#My teachers did often comment like... Uh you have a lot of spelling mistakes. Did you really check? Like... Yeah actually :(

[mrfoox]

Uh. Gonna be honest. Idk how tf no one thought I could have dyslexia growing up. The older I get the more I wonder if I do...

[eldritchsurveys]

655.

-What was the last song that you sang out loud? >> Part of Mirror Mirror by Blind Guardian. -If someone has bad breath, do you tell him or her? >> If they’re in such close proximity to me that I can smell their breath, then they must be close enough to me socially that I would care enough to tell them that they should pop a mint. -With which friend are you most likely to share a secret? >> --- -Do you have an item that comforts you when you are sad/scared? >> I have a bed full of plushies, so I tend to burrow into those. -When are you likely to hide your emotions? >> When aren’t I...?

-Which is scarier: Dying of thirst or of starvation? >> They seem comparable to me experience-wise. I guess whichever takes longer. -Who was the last person to take your breath away? >> --- -When you turn on the TV, what channel do you flip to? >> We don’t have cable. When either of us turns on the TV, it’s either to use a game console, to watch a streaming service, or to play something on YouTube. -Have you ever tried to help someone quit smoking? >> No. -What was the last comment someone made on your music taste? >> I don’t generally receive comments on what I like listening to, unless it’s “me too” kind of comments. -Where do you go/what do you do when you need to calm down? >> I go to my room and do something distracting. Or go inworld, most likely. -What was the last mess you cleaned up? >> I don’t remember. - [TW] Have you ever had to talk anyone out of suicide? >> No. -When you think of tomorrow, what feelings come to mind? >> None? Nothing special is happening tomorrow. -Who, in your opinion, has an amazing voice? >> Andy Kuntz (Vanden Plas). Unfortunate name, amazing voice. -Would you ever camp out on a beach, under the stars? >> Sure, as long as I had good enough equipment to keep the sand out.

-What is the last thing you complained about? >> ESO being down for maintenance. It was over by the time I finished the survey I ended up taking, thankfully. -What was the last curse-word you said? >> I don’t remember. -When you fake sick to get out of school, what do you say or do to convince your parents that you are sick? >> --- -How did you recover from your last bout of tears? >> I just stopped eventually. -Do you still talk to your very first best friend? >> --- -When was the last time something went terribly wrong? >> I don’t remember. “Terribly” is a bit too intense to describe most of the mistakes and mishaps I deal with these days. -How do you console someone when he or she is upset? >> I generally do not take that position at all. -Have you ever seen either one of your parents cry? >> No. -Choose one: Trip to outerspace, or trip underneath the oceans? >> Outer space, thanks. -How often do you feel overwhelmed? >> Relatively often. -How do you deal with everyday life? >> *shrug* -Do you have any secret obsessions or guilty pleasures? >> Nope. -Aside from on this survey, what was the last thing you wrote about? >> I don’t remember. -Who in your family do you act like the most? >> --- -What is the most romantically sweet thing someone has done for you? >> ---

-When you go out to the mall, do people stare? >> Not that I’ve noticed, unless I’m wearing something that is somehow so strange that people can’t contain themselves. Or unless people are staring at me trying to figure out whether I’m a girl or not. Which, you know, happens. -Have you ever been confronted by a mall cop for your behavior? >> No. -What just tears at your heartstrings? >> The plight of Ardyn Izunia in Final Fantasy XV. -Is there a show you swear that you will never watch? >> I mean, I don’t make a point of saying “I will never watch this show!” or anything, but there are plenty of shows I’m just not interested in. -What was the last topic that you ranted about? >> I don’t remember. -Is there someone that makes you feel like you’re walking on eggshells? >> Not anymore. -Were you ever afraid of one of your past teachers? >> Probably. -Have you ever been in a physical fight on school grounds? >> Yes. -Have you written anything in a bathroom stall? What, if anything? >> No. -Is your school like the drama capital of the country? >> --- -A homeless man asks you for 50 cents; how do you respond? >> I usually don’t carry cash, but if I happen to be carrying some and I feel like being generous, then I’ll probably give him a buck. This is, of course, all assuming I even hear him ask -- I’m usually listening to music through my headphones when I’m out somewhere. -When was the last time you visited a thrift store? >> I don’t remember. It’s been a while. -Was there ever a time when you wished you’d never been born? >> Yes. -Can you handle constructive criticism? >> Meh. Most of the time the people trying to give me criticism are people who I don’t care to hear criticism from, so. -Who is the most sensitive person that you know? >> I don’t know. -Have you ever had a tooth (or teeth) pulled? >> Yeah. Couldn’t afford a root canal. -You can have one famous person’s wardrobe; who do you choose, and why? >> --- -When was the last time you wrote someone a note? >> --- -Do you tell your parents before you go somewhere, or just leave? >> --- -What was the last thing you tried to get out of doing? >> I don’t remember. I don’t usually try to get out of doing anything. -On average, how many surveys do you fill out in one day? >> On days when I do take them, I take between one and four. -How many hours a day do you spend on Bzoink? >> I don’t usually spend that long on Bzoink. I’m just there to find surveys to bring here. -Which season do you dread the most? >> Winter. -Do you ever brag about your achievements? >> What achievements? -If someone makes fun of you, are you able to laugh it off? >> It depends on who you are. Sparrow is pretty much the only person who is allowed to make fun of me about whatever she feels like. Certain other people can make fun about certain things. Everyone else is suspect. -When was the last time that you watched the sun come up? >> I don’t remember. -What did you do last Halloween? >> We were in New Orleans, so we dressed up in our new tradgoth outfits and went walking around the Quarter for a bit, then went to Country Club for their Halloween party. And I had two absinthes, as a treat. :) -Last Thanksgiving? >> Went to the Wayland house, as usual. -Last Christmas - if you celebrate? >> Again, went to the Wayland house, as usual. Thanksgiving and Christmas are “family” holidays and Sparrow has one of those, so. -How did you celebrate the arrival of the new year? >> We were invited to a gathering at the house of someone we know from Meetup. -Is there a foreign culture you’d like to learn more about? >> I wouldn’t mind learning about any of them. -Have you ever (purposely or accidentally) played with someone’s heart? >> I mean, maybe? I don’t know. -Has anyone ever played with yours? >> I don’t know. -Have you ever seen a famous painting and thought “I could have done that?” >> No. Either way, I didn’t do it, so who cares? -Fire drills: Did you ever wish they were real … just once? >> No?

