i wanna be a warhol

you tell me you’re tipsy; i tell you you’re pretty

[jonxsansa, modern au; texting au, ~5k]

for @goodqueenalys, because i read in one of her reblog tags that she could use a pick-me-up this week

(title from “text me in the morning,” by neon trees)

read on ao3

SANSA: I’m so sexually frustrated that I just annihilated my dinner.

MARGAERY: …with your vagina?

SANSA: No, Margaery, not ~with my vagina~

SANSA: I just stuffed my face because I have no other way to deal with my frustration. I’m eating my problems.

MARGAERY: did you do that thing where you insist on fitting a forkful of every entree and side into your mouth all at once?

SANSA: At one point I had half a filet and what I’m quite sure was a whole potato in my mouth.

MARGAERY: i can’t believe you’re single

SANSA: Single and ready to bone.

MARGAERY: i believe the word you’re looking for is MINGLE, you lush

Keep reading

how i met Frank Iero and other tales.

this story starts with me, waking up at exactly 5.34 am. i got my ass off bed and went out, after getting dressed and putting some makeup on, which couldn’t conceal the bags i was carrying under my eyes, let alone my nervousness and anxiety. i arrived to the line at 8 am, sat down and started reading a random book, the title isn’t important. music was blasting on my ears, but i skipped every MCR/LeATHERMOUTH/FIATC song because i couldn’t quite deal with it at that moment. there’s nothing worth mentioning about the next five hours, just me freezing my ass on the concrete and having a dead leg. 

Evan and Rob got out of the bus a few times, i eyed them but didn’t approach them because i didn’t know if they’d feel comfortable. after five hours, we saw Frank walking over to us, to the bus, a coffee in his hands and that damn cute hat he’s wearing lately. he told us that he would be out shortly to sign, and got inside. Evan and Rob were now standing at the end of the bus, and they were signing things for some people, so i figured they wouldn’t mind signing for me. people were handing them only papers and they didn’t have anything to write on smoothly, so i let them use my journal as a surface. Evan told me i was the best, and i beamed at him. both of them were adorable, and both of them have the cutest smiles ever. Evan’s laughter is seriously hilarious, you can’t help but smile or laugh each time you hear it. 

Frank stepped out of his bus then, and we waited in line for him. as he was approaching me, i found my hands trembling. i found my mouth dry and my words gone. i handed him the gift i had brought.

my gift was originally called “inspiration book” but i crossed that out, and wrote “destruction journal” because you destroy the things you love. also, i may or may not have written the line “frnkiero rocks and homophobes sux cock” somewhere in it. The logic between my gift is that Frank has inspired me a lot in the last 9 and a half years. when i was too nervous to even pick up a brush, his music was there. always. i can’t give that back to him at all, so i gifted him with my art and poems, because that’s all that i am. there’s nothing more to me, i’m an artist and i’m a wrecked dreamer, and the only good thing that comes out of me is my art, in any way i feel like expressing it. 

he took the gift in his hands and said “awesome! what’s this?” his strong Jersey accent greeted me, and i found myself and my words lost again. i mumbled a “it’s… it’s my art” he opened the book and the first thing he saw was a portrait of Dalí i painted a couple months ago. “did ya paint this?!” i nodded, uncertain of his reaction. “you’re so talented! you’re the best! can i sign anything for ya?” i nodded, again, my breath hitching in my throat and handed him my journal and asked him to write the line “they will never understand cause they were understood” for me. i was grabbing the journal because i figured i would drop it if i handed it to him, and i didn’t want it to be even more awkward. his hand covered mine while he was signing, the other of his hands brushing my other hand while he wrote. the hand grabbing mine was the one with the spider web and the “hopeless”, and it’s my favourite hand, which might sound weird, but i’ve dreamt with that man’s hands, and now he was touching me. his hand was grabbing mine. he finished and asked me “anything else?” i shook my head, he thanked me for the gift again and hugged me. Frank Iero hugged me. he then went to sign to the next person, not before he said his goodbye to me, and i found myself on the verge of tears. 

he finished signing, and got inside the bus again. the manager of the venue was a fucking rude asshole, and sent us home. one of Frank’s assistants made us write numbers in our hands so we wouldn’t lose our place in the line, he was a sweetheart. 

i went back home, called my mum, a friend and anyone i could think of, because i was afraid to be alone. i was afraid of thinking about it, of processing what just had happened. like digesting those feelings would make it all less real. 

but, eventually, i sat down in the floor of this room that has been both, freedom and prison at the same time in the last seven months. and i started crying. i have been doubting myself my whole life, and i didn’t believe i was an artist. not even for a second. art is something i do when my head is about to explode, and i have been doing it a lot in the last few months. i am depressed, i am anxious. and Frank has never left my side. never once. he’s never failed me. and now, that man who i love and admire, has told me that i am talented. and maybe, maybe it’s something dumb. maybe some people won’t understand how i can find myself after such words, they’ll tell me “someone told you you’re talented, so what? move the fuck on.” 

