#(I love them as a crazy fuck and as reformed normal dudes- can not love one form without the other)

[femmeroi]

Top ten characters HRT could have saved

[jflashandclash]

Time frame: Several months after the last short, After Sea of Monsters and before Titan’s curse.

 Big Boy Conversations

Story VI

             “Kronos has been waiting thousands of years. He can wait another decade.” The witch boy glowered.

“No—Camp Half-Blood now knows,” said the servant of the Titan Lord. “We need to find another way to accelerate his rise.”

                                                                  -Overheard in the Captain’s Quarters                                                  

           For the first time in what felt like years, Luke had a full night’s rest. These days were becoming rare: days when his thoughts were his own. No shrieks of Kronos. No passive mutterings about the bitterness of existence (other than his own bitter mutterings). No hisses about how weak Luke was—a demigod, pathetic for needing to sleep, for needing to eat, for needing to do anything other than the mission, for caring for his old friends for—

         The tip of Axel’s sword would have slashed across Luke’s chest guard had he not pivoted backwards.

         Luke tried to shake the whispers from his thoughts. Those weren’t useful when sword fighting. Kronos wasn’t in his head right now. The last thing Luke wanted was Kronos’ internal cheerleading when the Titan wasn’t around.

         Especially when it meant that Luke would lose his sword.

         The motion was so quick that Luke didn’t have a chance to disengage. He’d gone to lunge for Axel, only to have Axel arch his blade, locking Luke’s, and disarming him.

         There was a pause.

         Luke’s sword clattered onto the deck.

         For such a short moment that Luke wasn’t sure if he’d imagined it, Flynn paused in drilling the younger recruits to scrutinize them.

         Then she was barking orders again.

         Axel froze.

         The jaguar boy’s tufted ears tucked low to his hairline. His golden eyes went wide, flicking—as Luke learned they often did—to figure out where his little brother was before returning to Luke. (His little brother was sparring with Mercedes.) He kept his sword in a defensive stance, the tip shuddering, like he feared Luke would blast him off the ship with some hidden Sith Lord power.

         Fear, Luke realized. Kronos would have been thrilled that Axel’s reaction to winning a bout was fear. Axel may have won this, but he still knew his place.

         It made Luke feel sick. This soldier would fight alongside him in Kronos’ honor guard. Or…. Or they would protect Luke himself, depending on how the Titan Lord chose to reform. Luke chewed his lip. Would Luke be himself anymore if that happened? If Kronos took over his body? That sense of nausea twisted his stomach tighter.

         Either way, he should have been excited, if not proud, that Axel had bested him.

         The sight of Axel’s fear made him sick for another reason. It reminded Luke of his nightmares about Thalia’s eyes, wide and brimmed with horror upon seeing him. That was the last thing he wanted from her.[1] Those nightmares, like Kronos’ cheerfulness, were distractions while training.

         Luke gave Axel a smile, hoping it didn’t twitch. “Nice disarm, dude,” he cheered. Sometimes, he forgot how to make his voice sound encouraging.

         Several people had stopped at the sound of his sword. When Luke laughed, picked up an iced towel from a bowl filled with them, and threw it directly into Axel’s face, everyone relaxed.

         Pax—Axel’s fluttery, excitable little brother—braced to run to Axel, probably to tackle hug him. As soon as he exposed his back, Flynn rolled her eyes. She made a hand motion and Mercedes—Pax’s partner—immediately tackled the tinier boy to the deck.

         Luke picked up an ice towel for himself and wrapped it around his shoulders. “You’re improving fast,” he said.

         Axel tossed his sword onto a designated weapons mat. Sweat soaked the loose strands of his bun to the back of his neck. When he and Pax trained, they rejected dirtying shirts unnecessarily. This definitely distracted most of the girls, some of the boys, and quite a few monsters.

         “Thanks,” Axel said. He wiped his chest down with his towel. From what Luke had heard, Pax and Axel did a separate training regiment to maintain their skills as acrobats. It showed on their muscle tones, and Luke wondered, passively, if they’d let him join. Or if Kronos would let him. The Titan Lord might consider it a waste of time.

         “Axel, what are you doing for the rest of today?” Luke asked. He glanced around the deck. Everywhere you looked, demigods were attacking dummies, practicing with monsters, playing in the pool, or shoving at each other. Jack provided background music with an acoustic guitar.  

         Nearby, Lucille, a friendly daughter of Aphrodite, helped their youngest pledge pick up her first sword. Charlene, or Charlie as everyone called her, was five years old. Everyone loved her, including the monsters. While her mother, Ethel (though everyone called her Echidna), was cold and distant, Charlie was outgoing and feisty. She’d be a strong warrior one day, and—from the amount that she could already shock others—a powerful child of Zeus and granddaughter of Summanus.

         Too young for the prophecy, the voice of Kronos cooed inside of him.

         Luke shook his head.

         He wanted to be excited that Charlie was picking up her first sword and being taught by her step-momma. He didn’t want to be excited that Charlie could one day slay a sea cow to rule the cosmos. No wonder Zeus rebelled against Kronos if he wanted to give those kind of bedtime stories.

         This was one of their days off. After practice, everyone would have free time. Morpheus had lulled Kronos’ sarcophagus essence into a daze, claiming it was good for his regeneration and Luke’s sanity. These days were becoming rare. Normally, Luke would take Jack to the Monster Mash club to throw back a few beers, but they were on the wrong coast for that. Feeling the warmth of the breeze, he realized they were probably along the wrong continent.

         Axel looked uncertain. He picked up one of the water jugs that Ethel and Charlie had set out for the training troops. He nodded his thanks to Ethel. She leaned stiffly against the pool railing and scowled at the ground by Axel’s feet. Axel had, gently, been encouraging her to make eye contact with men without electrocuting them.

         “Um, we’d have to ask Jack,” Axel said. Luke shook his head. You asked Axel if he had free time.

         Jack scrambled over alongside them, playing a short, mysterious tune like a theme for his arrival. Whenever Flynn was busy, Jack hovered around Axel and Pax to scold them or give them encouragement, like “a proper father.” Luke had originally assumed Jack would forget this whole parenting thing within a few months, lost to another one of his crazy ideas. With the continuous doting, Luke now wondered if Jack and Lucille would start an Adopt-a-Demigod club. Most of the demigods aboard had such fucked up histories; a Big Brother and Sister program to mentor tiny demigods would actually be a good idea. He shuddered to think of Jack enacting it.  Jack would add Adopt-a-Demigod family hour before the morning Demigod-Monster meditation sessions.

         “Yes?” Jack sang. He almost his balance as he leaned backwards with his acoustic guitar as though it were electric.

         Luke balanced him, smirking.

         “Do we have music practice today?” Axel asked.

         “Band practice,” Jack corrected, his broad smile exuding excitement. He set his guitar to the side. “We’re another month, a keyboardist, and band name away from our first concert, Mr. Guitarist.”

