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idiosyncrasy-at-its-finest · 3 years

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knees

was sorting through my drive... man, I remember having to cut my time for writing this short but... I have lots of thoughts on this topic– this person– and it all sort of ended abruptly. The writing, not the relationship. We’re still really good friends.

this was written oct. 18, 2020, today is Nov. 18, 2020. oh! dates align :)

It’s strange to think that, up until yesterday, I’d never touched your knees before. Not that it’s expected for friends to have touched each other’s knees before– I’m sure that’s actually very low on the checklist of friendship– but it was strange to think. We’ve been friends for over a year, and I’d also never noticed how you had hair on your legs. Not that the assumption would’ve been that you don’t have leg hair, but I’d never noticed it. It’s… funny. Something in my stomach feels off; a mini acrobat is bouncing off the inner walls, doing flips, and… it makes my brows draw and my lips press. It’s not disconcerting, unsettling, insulting; just strange.

I now understand the urge to explore one’s body. And I can also recognize my previous immaturity in thinking this could only be sexual in nature. I want to know more about you. I don’t want to have known you and have someone ask if I’ve ever touched the gap beneath your left collarbone and have to say no. Not that I want to touch the gap beneath your left collarbone, but it’d also seem a shame if I never got to. Not ‘got to’ like it’s an opportunity missed, but ‘got to’ as in… we’re friends, right? I don’t want to have known you without knowing you. And I’m trying to keep my tone measured, because I know our friends– or one of our common friends and several of my others– think that I like you and think that we should get together. And I’m not opposed to it, but I find it difficult to picture your long arms wrapped around me and your beaming smile being directed only at me. Not ‘weird’ like bad, but ‘weird’ like… we’re friends. And I don’t want to like you in that way. I’d be fine, because you’re incredible, as I’ve told you time and time again, but I’m not all for it.

I might definitely probably really want to come back to this one day :) or write a post with a similar idea of wanting to know everything about your friends... :)))

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idiosyncrasy-at-its-finest · 3 years

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pink (cwc post)

Prompt: Start your story with two characters watching a sunrise and end it with one of them seeing the moon reflecting off a lake.

I didn’t finish it and uh... I probably won’t. but you guys feel free to use this prompt too!!! since I don’t plan on finishing it... I didn’t flush it out, but she basically has to kill him :) again, as usual, as per expected... not proofread!

The tips of his ears turned as pink as the sky and I thought it was incredibly adorable. “Why– why would you ask me that?” His stammering was cute too. I told him so. More heat rose to his cheeks and my stomach did flips. The clearing of his throat and the shifting in his seat forced my eyes to retreat as my cheeks– encouraged by the wide grin splayed on my face– pushed against them. How I’d miss this. How I’d miss him. “You of course. As if you didn’t already know.” The words were muffled. His sweatshirt clad arms wrapped around his knees, pulled close to his chest; his smooth lips buried in the fabric.

“I did know. I just wanted to hear it said out loud.” I bumped my shoulder with his. Why was I doing this?

Light fanned over his rosy cheeks and his eyes shone bright. Peeking rays toyed with the ends of his strands, dusting his golden locks with an effervescent halo. I lowered my head to the side and his gaze warmed me. Studied me. My dark hair rested over his shoulder, curling, twisting, then falling. His shoulders heaved upward as he inhaled deeply; my face pressed against him, crown of my head working hard to bury itself in the crook of his neck. His breath above me was steady, and when I felt it brush over my cheeks I knew he was staring at me. “What?” There was a certain edge to my voice. I didn’t mean for it to slip out.

“Nothing. You’re just beautiful, is all.” Before I could let a giddy yet guilty smile pass over my face, I was on my side, groaning. Rubbing my nose, I swiveled to face him. His palm was still stretched outward from where he had used it to push my face away. He cocked his head to the side and winked. “Gotta keep you on your toes somehow. Can’t let all this niceness get to your head. You’re lucky I’m so nice to you.” His easy smile, the one I had grown to think about before succumbing to sleep every night, nestled on his face. The left corner of his lips had always pulled up more than the other; only his top teeth showed. His eyes hardly changed, save for the slight crinkling at the corners.

