#//I would do a project or something but Man. you have no idea how unmotivated I am

[heathersdesk]

Maybe this is just me. But I am deeply attached to the idea that I don't need to be ordained to have access to God's power and authority, to act with priesthood. I want to see us lean into that more.

I want to see the idea of power separated exclusively from priesthood, rather than priesthood from gender. That's what this idea represents to me. I think this lays the ground work for a more respectful and meaningful way forward in our relationship with LGBTQ+ members, men who never serve in leadership positions, as well as other religious people outside of our own faith. It acknowledges the sacredness in all people by virtue of their place in the human family, which we all possess from birth. Especially in the ways it challenges us to see God in others outside of our own.

So the corollary to that being that Brother, not Elder, would be the most important title a man has in church. It gives recognition to the holiness in what men do when they're not in a position where they would officiate in ordinances or serve in leadership. I've often wondered at the general malaise I've witnessed from just about every Elders Quorum I've ever seen, and I think this is part of it. They don't know what it means to use and wield divine power and authority outside of presiding and performing ordinances, which means they view everything outside of those realms as being without that power and authority. They don't know what it means to see the power and authority of God in caregiving tasks, rather than administrative ones. So when they're helping someone move, or doing yardwork for someone, or cleaning the building, or (fellas, you need this one) making treats for their lessons, they don't see the divine influence or intervention when they do those tasks. Those tasks are relegated to women because they allegedly don't need priesthood to do them. But at the same time, "women do it better" because they can take a simple caregiving task and make it into a holy thing in a way they've never been able to replicate. They reason that it comes to women through their gender, rather than the power of God. Caregiving is woman's domain because it doesn't require priesthood, but ask any of them what good priesthood leadership looks like and they will inevitably describe a caregiver.

Sisters do nothing that is necessarily connected to their gender because love is not a gendered experience. Brothers can do it equally as well when they're allowed and care enough. And one of the worst consequences of the divide between Elders Quorum and Relief Society is how it deprives caregiving from men, not just administration from women. While women pass around sign up sheets for meal assignments, drives, service projects, and what to bring for various parties and activities, men rarely get to participate. I remember in my last ward, the idea of passing around the dinner calendar for the missionaries in Elders Quorum was some kind of new revelation. Why? Is it really such an alien notion that priesthood has a necessary connection to caregiving? That those with priesthood and no one to care for because we've outsourced all those tasks to the Relief Society could be the reason men are unmotivated and checked out at church?

Men allegedly have all the priesthood, but women do all the messy and exhausting work of taking care of others in the unit? But we don't consider what women do powerful, inspired, or prophetic enough to call what they do "priesthood," even though the ward would cease to function without them? Why? The same efficient and engaged caregiving that would make men model priesthood holders ceases to be priesthood when women are doing it? God forbid.

Caregiving is included in the first lessons women learn in life because it's what being a Sister is. I'm the eldest sister of one sister in my family, and this wasn't something I was taught. It's a position I decided upon for myself from the moment my sister was born. Sisters take care of each other. Sisters love. Sisters teach. Sisters share what they have. They keep everyone safe. They make sure everyone is fed, clothed, healthy, and happy. They stop fights. They help with chores. Sisters stand in for their parents when their parents aren't at home. What is any divine authority but the same familial trust that is placed in the hands of women from their earliest years in almost every family structure that exists?

My lived experience of wielding power at church has always looked like the caregiving of a Sister, and I've been called the same thing the entire time. When I served my mission, when I've worked in my callings, when I've shared my testimony, taught lessons, spoken in church, performed in assignments, served in the temple, and in any other function I will ever have, no matter where it is in the church hierarchy, I am always a Sister. That's who I've been since before I was married. That's who I am to the Church now that I'm married, even though I don't have children. Wherever I go and whomever is with me, the title of Sister goes with me.

Sister, to me, is a priesthood office. To the extent that I operate at all in God's name and with divine power, I do it as a Sister. And even if I were ordained, I don't think that would change. That's still what I would be called.

Women in the Church have complex feelings about ordination. Do we need it? Do we want it? What would we get from it if we had it? There are women who have said for years they don't feel like they need it and wouldn't welcome it if it's was offered to them. They perform the work they do just fine without it. They don't want any additional responsibilities, just recognition for how much they're already doing. And some, perhaps, would find the potential of administrative leadership over an entire ward or stake to be intimidating and overwhelming. They want to lower their odds of it ever happening to them. But is that not what women in church leadership ultimately experience? Caring for women and children has always meant caring for families. Caring for families means administering to the entire unit. This is what women in leadership already do. But for some reason, we've accepted the conditioning that the work we do is lesser in power and importance—to the point of titling it differently—because women are doing it.

I wonder how much of that feeling in women comes from the recognition that so many men in the Church are unprepared to do the caregiving tasks we've been doing for so long. If it all fell to them, would we end up doing everything when the learned incompetence kicks in? Women don't want that. I think that's the biggest reason many of them push back against ordination. And my question for many to consider is: are they wrong? And if they're not, what are we doing with that recognition? If the idea of ordaining women would create such an unacceptable power imbalance because of how much women are already doing, what are men going to do to start pulling their equal share of the caregiving weight? And when are they going to do it?

Complimentarianism is the issue here, which isn't the same thing as gender being the problem. Genders, like emotions, are morally neutral. It's what we do with them that's the problem. Sequestering skills and tasks by gender means none of us get to fully develop as people. Getting rid of the sequestering of skills and abilities is the only viable way towards non-gendered ordination, if it ever happens. But even if we don't ever have a more universal form of ordination, the Church would be a more pleasant space for everyone if we created more of a cultural expectation of everyone pulling their own weight, and letting them do that independent of their gender.

I've had one truly phenomenal home teacher/ministering brother in almost 18 years of church experience. After my husband had a serious accident in our car, he picked it up from the scene of the accident and cleaned all of my husband's blood out of the upholstery. I never even had to see it in that state. I never even had to leave the hospital for any of that. In the worst experience of my life, he took care of something I had no idea how to handle. It was done without me having to ask for it, in coordination with everyone else who watched over us and came to see us in that experience. When I think of a man using his priesthood for good, that's what I think of. It's not just the blessing of healing my husband got in the hospital. It's the caregiving to discern a person's genuine need and showing up to fill it exactly the way they need it done. That's a spiritual practice, not just a practical one.

Caregiving is priesthood. Priesthood is caregiving. And if Brothers are priesthood holders when they are caregivers, then so are Sisters. If ordinances are the pearls on a necklace, and all the caregiving in between them is the strand, let's get rid of every notion of one being more important than the other. It's all priesthood, and ordination isn't necessary for so much of it to be acceptable and pleasing to God. All of it together is necessary, and it would be incomplete without the offering that each person makes, no matter what their gender is. And rather than saying this is a post-gender perspective, it's simply a human one. Much of what I've said is inseparable from my experience as a woman in the Church, but it's not exclusive or unique to women. I'm part of a community that includes all genders, whether the Church likes it or not, and we're all essential.

Every human in the Church is essential to God's plan. And I think we should be more open to and honest about the implications of what that truly means. We're all caregivers with care and service that only we individually can give. God won't always be able to raise up another in our stead if we bow out and stop showing up. There is love only we can give and we will have every power on earth and in heaven at our disposal to give it if we ask for it, no matter who we are.

So go show divine love to someone today that could move mountains. Even if that person is yourself. You have the power of God, regardless of ordination status. Go see what miracles you can do with it.

"Sister" as a priesthood office.

Discuss.

[trivoid-r]

happy aro week everyone! we are allowed to do whatever we want actually. commit suspicious activities. hold knives. safely enjoy fire. do archery. and anarchy

I don't have anything funny to say just hope all fellow arospecs are doing well. gently handing you a +5 to physical and mental health because we all need it

[bonesthebeloved]

Loud talking, mushy thoughts

Trigger/squick warning: UNSYMPATHETIC VIRGIL, PATTON AND LOGAN, shouting (caps), Crying, dismissal of feelings, selfdoubt, mild violence (Remus knocks roman out) threatening of violence, mention of minor injury (very brief) manipulative behaviour (if I forgot anything please do let me know)

Summary: Roman goes to live with Remus and Deceit after being mistreated by his 'family' for so long.

(not beta read)

-

"WHY THE HELL IS YOUR BROTHER UNCONSCIOUS ON OUR COUCH REMUS?!"

"He was crying! I didn't know what else to do!"

"Knock everyone BUT HIM out maybe?"

A long pause, followed by Remus slowly widening his eyes in realisation. "Ohhhhhh."

Deceit let go of a frustrated sigh. Pinching the bridge of his nose and looking the still very much knocked out Prince messily displayed on their livingroom couch.

"Satan give me strength."

-

Roman was... Not having a good day. To put it lightly.

To put it not lightly would be saying that he was having a horrendous day and that everything that was able to go wrong, seemed to be doing just that.

He'd not been able to sleep the night before and, when looking in the mirror, had promptly decided that he'd rather not face the person on the other side and covered it up with a duvet that had needed a washing for a good few days now but that he had simply not gotten the time or energy to wash yet.

He'd gotten dressed and taken his first step on the stairs. And then his second one. And then his third.

By the seventh step he miscalculated and lost his balance, skipping over steps eight to fourteen and landing with a series of thuds and a surprised shout of pain at the very bottom.

When getting up, he noticed that all three other sides were in the room with him and staring. Virgil shrugging right as they made eyecontact and turning around again. Logan, rather dramatically, rolling his eyes and turning the page of the book he was reading and Patton, after taking a step towards him and seeming to think it over in his mind, shaking his head and returning to cleaning up three breakfast plates off the table.

They'd started, and evidently finished, eating breakfast without him.

He'd taken an apple out of the fridge and decided that would do for breakfast and, after wanting to settle down on the couch but being given a stern look from Logan which was so vocal he could almost hear it say 'don't you have work to do?' he retreated back to his room. To his little desk with empty coffeemug and too much paper in the bin, to work on his ideas.

That is, he would have done so. If he'd come up with even a single good one.

He thought he had! Oh, he'd had three beautifully worked out and handcrafted ideas for future projects in his hand when he'd gone downstairs again.

He thought he had, until he'd handed them to Logan who had looked over his black frames and had very slowly raised a single eyebrow as he read on.

He'd returned to his room with the three perfectly sculpt ideas punched into a muddy lumpy mush. A mush that would, as soon as he slammed the door shut just loud enough for it to send vibrations through the wooden flooring he was standing on, land in the bin next to the other mushy ideas that he hadn't even dared to show Logan.

It hadn't been a good day, that day. With Patton finally bringing up the wedding and questioning him about why I'm the world he'd wanted to go to the callback. He spoke like it was a police interrogation rather than a friendly discussion and Roman felt himself slowly move back on how chair until it was balancing on two legs only.

It hadn't been a good day because Virgil, as soon as he'd gotten wind of the conversation, began to talk to him so loudly Roman asked him to stop shouting. But Virgil said he wasn't shouting so he continued to very loudly talk and ask him why he was siding with Deceit. Why he was trusting that monster and why he was acting so self-absorbed lately. Patton went on to ask why he was being so selfish. The soft question hitting harder than all of Virgil's loud talking could ever do, leaving his self-image broken and bruised crying inside of him to stop, stop please stop!

It hadn't been a good day to put it lightly because now he was sitting in the livingroom, all of the others there but miles away and all of them sitting frozen. Unmoving and unmotivated to do so in the near future as Remus sat down next to him.

"What's wrong brother mine? Did somebody die? Did you accidentally drown your pet squirrel again?"

There was no again. There wasn't even a squirrel because that was very much not the reason for his being close to tears but Remus didn't know that. And Remus was trying to help in his own special way and his brother could apprechiate that. Did appreciate it very much infact.

But when he was sitting in the same room as the reasons for his being glum, with his brother poking the sore spots on his ego over and over again, the apprechiation lessened to something more resembling a stiff nod of acknowledgement.

"Did somebody hurt your feelings? Did Poor Pattycakes make you feel selfish again? He's still upset about you siding with double Dee's isn't he? Oh! Or maybe Logan said your ideas were stupid like he did to me! Is that it Roro?"

Roman wanted to say something. The something he wanted to say at the moment was a loud and repeated yes. But instead he sat silently. Head bowed and eyes sneakily on the other sides. They all acted like nothing was wrong. The documentary on the TV currently explaining what exactly bombs were filled with and how they filled them.

"Oh maybe Veve was being a big meanie again too! Did he shout at you? Oh I remember how loud his shouting could get. Your ears must hurt because of it, don't they Ro?"

The TV was explaining how the fuse was inserted and made to stay in place as Roman bawled his fists.

"Oh but maybe it's not only today right? Dee told me that they don't listen to you. Is that true Roro? Do the mean 'light sides' not listen to you? That must hurt a lot. I bet you're really doubting your purpose as a side right now aren't you? I bet you-"

And as the TV showed how the fuse was lit and the bomb exploded, Roman burst into tears.

The reactions were as he thought they'd be. Concern, from a small part of the room. And disgust and dismissal from the other 3/5th of it.

Remus had taken his hands off his brothers shoulder and arm like he'd suddenly become glowing hot. Brows knitted in confusion and mouth slightly open from the shock that his brothers sudden outburst had installed in him.

The other three, instead, acted very much like his brother wasn't fully breaking down on the other end of the couch.

Logan simply took the remote and turned up the volume of the TV so he could hear the commentators announce their next topic being how stained glass is manufactured and turning towards the TV with a nonchalance of a man knowing he's doing the right thing by turning the other cheek.

Patton let out a sigh and, after rolling his eyes dramatically, almost theatrically, he simply said 'stop being dramatic Roman. You're fine.' before getting up to refill his teacup.

Virgil scoffed at the crying Prince as if his tears were personally insulting him and just stared him down in the hopes that this tactic would shut him up.

But Roman didn't, shaking now, nose running and tears making the most quiet pat pat pat sound as they landed on his trousers, creating light grey stains on the pure white pants.

More comments like Patton's first one were thrown his way. Some half-heartedly thrown like an Un-enthusiastic kid in highschool. Some curved balled his way so hard it would leave bruises.

And slowly Remus began to panic.

He panicked over why this was happening. Panicked over why his brother's friends didn't seem to care at all. Simply tried to stifle him. Shut him up so he wouldn't be a disturbance in their otherwise seemingly uneventful day.

Panicked, because his brother too, was now muttering the words 'it's fine. I'm fine it's fine I'm fine I'm fineimfineimfineimfine-' over and over again like a broken record or a pray circle chant and Remus panicked.

He panicked so much that he shouted 'I'm leaving!' right into his brothers ear, making him flinch, before quickly running towards the door.

He paused with his hand still on the doorknob.

Because he realised this wasn't good. He realised something important that he didn't quite know of yet. Didn't quite grasp onto yet but he realised it. And it wasn't good news.

So he panicked. Summoning his mace and knocking his brother square on the head. Roman sitting straight up for a split second due to the shock and then passing out fully. Falling forward, face first into the carpet and tear streaks down his face slowly coming to a stop.

The room was dead silent, most of them frozen in shock, one of them frozen due to being unconscious, as Remus grabbed his brothers legs and lifted him, with a bit of effort, over his shoulders.

The room stayed dead silent when he straightened himself, looking around with eyes slightly too wide and lips still unparted.

"I-... See ya!" He said quickly, before sinking out and into the hallway leading to his safe place. The place he was safe. The one he needed to bring his brother who hadn't seemed so safe in his own safe place.

-

Deceit was so close to loosing his sanity that he might as well throw those last few braincells in the bin aswell, he thought, as he looked at the body of Romano creativity 'Princey' Sanders, messily sprawled out over his livingroom couch.

"Remus, would you come here for a second buddy?"

Remus nodded, getting up from where he had been sitting cross-legged on the floor, looking at his brother laying there. Silently. Unmoving. Unconscious.

"Remus my dear. Would you please explain to mE WHAT HAPPENED?"

Remus tried to explain. Truly he did. But it's hard to explain when you still haven't quite gotten to realise what you realised. He knew it was important now. He knew it wasn't a positive thing too. It couldn't be, with Roman breaking down like that.

But Deceit hadn't slept well the previous night and, much like Roman, he hadn't had a good day. His was considerably less filled with humiliations and accusations. But he had spilled coffee over his favourite shirt and Remus had knocked over one of his cacti, smashing it's hand-painted pot so he was allowed to atleast mention it.

What followed was rather loud. Loud enough for Roman to stir in his un-wake and slowly start to wake up.

"WHY THE HELL IS YOUR BROTHER UNCONTIOUS ON OUR COUCH REMUS?!"

"He was crying! I didn't know what else to do!"

"Knock everyone BUT HIM out maybe?"

At Remus his noise of realisation Roman managed to crack an eye open. Finding he was laying on a rather soft couch in a rather dark room with rather loud company.

"Why was he crying then?" Deceit said, after letting go of another long sigh and trying to find a way to calm himself before he punched somebody, preferably Remus with how this conversation was going.

"I don't know! He looked like something was wrong and he wouldn't tell me what was wrong so I started guessing! The others acted like nothing was wrong though and that was weird."

Deceit sighed, took his hat of and flung it towards a corner of the room before combing his hands through his hair. Tugging at it once and facing Roman who was still laying on the couch.

"Roman I know you're awake. Why don't you tell me why you were crying and then I can decide if I need to kill either Remus or your precious family hm?"

Roman stayed silent as he slowly sat up straight. Fumbling with the cuffs on his sleeves, not meeting Deceit's eye.

Said side crouched down and said, in a much softer voice than Roman had ever heard him use (Remus did know it very well but as he didn't say we won't mention it) and softly called out for him.

"Hey, can you look at me please? We only want to help you Ro, I promise you that."

Roman nodded and, dropping the bravado he normally put on for a moment, he was truly being honest.

"Remus his guesses were... A bit too accurate. And I hadn't been having a great day and the others were just there acting like none of those things were true and I-" he cut himself off then, finding he'd choked up again. Deceit just reached out for him slowly. Hand hovering just moments away from touching his own and, after Roman nodded in response to the question if it was alright if he touched him, his hand was grabbed and thumbs ran over knuckles.

Remus sat down cross-legged again. Close but not too close. There but not too present.

He was slowly beginning to unwrap the thoughts he'd grasped then. And he didn't like his present one bit.

"Do you want to tell us what Remus said that was correct?" Deceit said and Roman was nodding as soon as the words had left his mouth. Desperate for comfort. Desperate to talk. For somebody to listen to him for once.

Desperate for the chance Deceit was giving him.

So Roman told them about his not too great day and about how he'd missed step seven on the stairs, showing then his bruised back and scrapped hands.

He told them about the apple and the mushy ideas in his bin and about how the documentary hadn't been his choice.

And then he kept talking.

He told them about how he'd been feeling for the last few months and how it hadn't been happy feelings. He told them about how mushy ideas had become more frequents and dismissal had been something he'd gotten used to.

He told them about not being heard and about lines being rewritten by others because his weren't good enough.

When the evening came they sat together on the floor infront of the couch. Eating parshly cold and parshly mushy noodles because they'd let them sit for too long as they talked and talked and didn't talk for a while before talking again.

And when Deceit offered that he could stay the night and every othernkugjt if he so pleased, Roman had said he'd sleep on the couch for the night.