         He went to ruffle Axel between his tufted ears, but Axel swatted his hand away. The boy tried to look annoyed. Those ears gave him away, perked up and alert. “You’re not my dad. And, if you were, you couldn’t be both my dad and the lead singer of our rock band.”

         “I can and I will,” Jack said, “I’ll be the coolest dad in history.”

         His incessant cheeriness and attention had been wearing Axel’s moopiness down over the last few months. Jack’s attitude also helped Luke when doom and gloom of everything got to him.  

         Maybe this was why Axel and Pax worked so well with Jack. It gave him two toys that had to follow through on all of his crazed ideas. Sometimes, they were even excited about the odd plans. It definitely made Luke and Flynn’s lives easier.

         “Yes to band practice. You won’t become the best guitarist in mythological history without practice!” Jack said.

         In his peripheral vision, Luke could see Lou Ellen steal Mercedes’ nose. Well, he guessed Lou Ellen was trying to steal Mercedes’ nose. The young witch came away with Mercedes’ chin instead. Alabaster was still working on her precision.

         In this chaos, Pax managed to crawl out and scurry over. He tackle-hugged Jack. Although Jack towered over him in height, the younger boy almost plowed him over. “Do I get to play the drums again?”

         “Yep,” Jack said. He struggled to lift Pax. Axel sighed, reached subtly for his little brother’s foot, and helped lift Pax into the air. The motion was so slight that Jack probably thought he’d managed on his own.

         “Do I get to practice rap-screaming?!” Pax asked.

         “Only if you take the proper precautions to protect your vocal cords. We need a screamer, and I don’t have the right set of vocal cords for—”

         A spear lodged into the deck between Jack’s feet. He shrieked, dropping Pax. Pax and Axel found their footing easily. Jack almost fell over.

         A tall boy with black armor and grey underclothing walked over, jerking the spear from the ground casually. “Sorry,” Alabaster said, “Someone had a bad throw.”

         For a split second, his glittering green eyes narrowed at Luke. Luke would bet that one of Hecate’s brats had been aiming directly at him, likely under Alabaster’s orders.

         “Work on your family’s aim, Torrington. I expect perfection with all of your boasting,” Luke growled.

         A new recruit nearby giggled, “Draco should learn some honing spells.”

         Alabaster was already walking back towards his siblings, like he hadn’t heard.

         “Witch Boy gives me the creeps sometimes,” Jack said, dusting himself off.  

         Luke would never admit to it, since he knew Alabaster would enjoy any show of weakness or fear from him, but Luke often worried Alabaster had little voodoo dolls of everyone aboard the ship. He understood Jack’s feelings.

         “He’s not bad once you spend some time with him,” Axel said.

         “Or maybe he’s just had time to bewitch you two,” Jack said. The grin returned to his face.

         At some point during the altercation, Pax dove behind Axel. He poked his head past one of Axel’s arms, intently watching Alabaster return the spear to an empousa. The lovely girl with the donkey foot winked at Luke. She giggled to Lou Ellen, who was now limping. Mercedes must have taken her chin back from the little witch and given her a warning of what would happen next time she took it.

Lout Ellen stuck her tongue out at them.

         Jack reached around to pinch Pax’s ear. “The Witch Boy has definitely bewitched one of you. Or was it Lou Ellen that did that?”

         Luke was so intent on keeping his troops trained, setting up everything for the rise of the Titans, and keeping up with the goings in New Rome and Camp Half-Blood, he often forgot how much drama and gossip happened on the ship. With the thought of Thalia turning back from a tree, he couldn’t get himself to talk to anyone about their crushes. Jack just… prattled about Flynn. But, it was nice to hear Jack talk. Maybe he should have paid more attention to the politics aboard the ship, if it meant the Witch Boy was gaining more loyalty.

         Pax went bright red. “No!” he cried too fast. “I just—I think he and Lou Ellen are cool.” When Pax noticed Luke’s gaze, he tucked completely behind his brother’s back, mumbling an apology in what sounded like Spanish.

         There was that fear again. Luke’s gut twisted to realize that Pax hid when Luke raised his voice against Alabaster.  

         That’s not what Luke wanted right now.

         Luke gave them a calming smile. “Hey, Jack and I were going to dock and hang out on the cliffs later tonight. Wanna come?”

         “I would need to find a babysitter for Ajax,” Axel said, reaching behind his shoulder to pinch Pax’s ear.

         “I can’t come?” Pax’s question sounded disembodied. He’d completely vanished behind Axel’s torso. Luke had to wonder if one of their acrobatic practices was pretending to move as one person since Pax could vanish whenever he wanted.

         “Nope. We’ll bring you when you’re older. We need to have big boy conversations,” Jack said.

         That brought Pax from around Axel’s back. “Could I play Mortal Kombat with Matthias?! Or watch TV?! Or—or—” His voice dropped to a hopeful whisper, his cheeks rouging again. “Do you think Alabaster would let me help in the lab?”

         Jack raised a mischievous eyebrow. “We can make Alabaster let you in the lab.”

         As they decided Pax’s fate for the night, Luke thought over Jack’s understatement: “big boy conversations.” What Luke needed was a set of people he could trust, ones that wouldn’t gossip and would do anything for him, even if that meant killing him for his own good.

        Yea. Big boy conversation.

****

Sorry for the delay! I hope you enjoyed regardless, and as always, thank you for reading! :D I should have part two/the final part of this short out next week!

  [1] Mel Betanote, “You reap what you sow, a little bit literally considering your god weapon.”

[kootenaygoon]

So,

My new therapist looked a little bit like Margaret Atwood. 

She was an older woman with an exhausted smile, recovering from a recent surgery. A few light grey hairs were beginning to alight on her otherwise black curls. I’d finally gotten around to signing up for counselling through Black Press’ mental health program, and now I was sitting in her office, which happened to be within sight of the Star building. It seemed like Nelson was getting smaller and smaller each year, like I was running out of people I didn’t already know somehow. 

“You know, I took some pictures of the ferry the other day. It got stuck on shore, beached like a whale, and it delayed everyone for about an hour. I’m pretty sure it’s happened more than once now,” she said.

“I should send you the pictures. I bet that would make an interesting story for the paper. What do you think?”

I gave her a weak smile, and waited for things to start. Instead she launched into some complaints about the parking issues caused by the Stores to Shores project, and apologized repeatedly for the inconvenience, even though I’d walked over during my lunch break. She couldn’t believe the decision-making going on at city hall, that they could greenlight something this disruptive, and she shook her head as the noisy paving work continued below her window. Finally she sat down and pulled out a small spiral notepad. I already felt like this wasn’t working, like she couldn’t be my Dr. Melfi, but I sat there obediently anyway, taking her through my litany of complaints one by one. 

