#They also gave me a stick. Like a literal stick. Replaced my cane with a stick to be HISTORICALLY ACCURATE

[serenhob]

Idk why people have such a problem with just not saying slurs.

And especially when they say that it isn't racist/homophobic/abelist to say that. If you say a word that has a history of being used specifically to dehumanise and belittle groups of people then that is automatically the connotation it carries.

What's the other meaning?

I saw this 'comedian' saying that the r-slur is OK to say to your friends but not actual intellectualy disabled people. ?????? Apparently its OK because that's just an insult you can use on your buddies.

Was genuinely speechless.

A derogatory term for an Intellectualydisabled person that has been used in the past to call them sub-human and refuse them autonomy and rights... is what you want to use to call your friend dumb.

Then the added 'but you cant say it to intelectualy disabled people' (he used the r-slur to refer to them in the clip) is so wild. So your fine saying that to your friends and to describe intelectually disabled people but you can't say that to their face because that's wrong. The hypocrisy at play is crazy.

It's so weird when people are fine to be bigots anywhere but to the people they are belittling. I think it is part of a persona to say 'I'm not a bigot', just admit it dude.

It's not just this guy, even in my real life, people feel fine to make fun of how i walk, call me a cripple, genrally mutter insults about my cane but when i respond suddenly they're like 'oh, that's not what I meant'. Quiet bigotry is still bigotry. There's no excuse.

[rogueofsoup]

Hiveswap and Homestuck Theory Thing. Spoiler warning for Homestuck just in case, I guess.

Ok, so I decided to try a hand at this stuff. It's gonna be about Marvus (eventually) (yeah, I know, so original).

Ok, so, I've seen a lot of stuff pertaining to this, so I've compiled what I found all over the internet and put together my theories on it, mostly relying on weapon types. (I'm sorry, I don't remember where I found the original material for the time players)

Time players use weapons that are both obviously weapons and practical for the players to use. For example, Dave uses big swords he can adjust the weight of by making it broken in half or full, Aradia originally had a whip, which are very quick and lightweight and surprisingly practical weapons (as surprisingly accurately shown by Indiana Jones), and Caliborn had a straight up semiautomatic rifle that he makes sure everyone knows he has. They also all pertain to the weapons we see heros holding (knight in shining armor wielding a sword, Indiana Jones and his whip, any action movie hero and his gun).

Breath players, as I can guess, use weapons that used to be conventional in medieval entertainment (large hammers for sparring and lances for jousting) that are no longer seen as practical and/or conventional, and generally require a large amount of strength and skill to properly use without an exterior force or an actual technique giving aid, such as John swinging his giant hammer without having to swing it over his head first to build up momentum, and Tavros being able to use the momentum from his running to be able to use his lance without having to be on a horse. From what I can presume, they mostly use medieval style weapons adjusted to whatever they think makes them better.

There isn't really much of a case for doom players since there's only really the one I can draw conclusions from, but I assume that based solely on Sollux, doom players rely more on weapons or abilities they have confidence in, regardless of reliability. Sollux has had multiple instances in which his psionics have resulted in problems, such as whenever he consumes mind honey he shoots powerful lasers from his eyes that he can't control, and he has accidentally destroyed one of his specibus cards and his bee hives when he overshot shuriken while trying to re-capchalogue them using his psionics. I only have one example person to draw from, so this may not be quite accurate.

Blood players have the same problem with there only being the one person of said aspect as I had with doom, but I'm still going to pull what I can assume. I believe blood players attempt to use weapons they are confident in, though end up also accidentally weaponizing their environment through lack of skill and/or forethought. For example, Karkat's old capchalogue modus was large, heavy, impractical, and almost crushed his lusus, and he had run Sollux's virus program on his computer that resulted in a huge explosion that killed his lusus. I only have one example person to draw from, so this may not be quite accurate.

Heart players, from what I can guess, use weapons that are more favored or have sentimental value, and hardly (if ever) improve or replace them. Even if they do get better versions of the weapon, they'll stick with the original since it holds more sentimental value than the replacement. Plus, it may also have something to do with the quickness of the weapon, such as it being thin and lightweight as well as very sharp For example, Dirk sticks with his katana even as an adult, especially since he finds it quick and reliable to use, and Nepeta sticks with her original claw gloves through the entire game, likely for both ease and sentimental value.

Space players, I believe, have weapons that are surprising. For example, Jade is a witch who you expect to use magic to defend herself and she just. Pulls out a gun. And Kanaya is EXTREMELY surprising, since her tube of lipstick turns into a CHAINSAW, the latter of which completely clashes with her main aesthetic and is completely unexpected. Now, you may think Calliope is the outlier. But wouldn't you be surprised to see her go "oh shoot my wand is out of ammo" and then turn her wand into a gun, load it, then turn it back into a wand and shoot magic at you? Trick question the answer is yes.

Mind is another with only one possible area I could draw from. Based on only Terezi, I assume mind players are more likely to use hidden weapons you wouldn't think to worry about until they're actually attacking you. I say this because no matter what Terezi turns her cane into, she always makes sure it can still be functional (and hidden) as a walking cane. You wouldn't expect the cane to be able to turn into nunchucks, or swords, you'd at most expect her to beat you over the head with it. I only have one example person to draw from, so this may not be quite accurate.

Light players, I believe, use weaponized versions of important aspects to their preferred interests. For example, Vriska uses what are basically FLARPing dice to get weapons or power ups of some kind, and Rose uses knitting needles turned into a pair of magic wands.

Void players improvise in the moment, usually using their own natural (or unnatural) abilities if their own weapons are unusable in their traditional sense. For example, Roxy chucking literally anything at things to kill enemies, and Equius beating enemies with the two halves of his bow or just punching them into oblivion.

Rage is another problematic single-source one, but I'll still try. From what I can assume, rage players use whatever's closest to them that could be used as a weapon. Gamzee's juggling clubs were right there for him to juggle at the beginning, so of course just shrugging and picking those up to bludgeon things to death would make sense in this case. This also explains why he eventually got a strife specibus that allowed him to use any weapon, allowing him to just pick up whatever and use it for killing. Equius had left a lot of his bows around, both broken and unbroken, so it would still make sense for Gamzee to just pick up the nearest one and use that. And when fighting Terezi, he pulled the nearest weapons (Terezi's staff swords) away from her and used them to fight. He probably would have picked up a rock if there weren't any weapons in his reach. I only have one example person to draw from, so this may not be quite accurate.

For hope, I only have one thing to say: coolness factor. Eridan had a gun that straight-up shot LASERS, which he only gave up in favor of a REAL-ASS WAND, which he still claimed to basically be a science stick. Even if it was less effective than the gun, he still traded it in for coolness factor. Now, Jake was obviously a fan of movies, which meant that he would have a lot of experience with action movie heros, in which the coolest thing you could do is do cool stunts while firing a matching pair of pistols. And what does he do? Cool stunts while firing a matching pair of pistols. I rest my case.

