and this is how it ended so


Truly A Masterpiece™

I wrote this comic at the beginning of 8th grade shortly after seeing PotO for the first time. It was a horrible hand drawn comic full of stick figures at the time. So I redid it as a horrible digital comic full of stick figures, but like, with color.

The change in color in some panels was supposed to be like a dramatic representation of mood but now I just like to think Erik has those rainbow mood lights and they keep cycling through all the colors because he never bothered to learn the settings

Anyway hope u like

anonymous asked:

Hiii, a fellow Bughead shipper here. I am afraid about what KJ said. About him being with one of the girls in the end and how he thinks thats who he should be with. I am afraid because KJ said in an interview he is team Betty and that he wanted them to be together soooo.... does this mean Betty leaves Juggie for Archie? Because that would suck so much and Bughead is totally endgame. I just hope they see that.

archie is a fuck boy tbh and doesn’t deserve betty one bit. if they do get together at the end of the season it won’t last coz betty and archie together romantically is just such a big no. 

but i really can’t see bughead breaking up?? coz we got this picture- 

this is from the finale so i don’t think they are going to break up

anonymous asked:

After almost two months of dating a girl I was really falling for she stopped talking to me, started talking to a guy and after almost three weeks of this I finally asked her if she wanted to end it she said yes. She then went on to date another guy who also happened to be my best friend who abandoned me for her. I've never felt so used in all my life, she made me come out to my parents for her and she used me to make a point. Any ideas on how to move on and get over this?

oo shit… all I can say is try to find the positive out of it. You have came out. So you can be yourself around your parents. Also you can go out and meet new people. people who will love you for who you are. I know this is a clap in your face but you will get stronger out of it !

anonymous asked:

Ever just stop and think of all the potential Naruto had as an anime? Like the art, characters, and setting are really strong and unique, but the lackluster writing and poor treatment of those characters (especially the women) just water down the whole show. The best thing Naruto still has going for it, is that there are no pantie flashes.

I think about this all the time. If you’re ever sitting there saying to yourself “I wonder what thatshinobilife is thinking about right now” there’s a 50% chance it’s this and a 50% chance its me appreciating how much Return of the King deserved all it’s oscar wins at the 76th Academy Awards. 

Honestly Part 1 of Naruto actually still holds up in retrospect - It’s mostly part 2 that went off the deep end. I think a lot of the things that happened later in the series weren’t planned in the beginning (which is fair, its hard to plan 15 years in advance) and it really showed. It got so popular there was pressure to keep it going past its expiration date. If some one were to go back now and rewrite the whole thing while keeping all the main plot points in tact I think it would turn out a lot better. Certain moments could be rewritten or scraped completely, scenes could be added to buffer various character arcs, the flow could be much better, etc etc. Like, I know I complain a lot of about Naruto on this blog but it’s because it’s an important series to me and I care about the characters so much. I wish they had gotten the respect they deserved. 

anonymous asked:

heii :) so i absolutely LOVE your hairstyles, but most of them are way too long for my taste... i was wondering whether you could make more hairs ending around the boobs? (lol what a sentence but i didn't know how to say it differently)

Hi ^^ thank you so much! I am super fan of super long hairstyles this is why there is so much of them. But of course, I will keep in mind to add some short and medium length hairstyles too 😌

Re: Videogamer Atem from this post:

@hiramiyugioh​ replied: XDD whatever game he plays, Kaiba manages to find and challenge him

Atem spent 3 days trying to master DOOM, going straight for Ultra Nightmare (he had to restart four times), before delving into the multiplayer. Around half an hour in, a person called BEWDown2Me starts hunting him in every match. Atem hasn’t worked out yet how Kaiba has so many different accounts. Or when he learnt to play DOOM. Or how he’s doing this if he’s in an investor meeting til 6.  

Pokemon they have to arrange to play. Seto counter-teams him and still loses. 

