#The gift of common sense

[respectthepetty]

Pit Babe Colors Ep. 5

Because I have asks in my inbox about the color coding in Pit Babe even though I don't want to watch it, I'm challenging myself with this show and seeing how good my color skills really are. I'm doing my normal thing of watching it double-speed on mute, but now, I'm going to take off the captions.

How could I forget we were in "Disco Inferno" at the end of the last episode?! Babe looks just as confused as I am that Charles ran his ass out on that track. Where are the professionals? Medics, where u b?

Nice to see everyone wearing blue just in time to prove they did not sabotage the car.

Get your grubby paws off of Barbie, you color faker!

Because I hate Charles, everything he does just comes off very creepy. Like he is trying to have Babe all to himself, like a creepy collector of precious superpower kids, but he only wants Babe.

It's Whiny Winifred in the red Chicago Bulls jacket being annoying per usual.

I don't care what is being said. Whiny Winifred did not sabotage that car. He isn't smart enough for that. But I'm very curious what Kim's superpower is because he is constantly seen as the bigger presence in their arguments. He may be small, but he is mighty.

TRUST NONE OF THEM, ALAN! As usual, Charles conveniently arrives to save the day even though Dean saw Jeffrey messing with the car. This is mine and Dean's villain origin story. (Sonic, get your colors together, kid!)

Alan, don't save him! He don't want to be saved! He can see the future, but couldn't see himself getting caught? Go back to superpower school, Jeffrey! YOU SUCK!

I should be on Jeffrey's side because he is driving a blue vehicle, but he had to put "Home" into the GPS, and I can't trust a boy who doesn't know how to get back to the apartment he shares with Charlie . . . SINCE HE ISN'T GOING THERE! I guess you really are going back to superpower school since you are probably headed to Big Red's house, you LIAR!

Couldn't be bothered to wear blue for two episodes, and now you got nothing but blue, huh, Waymond? Odd choice, sir.

Charles is everywhere at all times. I think Waymond can control emotions, which is why he touches Babe, but I think Charles is mind controlling Babe. He is always in Babe's bubble! Back tf up, bruh.

And we're back to black because you are devoid of emotions since you are controlling everyone else's. I see you and Charles for the superpower manipulators you are.

Kimberly, in a garage full of blues, I only trust your red ass. Kimlock Holmes is gonna solve this case because that's what Kims do!

Are you conflicted now, Jeffrey? In the red and the blue because you know you fucked up and hurt Alan with your lies?

Pete is wearing blue. I trust this pretty man with my life.

I have believed that superpowers come from the hands for two episodes now. Waymond is always touching Babe then Babe looks happier. Charles is always touching Babe, then Babe concedes. So Peter not immediately taking Waymond's hand gives me faith that Peter KNOWS what is up because I think he has superpowers too!

Kenta, you do not have superpowers which is why he treats you like this. Kimberly is gonna love the fuck out of you though. All you have to do is murder your boss.

Did Big Red do this to you? MURDER YOUR SHITTY BOSS! You don't need a superpower for that. I'm rooting for you, hon.

My man has the blue blazer and the blue drink. He is proving his loyalty, and I couldn't love him more. This is how you prove you're trustworthy. You ease into the color. Unlike the Treacherous Trio: Charles, Jeffrey, and Waymond.

Barbie, I need you to pay attention. That hand on your arm is controlling you. Your powers are gone because Charles is fucking with your brain so he can take your racing spot. Don't let that lying bastard touch you!

WHY ARE YOU LETTING HIM TOUCH YOU?! I know he is controlling your mind, but you gotta stop letting him touch you. Go two days without his touch and see how much clearer you'll start thing. You took him to you and Way's spot. I'm insulted for Way because this was sacred, yet Charles gets everything he wants . . . *mind control*

Alan, you wear a lot of green, and I love you for that. You are not in this red vs. blue bullshit. You are in a league of your own. I don't think you have superpowers, but if you did, it would be stealing hearts because I'm ready to lay my life down on the line for you, sir. You're perfect.

Sonic REFUSES to get his shit together. WEAR BLUE ALREADY, DAMN! But also, Decanus is not pleased with whatever is happening. Villain Era loading.

This scene would be adorable if Charles wasn't a lying pos.

Decanus, I know you are going to be with Whiny Winifred, so I'm gonna just call this game, and say you lose.