And if he woke up in his own room the next morning, well, you wouldn't see him complaining.

And if said room had a door that led to a different livingroom than it had lead to for all of his life then he didn't mind.

He simply greeted his brother, trying to get used to being so close again. Trying to find a way to orbit around the same earth as he without clashing again.

And he simply thanked Deceit when he arrived at the table and saw three plates there and eggs and bread and orange juice and water and tea that had cooled down slightly.

They'd waited for him.

-

After they'd finished breakfast and cleaned up Remus very timidly asked if he liked where his room was now. And after Roman had told him that he liked it very much, he asked him a little less timidly if they could pay his family a visit.

The term family felt like a jacket that didn't quite fit when it was applied to the three sides but he'd nodded either way. And after they'd gotten all dressed up and Roman had stared at the mirror still covered with his old duvet wondering if he'd ever be able to face the man on the other side, they were off.

Roman walked towards their common room with a darkside on each side.

He'd never tell them why is ment this much to be able to walk in the middle and not on the side or behind them. But they seemed to know. And Deceit laid a hand on his shoulder for a brief second and gave him a tight-knit smile.

"Where have you been?!"

They stood in the middle of the common room, infront of the TV that was displaying a documentary on black holes on pause.

"Roman?" Remus said, looking at his brother closely. Watching a stop motion of microexpressions flicker over his face that got significantly less micro when Patton crossed his arms and, rather loudly, told him to 'just spit it out Roman!'

Deceit had understood though. And he stepped infront of the two brothers after Roman had given him a quiet confirmation that he was allowed to speak for him.

"We're taking Roman in. He's going to be living with us from now on."

"You're kidnapping him?!" Virgil said very loudly. But it wasn't shouting. Never shouting.

"No. We asked if he would like to and he agreed that it was the best choice. He's fully willing to and we've already moved his room."

"Why isn't he telling us himself then? The fact that he isn't making this more dramatic than it needs to be us suspicious. Don't you think so Logan? Of course you do."

Deceit's eyes flickered to Logan as Patton mentioned him. Seeing a flash of something like longing, of something like guilt, like begging him to tell Roman that he was sorry.

"You've broken him down enough for him to not want to. Now if you'll excuse us, -" he began, nodding once as the brothers began to leave. "- we only stopped by to announce the news to you so we'll be going." Roman was shaking with relief. "HOWEVER." And suddenly he was shaking with something very different.

"If I get even the slightest indication that EITHER or you do as much as GLANCE at him in a wrong way, I'll not be held responsible for how Remus might act to protect his brother."

Patton took a step back at that while Virgil simply snarled and gave Deceit the bird.

Logan sat silently. Very very quietly in the same place he'd been sitting for the entire time they had been there. Looking down at his knees.

"Tasteful Virge. Very very charming. And Logan-" The logical traits head snapped up to meet Deceit's eye. Gaze wandering towards Roman for a moment to determine that he was indeed watching him intendly.

"-if there's anything you wish to talk about or apoligise for, you're welcome to come by sometime. Make sure you shut the door though. We wouldn't want pests getting in."

The last part was growled towards the other two sides and Remus cackled in delight at the remark as he grabbed the handle and pushed the door open.

As soon as they were far enough away Deceit turned to Roman who had been clutching his brothers arm rather tightly for the entirety of the conversation.

"Are you alright Roman?"

Roman looked up then. Tears staining his cheeks but a smile Deceit found was very much a genuine one on his face as he looked at him.

"I'm not. But I think I will be."

-

AN: Ceno, if you're reading this, thank you for ranting with me about unsympathetic Virgil and Patton and giving me this story idea. You're great and the best unoffical sister I could have wished for.

-

Tags: @purp-man @crazycookie13o @deceitifullies101 @sapphire-knight @ragingdumpsterfiremess @chronophobica @lance-alt @mylifeisadeceit @itriedandimtired @unsympatheticpatton @unsympa-side-ic

(if you would like to be added or removed from the taglist simply send me an ask/message)

[lostgirlinthewoods]

GHOSTLORE | pjs x reader

- horror!au

Description:  There was no point in denying that Jisung is a curious boy. He entertains the idea of aliens, ghosts, monsters, and such; even going as far as visiting popular sightings. You know what they say, “curiosity kills the cat.”

Word Count: 4,142

Date: February 28, 2021

TW // HORROR, MURDER, SUICIDE, MENTIONS OF BLOOD

A/N: Finished this long ago but I totally forgot to upload it :((

- Part of my Bon Voyage special projects for NCT’s February celebrant.

October 29 - Thursday

Jisung was mindlessly playing on his phone, bored and unmotivated, when Renjun came running to Jisung. His phone is in his hand, seemingly wanting to show something to the said boy. He was frantic and quite excited to show his phone screen to the said boy. "Look Jisung! It's just three blocks away here." Renjun clicked the article he saw on his twitter screen. 

THE CHILLING STORY OF “THE CURSED RED HOUSE” ON WOODVILLE

WOODVILLE, 2020 - It was November 01, 1878 when a quiet town was left in terror as a massive and horrible massacre happened in the, now infamously called The Cursed Red House. A family of five was found left bloodied and murdered inside the house - four of them were lying lifelessly in a pool of blood in their living room while their father was found hanged up in a rope in the master’s bedroom. Investigators have long concluded that the head of the family killed his children and wife before succumbing to his own demise based on the evidence presented on the scene. The mystery of what happened that night still leaves people speculating. Countless theories have been formed since then, but the most prominent one involved had left people frightened to even look at the innocent-looking red house.

May of 1986 when the family moved into the town - a family of five consisting of the parent and their two little girls and a teenage daughter. The mother was a bodice maker. Not long after they moved in, her popularity for her attentiveness at details started booming. And soon enough, townspeople are lining up to have their bodice made by her. Meanwhile, the father was a clock smith in one of the town central’s famous shops. Unbeknownst to others, he was a macabre writer on the side. Some accounts would state seeing him often in the local library with books about death. Despite the macabre background, the father was a decent man. Neighbors would often say he loved his children so much. It wasn’t until the summer of the next year came when changes started occurring in the household. Maybe it was due to the amount of books that had led the father to do such a horrendous thing. 

The mother would often tell her frequenter, in one of her bodice fitting, how afraid she is to sleep at night, how sleep at one night, and how sometimes she would stay in her children’s room just watching them sleep and making sure nothing would happen. When asked why, she would often say, “I can’t tell you that. He’s going to be mad.” The father has quit his job as a clock smith and stopped going to the community library. Where he spent most of his time remains unknown to the townspeople. Rumors about the father joining a satanic cult started circulating in the town and soon enough, no one even bothered to come near their house. The children stopped coming out of the house, often only seeing them looking out of their window longingly. Sudden screams and shrieks would be heard inside the house here and there but the neighbors don’t bother checking them out due to fear of being cursed by a demonic figure. Whatever that is, something haunting happened in the family before the night of the murder. 

It wasn’t surprising to say that ghost sighting is often felt, heard, and seen in the Cursed Red House. Oftentimes, when one’s gaze lingers for more than a minute in the said house, something unfortunate would occur to them - be it in the form of a fatal accident of even death. Every living soul who attempted to enter the said house had vanished with no traces of clue in the vicinity. It wasn’t a stretch to say there is something uncanny and frightening in the house. If you ever came by in Woodsville, never ever attempt to come near the Cursed Red House.  

October 30 - Friday

“Come on, just come with me. This will be the last time I’ll ask you to come to these places.” Jisung begged like a madman while following you in your school’s massive cafeteria. You shook your head, once again. “You know how much I love you right? But I don’t love you enough to come with you there.” You continued walking, trying to ignore your boyfriend’s persistent voice. You weren’t exactly a fan of horror stories and such but ever since you started dating Jisung, you were basically forced to ghost-hunt with the said guy.  You must admit, it had been generally fun ghost hunting with him considering you never really encountered any supernatural being. But you’re not about to take any chances on this one. Not when the Red House had proven her ferociousness on multiple accounts. Not when there’s a rumor circulating that nobody had ever stepped out of that house after stepping a foot in it. 

“If you won’t come with me, I’m going alone then.”

“No, you won’t. It’s too dangerous out there.” You’re starting to get worried.

“How will I know if it’s truly dangerous if I don’t experience it myself.” He reasoned out. It seems like nothing would stop him from going. 

As you continue to persuade the poor, adventurous boy, you were hoping he would drop his curiosity of this place.

October 31 - Saturday

You know you’re going to regret this as you make your way on the dark streets, the only lights illuminating your way are coming from the moon itself and the few streetlights along the corners of the blocks. It was 9 in the evening. The time of the night when you can already see the starry skies in its full bloom. Your walking shadow is your only companion as you make your way to the place you know you shouldn’t visit. To say the least, your walk was spooky. But you didn’t have any time to second guess as you saw the petrifying outline of the house you dread to see. In front of it was a figure, a familiar silhouette.  JISUNG.

Jisung texted you about going to The Cursed Red House an hour ago. Whatever the food he ate that day must have given him ample amounts of courage because as much as he loves horror, he’s a cowardly little hamster who always hides behind his partner’s back - that being you. Deep inside, you know he’ll come back immediately though. There’s no way he would be able to go inside. Yet, the following messages coming from him worried you a lot. 

mochisung; 8:28 p.m.

I’m here

                    You really went there alone?

I’m alone, couldn’t convince renjun to come with me

                     GO HOME!

                    This is not worth your time

y/n, i’m already in the front door though

                    Don’t come inside! 

this is scarier than i expected

                    that’s why you must come home

okay i’ve opened the door

                    NO JISUNG WHY WOULD YOU

as expected, it’s dark inside

                    OF COURSE! NOW COME BACK HOME!!

mochisung; 8:35

                    Ji, where are you?

                    Did you really come in?

                    why aren’t you answering your phone

                    THIS IS NOT FUNNY

There was no message following that. He wouldn’t even answer his phone.

mochisung; 8:41

FINALLY FOUND A SIGNAL

YOU WERE RIGHT

I SHOULDN’T COME HERE

Y/N, I’M SCARED

I CAN’T FIND THE EXIT

I THINK I’M TRAPPED IN HERE

WAIT THERE, I’M COMING

NO!

DON’T!!!

PLEASE DON’T COME HERE!

MFOOE

%LIRN

Y/N NO PLEASE EWFWDSQ

F32ERFE

EFET

FR

“{{-439

COME HERE! SAVE ME!!!

This is why you found yourself walking towards the house with Jisung standing in front. He seems to be unscratched which made you exhale a sigh of relief.

“There you are. I was so worried about you.” You exclaimed as soon as you arrived besides him. There wasn’t any response. You checked to see how Jisung was doing. He was standing there, simply looking at the house with a blank stare.

You slightly nudged his arms and said with a comforting voice, “Come on! Let me take you home. You must have been so tired.” Whatever he had seen inside, you know you must comfort him.

There wasn’t any response. He was still standing there like a statue. His eyes never left the infrastructure in front you - not even blinking. You even had to look at his chest area just to make sure he was breathing. He was acting so strange and it’s starting to give you chills. 

“Hey, did the house scare you so much you malfunctioned?” You laughed awkwardly, trying to hide the fear in your voice. That’s when something in him clicked. He walked towards the house - not sparing you a glance. He walked until he stopped in front of the door.

Your mind is spiraling down. You have no clue if you should follow him and grab him home or whether you should call his name instead. Too afraid to do the former, you called his name. Your own voice echoing inside your ears. JISUNG! Come on, Jisung! Let’s go home. No matter how much you called him, he doesn’t seem to hear anything as he twists the knob of the door and continues his way inside. He had left you no choice but to follow him inside. 

Shivers went up your spine the moment you opened the door. It was cold inside. Darkness enveloped your eyes. You barely see anything. You blinked and blinked, trying to adjust your vision to the darkness embracing the surrounding. Goosebumps started to appear in your skin. Whether because it was chilly inside or if the ambience of the house was causing it, you don’t know. The moment you got an inkling sight of vision inside the room, Jisung was out of sight.

“JISUNG, WHERE ARE YOU?” You shouted. Your voice echoing right back. There wasn’t any sight of life inside as you continue to walk down the creepy house, trying to find any source of light. 

Soon enough, you arrived at what seemed like the dining area. It was massive. You carefully tiptoed around the area. It seems intrusive for you to be walking around this house. You can’t shake off the feeling that someone is watching you. The goose bumps in your skin had never once left. “Jisung, where are you? Please stop playing around.” You whispered to yourself, knowing very well that Jisung isn’t here.

That’s when you heard it, a giggle coming from what you assumed is a voice of a girl. You were frozen at your spot - too scared to move, too scared to make noise. The giggled followed by loud footsteps. They seemed to be running around the area. There was another giggle. It’s a different voice this time. The footsteps suddenly started to get louder. You cannot point out in which direction it is coming from. You closed your eyes, not wanting to see a glimpse of the running girls around you. 

“Oh look, who’s standing there? Let’s play!” You heard a voice. The footsteps started coming closer to you. 

Closer.

Louder.

There’s a whisper, “You don’t want to play with us anymore?”

“Y/N!”

You felt a hand on your shoulder. “Y/N!” It was Jisung’s voice. Your eyes remained closed, not sure of what’s happening.

“Y/N!! Y/N!! It’s me. Why are you here?” Jisung slightly shook your shoulders. You opened your eyes only to come face-to-face with your boyfriend’s looks. You immediately hugged him, shaken from what just happened. Eyes are starting to get wet from the pool of tears threatening to fall down from it.

“It’s okay. You’re okay. Don’t cry, please!” His words of consolation calms you down for a moment but somehow you know it’s not okay. It’s never going to be okay. 

“What? You’re being ridiculous. I never sent you any messages after I came inside that house. There’s no signal here, look at your phone! There’s nothing even spooky in there. It’s just a normal, innocent house.” Jisung explained. You are sitting at the corner of Jisung’s bed while he was on his gaming chair. How you got out there safely, you don’t understand. The moment Jisung escorted you outside that house, you could only let out a sigh of relief, glad to be able to get out of that hellhole.

“No! I’m not mistaken, I can’t be wrong. Stop playing jokes on me.” Your tone was sharp. You are starting to get angry at Jisung. Whatever game he is playing, it’s starting to get on your nerves. You brought out your phone to and scrolled through your messages just to show him his messages. But there wasn’t any. You looked at it with disbelief. This can’t be true. Your mind cannot be playing any games with you, can it? He noticed your silence. 

“What’s wrong?” He stood up and walked over you. He sat next to you with concerned eyes.

“Did you or did you not wait for me outside that house?” You asked, hoping for the answer you were looking for. Your lower lip trembles at the sudden realization and intensity of the event.

“No. I didn’t.” He answered, almost too casually. As if nothing is wrong.

So it wasn’t him. It wasn’t him all along.

November 01 - Sunday

You hurriedly dressed up in comfortable clothes as you were already late and Jisung is probably already waiting for you. Every Sunday, Jisung and his friends hang outs at Renjun’s home to watch movies or play games. The boys invited you to come to their weekend get together which you gladly agreed to. Truth to be told, yesterday’s event bothered you a lot. You explained everything to Jisung. And he did try to comfort you last night although it is clearly evident how shaken he was also. So you decided, for the sake of Jisung and his sanity, you will stop thinking of the said effect and act like nothing is wrong. You figured the both of you will eventually forget it anyways. After putting on a decent and comfortable outfit, you went down on the stairs. Your steps are quick yet light as you skipped through the steps. You saw your mom’s figure in the living room. “Mom, I’m going out!” You said.

There was no response. You carefully observed her. She was talking to someone on her phone while pacing around. You figured she just didn’t hear you. You walked closer to her. Then you heard.

“No, no. She--- she did not come last night. I was waiting the whole night.”

Who didn’t come home last night?

“Her boyfriend. I believe she was with her boyfriend. Jisung. His name is Jisung. He also didn’t come home.”

Why is your mom mentioning Jisung to random people?

Jisung didn’t come home? Your mom is mistaken. 

“Please just find her.” She was choking up. 

You called her name.

Once.

Twice.

Going thrice.

No response.

What’s going on? What’s wrong with your mom?”

“Please just find my Y/N.”

The sudden realization came to you. You and Jisung weren’t able to leave the cursed house safely.

As soon as you left the front door, Jisung was already there waiting for you. Judging from the look on his face, he probably already realized the circumstances the both of you were under. You hurriedly ran to his arms and hugged him tightly. You couldn’t help but to weep as he quietly hugged and kept your shaking body in his arms.

As soon as he heard you sniffle, something in his eyes shifted, “We should come back. Maybe we can do anything.”

“No, Ji! I’m not going back there. I can’t go back.” You pulled away from his embrace and looked directly at his eyes.

“Listen Y/N!” He steadied your figure, knowing how weak your knees must be from crying. “We have nothing to lose now. We don’t know what’s going on.” You continued to shake your head. There’s no way you're stepping a foot in there again. He looked at you carefully, observing the way you were acting. He hasn't seen you like this before - so shaken, so broken, and full of fear. 

“I’m sorry. This is all my fault.” He said softly as he wiped a tear away from your cheeks. “If you don’t want to go back. At least, allow me to go there. Let me fix this for you.” He whispered as he hugged you again. You’re scared - too frightened to make sense of what is happening. But you’re not going to let Jisung go there alone. No, you wouldn’t.

The one advantage of going in that house in the daylight is that the windows offered you enough lighting to roam around the house with clear visibility of what is there in front of you. Your arm was looped around Jisung’s as the both of you carefully walked around the house. There was no sign of life here. No noise. No everything. The house remains chilly though. You felt like someone was watching you every move you take. The both of you walked upstairs. As soon as you got up, you saw it with your own eyes. Along the halls of the house are various photo frames. There were different faces every frame. Jisung removed your arms on his as he carefully walked around.

“I didn’t see this last night.” He gulped.

“What do you mean?” He looked at you. His eyes widening, disbelief written all over it.

“This is not here last night. This is just a simple hallway, no photos.” He said while frantically looking around.

“You must be wrong.” You know he wasn't wrong. For an abandoned house, this is clearly a clean one. As if someone is living here and maintaining the cleanliness of the house. There are no cobwebs at sight. There are barely any dusts.

Jisung continued to walk, observing each photo. You were following him closely. You stopped at your track when you noticed something in the corner of your eye. There was a mirror in there. The mirror itself would be enough to scared you but what caught your attention was the reflection that stare right back at you

Jisung continued to walk towards the end of the hallway. He didn’t notice you weren’t next to him anymore. As he reached the end, he saw the largest portrait hanging in the room. It’s a family portrait - a painted one. It looks old judging by how the canvas of the painting looked a little yellowish. There are five people in the photo. A middle-aged man with a few white strands of hair, a middle-aged woman with a slight crow-feet in her eyes, two little girls who were smiling brightly, but what caught his attention was the last person. It was a teenage girl with long wavy locks. Her lips were slightly turned upwards in a shy, small smile. Her eyes were full of life, he can feel it even if he was only looking at the portrait. There was something eerily familiar with this girl. You ran on the hallway quickly. He heard your footsteps and turned towards you. You stopped running to catch your breath. “Why did you leave me, Ji?” You were panting as you talked. There was a decent distance between the both of you. You looked up and met his eyes. That’s when it all clicked. That’s why it was so familiar. Jisung realized. Your eyes answered it all for him.

