// Anchors//

So in teen wolf Scott and I guess the other werewolves need things to keep them human when they transform, which they call anchors. They keep them grounded and stops them from getting out of control. For the longest time, I’ve lacked one. I’ve given into indulgences and weakness and my vices too often. I use other people as my anchors. I need to do well in school because I need to make my parents proud and justify the money they’re spending. I need to go to the gym and get fit so I can get a boyfriend. I need to make other people happy. I’ve built my life around making other peoples’ lives better and convinced myself that giving into temptations is me asserting my independence. But it isn’t. It’s me trying to gain some control in my life in the little ways I can. But I can’t do that anymore. I’ll lose my fucking mind. I need to take entire control of my life. I need to do things because they benefit me and are in my own best interest. Not be selfish. Be self-motivated. I need to be my own anchor and keep myself in the moment, and invest in my own future. I can’t destroy myself. I can’t sink myself. I need to help myself.

// Comfort//

I was lying in bed as I’m want to do, when it occurred to me that the reason I fail so so often  is that I’m afraid to step out of what makes me comfortable. I don’t mean this so much as in “public speaking makes me uncomfortable, I won’t do it”, although that is very much true. I mean in the sense that being mediocre and just good enough is so easy, so comfortable, why would I ever be anything different? When I did work in high school, I did enough to be better than everyone else, because I could do that easily. When I stopped doing the easy thing, stopped playing Persona and started reading AP Bio flashcards, I did great. I excelled. I fucking did it. When I thought “nah, a C is good enough to get me by”, I got a C. I got by.

In tennis, when we ran suicides, I ran. Or rather, “ran”. I got to the line, I got back, I got to the second line, etc.. I never sprinted, like you’re supposed to. My mediocrity was such that I wasn’t even counted in the real run. The slowest person was the person who was the least faster than me. The fat kid was faster than me. Except he wasn’t. I could run circles around his chubby ass. I just never tried. When I tried, when I ran, I did well. Not great, but well. I didn’t do great because my body wasn’t used to being great. I had denied myself so much for so long. 

Nonfeasance is “the failure to perform an act that is required by law”. In legal terms, it’s the federal, or state laws. In nature, it’s the law of the land. In humanity, it’s the law that binds us together. The one truth that transcends all barriers. That if we have the ability to, we should. If we have the mental ability, we should have the mental fortitude to push our limits. Learn more than the brain can handle, then adapt so we can learn even more. If we are capable of moving, to get up on all fours, to crawl, stand, walk, run, sprint, STAMPEDE. I was nonfeasant. That’s not even a word according to the red squiggly shit underneath it. Well words are made by humans. And I was nonfeasant. I let my comfort hamper me, keep me so immersed within myself and my sloth that I didn’t do what I owed it to myself to do. I should think, feel, do, act like the person I’m gifted to be. I don’t know if there is a God. But if there is, that’s what he wants. He wants me to be Great. If we’re made in His image, then we should live up to it. If He doesn’t exist, then we were made in our own images, and we shouldn’t let those be blocked by the tint of weakness. Our images should be bright, should burn the eyes of those weaker than we. 

Easy comfort isn’t comforting. It’s debilitating. There is only comfort in knowing that you did the best you possibly could. We should do the most possible. We should be great. 

// Skin//

Have you ever felt someone’s skin
And known their life
Seen in those cells
The hours of strife
And days of joy
When they were a young girl or boy

Seen the cracks and lines
The blemishes and patches
Of red inflamed skin
That flares and hurts and aches
The genetic predisposition to suffer

Have you held a lover’s face
Or their hands
And felt the warmth glow beneath their skin
And known that at some point
The warmth will leave
That the cold will come in
And suck the warmth from you to

Have you seen the hues
Of the armor we wear
The reds and blues and greens
That indicate a problem or flaw
Or the whites and browns and blacks
Through which we create problems and flaws

Have you shaken a hand
And felt it smooth or rough
Tried to imagine the way
They could brush hair from your eyes
Or form a fist and throw a punch
And gripped so tight with all their love
The skin taut and stretched thin
And finally let go