Wait, A SECRET THIRD OPTION?! Kim Possible, is that you player?!

Decanus, you are getting pushed by Alan next week, so I know you done fucked up. Sonic, still be doing wild color things next week too.

Alan, do not suck up to that child. He may be wearing blue in that moment, but his heart is red and not in the good way.

I still ONLY trust Alan, but he is falling for that lying kid, so he might slip in rankings next week, but Kimlock Holmes and Pete the Magic Dragon did no wrong this week, so my trust remains intact for them. I cannot wait until Kenta gets an ounce of love from Kimberly and it turns his entire life around (KILL YOUR SHITTY BOSS!).

Barbie is being mentally and emotionally controlled by Charles and Waymond, so here's hoping this show gets kinky, ties people's hands up, and sees just how powerful they are without the gift of touch.

Couldn't emotionally manipulate Peter, now could you, Waymond?

What is your superpower?

[sunshine-and-her-ikevil-stuff]

The way this made me cackle

[kideaternomnom]

Azula antis: She’s pure evil.

Me: ...Well, Zuko changed so why can’t she get a chance?

Antis: Uh- she was born evil! She had no empathy!

Me: My guy, she was raised by literal Ozai and was neglected by her mom along with Iroh. Zuko could’ve been the same and so could’ve ANYONE. That was the whole point of that one episode showing Roku’s backstory. She’s also still only 14 in the finale and 16 in the comics.

Antis: Erm- uh...She rejected redemption! Yeah- she’s pure evil for that!

Me: Zuko rejected redemption in season 2. But he still changed.

Antis:

[crustyfloor]

Ivan you little shit so if he just takes Till's gifts every year (must be why the poor baby is surprised he gets any) then where does he put it? does he keep it for himself? does he just feed it to the wagyein?

Why does he do that anyway? In his exposure therapy, I'm sure he would've observed many times how positively kids reacted when they were given gifts, and when other kids stole it wasn't reacted to as kindly. Maybe he was that jealous. Given the person he is, it would make him rather salty if someone else were to give Till things and he would actually accept it with a smile from them rather than if it were Ivan (maybe). But don't you think it would still be better to at least try to get Till's attention by maybe giving him something too instead of this? hughhhhh

[itspileofgoodthings]

Porfiry telling Raskolnikov that at least he was honest and in one bound took the furthest leap to put his theory to the test of actual action——

[dragons-and-yellow-roses]

Applied for a job and applying to community college. It feels weird. It feels like I'm 18 again, even though I'm turning 23 in less than a week. It feels promising though

[the--highlanders]

do you guys KNOW how frustrated this thing makes me. like it's literally from the regiment that jamie would most likely have been in AND the story lines up so well with the plot of the highlanders and I'm just. constantly itching to retcon the episode a little bit in my head and make this the standard

but no!! the serial kind of depends on the standard being prince charles' rather than nust a regimental standard!!!! and it kills me every single day

[rocaillefox]

yknow what i should include in the eeveelution vn. food and fancy dishes based on pokemon mystery dungeon berries etc. ooooooough i could have a whole menu of foods based around them hehehe

[just-your-average-cryptid]

Back in fifth grade I and a few other students were told that we could skip over sixth grade math and jump into seventh when we got to middle school. Most of us were pretty jazzed about it - and why wouldn’t we be? We could opt out of a whole class, we were smart enough to move ahead, to take on bigger challenges and show we could handle them. To a 10 year old, that’s pretty fluffing cool. I said yes to that, and to skipping again into algebra 1 the next year. By the end of sophomore year I’d already filled my math credit requirements and could skip out of math entirely.

Which I did.

Because I could not force myself to continue.

See, the thing about advanced classes is that they tend to assume you just “get” things. After all, that’s how you got there, right? You just “got” the regular classes, it was so easy. You didn’t even need to study. (So you never learned how.) You didn’t need help. (So you rarely dared to ask for it.) You could take on harder classes, bigger tasks. (You never learned to say no.)

You were elevated above your peers, separated, idolized. You weren’t just a kid anymore- you were a smart kid.

You were gifted. 

And that came with expectations.

You were pushed to take more advanced classes, as many and as hard as possible, because that looks great for colleges. In fact, you should dual enroll with a college, get used to the format and show you can manage all that work. You have a full high school schedule and college course load? You must be so good at time management! (I’m so drained. I barely have time outside of work. I can’t go out with my friends. I hardly have friends.)