You are the girl in the portrait. 

“Are you avoiding me?” You said, confused as you see Jisung stepped backward.

“You know what, I suddenly realized something. The reason why you were able to leave this house. It’s because you were with me.” You exclaimed with a joyful tone, smiling at him.

“I don’t understand.” His eyes were shaking as he walked backwards, avoiding you.

“Didn’t the picture explain it enough? You saw it right?” Jisung was trembling under your gaze. The sun is setting down as the light illuminating the room slowly turns into darkness. But Jisung can still clearly see his reflection in your dark eyes.

“I’m that teenage daughter you read about. This body died 8 years ago. Poor girl was riding her bicycle when she accidentally stumbled into this house. She didn’t have to die like that, but I needed a body. I wanted to explore.” You said casually; acting like you pity the poor girl but it only went shiver down Jisung’s spine as he recognized the monotony of your voice. You were acting like you pity the girl when you were actually playing a game all along. You are no longer the nice and sweet girlfriend he fell in love with. You must have recognized the look on his face.

“You’re not Y/N! You’re not! You’re not!” He continuously repeated to himself. 

“Don’t worry too much though. You were the perfect first boyfriend for me. I love you, Ji! Please don’t be scared.” You pouted. “I mean, I’m still Y/N! It’s not the exact body, but didn’t you love me too?” You said. Your tone changed into a sad one. He was confused whether it’s a genuine one or not. He was frightened and you noticed it.

“Come on!” You raised your voice. “What are you afraid of? I’m your girlfriend! You didn’t even get to meet the original owner of this body.” You stood firmly, obviously mad at his reactions. You couldn’t understand him. “You think I’m disgusting, don’t you? For killing her soul?” He looked down at the floor. His breathing uneven and his body still trembling. Whatever dark forces are following you is too overwhelming for him. He can no longer walk away as his back touched the wall behind him. “The body dies. The soul lives forever. I needed a house for my soul. I needed to experience the world. Is that hard to understand, Ji?” He flinched at the nickname you called him; the nickname that he used to love hearing. You were devious. Something evil is embracing you and he can feel every inch of it. The last thing he saw was your sweet smile and gentle eyes at him as his consciousness fades in the background.

“It took you long enough to realize what was going. Mom’s going to be mad but it’s the hundredth body you brought here.”

“Absolutely. Mom didn’t want me to be like you. But I like the feeling of it.” You looked at the unconscious Jisung lying lifelessly in the middle of a drawn red circle. Candles were surrounding his body. “You know what. I won’t get all the credits. He’s a curious boy. He loves ghost hunting so much. I didn’t need to lure him at all. Too bad, I did like him a lot though.”

“Maybe we can keep his soul around here if you liked him so much. We won’t consume his soul for you. But that’s only if he’ll be one of us.” The soul of the living is what makes all of you alive in this world. You don’t have to cross the afterlife as long as you have the soul of a living person in you. You hummed in response, “Well, I hope he accepts your offer then.”

“Even if he accepts my offer, you’ll kill him anyhow. Just the way you killed your mom and sisters before.”

“They were being annoying dad! You know that. We did nothing wrong. There’s nothing wrong with practicing black magic, I believe. Mom was being unreasonable and she deserved it.” Your eyes were sharp and your tone changed into a fierce one.

“Anyway, so tell me. Did I pass the test, dad?” You continued. Your voice is as sweeter as the smile you offered him.

“Absolutely, my love. ”

November 05 - Friday

“Two high school students had been missing for five days after planning on visiting the infamous Cursed Red House. They had been identified as Park Jisung and Y/N. Whether they indeed go to the Cursed Red House or not, officials had yet to find out. Information about this matter had remained unknown. Whether they got lost due to supernatural reasons or whether there’s a kidnapper in the lost had remained a mystery. If you have any information about this case, please contact the Woodville Police.” The reporter stated and photos of you and Jisung appeared on the television’s monitor.

Inside the Cursed Red House, two newly added photo frames hanging in the hallway appeared. It was a picture of the body you used and Jisung. Both of which were smiling at the portrait. Along with the photos are hundreds of pictures of various people of different backgrounds posted on the wall. They were just two of the hundreds of people who attempted and failed to uncover the secret of the said house.

----------

© lostgirlinthewoods

[winke77e]

Personal Growth Diary:

I've shared before about trouble I had growing up as a child and a teen, but there has always been something else bothering me. Something I was lacking in. Something that, if I could just fix, would magically solve all my problems.

So I always looked up to my Dad because he seemed the most "put-together" adult in my life.

When I had problems, I went to my dad. Questions? Dad. Need motivation? Dad.

But no matter how often I spoke with him, I never seemed to solve that Something that bothered me.

Then I stumbled upon this Ted Talk about the Stories told of your life; either from yourself or others. It took a bit more evaluating but I eventually realized I was fighting against my Dad's story of me.

My dad is probably one of the most stereotypical "standard, white guy" you could imagine. Religious, tall, business man, confident, social, active, etc.

But I describe him as "the type of man with no desire to fight society" because his life has always been dictated to him "grow up, get married, have kids, become a boss or own your own business, stay in church, be the 'bread-winner'" basically every stereotypical expectation for a white man from the 70s, 80s

He has a good life, but doesn't know how to handle hardship/stress. He is a loving husband, but doesn't support his wife or kids when in an argument. He is very active socially and physically, but calls anyone who does less than him "lazy".

And that was His story of me: lazy. Lazy, unmotivated, "you don't try hard enough", "you don't do enough", "you can't do this", "girls don't do that", "you've failed at this before", and so on for so long

I had internalized his story of me even though he never really saw my daily life, struggles, hardships, nothing. He doesn't 'believe' in depression or ADHD, so it comes down to me simply not trying hard enough. He's only seen me change jobs often and thus believes that I don't work hard enough or good enough. He's seen me struggle with running track or sprinting and thus laughed at me when I told him i was joining the Army, because I wasn't physically fit.

BUT! After listening to that Talk and thinking on it, I realized how Amazing I really am. I've known how truly capable I was for a while, but it was never framed against my Dad's story of me as lazy. I've always seen my achievements against manipulative work conditions or abusive societies, never against a parent's version of me.

Excuse me; "I don't work hard"?? Uh, I get 8 hours worth of work done in 5.5hrs, thank you. In the Military, I administered an IV under simulated combat conditions in less than 10 seconds. I have won art competitions across this Nation, I have surpassed my bosses expectations on projects, I have taken care of teams, and taken on stressful situations to protect others. Don't tell me how hard you think I can work.

You call me "lazy"??? Under what conditions?? Exercise? No, I hate running, but you know what? Give me 200 pounds of gear and a map and I'll hike 12 miles in a day. At work? Please, it's already done, you just came by to give me the work and then 'checked' on me an hour later. Personal scheduling? No I will not overwork myself to meet your constantly moving standards that mean nothing to me.

I'm sorry Dad. I love you, but I've learned you're not good for me. Your idea of me, is wrong, and I need time and distance to write my own story fully.

[jesswsc1]

Initially, I wasn’t overly sure how to interpret our title of ‘black books and black holes’. I’ve felt awfully low for a while, and it’s been heavy on my mind, so I figured I’d take this project as somewhat of an opportunity to reflect on the past, troubles i’ve had as well as using it as a kind of venting of current frustrations. These low points act as my own personal black hole, as I fall down into them for some time. Similarly to how black does, they absorb any kind of light surrounding. To me, at times, this has meant not enjoying things I’ve adored prior - such as spending time with loved ones, music and hobbies. Growing up there were several black holes, but amongst them I have fond memories with my cousins, siblings and childhood friends. Somebody who has always been there for me (whether it be through choice or not) has been my brother. I decided to incorporate pictures of us throughout my little black book as homage to him as he is truly one of my favourite people ever, despite the troubles I don’t think our bond has ever gone away - it’s merely taken small redirections. I have such admiration for him and know I can rely on him and speak free from judgement. Years ago, I believe it was 2013, he fell ill and this meant he had to be hospitalised for a couple months. It was really hard for my family and was of course even more difficult for him. Seeing as he was hospitalised, this meant regular trips to the hospital, on the car journeys we’d always have the same Passenger CD playing in the car. I guess we just never got around to changing it. On this CD was a particular song that we’d all sing along to, which funnily enough is called ‘holes’. Hearing this song now makes me feel so safe and hopeful, knowing it got me as well as my family through a rough period in time. I made sure to incorporate some of the lyrics into one of my book spreads. One line reads, ‘but we carry on’, which has definitely stuck with me.

The constellation element of our project had me reflecting on space and the universe, and what exactly it means to me. Although I’m not too into space, I’m definitely fond of the moon. After my parents divorced, I was left in custody of my mum for a while. A teacher told me to look at the moon, because she’d be looking at it too at the same time and thinking of me. During this time I was living in a troubled home (I made this house the exterior of my book*) and would be heavily supported by her in school. She’d give me notebooks to express myself in and explain what was happening, as well as a departing gift when I inevitably left to go live with my dad here in Bury. Despite being a small part of my life, she still means a lot to me and has a place in my heart. Though not physically present with me anymore, she cared enough to find me years later and reached out to make sure I'm doing fine. It's reassuring knowing there are people as pure as she is. Because of this I dedicated a small section of my book to her that looks like a slither of the moon when the pages are flipped back onto it. 

My black book was titled ‘Wailing Ghosts’ by Pu Songling, containing 14 tales of various monsters and creatures, which is fitting to my work revolving around numerous burdens I have that seem to act as these little monsters also, creeping up every now and again. I did consider creating my own ‘chapters’, one for each black hole of mine, but didn’t want to structure my book in that way as I didn’t want to disrupt my creativity or force things.

          I say ‘was’ because I actually decided I wasn’t all that keen on how i’d layed my pages out. I instead took a second black book and collaged, reworked and inserted pages into a new one. I’m really glad I did so, as I now have a book I much prefer over the first. An aspect I did keep relatively whole was the swirly, illusion-looking front cover with a hole burned through the centre, almost like a little entrance to another world. Stanley Donwood inspired this page through his swirly seas he often features in his works, as he uses a bold thick line against white ones. I opted to put this page underneath my front cover so it still got to be showcased - only cutting a part off the corners to make sure it fit. 

Featured in my book are a few small self portraits, in varying cartoon-y styles. Some are only inspired by my face whilst others were drawn whilst staring into the mirror, then back at the page. Having struggled with low self esteem, there have been times where I don’t even want to perceive myself let alone interpret that into a drawing. Meanwhile doing my book work, I realised I have never drawn a self portrait - not since being a kid anyway - and had even actively avoided doing so during GCSE art. Over the past year or so, I’ve overcome an array of issues I’d had, so found myself able to draw these little portraits. It sounds pretty insane to me now that I would’ve found it so hard before, knowing I enjoyed coming up with various ways to put me in my book, even wanting to print pictures of me (sadly our printers decided to act up so I was not able to implement these). I feature my bathroom mirror on one page as it’s been the target of over-analyzing and although I have come far in self love, it still remains a deadly weapon. 

Claude Heath’s sketchy, rough portraits inspired me to create my own. I really enjoy how reckless his style is, as I'm trying to escape the ‘this has to be perfect’ mentality, Heath is a great example of how you don’t need to overthink your work. It can just exist and look cool. It’s fine. This was also encouraged in Thursday drawing sessions where we did blind drawings. I kept this mindset whilst doing my book as I tend to either overwork myself trying to create ‘perfect’ or do absolutely nothing, so I went with the flow of how my book panned out. 

Seeing as my work theme is a little on the darker side, I considered subduing the colours or perhaps even going full black and white. However, I love utilising colour in my art and felt this would make me feel unmotivated and uninspired. Especially seeing as this book is about me, it’s not insensitive to anybody to make it colorful and exciting. So, I have. Plus, despite everything I’m still smiling so I wanted to convey that somehow. Sort of, making the best out of bad situations. Damien Hirst’s usage of colours influenced me to just have fun with it, in the same way he does when creating his works. 

Throughout my book I have experimented with oil pastel, paint, staples, collage, rorschach ink blotting, screen printing, spray paint, photocopied pictures, flip book, tracing paper, washi tape and i’m sure there’s more. Point is, I wanted to cover a wide range of techniques seeing as there were many pages. In doing so I believe this was the best way as it meant there was a flow of ideas coming as I worked. I’ve learned that I love a range of ways of working as it keeps my brain ticking, meaning the work doesn’t feel stagnant and dull. Sadly there were lots more ideas I had for what to do into my book, but due to various reasons I couldn't. Such as wanting to sew using a sewing machine into my book, I tried to set my sewing machine up but when I would go to sew the thread would snap. But I believe it’s definitely something worth trying another time, as I was intrigued to see how it’d turn out. I also wanted to make a better flip book from the corner of my little page (see animation on blog) as it’s really simplistic. But drawing the little stick men alone took me an hour or so, and I didn’t see that being of much importance compared to getting actual pages filled out. Thus, I left it as a simple stickman. That being said I think the stick man illustrates the cycle of being in a slump, which is relatable to how lockdown is feeling and fits well with my book contents. I felt inspired by an artist who goes by ‘inhalerqueen’ (Amanda) on tiktok, who draws a simple, silhouette-like figure repeatedly. She calls this figure ‘void’ and i’d consider her work to be vent art, expressing how she feels. Originally I wanted to make my stick men look like void, however I don’t think that would be all that beneficial/change the effectiveness and would only take up more time.

If I were to have a soundtrack to my work I would opt for ‘Yellow’ by Coldplay. Reason being, regardless of my state of mind I return to this song and feel the same listening through every time. It’s such a lovely song and just feels like peace, as cheesy as that may sound considering Coldplay is very much dad music. It reminds me of my yellows, and how much they mean to me. Even with the black, I have my yellows. Lyrics to the song can be found in my book also. 

Overall, I’m relatively pleased with my work. There’s no doubt things I would do differently, but I’m glad I’ve had this experience and was able to vent a little similarly to how Amanda does. In future I hope to perhaps recreate this book and treat it as kind of a ‘rough’ or ‘plan’ for a more refined and thought-out version, perhaps this time with chapters like I'd considered and with ideas I didn’t get to delve into.  There are pages I’m not so keen on, but I’m proud of myself for just leaving them as opposed to overworking them and/or scrapping them just because they aren’t what I like. I love the pictures of me and my brother, if I could I would’ve collaged more into my book however our printer simply wouldn’t allow it. As well as the exterior of the book, as I think it adds a personal element as opposed to being left as it was. 

[longformbatjokesfic]

longformbatjokesfic ​Title

Hello! LFBF here, the writer of this fair story!

Now it’s time for me to admit my faults. What you’re reading here is a rough draft of the story, and sometimes I screw up a scene. I’m a bit worried I’ve done so. So I’m going ask anyone whose looking to vote on a preferred scene. I have about 24 hours from posting until it becomes relevant, so I’ll leave the poll open until August 14, 8:30 pm eastern standard time.

A few days ago I wrote this:

[SCENE VERSION A]

__________________________________________________________

___________________________________________________________

Lex slammed the door and Bruce released Joker and put his hands in his pockets.

“Well, that was a good 15 minutes. What now?”

Joker was quiet. He was- thinking.

What had that been? A lot of sensation at once certainly. A sudden shock to the system followed by something that seemed to relax his muscles and make him want to sit still and absorb the warmth. He wasn’t used to wanting to be still. He’d had situations where he physically couldn’t move due to body cast, or a strait jacket. He’d had situations where he hadn’t wanted to move because of overexposure to sensation or pain, and he had times when he felt dead to all sensation in the world and unmotivated to do anything. But it's not as if he enjoyed the concept of huddling in a fetal position scratching at his temples or laying a warehouse face down for hours on end, he’d just preferred it to the alternative at the time.

He’d never enjoyed being still.

He didn’t understand it. It’s not as if he hadn’t made physical contact with the man before. He’d kneed him. Pushed his head down into a tub of water, been punched by him several times. This had been different.

What was that? How did it happen? Why did it happen? When could it happen again?

Bruce was getting concerned. It’s not as if he was looking forward to whatever else the clown had planned for today, but Joker’s silence was more disquieting.

“Joker?”

“Actually, I have some things to be doing if you’ll excuse me.”

“You what?”

“Yes, terribly busy. Have to be going. Don’t worry. It’ll be more exciting next time. But I have some very distinct ideas to prepare and less than three days to prepare them.”

Joker tightened his scarf and appeared to fly out the door.

“Ta ta. Will be back”

_____________________________________________________________

_____________________________________________________________

But what I’m tempted to replace it with is this:

[SCENE VERSION B]

Joker was sure Bruce was saying something to him, but he was a bit busy trying to burrow into the other man’s chest to pay attention.

This was nice. This could continue for a long time and he would be quite happy to let it happen.

A loud slam sounded and shook Joker out of his stupor. Lex Luthor had left the room. To be honest Joker had forgotten he was there. But then Bruce was pulling his arms away, which was a horrible, NOT OK action that needed to be fixed. He tried to grab out to pull them back in and promptly lost his balance and fell off the desk.

Bruce stepped back and Joker had his head and shoulder simultaneously hit the floor with a distinct thump his legs were still held up by the nearby desk, putting him in an ungainly L shape on the floor.

Bruce looked at the door that Lex had just left through. His hands were in his pockets.

“Well that was a good 15 minutes. What now?”

The first words that came to Joker’s head were “COME DOWN HERE AND HOLD ME AGAIN” But his mouth sort of fell uselessly open before shutting again.

What was he asking for? Affection? That wasn’t something he wanted, that was something people wanted, he wasn’t people. No. Absolutely not. Affection didn’t last for him. It stamped other people with feelings while it left soft shallow marks on him that quickly undid themselves.

Besides he didn’t ask for things. He  threatened or bargained or took. This was all out of sorts.

He’d had plans for today. He was going to take Bruce down to the projects, show him all those people he couldn’t save, whose lives were miserable despite his best efforts, maybe destroy some property on the way, see how angry it could get him. But now that plan didn’t seem as shiny. His desires were fighting each other.

Joker stood up and brushed himself off.

“Actually, I have some things to be doing if you’ll excuse me.”

“You what?”

“Yes, terribly busy. Have to be going. Don’t worry. It’ll be more exciting next time.”

Joker tightened his scarf and appeared to fly out the door.

“Ta ta. Will be back”

_____________________________________________________________

_______________________________________________________________

If scene B gets the most votes, I’ll edit my previous post to match scene B and leave this post up as an interesting deleted scene.

If scene A gets the most votes I’ll leave my previous post alone, and still leave this post up as an interesting deleted scene.

Whichever is chosen will affect the tone and content of future chapters.

Leave A or B in the comments below.

[afoolforatook]

Thank you, Wellies

So. I’ve been trying to do both class work and working on wips and just nothing is clicking. So, I thought I should go ahead and do this post, that I’ve been putting off, because.....it’s next week y’all.... So here goes. 

Here’s my original post, that explains what this comic meant to me four years ago. 

And here’s what it means to me now. (this is really long, sorry)

Man, I don’t really even know where to start this. How to start to say thank you. To Ngozi, to all of you.... It’s not possible to fully express what all of you have been for me the past four years. What this story has been for me. 

So many things have changed since I made this post almost four years ago. 

So many things haven’t. 