“I feel like I got really cocky while I was in university, when things were going so well, and I really believed I’d successfully solved the puzzle of my depression. I felt like I was never going to be depressed again and I just drowned myself in my social life, and writing and traveling and everything else,” I said.

“But now with Paisley and the dogs, settling into just like a normal, routine life, I guess I’m not really handling that transition really well. I mean, we’re both terrible with money and we don’t really have a social life here or a proper support network and we’re fighting a lot. I’m one of eight kids, you know? So being isolated like this isn’t normal for me.”

“One of eight? And where are you in the pecking order?”

“I’m the oldest.”

She smiled warmly. “Of course you are.”

After we covered my depression history, and my meds, we starting talking about geography. I was very much committed to making Nelson my home, the same way I was steadfastly committed to Paisley, but it was seeming more and more unsustainable everyday. We had published multiple stories about the affordable housing crisis at the Star while meanwhile we were barely making rent and wondering if we should downgrade to a smaller place. Maybe a one-bedroom. This was a town for wealthy retirees, black market cannabis growers and entrepreneurs willing to risk huge amounts of capital. If I wasn’t working as a reporter, I couldn’t see any other legitimate opportunities beyond lifeguarding or delivering pizza. This whole newspaper experience was a dream turned into reality, but I couldn’t make the numbers add up. 

“So why don’t you go somewhere else?”

“Like where?”

“Somewhere new?”

I sighed. “That’s been my solution in the past. I never let myself get established, I’m always bouncing off to Whitehorse or Nova Scotia or wherever and I’m jettisoning friends like crazy and I think that’s part of the problem why I’m so lonely and fucked up. This is supposed to be our refuge, our home, the place where we can finally settle down and just live.”

“And you’re questioning that?”

“I don’t know. Maybe, yeah.”

That night I fell asleep in front of the TV drunk, partway through an episode of The Wire. I’d been re-watching from the start, fixating particularly on Omar’s storyline. He was a gay street robber who wielded a shotgun and was willing to give false testimony to implicate a drug trafficker. The scene where he faces off with the opposing lawyer in court was my favourite. I loved how Omar was unapologetically himself, existing outside the law, but still lived by a very specific moral code. President Obama called Omar his favourite character, despite his lawless ways. For me, it was a hetero man crush in full bloom, but it still didn’t touch what I felt for the show’s creator David Simon. In creating characters like Omar, and depicting Baltimore with such raw honesty, he’d deeply impacted my worldview. I wanted nothing more than to tell stories like him, to touch lives like him, to tell the truth in ways it’s not normally told. 

When I blinked open my eyes, I was standing on the sidewalk across from the Nelson Courthouse. I squinted into the afternoon sunlight, lifting one hand to shade my face. A police siren squawked beside me, and I jumped, watching as Nate Holt climbed from his cruiser and reached for his sidearm. He was gesturing to his partner, pointing in the direction of the credit union. Inside I could see a dark figure darting past the windows. Andrew Stevenson. I reached down for my camera, but it wasn’t there. 

“You don’t need your camera, Will. You just need to watch,” Cass said, appearing beside me. “When the time comes, you’ll remember what you need to remember.”

I turned to her. “But I need a picture for the Star.”

“Some stories aren’t for the newspaper. You have to think bigger than that.”

Behind her Andrew Stevenson came banging out of the bank’s side-door, directly below a blue-faced man with loonies for eyes. The barrel of his shotgun was sticking upright out of his backpack, wagging like a chastising finger as he jumped on to his bike and pedalled frantically down hill. I looked over at Nate, who was clambering back into his car, while Paul Burkart appeared at an absolute sprint, pounding across the pavement and hurtling after the bank robber at full tilt. 

Shit, I thought. Paul can run. 

Suddenly I was in Cass’ passenger seat as she rumbled out towards the highway in a jacked up truck. She was the one who had made all of this possible, the one who had lured me to the Kootenays. Everything I’d done, everything I’d experienced, she’d already been there and done that. I could tell she missed it, the rush of journalism, and she still haunted my email inbox to talk about potential stories and remind me of upcoming events. Like a reformed junkie still craving a whiff. As she drove, the landscape rushing by behind her began to take flame. Raging fires swept across my viewscape as the sky darkened. This was starting to feel like a real emergency.

“I already covered this story.”

Cass laughed. “You think just because you cover one forest fire, then that’s it? What difference does that make? What’s the point of that?”

“People need to feel safe.”

“But it’s the people themselves that are causing the fires with climate disruption, just like Naomi Klein said. We need to be thinking about our complicity, Will. It’s not enough to tell people something happened, you have to tell them why it happened.”

“Why does anything happen, though? I don’t believe in God anymore.”

“And I never believed in God. You know that.”

When we were in university, Cass was notorious for being uncooperative and combative both with her subjects and the other staff at the Martlet. She was absurdly blunt but hyper-perceptive, so she was good at offending people and telling the truth. She was one of my first journalism role models, and I wanted to be more like her. I wanted to be fearless in blurting out uncomfortable questions and then exploring them with my prose, purposely crossing lines and challenging taboos. Like a journalist version of Omar.

Cass batted her blinker and turned left off the highway, leading us down a winding hill towards the Columbia River. Ahead of her I could see RCMP cars blockading the bridge. The fires cast black silhouettes across the concrete as the cops waited for the next moment to happen. Cass parked on a switch-back overlooking the bridge, leaning over to share in my view. Then she sat back and lit a joint, the glow bathing her face for a moment. I remembered that short time, years ago, when we were a thing. It had been a poor idea and hadn’t ended well, but I didn’t regret it.

“I thought you didn’t smoke pot.”

She took a long drag, then exhaled luxuriously. The smoke lingered around the truck’s cabin, enveloping me. “This is your dream. You want some?”

I took the joint. I watched it smoulder for a moment. “Sometimes this is how I feel, you know? Like my life’s on fire and everyone’s all calm about it. Nobody knows, nobody can see.”

“That’s melodramatic.”

I shrugged. “I’m a melodramatic dude.”

The Kootenay Goon

[beer-and-breakdowns]

do all 150 !! :)

Thanks for this Anon, I needed something to do, lmaoo

1. Who was the last person you held hands with?

My ex, which was a LOOONG time ago, lol

2. Are you outgoing or shy?

I’d say I’m a bit of both really, if I get to know you, I’d say I’m super outgoing but with new people I tend to be a little shy, unless the person I’m meeting has a lot in common with me personality wise and interest wise.

3. Who are you looking forward to seeing?

Well, I think I’m going out with one of my best friends tonight so her I guess!:)  (But the way I interpret this question, I’m also very excited to see a bunch of bands in the coming year, BFMV, Parkway, Currents, Slayer, Wage War, it’s looking good B))

4. Are you easy to get along with?

I’d say so! :)

5. If you were drunk would the person you like take care of you?

Yeah, I think so, she’s super kind-hearted.

