#also its somehow 4 am and ive just been lying in bed staring at my ceiling

[baeshijima]

HAPPY BDAY WORLDWIDE BELOVED

[9tzuyu]

four months.

note: hiiiii! just trying to get into the groove again. i dont know what this is. the original prompt is below, however it did not turn out that way?¿ its kind of a mess, but fluffy i suppose. i hope you enjoy :>.

using my own experience so don’t think i hate poor people because i am those people </3

(also chapter 4 of children of tragedy will be out soon, i promise. ive just had awful writers block.)

+ thank you moli for proofreading so i dont have to. i love you.

warnings: none?

prompt: * reader used to be poor and stuff and w/n is like “you know you don’t have to get the cheapest things” and R covers it up and says “oh this is the brand i like, but w/n discovers hidden receipts and asks why they have a bunch of useless receipt and R is like “i was just tracking how much we spend....”

🏷 @natasha-danvers @midnight-lestrange @whatiziz @kermy48 @mycosmicparadise @peggycarter-steverogers @blackxwidowsxwife (lmk if you want off the tag list because ik i dont post as regularly as other writers, so im just going with people who have told me they want to be on my tag list in the past)

and lastly, for my baby @nermalina. its not really your genre per se [ i have a smut fic that i’ll dt you on ;)] however, accept this as a form of love.

it wasn’t so much that you were homeless and out on the streets, but you weren’t necessarily well off either. working as a waitress only got you far enough to pay your monthly rent and gas. somehow you managed to squeeze in a list of groceries.

every penny counted, you didn’t have room for mishaps or sick days. thats why you kept your budget small and a stash full of receipts on the kitchen bar.

natasha didn’t know about any of this though. you were sure she’d have you by the neck if she found out how long you’d been keeping your secret.

the redhead was generous, and no matter how many times you offered to pay for something she would never even dream of letting you. natasha insisted on it, and you were powerless to stop her.

it wasn’t until you tagged along with her on a trip to the grocery store when things began to unravel. she only needed a few things, nothing important.

but nat was quick to pick up on the fact that you continuously flipped every little thing you picked up to look at the price tag.

“here, it’s the cheapest one i could find.” you said, smiling as you handed her a cardboard box of pasta. natasha hummed, “you know you don’t have to get me the cheapest thing on the shelf.”

you bit your lip, eyes suddenly looking back at the shelf of different pasta boxes. “i know... it’s just- it’s my favorite brand.” natasha automatically knew you were lying by the way you began chewing on the inside of your lip.

she narrowed her eyes. “no it’s not.”

“huh?”

“you got this brand because it was the cheapest. you know i can afford more, which leads me to believe you do this out of habit.”

you shuffled uncomfortably under her gaze. “no, i just really like that brand.”

the sudden realization that she had never been to your place struck her.

“y/n?”

“yeah?”

“why don’t we go back to your apartment after this? we can just relax, watch a movie, do whatever you want.”

a mix of guilt and shame flooded your body. but damned if you didn’t still give it a try.

“my apartment’s a mess right now, you don’t want to see that.” you tried, offering a small, dry laugh in hopes of getting her off your back.

“you’re a terrible liar.”

“i’m not-”

“i picked you up from the park today, just like every other day. i’ve not once picked you up from your own apartment, so what are you hiding?”

when you didn’t give an answer, she tossed the cheapest box of pasta in her cart and walked away. you groaned as you watched natasha leave before catching up to her.

“okay, okay, we can go back to my apartment. just don’t judge me, alright?”

she smiled softly, “it wouldn’t even cross my mind.”

soon enough you began helping your girlfriend load her car with bags full of miscellaneous items. nothing needed to be refrigerated, so if natasha wanted to, she could stay at your apartment all day.

your leg bounced in the car as you gave her directions. but soon enough, after what felt like the longest fifteen minutes of your life, natasha pulled into a parking space right outside your door.

you silently cursed yourself for not renting a spot upstairs. at least then it would’ve prolonged the situation just a little bit longer.

natasha watched as you fumbled with your keys, your hands visibly shaking.

