#This is goddamn terrifying and bad for my anxiety because I have ZERO idea as to why this is happening except I gotta be cursed

[liminalhymnal]

I have never been allergic to anything in my LIFE but now I am part-human and part-hives and I. Don't. Know. Why.

This is Hell and I must be the devil's most pitiable little jester jingling my way down the clownward spiral

[serifsans]

Vladimir’s bulk is warm and comfortable in a way nothing else is. It’d probably be downright luxurious to curl up on his lap in his true form but if there’s anything Jean-Paul hates, it’s letting their boyfriend (boyfriend, he calls him, as if either of them aren’t anything but too damn old, as if they don’t think of him as their husband, even if they dare not say it lest that change something and ruin everything.) see them when they aren’t wearing human form. It’s embarrassing, like being caught wearing bell-bottoms before they cycle back into fashion. They’ll let Vladimir see them now when they’re skulking around wearing ratty bathrobes so old they’re now antiques but JP draws the line as letting him see that silly pink dog.

(Also, they figure that if the regulators ever decide to mind-wipe him, it’s probably better if he has less memories of an obviously alien form. Maybe it won’t completely fry his brain then. JP’s terrified of that. Of course, JP also knows that if they ever came for him, Vladimir’s taking as many regulators as possible with him before they could even get to his head. They’re terrified of that just as much.)

They see each other so infrequently anyway that there’s no point wasting it looking like anything but a dream: that is, if your idea of a dream is undersized, middle-aged, and dressed entirely in designer brands. Vladimir’s is, which is part of the reason they like him so much. Their volph form is not a dream. It’s silly and little and adorable when it’s not glitching and lagging. JP will take adorable but the silly part, no.

Jean-Paul has his shop and his commissions and a whole part of his life he doesn’t want to drag Vladimir into any more than he already has. Vladimir’s got his work and his family and a whole part of his life he doesn’t want to drag Jean-Paul (or Polly Jean or whatever other name they cycle though) into any more than he already has. They both have businesses that keep them very busy and also side-pieces that also keep them very busy, mostly because neither of them really like to address their emotions and mostly deal with them by throwing themselves at whatever distraction they can find. Always, always, there’s the looming threat that this cannot last, that it’ll end poorly, that they should just end this, but whenever they break up, they can’t stay apart too long until the fear comes for one of them again.

Anyway, the point? Jean-Paul’s living like a fucking king over there because he gets to wallow all over this man. Anyone who doesn’t get to cuddle him is missing out on one of the finer joys of life.

“Paulie, my sweet one, maybe you would like it more if you moved a little, yeah? Just a little. I love you as I love no other, you are my starshine, my heart, but your ass, it’s bony. My legs can only take so much. I am sorry, my love.”

Oh, okay, the man he loves is just cruelly abandoning him like a complete and utter monster. That’s how it is. Being JP is so hard. They make a big show of looking extremely sad as they scoot off his lap and curl up against his side instead, sighing extremely, extremely over-dramatically. Vladimir pets his hair and gives him a little kiss to make up for kicking him off of his lap. JP sighs even more sadly and when that doesn’t elicit the desired response, sighs even louder so Vladimir kisses him again.

Their ass isn’t that bony.

“I guess I might find it within my heart to forgive you for this cruel and utterly cutting insult,” they say. “But only because I am an extremely kind person. The best. I’m completely saintly, darling. That’s the truth of it.”

Vladimir chuckles, a low rumble.

“They will write poems to your kindness and generosity. They will not say that you called what’s-her-name horrible things for hours only because she did not say hello to you while walking down the street. I still think she did not see you. If she knew what you said, she would never talk to you agains even if she did see you.”

JP huffs.

“First of all, it was not for hours. Second of all, I was only being truthful. Third of all, she did it on purpose; don’t argue otherwise. Fourthly, she can snub me all she wants, I really do not give a fuck, the joke’s on her, I made out with her dear old dad in the 70s and he liked it, so hah. I hope no one shows up at her fucking garden party. I hope she gets kicked out of the country club. I hope she buys a pony and it doesn’t love her.”

“Okay, Paulie, you tart,” says Vladimir, laughter still in his voice. “You were very busy in the 70s. You must have never rested.”

“You know it.”

Maybe being kicked off Vladimir’s lap isn’t so bad. It means they can nestle up against him and rest their head on his stomach. He likes to run his fingers through their hair, especially since they decided to start wearing it long in this body. Anyone else doing it makes him feel like anxious lapdog with no control over who does and doesn’t pet him (or pull his tail or mess with his ears or poke him) but Vladimir does it and he feels like a person instead. He closes his eyes and though he never naps, JP really feels so comfortable right now he could doze off. Bears are fantastic. The world needs more of them. Actually, it needs more of them and it needs this one to last forever.

“Mm, completely unrelated to exploits of the past, but I made an account on a website. Thought you should know. Transparency. Communication. That sort of thing. It’s fun.”

God, they’re comfy. This is amazing. Their life really is so blessed. Thank you, universe.

“Paulie,” his boyfriend says with gentle exasperation in his voice. “You join these websites, you find someone that maybe you do not like, you say things that you know to be hurtful, the websites say that you cannot go to them anymore. You can’t keep doing this. There is a reason that I run the boutique’s social media and you, you, my heart, are allowed nowhere near. You are very spiteful and very rude. I know this and I love you.”

JP really can’t argue against this one because they’re running out of websites to be banned from. Even still, they roll their eyes and huff because how dare Vladimir call them out like this.

“Ugh, fine, I’ll behave. I’m really trying to be nicer, you know. It’s all so goddamn weird that I wouldn’t even understand how to insult these people if I tried, anyway. I don’t fucking get memes, darling. It’s all a bunch of bullshit people pretend is funny. It doesn’t make sense.”

“I am sorry you do not understand the Internet. It is a strange place. I will send you Russian memes instead and then maybe you will understand,” Vladimir says. “If you do not like the site, then maybe consider not being on it.”

“I didn’t say that. I just said that it doesn’t make sense. Darling, you know I really do think people should cater to my exact sense of taste at all times but even though they don’t, I still very graciously put up with it,” JP says. “It’s a website for fellow space fans. They’re all bound to be weird."

Vladimir’s hand in his hair stills.

“I do not need to know the details of what you say on your websites, I think maybe I do not even need to know what they are called, but be mindful of what you post. You do not know who could be reading. Do not mention me on it ever, please.  Be careful.”

The ever-present anxiety starts making itself known. It’s not that Vladimir himself makes them anxious because he’s a giant softie underneath the leather and gruff exterior and the fact that he will commit murder in an instant if it means protecting his loved ones. It’s just that sometimes JP very suddenly remembers how much they absolutely have to protect him at all costs and what it will be like to lose him if they can’t devise a way to keep him around forever.

“I’m sorry, Vladimir. I should’ve said something before I made an account. I’ll delete it. I just...you told me I can’t keep running away from others like me. Well, I can’t deal with them in real life. I just can’t. It’s just a website, I didn’t think things through, I don’t want to compromise your safety, I can-”

“Ah, ah, no, I am sorry, I think maybe I said things too harshly, do not worry, my darling. I trust you. Please, maybe it will be a good thing for you and then you will understand their memes. I only want you to be happy and safe. Just be careful, okay? And do not start fights with people.”

JP whines and buries their face against him.

“I really can delete it. I, I don’t always think things through. I wasn’t made for thinking.”

Vladimir decides the best course of action is to pull them back into his lap in hopes it’ll calm the anxious volph, except JP can’t even properly enjoy it because their brain (if they even have a brain because they honestly do not know.) goes from zero to one hundred in half a second and now they’re thinking about everything bad that could possibly happen because they joined a website for aliens.

“Hey, it’s okay, okay? Have fun on your alien dating site. Maybe you will sleep with a Nessie and it will change your life. Do not worry about me. Just be careful with yourself, okay? You do not protect that person enough.”

That’s enough for JP to momentarily break through the anxiety.

“It’s a blogging website, not a hookup website."

“Okay.”

...

“Paulie? Is the Loch Ness Monster real? Do you know her?”

“Darling, you know I never kiss and tell.”

“Is she real?”

“Fuck if I know but I’m certainly not swimming all the way over there to find out.”

[katiebruce]

adios, amigo.

Well, 2020. What is there to say that hasn’t already been said, tweeted or Instagram-ed a thousand and two times about you? I’ll save us all the generic stuff—“unprecedented,” “nightmarish,” “absurd”—yes, 2020 was all of those things, but on a deeper, more personal level, there is so much more I have to say that doesn’t fit quite into those clichés.

So, this will be my attempt to document and reflect upon one of the strangest years I’ve encountered in my thirty-one years on this planet. Buckle up, buttercup.

Like many others before me have frequently observed, the way I spend my New Year’s Eve has always set the tone for the year to come, and boy, was this year a picture-perfect example of exactly that. Because I had to work on January first, I spent my New Year’s Eve at home watching a depressing movie with T, quietly kissing on the cold back patio as fireworks went off in the distance. I remember feeling both happy and sad about this evening (a duality that was a major theme for me for the fifty-two weeks to come, if only I had known). I was sad not to be celebrating my favorite holiday and even remember telling T that I didn’t want the year to come to be one I spent not going out, staying home, and becoming reclusive as I finished up the stressful process of finishing my MFA thesis in the course of ten (or, what I thought would be ten) short months.

But on the other hand, being held in T’s arms, I remembered feeling so happy that I could have this little quiet holiday—something that felt so private and personal—so entirely our own. It really set the tone for our relationship for the year, and for the obstacles we not only overcame together but dominated, one right after the next.

January was cold, snowy, and full of flight cancellations, which I remember to be something worth celebration at the time. I stayed home and snuggled my way into Aquarius season, the time for me and my brethren to shine, feeling positive that I had lived my thirtieth year to one of great satisfaction and maximum travels taken. (If only I had known then that that late-January El Paso layover where my crew and I walked across the border into Juarez to eat street tacos and laugh over Mezcal would be one of the only times I would leave the country for the year, well, I might have taken a few shots of tequila and really enjoyed my stay abroad just a bit longer).

February came, and with it, the promise of friends. My darling Kristopher, as always, flew to Chicago on the day of (also the day I completed and passed my eighth recurrent [!]) and, thanks to my other darling baby, Nicole, scored tickets to one of the highly coveted format reunion tour shows happening in March* for me, her, and my momma.

(*It did not, in fact, take place in March).

I turned thirty-one in the way I’ve come accustomed too—surrounded by my favorite people (this year at Dorians—a jazz club to end all jazz clubs) too drunk and too smiley to even coherently remember the evening properly. As much fun as I remember having, I told T that I thought it was my last year to host some sort of birthday gathering, and to hold me to it come next year. (He did very well—a few weeks later, after spotting an ad in a discarded newspaper for the Chicago tour of Moulin Rouge happening on my birthday weekend, we bought tickets and I sat peacefully with the fact that one of my new year (or, new age) resolutions was so quickly and poignantly adapted).

By this time, I was already deep in the throes of my first thesis writing course, meaning that I was pretty stressed out all of the time and surely a misery to be around (sorry to those of you who were). Basically, in three semesters’ time, I was expected to draft, edit, and rewrite a fully formed novel (70,000+ words) and the idea of accomplishing such a feat felt like a ton of bricks being carried on my shoulders. I had at least four mental breakdowns in the beginning of the year (again, we all know what lays ahead for the year, I know—but at the time, this seemed like an unbearable amount of stress for one person to have to carry. The joke is not lost on me).

In the coming weeks, things began to get even weirder. Covid scares began sprouting up in cities all around us, and as the government asked people to stay at home, airline ticket prices became massively reduced, so more people began traveling. I mean, this shit was like spring break on acid—it was hugely stressful, and though the threat of the pandemic had yet to reach Chicago, I felt more and more at risk with each passing day as careless amounts of people cashed in on what they thought was the deal of a lifetime.

By the time March reached its midpoint, I, like so many others, was terrified. We had no PPE at work—literally nothing. No gloves, masks, or even hand wipes. Cleaning the aircraft still wasn’t considered a “no-go” item, as far as regulatory practices go. I remember watching the news on my layovers only to keep myself up at night wondering if the virus was going to take hold of me or anyone around me, and if so, how long until they would recover, or perhaps wouldn’t.

St. Patrick’s Day came, and after fighting about whether or not to go out with friends (we didn’t—and for the record, T and I rarely fight—but this was, after all, his first St. Patrick’s Day as a Chicagoan—so his resentment was more than justified) we saw a matinee movie (Onward) and while in the theater, read about how Chicago restaurants, as a precaution, were shutting down the next day due to rising concerns about the spread of the virus. We reacted by grabbing drinks & lunch at one of our favorite neighborhood eateries and tipping the waitstaff more heavily than I think I’ve ever tipped anyone in my life (not mentioning this to brag, or whatever—just remembering what it was like to feel utterly helpless and unsure of what to do or what was to come—we had to find our positivity in some way, and on that day, this was how we saw fit, and it helped).

