#I SEE POSTS THAT SAY SOME BULLSHIT ABOUT LIKE..NOTHING IMPORTANT AND ITS FULL OF BAND TAGS N SHIT

[absolutelyzoned]

this is how the world would be if tumblr users could actually tag posts correctly

[makeste]

BnHA 323: “I Don’t Know How to Explain to You That You Should Care About Other People”

Previously on BnHA: Kacchan was all, “Izuku, I’m sorry.” Bakugou Stans were all, “[sobs for a week straight and tearfully awards him the Nobel Prize for character development].” Deku was all, “[faints in Kacchan’s arms].” Iida was all, “[trying to decide if Ochako genuinely tried to kill him a few minutes ago].” Horikoshi was all, “NO TIME FOR HUGS WE MUST GET BACK TO UA.” The civilians holed up at U.A. were all, “WE TOOK A VOTE AND DECIDED THAT WE’RE ALL GOING TO BE JERKS ABOUT THIS AND MAKE A BIG FUSS ABOUT YOU LETTING DEKU BACK INTO THE SCHOOL.” Deku was all “[stands there looking like he expected nothing less and breaking my heart more and more with each passing moment].” Ochako was all, “that does it, looks like I’m gonna have to do something about this... next chapter, that is.”

Today on BnHA: Flashback!Rat Principal is all “I just want you all to know that I spent nine million dollars turning U.A. into a giant Battleship-style grid that can burrow underground and zoom around in a giant subway maze because Horikoshi lacks a grounded understanding of both civil engineering and economics.” Back in the present day, Jeanist is all, “EVERYONE TAKE HEED, MY COMRADES AND I HAVE DEEMED IT EXPEDIENT TO CONVEY THIS AUSPICIOUS YOUTH BACK TO THIS STRONGHOLD. WE ANTICIPATE THAT WE MAY DEPEND UPON YOUR GOODWILL AND ACQUIESCENCE TO THESE TERMS.” The civilians were all, “NO.” Ochako was all, “EMPATHY, MOTHERFUCKERS, DO YOU SPEAK IT?!” The civilians were all, “oh shit.” Anyway so Ochako is a giant badass, but I’m a little worried that she’s going to get struck by lightning. Please come down from there.

so before we start this chapter, I would just like to apologize for having not posted the ch 321 recap yet, and would like to reassure everyone, and especially Iida who is staring at me with Sad Wobbly Guilt Trip Eyes, that I will get to that as soon as I can

OMG FLASHBACK??

yes please Horikoshi please show us more of class 1-A and their Deku intervention strategy jam sessions

oh dear

Iida you are too pure and good for this cruel world. [sprays the U.A. civilians with a water bottle] NO. BAD CIVILIANS! NO OSTRACIZING SCARED AND EXHAUSTED CHILDREN IN THE HOUSE

EXCUSE ME RAT PRINCIPAL WHAT’S WITH THESE MIXED MESSAGES

???

RAT PRINCIPAL: he’s free to return to us at any time!!

ALSO RAT PRINCIPAL: but it’s too risky for him to return to us

?? ??????? ?????????????????????

so now he’s going on about how strong the U.A. Barrier is, and how it’s comparable to the defensive capabilities of Tartarus. this would have sounded a lot more impressive before chapter 297 lol

OH!!!! HELLO, WHAT’S THIS!!!

A TIMELY CALLBACK TO A CERTAIN MYSTERIOUS EVENT WHICH HASN’T BEEN REFERENCED SINCE USJ? [U.A. TRAITOR MUSIC INTENSIFIES]

so now Rat Principal says he upgraded U.A.’s security systems with his own “modifications”, whatever the fuck that means. I mean look, I’ve been saying for a long time now that U.A. is the best place for everyone to hole up, don’t get me wrong. but that was mostly on account of there not being any other practical alternatives. but you’re making it sound like you figured out a way to actually make it Decay-proof or some wild shit like that

-- hold up, DID YOU ADD A FORCE FIELD. DID YOU TRICK THIS SCHOOL OUT WAKANDA-STYLE YOU CRAZY MARSUPIAL. HOLY SHIT. because that would actually be perfect

LMAO

WHAT KIND OF GALAXY BRAIN BULLSHIT. “NAH THERE’S NO NEED FOR A FORCE FIELD, LET’S JUST PUT WHEELS ON IT”

oh okay so the whole campus is basically capable of burrowing itself underground. that’s insane lol I wonder how they pulled that off. probably got poor Cementoss working overtime

blah blah blah so basically the entire campus is split into a grid and each section of the grid is capable of its own independent movement. lol this is just the Merone Base from KHR. you thought no one would notice this casual plagiarism ten years after the fact, but YOU UNDERESTIMATED YOUR AUDIENCE, HORIKOSHI

“joke’s on you imma just lampshade it” WELL ALL RIGHT THEN

“look at me I’m so fucking self-aware” fucking swear to god. I can’t believe this man is my favorite mangaka of all time smdh

“excuse me, I wasn’t finished describing all the rest of this bullshit yet,” Rat Principal breaks in impatiently. “we also added a steel wall all around the underground of the campus that’s 3000 steel plates thick. that’s fifteen fucking meters of solid fucking steel just fyi. and if anyone fucks around with any part of it the defense system will activate immediately! and also all of the plates are independently motorized, whatever the fuck that means!! in conclusion you’re gonna need a fucking tower crane to suspend all of your disbelief by the time I’m through with this paragraph”

“also Shiketsu is almost as reinforced as U.A. but not quite because we still had to make sure we were better.” but of course. and apparently the two schools are connected via a secret tunnel as Hagakure mentioned earlier

LSDKFJLSDKJFLK

“WAIT WHAT” LMAO YOU HEARD HIM, NOW INASA CAN VISIT YOU BOTH IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT AND TELL YOU ALL ABOUT THE WEIRD DREAM HE HAD. GOD BLESS YOU HORIKOSHI

(ETA: moment of appreciation for Shouto and Katsuki having the same thought at the same time and making Knowing Eye Contact and saying the exact same thing out loud in perfect unison like the best friends they are. what a blessed day.)

so Tokoyami is all “but wait if you engineered all this shit all the way back during the Band arc how did you even know that Tomura’s quirk awakening would become a thing, Horikoshi -- uh, I mean, Principal Nezu”

and Rat Principal is all “lol idk”

“basically I just woke up one morning and was all ‘say, you know what this school really needs? a fifteen-meter-thick underground steel wall, and the ability to break up into little pieces that individually zoom around wherever the fuck they want.’ jesus christ. lol if money and common sense were apparently no obstacle why didn’t you just teleport U.A. to the fucking moon or something. maybe I should shut up before I given him any ideas

dsfaelkjldkjgl

you heard it here first, folks, all of this cost a grand total of nine million U.S. dollars. well technically it cost “more than” nine million dollars. never has that distinction been more important lmao. are we sure this barrier was really made of steel and not cardboard? who the hell sold it to them, Ea-Nasir??

this is my favorite manga series of all time. yes I am ashamed

“in conclusion please do your best to reach Deku-kun” SO WHAT WAS ALL THAT NONSENSE ABOUT IT BEING TOO RISKY THEN. anyway thank you for this super informative and edifying flashback, Horikoshi. I will cherish it always. I don’t even want to read another translation of this absurdity lmao, there’s something special about it just the way it is. pretty sure Horikoshi just had a cracked out fever dream one night and transferred it to the pages of the manga verbatim

anyway so back to the unruly mob

not their finest moment. please excuse me while I cover poor Deku’s ears and give him a good shoosh pap

oh wow the parents are out here too

is Mitsuki trying to hold Inko back?? that’s the last thing this fandom needs right now is more Mitsuki discourse fffwlkjs. and even Jiroudad, scientifically proven to be the best dad in all of BnHA, is just standing there silently looking vaguely unhappy. way to rise to the moment you guys

MONOMA

so this settles it for me that Aizawa is not at UA. I know a lot of people have been wondering about his whereabouts, and if I had to wager a guess it would be that something happened with Shirakumo/Kurogiri. I can’t think of anything else -- even the loss of an eye and a limb -- that would keep him from his kids at a time like this

anyway but this is excellent Monoma content right here though. I love that he apparently adopted Eri after a single interaction with her. also WHERE IS SHINSOU DAMMIT. THE PEOPLE NEED TO KNOW

and Kouta’s there too looking like he wants to run over to Deku but Ragdoll won’t let him :/

it’s gotta be pretty upsetting for him to see his hero like this and not having anyone stand up for him. [taps megaphone] IS THIS THING ON. OKAY YEAH IT SEEMS TO BE WORKING. AHEM. PAGING URARAKA OCHAKO. GONNA NEED YOU TO GET OVER HERE ALREADY AND MAKE THAT BIG DRAMATIC SPEECH WHICH YOU ARE CLEARLY DYING TO MAKE. IF YOU DON’T DO IT SOON I’M GONNA HAVE TO STEP IN, AND YOU REALLY DON’T WANT ME TO DO THAT SINCE MY SPEECH WILL NOT BE VERY GOOD OR INSPIRING, AND WILL PROBABLY JUST CONSIST OF “HELLO, YOU ARE ALL STUPID, PLEASE SHUT UP AND GO AWAY”

so now Mic is telling them to calm down. at least someone’s speaking up here, geez

OH MY GOD

MY MAN JEANIST OUT HERE DOING WHAT HE DOES BEST: MAKING EVERYONE FEEL GUILTY AND JUDGED

OH MY GOD HE IS GIVING SUCH A LONG AND BORING SPEECH LMAO IS YOUR STRATEGY TO PUT THEM ALL TO SLEEP OR WHAT

truly in awe of this man’s ability to take messages which could easily be conveyed in ELI5-speak, and stubbornly convert them into incomprehensible language the likes of which you need a graduate degree in order to understand

“hey guys, so originally our plan was to use Deku as bait for the villains, but that didn’t really work and also we realized it was kinda dumb and was probably gonna get him killed, so we brought him back here instead.” was that really so hard, Jeanist. also are we all really just gonna sit back here and watch Jeanist take full credit for Bakugou’s plan just like that lmao

(ETA:

WHERE DID ENDEAVOR GO AND WHO IS THIS DIABOLICAL MASTER OF DISGUISE. lol I genuinely didn’t notice this because I was too busy digging through thesauruses trying to rewrite Jeanist’s speech; many thanks to @class1akids​ for pointing it out and making my day immeasurably better. take it easy there Dick Tracy.)

“anyway so please stop being dicks and let him fucking rest so he can save all your ungrateful asses” what an impassioned and inspiring plea. time to see if the masses will listen to reason

narrator: they did not listen to reason

oh my god finally Ochako is doing something. YEAH OCHAKO WOOOO SHOW THEM HOW IT’S DONE

hmm

this entire chapter is truly and utterly nonsensical to me lol

(ETA: on my second readthrough I’m fucking dying at how she stole the megaphone right out of Mic’s hand lmao. and how Kacchan is all “fuck yeah nothing I appreciate more than some quality fucking larceny.”)

oh I see she was jumping on top of the main building so as to scream down at them all more impressively

“ANYWAY DEKU IS PRETTY COOL ACTUALLY, YOU GUYS ARE JUST MEAN” couldn’t have said it better myself Ochako

lol uh

gotta say I did not have “Ochako reveals the secret of OFA to the entire U.A. Citizen Clown Parade” on my bingo card for this week. it’s a bold strategy cotton let’s see if it pays off

SDLFKJSL

“NO, SERIOUSLY, HAVE YOU LOOKED AT HIM YOU GUYS. YOU THINK HE LIKES RUNNING AROUND DRESSED LIKE A RUSTED OIL DRUM?? HE DID THAT FOR YOU YOU UNGRATEFUL SLOBS”

so she is basically explaining the entire Deku Angst arc to them and explaining what a good and selfless protagonist Deku is, YES, PREACH

OMG IT’S THE GIGANTIC FOX LADY

not to insinuate anything, but what exactly were you doing standing out here with the hysterical mob, Gigantic Fox Lady? you’re better than that

-- KACCHAN SIGHTING!!

sdlkfjl. thanks for weighing in with that helpful and important observation. where have you been for the last five minutes. were you asleep. was it Jeanist’s speech

never mind, now he’s yelling at the civilians so I instantly forgive him

THE FUTURE NUMBER ONE HERO, EVERYONE. THANK YOU, THANK YOU. HE’LL BE HERE ALL WEEK

“anyway so I’m just going to end the chapter here” lmao seventeen pages truly do go by so fast. at least he didn’t try to force in a cliffhanger at the end this time. dare I say, growth

so I guess the civilians are either gonna have a Kamino and/or Fukuoka-esque moment where they remember how to be decent people and apologize to this poor young man, or else they’ll remain unpersuaded, and so Kacchan will have to knock a few of their heads around until they become more inclined to be reasonable. either option is fine by me lol

[angst-fairygodmother]

Light Fingers (The Umbrella Academy)

Diego’s vigilantism brings him repeatedly across the path of a young cat burglar. But as he finds himself developing feelings for the thief, he begins to wonder if there’s more to her than meets the eye, and whether they’re really on opposite sides. And as their relationship deepens, it brings with it a plot involving his estranged adopted father, and threatens to destroy all of them.

EPILOGUE: A HOUSE DIVIDED

Word Count: 1451 Pairing: Diego Hargreeves x Reader Rating: T Content Warnings: swearing, references to violence (canon-typical), heavy angst  Cross-posted to AO3: here

Previous Chapter: Darkness Falls || Masterlist

A/N: Thank you to everyone who has stuck by me, read, reblogged, commented, messaged. I don’t know where I’d be without all of you (probably still back at chapter 3). While this is the end of Light Fingers, it is not the end of the story. I just need to take a little time and approach canon with care.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A week of radio silence followed that night. As the days went by, you tried your best to return to your normal, to waiting tables and bantering with kitchen staff and trying to pretend you weren’t holding yourself together by a thread. 

Something immediately felt off as you entered the apartment one night after a double shift and dropped your keys by the door. Conjuring enough light to see and no more, you began creeping through the room. It didn't take long to see that all of Diego's things were gone - except Duncan, the dog snoozing blissfully on the couch. You weren’t surprised. After all, if he’d wanted to put things back together, or thought you could, he would have reached out before now. So instead he had quickly and quietly removed his presence from your apartment, and very likely walked out of your life without a word. The thought stung, that for all you had intertwined your lives, he was still able to remove himself in a day. 

The light on your answering machine was blinking, and numbly you hit the button and listened to Patch’s message. 

~

“Thank you for finally returning my call,” Eudora said exasperatedly, as she took a seat across from you in the little cafe the following Sunday.

“Sorry Dora,” you offered her a sheepish and regretful half-smile. “I haven’t really felt like seeing anyone lately. Besides, I didn’t want to put you in an awkward place. I know you and Diego were, are…”

“Close? The three of us all were. Why do you think I’ve been trying to reach you?”

You looked down, tracing the wood grains of the tabletop. “There’s no fixing this one, Dora. We’re...too far gone.”

“How? You two were good for each other. A blind man could see it.”

“Irreconcilable differences.”

“We both know that’s bullshit, Y/N.”

“I...made a choice. One Diego couldn’t agree with. We fought about it. And when he decided to walk out, I not only let him, I practically packed his bags. And in the end it turned out to be pointless anyway.”

Yesterday’s paper had contained an article about how the investigation into Reginald had been dropped for lack of foundation, and he’d been able to collect a substantial insurance payout for the warehouse, and the feds had offered an official statement of apology on top of everything else. You had scared a local alley cat with the tantrum that had followed reading that. Because of course, trying to take him down had cost you everything and he’d still won in the end. How else could it have gone?

“Why do I bother,” Eudora sighed with a frustrated gesture. “I should have known you’d be just as cryptic as he was.”

“It’s complicated, Dora, so it’s easier than trying to explain and sounding completely nuts. I wish I could tell you. But the details don’t really matter, just that I fucked up, big time, and I can’t undo it.”

She reached across the table to take one of your fidgeting hands in her own. “Y/N. Listen to me. I know you and I know Diego. It’s not too late for the two of you. I can tell how much you both still care.”

“It’s not about that,” you struggled to keep back your tears. “We just weren’t meant to be. Forcing it will only break things worse.”

You winced, the words sounding harsh and a little bit fake. But they were true, or at least that’s what you wanted to convince yourself of so that you could move on. 

“Besides, he came by when I was at work and took all his stuff. Doesn’t that pretty much scream final?”

“I’ve talked to him, Y/N. I’ve seen him. He’s really messed up. And I don't think he's eating much or sleeping at all if I'm being honest.”

“Why are you telling me this?” your voice trembled, heart breaking with every word. 

“You could find him, probably at the Lion,” she fixed you with a look and tilted her head to one side. “You could talk to him.”

You shook your head. “There's nothing left to say.” 

“You're really giving up that easily?”

You wanted to scream, or to somehow explain that it was anything but easy. But that it was the right thing to do. For Diego’s sake. He, and she, would understand someday, you had to believe that.

“Eudora, please.”

“Fine. If neither of you is going to fight for this, I guess I should just deliver you his message.”

Despite yourself, your heart leapt at the idea Diego actually had something left to say. And then it plummeted a moment later when you realized that whatever it was, he couldn’t say himself, he had to ask your mutual best friend to do it for him. 

“I’m sorry, that you’re stuck in the middle. You don’t...have to be our carrier pigeon. If you don’t want to,” you said sheepishly, shrugging slightly. 

“If I don’t, you wouldn’t communicate at all.”

“That might--”

“If you say it’s for the best, I will walk out,” Eudora snapped, making you reel back in shock. “I hate the cryptic non-answers, but at least it’s not full-on lying to me. So don’t start.” 

You swallowed down whatever you were going to say and sighed. “You said you had a message from Diego?”

“He asked me to give you these,” she laid a set of keys on the table. “Said the apartment was your home and he’d never dream of trying to take it in whatever divorce papers you end up filing. And that he picked up his things, which I know you saw. Anything he left behind, he said, is not important.”

You looked down at the keys, letting some of the tears you’d fought so hard against fall. 

‘He left me behind,’ you wanted to say. ‘He left us.’ But that wouldn’t be fair, or help anything, so you bit your tongue. 

“Y/N,” she sounded apologetic but you could tell she no more knew the words to say than you did. Instead after a moment, she carried on. “He also said that a gym is no place for a boxer, which I think was him trying to make a joke, and that at least if you keep Duncan, he’ll know there’s someone watching your back and making sure you come home.”

You couldn’t help your snort of disbelief or the bitter tone of your response. “As if I’m the one to worry about there, not him with his stupid vigilante crime-fighting bullshit. I only ever got involved in that because of him, for him.” Somehow, that was the thing that opened the floodgates and you began to cry in earnest. “Fuck, Dora. He’s going to get himself killed someday.”

She reached over to take your hand again, giving it a comforting squeeze. Silence reigned over you for a few minutes, while she let you cry it out and offered you quiet support. 

“He won’t,” she said, eventually. “We both know he’s careful, and insanely lucky. And…” she sighed, rolling her eyes. “I’m not going to leave him completely on his own. I’m in line for an early promotion, and then I’ll be able to have people looking out for him.”

You offered her a watery smile, almost laughing. “I don’t know what I’d do, or either of us would, without you.”

She shrugged. “Good thing you won’t ever find out.”

The rest of the conversation flowed naturally, as it always did, or nearly so. After a few stinted failures to start, you carried on as if it was any other coffee date. As you were paying your bills, the light caught the silver band still on your finger. You bit your lip, slowly sliding it off, its weight heavy in your palm despite how slim, how small it was.

“Eudora, can I ask one more favor?” you asked hesitantly.

“Of course, Y/N. What are friends for?” she said, offering you a smile.

You held the ring out to her. “Can you give this to Diego for me? And tell him that I’m sorry. And I still love him. No, actually, don’t tell him that. Just...that he should have this back, and I hope that maybe someday, I can be the person he saw who deserved it. Or something like that. I don’t know. It sounds stupid, doesn’t it?” You shook your head, swiping at more tears that were threatening to spill. 

She flashed you a sympathetic half-smile. “I’ll give him your message.” 

Your fingers shook as you passed the ring over to her, a heavy weight of true finality settling over you.

[duhragonball]

Disinterpretation

I finally finished the Sarah Z video about “pro vs. anti”.   It’s pretty long, and I ended up watching it in chunks over several days, but I think it’s worth watching, especially if you’re sort of partially connected to online fandom, but not enough to be aware of all the lingo. 

As I expected, the whole thing was vague and confusing because the people involved in the conflict made it vague and confusing.   In theory, the full terms would be “pro-shipping” and “anti-shipping”, but it seems like it’s more about particular kinds of ships that could be considered controversial.  But that’s a slippery slope, and apparently the whole conflict mutated into both sides deciding that every hypothetical relationship between fictional characters is either equally valid or equally dangerous.  

Long story short, it’s just purity culture, which was what everyone on Tumblr was calling it around 2012.  But now, if you’re a sane person who genuinely asks: “Who gives a fuck about Voltron?”, these people will jump your ass and accuse you of being on the side of their enemies.  “Children have died over the importance of Lotor/Hagger!   Your callous indifference proves that you yourself must have murdered children!” 

I think what Sarah Z really hit upon in this video was that media consumption has become so ingrained in our culture that people feel like it has to go hand-in-hand with our morality.   That is, it’s not enough for me to watch Star Trek, I have to justify Star Trek as evidence that I’m a good person.  Maybe this is where the expression “guilty pleasure” comes from.   Conversely, it’s not enough for me to not watch Dr. Who, I have to somehow convince everyone that Dr. Who was invented by the devil.

I’m pretty sure the Reylo ship has a lot to do with this, since it’s kind of understood to be a dark, problematic concept, and fans either embrace its flaws or recoil in horror because of them.   Star Wars itself is a dumb story about space wizards, so people try to give the debate more weight by linking it to freedom of self expression and/or enabling real world harm.   Suddenly it’s not enough to just think two actors would look cute making out instead of fighting.   Now it’s this battlefield for the soul of civilization or something.