I blew out a breath. “So lucky.”

“You are.” I was.

“I know.”

“Hey.” I didn’t turn my head. “I–”

“Feeling hungry?” My lower lip was growing sore as my teeth tore into it; I averted my gaze to the sky. The clouds were a flaming orange now, the edges glowed with an otherworldly light. The pink was blending with the oranges, yellows, and the yellows turned into whites which contrasted so starkly from the blue morning skies. I wrapped his sheets tighter around me. “I know I am.” I counted his breaths. One, two, three, four–

“Well then I guess you’d better get dressed.” A feathery kiss placed against my temple left me reeling. The sound of his footsteps retreating and the muted thump as he dropped back into his room forced me to acknowledge the racing of my heart.

“Fuck.”

it was gonna be a thing (if I continued writing this) that he kept on wanting to tell her he loved her but since she had to kill him she didn’t want to hear it

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idiosyncrasy-at-its-finest · 3 years

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get over it

Nov. 18, 2020. spent my study hall writing this– my new thing: not proofreading! enjoy. it’s long. five pages long in google docs. good luck!

I have a tendency to overthink, to force, to meddle. Can one meddle in their own life? Apparently.

Get over it, I tell myself constantly. It happened so long ago. Don’t get hung up over this; it’s been four years. Get over it.

No. Not that it was traumatic or anything, but it was a fairly big deal to me. Not a life “event” per se, as it was a collection of experiences that fused into one regret, but it’s left its impact on me. A big one, if the numerous pieces of writing inspired by it might show.

I had a best friend. We met in fourth grade, when his best friend bet me and my closest friend at the time five dollars we couldn’t tag him. He wasn’t the fastest runner, she was a lacrosse player, and I was still full of energy and excitement. And then another class was coming out to recess and he tapped in his friend, said we’d have to tag this kid. He was short, with a cute smile, and a small scar beside… I forget which eyebrow… left or right. I forget.

He was a fast runner, the kid who ran the pacer without breaking a sweat, his carefree smile growing sharper as each competitor dropped out. The PE teacher would always have to stop the recording when it was just him running back and forth. He’d keep running. We’d clap. He’d realize it was over. He’d run to us, not even grabbing a drink of water from the water fountain. His hair would be raised and pushed back, the wind styling it.

That day in recess, I didn’t tag him. Neither did my other friend. When we got called to go back in class, I tapped his shoulder. He said it didn’t count, which it didn’t, but what did count was that I’d made a new friend.

Fifth grade, we shared the same advanced math class. When I waited in the halls, he’d pass by. And then he’d stand near me. When I stood outside a classroom for a course we didn’t share, he’d smile. At some point, he began stopping slightly when he saw me. And then he was bringing lollipops to school and giving one to me when our eyes met, smiles exchanged, and hands brushed– an exchange sweeter than candy.

One time, during recess, the others went to the kickball field. I decided to hang around on the playground. He came to me, was a little less happy than he normally was– didn’t want to play sports with his friends. He was wearing a gray dri fit shirt, I remember, and a dark pair of basketball shorts. We laughed the whole recess, and when I stepped in line to go back in, my friends teased me about us. I’d brushed them off, grinning because we’d created an inside joke. One about baseball and how my athletically-challenged self would one day be the best player the world ever saw.

We started signing each other’s things. Autographing– so that when the other got famous we could sell it, of course. Preparing each other for financial pitfalls. How kind.

Sixth grade. Open house. We were in the same class. I was excited. He didn’t even spare me a glance. I didn’t call out to him; I didn’t want my mom to see me reach out to a boy.