I’ve been way less active in the fandom since starting at SCAD, and I really was never that incredibly active to begin with, outside of my small group of friends on a discord server. 

And at times I feel bad about that. 

But it’s not because I don’t care about or need this community anymore. 

Rather it’s because this community, this story, gave me the strength to keep moving, and now I want to keep doing so, and make something that might one day even barely begin to show my gratitude. 

So until then, all I can do is say thank you over and over. I can never possibly say it enough. 

But still I wanted to thank you now, and try to explain to you what this comic about hockey and pies has meant to me, one last time before it ends. So that’s what I’ll try to do. 

It was surreal rereading this old post earlier this week. Reading 

“I think I could write a book just of our history and everything leading up to now and the details of this whole event” 

When I wrote this post four years ago, I honestly couldn’t imagine a future where I’d be anything other than incomplete.Or even a future at all. Everyday was just getting up and making myself keep breathing, keep trying to push towards something, even though I had no idea what that could ever be. 

For the first year I wrote daily journal entries, telling Emma about what happened that day, screaming at the universe for doing this, trying to help my future self remember little things, because everything was so hard to hold on to. 

Update days were always something nearly sacred to me. And really not even from a fan point of view. I don’t read them around other people. I sit somewhere quiet, by myself, and read slowly. Because they are little moments I try to share with her still. The only person I want with me when I read them that first time is her, in whatever capacity I can bring myself to imagine. 

A few months after the crash, I found one of Emma’s Spotify playlists. She made playlists for everything; birthday and Christmas presents, mood playlists, friend playlists, monthly playlists. 

This was her May 2016 playlist. Last updated May 16th. Two days before the crash. 

That playlist was literally the only thing I listened to for months on end. 38 songs.Over and over. 

And as I listened I started to think that, just maybe, some of these songs she put there for me. 

West Coast; the song me and Emma would send to each other after high school whenever we wanted to let the other know how much we missed them. 

All I Want is to Be Your Girl. I mean?? 

Slowly I found lyrics in every song that even if just in my own fantasy, were little messages from Emma, telling me to keep going, how to stay strong. 

I was always looking for stories, books, movies, songs, anything about someone grieving the kind of loss I was. Nothing I found felt like it really represented me. If it was about someone young, it was due to suicide or violence or illness. If it was a car crash, it was about a parent or child. If it somehow fit my other demographics, it was never queer. 

I felt totally alone in the exact manifestation of my grief. Like no one else could understand all the tiny details that seemed, to me, to make this all more and more cartoonishly cruel. 

(though one of the most touching moments of my life will always be when Emma’s step mom, the only person in her family who knows about us, sent me a book about grieving a spouse. I cried for hours when I opened that.)

I didn’t have outside representation, support. But I had journals. I had Emma’s songs. I had poems and a handful of inktober drawings. I had my little update moments of connection. And I had so much to say. 

Months, years, of isolation gives you a lot of time to examine your feelings, to question the meaning of things, to think about what exactly grief looked like to you and about how you wanted to live the rest of your life, as someone grieving a love. 

And slowly I began to connect those thoughts to individual lyrics from Emma’s playlist and that helped me actually write all those thoughts out, organize them. 

And that’s how The Mixtape Project started (I still hate using the word memoir. I had to find something else to call it). A book about us. About Emma. About all those thoughts I’d had so long to sit with. Structured around the songs from her playlist. 

I remember the exact moment that I realized that Check Please was going to actively change my life. I was talking to my dad about it, about why I loved the storytelling, the characters, the art, so much. 

I’d told him many times before. But it was always tied to Emma in a way, or to the reasons that I identified with Jack. It was always a little sad in some way. 

But this time. This time it was just excitement. It was just a kid who has always loved words, gushing about a story that fascinated them. 

And I realized. It was the first time I had been just happy, excited, in the months since losing Emma. I remembered all those ideas Emma helped me with in high school, how we gushed over stories like that. I remembered what it was like to just love something and want to create, just because it made you happy. 

I knew I couldn’t go back to UNCA, and none of the other creative writing programs I had looked at seemed like they would fit the new person I was. 

So, for the hell of it, looking for some idea at how to start my life over, I looked at Ngozi’s personal story. And there was SCAD. There was sequential art. 

Now. I’d never ever considered myself an artist. I went to an art high school, I knew art kids. I was never one of them. But that sequential part? That. THAT was what I wanted. That was what I could still be excited about. 

That was how I could pull the Mixtape Project together. The writing, the poems, the art, the music. Comics. Sequential art. A graphic memoir that played with the format. That was the project that kept me going. That was what I was working for. That was the first future I was able to see now that Emma was gone. 

So, for the first time since literally elementary school, I took an art class (also took a mythology class at the same time, which really helped keep my art and storytelling tied). 

I loved it. I was actually happy with my work, surprised by my work and how quickly I felt like I improved (I wouldn’t learn about aphantasia until I got to SCAD, and understand that that drawing 1 class had been so fun, and in a way, easy, because it was all direct observation, and that drawing from memory and imagination would be a much steeper learning curve for me.)

So, when the class ended I thought ‘you know, maybe some kind of art school could be a good idea.’

And then one of my life long best friends, a SCAD animation student, encouraged me to apply, to just go for it. 

And I did. It was a long shot, I was sure. We couldn’t afford it. Why would I get that in that kind of commitment, debt,  after 1 art class? It wasn’t logical. But it felt good. So I did. 

And then I got accepted, and the initial excitement soon fell away, to me and my parents knowing that it really wasn’t doable. 

But we went to admitted students day, just to see. And when we got home, both of my parents cried for a long time. The first happy cry in our house for over two years.

Because they had decided that they had to figure out a way to make it work. 

Because standing in Haymans hall was the first time they had seen me excited about the future since Emma died. It was the first time they’d seen me feel like there was somewhere I was meant to be, that there was somewhere I could fit again. 

So we made it happen. I’ll still be in debt for years, and it’s not necessarily something I’d wholeheartedly recommend to kids getting out of high school, that debt isn’t worth it for many people. 

For me it wasn’t really even worth it exactly for SCAD itself, and you’ll have plenty of professors tell you here that really what you pay for isn’t the education but the networking. 

But for me. For me it was worth it. 

Because I wasn’t wasting away in my basement. 

And I really wasn’t where I’d have liked to have been, ideally, before starting. I was a BRAND new artist. My portfolio for my application was solely my writing work. I hadn’t ever done anything more than scribbled fan comics in my sketchbook. I was coming in wayyyyy behind where most other people were. But I couldn’t wait to feel like I was good enough to be there. There was a strong chance that it was quite literally, a matter of survival. I was reaching a breaking point after nearly three years of isolation and grief with no outlet. The future debt was less of a concern than making sure I didn’t have a complete mental breakdown or worse. 

Now, of course, it hasn’t all been easy or fun or happy once I got here. I’ve doubted myself, I’ve had awful weeks, months, been stressed, unmotivated, in pain, near burnout. 

The first quarter I was absolutely miserable because I had literally no social life. 

Because I was an agoraphobic 23 yr old, living with 17/18 yr olds fresh out of high school. And if I wasn’t careful, I’d dissociate so easily. I’d let myself believe that I was still a teenager fresh from high school. That the past three years of agony hadn’t happened. That I could call Emma and it would ring again. She would answer again. And that illusion was a dangerous pit to fall into. 

And it wasn’t until this fall that my social life really started to improve, beyond one or two close friends. And even still, while it’s much better, it’s nothing like UNCA, like the tight knit family I had that made me identify with SMH and the Haus atmosphere so much. 

But I was moving forward. Agonizingly slowly sometimes. But still forward. 

And then last Spring quarter, just about a year ago, I was in Survey for SEQA. Basically comic book history class. And our final was a 4 page research comic on a comic artist we admired. So of course, I was going to do mine on Ngozi. 

The comic was due at the end of the quarter, the end of May. 

Now, that quarter was the first time I was actually in SEQA classes; Survey, and Intro. 

And those four pages would be the first fully colored, refined comic pages I had EVER done. It was intimidating. I didn’t want to mess it up. Especially because this wasn’t some big name of some far off artist you would never have any connection to. This was someone who all my professors knew. 

I ended up getting extremely lucky and had the chance to email Ngozi and ask if she’d be able to give for a quote for the project, advice for current SCAD students. 

She replied to my email the weekend of the 3rd anniversary. (I then spent hours on a thank you email - because that’s who I am, I can’t not over analyze anything I’m sending to someone important - and then I managed to save it to drafts instead of actually sending it...something I would not notice until literally months later and be absolutely mortified about my apparent rudeness of never thanking her.)

I still am not really happy with how that project came out. I still had (and have) a lot to learn, and it shows. I have, in no way, become an amazing comic artist overnight. I wasn’t expecting to.

But that short email exchange, falling on that weekend; it felt special. It felt like some speck of proof that I was doing the right thing. That things could actually go well in my life again. That if I kept going, I might actually get somewhere that I wanted to be. That maybe I really could make The Mixtape Project happen, if I just kept at it here. 

And then I found out that in the fall, Ngozi would be the SEQA mentor. 

Unfortunately by the time I had all the details about how to apply, the quarter had started and there were only a couple of weeks before it was due, and the only pages I had even anywhere close to being portfolio ready were either my research comic or a few older Check Please fan comics, none of which I would even have considered putting in that portfolio (I’m not 100% certain it would actually have come across as sucking up but it sure felt like it would have). And despite my best efforts, it just wasn’t possible, with how slow I work and having to keep up with classwork, for me to get a portfolio ready in time. 

That hurt for a while. I felt like I had this clear sign of perfect timing. How could I pass up that chance? How could I forgive myself for not doing everything I could to earn that experience? How was I not letting Emma down if I ruined this opportunity? 

It took a while to get out of that negative thought spiral. But I did, and it’s still a bummer, but it’s okay. 

And something that really helped? 

In October, Ngozi still came to campus to give a lecture. And that would have been good enough; just sitting in on that helped me feel excited, encouraged again. But then, after the lecture (with my amazing roommate waiting patiently behind with me, to make sure I didn’t actually have a panic attack on the way home) I got to talk to her. 

We all hope to one day get to talk to the people who inspired us, whose work we love, to tell them how much they mean to us. And yes, I was a little version of starstruck. 

But that wasn’t why I was shaking. That wasn’t why I told her I was going to do my best to get this out without crying (and I did, I’m proud to say). 

It was because I had the opportunity, while at the school that had given me a chance to start my life again, to thank the woman who was in all likelihood, one of the main reasons I was even still alive. If it had not been for Check Please I wouldn’t have had that good thing to keep sharing with Emma. I wouldn’t have found sequential art, at least not for a while longer probably. I wouldn’t have been able to finally picture a future I wanted to get to. 

And I’ll be honest, I don’t remember 90% of what I actually said that night to Ngozi. 

But I told her my story. I told her about Emma. About how Check Please was the last thing we got to share. I thanked her. And she was wonderful and kind and emotional and hugged me a couple of times, and even though I don’t remember a lot of what I actually said; it was something that will be one of the most important, affirming moments of my life. 

I didn’t have a panic attack on the way home. I somehow managed to not cry until we were back to our dorm. But I was stunned. 

Not even because of the amazing moment I had been able to have with Ngozi. 

But because it hit me. 

I was doing it. I was there. I had actually made it this far. 

Somewhere that just over a year ago I never would have believed was possible. 

A time when, two years before, I hadn’t even been sure I could make it to alive. 

That weekend was my 24th birthday. And it was the first birthday since I left UNCA at 19, that I didn’t just hate the fact that I was getting older. That I was moving away from the happiest parts of my life so far. 

Yes it still hurt getting further from Emma, putting another tick on the years that I got that she didn’t. 

But I was actually finally excited at the idea of even having a future, let alone having an idea of what it could be. 

February was a difficult month for me. I have another (entirely way too long) post about why everything that happened with RWBY and Fairgame was so difficult for me, but to put it simply; my hope for the future was shaken.

I was back in the toxic negative thought spirals I had fought for years to train myself out of. 

I was seeing Emma, or her brother, or her mom, in crowds; something I hadn’t experienced since the first few months after the crash. I was in one of the biggest crisis moments I’d had since Emma’s death. 

But I was more experienced than when I was 20. 

It wasn’t fun, a lot of it probably wasn’t the ideal way to cope, but I did it. And I kept up with my work. I isolated more, but not completely. I made myself vent on snapchat or tumblr, and not worry about oversharing or annoying people, because it was either get it out or let it fester in my head.  And I couldn’t afford to let that happen. 

In mid March, I made a pitch packet for my comic scripting final. 

It was for The Mixtape Project. It was hard, and nerve-wracking, and there’s still mountains of work to be done. 

But after my initial synopsis (first of like seven versions, cause trying to put this thing in a good synopsis format is a nightmare) my professor told me that he thought my story had potential. 

That he could see it being published. He suggested, knowing that I was planning on taking his advanced scripting course this quarter (hey remember how mid march was only a few weeks ago?? Huh?? wild), that I keep working on it, and see about taking it to Editor’s day (SEQA students’ opportunity to basically pitch themselves and their ideas to publishers). 

Now, my professor is by no means an overly harsh critic, and is plenty supportive in general. 

But I also knew that that was not just something he said to students all the time. That he meant it. 

Editor’s Day (now online) is in mid May. The week of the 4th anniversary of Emma’s death, to be exact. 

Everything is a mess right now, and I’m stressed and tired and scared and heartbroken (this will be the first time since I was 9 that I have not had Merlefest; the highlight of my year, and since Emma’s death; the last big happy thing before I plunge into the nightmare that is May). 

Tuesday will come. Check Please will end. I will continue to support Ngozi and her work after Bitty’s story ends. 

But it will be sad. It won’t be easy. 

This thing that has been my tether to the most important person in my life, will still be there, but it will be over. 

It will have a concrete end. It will no longer be part of the future I am pushing towards. 

But I am a different person than the shattered kid who wrote this post four years ago. 

I’m not who I was before Emma died. I never will be. I’d never try to be. I want Emma back more than anything. But that won’t happen. And as long as this is all real, I never want to pretend this didn’t happen. 

That I didn’t shatter in a way that will never heal like people expect. 

I’m still all those shattered pieces that wrote this post. Maybe a few have had the edges dulled, maybe I’ve lost a few, glued a few together perfectly, maybe picked up a few stray pieces that didn’t come from the me from before. 

But I will be those shattered pieces for the rest of my life. 

They won’t magically fuse back together. I work every day to hold them, to keep myself in some shape that resembles a functioning person. 

Some days I fail. Some days, I am too tired to even try. Some days, I am so angry, I’d rather hurl the pieces at whatever power or fate or god or chaos decided that I got to live and she didn’t. 

But those days pass. 

And I learn how to hold the pieces better, how to avoid the sharpest edges, how to take care of the wounds when I inevitably cut myself on one, how to allow other people to help me hold them, how to accept that some pieces may feel safe and smooth and comforting but they are traps, illusions that are the easy way to do things, but not the healthy way, not the way that will help me achieve my goals.

That person, made of all those unholdable pieces, four years ago, was staying alive for everyone else but themself. 

And some days I still am. 

For my parents. For Emma. For all the other queer, mentally ill, grieving kids and young adults and just people, who are looking for the same representation I was, who feel as alone as I still do so often. 

But some days. 

On those really good days. 

I’m alive, carrying all those pieces, just because I want to be. For me. 

I want to spin around in the morning, singing along to my bluegrass spotify. I want to get excited over finally figuring out how to write that line that was giving me so much trouble, or finish that sketch that I never thought I could manage. I want to hope that despite how awful everything seems, there’s still a good future out there. It’s still possible to be happy some days. 

I want to cry because I get to see Jack and Bitty get the happy ending that me and Emma didn’t. 

And now, unlike that version of me from four years ago, when it ends, I will have things still. 

Things that I have worked everyday to reach, to deserve, to hold out to people and say

 “Hey, sometimes everything hurts and you know that things will never be what they were, and parts of you will always miss that. But there are still things you can find that hurt less, that ease the hurt, that teach you how to better hold the hurt, to stop trying to say it doesn’t exist or trying to get rid of it completely and hating yourself when you can’t. You can still be hurt, be irreparably broken in so many places, and still find the happy things. You are still worthy of love, no matter how broken you are. Your worth is not tied to how much you are able to heal.  You are worthy of so much love, just because you are still here, no matter how many tiny pieces you are in.”  

The thing is, I will still always have a future that includes Emma. Because I couldn’t tell you exactly which of my pieces are from her, but so many of them are. 

There is no version of me, from here on to the day I die, that does not have her influence embedded in every piece. 

These days I try to be a little kinder to myself. It doesn’t always work, but I try. 

Because, to Emma, I was Bitty. I radiated that “thing”. 

Whether or not I saw it in myself, doesn’t matter, because she did. 

But to me she was the one who radiated. 

And she is a part of me. She can’t radiate that “thing” herself anymore. 

But I can, at least I can try.

Because If this person I loved and trusted so immensely, saw something worth loving in me? There must be something there worth loving, right? 

And if she is a part of me for the rest of my life, how can I hate myself? How can I do anything but keep going so that, even if just in my head, a part of her gets to keep going too. 

My family and friends joke that every friend group I’ve ever had calls me something different. And really it’s not a joke. In middle school I was CB #4 (that’s a long, terribly embarrassing, story). In high school I was Pond (and many variations there of: Pondala, Pondy, Raindrop, Puddle, you get the picture). At UNCA, when I came out as nonbinary, I started going by Auden. When I went home it was back to Meagan; Meagan always felt right with my parents. 

With Emma I was always Meagan. We were Meagan and Emma. Megma. Meagan and Emma have online adventures!

After she was gone, Meagan didn’t really feel like me anymore. I loved Meagan, I missed Meagan, I wished I could still really fully be Meagan, and I’m okay still being Meagan sometimes. 

But that real Meagan. The Meagan that was Emma’s Meagan. Doesn’t exist anymore. I lost that Meagan somewhere in that first night of screaming and trying to break my hand against the wall, so I could just feel something other than the agony of Emma being gone.

When I joined a Check Please chat group, a few months after the crash, we gave each other hockey nicknames. I was Farley. 

My second quarter at SCAD, I started going by Farley. It stuck. 

That’s who this version of me is. This new artist, still figuring things out, but still going. 

I may not always stay Farley (other than ya’know artist ‘branding’. We’ll see) but that’s okay. Farley is who I need to be right now. 

Farley is who will finish The Mixtape Project. 

(because of two people mishearing both my nickname and last name I will, at least once in my career, use the pseudonym Fartley McFarmland and no one will stop me). 

I can’t imagine what, who, will come after Farley, if anything.

But Check Please will always be a part of making Farley, and every future version of me, exist. 

I could go on and on about how beautiful this story and these characters are, how inspiring Ngozi is, how genius her storytelling is, how powerful and important her work is. I could go on for days about all of that. But this is already so long, and I know that so many of you can go on about that probably way better than I could currently. 

But, as many of my professors tell us over and over, only I can tell this story. My story. Emma’s story. Our story. And it’s one I plan on telling for the rest of my life. 

And Check Please, Ngozi, will forever be the thing that made that possible.

So thank you. Those two words that are way too small to say it all. 

Thank you. 

