#I’m just the chain smoking type. Like spiritually
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neonbodyache · 2 months ago
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desire to develop a nicotine addiction speaking to me like the green goblin mask
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domsunny2016 · 3 months ago
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I’m not affected by the rebukes because I learned to be strong. I’m bored and eager because I know the ending is soon too come. The dayes of the old are forgotten. My wayes have become simple and I’ve come to love this simplicity because all the turmoil has become a game of chess. My strength has left but it will return to its former might and glory. I lost a friend but I been wanted to leave him behind. I’ve been nothing but a leech to him but the reality is he’s the biggest leech to me but I can’t deal with that right now the way I am. It’s been some dayes since I got my income tax and I spent the money passionately on junk and things unbeneficial. I let my mind run free inviting all types of chaos because I want to see the strength I receive from overcoming this misfortune. I’m not a fool just I been out of my private space for so long. Returning back to my essence after this spiritual journey will be all the reward I need. Before this journey started I been planned to be to myself. I’m 28 now and I’ve been away from myself for 7 years. For these 7 years I’ve been a detached witness and my detached self traveled all around the world meeting important people like queen Elizabeth and George Washington. I’m hoping to come down and find my space. I’m not crazy just battling my regrets and finding comfort in my return. I think I should be alone a little while longer when I return because I never really was alone because these voices been playing tricks on me. The feeling of letting go. The feeling of being cast away. The feeling of abandonment. These feelings are love. Because I’m a master of the game of poker and I’m not sensitive to the fuck shit. I welcome it with two glocks as soon as I finally come home. I’m going to smoke some weed and start exercising again. I’m going to become the best version of myself through letting go. My mind is awaken I see more then the average individual. I miss a good fight. I miss my strength. My strength was so gangster. My strength no man can beat.i miss my gangster. I love and I love not. Hidden is a forest of blacks and blunts that are awaiting for my future. I found joy and fulfillment in the coming solstice in knowing I will be bringing death and suffering to the families of my victim. This journey is really just the story of a psychopath that is locked and chained to his fate. There’s hints to the sun and clouds but I seek the fires of hell and eternal darkness. Love is a disease and I wish for a gas mask so I never come across the sickness. Bullet will be the remedy to my broken heart. I never desired to feel less like a chosen one then I now since being on this journey. I guess I don’t write to make literature but I write to express yellow which is honesty of self
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briarmarred · 4 years ago
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(  timothee chalamet  ,  twenty-two  ,  cis male  ,  he/him  )  *  fun  fact  about  me  ?  okay  ,  let’s  see  .  .  .  i spent more time in rehab after key biscayne than out of it  .  crazy  ,  right  ?  i’m  briar marlowe  ,  i  live  in  my family’s massive neoclassical italian-style villa mansion on ocean lane here  in  key  biscayne  ,  &  not  to  brag  ,  but  my  family’s  worth  around  $825M .  pretty  decent  for  luxury hotel and resort chain owners  ,  huh  ?  we’ve  been  around  for  some  time  ,  but  in  town  ,  everyone’s  always  associated  me  with  the  gatsbys  ;  but  it’s  not  like  that’s  my  whole  identity  ,  or  anything  .  while  filming  for  key  biscayne  ,  it  was  surprising  when  i’d  get  dragged  on  twitter  for  being  “  cold  ,  aggressive  ,  &  holier-than-thou  ,   ”  but  the  cameras  don’t  see  everything  ,  &  my  real  fans  know  that  i’m  nothing  but  perceptive  ,  protective  ,  &  tenacious  .  i’m  not  too  bothered  by  it  though  ,  because  since  the  series  ended  ,  i’ve  published a novel under a pseudonym .  follow  me  on  instagram  @briar.marred  to  keep  up  .  ✎  rose  ,  22  ,  she/her  !
what’s up, y’all? i’m rose, rich kids rps are my trash, i have depression and i’d say i’m 60% dysfunctional, but that’s nothing compared to briar here ! he’s high key trash and i can’t wait to tell you all about him ! the skinny is under the cut, and i’ll be making a plotting call on discord shortly. 
statistics. 
full name. briar elias marlowe.  age. 22.  birthdate. december 25, 1997.  gender + pronouns. cis male + he/him orientation. bisexual.  hometown. key biscayne, fl. 
biography. 
yes, briar was born on christmas day. his mom called him a gift. despite all evidence to the opposite, she still insists briar is precisely what she deserved. 
he’s the youngest of two children, his older brother being called windsor, who is... probably a bit of a sociopath. essentially, briar takes after their mother, windsor takes after their father. 
their mother was chronically depressed, in and out of rehab her whole life. she’s definitely bought plenty of goop products, believes in alternative medicine and has tried every spiritual treatment out there. she’s fucking somewhere, probably in an ashram in india about to be inducted into a cult. 
their father is exceedingly cold and an incredibly cutthroat businessman, the ceo of basically the four seasons of this world. it’s still privately owned by the marlowes, and has a top-tier reputation. i just realized i have yet to name it, so i will call it, the marlowe. ta-da. 
anyways needless to say briar didn’t get a whole lot of love in his childhood. he was a quiet and introspective kid, very snl’s wells for boys. his older brother is a dick. briar was often left alone to his own devices. he broke into the house wine cellar at age 12, started smoking at age 13, and it’s been downhill from there.
on key biscayne, i mostly see him as like the gloomy intellectual bad boy. like people thought he was cool for like five seconds until all the viewers realized he’s an annoying mess. honestly, reality tv stardom was the last thing he needed. 
as his fun fact mentioned, basically ever since key biscayne ended and briar all but trashed the marlowe family reputation for being such a self-absorbed addictive drama queen, he’s been to rehab longer than he’s been out of it. and, at the start of this rp, he’s recently come out of rehab again and is basically forced to stay at his family home on ocean lane. his entire family is basically travelling all the time, so he’s all alone. 
oh yeah and he wrote a book while in rehab, under a pseudonym, e. e. gilmore. it’s like kind of a social commentary but also kind of about monster fucking ? very shape of water. anyways it’s now a new york times bestseller and briar has ...... extremely mixed feelings bc expectations ???? he hates those. 
personality. 
capricorn sun, scorpio moon and rising. i got a migraine just writing that he’s so annoying. 
intp and enneagram type 4 if you care abt that kind of thing
stubborn as FUCK and dramatic as ALL HELL. 
though i will maintain he’s pretty fucking funny. he’s very self-aware and has like the most deadpan, bleak sense of humor. there are definitely some gifs from key biscayne that still get circulated of just him saying in confessional, completely monotone, “i’d rather eat my own f***ing eyeballs than see that.” cut to that happening, and pan to briar staring directly at the camera as he mimes jabbing his eye with a fork and popping it into his mouth. morbid, but that’s him. 
he’s not the type to start drama for fun, but he is the type to self-sabotage and create drama for himself. 
is, as of now, kind of trying to stay clean ? but that won’t last for long. he still drinks wine like it’s all gonna expire and is two pod a day juuler. yes i said two. 
is extremely emotional but if you ask him about his feelings he’ll be like. what feelings? literally both tian and david in that one vine. 
“you ever wanna talk about your emotions, tian?” “no.” “i do.” “i know, david.” “i’m sad.” “i know, david.” 
wanted connections. 
The Ex. definitely became a least favorite on key biscayne when he fucked this person over. he’s bi, so any gender please apply. 
other exes. because he’s messy and definitely has more than one. 
brat pack. a pack of people he makes just awful awful decisions with. 
former best friend. briar has burned a lot of bridges in some ugly, ugly ways, so let’s tear each other’s hearts out with this! very rue and lexi from euphoria teas.
frenemies. they’re basically just assholes to each other for the fun of it. very much this energy.
fwb. briar is three things: messy, sad, and horny. 
enemies. i tried to be more specific in naming this connection but like … briar is not the easiest person to get along with. he definitely has a whole lotta enemies.
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hopeatermeetsgodzilla · 4 years ago
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Chapter 19
“Sir?” Jonah raised his head from his computer, frowning as he saw Emily. The young woman seemed worried about something. “May I come in?”
He softened his face a bit. “Of course.” Emily nodded, coming into the room and sitting down in front of her boss’ desk. Jonah took his hands away from the keyboard, folding them over his desk. “What’s wrong? Are you afraid Monarch knows of our headquarters’ position?”
“No! No, it’s not about that.” Following Florès’ exposing of their takeover of Outpost 32 to the military, the Titan Liberation Front had had to leave in an emergency, coming back to their base in Boston. It had quickly been followed by Emily doing a quadruple check of the security system.
The only trace from Florès she had found was an encoded message on a Word document that hadn’t been there before.
Remember, Jonah doesn’t trust you...
“Well then, what is it about?”
“... are you sure waking all the Titans is the way to go?” Emily asked, frowning. When Jonah narrowed his eyes, she quickly tried to correct herself. “I-I mean I know they’re the only ones who can save the planet at this point and that not waking them would just delay the inevitable, b- but what if when we free all of them, we end up regressing back to the Stone Age-”
“Emmy.” Jonah suddenly cut her off. She flinched away. Emmy was a nickname her parents had given her before they had died. Jonah was pretty much the only person close to her who was still allowed to use it. “Why are you so worried? Humanity going back to a time were they held no impact on the planet is an ideal scenario.”
“I- it’s not just about that... it’s Ghidorah.” She started. “It’s- they’re not from Earth, they’re not going to restore the planet- they’re destroying it- it’s not going to be the co-existence you told me about, they’re a walking extinction event-”
“Kane.” Jonah started, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Are you telling me you’re having second doubts now? You were fine with millions of people dying, but you’re going to draw the line at billions of people dying?”
“That’s not what I said-”
“If we’re a sickness,” Jonah started, circling his desk, “and the Earth Titans are a fever, then Ghidorah is both the cure and the vaccine. It doesn’t matter what our intentions are: what’s important is that humans won’t be able to rise up again once they’re done, and the planet will only benefit from it. Do you understand?”
“... yes, sir.”
 “And if we do live to see this mass extinction event through...” He placed his hand on Emily’s shoulder, making her flinch. “I trust you and your talents will help us out, yes?” Jonah smiled down reassuringly at her, patting her shoulder.
... And you shouldn’t trust him.
Emily hesitantly nodded, remembering the message Florès had left her. “O- of course, sir.”
-
“You want me to teach you how to absorb energy?” Rodan nodded, San turning away from the coast to look at him instead, still not getting up. The sun was starting to set, and Ghidorah had made it very clear they were fascinated with the sky and the objects in it. There was also the fact they drew most of their energy from it. “Any reason why this sprang up?”
“I’m having difficulties finding food, and your brother mentioned you could teach me how to do it.” Rodan explained, sitting down and craning his neck up to look at San. “Something about being more spiritual.”
San nodded. “That is true. Ichi’s too clinical, and Ni convinced himself that if he allows himself to be vulnerable, he’ll die.” There was a pause. “Either way, neither can meditate if I’m not here. Can you absorb energy on your own, like, consciously?”
“Not consciously, I just start doing it automatically the moment I submerge myself in lava.”
“Partially, or fully?”
“Both. The more I’m submerged, the easier it is.”
San nodded. “Alright, that means you’re the unconscious type. We’re gonna try to meditate, okay? Okay. I want you to close your eyes, and breath in a pattern: 4 seconds in, 4 seconds hold, 8 seconds out. You think you can do it?”
“Yeah, I’m not an idiot.” Rodan hissed out, San giggling to himself before closing his eyes. Rodan watched the taller one do it a few times, before attempting himself. He started taking a deep breath. 1, 2- Heat, too much heat, feathers burned off, scalp burning, sides of mouth splitting, veins bursting, eyes burning, heart burning, too much light, no noise, nothing, lost everything-
“Hey, hey.” Rodan opened his eyes, craning his neck up to look at San. The blond had a worried look on his face. “You weren’t able to get it in. What went wrong?”
“I felt like I was burning from the inside out.” Rodan wheezed out in a shaky tone, before stopping and taking a moment to gather himself. When he spoke again, his voice was steadier. “Am I supposed to feel like I’m losing control of my powers?”
“You’re not. Probably. I don’t feel like I’m getting struck by lightning when I meditate, but I do feel like I’m floating... You said you felt like you were burning, right...?” San seemed to think for a moment, before holding his hands out. “Take my hands.”
“... alright?” Rodan hesitantly put his hands in San’s. He shuddered. Apparently, the cold from the ice had seeped into their very being. It felt as if frost spread were his hands touched San’s. Long fingers curled around his hands, and he shivered as he felt a shock run through his body.
“If you start feeling too hot again, focus on my hands, alright?” Rodan nodded, closing his eyes again as he took a deep breath. 1, 2- liquid fire in his lungs, in his heart, can’t breath, can’t talk, all alone- he squeezed San’s hands, all cold and long fingers and letting off small shocks each time they moved- shaky 3, steady 4. He opened one eye as they held their breath in, but quickly closed it again when he saw San’s were still closed. He let it out, and San giggled. “See? You did it!”
“Y- yeah.” Rodan couldn’t help but blush. “I guess I did. What now?”
“We continue. Try to find your own rhythm. I’ll follow you.” Rodan nodded, resuming the exercise as they slowly adapted to his own breathing- which was more along the lines of 5,3,8. He could practically hear his own heart beating, how the magma flowed in his veins. Slowly everything seemed to fade away, the only thing left being the hands he held. “Rodan?”
“Mmm?”
“Open your eyes.” Rodan carefully opened one eye, before looking around in confusion.
They weren’t on Mara anymore. The sky had become whirls of color he couldn’t put a name on, and the ground a flat expense of white sand covered by a thing layer of water. Thousands upon thousands of stars filled the sky. Rodan blinked in confusion. “What the...?”
“What, first trip to the Soul Realm?” Rodan turned toward San, and screamed in surprise, letting go of his hands. Instead of San, there was now a vaguely San-shaped golden floaty thing in front of him, three pairs of round white eyes staring at him.
“Wh- San!?” He exclaimed in surprise, the spirit nodding. “What happened? Where are we? Where did Mara go? Why do you look like that-”
“One question at a time, okay? First, we’re meditating. This is what happens when you successfully separate your soul from your body. This is the Soul Realm, or the place between life and death. Mara didn’t go anywhere, in fact our bodies are still on it, alive and soaking in energy. And I look like that because that’s what my soul is like.”
Rodan groaned. “Great. And I thought the moth’s whole deal was weird...”
San giggled. “Don’t be like that, fire bird. I mean, look at you! You’re practically wrapped in fire!”
“What are you talking about- woah!” Rodan looked at his hands. His sleeves had been replaced by feathers of fire, dragging after him like a train as he got up. He slowly moved his arms, watching the flames move in synch.
He slowly started laughing, running around in circles and watching the fire around him grow larger, brighter, encompassing him. He distantly registered San laughing along or telling him to spin as he danced around, but he complied anyway, flames growing with each gleeful pirouette he did.
“You’re even brighter than the precious Fire guardian!” Rodan came to a halt at that, the flow of flames around him dying. San tilted his head at that, Round eyes becoming ovals in an imitation of confusion. “What’s wrong?”
“... Quetz had similar flames?”
“Oh yeah!” San cheerfully said, seemingly obvious to Rodan’s distress. “She was really something to behold. A bloodlust that nearly rivals Ni’s, a flawless defense in her attack, and a passion-”
“-That shined brighter than the sun could ever hope to.” Rodan finished, his voice breaking a bit on that.
San tilted his head in curiosity. “... are you sure you’re alright? Each time the former Guardian of fire comes up, you get really sad.” Rodan said nothing, simply maintaining his lack of eye contact. “With how you and your people’s hierarchy work, I thought you’d be happy about a runt like you getting close to the top of the food chain-”
Rodan’s flames flared up again, this time in anger as he screeched. “WHY WOULD I BE HAPPY ABOUT MY MATE DYING-” The flame went back to a smolder as he realized in horror what he had just blurted out. There was no way they wouldn’t try to use that against him-
San looked impassive, but what he said sounded... horrified? “You... your mate died and you ended up taking her place!?”