Then it all sort of happened at once—Lauren’s store was closed with no impending reopening date. The grocery stores (and I swear to god, I will never forget this) became a madhouse—people taking things out of other people’s carts when they weren’t looking. I remember going into Mariano’s with T and insisiting we tie bandanas around our faces for safety, feeling like a goddamn bank robber about to make a heist. But there was nothing left to even take. Frantically, we got what we could and got out of there, and I went home to have a full-fledged panic attack about the state of the world we were currently living in and what we were going to do if things didn’t turn around quickly.

As if overnight, everyone cancelled their airline tickets. It was for the better, and though it put my job in serious jeopardy, I was in massive support of it but still felt an eerie sadness looming around the countless empty airports, airplanes, hotels and city streets. There were times when my crew and I were the only guests in a place—times when I had zero passengers on a revenue flight. And then came the mass flight cancellations—and I mean mass. Everyday became a battle of anxiety as to what was going to happen to my job in the next twenty-four hours, and then cooing my stressed-out thoughts to sleep, only to relive the anxiety with every phone buzz waiting to find out if I had lost my job overnight. By mid-spring, I was hugely considering dropping out for a period of time, just due to the stress of it all, but thanks to support from my friends, family and T, I chose to stick it out and roll with as many punches as I could until I was finally knocked-out.

Quarantines were happening all around me, and without the ability to travel or the (former) grueling expectations of maintaining a social life, I started to reconnect with myself in ways that felt both organic and new, yet much like returning home after a long time away. Lauren taught me to knit, and we celebrated her birthday on the floor of our apartment in an Indian-food induced daze renting Emma and making thousands of tiny knots onto needles that would eventually become blankets. We took walks, did puzzles, and Lauren drove me to and from the airport on the rare occasion that I actually had a flight to work, as the CTA had, unfortunately, become a cesspool of targeted attacks on flight crew members (seriously) because they were often the only person in any given train car.

A rare glimpse of optimism then presented itself via two different opportunities: a chance to take a ninety-day leave from work, and a job offer in the form of editing a book for publication. I said yes to both and hoped that I would be able to take a step back and deal with the crumbling world around me easier with both of these opportunities now on my horizon.

This period of the year (May-July) started off swimmingly. Knitting, reading, and even smoking weed for the first time in nearly a decade (I took two hits and spent the rest of the evening sinking into the couch painfully aware of how bad I am at breathing and worrying that I might stop at any given moment). I fell in love with yoga and felt myself loosening up parts of my body and my mind that had been twisted into a series of knots for god only knows how long. I spent days reading in the sun, baking bread like everyone else in the world, and learning to make my own pies. Things were going really well, and I was even ahead in school, now on track to graduate in August—when things started getting heated.

I’m not going to go on a rant about race, although I very much could, but I will say this—the fact that we are still in a race war in this country in the year 2020 (and even now, a few days into 2021) makes me so sick to my stomach I don’t know what to do. Every injustice that passes by us, overshadowed by the next untimely death or wrongdoing makes me angry in ways that I cannot even fathom putting into words. It burns the color red that is so hot and so vibrant that I can see it soaking through my eyelids even when I squeeze them shut. This country lost a lot of love from me this year, and even more respect. There are not only things we can do better—there are things we must change. And honestly, most days, I don’t think most of the country is ready to not only admit that but to also work for. And that not only sickens me, but depresses the living hell out of me. I feel so stunted all of the time when I picture a world so at peace with its own injustice. It’s just so unfair.

I watched as the world was (rightfully, although woefully) destroyed around me. My neighborhood turned into a desolate, looted shadow of itself—one where Lauren and I could sit on our back patio safely until dusk, when the crime and gunfire became so rabid that on occasions, we sat in the living room in total darkness, listening only to the radio, afraid to let anybody at street level see that we were, indeed, at home. The opportunists that took advantage of the message of this movement made me numb to such a large demographic of the population, and I found myself crying myself to sleep enough times that I thought it might be time to leave the warzone that had become Chicago for a little while as escape down to Florida. So, we packed our bags and left. It is not lost on me that so many did not have this option, and for so many minorities, just simply existing during this time was enough to cause assault. I know I am fortunate—I carry it like lead in my pockets every day.

While in Florida, the first retailers began to reopen and I found myself waiting in an hour-long line to buy soaps and hand sanitizers, and to get a glimpse of what this “new normal” might look like when things started picking back up again. Like many, it was jarring to see empty tables, capacity limits on items, cashiers behind plexiglass sheets shouting to be heard over both the physical barrier and the cloth one strung across their faces.

By the time T & I arrived home, Lauren was already making plans to reopen her store “safely” and I felt sorry for her. How could anything be safe when nothing had changed? Why were companies acting as if business could go on like before—even though nothing had gotten better?

My final months of my MFA were just ahead of me, and I had one month remaining free from work to finish my first full-length novel, and I all I really remember is stress stress stress.

And then Andrew, being Andrew, offered a glimmer of hope, in the form of a drive-in concert celebrating fifteen years of Everything in Transit in southern California, a mere matter of hours from where Nicole had been working. It took a matter of two or maybe three text messages to confirm that we would be attending, and once the ticket was purchased I practically packed my bags and headed off to visit her and try and make light of my heart.

As suspected, the trip was magical. Being around Nicole, per usual, was magical. My heart felt so fully aligned seeing a little piece of her story and getting to experience her way of life once more—drunken hot springs and all their glory. There truly are few things in my life I love more than sitting in the passenger’s seat as Nicole drives us all over the country, and experiencing it again felt so right and so perfect that I honestly thought it was one of the happiest experiences of my life. Because I had requested so, she drove me all the way to Venice Beach the day of the concert so we could see where the infamous album cover was taken. We ate cbd gummies and listened to jack’s and ate in-n-out burger like our lives depended on it. When the concert began, it was eerie, yet hopeful to see all the new protocols of something that had become so familiar to me in my former life. Drinks were ordered through an app and delivered, as was merch, and clapping was replaced by the exuberant honking of car horns. We streamed the sound through the radio and laid the in the back of Nicole’s converted SUV as we cried and sang along to the songs that made everything, even just for one night, feel like it was all going to be okay again. We ended the evening marking ourselves with our first stick and poke tattoos—hers a sun to my moon, positioned to kiss one another when we stand next to each other on our preferred selfie side (lol). I left worried about how long it might be before I could feel her warm embrace again, the embrace of one of the truest friends I’ll ever know, but also recognizing that we were lucky to have had such an experience at all during such an insane year and feeling eternally grateful for its memory.

The last weeks of what I referred to as my Rumspringa were ahead of me, and one sunny afternoon I wrote the final pages of my novel. In a mad rush to edit, revise and complete my portfolio for official review, I never really sat with myself and what I had accomplished or congratulated myself; I wrote a book in seven months’ time, and even though I am unhappy with it (more on that later) there’s no denying that I actually did it. I did it, and nobody can ever take that away from me; it’s an accomplishment I will forever have, and it’s all my own. And I need to remind myself of that. I need to let myself feel proud.

I was back to work in September and taking a huge pay cut, though working the same hours. It was stressful, but once I found out my portfolio had been accepted and I, indeed, would be receiving my MFA I felt a bit at peace for a while. I had let my hair grow long all summer, and all but stopped wearing make-up (mascara makes me feel entirely dolled up now). I felt in an odd way free—almost bare.

The fall came and went fairly quickly—the weekends alone at home and grocery-store-only outings feeling more and more like normalcy. It had been such a tough, trying year, that it suddenly felt nice to just stand still for a bit. So, I did.

In a brief amount of time, I watched (safely) as friends got married, got sick, got older and fell in love. I watched, with great anxiety, as our country voted in the most important election of our lives so far and took the deepest breath I’d ever taken as I watched that man face defeat—although he’s yet to swallow it. I watched as ex-lovers had babies, got engaged and never really stopped to think twice about any of it. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: the safety (and not in a lame, “safety-net” sort of way) of having T in my life has turned me into someone who not only craves quiet time at home, but really also sort of fell right damn into it very easily, though unexpectedly. I’ve heard the saying so many times before, but you really don’t realize everything is different once you find the right fit because that place feels like it’s always been home. I am grateful to not only have that now and moving forward, but most certainly throughout the trying, unstable times of 2020. In fact, I don’t know how I would have survived without it.

The holidays always creep up on me, and after being dealt a shitty hand from work (don’t even get me started, I’m still fuming) they came that much quicker. T & I were lucky enough to spend the holidays back home in the swamp, visiting my parents and his Dad. The time went by fast but was relaxing, fun, and reenergizing. We spent New Year’s Eve playing giant Jenga and yard Yahtzee with my parents in the cool, tropical winter of Florida. It was nice. We got tired right around 11, so we laid in bed until midnight talking, staying awake just long enough to share our new year’s kiss. It felt right—a proper send off to such a strange and unusual year. I was exctly where I needed to be—wrapped up in a blanket of T’s embrace, comfy in a bed in my childhood bedroom.

So now, here it is: 2021—the supposed upgrade to 2020, or so everybody secretly hopes. So now, as I sit here, drinking a warm, soy-chai latte (homemade!) I find myself having great difficulty setting an intention for the days ahead of me. I feel so beaten and bruised and physically fatigued for no reason but the experiences of 2020 and the courses they ran all over my life. I’m feeling reflective of having finished yet another year of my life (and my Saturn return! Halleluj!) and finding it hard to be anything but fatigued. I guess it’s from the year that’s just finished—more so than any other year it physically pained me at times to be alive at times. I’m missing so many of my friends who I haven’t been able to see for extended months at a time now. I am craving a sense of normalcy, of safety, so that I can feel better about making plans, but as for right now I just don’t have it. I am quietly trying to make subtle changes within myself and how I react to the world around me, but just like the start of this new year, that process is a slow one.

One of my resolutions (though I’m growing to hate that word more and more with each passing year) is to get back to writing. I had a good, albeit stressful, thing going while still in school, and after finishing my novel and receiving feedback, I couldn’t shake the feeling of absolute failure. It’s still there—it’s really hard to try and celebrate an accomplishment when you don’t feel like your work was good enough to warrant anything at all—especially not a fine arts degree. I never said I was a fiction writer—I just wanted to get better at writing fiction—so I need to remember that and allow myself to veer away from that for a while, to work on something new. Something I’ve been saying I’m not ready to write for many years now, something that when I now say that is just a plain old lie: My memoir. I’m ready to close the chapter in my life where I am a flight attendant, so the timing feels more than perfect.

I learned so much about what I want to do within my career and what sort of boundaries I don’t want to place on myself—and I’m trying, I really am. T gifted me with my own pottery wheel for Christmas and we are going to set it up this weekend and I am so excited to get my hands muddy and start creating. Until this year, I didn’t realize how much I needed a creative outlet other than writing—I had been depending on it for too long, my little cup felt bone dry. So, I’m excited to see where this new hobby takes me and how it influences my ability to return to the blank page—quite literally.

I know this year will not be the quick fix that so many are hopeful for—I think quite the opposite, actually. But here are some things I know for sure will happen: I will move out of my apartment and in with T. We will then, immediately get a dog and a new apartment. This, alone, feels like enough to fill the pages of the blank year ahead of us. I will go long periods of time without seeing my loved ones, and without traveling (bleak as this lifestyle may be). I will write, even when it’s hard to. I will publish something—I’m at work submitting pieces as we speak, and though the process is slow, I can tell this is my opportunity—I am ready t fight for it. I will turn 32, and the numerology of my life will seem more aligned. I will spend my birthday at home, alone, because of course Moulin Rouge has now been cancelled (I’m fine with it). I will learn more about myself the more I use my hands to create, to plant, to sculpt, to mold. I will love with fervor. I will smile more, because it’s actually healthier for you, even though my black heart hates to admit it. If I’m lucky, maybe I’ll get to attend a live concert, though I realize this might be wishful thinking at this point. I will do mushrooms and giggle with the colors. I will cry. I will hurt and I will cause harm. But through it all, I will persevere. Because if 2020 taught me anything, it’s that I am capable of regenerating into new versions of myself that I didn’t even have the time to dream up. I can adapt to whatever is thrown at me, though it will often times feel impossible. I can, and will, create. I can be reborn (as many times as I’d like to, too).

So, thanks, 2020, for teaching me more about myself than any other period of five years has ever taught me. I definitely feel like I’ve been through the ringer a couple of times, yet I find myself still standing day after day. It must be the way a domino feels, standing up, time after time, knowing that something right in front of you is about to knock you down. But instead of thinking about what I’m bringing down with me, I’m thinking of the entire collective as a whole—we are all experiencing this together. And maybe, just maybe, on the other side, there’s a kid with a smile waiting to do it all over again. And that’s perhaps where the beauty lays: we have to tear everything down in order to do better, be better, make change. Nobody likes to catch fire, but everyone loves rising from the ashes. We’ll all get to where we’re headed, one way or another. And eventually, I hope, we’ll see that the other side is better than we could have ever dreamt of.

I hope that 2021 is a bridge that brings us from destruction to creation. I hope the journey is long, so we all appreciate the outcome.

I love you all and wish you warmth and wellness into this year and beyond.

Happy new year—honor the circumstances you have around you and let them help you grow.

[cookinguptales]

A long post about having undiagnosed ADHD as a little girl. And how we all need to talk a hell of a lot more about Reaction Sensitive Dysphoria.