-What is the scariest thing about attending your school? >> --- -Are you a good judge of other people’s intentions? >> I don’t think so. I am inclined to suspicion far too often. What was the last thing that you felt strongly about? >> How hot 1980s Rutger Hauer was. -Shopping: best with friends, parents, bf/gf, or alone? >> Alone. Shopping with Sparrow is fine, too. -What is one insecurity you have about your body? >> It doesn’t feel like mine and I’m tired of having to wear it. -What is one part of your body that you are proud of? >> --- -When was the last time someone told you to turn your music down? >> People don’t tell me that. -When you don’t know how to spell a word, do you look it up? >> Yep. -Are you one to spend a lot of time in the bathroom? >> No. I want to spend the least amount of time possible in there. -Have you seen the movie Super Size Me? >> No. -Do you still eat at McDonald’s, regardless of that film? >> I mean, that “docu” is totally a fraud, so, uh. (I never stopped eating at McDonald’s, and if I did, it wouldn’t be because of some movie.) -Have you ever wondered what it would be like to be a different race? >> Briefly. -Do you ever consider the challenges other races go through? >> Well, sure. -When was the last time you doubted your abilities? >> *shrug* Always? -At your favorite restaurant, what do you order? >> --- -What was the last thing you wished for? >> I don’t wish for things. -How many times a day, on average, do you look at the time? >> I don’t know, maybe... 10, 15 times? Also depends on what’s going on that day -- if I have somewhere to be, for example, I’ll be looking at the time a lot more to make sure I’m on schedule.

[blackbutler-readerinsertsandjunk]

Hello!! Welcome back (´∀｀) May I please request a modern university AU with a spicy professor Undertaker and the reader being his Graduate/Research Assistant? 👀💦

Hihi! :D I’ve been back for like a week or so now, but, it’s always wonderful to be able to open the askbox. :D

Spicy ‘Taker is so much fun!!

Maybeit’s because the Mortuary Science professor is so incorrigible thathe’s also maddeningly attractive.

You’rereally not surprised that most of his students pay attention tonothing else but him during class. Not only is he one of the mosthandsome teachers on campus – skin like alabaster, long silverhair, and chartreuse eyes that are often hidden – he’s also oneof the scariest. That is, he’s harsh with his grading, and he hashis own rules for the classroom that differ from the university’srules in general. What he says is that you’ll follow his rules, “orelse!” So far, he’s been just frightening enough that nobody’sbeen willing to find out what or else is.

Hisstudents from previous classes have even nicknamed him TheUndertaker, both because of the major he teaches and becausehe’s so brutal with grading and rules. (His real name is AdrianCrevan, and you don’t think you’ve ever heard anyone call him Mr.Crevan. Nobody seems to call him anything but Undertaker.)

Giventhat you’re working closely with him every day, students frequentlyask you if you know what his or else is. Whenever they do, youjust reply, “You end up like me… grading papers and drivingpractice cadavers to class!” The look they all get on their face ishilarious, especially after you tell them that after a while oftransporting cadavers, your car starts to smell like dead people.

Andof course, Adrian laughs so hard at that, you don’t have theheart to tell the students the truth, that not only do you not useyour own car, they’re not even real corpses. (As soon as thestudents use them for practice, you’re found out, but most everyoneforgets about your comments by then.)

Allin all, you actually like the work that you’re doing with Adrian.You get to assist him while also attending his classes and earningyour degree. Despite the fact that it is a lot of work to helphim out while you’re trying to pay attention, take notes, andparticipate in class, it’s a kind of challenge that you have funbalancing. Even when you have some free time, you’ll pop in to helpjust so you can see him. Though he’s not always teaching class whenyou do, he always accepts your help. There’s a lot for a professorto do, so you get the sense he appreciates any little bit ofassistance.

He’sgot such a refreshing personality. One might think a mortician (or,really, anybody who has anything to do with the profession) is amorbid person. Not Adrian. He loves to make and hear jokes, he’salways laughing or smiling, and outside of his strict grading andclassroom rules, he’s a fairly easygoing man. He seems to get alongwith everybody, students and teachers alike.

Italso appears that he has a special interest in you for some reason.

Todayis one of the days when he doesn’t have many classes scheduled, andyou’ve only got one or two, so most of your free time is spent inAdrian’s classroom, helping with whatever he needs. He’s takingthe opportunity to catch up on grading a few sets of essays he’sbeen behind on. The students completed these a month ago and arestill waiting to see their marks. Even though he usually only takes aweek or two with getting assignments like this back to them, you knowhe’s been busy since finals are coming up next month. He doesn’tsay anything, but you think he’s busy with his personal life aswell. Lately he just seems a bit tired.

Youknow better than to ask; he doesn’t talk about his personal lifemuch and seems like he’s not interested in doing so. You just helphim in any way you can, and you’re pretty sure he knows you’rehere if he decides he wants to talk.

“Adriaaaaaaan,”you call, tapping your red marker against the desk for a second. He’ssitting right at his desk while you’re in one of the students’desks. So why not ask him rather than mess this up? “How much didyou want me to take off for spelling and grammar mistakes, again?”

