#popunk

Ghoti Hook - Shrinky Dinks

“i hâte brendon urie” this

“br*nd*n ur*e” that

New tattoos and another Friday night. I am surrounded by a million midnight ghosts, but none of them can touch Ben Barlow. To some of my friends, this is not a surprising state to find me in. To others, my frenetic thought pattern and the absence of eyeliner causes them to retreat; ‘We’ll come back in the daylight,’ they decide, ‘she’ll be more predictable by then.’

I’m not writing, but rather, waiting on a few phrases to condensate. If I reach for them, they’ll only float further away. So I lie around, holding my sides together and looking like Jack Nicholson smiling at specific lyrics. “If anything ever happens,” I once said, “At least I’ll have the way Ben sings oh my friend.” Distorted riffs defibrillate a frightened heart, no matter how generic they are.

What are the phrases being used for me lately? Mean. Off. Intimidating. Held it back, lost the nerve. To some of my friends, I’m the damsel in self-imposed distress that commonly zones out and indulges in forms of silent communication. “You think so loud,” he says. To others, I’m just a reflection of whatever they came to this blog looking for.   

Most of you will take this as a throw-away post; it’s not about love or loss, I haven’t been to any shows and my Codes have been keeping their magic kinda close to their chest pieces lately. This is just me in-between songs, worried about last weekend, anxious about all the things I’ve been putting off, and self-medicating with a pop punk playlist. 

What’s it like to like a girl who only likes Neck Deep? Not a lot of Peace but plenty of Panic. Now press repeat. 

Terica.