samcykle - Tumblr blog

[samcykle]

moving far away to a sunny place.

[samcykle]

i think the barbie movie hit me particularly hard because of how much i saw parts of myself in it.

it told me, it is okay to just exist as a woman. i don’t need to prove myself to stand out or be better. just being alive is enough, i don’t owe anyone anything.

and all forms of women are beautiful, my mom always hated and cried about being old, so naturally i was terrified. but when barbie saw an elderly lady for the first time, and called her beautiful—it made me think, growing old is okay. you shouldn’t fear it taking away from your beauty.

i teared up during the scenes of women just existing, living, and being there. it makes me truly appreciate how good womanhood feels, especially when we get the punch in the guts when we realize all the bad things that come with being a woman

[samcykle]

i lost my first kiss

I’ve gotten what I’ve always wanted as a young girl. As I sat, reading countless shitty wattpad stories, countless mangas about love and fate—there was no denying it. I was in love with romance. Even now, I spend my summer reading about love and war and the comfort of it all.

I wanted to experience love, romance, passion—I didn’t care if it came with heartbreak, I wanted to genuinely enjoy someone. But my standards were high, probably because of these stories of men sacrificing the world for their immense love. So I had never really been fully interested in a man—or even try to keep one around. Usually I run away, thinking he's not good enough. He’s too boring, he’s ugly, he’s too socially awkward. I wanted to really find someone I would like, someone that I could be irrevocably in love with. Someone I saw no flaws in. Sure people like that existed, but it’s not like they gave me any hope, I didn’t even talk to them. I just sat back, thinking about what could be.

Then it happened. One day of bad decisions and too much trust in a man I’ve never met—he was there.

Just like out of some shitty romance story he took me to see the city view from a quiet hill, and he talked about his life. I had no experience actually talking to men, especially one I was interested in. I was awkward, fumbled a lot. Sometimes I'm not even sure if I was making a point.

We begin the end of the night in the car, he tells me there’s a rhythm, and that I could be a little bit more gentle with my kisses. I remember the way he looked at me. Like he was in love, like I was the only thing that existed in the world. I like to blame it on him. I wouldn’t have lost my first kiss if he didn’t look at me like that. If he didn’t meet all of my standards and expectations from a real life romance book—maybe I wouldn’t have given in.

On the drive back, he sings, his voice is deep and rich. He points out the castles in the neighborhood. His house was impressive, but somehow not the most impressive in his neighborhood.

I pull up to his driveway.

“Hey, now you’ve got a new story to tell.”

I laugh and agree. I’m gonna tell my friend all about this night.

I ask him for one final hug before he’s walking off with mcdonald’s meant for the trash, and nasty thoughts I didn’t let him relieve himself of. I was tired afterwards. Felt like crying, screaming—not all in bad ways of course.

The following hours consisted of telling each of my friends exactly what happened. First, cried out of shock, jealousy, and happiness for me. Second screamed over facetime with me and gave me realistic hopes for next time. Third called me a slut—and then wanted to know the exact details. The fourth bounced off the walls laughing in shock and disbelief. He told me it sounded straight out of some love story.

I woke up the next morning filled with regret and longing for a second time, a second chance to prove that I was worth keeping around. But alas, My message was still there, lingering for another space to be filled by him.

I felt disappointed. He didn’t text me back. He didn’t even like my story where he took the photo for me. I was confused. I was good enough to sneak out with at 2 am. But not good enough to text again?

But as I sit here and write it, it makes me realize, he is just a story.

A stupid romance story that has a beginning and an end to it. One where there is happiness, and then the end. Of course I’m not content with just ending it like that, however, romantic stories don’t show the endings, they don’t show that maybe in the future they drift.

I don’t regret it. He gave me exactly what I wanted—a love story. One that in the future I could tell and laugh about, reminisce on being a teenager. One like the wattpad stories of highschool love. Simple, sweet, and short.

Sure I’ll be sad that this romance isn’t a novels worth of time, but it exists, it was there, for one night, under the stars, surrounded by city lights.

-sam. july 25th, 2:15-4:30 am

[samcykle]

actually thinking about that “not all characters should be in a coffee shop au” because simon riley is absolutely a line cook with a permanent record who takes hella smoke breaks and is always one more “table three said theyre chicken tastes ‘funny’ “ away from fucking killing somebody 

[samcykle]

“The way you describe your world becomes your experience of it. If you describe your world with hostile language that’s what you’ll experience. Life becomes a nightmare if that’s how you dream it.”

— Kate Burton

[samcykle]

vent lolz

earlier this week i was complaining. complaining to my mother that i was tired of working. burn out is a real thing! i wish i stayed at home, doing nothing, like my younger brother. i used to be like him as well, staying at home, wilting away in blankets and the comfort of youtube videos.

i wonder why i started working. at first, it was just sheer curiosity i believe. or i just wanted to be involved in my very own mother’s restaurant. i was proud, i got many praises from working at a young age.

i tell my mother i wish i was like my brother, that i just stayed home, and indulged in spoon fed entertainment.

she tells me, “i thought you didn’t like being left alone with all your thoughts. isn’t it how you went crazy?”

i was confused at first. but it hit me all at once. i wanted to be angry at her first.

who are you tell me i went crazy?

then frustrated—

you let it happen!

i recall before working. i recall before the many hours of sitting in the artificial kitchen, my brain on autopilot, working, and working. the frustration in knowing i couldn’t just leave and go home.

i was lonely. i was a lonely person. sure i had friends. but i go back to my house, and it’s empty. there is no sign of life other than my brother’s computer. i don’t remember anything if i’m being honest. what did i do for a whole year home alone? it panics me.

i hit a breaking point, sometime during the cold winter. banged my head on the wall repeatedly,

“let me stay home.”

i refused to go to school, and instead, was taken to the hospital with my mom and my aunt. i was livid that day. i couldn’t stop crying. i wasn’t suicidal, i was just lonely. was i depressed? maybe.

or maybe i was tired of the mundane repetitiveness, going to school, going home, doing nothing productive. everything in my life was bland, lonely, i didn’t have a single friend that i fully confided in.

now i’m just insulted. calling me crazy? i was a product of my environment, one that you created—how dare you call me crazy.

and then i told her,

“yeah. i guess.”