(cw: mental illness, childhood punishment, discussions of childhood self-harm & suicidal ideation)

When I was a little girl, I was a crybaby. I didn’t know why I’d cry all the time. I just did. Everything always felt catastrophic, even if it was just a disagreement over what to play with my friends. People called me manipulative. I got made fun of at school. I was sent to the school therapist. Hell, the only time I ever had to go to the principal’s office, I was in kindergarten and would not. stop. crying. I was literally sent to the principal’s office for crying too much.

(Note. How did I respond to that? I cried. A lot.)

Here are a few examples of things that made me feel like the world was ending:

Once I came home sobbing and my parents asked me what was wrong. Why was I crying? Because the other kids had called me a crybaby.

Once at daycare (around age six), some older boys were making effigies of their teachers out of play-doh and then smushing them and convinced me to join in. The minute I did, they told me that they were telling my teacher, which made me about lose my damn mind.

I was a voracious reader and often ran out of reading material. Once I sneaked some of my mother’s romance novels that she’d left in the bathroom for light reading. They were Very Adult. I was so scared she’d find out and scold me for reading sexually explicit books.

Now, my parents think these are kind of funny stories. They say that I was very cute. But in truth, I was a nervous wreck. My life was pretty good in most ways, but I’d have these moments that just felt like cascading catastrophes. Anytime someone criticized me or my work or my ideas, the sky would just come crashing down. I’d cry so hard I couldn’t breathe. I’d cry so hard I threw up. I grew out of the crying by about age nine, but that sickening feeling of failure never really left.

About 8 years ago, I was diagnosed with ADHD. Severe ADHD. I believe the doctor’s exact words were “I don’t even know how you graduated from high school”. They tried me on ADHD medicine but it made my heart go dokidoki so I just had to live with being unmedicated. I wasn’t told a lot about ADHD at that point, or how ADHD symptoms differ for women, so I just kind of assumed that it was just focus and that’s it. Brain fog wasn’t exactly new to me, what with my other illnesses, so I figured I’d just live with it.

But about a year ago, I learned about Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria, which is a fairly common symptom of ADHD that no one ever told me about in my goddamn life! It essentially means that when you are criticized (or perceive something as criticism) by others or by yourself, your brain goes into absolute hyperdrive. You go from zero to “everyone hates me and I deserve that and probably don’t deserve to live too because I am just the worst” over like. literally nothing. And it’s not just like a mental thing you can train yourself out of. It’s characterized by actual physical pain. Y’all, I have anxiety and depression and this is not the same thing. This is your whole body seizing up and your brain going into a maelstrom that’s fairly similar to a panic attack.

Here’s the less cute side to all of those stories:

I had very few friends, and the friends I did have thought I was annoying and manipulative. The more I cried, the more kids stayed away from me.

After the Play-Doh incident, I cried for days. Days. And I was scared of my teacher for weeks. My parents laughed it off as a cute child thing, but none of it was cute for me. The older boys forgot about it by the next day, but it haunted my interactions with that teacher for weeks. It interfered with my education. I was a nervous wreck at school. I was so scared that she would hate me. That I’d be singled out in class. That I’d fail and my whole education would be upended and I’d fail out of school and my parents would hate me too and my life would be over. That’s... a lot for a six year old.

Those romance novels? That was a closely guarded secret that I kept for years. For literal years, I was afraid she’d somehow find out that I’d read those books. I would think of it when I was nine, ten, eleven years old and my whole body would stiffen up. I’d occasionally throw up. I cried about what might happen if my parents ever found out. Would they hate me forever? Yes, probably. They’d never love me again. I was a bad child. I finally told my mom about it a few months ago. I was 29. A small part of me was still scared I’d get in trouble. (My mom laughed about it; she was just like ‘wow, I should have put those books up higher’.)

When I was six, I went to an aftercare at a neighbor’s house for a while. (This predated the other daycare.) One day, one of the kids at aftercare didn’t get off the bus. The lady asked if anyone knew where he was. Trying to be helpful, I said I thought I’d seen him on the bus. (And like -- I really did think I did. But I was six and six year olds are uhhh not smart.) Surprise! He’d actually left school early for a dr’s appt. But she thought he’d missed his bus stop and spent like an hour on the phone figuring out what happened. And y’all. When she realized he hadn’t been on that bus, she was furious. When my other neighbor picked me up for my mom that evening, the lady told her that I was a bad child who’d purposefully lied to scare her. She said I wasn’t allowed to come back. And ohhh guys. I begged my neighbor not to tell my mom. (She did.) And then I begged my mom not to tell my dad. She was honestly kind of alarmed at how vehement I was about dad not knowing. (I was like a shaking, sobbing mess.) She asked me what I thought would happen. idk. Maybe he’d hit me. (My parents never hit me.) Maybe he’d throw me out of the house. Maybe he’d never talk to me again. He’d definitely stop loving me. I was so bad. So, so bad. I was a bad child. No one would ever love me. I was a worthless, bad child.

In short, I was hysterical.

When my parents finally talked to me about it, it was less of a talk about consequences and more talking me off the fucking ledge. They weren’t that concerned about the actual incident; they figured out pretty quickly that I’d just made a mistake. A temporarily scary one, but a mistake all the same. (I basically never misbehaved, so they were kind of confused by the whole situation, honestly.) But they were very concerned about my reaction to it. I knew they loved me, right? I knew that they wouldn’t hurt me, right? Why did I think that was a possibility?

I didn’t know. I still don’t know. It wasn’t rational. It was just my brain exploding into a thousand tiny pieces.

This is not a memory my mom laughs about. I think it really genuinely disturbed her. She’s still angry at that aftercare neighbor for doing that to me. As an adult, I realize that the person who actually fucked up in that scenario was the boy’s mother, who didn’t call to alert aftercare that he wouldn’t be coming. (Funnily enough, that boy’s mother was my first grade teacher -- the one I was so terrified of. Small town. I guess I was scared of her hating me, too.) But as a child, this wasn’t just bad. It was catastrophic. I genuinely considered hurting myself. I was six years old and I considered hurting myself. Suicidal ideation is often part and parcel with RSD. I’ve had to deal with that since elementary school.

RSD is real and it’s terrifying and it’s not unusual in children with ADHD. It’s still a problem that I struggle with. I’ve had friends not answer texts for a while and my brain just. assumes that I said something wrong. And now they hate me. Because I’m a bad person. And my whole body will shake. I’ll sweat. My stomach will roll. My chest will literally hurt like I’m having a heart attack. I still have to blink back those tears. Sometimes I’ll go for a walk to distract myself and burn off all that energy. Sometimes I’ll write a post like this. Sometimes I’ll just lie in bed. Shaking. Trying very hard not to think about doing Bad Things. It’s hard to say how it’ll go until it goes.

(Note: I’m okay right now! I was just talking about this with dad yesterday so I’ve been thinking about it.)

And this is not my friends’ fault! Or my family’s fault. This is no one’s fault. It’s just... mental illness, I guess. It’s hard to predict. Sometimes I can have a calm and reasonable discussion about my faults (which I fully admit exist) and sometimes someone disagrees with me on whether a tv show is good and my brain shits itself. (I’m dumb and stupid and this person probably hates me now! Because I didn’t love Avatar! Why did I open my big mouth? Now our whole relationship is ruined and I ruined it because I am a dumb relationship-ruiner!) Obviously, it gets worse when my physical and mental state is already fragile. I have a lot of chronic physical and mental illnesses, so like... it happens. But it’s very hard to predict, very hard to control, and all you can do is really talk yourself through it when it happens. Breathe. Focus on what’s real and what’s not. Distract yourself. Be as kind to your brain as you can because it will not be kind back.

Talk to people who love you. Try, whenever possible, to be one of those people.

idk. I wish I had concrete advice to finish this off. But it’s more just like... please learn to see the signs, especially in small children. I had far too many strong emotions for a child to figure out on her own. I really could have used some help. It’s too late for my childhood, but not for the other kids who are struggling with similar issues right now.

And if you read this and see yourself in it, do me a solid and talk to your doctor? Your brain might thank you one day.

[ashdoesfandomarchieved]

Valentines Day shenanigans with the ship of your choice? Or maybe board game/poker night with the main four?

(Direct sequel of midnight revelations)

It starts like this:

Mariner is teaching Tendi poker. Or well, Mariner is teaching Tendi her version of poker which involves no pants—for some reason—, various pointy objects that Sam is keeping his distance from and an abundance of multi-language profanity that is rather impressive for two women outside of the linguistics department.

Really though, Sam is impressed

Tendi, who has absolutely no poker face, is somehow winning and Mariner is somewhere between proud mom friend™ and shoving her throwing stars at the first person who pokes fun at her losing streak. Somewhere in all of this, Mariner runs out of credits and contraband, so with a sigh and a characteristic half-smirk, she tosses her last chip on the table.

“I’m going all in.”

“Your all in would be scarier if it literally wasn’t your last credit,” Sam remarks sarcastically from where he’s nursing a beer.

Mariner flips him the bird. “Whaddya you got for me, D’Vana?”

Tendi, trying to hold back her shit-eating grin and failing—again no poker face—shoves her huge pile of chips into the center of the table.

“Oh, I’m all in, baby.”

“Good,” Mariner grins back.

“Good,” Tendi replies, crossing her arms.

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

“I’m glad you went all in.”

“So am I.”

“Please stop flirting and finish the game,” Sam mutters, rolling his eyes.

Mariner doesn’t flip him the bird this time but gives him a side-eye that would have been its usual level of pee-your-pants-terrifying if not for the light blush that dusts her cheeks.

Tendi giggles. “Wanna raise the stakes?”

“Have you met me?”

“That’s fair,” both Tendi and Sam say in the same voice. Mariner rolls her eyes but can’t suppress her smug grin.

“Loser has to ask out the next person who enters the room,” Tendi says, dramatically steepling her hands in front of her face.

Mariner snorts. Loudly. “What are we, fucking twelve?”

“You got a better idea?” Tendi taunts.

“Actually,” Mariner lets a smirk crawl across her face. “As long as we’re going with sleepover levels of dares…loser has to get the next person who walks through that door to date them for three weeks without cracking.”

Tendi cackles, throwing down her cards.

“Full house,” Sam absentmindedly notes. “Not bad, Tendi.”

“Yeah, not bad,” Mariner says, revealing her hand to be royal fucking flush. “Enjoy that date, D’Vana.”

Sam chokes on his drink, while Tendi groans. Mariner laughs psychotically. “Work on that poker face, baby girl. You’ll get it eventually.”

“Ugh, you were just letting me win.”

“Maybe,” Mariner grins innocently. Tendi scowls at her. “Oh, come on,” she laughs. “Whoever comes through that door next can’t be that bad.”

This was the exact moment that Sam realizes that the universe has a sense of humor, because Brad fucking Boimler walks through the door.

Tendi turns a little blue around the cheeks—the Orion equivalent to blushing, Sam guesses—and smiles at him, waving.

“Fuck,” Mariner hisses. “Abort mission!”

Sam and Tendi frown at her. “What?”

“D’Vana, you cannot date Boimler,” Mariner whispers furiously.

“That was the deal!” Tendi hisses back, throwing her hands up in the air.

“Babe I love you, but you can’t fuck with him like that.”

“And it’s okay to fuck with other people?”

“Yes!”

Sam slaps a hand to his face. “You fuck with Boimler every day of the week, Mariner.”

“That’s different!”

“How?” Tendi demands.

Mariner—the woman who had been promoted and demoted so many times that her file was longer than a goddamn Britannica, jumped head first into anything that remotely whispered of danger, fought with the Captain daily, snarked at superior officers, gave zero fucks about Starfleet protocol, and had probably, at some point, flipped off the devil—is rendered completely speechless.

Sam begins to rapidly connect some dots.

“It’s only for three weeks,” Tendi continues. “And Brad’s kinda cute, in like, an intense I have crippling anxiety way.”

“Brad?” Mariner repeats, looking horrified. “You call him Brad?”

“Yes?” Boimler says, coming up behind her. Mariner lets out an uncharacteristic shriek and jumps about a foot in the air.

“Dude what the fuck.”

Boimler looks very very confused. “What?”

“What?” Mariner repeats loudly, eyes widening.

“Brad, wanna go out?” Tendi chirps, smiling innocently at him.

Aw, and now Sam has two adorable friends who are blushing, well, adorably at each other and one friend who is having a complete mental breakdown in the background.

“What, really? I would love to—why aren’t you guys wearing any pants?” Boimler asks, exasperated.  

Tendi lets out a snicker. “Mariner.”

Boimler gives Mariner an unimpressed look. Mariner tries to glare back, but it’s weak for her standards.

“I actually just finished my shift,” he says, turning back to Tendi. “Do you want to hang out?”

While Tendi cheers enthusiastically, Sam discreetly eyes his other friend. Mariner is kind of hyperventilating in the background, hands twitching toward the half-filled bottle of vodka she and Tendi had been chugging earlier. Sam carefully inches it away, unsure if she’s going to chug the rest of it or attack someone with it.

She makes a wounded noise at Tendi, who grabs Boimler by the arm and drags him out of the room, unreservedly talking a mile a minute about something that Sam’s already lost track of.

“What the fuck just happened.”

“I think Tendi asked Boimler on a date,” Sam replies, calmly. Mariner whips her head around and stares at him. The look behind her eyes is deranged.

