My dad credits this as his favorite photo of me.
When I was younger, I was very socially anxious. I hated crowds, hated attention, hated being up on stage. In preschool there was this little Halloween show that we put on, and man, I did not want to do that shit, let me tell you. All those parents watching me sing some stupid song? Nah, that ain’t me.
But I was forced to, and I was pissed about it. My dad was in the audience, taking pictures and enjoying the show. In that moment, I swear, my tiny four year old was pure rage and resentment. I felt the word “fuck” years before I knew what it was.
My dad pointed the camera at me, and I turned, and I looked. I gave him the look that summed up all the anger, all the absolute fury that was brewing inside me. He says that he had never before seen such a perfect depiction of total and complete hatred. In his four year old son.
To this day whenever I get pissed, he calls me “Buzz Lightyear”.
I felt the word “fuck” years before I knew what it was.
The thing that sucks about mental illness is that if you aren’t depressed enough, suicidal enough, bad enough, nobody cares. Nobody cares until you reach their standard, and that standard is when your problem is bad enough to effect them
The amount of people who can relate to this makes me equally incredibly sad and immensely angry
Five Times the Sheriff Found Derek Hale in His Son’s Bedroom
“Is that even possible?” asks Harry.
All of them stare at him for several seconds, and then Louis says, “What, coming untouched?”
“Christ,” Zayn mutters, throwing his hands up. “This fucking band, I swear.”
…or, Harry wants to see if he can come without touching his cock and ends up getting more than he bargained for.