of it.” her smile fades. she doesn’t feel good talking about them as if they’re DEAD. “ i don’t know why i brought that up. i haven’t even had anything to drink. scouts honour.” gwen shakes her head. “you enjoying this… party? is that the word to use here?”

tripp ducks his head with a laugh. “ us? ‘dating’? nope, no memory. ”  he’s pulling her leg a bit, beer in hand, and he glances down at the thing like it’s a foreign object. like he’s never seen a bud light in his life before, and he has no idea what comes next.  “ i think... we actually talked a grand total of three, if you count the time that football i tossed at recess nearly hit you in th’face. ”  his hair tousles as he shakes his head, half-embarrassed for his younger self.  it pains him a bit, thinking about a time when his parents were together –– and even here. but the nostalgia cracks open in his chest and spirals out slow, slow, slow, and it helps. maybe. or maybe that’s just the four beers he downed before this one, combined with gwen’s comforting presence. “ you never said sorry for that foot-step, by the way, ” tripp manages a smile. “ and yes, before you ask –– i am still offended. my heelies never rolled the same. ”  it’s moments like these he nearly forgets the predicament they’re in, the potential numbered days ahead. gwen’s catapulted them back to simpler times, and he’s GRATEFUL.  “ who needs drinks when you’ve got friggin’ lost junior high love ? ”  he rests a hand on gwen’s shoulder and raises his beer can toward her, comically ceremonious and by no means graceful.  “ gwen lu. my one-week lover. would you do me the honor of taking this beer off my hands? ”  a phantom beam seeks residence on tripp’s features, that lopsided trademark goodman smile, and it’s almost like things are back to normal. if only for an instant. “ i’d enjoy this shindig so much more if y’did. ”

[oftripps]

ephmervls‌:

          it took awhile for her to  regroup  ,  to gather herself  ,  to  separate  her being from the  WHIRLWIND  that took place in town center  .  it was almost a natural instinct  ,  the way her feet carried her towards the forest surrounding barnaby’s creek  ;  where an ancient treehouse  (  or so they presumed at the ripe age of eight  )  was nestled and hidden  .  even when the town was  bustling  ,  the only sound to be heard from it was the waters surrounding  .  she climbed up the wooden ladder  ,  one that had to be just a couple  years  from  deteriorating  and ducked into the opening meant for a small  child  .  it didn’t feel much different  ,  even now  ,  always being a  getaway  ;  the rest of the world ceasing to  exist  beyond it  ,  much like the  town  was now  .  “  in the midst of unbeknownst  CHAOS  ,  i should have  known  i’d find you here .  ”  she muses  ,  happy  to be in his presence during a time like  this  .  @oftripps

         hi, you’ve reached theresa! i’m not available to come to the phone right now. please leave a message, hun, and i’ll get back to you as soon as i ––

         tripp's thumb truncates the line with a world-shattering tap. his phone clatters to the floor. his home screen paints the adjacent wall a luminescent blue that, when swirled by unshed tears, dances like fog. the heartsick soul at sea strains for fog horns and hears only pulsating tides and his own ebbing breath.

        he’s memorized it by now. the message. his trembling lips fill in the abrupt silence. “ as soon as i can. a-as soon as i can. ”  they etch consonants and vowels into night-chilled air. tripp lids his eyes and squeezes, nostrils flaring with forced, numbered breaths.

       head up. try again.

       but he knows as the tally keeps mounting, the result won’t change. the young goodman ducks his head, mop of russet-brown hair shadowing downtrodden features. he ducks his head, presses bloodied crescents into his bottom lip, and flippin’ damns to heck this world’s consistency.

       he’d thought the reception up here might make a difference. be better. he’d thought maybe, surrounding himself by childhood comforts might change things. make him feel less useless. tripp opens his eyes and brushes the back of his sleeve beneath his eyes, shields the motion with a sniffle. goodman men don’t cry.

        familiar footsteps clack against the treehouse ladder and his chest flutters at the prospect of no longer being alone –– dear god, don’t let him be alone. a sight of relief escapes worry-worn lips and tripp manages something as close to a smile as he can get.