6. What kind of people are you attracted to?

People with common ground with me.  Metalheads, laid-back people, fans of the same shit as me, etc.

7. Do you think you’ll be in a relationship two months from now?

Hahahahahahahanope.

8. Who from the opposite gender is on your mind?

My mum bc my parents get back from a holiday today!  But also, that one person thats pretty much always on my mind, lol, rip meeee

No, lol

10. Who was the last person you had a deep conversation with?

One of mutuals!:)

11. What does the most recent text that you sent say?

Directions of where to find me for someone picking me up from work, lmaoo, HOW EXCITING

12. What are your 5 favorite songs right now?

NOT THIS QUESTION D:  This is gonna be hard, and I can almost guarantee it wont be the same when you read this, lol.

Architects - Downfall, Polaris - Lucid, Currents - Forget Me, Architects - Doomsday, Currents - Life//Lost

13. Do you like it when people play with your hair?

Yeah, kinda lol

14. Do you believe in luck and miracles?

I believe in luck, I think!  Not miracles tho, rip

15. What good thing happened this summer?

Well, it’s not over yet, but DOWNLOAD 2018 YEEEET!!

16. Would you kiss the last person you kissed again?

Yeah, why not

17. Do you think there is life on other planets?

For sure!  I love believing all that crazy shit, its fun, and also very plausible!

18. Do you still talk to your first crush?

Nah, lol

19. Do you like bubble baths?

I like baths, but haven’t had a proper bubble bath in years (NO, I’m not a smelly bitch that doesn’t wash, I shower everyday)

20. Do you like your neighbors?

I dont know them super well bc I moved house a couple of years ago but from what I can tell yeah, they’re really nice!

21. What are you bad habits?

Nail biting, mostly.  I’m shit with money too if that counts, lol

22. Where would you like to travel?

LITERALLY EVERYWHERE OMG.  But a US road trip is on my bucket list!

23. Do you have trust issues?

Nope

24. Favorite part of your daily routine?

Probably my nightly music/tumblr session.  It’s so relaxing and my music taste is the fuckin’ bomb.

25. What part of your body are you most uncomfortable with?

Probably my legs tbh, rip

26. What do you do when you wake up?

Scroll social media whilst my PC loads, lol

27. Do you wish your skin was lighter or darker?

Neither, but if I HAD to choose, darker

28. Who are you most comfortable around?

My closest friends

29. Have any of your ex’s told you they regret breaking up?

Nah, I don’t recall that anyway, rip

30. Do you ever want to get married?

Definitely!  Just, not for a little while

31. Is your hair long enough for a pony tail?

Nope, wish it was tho (not for the pony tail, just want long hair, lol)

32. Which celebrities would you have a threesome with?

Alexis Kaufman aaaaaaaaand Emily Kinney, maybe?

33. Spell your name with your chin.

oi9wen, went better than I thought, lol

34. Do you play sports? What sports?

HA no

35. Would you rather live without TV or music?

TV 10000000000000%

36. Have you ever liked someone and never told them?

Yup

37. What do you say during awkward silences?

Nothing really, lmaoo!  I do try to start a new conversation if I’m not feeling too awkward tho!

38. Describe your dream girl/guy?

Ummm, I know them irl, lol.  Cute as hell, blonde, blue eyes, funny, kind as fuck, an all-round sweetheart with the looks to match.  

39. What are your favorite stores to shop in?

HMV, lol

40. What do you want to do after high school?

I WANNA PLAY MUSIC FOR A LIVING but that shits hard so idk bc nothing else interest me the way music does:(  Maybe something with psychology and killers.

41. Do you believe everyone deserves a second chance?

Yes, 100%.  I fully believe rehabilitation and reformation can work for everyone with the right tools.

42. If your being extremely quiet what does it mean?

I’m either super tired or feeling sorry for myself, lmaoo

43. Do you smile at strangers?

Yup, most of the time!

44. Trip to outer space or bottom of the ocean?

Space, even tho I’m scared of heights so getting in the rocket would be an ISSUE.  But the ocean is fuckin’ spooky man, I ain’t goin’ down there :o

45. What makes you get out of bed in the morning?

Being awake, lmaoo.  I sleep for more hours than I should but I’m not one for staying in bed and once I’m up, I’m up.

46. What are you paranoid about?

Not having a stable life after Uni tbh, the real world terrifies me, lol help.  But also, and probably moreso never making any progress with my music and hopeful music career.

47. Have you ever been high?

Nope

48. Have you ever been drunk?

Yeeeeeee

49. Have you done anything recently that you hope nobody finds out about?

Nah

50. What was the colour of the last hoodie you wore?

Black, probably, I dont normally wear hoodies tbh :o

51. Ever wished you were someone else?

Originally, I was gonna say no, but then I remembered someone that I’ll forever be jealous of, so yes

52. One thing you wish you could change about yourself?

My legs probably hahaha

53. Favourite makeup brand?

What’s makeup?

54. Favourite store?

HMV, again, lol

55. Favourite blog?

Probably either @lovelyfoxes, @meowsonmeows, @emilyharrisxvii and @strawberry-sarcasm

56. Favourite colour?

Black (Dont go telling me that shits a shade and not a colour bc I’ll still say black.)

57. Favourite food? 

INDIAN FOOD PLS

58. Last thing you ate?

Katsu chicken

59. First thing you ate this morning?

^^^ Katsu chicken (I woke up late, okay)

60. Ever won a competition? For what?

Nah, not that I can remember lol

61. Been suspended/expelled? For what?

Nope

62. Been arrested? For what?

7328916312 times.  Being annoying :): :))::)::) (No)

63. Ever been in love?

Yup, rip

64. Tell us the story of your first kiss?

Idk, I kissed a girl.  Sorry it was super long ago and I didn’t think much of it at the time, it sorta just happened, lol

65. Are you hungry right now?

Nah, I’m FULL boii

66. Do you like your tumblr friends more than your real friends?

No, but some of my tumblr frands are my irl friends

67. Facebook or Twitter?

Twitter 1000000%

68. Twitter or Tumblr?

Tumblr 1000000000000%

69. Are you watching tv right now?

Nope, havent in a while tbh

70. Names of your bestfriends? 

Emily, Zac, Laura, Leo, Ethan

71. Craving something? What?

Attention.  Of a specific person.  YES PLS.

72. What colour are your towels?

White, black and grey.

72. How many pillows do you sleep with?

Twooo

73. Do you sleep with stuffed animals?

Nope

74. How many stuffed animals do you think you have?

7328131691

75. Favourite animal?

FOXES.  Or wolves.  Unless Dinosaurs count.

76. What colour is your underwear?

Grey

77. Chocolate or Vanilla?

Vanilla, man

78. Favourite ice cream flavour?

Salted Caramel

79. What colour shirt are you wearing?

Black, lol

80. What colour pants?

V dark blue

81. Favourite tv show?

Atm, probablyyyyy The Walking Dead, Ray Donovan and WWE, lmaoo

82. Favourite movie?

The Domestics just recently took the spot over Pulp Fiction.  WATCH IT.

