my grandmother is perfect

2

“Gods grant me serenity, courage, and wisdom”

The serenity prayer has been a very important thing for me. My grandmother struggled with alcohol, and quit drinking for me. She died five days shy of five years sober. She used the serenity prayer as a guide for herself, and I have done the same since she passed. It’s been 18 years since she died, and I’ve known I wanted some kind of tattoo including this prayer. However, it’s rather long and I’m not Christian.

I have been following @sigilathenaeum for some time and absolutely love her work. When I finally caught her sigil requests open, I knew I wanted this prayer turned into a sigil, something I could quickly turn to to find strength. It wasn’t until I saw her sigil that I realized this would be a perfect tattoo to honor my grandmother, these guiding words, and my own faith and spirituality.

This symbol means so much to me, and I’m honored to have it on me for the rest of my life. Thank you to @sigilathenaeum for creating such a perfect sigil and for permission to use it as a tattoo.

Get a sneak peek at Mara Dyer author's next series, 'The Becoming of Noah Shaw’

Michelle Hodkin wowed audiences with her dark, eerie and intense Mara Dyer trilogy, which revolved around a girl with destructive powers not to be taken lightly. At long last, the author has penned the first volume in a new companion series called The Shaw Confessions, which takes things further by exploring the world of Mara’s confidante and love, Noah Shaw — who has powers of his own.

After the harrowing events at the end of The Retribution of Mara Dyer, when Noah and Mara faced the ultimate test, the time has come to shift from Mara’s memoirs to Noah’s confessions. Things are not at all as they seem for Noah, whether it has to do with his father’s inheritance, his terrifying visions of suicides, or even his relationship with Mara.

The Becoming of Noah Shaw, the first installment in this new series, hits shelves on Nov. 7. Below, EW can exclusively reveal the cover and a sneak peek inside.

Excerpt from The Becoming of Noah Shaw by Michelle Hodkin

CHAPTER 1

Conquer or Die

We are a tearless, tiny crowd, we survivors of David Shaw.

Imagine it: five of us gathered like a wilting bouquet, my grandmother the lone thistle standing.

Next to her, my grandfather softly droops under the grand dome above us, painted by some hideously famous artist centuries ago, as this is quite literally our ancestral home, built in the fifteen hundreds by Henry the Somethingth. Grandfather, aka Lord Elliot II, was once a strapping, reed-backed but jolly Englishman’s Englishman. Hunter of pheasants, of foxes, but not of fortune—that he inherited from his father, who inherited it from his father, and on it goes. Now, however, he sags beside my grandmother, half of his face twisted into a permanent grimace after a stroke two years ago. I tried to heal him when that was a thing I realised I could do. It didn’t work. I still don’t know why.

His light blue eyes are clouded over and staring at nothingness as he leans on his cane, his hand trembling. My grandmother can’t quite disguise her pleasure at the optics of our black-frocked family standing on the grand staircase of the grand entrance as we pretend to wait for the cars in full view of the mourners passing by on foot. Never mind that my grandfather can’t do steps—Lady Sylvia could not care less.

Imagine, if you will, a sharper, crueler version of Maggie Smith, and you’ll have some semblance of an idea of my grandmother. Add an unhealthy dose of botulinum toxin, and there’s your visual.

Standing beside the remains of my family, I’ve never felt more like a stranger. My stepmother, Ruth, grips my sister Katie’s hand as the valet helps my grandfather descend to the car—for my sister’s sake more than her own. My stepmother seems quite fine, actually, enduring this hideousness as if it were any other day with my grandparents—she’s had years of practice being a lowly American, and my father’s second wife at that. My sister, however—her ocean blue eyes are dull and clouded, staring at nothing, and dressed in black, she looks mostly dead herself; she hardly notices when my stepmother breaks away to head to the chapel on her own. We should be going with her, but my grandmother insisted on this arrangement (separate cars for second wives), and Ruth either didn’t care enough to protest, or knew better.

The eighteenth-century chapel is on the grounds of the estate, only about a half a kilometre away—its spire pierces the English Sky™ (grey, sunless, speckled with the occasional crow). A carefully landscaped wood helps obscure the twelfth-century ruins of the abbey that preceded it. Grandmother finds the ruins unsightly, unsurprisingly, but the National Trust entered into an arrangement with some skint ancestor or another—maintaining castles isn’t cheap—and thus prevented her from fucking up that which should not be fucked with. I’m rather sentimental about the ruins—as a child, I halfheartedly attempted suicide there now and again, always returning from post-tourist-hours expeditions with knees winking with cuts, and the occasional fracture or two.

“All right, children.” My grandmother clasps her hands together as the car comes to a stop. “The carriage will begin the procession once everybody is assembled at the chapel. All you need do is wait until the casket is carried inside, then sit in the front left pew. Is that understood?”

My father’s affectless, emotionless voice is echoed in hers, and she speaks as though it were not her dead son we were gathered here to mourn, but rather a play we’re about to put on. If I were capable of feeling anything at the moment, I think I might hate her.

“Yes, Grandmother,” Katie says.

My turn. “Understood,” I say.

“Perfect.” She arranges her and my grandfather’s iron hair, along with his suit. The chapel doors are open, and a small crowd awaits the carriage hearse within and without. (Yes, carriage hearses are a thing.) The valet exits our now-idling car to help my grandfather, and when the door opens—

The air is swollen with sound, more heartbeats than I can count, the threads of at least a hundred pulses quickening, the air itself seeming to inhale and exhale with each breath taken behind the stone walls. I can hear the tiny hearts of birds—crows, pheasant, pigeons, distinct from the hawk slicing the air above us. The knotty-wood-and-iron door opens, and it’s like cracking open a hive of bees—whispers and coughs and echoes, every note bursting and lurid. An old, dull impulse to place my hands over my ears and scream like I (very occasionally) did when I was a boy arises, but my ears were never the problem. My mind is.

What it usually feels like to be me:

The sounds I shouldn’t be able to hear skim off the surface of my mind. Everything is white noise until I focus, until something seizes my attention, but this, right now—it’s nothing like that. This feels like an assault, a mess of sounds, like being surrounded by instruments being smashed. It’s distracting enough that I hadn’t noticed the dozens of heads twisted over shoulders to glance at our Long-Expected Party. And lo, among them stands Goose.

The volume of the noise blurs my vision for a moment—crowds are always awful, but it’s especially worse today—Goose is nothing more than a fall of blond hair and an open smile, flanked by the smudges of Patrick and Neirin. There’s a thunderclap of a hand on my shoulder. “Hard luck, mate,” says Goose, his voice deep and rather astonishingly resonant, rising above the din.