“We have to break them up.”

Sun, moon and stars, the next three weeks were going to be a Mariner sized nightmare.

“I don’t get it, she’s completely out of his league—”

“Not true.”

“—they have nothing in common—”

“Sometimes opposites attract.”

“—and she’s just stringing him along! She’s going to dump him in two weeks!”

Sam sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. They were about a week into Mariner’s dare and he already was ready to throw Mariner, Tendi and Boimler—poor, clueless Boimler—out of an airlock. Mariner had already tried to break the two up somewhere around two dozen times and had only succeeded in bringing them closer together.

This of course made Mariner even more determined to sabotage her friends.

“It’s not the end of the world, Mariner.”

“Of course, it is!” she hisses at him. “They break up and then I have to deal with Boimler being sad forever while also not shit-talking my best friend and not letting him know that I was the person who set them up!”

“Or they have an amicable break up and go back to being friends. Dude, they haven’t even progressed past basic hand holding. I don’t think it’s going to be a huge heart wrenching dumping.”

Boimler and Tendi enter the room, holding hands. “I feel like you’re the only one who understands me, sometimes,” Boimler says.

Mariner’s eye twitches.

“What should I get Brad for Valentines Day?” Tendi asks five days later, apropos to nothing. Mariner sits up so fast that she hits her head on the top of her bunk.

“WHAT.”

Tendi frowns over at her, looking up from her data padd. “Valentines Day? It’s a Terra Prime holiday that humans generally celebrate yearly around the Terra season of—”

“I KNOW WHAT VALENTINES DAY IS.”

Sam winces, along with the few unfortunate ensigns who happen to be in the cabin, at the volume. “You and Boimler are celebrating Valentines Day?” he weakly asks.

Tendi grins, her tongue sticking out between her teeth adorably. “He told me about it last night and asked if we could exchange gifts!”

There’s a dull thunk as Mariner repeatedly hits her head against the wall.

“Do we need to talk about this?” Sam asks, watching Mariner chug half her weight in alcohol at the bar.

“My liver, my rules.”

“Not your alcoholic diet,” Sam sighs, taking a seat and signaling to the barman. “Although I would lay off the tequila if you want to be functional tomorrow morning.”

Mariner scowls and raises the bottle to her lips again.

“I’m talking about your feelings for Boimler.”

Mariner chokes. “My fucking what.”

Sam rolls his eyes. He had hoped—for about a millisecond—that when Tendi had joined their group that someone else would finally, perhaps, have some braincells to go around, but no, it seems that Sam Rutherford is the only rational fucking person in their dysfunctional foursome.

“Don’t be the idiot you pretend to be,” he replies, calmly taking a sip of his own drink.

Mariner narrows her eyes at him. “I don’t have feelings for—”

“I’m not an idiot either, Mariner.”

“Look,” she snaps, “I’m vaguely attracted to almost everyone, it’s just who I am. I do not have feelings for Boimler, I’m just aware that he’s. Aesthetically pleasing and nice to be around.”

“Then stop acting like a crazy person whenever he tries to date anyone,” Sam snaps back. “If you’re not interested, then you need to back off.”

Mariner is quiet for a long moment. “Do you think he and D’Vana—”

“I think they enjoy each other’s company and that they’re both kind of lonely,” Sam replies, before she can finish. “If you want to know more, talk to Tendi.”

His friend nods, soberly. Sam feels kind of bad for snapping at her, but also knows that she appreciates his honesty.

“There’s worse things then falling for Boimler,” he says, nudging her encouragingly. “Even if he is a complete spaz.”

This coaxes a weak grin out of her. “He is so fucking awkward.”

“You should tell him.”

“That he’s awkward? I have, he got all fussed up and started—”

“That you like him,” Sam specifies, grinning.

Mariner, seemingly forgetting that she had just been denying her crush on their friend, protests, “He’s dating Tendi, dumbass, I’m not going to—”

“Hey, trust me on this one,” Sam says. “Just follow your instincts.”

“My instincts are telling me to desert him on an alien planet before I become too attached.”

“Follow my instincts.”

To absolutely no one’s surprise, Mariner does not, in fact, follow Sam’s instincts.

He isn’t there for what happens next, but hears about it from an amused Tendi who swings up into his bunk that evening to give him the lowdown.

“So, Beckett has a crush on Brad,” she says, hugging his pillow to her midsection.

Sam puts down his data padd and watches Tendi very carefully. “Oh?”

“Yep. She cornered him in the cafeteria, told him his eyes were pretty and that she liked him and then left, screeching something about sitcom-b plots and Starfleet alumni. I think she has inside jokes with herself? I’m not sure what that was about.”  

Sam can’t suppress the laugh that bubbles out of him. “God, she’s crazy. Are you okay?”

Tendi frowns, confused, at him. “Why wouldn’t I be okay?”

“Your best friend has a crush on your boyfriend?”

“My—my what? Wait, oh nine hells YOU GUYS THINK BRAD AND I ARE DATING?”

Sam has a sudden moment of clarity where he realizes that he does not, in fact, have all the braincells in their group.

“You aren’t?” he dumbly asks.

Tendi starts laughing. She laughs so hard she almost falls out of his bunk—he thankfully catches her in time, but it’s a close one. “Rutherford. Sam,” she wipes a tear away from her eyes. “I’m aromatic, you absolute complete dumbass.”

“You are?” Probably not the best reaction to his friend coming out, but Sam hardly has time to apologize, before Tendi is laughing at him again.

“Brad—well, I probably shouldn’t tell you, it’s his thing—but he kind of understands where I’m coming from. We were having friend dates.”

“But…Valentines Day,” he stresses.

Tendi rolls her eyes. “I asked Brad about Terra traditions and holidays and he gave me a fucking history lecture it was so boring. I did like the idea of Valentines Day and asked if I could partake in it with him. He suggested gift giving.”

Sam stares at her. “I am a dumbass.”

“You are,” she agrees. “But I need your dumbass brain to help me get Brad and Beckett together.”

“Oh, so you do have all the braincells,” he says, grinning.

Tendi’s smile is sharp. “I have no idea what you’re on about, but yes. Yes I do.”

Getting Mariner and Boimler together is way easier said than done. Mariner is avoiding everyone like a goddamn plague and Boimler is fluctuating between literally vibrating with anxiety and being depressed as shit.  

“Well they definitely don’t have the braincells,” Sam says, after another failed attempt to trap the two of them in a room together.

“You need to stop talking about braincells,” Tendi sighs. “Why don’t we just tell them that they like each other?”

“We can’t do that!”

“Why?”

“It’s too easy that way!”

Tendi stares at him.

Sam stares back.

“I’m telling Brad that Beckett has squishy feelings for him,” she deadpans. “And you’re going to try to catch Beckett and tell him that I don’t have squishy feelings for him. And then we’re going to lock them in a goddamn turbolift until they get their freak on.”

Tendi either has all of the braincells or none of them.

Their plan surprisingly takes a whole lot less subterfuge than Sam was expecting and a lot more—well—emotions. He did manage to find Mariner and after guiltily admitting that he may have been a bit wrong about the nature of Boimler and Tendi’s relationship, she was off in a shot, shrieking some nonsense about “third-act bullshit” and how she didn’t sign up to be the “pawn in a romantic subplot.”

Mariner might, actually, be certifiably crazy. 

Brad hears about one of the turbolifts breaking from another ensign in his department. He and Tendi subtly high-five.

Six hours later—“if there was ever a time for buffer time, that time is now, Tendi”—a grinning Mariner and a mildly disheveled, exit the turbolift.

It ends like this:

Tendi is attempting to teach Sam poker. Well. It’s not actual poker, more like a hybrid of Mariner’s version of poker and a card game from Tendi’s home world, but it’s close enough and they’re having fun, so it really doesn’t matter.

Mariner is drunk as fuck, alternating between casually hitting on a flustered Boimler and insulting the shit out of anyone who even looks in their direction.

Tendi lays down her cards. Straight flush. Sam moans in despair. Boimler lets out a shriek of stop doing that we’re in public you moron and Mariner cackles in that unhinged way of hers.

None of them have the braincells.

[randomly-random-jen]

The Completely Inaccurate Misadventures [2/?]

[part 1]

2. In Which Mistakes Are Made

A hum built around Church then a POP. Carolina was suddenly staring at him, head cocked. “Where’s your armor?”

It took him a split-second to register her confused words. He glanced down at his clothes and shrugged. “It’s not like it matters what I look like. I’m a frickin computer program. I’m non-corporeal. I don’t need armor if I can’t be shot.”

She laughed.

“What?”

“I didn’t think you knew what non-corporeal meant.”

“Hey, fuck you. I’m not an idiot. I have a Ph.D. in like five things. Uh- computer science, and uh-” He rubbed his forehead. “Engineering.”

Carolina kept laughing. “For someone that’s made entirely of memories, you sure forget a lot.”

“Not enough,” he muttered. He crossed his arms over his chest and glared at his shoes again. That right lace was still untied. Stupid shoelace.

Her laughter tapered off. “Church, what’s wrong?”

“Epsilon. My name is Epsilon.” He couldn’t take it anymore. He blinked out, cocooning himself in the little corner of Carolina’s brain that he’d claimed for himself. He could go back into the memory chip in her armor, but, yeah, that wasn’t fun last time. Carolina’s thoughts tickled the back of his mind. He burrowed under the covers. “Go away.”

“Jesus, Church, do you ever clean up after yourself?”

He tossed the blanket off to find Tex looking around, lips curled in disgust. She picked up an empty pizza box then dropped it, wiping her hands on her pants.

“What the hell are you doing here? Get out.”

“I thought we established that you’re stuck with me.”

“Well go find your own place to live.”

“Carolina know she’s renting brain space to a slob? She was always super meticulous about tidiness even as a kid.”

Church groaned, tossing the blanket back over his face. “When will this nightmare end?”

He felt the side of the bed dip then Tex pulled the blanket down. He just glared at her.

“I’m sorry,” she finally said.

“For what?”

“Making you question your existence.”

“Fucking existential crisis,” he muttered, looking away.

“Move over.” She nudged him with her leg so he scooted over to let her lie down. They didn’t say anything for a long time, but Church was very aware of the side of her body pressed up against his. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to remind himself that none of this was real. The room, the pizza box, himself. None of it was real. Just ones and zeroes he arranged in a comforting pattern.

“This is worse than our first apartment. Remember, in Boston?”

Church snorted. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“There were rats, Church. Rats.”

He chuckled. I remember you climbing up on the counters. The big, strong Marine—scared of a little mouse.”

“It was a fucking rat. They carry diseases and stuff.”

Church couldn’t hold back the laughter at the memory. Or how offended Tex sounded right now. Then she punched him in the arm.

“Ow.”

“Jerk.”

They stared at each other a long time, lying on that bed. A whole hurricane of emotions swirled in Church’s head. And as always, Tex was at the center of them. “We had some good times, right?” he finally asked. “It wasn’t all bad.”

“No, it wasn’t all bad.”

Memories he’d tried to keep locked in one of those boxes leaked out. The apartment with the rats, his graduation from MIT, their first house, feeling utterly lost when she deployed, the Christmas he tried to make turkey and didn’t know you had to thaw it for days, and she just laughed and laughed that a genius could be so dumb. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to stuff them away before they overwhelmed him.

But they didn’t. They slowed, and the noise in his brain quieted. The memories were still there, though. Tex in a wedding gown. And combat boots. Because she’s Tex. He’d never been so in awe as that day, watching her walk down the aisle. How could he be so fucking lucky? The image morphed to Tex painting a room. Bright sunny yellow. Stomach just started to swell.

Tears slipped from the corners of his eyes.

He was rushing to the hospital. He’d been at a conference in London. He’d hitched the first red-eye home he could get, but the traffic was awful, and his heart was pounding the whole drive. He’d stumbled into the room, tripping over his goddamn shoelace, and found Tex cuddling a little pink bundle. He’d stopped breathing. He took back the awe thing. This day was the most awe-inspiring day.

Sorry, I’m late, was all he could say.

Tex had shaken her head like she expected him to be a complete disaster. And accepted it. “It’s okay,” she said, motioning him over. “You’ll just have to make sure you’re on time for the next one.”

“Next one?” He hadn’t even gotten used to the idea of this one.

She laughed at the terrified look on his face.

There was no next one, though. The memories faded, leaving him with a sort of confused contentment. “Did you do that?” he whispered. “I’ve never been able to control them. Not the-” He waved his hand in the air, unable to articulate his meaning. “They always overwhelm me.” He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. “I fucked everything up,” he mumbled. “After- After Allison died. I fucked it all up. My life and Carolina’s. And all the Freelancers and basically the whole fucking galaxy”

Tex leaned her head on his shoulder. “That was someone else, Church. You’re not that person.”

“Then why am I stuck with his memories?”

She didn’t answer. They just laid there staring at the ceiling fan. After a while Tex sighed. “You should think about getting a bigger place. Or at least cleaning up. This, Church, is gross.”

“Why? You moving in?”

“Epsilon? Epsilon? Get out here,” a distant voice called.

Church groaned. “The landlady can be such a pain sometimes.”