We became best friends, though. Our class had a ship name for us. I hated it– outwardly. Actually, in the beginning it didn’t bother me. But then my friends would point out how he teased me, how he stared when I ran my fingers through my hair (I finger-brushed my hair rather than properly take care of it– still don’t properly brush it). They suspected he liked me. I proposed to him, one day. After a photo for spirit day, when I’d stayed kneeling since I was taller than him, I pulled his arm. I stared into his eyes. Will you marry me? He said yes. And then he gave me his cheese stick at lunch to seal the deal.

And then I grew uncomfortable, because after flaunting our “relationship”, the whole grade knew. They congratulated us, and asked us when the wedding would be. So I broke it off, told him in an over dramatic fashion, hand thrown over my forehead that it’s not you. It’s me. And then he didn’t talk to me for three days. Maybe he did like me. Up until then, whenever a boy liked me, I was suddenly disgusted. But this realization, that my best friend– short, sporty, caring, funny, amazingly sweet, smart– might like me… made me giddy. And then in March of 2016, I began to like him.

Uh oh.

You see, I was a pretty strange kid. I made funny faces, I told gross jokes, I was physically aggressive. And then… and then I liked someone. I didn’t want him to see how “weird” I could be. I started acting differently. Even though we were best friends and there was no way he hadn’t already realized what a lunatic I was.

Sixth grade was also when I began to read wattpad. I wanted a guy best friend. I wanted my parents to like him, for him to crawl into my bed during cold and scary nights without it being weird, for us to be elementary school best friends turning into something more… I forced him into a mold. For what?

Our relationship turned strained. Before I left, I made him promise to always be my best friend. A desperate attempt to keep him. He agreed.

I don’t have a best friend right now. I don’t like the term, I don’t use it. Because he’s my best friend. It’s like a dying wish, but a leaving wish. Equally as important. I made a leaving wish.

I’ve since come to realize– or since manipulated the situation into one to make myself feel better– that he’s the one who broke the promise. He changed. After I moved, replies got short. Conversations turned dry. He eventually unadded me on snapchat.

So… why dwell on these unfortunate elementary school events?

My mom started watching Dawson’s Creek recently and I’ve been tuning in. It hurts. To see on screen what I’ve longed for for so long. What I longed for that ruined a friendship.

Dawson and Joey, best friends. Grew up together, sleep in the same bed. I was a military brat; I never lived anywhere longer than three years consecutively. Now, I’ve been in the country I’m in for four years, this being my fifth. I’ll be here until I graduate, making the grand total six years. Too late to make an elementary school best friend, but a highschool best friend… a guy I can talk to about anything, even sexual things (though my experiences in this field have been slim to none… they’ve actually just been none). And I almost had it. And then I got too attached again. We haven’t talked in three weeks or so. I hope it doesn’t turn into three years like it did with…

It’s too late. I was watching the show, thinking about a guy who lives in my neighborhood. The guy that both my parents like, that my mom really likes because he walks me home at night after traditional biweekly movie nights, after long walks. It’s a comfortable group of three, me, him, and another girl. For a bit, she’d insist on how cute a couple we’d be. But I didn’t like him like that. I certainly could– it wouldn’t be hard. But he deserved better than to be someone’s second choice. Or third, I suppose, if the context is me trying to find a guy best friend to intertwine my life with.

I’m too easily manipulated. Teen writings made me yearn for a specific type of friendship; my friend could easily convince me to like the sweet boy next door (but not really next door, more like a few streets up). The boy a few streets up.

Watching Dawson’s Creek has made me realize it’s most definitely too late for me to develop a relationship where we can tease each other, where when I’m changing, he takes too long to turn around because “what? Not like I haven’t seen you naked before” because we’d bathed together as babies. Too late to begin to sleep in the same bed with a member of the opposite sex, a member of the sex I’m attracted to.

I can’t have that. I won’t ever have that. Even if, when I go to college, I make a great guy friend. It won’t be the same as the highschool relationship I’ve romanticized for years now.