“We’re so sorry,” Patrick follows. A simple nod from Neirin.

Those three faces, none alike in dignity or feature: Goose light and lanky and loud; Neirin dark and soft and innocent; and ginger red and freckled Patrick.

Patrick and Neirin seem frozen in time—their faces the same as they were nearly three years ago when I left Westminster. I see snapshots of memories with their faces: Goose flashing his middle finger at me up yard; Patrick rolling his first cigarette with ferocious concentration; Neirin scratching at maths problems, his face pinched with concentration.

And then me, holding a champagne sabre one moment, spraying hundreds of pounds’ worth down open throats the next. Putting my cigarette out in the horsehair pancake to the collective horror of the teachers and students assembled for the Greaze up School on Shrove Tuesday (let’s not waste time on exposition—Google it), and the four of us snorting lines of coke Patrick shyly produced from his pocket, off his iPad in his father’s study.

We were not a foursome. For that, we’d need to be bonded by secrets, and I shared none of mine. Secrets cut you off from everyone else, so I would always suggest the vast majority of our exploits to mask that I never could quite connect with them in the first place. Insert a stifled sob here, would you?

A forked tongue clicks beside my ear. “It’s almost time,” my grandmother says, looking at the valet for confirmation, then at my stepmother. With a tiny crunch of a nod she looks ahead, toward the manor house, toward the old stables, ancient but fortified over the centuries. From the gate, four glossy Friesians emerge, a driver in a top hat commanding them, and my father’s coffin encased in a black-and-glass hearse behind.

I can’t see all that well from here—my head is still fizzing with sounds, whispers and coughs and everything else. But not Mara.

The way she sounds, the way she’s always sounded—like one discordant note, twisted just enough to affect the notes surrounding it, is impossible to ignore. An aural fingerprint, distinctly her own, distinctly Mara. The first time I heard her, I never wanted to listen to anyone else.

I look and listen for that note as the horses’ hooves knock the ground in a steady, dignified trot, their large hearts pumping solidly with the effort. I can almost feel their boredom as they approach, which is why, halfway down the path, the ripple of terror and rage in their bodies reverberates in mine. They break their gait, stopping, stamping—one backs up, another sidesteps into another horse. Then one of them rears, nearly snapping the harness. The colour of Katie’s face is ash, her heartbeat racing the way the horses want to.

“It’s all right,” I say reflexively, and my sister snaps her head toward me and slits her eyes. There’s anger there, fighting for a place beside her sadness. Today is changing her, has changed her already.

My grandmother holds tight to my grandfather’s arm, her face a mask of placidity as her blood ices with rage. She looks to the priest, who says something to the people in a vain attempt to calm them, because the horses begin to thunder toward the chapel, eliciting screams despite being several lengths away. I can feel the power of them in the ground. They’re about to turn sharply to their right, cracking into the woodlands just before they do it, just before the hearse overturns.

I know what they’re going to do before they do it, because at that moment I hear Mara, see her running toward us, diagonally through the hedges that enclose the gardens and past the Atlas fountain, and as her path begins to converge with the carriage, the horses blaze with panic. My eyes meet Mara’s, and she stops short. Looks at the horses, then back at me.

It’s her they’re terrified of. I know it, she knows it, and so she vanishes as swiftly as she arrived.

I don’t wait for anyone to calm the horses, or for the pallbearers to fetch the coffin and bear it toward the church. I turn away from the priest, attempting to usher everyone away from the scene and into the chapel, and manage to slip away unnoticed. I glance back just once before I reach the woods, long enough to see Katie’s glossed head moving through the doors, her eyes vacant, her arms are held by Ruth and my grandparents before the last knot of bodies passes inside. And then I turn away from them all, away from my father, away from the sodden remains of my family, to Mara.

Crazy Prayer :

Dear Lord,
Where’s the thin line between reminiscing and dwelling in the past? how did I become so blind to it? where’s the thin line between being a realist and just being flat out negative? when did I cross over? did I ask for any of this or is it just my daddy’s karma for all the hearts he’s responsible for breaking?
I’m confused not scared.
do I feel lost? no
I feel stolen.

When my grandmother cares to mention how “perfect” her husband was, I wonder am I crazy?
If I told her everything and she believed the words
her heart would shatter, 40 years of “pure” love and then I was born and…
what if I broke her heart
what if I told her everything and she didn’t believe me,
how could I continue to live
with a shattered soul?
am I crazy?
I’m going crazy.
When my mom can’t seem to remember the abuse she put me through, I wonder am I crazy?
do I hate my mother…
no
I forgive her.
does that make me crazy?
how every time she throws a bit of shade
that my forgiveness goes out the window
and a flashback of hate hits my heart and I suddenly hate her.
am I crazy?
When I think of how I was his best friend, his mother, his lover for three years, I wonder am I crazy?
I got my head smashed in windows while trying to safely get us to our destination but remember that one day I let go of the wheel to fight back.
Am I crazy?
most people would probably say
dumb…
not giving me the credit of being brave enough to love someone I knew didn’t even love their self but I had to show them what love felt like. taste like. looks like.
Am I crazy
cuhs the same day I had the courage to break up with him after he threaten to kill himself if I broke up with him,
he called me heartless but raped me 10 minutes later.
AM I CRAZY
CUHS I LET HIM.
Tears falling down my cheek
*hitting it from the back*
Blood dripping down my thighs
*his laughter*
and I didn’t have the courage to fight back.

But courageously had the nerve and audacity to grab my blade while hiding in my car from those who tried to protect me
and sat there trying to subdue every ounce of dirty blood from my soul.
[If it’s not pure, it’s dirty]

Am I crazy cuhs I have to search this city to find my “homeless” father who begs for change so that he can get drunk? Am I crazy for understanding his addiction? for I have my own too!
Over 100 cuts on my body that symbolize names.

Names that I could call Crazy.
But I would never cuhs I loved them too much to make them feel crazy even though morals flew out the fucking window.

Lord,
I want all this pain
Subdued pain to fly out the window.
I want to let go and prove myself before losing myself,
to crazy.
Lord, Please forgive me,
for my doubts, for all the hate I’ve carried in my heart,
for all my self - destruct.
I promise to Love Myself.

A-Lady.

zid-man  asked:

ALLIUM: What’s the best thing you can cook?

