Look WhA1 You Made Me Do [Archived] • Page 61

qdoba is good. if i get this one girl she always packs my burrito full of stuff <not a sex thing

 

Bdubs gave me food poisoning once but I’ve kept going there ngl

 

would love to try Qdoba but all the ones around me closed before I could

 

Qdoba was amaze. I miss it.

 

I've seen Qdoba and Moe's around I think. Never seen Tijuana Flats.

Freebird sucks

 

the only thing Ja can get at Denny's

 

about to watch IT for my Halloween movie

 

I enjoy Qdoba

 

About to watch the news for my Halloween movie

Jk probably just going to watch trailer park boys

 

I just smashed my knee into my night stand and now I think I’m not moving from my bed the rest of the night because it is throbbing

 

fuck i did this to the metal divider under my table last night and was screaming inside of my soul RIP Joe

 

id rather eat a notebook than eat at Denny's.

 

please don't eat Ryan Gosling

 

I'll eat the non-carb parts of him.

 

I can't deny my fans what they want, so here you go. I hope you're happy with yourself. Buckle up, bucko:


So, as some of you may know, about 3 years ago my engagement ended when I found out my then fiance had cheated on me with my then best friend, who had been my brother, basically, since second grade. I was crushed, devastated, distraught, angry, hurt, sad, depressed, and lonely. The two most important people in my life had both simultaneously betrayed me at once. On the phone, my fiance's voice sounded so cruel, so painfully...apathetic. She sounded like I was the one who was in the wrong when I asked her why she isn't apologizing for it. "Do you even feel sorry, Victoria? Do you even feel anything at all??" "No."

I thought this was the worst thing that could ever happen to me. I thought I would never feel as angry at anyone as I did those two terrible people...Or so I thought...

I moved back in with my parents and finished my last semester of college, most days I didn't leave my bedroom, eat, or talk with anyone besides my immediate family. I can still picture in my mind the exact pattern of my bedroom ceilings popcorn texture. I can still see the tiny dust trails that lined the antique brass light fixture that always seemed to have one bulb burnt out. I have grown to hate the color orange because for hours every day for weeks on end, all I saw was the incandescent bulbs peak through my lamp shades. It's a disgustingly depressing color.

I'm sure you're thinking, "oh so that's how Dylan got to be the way he is." No, my friend. This act of betrayal, while stinging, was not responsible for me being the cynical, depressed, misanthropic curmudgeon that is here before you today. But, I believe, what follows is my original story, so to speak. The events that are about to unfold are tragic, graphic, and life changing. You have been warned.

After graduation I began running, learning to cook and bake, reading, and all around trying to better myself and begin the healing and recovery process. I was improving both my physical and mental health. Running helped me push through the emotional pain by making my mind focus on the physical pain. My running playlist helped keep me focused with songs about betrayal, cheating, past relationships, and moving on. Forget and Not Slow Down, Dog Problems, Pinkerton, [A--->B] Life, all of the Chorus/AP staples were on there. I felt every negative emotion eject from my mind, rush down my body, and exit through my feet as they hit the pavement with each stride.

Obviously during this time I also began looking for jobs and eventually, after several months, was offered a job in December of 2015, and that's where I am currently working now still. I started in January of 2016 and it's been my favorite job I've ever had. I moved in to my cousin's spare room in their house, rent free, because they lived about 15 minutes from my new job and had a bunch of empty rooms. From January to March I lived there while I began saving money and looking for apartments.

In March of 2016, I eventually secured an apartment and moved in. I was so stoked. It was my first apartment where I lived on my own and I got to decorate it however I wanted to, I took off my pants whenever I wanted to, I did the chores whenever I wanted to, everything was exactly how I wanted it and it was great.

So, I had a good job, my own apartment, and I was finally starting to get past the point where I would have dreams where my ex-fiance or ex-best friend were making appearances. I was progressing, I was improving myself, I was still running, I began working out, I was socializing more. I was finally confident in myself again. My self-worth was no longer defined by the rejection of the two most important people in my life. My self-worth was now my own.

I was ready to let someone into my life, to share my thoughts and feelings with, to spend weekends doing nothing with, to grow together with, someone to which I could open my heart again, for the first time in almost 2 years.