Skyrim isn’t multiplayer, so that required some thought. They end up achievement racing. Atem wins by not getting distracted with cheese wheels.

He has to explain in chat that this is a Build Server, not a PVP Server when a blocky character in a Kaibaland hoodie shows up while he’s playing Minecraft. Atem gets bored after making a simple house. Kaiba makes a replica Blue Eyes. Silently, Atem concedes that round.

@hiramiyugioh​ replied: (((I still want to see a picture/fic about them playing an MMORPG and Kaiba is forced to play the damn Healer/Priest *snort*)))

“Don’t see it as being a Priest- “
“-say ‘again’ and the console goes out the window.”
“See it as playing the only character who gets to wear robes with a dragon on.”

Since some friends referred me a certain person made a call-out post about me, I just need to put this here and end this nonsense once for all.
Just putting the words “child” and “porn” in the same sentence fucking disgust me, how can you even THINK of that?
I study psychology, I know VERY WELL the difference between childhood and adolescence. So, if I want to draw something BARELY smutty between two teenagers I will.
I deleted the posts because I understood that this fandom is full of TOUCHY and JUMPY people.
Why don’t you all do something constructive and good for the fandom/ship instead of leading fucking moral Crusades against other people? 
And keep your #nygmobblepotnegativity or whatever out of my blog, THANKS.

We had a super busy day yesterday. Agility class in the morning, and a trick training workshop in the evening - 4 hours of clicker training. Needless to say, Maya was knackered, but she did so well and I’m really proud. At the tricks workshop she was a little bit stressed out by one of the other dogs reacting and growling, and also startled by a few sudden noises, but recovered REALLY well from the things that upset her and worked exceptionally, particularly considering how busy she had been! I gave her lots of breaks, taking her outside somewhere quiet to have a breather. She was a little distracted and tired towards the end, so for the last hour and a half we were mostly just chilling out, and I didn’t ask much else from her but to settle. I was a bit awkward but met some great trainers, and hope I made a good impression lol (screw anxiety)… I hope Maya made a good impression too, as these are handlers I may become involved in a stunt/display team with.

anonymous asked:

It's so good to be you 'cause no matter who is on the podium you r happy

i’m not really sure how to take this bc it does kinda sound sarcastic but i’ll just give you the benefit of the doubt lmao

and obviously there are jumpers i would prefer to get a medal more than others, but honestly at the end of the day, ski jumping makes me happy as it is, i just want them to have a safe and fair competition and if we get that idk why i should be bitter about the podium?

like yes if one of my faves who had a chance to get on the podium really messes up his second jump (kinda like michi did yesterday) i’ll be sad for that person, but that doesn’t stop me from being happy for the guys who did get on the podium

all these guys fight so hard and they have fought so hard to get to where they are now, they train so much, they have so much passion for this sport, they are what MAKES the sport what it is and i think it’s just kinda disrespectful when the first comments i see after a competition are about how someone didn’t deserve the podium.. and tbh i refuse to contribute to that bc i don’t agree, everyone who was on that podium got there bc they did a great job and yes i’m happy for everyone who does great

uberredcoat  asked:

I know that Mary's storyline wasn't created until Season 5, but i'm re-watching 3A and there are SO many hints and clues pointing out that Spencer has a twin or atleast that there is something up with the Hastings. The fact that Veronica suddenly took Garrett's case, the fact that Jason says to Peter: 'It seems like i have more then one sister', and more stuff. That makes me question if the writers knew that Spencer would end up having a twin back in 3A.