I grew up in the 80′s, when “concerned parents” and grifters would accuse the Smurfs and metal bands of promoting satanism and witchcraft.   I used to hear stories of teens going out into the woods in the middle of the night to do occult stuff, and all I could ever think about was: “Why would anyone bother wandering out in the woods in the middle of the night?”  Which is why “concerned parents” turned their attention to things that were closer to home, like Saturday morning cartoons.   It had nothing to do with the content; it was just about finding a safe, accessible target for their hysteria.   Some people want to go on a crusade without leaving the house, so they pick a fight with Papa Smurf instead of confronting the real evils in the world.  Even as a kid, I knew this was a con, because I’d watched the show for myself and knew it was too saccharine to be threat to anyone.

The pro/anti folks have tried to disguise this with a lot of terminology.   I wondered why they seemed to reluctant to use the full terms “pro-shipper” and “anti-shipper”, and it’s probably a couple of things.   First, the word “shipper” is basically an admission that this is pointless bullshit that doesn’t matter, and they’d like to avoid that connotation.   Second, they seem to have decided that this goes beyond shipping itself, into practically anything else they want it to involve.  It’s all part of the con, which is to make you believe that it’s “us vs. them”, and you can be part of “us” by curating specific attitudes about Steven Universe.

Seriously, “about Steven Universe” is such an incredible punchline.  You can make anything funnier by adding those three words to the end of a sentence.   “Do not interact if you blog about Steven Universe.”   “Hey, what’s up, YouTube, this is SSJ3RyokoLover69, and this is going to be kind of a serious video about Steven Universe.”   “Mrs. Johnson, the results of your biopsy are in, and I have some bad news about Steven Universe.”   It’s a fucking kids show.   “Oh no, all the characters look like the characters in all the other kids shows!”   Yeah, that’s because it’s a kids show.   Marvin looks like Garfield, this isn’t new.

The common denominator here seems to be that both sides try to wrap themselves in the flag of vulnerable groups: impressionable minors, trauma survivors, harassment victims, etc.   The “pros” want to protect those people so that they can feel free to explore weird subject matter on their own terms, and the “antis” want to protect the same people from being exposed to weird subject matter that they might not want to see.   It’s all about establishing a moral high ground.   Back in the day, it was called “sanctimony”. 

But people get roped into this, because at their core, people want approval, and this stupid conflict offers them a sense of community.  As long as you support the cause, whatever it may be, you’ll have this online friend network that appears to support anything you do.   But if you deviate from their norm, you’ll be cast out.    Does this sound familiar?

To use a more familiar example, I still sometimes find people clamoring about Gochi vs. Vegebul.   I’ve never understood this, because both ships were canon, and I never saw much direct evidence of a war between them, but people would still talk about how crazy the Vegebul shippers were, and how crazy the Gochi shippers were, and it was like some huge thing going on just over the hills.   It’s the same idea, since the idea that you could like both or neither never seems to occur to anyone involved.   I never gave a shit, because I used to see the same dumb agendas in the Harry Potter fandom.

Okay, so let me take you back.  It’s 2005 through 2011, and I’m hateblogging all seven Harry Potter novels, because fuck you, that’s why.  The funny thing I encountered was that occasionally fans seemed to want to pretend like my bashing of certain characters was proving them right somehow.    They were like “See?  He hates Ron Weasley too!  That proves that Seamus Finnegan is the coolest guy ever.”   The Slytherin stans would do this all the time, because I would constantly take the piss out of the Gryffindor characters for being self-important dopes.   I think they just liked hearing it from an outside perspective.   But I had to keep reminding them all that I hated all of them.   Every character from Harry Potter sucks ass. Voldemort was my favorite, but only because he was the one guy who wanted to kill all of the others.   But he sucks too because he failed. 

And the shippers were the same way.   I’d say something shitty about Ron, because Ron sucks, and some smartass Joss Whedon fan would be like “Yes!  Boost the signal!  That is why Harry/Hermione is the best ship!”  And I’d be like “No, Harry and Hermione suck at least as bad as Ron does.  They’re all terrible and I hate them.”   I really do think there was some sort of Stockholm Syndrome going on with Harry Potter books, where everyone secretly knows they suck, but the fans sort of latch on to one or two characters and go like “Well, he’s not as shitty as the rest.”   Like finding spaghetti in the trash and picking out the meatball with the least amount of lint on it.   Then you’d go and start a flamewar with some other starving person over whether your meatball is shittier than theirs.  This is what people mean when they say to read another book. 

Anyway, the big thing I picked up from Sarah Z’s video is “disinterpretation”, a term coined by MSNBC columnis Zeeshan Aleem.   The Twitter thread is worth a read, but the short version is that he once remarked that a Julia Louis-Dreyfus routine wasn’t very good, and someone got mad at him for insinuating that women are incapable of being funny.    They just took his dissatisfaction with one performance by one comedian as being a universal condemnation of women comedians in general.  And this sort of thing is all over the internet.   Everyone sees what they want to see and then they take it as permission to overreact.  

I ran into this myself a while back, because someone saw who I interacted with on Twitter and decided that they’re all bad guys and if I have any interaction with them, then that makes me a bad guy too.   At the time I tried to play it cool, but the more I think about it, the more it ticks me off.   And over the course of that conversation, it was said that I don’t talk about myself much, and that’s kind of funny, because all I ever do on social media is write long-ass blog posts like this one.  I don’t expect anyone to memorize them, or even read them all the way through, but when I write all this stuff and someone goes out of their way to say they don’t know anything about me, the message is that they just didn’t pay attention to what I was saying, and they didn’t bother to try.

So I’m a little jaded from that, because I got called out for a bunch of stuff I didn’t even do or say, and apparently that’s just a thing that happens.   People will reject you for completely arbitrary reasons, not because of anything you actually said or did, and you’re left thinking you made some terrible mistake.   Except, no, I’ve seen it happen to other people, people a lore more conscientious than I am, and if they can’t satisfy the bullshit purity standards, then I never stood a chance.   If the game is rigged so I can’t win, then I’m not going to play.  

And it’s that same condition that probably draws people into these online holy wars, because if you declare yourself for the pro or anti side, at least then you’ll have a posse backing you up.   Only they don’t support you, they support your willingness to support them.    Once your commitment to their agenda wavers, even in the slightest, they will turn against you.   

Sarah Z suggests that both sides of the war drop the pro and anti terms, since they lost all meaning long ago.   But that just invites a new set of useless terms to perpetuate the same cycle.   Her more useful advice is for fandom people to broaden their horizons.   She got a lot of flak for tweeting “Go outside” once, but the ironic thing is that it’s sound advice.   I had lunch with my mom yesterday and it was just nice getting away from things for a while.   People need to do that more often, and unfortunately it feels like it’s harder to do than ever before.

But “go outside” isn’t just a literal thing.   It can mean going beyond your usual haunts, reading the same books, watching the same shows, rehashing the same conversations.   I think the reason this stuff always revolves around “shipping” is because there seems to be this deep-seated compulsion to pair fictional characters off like this, and for a lot of folks it’s the only way they can consume a story, so they do.   And they do it lot, and there’s a lot of them, and they do it the same way every time, and lo and behold the same old conflicts start up.   So maybe “go outside” should mean “go outside of that cycle once in a while.”   Just a thought. 

[atiny-piratequeen]

Also since some of yall won't hear the blacktiny side of this debacle, lemme hit you with the Hongjoong and Ateez side of this (bc from some of the anons, yall are putting Hongjoongie over Blacktiny and apparently this is the only way I can get through to some yall hardheaded and borderline or full on racist asses)

KQ following in the footsteps of bigger companies before them and putting Hongjoong in braids (several times, looking at those new photos hnn) isnt good for Hongjoong, Ateez, or KQ.

Looking back at bands who have had the same thing done and gone through similar cultural appropriation incidents (i.e, BTS, EXO, Blackpink, Red Velvet, Stray Kids, Mamamoo, iKon, NCT (all units, including the recent WayV incident), etc ), you not only insult your fans by mocking their culture and/or using them for a costume, you also sever ties with a lot of potential fans and on the business end of it, thats a completely unessesary loss.

To this day, even after apologies, bands that have gone this path STILL have people who wont even touch the band because of their cultural appropriation. Everyone is different, but at the end of the day, poc are not REQUIRED to forgive companies and bands and swallow the pill, so to speak, when these topics come up.

Understand when I say what I'm about to say that I dont condone bullying, but I am using the previously mentioned incidents as examples but

To. This. Day. Even after apologies and what appears to be understanding and remorse from companies and artists, both fans and 'antis' will still bring up these cultural appropriation incidents. Even YEARS after its passed and if there was no repeat offense in between. Again, i in no capacity am condoning bullying or threats, but to this very day idols like Bang Chan (SKZ), Taeyong (NCT), Namjoon (BTS) are recieving threats and constant harassment for mistakes made previously because companies refuse to learn.

KQ set Hongjoong up for some bullshit, and all of this is completely and utterly unnecessary.

Now, unpopular opinion or whatever, but I still hold to my opinion that Hongjoong did not want this shit. He has been nothing but sincere about his intentions to connect with Atiny of all cultures and build a strong relationship with us. I very seriously doubt he was in agreement to this.

That being said, it is perfectly okay to still be disappointed. In him, in KQ. He by no means deserves hate, but as someone who is not only a blacktiny, but also Hongjoong biased myself, anyone disappointed in him is valid in being as such.

On the same hand, I'd like us all to keep in mind that Hongjoong is an idol. And I know a lot of us in the west have a very western view on things, but at the end of the day, we have to understand idol culture and companies are different from over in the west.

These idols may have *some* creative freedoms and control, some more than most, but at the end of the day, unless they completely run their own company and make their own rules, they do not have full say in what happens to them and their careers.

Idols have been very vocal about this in the past. And again, I'm in no way saying idols are completely helpless or that *some* of them dont actually see the error in their ways (plenty of idols really are just,,,problematic, no company bullshit needed), but I ask yall, if bands that have been around half a decade or more still dont have full creative control over their lives and careers, what makes yall think Hongjoong (if he didn't want these braids, which I strongly believe he didnt) could actually say no to the company holding him and his whole band in their hands and stand a chance?

I cannot stress that I'm not telling people they cant be mad or hurt *at* Hongjoong, but I'm seeing a lot of people saying he could've just "walked out of the chair" "hes a grown man, he can say no" and??? Not really no he cant???

Moving on to the reason a lot of these companies give when we raise hell about CA (if they bother to respond to), thats rooted in so many problems.

They say they put (African) braids or dreadlocs in idols hair because its "cool" or "makes them look tough" or some shit.

It fits an aesthetic. Thats why. Because it fits a hood aesthetic.

I really shouldn't have to explain to yall the problem in using someone else's culture to fit an aesthetic, but since this always comes up, allow me to tell yall a bit of why thats a problem.

The braids come into play when they want their idols, (mostly rappers, a role adopted from black culture) to look "gangsta"/"tough"/"intimidating"/or 🙄🙄🙄"urban". They take hairstyles from black culture to fit an image thats ~intimidating~.

Our braids, our dreads (which, again, to some rasta peoples, is a RELIGOUS symbol and SACRED) are temporarily put on these idols so people can gasp and go "ooo intimidating."

Historically, black people who wear their hair in braids or dreads are turned down from jobs, assaulted wrongly, looked at with prejudice, or down right murdered for the same idea. Nonblack people are historically more intimidated by a black person with hair in braids or in dreads because media portrays black people who dont have short cuts or straightened hair as someone to be feared.

Our braids, they're protective styles.

Our dreads, also protective, sometimes religious.

Our hair isnt for us to look "cool" or "intimidating". That whack ass excuse doesnt work. Companes are in their 4th generation of kpop and refuse to learn from the mistakes of past companies and generations. Yall use our culture (and brown and latinx cultures) improperly and when we tell yall why its wrong, we're pushed aside by our own fandoms or the companies we're constantly giving money to.

We're not asking for an arm and a leg. We're asking for yall to listen to us and not blatantly spit in our faces. We matter just as much as East Asian and white fans.

Also, not nearly as relevant as most of this post, but standing with blacktiny and our allies for this voting really shouldn't be as controversial and hectic as it is.

Thanxx and Inception are amazing songs. Thanxx is not going to disappear if yall vote Inception. It literally means Inception will be the TITLE song, therefore the song getting the MOST attention out of the two, which is important because you're not forcing blacktiny to have to deal with a whole promotional period of pushing a mv where our culture is blatantly being disrespected. Thanxx as a B side is not the end of the world. No, people shouldn't be rude to you about the voting, but I ask that yall please take that into account when we ask you to vote Inception.

Stay hydrated. Listen to your neighbors when they're talking about their cultures and their pain. Thanks

[ill-skillsgard]

Dirty Demons, Part 2 - Axel Cluney/Zeitgeist

Title: Dirty Demons

Description: It's nice to have a companion on the road to total self-destruction - a continuation of Sweet Demons

Warning: 18+ for sex/language/violence/drugs/kinks of all sorts etc.

A/N: Fun Fact: This part has one of my favourite smut scenes in it that I have ever written, for some reason.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