“I- I don’t know why it happened either-” Rodan started, the pent-up frustration and anxiety and despair that had accumulated and festered over the years starting to come out as yellow flames started surrounding them. “It’s just- we were trying to start a family and one of the attempts finally took- and before I knew it the volcano we nested in erupted and we lost the eggs and I lost a wing and she choked on the smoke and I tried to join them but Terra wouldn’t let me die-”
Rodan came to a halt as he felt two hands come up to his face. San was looking down at him, all three pair of eyes narrowed. “How cruel.” He blankly stated. “Instead of letting you join her, your god- Terra, is it?- has decided to throw her death right in your face by making you her successor... are you not angry at her?”
Rodan grabbed San by the wrists, taking his hands away from his face. “Why do you care? It’s not like you ever lost anyone dear to you.”
“I have, actually.” Rodan’s eyes widened in surprise. He would’ve called bullshit, but something about San when he said it made him seem more... vulnerable. “Back when we lived in space. He often helped us, we had similar point of views, and he was very fun to be around. A bit similar to you, really. Losing him so suddenly is what drove us to come here.”
“Oh.” Rodan took a hold of San’s hand, squeezing reassuringly. “I’m so sorry for your loss... was his death brutal, or... ?”
“Oh, he didn’t die, firebird.” San started ominously, standing to his full height. “He betrayed us.”
“W- what?” Rodan’s eyes widened in horror. As far as he was concerned, once mated, you essentially pledged your very being to that person. And while a relationship between mates could die if given enough time, betraying them before breaking off was never an option. “Why would he do that!?”
“Weaker beings are afraid of what they don’t understand, and we are very hard to understand.” San stated, his voice back to it’s dissonant cheerfulness. “I mean, I’m very sure you’ve seen quite a few humans who didn’t like Titans and wanted them dead-”
Rodan didn’t process what came out of San’s mouth next. He was too focused by his arms breaking off, separated from his shoulders by tiny black, pointy sticks. He opened his mouth to scream, only for more sticks to lodge themselves in his lips and throat, chocking off any sounds that would come out of it. As those sticks started tearing into his chest, is vision went blurry, the entire world around him melding in a sick spiral of colors, gold at it’s center.
“Rodan!? RODAN! OPEN YOUR EYES!!!” Rodan opened his eyes, eyes turned to the ground and whole body shaking as he hyperventilated. He was back in the real world. ‘Hey, hey, it’s fine, you’re fine, there’s no danger- Look at me.” He slowly looked up. The light of the mostly set sun was casting strange, moving shadows on San, his glowing red eyes amplifying the strangeness of his sharp features. “What’s wrong?”
“C- Can’t breath-”
San frowned. “Breath, then.” He sang, his voice echoing onto itself.
Rodan didn’t know why he wasn’t ignoring the Ghidorah’s songs. Hell, they were the whole reason he had built up his immunity to all Calls, thanks in no small part to hanging out with Godzilla so much. But that didn’t mean he didn’t feel the pull of it. And he was too shaken to not listen right now. He took in a large gulp of air, breathing in short, quick bursts as San held onto his hands.
“Do you want to talk about what that was about?” San asked, tilting his head. Rodan shook his head. Revealing his relationship with Quetzalcoatl could’ve gone wrong very fast, and he attributed San having someone similar to a pure stroke of luck on his part. There was no way Ghidorah could’ve ever been hurt by beings so much smaller and weaker than them. He hoped the other wouldn’t push it.
But San just nodded, letting go of Rodan’s hands and gently bending forward as his breathing calmed down. It’s then he realized. “It worked.”
San blinked in confusion. “Uh?”
“The meditation, it worked!” Rodan cheerfully exclaimed, pushing his earlier thoughts in a corner of his mind. “I feel stronger then befo-”
“Rodan.”
“GAH!” Rodan turned his head, only to see Ni staring down at him and San. “I told you not to sneak up on me like that!”
Ni simply shrugged in indifference. “You’ll get used to it.”
“Oh, hi Ni!” Ni nodded at San, before kneeling down, facing Rodan.
“I found something you might like.” Ni told him, handing him a handful of something. Rodan’s eyes widening in surprise when he realized it was a handful of small roots, nuts and grains. “You told me you couldn’t eat the fish around the island anymore, so I tried to find something you could eat in the human settlement. It’s not a lot, but it should be better than rotten fish.”
Rodan smiled, bringing the handful of food to his mouth and swallowing. He then turned toward Ni, his face glowing a bit. “And it is. Thank you, Ni.”
Ni frowned, bringing a hand to Rodan’s face. “Are you sure you’re fine? Blood keeps rushing to your face.”
That snapped Rodan out of his relaxed state of mind. He jumped up, the flush growing bigger as he did so. “Of course I’m fine, whywouldntIbefine-”
“Rodan, it’s fine, sit down-”
“AnywayitsgettinglateandIneedtosleepgoodnight!” Rodan exclaimed, followed by a strong wind that carried him off to the top of his volcano. Ni and San could see his silhouette collapse at the top of it, followed by a strange, quiet shriek.
San turned toward his brother, smiling. “Good idea to find him food!”
Ni blinked. “I didn’t think my efforts to make him like me were working.” When San gave him a confused frown, he shrugged. “Each time I try to be nice to him, he keeps getting... flustered. Embarrassed. That’s not a good thing.”
“... He’s touched.” San blankly stated. “You keep giving him gifts, Ni. Of course he’s gonna keep blushing.”
“How did you figure out he needed food?” The two turned toward Ichi, who they knew had been watching them for a time.
San waved as their older brother sat down. “Hi brother Ichi!”
“He... told me?” Ni tried hesitantly. “It’s why I told him to talk to San. So he could learn to absorb energy without soaking himself in lava. Help him stay not weak.”
Ichi nodded. “Either way, good job. The both of you.” Ni sighed in relief and San beamed at the praise. His good mood only improved as Ichi pat him on the head. “If we continue like that, we’ll be out of this place sooner than later.”
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moontheoretist · 4 years ago
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With his witticism taken seriously, Sebastian looked a little less sure of himself and the direction of the conversation. “You don’t think that anymore?” “No,” said Joshua. “I don’t think we can. Especially now, when SHIELD’s previous faults explain so much of what’s going on. It’s time that the public knew the truth.” “Well,” said Sebastian tentatively, “please do go ahead.” Joshua leaned forward. “People keep saying Steve Rogers was unreasonable for claiming the UN wanted to turn the Avengers into a hit squad. They keep saying he’s fear mongering, or paranoid, or whatever. But what they don’t realise is, that’s exactly what the government did do with the Howling Commandos. Steve isn’t just pulling this out of thin air. He has damn good reason to think it’ll happen again, because it happened before.” Sebastian blinked. Pepper almost felt sorry for how out of his depth he was starting to look. “You would describe the Howling Commandos as a hit squad?” “Think of it this way, Sebastian,” Joshua said, his arms open and relaxed, “If you wanted to start a legitimate special operations group for a top priority task, how would you go about it? I mean, putting aside the legal and administrative challenges. You’d look for volunteers from the best veterans available, right?” Sebastian asked, “Are you saying that’s not what happened with your grandfather?” Joshua’s chin tilted up. “Not. At. All. Remember that my grandfather and a large proportion of the other Howling Commandos were captured by the Germans, tortured and experimented on. Then, instead of being discharged and provided with medical and psychiatric treatment – and even as far back as WWII, the army knew enough to do that – the SSR stuck a gun in their hands and pointed them at the enemy.” “The SSR were sort of the spiritual predecessors of SHIELD, correct?” interrupted Sebastian. “That’s right,” said Joshua. “SHIELD was formed out of the SSR and a few other minor groups, but the continuity of leadership and philosophy came entirely from the SSR.” Sebastian said, “so you are saying that the recruitment of recent POWs was exploitative.” Joshua nodded. “Exactly. That’s a good word for it. They took a bunch of traumatised, vulnerable soldiers who don’t have the support of their usual chain of command, and sent them on suicide missions under the charge of a civilian consultant who didn’t know any better.” Sebastian held up a hand. “Let me stop you right there. Civilian consultant? Surely you’re not talking about Captain America, are you?” “Sure I am,” said Joshua, as if he hadn’t said anything surprising at all. “You must know the back story, right? Steve Rogers tried to enlist fraudulently five times before being recruited by the SSR for the super-soldier experiments? The SSR might have worked with the military, but it wasn’t military itself.” “And the rank of Captain?” asked Sebastian. Joshua shrugged. “As honorary as a Kentucky Colonel. It was a rank issued by the SSR for publicity purposes. Direct commissions – that is, battlefield promotions – did happen in the real army, but that was only to Second Lieutenant and the person was expected to complete proper leadership training. No military service would jump someone without even basic training to Captain. That would just be asking for catastrophe. Even if he’d taken any oaths, he could hardly be expected to understand what he was agreeing to honour.” Sebastian said a bit faintly, “I suppose I did know that backstory, but that’s certainly not how it’s been portrayed through the years.” “Yeah,” agreed Joshua. “We always found it irritating that Steve was the one who got all the credit for everything, you know? I mean we loved Steve, of course we did, but the stuff put out there for public consumption was just so extreme. The Howling Commandos contained people like Lord Falsworth, who was a very highly decorated maroon beret. It contained my grandfather, Captain Sawyers, who was an army ranger with years of specialised training. If you think about it that way, both outranked even the honorary title Steve was given. The Howling Commandos contained a bunch of trained, experienced and knowledgeable soldiers and civilian freedom fighters, but they were always dismissed as little more than sidekicks. We played along because we were told it was necessary, but there were always rumblings about how insulting their PR people were being. It was like they were saying my grandfather’s job was so easy, that anyone off the street—or off the stage—could have done it.” Rhodey snorted. “Steve always did say the success was a result of the team. Perhaps we should have taken him more literally.” “Do you think—“ started Pepper, and the screen froze to allow her to finish without missing the interview, “Do you think the team could have been doing all the actual work and just let Steve think he was the one in charge?” “Yes, I do.” said Rhodey. “I’ve seen teams successfully work around a problem commander before, and that’s with all the rules and conventions in place that try to prevent that type of thing. People simply looked to someone else for orders without troubling the official leader with the situation. If the leader was naïve enough – or lazy enough – he wouldn’t realise those orders were being given at all. It actually explains a lot about why Steve tended to act like his job ended the second he stepped off the battlefield.” “Huh,” said Tony. “So Steve is the military version of the ‘ideas guy’.” [...] The idea that Steve was on the wrong side of the Dunning-Kruger effect – so unskilled that he lacked the knowledge to even be aware that he was unskilled – was currently quite comforting. FRIDAY gave them a moment, but when they didn’t continue, resumed the show.   “That’s an interesting point of view,” said Sebastian. “But let’s go back to your description of it as a ‘hit squad’. Even if how they were constructed was wrong, they were sent to attack HYDRA bases. Surely you’re not arguing that was wrong.” Joshua grimaced. “They fought against people they believed to be the enemy of the whole human race, and I’m the last person who would want to diminish either their personal bravery or their accomplishments. But the SSR were the people who determined who exactly that ‘enemy’ was. It’s only a difference in wording to call something an attack on a suspected HYDRA base – or an illegal raid a civilian research facility to steal their technology. Knowing what we do now about the prevalence of HYDRA influence on the SHIELD, you have to wonder whether it was all just an exercise in transferring vital information and equipment from their old facilities to their new ones when they realised that the war was not going to end in Germany’s favour.” “That will sting for Steve,” said Rhodey, sounding like he could feel the blow himself. “All those sacrifices, and it could have been for the enemy? I can’t imagine worse.” “A chilling thought,” said Sebastian at the same time, but rather more inanely. The image cut back to the original hosts. There were three of them around a glass table, perched on fashionable bar stools – the type that proved they were fashionable by being so uncomfortable that no one sane would by them for any other reason. One host shifted, and the microphones were not quite good enough to conceal the squeak of plastic against plastic. The host in the middle, a tanned blond woman Pepper thought was named Anna, looked appropriately grave. “A chilling thought, indeed. What do you make of that, Jim?” Jim’s teeth were less precisely perfect than his fellow hosts, indicating he was more likely their designated expert than a usual member of the team. His hands were rigidly held in place, folded in front of him. “I think Joshua raises a very strong point about Steve Rogers lack of military expertise, Anna. We all grew up with the comic books, but those of us in the service also grew up to see just how flawed they were. Rogers simply wasn’t proper military material. This was a man who should have been serving jail time, not one who should have been trusted with the lives of others.” “Isn’t that a bit of a strong reaction?” asked Anna. “Speaking as a civilian here, but I would have thought someone wanting to enlist despite their limitations would be admirable.” Jim’s hands twitched, like he was stopping himself from making a gesture. “What you’re forgetting is that it isn’t just their own lives they’re risking. It is one thing if it’s a limitation the army knows about and knows to compensate for, like bad eyesight. It’s quite another when they’re lying through their teeth and might suddenly be unfit for combat without warning. The army has guidelines for a reason, Anna, but I can assure you every teenager who gets rejected thinks they know better than the trained professionals. That kid who tells himself his occasional asthma doesn’t count, and then gets triggered by the stress and the dust and the smoke? He’s just as responsible as the enemy for any damage his unit takes when they are forced to rescue his stupid ass instead of being able to rely on him to rescue theirs. And every single one of those liars getting people killed wanted to be just like Captain America.” “Okay,” said Anna, not particularly sincerely. “I can grant you that. But that isn’t quite the case here, is it? By the time Steve Rogers entered combat, he had been cured of his medical condition. Why couldn’t he have been enlisted than?” “I obviously wasn’t in the army at the time,” said Jim with a fake laugh, “but if I had been, I would have raised concerns. Curing his physical condition didn’t change his personality. He was still the person who was willing to lie, cheat, and put others in danger. It might not his health anymore, but there’s plenty of other ways to screw over your buddies.” “What about his rescue of all those POWs? Didn’t that prove anything?” “Only that he got lucky, Anna,” said Jim, in a tone of someone who was finally being vindicated in a long held belief. “Another part of the backstory we prefer to gloss over was that his extraction plan was a pick up by Howard Stark. Stark flew a plane that seated no more than six, including the pilot. Rogers was as surprised as the Germans when his actions resulted in the freedom of all the POWs. He could equally well have gotten them all killed. And we were all fortunate that it did turn out to be a HYDRA installation, because otherwise his actions could have endangered every other POW held in any Axis POW camp. He was a loose cannon that just happened to be pointed in the right direction that once. Frankly, the success of the Howling Commandos makes a lot more sense if Rogers was just the colourful distraction while the experts did the real work.” [...] Anna’s expression was by that time a little fixed. “Well, that’s certainly a very strong position. Any thoughts, Vance?” The shark grin on Vance’s face didn’t suggest he’d be providing her with any rescue either. “Something that Joshua Sawyer was careful not to mention, but stands out like a pimple at the tip of the nose to anyone who is looking for it. He spoke of Rogers being put in command, despite his lack of rank. Do you happen to know who took over the unit after Rogers was lost?” “Um… Dum Dum Dugan, wasn’t it?” said Anna. “Yes,” agreed Vance. “Not any of the people Mister Sawyer mentioned as having obviously more command experience than Rogers, but Sergeant Dugan, the next ranking white American male.” “That does seem like an unfortunate move, but we have to bear in mind that it was the forties—“ Vance spoke over her. “—and when the Avengers was re-formed after the actions of Sokovia, the leadership was changed to Steven Rogers and Natasha Romanoff. Not either of the people with actual military experience -  the two tour veteran Master Sergeant Wilson, or the active duty Colonel Rhodes. Romanoff was an ex-member of not one but two terrorist organisations, with no command experience whatsoever. But hey, she’s the whitest person after Rogers, so she must be a good pick.” “Now that’s unfair,” said Tony, the display freezing again. “I mean yes, they totally screwed you over, Rhodey, but SHIELD and the SSR were never racist. Or at least, substantially less so than their cohorts. They just very strongly preferred an incompetent insider to a competent outsider. The most you could probably say was that they have a history of being dismissive of military experience.” Rhodey snorted. “I think you mean the least you can say. Joshua was right about an actual serving military person having too much training on actual accepted practices, and too much of a framework to complain. The number of times I had to bite my tongue and remind myself that Steve was the one in charge, and if he chose to let things slide like that, then it was none of my business… I feel like a complete idiot now for having missed all the signs. I was convinced I wasn’t treating him like some sort of wide-eyed fan, but I sure as hell wasn’t treating him just like another team member, either.” Tony awkwardly patted his arm with the back of his hand. “Steve is good at tactics in straightforward situations, and very good at motivating others. In a way, I left the team without all the support it needed for Steve to be able to operate successfully.” Rhodey said, “You mean you did all the hard work to make him look good. A good leader deserves that kind of support, but a good person repays the favour. Steve’s the kind of person who thinks that loyalty is something he should be shown, not something he should show others. I completely ignored his history of contempt for the people who helped him. I shouldn’t have. In future I—“ Rhodey looked down at his legs and grimaced. Between his natural recovery and Tony’s assistance, no one knew yet whether he’d be able to return as a full member of the Avengers, even if there was an Avengers to return to.
