How many times does it take for you to be disappointed/heartbroken to finally cap yourself off from all forms of hurt? Or does it all just depend on the intensity of the hurt? Because hurt is hurt, right? There’s no actual tangible limitation that you can put on it. Does that make me pathetic because I’m always just constantly trying to find someone to love me? Because apparently it means I’m ‘strong’ - that the hurt just builds up and makes me stronger. I don’t think I’m strong though. I’m just starving for happiness.
— Chris Gethard (via perfect)
“Okay, so this is it;
Since I know I’m probably never going to bump into you or simply have the courage to say this to your face unless I’m drunk (and let’s face it, romantic gestures just aren’t my forte judging by when I did show up at your house). Who am I kidding? I am that kind of girl. The one that will fall neatly under the labels of ‘crazy’ or ‘needy’ because her emotions tend to spill out at once and in full colour. I will hound your message box and immediately regret every text I send wishing that I were the kind of person who could exhibit that coy, sexy restraint. I wish playing ‘hard to get’ were a game that didn’t elude me completely, that I could engage in a little cat and mouse, that I could obfuscate my true feelings just long enough to make you wonder if I actually need you. And yes, I am pissed off. Frustrated, annoyed, infuriated and all of the things that come with it because it’s a bloody shame when you just make someone open up to you and tell you their life and then they fuck off. Because I do like having you around - because I can actually have an intellectual conversation with someone that isn’t my own head and what we talk about is something I can’t necessarily talk about with other people because they just don’t get it.
I’m sorry I called you a dickhead and a cunt, harsh of me. But at the same time I’m not sorry because I know I shouldn’t be doing the apologising. I am that kind of girl that will come off as pathetic when doing things like these but I just need people to know that I say things in the heat of the moment and I am that kind of girl who will fight sometimes for no reason because I’m so frustrated and I’ll know that what I’m doing and saying is wrong in the moment - that a label of “psycho” being flung at me will be as stinging as it is accurate - but be unable to stop myself. I love things at top volume, at their most difficult, at their most needlessly complex. For fucks sake, its like how I love Bon Iver so much that they’re basically the soundtrack to my everyday life.
But I guess you’ve obviously figured all of that out and realised that’s too much for you which is a shame. So with that, I wish you well. And we’re back to being complete strangers now and as much as anyone doesn’t like goodbyes, this has to be one. Goodbye.”
The conversation stopped at one point and we were playing footsies and you sat up on the bed and you told me to “get up a second” and I did and you grabbed my legs and wrapped them around the lining of your bum and took my face and kissed me. Your lips tasted like the combination of cider and cigarettes and a hint of coconut. I felt a bit lightheaded - but I wasn’t sure if that was from the cider kicking in. I don’t really want to admit that it was anything otherwise.
From then on, I was enthralled. Captivated by your very existence. I caught feelings and damn it, I fucking hate myself for it. I can’t embrace in it or splash in the very idea of it because I knew you wouldn’t want to be with me. Because I knew you didn’t catch feelings. So now I’m going to pretend like you don’t exist because that’s the best way to approach it. It should be easy to forget you since you only resurrect in my life whenever the fuck you feel like it. I’m making my peace with the “could’ve beens” and the “would’ve beens” and the way your hair smelled and the way your beard has patches of ginger in them and the way you read a book like you’re really soaking up the knowledge. Especially the way you talk about life so passionately and how cunningly intelligent you are and how every time I see you, you look like you’ve stepped out of an Audery Hepburn movie. The way you laugh and when you’re nervous you push your hair back or scratch your beard and how you think it’s hilarious that people think you’re older than 22. And the way you look at me like there’s no one else you care about - because I know it’s false. Because I know you don’t think the world of me - so what is the point in me falling and waiting around for someone who thinks the world of someone else?
I know we’re not soul mates. Fuck that. I know you’re a stepping stone. But it’s a God damn shame that you’re just a stepping stone that I’ve stood upon longer than I should have because now it’s really hard to just step forward because I was so comfortable. It’s a pity and it’s a shame because behind everything that seems so flawless on the outside, like everyone; you are as damaged as the rest of us. And you know how I know you are? Because you absolutely hate it when I call you damaged. So maybe I was in awe of you because like every other, I thought I could flip that around and change you and make you fall in love with me. Because you seem like when you love, you love with all your fucking heart and I wanted that. Because I missed being loved the shit out of. But you’re not and you won’t and that’s okay because sometimes people just don’t love you back. As a pile of wank it always is to not be loved back, as a fucking blackhole that it feels to not be loved back, as a shit fucking load of heartbreak that it is to not be loved back - it’s okay. Because sometimes people just don’t love you back."