A wicked sense of déjà vu hit me hard when I sat across the table from Axel at a breakfast grill a few miles down the road from the Four's clubhouse. I sipped my black coffee out of a white china mug and watched him cut through a stack of maple syrup-doused pancakes using a fork of questionable cleanliness. He had complained to the server about the table syrup and had her bring him a dozen packets of what he dubbed "the only real syrup. None of that twenty-five percent less sugar bullshit." His green eyes flitted about as he chewed and avoided my stare. It had been a long two years since the weekend we met but when I sat back and sighed I felt like no time had passed at all. He looked the same, sounded the same, carried himself the same and even smelled the same though he insisted nothing about him was the same as I remembered. I ate a bowl of fruit and the orange slice that had come on Axel's plate as garnish. He tossed it into my bowl, complaining that citrus gave him heartburn. It had been a long time since I had had anything to eat that wasn't deep-fried or came frozen in a vacuum-sealed package. I picked away at my strawberries, melon, and bananas while he scarfed down his pancakes. The tinkling of cutlery and plates filled the atmosphere but not the tension that sat like its own entity on our table, grinning at us, forcing our heads together encouragingly. An hour prior he had been calling me 'mommy' and begging me to make him come. Now we were sitting adjacent to each other with nothing to say. There was much I wanted to discuss with him. So many questions burned inside my chest begging for answers. I didn't want to seem pushy but then again, he had this hold on my curiosity and I figured since he had bailed on me without a shred of an explanation that I had some sort of entitlement to answers. After all, he had tracked me down voluntarily which was a pledge to his devotion. It made me hate myself to inwardly admit that I missed him. I missed the hell out of him. When I sat there across from him and watched his mouth move or his eyes wander I couldn't help myself. I wanted him. I had spent nights by myself in recollection of how he had come into my life like a storm on a motorbike and shook me down for sex, destroyed the driveway and caused a rift in what would have been another normal, drunken Friday the Thirteenth. How could I possibly forget someone as chaotic as Axel Cluney? Even then in the restaurant, people stared at him with curiosity. He was equal parts eye-catching as he was menacing. He was suave and liquidy and partial to clothes that had seen as many years on the road as he had. A rockstar with no band. His instrument was his bike and he played it well. "Are we really just going to sit here in silence?" I asked, pulling his attention from his plate to my face. "Are you really only going to eat a fucking fruit salad? You're going to need to keep your strength up if you're going to ride with me, baby girl. And I mean that in more ways than one." I popped a red grape into my mouth and scoffed at the same time, "I see that you're still rude as fuck." "Yeah, I know. But so are you. Look at you, all squirmy in your seat. Bet I can tell you exactly what you're thinking right now. That's how fucking in tune with your body and mind I am," he pointed two fingers at his right temple like a gun. "Try me." "Well, right now you're remembering how good I fucked you earlier because you can still feel it. You're also dying to ask me to explain everything to you, isn't that right? You want to know so badly, don't you? It's eating you alive. I can see it. Your eyes don't lie well to me." I shrugged to stave off his suspicion that I was anything but indifferent to the history of the two years spent apart. Inside I cursed because he was right. "Of course, I'm curious. You told me you would come back and it took you two years to make good on your promise. Do you know how much shit can happen in two years? What if I had gotten married and had forgotten all about you?" Then it was Axel's turn to scoff at me, "you wouldn't. You would never." "You don't actually know me that well," I casually reminded him. "The only person that you could possibly picture yourself getting married to is sitting right across from you now. You wouldn't have married anyone... not without tracking me down first," Axel claimed. I blinked at him in awe for a moment as he pushed around the last scraps of his food through a pool of syrup still left on his plate before opening his mouth and shoveling it in. He leaned over the table and laughed at me, looking cheeky with his eyes squinted as he chewed and nudged my boot with the toe of his own underneath the table. "You're fucked," I snickered. Axel wiped his mouth with a white paper napkin, crumpled it and tossed it onto his sticky plate, pushed the dish aside and leaned back with hands clasped behind his head. He was positively pleased with himself and it dawned on me that he could have been the most arrogant son-of-a-bitch I had ever met in my life. "You gonna eat your cantaloupe?" He asked. "No." "Good. Let's pay and get the fuck out of here then." Axel wrapped his arm around me as we walked from the restaurant with full stomachs and smiles that were hard to hide. When he let me go and circled around his bike I had to have a better look at him and all of his leg, tattooed arms, slicked back hair and the shadow of a black eye that stayed as a reminder to others that he wasn't a man that cruised through life easily. He was so far from normal it almost felt like I was walking through a thick film into a world from a dream I had long forgotten. A dream I had given up on. During the ride back to the clubhouse I had time to think about what Axel said about me never being able to be with anyone but him and as much as it knifed me in the side to admit it, I knew he was right. There was nobody else but him. He rode up beside me on the road, nodded and sped up to pass. I watched the back of his bike through my visor and smirked as he sped up, taking advantage of the sprawling empty pavement. When we pulled up we drew the attention of a few men that were posted up around their bikes in a front lot of the clubhouse. Apparently whatever they had been talking about wasn't as important as them getting a good look at us. Axel chugged in before me, doing the stupid thing and roaring up right beside the group that had their eyes on us. I didn't recognize any of them but they had D4T patches which told me that they would be friendly once they found out who I was. I swung in beside Axel and by the time I turned off the engine and dismounted Axel was already approached. "Real fruity looking chopper you got there," one of the men said to Axel. I tore off my helmet and jogged over to intercept the conversation, "hey Axe, let's just go find Roy so we can get out of here, yeah?" "What's a little kitten like yourself trying to find the boss so quickly for? Don't you know there are a couple of levels to get through first?" A man with one broken front tooth and a head full of greasy salt and pepper hair asked me. "Read the fucking patches, dipshit," was the first thing out of Axel's mouth. "You're talking to the new owner of Motorcity." "Oh yeah? Is that so? Well, then who the fuck are you because you certainly don't look like anybody I've ever heard of." "He's with me," I declared though it didn't seem to make a difference to any of them, especially not Axel. "You not so good at reading, mister? I said read the patches," Axel sneered. "Zeitgeist. Yeah! What the fuck's a Zeitgeist, huh?" "Oh! I have heard of you! You're the fucking freak deserter from the Sweets, ain'tcha?" "I didn't desert shit." "Yeah, yeah, yeah! You did! I remember Calvin talking about some faggot on a green bike that supposedly swallows acid and spits it back up. Made a big fucking mess of some guy's face down in Florida and went nomad on the Sweets. By the rules, you're lucky I'm not unloading a clip into your deserter fuckin' brain right now!" My eyes must have gone wide enough to cut through the clambering hostility of the situation. I watched as hands reached behind backs to be ready at the trigger and felt my stomach twist with dread. If what they said about Axel being a deserter was true then by the rules any patched member of an affiliated charter was obligated to detain him or shoot and ask questions later. "Everyone just calm the fuck down, right now! I'll decide what happens to him! Do you even know who my father is?" "You mean was. Last I heard Al was dead and there's been a spat about the rightful heir. That don't make you no president though, sweetie. Hate to burst your sexy little bubble but the only person that has a say over this piece of shit acid-eating freak motherfucker is Max Sweet." "You're a fucking idiot, Max Sweet is practically my brother! Where the fuck do you think we're going? I'm bringing him back to Motorcity." "You trying to make me believe that a little girl like yourself is escorting this giant, wall-eyed fruitcake all the way across the country? Do you think I'm stupid? He could turn around and beat your ass and leave you on the side of the road to die. Now, now honey, you leave the escortin' to the boys with the guns." Axel clenched his fists not because he was going to swing but because he knew that if he made one move towards them there would be three gun barrels pointed at him. I had to do something quickly or else Axel could have been executed right in front of me without a moment of hesitation. The only violence I had ever witnessed was back home and it was usually drunken fights on the Thirteenth but I had never witnessed a gun actually being drawn. "I want a parlay right now with your president! RIGHT NOW! You can call Max Sweet and he'll tell you to back off and let me take my deserter back to our own charter!" The three men stared at me and for a moment I half expected them all to burst out laughing at me trying to pull a rank card and the tension grew thick enough to make me start sweating beneath my leather. Of course, I was lying. Max Sweet had no idea where I was and according to the new revelations, he didn't know where Axel was either. They could have easily called me on my bluff but I felt the deflation take hold and they began to realize that there was the potential for a war to start if any of them harmed us. "Yeah, that's right. I'm here to talk to Roy! Like I fucking said! Axel! Let's go, now!" I yelled. Axel beamed at me and hopped to my command almost instantly. The rest of them gawked and gaped but I wasn't finished. With a brand new sense of courage, I strolled up to the asshole with the greasy hair and the Captain Hook nose and pointed my finger in his face. "If you ever call me sweetie or talk to any fucking woman like that and I find out about it, I'll have your fucking balls and that's a damn promise. You think you knew Al and how he rolled? Well, I'm ten times fucking worse." Crunching the gravel down with my boot as I spun around, I walked towards the front doors of the clubhouse with Axel quick to follow. When we were far enough away he scoffed at me and nudged me with his elbow. "Holy fuck, mama. That was a boss fucking move! That was so hot, holy shit." "How about you shut the fuck up too, deserter." I snapped at him as I pulled open the door and entered without so much as glancing at him. If Axel really was a deserter than this all had the potential to become extremely volatile. I was in danger just by being around him if what they said were true. I had to get the information I needed from Roy and then bolt the hell out of there before any bad word got around that I was pretending to be part of the Sweet Demons. In reality, I had nothing to do with the actual club and was more of a legal landlord to the property that housed the original clubhouse. These days it had become more of a landmark or tourist attraction and much less of a place where any club business went down. I had made sure of that. Roy was in the club meeting room at the head of the table on a cellphone that looked comically tiny in his massive mitt of a hand. He motioned for me to wait as he ended his phone call gruffly. In front of him were three other cell phones of varying levels of archaism. They must have been burner phones because I hadn't witnessed anyone voluntarily using a  flip phone in over a decade. "Angel! Good morning. Who's this that you've got with you?" "My... Boyfriend. Listen, Roy, I'm really in a rush to get moving. Please tell me you found something for me. Anything." Roy sighed and shook his big tattooed head, running his animal balloon fingers over the skin and then down the front of his beard. "Kid, it's hard to say. Your ma pretty much ghosted everybody. All I could find out is that she had been in a trailer park in Mumby. Whether she was stopping in or living there is another guess. One of my guys says he was up there at Lovesick Park for some party and recognized her from back in the day at the rallies. He didn't say much to her though and took off the next day." "Where the fuck is Mumby?" I asked. "Way the hell up North. You're talking sixteen hours and across the border." Usually, the idea of riding another day exactly the way I had come from would drive me to the brink of tears but I looked over at Axel and saw the perfect riding partner. We hadn't even left and I already started enjoying the thought of getting on our bikes and ripping off together. Even though he had a lot of explaining to do, for some reason I was looking forward to the argument. "Roy... Thank you. Honestly. I'm so glad I came to you. And thanks for everything. You've been a huge help." "You're welcome to stay another night if you want to. It's nothin' to me." "No. I can't. Thank you though. I really appreciate everything. You've done more than enough for me... More than you needed to." He nodded and the lines in his boxing glove face wrinkled up as he smiled. "Anything for Al. That man changed the game." Axel followed me out of the meeting room once my business with Roy was concluded and upstairs so I could shove all of my things back into my knapsack. I wanted to get out of there as soon as possible. The risk of one of those guys deciding to follow up on my bluff was so high I was tasting copper at the back of my throat. "Angel... Slow down. Can we like... Talk for a second?" Axel pulled at my elbow. "Oh, so now you want to talk, do you? Now that your element of surprise was blasted wide open and you no longer have a piece of juicy meat to dangle in front of me? Yeah. You're a deserter and I could get my ass killed for defending you!" "I'm not a fucking deserter! I swear to God. Max knows!" "Knows what? Knows that you abandoned your charter after something happened in Florida? Were you going to tell me that? Or were you going to keep your dirty secrets all to yourself and dole them out like little fucking dog treats to me? Fuck you, Axel. If you're going to ride with me you better fucking tell me everything!" "I will! I am! I was... Fuck! I was obviously going to tell you. I didn't expect the three fucking homophobes outside to call me out in the fucking parking lot!" Wrenching open the drawer I had dumped my clothes into, I tossed him a glare and began hauling out everything by the fistful, shoving it all haphazardly into my bag. Once I had all of my effects in order, I slung the bag onto my shoulder and came up in front of Axel who had been standing at the door watching me with panic heavy in his eyes. "Hey! Hey... Listen to me," his voice softened and he reached out to touch my face but I dodged him. He didn't much like being denied the touch so he took one step closer to me and did that thing where he peered down menacingly like a bird of prey from on high. "Angel... I said I was going to tell you everything and I meant it. Why the fuck do you think I drove for days just to find your ass?" "To fuck up my life and get me killed?" "Maybe! Just maybe! But not today! Not right after I finally found you. Like... months down the road or maybe even years I'd do something stupid enough to get us both shot." "Yeah, well, I just lied right to their faces. I'm no fucking VP. I literally have no pull with the Sweets by the rules. If Roy finds out that you're actually a deserter and I'm taking you anywhere besides straight to Max, then guess how many people are going to be on our asses?" "Four fucking thousand?" "That's right." "Well... Maybe you shouldn't have lied then," he had the gall to admonish me. "I just saved your ass, Axel!" He put his hands on my shoulders and swayed me around playfully. "Because you love me. You looove me! I am your boooyfriend! You even saaaid so!" Axel continued to tease me through song and I turned bright red. "That was... Another lie! You're not my boyfriend. You've only been back in my life for half a day and shit has already hit the fan!" The tall, tattooed, dancing idiot gripped my face and bore into my eyes with his. "It's because we have so much chemistry, isn't it? We're just a couple of matches ready to get dragged down that strip called road." "Man... You are a fucking fruitcake." ~*~ We managed to pull out of the clubhouse parking lot unscathed by angry bikers that would never pass up an opportunity to uphold the outdated laws of the road. I had to admit that I had never been so excited to get back on my bike with my helmet on and my backpack straps pulled tightly around my shoulders. Even though the sun was starting to peek out from the smokey grey clouds and warm up the pavement, I donned my tight, custom leather jacket that had been made especially for me by a woman that frequented the Thirteenth rallies. She was a leatherworker by trade and an artist by passion so naturally, every line, seam, and stitch of the jacket was handmade lovingly with great attention. It was my most favourite article of clothing because I had her embroider my dad's riding name above the left breast pocket. All covered from helmet to sunglasses to facemasks, jackets, jeans and boots we rode along the right of the road until we hit wide open cement and took advantage of the long sprawling landscape to ride side by side. You could see for a mile in every direction and it was all fields and farmland for a little while until we cut through the country and ended up right in the middle of a city that was bustling with afternoon traffic. Axel had fallen a few spots back but I could see him in my mirrors. He looked like a mantis seated on a threatening viridian horse that never stopped snarling with his big black round sunglasses and his acid-green bandana tied around the lower half of his face. I had to laugh to myself and shake my head. Axel was not a subtle man and every detail about him screamed something in your face on purpose. He was such a blight of green and holy shit that people liked to honk their horns in tribute and children stared with their sticky hands and faces planted on the windows of their parent's SUVs. I knew that my appearance was no more modest than his. During the first year of Axel's absence, I had poured myself into building the bike that I had started with my dad when I was twelve. It was supposed to be a pink crotch-rocket that suited my size completely but after my mom had left us I didn't want to have anything to do with bikes ever again. The incomplete machine got covered up and put in the back of the garage to remind my father and myself that some things just exist to remain incomplete. By the time we dragged it out, it was a relic of our strained past but also a token to our relationship. Despite all of his flaws and tarnished legal record, one thing remained certain; he had been the best father anyone could ever ask for. It became obvious as we took the bike apart that an update would have to be in order. I didn't want a speedy little sleek bike. I wanted a beefy, crawling candy pink chopper with obnoxiously high handlebars and blazing chrome details on every inch possible. I wanted her to be fast but comfortable and we spared no expense on parts. She was made of the finest metal a biker and his kid could procure. Gazing down at my gas meter, I noticed that I was getting really low and I signaled to Axel that we needed to gas up. We slithered slowly through the cramped city streets, thrumming loudly between lanes of people trying to get back to work after lunch. It took a while for us to come up to a gas station but it was out of the main knot of the city and close to the highways. I wanted to avoid riding through cities as much as possible because of Axel being the call-to-attention that I did not need. "Fuck, I'm starving again," Axel told me after untying his facemask and yanking off his helmet. He kept his sunglasses on and I could see sweat and condensation glistening on his face and in his mustache. "Just grab a bunch of snacks from inside," I suggested. "God. I hate gas station food," he grumbled. "We can stop at a Denny's and get you some more pancakes, princess," I teased. "I could go for that. Breakfast again." "Can you grab me an energy drink and oh! Check if they have those little cream-filled cupcakes. I have to take a piss." Axel smiled at me, "I'm going to make you into a little cream-filled cupcake." "Fuck you," I jested, pushing him away lightly. "I sure fucking hope you do. Listen... We have to haul for a few more hours then I want to find a hotel. You and I have a lot of catching up to do." "Fine then, deserter. Gas up and grab some food. I'll see you back out there." Axel leered and grabbed my shoulder, swooping in with his eyebrows notched together angrily. "Fucking call me that again. That asshole back at the Four's club was right when he said that I can literally beat your ass and leave you in a ditch and nobody would know about it." I shrugged him off, equally as appalled by his words. "Fuck you, Axel. I was just joking!" He shook his head and stood up tall again. "The amount of fucking disrespect I've received the last few weeks I've spent trying to find you is really starting to wear me down. I don't need you accusing me of shit when you don't even know a thing about me!" "Easy! I said I was joking!" "You're stupid, Angel! Why the hell are you even out here? And without any protection at all? You can't tell me you have a gun up your ass. No, you're just cruising out here telling people about your Daddy and fluttering around like a little butterfly thinking one of these motherfuckers won't spike your drink and rape you." "You are being SO dramatic!" I yelled at him. A middle-aged man that was paying at the pump for his gas looked over at us and our parked bikes and then pretended like he saw nothing. "Angel, I've seen some shit. Some real fucking shit that would make you yack. For you to be perusing around biker clubs by yourself is dangerous." "Well guess what?" I stood up on my tiptoes and poked him hard in the chest, "I've been fucking fine without you so far! So I suggest you shut up and take the fucking joke! You can hop on the road going backward, buddy! I don't need you at all! Arrogant prick... You think I can't move the fuck on with my life without you? Go fuck yourself, Axel!" I gasped as he gripped my jaw and started backing me up so quickly I thought I would certainly trip over something and fall but he had me in place and the last car in the station was just pulling away. When I hit a wall Axel ducked in and kissed me hard. The prickle of his facial hair caused me to wince but the taste of his lips made it worth the pain. He pulled me along the wall, gripping blindly with his tongue in my mouth for the door handle to the bathroom. Wrenching open the door, he shoved me inside and pulled the door shut. Already breathless, I pointed at the knob. "Lock it." "Get the fuck on your knees." "Axel, lock the door first." He took one looming step forward defiantly and the blaze of anger on his face only strengthened. "Did you fucking hear me, little girl? I said get on those knees." When I sank to the dirty floor Axel took another step closer to me. I didn't expect him to come at me so aggressively and for a moment I felt like I could be in real danger. After all, I didn't actually know a thing about him even if I pretended to. He could have been a murderer. He could have been in jail. He could have done something terrible like what those guys back at the club had said. I tried not to picture Axel melting someone's face into steaming liquid slurry. "How are you gonna say sorry to me? You make me so very upset when you say mean things. Don't you know it's not nice to call names?" "Um... I'm sorry," I said, voice small and shaky. "Don't be scared, kitten. You remember my safe word, don't you?" I nodded and felt a wave of nostalgic arousal send the first wave of endorphins shooting through my body. Axel smiled and caressed my jaw with his gloved hand. "Well, what is it?" "Mercy," I replied. "Mm-hmm, that's right. Good girl, you remember." It was pathetic how easy it was for him to tame me. Then again, he was so damn bad and gorgeous that it figured he could tame most anyone. He was a living lightning rod of pure erotic obscenity and even more so to me because I couldn't get off to any thought other than the ones I had of him reducing me to a whimpering, wet mess. Nothing else did it for me. Only the memory of him fucking me in a tool shed and refusing to go down on me could get me close to the edge. "Now, if you please, open up that little mouth and show me your tongue," Axel asked, tone shifting politely. As I opened my mouth and stuck out my tongue, Axel popped open the button of his jeans and pulled them down. A bulge of arousal pressed tightly against the crotch of his boxers and I loved the way it looked all bound in fabric and growing. "See what you do to me? I can't even look at you with your mouth open and not get hard. It's like your mouth was made for me to fuck it. Don't you agree, sugar?" "Yes," I said, leaving my mouth open and my tongue out for him to gaze upon. He stroked the salty pad of his thumb over the slick muscle hanging out between my teeth and purred like an engine. "Oh, the nights I spent thinking about this dirty fucking mouth. Your sweet lips wrapped around my cock... That tongue running over my balls. Fuck. Yeah, I think I need that again." The blinking fluorescent light in the dingy bathroom glinted off of every wet surface in the room. There was a puddle in the corner, a leaking faucet, yellowish-brown nicotine stains dripping down the tiled walls and a fat, clear nacre of precum taking form on the front of his boxers that aroused my appetite despite our squalid surroundings. Even though the stench of a thousand bowel-movements permeated the air, I still let my mouth hang open as he angled his hips closer to my face so I could lick at the warm bubble of his arousal. He treated it like my tongue was cold and he was oh so hot, seething just by me sucking on the already wet material. "Shit... You are a filthy little thing, aren't you? God, that's what I like about you. So willing to fuck me and please me anywhere I need it, huh? Such a good girl I almost forgot about your disgusting mouth from earlier. Almost." I reached up to pull down his boxers but he stepped away to leave me clutching at air. "No, no. Not so fast. I know you're just begging to be fed but you have to finish what you started first. Now go on, suck up all of Daddy's precum." He had to bend at the knees for me to be able to reach him but it didn't hinder him from tilting his head back and moaning loudly as I sucked a big dark blotch through the cotton of his boxers. The vulgar feeling of wet material in my mouth made me eager for him to actually pull his cock out so that I could run my tongue along something that didn't feel sopping and gauzy. When he finally hooked his thumbs under the waistband and let his erection fall out I squealed pleasantly and reached a hand up to grip it steady. Axel batted my hand away though and lifted his shaft up himself to keep me from latching onto him. "No cock until you've played with my balls first. Come on, sugar. Suck on Daddy's balls like a good little kitten." I opened my mouth wider so he could drop himself onto my tongue while he stroked his shaft above my head. Even though I was terrified somebody was going to walk in, I couldn't help but hum around him enthusiastically just so I could hear him moan from the feeling. Moisture from the ground started seeping through the knees of my pants and I was growing hot in my jacket so I stripped it off and got back to licking every inch of what he would allow me. Soon he needed the heat of my mouth around the head of his cock and he forced my head back so he could hit my tongue with it. "Yes, yes. Good girls love cock, don't they? Don't they?" "Yes," I replied. "Tell me what you love," he pressed me for the answer he wanted like a parent dredging up the truth from a fibbing child. "I love cock." "Whose cock do you love?" "Your cock, Daddy." "Say it." "I love your cock, Daddy." He smiled and touched my cheek lovingly, "I know you do, sugar. Open up. I want to see the back of that throat." My mouth was assaulted by his shaft thrusting in and out of me like my head was merely a hole for his pleasure and his pleasure only. He didn't concern himself with my ability to breathe between thrusts and I had to gasp for air each time he pulled out to make sure I didn't faint from how hard he shoved his cock down my throat. We only did that for a little while until drool started pouring down my chin and dripping off his head. He pulled my head back by my hair and smiled at me proudly. "You can really take a good throat-fucking. Now, get up. Pull down those nice tight jeans. Daddy needs to pump his little cupcake full of cream." It was disgusting and I hated how when I watched him kick the lid of the toilet seat down so he could sit on it that I followed him. He motioned with two fingers for me to sit on his lap. "Come on, pants off, pants off!" He urged. I scrambled to get them down as I stood between his parted legs. He grabbed me by the hip, turned me around so I was facing away from him and slowly brought me down. We both gasped when the head of his cock aligned perfectly with my open and I eased the rest of my weight down onto him, fully submerging him in the tight heat of my wetness. He lifted my legs up and slung them both to one side so he could hook his arm under my knees and support my back with the other arm just like if I were his little baby and he was rocking me to sleep. "Oh, Christ. I love being balls deep in your pussy, baby. Do you like it too?" "Yes, Daddy." "Oh, fuck, hold still, sugar." Axel used all of his upper body strength to lift me up and down but soon realized our position wasn't going to be sustainable for long and stood up with me still in his arms. He tried again to fuck me standing up but had to put me down when my boots and jeans proved too difficult to maneuver in. With a growl of frustration, Axel ripped off his jacket and tossed it on the grimy floor near mine. "Fuck it, bend over the sink." Only Axel got to watch himself fucking me in the mirror because I was held down with my face nearly eating the faucet. He was wildly rocking into me and grunting, only taking pauses to spank my ass loudly and call me dirty little pet names. "I'm going to come inside that pussy. Know why?" He asked through his clenched teeth, fingers wrapped harshly around my hips so he could pull me in to meet his thrusts. "Because my pussy belongs to you?" I whimpered. "Yes. That's right, baby and you know I like to feed my hungry little pussy all the cum she wants." I started feeling weak when he reached around and toyed with my clit almost like an afterthought. I was so lost in the shroud of lust and adrenaline-laced fear of being discovered that my heart began to beat as quick as his pumps into me. "You like it when I touch your sweet little clit while I fuck you?" He asked rhetorically. Of course, I loved it. My tortured moans were indication enough and when the slaps of our skin became claps and our fragmented breaths became deep panting I knew that it wouldn't be long before we speared ourselves on the sharp peak of orgasm together. He promised to keep rubbing my clit as long as I squeezed my pussy tighter around him. Nodding, promising, begging and doing anything I could to convince him that my body was his to use, he shoved his fingers down my throat and came hard. I was crushed up against the sink with his entire weight and his cock twitching inside my spasming walls. After he pulled out of me the trickle of his cum immediately followed. Out of breath and dizzy, Axel shuffled over to the toilet paper dispenser and began unrolling wads of it to clean up the thick white mess leaking down his shaft. He kicked the toilet seat open once more and dropped the soiled paper in the water. I was still a mess bent over the sink and only smiled after he brought me my own huge wad of tissue paper to mop up my inner thighs. "Fuck, it stinks in here. Let's get out of here and get some fucking snacks. Now I'm really starving." I cleaned up as much of the stickiness that I could but when I hiked my jeans back up and began taking steps towards the door I felt more of his seed working it's way out of me to stain the crotch of my panties. Axel stopped me and nodded towards the toilet. "Go pee. We're not stopping again for another couple of hours." Ever the gentleman, Axel held the door open for me when I was done and smiled as I stepped out of the gas station bathroom back into the light of day. I felt like a sex-crazed vampire that had just emerged from its filthy, bodily-fluid ridden hole. He had been right about us needing to find a hotel because the thought of a shower was the only thing keeping me from feeling one hundred percent like I had just crawled out of a gutter. As if nothing had happened, we walked into the gas station and were greeted by the clerk behind a counter full of scratch tickets, candy bars, cheap phone chargers, and nine-hour energy shots. Axel whistled at me to get my attention and waved a blue package at me. "Look, honey, they have your cupcakes!"

[effervescible]

KH2 meta thoughts

Finished Kingdom Hearts 2 in my great series replay today, and I have a bunch of thoughts about narrative and story structure and character bits that I’m gonna slap down. Originally posted on plurk so forgive the rambliness.

Playing KH2 again with the full series knowledge but years removed thanks to fannish hibernation was a really interesting experience. It helped me sort of step back and look at the story as a whole, the game itself and its place in the series, and the structure of it.

The Riku-Sora stuff remains really, really good. I'm not going to say it's perfect but I can't think of anything specific I would change without changing the general story. Since my last jaunt through Disney hell, I've become extremely partial to games that meld gameplay with story and themes, and KH2 does that really well with Riku once he joins the party. I super love that his most frequent reaction command is a shield. Kid evolved from a darkness brat into some kind of paladin protector. And that little fist bump on their limit break, ahh. And all the stuff on the beach is just *chef kisses fingers* No complaints there Oh and storywise, even though we only see Riku's true face at the end and he's absent for so much of the game, his presence is felt throughout so his arc from KH1 to Reverse/Rebirth to KH2 feels really good and continuous

But god, they did the girls dirty. Everyone's written a thousand angry words about Kairi and how she just gets shoved offstage and they are 1000% true (why give her a Keyblade in one scene and do nothing with iiiiiiiit) but right now I'm more asspained about Namine. Her story in Chain of Memories is so good and her promise with Sora to become real friends is this important thing before a break in the story, after which we naturally assume it'll happen in some way and it just doesn't. (Can someone tell me if the scene between Riku and Sora before fighting Xemnas where Sora says he wanted to thank her but couldn't was added for Final Mix or not? It felt new to me but I legit can't recall whether it was there in vanilla KH2 or not.)

On an in-character level, I get why Namine would be focused on Roxas. Holy shit, someone just like her, someone she's very connected to through their births! But it's not good storytelling to just kind of drop things with Sora. Also she doesn't even get to go back to Kairi onscreen! I do like the eerieness of her started to distort through proximity to Kairi. And I like that she gets to face the Organization again but this time she isn't afraid. But goddamn does her story just kind of trickle to a stop. She's low on my list of priorities for Sora needs to save, since I'm most concerned about characters who got actively fucked over and she chose her fate, even if that choice was informed by a lot of emotional abuse. But I really hope she gets something more in KH3 if they're getting the band back together

On that note, (inhales, steeples fingers) Roxas.

Roxas has some of the most amazing moments in the game, even at the end, but his story is also where the game feels really disjointed. Not quite the same as Namine, where her story just sort of fell apart; the pacing is really weird with Roxas-related stuff. Back in the day, I came away from KH2 having enjoyed the game but feeling ultimately disappointed because here was this kid who clearly had an important story and an important friendship and we never learned much about either. I still feel that way to a degree, but having Days in the back of my mind made a big difference. Not so much for the specific events in it, because during most of my playthrough I wasn't really thinking about Xion or the specific happenings of Roxas' year in the Organization at all. But having them in the back of my mind gives him an extra narrative weight that feels lacking looking just at what we know of him in KH2.

I'm not sure if I'm making any sense, but looking only at KH2, it feels like they were writing Roxas with the idea that he'd experienced certain emotions more than that he'd experienced certain events. Which is fine, but it does sort of feel like he's just Sora's foil--a beautifully written foil, but not a full character of his own. But add Days into the mix and even if it doesn't change any of the following story, it feels like there's more heft to it. This kid still suffered a tragic fate, but that tragic fate happened to a person and not just a narrative device.