Hang on I’m confused - Mary is the twin, not Spencer, so why the talk about Spencer’s twin? Are we assuming Mary gave birth to 2 Spencer’s (so to speak)? Very plausible idea and honestly I think it might happen, but I’m just not sure how you went from Mary to Spencer :)

Veronica taking Garret’s case, I believe, is linked to Melissa being a Drake, which Garret knew because he dated her but it’s possible it’s instead linked to Spencer having a twin. And of course the talk about medical records too.

somehow i ended up on free’s chinese wikipedia page (don’t ask me how bc i have no idea) and when i translated the page to english, nitori’s profile looked like this:

icy love?! i have no idea why his name translated to that, but it’s really cute!! i think i’m going to change my blog header to that!

anonymous asked:

I'm dying of thirst. I need more Keith please.

ask and ya shall receive! as promised, here it is lmfao

also: an au where keith is a firm believer of aliens and conspiracy theories and is also really bad at admitting his feelings… also as you can see this is like two au’s in one i’ve hit the jackpot i won


In all honesty, you actually don’t have an inkling of a clue as to how things have ended up this way. You don’t know as to how you ended up staying over at Keith’s small and dingy apartment, don’t recall how you ended up lying down on Keith’s couch, a strewn of pillows surrounding you, while the said man was lying on the floor beside you. Most importantly, you don’t have a single idea on how you had lost yourself and given in to Keith’s wishes to stay the night with him while he mutters drunkly talks about his own (probably self-invented and made-up) alien theories.

“So, you know how they keep saying aliens aren’t real?” Keith Kogane begins, and his voice is a lull, familiar and comforting despite its gruffness. His words are a mixture of intoxicated words but sober thoughts, a mixture of seemingly incoherent sentences yet unambiguous meanings. You merely stay silent, letting Keith continue with whatever he is about to say. Keith seems undeterred by your wordless response, or lack thereof, as he opens his mouth and let the words, meanings, pour out of his lips.  “How they keep telling us that they don’t exist, or whatnot? How they keep insisting that they’re just figments of our imaginations, that we’re all just being delusional, that we’re all just making them up like how we make up everything else, and all those kinds of shit that come out of their mouth?”

“I think they’re all bullshit,” he says, and he takes a deep breath before continuing, filling his lungs with air before exhaling the next words. “You and I both know that aliens are real. They truly exist; they’re not just some figment of human imagination like how they always claim it is. I mean, I’ve read all about them when I was younger, and I could guarantee you that they’re real, that they exist.”

“How could you say so?” you say, finally deciding to ask. You wait for Keith’s answer, aware of the silence that the said man is giving you as he racks his brain for an answer to come up with. You don’t really want to hear his answer, don’t really care whether or not he comes up with one. You know for a fact that you don’t want to know more about aliens, know for sure that you’re tired of hearing endless theories about them.

But maybe, down in the deepest parts of yourself, you admire how Keith could get so passionate about something that he could even go on an endless rant about it. Maybe there’s a part of you that loves this side of Keith’s—the seemingly mysterious side of his that no one else but you get to see, the somewhat soft side of his that is an enigma to everybody else but you. Maybe there’s more to it than that, maybe there’s something else involved, but you aren’t entirely sure. To be honest, though, you’ve never really been entirely sure of anything when it comes to him, anyway.

“I’ve read… uh,” Keith responds after a minute. He trails off as soon as the words are out of his mouth, as though he has suddenly forgotten what he has intended to say. You’re only half-listening to your friend now, focusing your gaze on the ceiling above you. The paint coating is chipped and fading, and looking at it now, you begin to remember the first time that you had been invited into his home—or humble abode, as Keith has always claimed it to be.

“Wow,” You say as you take a sip of the chosen drink in your hands. “Your house is really… clean.” You allow your gaze to move about your surroundings, noticing the structures and designs of the apartment as you do so. You try to catch every detail, trying to study it, memorize it, and trying to store each and every single one of them in your memory for future references.