      “ hey. didn’t know i had a stalker, ”  he supplies with a comic exhale. it’s hollow. but he’s trying. “ i... ”  tripp finds himself paralyzed in his own crevice of the hideout’s interior. he’s wiped. he couldn’t stand if he tried. the asthenia of this clusterfuck’s rendered his limbs useless.

     “ a-are you... are you okay? are you good? ”  are any of them okay? are any of them good? he toes his phone further into the corner, clenches his jaw to show he’s fine. he’s okay. he’s good.

     west ham’s skies are clear. tripp pretends the few streaks of wetness mapping his cheeks are simply lingering drops of rain.

[oftripps]

@ephmervls

[oftripps]

✰ sms ↝  isabel !

isabel: not after these spam of texts

isabel: why didn't you just throw a rock and shatter the window or something

isabel: you could have blamed it on the weather and no one would have known

isabel: besides me ofc

tripp: isabel you know rocks are a really sore spot for me rn, i just

tripp: can't look at them the same now that remi's gone

tripp: this is so not lit :(

tripp: but anyway how are u?

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✰ sms ↝  lane !

lane: don't steal anything even if you can.

lane: it's going to set a bad example.

lane: seriously i can make you a waffle if you desperately want one.

tripp: you know me! i can't even like steal a heart, let alone a waffle.

tripp: really? you'd do that for me?

tripp: like rn?

[oftripps]

text: keaton ⇨ tripp

keaton: on a scale of 1-10, 10 being sleeping beauty and 1 being... i dunno, a really bad insomniac

keaton: i'd rate my sleep quality at about a 3. you?

keaton: you say that like it isn't always cinnaraisin waffle hour

keaton: i would definitely not steal in ordinary circumstances but it's hardly ordinary circumstances so

tripp: oh golly, you do not want my rating

tripp: 0.5, maybe a 0.6 if i'm being real kind

tripp: i'm not a stealer but... i would break into that diner to get my hands on one of them cinnaraisin saviors

tripp: but i'd need some amoral support

tripp: and i'd obviously share with most folks... the nice ones

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✰ sms ↝  all contacts !

tripp: hi hey hello. can u sleep?

tripp: i can't so like... howdy

tripp [unsent]: how are you? jk that's dumb i

tripp: tbh genuinely offended they left the diner locked... it's cinnaraisin waffle hours and i can't even steal myself some? rude

tripp: not that i would steal

tripp: but you know... if i could. if i did.

tripp: i would flipping steal those

[oftripps]

lavders‌:

𝐀𝐒  𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇  𝐒𝐋𝐈𝐏𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐆  and  landing  himself  on  his  ass  weren’t  bad  enough,  Leo  found  himself  drenched  in  another’s  vomit.  His  handsome  features  were  screwed  into  a  look  of  disgust  as  he  tried  his  best  to  wipe  it  off  with  a  towel.  “JESUS  —-”  he  muttered  to  himself.  “There  goes  my  Versace  shirt.”  Disappointment  faltered  through  his  mind  as  though  the  destruction  of  a  designer  shirt  were  the  worse  thing  that  happened  that  night.  A  sigh  left  Leo’s  lips  when  he  finally  gave  up  trying  to  salvage  his  shirt,  and  his  eyes  panged  against  the  other’s.  “What’s  up  with  you?”  A brow lifted ,  and  he  leaned  against  the  seat,  his  damp  shirt  pressing  against  his  chest.  “You  look  stressed.”

tripp can’t help the smile that bubbles to the surface of his drunken ass. his vision’s subject to some magnetic field shifts shifts in focus –– blame that on his fourth four loco –– but leo’s epic fail? he witnessed that in flippin’ high-def. and he’s having trouble not enjoying it.