“fuck.” you mumbled after hearing the clank of metal hit the ground. you bent down to pick them up but natasha beat you to it.

“which key?” her voice was soft.

“the yellow one.”

the door swung open and you motioned for natasha to go before you.

it wasn’t bad, really. apart from the chipped brown walls, the lingering smell of cigarette smoke (you hated your neighbors for that), the broken windows, lack of space and furniture that was as good as the floor.

natasha noticed the windows first, a sense of protectiveness overpowering her. she didn’t like that you weren’t safe.

you went to offer her a water bottle, but she wasn’t paying attention. instead, she noticed the lack of food in your fridge, frowning when you tried to cover it up.

another few minutes of her silence went by and you couldn’t take it anymore.

“look, i know you’re rich. i know you like to have luxury brands and that you don’t have to worry about whether or not someone will break in and steal what little you have left. but that doesn’t give you any right to judge me. i’m sorry i don’t live up to your expectations.”

natasha licked her lips and leaned her back against the kitchen counter.

“how long have you lived like this?”

her question caught you off guard, but you managed to find an answer.

“i’ve always lived like this, nat.”

she nodded solemnly before abruptly turning around to look at what was inside your cabinets.

“what are you do-”

“you have no food.”

you sighed, “well yeah, i can’t really afford it.”

“and the receipts?”

natasha was met with a shrug. “have to keep track of everything somehow.”

she stared at you a minute longer before finding the exact words she wanted to say.

“i would never judge you, or anyone for that matter, on their living situation. i know people don’t always have a say in what or why things happen.” she paused. “but i don’t like knowing you go to sleep every night with broken windows practically inviting anyone to come in and intrude. i don’t like knowing all you have to eat is bread, canned fruit and grilled cheese sandwiches.”

you listened to her ramble on, still nervous about the fact that this was new to her.

“so come live with me.”

“natasha-”

“come live with me.”

you immediately shook your head. “no, no, no. nat don’t even-”

“i’m serious. you won't win this argument, y/n. let me take care of you. i don't mind picking you up and dragging you out of here myself if that’s what it takes.”

a sigh left your lips as you folded your arms across your chest. “natasha, i can’t have you do that. i’m okay, i promise.”

the redhead raised her eyebrow. “how many times have you gone to bed hungry? or let your car run on fumes for as long as you could? and how many times have you gone to work sick because you can’t afford to miss one single day?”

when natasha was met with no reply she moved closer to you, wrapping her arms around your waist, pulling you into her embrace.

“i know it’s only been four months but i don’t think i could ever forgive myself if something happened to you and i didn’t do enough to stop it.”

she kissed the side of your head, “let me take care of you.”

[imjustthemechanic]

The Stone Knight

Part 1/? - Two Statues Part 2/? - A Curious Interview Part 3/? - John Doe Part 4/? - Escape Attempt

The mysterious John Doe wakes up and tries to run.  Then things get weird.

Nat noticed the man's eyelids flutter, but considering the condition he was in, she assumed it must have been some kind of reflex action. Even with his accelerated healing he must be in terrible pain, and the hospital had probably pumped him so full of drugs he might well think he was Sir Stephen of Rogsey.  She figured he would drift back into unconsciousness a moment later.

Instead, however, his right hand twitched, and then he raised it to feel at the oxygen mask on his face.  That got Carter's and Wilson's attention, as well.

“Oh, my god, is he awake?” Carter asked.

The nurse in attendance put a hand on the man's shoulder.  “Sir,” he said, “if you can hear me, you need to lie down and rest.  We'll get you something for the pain.”

The man wasn't listening to him – maybe he couldn't even hear him.  He got a grip on the tube running off the mask, and started trying to get it off.

“Oh, Sir, don't do that.”  The nurse tried again to settle him down, then yelped as the man grabbed his wrist and bent it back, then threw him to the floor.  With the nurse no longer interfering, the mystery man pulled the oxygen mask off and left it hanging around his neck, then yanked the IV line out of the arm.  The nurse started to get up again, but stopped as Dr. Wilson stepped in front of him.