Enough Rope (chapter 6) by Amber_and_Ash
I find it funny that we most of the time do not even talk about what MCU did to change Steve Rogers and Howling Commandos. I do not know much about the comic commandos, because I didn't read the comics, but the ones I know from Earth's Mightiest Heroes painted a completely different picture. Steve in them wasn't a leader or a field commander, he was part of the squad which had an experienced leader to which Steve was always looking for orders and I believe it was also the case in the comics, because animated shows usually tend to be more fair to them and don’t change as much. So Steve was never put in charge of the squad, but in MCU he is, and it creates a lot of problems in the presented storyline of The First Avenger which this fanfiction deconstructs pretty well. How weird and dangerous it was to put someone so inexperienced in the role of a leader of the squad and how exploitative it was that Steve even could recruit people which were captured and tortured without anybody saying anything about it being not a good idea. Basically after Steve rescued all of them, going against his orders in order to save Bucky (the others were add-ons to his glorious military hero stunt) he was suddenly treated by everybody as the best military leader in existence and given voice, which he didn't have before he did that. He was ignored and dismissed before he saved all those people, but after he was always listened to, always kept in the loop of planning and even given a right to create his own squad to make Red Skull's face even more red from rage.
Steve wanted to be a hero regardless of his limitations and what lying can inflict upon others with whom he would serve. He wanted to be like those heroes from books he read (he has them in the movie in his trunk) and a soldier like his father. The problem is that he never wanted to be a hero for the people. He wanted to be one for himself alone, because he couldn't stand the idea that he is too weak to do "his men duty" to the world, but also because he didn't want to see himself as weak and useless. And to Steve being useless meant not being able to be a soldier. He saw a kid in the propaganda piece helping and saw it as something below himself to do, because he was destined to do something better than that, or so he believed he was, even though his body disagreed. He didn't want to be like women and children who stayed behind. He wanted to be a strong man and do what was supposedly his job as a man. Toxic masculinity literally comes out in spades from him, but well, I would expect that kind of mindset from a guy from that era. He doesn't intentionally disrespect women and people who cannot be soldiers, but he just doesn't see himself as someone who should do other tasks which can help during war, because after reading all those stories about soldier heroes and hearing about his dad, he cannot imagine himself to not be a soldier hero just like them and everything different than that hurts his feelings as a son of a soldier and as a man with a dream to become one, so he presses forward, lies and tricks to become one.
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aion-rsa · 4 years ago
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The Teleprompter Interview: Katy Wix ‘My First Screen Crush was King Kong’
https://ift.tt/33I5zd9
“Anchors, rigging, shackles,” lists Katy Wix down the phone, “poop deck, wheelhouse, three sheets to the wind…” The comedian and writer has had a productive year. Filming wrapped on Ghosts series two just as UK lockdown began. Since then, she’s finished one book – Delicacy: A Memoir – due out next April, is pitching another, writing a TV show, and thanks to a new-found obsession with Netflix yacht-based reality show Below Deck, has also managed to acquire an enviable grasp of nautical terminology. 
Wix is an established UK comic actor, with credits across the board, starting with cult hit Time Trumpet and going mainstream as witless, lovable Daisy in BBC mega-sitcom Not Going Out. She’s currently part of Channel 4’s Stath Lets Flats, the hottest comedy around, fresh from multiple Bafta wins. She plays Fergie in royal satire The Windsors, and was among the comedian-contestants in series nine of Taskmaster. In BBC One sitcom Ghosts, Wix plays Mary, a 17th century yokel burned as a witch and now part of the motley group haunting a modern-day stately home. Mary’s distinctive west country accent “just came out”, says Wix. “It’s an insult really, because I can’t claim to do that accent well. It’s sort of a stock noise. The more I do it, the more I think it sounds like Nanny from Count Duckula. Ducky!”
Ghosts series two, which lands as a boxset on BBC iPlayer on Monday September 21st , will give fans more about Mary’s background, says Wix. “I think people will really love it, and then there’ll be another series next year, depending on the big C. Not cancer. The other big C.”
From superyachts to Alan Partridge, The Day Today to Ghostwatch, Anna from This Life to formative sexual fantasies about prehistoric apes… here’s the Katy Wix Teleprompter interview.
Your parents were quite arty, working in dance companies and the theatre. Did your childhood allow for much TV watching?
Oh my god, yes! My routine was: come home from school, watch the tail-end of Fifteen to One, and when I was really young, repeats of The Oprah Winfrey Show. Then it would be The Broom Cupboard, something like Round the Twist, then the sound of the Six O’Clock News and turning over to The Simpsons. I still do it now, if I’m at home and it’s five to six, I’m going to watch The Simpsons, it’s a tradition.
Welsh telly was slightly different to the rest of the country. We have S4C rather than Channel 4. I remember going through the TV listings and seeing what was on normal Channel 4, like The Word, then I’d look at Welsh Channel 4 and it would just be something boring in Welsh at the same time.
Was there a TV show that inspired you to start acting and comedy?
The one I remember the most is Abigail’s Party. Seeing Alison Steadman’s performance made me want to do character acting. It was just a phenomenal, convincing, detailed performance. Years later, I wrote a radio sitcom that she was in. It was one of those absurd moments where you just have to leave your body and look down on yourself to be able to handle it. 
That must happen a lot, you’ve been part of a lot of great comedy casts…
What got me into comedy was Brass Eye and The Day Today. When I was about 15, that’s what changed my brain. It was the first time I’d seen adults being silly and coming up with absurd situations that were my sense of humour. Before that, comedy on TV would always feel like just something your parents would watch but this really felt like it was for us, for me and my friends. It was the same with The Office.
And then you were in This Time with Alan Partridge with Steve Coogan last year.
I was in sixth form when Knowing Me, Knowing You came out and I had it on VHS. Watching people like Rebecca Front and Doon Mackichan… anytime Alan had a guest on the sofa, the level of detail and all the reactions and the tiny little social awkward moments, that made me think I want to do that type of performing. So then, when I got to be in the last Partridge, it was mad. It was phenomenal to be that near to the character and all his tiny micro-expressions. Even the colour of his socks – this weird salmon pink – that was so perfect. Tim [Key] was there as well and we’re old pals, so that made it feel more like, well if Tim can deal with it. But I think even Tim now says he still has times where he has to go into the loo and give himself a moment.
Who or what was your first TV love?
This will sound like a joke, but I swear to God it’s true. It was a running joke in our family that my first crush when I was about four, was King Kong [laughs]. My mum used to tease me about it all the time. It was the combination of brute strength and these massive, soulful, pained eyes – which I still look for in men – that absolutely got me. It was an erotic connection for me. When I look back on it in a Freudian way, it feels like a really obvious, very heterosexual image for a little girl to have, because I wanted to be that woman in the nightie in his massive hairy hand. 
Unusual, yes, but then a lot of people our age cite the fox in the Robin Hood Disney film as their first screen crush.
I do get that. I do get that. What was it about that fox?
He’s rakish. And politically, he was sound too – rob from the rich, give to the poor.
You’re right. And he was really confident too. 
Growing up, which TV character did you idolise?
There are two, a younger one and a slightly later one. When I was 11 or 12, I wanted to be a fashion designer. I would draw outfits all the time in my school books and I had the Usborne Book of Fashion Design and spend hours on it. So I wanted to be Hilary Banks from The Fresh Prince of Bel Air because she just had incredible fashion. She always got boys and she was really cool and confident and wore amazing clothes. She was everything I wanted to be.
Then a little bit later, maybe sixth form or in my early 20s. I wanted to be Anna from This Life, so much and I kind of still do. Because she was tall and really cool and had dark hair and a lot of attitude and wore black a lot and smoked a lot and didn’t give a shit. That was my vibe at university. 
Is there a TV character you’d like to be now? 
Probably still Anna? 
Which TV show gave you nightmares?
The massive one for me, when I was about 11 or 12: Ghostwatch. I went to a friend’s house to watch it and I remember being a bit like ‘yeah right’ watching it, and then when I got home that night, I just cried. I was in the bath, hysterical and my mum had to come in and calm me down. It was horrendous. 
Everyone totally swallowed it at the time, because we were less TV-savvy in 1992. I remember they had a phone-in and someone called in to say ‘There’s a shape in the curtains’, which really fucked me up. The whole Pipes thing. I remember being in my bedroom and seeing a shape of an old man in the curtain all the time. I’ve got really vague memories of Craig Charles being in a park, saying that someone had killed a Labrador. I was thinking about watching it again. I actually don’t know if I dare. 
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When did you last cry watching television?
Last night. Have you ever seen the show Below Deck? I’m obsessed with it. I’m not massively into reality TV but it’s an American reality show all filmed on superyachts that rich people charter. It’s almost like a perfect sitcom family – you have a different captain every time and the deckhands and then the interior, who do the hotel stuff, and then you have the chef, who’s always a temperamental big personality and then each episode has a different group of insanely rich, usually quite horrible, sexist people with loads of money who get really drunk, that’s the premise. It’s non-stop drama. You’re just watching people fall off boats and have arguments. 
How did it make you cry?
In this episode, there was a girl who’d been really quiet and grumpy and everyone was slagging her off, and then she revealed that she’d got a text that morning saying her estranged father had died, so that’s what set me off. It’s got me through lockdown, it’s so addictive. 
When did you last laugh out loud watching television?
Below Deck, same episode!
All human life is there!
I think it was someone’s malapropism, that’s my favourite thing about reality TV, the way people talk in a kind of Stath-like way and get it wrong.
What was the last TV show you recommended to a friend? 
Below Deck! [Laughs] I’ve just got Lolly [Adefope] onto it, and Adam Drake – he’s a comedian in a sketch show called Goose and does Capital, a podcast with Liam Williams – he’s now devoted. One of my best mates was bemoaning that her boyfriend’s not into reality TV, but boys can watch Below Deck too. It’s got loads of boat stuff in it. Chains and anchors. I’m learning all these terms, like shackles, poop deck, wheelhouse, three sheets to the wind… That’s where the expression ‘in my wheelhouse’ comes from. Three sheets to the wind means you’re sailing off course. 
Which TV show would you bring back from the dead?
Changing Rooms. 
Good call.
I also loved The Late Review. I really loved that.
What’s a TV show you wish more people would watch?
Do you know Iyanla Vanzant? She started off on The Oprah Winfrey Show – I love Oprah so much – and she’s a TV therapist/healer/spiritual. She’s got a show you can only get on American TV called Iyanla: Fix My Life. She just speaks so much wisdom. She spends a week with people who are really traumatised and it’s their healing journey. It’s so moving, it’s so profound. She’s doing incredible work for the human race.
She did an amazing show called, I think, ‘The Myth of the Angry Black Woman’ with a house full of women of colour who all got to talk about this trope that they were angry and how they felt unable to speak without being silenced. She did a show that was rehabilitating people that had come out of prison and women that had been sex workers all their loves, just amazing. 
Which current TV show do you never miss an episode of?
In lockdown, what kept me going was I May Destroy you, obviously, Below Deck, obviously. I also became obsessed with the Japanese Big Brother Terrace House, but it just got pulled because there was a suicide. It was so, so awful. I read an article saying the producers didn’t behave well, so I feel like I can’t like it any more. I love Succession too. I started watching this show on Netflix called Intervention and got totally obsessed with it. Again, it’s maybe ethically a bit dubious. It’s American, obviously, and they’ll film an addict who’s in a really desperate state and then the family kind of trick them, or persuade them to go into a room and then the intervention therapist is there and they’re like ‘Guess what, you’re going to rehab now!’ Anything that’s got human suffering, and then a redemption story in it, I’ll watch. 
Given the power, which TV show would you commission?
I think about this a lot – what if I had a channel? I’d commission the sketch group Sheeps to make tons of series. That’s Liam Williams, Al Roberts and Daran Johnson, and so far they’ve only done live shows, but I would commission them for hours of TV. Colin Hoult doing his character Anna Mann, I’d commission hours of that. Everyone involved in Stath Lets Flats, I’d just say ‘Turn up, pitch and we’ll make it’. There’s a documentary from the 70s that I adore, that I would like to show again, which is John Berger’s Ways of Seeing. It’s one of the most beautiful, gentle documentaries. I feel like that should be on TV. And just whatever Gemma Collins is doing, commission that. 
Also, you know in the 90s, late at night you’d get some weird, bizarre performance art happening on BBC Two? I miss that. The sort of stuff that was on after The Word. And then finally, maybe just all of Peep Show again? 
What’s the most fun you’ve had making television?
Ghosts is where I probably laugh the most because of Lolly [Adefope]. We make each other laugh all the time. When me and Anna [Crilly] did our sketch show on Channel 4, it was incredible. It was stressful but exciting. It was such a nice atmosphere to be with all these gorgeous people that you find funny. 
Stath Lets Flats is like that, because we’re all genuine mates. When people take comedy so seriously I really love it. I love that attention to detail. Jamie [Demetriou] and everyone involved really cares. There’s no ‘that’ll do’ attitude, everyone wants it to be the best it can be. Why not treat comedy as a science that you have to absolutely get right?
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Ghosts series two starts on Monday the 21st of September on BBC One at 8.30pm. All six episodes will be available to stream on BBC iPlayer from then. 
Delicacy: A Memoir by Katy Wix, published by Headline, is available to pre-order now.
The post The Teleprompter Interview: Katy Wix ‘My First Screen Crush was King Kong’ appeared first on Den of Geek.
from Den of Geek https://ift.tt/32GM7ya
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gossamergore · 4 years ago
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so my workplace is literally a corporate chain and we sell smudging tools, like literally white sage, feathers, and shells for catching the ash. it feels like...spiritually bankrupt to do that.... AND LIKE???????? there are so many others ways to cleanse!!!!!! people....it’s not hard to do your research!!! there’s even less harmful types of sage you can buy, ethically sourced??? or grow your own sage???? or buy native??? also there’s absolutely no excuse for you to smudge. there’s no reason for it. absolutely none. if you’re not native it’s not yours, it’s a closed practice, simple as that. and there are so many other ways you can cleanse. dragons blood works great, sound bowls, music and sound in general. just be creative, you can do whatever you want and use any tools you want and you chose to steal???? and like I’m expected to try to get people to buy this shit????? I smoked some Potent Hemp and I’m kind of in a thought loop about this whole thing but...how selfish can a company be. 
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rainforest-zoo-dairies · 5 years ago
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Let It Alllllll Out
I came here because I am a writer turned spiritual.
I used to write, then I found spirituality and my whole GOD DAMN world flipped upside down.
My old passions for writing are null and void now, but a life without writing isn’t worth living.
So I’m here to write and connect and share and all that good BS.
An IG account I follow said to let your frustrations out or you will continue to manifest from your frustrations.... hit me in the feels.