i didn’t know what to do with my life. i didn’t even know if i wanted to continue. i’ve been numb for months, and the only way i could cry, smile or get angry at myself was listening to this man’s music. i’ve been bullied, i’ve been abused and i’ve wanted to go to sleep and never wake up again, but his music was always there. and sometimes it was the only escape i had. i don’t know why i paint. i’ve been doing it since i was 3 years old. my art is shitty, it’s chaotic and it’s messy. i don’t give a fuck if i go over the line while painting, if the colours blend well together or if my hands are dirty and i leave my fingerprints all over the paper. sometimes i paint music, others i paint wounds. other times i want to break all my brushes and never look at an empty canvas again, which is what happens most of the time. everything i paint comes from the bottom of my heart, whether it’s a painting of someone i admire, a blur of colours that don’t make fucking sense or a green Jesus nailed to a cross, wearing pink robes, converses, pink hair, a cross in his chest with the colours of the gay flag and bags in his bloody hands. and maybe, in the cross is written “YES WE** CAN” the “**” leads to a sign which says “we: only white, christian males. no females, bisexuals, asexuals, pansexuals, lesbians, trans, or gays. no muslims, indians, blacks or asians.” because maybe i hate this fucking world and everything that has to do with it and maybe what i hate most are people. and maybe, the only thing that makes me feel like i belong is music, and even more if it’s the music of anyone relating to MCR, and even more if it’s Frank. because i connect with Frank. because he doesn’t fucking care if his voice breaks at the end of a line, he screams, he jumps, he sweats and he fucking cries and he’s not ashamed because that’s who he is. that’s his fucking heart he’s displaying. and he has told me that i am talented, and i’ve started to believe in myself again. who the fuck cares that i’m not the next something-so-big-it’s-gonna-blow-your-mind. i won’t be the next Dalí, and i most certainly won’t be the next Andy Warhol. but that’s okay, because i only wanna be me. and i’ve reached this point thanks to Frank, once again. another thing i won’t be able to give him back.

i got back to the venue after having wiped off the tears from my face, about 2 hours later. 5.30 pm. we had to line up like 10 metres away from the door, because of that fucking manager again. Frank got of the bus shortly after i had arrived and taken my place at the front of the line, and he waved at us. and my heart hurt again. 

fast forward to the gig, i bought a “Never mind the bollocks: here’s frnkiero andthe cellabration” t-shirt, because well. Johnny Rotten and Sid Vicious are two punks who didn’t give a fuck, and that fits with who i am. and Frank fits with who i am. i had second row. Frank was going to be standing literally less than a metre away from me. my back hurt, my legs hurt and my head was about to explode because i had been sitting on the cold concrete for like 12 hours, but i didn’t fucking care. Axis Of opened the gig, and their energy was fucking amazing. i enjoyed it a lot. 

but i wasn’t prepared for what came next. and this time i’m not talking about Frank. i’m talking about The Homeless Gospel Choir. i saw that man, with blue eyes and a friendly face. he started to sing his protest songs, a guitar on his hands with the words “this machine speaks truth…” written all over it. i was cheering and beaming and just fucking happy, because that man and his protest songs speak the truth. and i found myself again in the same day. and what i wasn’t expecting, was that man making me cry. he started to sing a song called “Normal.” it was the first time i heard it. i didn’t know the lyrics, but i did know that he wrote that song because he has mental issues, and he felt alone. and then, he started to sing. and i simply started to cry. tears were running down my face, because that man was wording my heart. i felt exposed and protected at the same time. i’ve become a fan of The Homeless Gospel Choir, of Derek. because well, i’m never gonna be normal, cause i’m a punk. 

honestly, the only thing i didn’t like about Frank’s gig was Milk Teeth. they sang a song about a trampoline or whatever which was a total rip off of Marigold by Nirvana. i didn’t like them much, but hey, i don’t know shit about music and those kids were doing their thing, so i cheered them too. where was the harm? everyone deserves to feel loved. 

and then, Frank stepped in. and then i started to scream .all i want is nothing. from the top of my lungs. and i cried like a baby, thinking about all the meaning that song has. and Frank screamed, and sang, and he showed us his heart. i can’t pick between Frank or Gerard. i love them both dearly. but i can say that their gigs were different. Gerard’s was like meeting with an old friend to have fun, somewhere where i felt comforted and understood. Frank’s was all raw emotion. it was passion, it was hurtful, it made me cry. i felt exposed, and i felt protected. still, both gigs have made me realise that they do miss each other, at least on stage. it was the same answer to the same unasked question. whether it was Gerard crying during Piano Jam, only 8 days before Frank’s birthday or Frank closing his eyes during .stitches. and screaming at the top of his lungs. 

also, and this is the end, Frank crowdsurfed during Sunsets are for Muggings, which made me upgrade to front row and grab his feet. and maybe, when he was back on stage, beer in his hands, he grabbed my hand for a second. and maybe, i cried even more. he finished with .joyriding. and i went home. i went home feeling hope and hopeless, feeling like at last i know who i am and feeling like i’m a hopeless dreamer. and i will always be. 

thank you Frank. for everything.