So I did what we all did in 2016 when we were single, horny, desperate, depressed, and masochistic: I downloaded tinder. The first match I received was the very cute 19 year old girl with a bob cut and amazing taste in music with a gorgeous name: Laurel.

We hit it off immediately, trading gifs and favorite songs faster than either of us could keep up with. The banter was effortless, she was as funny and quick witted as she was attractive. So after about a week of just constant texting we decide it was finally time to meet up and I wanted it to be special.

I planned to make her a nice dinner at my house. Shrimp Alfredo with sun dried tomatoes and a fairly expensive wine. I bought candles, flowers, new plates and silverware to impress her. I laid out my tablecloth like a god damn red carpet and I was proud, god dammit. 5 minutes to 6:00 pm, when we planned for her to arrive, I sprayed an extra bit of new cologne, did one last look around to make sure everything was in its right place, and sat at the dinner table next to my front door watching the seconds on my watch tick by.

I still remember it, the moment I opened the door when she knocked. I can still hear in my head exactly the tempo of the tap on the weathered wood frame. My heart jumped into my throat and my stomach fell to the floor. I could barely open my door for her because my hands were so shaky and sweaty. But as soon as I did and saw her smile, a calm warmth passed over me.

You all know me. You know I'm the least sentimental, emotional, love-dovey person on here. But let me tell you, this girl, even if for a brief moment in time when I first saw her on my porch, washed all those negative deeply held personal convictions away.

She wore a black, loose cardigan with a low-cut black tank top, a black lacy choker necklace, with tight dark blue jeans and black leather boots. I don't remember what I said, I don't know if I even said Hi, I don't remember if I could even talk at all, all I remember is how beautiful she looked.

Everything after that, ladies and gentlemen, was a blur. One moment she was standing on my porch with my heart in my throat at 6:01pm, the next I was looking down at my phone and it was 11:30pm, collapsed on my bed, both of us naked and panting, after the most intense 5+ hours of continuous sex I have ever had or probably will ever have for the rest of my life.

We laid there, and she held me, her finger traced around my chest hair and we talked for several more hours. I felt safe, I felt comfortable, I felt...whole. I don't even remember falling asleep, I just recall seeing the light peaking through my curtains and creating a dull halo around her bare porcelain shoulder in the morning.

And that's how it was for several more months. We hung out constantly, laughed all of the time, held each other on my couch after saturday afternoon sessions of record shopping and spinning record after record, and, of course, hours of sex.

It was perfect, things were going so well. I was so happy, so content, pleased, confident, comfortable, and maybe even.....a little in love. I was open with her and with myself. I was excited to see someone everyday, someone to look forward to talk to, to hear about their day, to get excited about planning the next time we'd see each other.

And then everything changed.

It was a Saturday afternoon in June. It was the kind of Saturday in Missouri that you dream of for 9 months out of the year. It was 70 degrees, sunny, a light cool breeze tickled my living room through my open windows and cracked back porch door, like the last soft kiss left over from a bitter winter. Laurel and I were cuddling on my couch, her hands running through my hair, her chin rested on my shoulder and her feet laid across my lap.

We were looking at my phone, trying to find that ever important but equally as unobtainable answer as to what we wanted for lunch on that beautiful Saturday afternoon. After some teasing, tickling, touching, and taunting, I won out with my choice of Red Robin. Laurel said she wanted a mint oreo milkshake while we're there.

We hop in my car, Laurels hand on mine which was on the gear shift. Gaslight Anthems '59 Sound was the perfect song to randomly come up on my iPhone's shuffle as it connected to my car's bluetooth. Windows down, music blasting, Laurel looking at me, her staple bob cut bangs tossing about her face as we drove down the highway. It was something out of a sentimental sundance film.

We park next to a Nissan Altima on the Red Robin parking lot, one that looked just like the one Laurel had been looking at buying at the used car dealership in the next town over last weekend. I joke that my middle class white 55 year old boss drives the same car so that's the perfect car for her. We hold hands, she wraps her other free arm around mine, and I can fee the cotton cardigan against my forearm. It was the same cardigan she wore that first time she came over. And we walk step in step into the restaurant.

The hostess seats us near the back of the restaurant in a booth that is between a young family of 4 that is clearly celebrating their daughters birthday, with balloons and bits of wrapping paper cluttering their booth, and an elderly couple on the other side.