The apartment is not very big, just enough to house a person or two at best, and the space isn’t all that very large. A few pieces of furniture are in place: a couch that is placed parallel to the wall, as well as a small wooden coffee table a few distances from it.  Aside from those two, there isn’t really anything else; there isn’t a single piece of technology that could be found in Keith’s apartment, save for a small worn-out radio that is placed on top of the coffee table.  It is almost as if Keith is a living hermit. But then again…

You briefly recall a memory from over a year ago, from when Keith has told you how he isn’t an avid fan of technology. It is in the middle of the night and the two of you are in an empty children’s park, lying down on a patch of grass and gazing up at the moonlit sky above the both of your heads. You could still remember how the night breeze blows comfortably around the two of you, could still remember how the trees seem to dance and sway to the quiet sound of the wind. You could still remember the silence that envelops the two of you as soon as the words are out on Keith’s lips, and you could still remember the silence that passes between the two of you before you finally have the courage decided to break it.

You could still recall yourself being just a little too curious and asking your friend the reason behind it; you could still remember the shrug he gives you, almost as if that would explain everything you needed to know, everything you needed to understand, before he finally opens his mouth to give you a worded response.

“I don’t know,” he says, and there is a small pause before he adds, “I just don’t like them.”

You hum under your breath, as if to wordlessly tell your friend that you’ve understood him. You allow a comfortable silence to settle between the two of you, continuing to gaze at the sky above you and wallowing in the beautiful view that has presented itself before your very eyes instead.

And that is the end of that.

You find yourself nodding at the thought. Yeah, you think, He definitely is.

Various pieces of newspaper cut-outs litter around the floor, and you don’t have to bend down and pick them up and read every single one of them to know what they’re all about. The apartment is bare of any decoration; save for a few newspaper articles, as well as magazine cut-outs—that are no doubt about aliens—tacked against the various spaces of the walls.

The walls are coated in pale green and you frown, knowing full well how Keith despises every other colour that isn’t either white or red. You decide to voice your concern out a few seconds later. “Aren’t you going to repaint your walls soon?” you say, deciding to ask him as you raise a finger, gesturing toward the walls. “You’ve always mentioned how you passionately hate every colour that isn’t white or red.”

You don’t catch the small smile that plays about the corners of Keith’s lips. “No,” answers Keith, and you have to turn your head to look at him, curiosity evident in the way you furrow your eyebrows. Keith laughs at the expression written on your face, and it is a genuine, heartfelt laugh that is neither forced nor fake. You find yourself relaxing even just a bit; you find your lips curling up into a small smile as you look at Keith, noticing how carefree he looks in this very moment.

“No,” Keith repeats his answer, continuing in an attempt to give more elaboration on his already worded response. “And it isn’t because I’m lazy or busy to do it. I’ve read from an article that in the ancient times, the colour green was used to represent the existence of aliens.”

“Aliens?” You echo, raising an eyebrow at your friend’s words.

“Yes,” Keith responds, nodding. “I also heard from the neighbours that the previous owner of this apartment had an incurable obsession with aliens before he passed away,” Keith shrugs before continuing, “I wanted to at least honour his memory by letting the walls stay as they are.”

A few moments of silence pass, with you letting the true meaning of his words sink into your mind. Your eyes widen in disbelief after a moment, as soon as the words have seemed to finally sink in. You couldn’t believe what you’re hearing; briefly, you wonder whether Keith’s words are true or whether it is just a trick that your ever-tired body system decided to play on you. You steal a glance at Keith, as if trying to gauge his expression. Keith looks impassive, inscrutable, showing no signs of emotion that you’re desiring to see in the first place.

You shake your head, and replays the word over and over in your mind. Keith getting a little nostalgic over the death of a person he has never once met? Keith, trying to preserve a stranger’s memory of the house just because they liked the same things as him? The idea of it seems ridiculous, absurd even, that now, even thinking back on it for the umpteenth time has almost made you scoff.

“… Is this some sort of a joke?” you ask, your eyes narrowing into slits. Even now, Keith still looks deadpan, refusing to show any hint of emotion that might give his intentions away. The lack of expression he’s currently showing has made it difficult for you, considering that you have no way of telling whether or not he was just make a joke.