“Stay down.  We'll get him sedated,” he said, and pressed the button to summon help.  Then he tried, himself, to push the mystery man back down onto the bed.  “Sir, if you can hear me,” he said, “I need you to lie down and relax.  You're badly injured and if you try to get up you're going to make it worse.”

Dr. Wilson was a much larger man than the nurse, but the mystery man threw him off, ripped the sensors from his chest and finger, and staggered to his feet.  The world seemed to go silent around Natasha as she watched it all unfold.  This... couldn't be happening, could it?  This man had been shot, had his face sliced open and his skull cracked, and then been thrown in a river.  It was a miracle he was even alive.  Hw could he be standing?  As when she'd asked the woman in the pub if she'd also seen Zola, Nat now looked at Carter to make sure she wasn't hallucinating.

Carter was standing with her stance wide and a hand inside her jacket as if to pull out a weapon, but she was looking right back at Natasha, as if she couldn't believe what she was seeing, either.  And while the two women stood there staring, the man stumbled past Dr. Wilson and out the door.

At that moment, instinct took over.  This man was running, so Nat chased him.  She bursed through the door behind him, and saw him come to a halt in the hallway, narrowly missing an orderly with an empty guerney.  He turned to run in the other direction, saw Natasha, and looked around desperately for another option.  There was only one: the set of swinging doors that led into a stairwell.

Nat ran after him.  Footsteps behind her told her that DI Carter and Dr. Wilson were following, but she didn't look back.  One of the first rules she'd been taught was never take your eyes off your prey.

In the stairwell, a man was sitting a few steps down, with another nurse attempting to comfort him as he wept.  Both people looked up in surprise at the wounded man.  He stared back for a moment, and then since he could not go down without jumping over them, he went up, climbing on all fours like a child.  Nat ran after him, taking the steps two or three at a time to catch up.

The mystery man kicked out at her, forcing her to dodge.  She finally managed to throw herself on top of him and grab him around the waist.  This must have been painful for him, but he didn't cry out.  Instead, he rolled over on top of her, crushing her against the stairs and forcing the air out of her lungs.  She had to let go, and he continued on up.

“Stop where you are!  Police!” shouted DI Carter.  Nat sat up to find her at the bottom of the flight, aiming her firearm at the man. She wouldn't shoot him, Natasha thought, not when she needed him as a witness.

Maybe he knew that, or maybe he simply wasn't interested in the threat, because he didn't even look back.  He vanished around the corner to the next flight, and Carter swore and followed him up.

Dr. Wilson was behind her, but stopped to check on Natasha.  “Are you all right?” he asked her.

“I'll survive,” said Nat.  She picked herself up, ignoring her bruised ribs – they'd be fine in a few hours.

Dr. Wilson nodded and then ran on up after Carter and the mystery man.  Nat took a couple more deep breaths and then followed them. Somewhere above, an alarm started to blare.

They arrived at the top to find that the man had broken open the emergency exit and run out onto the roof.  The bandages from his neck were lying abadoned on the steps.

Nat, Carter, and Wilso followed him out.  The roof was covered with gravel that crunched under their feet, peppered with elevator boxes and ventilation fans.  It must have been cold and painful on the mystery man's bare feet, but he ran a few more yards before stopping, as he seemed to realize where he was.  He turned in a circle, taking in the landscape below: the colleges, the shopping center, and the suburbs that ran down towards the old city and the river.

Then there was a loud roar from behind them.  Everybody turned around.  On another part of the roof, beyond the emergency exit they'd just come out by, was the air ambulance helipad.  The helicopter itself had just started its engines, and after a few seconds of warmup it rose from the pad to fly very low overhead, low enough that Natasha could see how surprised the pilot was to find people looking back at him.  The mystery man dropped to his knees and raised his arms as if holding a shield over his head, as if he thought the helicopter were a dragon about to swoop down on him.

It didn't, of course – instead it flew away to the east on whatever mission it was on, the roar of the blades slowly fading away to nothing.  The mystery man got to his feet, turning to watch it go.

Dr. Wilson went up and took the man's arm.  “Sir,” he said, “you are at Raigmore Hospital in Inverness.  You've been badly injured, and we are trying to care for you.  Do you understand?”

