#Amature Dj

[jacquesthepigeon]

Updated how I picture the kids as young adults

Marinette: Studied and obtained degrees in fashion design and engineering with a minor in business; did a cultural immersion program in China for a year. Lived in NYC for a few years before returning to Paris. Lives in Rolland’s house after he gets arrested for punching someone during a heated argument about bread; she is gradually renovating the house. Has become emotionally distant from some friends and family but still loves them and tries to be there for them however she can. Has a cat. Rides a motorcycle. Bullies other guardian students her age by being better than them. Mostly works freelance and commissions. Gave up her dreams of romance after an engagement fell through because of superhero/career stuff.

Adrien: Had a crisis straight out of school and went backpacking for a year and a half in China during which he grew a beard and was an overall mess. Moves back to France to enjoy the life of an unemployed student with savings from celebrity days. He switches majors every semester. He has been in 30+ clubs while trying to figure out what he’s passionate about. Has apologized for his past behavior with LB and takes being CN seriously now. Pretends to be on relatively good terms with his family to investigate their nefarious affairs. Overall a disaster but working on it.

Alya: Renowned superhero journalist. The Ladyblog has expanded into a small company of multiple journalists and photographers. Has drastically improved her reporting and is careful with sensitive information. Openly and comfortably a lesbian. Is technically roommates with Nino but practically lives in her office.

Nino: DJ and amature film maker. Has a podcast. Lives in a basement unit with multiple small dogs; it always floods when it rains. Travels often for gigs. Is in a poly relationship with another man and a woman. Is the only person that stays updated on what Adrien is studying at any given moment.

Kagami: Trying to find her way in the art world. Juggling her own ambitions and her relationship with her family. Sometimes assists Adrien in investigating their families’s sketchy business. Wants Marinette to stop riding that death trap. A lesbian.

Luka: An instrument maker. Makes more money from his side gig in a band than from his main job, depressingly enough. Desperately looking for a permanent studio after nearly losing a finger while working when the boat rocked one time.

Chloé: Uses her funds and connections to start a corporate superhero group, The Hive, with her as the leader obviously. Works to discredit LB and CN and have her company’s “heroes” be recognized as better. Still a prick.

Lila: Living it up like Anna Delvey. A supervillain. A menace.

[aliensunflower-fics]

Alya Salt Prompt: Views

[[ So I came up with this idea after reading @thyladyanput salt fics because she is a goddess and if you havent already go follow her, support her, and love her ]]

So, what if Alya knew full well that Lila isnt a great person? Now follow me here: Alya loves her blog, she wants more then anything to be a famous reporter she wants views on her videos and comments she wants to be popular and is willing to do ANYTHING to get it.

I mean we know shes willing to chase dangerous akuma putting herself and others at risk for a scoop. So just how far is she willing to go? In steps Lila, a walking story and the first time Alya interviews the italian she gets FLOODED with views and its the best thing shes ever. But then after the interview everything else she posts just doesnt get the same level of attention and Alya is desperate to get that fame back. So she becomes Lila’s BEST friend. Does she believe Lila about Marinette? Well not really, sure she knows Marinette can get jealous and the two girls are fighting over Adrien but no way would Marinette purposefully trip someone. But does Alya said that out loud? No. Because sure Marinette is sweet and the free dresses WERE nice but Lila has connections Lila gets her views so Alya sacrifices Marinette shes sweet but shes not useful not like Lila.

But then what if its NOT just Marinette? It starts with her but then it keeps going. Kitty Section asks her to film them playing, but what would get her more views? Filming a band of amatures or tagging along with Lila to an XY concert where the italian tells Alya all sorts of gossip about the singer. Oh Alix and Kim are having another race, thats cute but Lila is going to the ice rink to show Alya the moves olympic figure skaters taught her. And the rest of the class start to notice Alya’s distance they notice that everything is about Lila and soon they miss Marinette and return to her, Alya doesnt notice neither does Lila because every video with Lila has views and comments, Lila is getting the attention she wants and Alya’s blog is trending every other week. Soon Alya is never looking up from her phone she misses concerts, dates, dances, races, competitions, shes no ones friend not really.