Life may have a bit of a bias, since Feferi and Meenah had tridents because of their royal status and Jane had a trident because the post-scratch version of Meenah affected Jane's main weapon to be, well, a trident. We don't really have any other ideas of what different kinds of weapons they could use, so let's just say they use tridents and call it a day.

Now, to the point you've all been waiting for: Marvus.

Marvus Xoloto's revealed purple sign has the aspect of time, which honestly doesn't match up with his weapon choice.

His weapon, a sword, is hidden in his cane. You know what other aspect has had someone who uses a weapon hidden in plain sight? Mind. Xoloto shares a lot of similarities with the word axolotl, and there is one lime sign that is the shape of an axolotl's head.

And it's mind. And to be constrained means to be limited or restricted. And Marvus has a camera crew following him everywhere, making it impossible for him to really speak his mind.

My conclusion?

The theory everybody knows by now of Marvus being a lime blood in disguise.

Added bonus: despite him getting injured in one of the bad endings, we never actually get a confirmation of his blood color. He hides it way too well. Me still thinks he bleed the green stuff.

I know I'm super late to the game on this, but I still wanted to add my theories for the funsies.

[realfuurikuuri]

MissingArm!AU Chapter 5: The Torment of A Father

This one took a long time to get out. It was actually done and supposed to be uploaded on thanksgiving, but I got too busy to get that done, and the next day was another hassle, so here we are. I don't really have much to say for this chapter, aside from the fact that it's the first in a set of 3 that I've been wanting to finish since I started writing this. As the usual check out @spookylovesboba on a social media site of your choice, and uh... I have a good music recommendation for this chapter. I couldn't find a song that plays into its themes so... pick one for yourself, I guess. Leave it as a comment and I'll give it a listen.

Direct link to chapter 5 on AO3: XXX

Chapter below the cut

Mao Mao walked through town using a sheathed Geraldine as a cane. Because his feet still hurt. It was a warm day with large clouds. It hadn’t gotten windy yet, so the rain was still a bit off.

Badgerclops and Adorabat had only left yesterday, and he knew he should get some rest, but Mao Mao had stuff to do. Like, meet up with Ol’ Blue for his appointment. Who would’ve thought the Valley would have a therapist? He expected the closest one to be in the nearest kingdom. He was lucky that the valley had one, yet he didn’t feel very lucky. He knew he’d needed a therapist. Basic introspection was enough to tell him that. He didn’t want to go. He never wanted to go. He still didn’t want to go. However, he was a grown-ass man. He could take care of himself.

He stood in front of the door to the office. It was the same as the one he wrote down, yet he still checked it over and over. He was just postponing the inevitable. He was a grown adult! He could do this!

Not without a drink first.

Mao Mao hobbled his way into a 24-hour convenience store. He worked his way to the back where the booze was. They didn't have the kind he liked. Mao Mao faintly heard the doors chime as someone else walked in; he considered seeing who it was before deciding he should hurry and pick a drink. He was juggling on getting a can or bottle when he heard a commotion a familiar voice.

“Just give me the money,” it said.

Mao Mao sighed, deciding on the can, walking up to the front of the store. There he was, pressing his golden dagger to a sweetipies throat, was his son.

“What in the hell are you doing?” he asked.

Jǐngtì rolled his eyes. “What does it look like I’m doing? This is a stickup. A sheriff should know that.”

“If you needed money, you should’ve just asked.  I’m your dad I would have given you some.”

“Don’t worry, I already know your credit and debit information. Thought the bank would have called you by now?”

“What?”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said,” also, you probably want to check your credit score.”

Mao Mao pinched the bridge of his nose. “Listen, just… get off of the counter.”

Jǐngtì eyed his father before driving his fist into the sweetipies nose and getting off the counter. Not the best outcome, but Jǐngtì listened, which was more than he expected.

They left the store after giving the sweetipie some ice. Mao Mao walked closely behind his son. He had no other place to go, rather; he had no other place he wanted to go. Jǐngtì noticed his father and let out an annoyed grunt, picking up his pace. At first, it was a brisk walk, then a run, then a race. Mao Mao continued to follow them, even though his feet were leaving bloody paw prints.

Jǐngtì jumped off a bench, springing off a lamppost to the rooftops. Mao Mao repeated the movements, following closely after his son. Jǐngtì suddenly swung around. Mao Mao stumbled to a stop. Jǐngtì’s claws grazing his cheek instead of his eye. It was easy to forget that he was part cat. He had tufted fur around his shoulders, and a bushy tail, but kept a sense of balance and hidden claws. He preferred using the tanuki magic he inherited from his mother (it wasn’t that hard to realize why) but he still knew how to make best use of his feline traits.

Jǐngtì quickly broke from the rooftops, springing off the rooftops with a backflip, and reaching out with both arms to pull himself into a window in one smooth motion. A move that a one-armed man shouldn’t be able to do. Mao Mao jumped off the edge, sticking Geraldine through the window to use as a lever to pull himself inside.

Jǐngtì was waiting for him with one foot out the window and a purple ox in his arms. He looked Mao Mao square in the eye before throwing the ox in one direction and leaving in the other.

That would have worked on anyone else.

Mao Mao went after the ox first. He caught it the air, landing on a shop awning, setting the ox neatly on its feet before the awning snapped back like a trampoline, sending Mao Mao flying through the air, back to the rooftops.

Jǐngtì sneered at the act, gritting his teeth, and stamped his foot against the shingles. “God, just stop following me! What the fuck do you want!”

“I just want to talk,” he said.”

“About what?”

Good question.

“What are you carrying,” Mao Mao blurted out.

Jǐngtì looked at the plastic bags he was carrying with some disbelief. “Shouldn't you know what groceries are?”

“I know what groceries are,” he said,” I mean why do you have them?”

“Shouldn’t you also know that people need to eat?”

“No. I mean like… what are you doing here?”

“Getting groceries.”

Could the kid try not to get on his nerves? “What I mean to ask what are you still doing in the valley?”

“You and I still have some unfinished business, of course. Why wouldn't I still be here?”

“I just thought Tanya would have picked you up before she left.”

“Mom was here?”

Mao Mao felt like he just picked the wrong answer in one of Badgerclops’ dating sims.

Jǐngtì stopped. Mao Mao expected him to cry. He could already see tears, yet Jǐngtì just blinked them away with a sigh. Jǐngtì said nothing else. He slowly turned around and began to walk away.

“Wait!”

Mao Mao grabbed Jǐngtì by the wrist.

“What do you want?”

