casiotone for the painfully alone!

(Source: yellowraincoats)

deathinthesuburbs:

There was a boy once, when I was seventeen, whom I was infatuated with and he smoked like this. I worked with him at a fast food joint and he used to take smoke breaks out in the front dining area so I’d clean the windows and stare at him through half closed eyes. Those windows were always so clean; he smoked so often and I windexed until I ran out of paper towel. He loped, not walked and was introverted, shy but a complete bad arse. Older than me, he drove an old Holden and when I’d see him drive past me, my heart would stop in my chest and my legs would turn to lead. I truly felt butterflies in my stomach, they flew into my throat and made me cough.

I visited his house one day. His best friend was in love with me (so goes the circle of love) so he drove me there and it was deliciously awkward. I sat crunched up in the corner of the sofa, my nails digging into my thighs as they studied a guitar solo on a dvd of Metallica. We’d all drive cars down to the waterfront and sit on the bonnets, chain smoking cigarettes and listening to Jebediah or Pearl Jam. The boy who was in love with me used to send me text messages declaring his love, how he’d devote his life to treating me like a princess.  I just wanted to be treated like shit by the bad boy, he had really beautiful hands and men who smoke like that, always remind me of him. Or maybe I just like people who smoke like that; men and women alike. As if they’re cupping a moth, keeping the ember glowing slow and steady in the palm of their hand. Introverted smoke. Women who roll their own cigarettes and boys who lean back and blow smoke rings.

I saw him last year, when I was filling my car up with fuel. He was in the car in front of me with his girlfriend and three kids. His girlfriend was a girl that I lived with when I was about 16 or 17. She taught me how to smoke weed and was bisexual, borrowed my shoes and could never figure me out. She tried, leaving notes and pipes with their cone pieces packed full of weed. Those days are memories fogged with smoke, The Doors droning in the background, diaries full of Plath. School girl crushes and lanky summer limbs. When everything I felt was like a punch to the stomach, it was all so beautiful and it hurt so much.

(Source: casonsuperstar)

(Source: samhessamian)