And how does she realize? Well there are a few different ways but I think the most salty of them all is Nino’s Birthday. She forgets it and when she realizes she goes full panic because this IS her boyfriend and he would never forgive her for forgetting. So she begs everyone for help but no one will give her the time of day because where was SHE when they asked her for help or to join them an event? Finally Alya has no choice but to crawl back to Marinette [and maybe Adrien who is NOT pleased with the girl constantly assisting Lila in her physical harrasement while also recording it which got both of the girls a large number of views.]

But does Marinette help? No. Because Alya doesn’t care about them, she doesnt care about ANY of them all that she really cares about is her views. And she got them hundreds, thousands, millions. But those views cant buy back her friends and now they all know what really matters to her and as far as Marinette and the class is concerned Alya can keep her views all of them. They’d rather focus on Nino and throwing him the best suprise party they can especially because it looks like his girlfriend wont be for much longer. [Though maybe Marinette already knows of another girl who has a crush on the sweet dj and who will gladly be a shoulder for him to cry on.]

[[ And that the idea! I know its a bit long and weird but I hope it inspires some of you and if it does PLEASE tag me id love to read the salt!!! ]]

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[logicalmodulation-blog]

(Logical Modulation)

[elli2019]

for the aspiring dj in your life, or yourself, or just your insatiable need to know things...

[prettyxlittlexwriter]

Vday Challenge Day 2 - Forgotten Pasts

Day 2 - Song by a male artist - Pour Some Sugar On Me - Def Leopard (Click the link for a PG-13 Pole Dance Class Routine that i used for inspiration!) Lyrics in Bold

Dean Winchester x Reader (With a dash of Sam!)

Confession - I had this story in my head and needed a song to match it to. I did it backwards. I’m sorry! BUT! Thank you for reading and thank you to all the amazing writers in all sorts of fandoms who are participating in our #2018 Vday Challenge! I love you all so much!

Smoothing down your shirt, you gaze at your reflection in the mirror and shift uncomfortably. Your plaid, pleated skirt barely covers your bottom, your thigh high stockings are itchy and your push-up bra is digging into you something fierce.

“Let’s get this over with,” you mutter, steeling yourself as you leave your room and knock on the motel room door next to yours. Dean Winchester opens the door and his jaw drops.

“Sweet Saint Cecilia… she’s a school girl,” he mutters lowly.

“Dean,” Sam hisses, appearing behind him and tossing you an apologetic smile.

“And what are you supposed to be?” you glare at Dean, dressed in his Fed suit and tie get up.

“FBI,” he replies, flashing you a badge.

“Female Body Inspector,” you read aloud before rolling your eyes. “Nice. You will fit right in at this frat party, along with Officer Naughty over here,” you say, flicking your head towards Sam, who was wearing a police uniform.

“Look, let’s just get in, get the spell book and get out,” Sam says. You nod and head for the Impala, thinking in spite of the ridiculous costumes, the Halloween party that the Fraternity was hosting was the perfect cover. You’d been able to trace all the strange happenings in this college town to a house on Fraternity Row and best you could tell, the brothers were using the spells as part of their pledge recruitment and initiation.

You can hear the music thumping as Dean parks Baby a block away. The late October air has a chill as you hurry across the lawn, your body barely covered. You shiver as with each passing second, you are growing more and more tired of this horrible slutty school girl ensemble.

Crossing the threshold of the huge, old Frat House, you are met with wall to wall people, in costumes of all kinds, all with beer cans or red solo cups in their hands.

“Looks like slutty school girl was a theme this year,” Dean yells over the loud music, glancing around at all the college co-eds. “Slutty cat, slutty witch, slutty pirate wench…”

“Shut up and find the book!” You shout, pushing away from him. You weave your way through the crowd, into a large room where a DJ was set up next to a stage, complete with stripper pole, where several drunk girls were doing their best sexy pole dances. You rolled your eyes, smiling wryly to yourself as you continued to search.

You met up with the guys at the other end of the house.

“Nothing down here,” Sam shouts. “We have to get upstairs.” You glance towards the large, grand staircase, which was currently being blocked by two big, burly Sigma Kappa Alpha brothers. Putting on your best drunk girl act, you stumble towards the staircase.