83. Mean Girls or Mean Girls 2?

Only seen the first one, lel

84. Mean Girls or 21 Jump Street?

21 Jump Street

85. Favourite character from Mean Girls?

Me

86. Favourite character from Finding Nemo?

Me (Prolly the turtle)

87. First person you talked to today?

My friend Leo

88. Last person you talked to today?

Who knows, probably my friend Emily

89. Name a person you hate?

Most modern “musicians”

90. Name a person you love?

Alexis Kaufman

91. Is there anyone you want to punch in the face right now?

Nope :)

92. In a fight with someone?

Nah, ya boii is mostly pacifist, I wont start shit

93. How many sweatpants do you have?

Like, 1 pair, lol

94. How many sweaters/hoodies do you have?

Prolly like 5 or 6?

95. Last movie you watched?

Looper

96. Favourite actress?

Hard to think atm, so probably off the top of my head Emily Blunt.

97. Favourite actor?

Mark Wahlberg or Johnny Depp

98. Do you tan a lot?

Hahahah, thats a massive nope

99. Have any pets?

I used to have a lil cat dude, but nah, not anymore

100. How are you feeling?

I’m goooood :)

101. Do you type fast?

Yeah, lmao

102. Do you regret anything from your past?

Yeah, lol

103. Can you spell well?

Yeah, mostly, I stumble when typing sometimes, but I can correct myself quickly and its usually just a mis-click

104. Do you miss anyone from your past?

Yeah, kinda

105. Ever been to a bonfire party?

Nope

106. Ever broken someone’s heart?

Probably, tbh

107. Have you ever been on a horse?

Nah

108. What should you be doing?

Showering, oops

109. Is something irritating you right now?

Nah, not really! :)

110. Have you ever liked someone so much it hurt?

Yes yes and YES

111. Do you have trust issues?

Nope

112. Who was the last person you cried in front of?

Honestly I think it was my friend Emily, lol (U remember if ur reading this, Sax is never a good idea)

113. What was your childhood nickname?

I didn’t really have one :o

114. Have you ever been out of your province/state?

Yup, been to a few different countries

115. Do you play the Wii?

Used to, lol

116. Are you listening to music right now?

Yeah boiiiiii B)

117. Do you like chicken noodle soup?

It’s pretty good!

118. Do you like Chinese food?

Ummmm yes

119. Favourite book?

Sorry internet, I’m not a massive reader 3  I don’t really have one :(

120. Are you afraid of the dark?

Nah, used to be as a kid tho

121. Are you mean?

Nah, man

122. Is cheating ever okay?

No.  There’s probably a very VERY specific scenario brought on by many other specific actions within a relationship where it might, MAYBE, slightly be the smallest bit justified, but I don’t know what that would be off the top of my head and no one should break someone’s trust like that.

123. Can you keep white shoes clean?

Nah, my shoes get dirty no matter where I go, lol

124. Do you believe in love at first sight?

Yup

125. Do you believe in true love?

Yeah

126. Are you currently bored?

Nah, I love tumblr asks, dude

127. What makes you happy?

Music, friends and escapsim

128. Would you change your name?

Nah, I’ve come to terms with it now

129. What your zodiac sign?

Libra

130. Do you like subway?

Of course B)

131. Your bestfriend of the opposite sex likes you, what do you do?

I’d prolly see how it goes! :)  I certainly wouldn’t complain!

132. Who’s the last person you had a deep conversation with?

One of my mutuals!

133. Favourite lyrics right now?

“No matter what it is we've facedIt's now part of usWe can overcome” - As I Lay Dying - Overcome

134. Can you count to one million?

I think? hahahah

135. Dumbest lie you ever told?

I had every single PS2 game ever created... kids, eh?

136. Do you sleep with your doors open or closed?

Closed 1000000%

137. How tall are you?

about 5′11″

138. Curly or Straight hair?

Straight hair on me, doesn’t make a difference on others B)

139. Brunette or Blonde?

Blonde (but Brunette is gorgeous too)

140. Summer or Winter?

Summer (But Christmas time is GREAT)

141. Night or Day?

Night, mostly!

142. Favourite month?

October, maybe?  Either than or July, idk

143. Are you a vegetarian?

Nope

144. Dark, milk or white chocolate?

Dark B)

145. Tea or Coffee?

Coffee

146. Was today a good day?

So far, yeah! :)

147. Mars or Snickers?

Mars 100000000%

148. What’s your favourite quote?

“The best thing you can do is follow your dreams“ - James Owen Sullivan (The Rev)

149. Do you believe in ghosts?

Yup, 100%!

150. Get the closest book next to you, open it to page 42, what’s the first line on that page?

There isn’t one! :(

THANKS ANON!

[illumynare]

Red vs Blue Fic: Lay Your Weary Head to Rest

Summary: Wash knows all about second chances, and how easy they are to lose. After Sidewinder, he knows only one thing for sure: he can't be crazy.

And that means he can't sleep.

Parings: None. Warnings: Canon-typical language, mentions of self-harm, excruciatingly self-indulgent hurt/comfort.

Notes: Also available on AO3!

This was inspired by a conversation with @zalia and @whimsical-writer, and some of their lovely ideas. Also, Aki suggested the photos. Thanks, guys. ♥

Wash knows all about second chances.

That moment when the world opens up, turns over, and everything changes. That dizzying gasp of hope, like fingers loosing from your throat, ecstasy mixed with the sickening knowledge that you can't fuck this up, because you're a soldier now, you're a Freelancer now, you're—

Blue Team leader now.

Wash has never escaped anything except by the skin of his teeth. He was three weeks at boot camp when his homeworld got glassed. He was a breath away from a firing squad when Freelancer recruited him.

He was one suit of armor and a chorus of bad lies away from going back to prison.

Those first two fresh starts were so easily lost. Wash knows his place on Blue Team is just as fragile.

I'm done, he told Sarge, and let himself collapse into the snow of Sidewinder. And he'd really thought he was done. That he was ready to lie down and stop. But then Tucker and Caboose hauled him up, put him in the armor of their friend he'd done his best to destroy, and as soon as Wash took his first breaths through the new helmet, he was shaking with desperation to keep ahold of his final second chance.

But he still doesn't know how.

He knew what it meant to be a good soldier. He knew (too well) what it meant to be a good Freelancer. He's used to rules and structure, harsh expectations and demerits. To being told exactly how close he is to fucking up beyond repair.

He doesn't have the faintest idea how to be a good Blue Team leader.

The first few days, Wash feels like he's in free-fall. He gets them a jeep, he leads them away from Sidewinder, he gets them to the nearest Simulation Trooper base. (The Reds, no surprise, are next door immediately.) And he knows that's right, it has to be—

But then he's sitting at the kitchen table while Tucker works the coffee machine and Caboose eats peanut butter with a spoon.