It’s so great that you’ve kept your grades up all these years! Don’t slack off, keep up the good work! Colleges want to see you apply yourself, so remember to volunteer and join clubs too! You’re so smart, you’re sure to go far in life! (I can’t fail. I can’t lose the one good thing about me. Everyone wants me to succeed. I have to succeed. I’m not supposed to fail.)

Wow, you’ll have no trouble getting into a top college with your record! What are you going for? Lawyer? Biologist? Doctor?

…oh. Well, that’s nice and all, but isn’t that too simple for you? You’ve got the brains and skills for a high-paying job in a challenging field, why do you want to be that? (Because it’s my future. Because I’m allowed to choose my fate. Because I don’t want to be those things. Because I actually enjoy this.)

The problem with being called gifted isn’t “woe is me, I was told I’m special and now I’m not.”

The problem with being called gifted is that it puts you on a pedestal, dumps praise upon you, holds you up as the future of society… until you stop fitting in their box.

Until you crack under the pressure.

Until you defy the destiny they assign you.

The gifted label makes “smart” your identity. You’re better than the other kids, you’re smarter, you’re more capable, you’re practically an adult already! So mature, so reasonable… so quiet.

But you’re still just a kid.

And when you’ve been shot to the top, the only way left…

Is down.

And you know what happens to the regular kids. You’ve been hearing the comparisons your whole life.

You’ll do anything to avoid being the one demeaned in that conversation.

So you do your work.

You get through both weeks of finals.

(You have your first anxiety attack at 13.)

You watch your grades like a hawk.

You take on honors and AP and college classes all at once.

You build up your academic resume.

(Because that’s what matters, right?)

You work through drained motivation.

You work through the burnout.

You work through the depression.

You work

and work

and work

and work

until you can collapse into the couch and scroll through your phone the rest of the day. It’s the only thing you have energy left for.

Your books go unread.

Games stay unfinished.

Projects collect dust.

Relationships strain.

But you can’t fail.

You’re not supposed to fail.

After all, you’re gifted, right?

[craftybookworms]

we also have gift wrap! (photo from google)

and I can confirm that it is a hit at family gift exchanges!

theres a popular brand in canada called no name brand and it manufactures everything you can imagine in a grocery store and it kind of makes me feel like im in a world no one bothered to do much world building for

[frankenstheythem]

getting a bunch of old clothes and books and shit out my closet so i can take them to the thrift store knowing very well ill get 20 moneys max bc material stuff will forever haunt me and i cant dettach myself from the stories they wanna tell me

[pearlsforthesoul]

AMAZING GIFTS YOU ALREADY HAVE (thank God)

We either forget, don’t know, take for granted or dismiss what I am about to share. These gifts are extra-ordinary. Pause for cause here. If you wanted to purchase these gifts, they would be unaffordable. Also, they were given without the asking & are free of charge too. What then? Show respect by acknowledging them & then by using them. When we return them via usage their results automatically…

[becomingtoday]

Unwrap Your Gifts

So at any moment, including possibly this one you can be selected. However you need to be in it, to win it. Register in advance. However there are no forms to fill out, or is a valid email required. Simply by believing you are entered, "Becoming Today".

What are you waiting for? You’ve received these gifts, so why just put them away in the closet without even opening them? More than likely you may not even realize that you have already received them. Yet there they are stored within ready to make your day easier and more profitable. Our conversation on this edition of “Becoming Today” will examine those readily available gifts , that you may…

[arolesbianism]

Tiphereth suppression finally complete babeyyyy

[i-wanna-burn-the-world]

I've been doing maths wrong apparently!?