Mao Mao paused while he thought of a reason. “You want to get something to eat?”

* * *

Jǐngtì sat on the bench outside Muffin’s Bakery, twiddling his thumbs while he waited for his father. If it was up to Jǐngtì he would have picked somewhere else. Dessert wasn’t his favorite thing, but he didn’t really care. He was still numb. He expected mom to show up eventually, sooner rather than later, but he at least expected to meet her. He was just another afterthought. Jǐngtì shook his head and wiped tears from his eyes. Don’t let it show. Can’t let it show.

Don’t be weak. Can’t be weak.

He pulled up the bandana and rubbed the tears out of his eyes. He searched around for something to focus on before he broke down completely. He settled on looking over his shoulder to the inside of the bakery. His father leaned against the counter, waiting for the order. His eyebrows knitted together. The fox inside was giving Mao Mao a wide berth, shuffling in his seat, and sweating nervously. Muffin didn’t seem to notice the hard air. Were all sweetipies oblivious? Jǐngtì preferred not to dwell on sweetipies; all the sweetipies creeped him the fuck out. They were just so weird.

Jǐngtì watched Mao Mao get the order and sit down next to him. Mao Mao got beignets while Jǐngtì got the cobbler he didn’t want. He only got cobbler because he knew it annoyed his dad for some reason. He didn’t feel like annoying his dad, so why the hell did he even get it? Jǐngtì almost got up and threw it away until he remembered the pit in his stomach. Something disgustingly sweet was better than nothing.

They sat in silence for a moment before Jǐngtì spoke up.

“Why are you using your sword like that,” Jǐngtì asked.

“Using it as a cane? It’s because I hurt my feet the other day.”

“Fighting that monster?”

“Yeah.”

The pointless and pathetic small talk quickly gave way to silence again. They sat like that for another moment when Mao Mao managed to say something.

“How are you feeling,” Mao Mao asked.

“Why do you care?”

“I’m your dad. Caring is what I’m supposed to do.”

“I know,” he said,” I’m just wondering why you’re suddenly starting to do that now.”

“I’ve always cared-”

“Did you?” Jǐngtì interrupted. “Did you really? I go to prison and you do... whatever this is. Became babysitter to a bunch of creepy fucking toddlers? I know for a fact that you could have done something to get me out of prison.”

“It’s not that easy-”

“It really is. You could have paid bail yourself.. I know for a fact this goddamn ‘mao clan’ or whatever has enough money to literally pay a king’s ransom with excess. Instead, you let Mom spend 4 years collecting the money herself.”

Mao Mao stumbled over his words. “I… the situation was complicated. The monarchy-”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he calmly said.

“What?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Jǐngtì shuffled to the other side of the bench, refusing to even look his father in the eye.

“Why’d you get the groceries?”

“Cause I was hungry and would rather not starve to death because none of them want to do chores?”

“Who’s ‘them’?”

“My… roommates, I guess.”

“What roommates? Who are you staying with? Where are you staying?”

“Sky Pirates.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Mao Mao jump to his feet and begin pacing back and forth.

“Why would you?” He took a deep breath, taking the time to gather his thoughts. “You’re staying with the sky pirates?”

“Yes.”

“Why? I have a room at HQ you could have stayed in.”

“I didn’t want to. Matter of fact, I still don’t want to.”

“You shouldn’t be staying with the sky pirates-”

“I don't see why it's such a fucking problem with you! You went years without a call or even a letter! I can’t understand why you suddenly want anything to do with me.”

“Why wouldn’t I want anything to do with you? I’m your father.”

“You sure as hell don’t act like it.”

* * *

Mao Mao coiled his tail around his finger. It was a replacement habit. When he had both arms he tended twiddle his thumbs. The new habit gave him something to do while he thought of something to say.

What could he say?

“Look, son-”

“Don’t call me that,” he snapped.

Mao Mao ignored it.

“Son, I know that… things were difficult. It was prison. It has to be. It must have been an incredibly difficult time for you.” He put his arm over Jǐngtì’s shoulder. “You had to learn to do things on your own, learn to make judgments for yourself, with no guidance or advice.”

“It must have been a painful thing to go through. It had to be. You managed to survive it and now you’ve come out stronger. You’ve gotten rid of a bit of that weakness. Leaving you in jail wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment decision. It was a lesson. It taught you about consequences and weakness and-” I know it sounds harsh, but-”

Jǐngtì quickly stood up before he could finish. He took a deep breath and stared at the ground while he thought. “I know it sounds harsh, but-”

Mao Mao never got to try to justify himself.

Jǐngtì grabbed Mao Mao by the face and pushed him back with all his might. Mao Mao went over the bench crashing through the Bakery’s storefront. Mao Mao righted himself, stumbling into a landing, using only a cat's instinct. The danger of surprise attacks lay in the ‘surprise’. If it didn’t win the fight outright, the sudden switch created an opening. Mao Mao knew this; Jǐngtì did as well. His son seized the opportunity. He lunged forward. A punch that should have landed. Mao Mao caught it with his right hand; a feat only possible because the move and strategy was something he taught his son. A surprise throw to create a gap for a well-timed finish.

“A single wrong move can turn the tides,” he said, pulling Jǐngtì in for a leg sweep counter.

Mao Mao felt something strike the side of his head. An elbow split his skin. “A single wrong move can turn the tides,” Jǐngtì smugly repeated.

To know that he’d pull him in for a leg-sweep creating just enough space for an elbow that a one-armed man couldn’t stop. Did he read that far ahead? Mao Mao couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride as everything tilted.

He grabbed Jǐngtì’s arm. They began to fall. Jǐngtì prepared to grapple on the ground, however, Mao Mao pushed off the ground, reeling back and then pushing Jǐngtì away with all his weight.

Mao Mao was still reeling from the attacks, his sense of balance too busy somersaulting to keep him from falling on broken glass. A stray shard went into his side, slipping past the ribs into the meat.

The pain was blinding. All Mao Mao could do was lie there in pain, waiting for Jǐngtì’s finisher. Would it be a kick to the skull? A stomp to the face? Mao Mao put his money on the forme; It seemed more Jǐngtì’s style. He waited and waited, but it never came.

Mao Mao pried himself off the ground.  He considered pulling out the shard but decided it was the only thing keeping him from bleeding out, so it was best to leave it. He looked for Jǐngtì, finding him back outside, sitting on the bench. Mao Mao grabbed used Geraldine as a cane to stumble toward his son, heaving for breath, barely able to even stand.

“How do you do it,” Jǐngtì asked. “How do you manage to come so close to doing something right? How do you manage to mess it up so swiftly, so consistently, so easily that it makes blinking look like a deadlift?”

Mao Mao had nothing to say.