I love to cook, actually.  I have a few favorite dishes of mine… koshary, lentil loaf, chipotle-garlic lima bean soup, banana bread… I make a pretty mean fried squash, as well as tomato curry, too.  But my grandmother’s heart attack-inducing pound cake is perhaps the most perfect thing ever.  Of course I can’t take the credit, as it’s her recipe, but man, is it good.  :P  

I wonder what @housealderscorn‘s favorite of mine would be, though…


Thanks for the ask, @zid-man!!

The more time I spend learning ASL the more frustrated I get that, at the very least, fingerspelling and a few basic signs aren’t common knowledge. 

I mean, even if you don’t care about learning it in order to communicate with people who use it as their primary language, it’s just such a practical supplement to spoken language in every day life

Honestly, more and more I find myself in situations where I’m going “THIS WOULD BE SO MUCH EASIER IF I WASN’T THE ONLY PERSON IN THIS BUILDING WHO KNEW EVEN A LITTLE BIT OF SIGN LANGUAGE”. I’ve wished I could just sign the name of the customer I’m talking to at one of my coworkers, or ask “Where’s ________?” to someone on the phone, or say something to someone across the room who’s testing a sound system and won’t be able to hear me even if I scream it, or sign a part number with lots of similar-sounding letters so I don’t have to clarify it five times and then just write it down anyway because it’s still wrong.

And just about everyone at some point is going to experience some degree of hearing loss, so it only makes sense to teach sign language from the beginning. It’s frustrating now to see people (including my grandmother) who struggle to hear what I’m saying, because hearing aids aren’t perfect, and they don’t even have the option of switching to sign because they never learned it, and nobody ever presents it as an option instead of/as well as hearing aids.

And I’m just here now going, if I’m frustrated by the fact that I can’t use it as a secondary form of communication when it’s inconvenient to speak, I can’t even imagine what it’s like for those of you out there for whom it’s your first/primary language. And I’ve seen first hand how ignorant and awful people can be on top of that, I would be so angry at people all the time honestly.

I miss being ten:  innocent, grateful, spending
sunny Sunday afternoons at Grandma’s house
windows flung open, attic fan rumbling
Pennsylvania summer breezes and a roast in the oven
Classical music on low, my marbles plinking in tune
Lincoln logs and erector set beams on the plush carpet
Television never on before sunset
In the dining room, the modest table is set for six
wax candles on the hutch beside the pewter
stationery crisp and clean on the writing desk (let’s play office)
The mystery of the sump pump, silent in the basement
Gun oil, laundry detergent, faint mildew
Yesterday’s fresh mown grass on two acres of joy
Racing to the vegetable garden with my sisters
and then back, to wash our hands and pray before supper

I wonder as I wipe my counters, clean my floors,
play the music, cook the roast, tend to my children
Was the price my grandmother paid to keep it so perfect
too much? Or discounted for the joy it brought?

Perhaps her home was her constant place of worship
I feel the sting of my lack of faith as I set the table
Put down your phones, kids
Dinner’s ready

19 Parents Share What Their (Creepy) Kid Remembered About Their ‘Last’ Life


1. He showed us his grave

When my brother was about 2 or 3 he told us his name used to be Austin. One day we were picnicking right along side a cemetery, when my brother took off running towards the gravestones, my dad and I followed him and found him touching a large headstone that simply read “Here Lies Austin” no name, no date. My brother did not learn to read until he was 6 and this headstone wasn’t even right out visible from where we were, yet he ran right to it

2. We don’t watch firefighter things

my son told me a few months ago he “used to be a firefighter, and we got called to a fire. There wasn’t any family inside the house, so we just put the fire out. Then the fire truck caught on fire and I died”.

A few nights later, he elaborated he was taken to a hospital, where he died.

We don’t watch firefighter things.

3. Her “other” mother’s name was Sally

I was talking to my four year old when she began to freak me out. She was telling me a story about her “other mother” and that she “died a long time ago on a Thursday.”

I tried to brush it off, you know, whatever, shes a kid, they have wild imaginations… but then she started to go further into detail about the death of her “other mother,” whose name was apparently Sally. She has never met anyone named Sally, and I can’t recall any shows on TV she watches where “Sally” is a character. She told me that she was playing with her father’s gun that she found and accidentally shot and killed Sally while she was walking upstairs. It’s pretty weird. There are no guns in this house, I haven’t even really told her what guns are all about and how they can hurt or kill someone, shes only four!

I think I am beginning to understand now why when I try to tell her when someone dies, they go away forever, she tells me that, that is not true. “We come back, mommy!”

I’m only 23, I had my daughter very young and despite not being prepared, I don’t think I could have ever prepared for a conversation like that!

4. “When she lived before she was born”

My daughter did the same thing at the same age. She told me about her life “when she lived before she was born” and described herself as a woman with long hair who lived in an apartment with a long flight of stairs outside of it. She drove a VW Bug and wore long skirts. She then told me that she fell down the stairs and died. Her stories were startlingly vivid and always consistent. Quite spooky.

She is now 19 and doesnt remember it. My advice would be write down everything your daughter tells you on the subject. Everything! Record her stories if you can.


5. Roanoke?

I would tell my older sister about my death. I told her my husband was captured and fire was everywhere. I took my young son and ran. I told her my son couldn’t run fast enough. I knew we would get killed and I had my husbands knife on me, I wanted to leave a clue. I wrote in capitals “CROATOAN” I told her we were caught and how my son was killed before I was killed. I told her how I was stabbed in the stomach with a knife. Then, I went about playing with dolls. I can still picture the scene and my son to this day.

6. “She used to come visit me”

my son says he remember his great grandmother (my grandmother) and can describe her in perfect detail (how she looks, how she acted, even what brand of cigarettes she smoked) , although she died 11 days before he was born. He says that she used to come visit him in his dreams.

7. Conchon

Apparently beginning around the time my friend could form sentences until he was little more than 2, he would go on and on about how he was a Native American named Conchon and that after his wife and son got sick and died, he moved to a mountain to live by himself with his horse. He died of a broken neck when he fell into a ravine.

8. “My real mom and dad were killed when the bad men came.”

when I was 2 or 3 I was talking to my grandmother and told her that my mom and dad weren’t my real mom and dad. My grandmother, knowing this wasn’t true, said they were. I calmly explained that no, my real mom and dad were killed when the bad men came. I had lived because my mom hid me behind a rock. I then went on to describe white men with guns and us “dark” people with long hair. When I was done, I went back to eating my ice cream.

9. Jesus

My cousin, approximately 3 years old and riding in the car with my mum and dad, pointed out a random house that they went past and declared “I died there”.