“ ...me? stressed? ”  he hums and rubs at his forehead. really gets his ass in gear. concern. concern. look worried. like you’ve called your mom eighteen times and though she’s in the habit of picking up on the first ring, it’s all gone to voicemail. his swimming mind buzzes: this is why tripp pursued music instead of theatre. method acting hits way too close to home.

“ frick. well, yeah. i’m stressed. i’m –– i’m distraught. your versace shirt. ”  his hair flops about as he shakes his head. so sad. leo’s versace shirt. almost as sad as the one woman’s valentino white bag. he blinks at the grotesque sludge covering the garment but makes no move to clean it. who knows what’s in that stuff? brownie bits? slim jims? eugh. he reaches a hand toward leo and hesitates before giving his counterpart’s shoulder an amicable pat - pat.

“ for what it’s worth, man... s’not so bad a look. very... spaceballs meets scary movie 2.  chunky chic.  if you will. ”

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“ –– wow. ”  it’s not so much a critique as it is a g-rated expletive. tripp forces a smile mid-chew and blinks. “ my tastebuds are screaming. gah–– uh, singing. singing. ”  he avoids swallowing and as ring-decorated fingers snag a napkin, wide eyes drifting to the tabletop as a small jingle breezes past tensed lips. “ ~ allergic to mushrooms ~ ”

or, alternatively: this is somethin’ new! the caspar slide pt. 2 !! & this time, it’s ‘bout to get funky !!  so i’m linc and this is tripp and he’s........ a trip, honestly, so let’s just... yeet on into this ––

( joe keery + 22 + muse 12 ) isn’t that phillip joel “tripp” goodman over there? i heard he joined faction: one after they got back to west ham. it’s funny, ‘cause they were only on the service trip because HIS BANDMATES DUPED HIM INTO THINKING THE SIGN-UP WAS FOR A WOODS-THEMED OPEN MIC GIG. hopefully they fit in there – they’re JAUNTY but also OUTRÉ. oh, i’m sure they’ll be fine.

out the door !  ( tripp goodman: a roadmap )

look up townie family in the dictionary and you’ll find a portrait of the goodmans directly beside. these folks have a looooong flippin’ legacy here in lil’ ole west ham, kansas. it all started with montgomery goodman, a good man, who helped west ham’s founders break ground on this midwestern charmer several centuries ago. and now, the goodmans still live on the same property –– a refurbished farmhouse ( now closer to mcmansion ) surrounded by five acres of roooooollin’ hills. once upon a time, they were farming folk. now, theresa and joel goodman run the town’s one and only veterinary clinic. 

honestly, growing up? tripp was a problematic kid. he’d take in frogs from the woods and start his own frog hotels. he’d sneak pets from the clinic to school who “ needed help learning their numbers ”. in class, he’d flick sunflower seeds at the backs of his peers’ heads and, when threatened with discipline, claim he simply “ wanted to see if they’d grow  ” .  so no, to answer your question–– tripp never really saw the real wrath warranted by his rulebreaking.

in fourth grade, he chose the saxophone as his required instrument. he caused such a commotion in his house, that his parents asked his teachers to suggest something quieter. the viola. the flute. the clarinet. the piano. instruments came and went,;instruments were quickly mastered and abandoned. because dear lord, how many times could they listen to the spongebob theme song played on woodwind ?!  on strings ?!  once middle school rolled around, little phillip joel knew his way around a whopping total of six instruments, a tally that would only grow in the coming years. eventually, his parents caved and allowed him to keep playing, so long as he respected instrument curfews. they gave song requests to avoid hearing the same pieces on repeat: the goodman household was probably the only one blessed with an oboe-and-beatbox rendition of under the sea. young phillip joel’s take on the issue was simple: not all heroes wore capes.