I sat on the floor, bum resting on a soft blue cushion, tub of Magnum ice cream cradled in hands, spoon dangling from between parted lips. I’m not going to get that. Ever. So I need to stop pining for it. Because it’s not going to happen.

But I have a neighborhood gang. A group of friends who watches a movie every other Friday, who gets together at least once a week to sit in a field and talk about life. A friend to walk to school with and a guy who breezes past us on his bike, sending an easy smile. I already have a wonderful, beautiful trio. Outside of that, I have other friends. A friend who doesn’t live in the neighborhood but that I can call without hesitation, knowing she’ll pick up even if she’s in the shower, at dinner, with other people. I have good, reliable people in my life. I don’t need a boy next door, a boy a creek down best friend. I have a boy a few streets up. I have a girl a brisk walk close. I have a girl a call away.

I have my parents, not lax enough to let me walk out the house without providing a heads up, not chill enough to let a boy in my room, not absent enough for me to do whatever I want. True, I wish I had a few more freedoms, but… I should be content with my life. I have so much.

And it hurts– to have to let go of my fantasy. Of this dream I’ve clung onto for so long my knuckles have turned white, my nails have dug into the flesh of my palms, crusted over blood surrounding fresh pools. Of this idea I’ve fallen in love with, head over heels, straight into a beautiful, soft lie. An unattainable, unrealistic, unhealthy fantasy. It’s not something I can get. Wanting it will only continue to upset me.

And why should I be upset? When I’m a few strides away from a field, from a small playground, from a bubble tea store, from school, from my friends. I don’t have a creek, I don’t have a boy who can run the pacer without panting after, who only has a light smile I pretend is just for me on his face. I have something real, somethings. I have life. My life.

I’ve come to this realization recently, that I can’t get what I’ve always wanted. Maybe that’s why I keep clinging onto my youth, because I’m hoping to fulfill some pipedream. There’s a lot of things in my life that have been affected by this unhealthy obsession.

It still hurts, like a breakup, a fresh wound. Maybe the latter would be the better comparison– I’ve never been through a proper breakup. Things that have felt like it, maybe. But not a romantic one.

Oh wait. Too late now, but before the boy a few streets up (or at the same time I became friends with him), there was another one. The guy who texted, shared memes, called to study, manipulated, rejected on Valentine’s Day. A story for another day, I suppose. But you can bet that he was also ruined because of my dream.

It still hurts. But I’m happier now– or at least on the path to get there. Because I’ve pinned down a very big problem and am trying to put it behind.

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idiosyncrasy-at-its-finest · 3 years

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Linking arms with people while you walk is like going on an adventure!

#an old post #drafts #writing #fun!

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idiosyncrasy-at-its-finest · 3 years

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so what if I talk in circles? (not that anyone’s accused me of it recently...). I never claimed to be an expert on the girl I’ve been with for 16 years. I’m trying to learn about her, still. I am her, but I don’t know everything about her. Maybe she knows everything about me, deep down, and she’s trying to tell me. Maybe I already know but can’t find the right words so I backtrack and try to figure out what I really mean but maybe... maybe there’s just meaning that doesn’t have to be explicitly stated. My job as a writer and my job as an individual– they’re different– even writers don’t have to... jeez louise idk what I’m trying to say and... that’s okay. I don’t have to figure it out. end of the post, goodbye!

#figuring it out #confusing #confused #identity #writing #short #rant #ramble #words #supposed to be deep but uhhh

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idiosyncrasy-at-its-finest · 3 years

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censor, refine, edit

I planned on proofreading or even just rereading before uploading but... idk, these are my thoughts. I don’t need to censor, refine, edit myself. these are my thoughts and a part of who I am– or at least discovering who I could be

basically quoting myself because a few posts ago (but only several minutes before...) when writing an AN, I wrote words that I... really like. anyway. instead of having them be the stuffy AN at the top of an okay piece of writing... here it is! in it’s own post...