The man stared at him for a moment, then said, “yes.”

Still, Natasha went and took the man's other arm, holding it gently but firmly.

“Come on back inside,” said Dr. Wilson.

They helped him to limp back indoors.  One flight down, the male nurse was waiting for them, with a wheeled stretcher to take the mystery man back to his room, but he refused to climb onto it.

“Take it away,” Dr. Wilson said to the nurse.  “Have somebody find a bed for him on the High Dependency Ward.”  He glanced at his charge.  “I think we can discharge this guy from the ICU.  Call it a hunch.”

The hospital found the man a semi-private room and Dr. Wilson managed to convince him to get back into bed.  Once he was settled, the doctor began undoing the bandages around his middle, already loosened during the escape attempt, to check on his bullet wounds. Natasha remained standing at the foot of the bed, while DI Carter sat down to wait.  Nat wasn't sure why she was still here, but her gut told her that she couldn't leave yet.  This man was important, and she had to be here to help figure out why.

“What's your name?” Dr. Wilson asked.  He examined the injuries, then asked another nurse for a pair of small scissors, and began removing the stitches.  The mystery man had been shot only yesterday, and had already healed enough to have his stitches out.

“Sir Stephen,” the mystery man replied.  “From Rogsey in Anglesey.”

Nat rolled her eyes.  “Oh, you are not!” she said.

Everybody looked at her.

“I don't know you, Lady,” said the self-described Sir Stephen. His implication was that she didn't know him either, and was therefore in no position to tell him who he was or wasn't.

“I'm Dr. Natalie Rushman.  I'm an archaeologist,” said Nat firmly.  “I know something about the middle ages.  Even if Sir Stephen of Rogsey had existed, the stories say he died in 1066.  And if he could somehow come to the present, he wouldn't speak modern English, even Pseudo-Shakespearean Fancy-Talk English.  He'd be speaking some dialect of old Anglo-Saxon.  Hwæt. We Gardena in geardagum, þeodcyninga, þrym gefrunon, hu ða æþelingas ellen fremedon.”  The first three lines of Beowulf, which she'd memorized a bit of just so she could recite it to her classes.

Sir Stephen frowned at her in confusion.

“I rest my case,” said Nat.

Dr. Wilson handed the scissors back to the nurse.  “Should I put his name on his chart?” the woman asked.  She probably knew this was a dumb question, but was trying to stick to stuff she understood. Nat sympathized.

“Um.  Put him down as Stephen,” said Dr. Wilson.  “Stephen Rog... is Rogsey a real place?”  He looked at Nat.

“Of course it's a real place,” said Sir Stephen.  “I was born at Saint Marcella's, not a mile away!”

“I have no idea,” said Nat.  “Google it.”

Dr. Wilson sighed.  “Put him down as Stephen Rogers,” he told the nurse.  “That's a name.”

“I am here in the room,” said Sir Stephen, annoyed.  “You think me a madman, don't you?”

“We think you're a man who's been hit pretty hard on the head,” said Dr. Wilson.  “You're not crazy, but you've suffered a very serious head injury.  We're going to help you with that.  It's our job.”

“If you wish to help me, could I have some meat to eat, or at least a loaf of bread?” asked Sir Stephen.  “I fear I must eat a great deal.”

“If the rest of your metabolism is as fast as your healing, I'm not surprised,” said Dr. Wilson.  “I'll see what we can do.”

He ordered a meal for the patient from the hospital cafeteria – spaghetti and meatballs.  It took Sir Stephen a few minutes to get the hang of his fork, but once he had, he devoured three helpings and ate six pieces of soggy garlic bread, which astonished everybody even further.

While the man ate, DI Carter pulled a chair up next to him and showed him her badge.  “I know you're not feeling very well,” she said, “but I was hoping I could talk to you for a moment.  I'm Detective Inspector Carter of the Inverness Police, and I'm looking for a missing person.”  She turned on her phone and found a picture of Mr. Pierce – the same one that had appeared in the Courier's article, and probably taken from their website.  “Do you recognize this man?”