Have you ever seen a body
Plain, uninterrupted
No clothes or makeup
Been given the ultimate privilege
Of seeing the marks on the skin
The lines and marks
That hint and scream and imply
The lives the bodies have led
The choices made by nerves
Carried out by muscles
But remembered by skin

// ADDerall//

i think i might have add or adhd. ever since middle school i’ve been horrible at maintaining focus on really anything. conversations, lectures, thoughts. in high school i just sorta dealt with it, nbd y’know, but now that i’m in college it’s seriously bringing me down. I can’t focus on any of my classes or work, and my grades are shit. i don’t want to have to take adhd meds. i don’t want to feel like i need them. everyone else can do it without them. they’re fucking capable and i should be too. why can’t i just be at their level. they can study and pay attention in class and work and drive and do all kinds of shit and i can’t and it’s so shitty. why is every little thing wrong with me. it used to be the only thing i was good at was school, and now i can’t even do that right without basically fucking boosting. i don’t want to take adderall or whatever but if i don’t i’m probably going to flunk out. this semester i need to do way better and work and should go to the gym but i can’t do it. i didn’t work last semester and i stopped going to the gym and i still did shit in school. i hate having to feel like i’m choosing between my pride and my ability to function. if i do find a way to get the drugs i can’t let anyone know about it. they’ll think i’m some idiot or junkie and they pretty much already do anyway. i don’t like it because it’s addictive and means i’m weak and flawed and fucked up but i think i have to look into it. hopefully my insurance will even cover it.

// it’s been a while//

so i’ve had a very odd couple of days.

i got back together with joseph on christmas eve and we had a really great day together.  we broke up on the 27th because he couldn’t get over me breaking up with him when he needed me the most. which is fair i think. it’s just that it was really stressful being with him during that time because of his family problems not to mention the fact that he almost assuredly gave me syphilis and told me he loved me two weeks into dating and told me i couldn’t do things that were harmless like go on chaturbate and talk to people. then there was the open relationship thing that i wanted at the time but now i could do without. honestly i feel like we’ve swapped places. i could really use him right now. he had a way of making me instantly comfortable just by being near him. 

there’s also my dad who was insanely drunk when i showed up at his house on christmas morning. rosa was here and he kinda just confessed a lot of shit to me that i can tell he would never say sober. he was upset that i didn’t go to immigration with him which is totally my fault since i should’ve remembered. and he’s upset that i don’t really talk to marco and david’s being a shithead like always. all of that really disturbed me and gave me a lot to think about but really the entire time i was so pissed that he was that drunk and bitter and alone and he keeps saying he’s only here for me which i think is supposed to make me feel important but really just makes me feel really guilty like i’m keeping him away from his other life and just working somewhere better. work’s been especially awful. if he hadn’t gotten an offer for a credit card and accepted it we would have zero dollars and would have to sell shit again. i have no idea how we’re going to pay for the $1200 i need for this semester i was hoping i’d have 

then there’s school itself. i know i did so bad this semester. like beyond academic probation. i’m not sure if i can improve in time to still go to UM and have my scholarships and shit. 

next semester i have to do better. i need to study and work and go to the gym and eat better and just Be Better. I need to have the pride i pretend to have and not the foolhardy unwarranted overconfidence i actually have. 

i need to Keep Moving Forward. But not just that. I can’t just rush ahead without getting better or improving. that’s not advancement. that’s suicide. 

windowstoriesandmirrorstories:

it’s 5:56 AM and i’m casually watching gay watersports porn and blogging and listening to semi-inspirational music and texting my ex and i just wanted to preserve this moment somehow

also today i was the third for a couple and i got fucked with this massive dick while fucking the other guy and i took it like a champ and made the other guy cum by fucking him so my day’s been kinda all over the place

it’s 5:56 AM and i’m casually watching gay watersports porn and blogging and listening to semi-inspirational music and texting my ex and i just wanted to preserve this moment somehow

lacigreen:

I guess once in awhile it’s good to write a thing about a thing.  Today I dropped my laptop down a whole flight of concrete stairs and it still worked so I decided I could probably metaphorically fall down a flight of stairs and still work.
Read More

lacigreen:

I guess once in awhile it’s good to write a thing about a thing.  Today I dropped my laptop down a whole flight of concrete stairs and it still worked so I decided I could probably metaphorically fall down a flight of stairs and still work.