"So, fearless leader, you got any more orders?" Tucker asks, sounding faintly resentful, and Wash's mouth goes dry, because he just. Doesn't. Know.

"What's standard mission protocol?" he asks.

"The fuck?"

"You have a mission." Wash's head is aching—he's hardly slept since Sidewinder—he hardly slept before Sidewinder—but he can sleep later. Once he knows what to do. Determinedly, he goes on, "Capture the Red Flag. That's your mission. You have a standard protocol, right?"

"Wellll . . . " Caboose draws out the word. "We used to have a protocol, but then it got wet, so we don't use it very much anymore."

Tucker shrugs. "Mostly, we just stand around and bitch. Or bang Sister, but she's not around anymore."

"Wait, what?" Wash stares at him. He can think of five different ways to interpret that sentence, and he's still trying to think of literally anything else it could mean.

"Oh yeah!" says Tucker, and grins. "Also, Blue Team leader has to change Caboose's underwear every day. It's a rule."

"I don't like that rule," Caboose mutters.

"Yeah, when Caboose and I went on that quest to fulfill the prophecy together, I had to take over for Church, and let me tell you, that was worse than getting knocked up and going into labor."

Wash lays his head down on the table.

He ends up leading them on a raid of Red Base, and it goes okay, they capture the flag, he knows that's the goal for Sim Troopers, it has to be okay.

"Man, Church was never this much of a hardass," Tucker complains as they march back into Blue Base.

"We just won, Private Tucker," Wash reminds him, and then his heart pounds for the next ten minutes because it doesn't matter that he's the leader, if Tucker decides he's had enough—

Wash breathes slowly, in and out, and slowly rolls his fingers into fists, one-two-three-four-five, before releasing them.

There's one thing Wash knows for sure: he can't be crazy.

There's no Article 12 on Blue Team. They don't have any hospitals where they can stash a broken soldier until he screams out his nightmares and learns how to stop clawing open his own skin. If they don't want him anymore, they'll call the UNSC. (Maybe they're calling them now.)

Wash has to get this right the first time.

He thinks he can do it. He's been convincing people he was sane for years. Even when he was in prison, and it felt like the walls were continually crawling towards him, he still held it together.

But something seems to have broken in him with they fought the Meta. When he said, I'm done, and threw away everything to help this stupid, senseless team. Wash goes to sleep that first night in Blue Base, and he dreams that his blood is turning into cold wires and circuits beneath his skin, and he's locked up somewhere small and dark as the memories rattle around in his head, you killed them you killed them, faster and faster, it's your fault your fault, and his teeth buzz and he can't breathe AllisonAllisonAllison—

make(){ it.STOP(); }

Wash wakes up, and barely manages to stumble into the bathroom before he vomits.

When he's done, he leans his elbows on the toilet seat and shakes. He wants to peel open the skin of his arms and check for wires. The bile burns in his throat and his nose like ones and zeroes.

But he can't go crazy again. He can't.

The day after, he twitches at every noise. Caboose appears silently behind him, and Wash has a knife to his throat before he can even think. A moment after, he's stumbling back, putting his knife away, thinking, how could you how could you how could you = alert() { error; error; error; }

The next night, he tries to sleep. He dreams that he's made of numbers and wires, and he wakes up screaming and trying to claw at his arms through his kevlar undersuit.

He decides: he can't sleep again.

He can't.

It makes perfect sense.

There are stim pills stored in his suit, but for now, coffee is enough. Coffee and knowing what will happen if he fucks up again. Wash can't go back to prison, he can't let me out let me out let me out—

Caboose gets ahold of the coffee maker and jams coffee grounds into every crevice. Tucker whines for twenty minutes, but Wash finds himself secretly grateful. It's kind of soothing, taking the machine apart and cleaning each piece.

If only he could be taken apart, cleaned, reformed—

He thinks again about peeling up his skin to check for wires again, and swallows. That's crazy. He's not allowed to do that. Normal people don't need to do that.

When he finishes cleaning the coffeemaker, he takes it apart and washes it two more times, just to be sure. Just to enjoy that feeling of gritty, ruined pieces becoming whole again.

Tucker doesn't like Wash.

Like, at all.

They drag the fucker back from Sidewinder because Caboose wants him, and Tucker… well, he's feeling guilty that he didn't stop either version of Church from destroying himself up on a pointless crusade. Letting Caboose adopt a Freelancer seems like the least he can do.

It also seems like a terrible idea.

Agent Washington is pale and twitchy and only gets worse on further acquaintance. He has an empty, mindless stare, and absolutely no sense of humor, and a way of saying. "I'm fine, Private Tucker," that makes Tucker want to punch him in the face.

He also doesn't sleep.

It takes Tucker a while to work that out, once they find a new base and settle down. Tucker has other things to think about, like sending a properly encoded message to Junior. He isn't ever letting a C.O. and his baggage get between him and his son again.

But at a certain point, Tucker notices: Wash doesn't sleep.

Like, ever.

It's kind of creepy, and also kind of dumb. Church didn't sleep, but that's because he was a ghost. AI. Whatever.

Wash doesn't sleep because he's a . . . crazy Freelancer?

"Dude, if you don't sleep, you'll go crazy," he says, and Wash fixes him with a hollow stare.

"I'm totally, completely sane," he says, like it's something he's said a hundred times before. Maybe it is. If Tucker went around acting that weird, he'd probably have to tell people he was sane all the time as well.

Wash helps them capture the Red Team flag four days in a row, and that's nice, but it doesn't change the fact that this fucker killed Donut and Church, and Tucker isn't ready to forgive that ever, ever.

But he also isn't ready when Wash falls asleep on him.

It happens near the end of the first week. Wash has been . . . honestly, the craziest Tucker has ever seen him, starting at nothing and staring at the corners of the room and scratching at his arms in a way that sets Tucker's teeth on edge.

When Tucker's sitting on the rec room couch and Wash asks him, "What are you looking at?" Tucker rolls his eyes and says, "Stolen ONI secrets beamed to me by the Insurrection, duh."

And Wash flinches, the way he does when something reminds him of Project Freelancer. (Tucker hates that he's already nearly fluent in Agent Washington flinches. He hates it just as much as he hated being fluent in the different ways Church would screech or sigh or mutter I'm going to kill myself, I'm going to kill myself, and FUCK YOU, CHURCH—)

"I'm looking at pictures of Junior, geez." Tucker tilts up the tablet so Wash can catch a glimpse. "You can come check it out if you want."

To his surprise, Wash does. He sits down beside Tucker and leans over his shoulder and says, in a baffled voice, "He looks like a normal Elite."

"Hey, Junior's better than normal," Tucker says indignantly. "Top of his class, and he made the basketball team." He swipes the screen to another picture. "Aw, yeah, here he is at his third grade graduation."