10. Included because, WHAT?

I did something sort of similar I guess. When I was about 3 my mum and I were driving over a bridge on which there’d recently been a major accident that resulted in a car bursting into flames and the driver dying.

Anyway, I asked my mum who the man in the front seat was and when she told me to describe him I said, “Well he’s on fire and he keeps looking back at me.”

11. I drowned

My mother told me about a story I told her when I was 2 or 3. I told her she was the best mommy I ever had, to which she replied, “I’m the only mommy you’ve ever had.” “nu-uh, I had another mommy.” I said that my older sister and I went out to a pond in the woods behind my house. Around the pond, all of the trees were the same type: skinny with white paper-like bark. (I had never seen a poplar tree before in this life.) We put some logs together to make a raft, and put it into the water to play boat captain and climbed aboard. The raft fell apart, and I didn’t know how to swim. I tried to grab a log, but my hand slipped off. I could see my sister freaking out from underwater. I drowned.

12. My war memories

one of 6 hopping out of a helicopter into a field, it’s hot as shit, humid, daytime, two house/buildings smoking and heavily burning straight in front of me (to the side of the chopper), and there’s firing from the woods and field to my right. It’s chaotic a noisy, lots of firing and helicopters, my guys are firing back crouched next to the back building, one guy runs out of the other building with a kid he pushes forward and yells at to run, the kid gets shot from out of nowhere, and drops. I see a few of my guys advancing from another chopper behind me duck down in the grass as their chopper leaves, I crouch in tall grass about 10 feet from my chopper, fire my rifle twice from just above the grass line, and my chopper starts to take off, and is taking fire. I get up to move forward, panicky, and am shot dead – I feel a hard thunk, see part my chest explode, fall forward go black, and zoom out above my body.

I also drew this later (still have pics, mom saved them). To me, it’s clear as day, still. Mom said some of my first chatter was about “heavy fire” “zip em boys” (don’t know what that means) and I would ask “Where are the hueys?” I was born in the early 70s, and my family was NOT military (very anti, actually). I err on the side of thinking it’s media (news footage?) I absorbed at some point from the Viet Nam war, but I also wonder if it’s not a past-life dream.

13. “That’s why I don’t like water now”

When my kid was 4, we were watching a docu on the Titanic. The scene was a picture of the schematics of the boiler room and the camera panned from left to right over the plans. He pointed at the tv and said, “That’s wrong. The boilers were on the Other side. And I was right here.” And he pointed to a small space in the boiler room. “That’s where I was. And that’s why I don’t like water now.”

14. My family’s farm, burning

When I was younger I would have dreams of living in colonial american. I remember bits very vividly and only when I was older did I realize what they were about and how accurate they were. Most of the dreams consisted of me being in my late teen years and centered around my family’s farm being set on fire during the night. I never dreamed past that night, nothing about the aftermath of the fire, and I haven’t had one in years.

15. “Nobody scroofs me there”

Getting my two and a half year old daughter out of the bath one night, my wife and I were briefing her on how important it was she kept her privates clean. She casually replied “Oh, nobody ‘scroofs’ me there. They tried one night. They kicked the door in and tried but I fought back. I died and now I’m here.” She said this like it was nothing. My wife and I were catatonic.

16. Nope

“Before I was born here, I had a sister, right? Her and my other Mom are so old now. They were ok when the car was on fire, but I sure wasn’t!”

17. “Their screams are keeping me up”

I was in my room on the computer at about 11, which is late for my sister to be awake even now. I was thinking about bed, but then my sister knocks on the door. She was maybe 10 at the time, so not so young that she doesn’t know when she’s dreaming. She wanted to sleep in my room because she was sad and scared. I asked her why, and she said, “I watched your sons burn up in the fire. Their screams are keeping me up.”

18. Role reversal

My three year old said, “Remember when I was the grown-up and you were the little boy?” to his Dad.

19. When he was a grown up

My father used to hate policemen when he was a kid, he used to tell my grandmother that they came to his house and shot him when he was a grown up.

For creepypastaisrad sixpenceee and their followers

OMG I JUST WATCHED MOANA AND LITERALLY, GUYS, BEING AN ISLANDER, I LOVED IT. I FEEL LIKE IT REALLY EMBODIED MY CULTURE, ESPECIALLY THE RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN MOANA AND HER GRANDMOTHER. PERFECT. ABSOLUTELY PERFECT. I WAS IN TEARS, THREE TIMES. AND EACH OF THE TIMES I CRIED WAS BECAUSE THE GRANDMA HAPPENED AND I AM AN EMOTIONAL WRECK RIGHT NOW. GO WATCH MOANA. YOU WON’T REGRET IT. -MOD OWWWWL

The House That Ate Me Up

A story by Kelsey Grace Pfeifer (cricketscrushedincars)

Author’s Note: This story is true… it all happened to me. I am scared to tell this out loud for the first time, but I feel I am strong enough now. I know it is long- but it did happen over a really long period of time. Enjoy, and I’d love any stories back and such :)

 ——-

My grandmother was a psychic. It doesn’t matter the level of belief of whomever might read these words- I will forever believe in things unseen to close-minded eyes, and my grandmother is the perfect example of why.

She was spun of fine french heritage and held an air of aristocracy that was rare and surprisingly without condescension. She was a regal, yet tiny, woman… and was the last human one would ever think to be abnormal.

According to my aunt’s and mother, there was never a time when she didn’t have visions or premonitions. She would have them so often, and they would be so accurate, there was little question whether or not to heed their warnings. She once told my Aunt Kat to refrain from going on a school trip to Fox Lake, Illinois. She cried and begged her, but my aunt resisted. That day my aunt ventured out onto the lake on a snowmobile- normally a safe activity considering the medievally brutal winters suffered in the American midwest. But by some unknown force, my aunt’s snowmobile broke the ice and she went down with it. She survived- but barely, and the hypothermia damaged her internal organs irrevocably.

My grandmother also would wake up from sleep screaming phrases, turn on the television, and everything would be elucidated. She once screamed out- “The plane is down! They’re all dead! Oh my God they’re all dead…” and turned on the television to find a plane crash at Chicago O’Hare Airport. Most famously, she once yelled “My furs are burning!” only to find her drycleaners burning down on the evening news.

Perhaps the instance that will stick with me forever will be one involving my mother. My mother was older when myself and twin brother were conceived, and had previously had quite a lot of trouble keeping children to term. She found out she was pregnant, and not two minutes later did her mother call and tell her it was twins. 

Why mention any of this? Perhaps because it makes me sound a little more reasonable. 