( tw: domestic unrest, mentions of violence ) theresa and joel split when tripp was 9. just seven months later, tripp’s mother moved in with her girlfriend: tripp’s guitar teacher, ms. lillith. tripp didn’t mind ms. lillith. she was chill. he came to find out she could knock back a chocolate milk almost as fast as he could, and she liked her grilled cheeses with swiss only. his best friend became a thirty-six year old woman who happened to be his mother’s girlfriend. and that was fine. he could dig it. but joel goodman? oh no. his family name was tarnished. the scandal was too much to bear. joel sued for full custody and nearly made it, thanks to hometown politics and loyalties. but then he made one fatal mistake: he crossed his own son.

at 10 years old, fifth grade phillip joel returned home to his father’s after school with three fingernails painted effervescent blue. sidney frasier made me so cool, he gushed as he put his colored nails on proud display. dad, aren’t i so cool?  the next day, his dad enrolled him in the town’s peewee football program. he returned home from his first practice with a black eye and a split lip. from a ball, the coach insisted. hit the poor fella square in the face, real strong. phillip joel put up a fight against football; it wasn’t for him. it conflicted with music practice. couldn’t he just play music with ms. lillith instead?

the custody battle persisted. they settled on a parenting schedule. joel contested, consistently, months later. and so the cycle persisted up until phillip joel’s 12th year, when he was knocked out cold on the football field. the broken ribs came from hefty tackles. bruises from the fall. concussion from the impact. but theresa spun it to her advantage: joel had since started coaching the middle school team. this was an instance of parental neglect. and, when the courts didn’t comply, she instructed her son to jump down the stairs. one broken ankle later, and joel goodman was accused of child abuse. his word against his injured son’s. the maneuver won theresa full custody. phillip joel has yet to forgive himself.

after the custody battle’s conclusion, joel stayed in town: but phillip joel didn’t want a thing to do with sharing his name. his mother still scolds him as phillip joel, but to everyone else, he became tripp –– inspired by his knack for, you guessed it!, tumbling over his own two feet.

in high school, tripp was the class clown. always smirking, always grinning, always ready to catch someone off guard. he became a pivotal part of west ham high’s jazz band, and even formed a small group with a few buds: face. they played some school events: homecoming, pep rallies, prom. garage-baked young rock, their songs often preached meetings under bleachers and high school never ending. 

in senior year, the band saw a reboot: and after assuming a more indie, spacey sound and a nifty new name –– 1757. –– they saw a rise in local celebrity. coffee shops commissioned them for jam nights. they played on the local radio. so they collectively decided to stick around and see how far they could ride this west ham fame train. with tripp as their frontman, they always leave a memorable impression: he’s not exactly the most run-of-the-mill performer.

1757.’s sound is reminiscent of LANY: i’ve reblogged a few tunes onto tripp’s blog for reference. he’s v much a paul klein / matty healy vibe. big into music. big into losing himself in it.

so what was he up to before the service trip? playin’ tunes. working part-time as a waiter. and brainstorming ways to get out of going on this trip, as soon as he realized his stupid bandmates lied about the form he signed. an open mic in the woods ! pah !  he should have known. but the concept sounded pretty flippin’ cool.

wear our shades on our nose, 'cause we're cool like that ( tripp goodman: the man, the myth, the ledge )

oh god, he’s  w e i r d .  he believes in goblins and ghosts and aliens ( oh my )!

still VERY VERY close with his mother. v broken up about not being able to get through to her, because it was about to be his parents’ wedding anniversary and they were going to anti-celebrate it with big slices of oreo cheesecake and setting things on fire.

how he feels about coming home to west ham: post apocalyptic version.

uhhhh... can he please get a waffle? specifically a cinnamon raisin waffle with extra cinnamon and a shit ton of syrup? actually. syrup with a side of waffles?

why he was banned from his personal twitter.

