When will this madness stop
When Leo wins an Oscar.
Reblogging for old times’ sake because I have a feeling these jokes end soon
Plot twist: Only tumblr users survive the apocalypse because we were too lazy to go outside to see what was going on.
Second plot twist: We don’t realize everyone else is gone until we run out of food. We don’t really care until all the Nutella is gone.
Third plot twist: We finally all meet up because we have to repopulate the world.
Fourth plot twist: Everyone on tumblr actually gets laid.
This is one of my favorite posts because that cat’s fucking name is fucking meatloaf
I have never believed in a Heaven or Hell. I have never been a religious person, simply for the fact that I could never make sense of it. So naturally, I didn’t believe in any sort of afterlife. Your heart stops beating, your skin turns cold, and they bury your lifeless body six feet under the dirt; it couldn’t be simpler. Death was never anything more to me than a bittersweet ending to the story of life. I had embraced the fact that I wasn’t going to live forever, and even if I could, I wouldn’t want to. Every good story has to come to an end at some point, right?
Your story ended much too soon, and my god, you were the greatest story that I ever had the pleasure of experiencing. You were too good to put down, and I held you as long as I possibly could. I read and re-read the pages of you on a daily basis; I wanted you to be seemingly never ending, such as a series of books that the author
just couldn’t stop writing.
I remember the first time I saw you. You walked through those double doors on a scorching August afternoon. You couldn’t see me, but I spotted you right off the bat. No one seemed to notice you standing all alone with your hands in your pockets in the middle of that crowded room. But I couldn’t have missed you if I tried.
Your eyes were what first caught my attention. They were a brilliant icy shade of grey, and they sparkled like a brand new dime. You were just so lovely; it blew my mind. I wanted you so insanely bad. Your eyes were scanning the room as if you were intent on finding something, or someone. I never took my sight off you. Then it happened; your eyes locked on mine for the first time. In that very moment, you stole my breath and my heart, and I’ve never been the same.
It took a lifetime for you to even so much as speak to me. The days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months, and in that time span I continuously wasted all my time trying to get your attention again. And you know what finally did it? Singing and coffee, and maybe that’s why those two things are so important to me. I suppose I need to go into detail about why, and that’s fine.
It was December, and I was performing in this quaint little coffee house on the corner of 5th and Stanton. That’s how I spent my Friday nights- on stage, guitar in my hand, singing to my heart’s content. Somehow you had made your way in there, which honestly surprised me. It didn’t seem like your scene; you were so quiet and
reserved, and I never saw you out. After my performance, I had sat down to enjoy my usual peppermint mocha and do a little writing. You approached me and asked if the other seat at my table for two was taken. I turned slightly crimson, and shyly told you that no, it was unoccupied.
“You play really beautifully, Jules”, you said. I sipped my steamy mocha (blushing, because no one ever called me Jules, it was always simply Julia) and quietly said, “Thank you, Jonah.” I was a little baffled as to why you were paying me any attention, but I was most definitely not going to question it any longer than needed.
We sat there in the coffee house until it closed, and I remember how you smiled through the smoke, and laughed at all my jokes. You spoke of all the things that you were passionate about, which were so different than mine. I was the confused, screwed up artist, and you were actually going places.
Closing time rolled around, so I excused myself and ran along home. As I laid there in my bed, staring up at the brilliant tiny blue lights running the perimeter of my ceiling, I thought about you. I thought about the way that you looked at me in the dim lights, smirking when I’d say something that you found cute. I thought about how intensely you spoke of your music, and how you laughed at me when I said that my dream was to move to Paris, own a coffee shop, and visit every art museum I ever pass by.
The weeks turned into months, and I quickly fell in love with you. I fell in love with the way you’d breathe with my head on your chest. The way that you smelled fresh out of the shower, or after you’d spray on your cologne. I fell in love with each and every seemingly insignificant part of you and the way that you lived. But the longer we were together, the more you came to realize that I wasn’t always as okay as I wanted you to think.
It was September, and I was spiraling downward at a fast pace. You had spent so much time making me happy that I felt like it would be a good idea to stop taking my medication. When I stopped taking the pills, I started acting differently. I went back to cutting, which had always been my crutch before you came along. I didn’t tell you, of course. I didn’t want you to worry about me, because I have always been able to take care of myself. I just kept my sleeves down, and my head as high as I could.
October rolled around, and we were spending our Saturday afternoon on the couch, cuddled up with some hot cocoa and indie flicks. I was moving to reach for my cocoa, and my sleeve slipped and revealed my self-inflicted wounds. You glanced down at them, and my mind was reeling. I didn’t want you to see, and you did. I just couldn’t get that moment out of my head. You had seen the awful, deep places in my arm where I tried to hide my pain.
A somewhat distressed expression painted your lovely face. And then it was just….gone. It reminded me of a flash of lightening during a summer thunderstorm; the way it appears suddenly, lingering for only a moment, and the sky goes black again.
Just like that.
Like you noticed, and it pained you to see how I had hurt for so long. But I don’t think you wanted me to know that you saw, and that you cared so much. Or maybe it wasn’t distress for me, but for you. Maybe you thought, “What in the world have I gotten myself into?”
Or maybe it was neither. Perhaps I’m just some stupid eighteen year old girl who doesn’t know anything. Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter. I saw you take a look.
The weeks after that were so hard. You couldn’t look at me the same, and I think that it was because I hid my pain from you, and we told each other everything. There was a slight sense of betrayal in your eyes, and it was killing me.