I will say that this playthrough made me 100% understand why people used to characterize Roxas as being very serious and moody most of the time. Even aside from the serious and moody flashbacks with Riku and Axel, late in the game, when you're doing the Organization boss rush and the references to his time in the Organization are flying fast and furious...I don't know, I just got a very strong sense of melancholy, that his life there wasn't a good one. (Related, Saix asking if Roxas hadn't taken care of Riku really sounds like they meant for Roxas to have done it on Organization orders, but then that doesn't fit with the game's stated timeline of Riku fighting Roxas after he betrayed the Organization. Still, an interesting idea.) But Roxas' story kinda peaks with his fight against Sora and then falls down. He's the elephant in the room the entire game, always in the background of Sora's story and the things Sora hears and feels. And then they never even talk. His last spoken scene should have been with Sora, not Namine.

Again, it makes characterization sense that there would be a bond there, because as far as they know they're the only people like each other that exist. But they were pushing the Sora-Kairi parallel way too hard to the detriment of the storytelling. I mean, it's great that in a way you'll get to see Namine every day, but don't you have anything to say to your other self over here...? The scene in Dream Drop doesn't feel like a fix-it for me, it feels like a narrative conclusion that got lost and resurfaced a few games later. Luckily, it was pretty much note-perfect in my book. But to me it feels like the conclusion of Roxas' KH2 arc, not an addendum. He might have another one depending what happens in KH3, but emotionally, that scene belongs under the same subhead as all of KH2.

Final Mix made a big improvement to things Axel-related. In vanilla KH2, yeah, Roxas does finally get pissed off enough to force a heart fight with Sora after Axel's death, but otherwise you'd almost wonder if their friendship was one-sided, there's so little aftermath. But their final clock tower scene is fantastic and even without knowledge of Days, you get a good sense of what their friendship was like.

It is kind of funny that, once you know that Axel was originally going to die sooner and got more screentime (and more importance, generally) due to popularity, you can really tell. Because there's so much stuff in this game you wouldn't necessarily expect him to have a lot of screen time, but he's absent for a really long time and then shows up without warning and dies immediately. But in all the post-KH2 games, even the prequels, there's definitely a sense of This Is An Important Character.

Overall, coming away from this, I feel like the biggest difference between KH2 and all the games that come after it is that they are building up to something and KH2 is kind of playing in its own sandbox, not really looking ahead to what's coming next. At least until they added the BBS hints. It might be absolute bullshit and they had no idea what they were going to do with the characters until KH3 development began properly, but BBS-Coded-DDD-0.2 all give the impression that there's a road map they're following. Less so for Days, but that they pointedly tie in the fallout of Days to stuff that's going to happen. But KH2 feels like more of an end point.

THESE ARE MY EXTREMELY EARNEST FEELINGS ABOUT THIS DISNEY HELL-GAME, COME TALK TO ME ABOUT THEM or just slink away rolling your eyes, that's cool too.

[emmaruthrundlesh]

INTERVIEW WITH EMMA RUTH RUNDLE // CVLT NATION

Full article via CVLT NATION.

Emma Ruth Rundle is one of the best singer-songwriters and guitarists around. Marked for Death, her last album, was released via Sargent House in September 2016. Recording Marked For Death was such an arduous process for Emma and one year later, in Berlin, I talked with her about what has changed since its release. 

Marked for Death was released in September 2016. It’s been a bit over a year. How has your career changed since its release? 

My career has actually changed a lot since then. When that album came out, Wovenhand took me on a European tour, and since then things have changed a lot. I’m able to come here and play shows like this now, and that’s a huge surprise and very humbling. I don’t think my approach to playing music is so different. I’m able now to tour with a band, whereas before Marked for Death came out, I always toured as a solo artist without any other musicians. That tour with Wovenhand was also solo, just playing guitar and singing. So more recently, I have been taking a band and that has changed how the songs are performed and everything like that. 

Do you feel like a different artist after Marked for Death? 

I feel that album was important for me to purge a lot of my personal troubles. I think I had a period after the record came out where I felt really changed and transformed, and now I’ve sort of gone back to my old ways and maybe the next record won’t sound so different from this one. 

How so? 

It’s getting a little heavier I think. But there are some songs that are more hopeful. I think playing with a band is different and more liberating for me. I think there will always still be solo songs, but I can play more lead guitar, which I really miss doing. When it’s just me, I’m playing a more simple style. So in the new album I have more room to play. 

Do you like playing with a band? 

I do like playing with a band. But tonight what’s important is to keep playing solo because I think that the emotional content of the music doesn’t come across as well with the band 

I had planned to see you in play in Barcelona last year but that show was cancelled. Are you OK now? 

Yeah. I was really fucked up. I had a lot x-rays done. I kept getting sick and I had this horrible cough. I think that what happened was that I tore a muscle while coughing and it caused an inflammation in my shoulder and chest. So I went to the hospital three different times on that tour. I went on steroids and tried to stay on the tour. Finally, I just couldn’t do it. I had the band, but when they went home I was touring alone, trying to carry everything on my own and I couldn’t lift my arm. It was a nightmare. So I went home and took three or four months for my ribs to heal. 

Marked for Death was about personal issues and darkness. Do you feel the same way now? 

I feel that some of the issues that I have struggled with and are themes in Marked for Death are still things that I’m battling. But I think that as I get older and the more that I’m doing this, some things have fallen away, some things have been resolved, some things have become stronger and some things remain the same. 

Are you working on anything right now? 

Yeah, there’s a new record.

We heard the song that your wrote a year ago here in Berlin. Can you tell us more about it? 

I came to Berlin to rehearse for the Wovenhand tour and I stayed here for a couple of weeks with some friends. I had a lot of time, especially on that tour because I was opening. I could walk around and I found myself playing the acoustic guitar a lot and I was just very inspired by being in Berlin and I wrote that song. I love it here. That song is kind of more of an acoustic solo song. I think a lot of the record has more instrumentation and there’s more of a post-rock element to it. But we’ll see. 

What inspires your lyrics? 

The new song that I played tonight called “Gilded Cage” is partially about some artists I know and it’s also about this division in human being, this us-and-them kind of idea, about overcoming these stresses and how none of these things will ultimately derail you. I don’t know, I think the theme of overcoming something and redemption is very important to me, acknowledging the personal struggles that people have and then finding a way to get over it. I think especially in the US right now with the political situation. I don’t write political music but that song had a little bit to do with that. 

Where did you find the strength to talk about something so personal? 

I spent two months in the desert drinking. There’s a desert called Pinion Hills near LA, about an hour and a half away. And my record label, Sargent House, had a house there. There’s nothing glamorous about this place. It’s very bleak. And I think I just sat there for many days, sort of getting very deeply in touch with some of the things I needed to figure out. I was drinking a lot at the time, and the day we started recording I completely quit drinking for six months and made the record. It was intense. 

What’s the creation process of your songs like? 

The beginning of a song always starts with the guitar: a riff, or a chord or a picking pattern that inspires the beginning of a song. And then there’s something that I need to sing about, and that’s how it works. 

Do you have an album or a song from your childhood that you feel emotionally connected to? 

My favorite record of all times is Siamese Dream by the Smashing Pumpkins. I love that record. I still listen to it all the time. I’ve been listening to it since I was 12 years old and I love the guitar playing on that record. So that’s my go-to answer because I still listen to it all the time. There’s a lot of different music that we’ve all listened to growing up, but I think that’s my favorite rock record, my favorite guitar playing. If it wasn’t for that record I probably wouldn’t play guitar. 

Do you have any memories linked to that album? 

I think it was a nostalgic time, like when you first fall in love. Also it was when I first got a guitar, so I was sitting there trying to play along to the record. People make fun of me a lot. Stephen Brodsky will text me links to Billy Corgan things. It’s a constant source of humor for everybody. 

My favorite song from your last album is “Real Big Sky.” You sing, “When they broke your body, the broke your mind but with broken spirits you have always tried.” What inspired this song? 

This song (and I feel comfortable saying this because I don’t think he’ll ever see this) is really about my father. My father was shot by the police in 1969. He was shot in many different places at a protest. He’s still alive, obviously, because I am here. He’s a deeply spiritual person and he’s also legally blind because of a degenerative eye disease. So part of the lyrics are about him and part of them are about my grandmother, who also raised me and who I think about a lot. But it’s really about my father. 

Do you think that being a woman in this society is hard? 

Fuck yes. It is fucking hard as fuck. And you know what? We got this. We can do this. But it makes me mad. It’s really hard. I’ve been playing in bands for 10 years and I’m always the only woman on tour. There are plenty of amazing women doing this and I’m not saying that I’m the only one. And there’s a lot going on, I don’t want to derail anybody else’s struggle and I feel very lucky to be living in the “free world,” but the way that it’s hard is so insidious. It’s not entirely obvious to everyone. It’s just subtle. And it’s not all the time; sometimes it’s wonderful. There are just certain things that I can’t necessarily describe, but it’s true. 

So what do you think about the female music scene?

So this is the other part of it. What I feel is that I don’t personally get too invested. I think the progressive thing to do is to not take the sides of male and female and just like what you like and support what you want to. I’ve thought about this and I’ve asked myself if I should find an all female band, if that would be the most forward-thinking thing to do. But at the same time, I have these people that I’m so connected with and that I love and that issue doesn’t exist in my band or in my world. 

I think it’s great that in 2017 all these women who are playing around the world are inspiring. For example, Chelsea Wolfe is a friend of mine and she is a fucking badass lady. She’s an incredible songwriter and a very strong woman and I have the utmost respect for her. It makes me so happy to see that someone like that can make art and be supported. I think it’s a positive thing. And you see a lot of support from men in the scene as well. I think our scene is actually pretty good in that regard. 

The first time I saw the cover of Marked for Death, I was surprised by the natural way in which you show yourself before the camera: no makeup, no particular poses. Do you think that presenting yourself as you are to your audience is your way to be real? 

Yes, absolutely. I took that photo myself when I was out there in the desert writing. It was very important to me with this record, especially in the song “Real Big Sky,” that it was really honest, really from my heart and as true as it could be because that’s what I have, that’s what I’m able to give and do. My music brings something that is very human, and a very real experience. 

Not everyone was a fan of this idea when I said that was the artwork, it’s from when I was writing the record there. I wrote the record there and then the engineer came with his material and recorded me in the same place where I wrote it. And I took that photo and it was just important to me. There’s a lot of beauty and sexualization of things as well, which is very depressing and it’s something that women have to deal with in this world and that men don’t really have to worry too much about. And that’s bullshit. So, that’s who I was at the time and it’s important that that is what the art is. 

How important is the connection with your audience. 

To me it has become more important. I think I’ve played so many tours opening that I became very used to having no connection at times. And this makes you hardened in a certain way. But doing my own tours it’s important to me. Like the thing tonight with the PA not working; it’s like, I want to give the song the emotion it should have. And with all this shit in the way it’s not going to happen, you’re singing into this unnatural thing. It’s important for that moment to happen for me and for everyone that’s there and is willing to be open to listening to this kind of music that that kind of connection can happen. 

What does someone expect when they go to one of your shows? 

I don’t know. It depends on whether I’m with a band or solo, but I think you can expect to have a real human experience. We’re not here to put on a show with light and all that shit. It’s just music and something from the heart. That’s it. 

Could you please give some advice to any young female musician or any band that wants to play personal music or write intimate lyrics? 

I would say just be real and be honest about whatever it is. No matter how mundane something is, if it’s truly what you’re feeling and you write about it, then it’s going to translate. And the other thing I would say, especially to female musicians—because I’ve played with a lot of bands and I’ve been touring for 10 years—you must never give up and you must value yourself enough to pursue what it is that you do and just keep going. And there may be many years where no one cares, but it doesn’t matter if that’s your passion. 

Is there any artist or band that you would like to collaborate with right now? Dead or alive. 

I’m not that great at collaborating. But I’ve started collaborating with Jaye Jayle. So I recorded a lot on their record, and that was great. I did some work with Dylan Carlson and we’re probably going to tour together in 2018. I don’t know… collaborating is so hard because I’m kind of nervous and introverted so if I wasn’t shy… I’m not sure. I have to think about that more. Maybe Nick Drake would be my first choice actually. 

And what do you see in your future as an artist? 

Well, I see the future of the next record, which I’m very excited about, and putting out an acoustic EP. At some point I would like to retire from touring so much and do some more painting and be at home. Have a family some day. Who knows.

[nightglider124]

I am a new writer and I'm really shy. I have a full written story sitting in my drafts. Any advice?

Hello, new friend and welcome to the world of writing. Would you like a cup of tea?

I’m going to bullet point what I can think of as the best and kinda most beneficial advice, I can give to you.

Write for you. This is something a lot of writers tend to forget as they get a bit more popular and get a few more followers etc. But, please, do not allow yourself to be swayed by others. Do not let anyone dictate how you write your stories. It’s nice to have readers and to get recognition but do not bend to others. You write stories how you want to write them. That is key. Always, always remember that one. For your own benefit, moreso.

Don’t force yourself to write things. This is similar to the above but what I mean is, if you’ve promised 3 written things, don’t force it. There will come times when you will get serious writers block and it is not fun. It’s frustrating and you go through a bunch of lame emotions because of this mental block on the creative side of your brain. Don’t worry. All writers get this and it happens a hell of a lot more than people think it does. You could be midsentence and get writers block. But, there are hundreds and hundreds of writers out there that you can vent to and who understand your pain.

Writers block is the evil incarnate. (Just to really emphasize that bullshit thing that happens now and again.)

When you post a story, you might not get reviews immediately; especially if you are writing for a fandom that isn’t that popular or as active anymore. Like, the fans would have dwindled a little. Fanbases aren’t always as huge as others. The thing to remember though is that reviews do not make the story. They are great to receive, a smile lights up my face when I get an email saying I’ve got a new review. There’s no denying that. But, they are not everything. So, don’t be disheartened if you aren’t immediately getting flooded with reviews and comments. It does not mean you are a bad writer or anything akin to that; it’s purely because reviews aren’t always given which is a shame but you gotta make do, ya know? It’s frustrating to have people reading your story and not actually comment about it but that is, unfortunately just how it is sometimes. But, main thing to remember, it doesn’t mean a thing so don’t overanalyse not getting a string of reviews.

Once you have a respectable band of followers and readers, don’t lose your head. There are many writers out there, whether they mean to or not, that get to a stage where they feel, ‘accomplished’ and ‘superior’ to others. Avoid this at all costs. It makes a shitty person. If you’re like on your game and on a roll, then by all means, revel in that. Be happy. However, don’t shun new writers or don’t be mean to new writers or anything like that because it does happen. People do do this kinda thing and it’s just not very nice. Always respect fellow authors. No one is better or worse than anyone else. Everyone has different styles and different methods in what they write. It’s all about the respect in this game. I guess, just never be a douche for no reason, ya know?

Adding onto that one, after reaching a stage where you feel pretty in there with writing where you feel able to give advice and like you know a thing or two, help other authors out. It can be very hard to start writing. You’re effectively working hard on something only for it to be essentially judged by others. So, always be nice to other authors. Help them out. Offer praise. Offer criticism. Offer advice. Offer tips. Anything to help them improve themselves, get on in there. The smallest compliment or comment can make an author’s day. So, just kinda be there for other authors. Gotta have each other’s backs.

Do not be afraid to put yourself out there for the world to see. You’re creative; you want to write and be a storyteller. Do not let anyone stop you from doing that. Take that leap of faith and post your stories because really, when you think about it rationally, what is the worst that can happen? Not a lot. It’s always worth a try, just to see how it feels, you know? I suggest always at least posting something. You don’t have to go and be a full fledged, stick to a schedule writer but do at least have a go. If you have that inside of you, the desire to write and create, don’t let it be quenched without really going for it first. Don’t be afraid. There are nice people out there and we do not bite, nor are we malicious about new writers. Promise.

Off the back of that, there are some downers in writing. Salty people and haters are a thing. These pathetic people do exist and can be disheartening. They can make you feel crappy but you’ve just gotta pick yourself and think, “Fuck you. I don’t even know you so I’m not gonna let your rude words get to me.”. There are some people who will complain because a story isn’t being written the way they think it should be or they see fit. There are some who will leave hate because they don’t agree with your romantic pairing or something. There are some who will leave hate because they are jealous of your abilities, plain and simple. There are some who are oh-so sure they can do it better than you. You’ve got to take these numpties with a pinch of salt. It’s what makes positive comments and reviews so much sweeter when you get them through. These people are vermin and purely strive to make you feel bad about yourself because they have nothing better to do. So, if you get those, just shrug them off and laugh, because they’re not worth stressing over.

Recap; nasty comments and reviews mean nothing. They do not change anything. Don’t let them get to you; as hard as it can be. You gotta keep believing in your skills and realise, “Actually, I’m a badass writer so screw you haters.” And that is that.

Be open to criticism. Hate is not to be confused with criticism. It will serve you well to be open to criticism. Having someone point out your flaws will help you in the long run. Sometimes, it might come across like you’re being attacked or something but honestly, they’re not trying to do that. People will comment with things you could possibly do better. Doesn’t necessarily mean they’re right but they’re always something to consider. If you aren’t happy with their criticism, then politely thank them but don’t change yourself. Just be aware and be open to criticism because some people will give it without even being asked. But, that’s just people’s way of trying to be helpful sometimes.

Engage with your readers. Some of the nicest people end up being your story readers. There are so many lovely humans out there who take the time to review and gush over how your story connected with them. These gems are not to be ignored. Remember, it’s give and take. If you post something and there are people responding, especially with comments, then they deserve a private message or at least a thank you somewhere along the lines. It’s so nice to interact with your readers because some of them are so damn into your stories and it’s so heart-warming to see. Always remember the good’uns. They’re special ones.

Talk with other people in your fandom. Make some friends; so easy to do once you’re contributing to the fandom and chatting about a mutual love of it. I know you’ve mentioned you’re shy and that’s okay. Just remember, it’s through a screen and nothing can physically harm you from taking that jump and getting your work out there. You’ll be okay. But, making some internet pals really helps not only your exposure but also your confidence. I personally love my little circle of mutuals and friends on here because they’re so damn supportive and it’s so comforting to know they have your back. Writers really tend to rally around other writer friends. When you post, they’re just so good and helpful. They guide you in your strengths and weakness’ and they reblog and kinda get the word out there for you. It’s so lovely to have people like that and you honestly, will make internet pals in no time at all. All you’ve gotta do is step out of that comfort zone a teeny bit at a time and you’ll be alright.

Take some time to read through old work of some of your favourite authors or some kinda high up there authors within your fandom. Do this so you can see that even the best have had to work hard to get to where they are now. Practice is key and dedication to writing is your priority. This helps to understand that it isn’t instant; people reading and loving your pieces of writing. It does take time but its a fun journey to get there. Jheez, I can still remember my very first written piece. It’s actually still on my deviant art account and it was a Bakugan oneshot and it is atrocious like it makes me cringe so much. But, you know what? I keep it there to remind myself of how far I’ve come since then and how much my skills have improved. Always know your worth and never sell yourself short. That is important.

Lastly… Have fun. Writing is a fun medium; a great hobby that really lets your explore your creativity and imagination. Don’t get swept up into this “writing for likes or favourites or reviews” mind-set. That’s not what it is about. You’ve got to write because you love to write. If there’s no heart and no soul in your stories, then what’s the point? Also, have fun because at the end of the day, it’s something to do as a hobby or in your free time to relax. Fanfiction for example, it’s not a job like we do not get paid to write chapters on the clock so never stress; go at your own pace and write for yourself. Always.

Hope this mega long response helps. Happy writing and don’t be afraid. Be brave!

[hollywoodx4]

Sticking with the Schuylers (44)

I’m posting this from the bus to NY (!!!) sorry this one took so long, but I’m much happier with the direction this turned out than it’s precious draft so take that as you will.

[Edit: I finally fixed the formatting-sorry about that nightmare!]

1  2  3  4   5   6   7   8   9   10   1112   I  13  14   15   16   17   18A  18B   18CI 19   20   21   22   23   24   25  26   27  28   29   I  30  31  32 33 34 3536 37  38  39 40  41  42 I  43

Tagging: @linsnavi @butlinislin @oosnavi @adothoe

The hot compression of a faux leather skirt has begun to take its toll on Eliza, who stretches her calves in hopes of a burst of relief. It maneuvers the wave of her muscles with a crinkling protest, a lacy top clinging to her physique with a hold she hasn’t quite gotten used to. The slight chill of the air flows through the room and soothes the mugginess of backstage.

“Are you dying yet?” Peggy’s voice, loud and playful, carries across the room with ease. The issue of leather unencumbers her although she has been outfitted in a jumpsuit crafted entirely from the material. She holds a drumstick in each hand, twirling them between her fingers with ease before tapping them against an extra amp. The rhythm is familiar, a song they had crafted together, and Eliza hums the tune while she adjusts her fishnets.

“The crowd is huge tonight.” Angelica’s mass of well-tamed curls pokes out from behind the curtain; the muffled sounds of their opening act receiving mass amounts of applause is a comfort. Angelica hadn’t been too sure about hiring some boy band to back them, but The Rev Squad seems to be getting the praise Eliza had imagined upon convincing her sisters to hire the band.

Eliza adjusts the strap of her electric guitar over her shoulder, her grin wild and untamed as their opening act clamors off the stage. They’re still on an evident high from the crowd’s love, whooping and hollering. Their confidence clashes with the anxiety that still radiates from the Schuyler sisters, the juxtaposition evident. The boys are a mess of sweat and flyaway hairs, water splashing from opened bottles onto their reddened faces. Angelica lets out a hint of a smile before looking away, getting into her own headspace with deep breaths and a few words muttered under confident breaths. Peggy joins their fight, running and hiding with three opened bottles of water around a corner.

Eliza, like her eldest sister, finds herself far too occupied to engage in their games. However instead of moving for a silent confidence boost, her eyes are trained on the last band member to exit the stage. The Rev Squad stylist has dressed each of its members in a suit of varying colors. There’s Lafayette, in a full red ensemble to match the unwavering flame of pride in his eyes. Herc is in bright blue, with a t-shirt underneath (presumably to stop the sweating their last round of outfits had brought him, which he’d gently and apologetically complained about just once). It matches the sweatband he prefers to wear around his head and throw out to the audience each night as their fanbase has grown. John, in his bowtie and gingham, fits the roll of the ‘nice boy’ perfectly. But it’s the simplest of the suits that has Eliza’s heart racing, practically jumping through her lace bodice.