Ahum leaves him before he glances up toward you with a smile.“Five-page essays, y’ take off three points f’r ev’ry one’athose, ‘n’ five points for anythin’ that ain’t formattedright, like the ‘eaders.” Another moment passes in silence, thenhe moves to get up. “Y’ alright, love? We been at it a while. Y’wanna take a little break?”

“Oh– if you want. I just know you’re busy, so I was trying to get asmuch done as I could…” You smile back and set your marker down.If he’s offering a break, though, you’re happy to take it. Heprobably needs one, too. Even though you can’t see his eyes, you’rewilling to bet there are dark lines under them. “You’re gonnajoin me, right? You’ve been working so hard lately, Adrian.”

“Hehe…y’ think, ‘uh?” He stretches before coming over to where you’resitting and leaning over your shoulder. Although it seems like he’slooking at something, you haven’t the faintest clue what he mightbe looking at. “Y’re sweet. ‘N’ y’ know, I like yer ‘airlike this. Put up ‘n’ all.” His fingers start fiddling withyour messy bun, and you can sort of feel his long fingernails pokinglightly against your scalp. “Makes y’ look kinda like a sexylibrarian, ehehehe!”

Yourface flushes as soon as you hear that. Did he seriously just call yousexy…? You and Adrian have sort of casually flirted witheach other before, but this is the first time he’s said anythingquite like that. “Oh, my God, no…” A smile finds its way ontoyour face regardless. Having him say things like that and be touchingyour hair feels… so intimate.

Hechuckles, continuing to play with your bun. His fingers and nailstwist around and tug some strands of hair out of it, and yet, youcan’t really bring yourself to care that much. It was falling downbefore anyway. “Y’r ‘air’s soft, too. I ain’t movin’ toofast ‘ere, am I? ‘Cause…” His hands move down, fingersspreading with a feather-light touch against your neck. “I couldslow down. Y’know, if… if y’ ain’t as int’ this ol’ batas ‘e is int’ y’.”

“Adrian…”Your smile gets a little wider. You roll your neck to one side,giving him an opening if he wants to do more than just touch youthere. “If you’re going to do something… like… kiss me…just do it.”

“Mm…right, right…” That seems to be all the prompting he needs. Hishands shift again, and this time, they press down against your hipsas his mouth sets itself against your neck. You think you feel teethscrape lightly against your skin, but you can’t be sure. It allfeels so… good. He lets out a sigh, warm breath ghostingover your neck. “Been wantin’ ta do this f’r a while.”

“Oh…yeah… me, too…” you murmur. After a moment, you think you’rebold enough to reach up and twine your arm around his neck to pullhim closer against you. “You know, I’ve… kind of had a crush onyou.”

God,that laugh of his is like a shot of espresso. It makes you feel warmand energetic. “No kiddin’? Same ‘ere.”

Youtense up and laugh along when he kisses your neck again. Hopefullynobody walks in; his next class doesn’t start for an hour. “Aw.Well, in that case, maybe we should go out sometime.”

“Y’think?” His hands stay where they are, nails digging gently intoyour hips, and he bends down to press a kiss to your lips. “Yeah,we could. ‘S up ta y’, anyway. Real relationship might be nicef’r once… I can’t remember the last time I ‘ad somethin’like that.”

He’sso intoxicating. You feel like you could stay like this with himforever and not be bored. “Sounds good to me. Why don’t I pickyou up for dinner tomorrow? Around seven? Or we could see a movie?”

Hegives you another kiss, and one of his arms snakes around to circleyour stomach, right under your chest. “I got a better idea, if y’reup f’r it. ‘Ow ‘bout I cancel my evenin’ class, ‘n’ wecan… fool round, right on my desk?”

Yourwhole face goes red at what he’s implying. You’re not drunk offhis kiss anymore, but this… this might be nice.

“Youknow…” You tilt your head back, grinning at him. “We could dothat without you canceling the class. I think we could be fastenough.”

It’shis turn to blush. After a few seconds, though, he returns your grin.“Lord, I think I’m in love.”

[astridthevalkyrie]

The Wall of Berlin and Other Matters

Modern AU. Hiccup’s SUPPOSED to be learning about the Cold War. But it’s difficult with one girl constantly badgering him, and even more difficult when Astrid Hofferson is sitting two seats away from him, making his heart pound in his chest. Oneshot.

This is for @wilderwestqueen‘s birthday! I hope you like it!

“So the Wall of Berlin,” the teacher stated after taking a long drink from his water bottle, “it created a literal divide between East and West Berlin. Already, Germany was divided, as we said yesterday, after the events of World War II. But now…” He made a motion with his hands to indicate a divide. “Since Berlin is too big, both sides have it.”

Hiccup scribbled his notes, barely understanding what he was writing. It wasn’t that what the teacher was saying was confusing, it was just that his handwriting was very messy (Hiccup’s, not the teacher’s). He could barely read it now, how would he study from it later?

He could just take a picture of the notes after class. And since that was allowed, and was a real, allowed, A-okay thing to do, why was anyone required to take notes in the first place?

The daily schedule of the class was that there would be notes and a lecture for the first half, and then a video would play for the second. It was a good method, seeing as the teacher would always find a video that repeated what he said but with pictures. That way, if you weren’t listening the first time, you could get it the second time.

Unfortunately, the teacher would go and sit in the back of the class while the video was playing, and no one really watched it, they did their homework or talked. The only person who really watched it was Astrid.

But it wasn’t to be mistaken that she wasted her time watching something she undoubtedly understood the first time. She would do her homework too. Not that day’s homework, no. The homework that was due tomorrow.

Hiccup caught himself before he swooned when she pushed her bangs behind her ear and solved what seemed to be five geometry problems at once. He also hoped he had not sighed like a little kid. He probably had.