Read More

// It Hurts//

There’s a pain where my arms meet my chest

and an ache when my shoulders move

and it hurts

but there’s a space in my chest

dead center

where there’s a hollow weight

a void that eats hunger

and makes the tedium inviting

a need to do anything

to fill the gap

and yet the gap itself is too overwhelming to ignore

perhaps the best course of action is to fill it

to fill what feels like an eternal pit

to lean Jacob’s ladder against the side

and climb out of myself

and fill it with someone else

fishingboatproceeds:

Everybody was told to make a funny face, but I didn’t get the memo.
Esther Earl would’ve been 18 tomorrow, a real adult. I miss her. 
It’s very easy to turn the dead into Lessons for the Living—to say that Esther taught me to Live Life or To Be Grateful or Not To Take Beauty for Granted. But honestly, in my opinion at least, any lessons learned from her death could’ve been learned in some other, easier way. I think the universe overall would be better off if she were still making videos.
I am so glad that I knew Esther, and that she was a nerdfighter, and that through Esther’s family and This Star Won’t Go Out we can still decrease suck with her. But I am also really pissed off that she died. 
She was young, blessed with a genuinely sophomoric sense of humor, silly, empathetic, madly in love with her friends and family, and a very gifted writer. It’s hard to isolate why, but I’ve never liked a teenager so much—at least not since I was a teenager. She was just really cool, in the best sense of the word. She never made me feel uncomfortable. She listened to me and responded thoughtfully, and was also happy to tell me I was full of shit. 
(On the day this picture was taken, I generally did a not-great job of being an Adult and cried a lot, and at one point Esther was talking about her complicated relationship with the idea of heaven, and I answered that there were all kinds of ways of imagining an infinite afterlife, some of which weren’t even necessarily that supernatural, and she just cocked me a look like, “You need to learn the meaning of the word infinite.” She was right, of course. Back in my hotel room that night, I jotted down easy comfort isn’t comforting, which ended up in TFiOS.) 
The nearly two years since her death have complicated my relationship with Esther because now of course there is not only time but a book between us: I could never have written The Fault in Our Stars without knowing Esther. Every word on that book depends upon her.
But at the same time, I don’t want people conflating Esther with Hazel (they’re very different), and it’s extremely important to me that I not claim to be telling Esther’s story. Esther’s story belongs to Esther and to her family, and they will tell it brilliantly and beautifully.
When I was doing publicity for the book, lots of reporters wanted me to talk about Esther because these days novels “based on a true story” do so much better than novels that are just novels. I never really knew how to deal with these questions, and I still don’t, because the truth (as always) is complicated: Esther inspired the story in the sense that I was very angry after her death and wrote constantly, with a focus and passion I hadn’t known since I was rewriting Looking for Alaska in 2003. And Esther helped me to imagine teenagers as more empathetic than I’d given them credit for. And her charm and snark inspired the novel, as did her idea of incorporating an author she liked into her Wish. But the story is also inspired by many other people—by my son, by my wife, by the kids I knew and loved who died in the children’s hospital when I was a student chaplain, by my own parents (my dad is a cancer survivor), etc.
I wish she’d read TFiOS. I suspect she would’ve found it a bit far-fetched, but I do hope she’d have enjoyed it anyway. I’ll never know, though. I am astonished that the book has found such a broad audience, but the person I most want to read it never will.
Esther has become a hero in our community, and the heroic narrative doesn’t always line up perfectly with the person she was. (Heroic narratives never do.) But this much was true, at least as far as I knew her: She was generous, and loving, and full of grace—which was, after all, her middle name.
Plus, she knew how to make a funny face on cue.
When I told Esther we wanted to celebrate her birthday as long as there were vlogbrothers videos, and that videos on that day could be about whatever she wanted them to be about, she waited a couple weeks before getting back to me. She finally decided she wanted it to be a day that celebrated love in families and among friends. I think of Esther Day as a kind of Valentine’s Day for all the other kinds of love.
It was a brilliant idea, Esther. Thank you for Esther Day. Thank you for helping me say to my family and friends what I still hope I can say to you, even over the great divide: I love you.
(You can support This Star Won’t Go Out, the organization founded in Esther’s memory that helps families of children with cancer, directly here or by buying a TSWGO wristband.)

fishingboatproceeds:

Everybody was told to make a funny face, but I didn’t get the memo.