It's not that Tucker wants to share anything with Wash, it's just that he understands what it means for Junior to attend a private academy for the kids of UNSC officers (unlike Caboose) and he doesn't mutter kill it with fire (unlike Church). So Tucker shows him the pictures from Junior's school play—his son got cast as Romeo, fuck yeah of course he did—and then, since Wash isn't trying to escape, he starts showing him the pictures from when they were on Sanghelios together.

And he's aware that Wash has started leaning on him kind of heavily, and it's weird, but honestly Tucker doesn't care, because he hasn't gotten a chance to talk about Junior in so long. Until suddenly he realizes—

Wash is sleeping.

Mouth open, face slack. The crazy ex-Freelancer is leaning against him and sleeping, and making little snuffling noises like a normal person who hasn't killed two of Tucker's friends.

Tucker thinks, What the fuck.

And then doesn't move for twenty minutes, until Wash snorts suddenly, stands up, and stumbles away without a word.

Fucking lunatic.

If he isn't good enough, they'll send him back.

Wash knows that, he's always known that, it's been the rule of every family he ever had. And he's always failed and he thinks he's going to fail again. Tucker is always impatient with him, and Caboose always calls him Church, and they don't want him. They can't want him.

He can't sleep. He's tried a few more times, but every time the nightmares send him screaming awake.

There was a time when Wash could take the nightmares. When he was Recovery One, he didn't make a sound. He woke up with a shudder, and he swallowed—you are not a computer you are not Epsilon you are not dead—and flexed his human-not-human fingers, and went back to work.

But now there's no revenge burning in his gut. Not even a desperate, fuck-you-all desire for freedom. There's just a base and a flag and two idiot soldiers who saved him but don't really seem to want him, and without anything to fight for, Wash is falling apart.

He's going back to prison.

He's going, but he's not there yet, and he can't help clinging to every ritual that seems like it might keep him out.

2 A.M. and Wash decides that it's time to take the coffeemaker apart again. He can't quite remember why it's important, but it feels good to rinse the pieces and arrange them in a line as he finishes with each one.

He's not crazy.

(He can't do this.)

Wash's heartbeat pounds against his ribs, throbs behind his eyes and in his fingertips. He can't do this, can't be normal, doesn't even remember how—but he can't go back to prison, he can't he can't—

"Hey, Wash."

He startles and drops the coffee filter basket. Turns. See Tucker slouched in the kitchen doorway.

"What is it, Private Tucker?"

His tongue feels fuzzy and numb. He's not even sure why he's trying, except he has to, he can't go back, he has to—

"You need to sleep," says Tucker. "You're fucking crazy, man."

"I'm totally, completely—"

"OH MY GOD A SLEEPOVER." Caboose appears in the doorway behind Tucker. "Dibs on big spoon."

"What?" Wash's voice cracks, and he doesn't even care. He doesn't understand this.

"I had a lot of sleepovers with my sisters. I am very good at them."

"Okay, I never believed I'd say this, but listen to Caboose."

Wash feels trapped, defenseless before their eyes, and without meaning to, he says, "I can't sleep—I'll just—"

"Yeah, we've all heard you screaming, dude. Fucking Red Team has heard you screaming. I'm just glad Donut isn't here to ask if we—" Tucker cuts himself off. "Anyway. We're having a sleepover."

It still doesn't make sense, but Wash doesn't have it in him to protest. He stumbles after Caboose into the rec room, where there is already a pile of pillows and blankets. He lets Caboose strip the last pieces of his armor off. When Tucker arrives with three mugs, Wash accepts the one he's handed.

He wraps his fingers around the warm ceramic. Heat against his palms. The scent of milky hot chocolate. Those aren't things computers can feel. He takes a sip, and—

"It's good," he says, surprised.

Tucker looks absurdly proud. "Old family recipe. My mom made the best hot chocolate."

Wash takes another sip. His heartbeat is slowing down. He feels . . . warmer. More real.

"I can tell you a bedtime story," Tucker adds, "but I gotta warn you, it's gonna be totally NSFW, bow-chicka-bow-wow."

And Wash smiles reluctantly into his mug. "No thanks," he mutters.

He finishes the hot chocolate. He looks at the pillows and his heart thuds in fear again, because if he dreams he isn't human one more time, he doesn't think he can come back from it.

But Caboose has got an arm hooked around his shoulders and he just rolls over with Wash, down onto the pillows, and his body is tucked along the length of Wash's spine, and it's like warmth and safety being downloaded straight into his skull, and Wash is, he is—

Wanted.

Tucker settles down beside them, and Wash stares at the back of his neck, feels Caboose breathing on the back of his neck, and he can't understand why Tucker trusts him enough to turn his back on him, can't understand why Caboose cares enough to cradle him, but he's warm and he's safe and his heart beats slower, slower.

He sleeps.

He wakes up, and there are phantom circuits shivering over his skin, but he's squashed between Tucker and Caboose and he can feel them both breathing, both their hearts beating, and he breathes in time to them and thinks, Maybe I'm human.

He sleeps again, and doesn't dream.

Wash wakes slowly. He's alone now, beneath a pile of pillows and blankets, but he can hear people moving nearby, and hushed voices.

"Excuse you, moron, obviously pancakes are the best."

"But I do not think Agent Washington likes pancakes."

"You just say that because you don't like pancakes."

Wash thinks about that, his eyes still shut. Pancakes. His mother used to make them sometimes, from a mix. They were mealy and a little dry, but still a treat because of the syrup.

Tucker's voice rises. "Fuck you, I am not cleaning out the waffle iron again!"

York always claimed he had a family recipe for "famous home-cooked waffles," but he never got around to making them. Wash had once dreamed that someday, when the war was over and the Freelancers were all decorated veterans, they would eat waffles together—

He sits up abruptly. "I'll clean it."

"What?" Tucker stares at him. "Oh hey, you're awake. Please don't be crazy anymore."

"I'll clean the waffle iron." Wash's head is swimming a little, and he has to squint against the morning light, but he still manages to look Tucker in the eye. "If you make waffles."

He wants this. He wants it more than anything, to sit with his team and eat waffles—not when the war is over, not when he has his revenge, but now, while they still can. While they are all still here.

"Okay," Tucker says after a moment. "New job for Blue Team leader: always clean the waffle iron."

"I will add it to the handbook," says Caboose.

Wash nods, and doesn't even try to say, I don't believe you have a handbook. He feels like he could believe anything right now. He's still half-asleep and piercingly awake at the same time--his whole body feels lighter than air--and there's a blue border painted around the edge of the ceiling, how did he never notice it before? Such a bright and perfect blue.

"Uh, dude?" says Tucker. "You okay?"

"The colors," says Wash, and doesn't care if he sounds crazy. "They're so bright."

"I have often noticed that," says Caboose, as if they are sharing a fascinating discovery. "And I know all their names, so I can remind you if you forget, Church."