Sir Stephen was still chewing on garlic bread as he looked at it. “No,” he said.  “I do not.”

“He didn't hire you?” asked Nat.  She was hanging on to her theory that Mr. Pierce must have had this man pose for the statue of Sir Stephen – because to believe anything else was madness.  Pierce must have promised the statues to somebody.  They would have been a remarkable find if they'd been real, forcing historians to re-assess whether Sir Stephen and Totenkopf might have been actual people. Maybe he and Zola had planned to pull off the archaeological hoax of the century, a modern-day version of Piltdown Man.  Calling in Natasha was a test, to see if they could fool an expert.  The statues had failed the test because Pierce was an idiot who'd gone to great trouble to get the armor and weaponry right but hadn't bothered to look up what kind of commemorative art was being made in the eleventh century.

“I've never laid eyes on him,” Sir Stephen said, and pointed to the image with his fork.  “Unless it's a poor likeness.”

“The likeness is fine,” said Carter, and put her phone away.

“Why were you at the warehouse, if Mr. Pierce didn't invite you?” Natasha asked.

“I know not,” said Sir Stephen.  “The last thing I remember was fighting the Red Death for the Grail.  Then there was...”

“The grail,” Natasha interrupted.  “The Holy Grail from the King Arthur stories?  Sir Galahad and everything?”  Maybe it wasn't Pierce who'd hired this guy.

“The very same,” Sir Stephen said.  “I'd not have believed it, had I not seen it with my own eyes.”

Nat grabbed the nearest sheet of blank paper and a ballpoint pen, and sat down to scribble a drawing.  DI Carter had asked her to work with a sketch artist, but Natasha was quite able to draw faces, herself, and this one had been so distinctive she could hardly forget it.  Nor was it a difficult one to represent.  She got a rough outline of Zola's unusual features down on the paper, and showed it to Sir Stephen.  “How about this guy?” she asked.

Even before he spoke, she could see in the man's face that he recognized the image.  “That is Zola,” he said.  “The Red Death's kobold.”

“Kobold?” asked Dr. Wilson with a frown.  “Isn't that supposed to be something like a pixie?”

“Yes,” said Natasha.  It was, in fact, almost exactly the same thing: a helpful spirit that could be malicious if crossed.  “Did he hire you?”

“I serve King Harold,” said Sir Stephen, offended.  “I do not draw my blade for foreigners or goblins.”

Nat gave up, and offered the drawing to Carter, instead.  “This is the man from the pub.”

“He looks like a goblin,” said Carter.  “I'll see if we can find him – and see if I can find who made those statues you mentioned for Pierce.”

“You believe me now,” Nat observed.  Carter hadn't been sure earlier.  Now she seemed happy to accept Natasha's version of events, if only because they made more sense than Sir Stephen's.

“I told you – I don't believe things,” Carter corrected, and sighed.  “The ten o'clock news tonight is going to be weird.”

[kevinsmilleran-blog]

Hello,

 I found your blog.

 If my intent was to hurt you or invade your privacy I would not have come clean today ... if I wasn’t getting over you I would not have come clean today ...at the time I found your blog my only intent was to better understand where i stand with you I swear to god...  but I found your blog and now I can’t take it back.

 Where did I stand.  Fuck!  it’s the crazy the whiplash I get.  one day it’s “Ive been in hospital here’s everything for the last five days” and then two days later it’s all “none of your business.” One day it’s singing blackbird singing in the dead of night at 2am don’t hang up, the next day is “can I hang up now tired? Oh ….none of your business.”

 I lied to you when you asked if I found your blog cause I knew you’d never talk to me again, I couldn’t deal with that in that particular moment ... I was going through some shit and still thought maybe as a friend you’d be support…  can I deal with that now??? I don’t know, I think so, the truth is I am getting over you I was at the gym last night – big step -- and with each text I sent you on kik as i kept looking at my phone waiting for the d to turn into an r something just kept dying inside and I was deciding I don’t want a life of waiting for the d on kik to turn into an r... I put my phone on the shelf for a while and I felt RELIEF!!! Relief from this thing MY FUCKING PHONE that seems to only exist in a way to make me feel ignored when I’m needy and available when I’m needed.