“Need a bathroom,” you hiccup, trying to push past.

“Upstairs is off limits,” one of the dudes says, gripping your arms tightly and spinning you around. “Bathrooms down the hall on the right off the kitchen.” Frowning, you stagger back to Sam and Dean

“We need a distraction,” Dean yells. “I’m gonna pull a fire alarm.” As he began to scan the room, the Def Leppard classic “Pour Some Sugar On Me” began to pump from the large speakers and you were struck with a better idea.

“Wait, no,” you say, placing a hand on his arm. “I got this. Just be ready to go as soon as their not watching.” With renewed determination you muscle your way through the crowd towards the stage. Untucking your white button down shirt, you knot the ends just below your bust and tug on the elastic holding your pony tail, shaking out your long hair. Placing both hand so the stage, you hoist yourself up and turn to face the crowd, your eyes landing on Dean and Sam, both with eyebrows raised, watching on with a slightly confused expression. You force yourself to look away, to shove down your nerves and humiliation as you cross the stage, wrapping your hand around the cold steel pole. Reaching out, you hook your right ankle around the base and push off with your left foot, sending yourself twirling around in a circle.

Razzle ‘n’ a dazzle 'n’ a flash a little light, Television lover, baby, go all night, Sometime, anytime, sugar me sweet, Little miss ah innocent sugar me, yeah

Listening to the music, you let yourself go and allow muscle memory to take over. The hair flips, the hip rolls, it all begins to come back to you. You stop, aligning the pole with your spine, shimmying down and back up, your body moving in time with the music. With another hair flip, you turn and kick your leg up high, hooking your knee around the pole, you spin again, this time, hooked onto the pole by only your leg, your skirt falling back, exposing your black panties and lacy stockings, eliciting more whoops and whistles from the college guys.

Listen! red light, yellow light, green-a-light go!, Crazy little woman in a one man show, Mirror queen, mannequine, rhythm of love, Sweet dream, saccharine, loosen up, Loosen up

“Son of a…” Dean breaths, his eye trained on the girl who, up until a few second ago, he was sure had never been a naughty anything. Even the other girls on stage had moved away and were watching on in awe, clearly realizing they were in the presence of a master.

“Wow,” Sam agrees. “Dean… it’s working, look!” Dean yanks his eyes away from the stage long enough to see that the two beefy guard dogs were also transfixed on your sexy display. Sam takes off towards the stairs while Dean watches on, jaw slack. The last time he saw a display this sexy, he’d had to pay a hefty door charge and burn through a stack of one dollar bills.

Some guys near the stage are starting to get rowdy, all jazzed up from the raw sex appeal on the stage and Dean is jarred from his stupor, shoving drunk bodies out of his path. You are filled with a strange mix of relief and mortification when you glance down and see him standing there. His eyes are dark and serious and you know that you will never, ever hear the end of this.

You got the peaches, I got the cream, Sweet to taste, saccharine, Cause I’m hot, say what, sticky sweet, From my head, my head, to my feet

Dropping down to your knees, you slap both palms on the ground and grind your body against the stage. As you glance up up through the hair that had fallen over your face, you see Sam at the back of the room signaling to you. You push yourself up and straightening your clothes, you crouch down at the edge of the stage, placing your hands on Dean’s broad shoulders as he grabs your waist, lifting you off the stage and setting you back down on the ground.

“Sam’s got it,” you tell him, but he’s looking at you like he’s forgotten every word in the English language. Feeling an embarrassed flush creep up your neck, you grab his hand and tow him towards the exit.

“Way to go, you lucky bastard,” an inebriated guy tells Dean as he passes, slapping him heartily on the back. You bite down hard on the inside of your cheek as you rejoin Sam, the three of you making a hasty exit.

You all but run for the car, the thin layer of sweat coating your body making you shiver in the cool night air. You slide into the backseat and no one speaks as Dean starts the engine. He pulls away from the curb, navigating back to the motel while Sam flips through the worn pages of the old book he’s just confiscated. Your ears are burning as you untie your shirt and try your best to tuck it back into your skirt. After several long, uncomfortable minutes, Dean clears his throat.

“Anyone need anything at the store before we get back?” he asks and you glare at the back of his head. “Cause I have a craving for something… sugary.”