The answer you so desire comes after a few moments, when Keith grins widely at you, the whites of his teeth gleaming in the dim light. “The latter was,” he answers, and you almost have to breathe a sigh of relief because thank the Gods that your best friend hasn’t changed at all.

You shake your head at your friend, a small smile resting on your lips. “I’d thought so.” You don’t catch the somewhat fond smile that Keith directs at you as you takes another sip of your drink.

“… Hey? Hey?”  You are quickly snapped out of your reverie when Keith calls your name. “(Your Name)?” he says once more, though before you could even react and give him a proper response, he is quick to continue. “Are you listening to me?”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” you say, turning on your side so that you are facing your friend. “I was zoning out for a bit so I didn’t quite hear you.” From your current position, you could properly see your friend. Keith is lying on his back, both of his arms resting behind his head as his gaze rests on the ceiling above him. His gaze, however, is unfocused, as though he were staring at something but isn’t really staring at it, as though he were staring at something that isn’t quite there, as though he were looking at something that doesn’t quite exist. You frown and guess that this might be a side-effect of Keith having too much to drink at the bar a while ago, that he could no longer concentrate on most things anymore.

“Sorry about that,” you repeat, and you hear Keith grunt in response, signalling that he has heard and understood your words. He doesn’t say anything else, but you are sure that your apology has already been accepted and that you’re already been forgiven. Silence follows afterward, but you are quick to break it. “So,” you begin, and you let your words hang in the air for a few seconds before you finally continue, “What were you saying?”

Keith exhales a puff of air, almost as if it were a sigh of frustration for having to repeat what has already been said, before he opens his mouth and speaks. “… As I was saying,” he begins, and he narrows his eyes into a squint, almost as if he has suddenly forgotten the words and attempts to claim them back; it is as though that if he stares hard enough at the ceiling, the words will suddenly plant themselves back into his mind, as if he could suddenly find the words back on the ceiling, as if the words he needed to hear are written on the space a few feet above his head. You wait patiently for him to continue, finding comfort in the beat of the silence that hangs around the two of you.

“… Anyway,” Keith tries again after a few moments, and he clears his throat as if to catch your attention. “As I was saying… Do you remember the Area 51?” he asks, and you nod your head to indicate that yes, you do remember, but seeing as Keith couldn’t really see you from the dim light, you open your mouth to mutter a quiet, “Yes.”

“Do you remember how they keep saying that the government’s trying to hide it from the public eye?” Keith prompts, and you mutter yet another affirmative at his words. “Well,” continues Keith. “It’s real. I’ve read a lot of articles concerning the topic and I’m pretty much certain that aliens are supposedly living there, and the government is shit for trying to hide the truth from us.”

“What?” you ask, and you try to suppress the yawn that threatens to escape from your lips. You turn around so that you are lying on your back and facing the ceiling once more. “How could you believe so blindly in the articles you read? I mean, you just found them in articles. The articles might be even lying and you wouldn’t—“

“I’m 95.5% sure about this, (Your Name).” Keith counters, interrupting your words even before you could finish them. You blink once, twice, aware of the way Keith has said those words. You could almost swear that there had been a hint of a pout and a whine in your friend’s tone, similar to that of a child’s whenever they didn’t get the toys they wanted for Christmas.

“Don’t you dare tell me that I’m believing so blindly when we both know that the things I’m saying are the truth,” Keith adds, and if you aren’t certain about the childish whine before, you definitely are now.

A soft smile tugs at the corners of you lips and a quiet laugh escapes your throat, a rush of a breathless chuckle and a melodic rhythm that seemingly conquers the momentary silence of the room.

“What are you laughing about?” Keith asks, furrowing his eyebrows in confusion. He turns his body to the side so that he’s finally face you, and the action is mostly done simply because he wants to look at you, to stare at you, to figure out what you are laughing about. He thinks the answer will appear plainly on your face, thinks that if he stares hard enough, the answer will finally present itself to him.