Esther Earl would’ve been 18 tomorrow, a real adult. I miss her. 

It’s very easy to turn the dead into Lessons for the Living—to say that Esther taught me to Live Life or To Be Grateful or Not To Take Beauty for Granted. But honestly, in my opinion at least, any lessons learned from her death could’ve been learned in some other, easier way. I think the universe overall would be better off if she were still making videos.

I am so glad that I knew Esther, and that she was a nerdfighter, and that through Esther’s family and This Star Won’t Go Out we can still decrease suck with her. But I am also really pissed off that she died. 

She was young, blessed with a genuinely sophomoric sense of humor, silly, empathetic, madly in love with her friends and family, and a very gifted writer. It’s hard to isolate why, but I’ve never liked a teenager so much—at least not since I was a teenager. She was just really cool, in the best sense of the word. She never made me feel uncomfortable. She listened to me and responded thoughtfully, and was also happy to tell me I was full of shit. 

(On the day this picture was taken, I generally did a not-great job of being an Adult and cried a lot, and at one point Esther was talking about her complicated relationship with the idea of heaven, and I answered that there were all kinds of ways of imagining an infinite afterlife, some of which weren’t even necessarily that supernatural, and she just cocked me a look like, “You need to learn the meaning of the word infinite.” She was right, of course. Back in my hotel room that night, I jotted down easy comfort isn’t comforting, which ended up in TFiOS.) 

The nearly two years since her death have complicated my relationship with Esther because now of course there is not only time but a book between us: I could never have written The Fault in Our Stars without knowing Esther. Every word on that book depends upon her.

But at the same time, I don’t want people conflating Esther with Hazel (they’re very different), and it’s extremely important to me that I not claim to be telling Esther’s story. Esther’s story belongs to Esther and to her family, and they will tell it brilliantly and beautifully.

When I was doing publicity for the book, lots of reporters wanted me to talk about Esther because these days novels “based on a true story” do so much better than novels that are just novels. I never really knew how to deal with these questions, and I still don’t, because the truth (as always) is complicated: Esther inspired the story in the sense that I was very angry after her death and wrote constantly, with a focus and passion I hadn’t known since I was rewriting Looking for Alaska in 2003. And Esther helped me to imagine teenagers as more empathetic than I’d given them credit for. And her charm and snark inspired the novel, as did her idea of incorporating an author she liked into her Wish. But the story is also inspired by many other people—by my son, by my wife, by the kids I knew and loved who died in the children’s hospital when I was a student chaplain, by my own parents (my dad is a cancer survivor), etc.

I wish she’d read TFiOS. I suspect she would’ve found it a bit far-fetched, but I do hope she’d have enjoyed it anyway. I’ll never know, though. I am astonished that the book has found such a broad audience, but the person I most want to read it never will.

Esther has become a hero in our community, and the heroic narrative doesn’t always line up perfectly with the person she was. (Heroic narratives never do.) But this much was true, at least as far as I knew her: She was generous, and loving, and full of grace—which was, after all, her middle name.

Plus, she knew how to make a funny face on cue.

When I told Esther we wanted to celebrate her birthday as long as there were vlogbrothers videos, and that videos on that day could be about whatever she wanted them to be about, she waited a couple weeks before getting back to me. She finally decided she wanted it to be a day that celebrated love in families and among friends. I think of Esther Day as a kind of Valentine’s Day for all the other kinds of love.

It was a brilliant idea, Esther. Thank you for Esther Day. Thank you for helping me say to my family and friends what I still hope I can say to you, even over the great divide: I love you.

(You can support This Star Won’t Go Out, the organization founded in Esther’s memory that helps families of children with cancer, directly here or by buying a TSWGO wristband.)

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