Okay, I read a fair amount(of fanfic lol) and I was trying to figure out how many short novels(40,000ish words) I could shove into a fic I'd just re-read (His Kidilante by Otaku6337 which is 500,000(ish) words long.) (Also I read this whole thing in one day and I'm proud of myself lol)

and I was doing the maths the same way I've always done it, except I this time out loud with my mother in the room and low and behold I find that I'd been doing it in my head maths wrong for my whole ass life! I've been doing a kind of "take a number you know you can multiply cleanly and do that until you get the answer." Apparently, regular people don't do that.... here's what my maths looked like-

2 x 40,000 = 80,000 and that leaves 20,000. Which is half of 40,000(so I'll slide that in to make 120,000), so that means that I need 2 more 40,000s (or one more 80,000) to make 200,000(which is 5 40,000s). Times that by 2 to get 400,000 even, then add two more 40,000s (for a total of 12, 40,000s, or 480,000) and then add one more 20,000 and the answer is: 12.5 40,000s fit into one 500,000

And here's what hers looked like-

40,000 x 10= 400,000. 2 x 40,000 = 80,000 which leaves 20,000 left over, so the answer is 12.5

...pardon me I have to go question my entire life.

[cuckoo-on-a-string]

Neighborly

mdni

Masterlist

Soap x reader x Ghost

Summary: You didn't know hate until Johnny MacTavish. (Or a really big build-up to cuddles and smut).

Warnings: Implied anxiety disorder/depressive disorder, self-isolation, language, incredibly shitty communication and social competence.

It was supposed to be a one-shot.

You didn’t know hate until Johnny MacTavish.

He bought the only house within half a mile, the one you expected to stay silent and empty ‘til death did you part. So, you had reason to dislike him from the start. But you were raised right, and you pushed down the snarling hermit in your soul to be a good, friendly neighbor.

The first meeting was fine, even if he was a boombox of a human being.

“Neighbor? Oh, aye! The hermit? Sorry. Heard about you when I toured the place last month.” His eye lands on the plate of cookies you’ve brought to welcome him. “Those all for me?”

You made small talk at the door, swapped names, and set the groundwork for a reliable, limited relationship as polite people who just happened to live in close proximity.

Then the first snow fell.

You spied him outside, shoveling the shared drive that led up the hill. He cleared it all, which was kind, if a little stupid. The weather system promised another two inches by midafternoon, so everything would be solid white again before sunset. Still, not your problem.

But. He was shirtless. Ripped as fuck and shirtless.

As the wind flung each shovelful of snow back in his face, the powdery flakes stuck and melted on steaming skin. Muscles flexed as he made a spectacle of himself, and your thoughts turned to strategy and available resources.

You wrapped your palms around your ugly, handmade mug and sighed, sipping hot chocolate and wishing you’d gotten a neighbor with at least two scoops of common sense.

When he didn’t appear with his shovel the next morning, you knew your foreboding prophecy had come to pass.

You brought out the stock pot, fished out packs of frozen produce harvested from your garden, and sacrificed your last bag of chicken breasts. The skeleton saved from an old rotisserie bird joined the ingredient army. Might as well go all-in. A man with that many muscles needed bone broth to recover.

Since you didn’t know if he was a picky eater, you minced the garlic and onions small, even when your eyes burned to the point you had to stop for a break. You let the aromatics brown, added celery, carrots, potatoes, and fistfuls of fresh herbs. The precious seasonings survived the winter under grow lights and protective sheeting on your dining room table.

You doubted your neighbor would appreciate this gift for everything it was, but whatever he did as an idiot neighbor would be leagues better than the presence of a rowdy ghost.

When the chicken was tender and the broth tasted like home, you poured it into individual portions and packed them in a canvas bag with a loaf of bread, a box of tea, a jar of local honey, and a thermometer. It wasn’t terribly heavy, but the cold froze your fingers through your gloves. Your hand was cramping by the time MacTavish answered the door, red-nosed, pale, and bleary-eyed.

He let you in, mumbling a scratchy-voiced welcome, and if you’d known what that conversation would incite, you would’ve let him waste away like the families you failed playing Oregon Trail.

“Eat one now and keep the rest in the fridge.” You stack the single-serve containers in the fridge as you speak, sure he won’t remember the minutiae of your instructions. The last you pop in his microwave. He’s staring at you with feverish eyes, confused and helpless like a sick dog left on the side of the road.

Everything comes out of the bag, lining his counter so he can see them – and hopefully remember he has them. The thermometer comes out last.

“If your fever is over 104 in the morning, call the doctor. I’ll drive you if you need me to.”

That glassy stare isn’t shifting. The man doesn’t even blink.

“Did you get all that?”

He clears his throat. The action and sound are both strangely slow in his exhausted state, and you’re determined not to feel bad for him.

“Aye.” Finally, he blinks. “Eat the soup. Watch for 104.”

Good enough.