But he couldn’t see your face in the dim light; he could only hear your laugh, and the melodic sound of it—almost incomparable to any beautiful sound that Keith had ever heard in his life—has made him feel something in his chest. He doesn’t know what it is, and he doesn’t know why that is, but he decides to ignore it, concentrating on listening to his friend’s—your—laugh and committing it into memory. It isn’t even the first time he has heard you laugh—he has been around you long enough to hear you laugh one too many times—and yet there is something special in the way you’re laughing now, in the way your laugh is sounding now. He discovers that there is something beautiful in the way your laugh resonates around the quiet room even though he isn’t quite certain what it is.

Keith likens the sound to that of a song—a lullaby—sweet and somewhat calming. Or maybe it could be likened to that of a tune, a song of a thousand different wind chimes as they clang softly at the blow of the breeze, melodic, symphonic, and beautiful. Maybe it is the former, or maybe it is the latter; Keith has never been this uncertain before and he hates it—he hates being uncertain of things, especially if it’s supposed to be a simple one.

“Nothing,” You reply a few moments later, as soon as your laugh has finally quieted down and you’ve finally caught your breath. “I was just remembering something funny.”

Keith could still sense the soft smile that rests on his friend’s features; he could sense it behind the words you had uttered, could sense it in the way you had voiced your answer out loud. He nods at your response and mutters a quiet, “I see.”

A few moments of silence settles between the two of you, and Keith is vaguely aware of his heart pounding against his ribcage, wild and rapid and untamed. He is vaguely aware of the fluttering in his chest, beating softly like a butterfly’s wings. Keith pays no mind to it, choosing instead to close his eyes and savour the moment of quietude all the while gathering his seemingly aimless thoughts about his head.  

Keith exhales a puff of air as he opens his mouth and speaks, finally breaking through the silence between them. “You know what I wouldn’t mind?” he asks, and his voice is soft, a lull in the silent night. He sounds even more intoxicated than before, that you have to let her mind whir and process around Keith’s slurring words.

“What?” you ask after a beat, your tone curious, inquisitive, questioning.

There is a pause before Keith finally answers. “For your boyfriend to finally disappear and get abducted by the aliens,” he says, his voice becoming even more slurred. He says the words begrudgingly, as though he had wanted to say them for a long time but had been hesitating to do so.

You have to take a moment to fully understand what your friend had intended to say. But as soon as it finally dawns on you, your eyes almost popped out of their sockets. You are both surprised and intrigued and you waste no time in asking him what he meant.

You quickly turn on your side so that you are facing him; you are about to open your mouth to voice the question out, but what you see next has made a slight disappointment wash over you.

Keith has finally fallen asleep, and a soft snore is escaping out of his parted lips. He looks so peaceful, so tranquil, as though all the troubles have finally been washed away by the oblivion that had claimed him just a few moments ago. He looks so serene, so at ease that it is almost hard to imagine that this is the same person you have befriended all those years ago. You briefly recall your first meeting with him, in a small, secluded pub where Keith works as an entertainer.

You remember how dark Keith had been back then, as though he had already readied himself for a life of loneliness and melancholy. You remember how Keith had always dismissed you with a dry chuckle whenever you had tried to ask him about his friends—or his lack of them, thereof, remember when Keith had told you how he wasn’t bothered by his lack of friends.

“I may be alone,” you remember him saying with a dry laugh—one that you had deemed immediately to be clearly practised and fake—when you had asked him for the umpteenth time why he didn’t have even just a single friend. “But I’m not lonely.”

“Liar,” you remember yourself whispering, your tone deadpan and serious. “You’re lying.” You remember the way his eyes had widened in shock, as though he had never expected someone to say that to him, as though he had never expected the word to come out of your—of anyone’s, really—lips. You remember the tense silence that seems to accompany them after that, remember how anxious you had felt at that time, worried that you might have somewhat offended him. You remember the pounding of your heart against your sternum, rapid and erratic as you wait for his response, as you wait for him to say something, anything that will finally break the silence that seems to grow between the two of you.