By this point, the fear of losing you had settled in. It’s not that I thought you didn’t want to be with me. It was the fact that I can’t read you. You’re much like
a closed book….more so like a locked diary found in the charred remains of an old abandoned house that you’re just dying to read, but you can’t find the key. You search and search, but to no avail. The key is hidden in a now non-existent box that must’ve perished a hundred years ago, along with the inhabitants of the house. You can’t get in that diary, and you can’t get in his mind.
So you lie awake at night, over thinking and stressing and driving yourself to the point of literal insanity. You start to become less coherent. You begin making rash decisions, and you eventually lose yourself under the weight of the world.
The first totally rash decision I made, and the one that sealed our fate, was dabbling in drugs. I would get high every chance I got, and it turned me into an
angry person. I’d start yelling at you, telling you that it was all your fault that I felt this way. I’d tell you that you led me to using, and I’d tell you how much I hated you.
You’d just sit there and hold me in your arms, tears streaming down your face, whispering, “I love you, Jules.”
You’d say it over and over again, until I’d finally break down and begin to sob uncontrollably. I’d express how sorry I was, and assure you it would never happen again. Against my promises, it did, and it was on almost an every other night basis.
Then it was February. Things had gotten progressively worse over the last few months. A night of drinking between the both of us resulted in a heated argument. You told me that I was psychotic, that you couldn’t deal with my manic episodes anymore, that you were done. And with that said, you walked out my front door. I heard your car start up, and I instantly grew terrified. You had been drinking; you were in no shape to drive.
I ran out the door after you, but you were already heading down the street, a little too fast, and a little too reckless. I stumbled out onto the pavement as quickly as my inebriated legs would carry me. It was too late for me to do anything. I glanced up just in time to see your car crash into the stone wall at the end of our street. My mouth opened and I wanted to scream, but no sound came out.
I rushed to your car. By the time I got there, the elderly couple down the road had called the paramedics. They were coming; I could hear the sirens, and I knew they were going to take you away. I pushed through the small crowd that had gathered and made my way to your door. I looked in the window and saw your face against the steering wheel, bathed in blood. I ripped open your door and pulled you out onto the ground. Your body was so still. I just kept screaming, “Jonah, Jonah! Oh god, no. Please dear god no. Not my Jonah. Not my baby.” The tears poured from my face. You were dead. Gone. Never coming back. I’d never get to hold you again. You’d never kiss me, and I’d never hear your voice. And the worst part? It was all my fault.
The days that followed your accident were easily the most agonizing of my entire life. I’d pick up my phone and call you, knowing that you’d never pick up again, and all I’d ever get was your voicemail. I left message after message. I apologized to you a million times over. I asked you to call me, to come back. But I never got that call, and it ripped me apart.
Your funeral was a blur. I was rolling off pills at the time, so not a lot even remains in my memory. I just remember touching your ice cold face, and remembering how it felt to hold your face in my hands and kiss your beautiful warm lips. I traced my finger across them then, but they didn’t feel the same.
I spent the next few weeks going back and forth between sleeping and getting high. I needed to stay numb, and the drugs did it. Sleep was so much worse, though. Your face would creep into my dreams, and I would wake up screaming and crying hysterically. I’d just sedate myself, and continue my slumber.
Talking about what happened was one of the worst parts. I didn’t want to explain that a drunken fight between us led to your death. It made me feel awful. I literally felt worthless. How could I have done that to you, Jonah? I love you so much, and I’m the reason that you’re gone. I lost the best thing that had ever happened to me, due to my own stupidity and issues.
Thoughts of what I had done were enough to drive me to bringing the bottle to my lips. The pills were no longer enough for me. The pain was a monster inside of me, and it was eating me from the inside out. It had morphed into a being, and was no longer an emotion. This being had teeth and claws, and it was unbearable. I was on the verge of losing it.
Then one day I did lose it. I couldn’t handle my fears, my insecurities, my doubts. I had lost control of myself. I was no longer a girl, but a plastic bag floating through a deserted alley; no purpose, no direction. I could feel my feet carry my body to the liquor cabinet, though my mind had left me. All I remember was the intense burning sensation in my throat as I swallowed the alcohol. I don’t recall picking up my keys, or getting in my red Chevy pickup. I don’t remember driving away,
either. The only thing that remains in my memory is the screaming.
I was no longer Julia Thompkins; I was merely a passenger in that rusty old pickup, watching this beautiful young girl hurdling towards self destruction. Her screams were deafening. She looked like a raving lunatic, the way she was beating the steering wheel and screaming like she was on fire. And maybe she was. Maybe her pain was burning her from the inside, and dying was the only way to douse the white hot
I was speeding down the highway at 90 mph. My only thought was that I had to join you, Jonah. I made up my mind right then and there that I wasn’t going to continue to live without you. If there was any kind of afterlife, and any chance that I would be seeing you there, I was taking it.
I came upon the Vian Bridge right outside of town. It was the middle of a raging thunderstorm, and I was still speeding. I knew it was now or never, so I went for it. I drove my pickup right off the side, and rolled across the highway beneath. I was expelled through the windshield; I skidded across the road. I felt the bones in my body breaking beneath me. As scary as it sounds, it was a pleasant feeling. When my body finally came to a stop, there was no hope. As I laid underneath that tree with the rain beating down on me, I saw you standing over my mangled body. You reached out for my hand. I took it, along with my last breath, and followed you into the dark.
I’m gonna post a short story that I’ve written. It’s a little long, and I don’t expect anyone to read it. But if you do, I’d love feedback.
You deserve someone who loves you with every single beat of his heart, someone who thinks about you constantly, someone who spends every minute of every day just wondering what you’re doing, where you are, who you’re with, and if you’re OK. You need someone who can help you reach your dreams and protect you from your fears. You need someone who will treat you with respect, love every part of you, especially your flaws. You should be with someone who could make you happy, really happy, dancing on air happy.