We order our drinkings and we're looking over the menu. I tell Laurel how much I love spicy hamburgers loading with jalapenos, pepper jack cheese, pepper sauce, the works. If I'm not crying at the end of the meal then it's a waste. The waitress brings the Red Robin staple basket of fries, tossed in their seasoning. The red plastic weaved basket with that thin branded butcher paper crinkles under the weight of the fries hitting the table.

I have to tell you something here. If you've been following along and have read up until this point, then good for you. But, I would strongly encourage you to end here. Stop reading, now. Go to another thread. Go text a friend and make plans with them this weekend. Give your mother or father or sibling a call and tell them you love them and miss them. Take time, right now, to go show the people you care about that you love them and are thinking about them. You will never be the same if you continue to read this and I don't want to be responsible for anyone else having to relieve what I had to go through.

Please, again, stop reading now. End it here, and tell yourself that mine and Laurel's date ended well. Believe in your heart that we're still together, that nothing happened out of the ordinary and keep what semblance of innocence and hope you might still have left. Believe that we left that restaurant just as in love and happy as we entered it. It's all I ask, if not for yourself, then do it for me.

If for some reason you want to ruin all things good and decent in this story and you want to keep reading then prepare yourself for what might be the most horrific and terrible thing you will ever read on Chorus.fm. What I'm about to describe is worse than any @Colby Searcy related food opinion. It's worse than any @ChaseTx pun. It's worse than any @iCarly Rae Jepsen joke. It is not for the faint of heart, it is not even for the strong willed. This story should only be read by those who have been hurt like I am about to be hurt in this story. Those that endured the long lasting damage of the loss of love. Those that have nothing but the hollowness of their former selves that they carry around, keeping up appearances of what halfway normal life that they can if only to keep their friends and families from worry about their depressive state of mind.

Anyway, here it goes:

As the waitress laid down would would be the food equivalent of Jesus' sacrifice on the cross in the form of a basket of fries, I was in my own head figuring out what milkshake I wanted. I noticed in my periphery that Laurel's hand was reaching for something near the wall of the booth. I thought nothing of it at the time, but now wish I could go back in time and reach out to stop her. More than preventing the assassination of JFK, more than buying a winning lottery ticket, more than betting on the outcome of a Super Bowl, I wish I had a time machine to stop Laurel's hand.

That moment changed everything in my entire life and it is the reason I stand before you here in this thread today, a broken, empty, shell of a man. I am angry all of the time, I am stressed and anxious all of the time, I have high blood pressure, my hair is thinning, my brain is depressed, I think of how lucky I would be to get in a freak accident and die unexpectedly every day on my drive to and from work just so I can get it over with. And Laurel is the reason why.

I pay no attention to what I noticed in my periphery. I see her hand reach for something and then retract. I hear the pop of a plastic tab, I hear the sputtering of the nozzle, and I look up to see the most gruesome, painful, disgusting gore in my life. Honestly, everyone, I can't put to words accurately what transpired that day, but I will try my best.

As soon as I hear the "pffft" of the nozzle I look up and my jaw drops to the table. Laurel has both her small porcelain hands clasped around this Heinz ketchup bottle. Her pupils are dilated, her eyes wide with what I can only imagine is pure, unadulterated evil that she has summoned with witchcraft or a deal with the Devil himself. The smile on her face is lusting at the sight that is unfolding before us both.

Ketchup is going everywhere. It's a bloodbath. The fries are covered. It's like a battle scene out of Game of Thrones. Red liquid is running all over our table like a scene out of Dexter. It was chaos in ketchup form. It was the single most traumatic thing that has ever happened to me in my entire life.

Why would she does this? Why would she hurt me on purpose?? Does she not care about me? Am I not worth caring about? Am I not worthy of love? Am I wrong?

No this wasn’t my fault. I knew it wasn’t. What she did does not happen in polite society. What she did should be read aloud by the undertaker before she is put under the guilitine in the public square.

She. Put. Ketchup. On. Top. Of. The. Fries.

ON.

TOP.

WHAT THE FUCK. WHO DOES THAT??

It’s disgusting, impolite, and inhuamne. Society has laws. One of those laws being that we put our ketchup either in paper cups next to our meal or we move our fries to the side and make a small pile of ketchup for dipping the fries into. You never. Never. Ever. Put any condiment on top of fries. They’re fries. NOT NACHOS.