Every fic writer

Every artist

Every rper 

Every chat friend

Every shitposter

Every theorist or meta poster

Every fan

Thank you. 

B. “Shitty” Knight. 

Larissa “Lardo” Duan

Adam “Holster” Birkholtz

Justin “Ransom” Oluransi

John Johnson

Ollie O'Meara 

Pacer Wicks

Jenny and Mandy

Nicholas and Jean-Claude

Coach Hall 

Coach Murray

Suzanne Bittle

Richard “Coach” Bittle

William “Dex” Poindexter

Derek “Nursey” Nurse

Chris “Chowder” Chow

Kent Parson

Alicia Zimmermann

“Bad” Bob Zimmermann

Tony “Tango” Tangredi

Connor “Whiskey” Whisk

Denice “Foxtrot” Ford

Fry Guy

Georgia “Georgie” Martin

Alexei “Tater” Mashkov

Sebastian “Marty” St. Martin

Dustin “Snowy” Snow

Poots

Randall “Thirdy” Robinson

Jonathan “Hops” Hopper

River “Bully” Bullard

Lukas “Louis” Landmann

(I’m almost certain I had to have missed someone)

Thank you.

Jack “Zimmboni” Laurent Zimmermann

Thank you.

Eric “Bitty” Richard Bittle

Thank you.

Ngozi Ukazu

Thank you. For everything. 

For having my back. I’ll always have yours.

Always yours, 

Farley M.

[leam1983]

On Netflix and the BBC’s “Dracula”...

It’s late, so I’ll keep it short.

It’s symptomatic of every great thing and every massively visible wart that’s always characterized the Gatiss/Moffatt pairing. If you’ve loved anything between the newer Doctor Who series to Jekyll or Sherlock, you’ll love it. Or, well, you’re liable to love the first two episodes. The third one is where things get hairy, as you’d expect of a Gatiss/Moffatt product at the end of its lifespan.

On the good side, Claes Bang’s Dracula is very, very, unapologetically Gatiss in his demeanor. Cut from the same cloth as James Nesbitt’s Mr. Hyde, Matt Smith’s Doctor or Cumberbatch’s Sherlock, he feels glib and suave, manipulative and urbane, chatty and witty - a far cry from your usual gloomy caped gentleman with the pointy teeth and the requisite inscrutable accent. This is more or less Dracula as a game show host, as that dangerously clever neighbor or acquaintance of yours you know you shouldn’t trust - but damn, that smile of his!

No spoilers on offer, but as is to be expected, some characters are here substantially remixed and re-jiggered. This adaptation’s particular take on Van Helsing has to be the best one by far, presenting this particular character as a tart, no-nonsense and whip-smart sort who more or less comes quickly across as Dracula’s intellectual equal and his would-be partner. Bang briefly channels Lecter even as his nemesis feels like a less-statuesque and more spry take on Clarice Starling, the end result being snappy dialog and exposition scenes between two of classic horror literature’s mainstays. Van Helsing’s character is interestingly deepened, and Dracula’s roots as Victorian England’s moral panic made flesh are addressed, then cleverly pushed aside. This bloodsucker’s not just a sexpot, he’s a hopeless addict who wishes he could trade his fix for anything else, and a socialite who’s as much starved for attention as he is for fresh plasma. Sex, in and of itself, isn’t as important as you’d assume, even if Sister Agatha opens her line of questioning with Jonathan Harker by asking him if he’s had sexual intercourse with the Wallachian aristocrat...

Venereal disease, thy name is Dracula...

The first two episodes take their sweet time in de-constructing and rebuilding the Dracula mythos, going from a police procedural gone Horrorshow to a Whodunit set aboard a ship sailing to Whitby’s iconic crumbling abbey and blackened shores. Both give ample room for Bang and Dolly Wells to work their craft, the second one impishly passing the proverbial deerstalker cap to the Count...

We all know there’s a killer onboard the Demeter, but it can’t possibly the dark-haired gentleman with his crooked teeth and disarming smiles, could it? The very same man who’s more or less headlined the investigation as the eccentric big-brained sort stuck with a posse of murderous oafs and money-hungry fops all worthy of an Agatha Christie cast?

Things unfold more or less like you’d expect, if you’ve read the novel, only we get more of a sense of how these people died. Dracula reaches Whitby, and then...

Then, the miniseries takes a nosedive. The easiest twist ever reveals that Drac’s spent a tad too much time in that last dirt box of his, and awakens in modern-day England, after walking up the seabed and the beachfloor Dawn of the Dead style. We meet the rest of the cast, all reduced to quick-and-dirty archetypes, introduce the Count to concepts such as smartphones, plasma TVs and democracy, and present bureaucracy as the bloodsucker’s most precious ally. In walks Gatiss as the least-memorable Renfield incarnation to date, reduced to looking merely drab and utilitarian while scribbling Dracula is my master, Dracula is my god in the weekend edition’s crossword puzzle...

Lucy Westenra pops up - and yes, we did see Mina Murray, if all-too-briefly - she’s vamped, suitably dispatched; and it’s only now, in the series’ last minutes, that the scriptwriters pull out the laziest cop-out imaginable.

Suffice it to say, someone probably saw a parallel to be made between Batman, the Joker, and Van Helsing and Dracula, and opted to make the pair abruptly consummate their union. Deductive reasoning amounts to “Yo, Transylvanian superstitions are dumb, bro - the sun can’t hurt you! Drop your cross fixation, it’s just jewelery!” and Dracula dies a freed man after inexplicably choosing to snack on the disease-carrying blood of the modern timeline’s Van Helsing descendant. Their final embrace is presented as a union of sorts, but it simply isn’t set up properly.

Therein lies the issue: a lot of Gatiss and Moffatt projects start with a bang, remain consistent for three, four or five seasons, and then peter out weakly. In the case of Sherlock, we’re left with a cliffhanger we may never recover from. In Dracula’s case, we’re shown a Vlad Dracul that could honestly give charisma lessons to Lestat de Lioncourt, we’re given about six hours of winks at the audience and cheeky grins - we’re more than primed to like this Dracula, at that point - 

And then it’s over. He dies, or rather, ends it all.

Imagine if you had to work through a banger of an essay, one heck of a brilliant thesis - and the final ten pages amount to a po-faced summary and concluding statement, with no synthesis provided, no closing statement, no developed argument.

That’s the BBC’s Dracula. If it had been given time to breathe, maybe we’d have obtained something that could have structured that final obliteration of the count’s perceived weaknesses a bit more congently. As it stands, though, it feels like Gatiss looked at his alotted budget, realize he couldn’t fit crucial elements in, and then made like any student during Finals Week with an assignment to hand in, by putting everything he had in the first two thirds. The last act feels unearned and unmotivated, there to more or less parrot empty concepts we’ve seen imagined in other forms many, many times before.

“What if Lucy Westenra were this jaded Instagram sexpot that’s been, like, totally desensitized to it all? Dracula could walk up to her, go ‘Hey, I’m gonna kill you RN’ and she’d basically just shrug and say ‘YOLO, right?’.”

I think I’ll just stick to the Coppola version for the most part, Sadie Frost really sold the idea that for anyone with a position, Victorian England came with a set of requirements that more or less pushed some people down more licentious corridors. Her character’s never read as jaded to me, even on paper. In fact, Westenra’s always seemed like more of a thrillseeker than someone who flat-out doesn’t give a shit.

Still, props given where props are due; Claes Bang’s made for a memorable Count, one that’s packed just enough vim and vigor to make me remember Lestat’s good parts, as opposed to the walking character assassination he’d later become, beyond The Vampire Lestat.

I’d say you can stick to watching the first two episodes and then tune out. I’m sure the fanfic circles could do a better job at expanding the Dragon and Dutchman’s intellectual song-and-dance interestingly.

[amnachil]

The College Society Chapter 1 Part 5

The next part is here ! Let’s see what will happen to our guys :)

Liam Monday September 25

Nonchalantly, the young lad headed towards the kitchen. He just woke up, and he felt unmotivated. Why are we forced to start lessons on the morning ? He would have prefer to work only the afternoon. The unicorns were still asleep, lucky magical creatures ! Anyway, he opened the fridge and took the jam (his mother gave him strawberry jam), then grabbed the bread and prepared his breakfast. From his position, he could hear Nick, playing videogames in the living room. Did he have been playing the whole night ? Now used to his roommate's habits, Liam was able to sleep despite the noise. And by the way, when he had gone back home from work, Nick had been still awake playing. Well, it's his life and he does whatever he wants. The young boy finished his breakfast, and headed towards the bathroom. When he passed by the living room, his friend declared :

"Get ready dude, our guests are coming soon."

At first, Liam just nodded. Then, he realised Nick said "guests". What's he talking about ?! We're waiting someone ? (Liam was a bit inattentive, he could miss some informations from time to time, but a meeting ?) (Well, after all he forgot his own mother last sunday...)

"I told you Rebecca and Colton were coming for the group project."

"Colton."

The chestnut boy feared to see Colton. After this... painful moment with Barbara and her boyfriend, he had noticed this one was in their promotion too. And moreover, in his tutorial group. And I freaked out. But of course, Nick and Rebecca chose him for the project. Feeling perfectly awake now, Liam looked at his roommate, thinking about a pretext to run away. Nick, slumped in the sofa, was focused on his game. Besides, the brown lad noticed with a bit of surprise a tiny roll of fat covering his friend's belly. What am I imagining ? He's just bloated because as always, he stuffed himself. After all, several empty bags of chips laid around. (Rebecca had already considered their living room to be a pigsty).

"I'm sorry Nick but... I have something to do this morning." Liam eventually ventured.

"What are you talking about ? You told me you were free to work this morning !"

I don't remember... He often didn't remember what he had said. (Which sometimes led him into troubles). But he needed a reason to avoid Colton as much as possible, or he would have to face Barbara. I might be overreacting a bit... But anyway, I'm launched into this now.

"I left something... at Pasta's Place." he lied poorly. "I need to go this morning before the lesson..."

Nick (who was still playing and fortunatly didn't see Liam face) (Liam was a bad liar, and he was blushing like hell when it came to lie) nodded slowly.

"Okay dude, just go. We'll start without you."

Once in the street alone, Liam felt idiot. He was doing all that only to avoid a conversation about his ex and his family. It's because bad things happened... To be honest, really bad things happened, but he wasn't forced to reveal everything. And the more I shun Colton, the more suspicious he will be about my behaviour. Sadly, Liam was digging himself in deeper. He had been looking to the restaurant for at least thirty minutes, wondering, when someone hailed him. It was Rebecca, and while she was coming closer, his brain started to freak out. Gosh, what is she doing here ? And what can I tell now ?

"I was looking for you." she panted, evidently left out of breath. "I ran everywhere to find you."

"Something bad happened ?" he asked.

She appeared worried, and Liam having quite a good imagination, he was thinking about the worst. Did Colton just eat Nick ? What about the unicorns ? If the forces of evils were already there...

"No, absolutely not. But you weren't coming back, and Nick told me the Pasta's Place was just at ten minutes, but you left like one hour ago. So we were getting preoccupied."

He blinked, surprised. He didn't realise how much time passed. And I didn't expected Nick to be worried... Rebecca stood up straight and stared at him, perplexed.

"Did you find it ?"

"Find what ?"

"The thing you have forgotten."

Again Liam blinked. He totally forgot he had faked forgot something. Am I having memories issues or what ? She already was considering him stupid, but now...

"Yes, I found it." he eventually whispered.

"Nice. By the way, Colton cancelled at the last minute because he had a transport issue, so we have decided to put the project back and the lesson is also cancelled... Liam, are you fine ?"

Realising he was smirking like a kid, the lad stopped. Colton isn't here. Finally a bit of luck. He smiled to Rebecca, and declared :

"We should go back now."

And he started to walk, pleased by the good turn of this morning. (After all, he just avoided Colton). (And they wouldn't work on this annoying project). (He even might go back to sleep, after all).

Later this day, at sunset, Liam was alone at home when someone knocked on the door. We're not waiting anyone... Curious, the lad opened, and ran into the last person he wanted to see.

"Hi son." greeted his father. "You're doing fine, as far as I can see."

Isaac Strucker smiled. Nonetheless, Liam didn't smile back. What is he doing here ?! Why ? When he had moved in town, the young lad had expected to never see him again. His father left the family twelve years ago, when the eldest was only six, and had just came back from time to time, without any justification. Still today, Liam remembered his mother crying, alone in her bedroom, when she discovered she was pregnant of her third child but without any man to help her. And this last summer, Isaac had come back again for... reasons. He had decided to retrieve the children. Since Liam's mother had financial problems, and  thanks to his good lawyer, Isaac won the trial, and Chloe and Luka had to move with him. By luck, Liam was becoming independant, so he avoided this situation, but he kept an huge rancor towards his father. And now he's here, in front of me like if nothing happened. The forces of evil.

"Your mother told the judge you were depressing and not eating well, but it seems to me like your are in good shape Liam." declared his father with a smirk. "I wonder what will she invent next in order to prevent me for helping my children."

"You didn't help us when we needed you." retorted the freshman.

"That's why I'm back now boy. And if you need money, I can give you whatever you..."

"I don't need your help." interrupted the lad. "I'm doing fine by myself. Why are you here ? What do you want from me ?"

Isaac lowered his eyes humbly. He almost seemed sorry, but Liam wasn't naive. He took everything from my mother. She lost her three children in the same time. That's not how you make amends. The young lad remembered those nights, when he helped his mother to take care of Luka, the youngest. He remembered the longs evenings with Chloe, alone at home while their mother worked at her second job. We always managed to live without him, and we were happy. He annihilated everything.

"I can't force you to forgive me Liam." eventually stated his father. "But even if you don't believe me, I was worried since your mother told to the court you were depressing. I just came to see if everything was fine."

He took a break, but the brown boy knew he wanted to add something. He just waited, holding his urge to punch his father. The unicorns had told him he wasn't a good idea..

"Furthermore, I think Chloe and Luka would be happy to see you during the holidays... If you agree to come at my place, of course."

"I thought they were allowed to see mom during the holidays ?" questionned Liam.

"Well, not anymore... My lawyer wanted to prove to the court she was a compulsive liar and too desesperate to be a good mother, and thanks to you, it will be easy."

"Thanks to me ?"

Isaac took off his phone, and smiled cheerfully.

"I filmed you, and, in this way the court'll see you're perfectly fine. This added with the others proofs I collected will be enough for the judge. I was pretty sure you were at my side, my son. Thanks you."

And without waiting a reaction (Liam was too astounded to react quickly), his father just left him while shouting :

"See you for the holidays !"

Rebecca Thursday September 28

"Well, I guess I just have to buy another trash can." mumbled Nick, barely disconcerted.

The young girl, as for her, was dismayed. What the fuck this trash can did to deserve this ? It was dismantled, completly destroyed. And according to Nick, it was only the last victim.

"I understand he got issues with his family, but butcher a trash... Was it necessary ?"

She started to get worried. She would manage to ignore Liam's listlessness, but since monday, he had those surgings of violence she feared.

"I guess the trash can is good for the trash can." laughed Nick. "Anyway, let's go, Theo is waiting you for the training."

"How can you be so quiet ?! Your roommate is a violent guy."

"Nope. Family is the explosive subject, but otherwise, he's totally nice. And anyway, currently, he's just a serial trash can killer. I don't know what they did to him."

"I'm not kidding dude ! You should be prudent."

Nick stared at her with entertainment.

"Are you worried for me ?"

She rolled her eyes. He's impossible. How the hell could we have become friend ?

"As you said, he's a serial trash can killer, so how long before he attacks you ?"

He stuck his tongue out, and headed towards the door with the dead trash can in his hands.

"Let's go Miss Savage !"

Once they were changed and ready to swim, Nick, still wearing his vest, sat on a bench, took his gameboy and lost his interest for her. Watching him, Rebecca chewed her lips. He wasn't doing any exercise, and he was eating junkfood all day long. Just, she had no problem with him doing this, but Bob would disapprove. He wanted her to be in an optimal environment, which meant with healthy and athletics people. Until now, she lied to him, affirming Nick was a good swimmer but... But soon, Bob will come here to see if I'm telling the truth, and he'll find out what's really going on. She had to do something. Nevertheless, she would think about it later, because Theo called her to train, and she joined him. For a moment, she did a series of lengths, focused on her performance, but then, she glimpsed Liam. The chesnut haired lad was absent-mindedly dipping his feet in the water, staring into space. He's so weird... According to Nick, he had some family's issues he didn't want to talk about. But something went wrong on monday, and since, he was destroying trash cans from time to time. Rebecca was curious. She considered him like a friend, and she wasn't the kind of people to let friends alone. And yeah, to be totally honest, she was worried for Nick. To live alone with a violent man was dangerous, especially when this one was taller and beefier than you. Consequently, she headed towards Liam, and sat next to him. (Obviously, he didn't notice her... This guy was seriously daydreaming). (Sometimes, she was jealous about this ability : he could simply be somewhere, and forget everything, simply by watching the sky... that was a kind of superpower).

"Liam, I think we should talk. Look, I saw the trash cans you destroyed, and I think you should calm down a bit, because this is scary. Yeah, Nick is scared."

It was a little lie (honestly, she was convinced Nick was afraid but didn't show it) but probably the best way to make Liam react. For that matter, he looked at her, and sighed lengthily.

"I'm sorry for Nick. I didn't know he loved his trash cans this much. Anyway, I'm fine now, so don't worry. I just needed to...unwind a bit, you see ?"

"If you have problems Liam, we're here to help you." she whispered.

Honestly, she didn't expect him to talk. She knew him now (at least as much as someone could know this moody dude) and he wasn't the kind of people speaking about himself easily. She was fine with this, because herself was a secret girl too.

"Everything's fine." he assured (as she expected). "Thanks you Rebbie, I'm gonna tell Nick I'm sorry about the trash cans. I seriously thought he hated those."

The black girl smiled and nodded, letting him go. Did he retain only that Nick loved the trash cans ? Because it wasn't my point at all...

Later this night, once the training ended, Rebecca was going to left with Liam and Nick when Laura came to her. The short blonde girl looked a bit worried. She had dark rings under her eyes, and hold her bags strongly, like if she feared to be attacked.

"Sorry to bother you Rebecca, but I may have a favor to ask you." she started quickly. "Theo can't bring me back home this night, and I wondered if you could come with me. I have... infamous neightborhood to go through."

The black girl nodded slowly. Why he couldn't escort her ? What a good boyfriend... The two girls left the pool, and once she informed Nick about her change of plans, Rebecca followed Laura. Soon, they ended up alone in the darkness, faintly lit by the only street lamp working. They walked in silence, and the big girl felt unsure as much as they keep moving. Strange noise resonated around them.

"Are you... making this walk every night ?" she asked in order to say something.

"Yes." agreed Laura. "But usually, Theo is with me, and because he's tall and strong, we avoid most of the problems."

"Only most of them ?"

A trash can fell into the floor. (Why it was necessarily a fucking trash can ? He could not be a street lamp ? Or not, because it would be really scary). Rebecca took Laura hands, ready to run, but suddenly, the whole street lit up. A bunch of girls shouted something incomprehensible and rushed her.

"Welcome to the sorority Rebbie !" yelled Laura. "Here is your private induction seminar ! Have fun !"

And before she could say anything (like the fact she wanted to sleep because she had classes tomorrow) she found herself lifted and she lost the control.

