𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐎, 𝐲𝐨𝐮.

usual rules apply. i don’t support joe. i won’t wash over the heinous shit he does. joe is a misogynist, stalker, and a murderer. triggers will be tagged. ships can happen but with the understanding that they won’t go well. i am 25+. please do not interact if you’re under 18. more to be added here later.

if only i'd known how much trouble you'd bring me. you put something into motion inside of me, beck. something quiet and hungry and full of want and will. you have ignited something inside of me, beck... a desire to be. let me be the man you always wanted — let me protect you, keep you close, tucked between the rungs of my ribs and revere every second we breathe as one. i wanted to be everything for you, untangle every caught breath and anxious nerve from that scrambled brain of yours and show you exactly how to survive in a world that wants to dull your brightness.

do you know how hard it is to kill a man? i'm not talking about the ones already under my belt — they all deserved it, in their own toxic masculinity bullshit type way. but to really kill someone? all the variables, the things that could go wrong even when you're doing it for the right reasons. because that's what this is, isn't it? the right reasons.

you fucking wanted this. you flipped your hair and i'm expected to — what, ignore it? you came to me like some breath of fresh air, and you wanted me to follow you. to find you. to fix you. and that's what i did.

don't get me wrong. i don't believe moulding you in plexiglass was the best case scenario for us, but we were in love. we are in love. but this...? this gives you... clarity. a clarity that only the box can bring. it's time to write. its' time to figure out your next moves.

"are you hungry?"

it's like a warhead spinning colossally back down to earth, ready to scorch earth between us and blow up our pretty little bubble.

i don't think love's for me any more. i've made my peace with it for the most part, and perhaps i've taken more with me from the yoga-pant-loving, matcha-infused city of angels with its over-priced erewhon bullshit through an iv drip when i tell you that this here is my love story to my goddamn self. every horrible decision, every chickenshit attempt to try and better your life for you, and make you see exactly who you need to be in that mirror... i'm done with it now. my home has spent the past few years drowning out the voice in the back of my head. my home has raced, harder and faster than ever before, throwing myself across peach saIinger's stupid fucking 20 acre garden after leaving my fucking piss in her back office. my home has done nothing but squeeze and pump and run.

now, i'm not really a bible guy. honestly, i'd rather stick pins in my eyes than sit down and study the scripture the way those slick-backed mega preachers sweating profusely through the single spotlight in their cheap suits and tax evasion cases do, but the truth will set you free! (so donate now and i'll make sure The Big He listens to your prayers and smites you with the exact amount of over-spun zealotry that you stuff your face with potato chips for and pay for my next self-charging ev beamer! — sorry. i got off topic.)

but the truth will set you free. beck. candice. love. kate. you.

isn't that the million dollar question? Just Joe. new yorker, old boots, cares more for old books than people, general critic of the big apple's rotten core. or is it will betteIheim, LA alien, burning like a lobster in the californian heat, a dickensian orphan thrust into the rungs of angelenos whole food obscurity? two toes down, generally spending more time eating instant ramen than tending to one's own garden, so to speak. but hey, he managed to send a notorious moIester into an early grave and leave his own slurry of bodies strewn from one side of the golden coast to the other. and then there's jonathan. i've gone through names, id's, lives and passports like they're a child picking out his own favourite candy bars without much regard for fat content and other skeletons to bury.

to put it bluntly, identity is an object of obscurity for me now. i learned to recognise the thorough and primitive duality of man; i saw that, of the two natures that contended in the field of my consciousness, even if i could rightly be said to be either, it was only because i was radically both.

"that's a bit of a loaded question." will nick spencer jonathan joe tyler adam daniel james — spin the fucking wheel and you'll churn out a different archetype each time.

i'm more of a man of drawing rooms than bass-heavy clubs where sweaty boys sniff hard drugs off the back of their fists and hope that the three-hundred-pound bouncers covered in menacing tattoos and europop don't kick them to the curb and strung-out, free-spirited, live-laugh-loving women bounce in perfect harmony with pupils the size of the fucking moon. see, this isn't my scene. loud, ear-drum-piercing, and stiflingly warm like flies trapped around a heat lamp.

i am in hell. that is the long and short of it — for all my sins, for all i've done to tar my soul and blacken everything i once stood for, this is... hell. a special, delicious type of purgatory that only targets the coke-addled and degenerate youths. is this what i've been reduced down to? sticky-sweet drinks and fencing off coke bumps from the biggest douchebags in the country?

the bar is safe. the bar is... well, it's not clean, but as far as i can see, clean from vomit. so instead of wading through ass-grabbing techoslut men, i get to watch it all unfold from the safety of a rum and coke.

i'll be honest, i'm not listening that closely. you've caught my attention — in the midst of a crowd, pushing away the coke, almost definitely pulled out here by your immature friends that you would be so much better off without... i think you'd prefer my life too, than to be contributing to the city's trash problem along with dumb and dumber either side of you. hemingway. joyce. what's your poison, really? underneath the go-hard partying, there's something about y—

spirit. shit.