And then…

You remember the laugh that escapes his mouth after that, real and genuine, unlike the ones you had been used to hear. You remember the way the edges of his lips had curled up into a small smile, for real this time, and you remember how this had been the beginning of a weird yet close relationship friendship between the two of you.

And now, thinking back on it now has almost warmed your heart. Almost.

You finds yourself shaking your head, dismissing the thought—the memory—away from your mind. You frown, mentally scolding yourself for allowing your mind to wander around something else.

Had the situation been any different, though, you would’ve found yourself smiling at the somewhat adorable action your best friend is doing. Right now, though, all you could think about are the words that your best friend had uttered to you right before he fell asleep.

The words continue to echo inside your head, repeating and repeating like a broken record. Curiosity begins to claw at your senses, seemingly impossible to stop. You need the answer now; you need to know what he meant when he had said those words to you. You need to understand the implication behind those words, or else the constant tugging of curiosity wouldn’t stop.

But no…

You take one last look at your sleeping friend, shaking your head before resuming back to your original position. You let out a loud sigh in frustration, silently telling yourself that the answers you’ve been needing would have to wait until tomorrow morning, as soon as Keith is awake and sober and out of the bed—or floor, as his current place tells it—and more likely to give you the answers you so desire.

You close your eyes and attempt to calm your still rapidly beating heart. You focus your gaze on the ceiling above you, trying to chase away the thoughts that currently occupy your mind. You patiently wait for sleep to befall upon you, patiently wait for sleep to overcome your senses and send you directly to the land of dreams. You wait patiently for oblivion to open its arms and envelop you in them, wait for the darkness of slumber to consume you. It seems pretty much impossible, though, for no matter how much you have tried to quiet your mind, the thoughts never seem to stop, continuing to echo through your head, repetitive and continuous, seemingly unstoppable, seemingly untamable.

It takes you a long time to be able to fall asleep, takes you a long time to be able to get a peaceful, seemingly undisturbed rest.


A thread about millennials and stories (sorry for all the typos I was fueled by too much emotion to type well)


A messy little comic where Yuri finds out he’s really dumb.

Part 1/Part 7/Part 9

Guys… I said this was the last part but i was so wrong… get ready for the gay in part 9 (aka the end)

and girls were so pretty. there was the effortless girls who had the wide eyes, the freckles, the hair pulled back. who didn’t wear makeup and always wore a smile, who knew you needed help before you asked it; the sunshine and picnic girls, who you felt carried spring with them. and the mountaintop girls, strong bodies and fierce in their bones, drinking green tea and teaching you yoga, who watched you and made sure you ate well, who knew what it was to fight for a body that listened. and the soft heather girls who knew nature and spoke gently and would show you how to hear the light hitting a lake, who would listen no matter how long the story was and somehow know what to say. and the girls who were red moons, a dangerous flash of teeth and darkness, an excited wildness that came in black leather and spoke of nights you ache when you remember, who would look at you and pin you to a board for a moment, so that for once you felt important. and the summertime girls, wide smiles and makeup that never smudged, who could make you feel as if you lived inside a photograph, who brought the feeling of the fourth of july to every party, who convinced you to come to the party. and of course the rain girls, who didn’t need an explanation, but simply were, in a way that when you made eye contact with them you knew somehow about sorrow and also about the safety of staying home. 

and girls. girls in their sweatpants in the aisle of a supermarket looking lost. girls staring down their teacher, demanding the grade they deserve. girls with their hands on the wheel, with their hands passing lotion to another, with their hands in their hair. girls upside down on the couch and spine straight in business meetings and body curled around a book. girls who were upended libraries, who were railroads, who were a choir’s last note, who were carols, who were snow, who were a racing track, who glowed or who gave warmth or else sewed cold, who bit hard, who laughed loud, who fell asleep on trains, who rode bikes in rain.

and then there was you.