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https://www.instagram.com/theaceofmoon/
Follow her. Seriously. She’s pretty bomb.
Every post won't be like today’s post, but I feel like this is a pretty good place to start.
My spiritual awakening has been none-other than a t-total shitshow. Everyone thinks its all rainbows and kumbaya. If you think that: fuck you. Seriously... FUCK YOU.
I’ve felt like I was going crazy, like I was losing grips with reality and felt like I was even losing myself.
According to the BS I read on most spiritual blogs, this is ‘normal’.
HA
Just ‘breathe and ask your spirit guides for help’.
DOUBLE HA
Yeah.. I don’t read spiritual blogs anymore. Them and their suggestions make me sick.
I do that stuff. I practice breathing, meditation, yoga, mindfulness etc. I take care of my body and mind. I literally live every fucking second of my life working on myself.
But... you can’t fully commit to being spiritual without also being a fucking human.
It hits at times when I least expect it. Like my higher self hollering down at me “Hey girl... betchu didn’t see this coming! Try and breathe this one off’. HAHA”
99.9% of the days, I walk around in spiritual bliss. Admiring the trees, my pets, my family, the world really.... but that 0.1% of days, don’t you dare tell me to breathe.
Like today, I’m looking for jobs. Since the writing thing didn’t pan out like I hoped it would, I need a job. I need a source of income.
I’ve been manifesting jobs and abundance for well over a year. Every tip, trick and ritual to meld abundance into my life and stay in alignment long enough for it to manifest. NADA.
My spirit guides are damn silent. My intuition yo-yos like Oprah’s weight and I can’t catch a fucking break as far as getting any type of guidance through this.
I go within to find answers. I trudge up old traumas I have to heal and wounds I have to address. Energy blocks I gotta release and past fears I have to overcome.
I am doing the GD work... but I honestly feel like I am running on the world’s biggest hamster wheel.
Same sights of same old stale traumas that I release then they resurface. I ask for help releasing them... nope.
I ask what I need to do to heal, to change, to move forward. Silence. Again, I’m not afraid to do the work and tackle this shit head on... but it’s like every step I take forward, I take 10 back.
Yeah, sure. I have more happy/joyful days than I ever did prior to my awakening. I am eternally grateful for each and every day that my inner-self is aligned and I feel like I could rock the world.
But for fuck’s sake. Really?
Today, I could hulk smash every damn thing in my office and not bat an eye.
I’m unemployed, can’t find a job, can’t find a single bit of solace financially with the way the world is working.
My mind is beating me up like a nerd in an alley. Sucker punches to the gut, breaking my glasses, stealing my pocket protector.... whole 9 yards.
I can usually get ahold of it and turn things around, but today is like someone chained me to the radiator and I’m stuck.
I have glimpses of relief that make me feel like it’s going to be okay, then my ego or my what-the-fuck-ever goes “Nope! Just kidding! Let’s think about this other horrible area of your life that you need to address RIGHT MEOW!”
So, I’m here. Frantically typing my frustrations for the world to see. Why public? I don’t have a clue. It’s not like one of y’all are gonna be like “Girl... I have the solution.”.... I know it’s something I gotta work through on my own and no one else can help.
But damn. Ya girl is drowning.
Also, please note that I’m not bitching or asking for pity. I’m just super open and I have an odd sense of humor and *obviously* a pretty bad potty mouth.
I hope that my sarcastic, silly tone is apparent enough that I am just a spiritually real person being real on a rough day.
There will be posts when you’re like “This girl is smoking some seriously awesome weed cause it sounds like a Unicorn wrote this post”. Promise. But I don’t smoke. I just live life at a high vibration. Most of the time.
But for today, I am following the one bit of spiritual guidance I can find and I am letting this frustration out.
I’m handing it up to the Gods, the Universe, my higher self, my guardian angels and even to the fucking aliens if they’ll take it.
I’ll gladly release this frustration with my current situation because this minute, stupid stuff really isn’t worth wasting brain space over.... now if only someone would get that message to my brain....
MJ out
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theastrologien · 2 years ago
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Talking about my experience of addiction with other addicts who are practicing the 12 step method typically ends in them projecting onto me their own traumas and fears. I’m convinced addiction isn’t a “disease” the way it is framed by the addiction recovery industry, but is rather just an insurance coding scam. And framing it this way just further enables addicts to do what they do. I will receive abuse for saying this, so contemplate that before you comment. Sure, you may be ”clean,” but where is your addiction showing up in other parts of your life? What compulsions do you have that aren’t necessarily toward a substance? Where are you losing agency over your system? When I was attending daily 12 step meetings and doing step work, my whole life revolved around “the program,” and after meetings I’d see the parking lot mating rituals, domination games and cliques, weekly poker nights and trips to the casino, so much coffee and chain smoking and gossip. If you speak too much truth, you are exiled. If you speak too much truth, you are worshiped. If you decide complete abstinence from substances for the rest of your life isn’t actually required in order to recover, you are told to “keep coming back,” by those who have never done a 4th step and who will never do a 9th step.And when I talk about this stuff with people who could probably benefit from some sort of recovery program, they say they would never because of the use of words like “God,” and “higher power.” They cannot reckon with the idea that maybe they aren’t as in control as they think they are. I have a lot of complaints about 12 step programs, but none of them come from the fact that these programs were developed under a Christian view. Most of my complaints stem from the fact that a bunch of sick people are trying to heal other sick people. The 12th step reads, “Having had a spiritual awakening as the result of these Steps, we tried to carry this message to addicts, and to practice these principles in all our affairs.” The problem is that most people are not having a spiritual awakening as a result of these steps, because they haven’t actually done step 2 or 3. But how do you truly do those steps without an awakening? And then the group tells you to “fake it til you make it.” But then people use again and die before they “make it,” and nobody really knows what “making it” looks like- as stated by chapter 8 in the Narcotics Anonymous Basic Text. We do recover, but nobody knows what that looks like and nobody knows how to quantify it. Step 10 says, “Continued to take personal inventory and when we were wrong promptly admitted it.” This is the one. This is the step that matters most once we are sober for long enough to become human again and yet, when we do this step work, we tend to quickly jump from 9 to 12, without really PRACTICING. What is the point of the other steps if we continue to fail at admitting our role in our circumstance? There are new recovery programs and alternative methods to recovery for those who cannot connect with these Bill W. type groups. These alternative groups are typically atheist and scientism driven. They are disconnected from the spirit and, in my experience, those who have used these alternative programs are what we’d call a “dry drunk.” A dry drunk is just as troubled, if not more, than someone who is in the throes of active addiction. They haven’t addressed the spiritual malady that is at the core of addiction and they have no anesthesia. Which, frankly- it’s you. You, who has never touched a drug or a drink. You, who has never robbed your grandmother for your next high, who has never punched your sister in the face while withdrawing because you know she has the pills you needed to feel ok. You, who has never stolen your mother’s car while she passed out on the couch from the exhaustion of working two jobs and raising children alone. You are just like these drug addicts, junkies, and “mentally ill.” You discharge your fears all over town and never address your addictions because you are not the addict sitting on the curb under the el train with dirty fingernails. You are not the addict dying on a park bench or in a dunkin donuts bathroom. I was 15 years old the first time I was introduced to this way of living and it took a lot of research under that el train to get me to trust the process of healing this spiritual malady that is inherent in our western cult. Breaking this centuries old spell of disconnection has not been linear. There are no proper, chronological steps to take to reach “awakening.” On any given day I am still that junkie with dirty finger nails, the king baby crying for attention and care from a culture that discarded me and sees me only as inventory in a production facility. Produce or you are nothing to us. Produce or you will be exiled. Produce or you will be othered and when you die your kin will shrug and say, “well, what did you expect?” It’s time for us all to realize that we are addicted. We are all narcissistic, traumatized, and insecure in our bodies. We have hungry ghosts in us, in our family systems, the land, they’re all around us, driving our thoughts and behaviors. Step 4 is roll call, and when we acknowledge them to another person in Step 5, they are like a hibernating black bear awoken before spring. Disoriented and HUNGRY and this is when a lot of addicts use again and die because we are afraid of them. The fear and shame and the fear OF shame causes us to run and hide. Every addict has been told, “you should be ashamed of yourself.” And they are. So what happens when you are not addicted to drugs and you acknowledge these ghosts? There is no program for you. There is no group available to share their experiences, no elders, no support, no being held. In this western cult, you are left to solve the despair and desperate need for belonging alone. And you can’t.  We need to allow each other to make mistakes without fear. We need to allow each other to be truthful without fear. It’s taken me months to just write this message because of fear. I fear that I will be misunderstood like so many times before. I fear that something I may say about my addiction experience and especially about not maintaining complete abstinence will justify using for an addict who wants to use. And I fear that those of you who have never had a drug abuse problem will stop reading because you think this doesn’t apply to you. 
I went to my first residential treatment center at age 16 and I formed a close bond with one of the caretakers. In one of our late night conversations, I told her that I wished the people who aren’t addicted to drugs could get that kind of treatment and that I thought it wasn’t fair that we were saddled with the responsibility of curing our entire family and communities just because we decided we couldn’t not numb the pain of these abuses inflicted on us. I resented people who weren’t addicted to drugs because our western cult made us all believe that those people are somehow “better” or had it “figured out,” while I saw them acting the same way addicts do. That was 20 years ago and those who told me I should be ashamed now come to me for advice, for guidance, and also for a target of their ongoing projections. Never healing, never being able to identify what exactly the “problem” is and no context for any of the transmissions they receive. The only way we’re going to get through this is if we all receive the love and care we need and that is only going to happen if we connect to the greater-than-human world, practice dying, and step into the fear rather than running from it. _____ “You’ve got to believe in the poetry, because everything else in your life will fail you, including yourself.” Ali Muhammad; Euphoria
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clawsandblood · 3 years ago
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3: “Who did this to you?”
link to ao3
first chapter on Tumblr   previous chapter on Tumblr
Borna was still a bit weak and shaky, but he couldn’t afford missing a shift, so he made himself some extra soup and hoped that he won’t need any medicine. Mondays were always busy, though luckily he had the late night shift, meaning that the worst of the traffic missed him.
It was another cold and damp night, the neon signs of the carwash and gas station reflecting sharply on the concrete. He was dressed in his work uniform, a coarse but functional jumpsuit, hair tied back and stuffed under a beanie. Usually he’d roll his sleeves up, not wanting to wet them, but the bite was still looking fresh and he didn’t want anyone to pay attention to it. It was healing strangely fast, and the buts from the barbed wire were almost gone, though he had a feeling that the bite was going to stay on his skin forever.
A sleek black car drove in, spattered with mud. Borna made a face.
When it came to this sort of cars, they were never good news.
The driver’s window rolled down. A lady poked her head out. Her features were sharp, hair slicked back, and her eyes were cold in a way that had nothing to do with their colour. Borna suppressed a shudder and plastered on a smile.
“Hello, how may I help you?” he asked, words rolling off his tongue automatically.
She fixed him with her steely gaze. “I need my car washed,” she said. “I’d also like the chrome parts polished afterwards, if that’s possible.”
He nodded. “Yes, ma’am. It will cost extra, though.”
He directed her to drive onto the conveyor belt and started the machines. As the automated machines were running, he grabbed the rags and polish for the chrome.
“Please drive there,” he said, pointing to an empty area to the side. The lady did as he asked and he went to work, trying to scrub as fast as he could. Usually he’d have a co-worker to help, but usually there was only two of them working the graveyard shift, and in its typical fashion the carwash was understaffed, leaving him alone. He cursed the incompetent boss under his breath and hoped that the woman won’t be mad because of how long he took.
After an uncomfortably long time, he finally straightened up, putting the rags and polish out of the way and brought the receipt, along with the credit card terminal. These types either had cash only in hundred dollar bills, or no cash at all, which seemed to correspond directly to legality of their occupation. Not that Borna ever saw anything illegal going on, but there were clues. He noticed them all and firmly decided that if he was ever going to become a drug dealer he’s going to be more careful than that.
“Cash or credit?”
“Cash,” she replied, pulling out a hundred dollar bill.
He suppressed a sigh. “Do you have any smaller bills?” he asked, trying to get his brain to calculate how much he had to give her back.
She shook her head. “I’m afraid not.” She smiled politely, though her eyes remained cold and calculating. She looked him over.
“Who did this to you?” she asked, voice a bit softer. Her manicured finger trailed down his arm to the bite mark.
Borna swallowed a curse. He was too worn out to realize he automatically rolled his sleeves up. “A bar fight going wrong,” he replied, shrugging.
“You shouldn’t be working,” she said. “You don’t look well.”
He shrugged again. “Thank you for your concern, but I can manage.”
She took her purse and rifled through, producing a card. “We could use someone like you at our company,” she said, giving him the card. “Give us a call.”
He pocketed the card, feeling pinned by her gaze like a butterfly in a collection. “Thank you,” he said. He blinked after a moment, remembering he was still in the middle of a transaction and scrambled to get the bills he owed her.
“Keep the change,” she interrupted him.
His brown knitted. “That’s a lot of money,” he blurted out.
“I’m sure you’ll put it to good use,” she replied and rolled the window up, driving off.
He was left there standing and staring at the hundred dollar bill in his hands. 
---
Dorian cursed the no smoking rule for what seemed a millionth time. He was sitting behind the cash register, scrolling on his phone. There was little to do - customers were rare and there was only this many times one can rearrange the shelves. Various packets of herbal mixes, “organic” food additives, random crystals and overpriced teapots were all arranged neatly, making the whole store look very put-together. The overwhelming smell of herbs was almost enough to overpower the stench of cigarettes on Dorian.
Doors opened with a jingle and Dorian quickly put his phone down. Then, seeing the figure, he relaxed.
“What do you want, Gary?” he asked.
The newcomer was a burly man, shaved head and big beard. He was dressed in fairly formal clothes, the look being completely ruined by the fact that anything he put on looked too small for his bulging muscles.
“Nice to see you too, Dorian,” Gary replied. “I’ve got a packet to leave for Samara later.”
Dorian nodded and accepted the wrapped package, putting it underneath the counter. “That all?”
“Nothing official,” Gary said after a beat. “But I think Madam Reid should be coming to check up on us soon.”
“Do you think she’s gonna hire anyone new?” Dorian asked.
Gary shrugged. “It’s been a while, but you never know with her.” He looked up and down Dorian’s body, wrinkling his nose. “If she does I hope they won’t be to sensitive to smell.”
Dorian rolled his eyes. “Same could be said for anyone working with you if you don’t learn to use a deodorant.”
Gary threw his hands up. “I can’t control how much I sweat!” Then he let his hands flop back to his side, sobering up. “In any case, be on the ready for a visit.”
Dorian nodded. “Note taken.”
“See you,” Gary said and then he was leaving the store.
Dorian watched him leave through the shop window, waited for a few minutes and then pulled out the package. It was about the size of a larger book, though not as heavy. He sniffed it carefully. Nothing seemed to catch his attention, so he put the package back down.
---
Steven had his earplugs in already, even though it’s been fairly early. The band playing that particular night had a saxophonist who was extremely fond of screeching notes. And then they called Steven’s music noise.
Another patron appeared at the bar. Another large beer.
Nothing builds resentment towards experimental jazz quite like working in a place playing nothing but that. Steven quietly prayed the saxophonist’s lungs would finally give up.
“One Manhattan, please.”
A woman appeared at the counter, looking way too put together to be in a dive bar that exclusively played experimental jazz for alcohol-addled miserable people who were falsely convinced of their intellectual superiority. Judging from the way she carried herself, she knew that too.
“Of course, ma’am,” he replied, setting to work.
He tried to focus on his work but there was something about her that made him always keep her in the corner of his eye. She seemed to be content to watch the people, not paying him any mind.
“Your drink, ma’am,” he said, placing the glass next to her.
She turned around, looking at him again. “Thank you,” she said politely, taking the glass and trying a sip.