Before he could get lost in his own world again, doodling her and writing in his journal about how amazing she was and imagining what married life would be like, a girl two rows down from him whispered, ”Hey, Hiccup!”

He looked up at her. Her name started with J. Jalene. Jackie. J-J-Janice, that was it! She didn’t usually talk to him. No one really did, seeing as how he was a transfer student.

“Yeah?”

“Do you like Heather?” she asked eagerly, completely throwing him off balance. What kind of question was that?

Heather, who was next to her friend on her phone, looked up and hit her shoulder. “Shut up, Jan! Sorry about that,” she added to Hiccup kindly.

“Um...I uh...it’s okay?” He felt his face get warm quickly and immediately Janice squealed, proving his suspicions correct.

“Heath, he’s blushing!” She looked as though she had just been given a car on Christmas. “He does have a crush on you!”

Heather blushed lightly too, and then both girls started giggling. His face felt even more warm, and he looked back at the teacher desperately. He was on his computer, not noticing a thing.

What did giggling girls even mean? Why did they giggle? Was he supposed to giggle too? Why did girls not teach them the art of giggling?

Hiccup saw Astrid smile at her paper. But he wasn’t sure whether it was because of his horrible situation or because she had liked the geometry question she just answered. It was hard to tell. She didn’t even talk to the other kids in the class. She sat like a loner, just like him. On her, though, it was attractive.

He had asked Astrid for a pencil once. She had smiled at him then, too. That had been the best five seconds of his life.

“Hey, Hiccup,” Janice said again. He mentally groaned. “Do you think I’m pretty?”

There was no right answer to these questions. They either sounded offensive, or obsessive, and he didn’t want to be either of those things.

“I - yes? You’re - you’re very pretty,” he sighed, wanting to facepalm himself. One row left and one seat down, Astrid laughed softly.

Janice shot her a dirty look and then looked back at Hiccup, grinning. “I bet it’s hard being the new kid, right?” Before he could answer that question, she went on, not wasting a single breath. “Hey, what do you think I got on my last test?”

“Um...84?” Hiccup offered weakly, sitting back in his seat. How was he supposed to know what she got? He didn’t pay attention to her, the only girl he paid attention to got above 90s in every single test she did.

Actually, he knew a lot about Astrid. It was borderline creepy. She liked twirling her pencil. She did all her homework before going home. She typed fast and wrote faster. She didn’t like pickles but ate them anyway.

All this he knew from observing.

“84! He thinks I got an 84,” she said to Heather, as though she didn’t know. “Do you really think I’m that dumb?”

“Yes,” he wanted to say, but instead shrugged and said that he had picked a random number.

Janice was silent after that, and his heartbeat calmed, at least until Astrid turned around to face him, made sure the other two girls weren’t looking, and then passed him a note.

Hiccup nearly dropped it. She had just looked at him. Sitting in front of the class, she didn’t turn around very often, and even when she did, it was to look at the teacher, to ask him a question.

The note read, Why don’t you just ignore them?

Hiccup tried to stop grinning like a dope. Maybe there was an upside to Janice bothering him after all. The girl who he had a crush on since...since he saw her finish her test before everyone else that first time they had one together, she was talking to him. Through notes, yeah, but that was a start.

There kinda scary, actually

She rolled her eyes when she saw his note. He thought it would be that he was scared of his classmates, but her note back said:

It’s spelled “they’re.”

Hiccup opened and closed his mouth, looking up at her. To his surprise, she was blushing, and then she leaned over and whispered, “Sorry, I’m a nerd. But I can’t stand bad grammar in texting or notes.”

Hiccup’s mind went into overdrive, because she was talking to him. Not asking him for a pencil, or making a comment about the weather, she was actually talking to him willingly and telling him something about her. Without really fully processing it first, Hiccup blurted, “I’ll never make a grammar mistake again.”

Astrid laughed, and that caught Janice’s attention. “Hey, Astrid!”

“What?” she snapped, and Hiccup’s eyes widened. He scooted back in his chair, wishing the wall would swallow him up. He’d never seen her get angry before, and it looked like it wasn’t pretty.

“Stop hitting on him, he likes Heather.”

Next to her, Heather sighed and shook her head, obviously as fed up with her friend as everyone else was. However, unlike Astrid, she kept silent.

The blonde girl’s eyes narrowed. “If he likes Heather so much, maybe you shouldn’t be asking him if he thinks you’re pretty.”

Janice gasped. “Maybe you should mind your own business and not eavesdrop!”

“How could I not hear you, you sound like Alvin from Alvin and the Chipmunks,” Astrid snapped. She clearly had no problem telling someone if they were irritating her. “And if you’re going to bother the poor new kid, hell if he thinks you’re pretty!” She clenched her fist. “Be honest, Janice, you got less than 84, and we all know it.”

“Whore,” Janice seethed as she turned back around. Hiccup saw Astrid’s cheeks redden with anger, but the bell rang before anyone could add salt to the wound.

Hiccup followed her in the hallway as she scurried from the room. “Astrid - Astrid!”

“What?” She turned around, her look softening when she saw it was him.

He took a deep breath. “Sorry, for what happened back there. A-and thanks, too, for getting her attention off me.”

Her cheeks turned red again, but he could tell this was because she was pleasantly surprised, not angry. “No problem,” she mumbled, before looking up, “are you free this Friday?”

It took a while to muster words for him to speak. “Yes. Yes, I am definitely free. Except for like, you know, schol. But I don’t think you were talking about that.”

She laughed again - it was a sound that he could grow used to easily.

“Great, um, do you wanna hang out...or something? The new Avengers movie is playing, we could go see that.” She looked as hopeful as he felt.