Tex laughed. “Are you going to answer her?”

“No. I’m mad at her. First, she doesn’t believe me when I said someone was calling my name then she turned me off, and then she treats me like she owns me. I’m not- I’m not a-” He sighed. “I don’t know what I am anymore.”

“Epsilon!”

“She sounds pissed.”

“Yeah, and she’s just like her mother when she gets angry. It’s pretty fucking scary.”

Tex smacked his arm, making him laugh.

Carolina’s tone changed. “Church? Please, I’m sorry for whatever I said. Would just come out here so we can talk.”

His heart seized up.

“Please, Church.”

He glanced at Tex then blinked. He stood in front of Carolina, arms crossed. “What?”

She sighed. “Thank you. I’ve been calling for ages.”

“I know; I’ve been ignoring you.”

Her shoulders slumped, and Church felt like a complete ass. Before he could say anything else, though, she let out a deep breath. “I wanted to apologize. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

He cocked his head at her. “I’m a computer program; I don’t have feelings.”

“What is with you today?”

The anger was bubbling up again until he felt a calming sensation start at the back of his head. An image of Tex tossing all of his stuff out the window. “What?” she asked. “This place is gross.”

He pressed his fingers against his temples. “Just stop. Everyone stop.”

“Church, are you okay?” Carolina sounded alarmed. And when he loosened the barrier between their thoughts, he could feel the concern. And a tinge of fear. Shit shit shit. If there was one thing Leonard Church was good at it was hurting the people he cared about.

He swallowed hard. “I’m sorry, Carolina.” He realized he had no idea what he was apologizing for anymore. An image of a girl in pigtails on a swing yelling, “higher,” filled his head.

“Stop doing that,” he growled getting another concerned head cock from the woman in front of him. “Not you,” he told her.

That didn’t help the situation. “I think there’s something wrong with you,” Carolina said slowly. “Maybe your program is degrading or something. I’m worried, Church.”

He blinked at her. “I didn’t think you cared.”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

“No, go back.”

He groaned. This day was getting better and better. Carolina stared at him, waiting.

Fuck. “I gotta go.” He popped into the memory unit. It was much quieter. Not like when she turned it off, but the outside world was turned to a dull hum. “Finally.” He quickly built a wall around himself.

“Church, don’t do that. Get out here right now. Quit being a baby,” Carolina said, her voice distant.

“You’re going to have to deal with her eventually.”

He growled. “Can we discuss this whole deletion program again?”

Tex rolled her eyes and squatted in front of him. “You know you don’t want that. I can feel it.”

He sighed. “Well can you stop fucking with my memories and reading my thoughts?”

“Okay. On one condition.”

“Anything.”

“You clean out that pigsty you call a room.”

“Fine, whatever.”

Tex brushed the hair from his face. “Go talk to her.”

“But I don’t wanna. She’s going to yell at me again.”

“Do you blame her? You’re acting like an asshole.”

He looked away. “Well, she’s scary. And intimidating. And scary. She’s way bigger than me. She can turn me off. Do you know how terrifying that is?”

“Yes. Now go tell her.” Tex gave him a hard shove, and he stumbled back into reality.

“The fuck?”

Anxiety rolled off of Carolina where she stood—he didn’t even need their flimsy neural link to feel it. “What is going on?” she asked tensely. “Is there something wrong with your programming. I need to know.”

“No,” he said, kicking imaginary dirt. “There’s nothing wrong with my programming.”

She sat down in front of him. “Then what’s wrong?”

He shrugged. “Just got a lot on my mind.”

“Is this about the whispers.”

He looked out at the trees. Anywhere but at her. “Maybe.”

There was a soft hiss, and when he looked back, she was pulling off her helmet. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “You weren’t making any sense. I had to do something.”

“You turned me off. I didn’t like it.”

“Oh.”

“That’s not fair, you know.”

Carolina was quiet a moment. “I guess I didn’t think about that.”

“Because I’m not a person to you; I’m just a tool. I tried to tell her that.”

“Her?”

He cringed when he realized what he’d said. Then sighed. “Tex. She’s in here, too. Apparently, I’m unable to get rid of her.”

“Tex is in there. In the memory unit?”

“In my head. My code, you know. I tried deleting her. Right before you rescued me from the storage unit. I did delete her. It was better for both of us because all we ever do is make each other miserable. And she was gone for a while. But I guess there’s some part of my coding that rewrites her every time she’s deleted.”

“Tex is in there,” she repeated.

Church sighed. “Look, I know you two have had your differences, but-”

“I don’t want to talk about this.” She got up and walked away.

What? “Hey, I was talking to you,” he yelled, but she kept walking. He popped up in front of her. “You can’t actually get away from me, you know.”

“I could turn you off again.”

He froze, watching her walk away, insides twisting, before appearing next to her again. “Please don’t do that, Carolina. Don’t do that ever again.”

She glanced at him then quickly away, face tight. “Then put your armor back on.”

What was with her and the 180 change of subjects? “Why?”

“Because you look like him,” she shouted. “And it makes it really, really hard to talk to you right now.”

“Oh. Right.” He just stared at her, but she wouldn’t look at him. He sighed and imagined himself back in his armor. “Better?”

She still didn’t look at him. “God, can we not do this?”

Church was quiet. “Okay. I’ll be right back.”

He popped back into his room. His stuff was shoved into a corner. “Hey, you brought it back in.”

Tex shrugged. “Seemed mean to get rid of it all when Carolina was already kicking you around like a puppy dog.”

He shook his head. “You know, most people don’t kick puppies.”

She laughed. “You okay?”

“Do you care?”

Maybe she sensed that he wasn’t trying to be snarky because his tone sure didn’t convey it, but he was tired and confused and frustrated. Tex pushed his glasses up his nose. “Yes, I care, Church. I’ve always cared even when I didn’t show it.”

“Okay.” He didn’t look at her. “I’m not sure what’s real anymore. I’m not even sure what’s going on.”

“Do you want me to leave?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know. Things were a little less confusing without-” She was gone. “Oh, come on, Tex, don’t be like that. I didn’t mean- Aw, fuck it. I’m done with this shit.” 

Maybe there was something wrong with his code because he felt like he was losing his fucking mind. He ran every diagnostic he could think of, and they all came back normal. Well as normal as they ever did because Church had always been a little unstable. There was this sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, and he didn’t like it.

“Carolina?” he asked the empty room. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to fight.”

She didn’t answer.

God, he was so tired. Which made no sense because he was just code. Code couldn’t get tired. But that’s how he felt. Like he could just delete his entire program and not care.

“Please don’t do that.” Carolina’s voice boomed in the small space. “Church?”

He popped up in front of her but couldn’t look at her. The shame was overwhelming. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m just an asshole, I guess.”

“Church, I-” Her voice caught, getting his attention. “I don’t want you to leave. It was just a fight. People fight. Roommates especially.” She looked away.

“Roommates?”

“You are taking up space in my brain.”

Church smiled weakly. “I guess. About that—Tex thinks we should get to have more space. Maybe two bedrooms. One to sleep in and one for my junk.”

She frowned at him. “Are you serious about Tex?”

He nodded. He didn’t know how to explain it. He kicked one of those invisible rocks again. “Please don’t make her leave. She will if you ask, but-”

Carolina rubbed her temples in a very familiar way then reached behind her and yanked his memory unit from her armor. It was like having his existence ripped from him. The room was gone. The quiet murmur of her thoughts—white noise he’d gotten used to. Gone. He just stared at her.

“Why did you do that?”

“I need a break, okay? And you asked me not to shut you off.”

“Oh.” He felt cold. Empty. lost.

“What’s Tex got to say about that?” The disdain rolled off her lips.

Church swallowed hard, not looking at her. “She’s just complaining about interior decorators.”

Carolina blinked at him then shook her head like he was just too difficult to understand.

“Nevermind.”

“Can I see her?” she asked softly after a while.

“I- I don’t know. I mean, she’s inside my head.”

“She’s code like you, right? Can’t she just be like you can?”

“I guess. Hold on.”

The memory unit was dark. And empty. “Tex?”

“This is a bad idea, Church,” she said coming up behind him. 

“Maybe it’ll help.”

She scoffed. “In what reality has me and Carolina speaking ever helped? She hates me.”

Church stared at the ground. You’d think he’d imagine his shoe tied by now. He bent down to fix it.

“Fine.”

He looked around. Tex was gone. Shit. He blinked back outside. Tex was flickering next to him.

“Okay,” she said, “this isn’t as easy as it looks.”

Church was suddenly filled with apprehension. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.”

“Mom?”

They both froze. Carolina’s face was streaked with tears. Church had forgotten Tex didn’t have her armor on. And she wasn’t wearing the face they’d given the beta AI. He didn’t know what to do now. Tex looked just as shocked and confused and terrified. Then Carolina was gone. Running. She hit a burst of speed from her equipment and was out of sight.

“Um, can’t we just go get her?”

He looked down at the memory unit. “She pulled me.” He blinked up at Tex. “She left me.”

“I’m sorry, Church. I’m sure she’ll come back.”

He sat down, head in his hands. “Yeah, because this is a valuable piece of tech.”

Tex sat next to him. “Because she cares about you.”

“I’m just a computer program, remember. That’s all I’ll ever be.”

“When did you get so melodramatic?”

He snorted. “When did I meet you?”

She bumped into him, nearly knocking him over. “What do we do now?”

“I guess we wait and see if she comes back.”

And if she doesn’t? He heard the words inside his head.

He didn’t want to think about that.

[part 3]

[yagurlmarya]

27 February 2020

I feel so ill-at-ease – basically the opposite of the easy breezy chill kind of feeling.  Everything sucks so bad and I feel stuck in a lump/pond full of standstill sewer water and it is not at all pleasant.  I believe the popular term is stuck in a rut.  My mind keeps on fabricating ludicrous alternate realities because the present one SUCKS BALLS.  Nothing is worthwhile anymore.  I see no discernible reason why I should get out of bed in the morning and go to the job I detest, longing for an alternate timeline where everything else is less sucky.  I feel everything is slowly being drained out and I am now a mere husk of a person who used to have rigorous passions and creativity and enthusiasm.  A pale melancholic lethargic blue flame dangerously close to getting snuffed out.  I feel anxious and restless for absolutely no concrete fucking reason.  Everything in GENERAL is making me tap my foot incessantly, not to mention the gazillion things spewing inside my mind about thoughts of the past, present, and future – that I feel mentally cramped and suffocated inside my own goddamn mind.  It’s too crowded and too noisy.  Too many fears too many expectations too many half-cooked goals too many overthinking too many information processing on a daily basis.  It’s so crowded that I don’t know what calm is anymore.  Even at my quietest moments I keep feeling like something is inherently wrong that I should be doing something – then add the infinitesimal number of scenarios flurrying past my thoughts at such a dizzying rate that I feel like this state of unknown anxiety and nervousness would be my new normal which I am inadvertently against.  My life is going nowhere fast.  Neither moving forward or backwards.  Stuck in the middle of the terrifying boundless sea with no concrete direction and it scares me.  I don’t always have a plan but this...this is my life, my entirety, the summary of my existence, and right now, it is s h i t t y.  I have grandiose conjurings of success and contentment but I am not moving any oars or detaching any sails.  I have a grand vision of a creative fulfilling future but my hands have not moved towards the sailor’s wheel.  Fingers are getting cracked in anticipation alright under the warm enticing glow of said conjurings but that’s all there is to it.  There is such a palpable discontentment with my life and with myself.  I can feel it burrowing itself in my flesh and adhering itself in my bones.  What is my purpose? Why am I here? Basically, I am slowly drowning in a murky uncomfortable bath of existential dread, which also seems to be an early stewing of a quarter life crisis.  The world has so much to offer and I have so so many options but I am drowning and I am not drowning fast enough. Everything is overwhelming. Existence and living is overwhelming. I find myself holding my breath for no goddamn reason because I feel like I’m anticipating something and by something I mean nothing because as stated above I am now a mere husk of human flesh with nothing spurting out of me  The knowledge that the world out there is huge with a fuckton of experiences and possibilities terrifies me.  That overwhelming uncharted waters.  Where do I go? To which direction do I sail? I just want to voluntarily get out of bed knowing that my life matters because I get to give something tangible and useful to the universe.  That maybe my life isn’t absurd and empty compared to the bigger picture.  I get irritated at myself because I keep choosing to drown myself when I can literally swim afloat, get back on the ship, raise the goddamn sails, lower the goddamn oars, remove the ephemeral anchor that’s been serving it’s purpose for far too long than necessary, and finally, steer the fuck out of that wheel go on a fucking voyage once and for all.

I’m tired of being pissed and stressed and nervous and always on the brink of an existential meltdown.

About goddamn time I get off my lethargic ass.

Yeh everything sucks SO BAD but what the fuck am I going to do about it?? Stay in this godforsaken boring ass purgatory of mediocrity??????

Fine I should make a plan.  What plan? I have zero fucking idea.  I currently feel shitty because of how directionless my life is. So fine – let’s get direction. How about I focus on one fucking damn thing and actually try to excel at it by not relying on passion alone (which is really just the first strike of the match) but on DISCIPLINE (which is the more logical basis).  The goal here is to get out and be self-sustaining.  Moving out of trepid sewer water is of the utmost priority......