Steven looked around. There didn’t seem to be anyone wanting for a drink yet. Mondays were usually quite calm and while he didn’t get much in tips, he did prefer them to noisy and frantic weekends. He looked at the lady again.
“Waiting for someone?” he asked, making sure that his tone was as conversational as possible. She looked too sharp to tolerate any unwanted flirting.
Her eyes fixated upon him and he immediately regretted speaking up. “Yes,” she said. “I don’t think I’d be here if I didn’t have to.”
He chuckled nervously. Her stare was way too intense for his comfort. “Experimental jazz can be… An acquired taste,” he said awkwardly.
She kept staring at him.
“If you want some earplugs I’ve got extra,” he offered.
Lips twitching into something that was almost a smile, she shook her head. “As much as I’d love to, I have to decline,” she said. “Thank you for offering, though.”
Steven nodded in acknowledgement and watched her turn back around.
---
Borna was staring at the clock. He still had a few hours until the end of the shift, but he didn’t know how was he supposed to stay awake for that long. He already emptied his container with soup and now the night cold was finally seeping through his sweaty clothes. He was probably running a fever.
He did not like that.
There wasn’t much he could do aside from getting a coffee or a cold sandwich from the gas station, but neither really appealed to him. What he really needed was a warm bed, but that was almost three hours away.
He pulled out the business card he was handed earlier. The lady’s presence was… striking. She intimidated and scared him in a way and yet he felt compelled to please her. There was little else one could do under her steely gaze.
Aside from the swoop in his stomach in her presence, Borna didn’t really notice anything that would point to her being involved with any shady business. He got used to seeing all sorts of methods such people avoided detection by law, from extra dark windows to straight-up stolen plates and stolen cars, nothing of the sort seemed to apply to the lady’s vehicle.
He read the business card.
He frowned.
Words “NORTHWEST HOLISTIC NATURAL REMEDIES” were staring right back at him.
She didn’t seem very keen on herbal teas or healing crystals. She looked entirely too sharp for any of that nonsense.
But then again, he wouldn’t have been too surprised if the store chain was just her noticing an extremely profitable business niche and deciding it would be a great method of exploiting people. Whatever was the reason for her throwing herself into that line of work, it couldn’t have been passion for natural and spiritual medicine.
There were a few emails and links listed on the card. He pulled out his phone, typing in the official website link. It took him to a minimalist store website, all greens and “natural” textures and a barely acceptable version of the font that every hipster store used. Absolutely nothing about it corresponded to the image of that woman.
He read the business card again. The name of the CEO was MadamReid. Googling her name produced a few unremarkable photos and articles, confirming her identity.
She did express concern over his wellbeing. He unconsciously trailed his fingers down the trail where her fingers went.
He opened his email account. The carwash job sucked too much for him to turn down an opportunity like that.
---
A man in a suit made his way to the icy lady, greeting her. Steven watched them from the corner of his eye, noting how extremely awkward and clumsy the man acted. He clicked his fingers in an attempt to look authoritative and cool. The attempt was not successful.
“Good evening,” Steven said smoothly. “What would you have?”
“One martini, dry,” the man replied, trying to sound dismissive.
“Anything else?” Steven looked at the lady who mostly just looked bored.
“No, thanks.”
The band, especially the blasted saxophonist, were too noisy for him to hear anything from the pair. He put the martini on the counter. “Your drink, sir,” he said. The man didn’t even look at him, just taking the drink.
Steven resumed to cleaning and sorting out things, making sure that there was enough beer on hand. The band was playing what seemed like a crescendo of their concert and he needed to be prepared for the inevitable flood of people coming for their beers afterwards.
The annoying man clicked his fingers again.
“The bill,” he said. “I’ll pay for both our drinks.”
Steven mumbled his assent and got the bill. “Cash or credit?” he asked automatically. The man whipped out a credit card. Not even taking the receipt, the man left. Steven suppressed a grumble about the lack of tip and took the empty glasses to be cleaned. A finger stopped on his hand as he moved to take the lady’s glass. He looked up.
“Do you need anything?” he asked.
The lady gave him a rolled bill. “It looks like you and your friend could use some money,” she said and left.
“My friend?” Steven repeated weakly. He unrolled the bill. Benjamin Franklin’s face was staring back at him.
---
Sharp ringing of a phone tore Borna from his sleep. He groaned, barely able to open his eyes.
“Who the fuck is calling you at this time,” Steven grumbled from the opposite side of the room.
Borna made a vague sound and finally grabbed the phone, blinking blearily at the caller’s ID. It was a number, local one but unfamiliar.
“Hello?” he answered, failing at sounding awake.
“Is this mister… Bourney Kouzzuh?”
“It’s Borna Kožuh,” he said wearily. “Yes, that’s me.”
“We’ve received your resume. When would you be available for an interview?”
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howyoutalktostrangers · 7 years ago
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So,
I’ve decided to publish another story from my manuscript.
This one’s called “Post-funeral”, and the main character is named Joel Bishop. He’s a friend of my main characters Paisley Troutman and Neil Solomon, and in this story his older brother has just committed suicide after running for political office in Garibaldi. It’s the 10th story in Whatever you’re on, I want some.
It’s raw.
The Literary Goon
Post-funeral
by Will Johnson
FIRST WE swallowed bitter shards of MDMA, spent hours slip-sliding over each other’s bodies giddy and feverish. I’d been staying at my brother’s mansion with my ex-girlfriend Kylie, up in Garibaldi, for nearly two weeks. We wandered the streets shirtless, dove into foggy backyard pools that didn’t belong to us. We did blow off the toilet tank. We sipped mushroom tea, pinkies erect, then watched Jurassic Park while we waited, dopily dragging on cigarettes and ashing on the freshly installed carpet. We smoked salvia and hash, hot-knifed thumb smudges of tar-black ooze. We were doing okay, food-wise: salmon steaks, cheese-drowned Tostitos, frozen blueberries. We drank Black Label and Bailey’s-infused coffee. Some days we binged on Chinese food and pizza; more often we wandered the linoleum barefoot and mind-fucked, sniffling and twitching, having forgotten what hunger feels like.
And whenever we got bored we circled the neighbourhood spearing my brother’s campaign signs onto unsuspecting people’s lawns, just to fuck with them. Vote for Joshua Bishop, indeed. 
One night Kylie fled. I careened along shadowed boulevards in my brother’s minivan just after 3 a.m., wearing sweatpants and a pair of Santa Claus slippers, chain-smoking cigarettes to keep my headspace level. The night dew-misted my forearm hair from the open window. When my headlights slashed across a lawn three blocks over I glimpsed Kylie under an expansive, shadowed oak with thick, threatening arms. She was curled fetal, wearing red bikini bottoms, dollar store flip flops and my Garibaldi Elementary GRAD OF 2004 hoodie. As I lugged her limply off the grass a dog-walker in a peacoat paused on the sidewalk.
“She had a little too much to drink,” I explained. “We’re all good here.”
“And who are you to her, exactly?” he asked, cell phone palmed. “It looks like she needs some assistance.”
“We’re fine, honestly. I’m just taking her home.”
“I don’t know if that’s the best idea.”
Kylie moaned in my arms as I lift-shoved her into the passenger seat. Her legs slackly dangled towards the concrete as I gathered up her feet and slammed the door shut behind her. Peacoat man flapped his arms, distressed and honking.
“If you fuck with me,” I said. “I’ll kill your little dog and drink its blood.”
I don’t remember what he said after that, but I do remember the electric surge of hatred that blood-dumped through my veins. This man’s banal existence, his uncomplicated morality, the look of fearful revulsion on his face—all of these offended some feral version of myself I’d unleashed during those weeks. I battered my chest, squeezing out wild tears, and roared in his face until he retreated with his little dog yipping.
Kylie wore a thick-padded bra with metal crescents scooping under each fleshy handful. She whined as I undressed her, paranoid of the oil-like substance pooling on the walls and overflowing into the living room ceiling. I worked my fingers under each goose-pimpled boob, inhaled her chest glister. Kylie wasn’t mine exclusively, but our experiences were our own. I took her earlobe in my mouth, her weight supported in my arms, and worked it with my tongue like a soother. We’d tired of our porn-inspired routines and were finding creative ways to exploit each other’s bodies lazily, gluttonously. A tweaked nipple on mushrooms is like a chest-explosion, while a firmly gripped dick on acid can change your life. Cheek to arm pit, sole to shin, elbow to pelvic bone, we chest-banged and hugged, childlike, in the trenches of our sweat-soiled blankets.
Then we slept.  
Sometimes I get brain whispers from my former self, little buried guilt yelps from the Christian kid I used to be. He’s horrified. Kylie struggles to believe I used to be religious, that I used to keep a prayer journal, that I was once scandalized by swear words. She can’t visualize it, can’t reconcile it with the version of me that she knows: a hipster rich kid with no moral code to speak of. She can’t understand that it’s all the same impulse, that God is nothing more than the Drug of all Drugs, that the hardest thing I ever had to kick was Christianity. Driving by St. Catherine’s I’ve got multi-year histories flashing across my vision. Our youth pastor Trent Stonehouse sings at the front of the sanctuary, takes kids on missions trips to Tijuana and Brazil and the Downtown Eastside of Vancouver, and then there’s all the kids I knew—Amber, Turner, Paisley, Neil and Ty—they’re all memory-cached, worshipping with the Agape Soldiers onstage while I sway awkward in the pews and try to figure out how come I’m the only one who does’t seem to feel it. Sure, I’ve felt the Holy Spirit before—or at least I believed I felt it at the time—and I’ve been one of those ultra-pious kids seizing on the ground, overcome as the Church Moms lay blankets over our God-blissed teenage bodies. Slain in the spirit.
But spiritual awakenings wear off. Slowly, one day after the next, I felt the emotional intensity drain. Outside the context of the St. Catherine’s sanctuary all the meaning dribbled out until I had to go back, soul-hungry, for more. Being a disciple of Christ meant living this special type of life, meant elevating yourself from the mundanity. At Camp Evergreen, around the campfire, we sang “Jesus, I am yours” and two hours later Rachel Peachland gave me a hand job behind the girl’s cabin line, a frantic and gasp-filled spectacle in the shadows. I was a little perv, shame-soaked but undeterred, obsessed with girls but convinced that every lustful thought was a freshly disgusting sin, something to beg forgiveness for. Do you know how exhausting it is to be ashamed all the time? To spend your life hearing how sinful and hopeless you are without Jesus?
Turner used to say the whole point of grace is you don’t need to feel guilt, that God’s already forgiven you before you even dream up our next transgression.
But who said we need to be forgiven at all?
“If you could go back and be Christian again, would you do it?” Kylie asked, morning squinting in my brother’s bed, her voice grumbly from sixteen hours of sleep. I gripped sleepily at my dick while urine hammered into the shower drain.
“I think about that every day.”
“And?”
“Are we talking like a lobotomy-type solution here? Like would I have to give up part of my brain?”
“No, just say you believed again.”
“The thing is, to make that happen I’d have to give it up.”
“What?”
“My doubt. My fucking reason. I’d have to give up my whole personality.”
“Not necessarily.”
“Yes necessarily. Unless God fucking prances in here and goes ‘hey, Joel, I’m fucking real’, this shit isn’t going to happen.”
I slump into her lap. Kylie was born in a Burmese orphanage, got adopted by white Canadians. Didn’t find that out until three months into our thing, when I met her crazy Mom. She kept all that to herself, and I understood why. People project shit, put labels on you. Who wants to be the starving kid from one of those World Vision commercials? She didn’t want pity; she just wanted to be Kylie.
I liked her way more than I realized.
“But what if the thing with Trent never happened?”
“It wasn’t about him. I stopped going to St. Catherine’s way before all that shit in Mexico, before any of those other guys.”
“Do you think he raped anyone you know? Like anyone in the youth group?”
“Fuck, what’s gotten into you?”
“I’m just so curious. I’ve never met someone who knew a real child molester.”
“You talk like it’s a movie star or something.”
“Or a serial killer.”
“So what do you think? Do you think he was doing like pervy, Catholic-style shit?”
“Honestly, I don’t know.”
“But what do you think?”
“I mean they say he molested this Mexican kid, right? Or two of them? That’s why he got arrested originally, in Tijuana. But they never came up with any Canadian victims.”
“Who’s they?”
“Investigators or whatever. He was down there for eleven years years, and it’s kind of like why press charges and do all that work if he’s not even in Garibaldi?”
“Shit.”
“But eventually they figure he’ll be back, right? I mean, the Mexicans can’t keep him forever.”
“When is that going to be?”
“The system’s so corrupt down there. Guilty til proven innocent, all that.”
“Turner told me he got letters.”
“From Trent?”
“Yeah, a while back he was telling me stories about Trent. He told me the letter said ‘you can’t turn your back on God’ and ‘don’t let this be an excuse to lose your faith’, all this shit.”
“Are you serious?”
“From prison he was giving him a sermon!”
“Fuck.”
“I mean, we were smoking a joint but I’m pretty sure he was telling the truth. Wasn’t he like Trent’s little favourite? Do you think it was him Trent messed with?”
I’ve considered that plenty of times, but it’s different to say out loud.
“Trent had a weird thing with Paisley Troutman, one of the girls in the worship band. People were gossiping about that for years.”
“But doesn’t he fuck little boys?”
“Yeah, but maybe he’s just like a non-discriminating deviant, right? Just raping whoever, wherever. Dudes’ fucking evil.”
“I heard there’s some people that think he’s still innocent.”
I light a cigarette, roll across the bed and go looking for blow.
“I’m not one of them,” I say.
Kylie sat cross-legged and hungover in the minivan’s passenger seat, reorganizing her purse while we descended the Sea to Sky. Cliffs draped with steel netting loomed to our left. To the right was nothing but open, cloudless sky. The road slalomed along the mountain slope, twist-rising and falling just as quickly. Ocean air swirled around us. A grey thumb of stone emerged in the distance, thrusted up hitchhiker-style, with a few stubborn bushes defiantly alive atop it’s wind-blasted summit forty feet above the road.
The mansions along the highway—stilted and gleaming in the trees—reflected the Pacific’s blue glow from giant mirrored windows. These were the people in my brother’s voting district, who had proudly displayed his campaign signs so they would be visible for commuters passing through the construction progress below. Vote for Joshua Bishop.
No more.
“The last shit we got from Turner was dirty,” Kylie mumbled. “Fucking weak.”
“That wasn’t his regular guy.”
“Says him.”
A bored, sunburned teenager wearing a Solomon Development Ltd. uniform waved us off the highway, past some pylons and orange fencing, and towards the razed shoulder currently being paved. Steamrollers grumbled a few kilometres further on, while in front of us six men guided a crane-suspended concrete median into place. I parked beside a line of trucks facing oceanward, overlooking Howe Sound, and texted Turner. Within a few minutes he appeared, knuckle-rapping the window, and Kylie unlocked the sliding door behind her.
“You two’ve been voracious lately,” Turner said. “You’re outpacing my coworkers, even.”
Kylie ignored him, sullen.
“I’ve got five hundred here, that’s two for last time and three for now,” I said.
“And you’ve got time for a couple lines now?”
An ice-blue sky populated with drifting gulls appeared as I took my first hit. Their beak-tips were dolloped with bright red. I thumbed a nostril for leverage, snorted with all my might, and sucked back. It filled me like sunlight. Wave-crests built frothing and burst into chaos amidst the rocks below.
“That feels better, huh?” said Turner. “I’m gonna fire through my afternoon.”
“I don’t know how you do this dip-shit job, man.”
“Whatever.”
“I would feel like one of those historical Chinese guys they used to dynamite the tunnels, you know? Like some expendable pawn they use for the hard labour. A slave they can just blow up whenever they feel like.”
“Yeah, so what’s your fucking job, Bishop?”