#writing #self #myself #discovering #self discovery #identity #AN

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idiosyncrasy-at-its-finest · 3 years

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I just remembered. this blog isn’t professional by any means, by the way. sorry if I’ve given you the impression that that’s what I’m striving for. anyway. Dawson’s Creek. it’s been making me think a lot. I do that anyway, but... making me think more. anyway. stay tuned... I guess. a note for my future self in case I forget what it is I will write about: those aren’t missed opportunities because they were never ones you had. stop dwelling on the near impossible, stop counting down the days, stop wishing it finally happen. be content.

ah shoot, that’s basically all I need to say... don’t worry, I’ll come back with flowery language and pretty imagery for you <3

edit from the next day, Nov. 18, 2020. i posted it. get over it.

#note to self #writing #shows #dawson's creek #thinking #inspiration #friendship #opportunities #dreams #want

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idiosyncrasy-at-its-finest · 3 years

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Title

the reason for why I published that last post is because I’ve been wanting to write my feelings a lot but, for some reason, skirting around actually doing so. and I remembered how much it helped to just let my fingers fly across the keyboard with tumblr and that big, gray lettering spelling “Title” just waiting for me to decide what this was all about– or for me to not label and just let go. I remembered the vibe that writing on tumblr gave me. anyway. ideas. I forget. right now. I’ve forgotten. but there are things I want to write about... they flit through my minds, twirl around, curtsey... disappear... they’ll come back though. And when they do, I promise to capture and pin them down. They are important because I am important and expressing myself in the most valuable thing I can do. not proofreading this because these are just my emotions but also... why do I feel the need to put this disclaimer?

I titled it “title”. beautiful, I think

#writing #flow #words #stream of consciousness #train of thought #journal #thinking #vibe #tumblr #enjoy #ideas #plans

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idiosyncrasy-at-its-finest · 3 years

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I want a vibe

this tab has been open on my computer for so long... last edit was Nov. 1... I planned on proofreading or even just rereading before uploading but... idk, these are my thoughts. I don’t need to censor, refine, edit myself. these are my thoughts and a part of who I am– or at least discovering who I could be... it’s now Nov. 17, 2020. clearly I’ve dwelled on this topic for a while, but only with it hanging like an apparition in the back of my mind.

Something about writing directly on tumblr makes me feel so… wow, she’s a writer and can’t put the feeling into words. I feel like there’s more purpose and intent to it. I don’t quite feel more professional, but I…

I know there’s this thing called synesthesia. Here is Wikipedia’s definition: perceptual phenomenon in which stimulation of one sensory or cognitive pathway leads to involuntary experiences in a second sensory or cognitive pathway. I used to want it. It’s a cool idea, to have so many things invading your senses. But not invading, just… popping in to say hi!

Cognitive. Maybe. I associate certain things with very specific mental images. Typing directly into tumblr has me feeling like I’ve got wide-rimmed, bookish glasses resting on my nose. The middle’s broken, but’s been poorly stuck together with a piece of old tape, the edges sticky with fuzz. My hair’s in a messy bun and in the afternoon sun it’s glowing a light chestnut, hues of red streaking through. I’m in a big sweater and there’s a cup of peppermint tea beside. It’s hot. I only drink cold tea because my tongue is very sensitive.

But I’m writing in google docs right now because I’m in class. And I don’t quite want the people behind to see I’m on tumblr. Not that I’m embarrassed, but I’m not proud either. It exists, and it’s mine and I don’t need anyone else’s thoughts on it because it’s not for anyone else. Just for me.

I want a vibe. I’ve been getting into Corpse Husband’s stuff recently– but not his original scary content. I’m too much of a chicken for that. And even in seventh grade I started listening to panic! and fall out boy more often. Twenty one pilots too. Eighth grade was when MCR joined the mix. And even when I was little, I wanted to be called “it” because I didn’t like the stereotypes associated with being a girl, but I didn’t want to be a gross boy.