“God damn it, Dean,” you shout. “You couldn’t help yourself, could you?”

“I’m sorry, Y/N,” Sam said, twisting in his seat to face you. “But that was…”

“Stop, please,” you beg.

“Come on, sweetheart,” Dean coaxed. “You have to tell us where you learned to, uh, dance like that.”

“So you guys are the only ones who get to have pasts?” you huff. “You’ve got your secrets, this is one of mine. Can we just leave it at that?”

“Sweetheart, I’ve seen a lot of strippers in my day,” Dean pushes, “That was no amature night.”

“Sam, please tell me there is a spell in there to erase someone’s memory,” you whine.

“No way, this memory is mine,” Dean replies, tapping his head. “Forever and ever and ever…”

You cross your arms over your chest and sink down deep into your seat, glaring out the front windshield. As soon as Dean pulls back up to the motel, you’re out of the car and crossing the parking lot to your room. You want to get out of these clothes and wash away the memory of tonight’s display, along with all the other bad memories it brought back to the surface. As you shut and lock the door behind you, you realize that each of the times you’ve dragged your ass back to your room covered in guts, blood, and death, not one of those times did you feel as gross as you did tonight.

To be continued……………….

[cosmoyeen]

Some Pony Oc and Ponysona doodles as well as some fantrolls and fankids!

Whimsy is my ponysona, her full name is Whimsinora Whisp and she loves making cloud art and coffee with caramel whipped creme! 

The second pony WAS gonna be named Pastel Palette, but it didn’t fit with her cutie mark. So now she’s just Bumbella Breezie, A bee keeper and gardener!

The Gal with the Glasses is 8 sweep old Genore Atenia, an oliveblood with an affiliation with erotic novella and love advice! she gives tarot readings over her trollian tipsyTarot when shes not out doing roller derby with the gals.

The loser in the hoodie is a 19 year old African-American amature DJ by the name of Reed. When he’s not goofing off in class, he’s making songs at the nearby lake with his buddies! He works at his dads nightclub, Ｓ　Ｔ　☆　Ｒ　　✦　　Ｇ　☆　Ｔ　Ｅ

soft dabs and runs the fuck to bed

[jacquesthepigeon]

How I picture some of the characters as young adults

Marinette: Studied and obtained degrees in fashion design and engineering in London; did a cultural immersion program in China for a year. Lived in NYC for a few years before returning to Paris. Lives in Rolland’s house after he gets arrested for punching someone during a heated argument about bread; she is gradually renovating the house. Has become emotionally distant from friends and family but still loves them and tries to be there for them however she can. Has a cat. Rides a motorcycle. Mostly works freelance and commissions. Has given up on her dreams of romance.

Adrien: Had a crisis straight out of school and went backpacking for a year and a half in China during which he grew a beard and was an overall mess. Moves back to Paris for his studies but switches majors every semester. He has been in 30+ clubs while trying to figure out what he’s passionate about. Has apologized for his past behavior with LB and takes being CN seriously now. Pretends to be on relatively good terms with his family to investigate their nefarious affairs. Overall a disaster but working on it.

Alya: Renowned superhero journalist. The Ladyblog has expanded into a small company of multiple journalists and photographers. Has drastically improved her reporting and is careful with sensitive information. Openly and comfortably a lesbian. Is technically roommates with Nino but basically lives in her office.

Nino: DJ and amature film maker. Has a podcast. Lives in a basement unit with multiple small dogs; it always floods when it rains. Travels often for gigs. Is in a poly relationship with another man and a woman. Is the only person that stays updated on what Adrien is studying at any given moment.

Chloé: Uses her funds and connections to start a corporate superhero group, The Hive, with her as the leader obviously. Works to discredit LB and CN and have her company’s “heroes” be recognized as better. Still a prick.

Kagami: Focused on fencing. Sometimes assists Adrien in investigating their families’s sketchy business. Wants Marinette to stop riding that death trap. A lesbian.

Luka: A music therapist. Also in a band. Generally chill.

Lila: Living it up like Anna Delvey. A menace.