Maybe this was a dream. Maybe he had drunk wine last night. He never drank wine, but it was still more plausible than Astrid Hofferson asking him out.

“Definitely,” he breathed out. If this was a dream. He was going to enjoy it before it ended. “I love the Avengers.”

“Me too!” Astrid said eagerly and then caught herself, coughing and tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear. “Anyway, I’ll, ahem, check out the timings and get back to you tomorrow. Is that okay?”

It was the most okay thing in his life, and he told her so, albeit a little less dramatically. Both of them said their goodbyes and walked off to their separate classes, and Hiccup whooped.

Even with the whispers of him having lost it, and being late to his next class, it didn’t matter.

Damn Janice. Now he was supposed to thank her.

Happy Birthday, friend! Everyone, go read her stories, chop chop!

[cantstopthesignal2005]

kill yr gods

                                                 kill yr gods

              Anton Stewart sat transfixed by the panels of the graphic novel he recently checked out from the school library. The odd, melancholic spell cast by the kitchen-sink realism of the story was broken as his Journalism teacher, Ms. Combs, snapped her fingers.  “Anton. Anton! Excuse me! Hello! Thank you!”   “Yes, ma’am?”   “How are you coming along with your story? Kali needs it by Friday for the paper.” Anton looked over to Kali Wheatley, who sat hunched over with a large iced coffee, feverishly editing papers and adding comments.   “Uh, I’ll have a rough draft tomorrow, Ms. Combs,” he replied.    “Tomorrow? What happened to tonight?”   “I’m going to the concert tonight.”   “A concert? What?”   “The Canceled Alcohol show,” he brusquely informed her, his voice carrying an unmitigated bite to it. “It’s the concert I’m covering for the story. And since I haven’t gone to where the story is yet, I don’t have the story.”  Anton caught a few side-eyed glances and expressions of incredulity.    “Smart ass,” she blithely retorted. “See where that gets you in life. See where it gets you in school, or even in this class.”    Anton shook off his teacher’s cautionary attack with a brief, involuntary shudder. He returned to his poor posture and resumed the story. Comics were an integral part of Anton’s life. As a young child, he found solace in the altruism of the muscle-bound men and women who, burdened with great powers, sought to look after the meek and timid. He aspired to similar feats of greatness, albeit without any supernatural ability. Throughout middle school, Anton would obsessively write the phrase “I Will Grow Wings,” filling the lines of his composition notebooks. This was his mantra to remind himself of his personal endeavor to grow stronger and feel capable, soaring above his feelings of impotence. After discovering the cruelty of unprovoked violence and the ecstasy of masturbation, Anton rabidly tore apart the pages of his superhero comics, marking an estrangement from what he began to feel was the mythos of morons and losers.    Reality bloomed as Anton reached tenth grade, where he was fearful of the impending future and consistently horrified by the mistakes of the past. Without a car or a job, he didn’t have money of his own and would constantly depend on his mother for rides or pocket change, a chip on his shoulder regarding his own lack of agency had spread like a fever. The stories to which Anton gravitated were confrontational and brutal, concerning entropy, alienation, and depravity.  Unable to reconcile his anxieties and a lust for debauchery, Anton would vicariously approximate the insanity and genius of drugs by reading journals about the rough side of an acid trip at the devil’s hour.     The bell rang and Anton somberly ambled down the steps of building three to the courtyard. It was his lunch period and he planned to meet his friend, Peter. Peter was a friend whose binding tie was a similar love of literature and art. They would occasionally skip school and go to their local dollar theater and movie hop. Anton was unnerved as he saw Peter surrounded by people peripheral to their social circle, holding court at a brick wall, waxing poetic about the perils of too much vulnerability and compassion. He was wearing a black shirt with an image of Joe Strummer with bloodied knuckles and a towel carelessly draped around his shoulders. Peter looked over the circle of friends and nodded Anton over.  Characteristically overzealous, he extended his hand to shake Anton’s. “What’s popping, bruh?”    “I’m good. How goes it?”    “Yo, these are . . .  this is Larry. This is Dom. This is . . . oh wait, you know Chaz, right?”    “We’ve met,” Chaz curtly confirmed, gritting his teeth. Anton bristled at what he felt was an unmerited disdain.   “Uh, yeah. Uh, we’ve met,” Anton said, through staccato bursts of nervous laughter.   “What’s good, bro?” Peter asked, flashing his toothy smile, which appeared closer to demented than charming, as he hoped.   “Um. Just . . . just saying hey?”   “Well, you said Hey, kid,” Chaz said, rolling his eyes.   “I’m talking to Peter. If I wanted to talk to you, I would look at you. Chaz. Your fucking parents named you Chaz! What kinda shit is that?”   “You’re a fucking asshole, Anton.”   “Aight, aight, chill, chill.” Peter locked eyes with Anton and with a nod, dismissed him. Anton walked off, shaking with the rage of rejection. He fought the urge to, as he had when he was younger, scream, curse, and beat his fists against the ground into bloody pulps.  He wondered if remaining with his circle of friends was worth it.  He tolerated the occasional hectoring and outburst if only to stave off loneliness; his friends were a means to an end, and whether they knew that was unimportant. Anton was made to feel little, but always assured himself that they were even lesser than him since he never needed them.      The rest of the school day was an interminable slog, the only saving grace being that he would attend his first show later that night. As he approached the exit doors to the bus loop, Anton felt a firm tap on his shoulder. Violently whipping his head back, he saw his friend Alex, wearing a shit-eating grin. “Anton. Buddy. What’s up?”   “What’s up, what’s up?”   “What’s up. We were supposed to go to the diner, right? This is every Tuesday, we had plans, no?”   “Fuck, you’re right, I was just . . . it didn’t feel like a Tuesday.”   “Yeah, alright. So, we’re good to go?”   “Sure are.” The two walked over to the school parking lot, which Alex was grateful to have a spot in. He was the subject of great envy in their orbit for being the first to get a car, a job, and a girlfriend; there had been innuendos of him losing his virginity before his teen years, though no one asked to verify.  Alex’s relatively advanced social acumen inspired overzealous praise and myth making from his friends.     Alex drove at reckless speeds to Lynn’s Diner, a 1950s Americana themed coffee shop. There were black and white images from the days of yore for much of the wallpaper, framed photos of notable figures like Frank Sinatra and Benny Goodman occupying what little wall wasn’t taken by signs that said  “M A L T S,” “S H A K E S,” or “F R I E S.” Alex fiddled with the cylindrical straw container, delighting briefly in watching them umbrella.  The two walked over to a booth in the far corner, the seats cherry red, the table was eggshell white with sporadic bursts of dots making no discernible pattern.  Alex and Anton made it a habit to attend Lynn’s Diner every Tuesday at 3 PM, directly after school.  Tuesdays was when the waitress, Greta, would be working, and they were as much a part of her ritual as she was a part of theirs, having become one of her regular guests, to the point where staff would tease her about it. (“Hey Greta! Your boyfriends are here!”)    Alex and Anton waved off offers of menus, fully aware of what they wanted. Greta walked up to them, her hair a lot shorter than it used to be, dyed a fluorescent orange.  “Hey, loves,” she said, putting her hand on her hip. “Two doubles, no onions, extra cheese, pickle spear on the side, two cherry colas?”    “You practiced that,” Alex smirked.    “You know I did,” she smiled coyly.  “I ever tell you I was in theater?”    “No, but I saw you as Puck when you did Midsummer Night’s Dream with my sister, Shirley.”      “Your hair’s a lot shorter,” Anton abruptly remarked. Alex and Greta cocked their heads back, shocked by the jarring, unprompted comment.    “Uh . . .  yeah,” she said, visibly perturbed.  “Yeah, it is. I uh, I cut it . . .” She self-consciously primped the ends of her hair and shook her head.  “Uh, I’ll . . . I’ll be right back with your orders, love.” Alex shook his head disapprovingly, rolling his eyes.  Leaning in, he whispered, “Probably shouldn’t just like . . . shout something out while two people are talking. You know what I mean?”    “Yeah, but you said . . . you said it’s normal if someone like . . . it’s okay if someone inserts themselves into a conversation.”    “Yeah, but you have to know when to do it.”    “How would I know that?”    “Trial and error. This? Not the right time. Now you know for the future.”  Anton found himself resentful of the way people like Alex could float through life, aware of the right thing to say, when to say it.  He would often conflate their confidence and sociability with arrogance.  “I think I could get her number.”      “Isn’t she in college?”    “And you’ve never wanted to date a college girl?” Alex paused. “Or guy?”    “I mean, yeah. But guy or girl . . . I don’t think it would be, you know, appropriate.” Greta brought out their order on a plastic blue tray, forcing a grin. She dropped the order off and left without her usual parting banter.  Alex observed as Anton anxiously peered over to his watch.  “That’s maybe the third time I’ve seen you check the time since we got here,” Alex said, his mouth full of fries. “What’s going on?”    “Sorry. I have a show to go to tonight,” he explained.     “Who are you seeing?”     “Canceled Alcohol. I bought the tickets from Crates.”    “Crates . . .  Crates . . .  Crates, the record shop, Crates?”    “Yeah. Canceled Alcohol doesn’t really have a website or internet presence. I couldn’t cop them except locally.”    “I’ve heard of them. I know their shows are supposed to be like fucking super intense. I heard someone got knocked into a fucking coma there once.”    “Really?”    “This is what I hear,” he shrugged. Anton began to panic, his mouth drying up, his heart palpitating. He forgot to bring anyone for support to the show, and if he met harm as he was sure he would, there would be no help.    “Do you want to go?” he asked earnestly.  “I’m sorry, I should have asked you earlier. I can buy—”     “Nope,” he replied, unfurling a mischievous smile.    “Why not?”    “I think you should go this one alone. This one. I think, anyway.” The unspoken tension between the two was palpable, and so they completed their meal in silence. Anton became anxious with anticipation, expecting unspoken acts of violence to be visited upon him.  He’d realized that, upon stepping foot into the venue, he surrendered his control to the crowd and to the band; Canceled Alcohol was a band Anton was used to listening to at his own control.   He could turn their volume up, down, or truncate entire verses. The dynamic at the show would be diametrically swapped, his body now having to bend to the sway of the crowd and the ferocity of the band, which he assumed would be mighty; if his ribs were crushed, Anton was certain that the show would proceed without mercy.     Alex drove Anton home, generously playing Canceled Alcohol before ultimately deciding they “weren’t my cup of tea.”  Anton heard a vicious argument between his mother Marina and his brother Juan as he reached the front door. Knees shaking, he braced himself for the unfolding maelstrom.   “You’re a fucking cunt!” Juan yelled. Whipping his head back, he saw his little brother and dismissed him with wave. He returned to the object of his scorn and balled up his fists.  “You don’t have any idea what it’s like!”   “You still have to work, Juan!”    “Fuck you, bitch. I’m trying so fucking hard!”    “Smoking resin out of PVC pipes with your drop out buddies isn’t effort! You don’t do anything! I didn’t raise you like this!”    “You didn’t raise me at all! Abuela did! You lazy fucking bitch!”    “You’re so ugly . . .  you’re fucking . . . you’re just like him.  You’re stupid and you’re lazy. And angry. And you’re angry because you know there’s no place in this world for stupid, lazy people.” Marina shivered and shrieked as Juan tossed a cup of stagnant water at her. She stood, frozen with indignation. “I fucking HATE YOU!” Juan made a beeline for the door, shoving Anton against the wall.  Shriveling inwardly, he bit up the nerve to walk over to console his upset mother. Though Anton’s upbringing had been rife with turmoil, he failed to grasp the dialect of conflict and found himself at a loss for words. “Hey,” he said, his voice breaking. “Sorry.” Marina, wearing the humiliation of disrespect by her son, looked over to Anton with a fury scorching her face, her eyes bloodshot, her teeth jutting out from her lower jaw like a diseased dog; Anton went pale, unable to find his mother beneath her anguish. He rubbed his chest softly, hoping to nurse his racing heart back to normalcy.    “I hate you!” she exclaimed. “You’re ruining my life!”  Anton was fatigued from the day behind him, unwilling to contend with the mercurial tempers flaring in his house. While times spent with his mother were not all bad, he was frightened by how swiftly she could vacillate between Victim and Tormentor, just as he towed the line from Caretaker to Whipping Post.    “Mom, I love you,” he said, disgusted at his impish attempt to placate her.      “Yeah, your kind of love I don’t need.”  She walked up their stairs, groaning.  Anton took note that it was an hour and a half until doors.  Despite having negotiated the ride several months prior, he was aware that it would take an immeasurable amount of consoling to get his mother to drive him there now. He’d considered his options briefly before grabbing his ticket and darting out the door to catch the number 48 bus going to Ardenton, a town he knew by reputation (their high school football team often beat his) only. The venue, he read on a worn and faded flyer, was The Empire, 1709 Waterhead Boulevard, Ardenton. (“Real Hole In The Wall Shit,” as crudely promised at the bottom.)  He looked for any signs assuring him that he was on the right path, to no avail. As he shuffled through the streets, scanning the buildings for addresses, he came across a couple adorned in pelts, leather, and chains, and summoned the strength to approach them. As he neared, his eyes began fluttering, much to their bewilderment.     “Excuse me,” he said, gentling his voice. “I was . . .”   “Speak up, youngin,” the older woman said.    “Yes, hi. I was um. I was seeing. I was. I was wondering if you knew where The Empire was?”    “The Empire? Is that a store?” she asked.    Her partner, a much younger woman, chuckled.  “No, babe. It’s a concert place.”    “I don’t know this shit.”    “Sweetie, you’re gonna go up a block and two over.”    “Oh, okay. Thanks . . .  thanks so much.”    “Who’s playing?”    “Uh, Canceled Alcohol?”    “Roughneck shit,” she grinned, nodding approvingly. “First show?”    “Yeah.”    “Fuck shit up, dude.” Her partner admonished her with a playful slap to the back of her hand. “Be careful!” she’d warned him, shaking her head. He politely laughed and walked off.      Anton walked the blocks and clocked the addresses, most of the buildings’ aluminum numbers tarnished or fallen off completely.  He was uncertain of the directions given to him until he noticed a procession of people walking in unison, murmuring amongst each other. Latching onto them, he made it to The Empire, a narrow building with a towering spire piercing the swiftly migrating clouds overhead. The marquee read: Princess Annie & Canceled Alcohol. 7 PM. Sold Out.    A few groggy, disgruntled men wearing shirts bearing the venue’s name set up barriers, prompting Anton to look at his watch; noticing it was a quarter to doors, he grabbed the ticket and felt his heart flutter. His stomach began to churn, his mouth drying, gluing his tongue to the roof. An older, obese man began tearing tickets and allowing people inside, nodding happily at each person. Anton was swiftly approaching the front of the line, and he excitedly handed his ticket and made a beeline for the door before the formidable man’s hand blocked him.  “Hold up,” he said, screwing his face. Anton felt innately that there had been a mistake, that he needed identification or a parental guardian, neither of which he had. “I gotta search you, first.” After a brief pat down, he was ushered inside. The walls were lousy with graffiti, faded stickers, and flyers from past shows. Stale cigarette smoke stuck to the walls as a reminder of past shows, the granite floor was sticky with the residue of spilled lagers. The air was thick and muggy, he struggled to catch a breath, which was exacerbated by the space becoming occupied to the point of congestion. Anton centered himself by navigating a way to the back, where there were life-size banners of Canceled Alcohol’s most recent album, Gag And Bind—a ghastly image of a dominatrix caving a hole into an old man’s head, bloody gray matter spilling onto the white backdrop, his eyes replaced with shimmering gold coins, his tongue hanging slack from his gaping mouth, spittle pouring out. As he looked at the sensational image, he felt immense feelings of guilt and desire, which he couldn’t reconcile. To his left, he saw two slovenly dressed young lovers under the spell of some dangerous pill they couldn’t pronounce, idly peeling paint from the wall, near catatonic.      A tap at his bicep sent him shuddering, spinning around rapidly which elicited a laugh from the two young women who’d tapped him. Dressed in mainly all black, with the exception of some red stripes on their track pants and the white pentagrams on their shirts, one had aqua blue hair which reached just above her hair, the other had bleach blonde hair, the left side of her head shaved entirely. They both donned piercings across their face, the woman with the aqua blue wearing a nose piercing with a chain that reached to her ear. “Hi! Can you take our photos?” He obliged and took a few pictures of them: them holding their hands above their heads, them hugging, them kissing each other, them confrontationally staring into the camera with stoic fierceness. Handing it back, he smiled. “Thanks so much!”      “Was that like, a photo set?”     “We just wanted some photos of like, gay love. We’re a gay couple . . .”   “Right.”    “And we just felt like this was our non-violent protest. This was us, showing we can be gay and feminine and super sweet and hardcore and we can also enjoy the music.  It’s not binary and we felt like it would be cool to show it.”    “It’s for a project she’s making,” her partner explained. “She’s trying to normalize gay love by documenting it in unconventional places. This is her part where she puts us in the middle of it.”    “I always show up in my art,” she said, defensive.  “It’s my art and, intentional or not, I’m gonna be in it in some way or another, I can’t emancipate my expressions from myself, so I might as well implement myself.”    “That’s fucking rad.”    “Are you here for Princess Annie?”    “Uh, no. Just . . .  just Canceled Alcohol.”    “They’re okay, we’re here for Annie, cause you know, they’re a really great part of the gay community in Seattle, so it’s kinda rad that they’re here.”    The lights dimmed and the background music stopped. Everyone did an About Face and directed their gaze to the stage, which was massively unimpressive, being composed primarily of driftwood, electrical tape, and worker’s spit. Feet began to stamp on the ground, and aimless cheering and applause erupted. Princess Annie took the stage and the lead singer demurely waved to everyone as her bandmates readied themselves and took their positions. “Hi,” Annie Sutton, the lead singer, greeted everyone. “We are Princess Annie. And uh, we’re very happy to be here, thanks very much for having us. Um. Do you guys mind if we fuck shit up?” Her facetious request was met with thunderous approval, a mischievous grin unfurling on her face. The bass and drums began rolling out, cymbals being hit with great ferocity and Annie began to roar the lyrics to their song, The Stranger. The words were fully realized as she threw her body into the anguish of the song, her torso contorting, her arms wrathfully throttling the microphone. The orchestral hook allowed for some time to beat the device into her head, a bloody gash opening as she shouted:  