I always pictured myself as some sort of hardened youth. She wears flannel, swears a bit too much, hard exterior but a good friend, kind of detached. And no, I don’t swear, and I only own one piece of flannel. I am sort of detached, but more so hyper, silly, tangential… occasionally detached. So when the default me that people see is a bubbly and fun girl, I feel almost mean pulling out the side of myself that I feel a bit more comfortable in. The cheerful me is not a fake version, I am completely and fully a child at heart, and I love to have fun. But, I’m also mean and I like to tease people. I’m somewhat physical, but I never hit any of my female friends and when I moved at the end of sixth grade, suddenly I didn’t have many male friends. Now, when the urge comes to punch someone– however teasingly– I can’t. Because then my female friends’ feelings will be hurt.

My current fashion sense is comfortable. It’s not trying at all. It’s jean shorts and a top. Loose jeans and a top (but I live near the equator, so I only wear jeans on rainy days in this year-round-summer climate).

Anyway. Corpse. I found myself wanting black nail polish.

It’s Saturday now, the next day. I’m not in class. I’m still writing on this doc.

Anyway. Corpse. Black nail polish. But I don’t want to get into that, because using nail polish implies I put effort into my appearance, I cared about what color my nails would be for some aesthetic appeal. I want to wear combat boots because I’ve always thought that the laced up shoes, clunky and powerful, looked… cool. I want to be cool– my version of cool. But then combat boots would look nice with fishnet-clad legs leading into them. And then some type of corset, some chokers, dark eyeliner, and suddenly, yes, mom, it is a phase.

But I also want baggy jeans and tight tees for the simplest way to be comfortable and to flatter my figure. I like wearing skirts, because they’re typically more high waisted, and the area of my torso that cinches in is much higher above my waist. But I manspread a lot and am never careful when sitting or jumping. I want to emphasize how fun and kind I am. I want silly earrings and bright tees with motivational quotes on them, and either mom jeans or a cute skirt, or maybe high waisted shorts. A faded light blue.

I want what I wear to have some meaning and to reflect my personality, but I can’t even figure out what that is. I know people say you can be a ‘baddie’ and a soft girl, dress how you are and show off the multitudes of your identity, but it’s strange to me. To think one day I might go out with a ponytail, sweatpants, and a black tank, and the next, I’m going out wearing ripped lace up boots, black jeans, and heavy makeup (though I don’t wear makeup and I don’t intend to).

This isn’t very poetic, nor is it doing the best job explaining my feelings, but I don’t know how I feel. I also just don’t want to invest much time into altering my appearance.

Hi I’m back! It’s the next day. Clearly a lot of thought is being put into this. Not this the writing, but this the concept. Idea. A lot of people will comment– on youtube, instagram, twitter– things like “Corpse’s vibe: (followed by dark emojis, chains, wilting roses) Corpse’s personality: (insert cute flowers, blushes, pink hearts)”. And it got me thinking. If this whole identity crisis and vibe dilemma was spurred on by Corpse (it’d taken deep root in my mind previously, but I just sort of ignored it due to the amount of effort it would take to deal with it), then why not… be like Corpse? I can keep my personality and just… express the other parts of myself in other ways.

Yes. But then the issue would be buying corsets and explaining them to my mom. Or asking my mom to buy them. And then having my mom see me in them. And then wear them outside. Oh my gosh. What about my dad?

A somewhat joking end to this, but… I don’t know. I think I’d feel confident in stompy boots and black lace up dresses (not lace itself, I don’t like how itchy it is), but I’d also feel… not like myself. And I’m motivated enough to go ahead and make that myself, so. For now. Maybe when I go to college, I’ll collect a diverse wardrobe. Dress up at home. And then occasionally go out once I’m thinking less about what I wear and more about how what I wear makes me feel.

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