+ we’re heirs to the glimmering world.
oh, come, come be my waitress and serve me tonight
serve me the sky tonight
oh, come, come be my waitress and serve me tonight
serve me the sky with a big slice of lemon
Puck’s a lost boy. Puck’s the epitome of a self-fulfilling prophecy. He’s a loose cannon, loose mouth, loose morals - threads frayed at the edges and coming apart from years of playing up to his peers’ expectations, his mother’s disappointed looks, his father’s absent shadow. He fit the mold he was prescribed so well that he inevitably began believing it himself, still does, thought the way to rise above it was to grow a skin so thick and impenetrable that he became practically bulletproof. People bounced off. He pretended he was okay with it until he was.
When Beth was put up for adoption without his knowledge, Puck, in a phrase, lost it. Not only was he a social pariah to begin with after fucking up his friendships with Finn and Quinn by fucking Quinn, the pent up fury and cagedness he was experiencing came out in the form of vandalism and reckless endangerment. It all ended him in juvie, where he spent six months before being released early on good behavior and with a court mandated therapist riding his ass. He came back to less than nothing, having betrayed his friends’ loyalties, was kicked off all physical extracurricular activities. He was classified as deadbeat, a Lima Loser, no longer so much a bad-ass as a terrifying - but avoidable - figure cutting his way through the halls of McKinley.
Puck had no purpose. He was settling into being okay with that too, and then he had to go and make one friend in an equally socially repugnant kid and everything he’d taught himself to believe was shot to hell.
Dr. Davis would probably say he’s spiraling and Puck would probably agree, except that means he’s turning circles, right? That’s what it is to spiral. Which means he’s in the same place, and Puck figures that’s safer than being out of control. He still has no purpose, but he thinks maybe he can find some.