But what is the dream though?  Most of it material really – nice and SECURE retirement fund for the family, financially secure future.  But is that all?  How about actually spurning out passions and actually feeling contentment and maybe a proud beam in the works?

[arabellaflynn]

I am so fucking over this plague thing. More accurately, I am so fucking over everybody being paranoid of this plague thing. Leaving the house isn't giving me panic attacks because of covid, it's because of all the goddamned people.

Look. I understand why people are afraid. When covid goes bad, it can go really bad, like 'intensive care with invasive ventilation' bad. It's just that this amount of fear is incompatible with also getting on with your life in any meaningful way, not to mention it's out of proportion with reality. Hospitalization rates of people with a confirmed case of COVID-19 (so, not counting people who never bothered to get tested, or people who have been exposed and fought the virus off, or people who have never been exposed) is about 82 per 100,000, or 0.082%. Condoms, when used properly, have about a 2% failure rate. If you trust in condoms to keep you childfree, you can trust reasonable, non-paranoid precautions to keep you from dying of covid.

If you catch covid, and you're an otherwise healthy non-elderly person, your experience is overwhelmingly likely to be like the one I had with chicken pox. I was born in 1981, so my prime years as a disease vector were before the varicella zoster vaccine. I caught chicken pox when I was 8 or 9. It blew. I was off school for two weeks, and I spent every moment of that itching like a motherfucker. But, like 59,999 out of 60,000 chicken pox sufferers, I got over it, and I'm still here. This doesn't mean that it's pointless to try to avoid catching it, and it definitely doesn't argue in favor of holding "chicken pox parties" so you can give it to other people on purpose. That's just idiocy. But it does mean that going to Howard Hughes-esque lengths in order to avoid ever coming into contact with it is maybe a little bit of an overreaction.

"Flatten the curve" was never meant to keep us all from catching COVID-19. The novel coronavirus is now endemic in the human population. Everyone is going to get this. Probably not every few months, like rhinovirus-driven colds, but more like pre-vaccine influenza, where if you had common sense and a bit of luck, you'd have a sucky few weeks once or twice a decade. The idea behind "flatten the curve" was to keep everyone from catching it at the same time, so that the number of cases that did need hospitalization never exceeded the number of available hospital beds. Believe it or not the news did explain that part, in tiny words, but everyone seems to have forgotten.

I had to hike into the next town over to pick up some stuff the other day. One of my roommates gawped in horror when I mentioned that I only wear a mask when around people. The Commonwealth of Massachusetts requires face coverings when indoors or when maintaining a distance of at least six feet from other people is impractical. That's fair; those are the circumstances under which cloth masks impede the spread of droplet-borne viral illnesses, be they COVID-19 or some other crap you've picked up. I had a mask, because I was going to talk to another human, and a good chunk of my route went through a populated area where I was likely to meet other people on the sidewalk. But a good chunk of my route also went through parks and quiet suburbs. I was outdoors, a place with notoriously good ventilation, and it was easy to stay 10+ feet away from the few people I saw. Under those conditions, masks have no effect. As long as you handle them by the ear pieces -- because you have been breathing damp schmutz all over the face part -- you can in fact take them off to cool down and breathe, and re-set them when you see people approaching again.

Said roommate wears a mask from the instant she exits the front door to the very moment she gets back in. Even when walking the dog in our wide-open neighborhood, where there is so little traffic you can dodge the other dog-walkers and joggers by walking down the middle of the street if you want. The neighbor kids bike and play games in the road all the time. You can wear a mask under those conditions if you want to, but I can't. I already have a hard enough time not being able to breathe when exerting myself in hot, humid weather. At that point, it's not doing anything physical. Its sole purpose is to act as a talisman to allay your own anxiety about all things covid. Not just anxieties about catching it, but anxieties about not displaying the correct amount of conformity and community-mindedness. I'm not really surprised; virtue signalling is something of a local sport. But that is what's going on. 

Another roommate has taken to disinfecting all the groceries. He started out using wipes but then we ran out, so now he's just got a spray bottle of Clorox and water sitting on the kitchen windowsill. I have politely gone along with this for the most part, but I also intercept my own deliveries, lest he get it into his head to bleach my raw produce. Dr Fauci does not bleach his groceries; I know, because Colbert was a wiseass and asked him on national TV. It's possible to get covid from contaminated surfaces in the same way it's possible to get herpes from a toilet seat, in the sense that it doesn't contradict any known laws of physics, but it's so unlikely that if you can actually demonstrate that it happened you will get written up as a case study. And frankly it doesn't matter what kind of terrifying things are on the outside of your packages as long as you wash your hands.

For those of you who do not have a psychiatric diagnosis, this is what's called an anxiety spiral. Something makes you anxious and you start to see it in terms of risks to your safety, so naturally your response is to start thinking about how to avoid it. You make a plan. But then you start noticing that your plan may not reduce that risk to zero, or may present risks of its own, so you make a second-order plan to plaster over those. But then that plan has holes, so then you need a third-order plan, and so on and so forth quite literally ad infinitum if you can keep it up that long, or until you decompensate rather spectacularly if you can't. The less reliable, concrete information you have about what's going to happen, the worse it gets. If you let it continue to the point of pathology -- which I am starting to see among the general population -- you eventually dig yourself in so deep that you can't get groceries without involving a contingency plan in case of nuclear first-strike from Canada. This, understandably, fucks up your life. I've seen this both first-hand in my own brain, and in being raised by a woman who suffered from such a massive unacknowledged anxiety disorder that she blocked off the front windows of the house for fear that someone walking down the street outside might see that she had the living room lights on.

Your risk of contracting SARS-CoV-2, now that it exists, is not zero. It will never be zero. A vaccine will not bring it down to zero. Technically, your risk of contracting smallpox is also not zero, because there are still a few vials of it lying around somewhere. Your risk of unintentionally spreading it -- which is what the cloth masks are meant to do; if it's not an N95 mask it does nothing to keep you from catching it -- is therefore also not zero. But there comes a point where it is low enough, and you have to just accept that it exists as part of the background chance that you might get run over by a car or fall in the shower or discover an anaphylactic allergy the hard way or keel over from an undetected aneurysm or any of the other ways you can die without warning.

The BLM protesters are doing it right, I think. That's an important thing that has to get done, so they're doing it. They're spending hours in a large crowd of people, so they try to keep a 6' distance and wear a mask, because that's not always feasible. You can't let your fear immobilize you, and there is a finite level to which you can let that fear prompt you to make yourself uncomfortable. Risk tolerance differs from person to person. My housemates are welcome to freak out over the idea of taking the trash out without a mask; I'm not, and I'm not putting one on to spend two minutes out in the side yard at midnight.

And anyone who froths over "kids these days" referring to it as "the 'rona" can cool their jets. This is basically a pandemic tradition. You get a shot every year so you don't catch "the 'flu" -- which, yes, was how it was typographically styled in 1917-19 -- so shut the fuck up.

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[mischiefandi]

ANYONE WHO FOLLOWS THIS BLOG, PLEASE READ!!!

Hey sorry haha, I needed to get your attention. Basically, I’m on holiday as you all know (probably, I think?), and I’m am leaving for France tomorrow BUT  I don’t know if I’ll have wifi (for my computer) at the hotel where I’m staying. 

What I’m saying is, I will most definitely be writing this week, butttt sadly I won’t be able to post a fic this week (at least I don’t think so).

I have mobile data though so I will be around. Not every minute of every day but I’ll still be around to DM, answer asks, reblog shit and read fics obvi.

I will be back on the 8th and then...I have some bad news. On the 11th of July I leave for my Scouts Camp and I don’t come back until the 29th of July, which means...18 days without access to my phone and computer. This also means I will most probably not write, it means I won’t be around at ALL.

I love camp and I’m super happy to be going, but I’m really sad and honestly pretty anxious about not being around for so long, I mean that’s a solid three weeks...

I will try to write at camp but to be honest, I probably won’t be able to cause they always have a ton of activities planned and such. I’m really really sorry.

I’m honestly terrified cause I feel like by leaving with zero news for three weeks, I’ll lose the amazing friends on here that I’ve made, it’s my anxiety acting up...I hope this won’t change anything and you guys won’t leave. I’m really sorry I’ll be leaving you all for so long, and I’m also very sorry that I won’t be posting anything for a while.

HOWEVER. I will be writing shit this week and when I come home on the 8th or maybe on the 9th I’ll try to post what I’ll have written this week. No promises cause I don’t even know if I’ll have the time but I might set it in a queue and whatever, I’ll figure it out. Think of it as a Swan Song but for a fic and also not forever cause obviously when camp’s over I’m back. 

AFTER camp I go to Portugal on the 1st of August and I’ll be there till the 8th. I’m not entirely sure about the wifi situation there cause we’re staying with friends but I will have mobile data so kind of the same situation as this week. 

Finally. I will be in Brussels on my birthday and around (on Tumblr) until the 12th where I leave again for Africa. I’ll be gone 10 days and will be back on the 22nd and that’s the last of my disappearances lol. When it comes to the wifi situation in Africa I have no goddamn idea what to expect because we’re staying at multiple hotels and places so it’ll be extremely variable which means I have no idea if I’ll be able to come on tumblr wether it’s to post or to DM or whatever.

Again I’m really sorry...Like I know that I might come off as fake when I say this but you all honestly are a major part of my life and I cherish you all so much so believe me when I say that I am so so sorry for being this absent during the next two months and all of that. 

I will try to write as much as I can, and I’ll try to come on whenever I can. Thank you for understanding, I hope this doesn’t bug you. I’m honestly so worried about losing my friends on here because they are literally one of the most important things in my life and if I were to lose them, I don’t know what I’d do. 

Here is a quick recap:

1st to 8th of July: AROUND FOR DMS, RBS AND ASKS  (NOT SURE I’LL BE ABLE TO POST ON MY COMPUTER)

11th to 29th of July: COMPLETE AND TOTAL HIATUS (will try to set up a queue)

1st to 8th of August: AROUND FOR DMS, RBS AND ASKS  (NOT SURE I’LL BE ABLE TO POST ON MY COMPUTER)

12th to 22nd of August: MIGHT BE COMPLETE HIATUS? HAVE NO IDEA

Thank you guys so much for understanding. The only reason for this post is just so you guys are aware of what’ll be happening these next couple of months. I’m just gonna tag the few people I think’ll want to know this shit:

@redstringlovers @itsbilescallmebiles @hellogoodbyebitchn @dumbass-stilinski @honeymoonmuke @susybird @rememberstilinski @spxderbarnes @rxppmxtch

[surveys-at-your-service]

Survey #97

gaming survey.

