Pennedbylisse - Lisse - Tumblr Blog

The sight of him, robs my composure much like my breath.

Averting my gaze to the solid ground for respite, I feel myself dizzied, as if being fluttered away by the dozens of butterflies in my abdomen despite the solidness beneath my shoes.

When he stands just next to my work station, mindless while giving report, my heart eagerly races. I feel my posture tighten, pulled and stretched like a coil. The thing about alloys is that they are malleable, but coils can’t ever go back the exact same form. He’s shaping me, I don’t think life will be the same after him

his bare face and the dimples and the shimmering eyes

he looks so healthy and happy pls be happy

THE EYE CONTACT 🫠

“Don’t judge it. Just write it. Don’t judge it. It’s not for you to judge it.” — Philip Roth

Crush on a Paramedic

It’s a phase; it’s a rite of passage. Let me have this cannon event for character development.

What’s attractive about EMS/Paramedics?

I think I’m attracted to their reliability. Their position is that of a hero in society. There’s an expectation for them to know what to do in case of danger (and if they don’t yet know, trust they’ll find a way). They’re dependable, stoic, rational but willing and able to offer words of encouragement that you’ll be fine. Even if it’s a lie, it’s comforting like a blanket or like when your mother would hug you after one terrible nightmare. They embody the protectiveness and dependability of a healed masculine energy (both the male and female medics). Very dad energy.

(They’re just so cute with all their little gadgets and trinkets strapped on. Let me climb you like a feral cat on a tree please)

Now leaving modesty aside, let’s violently swing the gate of delusion and fantasy wide open. I have a crush on a paramedic (so you read the title, huh?) that frequently visits the hospital I work at. Has ever spoken to me or in my direction for that matter? No, not exactly. But I am around, lurking when he does speak enough to have developed an appreciation for his southern drawl (ah).

Has he looked my way? Again, no. There’s still hope he might. I think?

Regardless, I’ve fantasized up our love story in my head and I frequently daydream about it - during dips in patient arrivals while on shift, during the commute home.

On the deranged side, I daydream about him manhandling me and then having the best aftercare. I’ll leave it that.

On the softer side, I imagine him coming home exhausted after a 24-hour shift; my massaging his feet and shoulders, doing a sort of spa night, putting hydrating eye patches on his face, rubbing his temples to soothe the tension.

I imagine rooting for his continued education. Cheering him on through the journey, studying with him for an upcoming exam. Celebrating once he walks across the stage to claim his degree. I want to be his #1 fan. I want to make him my baby gurwl!

You. Don’t. Get. It.

I imagine he gives the best hugs too. Ugh. 😤 I want him. Want him bad.

Will I talk to him next time he drops off a patient? Absolutely not. I will most definitely walk in the opposite direction and avoid eye contact by all means necessary. He’ll never know 😂🥲

"risk" is the song for the girlies who love too soon and too deeply, the girlies who live in extremes, the ones that can never be casual about a crush, or an interest or a hobby, the ones that let it consume them and transform them. the ones with a vivid imagination that bests them, the blaringly delusion kind that joke about their own delusion all the while a glimmer of hope twinkles somewhere deep in that staged smile. the ones that hold out for the "what if" for the silver lining and the glasses that are half-full instead of half-empty.

the ones that act on impulse, wearing their bleeding heart on their sleeve and know that though they might come to reflect on the brazenness of that impulsivity they don't ever really regret taking the leap.

the ones that "fall in love" with just about every human they meet, finding the traits they long for in others and ascending them to pedestals. the ones that have too much love to give but fear being known and loved in return with as much fervor. the mortifying ordeal of being known, you know? clashing with the intense desire to experience ground-shattering love. they probably have an avoidant or anxious attachment style and struggle accepting the love others might want to give them; fear of intimacy that spawns from a deep-rooted fear of rejection and abandonment.

-written by a "risk" girl, herself

Messages I won’t send :(

I forgive myself for all the things I didn’t get to do today or lazily delayed to the point of neglect. I forgive myself for the thoughts and ideas that helplessly slipped through the gaps of oblivion.

I forgive myself for not doing more, for not remembering more despite my lists and itineraries.

I am grateful for all that I did get to do and learn. It was a productive day in its own right m, which far exceeded any of my expectations.

every time I get rejected by a man I was delusional about, I choose to become x10 hotter.

Keep rejecting me. I’ll be unstoppable

Muahhahahahaha (choking)

Vacation over, I reflect on what is lost. I’ll miss being able to sleep until noon after having stayed up with some new hobby or interest.

I don’t know why you think you can decide what I need for myself. What makes you think you own my voice?

Fucking hate my writing lately and the words are scarce and clumsy. There’s no fucking point to it or to anything.

August 16, 2024

Waxing Moon

I’m tired of being a 20-something year-old only-daughter living in their very Hispanic parents’ house

Of being instructed on how I should feel, exactly how much sad I should allow myself to wallow in based on my circumstances (of having them decide for me that my circumstances are favorable relative to their fucked up traumatic childhood experiences which they still haven’t gone to therapy for)

Of being told how I should act in a certain setting or being belittled for an emotional reaction that was raw against a trigger

Of being warned what I am incapable of doing something like moving across states or studying abroad based on their idea of me

Of still being spoken of as if I’m eight years old in the room with them

Of feeling guilty and incapable of going out to places of my interest on my own, feeling like I constantly have to ask for permission or bring them alone so they see I’m not doing anything “wrong.”

