maybe i’m cheating here, but i don’t really care, cause there’s no other way i could say what i want to say:
i don’t know what i did to get you in my life.
cause here’s the thing: i’ve fucked up. i’ve fucked up a looooott.
and somehow, the universe saw me fit to deserve you. was i a baby-saving organ donor nun in a past life? maybe. clearly i did something right, because now i have you.
i was talking to ry about this the other day- he messaged me telling me how superior panic was to fob, and being the dick i was, i was set to say how shitty you were (i know, i know. i’m sorry.)
but then, somehow i realized. hey, i thought. these kids are fucking good. and then i made one of the best decisions i probably ever made ever: i replied.
where would i be if i didn’t ever respond to that message? probably either in rehab or dead, cause you gave me something i needed even back then.
so i responded, and we talked, and i flew out to vegas, and i signed you. and there were things in between- like watching you perform (brendon had-still has-the most natural charisma i’ve ever seen. it’s beautiful, watching him onstage, like it’s what he was born to do.) watching you perform, and having meetings with you about the band where you mostly just had me buy you food, and okay, yeah, fucking ryan in hotel rooms.
shitty thing to do, i know, but you need to remember i was absolutely out of my fucking mind at this point. and there was this boy, all skinny wrists and awkward long limbs and big brown eyes, and he was so fucking adoring, so fucking pretty, and i’m only fucking human. couldn’t resist him then, can’t now. so that happened, and i got everything set with the label, and then i went back to la.
and i went back to fucking strangers and shoving needles in my veins and pills down my throat. i think that maybe some part of me thought that if i died, panic could be my parting gift to the world. something to offer in my place.
i’m so fucking glad i didn’t.
and around then, things were messy. cause i was still getting through the aftermath of mikeyway, and none of the words had been coming out right, not since i left vegas, and somewhere in the middle of that i went to best buy. and you know that, you’ve heard that story, so i don’t want to repeat it. bren cried, i told him i was okay now, and we snuggled, and it was okay because we always are.
fast forward. i’ve been fucking up like i do. less severely, ever since the best buy-i’m still drinking like a middle-aged trophy wife trying to forget her husband’s affairs, but i’m not taking the pills anymore, nothing stronger than alcohol and weed sometimes.
and you guys start to make it. i don’t talk to you much, don’t talk to anyone much, besides patrick, but i hear things, and i hear that you’re doing so fucking good out there in the world. and i feel so fucking proud of you.
i go to a few shows. brendon is radiant, ryan beaming despite his outward emo-ness, the kids are looking at you like they’re witnessing the rapture.
i hear that you’re dating, dating each other. and maybe i’m kind of jealous like i always am, but i’m happy, cause that feels right like things never do anymore. my brain doesn’t know what to do with the holes the pills used to fill, and maybe hearing that makes it ache a little less.
i finish writing. we release cork tree. we tour.
ten months back from today:
i find out my ex-girlfriend- the First One, the only one back then who wasn’t mikey- i find out she’s getting married. and maybe it doesn’t mean much- thinking about it now, i don’t feel anything. but then, it triggered something, and maybe i locked myself inside my house for two weeks, and maybe i only left cause i was out of liquor and poptarts. and then after that, i left sometimes, but we took a break from performing. and the doors weren’t technically locked, but everybody knew i wasn’t leaving.
i had a lot of existential crisises then. lay on my floor a lot. i considered it a lot-dying. i didn’t, well, obviously, cause i’m still here. but i thought about it. i thought about it every day.
i didn’t have the energy to die.
and then i heard from you again, months later. and we had texted sporadically, sure. talked band stuff. you said you liked the album and i said the same for yours. it didn’t really mean much.
and then we started talking again, both of you on your tour buses wherever you were and me off in la locked in my mansion with my dog (who got very tired of my shit, by the way.) and it made me happy in a way that things didn’t do anymore.
here’s my favorite part: i convinced you to visit, and you did. and you flew out here and you came here and you stayed and you never left, and i really hope you never will.
you make me better. it sounds weird, i know. see, though, patrick keeps me sane, and you keep me better. you make me want to make myself someone worthy of you. and im going to try to make that happen, no matter how much i fucked up before.
and people say things, and people ask questions, and they don’t think that we work. but we do, and that’s what matters. me being yours and you being mine, that’s what matters, cause we fit, and we make it work. and maybe someday all the old scars are going to fade, but if they don’t that’s okay too, cause we’re going to kiss them better, and even if they don’t go away they won’t be things of sadness anymore.
it’s early, and you’re sleeping. i never went to bed. i don’t normally. i’m at the foot of the bed- you’re curled together like you always are, fit perfectly like you should. i’m probably going to put my laptop away and join you after i stop writing this. i want to be with you even if i don’t end up falling asleep (and let’s be real, i won’t.)
thank you for staying. thank you for existing. thank you for putting up with my bullshit.
i love you so fucking much.