The women in our family have all inherited ‘gifts’ from my grandmother. Some have her premonitions, some her empathetic talents of reading auras and personalities. My mother garnered her intuition and almost ungodly luck. I received something a bit different.

My grandmother left my lake house for the last time when I was six-years old. I screamed and thrashed and threw such an epic tantrum that my mother started crying herself out of frustration. It was viciously out of character for me- a normally soft-spoken child. However, I refused to let go of my grandmother. Mainly because I knew I would never see her again. 

I didn’t. She died only weeks later after a fatal stroke. But my mother never forgot my odd behavior, and as I grew older she always noticed things that seemed out of the ordinary. 

I would dream of dead relatives of hers, spelling out messages of mainly guidance. I became jumpy, and would jump even when there wasn’t anything in the room, just because ‘something’ startled me. I was always scared of ghosts, even though at that young of an age no one had ever explained them to me. My whole body shook at the mention.

It was only when I moved to Wisconsin that things took a turn I wish they hadn’t.  

It started with a picture of a little girl in my bedroom window. A brunette little girl. I was blonde at the time we bought the house and this picture was taken as I stood next to my mother. In our backyard. There was no one else in the house.

The little girl didn’t really come back until a few years later. My room was always significantly colder than the rest of our early 20th century home, but my family chalked it up to being part of a ‘newer wing.’ However, I knew it was cold for a different reason.

A psychic later in life told me that I should have gotten out of there the minute we moved in. Everyone who has known me before and since we moved from there is astonished by the difference in my personality. To best describe it- my room devoured me. Anything happy in my life… it took. Anything exciting… it dulled. Anything beautiful… it destroyed.

The little girl rarely moved. Occasionally I’d see her in different parts of the house, but mainly she sat right in front of my face every night and day when I would lie down in my bed. I knew she was harmless… lonely the best adjective for her demeanor, but she would become scared, and that scared me to no end.

I had taken a vow off of anything having to do with horror or ghosts at a young age, but one night my twin brother and I were watching “10 Most Haunted Places in America” in our damp basement. I had complained to my mother numerous times about the light in my room turning on at random times during the middle of the night. She had the whole house’s electric checked and everything was normal- so no abnormalities. Rick, my twin, had gone upstairs momentarily, leaving me to watch the program by myself. They were talking about some mansion in the west when the dialogue stated, “And all the lights would go off at once.”

The lights in the basement went black.

I ran faster than I ever have to get Rick. He went to check the lights and he said the switch had just been turned down- like I had simply flipped the switch and turned the television off. Problem was- I hadn’t moved from the couch.

The basement was never a positive place for me either. It was where I developed a serious alcohol problem during my senior year of high school. But before that, there were more weird instances. You could not go down without feeling like someone was watching you. Things would disappear or break so easily. But on my 13th birthday, things started getting out of hand. 

My friends had dared Rick to come down to the basement and give me a hug (the “OMG a boy in our class is hanging at this party too!” kind of mentality). He was a strong kid before the house took him too. But that night something was wrong. He picked me up in an enthusiastic bear hug, and next thing I knew I was on the ground, ankle twisted in such a grotesque way it looked out of a horror film.

There was no way he should’ve dropped me. He didn’t even know how it happened. I was just on the floor with a cracked ankle.

Fast-forward a few weeks, and I was still in a cast and on crutches. Being the ever effervescent child, I had tied ribbon bows right above the handles. After a tough day at school, I came home and put my crutches by my bedside before limping off to a shower.  

I was healing nicely, but I still had to keep the cast out of the bath to not get it wet. About three minutes in there was a loud POP! and the shower curtain closed in on me, causing me to fall and re-crack my ankle. I have tried to recreate this scene many times, and there is no way to do so. It requires immense force to physically wrap a shower curtain around a human being, so it could not have been a wind draft- my only plausible explanation.

Cold and terrified, I got out of the shower as quick as I could, running into my room.

And that’s when I noticed the crutches.

The ribbons were below the handles- not above like I had put them on.

I couldn’t stop screaming, and my mother came in with salt for her home-remedy house cleanse sorta thing. This became a common occurrence throughout my years at the house. Especially in high school.

In high school I had a lovely friend who loved ghost television shows like “A Haunting” and “Ghost Hunters.” She told me a story about how she would wake up to a dark man in what looked like a top hat, standing above her. He would rearrange her room- but other than scare her, he wouldn’t harm her.

About a year later I started seeing my own dark man.

I have never publicly aired this story before, and as I type, I am terrified of what might happen. You see, I don’t know if the man was attached to the house or to me, and I might never find out.

He showed up around the time the little girl by my bedside started getting scared. He would stand in front of my closet… just looming. He was nearly as tall as my ceiling, and he loved it when I was in pain. In fact, many people have told me that he was probably there even before I could see him.

At 3:24am every morning I would wake up. On the dot. For about a year. My mood this year went from normal happy teenager to a depressed sociopath. I didn’t care about anyone, anything, especially myself.

Previously diagnosed with BED (Binge Eating Disorder), I began to starve myself- for fun. Not for any other reason. No triggers or control issues… just for the pure sake of I felt like I needed to hurt myself. I became malicious and unpredictable… spending days doing nothing but staring at walls or my computer. 

My room became even colder. My parents stopped recognizing me. I became an alcoholic and manic depressive to dangerous stages. Self-harm seemed just a side hobby. The pride I felt from hurting myself and anyone else around me was like a drug. But I knew it wasn’t me.

I never wanted to hurt myself. I definitely never wanted to hurt others. Everything I did made me sick. And it drained me. I looked and acted dead. 

When I went away to college, everything changed. It was like a complete 180. It wasn’t until two years when my parents finally sold the house that I saw a psychic about it.

The house wasn’t letting me go. Every time I was home it had me again… and the starving, self-harm, and darkness came back. My parents were understandably exhausted. But this time there was a difference. If I left the house, even for thirty minutes or so, I was happy-go-lucky and how I was at college. To this day I’ve never experienced anything like it.

My last week in my room, I did no packing. It was if it wouldn’t let me. I packed everything the day of the move- and it was the hardest task I have ever accomplished. The lights would go on and off all night long… and 3:24am was again a constant. 

But I got out.

And then I went to a psychic, who had never been to my home and who hadn’t seen me in 4 years.

“Was your room blue? Like a turquoise” she asked out-of-the-blue at the end of our session.

“Yeah.”

“Your room did not like you.” She gathered a puzzled look upon her face. Like she was translating from a different language.

“I know.”