Pete Sunday October 1

This ass. This ass. The young lad could not resist but stare at this handsome ass. Theo sport a tight black swimming trunks for the tournament, and exhibited his hunky body for the great pleasure of his lover. Nevertheless, Pete could only watch by far. Obviously because Laura was there, too close, and also because he didn't succeed to please Theo again. Since his conversation with Bradley more than a week ago, the idea of gaining weight in order to attract the captain was growing in his mind. He didn't know if it was really healthy but he was like an addict asking for more drugs. I should talk to him about this but... I'm not sure how to broach the subject. Anyway, while the organizer called the 100 meter crawl swimmer, Pete headed towards the restaurant, and glimpsed Nick, Rebecca and a stranger who were looking to the pool while eating a meal. He joined them and smiled.

"Hi dudes. Can I sit with you ?"

Nick nodded, and the freshman took it for a yes. He knew Rebecca wasn't exactly liking him, but whatever. I don't care about her after all. By the way, this stranger is cute. He was brown, with a beautiful and delicate face, and two glowing blue eyes. Noticing Pete was staring at him, he introduced himself as Colton, Nick and Rebecca's friend.

"Nice to meet you." responded gladly the blond guy.

For a moment, they watched the swimmers and commentated the performances. As Rebecca declined Theo's offer to make the tournament, and because Pete as Nick were too bad, they were all just watching and supporting their team. Now that I think about it, I never saw Nick swim... Outside, the organizer declared Theo winner of the 100 meter, and they all clapped with enthusiasm.

"I knew he was the best." laughed Nick. "We should eat something to celebrate his victory."

"Eat again ?! Seriously dude, you just finished your meal !" took offense Rebecca.

"And what are you gonna do to stop me, mom ?"

Nick stood up and went to the buffet, ignoring the fact his friend was holding an insult.

"He'll finish like a fat cow." she complained. "Don't tell me I didn't warn him."

"Maybe he'll, but that's his problem you know ?" replied softly Colton. "If he prefer eat than watching his figure... As long as he's happy znd healthy, there's no need to worry, right ?"

Rebecca nodded slowly, but Pete was completly focused on Nick, who went back with a huge tray of food. Did he seriously want to eat everything ? By the desesperate look of Rebecca, he wanted to. However, around them, nobody seemed to be displeased by the glutton, and Pete found himself quite fascinated by the way Nick stuffed this food down his throat. He glanced at Theo, who was outside with some friends, and then went back to Nick. Maybe... Maybe if I do the same and gain a bit of weight... I would get Theo back... Or even better, I would have Theo only for me...

After the tournament, Pete went to Mcdo for is work, and managed to eat the most greasy food he found, before he came back home. In order to gain weight rapidly, he already had quite a good idea. Since he was member of the culinar club, he was making the diner for Mike and himself, while his roommate was doing the cleaning and the shopping. And as a football player, this one used a caloric poder (highly compound of protein) in order to maintain his muscle mass. Of course, with a high amount of exercise, it worked quite nice. However, Mike told me that when he took this poder, he had to eat less and as healthy as possible, like salads. Otherwise, it's too fat. But Pete wanted greasy food. He wasn't a big eater, his stomach had a low capacity, but the poder wasn't nourishing, so he could easily swallow it with a big plate. By doing this for several days, he would gain a bit of weight, and Theo would be turned on. That was why Pete started to prepare a huge meal for him and Mike, and then put some poder in it. Mike is doing so much sport, and is so tall, he'll not see any difference. Then, he sat on the table, and called his roommate.

"It smell delicious !" was glad this latter. "You outdid yourself... Are we celebrating something special ?"

"I heard you won the first match of the season." lied Pete. "So here's the reward."

It was a little lie, nothing too bad after all. Mike looked at him, and mumbled :

"I was on the bench the whole time but thanks I guess. You're cool."

"Yeah, I know."

They both started to eat, and for the first time in his life, Pete felt the desire to devour as much as possible, because he knew it was the only way to please Theo.

To be continued

Hope you liked it :). Well, to those who wonder, the main plot is around Liam, but through other characters we can explore more of their college society. The first chapter is also a kind of introduction. There are 6 parts left !

There is still a lot to go through, especially for our poor Liam... What in his past is so unpleasant that he wants to forget it ? Rebecca is still looking for her place in this new place, will she manage to find it ? And will Pete succeed to reconquer Theo ?

If you want to know more about Liam, don’t forget to read my previous story ; The High School Game !

See you next week ! (I hope :x)

[raendown]

@kaiyaru The contract has been signed and the goods have been delivered. 

Pairing: MadaraTobirama Rating: T+ Word count: 5393 Summary: He knows what he has done. He's known that they would come for him.

Follow the link or read it under the cut!

For Want Of Reason And Mercy

The gloves didn’t help. Several thousand dollars had gone in to the research and development of a single measly pair of gloves and they didn’t even work as they were meant to. Tobirama clenched his fists in his hair to smother the urge to drag his arms across the table and send all of his carefully organized work crashing to the floor. None of it had helped.

After everything he had given, everything he had sacrificed, all the hurts that he had weathered with nary a complaint, he’d thought by now the universe would see fit to let him catch a break. Even the smallest of mercies would be welcome by now but instead the condition only seemed to be worsening.

His nose wrinkled when he realized what he’d just done, using that word in the silence of his own thoughts. It was the government’s word, ‘condition’, and it seemed that the line between his truest desires and the agencies he had long sold his soul to were finally blurring if he’d started to use it himself. But what did it matter, he wondered, if were to finally become what others had accused him of being for so long now when all of his efforts came to nothing in the end?

When the government first began its campaign against those with ‘the condition’, it caused a great stir among the people who had once considered him one of their own when Tobirama gave himself willingly in to the clutches of the very people seeking to destroy them. There were stipulations to it, of course. In pursuit of something greater he had given up his freedom, his rights, and everyone he loved. His body had been subjected to unending tests both invasive and painful and he had suffered all of it without complaint because he truly believed in his heart that he would find the perfect solution, the missing piece of the puzzle that would lead him to happiness.

Now here he was with gloves that failed to contain the ice which formed from his fingertips and no other avenues left to follow in his biological research. The project, it seemed, was a dead end. Despite millions of dollars and hundreds of the Elemental Nations’ most brilliant minds all working together, it appeared that there simply was no cure for the condition of being blessed with heroic powers.

Tobirama first discovered his abilities, as all supers do, when he hit puberty. It was his first and only crush which revealed to him the ice running in his veins. And of course it hadn’t taken very long before the people closest to him began a running joke about cold-blooded Senju and frozen hearts, jokes which became mournful refrains when he willingly devoted his mind to helping the factions seeking to destroy people like them. He knew very well what they thought of him. ‘Traitor’ was the least of the names he had been called.

If they knew his true reasons for why he did what he did would they sing a different tune?

Probably not but it mattered little anyway. They might never know now, not when his only way home seemed an impossibility. If he could not stop his own powers then he could not return home and if he could not find a cure for himself then he stood a good chance of being put down by the people he had worked under for five long years now. Life, he thought blandly, was just unfair.

He was watching the crystals form on his fingertips with despondent emptiness, completely unmotivated to do anything but sit and wallow in his misery, when the noises began. Muffled explosions sounded in the distance while the very earth groaned around him. Sirens went off only moments later but Tobirama couldn’t bring himself to move. Clearly the facility was under attack – a successful attack by the sounds of it – and he couldn’t find it within himself to care, let alone worry. Let them come. Whoever it was knocking at the door, it felt poetic that he might meet his death at last at the hands of those he had betrayed for nothing.

Outside in the hallways he could hear footsteps thundering passed, guards and soldiers rushing to the fight and probably to their deaths, but Tobirama continued to sit still. Evacuation messages rang harshly through the loudspeakers and still he remained. This laboratory was his choice, the doom he had given himself, and the idea of dying here gave his battered soul an odd sort of ironic peace.

As he listened to the sounds of battle drawing closer he tried to imagine who would come through the door. It was hard to tell without the war cries and shouting that used to accompanies such displays of power, a habit he himself had pointed out as dangerous because it made them bigger targets and distracted them from defending themselves. He was still mentally cycling through all of the supers he knew of with explosive or ground related powers when the entire room was rocked by a massive blast just outside, the metal door rocketing inwards with an unholy metallic shriek. Two imposing figures strode in to the room with their hands raised and their heads swiveling to case the room.

Both of them stopped when they saw him there in front of his table, small and quiet, diminished. He didn’t have to look up to see the shock on their faces.

“Tobirama?” one of the called out softly and he barely contained a wince. How he had missed that voice.

“Brother,” he greeted in return. “If I may call you that still.”

“Traitor,” the other man growled. Tobirama’s heart clenched in his chest.

“Hello Madara.” He waited but the silence only continued to stretch and none of them said anything further. Somewhere in the building the fighting raged on, other supers exacting their revenge against one of the facilities researching a way to ‘fix’ them. Finally, when it became obvious that his mere presence was enough to shock these two in to indecision, he spoke. “Do it. I will not try to stop you.”

One of them gasped – Hashirama, probably – and one of them slammed their fist against something.

“You could come with us, you know. You could make this right,” Hashirama begged. It was a tempting offer, to be honest, but Tobirama hung his head and stared down at the ice forming and cracking around the fingers of his gloves.

“I made my bed. I am prepared to lie in it.”

“Why, Tobi? Please. You never told us why. How could you–” Hashirama cut himself off, overwhelmed, but Madara had always had enough words when others had none.

“How could you betray us!?” he thundered. “How could you betray your people, your family, yourself?

“There is no point in explaining it to you. My reasons are…well. There is no point now. Go ahead and kill me; I’m sure you’ve been wanting to do so for quite some time now. As I said, I won’t stop you.”

Enraged snarls sounded from behind him but what surprised him were the fingers that brushed against the top of his head, sliding in to his hair and gently petting him in the same way his nightmares had been soothed away as a little boy. Tobirama caught his bottom lips between his teeth and fought to compose himself before looking up in to his brother’s eyes. It had been so long since they’d seen each other. He noticed that Hashirama’s hair was even more ridiculously long than it had been before and that he’d made several updates to his super uniform.

He barely held in a protest when the fingers in his hair pulled away and he was relieved that they didn’t go far, tracing the three tattoos on his face which he’d designed to both hide and highlight his greatest shame.

“Could you kill me?” Hashirama asked him. Tobirama gave him a helpless look.

“Never.”

“Then how could you ask me to do the same to you?”

Light flared when Madara huffed impatiently, the flames licking up and down his body growing in his irritation. “Don’t treat him so softly. He betrayed us, he doesn’t deserve it!”

“He’s my brother!”

“No, he’s a traitor to his own kind!”

Pausing to breathe deeply, Tobirama dared to look in to Madara’s face for the first time since they had arrived, the first time in five years. As soon as he saw the older man’s expression he wanted to hide away again and erase that image from his mind. Behind the anger and the hatred was a very deep pain and knowing he had caused that made Tobirama hate himself just that little bit more than he already did.

Something deep down inside fluttered at the notion that Madara might still care enough to be hurt, that the hatred hadn’t entirely smothered the tenuous bond which had once existed between them, but Tobirama mercilessly bore down on that feeling and denied it. There was no going back from what he had done, he knew that very well. Whatever potential there had been between them was gone now with no hope of ever reviving it. Tobirama forced himself to look Madara in the eye and accept the consequences of the actions he had chosen to take.

“You then?” he asked. “Will you be the one to kill me?”

“Hn. You would deserve it.”

“I know.” His words seemed to startle both men, though Madara recovered faster. Anger shadowed his face once more as he stepped back and fell in to a stance Tobirama recognized easily.

“We’re not murderers like your new friends are, we don’t kill people who won’t fight back. So come on, then. Get up and fight me! Come on!”

Hashirama make a bit of effort to calm his friend down but Tobirama only sighed in resignation. When he hauled his body up out of his chair he felt a thousand pounds heavier, a hundred years older, and tired enough to lie down in his grave with no help. But if it was a fight that Madara wanted, if it would give him closure…

“Very well,” he murmured. “Brother, if you would kindly give us a bit of space.”

“Trying to protect him? It’s a little late for that,” Madara spat at him, clenching his fist as the fires running along his limbs flared again. His emotions had always been so easy to read in those flames.

Knowing that any answer he chose to give would only incite the other further, Tobirama opted for silence as the ice crystals on his fingertips slowly encased the rest of his hand and crept up his arm. It had been a while since he really let loose. He could feel the power inside him stirring, chilling the air immediately around his body even without trying, and shuddered for what he was about to do. He knew that there was little point in trying to negotiate his way out of this fight. Once Madara got an idea in to his head it was nearly impossible to talk him out of it.

Still, Tobirama refused to throw the first punch, as it were. He took his stance as was expected of him and pinched his brows together when he felt the way his fingers were already growing stiff with ice.

“I didn’t want it to be this way,” he murmured. “But I had…no control.” It was the closest he could give them to an explanation.

Madara did not take his words calmly. Incensed, the older man came forward in a whirlwind of flame and smoke. Tobirama closed his ears to his brother’s cries for them both to stop as he dodged, half-heartedly throwing up a wall of ice to block the fire reaching for his face. Some part of him wondered if it wouldn’t be easier to just allow his ice to slip, to let the fire consume him and end things in the way he felt they should.

The thought was a stupid one, he knew that even as he considered it. Madara would never be the type to find closure in an easy win. If they were going to have it out once and for all he was going to have to put some effort in to this and allow Madara the victory he deserved, a hard won triumph, a proper display of skill from them both.

It was the last thing Tobirama wanted and the only thing he had left to give.

A burning projectile roared passed his ears. Tobirama spun and retaliated with a beam which cut through the flames heading straight for his face, extinguishing them before they ever had a chance to reach the temperature Madara was clearly going for. Incensed, his opponent removed something from his belt and lit them aflame before hurling them across the room. Tobirama caught them in frozen spires called up from the ground then raised those same spires up and threw them back as deadly spears.

Back and forth they traded blows, neither making any true headway nor landing any real hits, and Tobirama could think only of how tired he was, wading through memories with every step and dodge and twist. Despite the years gone by Madara’s fighting style was as familiar to him as though they hadn’t spent a day apart; coming up against it now was like stepping back through time to a place where he’d still had that shining hope in his eyes, still looked towards a better future. Those dreams had died inch by inch in the time since.

Watching the table he had spent hours and days and weeks hunched over go up in flames was like watching the lighting of his own funeral pyre. Tobirama bit down on his lip, dodging behind a metal buttress and giving himself a moment to close his eyes, to breathe.

“Get back here Tobirama! Answer for what you’ve done! Fight me you coward!”

His eyes opened again, slowly, reluctantly.

“There are many things that I am,” he said quietly, knowing the other two men would be straining for any sound of him. “I am a traitor and a monster, I am cold and I am wrong and I am not the man that others once dreamed I could be. But one thing that I am not is a fucking coward.” Stepping out from behind the buttress, Tobirama strode purposefully towards the epicenter of the flames engulfing the room.

“Found you,” Madara growled, rolling his shoulders. Tobirama peeled back his lips.

“You cannot know what I have faced. And for what? Nothing. I have seen darknesses and lows that you won’t see in your worst nightmares, never flinching from the path I chose, and for what!?”

Madara sneered, flames rising from his shoulder unbidden in his anger. “You tell me!”

“For nothing. It was all for nothing. You want me to fight? Fine, let’s fight! Call me a fucking coward, huh?”

They met in the center of the room, clashing and rebounding only to come together over and over. Hashirama’s helpless cried were drowned out by the hissing of the steam that filled the room the longer they stayed so close but he dared not try to interfere. Flames rose and fell, ice formed and shattered, and in the eye of the storm Madara and Tobirama clashed with the same furious passion that had always existed between them.

He could see the inevitable end when it came. Tobirama had, of course, known it was coming even as he desperately prayed that Madara would see it too, would have prepared for it, but his hopes were unfounded. The trouble with pitting fire against ice was that most people tended to assume that the flame would win out, melting the ice for an easy victory. What they failed to take in to account was that Madara’s body could only grow so hot before he would burn himself up like a miniature supernova; Tobirama could grow as cold as he wanted with no more adverse effects than the thickening ice that crept up his limbs by the minute.

If only the damn gloves had worked.

Had they worked he would not have caught Madara in the chest with a blast of his natural element. Nor would he have had to listen to the cry of pain and dismay as Madara doubled over and fell to his knees. Tobirama’s knees hit the concrete as well and he caught the other man before he could topple over, laying him down gently and ignoring the weak protests to get away. His entire body trembled with the effort to draw breath past the pain of what he’d just done.

“From the moment I met you, I knew I’d hurt you eventually.” His fingers found Madara’s hair while the older man shivered uncontrollably, his body striving to raise his internal temperatures. “I just…I had no control. I still have no control. Five years of research and experiments and I still – look…I’m killing you. With nothing but a touch.”

Hashirama rushed forward to pull Madara from his arms and Tobirama scuttled backward until he ran up against something, pressed back in a fruitless effort to disappear in to the walls around him. When he raised his hands to look at them, the ice was so thick his fingers were nearly fused together.

“I tried to make it go away,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry, I failed. I failed myself, you, everyone.”

“What do you mean you tried to make it stop?” Hashirama asked cautiously.

“This.”

He held out his hands, his heart shriveling just that little bit more when he saw Madara flinch away. Tobirama dropped his eyes to the floor and wondered, if he simply kept still for long enough, would the ice creep over him thicker and thicker until he’d grown his own tomb?

“You – you were trying to find a way to take away your powers…because you…oh. Oh Tobi.” Hashirama’s voice was indescribably sad. Tobirama could not look at him. Still propped in his friend’s lap, Madara coughed until his throat was clear and added his voice to the conversation with a worrisome wheezing sound.

“What? Don’t just say ‘oh’. What the fuck is he talking about?”

Tears gathering in his eyes, Hashirama took a shuddering breath. “He came here for you, to ‘cure’ himself so that he could never hurt you. That’s it isn’t it? That’s why you left, why you came to this awful place. You – oh Tobi. Please. Please come home.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Tobirama said to the floor. “I can’t. I have no more control now than I did then. The ice builds and I can shake it off but I can’t stop it from forming! I’ve tried everything!”

“E-everything?” If there were anyone who know to be wary of where Tobirama’s imagination could take his experiments, it was Hashirama. And in this case he was more than justified in his worries – he was right.

“Serums, injections, DNA modification, gene splicing, radiation, herbal medications, and now…now even my experiments in to technology have failed me. I can’t stop this no matter what I try. Every horrible thing that I’ve done since I left, it was all for nothing.”

“I don’t understand,” Madara admitted quietly. He struggled to sit up and Hashirama hurried to help him. Tobirama dared to flicker his eyes over in their direction and was relieved to see a bit of healthy color returning to the other man’s cheeks. Absently, he lifted a hand to brush at his own, tracing the one of the three marks which Madara himself had burnt in to his skin during the confrontation when he left home.

Every day for the past five years he had looked in the mirror and told himself that they would be worth it someday. They were all that had kept him going through the darkest nights, the thought that he might be able to go home and make his confessions, beg for a chance to score Madara in to his heart the way he’d been scored beneath the skin.