She and the band’s resident bad boy (which she continually attempts to convince to her father is just an unfit label) hadn’t been seeing each other for long. Hell, she’d only met him when The Rev Squad first came to tour rehearsals up in California. The electricity had been too much to deny, and they’d hit it off as soon as she’d stepped into his rehearsal and he’d lost the words to his entire solo. The energy between them had lasted through Los Angeles, and Tulsa, and Tampa…and tonight, playing a sold out crowd in Central Park, those feelings were only heightened.

Eliza’s hands find the bare skin at the bend of his elbows, where he’d rolled up the sleeves of his suit. Her fingers grasp at the material, her lips diving forward to find his before he can take the steps to meet her. It’s a silly thing, this suit, and the way just two black buttons coax the fabric to hug his body in a way that makes her want to pull it off. He seems to want the same thing, the way one stage-sweat misted cheek presses against her collarbone, finding the best position to trail his lips where he knows it’ll drive her crazy. And then, he stops; a poorly aimed pool of water hits Alexander’s back, droplets of water coasting over his shoulders to mist the top of Eliza’s head.

The sudden mist is enough to jolt her awake, brushing at her face and casting a quizzical glance at her hands when they come up completely dry. The dream had been so lucid that even the space on either side of her hips is still fuzzy with the static energy of Alexander’s touch. Closing her eyes, Eliza wills herself to drift back into the world she had so unwillingly left, the tune of an unknown song stuck in an elevator music aesthetic in the background of her mind. She rolls over, a contented hum leaving her system carried on a golden glow of happiness. Her nose meets the feeling of bare flesh and an aroma of dark roast coffee. The lucid feelings of hands on her waist had been real, although Alexander’s arms are fully wrapped around her waist instead of just resting there. His eyes are still closed; they move rapidly underneath a thick blanket of eyelashes in a rare moment of peace. For a moment Eliza watches him-lets herself get caught in the way his relaxation fills the air around them. Her own eyes flutter between open and shut, a hazy side-effect of her ear against his breathing and his beating heart.

“Okay, I have to ask; what the hell were you dreaming about? I mean I know I’m a sleep-talker but you were sleep-singing…”

She shakes her head, the stray tendrils of her hair tumbling down her shoulder along with the lightness of her laughter.

“Can you roll the sleeves of your suit on Monday?” He moves himself away from her with a bemused expression so that he can catch her eyes, the drowsiness a welcome compliment to her upturned lips and reddened cheeks. Alexander chuckles. “What? It was a really good dream.”

She draws out her words with the low musings of a purr, running her fingers along his arm.

“I’m really glad you stayed.” It’s almost inaudible; she murmurs the words after she’s settled back into his chest, her stomach in combat between fluttering and flipping. The tender press of his lip against her forehead invites a wave of tranquility, transporting Eliza back to a time where she had been able to wake up like this every day. She catches the moment; drinking in the heat of his legs against her cold toes, his hurried heartbeat, and his laughter shaking the pillow of his chest. These are the feelings she had been reminiscing about. These are the things that turn her paintings gold and coat them in billowing air in gentle strokes of her paintbrush.

The temporary air serenity is shattered by the slam of her bedroom door against the wall, and for a moment Eliza has a flash of memory; their first time, her hot tears, his hands paving the way to a warm trail her mind turned into embers that stung her body. But this isn’t that time, this isn’t Christmas…that much is evident by Peggy’s yelp of surprise and the lurid click of the door being shut almost as soon as it had been opened.

“Let us know when you’re decent, please. This is important.” Eliza can practically hear Angelica’s eyes rolling in her head, her clear and decisive timbre allowing an impatience to drip from each syllable. She smooths down her camisole and pulls on a pair of shorts, shoulders lifted in a halfhearted shrug.

“Again; why did you give them a key?” Alexander stretches out over the bed when Eliza gets up, groaning before hauling himself up as well. He yawns, a break in the drowsy annoyance he had been displaying, and Eliza rewards him with a kiss and a run of her thumb along his jawline.

“We can come back to bed after, I’m sure it’s nothing. I mean, technically you don’t even have to get up at all.”

“Yes you do, Alex, you’ll want to hear this too.” His curiosity is piqued upon hearing his own sister’s voice, even though she wears more of a bitter tone he’d grown much too accustomed to dealing with. When he opens the door, when his eyes meet the sight of Peggy, Emily, and Angelica with identically crossed arms, he wishes John hadn’t introduced them at all. While Eliza throws herself into the mix he hangs back, intimidated by the wall of frantic conversation that erupts simultaneously, over-stimulating the flow of the room. Angelica’s shouting, Peggy waving her arms while speaking. Emily is shushing them all, spinning on her heel to give Eliza’s sisters an instructional glare as she holds a magazine out to his girlfriend.

He rushes forward as he feels the change in her demeanor; the way she grows silent and her lips thin into a line with a slight downward dip. Her posture sinks, her eyebrows furrowing as she clutches at the booklet with fervent intensity. And then, she drops it completely. Her voice is silent but her lips form one word; unbelievable.

“I mean I was going to come over here and yell at you about this but then I had to ask for your address, and by the time I got it and your sisters were done interrogating me my PR education kicked in and I realized that this is just a bunch of bullshit.” Emily shakes her head, her own copy of the tabloid rolled in her hands like a weapon. She bats it against her opened palm, a distraction. Peggy chimes in as she plops herself on the table, running a hand through her curls.

“I saw it on my way to Maria’s and I think I might’ve forgotten to pay the man at the pharmacy but I don’t even care, I called Ange as soon as I read it.”

The room stands in hesitant silence; the girls wait for Eliza to speak-to react, to say something more than the five syllable word that had never come out. She is immobile. Once she’s read the article the first time Eliza’s eyes fog over, the letters on the page blurring and dancing. They create an image where only the offensive words are sharp enough to read, stabbing in pin-pricks that coat her body in discomfort. She can just barely make out Angelica’s voice, muted by the ringing in her ears. Her heart has begun a sprinting pace, pulsing against her chest and pushing her down to the couch. She clutches the magazine with white knuckles until her muscles lose control; it flutters to the ground in a flurry of turning pages that breaks the silence with the cut of a knife.

Alex slips the magazine from Eliza’s hands, replacing its emotional weight with the winding of his fingers through hers. She draws in a sharp, staccato breath of air before holding it in for a moment. Her throat convulses with the fight of tears that threaten to spill from her eyes but she holds them there. Eliza concentrates on the warmth of Alex’s hand; the way her sisters have positioned themselves around her. She isn’t sure if it is for her own comfort or Alexander’s-he’s visibly tensed since opening the magazine-but it comforts her nonetheless.

…

“How are you feeling?” The question comes in the same tone it always has; genuine, yet slightly mundane. Lisa begins all of their sessions like this, after the meditation and the breathing and the necessary time it takes to prepare for the emotional turmoil she’s signed up for once a week. This week feels different; the meditation was longer. Lisa had let her linger in her own thoughts, the room filled with the trickling of her fountain and her soft and easy breaths. She knows she has to leave this state soon; to do the work she’s come here to do. She’s sure that Lisa has seen the article; has it marked somewhere in her legal pad in her broad, slanted handwriting. She’s sure that the topic is written in a lot of places at this point.

She’s spoken about this more than any trashy tabloid deserves.

There is no one word to describe the way her heart has been jumping around in her chest. A sentence cannot place the pin-pricks, or the headaches, or the nausea. She’s never felt less like herself than in this moment; even when she had been with James, even when she had been living in the hell he had crafted for her…although Eliza is still living in it-that much is certain.

“Do you want to talk about this first or lead up to it?” Eliza likes when Lisa gives her choices; she’s able to sit for a moment, to mull them over in her mind although she’s already made it up. She needs to talk about this article. She needs to thread the thick line that connects her past to this moment, weaves it intricately through her heart and into everything she’s been feeling since she read the words surrounding her name. What Eliza wants is to hide. This is too much. She’d felt so safe, so connected to the present that for once it had felt as though she had a normal chance at a relationship and a life outside of him.

He has excellent timing.

She taps her foot on the ground, a decision made by the way Lisa stares back at her. Her hazel eyes, set behind thin-rimmed cranberry glasses, search her for an answer in a mirror of a mind reader. Eliza doesn’t even have to speak her wishes out loud-that’s something she’s grown to love about Lisa. The middle-aged woman flips the magazine over, setting it backward on the table so that Eliza is looking at an ad for a double stacked hamburger instead of her own face.

“How are things with Alexander?” Good. She starts with the topic she feels will be easiest, the one that’s always elicited more positive responses than negative. And Eliza does smile, although it’s once of twitching hesitance instead of glowing peace. Her shoulders raise and collapse, and she picks at the hem of her dress.

“It’s weird not having him around. He’s very understanding, but I know that he felt a little put out by it all.”

“You’re not as happy as you have been in the past.” Eliza shrugs again, reaching forward to grab a package of putty from the coffee table. She stretches it as far as it will go, the sound of crackling air bubbles a familiar relief. When it has reached its limit, when it has been stretched too thin, she folds it back in on itself and repeats the process. Her body responds to the tense and release of the putty with an understanding taught by experience. Tense and release; the stress has stretched her so thin.

“We had a fight the other day.”

“About?”

“It was my fault, really. And I guess it wasn’t even really a fight so much as it was me overreacting. I didn’t see him all week-he wasn’t returning my calls, he was being flighty. And we all went to John’s for game night on Friday, and he was there, and it just set something off. I was just so upset that I hadn’t seen him so I invited him over after and we talked and he felt really bad about it all. He just got caught up in his work. And I mean, I was really overreacting,”

“-I’m going to stop you right there.” Lisa’s lips are scrunched to one corner of her mouth. She pauses in her writing, tapping her pen over her legal pad with unease. “Your language is very self-directed. During this story, you’ve said your name much more than Alexander’s. You’ve blamed yourself rather than seeing your own side of the story.”

“It was my fault, though. I can’t blame Alexander for working as much as he is. He’s trying to make a name for himself. He has a lot of goals, I can’t hold him back from that.”

“There it is. I want you to think about what you’ve just said for a minute, out of context, and we’ll come back to this.” She flips the page of her notepad, her pen jumping rapidly along the page before pausing completely. Lisa’s eyes move just above the rim of her glasses. “You and James fought a lot, too. Verbally?”

“Yeah.” Stretch and release. The putty pops in her hands. She rolls it between her fingers, soft and pliable. “We fought so much that I can’t even remember what our arguments were about. The…the bad nights always started with a verbal argument.”

There never seemed to be just one thing that set James off more than another; one night Eliza was too shy, the other she was a flirt, or a tease. Names were spit at her through darkened eyes and a posture that loomed over her own small frame. He had a way of making her feel dwarfed, as if her stature and her femininity and her disposition were a curse instead of a blessing. She had folded herself from the tension of the putty so many times that she had completely rearranged who she was to fit him. She hadn’t been Eliza back then, only a shell of herself. Then, she had been Eliza who belongs to James.

“I’m just wondering if maybe this language you’ve been using has been healthy…I want you to understand that this pattern of blaming yourself for every problem in your relationships is self-destructive behavior.”

“It’s not like that with Alex.” She sits forward in her seat, the putty still in her hands and her eyes narrowing subconsciously in a sudden feeling of offense. “He’s nothing like James. You told me I have to start letting go of people and being so clingy, didn’t you?”

“Eliza, let’s take a step back for a minute.”

“No, I want to talk about this.” Her heart is racing now, angered and tired and pulsing heavy against the cage of her chest. If this weren’t her heart, if this were a fist or a foot banging so forcefully on her, Eliza could imagine the stormy ocean of blues and blacks that would have already begun to form there.

“Ok, then. We’ll talk. About the article. You’ve read it?”

“Yeah. A few times.”

“And…”

“I don’t know.” Eliza is perched on the edge of her chair. Her posture is upright and dainty, although tainted with the draw of her shoulders to her cheeks and the tightness of her knuckles. The putty cracks in her hands. She doesn’t want to talk anymore.

She doesn’t speak. For a long time Eliza concentrates on the rhythm of her breathing and the trickling of the fountain because if she lets herself falter, even for just a moment, she’s sure that the inevitable collapse will happen. She longs for the safety of her bed, for Alexander’s sleepy smile and his need to order Chinese instead of pizza. The need for things to be different doesn’t solve anything, only fills her gut with unsettled breathing and the soft heat of anxiety, almost a familiar comfort at this point.

Eliza stares down at the photograph of the double cheeseburger, her foot tapping to the rhythm of an unknown, uneasy song. She’s been to the restaurant before-knows that their veggie burgers are nothing more than thin, overworked patties and wilted lettuce with too many unnecessary toppings. The photograph, however, makes her stomach turn in desire. There are perfectly crafted patties, thick and misted with beautiful dew-dropped juices. The bun is golden, almost glowing. She can almost hear the snap of the lettuce and onion just staring at the ad. But this is merely a façade, a photograph taken multiple times under the best light and with all of the circumstances ideal. There were things like photoshop, and professionals. This burger had everyone on its side. This burger had the advantage.

They’ve used the worst paparazzi photo of her on the magazine’s front cover. Her hair is a mess from the wind, mouth half opened in the midst of a word. Her name-her father’s name-is printed in bold letters next to James’s, just as it had always been. Just as it always will be.

She doesn’t want to feel the twinge of her heart upon seeing his picture again; she’d blocked him from all of her social media, completely shut him out. She avoided the newsstands like the plague, straying far away from any possibility of running into her past again. Now, she faces it head-on. The heat of Lisa’s eyes on her-watching her, waiting for her-burns heavy as s thick and consuming guilt crashes against her with a tsunami weight.

She doesn’t want to talk about it.

Lisa does.

“You’re stuck.” It’s nothing more than an observation, a smooth tone taking note of the way Eliza’s knuckles have relaxed to hold the magazine on her lap. It could be the way she rests it there, unopened. It could be the way her heart seems to have stopped altogether, although she’s sure Lisa isn’t able to tell, no matter how good she is. Maybe it’s the way her lips stick to one another, magnetized by the words she can barely manage to think let alone speak out loud.

“How does it feel to see his picture again?” Eliza feels like all she has done in these past few weeks is cry; for herself, for Alexander, for her future…the way her tears begin to trail down her cheek.

“It feels awful.” It’s the most substantial sentence she’s uttered all session, with downcast eyes and a wavering voice. She’s allowed time to think; to breathe, and to process the words running around in her mind. “I hate him for what he’s done to me. I hate that I can’t have a normal relationship with Alexander, who clearly deserves better than someone who can’t give him what he wants-what we both want.”

“And that’s a valid thing. It’s okay to feel things, Eliza.”

“I don’t want to. I don’t want to do this anymore. I’m tired of waking up and being this shell of someone I don’t even know. I don’t want to fight with Alexander anymore. I don’t want him to feel like he’s not trying hard enough. I’m tired of being stuck.”

“There’s something else…all of this fighting, you keep coming back to it. Is there a possibility that you’re hinged on this one small fight for a reason?”

Eliza shakes her head. Her heart resumes its erratic pulsing. Her chest hurts. Her heart hurts. She knows what is about to be said before Lisa can find a way to craft the words eloquently, in a way that will be the least offensive to a clearly fragile Eliza. There is no need to skirt the subject at this point; it has been the trademark thought in her mind from the day she had seen the magazine-had seen her photo next to James’s.

“I’m wondering if this fighting is your subconscious way of punishing yourself, or trying to push Alexander away.”

She doesn’t move from her perch on the couch. The fountain continues to trickle. The putty is still in her hands. Her breath hitches in her throat.

“It’s perfectly normal…if you still have feelings for James, somewhere deep inside…this is a completely understandable thing, Eliza.”

“Can we talk about this next time?”

“You were with him for a substantial amount of time. It’s not human to be able to will that all away.”

Eliza pushes herself off of the couch, her shaking hands launching herself and sending her stumbling. She catches herself just before hitting the coffee table, standing before ripping her purse off of the coffee table. Somewhere, in an incoherent plane of existence, Lisa’s soothing tone is still moving along professionally crafted sentences, her pen a continuous attachment to her yellow legal pad. Even as Eliza knocks down the coat hook with her fumbling hands, even as she murmurs rapidly-paced apologies through her choking breath, Lisa continues to speak. She rises to meet Eliza at the door, watching her hastened pace careen down the hallway.

“Talk to Alexander, tell him how you feel. He can help you, Eliza.”

It takes her three tries to close her shaking hand around the doorknob.

In the silence of the musty hallway, Eliza sinks down to the carpet and holds her head, numb and heavy, in her hands.

In this public level of privacy, Eliza cries until the janitor comes to close the architect’s office next door.

A CHANGE OF HEART? Schuyler and Reynolds reunited

Elizabeth Schuyler is making headlines again-this time for her newly rekindled relationship with old flame and political hopeful James Reynolds!

“She’s always loved him,” our snitch spills “it was only a matter of time before she came to her senses.”

The 20 year old senator’s daughter has been seeing fellow Columbia classmate 23 year old Alexander Hamilton, a fact backed by both her Instagram and Twitter accounts, which boast plenty of photos of the ponytail clad future lawyer. But our source, close to both Reynolds and Schuyler, has falsified these statements.

“[Hamilton] is nothing more than a family friend. She has been seeing him to appease his dream of a green card.”

It seems that Phillip Schuyler’s dreams of supporting the nation’s immigrants have spread to his middle daughter. But we’ve busted this front, and we wish #Jeliza the best in their rekindled romance.

Want more? We’ve compiled a list of our favorite James and Eliza moments throughout the years!

How do you feel about this rekindled romance?

[iambenjiijackson]

Reviews - The Groove Guide - 2007

Nas: Hip Hop Is Dead.

Nas is no stranger to controversy - he included a clip of P. Diddy being crucified in his 1999 "Hate Me Now" much to his chagrin, and now many rap artists around in the south of North America believe the name of his album, Hip Hop Is Dead, is an allegation that 'Snap' style is killing the rap scene.

If that is the case, then they are in a great deal of trouble; this is easily the best work Nas has done since Illmatic and I Am..., both seminal albums of their time; from the eponymous track on the album through the incredible flow of Nas' raps during Black Congressman and Money over Bullshit, something that lacked flair over the course of his last two albums.

Definitely one of the standout albums of his career, Nas' finds himself treading that line between conscious hip hop and the  “Mafioso” rap styles. Static X – Cannibal. 

At the beginning of the 2000's, Static-X were considered to be the next big metal act. They seemed to have everything going for them; their 1998 debut release Wisconsin Death Trip was a success and their second album was touted as their catapulting them - however, something went wrong; the album floundered and since then they never recaptured their early success.

Cannibal seems to show Static-X mature, however, and it's the usual down-tuned guitars and nu-industrial sound become more refined previous releases. Unlike previous efforts, the album has finally veered away from the typical nu-metal blueprint, incorporating guitar solo's and licks into their music, while the industrial element is more 'dirtier' - almost as if the group has been listening to Ministry. 

Cannibal is a pleasant surprise for the metal community and provides good progression for the group. 

Puddle Of Mudd - Famous.

Maybe it's the angsty kid in me that warms to Puddle Of Mudd, or maybe sometimes guilty pleasures take over, but when presenter with formerly post-grunge band's latest efforts, part of me was hesitant to take a listen to it - after all, their line up changes rival that of soccer clubs and their second album whimpered in comparison to their highly successful debut, Come Clean. 

But I was actually pleasantly surprised; sure, they're not a cutting edge electro outfit, but they serve their purpose and provide hard rocking tracks such as "Famous" and power-poppy elements with "Merry-Go-Round". 

It's the Nickelback it's ok to like.... again.

Red Riders – Replica Replica.

Where Evermore are taking their Adult Orientated, Middle of the Road act to Australia and making it successful, it would seem that bands out there are eager to show that's not all they listen to. Red Riders first full-length release, Replica Replica, indicated that such influences as My Bloody Valentine and Gang of Four are represented; this becomes more apparent throughout the album. Although this is a well-trodden musical path, that they are good at what they do; “Slide Next To Me” being one of the standout tracks as well as album opener “C'Mon”.

However, as previously implied, it's more of the same from an already cluttered music genre. Bands like this are seemingly flooding the Australasian scene, and it takes something really accomplished and significant to make a dent in this scene. Red Riders, sadly, look to be one of the bands lost in the crowd. Pity...

Foo Fighters - Echoes, Silence, Patience and Grace. Perhaps the most anticipated album heading in the summer, with production handled by Gil Norton who worked on the incredible sophomore effort 'The Color And The Shape' and a solid leadoff single, 'The Pretender', the latest album by the Foo Fighters had a great deal to live up to. 

'Echoes, Silence, Patience and Grace' contains some good tracks, such as the single, the Courtney Love venting 'Let It Die' and even 'Cheer Up Boys (Your Makeup Is Running)', but doesn't seem to push the band forward. With a strong acoustic presence on the album, including the bluegrass style 'The Ballad of the Beaconsfield Miners', 

Dave Grohl sadly seems indecisive where to take the group next - if anywhere. By all means, this isn't a bad album, and it does have flourishes of excellence here and there but ultimately it falls into the 'average' category, as if Mr Grohl and cohorts have decided for the most part to stick to the middle of the road, with the album already being compared to another weaker effort from the group, 'There Is Nothing Left To Lose.'

Blackmail – Aerial View.

In a world where variety equates to being the spice of life, it's always nice on paper to see a band attempt to traverse the musical landscapes and attempt to appeal to a broad spectrum of music fans. Unfortunately, for Blackmail, their attempt is a little less than desirable; it would seem that the band's attempt to do this equates to an album with different styles juxtaposed on this release – ranging from post-punk and the inclusion of a trumpet. Yet partway through they sound like they're tired of trying that post-punk sound and end up going down the “alternative rock” road, which although plays to their strength, also sounds like many other groups out there all battling to squeeze into one square that's already quite full.

Should Blackmail find their niche they could be a very good band. Sadly, this effort isn't the case.