Of being baited and guilt-tripped into requesting weeks off from my work just to travel with my parents when I suspect that mother doesn’t really like to spend time with my stepfather out of boredom and uses me as a form of scapegoat/accompanying doll

I hate being the one who orders things in public. I hate being the one used to break an indecision or tie. I hate being asked what I want or think about choices when they are just going to invalidate or coerce me.

I hate that I long for a boyfriend mostly so that I have a place to go other than my own home, an excuse to be away and to possibly move without my mother acting betrayed.

I hate feeling guilty for wanting to be more independent, for wanting to live alone, far away from them, far enough that our time zones clash and we use that as excuses for going days without talking

I hate feeling like I can never fully be my self, or never be able to thoroughly explore my identity because I am limited to their perception of me.

I still feel like a child. I am a child in an adult’s body.

I want to be validated.

I want to not have to justify my choices a million times over.

I want to be free.

I want to be independent.

I want to be able to choose when I see them instead of being obligated to bond over boring dinner talk. I hate envying American families for the way their children leave the nest at 18 and only ever return for major holidays, if even that.

I hate being involved in family drama and robbed of my peace. Blood is not everything. Just because they have title of cousin or aunt doesn’t mean I owe them my peace.

I hate being ridiculed for my lonesome introspective habits. I hate that they think they know me better than I know myself.

I hate feeling like they are holding me back and I especially hate being told that I should appreciate them while I have them as if I don’t already. Just because I am taking a moment to reflect privately on my frustrations does not mean I don’t do well by my parents. Which leads me to the complaint that I hate being the reliable, well-behaved poster child. I wish I’d been more rebellious growing up because then they’d expect less of me.

I HATE being constantly asked whether I’m ok or what’s wrong with me. I’m mostly not but I have to constantly lie about it, force a smile. This mask is drawing a crater between us.

And I COULD find a way to share most of these frustrations with them but it would likely end with cloying phrases of reassurance and the sly comment that I’m just too young to know that I’m wrong. Like cotton candy, I end up feeling coaxed in sweet comfort but with the knowledge that it’s hollow and fading.

I am aware I was born from and of my parents but I don’t want to live FOR my parents. My life is my own. I can’t fathom or make peace with the fact some people my age and younger get handed more freedom and autonomy than I have. It frustrates me beyond belief.

I feel like I’m my mother’s sown shadow. I can never venture too far without having to explain myself. I’m her puppet on strings.

I didn’t have a choice on whether I should have been born so I think I should have a choice on how I live my life from here on out.

dear future self,

I hope you are free. I hope you are independent. I hope you have autonomy and your own home. I hope you get to define who you are without the coercive influence of overbearing relatives.

I hope you are happier with life.

I hope you get to decide what and who is in your life.

romance is for the fictional realms

its somewhat equal counterpart in the realm of reality is financial stability

I covet both but since I abide in reality, I am only ever allowed to work towards financial stability.

This heroine gets the plot without the satisfaction of the sweet romantic lead to whisk them away when things get tough.

Cat-Cow

Print

slutty necklaces for the win

my lady jane | s01e05

LADY JANE GREY & LORD GUILDFORD DUDLEY — 1.07 "Another Girl, Another Planet"

His eyes are amber crystals bathed in sunlight

Lessons on compelling slow-burn and pinning romances:

- almost always start of hating each other and the audience finds their mutual hatred believable, justifiable

- as they spend more time together (usually through forced alliance or proximity) they start to unlearn their preconceptions of each other (like wow I had painted you an asshole but you’re actually not that bad or you had a real reason for being such a prick and maybe I should have given you the benefit of the doubt)

- during this getting to know each other beyond first impressions and misconceptions phase it is illuminated that they have similar experiences, wounds or trauma

- when the eventual physical intimacy starts to build, it is teased and often cut abruptly before they are able to really talk about how they feel (increasing plot points usually are the cockblockers lol)

- they spend time alone/are separated after copulating, evaluating what the sudden change or profession implies to their dynamic. Evaluating how their relationship has transformed and weather they are at peace with this change

Important to not just make their relationship founded on physical attraction or lust (that’s a weak dynamic). Sure it can start as that suppressed lust for each other but if stays just physical it shows no character progression and just falls flat.

It is far more interesting when you couple the physical attraction with the discomfort of working through emotional obstacles, fears, blocked and unlearning limiting beliefs. (Think push and pull, building tension between a carnal want and innate response to run away from that which makes them uncomfortable).

(Notes come from my recent obsession with Holly Black’s The Cruel Prince trilogy and Prime’s “My Lady Jane”)

nostalgia is a bitten fruit left to rot on the ground

remembrance of a more innocent time

a boundless time, during which evenings seemed to last forever in their low lit yellow

my eldest cousin used to climb the neighbor’s tree and throw rose-apples down at us to eagerly catch. after having ran, exploring every strip of the neighborhood - our little kingdom - we’d ravenously bite into the pink flesh of the fruit.

It’s been decades now but if I close my eyes and focus on the suspended memory, I swear I can almost taste that first bite, can almost feel the flowery aroma of the fruit flood my nostrils as my jaw clenches down.

bed hair jiminie

his long hair, the glasses and his sleeve rolled up 🫠

I’m not gonna fix you

I’m not gonna fix you

I’m not gonna fix you

I’m not gonna fix you

I’m not gonna fix you

Beware of people who request endless favors but never offer any compensation. Not even a pretense of it.

These people will continue to bleed you dry.

I’m not entirely sure if decidedly culling them off from the root is the best choice, yet, but it is the best one I can make in my current phase of life.