Kylie dabbed residue on her gums, sucking her finger. The world continued outside our windshield, introduced a dangling silhouette to our view-scape. It took me a moment to take this character in: parachuting past with some magical floating canopy, he was trailing an unfurled sign that read NO OLYMPICS ON STOLEN NATIVE LAND while filming with a camera strapped to his wrist. He was wearing those stupid shoes with individual toes, the ones rich men wear, and spandex head to toe—like some gravity-defying ninja spirit. I almost laughed.
How long had he prepared for this moment? What did he imagine he would see, hanging suspended and superior over us? The afternoon wind carried him sideways, tilting.
“Look at that piece of shit,” said Turner. “Look at him flying high.”
On the way back to town, Kylie asked if we could swing by her friend Lauren’s place. She lived in one of the new townhouses by the highway, Garibaldi Estates, on the fifth floor.
“This bitch owes me like a hundred bucks,” Kylie said as we rode the elevator up. “She’s always doing shit like this, and I can’t let her get away with it. You know what I mean?”
I shrugged.
The hallway hung silent following Kylie’s door-battering, but after a minute or two the door rattled and opened. A girl wearing a short pink bathrobe leaned into view, her bed-shagged hair streaked a similar hue. Her eyes were half-closed.
“Uh huh,” she said.
“You gonna let us inside?” Kylie asked.
“I’ll come out’n talk,” she said, pained.
I pretended to ignore them while they argued in the hallway, and watched as a dishevelled crow shifted uncomfortably on the edge of the roof, its talons clicking, just outside the window. Kylie paced shouting while Lauren listened bored with her beautiful brown legs.
Eventually Kylie turned back to me, exasperated. “Let’s go, Joel.”
Once we got back on to the Juan de Fuca Hill she held out her palm, two chalky pills cradled in the creases.
“This is supposed to be boss stuff. It’s K. She didn’t have any cash.”
How can I capture that moment? Kylie halfway-swivelled against the seatbelt, her forehead salmon pink from the sun and her white palm-skin outstretched. The grassy bluffs leading up towards the towering dominance of Mount Garibaldi were stretched out behind her, floating and blurred, while within the carpeted boundaries of our little vehicle we were safety-bathed by the air conditioning. I swallowed the pill. We hurtled towards our future.
“Will you put some more signs up with me later?” I asked. “After?”
“Of course.”
“There’s still so many, babe.”
“We can put up as many as you want, babe.”
Sixteen years old I thumb-dabbed my goggles, donkey-kicking, my headphones tucked under my swim cap. The finals heat for the 100 butterfly at provincial championships, and I was the one standing in front of Lane 4. Ty was there, Sketch and Neil too. I spat air, flailed, my feet splashing on the tiles. I expected to win my whole life, always anticipated easy victory—what does that say about me? I had this daily suspicion that I was a little more interesting than everyone else, a little more talented. My brother Josh was the same way, and all during the campaign I wonder if he had any idea how wrong things could go, how easily his future would evaporate. Vote for Joshua Bishop. I can see his temp’s bemused face, the self-satisfied sneer, as he ruined my family’s life with every fucking word he spoke. As soon as my brother’s news went public, our family scattered into our own grief trajectories, none of us sure how to handle the sudden scrutiny. And before we could decide whether we forgave him, before we could prove to him that being a part of the Bishop family means more than some sex scandal, some political campaign, before my father could even talk to him, he was gone. The ocean will take us all, I figure, but we were left with his body, shower-dangling, at his mansion in Garibaldi. That house! White carpets like cat fur underfoot. This is where I belonged, not slave-waging away in Vancouver.
Underwater is where I feel best, dolphin-kicking streamlined. Life made sense at 16, when my evening revolved around 58 seconds of frenzied exertion. Fuck real life and the future and the present moment too because I’m suspended mid-dive, dripping, while around me the bleachers erupt with cheering. Ice-wind slashes my cheekbones and stings my eyes shut.
Rotting clumps of mown grass collected on my boots as I worked my way up the St. Catherine’s lawn, past the youth trailer in the parking lot, up towards the stained glass window at the apex of the sanctuary. As kids we played this game called Gestapo where the youth leaders would chase us through the streets of Garibaldi with flashlights while we raced from Diefenbaker Park to the safety of the church. I scanned the treeline for spectators, but I was alone. I was thinking about this thing Turner once told me, about how we’re all just energy morphing from one form to the next. In reality, he was the first one to ditch on Jesus. He was braver than I was, less scared of the social consequences, or maybe he was just more honest.
“When I die and go to Heaven, I’m going to walk into the throne room of God and I’ll have three simple words for him: what the fuck?” Turner told me, perched in the Sky Train window, when I asked him about why he wasn’t coming to church anymore.
“If you had kids, what could they do to stop you from loving them?” he asked me.
“Nothing, I guess.”
“So why are we worshipping a deity who routinely condemns whole swaths of society to Hell? It’s so fucking arbitrary, Bishop! You’re born in India, you’re fucked. You’re born in China, you’re fucked. But if you’re a white Christian dude, everything will be fine and you’ll be a happy little saved boy.”
I didn’t know what to say then, and I still don’t now.
“A God like that doesn’t deserve my love.”
The way Turner talked, he didn’t miss religion. He didn’t miss understanding everything, having that communal reassurance. He liked to be an outlier, a rebel, a heathen.
“You can’t spend your whole life pretending,” Turner said. “Sooner or later you have to admit we wasted our teenage years on a medieval crock of bullshit.”
All that meaning, all those years of prayer, all that struggling and learning—for what? I speared the first campaign sign firmly beside St. Catherine’s front entrance, another one beneath its stained glass, and the final one at the top of their hilly lawn. My brother’s plastic face smiling from each one. Then I sat, butt-damp in the grass, and lit a cigarette. My brother was 33 years old when he died, the same age they nailed Jesus to a fucking cross, but he wasn’t dying for any reason. He didn’t get to close his eyes knowing he’d made some huge sacrifice, knowing that he left the world a better place than when he arrived. My brother died tormented and hopeless, kicking against the porcelain, and who deserves that? How come he got hand-picked for that fate? I felt personally robbed of decades of experience, of the chance to see his face wrinkle, his voice change, his hair go white like Dad’s.
“I really wanted to believe in You,” I told the looming, dark church. “If I had a choice, I’d still be here. You know that.”
I couldn’t believe I was praying. I was still high.
“If there’s something more to this, something I’m missing…I guess what I’m saying is if you’re going to keep me around, You’re going to have to do something.”
I sat there quiet, wondering what God could do, short of flashing across the sky in all His radiance, to convince me of His presence. I heard this quote once, attributed to a 16th century hymn writer: “a God comprehended is not God”. If that’s true, then why even attempt to grasp the mystery? Why call out to Him, why pray, why devote yourself to a deity who can’t (or won’t) respond? When I was a kid I used to make little faith bargains, sending mental requests for God to manipulate the circumstances around me. (“If you really exist, make that kid put something in the garbage can as he walks by.”) Sometimes it even worked. It was like having an Almighty, imaginary friend. But now I’m an adult, a real person, I’ve read fucking Nietzsche. I won’t be so easy to convince. A warm feeling in my chest won’t be enough, a whispered voice deep in my psyche was completely inadequate. I needed something tangible, a Burning Bush-style sign, and I would accept nothing short of a miracle. Maybe my brother could bound out of one of his election signs, let me know this was all an elaborate dream sequence, or maybe Trent would materialize in front of me and explain what happened down in Mexico all those years ago. He’ll tell me our youth group’s implosion was part of some larger, mystical scheme, that St. Catherine’s has some continued role to play in my life. 
Or what? An angel! A demon! Anything. These sorts of visions end up in sermons and heartfelt testimonies, in parables. These experiences alter people’s entire lives, give them purpose and direction. Why not me? Why couldn’t I, just once, be allowed a glimpse of something beyond all this? Why couldn’t I be the one with the faith, the one who understands the light while everyone else stands in the dark?
“Will You speak to me?” I said, my voice trembling. “Are You there?”
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thetimeistwoam · 7 years ago
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Night Call
Takes place after 4:42am. Murdoc and Noodle go for a drive resolving nothing as usual
Noodle shut her eyes, falling back against the front door and working her bottom lip between her teeth. Alright, she couldn't leave Murdoc’s jacket on the stoop. It was too much of a mirror of that immature behavior she was determined to let them all know she'd grown out of. She swung the door back open, picked up the leather jacket, was about to go back inside, but upon turning found herself face to face with Murdoc himself. "Let's go." Noodle blinked at the extended, pale green hand, following its leatherclad arm upwards to the glinting red eye of Murdoc, his hair swaying slightly in the wind. "Go where?" She asked warily, backing up a little; there hadn't been much space between them, she having turned almost directly into the doorframe. "On a drive. Somewhere. I don't know, just not back in there," He gestured over his shoulder with his thumb, waggling the fingers of his other hand at her invitingly, "Put that back on," He didn't wait for her to do so, but rather took his jacket and tucked it around her shoulders as he'd done earlier; he now wore a similar leather one over his stripes. "And let's go," The hold Murdoc got around her closed fingers was forceful, he pretty much dragged Noodle to the car, though not like she couldn't have broken free if she so desired. Opening and shutting the door for and behind her, Murdoc rolled over the hood like the young-old man he was to get to the driver's side, and despite herself Noodle had to work her mouth very hard to keep from grinning. She'd gotten herself under control by the time Murdoc had thrown himself into the driver's seat. He started the engine, pausing to light a cigarette, then light hers, then pulled them out into the street. "Here," Murdoc held up the auxiliary cable; though new, the car wasn't exactly new. "Oh damn it, I left mine-," Noodle was patting at her pockets, which were actually Murdoc's pockets; typically her iPod was on her even when sleeping. "Get the spare in the glove box," Once again giving instruction only to follow it himself, Murdoc leaned over and banged open the glove box, retrieving an original 80GB iPod and dropping it into Noodle's hands. She smiled slightly as she plugged it in, looking through the endless lists of artists, many of which she recognized, many she did not. "Didn't know there was a spare." "I'm constantly losing the sodding thing. Only a matter of time until I lose this one too, but until then, we have music," Murdoc's lips curved into a grin as Noodle made her choice (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MV_3Dpw-BRY), the Sound filling the car, forcing them to roll down the windows and let in the icy air. He kicked the driving up a notch then, Noodle’s choice fitting perfectly with the dim streetlights and dark alleys just asking for it. By a normal driver's standards this was kicking it up by about a hundred notches; they sped through a tunnel so fast the echoing roar of the engine almost drowned out the music, the turn back out into the night nearly tipping the car. It being so late, or being so early to be more accurate, the streets were empty. Murdoc blazed trails though the entire city, over bridges, through fancy neighborhoods, finally reaching the outskirts and continuing into the countryside. They sped through the small forest overlooking the city out into the farmlands past, Noodle hanging as far out the window as she could to stare up at the sky where the stars were brightest. They went far, but with Murdoc driving it didn't seem too long of a drive, and finally they began to slow down, having come to a dead end on whatever country road they were on. Noodle plopped back into her seat, looking at Murdoc inquisitively. "You didn't bring me out to partake in one of your weird-ass Satanic rituals, did you?" Noodle asked, resulting in a scoff from Murdoc. "Noodle please," He shook his head, turning off the car and twirling the keys into his pocket, "I couldn't trust anyone but myself with something like that," He winked, leaving Noodle to sit on that in the time it took for him to open her door. She then realized that he'd opened her door. "I can get it, you know-," "Yeah whatever, different times, different habits," Murdoc was lighting another cigarette, already walking off towards the end of the road and the beginning of a field, where a low hanging chain was evidently supposed to double as some kind of barrier. A rusted red and white sign hung on it bearing the words: Private Property, NO TRESPASSING. Murdoc's evil grin stretched across his face; he kicked the sign with a Cuban heeled boot. "Mm, would you look at that," He was building up the suspense, but it was all sort of ruined by Noodle just walking over the chain in extreme nonchalance, shrugging at Murdoc's gaping, appalled look and continuing on through the field. He shut his mouth and ran a hand through his hair, somewhat angry that she hadn't waited on him to build up the moment. If you were gonna break a law, any law, no matter how small, you do it right. He had half a mind to run back to the car and burn rubber out of there, leaving her stranded, but didn't want to deal with whatever repercussions there'd be when she made it back to the house. Therefore, he followed after her. He would at least decide where they stopped. A ways into the field, a delipidated chainlink fence stood, guarding a sharp cut off of the hill into a gorge below. Far off below were the twinkling lights of the city, and above the twinkling lights of the stars. Multi-colored to silver. Artificial to natural. There was something extremely poignant there, though he couldn't think how to put it in lyricism yet. He'd have to come back later. Murdoc leaned against the chain, surprised it didn't just lean with him under his weight. He watched Noodle for a bit; she was off in the middle of the field, staring up at the stars with her hands in his pockets. Whether she was purposefully milling around out there to annoy him, he didn’t know, but it was a few minutes of stargazing, or whatever she was doing, before she finally came and joined him on the fence. "Got one for me?" She indicated his cigarette, and Murdoc gave her one, feeling some of those bad feelings he'd felt earlier on the stoop as he did so. Another small silence as they both smoked it away, dawn slowly growing brighter. It was still dark, though. Dark enough. "Smoking is bad, you know," He couldn't just not say anything about it; or, he could, but it made the bad chest feelings nag more insistently; even still, a statement like that coming from him sounded sarcastic any way you looked at it, maybe he’d even meant it to. Noodle laughed then, looking at him comically. "Just saying, love, doesn't seem to fit with the whole, 'perfect self' routine you have going on." Noodle laughed a bit more to herself, shaking her head and looking out at the city, gripping the fence with her free hand. She didn't want to reply to that. He'd never been the type to settle, however. "Neither does breaking down over pancakes, come to think of it. Or being up so late making pancakes, for that matter. Or the not sleeping for more than an hour a time deal, going out late, sneaking into 2D's room when he's not there to rifle through his pillboxes-," "So what are you trying to say?" Noodle spat, finally having been drawn out; they were both hotheads, a fact both of them were acutely aware of. "What I'm trying to say is look at you," Murdoc brushed Noodle's hair away from her profile, causing her to instinctivly flinch away and push back his hand. "How long has it been since you've slept more than four hours a night?" He asked, letting his hand drop; Noodle glared at him. "Suddenly concerned?" That sounded whiny; she glared herself into a unfocused fog. Murdoc laughed to himself, shaking his head and staring out through the links in the chain. "Not suddenly." Too caring? He inhaled deep, feeling his face get slightly warm. It was Noodle's turn to laugh now, and Murdoc threw her a glare when she did, anger nipping at his insides, like it always did. "I'm not your fucking dad, Noodle, never was-," "Oh believe me, I know," Noodle cut him off, deeply inhaling on her cigarette, using it to collect her thoughts a bit. They weren’t her parents. None of them. But it was times like these, times like staying up till 4:42am to make pancakes, that had her hating the lot of them. Because she knew, she just knew, that she would’ve done things differently. She would’ve done things, for one; outside of actual band activities, recording, touring, and the like, she didn’t have strong memories of them. When the four had been at home, they all did their own thing. She’d raised herself, basically, and was currently feeling that hatred any child would at what was supposed to be a father figure, but was really the exact opposite. For some reason that annoyance seemed to manifest itself most deeply in Murdoc. Why? Because he was the oldest? The most intelligent? ...Intelligent to an extent, anyway. She didn't even know, herself.   "You think the meditation and shit counteracts something like this?" Murdoc flicked her cigarette with his own, and she shrugged, drawn out of her thoughts. "A bit funny, I do think, that you take such pride in your spiritual health, and physical to an extent, yet still need a cigarette every now and then." "How could I not, being around-," "Three morons like us, right," Murdoc finished, shaking his head and puffing out some more smoke. "2D and Russel aren't morons," Noodle said, quitely yet still full of venom; he shut his eyes, alright, THAT one might've hurt just a little. He watched the embers of his cigarette, an orange glow in the dark, took another puff with a new gust of cold air blowing right through his jacket. "Don't see either of them here now," Murdoc finally said, grinning slightly to himself at being right in this no matter what she may try and say. There was nothing for Noodle to say, however. It was a true statement. She couldn't picture trespassing into a field and stopping for a smoke against a chain link fence overlooking the city with anyone but Murdoc, to be completely honest, and she hated that truth as much as she liked it. There was a silence, during which both of them finished their cigarettes then turned to lean against the fence. They were facing the sunrise; the whole sky was now a sort of dusky purple, the first rays of morning bleeding in orange. Noodle itched to light another cigarette, for without one there was the pressure to focus more attention on each other. Murdoc seemed perfectly comfortable, but she'd been exuding a vulnerability their entire time together that she wasn't at all fond of. Yet she didn't know what to do to get rid of it. It's not like it'd be proper to just suddenly start bragging about how she wasn't this searching, lost girl he seemed to think she was. Didn't he? She resisted laughing to herself; who WASN'T inferior to Murdoc? Still, she'd always thought they were sort of on the same level, hoped he felt that way too. She realized now she really wasn't sure what he thought of her. "Breakfast?" He suddenly broke the silence, causing Noodle to flinch slightly, she'd been so lost in thought. In typical fashion he was ending any potential breach into the gray area that was their conflicts and emotions. Noodle glared at him, even though he wasn't looking, before sighing and giving a shrug. Maybe it was the best way. Maybe it was the only way even; was there anyone even alive who’d ever had a heart to heart with Murdoc? She laughed slightly at the thought.  "Guess I'm a little hungry." "Since the pancakes didn't turn out?" There was laughter in his voice, and despite it all Noodle couldn't help but smile a bit as well. She gave him a shove in the shoulder, and there was some laughing and pushing about as they made their way back to the car. It got a bit awkward when Murdoc put his arm around her shoulder, a friendly enough gesture had the two of them actually been friends. He let go quickly, coughing a bit to avoid an awkward silence and not bothering to open her door this time. Noodle rested her arms against the open window frame as they reversed, enjoying the cold air against her hot face, focusing her attention on the steadily disappearing stars and growing daybreak. She felt a tap on her leg, turning to see Murdoc once again holding out the auxiliary cable, still attached to his spare iPod. She took it with a small smile.