P.O.D – Greatest Hits (The Atlantic Years)

After spending seven years with Atlantic Records before moving in 2006, Christian Rapcore group P.O.D release a retrospective of their work on the label since the 1999 release of The Fundamental Elements of Southtown. Their popularity stems not just with the religious community, but fans of, dare I say it, Nu-Metal. If you're not familiar with P.O.D, their messages within the music aren't gospel, more life-affirming with “Alive” and “Boom” both proving that.

The only problem is that they've neglected some tracks popular with their fans; “Hollywood” and “School Of Hard Knocks” have been omitted, the latter being a big commercial hit. Instead, we're subjected to two 'new' studio tracks (”Here We Go” was and “Going In Blind”) as well as an almost humiliating reggae track “Set Your Eyes To Zion” showing that we can expect from the “Southtown Generals”.

Sadly, it's a guilty pleasure to listen to.

Various - Computer Incarnations For World Peace. Now I am all for electronica music. Hell, I'm even down with Nintendocore. But this thirteen-track selection of, what is touted as 'soulful new wave and dubby rock', in all honesty, plays out more like a poor mans euro-dance. 

If we were all back in the early nineties, possibly in Denmark, then maybe there would be a market for this. However, in this day and age, maybe in part due to glitch and electro-sleaze artists pushing the envelope out, this release is offensive due to its inoffensiveness. 

Maybe that's what they were going for - but I direct your attention to the track 'Garden Of Life', which is a throwback to before Hi-NRG was established; and you know that was a bad era in music. Utterly disappointing, and will make you think Whigfield was Aphex Twin.

The Cooper Temple Clause – Make This Your Own.

Gone are the aggressive songs such as “Promises, Promises” and “Who Needs Enemies” and instead we get something at times sounds progressive, and at others like the group have listened to a lot of recordings around the time of the British Invasion of music to America, None the less, Make This Your Own is a step forward for a band who could have continued their cocky swagger down their progressive rock route; instead, they charm the listener with indie-jangle melodies as well as that trademark dirty bass in such songs as “Homo Sapiens” and  “Isn't It Strange”.

For those of you wanting to make comparisons to the baggy sound, the band and Kasabian were bringing back, expect nods in that direction; but where Kasabian deviated prominently from the sound that made them popular, The Cooper Temple Clause have honed after three albums a new direction that intermittently works.

Art Brut -  It's A Bit Complicated. For Art Brut, deconstructing the subjectivity of the music scene has become a forte for the British alternative indie group. Their first album attacked the past love life of vocalist Eddie Argos, and with their new album, the deprecating humour now encompasses an almost conceptual story about University life. 

It's A Bit Complicated still contains the same wry vocals, but instead of self-apperception it touches upon the life and times of University students, discussing lack of money, the novelty of learning another language and the romanticizes the idea of young love. 

However, this is Art Brut, and as such the topics are brushed with an acerbic sentiment in which many are in the line of fire, most notably the 'hipster' indie scene, including one of the album's finest moments, “Nag Nag Nag Nag” with an immortal commentary; "Wet trousers in the washing machine/But I'd rather be damp than seen in jeans."

Bad Religion - New Maps of Hell. The punk scene is home to many legendary acts; it's just difficult to pinpoint one or two, because of different variants of punk. Of recent years, the scene has paid homage to NoFX, Pennywise and Bad Religion. 

Having established themselves back in 1985, the group really came into their own after a reformation with the release of their seminal album, Suffer. Many lay claims that their latest album, New Maps of Hell is a replication of the grandiosity that particular album; it isn't. 

Though it is a good album, it further exemplifies Bad Religion's influence on a greater number of bands, and unfortunately that their sound, while at one point may have been groundbreaking, is now a staple of any new punk band. Dues towards the band have been paid, and it's great to see them pro-active. It's just sad the once important SoCal punk group are now a nostalgia item. 

Recommended for punks, but not a casual listen.

Turbonegro - Retox. Listening to Turbonegro's previous albums, especially around their Scandinavian Leather, are a pastiche to the sleazy glam rock era of the early to mid-eighties. Their popularity as the fun, crude punk act saw them once as the pinnacles of the 'deathpunk' scene they were affiliated with. 

In part, a joke and then again very serious with their approach, listening to Retox, the Norwegian band's eighth album, is not for the ardent 'muso'. What it is, however, is a fine nihilistic punk album with derision of how serious the music scene really is. 

One could call it post-modern, however much like The Ramones, it's simply dumb rock 'n' roll done with bravado - Do You Dig Big Destruction and Hot and Filthy both quintessential party anthems that make it hard not to have a soft spot for the 'homo punk metal' outfit.

Jamie T - Panic Prevention.

With songs like the radio staple Sheila and Pacemaker, allusions to the often touted "Arctic Monkeys meet The Streets" moniker seem evident. Therein lies the problem with the newest member of a crop of British solo artists, Jamie T. With his English "chav" dialect and an almost faux-pas urban vocal selection, it sometimes seems hard for those outside the United Kingdom to 'get' what he is talking about.

Cast that aside, however, and the album does contain some diamonds in the rough, with Salvador proving the mock-cockney ambiguity isn't concurrent throughout the album, while Dry Off Your Cheeks further showcases what he is capable of. At times, you're half expecting Billy Bragg to confess that the album is actually written by him, sans the mock-ney accent.

However, you can't help but squirm with lyrics such as "Smack Jack The Cracker Man". Approach with caution; cans of Red Stripe are advised.

Dub Pistols - Speakers and Tweeters. Mixing tracks with some sublime hip-hop tenacity with their intended dubwise sound, this third offering from London dub act Dub Pistols is easily one of their most accessible albums to date. Having such a knack for remixing other artists music (they remixed, of all songs, Limp Bizkit's 'My Way'), the album contains their spin of Blondie's electro-fused classic 'Rapture' along with a grime-like ballad of The Stranglers anthem 'Peaches'. However, it does beg to question if this album, perhaps even the group as a whole, has an appeal to a niche market out there - those who still listen fondly to the days The Slits and The Clash started playing dub. However, given the modern-day spin to the songs this album finds itself retreading, there's the problem it could alienate its original audience. It is a good release, it's just confused what it wants to really be.

Tokyo Police Club - A Lesson In Crime. Fifteen minutes. That's how long the "mini-album" of Canadian indie rock group Tokyo Police Club's release, "A Lesson In Crime" lasts. Yet it is an important fifteen minutes for the listener; the group have made a declaration towards other group emanating from this genre that a future full-length release is not only impending and ominous but is going to be big. The sprint of opening track "Cheer It On" opens the gateway to a fifteen-minute tease of what the group are capable of - at times verging on post-punk and at other times steadfastly rooted in the indie genre. 

The EP plays out like one long single, but many a time where they are a hindrance, in this case, it is a blessing; Tokyo Police Club are unquestionably a band that have set their goals and sights high and look to achieve that goal. A quintessential purchase.

Ruptus Jack - Ruptus Jack. It's a dirty world, the rock and roll scene. Dirty is a good word in this case however when you listen to what many thought Jet would have brought with their latest album. Alas, it's up to Ruptus Jack to provide us with that sort of nostalgic rock that The Datsuns gave to us - and it's plentiful on their eponymous debut. 

With a raucous Reverend Hutch's Sermon leading into “Ulterior Motives” as pivotal to the track as the opening proclamation of Mudhoney's “In 'n' Out of Grace.” It's nothing intricate musically, but then those complexities one would associate with post-punk and the scene we're in at the moment can become somewhat tiresome, and it's always refreshing to hear something with a little more bite in the New Zealand music scene. Perfectly acceptable balls-out rock!

Tim Armstrong - A Poet's Life. If you've followed the prevailing career of punk act Rancid, and in particular lead singer Tim Armstrong, and wondered when the band would go down the dub/reggae route much like many of the British punk bands walked towards the end of their careers, then Armstrong's solo effort, A Poet's Life would be that point. 

A jack of many trades, with not only old school punk but also a mesh of rap-punk with his 1999 project The Transplants, some of the tracks from the album are reminiscent to those on the self-titled Transplants album - only replace the crashing guitars with upstroke semi-acoustics, and the rapping of Rob Aston with ragga vocals - and it's actually pleasantly surprising! It's very evocative of when The Clash's experimentation with a similar style and quells these cold Auckland nights with the thought of this playing while in the sun, with Into Action and Take This City prime candidates of this epithet. Tim Armstrong - too many - can do no wrong. 

The Klaxons - Myths Of The Near Future.

Dancepunk is the new Nu-Metal. That is indeed a fact. How so? Just like nu-metal in its heyday, the genre is exciting music fans new and old with a meshing of two styles which on paper seems polar opposites. CSS helped breed the monster into the critically and commercially successful beast that it is, and The Klaxons debut album, Myths Of The Near Future and making sure it's being gorged.

The singles “Gravity's Rainbow”, “Magick” and “Atlantis to Interzone” frequent the album, but they almost pale in comparisons to the grandeur efforts of an upcoming single “Golden Skans”, and an outrageously impressive cover of Grace's “It's Not Over” and soon to be festival anthem “Forgotten Works”.

"Nu-Rave", "dancepunk", whatever you want to call it, The Klaxons debut album is simply a must - a definitive landscaping of the merging dance/rave/indie scene where CSS have left the door wide open for other acts to congregate.

New Pants - Dragon Tiger Panacea. Nerdcore is a phrase seldom used in the pages of the magazine; to clarify, nerdcore is pretty much a concept of dance music that's somewhat uncool and 'techno-geek" that it is by default cool. Devo would be the first of which to explore nerdcore on an electronic level, and in the spirit of the whole discopunk/nu-rave phenomena that has swept the Western world of it's feet, the Eastern world has followed suit. 

New Pants is an amalgamation of everything that is wrong with Eurodance done right with samples ranging from stereotypical martial-arts dubbing to some really infectious breakbeats. Such is the almost disco influence with the album, that at times it can be so cheesy it's good; something the likes of Shit!Disco or Datarock might be worried about, given the at times serious motives of their sound. An utterly intriguing, fun album!

Idlewild – Make A New World.

If Warning/Promises split the fanbase Idlewild once had, Make A New World will further splinter those holding out for the Scottish alt.rockers to make a return to their punkier roots of Captain or Hope Is The Same. Coming off some time apart after the controversy surrounding their previous album, the group at times have some inspirational moments (No Emotion teases a disco-punk number while album opener “In Competition For The Worst Time” harks on an Interpol sound almost), it just seems that on the whole, it's the same formulaic approach from a band that seem stubborn about the music advances around them.

You would hope for something fresh, with lead singer Roddy Woomble spending time in New York as well as a solo folk project, but it's more of the same from the band; which isn't necessarily a bad thing, but it isn't an exciting prospect either, sadly

Chris Cornell - Carry On. I'll be honest - I wept. I openly wept when listening to Chris Cornell's latest solo album, Carry On, not because it's beautiful, but because of what Chris Cornell has become - amidst some very solid melodies and some staple Cornell vocals, in its rasping warmth we've all come to know and love now, this very much plays out as a vain pet project lacking the depth one gathered from Euphoria Morning. 

Perhaps Cornell was searching for atonement regarding the limp final days of Audioslave, drawing in fans of his much earlier work who have now swapped their Badmotorfinger shirts for smart-but-casual outfits; and with Cornell resorting to covering Michael Jackson's seminal "Billie Jean", a track you'd assure would be full of the vitriol we all know and love from him, and taking the middle of the road, then you'll understand why the tears were flowing. Simply heartbreaking.

Nick Oliveri and The Mondo Generator - Dead Planet:SonicSlowMotionTrails. For those somewhat disappointed with the last Queens Of The Stone Age album, the first in which cult-icon Nick Oliveri wasn't affiliated with, you can take solace now that, after the previous two, ahem, experiments, Mondo Generator's latest album does indeed live up to its promise. 

It helps that Oliveri had an army of incredibly gifted musicians behind him, the spotlight shining heavily on the talents of Ben Thomas and Ben Perrier of Winnebago Deal. Instead of a harsh album of alternative metal much like A Drug Problem That Never Existed, it's audibility falls on more punk roots than anything else - and the switching between his trademark 'howl' and a more smooth singing style adding a degree more depth to Oliveri. 

Though it'll never live up to Songs For The Deaf, it surpasses recent stoner rock albums by heads and shoulders.

[apostateangela]

Death and Consequences

Religion provides answers to the hard questions:

Who am I?

Where did I come from?

Why am I here?

Is there anybody out there?

Where am I going after I die?

As humans we struggle with our worth and connections in this world.

I am no stranger to self-loathing and loneliness.

Some of those feelings have been fertilized by the Mormon cultural and theological structure as well as my abusive husband.

But I do not think I would have been exempt from them without those influences.

I believe I would have still struggled with my worth and my place in the universe.

Most people seem to.

The LDS church has fairly beautiful answers to these questions, like most ecclesiastical faiths.

I am a child of God.

I lived with him before I was born.

There is a plan created by God and His son Jesus Christ whereby I can learn, grow, and find happiness in this life and go to live with Him in the next.

God is out there and cares about me individually and I can pray to Him and receive comfort, help, and answers in the midst of this brutal, lonely life.

Life does not end.

When I die there is something else, an extensive afterlife where I can live for eternity with my loved ones.

So even though I struggled with the parameters of the church, these carefully constructed, multilayered answers to life’s impossible questions created more of a comfort and stability than I realized.

In fact, they were my gravity.

Now that I no longer subscribe to these parameters, I find myself both adrift and bereft.

You can survive adrift fairly well.

The creation of new gravity lies in meeting your needs with something other than God.

I am lonely?

I make friends.

I take lovers.

I go get my nails done so someone will hold my hand.

I wonder about my purpose here on earth?

I create purpose by pouring myself into my career as a teacher and try to make a difference in the lives of young people.

I write and paint so as to leave a mark of some significance on this planet.

I seek to love people and animals and places in hopes of that large and powerful love doing both.

I try not to worry about the past, pre earth or otherwise.

My future exists in hours and days and sometimes weeks and months.

My mind rarely considers eternity.

Until it sucker-punches me out of nowhere.

Death does that:

Death sneaks up on you.

Death is ugly.

Death is brutal.

Death doesn’t play fair.

Death is Eternity’s thug, pack of thugs really.

There is no end to their creativity and pain.

Religious answers seek to leash these hellhounds, or at least muzzle and blind them so as to provide some kind of extension that cancels out an end.

It’s a distraction really; the more details created the more high def the distractive picture.

Mormons paint a multileveled detailed version of the afterlife.

There are 6 different places you can go after you die.

With so many places, the belief deepens--distracting from the grief--at least some of the time.

Here’s what Mormon’s believe:

After death your spirit/soul goes to a kind of way station (named Spiritual Prison and Spiritual Paradise) to wait for Christ’s second coming and the following final judgement.

A basic Heaven and Hell scenario.

After the apocalypse and its fallout, the final judgement happens and you go to one of four places according to your actions during your mortal life:

Celestial Kingdom: Basically Heaven (there’s even tiers within this kingdom based on marriage and such)

Terrestrial Kingdom: Not a bad place. For basically good people who didn’t know any better than to be a Mormon and make the covenants.

Telestial Kingdom: Basically Hell, but like earth now--I imagine complete even with the Trump administration. No fire and brimstone bullshit. But it’s for certain commandment breakers: sorcerers, whoremongers, and adulterers. (sex and lies mostly)

Outer Darkness: Real Hell. Here you are forever cut off from God and anyone else you loved. It’s reserved for the Sons of Perdition and really evil murderous people. (I’m one of those, remember? Denying God anyway)

I only provide this brief outline to help you understand the layers and details that help Mormons in the processing of life and death. There’s so much more doctrine and symbology here, but it doesn’t really hold relevance to this post.

I’d come to some kind of peace in my shedding of the Mormon structure. I admittedly entered into perdition as I believe most of the principles of the LDS church to be oppressive, misogynistic, and harmful as evidenced by my own experience and it was important to write about it all. This public writing is an action against their God.

But for the most part my place in eternity doesn’t trip me up anymore.

What will come will come.

For me.

Then, the Dogs of Death came on and took someone from me that I loved deeply.

And I am undone, spinning in the savage vertigo that this depth of grief brings.

My friend, my mentor, my sister; my partner in teaching and philosophy and memory and poetry and quilting was gone.

She was full of light and the most beautiful person I have ever known.

Grace filled every molecule of her.

Cancer came and snuffed her out; little by little for years, and then suddenly altogether.

The pain I felt at her death was that of oblivion.

It was a different pain.

It was as if I had been shot full of holes and my hands had been cut off.

Even the pain I felt when my own grandmother had taken her own life did not compare to THIS pain.

Because THIS time, I was alone without any answers.

All I wanted was God’s hand to hold and a place for her to go so that I could clutch the possibility that I would see her again.

But there was nothing.

I sought it.

I knelt prostrate on the floor of the spare bedroom in my friend’s house, pounding my actual fists on the floor, crying out to God.

But to no avail.

I reached out with everything within me, like I’d been taught all my life, trying to find what I wanted so desperately.

Nothing.

I wanted nothing more than to go back to my constructed belief.

But there is no going back, at least for me.

For weeks after her death, even until now, I’ve asked myself the questions:

What did this mean?

Is there really no one there?

Is death really the end?

Is there really nothing else?

Ultimately, I can’t accept that.

Not because of the religious answers constructed for me.

But because of my actual experiences with the spiritual and metaphysical.

As well as the experiences of others whom I trust as both intelligent and reliable.

The new pain I felt at the death of my dear friend has caused me to begin a search for answers that resonate within me. Answers that I can construct FOR MYSELF, instead of those that others construct for me.

It is sure to be a lifelong search whose answers will only be truly realized at my own death.

Therefore, I am in no hurry.

It is too hard to rush to this kind of thing.

Beyond the fact that I shall never really and completely know unless I die,

the very process of searching hurts.

Every time I approach a potential piece of information, I have to dig up my pain and hold it in my ghostly severed hand saying, “What do I do with this?”

The experience is much like poking that beating question with a stick; it doesn’t accomplish much and is painful anyway.

But sometimes the stick is electrified, and the question does something interesting--reacting to the shock. That reaction then becomes information gathered and filed away in my brain and heart.

One such moment recently came in the form of a poem, my best and most loved language:

Pass On

by Michael Lee

When searching for the lost remember 8 things.

1.

We are vessels. We are circuit boards

swallowing the electricity of life upon birth.

It wheels through us creating every moment,

the pulse of a story, the soft hums of labor and love.

In our last moment it will come rushing

from our chests and be given back to the wind.

When we die. We go everywhere.

2.

Newton said energy is neither created nor destroyed.

In the halls of my middle school I can still hear

my friend Stephen singing his favorite song.

In the gymnasium I can still hear

the way he dribbled that basketball like it was a mallet

and the earth was a xylophone.

With an ear to the Atlantic I can hear

the Titanic’s band playing her to sleep,

Music. Wind. Music. Wind.

3.

The day my grandfather passed away there was the strongest wind,

I could feel his gentle hands blowing away from me.

I knew then they were off to find someone

who needed them more than I did.

On average 1.8 people on earth die every second.

There is always a gust of wind somewhere.

4.

The day Stephen was murdered

everything that made us love him rushed from his knife wounds

as though his chest were an auditorium

his life an audience leaving single file.

Every ounce of him has been

wrapping around this world in a windstorm

I have been looking for him for 9 years.

5.

Our bodies are nothing more than hosts to a collection of brilliant things.

When someone dies I do not weep over polaroids or belongings,

I begin to look for the lightning that has left them,

I feel out the strongest breeze and take off running.

6.

After 9 years I found Stephen.

I passed a basketball court in Boston

the point guard dribbled like he had a stadium roaring in his palms

Wilt Chamberlain pumping in his feet,

his hands flashing like x-rays,

a cross-over, a wrap-around

rewinding, turn-tables cracking open,

camera-men turn flash bulbs to fireworks.

Seven games and he never missed a shot,

his hands were luminous.

Pulsing. Pulsing.

I asked him how long he’d been playing,

he said nine 9 years

7.

The theory of six degrees of separation

was never meant to show how many people we can find,

it was a set of directions for how to find the people we have lost.

I found your voice Stephen,

found it in a young boy in Michigan who was always singing,

his lungs flapping like sails

I found your smile in Australia,

a young girl’s teeth shining like the opera house in your neck,

I saw your one true love come to life on the asphalt of Boston.

8.

We are not created or destroyed,

we are constantly transferred, shifted and renewed.

Everything we are is given to us.

Death does not come when a body is too exhausted to live

Death comes, because the brilliance inside us can only be contained for so long.

We do not die. We pass on, pass on the lightning burning through our throats.

when you leave me I will not cry for you

I will run into the strongest wind I can find

and welcome you home.

-----

Besides the crying part, this is where I am right now.

My first answer about Death lies here:

seeing my dear friend... in the faces, words, and voices of students she has touched, in the smile of a woman with a book in her hand at our coffee shop, in the kind touch of the nail technician who uses her eyes instead of language, and even in the handwriting of a well-crafted note of encouragement.

I feel her in the wind, ruffling my hair and invading my senses with the rich smell of baked beans simmering on the stove, with the perfect taste of an Almond Joy bar, and with the amber glow of an interesting and well crafted beer.

Add to that my desire to honor her belief.

My friend saw God everywhere.

She was an authentic believer, not a constructed one.

She had as many icons as her small corner shine could hold.

She sought God her whole life.

She herself, within many organized structures and outside of them.

We talked of it many times.

I wish she were still here to be my spiritual sounding board.

But she is not, at least not in the same way that she was anyway.

Her absence is both catalyst and quicksand, as I’ve already explained.

However, something I know well is that pain is usually required for growth.

So I will engage.

In my quest for the Collective Divine, I have much work to do: reading and listening and watching and traveling.

But like my darling friend, I feel God everywhere:

in beauty and tragedy, light and darkness, joy and sorrow.

I always liked the Mormon idea that we could become Gods someday,

it was my take on evolution.

And maybe this is how it will be; our energy rushing out of us EVERYWHERE to join the electric and become godlike.

My contained human mind and heart wants it to be more like it was when those I love were alive, whole and organized and accessible.

But if, after I die, I go out to join them in the wind and in everything around me, maybe that desire will be left behind with my body.

I don’t know.

The most painful part is not the unknown, but the known and lost.