“He loves you.” For having spoken so quietly, Hashirama’s voice sounded deafening in Tobirama’s ears. “You don’t remember when we were kids? Before we all developed our powers and Tobi used to fight with me so that he could sit next to you while we all watched TV?”

“That’s – no. No he – impossible. Tobirama, tell him he’s wrong!”

Unable to meet Madara’s eyes now that the truth had been bared, Tobirama kept his silence and stared at his frozen fingers.

“Tobi?” Hashirama ventured. “You keep looking at those gloves you’re wearing. Will you…tell me about them?”

“You always hated listening to me blather on about science.”

“I didn’t hate it. I just never understood it. Will you tell me about it please?”

“What’s the point? They don’t work.”

Even without looking up he knew that Hashirama would be giving him those patented puppy eyes of his. “Please?” came the plaintive whine and Tobirama knew he would answer. What else could he do? He owed them so much and had no other way to make it up to them.

Sighing, he shook out one hand until the ice cracked and shattered then ran his fingers through his hair, tugging viciously on the strands.

“They’re a special nano-interactive material that I designed. They were supposed to identify the super genome and neutralize it so that whenever I wear them they cancel out my powers and I can interact with the rest of the world without risking frostbite or worse. But they don’t. The technology to alter the genome in any way simply doesn’t exist yet and this was the last project of mine that they were going to fund. Without funding I don’t stand a chance of exploring that avenue.” Finally he found the strength to look up, if only to meet Hashirama’s eyes with an expression of utter emptiness. “I don’t have any other options. I’ll never be fixed.”

“You’re not broken,” Hashirama reminded him in a stern voice.

“Brother, don’t…”

“No, you listen to me. You were the loudest voice protesting when people started calling the supers freaks and the government started trying to outlaw us all. And then you got your own powers and I never understood how you could change your mind against yourself. But I do now. So let’s talk about it okay?”

Tobirama groaned and dropped his head back in to whatever he was leaning against, still pulling on his hair. “Talking won’t help.”

“You don’t know that. I know you, you always have a hundred contingency plans.”

“I’ve used them all,” he pointed out dryly.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when Madara spoke up gruffly, “So make another.”

Raising his free hand up above his tilted face, Tobirama looked hard at the way it was still gathering its thick shell of ice. The fingers were all completely fused together now. It was going to take a solid blow to crack it all back off.

“Yeah! Come on Tobi! You always used to say ‘start at the beginning’ so do that! What else did you try?”

“Ev-er-y-thing. What do you not understand about that?” His words came out a frustrated snarl but Hashirama was far from deterred.

“You tried turning off the, uh, the…genome! The genome as a whole. What about when you just tried to turn off what you can do? Like, the cold I mean, when you tried to just block the cold.”

Tobirama turned his head slowly, his eyes wide and the shriveled heart inside his chest skipping several painful beats. “I never tried to do that,” he whispered. Silence followed his admission, broken only by the now fading sounds of the dwindling battle in other parts of the compound. Both of the other men were staring back at him as though he’d gone mad all over again and he honestly couldn’t blame them.

It was so simple. How could he not have thought of something so simple?

“Just turn off the cold,” he mumbled, only half aware of the hot tears spilling down his cheeks. “I see. Not the entire gene but the isolated signals which tell my body to produce cold. It wouldn’t have to be gloves. It could be anything. A shirt, a pair of socks, a necklace.”

“You’re as dumb as you are smart,” Madara growled. Tiny little flames were licking up the sides of his arms again and Tobirama stared at them, mesmerized, while his brother leaned forward eagerly.

“But that’s good news! You figured it out! Why are you crying, Tobi?”

“I already told you, they cut my funding. I have a solution that I cannot achieve now. Everything I’ve worked for is right there at my fingertips and I am still unable to reach it.” His fingers were icing together again where they were still buried in his hair, freezing the strands to his skin so that every shift of his body came with a slight tug from the top of his head.

When the other two men fell silent he assumed they agreed, had seen the same depressing conclusion that he had come to. He was startled enough to clench his fingers stiffly and crack the ice when he heard one of them snort derisively, looking up to find Madara with his face pinched in irritation.

As a super Madara had chosen the name Soulfire for the flames he produced and the way they flared in times of strong emotion as they had been doing since he walked in to the room. They were there again now, rippling up the sides of his arms and in small patches on the tops of his feet in a visual display of his loss of control. Tobirama had seen those flames rise from the man’s skin every time they argued back before he left; somehow it was comforting to watch Madara’s temper boil over, like no time had passed and he hadn’t thrown away half a decade of his life for naught.

It was also a relief to see his flames returning after nearly having them permanently extinguished.

“You fucking idiot,” Madara snarled. “So you’ve got no money here, big fucking deal. You know who else can raise money for research? Us, the people you abandoned. You don’t think your brother would shift hell and earth to find whatever you ask for just to get you to come home?”

“I don’t think you understand how much money research and development of these projects costs–”

“Where the fuck do you think all of our equipment comes from? Our outfits? Do you know how long it took that Namikaze kid to figure out a way to fully fireproof my clothes?”

“Oh. I hadn’t–”

“You hadn’t thought of that, yeah. Clearly!”

Tobirama snapped back out of sheer habit, “Would you stop cutting me off!?”

“Ha! There! There he is!” Madara sneered at him in a smug, triumphant sort of way. “Meek and demure just doesn’t suit you, snowflake.”

“It’s Freezeout and you know that!”

“Well you look like a snowflake!”

“Fuck you!”

“I wish you could!”

Both Tobirama and Hashirama jerked in surprise but Madara did nothing more than huff irritably, not taking his words back. Thin tendrils of smoke drifted up out of his wild hair, nearly thick enough in its own right to act as a second cape, and some distant thought in the back of Tobirama’s mind marveled at the fact that they hadn’t set off the fire alert systems in here yet.

With his cheeks flushed red Madara stiffened his spine and thrust a finger in Tobirama’s direction.

“Don’t look at me like that. You know damn well how often I looked at you before you disappeared. Maybe if one of us hadn’t been a spineless coward and just said something then maybe this whole mess could have been prevented but that’s neither here nor there; no use blubbering over what-ifs. Just get your stupid frozen ass off the floor, have some pride for fuck’s sake – apologize to your brother maybe for breaking his goddamn heart – and get your ass home. You’ve got a problem. We have the means to help you try to fix it.”

“Wow Madara…” Hashirama gave a low whistle, clearly a little impressed with his friend’s speech.

“F-fine.” Swallowing thickly to clear his throat for a handful of shuddering breaths, Tobirama nodded once. “Fine. Yeah. I…that’s okay? I know what I did…that the others might not want me to…”

Lunging across the space between them, Hashirama tackled his younger brother in a tearful hug. “Of course it’s okay! We’ve all missed you so much and I know the others will listen when we tell them why you left. They will! I promise! And I’ll shave all their hair off if they don’t!” Tobirama grunted but allowed the affection, trying not to give in to the urge to sink down in his brother’s embrace and never come out to face the world again.

“That’s no threat, you’ll just grow it back out for them,” he murmured. Hashirama laughed and hauled him up on to his feet. Once he was standing he staggered under the weight of another hug, this one nearly lifting him off the ground.

“You’re really coming home?”

“I never wanted to leave, you know.”

Madara snorted. “Then you shouldn’t have.” Despite his pointed words he looked much less angry than a few moments ago; it seemed he had released it all with his impassioned speech. Tobirama freed himself of his brother’s clutches and then he stood facing the other man, the one he had left home just to find a way back to. Madara looked back at him with one eyebrow raised expectantly.

“I’m sorry,” Tobirama choked out.

“Hmph, you better be.”

Without saying anything else he stormed across the distance between them and took hold of the fur around Tobirama’s shoulders, hauling him in for a bone-crushing embrace that lasted barely a handful of seconds before they were forced to part again, Tobirama’s ice creeping between them and making Madara hiss with pain.

“Fuck, sorry, I – I can’t help it.”

“Yeah, I know. But you’ll fix that. You fix everything, right?”

“Not everything. I never got around to fixing your ego.” His words weren’t nearly as pointed as they should be, rough edges smoothed away by lingering hesitance, but Madara barked a laugh anyway.

“Good luck trying,” was all he said and Tobirama dared to smile ever so slightly.

Hashirama was beaming at them both so widely his face looked like it might split in half but they both ignored him, all three of them making their way towards the exit. Several of the ceiling tiles had fallen in all the excitement and lay blocking the door when they got there. It took only a single crook of Hashirama’s finger for the door to grow outwards and press the tiles away so that the trio could pass.

As they watched their enthusiastic companion bound off to throw himself back in to the fray, Tobirama paused just inside the laboratory when he felt something brush against his knuckles, his head darting around to see what it was. Madara wasn’t looking at him but he was shaking out his hand in a deliberately casual manner, steam rising from his gloves.

“You’ll find an answer,” Madara said quietly. “I believe that.”

“I won’t stop until I do,” Tobirama promised him.

Madara nodded then strode forward with the same confident step that had first caught his eye so long ago. Shifting his weight and clenching his fists, ice scattering to the floor like shards of glass, Tobirama followed after him with a smile still tugging at the corners of his mouth, hope winding through his ribs like a long forgotten friend come home to rest. His eyes fell once more to the fingers that had brushed his own, that he longed to hold, and his smile widened just that small bit more.

The future was his own to shape from here on out, as it always had been. This time he would make the right choices.

[andrewdburton]

Finding a millionaire money mentor

You are the average of the five people you spend the most time with.

You've probably heard that saying before. It's from motivational speaker Jim Rohn. He used it as a way to encourage people to learn and grow from others' experiences, habits, attitudes, and so forth. He wanted folks to seek out and spend time with people of high quality.

Unfortunately for most people, this advice can be difficult (if not impossible) to implement.

That's because we tend to group with like-minded people, which includes hanging out with friends with similar levels of success. Those who are unmotivated often spend time with others who are unmotivated. And those who are motivated by achievement tend to associate with others at a similar level.

When you resolve to improve yourself — to become smarter or fitter or wealthier — it can be tough to find new friends with a similar desire. It can be difficult to change the five people you spend the most time with.

Today, I want to talk about finding a money mentor.

Seeking a Money Mentor

Let's say you're a new business owner and you want to hang out with successful business people to learn their secrets. Do they want to hang with you? Probably not.

Even if you knew five successful business owners, it might be tough to get them to share their experience. That's because — you guessed it — they're probably hanging out with other successful business people.

Or let's say you want to learn podcasting. What are the chances you'll create a mastermind with Tim Ferriss, Joe Rogan, and three other high-flying audio experts? Your odds are slim. Honestly, your odds are zero. These folks are out there being friendly with each other in the stratosphere. They're not likely to spend their time with a new podcaster who is just starting out.

Or say you want to date a lovely, fit, out-going, friendly, charismatic lady or man but you're awkward, out of shape, disagreeable, and surly. You aren't going to connect with a single person (pun intended) like this — much less five of them!

I even see this principle at work in the pickleball world. [J.D.'s note: John is a pickelball fanatic. When I had lunch with him in July, we had to schedule around his multiple pickelball matches that day haha.] New and inexperienced players want to play with much better players so they can get better. But the better players want to play with each other (for the challenge).

Unfortunately it's the same way with money. And no one knows this better than me.

I was young when I first heard Jim Rohn's adage about being the average of the people you spend the most time with. At the time, I was interested in growing my wealth. “I need to find some friends who know something about money!” I thought. “I need to find a money mentor — or five.”

I started paying attention to people in my life who fit that description.

First, I looked to my family but there was no one who made the cut. We were lower middle-class most of my life and generally lived paycheck to paycheck.

Next, I turned to my friends and saw a group just like me — a bunch of people who were clueless with money.

Finally, I considered work acquaintances. But again, I couldn't find anyone I thought I could confide in who was good with money. Most of my co-workers had high salaries, but they didn't know how to manage the money they earned.

Ultimately, I decided I'd dig deep into my “network” (which was razor thin to begin with). I wanted to make a list of people I knew even slightly who were wealthy and/or good with money.

I still remember everyone on that list to this day. Here it is:

__________________

That's right: No one. My list was blank.

And how was I even supposed to know a wealthy person? I was a fresh-out-of-graduate-school executive who was fresh-out-of-small-town-Iowa a few years earlier. If it was possible to have a negative number of network connections, I was there. If it was possible to be greener than green, that was me.

Five Wealthy Friends

I had to create my own group of five wealthy “friends”. (I put that in quotes for a reason which will become clear in a moment.) Here's where I found them.

Books

My first wealthy “friends” were money manuals. I started to devour and apply almost any money-related book I could find. My “best friend” happened to be Thomas Stanley, who wrote The Millionaire Next Door. I read his book, applied what he said, and my wealth grew.

I found other friends in books, as well. I read everything I could from every type of author.

Of course, I had to plow through a lot of junk to mine the gold nuggets. Even as a newbie, I could tell what was trash (like “no money down” real estate books). In time, the good stuff stuck with me.

Magazines

Remember magazines? They were like mini-books you could have mailed to your house each month. (Oh, the good old days. Ha!)

This was in the olden days before the internet, so magazines were my only option for money articles. I subscribed to three money magazines for many years: Money, Kiplinger's, and Smart Money.

Again, there was lots of junk (e.g., each month there was another “Seven Great Stocks to Own Now” sort of article) but I navigated my way through the crap and kept some good stuff.

Other Money Novices

In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king, right?

Well, believe it or not, my wife and I started coaching people at our church early in our marriage. We didn't know much, but we knew more than most. We did budget coaching: how to set up a budget, how to track spending, how to balance the budget, etc.

My wife and I actually got pretty good at this. We could take a family with minimal income and wild spending, then steer them to a balanced budget within two or three hours. Of course, there were hard choices for them to get to that point…

We saw some hideous spending practices, and we had multiple discussions with people trying to communicate Needs versus Wants versus Desires. (So many would try to justify Wants and Desires as Needs — like getting your nails done once a week was a Need. Yikes!)

Anyway, these people taught us…but in the opposite way of what we expected. They showed us what not to do with real life examples.

Writing

Over time, as our little bits of money knowledge accumulated, I developed a side hustle as a personal-finance writer.

You see the irony in this, right?

I held myself out as an expert — as did the magazines I wrote for. It works the same way with journalists these days. Perception is reality, right?

I did know more than most about money, and the publications I wrote for were more general interest versus hardcore money magazines, so it wasn't like I was giving advice on complex tax subjects.

Despite my shortcomings, I happened to be a great marketer (which is what I did for a living) and a decent enough writer (my wife was a brutal editor and made my stuff better, though I fought her changes most of the time) to keep myself pretty busy.

The financial writing became a side hustle. We did this for a few years, using all the money we earned to pay off our mortgage. (In those days, the rates were 8% or so, which made paying off your mortgage much more of a no brainer than today.)

While I wrote, I also researched and started to develop my own philosophy of managing money. My money knowledge and financial habits grew and developed.

After several years, we had our home paid off. This led to a 20+ year run of no debt. So I guess we were better off than most.

Blogging

Many years later, blogging became a thing. I started writing on the web in 2005.

This took my writing and money skills to a whole new level. Now people could comment on what I posted. They could (and did) ask me pointed questions about what I wrote.

This forced me to whittle down what I believed and what I didn't. If I got off track even a bit, my readers let me know it.

This also set the stage for my current site, ESI Money. After so many years of refining my message, I was able to focus my writing on what really mattered and throw away much of the rest.

Of course, these days there are a gazillion blogs and many financial sites, and I read several of them. That's how many people get their financial information. Unfortunately, a large portion of these are written by people with limited financial knowledge and experience.

Nowadays, anyone looking to grow in financial wisdom can hit the web as well as partake in any of the methods I employed. There's a wealth of information out there if you have the time to sort the wheat from the chaff.

But doing so is still a far cry from having five actual friends who are experienced with money — people you can talk to, ask questions of, get responses from, etc. Reading about money isn't the same as having a real-life money mentor.

Besides, people crave person-to-person mentorship in their lives. I know this because they tell me. I hear about it day in and day out.

Connecting with Millionaires

Several years ago, I started interviewing millionaires.

I didn't do it because I wondered what they did to make themselves wealthy. By this time, I understood the keys to wealth.

Instead, I wanted to hear these millionaires tell their stories in their own words. And I wanted to share a new story at my website every week. My hope was that these wealthy men and women would re-iterate that the keys to wealth boil down to a few basic principles. And they did!

To this date, I've published 202 interviews with millionaires at my website.

J.D.'s Note After I sold Get Rich Slowly (and before I bought it back), I wanted to create what I called “The Millionaire Project”. My idea was simple. I would travel the country to film interviews with wealthy people. I'd ask them how they made their money — and how they managed to keep it.

I never followed through on my project, obviously. So, I was excited when I learned that John had begun his own series of millionaire interviews. It's not exactly what I had envisioned, but it's close. (And honestly? In some ways, it's better.)

Shortly after I started publishing these stories, the requests began coming in.

People wanted to connect with millionaires (me and others) for feedback on money issues. They had questions. They wanted advice. In essence, people were seeking to add a millionaire money mentor to the group of friends they spent time with.

Here are some typical comments I received:

“Can you give me your thoughts on this?”

“Can I get more specifics on how you invest in real estate/dividend stocks/etc.?”

“How can I find someone to review my financial situation? I don't know anyone good with money. Will you do it?”

“Hi Millionaire 192, I loved reading your story. It’s inspiring and where I would love to end up eventually with my real estate investments. Would you be willing to talk over the phone about your real estate strategy? I’m happy to pay for your time.”

“I have read, and re-read your story and am very inspired. I wish I was friends with you so we could talk finances on a regular basis. lol.”

At the same time, millionaires were sending me notes wanting to “connect down”. Some of these folks were eager to “pay it forward”. They were willing to be one of the five wealthy friends that people need.

That's when I knew I had to connect the two groups.

The Millionaire Money Mentors

After months of thought and planning, I created the Millionaire Money Mentors program.

People kept telling me they had NO ONE in their lives that they could talk to regarding finances. Now they do. 😉

The Millionaire Money Mentors program is exactly what it sounds like: a way to connect with (and ask questions of) millionaires — and other members of this program. It's an online community dedicated to wealth building.

Members currently have the ability to connect with over 60 millionaires. These money mentors are willing to share their experiences in how to earn more, save more, invest better, and save time doing the right (and avoiding the wrong) money moves.

I hope that you already have a group of wealthy people you can meet with to share your plans and ask for feedback. Even one such money mentor would be amazing!

But if you don't have any wealthy friends, perhaps the Millionaire Money Mentors program is worth a try.

There are several additional benefits to membership in addition to the millionaire-to-member connection. There are expert Ask Me Anything sessions every other week (Sarah Fallaw — Thomas Stanley's daughter — and Wes Moss are just two of our upcoming guests), a Millionaire Book Club, and more! (Not to mention we have a long list of potential future add-ons).

If you think you're interested, I invite you to try it. There's a 7-day money back guarantee so there's really nothing to lose. Plus, membership is affordable (GRS readers have a special price for the next few days) and includes bonuses worth more than the annual cost. I tried to make joining as much of a no-brainer as possible from a value proposition standpoint.

And FYI, it's not just me who loves the site. Here are some comments after our first full week of being open:

“The value of the site is amazing! I have learned so much. I only wish I had more time to read everything!”