[djkurx]

🚨Wednesday night ⚡️Electric Rodeo⚡️gets LIT with the 👯Amature Sexy Buns Contest👸 and co-host the @dejavuokc showgirls - at @sixshooterokc 🚨 18+ Entry . . . Ladies👸 In Free Till 10pm . . $8 Cover after 10pm and for Men🙋🏽‍♂️ . . 🍺Try to knock off this week's beer champ @that_one_funny_fat_guy🍻 . . . ✅$1 Pitcher Beer ✔$6 Bottle Bucket Beer ✅$3 for 2 Bud light Beer . . 👯Wednesday Night Dance Lessons 7pm-9pm with the @sixshootersdance 💃🏽 . . . #nightlife #nightclub #collegelife #collegeparty #college #countygirl #country #hiphop #EDM #ladiesnight #oklahoma #oklahomacity #OU #UCO #dj #djlife #showgirls #wednesdaynight #twerkqueen @okfleetdjs @fleetpromo @fleetdjedm (at Six Shooter Saloon)

[sincerelymrnaked]

Danger Room: Toronto’s most hostile comedy show for hecklers

“GET OFF THE STAGE MAN BOOBS!”

“DON’T EAT THE MIC YOU FAT FUCK!”

“GET DOWN BEFORE ONE OF YOUR BUTTONS HITS SOMEONE IN THE EYE!”

“SAY A JOKE YOU SAGGING ASSHOLE!”

We walk into the bar known as The Corner Comedy Club, a grimy comedy club with a fitting slogan: “It’s so small it’s funny,” on the corner of John Street in Downtown Toronto. A fat comedian in a red plaid shirt and ripped jeans is sitting on a stool on the stage with a mic in a sweaty hand, getting chewed alive by a crowd of the most ruthless hecklers I’ve ever witnessed.

“YOU’RE AS COMICAL AS YOU ARE SKINNY!”

“Yeah, that’s what your mom said when I was sitting on her face last night!” Fat Comedian calls.

“BOOOOOO!”

“GOOD MOM JOKE YOU FUCKING AMATURE!”

“I PAID TEN BUCKS FOR THIS SHIT!”

The poor guy can’t get two sentences in without being ripped to shreds. Chirps fly through the bar like rapid gunfire, the heavy-duty artillery leaving the brave comedian wounded and humiliated on the grimy stage. He’s struggling to stay upright, pushing weak incest and dead baby jokes, desperate for the slightest trace of laughter that he’s actually responsible for, trying to make a joke and not be the joke. He has no such luck.

But this wasn’t your usual comedy night. This was Danger Room — a night were most comedians don’t last more than one minute before the shark tank of hecklers swallow them whole.

And one of my best friends was soon to perform.

Let’s back up to six hours prior.

I was at the gym near the free-weights when I bumped into one of my old buddies from High School. He’s a writer too and whenever we see each other we often dive into discussions about the pressure to engage readers. He told me he’s been writing a new short story every day, but that he’s also been doing some stand-up comedy to test material in front of a live crowd. 

“Really? Stand up?”

“Yeah man. There’s this open mic place I go on Sunday nights on Danforth and Broadview.”

“How’s the crowd?”

“Depends on the night. Sometimes there’s silence, but it’s a good crowd to go to for your first time. Everyone’s pretty open and positive.”

“I’ve got a friend who I’ve been wanting to get on stage for a while. He’s a born comedian! I would love to get him on.”

“You guys should definitely come by!”

My friend Phil is the funniest guy I know. Not only can he spit out any accent with cunning precision, he can also spiral into rants of improvised comedy as if he wrote the stuff down and rehearsed it for weeks. He can play any role. Become any character. He’s quick. Spontaneous. And damn right hysterical. But here’s the problem: he’s nervous about getting up on stage.

Here’s why.

Phil and I are fraternity brothers, and a couple years ago I convinced him to do some stand up for a sorority’s philanthropy event. I had helped him prepare his set, making sure to throw in some of his signature stuff. His Frat Bro PC character he not-so-loosely based off of South Park was one of his best rants, and we decided it would be fitting for a Greek life gathering.

But were we ever wrong.

The audience of sorority sisters, children, parents, and distinguished philanthropists were not prepared for a set screaming about how “PC DOESN’T STAND FOR PUSSY CRUSHING!” 