“Okay.”

The microwave beeps, you pull out the soup, leaving him to fetch a spoon from wherever the hell he keeps them. You don’t wait for him to show you out. “Take care of yourself.”

He didn’t call for help, and you took your turn shoveling the drive with proper protection after the last wave of flurries passed.

The next time he saw you in passing – you were returning home and he was just leaving – he let you know your soup was delicious, that the bread was amazing, and the honey did wonders for his throat. He never returned your containers.

Ah, well. They were replaceable.

Then the next snow came, and the dumb bitch went shoveling shirtless again.

It wasn’t as much snow, and it didn’t take him half as long, but you steamed, glaring from the safety of your kitchen window. You refused to replace your meal prep supplies again. And local honey was expensive. The brat could freeze and die. Something about taking a horse to water and all that shit.

You drank your coffee black that morning, just to make a point to no one in particular.

The man didn’t know how to take care of himself, and he had no idea how to winter-proof his home.

His pipes froze. You brought buckets, old towels, bottled water, and the number of an excellent plumber. Then you explained why he should pay attention to the forecast and let faucets drip to keep the water moving. You told him to open the cabinets under sinks so heat could combat the chill along exterior walls.

His truck’s battery succumbed to the cold. You gave him a jump and escorted him to town to make sure he didn’t get himself stranded.

When he didn’t keep things stocked and tried to panic-shop before a big storm, discovering that small town shelves couldn’t meet demand, you shared staples from your pantry.

He didn’t have more than two cheap blankets in his living space, so when the holidays rolled around you gave him your latest assemblage of granny-squares. And a scarf.

He gave you burnt cookies – “Biscuits” – in return.

(And a half-empty bottle of whiskey.)

He never remembered to drag his trash down to the main road.

And gods help you if the power went out, because the man had no generator, very little in his pantry, and rarely more than a quarter tank of gas in his ride.

He was careless. Clueless. Nearly helpless.

What were you supposed to do? You couldn’t leave him to his fate. It was unneighborly and inhumane.

He made you angry. But you didn’t hate him until his friend moved in.

A few months into his residence, you went to Johnny’s door to ask if he needed anything from town before the next storm shadowed the forecast, and a stranger came to the door.

A hulking monster with a skull painted over his balaclava.

The doorway shrank around his broad shoulders, and he ducked when he stepped out. You weren’t sure if he entirely needed to, but you understood the urge – like an adult stepping out of a child’s playhouse. Scarred knuckles wrapped around the doorknob, and you knew his grip would swallow you whole by the way it engulfed the brass handle.

Animal instinct jarred you. Every hair from the base of your skull to the end of your spine stood on end as you tried to smell the air, listen to the wind, spot the predator’s intent before it was too late.

You didn’t have a problem with people balaclavas. You’d worn one the other day when you were shoveling the drive, but this looked less like protection and more like a threat.

Was he robbing your neighbor? Had a serial killer come to town? Oh, fuck.

You took a step back, reaching for your phone because you didn’t carry a weapon, especially not on a grocery run, and it was the closest thing you had to help.

“You the neighbor?”

He asked so casually, vaguely irritated, but relaxed. It wasn’t the voice of a man who’d just been caught committing a felony, and you took a second to look beyond the stranger’s mask (and size). There was a mug in his hand, and he wore a t-shirt with sweats. His socked feet lingered on the front step, just shy of the blue road salt and crisped ice. Not robbery gear. More like a… houseguest?

Your neighbor never had guests before.

It caught you so off guard your brain short circuited. He had always been a lone, helpless figure. Made sense he’d have friends, though. You couldn’t imagine he’d survive anywhere long without someone looking out for him.

You were still a little irritated that your neighbor had invited his own friend to his own house on his own property without informing you, but that was just the recluse inside snarling at a new face. Or half of one.

And – well – manners.

Holding out a mittened hand, you introduced yourself, adding, “I stopped to see if Johnny needed anyth-”

“No.” He shut you down so fast you reeled another step back. “Don’t need anything.”

He closed the door and that was that.

Sun glittered on the season’s collection of snow, a frozen fairyland that wouldn’t entirely melt until spring. Then there would be roads washed out, and mud, and you’d need to teach Johnny flash flood safety and…

It didn’t compute. Johnny was still home, so surely he’d pop out with an explanation.

You waited.