“I’ll cover the damages. It was my fault. I got mad. I just thought… you might have changed, or at least learned your lesson.”

Jǐngtì stood up, grabbed his groceries, and walked away.

Mao Mao wanted to feel sad. He wanted to feel regret. He wanted there to be tears in his eyes, he wanted to say something, but he had nothing. No regret. No remorse. No rage. All his emotions and energy had been spent up and burnt out. He just felt tired. So unbelievably tired.

With nothing left to do, with nothing he wanted to do, he headed back home.

* * *

Somewhere along the long walk home, across the Valley’s grassy foothills, the pain had gone away. Actually, it would be better to say he had just gotten used to it. Maybe he’d just sleep with the shard in his side. He could probably take care of it tomorrow. Mao Mao felt a yawn come up, but he didn’t even have the energy to get it out. He put his head down and kept walking even though he was half-asleep. Habit and muscle memory would be enough to carry him the rest of the way. Maybe he’d get lucky and fall asleep with his eyes closed.

Mao Mao crossed the crest of the final foothill, absently hearing something. “Now where is he? I called and called, but he didn’t answer the phone. Does he actually live here? Thing looks like a dollhouse.”

Mao Mao could have sworn he recognized the voice. Who did it belong too? It didn’t belong to anyone in the Valley. Who was it? Damn! The name was on the tip of his tongue.

Bam!  

Mao Mao stumbled back clutching his bloody nose. Did he just walk into his own front door? That was what he gets for not paying attention.

“Mew Mew! There you are, my boy! What are you doin’ walking with your eyes closed? Don’t tell me you lost your sight. Already lost your arm can’t have you losin’ much more than that can we?” he said with a hearty gut-filled laugh Mao Mao hadn’t heard in nearly a decade.

The realization knocked the wind out of Mao Mao.

“Papa?”

[lifeofnes]

Wk 5

Ok so from Sunday to Wednesday I did nothing but stay in bed. The weekend really kicked my butt.  I researched and listened to OPM and read manga and comics. I caught up on Shokugeki No Soma and the Immortal Hulk. Both I feel describe me well: a culinary enthusiast who is a thoughtfully aware rage monster. That’s a joke. I’m only up and mobile a 6-8 times a day to eat, bathroom, or say hi to inay and tatay. I don’t want to get them sick so my interactions are distanced and brief. I can still tell inay’s not at one hundred, but in your mid-eighties who really is? Every day I hear my mom buzzing around the house trying to literally do everything she can to make the living situation more comfortable for inay. They got her an at-home oxygen machine and a new cane. Mom is cooking almost every meal for five people. Cleaning and trying to find a suitable home and caregiver. Most of which is impeded by her brother and inay who do not want to spend the money they’re not even using. When she’s not here she’s at the apartment holding herself back from sticking her foot up the neighborhood managements ass to come fix our roof. It's been a month. We’re already bribing them to put us on the top of the list of repairs. I have no idea if its worth it, or if it will matter since we leave in a day. She’s also trying desperately to sell our car, but with only a weeks worth of time and wanting a full payment in cash in hand, I doubt this last day will be any different. It’s heartbreaking really. I knew we were coming into this to take care of inay, but I had no idea the amount of pressure she would put on herself doing so. Not to mention the lack of thankfulness and for some reason underlying anger, I have noticed coming from either of my grandparents and uncle Ver. We have a few moments with each other during those days and she tells me that of all the times she’s ever been back to the Philippines, this has been her loneliest experience. She starts crying and I hold her hand. She really wants to go home and see dad. And I get it. Imagine having to live with your parents who still treat you like a irresponsible teenager, when you’re 58, in front of your own child. The difference in tone and dynamic in how they talk and act towards my mom and how they talk and act with me are worlds different. I have no idea who’s mad at who, or for what reason, but every conversation is laced with this scent of resentment. It is a sad feeling to want to raise your voice, but know that it has no sound behind it. By Thursday I was healthy (enough,) fed up, and only had six days left. I escaped quarantine and went to the mall to have churros and by a sim card. With that pocket Wifi gone I needed to have some form of communication. A sim with 5 gigs cost 20 pesos. That’s less than fifty cents. That was wild. I got churros with an ube white chocolate dip. That was wild. My mom was letting me travel by myself. WIIIILD. We met up for lunch at this place called army navy burger and burrito. I had a burger for the first time in thirty Gregorian calendar days. Though not the best burger I had, it was welcoming. Mom and I talked about the plan for the next few days and told me that she found someone to replace her and convinced everyone in the house it was the smartest decision. What a trooper. I love her. The next few days mom and I spend hanging out with Kristel and Vicky, sleeping at their place, and being treated like proper guests. It’s nice to see my mom not having to everything for a change of pace. I work a few shifts at Conrado’s and hang out with two of Kristel's friends. Both of whom are lesbians and in a very “will they, won't they” rom-com situation. It’s entertaining. I’m hoping they don’t because they seem bad for each other, Kristel doesn't want it to happen because she knows one of them isn’t a lesbian, she just likes the attention lol. We go out to Korean BBQ! It was pretty good, and super cheap for unlimited everything! Like 6.50 usd. But I did spend 700+ on a plane ticket here so my small monetary victories don’t mean much. On Friday ate Vic brings us to Tagaytay to go sightseeing. We eat bulalo and is easily one of the best meals I’ve ever had in my life. They also did a beef shank karekare which changed all my life experiences with that dish. The view we had was over a cliff during midday. The whole experience was Michael Lawrence Tyler (Mystkal.) We hit a few other restaurants on the way back home for coffee and pastries. The first is at the newly opened Ridge Park. They have natural cut bench tables and secluded huts for bigger parties, lining a path mere feet from the edge of the mountain. We grab coffees there which are crap, but we’re there for the view anyway. Wish we could visited the island that’s inside a lake that’s inside an island that’s inside a lake that’s inside a island. We were really close to it. You’ll know what I’m talking about it you Bing it. View is breathtaking and I’m happy to be sharing the moment with my family. We head out to a cafe called Bag of Beans. This one is definitely ritzier, not at all indicated by its humdrum name. Like destination wedding reception levels of fancy. It’s terraced, meaning all of it’s rooms are on different levels of the mountain but all part of the same grounds. The main area has 3 dining rooms. One next to the cashier and glass shadowbox with their baked goods. Its adjacent to the kitchen which looks fully loaded and up to date based on my nosy looks though the circular glass of the door. There’s the upstairs dining area accessed only by spiral staircase, and an outdoor area with a view of Mt. Taal and its lake. One terrace down is a newly renovated ballroom, that is slightly overhanging the cliff-side. One terrace above is an auxiliary kitchen/ power/boiler room with rooftop garden access. There’s a ridiculous water fountain piece stocked with koi between levels 2-3. The grounds manager stocked every nook with flowers and every flavor plant. This joint is swanky. Kristel and I take a look around with hot cocoa in hand and I jokingly (not jokingly) tell her to make sure to have her future wedding reception here. We head home after sundown and hit a night market before the highway to eat jackfruit on the ride home. Saturday the Mayor side throw me and my mom a going away party. My cousin Onyok who owns a wild boar piggery comes through with the lechon. It’s sweeter and has a deeper savoriness than all of the other lechon I've had. I think it’s because he finishes raising them on just fruit in their final months. It’s also ate Agnes’ birthday but as usual she’s cooking something. I join her in making empanadas, fish lumpia. She says she wants to make a career of this somehow. I tell her that just because she’s 40 now doesn’t mean she shouldn’t go for it haha. My two eldest cousins Cesar and Emma got to see each other. They’re the ones who both got strokes within weeks of each other and are pretty much bedridden. Everytime they see each other Cesar is crying and Emma is getting mad at him for it. Kuya Onyok’s wife, Cori, wouldn’t stop taking pictures of every single thing. It was a good day for her. After eating twice, I ended up playing volleyball with Onyok’s grandkids (they’re my age so that how old Onyok is if you were wondering) and I had a hard time keeping up. It was my first physical exercise in over a month I think. All of my older cousins were asking how my time here was. If I had a relaxing time being back or if I had hard time adjusting. It was “all of those things and more.” I told them. Some of the physical space I was in, but mostly depended on the people I was getting to know. Some gave me hope and drove me to keep going. Others filled me with pity, a longing to help, but not knowing where to. But all of them gave me a perspective change. Life in the Philippines is hard. Weather you have money or don’t. There are going to be relational problems between families and lovers. Government here is twice as corrupt and convoluted as it is in the states. There are actual ongoing armed conflicts, real firefights, going all over the islands. Wages suck, good jobs are scarce, and opportunities to get ahead in life seem narrow. There are some beautiful places but the uneducated majority of the populace leaves pollution thick in the air, in the water, in the streets. Religion and tradition still hold a tight grip against modern, practical, and sound policies. Still, all of the people I’ve interacted with and observed seem generally happy-go-lucky. Like things are going all according to plan. Maybe I’ve only met a handful of people here in a small amount of time, but a spirit of endurance is prevalent here. I have to pack still and say bye to the cousins I can manage to get in touch with. So i’ll leave it at this, I love this place and I’m thankful for how it both made my world smaller and larger in perspective. Ingat ka! See you in Eat-aly.