Tucker rolls his eyes, but he's smiling. And Wash thinks, suddenly, that perhaps they're going to keep him.

"I don't know . . . why I'm so . . ." He struggles for words. It's like the first time he stripped off power armor after a long training session, and his body was suddenly the correct size and weight again.

"Yeah, it's called getting enough sleep, dumbass." Tucker gets up from the couch. "C'mon into the kitchen. I'll teach you how to make waffles."

[thatz-not-okay]

For a short period of time I had a really intense emotional and physical relationship with a guy. The first times we had sex were all at his place. Eventually I invited him to my place where we spent a weekend in and out of bed. When he left I noticed that the condom wrappers were gone from the floor and also not in the trash can. I wouldn't have noticed but I wanted to purposefully leave one out for my ex to see when he walked our co-owned dogs. My ex cheated on me with a bunch of people, has treated me pretty badly since the break up, and brings his new girl friend over to my house when I'm not there even though I've asked him explicitly not to. The next time I was over at the new guy's place, after we had sex and he left the room, I realized the drawer where he keeps his unused condoms was open. I noticed that he had kept all of the used condom wrappers from when we had sex at his place and collected the ones from my place as well to keep in his drawer. Is that okay?

Thatz okay.

Do you realize that your complaint about him being creepy for saving condom wrappers is hindered by the fact that, earlier in the story, you also tried to save a condom wrapper? Remember? How you were put out he took the condom wrapper from your apartment because you had already earmarked it for your own uses?

First of all, a condom costs about 75 cents, so if you were committed to the "Oops-is-that-my-condom-wrapper-did-I-leave-my-condom-wrapper-out" stunt, you could have just gotten another one. No one's going to factcheck your passive-aggressive scheme:

This type of condom is dispensed from a machine thirty miles away from her nearest fuck buddy's house. And the wrapper is still warm, meaning it must have been placed here less than a minute ago. Also, it's taped to the middle of the television screen.

Secondly, the old leaving a condom out trick is for kids. (Not young kids.) You might as well have left your journal open to an entry reading "Man, more sex with a hot, thoughtful gentleman last night! Am I doing too much banging?" BOTH TRICKS ARE EQUALLY SUBTLE.

Yes, it's a little odd that a person would save the wrappers instead of throwing them away, like most people. But is it negatively impacting anyone involved? Unintentional sabotage of your bullshit scheme aside, probably not. (And it's much more sanitary than saving the condoms.)

You and I have no idea why this guy is amassing a treasure trove of jewel-toned condom wrappers. Maybe he's a sentimental type and was compiling a Scrapbook of Our Love to give you on your one year anniversary. ("The time I loved you on my living room couch....The time I loved you behind the dumpsters of your favorite Vietnamese restaurant"). Maybe he was going to use them to make a brightly colored holiday wreath. Maybe he was engineering a beautiful art installation about contraception. Maybe he's planning to pull the same trick you were, except that he's dreaming on a scale bigger than your ambition goes. Maybe one day, six years from now, his ex-girlfriend will open the door to her studio apartment and be buried under an avalanche of gold, purple, and turquoise Trojan wrappers.

Maybe he just fucking looooves condom wrappers.

Did you confront him about it? Say "Hey...any reason you're saving all our condom wrappers?" or "Hey...please stop saving all our condom wrappers," or "Hey, I know you stole some personal property from my home in the form of a condom wrapper, and I want you to know I've already called the police."

On that note, I wonder, too, how you were able to discern that all the wrappers you saw in his drawer were from your sexual encounters. Did the condoms have your name written on them? Do you have your own private line of condoms?

The main issue here is not that a guy you slept with a few times was a weirdo about keeping condom wrappers. It's that your relationship with your ex-boyfriend is insanely fucked up. He shouldn't be bringing people into your home without your permission. You shouldn't be laying clever traps for him.

At the end of the day, the guy you had a fling with is the dude with a drawer full of rainbow foil—haha, that's odd. You are the crazy girl he dated who used your relationship with him as a pawn in a twisted mind game with your ex.

Worst of all, now that you've moved on from that guy, you won't even be able to manipulate his emotions by leaving an empty condom wrapper out for him to find. He'd see it as just a spot of good fortune; like finding a wheat penny or a Beanie Baby or whatever else other men collect.

I am 35 and have never been in a romantic relationship. Over the years, I have gone on numerous dates but never connected with anyone. Otherwise, my life is great. I have a wide circle of friends, a close family, a fulfilling profession, and (because of the constant rejection) the time and resources to pursue other hobbies and interests. I would like to bury myself in work and give up on ever meeting someone. Yet I feel like I would also be giving up on a fundamental part of being human, connecting (emotionally, spiritually, physically – what have you) with another person. Given how I have already built my life alone, this almost guarantees (absent a reformable female burglar) a life of permanent bachelorhood. Having struck out for 15 years straight, I think it might be time to give up and embrace dying alone. Is that okay?

Thatz okay.

There's a difference between being alone and being lonely.

Being alone is great. You are the captain of your own catamaran. You are having hot dogs for dinner every night because hot dogs are your favorite. No one is accidentally on purpose leaving revenge-condom wrappers scattered around your apartment for you to find. Every night is like this.

It's much better to be happy alone than to force yourself into a marriage because it feels like you really should be married by now. You know who's not married? Oprah. Do we feel bad for Oprah because her life is unfulfilled?

We do not. Oprah's life is the ultimate single-person fantasy. Unlimited resources, unlimited cream couches, and, at the end of the day, she gets to fall asleep in the middle of the bed. A married Oprah would be less magic. A married Oprah would be Ellen.

Being lonely, on the other hand, sucks. So, before you dramatically shut the curtain on dating forever, make sure you're the former rather than the latter. Relationships aren't a one-trip salad bar. There an unlimited seafood buffet, and there are always more clams casino.

If you don't feel like dating anyone because you're happy being a party of one, that's great. Be prepared to have family and friends offer to set you up with people until you are no longer of marriageable age. (If you politely decline, be prepared for them to think you harbor a secret weird fetish.) When you do die, you will make someone's day by leaving your fortune to them.

(Incidentally, 35 is a bit early to embrace dying at all, never mind alone. Are you a caveman? An ovary? Maybe, for the time being, embrace living alone?)

If you're resigning yourself from dating because you just don't think you'll ever find anyone, stop being a drama queen. Apart from planning your death at 35, you sound normal and well adjusted, which is all most people want.

Unless you are Batman (which would explain your time and resource-draining "hobbies and interests" as well as your eagerness to enter into a relationship with a female cat burglar) your lifestyle probably does not prevent you from engaging in, at the very least, online dating. Make yourself a profile. Spring for one of the paid sites since you've got money to burn.

And if you're hoping to meet a female burglar, leave your window open, I guess? But be warned that any lady who scales your home to rob you is probably a crackhead.