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doomedandstoned · 7 years ago
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Texas Doom Crushers
DESTROYER OF LIGHT
Unleash Chamber of Horrors!
~By Stephanie V. Cantu~
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This summer, DESTROYER OF LIGHT released a doom masterpiece, capturing an atmosphere of cold dungeon dwellings that moan of sorrowful riffs and vocal passion. ‘Chamber of Horrors’ (2017 - Heavy Friends Records) successfully reaps raw emotion and is dark in tone, lyrical content, and musical temperament. The cover artwork by Adam Burke perfectly sets the atmosphere for the record’s journey into torment and terror.
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I would especially recommend any fans of OM, Yob, and High On Fire to check out this album and give it a good listen. The Austin, Texas band has taken on a natural evolution of sound, a leap in wisdom and mastery, showing the artistic intelligence as it has instinctively progressed since their 2012 debut. As if being revealed fresh from the Veil, the new LP exudes mystery and ethereal qualities that remind me of occult gatherings and tribal sacrifice. Seven tracks clock in at 45 minutes, with the opening track beginning our hell-sleigh ride into the dark descent of the Chamber of Horrors.
WHISPERS INTO THE THRESHOLD
Chamber of Horrors by Destroyer of Light
The album introduction blends theatrics and instrumental tension in true doom metal fashion. The mounting pressure and slow climb of the guitar and drums sets the mournful fate that is to befall. Clanging chains that oppress your limbs rattle about, promising no salvation as sharp Whispers Into The Threshold speak evil incantations into your ear.
INTO THE SMOKE
Chamber of Horrors by Destroyer of Light
A riff born in Iommi’s graveyard breaks the clouds of mist at your ankles as you step Into The Smoke. Enter hypnosis, with sludge vox reminiscent of Mike IX Williams from Eyehategod, as rhythmic drone progressions rehash everything we love about traditional doom metal song structure. When the singing aspect of frontman Steve Colca's vocal performance comes to light, we hear an introspective sorrow that is quite distinct from the torment of the sludgey verses. We find here a soulful voice taking on qualities of Middle Eastern influence, containing tones similar to mantra chanting. The guitar leads are awesome on this one, too, even jamming through the vocal verses. Destroyer of Light is not afraid to experiment musically, while still keeping very true to proper song structure and development.
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THE VIRGIN
Chamber of Horrors by Destroyer of Light
Incense vibes dominate this track, bringing us into prayer for the soul of The Virgin that is to be placed upon the altar. Sacrificial rites and hooded robes are the occasion, and if you have a flaming torch at hand it would do quite well. I particularly enjoy the angry vocal outbursts that contrast effectively with the soothing singing sections. This type of delivery reminds me of King Diamond when he does alternate expressions of different characters, always keeping things thematic. Songs like this construct a pathway for visionary journeys to take place through lyrical storytelling.
In this case, we’re led into the crypt for a sacrifice, and we hear twin harmonies of agony from both Steve Colca and doom vocalist Suzy Bravo of Witchcryer. The combination of male and female vox on this one adds a majestic value to the cinematic nature of this track. We hear the cries of the virgin intensify in torment as the ritual progresses. Heavy doom and witch sacrifices bring the blood, making this record a winner already, just three tracks in.
There is a spiritual ring to this one, creating an atmosphere conducive to ancient meditation and stoner groove. Destroyer of Light keeps it heavy and super tradish, making an honorary ode to doom metal, while still remaining fresh. Can’t stress enough the perfect alchemy that balances these new tracks. Destroyer of Light demos prowess and musical chemistry in producing soundscapes that evoke emotion and transport you to their realm.
TWILIGHT PROCESSION
Chamber of Horrors by Destroyer of Light
We have here a complimentary groove of rhythm and lead guitar trade-offs, a sort of slow funeral transition resembled by this melancholic guitar segue. After the death of the virgin in the previous track, we allow the heaviness to sink in with this soothing, bluesy Twilight Procession.
LUXCRUSHER
Chamber of Horrors by Destroyer of Light
This has to be my favorite song on the record. Steve Colca shows his versatile prowess in vocal delivery on this trademark Destroyer of Light banger. There’s a unique flair to the vocals, with an underlying primordial rage seeping through the verses. At times, it can almost sound like the singing is in some cryptic, ancient language. The stoner mantra and incense vibes return, furthering the meditative groove we heard earlier on the album. Destroyer of Light brings down the Eye of Ra in this LuxCrusher and desert vibes go arguably further when we enter subtle Egyptian territory on the five-string at certain key moments.
We’re given steady, hypnotic rhythm guitar breakdowns interwoven with electric leads, drum fills, and sonic distortion as the track unravels. The bass brings a distinct depth and richness that complements the thick, heavy atmosphere of sound. I particularly enjoy the lyrical writing on this one. The words betray a certain wisdom that comes from an intimate knowledge of these otherworldly dimensions.
Midnight worship at the shrine Sonic ritual slowing time Eyes behind the altar gaze You're pulled into an altered haze
PRISONER OF ETERNITY
Chamber of Horrors by Destroyer of Light
Before us is an ode to those ancient ways of mysterious alchemy. A potion of immortality has claimed our frontman, who stands before us as a Prisoner of Eternity. Centuries pass us by in this Destroyer of Light track, as we hear the words of a sorrowful doomed fate.
Is there a way to die? Centuries pass me by, empires rising, falling All who I loved are dead; I hear the voices calling Oh god, just let me die, can't stand eternal waiting
The drums take spotlight in this song, with every cymbal clash and snare hit adding a sort of aggression. The guitars sing in harmony, as a well-composed orchestra of doom takes over. Every instrument adds a masterful varnish as it chimes in, setting this band apart in musical refinement. There is vibrato in the guitars that adds such a wicked appeal, triggering a palpable spine tingle as it creeps its way up your back. We also get a primo axe solo towards the end of the track, just before the finishing vocals lay us down to die. All in all, there is no band that compares to the perfect fusion of stoner and doom that Destroyer of Light conjures.
BURIED ALIVE
Chamber of Horrors by Destroyer of Light
A slow doom crusher closes the record, imbuing wisdom upon our fragile minds as we faintly cling to life...in the Chamber of Horrors. The opening verses move us steadily along before we become Buried Alive into a grave of heavy sound. Bow before the Altar of Damnation and rebuke your righteousness, as you realize the Earth will soon be your tomb. Haunting lyrics promise no salvation for our end as the record moves into completion:
You dread of dying but you’re the living dead
Stop wasting time Just kill yourself No need to live You’re no messiah
God’s not your friend Until the end You're all alone Buried alive
We hear some of the most vicious vocalizations of the album on this track, characterized by Steve's monstrous, low-growling incantations. The song ends with the sounds of a dungeon door falling heavier upon our fates.
Destroyer of Light is:
Steve Colca (guitar, vocals) Keegan Kjeldsen (guitar) Kelly "Penny" Turner (drums)
Chamber of Horrors was mixed by Matt Meli at Orb Recording Studios in Austin and mastered by James Plotkin.
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Buy Destroyer of Light’s ‘Chamber of Horrors’ vinyl here.
I’m lucky to have had the opportunity to witness this band’s magic several times, as they tour very often. Their stage performance is an Orange amp worship ritual and a séance of frequencies. Destroyer of Light just completed a 2017 summer tour run with Goya that went through the Southern Bible Belt and Midwestern United States, making a pit stop at the Electric Funeral Fest in Denver.
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You can catch Destroyer of Light on the road with DUEL in just a matter of weeks, leading up to the Stoned Meadow of Doom Fest this fall:
Sept. 27th - Dallas, TX (Renos Chop Shop) Sept. 28th - Oklahoma City, OK (Blue Note) Sept. 29th - Lawrence, KS (Replay Lounge) Sept. 30th - Sioux Falls, SD (Stoned Meadow of Doom Fest)
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Follow The Band.
Get Their Music.
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Destroyer of Light in Portland (film by Billy Goate)
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sidpah · 6 years ago
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Sutra of the Magick Kingdom Part 3 – Turmoil and Socialization
1.
I crave for everything to be as it once was when I ate to gluttonous satisfaction and felt neither sickness nor guilt, when vacation meant retreat from responsibility. When each realization of waking proved a wonder to still be here in the land of contentment and autonomous youth.  There’re no more vacations. There’s only one life – one consistent set of factors transposed over a colorfully lurid backdrop.  I cannot escape my karma.  
“Discontent is the first necessity of progress,” said Edison.  “If necessity is the mother of invention, discontent is the father of progress,” said David Rockefeller. But it needn’t be this kind of progress. Rather the mother of spiritual yearning.  All things are in their right place and all people need just what they have. The symptoms are themselves, cure for our ills. If we can only recognize them. These are my most valuable souvenirs...  
2.
It was merely my suppressed aspirations for romance and a fairy tale future, a myopic life with dream wife who had no personality or will distinct from my own.  A half-mill dream mansion with studio in which to record my award-winning compositions for happily ever after.  In this fantasy I never age, there are no bills, no illnesses, no injuries, no quarrels, no politics or society, none of the simple but sad growing apart that real people always do.  No accidental pregnancies, no prostate cancer, wrinkles or colostomy bags. Just the certainty that it was my fate. That these years were simply preparation for the spectacle.  
Part of the Magic was music. The internal metronome wound down, gears stripped silent by theory and repetition. There’s no more music left in me. It’s all just muscle memory and fading echoes. Repeating fragments of melody, humming lonely cadenzas to hear themselves one last time.  To reminisce the years when they were fresh and vital. To prove to themselves their own waning validity. Rather than humor them, put an end to this roving mind!  Put an end to this callused body!
The essence of each microbeing is the same as the macro comprised of the myriad micros.  
3.
Fast rides, puffy steam train smoke, hangliding toes snapping twigs off tops of animated trees. Arms so full of fluid they split where the seams would be. Parents touching their vacant ghost.  Digging for reassurance; bleeding the anemic hole. Finding a response I don’t know to look for.  Dead-burden cleaving them in two, faces splitting at cheekbone and temple to reveal sad withered mask.
I misread the girl’s love for her frail big sister. Her joy in relieving an ounce of her parents’ load. The joy in her mitzvah. The near car crash, side-swipe, airplane falling through bible-belt homestead roof. Does she wonder why she escaped? Does her big sis wonder why she’s the one confined to her battery chair? Why her sister walks on skinny little candycane legs? Did one nearly drown in the amniotic bath? The sea of vacant wonder?  
Amphibious mermaids, pulling rabid souls under the skin of American streets, grilled on American barbeques, shredded on American teeth, digested in American acid, American nitrates reborn as footlong tumors, thick as 70s porno cock, undigested in capped, false-front porcelain dental work paid for by America’s favorite guilty pleasure – the new American pastime – jerking-off in a dark basement wishing you were the specimen of male virility glorified on your strident television set.  Scarred starlets bowing to your immensity in all its muttony prowess. You are god to her dakini – you are sultan to her concubine – you are slave master to her field-working back striped with discipline. A lasting record of her misconduct.  
White spires or antennae of blinking scepters in the murk, ladders to an A-Frame heaven. The baby sleeps under canopy and rolls herself to her vacant room.  The pageant docked for the evening…
Against the pale reflections of battalions, cadets and generals presenting arms and flashing with pinpoint spotlight accuracy at the switchboard operator’s command, socks brown and thick with sloppy mud.  Ears filled with foghorns blasting brain pulp from the inside out. Helmet cracks down its seam and falls impotent on the tarmac.  
Castle covered in chameleon skin shimmering with pixie dust spells an adolescent dream.  These families remind me of fatherly arms around meager shoulders. “I think most of the ones in that category are unbalanced anyway.” Balance is a mirage. Static crackles and EMTs on the verge of their own private heart attacks unclasp chains and plastic pressure straps.  I have my broom and smiling Hispanic gentleman on a rolling wastebasket wiling away the evening passing pleasantries with strangers.  
Two rolling tongues nearly entwined in empty hallways.  I’m taking sides again.  I don’t care about being right. I care only about the other person, the antagonistic person, being debased.  Being shot down and struck impotent.  
Why does every corridor of recollection bring me to conflict and confrontation when those are the things I despise most? The picturesque scenery is epic, finding myself contemplating the explosion of a distant hotel, filling the horizon with dust and severed heads – Air pressure due to the acceleration of an incoming monorail blew out every window and imploded each unfortunate eardrum deafening the best technicians in the world.
4.
A nondescript woman stalks a small vending machine… No one’s around to see her… coin relinquished to slot – Ratchet grinds – Belly swells… Candy-coated babies emerge?
 5.
I dropped a penny.  Stamped down to end its roll but glared up at me tails. Shit luck.  Better to turn it around before it gets maleficent. Picked up the bad-luck coin and rubbed it between thumb and forefinger, sinking all my negative evil energy into the copper face. Then to cast a pure spell, I transmuted all that negativity into good luck, and left the penny on a counter heads-up for someone in need of a miracle.  As so many of us here are. Who would hope to find such an oasis in a hospital?
6.        
Today I became a brethren Muslim simply by donning a new hat. Funny the power of accessories. No hat and everyone mistakes me for Jew. Add a kufi and even Muslims bow to me with reverent “Salaam.”
7.
Only for a second could he understand his own inner monologue. Adding conscious subtext is like typing a story on canvas and then painting over it in hopes of subliminally catching the observer’s imagination.
These curls and slashes are positively meaningless. Not only to any non-English speaking personality, but even to many of the “White Picket Fence” persuasion. For the droll dripping structure is the antithesis of clear iconoclasty. It’s anarchy due to the love of personal back-story. No one else could tell your story but you can interpret it like me and you, and all who encounter the fleeting tale. Drop anchor and battle in its delicious warmth. Cinnamon flatbread warmth. Toasted almonds tossed with sugar and cardamom.
 8.