[siliquasquama]

Legend of the Red Barracuda, Verse 16: Down by the Fish, where the Grape Men Sing

"I don't understand why you felt the need to come along," I say to the gaggle of teenagers surrounding me.

We are pushing through one of the fish-and-trinket markets of Stiltsville. They sell a lot of kinds of...well, they live in the water, so I'd call them fish, but I'm used to earthling fish, you know? These things are hard-shelled but they have tails, or they're soft-shelled and they have legs, or occasionally there's something that looks like an earth fish because convergent evolution makes nature less creative than you might guess, but there's also stuff that looks like trilobites. The trinkets, meanwhile, I can't figure out what any of them are supposed to do, and anyway I've barely got any credits in my pocket so the whole market is a panoply of bright canvas and loud people hawking their wares and I can't participate in any of it, so the whole thing weighs on my mind.

It's a crowded place, but my young acquaintances have taken it upon themselves to intimidate people out of the way. Or try to, at any rate. I think I'm doing most of the intimidating. These twerps couldn't intimidate a mound of jello, but the people literally made of spikes and the most aggressive beggars are springing aside.

"It's simple," says the Lake-blue Gworb. "If you have on a helmet and you are alone, people think you're trying to hide. If you have on a helmet and so do your numerous friends, everyone thinks you are part of a gang, so they stay out of your way."

"So that's why everyone is letting us through," says Ramon. "Seems a little brutal, though. Couldn't we have, I don't know, claimed diplomatic immunity or something? We have a personal connection to Smith and we kinda saved the mining station."

"We also BROKE the mining station," says Smoky Quartz. "And we're currently keeping it in the equivalent of a back pocket. So maybe we ought to keep letting Smith vouch for us through the back channels she knows before we go and do something crazy like reveal your faces to the world."

"We?" says Lake Blue.

"I am blaming our impetuosity for causing the disturbance that led to a situation that required Sword Lesbian to go through channels so dangerous that she had to violently defend her vehicle against machinery. Not that I lay the blame on us entirely, of course, and it sounds as though a great many poor decisions from multiple people led to the station's current predicament. I do hope Smith will be able to explain that notion to the Council, and that we do not see the equivalent of a volcanic eruption from this distance. In any case, as we were part of the web of poor decisions, I consider that we are caught up in the same mess as our tall, intimidating friend here, and perhaps we have common cause."

"Do we?" says I. "You sound as though you want to smash the system. Ramon and I are just trying to keep a step ahead of the Student Loan Company so that we can get enough money to pay them off."

"I don't know," says Ramon, "maybe if we smash the system we don't HAVE to pay back our student loans."

"I have not forgotten your proposal of attempting to find a City Buster gun. I just don't think it's feasible. Even if we could get it, we'd have to mount it, and then power it. Oh, and deal with the resulting massive financial fallout and probable execution squad, plus grieving families, plus political chaos."

One of the twerps takes off their helmet, revealing a mane of black hair that looks like it wouldn't have fit. Then again, my long hair is stuffed into my own helmet. "The Student Loan Company chose to allow its forces to be used in war. Its operations are now fair game for reprisal," says Black Hair. "Let us find a City Buster Gun."

"Seconded," says the twerp who I remember has yellow hair. They don't remove their helmet.

"Now hang on a second," says Aquamarine, "even if we're willing to draw attention to ourselves by using the gun, we shouldn't be discussing the matter in public. Let us find more private quarters. Weren't we going to see someone about a hand, anyway? Why are we looking in Stiltville? We'd find better parts in Bubbletown."

"On the legal market," says Ramon, "Sure. But Bubbletown probably has security cameras, and people who could call the police on a gaggle of people dressed up like a gang."

"You're all talking like a bunch of violent people," I say.

"Par for the course in Stiltsville," says Lake Blue. "Duck."

I duck as a stool flies over our heads. Someone on one side of us is cussing out someone on the other side of us. There's been a fair amount of that since we got here. This time, it's turning into a fight.

Actually, it's already a fight, and somehow I've managed to intimidate my way into and through it without a scratch. I maintain my posture and hustle everyone out of the scrummage of Squelchians, Clockerbockers, and Altairians.

I look around. There's at least a few such altercations happening farther down the wooden walkway. Nobody seems fazed.