 I just know that each day that went by lying to you made the lie worse. So now you know. I found your blog... I don’t know how to explain this... one thing I noticed about you is there’s EMPOWERED YOU and then VULNERABLE YOU... we are all both weak and strong.  well I’m the same exactly!! kinda strong in that moment when you told me you had a blog, but I can’t see it.  I nod.  Of course I nod.  I’m telling you we all should have a private place where we can write private things I’m not lying!!!

 and then it’s vulnerable me late at night not knowing where i stand

 driving me crazy

 why does she want to be with me one night but not tonight

 I need to know I need to know I need to know

 i ask she says none of my business

 I need to know

 I get a cryptic text, just a pic, looks cool, then five hours of silence and each minute of each hour just grinds away at my strength, the gears in my brain cranking spinning.  What I said about everyone having private space to write private things I MEANT IT, ya coulda hooked me up to a lie detector and when I said private space to write private things is sacred and that lie detector would have frozen over with boredom as the truth spills out into the air…. I meant it but now I need to know.  

 I NEED TO KNOW

I NEED TO KNOW!!!!

Why has that person who used to text me before going to bed every night, she has stopped.  Why is it I could text a Phineas and Ferb “whatcha doin?” one day and it was always my business and now it was always not my business.

 I needed to know!!!

I had to know.

Just to move on and get closure I had to FUCKING KNOW.

 Bono sings “the best things are easy to destroy” and does he fucking even know how easy.

 Now listen.  I can fuck up things with booze.  But I have to get a job make the money, get in a car go to a store and buy the booze.  I can fuck things up in all sorts of ways.  

 How easy was this?

 After about the 100th time my brain was screaming to itself I NEED TO KNOW, here’s how easy it was.

 First mistake…. that short story you sent, the one about the kid with the death due date going to die before everyone else he had a bad number

Second mistake…. look that up it’s literally the most popular post on tumblr

Third mistake…. Not even looking for it your avi is literally the first avi at the bottom of the page.  Reblog list.

Fourth mistake …  click on the link to your tumblr.

Fifth mistake …. The first fucking post on your tumblr is literally a link to a wordpress blog.

Sixth mistake …. You know the rest.

 I found your blog.

 How long did that take. Less than 4 seconds.

 There’s at least a protocol to nuking the world, codes, keys, you can’t even do it alone you need another guy to turn his key at the same time, I guess, I don’t really know.  I just know it’s not supposed to be that easy.

 It was that fucking easy ... to go get booze I at least have to get in a car and go to a store I DESTROYED EVERYTHING WITH YOU STONE COLD SOBER IN 4 SECONDS OF WEAKNESS WITH THREE TAPS OF MY FINGER ON A FUCKING PHONE WHILE IN MY BED!!!

 THAT FUCKING EASY! I FUCKING HATE THE INTERNET!!!!!

 I have a friend, a teacher she says if it was that easy she wanted you to find it.  Like that guy who hides porn where he knows his wife will find it eventually.  

 That’s fucking insulting. Go away friend, you’re not a friend. I fucked up.   I lacked self control.  Disrespected your space.  AGAIN. It was the second time!!!  I know what I did and I know you don’t play games that way.

 None of this is now going to help. maybe you’ll meet a stronger guy in future, I hope you do but if you ever put a guy in relationship purgatory – if you don’t know what I mean by that its this… you break up with him, but you don’t really want that so you’re “broken up” but still doing things… aw fuck it… everything together…. again when you’re “broken up” but still doing things together, don’t send him excerpts from your blog. Don’t send him the tools to find your blog in three clicks ... I think most guys would look, we are all pretty weak I think that’s why we, with our fearful patriarchies, fucked the world up.  

 Unless you want him to see your blog my advice is don’t even tell him it exists ...  if it’s a test to see if he looks for it, it’s a test that I think will rule out a lot of guys who are really pretty amazing in a lot of other ways.  Seeking out secrets is in a guys nature the way it’s in the nature of a scorpion to sting and poison a turtle carrying the scorpion across a river.  They both DIE.