“I believe the price of admission to this site is already undervalued! The value of the content more than covers the cost and then factor in the ability to ask questions.”

“Super excited for every one of these (AMA discussions). Thanks and great work putting together this list of incredible people. Well worth the price of admission.”

I hope you stop by and give us a try. But if not, I do suggest you find and connect with a money mentor in Real Life. I took the long and winding road to find my five money “friends” — and even that tough journey was very much worth the effort for me.

from Finance https://www.getrichslowly.org/finding-a-millionaire-money-mentor/ via http://www.rssmix.com/

[rokurookajima]

answering some questions no one asked for because i’m extremely bored

placement asks

sun:  what makes you feel like you?

this is such a hard question, probably just because i feel like i’ve only really started to feel like “me” again in the last few months. sometimes being with my oldest friends (like friends i’ve been friends with for a really really long time) makes me feel more in touch with myself, because they’ve known me through so many phases of myself, sometimes they kind of bring me back to that. when i’m working rly hard on a school project that i really care about (if you didn’t realize i’m an art major so i’m not as boring as that makes me sound). when i’m talking to someone and realize i’ve been sharing a lot of my opinions and real thoughts with them wihtout hesitation. in therapy sessions. 

moon:  do you have problem with trust?

not really. i trust people pretty easily, i’m just a really open person. however i think i’ve lost a lot of trust in the way of like...i think it’ll be really hard for me to trust a potential romantic partner now that i’ve experienced a hard break up. it’s something i work on in therapy lmao

rising:  how/what do people say you come off as?

most people tell me i’m likeable, so i guess just pretty friendly and open. i’m a saggitarius rising, i think that greatly benefits me socially until people get to know me and realize i’m a living spreadsheet 

midheaven:  what do you want to be when you grow up?

content lmao. i want to find a job i love, i’m honestly not sure what it would be. if i could publish my own photobooks i’d be happy with that. i just really wanna live a life that’s fulfilling to me, i have no idea what job i want just as long as i can make enough money to be comfortalbe and i don’t hate it

venus:  do you flirt more knowingly or unknowingly?

probably unknowingly. a lot of guys get crushes on me when we meet, and i just think i’m being friendly to them, but it probably comes across as flirting. if i want to flirt with someone tho, i’m completely aware and i’m sure they are too because my real flirting is not subtle at all

mars:  when was the last time you got mad and why?

i’m not sure. i don’t really get mad very often, when i do it’s usually just at myself. i get mad during/after therapy a lot (i mean not really /mad/ just frustrated) when we talk about my possible future relationships, how i might be holding myself back from meeting someone, certain things about my past relationship. it’s better now, but for a while i was mad every time we talked about the way i viewed myself

mercury:  who's your go-to person when you need to talk?

truly so many people!! which i mean i’m really lucky to have that, but i’m also an oversharer so i’ll tell anyone anything more or less. but usually when something happens or i need help, i’ll go to annabeth, olivia, evie, or gabrielle first

jupiter:  when was the last time you got lucky?

my mind immediately took this to mean sexually so uh. november. but as far as actual luck....idk man i’m still gonna say it was pretty lucky when i got laid in november. i don't really have good luck

saturn:  what are you the weakest and strongest at?

strongest and weakest at introspection. i’m really good at knowing exactly what i’m feeling, why i feel it, and whether or not it’s rational. but i also lose myself in the negative side of introspection and destroy myself over my own perceieved failures 

uranus:  are you rebellious and do you act upon it frequently?

no lmao not at all. i guess to some just my appearance would be considered rebellious, but i really didn’t get tattoos trying to be a rebel

neptune:  what was your best dream and why?

four years ago i had a dream that would give me the idea for a graphic novel i’ve been plotting until this point, and now i’m going to finally write it as my senior thesis project!! 

pluto:  what is your biggest aspiration and why?

also to be happy and content. why not man, who doesn’t want to be content? i feel like being content means being able to be okay with things not being perfect, and like..having faith that whatever is missing will work out eventually. which i struggle with, and i keep myself from being happy half the time i think. of course like my biggest aspiration would be to have all the things i want in place in life, but to be content in the meantime is a good aspiration too. 

lilith:  what's your biggest turn on in someone?

man if i’m into someone, literally everything will turn me on. but just right off the bat, it’s an energy thing. i’ll see  someone i think is aesthetically attractive, then there’ll be a certain vibe i get from them that’ll make me really attracted to them

aries:  what's your favorite sport to play?

what kind of question is this 

taurus:  are you a dog or cat person?

cat person

gemini:  are you introverted or extroverted?

somewhere in between, but i think mostly extroverted. if i go too long without seeing friends, i get so unmotivated and sad. i need to be around people i like more or less every day. but i still do need some time to myself to reconnect and chill

cancer:  when was the last time you cried and why?

sunday afternoon, i’m not really sure why. i’m gonna blame the cancer full moon.i just all the sudden got really sad about life and the future and the past and just everything, and broke down in my car while driving. then i felt marginallly better after getting it all out.

leo:  what makes you the most confident?

honestly i’m rlly confident during sexual encounters. but in a more general day-to-day life kind of way, i feel more confident when i put some effort into my hair/makeup/clothes. if i’m in a good mood, i feel a lot more confident too

virgo:  what's your strongest subject in school?

i’m in college, i feel like this kind of question works better for high school. but digital photography classes are the ones i feel like i do best in most of the time (all my junior year i felt like i was doing bad in them, but i felt like i was doing bad in every class so)

libra:  what's your favorite make up brand?

i’m not rlly loyal to any one brand, i just use specific products exclusively. i like limecrime for the venus palettes, too faced bc i use their better than sex mascara, i’ve used almay liquid eyeliner since the 8th grade

scorpio:  what's your most kept secret?

why would i tell y’all

sagittarius:  do you like to party?

i love to party!! i literally never thought i would be someone who goes to parties, i thought i was way too socially anxious and afraid of the unknown to do it. but in the last year i’ve gotten way more comfortable with going to parties to the point i’ll even show up by myself (i mean i vaguely know pretty much everyone who will be there so there’s still that). but yeah now i always have a really good time and look forward to going to parties 

capricorn:  what's the last book you've read?

this book is full of spiders (seriously dude don’t touch it) by david wong, the sequel to the very beloved john dies at the end. i started it over the summer and finally finished it this winter break i had no time to read during the semester

aquarius:  do you believe in aliens?

honestly i don’t ever give it much thought, but i don’t see a reason not to believe in them

pisces:  how frequently do you remember your dream?

usually i remember rlly vague snippets, not much detail. every now and then i’ll have a really vivid dream with an actual storyline that’s worth remembering and those are my favorites. i wish i had them more often 

[chubbyrobbierotten]

Sportacus finds robbie in front of a mirror being very insecure and telling himself he's ugly. And sportacus tells him he's not and showers him in loving words! And kisses

~~~~~~~

Sorry I have not been putting out stories for so long! I’ve been traveling a lot lately and without internet for some of it. Also I’m a terrible unmotivated butthole who is taking summer courses at my university. Also this whole story is me project my issues onto poor Robbo. Please forgive me. 

I had a great time writing this (though I haven’t slept in far too long, so it’s probably not great)! Thanks for the prompt, and keep sending them in! Y’all can expect more coming up here in the near future.

~~~~~~~

Robbie stood with his arms hanging down at his sides. The personhe saw staring back at him from within the mirror was not someone he liked. Heran his hands over his bare torso, gently caressing the neatly arranged,raised, white scars on his belly and sides. Gathering all the chubbiness of hisbelly in his hands, he let out a deep sigh.

“Uh, Robbie? What are you doing?” Sportacus asked, walkingtoward his boyfriend. Hesitantly, he wrapped his arms around the tall man.

“Nothing,” Robbie replied, huffily. He pulled out of theother man’s embrace and crossed his arms over his abdomen, as though Sportdidn’t already know about the scars.

“Robbie, I have no idea what is going on in your head rightnow, because you don’t want to tell me. And that’s okay,” Sportacus said, as hegave what he hoped was a comforting smile. “But I do want you to know that youare the most beautiful man I have ever looked at with my own two eyes, andthere is not a single thing I would ever want to change about you. Ever.”Robbie looked slightly taken aback, trying to fight the feeling that the loveof his life didn’t mean what he had just said.

“How can you say that when I look like this?” Robbie blurtedout, looking actually a little bit hurt. “I have destroyed my body trying tofight my instability. I am a train wreck. I love you so much, Sportacus, but…but how do you love me back? How can you say that I’m beautiful?” He rushed outwhat he wanted to say so quickly it was hard to understand. Sportacus lookedappalled.

“I cannot stand for this nonsense,” the elf announced. Hewalked over and took Robbie’s hand to lead him over to the orange chair. “Waithere.” Robbie watched his boyfriend walk down the hall into his seldom-usedbedroom. After a moment, Sport emerged with his giant, purple goosedowncomforter, two pillows, and a big smile.

He turned on the television to the cooking channel andarranged the pillows in a comfortable fashion. Then, climbing into Robbie’slap, he wrapped the comforter around them both and snuggled in. Running hishands over his boyfriend’s scars, he gave Robbie a soft but very passionatekiss. He pulled away after what seemed like forever and looked him dead in theeyes.

“I need you to understand something very clearly,” Sportacusurged. “I love you more than anything in the world. More than sportscandy. Morethan flips. You are the best thing that has ever happened to me. I want you tolove you that much, too. Because you know what? You deserve it. That is anobjective fact that cannot be argued with, sir,” he said shortly beforeplanting a series of kisses all over the wonderful man’s face. He could feelRobbie’s expression soften, and was relieved that what he said had made anydifference at all.

“Well now that we have that established, let’s see what thisguy has got cooking today,” he said lightly, turning his head towards the TV.Robbie looked down at his bare abdomen and gently traced his scars for thesecond time this evening, but somehow this time, he had a smile on his face.

[caveartfair]

How Nina Katchadourian Uses Airplane Bathrooms as Her Studio

Lavatory Self-Portrait in Flemish Style #13, 2010. Nina Katchadourian Fridman Gallery

Lemon Arch, 2010. Nina Katchadourian Fridman Gallery

In 2010, Nina Katchadourian was awaiting takeoff on her flight from Atlanta to New York’s LaGuardia airport when she had a thought that would irrevocably alter her creative production.

“I have two-and-a-half hours ahead of me,” she recalled thinking in a recent interview with Artsy. “Why does it feel like this time already doesn’t count?”

The multidisciplinary New York–based artist was repulsed by the pervasive sense of powerlessness in the face of air travel. Determined to maximize her time on the plane and remain engaged during what is often a numbing experience, Katchadourian developed a kind of game to create things throughout the entire flight—an expansive project that has come to be called “Seat Assignment” (2010–present). “As an artist, I’m always looking at what more there might be in our mundane, everyday surroundings if we pay it interest, give it a second look,” she said. She hadn’t brought materials with her, so she began playing with whatever was at hand on her tray table, and documented the results with her camera phone.

Dancers, 2010. Nina Katchadourian Fridman Gallery

Two-hundred-and-seventy-five trips later, Katchadourian is still making the most of in-flight magazines, complimentary peanuts, and cocktail napkins. She’s created hundreds of compelling photographs—including those in the project’s sub-series “Lavatory Self-Portraits in the Flemish Style,” which became a riotous viral sensation—as well as video animations and a handful of surreptitious music videos filmed in airplane bathrooms. A good portion of the results from her creative experiment are now the subject of “IFICATION,” an exhibition on view at Fridman Gallery in New York through March 31st.

Even as the works have become more elaborate in the years since that generative 2010 flight, with repeating motifs taxonomized into sub-series like “Proposals for Public Sculpture,” “High-Altitude Spirit Photography,” and “Window Seat Suprematism,” the rules of Katchadourian’s game have remained the same.

“It’s important to me not to bring props,” she said. She insists on working with only what’s around her, and limits her activities to her lap, the tray table, or the bathroom. And though the quality of smartphone cameras has greatly improved in recent years, Katchadourian continues to use her older model, a device that “helps me look like I’m sitting there wasting time.”

The remarkably subtle and complex imagery that Katchadourian is able to conjure within these bounds stands as a testament to the creative power of constraints. Some of Katchadourian’s best work comes out of in-flight magazines, a family of publications central to her methodology. “I look through every single page,” she said, “beginning to end.” She enjoys shifting the scale of the picture to create an “odd” situation in which the depiction of a big space is confused by the placement of small objects on its surface.

Worthy examples of these photographs are endless. In Ascension (2010), an image of a small dog walking up an oddly specific (and so certainly SkyMall) ramp is adorned with a paper halo. In Topiary (2010), a line of peas adds the illusion of a monumental sculpture to an otherwise orderly topiary garden. In Skier (2010), an ominous sandwich seems to chase the titular skier down a slope. Katchadourian said that she delights in this “trick of seeing an image transformed at the same time that you see exactly what the materials are being used to do that.”

Topiary, 2010. Nina Katchadourian Fridman Gallery

Skier, 2010. Nina Katchadourian Fridman Gallery

Sometimes the glare from an overhead light takes the place of foodstuffs, usually to dramatic effect. In Bather (2010), a central nude figure wades in a clear-watered grotto; the divine flare of light over his face renders the scene baptismal. These belong to the category of picture Katchadourian calls “High-Altitude Spirit Photography,” a title that nods to the distinctly Victorian tradition of capturing ghosts and other ethereal beings on the then-newfangled camera. Like most of her projects, the artist didn’t arrive at this aesthetic solution from an art-historical inquiry; Katchadourian simply took a picture that came out with a lot of glare. Rather than seeing a deficiency, she decided to use the intrusive light to her advantage.

“Play can be an extremely serious thing,” she said, but “it’s important to allow space for unmotivated play; sometimes you need to do something to figure out why you’re doing it.”

Ascension, 2010. Nina Katchadourian Fridman Gallery

Bather, 2010. Nina Katchadourian Fridman Gallery

Sometimes, Katchadourian’s play becomes laced with fear. In the “Disasters” pictures, crushed pretzels neatly piled on glossy travel-magazine photographs of slick cities and island paradises transform aspirational scenes into ones of harrowing destruction. She has also made overt references to terrorism, which has a charged relationship to flying in the 21st century. Works such as Twin Towers (2011)—an eerie snapshot of two wafers balanced on a tray table—and Spectre (2010), in which an ominous glare cuts through an otherwise innocuous picture of the seat aisle, reveal the anxiety that is part and parcel with modern air travel.

“You’re in a metal tube with hundreds of people you don’t know hurtling through space,” Katchadourian said. The isolation of this experience intensifies with “people observing one another and being suspicious of one another,” an effect that “lurks in some of these pictures,” she said. Katchadourian notes that in all her time working on “Seat Assignment,” she’s only ever been asked three questions by the strangers sitting next to her, though part of this disinterest may be due to the artist’s stealth—she’s mastered the humdrum art of looking bored.

Spectre , 2010. Nina Katchadourian Fridman Gallery

In her efforts to go unnoticed and not disturb her fellow passengers, Katchadourian frequently retreats to the lavatory, the only private spot on the plane. There, she creates the most famous works in the series, Flemish-style self-portraits composed “using everything in the bathroom except for toilet paper.” Despite their low-key effect, Katchadourian insists that the pictures are not selfies. Rather, they’re abstracted from their subject; liminal portals to another time and space—17th-century Holland, perhaps—created with mundane materials used un-mysteriously.

Still, in our conversation, Katchadourian returned to the idea of disturbing the flight attendants or her neighbors, and of maintaining the ordered balance of the plane in flight. She’s especially conscious of the time she takes in the bathroom, and attributes the inconspicuousness of her actions to her identity.

“There’s a way I get away with doing this project because I’m a white woman,” she said. “If you’re a Middle Eastern–looking man like my husband and you went into the bathroom for 15 minutes, there would be a problem.”

Lavatory Self-Portrait in the Flemish Style #2 from “Seat Assignment,” 2010 - ongoing, 2011. Nina Katchadourian Brooklyn Artists Ball

Lavatory Self-Portrait in Flemish Style #8 , 2010. Nina Katchadourian Fridman Gallery

Despite well-publicized acts of racial discrimination from the country’s major airlines, Katchadourian still sees the magic of flight. “It’s the closest thing we’ve got to time travel,” she affirmed. “In the pictures, there’s a feeling of the wondrousness of air travel—the magic trick.”

In the early years of “Seat Assignment,” Katchadourian worked frantically on the plane (she famously produced two-thirds of her 2011 exhibition at the Dunedin Public Art Gallery in New Zealand while on the 22-hour flight there), but these days, the artist allows for “a lot of ebb and flow” in her productivity, admitting that on some trips, she doesn’t make anything at all.

One of her challenges now, she said, is finding new things to do. But the long-term evolution of the series still holds surprises for the artist. “Sometimes I’ve worked on projects for 10 years before I know what it is I’m up to,” she said.

from Artsy News

[we-reloved]

day: 2/90

Okay, so day 2, folks. 

This semester feels so stressful because I can already tell I am unmotivated and mentally exhausted already. 

Yup. By the second day. It’ll definitely be a tough semester. 

So, first class, went well. This is my third time taking this professor, so I know I will enjoy the class. 

Also noticed in class, this guy that I think is super cute that I have seen around campus a ton, is in that class. He has a girlfriend, so it doesn't really matter. 

I have been super lowkey hoping to have a class with this particular dude again, but doesn’t look like that’ll happen :/ (I hate myself for even wanting to be forced to socialize with this kid)

My online class is already very boring. But it is the first week, so I plan to hold out before I judge the class. 

Second lecture of the day was quite boring. The entire 4 hour lecture was all review from stuff I learned in a class just last semester. So, I got high scores on all the activities, and I didn’t even pay attention to the lecture. Which, is good to know I actually learned something haha. 

Does anyone else sometime feel like you are so passive in school, that you aren’t even sure you actually are learning? Like, you are able to do just enough to pass an exam and ace all your assignments, but if you were asked to explain it, or were quizzed on it later, you would have no idea? 

Well, that is how I feel. Yet, I have found that I do pick up on a handful of facts and concepts. I, also, think I have an oddly good selective memory. And when I say selective, I mean, it is random and I don't choose it, but it is not everything. 

I will remember such random details of people I have never met. 

Yeah. Not even kidding. 

Anyhoot. Today was decent. I think I will do fine in most of my classes. I just feel stressed out because it is the beginning, so I have all the exams, quizzes, essays, projects, etc. ahead of me. And because I am terrified to graduate and deal further with the real ( “fucking”-as my Meteorology professor would add) world. Plus, during my second later, I felt like screaming when I realized it was only Tuesday. I go to school everyday. I am already tired of showing up. I hope it is because it has all been introductions, so super boring and uninteresting. Fingers crossed. 

ALSO: to add to the list of things my professor has told me about students in their classrooms: my Psych professor shared that she does not allow laptops in her lectures anymore because of many reason... one of them is because a student was watching pornography during lecture. Okay, yo, I am not coming at the fact that the person watches porn because I don't care, BUT IN LECTURE what the actual fuck, man. How did you think you would not get caught? Who would not report seeing that? And, why? What further outcome can you get watching that in lecture? Like, in a bathroom stall I could see. But in a classroom? Some people’s kids. 

So, that was day two of ninety-effing days.