Put This Star In The Inbox Of Your Favourite Blogs. Its Time To Spread Positivity!

☆ — put this star in the inbox of your favourite blogs. it’s time to spread positivity! 🕊️🤍

becca, ty so much! right back at you! i don't deserve 😭❤️

and what's that saying again? "they're only words and words can't kill me"

☆ — put this star in the inbox of your favorite blogs. it’s time to spread positivity! 🕊️🤍

ty!!!! right back at you 🥺❤️❤️

i wanted to lie & tell you i'm okay without you but tbh i miss u like hell

List 3 of your favorite sims from other simmers you enjoy and explain why (Send this to 10 other blogs 💖💖)

nicooole, your meanness streak continues in making me choose only 3! 😭

my wife Aida @eslanes (she is my wife, what kind of monster wouldn't list their hot wife. especially if said wife could set my house on fire or some crazy shit)

cassian @mireuja (the rat boy i fell for on ig, you will forever remember your very first ig love ok? forever)

emilia @streetlites (i think this counts as a blast from the past but that woman scares me into loving her. unlike Aida i know emilia would only hurt me if i did something to deserve it... or had a lot of money/land/influence she needed. hehe i have none of those things)

(bonus because I can't accept 3 slots without mentioning some old flames from the requestor: 3 names - Isla - Reese - Peaches. I would marry each and every one of them *drops mic*)

ghost car of barna road

track 1 - backwards walk

it feels fucked.

driving in the dark, all i see is golden blue sunshine filtered in through green glass and it all feels fucked. the boxes in the booth chitter about loves lost. kitchenware keeps bumping into chipped mugs, some old CDs nobody has listened to for years lay spilled across rubber rugs. why did i take the CDs?

why did i pack the fucking kitchenware.

who in their right mind moved back to their parents place with two boxes of aged kitchenware? most of the stuff was originally brought from there. it’s like a big kitchenware homecoming. all the mismatched plates and cutlery meeting up with old friends. you will never believe the mess we have been through, they will say, filth and disgrace. she used one bowl for like everything. soup? bowl. salad? bowl. cereal? bowl. crisps? you guessed it, fucking bowl.

i curse, glaring throught he dark windshield. claire at night is rolling silvery hills, endless expanse of black ocean and stone walls as far as the eye could see. it seems unnaturaly silent after the flashing lights of the city. post-apocalyptic scenery, world brought back to nature, a goodbye to arms and humanity. i look at the dark land and all i see is sunrise.

i think i was born here.

just down the road. somewhere in a place with the same rolling hills that looked brilliantly green in muted daylight. all the places here, they look the same. you walk through them, meeting different cars, breathing in cold atlantic breeze and wishing you were anywhere but here. dublin maybe. i remember dublin. not as much dublin itself, as dreaming about going on the golden beach, bumping into your shoulder with mine, spinning these wild stories about dublin which were as far away from the real thing as two small town kids could get.

that year you discovered deadly.

every bloody fucking thing was deadly.

dublin too was deadly. getting there would be deadly. last time i saw you in a crowd before moving away from the island you smiled and mouthed deadly again.

i have not heard anyone say it since . i all but forgot the meaning until my plane landed. fuck, the second the ocean turned to black cliffs and green hills my mind went blank. all i saw was sunshine & summer sky, filtered through the broken green glass…

there was this band that played a small music club close to our dorm in dublin. they mostly did covers of old irish folk songs but, you know, metal. they were the worst. perhaps the absolutely worst song they ever covered was “i’ll tell me ma”. every time they started playing that the whole club - including the staff - uttered a tortured groan. and hidden there, behind that groan, a groan that turned the air solid with anguish, was a single excited whistle.

i used to mock you about how much you liked that blasted cover. i spend days thinking about new ways to torture you about it. then, one day, after a particularly vicious joke that made all our friends cackle, i looked at your face and in your eyes i saw a spark of truth. you did not like irish new boys’ rendition of “i’ll tell me ma”. you just liked watching me laugh about it. you just liked… me.

in my mind i left the next day.

i didn’t. there were things to do. finding a flat. buying dictionaries. hugging niamh and promising to stay in touch. but that night, sitting at that club, seeing it in your eyes, that was the second i really left.

two months later, as I was unpacking an ugly vase from a bag, through tears, my phone beeped and recomended me to view your wedding pics. someone was shouting under my window in a language i didn’t understand and i wondered… what if they are shouting "fire"? what if they are warning me to run and i don’t even know.

i deleted all my socials and got used to the strong beer and learned a new language and made new friends and had niamh over for two weeks in summer. she posted some pics of us sitting by the river in the setting sun. you liked it and asked her to say hi. her face fell a little and she tried to hide her phone. i’m not sure whether it was for my benefit, or my girlfriend’s. i think maybe both. not that it made much difference.

back home though.

bringing some heartache, foreign books, ten years worth of baggage. somewhere among the kitchenware there is a mug missing its ear. it says “greetings from prague” and when my last boyfriend gave it me he said one day when i leave him and move back home i will have that to remember him by.

back home, just a few kilometres off now. there is this beach where the sand was so very gold at sunrise. it was very cold when the sun went down, even with the winter sleeping bag. you whispered in my ear and your breath was accompanied by a white puff. in the morning everything was so bright. i woke up first and walked over to the very edge where the water was licking at the bay. i took some pictures on an old point-and-shoot camera. they all came out overexposed. i picked a piece of broken glass, not yet smoothed out by the saltwater. i watched the world through the glass walking back. small, green and peaceful.

throught the green grass your hair looked chartreuse. i stared at the tiny hightlight in it and the way your eyes were such weird mossy green and the smile you had and the way you leaned over to cover me and whispered deadly when our noses met.

ten years later, in the dark, the abandoned bay is silver and your hair in the moonlight would be white.

i extinguish my cigarette, get back in the car and drive back home and still...

it all feels so fucked.