“No, Kels, you don’t understand. It wanted you dead. There was a soul-sucker… a very aggravated spirit, very malicious, and he thrived on your pain. He took any happiness you had. There was no hope for you.” She began to shiver, as if the room had dropped about 20 degrees, “Oh God, your room was so cold wasn’t it?”

“Freezing.”

“There was no life left. He took everything. I wouldn’t be surprised if someone died because of your room. A couple.” And that’s all she said before ending the session.

But I already knew she was right. About a year earlier we had received a magazine in the mail featuring our house. A couple who had owned it awhile before my family had committed suicide together to spare themselves from dying of cancer or something similar. It talked about how it was unexpected to friends, but not to family. They’d seen what the house had done.

After years of this, I finally told my parents everything that the psychic had said- and how it was true. My mother broke down into tears. My father simply told me a brief tale…

“One summer, when you were at the cabin up north, I was home just watching tv. I started hearing the floor wood cracking (this was not uncommon) but then I heard footsteps. They were in your room. Then they went into our room. I could hear them through the ceiling. I started walking upstairs and saw someone run into your room. I thought you might have come home to surprise me (also not uncommon), so I went into your room. There was no one there. I checked your bathroom- nothing. Then I heard someone going down the stairs, and I guess what I’m asking is- did the little girl by your bed have brown hair?" 

The House That Ate Me Up

Submitted by: Kelsey Grace Pfeifer (http://cricketscrushedincars.tumblr.com/)

Author’s Note: This story is true… it all happened to me. I am scared to tell this out loud for the first time, but I feel I am strong enough now. I know it is long- but it did happen over a really long period of time. Enjoy, and I’d love any stories back and such :)

 ——-

My grandmother was a psychic. It doesn’t matter the level of belief of whomever might read these words- I will forever believe in things unseen to close-minded eyes, and my grandmother is the perfect example of why.

She was spun of fine french heritage and held an air of aristocracy that was rare and surprisingly without condescension. She was a regal, yet tiny, woman… and was the last human one would ever think to be abnormal.

According to my aunt’s and mother, there was never a time when she didn’t have visions or premonitions. She would have them so often, and they would be so accurate, there was little question whether or not to heed their warnings. She once told my Aunt Kat to refrain from going on a school trip to Fox Lake, Illinois. She cried and begged her, but my aunt resisted. That day my aunt ventured out onto the lake on a snowmobile- normally a safe activity considering the medievally brutal winters suffered in the American midwest. But by some unknown force, my aunt’s snowmobile broke the ice and she went down with it. She survived- but barely, and the hypothermia damaged her internal organs irrevocably.

My grandmother also would wake up from sleep screaming phrases, turn on the television, and everything would be elucidated. She once screamed out- “The plane is down! They’re all dead! Oh my God they’re all dead…” and turned on the television to find a plane crash at Chicago O’Hare Airport. Most famously, she once yelled “My furs are burning!” only to find her drycleaners burning down on the evening news.

Perhaps the instance that will stick with me forever will be one involving my mother. My mother was older when myself and twin brother were conceived, and had previously had quite a lot of trouble keeping children to term. She found out she was pregnant, and not two minutes later did her mother call and tell her it was twins. 

Why mention any of this? Perhaps because it makes me sound a little more reasonable. 

The women in our family have all inherited ‘gifts’ from my grandmother. Some have her premonitions, some her empathetic talents of reading auras and personalities. My mother garnered her intuition and almost ungodly luck. I received something a bit different.

My grandmother left my lake house for the last time when I was six-years old. I screamed and thrashed and threw such an epic tantrum that my mother started crying herself out of frustration. It was viciously out of character for me- a normally soft-spoken child. However, I refused to let go of my grandmother. Mainly because I knew I would never see her again. 

I didn’t. She died only weeks later after a fatal stroke. But my mother never forgot my odd behavior, and as I grew older she always noticed things that seemed out of the ordinary. 

I would dream of dead relatives of hers, spelling out messages of mainly guidance. I became jumpy, and would jump even when there wasn’t anything in the room, just because ‘something’ startled me. I was always scared of ghosts, even though at that young of an age no one had ever explained them to me. My whole body shook at the mention.

It was only when I moved to Wisconsin that things took a turn I wish they hadn’t.  

It started with a picture of a little girl in my bedroom window. A brunette little girl. I was blonde at the time we bought the house and this picture was taken as I stood next to my mother. In our backyard. There was no one else in the house.

The little girl didn’t really come back until a few years later. My room was always significantly colder than the rest of our early 20th century home, but my family chalked it up to being part of a ‘newer wing.’ However, I knew it was cold for a different reason.

A psychic later in life told me that I should have gotten out of there the minute we moved in. Everyone who has known me before and since we moved from there is astonished by the difference in my personality. To best describe it- my room devoured me. Anything happy in my life… it took. Anything exciting… it dulled. Anything beautiful… it destroyed.

The little girl rarely moved. Occasionally I’d see her in different parts of the house, but mainly she sat right in front of my face every night and day when I would lie down in my bed. I knew she was harmless… lonely the best adjective for her demeanor, but she would become scared, and that scared me to no end.

I had taken a vow off of anything having to do with horror or ghosts at a young age, but one night my twin brother and I were watching “10 Most Haunted Places in America” in our damp basement. I had complained to my mother numerous times about the light in my room turning on at random times during the middle of the night. She had the whole house’s electric checked and everything was normal- so no abnormalities. Rick, my twin, had gone upstairs momentarily, leaving me to watch the program by myself. They were talking about some mansion in the west when the dialogue stated, “And all the lights would go off at once.”

The lights in the basement went black.

I ran faster than I ever have to get Rick. He went to check the lights and he said the switch had just been turned down- like I had simply flipped the switch and turned the television off. Problem was- I hadn’t moved from the couch.

The basement was never a positive place for me either. It was where I developed a serious alcohol problem during my senior year of high school. But before that, there were more weird instances. You could not go down without feeling like someone was watching you. Things would disappear or break so easily. But on my 13th birthday, things started getting out of hand. 

My friends had dared Rick to come down to the basement and give me a hug (the “OMG a boy in our class is hanging at this party too!” kind of mentality). He was a strong kid before the house took him too. But that night something was wrong. He picked me up in an enthusiastic bear hug, and next thing I knew I was on the ground, ankle twisted in such a grotesque way it looked out of a horror film.

There was no way he should’ve dropped me. He didn’t even know how it happened. I was just on the floor with a cracked ankle.

Fast-forward a few weeks, and I was still in a cast and on crutches. Being the ever effervescent child, I had tied ribbon bows right above the handles. After a tough day at school, I came home and put my crutches by my bedside before limping off to a shower.  