Though his material was comedic gold to my buddies and I, it wasn’t the right time or place, and it left a sea of mothers and daughters staring at him with lowered jaws and wide eyes — all in deafening silence. 

Phil’s been rightfully nervous to get back up on stage ever since. I figured tonight would be the perfect opportunity to get him back on that horse.

I shot him a quick message: “We’re going out tonight.”

After meeting up with Phil and some buddies for a quick pre-game, we all hit the road in my buddy’s soccer mom van and drove twenty-five minutes to Danforth and Broadview. This was the night of Thanksgiving Sunday and most of us had dinners with our families that delayed our departure time, so we were running a little late. Actually we were running very late. By the time we arrived at the bar, the show was over and everyone was gone.

Giving up, we considered the alternatives of going to another bar, racking in some shots, and maybe getting Phil a mic anyway. But then my buddy Bernie came up with a final idea.

“There’s another comedy club not too far,” says Bernie, scrolling through his phone. “It’s just on the corner of John Street. Ten-minute drive from here. Some show called ‘Danger Room.’”

“Is it open mic?” Phil asks.

“I think it’s for actual comedians. And I think there’s cover.”

We agree to check it out. Nothing else was happening anyway.

When we get to the bar, we ask the guy running the door — a bearded man in a leather jacket, sporting a red bandana around his head — if our buddy can get up on stage. “You done this before?” he asks Phil.

“This is my first time,” Phil replies, not counting the sorority event.

“First time? And you’re fucking stupid enough to come here!”

In that second, as if on cue, we hear from inside: “GET OFF THE STAGE MAN BOOBS!” 

We shuffle through the crowd and find seats near the front of the tiny bar. The place reeks of beer and tobacco smothered clothing, with faint lighting illuminating a small wooden plank constituting a stage. Drunken chirps are firing from a group of guys scattered all around the grubby place; the poor comedian currently up is being publicly decimated. He struggles to squeeze in some of his prepared jokes until one of the drunkest hecklers literally rips him off the stage.

“YOU ARE FUCKING AWFUL!”  

“PLEASE! NEVER COME BACK HERE!”

More comedians step on, and nobody does any better. The drunker the hecklers get, the more shameless they are with their heckling. This results in comedic desperation: comedians resort to new levels of vulgarity in hopes of cheaper laughs. Jokes about sex become jokes about overdosing on drugs, which becomes jokes about being fucked by dads, which spirals into jokes about being a child predator. The laughs never come. Well, besides the laughter deriving from shameless heckling. The cycle continues.

One guy is heckled so badly, he tries to avert the attention to the Muslim sitting in front of him, hoping to use pathetic racism to weasel out of the ambush. (Yup, a real stand-up piece of shit.) He’s proven weak and unfit, and this only amps-up the insults.

“YOU LOOK LIKE A GERMAN SKATEBOARDER THAT ALSO DJ’S!” one guy screams at a comedian in a bomber jacket with a big man-bun dangling from a backward cap.

“AND YOUR CAP LOOKS LIKE IT’S TAKING A SHIT OUT OF YOUR HEAD!” another heckler adds. (Not all of them were so clever.)

“I THOUGHT THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE COMEDY, NOT A SPECIAL-ED ASSEMBLY!”

Why would anybody stand up before such a merciless crowd? Simple. To battle the most vicious monster there is, and survive to tell the tale. Most of the guys who go up are actual comedians, who come to Danger Room to test their skills against the worst crowd you could possibly encounter. After a Danger Room attack, silence would feel like a compliment.

But even these guys were used to getting up on stage. Phil was up next. 

He sits on the stool and raises the mic to his mouth.

“WHAT’S THIS PUSSY GOING TO DO? SING HIGHSCHOOL MUSICAL?”

“GET OFF THE STAGE PEDRO!”

“YOU LOOK LIKE YOU WATCH CHILD PORN AND JERK OFF IN PUBLIC SWIMMING POOLS!”

Despite these initial heckles, Phil starts off strong by faking weak. He begins with a quaky, loud and high-pitched voice, playing the character of someone terrified to perform — like a voice-cracking thirteen-year-old about to read the Torah for his Bar Mitzvah.