But he didn’t.

The absolute fuck?

Your spinning thoughts kept you trapped in your head for a solid minute, processing what had happened, what was implied, and what that meant for your neighborly relationship. Even when you managed to move, drive to town, and run your errands, the interaction prickled in your mind like a splinter.

You must’ve done something wrong.

Aged fluorescent lights strobed out of time with your cart’s shrieking wheels. You discovered your list wasn’t in your pocket. It waited at home, next to a pen to add Johnny’s requests. You’d already added things you doubted he’d think to ask for, and it would take time to pick apart your needs. The list wouldn’t have saved you, even if you’d remembered it.

Three bags of flour went into your cart. That was fine. They’d keep, and baking was a good way to combat cabin fever (it warmed the house as a bonus).

Two gallons of milk.

Wait.

No.

You put one back, self-conscious. A young mother with her baby stood just behind you, and an old woman was reviewing her coupons across the aisle. You refused to make eye contact, convinced you’d catch them watching. Did they see? Were they worried about your germs on the product you put back? Did they think you were too broke to buy what you needed? Maybe they thought you’d just broken up with your boyfriend or something.

You counted the squares in the linoleum as you marched away from the refrigerators’ humming. One less source of white noise. It didn’t help as much as you’d hoped. The real buzzing roared inside your skull.

Johnny was a pain in the ass, but at least he was friendly. He wasn’t considerate, but he always thanked you. His friend was a whole different beast. Unfriendly. With a spare set of teeth snarling at the world.

The stranger hadn’t even introduced himself. Was he staying long? Moving in? What was he to Johnny? That question alone would answer so many others.

Because you’d never seen him interact beyond basic business with the mechanic, you realized you had no idea of his sexual orientation. Was he gay? Bi? Pan?

His shirtless shoveling shenanigans annoyed you, yes, but you’d unconsciously granted him a little leeway, assuming it had to do with misguided masculine showmanship. The rooster strutting where the hen could see. The dumbass alpha male proving he was a good, strong provider who was also quite nice to look at.

Clearly you were wrong, and in retrospect, you couldn’t see him as anything but a narcistic dipshit in need of training wheels.

You’d thought, maybe, he even liked you. As a friend? A comrade against the cold? As something.

But you were just a stop-gap. Useful.

Convenient.

Until his real friend joined him.

You found your attention unraveling like a cheap sweater. No matter how hard to you dried to darn the holes, you couldn’t keep up with the loose thread undoing all your conscious measures. It was quickly becoming one of those days when you convinced yourself your therapist had lied about everything.

When you messed up, even in your head, everyone knew.

If they didn’t say otherwise, you were annoying everyone in the room. If they did say otherwise, they were just being polite.

You weren’t likeable, not loveable, and the minute you weren’t useful you should make yourself scarce. Otherwise, things would get awkward, and no one wanted that. You could be the adult. You could hack off a limb and smile about it.

It didn’t hurt, and even if it did, it shouldn’t, because you didn’t have a right to that feeling.

Alright. Fine.

You realized, just as you joined the line for the cashier, that you’d forgotten matches and sugar. They’d been on your list. But someone joined the line behind you, and unspoken social rules that probably didn’t exist shackled you in place. Too late. You’d look stupid. You’d bother someone. Oh well. You’d just have to make another trip. Soon. But not too soon. Now there were two sets of eyes watching you from the connecting drive, and you didn’t want to give them reason to gossip and laugh and assume…

Your pile of groceries looked too small on the conveyor belt. Roughly half what they’d been lately. Would the cashier notice? You were sure she did. The way she recited your total sounded disappointed. Was she counting on you buying more? Were you hurting the employees’ holiday bonus? Shit. Fuck.

The bags felt too heavy. Too light. You forgot your reusable sacks at home, and the plastic dug guilt and accusations into the crease of your palms. On top of everything else, you were killing the planet.

You drove home.

Along the river. Through the trees. Up the hills to your corrupted sanctuary.

At least you didn’t need to make a second trip to bring in all the shopping. Your haul landed on the counter, you threw the damned milk in the fridge, and you realized, as you opened the pantry, that you already had four bags of flour. Two all-purpose, two for bread. Because you’d planned to bake for two.

The flour hadn’t been on your list.

And there was no room for it.

Your lip wobbled, and you bit it ferociously, chewing it until the texture changed and bits of skin started peeling.

