Rott3nlamb - Rotten

At my funerals play the entire perverts album of ethel cain or ill make a big ass storm and become an evil entity

John but he's wearing leather chaps that form a heart around his butt

I was so scared chapter five begun that I decided to replay rdr1

i know it’s a dumb cheat code but i’m not listening lalala it’s actually god (the strange man) speaking to john because he’s running around like a maniac killing folk for being a little snarky and building an even higher price on his head and hunting bounty hunters for sport because ranch life makes him feel miserable and useless and too fucking still, and it wasn’t enough to see micah’s brain matter scattered over the snow, it wasn’t enough to see dutch’s last act of care and kindness towards him because he still looked at him with disappointment in his eyes and he left him again, alone on top of a mountain with nothing but bleeding friends and gold that sits heavily in his pockets like the grief in his throat.

“If you desire to be good, begin by believing that you are wicked.”

— Epictetus, Fragments

i need to kiss whoever decided to give RDR2 epilogue john marston a goddamn red choker. and whoever made him bark like a dog BOTH when drunk and sober.

i love epilogue john with short hair oouuuuhooo i love him there is just something about it auuhhhhh something something trauma and recovery and intense desire to rid himself of this brutal past that haunts him so deeply but he never can and never will and it will never be enough, he will hide his face and introduce himself as an imposter until his real name sounds like a vulgar obscenity on his tongue, he will bite his tongue and bury his nature and keep his revolver holstered until his hands twitch with excitement and he tastes iron and feels at home, he will scrub his skin raw trying to erase phantom hands and he will cut his hair with a dull knife until his head is bleeding his knuckles ache and his back itches and the river will carry the hair, the blood, the grime and shame and longing scrubbed from the tender skin between his legs downstream and he will imagine that he is clean, he will imagine that he has cut the last bit of them out of his life for good, he will imagine a life of peace and forgiveness and acceptance until he feels a cold breeze on his bare neck and a sickening warmth in his gut and a heavy gnawing pain in his chest and he hears those terrible, awful, heartbreaking whispers of “son” and “brother” on the wind and he isn’t crying, he isn’t crying, he isn’t crying

please just let me go

journal page for johnny too yayy