It is the missing.

It is the wanting.

[imaginaryculturepress-blog]

TFTP: With Confidence @ HQ

In which With Confidence rock out in Perth, and some fancy lens drama ensues.

Hi, hello, and welcome!

My name is Skyler and I’ve only recently realised just how creepy it is to be writing show reviews almost two months since said shows occurred. 

*Plays Radiohead’s Creep.*

So let’s get to it. 

In the previous post, we discussed part one of the August 25-27th weekend, in which Why Even Try launched their new single, “More Than”, with Grey States, Shedhead, and Crown Loser, and my 85mm f1.8 Nikkor decided to die.  Today we shall continue that tale, focusing on the return of the lens (and the drama that ensued) and the With Confidence show at HQ. 

I swear everything is at HQ. Or Amps. Or Metro. Or the Metropolis. Or some other 18+ location. (I’ve been informed that some 18+ locations allow underage photographers, though. If you know any such venues – in Perth, Western Australia (not Canada) – let me know!) 

Now, where were we? 

Ah, yes. Saturday. We’d gone from prep to travel to shooting to travel to sleep to editing to prep to travel to shooting to travel to sleep to editing again to just needing to go through editing to prep to travel to shooting to travel to sleep to editing again, and it’s probably worth noting that my aforementioned cold was worsening. I doubt waking up at midday assisted with it, but anyway. 

I had a lot of editing to do, though it had to be delayed for the time being; I had a lens that wasn’t lensing and refused to shoot With-freaken-Confidence with a 35mm. Friday was horrible enough – gear-wise – and if I had the chance to run over to replace it in between sets, I would’ve.  So I had to go to Camera House.

But you can’t just walk in waving a receipt in their faces, no, you’ve got to go through the whole process. This includes researching their policies, comparing said policies to the ACCC’s website, crying over the fact that you might not see your $519 ever again, arguing with yourself, arguing with them, and just generally being a depressed, anxious wreck.

And so I did just that, finding out that they have a fourteen-day return policy and also finding out that this policy is complete bullshit, as such claims are actually illegal.

Great. So I might see that money after all.

Except… they have the option of either repairing the product or returning it and offering a store credit.

Right. So I might see that gift voucher after all.

Except… if they find that there’s nothing wrong with it, and knowing my luck they will, you’re stuck with this pathetic thing.

…So I might not resolve the issue after all. A few hours later, after editing three photos and binge-watching a Netflix show, I gathered my senses and lens receipts and headed down to Camera House. I was met by the dude who sold me the item, some cheerful bloke with probable intentions of selling more faulty crap. He greeted my mother and I (for my mother always tags along when arguing - or leaving the house - is in question), and asked about the 85mm, automatically regretting the query. Dude: So how's the lens? Me: Not good. Dude: Why? Me: It's failing to focus. Dude's face: What the actual fucking fuck did you do to it...? Dude's words: Oh? Do you have it with you? Me: Yup. *Awkwardly attempts to attach the lens to the camera body without dropping and shattering everything.* *Shatters dignity instead.* Dude's face: *Engulfed in cringe.* My mother: *Teeth clenched, bloodshot eyes, ready for battle.*

Dude tested the gear as I anxiously awaited the verdict. What if it only failed when I used it? Did it hate me? Oh my Gerard Way, it hated me!

He confirmed my nightmare: it worked perfectly.  Me: Please excuse me as I lie on your floor and cry endlessly. Dude: Could you not? It diverts potential customers. Me: Kill me. After taking a moment to... regather my brain cells? No, that's impossible. To calm down? Yeah, to calm down. After taking a moment to calm down and accept that my most precious lens was rebelling against me, I let the matter proceed.

Dude called over a guy who was walking past, supposedly the manager. Supposed Manager seemed thoroughly done with life and about to jump off a cliff, sighing as Dude spoke to him.

Supposed Manager: *Sighs.* What seems to be the issue? Dude: They bought the lens and say it isn't working. It’s fine right now, though. He showed the test images. Supposed Manager: *Sighs again* Right… 

As he inspected the equipment, the pair had a quick conversation regarding the problem. He soon unattached the lens, gained a cockier attitude, and unveiled his complaints.

Supposed Manager: Dust.

Well… yeah. That’s kind of what happens the moment you remove something from its box – dust gathers. Not exactly rocket science.

Supposed Manager: It’s not in brand new condition.

No shit, mate. As you’ve been told, it’s been used to shoot two shows. Not to mention that you’d have to use it to know that it’s broken.

It wasn’t physically damaged, and besides the aforementioned dust, appeared fine.

Supposed Manager: There’s a fingerprint on the back.

Now hold the fuck up.

Me: What?

Supposed Manager: *cleaning the lens* yup.

Me: …No?

What kind of crap was that? 

For those of you who are questioning why I’m making a huge deal out of this: lenses are a photographer's children; we take immense care of them, have favourites, talk to them in weird voices, and they were probably accidents from that innocent trip to JB HI-FI (or in this case, Camera House). And to have a fingerprint on the back of a lens is equivalent to being told you abuse your child.

So never make that claim. Ever. Unless you're desperately hoping to be punched in the face.

Unfortunately, he'd cleaned away the evidence - or lack thereof - before I could disprove his claim. With yet another sigh, he continued:

You're a-

Nope, I can't say it. I need a sponsor. But then again, I prefer JB HI-FI. The only reason I even bought this product from CH was due to the fact that they were the only ones who had it in stock.

But speaking of sponsors and JB HI-FI... would you guys be interested in a sponsorship deal? Please? I'll advertise the living daylights out of you! You know I love you, right? I'll sell my soul for you! No? Dammit... (The Devil: Hey, uh.... if you don't want that soul...)

Side note: am I the only one who thinks that the Devil would sound like the hormone monster from Big Mouth? Also, am I the only one around here who watches that show? Yeah? Okay... But shoutout to my uncle for recommending it! Okay, we should seriously continue with this story... I said: look, I used it to shoot two shows. The first time went perfectly well, though the second round - last night - it refused to work.

Dude looked at me as though I said something hilariously stupid.

Dude: ...You do realise this isn't a concert photography lens, right? My face: Please tell me you're kidding before I stab myself with a tripod. Me: What? Dude: This is a portraiture lens. You came in asking for a specific product, and I thought you knew what you were after.

Supposed Manager was thoroughly confused, though figured his side was winning thus retained his arrogance.

Dude: If you told me it was for concert photography, I never would've sold it to you.

As I fumbled around for words, my mother intervened. 

Mother: *Extreme level of sass* You never asked what it was for. Me to myself: OH FUCK YES, MUM! YOU SHOW 'EM! 

She was so extra, they couldn't deal. 

Supposed Manager gave an ultimatum: either keep the lens, or receive store credit.

But my mother was way too high on her previous sassy success that she couldn't keep from demanding a full refund. And hey, fair enough; JB HI-FI would never do this, they always get personal and you leave feeling emotionally connected with their staff. Seriously: last year, I purchased an Olympus compact camera, the model of which I cannot recall, and the guy working there truly gave a damn about my intentions were, how often I'd be using it, etcetera. He actually cared, shook my hand at the end, and said to come back if I had any queries and to keep him updated. Now that's customer service. (#NotSpons'dButWishItWas #ShaneDawsonQuotes #I'llStopWithTheHashtags)

An argument ensued. Of course it did. It always does. I go in to buy a memory card and we end up in a heated debate regarding the neighbour's goldfish. Or something like that. Regardless, the ACCC is mentioned in at least two threats and quoted eighteen times, and there is no concrete conclusion or win. And yet it continues. Every. Single. Time. 

I'll speed up to the important part: I agreed to store credit, though the cheapest lens available that fit my requirements was $60 more than this one. So I wouldn't be seeing my $519, store credit, or current cash, after all. 

My mother refused to agree to this. How dare they not give it for $519? They just lead us through hell! 

Me? I just wanted to buy the bloody thing and be done with these people. I couldn't shoot With Con with a 35mm. No way. I had more self respect than that. Actually, this had nothing to do with me: I had more respect for the bands than that. I couldn't make them look bad! I wouldn't shoot with a 35mm.

But before I could express such thoughts, my mother answered for me.

Mother: Let's go. Take your lens and go.

What. The. Fuck. Ten minutes later we were at Perth Underground and I felt like a bitchy teenager on a TV show. How could she?! I couldn't - I wouldn't - embarrass myself in front of With Confidence. They probably didn't give a flying fuck, but that wasn't the point. A 35mm. How pathetic. So we had a bit of an argument ourselves. Another ten minutes later, we were back at Camera House. Dude had left and Supposed Manager stood behind the counter, in the same place we left him. Me: We'll take the lens. Supposed Manager: *Sighs.* Alright. But first he had to recheck the state of the lens I was returning. I truly couldn't catch a break, could I? He took some puffy pump thing that sighed almost as much as he did, attempting to remove the dust. I was beginning to think that he was seeing things, that there wasn't actual dust, that he was just tripping on acid. If so, I'd love to get in touch with his dealer. (Side note: JB HI-FI don't employ such shady characters. If you want a safe shopping environment - along with a greater range of products and a sausage sizzle on Saturdays - visit JB.) (#StillNotSpons'd. #StillWishItWas.)  Supposed Manager continued on, wasting everyone's time and shortening my upcoming visit to Grill'd.  Supposed Manager: You know, this is in a horrible condition. *Sighs.* My face: Go on, make one more complaint. I fucking dare you. Supposed Manager continued.  Supposed Manager: You should be glad we're allowing this return.  Me to myself: You should be glad I haven't punched you in the face yet... Perhaps their policy wasn't illegal, but I'm damn sure their customer service was. I'm still struggling to comprehend how they even produced any profit with such arrogant salespeople. Okay, allow me to rephrase: Dude was fair enough. I've got nothing against him. But Supposed Manager? Oh, boy... Who the hell even employed this guy? All he did was sigh, be cocky, and refuse to communicate in an orderly fashion; y'know, treating customers as equal humans and whatnot? JB HI-FI has better standards. And prices. He soon cut the crap and proceeded with the payment. But scanning a credit card is a difficult job. It takes true talent to be able to complete such a complex task, and unfortunately Supposed Manager didn't obtain it. It took him ages - and I mean freaken millenniums - to swipe that thing and have me enter the pin. Ages. And finally, he printed the receipt and gave us the new lens. (Which, by the way, was an ex-demo. Freaken pathetic.) But he managed to misspell my name. Sarah Bjeasdfghjkl? It's Sara Bjelanović (emphasis on the ć), thank you kindly. JB HI-FI never make these mistakes. Ever. At long last, we headed back to Leederville to get some (late) lunch at Grill'd. Hey, speaking of Grill'd, I wouldn't mind a vegan sponsorship from them... But food reviews later. I've wasted enough of your time already. My mother was still pissed off. I don't really blame her. At least we had an incredible show coming up. Two nights in a row - how awesome is that?! Before we knew it, we were at HQ, staring at a sea of coloured hair and one hell of a queue. It was roughly half an hour before doors so we took a seat at a picnic table. That razor blade was still there, and so were the skateboarding kids. They probably lived at the venue.  It was going to be a packed night, and for a socially awkward weirdo whose personal space is a top priority, I knew I was about to suffer. (Though in all honesty, there is no such thing as personal space at a concert. You all kind of merge and become one large mass of humanity in a pit.) We got in, set up, and before most people were even admitted, Available at the Counter began their set.  Shooting was fun. Way too fun. This new 50mm was amazing! It was just the right length for HQ; not too close so you didn't have too far back, and not too far that you had to stand in front of everyone. And with an f-stop of 1.4? I was in photographical heaven. The only thing that could've made it better was if it was from JB HI-FI; they'd give you that true satisfaction. If you've bought gear from them, you'll know what I'm talking about. AATC's set was refreshing. There's nothing better than a local act who play like an international sensation. It was a pleasure to shoot them, and all members interacted with the camera; funny faces, staring long and hard at the lens, that sort of thing that makes photographers all content and satisfied with their life decisions. During the intermission, I made a mental note of everyone who was present. Surely I can't be the only one who does this? Regardless, there were the general crowd of scene/emo/whatever-the-hecks that you see at every event, and then there were the photographers; the amazing Talia Ferguson (who wasn't shooting this show but covered With Con at the Boston the previous night), the incredible Leon Martin (who you should definitely check out because holy fUCK he knows how to shoot), and some other person who I don't know, but they seemed super cool and I'd love to meet them. I didn't speak to any of them, of course, because, as I previously mentioned, I'm a socially awkward weirdo. I did catch up with Talia after the show though.  And then Seaway came on.   ​I'm a Seaway fan. Not crazily into them, but I enjoy their content enough to want to purchase their fancy vinyl... at JB HI-FI. (Actually, the local record stores are also wonderful. High Fidelity, Rhubarb Records, Dada, Noise Pollution, 78, Mill's, Junction, the list could go on forever. They all have extensive ranges and great staff. If any of them are interested in sponsoring an indie blog that's about to start posting record reviews, contact me...) (I'm not even apologising anymore.)​​ The band was extremely inclusive in regards to the crowd. They made an active effort to keep everyone jumping around and enthusiastic, and I even managed to get some shots from the stage. Oh, by the way: do bands hate it when a photographer is onstage? Is it annoying? Do you want to throw a brick at my face? 'Cause I'm only trying to get a few good images, so I don't know.  ​​ Intermission. Now, my mother does this thing were she asks me to show her a photo of every band member so she can spot them throughout the night. At this point, she thought she saw the drummer of Seaway chillin' around at the back of the venue, and convinced me to go talk to him. Personally, I suck at recognising people's faces. It takes me ages to figure out that that's my friend waving from across the room, or who the person next to me is. It's fair to say that my short-term memory sucks, and my long-term visual memory isn't a great deal better.  So I spoke to him. Me: Hey, are you that guy from Seaway...? Him: *Laughing* no... Me: Oh, shit, haha.  Him: *Laughs* sorry. Me: No, no, I'm sorry, my... "friend"... thought you were the dude and I'm horrible with faces. And names. And people in general... Him: *Still laughing* that's all right, haha. And so I awkwardly backed away and found a corner to cry in.  The lights dimmed. The stage darkened. The teenage girls screamed so loudly that my earplugs passed out like Miss Fitter in that science class. With Confidence went onstage, and fucking hell, did they deliver.  ​​ From their dexterous playing to Jayden's amazing voice, Luke's commentary and Ini's innocent existence, the band's set was one to remember. Ironically, I can't remember most of it because I spent an equal amount of time fangirling over my new lens. But from what I can recount, they did an exceptional job and were worth every cent spent on tickets.  ​​ At one point during their acoustic session, I managed to sneak back onstage and hide (not really) behind some amps. I was semi-tangled in cables, but nothing fell over so I suppose it was all good. Ini interacted with the camera, that was awesome. The rest of the band soon rejoined Jay and Ini onstage, and Luke even smiled at me, which made my existence worthwhile. He did so again later on, so you can imagine how high on fangirl feels I was.  ​​ And then they left. The crowd cheered for an encore as I remained stuck on that stage. The fans below were refusing to move, afraid of losing their precious front row spots, and it was agonising. There were around one hundred and fifty or so people there, staring eagerly at the stage, and all that was on it was a poor excuse for a human being. (I'm joking, I was fucking fabulous. Y'know who else is fabulous? JB HI-FI. Grill'd. Local record stores.) ​​   I managed to get down and spent the encore shooting from the pit. It was a marvellous concert, and before everyone was fully aware of what was happening, we were lining up to meet the band.  ​​ I dislike revealing entire conversations, especially if they're with band members or otherwise important humans in my life. As you may've realised, Supposed Manager is not an important person in my life. I just feel as though it's a personal thing for everyone. But here's a recap of what went down: Me: Hugs? Handshakes? I'm too awkward for this. Luke: *Laughs* saaame. Luke: I love your jacket! (He was referring to my patchy denim one.) Band: Thanks for photographing our set! Me: asdfghjkl how does one English properlyfghjkl Me: *Explaining to one of their crew members/managers/some cool dude who was there, how to use my camera.* Cool Dude: *Still takes a rather blurry photo.*

And then we were back at Grill'd. I dreaded the upcoming editing.  MUSIC SUMMARY:

Available at the Counter: energetic as fuck/5

Seaway: intense crowd involvement and amazingness/5

With Confidence: fangirling and falling to the ground like Miss Fitter/5

PHOTOGRAPHICAL SUMMARY:

Lenses: I went through hell for these babies/5

Camera: still not allowed to complain/5

Lighting: the reds destroy my soul/5

Editing: not even Lightroom could save some images/5

My sanity: what's a sanity/5 So that was that. Up next: Homebrand's "Shelf" launch show. Until that's up, let's all go send emails to JB HI-FI, Grill'd, local record stores, and Nikon, asking for sponsorships. Send them this link. Let's see how long this goes on for before they get a restraining order against me! Go give these bands a listen: Available at the Counter Seaway With Confidence Live long and headbang,

xx- Skyler Slate

[news-mashable-yahoopartner-blog]

If you prefer the Instagram version of yourself, read this book

My Instagram Story persona could not be further from the real me. 

She's chill, constantly smiling and laughing, and always living her best life in some far-flung place that looks as if it were built with the 'gram in mind. To be quite honest with you, I sometimes prefer her to my IRL self. 

Scratch the highly-curated veneer of the 2-dimensional version of the life I purport to lead, and you'll see someone struggling daily with severe anxiety and low self-esteem.

This gaping chasm of difference between these two identities became a source of anxiety for me this summer. "Will people be disappointed when they see I'm not as fun as my Instagram self?" I worried as I returned from a summer holiday in France, which I'd documented on my Story.  

SEE ALSO: How a vacation and a digital detox app helped cure my iPhone addiction

I knew my Instagram Story wasn't telling the full story. And, I'll wager yours doesn't either.

A new book by journalist and influencer Katherine Ormerod explores these very feelings that the social media generation experience every single day — and, crucially, the impact social media has on our wellbeing. 

Its title — Why Social Media Is Ruining Your Life — might sound a little scaremongering, but Ormerod's well-researched book is packed full of wisdom that will not only make you feel less alone in your worries, it offers advice and tips to help you armour up against the all-consuming force that is social media. Given that one in three young women feel a pressure to portray their lives as "perfect" on social media, according to recent research by Girl Guiding, this book couldn't be more needed. 

Ormerod is no stranger to the feeling that her Instagram persona doesn't measure up to the reality of her everyday existence. A journalist and social media influencer with 46K Instagram followers, Ormerod tells Mashable she started to feel "quite complicit in a lot of the messages" that social media can disseminate. But, one moment made her "sit back and take a moment," she says. 

"I was on holiday in Tulum, which is obviously the Instagram destination, with a bunch of other amazingly successful hard-working women," says Ormerod. 

"None of us had come from loads of money, we'd all made our own businesses, and worked really hard." She says that while they were all having a "lovely time" they were also "fielding calls from the office" and managing a variety of things that come hand in hand with running your own business. 

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Tonight’s first instalment of realz captions comes in the form of this monochrome summer shot. People often ask me who takes my Instagram pictures and more often than not it’s my boyfriend. Everyone laughs about the ‘Instagram husband,’ but for me it’s actually a thing and over the years has caused more than its fair share of rows. The cataclysmic argument which followed this shot was focused on the fact that I wanted to take a picture when he was hungover and not in the mood - which really is fair enough. Without Hade snapping me on his iPhone pretty much everywhere we go, there would be no pictures on this account and I’m unendingly grateful for his patience. But that doesn’t mean we don’t sometimes have flare ups and a worrying amount of time it’s because of pictures for Instagram. So while it may seem that this account is all me, there are actually two of us behind it, generally getting on but sometimes arguing about how he’s managed to make me look like I’ve got 17 chins #whysocialmediaisruiningyourlife

A post shared by Ｋａｔｈｅｒｉｎｅ Ｏｒｍｅｒｏｄ (@katherine_ormerod) on Sep 11, 2018 at 11:24am PDT

But, the way the trip was presented on social media couldn't have been further from the hustle and grind that went on behind the scenes. "The pictures we ended up posting from that trip were sunset views, five star hotel rooms, designer bikinis, and there was a moment where I sat back on my sun lounger thinking: what am I projecting here?"

She says the story told on Instagram didn't accurately represent "what success is really all about" — or the hard graft that not only leads up, but runs concurrent to success. "I truly feel that social media is only representing the rewards without showing the graft that goes into getting to that place," says Ormerod. 

She decided to set up a website called Work Work Work and she began interviewing friends and fellow journalists and influencers about the "less photogenic sides of their lives." These conversations formed the basis of the idea for the book. 

"We discussed mental health issues, eating issues, miscarriages — all the universal issues women go through no matter how ritzy your life might look on social media," says Ormerod. "We've all got parents, we've all got health issues. However privileged you are, you aren't insulated from tragedy. It's part and parcel of life and no one's life is as perfect as it looks." For those of us who've posted glamorous-looking selfies during some of the most difficult moments of our lives, Ormerod's words ring very true. 

Ormerod says that while being an influencer might look like you're leading the most lavish, luxurious life imaginable, the reality is anything but. "I come from a really modest background, but it looks like I'm really rich on social media," she says. Armed with the knowledge of just how much it took to get to this point in her career (doing several low paid jobs in order to be able to work for free for two years on a fashion magazine) Ormerod is under no illusion about the 'glamour' that comes with life as an influencer. 

But, that's not to say she's immune from social media's influence on how she sees herself. 

 "I'm just coming up to 35, I thought by this time I'd be married, I'd be in a nice family home, I'd be really secure financially," she says. "Instead, I have a baby and I run my own business but a lot of those tick-boxes have remained unticked, or have veered terribly off path." 

Ormerod puts this down to "benchmark anxiety." "You think when you look on social media that everyone has hit these standards that you have been socially conditioned to think you're meant to have hit by a certain amount of time," she says. One thing that has helped her counter these feelings is the realisation that "it's all bullshit." Once you realise this, she says, "the edge of social media comparison does wear away." 

There are two sides to the story and many of us — myself included — are only sharing one side with our followers. But, Ormerod wants to change that. 