let's start with the classic: what's your favorite game?  why?   "silent hill 2."  it is so fucking well-thought out and went places no one ever thought a game would go.  it was psychological as fuck and absolutely terrifying in that sense.  it had such an intricate storyline and was positively heart-wrenching.  the characters were very unique, and oh boy, don't even think of forgetting the soundtrack.  it was so, so immersive.  the monsters were incredibly symbolic, and it really, really got you to question your own conscience.  i could literally go on about how wonderful this game is for hours on end. least favorite game?   probably "eleusis," whose name i don't care if i spelled wrong.  i know it's an indie game, but holy fuck, it's horrible.  the puzzles make legitimately no sense and literally requires a walkthrough. what's your favorite gaming genre?   psychological horror, easily. least favorite gaming genre?   probably first-person shooters. what's your favorite childhood game?   "spyro the dragon: year of the dragon."  i loved the entire series, but that was my favorite. when did you start gaming, anyway?   literally as soon as i could hold a controller and had the coordination to understand the buttons. scariest game ever?   "scp containment breach."  i couldn't play it because the first scp scared me so much lol.  however, i've watched my favorite youtuber play it many times.  despite it being in the indie scene, it's an incredible game and should really, really cost money.  hmmmm... actually, "parasite eve" may overthrow it.  not in terms of jumpscares, but in terms of, "what if that really happened?"  scientifically, maybe it's possible.  it explains why so very well.  it's the only game that ever resulted in me having to take an anxiety pill.  oh yeah, fun fact, we actually had a demo of the game on a demo disc, and mom hated the preview of it so much that she refused to let my sisters and i play it lol. favorite comedic game?   oh that's easy, "five nights at fuckboy's 3."  it is sooo fucking funny.  i love all of them, but the third's the funniest. favorite action game?   "resident evil 4."  it was one of my first action horror experiences. saddest game in the history of ever?   "silent hill 2," again.  i fucking cried so hard and my week was ruined lol.  that game legitimately changed me and made me ponder my decisions much more. favorite game based off a tv show or movie?   probably the first season of "the walking dead."  the characters were very unique (kenny is the Love of my Life), and the plot was phenomenal.  i wasn't much of a fan of the gameplay (or lack thereof), but i was there for the story.  the ending had me sobbing.  i've never actually watched the tv show, but man i love that game.  season three hasn't been that good imo, but i enjoyed the second one, too. game with the most interesting concept?   the entire "silent hill," obviously.  the idea that our biggest regrets and demons exist in multiple layers of reality is cool as fuck.  "soma" is a close second.  the philosophical debate of "if you move a human's conscience to a machine, is it still human?" is incredible. game with the most fucked-up storyline?   "silent hill 2" or "silent hill 3."  sh2 was more psychological in how screwed-up it was, but sh3 was very brazen abut it.  it also has the only scene ever in a video game that made me gag.  like i had to walk away from the controller because i literally almost puked. favorite gaming otp?   that's p hard.  actually, wait, i like tyrande and illidan from "world of warcraft" a lot.  their story was sad as fuck.  jaina and arthas from the same game, too. favorite video game protagonist?   i have two: heather mason from sh2 and leon kennedy from the "resident evil" series.  both are just total badases.  heather mason reminds me a lot of myself, and leon is just super fucking cool and gives zero shits. favorite video game antagonist?   does pyramid head from the sh series count?  i mean in ways he's not really an antagonist, so.  if he's not included, maybe claudia wolf from "silent hill 3" (LOOK I KNOW I'M TALKING ABOUT IT A LOT BUT THE SERIES IS MY BABY OKAY).  she is a prime example of how religion can absolutely destroy a person, and i think it's really cool that she truly thinks she's doing what's good for the world.  i also really like walter sullivan from "silent hill 4" because he is just sooo incredibly fucked up with a really tragic story.  arthas menethil from "world of warcraft: wrath of the lich king" is also amazing and i pitied him so much. favorite video game monster?   pyramid head, bar none.  he is so mysterious and terrifying in his concept. sequel that disappointed you most?   hmmm.  i'm not sure.  i mean, if i absolutely had to pick, maybe "silent hill: origins?"  i mean don't get me wrong, i enjoyed the game, but it's my least favorite in the series. most under-rated game?   "AMNESIA: A MACHINE FOR PIGS."  oh my GOD.  i do NOT understand why people thought it was disappointing to the title.  that is one of the most fucked-up, greatest games i've ever played (it's my second favorite game) i've ever had the pleasure of playing.  it is way, way better than the first game.  it's another game that had me depressed for days and questioning my life. most over-rated game?   probably "call of duty" and the like.  i just don't see the appeal. favorite quote from a game?   "i have stood knee-deep in mud and bone and filled my lungs with mustard gas. i have seen two brothers fall. i have lain with holy wars and copulated with the autumnal fallout. i have dug trenches for the refugees; i have murdered dissidents where the ground never thaws and starved the masses into faith. a child's shadow burnt into the brickwork. a house of skulls in the jungle. the innocent, the innocent, mandus, trod and bled and gassed and starved and beaten and murdered and enslaved. this is your coming century! they will eat them, mandus, they will make pigs of you all and they will bury their snouts into your ribs and they will eat your hearts!" - "amnesia: a machine for pigs."  i get literally covered in goosebumps every single time i hear it.  it's about how absolutely horrid the world is today from the perspective of the past.  i also really enjoy "the only me is me... are you sure the only you is you?" from "silent hill: p.t." game you want made into a movie?   "SHADOW OF THE COLOSSUS" OH MY GOD.  CAN YOU FUCKING IMAGINE. game you currently most want to play?   "the last guardian."  the story and trico are so fucking cute. what do you think of revamping classic games to "improve" them?   eh, i've never been too into it.  don't get me wrong, it works sometimes, but imo, it takes away the charm of the game sometimes.  ex., with "crash bandicoot" being remade.  i loved that game as a kid, but i think its graphics just added to the charm. favorite movie based off a game?   the first "silent hill." did you ever get those old demo discs as a kid?  did they ever influence you to buy a game?   yes.  i think we had three.  i was first exposed to "shadow of the colossus" by a demo disc.  i was totally into it and only played it a thousand times before buying it. were you ever or are you into the "final fantasy" craze?   not really.  i used to play "final fantasy viii" on a demo disc; my sisters, brother, and i loved it.  my bro was the only one who could beat the final boss (the spider thing) of the demo; he and ashley used to play it a lot.  i really liked it, and when i was young, wanted to buy it.  we all used to think squall was sexy as fuck lol.  the summons were super-duper cool too, especially rinoa's (i used to make her do her water dragon limit break constantly ha ha).  i did, however, have "final fantasty vii," and i got all the way to the second disc, but i eventually just fell out of playing it.  i think it was too long for me personally, although i really did enjoy the story. i'm sure you've heard of the "five nights at freddy's" one, too.  were you into it?   i've never played it myself and i personally wouldn't, but i've watched youtubers play it and i enjoy it.  the story and characters are cool (especially springtrap), and the story is quite frightening. hardest game you've ever beaten?   i am not even remotely kidding, "the legend of spyro: the eternal night."  it took me over a fucking year to beat that game and i rage-quit a lot. hardest boss monster?   jesus fucking christ.  there are three that top the list.  the ultimate being from "parasite eve" is probably number one, though.  he was hard as FUCK and took me like a whole goddamn day to beat.  his multiple phases were annoying, and the fact he could trap you at the VERY END if you picked the wrong door was a cardinal fucking sin.  basaran from "shadow of the colossus" was also horrific.  even malus wasn't that bad.  getting onto his back was a goddamn nightmare, especially when he got back up and if you misjudged your jump, you'd go flying.  ripto of "spyro the dragon: ripto's rage!" was also a childhood nightmare.  his phases were also annoying and he was just overall difficult.  i felt like a fucking god when i finally did beat him lol.  memory of alessa of sh3 was also hard for me, although she herself isn't that much of a difficult boss.  it was just that i had no ammo so had to melee her the whole time.  i got so fucking angry. how did you feel about "silent hill: p.t." being cancelled?  it was probably one of the most anticipated games of 2014.   want my honest opinion?  i'm glad it was cancelled.  that series is my fucking child and i would be legitimately furious if they fucked it up.  i had many issues with it.  one, the fact that norman reedus was made a model of the main character.  it just pissed me off that they designed him to look pretty much exactly like daryl dixon.  i don't want people to think "oh hey a guy from twd went to silent hill."  i also had a problem with them changing the name to "silent hills;" i really don't know why since it's such a minor thing, but it irked me regardless.  it also really, really bugged me that kojima openly said he's a bit of a wuss with horror games.  dude, you can't be like that when you're working with what is well-known to be one of the scariest series of all time.  i had full faith that del toro would be great for the series, but not kojima.  it also pissed me off that it was said that aliens might be involved in the game.  just... no.  that's not what silent hill is.  i get that it's a joke in the series, but to make it canon?  if they actually went through with that and made it so extraterrestrials were involved, i literally would've broken something.  ultimately, i'm glad it didn't work. favorite running joke or something of the like in a series?   the "i'm totally gonna stick my hand in this filthy toilet for a wallet" joke that the "silent hill" series has, rooting from when james sunderland did so in sh2.  i love the references. favorite side-kick?   uhhh.  cynder from "the legend of spyro: dawn of the dragon."  she not only looks super fucking cool, but she has an interesting story and is just overall really rad. saddest video game death?   well that's hard.  prepare for spoilers.  the one that hit me the hardest personally was probably vol'jin from wow.  he was my favorite character out of like the billion wow has, so him dying sucked.  not to even mention his death was super anti-climactic to where it pissed off the whole damn fanbase, despite being one of the most important characters.  lee from twd was also absolutely horrible.  ha, what a coincidence... they have the same voice actor.  #stopkillingdavidfennoy favorite plot twist?   spoiler warning once again.  my favorite and to me the most shocking was the fact james was responsible for mary's death in "silent hill 2."  it rocked my fucking world. best soundtrack?   "shadow of the colossus."  ko otani is a musical genius.  sh2 is a very close second. what's the first gaming console you ever had?   the original playstation. favorite setting in a game?   that's super hard considering so many games are absolutely gorgeous.  but i suppose lakeside amusement park from "silent hill 3."  i love the blood & rust, macabre feel to it.

[emeraldsorcerer]

Repost, don’t reblog! Tag 6 muns you would like to get to know better when done!

TAGGED BY: Swiped from @culpritouswildcat​ TAGGING: You want it? TAKE IT OFF OF MY COLD DEAD BLOG. but for real yeah if you want it go for it lol

NAME: Fish NICKNAME: Fish, also emerald-mun seems to be what most default to if they don’t know Fish. AGE: 23 FACECLAIM: A color-edited Konata Izumi from Lucky Star PRONOUNS: He/him HEIGHT: like aaaaaaaaalmost 5′11″, like, I’m literally 1/4th of an inch a way from 5′11″ BIRTHDAY: March 8th AESTHETIC:  Fuckin’ gREEEEEEEEEN LAST SONG YOU LISTENED TO: uhhh technically Super Mario Bros 2 Overworld Theme

FAVOURITE MUSE(S) YOU’VE WRITTEN: Look, I’m gonna be real biased towards mah boi Sakana, who I’ve worked on for 5 years now. He was my first Tumblr roleplay character! Although I have to admit, running the askbernkastel account all those years ago was really fun. I’m still super proud of that gif I managed to make with Kinzo getting hit by a pokeball thrown by Bern. And in all honesty, Tomoko’s really fun to write too, I get to channel a lot of me through her since we’re pretty similar.

WHAT INSPIRED YOU TO TAKE ON YOUR CURRENT MUSE: So, when I was running my very first Tumblr account ever, askbernkastel, I ran across a very new concept to me at the time: roleplaying on Tumblr. The very first one I encountered was a talented Bernkastel RPer (shout out to @plumfragments​), and upon following I really liked their writing and thought, “Hey, I wanna get in on this it looks super fun!” Having played Ib recently, and enjoyed Garry as a character, I just took images of him, recolored his hair to match my blonde, gave him my favorite color, and voila! I had an extremely thinly veiled self-insert for my very first Tumblr RP experience.

honestly in retrospect i’m kind of shocked people didn’t get really sick of just how cringe my writing and character was back then in 2012. it was so obvious, i didn’t even try to hide it at first. it was only around the beginning of 2013 that i actually gave him his own backstory and plots. but, somehow, with what must have been an astounding amount of grace to muster to be patient with me back then, Plum and others helped me learn the vocab of the Tumblr RP community and how it tended to work, and five years later he’s a very different being from the shitty self-insert it started out as.

WHAT ARE YOUR FAVOURITE ASPECTS OF YOUR CURRENT MUSE: Maaaaaan, the guy is such a dork honestly, especially in comparison to basically every other witch. I made him intentionally way younger than Bernkastel and Lambdadelta. Honestly? I think I like his potential most of all. It’s a muse I don’t really run out of ideas for, but unfortunately I have issues communicating said ideas to people, so I end up putting myself into a no-win situation. 

But the way that I don’t have to keep him static over time is nice, because he’s already an Alternate Universe character, I can develop him according to the things he experiences, and build from past thread experiences. I feel zero pressure to keep his personality static, unlike most canon muses I’ve played. Developing a character long-term through play and letting it stick through other RPs is pretty much my favorite reason for roleplaying, and I feel I can do that more freely with Sakana in particular.

WHAT’S YOUR BIGGEST INSPIRATION WHEN IT COMES TO WRITING: Uuuh honestly? It just comes down to someone else responding or making a starter for me. There was a really bad dry spell early this year I didn’t know how to deal with. Without someone else to bounce off of, I really don’t have much motivation at all.

FAVORITE TYPES OF THREADS: On the one hand, I’m down with whatevs honestly. I don’t think I’d refuse much, with the exception of smut, which is just like...I dunno, I gotta feel it?

On the other hand, I do tend to get far more enthusiastic when I’m roleplaying a situation I haven’t roleplayed before. Like, take the one I just did right earlier with grey!Erika, I’ve never RPd an unrequited crush explicitly, the closest that’s ever gotten is subtext at best. And I was super down with that to the point that I stayed up till past 7am and am still awake now holy shit, because I’d never done it before, it’s a new thaaaang.

BIGGEST STRUGGLE IN REGARDS TO YOUR CURRENT MUSE: Mmmmm. I think I have a prominent paranoia that I’m still, even after all this time and all the events that have transpired, that I’m still not doing enough to separate myself from Sakana in the eyes of others, and that other new folks who come along will just assume he’s a thinly veiled shitty self-insert and not give it a chance at all. And that, consequently, tends to make me question myself a lot - is it still just boiled down to that even after all this effort and time? Bleh. It’s not a fun spiral to travel down.

Another big issue I have is finding out where he might fit in other people’s worlds. Often times I’ll secure an RP, and it’ll turn out kind of samey as a lot of my other RPs. There’s, like, a pattern, where it goes| they introduce themselves>they chat for a couple replies smalltalk>fucking nowhere to go afterwards because plot’s apparently not a thing. Like, I don’t remember having this issue a few years ago; entire full on plots were commonly improvised and they were exciting and cool! But nowadays it’s like...naw. Gotta plot or else it just goes nowhere for some reason. I don’t know if it’s because of a Tumblr culture change due to the introduction of the IM system, or if it’s because I just have lost my improvisational skills, but shit just goes nowhere after a few replies and after having that happen on so many occasions, it’s just kinda discouraging for me in general.

It probably wouldn’t be as much of an issue if I knew how to plot with others. That’s the other thing. I don’t know how to plot with muns. It’s just something I’ve barely ever done before. Like, I don’t even know how it works, is it just like, blurt out an idea to the other person and hope to god the other person is down for it? because that sounds goddamn anxiety-spiking-ly terrifying to me. Is there like, a system for it, like a rulebook or guideline list I can go off of? honestly plotting with other muns is one of the most anxiety-filled things i can possibly do in relation to Tumblr RPs and i don’t get how most people not only can do it, but nearly expect it from others nowadays.