"I think I'd rather be in Bubbletown right now", says I. "I imagine it's quieter and more orderly."

"Maybe," says Ramon. "Or maybe Bubbletown is just better at hiding its violence behind closed doors. Come on. We've got to go see the guy I know about."

We followed Ramon through the sorts of streets that result when you have no zoning regulations and no plan. A lot of wending ways, although once there's the real semblance of a street nobody is dumb enough to build a house across the middle. Usually. We hit a few closes and loops. I can't figure how Ramon knows where he's going. "Hey," I say, "Do you actually know where this guy is?"

"Not exactly," says Ramon, "but I asked a guy a while ago how to find the place, and he says it will find us."

"Hello," says the voice of an old man behind me.

I turn around. There's a little old Squelchian man leaning on a cane. Squelchians are little to begin with, but this one has become shrunken and wrinkled with age. Squelchians share much of their body chemistry with grapes, though they are typically sea-green. Uncharitable people call them Sea Grapes.

"My name," says the man, "Is Mister Mist. You are wandering lost and you are missing a hand. I assume you want me?"

"Why couldn't you just put up a dang sign?" says Black Hair.

"Oh," says the little man, "there are reasons to be discreet. Reasons that have much to do with the effectiveness of my business. It renders the handling of unpaid invoices somewhat...problematic...if I want to handle them in a non-violent fashion. I assume you folks have enough scratch between you to cover my bill?"

"Depends on what you're offering," I say. "Do you have a range of cheap options for prosthetics or is more like a custom-job thing?"

"Come inside, come inside," says the little man. He waves us toward the open door of a green-painted house that looks barely different from any other.

We pile inside. It's dark and as each of us filters in through the door it gets more cramped. The light is off. The only light available is from the blue cloud of electricity that has replaced my hand. The wooden walls in here are close. There doesn't appear to be anything else in here. Until I see the wooden wall slide to the right, revealing a place that looks like the combination of someone's living room, kitchen, and machine shop. Hanging upon the walls are a wide array of tools, metal hands, metal arms, metal eyes, metal faces, and one metal head. I guess that's a more drastic replacement.

"If this guy can give someone a prosthetic head," says Ramon, "Then he's got to be good."

The little man pops up from behind the work bench. "That's a bit of a joke," he says. "I've only tried it once and the patient decided he preferred the taste of metal. Unfortunaately i hadn't yet replaced his digestive system. Gave him an awful stomachache. Anyway, replacement hand. Let's see." He plucks a hand from the wall and hands ( ha ha) the piece to me.

I stare at it. "Do I just...slap it on or something?"

"Hm? Oh! You are a first timer here. You can't just slap it on and hope it will stick. You have to place it on the stump, tighten it with the twisting part, and wait for the neurons in your arm to connect to their counterparts in the hand. It will sting a bit."

I place the hand on the end of my arm and tighten the twisting part. The arm feels like I'm being jabbed with needles by a discount acupuncturist.

"Can you move the fingers?" says the little man.

The hand is surrounded by the blue cloud of electricity.

The fingers do not move.

"Nope," I say, "no luck."

"Bad fit then. Try this one." He hands me a slightly larger prosthetic.

I repeat the process. The pain in my nerves is less this time, but still there. And the blue cloud surrounds the hand. And the hand doesn't move.

"Looks like your blue cloud doesn't want to be usurped," says Ramon.

"Electricity plays hell with prosthetics," says Mister Mist. "The people who work in electrical substations, I have to build them hands and legs that are insulated from working too close to the wires. I could do it for you, if you like. Set up a payment installment plan."

"I'm already in debt," I say. "I honestly don't think I could afford even one of your items."

"In that case," says Mister Mist, "Come sit on the couch and we will discuss the future."

He moves pretty quick for an old Squelchian. He's sitting in a chair facing me before I can even sit down. Ramon sits beisde me. The six teenagers of the Reisistance lean over the back and over my shoulder, or sit on the armrest, or sit beside the couch.

"So this is your combination machine shop and therapist's office," I say. "Why the second part?"

"You've never lost a limb," says Mister Mist. "The full impact of your loss does not appear to have hit you yet, but trust me, it will happen. Part of the reason I do this is because I've had so many people come into my shop who are down in the dumps. Quite a bit of anxiety, a heap of shellshock. It's a shock to lose an arm or a leg. Some people don't handle it well. I like to stay in contact with my customers, and I know that with a prosthetic, satisfaction is not as simple as getting a new limb. I try to help them adjust. What I want to know is, how are you holding up?"

"Me? Fine. Fine and dandy. I'm more worried about my friend. She lost an arm fixing an engine."

"Oh, then she ought to come see me -- "

"And her legs fixing another engine."

"She definitely ought to come see me. I imagine she is feeling the effects or her loss quite a bit more strongly than you."

I slap the seat cushion. "That's just the thing! She says she's fine! Right now she's working on prosthetics and doesn't sound like she's lost anything! I don't get it!"

Mister Mist leaned forward. "Have you considered that she may very well be supressing her grief?"

"...maybe."

"It is a thing many people do," says Mister Mist, "when they consider the expression or acknowledgement of grief more costly than its supression. It is why you get people acting curiously calm after having been through a battle, or similar instances of disaster."

"Bonci here took three days to express any emotion at all after we fled Altarnia," says Lake Blue, jerking a thumb at Black Hair. "She still doesn't want to tell me why."

"I just don't feel anything," says Bonci. "I'm not trying to suppress grief. It's just not there. Everything happened so fast. I might cry later when I get around to remembering what we lost, but..."

Mister Mist sighs. "So it is with people who lose a limb. The things you could do yesterday, you cannot do today. That which was, is now more difficult, or impossible. Life as it was before the trauma is unreachable. The only thing to do is move on, in a manner as constructive as possible. You say your friend is attempting to build prosthetics? Well, it may be that she has chosen the healthy path out of depression after all. But if not...well, you know where to find me. Until such time as you are out of debt, let our sessions be free of charge."

"Right kind of you," I say. "I may have to take up your offer after all. In the meantime, we ought to be getting back to the car."

"Cars," says Mister Mist. "Ah, yes. Those things. Do you know, I saw the most unusual and disturbing sight this afternoon? A genuine 1970 Plymouth Barracuda descended from the skies and landed in a nearby parking lot."

"What?" says Ramon. "Oh, that was us."

"You?" says Mister Mist. "You were driving that thing? No wonder you came to me with a case of a missing hand! That vehicle is cursed! You need to get rid of it right now."

"It's my damn car," says Ramon. "I bought it for two whole dollars."

"And two of your crew appear to have paid in blood. The car will be your doom. Leave it behind here - -no, no, leave it adrift in space."