It wasn’t a problem. You liked being prepared. You’d dump it in one of the emergency storage totes you kept in the hall closet and be ready when something went wrong.

You did just that, popping open the plastic lid and layering the flour over dry lentils, black beans, and shelf-stable cartons of broth. You decided to add more baking supplies to the list. Even if the power went out you could use the wood-burning stove in the living room to make griddle cakes. Maybe even soda bread.

There. Yeah. That wasn’t so bad. A silver lining.

As you returned to the kitchen, brainstorming ways to atone for the plastic bags you’d used, the scent of coffee wafted down the hall. Which was strange. Because you hadn’t put the moka pot on. You rushed in, frowning.

The old drip machine you only used for company burbled in the corner, and the groceries sat precariously on the corner, shoved aside by the beast who’d wandered through your unlocked door.

A tall, mohawked figure groped, shoulder-deep, in your cabinets.

MacTavish.

The Scottish mumbling would’ve tipped you off even if you weren’t so familiar with his figure (and hair, and limited wardrobe).

Your angst tasted bitter as you swallowed it down. You needed space for the feelings popping like firecrackers in your chest.

Relief. Hope. Dread.

He was in your space without invitation, and with the morning you’d just had, you felt anything but comfortable. Either you’d jumped the gun, or he was bringing a delayed apology for his friend.

“Johnny? What are you doing here?”

He smiled over his shoulder as he pulled two cups down from the shelf. One with your college logo and your prized ugly mug.

“Hello, neighbor!” He cackled, laughing at his own joke. “Wanted to give you a heads up and have a chat. My friend’s come to stay with me.”

Friend? What flavor of friend?

“I know. We met this morning.”

“Aye. Real barrel o’ sunshine, isn’ he?”

“If you say so.”

You wanted to be nice. You wanted to be his friend, too. But you weren’t, and you’d worked so hard to be a good, reliable person he could depend on in a new town – you were drained.

“His name’s Ghost.”

Most people grew out of their edgelord status by their early twenties. Ghost –with his skull balaclava and gruff voice – seemed better fit for the emo table of a suburban high school cafeteria than the adult world.

Johnny kept prattling, making an introduction for someone who wasn’t even there. “Told him all about you! He was impressed. Smacked me over the head about the pipes and said we’d go into town for a generator before the next big snow.”

“Hard to predict the next big snow.”

“Aye. He said that, too.”

If Ghost could keep your insights out of his mouth, you would appreciate it. It felt like he was stealing something from you, and you found yourself shifting from foot to foot, arms crossed, waiting for something terrible to happen.

And it did.

Gesturing as he described his old buddy and new housemate, his elbows danced around your kitchen like battering rams. First, he struck a cabinet, which hurt him more than the wood. He laughed it off. Kept talking. You didn’t need to say a word. By that point, you probably couldn’t even if he left space to speak.

For the life of you, you couldn’t riddle out what his visit was for. It was exhausting. He never chattered so much when you brought food or showed him how to keep his home in one piece. Ghost must make him very happy. His joy made you anxious.

His arm wide, indicating the views he’d fallen for and not the practical considerations of living in the goddamn woods on a goddamn mountain, and you watched in slow motion as his forearm caught your ugly mug’s handle.

It spun, wobbling to the edge of the counter, and before you could move, it plummeted.

A bad day instantly became your worst in years.

It must’ve made a sound when it hit, but you didn’t hear it. Or didn’t remember it. You didn’t remember going to the floor after it, either.

Your mug was in pieces, and when you pulled them to safety, wrapped tight in your fist, the glazed edges cut deep. It was such an ugly little thing. Your ugly little thing. You’d made it in one of those sip-and-spin pottery classes with your pals before you stopped going to see people face-to-face.

The mug wasn’t a friend. It was all of your friends. It was the fun you, the one who went out and did things, and moved through life like a real, entire person.

It practically exploded when it hit the tile. Some pieces were bigger than others, but there were dozens of them. Glittering chips and flecks that you knew you’d be finding with your feet through the rest of the winter.

There was no fixing it. It hurt. You were bleeding. Red oozed up between your knuckles and snaked down your wrist.