“ do you even lift, bruv? ”  * proceeds to pick up a teacup & lift his pinkie like a true knock-off british monarch, shitty accent included *

listens to wham! and glam rock. unironically.bluetooth speaker mounted on his bike. no helmet! like an absolute boss. he knows!! wild!! shades on. it’s 2am. it’s dark. but true swag obeys no clock.

catch him biking everywhere stranger things style, actually. his bike’s name is milo because he can roll on for miles. mess with milo and he’ll fuck u up. aka find out if you’re lactose intolerant and slip heavy cream into your meal.

has a strong vendetta against blue doritos. which might take root in some horrific experiences involving cheez wiz, cool ranch, weed, and the new york subway system at 4am on a tuesday. spring break freshman year of college. oof.

he has a lil drawwwwl. tease him about it. he’ll probably blush.

stress-hums chili’s babyback ribs without realizing. catch him singin’ that about to be murdered.

weapon of choice: kindness.

actual weapon of choice: baseball bat.

he will write little jingles to keep morale up. “ so we’re trapped / cash us inside / how bou’ dat ? ”

has a passion for introspective literary quotes. but... has somehow managed to learn each and every one wrong.

friggin’ loves superheroes even though he can’t be bothered to watch the films? he just… always used to get made fun of for liking comic books even though he never read them? “ arachnid man is uh...  heh. he’s pretty dope, huh? ” he embraces the falsehood. someone call him on it.

9/10 times if he’s in the gym, it’s just to eat his donut and watch pay-per-view movies on the bike for free.

apple pie can absolutely be breakfast if you try hard enough. jeez. get with the times, man!

he had a legitimate pet rock before going on this service trip. but has no idea where that bugger’s gone. probably got fed up with tripp serenading him with “ we will rock you ” at all hours of the night.

lawful good. will wave other drivers on forever.

got into an accident on his bike once. bitch broke his arm and he just kept on smiling.  “ no you have a nice day! and uh.... hey. mind if we like... call an ambulance? ”

low key feels like he’s the reason his parents’ marriage crumbled. low key guilty about it. low key wonders if maybe he lived up to his father’s expectations, he might have saved them a lot of grief.

give benny goodman by saint motel a listen and tell me that’s not his soul in audio form.

known for slightly hyperbolic storytelling.

pansexual as heck. falls in love. hard. it’s a mess. he can’t hide it. hence the shades.

he has brilliant hair. and it’s immortalized in his high school yearbook.

is hellbent on being a source of positivity in this terrible situation. can he interest you in a meme in these trying times? how ‘bout a granola bar? maybe a good ole game of mash?

he’s convinced this is an elaborate prank. or a social experiment. maybe aliens. but let’s not question it too much, let’s just.... have a good time? hakuna matata? no worries? lol where the twizzlers at?!

leaves a voicemail for his mother every morning and every night. maybe he cries. maybe.

he has one ear pierced because like.......... senior year of high school, he wanted to feel more cool.

allergic to mushrooms, shellfish, eggs, and harbingers of doom.

he truly boggles minds. just.... v out there? v spacey. he closes his eyes and drifts about on stage, fingers dancing on the keys, body moving in eclectic ways. he says “groovy” and fuckin’ means it. he dresses in prints inspired by grandma’s carpet. lots of half-buttoned flowy shirts, boots, tailored statement pants, dangly necklaces. he’s got his hands full of rings –– they symbolize milestones. and some are just, like... pretty. and one’s his mother’s old wedding band.

where the hell are my friends !  ( wanted connectz. )

i was gonna do a whole section on this and got lazy but like.... anything. all the things. good, bad, ugly, beautiful. hurt him. make him suffer. but also support him a bit.

i imagine he’s got a solid squad goin’. he’s in faction one too, so... hmu for those.

i feel like he’d be pretty chill with the greeks? yeah bro, he parties. he’ll chill. he’ll crack open a cold one and pretend to understand what those letters on your jacket mean! pie-apple-fate-uh? cool stuff !

ride or dies. pls.

he needs someone to like....... melt his heart. maybe someone unexpected.

thisssss got long & disorganized but yes! let’s plot! let’s do this thang! #hype!!

[oftripps]

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[oftripps]

by all memes necessary

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