"I will do no such thing!" says Ramon, drawing himself up. "And if you continue to insist on disposing of the car, I have no need of your services!"

"Although I probably will," I say. "Hang on, I'm getting a message on the communicator here. It says 'come to the Council Dome immediately.' Oh boy."

I run outside the shop and look to the sky over Government Sector. There is no volcanic eruption.

[thedeadshotnetwork]

What We're Thankful For, 2017 Remember how horrible 2016 was, and how thrilled we were to leave it behind? So many people we loved died—Bowie, Ali, Prince, Shandler, Zsa Zsa, George Michael, Gene Wilder, Carrie Fisher, Sharon Jones, Leonard Cohen, Florence Henderson. Harambe . On and on. So many things we loved died too. The truth , for instance. Civility . Trust in institutions, after a long fight, also shuffled off this mortal coil. There were no signs 2017 would be any better. In fact, with the election of Donald J Trump to the land’s highest office, many believed democracy had suddenly found itself on life support. But in such desperate need to turn the page, we placed a bit of hope in the changing of the calendar year anyway. We were so ready to move on, to say “ Fuck 2016! ,” that on January 1, 2017 we woke up to a silly art prank— Hollyweed —and allowed ourselves to believe it somehow meant things were already looking up. How naive we were. It can feel impossible in this waking nightmare to feel there is anything to be hopeful about or thankful for. But unlike the end of ‘16, things actually do appear to be ticking upward. The investigation into Russia’s meddling in the election is closing in . There’s a Reckoning underway for men who abuse their power, and it just might stick . Trump’s approval rating has hit an historic low , and he's largely revealed himself to be a walking disaster who can’t get anything done. Because of him, people are tired . But they're also active . And there is evidence the pendulum may finally have begun to swing the other way. This could again reveal itself to be naiveté. But for the purposes of this post, we’re running with it—welcoming any and all good news, especially during the holidays, which can be especially tough. In that spirit, we once again asked the staff at VICE.com to write a bit about what they’re thankful for in these bad (but getting better!!) times, personal things or people or places they cling to when the world appears to be crumbling. We may not be out of the mire just yet, but the things we’re thankful for help us weather the storm. My Bike For anyone who’s not familiar, New York City’s public transportation is usually a horrorshow . Subways rarely come on time , and when they do, you run the risk of getting stuck underground for hours , having your face peed on by a complete stranger , catching your first glimpse of a dead body , or witnessing the brutality of the animal kingdom in all its glory . So my third summer in New York I decided to buy a bike and I’ve never been more thankful. Not only is it just a better alternative to the shitshow that is the MTA , a great group activity, and something you can (but shouldn’t) do drunk , but I started to grow more connected to a city that often feels like a concrete tourist wasteland. Riding my bike through Brooklyn’s sprawling neighborhoods, to Rockaway Beach, down to Coney Island, over the bridge into Manhattan, and up and down the West Side Highway, taught me more about the city than a random constellation of subway stops ever could. I got my head above ground and out into the place I now call home, and learned about others who call it home in the process. (Bragging about all the exercise I was getting didn't hurt either.) The day I finally became happy in New York was the day I gave in and got a bike. That’s all it took. I stopped relying on everyone and everything else—the uncertainty of the train schedules, the wait time for a bus, and the cost and terrible music of an Uber or a cab. If you want to understand a city, and to better feel your place within it, get on a bike (you should also throw on a helmet) and just go— while you still can . —Lauren Messman, Associate Editor Quitting Drinking, Superhero Movies, and Guy Fieri Photos: Eve Peyser on Instagram / Wikimedia Commons I've spent most of 2017 writing about the Trump administration , and the triumph of evil. To put it mildly, the world is not well, which is inconceivably frightening, and on a personal level, very demoralizing. A saving grace has been not drinking . When I quit last October, I did so because I knew if I kept drinking I would die. Drinking was always an escape for me, a way to not feel like myself and not be accountable to myself and my loved ones; at the same time, it exacerbated my suicidal ideation and depression. I don't think I would've made it through the most chaotic year of myself if I was still drinking alcohol, a substance that has only plunged me deeper and deeper into chaos. I'm incredibly thankful for my boyfriend, a fellow non-drinker. Together, we spent much of the year looking for other, less harmful ways to escape from this shit world. As it turns out, a good, wholesome way to take our minds off all the horror that is 2017 is watching superhero movies. Suicide Squad , The Dark Knight , Deadpool , Thor: Ragnarok , Batman Robin , whatever the film's Rotten Tomatoes rating, they offer a form of escapism that makes me happy without hurting myself. Same goes with Guy Fieri, and the wonderful stars of the Food Network. I am especially thankful for Guy Fieri's unapologetic Guy Fieri-ness—it's genuinely inspiring to me. Despite the insanity of 2017, it was also the year I learned to love the things I love without being embarrassed about it. — Eve Peyser, Staff Writer, Politics TEA At some point in the last three decades America decided collectively to get really into coffee to the point where I assume schoolchildren in the coastal elite bubble are educated in cold brewing and Aeropresses and why burr grinders are better. I come here not to denounce coffee snob culture (I have paid $5 for a pourover and did not complain about it) but to raise up tea culture. Sometimes I don't need to mainline all that caffeine that comes in your average cup of "good" coffee. I just want a hot drink to read while I watch a mature, adult television program such as a Ken Burns documentary or HGTV. Green tea, bitter black tea with some milk, herbal teas that can taste like flowers or orange or mint—it's all good, apart from Lipton's, which thank God is mostly not served outside of the Midwest, diners, and certain institutional settings. (I'm talking about hot tea here; iced tea is also excellent.) Teabags are fine but really you should have a teapot and loose leaves, which will feel charmingly eccentric to Americans. Next time someone comes over offer them some tea, or better yet just tell them you are making tea and they can have some if they want, because that's the kind of person you are: a hospitable drinker of tea who even has those little mesh balls you put the leaves into. Tea gives you something to do in the kitchen when you want to check out of a family gathering. It warms your hands during cold winter nights. I won't go so far as to say that drinking it makes you a good person but I'm sure that it's harder to be a vicious asshole while drinking a nice cup of hot tea, and isn't that what the holidays are all about? —Harry Cheadle, Senior Politics Editor Yoga When it feels like things are in a tailspin, and I can't stand reading one more headline or wondering why I'm bothering putting money into a 401(k) when Donald Trump could literally blow up the planet at any moment, there's really only one thing that consistently makes me feel better: yoga. For me, practicing yoga is the difference between near-constant low-grade anxiety about the state of the world and the ability to fucking chill about it. When I'm feeling shitty, I've learned