 Maybe I’m wrong and I am just the worst man on earth, and every other dude would have never looked.

 But...

 I see on your tumblr a joke about someone pointing a knife but not using it ... a bad comparison maybe my point is this: if i was truly despicable (and some guys are) I would have SECRETLY kept looking at your blog for months… So I’m not despicable I’m merely pathetic and lacking the self control when it comes to wanting to know everything about you ... and yeah i do want to know that ... i fucking miss being your cheerleader… DO NOT RULE OUT THE POSSIBILITY THAT I LOOKED AT YOUR BLOG NOT JUST TO FIND OUT WHAT YOU WERE DOING, BUT BECAUSE I FUCKING GET A BIG GIANT SMILE WHEN I HEAR ABOUT HOW COOL YOU ARE!

 Purely practical... like it’s even possible I could be a better ex boyfriend if I knew more about you instead of less. Case in point, when it wasn’t a betrayal..... If I’d have found your blog before we broke up ... back then it might have saved the relationship.. I like to think I would have got us both help sooner ... but now it’s just betrayal I guess ...

 so some more honesty ... if I told you I would never look at it again I doubt I could make good on that promise ... it’s just yet another way my feelings for you reach beyond boyfriend girlfriend to father daughter ... it’s like I’m thinking well you won’t ever talk to me again but at least I can see youre ok on Facebook or tumblr or something ... so point is if you keep posting to that blog and to this tumblr I’d still look ... long after we have both moved on to someone else .. I could marry some woman and she’d wonder why I’m on some 20 something’s tumblr and be like oh it’s nothing and try to hide it from her ... if i talked to her about you she’d hear in my voice the candle I’d still hold for you...

 In that respect there is something about further contact I think we need to finally put in writing and if I could write it in stone i would... I get that as your ex boyfriend you don’t want to appear vulnerable to me.. you already have three dads, you don’t need a 4th but that’s kind of where I’m at here... I don’t think of myself as strictly an ex boyfriend but as a dad who would never not have the time for you ... for instance you know this door would never be closed to you.

 Now I know you can take care of yourself I’m just saying in an extreme emergency

 more honesty you can block me here but your tumblr is public viewable to anyone not logged into tumblr I assume you know that... more honesty ya know what????

 your tumblr IS FUCKING RAD!!! setting aside all the emotions both good and bad if we were total strangers I’d totally follow you ...

 I hate the fact that we are exes means I don’t get to be a stranger and go wow that chicks FUCKING AWESOME!  

 Anyway, i hope you’ll think about this and after the anger of betrayal subsides you might think it’s ok idk I’d like that your tumblr is cool!

 This will probably be the last things I get to say for awhile so I started feeling better about being blocked yesterday ... like I said above, the reason why is that it’s probably easier for me being blocked than it is texting you and staring at the phone for hours waiting for a response ... which is what was happening ... blocking me just takes away from me something I already don’t have anyway ... so yeah I’m just like well if I was unblocked how would that make anything better? It wouldn’t.

 I don’t know if I can think of any other last worlds ... oh i didn’t throw away anything you gave me ... it’s all packed up in two boxes labeled “amber”... encasing something in amber preserves it somehow ... it’s out of sight and out of mind as much as it can be so I don’t spend my days in tears looking at it, yet our year remains preserved encased in amber like a 99 million year old frog.

   One last way I’m weak and pathetic.. I probably would have let you throw your youth away on 50 year old ... or maybe I wouldn’t do that, and this is pretty weird but maybe I did all this fucking up so you wouldn’t throw your youth away on a 50 year old and also not spend much time being too hard on yourself

 It’s all my fault we are no longer together.

  p.s. to any reader who wants to know what I found when I found her blog, I’m a huge fan of the tv show LOST, so some things never get answered.  This isn’t about that, this is about something else.  Put it this way, I still really didn’t get the definitive answer or closure I was looking for, all I found was more questions, and I was just DESTROYING EVERYTHING I HELD DEAR IN MY HEART.  That’s the only thing that will ever happen when you go looking for THOSE KIND of answers.