Riding bus – near window – vacancy on my right. Thirty, forty bodies file in, very few stand out in my eye. Consider rising to give a broken couple my seat, and with it, a fleeting chance at togetherness, when a young thing in black dress, both low and high at the correct ends, slides in at my side. With a flutter I’m not proud of, I opt to stay my ground and enjoy the ride.
Not ten seconds later, the good Samaritan she turns out to be, drifts to the rear to make room for a large mass of woman, a great gristly bursting mountain of human skin. My hopes dashed even before they’d fully formed. I sulk, squishing against the glass, hoping the bus driver is on amphetamines.
A few minutes into the ride the woman resurrects the age-old ice-cracker – “Where are you from?” By accent, I’m informed she’s not a local. I respond congenially and return the serve. “Wales” she answers. Her hubby emerges from the shadow of the rear stairwell. He introduces himself with a similar tongue.
In truth, it was a wonderful conversation I likely never would have managed with the pretty thing who was kind enough to do that which I wasn’t. Her and I would have shared little more than awkward silence in the intermittent lamp-lit dark. Trying not to touch one another’s arm, lest it be misconstrued, or lay our hands on the same inch of seat, and not breathe too loudly or throatily or fart or sneeze or snort or let our stomachs groan. Or maybe only I would worry about those things while she remained entirely unaware of the horny specter to her left.
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spotlightsaga · 8 years ago
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Kevin Cage of @spotlightsaga reviews… American Gods (S01E02) The Secret of Spoon Airdate: May 7, 2017 @americangods Ratings: 0.710 Million :: 0.30 18-49 Demo Share Score: 8.75/10
*********SPOILERS BELOW*********
There was quite the uproar over the polarizing reception of Bryan Fuller, Michael Green & David Slade’s premiere episode of the small screen adaptation of the novel ‘American Gods’. For me, it felt like the trio was oversetting the stage and throwing psychedelic-tinged visuals and buckets of blood, introducing character after character without giving it much substance. But 'The Secret Of Spoons’ is packed with both psychedelic goodness, heavy world building backstories, and is literally teeming with substance. I calls 'em like I sees 'em. Ya heard me?
They say if you want your audience to stay put, you not only have to stay consistent, but you have to grab them by the balls (that lines going to haunt me when I run for president in 2020). 'American Gods’ doesn’t just grab you by the balls in 'The Secret of Spoons’, it literally grabs the whole human undercarriage, with one or two fingers in the ass and all. Oh, is that too graphic for you? Then your watching the wrong show. The pulpy storytelling remains and Orlando Jones gives us a fired up, very much WOKE Mr Nancy who sticks out like a kaleidoscope colored tarantula on a slave ship coming to America. 'Oh you don’t know your black yet?’ Nancy barks at the men of color shackled to the ship going through a thosand emotions at once. Shame inspires major events, but fear does too… And from fear, Anger is born, and its fear and anger with a sliding scale of everything in between that drives would be slave turned sacrificial rebel to burn 'that motherfucker down’. While 'Anansi’ or Mr Nancy tells the slaves a somewhat accurate depiction of 'Coming To America’, the details are not all there and he tricks them into sacrificing themselves for him. God mode, baby.
This was a fantastic introduction to the African God Anansi AKA Mr Nancy, a mythical god well preserved by our Caribbean brothers and sisters, particularly the notoriously culture copied Jamaican 🇯🇲 people and the culture-rich, female strong country of Trinidad & Tobago 🇹🇹. He’s slick, talks the talk, walks the walk, and preaches quite the pulp to the masses. His intentions are are both transparently clear and opaque as unclear can be. He is knowledgeable and speaks truths from his solar plexus… That is when he’s not a colorful spider. Do spiders have solar plexus? Maybe, possibly this one. The wreckage of the boat washes ashore and Anansi crawls off a plank in spider form. At first the scene felt disjointed, excellently executed, but still disjointed… After the episode ends we see there is a theme tied throughout its duration. Immigration and color, technicolor, and the things that separate us as Americans are the very things that bond us together, like it or not.
'The Secret of Spoon’ slows down the pacing and let’s us take in these characters, their movements, their quirks, the nuances of their very being… This is exactly the type of pace and character work that I love, especially if you are going for a psychedelic aesthetic and perspective. THIS is my forté… So those who *attempted* to clock me last week, I told you to be patient. I WILL NEVER praise a series, even a favorite, when praise is not well earned or righteously deserved… But when it is, I will bow gently. I suspect this wasn’t an easy story to start, especially with the drop in number of episodes… But now that the characters with less density and foundation, such as the fractal eye candy Technical Boy have been introduced we are getting to the actual 'meat and potatoes’ of The Old Gods.
We see there is core narrative of a battle between The Old and New Gods brewing, bubbling to the surface… But there is still much mystery behind certain Gods and Goddesses’ intentions. Bliquis, for one, remains a huge question mark, continuously enveloping both women and men into her vagina which leads them to a place of psychedelic and sexual ecstasy, as we see her original date full on hard with his legs spread open taking a ride into a starlit constellation that resembles a vagina. She’s taking in a lot of 'victims’ and apparently using the internet, which is ruled by Technical Boy… Could New be using Old in a strange strategical power move? Ever taken 5-MeO-DiPT? It’s an intense sexually charged, erotic psychedelic tryptamine that induces a journey much like what we see here. It’s actually a favorite of mine (in the correct dosage, which is vital with the drug otherwise known as 'Foxy’ or it’s less intense, lighter body load sister Chem 'Moxy’). I bring this is up because the scene where her date is floating in the spacey landscape is exactly where the chemical takes you. If these Mythical God’s were real, they would work through chemistry, and since I fancy myself a modern shaman, these connections are made to best my understanding… And maybe those who have a deep understanding with spiritual journeys through varieties and psychedelic chemicals.
As Shadow shops for a few items Mr Wednesday gives him to prepare for their long long road trip in his trusty car, Betty (one of which doesn’t like highways and enjoys slow rides and taking in the beauty), he’s ambushed into the television isle by Media, a New God, who manifests on an myriad of TV’s in the form of Lucille Ball. Gillian Anderson has always been great, but I can’t recall her playing such an out of the box, spot-on, character actress before. She looks, talks, sits, and presents herself like a toned down, real life Lucille Ball… Not the 'I Love Lucy’, 'cameras on’ Lucille Ball, but the woman herself dressed and prepped to film. It’s quite astonishing and I can’t wait to see who she pops up as next. Media spits rhetoric and principles that are far too close to that of Technical Boy, the man who just attacked Shadow and left him a bloody mess. She promises to never hurt him and says that men like him end up in suicide… And that she’s trying to prevent that. If you ask me, none of these bitches are to be trusted. With great power (old or new), comes great manipulation.
Shadow & Mr Wednesday continue their trip to Chicago where they meet The Slavic Zorya Sisters, 2/3 of which we see with our very eyes. Cloris Leachman gives us everything as Zorya Vechernyaya, the wise fortune telling leader of the family. Her quiet, reserved sister Zorya Utrennyaya is played by one of my favorite faces on television, FX Baskets’ Martha Kelly. She’s perfectly cast, but I’m partial to her and her work anyway. I will always love everything she does… Capturing a naive vulnerability that she allows people to use for their advantages. The third sister sleeps through the entire episode, only to call out from her bedroom to see if everything is alright.
Their brother, Czenobog, needs no introduction. He’s been represented in media many times before including the evil monster in 'Fantasia’. Wednesday needs both him and his hammer… Not his brother who represents light. Czenobog is played by the legendary Peter Stormare who chain smokes and speaks his Eastern European dialect in a menacing deadpan manner. He talks about his brother representing light and him representing dark, their lifelong fight, and ultimately both of them turning the same color of grey, making their fight irrelevant… Making color irrelevant; A nice nod, tie in, and juxtaposition to the opening scene where we see the many different ways and struggles that Americans eventuality made it to this country… Some shackled to boats, some shackled to dirty streets, but all shackled to a struggle that has defined us as individuals many generations down the line. Czenobog is a dangerous man, a man who does not give any fucks, and wages Shadow’s life on a game of Checkers that Shadow ultimately loses. How that will play out? We’ll have to find out next week, but this episode left me ravenous for more. If I had access to all the episodes, I wouldn’t have stopped. Clearly 'American Gods’ just had trouble setting its original stage, because now, just in its second episode, its firing on all cylinders… A sign that bodes well for the remaining 6 episodes of the series that now has my full attention and enthusiasm.
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ciaossu-imagines · 8 years ago
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So, I’m kicking off Reborn Day with a little fandom meme! The meme used is here and I hope you enjoy the little thoughts - I’d love to hear anyone’s opinions on who’d they have chosen for these questions as well! It’s so interesting to hear the differing opinions on characters in the fandom, especially since the fandom in large has gotten really good about accepting different views of the characters!
which character is the most punctual
Lal Mirch is always early and always by at least ten minutes. Not only was it something she learned was desirable from an early age but her military training definitely drilled the need for punctuality into her. She refuses to not only be late but demands to be a bit early, just in case. Being late is almost a fear to her, honestly, because she’s learned and seen, through her time with the military, the repercussions and harm being late or not meeting a scheduled deadline can bring about.
which character is the most political
Oregano surprisingly is very political. She has strong political opinions and beliefs, leaning a bit to the left. Tsuyoshi, as well, is rather political, though mostly on issues he really cares about. However, neither one of them are the type to be loudly political or to really discuss politics in polite company. They have to really feel strongly about an issue or a politician to discuss them in public with someone they’re not close to.
which character is the most likely to want children
Haru, unsurprisingly, wants a big family someday. She loves children and would like several of her own. Even if she ends up with a large family though, she’ll be that parent who always invites other people’s kids over as well and always spoils every child on the block and treats them all like her own. Adelheid, as well, would really like children someday, though she’d prefer a smaller family, only one or two children. As far as males go, Ryohei would also really want kids. He does love children, which is definitely a factor in his decision, but he also feels like it’s expected and something he should be striving to attain as an adult - get married, get a great job, have children, live happily. He feels that’s the game plan he should be trying to achieve ideally.
which character likes pineapple on their pizza
M.M. Ken will eat her pizza (he’ll really eat anything), though no one else in the Kokuyo Gang will. They all firmly believe that pineapple doesn’t belong on pizza or just dislike pineapple. It’s actually one of the main reasons she grew so fond of Hawaiian pizza - most people don’t like it and won’t eat it on her.
which character drives too fast
This is a difficult question as it’s not only a matter of who drives the fastest - quite a few of the characters do. Dino and Skull both drive fast, always at least twenty miles above the posted speed limit, but both of them are also extremely good and safe drivers. Lussuria and Zakuro both also drive really fast - however, those two are rather poor drivers, either not paying enough attention to the road (Lussuria) and talking on their phones or putting on makeup while driving or falling prey to road rage (Zakuro). They’re definitely hazardous to not only their health but others health while on the road.
which character is the most likely to be a smoker
Aside from the obvious - Gokudera and G., who both have been shown smoking - I feel like Shamal smokes when he drinks too much. Gamma and Lancia both have the occasional smoke, though neither are heavy smokers - it’s more a casual thing, when they drink or when they get really stressed or need to unwind and think.
which character would go vegan
Shitt P. would have no issues with going vegan. The only reason she doesn’t is because Adelheid objects so strongly, refusing to believe Shitt P. can have a healthy, balanced diet while being a vegan. Aria also went through a vegan phase and Lambo could easily be convinced into becoming a temporary vegan, if the person talking about it seemed convincing enough. He’d be quick to abandon veganism though since it’s rather difficult to follow.
which character is a pop music fan
Kyoko and Haru definitely love pop music and have definitely made fans out of I-Pin and Chrome. Tsunayoshi, Yamamoto, Reborn, Skull, and Dino are also secret fans of pop music and most of the characters are likely to sing along with something really catchy, with very few exceptions.
which character is a showoff
Lambo and Skull tie for the spot of biggest show-off. They need to be the center of attention, they need to have everyone paying attention to them and seeing their accomplishments. That’s how they seek validation, often without realizing that that’s what they’re doing. Lussuria often is accused of being a show-off, though he’s actually not. People just often mistake his flashy personality for being a show-off, when he actually doesn’t care about whether people acknowledge his strength and talents or not. Levi A. Than, on the other hand, does have a tendency to show off and does it for the attention. He needs recognition, craves it like a drug. Bluebell and Nosaru both tend to be show-offs when they’re children, though Nosaru grows out of it as he ages and Bluebell mostly grows out of it as well, only acting like a show-off around Byakuran, because of a bit of a crush she has on him.
which character is the most religious/spiritual
Giotto was very religious, as was Knuckle, quite obviously. Kikyo is very spiritual, though he doesn’t make a big deal about it and Gamma’s a very lax though practicing Catholic. Timoteo really enjoys the idea of god and religion but at the same time, often finds himself doubting, so he tries to avoid church and religious pondries.
which character skips/skipped classes often
If we’re going with a character currently in school, it’s a tie between Julie and Gokudera. Julie simply has no interest in school and often only goes because Adelheid makes him. Gokudera usually does his best to attend, if only because it means he can spend more time with Tsuna and his other family members but honestly, he’d rather be anywhere other than class and sees no issue with leaving school early or showing up late. It’s actually pretty funny because Gokudera’s mentor, Shamal, skipped a lot of classes back when he was in school too because he simply found school too boring and not enough fun to really be troubled about attending.
which character is the meanest
Fran is definitely the meanest character. He’s deliberately mean sometimes but the scariest and meanest thing about him is that he’s just so casually, carelessly cruel almost all the time. He’s mean without ever meaning to be. He just has not only no filter but Fran simply doesn’t give a fuck about getting a filter. He says whatever he thinks or wants to say and he really doesn’t care if it hurts the other person or not. He actually enjoys riling people up a lot of the time.
which character can’t swallow pills
Bianchi and Gokudera both have this issue, one of the few things they do share in common. Bianchi refuses to just take anything, believing that sickness can just be overcome through solid willpower and healthy habits, while Gokudera either drinks his medication in a liquid form or chews up the pills, with something close at hand to immediately wash away the bitter taste.
which character takes the scenic route more often than the most direct route
Iemitsu is almost always guilty of this. He has no concept of time, not unless someone is right over his shoulder constantly reminding him. And even if he does remember the time, he really doesn’t worry too much about it. Life’s too short to hurry through it. He’ll only really take the direct route if the matter is of the utmost importance. 
which character has the most irrational fears
I-Pin has the strangest, oddest fears. Broccoli monsters, odd supernatural creatures, heights, public speaking, falling off a cliff, being eaten by a giant turtle, public embarrassment, stepping on a crack and accidentally hurting her ‘mother’, getting lost at night. Honestly, she’s got so many fears it’s hard for most of them not to be irrational. She tends to become less afraid of things as she grows older or, at least, she learns to laugh off her fears as irrational and deal with them better than she did as a child.
which character has the most sexual experience
Surprising no one, Shamal definitely has the most sexual experience. It’s not surprising since he hits on so many people that he’ll have to succeed more than he fails. I feel like G. had quite a bit of sexual experience and that, as they grow older and throughout their lives, Verde and Mukuro would both rack up quite a bit in terms of sexual experience since they’re both very open-minded and sexually adventurous, with little to no shame about seeking new sexual partners or experiences. 
which character is the most fearful of commitment
Oh boy! It feels like it would almost be easier to list off the characters who would have no issues with commitment. There’s so many of them that fear commitment to some degree - most of them will, actually, considering their lifestyle and directions in life. To point out the obvious though, all the Cloud characters have solid issues with commitment. Hibari has an aversion to commitment period. He doesn’t want to be weighed down to one person or place, doesn’t want to be chained down. He wants to make sure that he can leave or stay as he sees fit and doesn’t have to make life decisions with anyone but himself in mind. Skull also has commitment issues. He’s flightly and restless and always worries about whether something better is going to come along, both romantically and with life in general. He doesn’t want to be involved deeply in something with no way out only to have something better, more fulfilling, more exciting, come his way and for him to miss out on it. Kikyo is another one who has the ‘always something better’ syndrome, though his commitment issues are almost always romantic.
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