like, i guess this isnt even a particularly “”“adult”“” blog but theres something very unnerving about clicking through to a new follower and seeing “age: 14” on the sidebar. i feel like a chaperone at a highschool dance. leave some room for jesus
With a coke problem almost as bad as Liam these days, Ian has out-Gallgher’d anyone in his family not named Monica. It is such a sorry state that the only thing that can save him is Mickey Milkovich. Who saw that coming? Well, besides the legions of Tumblr shippers. I like Mickey as a character so much that it’s okay, if only for tonight, Showtime decided to feed the fanbase by having Ian & Mickey enjoy a reunion fit for An Officer and a Gentleman.
Higher than the government of Toronto, Ian is passed out in a nice bed of Chicago sludge-snow when Mickey beats up his john and carries a near-comatose Ian on his back to a stolen Uber cab. It’s really the little moments in life. However this sentimental moment, as sarcastic and defiantly cynical as Mickey insists on being, is earned when Mandy forces Mickey to realize that he should make something “his fucking problem.” So he perfumes up, puts on his best shirt, and beats the crap out of the first gay man to insinuate he is queer in his search for Ian.
It seems expected that we will see more of Ian next week, as Mickey without a word chooses to kick his wife out of bed in favor for a passed out Ian. I look forward to seeing their real reconciliation, however violent it will undoubtedly become, in future episodes. At this point, they are the sanest couple this side of V and Kev."
if only you could see yourself now,
you’re settling back into a quiet autumn
and you’ve missed the smell of must, rain, and tobacco
kissed into the corners and couches
of the same house you share with seven others.
you miss the girl who used to sleep on your couch
who had the skull of the bird she is named after
tattooed across her arm.
you are glad you stopped drinking.
it’s 2am and you’re staying up far too late.
you have an interview for a job in the morning
that you will come to hate in 2 months.
you’re not in love the way you expected.
some memories turned into broken drawers
that you chose to store all your knives in,
every time you open them, they always come spilling out towards you.
you miss having sex with people you also love.
precariousness is now the pillow you sleep upon,
and you no longer have such structured repeating romance.
you no longer have such a structured repeating life,
and I know it killed you that you knew it wasn’t forever.
i know i can’t stop you from panicking,
but it will all make sense.
you repeat repeat repeat repeat repeat repeat
until you realized it was too early to build such a life based on repetition.
you’re settling back into a quiet autumn,
and you’re stone sober at 4am after a Friday night
while the world starts to makes a strange kind of sense,
the same way words become meaningless when repeated enough times.
all of this
is to say,
you made it this far,
and i’m proud of you.