If we do not abide by these laws as a society, we are no better than the beasts of the field and sea. We are monsters. We do not deserve fries if we believe they should have ketchup placed atop them.

I asked her, exsasperated but trying not to make a scene, “Laurel, what the FUCK are you doing?”

“What? Do you not like ketchup? I’m sure the waitress can bring out another basket if we ask. The fries are free and unlimited so I’m sure they won’t mind.”

“That’s not the point!!” I exclaimed through a tightly clenched jaw.

SHE PROCEEDS TO PICK UP A KETCHUP COVERED FRY AND PLACE IT IN HER MOUTH LIKE A PREDATOR EATING ITS KILL.

Then...Oh then. I can’t believe I’m even saying this. And I can’t believe it even happened. But it did. I swear on my own mothers grave, god bless her soul, this happened truthfully.

Laurel looked at her fingers that previously picked up the fry, now bloodstained with ketchup, and licked her fingers IN FRONT OF ME! She. Licked. Her. Fingers.

Honestly, shortly after witnessing the manic expression on Laurel’s face and watching as the fries were violated and desecrated and as laurel licked her fingers, I blacked out.

I don’t remember the rest of the meal, I don’t remember what we talked about. I don’t remember leaving the restaurant, and I don’t remember driving home. All I remember is being literally shell shocked. You know when you watch any World War II movie and the scrawny, Edward norton looking protagonist has his first experience with the bloodbath of the battlefield? How the speakers screech the sounds of shellshock? Just that high pitch ringing and we’re looking through the eyes of the main character but his vision is blurred? That’s exactly what happened here.

I remember coming to, being aware, hearing Laurels voice. It sickened me. I didn’t want to hear her speak. I didn’t want to look at her face. I didn’t want to touch her. I wanted her to go away forever. I wanted her to pay for what she did to me.

I said I wasn’t feeling well. She offered to come up and cuddle with me to make me feel better. I told her it was best she left.

She got in her car, still not understanding what was really going on. What was really wrong. How she hurt me worse than I’ve ever been hurt before. How what she did was 1000x worse than being cheated on and being betrayed by the two most important people in my life. She wasn’t even human to me at this point. She drove off.

I looked through my blinds, my head against the cool glass pane. I watched as her small black coupe scooted down the street. I sighed. My breath fogged the window and my legs felt....weak. My knees felt shaky. I knew. What I had to do.

I had to take matters into my own owns. I had to correct the universe, I had to balance out her evil. Even if it meant destroying myself in the process. Even if it meant placing my hand on the demigorgon like brave Eleven and sacrificing myself for the greater good.

I opened iMessage. I tapped on her name. I sighed. All the feelings of the last several months flooded over me. All my happiness, my comfort, my security, my mental health, it was all over. I was a different man. what I saw changed me.

I typed what I had to. I cried. I cried a lot. I cried more than I’ve ever cried. I cried until I literally could not cry anymore. I cried until my tongue was dry and chalky. I cried until my body craved water.

I closed the app. I sat my phone down. It was done.

“Hey, I think we should stop seeing each other.”

And that, everyone, is not only the story about how I can never go back to Red Robin. But it’s also the story of how I got to be who I am today. It’s why I’m angry all the time. It’s why I am pessimistic about everything. It’s why I can never see anything positively. It’s why I put up so many barriers to others. It’s why I self sabotage. It’s why I can never trust again.

When you see me post, when you wonder why I am being that way. I want you to think of that day. I want you to think of laurel. I want you to think of those poor fries who didn’t deserve what happened to them. I want you to think “ketchup.”

 

Dylan is Joey

 

That was...a story I read.

 

Holy shit this is the greatest post in chorus history

 

I feel like I understand Dylan so much more now and everything makes sense

Ketchup on top of fries. My god

 

@dylan you are a fucking god. I honestly can not describe to you how hard I was laughing while reading that. I haven’t laughed that hard in awhile, I swear to god. That’s brilliant holy shit.

 

I have tears in my eyes from reading it

 

Same lol

Dylan you’re a wordsmith

 

im depressed after reading it

 

Btw Dylan I have totally put ketchup on top of fries, depending on the situation. Hope we can still be friends