"Obviously I do put pretty pictures up online because I love fashion and shoes and beauty and I'm not ashamed of that — that's part of who I am. But, I do really believe it's important to show both sides," she says. As part of her book launch, she's started a digital campaign encouraging people to tell the real story behind their supposedly perfect pictures.

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I’ve shared the story behind this fashion week in a few places, but in short, my husband had just left me, I’d found out that thousands of pounds were no longer in my bank account and I was struggling to get my landlord to let me out of my lease. As an addition to this, as a total rebound I’d also had a fling with an American guy who had persuaded me to come early to New York before fashion week to see him. On a crazy whim I decided to go and booked the hotel room - which he said he would pay for - on my credit card. I had so much anticipation, had decided to use the money I did have left to get a wax and left feeling like I was about to start the next stage of my romantic life. But then I arrived and he stopped answering my messages. Finally at midnight I got a text saying he couldn’t actually make it as had to go to a hockey match. A HOCKEY MATCH. I never heard from him again and all I was left with was my Brazilian wax and the hotel room bill. Then I had to do fashion week having not only just been left by my husband, but also the rebound guy. It was BRUTAL. But this was the picture I posted. #whysocialmediaisruiningyourlife

A post shared by Ｋａｔｈｅｒｉｎｅ Ｏｒｍｅｒｏｄ (@katherine_ormerod) on Sep 11, 2018 at 11:24am PDT

She's reposting old photos and sharing the no-holds-barred story behind those images. "My husband had just left me, I’d found out that thousands of pounds were no longer in my bank account and I was struggling to get my landlord to let me out of my lease," reads one of the captions to Ormerod's reposted 'gram. She then details that not only had her husband just left her, but she'd flown to New York to spend time with a "rebound guy" who promptly stopped replying to her texts the minute she arrived. "I never heard from him again and all I was left with was my Brazilian wax and the hotel room bill," she wrote. 

"There's a picture of me at Glastonbury saying 'yeah, everyone loves going to Glastonbury but I fucking hate festivals and I was just there for the content,'" Ormerod tells me. "I came home after one night but I didn't put that on Instagram." 

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Here’s another picture of me from that year - this time at Glastonbury. When you look at social media everyone seems to be on endless once in a lifetime experiences and constantly having fun. But sometimes living for content - or going places and doing things just so you have something to talk about/ appear to be having an interesting life can mean you waste a lot of your time doing things you don’t much enjoy. I fucking hate festivals. There is nothing casual about me so it takes all my strength to pretend Im ok with camping. I don’t particularly like the countryside, hate being around people doing drugs and never know any of the bands or the words to the songs. I ended up leaving Glasto after one night sodden, drenched and totally, totally over it. But I didn’t write that on instagram #whysocialmediaisruiningyourlife

A post shared by Ｋａｔｈｅｒｉｎｅ Ｏｒｍｅｒｏｄ (@katherine_ormerod) on Sep 10, 2018 at 12:04pm PDT

Based on the responses she's been getting, Ormerod feels that this double-sided stories are something that people are "dying to see." "It's such a relief in the unbearable pressure cooker of perfection and social comparison to hear that actually it is a fantasy," she says. 

Of course, telling yourself that it's all "bullshit" is far easier said than done. But, Ormerod's book identifies on a granular level the myriad thoughts and feelings one experiences when social media begins to skew our perceptions of ourselves. 

"How close is your online identity to your offline identity? Are you merely tinkering with the digital version of your life, or is it pure fiction? Take a long, calm look at what you are curating online and be honest with yourself," reads the book. "Does it feel like hard work to keep up the pretence?" 

For many of us, the answer to that last question is a resounding yes. But, rather than giving us a rap on the wrist, or telling us to delete all our apps, or labelling us self-obsessed narcissists (as many headlines do), this book offers a realistic step-by-step approach to taking back control over social media's place in our lives. 

"I think there's nothing wrong with social media, there's nothing wrong with technology," says Ormerod. "But the way we're using it and our perspective on it is something we need to reframe and that's really what this book is about."

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This was a very popular picture - taken at my mum’s in France. But what I wasn’t mentioning was that I was 9 weeks pregnant and PUKING MY GUTS up about 15 times a day. I’m holding my bag in front of my tummy and have got a lot of bronzer on, so masking the fact that I was in actual hell. The second picture is actually what I looked like every day for the next month and a half. Friends have asked me how I was so stylish through my pregnancy - the truth is I was mainly in oversized t-shirts with my head in the loo, but that look, strangely, did not make it on to social media #whysocialmediaisruiningyourlife

A post shared by Ｋａｔｈｅｒｉｎｅ Ｏｒｍｅｒｏｄ (@katherine_ormerod) on Sep 11, 2018 at 11:24am PDT

Reading that I'm not alone in feeling like my Instagram persona is like having a prettier, happier, more successful twin sister is reassuring. Having the tools to do something about that feeling? Even better. 

Why Social Media is Ruining Your Life is available from Sept. 20 for £12.99. 

WATCH: Chrissy Teigen made a transfixing Instagram story about a snail's journey to safety

[tune-collective]

Thundercat's Style Is As Funky and Out There As His Music: Exclusive

Thundercat's Style Is As Funky and Out There As His Music: Exclusive

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  About 30 minutes into his set at Chicago’s Concord Music Hall, Stephen “Thundercat” Bruner drops both hands from the guitar resting on his chest as his keyboardist and drummer, too, take breaks from their early evening concert. He looks up at the adoring audience who sold out the venue on a frigid Saturday night in the windy city and asks, “You guys feeling good?” Screams, cheers, and applause confirm that they are, in fact, quite well. “That’s tight,” he says. The Los Angeles native is a day removed from releasing his thoughtful, star-studded (Pharrell Williams, Kenny Loggins, Kendrick Lamar) third full-length studio set, Drunk. 

Then he locks back into his music—a smooth, velvet-textured amalgam of jazz, soul, Hip-Hop, and funk partnered with lyrical content fit for both talking head social-political programs and inner-city barbershop dialogue. Each song he performs seemingly gets its own 30-second improvisational period before returning back to the realm of familiarity, stirring the crowd into a frenzy. As he’s bathed in green and blue spotlights, Drunk’s “Them Changes” earns the loudest cheers. He also sprinkles bits of Kendrick Lamar’s “Complexion” and “These Walls,” which he assisted in producing for the rapper’s critically acclaimed To Pimp a Butterfly album. 

In purple camouflage sweatpants, a black tee under a red lumberjack shirt, Thundercat, 32, was having a chill day in comparison to some of the louder pieces he’s been photographed wearing in the past. Wolf hats with ponchos. Blazers that recall Michael Jackson’s vintage regal vibes. Outfits so heavily stylized and exaggerated that they’d make sense on the characters of the ‘80s cartoon heroes he named himself after. He’s rocked it all. Prior to this show, the eccentric artist sat down with Billboard backstage to talk about what inspired Drunk, why Lamar’s verse on this album is special and his generally flamboyant style. 

What journey are you taking this listener on with Drunk? 

I’m observing and reporting what my experience as a musician has been ’til now. It’s such a weird thing to be a musician nowadays. If you’re not in a rock band, music doesn’t exist for a musician. You’re just a “session” musician. Nobody tells you that. So you wind up figuring it out. Somewhere between those lines, there’s this existence where you end up drinking. That goes for everyone that I’ve worked with. It’s part of the business. It’s something to talk about. It’s me telling a story from that perspective. 

I try not to think too hard about music. I like to see where it goes. I try not to give it a direction. I figure out what it is as it’s forming. I don’t have any goal in mind other than to make the best music I can. I always start with the bass [guitar]. Things get added, but it always starts with the bass. 

“Walk On By” has Hall & Oates nods to it musically. Would you say they’ve influenced you? 

Hall & Oates is everything. Fuck everything else. [Laughs] If it’s not Hall & Oates, it’s nothing. They’re a titan duo of songwriting. Being able to convey ideas through song, I had to learn that from different places. The best thing is knowing that there’s somebody out there who doesn’t know who they are, just so you can be like, “Sit your ass down and let me play you this.”  It’s timeless. They’re a major influence on my songwriting. As a bass player, that’s what comes easy to me—the bass playing. The songwriting, I didn’t fully understand what it meant. 

How’d you get comfortable as a vocalist? You essentially didn’t become an active singer until your late 20s. 

I’m looking at people like Beyonce and Trey Songz and Jamie Foxx—people that sing like they’ve got chicken all in their throat. I didn’t know where I was supposed to make sense. I would feel around it a bit. I would sing on other people’s albums, their backgrounds. And I’d ask, “Was it cool?” By the time we got to [sophomore album] Apocalypse, it was a weird moment for me. I was like, “I have to sing?” I had references and different things that made me feel comfortable, like, “I know I can do it.” But I didn’t know to what extent I could. I had to deal with people laughing at me. I had to deal with my friends telling me, “You can’t sing.” 

Really? 

Of course. I’m not going to name any names, but that was the honest criticism. And I could take it. But it wasn’t going to stop me. There was one time when I was in the studio and I’m recording vocals for Kendrick Lamar’s To Pimp a Butterfly track, “These Walls”, and a few of my friends had never seen me sing before. I literally had to kick everyone out of the room, because it was weird. Someone told me I had to put Auto-Tune on my voice and I told them, “I am not that guy.” I had to find my comfort zone. Kendrick was comfortable. I usually just sing at home by myself with my bass. It was a process of having to open up. 

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You have a great working relationship with Kendrick and he’s on “Walk on By.” What’s your favorite part of his verse? 

There’s one line where he says, “Immature and retarded is what you call me.” It was one of the things where when he said that, you felt that you understood the inner-workings of what we feel a lot of the time. You have these internal moments where you’re trying to figure it out. And Kendrick always has those moments in his verses where he’s speaking to a guy like me.

On his Unmastered, Untitled album, there’s a line where he asks, “Why you wanna see a good man with a broken heart?” It hit me like a ton of bricks. I’m thinking, “Yeah, why would that be your goal?” I love his ability to connect with that deeper part through music. And when he laid his verse to “Walk on By,” it immediately became this portrait. I was in shock and awe that he could see it. 

On “The Turn Down,” you sing about how trashed our world has become in different ways. There’s even a Captain Planet line.

That’s really how I feel. “What’s going on? Why can’t we all just see each other?” There’s a lot of amplified bullshit. Infinite, magnified bullshit. And it’s piling up. “Being Black” is always a thing. Even moving the Black thing to the side, two white people can’t even figure this world out. Nobody wants to make sense of the other. Nobody loves each other. Nobody really cares. Is that how this is supposed to happen?

“Show You The Way” features Michael McDonald and Kenny Loggins. Today, people still can still easily hear Michael’s husky soul voice and know it’s weight. But folks sleep on Kenny’s catalog of classics. Why was it important to have him on it? 

Kenny Loggins pours his heart and soul into the music he makes. He’ll take you with him through everything he’s going through, which is not easy. People don’t survive shit like that. We see it all the time. Like a Janis Joplin. Kenny’s still here. My favorite song of his is “Heart to Heart” [featuring and co-written by Michael McDonald]. You can tell he’s talking to someone. It’s too intimate. He takes you to where he’s at. Along with that, the music and the vocals are just jamming. I learned that from Kenny, along with people like Leon Ware. Good lord. 

Leon died yesterday and I know that he was someone you knew and worked with. Drunk’s “Tokyo” is inspired by you touring with him in Japan, right? 

It’s making me sad just thinking about it. You have these moments where you play in somebody’s band and the person leading is smart enough to show you the bigger picture. Leon Ware took me under his wing, man. He invited me into his life. I was a teenager and he took me to Japan for the first time. It was surreal. It was like playing with Marvin Gaye. I got a chance to see how he created and how his music affected who he made it for. I got a chance to play “I Want You” with Leon. I was 17 and crying on stage.

Up until his death, which is when my album came out, all I could ever talk about was that moment. I can’t even remember what happened yesterday. But I remember every day in Japan with Leon. It was magical. I talked to his son today. I had to tell his family that “I love you guys.” I wish I could have said something to him before he passed. It’s just the way of the world. “Tokyo,” as funny as it seems, was about that experience. It was bigger than life.

To take a turn, your style is super dynamic and out there. Let me show you what comes up when you search Goggle for “Thundercat” images… What would you say about this guy’s style if you weren’t him? 

[Laughs] I would think that he’s just wild as hell. Good god!

  A post shared by @thundercat_music on Dec 30, 2015 at 9:05am PST

  Is there any strategy to you getting dressed for a regular day or for stage? 

A lot of the time I’m in the moment with stuff. Sometimes to a fault. I’ll look at superheroes and comics and stuff and wonder, “why wouldn’t you dress like that if you could?” With fashion, I look at it as a way to express that. I don’t really pull any punches on it; otherwise you get caught up in this nexus of dressing like everyone else. Or finding something that’s a little above the standard. But to dress the way I’m really thinking? I do that. 

What are the cartoons you admire for their quality and style-wise? 

I’ve got some high standards when it comes to cartoons, man. There’s always Fist of the North Star. That’s one of my favorite all time movies. Quiet as it’s kept, that was the inspiration behind To Pimp a Butterfly from my perspective. And [my work on Flying Lotus’] You’re Dead! And [2015 EP] The Beyond / Where the Giants Roam. I’ve been watching that since I was a child religiously. I can quote the movie verbatim as it’s happening. It’s that amazing. 

Style-wise, it’s also amazing. I’d watch him and say to myself, “I want to be that guy!” There’s cross-play and character-based dressing up. And there’s a place between higher end fashion and what designers don’t want to admit they pulled inspiration from. You’ll see some shit come out from Gucci and be like, “Man, that’s straight off of Neon Genesis Evangelion.” And I know that. I’m always looking for that connection. I try to find my place in those pieces and try bring that vibe with me onstage. There have been times where I’ll freak my friends out because we’ll go to the store and I’ll go for the weird thing on display and they’ll be like, “You’re not going to do it, are you?” And I’ll be like, “You shouldn’t be here with me.” 

Where do you shop? 

A lot of my stuff is handmade. Or it’ll come from a boutique and be a one of four pieces.

What’s the oddest thing you’ve worn? 

The Native American garb is a very touchy subject and why musicians think they can appropriate culture. So something definitely my Native American headdress. I’m actually part Comanche. That’s in my blood. My family is from Detroit, Michigan and they were there. So just a slight bit off of my generations of Black, there are actually Native Americans. My great grandmother was named Prudence. She had all white hair. I have a picture of her next to her shotgun. Her husband was exiled for murder. He murdered someone because the man raped a woman. He committed an honor killing and was exiled for it. He was a Comanche. That’s why they couldn’t charge him the way they would charge a regular criminal. I never tell people, “I’m part Comanche!” 

  A post shared by @thundercat_music on Dec 30, 2015 at 8:59am PST

  But that would be the most controversial thing I’ve worn; a Native American headdress. Nobody ever tripped off of me wearing the wolf. But the chief headdress, that’s a thing where people go, “Who do you think you are?” And I try to respect that. Cultural appropriation is corny. Imitation is the biggest form of flattery a lot of the time. People forget that even with the dark past things come from, if it translates into good, you’ve got to be happy for that. Sometimes the timing is too soon.

Do you ever wear clothing to speak about the world’s issues—politics or humanity?

Yeah, man! I’m not very political. It’s nice to make a statement with something like a “Not My President” tee or something like that. It’s a way to identify with other people. But I’ve mostly been identifying with the earth through color tones. The things that you see in the world from that point. I look at animals and think, “Wow, that’s not fair! I just have one color and a bunch of moles.” And you see butterflies or cats and you’re like, “What the hell?” I’m identifying with them.  

This article originally appeared on: Billboard

http://tunecollective.com/2017/03/01/thundercats-style-is-as-funky-and-out-there-as-his-music-exclusive/

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CONFIRMED: Trump a Lying Liar Who Lies

My wife Kate has a more expansive view of reality than I do. For the most part, I believe that reality is consistent with the world as described by science (the exception being monsters, which are totally real, so shut up). Kate on the other hand believes in spirits and ghosts and other things that my so-called "science" has yet to find "evidence" for. She believes in astrology and palm reading and card reading and other activities for channeling the spirit world. Kate would often say it just seems intuitive to her that there's a world beyond what we can perceive, and that some people are just more sensitive and can pick up on it, and that of course the positions of the planets when you were born influences your life. One time I challenged her, with all the geek-laden certitude I could muster, saying "Yeah, well what about Pluto??!!!" See, because Pluto used to be a planet, but then it got demoted and isn't a planet anymore, so if Pluto isn't a planet, it shouldn't influence astrology, but if it does, then why not include Charon and Orcus? And with that, the whole logical edifice supporting the system of astrology crumbles down upon its very foundations. Oh, for snap! But, as I soon learned, if one believes in astrology, logical inconsistency is not a deal-breaker. So Kate and I agree to disagree on the existence of the spirit world, and I am a supportive husband every time Kate comes home from a reading and wants me to listen to the recording (punctuated by Kate repeatedly stopping the tape exclaiming "How could she know that???"). So it was Mother's Day 2013, and I got out of bed and was coming downstairs around 1:30 pm (because that's how we party), to find Kate looking at a Rose-Breasted Grosbeak in the feeder by the window - not the rarest bird in the world for these parts, but worth a look. It was sitting in the feeder chirping at Kate long enough for me to run upstairs, get my camera, and return to photograph it from every conceivable angle. The Rose-Breasted Grosbeak is a very special bird for Kate because her grandfather Earl, who was an astonishing wood carver, carved a Rose-Breasted Grosbeak for her as a present (with an inscription that she was his favorite grandchild, making it extra special, even after she learned the birds received by her siblings had the same inscription). After it flew away, Kate said to me, "That was my grandparents coming to say hi to me." And I said "That's great, Tweety," and that was that. Or so I thought. "Do you really believe that was my grandparents, or are you just saying that?" It was one of those questions I knew needed to answer carefully, kind of like "Do these pants make my butt look flat?" And in the few moments I had to consider my response, I realized there were a number of important, unanswered questions. For instance: How did the grandparents get into the bird? Does each grandparent get their own bird or can they share a bird? Whose grandparents are the rest of the birds and why are they in our yard? And, perhaps most alarmingly, what about the squirrels??!!! It was all very confusing. But again, I am nothing if not a supportive husband, so I said, "Yes, I really believe that was your grandparents visiting in bird form." "But do you REALLY???" Time to come clean. "No, but it's easier for me to think you're joking than to think you believe something that's not true." For a democracy to function effectively, we need to have a basic set of facts we all agree on (1+1 = 2, sun rises in the morning, Trump has tiny nano-hands). That said, we can accept a certain amount of cognitive dissonance in areas where no one gets harmed (religion, UFOs, bird-relative visitations). While Kate's belief in her grandparents visiting in bird form may strain credulity, it does her no harm to hold the belief, and it does me no harm to be married to a grandparent-bird truther. So I've learned to be a good husband and accept this belief as part of Kate's quirky charm and not dwell on it. What I cannot accept, however, and have no choice but to dwell on, is the twilight zone of "What is truth?" bullshit coming out of the White House. And while Kate's belief in spirit-inhabited birds may do no harm, a President can do a lot of damage when the demonstrably false things he believes are used as the basis for national policy. Tuesday's press briefing was a sad exercise in the cognitive dissonance being pawned off as the new normal. When Trump's press secretary Sean Spicer was asked whether Trump actually believes that 3-5 million "illegals" voting cost him the popular vote, as Trump claimed to members of Congress (in a story involving golfer Bernhard Langer that is getting weirder by the moment), he responded that yes, that is Trump's belief. What followed was Orwellian - Press: But that's not true. SS: It is what the president believes. Press: Based on what? SS: Based on information he's seen. Press: What information? SS: Information that has crossed his desk. P: Can you share that information? SS: It is what the president believes. P: Is that what you believe? SS: What I believe is irrelevant. P: But if the president believes there was unprecedented (unpresidented?) voter fraud, why is he not ordering an investigation. SS: Maybe we will. P: Based on what. SS: What the president believes. And sure enough, on Wednesday, Trump tweeted that there will be a major investigation (likely at a cost of billions of dollars) to investigate his delusion of massive voter fraud that cost him what we all agree is the utterly irrelevant popular vote. Putting aside the question of whether this is actually what Trump believes, and not an elaborate ruse to protect Trump's wounded, grievance-laden paranoia about crowd/hand/penis/voter-fraud size, you might be asking: what does it matter what Trump believes about voter fraud? The election is over, he won, no harm no foul. But is it really no harm? Because now we see the darker side of basing policy around Trump's febrile delusions. On Wednesday, Trump announced that he believes torture works. His advisors at the highest levels are telling him that it works. Absolutely. 100%. Even though it doesn't. But Trump believes it, and we've given him the power to wield the extraordinary might of the US military and the extraordinary wealth of the US government at his discretion to act on his beliefs. So he's open to bringing back the torture, open to restarting the black sites, open to full-on putting the band back together for a "fuck the world" reunion tour. And America First, so fuck international law and fuck the Geneva conventions and fuck everyone else who thinks they can tell us what to do. And how many lives will be lost in the process. When someone believes something that's not true, that person is delusional. When someone repeatedly says something that's not true, after being presented with evidence to the contrary, that person is a liar. When someone repeatedly lies without remorse, that person is a sociopath. We need to call it what it is. And if the answer to Trump's dissembling is "that's what he believes," the follow-up question needs to be, "So are you saying the president is delusional, or that he's a liar?," because really those are the only two options. A lot of us have friends who said they were reluctant supporters of Trump. You know, the ones who said they weren't that excited about the racism and the sexism and the misogyny and the volatility and the unhinged-ness, but either really hated Hillary or thought it would be a good idea to shake things up in Washington, drain the swamp, see what happens; the ones who liked the way Trump made them feel, but didn't think he would actually do all the crazy shit he was saying. Well, now we're seeing what happens, now we're seeing the unhinged behavior that shows no sign of abating, and now we're beginning to see the havoc being wrought by a president and administration with a limited grasp on reality. And if those Trump supporters were being honest about their reasons for supporting Trump, this could be an opening to start engaging them. I've found a good ice-breaker to be: "I know you voted for Trump, but you can't be happy about the lying, right?"... It's a start. Together we win.

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