I mean, it’s not like I’m unwilling to try. I just have...no...fuducking...clue...how...and like, why be patient and try to learn me a thing or two when you could just find someone else to plot with just as fast and easily? unless it can’t be learned and it just comes innately to everyone except me?

eeeeeh this isn’t really the note I would have liked to end this post on but I’m getting real tired so yeah that’s all about Fish have a good munday y’all.

[one-shoop]

I just had basically a panic attack or whatever over my dad calling for dinner. Oh but who would guess being singled out by a scream "FLOOOOOF! COME EEEAT!" every freaking night and told "COME ON HONEY" and "DID YOU HEEEEAR?" "FLOOOOOF?" "FLOOOF? ANSWEEEER?" doesn't give me, the girl who's terrified of eating to the point where she skips meals almost everyday, panic attacks. Dear god i cant freaking eat dad, I CANT EAT BECAUSE IT TRIGGERS MY GODDAMN OCD. But nooooooo. Apparently nobody bothered to ask me my triggers or even do some research after my diagnosis. And forgive me lord if Im not enthusiastic about explaining it myself becase EVERY GODDAMN TIME I TOLD SOMEONE THEY FORCED ME TO DO IT ANYWAYS. Told me "but the food is gooood" and "come oon, you need to eeeeeat" like i stg i'm so fucking tired

Of people telling me for an hour and a half to come fuck myself over with triggers and panic all the way and not be able to eat and be ashamed of myself and feel weak and unable to do anything. Like Jesus guys IT TRIGGERS MY OCD. MEANING THAT I CANT FUCKING EAT PEACEFULLY. I SONT GIVE A SINGLE FUCK IF ITS GOOD OR NOT. ITLL SCARE ME TO FUCKING HELL.

And yeah, for supportive parents they sure are doing the fucking lords job right? After fucking up myself to ask fir help thar never vame and was always denied or stripped to its bare minimums then told to accept that as tje ultimate help, I finally ficking tet someone who validates me and gives me a diagnosis. Ans yoy funky get fuckjng told to your faces that FORCING KIDS TO FACE THEOR FEARS IS THE WORST THING FOR THEIR HEALTH. And MAYBE if you knew anything at fucking all you'd fucking realize that when I HAVE NEVER ASKED FOR HELP OUT OF FEAR OF BEING SHAMED FOR IT, maybe is your fault???? And maune it impedes on mh recovery???? And maube i shouldn't be the only one to fucking take stepd to retake that???? Im all foe fu king getting the help I gucking need but for fucks sake cant any of you look like you can more for, I dunno, fucking parenting, other than whatever fycking meal you're having???? Is it roo kuch to ask to help me retake my right to asking for the hospital since its been mentioned at that same fucking meeting we talk about that I've tried asking for goddamn help and you said no????

Like you had a goddamn professional tell you that WHEN YOUR KIDS WANT HELP, YOU CANT DENY IT. And that by pretending that I jad to tough it up, you fucked me up way more. And thw most I got was a half assed sentence of "BUT IM PLACING ALL THE BLAME ON MYSELF, ITS UNHEALTHY" as fucking soon as the goddamn bells rang.

Like you had the nerve to ACXUSE ME of NOT asking for help and fucking NOT telling you anything. Ans believe it or not I STILL FUCLING THOUGHT THAT about a second ago. But honestly? WHY THE FUCK SHOULD ANULNE BE HONORABLY FORCED TO ASK FOR HELO THAT TJEU KNOW WILL NEGER VOME??? JUST SO YOU CAN SAY I WAS THE PERFECT VICTIM WHO STILL BELIEVED IN YOU???? BECAUSE AFTER ALL THIS CRAP, AFTER BEING TOLD THE TRUTH, THE FIRS TTHING IM TOLD WHEN WE GET OUT IS THAT I NEED "TO TRUST YOU MORE"? AND "TELL YOU ABOUT MY FEELINGS?" am I someone's fucking puppet here??? Do you just want ro ficking play with me until youre done?????

Like what the fuck???? YOU THOUGHT I "DID THE WRONG THING" BY NOR ASKING COR HELP. BUT YOU SONS OF DEMONS, YOU HAVE ALWAYS KNOWN YOUR PHILOSOPHY WAS THAT FUCKED UP PIECE OF MENTALITY FROM THE GODDAMN FARK AGES THAT YOU NEED TO TELL YOUR KIDS TO FUCK OFF. OKAY??? YPU KNEW THAT ENOIGJ TO EXPLAIN IT IN BARF-INCUDING CLARITY HOW APPARENTLY ONE SINGLE GUCKING BOOK ON ANXIETY IN KDIS WAS ENOUGB TO RID YOU OF YOUR ENTIRE HUMAN BRAIN AND SUDDENLY IT DIDNT MATTER HOW MUCH WE CRIED AND BEGGED AND GELT ALONE AND NEEDED YOUR SHIR COMFORT, TOU DIDNT CARE???? WELL FUESS WHAT???? THE FIRS TTHING YOU TELL ME WHEN SHE SPEAKS, BLESS THWT DOCTIR, IS THAT I DONT EVEN ASK FOR HELP. and bless me I told them YO I ASKED FOR THE HOSPITAL AND YOU TOLD ME I WASNT SICK ENOUGH. AND YOU BOTH HAD THE GODDAMN MIND TO REFUTE IT. UNTIL MOM TOLD DAD TO STOP BEXAUSE "SHES RIGHT, ITS OUR FAULT, OUR BAD".

Like what the fuck??? Tou already knew that you wouldn't have given any help anyways??? Why the fuck am I even supposed to fucking ask??? Why did you EVER tell me to ask??? Was ir so you could feel fucking welcome??? So you could feel so fucking badass and awesome telling me the goddamn word of light exquisite and God Almighty in his tree in heaven that "FIND AOLUTIONS AND STOP CRYING"???? OR, NO, WAIT, EZCUSE ME, WAD I SUPLOSED TO COME SEE YOU SO YOU COULD PEP-TALK ME INTO FUCKING OFF FROM FEELINGS LAND AND "FIND SOLUTIONS"??? Did you want to feel like you gave me comfort without actually giving me some??????

Like what the fuck???????????? And -- why the FUCK foes it STILL appear smart tp tell me to fucking TELL YOU SHIT? GUYS I TOLD TOU MORE SHOT I WAS LEGALLY ONLIGATED TO. YOU CAME TO MEET MY THERAPISTS. YOU GOT THE BRIEFINGS WITH ME WHEN I INVITED YOU. YOU GOT TO SEE MY PSYCHIATRIST, AND MY DOSSIER, AND MY MEDS. I TOLD YOU I NEEDED A LISTENING EAR AND NOT AFVICE, I TOLD YOU I FELT SCARED SOMETIMES OF EATING, I TOLD YOU ABOUT MY OBSESSIONS, I ASKED YOU IF I COULD GO TO BE HOSPITALIXED BECASUE OCD GOT TOO BAD.

And you laughed at my fuccking obsessions. When i was a kid my biggest trigger was barfing, and bile. And guess fucking what? You fucking laughed around and invented the worst fucking single thing ever to say "fuck you get better" which was switching the goddamn syllables together and fuckinf singing it to me like it was fine now. Fucking laughing at me whenever ai had goddamn panic attacks. I diagnosed my own goddamn trigger at, what, ten? BUT I NEGER ASKED FOR HELP BECAUSE YOU FUCKINF LAUGHED AT ME EVERYTIME I CLOSED MY EYES AND MY EARS AND PANICKED TO CHANGE THE TOPIC. I WAS FUCKING UNCOMFORTABLE. I COULD NOT BEAR IT. AND WHEN YOU SAW A TERRIFIED CHILD, YOU SID NOTHING EXCEPT LAUGH AND SAY "there, now they're done with talking, tou can stop closing your ears now". YOU FUCLING NOTICED JN THE WORST WAY POSSUVLR. I REGRET SHOWING YOU THE FIRST ENTRY I MADE ON THIS. I WAS SO ASHAMED OF IT. I THOUGHT IT EAS WRONG. OR SHAMEFUL. AND -- GUESS WHAT? I THOUGHT IT WAS YNIQUE TO MEZ TOO. IT WA THE SINGLE MOSR SCARY TJING IN MY EXIDTENCE. MY CHEST BURNED AND SQUINTED AND I FELT JOT AND I CRIED AND VRIED AND BEGGED AND YELLED IN MY HEAD FOR PEOPLE TO STOP, IN THE BUS, AT SCHOOL, AT HOME. AND IF YOUD BEEN SLIGHTLY GIOD AT YOUR FUCKINF JOB I MOGHT HAVE TOLD YOU FUVKASSES. BHT NO. AND GUEDS WHAT? UNLESS WHST YOUVE FUCKING TOLD ME, BEING IN PAIN IS NOT ONLY VALID OR UNSHAMEFUL WHEN YOU ASK ADULRS WHAT TO DO. FOR HOW FUCLING LONG HACE I BEEN TOLD THAT PAIN DOESNT MATTER UNLESS AN ADULT IS ON THE CASE? HOW LONG HACE U WANRED SOMEWHRRE WHERE GODDAMN ADULTS DIDNT FUCK YOU OVER? DIDNT CONTR EVERY THOUGHT YOH HAD? WHERE SAYING "YOURE WRONG" ISNT AN INSULT? WJERE KIDS ARENT JUST DENIED A COICE BECAUSE THEYRE KIDS?

Ughhhhh.how many times should I get convinced that your help is worth crap? That searching for your goddamn advice and "comfort" is of any goddamn help? That what shit you give me is actually good enough?? What this it worth my time? That I should be looking at myself??? That i should be squinting and hating myself???? That I'm not worth saving??? That -- goddamnit. God fucking samn jt. Goddamnit im so done with all these excuses. I'm so fucking -- I wanted help, I wanted love, I wanted excuses and loce and light and fear and farkness and friends and family and I cant even talk anymore. I cant talk from myf eeljngs anu.kre. I have ti go on goddamn instinct because my goddamn vortex is fucked up. I realize I eas incpaable of having a mental nature by myself at 8. When I eas alone, I couldn't feel anything. I felt aimless, I just felt nothing. I couldnt bring myself to feel anything. I ducking mtocied that, and yes, tou noticed to, but your goddamn reaction was to tell me to get a life and stop obsessing about that friend I used to play with and just learn to do shit myself and do shit on my own. (Basically, to my own stupid ass brain, this trainwreck of a sentence means I was like a kid who needed autonomy from their parents and needed to learn their life was their own.) Bur yeah!!!! Whenever I was alone I didnt give a shit!!!! I felt aimless!!! Lost!!! Shitty!!!!! And when I first saw myself as a disgusting hump of crap I was 10, I wss running happily and sang a song about witches ans I saw myseld in my head and god I looked like garbage and I hated it. I hated what I looked like. I resented the idea that people had to see me. I thought, why do people even stay with me, I'm disgusting. I can never pinpoint the reason becauee yes, my brain is that fucked-up. Someday it will be back.

But seriously. Does anyone else have old stores from early teens where everyone kept fuclibg Escalon without telling their parents?where kids didnt go home? Where the bes tthi g ws just leaving forever? Anyone think the second arc of Warriors was the bestBEXAUE THEY LEAVE and you KNOW they'll leave and you KNOW things are always better and sorry Leafpaw bur I hated tour arc like goddamn shit itself because SCREW THE CLANS, I hate them and I wanted ro leave anywhere that ft like home.

What do kids feel about their homes? Do fhey ever wish they moved? Do they ever seriously ask themselves why the fuck anyone would want to live here? Do they find it unnapealing? Are you supposed go be HAPPY to come home after a trip? Are you supposed to feel completely shitty from coming back, like a failure? Like you weren't supposed to come back, you were supposed to stay awau forever?

Did any kids have zero track of time? Did any kids watch old videos from babytime and realize that there's just something fucking terrifying about it without knowing fucking why?

I saw a kid watch a video on repeat of her dad doing something random like, an old baby recording from when the kud was running in the hallway and he caught her. She watched it on repeat for so, so long , until her phone stopped working I think. And i Remember being touched in a way I neger knew possible, and telling myself from the top of my ripe old 13th year, well thars not something ive ever done or wanted to do. I remember going, why the fuck would you do that? Aren't you happy hes gone? Aren't you happy to be gone?

I remember being straight terrified of my paternal grandmother at 5 only to realize yeara later that she used to be violent and terribly abusive to everyone. I remember being terrified of my aunt's husband, and feeling something undescribable that felt lile a stabbing wound in my aunt's eyes, until I finally learned that he used to beat her. I remembwr hating Éric Salvail for some reason and being really u comfortable around him until BAM, guess who was a goddamn creep and sexual harrassment pro? This guy. I remember so many fucking things that made me uncomfortable and it turned out to be right, about people at least.

But I remember hating my own picture for as long as I can remember. My face unsettles me. I never fully write why, or go to the end of my thoughts. I have problems, I know. I hope knowing what they are will help.