I was healing nicely, but I still had to keep the cast out of the bath to not get it wet. About three minutes in there was a loud POP! and the shower curtain closed in on me, causing me to fall and re-crack my ankle. I have tried to recreate this scene many times, and there is no way to do so. It requires immense force to physically wrap a shower curtain around a human being, so it could not have been a wind draft- my only plausible explanation.

Cold and terrified, I got out of the shower as quick as I could, running into my room.

And that’s when I noticed the crutches.

The ribbons were below the handles- not above like I had put them on.

I couldn’t stop screaming, and my mother came in with salt for her home-remedy house cleanse sorta thing. This became a common occurrence throughout my years at the house. Especially in high school.

In high school I had a lovely friend who loved ghost television shows like “A Haunting” and “Ghost Hunters.” She told me a story about how she would wake up to a dark man in what looked like a top hat, standing above her. He would rearrange her room- but other than scare her, he wouldn’t harm her.

About a year later I started seeing my own dark man.

I have never publicly aired this story before, and as I type, I am terrified of what might happen. You see, I don’t know if the man was attached to the house or to me, and I might never find out.

He showed up around the time the little girl by my bedside started getting scared. He would stand in front of my closet… just looming. He was nearly as tall as my ceiling, and he loved it when I was in pain. In fact, many people have told me that he was probably there even before I could see him.

At 3:24am every morning I would wake up. On the dot. For about a year. My mood this year went from normal happy teenager to a depressed sociopath. I didn’t care about anyone, anything, especially myself.

Previously diagnosed with BED (Binge Eating Disorder), I began to starve myself- for fun. Not for any other reason. No triggers or control issues… just for the pure sake of I felt like I needed to hurt myself. I became malicious and unpredictable… spending days doing nothing but staring at walls or my computer. 

My room became even colder. My parents stopped recognizing me. I became an alcoholic and manic depressive to dangerous stages. Self-harm seemed just a side hobby. The pride I felt from hurting myself and anyone else around me was like a drug. But I knew it wasn’t me.

I never wanted to hurt myself. I definitely never wanted to hurt others. Everything I did made me sick. And it drained me. I looked and acted dead. 

When I went away to college, everything changed. It was like a complete 180. It wasn’t until two years when my parents finally sold the house that I saw a psychic about it.

The house wasn’t letting me go. Every time I was home it had me again… and the starving, self-harm, and darkness came back. My parents were understandably exhausted. But this time there was a difference. If I left the house, even for thirty minutes or so, I was happy-go-lucky and how I was at college. To this day I’ve never experienced anything like it.

My last week in my room, I did no packing. It was if it wouldn’t let me. I packed everything the day of the move- and it was the hardest task I have ever accomplished. The lights would go on and off all night long… and 3:24am was again a constant. 

But I got out.

And then I went to a psychic, who had never been to my home and who hadn’t seen me in 4 years.

“Was your room blue? Like a turquoise” she asked out-of-the-blue at the end of our session.

“Yeah.”

“Your room did not like you.” She gathered a puzzled look upon her face. Like she was translating from a different language.

“I know.”

“No, Kels, you don’t understand. It wanted you dead. There was a soul-sucker… a very aggravated spirit, very malicious, and he thrived on your pain. He took any happiness you had. There was no hope for you.” She began to shiver, as if the room had dropped about 20 degrees, “Oh God, your room was so cold wasn’t it?”

“Freezing.”

“There was no life left. He took everything. I wouldn’t be surprised if someone died because of your room. A couple.” And that’s all she said before ending the session.

But I already knew she was right. About a year earlier we had received a magazine in the mail featuring our house. A couple who had owned it awhile before my family had committed suicide together to spare themselves from dying of cancer or something similar. It talked about how it was unexpected to friends, but not to family. They’d seen what the house had done.

After years of this, I finally told my parents everything that the psychic had said- and how it was true. My mother broke down into tears. My father simply told me a brief tale…

“One summer, when you were at the cabin up north, I was home just watching tv. I started hearing the floor wood cracking (this was not uncommon) but then I heard footsteps. They were in your room. Then they went into our room. I could hear them through the ceiling. I started walking upstairs and saw someone run into your room. I thought you might have come home to surprise me (also not uncommon), so I went into your room. There was no one there. I checked your bathroom- nothing. Then I heard someone going down the stairs, and I guess what I’m asking is- did the little girl by your bed have brown hair?" 

Credits to: Kelsey Grace Pfeifer (http://cricketscrushedincars.tumblr.com/)

anonymous asked:

How would you guys imagine a perfect day ? :) (you too Mun/Admin)

Ayato: the day i become the takoyaki KING!

Laito: i don’t really know, i’m actually quite happy with my life right now

Kanato: i’d like to go out and see the world… but i know that can’t be done in one day, so just going to America would be nice

Yuma: going to the Kentucky derby then maybe a corn maze and working in the garden

Kou: karaoke with all of you!!

(Mun: the day my family stops fighting, and my grandmother is happy, that would be the perfect day for me )

Jai Imagine for Grace xx

I got in the christmas cheer (:  a lot of this may be boring because it’s very detailed over the xmas gift parts but oh well! hope you enjoy Grace xo 