“H-high g-guys, my n-name is Ph-Phillip and I’m s-super n-nervous t-to perform t-tonight in front o-of all o-of y-y-you…”

Before the next heckle can fire, he jumps up, snaps into a booming southern accent — blaring with confidence and authority — and ascends into an incredible rant about the astonishing diversity of the crowd which he “ain’t used to in ma neighborhood back in Virginia!”

Everyone erupts into laughter.

A heckler screams a dumb Jew joke.

He switches from his southern accent to his Gay-Nazi-German-accent. “Vhat nobody veally knows is zhat vee vere all gay!”

His set is completely improvised. He rolls with the punches and starts introducing all his classic characters that were once confined to the frat house living room: Puerto Rican drug dealer, Australian pervert, Chinese businessman — those that were previously only available to the boys at the end of a drunk night with pizza boxes scattered on the floor. For the first time, Phil’s contagious humour is completely unleashed. And nobody could get enough of him.

When the heavy chirps start flying, unlike the other guys, he doesn’t revert to desperate comedy by raising the vulgarity or trying to deflect the cruelty towards people sitting in the crowd. He’s genuinely funny, and not desperate to make the crowd think so. He simply is.

And if you think I’m just being biased, even the drunkest hecklers gave him a big round of applause. It was the first and only applause of the night. None of the boys could believe it. But I’m gonna be a huge cheeseball and say I knew he had it in him all along. 

As we walked out, the owner told Phil he could come back anytime. Two comedians gave him their business cards as they hacked darts outside the bar. People who were in the audience asked him where his next gig is. He was the newly-emerged celebrity of the night. 

People often feel like they need to ease into challenges. They prefer slowly moving forward, gradual development, and keeping their dignity intact throughout the process. But sometimes your dignity has to be compromised. Sometimes you need to dive headfirst into the trenches of difficulty in order to come out stronger. Sometimes you need to go all in.

Failure has a way of holding people back — the silence of the sorority is something that may’ve stopped Phil from further performances, but the bravery to move on was the key that popped open the door to the night’s success.

Now, allow me to be sincerely-naked-honest for a second: There’s a lot of assholes in the world. 

There’s a lot of people who are going to give you every reason possible to stay safely buckled to your seat. They’ll take pride in ripping you down, in laughing or shaming you for even trying. But that’s all part of the system of growth. When you make yourself vulnerable and try to pursue something scary, chances are you’re going to eat shit sometimes. And most times, people will shit on you.  

It’s one of the biggest risks of starting a blog — hell, about writing in general. Not everyone is going to agree with the things you’re writing about, and a whole lot of people will make the effort to make their disagreements heard loud and clear. They’ll so much as bombard you with novella-long comments about how you don’t have the right to say the things you’re saying. They’ll send you hate emails. They’ll even straight up say that you don’t have what it takes and that you should just give up — the equivalence of a heckling reaction to a punchline. 

When I was the opinion editor for my university paper, it was a hard pill to swallow: the acceptance that not everyone will like or agree with my stuff. But I eventually began to see flack as a necessary part of my development, similar to the way comedians who come to Danger Room see ruthless heckles. It’s part of the process, and the more accustomed you get to the horrors of people protesting against your stance, the taller you eventually stand. 

In summary, there’s two ways of approaching assholes who love to shit on you like it’s their day job. 1) You could play victim and cry about being verbally assaulted, complain about feeling unsafe, or blame all lack of success on the pricks that walk the earth. 2) You could suck it up and use those same assholes to make you stronger. 

We may bomb it. We may kill it. But until we try, we’re letting the hecklers win.

We all live in a Danger Room. So let’s use those pricks to our advantage.  

Let’s raise our red solo cups (or cheap glasses of wine if you think you’re classy or something) to the assholes that make silence feel like a compliment — and who make our worst fears a fucking joke.

Sincerely,  Mr. Naked.

[lizpoder]

I love these Midnight DJ shifts and these fucking nerds I hang out with every Saturday ♡♡

[better--weather]

If you love deep dark techno and intense coldharbour sounding Trance please like my artist page on FaceBook it would mean a lot! 

[consciousautomation-blog-blog]

A 20ish minute mix thing I did, just messing around. Enjoy.