“Oh, shite! Shite, shite, shite. Are you alright? Here, let me –”

You didn’t want him to touch it again. Didn’t want him to touch you and act like he gave a fuck. This was a big, ugly feeling bubbling up inside, and if he didn’t dislike you yet, he would when he saw all the tears and snot.

A pretty crier you were not.

And no one wanted to see that, or deal with it, or cope with someone else’s messy emotions.

“It’s fine. I’m okay.” You grit your teeth and smiled through them. “But I need to clean this up, and I still have groceries to put away. How about you get your friend settled and we can talk another time, okay?”

“Are you sure?” His attention was fixed on the blood. Bright red was such an alarming color. You could understand.

“Yeah. Just a little scratch. Promise. But I can’t play host and clean myself up.”

His neck went stiff, and his eyes flicked from your face to the floor. Several times. Like he was having an argument with himself. But in the end, he listened, nodded, and got back on his feet from where he’d knelt in front of you.

“If you insist. But we’re right over there if you need anything, aye?”

“I know.”

Finally, he left.

You got up and locked the door behind him. If you’d taken time to do that before you put away the groceries none of this would’ve happened. You would still have your mug and you wouldn’t be on the floor, crying and cradling the remains of something that mattered to you.

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

He kept coming over when he needed things. Usually after Ghost’s truck rumbled down the drive. Sometimes he wanted advice. Sometimes he needed help. Usually he took tools and supplies he should’ve bought for himself.

You put your curtains to good work. You couldn’t remember a time you drew them so often. If he knocked, you’d answer, but the curtains were a good deterrent. Not foolproof, but something that gave you a little more power over your privacy.

Long jaunts into town have become escapes from your own home. Better the eyes of strangers – fleetingly painful – than the paranoia of sitting under glass where your neighbors might read your habits and foibles by the way the lights turn on and off through the night, might judge your messy hair through the kitchen window as you wash the dishes. Might, might, might. There were terrible possibilities in all that potential.

They were always there. One ready to freeze you out, the other hanging on your apron strings like a teenager who just got his first place. The conflict rubbed over your nerves like a match on a boot heel. Too much, too fast, and you’d combust.

So you found a lot of reasons to go into town. You remembered how much you liked the library, the joy of a cinnamon roll someone else baked, and hot coffee that didn’t come with a side of flashbacks.

The forecast predicted heavy snow overnight, and you made a day of grocery shopping, collecting novels from the library, and avoiding your neighbor’s last-minute requests.

You barely noticed the teens rushing out of the parking lot as you left your final stop, canvas bag loaded with enough media to keep you entertained through the storm of the century. No windows were broken. No key marks scuffed the paint. If they committed any mischief, it was minor.

Gas theft didn’t cross your mind until your engine quietly gave out and your car rolled to a stop between Nowhere and Nothing.

Understanding dawned with grudging revulsion. Like looking at the toilet and realizing it wouldn’t flush.  

The little shits had siphoned your tank.

You smacked the steering wheel, cursing.

So much for the benefit of the doubt. You couldn’t escape. Everyone everywhere just wanted to use you.

But it was fine. Everything would be fine. You were always prepared in case someone fucked you over. Your wellbeing was your responsibility, after all.

Climbing out of the warm cabin, you headed to the back and pulled out the emergency gas can.

The red plastic was shockingly light. You didn’t realize until you’d already thrown your weight into the yank. Unbalanced, you tottered, and your heel skidded over ice.

The snow cushioned your fall, and you stared blankly into the white limned branches overhead as you tried to process the last five seconds. Things like this happened to idiots. They did not happen to you. Careful, cautious you with your backup plans and reserves.

You had simply made a mistake. Somewhere. Somehow. You’d find an explanation.

When you sat up, still in a state of shock, you examined the can, expecting signs of a mouse, or a crack, or…

An I.O.U. was taped to the back.

You knew the handwriting all too well.

That shitting little…

The snow arrived. Silence swallowed the mountain, and the gloaming snuffed the last of the sun’s warmth.

You sat alone on the side of the road, well aware that no one would come up this way for hours. Days maybe.

You had made a mistake.

You made your neighbor chicken soup.

Your nose burned, and you sniffed. Hot tears rolled down your face, burning as they went, and you wiped at them furiously. The wool of your mittens chafed your cheek. Your lip wobbled, and you hurled the empty can into the woods.

Fuck Johnny MacTavish.

Fuck Ghost.

Fuck your life.