“Gracie, wake up beautiful!” Jai whispered to me, shaking my sleeveless arms. I was in that limbo stage of sleep. Where I was almost asleep and lightly dreaming but still fully aware of everything going on around me. 
I slowly opened my eyes to see Jai shirtless with a pair of Santa shorts with suspenders on and a santa hat covering his chocolatey brown hair.
I smiled, sitting up. The covers fell to my stomach and I wrapped my arms around Jai’s neck, who was leaning over the bed to wake me. I pressed my lips to his softly, smiling under the kiss.
“Merry Christmas my love.” He murmured against my lips.
My eyes trailed down his body, causing me to groan and throw my head back against the pillow. 
“Why do you do this? My parents and grandparents will be over soon!” I groaned, hating the fact that he was purposely teasing me.
“They won’t be here for like 2 hours, that’s enough time to have a little fun.” He winked, moving his body on top of mine.
* * *
My parents had arrived, along with my grandparents, with pretty presents wrapped with bows a top them. We ate and chatted about stupid memories, laughter filling the room. Christmas was always fun, but this was just plain out perfect. I looked at the room full of people enjoying themselves. Jai had changed into respectful clothing and I had as well, and we were just about to start exchanging gifts. 
My parents were first. Jai and I got them a coffee maker- one that made one cup at a time- and then had got them multiple coffee flavors to go along with it.
I got my grandmother her favorite perfume and a pair slippers- what she always asked for. I got my grandfather his cologne and after shave- Old Spice. Oh, and a box of tick tacks, which he always had on them. Jai had gotten my grandfather an engraved handkerchief and a giftcard to the fishing tack shop. My grandfather got a kick out of it, smiling and laughing. I think he was just happy I had found someone that treated me right. 
My favorite part was watching my grandmother laugh and shed tears from laughing so hard at what Jai had gotten her. He got her a shirt that said “My granddaughter’s married to a Janoskian!” on it. She put it on right away and made Jai and I take a picture with her in the middle. She was honestly the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.
Jai was too antsy to have anyone else open their gifts before I did. He pulled out 4 wrapped boxes. Two of them were medium sized and the other two were smaller. 
I took one of the larger boxes and started to unwrap the ribbon. Jai was smiling with anticipation. I giggled a little and started to tear the wrapping paper. I opened the box, and it was full of little things. An Alex and Ani bracelet with a heart was in it, my favorite scent of body spray from Victoria’s secret-Strawberries & Champagne-, a box of Godiva chocolate, some EOS lip balms and an itunes card (which I would definitely share with him). 
“Thank you Jai Jai.” I smiled, pecking his cheek. He handed me the next big box and I slowly and carefully tore the paper off. Inside the box was a framed picture of Jai and I at our wedding. The smile on my face almost ripped my cheeks.
“Jai this is perfect.” I sighed happily, giving it to my grandmother who was begging to see. She teared up. “My beautiful granddaughter and her husband.” She whispered to it.
I smiled. No matter what, that would always be my favorite gift.
Jai handed me a smaller box, and I was eager to find out what was inside of it. As I tore the paper, I noticed the color of the box. It was baby blue, which only meant one thing. I slid the paper off, and the silver letters appeared: “Tiffany & Co.”
My grandmother gasped, as did I, and I took the top off of the box. Inside was a ring of infinity signs. Inside the top center infinity sign was a small diamond- but not too small. 
“Jai this is beautiful.” I whispered to him.
“Give it to me for a second.” He smiled, holding out his hand. I gently placed it in his palm and he maneuvered it up to his fingers. He grabbed my hand and slid the ring up onto my left hand ring finger, which now had three rings on it. He kissed my finger gently, and then gave it back to me. 
“I love you.” He murmured shyly. I could tell he didn’t want to be too affectionate in front of my family.
“Now open your last present.” He chuckled, handing me the other small box. I tore the paper off and unfolded the top of the box. The box, once again, was Tiffany blue and had the logo.
“Jai you spent too much money on me!” I pouted, undoing the tissue paper inside of it. On a silver paperish platelet held a pair of diamond earrings. I had been in love with them ever since we had gone Christmas shopping for my parents and grandparents and apparently he got the hint.
I smiled widely, and tackled him in a huge hug, giving him a really secrete kiss on the lips.
“I love you.” He whispered into my ear, squeezing me tightly. “I love you more.” I replied into his shoulder.
“Your turn!” I took myself out of his arms and became way too excited. I grabbed the 4 boxes and stacked them in my arms before placing them in front of him.
My family watched with joy, loving how precious the moment was.
Jai began to unwrap the first present- one of my favorite ones. He slowly looked up with a weary expression at my excitement.
“I’m almost a little scared.” He chuckled, taking the top off of the box and unfolding the tissue paper. Inside was a sweater that he had wanted. 
“Aw yay.” He smiled, waving it around.
“Thank you love.”
I just nodded and handed him the next present. He opened it humanely, and smiled when he pulled it out. It was all three of his favorite colognes. I had learned to love them too, because when he was gone, the smell of it lingered in the bed sheets. 
The third box was a pair of Nike sweatpants, because I had stolen his other pair when he went away. And lastly, the fourth box was my absolute favorite present I had gotten him. His smile was really wide when he took it out of the box. I got him a pair of wireless beats because he always complained about having his cord get tangled when he worked out. 
“Finally I can workout without almost dying by the darn cord on my other ones.” He laughed, bundling the wrapping paper into a ball and throwing it like a basketball into the pile of garbage next to the tree.
“Okay, now what we got you isn’t much. We all pooled together on this one, actually. We hope you like it.” My mom smiled, playing with her thumbs as my dad pushed the box in from the kitchen.
“Open it together!” My grandma squealed, getting out her little flip phone to take a picture.
Jai and I started to tear the paper off the box. It was a huge box, but practically weightless. We took the lid off, and noticed a small envelope taped to the bottom. 
“Now how are we going to get this out?” I chuckled, the box extremely tall.
Jai picked me up by my waist and set me in the box. “Get the envelope and I’ll take you out.” He laughed. I bent down and untaped the envelope and then stood back up, Jai lifting me out of the box and setting me down on the carpet again.
I unsealed the envelope and pulled the card out of it. I opened the card and a folded paper fell out. Jai picked it up and unfolded the paper carefully. His eyes skimmed over it and widened.
“Wow.. thank you so much.” He smiled in awe. I snatched the paper from him and read it myself.
“Oh my god. Thank you so much!” I jumped up and down excitedly.
They had booked us a 5 day vacation to Orlando Disney World. I was a little overexcited for a 19 year old, and Jai was a little over excited for a 21 year old. 

Let’s just say this Christmas was perfect.  

There’s nothing like being awoken from a nap by the biggest crash in the world…and running into your kitchen to find the kitchen cabinet installed by IKEA has now fallen off the wall and broke a set of antique plates my grandmother gave me. Perfect. 

You are my right kind of nice.
Like two sugar with my coffee.
Like british and milk with their tea.
You are my right amount of sunshine.
Like sitting in the front porch at 9 am when the sun is not burning.
Like 5:59 pm before the sky is entirely black.
Like the christmas morning and opening presents when I was still a kid.
You are the right amount of struggle.
Like studying for a final and getting the good grade.
Like learning how to drive and getting my permit.
Like an old friend paying for my food when I am broke.
You are the right kind of pain.
Like peeling dead skin off my shoulders after a day in the beach during summer.
Like scrapping my knee because I chased after someones dog.
Like biting my lip in desire.
You are the right everything.
The perfect white like snow.
The perfect black like the frozen lake I used to go with my brother when I was little.
The perfect sweater my grandmother gave me when I was 10.
You are the perfect size, the perfect taste, the perfect struggle, the perfect hope.

Just not mine.

—  “You’re not perfect after all”- p.d