to put those feelings aside for an hour and hit the mat instead. Nine times out of 10, I feel somewhat better afterwards. So yes, I am thankful for my yoga practice. (On a related note, I'm also thankful for weed, for very similar reasons.) —Kara Weisenstein, Associate Editor The 2017 World Series Champion Houston Astros This year I flew home to Houston, Texas, to visit my parents. The trip was supposed to be quick, just two days. It ended up being nine. Many of them were spent in the dark, without electricity. My trip was the same weekend another visitor came to town: Hurricane Harvey. Even as He began slowly churning in the Gulf and was projected to come knocking as soon as I touched down, I went ahead with my travel plans undeterred. As a Third Coast native, I'd lived through many a ‘cane, and figured the trip would be just a tad bit wetter than I'd hoped. I was wrong. Though my folks were largely spared , I was beginning to see—through Facebook, texts, calls—that many old friends, neighbors, colleagues, and relatives were not. The scope of destruction was massive, the exact kind you might expect when a year's worth of rainfall is wrenched from the clouds in just a few days . Everyone got touched. Efforts to recover were similarly massive. All the donated money and funds both federal and local helped people rebuild homes, surely, but spirits around the region were also in massive need of renovation. That came in the form of the Houston Astros. This was, in a word, unlikely. These are the Astros. Just a few short years ago they were the worst team in the sport . (The Dis-Astros they were sometimes called when I was growing up.) And even when they've managed to field good teams they always find a way to fuck things up. So when they found themselves this year in the World Series facing a favored Los Angeles Dodgers, the most expensive squad in baseball , there was nary a reason to believe they wouldn't be swept like they were the one and only other time they'd found themselves playing this late into the season. But they won. In seven thrilling, totally fucking insane games , they won. Quickly the photo updates of various rebuilding efforts and the lasting evidence of Harvey's destructive rumble were replaced on my Facebook feed with reaction videos of the last World Series out, photos of the various victories along the way, GIFs of improbable plays, and plans to attend the parade. Nothing will ever erase Hurricane Harvey's enormous impact on the city of Houston. But because of it, the Astro's championship season couldn't have come at a better time. —Brian McManus, Special Projects Editor My Fringe-Ass Dad My dad is fringe, in the same way Frank Reynolds is fringe —in fact, he’s a lot like Frank Reynolds, interspersed with a little bit of Homer Simpson, a dash of Harrison Ford, and a whole lot of Larry David. Once, he hit a deer while he was driving through rural Georgia in his sedan, and instead of doing anything about it, he left the chunk of fur that had lodged itself into his crumpled grill in place, neglected to clean the blood from his hood, and started calling his shitty four-door the “Deer Slayer 2000.” He rips cigs. He doesn’t pay parking tickets, as a rule. He’s been wearing the same army-green coat every winter for about a decade, despite the fact that there’s a gaping, tattered hole in the left elbow. Another good one: Five hours into a bender with my reprobate friends at a grimy Atlanta bar, after too many games of pool (couldn’t really see the balls) and air hockey (somehow wound up with bloody knuckles) on which we bet a pickle-back apiece, everyone in attendance—including, of course, my fringe-ass dad—decided to go to the Clermont Lounge . It’s a seedy, smoky strip club that’s really more of a dive bar than anything, and it is (for lack of virtually any other word in my vocabulary) fringe. But we didn’t have a way to get there. So my dad—who, thankfully, was sober enough to drive—had all eleven of us pile into his tiny, beat up sedan: Two in the front seat, seven in the back, and me and a buddy in the trunk. We all easily could’ve died, and though two people vomited on the way there, we made it, and everything turned out fine—better than fine. It was fucking awesome. We drank, and sang, and ran around like idiots, and danced our asses off. I bought my dad a lap dance. The point is this: My dad is extremely fringe, and I have never laughed harder, or marveled more, or appreciated to a deeper degree anything than I do his fringe-ass self. This Thanksgiving, I’ll eat turkey, and pet my dogs, and probably play a few games of Trivial Pursuit, all of which will be nice. But what I’m most excited about—what I’m most thankful for—is the chance to get weird with the lawless, depraved (and, by the way, huge-hearted, shockingly brilliant, impossibly selfless) psychopath who raised me. Here’s to you, Dad. Stay fringe. —Drew Schwartz, Junior Staff Writer Whitney and Brandy in 'Cinderella' While cleaning my apartment the other day, I was looking for some Whitney Houston to jam to. I stumbled upon the 1997 Rodgers Hammerstein's Cinderella soundtrack, which featured Brandy and Whitney Houston. This was the only version of Cinderella we were allowed to watch growing up, and for good reason—the movie sparked my love and appreciation for Whitney Houston and made me dream of being a princess like no other Disney movie had before. The soundtrack took me back to simpler days where every holiday season my mother, sister, and I would watch the scene with Brandy gliding around the dance floor with her prince. We were in awe of the beautiful ballroom filled with cool-colored gowns. From the mixed-race cast to the banging soundtrack, this movie was a huge part of my childhood. I am thankful for this version of Cinderella that was ahead of its time in so many ways. —Janae Price, Editorial Assistant These Things Image by Lia Kantrowitz Sometimes talking or writing without putting my foot in my mouth is hard work. I’m truly thankful I have a job where I don’t often have to express myself with words. In that vein, here is a collage of other things I’m thankful for. —Lia Kantrowitz, Senior Illustrator New Jersey I'm back at my mother's house right now in New Jersey for Thanksgiving, and I'll be here for four days—the longest stay I've had in my home state since I moved to New York five years ago. I don't miss this place until I'm here, but I often find myself defending it, even in Brooklyn. I only grew up once, but you'd be hard-pressed to convince me there's somewhere better to do it. I'm from a land that people go through to get somewhere better—to New York, to Philly, to the airport. It makes you restless, flamboyant, and (sometimes) overtly obnoxious. It's everything I enjoy about life. There's something in the air, beyond pollution, that will always make me feel at home here. Even just exiting the tunnel on the train from Manhattan, once it emerges on the other side of the Hudson, makes me feel different. The smokestacks. The factories. The toll booths and swamps and power lines. Finally I can say "fuck" every other word, and no one's going to say shit. In New Jersey, you learn things. You learn how to speak, to tell stories. You learn how to drive 80 miles an hour eight inches from the back of another car. You learn you're not fucking special. You don't have to make up your mind here. You can elect a man who might as well be the mascot for corruption, and then you can tell that guy to fuck off and pick the dude who's going to legalize pot. You can watch The Jersey Shore with irony and without irony, simultaneously. You can listen to Bon Jovi, and understand why he's brilliant and silly, and you can listen to Bruce Springsteen, and understand why he's brilliant and silly. Plus, we have better bagels than Long Island. And better emo music. Fuck them. —Alex Norcia, Copy Editor, VICE.com and VICE Magazine November 23, 2017 at 04:23PM