                        If I catch you!                         If I ever fucking catch you!                         Death will be too good!                         But I’ll never be good!                         No, I’ll never be good!                         I’ll never be good again!                         I’ll never be fine again!                             Never go to bed again!                         Never again, not never again,                         Never again, not never again                         Not never-FUUUUUUUUCK     Annie motioned for the crowd to make way for her to descend downwards and she gracefully stepped down. Anton was taken aback at how readily the crowd parted as though it were the red sea. Annie sewed sutures on the wounds she opened every night she sang the song which she knew would keep her honest. They washed her bloody face with love and adulation, crying with empathy, holding her to keep the panic away.  She concluded the song by saying, off mic, “Thank You. Thank You So Much. I Love You So Much.”   Making her way back to the stage, she sat hunched over at the edge, breathing heavily into the microphone. “Hey, our set is gonna be like me, it’s a little short. We only have about five songs left. Then you guys get to see Canceled Alcohol!” She held for applause, which filled the room.  “You guys are gonna love ‘em. We’re so so so so so honored that they brought us out on tour with them, they’re so fucking cool. Really. They’re real roughnecks on stage but total sweethearts in person. They’ve even invited us to join their knitting circle.” Jessica, the drummer, etched a hammy smile on her face and played a rim shot. “This is our 49th state. First time in Florida!”    “I’m sorry!” one person yelled out, which received some chuckles from the audience and an admonishing finger wag from Annie.    “Hey now! We like it here. We like what we’ve seen. Well, we’ve only seen the inside of this venue. But, hey. It’s a nice venue. This uh . . .  this next song is called Stupid Bitch. It’s about white guys. And please, all white guys. Don’t get upset when we play this, it’s never a good look.”      Anton felt at home with the warmth of her generous stage banter. Everyone was experiencing exactly what he was, there was a truth to this moment in time and it was a sweaty, blood drenched woman believing in herself and engaging with four hundred disparate people. He knew he would never be alone if he remained in the comfort of human body odor and weed smoke. They soon left the stage which was to be empty for another forty minutes.  Then, the lights dimmed once again and the crowd showed their love by bleeding their throats dry. The band swaggered on stage, and simultaneously Anton was delighted to be in proximity to such greatness and crestfallen to discover that they were a little short and appeared to be unassuming men, ready to do their job. However, once the front man, Sean, looked out to everyone, his eyes were searing and demented, striking fear. He took the pulpit and delivered his sermon:

                                                Kill God if you feel like it,                         Kill me if you feel like it,                         Just make sure you know why,                         I’ll never be anything other than that which I am,                         I’ll only be a part of the plan,                         My body is a prison,                         Break me out of this prison,                         Take me out of this prison,     The fury of the crowd reached a fever pitched, everyone being pushed to the front and shoving elbows into each other. Everyone edged everyone else out and a swirling vortex of pain erupted, young men in cargo shorts performing spinning kicks, their chests slamming into one another. Anton was reminded what it was like to feel vitality coursing through his veins as he was pushed into a snake pit of antagonism. He recalled placating his mother, contending with supercilious teachers, recoiling from his brother’s wrath, and how tired of it all he was. Something atavistic responded to the busted, bloody lip he suffered. He found his voice in pushing back and visiting violence onto others and receiving it, becoming baptized by pain. He screamed until his lungs felt on the verge of collapse. He knocked his head into someone else’s and gripped the back of their neck, being met in kind with an identical grip.    “I love you!” he yelled, locking horns, knocking into him, shoulder first.    “I love you too!”     The ritual eventually petered out and the show concluded as plainly as it began, the band members departing with a cold casualness. Anton felt beautiful as he walked home drowning in a pool of collected sweat, the wind whipping against him as he shivered waiting on the bus.     Creeping into his room, Anton confronted the new, primal version of himself and noticed a congealed patch of blood on his face. Removing his shirt, he was thrilled to observe the black and blue tattoos he received. The bumps, bruises, and scars served as a reminder of the fight he had to keep in his heart to refrain from timorously occupying the fringes of life. Galvanized to report on the part of the world he just saw, he swiftly grabbed the composition notebook and a pen from the computer desk, his foot anxiously tapping a hole in the ground as his hands, tremulous from adrenaline, wrote:

                          Tonight, I found God in the grooves of a combat boot.